Things are going to take a turn soon (probably chapter 40), and we'll have a couple chapters from Harley's perspective. Just a heads up if you're wondering when we're getting back to that storyline :)
Peter stared at his bookbag. He'd packed it, unpacked it, re-packed it.
He drummed his fingers against the table, eyes flicking toward his open laptop sitting on the kitchen counter. A local news page stared back at him, refreshed over and over for updates on crime.
There'd been a small blurb about a shooting but no details, and no update in the past 24 hours. Nothing about it turning into a homicide since it was first reported, at least. That was reassuring.
"Hey bud. You ready for tomorrow?"
Peter glanced up as Tony strolled in. His eyes were darting between a phone in one hand and a tablet in the other. He was clearly busy, but with everything else going on, he was still making time for Peter. He'd been careful to do that all day, checking in while he worked.
"I'm ready." Peter glanced at his laptop, and then at the backpack, and then at his phone.
"I'll take you in the morning, and then I think Happy will pick you up. Or maybe he'll drop you off, and I'll pick you up. Not sure yet." Tony's eyes flicked down at his tablet with an irritated frown, swiping at something. "What do you want to do for lunch tomorrow? Want me to pack you something?"
Peter barely processed the question. His mind was still cycling through the things that were bothering him. Nothing felt settled.
He shrugged and opened another tab with another set of news reports on his laptop. Nothing jumped out at him. But no news was good news. He shoved the laptop aside and forced himself to pay attention to the tasks at hand.
"You don't have to pack me anything. And I can just make my way back on my own, Mr. Stark." That would save either Tony or Happy a trip, and it might give him a chance to hang out with Ned at the library before heading back.
Tony finally looked up at that, his brows pulling together slightly. "You could," he said slowly, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Yeah." A small crease of disappointment flickered across his face, there and gone in an instant.
"And then we could hang out in the lab when you get back, if you're free." Peter suggested, sensing Tony felt bad about not picking him up on his first day of school.
He was extremely parental lately. Or what Peter imagined to be parental.
Tony's face brightened instantly. "Deal. We'll order pizza, mess with something in the lab—you can tell me all about your first day."
Peter exhaled and nodded, glancing back at the laptop briefly before finally unzipping his backpack again. He emptied the contents once more, spreading all the items and taking inventory.
Pens and pencils. Notebooks. Folders. A couple protein bars. Midtown Tech gym uniform and extra socks. Graphing calculator. His schedule.
Then he thought about it and added the red hoodie from the back of his chair. Not his favorite hoodie—that one was too important. But this one would do.
Tony walked by and tossed something on top of the pile.
Peter blinked at the sight of two crisp fifties.
"For lunch," Tony said.
Peter narrowed his eyes. "I think that's probably more than I need for lunch."
Tony shrugged. "Get extra."
Peter wondered how much extra Tony thought he needed.
Tony didn't give him time to argue. "You'll have to get up early tomorrow. Better get ready for bed, kiddo."
"Yeah." Peter murmured, zipping everything back into the bag.
Tony glanced between him and the bag and frowned slightly. "You've got nothing to worry about, you know. You're going to like school."
Peter gave a small, automatic nod.
"And you already met a bunch of kids. That helps. School is easier when you know people."
Peter glanced up. He sounded like he was speaking from experience. And Tony didn't ever talk about his own teenage experiences.
"My dad," Tony started, then hesitated, as if caught off guard by his own words. He swallowed, then tried again. "Uh, my dad didn't let me go to high school for long. But I remember being new at MIT. I got to know Rhodey during move-in day, and when classes started, it really helped having someone."
He blinked, surprised that Tony had shared that tiny tidbit at all. Peter was suddenly curious about Tony's time at school with Rhodey, and his very uneasy, abrupt mention of his father. But he sensed the man would much prefer to change the subject.
"I texted Ned. We'll meet up before classes. He's going to help me find everything."
Tony nodded approvingly. "Good."
Did Tony think he was nervous about school? He supposed he was, a little. It wasn't exactly the most pressing concern, though.
He glanced at his phone, then back at Tony. "Did you talk to Harley?"
"Yeah. He's got the same first day of school you do." Tony smirked. "Maybe we can pop him up on a screen in the lab tomorrow and see how his day went."
Peter smiled faintly, hoping they'd get a dramatic retelling of his first day back, and not a brush-off.
For a moment, his thoughts drifted again. He glanced at the laptop, then at his bag, then at his phone. His mind felt scattered, jittery—like it couldn't land on anything solid.
Peter finally gathered everything up and stood. "I guess I'll head in for the night."
Tony reached out as he passed, squeezing his shoulder before ruffling his hair.
It had become a thing. And it instantly made Peter feel better every time Tony did it.
Peter wasn't sure how to convey that he liked it, and he was starting to worry Tony would decide that maybe he didn't like it and stop.
He wanted to lean into the touch but somehow stopped himself at the last second every time, freezing up awkwardly instead.
That hadn't stopped Tony yet, though. And tonight, he even added a pat on the back.
"Good night, Pete"
"Night."
Peter lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He'd been sleeping okay these past couple nights, but that seemed to be the problem. Now he felt wired, his body buzzing with too much energy. He couldn't sleep. He was excited about school, but his thoughts kept circling, and he felt uneasy.
Peter leaned over and opened up a drawer. He pulled out the small vials of polymer fluid and rolled them between his fingers before grabbing the modified syringe dispenser.
He'd been toying with one formula that polymerized in air and could be shot like a projectile—almost like strands silly string. But unlike silly string, it was surprisingly strong and sticky, like spider silk.
The strands stuck to everything, but he'd found out recently that he could keep his own hands from adhering to the strands by reversing the stickiness across his skin. He just had to hold onto the "let go" feeling he used to disengage from a wall or other surface.
He thought about experimenting with the polymer in his bathroom, which had become his secret lab away from Tony's. But he settled for tightening and adjusting the screws on the little mechanical dispenser instead. He really needed a bigger, open-air area to test it out. Not a bathroom.
He glanced a few times at the closed laptop on his desk but managed to not open it up.
Tony had talked to him yesterday.
Or he tried to, at least. Peter had shut it down pretty fast. He really didn't want to talk about the mugging, or the memories, or the panic attack. But Tony didn't seem put off by Peter's lack of response.
"Fine. You don't have to say anything. Just listen." Tony had sat across from him at the kitchen counter, leaning forward, and looking so sincere.
"You can come talk to me anytime, Pete." Tony had looked him in the eye, making sure he understood before continuing. "Or, I can find someone for you to talk to. Someone who could help with your anxiety. Or anything else that's been stressing you out."
"I'm fine, Mr. Stark."
Tony had hesitated. Then, finally, he nodded. "Okay. It's up to you. But you can always change your mind."
It was sort of absurd though. Who would he talk to about what went through his mind every night?
Some things… he could never say out loud.
He didn't think he could ever admit to some random therapist the things he saw when he was in the middle of a panic attack, or in the middle of a nightmare.
He didn't want to claim those memories as his own.
And he especially didn't want to talk about any of it with Stark.
But building something? That he could do.
So he got to work adjusting the little mechanized dispenser for the polymer fluids, and he tried not to think about the man who had bled all over the concrete in that alleyway.
"You're safe, Pete. Go back to sleep."
Peter trudged into the kitchen, still yawning. Happy had texted him to be ready by 7:30 AM sharp, so Peter had already showered, dressed, put on his newly reprogrammed watch, and grabbed his bag. He was set.
The kitchen smelled of coffee, sugar, and something warm and freshly baked. There was a box on the counter from his favorite bakery down the street.
"Morning, kiddo. Grab a muffin," Tony's voice carried easily over the sound of him furiously stirring his coffee.
"Thanks," Peter muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he shuffled forward to grab a muffin.
"Got everything you need? Ready to head out?" Tony had donned a pair of sunglasses and a hat, his typical disguise when he wanted to move under the radar in the public.
Peter paused mid-bite. "Wait—what?"
Before Tony could respond, the elevator doors opened and Happy strode out.
"Alright, let's go, kid," Happy grumbled as he strolled into the kitchen, coffee in one hand, and a bag from the same bakery in the other. "Got you a couple bagels for the car ride over. Just don't get crumbs everywhere."
Peter blinked between the two of them, confused.
Tony's head snapped up. "Happy, what the hell? I'm taking him to school this morning."
"What are you talking about? You said drop him off!" Happy shot back.
"It's his first day, obviously I'm going. And I can't believe you picked up breakfast for him. I picked up breakfast!"
Peter's gaze darted between them. "Wait… so who's actually taking me?"
"Me," they both answered at the same time.
Tony huffed. "Fine. Happy can drive. I'll ride along."
Peter was herded toward the elevator, a muffin in one hand, a bagel in the other, and two fully grown men squabbling behind him.
Happy drove. Tony sat shotgun. Peter sat in the back, slowly eating his breakfast as he listened to them argue over the best way to survive high school.
"Just keep your head down," Happy advised gruffly. "It'll be over before you know it."
Tony scoffed. "No, no. Walk in like you own the place. Confidence is key."
Peter raised an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully.
"Yeah, you would say that," Happy grumbled. "What, should he wear sunglasses indoors too?"
"If they match his outfit." Tony shrugged.
Peter sighed into his bagel. This was going to be a long ride.
Happy continued, ignoring Tony. "Don't attract attention. Blend in."
"Or, make an impression," Tony countered. "First days are about establishing your image. You don't want to be 'the weird quiet kid.'"
Peter frowned. "What if I am the weird quiet kid?"
Tony turned around in his seat to look at him directly. "Then you own it. Be weird and quiet, confidently."
Peter blinked. "That makes no sense."
Tony continued. "Make a few good friends. You don't need a bunch. Network and make connections, but you don't need to be friends with everyone."
Happy took the opportunity to chime in. "Teachers love students who don't talk. Don't raise your hand, don't volunteer for anything, just get through the day."
"That's terrible advice," Tony said.
"No, it's survival advice."
Peter didn't remember asking for any advice that morning.
Happy pulled up to the front of Midtown Tech, and Peter grabbed his bag.
"And remember, don't get into any fights," Happy warned.
Tony nodded. "Finally, something I can agree on."
"Unless absolutely necessary," Happy continued. "You don't want to let any of these punks push you around."
Tony rolled his eyes. "No fights. At all."
"I'm just… gonna go now." Peter pushed the car door open.
Tony turned in his seat. "Good luck, kiddo. You'll do great. Text if you change your mind about a ride back."
"Yeah, I'll let you know." Peter slipped out quickly, but before he could shut the door—
"And hey," Tony leaned out the window slightly, his voice a little softer now, "text if you need anything at all. Okay? We're never too busy to come get you if you need us."
Peter paused, feeling an unexpected warmth spread in his chest.
People were starting to look over in their direction. "Okay," he murmured. "Thanks, guys. I'm going to go in now."
Peter started up the sidewalk, weaving through a few curious bystanders.
Betty Brant fell into step beside him, looking thoroughly entertained.
"Aw," she teased, looking over her shoulder. "Were those your dads? They seem really nice."
Peter hummed as vaguely as possible and shifted the conversation to robotics club.
Walking into the building, the nerves set in. Orientation day had been a lot quieter. Today was a different beast. The hallways were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with students. Some were chatting excitedly, others shoving their way through. And the cafeteria—where most people seemed to be gathering—was a solid wall of sound. Conversations layered on top of each other in an unintelligible roar, the smell of syrupy breakfast trays and burnt coffee wafting in from the nearby teacher's lounge was thick in the air.
Peter lingered near the entrance, gripping the strap of his backpack. Too many people.
He considered turning right back around and waiting out the first bell in some quiet hallway, somewhere he could get his bearings without feeling like he was suffocating in the noise. But then, through the crowd, a familiar voice called out.
"Hey, Peter! Over here!"
Peter exhaled, relief washing over him as he spotted Ned waving him over. He quickly made his way through the sea of bodies, sidestepping a couple of students who weren't paying attention to where they were walking.
"I'll walk you to your Advisory classroom," Ned said, already moving through the crowd. "Then after that, we have gym together. And then we can meet up for lunch."
Peter was eternally grateful for Ned.
He soon learned that Advisory classes were assigned alphabetically by last name. And, unfortunately, Smith and Thompson were close enough on the list to be placed in the same room.
The moment Peter sat down, a groan echoed from the doorway.
"Oh, come on. Not Decaf Smith. It's way too early for Decaf."
Peter didn't even look at him, even when Flash purposely kicked the leg of his seat on his way to the other side of the room.
Advisory was just a 15 minute class where the teacher took roll and distributed forms to take home and get signed. The PA system crackled to life overhead, and they listened to some morning announcements. But Peter felt every second of the short period as Flash continued making little snide remarks under his breath to the other students.
Peter grit his teeth and ignored him. Or tried to. As soon as the bell rang, Peter took off, but it seemed he and Flash were walking in the same direction.
"Get lost." Flash said.
Peter kept ignoring him, hoping he'd turn down a different hall. No such luck.
When they reached the double doors of the gymnasium at the same time, they both groaned out loud.
You've got to be kidding me.
At least Ned and MJ were also there. Peter stalked past Flash to go stand with them.
Coach Wilson didn't waste any time sending them to the locker room to change into their gym uniforms.
The boys locker room was where Peter ran into the first real problem of the day. He stood at his locker and hooked his fingers along the bottom of his shirt before pausing. Crap.
He couldn't change here. Not unless he wanted the whole locker room to see the thin, faded marks that wrapped around his torso and upper arms. Unlike the faint scars on his forearms that most people couldn't see from a distance, the ones under his shirt stood out easily against his pale skin.
Peter bit his lip, considering. In the end he grabbed his things and headed for a bathroom stall.
"Shy, Decaf?" Flash needled as he passed by.
Peter ignored him, shutting the door to a stall behind him. He could easily hear Flash's snide comments on the other side, and the laughter that followed. So much for establishing a confident image.
The moment the class returned in their gym uniforms, Coach Wilson blew her whistle and barked, "Alright, people, let's move! Five laps around the gym, then stretch out."
So they moved. It felt good to run, even at the fairly slow pace Peter had to set.
But the gym smelled like sweat and old rubber, and the air conditioning was on the fritz. And while it wasn't outright hot, it wasn't exactly comfortable either. The whole class was already sticky and irritable after just a single lap.
By the time they finished, a few students were panting. Peter, of course, wasn't even winded, but he made sure to slow his pace near the end to blend in. An upperclassman teacher-assistant led them through some stretches and Peter felt rather relaxed. So far it put him in mind of exercises with Nat. Without all the violence, that is.
The whistle blew and Coach Wilson had them gather for instructions. "Listen up! We're doing partner drills and then we'll play a game. You have assigned partners for the week."
A collective groan went up.
"I don't want to hear complaints that you didn't get your bff. You all need to learn to work together and have strong interpersonal skills."
She pointed at the wall where a state standard had been taped up. Today we are working on: Developing interpersonal skills through movement, including recognizing others' feelings, encouraging participation, and communicating effectively, all while promoting positive social interactions and responsible behaviors. PE.10-001
"I don't make the rules. I just follow them." She pulled out a clipboard and started rattling off names as people started to groan again.
Then he heard the worst possible combination of names.
"Smith and Thompson!"
Seriously?
Flash spun around and glared at him. "No way."
"You wanna argue with the clipboard, Thompson?" The teacher arched a brow.
Flash huffed but stalked toward Peter, looking mutinous. Peter gave him an awkward smile.
"Guess we're stuck together."
"Guess I'm stuck carrying dead weight," Flash shot back.
They were playing some sort of team-based dodgeball relay, but Peter's priority was not standing out. So he tripped over his feet once or twice. Missed an obvious catch. Threw just a little too far to the left.
Flash's patience wore thin almost immediately.
"Oh my God, Decaf, are you serious?" he hissed as Peter let another ball slip through his fingers. "Are you even trying?"
Peter nodded. "Totally. This just… isn't my game."
"I swear, if I have to suffer through this for the whole week—"
Ned and his partner had claimed a spot next to them and Peter was glad for their proximity. Ned rolled his eyes at Flash's ongoing rant. "Maybe we'll be partners next week," he said optimistically.
"Or maybe you'll get stuck with Flash. In which case I'm sorry for your future suffering." Peter muttered and Ned snorted.
Flash must've heard because he spun around to glare at them. "Tubby would be lucky to have me as a partner."
Ned didn't seem bothered by the insult but Peter felt a wave of anger wash over him. As Flash turned to stalk off toward the water fountain, Peter grabbed a dodgeball and tossed it against the gym wall at just the right angle—judging its rebound perfectly so that it bounced with force and smacked Flash right on the back of the head.
THWAP.
Flash stumbled forward, whipping around with murder in his eyes.
"Son of a—"
Peter's own eyes widened in mock horror. "Oh man, sorry, dude! Wow, that was—super unlucky." Pointing at the wall like it had betrayed him. "Y'know, bad aim and all. Reflexes like a newborn deer."
Flash's fists clenched. "You little—"
The gym teacher's whistle shrieked through the air.
"Smith! Thompson! Cool it!"
Peter barely resisted the urge to smirk. Flash, meanwhile, looked ready to explode.
The teacher folded her arms, fixing them both with a warning look. "I am this close to making you two partners every day until you learn to work together."
Peter's stomach sank. "Sorry, Mrs. Wilson. We're getting along."
Flash glared daggers at him but clenched his jaw. "Yeah. We're fine. It was a stray ball. No big deal."
The teacher didn't look convinced, but she let it go with a final warning glare before walking away.
They both let out a relieved breath.
Their unspoken truce lasted a few minutes.
Back in the locker room Flash shoved past Peter, knocking into his shoulder. It was just a harmless, petty move, but Peter spun and shoved back instinctively before he realized what he was doing. Flash fell against another student and suddenly the boys in the locker room were shouting fight! Fight! Fight!
Great. So much for not starting fights.
If Ned hadn't run in and placed himself between the two of them just then, Peter wasn't sure what would have happened. He didn't want to fight Flash. But Flash looked angry enough to throw a punch.
Peter supposed he would just have to take the hit if it ever came to that.
The chanting died down with disappointment when Coach Wilson sent another teacher into the locker room to investigate. Soon everyone was at their respective lockers, pretending they didn't know what was going on. Peter slipped off to a stall and changed quickly.
The next two classes were uneventful. Peter picked up a syllabus and textbook at each one. They stood up and introduced themselves and answered weird questions called "icebreakers," that Peter didn't have answers for.
How was he supposed to respond to: "If money wasn't a limitation, where would you choose to live?" He already lived in the penthouse of Stark Tower.
Or even better, "What's your go-to karaoke song?" Peter just copied answers from people who went before him.
While the class worked their way through awkward introduction questions, Peter flipped through syllabi. The work looked simple enough. He could probably get the first few weeks of assignments done over the weekend. The reading looked simple, too. He could skim through it quickly tonight.
Lunch was an assault to his senses. He couldn't go into the cafeteria. His head was already starting to ache from all the relentless sensory input. He was way too sensitive to walk into the deafening room full of overwhelming smells.
He was sure the smell alone would send him over the edge and actually make him sick.
So, he found a vending machine and hung out in a hallway with his physics textbook, working through all the upcoming assignments. It calmed his nerves, and served as a good distraction, but his head still ached by the time the bell rang.
For a moment, his anxiety got the better of him and he considered not going at all. But then he looked at his schedule and saw a familiar name. Roger Harrington. Peter had met him on test day. He was nice.
He gathered up his things, feeling very much like Happy had been right. High school was something to survive. Hopefully he could hold the headache at bay until the end of the day.
When Peter got to Harrington's class, he'd expected it to be like every other first-day course—seating chart, syllabus, another incomprehensible icebreaker, and a heavy textbook to lug around.
But he was wrong. The room was divided with half the desks directly facing the other half. Everyone took a seat and stared awkwardly at the other half the room facing them. Peter noticed Betty Brandt had taken a seat near him. She looked at him curiously, as if surprised to see him there.
"No need to put your things away." Harrington shuffled quietly into the room, glancing around at the gathered students. "You might end up moving seats."
A few of them groaned. "There isn't a seating chart, is there, Mr. H?"
"No. But where you sit today matters for our first assignment, and I want you to have all the facts before you choose a side."
Okay, that was different.
He produced a sealed glass test tube and held it gently aloft for the room to see. "I have in my hands a dangerous compound that many individuals would have you believe is harmless." A clear liquid sloshed inside.
Peter raised his brows with interest.
"Some people would even try to convince you that we should allow it to be used in the processing of our food—no doubt in the interest of turning a profit."
There was some murmuring among the crowd of students.
"What is it?" Betty Brandt asked.
"It's a hydroxide of hydronium. A colorless and odorless chemical compound that can be deceptively volatile."
Peter narrowed his eyes. Wait. He wasn't serious, was he? Peter glanced around in confusion.
"Its basis is the highly reactive hydroxyl radical, a species shown to mutate DNA, denature proteins, disrupt cell membranes, and chemically alter critical neurotransmitters."
Peter snorted and Harrington's gaze darted sharply to him. The room was quiet, and Peter wondered when the punchline would be revealed. Because this had to be a joke, right?
Harrington cleared his throat and continued. "Its atomic components are found in a number of caustic, explosive and poisonous compounds such as Sulfuric Acid, Nitroglycerine and Ethyl Alcohol."
Peter nodded, smiling uncertainly. That was true enough. He glanced around the room. Everyone looked intrigued but no one seemed to think any of this was funny.
Betty frowned, taking notes. "What are the environmental implications?"
Harrington seemed to give it some thought. "Well, this compound is a major cause of soil erosion, and a main component of acid rain."
Peter actually giggled at that, earning him another glance from the teacher and irritated looks from some of his classmates.
"Peter. This isn't a topic to take lightly. Hydronium hydroxide can be highly dangerous. It's a compound that you'll be using all throughout the year, so, it would be in your best interest to listen carefully and take this seriously."
"Sorry." He mumbled, ducking his head in embarrassment. Was he missing something?
A few kids looked nervous at the prospect of having to handle the compound. They were all staring at the vial warily.
"Perhaps the most intriguing danger, is the fact that inhaling it can cause death." Then Harrington fumbled the vial, dropping it to the shrieks of several students near the front of the room before catching it midair. "Whoops. Sorry. Butterfingers." He slipped it back into his pocket.
He gestured to the two sides of the room, continuing like it was no big deal he'd almost made the front row pass out from fright.
"Anyway. Pick a side. On the left will be the team arguing for allowing the compound to be used in food processing, under regulations, of course, and on the right will be the team arguing against. I'll give you a carefully curated list of resources to use in your arguments. You are to use only the provided primary resources for your arguments."
Peter rolled his eyes.
"The winning team gets no homework for the first week of school."
Everyone on Peter's side of the room stood abruptly and moved to sit on the right. They quickly ran out of seats, so students dragged desks across the room. Peter was the lone holdout remaining on the other side.
Harrington smiled at him. "Peter, you're the only one on your team. Are you sure you want to stay there?"
Peter nodded. His face heated slightly at being put on the spot, but he couldn't very well join them when the issue was so absurd.
There were a few snickers and whispered murmurs that Peter would've still been able to hear even without his super-hearing. "Isn't he the slow kid, the one Flash calls Repeat?"
For the rest of the class period, everyone wrote out their proposals to ban the compound or impose heavy regulations, while Peter worked his way through the assignments for other classes. His own proposal sat completed on his desk—a single sentence in support of the volatile, "dangerous" compound. Harrington paused to read it as he walked by.
When the bell rang, Harrington called out, "Peter, please stay for a moment."
Peter flinched. He was in trouble. It was the first day and he'd already somehow done something wrong. But what? His heart raced with anxiety. How had he messed up and managed to go against all of Happy and Tony's advice?
But as the class filed out, leaving Peter alone on his already empty half of the room, Harrington just smiled at him.
"I appreciate you playing along and not ruining the surprise. This class is really for students who aren't going to be majoring in science, and the lesson for them has more to do with bias in arguments and finding good primary sources to support their claims."
"Oh. So… I'm not in trouble?" Peter asked.
"No! You're not in trouble at all. But I'm a little curious as to why you're in this class."
Peter shrugged, not really knowing what to say. "The counselor assigned my classes."
"You should consider talking to her about that. I think you should be in my AP Chemistry class."
Peter nodded uncomfortably. He didn't want to explain that the counselor didn't think he could handle the workload.
"And, if you have any doubt yourself, here's the challenge I gave the AP students today." Harrington passed him a sheet of paper which read: "A lab student tried to synthesize a coordination complex but forgot to label their beakers. We have an unknown compound in Solution A and are trying to determine what it is based on the following reaction…"
Unknown Compound+KMnO4 +H2 SO4 →Mn2++CO2 +H2 O
Harrington continued. "You can come back during small group instruction and solve it, if you like."
"It's H2 C2 O4 ."
Harrington looked surprised at first, and then a slow smile spread across his face.
"Very good, Peter." He shook his head slightly, still smiling. "It's not a hard problem, but most students would at least pull out the redox tables from their text books and take a few minutes to figure it out."
Oh. There was a table for that in the book? That was handy. He'd have to check it out.
Peter shrugged as he explained his reasoning, which he thought was pretty obvious. "The only common organic compound that would react with permanganate under those conditions to produce Mn²⁺ and CO₂ is oxalic acid. Plus, the oxidation reaction follows a clean two-electron transfer, which matches permanganate's standard reduction potential."
"That's right." Harrington looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Come back tomorrow during 2nd period. Just for the first 10 minutes or so. I'll write you an excuse for that class so you can be late."
Peter nodded.
On his way out, Betty stopped him. She'd been lying in wait by the door.
"Okay, Peter. What's with all the giggling? Was it one of Harrington's tricks? Last year he got us really good a few times in Environmental Science."
Peter hesitated for a moment.
Betty had been nice to him. He could at least tell her.
"The compound was H2O."
She narrowed her eyes, confused. And then widened them in shock. "Water? Peter you're a genius! And a lifesaver. Thank you! I owe you!"
"No problem."
"Main component of acid rain… I feel so stupid now." She laughed. "And you die if you inhale it! I really fell for it this time."
Peter smirked. "You could die from inhaling it— if you inhale enough of it. But that's pretty much true of all liquids, I suppose."
"Okay it was a dumb trick to fall for. But in my defense, I'm a numbers girl, not a science girl." She gave him a disappointed, sideways look. "It's a pity you won't be in that class for long. Harrington snatched you up for his AP class didn't he?"
Peter shook his head. "I don't know about that." He doubted he'd get the schedule changed.
It was a huge relief when the final bell rang.
It wasn't that school was bad—Peter actually liked it—but it was draining in a way he hadn't expected.
By the time he reached the front doors, his pulse was thrumming in his ears, his nerves fraying with every step. He needed to get outside and take some calming breaths out in the open, away from the chaos of the building.
Ned caught up to him just as he was inhaling a slow, steadying breath, leaning against a stair railing. "Dude, you okay?"
"Peter nodded quickly, running a hand through his hair like that might shake off the lingering tension. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." He exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack.
Ned followed him til they reached the corner at the edge of campus where Peter would have to decide if he was heading to the tower or elsewhere. He paused a moment. "Library?"
Ned grinned. "Heck yeah. Let's go."
The library was blessedly quiet compared to the constant noise of the school. The air smelled like paper and ink, and it was all so familiar and calming.
They spent a few minutes flipping through manga, lounging in the worn chairs near the shelves, and wandering through the sci-fi section. Peter let himself relax a little.
"So," Ned asked, pulling a book off the shelf and flipping it open, "what did you think about school?"
Peter shrugged. "Not bad. I'll come back tomorrow."
Ned laughed. "That's the spirit. Good thing, too, 'cause we've got a robotics meeting. An official one this time. And Flash should behave—Zoha already reamed him out for being a total dick last week. He's on thin ice."
Peter doubted that would help. If anything, now Flash would be simmering. Just waiting for an excuse to blow up again. But he could handle Flash.
"I don't even know what I did to make him so angry," he admitted, more to himself than to Ned.
Ned snorted. "Flash just likes having someone to take his anger out on. He does it every year. I wouldn't take it personally." He shook his head. "He's a dick to a lot of people."
Peter frowned.
Ned sighed and checked the time. "I gotta go, but we should meet up for homework sometime this week. My teachers are already piling it on."
"I've got most of mine done for the next few weeks, but sure."
Ned stared at him. "You what?"
Peter shrugged. "Not a lot was happening in class today, so I just… started working on stuff."
Ned's eyes narrowed. "Did you work on it during lunch, too? 'Cause MJ and I looked for you and didn't see you."
Peter's fingers tightened slightly around the book he was holding. They'd looked for him?
"I don't really like the cafeteria," he muttered uncomfortably.
Ned tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "We could eat outside. In the courtyard. It's nicer out there."
Peter blinked, caught off guard by how easily Ned offered a solution. He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
Ned grinned. "Cool. See you tomorrow."
"Later."
Peter watched Ned leave and then glanced down at his bookbag. His polymer dispensers were peeking out from under his hoodie, wedged securely between some notebooks. A couple vials of polymer fluid were safely wrapped in a pair of socks in an inner pocket.
He sat there quietly in the peace of the library for a few minutes, thinking. Then he grabbed his bag and made his way down the street, towards the building he'd climbed the night of the mugging.
