Small World | Peter Parker

chapter eleven

I was five years old when the organization took me from the park near my home. I was missing for five days, and every therapist and psychologist I spoke to after I returned home couldn't make me relive those memories I blocked out.

I just knew I couldn't see anything, the blindfold and blurry images of people in white coats. They could've been doctors or scientists, or just an imagination of a five-year-old.

My parents were on the news and every newspaper article, and they offered an award for my safe return. I don't remember being saved or seeing any police cars.

I certainly don't remember a man who claimed to have saved me.

I was thirteen when they shot my parents execution-style in their bedroom, while I listened to their deaths. I was blindfolded again that day. Afterwards, I was sent to live in foster homes until I turned fifteen. How did I end up working for an organization that stops human trafficking? I have yet to tell that story to anyone, I refused to relive or talk about the earlier days.

I couldn't.

"Did you send me a message the other day?" I sat in the booth in front of Sloane. "Asking to meet,"

"Mmhmm," he hummed as he drank his hot coffee. "Did you come? I couldn't make it,"

"Yeah, I did," I admitted, and I held my hand up to the waitress. "I had school, so I couldn't stay,"

"I couldn't find the right time to introduce myself, and I thought that using that phone would help," the waiter walked over and poured hot coffee into my mug. Sloane took a bite out of his bacon and my mouth watered. I was hungry.

"Can I have what he's having?" The waiter nodded and walked off.

"So, what brings you here?"

"I had a hunch you were here," I said, cautiously sipping my coffee. The hot beverage stung my tongue. "I guessed, actually, from the text message,"

"Their eggs taste like metal but their coffee is the best in all of Brooklyn," he grinned, and raised his coffee in a cheers motion. He gulped down the rest of it.

"So what are we supposed to be? Partners?"

"Of course, if that's what you want to be,"

I scrunch my nose but I don't say anything. Although it seems dumb to believe him, he offered to help me. Once I complete the assignment, I will be free. I can be a regular teenager.

"What happened in DC wasn't my fault, you know that right?" I muttered. "And I found that little girl,"

"Not before that man tried to hurt you,"

I winced, and leaned back on the booth. The aged rubber whined underneath me. It wasn't a memory I wanted to relive. "I had it under control,"

Sloane didn't look amused or convinced. "What did you tell that Spider guy? 'I got this, leotard.'"

"I guess I didn't have it under control," I breathed in deeply, and I could feel the weight of the overweight man on top of me almost like it was yesterday. His hot breath in my face. He had knocked me to the floor and thrown his weight on me. Spider-Man had arrived in time to shove him off of me, and I took the opportunity to kick the man in his balls to tell me where the little girl was kept.

I couldn't tell who looked more scared, the man or Peter's face when he took off his mask after I knocked out the perpetrator. The man fainted after I kicked his balls for the tenth time.

"Alright, alright, I think you got him!" The first words Peter Parker ever said to me. He introduced himself, and mentioned he never meant to reveal his secret identity. The sight of seeing a man beaten and kicked frightened him so much he took off his mask without thinking.

"You need more training," Sloane interrupted my thoughts.

"And you're going to help me with that?"

"Yes," he crossed his arms over his chest. "Especially on how to handle a knife, I was embarrassed by how you held the knife last night,"

"I would've stabbed you,"

"I bet you would've given it a shot," he smirked.

I looked at him, studied his facial features and expressions. "How old are you?" I asked, he looked up surprised at my question. "You don't look that much older than 30,"

"I'm flattered but I turned 35 last year," he gave me a crooked smile.

"Then you were only twenty?" I thanked the waitress after he poured more coffee into our cups. "If what you are saying is true, the first time we supposedly met,"

Sloane nodded, and finished the last of his toast. I checked the clock on my phone, and glanced at the waiter. There was no sign of my breakfast. "I'll stick around and wait for you,"

"What happened to you that you wound up working for them?"

"I paid my debt but I stuck around,"

Soon after, the waiter finally brought over my breakfast plate, and I took a bite out of my eggs to see if he was right about its taste. "Anyways," I chewed my toast. "What kind of name is Sloane, is that some type of code name?"

"No, my mother was Scottish,"

-

The news of Dion's murder swept the halls of Midtown High. I rushed to Mr. Santons' classroom before the bell rang. Fortunately, I made it just as the bell rang but Mr. Santons was adamant that I was late. "Detention after school, Miss Blair."

"What?" I protested loudly. Mr. Santons' eyes nearly fell out of their eye sockets with how wide his eyes became, and he wore a shocked expression, albeit a little dramatic. I covered my mouth, surprised at my outburst.

"Detention all week, and a one-page report on the importance of punctuality due Friday afternoon at 2 pm," he spat harshly. "Now sit down,"

I tried to keep my face as neutral or apologetic as I could. "That's bullshit," I heard a voice at the back of the room. The familiar voice tried to sound steady but failed.

Mr. Santons' face turned bright red. He looked like he had steam coming out of his ears. "What was that?"

"That's bullshit," the voice practically squeaked. Mr. Santons and I knew who spoke, and we looked at Peter at the same exact time. Peter swallowed harshly, a look of panic across his face.

"Parker," I saw spit spray from Mr. Santons' mouth, the front row cringed and the closest people near Mr. Santons moved away. The desks scratched sharply against the floor. "Same time, detention after school - all week! - and two pages on punctually and the negative effects of back-talking,"

Peter nodded his head frantically.

I walked to my desk and avoided eye contact with everyone. I felt eyes watching me as I sat down at my desk. I looked over to my left and noticed Liz wasn't sitting at her desk. "Where is she?" I asked Peter.

He shrugged. "I haven't seen her,"

Mr. Santons' began class before I could grab my phone to send Liz a text message. I sat and chewed at my lip. I couldn't remember where I saw her last.