Spider-Man 2 Page 6

  “Oh, hey… wow! Doctor Connors! Sorry!” Peter immediately bent down to help the one-armed professor gather his fallen study materials.

  “Where were you headed, Parker?” demanded a clearly annoyed Connors.

  “To your class.”

  “My class is over. See? See me,” and he pointed at his own head, “standing here?”

  Peter felt his face burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Doctor Connors. I lost track of time.”

  Connors shook his head, and when he spoke it wasn’t scoldingly, but more with an air of disappointment. “I don’t think it’s time you’ve lost track of. I think maybe you’ve lost track of your life.” He held up individual fingers, counting off the instances as he went. “Your grades have been steadily declining. You’re late for class. You always appear exhausted. That paper on fusion is still overdue…”

  At that moment, Peter saw a chance to solve two problems at one time. He’d given no thought whatsoever to the paper on fusion, but he knew who was doing the most breakthrough work on that most elusive of energy sources: Otto Octavius. Octavius, whom a now-dead merc had accused of being involved in the production of some sort of dangerous armament. Here was an opportunity to legitimately take time to explore whether Octavius was really up to something untoward… and get graded for it! It was like one of those schools where you get credit for life experience.

  “I’m planning to write it on Doctor Otto Octavius…” he told Connors.

  “ ‘Planning’ is not a major at this university. Finish that paper or I’m failing you.” He started to turn away, then paused and glanced at Peter with a reflective look. “The great Octavius. He’s a friend of mine. Better do your research. Get your facts straight, Parker!”

  That final admonition left Peter wondering just what the hell he was doing to himself, and why he was doing it. It wasn’t that he’d lost track of his life. It’s that he was trying to live a second life, and it wasn’t exactly meshing with the first.

  But before he could dwell on it further, he noticed that the clock tower said it was one minute to six.

  “Shoot!” he yelled.

  And he was gone. If it had seemed to the casual observer that he was running with amazing speed before, that was nothing compared to the burst he displayed now. Anyone seeing him wouldn’t have “seen” him, so much as notice something out of the corner of their eye and then wonder where it had gone.

  He vaulted onto his motorcycle and ripped out into Manhattan traffic, barreling between cars, using every ounce of his spiderlike agility.

  He made it to Forest Hills in twenty-one minutes flat, which was twenty minutes later than he’d promised Aunt May he’d be there. He glided the cycle to a stop, jumped off, and moved quickly to the front door. He threw it open and stepped into the living room. And that’s when, screaming, they leaped out at him.

  IV

  “Surprise!”

  Peter did everything he could to maintain a startled expression, even though he’d long-ago figured out that his aunt, May Parker, was planning this party for him. She was a dear woman and skilled at many things, but duplicity wasn’t her strong suit. She’d telegraphed her plans in a hundred different ways. The only thing Peter was left wondering was who the heck she’d invite, considering he hardly saw anyone these days unless he was either rescuing them or webbing them up to be left for the police.

  So there was a genuine element of surprise for him as his former roommate, Harry Osborn, and… Mary Jane… leaped out at…

  Mary Jane.

  It was all he could do not to melt at the sight of her, with that gorgeous grin and the flaming red hair that danced around her face. From near his shoulder, Aunt May was urging him, “Well, say something!”

  “Uh,” was all he could manage, and then he forced his attention away from Mary Jane, itself a Herculean feat. He smiled broadly. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Really, Peter,” said May with an affectionate scold. “It’s your birthday, whether you wish to remember it or not.”

  “Peter lives in another reality, don’t you, Pete?” Mary Jane asked coyly.

  Yeah, I think living in a reality that includes scrambling up the sides of buildings and swinging from threads could qualify as “another” in the reality biz.

  Oh, yeah. That was just the thing to say.

  Mary Jane cocked her head slightly as if sensing the thoughts tumbling through his mind. “Long time no see.”

  He managed a nod. “Hi, M.J.”

  “Peter’s also a photographer,” Harry said with an almost fraternal pride as he draped an arm around Peter’s shoulder. But when he spoke again, his voice was infected with an obviously false cheerfulness. “Spider-Man’s photographer. How is the bug these days?”

  “Haven’t seen him lately,” Peter said, feeling very uncomfortable. And why shouldn’t he have felt uncomfortable? After all, Harry was convinced Spider-Man had killed his father, and Peter had no way of convincing him otherwise. None that wouldn’t compromise his secret, at any rate.

  Aunt May made a dismissive wave of her hand. “The less you see of a man like that, the better. Peter, let’s have some punch.” She had moved to a punch bowl and was ladling out her famous fruit drink. “Let’s celebrate all the good. M.J. is in a Broadway play.”

  “Off-Broadway,” Mary Jane corrected her. “It’s just a little part. Harry sent me roses,” she added, clearly grateful. Harry bobbed his head in acknowledgment. M.J. had been his girlfriend in the past, so it was nice to know they were still getting on, even though the relationship had ended.

  “How lovely, Harry,” May said approvingly, and handed him a glass of punch. “And you’re at OsCorp, doing things that would make your father proud, rest his soul.”

  “I’m in charge of Special Projects,” Harry said. “We’re funding one of your idols, Pete. Otto Octavius.”

  “I’m writing a paper on him,” said Peter, taking a glass of punch.

  “Want to meet him?”

  Peter could scarcely believe it. This was just simplifying matters so much that it could completely wreck his hard-won, hard-luck image. “You’d introduce me?”

  “You bet,” said Harry as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “Octavius is going to put OsCorp on the map in a way my father never even dreamed of.”

  “What a lovely birthday present!” May said. “Okay, somebody want to help me in the kitchen? M.J.?”

  Mary Jane looked slightly startled, as if her thoughts had been elsewhere. On me? Peter wondered. As if. He had told her in no uncertain terms that all they would ever be, could ever be, was friends. And M.J. was far too much the free spirit to hear no for an answer more than one time. Peter was sure she was back on the dating scene, with no looking back.

  As M.J. followed May into the kitchen, Peter’s gaze followed her. There was so much he wanted to say… and knew he couldn’t. Harry leaned against the banister, serenely confident. “She’s waiting for you, pal.”

  Peter was walking over to the desk to see if there was any mail for him. “What do you mean?”

  “The way she looks at you, or doesn’t look at you, however you want to look at it.”

  At that, Peter chuckled. Harry certainly had all the angles covered. If she looked at him longingly, or didn’t give him a second glance, it meant the same thing. “Don’t have time to think about girls right now.”

  As he said that, he paused. An envelope not addressed to him had caught his notice. It was from the mortgage company. Aunt May’s mortgage company. The words “Pre-Eviction Notice” were visible through the plastic-covered window in the envelope.

  “Why? Are you dead?” Harry asked skeptically.

  Peter wasn’t even looking at him, his attention fully engaged by the less-than-sterling news in the envelope. “Been kinda busy.”

  “Taking pictures of your friend?”

  That brought Peter’s thoughts back to Harry. The ongoing topic of Spider-Man had already gone a good ways toward p
oisoning their relationship, and Peter had hoped that Harry would—at the very least—be able to rein himself in for this gathering. Obviously, that wasn’t going to be the case. With more anger in his voice than he’d have liked, Peter said, “Could we get off that subject!” Taking a breath, trying to get back to being calm, he continued, “I want us to be friends, Harry. I want us to trust each other.”

  “Be honest,” said Harry levelly. “If you knew who he was, would you tell me?”

  Peter’s tone was hollow. “You’d only want him dead.”

  “Of course I would!” Harry told him, having no idea how his words were wounding. “The same way you’d want the man who killed your uncle Ben dead. My father loved you like a son, Pete.”

  Harry paused and then seemed to remember where he was and the fact that they were supposed to be celebrating Peter’s birthday. He draped an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Hey, I don’t mean to rag on you. You’re my buddy. You know that.”

  “I understand.”

  “Call me tomorrow. I’ll arrange for you to visit Otto.”

  Peter looked at him askance. “You call him ‘Otto’?”

  Suddenly the lights went out and for a moment Peter tensed. Then Aunt May and Mary Jane came shuffling in from the kitchen, walking slowly as if in a processional, May bearing a birthday cake with “Happy Birthday, Peter” etched on it. May, Mary Jane, and Harry launched into a deliriously off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.”

  My friend who hates me but doesn’t know it, the girl who loves me but I can’t afford to truly let her into my life, and my aunt who’s being evicted. Oh, yeah. Life is good.

  Happy birthday to me, he thought glumly.

  Mary Jane had excused herself early from the party, leaving not long after the presents had been opened. Peter hadn’t known how to feel about her departure. He was relieved because in some ways talking to M.J. was like a knife in his heart. But he was depressed because it was the sweetest pain he knew.

  So those same mixed feelings resurfaced later, after Harry had left, when Peter was hauling a bag of trash from the party into the back and discovered Mary Jane standing on the other side of the fence, in the backyard that belonged to the Watsons, M.J.’s parents. On the one hand, he felt as if she’d been waiting there for him; on the other, he was concerned he’d wandered into her private musings. Well, if she wanted privacy, she always could have been inside her folks’ house.

  She smiled awkwardly at him. It made him feel like he was back in high school, and that any conversation they had would be interrupted by Flash Thompson pulling up in his car and honking, drawing her away from him.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.” He paused, and then told her, “Saw your billboard on Bleecker.” He’d also seen it uptown when he’d landed on it, but he saw no reason to add that nugget of information.

  “Isn’t it funny? I’m really kind of embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. It’s nice.” He smiled. “I get to see you every day now.”

  Well, doesn’t that sound pathetic. The only reason you don’t see her every day in person is your own stupid choice.

  Mary Jane was compassionate enough not to point that out. Instead, she shrugged and said, “Photographer liked my face. I was only supposed to be in a catalog. Then I got this part in the play. Everything at once.”

  “Dreams come true.”

  “How about yours?”

  “I’m fine,” he said in that guarded way that had become second nature to him.

  “I wish you’d come see the play. You’re the one who always encouraged me,” she said.

  “I plan to.”

  She paused, and Peter braced himself. He knew it was coming: She was going to tell him how hurt she was that he’d shut her out of his life, about the frustration, the resentment. How even being with him tonight was torture and a huge mistake…

  “I liked seeing you tonight, Peter.”

  He was so filled with relief, he could barely stand. “Oh, boy… yeah…”

  “Oh, boy, yeah, what?”

  A hundred responses filled his mouth, but all he came out with was, “Nothing.”

  Her blue eyes were locked on him. “I know the feeling. Sometimes you want to say something but it won’t come out.” It was as if they were both onstage and she was trying to guide him toward forgotten lines. “Do you want to say something?”

  “Do you?” he replied.

  “You first.”

  It was insane. He’d thought he could keep them apart through sheer force of will, but it was like two magnets being drawn inexorably toward each other. “I… uh…”

  Then Uncle Ben came to him.

  Not literally. But the mental image that haunted him day and night flashed through his thoughts, just for a heartbeat. It was enough, though. That in turn opened the door to his view of her falling away from him, tossed off the top of the 59th Street Bridge by the Green Goblin. Once again it strengthened his resolve. Anyone close to him could be at risk, and maybe—just maybe—he didn’t really deserve to be happy in the first place because of his great sin of omission. Because Uncle Ben was dead, and he was responsible.

  “I was wondering… if… uh… you’re still in the Village?” he asked.

  She stared at him, as if she’d been able to see the pictures running behind his eyes, and was trying to make sense of them. “You’re such a mystery,” she said. “Sometimes I just want to punch you and wake you up.”

  He offered a shoulder to her. “Go ahead.”

  She took a step closer and gently threw a tap to his jaw that couldn’t have knocked over an origami swan. Then she said, “I gotta go. My mom’s sick. Y’know, my dad left.”

  “Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, her voice turning harsher. “He was abusive and nasty and wasn’t happy unless he was tearing me or my mom down.”

  “I know. That’s what I’m sorry about.”

  She shook her head and, sounding frustrated, said, “Oh, Peter Parker…”

  “What?”

  M.J. was right up against the fence, and she reached over and brushed his hair back. He thought she was going to kiss him and realized that, right then—despite all the reasons it would be a bad idea—it was what he wanted more than anything. Instead, all she did was say, “Happy birthday.”

  She moved away from him then and started for the house. But she paused on the steps and, without turning, said, “I’m seeing somebody now.”

  Thinking that she was still dwelling on unresolved issues with her father, Peter said, “Oh? Therapy?”

  That prompted her to turn and look at him suspiciously, trying to determine if he was making fun of her. When she saw the open curiosity on his face, she apparently realized that he was honest in his confusion. “No. A person. A man.”

  Peter’s heart started racing. Well, that’s what you expected. She wasn’t going to wait around for the guy who made a point of keeping her at arm’s length. “You mean like a boyfriend?”

  “Well… I like him,” said Mary Jane.

  “Oh.”

  “What?”

  Keeping his outward cool, Peter said, “No. No… it’s good. Companionship.”

  “Maybe more than that.”

  “More?”

  Her lips twitched. “I dunno.”

  Suddenly it was desperately vital to Peter that he let Mary Jane know how important she was to him. “Hey, I’m gonna come see your play tomorrow night.”

  “You’re coming?” She was visibly surprised.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Do you want me to put a house seat aside for you? Third row center? Prime spot?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She seemed gratified. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I won’t,” he assured her.

  What the hell are you doing? Peter demanded silently of himself as Mary Jane walked back into her former home, while Peter walked into his. She’s getting involved with s
omeone else. It’s what you wanted. She’s moving on with her life, and now you’re trying to insert yourself back into it? You push her aside, and suddenly you can’t let her go? What’s your problem?

  And out loud, so far under his breath that no one could hear him—so softly he himself could barely hear—he said, “I love you, Mary Jane.”

  He walked into the dining room and saw that Aunt May had fallen asleep in a chair, a dish towel clutched in her hand like a security blanket. He watched her for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in a chair across from her. She seemed so peaceful, but he knew he couldn’t just leave her there; her back would never forgive her in the morning. He rested a hand atop hers and she awoke with a start.

  “What… Ben?” she gasped out, and in her confusion didn’t see Peter flinch when she said it. She tried to focus on her surroundings. “Oh, my, I’m… wait…”

  “Aunt May?”

  “Peter?” Then she laughed at her own bewilderment. “For a second there, I thought it was years ago. Everybody’s gone, aren’t they?”

  He nodded. “Party’s over. They both went home.”

  She stood up with great certainty, as if she had many things she had to attend to. “Well, now, it was a very nice little birthday get-together,” she said. Her voice sounded slightly singsong, as if it wasn’t quite connected to the world around them. “Did they have a good time?”

  “I’m sure they did. You okay?”

  “Of course I am. But you go on home,” she said, patting him on the upper arm. “And be careful. I don’t like that scooter thing you drive around.”

  “I’m worried about you,” he said, making no effort to leave. “You’re alone, maybe too alone sometimes, and…” He hesitated, and then admitted, “I saw the letter from the bank.”