Webs We Weave



Chapter Ten

DISCLAIMER :: This tale blends together aspects of Peter Parker/Spider-Man and Gwen Stacy/Ghost Spider/Spider-Gwen from Marvel Comics, Marvel Television, and Marvel Studios. Fanfiction? Sort of. The world and characters are mine, but they may seem familiar.

Author's note: If you're enjoying this, refer a friend. Hit the kudos and leave a comment.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DAUV41K52o ))

The alarm on my phone woke me up the next morning. After helping Chispa calibrate her sensors and sitting through Tom Holland playing Nathan Drake, I was pretty exhausted the night before. I was fortunate enough to not have to wake up as early that morning as the one before. There wouldn’t be any paperwork or bureaucracy. Everything had been handled the day before. Today, there was nothing but a full day of high school.

Fuck me.

The dread of another day navigating the halls amidst a sea of teenagers hit me as I threw off my comforter. My mind searched for anything else to ponder. The weather. Traffic congestion in lower Manhattan. Thermal dynamics. String Theory. Anything at all. Sitting up, I caught sight of the building across the street outside the window and remembered my testing last night. So long as my feet were mostly on the ground, it seemed to go well. I was a little faster than an average human and my agility seemed to be right up there with seasoned parkour athletes and gymnasts. Consciously manipulating Van der Waals forces so I could climb, walk, or run along a sheer vertical surface felt like second nature. The webbing was a problem. Lowering my eyes to my wrists, I began to ponder why the webbing was so catastrophically unreliable.

Generally speaking, it’s not the spinneret on the abdomen that creates a web. It weaves together the filament that can be manipulated to construct the thing, but it cannot do so by itself. On its face, I was dealing with two self-contained, multi-stage chemical reactors and bio-extrusion plants. However, without having a way of pulling the thread, the process is relatively unreliable. Arachnids utilize their rear legs to pull the thread and use it as they need it. That had to be the reason I was popping out amorphous globs of bio-crystalline polymer: there was no true extrusion force. In conclusion: Tobey Maguire should have had “web shooters” and I’ll have to make my own. I’d just have to deduce the “how”.

Plan of the day in place, I slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Showering was still a new experience. The body I’d been given still felt alien. Affirming as hell, but still alien. My brain wasn’t connecting a few dots. After washing every inch and my hair, I wrapped my body in one towel and my hair in another before returning to my room. While I gathered clothes and decided what to wear for the day, Maven came knocking. Still wrapped in towels, I opened the door enough that we could see each other.

“Wonderful. You’re awake and preparing for the day,” she noted. “I’ve reviewed your schedule for today. You have P.E. Have you made certain to pack your cotton knickers and a sports bra?”

My eyes widened and I recoiled at her brashness. “I… hadn’t thought about that.”

“Luckily, I’m here to remind you. Get dressed and be sure to brush your hair, love. Have a good day at school, then.”

She spun on a heel and disappeared down the hallway. I closed the door and turned to face into my room with an expression of whiplash written all over my face.

Recovering from the thought train derailment, I put on a fresh set of undergarments, some loose jeans, a slightly baggy t-shirt, and a gray hoodie. I fished my schedule and the map of the school from the pockets of the hoodie I wore the previous day. Remembering Maven’s advice, a pair of cotton underwear and a sports bra were packed into the backpack she’d given me. Toweling my hair dry, I was out the door before quickly running a brush through it. Looking a bit like a tomboy, I descended the stairwell.

There are times when I would rather have an exit in the building that didn’t pass through Maven’s office.

“Just a moment, Saoirse,” she halted me mere feet from freedom. I spun to look at her as she stood from behind her desk and handed me a white rectangle. “This is for you. I considered the state of your previous device and the practicality of maintaining a cellular phone plan when you’ve no income. I took the liberty of adding you to the organization’s plan.”

My eyes fell on the device as she placed it in my outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

“It’s not the fanciest with all the latest technology or styling that some of your peers might have, but it will allow you to interact with your peers. There’s a notepad application where I’ve transcribed your number.”

“You didn’t have to get me a brand new phone.”

“I’m aware, love. Teenagers in this age view their devices as a lifeline to each other. It’s a necessity anymore.” Her eyes darted to the door. “Run along, now. You’ll miss breakfast if you don’t arrive soon.”

My brain was lost for words as I turned and moved toward the exit and began my walk to school. I couldn’t decipher why she felt it necessary to get me a new phone. My phone worked fine… most of the time.

I didn’t see any of the others until I got to the subway station. They were already waiting for the train that would take us one stop before we disembarked and headed to school. Only Matcha was talkative at that time in the morning. Everybody else was hungry and not thrilled about going to school that early in the morning. I shared their sentiment. The new phone dominated my attention during the short ride. There was a lock code to program for security purposes and a phone number to memorize.

My eyes and fingers stopped manipulating the screen when I saw my own phone number. Seeing “(212) 555-2368” on the screen, it’s entirely possible someone could have knocked me over with a feather. There was a lot of history and significance on that digital screen. A couple of the others asked me what caused me to look like that, but I couldn’t answer.

Soon enough, the train arrived at our stop and I stuffed the phone back in my pocket. The walk to school was quick enough that I didn’t have much time to think over the events of the morning. I waved my student ID over the electronic lock and confirmed it functioned as designed. All of us Tír na nÓg “kids” ascended the stairs and headed straight to the cafeteria. While we dug into the pancakes and sausages, someone from Ms. Warren’s office dropped off some textbooks. I didn’t want to have to look at my schedule to discover where my locker was at breakfast, but I pretty much never get what I want.

Thankfully, my locker was on the third floor and my first class of the day, English, was on the second. Easy progression. The teacher, Mrs. Vintergrime, was a tall woman with blonde hair that was graying a little. She had a rather skinny but very Scandinavian build. Her blue floral dress was quaint and rather pretty. Thankfully, she didn’t have an assigned seating chart, so I could sit wherever I pleased. My eyes scanned the students already seated. I gave a nod to Lowkey and Peach. They were seated in the back of the class. It was exactly where I wanted to be.

There was a hitch. Mark was in the class. From his seat in almost the exact middle of class, his eyes followed me into the room and to the seat I’d chosen. My heart rate quickened and the room felt a bit warmer. I fumbled a little as I took my seat. Concentration was difficult.

Once class got going, Mrs. Vintergrime was much more focused on the deeper meanings intended by a work of science fiction created by a seventeen-year-old girl in 1816, finished by 1817, and published anonymously in 1818. That particular work of fiction was one of my favorites because it stresses the consequences inherent in scientific discovery. I knew it through and through. My mind began to wander back to my dilemma: the web problem. Making it look like I was taking notes, I began to formulate exactly how I was going to engineer the problem. There were even rudimentary schematics drawn up by the time the dismissal bell rang. The homework we were given was to comb through the book and start thinking about an essay we would start writing the following week. I’d read the thing about a hundred times.

Once again, I waited for most of the rushers to bolt out of class and the bottleneck to occur before I stood. I was aware of how small I was now. No part of me wanted to be squished in with all that. The problem was that Mark had roughly the same idea. I was standing behind him and confirmed he was roughly as tall as I used to be. Thankfully, Lowkey and Peach flanked me. It gave me a little more confidence than I would have otherwise.

After a quick trip to my locker to exchange textbooks, I was off to what was probably going to be the second most boring class in my schedule: Algebra II/Trigonometry. It may as well have been addition and subtraction. Arriving at the classroom, I had to stop as I observed the desks in a semi-circle and I think my brain malfunctioned. The bell rang and the teacher, Mr. Bell, smiled at me. He was a rather tall black man with an athletic build. His head was shaved and he had a goatee that gave off a very Shemar Moore vibe. He wore a blue polo shirt with the school’s logo in red, paired with relaxed slacks and very nice sneakers. Unlike other teachers, he was sitting on the front of his desk rather than behind it in a chair.

“Technically, you’re not late,” he chuckled at me. “You were standing there before the bell rang. You are assigned to my class, right?”

“As of yesterday, I am.” I nodded at him.

He stood, rounded his desk and rifled through some paperwork. “What’s your name?”

My eyes darted to the students sitting in the semi-circle of desks. Son of a bitch. Mark was in my math class, too? Suddenly, I stammered. “S-Saoirse P-Parker.”

Mr. Bell chuckled. “Welcome, Miss Parker.” He motioned to the desk. “Please, join us by picking a point on my degenerate lune.”

Okay, that was kinda funny. I smirked as I lowered my head, picked an empty desk and sat down. Unfortunately, there probably wouldn’t be many opportunities to work out a prototype. I would be too visible. The possibility of this being a boring class diminished as soon as Mr. Bell opened his mouth and started teaching. The guy was good and really engaging. I already knew everything he was teaching. I had learned it from teachers that all seemed to do Ben Stein impressions. I don’t think anyone tried Jack Black as Dewey Finn until I walked into that class. The dismissal bell was only welcome because I was hungry.

The river of bodies heading into the cafeteria wasn’t as treacherous as it had been the day before. Navigating the current was easy enough and there was no sign of The Plastics in the hallway. Lunch that day was “nachos”. They used to call them “macho nachos” back in the ‘00s because they had so many options like a salad bar. Now, it was just the chips, meat, cheese, some onions, a few olives, and bits of tomato. They were tasty enough. Once again, I headed for a table that didn’t seem to be claimed by anyone else. Within moments, Hailey was joining me.

Digging into my pocket, I dug out the white rectangular electronic device and presented it to her. “The director of the shelter I’m in – we call her Maven – got me a new phone.”

Hailey examined it a bit before responding. “Oh, cool. The latest A-series. They’re pretty decent mid-tier phones. Not as fancy or as much of a status symbol as the S-series, but not bad phones by comparison. Let me get your number!”

Turning my wrist, I unlocked the phone and navigated to the notepad for her before turning it back around. “There it is.”

Her eyes shot wide open when she saw the screen. “How did you get the OG area code?! Do you know how much people would pay for a 212 number?! There are high-powered legal firms that can’t get one of those!”

Those facts surprised me. I was born a few years after it stopped being used across all five boroughs and was limited to Manhattan and the Bronx. I memorized our 718 number as a kid. My dad still had that phone number with a single corded phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The broken phone I used for gig work was a 917 number. I’d never considered the history before that moment.

My shrug at Hailey was rather large. “I… dunno. I was just handed the phone this morning.” A smirk grew on my lips. “It’s a pretty cool number, though. Can you guess why?”

Her brows scrunched together as she looked at the number again. It took her a few moments to answer. She took a few bites of her nachos as she considered my question. “I’m coming up empty. It’s not 867-5309, so I don’t have a clue.”

I laughed at that one before leveling at her, still wearing the smirk. “I’ve got six words for you: Who are you going to call?”

She faced the wall and her eyes darted about for a second. The moment the realization hit her, she turned to me with her eyes wide. “No cap? You’re not messing with me, are you?”

“Google it.”

She set my phone down and grabbed her own, following my prompt. When the results came up, she started laughing. “You have got to be kidding me!”

“Don’t feel so bad. I had to Google it to confirm. It’s pretty funny, though.” I was lying. My memory was a really good reference for relatively useless trivia like that.

“Fucking Ghostbusters coming in clutch!” She continued to giggle. “You know that firehouse is just down 7th Avenue if you ever wanna go one day. That lady that Sigourney Weaver plays? Her apartment building is on 5th Avenue in Central Park West. We should do a nerd tour of Manhattan sometime, just to be the weird kids.”

“Sounds fun!” That was not a lie.

Hailey fired off a text as she spoke. My phone alerted me to the reception a moment later. “You should use that theme song as your ringtone, just for shits and giggles. The OG, not whatever Fall Out Boy was trying to do when we were six.”

My head nodded as I picked up the phone and began putting her number into my contacts list. “I prefer the Fall Out Boy from the ‘oughts’ versus most of their 2010s stuff. Their cover of ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’ was pretty lit, though.”

She turned to me with a strange expression. Little did I know, I had just missed some linguistic shift. “Have you been hanging out with too many millennials?”

A little panic set in. “Uh… I’ve been with my aunt since my parents died? She was born in…” I did a little quick math in my head. “...1990?”

She nodded quickly, accepting the cover. “That tracks. We’ve gotta get you on TikTok and Instagram, my friend. We call a good, catchy song a ‘banger’ these days.” Again, she giggled.

“Oh…” The linguistic barrier would become more obvious if I didn’t do a little research. I mentally noted that I should listen to the shelter kids talk more often. “That song is a banger, then.”

Hailey smiled approvingly. “Atta girl.”

We finished our lunch without any more awkward situations, thankfully. Hailey was really growing on me as a person. I could tell she was smarter than she would let on. Her sense of humor was on par with mine. She was a bit on the nerdy-slash-movie-junkie side as well, which aligned with me. Her empathy and compassion were definitely in line with mine. I don’t think I’ve ever clicked with someone like two cogs in a machine in that way before. We were developing into a regular Woz-Jobs duo.

When the bell rang, Hailey and I navigated the halls as a team. We’d have the next two class periods together. She issued a disclaimer: don’t get on the teacher’s bad side. According to her, Mr. Caldwell was the oldest teacher in the building and was far less than kind. He’d teach us everything we needed to know for the Regents exams, but kindness wasn’t in his bones at all. Like a lot of men his age and from his generation, his life was close to the end and he was bitter about it. The moment we entered the classroom, I could see what she was talking about.

The room itself was arranged like one might assume a biology lab to be. The “desks” were more like kitchen islands arranged into rows and columns. It was apparent from observation that having a lab partner was part of this class as well as assigned seating. The man at the whiteboard was exactly what I expected. He was a shorter, bald man in his sixties with almost white hair around the lower parts of his head. He wore a mustache that was also nearly white. His physique was what one might assume for men his age: he had a gut that wouldn’t be tamed and all his limbs seemed skinny by comparison. He wore a blue polo shirt with a red school logo that was tucked into his tan slacks that were held onto his body by a black leather belt. His feet were covered by brown leather boat shoes.

He didn’t speak to me much. He took one look at my schedule and placed me at the back of the class without an assigned lab partner. I was the one that tilted the student count into the odd numbers, so I’d have to fend for myself. When I took my seat, Hailey turned to me and shrugged with a sort of awkwardly apologetic expression. Frankly, I was perfectly fine to be in the very back of the room without a lab partner. As the teacher droned on with his attempt at a lesson and I tried taking notes, my mind wandered. My eyes darted around the room and started doing an inventory of available resources.

The other students were continuing some kind of experiment that began long before I arrived in the class. The lab benches we were situated at had a few things available for these experiments. There was a sink and a gas nozzle on each bench. There were also several drawers with a Bunsen burner, petri dishes, microscope slides, a compound light microscope, graduated cylinders, beakers, test tubes, and all the other basic experimentation supplies inside. I even found some iodine solution, Biuret reagent, Benedict’s solution, and some pH indicators. The supplies were rudimentary at best, but my mind started to drift off imagining the number of tests necessary to unlock the secrets of the webbing my body was now producing. It would be nice to run some spectrum analysis and tensile examinations, but that would be impossible unless I snuck into a lab at one of the local universities. That kind of equipment would be beyond a standard high school budget, much to my chagrin. It was comforting to know that Mr. Caldwell didn’t really pay that much attention to what his students were doing. My mind began to plan out a few experiments.

The dismissal bell rang out and derailed my train of thought. I’d written down a few things I’d be able to do insofar as testing what the webbing was and possible comparison to spiders that I may be able to capture and study. Stuffing my materials into the backpack, I met up with Hailey and we began walking to the small gymnasium on the ground level. It and the swimming pool had both been built by the Works Progress Administration sometime in the 1930s. Both were built as extensions onto the rear of the building and it showed a bit. The darker red brick from the original 1881 structure nestled right next to the lighter 1930s brick was kind of a dead giveaway. Hailey and I entered the gymnasium that hit our eyes like the movie set for a historical piece. I was pleased to see Jefa in the class and my eyes scanned the other faces for anyone else I might recognize.

That’s the moment it hit me: this was a class specifically for junior girls. I was in a girls’ P.E. class. ‘Weren’t sex-segregated physical education courses ruled unconstitutional some time ago?’ my mind wondered.

Before I had an answer, a rather frumpy-looking woman in her late 30s entered the room with a clipboard in her hand. She had a short haircut and it seemed like she was only an inch or so taller than me. She wore a blue and red sweatsuit with a whistle around her neck. Her general physique was a bit on the curvy side. She very much looked like the stereotype of older lesbian P.E. teacher. Even her voice sounded like she fought against her brothers for everything she had for roughly half her life.

“Okay, ladies! The boys won’t be joining us today,” she announced, which informed me this was actually co-ed class regularly. “They’re going to be in the pool next door. We’re gonna take it a little easier and play a little dodgeball.” There were a few cheers. She looked at her clipboard. “Where is… say-oyer-zee?”

My eyes narrowed in annoyance at her terrible phonetic pronunciation. “It’s SEER-shuh. My name is Saoirse.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t really care, Miss Parker. I’ve got gym clothes for you. Come see me in my office in the locker room when we go in.”

‘Excuse me, what?!’ my brain screamed. My mind turned into rush hour traffic with all the thought trains running through it. “The… locker… room?”

“Yes, Parker, the locker room.” Her arm extended and she pointed at a doorway toward the wall shared between the original building and this extension. “It’s right over there if you can’t read the signs.”

Time to play dumb. “Why do we… need to go in the locker room?”

“To change out of your street clothes and into your gym clothes. It’s not rocket science, young lady.”

“I’ve never… been in… a locker room.” That was a half lie. I had dressed down for gym before, but never in this particular context.

“I don’t have time to debate with you, Parker. None of you girls will be seeing anything you haven’t seen before.” She blew her whistle. “Get moving, ladies!”

Feminine groans filled the room as everyone around us started moving toward the locker room. In my mind’s eye, there was a dolly zoom focused on my mortified face. No part of me wanted to go anywhere near such a private space. On the one hand, I was twice the age of all of these people. On the other hand, I was male until a week ago. Everything inside was screaming, “Don’t do it!” Thus, I stood there like a terrified deer in LED high beams.

“You okay, Seersh?” Hailey asked quietly. I couldn’t move.

“She’s been homeschooled since before gym class would have been a thing.” Jefa jumped in. “Her aunt just died not too long ago. Everything’s kinda new and overwhelming. We’ve been used to this since middle school. This is her first time.”

“Oh,” Hailey responded in a sympathetic tone. “Sorry. I didn’t know.” She turned to Jefa. “Who are you?”

Jefa extended a hand. “I’m Marisol, but people call me ‘La Jefa Fuerte’ or just ‘Jefa’ for short.” Her finger bounced between me and herself. “We’re both living in the same place.”

“I don’t wanna go in there.” I quietly vocalized. “I shouldn’t go in there.”

“We gotta, though. None of us enjoy it. There’s some girls that are apparently built perfectly that are fine being seen in their underwear or less, but most of us would rather not. Some girls change in the bathroom stalls.” Jefa informed me.

“I hide behind the locker doors, most of the time. I don’t know why adults think it’s okay to shove a bunch of puberty-stricken girls into a sensitive situation like a locker room. It’s weird.” Hailey added.

“We’ll get your clothes from Coach Vic and get you set up in a bathroom stall.” Jefa offered.

My mute streak continued.

Both Hailey and Jefa grunted as they started guiding me toward the locker room. My wide eyes remained on the door as it grew larger. When the door opened, I closed my eyes. I had two guides, after all. They walked me through the room and we stopped. The teacher’s voice hit my ears again.

“What the heck are you two doing? Parker, why are your eyes closed?” Coach Vic asked gruffly.

“Respecting the privacy of others,” was my answer.

The teacher scoffed and ruffled through a couple things. Then, she approached and shoved something into my chest. My arms closed around a bundle of clothing. “I don’t have time for this. What are you? Some kind of lesbian or something? Get your butt dressed and get back out there with the rest of them!”

There were no words. Jefa and Hailey guided me to the bathroom area and showed me to a stall.

“There you go, chica. You should be okay in here. I gotta get dressed.”

“We’ll come get you in a couple of minutes,” Hailey added.

The stall door closed behind me and they seemed to disappear. When my eyes opened once again, they confirmed I was indeed in a stall. The green plastic walls, the toilet, the toilet paper dispenser, and the little rectangle whose purpose eluded me drove the point home. Stripping off the street clothes and putting on the red shirt and blue shorts took a little doing in the confined space, but I managed. Just as I was putting my shoes back on, my helpers returned. By that time, there were only a couple of people in the room shoving things into lockers, so I didn’t have to force my eyes closed. Jefa found me a spare locker to shove my things into before we all exited the accursed room.

Back in the gym, Coach Vic had us count off into ones and twos. Odds went to one side of the gym and evens congregated on the other. There were five rubber balls with a distinctive textured surface. Before the reconfiguration I experienced a week ago, I could swear there were still marks on my skin in the shape of the textured surface of the very balls set and evenly spaced on the mid-court line. There are horror stories told about the sound those things would make on impact. If you know, you know.

The teacher blew her whistle. “Okay, ladies, listen up! These are the old school balls used for this particular activity! None of you will be aiming for the face! You get hit, you’re out! You catch the ball, you can rescue a team member and bring them back into play! I catch any bullying behavior, you’re gonna feel like you just joined the military when you’re doing pushups and running laps for the rest of the class period! Do I make myself clear?!”

“Yes, Coach!” about half the class shouted in unison.

“Good! Next whistle, you’re going to run for the balls in the middle and the game begins! Ready?!”

She blew her whistle and there was a stampede for the middle of the court. Balls were acquired and started flying seconds later. The distinctive “ping” sound began echoing off the walls, mixed with cheers and jeers from nearly twenty teenage girls.

My tingling sensation was in overdrive. My reflexes reacted as one might expect. Sometimes, I’d catch the ball before it struck me in the face. Other times, I’d catch it far to the side of me with one hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I started noticing some girls looking at me in a particular way that communicated that I shouldn’t be able to do the things I was doing. Initially, I was having fun and not really paying attention. After the looks, I started paying attention to what I was doing. The dodges, catches, and scores I was accomplishing shouldn’t be achieved by someone who didn’t play this sport professionally. I was reminded that abilities like these were weird and should be kept close to the chest. I started scaling back and purposefully handicapping myself.

In my mind, I started repeating a reminder to myself, “You’re an average, nerdy teenage girl. Don’t play like an Olympian.”

Could I have obliterated the opposition and been the last girl standing? Yes, but I was reminded to stop worrying so much about whether or not I could and begin to analyze whether or not I should. Thank you, Madame Shelley and Dr. Malcolm.

After ninety minutes of combat, there were some casualties. A couple of girls got hit in the face and had those lovely red marks. One or two had legitimately acted like bullies and got called out for it. I let myself get hit and taken out of play more than a few times. At the end of the day, the odds ended up with the last girl standing. No, it wasn’t me. Coach Vic blew her whistle a final time and excused us to the locker room. Only a couple of girls even bothered getting dressed back into their street clothes. Most, including me, grabbed our things from the locker and left. It was the final period of the day. I don’t think anyone bothered showering.

Jefa, Hailey, and I had a spirited post-game chat as we made our way to the front of the building. Hailey headed off to wherever she lived. Jefa and I joined the others before heading back to Tír na nÓg. All said and done, the day was generally a success.