Michael’s eyes get even wider. No one has ever reacted to him this way. He’s never been ‘cool,’ never made someone so excited. It’s strange, too, for someone to call him a mutant to his face and not mean it as an insult. People mostly say it when they’re turned away or in another room, acting like he can’t hear them—teachers, nurses, Morris, Morris’s friends, the people at the orphanage. The kids at school whisper it nervously between themselves, though some will boldly yell it on a dare or laugh it at him tauntingly.
Despite all that, he’s never felt sure of what he is. The confused swirling in his head says he doesn’t belong. It tells him he’s alone, that he both should and shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t know anything about mutants anyway. They’re strangers to him, just like everyone else.
“I don’t tell,” he says, then pauses before asking, “You are happy about it?”