It turned out I was right.
Mr. Harrington walked right up to me when I first sat down in his Chemistry II class, sitting right next to Peter. With a great big grin on his face, he said, 'Hello! You must be a new student! Welcome to Midtown! Sorry I don't know your name, they usually tell me ahead of time…'
'Mr. Harrington,' I said flatly, looking him dead in the eye. 'It's m-me. It's Mia. Mia Fletcher?'
Mr. Harrington blinked at me, stunned. I could hear Peter and Ned muffling their laughter behind me as he quickly backpedaled. 'Oh! Oh my gosh! It is you, Mia! Gosh, I didn't even recognize you! When Morita told me you were coming back, I didn't actually realize…'
'It's f-fine,' I said, and I had a feeling I was going to say that a lot today. I offered him a smile. At least he seemed genuinely happy to see me. The last I remembered Mr. Harrington, I had been coldly declining his offer to join Decathlon. 'I know I look different.'
'Well, I'm glad to see you've returned, and in good health I might add!' Mr. Harrington was smiling again. 'Now, I know today's topic may be over your head, but I'm sure Peter can catch you up. We'll be taking plenty of notes in this class…'
That was a mildly pleasant experience, although I felt a little silly, getting the special treatment. Mr. Harrington, bless his heart, did his best to accommodate me, giving me extra notes, and even reintroducing me to the class when everyone was settled. I got to sit and stare at the floor while everyone clapped awkwardly, before exploding into a series of questions that I was never going to answer.
It was, of course, Astor Sloane who made that class memorable. She came in late as usual (I forgot that about her), and has passed right in front of me when heading to her desk. It was only when she sat down, heard Mr. Harrington's announcement, did she go rigid, then spin in her seat and gape at me. 'Holy shit, Measles?'
I heard Peter's intake of breath before I felt my own reaction. He knew just how much I hated hearing that. I tried my best to just ignore her, my usual tactic, but Astor wasn't done.
'Wow,' she laughed, shaking her head. Whispers rattled up and down the classroom. Everyone knew Astor — she always had something to say, and they knew our animosity to know she was about to roast me alive. 'I can't believe it, Mia, I gotta hand it to you, you're pretty brave coming here looking like that. If I were you, I'd never show my face here again.'
'Looking like you, neither would I.'
I was so loud. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. No chance to take it back. A chorus of stifled gasps and snickers filled the room. Even Mr. Harrington let out a surprised snort, which he quickly covered behind a fist, pretending to clear his throat. Peter and Ned, meanwhile, had collapsed into each other, wheezing so hard they nearly fell off their chairs.
'Ex-excuse me?' Astor's face went beet-red. She was halfway out of her seat, hands gripping the back of her chair with such a force her knuckles had gone white.
I fixed her with a hard look. 'Did I stutter?'
Astor stared at me, and incredibly, fell back into her seat. For a moment there, I was actually worried she might fight me. It wouldn't be the first time she took a swing at someone. But maybe she, too, realized I was finally bigger than her. If it ever got physical, it'd be a fight I would win. For once in her life, Astor was rendered speechless.
Thank god for small mercies.
'Uh, okay everyone, let's calm down now,' Mr. Harrington called, raising his hands to quiet down the titters still erupting here and there. Despite the upset, the class resumed with surprising order. I sat in the front of the class, but I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I studied my worksheet.
It was a lot less pleasant in English class, when I finally ran into Flash.
This time, I didn't have Peter to rely on for any funny commentary. So I sat alone in one of the middle tables, keeping my head down and reading the first pages of The Odyssey while waiting for everyone else to fill in.
For my part, I did actually try reading it, an unusual attempt for me, since English was my weakest subject (aside from gym). Although Morita said I didn't have to catch up with classes, I still had to keep up with the amount of homework I received upon returning to school — on top of studying for last years tests, and preparing for my tutoring job.
Anyways, all thoughts of actual study came to an abrupt stop when the chair opposite me creaked loudly. It skidded a little on the tile as the new body slid right in. In a fake-deep voice, Flash said, 'Hey, there.'
I looked up, scowling. Flash was all laid-out, chin on his fist as he eyed me up and down. He looked too smooth, with the pressed polo shirts and slicked back hair. All he was missing was the football jacket to complete the douchebag look — but everyone knew Flash cared too much for his appearance to get dirty playing sports.
'Hey, Flash.' I replied, my voice as dull and unenthusiastic as I ever was to see him again. Yet I couldn't help but shift awkwardly as he continued to give me that strange look. It took me a moment to realize what he was doing.
Oh my god. Flash Thompson is checking me out.
'So you already know my name,' He said with a patented self-satisfied smirk. I had to fight the rising urge to kick his seat out from under him. 'But I have yet to learn yours, beautiful.'
Kill me.
'We've a-already met,' I said, unable to keep from glaring. After dealing with Astor, I didn't have the energy to relive the experience with Flash and every other bully in this school.
'Mmm,' Flash pressed his lips together, scrunching up his face before shaking his head. 'No, I think I'd remember a face as striking as yours.'
A muscle twitched under my eye. Was he flirting with me? Is this what flirting was like? I already decided I didn't like it, but I was too stunned to come up with a clever comeback.
Wham! A pile of books came crashing down in the seat next to me, making the both of us jump.
'It's Mia, you thick-skulled troglodyte.' Michelle rolled her eyes so hard she fell backwards into her seat next to me. She blew some off some hair that fell in her face. Her gray sweater was filled with holes, and her pants were covered in paint, and she still pulled her hair back into a messy bun, but somehow she made it look effortless. How? How could anyone be that good?
I couldn't believe how relieved I was to see her.
'W-what?' Flash straightened in his seat, staring at me. It took him a moment to make the connection, and he recoiled. 'No — no way. Measles Mia? Since when do you look like that?'
That as in not-sick, as in not-ugly, as in not-weak. Not silly, stuttering Measles Mia. My hands clenched around my book, and I had to keep myself from tearing the delicate paperback. I did not like being reminded of that stupid nickname again. I snapped my book shut, rising a little as well. Although we were still seated, it was clear I had become taller than Flash, too. Never before had I appreciated such a change until now.
I didn't say a word, but Flash seemed rightly cowed by the same discovery. He just sat there, gaping at me like a fish, pushing his seat back with his feet.
'You can go away now.' Michelle fixed Flash with a cool look, flicked her fingers at him as if he were an unsightly bug. 'Shoo.'
With no other recourse to follow, Flash obeyed, eyes cast downward as he retreated to another seat across the room, as far away as he could get from me.
I glanced at Michelle, then back at my book, opening to a random page. Of all the people I thought would recognize me, she had never made the list. I never thought I'd be that memorable in her life. And then she just did that, like it was nothing? I almost felt like my old self again, feeling too tiny for the world.
My voice was small when I finally said, 'Thanks.'
'Don't mention it,' Michelle replied, opening up her copy of The Odyssey without so much as another look at me. I thought that was it, until she said, 'Badass scar, by the way. How'd that happen?'
'Got punched off a bridge.'
'Nice.' She nodded approvingly.
> 'Thick-skulled troglodyte?' I cocked an eyebrow.
She flashed me a wicked smile. 'Been saving that one for weeks.'
'Nice.'
She offered her fist. I bumped it with mine.
I didn't know what just happened, but I was pretty sure Michelle and I just became friends.I stood in front of its entrance, looking up at the silver skyscraper. Although half of it was still under repair, it was a hell of a thing to see up close. It's smooth, futuristic design was carried through from top to bottom. The lobby entrance had an outdoor pavilion filled with water fountains, metal benches, and abstract stone sculptures. Standing pillars of glass displayed holograms advertising different aspects of Stark Industries, as well as an introduction to the Avengers. Apparently, this was going to be their official home, but regular business would still be continued at the Tower.
It was bizarre to think about. On one floor there was an office full of IT tech people, or a bank, or a cafeteria. How could you go work there every day, knowing fifty floors above you there lived half a dozen of the most powerful, most extraordinary people on Earth? That it began its life as the epicenter to the world's first alien invasion?
I shook my head. And now I was having an interview here.
I checked my watch (new Gortex, waterproof) before taking a deep breath, and heading inside. Aunt May had almost convinced me to wear a dress for the interview, but I managed to squeeze by in a pair of blue pants and a matching blazer. They were the only 'professional' clothes I owned, but they were brand-spanking-new, and I happened to like the way my shoulders looked in a well-fitted jacket. I couldn't get away from her blow-drying my hair though, so now I looked even older with smooth, shiny hair. I was afraid that someone would think I was lying about being a student.
School had gone well, all things considered. By the end of the week, everyone knew who I was, or who I was supposed to be, although I was still getting looks and stares. Peter said it'd go away eventually but I wasn't so sure.
At least in Stark Tower, I felt safe in my relative anonymity. The Welcome Center atrium had a high-reaching ceiling, with multiple decks and an echoing, raucous acoustics. It was loud, and kind of reminded me of an airport, or a stadium. There were hundreds of people just on this one floor. Tours and walkthroughs, rushing businessmen, lunch kiosks and help-desks and more of those glass hologram things. Everything was cutting edge — everything was metal or transparent, in silvery tones, with flashes of bold colors like red, gold, or blue. I sought directions from one of the desk attendants, then took an elevator to the 54th floor - where the Student Outreach program was housed.
The elevator was much quieter and it wasn't until the doors closed with a slight sucking sound and all noise vanished beneath soft Muzak did I realize how antsy just walking in here made me. The lobby had left me rattled, with my ears ringing and a headache starting to form.
I knew what it was called. Sensory overload. I learned about it in Biology class last year. Until now, I'd never really experienced it before.
Zipping up to the 54th floor, I stepped out of the elevator thirty seconds later, and found myself in a much more manageable atmosphere.
The ceiling was at a reasonable height, with a smaller lobby and less flashing, moving things for my eyes to take in. There were wide windows on the right side, giving the room a sense of breathing space that allowed me to relax a little bit.
I was nervous. There, I said it. I was nervous about the interview. You'd think, after inadvertently sparking a revolution and fighting on top of trains and bridges, I'd be ready for anything. But nope. Just the thought of sitting down across from a stranger, letting them squint through my resume and ask me strange, life-probing questions no fifteen-year-old is going to have a wise answer to made my skin itch. I didn't want to sit down and be interrogated. I just wanted to get this over with and receive my assignment.
There was a waiting room right outside the elevator, filled with about a dozen other kids my age, as well as some parents and other adults that looked like teachers or advisors. They were all talking, but at least it was quiet, pleasant. I managed to wait my turn before I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.
A mural.
In bright colors with what appeared to be applied with a sponge, it was painted on a wall to the left, near some office doors leading further into the building. I recognized the skyline instantly: New York City. Although the ceiling was only twelve feet high, the mural was large, stretching down the hallway. I turned in my seat to get a better look at it. It wasn't just a mural of New York City.
It was the Incident.
Stark Tower took center stage of the mural. The giant purple hole in the sky, the droves of aliens swarming out. Chitauri. I knew what they were called but it was hard to see them as anything other than a vague, faceless enemy in my mind.
But it wasn't the aliens, or the tiny depictions of the Avengers in battle, but rather the dozens of names that lines the bottom. And the in great, fancy black letters that titled:
To Those We Lost
Billowing smoke, buildings on fire. Seventy-three names. A memorial.
A chill went down my spine, and I quickly turned around in my seat, my eyes focused on the floor. I couldn't look at it anymore. This was not how this day was supposed to go. This wasn't what I needed to be thinking about minutes before a job interview.
So I kept my eyes averted. I pretended to be interested in the magazines on the coffee table, the TV playing on the wall. But I knew it was still there. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. It was like it was watching me. A presence, hanging there, waiting for me to turn around again.
I almost didn't hear it when the secretary called my name — my heart rate had picked up, a new ringing in my ears. It wasn't until she waved at me did I jolt and rise out of my seat on shaky knees.
My breathing was quick, uneven as I approached the desk and the woman pointed down the hall, past the mural, the way to the office, the interview. I didn't turn my head. I couldn't. I didn't want to look at it again.
I didn't want to see my mother's name.
I knew it was there. I knew it was waiting for me.
The worst thing was that I wanted to find her name. I had to see it, just to make sure. Why, I didn't know. I just had to.
But that would only make it worse.
I was already struggling just to breathe. I hadn't moved for a long moment and the secretary was giving me a funny look now. I pulled on an awkward smile before forcing my feet away from her desk and towards the hallway, towards the mural.
I did everything I could not to look. I turned my gaze to the floor, to the ceiling, unfocused my eyes so everything was a blur.
But I was still drawn to the list of names on the bottom of the mural. I passed one after another as I headed down the hallway. Each step was matched to a beat of my frantic heart. What was wrong with me? Why did it feel like I was suddenly running a marathon?
The thoughts rushed in from nowhere. Hell's Kitchen. Rubble. Mom. Her grave. Seeing her laugh and smile over dinner, sitting next to my bed while I was sick, crying over me as I bled out in the ambulance. That was the last thing I remembered of her. Watching her as I died.
The blazer clung to the back of my neck and arms. I'd broken out in a cold sweat, but I couldn't take it off now — not unless I wanted the interviewer to see my tattoo and ruin my professional look.
I wasn't really concerned with looking 'professional' right now, however. I was already feeling dizzy, sick. I didn't want to be here anymore.
My hands gripped the armrests. I could barely remember to restrain myself before I accidentally broke something.
I remembered this feeling. Like a rug was being yanked out from underneath me, and I fell back into a terrifying abyss.
The worst part was, I still hadn't figured out how to get out of it.
Guilt. Strong, unrelenting guilt clutched at my chest. About the Incident. I didn't know wh
y. But I'd heard the stories, I'd seen the footage. They still talked about it on the news. Kids at school all had their own versions, of where they were when it happened. Most of them lived outside of Manhattan, so they really only watched. Very few were in the actual thick of it. They were the heroes of the school.
Meanwhile, I had been the only one without a story to tell. I wasn't even in the country. I couldn't even remember the day. I was trapped in the Crucible, drifting in a toxic blur. It probably happened on a day when I'd forgotten I had a family.
But I couldn't tell people that. Whenever someone had asked me where I was, I could only shrug. I'd gotten dirty looks for telling them I didn't remember.
It was like I couldn't get away, I couldn't forget, not even for a moment. Now I could visualize the Incident it clearly in my head. The torn up streets, the screeching monsters and plummeting behemoths, people trapped and terrified as the entire island was cut off from the rest of the world.
Eminent Silence Page 76
