Spider-Man

  Spider-Man didn’t seem to take it as a compliment. That annoyed the Goblin slightly, but he let it pass.

  “Who are you?” Spider-Man demanded, sounding as if he had marbles in his mouth.

  “A kindred spirit,” the Goblin answered blithely. “A fellow traveler. You’ve changed, and now you want someone to tell you what to do, what to be. And there’s no one who could possibly understand …” He leaned in toward Spider-Man. “… except me.”

  How cute. Spider-Man was trying to make a fist. All he managed was to move a couple of fingers. Perhaps he was trying for an obscene gesture. “They call us freaks,” the Goblin continued. “But we’re not less than human … we’re more than human.”

  “I’m not like you. You’re … a murderer… .”

  “Well … to each his own,” the Goblin said with a shrug. “I chose my path. You choose the way of the hero. And they’ll find you amusing for a while, the people of this city… .” His glider rose and he hovered, making a sweeping gesture, taking in the entirety of the city with it. “But the one thing they love more than a hero is to see the hero fail … fall … die trying.

  “The truth is, people don’t like heroes. Who wants an example you can never live up to? Take my word for it, in spite of all you’ve done for them, eventually they will hate you. Read the headlines!”

  He was listening. Spider-Man was listening to him, he could tell. And why not? Spider-Man read the headlines; he knew what the media was trying to do. He had to be aware of it. So why not milk that for all it was worth?

  “We are who we choose to be,” the Goblin continued. “But a day will come when you must ask yourself, did I choose wisely? Why am I risking my life for these ungrateful fools?”

  “Because … it’s right …”

  The Goblin circled him, mockingly, out of reach. Spider-Man was glancing around, as if unable to focus on where he was.

  “Right? Wrong? Capital R, capital W? You’re young, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. He was becoming more and more convinced that he was dealing with someone who was, at most, college age. “You believe in myth, beauty, professional athletes as role models. Well, here’s the real truth. There are fourteen million people in this city,” and he pointed all around them. “Those teeming masses exist for the sole purpose of lifting a few exceptional people onto their shoulders. You, me, we are exceptional. I had problems, but I used my God-given powers and poof … those problems vanished.”

  Spider-Man was focused on him now. The gas might be starting to wear off … and if that triggered a fight, then Spider-Man might not have time to dwell on everything the Goblin had said. So it was probably time to bring this to a close, to leave the “hero” with something to chew upon.

  “Imagine what we could accomplish together. What we could create … or … We could destroy, cause the deaths of countless innocents in selfish battle again and again. And again … until we are both dead.”

  The glider, under his guidance, angled upward. “Think about it, hero,” he called mockingly over his shoulder. Then he flew off into the glare of the morning sun.

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  I’ve got good news and bad news.

  The bad news is, the early edition of the Daily Bugle carried a headline that read, “Spider-Man, Green Goblin Terrorize City.” The good news is, the next day’s edition didn’t say that.

  More bad news and good news. The bad news is that the next day’s edition said, “Spider-Man, It’s Time for a Bug-Free City,” and featured an editorial from J. Jonah Jameson about how the Green Goblin and I don’t care about who gets hurt, or about anything except whomping on each other. The good news is . . . well . . . there’s not really any good news, I guess.

  God help me, the stuff the Goblin was saying made sense. I find myself clinging on to one notion and one notion only, and that is that I’m “the good guy.” Because I’m the good guy, I don’t get pulled into the mindset that creates that sort of creature.

  Except . . . well, it’s almost Darwinian, isn’t it. Natural selection. The strong survive. And the fact was that the Goblin had me cold. I got cocky and overconfident, he hit me with one whiff of gas, and boom, I was gone. If he hadn’t caught me before I hit the ground, I’d be a pancake. He saved me for a reason. A twisted, demented reason, but a reason. And what he said . . . for a moment there . . . I was listening. Really listening. And worse, I think he knew I was listening.

  The last thing I want to do is give a monster like him any reason to think that I could be swayed over to his side.

  Still . . . the strong survive.

  He may be stronger than I am. I mean, I’m still sorting out why I do what I do. Still trying to cope with the notion that I’m busting my ass for a citizenry that tosses aside common sense in exchange for believing tabloid headlines written by a man like Jameson.

  But the Goblin, he was so sure of himself. He had so much conviction in his voice, in his attitude. He was like a living incarnation of chaos, and proud of it.

  Me . . .

  I’m starting to think I don’t know what I am.

  XXI.

  THE STALKER

  Mary Jane Watson stood in front of the casting director, holding the pages of the script in her hand, and she was practically trembling with indignation. She felt her eyes stinging and willed herself not to cry. It wasn’t easy.

  The audition room had been hot and cramped, and the casting director, a woman named April Reese, watched her with cold contempt, which was in startling contrast to the near-movie-star looks she displayed. M. J. had just read for a small part in the popular soap opera Guiding Life and was convinced she’d nailed it … until she looked into Ms. Reese’s eyes and saw otherwise.

  Reese studied her meticulously manicured red fingernails a moment, as if pondering exactly what to say. “Normally, Ms. Watson, I’d say ‘Very nice, thank you, next,’ and move on with the audition. But I think I’d be doing you a disservice.”

  “You would?” Mary Jane said uneasily.

  “Yes. But I’m going to make an exception in this case.”

  “You are?” For a heartbeat M. J. felt hopeful.

  “I am. Ms. Watson, when I asked your agent if he had any fresh young ingenue types with red hair, your agent gave me the impression he was sending a professional over. Someone with promise. The reading you gave was hopelessly amateurish. Hopelessly, as in, no hope of improvement.”

  Mary Jane trembled, giving the acting performance of her life as she forced a smile and said, “Really.”

  “Really. At the very least, I’d recommend acting lessons. A lot. For a long time.

  “At the very most,” she said, shrugging, “I’d recommend finding some nice guy to settle down with to take care of you. In the meantime, don’t quit your day job.”

  All the blood drained from M. J.’s face. She felt a sharp stinging like a thousand needles in her pores. “I appreciate your candor,” she said in a very clipped voice.

  “Good.” When M. J. didn’t move, Reese cleared her throat and said, “Okay, we’ve now come to the part where I say, ‘Thank you, next.’ You’ll forgive me if I skip the part where I say ‘very nice.’ Doesn’t seem appropriate.”

  “Well, good,” said Mary Jane, fighting to keep her voice even. “And if it’s all the same to you, we’ll skip the part where I deck you. That wouldn’t be appropriate, either.”

  She turned and stormed out the door, leaving April Reese sitting there, smiling. Then Reese pulled out a cell phone from her purse, briskly dialed a number, and waited.

  “Flash,” she said. “It’s your Auntie April, the casting director. How are you doing, honey? Listen. That little girl who dumped you on graduation day? Picture this: She comes in here for an audition, absolutely nails the reading—probably knows she nailed it—and guess what I said to her … ? Yup. That’s right, Flash. Payback, bigtime …”

  Mary Jane stomped down the narrow stairs, almost tripping once, and then burst out the side door of the tel
evision studio. She spun, slammed the door behind her, then laughed bitterly at the sign that read, ARTISTS ONLY.

  The temperature had dropped, and there were clouds rolling in, hinting at rain. She drew her coat around her, trying not to give in to the misery she felt. Never had she more wanted to see a sympathetic face than she did at that moment, but there was no one to …

  “Hey!”

  She turned and saw Peter Parker walking toward her. He was dressed in jeans and a brown coat, and had an umbrella tucked under his arm. She couldn’t believe it. There were celebrity stalkers out there who had less of a track record than Peter did for showing up unexpectedly. Not that she was unhappy to see him; far from it. But he seemed to be turning into the king of the unexpected. “Hey!” was all she could think to say.

  He stood in front of her, his hands shoved into his pockets. “How was the audition?” he asked.

  M. J. was utterly taken aback. “How’d you know?”

  “The hotline.” Peter shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Your mom told my aunt, who told me. We have no secrets from each other.”

  “So you just came by.” She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or flattered.

  “I was in the neighborhood. I needed to see a friendly face.” When he saw her skeptical expression, he admitted, “Took two buses and a cab to get in the neighborhood, but …”

  And Mary Jane blurted out, “They told me I need acting lessons.” When she saw his surprised expression, she just shook her head in disbelief. “A soap opera told me I need acting lessons.”

  The rain had indeed started to fall. Peter, prepared as always, snapped open the umbrella and held it over her head. “I’ll buy you a cheeseburger. Sky’s the limit, up to,” and he reached into his pocket to check, “seven dollars and eighty-four cents.”

  She laughed at that. It felt good. Up in the audition room, she’d felt as if she’d never laugh again.

  “I’d like a cheeseburger, but …” She paused, and then added apologetically, “I’m going to dinner with Harry.” M. J. saw the disappointment in his eyes and thought of all the effort he’d gone to just to be outside when she came down from the audition. Just to be there … for her. “Come with us,” she suggested.

  “No, thanks,” he said easily, and then, less easily, as if the relationship were a scab he couldn’t help but pick at, he said, “I mean with you and … never mind, none of my business.”

  “It’s not?” She cocked her head. “Why so interested?”

  “I’m not … am I interested?”

  “You’re not?”

  “Well … why would I be?”

  And Mary Jane began to feel something stirring within her. Old embers being slowly stoked to life. The slow realization of the difference between being happy for someone … and being with someone who made you happy.

  “I don’t know. Why would you be?” she asked softly.

  “Y’know … just …” He seemed totally at a loss for words. Was it because he was feeling emotions that he couldn’t express … or that he just didn’t have a clue what she was going on about, because he wasn’t interested?

  “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  She smiled, waited.

  Nothing.

  She thought about saying more, of asking … asking questions she wasn’t even sure how to frame. But she didn’t know the answers she would get, didn’t know if she’d make a fool of herself for a second time in the day. What she did know was that she simply couldn’t cope with rejection again. “Sorry you won’t come with us.”

  Mary Jane started to turn away, and Peter handed her the umbrella. She was about to hand it back, but he pulled up the hood of his coat, and walked quickly in the other direction.

  Realizing she was running late, M. J. walked quickly to the corner of the darkened street and tried to hail a cab. She should have known better. In the rain in Manhattan, finding a cab was practically impossible.

  “You need a ride?” a brusque voice said from behind her.

  She turned and there were four punks approaching her. But they were quickly splitting into two groups, two of them coming around and at her from the street side, the others remorselessly approaching from the sidewalk.

  “I’m fine. I’m waiting for my boyfriend, thanks,” she lied.

  “Well, we’ll wait with you,” said the closest of the punks, a guy with a shaved head and a ring in his left nostril.

  “No, thanks. My boyfriend’s the jealous type. He won’t be happy to find you guys here.” She tried to back up, but the other two had, as she expected, maneuvered in behind her. They were grouped around her so she wasn’t even visible from the street, and they were starting to move, starting to guide her by their sheer presence, away from the curbside.

  Then the big guy grabbed her purse, and M. J.—who had been looking for someone on whom to take out her frustration—found him. She kicked him in the shin, elbow-jabbed the guy next to him, turned quickly to punch the third one in the group, and before the fourth could make a move, she yanked free the mace canister that dangled from a keychain on her purse and sprayed it in his face. He let out an alarmed yelp, throwing his arms up over his face to ward off another attack.

  She tried to squeeze past them, hoping to break loose and run for it, but then her luck ran out. They converged on her, snarling, and shoved her into a wall. There was an instantly identifiable snikt noise, and she saw that the leader had yanked out a switchblade and was bringing it toward her chin, while the others held her immobile. She knew at that moment two things beyond any question: First, that there was no way she was going to give these punks the satisfaction of hearing her scream, and second, that it was unlikely she would be able to maintain that resolution.

  Suddenly there was another noise, more unusual, but she recognized it all the same. A loud thwip and abruptly all four punks were yanked together as if they’d been lassoed. They had just enough time to let out a cry of alarm, then they were pulled away and over into a nearby alley.

  An instant later she heard the sound of bone hitting bone, and the bald punk came flying backward out of the alleyway, smashing into a window. Another emerged, also out of control, until he hit a brick wall and sagged to the ground. The third came flying out in a different direction, crashed into another window, and the fourth came rolling out as if someone had bowled him. He barreled into a garbage can and lay sprawled on the ground with the rest of the trash.

  Slowly, barely daring to believe it, she turned and gazed into the inky shadows. She saw a figure standing there, but he wasn’t coming any closer, and in the darkness she couldn’t make out much beyond his general outline. But there was no question in her mind who she was facing.

  “You have a knack for getting in trouble,” he said.

  She frowned. His voice sounded different. It was still deep, but it sounded more affected, somehow, as if it wasn’t his natural voice… .

  It wasn’t muffled. That was it. It wasn’t muffled as it was before. My God . . . he’s not wearing his mask. . . .

  She took a step toward him, and he retreated further into the shadows. She wanted to laugh. This guy had just manhandled four thugs, each of them the size of a small mountain range, but he was backing away from a one hundred three-pound redhead.

  “You have a knack for saving my ass,” she said slowly. “I think I have a superhero stalker.”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  She blinked, stopped, squinted at him in the darkness. There was … there was no way, but …

  “You are amazing,” she said.

  Slowly but surely, she was drawing closer and closer, until abruptly he made a quick motion with his hands, and when he spoke his voice was muffled once more. “Some people don’t think so,” he said, stepping slightly out of the shadows, staring at her through the white and opaque eyes of his mask.

  Mary Jane felt a small flicker of disappointment. “But you are,” she insisted.

  “Thank yo
u.” He didn’t sound particularly convinced.

  And she recognized that tone of voice. It was like hers: Sad, unutterably sad. She could sympathize.

  He leapt up onto the wall above her, clinging there upside down. She stepped up underneath him. “Do I get to thank you this time?” she asked.

  And before he could move, she put her hands to the underside of his mask and lifted it.

  “Wait,” Spider-Man managed to get out, but he made no motion to stop her.

  Mary Jane pulled the mask up just far enough to reveal his mouth. And there, with the rain pouring down in buckets, she kissed him more passionately than she had ever kissed anyone. It would have caused Flash’s toes to curl; it would have scalded the hair off Harry Osborn. Rain streamed down over both their faces, and over their lips when she finally parted.

  She touched his lips with her fingertips and said gently, “That’s so you’ll remember where your mouth is.”

  She tenderly replaced the mask. He hung there for a moment, frozen, and then he turned and scampered up the wall, out of sight. She watched him go, eyes shining.

  “Yowza,” she said.

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  Please disregard previous letter. Am having wonderful time. Wish you were here.

  XXII.

  THE MOTH TO A FLAME

  Peter Parker was sailing … literally.

  He was sailing across the rooftops, feeling more alive, more invigorated, more filled with a sense of right than he ever had before. The city spread beneath him, and he regarded it through his mask and thought, I am the protector of the city. I am one of the good guys, and that means something.

  All that from one kiss.

  Even though several days had passed, he could still feel the press of her lips against his, like a fine wine. To some degree, he was still appalled at the chance he’d taken. He’d spotted the punks heading toward M. J., hurried to change into his costume, and run out of time, having to go into action before he could pull his mask on… .