Stars in the Web | Peter Parker

Chapter 2

It was 7am on a Monday morning. The Monday morning. Sylvie had been dreading the morning since George had told her she was to transfer to Midtown with Gwen, although that was barely a week ago, the move had been playing on her mind for what felt like months. The prospect of leaving Empire and the comfort the guaranteed academic validation, not to mention the security of familiarity in the form of her people; people who knew her and loved her, who didn't mind when she got too loud in class discussions or how expressive her face was when she disagreed with something, was terrifying.

It was autumn coming into winter in New York, thus Sylvie sported a pair of grey cargo pants, a blue jumper, and basic old white shoes she'd gotten from her aunt in Colorado. In the kitchen she was greeted by a cheery Helen, flipping something on the stove,

"Oh, Sylvie honey, are you excited for your first day at Midtown?" she questioned sweetly passing a plate of eggs to Howard. Helen was the kind of sweet where you could never tell if she was being genuine or not, giving her the benefit of the doubt and the assumption that she did like Sylvie, she reciprocated the attitude,

"Nervous is a better word." She smiled, helping herself to a plate of eggs on the kitchen bench. Sylvie enjoyed the mornings, George left for work early and the house always seemed quieter, more peaceful when he wasn't around. He was on obvious person, always in the spotlight. He didn't occupy inconspicuous corners, he had people below his pay grade to do that for him; he felt the most at home when all eyes were on him, his words controlled one of the most romanticised cities in the world. Even when he was in the security of his own house, he didn't let his guard down – his guard was his persona. There was nothing underneath it, nothing Sylvie had had the privilege of being privy to. He was different with Gwen. She was his little girl. There was nothing Sylvie had seen that he wouldn't do for her.

The way to school was uncomfortable, not leg bouncing uncomfortable, but the kind of uncomfortable where you blank out, your eyes move to take in the world, but your body is frozen. Mundane movements feel forced, and you feel as though you have become aware of your seemingly fictional existence. Somehow, the mugginess of New York dissipated the closer they got to Midtown, neat lines of trees became more apparent and the litter in gutters reduced. The school itself housed a set of disturbingly regal stairs which led to the front doors, the common 'push pull' kind that every fourth or so person would stumble over. Once in the school itself, it was no different to any 'run-of-the-mill' American high school, corridors lined with steel lockers, noticeboards, and the occasional trophy case. There were kids to fill the halls, none of them stood out to Sylvie, in fact she could categorise them into cliques and cliches. There were the popular kids, you could tell by their walk, the air by which they carried themselves; Gwen carried herself in this way too. Specialist schools didn't rise above high school tropes, thus there were the jocks, the theatre kids, the super geeky kids – which was no mean feat given the nature of the school, we're talking thick rimmed glasses and backpacks hoicked up to their shoulders. These people smiled at Gwen, hell some people seemed to kiss the ground she walked on; and as they continued through the buildings, they came to yet another set of less regal stairs which led to a courtyard that one could see it spanned out through to the cafeteria. What a fucking maze.

The courtyard was clean and well-manicured, albeit concrete in its entirety – Uncle George's haven. There were all the usual suspects, multiple circles, some hiding fist fights, other's taboo conversations. The latter tended to attract less attention.

"That Flash?" Sylvie questioned, pointing to a classic jock, muscular in frame and seemingly thick in the skull, having an unrequited punch on with a seemingly innocent bystander. Lunch money, or perhaps a miscalculated glare; whatever the reason, he wasn't winning.