Authors: Peter David
"Hey! Glamour girl!" he growled "Your drawer's off by
six bucks! Next time I take it out of your check, y'get me?"
M. J. didn't look at him. It was as if she were pretending
he wasn't there. And Peter's heart went out to her in her mor
tification, because the truth of the situation was so apparent
that a blind man would have seen it. The cook, meantime, wasn't letting it go. "Excuse me, Miss Watson. I am speak
ing words to you. You get me?"
Her shoulders sagging in defeat, she choked out, "Yes,
Enrique, okay? I 'get you,' Enrique."
Peter saw red at that moment, and it wasn't in the color of
M.J.'s hair. Enrique, although he didn't know it, was a heart
beat away from finding his teeth situated somewhere in the
back of his throat. Either that or being hauled up the side of
a building, across the rooftops, and finding himself hanging
naked from the top of the Washington Square arch. All it re
quired was for him to open his big mouth and say one more
rude word, just one, to Mary Jane.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon how one
chose to look at it, Enrique picked that moment to stop
speaking. He simply turned and stomped back into the diner.
M. J. let out a long, unsteady sigh, and then turned around for the first time. She did not, however, look up. A chill wind
blew across her, ruffling her hair. With a self-deprecating
laugh, she quickly opened and closed the raincoat, like a
flasher, just long enough for Peter to see the stained waitress
uniform she was wearing underneath. "It's just temporary.
Few extra dollars," she said.
He tried to put on his most Uncle Ben-like tone. The voice that assured the listener that things weren't remotely as bad as
they seemed. "Well, that's nothing to be embarrassed about.
I've been fired from worse jobs than that." He paused and was
about to ask her out for a cup of coffee
...
or maybe a drink
... or maybe even dinner. He had a few bucks in his pocket,
he could splurge, treat her. Nothing fancy. Catch up on things.
All the old feelings came flooding back to him. He re
membered feeling as if he didn't deserve her, or couldn't do
enough for her, but things changed, and—
"Don't tell Harry."
That stopped him cold. Peter stared at her in bewilder
ment. "Harry ... ?"
Now she actually looked up at him. She looked just as
confused as he did. "We've been going out," she said as if it was common knowledge. Her eyes narrowed. "Aren't you
guys living together? Didn't he tell you?"
He blinked, trying to kick start his brain back into mo
tion. "Oh, yeah!" he said, as if it had simply slipped his
mind. "Right . . ."
"I think he'd hate the idea of my waiting tables," she said.
"He'd think it was .. . low."
"Well, Harry never has lived on a little place I like to call
Earth," Peter said with such chipperness in his voice that
none of the bitterness he was feeling at that moment was ev
ident.
M. J. laughed at that and visibly relaxed. Feeling buoyed
by her reaction, Peter continued, "M. J., probably half the
people starring on Broadway were waiters or even dish
washers."
She looked at him with that tilt to the head she often used.
"How come you always make me feel better?" She jumped up and down slightly to keep herself warm, and then obvi
ously feeling the need to get moving, she said, "Well . . .
bye, Peter."
Mary Jane started to walk away, and part of Peter's mind
shouted at him to run after her. But the man who was capable of vaulting rooftops without batting an eye, who swung
heartstopping distances supported by nothing except strands
of webbing and thought nothing of it, was too afraid to do anything except remain rooted to the spot. He settled for
calling down the street, "Maybe I'll come down and have a cup of your Moondance coffee some day!" Then quickly he
added, lest she be concerned, "And I won't tell Harry."
"No, can't tell Harry," she affirmed with a glance over her
shoulder.
And then she was out of earshot as Peter said softly to
himself, "No, I won't. I won't tell Harry. Harry
. . .
and
Mary Jane. Wow." Then he turned and walked in the oppo
site direction.
He wanted to be angry with Harry. He wanted to feel that
his supposed friend had swiped Mary Jane out from under
him. But he had learned all too well the importance of tak
ing responsibility for one's actions, and the fact was that it
was his own actions—or inactions, for that matter—that had
led to this. Without realizing he was doing it, he'd given
Harry a clear path to Mary Jane, and his roomie obviously had taken it without hesitation.
Don't tell Harry.
He muttered, "Don't tell Peter."
Except, of course, it was too late.
Evening was just settling in after a long, fruitless, and
frustrating day for Peter, who was wondering just how things
could possibly get worse. When he opened the door to the
Tribeca apartment he shared with Harry, he quickly found
out.
Harry was seated at the dining room table, books spread out all over the place. That was nothing unusual. However,
the new addition to the picture of Peter's domestic life was
Norman Osborn, pacing and talking into a cell phone. Peter
couldn't help but remember that those things were purported to cause brain cancer, and wondered why no one seemed to
care about that anymore. Maybe he could do a study on it.
Either that or just get a cell phone and use it in hopes of rot
ting away the brain cells that caused him such worries.
Osborn spotted Peter and nodded in acknowledgment of
his presence. Peter felt honored. He headed over to Harry
and dropped into a nearby chair as Harry looked up ruefully.
"Stormin' Norman, making his weekly inspection," he mut
tered. "Spends half of it on the phone. Man, am I glad you're here," he continued, indicating the open books. "I need your
help. I'm hopelessly lost." Harry had been so caught up in
his father's presence and the challenge of the material in
front of him that it took him a while to actually look at his
roommate. But when he did, he frowned. "What's wrong
with you? Somebody run over your dog?"
I
don't have a dog. I don't have a girlfriend, either, thanks to you, you
—
"No," Peter sighed, feeling that a portion of the truth was
preferable to manufacturing something from whole cloth. "I,
uh . . . I was late, and Dr. Connors fired me."
Harry leaned back, stunned. "Late again? What is it with
you? Where do you go all the time?"
"Around," Peter answered vaguely.
Shaking his head, Harry said, "For a completely responsible guy, you're completely irresponsible."
There was a definitive snap from Osborn's cell phone as
he closed the cover and turned toward Peter, all smiles.
"Peter Parker!" he said, as if having just discovered the cure
for the common cold. "Maybe you can tell me who she is!"
Peter stared at him blankly. "Who?"
"This mystery girl Harry's been dating."
Peter's spine froze. The one thing in the entire world that
Peter would rather not have been discussing at that moment,
and guess what was being shoved in his face. At that moment he felt like walking over to the wall and thudding his
head against it, repeatedly. Then he tried to recall if there had
been one day since Uncle Ben was killed—just one—that was a genuinely, sunrise to sunset, good day. Nothing was coming to mind. He wondered if he'd ever have one again.
"Dad ..." Harry moaned, clearly chagrined that Peter
was being yanked into the discussion.
Osborn was still talking to Peter, looking hopeful, even good-humored. "I think he wants me to meet this one, and believe me, it's the first time that's hap—"
"Dad!"
Harry couldn't have acted more mortified if his
father had hauled out naked baby pictures and passed them around at the prom.
His father looked at him questioningly, wondering why his son was raising such a fuss.
Very softly, and trying to keep any accusatory notes out
of his voice, Peter said, "Sorry ... Harry hasn't mentioned
her."
Making a very obvious attempt to change the subject,
Harry said, "Hey, Pete, you're probably looking for work
now. Dad, maybe you can help him find a job?"
Spider sense tingling . . .
It was so odd. Here they were, in their own apartment,
and there was no threat to him. No danger present at all. And
yet somehow, for some reason, he was feeling the slightest
warning of danger rattling around at the base of his skull.
For reasons Peter couldn't even articulate, he suddenly felt the need to distance himself from the table. He got up and headed for the kitchen, saying, "Oh, no. I appreciate it, but
I'll be fine."
"It's no problem," Osborn assured him. "I'll make some
phone calls...."
"No!"
Peter said far more sharply than he would have
liked, so forcefully that Harry actually jumped slightly. Reining himself in, he said in a more moderate tone, "I
couldn't accept it. I like to earn what I get. I can find work."
There was silence in the apartment for a moment as
Harry looked nervously up at his father. But Norman simply
nodded and, somewhat to Peter's surprise, said, "I respect
that. You want to make it on your own steam. That's great."
Then, very pointedly, he said to Harry, "Interesting, isn't it?
Peter is
looking
for work. As in, actively seeking, as opposed
to strenuously avoiding . .."
Harry eyed a nearby pen thoughtfully, as if considering
whether he should drive it into his own eye or not. "What do
you want from me?" he sighed. "I'm trying to keep my
grades up."
"I want you to be able to do more than one thing at a time,
son," said Norman reasonably. "The world will always pull you in different directions. If you don't learn to cope with it,
well . . . that way lies madness."
Peter tried to take a philosophical attitude toward the sit
uation as the Osborns talked. Considering the burden he was carrying in school, and the expectations of his father, should
Peter really begrudge Harry what little happiness he was
able to garner with Mary Jane?