by Peter David
She didn’t want his explanations. She wanted to get as far away from this place as possible.
Without a word, Mary Jane turned and walked out. No, not walked: ran. She didn’t want to exit to house left—that would take her out past the box office, and she had no desire to see people in line to purchase tickets. Instead she headed in the other direction, through the side exit that opened out onto a narrow alleyway. The doors slammed heavily behind her, like a guillotine blade, severing her ties to the group of strangers whom she had briefly considered family.
Clutching her small overnight bag tightly under her arm, she headed down the alley and stepped out onto Forty-fourth Street.
Instantly there was a chorus of cheers, applause, whistling. Was the reception for her? Perhaps the producer had been spooked by the crummy reviews, but at least the fans had…
… their backs to her. They were looking in another direction entirely.
They were looking up.
Mary Jane did the same, although she didn’t really have to. She knew what everyone was going nuts over.
Spider-Man.
There he went, webbing his way across the skyline. In the distance she could hear sirens wailing. He was off on another mission of mercy, and everyone adored him for it.
Mary Jane never wanted to hate someone more than she did at that moment… and had never been more incapable of doing so.
Filled with frustration and self-loathing, and determined not to let anyone see her cry, Mary Jane headed back to the place that she called her apartment, but was still not home. “Home is other people,” she said aloud.
And some guy passing her—probably a writer, from the aesthetic look of him—promptly corrected her by saying, “Hell. ‘Hell is other people.’ Jean-Paul Sartre.”
“I guess he’d know.”
He stared at her a moment. “Do I know you from someplace?”
“No,” Mary Jane said quietly. “No one knows me at all.” Without another word, she headed away from the Broadhurst as quickly as she could.
* * *
Chapter Ten
GRANDSTANDING
Peter Parker was certain that he had never seen a more gorgeous day than the one facing him this crisp morning. Absolutely no clouds, sky a perfect blue. He had spent time with Harry the day before, and everything seemed okay with him. Granted, he hadn’t been able to get in touch with Mary Jane. But when one considered everything that they had been through and had survived—both in their relationship and in their lives—certainly they’d be able to get through this. For God’s sake, it was a single review from some loudmouthed critic. She’d get past it. With the perspective of distance, she’d realize that she was making too much of it.
Everything was going to be all right.
Because this was his day, baby. His day.
He was down by City Hall, moving past the displays of banners and balloons that had been created to celebrate the greatness that was—let’s face it—him. Police lines had been set up for crowd control of the vast number of people assembling for the celebration. It was a heady experience. Peter was completely blown away by the positive energy and outpouring of support. He couldn’t believe he’d seriously considered skipping the entire event. Every single person there was wondering the same thing: Was Spider-Man going to show up? Peter Parker was the only one who knew the answer to that, and he was loving every minute of it.
In the old days, he would be frustrated as the public and media trash-talked Spider-Man, and he’d feel so tempted to rip the mask off and shout, Hey! Look! See? I’m just an ordinary guy under here, not the monster everyone’s making me out to be! So cut me a break, would you, please?! Those were the times that he despised the need to keep his identity a secret.
Now, though, he was getting a kick out of being the only one here who knew what Spider-Man’s plans were.
A discordant blatting of musical notes cut through his thoughts—a high school marching band was tuning up. And there had to be something like a thousand people of varying ages and sizes attired in homemade Spider-Man outfits.
Peter brought out his camera and started clicking away. He didn’t care whether Jonah bought them or not. If nothing else, he could create a scrapbook so he’d always have a visual record of the greatest day of his life.
A small boy in a Spider-Man costume, noticing that Peter was taking pictures, ran toward him with some sort of large plastic device on his wrist… a lever attached to a canister. The kid pushed the lever and a small gout of what appeared to be Silly String spurted out from it. Peter recognized it for what it was: a homemade web shooter. Peter tried to contemplate what it would be like building a functioning mechanical webshooter if he didn’t possess organic spinnerets. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how he would make such a thing.
The kid tried to fire more “webbing,” but the can made a fizzing noise. Obviously he was out of ammo. Peter glanced right and left, saw that no one was paying attention, extended his right arm, and fired a quick burst of his own webbing. It leaped out from his forearm and splattered on the kid’s shoe, creating a small patch of web on it. The boy’s eyes went wide as he correctly figured out what had just happened, and he turned and shouted, “Mama! I just saw Spider-Man!”
By the time his mother came to the kid’s side and looked where he was pointing, Peter had already joined a group of teenaged Spider-Man fans and easily mingled in. The boy’s mother would just assume her son was referring to a particularly effective costume.
In the large plaza area directly in front of City Hall, Peter spotted Gwen Stacy standing near the proscenium, studying a piece of paper as if it had been produced by divine hand. The way she kept closing her eyes and murmuring to herself, Peter surmised that she was attempting to memorize the contents. In her other hand she was holding a large golden object: the fabled key to the city.
Gwen looked in his direction, except she wasn’t looking at him; she was just randomly turning his way as she continued moving her lips in memorization. Then she focused on him and realized he was standing there, waving. Her face brightened. “Hiya, Pete!”
“Nice key,” he said.
She nodded, looking distracted as she did so, and held up the piece of paper she’d been studying. “Trying to put the right words together. How do I introduce somebody who saved my life?”
“Keep it simple. Maybe just, ‘Here he is, folks, your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.‘“He glanced around, saw various important-looking individuals coming together at the base of the proscenium. Things were about to start rolling.
Any lingering doubts that he had about making a personal appearance were finally put to rest by the hopeful look in Gwen’s eyes. It would mean so much to her to be able to tell Spider-Man how she felt. And…
Okay, admit it. Admit your darker feelings to yourself at least. The way that Mary Jane was looking at you so accusingly, so full of hurt the other day. You were trying your best, honest to God you were, but it wasn’t enough. And there are some days when you just get fed up with the notion that your best doesn’t measure up. So here’s Gwen Stacy, and all she has to do is mention Spider-Man and her eyes just… just light up with gratitude and excitement.
And don’t you frankly deserve some of this? After all these years, finally being appreciated for everything you have to offer? Aren’t you finally getting your due, and what the hell is wrong with being pleased about it and feeling entitled to…
He shook himself out of his reverie and added, “Then … list some of his great achievements!” before heading off into the crowd.
• • •
Gwen watched Peter go and smiled. What a nice guy he was. No Spider-Man, of course, but not everyone could be. Hell, hardly anyone could be.
She headed toward the stairs that led up to the stage, and suddenly a voice from behind her shouted, “Boo!”
A startled Gwen jumped as she spun to face the speaker, only to find herself staring down the lens of a camera. A series of rapid clicks told her that her
slightly frightened expression had been preserved for posterity, and she wasn’t the least bit happy about it. And unsurprisingly, the photographer made no effort to capture the scowl that quickly followed. Tossing her long, blond hair out of her face, she snapped, “Eddie, I don’t have time. I’m working on my speech.”
Eddie Brock lowered his camera and asked, “Need any help?”
“Not now.”
She headed for the stage. Eddie followed, not taking the hint. “I’ll see you tonight, right?”
“Not tonight.”
“Why not?” he persisted. “We had a great time.”
“We had coffee, Eddie.”
“But you let me kiss you goodnight.”
Gwen, becoming totally fed up with this conversation, turned and faced Eddie, with one foot on the steps that led up to the stage. “It was just a little kiss, Eddie. It was nice. Excuse me.”
As Gwen headed up the steps, she wondered about the kind of luck she’d been having lately. It certainly was running to extremes. On the one hand, she’d encountered Eddie Brock in a casual meeting at a Starbucks near ESU. They’d had a pleasant enough conversation, happened upon each other yet again at the same Starbucks (except now she was wondering whether it wasn’t happenstance and Eddie had simply been staking out the place after their first encounter), spent some more time together, and he’d brought her home that one night…
She shouldn’t have kissed him. Gwen was all too often a creature of impulse. But he’d seemed nice, and even a little needy, and so it had happened just before she’d walked into her house. It was nothing much to her, and frankly, he’d tasted a lot like coffee. Apparently, though, it had meant way, way too much to Eddie, and now his actions were bordering on obsessive. How could one compare her stupidity in kissing him with his stupidity in stalking the daughter of a cop?
Contrast that experience to nearly plunging to her death, only to be miraculously rescued by a masked man on a string of web.
She wondered why in the world she couldn’t meet a nice, decent, down-to-earth kind of guy, someone comfortably between the two extremes.
At which point Peter Parker’s face suddenly came to her mind. She turned and looked back toward the crowd, thinking that maybe she should have invited him up onto the stage with her. If Eddie saw Gwen next to another young guy, it might send him a message. Besides, Peter was smart, reasonably good-looking, and wonderfully normal with his feet solidly on the ground. Maybe the answer was right there in front of her, and she just had to see it.
Unfortunately, Peter was nowhere to be seen.
Why are you doing this to yourself? Mary Jane wondered for what seemed the umpteenth time as she moved through the crowd. And for the umpteenth time, she had no sure answer.
She had spent the rest of the previous day and much of the night staring at the telephone, trying to decide whether to call Peter. Her phone rang a couple of times, but she shut off the volume on her answering machine so that she didn’t have to listen to the message being left. She didn’t want to talk to anyone unless it was on her own initiative. After a sleepless night, she had finally picked up the phone and dialed him, only to discover he wasn’t there. Then, turning on her TV she’d seen live news coverage of this Spider-Man love-in. Of course.
So she had come here, not knowing why, but feeling the need to be with Peter. To see him. To tell him…
… that she’d been fired? That his perceptions of her abilities had been colored by his love for her, and because of that she couldn’t count on him to give an unvarnished assessment of her talent?
And… was that really such a bad thing?
“Hey, beautiful, can I take your picture?”
Mary Jane glanced over her shoulder and, sure enough, there he was, focusing on her. If he’d only shown up a few minutes later, she might have gotten her thoughts in order. As it was, the best she could manage was a halfhearted smile. Peter lowered the camera, picture still not taken, then approached her and stopped half a foot away, as if she had a force field around her. “Hope you’re not still mad at me,” he said.
“No, Peter, I’m proud of you.”
He smiled then, pointed the camera, and took a picture. Then he stepped in closely and said in a low voice, “I’m planning to swing in from over there.” He pointed behind her. Mary Jane, in the meantime, glanced down at the camera’s tiny display screen. The digital picture that he’d just taken was still on it—there she was, all right, but behind her was a banner reading: Spidey the mighty. She wasn’t sure, but it looked as if her image was slightly blurry while the banner was perfectly clear, as if he had had to decide which to focus on and had opted for the sign. Then the picture blinked out and went back to “view” mode.
Perhaps she was overthinking it. Or at least she hoped she was.
“Give them a good show,” she urged him.
A marching band played an opening fanfare, complete with drumroll, and Mary Jane sensed the anticipation rising in the crowd. Peter was already fiddling with the top button on his shirt, and as he started to move away, he called to her, “Hey! I made a reservation for dinner tomorrow! I left you a message.”
Hearing that, Mary Jane knew she had to confess everything. Heaven forbid Peter would go to meet her at the theater and find her name missing from the marquee and posters, as if it had never been there. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him now, not when he was in such a fantastically upbeat mood. Sensing her conflict and unhappiness but not knowing why, Peter obviously concluded that she was still upset about her bad press… which, technically, she was, but not for the reasons he was assuming. “And don’t worry about that review,” he urged her as a parting shot. “We’ll laugh about it tomorrow.”
He moved off toward a building across the street. No one noticed, since all eyes were focused on the stage some distance off.
“Yeah,” was all she could bring herself to say.
With Peter gone, she felt like a balloon with the air out of it. She tried to pay attention to the festivities. The band had segued straight from “New York, New York” to a marching version of “The Eensy Weensy Spider,” a tune she’d never have thought lent itself to a brass band.
Mary Jane was suddenly overwhelmed by everything she was seeing. Everyone was so happy, and she was so miserable. She had no place here, as if she might drag down the mood of the entire crowd with her sorrow.
Deciding she couldn’t stand to be there anymore, Mary Jane turned to leave and found herself face-to-face with an equally startled Harry Osborn. He had a small bandage on his head and a slight but fading discoloration under his eye: the only souvenirs of his hospital stay.
“Hey, MJ!” he said with an enthusiasm so contagious that she couldn’t help but smile in return… the first genuine smile she’d made in what seemed like ages.
“Harry!”
“Where’s Pete?” he asked, glancing around. Naturally it made sense that he would assume Peter would be here. Even with his memory on the fritz, he was aware that a news event with Spider-Man present would be the ideal function for his photographer buddy to attend.
“Taking somebody’s picture, I guess,” she said, trying to sound casual, and worried that instead she came across as forced. It didn’t appear to register on Harry, who just seemed so grateful to be alive that Mary Jane was basking in his positive aura. “I’m so happy to see you! You look so good, Harry.”
“I never felt better,” he replied, chipper. “Very strange feeling, not knowing exactly who you are. A bump on the head and I’m free as a bird.”
Except it was obvious to Mary Jane that Harry knew who he was; he was simply bereft of the sadness that had shrouded him the past months. Harry had a clean emotional slate, and she envied him for that. “Hey, bump me on the head, will you?”
Playfully he tapped her lightly on the forehead with his knuckles. Then he looked around, taking in the celebratory atmosphere, and that—combined with the music being played—appeared to trigger a recollection. “Hey,
Peter said you were in a play!”
“You were there, remember? You sent me flowers.”
“I did?” He looked momentarily confused, then shrugged it off, his newly cheerful nature simply unable to sustain anything other than feeling upbeat. “I’ll come tonight!”
“You can’t,” she said quickly. She saw the surprised look on his face. Clearly he thought that she didn’t want him at the show for some reason, and she was stuck. Mary Jane lowered her voice and said, “I was let go.”
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t very good.” She tried to make it sound light-hearted, but the misery in her voice was palpable.
“Don’t say that. Man,” he said, frustrated, “I wish I could remember so you’d believe me when I said you must’ve been good, and they’re all nuts. But I know I’ve seen you in other stuff, and I know what you can do. You are really good.”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. She was slightly buoyed by his confidence in her, but still shaken by all that had happened. “Sometimes I think I am, but then I’m not sure.”
The crowd around them had started chanting, “Spider-Man! Spider-Man!” It made it almost impossible for them to continue the conversation. Harry stepped closer to Mary Jane and practically shouted in her ear, “You know, this is embarrassing, but I once wrote a play for you in high school.”
“You wrote me a play?” Mary Jane couldn’t have been more surprised if Harry had sprouted a third eye on his forehead. Even when they’d been dating, he’d never struck her as the creative type. Obviously he felt so self-conscious about his work that he couldn’t even bring himself to show it to anyone.
“I forget how it went,” he said with a shrug. “It was some silly romantic thing.”
“Harry!” She touched the side of his face affectionately. “That’s the sweetest thing!”
“Well, y’know, I’d still put you in my play.”
It was comments like that—the surprising moments of tenderness that Harry Osborn was capable of displaying—that reminded her of why she’d gone out with him. Granted, it had all soured because of Harry’s father, but Norman Osborn was gone, and that part of Harry that had acted so badly toward MJ was also gone…