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—Phone calls—
Cindy Moon
Cindy sighed slowly through her mouth, glaring down at the test in front of her.
She hated math.
The problem was she was good at it. Three levels above average, steady grades, and one of the best in the class. The only kids who consistently did better than her were Peter Parker, the genius, and Flash Thompson, the try-hard.
It was easy for her and came pretty naturally, which was a very good thing because it was so incredibly boring. She understood the numbers, and the letters, and where they went, and she could figure out most problems pretty easily.
She could finish this test in ten minutes if she wanted to. She should probably get it over with, but slowly answering one of the 25 questions every two minutes seemed a lot more doable.
Part of the problem was how quiet it was. All she could hear were pencils scratching, and feet tapping, and the clock ticking as slowly, slowly time passed by.
Cindy squinted down at the next problem on her test, absentmindedly dragging her pencil across the paper, wondering if it was bad that she was only on question seven.
A phone rang. Cindy jumped as the silence was interrupted. Pencils stopped scratching and feet stopped tapping, and everyone looked around, trying to figure out who had been stupid enough to leave their phone on during a test.
Mrs. Hodwell hated phones with a passion. She would take them away if someone so much as looked at the time. It was even rumored that once, when flip phones were still a thing, someone had answered a text in class, and she had snapped it in half.
Whoever had left their phone on, whoever was letting it ring in the middle of a test, must have a death wish.
There was shuffling at the desk behind her, and Cindy turned, not at all surprised when she saw Peter Parker pull the ringing phone out of his bag.
Of course, it would be Peter.
Since the beginning of this year, he had sort of been...slacking off. He came to school late, wore his hoodies inside out, forgot homework, stuff like that. It happened constantly, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that Peter’s phone was the one that was ringing.
Cindy frowned as Peter checked the caller ID. What was he doing? Why wasn’t he turning his phone off? Why wasn’t he begging for forgiveness? Peter was supposed to be smart, but this might have been the stupidest thing she had ever witnessed.
Cindy knew Peter had been struggling, but she hadn’t known he was suicidal.
Peter frowned down at whatever name was flashing on his phone, then looked up at their teacher, a crease between his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hodwell,” he said, and Cindy breathed out a sigh of relief. Maybe Peter wouldn't die today. “But I think I have to take this.”
Cindy’s jaw dropped. The kids around her started whispering.
Mrs. Hodwell stared at him, eyes narrowed.
Goodbye Peter. Cindy thought. It was nice knowing you.
“Is it your-”
“Yes,” Peter said quickly, cutting her off. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Holdwell, but he wouldn’t call unless it was important. I-” the phone stopped ringing, and Peter stared down at it in horror, then he glanced back up at Mrs. Hodwell, pleading.
Mrs. Hodwell signed and waved her hand vaguely towards the door. “Fine. Go.”
There was no way this was real. She was dreaming. She was dead, and this was her brain slowly deteriorating.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hodwell!” Peter said as he rushed towards the door, frantically tapping at his phone. “I’ll be right back.” He put his phone to his ear, closing the classroom door behind him.
Mrs. Hodwell turned back to the gaping students and glared. “Get back to work!” She growled out, and everyone scrambled to pick out their pencils, pretending not to notice when, five minutes later, Peter stepped back into the room. He apologized profusely for about thirty seconds and then explained that everything was fine; he just needed to leave a few minutes early.
And that would have been it.
It was weird, sure, but Peter was weird, and as the resident genius, it was perfectly normal for the teachers to favor him. (something no one could even be jealous of because not only did he deserve it–he was a scholarship kid and probably smarter than all the teachers combined–he was also a genuinely nice person. He didn’t rub his special treatment in everyone else's faces. Cindy was actually pretty sure he didn’t even know he got special treatment.)
It should have been it.
Except for the fact that it happened again a few weeks later.
And then again, a few weeks after that.
And then people started doubting the rumors about Mrs. Hodwell and phones, and they started getting braver–stupider–and they stopped turning their phones off in her class.
Some people were just too stupid to realize that Peter had different rules than they did. Just because he could do something didn’t mean the rest of them could.
Cindy knew it was only a matter of time before something happened.
And then, a few days after Peter’s third phone call, something did happen. Will, a boy who sat two rows away from her, got a text.
Will’s phone made a little pinging sound, and Mrs. Hodwell, who was writing something on the board, turned around and glared.
“Who’s phone was that?”
And Will, the stupid idiot, just smiled apologetically. “It was mine. Sorry.” and then he pulled his phone out and silenced it.
Mrs. Hodwell–somehow–glared even harder. “You know my rule about phones, Mr. Lewkis. Please bring your phone to my desk. Have your parents contact me tonight, and I’ll return it after class tomorrow. I’ll see you after school for detention.”
Will’s face turned red, and Cindy would feel bad for him except for the fact that she really didn’t like Will.
“it was just a text! “He said, sounding miffed. “It won't happen again! I already silenced my phone!”
“No, Mr. Lewkis. You know my rules. Bring your phone to my desk, please.”
“But, but Peter’s allowed to use his phone! He answered like, three calls in this class!” And there it was. Will had taken Peter’s rules and tried to make them his own. Stupid.
“Peter has special permission. Now give me your phone Mr. Lewkis. unless, of course, you want detention every day for the next week.'' Mrs. Hodwell crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, ignoring the whispers of ‘'special permission?’ What does she mean ‘special permission?”’
Cindy turned to stare at Peter, who was slouched in his seat. He pulled at his hair, trying to use his arm to cover his bright red face, as he looked intently down at his desk, avoiding the stares everyone was sending him.
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People talked about the phone calls for weeks.
At first, it was mostly just curiosity. This wouldn’t have seemed as scandalous if it hadn’t been in Mrs. Hodwell’s class. They all knew that Peter got special treatment, but even he shouldn’t be able to get a free pass from the teacher who hates phones more than she hates rats–and Mrs. Hodwell really hates rats–so, obviously, whoever was calling was important.
After the first call, most of the talk was just speculation. “was it his Aunt? Did something happen? ” but it died down pretty quickly.
After the second call, pretty much the same thing happened. “was it his Aunt again? Why would she have called?” The talk barely lasted a day.
After the third phone call, people realized it wasn’t a one-time thing. “what do you think is happening? Is something wrong? Is he ok?” The talk lasted longer, turning from speculation to gossip.
It wasn’t until Will Lewkis interrupted math class with a text that the speculation and the gossip really took off, turning to rumors pretty quickly. “I don’t think it's his Aunt. Why would he need special permission to get phone calls? Do you think it’s serious?”
People talked, gossiped, and all types of rumors spread. From the boring. “I seriously think it was just his Aunt,” to the wildly unbelievable, “I bet it was someone from, like, an alternate universe or something.” to the all too believable, “what if it was his doctor?”
That was the one that stuck for the longest. It was no secret that Peter had had some serious medical problems in the past. While he had obviously grown out of a lot of them, it wouldn't be too out of the ordinary for him if it was something like that.
The only problem with that theory was Peter had never needed to take phone calls like that before, so what was so important that he needed to take them now?
If it was his doctor, what was so wrong that Peter had to be on standby for whenever he called?
Peter Parker
Peter slipped through the door and into the hallway, pressing his phone to his ear. It didn’t even get a chance to ring once before the call was answered.
“Why didn’t you answer my call?” Mr. Stark asked, sounding miffed.
Peter winced. “I'm so sorry!” he exclaimed quietly, entirely aware of the tests that were being taken in the room behind him. “I totally would have answered it, but I was in the middle of a math test, and my teacher really hates phones, like really-”
Mr. Stark laughed “it's ok, kid. I'm not mad or anything. I was just bored. Thought I would give you a call.”
A student walked past Peter, giving him an odd look when they noticed what classroom he was standing outside of. Peter gave them a small smile and then turned away, his shoulders hunched. He tried to be excited, rather than annoyed, about the fact that his childhood hero had called him, seemingly just because. It didn’t work, and he was thoroughly irritated.
“What do you mean you were bored ?” he hissed out quietly, trying not to be overheard by the student that was still walking slowly down the hall. He really didn’t want the kids at school to know about his internship. They gossiped a lot, and if word got out that Peter was inturning under Tony Stark, he would probably become pretty well known, pretty quickly. The more people who knew who he was, the easier it would be for someone to connect him to Spiderman. That really couldn’t happen. “You can’t just call me in the middle of the school day because you’re bored, Mr. Stark.”
“I can, and I did.” Mr. Stark said chirpily. “Now, I have this new idea that I wanted to run by you, and it’d be easier to explain if I could show you the visuals, so why don’t you come over to the lab and-”
Peter cut him off. “I’m in school, Mr. Stark. I can’t just leave.”
“ Sure you can!’ Mr. Stark exclaimed, “I filled out that form, remember? You have special permission to leave-”
Peter tried to cut him off again. “But-
Mr. Stark ignored him “-whenever you want! It's one of the many perks of being my intern! All have to do is email your attendance office-”
“No, I know, but-” Peter tried, but he was, once again, ignored.
“Alright, let's see..” Mr. Stark mumbled to himself, “midtown high...Peter Parker... ah, never mind, this is too difficult.” Peter's shoulder sagged in relief. Maybe Mr. Stark would be too lazy to send the email. “Friday!” fuck. Peter had forgotten about Friday. “Send an email to Peter's school and tell them he’s allowed to leave early!”
Peter groaned. “But Mr. Stark….”
In the background of his phone call, Peter could hear Friday confirming that the email had been sent, and Mr. Stark let out a triumphant noise. “It’s too late, Peter!” he said, and his smile could be heard through the phone. “Now you have to come!”
Peter groaned again. “Fine!” he exclaimed in defeat, “Fine, but I have to finish my test first. I'll see you in an hour.”
“Peter! It will not take you an hour-” Peter pulled the phone away from his ear and ended the call, not even letting Mr. Stark finish his sentence.
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Not much changed for Peter after the phone calls. People didn’t really treat him differently than they did before, except now, every once in a while, when he walked into a new room or through the halls, people went suddenly quiet. It made Peter a little uncomfortable when everyone stopped to stare at him but, well, his school really liked gossip, so he was used to it.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t been the hot topic of the rumor mill before. That tended to happen when you leave Liz Toomes–one of the most popular girls in school–stranded in the middle of the dance floor at a school dance.
All Peter could really do was wonder what he had done this time.
—Attendance—
Abe Brown
7:30 was too early.
It was too early to be awake, too early to be out of bed, and too early to sit behind a desk and pretend to care about momentum and impulse-momentum, and that there was a difference between the two.
7:30 was too early, period.
Peter Parker obviously agreed because it wasn’t until 7:56 that he stumbled into Mr. Harrington’s classroom.
Peter, recently, had been slacking off when it came to attendance. From the beginning of the year, every day was either a late arrival, an early dismissal, an absence, or some combination of the three.
This behavior was a complete one-eighty from last year when the only time Peter would even miss school was when his asthma was giving him so much trouble breathing he physically couldn’t go.
Peter shuffled to Mr. Harrington's desk, dragging his feet noisily as he went. He slid his late pass into the open space next to the turn-in-bin, mumbling an apology as he straightened his little slip of paper, making sure it was perfectly lined up with the other papers around it.
It was a testament to how tired he was that he only apologized once.
Then he turned and did his slow shuffle walk to his seat. Peter’s bag slipped from his shoulder, landing heavily on the floor before he sank down into his chair and let out a drawn-out, long-suffered sigh.
Peter looked terrible. The bags under his eyes were deep and dark purple. His face was pale. His hair was a mess of tangled curls that flopped stubbornly over his eyes whenever he tried to push it away.
He pulled out his notebook and a pencil and then laid his head down on the desk, wrapping his arms tightly around his head, trying to block out the drone of Mr. Harrington's voice.
He didn’t move again for the rest of the class.
Abe turned the page of his notebook, added a new heading, and continued to copy the notes from the board, even though the handwriting he was copying was completely illegible, and his notes were totally useless.
Mr. Harrington turned to face the students placing his expo marker in the dish at the bottom of the board. His eyes flicked to Peter, But he kept talking. Momentum. Impulse momentum. The difference between the two.
It had recently become pretty standard to see Peter asleep in class, and the teachers, it seemed, had given up trying to keep him awake.
He so obviously needed the sleep that it just seemed cruel to wake him.
It didn’t really matter anyway. He already knew the stuff they were teaching.
Abe continued scratching out notes until the bell rang, signaling the end of class, and Peter sat bolt upright in his seat. He quickly stuffed his notebook back into his bag and rushed to the front of the room, where Mr. Harrington was erasing the board. Abe snapped his notebook shut, packing up slowly because 8:10 was still way too early, and he didn’t have the energy to even try to be on time for his next class.
By that point, Most of the students had gone, and the only people left in the class were Abe, Mr. Harrington, Peter, and some Girl, whose name Abe didn’t know.
Mr. Harrington turned to Peter, eraser in hand. He raised his eyebrow skeptically “did you do the homework?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Peter shook his head frantically, his fifteen-minute nap apparently having done wonders for his energy. “I am so sorry, Mr. Harrington! I tried to get all my homework done but got home super late last night and-”
Mr. Harrington raised a hand, cutting Peter off “were you at-?”
Peter nodded his head enthusiastically, “yes,” he said, not realizing he had interrupted Mr. Harrington. “Yes, and I know it's not supposed to be an excuse, but-”
“How late did you get home?” Mr. Harrington asked, once again cutting him off. When Peter was in apologizing mode, that was the only way to get anything in.
Peter abruptly stopped talking. “uh. “ he said hesitantly. He looked down at his feet. “oneish, I think?”
Mr. Harrington furrowed his eyebrows “one? In the morning?”
Peter nodded his head. “They said I should just spend the night there, but I didn’t expect to stay so late, so I didn’t bring my homework, and I tried to get it done, I did, I just forgot-”
“It's fine, Peter,” Mr. Harrington said because you could only hold out under Peter's guilty rambling for so long “just remember to bring it in tomorrow.”
Peter nodded again, apologized three more times, and then ran out the door, rushing to his next class. Abe sighed and slung his bag over his shoulder, following behind him at a much slower, much more appropriate pace for 8:13 in the morning.
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Peter’s irregular attendance wasn’t talked about as much as the phone calls were.
At least, not at first. At first, people just assumed it was his gifted kid burnout finally setting in. They knew his Aunt was working during the day, so, most of the time, he had to get himself to school. If he didn’t want to go, and there was no one there to make him, why would he bother?
But, just like last time, the phone calls got people talking, speculating, gossiping.
The students started paying closer attention to his attendance. Started paying attention to his excuses and the teacher's reactions to them.
When he was late, his excuses went somewhere along the lines of, “Sorry I’m late, I wasn’t feeling very well this morning,” or “I got home late last night, and slept through my alarm,” or “I had to spend the night at…I had to…it takes a while to get to school from there.” and the teachers reacted with an understanding nod and an extension on the homework.
When he had to leave early, his main three excuses were “I’m not feeling very well. I'm getting picked up early,” or “someone just called. I need to go” or, '' I have to…I have to be…I’m needed somewhere else right now.” and the teachers responded with a tight smile and a lesson plan already printed out and ready to go.
When he was absent, he came in the next day, excuses spewing out of him before he was even in the classroom. “I wasn’t feeling very well,” or, “my Aunt made me stay home,” or, “I had to spend the night at…I spent the night away from home. I was needed there for the rest of the day. They wouldn’t let me leave” and the teachers responded with a pinched brow and a summary of what they had done yesterday.
Basically, it all boiled down to Peter was always sick, often away from home, and refusing to mention where he had been. The teachers knew enough to be indifferent–annoyed? Worried? Resigned?–about it–at the very least, they knew where he was talking about when he was spouting his excuses, and apparently, it was a good enough excuse to never be at school.
The students talked, speculated, gossiped , “Where did he go? Who was he with? Was he alright?”
Rumors spread. “He probably just has a bad immune system” and “I'm telling you, dude, it's an alternate universe! Why else would he refuse to mention where he’s been?” and “what if he’s at the hospital?”
The last rumor circulated the longest. It fit with the “ his doctor is the one who's always calling him” theory, and it was probably the most believable–because even the weak immune system one didn’t make that much sense. Your immune system didn’t randomly stop working one day unless something was wrong. And obviously, there was something wrong–It was all a little too believable.
Peter Parker
Peter sighed and laid his head on his desk, wrapping his arms around his head, over his ears, to block out Mr. Harrington’s lecture. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, already feeling himself slip into sleep.
Peter was exhausted. Patrol went late last night–later than usual–because of the armed robbery at the drugstore down the road from his apartment. It had taken a while to talk down the gunman and make sure everyone was alive and to wait for the police and ambulance that always took way too long to show up.
He didn’t end up getting home until about one in the morning, and he still had about two hours of homework left to complete.
He could always just not do it and blame it on Mr. Stark, but he already got away with so much stuff in the name of his internship–leaving school early to fight some bad guy or because Mr. Stark was lonely. Arriving late because he had stayed up late the night before and slept through his alarm. Missing school completely because his healing factor may be extremely useful, but it couldn't always heal everything overnight, and May didn’t want him going to school with a hole in his stomach. He already had a million missing assignments to turn in, and he was sure his teachers were getting sick of it.
The bell rang, and Peter’s eye flew open. He sat straight up, wincing internally as the bell echoed loudly in his too-tired-to-focus-on-anything-else ears. He grabbed his notebook, ready to turn in the homework due today, when he realized he didn’t do it.
He had forgotten.
He had been too caught up on the English project he had had all week to complete, and he had forgotten all about his physics paper. It was so easy, too, about momentum and impulse-momentum and the difference between the two.
And he had forgotten.
Again.
Well, time to blame everything on Mr. Stark.
Peter stuffed his notebook into his bag and rushed to the front of the class, apologies on his lips before Mr. Harrington even turned around.
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People didn't really pay attention to Peter’s attendance until about halfway through the first semester. Their attitudes towards it changed pretty much overnight, though, and it almost gave Peter whiplash.
One moment they were reacting to his late arrivals and absences with eye rolls and mild annoyance–if they reacted to it at all–the next moment, people were coming up to him, asking question after question after question. “Are you ok? a nd “is there something going on at home?” and “are you sure you’re feeling ok?” either genuinely worried or barely hiding their curiosity.
It was really freaking Peter out, and he knew he was probably paranoid, but…
Did they know something? About the internship? About Spiderman?
Peter didn’t know, and he couldn’t. for the life of him figure it out. The other students were doing a pretty good job of keeping him–and Ned, one of his only other sources of information–out of the rumor mill. When Peter had asked around, everyone had refused to tell him anything.
Even MJ was keeping quiet, and usually, she didn’t care about things like gossip, and rumors, and school drama, so she was obviously enjoying either whatever rumor was going around about him or watching him freak out about whatever rumor was going around about him.
Either way, it made him very, very worried.
—Doctor’s Note—
Charles Murphy
Charlie pulled his shirt over his head and slammed his locker shut. He stepped around two boys playing tug-of-war over a shirt. He walked through the door, pushing his way outside, rushing to escape the smell of sweat and Ax body spray that always lingered in the boy’s locker room.
He sighed in relief the moment the fresh air hit him. He slowed his pace and walked to the gym–one of the first students there, as usual–and made his way to the bleachers. Charlie plopped down on the first bench and sighed.
Today was the first day of fitness testing.
Fucking fitness testing.
Charlie hated fitness testing. All it did was make him feel bad about himself and force him to walk around school on sore legs.
He watched as the other students started to trickle in. The athletic kids–who also hated fitness testing but were good at pretending they didn’t–were already making bets, giving dares, turning the tests into a competition, and putting a whole lot of pressure onto the not - so-athletic kids.
The students climbed the bleachers. They sat in clumps, complaining to their friends and raising their hands as Coach Wilson called out names, taking attendance.
Charlie picked at his shoe, pulling at the laces, tying and untying them over and over again, still watching the doors.
A few minutes before class was supposed to start, Peter Parker and Ned Leeds pushed through the doors. Ned was wearing his uniform, but Peter wasn’t. He was still in his baggy jeans and T-shirt, and his backpack was still slung over his shoulder.
Peter held a piece of paper loosely in his hand. He fiddled with the corner of the page, talking excitedly to Ned as they walked towards the bleachers. They stopped in front of Coach. Ned took a few steps back, apparently trying to give them some privacy.
“Coach Wilson?” Peter said, getting their teachers' attention. Coach glanced up from his clipboard and then checked off Peter's name.
“Where's your uniform, Parker?” Coach asked, still checking names.
Peter cleared his throat awkwardly and held out the paper he was holding. “I was told to give this to you,” he said.
Coach raised his eyebrows and took the paper from Peter. He held it close to his face and squinted–he was too proud to get reading glasses–skimming the contents. He muttered to himself, his eyes moved across the page, “unable to perform…Excused…indefinitely” he glanced up at Peter, a crease between his brows. “Is everything ok?
Peter nodded his head frantically “yeah, yeah, yeah!” He said quickly–too quickly for it to be convincing–“everything's fine! It's just…ya know,” he shrugged awkwardly, waving his hands vaguely towards the doctor's note. “Medical reasons.”
Coach nodded slowly “ok. If you're sure everything's ok.” Peter nodded. Coach glanced around the room “you can stay and sit on the bleachers, or I can give you a pass to the library if you want.” he said, and pulled out a pass, already knowing Peter's answer.
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Peter being taken out of gym class hit the rumor mill as soon as it happened.
Gym class was a grade requirement. You had to take it to pass, and you could only be excused from it if you had a very, very good reason.
“Medical reasons,” Peter had said. Coach Wilson had seemed very concerned, rightfully so too, because little Peter– last year Peter– had had a shit ton of medical reasons that could have definitely gotten him out of gym class. He had never used any of them.
Whatever medical reason had excused him from Gym–“ indefinitely,” Coach had said–must be very, very bad.
Gossip about Peter exploded. At this point, most of the “it's just his Aunt." "He has a bad immune system.” had stopped, and the people claiming “alternate universe. I’m telling you. Interdimensional travel cannot be good for one's health” were mostly trying to make light of the situation. Because now everyone was trying to figure out what Peter was sick with.
Different illnesses were thrown out. They were in a STEM school, so they knew a lot of diseases. None of them were serious, none of them caused too much worry, and they were all, at least, a little believable.
Most people stayed away from the really bad illnesses.
No one wanted to think of Peter going through something like that.
Peter Parker
Coach Wilson squinted down at the paper in his hand, the doctor's note that excused Peter from gym class for what was probably going to be the rest of forever.
Peter shifted awkwardly.
It wasn’t that he wanted to skip gym class. Ever since the spider bite had cleared up his asthma, giving him the ability to run and breath at the same time, Gym had actually become pretty enjoyable for him. It was just that the adults in his life didn't trust him to do so without accidentally outing himself as enhanced.
This hadn’t been a problem before. It probably still wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for the fact that Peter had a new doctor.
His old doctor couldn’t know about the spider bite and, therefore, couldn’t really take care of him. It was hard to make sure someone was healthy when you didn’t really know what healthy was supposed to look like–or that healthy might even look different.
So, Mr. Stark hired Dr. Cho, an awesome lady, who had apparently been helping out the Avengers for years.
Peter tried not to feel guilty that he had reduced a world-renowned geneticist to an adolescent medicine doctor.
Dr. Cho had started running tests on Peter the moment she had been hired. Not in a creepy, evil scientist way, just a, I need to be able to take care of you, and I can't do that unless I know about your weird DNA, sort of way.
They had started with the usual stuff, blood testing, cotton swabs, and peeing in a cup, but that could only tell you so much. After a while, they had moved on to Physical testing, and, apparently, the fact that he could lift almost 300 tons was really fucking scary.
Dr. Cho had not so gently suggested that he maybe shouldn’t be participating in Gym anymore because they didn’t know how much control Peter had yet. They didn’t want to risk him slipping up and accidentally backflipping off the top of the climbing rope–not that that was really a possibility. Peter knew what he should and shouldn't be able to do. It was just hard to convince everyone else that. They were all more inclined to listen to the advice of a medical professional than the word of a high schooler.
Coach Wilson looked up from the doctor's note, concern written along the edges of his face. “Is everything ok?”
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Whatever rumor, whatever gossip about Peter was going around, needed to stop.
He knew it wasn’t going to. He knew that people found–whatever it was–was way too interesting to stop talking about and that the escalation of it was probably only going to continue, but, whatever it was, was starting to affect Peter’s school life–and that really couldn’t take any more hits.
People’s questions had gotten more intense, more specific, more… more.
“Where have you been the last few days, Peter?” and “who called in class today?” and “why did you stop taking Gym?”
That last question was the one people asked the most. If he had known that dropping Gym class would make people even more suspicious of him, he would have tried harder to convince the adults in his life that he could control his strength.
—Nurse’s Office—
Betty Brant
Betty spent a lot of time at the Nurse’s office. She was there at least once a day for some reason or another. It had gotten to the point where she knew the Nurse–Ms. Maggie Kipper–on a first name basis.
It wasn’t her fault; she just had a really crappy immune system.
And awful hand-eye, foot-eye coordination.
And a super bad migraine problem.
She was really ok with it, though, because, with her constant illnesses and injuries, she could go to the Nurse whenever she wanted, and no one would even blink an eye.
Like, for example, if she forgot to study for the test she had next period, she could just fall and–oh no! A twisted ankle!--she would get an extra night.
Or, if it happened that they were playing dodgeball in gym class, well then–sorry, coach! My head is hurting really bad!--she could just skip it altogether.
Or, if the cafeteria was selling fish sticks for lunch, which were by far the worst meal they had to offer, she could just grab her stomach and gag a little–she didn’t even have to fake this one. The fish sticks actually made her nauseous–and she would be given a bag of saltines and a mini cup of water.
Someone else might feel guilty for doing things like that, and her friends all got super anxious on her behalf when she talked about it, but Betty didn't care. Her body was constantly trying to kill her.
She might as well take advantage of it.
Besides, Betty wasn’t the only one who spent most of her time in the Nurse’s office.
Peter was in there just as often, if not more than she was–and Betty was actually pretty sure that every time he was there, he had an actual medical reason to be.
The first time Betty saw Peter at the Nurse’s office was a few days into the first week of sophomore year. Betty was skipping math class–yes, already. Math was her worst subject. She wanted to be as far away from it as possible. (she was also pretty sure Mrs. Hodwell hated her)--when Peter stumbled through the door, heavily supported by Ned.
His eyes were screwed shut, tears streamed down his cheeks, and his shoulders hunched all the way up to his ears. His breathing was shallow, his mouth was pressed into a thin line, and there was an obvious crease between his eyebrows.
He was in a lot of pain.
Ned reached over his head, using his hands to cover both of Peter’s ears. “Ms. Kipper! Are you here?”--they obviously didn’t see Betty–Peter cringed away from the sound. “Sorry, buddy,” Ned whispered to Peter, his hands still over his ears, “but we need Ms. Kipper” he was so quiet Betty had to strain to hear him.
There was no possible way Peter had heard him, except for the fact that apparently, he had. He nodded and said, in the quietest possible voice, “s’ok Ned. m’ok"
Ned just hummed in response and held Peter closer.
Ms. Maggie stepped out of the supply closet in the back of the room, the ice she had gotten for Betty’s “injured” wrist in a bag, dangling from her fingers. “Yes? What's the matter-” she cut herself off when she saw Ned standing in the middle of the room, with Peter somehow both hanging limply from his arms and holding on to Ned for dear life. “Already?” Ms. Maggie asks, “we’re not even a week into the school year.” She sounds exasperated, but she’s already back in the supply closet, rummaging around in a large plastic bin from the bottom shelf, Betty’s bag of ice placed on the shelf above it.
Ms. Maggie let out an accomplished sound and straightened up. Peter winced at the noise and buried his head into the crook of Ned's neck. Ms. Maggie walked out of the supply closet, holding a pair of clunky-looking headphones in her hands. She walked over to Peter and placed them firmly around his ears. Peter visibly relaxed.
Only once the headphones were on Peter did Ned respond to Ms. Maggie, “I think it's because it's so early in the year that this is happening. He hasn’t gotten used to the noise yet, I think.” Ms. Maggie led Ned over to the beds in the corner of her office. He had to pry Peter off of him to get him to lie down because Peter is apparently very clingy when he's not feeling well. Ned quickly pulled off the sweatshirt he was wearing and threw it to Peter, who curled himself around the balled-up piece of clothing, burying his face into it and inhaling deeply.
Ms. Maggie pulled the curtains that hung from the ceiling around the bed, and then both she and Ned stepped away from Peter.
“You should get back to class, Ned,” Ms. Maggie said, giving him a small smile. “I'll call his aunt to come to pick him up.” Ned nodded, and then, after a quick glance at the curtains surrounding Peter's bed, he left.
Ms. Maggie sighed, and her shoulders slumped. Then she noticed Betty sitting in her chair in the corner, and her posture straightened.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Betty! your ice!”
-----------
The second time Betty saw Peter in the Nurse's office was during lunch a few days later.
They were serving fish sticks in the cafeteria, so Betty, of course, was sitting in her chair in the Nurse’s office, munching on her bag of saltines, when Peter and Ned walked in.
Peter was looking a lot better than he had been the last time Betty had seen him–he was walking on his own for one thing.
It actually didn’t look like there was anything wrong with him. He walked to one of the chairs along the wall, a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. He chatted enthusiastically with Ned, who smiled and nodded as his friend talked.
Peter sat down, and his eyes flicked around the room–probably looking for Ms. Maggie, who was currently on a bathroom break. He made eye contact with Betty in the corner and smiled, giving a little wave even as he rambled on to Ned about the meatloaf he had last night.
A few minutes later, Ms. Maggie walked back into the room. “Hi, Peter!” she said smiling “you're here early!” She walked behind her desk and plopped down in her swivel chair, turning and opening the filing cabinet behind her–this was the medication drawer. It was against the rules to carry around your own medication, and bag checks were too common to just ignore the rule and carry your meds anyway. (there was an insane amount of drugs done at their school, especially considering it was technically a “nerd school” and, therefore, apparently, full of good kids.) So, everyone had to bring their meds to the nurse at the beginning of the year, along with a doctor's note and a parent email. Betty’s migraine pills were in that drawer.
Peter stood up from his chair and followed Ms. Maggie to her desk. “Yeah, I know, but they’re serving fish sticks today, and you know how the smell makes me nauseous.”
Ms. Maggie hummed, and pulled a little orange pill bottle out of the drawer, glanced at the label, and then placed it back where she found it. “Yeah,” she said, “that seems to be going around.”
Peter looked at her, confused, “what?”
Ms. Maggie pulled out another bottle, read the label, and smiled, “that's why Betty’s in here too.” she said as she opened the bottle.
Peter looked over at her and smiled, “there's no way those things are edible,” he said, and Betty nodded in agreement, her mouth too full of crackers to say anything.
Ms. Maggie tipped over the bottle pouring out a small handful of the little white pills inside. She looked up at Peter “how much did you eat today?”
Peter shrugged and looked down at his feet. “I had a granola bar for breakfast this morning," he said sheepishly.
“Peter!” Ms. Maggie exclaimed, “you can’t do that! You need a certain amount of calories-”
“I know!” Peter said, cutting her off, “I know, I know! But I ran out of time this morning! If I had known they were serving fish sticks, I would have eaten more! I thought I could just buy an extra lunch!”
Ms. Maggie sighed, sounding disappointed. She counted out three pills and poured the rest back into the bottle. “Ok, well, take these. I'll get you water and some crackers. You are not allowed to leave here until you finish everything I give you.” Peter nodded and took the pills, swallowing them dry before returning to his seat next to Ned, who was eating a sandwich from his backpack.
-----------
The next few times Betty saw Peter at Ms. Maggie's office were much the same.
He was either half passed out, in pain, struggling to breathe, and carried in by Ned, or perfectly normal and happy but in need of some pills from the medicine drawer.
Around the thirteenth time, he showed up to the office, though, was different.
It was about halfway through the first semester, and Betty was just leaving the office. She was going home with a migraine–her head was pounding, and everything was too loud, and the lights were so, so bright– her mom was waiting outside to pick her up. She opened the door just in time for Peter to run directly into her.
Peter looked even worse than she felt–which was really saying something because sometimes she swore that to someone less used to the pain, her migraines would be lethal. He was pale and sweaty, and his hair sticking to his forehead. There were red splotches all over his face and neck and hands, and he was clutching a trashcan to his chest, wheezing into it, neck straining with the effort it took for him to breathe.
Betty stumbled out of the way, giving Peter room to trip through the door, falling forward. He slammed his trash can onto the floor, catching himself as he fell to his knees, his forehead slamming into the rim of the trashcan. Peter propped himself up, gripping the sides of his trash can as he gagged, making a horrible ratcheting sound, as he dry heaved into what Betty could see, was a trashcan full of vomit.
How it hadn’t split Betty had no idea, but she was extremely grateful that it hadn’t. She had a weak stomach, as it was, and the smell alone was enough to make her gag.
Betty put one hand on her stomach and one over her mouth and ran out the door.
-----------
Betty wasn’t the only one to witness Peter’s frequent visits to the Nurse’s office. There were plenty of other kids who skipped class with that excuse, plenty of other sickly or accident-prone students who filled the empty seats along Ms. Kipper’s walls.
They, too, saw the days Peter came into the office, his face contorted in pain, tears falling down his cheeks, making small, sad whimpering sounds before Ms. Kipper hid him behind the curtains surrounding one of the beds.
They, too, saw the pills he had to take every day and heard Ms. Kipper scolding him for his calorie intake.
And while no one was in the Nurse’s office the day Peter barged in with a trashcan full of puke…well, that trashcan had to be filled somehow, and it wasn’t like you could puke quietly.
These things added a much darker tone to the already bad Peter Parker is sick rumor.
At this point, the gossip aspect of this rumor had turned back into speculation. More and more illness ideas were thrown out, suggestions getting worse and worse, while all the time students kept hoping, hoping they were wrong.
Peter Parker
Peter collapsed onto the floor of the Nurses office, slamming his head onto the edge of the trashcan. The pain didn’t even register as his head dipped closer to the pool of vomit in front of him. The smell filled his nose, and he gagged. His stomach pitched, and he heaved into the trash can, his body trying to get rid of the contents in his stomach, even though there was nothing left to dispel.
Stupid, peppermint, and his stupid fucking allergy.
Some girl, Peter didn’t know her name, was giving out peppermint sticks. Her dad worked at a candy store, and they had ordered a few hundred peppermint sticks too many, way too early–it wasn’t even thanksgiving yet.
She had given them out during lunch. For the rest of the day, the school had been filled with the smell of peppermint, which Peter was not allowed to be around. After the bite, peppermint basically made his body want to kill itself.
He thought he could make it through the rest of the day because–while his skin itched, and his stomach churned, and his breathing became a little uneven–Peter didn't want to go to the Nurse’s office again. For the third time that week.
It was Tuesday.
He had been to the Nurse’s office enough that year already. Excluding his daily visits for the nutrition pills he had to take every day for his metabolism, he went at least twice a week for one reason or another.
Sensory overloads, panic attacks, random bouts of depression, you name it.
Peter hadn’t eaten any Peppermint and figured he could probably make it through the rest of the day without dying.
Although, of course, it couldn’t be that simple.
Because of course, Flash noticed that Peter refused to eat any of the free candy.
And, of cours e , he thought it would be a funny prank to put one of his into Peter’s water bottle.
And of course, Peter would fail to notice that the smell was extra strong around his water bottle because he had been smelling nothing but peppermint for the last two hours, and he had been doing a very good job of blocking it out.
And, of course, Peter would fail to notice the taste until he had already chugged half of the water in his bottle.
When Peter finally did notice it, he got up from his seat, grabbed the trash can, and ran to the Nurse's office. He puked three times on the way there and almost spilled all of it onto Betty Brant–his fellow Nurse’s office frequenter–when he ran through the door.
Betty ran away immediately, avoiding him because of her weak stomach.
Peter was grateful because he didn’t want anyone other than Ms. Kipper to see him forcibly trying to lose his stomach through his mouth–he didn’t want Ms. Kipper seeing him like that either. Someone had to, though, or he would probably die, and he really didn’t feel like doing that right now. It would make Aunt May too sad.
Peter felt Ms. Kipper put a hand on his back, and he was able to choke out “p’p’rmnt” before he heaved into the trashcan again.
Ms. Kipper cursed–Peter was going to pretend he didn’t hear that–and the hand left his back. He could hear a phone ringing and drawers opening, and then a needle was stabbed into his leg.
Peter heaved one last time, and then his vision went black, and he fell to the floor.
–Peter woke up in Medbay at the compound three days later, Dr. Cho standing next to his bed with a clipboard in hand–she always had a clipboard, why did she always have a clipboard?--and Mr. Stark sitting in a chair by his bed, yammering on about “stupid kids and their stupid pranks” before Peter even had the chance to open his eyes.
-----------
People had started acting differently around Peter ever since the whole peppermint fiasco.
And yeah, sure, it was to be expected. He had gone running through the halls, throwing up into a trashcan, seemingly for no reason. But that's not what he was talking about.
When Peter says “different ,” he doesn’t mean casual avoidance for fear of concocting whatever sickness they believed he had–though there were some students who did that.
When Peter says “different,” he means that people were walking around him like he was made of glass. Their prying questions had mostly stopped, replaced instead with looks of worry and reassuring smiles. One time a girl–Peter didn’t know her name–had even come up to him, and in the place of the questions people usually asked, she had said, “it's ok. We won't pry into your personal life. We know you don’t want us to know anything”-- and Peter knew she was just trying to reassure him, but honestly, all it did was scare the ever-living shit out of him because what did that mean?
Was it about Spiderman? It had to be.
Right?
—Overheard—
Sally Avril
Sally was a quiet kid.
She wasn’t shy or anything. She wasn’t scared of talking to people or interacting with them–no matter how much she disliked them. She could present in front of the class like there weren’t people there, and more often than not, she took the lead on group projects.
Sally wasn’t shy. she just didn’t really like talking. As such, the more chatty students at their school didn’t really notice when she was there.
They were too busy talking up a storm to notice her, sitting quietly, listening.
Sally learned a lot of things that way. All of the “he said she said“ and the “who's dating who.” Hot gossip, rumors, stuff like that.
She listened, learned things, and then promptly told her best–and only–friend, Jason, who was the biggest talker she knew and told everything to anyone who would listen.
She was probably–indirectly–the reason for half the drama at their school.
Sally sighed softly through her nose, swiping absently at her phone, bored out of her mind. She had a free period right now, and usually, she spent it with Jason, but he was home, sick. She was stuck sitting on the library floor, hiding behind the shelves so she could use her phone in peace without getting into trouble. For some stupid reason, phones were banned in the library.
“No, Ned, I’m fine.” a muffled voice said from the shelf behind her.
Sally recognized it immediately as the voice of Peter Parker. Peter was what Sally liked to call a “quiet talker.” he didn’t talk very much or to a lot of people, but once you got him started, it was impossible to make him stop.
“But Peter-” that was Ned. he was also a talker.
They were obviously trying to whisper, but neither Peter nor Ned were very good at it.
“No, really,” Peter said, putting emphasis on the ‘really.’ “I’m okay. Dr. Cho just wants to run a few tests. Worse comes to worst. I have to stay in bed for a few days. It's really not that big of a deal!”
Ned sighed. “You keep saying that. But-” they walked away, the rest of his ‘whispered’ sentence muted by the bookshelf between them.
Sally was left, phone sitting loosely in her hand, staring at the books on the shelf across from her.
This was basically a confirmation of the Peter Parker is sick theory. Wasn’t it?
Neither Ned nor Peter mentioned what was wrong but, it was evident that something was wrong. Doctors? Bedrest? “Run a few tests?”
Sally hadn’t really believed the Peter Parker is sick rumor before.
She knew about the absences, and the early dismissals, and the late arrivals. She had just assumed he was finally burning out–he slept in class all the time now. He never turned in his assignments on time, but a lot of people did stuff like that. Hell, Sally did stuff like that.
She knew he had been going to the Nurse's office a lot more often recently, but there were a lot of reasons why someone would need prescription drugs, and it wasn’t that uncommon to use injury as an excuse to skip class–Betty Brant did it all the time.
She knew that he had recently been excused from gym class, but she had just assumed his asthma had come back or something.
The way Ned talked, though, it was obvious that whatever was happening was something serious, no matter how much Peter tried to downplay it. Sally shouldn’t jump to conclusions–she had already jumped to enough as it was–but if she had to guess, she would say that Dr. Cho–‘run a few tests’ Peter had said. What sort of tests forced someone into bedrest?--was the person calling Peter in the middle of class–phone calls that not even Mrs. Hodwell was mad about.
It was hard to be mad at someone for interrupting class when their Doctor was the one calling.
Sally stood quickly, rushing out the door, too busy texting Jason to remember to hide her phone from the librarian.
‘are you awake’
Then
‘can you call’
Then
‘I have something to tell you’
-----------
It only took a few minutes after Sally told Jason something for the whole school to know.
So, naturally, only minutes after Sally had ended her call with Jason, the whole school knew that Peter was going to be stuck in the hospital over the weekend, running tests for something and that whatever it was they were testing was probably the thing that had affected his school life so much.
I was only about a week after the whole, Peter running through the halls throwing up into a very small trash can fiasco–Peter had been absent for three days after that. When he finally showed up at school, he didn’t even try to give the “I wasn’t feeling very well” excuse before he passed out at his desk. They figured that that was probably what had prompted the testing.
They also now knew the name of who they thought was most likely calling Peter during class. Dr. Cho. Some students started researching all of the Dr. Chos in the area. There were only four medical specialists named Dr. Cho currently working in New York.
One was the Geneticist working for The Avengers, one worked with infants and babies, one was a veterinarian, and one was a Pediatric oncologist.
Peter wouldn’t be going to see an Avengers-level Geneticist. He definitely wouldn’t be going to see a baby or animal doctor, so that left the Pediatric Oncologist.
The cancer doctor.
They did more research on Dr. Cho, the Pediatric Oncologist, and found out he worked in Manhattan, so it would take Peter a longer time to get to school from there.
And if Dr. Cho was Peter's doctor, then…cancer. Peter had cancer.
The day they found out about Dr. Cho, the Pediatric Oncologist, everyone stopped, heads turning, eyes locking onto the empty seat that Peter usually sat in.
They hoped they were wrong.
Peter Parker
Peter pulled a book off the shelf and flipped it around, annoyed when he saw that the entire back cover had been ripped off, showing the acknowledgments instead of the description.
“No, Ned, I’m fine,” Peter assured Ned, and he shoved the book back into place.
“But Peter-”
“No, really ,” Peter interrupted. He really didn’t want to talk about this. He had come to the library to stop thinking about Dr. Cho’s tests, and he couldn’t do that if Ned kept bringing them up. “I’m okay. Dr. Cho just wants to run a few tests. Worst comes to worst. I have to stay in bed for a few days. It's really not that big of a deal!” He moved down the aisle, scanning the shelves looking for another, less destroyed copy of the book.
Ned didn't believe him. “You keep saying that . But I know you, Peter,”–he did know Peter, so, of course, he knew exactly the reason Peter had wanted to go to the library and was choosing to talk about it anyway, trying to force Peter to express his emotions in a healthy way, by talking it out , instead of beating up muggers at 2 a.m. like he usually did. Sometimes, Peter really hated having a best friend–“these tests are taking a toll-”
“I don’t like them if that's what you mean.” Peter cut him off.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You've been freaked out about doctors ever since the bite.” That was true. Ever since he got his powers, Peter had developed a very rational fear of being discovered and experimented on. “And, well, I certainly wouldn't like being poked and prodded every weekend.”
Peer shook his head. “No needles this time. It's mostly just brain scans, and shhh when you're talking about the bite.” He found another copy of the book laying half haphazardly on top of the shelf and made a happy little noise.
“They're making you stay in bed all weekend. Peter, you can’t sit still that long. You can barely sit still long enough to get through class.”
“That's not true,” Peter protested, tucking the book securely under his arm. Ned let the conversation derail into one about his ability to pay attention, and the topic of Dr. Cho was dropped.
-----------
Everyone was acting weird.
Everyone was acting weird, and Peter didn’t know why.
Everyone was acting weird, and Peter didn’t know why, and it was really freaking him out.
They all acted weird in their own way.
Some students had started taking notes for him when he missed class–good notes too highlighted, or color-coded, written out in neat, easy to read script. It made Peter feel really guilty every time he looked at them because someone had obviously worked very hard for him.
Some of the students had started dropping extra food at his table during lunch–fruit cups, milk cartons, stuff like that. He had tried to get them to stop, but the students in question were very persistent.
Some students had even started standing up for him when Flash was being a dick–which, recently, hadn't been very often. And that really said something, didn’t it? What was so awful that even Flash had stopped treating him badly?
He thought people had acted strangely after the whole Peppermint fiasco, but this was a whole other level of weird. They were treating him like they thought he was dying.
Peter, at least, was pretty confident now that they didn’t know about Spiderman because if people had found out about that , they definitely wouldn’t be treating him nicer.
Some of the school, sure. A lot of them liked Spiderman–he was pretty sure they did, anyway–but at least a third of the school hated and/or feared mutants–which is what everyone thought Spiderman was–and another third of the school was firm in their belief that vigilantism was wrong.
MJ looked way too amused when he talked about everyone's weird behavior around her. It freaked him out a little–did she know he was Spiderman?--He didn't really talk about it around her anymore.
—Hair loss—
Flash Thompson
Despite what everyone believed, Flash didn’t hate Peter.
He resented him, yes. He was incredibly jealous, sure, but he didn’t hate him.
And it wasn’t from lack of trying either.
It just wasn’t possible to hate Peter.
Sure, he hated that Peter was smarter than him. Hated that he barely had to work for the grades Flash tried too hard to get. Hated that to Peter, Flash would never be more than a playground bully–which was totally Flash’s fault–but Peter himself? Flash didn’t hate him.
He was just so nice. He was friendly to everyone he met, and he had been through so much shit his trauma rating was through the roof. Way higher than Flash’s, whose neglectful parents only gave him about a three on the trauma scale.
And Flash knows that comparing trauma is a horrible thing to do and benefits absolutely no one, and it's not that he wants to suffer more than he already has; it's just that Peter had been through so much, seen so much, lost so much, and he is still such a nice fucking person.
So, no. Flash didn’t hate Peter–despite how much he wanted to–but that didn’t stop the thrum of pride that went through him in English class every day because Peter was shit with words, and finally, finally Flash was better at something than him.
And Flash made sure that Peter knew it. He bragged, sung his own praises, flaunted his perfect essays, insulting Peter all along the way. He only felt a little bad about it because while Peter was nice, Flash was a grade-A dick. He could never pass up the opportunity to brag–though he insulted Peter less now when bragging because he knew about the cancer thing. Flash was a dick, but he wasn’t shitty enough to bully someone who might be dying.
Still, Flash couldn’t help but feel pleased–if a little guilty–every time Peter’s pencil broke when he pushed down too hard on his paper. Every time he got his essays back with a lower than average grade. Every time he gripped at his hair, chewed the skin off his lips, scratched at his wrist to distract himself from the assignment he was already failing.
And that was exactly what Flash was feeling right now–the pleased/guilty combo that usually accompanied every interaction Flash had with Peter–sitting in English class behind him, like he always did on the days Peter managed to show up to school, watching as his pencil broke again, and again, as he struggled to complete the two hundred fifty word essay that Flash had finished ten minutes ago, his hand gripping his hair like he might lose it if he let go.
Peter pressed the tip of his last sharpened pencil down on his paper a bit too hard, and it broke, cutting Peter’s sentence in half. He let out a frustrated whine and pulled his hand off his head, reaching for his pencil sharpener–which he had pulled out of his pencil case at the beginning of class but hadn’t yet bothered to use. His hand froze halfway between his head and his sharpener.
Flash stared in horror, his amusement at Peter’s broken pencils shriveled up and died as he looked at Peter’s hand, because-
Because it was covered in hair.
Peter had let go of his hair, and it had fallen out.
Flash watched as Peter had closed into a tight fist, his fingers clenching around the curls that used to be on his head. He was bombarded with guilt, worry, sadness when Peter’s other had shot up, landing on the thinned area a the side of his head. It moved away quickly, his fingers carding through the brown mop, testing to see if he could hide the patchy spot that had just been created–which maybe would have been possible if he tried hard enough–but when he pulled his hand away, it came with another fistful of hair.
Peter cursed and stuffed his hand into his pocket. He got up and rushed towards Mrs. Winterhalter, their English teacher. He whispered to her frantically, discreetly showing her his hair-filled hands.
And by discreetly, Flash means that the entire class saw. At least, everyone who had bothered to look up at the frantic Peter, which wasn’t actually that many students because they were all used to frantic Peter–He had been especially jumpy over the last few weeks. He was obviously put on edge by the Rumors going around about him. Not that he knew what they were, it was just what happened when you knew people were talking about you. And Flash should know. He had been the subject of the Rumor mill multiple times.
Mrs. Winterhalter looked down at his hands. Flash saw shock take over her face, her eyes widening, and her mouth parting in a silent “oh.” She sent Peter to the bathroom, quietly instructing him to return when he could.
About five minutes before the end of class, Ned came in, packed up Peter’s stuff, and took it away.
Flash didn’t see Peter for the rest of the day.
-----------
The next day Peter showed up at school with a beanie covering his head. He had it pulled far down over his eyebrows–over where his eyebrows should be–and Flash hated it with a passion. It became a constant reminder that something was wrong with him. That Peter wasn’t ok anymore. That after everything he'd been through, after all the stupid, metaphorical battles he had won, the fight against cancer might be the one he finally loses.
And Flash hated it. He hated the stupid Captain America beanie Peter now wore every day. Hated watching him throughout English class every time his hand wandered towards his head and pulled his hat farther down. Hated that now, every time he looked at Peter, the only thing he could see was the frail, weak boy he was becoming, with the too-big clothes and the random moments of fatigue and pain, that forced him to leave school early, and the stupid, stupid, beanie covering the evidence of the medication he had to take to stay alive.
And sure, Peter had never been very strong. His asthma prevented him from exercising, and his Aunt and Uncle’s too small paychecks prevented him from buying anything more than the bare necessities, but this was so much worse in every single way. Now, not only could he not exercise, the bare necessities his Aunt’s lone paycheck could afford might be taking the back burner so that the medical attention he needed could be afforded.
And Flash had to sit for forty-five minutes a day, watching him fiddle with the hat that hid the treatment that he probably couldn’t afford, while he wrote his essays with Pens that cost more than a school lunch.
It took all his willpower not to reach across his desk and pull that stupid, hated hat off of Peter’s head and destroy it. It wasn’t like getting rid of the reminder would make everything go away. That's not how life worked–just ask his parents–but as the days passed, Flash’s English classes became nothing more than a blur of hat adjustments and empty seats, and hat adjustments and empty seats, and hat adjustments and empty seats, empty seats, empty seats, and then Peter was gone, and Flash was living in a constant state of guilt, grief, sadness because what if Peter was dead? What if the last thing Flash ever saw of him was his stupid beanie and too big clothes? What if he had finally run out of whatever money was paying for his hospital bills and had been forced to go without his medication?
What if while Flash was sitting in his too-big bedroom, surrounded by his expensive stuff, Peter had run out of money and died because he couldn’t afford something Flash would easily be able to pay for with only half of what his parents earned a year.
And then a week later, Peter was at school again, bags under his eyes deeper than ever, and the moment Flash saw Peter’s stupid Captain America beanie, his guilt , worry, sadness was burned up by the flames of anger that raged through him because he was supposed to hate Peter wasn’t he? That's what everyone thought.
But he didn’t hate Peter, he couldn’t hate Peter, all he could do was sit around and hate his smarts, and his hat, and the reminder it gave Flash that his shitty life could get so much shitter in the blink of an eye.
Peter reached up again and adjusted his hat, and Flash snapped. He reached over, gripped Peter’s hat tight, and yanked it off his head.
Then he stopped, frozen, staring in horror at the boy in front of him because what had he done?
If he thought the hat had been bad, the incredibly bald, embarrassed, and bright red Peter Parker in front of him was so much worse. The students around them started. They glared at Fash, looked a Peter, who was trying to cover his head with one hand, and desperately trying to tug the beanie out of Flash's too tight grip with the other. Shame filled his stomach, and he let go, watching guiltily as Peter shoved the hat back on his head, glaring at Flash all the while, his face still red.
Flash looked down at his desk, where his hands were now clutching his expensive pen. He mumbled out an apology. No one heard. The class continued like nothing had happened.
-----------
The whole school had heard about Peter’s hair loss as soon as it happened. The moment he stepped out of his English class, people’s phones came out–their English teacher being the only one who didn’t really care when she saw phones in her student's hands. They texted their friends, and their friend's friends, and even their not-friends because this basically confirmed their cancer theory.
When, the next day, Peter showed up to school with a beanie pulled down over his head, the pride they felt over figuring it out died, replaced with dread and the sudden realization that this was real. It wasn’t just a theory anymore. Peter was really sick.
The students did their best to make his school life more manageable. With his time spent sick or at the hospital, getting treatments, running tests, having checkups, they all knew how hard that had become. They stuck complete homework papers into the pages of notes they were giving him. They gave a wide berth when Ned was dragging him through the halls, his face contorted in pain, his breathing quick yet heavy, his chest heaving with effort. They gave him extra food, knowing he needed a certain amount of calories each day and that he sometimes couldn't afford it.
They didn’t mention the beanie. They didn’t even look at it. Peter wanted to keep this hidden, and if that's what he wanted, they would help keep up the illusion. If he didn’t want them to know, they would act like the pieces had never been put together.
If Peter wanted to pretend that what was happening wasn't happening, who were they to stop him?
Peter Parker
Peter stared down at the electric razor sitting on the sink in front of him. His hands gripped the edge of the sink, dread, sorrow, and anticipatory grief bubbling on the pit of his stomach.
Peter hated English class.
He hadn’t hated it before.
He’d never really had a good reason, too, before. He’d never been very good at it, but why hate something just because you don’t know how it works? What was the point of that? All it did was make it harder to learn.
At least, that was what he thought before English had stressed him out so much he had ripped out his hair.
Peter glanced up at the mirror in front of him, wincing at the bald spot at the side of his head and the thin, patchy mess at the top.
What was even the point of English anyway? He knew how to talk, and he could communicate pretty well with other people most of the time. What was the point of connotations, and summarizations, and proper grammar?--he knew the point of all of those things and that they were mostly very important to his everyday life, but he was about to shave his head bald, so he figured he was allowed to act a little stupid in the name of spite.
Peter looked back down at the razor. He took his hands off the sink. Or at least he tried to anyway. He pulled at his hands, letting an annoyed groan when they stayed, stuck to the porcelain.
This had been happening a lot recently, and it annoyed the shit out of him. The only other time he could remember his powers acting this out of control was about a year ago when he first got them.
If he had to guess, he would say it had something to do with his fight or flight reflex. Whenever he felt scared or sad or stressed–whenever he felt any negative emotion at all– his first instinct, ever since the bite, had been to stick to a wall and crawl away. It was totally unhelpful and completely useless because a lot of the time, his negative emotions happened at school, in public, where he wasn’t allowed to climb walls. Really, the only thing his stupid new instinct did was give him really sticky hands and more weird behaviors and happenings that were very hard for him to explain.
Peter threw his body backward, and his hands gave way, finally letting go of his sink. He shook them out, glaring down at them like the traitorous hair stealing things they were.
With all the missing work he still had to turn in and the tests he still had to make up, and now, whatever rumor was going around about him that probably, most likely, hopefully, had nothing to do with Spiderman, school had never been more stressful.
His hands had never been more sticky.
English class had obviously been a tipping point for him.
The assignment really shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was. It was just a stupid character analysis. It was only two hundred and fifty words. It shouldn’t have been that difficult.
It wouldn't have been if he’d read the book.
But hadn’t read the book, and that assignment was due at the end of class, and it was stressing him out, and when he was stressed, his hands always found their way to his har, because his hair was soft and fluffy, and he liked his hair.
But his hands were sticky.
And now, Peter wouldn’t have any hair to play with when he was stressed. All he would have was his missing assignments, and the tests he still had to make up, and the rumors that were circulating, circulating, circulating.
And sticky hands.
Peter reached out and grabbed his razor. He switched it on, and before he could change his mind, he placed it at the start of his hairline and pushed it right down the middle of his head.
-----------
Peter went to school the next day with his favorite Captain America Beanie– shhh, don’t tell Mr. Stark– pulled down far over his head because this was so freaking embarrassing.
Surprisingly though, nothing really happened. Beyond the quick glance and the brief flash of–was that pity?-- that crossed people's faces when he talked to them, passed them in the halls, no one said anything.
Not even MJ, though that was mostly because she had been laughing too hard to get any words out–Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen MJ laughter before. It really did not bode well for him.
That was it, though. There were no comments about the hat he had never worn to school before. No questioning his sudden new fashion choices. No shift–not even a ripple–in the Rumor Mill, which he was pretty sure had been exclusively fixated on him since about mid-November.
They hadn’t even said anything when Flash ripped his beanie off in the middle of English class and exposed his baldness to everyone who had bothered to look up.
Peter walked down the hall, glancing around suspiciously at the crowd of students around him. He reached up and adjusted his beanie, making sure it covered his head completely. He let out a little frustrated whine when his fingers stuck to the knitted fabric.
No one even looked at him twice.
Oh, well. If people wanted to act weird, he wouldn't stop them–gift horses and all that.
Peter walked into his next class, sat down in his seat, and, using his other hand, tried to pry his fingers from his hat.
—Instagram—
Jason Ionello
Jason slammed Sally’s bedroom door open, not bothering with the dramatic sigh that usually accompanied his not-so-good moods. He flung himself at Sally’s bed, which just so happened to have Sally in it–reading a book about magic and dragons, that probably had a hot villain who she would no doubt be talking about for the rest of her life–and sprawled, stomach down, across the ugly purple comforter.
He was in a shitty mood.
Jason was the school gossip. He knows this. He’s proud of it. He’s held that title since elementary school because when he was a kid, he would talk and talk and talk, yammering on about his life, and his parent’s lives, and anything else he could think of, with no reason other than the fact that he could.
Not that anyone really listened.
That is nobody except Sally. Sally was Jason’s Best friend. She had been since the fourth grade when he accidentally spilled his soup down her shirt–he really didn’t know how thatwas what started their friendship. It just was.
Sally was quiet. She didn’t talk very much, but she did listen. Their friendship worked in a way that meant when Sally wanted to talk, when she wanted to stop being so quiet, even if just for a little bit, Jason was able to shut up long enough to let her do so.
He wasn’t able to do that for almost anyone else.
Sally was also a bit part of the reason Jason had become known as the school gossip, because, like he said before, Sally listened. She didn’t just listen to Jason. She listened to everybody because Sally was a secret drama junkie and liked hearing all the things.
People talked around her, too, because all they knew about her was that she was quiet. They felt safe talking around her because she was quiet. It was very stupid on their part because the moment she heard something interesting–the moment she heard something, never mind if it was interesting or not–Sally told Jason everything she knew, and, well, Jason wasn’t quiet. Not when he didn’t have to be.
Once he had established himself as the school gossip–the gossip that somehow managed to have all the correct information–people started coming to him, wanting to know everything he knew.
Never mind the fact that most of the school knew what he knew the moment he knew it.
People still came, though, wanting to be the first with the information, and Jason let them–he let them be stupid–cause why not? Cause if Jason acted coy enough, he could convince people to give him information in exchange for the gossip they wanted, because Sally loved drama, and Jason loved Sally, and the absolutely evil look she got in her eyes when he recounted some of the gossip he was told made him smile.
Jason rolled to his back, grabbed the edge of the hated comforter, and rolled back onto his stomach, wrapping the puffy blanket around him. Sally, who had been under the comforter, kicked him with her now exposed, probably cold leg.
This year, for Jason, was pretty much the same. Sally told him things; he told other people those things. People told him things; he told everyone else those things, exchanging information, collecting stories, spreading gossip.
Then, one day, out of nowhere, all the information, all the gossip he got, was about Peter. It was like a switch had been flipped, and suddenly he was the only thing the entire student body could talk about. his phone calls, his absences, his missing homework, his Nurse office visits, and so on.
Jason smacked Sall’s leg and rolled over again, taking more comforter with him. Once he was done rolling, he was wrapped in a comforter burrito, staring up at the ceiling. Sally, who had no comforter at all, was glaring down at him.
Jason was actually the one who started the “Peter is sick” rumor. He had been the first one to have all the information gathered in one place. He had heard about the phone calls and the Nurse’s office visits on the same day, one from Sally, one from Betty Brant. He had been the first one to put together those two very obvious pieces, and then he had told the entire school, “what if it’s his doctor who’s calling him?”because it made sense. The sudden phone calls in the middle of class, the sudden, frequent visits to the Nurse. He felt like it was a reasonable conclusion to make.
Then his theory took off, spreading through the school like a virus, and the people started connecting dots–his absences, his Doctors note for gym class–and Jason was beginning to wish he had kept his mouth shut this time–because even though he liked to talk, he also knew how to keep a secret when necessary–because this rumor that was going around, it was serious, and Peter was getting jumpy, and anxious, and Jason had never seen a rumor last this long before–and this was why Jason usually kept his mouth shut when it came to serious rumors because there were some things people didn’t need to know, and he should have this time, but it had just been a theory, and his theories usually didn’t cause this much of an impact.
Sally rolled to the side of her bed, her book now forgotten on the floor. She grabbed the edge of her comforter, tucked it under her knees, and pushed Jason off the bed, forcing the comforter to unroll as he fell.
Then, Sally told Jason about the conversation she had overheard Ned and Peter, and there must have been someone in the stall next to her, listening in on their phone call. He had been sick that day, so he couldn’t tell anyone anything–and even if he hadn't been, he still wouldn’t have done anything to spread that information because Peter was going through enough. He didn’t need people knowing who his doctor was.
But when Jason came back, the rumor mill was going crazy because someone had overheard them, and now everyone knew who Peter’s doctor was and that he probably had cancer. Then Peter showed up to school with a beanie over his head, not a single brown curl peeking out from underneath. His hairline at the back, which should have been visible, was nowhere to be seen.
And that had confirmed it. Peter had cancer. And it was Jason’s fault that everyone had found out so quickly.
That is how Jason came to be sprawled across the floor of Sally's room, with a fat, super-hot-villain book jabbing into his back, feeling sorry for himself.
Sally peaked over the side of the bed, her eyebrows furrowed, obviously having expected him to get up and try and kick her out of her bed.
“Hey,” she said, resting her chin on her hands. “What's wrong?”
Jason turned his head, giving her a deadpan stare. “I ruined Peter’s life.”
Sally rolled her eyes. “Is that what this is about?” she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and sliding down to the floor, legs crossed, one of her knees pressed against his side. “You did not ruin Peter’s life. Peter’s life was already ruined. Have you met him? I mean, it's not his fault or anything, but he had been through a lot of shit. You’d have to try a little harder than coming up with a plausible theory that the rest of the school probably would have come up with eventually anyway, so ruin his life.”
Jason frowned up at the ceiling. Shit. She was right. “Yeah, but he didn’t want anyone to know about the cancer. People wouldn’t have found out so quickly if I hadn’t said anything. He would have at least had a few more months of privacy,” he said because he still wanted to feel bad.
Sally shrugged. “Maybe, but that’d only be delaying the inevitable.” She uncrossed her legs and poked him with her socked foot–because she was the sort of freak who wore socks in bed–“besides, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He’s practically announced it.”
Jason’s head snapped to look at her. “What?”
“Yeah, he did a post on Instagram. Did you really not see it? It's all people have been talking about since lunch.” she pulled out her phone and started tapping on the screen. Jason pulled himself up into a sitting position and scooted next to Sally, so he could look at her phone over her shoulder.
“No.” he said, “I haven't seen it.”
“Too busy mopping then,” Sally said, handing him her phone. He stared down at the screen. The post was relatively simple, especially considering it told the world about the possibly terminal illness he had. Then again, Peter probably knew by now that they knew. He wasn’t stupid, and it definitely wouldn’t take a genius to figure it out.
The picture was of Peter, in one of those blue hospital gowns and his Captain America beanie, sitting on an MRI table, in front of an MRI machine, with a bored and annoyed look on his face. The caption underneath read, “I'm getting really sick of this machine.”
Jason scrolled through the comments, most of them somewhere along the lines of, “I'm so sorry Peter” and, “hopefully you won't have as many tests in the future,” and a few “I'm praying for you” comments from the religious kids at their school.
He kept scrolling until he got to a comment from Ned. “Is that really the caption you went with?” Jason clicked on it, reading Peter’s response, “I wanted to make a joke about dying, but May follows this account, and I didn't want to make her sad.”
Jason handed the phone back to Sally, horror plastered across his face.
“Right?” Sally said, swiping up to clear Instagram from her tabs. “What a shitty way to announce it.”
Jason nodded, though that wasn’t what had him so troubled. It had more to do with the fact that Peter was dying . Even though that had been a known possibility since November, this direct confirmation made him feel sick.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was a really shitty announcement.”
-----------
The Instagram post was found at lunch on a Monday. Peter was absent that day, as usual. The speculation about where he was–most likely the hospital–he died down significantly since that morning, so not a lot of the talk was about him.
Then, suddenly all the chatter at the jock’s lunch table in the middle of the cafeteria stopped. The Jock’s table was easily the loudest–it always was–and their silence made the noise in the room go from a 10 down to about a 5. People started noticing immediately. Turning to look, asking questions. The kids at the table were all gathered around one student, staring down at her phone in horror.
One of the jocks, having noticed the suspiciously silent students around them, looked around and, with a frown on his face, said: “Look at Peter’s Instagram.”
He didn’t even need to specify which Peter he was talking about. A second later, everyone was scrambling for their phones, tapping on the screen, scrolling, staring alarmed at what they saw.
The cafeteria went silent, one, two, three seconds, before it broke out in whispers. “I can’t believe he finally admitted it,” and, “do you think it's bad? Like, I know it's cancer, but what if it's not that bad?” and, “I hope he's ok.”
Some of the students started turning towards Ned and MJ. They had been sitting at their usual table in silence, like the acquaintances they were. They all started asking them, as the closes friends Peter had at school–the questions they had been wanting answers to for months and could finally ask now that Peter had announced it.
They were both staring down at their phones, Peter’s post pulled up on their screens, MJ in–amusement?--and Ned in confusion, looking up from the screen occasionally, glancing around the room, listening to the whispers, and ignoring the questions.
After about a minute of confused glances–and were they suppressing laughter?--their eyes met from across the table. Ned packed up his lunch. They grabbed their bags and walked out of the cafeteria.
The rest of the students were left, questions burning, confused, and a little guilty for bombarding Ned and MJ.
The cafeteria fell back into silence. Peter Parker’s face staring up at them from all the screens in the room.
Peter Parker
Peter sat on the MRI table, bored out of his mind, scrolling through Instagram.
He was really starting to get sick of these tests. This was going to be his fourth brain scan. Peter glanced up at the big machine next to him. It wouldn’t take a lot to break. He could just reach over and pull off one of the panels. Then this bullshit test would be postponed–only for like an hour, but if he did enough damage, maybe for a full two days.
He wouldn’t do that. Those machines were expensive, and even though Mr. Stark could more than pay for it and would do so happily–ok maybe not happily, but the money wouldn’t be the reason he was unhappy– Peter still felt weird about Mr. Stark paying for things.
Also, these tests were apparently very important–he wouldn’t need to take this many scans if it weren’t for his stupid sticky hands. They were trying to figure out what emotions made his hands stick and how strong they had to be for the instinct to kick in.
He was seriously considering destroying the machine, though. Not only was he annoyed at the brain scans but, he had also been sitting on that table for the last hour, waiting for Dr. Cho to finish getting ready.
He was a very impatient person.
He tapped the profile button and eyed the little plus button at the top of the screen. Should he post something? Was it worth it? When the people at school saw it, they’d talk about it for sure, but…they were already talking about him anyway.
Peter shrugged to himself. He snapped a quick picture, glaring up at his camera. He selected his picture and scrunched his nose at the god-awful lighting. He was probably going to delete this tomorrow.
He paused at the caption bar and then typed out: “I wish I would just hurry up and die already because I'm getting really annoyed of these brain scans.” He stopped and considered and then deleted it. May followed him, and she really didn’t like his death jokes–besides, he didn’t want the whole school to think he was dying. Then his name would never leave the rumor mill.
He typed out a few more options, deleting and rewriting until he finally settled on. “I'm getting really sick of this machine.”
He clicked the post button just as Dr. Cho walked into the room, scribbling something on her clipboard–her constant companion.
“All right, Peter,” She said. “Put your phone away, and let’s get started.”
-----------
After three hours in the stupid MRI machine–it wasn’t originally supposed to take that long, but apparently, they found his brain activity incredibly interesting–Peter had forgotten about his post.
This was a mistake–the post itself had been a mistake–because when Peter went into school the next day, he was bombarded with questions from his classmates. Students came up to him and asked him stuff like “is everything ok?” and “how did the tests go?” and “are we allowed to ask questions now that you told everyone?”
Peter went through the day incredibly confused, asking people for clarification, but only getting an understanding sigh, or widened shocked eyes, and an “oh. Was I not supposed to talk about it?” or something along those lines, which only left Peter more confused.
That is, until lunch.
“Hey, Ned?” Peter asked, picking at his chicken strips and glancing around the cafeteria at the other students who were whispering and looking in their direction.
“Yeah?” Ned asked absentmindedly, scrolling through his phone.
“Did something happen while I was gone? Because everyone’s acting really weird.” Peter paused a moment, considering, then said, “weirder than normal, that is.”
Ned looked up from his phone, confusion, and horror taking over his face. “You don’t know?” he asked. “I thought you knew.” Down the table from them, MJ snorted and flipped the page in her book smugly. Ned looked at her, then back at Peter. “You really don't know?”
Peter shook his head.
“Oh,” Ned said, sounding like he was trying to stay calm but was failing miserably. “Oh, you don’t- but I thought, with the post you made yesterday, and the- I mean, the rumors been going around for a while, I figured you’d heard something with your-” he glanced at MJ “-really good hearing-”
“Ned,” Peter says, cutting him off, “what are you talking about?”
“Uh-”
“The whole school thinks you have cancer,” MJ said.
“What?” Peter exclaimed. “You’re joking.”
MJ looked up from her book, grinning an amused smile that said, “I’d never joke about something like this.” and “I enjoy your suffering” at the same time.
Peter’s stomach dropped. He looked at Ned, hoping maybe MJ was wrong, but Ned only shrugged apologetically because, of course, MJ was never wrong.
“Oh my god,” Peter said, dropping the chicken strip in his hand, his appetite suddenly lost. “Oh my god.” he glanced around the room, at the students openly staring at him in concern, pity, worry. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” he scrambled for his phone, frantically pulling up Instagram, deleting his post.
He reached up and pulled his beanie farther down his head, a nervous tick he had developed over the week and a half he’d had to wear it. The pity on the student’s faces around him multiplied tenfold.
Peter’s face burned bright red, shame and embarrassment coursing through him. “Oh my god.”
—Convinced—
Michelle Jones
“I don’t have cancer,” Peter said, desperation lacing his voice.
MJ watched in amusement as Peter tried to explain to the decathlon team, for the third time, that he was not, in fact, dying.
She smiled and straightened their study Flashcards against the table they were all sitting at. Peter Parker was an idiot.
“It’s ok, Peter.” Betty reassured, “You don’t have to lie to us.”
Somehow, while trying to keep both his internship and Spiderman a secret–yes, MJ knew about both. Peter was not subtle, no matter how ignorant the rest of the class was–Peter had managed to convince their whole school that he was dying of cancer.
“But I’m not lying. I’m really not sick!”
MJ probably should have said something in the beginning, when the Cancer thing had only been a theory. She was known throughout the school as one of Peter’s closest friends–how that happened, she had no idea. She also had no idea how to stop it–and one word from her would have probably put a stop to the whole thing.
“Peter, it’s fine. And at least now we know why you’re always missing practice.”
But it was hilarious.
“No, but that’s not why-“
And she knew from the beginning that it was only going to get funnier.
“Why are you missing practice, then?”
Peter was the most conspicuous person she knew.
“I, uh-“
And he had the worst luck of anyone she had ever met.
“You don’t need to worry, Peter. We’re not gonna treat you any differently now that we know.”
And she had known, left to his own devices, he would probably end up accidentally confirming their theory.
“I, but- but I-”
And he had.
“Peter,” Flash said, “You've been getting medical tests, you’ve dropped gym class for ‘medical reasons,’ your doctor is a Pediatric Oncologist, and you're bald. We’re not stupid.”
Over, and over, and over again.
“Those tests weren’t for-”
“ Dude .” Ned, sensing Peter was about to say something stupid, cut Peter off, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You're not going to convince them you're not sick. Just drop it.”
Peter’s shoulders sagged, and his head dropped, and his hands went up to cover his face. MJ smiled and then, sensing Peter had given up trying to convince their team of his health–for now at least–called their group to attention.
-----------
The student body watched in pity, sympathy, and guilt as Peter tried to convince them that he wasn’t sick.
It was obvious he regretted his announcement post–the post itself had been deleted–because now, the little time he was actually at school was spent desperately lying to anyone who would listen.
“ I'm not sick,” he said while downing his pills. “ Thanks for your concern, but I'm not actually sick,” he said, adjusting his hat for the sixth time in two minutes. “seriously, guys. I'm fine. I'm not dying. Not even a little bit,” he said while being dragged by Ned to the Nurse's office, in pain and barely breathing.
They had probably overwhelmed him with their questions and pity and sympathy, and some of them could understand why Peter wanted them to stop all of that.
If one were dying, they probably wouldn’t want to spend however long they had left alive, answering questions, constantly reminded about their imminent death.
Not everyone realized that, so the students who had enough empathy stopped asking questions–Still looking at Peter with expressions full of pity–and watched as he desperately tried to convince them all how “not sick” he was.
Peter Parker
Peter slouched in his chair, glaring down at the line of milk cartons and fruit cups that lined the end of their table.
“Peter,” Ned said, and Peter looked up, frowning at his thoughtful look.”I know you don’t like it but, maybe you should just go along with the whole cancer thing. I mean. As long as everyone thinks you're dying, they’d never believe your Spiderman.”
He stared at Ned for a second, contemplating. “I don’t know, Ned. it doesn't seem very ethical.”
Ned shrugged. “Just think about it, man. It might make your life a lot easier.”
-----------
“Peter, are you going to be here on the presentation day? I know you can’t account for emergencies or anything, but you don’t have any hospital visits scheduled that day, do you?
They had just started a group project.
Peter shook his head. “I don’t need the hospital. I’m not sick.”
The girl they had appointed as leader looked at him, disbelief taking over her face. “Ok, sure, whatever. Will you be here?”
“Yes, but I'm not-”
“Doesn't matter. As long as you're here on presentation day, I don't care where you spend your time.”
-----------
“Peter, did you eat enough today? I know you need a certain amount of calories.”
Peter looked up from his lunch tray, confused, at a boy he had never spoken to in his entire life. “Um, yes? But I don’t need the calories because I'm sick-”
“Ok, good. Just making sure.”
-----------
“Peter, are you sure you can handle carrying that chair? It's kind of heavy for you, isn't it?”
Their teacher had asked them to grab extra chairs from the classroom next door. “No, I'm fine. It’s really not that-”
“Here, let me take it.”
“I’m fine, really, I don't need-”
“It's alright, dude. I got it.”
-----------
“Peter, are you feeling alright? Maybe you should sit down or something. Do you need the Nurse?”
Peter had just slipped over the water surrounding the CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign and hit his head pretty hard on the floor. “What?” he asked, disoriented. “No, I’m fine-”
“Why don’t I help you, the Nurse? You're already sick. Let's make sure you don’t have a concussion too.”
“I’m not sick.” It came out as barely a mumble. His words were ignored, and he was led down the hall.
-----------
“Peter, did you get the homework done? I know you were out yesterday. Do you need some help?”
Peter looked up from where he was scribbling frantically in his notebook. “What?” He looked back down at his Paper. “Oh. no, it's ok.”
“I really don't mind. I know you were probably at the hospital or something.”
Peter let out a sigh and moved to the side, making room on the bench next to him.
-----------
“Peter, how have your treatments been going? I noticed you've missed more school recently. Do you need anything?
Peter stared at the kid in front of him. He opened his mouth and closed it. His shoulders slumped, and he looked back down at the book in his lap.
“No,” he said. “I’m ok. The-” he closed his eyes, his fingers holding tight to his book, disappointed in himself but finally giving in. “The treatments are going well. Thanks for asking.”