Marvel – I am Spiderman

"Fill this out by third period."

Flash was in front of him before first period, blocking the path to homeroom, holding out a folded piece of paper. Chemistry worksheet. Blank. He said it flat. Just the expectation that it would happen.

Peter looked at the worksheet. Looked at Flash. Flash was a head taller than him and outweighed him by about sixty pounds and none of those pounds were negotiable.

"I don't have chemistry until fifth."

"Then you got plenty of time."

Flash walked away. The worksheet stayed in Peter's hand. He looked at it for a second, then folded it into his back pocket and went to homeroom. He'd figure out what to do with it later. Or he wouldn't.

A girl with a messenger bag covered in band patches bumped into him near the water fountain, said "sorry" without looking up, and kept going. Her shoes were mismatched. One black, one dark navy. He watched her disappear around the corner and forgot about it immediately.

Lunch was Harry. He had a tray with two slices of cafeteria pizza on it, which was ambitious. The cheese had the consistency of rubber cement and the pepperoni was a color that didn't exist in nature. Harry didn't seem to care. He ate pizza like nothing could go wrong for him, not even pizza.

"So the gala," Harry said, mouth half-full. "My dad's assistant called this morning. She asked me your shirt size."

"My shirt size."

"They're doing fittings. Apparently there's a dress code. He wants you presentable." Harry took another bite. "His word, not mine."

"Why does your dad care what I look like?"

Harry shrugged. "He saw my report card. I mentioned you help me study. He got interested." He picked a pepperoni off the pizza, examined it, ate it anyway. "He does this sometimes. Finds smart kids, mentors them, gets them internships. He's not, like, weird about it. He just collects people."

He just collects people.

Peter ate his pizza. It was bad. The crust tasted like cardboard that had been near bread once. The man who would become the Green Goblin was taking a specific interest in him and had sent his assistant to ask about shirt sizes. Peter ate the crust too.

"Cool," Peter said. "Tell her I'm a medium."

He saw Liz in the hallway between second and third period.

She was carrying a stack of textbooks, which was the problem, because the stack was too high and she was trying to navigate the traffic pattern near the science wing while keeping her chin above the top book and the bottom book was sliding. Peter saw it going wrong from about ten feet away.

He didn't think about it. He stepped in, caught the bottom book as it slipped, and the rest of the stack shifted and Liz's hand came down on top of his.

Her fingers were warm. She had pink nail polish on, chipped at the edges, and she'd drawn small circles over the dots on her i's on the notebook cover visible through the gap between books. Little circles, carefully done. You needed a specific pen for that. And opinions about stationery.

"Oh." She pulled back, then didn't. Her hand stayed where it was for another beat. "Thanks."

"You had it under control," he said. "I just caught the overflow."

She laughed. Short, surprised. A different laugh than the cafeteria one she performed for Flash's table. This one was smaller and it caught her off guard and she looked down at where their hands were still both touching the book and then she took the stack.

"See you around, Peter."

She said his name like she'd been practicing the sentence. He couldn't tell if that was a real observation or if he was projecting. She walked away. Her sneakers squeaked on the tile. One of the textbooks was AP Biology. She didn't seem like the type, but that was probably a stupid assumption based on nothing.

Third period he looked for the girl in the hoodie.

She was in her usual corner, bag on the chair. The hoodie was different, darker, but the posture was identical, curled into herself like she was trying to take up less space. She was reading a book with a blue cover. The title was readable from three rows away because the font was big.

Slaughterhouse-Five.

He knew the book. He'd read it in his other life, the real one. Billy Pilgrim, unstuck in time. Guy sees the firebombing of Dresden and just keeps saying So it goes.

The girl in the hoodie turned a page. She was about a third of the way through. Total focus, no apparent awareness that anyone might be watching.

Nobody was looking at her. He scanned the cafeteria to be sure. Yesterday too. She existed in a pocket of the room that other people's eyes just slid past.

He still didn't have a name for her.

After school he mowed the lawn.

He got home and the grass was long and the mower was in the garage and he needed to do something with his hands.

The mower was old. Push mower, no engine, you just shoved it across the grass and hoped for the best. Ben kept it oiled. The blades were sharp. It took effort but the physical work felt good in this skinny body, made the muscles in his arms burn in a way that proved they were there.

He was halfway through the front yard when she came out.

The steps this time. She sat on the top step of her front stoop with her knees apart and her elbows on them and she was wearing a tank top and cutoff shorts and she wasn't wearing the sundress from yesterday and the tank top was grey and fitted and when she leaned forward it rode up at the back.

She had a magazine. Cosmo. She was flipping through it without reading it.

"Nice arms," she said.

He stopped mowing. Wiped his forehead with his wrist. "What?"

"Your arms. From the mowing." She turned a page. "They look the same as always, but you're trying really hard and I thought you should get credit for it."

"Thanks. That's very supportive."

"I'm a very supportive person." She said it flat. The Cosmo was her mom's, he was pretty sure. The address label on the front said Watson, not MJ, and the issue was from two months ago. The magazine was open on her lap and he was looking at her lap because her legs were bare and tanned and the cutoffs were short and he looked at the lawn instead.

She watched him look at the lawn.

"Keisha Williams is having a party Friday. You should come."

He pushed the mower forward another row. The grass was thicker near the fence. "Should I."

"Yeah. Keisha's fun. There'll be people." She flipped another page. "I'll be there, if that matters."

He didn't say anything. He pushed the mower. The blades caught a thick patch and he had to lean into it.

"You're ignoring me."

"I'm mowing."

"You can mow and talk."

He pushed the mower to the fence and stopped. Chain-link, waist-high, the fence that did nothing between their yards except exist. MJ was maybe four feet away, still on the steps, and she was watching him properly now.

"I'll think about it," he said.

"That means no."

"It means I'll think about it."

She got up from the steps and walked to the fence. Leaned against it from her side, her forearms on the top rail, and his hand was still on the mower handle and her arm was close enough that warmth was coming off her skin without touching it. Then she shifted her weight and her forearm pressed against his through the chain-link. Bare skin against his sleeve. Warm.

"You're easy to talk to, Tiger." She was looking at the lawn, not at him. "Most guys my age are either trying too hard or not trying at all. You're just-" She stopped. Didn't finish the sentence. Her arm was still against his.

"Just what."

"I don't know yet." She pulled back. Half-smiled. Smaller than her usual ones, less certain.

Then she stretched. Slow, deliberate, arms over her head. The tank top rode up and there was the strip of stomach again, tanned and flat, the same strip he'd seen yesterday but this time with more context, more skin, the tank top pulling tight across her chest and her ribs visible at the bottom edge and he was twenty-three and he knew exactly what he was looking at and this body was fifteen and it did not care about the age gap.

She brought her arms down. Looked at him. Her eyes were green and they were looking right at where his eyes had been, not where they were now, and her mouth did the sideways thing.

"You noticed."

"Noticed what."

"Sure, Tiger."

She picked up the Cosmo. Stood up. Went inside. The screen door closed behind her, softer this time, and Peter stood in his half-mowed yard with the push mower handle in both hands and his arms shaking from the work and his face hot and the smell of cut grass and he pushed the mower to the end of the row and back again.

He finished the lawn. It took another twenty minutes. He did a good job. Ben would notice. May would say it looked nice. He put the mower back in the garage and went upstairs and took a shower and the hot water hit his back and he stood there for a while not thinking about anything specific.

He was in bed with the lights off when the voice came through the wall.

A rumble first. Low and grinding, male, adult. Coming from MJ's side of the house, from somewhere downstairs. The walls in these old Queens houses were thinner than they looked.

Then it got louder.

He couldn't make out the words but he could make out the shape of them. Short. Clipped. The consonants landing hard. A man saying the same thing he'd said a hundred times before, the anger worn into a groove.

A cabinet banged. Or a table. Something flat struck with an open palm. Once.

Silence.

Then, quieter, a woman's voice. He couldn't hear what she said. He couldn't hear if anyone answered.

Peter lay in the dark and gripped the sheet with both hands and listened. The house next door went quiet.

He thought about the address label on the Cosmo. Watson, not MJ. Her mother's magazine from two months ago. He thought about the sundress yesterday and the door that had closed too hard.

He lay there and listened until the quiet next door sounded normal again, and then he listened to that too.