Living in New York City rarely feels as glamorous as the movies and aesthetic blogs make it seem. Most days, that lively hustle and bustle of our beautiful, always dreaming city reminds me of a horde of flies conducting emergency drills underwater. Especially on foggy days. And muggy days. And Mondays, Tuesdays, occasionally Wednesdays. However, the almost-weekend to weekend days that sprinkle in refreshing breezes alongside bright sunshine - those days pull you up by the back of your collar and shove optimism down your shirt like it's a cool, wet towel. The city tingles from the ground up.
Today is one of those good days.
Ironically, I woke up exhausted. I nearly spilled my breakfast in my lap (but didn't, thanks to Peter) and I walked with my three best friends to school through fields of exhaust fumes half-awake. Once there, however, it all seemed to turn around. The classes I attended went wonderfully and the classes I didn't attend, I'll assume went just as well. I skipped half of them for the first time in my life.
Besides occasional "homework sharing," I rarely break rules, it's just that Ned and Michelle can be extremely persuasive… not that I needed much persuasion today. The suggestion was enough. I've been so giddy this week that I embraced the tiny taste of teenage rebellion with open arms. ("Tiny" seems like an appropriate description: all we did was hide out in random parts of the school watching Vines, playing minor pranks in the hallways during breaks, and stealing food from Peter's stash of locker snacks as payback for his refusal to join us.)
Today has been a great day, and outside of Peter acting a bit strange, it's been a good week overall. It's just so easy to be happy with everything going on. Tonight: special dinner with our friends. Tomorrow: Midtown's academic decathlon team heads to Washington, D.C. Shortly after, my friends and I will attend homecoming, go on summer break, and enter our senior year of high school. My anticipation for this trip, the dance, the summer, and our eventual graduation bubbles up inside my stomach anytime the conversation between me and two of my best friends takes a short dip as we walk back from school.
Despite all of the upcoming things I have to think about, this walk is making my thoughts drift back to the one topic I've been trying most to avoid. Why wouldn't Peter sneak out of class? He isn't always such a rule follower anymore. And then why leave seventh hour when we all have class together? Is it just a today thing? He's seemed… off all week.
I needed to stop thinking about him. Wondering why he's been strangely reserved or else imagining the previous seven hours with him more present in their events is not going to help me keep our friendship normal. Just think about something else. Anything else. Even someone else.
"Should we invite Flash?" I ask. I ask this partly because it's a question nobody has brought up yet, and partly because the conversation has certainly dipped and my brain wants to sprint away from my control. I even thought I saw Spidey a minute ago. By now he's on the other side of Queens. Think of something else.
We stop on the sidewalk, traffic rushing in front of us, countless buzzing people behind everywhere else.
Ned and Michelle turn to me with matching expressions.
"And why would we do that?" Ned asks.
"Because every-"
"Oh, shit." Michelle groans. "Because everyone else, bar Mr. Harrington, is going. The entire team except Flash. For being so smart, we're all a bunch of fucking idiots."
"Technically we don't have to do anything," Ned says, obviously resistant to the idea. "It isn't an official team dinner or whatever. We can't get in trouble for it."
"Still, as captain, I can't organize a social gathering with everyone but Flash and pretend it isn't a shitty thing to do. God damn it."
The walk signal turns white as Michelle starts a text to Flash. Peter's apartment is only a few blocks away.
Once we reach the door, Ned knocks. We all know Peter and May won't be in, but Ned has a habit of politeness that even that few things can shake. After a couple seconds, he unlocks it himself with one of the five total keys to the apartment. (Strictly speaking, May isn't supposed to have had three extra copies made, but she wouldn't be May if she paid mind to that rule.)
"So," Michelle says, heaving her bookbag into a chair. "Music and clean, then Netflix and chill?"
The three of us look around at the destruction our last night of studying brought the apartment. Snacks and dishes are strewn in odd places and our fallen pillow fort is a ruin. A sticky 5 Hour Energy must have splashed on the carpet at some point, given the pink stain to the right of the couch. Coating most of the colossal mess are countless pieces of scribbled-on paper.
Ned and I nod in agreement.
Michelle's speaker beeps awake and we set to work.
As I gather garbage, I let the music fill up my skull. I imagine confetti raining down inside of it, each piece sparkling with tiny letters that read: It's just one of those good days.
The only thing that could make this day better would be the presence of Peter and May Parker. But then again, Peter ducked out of last hour, I suppose to get a head start on his "internship" (he's never done that before though, so the irony of his skipping part of Psych and not any other classes did not slide by unnoticed by Michelle or Ned either) and May has… a job, a hobby? I really don't know. Wherever they are and whatever they're doing, I can't help wishing they were home.
May returns around 5 p.m. As usual, she is unsurprised to find us watching Netflix. Over the last couple weeks, we took study breaks by picking out a lighthearted show and making questions from an episode. Today is an exclusively no-studying day, but we can't help continuing the mini-tradition while we marathon Friends.
"Ah, the Studying-Not-Studying game."
May walks over smiling, her arms crossed.
"It's a vital healing process for our near-fatally strained brains," I joke.
A phone buzzes.
"Wait, Miss MJ! You can't answer that text until you answer my question for this episode. Were they," May says, "or were they not," she pauses, "on a break?"
"Oh god, no," I plead. "Please, please, don't start this again! Ned and MJ argued about this for twenty minutes before you got here!"
"Okay, but Rachel did say-" Ned begins.
"Oh my god, Ned! We talked about this!"
Michelle begins explaining with her hands and May grins, walking into the kitchen. Feinting defeat, I put my head in my hands and sink into the couch cushion. Slumped, I take out my own phone. Nothing.
I text Peter.
"Still good for 7:30?"
Whoosh. And now the waiting game begins. Actually, it began at 3:00 p.m. when I sent the first of a dozen messages. But none of them were questions, so an answer wasn't necessary.
"Hey MJ," I say. "What was that text you got?"
Michelle and Ned halt, hands frozen in expressionistic flight.
"Let's see." She flips her phone over. "It's from Flash."
Ned clasps his hands together.
"Dear merciful God," he prays. "Please, please, let MJ read us a rejection text from Eugene 'Flash' Ass-Hat Rich-Boy Bitch-Boy."
We made up that nickname today while cutting fourth hour. Not quite eloquent, but to the point. Plus, it's almost impossible to say seven times fast. (We made a game of trying.)
Michelle types a quick response and takes a breath, placing her hand on Ned's shoulder.
"Prepare yourself for something dreadful, Ned." She hangs her head. "Eugene 'Flash' Ass-Hat Rich-Boy Bitch-Boy is… 'super doped out' to accept our invitation."
"God damn it."
"Kids!" May calls from the kitchen. "Hasn't anyone ever told you to watch your language?"