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CHAPTER SIXTEEN. UP ON THE ROOF WITH A SCHOOLGIRL CRUSH
THE night was a panicked blur. Amelia remembered bits and pieces from here and there ─ Happy hanging up on them, her promising to teach Peter how to drive after this, Peter realizing it was moving day and that they were going to go after the plane. The sense of urgency in Amelia while she had been racing her crappy car towards the Stark Tower. The screech of her tires as she banked left in the middle of the road and tumbled out to see the plane cruising down out of the sky. The red and blue flashing lights drowning the scene at Coney Island. The convoy of black cars. The fire and the smoke. And Peter nowhere to be found. She remembered the tightening anxiety in her chest.
She remembered it as she lugged her heavy steps up the stairs to her apartment completely forgetting that there was an elevator. She remembered it as she inserted the key in the door and turned it, hearing the satisfying click.
She carried the fear of Peter falling, and falling and falling without anyone there to catch him, tucked nicely in her chest. She carried it when the girls inside greeted her with lowered voices and hushed whispers. She carried it as she bid them goodnight and retreated to her room.
Tick, tick, tick.
The clock in her room was annoying. When it was silent, absolutely silent, so silent that the only sound at night was of the insects and nothing else, you could hear Amelia's clock ticking.
Tick, tick, tick it went.
She looked at the room. It felt, strangely, as if it was watching; like walls had ears might be too literal here. Her forehead felt sweat-ridden and she wiped it with the back of her hand, sliding open the window. The cold breeze hit her at once and then slowly, cradling her face, her hair, then brushing past her.
Tick, tick, tick.
She turned away. The streetlights outside made a strange shadow of her, like a dancer trapped doing pirouettes forever. She bathed. She changed. She tried to wipe off all worries about Peter from her skin but those kinds of things don't come off in the wash.
She ran her fingers through her damp hair and situated herself in the chair by her desk. Turning her computer on, she checked the news. The Stark aircraft crashing at Coney Island, that's all anyone could seem to talk about. There were reports about what security precautions were being taken, how much damage to Coney Island had been done, and how it would remain closed till further notice. Reports on Liz's dad's life and even the structure and contents of the aircraft. But nothing, nothing mentioning Spider-Man.
Tick, tick, tick.
IT was past eleven and the chamomile tea Gemma had delivered some time ago when she had spotted the light still on in Amelia's room from under the door didn't seem to be helping. She tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth as she stared at the screensaver on her computer. It was a six-year-old Amelia in the arms of Constance who had just graduated college.
