Archive of Our Own

It came up in AcaDec. The darndest questions always came up in AcaDec, really. How do you know if you know — how can you tell if you’ve guessed or remembered? Betty had interrupted, even though it was a rapid fire round and Betty Brant never broke a rule (that you’d witnessed), ever, in her life. (She had a million other ways of finessing the system.) She said there was a whole epistemological debate on that, which set Abe off on how unreliable the library system was for finding research publications. In the interim, Cindy took the opportunity to polish off the last five quiz questions, thoroughly pounding Flash, who was insisting Ned had nicked the keys of his Lamborghini from his coat pocket.

‘You really shouldn’t have taken the trouble,’ he was saying, ‘for starters, you wouldn’t know how to start the engine, anyway.’

Ned, who regularly flattened everyone in coding and robotics, was turning an off-shade of mauve.

‘I guess it’s not your fault you can’t even afford the instruction manual —’

‘I’m surprised that you can, Flash, considering the amount that goes into bribing every cop who pulls you over for speeding.’

Flash, who had been pulled over that very morning, now turned the very hue of a pickle.

‘How did you know?’ he spluttered.

Peter shrugged. ‘Lucky guess.’

If she hadn’t known any better, MJ would’ve said that Parker kid had a real penchant for guessing, or remembering — or just knowing things. She had been turning in her seat to give it to Flash for ragging Ned, but now she sat back, flipping her sketchbook open. That look on Flash’s face was exquisite, if she could just find an empty spot for it. She thumbed through the pages starting from the back, but they were all filled; her mind had been full lately, hazy outlines she tried to set on paper. Instead they just spilled over like smoke from a Pandora’s box, and new ones grew like poison ivy to take their place.

Peter was watching her. ‘You finished that one on Tuesday.’

‘What?’

‘That book, you filled it up on Tuesday.’

MJ had a brilliant memory, and she did not recall finishing the book on Tuesday. ‘No, there’s a blank here somewhere.’

‘That’s what you said too on Tuesday.’

It was very rude to roll one’s eyes at someone trying to help, but MJ did. If she’d finished the book on Tuesday, she would’ve replaced it on Tuesday, because she didn’t forget things like that. To make up for the eye roll, she told him so.

Still excruciatingly patient, he replied, ‘MJ, I’m sure we had this same conversation on Tuesday. If you don’t believe me, check the book.’

‘I have!’ All except the first page. There were sheafs of paper stuck in between, a napkin or two — even those were dark with charcoal.

‘And?’

She chose not to dignify that with a response. Mr Harrington came to her rescue, announcing the resumption of rapid fire rounds. Betty vs Ned — Betty was jotting down book recommendations for Abe, and Ned was practically expiring with romantic hopes. Yes, he was very much enamoured of Betty.

‘Michelle, you’ll be next,’ Mr Harrington was saying, ‘and you, Peter.’

‘Gotcha.’

That Parker, he certainly didn’t act like the new kid. He’d only been in school a couple of weeks and he’d never once made a rookie mistake. He didn’t forget which locker he’d been assigned, he didn’t lose his way from the gymnasium to the cafeteria. He wasn’t fazed by the sneaky mezzanine level that could only be accessed from the southwest staircase. He’d come in on his first day and turned up for AcaDec, barged in on their session five minutes late and asked to join — and he’d aced every question they threw at him in his application interview.

It was as if he’d done it all before.

‘Have you ever done AcaDec, Peter?’ Betty had asked, and he’d said, ‘Yeah — in a way, yeah.’

‘Studied all this stuff before?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Been —’ Been in school before? Betty was looking vaguely disconcerted, as if she’d lost track of what she was saying. Of course Peter Parker had been in school before. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘actually, I was homeschooled by my aunt.’

‘Do you live with her?’

A small smile. ‘I used to.’

Betty didn’t ask about that.

There was a distinct rustling, a sound like spandex against cardboard, coming from Peter’s direction. He pulled a sketchbook out of his bag and handed it to her, a new one, cool against her palm, white. Free of stray charcoal smudges. A clean slate. ‘Here,’ he said.

She took it from him. He inched his fingers back. ‘It’s the right kind.’

‘Well, sure.’

‘How’d you know?’

‘Oh, I remember.’

‘From when?’

Peter frowned, the corner of his mouth puckering up, the freckles on his cheeks coming together. Then he gave a little nod, almost to himself, and smiled at her. A friendly smile, but impersonal, the kind he might give across a cashier till. The kind he should’ve given her the first time she’d seen him, instead of staring dumbstruck the way he had. ‘Tuesday,’ he said.

‘And that’s seven to you, Ned,’ said Mr Harrington, at the podium, ‘and eight to Betty.’

‘Did you let her win?’ MJ asked, in an undertone, as Ned brushed by.

He didn’t even glance back. ‘Hey now, that would be an insult to Betty.’

MJ was getting to be pretty proud of him.

She sat herself across from Peter, watching his reflection on the shiny surface of their monstrosity of a tabletop bell. No one knew where Mr Harrington had procured it from, but the sound it made could probably be heard on the West Coast. If Peter had been nervous, she might’ve mustered up the energy to crack a little joke or two at his expense; but he was so calm, and anyway, Michelle Jones did not simply muster up the energy for people she didn’t even know.

There was a furor of interest from the audience. Apparently everyone wanted to know if Michelle Jones was going to muster up the energy to beat the new kid, even if Ned was looking sympathetic (they were getting on famously), and she’d heard Cindy tell Betty that if he wasn’t so scrawny he’d be kinda cute.

She hadn’t done it on purpose, but MJ had beaten Cindy in rapid fire 12-to-3 right after that, and Cindy was still not over it.

Mr Harrington drew a fresh lot of cards from his stack. ‘Alright, Peter, we’ll take it nice and slow,’ he said. ‘This is your first round, and we don’t want you to be nervous.’

‘Thanks, sir.’ If Peter was any less nervous he’d be practically in slumber.

‘Michelle will show you the ropes.’

‘Right.’

‘And she’ll go easy on you, won’t you, Michelle?’

MJ was beginning to wonder if this man recalled witnessing Parker’s application interview with his own two eyes, or if he’d been violently and selectively robbed of his memories. Peter was clearly trying not to laugh. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

‘Excellent. We’ll begin in three — two —’

With panther-like smoothness, MJ stretched a hand towards that very large bell.

‘450,000 Q-Tips were used in a set piece for the Star Wars film —’

Only the force of habit could have propelled MJ forward, because as she went the conviction was strong and true in her mind that she did not know the answer. But there was already another hand there.

‘The Phantom Menace,’ said Peter.

Ned let out a faint cheer, but Abe was gaping, and MJ couldn’t blame him. What kind of lousy question was that?

‘Correct,’ said Mr Harrington, and gave her an approving look, as if it was to her credit that she’d allowed him to answer something as trivial as that. ‘Next: When these birds feed on carcasses, they are a wake; in flight formation, they are a kettle.’

MJ could’ve hazarded a guess, but Peter rang in. ‘Vulture.’

‘Which building was the tallest in the world at the point of its completion in 1884?’

‘The Washington Monument.’

There was a twitch in MJ’s temple, a thrumming that threatened to bloom into more. Stupid Star Wars. Stupid vultures and stupid Monument.

‘How many times stronger is spider silk said to be than steel?’

She lunged for the bell, and the clang it made jarred her so badly that she felt flung back into her seat. ‘Well,’ she said, and hesitated. ‘Five?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Lucky guess,’ said Peter. His jaw was locked. MJ wondered if he was really that sore of a loser.

Mr Harrington seemed to be taking all this as building of camaraderie. ‘Very good, very good. Now, this murder occurred in Los Angeles, on 15 January —’

‘The Black Dahlia.’

Her favourite. ‘How in the world —’

‘My turn for a lucky guess.’

Peter, for the first time, allowed his gaze to flicker to her. ‘Eyes up here, Parker,’ she wanted to snap, but he’d already looked away again. ‘Nice necklace.’

‘How did you —’

‘The arc of a circle —’

The glass fragment at MJ’s throat was so far beyond recognition that it should’ve been impossible for Peter to guess what it was supposed to be. A black dahlia. Someone had given it to her, she’d forgotten who. A Venetian glass piece, and she’d broken it somehow. The other part of it had gone missing. She vaguely remembered pressing it into someone’s palm. Probably she’d asked them to fix it and they’d never given it back.

‘The “Tiffany Problem” —’

Ned was staring at her. She bared her teeth in something like a growl. Her head hurt.

Peter sent the bell clamouring again, and MJ turned her murderous gaze on him. ‘Joan of Arc.’

She had a Joan of Arc shirt. Probably Peter had never seen it. She didn’t know why he was looking at her like that.

‘William Thackeray,’ said Mr Harrington mildly. ‘This should be easy for you, Michelle: “To love and win is the best thing.” The next best?’

She swallowed. ‘To love and lose,’ she said.

‘Correct.’

Peter hadn’t even fought her for the question.

‘In 1927, Charles Lindbergh used this as a beacon upon landing —’

‘The Eiffel Tower.’

‘Right again. Final question.’

MJ hoped Peter wouldn’t hit the bell. He seemed to have lost interest in the round altogether. If she had to hear that awful sound again she knew her head would split open.

‘“All human wisdom is contained in these two words —”’

MJ knew this. ‘Wait.’

Peter was looking at her. ‘And hope.’

‘Excuse me,’ MJ said. She stood up, staggered against the desk, and ran from the room, leaving her chair to tip over with a crash onto the stage behind her.

MJ gave herself twenty minutes before deciding that her lunch would probably stay in this time.

She leaned against the wall and slid down it, warming herself in the stray sunbeam slanting through the hallway window. The shivering had stopped, and whatever pain had been chiselling away at the bridge of her nose had dulled into what felt like a pool of slowly-congealing blood. She was very tired; for a while she watched a little speck move across the corner between the wall and the ceiling, not knowing what she was seeing. Then she realised it must have been a tiny spider, almost too small for her to make out, but stretching and stitching its intricate, unmistakable web — a work of art.

‘Hello,’ she murmured. Shame that someone might come with a broom and sweep it all away. It was beautiful.

Headaches were not MJ’s thing. She’d never had the misfortune of being a chronic sufferer, had never been afflicted by one that sleep, water, and Advil couldn’t fix. This one, though, felt like someone was deliberately and methodically prodding the inside of her skull, looking for a weak spot, deciding where it would hurt most. It felt targeted. It also felt like there was something she was forgetting — something important she should know.

It was as dogged as a memory.

‘Tea?’

She knew the smell before she was even aware of it. ‘No way,’ she breathed, because it was that blend, that scent. There was a hint of it in every cup of tea she’d brewed, something like it but not quite right, half of a heart. Sharp and fresh and soothing. Soft and bright. MJ couldn't remember when she’d drunk it, couldn’t remember what it was, but she knew.

‘This is my aunt’s special blend.’

‘How did you know?’

‘How did I know…?’ And Peter smiled, because he must’ve known she would never finish the sentence. ‘She would’ve been glad you like it.’

‘I’ve been looking for this.’

‘I know. I know.’

She took the cup from him. ‘You’re a hell of a guesser, Peter Parker.’

‘Drink. Before it gets cold.’

She did.

Peter settled down next to her, not quite an arms length away, but at a polite distance. She was surprised at how that stung a little. Cindy had been wrong; once upon a time Peter might’ve been scrawny, but there was a leanness to him, a taut and supple strength. Like a single skein of that spider’s web, stronger than steel.

‘Peter,’ she said. The smell was heavenly. She had been chasing this for what felt like forever, but every time she got close it would duck around the corner and disappear again. Now — yes, this was like coming home.

‘Feeling better?’

‘Thank you.’

He nodded. ‘Good to know.’

‘What was the score?’

‘11.5-to-3.5.’ Peter barked out a sound that could have passed for a laugh. ‘I wanted to give you that last point, but Mr Harrington said that acknowledging a team effort makes for better bonding. So.’

‘Boy,’ she said dryly, ‘do I feel a special connection.’

She might have been wrong, but she was certain that Peter flinched at that. ‘Yeah,’ he continued, and cleared his throat. ‘Peppermint and bergamot and green.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The tea.’

‘It’s really good.’

‘My aunt used to buy loose leaves and mix them. I wish I knew how to do it. I’ve only got half a jar left.’

MJ looked up. The spiderweb glinted like glass in the light; she could have snapped it with a finger. ‘I didn’t mean to take it from you. You shouldn’t have used it.’

‘No! No, she… she used to give it to me when I was sad, or scared, or… it’s a comforting smell, you know? She always smelled like that. Spunky, but grounded. She’d have wanted you to have that. She loved to help.’

‘Your aunt sounds like a lovely person.’

MJ wasn’t sure about the tense, but Peter seemed to appreciate that. He waved his hands about a bit, paused, smiled. ‘She reminded me of spring. Fresh. Bright. Maybe it was her name.’

‘What was her name?’

‘May.’

‘Aunt May.’ She tried it on for size. It was nice.

‘I lost my parents. Then my uncle. She was all I had. I talk with my hands because of her. She worked two jobs… somehow she was always there, though.’

There was something MJ wanted to say, but it sounded so trite that she held it back.

‘I really put her through it, you know? I gave her a hard time. Like, not on purpose. She was worried about me. I was young and reckless.’

We are young, MJ thought, but Peter seemed a million years older just then.

‘And?’ she said softly.

‘And we were happy that way.’

‘Did you… was it…’

‘Just about before I came here.’

‘Peter, I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s alright. You know, she really liked you.’

She blinked. ‘What?’

‘I mean, she would’ve really liked you, MJ.’

‘Oh.’ MJ let her head loll back against the wall, weary, peaceful. The spiderweb shivered in the corner. Something had agitated the spider; it moved erratically from end to end, just barely visible, in search of something. Vaguely she wondered what it was that spiders would ever dream of and look for.

‘I don’t get to talk about it often,’ Peter said slowly, ‘my life before this, I mean. There was my aunt, and this guy who was her boyfriend, but not really. It was weird, but he was cool. I had a… a mentor of sorts, and he died too, but his wife and his daughter always looked out for me. And I left my best friend behind. There was a girl… oh, I’m rambling. You should stop me, you know, when I do this. Spin stories. Or I’ll never stop.’

‘I like it.’

‘You don’t really.’

‘Peter, do you still talk to your best friend?’

‘Oh, sure. Every day.’

‘What about the girl?’

‘Every day, too.’

‘Does it make things easier?’

‘Honestly, it’s not the same.’

Peter sounded unusually down. Still, it must’ve been hard on him; he had no one, and they were probably in another school, another state. Life did go on. At least they hadn’t been violently and selectively robbed of their memories, though. At least they still thought about him.

‘At least they remember you,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine what I’d do if everyone I loved just… forgot me.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I can’t, either.’

MJ sensed that she’d said enough. Above them, the spider was perched at the very edge of its web. She imagined a trapezist, ready for the jump. A boy on the brink. Someone standing on a ruined bridge, with nothing below them but air.

There was something freeing about falling.

‘Did Mr Harrington send you?’ she asked finally.

‘He asked all of us to look for you, but the rest of them were pretty set on waiting. I think they were just surprised that the new kid was willing to take on the formidable MJ.’

It happened. The spider dived, suspended by its silk, plummeting towards the ground; the penny dropped, the pieces clicked, it came together.

‘Hey, woah,’ she said. ‘Since when did I say you could call me MJ?’

‘What do you mean? I’ve always been doing that.’

MJ put the cup down and struggled to sit upright. The hammering was turning into tugging, a coast guard on a lifeline, but the tide was washing out. ‘My friends call me MJ.’

Slowly, Peter reached for the black book on the floor beside him. He slid it over to her. ‘Brought your sketchbook,’ he said.

She narrowed her eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’ Peter asked, but he turned away as he said it. ‘Aren’t we friends?’

‘Are we?’

‘Don’t you know, MJ?’

He stood and she looked up into his face. He was smiling, mischievous, like they were sharing a private joke. His front tooth was chipped. It startled her; she had a feeling she’d known that all along. But she hadn’t remembered until she’d seen it again.

Memories like echoes, like tracing paper over a map. She wanted to take her pencil and go over the lines again, but she wasn’t sure if she would end up in the same place.

Peter was smiling like she’d broken his heart, although she couldn’t understand how she could’ve done it.

‘No,’ she said.

‘I might’ve guessed.’

He held out his hand. She gave him her cup. MJ wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but he seemed content with that. He drained the last bit of tea and looked down at her sketchbook. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘best hop on that. Wouldn’t want to miss out on that sketch of Flash.’

‘But this one is full.’

‘Oh, maybe I was wrong.’

Frowning, MJ flipped it open. He was right — it was full.

‘Try the front page.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

It was Peter. Unmistakable, with the slightly snubbed nose and long eyelashes. Carefree curls, not cropped close to his head. The sketch took up the entire page, done in pen, everything from the bold hatches to the tiny strokes. What an odd pose, squatting almost like a frog — until MJ realised she’d been holding the book upside down the whole time. She turned it around.

He was hanging upside down like a spider from a web.

Michelle Jones was many things, but not delusional. Even if she had been delusional, she would not have been delusional to the point of thinking herself rational. It was therefore a terrible, terrible shock to realise that she was either hopelessly mad or dangerously sane — in which case something was very wrong. Because she knew, in her soul, in all the silks and fibres of her being, that although she remembered nothing, she had drawn this. This had come from her hands. This had come from her heart. She looked at every line and felt it.

And she knew that there was something between herself and Peter Parker.

‘My friends call me MJ,’ she said again, aloud. But when she looked up there was nobody to hear her. Nobody except the tiny spider, which had come home, and was spinning its delicate web across the window.