You sat on your bed, book in lap, cup of coffee in hand. A knock on your bedroom door made you glance up. Your mother poked her head in and offered a simple smile.
"Hey, sweetheart," she said.
"Hey," you said, placing a bookmark on your page and closing the cover. "What's up?"
She stepped in and hurried over to your bed. The mattress dipped down under her weight as she sat, palms on her knees, teeth showing in a giant grin.
You gave her a suspicious look. "Um... okay, Mom, what is it?" you asked.
"Homecoming," she said simply. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "I want to know what your plans are. Dress colors, hair styles, makeup choices... all of it. And you don't have to do it, but I'm thinking you can take a trip with me this weekend to dress shop. It'll be a girl's day!"
Your smile faltered. Homecoming. After your sudden (and embarrassing) outburst in front of Ned and Peter, the last thing you wanted to think about was homecoming.
"Mom," you said, and the right side of her lip turned down. Just like that, you wanted to fix it. "That sounds... great!"
"Oh, yay!" she squealed. "Now, I don't know what color you're thinking, but pastel pink looks so good on you, baby, and red and green and blue-" She stopped, finger in the air. "Do you have a date?"
"No," you answered, crushed again. You looked at the rim of your coffee cup as you sipped. "And I probably won't, either."
"Oh, well," she paused, pressing her lips together. "That's okay, baby. You don't need a date. What about Ned and Peter?"
"Neither of them would ask me-"
"No," she said. "Won't you all three be going as friends?"
"Maybe," you said. You bit your lip and looked down, tucking your hands under your thighs and scooting to the end of the bed.
Your mother nudged you gently. "Oh, I know that look," she said. "Who is it? Who do you like?"
"Mom," you said.
"Oh my gosh, is it Ned? No, no. Peter. It's Peter!" she exclaimed.
"Mom," you repeated, avoiding looking at her. "It's just a silly crush, okay?"
"It's not," she said, grabbing your arm. "Sweetheart, that boy deserves your love. Looking at him, you can see his heart. How sweet he is, how brave, how kind. It's no wonder you love him."
"I don't love him, Mom," you muttered, cheeks red. "It's literally just a crush. And it'll be over in a few weeks, anyway, so-"
"Right," she said, and she laughed. Before you could say it again, she leaned in and kissed the top of your head, a hand stroking down the side of your hair. "I'll leave you alone. Think about girl's day, okay? And, sweetheart," she paused, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, "you're beautiful."
You blinked at her. Without saying it, it was like she knew that you were full of self doubt. You did not say anything, but watched her go, wondering if she just said that because she was biased.
Because other than your family, no one told you that you were pretty.
Your phone buzzed. You picked it up and turned on the screen. Peter's picture popped up with a message.
Hey ___! Want to grab a coffee with Ned and I? 👊
You rolled your eyes. And so the pity party begins.
You knew the moment you let yourself whine about being that kind of girl, Ned and Peter would feel pity for you. They would treat you like a wounded animal, a fragile thing they needed to reassure.
Peter and Ned didn't like coffee. It was your thing to get. They preferred slushies from corner stores and bags of gummies and chips. You bought coffees and pastries.
Your phone buzzed again.
You there?
You debated on not answering. You didn't want to answer, but you didn't want to drive away the only friends you'd ever had.
Sure. Where?
He responded half a second later - further proof of pity.
Cool! I'll send you directions. They have vanilla lattes with FALL COLORED SPRINKLES!
If you weren't sure that they were pitying you, your heart would have skipped a beat at that. Peter knew your favorite order by heart.
But one glance in the mirror, at your tired eyes, baggy jeans, dirty hightops, and plain Midtown sweater, and you knew that he couldn't like you.
Twenty minutes later, you sat in the middle of a smoky cafe with both boys seated in front of you. Ned sipped a pink smoothie topped to the brim with whipped cream. Peter had a cup of hot cocoa sprinkled with cinnamon. He sipped it gently, wincing as it burned his tongue.
"So," Ned said, dipping his straw into the whipped cream. He licked it off. "How are you today?"
You blinked at him. "How am I?"
"Yeah," Ned said, and he glanced at Peter, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I mean-"
You stiffened and fidgeted, picking up your hot cup of vanilla latte. The sprinkles were starting to melt in the froth, leaving a trail of orange and brown across the white.
"Guys," you began.
Peter inched closer. "___, we're afraid we might have made you feel-"
"Look," you interrupted sharply. "I get it, okay? You feel bad for me because I broke down. Whatever. I shouldn't have because - because this is what happens. You pity me. And guess what?" You stood up. "You don't need to. I'm not broken, I'm not hopeless. It's a stupid dance and I go to school with a bunch of stupid boys. I am not going to dwell on the fact that I am not beautiful to them. And you know, it really, really sucks that you guys want to feel bad for me."
Peter shook his head. "___," he said. You pushed your coffee towards him and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. "___, wait, I'm sorry." He stood up and went after you.
You made it out the doors before he finally just reached out and grabbed you. You turned around, hand raised, his fingers locked around your wrist. He dropped your hand at once and stepped back.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I think it's really crappy of you guys to treat me like I'm going to freak out at any second," you said. "Do you know how stupid that makes me seem? How helpless? I am not weak, Peter Parker."
"I know you're not!" he exclaimed. His eyes were wide. "Trust me, I know. I'm sorry I ever treated you like you needed to be protected, but I just-" He shook his head. "I wanted you to feel like, I don't know-"
You looked away. "Peter-"
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "Wow. I guess this was just a sad attempt."
"At what?" you asked.
"At finding out who you like," Peter said awkwardly. "So we could help you out and maybe score you a date for the dance. It was stupid, you know, but I wanted to try something, so-" He grinned and shrugged. "I promise we won't screw up at that part of this plan, ___."
You paled. "I don't-"
"Come on," he said. He lightly punched your arm. "Tell me." You didn't answer. "Tell me, ___. I'm your best friend." He smiled wider and stepped closer. You stepped back. "___!"
You looked at him. You really looked at him. And two seconds later, in the stiff silence, Peter's eyes widened.
And he knew.