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It was the week after New Year’s before Flash realized that something was off.
The first day back from break was a gym day, and he wasn’t doing great on the rope-climbing. He looked around for what’s-his-name, the skinny kid who’s always doing worse than him. He was old enough to recognize that calling out someone else’s weak arms wouldn’t make his any stronger, but calling out the dweebface—specifically the dweebface—did make him feel better. It was nice having something over Mr. Perfect Has It All.
He looked over the pairs of kids spotting one another as they climbed, and couldn’t see him anywhere. He couldn’t even fully picture the face he was looking for; all he knew was that if he saw it, he’d know it. But now it was bugging him; who was missing?
Flash did a quick headcount, and arrived at an even number. But… That was right. If someone was missing they’d be odd numbered today and someone would be without a partner. He ran quickly through the names of the kids alphabetically—he’d heard them often enough over the last four years’ of roll call—and that was so weird. Everyone was here, but…
Was he thinking of Leeds?
Flash watched him struggle with the rope, barely five inches off the ground. Michelle was near him, reading a book instead of spotting, not that it mattered; Leeds wasn’t going any higher than he currently was. But Flash felt no need to call him out on that. He was obviously doing the best he could, and there was nothing funny about that. Flash teased, sure, but only when there was quality humor in it.
He looked around again, but the fleeting idea he had of who was missing was gone. All he could think of now were the names and faces of the people who were supposed to be there, who were all accounted for.
Flash shrugged and made another attempt at climbing, thinking vaguely that he should have taken up the offer to be swung to school; maybe it’d have helped him with this stupid rope.
~*~
As they settled in for the long, uninterrupted spring term Decathlon practice picked up again. For a team that scored plenty of wins over the last two years, they were really struggling; neither Michelle nor Mr. Harrington could tell why. The upshot was that Flash was benched a lot less frequently, and even his dad said that he’d heard from Gerald that Flash had been adequately holding his weight in the first, local competition they had a few weeks into the term.
They’d won, but just barely, and more often than not these days Michelle was calling practice during lunch so they could squeeze another meet in between everyone’s extracurricular activities. They’d all gotten their acceptance letters, of course, but it was their last year and they all wanted to go out with a bang. To really earn that trophy, for the last time.
Flash sat in the practice room, mostly unnoticed, picking at the ravioli the chef had packed for him. He’d intended to bring his A Game today, to be the star the team definitely needed, but as usual the clique of the shining kids—Flash knew popular, but he itched to know what it was like to be golden—took over the practice with their inside jokes and casual shoves and easy smiles. He’d had no intention of talking to them, it wasn’t like they were talking to him, after all, but when Leeds gave Michelle a sideways hug and said, ”I get to tell you to stop rereading bad books. That’s why we’re best friends, man,” with a genuine laugh, it registered like nails on a chalkboard.
Flash’s head snapped up, and he let out an incredulous, “What?” before he’d decided to say anything at all.
Of course, that got their attention.
Leeds eyed him wearily. “What what, dude?”
His tone was cautious, but also challenging. Like he expected Flash to give him a hard time about it.
“Nothing.”
Flash slammed the lid back on the Tupperware and gathered his books. For the last few weeks, the team-leader of AcaDec and her friend have been lowkey confrontive with him, and he was so tired of it. He hadn’t ever done anything, to either of them. He’d barely ever spoken to Michelle, and he generally ignored Ned. He hadn’t even made fun of the hat Leeds had worn to Liz’s party sophomore year, and if that wasn’t restraint in the face of temptation, nothing was. Granted, he’d been busy DJing, and he’d been rocking the room with his charisma and a few well-placed, elegant penis jokes, but still.
He didn’t deserve their attitude, and he didn’t deserve to be treated like he was some kind of bully.
He decided not to defend himself. Whatever they were dealing with, it was their bullshit. “Practice is obviously done, and unlike you guys, I actually have friends who want me to sit with them for lunch, so ciao.”
The last part wasn’t even technically a lie. People did want him to sit next to them for lunch, because he was popular and that meant he could elevate others.
He wasn’t shining, Flash thought as he dropped the Tupperware container in the trash on the way out of the practice room, so he might as well cultivate the popular. It was more than Michelle and her two loser friends had going for them.
~*~
The early-buds of Valentine’s Day hearts were already floating around lockers and assembly decorations before all the pieces finally fell into place, and it happened after the first debate of the season.
They’d gotten the topic first week back from break (the Blip was a correct but disproportionate response to overpopulation), and they were up against Ramaz, so really it was designed to be a breeze. Flash had been on the debate team since freshman year, and he’d lost exactly zero times, not even when he was paired with—he shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that seemed to surround the name. This was new, and it was stupid; he’d invented the stupid nickname, he couldn’t believe he was forgetting it, now.
Regardless, he won, also when he was paired with arrogant jerks. Second Negative for the win, every time, and tonight had been no different. He got up there and he had his facts straight, and he knew his counter arguments, and his rebuttals were sharp and he was simply on fire.
The entire team had won their individual debates, and Betty had even snagged a personal award for hers. They all waited outside together for their parents to come collect them from the City, the early dark and freezing stillness of the evening doing nothing to deter their excitement as they rehashed and analyzed every argument, every zinger, and every suave move that won them the evening. It was the type of comradery he didn’t often get to enjoy on AcaDec. Here, at least, he wasn’t forced to play second fiddle to Ned, Michelle, and the rest of their little clique.
They talked as Betty’s mom drove up, then Brad’s, and Vihaan’s dad, and as people left Flash drifted closer to whoever remained, until finally Zoha climbed into her dad’s slick Jeep with an almost apologetic see you tomorrow? and a small wave.
Flash buried his hands into his deep, warm pockets and looked expectantly up the street, even though he knew by now that it would be a long wait. If Gerald wasn’t there on time, it usually meant he was going to be significantly delayed by Flash’s parents. Jesus, he wished the DMV would get moving already with renewing the licenses of the Blipped. He was practically an adult now, but he still wasn’t sure if his parents deliberately sent Gerald on long errands on days he had debate, or if they genuinely kept forgetting.
The first few times it had happened in Freshman year he’d caught a ride with the second-to-last kid who’d gotten picked up, who’s mom (mom?) was always late because she had to work, but when she finally did get there and pulled up in her old, maroon Volvo, she was always smiling and always packing a snack. After the first time she’d even brought a snack for Eugene. He arrived home from those debates warm; it was the warmth of pretending he belonged to someone else.
When his parents had realized how he’d been getting home, though, they’d forbidden him from taking any more rides; their parents hadn’t worked factory jobs to allow his parents to go to university for their son to take charity. They worked hard for their status, and the least Flash could do was respect their sacrifices. He could wait a few extra minutes for a ride home.
Luckily it was already late spring by then, because a few minutes often stretched into three or four hours. He’d tried suggesting he just take the train home, but his parents had gone berserk at the suggestion; the dangers, the perverts, the masses. He would wait for Gerald, as befit their family, until he could drive himself. He’d had company for the first hour of waiting outside a fancy uptown high-school, but then the Volvo pulled up and the kid’s aunt (that’s right) had pushed and needled and joked and begged him to take a ride with them, and Eugene had had to refuse and not tell her why, because he knew she wasn’t offering out of charity and he didn’t want to offend her by repeating what his parents had said.
“Are you sure? Your parents know where you’re waiting?”
“Yeah, they’ll be here any minute,” Flash lied. Gerald probably knew where he was, though, and he’d be here as soon as the Thompsons released him from whatever stupid errand they had him running tonight.
“Okey-dokey. Someone should always know where you are, alright? If they don’t come, give us a call, it’s not a problem to swing back and pick you up.” She reached into the shopping bag in her lap.
“And at least take the Trail Mix, Eugene?” She asked, but it wasn’t really a question because she was already tossing it out the window at him. “And grab this Coke, it’s still cold and Penis—”that’s wrong, she wouldn’t have called him that, he hadn’t even invented the name yet—”shouldn’t drink more than one, it makes him jittery all night!”
Her nephew pretended to be indignant, but it was with a pleasant shove against her that was more like a hug, and she outright kissed his forehead even though it wasn’t his birthday, and Flash waved and watched them drive away with a burning rage of injustice. All the other kids, Flash wouldn’t trade places with any of them; they all had their issues. But what in the hell had—he’d stalled, looking for a name angry enough to express all his want, his jealousy, and his thirteen-year-old brain had only been able to come up with—Penis Parker ever done to deserve an aunt like that? He was always the priority. She always cared. She always came.
He’d called him Penis everyday since. The joke had staled after a few weeks, then gained momentum the next time Penis Parker did something extra; extra lame, extra weak, extra smart… Flash was there to document it all, to ridicule it all, because it wasn’t fair. Everyone else, literally everyone else, had problems with their parents, it wasn’t even a secret. Michelle’s mom disappeared at some point in middle-school, Leeds’ had more grownups than bedrooms, Betty’s parents didn’t let her watch movies that weren’t rated G, and on school nights they didn’t let her watch anything at all. What made Penis Parker so special that his aunt just… got it? Got him?
A chill ran through him as Flash stood outside Ramaz, remembering the last time May Parker had offered him a ride. He was bundled up head-to-toe, and his coat was made of the new WoolTech smart fibers, and despite the bracing air he wasn’t really cold. He tried to shake off the chill, but it seemed to lodge in his spine, and crawl up to the base of his skull.
Jesus, he hadn’t thought of Penis Parker in ages.
The chill rose and spread, approximating a headache that didn’t actually hurt. It was like… It was like lightening was trying to flash along his neural pathways, but was only managing soft, decorative pulses.
What happened to Penis Parker, anyway?
~*~
By the time Gerald had shown up with an apology and a hot chocolate—Mr. and Mrs. Thompson had had him wait for their gala to end—Flash had been too tired to give the matter any more thought. It wasn’t till a rainy day near the end of April that he thought of Penis Parker again. He wasn’t even sure what had reminded him. He was working on his project, and he happened to raise his eyes and clock the kids sitting in front of him. The moment he saw Michelle and Ned the soft pulsation in the back of his head intensified. It was like an itch he couldn’t reach, or a smell he couldn’t place.
“Yo, what ever happened to your lame friend?”
Michelle raised her eyes from her book, unbothered by the fact that they were supposed to be designing some kind of mosaic for their final art project. She didn’t bother answering.
Beside her, meticulously sorting stones by shape and color, Leeds stiffened. He half turned in his chair to face Flash. “I’m right here, man, but that’s so rude.”
Flash shook his head, rolled his eyes, shrugged, did everything he could to make it clear he hadn’t been referring to Ned without actually having to reassure him. “Not you. Your lame friend. The dork.”
Michelle shared a look with Leeds, and for a moment a familiar flash of jealousy flared, strong enough to compete with the soft lightening in his brain. The way she could communicate with him so easily… Why couldn’t Flash have that with anyone? The closest he’d ever come to that sort of effortless communication was maybe Gerald. He always seemed to know when Flash was upset, and when his dad had gone out of his way to inform him how much of a disappointment he was, but Gerald hardly counted. He was literally paid to care about Flash.
But he certainly didn’t have anyone not on the payroll in his real life with whom he could share a simple look, and have them know what he meant.
Ned turned back to his stones, keeping his head slightly to the side to keep following the conversation. I’ll handle this, Michelle’s look had clearly said, and Flash was already wondering who he could take his humiliation out on.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific. All my friends are lame and dorks. There’re a lot of us.”
And there it was. Of course she noticed he didn’t have anyone, and of course she’d rub it in his face like that. Well, he didn’t intend to let that linger. He could give as good as he got.
“Uh, yeah. Right,” he scoffed. “I’ve known you since freshman year. There’s exactly three of you. It’s always been you, Leeds, and Penis Parker, except I haven’t seen him in weeks, so… what? Did he move away?”
For the first time in four years, Michelle Jones reacted. She, visibly, physically, almost viscerally reacted, and it made Flash very uncomfortable.
Her eyes narrowed, her breath seemed stolen in a disbelieving huff of what? and the most confused look he’d ever seen on anyone, ever, nestled over her features, as though to remain, permanently.
Leeds’ turned to face them again, but slowly this time, as though trying to locate a sound somewhere in the room.
For a moment he just stared at them expectantly, flipping his bangs back when they stared as though he’d posed them a riddle instead of a very straightforward question.
Michelle recovered first. “You think,” she said, pointing at Flash, “that we,” she smirked, now pointing at the space between her and Ned, “have a friend called Penis?” By the end she was poorly concealing her laughter, giggling as though Flash literally thought her friend’s name was Penis.
“That’s obviously not his real name, it’s just what people call him. Because he’s lame.”
“Then what’s his real name?”
Flash hesitated. The lightening along his skull faded, as though lulled into a stupor. The feeling was somehow uncomfortable, as though he’d just been about to place a memory before his brain decided to call it déjà vu.
“What’s his real name, Flash? You’ve known us since freshman year, so what’s the name of this mysterious lame friend of ours?” Michelle asked more openly amused this time, apparently confident that he was full of shit.
When he didn’t answer, she changed tacks.
“Okay, what does he look like?”
“He—” Flash tried to picture him in his mind, but it was like trying to remember what his Big Abuela looked like. He had memories of her, he remembered the train set she’d bought him, he remembered the time she smacked his hand and called him a niño travieso for licking all the icing off the cookies and then shoving five in his hands and telling him to go eat them in secret, where his parents wouldn’t see. There was the feel of her and the shape of her, but it was a black outline impregnable by imagination of form. He knew, he knew that Penis Parker had been at Liz’s party, he knew he’d been with him on debate and on AcaDec, and that he hung out with Ned and Michelle. But he encountered the same blackhole of imagination when he tried to add features—any features—to the memory.
“Whatever,” Flash dismissed Michelle’s condescending grin. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing he couldn’t actually remember the name or the face of the jerk who hogged the AcaDec spotlight, who got Liz, who had family that would bring him Trail Mix when they picked him up from debate.
Michelle rolled her eyes in quiet victory, and turned back to her book. Her eyes widened, and then she turned back to him holding up the cover.
Flashpoint: A Memoir – My Life as Peter Parker’s Best Friend.
“Wait. Are you trying to say Peter Parker? The protagonist in your therapy outlet writing project?”
Flash opened his mouth—shook his head—looked away—made himself look indignant, instead—
“I call double wait,” Leeds said, turning around in his seat. “Are you picking on your imaginary best friend?”
Michelle huffed out a single laugh, more derisive than any nickname Flash could ever come up with.
He had a vague memory of asking someone to write a book for him, but for the life of him couldn’t recall what or who the story was about. He usually tended to forget he’d even written it unless he was looking right at it. For all he knew, the ghost writer invented the name of the titular character, because it definitely didn’t ring any bells for him.
He immensely regretted whatever had caused him to think he should try his hand at speculative memoirs. It wasn’t even an established genre, for Christ’s sake. The early reviews must have been good enough to get the book on a few bestsellers lists, but once the hype had died down they all turned on him, calling it some version of ”forgettable,” and Flash was happy to forget it, too.
But he wasn’t inventing their stupid friend. He wasn’t inventing how he had been displaced on the Decathlon team, and he wasn’t inventing warm car rides and cold sodas and salty Trail Mixes.
He wasn’t.
He settled on a disgusted look, instead, but Michelle simply shrugged like she couldn’t care either way and opened the book. Her eyes gently roamed the page until she found her spot, somewhere near the end.
Her hand toyed with the black necklace she always wore.
~*~
He tried to prove he wasn’t inventing this.
He went to the office the next day and asked about a student who had transferred out—he wondered if they had any record of a forwarding address—but again he stuttered when they asked for the name. He’d had to pull out his phone and Google the title of his book. Peter Parker. He’d remember that now.
But it didn’t end up mattering, anyway. The secretary had informed him that they hadn’t had any students by that name enrolled over the last four years.
He wasn’t inventing this.
Flash cut school the day that. It was the first time he’d ever done so, and for the first half-hour he agonized over the decision to do it, even though it was April of senior year and his grades were fine. He drove almost-to-school, but pulled over a few blocks away and waited out the bell. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt necessary if he was going to fly under the radar.
He wasn’t even sure what he had planned to do. He just knew he couldn’t take another day at school feeling like he was the only one who could see a ghost.
He spent a few minutes on his phone, wondering where to stark looking. Googling—he’d seen the name printed somewhere, but he couldn’t think where—at first got him nowhere, because he didn’t know what he was searching for. But he remembered Michelle’s jab about therapy writing. He Googled his own name and that’s right—his book. He Googled the completely bland name of the titular character (he’d had to copy-paste it, because he couldn’t remember it long enough to type it in himself) only took him back to results and reviews of his book. There were millions of results, which seemed a bit excessive for a debut novel written by a teenager, and Flash skimmed them, but nothing there was relevant, apparently. His eyes slid off the random results, not even bothering to process them.
There must be some way to find him. Flash checked the time, saw he still had a few minutes before it was safe to drive past the school, and tried to think what else he knew about Penis Parker. He came up with nothing beyond overentitled smartass whose aunt sometimes bought Trail Mix.
Aunt May. It came to him easily, so much more easily than… He looked at his phone but the search results were gone. Whatever. But he could practically hear Penis Parker’s voice as he bragged about how Aunt May will be worried if I don’t come home straight after practice or Aunt May will kill me if I went out without texting her first or Aunt May is picking me up from the airport, so I’ll see you guys after. He wielded her name like a brand, like an armored title that would protect him, not caring if it burned other people in the process. Penis didn’t deserve her, honestly.
He felt his cheeks grow warm a moment later, when he Googled her. Even though she’d died months ago—he vaguely remembered seeing about those attacks over winter break now, Spider-Man had stepped up, as usual—he felt as though he had summoned her death. He tried to shake the feeling. He didn’t create reality by thinking it; he had merely meant that Penis didn’t appreciate how good he had it. Had had it, he supposed. To have someone like that, someone who would pick you up from debate in the dead of winter even though they weren’t paid to do it, and then to lose that someone... That was rough.
He imagined.
She was still listed in the White Pages, though, so Flash figured that was as good a place as any to start. He drove out to their address, but the name Parker had been poorly scratched off the mailbox downstairs, replaced by a sticker with Schleiper sloppily written and slapped on. The superintendent either wasn’t home or ignoring the doorbell, but a neighbor from across the way cracked her door open. When she saw Flash, she opened it all the way.
“He doesn’t take visitors, except on Wednesday evenings between seven and eight. No use till then.”
Flash turned around to face her. He could see her eyes track the movement of his bangs, and for a moment he regretted having something that made him stand out, made him be special. He tucked them behind his ear.
“Oh. Sorry if I bothered you, ma’am. I was just…” He looked down the hall, towards the stairwell that would lead up to the seventh floor, where Penis Parker had lived. “I was looking for the family of May Parker, she used to live here?”
At that the woman threw the door all the way open, stepped into the hall, and held it closed behind her. She leaned in closer to Flash, her perfume wafting around her in an almost visible cloud.
“Oh, yes. Terrible thing, happened to her. She was a good woman,” she added, as though Flash had been about to say anything contrary.
“Oh, uh, yeah. I know. I knew her a little.”
Satisfied, the woman nodded once. “You said you were looking for family? Well, she lived alone, as far as we all knew. Had a gentleman friend the last few months, was at her funeral, but that’s about it.”
Jesus Christ, he wasn’t inventing whole people.
“There was a kid who came by to clear out some stuff from the apartment. Said he was family. Was even interested in renting out the place himself, but couldn’t have been older than 17, and only had a learner’s permit for ID. That’s what Walter said. He’s the Supe,” she nodded to the door across the hall. “Kid was in trouble, if you ask me, but this building’s got families. And Walter’s got issues with this place, I can tell you, but he’s not about to invite trouble here. So he let the kid take some family heirlooms, what he said, but nothing valuable. Walter made sure of that. Saw him out himself.”
Jesus. That was… depressing. Even for Penis.
Flash thanked the woman—Irene, with an I, mind you, whatever that meant—rejected her offer of tea, and left. He sat in his car for a while after that, trying to make sense of what he knew.
Which was nothing. Penis Parker existed; he was sure of it. He had no reason to invent a kid who has everything Flash ever wanted, and who made his life miserable just by having it. Why he’d write a book using the name of a lame kid from school, well, that was a good question, but it might also be a coincidence. The name obviously didn’t mean much to him if even now he kept forgetting it.
But none of that explained why Michelle and Ned pretended not to know him. Why May’s neighbors seemed to think she’d lived alone. Why there was no record of him in the school office.
Did they do witness protection for kids? Did the FBI scare Michelle and Leeds into denying they’d ever known Penis Parker? Is that how he all but disappeared from his own life?
Flash pulled away from the apartment complex and drove aimlessly for a while. His great sleuthing initiative lasted just under an hour and brought him to a dead end, but he wasn’t ready to go back to school yet. Looking at the time, he decided that the best he could do at this point was pretend he had some kind of doctor’s appointment and arrive for the mid-morning classes. He kept his eyes open for somewhere to stop, deciding finally on a deli not far from school. He hoped they’d have some kind of breakfast menu.
Inside was warm, and homey, and for a moment Eugene pretended that this was sort of a home, that he was a regular here and that he was already familiar with the menu and that the owner would say hi to him as though he knew him.
“I help you, in the meantime?” The man behind the counter jostled Flash out of his thoughts, his tone impatient, even though Flash hadn’t done anything. The man raised his eyebrows in a well? as he leaned sideways to look at Flash beyond the customer who was slowly counting out change for his coffee.
“Oh. Um,” Flash stalled, quickly taking in the menu posted above counter. “Hashbrown and eggs, and a large latte, in a to-go cup.”
The man looked at him without rolling his eyes, but gave the impression that he did, anyway.
“No latte. Only coffee.” He nodded pointedly at the simple glass carafe behind him. “Large coffee? $2.99.”
“Yeah, sure,” Flash shrugged, and pulled out his card. The guy before him was still counting out nickels and dimes, and Flash had a vision so powerful it was almost a memory, of slapping him on the back of the head for being so slow.
It was unfortunately out of the question, but Flash would probably explode if he had to wait another second for this guy to sort out his small change.
“You know what, I’ll pay for his coffee, too.”
“Gracias a Dios,” the man muttered, an actually rolled his eyes then. He took the card and charged Flash, poured him a coffee, and then disappeared in the back to get his order ready.
The guy who’d been counting change seemed to shrink, to fold in on himself as he returned the loose coins to his wallet.
“Thanks. Sorry. I thought I had exact change.” He only vaguely tilted his head toward Flash, but didn’t even look up as he grabbed his coffee and turned to leave.
Sorry I’m late, the train didn’t come
Sorry I missed practice, I had my internship
Sorry I—
That voice was always sorry about something.
“I know you.”
Flash tried to move closer, to see the face of the guy—he held himself like a guy, but he was hardly much taller than Flash—to quieten the pulsating lightening that was suddenly awake and flashing at the base of his neck, demanding to be released or put back to sleep.
“I really doubt that. I just have one of those faces,” he said, and it didn’t make any sense. Flash hadn’t seen his face, even though he could almost picture it. Almost. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Flash watched him walk towards the door, and the only thing he could think was sorry sorry sorry never sorry for the right things.
“You’re Penis Parker,” he said, then bit his lip. “Shit. I didn’t mean that. But you are, right?”
The kid stopped halfway to the deli door, and whipped around so fast Flash was sure he’d spill every drop of coffee. But his hands were steady, the coffee as tranquil as a small lake. A cat leapt off the counter and wove itself between his legs, begging for attention, but Penis didn’t even spare it a glance.
His eyes were burning.
“Flash?”
And for a moment the lightening seemed to climb all the way to the top of his skull and shatter there, sending a chill down his spine and around his ears and making everything glow, for a breath of reality. How could he have forgotten what Penis looked like? He’d spent every day with him from… For a long time. He remembered a time when he remembered going to pre-school with him, but those memories were faded, now. His earliest memory of Penis Parker was getting rides home with him after debate. But he’d gone to school with him. He’d been with him to Europe. They’d almost been killed together twice.
“Well, yeah, obviously it’s me.”
Penis just… Stared. He huffed out a small, incredulous laugh, and then stared again, as though afraid that if he’d blink, Flash might disappear; Flash felt the same way. He had no idea what stroke of luck or fate brought him face to face with the very person he’d been out looking for in a city of eight million, but he knew better than to count on it happening twice.
“Uh, wanna sit?” Flash pointed to the counter behind him. “I’m still waiting for my food.”
That seemed to awaken something in Penis’s face—something Eugene hadn’t seen directed at him since before high-school. A gladness, a joy at his offer of company that was so genuine it made him think that maybe he could be best-friend material, to someone, someday.
“Yes! Yeah, sure, that’d be… That’s be really great.” He slid into a booth on his right, and Eugene followed, sitting across from him. “How—how did you find me? And how did you recognize me? I thought everyone—” he stopped himself, then barreled through the next set of questions, “I thought everyone forgot about me in school? Cause I’ve been gone for so long. How is school? Are things calmer than they were before Christmas? Is everyone excited about graduation? Do you know where people are going?”
“Whoa, dude, I don’t know. I don’t talk to everyone. What the hell is up with the third degree? You’re the one who disappeared.” Flash paused, considering whether or not to say more. In the end, he decided that he was way too old to keep using that name. It was so childish.
“Um, listen,” Flash started, looking around, taking a sip of his absolutely terrible coffee, “this is gonna sound kinda dumb but I didn’t actually mean to call you Penis Parker. I’ve been doing it for so long it just slipped out, and now I’m having a total blackout… I promise I’m not trying to be a dick but—”
“But you can’t remember my name.”
Flash looked back at Penis Parker, but the other boy wasn’t looking at him. His glance was buried in his coffee, but he was nodding, like he’d somehow known that was what Flash had been about to say.
He looked up then, and looked at Flash. Really looked. And they weren’t at practice and they weren’t waiting for their parents to pick them up and for the first time since freshman year Flash didn’t look at Penis Parker and see all the things he didn’t have. He was scared of what the boy would say next.
“I’m Peter. Peter Parker.”
If he used to know that, it must have been overridden by literal years of name calling, because it felt like the first time he’d ever heard it. It didn’t fit with anything Flash knew about the other kid, it didn’t unlock any of the memories within the memories he had.
But it somehow fit, nevertheless, and it stuck.
“Hey… Peter.”
Flash was suddenly unsure of how to continue. Of whether he wanted to continue. He’d proven that he wasn’t inventing Peter, so… mission accomplished?
But Peter (Peter, it fit, why had it been so hard to remember the title of his book about… he raised his eyes—about Peter Parker? The title felt so elusive, but the name now was so simple, so obviously tailored to the kid sitting across from him) seemed to take his last words to heart. His eyes widened and grew glossy, taking on an almost-two-dimensional glaze as Peter swallowed and tried not to cry. He smiled weakly, but truly.
“Hey, Flash. It’s good to see you.”
Eugene bit his lip to hide the inclination to smile. “So… Where’d you disappear to?”
Peter only got as far as “I—”
“Hey, you. Your food. Here.” The owner slid a double-layered paper play cross the glass countertop. “Forks,” he nodded toward a cart near the door. “Napkins,” toward a dispense on the counter. Then he disappeared into the back.
Eugene rose to grab his plate, but turned back towards Peter a moment later. “Don’t go away, okay?”
He still didn’t know what he wanted to say, but he knew he wanted to say it. He grabbed his food and a—on second thought, a couple of forks—and returned to the table. He separated the two paper plates, and scooped half the serving onto the oil-stained one that had been the base.
“Take, it’s too much and too greasy for me. I’m not even hungry. You were gonna tell me why you disappeared.”
Peter took a polite forkful of eggs, then pulled the plate closer to him as he talked. The stubborn tabby cat climbed onto Parker’s lap, and he pet him with his free hand as he spoke. “After my aunt—I don’t know if you know, but my aunt—”
Eugene couldn’t stand the speculation a moment longer. “You saw what happened to her, didn’t you? Over Christmas Break. You saw who did it? And the FBI put you in Witness Protection because they’re afraid that whoever it is’ll come back, and now everyone is pretending not to know you to keep them safe? Except no one ever told me that, I guess because of the Penis Parker stuff no one thought I was Peter Parker’s friend?”
Peter had stopped eating, and with every stage of Eugene’s hypothesis the fork lowered, until it rested forgotten on the plate in front of him.
“That is… incredibly almost exactly what happened.” He sat back and looked as Flash as though he was meeting him for the first time. He laughed. “Sure. Witness protection. Yeah, that makes sense. Good call.”
“Well, you don’t have to sound so surprised. It wasn’t that hard to put together,” Flash said. He crossed his arms, as though to stave off Peter’s appraising look. It made him uncomfortable. “I am Valedictorian, I can put two and two together.”
“Oh. Um. Congratulations. I didn’t know. But I was just surprised you knew about all that stuff. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Sorry.”
Yeah. If Peter never meant to imply that Flash was an idiot, high-school would have been very different. His hesitation to believe Peter’s placations was apparently visible.
“It’s true,” Peter insisted. “I know you’re smart. I mean, you got into MIT on your first try, and that was after you wrote a whole book about being friends with—I mean, the book was fine, it’s just that you know, it’s about being friends with a, a, nobody…?”
The end sounded more like a question than a statement, and Flash tried to think what in the book could possibly affect his admittance to a school like MIT. It was just a silly vanity writing project.
“But, what I mean is, I’ve been with you on Decathlon, and your grades are great, and you must have written an awesome essay for college. You weren’t even waitlisted like Ned and MJ.”
It wasn’t relevant, not really. But Flash couldn’t help correcting Peter Parker when he was finally wrong. “I didn’t write an essay. I sent a proof,” Flash said. He sat up and tried to project confidence. That was his new thing. He had always been smart, but he was starting a new school soon, and he was going to be also cool, and confident, and shiny, like J-Hope. He flipped his bangs as he straightened his posture.
“You know that big ass energy reactor that was in Stark Industries? I proved it could be reduced in size by half.” At Peter’s blank stare he added, “I mean, it’s no Iron-Man arc reactor, but it’s a big deal. MIT is going to help me patent the proof.”
Peter leaned forward.
“Flash. That is… insane. Do you realize that no one except for Tony Stark ever managed to even come close to what you’ve done? Oh, my God. That’s genius. How—never mind, that’s probably proprietary. But—just, wow, man. That’s really cool. I just wrote about volunteering at the shelter.”
Eugene could feel himself preen, and he bit his lip and folded his arms. This… this sounded nothing like the Peter he’d known for all those years. Had a few months of witness protection changed him so much?
He’d been about to ask, but Peter checked his phone, and blanched. “Oh, God, I’m gonna be late. Listen, Flash, it was really great running into you.” He stood up hastily, but then stopped, and added, “really great. I wish I could stay longer, but I have to get to work in the City and if I don’t leave…” He checked his phone again. “Ten minutes ago, I’m gonna be so late, and I can’t afford to get fired.”
Peter began gathering the trash, and Eugene belatedly realized he should help him. He picked up his fork and tossed it towards the bin.
“You have to work in Witness Protection? And what’s with the lazy placement, anyway? Aren’t they supposed to set you up in some suburban middle-of-nowhere shithole?”
Peter shrugged, and held the door open for Eugene to exist the shop ahead of him. “Uh, I’m not sure. They didn’t really ask me. But yeah, I’m working now and doing school at night, so… yeah. I’m on my own and killing it.”
Peter lightly flexed his wrists, then zipped up his hoodie. Despite the warm mid-morning sunshine, he seemed to shiver, like he was waiting alone in the dark, watching the last person he knew disappear and taking the warmth with him.
Eugene made a show of looking for his keys, so he wouldn’t have to look at Parker.
“Want a ride? I’m not ready to get back to school, yet.”
Peter hesitated. He nervously pulled on the sleeves of his hoodie as he tried to make his excuse. “Oh, that’s—I can—", and Eugene turned his back on his because he could read his mind without even looking at him. He could see the objections forming and linking, creating a wall that wouldn’t allow the one, simple want to actually slip through. It would be It’s fine and I was just going to take the train and It’s out of your way and while those would all be true, they would also be a vile lie, one Eugene knew all too well.
“C’mon, man. Get in.” Eugene spoke like it had already been decided, beeping the car open. He got in without waiting to see how Peter would respond.
Half a moment later, Peter opened the passenger side door and climbed in.
For a while, no one said anything.
Peter nodded Eugene toward the Long Island Expressway with quiet heres and next lefts, and it wasn’t till they were in the Tunnel that Eugene finally worked up the courage to speak. It wasn’t elegant or well-thought-out. He didn’t even know whether Parker would want to hear this from him; even the FBI knew they weren’t friends.
“Sorry about your aunt,” he blurted.
He could see Peter’s head whip towards him, even with his eyes on the road. He kept them there. “I mean, we never really spoke a lot before, I remember she was always so… nice. To you, to everyone. So… Sorry. That sucked.”
Peter breathed heavily and looked forward, and Eugene risked glancing at him. He was nodding lightly, and blinking rapidly. Eugene returned his eyes to the road. He was driving this time, and his dad would kill him if another car got totaled, especially because he only just got his license sorted.
“Thanks. She… Thanks. That means a lot. I miss her.”
“I don’t know what I would do if something happened to Gerald,” Eugene said.
“Gerald?”
FUCKINGFUCKfuck, why had he admitted that? It was… it was true, but he and Peter Parker were not close. Was he really so pathetic that half-an-hour of someone talking to him was enough to make him just—vomit all the things that were sucky about his own life?
“Is that who picked you up at their airport after Europe?”
“Uh, yeah,” Flash tried to cover. “He’s just the butler, I’m not comparing, dude, I know it’s not the same. I just mean, he’s been with us forever, and if anything happened to him—so I mean it’s probably so much worse for you.”
He wasn’t an idiot. He really wasn’t. Why was talking, really talking to people always so hard? It was like his meaning never got fully translated into words, and he came off the asshole much more often than he intended to. It was fine to lean into that at school, but he was going to college soon, and he desperately wanted to be understood.
However Peter took his words, he didn’t respond as though he thought Eugene was an idiot. It as almost like he hadn’t even heard what Eugene had admitted, because what he said was, “I think Tony Stark would have liked you.”
Eugene grabbed at the lifeline. Partially to distance himself from his previous awkwardness about May, and partially because he really wanted to know, even though ultimately it didn’t make a difference. He’d already gotten into MIT, and his dad had stopped riding him about being too foolish to know there was an opportunity you were missing since he’d returned from the Blip.
“You really knew Tony Stark? For real? The internship was legit?”
“It was, yeah.” Peter smiled a little. “I mean, I worked mostly with Tony and he’s gone, and I’m pretty sure everyone there’s forgotten me, but yeah. I knew him. And I think he’d have liked you.”
Eugene raised his shoulders, and released them a moment later with a sigh. He zipped past a slow-moving bus and stole the light, then slowed down. “Whatever.”
He took a moment. “I mean, he was great and he saved the world or whatever, but he was a popular billionaire. People like that always like other rich and smart people. But what kind of people liked him?”
Peter made to answer, but stopped himself. Then he offered, “Spider-Man liked him.” It almost sounded vindictive. But then his tone softened, and he gathered his backpack from between his knees as he said, “For what it’s worth, I think Spider-Man would like you, too. You’re a lot like Tony, I think, when he was younger. It’s right here.”
Eugene didn’t answer. He didn’t want to know whether Peter had ever met Spider-Man, or find out whether he was just humoring Flash because he knew he didn’t matter in the long run. He turned onto Second Ave. and pulled over in front of the bustling front door of the Bugle Building.
“This is where you work?”
Peter pulled the door open. “Yeah. But… but maybe don’t tell people? It’s supposed to be a secret, sort of. Witness Protection and all that.”
“Please. Who would I tell? Everyone’s going for the hard sell that they don’t know you.”
Peter conceded the point with a nod, and climbed out of the car. “Thanks again for the ride, Flash.”
Eugene shrugged away the polite words. “Whatever. Someone should always know where you are.”
Something broke in Peter’s face, and Eugene pretended not to see.
“See you around, Flash?”
“Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. See you around, Parker.”
The door slammed and Eugene drove away, and as he made his way back to Queens, alone, he allowed himself to daydream about a world where Spider-Man liked him.
It wasn’t impossible.