"What's the absolute best part about being Spider-Man? Honestly, it's a tight race."
The morning sun washed over the Manhattan skyline. A red-and-blue figure sprinted horizontally across the sheer glass facade of a skyscraper. If any of the accounting firms inside had bothered to look out their windows, they would have seen Spider-Man—yellow backpack slung tight over his shoulders—completely ignoring the laws of physics as he took his morning commute.
"But never having to smell the G train in August is definitely in the top three!"
Peter launched himself off the glass, entering a perfect swan dive toward the Hudson River. Just as the wind started to roar in his ears, he fired a web-line, catching the underside of the Queensboro Bridge and swinging out in a massive, soaring arc over the morning traffic.
Since Uncle Ben and Captain Stacy were both working early shifts, Peter had the freedom to actually enjoy his commute to school.
"The official hot dog of Spider-Man! Get the only hot dog endorsed by the web-head himself!"
Paul, the deadpan owner of a heavily modified Midtown hot dog cart, was currently yelling at a crowd of tourists. During the Chitauri cleanup, Paul had made a killing selling lunch to the Damage Control crews. Now that the rubble was gone, he had pivoted to a new demographic.
Spider-Man had casually told Paul he liked his mustard-to-relish ratio one afternoon. Now, the cart was covered in poorly drawn Sharpie spider-webs.
The most prominent feature of the cart was a single, foil-wrapped hot dog dangling from a plastic grocery bag tied to the tip of the cart's umbrella.
"Is that actually for him?"
Eugene Thompson, currently a freshman at Midtown High, shoved his way to the front of the cart. He stared skeptically at the dangling bag. He pulled his wallet out of his varsity jacket. "I'll take one. But seriously, if you hang it up there, does he actually come down and get it?"
"He's Spider-Man," Paul said, his expression completely blank as he dressed a dog. "Of course he gets it."
"But what if it gets cold?" Eugene argued, genuinely concerned. "What if he eats a cold hot dog and gets food poisoning? How is he supposed to fight crime if you give him—"
Thwip.
A line of webbing snatched the plastic bag right off the umbrella.
"Thanks, Paul! Keep the change!"
Spider-Man swung low over the intersection, dropping two crumpled one-dollar bills perfectly onto the cart's metal counter before launching himself back into the skyline.
Eugene stood completely frozen, his mouth hanging open.
Paul held out the hot dog. "Mustard and relish."
Eugene Thompson snapped out of it. He slammed a five-dollar bill onto the counter. "Give me two more! I want exactly what he's eating! Thank you!"
"Morning, Howard! How's Pidgey?"
"She's doing just fine, Spider-Man! Found her way back to the coop thanks to you!"
The man standing on the tenement rooftop barely had time to shout his reply before the red-and-blue blur vaulted over his chimney and vanished into the skyline. The flock of racing pigeons in the rooftop coop cooed nervously, a whirlwind of grey feathers settling in the wake of the hero's departure. Howard reached through the wire mesh, gently stroking the head of a bird that looked remarkably content.
"Take it easy, girl," Howard soothed. "I know it's a long way up, but he's a good lad. He just wanted to make sure you didn't miss dinner." He looked out at the city with a faint, knowing smile. "Best pilot in New York, that one. Almost as good as you."
This was Peter's morning routine. He ate his hot dog while high-fiving the guy at the corner newsstand. He dropped down to help a woman carry her groceries up three flights of stairs. He gave a lost tourist directions to the Empire State Building. What was the point of being a "Friendly Neighborhood" Spider-Man if you didn't actually know the neighborhood?
Eventually, the red and blue suit vanished into an alleyway.
Five minutes later, Peter Parker, wearing a faded science-camp t-shirt and jeans, casually strolled out of a subway station two blocks from Midtown High.
He walked through the front doors just as the morning bell rang. The monitors lining the hallways were already broadcasting the Midtown Evening News morning announcements.
"Good morning, Midtown! I'm Betty Brant."
"And I'm Jason Ionello."
Peter ignored the broadcast, weaving through the crowded hallway toward his locker. He spun the combination dial, shoved his backpack inside, and started grabbing his textbooks for the morning block.
Before he could close the metal door, a heavy hand slammed into the locker right next to his head.
"Parker."
Peter didn't flinch. His spider-sense hadn't even registered a threat. He just sighed and closed his locker.
Carl King stood there, trying to loom intimidatingly. Carl cracked his knuckles and glared down at Peter.
"You know that's not my locker you just hit, right?" Peter pointed out casually. "That belongs to a sophomore named Greg."
Carl hesitated, looking at the dented metal, before recovering his scowl. "Listen to me, Parker. I'm letting yesterday slide. I'm not going to bother your little nerd friends. But if you keep getting in my way, you're dead."
Carl slammed his fist into Greg's locker one more time for emphasis and stomped off down the hallway.
Peter watched him go, completely bewildered. "Is this a new psychological bullying tactic? The guy who gets publicly humiliated comes back to threaten the guy who humiliated him?"
Peter shook his head.
"People like that exists in every generation, kid."
Peter turned. The school's elderly custodian was leaning on his push-broom, watching Carl walk away. He had a gray mustache and wore tinted aviator glasses indoors.
"I've seen my fair share of bullies and thugs," the custodian said, offering Peter a warm, knowing smile. "Don't let them push you around. You stand up, you fight back, and you win. That's what makes a hero."
Peter smiled. He had absolutely no idea how much he needed to hear that from specifically him. "Thanks, Stan."
Peter adjusted his books and headed to his first-period class. Pre-calculus. Because of Midtown's massive STEM endowments from Stark and Osborn, the curriculum was brutal. Pre-calc was mandatory for freshmen.
Peter walked into the classroom and dropped into a desk. Harry Lyman was already sitting next to him, his expensive laptop open on the desk.
"Morning, Peter," Harry said, tapping his trackpad.
Peter leaned over. Harry had six different browser tabs open, all running news articles and grainy cell-phone videos of Spider-Man.
"Spider-Man?" Peter asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Why the sudden interest?"
"Just curious," Harry shrugged, closing the tabs as the teacher walked in. "Everyone is talking about him. Figured I should know what the hype is about. Hey, are we still submitting our applications for the Detective Club today?"
"Yeah, definitely," Peter nodded. "Solving fake mysteries sounds like a great way to catch up on sleep."
The classroom door opened. Amadeus Cho hurried inside, looking slightly disheveled. He muttered an apology to the teacher and slid into the desk directly behind Peter and Harry. Amadeus was incredibly short for a freshman, the textbook definition of a kid who got shoved into lockers.
"Hey, Amadeus," Harry whispered over his shoulder. "We're dropping off the club forms after school. You still in?"
"Yeah, sounds good," Amadeus said quietly, adjusting his glasses.
Peter turned around, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you okay, man? Did someone mess with you in the hall?"
"No, nothing like that," Amadeus said quickly, avoiding eye contact. "I'm just short. People don't look down. I got bumped into a few times. It's fine."
Before Peter could press the issue, the teacher tapped the whiteboard and started the lecture.
The class was agonizingly boring. Peter had mastered pre-calculus in middle school. To keep himself from falling asleep, he started casually spinning his pen through his fingers. When that got boring, he started taking notes. Then, he switched the pen to his left hand and perfectly mirrored his own handwriting.
Harry stared at him. "Wait. Are you ambidextrous?"
Peter nodded, his left hand continuing to write out a complex algebraic equation.
"Can you write with both hands at the exact same time?" Harry whispered, genuinely fascinated.
Peter picked up a second pen. His left hand wrote Yes while his right hand finished the equation.
"Can you write two completely different sentences at the same time?"
Peter paused. Both hands wrote No simultaneously.
Harry snorted quietly. "Okay, we seriously need to figure out a day to build this Lego set. I need to see what your brain does with five thousand plastic bricks."
"Just tell me when," Peter whispered back. "I'll warn Aunt May so she can start hoarding groceries."
The bell rang. The three of them packed up and headed out into the hallway. The Midtown Evening News was still looping on the monitors. Betty Brant's face filled the screen.
"The votes are in!" Betty announced cheerfully. "The official theme for the Friday of Homecoming Spirit Week has been decided! Get your costumes ready, Midtown, because this Friday is... Superhero and Supervillain Day!"