Behind the Mask

ELEVEN: Fan Mail

.:::.

I was wiping down the register counters at Toys 'R Us when Daniel dropped a shoebox full of paper next to me. I stopped wiping and studied it. "What's that?"

"It's today's fan letters for Spiderman." He said proudly. "We just put the box this morning, and look at how many are here!"

I fingered through the colorful construction paper. "Are you sure these are real?"

"Of course, they're from the fans, aren't they? At this rate, he'll need a truck to take them with him when he stops by on the 23rd." Daniel tapped his fingers on the counter. "You said you know that Peter Parker kid, right?"

His name made me blush. "Yes."

"Great! Can you pass these on to him so he can deliver them to Spidey?"

I knew Peter would have gotten a kick out of fan mail. "Sure, I guess I can do that." I had to drop off my broken camera as well. Peter thought he would be able to fix it, but I was doubtful.

I stopped by on the way home, but he wasn't there. It didn't surprise me, but I tried not to panic. Just because he wasn't home at that exact moment didn't mean something was wrong. He could have just been busy...

I sat down in his comfy chair and dozed off in one of my late afternoon naps to pass the time I knew I wouldn't be able to survive while awake.

I woke up to the soft clicking sound of Peter wasting his camera film on me. I peeked an eye open and saw the lens staring back at me. "Why?" I groaned, covering my face with my arm.

"Why not?" He leaned down to remove my arm from my face and drag his fingers gently down my cheek.

I grabbed a handful of his shirt to keep him close. "Everything okay?"

He loosened my fingers and held my hand in his. "Yeah, why?"

I shook my head. He sounded a bit shaken up, but I knew I was only paranoid.

Peter discovered my poor camera carcass in my lap and clicked his tongue in disapproval. "What did you do?"

"I was being careless. I knocked it off of my counter in the kitchen." I frowned at the lens, literally dangling for its life by a thread of wire. "Can you fix it?"

He tinkered with it a bit and nodded his head. "I think so, but I can't guarantee it'll work the same."

It only made me more upset with myself. "I hope it does. My brother took me out to buy it as a graduation present." Every time I thought of Greg I could feel the grief strike deeper and deeper inside me. I didn't know how far it would go before it shattered me.

"I'll fix it, I promise." Peter sensed the change in our usually lighthearted atmosphere and acted accordingly. He spotted the shoebox on the floor beside me. "What's this?"

"Fan mail." I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Peter picked it up and pulled out a folded paper. He read its content, written by a little boy, and half smiled to himself. "Fan mail?"

"Seems like Spidey is a big shot in these parts." I stretched out my shoulders. "Why so surprised?"

He shrugged with a shake of the head. "I don't know, it's just unexpected. Especially now..."

I saw his point. It seemed like he was more likely to receive hate mail these days. "There are still people out there that like you, Peter."

He closed the little letter again, staring at the blank fold on the outside. "I guess you haven't seen the news yet?" I could tell he was trying to keep an uplifting tone to his voice, but I could also hear it dropping.

"No, what happened?" I leaned forward, eager to hear what was bothering him.

"Somebody called the police and reported a kidnapping, so I followed the van until it stopped, but when I opened the back doors..." He shook his head again, either annoyed or confused. "There were three of them sitting there, just waiting for me to..."

I hugged my knees to my chest, watching him struggle with his words. I also needed to hold myself together. "Oh."

"I mean, I don't even know what to do anymore. Maybe I should just hand myself over to them."

I stood up and took hold of his hand again. "Don't say that. The police will figure something out. They'll catch whoever is behind it all, and you'll be safe."

"They won't." He said. "They're just angry that I'm a distraction now. A woman nearby was mugged today, and nobody helped her in time because they were busy chasing that damn van with me."

I lifted his fingers up close to my face, observing his fingertips and how much raw power he held in them. "You can't give up like that, though."

"Can we talk about something else?" He slipped his hand out of my grip in frustration. "Please?"

I forced myself to drop the subject, but I knew it wouldn't work every time.

. . . . . . . .

Our first real fight was on Greg's birthday. I tried to ignore it all day, I tried to hold myself together, but it all came crashing down when I was only trying to help.

Peter battled his droopy eyes for the better part of Photography. He was so stubborn, looking for more good than bad in the people he was trying to rescue, only to find that there was hardly any good left. I couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a good night's sleep. He wasted time wondering what would have happened if he didn't fall for one trick after another.

He wasn't the same. I couldn't expect to smile at his quick remarks or watch him breeze through his scientific nonsense without erasing over and over again. He was so thoughtful, and so precise, but much more clumsy.

On Greg's birthday, Peter was busy erasing at his desk. I made myself comfortable on his bed, my laptop propped up on my knees. I was supposed to write a paper about women in British literature, but a blank document was staring back at me in the most taunting way.

Both of my parents tried calling me a million times. Dad used his cell phone, Mom used hers, and I got a call from the house before the cycle repeated and repeated again. I didn't want to talk to them, not then. I hated that I was rolling right back into that awful routine of ignoring them.

I typed a bunch of random letters on the keyboard and then backspaced. "Peter?"

"What?" His voice wasn't harsh, and it wasn't meant to hurt me, but it wasn't like him to respond with something so meaningless, especially to me.

"Nevermind." I wondered what it would be like if he wasn't so preoccupied with proving everyone wrong. I thought that maybe I could tell him that it was Greg's birthday and I was using most of my energy to get through the day without falling apart. I knew he would understand if he wasn't so worried about Spiderman.

I felt my stomach tighten and let out a sigh to discourage pointless tears. I didn't want him to pity me, I just wanted somebody to talk to, someone who understood. He wasn't giving me the option, and it wasn't fair.

Peter let his pencil fall as he picked up his eraser again. He rubbed the page until I heard the rip and a jumble of curses that followed.

I opened my mouth to suggest that we both take a break, but I knew better than to suggest it when he felt weak. He flipped through the notebook to find a new page.

I should have spoken up while I had the chance. Peter rubbed his hair and I worried he would pull it out by the roots. "You need to quit your job."

I was afraid to speak. "Why?"

"It's too dangerous. If they ever chose to come after you, if they ever hurt you because of me..." He wouldn't let the thought finish itself. "I shouldn't have asked you to help me."

My phone vibrated on the bed next to me, and the caller ID told me it was Dad. I almost didn't press the green button in time. "Hello?"

"Hey!" Dad laughed a little, glad he finally reached me. "I've been calling all day. Too cool to call your dad back?"

"I know, I'm sorry, it's just...not a good day for me." I regretted using those words, because Peter tilted his head a bit to listen.

Dad sighed. "Yeah, I know. Your mother wanted you to come over for dinner. You didn't eat yet, did you?"

I stared at the empty pizza box at the bottom of the bed. "I had a late lunch." I half lied.

"Well, how about some cake? Mom's red velvet?"

It was then that I almost lost it. Red velvet was Greg's favorite, and the only reason Mom made it every year was because he wanted it for his birthday. All of us hated red velvet, except Greg, which made it strange for Mom to make a cake no one would enjoy eating.

"Um." I rolled my lips to dodge a frown. "I don't know about tonight. I don't..." I took another breath, hoping the crackling in my voice would go away. "I don't think tonight is good for me."

Peter leaned back in his chair when my voice started crackling. He removed his attention from his work and paid extra attention to me.

After a few more minutes of talking, Dad reluctantly let me go. I told him I loved him, and I knew Greg would have yelled at me for ditching them, but I just couldn't do it.

I dropped the phone and blinked my eyes. I sat up straighter and stared at the computer screen, begging for words to appear out of thin air.

"It's not your birthday, is it?" I knew he was being sincere, but he didn't know how his question stung me to the core.

"No." I said flatly. I left it at that, afraid to go any further if he didn't force me.

There was a short silence. "Sorry, I just heard something about cake...your dad talks loud."

We both heard the sirens first, before they bounced off of the buildings out the window. Peter watched with a longing glow in his eyes, but he knew there was a greater chance it was a fake. He knew he would do more harm than good.

The dilemma frustrated him further. He crumpled his ripped paper and tossed it across the room.

"Maybe you should just give it up." I'd been considering it for a little while, but this was the first time I'd actually said it out loud.

Peter looked at me for the first time in over an hour. "What are you talking about?"

I drew my eyes to the red and blue suit hanging in his closet, and then looked back at him again.

He still looked confused. "Are you kidding?"

"I'm not." I said, strangely composed. "It's changing you. Spiderman is changing you, and it isn't the good kind of change."

Peter practically waved me off. "I can't just pack the suit in a box and toss it under my bed, Olivia."

"Why not? Even for a little while?"

He looked at me like I was so naive, so stupid for not seeing why. It was the same kind of look Chase would have given me. "It's complicated."

"I'm pretty sure I can keep up." The attitude was a defense mechanism from childhood. I used it with my parents when they acted like they knew everything.

Peter laughed now. It wasn't natural. "I can't believe you're serious."

"I can't believe you're treating me this way."

"What way?"

"This way!" I shouted, slapping my laptop shut. "Your back has been turned to me all day, you barely say a word, and I'm trying to help, but you're shutting me out!"

He was not as stunned by my outburst as I hoped. If anything, it fueled him. "I get that, but if you want to be realistic, you can't help me."

"Why not?"

"Because it's complicated!"

"Tell me!" I dragged out the demand to a beg. "Tell me why it's so complicated!"

Peter stood up from the desk and kicked the leg of his chair. It made a buzzing noise as it slid across the floor. "You don't get it." He said quietly.

"If you would just explain it to me -"

"I can't explain it to you! I can't just give it up, there's more to it than that!"

"Peter, they don't appreciate you anymore!" I pointed vaguely out the window. "They don't want you rescuing them, don't you see it? You bring more crime and enemies than they ever needed!"

"There are still people out there that need help, Olivia. People that the cops can't get to without me."

"They manage to figure it out everywhere else in the world. They don't have a Spiderman in every city."

"And you think it's okay to say that to me?"

"Why, isn't it? You're a conceited, thick-headed wonder boy that's only worried about his pride being damaged by some scummy criminals!" I surprised myself there, because I was saving a comment like that for Chase.

"So what does that make you? The washed up girl next door that doesn't have anything else to look forward to?" His voice was apologetic, like he felt bad for saying it but kept his tongue rolling anyway.

Somehow in our disagreement, we managed to come face to face. I was standing on the bottom edge of the bed, a foot or so taller than him. He had grabbed hold of my wrists to enhance his point from earlier, and loosened his fingers without letting go completely.

Our eyes met as we realized it was our first real fight. Peter struck me to be one that didn't prefer to battle it out with hurtful words, but he proved me wrong there.

His eyes dropped shamefully to the floor, but he stayed silent.

I stared at the wall behind him. "Greg would have been 25 today."

I heard the guilty sigh that I didn't want to hear. "Why didn't you say something?"

My lip quivered as it dragged itself into a frown. "It doesn't matter. I think I've overstayed my welcome here, anyway."

"Olivia,"

"You've been so kind to me, Peter. You've done too much for me, and I can see that I'm only getting in your way."

He tried to restrain my arms, but I kept wriggling out of his grip. "Hey, come on,"

"If you want me to leave you alone, just tell me. Don't beat around the bush. I don't have any room for all that extra drama in my life."

He managed to get a strong hold on my wrist and slid his hands up to my forearms. "Hey. Look at me." He waited for my eyes to lock on his. "It's okay, it's okay."

I fought his hold as hard as I could, but his hands were like steel traps. He pulled me closer into him until I realized I had physically lost the battle.

When my cheek touched his shoulder and his hands rubbed my back, I let it all out. I cried the ugly cry, hard and hopeless. He stuck it out with me, holding me close until all that was left was the hitch in my breath.

Once I was quiet enough, he leaned close to my ear. "It's okay." He repeated.

My pulse throbbed in my ears. "I'm sorry."

He held me closer, reinforcing his point. "Don't apologize. Don't ever apologize."