Spiderman 1 (20 page)

"I have to see him," Simkins was saying urgently. It was obvious that she had forced her way past Edmund in her at
tempts to get to Norman.

"He can't be disturbed now," Edmund told her, sounding
more irate by the moment.

"This can't wait!"

It was Osborn who settled the matter. "Who's there?" he
called out. Harry couldn't believe how weak he sounded,
how confused. He wondered if maybe his dad was getting
Alzheimer's or something equally horrible.

"Mr. Osborn," said Simkins, entering the den.

She looked distraught, but Harry immediately felt pro
tective of his father, not wanting him to be subjected to any
undue stress. "My father's not well, Ms. Simkins," he started
to say.

But Simkins spoke right over him. "Mr. Osborn, Dr.
Stromm is dead."

The name didn't mean anything to Harry. It obviously
meant something to his father, though, because Norman
looked up at Simkins, stunned. "What?"

"His body was found this morning in the laboratory."
Simkins took a deep breath to steady herself and then continued. "He was murdered, sir."

"Murdered!" said Harry. He might not have known who Stromm was, but a murder in the middle of his father's fac
tory? That couldn't possibly be good.

Norman Osborn got to his feet, some of the confusion
falling away as he focused on this new situation. "What are
you talking about?" he demanded.

"And the flying wing prototype, sir ..."

"What about it?"

Simkins said, all in a rush, "It's missing. It's been
stolen."

There was a dead, stunned silence for a long moment.

"Take me there," Osborn said.

With a quick nod, Simkins headed out, Norman following her. Harry remained behind for a moment, then looked
at the masks that were watching him and hurried out of the
den. He hurried after his father, ran out the door and down
the stairs just as Norman was getting into the back of the car
that Simkins had driven there. His father looked up at him
and said, "Where do you think you're going?"

"You . . . you weren't well," Harry said. "So I figured
maybe I should come along, maybe be of help ..."

"Simkins will help me. That's what I pay her for. I'm not
the kind of man who lets a little headache bother him."

"But Dad, I
. . .
I thought . . ."

"You thought what?"

His every word becoming softer and softer, until by the
end of the sentence his voice was barely audible, Harry said,
"I thought you might . . . need . . . me . . . ."

Norman reached out, squeezed his forearm briefly, and said, "I do. But not for this." And with that, he swung shut
the car door and the vehicle rolled away from the curbside,
leaving Harry feeling a bit depressed . . . but also oddly
elated.

IX.

THE RIDE

Dear Mom and Dad:

Boy, did I have a day.

I saw M.J. walking home, and for once Flash wasn't with her. I think
maybe they had a fight or something. So she goes into her house, and
I keep thinking about the way that Harry was looking at me, so disap
pointed in me when I couldn't Just, you know, talk to Mary Jane. So I
decided, what the hell, what's the worst that could happen?

So I go over and start heading up their front walk, and before I can
knock on it, the door opens and there's M.J.'s father. In all these
years, it's the first time I've ever really seen him close up. I know they
say that girls are attracted to guys that remind them of their fathers,
but boy, I never realized how much that was the case with M.J. and
Flash, because her dad is like what Flash'll be in about twenty years.

And he just looks at me with this contempt. I try to ask if Mary
Jane can hang out, just to bum around the mall or something. But he
just stares at me, like I landed from Mars, and my throat closes up.

So he says, 'You're the Parker kid from across the way, aren't
you." He's got a voice like a dump truck spilling out gravel. I manage a
nod. And then he says, like he looked right into my head, "She's got a
boyfriend. And even if she didn't, I wouldn't let her see some book
worm type."

And then he closes the door in my face.

In.

My.

Face.

And I took it. I wanted to pound on the door, I wanted to shout,
'You think you know me? You don't know anything about me! A book
worm, huh? Well, worms turn, Mr. Watson!" but instead I just took it,
took being treated like I was dirt on his shoes. I stood there like a
dope, and then I heard M.J.'s voice from inside saying, "Who was
that?" and her father snapping back at her, "Nobody."

That's all I am. Nobody.

How the heck was I supposed to talk to her after that? "Hi, I'm the
nobody who was just talking to your dad." She'd just look at me with
pity, and that's the thing I can't stand, above anything else. I'd rather
she looked at me with love or hatred or not at all, but pity I just
couldn't stand.

So I turned and walked away.

The worm turns. But even after he does, he's still a worm.

It's not fair. It's just not fair. Instead of doing something about
how I feel, I'm just sitting here, on the front steps of my house, writ
ing to you.

I wish you guys were here. I can't talk to Aunt May or Uncle ben
about this stuff. Heck, Uncle Ben'll probably get himself so worked up
that he'll stomp over there and confront M.J.'s dad, and how humiliat
ing would that whole scene be? And Aunt May will just tell me how
wonderful I am, and how some girl will appreciate me some day, and
then she'll bake brownies. It's amazing I don't weigh four hundred
pounds.

Then again, if you guys were here, I don't know what you'd do, either.

better finish off this letter. Aunt May and Uncle ben are going to start getting worried about me.

I keep thinking about the way her dad looked at me. And how it made me want to . . . I don't know. Do something.

Wouldn't it be great to be someone who could do whatever he
wanted?

Well
...I'm
working on it.

It was as if Aunt May and Uncle Ben were waiting for
him. As if they knew he'd come sprinting down the stairs—

which he did—heading for the door at full steam—which he was. They were seated in the living room, Aunt May darning a sock and Uncle Ben reading a newspaper, but it seemed as
if those were just poses as they waited for him to appear.

With his backpack slung over his shoulder, Peter said
quickly as he moved toward the door, all in a rush, "Going-downtothelibraryseeyoulater."

"Hold on! I'll drive you," Uncle Ben called to him, getting up from the chair. He did so with a slight grunt, as he
always did. It was as if his body were scolding him for sub
jecting it to an exertion.

"It's okay, I'll take the train.. .."

But Uncle Ben was already taking his jacket off the coat-
rack, and Peter could tell by the jingling coming from the
pocket that the keys were already in there. And when he
spoke it was in a surprisingly firm, take-no-guff voice, as if
he'd just caught Peter with his hands in the cookie jar. "I said
I'll drive you. Get in the car!"

Taken aback by the sharp tone, Peter meekly climbed into
Uncle Ben's car, a 1988 Oldsmobile Delta that his uncle had
fallen in love with and refused to sell, no matter how many
things he needed to repair on it. He thought he saw Uncle
Ben winking at Aunt May but had no idea what that might have been about.

To his surprise, most of the ride passed in silence. He
couldn't figure it out. He'd hoped Uncle Ben just wanted to spend some quality time with him, chitchat about what was
going on in his life. Truth to tell, Peter hadn't much been
looking forward to it. Because of course there was only one
thing of true significance that had been going on in his life.
He didn't want to lie to Uncle Ben, and to a great degree it
was easy to avoid doing so. After all, unless Uncle Ben said,
"So, Peter, did a bite from a genetically engineered mutant
spider give you spider powers recently?" Peter wouldn't be
put on the spot.

But he also knew that was a technicality. Peter firmly be
lieved in concepts such as sins of omission. The very fact
that he wasn't being completely forthcoming was, in and of
itself, deceitful. Anything less than an honest answer to a question as straightforward as "What's been going on with
you lately?" was going to be a lie. He hated the notion of
lying to Uncle Ben. Uncle Ben, who had such an open, hon
est face
...
it was like clubbing a baby seal, lying to him.

It was dusk when the Olds rolled up to the library. Peter
turned to get out, with still nary a word having passed between them. He said, "Thanks for the ride."

Ben drew a breath and said, "Hold on a minute. We need
a talk."

Dammit,
Peter sagged back against the car seat, faced
with his worst case scenario. "Not a lecture, Uncle Ben! I
gotta go ..."

But Uncle Ben reached across Peter and placed a hand
firmly on the door. Granted, Peter could have pushed the
door open. He suspected he could have pushed the door
clean off the car, if he'd been so inclined. But that would
have been totally out of line, and secret or no, Peter simply
wasn't prepared to go that far.