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Okay, so. Here’s the deal: You most certainly were not the type to gossip. You really weren’t. The clique-ish chatter of your classmates and passersby floating through your ears like the twittering of so many small birds, muffled like cotton balls in your ears.
It’s not that you were a bad listener. Nah. You actually considered yourself a good listener. You just weren’t that interested in the conversational equivalent of small-dick-energy. Small minds discuss people, so they say…
Besides, rumors were pernicious. Especially those perpetrated by bored teenagers, the girls’ perfectly-filed nails so much like demon’s talons, the boys’ whispering and snickering like the hissing of snakes. All attempting to perforate your uninterested sensibilities.
Whatever. Whatever the topic was today, you just weren’t interested. Until–
“I heard Flash threw him in. What other reason would he smell like a dumpster?”
“Maybe he just doesn’t, ya know, shower?”
“No way. Flash can’t toss him in alone. He’d need help. Besides, I think he went in there, like, voluntarily.”
“He doesn’t smell. You just saw him coming out of the alley.”
“Ew. You mean to tell me that Peter Parker is a– a dumpster-diver?”
The mention of Peter’s name caught your interest. Peter was a tech-type with a seemingly contradictory creative streak. You had often wondered where he had picked up the old school gadgets he sometimes had tucked under his arm as he hurried to and from the science lab or the A.V. room, Ned Leeds in tow, talking a mile a minute about – some thing or another.
You were almost certain the term “motor mouth” was coined with Peter in mind.
You turned your head to hear who was talking, only to be met with a table full of Flash Thompson’s hangers-on.
Of course. Flash Thomson’s weird hate-boner for Peter Parker was well known among your class. And probably the teachers, too.
You didn’t understand. What was to dislike about Peter Parker? He was perfectly sweet, sweetly smart, smartly perfect.
Okay, maybe you had a little thing for Peter Parker. But only just a little. You had, what? Two classes together?
Besides, you were too busy for boys. It’s 2k19, for God’s sake. You had soccer, studying for the SATs, you helped out your parents. You liked to read. It’s not that you weren’t interested in the pursuit of a certain sweet, stuttering boy with coffee curls and eyes flecked with gold.
Dear god. When did you become a poet? Scratch that. When did you become a terrible poet?? Be still your heart, Keats.
Rolling your eyes, you smacked your empty lunch tray for good measure as you got up, catching the attention of some of Flash’s “Mob.”
“Maybe you should chill on being trash who trash-talks? You sure you don’t belong in the dumpster?” You replied primly. Not chancing a glance back, or waiting for a snarky response, you turned, dropping your tray in the designated area and walked out.
Mic drop, assholes.
—
Peter stared after you from his corner table, basking in the glory of your grand exit. He didn’t hear what you had said. But judging by the disbelieving stares that followed you, it must’ve been good. Flash’s hangers-on looked after you, a few then turning their attention to Peter’s table before going back to their lunch, mouths agape.
Um, what?
Peter had no clue what that could have been about. Whatever it was, he was almost certain he didn’t want to know. Unless– unless it had to do with you. Then he almost certainly did want to know.
He would crawl over glass if it meant learning more about you.
Okay, maybe not glass. He did get beat up on the regular, and even super-fast healing and super strength didn’t mean that the sensations that came from small-time ass kickings was enjoyable.
Mr. Stark told him that finding the girl he liked would hit him like, what was it? Oh, yeah …
“A punch to the gut, Pete. You’ll never see it coming. Not even with that little, uhhhh, tingly little super-sense you’ve got goin’ on.”
Punch to the gut indeed. Just the sight of you was enough to make Peter stammer, even moreso than usual. Sweat a bit more than usual. Especially today, what with his latest acquisition burning a proverbial hole in his backpack.
His morning excursion had yielded a perfectly good Walkman. Who would toss that in the dumpster? A little fine-tuning and it should be good to go. He’d been acquiring retro stereo equipment for some time. A little trip to the junk store for a blank cassette, and he was home free.
His heart sang at the cleverness of his plan. Burning you an old-school mixtape seemed like the perfect way to tell you how he felt. How he’d been feeling since ninth grade bio, making a gradual mental catalogue of your band shirts. Of the books you thumbed through while waiting for class to start.
Yeah, he knew exactly what was going on that tape.
“Hey, loser.” Peter whipped his head at the dead-pan to the left, meeting MJ’s shrewd eyes and perpetually downturned mouth from her corner of the table. “What’s up with your stupid moon-face?”
“Uh, what?”
“If you stared any harder at her, you may burn a hole.”
“I don’t — who? Stared at who?” Peter panicked. Surely MJ couldn’t know. If MJ knew, did that mean he was being obvious? Oh, crap.
“For someone so smart, you’re an idiot. Lucky for you, I’m not. Just say something. She’s super nice, you know. She’d talk to you.”
“Thanks, MJ. I think?” Peter’s brow furrowed at the minor insult, which stung less considering it was wrapped in the warm velvet of MJ’s hyper-observant encouragement.
Just talk to her. Like it was so easy.
If he played his cards right, he’d let the tape do the talking. Peter loved it when a plan came together. Take down the bad guys, take down his homework, take down this special project, get the girl.
—
“Decisions, decisions, all of them wrong,” you hummed to yourself, perusing the sweet offerings through the bakery’s glass dessert case.
You stood under the ambient lighting in your favorite bakery. Post-practice you didn’t smell the best, but you’d put in work. You deserved a treat. RIP to the people behind you in line.
“I hear the chocolate chip cookies here are the best.”
You whipped around, only to be met with the cocoa-honey eyes of none other than Peter Parker. A true confectionary masterpiece. Suddenly, the items behind the case seemed less sweet by comparison. And–wait, was Peter Parker actually talking to you about something that wasn’t last night’s reading?
“Um, thanks for the tip!” You cursed yourself for your filler-word of choice. Um, um, um. You cursed yourself again for wearing your sweaty practice gear and grass-stained socks. Of all the times to run into him. “Yeah– I’m more of a lemon bar kinda girl.”
Shit. Why did you say that?
Peter just looked at you.
“Oh.”
Did he look— crestfallen? Did you offend Peter Parker? Shit, shit.
“What I mean is, I’ll go with your recommendation, but the cookies here are huge. Split it with me?” You offered.
Peter’s head whipped back up, his eyes cola swirls of excitement. His mouth split into a toothy grin.
Dear God. What you wouldn’t given to be the cause of that smile forever.
Was Peter always literal sunshine?
You paid for the cookie, breaking off a half and offering him the half in the bag. As you sank your teeth into a mouth full of cookie, the melted chocolate flooding your tongue, you asked, albeit not too politely, given that your mouth was full–
“So, what are you doing over on this side of town? Don’t you usually go the other way?”
Peter blinked.
Nice one. Now he’s gonna think you’re a creep that, like, watches him leave? God fucking–
“Oh, just running an errand for Mr. Stark. I saw you through the window and thought I’d come say hey!” Peter chirped.
Ah. The Stark Internship. Of course. Peter probably thought you were the biggest idiot for forgetting. Everyone knew he had the Internship after school. Mercifully, Peter either didn’t notice your slight, or he didn’t care.
“What are you listening to?” Peter gestured at the earbuds poking out of the collar of your practice jersey.
“Bohemian Rhapsody,” you shrugged. “Wanna listen?”
Peter nodded, vehemently. You slipped the buds from the bottom of your shirt, handing one to Peter, the opening piano keys trilling into your ears. Your eyes met Peter’s, and you felt your mouth form a little tip-lipped grin.
The two of you stayed that way for the duration of the song, munching on your respective cookie halves. You wondered if there had ever been a more perfect moment in all of history? Sure, this was a little rom-com for anyone’s taste, but, hey.
You would crawl over glass if it meant you got to listen to Queen while basking in the literal warmth of Peter Parker for eternity.
The song ended, breaking your Freddie Mercury and chocolate-induced haze. Shit. The Stark errand.
You decided to cut the string and let Peter escape this little interaction. You tugged the earbuds, effectively popping the one out of Peter’s ear.
“I’m so sorry, Peter. I’ll let you get back to it! Don’t want to keep Iron Man waiting,” you said. “Thanks for the tip, by the way. This cookie is, like, magic.”
Peter nodded, shuffling his feet a bit. He gave you a wave and bit out a truncated goodbye, shoving his mouth full of the remainder of the cookie as he exited the shop.
What in the literal fuck. No, not literal. Don’t go there. Did you just share baked goods and an actual conversation with Peter? Did you share headphones with Peter? What is happening today?
If your heart beat any faster, it’d be doing the Roger Taylor drum solo to “Keep Yourself Alive.” If your blood could sing, it would be thrumming a trilled little thrill of your sweet, sugary little interlude.
—
Peter blew back into his apartment like a hurricane, buzzing with whatever that was.
What had compelled him to speak up? He saw you standing there, looking a literal glowing angel in school colors and pulled-back hair, complete with beautiful post-exercise flush. And he just— he had to say something, MJ’s words ringing in his head. “She’d talk to you.”
Peter pulled the refurbished Walkman out of his bag, along with a packet of cassette tapes colored neon pink.
If he was giving you a little retro tech present, he was going full-stop, the neon piece of plastic screaming 1980s, screaming you.
Fitting the blank cassette into the stereo, he hit “Record.”
The following day, Peter hustled into school at a time that was, in his humble opinion, way, way too early, meeting Ned in the hallway.
“Okay, guy in the chair. Did you figure out which locker is hers?” Peter asked.”
“You know I did.” Ned pressed a slip of paper into Peter’s palm.
Glancing quickly at the little shred, Peter stuffed it into his back pocket and jogged down the hallway, jimmying the lock on the locker in question until it gave way under his super-strength. As if it would catch fire at any second, Peter tossed the Walkman and tape into the locker, slamming the door shut and taking off down the hallway as quickly as he could, Ned at his heels.
“Smooth, Spider-boy. Smooth,” Ned laughed.
—
Peter was going to die.
Days went by. Literal days. Those pressed on into a week, and then two. Peter had heard nothing since dropping the tape in your locker. God, this was a mistake. He’s made a huge mistake. A huge, tiny mistake.
His self-doubt crept in like so many webs, suffocating his better sensibilities. Not that he’d tangled himself in his own webs before. Come on!
—Okay, it was ONE TIME. And he’d had time to think about his carelessness while waiting for the webs to dissolve.
But this was different. He was drowning in his uncertainty. Maybe he’d misread that day at the bakery. Maybe you were just being nice. Peter knew he wasn’t entitled to your attention after once interaction. He wasn’t that much of a hyper-masculine dick.
Oh, shit.
—
“Yo!”
You turned, eyes landing on your teammate, Jessica Porter.
“Jess. What’s up?”
“Hey, I found this in my locker a while ago. I meant to give it to you sooner, but, well–” Jess reached into her bag, pulling out a rectangular hunk of plastic affixed to 1980s-esque headphones. “Your name’s on the sticky note, and on the tape inside. I don’t know how it got to me, but it’s clearly meant for you.”
You took the Walkman from her hands, turning it over. No “From” on the sticky note to indicate who had gifted you this little vintage gem. Affixed to the back with some Scotch tape was the plastic holder for the cassette, the jacket within scrawled with writing that you just couldn’t place.
“Uh, thanks, Jess. See you at practice?” You walked away, your brow furrowed, your mind moving at a mile a minute.
After school, you slumped onto your bed. You popped the tape off the back of the Walkman, freeing the case.
As you slipped the jacket out of the case, you hit “Play” on the Walkman, the keyed-up opening to Jukebox the Ghost’s “Everybody’s Lonely” meeting your ears.
You perused the scrawled writing on the jacket– it was a track list. Next to each track was a little handwritten note jammed into each line.
1. “Everybody’s Lonely”– Jukebox the Ghost. Because every song is about love. And because you like Queen.
2. “Radio Gaga”– Queen. Ditto.
Your heart stopped. No, seriously, should you call 911? This couldn’t be – could it? Did Peter Parker make you an actual mixtape?? Had you hit your head today at practice, or something? The stars in your eyes and little bursts like so many Pop Rocks in your belly were so like happy little interpretations of your veritable disbelief.
You had shared a Queen song and a sweet moment with Peter two weeks ago. Since then? Radio silence. But now? Radio Ga Ga. This had to be from him, right? Your eyes continued down the list.
6. “Hong Kong Garden”– Siouxsie and the Banshees. I’d reap the field of rice and reeds if it meant an afternoon with you.
7. “Humbug Mountain Song” – Fruit Bats. My heart thrums like a shitty hipster banjo solo.
8. “Left Hand Free” – Alt J. You looked so cute in your tour shirt Sophomore year.
9. “Cover Your Tracks” – A Boy and His Kite. Heart, cover your tracks, the blood that you spill will wash what you lack.
The last song on the list, replete with a mix of everything from Bowie to Fleet Foxes, was—
14. “Given the Chance”– The Kite String Tangle. The note?
“Given the chance, I’d go for it. One step at a time. Will you give me a chance?”
It was then you knew. Peter Parker was pure happiness. A zipping burst of citrus on your tongue with a zing that shot straight to your heart. A powdered sugar kiss-and-touch. Syrupy warmth enveloping your spirits. This gesture was beyond— well, anything. Your heart felt like so many folded paper birds, fluttering and faint, but solidified with purpose.
You had words for Peter Parker.
—
The next day you strode into school with purpose, only to be met with coffee curls awaiting you. Pacing at your locker was none other than Peter Parker. And he looked — panicked??
Before you could even say a word, Peter opened his mouth, a jumble of words flying out faster than his lips could form the words.
“I am so, so sorry. I messed up…”
I messed up.
Your heart plummeted. Was the tape for someone else? Before you could press, Peter continued, “I– I made you a mixtape. Y-you know, like, an actual mixtape. On a cassette and everything. The only problem is–” He hung his head. “I put it in your locker. Well, not your locker, obviously– I thought it was your locker. 1127? I put it in 1172.” He let out a huff of air at his rushed confession, refusing to meet your eyes, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”
You blinked.
“You’re sorry?!”
Peter looked up at you, quickly, flinching, expecting a tongue-lashing after your outburst. To his surprise, you just laughed. He blinked. Had he misread this so badly?
“Jessica Porter has locker 1172,” you explained. Peter continued staring at you, blankly. What did Jessica Porter have to do with anything?
“Jessica Porter and I have chem together. We’re on the soccer team. She’s super cool,” You explained. Peter remained unmoving, desperate to hear the point and why his apparent faux-paus was so funny to you.
“Don’t leave me in suspense, here. Because, I’m like.. really, REALLY sorry,” Peter pressed.
“The point is,” you slung your bag forward and over your shoulder, ripping the zipper open and withdrawing the Walkman. Neon pink cassette tape visible like a flash through the little plastic window. “I got your mix. Jess gave it to me. She thought it was cute, by the way. Sure you didn’t really mean to give it to her?” you teased.
“O-oh. Cool, uh, but did you think it was cute?”
“Peter,” you sighed. “For someone so smart, you’re an idiot–”
“MJ said the same thing…”
“– It wasn’t cute, Peter.”
His eyes got even wider if possible, the sting of rejection starting to set in– could he possibly have misread the situation so badly? What about your little date? Was it a date? Listening to Queen and eating cookies that day at the bakery? How had MJ steered him so wrong?
He had done so well on the reading comprehension portion of his PSAT. But reading paragraphs about the migratory pattern of geese was very, very different from reading between the lines when it came to girls his own age. Any girls, really– he had to stop himself. Maybe they were right, maybe he was an idiot–
“Peter, this is MORE than cute. This is the sweetest, nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I love it. Your taste in music, you… you get me,” you explained, pressing your hand into Peter’s, pressing the point. He could feel the touch, tingly sensations running through his palm, up his arm, and he swore, straight into his heart.
Peter changed a glance at you through his lashes, lips splitting into a toothy, Peter Parker grin.
You hoped he’d only smile at you like that forever. He truly was like the sun, bright and warming the coldest parts of you with the greatest of ease. Filling any hollowness with golden light. His bright eyes sparkled, permanently etched within the golden hour and you swore you forgot how to breathe.
“Really?”
“I’d give you a chance, Pete. As many as you wanted.”
Before he could respond, you leaned forward, quickly pressing your lips to Peter’s. It lasted a brief second – a dusting of sugar atop something crisp, sweet and citrusy– before pulling back. Sweet, but all too short, panic splicing through your moment of confectionery bliss that was kissing Peter Parker.
“Sorry, sorry, Peter. I’m sorry. Was that too forward?? I–”
You were cut off by Peter, lips firmly meeting yours. Peter’s hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs tracing over the peaks of your cheekbones. Any trace of awkwardness gone, Peter slid his hands from your cheeks — back, back, back— to run his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck, resting there. The tilt of his lips followed yours, sweet cinnamon heat – persistently welcome and welcomingly persistent. The golden hour indeed.
Breathless– you were breathless. Could Peter Parker kiss like this always? You wished he would. Look at you, smile at you, kiss you – always. But, um, not with anyone else. Decidedly not. Just you, you hoped. The ebbs and flows of your personhood, the sweet contrast of your personalities, like a discord of so many notes coming together into one cohesive piece. This….
This? This was what rhapsody was. You were just sure of it.