"I wish I could come here with you next year," Peter says as they leave the school one evening. "I visited my high school last week. It totally sucks. They don't even have AP science classes."
"Dude," Ned groans. "Not even like, AP Bio?"
"I don't even know if they have regular bio."
"That seems like a human rights violation."
It's nearly summer. Normally Peter would be excited for languid afternoons spent playing video games with Ned and trips to Coney Island with Ben, but this year the thought of school ending fills him with dread. He knows he can't spend all day with Mrs. Arlington, but he doesn't know where else he'll go: Ned's mom has signed him up for four different "preparatory" summer camps, and he'll be gone almost until the new semester starts.
"Maybe you can talk to Principal Morita," says Ned. "I met him at one of the decathlon things last year, he seems really cool. Apparently his grandfather was a Howling Commando so he like, practically knows Captain America."
"You think Captain America can get me into Midtown?"
"I bet he would, actually. He'd be all like, Science is cool. Without science, where do you think I'd be? "
They laugh. Even Peter's school uses the corny Captain America PSAs.
"But for real," says Ned, as they approach the bus stop, "I bet Morita'd make an exception. You already take the bus here, don't you? If they'd waive tuition—"
"Which they would do because?"
"Uh, because you were the smartest kid in school. Dude . Now that I think about it, they would probably beg you to come back. You should ask! Or—or I can ask for you! Orientation is in July and—!"
The bus is here. Peter glances over his shoulder at it, mostly to hide the little flame of hope that has kindled in his chest, his increased heartbeat.
Maybe Ned is right. His grades are still good, and the cousins don't care what he does as long as it doesn't cost them any money. He already has the bus pass.
"Yeah," he says, as the bus doors hiss open. "Yeah, that would be really good, actually."
"Yes. How cool would it be to see each other every day?"
"It would be awesome." Peter mounts the bus steps. "See you next week?"
"You know it."
For the first time since Ben died, Peter arrives at the duplex smiling.
It doesn't last.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Peter startles as he closes the door behind him. He expected the cousins to be asleep, like they usually are at this hour, but both are awake, and dressed in their street clothes. Even Mrs. Arlington, whose regular uniform is a tartan bathrobe and house slippers, is wearing a horrible yellow polka-dot dress.
Peter's heart sinks. There's only one reason Mrs. Arlington gets dressed up.
"Your social worker just left," says Mr. Arlington. "Do you have any idea how stupid you made us look?"
"I'm sorry," says Peter, already shrinking to press his back against the door. "I didn't know she was coming."
"Does Mr. Parker frequently stay out past dinner without telling you where he's gone?" Mrs. Arlington's rasp sounds nothing like the social worker, but there's no doubt who she's impersonating. "That bitch looked at us like we were derelicts. As though we haven't let you live here on our dime, eating our food, using our things like they're your own."
The achy feeling arrives more painfully than it usually does, and Peter's breath hitches as Mr. Arlington takes a step toward him, nearly closing the space between them.
"You'd almost think," he says, as Mrs. Arlington steps up behind him, "you aren't grateful for our hospitality. Are you grateful to be here, Parker?"
It takes Peter too long to realize that he should answer Yes . He stares at his cousins, mouth shut, trying to breathe through his nose as the ache in his chest turns tight, and by the time their eyes go wide with fury it's too late.
They both lurch toward him, but Mrs. Arlington is faster, elbowing Mr. Arlington out of the way and grabbing Peter by the shoulder with a stubby hand that is nevertheless surprisingly strong. She shakes Peter so his head knocks against the door, and he sucks in a wheezing gasp.
Asthma attack, he thinks. He hasn't had one in over eight months, but he recognizes it like he recognizes his own reflection.
But before he can say anything Mrs. Arlington shakes him again, and this time he hits the door with enough force to make the door shake, his head sparkle with sulfuric pain.
"Do you have any idea what we've gone through to have you here, boy?" she hisses. "The bullshit we've had to put up with, especially with that cunt descending on us—"
"I need my—"
"Shut up! "
Peter's inhaler is in his duffel bag. His duffel bag is in the basement, but Mrs. Arlington's hand is digging into his shoulder hard enough that Peter's eyes start to water—or maybe that's because it's getting harder to fill his lungs, which are starting to feel like crumpled paper sacks.
"The money! The food! You, skulking around here like some weepy little goblin, like you don't care how expensive you are, like you don't care that we're barely compensated for our generosity—"
Beyond his shriveled lungs, something in Peter's chest snaps.
"Expensive?" he wheezes. "You barely even feed me, how expensive can I be?"
Mrs. Arlington is so shocked she lets go of him.
Mr. Arlington steps forward. "Listen, boy—"
But before he can do anything, Mrs. Arlington slaps Peter across the face.
Peter's hand leaps to his cheek. His lungs are empty. Mrs. Arlington's eyes bulge, making her look more toad-like than ever. Before he can open his mouth to try, once again, to speak the need for his inhaler, she slaps him again.
"How dare you!" she shrieks. Another strike. "How dare you! How dare you!"
Peter raises his arms to cover his head, choking on a plea, but Mrs. Arlington is beyond reason, and Mr. Arlington, when Peter catches a glimpse of him between blows, looks uncomfortable, but makes no attempt to intervene.
"Stop," Peter gasps. "Stop. Stop!"
He flings his hands out, only meaning to catch her arm as it descends again, but instead his hands meet Mrs. Arlington's fleshy chest, and before he can stop himself, Peter shoves.
Mrs. Arlington stumbles. She rocks back on her heels. For a second her arms windmill through the air almost comically. Then she topples, landing on her ample backside with a soft flump.
Everyone stares down at her, wide-eyed and silent, while she stares up at Peter.
She starts to scream.
Peter doesn't hesitate this time. As Mr. Arlington kneels beside his shrieking partner, Peter vaults over them both, running for the basement door, ignoring Mr. Arlington's shouts for him to stop. He pauses just long enough to wedge the doorstop underneath the door from the inside, then practically tumbles down the rickety wooden steps in his haste to overturn his duffel bag and snatch his inhaler out of the detritus that comes tumbling out.
His lungs fill with albuterol first, then air.
Upstairs, the screaming goes on.