Long Days

Chapter 3

"Peter. Peter!" Ned poked his sleeping friend's face with the eraser on his pencil.

Peter jerked upright. "I'm here! Oh, it's over." He watched as students packed up and raced out to their next class.

Ned whispered, "Dude, you fell asleep again. I thought you said‒"

"Mr. Parker! I'd like to speak to you for a moment," his calculus teacher called. Meeting Ned's eyes, Mr. Castine asked, "Mr. Leeds, could you please excuse us?"

Ned dumped his textbook and papers into his bag. "I'll see ya later," he muttered, leaving Peter alone.

Peter's stomach flipped. He didn't get spoken to by teachers very often. Not like this. Sure, Castine hadn't said anything yet, but the chances that he was about to compliment his student were slim.

Mr. Castine's gaze followed Peter as he packed up his things and proceeded to the front of the room. The kid looked like he hadn't slept in days with his disheveled hair and gaunt face. Even more noticeable, though, was the fact that his backpack was held together by staples and the soles of his shoes were fastened to the canvas by duct tape. When the teen reached him, Castine wordlessly handed Peter some stapled papers.

A test. A test with a glaring, red number circled at the top: 43.

Peter felt his throat closing up. This was his own failing grade. He had never failed anything in all of his years in school. Not a single thing. He just wasn't that type of student. He felt his hands start to tremble, but he couldn't stop staring at the ugly mark.

"Mr. Parker..." Castine began slowly. "It's November. I have a pretty good idea of what your usual marks are. This," he said, motioning to the paper in Peter's hands, "isn't it."

Peter couldn't form words. The amount of stress that was currently sitting on his chest and shoulders was preventing him from even opening his mouth. He wanted to scream. To cry. To sleep.

"Peter, please look at me," Castine ordered softly. When their eyes finally met, Peter saw pain in his teacher's eyes as if his student's failure was his own. "You're falling asleep in class, missing homework deadlines, and now failing tests. What's going on here? This isn't like you."

Peter's silence continued.

"Is it the class? Maybe a tutor‒"

"No." Peter surprised himself with his own harsh tone. He couldn't bear the thought of having to find time for mandatory tutoring. He already didn't have time for the mandatory homework. "It's- It's not the material. It's fine."

Mr. Castine let Peter slide. Scolding the kid for his attitude wouldn't solve anything. "Okay, then what is it, Peter? What can I do? I can't let you drown in this workload. You spiraling out of control isn't going to get anyone anywhere."

Peter absentmindedly shook his head. He didn't have the energy to compose an entire lie, but he wasn't going to talk about the problems at home. He opted for: "I guess I just don't have time to study at home. Lot of distractions, I guess."

Mr. Castine sighed and rubbed the stubble around his jawline. In that moment, Peter realized how young his calculus teacher was. He couldn't have been more than thirty years old. "Well, what about in the morning? How about you come into school half an hour before homeroom and we can catch you up on homework, huh? I'll give you half-credit for your missed work."

He would have to wake up earlier. Get even less sleep. Be even more tired. But it would satisfy Castine, so Peter relented. "Yeah, I can do that. Thank you." He turned to leave the room.

"Great to hear that. Oh, and Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Try and get to bed early tonight. You're too young to be looking that tired," Castine teased, his smile warm but his eyes full of concern for the kid.

Peter just looked away. He wanted to put the whole subject out of his head. He didn't have time to worry about going to bed earlier tonight or waking up earlier on Monday: he was losing precious time for his one guaranteed meal of the day. Like always, he only had enough energy to focus on the problems directly at hand.

That night, Peter lay awake in his bed. His disappointingly low test had been shoved deep in a desk drawer, not to be seen by Aunt May. He didn't want her to know that he was struggling to find time for homework. He wasn't too concerned about it though. Because their schedules hardly overlapped, they didn't talk much anymore except through text. Even now, at one in the morning, she was working her night shift at the bar.

His mind drifted to his weekend schedule. He loved Saturdays: the one day that he could sleep in. When he wakes up, he'll go grocery shopping with his Friday paycheck. He thought he had enough tips to splurge on some fresh tomatoes. Maybe.

Tomatoes. In his exhausted mind, their red color reminded him of Tony.

Crap. He would be seeing his mentor on Sunday for the first time in over a month, and Spider-Man hadn't done his job in about the same amount of time. At least May would be out for the afternoon and evening, busy with her shift at the department store. She wouldn't be home to see Peter go with Tony whose fake internship her nephew supposedly quit.

Peter sighed and curled into a ball. Maybe he should just be honest with Stark and tell him that he didn't have time for Spider-Man anymore. Maybe Stark would understand.

But Tony Stark was a billionaire. Not only that, but he grew up with wealth, too. There was a good chance that he wouldn't understand Peter's struggles at all. Stark could refuse to donate advanced technology to a nearly-homeless kid in Queens. Stark might decide to quit wasting his time on a kid who couldn't spare any time of his own.

Peter pulled his blankets tighter around him. The thoughts continued to swarm, and scripted conversations played over and over in his head. The stress was merciless, keeping him from the thing he wanted most these days besides money: sleep. It wasn't until some time after May came home that Peter's mind finally slowed to a crawl and he was able to slip into a dream-less rest.