Penis, you're blocking the aisle."
Peter jolts awake, and for a moment he has no idea where he is or what has woken him: he has no memory of having fallen asleep—only the slightly disorienting sense that comes with waking up from a vivid dream. The details flee as soon as he opens his eyes, but even so Peter clings to it desperately, just for a second. He has a feeling it was about Ben.
It' s no use. The dream is already gone.
Peter looks up. Flash is standing over him, wearing an expression that is one part incredulity, one part disgust. Peter has fallen asleep with his legs sticking into the bus aisle. Peter registers this right away, and yet for a full fifteen seconds he does nothing: just stares at his own legs like he can' t remember why they're attached to his body, let alone what they're doing blocking Flash's path off the bus.
He feels… off.
"Yo, Penis. Move."
And without waiting for Peter to reply, Flash kicks Peter's legs out of the way and shoulders off the bus. Peter waits until the last of the other freshmen are gone before he gets to his feet, and even then he does so slowly. His ankle is tingling where Flash kicked him. When he stands, his vision swims. Everything swims, in fact: there is a steady, all-over pressure on his skin, his eyes, in his ears, a pressure that Peter associates with being underwater.
Something is wrong. "Last call, kid."
Peter jumps. The bus driver is staring at him with a look of exasperation to rival Flash's. He realizes he is standing in the center of the bus, staring at his own hands, and he hurries to exit, tripping over his own feet in his haste.
He has to go home. Yes. He definitely has to go home. Peter's feet hit the asphalt and he pulls out his phone, wondering if Ben is working, if he'll be able to pick Peter up or maybe let him take a cab, because Peter feels clammy and nauseous now that he is awake and moving around, and he thinks he might throw up if he has to walk all the way to the subway station.
Then Peter unlocks his phone and sees his background: a photo of him and Lily and Emma, making pancakes on a Saturday morning. The photo was taken months ago. When he first went to live with Skip. He remembers: he lives with Skip now. He lives there because Ben is dead. And if Ben is dead he can't go home because he is supposed to go to the library for tutoring, tutoring which he needs if he wants to avoid getting kicked out of school. Because if he gets kicked out of school he will have to be home all the time, and that ' s not possible because home is where bad things happen, terrible things—
Peter sways. He closes his eyes against the tilting world, and when he opens them he is sitting at a table in the library.
He blinks rapidly. He can't remember how he got there. He shakes his head, trying to remember, but before he can someone slams a book down in front of him, making him jump.
" Hey,
loser, " says Michelle, dropping into the seat next to him. "Ready to study some literature?"
She opens the heavy book with a thunk. "Um," says Peter, "sorry, what?"
" Points
for politeness, " says Michelle. " Zero for reading the context clues. I'm your tutor, Parker. We're here to learn."
It takes Peter far too long to realize that she is pointedly raising her eyebrows at the corner of the room, another to work out the movements necessary to look. Every hair on his body feels like it is standing on end, making his skin almost painfully sensitive; he winces as he turns. After blinking a few more times, Peter sees a teacher standing by the science section, pretending to read his book but really watching Peter over the top of it.
His head throbs. He turns back to Michelle, who leans toward him.
"He's here to make sure you don't go full Girl, Interrupted on me like you did to Leeds in the cafeteria," she whispers. " Just play along for a minute." She leans back, clears her throat, and starts to read from the book in an overly-loud voice, "When considering the use of multiple points of view in a narrative, it's important to ask yourself…"
Michelle's voice warps and fades as Peter starts to shiver. He's too cold, then too hot. Cold and hot and cold and hot and back again. He thinks he might be sick. He needs to go home. Ben is going to be worried if he doesn't—
The sound of the book shutting jolts Peter back to the present. When he looks around again, the teacher is gone. When he turns back, Michelle's face is very close to his.
"Alright," she says, "let's cut the crap. We both know you know this stuff at least as well as I do, if not better, so why did Principal Morita pull me aside yesterday and ask me to do him the 'huge favor' of 'trying to bring you up to speed' in a few classes? A few ? Liz told me you tested high enough on your standardized round to move up a grade in every subject last semester, and the only reason you didn't is because they didn't want to stunt your emotional growth or whatever. So do you want to tell me what the hell we're doing here?"
Peter opens his mouth to reply—or, he tries. Even his jaw feels heavy, his mouth tacky and dry. Nothing comes out.
But Michelle plows on before he can try again.
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