9
I suppose it wouldn't blow your mind to know that I was beginning to fancy Peter. It didn't surprise me either because it naturally came with the territory of occupying that half and half-space of ambiguous friendship, which to me was where we'd operated for a while, with all the numerous occasions in which we'd broken into free conversation - all the jokes, the butting of heads, the discreet blushes passing behind the cover of a hand, the vacuous existence of the post-hangover period after a drunken night out where he'd keep me company. I mean, it would have been more surprising if I hadn't developed some kind of feeling towards him after all that. That doesn't mean those nascent and burgeoning feelings of attraction, though well-founded and well-accepted in the way they'd come about, weren't met with an internal resistance within my mind. Sure, I'd admitted to myself over time that there was certainly something tangible and worth exploring in the heat-inducing cheek flushes and the heart raising anxiety that seemed to afflict me in his presence, not to mention the way he'd loosen me up, enough that I could start getting rough and physical and reveal my so-called 'true self'. But no matter what, the palpable tension in the room, which wasn't noticeable in the start when we were getting to know one another, was getting harder to avoid with my growing sense of self-awareness around him.
And it wasn't all down to that either because there was a modicum of nervous energy seeping from his body language into mine as well. The openness to the conversations, which had been the hallmark of our interactions so far, had all too suddenly constricted into a claustrophobic space with no room to maneuver. And in hindsight, it feels indicative of the natural progression within our relationship. From the indifference of being faintly acquainted, to the innocent stage of early friendship, to now something more substantial that neither of us could put a finger on but could acknowledge nonetheless as something genuine and befuddling to our senses.
The best way to describe this new, uneven place of unsure footing would be to describe the day I accidentally burst into his room in the Compton, just like I usually did, but clearly this time at an inopportune moment. It was somewhere around noontime, and Peter's room, often in a state of turmoil and never spick and span, just like its occupant, was lying crammed with its unusual-looking inventions and oddly assorted bits and bobs. Pens, papers, rubber balls, clips were scattered across the tabletops in haphazard fashion while a burnt piece of toast was resting on a plate like it had been left there completely forgotten. The most striking thing, however, and the thing that really caught my eye the moment I walked in, was the stack of photographs strewn about the unmade bed. There were so many of them, easily into the hundreds in my quick estimation; flooding my sight like a massive amateur collage and extraordinarily hard to miss. I was momentarily confused by them, and a bit bemused as to why they were lying so neglectfully unattended on the bed, when it suddenly came to my mind that a few days ago Peter had told me something about this, something about him trying his hand at freelance photography for a while, just to cover the costs of his living rate in Manhattan. Of course, it had slipped through my mind afterward, and not until now, with the evidence laid out so barely and artlessly in front of me did it come back to me again.
I took a quick look around the place, called out Peter's name a couple of times, and when no one answered, occupied myself with the photographs. Studying them made me realize that they had all been taken by the same camera because they all had this warm auburn vignette to their edges, like a permanent filter that couldn't be modified or removed without changing the model. The second thing that interested me was that all the pictures, bar a small minority, were focused singularly on one subject – Spider-Man. Every picture that I turned my eyes towards was some new angle, or a new perspective, or a new pose on the red and blue hero, and they were taken at such proximity and range that I was stunned by the resulting images. And if that didn't impress me, there was also the mind-boggling fact of how Peter had managed to take these pictures in the first place considering some of them were from spots that I would definitely take to be as gravity-defying. Or places so high up, or so remote that only a true artist, fully committed to his or her work, might commit to for the sake of their professional integrity. There was one involving Spider-Man crawling the side of what looked like a skyscraper and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how he'd managed to capture the shot other than by taking an elevator to the thirtieth floor and sticking his camera out of some kind of opening on the side of the building. Not the most elegant solution in all honesty.
I stayed there, transfixed for what felt like an hour pawing through the photos, moving from the Spider-Man centric ones to the other diverse set of pictures, which were less in number, but had an array of topics like a sunset as seen from East-West streets (the famous Manhattanhenge), pedestrians loitering in Central Park, Times Square packed to the brim, and a few others worth shuffling through. Eventually, a feeling came over as I dug deeper and deeper into the never-ending collection that I was taking a look at something that in all probability wasn't meant to be looked at. The photographs were all so intimate, so amateurish, so raw in the way they had been shot that I felt like a voyeur pawing through someone's personal diary. But just as the thought washed over me, I fell upon one picture that did take my breath away, but not in the way you're thinking. I couldn't tarry long on it because just as I picked it up for closer scrutiny, I heard the sound of shuffling feet outside the slightly ajar door.
It was Peter, who as he peeked into the room, had the look of a breathless animal, almost as if he'd been alarmed by his door being open in his absence and had undoubtedly rushed to its defense and inspection at short notice. His eyes were shot with vigilance as he peered in, and when they came over me after having scanned its way through the rest of the room, the alertness evaporated and was replaced instead with a look half of chagrin and half of amusement.
I was instantly blushing. Not because I was in his presence, but because I'd been caught red-handed in the act of going through his photographs - then again it was his fault for leaving them out in the open - and also because before he'd stepped in, I'd managed to slip the photograph that had caught my attention and was hiding it as we greeted each other in the back pocket of my denim shorts. "Hey, what's up," he said with a look of expectancy and I merely smiled, before saying – "Nothing, just came by to see what's happening. I'll talk to you later" – and before he could bat an eyelash at my rather hastened goodbye, I squeezed past him in the doorway, smelling the faint whiff of pungent sweat radiating off his skin, and went into my room in as normal and unhurried a gait as possible, making sure to lock the door behind me as I swiftly dropped to the ground and brought out the picture from my pocket.
What I saw in it was a young girl, red hair tucked under a white ski cap, laughing mirthlessly while her edges were a bit frayed and blurred, like a ghost moving through the snowy backdrop of an empty Central park. On her shoulder was Harry Osborn, looking as sulky and serious as he did those days, but he was still effectively not the centerpiece of the photo. The girl was – I was.
Whatever doubts I had held for a while about where Peter and I stood with respect to each other, seemed to fall away while I stared and poured profusely over the details in the picture. I didn't remember the occasion, nor the exact moment when it had been taken but the natural poise to it and the focus on my laugh only told me one thing and one thing only. Yes, maybe I did have a crush on Peter Parker, but if anything, this photograph was irrefutable evidence, at least in my mind, that he liked me too. Why else take this picture? I mean, there could have been a million different reasons, the foremost being simply for the sake of posterity or sentimentality. But no, I was convinced by what it signified and that its message was inarguable and it would be foolish even to try and justify it any other way. I was bubbling with elation and satisfaction all of a sudden, with relief as well, relief that I wasn't the only one being constantly plagued by the humiliation or embarrassment of having to try and navigate the complicated mess both Peter and I found ourselves in. This was, for the lack of a better word, a sticky affair and I was glad not to be left alone in tackling it. And that's without even mentioning how confused and torn I felt about where it left me with Harry and that rocky – albeit somewhat revitalized - relationship. Because like they often say, happiness on one hand, means a whole host of problems on the other.
It's always a balancing act, as Peter would tell me many years later, but maybe that's a story for another time. For now, the photograph would suffice.