Spiderman 1 (15 page)

"Parker?!"
Flash said.

If he had discovered that Peter Parker was actually Brit
ney Spears in a cunning disguise, he couldn't have reacted
with greater incredulity. Instantly Flash was on his feet, and
that same warning of danger was buzzing in Peter's head,

except this time there was no doubt where the jeopardy was
coming from. Peter jumped out of his chair, knocking it
backward, and he motored out of the cafeteria, dragging the still-snagged tray behind him.

As the doors swung closed after him, the tray didn't make
it through in time. It slid up and down the gap between the doors, tapping against them as if pleading to be let out. Finally, the strand broke and the tray fell to the floor with a
crash.

In the hallway just outside the cafeteria, Peter paused next
to a row of lockers and checked the undersides of his wrists. He didn't have a clue as to exactly what he was going to see.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and on each of his wrists
there was a single, nearly invisible slit.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. If anyone ever spotted them,
they'd think he'd tried to commit suicide. Then again, con
sidering that Flash Thompson was on his tail, they probably
wouldn't blame him. Nevertheless he quickly rolled down his shirtsleeves as far as they would go in order to cover
them.

And that was when the warning signals that had been
sounding in his head went off again, with even greater
strength and clarity than before. This was beyond a simple
signal that something was wrong. It was as if he was seeing
outside himself, aware of everything around him—all at one
time. The very movement of air was an alert to him, and in his mind's eye, he was able to "see" a fist coming in at him, fast, from behind.

Peter whipped around, darting to one side, just in time to
avoid Flash Thompson's roundhouse as it slammed into the
locker just to the right of his head. Flash hit the locker door with such force that he left an indentation in the metal, then
let out a yelp of irritation, shaking the stinging out of his fist,
as Peter backpedaled to put some distance between him and
the outraged sports star. Mary Jane was coming up behind

Flash, and Peter saw Harry coming from another direction.
M. I was calling Flash's name, but he wasn't paying the least
bit of attention.

"Think you're pretty funny, don't you, freak?" Flash de
manded, wiping some stray ketchup off his brow. Even
under the circumstances, Peter was forced to admit that
Flash had good fighting form. His fists were up and cocked, ready to unleash a flurry of punches at Peter the moment he
was within range.

"It was an accident!" Mary Jane tried to tell Flash, grab
bing at one of his arms. He shook her off, never taking his
eyes from his target.

"I'm sorry. It really was," Peter said, and the apology was
genuine. Despite all the dirt that Flash had done him, he
didn't want to sink to Flash's level....

Except . . .

Why not? Why the hell not? It wasn't as if Flash would ever rise to his level, and he would teach him a lesson by giving him a sound thrashing on the debating team. If Flash
was ever going to learn that he should leave Peter alone, descending to Flash's level was the only way the lesson would ever be taught.

But . . . could he really do it? Defeating Flash was more
than a matter of strength and agility; it was having enough confidence to
believe
that it was possible. And that was a
pool Peter was going to wade into with very tentative steps.

Unaware that he was in any physical peril, Flash dis
missed Peter's protests by growling, "My fist breaking your
teeth ...
that's
an accident."

Flash's cronies were closing in, but they weren't going to
give Flash any help. Why should he need it, after all? It was just Puny Parker. They did, however, close a few stray class
doors to make sure the teachers within weren't going to see what was about to happen.

Peter felt himself moving with strength and certainty.

Once again it was as if his body knew what to do and was
just waiting for his brain to catch up. Suddenly he started to
feel genuinely sorry for Flash, as it dawned on him that the
bully very likely was going to get more than he bargained
for. Endeavoring to give him an out—and yet half hoping
Flash wouldn't take it—Peter said, "I don't want to fight you,
Flash."

"I wouldn't want to fight me neither."

Well . . . can't say I didn't try,
Peter thought. He balanced
carefully on the balls of his feet, his center of gravity low.

Flash swung a quick right, then a left. Either of them, had
they connected, would have put Puny Parker down for the
count . . . had Flash been dealing with Puny Parker, of
course. But Peter easily dodged them, making it look effort
less, as if he knew where they were going to be coming from
and had already arranged to be elsewhere.

On some level, one of Flash's cronies realized that this
wasn't going according to plan. Perhaps it was the befuddled
look on Flash's face when his punches failed to connect, or
perhaps it was the blinding speed with which Peter was mov
ing. Either way he decided things would go more smoothly
if Parker were held immobile. So he lunged from behind
with the intention of wrapping his arms around Peter's torso and keeping him still.

Peter, however, wasn't about to let that happen. Just as
easily as he'd sensed Flash's attack from behind, he per
ceived this one, as well. He ducked under the grab, leaving Flash's pal overextended and grasping air. Peter then imme
diately straightened up, catching his assailant off balance,
and sending him tumbling heels over head to the floor.

Flash clearly couldn't believe it. With a roar of outrage, Flash lunged at Peter, swinging an impressive combo of
punches ... right jab, left jab, right roundhouse, left hay
maker. Not a single one connected. Peter wasn't even back
ing away. He simply twisted this way, that way, pivoted, and

then leaned back as if he were a limbo dancer. With each
movement, his confidence swelled all the more. It wasn't just
that he wasn't getting pummeled. He was actually making
Flash look like a fool. In comparison to Peter Parker, Flash Thompson was moving in slow motion.

He heard Mary Jane call out to Harry Osborn, "Harry, please help him!"

"Which one?" asked an obviously impressed Harry.

That was it. That was the final validation for Peter, and he
was filled with a surge of complete certainty that he had nothing to fear from Flash Thompson, ever again. Every
prank, every trick, every jibe Thompson had ever tossed at him throughout the years came back to him, like a bottled
volcano which had been building up over a decade, then
came unstoppered all at once. Flash lunged at Peter once
more, and this time Peter didn't try to get out of the way. In
stead he threw a punch that landed solidly on Flash's jaw.
He'd always heard that hitting bone upon bone was painful, but he felt nothing aside from giddy and heady satisfaction.

There was a pleasing crunch as Flash sailed back, slam
ming against the far row of lockers with a crash that seemed
to echo back through the years of torment, signaling an end
to all the harassment and ushering in a new age where nobody stepped on Peter Parker's face anymore, ever again.

Flash sunk to the ground with a moan, his eyes closed.
"Jesus, Parker," someone exclaimed, "you knocked him
out!"

Damned straight I did, and it served him right!
Peter
wanted to shout. But he was still partly in shock, staring at
his clenched fist as if it belonged to someone else. Other stu
dents were crowding forward, gaping at the unconscious
Flash, and someone else said, "Parker did that? Yeah, right."

Flash started to sit up, his hands covering the front of his face, and he was groaning. Peter scoffed inwardly, figuring
that Flash was playing for sympathy. How pathetic. After all,

he hadn't hit him
that
hard. He couldn't help it if Flash
Thompson had a glass jaw and a tendency for melodramatics
that would have been more at place in a Spanish soap
opera.

Then one of his cronies, crouching next to him, pried his
hands away from his face, and there was blood everywhere. All over his face, still trickling from his nose, down his chin,
onto the front of his shirt. His eyes were already swelling; within the hour he'd look like a raccoon.

Peter stepped back, horrified, looking at his hands as if an alien had invaded them. The strength in them, the power that he had just displayed, which had made him feel so giddy, so
alive, now terrified him.

He turned and bolted from the school. Once upon a time,
the notion of cutting in the middle of the day would have
been unthinkable. Now he gave it no consideration whatso
ever. Instead the only thing on his mind was putting as much
distance as possible between himself and the blood-soaked thing that was Flash Thompson.

Once in the street, he stopped and looked at the place on
his hand where the spider had bitten him. Whereas yesterday
it had been red and inflamed, by now it had subsided con
siderably. Well, why not? The damage had already been
done. Peter's life was totally trashed.

VII.

THE LEARNING

CURVE

There was an alleyway near the school, and Peter stopped
there, distracted for a moment. A glorious spiderweb, spun between a Dumpster and the alley walls captured his atten
tion. The sun was glinting off its fresh strands.

Peter glanced right and left and saw that he was alone.
Then again, somehow he had already known that. He had a feeling that if someone had been watching him, had posed
some sort of danger, he would have . . . well . . . sensed it.
Spider sense.

Once more he looked at the web, and then to his hand. He
flexed his fists a couple of times, stretching his fingers, wag
gling them, and felt a sort of prickling from his fingertips. At
first he thought they were becoming numb, but then he
slowly brought them closer to the wall, palm upright and
flat, and it was as if there were a small surge of static elec
tricity between his digits and the surface of the wall.

He placed each hand flat against the wall, very tenta
tively, then pulled back ever so slightly. The palms moved
freely away from the wall, but the fingers remained adhered to it.