CHAPTER TWENTY THREE;
you take, take, take but won't give,
give, give.
"PETER PARKER IS SPIDER-MAN?"
Matte Mac lipstick is applied to Amala's lips, it's warm nude shade bringing out the plump of her lips. Around her, brushes and vials of mascara are sprawled across the vanity, messily placed next to an empty bag. Quiet music plays — The Neighborhood, maybe — while she gets ready. Akira sits on the sink besides the vanity, her feet swaying back and fourth.
"I don't know, Aki." Amala replies, her lips pursed. "I don't know anything, to be honest."
Akira hums and plays with a wavy strand of hair. "I mean, I thought you sounded crazy — no offense — but when you laid it all out for me... I mean — it's crazy but it makes sense."
Sighing, Amala studies her makeup in the mirror. It's slightly darker than usual, since they'll be attended "The Carnival of Lights" tonight. For this, Amala had gone a bit heavier with her eyeliner and highlighter, making sure it would pop amongst all the lights.
"What are you gonna do about it?" Her best friend queries.
Looking away from the vanity and at Akira, Amala pulls a face. "Sorry?"
Akira hops off of the counter. "What are you going to do about Peter maybe being Spider-man?"
"Um, nothing?" Her voice ends in question. "I mean, what can I do? It's not like I can walk up to him and say 'Hey, Peter! What's up? I know you're maybe Spider-man but your secret is safe with me!'" She deadpans.
Akira hums, reaching Amala's phone to change whatever song is playing on Spotify.
Amala turns back towards the mirror, packing her makeup into her bag and keeping the lipstick so she can put in her purse.
"Um... Amala?"
"Yeah, Aki?" She replies absentmindedly.
Her voice wavers. "Um... Peter just texted you."
Tightening the straps of her bra, Amala accidentally lets go at the news and it snaps against her shoulder harshly. "Fuck! What?"
She catches Akira nod through the reflection and place her phone on the counter.
Amala looks at it; her moon lock-screen stares back at her as a single text banner appears.
They haven't spoken since their last night in Venice. In some ways, she's come to terms the way they left off. In other ways, she's bitter.
Reminders of the moon make her body go cold.
She opens the text.
ෆ
iMESSAGE
AMALA, PETER
7:47 p.m.
PETER
hi
AMALA
hey
PETER
what's up?
AMALA
nothing just getting ready
you?
PETER
yeah me too
AMALA
cool
PETER
yep
anyways
can we talk before the
carnival?
like can you come down
5 min early?
AMALA
yeah i think so
PETER
okay great 👍🏼
see you
read
ෆ
REAL LIFE
HOTEL LOBBY
7:52 p.m.
It's unusual for Amala to feel nervous. In most high pressure or anxious situations, she's been a pro at navigating them calmly. Raised by an Arab mother, Amala knew better than to let feelings get the best of her rationality.
Ever since she's met Peter Parker and Spider-man... well, let's just say that sentiment went out the window.
The elevator makes it's slow descend to the lobby, dinging every time it passes a floor.
Amala looks at herself in the large mirror; a pretty outfit stares back at her. Clad in an emerald green two-piece outfit, her figure looks good. A pink bra shows up under her mesh crop-top just slightly while flared emerald-colored pants hug her hips. She sports a pink messenger bag — packed with all her essentials — and her is in its natural form.
She looks incredible for a carnival party. Yet, she doesn't feel good. Silly nerves make her vision blue and the churning of her stomach gets worse as the elevator nears the lobby.
She tries to take some calculated breaths, telling herself that despite all the fuckery she's witnessed, Peter is still Peter.
Nearing the lobby far too soon, the elevator gives its signature sound and Amala takes one more look at herself; anxiety is riddled in her expression.
She breaths in and steps out of the elevator.
"Amala?"
The girl in question turns around quickly, eyes wide as she recognizes the voice.
"Peter," she says, trying to put on a decent smile. "Hi."
Seeing him up close again is odd, if she's going to be honest. It's as though it's been months, when in reality it's only been a couple of days. There's an aching familiarity to him; from the way he looks at her to his voice. It all comes back to her in puddles of little memories.
"Hey," he replies, awkwardly playing with his hands. "you - uh - you look really pretty." He mumbles, cheeks on fire.
Amala feels her own cheeks tint at the comment but mentally slaps herself.
She hasn't seen him up close for so long. He looks pretty, too. So, so pretty. His hair is messy and curls at the nape, his white shirt is almost see-through and his fingers are adorned with silver rings.
Soft echos of gentle lips and rain float at the forefront of her mind. Gloved hands at her waist, wet faces and burning cheeks, his name in her mind on repeat: Spider-man, Spider-man, Peter, Peter, Peter. It's too much. He's too much.
All she says is, "thank you."
"You're welcome," Peter replies with a nervous smile.
Amala wants to smash their tension with a mallet but memories of slammed doors and jumping out of moving vehicles tether her to the ground.
Instead, she remains silent. She makes sure to keep steady eye contact with him though, just to make him squirm.
It seems to be doing the trick because Peter looks seconds away from ending it all. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat, he keeps rubbing his hands on his wide-legged jeans and his lip pulls between his teeth.
"I - um - how are you?" He awkwardly asks, cringing at the sound of his own voice.
"Fine," is all she says, trying her best to keep it brief. "What did you want to talk about?"
Peter coughs. "Oh - um - I - yeah. So, I just wanted to talk... um - to you. We haven't spoken in a while."
Amala gives him a stare. "Yeah, we haven't." She says a little too bluntly.
Peter shrinks at the reply, as he clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he starts. "I haven't been the nicest friend."
Amala simply nods. What can she say?
Peter pulls a sad face. "I know. I'm - I'm seriously sorry. I've just," he sighs, closing his eyes. "I've been overwhelmed with a lot of stuff and I just, kind of shut the world out. I pushed everyone away: you and Ned included — that's shitty of me. And I'm sorry."
At this, Amala feels herself frown. He's apologizing and it's... nice. He looks sincere enough by the way he stutters through every sentence but still manages to keep steady eye contact. Still, she calculates her next words wisely. The wall around her heart stays intact.
"You're right. You haven't been the nicest friend." She starts off with a sigh. "But, thank you. For apologizing and stuff."
The ghost of a smile lingers on his lips. "I'm sorry. You're..." he looks away. "You're really important to me."
The raven feels her walls start to crumble. Brick by brick, the barricade's foundation starts to thin. What a pathetic thing, to have your guard drop because of a string of words. There's an extra step to her heartbeat and her breathing picks up (a common occurrence when she's around Peter).
Her smile is genuine this time and she has to physically hold herself back from showing teeth. "Yeah?" She asks, shyly.
Peter simply nods, his cheeks growing warmer by the minute.
"Well, that's good to know. You're important to me, too." Blushes Amala, any disdain fleeing her body.
Peter coughs at that and his eyes gain a little sparkle. "S-seriously?"
The wall around her heart finally collapses; dust and debris swirl into the atmosphere. Her rationality's protective layer breaks because how can she be mad at him? How can she be mad at Peter who's shy and sweet and so pretty?
Amala steps over the shattered barrier. "Yeah, you'd be surprised." She says earnestly.
His Adam's apple bobs again and Amala's eyes are trained to his throat, and his jaw, and his eyes.
He nods shyly, like the words are caught at the base of his tongue and then he opens his mouth to say something. "Listen, I trust you and - I want to tell you things - I want to confide in you. Um, if that makes sense."
Her heart pumps vigorously. "Yeah, it does."
"Okay, great. So, I'm - well, I don't really know how to go about this..." he coughs and looks at her. "I'm -"
He's gonna say it, her mind explodes. Is he going to say it?
"You're?" She implies for encouragement.
"I'm-"
Mr. Dell's voice shatters the moment. "Class!"
Both teens turn around, heart's beating wildly and faces on fire.
"Everyone gather around. We have something to say!" He continues.
"I'm - uh..." Peter mumbles.
"It's okay," Amala reassures, her mood souring. "We can talk about it later."
Peter looks nervous. "Yeah?"
Amala smiles back, though it doesn't quite meet her eyes. "Yeah."
They stand for several moments, simply just staring at each other. Amala feels herself melt into the coffee shade of his irises; all the chocolate and honey in the world sits between those eyes. She feels herself get lost in the way his cheeks turn rosy, in the way his smile reaches his ears, in the way he stands and speaks.
God, she thinks to herself. Why do I do this to myself?
Huddled around the lobby seating area, students run into excited conversations about tonight's carnival. Everyone's dressed in their own version of party attire, as they clip on goofy accessories made out of glow sticks handed by the reception.
Amala and Akira stand near the front, helping each other with their last minute accessories. Akira slides on a green, flower headband on her, giving a goofy grin once she's done.
After a couple minutes, everyone seems to quiet down as they wait for Mr. Dell's announcement.
"Good news," Mr. Harrington starts off. "We're going to the opera!"
A split second silence drowns the room before an eruption of disagreement sucks the quiet out.
Amala and her best friend give each other an annoyed look, eyes filled with disdain.
She looks around and realizes everyone is just as confused — and annoyed — as her. She almost misses the way Ned turns back to Peter, his eyes filled with questions. Almost misses it.
Sam shares a look with her from across the room, mouthing "what the fuck?".
Amala simply shakes her head.
Something ugly swims in the air. It's the same thing she felt the day of the water monster attack, the day of the bus ride, the night of her dream.
Someone behind them says, "why the opera?" as others mumble to each other.
"What happened to the carnival?" Amala speaks up.
Mr. Dell is quick to push the blame off of him. "Don't look at me!"
Mr. Harrington shoots him an annoyed look. "Oh this is upgrade living, guys. Come on, tour company just called - they gave us these tickets! For free!" When no one replies, he adds. "Do you have any idea how much opera tickets cost?"
"No," Flash deadpans. "because none of us have ever wanted to go the opera. Ever."
For the second time on this trip, Amala seems to agree with Flash. He's right, who the hell willingly goes to the opera?
"Well, I think this'll be culturally enriching for us!" Ned says out of nowhere.
Everyone turns to him, eyebrows knitted. Is he serious?
"Thank you, Ned!" Mr. Harrington seems pleased. "Everyone," he continues, finality in his voice. "This is gonna be — maybe — the best four hours of our trip."
In unison, the whole class says: "four hours?"
Amala's jaw is on the floor. Four fucking hours? They're seriously going to miss an annual nationwide known carnival for a four-hour opera? This has to be the worst part of her trip.
"I'm going to kill myself." Akira groans.
Amala closes her eyes. "You and me both, Aki."
"Guys, I think this'll be really fun, seriously!" Ned says again, out of nowhere.
"Ned, I love you, but shut the fuck up." Says Akira, narrowing her eyes at him.
Ned shrinks under her gaze, his cheeks turning pink from embarrassment.
"Akira, language!" Mr. Dell warns which earns a scoff from the girl in question.
This trip can't get any worse, she whines to herself.
Little does she know... yes it can.
"Okay... here we are." Mr. Harrington exclaims. "...Beat the rush."
"Yeah, the rush out." Deadpans Mr. Dell, seemingly done with his co-worker's bullshit.
Mr. Harrington ignores his tone. "Luckily for us, we got the best seats in the house!"
Around them, rows of velvet covered chairs sit in the middle as a stage stands in the far end of the auditorium. The walls are adorned with intricate engravings and golden pillars, as two curtains rest at the ends of the stage.
For something as boring as opera, the room is strikingly beautiful.
Absentmindedly, Amala straightens the hem of her dress.
After they found out they weren't going to the carnival anymore, Amala and the others had returned to their rooms to change. As a substitute, she put on a skin-tight champagne colored dress. Made out of satin, it's straps sat perfectly on her shoulders, accentuating her collarbones and breasts nicely. She'd swapped out her chunky boots for delicate heels and put her hair in a sleek bun.
Peter has been struggling to take his eyes off her all evening — the dress simply made it harder.
"Hey!" Sam calls from behind her.
The girl in question turns around. In front of her, Sam Martin is clad in a casual-looking suit. A white dress shirt is hidden under a blazer and tucked into crisp pants. Honestly, sometimes she forgets he's even on this trip.
Still, she puts on a polite smile. "Hey, Sam."
He doesn't give her a reply right away. Instead, his eyes trail from the straps of her dress to its end, before coming back up to shamelessly stare at her cleavage.
Amala clears her throat.
"Oh, hey," he says again, blushing. "You look great."
"Oh, thanks." Amala simply says.
Sam takes a shaky breath before awkwardly mumbling. "I - um - I'll save you a seat?"
The raven tenses. "Uh - yeah? Yeah, sure." She swallows.
Sam simply nods and walks into the auditorium.
She shuts her eyes and sighs at the interaction. Something about him just gives her such an ick. She can't quite put her finger on it and she feels bad just thinking about it, but it's true. Amala knows he's trying but it's just... not doing it for her.
There's a deep regret that courses through her veins. She should've never led him on, no matter how little she did.
You did this to yourself, her mind reminds her.
She shakes her head.
Behind her, Peter walks up to her, backpack slung across one of his shoulders. He comes to stand besides her and Amala spares him a simple glance.
He's dressed similarly to Sam. However, instead of a dress shirt, Peter has the same white T-shirt from earlier. All he's done is change into dark navy pants and a matching jacket.
"You look really pretty." He breaths out after several quiet seconds, voice shaking.
He's shy, he's shy, he's shy, her mind points out as if it isn't obvious. Cute, cute, cute.
The phantom of a mischievous grin settles on her mouth. "Therefore I have value?" Amala quips back, just to tease him.
Peter's eyes widen. "No. No, that's not what I meant at all! I was just-"
Amala can't stop herself from laughing out. "I'm just messing with you." She exclaims, covering her mouth to steady her laugh.
Peter visibly deflates and laughs along with her.
Suddenly, it feels as though they're back in April. Careful steps around new friends and testing the waters of what they can or cannot joke about. Something in Amala yearns for those days again — when things were simpler. She yearns for a time where Peter was just Peter: a kind, shy, and pretty boy from AP Biology. Before all the chaos and the turmoil, before all the dreams and the hints, before she knew he was Spider-man.
Deep down, Amala knows she'll never have those moments again. So, she cherishes what she can.
"Thank you, though." Amala says sincerely this time, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"You're welcome."
Amala feels herself blush impossibly darker. "You look pretty, too."
A grin the size of the sun spreads across Peter's face. "T-thank you."
Something akin to a spark flashes across their peripheral. Heavy tension swirls in the midst of their eye contact and Amala finds herself locked in his gaze... again. There's something about the way he looks at her, like he's staring at the universe die and come alive in the same breath. It makes Amala's heart weak.
The sound of Akira's voice breaks their little reverie. "Oh my god, opera glasses!"
Their eye contact breaks as they look at Ned and Akira argue over who's paying for a pair.
Their banter makes her smile; they're like an old married couple. It's adorable.
Turning back towards Peter, she realizes he never took her eyes off of her. Her heart skips a beat.
"Wanna go in on a pair?" Asks Amala, hopeful.
Peter's eyes widen and his cheeks go red. "You mean to sit next to each other?"
"Yeah!" She smiles.
"No."
Amala gasps, oh.
Her heart's once happy patter turns dark and her breathing gets deeper. "Okay... no-" she stumbles, her eyes blinking in disbelief.
She's so shocked by the absolute audacity of the boy in front of her, that she has trouble regulating what she wants to say. Just shy of an hour ago, Peter was professing her importance to him, saying how sorry he was for his past actions. What the fuck happened?
Honestly, she's pissed. Time and time again, she lets his behavior slide in the name of protecting his identity. For every moment she remains silent, the threat of him truly being Spider-man grows larger.
"You don't wanna sit next to me-" Amala asks, her tone cold. "Or do you not-"
Peter shakes his head and covers his right ear. "I didn't mean that- if you go ahead, I'll - uh - grab us a pair."
She blinks at him. "Okay... I'll save you a seat next to me unless - you know what, okay. See you." She gives up, turning away and walking towards the rest of the class.
After a couple seconds, she finds four empty seats towards the middle of their row. Amala assumes that Ned and Akira would want to sit besides them, so she looks behind her to see where they are.
Akira and Ned can be seen making their way down the walkway, hands fluttering by their sides as a strip of cash hangs between Ned's fingers.
"No! I'm not letting you pay again!"
"Ned, so help me God, if you say one more word I'm strangling you with these glasses!"
Amala laughs at their banter. "Hi, guys."
"Mala, hey!" Says Akira, walking up to her.
Akira's frilly dress spins with every step she takes and several minutes later, the trio is sat down, waiting for the curtains to draw open.
Peter still hasn't returned from getting the glasses, so Amala spares a quick glance behind her but doesn't see him.
"Psst, Ned!" She says quietly. "Where's Peter?"
"Oh- um - Peter is sick." Ned says quickly.
"Sick? Is he okay?" Asks Amala, worried, though suspicious is there, too. "He was okay like five minutes ago..."
Ned clears his throat and averts his gaze. "Yeah, yeah I know... he's just not feeling well. I think he caught a stomach bug back in Venice."
Amala sighs, her mood impossibly crushed. "Oh, okay."
She looks at the floor and analyzes her shoes to stop her mind from racing. Again and again and again. Amala doesn't learn. She chastises herself for letting this happen twice in the same day.
A soft hand rests at her knee.
Akira rubs soothing circles into the satin of her dress, sending her a sad look.
She mouths: "I'm sorry."
To which Amala replies: "it's okay."
But it's not okay. In fact, it's far from okay.
Maybe Amala has gotten the bug, too, because suddenly, she feels her stomach starts to hurt. There's a rancid taste at the back of her tongue and her eyebrows are knit into a frown. Her chest feels tight and her hands are drawn into fists.
She doesn't give a fuck about the opera but now, she thinks she'll combust if she's in this room for longer.
Bad decision, bad decision, her mind warns. She tramples the thought.
"I need some air." She announced to Akira, pressing a kiss to the hand that was on her knee.
She gets up and in a hurry makes her way out of the auditorium, without turning back.
Fuck this. She needs answers.
— END OF CHAPTER 23 —
[ note ]
i'm not super happy ab
this chapter but it's ok :)
thank you for the support
and for # 1 on the far from
home tag! absolutely crazy
and i'm beyond thankful <3
lots of love,
pearl <3