"Face it, tiger," Mary Jane said, looking into the big blue eyes of Peter Parker. "You need to learn to keep it in your pants."
She shut his wallet, closing his student ID away. This was the guy her Aunt Anna kept trying to set her up with? He was kinda cute—maybe if he lost the glasses—but he couldn't even keep track of his wallet, leaving it lying where it'd fallen on the driveway. And there were way too few dollars in the billfold. Mary Jane had enough boys to choose from. She didn't need to take referrals.
Skipping over to the porch, she found May Parker out in a rocking chair, taking in the sun and fresh air. At least someone was enjoying the suburbs. "Hey, Mrs. P, you know where that Casanova of yours is doing his romancing? He left a little something on my driveway."
May leaned forward in her chair for a better look. "Oh dear… he's at the Mavis Center for some scientific expo… Ben gave him a ride on his way to work, but he said he'd get a taxi back. I suppose I'd better pick him up if he doesn't have any cash on him…"
She moved to get up, but Mary Jane froze her with an outstretched hand. "That's okay, I'll get it to him."
"You will? But it's such a long trip…"
Mary Jane chuckled. She hoped she never got so old that going into The City was such an imposition. "It'll be fine. I'll get my mom to give me a ride. And while we're out, we can do some retail therapy."
"Retail… therapy?" May repeated confusedly. "Oh, I hardly think you need therapy, dearie, but if you think it will help, then there's no shame in it."
Mary Jane hid her grin lest May think she was laughing at her. The therapy wasn't for her so much as her mother.
It'd seemed like such a coup, their cousin Frank moving to Queens, giving the Watsons a place to stay in exchange for keeping house, but that was no small task with one slovenly widower and his three rambunctious boys to look after. Mary Jane wanted to help out, but at the same time she resented being enslaved by family in exchange for room and board. She'd almost rather Frank had stayed in Philadelphia—then her mom could move in with him and his awful kids and she could stay with Aunt Anna. If her mom had let Gayle cut the cord, MJ didn't see why she had to hang onto her…
At any rate, Madeline Watson needed a break, Mary Jane needed a ride, and May Parker needed someone to help her out. That struck MJ as a win/win/win. And she liked charity best when she got something out of it. Compassion was great and all, but if you didn't look out for yourself, it'd make you into a sap.
Mary Jane's charitable manipulation worked out and after some long minutes of traffic (and, even worse, her mother's taste in radio stations), she was in the Mavis Center. It was a low and sprawling complex, situated for Mary Jane somewhere between her last science fair and an AP Chemistry lab, though it didn't have the happy-go-lucky posters every school used to try and make science 'fun'.
Stepping into nerd territory, she was immediately accosted by a wandering tour guide, a college freshman from the looks of him, with a beaky face and glasses thick as hubcaps. Get Lasik, at least—try to roll with the cliché. "Can I help you?"
"No, I'm looking for someone."
He preened a little, hearing that. Mary Jane snapped a look at him. She knew some girls were into older guys, but she also figured that pleasure could wait until she was at least eighteen. "Someone who goes to the same high school as me," she added, and he had the decency to look admonished.
She wandered a while. A bit disappointingly, the science expo wasn't what she might've expected from Tony Stark's Youtube channel. Very few flashing lights, robotic arms, or even vials full of neon-colored liquid. Most of it was dull as dishwasher, her eyes glazing over when within range of this exhibit or that to make it easier for her to skate right by. The best she could make of most of it was people making diagrams of Wikipedia pages of TED Talks.
But there was one display with some moving parts. It was in a kind of atrium, with strange (and promising looking) machinery rising high into the air, summoning up a mildly cool lightshow within the borders they created. Mary Jane strolled over to it, hearing the scientist explain the process he was demonstrating, but only catching maybe one word in five. Radiation, safe, harmless.
Normally, that would've been her cue to leave—it seemed half the people the Avengers fought had safe, harmless radiation to thank for entering into an exciting career as a giant monster—but then she spotted Peter Parker.
His back was to her, but something about his stance struck a chord in her: the average height, the lanky build, the tousled hair, it all spelled out her sometimes neighbor, and Mary Jane had never known she'd been paying so much attention to a face in the windows of the house next door.
"Peter? Hey, Peter Parker!" She guessed he wasn't used to women crying out his name—big surprise—because he didn't turn around and Mary Jane didn't want to raise her voice anymore in the middle of Mr. PhD's (Dr. PhD's?) big moment.
She pushed her way through the crowd, making her way to the standing room only section where Peter had parked himself, and she was just about to tap him on the shoulder when she felt a jolting pain in her hand.
What the hell? Mary Jane gasped, pulling her hand back and seeing a spider, an actual bug, dislodged from her wrist by the motion. It fell to the floor and was immediately stepped on.
As if in sympathy with it, Mary Jane felt a heady wave of pain pass through her, clog her sinuses, draw itself through her like a thread through a needle until it was centered on the bite mark, the flaring red bite mark, that the dead spider had left on the back of her hand.
Now Peter noticed her. He turned around, eyes enormous through his glasses as he took her in, noticed her favoring her hand, and then saw her stagger as a wave of pained dizziness ran through her.
"Did you just—hey, are you okay?"
Mary Jane tried to answer, but now she was reeling… almost falling before Peter grabbed her shoulders. He couldn't have been too strong a guy, not a beanpole like him, but in her weakened state, Peter felt solid as steel.
"Easy, easy," Peter told her, moving her through the crowd like she was Whitney Houston and he was Kevin Costner, actually seeming a bit assertive for once as he ordered people out of the way. Not that Mary Jane could exactly hear him. Her head was pounding louder than the rest of the world put together.
Despite the name, Mary Jane wasn't much of a hophead. She wasn't a prude either—she'd tried wine coolers and beer and the only thing that really tickled her fancy was a scotch martini Timmy had let her try once. But the 'party till you drop, drink till you're sick' thing, that had never been Mary Jane's scene. Seeing her father with a beer bottle in hand one too many times had soured it for her far beyond her own personal preference to be able to remember the good times she was having.
Well, now it had its claws in her. She felt the tipsy sensation of vodka shots hitting her tenfold, a hundredfold, the swollen-head sensation becoming so big she lost herself in it. She could've been about to throw up, but her body was so light and airy that there was nothing to throw up. Thank Christ for her latest diet, she guessed.
The next thing she knew, Peter was sitting her down at one of the benches lining the walls. Maybe he was just so stable, that was why he'd engraved himself in the bedrock of her mind without Mary Jane ever giving him a chisel. He might've been a nerd, he might not've been able to dress himself to save his life, but he had two parents who loved him and a house he didn't want to get away from and he could get his homework in on time and even if he'd never be a billionaire, he'd surely find some sweet, cushy job that he liked doing and got him enough money to buy a decent house and when he married someone, he'd build them a life he didn't want to hide from in a bottle. The kind of guy that her mother should've found, that she doubted Timmy was, but that could never keep up with her.
The kind of guy she was too broken for. Even at sixteen, Mary Jane knew she was the kind of girl he might fuck, but never marry.
I was right—I do hate being drunk.
"Do you need some water? Would that help?" Her head was clearing. She could make out Peter's words now—solicitous, caring. Between his brains and bedside manner, he'd make a good doctor. But Mary Jane didn't need to be cured.
He was reaching into his backpack, digging out a bottle of water when Mary Jane clutched at her aching forehead. "Will you stop?" she muttered.
For the first time, Peter seemed taken aback. "Stop what?" Maybe he was used to his aunt May's medical emergencies, but unlike her, Mary Jane didn't need a nursemaid.
"What, do you think you hit the jackpot? Swooning woman you get to nurse back to health and she's ever-so-grateful?" Mary Jane sneered. "Redhead, not blonde. In case you didn't notice."
His expression soured. "I was just trying to help."
"Yeah, well, I'm fine." Mary Jane pulled herself to her feet. Whatever that nauseous vertigo was, it seemed to be gone now. She felt great. "See? So I'll just go. I'd thank you, but I'm guessing all the daydreams you'll have about being my dashing hero are thanks enough."
Peter's brow furrowed. "What is your problem?"
"You. You're my problem. You and all the guys who just want to help. Thanks but no thanks. I saw it the first time it aired; I'll skip the rerun."
He held up his hands. "Oh, you got me. You've foiled my sinister plan to keep you from falling on your face."
Mary Jane bit back a retort. She'd said it herself—she wasn't angry with him. She was angry with the pattern of the Watson women and now she'd exploded at a guy, what, because she could actually bring herself to like him?
She felt like explaining to Peter that it wasn't him, it was the damn bug bite taking a sledgehammer to her equilibrium, but she was too embarrassed. At least exiting on the bitch act would spare her any further humiliation. "Next time, let me fall. My face can take it."
Outside, the cutting sunlight and crisp warmth of the open air did another number on her system. She'd felt stuffy with a cold before—vision dimmed, ears swaddled, breathing a near impossibility—this felt like the opposite, too little barriers between her and the world, everything getting through her too-thin skin. Noises, sights, smells.
Mary Jane cupped her hands over her ears and squinted her eyes, trying to shut some of it out. Mom. She just had to find her Mom and then she could go back to Uncle Frank's house and get some peace and quiet, sleep this off. Not that there was much peace and quiet in a house with three kids and one man-child. Maybe if I'd been a little nicer to Peter, he would've taken me home. Just like a stray cat…
A blaring noise shattered her already fragile senses. A truck horn. In her flight, she'd wandered into the street and now an eighteen-wheeler was coming right at her. She heard the truck's horn so deeply, it was like she was feeling it, not harsh in her bones, but a tingle in the soft tissue of her head.
She threw herself away from the tingle, the danger, and felt the air rushing by her body. Mary Jane had a long moment of realizing something wasn't right—she shouldn't be feeling herself in motion for so long, she should've crashed to the ground long ago. Then another tingle; her bleared vision made out the ground rushing up to meet her.
Only it wasn't the ground. It was a wall. Mary Jane threw her hands up to catch herself, stupid gesture, she was going so fast she could've been riding on a motorcycle, but it worked. She stopped herself, as easily as if she were getting down on a floor mat to do some yoga. And she was sticking to it, like the wall was the ground again—her hands held her to the wall—was she holding herself up? She knew she was skinny, but she wasn't Calista Flockhart, pull-ups are effortless skinny.
This is a dream. I'm dreaming. Did I pass out? Am I on the floor of the science expo with Peter fanning my face right now? Mental note: don't be such a see-you-next-Tuesday to him next time.
She had to get to the ground. Maybe then she could have a nice, normal dream. She pulled herself forward—whatever direction that was now—and it felt like she was in some space movie, moving in zero-G, just floating with no gravity to hold her down, her own muscle power reigning supreme. Maybe that made sense. She was working her way down a wall, right, so that was like going downhill.
Then Mary Jane realized she wasn't pulling herself down the wall. No, that'd be only mildly impossible. She'd pulled herself up it, climbed it, and now that she was at the top, she was summiting the parapet of a rooftop.
Does everyone know spider venom can do this? I thought it was only those tree frog things that could make people this high. Maybe there's a market for this. Spiders aren't illegal, are they? I find some, charge people fifty bucks a bite… God, I need to lie down.
Over the edge of the rooftop, Mary Jane made to lie down on her back, but the wall wouldn't let go of her, or she wouldn't let go of it—she didn't know if there was still a difference. She was standing on the solid ground of the roof, but the stupid wall wouldn't let me go!
She pulled, hard, and a brick came out of the wall, stuck to her hand like a piece of scotch tape.
"It's sticking to me," Mary Jane said aloud, wondering if the words would make more sense outside of her own head. "I'm sticking to it? Bricks don't stick to things, Watson—then again, I don't stick to things. Unless they buy me dinner first…"
Deciding bricks would not pass muster as the latest fashion accessory, Mary Jane put her other hand on the brick to pull it off. She squeezed to get a good grip—and the brick crumbled in her hand, crushed like it'd been a sandcastle and not a literal brick.
Even more stunned, Mary Jane brushed her hands off. The particles of brick let go of their hold on her palms and fingers, shedding themselves to the ground. "Bricks. Bricks are either really fragile or I'm really strong. I mean, I've never tried to break a brick with my bare hands, but I'm pretty sure I couldn't have before…"
The bite. That spider's bite. Was that what did it? She could move as fast as a motorcycle, she could climb up walls, she was either superstrong or she could make bricks very, very fragile… Not all of that screamed 'spider' in her book, but then, that Ant-guy could grow big enough to get into a shoving match with King Kong. And that Thor guy—well, just Thor—had a hammer that shot lightning. Even Captain America had a shield for some reason. The only guy who really made sense was the archer, and he not only used a bow and arrow to fight guys with guns, he also wore a lot of purple.
So, what, had that spider been some Norse god that had decided she was worthy to be… was there a Norse spider-god? She could Google it, but given what she'd just done to that brick, Mary Jane wasn't eager to get her phone out.
"And why am I thinking about superheroes?" Mary Jane asked herself. "I'm sure there are lots of people who have superpowers—" There, she'd said the S-word. "—who aren't superheroes. Well, supervillains. No way I'm being a supervillain…"
Oh, this was just perfect. She was a superhero now. She'd never asked for it, her life had enough drama, but screw it, now she'd fight Princess Python too. What could go wrong? Who do I talk to about an exchange? See, I can't really use wall-crawling and superstrength and even that danger sense, I've gotten by without it for a good sixteen years, I can do without. Find some Navy SEAL to give this to, I'll take a moped. Just a nice, normal moped. Or is there a cash prize?
Mary Jane chuckled to herself, looking out at the skyline, her eyes darting to the Baxter Building, to Central Park where she knew Avengers Mansion was. Hell, the mansion or the penthouse apartment, that she'd take, but any fighting of any aliens…
Mary Jane stopped short. Blinked. Wait a minute. Wait just a goddamn minute. Superheroes had cushy jobs guarding Tony Stark. They lived in mansions and skyscrapers. Why did she need to bother with fighting Mr. Hyde; what had he ever done to her? All she wanted was the fame and fortune and maybe Captain America's phone number.
She looked good and she could act—now she had superpowers. That sounded like the kind of act that had talent scouts drooling. She'd need a costume—and some practice—and a name. But once those fell into place, she'd be on Easy Street.
And to think, she owed it all to Peter Parker's dropped wallet.
Shit, she still hadn't given that back to him.