So if it had been a year ago, he would have been trying to hotfoot it after a bus wearing a pair of neatly tied Oxfords, slipping like a madman on the highly polished soles. Fortunately enough he was wearing a good pair of running shoes instead, which was what he was going to need if he had any hope in hell of catching up.
The bus was inching its way up Woodhaven, which gave Peter cause for hope. But then a car, which had been in the process of parallel parking, and thus holding up traffic, finally managed to angle its way into the space, and the bus took off like a rabbit.
With a choked groan, Peter sped up.
The bus driver turned onto Queens Boulevard and started to open her up. Most mornings Queens Boulevard would be choked with traffic. Today, naturally, it looked like the Wall Street area on Easter Sunday. The school bus chugged along the outer road of Queens Boulevard, picking up speed, and Peter’s lungs were slamming against his ribs.
A kid in the bus saw him. He pointed out Peter to another kid, and within moments all eyes were on him. For one fleeting moment Peter Parker thought he was going to catch a break, and then the sounds of laughter and taunting floated through the air toward him. The bus, which had started to slow for a red light, lurched forward when it abruptly changed to green, and a belch of smoke erupted from the tail pipe. Peter held his breath as he ran through it; one inhalation and it would probably have collapsed his lungs. This sign of open disrespect from the bus itself only jacked up the amusement level among the kids, who laughed even harder at his predicament.
His bookbag was slamming against his back as he ran. He shouldn’t have even brought the stupid thing. But no, no … he’d had to decide that he might as well bring stuff to read on the trip. Try to get ahead on some courses. Peter Parker, the big brain who just couldn’t get enough of books that he had to haul them along on a class trip. Part of him wanted to pitch the stupid things down the nearest sewer, but he continued to clutch them tightly.
His large rectangular glasses were bouncing around on the end of his nose. Twice they almost slid off, as his face became drenched in perspiration. With his luck, they’d fall off and he’d wind up trampling them. Wouldn’t that cause unbridled hilarity for the troglodytes that constituted the senior class.
The bus put its left signal on. It was about to shift lanes, to move into the Queens Boulevard express lane. If it did that, he was finished; the only way he’d catch up with it under those circumstances would be with a rocket.
That was when he heard a female voice—the female voice—and even though the motor of the bus was roaring, and even though all the kids were hooting and hollering, she made herself audible over the hullabaloo.
“Stop the bus!!” came Mary Jane’s voice. “He’s been chasing us since Woodhaven Boulevard!”
This caused a collective and disappointed awwwww from the kids on the bus. Naturally. Mary Jane had terminated the fun before it had led to something really entertaining, like a coronary or a blood vessel exploding in his head.
The bus slowed, and for a moment Peter thought it was yet another tease, another false hope. But then it glided over to the curbside, and the doors opened to admit him. Peter nearly collapsed on the first step, clutching the handrail. The bus driver looked down at him, not with concern but with undiluted annoyance, obviously irritated that this idiot teenager had disrupted her carefully prepared schedule.
“Thanks …” Peter managed to gasp out.
The driver grunted, shoving forward on the bar and slamming the door shut behind him while he was still in the stairwell. She didn’t even wait for him to get into the body of the bus as she pulled the bus forward, grumbling to herself in a steady stream of indecipherable muttering.
Peter staggered forward, fighting not only his own exhaustion and pounding heart but the swaying of the bus as it practically vaulted into the express lane and hurtled forward. He bumped against kids who were seated, and muttered, “Sorry … sorry …” to each one as he went.
He got a particularly nasty look from the teacher, Mr. Sullivan. Peter always got nervous when he looked at Mr. Sullivan, with his thick glasses, thinning hair, and expression of perpetual pain, because Peter couldn’t help but worry that he was looking at a future version of himself. It was a disconcerting, even terrifying thought. Mr. Sullivan gestured impatiently for Peter to go find a seat, then looked down at his clipboard with such intensity that Peter felt as if he was in the midst of translating a newly found section of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Peter glanced over Sullivan’s shoulder and saw a list of the students’ names on it. Sullivan was putting a little black X next to Peter’s name.
That can’t be good, Peter thought.
Seated about three-quarters of the way down was Liz Allen. She had a mouthful of braces, glasses thicker than Peter’s, and blonde hair so wiry that it could have scoured clean a pan with two inches of hardened grease on it. She had books with her. And here Peter had thought he was the only one obsessive enough to bring along stuff to read. The seat next to her was empty. Peter, his legs weak, made eye contact with her.
She promptly slammed the armload of books down into the space and fixed him with a fearsome glare that could have chilled the sun. “Don’t even think about it,” she growled.
Wonderful. Liz was to the high school social whirl what the fox trot was to a mosh pit. Yet even she was concerned enough about her standing in the Midtown High community that she didn’t want to share a seat with him.
As he made his way down the aisle, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done to deserve this. Was he really that ghastly looking? He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the windows as he passed. Granted, the window was covered with grime and dead bugs, but even with all of that, he wasn’t that ugly. His face was round, his attitude honest and open. He was physically unimposing: Some would call him scrawny, but he preferred the term “svelte” or “lean.” And in his eyes … well, he thought his eyes were his best feature, deep blue and filled as they were with quiet intelligence and authority… .
Oh, well, and isn’t that just what high schoolers adore: intelligence and authority. Intelligence blows the bell curve, and authority is what teens are supposed to rebel against. And here came Peter Parker, the living personification of both. With all that taken into consideration, it was a wonder that he was still walking around at all… .
And then, without warning, he was on the floor.
At first he had no idea how it had happened; it had occurred so quickly that his mind didn’t have the time to process it. All he knew was that one moment he was making his way down the aisle, and the next he was flat on the floor. Unsurprisingly it was filthy, littered with gum wrappers, candy wrappers, stray bits of food and detritus that had been lying there for who knew how long? To add to this joy, he had banged his elbows severely when he’d hit, and the pain running up and down his arms was excruciating. More painful, however, was the humiliation, and the stinging of the blood rushing into his cheeks was the sharpest pain of all.
Because Peter knew that he hadn’t simply stumbled. He’d been tripped.
He twisted himself around, shoving his glasses back into place as he looked up with pure, unbridled fury at the occupant of the seat he’d just gone by.
Sure enough.
Flash Thompson.
Flash Thompson, the swaggering, arrogant, overarching, self-confident football hero, with a heart the size of all outdoors and compassion to match, if all outdoors happened to be the Arctic Circle. As far as Peter was concerned, Flash was living proof against Darwinism. Because Flash was obviously a throwback to an earlier era, and if Neanderthals were anything like Flash, then mankind could never have evolved. NeanderFlash and his caveman cohorts would have made life for any new species an endless torture of trip-ups, poundings, wedgies, and verbal taunting. “You put the ‘homo’ in ‘Homo sapiens,’ ” they’d doubtless be shouting, grunting and howling. The best and brightest future incarnations of man would have scampered back up the trees, never to descend aga
in.
Oh, and they’d get the best women. They’d just overwhelm them with their raw animal magnetism, sling them over their shoulders, and swagger away.
Case in point:
Mary Jane was sitting next to Flash.
She clearly hadn’t seen that Flash had been responsible for sending Peter tumbling to the floor, but she was regarding him with clear suspicion. Flash, his hands upturned in a gesture of total innocence, was saying, “What?” And why shouldn’t he? Even his lowbrow intelligence was enough to assure himself that Peter wouldn’t rat him out, and he was right. The only thing worse than the way this morning was going would be for Peter to point accusingly and say, “He tripped me!” How utterly lame, how whining, would that sound?
No, Peter had to suck it up, which was what he did.
Without a word he staggered to his feet and fired Flash the fiercest, angriest look he could. This intimidated Thompson about as much as could be expected; he curled his lip contemptuously and turned back to Mary Jane, making a point of draping an arm around her shoulders.
There was an empty seat toward the back on the right. It was one of the two seats that nobody ever wanted to sit in: Directly over the rear wheels. It hit all the bumps and potholes, jostled constantly, and was in short the most uncomfortable seat in the house. Peter, sliding into self-pity, exiled himself there. No one gave him a second glance.
Alone amongst a crowd, Peter did what he frequently did under such circumstances. He pulled out a small journal from between two larger books and laid it neatly on his lap, balancing it with accomplished expertise. The journal looked identical to the one that Uncle Ben had bought him over a decade ago, but it had the number 29 neatly inscribed in the upper right-hand corner of the cover. It was the twenty-ninth journal that he’d started since his youth. It was fortunate that Uncle Ben had purchased a common and popular brand of notebook. It gave him a sort of continuity between the young man he’d been and—with any luck—the old man he would become. It made him feel almost like a time traveler.
Writing on the bouncing bus was no easy thing, and this wouldn’t be one of his neater entries. Then again, compared to the chicken scratchings from when he was six and still trying to master cursive style, it would be a masterwork.
He dated the page and wrote:
Mom and Dad:
Well, it happened again. Flash made me look like an idiot in front of M. J., and she didn’t even realize it was him. I don’t understand it. I have about a hundred times his brainpower, but he gets the best of me every time. Uncle Ben says you can beat ignorant people by outthinking them, and arrogant people by appealing to that arrogance and using it against them, but that people who are ignorant and arrogant are the toughest to deal with.
And the worst is that he sits there with M. J. That’s killing me. I don’t think he even really likes her . . . not really likes her. He treats her like she’s a trophy or something. Like, since he’s the best athlete and everything, he deserves to have the best looking girl in the whole school. Like it’s divine right or entitlement or something. When it comes down to it, Flash Thompson doesn’t love anyone as much as he loves himself. She’s there to make him look good.
She must know that. She’s got to know that. So why the heck does she put up with him? Why does she even like him? She deserves so much better than him.
Mom, Dad . . . you know I don’t ask favors of you, hardly ever. But the next time you’re sitting around, shooting the breeze with God . . . do you think maybe you might mention Flash to him, and ask for some divine intervention? Nothing fancy. Nothing extraordinary. An anvil, maybe. A hundred pounds. On second thought, better make it five hundred pounds. With his thick skull, he probably won’t feel anything less.
Whatever it takes. In short, any strings you could pull that would provide just a little balance, a little justice, would be greatly appreciated.
Harry Osborn shifted uncomfortably in the back of the chauffeur driven Bentley, sneaking looks at his father, Norman, while fervently wishing that he was somewhere else—anywhere else—at this particular moment in time.
Norman Osborn, for his part, hadn’t glanced at Harry for the last twenty blocks. Instead he’d been utterly absorbed in coordinating his day of meetings via his handheld PDA. Harry’s attempts at casual conversation had been met with occasional grunts or nods, and not much more.
Osborn the Elder exuded an odd mix of power and barely controlled anger. Harry had never been able to figure out just with whom his father was mad, exactly. The world, it seemed. He was frustrated at all he wished to accomplish . . . and able to focus only on failures rather than successes. And Harry was often the target of his misplaced frustration. At least, that was what Harry chose to believe.
He had never forgotten that time, on his sixteenth birthday. His father had thrown a sizable bash, with a guest list comprised mostly of Norman’s friends, with a couple of Harry’s friends du jour tossed in for appearances. It was more a business opportunity for strategic meeting and greeting, but Norman had gotten himself seriously liquored up as the evening progressed. That was unusual for him. Usually he prided himself on his total control.
Late in the evening, however, Harry had found himself alone in a hallway with his dad hanging with one arm on his son and speaking in a voice filled with alcohol and contempt.
“I look at you, Harry,” he’d said, “and I see myself at your age … except without the potential for greatness.”
Harry had gone to bed shortly thereafter, and hadn’t come out for two days, claiming a headache. His father, mortified over what he’d said while in his cups, finally coaxed him out of his room with a dirt bike he’d been coveting and a vacation to the mountains. It had been a glorious outing, but the circumstances behind it still rankled.
As the Bentley approached the curbside at Columbia University, Harry could see the kids offloading from the school bus onto the sidewalk. He wished for all the world that he’d been able to ride along with the other kids. Norman had put a quick end to that notion, of course. No son of his rode creaky, dirty, disgusting school buses. What if someone he knew saw Harry on it?
The limousine window was slightly rolled down, and he could hear the teacher, Mr. Sullivan, shouting in his perpetually put-upon voice. “Okay, people, no wandering! Proceed directly up to the … knock it the hell off!” he bellowed as the teen horseplay, laughter, and shouting reached terminal levels. For a microsecond he had caught their attention, and he continued in that same tone, “… up the steps and into the building … !”
But then all eyes turned toward the Bentley. Harry wanted to sink into his seat, through it, and into the trunk. Hoping to salvage the situation, he muttered, “Dad, could you drive around the corner?”
Norman glanced up from his work toward the entrance to the building. “Why? The door’s right here?” he said.
Harry lowered his voice to an urgent whisper, as if the kids could somehow hear them from outside. He saw that they were congregating into one lump of curiosity, focused entirely on him. “These are public school kids,” he reminded his father. “I’m not showing up to school in a Bentley.”
Norman Osborn laughed bitterly. “What? You want me to trade in my car for a Jetta just because you flunked out of every private school I sent you to?”
Harry winced at that. The only thing worse than the reproach in his father’s voice was the knowledge that his dad was right. Trying to mount some sort of defense, he said, “They weren’t for me. I told you that. It wasn’t for me.”
“Of course it was!” Norman shot back. But then, seeing Harry flinch at the abruptness, he sighed and then smiled wanly. He reached across Harry to unlatch the door on his side. “Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are,” he said, not unkindly.
“Dad, I’m not ashamed. I’m just not what you—”
Norman frowned. “What, Harry?” he asked, trying to get to the source of his son’s discomfort.
“Forget it, Dad,” he sighed, sliding out of
the car.
He squinted, as his eyes had to adjust from seeing the world through the smoked glass of the Bentley to being assailed by the brightness of the sun on the crisp autumn morning.
He stepped onto the curb, bobbing his head slightly in recognition of the awed and impressed expressions on the kids’ faces. They were approaching the car as if it was the Holy Grail, which made Harry even more uncomfortable. He’d been speaking the truth to his father: He had never felt like he fit in at private school. Now his money and status were going to set him apart in public school, as well.
“Hi ya, Harry,” said a familiar voice.
He felt a quick surge of relief as Peter Parker stepped out of the crowd. Immediately Harry noted that the knees of Peter’s pants were dirty, as if he’d taken a spill. Well, he could always ask him about it later.
“Hey, Peter,” he said.
Then Harry remembered: He’d borrowed some science books from Peter and had intended to return them this morning, but he’d left them in the car. He started to turn back to the Bentley to get them, but his heart sank as the other back door opened and Norman Osborn stepped out. He didn’t so much emerge from the car as grow from it, as if he were an extension of the power and prestige such a vehicle afforded. He was holding the book bag. “Won’t you be needing this?” he inquired.
He handed the bag to Harry, but his gaze was riveted on Peter, sizing up this person who had addressed Harry in such a friendly and outgoing manner. Realizing that an introduction was not only required, but inevitable, Harry cleared his throat and said, “Peter, this is my father, Norman Osborn.”
“Great honor to meet you,” Peter said, shaking Norman’s hand. He winced a bit.
Norman laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, come on, son. You call that a handshake? A man is judged by the strength of his grip. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Peter made an obvious effort, and Harry couldn’t watch. Instead he looked around at the girls who were gathering around the Bentley, oohing and aahing. He couldn’t help but notice that Mary Jane Watson was one of them, looking at the car almost reverentially, as if it was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen. He made a mental note of that. It might be that showing up in such a fancy vehicle might not have been such a bad thing after all.