thank
heavens, but he only had seconds in which to act before she did spot it, and look to see where—and to whom—it con nected.
Hoping to yank the web strand free of the tray, Peter pulled as hard as he could. In retrospect, he should have re alized what would happen, but he wasn't thinking especially clearly. Unfortunately, the inevitable did occur. Liz's tray took off like a rocket, arcing through the air straight at Peter. He ducked under the tray as it soared over his head. He heard the tray crash behind him, heard an uproar and shouts, and turned to see what had happened.
Flash Thompson was sitting there, wearing the girl's lunch. Jell-O was trickling down his shirt, milk was in his hair, pasta was on his shoulders, and murder was in his eyes. Mary Jane, sitting next to him, wasn't helping the situation by desperately trying to cover up her laughter and failing miserably.
M.J.'s barely stifled laughter was the only noise in the cafeteria at that moment. Like an infuriated rhino trying to find a target, Flash's eyes swept the room, looking for the guilty party. And Peter realized that if there was one thing Thompson the football star was capable of doing, it was chart the trajectory of an incoming object. With rapid-fire calculations he could never have articulated, Flash figured out what direction the tray must have come from. He glanced in Liz's direction, but probably realized that she didn't have the arm strength to hurl the tray that far. So he tracked it to the closest source, and his piglike stare fell upon a sweating and loudly gulping Peter Parker.
"Parker?!" Flash said.
If he had discovered that Peter Parker was actually Brit ney Spears in a cunning disguise, he couldn't have reacted with greater incredulity. Instantly Flash was on his feet, and that same warning of danger was buzzing in Peter's head,
except this time there was no doubt where the jeopardy was coming from. Peter jumped out of his chair, knocking it backward, and he motored out of the cafeteria, dragging the still-snagged tray behind him.
As the doors swung closed after him, the tray didn't make it through in time. It slid up and down the gap between the doors, tapping against them as if pleading to be let out. Finally, the strand broke and the tray fell to the floor with a crash.
In the hallway just outside the cafeteria, Peter paused next to a row of lockers and checked the undersides of his wrists. He didn't have a clue as to exactly what he was going to see. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and on each of his wrists there was a single, nearly invisible slit.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. If anyone ever spotted them, they'd think he'd tried to commit suicide. Then again, con sidering that Flash Thompson was on his tail, they probably wouldn't blame him. Nevertheless he quickly rolled down his shirtsleeves as far as they would go in order to cover them.
And that was when the warning signals that had been sounding in his head went off again, with even greater strength and clarity than before. This was beyond a simple signal that something was wrong. It was as if he was seeing outside himself, aware of everything around him—all at one time. The very movement of air was an alert to him, and in his mind's eye, he was able to "see" a fist coming in at him, fast, from behind.
Peter whipped around, darting to one side, just in time to avoid Flash Thompson's roundhouse as it slammed into the locker just to the right of his head. Flash hit the locker door with such force that he left an indentation in the metal, then let out a yelp of irritation, shaking the stinging out of his fist, as Peter backpedaled to put some distance between him and the outraged sports star. Mary Jane was coming up behind
Flash, and Peter saw Harry coming from another direction. M. I was calling Flash's name, but he wasn't paying the least bit of attention.
"Think you're pretty funny, don't you, freak?" Flash de manded, wiping some stray ketchup off his brow.
heavens, but he only had seconds in which to act before she did spot it, and look to see where—and to whom—it con nected.
Hoping to yank the web strand free of the tray, Peter pulled as hard as he could. In retrospect, he should have re alized what would happen, but he wasn't thinking especially clearly. Unfortunately, the inevitable did occur. Liz's tray took off like a rocket, arcing through the air straight at Peter. He ducked under the tray as it soared over his head. He heard the tray crash behind him, heard an uproar and shouts, and turned to see what had happened.
Flash Thompson was sitting there, wearing the girl's lunch. Jell-O was trickling down his shirt, milk was in his hair, pasta was on his shoulders, and murder was in his eyes. Mary Jane, sitting next to him, wasn't helping the situation by desperately trying to cover up her laughter and failing miserably.
M.J.'s barely stifled laughter was the only noise in the cafeteria at that moment. Like an infuriated rhino trying to find a target, Flash's eyes swept the room, looking for the guilty party. And Peter realized that if there was one thing Thompson the football star was capable of doing, it was chart the trajectory of an incoming object. With rapid-fire calculations he could never have articulated, Flash figured out what direction the tray must have come from. He glanced in Liz's direction, but probably realized that she didn't have the arm strength to hurl the tray that far. So he tracked it to the closest source, and his piglike stare fell upon a sweating and loudly gulping Peter Parker.
"Parker?!" Flash said.
If he had discovered that Peter Parker was actually Brit ney Spears in a cunning disguise, he couldn't have reacted with greater incredulity. Instantly Flash was on his feet, and that same warning of danger was buzzing in Peter's head,
except this time there was no doubt where the jeopardy was coming from. Peter jumped out of his chair, knocking it backward, and he motored out of the cafeteria, dragging the still-snagged tray behind him.
As the doors swung closed after him, the tray didn't make it through in time. It slid up and down the gap between the doors, tapping against them as if pleading to be let out. Finally, the strand broke and the tray fell to the floor with a crash.
In the hallway just outside the cafeteria, Peter paused next to a row of lockers and checked the undersides of his wrists. He didn't have a clue as to exactly what he was going to see. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and on each of his wrists there was a single, nearly invisible slit.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. If anyone ever spotted them, they'd think he'd tried to commit suicide. Then again, con sidering that Flash Thompson was on his tail, they probably wouldn't blame him. Nevertheless he quickly rolled down his shirtsleeves as far as they would go in order to cover them.
And that was when the warning signals that had been sounding in his head went off again, with even greater strength and clarity than before. This was beyond a simple signal that something was wrong. It was as if he was seeing outside himself, aware of everything around him—all at one time. The very movement of air was an alert to him, and in his mind's eye, he was able to "see" a fist coming in at him, fast, from behind.
Peter whipped around, darting to one side, just in time to avoid Flash Thompson's roundhouse as it slammed into the locker just to the right of his head. Flash hit the locker door with such force that he left an indentation in the metal, then let out a yelp of irritation, shaking the stinging out of his fist, as Peter backpedaled to put some distance between him and the outraged sports star. Mary Jane was coming up behind
Flash, and Peter saw Harry coming from another direction. M. I was calling Flash's name, but he wasn't paying the least bit of attention.
"Think you're pretty funny, don't you, freak?" Flash de manded, wiping some stray ketchup off his brow.
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