Peter acting all weird had ceased nibbling at the back of my mind and started to tear away at whole chunks. He's been like this even before we left the competition. His fleeting conversations with Ned didn't even brighten his face like it usually did. Not that I had been listening or anything, cause it'd be totally creepy and weird if I did. But it's still noticeable, even for someone as kind and cheery as Peter Parker.
I find myself instinctively peeking to the seat across from me as I pause my music. He hasn't even moved since I last looked; just staring out the window as if everyone around him didn't exist, which I take slight offense to. His knobbly fingers are laced atop his yellow Midtown High jacket, which is sprawled across his lap and probably passes poorly as a blanket. His trimmed, brown hair clings to the frigid bus window as he leans further into it, his crossed feet slipping from his backpack to the floor with a rustle of fabric. Converse. I've always liked his taste in shoes. Ned is watching a video in the seat behind him, falling in and out of consciousness.
Everyone is off in their own little worlds, which kind of makes me mad that no one's paying attention to Peter, but I can't really blame them. We got crushed pretty hard tonight. Cindy is leaning against the seat in front of her with her head between her arms, loose strands of black hair sprawled along the gray leather. She did really good, all things considered. Abe taps his pencil in frustration as he tries to work out a problem that won the other team the winning point. Typical Abe. Flash hovers over his shoulder, belting out incorrect answers which only makes him angrier. I'm still surprised Mr. Harrington let a five-year-old on the decathlon team.
And then I'm back to him. Still as a statue. I'd like to think that this is all because of tonight, but a feeling in my gut makes me think it has something to do with him always being late. I don't know what's been going on, and honestly I haven't even mustered up the courage to ask him, but I hope it isn't anything bad. Peter doesn't deserve to feel that way, especially with all that's happened to him.
A familiar thought greets me once again: Why don't I ask him what's wrong? If only you were actual friends, I find myself reasoning. I haven't been able to figure out if I'm really friends with Peter and Ned. I don't know if they're being nice to me because they like me or because they have to. I'd like to think they like me since I'm a pretty rad person once you peel back the layers, but I've always just been kind of there to them. At least, that's what I've convinced myself of. Like, they're fine with everyone else but when it comes to me, they're just like, Oh, there's Michelle. It'd just be easier if people flat-out told you how they felt.
And you'd think if he wanted to talk to someone, he'd have talked to Ned about dumb Star Wars theories or the physics of Captain America's shield or whatever. But he didn't. So why would he want to talk to me over Ned, who's pretty much a thousand times cooler than me? I make no sense to myself. I already know I'm going to talk to him, so there's no point in talking myself out of it. It's not like he can avoid me if I trap him in the corner of his seat.
Slipping my phone and earbuds into my sweatshirt pocket, my stomach tightens as I take the leap to his seat. I don't think he even notices.
"What's up, Parker?"
He turns to me slowly, as if I woke him from deep thought. Relaxing, he sighs, "Oh, hey, M.J."
Oh, there's Michelle.
"You didn't answer my question" I point out, wiping my clammy palms on my jeans.
"Sorry, what'd you ask?" His brows arch in confusion. The bags under his eyes look much darker up close. He looks more everything up close.
"How's it going?"
He's silent for a moment. "I'm fine," he answers with a toothless smile. "Just tired."
You can't use my own excuses against me, Peter Parker.
"Oh, then you should get some sleep. We've got another hour and a half till we get to the hotel."
Releasing a breathy laugh between his white teeth, "Uh, I-I'm not really tired right now."
Now it's my turn to laugh. "You just said you were."
Peter thinks for a moment and it dawns on him. A sly smile: "Oh, did I? Shoot. Um..."
"It's all good," I reassure, resting my head against the top of the seat. My bangs envelop my right eye. "I get it. I… just wanted to make sure things were okay. You've been kinda… un-Peter-like lately."
"Yeah, um… It's just been a long day" he answers with another false smile. Not really the answer I was looking for.
"How so?" I ask, turning toward him, stretching my left leg across the space between us so he can't leave. I doubt he would, but I do it anyway.
"It's just… this Stark internship has been taking up so much of my time and I haven't been able to study or do anything without feeling like I'm totally behind. It's like I'm always trying to catch up on what I missed but it's too late when I do. And because of that, I got every question wrong tonight and I let the team down, and..."
"Whoa, Peter, slow down," I interrupt. "It's a sweet deal and all, but you can't let the internship control your life. Just take a deep breath and relax."
He breathes and closes those big brown eyes of his and I can't tell if I want to drown in them or vomit on the floor when he looks back to me.
"And tonight?" I start. "Not your fault. We knew going in that that school was gonna kick our asses, so you can't blame yourself for how things went down. Look around you. We were all off our game."
He smirks. "Says the one who gets, like, every question right."
"Psh, not every one!" I fight the urge to blush. "But most of them."
We find ourselves laughing and I'm reminded of the Peter Parker that I've grown to appreciate. It's so good seeing him genuinely smile; it's felt like forever since he has. But the dorky grin soon fades and he resorts back to the neon lights out the window as if our conversation didn't even happen or matter.
Did I even help?
Peter's sullen face flashes with each passing headlight. I lace my fingers around the phone in my pocket, twirling the braided earbuds with my painted thumbs. What else can I do? I can't just leave him.
I pull out my phone and untangle the earbuds. Placing one in my ear, I clear my throat. He looks like he could pass out at any moment.
"Take it," I offer, holding the free earbud out to him. "Trust me."
His calloused hands brush my own as he grabs it and places it in his left ear.
I find a song that's calm and may or may not remind me of us. It's about how the singer hates to see the person she cares about sad but understands how they're feeling. Maybe he'll pick up on the meaning. If anyone is smart enough to decipher what I can't say through my own music, it's Peter.
"That's really nice" he smiles as it finishes, and his swollen eyes crinkle with delight. I grin into my chest without a word.
"Wanna pick something? Or listen to your stuff?" I ask after a moment. "Or I can leave you alone if you need it..."
"No, no!" He exclaims with a breath. "Please, stay." I try not to externally freak out. "I'm up for whatever you pick."
No offense, Peter, but I'm pretty sure my music taste is far more superior than yours.
I contemplate my entire music library for what seems like hours, but he doesn't seem to mind. He tries to playfully look at my screen but I block my phone from his view with my hand. I do this partly as a joke but also because I don't want him seeing anything embarrassing.
And so, this goes on for a while; me picking songs with meanings I hope he can pick up and him wordlessly listening and nodding in approval. I don't really look over to him in this time. I can't tell if it's because I feel vulnerable playing him my music or because we're doing something him and Ned do all the time.
After flipping through what seems like a hundred songs, I make out a soft snore to my right. Peter's heavy eyes are shut and his head hangs low against his chest. It's possibly the sweetest sight I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
I'm half-expecting his head to slowly fall on my shoulder like it does in the movies and fanfics I read. I'd rather not be a living cliché. I shake the thought away as I hover my finger over a loud rock song, enticed by the possibilities. Am I that mean? I quickly dismiss that thought as well.
A great weight appears to slip off my mind. I want to remember this moment forever. I want to remember the way he smells like soap and deodorant and the formation of his curls above his eyebrows. I want to hold on to the sound of Ned's sudden snickering when the video he's watching wakes him and the twinkling stars out the window in front of me.
I continue to choose songs that Peter might like on the rest of the ride back, even though he's not awake to hear them. Because, I think, that's what friends do.
Besides, he can't judge any of my guilty pleasures if he's asleep.