Wedding of the Century 9 (Patreon)

It was only as he walked to catch his bus that Peter realized that if someone was diving through his dumpster, it was only a matter of time until they were shoving a microphone in Aunt May’s face. He cursed and turned on his heel, fishing out his cell phone to call the school and tell them he’d be late.

One Uber later—and no, he didn’t have the money for it and a tip, so Peter was pretty sure he’d be up against the wall when the Revolution finally came—he was at May’s.

It was already strange to him, being at the house in Forest Hills. From his childhood, he remembered it as a turbulent place. In the best, most raucous way. Something was always breaking down and being replaced or, more rarely, upgraded. Ben was always building a new bit of furniture or woodworking, May quilting something, Peter bringing home school projects to go on the refrigerator.

Then, when Uncle Ben died, it had frozen. Things that broke stayed broken. The TV showed more static than picture now. Peter kept meaning to replace it, but there was never enough money. Enough money or enough time.

The teakettle was building to a whistle when Peter came in. It fit his mood. He didn’t have much time to get May packed up before he had to be at work, and if he got there even fifteen minutes late, that was half a day’s wages lost.

“Hey, Aunt May, hi,” he said, trying not to rush her, panic her. He gave her a quick hug and kiss. “You still have that go-bag I got you?”

“Go-bag?” May asked, automatically trudging off to tend to the tea.

Peter grabbed her arm. “The satchel, remember?” He tried to make sure he touched base about it every time he came over, but he didn’t come over often enough and he had as much on his mind as May, often as not.

“Oh yes, it’s in the hall closet where you left it.”

“Great.” Peter rushed off to get it. “You know that trip to Florida you’ve been talking about? I need that to be today. There’s a bus to Philly in half an hour, you have that pilot friend there, right? He can take you the rest of the way.”

“Peter, would you like some tea?” May called back.

Peter picked the satchel out of the closet and unzipped it for a quick check. It had everything May would need for a few days away from home: clothes, extra medications, a copy of her favorite book--Wuthering Heights… I really should start calling it an overnight bag. Maybe then she’ll remember it.

“I don’t drink tea, May,” Peter replied, zipping the satchel back up and taking it into the kitchen, where May was pouring into two cups regardless.

“You should, Peter dear, it’s so much better for you than coffee. I was reading an article the other day about coffee doing the most ghastly things to the bladder…”

“Can we talk about this tonight?” Peter interrupted. “I’ll call you after work. But first, let’s get you to the bus?”

“Why do you need me to get on a bus? And do drink some tea, Peter, you sound stressed.”

“That’s just my voice,” Peter insisted, but he picked up the cup to mollify her. “You’ve heard about me and—well, it’ll take too long to explain—”

“Oh, yes, that was what I wanted to talk to you about!” May cried cheerily. “Peter, it’s so good to see you reconnecting with Mary Jane Watson. Her Aunt Anna and I always thought—”

“We’re not reconnecting,” Peter interrupted. “We just chatted a little and people are blowing it all out of proportion.”

“The newspapers said you were alone for three hours. You didn’t reconnect?”

“We didn’t talk!” Peter said, before realizing how that sounded.

He tried sipping the tea.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” May asked. “Chamomile.”

“She was crying,” he tried explaining. “I tried comforting her, she fell asleep, I didn’t want to wake her—next thing I know it all goes viral!”

“She gave you a virus?”

“No!”

“She always seemed like such a sweet girl.”

“She is!”

“Dresses a bit immodestly, but I suppose that’s the fashion nowadays.”

“She was dressed very modestly at the time. Full wedding dress. And don’t read anything into that, she was only dressed that way because she was going to get married to someone else and he ditched her.”

“So she’s single.”

Peter shut his eyes. How in the world he had got himself into a situation where his social life was front page news—and his only living family was someone who still read newspapers—he had no idea.

“Long story short,” he emphasized. “Now I have reporters trying to get any scoop they can on me… it’s only a matter of time until they go after you… so if you’re ever going to vacation in Florida, now would be a great time to do it.”

“You’re really worried about me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like the thought of being chased out of my own house.”

“I know, Aunt May.”

“But if it’s one less thing for you to worry about… promise me one thing, though?”

“Anything.”

May stood on tiptoes to take a teabox out of a cupboard. Peter had to help her reach that extra inch for it.

“Try to have a little tea every day,” she told him, pressing the box into his hands. “You won’t be any comfort to this girl if you’re all stressed out yourself.”

Peter flung his hands up. “Odds are I’m never going to see her again.”

“Hmmph.” May got her purse. “You know, when I was younger than you and my parents were younger than me, they told me that if I really liked someone, I should spend the night in bed with them.”

“Aunt May!”

“Not having coitus, just sleeping. When you’re in a relationship, a real relationship, you can’t have coitus every night.”

“Stop saying coitus.”

“But you should want to share a bed with them every night and that’s how I felt about your uncle and I still do.”

Peter shrugged. “It was three hours, Aunt May. She’s probably forgotten all about me by now.”

“If I had only seen your uncle for three minutes, I still wouldn’t have forgotten about him. Come on, we’ll take my car. It’s been a while since I’ve dropped you off at school, but I haven’t forgotten how to do that either.”

***

Midtown High hasn’t gone downhill since Peter’s days as a student. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been any great shakes then either. Principal Boush ran a tight ship, didn’t let the students get away with sob stories or generational trauma. But there was no fighting time. The textbooks were out of date, the buildings were cracked and leaky… hell, Peter was still using the backpack he had worn as a student, although it had less buttons on it now. And they didn’t bear the words ‘Frell’ and ‘So Say We All’. At some point, in a fit of optimism, he’d thought it best not to scare off anyone who might see him as a sex object. But that seemed about as likely as Midtown High getting a fresh coat of pain.

At the very least, he’d gained from perspective. When he’d been a teenager, and the building was only falling apart where guys named Kyle headbutted the walls, it’d seemed like the sky was always one pound away from being too heavy to stay up. Now he realized that most kids, then and now, were good kids. Just apathetic. Trying to keep their heads down. A few jerks, but nothing the system couldn’t handle if the system wanted to handle them. Peter tried to get it to run smoothly: for the gifted kids, the problem children, the jocks, the dweebs, the cheerleaders, the virgins. A part of him thought one day he even might manage.

But then again, one day, the sky had been too heavy not to fall…

He got to the school, but it was a buzzer beater. Peter swept through the front doors, nodding his badge to the resource officer, and was immediately clocked by Ezra, one of the students. Jewish kid, short, still thought he was the next LeBron. Did have a good free throw.

“Hey, Mista D!” he cried, throwing out a young person hand sign that Peter took to be good from his mien.

“Mister P. If you're going to abbreviate my name, please do it to a letter that's in my name.”

“Fo sho, fo sho. Hey, Mista P, she a real redhead?”

Peter scoffed over his amusement. Had he been this ridiculous when he was fifteen? “Ezra, if you don't shape up, you're going to get lectured by someone who has more time than me.”

“You can lecture me about Mary Jane Watson all you want. What's she smell like?”

“You're a sophomore now. It's time to be mature, not look cute in Polaroids.”

“What's a Polaroid?”

Peter had reached the teacher's lounge. If this was his first year as a teacher, he might take a minute to give the kid a few words about feminist, but Ezra was liable to run into another life lesson. However childish high school could be, it was still grownup world, and Peter was here to interact with grownups.

He went into the teacher's lounge. He knew he'd only have time to take his jacket off and pour himself a cup of coffee, so that's all he did.

Then Peter noticed that every faculty member in the room was staring.

“Shoot, did I wear one of my racist tees?” Peter asked before taking his first sip.

Matt Swath the English teacher had the courtesy to be a little flushed. “We were going to put this on your locker, but I don't think we're capable of waiting for the punchline to land, so…”

He took out a notecard and placed it on top of Peter's jacket on the coat rack. It read Mr. Mary Jane Watson.

“This your first week in New York?” Peter took the notecard and dropped it in the bin. “Celebrities exist. It's not like they power down in warehouses when they're not acting. You're going to see them once in a while.”

“I saw Margot Robbie at Tavern on the Green once,” said Miss Mullins the gym teacher.

Peter gestured to her. “Thank you!”

“I didn't spend two hours with her.”

Chip Hendricks the film studies teacher approached Peter with a sheaf of papers. “Could you show this to her?”

“What is it, a petition?”

“A script. It can be done on a low budget, diverse cast, lots to say about the politics of today.”

“We're not friends,” Peter protested.

“I let you have the last donut not two weeks ago.”

“No, me and Mary Jane, we barely know each other!”

Chip didn't seem to hear him. “The nudity is absolutely negotiable, we can shoot it from the back or with a body double…”

“Guys, which sounds more likely: that I had a chance encounter with a celebrity or that I, Peter Parker, am having a secret affair with Mary Jane Watson?”

James Chalmers the math teacher held up a clipboard. “I actually do have a petition. Tell Ms. Watson that conditions at SeaWorld have not improved at all since Blackfish came out…”

Peter quickly gulped his next hit of wakefulness. “I need to get to class. I have students who want to learn, not gossip about some actress.”

He finished off his coffee by the time he reached his homeroom. He came in, expecting maybe half the chairs to be filled, with another quarter that'd be taken up after the bell rang.

Instead, every seat was taken. Some students sat in the aisles and Peter's class was not that overcrowded. He could only think he had teens cutting other classes to get a look at him while he was a stationary target.

He dropped his paper cup on the trash. “Before I take roll, is everyone sure they're in the right class? And keep in mind…”

He noticed a lot of his class was wearing Mary Jane memorabilia. Band shirts for her band, hats promoting movies she'd starred in… and that overpowering smell had to be everyone wearing her perfume.

And those who didn't own something MJ branded had on armbands. Some enterprising soul had made a bundle on the phrase Mary Jane Loves Peter.

“Keep in mind,” Peter forged on, “my personal life is not up for discussion and has no bearing on your education.”

“Bullshit,” cried someone. Peter wasn't sure she went to midtown high. “You said you were going to marry her.”

He wasn't sure the girl wasn't old enough to vote.

“That was taken out of context,” Peter insisted. “Me meeting her was entirely random. Most likely I'll never see her again.”

Another girl let out a shrill squeak, like she'd just heard President Kennedy had been shot.

Before Peter could comfort the girl who seemed more distraught over his love life than even he had been from ages thirteen to nineteen, there was a knock at the door.

“Probably another class coming to borrow supplies,” Peter said, crossing back to the door. “Since they're in the middle of today's lesson, like we should be.”

He opened the door. There was Mary Jane.

The class exploded.