Peter was in the middle of a biology test when he found out he was going to die.

He started as the crumpled note landed on his desk. It was folded, his last name scrawled on the front, written on a piece of torn notebook paper. Though he was confused as to why someone would resort to such primitive methods of communicating, he smoothed it out, checked to make sure that Mr. Davis—a tall man with dark brown skin who always wore a leather jacket—was still preoccupied with grading papers, and opened the note.

Parker,

You're three misplaced words away from having your corpse dropped in the dumpster outside. What the hell are you playing at?

-Michelle

Michelle Jones. Or MJ, to those she considered friends. Peter had been included in that select group, but after her threat of murder, he wondered if this had changed. He hastily scribbled a reply and tossed it onto her desk two rows over.

Her responding note hit him in the head.

Why? You have the audacity to ask WHY?

Let's see if you can fill in the blanks.

I'm sitting at a bus stop at midnight, half frozen and soaking wet, outside the library that I was supposed to meet SOMEONE at to finish our biology project last night. Only guess what? He didn't show. Which left me with no partner, no project, and NO RIDE.

Ring a bell?

Shit.

Peter swallowed and looked over at Michelle.

She was already staring at him, arms crossed and a drawing pencil tapping against her thigh. Under different circumstances, Peter might have been able to appreciate how pretty she looked with her dark curls pulled back from her face, or how effortlessly she was able to pull off a dark green flannel and combat boots. But for the moment, he was focused solely on her scowl.

He bit his lip and turned back to the paper, ready to write a full apology and excuse (since normal sixteen year old boys didn't miss study sessions because they had to stop a runaway train), but he didn't get farther than three words before the teacher's voice stopped him.

"Mister Parker," Mr. Davis said, striding forward to stand above his desk. "As fascinating as your conversation with Miss Jones must be, may I remind you that we are in the middle of a test?"

One glance at Michelle's face told Peter he might as well bury himself in the dumpster now.

"Sorry," Peter muttered.

Mr. Davis didn't look impressed. "Next time wait until after class. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Peter said, nodding quickly. He looked down at his test and pretended to be fully engrossed in writing out an explanation of mitosis until the end of class.

As soon as the bell rang, he jumped out of his seat, ready to rush after Michelle and apologize, but Mr. Davis' voice stopped him.

"Mister Parker!" the older man called out through the flurry of departing students. "A word, please."

Peter internally groaned as he saw the end of Michelle's ponytail whip out of sight. Steeling himself for a stern lecture, he grabbed his backpack and dragged his feet to the teacher's desk.

Mr. Davis didn't say anything at first. He leaned back in his chair, studying him with an almost cryptic expression. Then, in a much softer tone than he was expecting, said, "Peter, is everything all right?"

He opened his mouth to tell Mr. Davis that he was fine, that he had always been fine, and to not worry about him. But the words didn't come.

Mr. Davis leaned forward. "I don't mean to pry, but I've noticed a steady decline in both your health and grades the past few months.

The past few months. Probably starting from when Mr. Stark had taken away his suit, a building collapsed on him, and he had sent his date's father to prison. His stomach clenched at the memories. And then there were his slipping grades, next to no sleep, and getting shot at every other night...it didn't exactly add up to a relaxing adolescent experience.

"I'm doing okay," he managed to say. The words felt like sawdust leaving his mouth. "Just need a good night's sleep."

"I'll agree with that," Mr. Davis said with a smile. "Now get out of here. You kids have got enough to worry about without old teachers keeping you after school." He turned back to his papers. A clear dismissal.

Peter nodded and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Mister Parker?" Mr. Davis called after him. "Make sure and tell Miss Jones what a wonderful job you both did on your project. It was the best one I've seen in some time."

"Right," Peter said, feeling his heart drop somewhere around his stomach. "I'll do that."

As soon as he was in the hallway, he took off running. "MJ?" he shouted. Several of the remaining students gave him odd looks, but he ignored them. "Michelle?"

No answer.

He closed his eyes. Let his enhanced hearing open up. Listened to the cacophony of laughter, side conversations, rustling paper, and footsteps. Everyone had a different gait, a different rhythm to how they walked. Some were loud, some lilting, or soft and then hard. And some were…

There.

The familiar click of combat boots came from the end of the hallway. He opened his eyes just in time to see Michelle turn the corner.

"MJ!" he called, and then starting running again.

He caught up with her outside the school building. She was walking toward a crosswalk, her backpack over one shoulder and her sketchbook under one arm. "Hey," he said breathlessly as he slowed his frantic pace.

She didn't slow down. Or even acknowledge him in any way.

"Listen, MJ," he said. "I'm really, really sorry. Something came up and I—"

"Shut up," Michelle interrupted.

"But—"

"I said shut up!" she snapped, stopping her fast pace and turning to glare at him. "And don't call me that. Only my friends call me MJ." She started walking again.

Ouch.

"Please, MJ—I mean, Michelle," Peter pleaded, darting in front of her and walking backward when she didn't stop. "I'll make it up to you. I'll do the next ten projects all by myself." His spider sense was tingling, but he brushed it off as plain nerves. "Please forgive me?"

Michelle opened her mouth, probably to tell him to go dig a hole and bury himself, or to at least never speak to her again, but the words never came. Instead, her eyes widened with horror. "Look out!" she screamed. Before he had time to react, she had grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward, sending them both stumbling backward on the sidewalk.

He landed hard on his right side, the one already bruised from a fight last night. A gasp of pain escaped him, but he ignored it and jumped to his feet, turning just in time to see a massive semi truck speed past on the road. He was so distracted, he hadn't even noticed he had walked onto the busy street. The truck turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

Michelle. Where was she? He looked around frantically for several seconds before finding her. Crouched at the curb, reaching for something in the road. When she stood up and turned around, he saw the soggy remains of her sketchbook clutched in her grip. The sketchbook she must have dropped to pull him out of the way.

"Oh, god," Peter muttered. "Michelle, I'm so…"

"Sorry?" she finished for him. Her voice was flat. Dull. Emotionless.

"I'll replace it," he promised.

"Don't bother," she muttered. She threw the sketchbook back on the ground and stalked away. "Just stay away from me!" she shouted over her shoulder.

May was on the phone when Peter got home. She put her hand over the receiver and called out, "Hey, kiddo! How was school? Did your project—"

"Where's your hair dryer?" he interrupted.

She raised an eyebrow. "Nice to see you too, Aunt May. School was fine. Love the new highlights in your hair."

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Love the hair. It's perfect. Beautiful. Best highlights I've ever see." May narrowed her eyes, looking over her red glasses to examine him. He rocked back and forth on his heels and put on his most winning smile. She rolled her eyes.

"Top drawer in the bathroom. And don't start any fires!" she added as he sprinted to the bathroom. Just before he closed the door to his room, he heard her mutter, "Teenagers."

Peter dumped his backpack on his chair and set down Michelle's sketchbook, no longer dripping water but still damp. He plugged in the hair dryer, send a silent thank you to May for being so obsessed with her hair, turned it on, and directed the hot blast of air on to the book.

At first, he simply flipped through the pages as fast as he could, giving each only a few seconds of air. But the more drawings he saw, the more he slowed down to look at each one as it dried.

Michelle was constantly drawing. Everyone knew that. He had just never realized what an incredible artist she was. Buildings, cartoon characters, students, a homeless man sleeping on a bench, each one was drawn with perfect care. She must have used some sort of waterproof ink, because the majority of the drawings were only smudged at most. Only a few were beyond repair.

He was nearing the end of the book when he saw them. They were behind a page marked Avengers and Vigilantes. The book had landed face down, so they were mostly dry, with only a few splotches here and there. The sketches themselves were untouched.

The first few were drawings of the avengers. Iron Man flying into the wormhole. Captain America in his old suit—his first suit—fighting under a hail of bullets. Natasha, bruised and bloodied, dressed in camo pants and a tank top, bringing a man twice the size of her to the floor.

Then came the inventions. Cameras disguised as earrings on Natasha. A bomb detonated from Captain America's shield when thrown. Captain America in a new suit, gray and with a single dark star imprinted over his chest. And then…

Peter nearly dropped the hair dryer as he flipped to the back page. It was a sketch of Spiderman, drawn with meticulous detail, swinging mid flight on one of his webs. Though it showed him from the back, his head was twisted, revealing spiderman's face. Specifically, Peter's face. In spiderman's suit.

"Shit," Peter breathed out.

He stared down at the drawing in shock. "Shit!" he cursed again.

Mr. Stark knew. Ned knew. And now Michelle did too.

Michelle. The girl who was too angry to talk to him, who had stormed off and told him to never speak to her again, the one who might very well reveal his secret to the world just to spite him.

"Peter?" May called out from the kitchen. "You okay?"

He didn't respond. Just kept staring down at the drawing of himself. The hair dryer's timer chimed and the air shut off. May's footsteps clicked outside his door. "Peter?" she asked again.

"Yeah? Yeah, I'm fine," Peter called back, his voice much too high. "Just dropped something on my foot. I'll be okay."

"Alright, then," May said. "Are you up for chinese tonight?"

"Yup! Chinese is great!" Go away, he pleaded silently. Please go away.

"Sounds like a plan. Let me just grab my purse." There were more footsteps, walking away from his door. Peter breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Okay," he muttered. He snapped the now dry sketchbook closed and shoved it under his pillow. "Everything's fine. Everything's cool." He closed his eyes and exhaled. "Oh god, I'm gonna die."