Webs We Weave - Chapter 19

Webs We Weave



Chapter Nineteen

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: It has been a while since the last posting. I had to figure out a few things.

*wears unimpressed, deadpan expression* Happy 250th Birthday, America.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9K5QIw48M30 ))

Maven asked to see what we had purchased the moment we came through the door. Each of us showed off the dress and shoes we’d picked up. Hailey joined in just for fun. Maven was very affirming for each of us, taking the time to compliment each of us on our choice. The imposter syndrome demon backed off a little as she reviewed the dress and shoes that I had chosen. After thanking Hailey for her insight and participation, the rest of us took our purchases to our prospective rooms where they would wait until the appointed date. Hailey made her exit after declaring she’d see me on Monday.

Maven had followed me up to my room. She advised me to wear my web shooters to bed. Her plan was simple in theory: “milk” the spinnerets in my wrists through the night and collect the “thread” into spools for manufacture. Even with my understanding of biochemistry, there was no real way to tell how concentrated the fluid in the glands was until tested properly. Absent an MRI to determine the size of the reservoir, there wasn’t really a way to tell how much fluid my arms contained at any given moment. I agreed to the “milking” on one condition: the morning meal would contain as much protein as possible. Not being an arachnologist, I had no idea what the ramifications of completely depleting the biopolymer-secreting glands would be.

Trying to sleep while wearing the awkwardly-sized web shooters I’d constructed and having to hold my arms a certain way was challenging at best. Not much sleep was had that Saturday night, which only made Sunday morning that much worse. Over the course of eight hours, enough silk had been pulled to result in four large spools. My arms felt light as feathers, but my body didn’t feel so great. Maven did not disappoint. She prepared what she called a full Irish breakfast: bangers, rashers, black & white pudding, eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, baked beans, soda bread, and all the coffee I could consume. I had two plates of it. Don’t ask me where my body stored it all.

I was still fatigued when the school week started up again on Monday. It didn’t help to find out that my Living Environment Regents exam was set for Thursday and the US History & Government one was set for Friday. Evelyn was still pretty angry about the Prom situation and my nonchalance only fueled that anger. My field of fucks was barren. Once my body recovered from the silk extraction, I was a lot more aware of life and nervous about the upcoming weekend. On Tuesday, Mark and I did our usual walk between classes together. He asked and I confirmed that I did have a dress and it was a royal blue color. He was glad he could wear a navy suit with a tie that matched my dress. His eyes lit up and his smile broadened whenever he vaguely mentioned the plans for Saturday. He was really excited for the weekend. The demon lingered on my shoulder and it whispered about whether or not I deserved any of this or the happiness that stirred in me.

Patrols were non-existent at the start of the week. I was far too fatigued. The after-school training sessions with Maven continued unabridged. She informed me that she was weaving the suit on a loom she’d borrowed from a long-time acquaintance, making use of all the material pulled out of my arm. The process was arduous, but not something she couldn’t handle. By mid-week, I was back to form and went out for patrols a couple of times after training sessions.

There was one hitch in the gears: a video had gone viral on Wednesday. Hailey shared it with me at lunch. It was one of those street interview types of content. A young, college-age woman stood with a microphone in front of the fountain in the middle of Washington Square Park. I recognized her face almost instantly. She was the one I’d rescued the night I met the costumed man standing next to her: Aegis.

“So, you’ve been doing the Real Life SuperHero thing for a long time, right?” The young woman asked. “What do you make of this girl in the purple and black that’s come onto the scene in recent months? Does she really have powers or are those AI videos?”

Aegis huffed a chuckle. “Yea, been at this longer than I care to admit. I’ve met the girl you’re talking about. She calls herself Silk Warden. You should know they’re not fabricated. You were there not too long ago. You saw her and she protected you. I’m going to leave my personal opinions out of this. What do you think?”

The young woman started to tear up. “Real talk?” She started to sob a little bit. “I got you out here to thank you… and that Silk Warden girl. You guys saved my life. Deadass, it was the most heroic thing I’ve ever seen and I’m only here because of you two.”

Aegis didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into a hug. “The reward is knowing you’re safe, young lady. I’m sure Silk Warden feels the same.”

He was not wrong. I was overcome with emotion, which Hailey mistook for empathy. A girl starts crying in a video, it’s hard for the empathetic to not cry also. I was very glad to know she was okay after that night. Part of me wished I was in the park with Aegis, but school was a priority. I resolved to let him know I appreciated the call out next time I saw him. The name “Silk Warden” was out there and mentions of it tripled by the weekend. It was like a fire that couldn’t be contained.

The two Regents exams were easier than I’d anticipated. Though I’d been studying for the previous two weeks, I found that I already knew the answers to the questions asked. There were a few small details—such as specific dates—that I had forgotten since my first high school experience that I was reminded of in the studying, but that was it. I was still the first to complete both exams on both days. Two down, three to go.

Friday night, I was getting hit on both sides by text messages. On the one hand, Mark was letting me know about plans. He was going to stop by and pick me up at 8:30 am. The dress code was defined as “comfortable”. Meanwhile, Hailey wanted to gush her excitement about the following day. Jefa and Peach had both secured a date by the end of the week, which was great news. There were still notifications chiming on my phone when I fell asleep.

Finally, the appointed day had arrived. I awoke fairly early. It was about the time I’d usually get up for school. My first stop was the shower. There was a bit of anxiety about the day and I did everything in my power to smell as nice as I could. After the shower, I noticed a clear bottle that I couldn’t remember ever being there before. It was a small, glass bottle that had a pink tint to the glass and a spray nozzle on top. One sniff at the nozzle confirmed my suspicion: it was perfume. My mind deduced that Maven must have placed it in the bathroom at some point in time. Having seen as many movies as I had, two sprays went to either side of my neck and one spray went to my wrist before rubbing both together.

Smelling like a florist's shop, I found my way back to my room before throwing on underwear, a set of sweatpants, and a loose t-shirt. Then, I headed back into the bathroom to dry my hair. Having been in this situation for a little more than a month, I’d developed quite the morning routine. Once my hair was dry, I slipped on some shoes and headed to the cafeteria room for coffee. My fingers drummed on the body of the cup as I waited for time to tick by. Through the windows, I could see the clouds outside slowly clearing.

I took a second to grab the hoodie with my phone and keys in the pocket from my room and came back down. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Maven stood with her office door open.

“Your gentleman caller has arrived, Saoirse.” She smiled as she motioned to her office.

Suddenly, there seemed to be a foreign object in my throat I had to swallow. With a short nod, I acknowledged her and moved into the office. I could tell almost immediately that Mark had cleaned himself up a little more than he usually would for school. His hair was done neatly and there was a slight smell of cologne in the air. He wore a smile on his face, a three-quarter sleeve gray and blue baseball-style shirt, neat blue jeans, and gray canvas shoes. My heart jumped into my throat when his eyes met mine. He held a fresh bouquet of flowers out to me.

“Morning, Saoirse.” He beamed. “These are for you. I didn’t know what you liked, so I went with the safe bet.”

Frankly, I had no idea what I liked in flowers. I’d never had to think about it before. Gingerly, I took the flowers. “Thank you.” I couldn’t help but give them a good look. Three tulips, five fronds of fern, eight little daisies. “Huh… Fibonacci sequence…” A question floated around in my mind: why had I not noticed the science for floral arrangement until that very moment?

Mark raised an eyebrow. “A what-now?”

I didn’t look up from the flowers. “Fibonacci sequence. Each number in the sequence is the sum of the two preceding numbers. It’s the most common phenomenon in nature.” I pointed at the tulips. “These here? Six pe— wait a minute. That can’t be right. Tulips have six…” My voice trailed off.

Mark started to chuckle. So did Maven. She spoke first. “Three petals and three sepals, Saoirse. Your math is still sound.”

“I knew you were good at math, but that’s pretty next level. It’s cute that you appreciate the world in your own way. Most girls just smell them and move on.” Mark told me, smiling.

My cheeks grew warm and my voice grew quiet. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

Maven gently reached for the bouquet. “I shall find a vase for these and position them in your room, Saoirse. No doubt Mark has something planned and it may require a bit of punctuality.”

He chuckled nervously. “Not really, but we should get going. I’m practically starving.”

With a small nod from me, we were moving toward the door once Maven took the flowers from me. Once again, the birds of New York greeted us with happy songs. The clouds had cleared and the sun was out in full force. The young man with me was gitty with anticipation as I followed his walking lead. At first, I thought he was heading for the subway, but he walked toward the door of the Waverly Diner.

Inside, the place felt like a really long family dining room. The wood paneling juxtaposed against the beige marble tile on the far wall was an interesting choice of decor. In the center of that far wall, there was a large artistic rendition of New York as it might have looked in the 1920s—the elevated train tracks and horse-drawn trolleys were a dead giveaway. The big, thick curtains on the front windows looked like they would definitely help keep the heat out in the summer. They even had posts to hang a jacket on, should they be needed. There were small booths and two-person tables everywhere you looked. The server greeted us at the door and informed us there might be a small wait. The place was already packed. It seemed several other couples had the same idea as Mark.

The two of us had a bit of small talk about the weather being nice and Mark apologizing for not reserving a table ahead of time for about ten minutes. The waitress grabbed our attention and led us to a small booth on the wall closest to the painting. In a very short amount of time, we had menus and a drink. He had a soda and I had coffee.

“So…” he breathed out while we waited for our food. “Our chats between classes don’t really have the effect I was looking for. We usually just talk about school and what not. I wanna get to know you better. Wanna play Twenty Questions?”

As I was finishing the addition of creamer to my coffee, I tilted my head to the side. “Okay…”

“We’ll start with family, I guess? What’s up with your parents?”

I lowered my eyes to the table. A voice inside reminded me to stick to the cover story. “They… passed away. A while ago. You?”

The tone in his voice shifted. “Oof… sorry. Guess it would be better if they were drug addicts and just lost custody of you. At least they’d still be alive.” He took a quick breath. “My great-grandparents actually bought a 4-bedroom in Hells Kitchen back in the day. My grandparents raised their kids there. My parents and I live there now, since Nana and Pop moved down to Florida like all the other old New Yorkers.” He chuckled.

I wrinkled my nose. “Not a great thing to say, Mark. My dad was a cop and my mom was a teacher. It was a car crash, not a heroin overdose.”

He scrambled. “Okay, I’m sorry. I was trying to throw out there that it would be better if there was a reason they couldn’t take care of you and that’s why you live at that shelter. It would be better than never seeing them again. I’m sorry I worded it so harshly.”

“Moving on,” I deadpanned. “Where’d you grow up before you and your folks took over the Hells Kitchen apartment?”

“Queens.” He laughed. “We were renting this squat little house with an almost non-existent front yard and an entirely concrete back yard. If you’ve seen that old Spider-Man movie with Tobey Maguire, then it looked a lot like the place they had Mary Jane living in. It’s weird that I share a last name with that character.”

My eyebrows were raised in his direction. “You even share the ‘MJ’ nickname. It feels a little too on-the-nose.”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “I only did the moonwalk, like, five hundred times during the second year of middle school. I can’t help the irony that my middle name is Jacob, okay?” He chuckled. “Your turn. Where’d you grow up? You didn’t always live at that really cool place on Jones Street.”

“Brooklyn, born and raised. Crown Heights, specifically. My mom and I would walk two or three blocks to the Brooklyn Children’s Museum just about every weekend.” Tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t a lie. I took in a breath, preparing for the lie part of my history. “I went to live with my aunt after they were gone. Just a trailer in South Amboy over in Jersey. It’s as boring as the movie Coyote Ugly makes it seem.”

He moved on from the emotional bit, or so he thought. “Now you know my middle name, what’s yours?”

“Maxine. It was my mother’s name.”

Just as he hit that third rail, the food arrived. He had a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes and I had a giant waffle with strawberries and whipped cream. After a few minutes of sating our grumbling stomachs, he looked up again with questions in his eyes.

“So… what do you do when you’re not at school or studying? You got any hobbies or anything you like to do for fun?” He asked, likely feeling those questions were safer than the previous round.

I answered between bites. “I have a two-hour private dance lesson every weekday. Maven, the shelter director you met this morning, insisted when I was really frustrated with being so behind in dance class.” That was mostly true. “I like to take runs around The Village to clear my head before dinner.” Somewhat true, but I wasn’t going to tell him about the patrols. “I play video games.” I shrugged after chewing for a few moments, having nothing else coming to mind. “You?”

“Didn’t really peg you for a gamer. That’s pretty fire.” He chuckled. “I work out a little at the YMCA, maybe once or twice a week. You can laugh, but I play the flute. I’m a flautist.”

Food dangling on my fork, I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I laugh? Music is dedication. Instruments are hard to learn and the breath control alone with a flute has got to be difficult as hell. I’d give you props before I’d laugh.”

He shrugged, poking his pancakes. “Most people think only girls play the flute. It’s one of the ‘pretty’ instruments.”

“I guess we’re both bucking the stereotypes because I play guitar and the drums. Nothing compares to channeling frustration through a good D-chord, y’know?” I raised my water glass at him for a toast. “Here’s to giving zero fucks about negative stereotypes.”

He smiled, grabbed his own glass, and clinked mine. “Here, here!”

Our conversation continued on that lighter note while we finished eating. When we were done, Mark paid the bill without a second thought. From there, he led me down to the subway right outside the diner. To my surprise, he asked to hold my hand in the busy station so we didn’t lose each other in the crowd after we swiped our MetroCards. Thanks to New York City’s excellent subway system, we were aboard a train headed uptown in minutes. We stayed quiet and respectful as we sat side-by-side on the thirteen minute ride. My hand in his, he guided us off the train at 42nd Street.

We emerged from the 42nd and Port Authority Bus Terminal station via a stairwell right outside a cannabis dispensary. The surrounding buildings were considerably taller than they had been in The Village. We were a block from Times Square, after all. While we waited for the signal to cross 8th Avenue, a massive 28-story brick and terracotta building dominated our view. Mark smiled as I looked up the facade.

“Ah… the theater hotel, as they say. It’s had so many names since it was built in the 1920s.” He let out a solemn sigh. “Well, it used to be the theater hotel.” He pointed at the side of the building where our eyes could clearly tell there used to be neon. “Back when it was the Milton Plaza, it was the place to be when catching all the Broadway shows. Now, it’s a sanitized corporate ‘sleek and modern’ thing with a dumb name chosen by a focus group at a marketing firm.” He rolled his eyes.

“Wasn’t that where they housed all the asylum seekers for a couple of years?” I asked, my voice rising in pitch at the end of the sentence.

“It was… until Mayor Adams wanted to beat corruption charges and kicked everyone out to curry favor with the incoming president.” Mark frowned. “I swear, if I could vote, Mamdani would definitely be my guy. He’s all over TikTok and actually seems to care.”

“I don’t really do social media.” I admitted as the light changed and we were crossing 8th Avenue.

Mark balked and chuckled uncomfortably. “You’re serious? Really? Are you sure you’re sixteen? Everybody’s on TikTok and Instagram, at least.”

A shock of anxiety ran through me and my brain scrambled for an answer. Then, I found it. “I didn’t even have my own phone until about a month ago.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t see his face, but I noticed his head face forward again. “I guess that makes sense. You lived in a trailer in New Jersey. Maybe your aunt didn’t have the extra money for a phone for you?”

Instead of trying to fabricate anything, I just nodded along. “Something like that.” Absently, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “I have one now, though.”

“I know.” Mark laughed. “You have the nerdiest phone number imaginable. I don’t think I’ll ever get it out of my head.”

We arrived on the sidewalk outside the Walgreens and I smirked. “Call my phone.”

“Why? You’re standing right here holding my hand.”

“Please?” My eyes pleaded with him.

“Fine.” He let go of my hand and pulled his own phone out of his back pocket. His fingers danced on the screen for a moment before he tapped something. I bit my lower lip. In the next second, Ray Parker Jr’s iconic anthem was coming out of the speakers of my phone. He started laughing. “Oh, that is hilarious!”

I tapped the red button, but put the phone up to my ear anyway. Slipping into my Brooklyn accent was second nature, but adding nasal inflection was new. “Ghos’bustuhz, whadayawant?!”

He fell over from laughing so hard. After a few moments, he calmed down enough to say, “Oh, Annie Potts would be so proud.”

My head turned to actually observe my surroundings. To me, the whole street looked like an overcrowded alleyway with all kinds of expensive cars and small cargo trucks. I barely noticed the marquees and archaic signs.

“Where are we, anyway?” I wondered, turning back to him suddenly standing instead of rolling on the sidewalk laughing.

“Mecca…” He stated, letting out a breath through his smile. “Well, for theater nerds, anyway.” He reached over and gently took my hand again. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

He began to introduce me to what he called “The Heart of Broadway”. It started on our left with the St. James Theater—named that in 1932, but built in 1927 by the same architecture firm that built Grand Central Terminal. He absolutely gushed about Oklahoma!, The King and I, and The Producers all starting in that very theater. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Boulevard was playing, currently. Next on the right was the Majestic Theater right across the street. It was built for large musical crowds with a steep floor so a tall guy sitting in front of you wouldn’t block your view and was the home of Phantom of the Opera for thirty-five years. At that time, it was playing Othello with none other than Denzel Washington and Jake Gyllenhaal on the cast list. Right after that on the left was the Hayes Theater, a former ABC studio and New York Times storage annex named for Helen Hayes, the first lady of American theater. It was the smallest theater on Broadway with just about 600 seats and apparently very exclusive. Immediately after that on the right again was the Broadhurst Theater—the place that he claimed basically invented method acting as well as gave the world Cabaret and Grease. The marquee was decked out and flashy, advertising BOOP! The Musical with Betty Boop iconography.

We stopped in front of the final theater and he smiled broadly. “This, Saoirse, is the iconic Shubert Theater. It was built in 1913 by the Shubert brothers to honor their other brother who passed away after injuries from a train wreck.” He pointed to the large space between the building in front of us and a taller, more modern building next to it. “And that’s Shubert Alley, the privately-owned alleyway built between the Shubert and Booth theaters because of a fire code that existed at the time. Before they built the skyscraper that’ll strain your neck to look at, the old Hotel Astor was on that spot. In the old days, this whole area would be packed with out-of-work actors looking for gossip or trying to catch the producer's eye. These days, the stage doors open right into it, so you can stand right here and meet the cast after a show. It's crazy… and it’s the heart of Broadway.” His eyes seemed to sparkle when he looked at the stage door. “I’m gonna come out of there, one day.”

It was a lot of lore to take in at once and with Regents in full swing there wasn’t much room for extra trivia in my brain at that moment. I made a small mental note to Google it all later. It was clearly important enough to him that he would take his Prom date there. I had seen him animated at school, but never as much as he was as he led me into Shubert Alley. In all my years as a New Yorker, I’d never even heard of the place until that day.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Mark turned to me. “You’re into dance. Tonight, the Shubert will be hosting the 50th Anniversary of A Chorus Line! It’s the ultimate tribute to the dancers who made Broadway history right on that stage inside. Wild, huh?”

I had zero frame of reference for what he was talking about. Diverting to the old tactic of “smile and nod” seemed sufficient enough for him. Part of me wished I could be more enthusiastic about this interest of his. Truth is, his eyes would probably glaze over if I took him to the Hayden Planetarium and laid down the math necessary to explain the Fermi Paradox or pointing out the individual parts of the Mars landers.

We moved on from the history lesson to tourist-type activities. We would ask a random stranger to take our picture, stand in front of the multitude of posters for shows, strike a goofy pose, thank the bystander, and move on to the next one. I found myself lifting a leg, making a “peace” sign with my hand close to my face, puckering my lips in “duck face”, giving goofy smiles, and generally enjoying my girly self. For the first time in my life, I was acting on instinct instead of dissecting every action like being effeminate was a crime.

After about forty-five minutes of that, we were slowly joined by the rest of the entourage. The first to arrive was Peach and his date: some blonde guy named Chad. Peach had on a pair of skinny jeans and a fuzzy, pink off-shoulder sweater that looked really cute. His date looked like Freddy from the Scooby Gang, sans the ascot. Peach and Mark gushed about A Chorus Line while Chad and I nodded to each other, not exchanging a single word. Jefa arrived shortly after with a girl that looked almost exactly like Yukio from the Deadpool movies. Jefa wore a white tanktop and loose jeans while her date, Jasmine, wore a white t-shirt and pleated skirt. Before too long, Hailey rounded out the cast with her date, some guy that looked like Tom Welling as Clark Kent in Smallville. For an alt girl that gravitated toward a ‘90s grunge-adjacent aesthetic, I would not have pictured her with a milquetoast farm boy named Micheal.

The Fellowship of the Dress reunited once more, we got some pictures together in Shubert Alley before moving north and east half a block each. We were greeted by the three blocks most depicted in the media: Times Square at nearly the center on 45th Street and 7th Avenue. In all my years in New York, I’d never been to that so-called hallowed ground that pioneered electric billboards over a century ago, turned an end-of-the-war sexual assault into a romantic postcard, housed the seediest of theaters for about thirty years, and has dropped a giant glowing ball for over a century—minus the two dark years during WWII. My grandparents taught my parents who then taught me to avoid the area for good reason back in the day. Most of it had been pedestrianized slowly starting in 2009. Funny enough: they call it a “square” but it’s actually more so shaped like a bowtie. The sheer number of ads on the billboards all around us were mind-numbing and could literally be seen from space.

Hailey pointed us toward our destination immediately to the north, so we turned left and started walking toward the Red Steps at the head of Father Duffy Square and on top of the TKTS Pavilion. There were so many people moving erratically that my senses were in overdrive. From cars driving like idiots on the non-pedestrian portion to tourists stopping randomly for reasons unknown, tingles were shooting up my spine every few seconds. There’s no way to tell if anyone else clocked my behavior as off or neurodivergent, but Mark placed a comforting hand on the small of my back. It didn’t stop the sensations, but it helped when trying to manage them.

Before long, we arrived at the big, semi-transparent red stairs that lead to nothing but a great view of Two Times Square. The old headquarters of the New York Times was at the southern end of the bowtie at One Times Square, the same place the ball drops every year. There were quite a few people enjoying the food procured in one of the nearby restaurants in the square. We all discussed the best place to get some group photos without disturbing the tourists. It was decided we’d get a few at the very top with the billboard on Two Times Square serving as our backdrop, then more about halfway down so that most of the area and One Times Square could serve as the backdrop. It was quite the undertaking. We got shots of all us girls plus Peach together. Then we got shots of all the boys together, minus Peach. We got shots of each couple in some kind of embrace. Mark and I made ours dramatic and fun.

By the time we were finished, clouds began to darken the sky and the weather reports were saying to expect some rain for most of the afternoon. It was mutually decided that a group lunch date was the best idea. Everybody pulled out their phones and started checking to see if we could squeeze in anyplace nearby. Hailey, Jefa, Peach, and I vetoed the John’s Pizzeria idea as we’d eaten at the one in The Village recently. Chad suggested Carmine’s, but most of us weren’t all that thrilled about Italian, either. Jasmine spoke up.

“There’s this really neat spot called Junior’s back on 45th near Shubert Alley,” she mentioned.

My eyes widened and my head turned slowly toward her.

“Didn’t we pass that on the way out here? We could have stopped in then,” Michael whined.

“The Junior’s that began in 1950 on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn that has the best cheesecake in the entire world? That Junior’s?” I asked.

Jasmine shrugged, phone in hand. “Yea, I mean, it looks like a cute spot.”

I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, we could go to the real Junior’s in about half an hour on the Q, but it’s up to the group.”

After a few minutes of deliberation, they decided the out-of-towner tax was worth it and I can’t say that I disagreed. You’ll never find a better slice of cheesecake than the one you can get from Junior’s. Decision made, we were on the move once again.

As if on cue, we were inside the Junior’s on 45th Street getting to know each other and waiting on our entrees when the rain began falling. A comfortably cool, sunny day devolved into a deluge none of us were prepared for. Everybody immediately jumped on their phones, checking the weather apps and social media. Local stations were reporting the rain would continue into the evening. The National Weather Service concurred. Our time outdoors was officially at an end.

Hailey was unbothered. She stated that she had something already in the works for herself, Jefa, Peach, and I. When we probed for clarification, she smiled and told us we’d have to find out when we finished lunch. That girl and her little mysteries were going to drive me insane.