Does he sleep? Or does he just slide into that hallucinogenic middle-space, where dreaming and waking blend? It could be either: there's no difference, that night, between nightmares and reality.
All he knows for sure is that time passes. Maybe he sleeps or maybe he only blinks, but the next time he opens his eyes the sun is up and his lungs are empty.
Peter sits up. He doesn't want to; he wants to never move again. He wants to sink into the floor and disappear, because he has no idea how he is supposed to move forward after what happened last night—
(bad things)
—but he can't. Because as soon as he comes back to consciousness, Peter is bowled over by the worst asthma attack he's had since he was little. It's worse than the wheezing episodes he used to have at Ben's; worse, even, than the attack he had at the Arlingtons. He can only draw in tiny shots of air, barely even a mouthful at a time.
So Peter sits up. He gropes along his bedside table for his inhaler. It isn't there.
There's only one other place it could be, only one other place he keeps it, but as soon as he realizes this, rather than get out of bed, Peter doubles over, closes his eyes, and tries to urge the air into his lungs by force of will.
His inhaler is in his backpack. His backpack is in the entranceway near the living room, where he dropped it last night when he went to help put the girls to bed. If he wants to retrieve it he will have to walk through the kitchen, where he can hear the tinkling sound of the girl's voices mingled with the deeper sound of Skip's.
He can't go out there.
Doubling over doesn't work. Peter stands up. He pounds on his chest, tries to cough. Goes to the window and opens it—sticks his head out, even stares down the long length of the fire escape. He would never make it. The air won't come.
Dizzy, his fingertips tingling, Peter stumbles out of his room.
It's the same scene he's woken up to every morning since he came to live with Skip: the girls at the table, sitting on stacks of cushions to reach their plates. Skip, standing over the stove and still wearing his pajama bottoms as he stirs eggs in the pan. Only this time Peter sees Skip's shoulders tense when he hears Peter come in. Skip doesn't turn around.
Lily, on the other hand, perks up in her seat.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," she says. "You're late, we already ate so much."
Peter can't respond. He's stalled out at the spot where the kitchen tile meets the hardwood, his vision blotting at the edges, his breath coming so thin now it's barely making a sound. He stands there, swaying and clutching his chest, until Lily's face falls.
"Daddy?" she says, uncertain. Then, louder, higher, "Daddy!"
At last Skip turns around. For a second Peter swears there is a hint of disgust in his expression, and then he catches sight of Peter's face—lips blue, cheeks gray—and just like Lily his own face falls.
Skip starts forward and Peter staggers back.
Skip freezes. On his face, unmistakable—an expression of remorse. He doesn't come any closer.
"Where's your inhaler?" he says.
Peter's next breath whistles. He points toward the entranceway.
Skip rushes off in that direction, and as soon as he's out of the kitchen Peter can't hold himself up any longer. He trips back toward the table and collapses into one of the chairs, folded over double, trying to stay calm because he knows panic will only make things worse, but that's the Catch-22 of asthma—not breathing causes panic causes not breathing and on and on—
(and there is a weight on top of you, it's holding you down, and there's a hand on your mouth and breath on your neck and you could have seen this coming because bad things just happen and you should have known you have to take care of yourself Peter you have to)
—and just for a second, Peter wonders if it would be so bad if he couldn't take another breath.
If he just… stopped.
There is a hand on his back.
Peter flinches, but it's not Skip. It's Lily. She's gotten out of her chair and is standing next to him, eyes shining with tears, tiny palm on his shoulder. To his left, Emma stands just a little further away, not touching but looking just as terrified as her sister.
Peter takes Lily's hand.
Somehow, he smiles at Emma.
And then Skip is back.
He shoos the girls away. In place of Lily's hand, he gives Peter his inhaler.
His throat is too constricted to allow the first puff of albuterol through, so Peter has to hold it in his mouth, letting it work its way into his lungs slowly, loosening his chest until he can take another puff, this one fuller.
With the first real lungful of air, Peter's eyes start to burn. He forces the tears back—there's no chance he's doing this in front of Skip, and even less of a chance he'll do it in front of the girls—but Skip seems to see it anyway, even as Peter turns his head to avoid Skip's eye.
"Girls," he says softly, "go to your room."
"Is he okay?" says Emma.
"He's gonna be fine. Go to your room, I'll get you when we're done."
Peter's heart begins to jackhammer. He wants to get to his feet, to run for the front door or maybe the fire escape like he tried to earlier, but his legs are still jelly; oxygen is still making its way into his bloodstream. He is struck by the insane urge to beg the girls to stay, but he immediately quells it. They're just kids. They can't protect him. They shouldn't have to.
So instead he sits up as tall as he can manage while still wheezing slightly, and he watches the girls head back to their room, casting little glances over their shoulders at him as they go.
Then he and Skip are alone.
Peter wants to not be here. He wants to be anywhere else. He would even take the Arlington's basement, or the sweltering bottom bunk at the halfway house. But here is where he is, so even though he is still gasping he forces his mouth closed, sets his jaw, and looks Skip in the eye. For a second, Skip just stands over him, gazing down, expression unreadable.
All at once, Skip's face crumples. He follows the motion with his body, collapsing into the chair across from Peter and folding in on himself, his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving.
Peter is stunned. It takes him a moment to realize Skip is crying.
"Oh, God," Skip sobs, "oh, God, Peter, I'm so sorry."
In his chair, Peter freezes. Of the many scenarios that pelted rapid-fire through his brain in the moment between Skip dismissing the girls and dropping into the chair, this was not one of them. His fingers instantly start to feel tingly again, but this time it has nothing to do with lack of oxygen.
When Peter doesn't say anything, Skip lifts his head. His eyes are swollen, his cheeks glistening. The tears are real.
"I'm sick, Peter," he says. "I have a sickness. I've always known it but I've never… God, I've always fought against it. Everything I've done in the past ten years… everything I've done my whole life has been to make sure I never hurt anyone because of this illness and now… what I did to you last night. I'll never forgive myself, Peter. I'll never—oh, God."
He buries his face again, wracked by another sob.
Peter starts to shake. He feels numb and distant, but he can't tell if it's because of the oxygen returning to his brain or because of what's happening in front of him.
His mouth is dry, but he opens it anyway.
"Why… why did you do that?"
Sniffling, Skip looks up. He shakes his head.
"I don't know," he whispers. "I didn't want to. I didn't mean to. I've always been in control, Peter, you have to believe me, I've always… but with you I just… some monster took over and… it was like I had no say over my own actions. Like I couldn't help myself."
(You're different. You're better.)
Peter swallows. It feels like swallowing sand.
"Then I… I should go. Just send me back, just—"
Peter cuts himself off. At the thought of going back to his social worker and asking for a new home, phantom heat rises on the back of his neck. His stomach feels too small, shrunken and empty.
No one else wants him. It's why he ended up in the halfway house in the first place.
Skip seems to be thinking along the same lines. He shakes his head.
"Peter," he says hoarsely, "Peter, please. You can't say anything. What about Ned? What about your school?"
The shaking increases.
"I don't think—"
"What about the girls, Peter?"
Peter closes his mouth.
"You know what it's like," Skip goes on. "You've seen how bad the foster system can be. I'm the only one who was ever able to help them, if they get tossed to some… indifferent fucking family like they've had before, they're never going to make it. And you know it could happen. Look where they sent you."
Peter has a flash of a rolled-up magazine. For just a second he imagines someone using it to hit Lily. Or Emma. The idea is so repugnant it makes his stomach lurch.
"The world is such a cruel place," says Skip. "Such a cruel place. No one wants a bunch of broken kids. The system will chew all of you up and spit you back up, and it doesn't care, I've seen it, it doesn't. But I do. I do, Peter, I swear."
For the second time in ten minutes, Skip does something totally unexpected. He slides out of his chair, and he gets on his knees in front of Peter.
Peter wants to flee. He wants, at the very least, to push back, to get out of reach. But Skip takes his hand before Peter can, holds it firmly.
(That shiver…)
"Please forgive me. Please forgive me, Peter. Please don't ruin everything we've built here for one mistake. Think of your future. Think of the girls. Please."
Peter doesn't know what to do. He has never seen an adult act like this, never seen a grown man sob and beg on his knees. These tears aren't like the grief tears Ben sometimes had. They're frightening, but in a completely different way.
"Are you… gonna do it again?"
Skip shakes his head frantically.
"Never," he says. "Never, Peter. You have my word."
(You are allowed to defend yourself, Peter.)
It's just a whisper. Peter can barely even hear it.
The whisper is wrong. There is no choice here. There are no options. There is only one route, because if Peter is responsible for anything happening to the girls, he will never forgive himself.
And was it really so bad? Compared to boiling in the interminable heat and lying in the dark next to the clanking washing machine and listening to Felipe sob and never having anything to eat, was it really so bad? All that happened was that Skip laid on top of him and—
(moved)
—really, compared to everything else—compared to what could happen to the girls—is that so bad?
(Not everything is black and white.)
Peter has jumped in front of the bullet before. It was the best thing he's ever done. The only thing that's ever really mattered.
He can do it again.
"Okay," he whispers. "Okay, I forgive you."
Skip gives a huge, shuddering sigh of relief. He lowers his forehead to the back of Peter's palm.
"Thank you," he murmurs, "thank you, thank you. It will never happen again, I swear. I swear."
Peter hopes that Skip is telling the truth. He hopes it so hard his chest aches, even though the air flows freely now, even though he can feel his lungs working as they should.
But if he's honest with himself he knows, even then, that the promise is a lie.
He knows now. He knows Felipe was right, and that bad things just happen and that good things are mirages, created to foster just enough false hope to make you drop your defenses, and that they shouldn't be trusted, no matter what promises are made, no matter what privileges are afforded from keeping his mouth shut. He knows—so when, a few weeks after Skip kneels on the floor and begs his forgiveness, he hears the door creak open in the middle of the night, Peter is not surprised at all.
He is dazed when Skip slaps him for trying to push him off. He's hurt when Skip calls him things, terrible things, things that echo in his head for days afterward, no matter how much Skip apologizes, no matter how often he says it will never happen again. He's exhausted, because even on the nights when the door doesn't open he can no longer sleep, the anticipation almost as bad as the event. He's resigned, because things only get worse when he fights back.
Peter is many things, now, but he is never surprised.
Despite Skip's promises to stop, it starts to happen more often. Despite Peter's promise not to tell, he starts to get scared.
Escalation. That's what the books call it. Peter goes to the New York Public Library branch near the apartment after school, too scared to Google anything on his school account, too scared to use the school library for the same reason. In cases of abuse, the aggressor will tend to increase their displays of power and dominance, either as a means of asserting control or because their self-control is slipping.
The next time Skip escalates, Peter forgets not to fight back.
It starts the same as the other nights. Skip on top of him. Skip's breath in his face, his mouth. Peter holds still, like he always does, closes his eyes and waits for it to be done.
But when Skip's hands grope for the edges of his pajamas, Peter panics.
He shoves the hands away. He shouts, "Sto—!"
Then Skip's hands are on his throat.
The bruises around his neck are so bad Skip keeps him home from school for three days, and only sends Peter back when he's had a chance to buy several high-collared shirts, by which time Peter's voice no longer sounds so hoarse.
The limp is harder to hide. Peter tells everyone he sprained his ankle running to catch the bus. No one questions it.
He remembers not to fight the next time. It makes things less painful.
It doesn't make them easier.
When the girls are home, Skip talks to Peter normally. If Ned stops by he jokes and teases, makes them pizza rolls, plays the part of good dad so well that sometimes Peter wonders if he's imagining things—but which things, he can't tell. Is this smiling, khaki-wearing, dinner-making Skip the real one? Or is it the one who staggers into Peter's bed at night, smelling like whiskey and old sweat and murmuring nonsense while he presses Peter's body into the bed, his face into the pillows?
Which is the real Peter, for that matter? Is he the Peter who goes to school and band practice and decathlon and smiles when Ned or his teachers ask how he is? Who plays with the girls and does the dishes and his homework and pretends, for all the world, like nothing bad has ever happened to him, pretends so hard that sometimes even he believes it?
(You act like nothing bad has ever happened to me.)
Or is he the smaller Peter? The Peter who lies awake every night until his body aches with tiredness, listening for the creak of the door, the shuffle of bare feet on carpet—and when he hears them holds his breath, holds himself so, so still, as if he can make himself disappear by refusing to move?
More and more, he feels like the second.
He thinks he can't do it anymore.
He thinks of the girls, and he does.
(Responsibility is not a choice.)
Skip doesn't apologize anymore. He doesn't cry. When no one else is around, Skip looks at Peter with such disdain Peter feels flayed by it, like Skip is seeing everything underneath, like he is seeing the things Peter hates in himself and hating them just as much. Like Peter disgusts him.
This, at least, Peter understands.
Winter arrives, cold and sharp as a shard of glass.
In December, a blizzard closes the school for three days. The week after that is winter break. The ice is so thick by this point that Ned's mother declares it too dangerous for him to leave his apartment, even to visit Peter, and Skip decides to take her lead by proclaiming this a "stay-home break." He buys a host of indoor activities for the girls, asks Peter to help him decorate the apartment for Christmas, and then keeps them all inside for nearly ten days straight.
When Peter gets back to school after New Years, he's so tired he can barely see straight. In third period his English teacher places a pop quiz in front of him and he can't even read it: the letters are a nonsensical jumble.
Peter doesn't have a choice: he turns the quiz in blank, promising himself this is the only time it will happen, promising to get back on track, to hold himself together. He lasts about three hours before he nods off in the back of Algebra II, only to wake to an elbow in his ribs and a raised eyebrow from the teacher.
"No more late-night split-screen marathons," Ned whispers once the teacher has turned back to the projector. "Even I won't be able to get you back in here if you get kicked out because of your Zelda addiction."
Peter laughs to cover up the sting in the corners of his eyes, then he turns away on the premise of fishing a pencil out of his bag so he can quickly wipe them.
He pulls himself together.
He can do this.
"So I'm thinking after the field trip we can go to your place to work on the hydraulics. I think if we can increase the pressure we can make the movement look more fluid, but—"
"What?"
Peter has been picking at his hot dog for the past fifteen minutes, staring past Ned's shoulder at the plane of unbroken gray beyond the cafeteria's broad windows. February is shaping up to be less snowy than its preceding months, but no less frigid. There have been a lot of afternoons spent indoors lately. A lot of family time.
He hasn't heard a word Ned's said.
When Peter forces himself to tear his eyes away from the gray and look at Ned, Ned rolls his eyes.
"The robotics project," he says. "We have to start getting off our asses, Peter, the competition is in three weeks. And to be honest, dude, I feel like we could have been done by now if you had your head in the game. What has been up with you? Even Liz is starting to notice something is off, she said your flashcards were 'passable' last week, which for you is like… being held back a grade, or something."
When Peter says nothing, Ned waves a hand in front of his face. Peter manages not to jump—too close too close—but only just.
"What? I mean, sorry, I'm just—what?"
Now Ned frowns, still looking irritated but with a touch of concern, too. He glances at the decimated hot dog.
"Woah, I was joking, man, but are you okay for real? Are you sick?"
He leans across the table like he's about to feel Peter's forehead, and this time Peter does jerk out of the way.
"I'm fine," he snaps. Swallows. "What—what were you saying about the robot?"
"Okay." Ned lowers himself back into his seat. "Um, I was saying we can go to your place after the OsCorp field trip and—"
"No."
The word leaves Peter's mouth so sharply he doesn't feel it passing his tongue, doesn't realize he said it until he sees the expression on Ned's face, almost like Peter just slapped him.
"Okay… I just—"
Suddenly, without warning, Peter is shouting.
"You just what, Ned? Maybe it never occurred to you, but I don't always like having a million people at my apartment, how about that? And yet every time we have a project to do, we end up at my place, and I have to deal with telling Skip you're coming, and cleaning up afterward, and pretending I don't have a million other things to deal with just because your mom sucks! This might be news to you, but it's not my fault and it's not my problem!"
Peter doesn't remember standing up, but somehow he is on his feet and his tray is upside-down, bits of hot dog sprayed across the table. Ned, still in his seat, is looking at Peter like he's never seen him before.
Half the lunch room is staring at them.
"Oh no, Leeds, your boyfriend doesn't wanna play house anymore!" shouts Flash.
The jeer snaps Peter out of it. He jolts, sees there's a teacher picking her way through the now-laughing crowd toward them, and he snatches his bag from the bench, shouldering past the surly girl from decathlon in his haste to get away.
He spends seventh period in the bathroom, sitting in the corner of the accessible stall and staring at his phone, hoping Ned will text to ask where he is. If Ned texts, Peter can apologize.
The screen stays blank.
Peter can't face robotics club. He can't face an angry Ned, or the whispers of the kids who witnessed his blowup, or pretend to care about hydraulics or… any of it.
He plans to slip out of the bathroom when the bell rings, lose himself in the crowd of students heading to eighth period and climb the fence by the football field, where no one is ever watching. Then he can go to the park, or wander around the bodegas in his neighborhood—anything to kill the time before Skip is expecting him home. But his plan falls flat when, upon exiting the bathroom, he nearly walks into a stone-faced Morita.
The principal crooks a finger at him and heads toward his office without a word.
Peter can't even find the energy to be worried. He just follows.
"I've given you a lot of leeway, Mr. Parker. I know you've been through some real hardship, and transitioning to a new home, a new school—that's never easy. But I did make it clear when I admitted you that your attendance here was contingent upon your performance. Especially when it comes to behavior."
Peter stares at his knees. The urge to jiggle them is almost overwhelming, but he holds himself still. Holds his breath. Says nothing.
"Mr. Parker, look at me."
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. Just for a second, so he can try to block out the tiny space of the office, the closed door, the narrow width of the desk separating him from Principal Morita. Then he looks up.
"It was just an argument," he says. "I tried to tell Ned I was sorry."
"According to Mrs. Wilcox it was a pretty serious argument. You want to tell me what it was about?"
Peter shrugs. Shakes his head.
Morita sighs.
"Well, this isn't just about the fight. We need to talk about your grades as well. You had such a strong start, but the last few weeks you've been in a bit of a freefall. I know you missed some school—"
"I was sick. Skip called in."
"The absences were excused, that's true. Where I'm concerned is that it doesn't appear you're putting in the effort to make up for the time you missed. This is a hard program, it requires a lot more focus than what you might find in a public school. If you aren't up for the coursework, there isn't going to be much we can do to—"
Under the numbness, a little glimmer of horror.
"Please don't kick me out," Peter says. "I can't—school is the only thing I—the only place—"
He bites his tongue.
But Morita doesn't budge. He folds his hands on the desk and peers down at Peter without pity when he says, "If school really means that much, Mr. Parker, then it's on you to prove it."
(You have to—)
Peter swallows.
"I think… I think I need help."
It's just like shouting at Ned: the words pass his lips before he can recognize or stop them. Once he realizes what he's said Peter immediately opens his mouth to renege—
(what will happen to the girls?)
—and sees Morita's expression soften at last.
"We can get you help."
Peter's heart does a painful backflip.
"You… you can?"
Is there a way they can help without ruining the girls' lives? Is there something he missed, some way out he couldn't see because he's been too scared and too tired and so convinced he is alone he can't even think straight?
Maybe it's like the English quiz. Maybe the letters only look jumbled because his brain is jumbled.
Maybe someone can help him.
"Of course," says Morita. "We have an after-school tutoring program. I'll set you up with someone on the honor roll, see if we can get you back where you need to be. We don't want to see you fail any more than you do."
Peter closes his eyes. It takes all his effort not to sway in his seat.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," Morita agrees. "Let's get you set up for tomorrow after the field trip. But Mr. Parker?"
Peter opens his eyes.
"You should consider this your probation. You have a lot of resources at your disposal. You have your foster dad, and all of your teachers, and even your classmates. We're all rooting for you. But no one is going to be able to help you unless you help yourself, do you understand?"
Peter understands. It's the only thing he has understood all along.
He has to take care of himself.
The surly girl from decathlon and chemistry drops into the seat next to him on the bus, her shoulder bumping against his and making him flinch.
"Sorry," she says, and she fixes him with an even stare that immediately has Peter on edge.
"Um." Peter shrinks against the window to put as much space between them as he can. "That's… okay?"
"No," she says, "I'm not actually sorry. I'm just demonstrating the proper etiquette when you knock into someone. Like you did yesterday. To me."
"Oh." Peter casts around for an appropriate response. "I'm… sorry?"
She squints at him. "I'm Michelle," she says. "And don't do it again."
Michelle goes to sit at the back of the bus, alone. Peter feels strangely disappointed as he watches her go.
Three rows in front of him, Ned whips around to face the front as Peter looks at him, his neck going red. Peter knows he heard. But Ned doesn't turn around again.
There is a short, sharp pain on the back of Peter's neck.
"Ow!" he says, and when he reaches up something falls to the floor beside him.
The spider scuttles under a shelf full of beakers.
Peter touches the welt the spider left behind and thinks distantly that he should tell someone. Then he imagines, for a second, submitting to any sort of exam. The thought evaporates.
If I'm lucky it was venomous, Peter thinks. Maybe I'll die in my sleep.
In his head, Peter tries a laugh at his own morbidity. The imaginary laughter rings false. He can't tell when he's being ironic anymore, not even to himself.
Peter glances once more at the place the spider disappeared, then jogs to catch up with the rest of the group.