Spiderman 1 (43 page)

She thought about saying more, of asking . . .
 
asking
questions she wasn't even sure how to frame. But she didn't
know the answers she would get, didn't know if she'd make
a fool of herself for a second time in the day. What she did
know was that she simply couldn't cope with rejection
again. "Sorry you won't come with us."

Mary Jane started to turn away, and Peter handed her the
umbrella. She was about to hand it back, but he pulled up the
hood of his coat, and walked quickly in the other direction. Realizing she was running late, M. J. walked quickly to the corner of the darkened street and tried to hail a cab. She should have known better. In the rain in Manhattan, finding a cab was practically impossible.

"You need a ride?" a brusque voice said from behind her.

She turned and there were four punks approaching her.
But they were quickly splitting into two groups, two of them
coming around and at her from the street side, the others re
morselessly approaching from the sidewalk.

"I'm fine. I'm waiting for my boyfriend, thanks," she lied.

"Well, we'll wait with you," said the closest of the punks,
a guy with a shaved head and a ring in his left nostril.

"No, thanks. My boyfriend's the jealous type. He won't
be happy to find you guys here." She tried to back up, but the
other two had, as she expected, maneuvered in behind her.
They were grouped around her so she wasn't even visible
from the street, and they were starting to move, starting to guide her by their sheer presence, away from the curbside.

Then the big guy grabbed her purse, and M.J.—who had been looking for someone on whom to take out her frustration—found him. She kicked him in the shin, elbow-jabbed the guy next to him, turned quickly to punch the third one in
the group, and before the fourth could make a move, she
yanked free the mace canister that dangled from a keychain
on her purse and sprayed it in his face. He let out an alarmed
yelp, throwing his arms up over his face to ward off another
attack.

She fried to squeeze past them, hoping to break loose and
run for it, but then her luck ran out. They converged on her, snarling, and shoved her into a wall. There was an instantly
identifiable
snikt
noise, and she saw that the leader had yanked out a switchblade and was bringing it toward her
chin, while the others held her immobile. She knew at that
moment two things beyond any question: First, that there
was no way she was going to give these punks the satisfaction of hearing her scream, and second, that it was unlikely
she would be able to maintain that resolution.

Suddenly there was another noise, more unusual, but she
recognized it all the same. A loud
thwip
and abruptly all four
punks were yanked together as if they'd been lassoed. They

had just enough time to let out a cry of alarm, then they were
pulled away and over into a nearby alley.

An instant later she heard the sound of bone hitting bone,
and the bald punk came flying backward out of the alleyway,
smashing into a window. Another emerged, also out of con
trol, until he hit a brick wall and sagged to the ground. The third came flying out in a different direction, crashed into
another window, and the fourth came rolling out as if someone had bowled him. He barreled into a garbage can and lay
sprawled on the ground with the rest of the trash.

Slowly, barely daring to believe it, she turned and gazed
into the inky shadows. She saw a figure standing there, but
he wasn't coming any closer, and in the darkness she
couldn't make out much beyond his general outline. But
there was no question in her mind who she was facing. "You have a knack for getting in trouble," he said.

She frowned. His voice sounded different. It was still
deep, but it sounded more affected, somehow, as if it wasn't
his natural voice. . . .

It wasn't muffled. That was it. It wasn't muffled as it was
before.
My God . . .
 
he's not wearing his mask.
 
. . .

She took a step toward him, and he retreated further into the shadows. She wanted to laugh. This guy had just manhandled four thugs, each of them the size of a small mountain range, but he was backing away from a one hundred three-pound redhead.

"You have a knack for saving my ass," she said slowly. "I
think I have a superhero stalker."

"I was in the neighborhood."

She blinked, stopped, squinted at him in the darkness.
There was
 
. . .
 
there was no way, but . . .

"You
are
amazing," she said.

Slowly but surely, she was drawing closer and closer,
until abruptly he made a quick motion with his hands, and
when he spoke his voice was muffled once more. "Some

people don't think so," he said, stepping slightly out of the
shadows, staring at her through the white and opaque eyes of
his mask.

Mary Jane felt a small flicker of disappointment. "But
you
are,"
she insisted.

"Thank you." He didn't sound particularly convinced.

And she recognized that tone of voice. It was like hers: Sad, unutterably sad. She could sympathize.

He leapt up onto the wall above her, clinging there upside
down. She stepped up underneath him. "Do I get to thank
you this time?" she asked.

And before he could move, she put her hands to the underside of his mask and lifted it.

"Wait," Spider-Man managed to get out, but he made no motion to stop her.

Mary Jane pulled the mask up just far enough to reveal
his mouth. And there, with the rain pouring down in buck
ets, she kissed him more passionately than she had ever
kissed anyone. It would have caused Flash's toes to curl; it
would have scalded the hair off Harry Osborn. Rain
streamed down over both their faces, and over their lips
when she finally parted.

She touched his lips with her fingertips and said gently,
"That's so you'll remember where your mouth is."

She tenderly replaced the mask. He hung there for a moment, frozen, and then he turned and scampered up the wall,
out of sight. She watched him go, eyes shining.

"Yowza," she said.

Dear Mom and Dad:

Please disregard previous letter. Am having wonderful time. Wish you were here.

XXII.

THE MOTH

TO A

FLAME

Peter Parker was sailing
 
. . .
 
literally.

He was sailing across the rooftops, feeling more alive, more invigorated, more filled with a sense of right than he ever had before. The city spread beneath him, and he regarded it through his mask and thought, I
am the protector
of the city. I am one of the good guys, and that means some
thing.

All that from one kiss.

Even though several days had passed, he could still feel
the press of her lips against his, like a fine wine. To some de
gree, he was still appalled at the chance he'd taken. He'd spotted the punks heading toward M. J., hurried to change into his costume, and run out of time, having to go into ac
tion before he could pull his mask on.
. . .

Or was he kidding himself? Had he been playing a game of chicken with himself? Daring himself, seeing how far he would push it? Had he wanted M. J. to know who he was, wanted to drop the game? If so, then he had sure chickened
out at the last minute.

Well, maybe next time. There was all the time in the

world.

High over the skyscrapers, a blur of blue and red, and he knew people were looking out office windows and pointing
and shouting. Maybe some of them were crying out in fear,
while others were bellowing praise. Ultimately he would
win them over. It was possible. With the taste of Mary Jane's

kiss on his lips, anything was possible. And he was going to
be seeing her tonight. Granted, it was part of a whole big Thanksgiving get-together, and Aunt May was going to be
there, as well as Harry's dad—who was finally going to meet
Mary Jane, and that alone was enough to make Harry a
nervous wreck—but hey
. . .
 
it would all work out some
how
 
. . .

Then he saw the black smoke rising in the near distance
and angled straight for it. He swung down Fifth Avenue, then
made his way over to the East Side with such confidence,
such alacrity, that he might as well have been doing this his
entire life. "Help is on the way!" he called out, adding
"Yowza! Yowza!" for no particular reason.

Sure enough, a building was burning, fast and furious. It
was an apartment house, surrounded by fire trucks, police
cars, and ambulances. A crowd had assembled, and he could
see that there were some people in the gathering who had
been rescued from the inferno itself, swathed in blankets or getting help from paramedics.

He saw a young woman, two small boys clutching onto
her skirt, literally being dragged away from the building by
two firemen. She was struggling in their grip, screaming
over and over that her baby was still inside. She was point
ing toward the top floor of the building. Naturally it would
be the top floor. Peter's heart lurched.

The waves of heat were already damned near suffocating,
but when he heard the fireman cry out, "It's too late, lady, the
roof's ready to collapse!" he knew he would spend every day of
the rest of his life imagining that child's life being snuffed out.

Quickly he darted toward a window on the upper floor
that didn't appear to have any flames coming out of it. He
hoped it stayed that way; if it suddenly erupted just as he got
there, he was going to be pretty damned toasted.

They'd spotted him. He heard shouts of "Hey! Up there! Loo
k! It's him! It's Spider-Man!"

He'd never been more thankful that he'd chosen a mask
that covered his entire face. It would provide him some min
imal protection from the smoke .. . hopefully at least long
enough to find the child.