12

The answer to that came in the form of a shadow on my bedroom wall one moonlit night. I was usually a light dresser in home environments but that night in particular I was in nothing more than a pair of white undies and a grey tee-shirt that said "Lunches for Wunches!" like it was supposed to mean something. Didn't bother me one bit that I was so sparsely presentable in the confines of my room. It was one of the few places I let myself go, so to speak, and the bread crumbs lodged in the curls of my hair were a good indication of that as I stuck my hand into the sandwich jar to gorge myself on another one. This was just moments before I saw some sort of sharp movement on the bedroom wall opposing the window. There it was again, the shadow I'd seen from earlier, which I'd taken to be a giant bat or a creature of unknown origin at the time. But looking at it now with greater attention and mortifying apprehension I realized it had a vague humanoid appearance to it and oddly enough, unlike the last time, I felt a strange comfort in its presence. I crawled towards it sinking into the covers of my bed as I tried my best to study it from a closer distance when out of the blue I was abruptly interrupted by the clanking of metal rails out on the fire escape. I didn't even have the chance to let out a small scream before a gentle knocking came against the windowpane.

It was Peter, who as soon as I allowed to enter the room by sliding the glass open, stepped in smelling like he'd just been climbing through the filthy interior of a brick chimney and two corroded junkyards thrown in for good measure. I'd have to aerate my room for days to get the stench out, but presently, I fixed him with a questioning stare that was meant to ask "What's all this about?" while stepping back with my arms folded as he, in turn, looked me over. His eyes straying, just for a second too long on the nervous way I was pulling the hem of my shirt over my undies before he lifted them back to my face saying "I can explain everything"

He stepped towards me, making me involuntarily back myself against the wall behind, and when he saw that, he stopped in his step, letting out a sigh in the process while holding up his hands as a sign of harmlessness. He then carefully dug one of them into his pocket, the flow of time almost freezing in the seconds it took him to do so, and I watched with avid fascination as he brought it back out, a piece of loose fabric trailing off of one of his long slender fingers. I craned my neck to get a better look at it but I didn't need to because next thing I knew, he jabbed the fabric towards me, holding it at arms-length under the ceiling lights as its various contours and design were briefly illuminated and I knew almost instantly what he had wanted me to see. I pursed my lips while staring intently at this piece of clothing, my vision narrowing down to its intense red coloring, the black crisscrossing pattern above it that resembled an arachnid's nest patterns, and the unmistakable half-moon silver shapes that were meant as nothing less than eye-spots when this fabric was worn over one's head.

"MJ," Peter said, his voice almost coming from a great distance like the howl of a wind on the other side of a mountain, pulling me away from the tunnel-like concentration I'd asserted on the piece of clothing to his face again.

"I'm Spider-Man," he said.

I didn't blink, nor budge, nor make any unforeseen noises. In fact, it's very likely that I didn't react in any way that might have been observable at all because Peter's expression was one of taut anticipation. "You don't believe me, do you?" he asked, the lilt at the end almost demanding an answer off of my lips but in all honesty, I had nothing to offer. When he realized that himself, a look of frantic desperation flared in his eyes as he stared me down, and I half-expected him to start begging, just so that I'd say anything, anything at all, like they often do in the movies. But he didn't do that either. Instead, he cupped the mask in both his hands and thrust it back into his pocket, before unleashing a ramble of words that seemed incoherent and too jumbled to fathom at first. But then as he went on, slowly gaining a semblance of weight behind them, I started to pick up on their meaning. Predictably, he was trying to justify himself, explaining in half-formed words who he was, why he did what he did, how he did it, and why he had kept it hidden from me for so long. He was in such a heightened state of excitement that he kept jumping between all four of those topics like they were inter-connected. But that ended up being inconducive to the effect he wanted to achieve and it took its toll soon enough when his flow of words fizzled out from the sheer exhaustion of being all over the place.

"I know you've been avoiding me," he said finally, latching on to the only piece of his explanation thus far that mattered to the both of us, "And why you've been doing it as well. And it's just… I didn't really know what I could do about it other than come clean, which I've been trying to do anyways for a long time. I've been dying to tell you about this… about who I am. Again, it's just the 'I didn't know how' bit that kept stopping me. So, I waited and waited, for the right set of circumstances to come up, or just the right time where I could tell you. But then just as I thought I would, you stopped talking to me. You haven't been answering my calls, any of my texts, so I didn't know how I'd break it to you. In fact, not until tonight while I've been sitting on the roof of the building on the other side of the street staring into your room, did it occur to me that the longer I wait the less likely you are to understand. So, I rushed in without a second thought and I'm sorry if I startled you. But I needed to do it quickly. Maybe in an ideal world, I would have done it with a lot more care and a lot sooner. Maybe… I don't know… I messed up, I'm sorry for that"

The last bit of stammered apology, though sincere in its wording but not in its delivery, quite undeniably marked the end of his long-winded and rather disjointed explanation. It was all he could manage in the spur of the moment having clearly not rehearsed it before, but somehow there was a look of relief etched across his face now that he had let it out into the open.

I took a tentative step forward, remembering very fleetingly the day I stood in front of his front porch in the pouring rain after Gwen had died, and just how much that day reminded me of this one. It was that same slack-jawed sense of hesitation that was coursing through my veins right now, throwing me off a simple course of action that would decide how things would unravel from here on out.

As I sized him up I was acutely aware of my near-naked state from the waist down and I'm sure he was too. He stood almost an entire foot taller than me which for some reason didn't intimidate me. It only steeled my nerves because I had no idea what I was going to do if anything at all, and I could see that exact feeling being reflected in his eyes as well. Not that they were goading me or taunting me into doing something uncalled for; in fact, far from it. The moment I punched him, it wasn't just me who was shocked but him as well. It was hard to miss the look of wide-eyed surprise registering for the briefest of seconds across his features. That's right, you didn't misread anything. I punched him. I punched him right in the lower half of his collar bone, my hand making perfect connection with the hard sinewy roundness of his chest, and then bouncing clean off like I'd hit a bag of cement. He made no motion to protect himself as a second one followed right after, this time making connection with the other side of his chest. And then it was just blow after blow arriving and landing, without any resistance, on his immovable torso. I suppose from a neutral's point of view it must have looked quite the comical scene, owing more to my furious gesticulating style than anything else, like a disgruntled housecat taking swipes at its owner.

"Hey, hey, stop!" he finally said, trying to wrest some control back to the situation by grabbing both my hands and pinning me against the wall. Our faces were so close all of a sudden that I could smell the cheeseburger on his breath while being crushed flat by his body weight. I struggled to get away from him only to illicit an amusing turn of his eyebrows at my whimpering attempts, which then turned into genuine concern when he looked directly into my eyes. I cut him off before the question "What's wrong?" could form on his lips.

"I know…" I said, the words hitching in my throat.

"What?"

"I've known all along, you idiot. Just what kind of dumb moron do you think I am?" the sobs started bursting out of me, "I know you've been lying to me… and I know why. Showing me that mask changes nothing… it just… it just confirms what I've known for ages."

He looked thunderstruck, his face frozen in disbelief. And I used that momentary window to slide away from him; his hands letting me go without any kind of fight.

Then, with as much dignity as I could muster in my vulnerable state, I tried to explain to him how it was that I had known his closely guarded secret, though it wasn't any more comprehensible than the one he'd offered to me just moments ago. I stumbled and bumbled through my words as he listened with unflinching attention, his eyes widening till the edges of his whites were visible. But then just as quickly, a measured look fell upon them when I made it clear to him that it wasn't very hard, especially given the numerous times I'd seen him disappear just as something else was happening across the city, to make the connection between his identity and Spider-Man's. They were both intrinsically linked together like an executioner is to death, and a stable-boy is to horses. "In fact," I added, "a toddler with barely the same mental capacity as me could have put two and two together and figured it out". It was so clear and obvious to me from day one, and not only to me but to anyone who might have been in my position, that he wasn't who he said he was, or often purported to be by feigning innocence; never mind the hastily constructed excuses he would throw around to dissuade anyone who got a little too curious about the truth.

"Why then," he asked, "have you been avoiding me if you knew already? I thought it was all my excuses that pushed you away." and it was my turn to lie to him - "Isn't it obvious? It's much more fundamental than that. I don't want to be around you that much anymore."

I don't know why I did it, other than for the sake of being petty and stubborn like I could be at times. But once those words left my mouth I knew there was no going back. I could see that just from the hardening of his lips as soon as the phrase was uttered. It fell like a grenade between us, drawing invisible lines in the sand in that little room as the heaviest of silences separated us. All of a sudden, I was overcome by an emotion to be out of his presence.

"Pete, I think you should leave"

"What. We've just started talki-…"

"Please."

He immediately looked torn, like he was fighting the urge to stand his ground despite my protests, but then thought better of it when I moved a few steps away from him. A moment passed in which nothing happened while I gently brushed away a tear from the corner of my eye. Then, with a resounding and melodramatic kind of whip, he turned away from me and opened the window for the second time that night, putting one foot on the sill to get his body in a position to jump.

"Just one thing before I go."

I looked up.

"If you knew I was lying to you, why did you go along with it? Why didn't you tell me? I would have told you the truth then and there. I'm sure I would have. And I know I'm making assumptions about things that might not have happened at all. But I just don't get it. Why did you keep going along with the false charade, MJ? Tell me, why. Why pretend that it was all fine?"

"I don't know," I said honestly.

He waited for me to go on. But then when I didn't, he left, jumping out into the churning winds of Manhattan like some kind of urban daredevil. The words "We'll talk later," echoing behind him as a faint breeze wafted in through the open window he'd left in his wake. Its coldness playfully tickled my naked legs as I bundled myself into a fetal position on the bed and wondered for hours into the night, until the pale pink flecks of sunlight crept over the horizon, what I'd just done.