June 10, 2016
Dear Max,
It’s been nearly a month since the lockdown. Four weeks since I’ve seen you. Four weeks that I’ve been stuck in this hospital waiting to see if my legs will work again. I have to use a wheelchair, just like Professor Xavier (it is not half as awesome as it sounds). But the doctor says I have an 80 percent chance of full recovery. He says that the body has amazing regenerative powers. (All this time, I had a superpower and didn’t know it!)
I asked Mrs. O’Neill if everything broken might eventually heal, like a bone. She said that anything is possible. Actually, it was her idea to write you. She thought it might help.
I won’t be going back to school this year. I gave the police all my logs and photos of our missions. And you know how good I am at remembering all the details. They know everything now. I know I vowed to you that I’d keep our X-Men Missions secret, but I can’t keep that promise any more. I am sorry, Max.
What you did was wrong. And even if I never did anything but hold the camera or buy the stuff, what I did—not telling anyone, not listening to that little voice inside me that said we shouldn’t—I get it now, that was wrong too.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about you and me and Mrs. O’Neill’s Friendship Checklist. Yes, we had common interests, but the more I think about it, you were usually laughing at me, not with me. You often lied to me about your real plans and used me to get stuff. I thought we were friends, probably because you were the only one I ever had. But after doing a Social Autopsy, I must conclude, Max, that you did not see me as a friend.
Realizing this made me feel hurt and frustrated and just plain stupid. But Mrs. O’Neill helped me see what I had not noticed: I was always a good friend to you. I admired you. I helped you. I shared with you (remember my jet that I never got back?). I even gave you my dad’s comics because I knew it would make you happy. I liked hanging out with you, Max. We had some good times. I’ll miss that.
You taught me a lot of stuff, too, mainly about Marvel. Now, I love Marvel mutants. I totally relate to them. No, I cannot shoot laser beams from my eyes or adamantium claws from my knuckles—though that would be cool! I can’t manipulate the weather, fire, or ice, or control minds or metal. But I know what it feels like to be different.
I think we both know what that’s like.
I noticed something else, Max. In all the Marvel comics, the mutants start out hating what makes them different. But as they evolve they realize what it takes to raise a storm, read a mind, or even take a stand when no one else will.
Courage.
It takes courage to risk being different—but I think it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. Because what makes us different is what makes us powerful. And what we choose to do with that power can make us heroes.
And I choose to be a hero, Max.
I’m glad we met. Despite the ending, I’m still glad our stories mixed like a crossover series. Remember when you first told me about crossovers? I hated the idea of characters from one comic appearing in another. The Avengers should not be in a battle with the X-Men. Characters should stay in their own worlds where they belong. (Honestly, I don’t even like it when my foods touch.) But then you showed me the A vs. X series…and I loved it! Almost as much as my Star Wars comics. You were right. It’s good to mix things up sometimes. I think that if a character gets too comfortable the story gets predictable and boring. Other characters bring tension and conflict, problems and drama, lots of drama—but like Ms. Carter and Stan THE MAN Lee say, that’s the key to a great story.
Maybe it’s also the key to a great life.
I’m not sure when I’ll be able to deliver your letter. I’ve seen the newspapers. I’ve read the horrible things the press is saying about you and your home life. But even if no one else cared about you—I did.
You mattered to me, Max. And I just wanted to let you know.
Your friend,
Xander