CHAPTER I
Queens, New York has always been a very rough and tumble part of the city. It's not rough or gritty like the heart of the Bronx. There aren't gangs waiting around every corner, and, oddly, like any suburban region, it's full of families, all of whom have children. Some even have a white-picket fence, 3.5 kids, and a dog named "Buzzy" who runs around the family's modestly-sized back yard. Of course, every morning the streets are adorned with the obligatory, yellow school buses that bring load after load of student to the elementary, middle, and high schools that were scattered throughout the neighborhood. In these schools, though, that was where life could be rough. Every day people were trying to fit in, and if they couldn't fit in, they'd stick out. Certainly, there were some youngsters who would lay low, simply trying to survive their high-school years. And that, with an everyman, an ordinary student, is where this story begins.
Peter Parker was, apparently, the typical high school student. He had a crush on a girl, sometimes more than one, he wasn't an athletic superstar, he didn't participate on the chess team, and he was by no means obnoxious or rude. He dressed in the typical outfit of jeans, a pair of modest sneakers, and a retro t-shirt. His hands were almost always buried in his pockets, unless holding up the spine of a book in which he could bury his gaze. He forgot his locker combination sometimes, was late to homeroom on occasion, and tripped over his own feet like most juniors in high school do. He was, in every sense of the word, "relatable."
Like most teenagers, though, the intrepid, young Peter was not without his quirks. Academically, he was one of the brightest boys that P.S. 138, known to the residents of Queens as Midtown High School, had seen grace its doors. The boy had an inherent gift for the sciences, and had an insatiable appetite for reading. His room was piled high with stack upon stack of books. Borrowed books, bought book, inherited books. All sorts of books. The books themselves had become a part of the decor, adding a somewhat lovable, albeit reclusive and nerdy, aspect to his bedroom. The rest of his home was as normal as could be, complete with a pair of loving parents.
Though not given to him by birth, the two adults Peter lived with had raised him as their own. Richard and Mary Parker, the boy's biological mother and father, but were killed suddenly in a plane crash a year after Peter was born. He was brought up, then, by his aunt and uncle. His aunt, May, was a kind, elderly woman whose eyes possessed a youthful gleam of someone far younger than her. Her sharp wit and quick, vibrant temper always kept Peter on his toes. A counterpoint to May's energy and anger lay in Peter's uncle. He was a calm man, not old or withering by any means. When Peter's Aunt May would use a swiftly placed, witty remark, his Uncle Ben would silently chuckle, open his eyes a bit, and make a reserved comment that cast a logical light on the situation at hand.
Every day it's the same thing. Peter thought, as his glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, magnifying the page of the book in front of him.
"Peter, I really think that you ought to be..." His aunt said, adjusting a tray of bacon in the oven.
Social .
"...more social at your age."
Three points for me.
He didn't bother looking up from his book, or even smiling, at the accuracy of his prediction. He was a bright kid; he was right most of the time.
"There's that dance coming up in a few days on Saturday night, Peter." May said, staring at the bacon.
After a few page-turns, Peter's aunt glared at him over her shoulder.
"Are you even listening to me?" She hissed.
Before Peter could reply with the half-hearted "uh-huh" that he normally would, his Uncle Ben was chiming in.
"Now, May," He began, sipping from his coffee. Her glare told him that this wasn't a conversation to be had so early in the morning. So, instead he simply muttered, "You're burnin' the bacon."
At this, she jumped in surprise, opening the smoking oven wide. And, with her mitt on her hand, heaved the tray of black, sizzling meat out.
"I'm sorry, boys." She said, wearily. "Looks like it's hotcakes for this morning."
The pair exchanged a set of worried grins. Hotcakes rarely had a better fate than bacon.
"Uh!" Peter said aloud, trying to stall. "I have to get going anyway. Bus an' all."
May looked somewhat relieved.
"Well, if it's alright with you, Peter..."
"Yup!" He said, kissing her forehead as he thrust himself out of his chair. "Absolutely fine. Gotta go!"
He snatched his iPod off of the corner of the table, a prize from the latest science fair.
"Hey, Peter!" His uncle called as Peter headed for the door. "About that dance. Why not ask that nice girl, Liz Allan we met at the ballgame a few weeks ago."
"I'll think about it Uncle Ben!" Peter called, gripping his book in his palm.
May placed a thankful palm on Ben's shoulder, and he gripped the top of her hand with his own as they watched their boy leave for the day.
As soon as he set foot on the pathway outside, and heard the door slam behind him, Peter snorted out loud.
Liz Allan? He said in his own mind. Yeah, that'd be a good move. As the quarterback's girl out to a huge school function. Great idea, Uncle Ben. Keep those ideas a-comin'!
He made his way to the bus stop, plugging his music into his ears as he went. He contemplated opening the book as he waited, but in combination with his music, that could only lead to him missing the bus.
I mean, c'mon. He though, raising the issue of the dance once more. Flash Thompson's girlfriend and me? At a dance? For real?
He shook his head begrudgingly and waited for the bus to arrive.
Ex-girlfriend, that is.
His eyes opened wide behind his circular glasses.
NO! Nope. Nuh-uh. No siree, Bob. I'm just going to read.
With that, he opened his theoretical physics book and started reading, distracting himself from the scantily-clad Liz Allan who was dancing around in his head.
The brakes of the arriving bus squealed and Peter glanced up.
Finally.
He shut his book and heaved himself into the open door of the bus.
"Morning, Mr. Collins." Parker greeted the bus driver with an affectionate grin.
"Mornin', Peter." the driver said with a chuckle and a pat on the back.
The floor beneath his feet was sticky, for a reason that Peter didn't even care to know.
He glanced warily down the left aisle, then the right. Only one empty seat left.
He seized it quickly, much to the chagrin of the sticky floor.
A glob of liquid hit the back of his head and he cringed. Sliding a handkerchief lodged in his right pocket into his hand, he wiped the gel from the back of his head and examined it.
Jelly.
Peter snarled over his shoulder, too timid to even fully glance towards the back of the bus.
No doubt, this morning's dose of reality was prescribed by a member of Flash Thompson's loathsome football fraternity.
Every day it's the same thing. Peter thought, replacing his used hanky.
Liz Allan? Yeah, right.
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