SIXTEEN; 𝒊'𝒎 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒔!
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SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING to this city.
Everyone could feel it; the fog that had descended over New York. The streets were oddly quiet. The FEAST shelter that usually went strong during this season was catching flies. No one was definite about anything anymore, and the ideal seemed uncanny. And one thing Peter was sure about is that a little faith could go a great distance.
Spider-Man was running patrol every night (as is the custom) to wad off the self-destructive torture, almost to the point of humorous now, that settled a Kafkaesque showdown between his mind and heart. Even with the heroic distractions, there was a tension—past all the Spidey senses—that he couldn't explain.
When the city was momentously on the verge of a cold war, the tipping point loomed. Do you know the feeling that wasn't simply high-functioning anxiety? And just like that, the precarious rose to meet it.
It meant that Spider-Man couldn't catch a fucking break.
To excuse all the dramatics, Peter could only blame it on heartbreak. It was what the books said: a fat bitch in the metaphorical ditch. The feeling wasn't just dramatic anymore, it seemed to give him gyp thick and fast. He didn't stop it either, he simply brought it upon himself. He sucked up to it and shrugged his shoulders like the man he was when it passed.
And then he rolled up under his covers and waited for the roof to collapse on him. Then that way he would never have to face himself ever again. The cycle went on for weeks, and he kept at it anyway. His theory was to ignore it until it goes away.
But reality sinks in leading up to the waking moment and he'd have to snap his alarm and head out to tackle another gruelling day at school. Aunt May had even given up on asking about what was wrong since the day she returned from Boston. She chalked it up to teenage angst.
"Whose earring is this?"
Peter stopped his knife in midair from peeling potatoes. Because the entire context of that sentence was dangerous. He turned to face his aunt who was kneeling by the couch, holding out her newly secured evidence in hand: a gold feather earring missing its pair.
"Um," he managed through the tightness in his abdomen—he knew just whose that was. "Yours? I dunno, May. I don't keep track of that stuff."
May stood up and placed her hands on her hips, in peak interrogation mode. "Did you have a girl over?"
He laughed, trying to keep it mellow. "Wha... that's crazy. A girl? Me?"
She seemed to believe that. Uh, rude.
"Hmph." Aunt May dangled the earring once again with an introspective grimace and caught it into a fist. "Fine, I'm keeping it. It looks cute."
Peter flung her a despairing glance when May turned the home vacuum on again. He had never been angrier at the universe for introducing her to him and then taking her away. He missed her without measure, and couldn't think through the hurt.
He spent that night in the spare room, rustling through the covers and pillows to find the other pair of lost earrings. It was strange how the whole room was just dark now. He did manage to find her big, holey OutKast band t-shirt and a few loose sheets from her designs. He took them back to his room and pinned the designs up on his board. He folded the shirt and let it sit on the front of his closet.
When he lapsed back into school routines, Ned and MJ wouldn't stop looking at him like a puppy that they accidentally kicked in the face.
"Hey, man," Ned tried to tell him in the canteen, "life's a bitch. Your life just happened to be Clar—"
"If you finish that sentence," MJ threatened, striking her plastic fork in front of his lunch tray. "You'll be walking home with this up your guts."
Ned gulped, eyeing the fork. "—c-clarity of mind. I meant mental clarity about Clara. Jeez."
Peter rolled his eyes, cracking a small smile for them. "I'm fine, okay? Just... tired from everything."
"Have you tried to talk to her?" MJ asked, oh-so-kind. She wasn't the least bit sympathetic for Peter, though. She thought he deserved it for deceiving her like that.
Peter shook his head. "I don't even see her around."
"Oh," they said in unison. MJ followed up with a soft, "Cold."
He shut his eyes to reclaim his senses before he lost the war with his mind and sighed. "Look, I appreciate you guys trying to help. But it's all good. I got over it."
"This quick?" Ned piped up. He sagged his shoulders, mumbling, "Thought you really liked her."
"Me, too."
Now, there were times when Peter set himself up for disappointment and nosed around for the one familiar face in the sea of strangers. The noise of tinkling bracelets, squeaky shoes, rattling keychain clusters, the flash of dark choppy hair, then he would follow it for a bit. He beat himself up for how creepy it was that he was hard on his ex-should-be-girlfriend's heels, but as it grew to a habit, he flouted it. You know, like every other psychotic stalker in existence.
To confirm: Peter was not a psychopath. He was an antsy webhead who missed his girl very much. That should get him out of the hock.
As for Clara Rose, she was doing okay. If 'doing okay' was neither a high feeling nor a low feeling and just alongside an emotional indifference. It was as she said; nothing. She went about her day like every other person like nothing ever happened. That was the deal, wasn't it?
It was hard to dream this stuff up that he had an insider's perspective into her life. Her relief valve was her new part-time job at FEAST, and the perfect time to catch a glimpse of her was at the six-fifteen pm mark when she headed out for a break.
And when he saw her perched on the wide steps of the shelter, he'd ask himself: what the fuck are you doing here, man? She isn't going to look up. It's over.
But he'd still wait. Just a little longer.
And today was a lucky evening for his daily stop at the FEAST shelter. It was about the angle, he always chose the topmost ledge of the skyscraper opposite the craggy building. When he heard Clara's laugh, he had to remind himself that it wasn't gunshots. It was his stupid heart. No gunshots, the heart. No gunshots, just my goddamn heart—
"Oysters, dude. If you ask me, you should ask the waiter for a hammer and a bunch of teeny-tiny revolvers for the little fellas." Clara Rose was talking to her schoolmate, Kim Sun-hui, a young Korean girl who was also a little skint and a frequent FEAST visitor.
Sun-hui laughed, and Peter did too. "You want to fight oysters before you eat 'em?"
"I'm offering them a lucky break!"
"Classic," Peter said along, laughing.
"Pshaw. Your puns give me life, Cece."
"Cece," Peter murmured under his breath. He never realized the nickname. "Cece's cute. I could live with Cece. You look pretty, Cece. I'm sorry, Cece." He resisted the urge to facepalm. "I hate you, me."
"So, you got any boys on your brain?" Sun-hui asked, almost investigative about it. Thank you, Sun-hui. "What happened to that kid from the science school you talked about?"
"Nah," Clara Rose dismissed easily. This was the kind of answer that made Peter want to pluck out his eyeballs and douse them in sulfuric acid. "Griffin's more worried about college. He's still pushing me for science at ESU."
"Oh, what about the Spanish-looking boy who keeps coming up to you? He's super hot!"
Fucking who now?
Clara Rose rolled her eyes at the goldfish attention span of her friend. "He's a drab prick."
Sun-hui was persistent. "But what's his name?"
"Percy Da Costa," she replied brusquely. Like it was venom in her mouth. "Yeah, I don't need any more Midtown High crap in my life. He's like, an actual rubbish bin with a mouth and dick."
That dumb hunk of fuck, Percy. Peter was going to kill him.
"It's one date," Sun-hui urged. "How bad could it be?"
"The worst you can think of. I told you; he's not worth it."
The last time he checked in with Percy—yesterday—he'd promised that he'd laid off Clara Rose. That she wasn't attractive anymore now that he'd seen how she was in her homely state of mind. Unfortunately for Peter, she had been sent off to temporarily live in Bobby Da Costa's upscale townhouse on Bed-Stuy and with it came the notorious Percy Da Costa and his growing infatuation with Clara.
One thing Peter couldn't figure out was the friendship between Griffin and Bobby. It was unlikely that they'd known each other for a long time. Bobby wasn't the kind who'd wholeheartedly offer up his home for a compassionate cause, so how close were those two?
"You don't even know the guy," Sun-hui protested. She raised her hands in the air. "Fine. You can go join the nearest convent, mother superior. If you won't have him, I'mna take my shot next time."
"Swing and a miss, Sunny."
She laughed and playfully smacked her knee. "You'll never know, I'm not the type to catch feelings. Listen, I gotta go and pick up something to eat."
"It's chicken potpie."
"S-oo-per. Get home safe, yeah?"
"You, too. See you later."
Sun-hui disappeared behind the weighty doors, and Peter watched Clara Rose slowly slacken her head into her hands. She was still for a few moments before she pushed her fingers into her ponytail and breathed out a deep sigh. Her dispassion was evident as she wrestled her phone from her pocket and scrolled through her screen a couple of times.
Supersensory eyesight and the enhanced vision in his high-tech suit combined to uncover what she'd anchored on. A contact on her phone—had she painted her nails red?—and a certain nameless one. He read the familiar numbers...
"That's my number," he whispered in disbelief. Then the realization set in and he exclaimed louder to no one. "That's my number! Holy shit, that's me!"
"Shaddup!" Someone on the window ledge far below hollered.
He ignored it and punched a celebratory fist in the air. "I'm back in the game, boys!"
Peter excitedly scooped his dangling legs from the ledge and launched a rope across the street to flip and latch onto the droopy roof tiles of the FEAST building. He caught another glance and indeed, it was his number.
"Please call me, call me, call me, call me," he chanted relentlessly, hoping to put a good word out into the universe. But what would he tell her? He turned to flatten his back over the roof and revise it through.
Hey, Clara Rose, I guess we've had two different ideas about this 'nothing happened' thing... You think, Pete?... Hey, I can't sleep without dreaming about the whole lips thing, the face touching all night and I would really appreciate it if you had one to spare... Ugh, hokey but true... Clara Rose, there's nothing more I want than... you?... Forget it, you cornball... One dinner?... No!... I just... I need—no, I want...
"I want you to forgive me," he eventually breathed aloud.
That's it. An appeal to her affectionate, bleeding heart. A heartfelt apology. That was civil between two people who shared the kiss to end all kisses, right? Clara had never given him a chance to depict his truth and just apologize, even if it was a bare one-worded sorry.
Peter leaned off the slanting roof until it was only his fingertips providing him balance. Clara Rose was just beneath him, still staring down at her hovering thumb above the green call button. He had never felt this exhilarated since the night he'd kissed her.
He didn't think someone elses' tears would blaze ten-thousand volts of electric shocks right between his eyes. Because, all because of the natural laws, he'd made Clara Rose cry.
Clara quickly pushed the side of her wrist to swipe at the wetness. "So unfair," he heard her defeated sniffle. "Fakeass freak made me cry." Then she looked ahead, both in tears and ready to flip over a van. "Bet he got over it, that cheat."
And yet here Peter was, sitting through this like the most hopeful worshipper and waiting on some miracle.
"Clara, I need a hand back here!" A voice called out for her from within FEAST.
She jerked with surprise as if released from a reverie and blinked down at her phone. Peter's flutter died in his head when she stuffed her phone in her pocket and yelled out, "coming!" and strolled inside.
He dropped to the balls of his feet and stroked a frustrated hand from his nape to his forehead, as always trying to find the off-switch to his mind. He'd been craving it more these days whenever he lost his wits thinking about Clara Rose.
"This needs to be punched out of my system," Peter muttered and nudged down his web shooters. "Let's see who's the lucky bastard tonight... crossed fingers, it's my favourite Punchinello..."
∞
It took Clara two days to figure out that Griffin was in a relationship with Bobby Da Costa.
Ironically, it was their secrecy that gave them out. At first, she found it peculiar that her brother was as thick as thieves with a stranger he'd known all of a few months. Then Clara began to notice the way he moved around him—like two opposing poles of a magnet—and how he found every furtive reason to touch Bobby. Sometimes, Griffin would twist his fingers with Bobby's when they passed each other in the hallways. On some nights, Griffin would leave her side at two in the morning, assuming Clara was fast asleep, and sneak into Bobby's bedroom and tiptoe back early in the morning. Her brother didn't stay at his dormitory anymore and for the past two weeks, he used Clara's friendship mishap as an excuse to spend his nights at the townhouse.
And don't get her started on the Da Costa's historic townhouse.
The three-floored Greek Revival home was what Clara dreamed about on the nights of linctus-induced sleep. Weathered iron railings curved along the stoops and stairwells all the way up to the exposed beams and brick, around antique fireplaces, down to the landscaped garden, and over the southward floor-to-ceiling windows and Portuguese tiles. Her old flat appeared like a broom cupboard next to this lavish, sun-drenched one, though this was temporary. It wasn't until Griffin had forced her to step out of the car after that fateful night with the friendly neighbourhood webhead that Clara stopped her hissy fit and gawked at the carved double doors.
She realized how well Bobby took care of her brother, even if he wasn't ready to admit to Clara his true sexuality. Bobby was vehemently committed to anything that regarded Griffin and she was pleased to see that he had ultimately found someone to return the favour he'd done for her. She was also slightly jealous that her brother's attention was all immersed in Bobby now.
"Why do I feel like Bobby hates me?" Clara asked Griffin one Saturday morning, lazily swirling her spoon into the strawberry cornflakes. She couldn't believe her brother had doused it in a fuck-ton of milk.
Griffin shook more cereal into her bowl while he let out a half-laugh. "He doesn't hate you. Nobody can."
"Why not?"
He pinched both her cheeks and said to her in a baby voice, "Because you're just a big fat dumpling dunked in sugar, that's why. Little munchkin."
He had been extra sweet to her these days. He would come home bearing date puddings that had been leftover in the hotel kitchen, old Vogue magazines from the lobby, and even brought in a new jacket since winter was about to start.
Clara pushed his hand away, laughing. "Finn!"
He tapped on the rim of her bowl. "Eat up. You're getting too skinny again."
She spooned a little milk into her mouth. "Still feels like he wants to skewer me where I stand."
He waved his hand. "It's just how he is. He's a businessman, he's got that focus."
She rolled her eyes and shovelled a mouthful. "He's rude?"
"Temperamental."
"That's synonymous with rude. But I'll take it." She motioned her spoon at him. "Also, did you see my feather earring around?"
"The gold one? Which side did you lose?"
"The left one, I think. Must've dropped it at FEAST or something." She whined to herself. "Man. They were my favourites. Went with everything."
"It's fine, Cee. Wear another one."
She scoffed. "Right. 'Cause, they're all the same."
He snickered. "I'm just saying. Adjust for a bit."
It was then that Percy Da Costa decided to infringe upon her expose-Griffin-Rose's-secret-relationship-plan and scooch unnervingly close to her on the kitchen bar. Clara felt all the air rush out in exasperation. She really, really hated the sight of him.
"G'morning, Cece," Percy greeted. A not-so-subtle whisper—"Want to go for a ride?"
Clara scoffed at his nerve. Griffin looked at him—more like imagined ten-thousand hooks sinking into Percy's eyeballs.
"In my car," Percy explained, all tongue in cheek.
"Get lost," she mumbled.
"I will try not to. Offer still stands."
Clara dropped her spoon into her bowl and disbelievingly scowled at her brother. Griffin only rolled his eyes and made a dismissive motion with his hand. He meant to say if you ignore it, it'll go away.
It was hard to come to terms with and accept that this was the new Percy. To her, at least. In her mind, Percy was the hilarious boy who bought her burgers and had eyes that could've been fashioned from mahogany. In her mind, Percy was a fraud. She refused to think about that wall-crawling spider menace.
And her actions worked. Percy grabbed an energy bar from the cupboard, flashed Clara a damnable smirk and slipped out the front door. Wow, ignorance is bliss for real.
"I got a mail from the guidance counsellor," Griffin told her slowly after a beat of silence. "So, I was thinking we could meet her tomorrow."
She could already picture how this was going to end. She tried to keep her voice as even as possible. "But why?"
His expression turned sceptical. "Because we need to discuss your majors, get your college applications rolling later, and enrol you for SAT. This is real-time, kid."
Clara watched the milky ripples create around her swirling spoon. She kept her eyes down as she said, "So you'll let me decide what I want?"
"What do you want?" he asked flatly.
"Well, I was reading up on Bobby, and his girlfriend, Cami Seguró, studied fashion in London. Yeah, Europe. She's literally so cool. I was thinking I could talk to her about the campus and stuff, so I know what to—Griffin, stop looking at me like I'm an idiot," she said, her voice tinged with desperation. "It's what I want to do."
He rubbed his eyes in chagrin to stop cursing out. "This isn't the time to fucking fantasize, Cee. Please be serious."
She could feel her eyes flaring. "I am serious! I'm not cut out for maths and sciences!"
"Because you haven't tried."
"I have and I just don't like it, Finn. I've been trying to tell you," she explained, low and urgent. "Ten years from now, I don't want to be living my life despising what I do."
"At least you'll have one."
"That's not the point!"
"You need to have a real, unfailing talent for shit like arts. Let me tell you, it ain't all sunshine and rainbows in that world. It's a hit-or-miss career option. I want you to do something that will get you somewhere in life."
Her chest deflated at his short words, unable to understand his response. "You don't think I have real talent?"
He huffed out a sigh. "I'm saying that for people like us, passion is a luxury. I chose what I have to do to look after you and me. Clara, I want you to do better than me. Live so much happier."
"I am happy!"
"Oh, c'mon," he sighed.
"You still didn't answer me," she pressed.
"You need to wake the fuck up."
"You can't control me like this!" she tried to exclaim, but her voice cracked.
"I raised you!" he yelled back.
Clara took a deep breath to glare at his ridiculous leverage.
"That's right, I fucking raised you, kid. All alone. I killed myself to put you through school, to feed your ass. And you can't even—"
Now she just struck out with a vengeance shaped as defences. "Just because you raised me doesn't mean I owe you my future! I don't owe you shit, Griffin, and I never will!"
Her brother just stared at her, wordlessly and in disbelief, his eyes tense and furious. Honestly, Clara was astonished that she'd even said that out loud. She had always kept that reason close to her chest because of how much it would hurt her brother, but now she'd done it.
"Then why the fuck are you still here?" His voice was so blunt and weary. He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "If you know what you want and you hate me so much, why are you still here? Why do I keep coming back for you?"
It took her a minute to scramble for some sort of response. Her voice came out appalled. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Finn, I don't hate you—"
"No, a part of you clearly does. You've got it all figured out, Clara. You don't need anything from me anymore. I don't give a fuck either. Do what you want. Stay here, leave—I just don't care."
Did he want her to leave? She had to look at him to see if he meant it, or merely heard him right. His determination broke her heart. So, it was true why Bobby hated her. He had been convinced that Clara was the reason why her brother's life was being destroyed. Maybe if he'd just left her there that night in the hospital and run for his life instead...
The significant hurt tore through her mind, and she breathed out a cough. Loneliness strangled her chest as she struggled to grapple with what had to be done. She just hoped her brother would see this and stop her. But, nothing.
Quietly, she grabbed her hefty sling bag from the floor and backed away from the kitchen. She couldn't say anything to fix what she'd said, so she turned and sprinted out of the door.
Despite the summertime humidity, it began to pour buckets from the sky. The showers morphed into an actual storm, pricking against her skin and knotting her lashes as she plunked down the pavement. She was totally soaked by the time she made it to the corner.
The flank of her bag caught on the railing of a long stoop, and the sharp tear revealed the soggy designs that were folded out of her binder.
It was because of this stupid intention, her brother had been hating her. Passion was a luxury to her. She couldn't afford to follow her dreams—literally.
In a blind daze of fury, she ripped the bag off her shoulder and stormed to the wheelie bin on the opposite corner. With a decisive glance inside the smelly darkness, she knew it was where her conviction belonged. People like her didn't deserve compulsions. Everything since two weeks ago had proven it.
Clara dumped the folder in and banged the lid shut. When the desolation grew, she growled and powered an enraged kick at the bin. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!
With a lifeless slump of her shoulders, she stumbled back onto the street. Why did everything Griffin said feel like the trumpet of doom? No, it couldn't be. He was her brother. She loved him so much. She just had to figure out what to do next.
But all she kept coming back to was blankness. It felt irreparable and final, especially Griffin's standstill.
Lost in thought, Clara wiped the wetness out of her blurring vision and started down the street. Somehow, she couldn't seem to cry, almost as if she knew this was coming. She didn't know where she was going, she just kept walking until she stopped mulling over what had happened.
Behind her, where she couldn't see, a strike of synthetic webbing latched onto the cover of the wheelie bin and lifted it open.
∞
wowowowow, emotional but you know me, i love the DRAMA. but also ze comedy! we've got something good coming up and I've got some great stuff in store for you all!