Chapter Text
Chapter One
...You Make Me Feel Guilty for Being a Bitch
“Michelle!” Betty’s shrill voice pierces the quiet library like a bullet through skin, and sends MJ’s hands searching desperately for some headphones, something, to ward off the perky blonde journalist before she’s subjected to an interview.
MJ knew this was coming—Betty’s been trying to corner her for the better half of the week. She thought she’d be off the hook, considering this is the last day of their senior year. Leave it to Betty Brant to not know when to quit.
She fishes her headphones out of her pockets, then groans when she finds that they’ve gotten themselves tangled up in a knot that would take at least a full minute of dedicated focus to undo. She can hear Flash’s irritating voice creep into her head: “This wouldn’t happen if you had AirPods. Just saying.”
There isn’t even enough time for MJ to think of a mental rebuttal. Betty pulls out the seat across from her without asking and arranges her phone and a notepad on the table between them.
“That looks like a good book,” Betty says, pointing to the book MJ has opened up in front of her.
MJ glances up. Matches Betty’s brilliant anchor-woman smile with a mild scowl.
“Medieval torture devices. Ever heard of the brank before? It’s an iron cage that goes over someone’s head. There’s a spiked plate attached to it that’s supposed to go in the victim’s mouth, making it impossible for them to move their tongue without being injured.” Betty looks momentarily disgusted. MJ grins. Checkmate. “It’s outside of my usual interests in 20th century literature and political commentaries, but I just finished The Trial. I needed a palette cleanser.”
To MJ’s disdain, Betty is only deterred for a microsecond, bouncing back with the kind of affable charm that earns her invitations to house parties and not one—but three—flash-mob prom-posals.
“That’s so interesting. I’m kind of jealous of how into reading you are, Michelle. I can’t get through a book unless it’s written by John Green.”
“An indicator that you should probably be reading more,” MJ retorts, scrunching up her nose.
“Ugh, you’re totally right,” Betty agrees with a sage nod. “Anyways, unrelated topic—I’ve been dying to talk to you all week. You’re a hard person to track down.”
“Apparently not hard enough. So, what’s this for? The school paper, or your portfolio?”
Betty sighs. “Oh, thank God. I’m so glad we’re on the same page here. Not that I wouldn’t want to chat with you about creepy torture devices or whatever, but I’m on a serious time-crunch for this story. It’s going to be in the Chronicle, you know. I got an internship.”
MJ sucks in her lips and nods. Tries to look impressed even though she truly couldn’t care less. It’s not like she and Betty are on bad terms or anything. Betty’s actually one of the few people outside of her Decathlon teammates who acknowledges her existence at Midtown. Unfortunately, basic human decency doesn’t cut it when it comes to getting one of the coveted shares in MJ’s “emotional investment” stock.
MJ dog-ears the page she’s on (fuck literature elitists, seriously) and claps her book shut. She crosses her arms over the table. “Cool. Let’s get this over with.”
Betty grins from ear-to-ear. She flips through her notes until she comes to a page with MJ’s name written on the header, and opens up her phone’s audio recording app.
MJ can’t boast a secret talent in reading upside-down, but she catches a glance at the page of notes before Betty pulls them to her chest, and she infers that it’s a detailed list of her own academic achievements throughout her four years at Midtown. She raises an eyebrow—now she’s impressed. Betty might be a bit of an airhead, but when it comes to journalism, she’s all business.
This point is only proven when Betty irons out her cheerful expression into something perfectly rehearsed and professional.
“So, this interview is going to be recorded for accuracy. Is that alright, Michelle?”
“As long as you’re not asking for my credit card information, that should be fine.”
“Great! Then can you spell out your first and last name for me?”
“You know how to spell my name.” MJ rolls her eyes.
“It’s in good journalistic practice!” Betty insists.
MJ blows a puff of air up towards her frizzy bangs before relenting. “Fine. M-I-C-H-E-L-L-E—space—J-O-N-E-S.”
“Perfect. So, let’s start out with something simple. What extracurricular activities do you participate in?”
Even though MJ’s fairly sure that Betty’s notes are probably thorough enough to cover the gory details of her conception, she answers the question with a straight face.
“Decathlon. That’s it.”
“My notes say that you’ve been the captain for three years now. That’s very impressive.”
“Two and three-quarters, technically,” MJ corrects. “I took over in sophomore year because Liz Toomes moved to Oregon.”
Betty’s concentration seems to waver for a moment at the mention of Liz’s name. MJ vaguely remembers them being close friends before Liz moved, and she feels a little guilty for bringing a bad memory back to the surface.
Quick to recover, Betty coughs and flips through her notes for a moment before moving on. “In any case, on top of leading our Decathlon team to an undefeated three-year streak at nationals, you’re also graduating with the title of summa cum laude. Isn’t that impressive?”
“Considering the fact that our school is full of literal geniuses? Not really. I think half of our class is graduating with highest honors.”
MJ tries to word it so that she puts a clear line between the aforementioned “geniuses” and herself. It’s easy to assume that her aloof front means that this shit comes as easily to her as it does to the actually gifted kids like their valedictorian, Peter Parker, but behind every A-letter grade and Decathlon win is hours of studying and bashing her own skull against the wall.
“It’s still nothing to sneeze at,” Betty says, trying to keep her voice light. “In any case, I’m interviewing the best of our school’s graduating class to find out what the students of Midtown will be doing with their futures. So, MJ, what does the upcoming fall season look like for you?”
MJ taps her fingers against her arms. She doesn’t answer Betty’s question. Instead, she asks her own. “Off the record, who does the ‘best of our graduating class’ entail?”
“I’d rather keep that confidential,” Betty says. There’s a pause, and then she relents with a sigh. She taps a button on her phone and pauses the recording. “But if you promise to actually take the rest of this interview seriously, I might be persuaded to loosen up on my code of ethics just this once.”
“Way to stick it to the man.”
“Michelle.”
MJ frowns. “Fine.”
Betty clears her throat and flips back through her notebook. “Danny Cooper, starting quarterback. Mark Chen, basketball. Rafael Patel, Model UN, debate club, and JSA. Ned Leeds, Lego club-,” MJ rolls her eyes at that one—Ned and Betty had a fling in junior year that lasted all of one week, but it’s still clear that she hasn’t gotten over him, “-Barney Anderson, student body president. And Peter Parker. Of course.”
“Of course,” MJ repeats with a hardly-concealed roll of her eyes.
MJ doesn’t hate Peter Parker. Not really. To hate someone implies that they’re worth the emotional investment, and honestly—Peter is definitely not worth it. No, she doesn’t hate him. She’s just annoyed that he carries himself like a complete loser when it’s clear that everyone in the school is falling over one another for the chance to have a make-out session with his skinny, pale ass. Even before Flash (and by association, Flash’s daily torments) graduated and left Midtown, Peter was always fairly well-liked.
And hell, even when Peter’s life was just one big “Penis Parker” joke, at least he was seen. That’s more than MJ can lay claim to.
“Anyways, I have a few more guys—chess club co-captains, Hackathon champions, et cetera,” Betty says before she flips back to MJ’s page.
“No offense, but don’t you think your list is a little biased?” MJ asks.
Betty purses her lips. “I know it’s a bit male-leaning-,”
“Actually, I was going to say blatantly misogynistic,” MJ cuts her off.
Betty groans and slams her hands on the table. MJ flinches. “What did you expect, Michelle? Our school’s male-to-female ratio is like, four-to-one. I tried interviewing Rana Khalid because she’s the captain of our BC calculus club, but she turned me down. And it’s not like I can interview myself. So, right now it’s just Sarah Wheeler, who manages the bowling team, and you—if you’ll actually answer my questions with an ounce of fucking sincerity.”
MJ leans back in her chair, swallowing hard. Finally, she starts to notice the little cracks in Betty’s impeccable anchorwoman façade. The black eye-bags. The way her hair looks like it hasn’t been properly done in ages. The slouch of her shoulders indicating that Rana Khalid was not the only girl who’s turned her down for an interview.
MJ wants to apologize for being a dick, but all she can manage to say is a dry, “Oh.”
Betty shakes her head. “Look, I know this isn’t your thing. But I really wanted some female representation in this article, and it’s the last day of school, so you’re my last shot.”
“Alright,” MJ says, relenting. “Let’s do this.”
“Thank you,” Betty says, and she looks genuinely grateful. She turns her phone’s audio recorder back on and clears her throat. “Now, back to the questions at hand. Outside of the classroom, what did you learn from your experiences at Midtown?”
“The levy won’t pass unless the football team has a good season,” MJ says before she can stop herself. Betty chuckles, but it’s stiff and filled with warning. MJ takes a breath before continuing, more candidly this time. “But really. I guess I learned how to participate. I was practically invisible before stepping up as the Decathlon captain. Now I’m lucky enough to be interviewed for a column in the Chronicle.”
It’s still a little sardonic for an answer, but trying to completely take the edge out of MJ’s personality is like trying to deny a river of its course. Betty should know that.
“That’s awesome to hear. Where do you see yourself taking your education after graduating?” Betty asks.
“New York Institute of Art and Design,” MJ answers. “Thanks to the magic of scholarship essays and Pell Grants, I’ll even be able to afford it.”
Betty leans into the conversation with a sudden interest. “That’s really interesting, Michelle. Most of the students I’ve talked to so far say that they’re going to take advantage of the science-and-mathematics background they’ve gotten at Midtown to continue their journey in the STEM industry. What inspired a career in art?”
“What inspired a career in journalism?” MJ shoots back, feeling her hackles raise. “I don’t know. I’m good at it, I guess. It’s something I’ve always liked, and I think being at Midtown has only made me like it more.”
“What makes you say that?”
MJ can’t help herself. She tilts her head back at lets out a full laugh. “Because nobody in this fucking school gives a damn about art. It’s something I get to be good at without having to fight tooth-and-nail for a shred of distinction.”
“I’m starting to get it. Would you like to explain further?”
MJ glances up as she tries to reach for more words. “I mean, it’s true, isn’t it? Even if I busted my ass to do well in chemistry and calculus—I’d still hardly be a blip on the radar compared to people like Peter Parker.”
Betty nods, fully engrossed. “So, you’re saying that pursuing art makes you feel like more of an individual?”
MJ shrugs. “That seems like a gross simplification, but I guess so. Yeah, it does.”
“I see. Thank you very much for your time, Michelle.”
With a tap, Betty’s audio recorder is shut off again. She saves the file, and slips the device back into her blazer pocket.
“Anyways, off the record—how will it feel when you’re at a school where everybody does art? You say you hate fighting tooth-and-nail for distinction, but that’s all you’re ever going to do once you’re in the New York Institute for Art and Design.”
The question is a left hook that comes right out of MJ’s blind spot and sends her reeling. Admittedly, she never thought about it that way. Still, she’ll die before she shows an inch of weakness to Betty Brant.
“Maybe that’s true,” MJ agrees soberly, “but at least I’ll have a chance this time.”
#
MJ decides to sit next to Peter Parker and Ned Leeds during lunch. It’s a decision she’s been making every day since sophomore year—a decision that she kicks herself for constantly.
A long time ago, Peter and Ned would sit together while MJ occupied a spot as far away from them at the table as physically possible. Somehow over the years, she’s started migrating closer, like an asteroid caught up in some ineffable field of gravity generated by the sheer mass of Peter and Ned’s virgin energy (Okay, she’s a virgin, too—but at least she has the decency not to broadcast it to the entire world via graphic tees and Star Wars references).
Nowadays, she sits right in front of Peter. They’re so close that her knuckles brush his occasionally when she reaches down to sip from her coffee. One time, she missed her cup and grabbed his hand instead. So, she knows by experience that his hands are soft, and never sweaty. Figures. Perfect Peter Parker would never be hindered by something as mundane as clammy hands.
For someone who is constantly irritated with Peter, MJ seems to put herself in his blast radius way more than necessary. Keep your enemies close, she figures.
As soon as MJ sits down, she makes it a point to ignore Peter and Ned, re-opening her book on medieval torture and popping open her travel canister of black coffee. She doesn’t even flinch as the bitter liquid goes down her throat. Taking her coffee black was something she learned to like—creamer is expensive, and the dairy industry is an ethical nightmare (and don’t even get her started on the ecological disaster that is almond-based dairy products).
Peter and Ned bicker about something for a moment. The bits and pieces MJ pick up on are just different inflections of the word, “dude”, so she zones them out. Then, Ned shoves Peter away and clears his throat.
“MJ. Question.”
MJ groans. She needs to start hanging a huge neon DO NOT DISTURB sign around her neck for people to start getting the hint.
“Before you ask, I’d rather put myself on the breast-ripper before I’d ever build a Lego Ty-Fighter replica with you and Parker,” MJ huffs, pointing to an illustration of an iron torture device in her book.
“One, ouch. Two, ouch. And three, that’s not even close to what I was going to ask,” Ned says.
“Fine. What is it?” MJ asks.
“Peter’s aunt wants to take some of his friends out for dinner tonight to celebrate us graduating. It’s this Thai place. Literally the best. We were thinking that you should come with us.”
MJ narrows her eyes, angling her head so that she can properly bore daggers into Peter’s skull. “Why didn’t Peter ask me, then? If it’s his aunt and everything.”
Peter chokes. “I, uh—I was going to. I was just, you know, waiting for the right time.”
“Can you stop stammering like an idiot?” MJ rolls her eyes. “Who else is going?”
“Just you, Peter, and myself,” Ned informs her. “I was hoping we could keep it exclusive. Just the Decathlon Trio and more larb than you can dream of.”
“Excuse me? The Decathlon Trio?” MJ quirks a brow.
“You know, like the Golden Trio? Harry, Ron, and Hermione?”
“I’ve read Harry Potter, Ned. It’s just-,” MJ purses her lips and feigns a migraine, “-that is the dorkiest shit I’ve ever been subjected to listening to.”
Really though, she’s shocked that she’s been included in Ned’s “trio”. It’s not like she talks to either of them outside of school or practice—it’s not like she even talks to them that much during those two things. She always figured that she was just a presence in their lives. Maybe they’d have a throwaway line about her for their kids when they got old enough to reminisce about high school without getting PTSD.
She hates herself for it, but getting to be a part of something feels…nice. Even if the thing she’s a part of consists solely of the Lego club captain and a guy who she seriously can’t fucking stand.
“So, are you in?” Ned presses.
“I have nothing better to do. Sure. What the hell.”
“Really?” Peter asks, lighting up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. He looks like a puppy (MJ briefly recalls reading about something called “cute aggression”, where the psychological response to something adorable like a puppy is the urge to squeeze it until it pops).
“Yep,” MJ says, already knee-deep in regret. “Text me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Oh, awesome,” Peter says, grinning. “That’s awesome.”
#
The directions Peter gives MJ lead to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant called Prachya Thai that isn’t too far from school. MJ makes it on time, and without much difficulty. Thankfully, nothing in New York City is hard to get to as long as you’ve got a good internal GPS and a basic knowledge of the train system. Even without a car, MJ can get wherever she needs to go (which is good, because she fully plans on boycotting cars until personal transportation that runs on electricity is affordable and accessible to the common public).
She tries not to look out of place as she walks in. The restaurant has a quiet atmosphere. Low-hanging lights shine down on small, glass tables, and a television turned to the local news station hums quietly above an empty bar.
“MJ!” It’s Peter’s voice. MJ turns.
Peter, Ned, and a woman in her thirties (MJ assumes this is Peter’s aunt), sit at a table pressed up against the wall. Ned and Peter’s aunt sit on one side, and Peter sits on the other.
As soon as MJ’s within arm’s reach of the table, Peter’s aunt stands up and greets her with a hug. MJ forces herself not to shove the woman away, and succeeds in being receptive, but fails to reciprocate. Peter’s aunt seems unbothered.
“Hi. I’m May, Peter’s Aunt. I’ve heard so much about you, MJ—oh, I’m sorry, it’s Michelle for adults, isn’t it?”
“Yes, please,” MJ says. May sits back down, and invites MJ to follow suit.
MJ forces out a tight smile before gingerly taking the only open seat next to Peter. Because of course that’s the only open seat. Of course.
“So,” MJ prompts, swallowing a thick wad of spit, “Peter talks about me?”
“He brings you up all the time,” May says. “I’m surprised I never see you around.”
“Yeah,” MJ says. “Well, I never talk about him, so…”
It’s said more harshly than MJ intends for it to be, but if May is insulted, she doesn’t show it. “Anyways, how does it feel to graduate? I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”
MJ gives May the same smile she gives the freshmen that she welcomes on to the Decathlon team—it’s tight, closed-lipped, and full to bursting with polite obligation. “Yeah, they are. Super proud,” MJ says.
“Peter says you’re going to art school. Is that right?” May asks.
“New York Institute of Art and Design, yeah,” MJ replies. “I’m pretty excited.”
MJ doesn’t ask how Peter knew she was going to NYIAD. He probably overheard her talking about it before Decathlon practice, because the day she’d gotten her acceptance letter, she was too excited to not tell somebody, and she had roped Amber Farha into a largely one-sided discussion about her own portfolio.
The fact that Peter is one of the few people who cares enough to notice stuff about her should be endearing—but honestly, it’s just another one of the reasons that MJ can’t stand him. If Peter ignored her like everyone else at Midtown, she’d be able to ignore him right back. Write him off as just another self-absorbed jerk.
But of course, Peter just has to actually give a shit about her and again prove himself as the most kindhearted, flawless, selfless boy on planet earth.
Barf.
“She’s a great artist, May,” Peter says. “She did this mural for the school last semester. It’s really breathtaking.”
“It’s okay,” MJ says, skillfully deflecting the compliment, “Spray paint isn’t typically my medium of choice. I like charcoal better. It gives a stronger sense of existential dread.”
“Ned’s tried to commission her a few times,” Peter adds.
“Offer’s still on the table,” Ned pipes up. “Me as Han Solo, blaster in hand. The Millennium Falcon behind me. Lando draped lovingly over my shoulders. Sixty bucks. Seriously, MJ. Think about it.”
MJ nods and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she says, “Okay, I’ve thought about it. No.”
#
It’s crazy, but MJ actually enjoys herself throughout dinner. Not only is the food fantastic (seriously, she never thought something with a name as unappetizing as “larb” could taste so damn good), but May and Ned are actually pretty entertaining company. Peter’s tolerable too, as long she clenches her jaw whenever she hears him speak.
After they’re done, May not only insists on paying for dinner, but also on driving MJ and Ned back to their apartments. Ned goes first, since he’s closer to the restaurant. He leaves with the promise that he’s going to make them a Decathlon Trio group-chat on an app called Discord.
Then, they drive to MJ’s.
MJ wouldn’t say she’s scared of letting people see where she lives. A better word would be apprehensive. She’s not totally up shit’s creek, at least. Her mom makes an okay living, and they get to afford all the typical luxuries of middle-class America (for her mom, this means boxed wine; for MJ, it means a decent arsenal of feminist t-shirts).
Still, it’s not the nicest apartment. Nor is it the cleanest.
And it definitely doesn’t look good with all the flashing red and blue lights outside of it.
Peter frowns as they pass by. “What the hell?”
MJ unbuckles her seatbelt and presses herself to the window, peering out. There’s an ambulance parked nearby, and a couple of neighbors that she recognizes are standing out on the sidewalk in their lounge clothes. A police officer is detaining a blonde woman in an oversized pink blouse and—shit.
That woman is MJ’s mom.
MJ swallows hard. She debates telling May that she screwed up her own address. She can feel the hairs at the back of her neck prickle as she watches the scene.
“This looks ugly,” Peter murmurs. “Do you want me to walk you up there?”
MJ cuts him a venomous look. “Chivalry’s dead, Parker. And for the sake of social advancement, it should stay that way.”
“I think Peter’s right.” May frowns. “We’ll walk you to the door. Just to be safe.”
May parks her car a few yards down the street, and all three of them step out. MJ swings her bookbag around one shoulder, and walks briskly in front of them. She hopes to put enough distance between herself and the Parkers so that maybe, just maybe, she’ll be able to deal with the worst of this on her own.
It doesn’t work out that way.
Her mother notices her instantly. Even though her hands are cuffed behind her back, she fights to get MJ’s attention. “Michelle! Officers, that’s my baby girl. Let me talk to her.”
MJ has to hold back the larb that’s threatening to come back up her throat when she hears her mom call her “baby girl”. Despite, she tries to look unbothered. Like this is nothing new: water is wet, fans of the New York Mets will continue to feign shock and outrage whenever their team loses, and MJ’s mom is getting arrested.
The ring of police part like the Red Sea to allow MJ through, and she’s hardly a foot away before she smells the tang of alcohol reeking through her mom’s breath. MJ quickly realizes that her mother is wine-drunk (wine-wasted, more like), and she grimaces. In her peripherals, May and Peter are hanging back—far enough to stay out of it, but close enough to hear everything.
“What happened here?” MJ asks, glancing at her mother.
“That bastard,” her mother slurs, “thinks he can just come home whenever he wants after abandoning us. And for what? To say hello? No, of course not. The dickhead just wanted his goddamned birth certificate.”
MJ winces. Usually, when her mother gets drunk (which is unfortunately something that happens on a usually sort of basis), MJ can avoid her. She hangs out to draw during after-school detentions, cruises through museums and libraries, and spends too long deciding what sandwich she wants to buy at the local Bodega. Right now, though, there’s nothing to do but confront it.
“You’re her daughter?” the officer questions. He has a dubious look on his face. MJ hates it, but it’s not like she can blame him—she doesn’t look like her mother at all. She’s got dark eyes and frizzy hair, and her father’s brown skin. Her mother could be a stunt-double for Laura Dern. The only thing they’ve got in common is their ridiculous tallness.
“That’s me,” MJ says evenly.
The officer sighs, and looks at MJ like he’d feel sorry for her if only her mother wasn’t such a pain. “Neighbors called in complaints around seven because of noise. Said they heard screaming, which escalated into things breaking, and then finally a gunshot.”
“What?” MJ feels her throat drying up.
“I didn’t shoot the bastard,” MJ’s mother says defiantly. “I should’ve though. I should’ve shot his dick clean off.” The officer gives her a briefly pained look, to which she responds: “Oh, don’t give me that. The last thing this damn world needs is a bunch of little Devons running around.”
MJ’s eyes widen, and she feels a hot sensation fill her chest. “You shot at Devon?” she hisses, leaning in so that May and Peter won’t hear. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
On one hand, MJ is so pissed that she might just explode. On the other hand, she’s hardly surprised. Of course, this had to do with her brother. She can’t imagine a single time her mother went off the rails about something that wasn’t Devon-related.
MJ remembers having a piggy bank. The first time she emptied it, she found that the pennies weren’t coming out, so she had to shake it like hell until they did. She wants to do the same thing with her mother right now—take her by the head and shake her up until, like the pennies, all the crazy comes falling right out of her.
“Will he be okay?” MJ hates the way her voice is shaking right now.
“He’s fine. Nothing fatal. He’s got a few cuts from what we assume was a ceramic flower pot, but nothing that a few stitches won’t help,” the officer assures her. “In any case, your mother is likely going to spend the night detained at the station while we work out a court date.”
“Yeah,” MJ says, her head spinning. “Okay.”
“Michelle, you listen to me,” her mother snarls, “I’m telling you right now, if you end up like that bastard brother of yours, I’ll—I’ll-,”
She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, turning her head to the side as puke shoots from her mouth like a jet. MJ glances away, her stomach twisting in knots.
“We’ll be heading to the station shortly,” the officer says, a glint of pity in his eyes. “Would you like to come with us?”
MJ doesn’t get to answer. She barely holds back a yelp as May materializes out of literally nowhere, pulling MJ back by her shoulders.
“Actually, officer, would it be more appropriate if we let Michelle stay with us for the night?” May asks. When the officer gives her an incredulous look, she chokes a little before adding, “We’re, uh, family friends of the Jones’. We’ll take good care of her.”
The cop glances between MJ and May, seemingly trying to decipher whether or not it’s safe to let MJ leave with someone who isn’t a direct relative.
“I think that’s a great idea,” MJ says, trying to relax into May’s touch in a way that seems any fraction of natural. “I can swing by tomorrow to deal with any paperwork.”
Reluctantly, the officer nods and goes on a tangent about any details MJ might want to know. Her mother's rights, where the station is located, and when she can drop by in the morning. MJ’s mom has stopped puking now, and all she’s doing is staring at MJ through her hollow blue eyes. And for the first time in ages, MJ feels completely, utterly helpless.
#
“I’ll take the couch,” Peter announces as soon as they walk through the door to May’s apartment. “I mean, I have bunkbeds in my room, but I wouldn’t make you-,”
“It’s fine, Parker. I’ve crashed on a couch before,” MJ huffs. She walks over and sets her schoolbag down next to May’s couch as if to claim it.
May smiles, “I’ll get some blankets. Peter, would you mind finding Michelle some clothes to sleep in?”
“Uh, yeah. ‘Couse,” Peter says. He hurries to his room and shuts the door while May digs around the closet for a fresh comforter.
This gives MJ the window of time she needs to take her surroundings in uninterrupted.
As a chronic observer, MJ is fascinated by the living spaces of other people. It’s not like she gets the chance to exercise this fascination all that often, but when she does, it’s like those scenes in the detective shows where they start to piece all the little bits of information together to come to a conclusion.
The conclusions she comes to are as follows:
1.) May is unmarried. Housing in Queens definitely isn’t cheap—but this place is small. Too small for a couple and their nephew.
2.) May likes to read, even if she doesn’t get much time to. Books are scattered everywhere throughout the living and dining rooms, piled up high in miniature towers. Considering all of the bookmarks sticking out through their pages, MJ also figures that May is better at starting than she is at finishing.
3.) May does not like to cook. The stove is sparkling clean—which wouldn’t mean a thing, except that the rest of the apartment isn’t.
4.) May does, however, like coffee. The Keurig machine next to the microwave looks like it could stand to be rinsed off by a pressure washer.
5.) May adores Peter. MJ spots proof of this just about everywhere—pictures hanging up on the refrigerator, academic awards showcased neatly atop a pair of orange filing cabinets, a homemade Mother’s Day gift serving as the centerpiece on their coffee table.
Nothing that MJ deduces is especially telling, but that’s fine. She welcomes just about any distraction that will get her thinking about something other than her mother and the complete and utter shitshow that she just had to endure.
May returns holding a thick flannel blanket with MIT’s logo emblazoned on it and a few red pillows. “We bought these for Peter’s dorm next semester. You can use them tonight,” May says.
Nothing makes MJ want to gag more than the thought of being snuggled up in the same blankets Peter will probably masturbate under come the fall, but she accepts them anyways. The couch is actually a loveseat, and MJ can already tell that she’s going to have to sleep scrunched up if her long legs are ever going to fit.
It’s comfortable, though. And it beats sleeping in Peter’s room.
Speaking of Peter and his room, he leaves it with a stack of neatly-folded clothes. “Here, MJ,” Peter says.
MJ accepts them. Her eyebrow raises as she inspects them closer. “Basketball shorts and a women’s t-shirt. Glad to see your sense of style prevailing,” she deadpans.
“The shirt is, uh—Betty’s,” Peter says. It’s a definite lie—MJ’s watched Peter for long enough to know his tell. His eyes get wider than platters, and his entire body freezes up. It’s almost like he’s been electrocuted.
“Betty’s,” MJ says, incredulity seeping through her voice like a sewer leak.
“Yeah. Betty’s. She uh—well, she and Ned stayed over last week, and she forgot to take her bag home, so…”
“So, instead of giving it back to her like a normal person, you’ve just been keeping it in your room like a weirdo?” MJ asks. Her questioning him like this feels like cruel and unusual punishment, but it’s just so entertaining to watch Peter squirm.
“I, uh-,”
“What do you do with her clothes? Smell them?” MJ asks, a smirk passing over her lips.
“No! I would—I would never,” Peter says.
MJ decides that she’s badgered him enough. She laughs a little, and tries to commit the horrified expression on his face to memory (she’ll want something to draw later). “Relax, Parker. I don’t care,” she says, heading over to the bathroom to change.
The basketball shorts fit her fine, hanging a few inches above her knee (thank God for Peter’s short legs), but the shirt is on the big side. It’s definitely not Betty’s—Betty would probably drop dead before spending good money on a “Periodic Table of Minecraft” graphic tee. The tag on the back does prove that it’s a women’s shirt, though. Maybe Peter bought it by accident, and he’s got some masculinity issues.
Whatever. As much as MJ loves getting into other people’s businesses, it really doesn’t matter right now.
Peter and May are chatting quietly over the kitchen counter when MJ steps out of the bathroom. It’s a serious conversation, judging by the creases on May’s forehead and their hushed voices. MJ clears her throat to give them ample time to shut up before making her way over.
“So, are you taking me back tomorrow morning or something?” MJ asks, setting her hands on the countertop.
May puts on the world’s least-threatening smile. “Actually, I was thinking that you might want to stay here for the next couple of days. Peter tells me that other than your mother, there’s nobody else to watch over you.”
“Well, I don’t need to be watched over. I’m an adult,” MJ says, furrowing her brows. “And I also don’t know why Peter thinks he knows anything about my home life, seeing as I’ve never talked about it with him.”
“Rumors,” Peter admits sheepishly.
“Because those are always true?” MJ asks, raising her brow.
May purses her lips. “Well? Are they?”
MJ frowns, at a loss. As much as she isn’t stoked to reveal the nature of her screwed-up family dynamics, she’s also not one to lie. To compromise, she says nothing—an act that is in complete vain, and that confirms Peter and May’s suspicions entirely.
“Look, we’ll take you up to the station tomorrow so that you can get your mother’s legal work sorted out. But I’d like you to seriously consider staying with us—at least until her court date,” May says.
May’s nice—too nice. Just like her nephew, she makes MJ feel like shit for being such a bitch sometimes. MJ sucks in her lips and stares down at the table.
“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” MJ says.
“You won’t be. I promise,” May says. “Honestly, I’d rather you here where I know you’re safe."
"My mom isn't going to do anything to me," MJ insists.
"Please, Michelle. Just consider it."
MJ wants to argue. She wants to assert her stance as an adult (because she is one, at least legally), and she wants to prove that she doesn’t need anyone else—especially not the Parkers.
But as much as she wants to put up a fight, she realizes that she can’t. She’s scared, and she’s tired, and under May’s firm gaze, she’s never felt like more of a kid than she does right now. And honestly, she doesn't know that her mother wouldn't hurt her. It takes all of her willpower to finally suck up her pride and nod.
“Okay,” she says, swallowing thickly. “Thank you, May.”
May smiles, walking around the counter and patting MJ on the shoulder. “Of course. Come on, let’s fix up that couch for you.”
#
MJ doesn’t remember her dream, but it must’ve been pretty horrific, because when she jolts awake, her heart is ramming in her chest, and her throat feels like it’s closing up. She sits up and puts her head in her hands, kicking off Peter’s MIT blanket because fuck, it’s hot.
A glance at her phone tells her that it’s a little past two in the morning. She’s got no notifications, even though she’s already sent a barrage of texts to her older brother. Devon’s always been shit at texting back, though, so it’s not something that makes her especially worried.
She used to get pissed at him for the month-long stretches of radio static that he’d force her to endure while he was off at college, but now she’s just grown indifferent. She doesn’t blame him for wanting to cut himself off from his previous life—she just wishes sometimes that he’d make an exception for her.
Groaning, she stretches awake and ties her mass of hair behind her. There’s no point in going back to sleep now—she’s too stressed and uncomfortable for the thought of it to be appealing. So, she picks herself up and heads to the bathroom to piss and wash her face.
When she finally gets a good look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror, it’s not a pretty sight. Her face is oily, and her eyes look exhausted. If Resting Bitch Face were a disease, her case would be terminal.
She flushes and shuts off the light before she can pick apart her own reflection even more.
When she walks back into the living room, Peter is waiting for her. He’s got one of the kitchen lamps turned on, and he’s making himself a bowl of cereal at the counter. A navy sweater three sizes too big sits over his shoulders.
“Hey,” MJ says. “Aren’t you hot in that?”
She’s warm and she’s only wearing a t-shirt and shorts. She can’t imagine what it would feel like to be in a sweater right now. Peter just shrugs.
“I get cold at night,” he says. He shakes out a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into his bowl before turning back to the fridge to grab some milk. “I uh, I couldn’t sleep. Want some?”
“I’m good,” MJ says.
“Right,” Peter replies. There’s an extended pause between them, where the silence begs to be filled but isn’t. And then Peter blurts out, “So, has to do with some guy, right?”
“Devon,” MJ groans, over-pronouncing the second syllable in his name just like her mother does when she’s on one of her tirades about him (“Your bastard brother, De-vaughn, can’t even make it home for my birthday” or “De-vaughn thinks he’s so much better than us now—thinks his shit don’t stink”.)
“Yeah, him,” Peter says, stuffing a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “Look, MJ, I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity—okay, well, maybe it is, a little bit,” Peter sighs. “But look, if you need anyone to talk to, I’m here. Okay?”
MJ rolls her eyes. “Didn’t realize you were my fucking therapist, Parker.”
Her tone is sharp enough for Peter to wince, and the guilt stings her like peroxide on a skinned knee. MJ releases a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” MJ apologizes, her voice hardly a murmur. “I know you’re just trying to help, I’m just—I’m not good at opening up or anything, so you probably shouldn’t expect me to.”
“Yeah. No, I get it,” Peter says, and MJ has to stop herself from throwing her fist right into his stupid, empathetic face.
She wishes that Peter was more of a jerk. Things would be so much easier if he had the capacity to be angry at her. She needs somewhere for her stress to go, but instead of indulging her in her anger, Peter opts to diffuse the situation entirely with his kicked-puppy expression and his genuine apologies that MJ doesn’t even deserve. He’s too nice. Too polite. Too understanding. And all of these things are MJ’s fucking kryptonite, because she can’t be cruel to him without getting slapped in the face with her own guilt.
It’s not like MJ enjoys being mean. It’s just that her meanness is the only thing standing between her and the rest of the world. Without it, she’s just another sad girl with family trauma and a sob story longer than the Hudson river. Nobody wants to get to know the girl who’s become an expert at putting other people down.
And honestly? That’s fucking perfect, because MJ doesn’t want to be known.
“Hey, you can say no if you want—but if you can’t sleep, I’m playing Halo in my room. The old one. Promise, nothing’s more relaxing than mowing down hoards of computer-generated aliens.”
MJ sighs. It’s too early to do anything else, and it’s not like she plans on going to sleep again for at least another hour or two. Also, she’d really feel like a dick if she turned Peter down after snapping at him earlier.
“Alright,” she says.
Peter looks almost startled by her acceptance. He smiles. “Oh—okay! Cool, cool. Let me just—wait there, okay?”
Not bothering to finish his cereal, Peter rushes away to his room. MJ can hear drawers being opened and shut, and the soft clatter of things being moved. She has to stifle a groan. How, exactly is she supposed to believe that Betty stayed over his house? He’s probably never had a girl in his room in all of his eighteen years of life.
Still, she waits until he comes back out, slightly winded as he invites her into his bedroom.
It’s surprisingly neat, though MJ chalks that up to the fact that Peter had hurriedly cleaned it only moments before she’d walked in (he’s not slick—she can see a pile of discarded shirts and energy drink cans sticking out from under his bottom bunk).
Honestly, MJ would love to say that she’s discovered something new and exciting about Peter Parker by observing his room, but there’s literally nothing in there that doesn’t just confirm what she already knows: that Peter is a huge dork.
Figurines line his shelves like a makeshift army—comic book heroes, and dragons, and guys from various video games. He’s got a cabinet full of graphic novels and textbooks, and a map of New York hanging frameless on his wall next to a sparkling-new MIT banner. Academic Decathlon ribbons for outstanding personal performance are hanging over a desk next to a gutted computer.
Peter’s gaming setup isn’t very impressive—just a television sitting on top of a few Tupperware boxes in front of his bottom bunk and an old X-Box coughing and whirring below it.
“Go ahead, sit down. I’ll get a second controller,” Peter says, digging through one of his dresser drawers.
MJ takes a seat on his bunk while Peter fishes out a bulky black controller for her. He untangles the cord and plugs it into his X-Box before taking a seat next to her.
“So,” MJ says. “If you were playing before I came in, why is the game on the main menu screen? Shouldn’t it be paused on a level or something?”
Peter stammers, “I uh—I reset it,” he says.
MJ rolls her eyes. She’s got a hunch that Peter hadn’t been playing video games at all when he’d bumped into her in the kitchen, but she doesn’t want to mention it. It’s not worth the emotional labor of talking to him more than necessary.
So, she just shrugs, accepts his answer at face value, and lets him load up a new save file for both of them while they start on a co-op campaign.
MJ’s never been much into video games. Her experience with them can pretty much be summed up through a collection of spinoff Mario titles. And God, does it show. She dies constantly, and Peter carries them both through the first level.
He even makes fun of her for it, something that MJ wasn’t sure was physically possible for him.
“We should get a swear jar,” Peter snickers, “except it’ll be for every time you get killed doing something stupid.”
“Shut the fuck up, Parker,” MJ groans, though her voice is light. “I’m not even dying that much anymore.”
As if on cue, her character is spiked to death by an alien with a needler.
“Quarter in the jar, MJ. It’s the rules,” Peter laughs. He bashes the alien to death with his blaster.
“Screw off.”
“Seriously? Right after I just avenged you?”
MJ respawns, but this time, she aims her gun right at Peter’s character. He doesn’t see it coming until his character’s corpse is already sprawled across the CGI grass.
“Hey, that’s not fair!”
MJ scrunches up her face and mocks Peter’s voice, “Quarter in the Jar, Parker.”
They spend the next twenty minutes ignoring the campaign entirely and killing one another instead. MJ learns that she’s much better at gunning down Peter than she is at shooting the aliens, though she suspects that he’s going easy on her. Still, to her own surprise, she’s actually having a pretty good time.
She can go back to being irritated with Peter in the morning, when she’s forced to go to the police station and all the shit that happened the night before comes bubbling back to the surface. Right now, she’s too caught up in the fucking hilarious way his voice cracks when he accuses her of “screen-looking”.
#
She doesn’t know how it happens, only that one moment she’s driving a four-by-four, and the next, her eyelids are falling shut. She starts to doze off sitting up, and through her half-consciousness, she can hear the latter-half of one of Peter’s good-natured jabs.
“…like you weren’t even trying to avoid that headshot.” And then, a quieter whisper, “MJ? Oh…”
The controller is taken out of her hands, and she feels one of Peter’s arms slip around her shoulders and the other under the bend in her knee. She’s not all that heavy, but he sucks in a breath before maneuvering her so that she can lay down on his lower bunk and sighs in relief when he drops her.
Maybe it’s because she’s exhausted, but this bed has to be the comfiest thing she’s ever laid down on in probably her entire life.
MJ only barely registers the sound of Peter’s door shutting and his light footsteps as he takes himself to the living room before sleep takes over, and her mind goes blank.