I wake up before my alarm.
It's not a brag—more like a problem. My body's done sleeping, but my brain is throwing a full-on protest, flinging thoughts around like bricks through windows for the next ten minutes while I stare at the ceiling and think about last night.
Whatever I might've imagined wall-crawling would feel like—it didn't even come close. There's no blueprint in the human brain for that. My muscles still remember it. I… I want to feel it again.
I slide out of bed and stretch, just a little. It's a habit I'm still working on—trying to remember that I'm not invincible and that if I don't want to tear something important, I should probably act like I've got bones.
The floor is cold, but only for a second. I barely notice it compared to the itch in my brain as I glance toward the wall.
I step up beside it and press my palm flat against the paint. The grit against my skin comes back instantly, but it's changed now—like there's a pull. Like the wall isn't just a surface, it's an invitation.
So I answer it.
My hand sticks. Then the other. My foot locks next, and my knee bends in this awkward, not-okay angle that should've hurt—but doesn't. Gravity tilts, the room skews sideways, and then I'm crawling up like it's nothing. Like I've always known how.
Once I'm on the ceiling, I roll onto my back, arms folded behind my head, staring down at my bed with a smile.
The weirdest part? It doesn't feel impossible. Doesn't feel like I'm breaking the laws of nature or cheating gravity. It just feels… right.
No. It feels good.
Like this is what I was made to do.
The pressure's different here—not like I'm lying down, more like I'm being held. Like the ceiling's got me. Like I couldn't fall even if I wanted to. The skin on my back tingles faintly where it meets the plaster, every nerve alive and checking in. There's this warm, magnetic sensation running through my limbs. My fingertips buzz like they've got tiny engines under the skin.
I close my eyes.
And for a moment, I let myself feel it all—the silence of the room, the faint creak of the house settling, the slow rise and fall of my chest. The way the ceiling accepts me, no questions asked.
I don't want to come down.
Not because it's cool.
Because right now—I feel complete.
I've never felt more like myself.
The ceiling holds me like a hammock, like a giant palm cradling me above the world. I don't feel weightless—but I don't feel heavy, either. I just feel held.
The drywall under my shirt is faintly warm from the rising heat of the house. There's a texture to it—fine grit and imperfections I never noticed from the floor. I can feel every one of them now, mapped out along my spine like braille.
I stare down at the room below, watching the way the soft morning light spills across the bed. The shadows look different from up here—longer, deeper, stretched like the edges of a dream I haven't quite woken up from.
I don't know how long I stay like that—could be thirty seconds, could be ten minutes. Time's a little sideways in this position.
But eventually, I feel the world creeping back in. The weight of the day pressing in from the edges.
I sigh.
Then, I hop back to the floor with a confidence I didn't know I had, landing softly with barely a sound. I could have gone back to sleep on the ceiling, but truth be told, I'd rather not have May or Ben walk in and see that.
I get into one of the tank tops and shorts Harry bought for me and go for my morning run with the wolf necklace swinging comfortably against my chest. I'm still half asleep, but I'm moving. Bettering myself demands sacrifice, and today, sleep's the lamb.
I hit the street, and the cool autumn air brushes against my face like a pillow I don't want to leave. I sleep great when it's cold, so it's not exactly helping me wake up. So, I shake my head, and start jogging. My feet still haven't found their rhythm yet, but it's starting to feel less awkward. Though, it still fucking sucks.
Every step is a reminder that I'm not built for this yet. The first few blocks feel like my legs forgot what they were supposed to do, like they're running on rusty gears that haven't been oiled in years. The burn creeps up from my calves to my thighs, and my shoulders start burning like I'm carrying a backpack full of bricks.
I'm doing this wrong. I shouldn't feel like this, right?
It's only been a few days. It's gotta be the quitter in me crying out. I need to keep going. Even the part of me that hates running begrudgingly knows it's the only way forward.
So, I grit my teeth, ignore the protest from every muscle screaming at me to quit, and push through.
Queens flies by. The chipped stop sign. The guy walking his dog with too many leashes wrapped around his legs. The old lady watering her plants like she's been doing it since Eisenhower was in office.
None of it matters right now.
I'm pretty sure my grandpa would be thrilled to know I'm finally exercising. He was one of the ones always pushing me to take care of myself.
In a weird way, I think I'm doing this for him.
Even if he doesn't know it, he's with me every step of the way.
Just as I start to drift into autopilot, the sound of pounding footsteps catches my attention—a quick, familiar rhythm beside me.
"Well, at least you look the part today!" a voice teases—light and breezy, like the morning.
I turn to see MJ racing to catch up with me, hair whipping around her face, grin stretched wide like she doesn't have a care in the world.
"Oh. Hey!" I wheeze.
Talking while running. Yeah, that's a new level of torture.
She drops into pace beside me effortlessly, and dammit—she's not even breathing hard.
"Seriously? You're actually doing this? I didn't think you'd stick with it."
I grimace. My lungs feel like they've been through a cheese grater.
"Yeah? Well, it still sucks."
MJ snorts.
"You'll learn to love it, trust me. Though… maybe slow down. It's not meant to be a sprint the entire time."
"I've only been jogging," I mutter, slowing beside a lamppost. "I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what he's doing."
"Oh… that's not good," she laughs—not mocking, just kind of… pitying.
And that's somehow worse.
MJ's looking at me like she's genuinely concerned I might crumple into the sidewalk and start leaking spirit energy. It only makes me want to keep moving more. Because if I stop now, I'm honestly tempted to just sit down next to this pole and let it be my final resting place.
...Which is probably in poor taste, considering where I was a week ago.
Yeah. I know.
"Well," she grins, jogging backward a few paces so she can look at me while I die, "if anyone can make running look this miserable and still keep going—it's you."
I want to argue, but my lungs are doing their best impression of a collapsed accordion.
Instead, I just give her a tired smile.
"Thanks… I think."
"So, how are you feeling?" MJ asks.
I hack out a breath.
"Like I'm about to cough out my lung, thanks for asking!"
She laughs, bright and easy.
"No, silly. I meant in general."
"Oh!" I chuckle, dragging a breath and channeling my inner Chandler Bing. I'm pretty sure I look like he did in that one episode of Friends right now. "Uh, prett—pant—pretty good. You?"
"Now that you're here, I've got my entertainment for the morning, so I think I'm good."
I roll my eyes, smirking.
"Haha."
As we head back toward Forest Hills, the city waking up around us like it's shrugging off sleep, I decide to ask the question that's been hovering since I last saw her.
"So… you living with Anna?" I ask, trying to keep it casual, but honestly just curious.
MJ nods, her steps falling into rhythm beside mine.
"Yeah. For the next few months, at least. My parents are in the middle of a nasty divorce, and I didn't want to be a part of all that. Anna's letting me crash there."
"Ouch," I say, wincing like she just told me she stepped on a LEGO barefoot. "Sorry."
She shrugs, but there's a flicker of something behind her eyes—like maybe she hasn't had a chance to talk about it out loud yet.
Or maybe she's just really good at pretending it doesn't bother her.
"Don't be," she says. "Honestly, Anna's place is kind of a sanctuary compared to the screaming matches I was waking up to back home. She bakes when she's stressed, too, which is, like… the best coping mechanism ever. The woman made blueberry muffins last night because she saw a political ad she didn't like."
I let out a weak laugh.
"That's almost too wholesome to be real."
"Oh, it's real," MJ says with a grin.
"Still, though. I'm sorry about your parents. I know how divorces can be." I say quietly. "I saw what it did to my cousin's kids after she and her husband split. It's rough."
"What's that line people say nowadays?" she scrunches her nose, thinking for a second. "It is what it is? Not much I can do about it."
Oh if my mother had heard that, she would have visibly recoiled over that one. She hated that phrase.
She looks back at me, curiosity flickering.
"But what about you? What's your deal?" she asks. "How come you live with your aunt and uncle?"
I chuckle, pointing to my head like it's some kind of mystery box.
"Uh, well… kinda foggy there, you know?"
She frowns.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"No, you're good. My parents went on a business trip to South America when I was young. Their plane crashed. I've been staying with Ben and May ever since." I pause, eyes distant for a second. "I wouldn't change a thing though. Just wish I could remember more about them, you know?"
MJ nods slowly, like she gets the weight behind that. And maybe she does. Truth is, I know what it's like—wanting to know a parent more than you ever got to. My father wasn't around when I was a kid. I mean, he was there for the conception, probably, but after that? Ghost. By the time I met him, I was ten, and I didn't even know he was my dad until a few months later—right before he disappeared again.
My family was always my grandpa, my mom, and my little brother. Now? It's Ben and May. And despite the fact I miss them more than anyone could ever know—honestly, I think I won the lottery with them.
We turn a corner, gravel crunching under our shoes as the sidewalk shifts from uneven concrete to that smoother slab near the nicer houses. The air smells like cut grass and leftover rain. Somewhere a car door slams, and wind chimes rattle half a block away.
"You close with your parents?" I ask, quietly. Not nosy—just wondering if she got a better hand than I did.
MJ breathes out slowly, her ponytail bouncing once as she gives a small shake of her head.
"My mom tries," she says after a beat. "She really does. She calls, checks in, sends me stuff. But my dad..." Her mouth tightens for half a second. "It's like he doesn't even want to be there. I mean, maybe it's because things with him and Mom got so rocky, and he's just tired of it all—but it never really felt like he cared that much."
Her voice is steady, but there's something hollow around the edges. Like she's said all this before, but it still stings every time.
"He never told me goodbye when I left to come to Anna's, either."
I glance over at her, lifting a brow.
"What? He didn't say anything?"
She snorts, but there's no humor in it.
"Not a word."
The breeze picks up then, just enough to tug at the edges of her tank top and send the faint scent of lilacs and car exhaust drifting past us. I watch her for a second—how she keeps her face calm, even though I can see the tension in her jaw.
"I'm sorry," I say, because that's all I can really say. And yeah, I know that phrase gets overused and tossed around like a band-aid, but I mean it.
She shrugs, like it's fine, even though we both know it's not.
"It's whatever. I'm used to it."
But nobody should have to get used to that.
We walk in silence from there. The air's already warming, the sun climbing higher now, turning the rooftops gold and pulling long shadows from the parked cars along the curb. A robin darts across the sidewalk in front of us, wings flicking so fast they're just a blur, before it vanishes into a hedge.
Up ahead, the houses start to look familiar.
I can see the peak of the Watson place just above the trimmed hedges—its shutters freshly painted, flower boxes clinging to the windows like they're auditioning for a Home & Garden cover. Right next door, our place looks almost rustic in comparison.
I know that I'm only fourteen now, but the moment I can get some money, I'm going to fix the house up. I owe Ben and May that much.
"Are you going to school today?" MJ asks, cutting through the quiet.
I glance at her, nodding with a little shrug.
"I've got the all-clear, so… might as well get it over with."
She grins faintly.
"Nothing says 'welcome back to life' like a pop quiz."
"Oh, if there's a quiz, I'm faking another coma," I mutter, and she actually laughs at that—just a short, surprised little bark that makes me feel like I've won something.
"What about you?" I ask, wiping a line of sweat from my brow with the edge of my shirt.
"I start at Midtown today."
I blink.
"Wait, seriously?"
"Yep." Her smile tightens a little like she's still trying to decide how she feels about it. "Anna figured it'd be good to get back into a routine. You know. New environment, clean slate, all that fun stuff."
We slow our steps a little as our houses come into full view, the last stretch of sidewalk framed by creaking trees and dappled sunlight.
"Well," I say, trying not to sound weirdly excited even though, internally, I absolutely am, "guess I'll see you there."
"You better." She jabs a finger in my direction. "I didn't move to Queens just to get ghosted by the one person I know."
"Oh no," I say, holding up both hands like I've just been accused of a crime. "You are definitely stuck with me now. That's the deal."
"Deal, huh?" Her smirk returns, sharper this time.
"Full disclosure, if we're going to be friends I want to warn you. You're going to hate me just a little." I smile.
"That so?"
"It's kind of a rule I have with my friends. We're not really friends if you don't hate me just a tiny bit."
"That's an interesting rule."
"But it's served me well, or so I'm told." I chuckle.
"Well, then. I'll see you here after a bit."
As I watch her step onto Anna's porch, I find myself grinning. By the time I realize it, my face turns red. I probably look like an idiot right now, and god help me if May is watching. The ache in my legs is still there, and my lungs feel like they've been run through a paper shredder, but frankly, it doesn't bother me.
I turn toward the Parker house and jog the last few steps. The porch creaks under my weight as I step up onto it, and I see the door's already cracked open an inch.
Did I not get it shut all the way before I left? Grandpa would have said something in this situation. Hopefully it was just Ben getting the morning paper.
Crossing the threshold, cool air hits me first.
Ben must've clicked the AC on when he got up. The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of toast and whatever detergent May uses that somehow always smells like sun-warmed linen and safety.
Ben's at the table, still in his worn robe and flannel pajama pants, a steaming mug in hand and the morning paper folded into fourths on the table in front of him.
"You're back early," he says without looking up.
I shrug, kicking off my shoes and letting the door thud shut behind me.
"Didn't want to collapse on someone's lawn and get reported."
Ben hums.
I pass through the living room, grabbing the towel May left draped over the banister—she always leaves one for me when I run. I don't know how she's already figured out my schedule, but I'm grateful for the assistance. I swipe at the sweat clinging to the back of my neck.
"How long have you been up?"
"Woke up about an hour early. Couldn't sleep."
He finally looks up at that, his eyes sharp in that way they get when he's picking up on something I haven't said. But he doesn't press. Just nods, like that's all he needed to hear.
Bathroom. Quick shower. No time to linger unless I want to start the day looking like a gremlin that crawled out of a drainage pipe. The water's hot—thank God—and it works out the worst of the soreness, though my calves still feel like overcooked noodles.
By the time I'm out and dressed in clean jeans and a fresh shirt, May's downstairs, hair up in a messy bun, frying something that smells aggressively like turkey bacon. She turns when she hears my footsteps
"You look alive," she says, voice light but eyes warm. "That's an improvement."
"We'll see how alive I am in a few hours," I snicker as I sit at the table and swipe a piece off the paper towel-lined plate she sets down.
"So… today's the big day," she says, nudging a mug of coffee toward me.
"Mm-hmm." I sip. It's too hot. I don't care.
Ben chuckles from behind the paper.
"Just make sure you take it easy, today. Don't get overwhelmed."
Easy enough for him to say. He isn't the one going back to school for the first time since he was eighteen.
"I'll try."
In a few minutes, I'll be walking into Midtown for the first time since everything changed. I'll barely know anyone's names and I won't know my teachers. Hell, the fact I gotta go to the office before class starts to get my locker and schedule is going to be awful enough as it is.
I finish the last bite of bacon, still chewing as I lean back in the chair and let the heat of the coffee cup warm my hands. It's not the best brew in the world—I'm pretty sure May's never measured a scoop in her life—but it's hot, it's strong, and right now, that's all I need.
Across from me, Ben rustles the paper as he flips to the next section. Probably the obits. The one thing I've found he does every day is check the obituaries. He says it's because he'd rather know if somebody he knew was gone. I get that, but I never looked because I was terrified to see someone I was close with there.
May moves around the kitchen like she's gliding, not rushing anything, even though the stove's still hissing and the coffee's cooling by the second. But she's watching me now—really watching—like she's just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
And then it happens.
She turns off the stove, leans against the counter with her arms crossed, and lifts one eyebrow like she's the protagonist in a family sitcom that's been waiting three seasons for this payoff.
"So… was that Anna's niece I saw heading up to the porch next door?"
I freeze mid-sip. The mug nearly slips from my hand.
"Maybe?" I try, like there's some universe where that answer won't unlock a full nuclear launch.
May's smile spreads slowly, like butter on warm toast.
"I thought so."
Ben's still reading his paper, but I can feel the shift in the air, like he's tensing up for cover fire.
"She's the one you bumped into on that run the other day, right?" May asks, far too casual.
"She bumped into me," I mutter.
"Mmhmm." Her smirk is a blade. "Funny how you never mentioned it."
"Wait… I never told you I bumped into someone." I turn towards Ben, who mysteriously is looking away in a totally inconspicuous way. "You told her?"
Ben doesn't even lower the paper.
"All I said was that you met somebody."
"Traitor," I mutter.
"I'm sitting right here," he says, unbothered. "And I stand by it."
May's practically glowing now.
"I just think it's nice," she says, pouring herself coffee like she isn't detonating my morning. "You've been through a lot, Peter. And MJ's a sweet girl. Bright, thoughtful… pretty."
"Okay," I say quickly, holding up both hands like I'm defusing a bomb. "Let's not plan the wedding just yet."
May sips serenely from her mug.
"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to let people in."
"She lives next door," I reply. "I think that already qualifies as let in."
Ben finally lowers the paper, just enough for his eyes to peek over the top.
"Just be glad she didn't walk you back holding hands, or you'd already have a photo on the fridge."
May smiles into her cup like that's not the worst idea she's heard this week.
I sit back, mug in hand, and groan into the steam. Not only am I uncomfortable because of the age difference between us, but the fact I'm getting Vietnam flashbacks to my sorta-not ex. That's a lot to explain, and I'd rather not go into that. Just know that everything went downhill when she said "Hi Mom" in the background of a phone call when I was on break at work one day.
Mom made it her personal mission to refer to her as 'future daughter-in-law.' This is giving me serious whiplash.
"I'm gonna go grab my bag," I say, standing from the table. I shouldn't be this nervous or embarrassed. Damn teenage hormones.
"Don't forget your lunch," May calls.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, already halfway up the stairs.
God help me.
By no means was high school the worst part of my life. But standing in front of the double doors of Midtown High, it might as well be the gates of Mordor. There's no Eye of Sauron peering down from a flaming tower, but it still feels like I'm being watched.
I'm frozen on the sidewalk, bag dragging at my shoulder like it's full of bricks, just staring up at those doors like they're going to open and swallow me whole. I shouldn't even be this nervous.
Nerves don't care about logic, though. The idea of walking into a building full of people who all know me, while I don't know a single one of them, is intimidating as hell. My stomach's practically doing laundry on spin cycle.
Sure, I've gone through it before, but that was my school. That was my name, my face, and my semi-functional friend group. Now, I'm walking around in someone else's skin.
Back then, I was a loner, but at least I knew who I was avoiding. Even if I didn't like being around people, they knew me. I wasn't nearly as much of a fly on the wall as I like to believe. So, the idea that these kids will smile at me in the hallways, call me by name, and maybe even expect me to sit next to them like we're best friends… it's more than a little horrifying.
I suck in a breath, and step forward anyway. The doors groan open, and walk into the chaos.
The hallways are packed. Sneakers squeak, lockers slam, and some overconfident kid's blasting music from his phone like it's a party. It smells like cafeteria grease, cheap perfume, and something I'm pretty sure is rotting gym socks. A girl with coffee nearly baptizes me in caramel drizzle and doesn't even look back when I mumble a reflexive "Sorry."
The sheer volume of it all makes me flinch—shouting, laughter, slamming doors, buzzing conversations. A kid rushes by with a skateboard tucked under one arm, earbuds in, hoodie up, like he's trying to outrun the concept of attendance. A girl's yelling about mascara. Someone's phone goes off in a bass drop.
Social anxiety's clawing at my ribs. I've never felt more like an alien in a place I'm supposed to be familiar with.
Technically, I'm not new. But it might as well be my first day all over again. I don't know the layout. I don't know my teachers. I don't even know where I'm supposed to be right now. For all I know, I'm going to stumble into AP Chemistry and accidentally burn the school down trying to light a Bunsen burner.
I don't recognize a single face.
From what I've been able to piece together since the hospital, the only people I really "know" are Harry, Lonnie, and Flash... kinda. And now, MJ. Sort of. I think? That one's complicated.
I edge along the wall like I'm in a stealth mission, head down, trying not to make eye contact. Which probably makes me look even sketchier. My goal's simple: main office.
I pass a group of guys yelling about last night's game—or a fight, I can't tell. One of them glances my way and does a double take. I keep walking like I didn't see it. But he definitely recognized me.
Finally, I spot a sign that says ADMINISTRATION and follow it through a set of quieter double doors. It's like stepping into a completely different building. Carpeted floors. Fluorescent lights. Silence, blessed silence.
The main office smells like paper, printer toner, and vanilla—thanks to a scented plug-in humming by the front desk. Talk about priorities.
The secretary looks up, her hair twisted in a tight bun, glasses low on her nose. She smiles like it's automatic.
"Morning, Peter," she says, like she's said it a hundred times before. "Glad to see you back."
I blink, thrown for a second. But I nod and try to smile like someone who isn't quietly preparing to bolt through the nearest window.
The nameplate on her desk says Ms. Diaz.
She pushes a manila folder toward me with practiced ease.
"Schedule, locker assignment, homeroom—everything you need. Your teachers have notes about your... situation. Just take it slow. And if you need anything, we're here, okay?"
I nod and glance at the folder. First period: Biology. Room 214. Top floor, apparently. There's a stapled map on the back. It might as well be a treasure hunt.
I'm halfway to the door when she calls out again—without looking up.
"Oh—and welcome back, hon."
Yeah.
Welcome back.
"Thank you." I manage on my way out.
Biology.
God help me.
Dropping into the plastic chair by the window, I crack open the folder May helped me organize last night. AP Biology. The syllabus for the class is in the front, four sheets of pages printed front and back. Midtown doesn't screw around. I was lucky to get to one or two sheets maximum from my previous classes.
I skim the first line.
This is not your standard biology class.
Yeah, no shit…
By the time I hit "signal transduction pathways" and "Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium," I'm wondering if someone put this in here as a joke. I used to be in college-prep courses. Standard stuff. Nothing special. And even then, toward the end, I'd dropped down to general classes because my grades had started slipping. Everyone called it out for what it was, but I didn't care. I didn't have the drive, the focus… I simply didn't care.
But this? This is above my pay grade, entirely.
Photosynthesis light curves? Population modeling? Gel electrophoresis? I barely remember how to spell mitochondria, how am I supposed to know how to say electrophoresis? I swallow hard and set the paper down on my desk, my face scrunching in disgust. I don't belong here…
At least—not the new Peter.
I'm not going to flunk this, though. I've got work to do, gaps to fill. I'll probably need to teach myself entire chapters at home. It's going to suck, but I'm going to do it. I wasted my life. I'm not afraid to admit it. It shouldn't have taken me dying and getting a second chance to try and fix it, but it's too late for regrets. If I'm going to make the most of this, I need to step up my game.
Midtown is full of geniuses, and if there is one thing I hate more than anything, it's people making me feel like an idiot. If I have to stay up late at night doing extra work, so be it.
Shifting in my seat, I notice that the classroom's still filling up. Someone behind me is complaining about their SAT tutor. A pencil snaps. I watch Harry slide into the seat beside me with a forced smile, and I give him a nod back.
Then, the bell rings.
Mr. Larson is already at the front of the room, scribbling a diagram on the whiteboard. He doesn't say hello. Doesn't ask us how our weekends were. Just jumps straight into a chalk-dry monologue like he's been rehearsing it in the mirror.
"…in the cell cycle, mitosis is essential for growth and repair. But what happens when the cell forgets how to stop dividing?"
I blink. We're talking about cancer. Cool. Totally a relaxing way to start my day.
One thing I learn about Mr. Larson is that Harry was right. He really wasn't kidding about him being a dick.
He's got a stick so far up his ass I'm surprised it isn't poking out of his mouth.
Beyond the initial "Welcome back" when I walked in, Larson's left me alone. Which, great… I love it.
What I don't love is the way he keeps treating Harry like a crash test dummy. Harry's not dumb, but holy hell—pick someone else to answer a question for once.
At one point, he turns around, marker in hand, scanning the class like he's searching for a victim. His eyes land on Harry.
Of course they do.
"Mr. Osborn," Larson says, that familiar faux-friendly venom in his voice, "why don't you tell us what causes a tumor to become malignant?"
Harry freezes.
I can practically see the gears trying to turn in his head, but they're not catching. I don't blame him. Half the class is pretending to not exist right now.
Harry fumbles out a half-answer. Something about cells dividing too much. It's not wrong, but it's not what Larson wants.
The older man sighs, loud and theatrical, like Harry's just ruined his day.
I raise my hand.
Larson's brow lifts, surprised.
"Yes, Mr. Parker?"
"Loss of regulation in the cell cycle," I say. "Specifically, when tumor suppressor genes like p53 are mutated. That's what lets the cells divide uncontrollably and invade other tissue. That's what makes it malignant."
I say it without second-guessing myself. I know this. Grandma was sick for a long time. She had lung cancer—I remember sitting in the hospital at seven-eight years old when she was there for chemo and radiation treatments. After she passed away, I became interested in the subject and started learning about it. One of the few times I had initiative for something more than superheroes and video games during my adolescent years.
Larson blinks.
"…Correct," he says, almost grudgingly.
Harry lets out a tiny breath, and I glance over at him with a shrug.
"Thanks," Harry whispers, and I merely nod.
The rest of the class keeps moving, but I catch the look on Larson's face. The way he lingers on me for just a second too long. Like maybe—for now—he's reconsidering what box to put me in.
And that's fine.
I'm not going anywhere, regardless of what anyone expects.
The rest of the day starts to go by quickly, surprisingly. Harry and I have most of our classes together, and that includes Geometry. Let me tell you, Harry might have not been on his A-game with Larson, but in Geometry the guy is the equivalent of a demigod. Seriously, it's like that's all he's ever known. Meanwhile, I'm staring at Ms. Grant's notes on the board like they're ancient hieroglyphs.
Math's always been my Achilles heel, which—let's be honest—isn't exactly uncommon. But still, I feel like I've been thrown overboard. Why couldn't I have been blessed with Peter's brains?
Right now, I feel like I got the short end of the web.
It's during PE that the day shifts to a better mood, though. Which is weird, seeing as I hated PE back then, mostly because I had self-esteem issues and didn't like to sweat at school.
By the time I get changed into my gym clothes—gray Midtown shirt, black shorts, sneakers that still have showroom shine—I'm already regretting whatever sadist put Physical Education at the end of the day. My body's running on fumes, my brain's half-fried from Bio and Geometry, and now I get to exert what little bit of energy I have left with more exercise.
I let my head tip back and stare at the ceiling. Big metal rafters. Flickering lights that belong in a horror movie. Faint echo of a whistle somewhere in the distance. God, I hope this isn't one of those days where they make us run the mile. I'm not trying to become a chalk outline today.
"Hey, Peter."
I sit up a little too fast, almost flinching—because of course it's MJ. She's already dressed down for class, Midtown tee tied in a small knot at her hip, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail that somehow makes her look both effortless and like she could outpace me in a footrace without even trying.
She flashes a warm, casual smile as she steps up onto the bleacher beside me.
"How's it going?"
I exhale slowly.
"Feeling a bit overwhelmed, but I'm managing," I say, trying to sound chill and not like I just finished reliving every academic trauma I've ever had.
She nods sympathetically and glances toward the far side of the gym, where a few kids are already jogging half-hearted laps.
"What about you? Enjoying Midtown so far?"
She shrugs, settling onto the bench beside me with her elbows on her knees.
"It's not bad. At the end of the day, it's school. Nothing special. But I've already had two teachers mispronounce my name and one kid spill Gatorade on my sneakers, so, you know—pretty on-brand."
I grin.
"Well, lucky for you, you've got me here to lower the bar."
"Oh, absolutely," she says dryly. "You're ruining the curve just by existing."
Wow… she's a bit snarky. It reminds me of my old friends, and I think that's why I'm actually comfortable around her. Despite the fact we've only seen each other during physical activities, she makes it a bit better.
She nudges her knee against mine, and I glance down at the gym floor, smiling despite myself.
"Seriously, though," she adds, voice a little softer, "you hanging in there?"
I glance over at her—and yeah, she means it. She's not just making conversation.
"I'm trying," I say. "Homework's gonna suck, but… I'll figure it out."
"Better you than me," she jokes, then stands and stretches like a cat, eyes on the coach setting up cones across the floor. "C'mon. Let's go get tortured together."
I groan as I push up from the bench.
"Misery loves company, right?"
"Exactly," she says, flashing me a grin over her shoulder. "And if we have to run laps, I'm drafting off you."
"If I drop dead halfway through, avenge me," I mutter.
She laughs as we head down the bleachers together.
"No promises."
Then came lunch.
I don't know why I expected it to feel different. It's still a cafeteria with the smell of grease and bleach colliding, and a hundred teenagers trying to out-shout each other before fifth period.
Harry and I manage to snag a decent spot at the end of a long table, near the windows. I barely have time to unwrap the foil on my sandwich before I realize we're not alone.
"Hey, scooch over," comes a voice behind me.
I glance up.
Blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Denim jacket. Eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass. She's got a confidence in her stride that I would die for. My self-esteem would never let me look so proud.
She drops her tray next to Harry with a subtle smile, and I swear to God he nearly short-circuits.
"Oh, hey," he says, and it's almost impressive how hard he's trying not to sound flustered.
This has to be Gwen Stacy. She doesn't even need to introduce herself. The way Harry sits up straighter and forgets how his hands work pretty much confirms it. They talk like they've done this a hundred times, but there's still this energy between them, like every sentence is being balanced on a wire.
Hell, I almost forget my food is in my hand. They're so adorably distracting that I almost want to gag.
Then the table creaks under a thud, like a small meteor just landed across from me. The guy's built like a fridge. Shaved head, thick neck, massive shoulders barely contained by a green and white Midtown lettermen jacket, with the big M stitched on the left breast.
"Yo, Osborn," he says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "You see the hit from last night? Rangers smoked 'em."
Harry grins.
"I was trying to do my homework, man."
"Lame." he says, but with a fondness that makes it feel like he's said it every day since middle school.
I'd have to guess this is Kong... Flash's best friend. I've only seen him in the Spectacular Spider-Man and the Ultimate comics, but the resemblance is uncanny.
Then, as if summoned by the sound of testosterone and cafeteria-grade starch, the chair next to Kong scrapes across the floor. And here he comes.
Flash Thompson.
I recognize him immediately from Peter's photos—same cocky smirk, same athletic build. He's wearing his own letterman jacket open, sleeves pushed up, and his face? It honestly does give off Alan Ritchson energy. He's even got that overconfident frat-boy grin to match.
"Hey Parker," he smiles at me. "I didn't even know you were back. I've missed seeing you around, dork."
"Thanks, Flash. I guess I missed you too," I say, giving him a smile that's about as fake as margarine.
He points a finger-gun at me like I just admitted a deep emotional truth.
"Of course you did. Everybody loves me."
"Please, Flash…" Gwen rolls her eyes. "Let's not pretend that you're Midtown's sweetheart."
Flash clutches his chest like she shot him.
"You wound me, Stacy."
"Not enough," she mutters.
I'm trying not to laugh.
"How are you feeling, Pete?" she asks, turning back to me with a softer look.
"Been better," I admit. "But I'm doing alright."
We fall into easy conversation after that.
Well, I say we, but I really mean they.
I mostly just sit there quietly and occasionally blink, watching them all banter, half-dazed by the fact that I'm actually in this group. How the hell did this happen? Everything I'd seen from Peter's computer made it seem like I was going to mostly be around Harry and potentially MJ.
Flash is posturing like an idiot, but it's more bark than bite. He and Kong trade one-liners about the gym teacher, and to my shock, Kong might be the most wholesome behemoth I've ever seen. He keeps offering me pieces of food from his tray and asking if I'm "getting enough protein," like I'm his smaller, more fragile cousin.
Harry leans over and mutters something under his breath to Gwen, and she laughs. I wouldn't have pictured them together before. But now? It works. It really does.
And selfishly, it's a relief. If something ever happens—if I ever put the mask on and step into the line of fire—I won't have to worry about her the way Peter once did. She's not the girl I'm supposed to save. She's just... Gwen. Sharp, funny, and probably smarter than all of us combined.
I'm just starting to think this might be the most bizarre thing I've lived through all day when Gwen turns to me, brows raised in amused interest.
"Peter," she calls my name. "Who was the new girl you were talking to in PE?"
My brain throws up static.
"…New girl?"
"Yeah. Red hair? Ponytail? Midtown tee tied at the hip?" she adds, nodding toward the gym wing like I didn't just mentally black out the entire class. "The one that had you in a smile the entire period?"
"Oh…" I say slowly, blinking. "That's MJ."
Gwen's eyes light up with something that gives me an uneasy reminder of May's own face on the topic. That same I'm-not-saying-it-but-I'm-absolutely-saying-it kind of look.
"You know her outside of school?" she asks, too casual to be innocent.
"Uh," I clear my throat. "She's staying next door."
Gwen raises an eyebrow like she just cracked a case.
"So she's your neighbor?"
"Technically," I reply, trying very hard not to sound like that makes it anything more than a geographical coincidence. "Her aunt is close friends with May. She's been crashing there for a bit."
"Interesting," she says slowly, dragging the word out like she's tasting it. "Very interesting."
I glance to Harry for backup, but he's no help—too busy trying to hide a grin behind his sandwich. Kong, meanwhile, is mouthing ooOooh around a bite of mashed potatoes like this is a soap opera. Flash just raises an eyebrow, amused, but says nothing—maybe the one thing he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut on.
"She seems cool," Gwen continues, swirling her juice box like it's a glass of wine. "Cute, too."
"I—I guess," I mumble, suddenly hyper-aware of literally every eyeball at the table. "We talked a little. That's all."
"You smiled the whole time," she sing-songs, just enough to make me want to slide under the table and never come out.
"I was trying not to throw up from Coach's suicide drills."
"Uh-huh." Gwen smirks, nudging Harry with her elbow. "Sounds like a crush to me."
"I don't have a crush," I say firmly, and maybe a little too quickly. "I barely know her."
Flash snorts.
"You kidding me? Red was in fourth period with me. She's out of Parker's league."
"Are you just scared that Peter might get a girlfriend before you do, Flash?" Gwen asks, and Flash's cheeks turn red.
"Uh, excuse me?! I can get any girl I want, thank youuuu!" He draws the word out like he needs the extra emphasis. "I just don't want the little guy to get hurt."
"Right…" Gwen deadpans.
Harry finally cracks and snorts into his sandwich, trying and failing to cover it up with a cough. Kong lets out a wheeze that sounds like a balloon giving up on life.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck.
"Can we please talk about anything else? Literally anything?"
Flash leans back in his seat, shrugging.
"Hey, I'm just looking out for you, Parker. That's what friends do."
The table pauses for a second.
Even I blink at that.
I watch him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But it doesn't come.
Instead, Kong jumps in, pointing his fork like it's part of the conversation. "He's been a little extra sentimental since Liz turned him down for Homecoming."
Flash's head snaps around.
"Dude."
"What?" Kong grins. "You have."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have. You bought cologne for her. Cologne, Flash..."
Gwen perks up.
"Wait, Liz turned you down?"
"Can we not turn this into a school-wide bulletin?" Flash grumbles, folding his arms. "I'm just saying… comas are serious, alright? And Pete's… Pete. He's one of us."
"When have you ever said that?" Harry asked. "Aren't you the one that makes him the butt of every joke you can?"
"Peter, come on… help me out here." Flash motions towards the rest of the group. "We were friends when we were kids, rememba?"
"Uh, sorry to disappoint… but I have amnesia, Flash. I don't remember much of anything."
"WHA?!" Flash's eyes widen like a cartoon character. "You're pulling my leg, right?"
"Nope," I say, popping the P. "Don't even remember my own locker combo. You could tell me we used to do gymnastics together and I'd just have to believe you."
Flash looks visibly distressed by that. Like I just told him he was the one in a coma.
"Dude," he says slowly, "you don't remember anything?"
"Bits and pieces," I admit. "Faces are mostly familiar. Names, too. But… memories? Not really. It's like someone hit a reset button up here." I tap the side of my head. "I thought you knew, everybody else does."
"Apparently, I didn't get the memo." Flash frowns and leans forward on his elbows, glancing between me and Harry. "That's messed up, man. Seriously. You—uh, you doing okay with that?"
That... wasn't sarcasm.
"Yeah," I say, nodding a little. "It's been weird, but… I'm figuring it out."
"Good," Flash says. Then, after a pause, he adds, "For what it's worth… you were kind of a nerd before."
Kong makes a choking sound, like he tried to laugh mid-chew and almost died.
"But you were our nerd," Flash adds, tossing a grape at Kong like it'll cancel out the accidental sincerity.
"Wow," Gwen says, mock-clutching her chest. "That might be the most emotionally honest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."
"Don't get used to it," Flash grumbles, clearly already regretting letting the sentiment slip.
I lean back in my seat, glancing over at Harry. We lock eyes for a second, both of us quietly stunned by the social miracle happening in front of us.
Harry just shrugs, mouthing, I don't know either.
Kong breaks the silence by sliding his chicken strips across the table toward me.
"You need protein," he says seriously.
"Thanks…" I reply, taking them cautiously.
As I eat the strips, I realize that out of everybody I've seen today, there's only one person from Peter's computer that I haven't seen: Lonnie.
"Hey, where's Lonnie?"
Everyone looks surprised that I brought him up.
"He's out of town on vacation, visiting his aunt in Tennessee." Kong explains. "He should be back next week."
I nod, not wanting to push any further. I was actually hoping to get to meet him, because he's the only one out of the entire group here that I can't imagine interacting with Peter. Though, I can wait a week. It'll give me a chance to get used to the others.
I finish off the strips Kong gifted me, watching the rest of them talk. I lean back a little and just... take it in.
How the hell did this become Peter's lunch group?
Like seriously. Gwen Stacy, who could easily be sitting with the AP crowd or the student council. Flash Thompson, literal high school jock archetype. Kong, who looks like he should be lifting trucks for fun. And Harry—rich kid royalty, somehow managing to act like the most normal one out of all of them.
This should not work. On paper, it's a mess. A half-step away from a sitcom cast that got assembled by throwing darts at a yearbook.
Hell, to top it off you got an amnesiac Peter Parker among them.
How did this happen?
I don't bother to question it right now—I'm just thankful that I get to finish my lunch in peace.
As the school day closes out, I'm walking down the front steps toward the sidewalk where Harry is already waiting. He's got his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, looking a little too relaxed for someone who definitely just bombed a pop quiz in third period.
"Hey," he says when he sees me. "You survive?"
"Barely," I mutter, hoisting my backpack higher before it dislocates a shoulder. "I think if I don't spend every waking second tonight studying, I might actually drown under the makeup work."
Harry winces in sympathy.
"You want help?"
"Tempting. But then we'd both fail."
He chuckles and starts walking with me, heading toward the street.
There's a beat of silence before he scratches the back of his neck.
"Hey, uh… sorry about lunch. I didn't know they were all gonna sit with us."
I shrug.
"Why would you apologize for that? It was weirdly… decent."
"Yeah, but I know it was a lot. Gwen, you know why she was over there." He glances at me meaningfully. "Flash and Kong, I don't know. Maybe because you're back?"
I shake my head and let out a dry laugh.
"I wasn't expecting that. Felt like getting adopted by a pack of wolves mid-meal."
Harry snorts.
"Well, wolves don't usually offer you chicken strips."
Before I can reply, the sound of sirens cuts through the air.
We both glance toward the street as a cluster of squad cars speeds past the school, lights flashing, engines howling. It's not subtle.
"Wonder what that's all about?" I ask, squinting as they disappear down the avenue.
Harry just shrugs.
"It's New York. Could be anything."
Could be.
Could be another robbery. Could be a car crash. Could be a mutant bear loose in Queens for all we know.
I keep watching the lights fade into the distance anyway, that part of me—the part that wants to do good—itching to go after them.
But I can't, right now. I'm not ready for that.
I'll get there, but not today.
"I'll talk to you later," I tell Harry, stepping off toward Forest Hills. "I need to get a jump on this schoolwork before it jumps me."
"If you need anything," he says, "just call."
I nod and start to turn—then feel his hand tap my arm.
"Hey," he says, voice low. "Is that her?"
I glance back, following his line of sight.
It's MJ.
She's walking down the stairs alone, earbuds in, denim jacket slung over one shoulder. The breeze catches her ponytail just enough to make it sway. She doesn't even notice us.
"Yeah," I say. "That's her."
"That's MJ?"
"Yes," I repeat, already bracing myself.
Harry lets out a low whistle.
"No wonder Flash looked like he was gonna short-circuit during lunch."
I give him a look.
"You're with Gwen."
Harry lifts his hands innocently.
"Hey, I'm not doing anything. I'm just saying… if your aunt's trying to set you up with that…"
He trails off and grins.
"…you might've hit the jackpot, man."
Oh, you've gotta be shitting me.