"You could be suspended for today's display," the dean said sternly. Peter could hear the quiver of nervousness in his voice. "Instead, since you're obviously a troubled student, I have decided to be lenient. This incident need not be appended to your permanent record if you agree to see the school counselor."
"I can't afford counseling," Peter said.
"It is a service provided by the school. Third floor of the student union, Doctor Quentin Beck. Make an appointment with him and follow through on it, or go on suspension. Clear?" The dean looked down at a post-it note and scribed the number, pulling the tacky square of paper up and handing it to Peter.
"Clear," Peter said. He looked at the note, and turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back around.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, "could you ask financial aid to look again for my records? I mailed them in but they can't seem to find them and they won't look without your express order."
"I'll look into it," the dean said. Peter nodded and left without being dismissed.
"Great," Peter muttered as he navigated his way down the endless staircases to get back to the ground floor. "He'll look into it. Before he even tells them to look again. And I get to go see a head shrink. Hey, maybe I can get rid of the voices in my head."
That's not funny.
"Sez you," Peter said, and he almost laughed. But his voice had just a hint of hysteria, and he was moving faster than he normally did.
He reached the phone in the foyer of the administration building, then he stopped. "It's just not the same if I don't put change in," he said ruefully. "I'll just go find this doctor on my own. And he jogged effortlessly out the front door and across the quad and up the steps, through the student union, up more steps to the third floor. He started nosing around, looking for a counselor office.
He passed an open door. "Hey, Parker?" came a voice. He stopped and backed up.
"Yes?" he said.
There was a man in a very narrow office, with a window overlooking the quad. He had a computer wedged in by the window, and a chair by his desk, and a small bookshelf. Nothing else would fit in the office. The man inside stood up and stepped to the doorway. He had close cropped black hair, piercing blue eyes. He was built like an athlete. He wore khakis and a denim shirt, and a white tie with black splotches. "My name is Quentin Beck."
"You know mine," Peter said, "And what I look like. How do you know me?"
"I'm good with faces," Beck said. He sat down at his desk. "I imagine you're here to set up an appointment with me."
"Indeed I am," Peter said. "Dean said I had to."
"We have an arrangement during my sabbatical," Beck shrugged. "Have a seat?"
"I figure we can just make an appointment today, right?" Peter said.
"If you've got a few minutes, there's no time like the present," Beck said, flashing a smile. "I have the luxury of being a visitor, so I don't get sucked into meetings. See, meetings are the black hole of time. They prevent action, and instead there is ceaseless approval garnering to proceed with investigations to inform the plan which will be a multi-stage endeavor… I haven't the patience," he said. His smile turned sly. "Or the staff, for that matter."
"I have a few minutes," Peter said. He sat in the chair. "How does this counseling thing work?"
"I must admit, I'm a student of the mind rather than a therapist. The best place to start is to talk about what's bothering you. I always figured bartenders for pretty good shrinks," he said with a grin.
"What's bothering me?" Peter said. "The school lost the paperwork I submitted for my application for aid next semester. Wouldn't even look for it. Of course," he said, a faint blush warming his face, "I did get a little rude with the old bag behind the desk. That's enough to make anybody crazy."
"You seem like a balanced young man," Beck said, watching Peter closely. "Seems like it would take a lot more than that to encourage you to knock a security guard over a sidewalk."
Peter suddenly realized Beck's view included the door to the administration building across the quad, where the financial aid office was. "Ah," he said. "Well, my aunt keeps getting in and out of the hospital. So money is tight. And my best friend was in a car with me when we got totaled. And my landlord evicted us so I had to tell him in the hospital that he was homeless. But aside from that?" he said with a shrug. "Things are good." He felt a weird unreality that he could sum up his gargantuan troubles in a handful of words.
"I'm not here to solve your problems," Beck said quietly, "just to help you find the resources in yourself to face them."
An aging man with a grizzled beard leaned his head into Beck's office on the way by. "Come on, Beck," he said. "You're later than I am to the staff meeting! We're talking about the coffee machine setup, so if you've got an opinion you'd better be there." He moved on.
"It has begun," Beck said with a rueful smile. "I'm getting sucked into meetings. Look, Peter. If nothing else, I want you to remember two things. It can always get worse and there is always hope. Life is a fluid thing, it has a will of its own. It can overcome any planning. Hang in there. You available to meet Wednesday?"
"I'm done with class at four," Peter said.
"Promise me you'll come," Beck said.
"I promise," Peter said with a small nod.
Beck smiled. "Have a better one. Stay out of meetings."
"Thanks," Peter said, standing and hefting his schoolbag. He paused, then smiled a little and turned. He left the office suite.
Beck's smile broadened as he rubbed his hands together. "I am quite pleased with how my little plan is working out," he murmured to himself. Then he picked up a pad and a pen and headed out for a meeting.
xXx
Peter picked up her thin, light hand and stroked the back of it. Aunt May's eyes fluttered once, then opened. She had a tube across her face, in her nose. She smiled wanly at Peter.
"How's my favorite pretty lady?" Peter asked with a grin.
"I feel much better. I'll be home soon," she managed. Peter saw the weakness, the fear in her eyes. He smiled and did his best to make it convincing.
"I've kept your plants watered," he said, "and your boxing gloves polished, a high shine on your bowling balls." His smile shifted to a grin.
"Good boy, Peter," she said with a smile, exhaustion growing in her. "Don't let this… put you behind…in your schoolwork…"
She dozed, and Peter sat beside her, motionless.
For hours.
Then he left.
xXx
Peter sat at the dimly lit counter in the bar, his feet hooked childlike in the rungs of the barstool. He leaned his head on his hand, his elbow on the bar. "How come they don't have cool places to play pool and listen to crappy western music that don't involve beer?" he sighed to himself.
With his other hand he played a kind of shell game on the bar with two quarters and a dime, weaving them around each other.
"I could call Strange." He listened to how that sounded coming out of his mouth, and he closed his eyes. "If Strange even can bail me out, I'd still be effectively hiring myself out. Damn." Not from coercion. From honor. So Peter kept thinking, over everyone he knew who had money who might give him a loan. Not Harry or his dad. Not for this. "Harry's done his part," Peter muttered, "picking up my slack when times were tight."
Then a thought occurred to him. "No," he whispered. But his mind had slithered through all its threads and come up with this one option open to him.
"I need pride to live, but I can't let it kill my aunt," he said. He got up off the bar stool and headed for the pay phone. He slotted in his money and poked in a number he had hoped he would never have to call.
xXx
The sally port by the big warehouse door opened, and Beck stepped in. Grummins and Wylde looked up from their game of cards.
Beck threw back his arms. "First contact with the target," he said triumphantly, "and it went well. I will be his friend now. He doesn't, couldn't suspect a thing."
"You da man," Wylde said with a grin. "We'll nail this punk."
"That was never a question," Grummins said, standing. "What now?"
"Now," Beck said, "I'm going to suit up with the finishing touches and try it out as an integrated system. You two get to take the evening off. I think we're all set to where Mysterio and Beck can finish out the end game."
"Mysterio?" Wylde said. A smile bloomed in his face as he tried not to laugh. "Sounds like something you'd get out of a crackerjack box."
"Doesn't matter," Beck shrugged. "It's just misdirection. Wiggling the fingers on this hand," he said, darting his hand out, "while this one comes up with the Glock." He grinned at them, gun in hand. He palmed it away as fast as he had pulled it out.
"You are crazy, man," Wylde said. "Kray. Zee." He sat back down and picked up his cards.