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"How about Penny?" the other boy asks, sprawled across the footboard of the bed. No, not the other boy. The only boy. There is only one boy in this room, because she is being brave and embracing who she is. She is a girl, and her name has yet to be decided, but it will be a good one.
"Penny?" she asks. "That sounds like I'm cheap."
"My aunt's name is Penny," Peter laughs. "You know, when I was younger, I thought Penny was short for penguin."
"You were such a dumb kid," she throws a potato chip at him.
"It seemed logical at the time." He throws it back.
"It's cute," she says. Places it in her mouth with a decisive crunch. "Penguin. Did she like penguins?"
"No. I did." He turns on his elbow so he's facing her. "How about Gwen?"
"Depends on whether I'm a Guinevere or a Gwendolyn. If I were a Guinevere I'd feel like I'm supposed to be all elegant and stuff."
"Gwendolyn's kind of an old lady name though," he says, flopping back to lie down again.
"Which is why I'd go by Gwen, for short."
"Gwen could also be short for penguin," Peter says, then shields his face with his hands. Good thing, too, because the pillow in her hand comes crashing down on him with a thud. He screeches, not in pain, but just to make noise, because they are friends fooling around as if they are still children.
Gwen's dad throws open the door to her room. "You okay in here?"
"Yes, sir," she says, holding the pillow up to show him. "Peter's just being a bit of an idiot."
"I'm not the idiot," Peter protests, grabbing the pillow from her.
"Don't be afraid to put my son in his place," Gwen's dad says, smiling, then closes the door behind him as he leaves.
Wait. Gwen's dad. She must be Gwen, then.
"You think you're going to tell him?" Peter asks.
"About what?" She knows exactly what he's talking about — what else would he be talking about — but she has to smirk and play dumb right now.
"How fucked up and gnarly your toes are," Peter says, returning the smirk. "Pointe really isn't treating you nicely."
"I haven't even thought about it yet," she says. "You're the first person I've told—"
"Of course I am," he interrupts. "You love me."
"—and I'm not sure when it would come up."
"Are you kidding me?" Peter asks. "When's it going to come up? The next time he's yelling about how no son of his is going to be dancing for a living? You can't wait for it to come up. You have to find a time when he's in the right mindset for it, and bring it up yourself."
"How would I even do that?" she asks. "You know we don't talk to each other."
"Hi, dad, how are you today? Good? That's good. I have something important to tell you. You know how I'm your son? Well, I'm actually your daughter, and my name is Penny." The voice he uses to imitate her is high-pitched, ridiculous, and it's the little details like that which make Gwen glad she chose him as a friend.
"Not Penny," she says.
"Fine. We're back to the drawing board, then."
"No, I've decided."
He sits up, claps. "Tell me. Or is it a secret? Do you want me to guess?"
"Gwen," she says.
"Not short for Gwendolyn," he groans. "That's such an old lady name."
"Does it have to be short for anything?"
"Penguin, obviously," he grins.
This time, he can't lift his hands fast enough to block the pillow.
Her father doesn't call her Gwen, or his daughter, but he does let her get a new haircut, dye her hair, buy new clothes. It's something, at least. And he doesn't correct Peter when her friend uses her pronouns correctly.
He even lets her call the school and get her deadname replaced with Gwen on all her class registries.
To celebrate this milestone, Peter buys new ribbons for her pointe slippers. Pastel, blue-pink-white-pink-blue. They don't go with any of the costumes she's wearing this year, but it's exactly the kind of thoughtful Peter gift she should expect by now.
"I thought they could be a lucky charm for your first day as a ballerina."
"I don't deserve you," she says, wrapping him in a hug.
"No, you don't," he says, returning a laugh.
When Gwen gets bitten by a spider, it's as a woman that she starts fighting crime. The media's superhero name of Spider-Woman is just one more sign that she's right about who she is, even as her father continues to call her by her deadname.
He doesn't like Spider-Woman, of course. Calls her a dangerous vigilante. But who's better equipped to fight crime than the daughter of a cop?
Perhaps if she were not the daughter of a cop, she would have pulled her punches, used non-lethal force. She can't get the image of Peter lying lifeless in the rubble out of her head. And why should she? He's her best friend. Was her best friend.
It was supposed to be the best night of her high school career. In one fell swoop, she's lost her best friend and any chance of her father coming around to Spider-Woman. She has gained something, though. It comes without warning, in the media circus that pops up to demand justice for Peter Parker. Justice in the form of Spider-Woman's freedom.
It should feel better than it does.
"Peter Parker ate at my table. He was my daughter's best friend."