CHAPTER ONE
Penny For Your Thoughts

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WHENEVER A MISSION WENT well, Uncle Rich took Cecelia out to the twenty-four hour diner a few blocks from her apartment. He'd buy her whatever she wanted—usually a grilled cheese, tomato soup, and a milkshake—and, as they sat in their signature booth, congratulate her on a job well done. While Mr Sandman or It Was Only a Dream piped through the radio, silverware clattered against plates, and waitresses would bustle through the booths, their shoes squeaking on the black-and-white tiled floor, Uncle would make sure to tell her how proud he was.

Cecelia used to lap it up like a dog to its water bowl, taking in as much of it as she was able. These days—with the smell of sizzling burgers and French fries dripping with vinegar filling her nostrils, the stiffness in her body that meant a hard day's work, and her limbs still a little insubstantial—had been the best ones, because they had meant she'd been satisfactory. But lately, she'd been realizing there were plenty of other occasions where she should have gotten the same such treatment.

When she got an A+ on her Spanish test, for example. Ironically, despite growing up in New Mexico, Cecelia had always been abhorrent with the language. She'd studied her ass off, had two panic attacks, and only just finished it in time for the teacher to collect it. So, when she'd seen that red A+ scribbled into the corner—along with a smiley-face and a great job!—when she'd gotten it back, she'd been ecstatic.

Uncle hadn't shared her energy, however. When he picked her up that afternoon to take her to the warehouse, he'd barely been listening when Cecelia had told him about it. And when she'd dug it out of her backpack to show him, he hadn't even glanced at it.

He hadn't told her he was proud, then. Nor did he when she and Christine got second place in the robotics competition last year, narrowly beat out by Peter Parker and Ned Leeds, or when her school's Academic Decathlon team won the State Finals and solidified their spot in Nationals. No, it was only missions or work. Only when she came back to base with her arms full of Chitauri tech or put the finishing touches on one of the new weapons.

At least she had Mom and Dad to be proud of her. Alex, Jules, and Eva, too. But it would have been nice to hear it from Uncle, too. Because he was the hardest to impress, the rare instances where she managed it gave her a high she could ride for days.

And it was better having him proud of her than disappointed. The days he was disappointed were the days that ended up worst for her.

Cecelia dipped her grilled cheese into her soup and took a bite. Strings oozed off the bread, pressed and fresh from the oven, and she ducked her head. Uncle took a bite of his cheeseburger and laughed. He was always so jolly on days like today.

"Nice job today, kid," he said. "You've really been doing well for us lately. Keep it up, and you might have more than grilled cheeses coming your way."

Cecelia swallowed and looked up. "Really? What do you mean?"

Uncle winked. "You'll have to wait and see. But you're doing well, my little Tinkerer. I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

There it was. Cecelia closed her eyes and took another bite. Her finger twitched, curling around the scar that stubbornly remained there. It didn't hurt anymore, but sometimes, it decided she needed to remember how much it had.

Cecelia sipped her milkshake (vanilla, of course) and tucked the offending hand into her lap. With a little bit of concentration, it became lighter than air, slipping right into the flesh of her leg. The discomfort dissipated immediately.

"You're quiet, today," Uncle remarked. "I thought you'd be excited. We have a few deals coming up, which means your workshop will be upgraded. We can finally afford the toolbox you've been begging me for."

"That's not the only thing coming up," Cecelia said quietly.

"Hm? What's that?"

"Nationals. For Academic Decathlon. I'm going to DC?"

"Oh, right. DC. You know, it's kind of far."

"Yeah, I know. A four-hour drive."

"It's really going to mess up our schedule, you not being here. Are you sure you want to go? Maybe you could just stay here, and—"

"Are you serious? Of course, I'm going!" Cecelia slammed her solid fist down onto the table. Cutlery rattled, and a few heads turned. Uncle narrowed his eyes, and she blanched. "I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

"It's all right. I'm sorry, too. This Decathlon thing means a lot to you, huh?"

"It's Nationals. And Liz says we have a good chance at winning this year. She's working us to the bone to make sure of it."

Uncle nodded at the mention of Toomes's daughter. He'd never met her, but Toomes brought her up on multiple occasions. Unlike Cecelia, she wasn't involved in the business, but Toomes was proud of her. He often spoke about the bright future ahead of her and how well she was doing in school. Things that Uncle didn't care about.

Toomes had been delighted when he'd learned Cecelia and Liz had become friends. Cecelia didn't mention that they were more acquaintances—though she did have her number in her phone. She wasn't going to risk crushing his happiness.

"Good, good. And... your brother's on the team, right?"

Cecelia took in a slow breath through her nose. "Yes. So is Christine."

"Ah, got it. Oh, don't give me that look. I don't have time to be kept up to date with everything in your life."

It's not like this is the second year I've been on the AcaDec team or anything, Cecelia thought bitterly. She said nothing aloud.

To penetrate the silence, she took another sip of her milkshake. She'd long since gotten used to New York food—it was about the same as everywhere else in America, if a little greasier—but sometimes, she craved something more traditional. Mom and Dad tried as best as they could to connect her, but when neither of them was Sioux—Mom was white, Dad was Black—they were never going to succeed entirely.

Though it wasn't like Cecelia had ever been fully immersed. The last time she'd lived on a reservation, she'd been five years old, so the memories were obviously fuzzy. Then she'd bounced from foster home to foster home, and, well, she'd nearly lost it all.

She didn't even have a Sioux name.

"I've got to go," she said eventually, if only to keep herself from wallowing further. She swallowed the last bite of grilled cheese and wiped her hands with a napkin. "I have AP Chem homework. Plus, Liz recommended we do at least an hour of studying a night..."

Uncle blinked, then his face neutralized. "Of course," he said. "See you later, Cecelia. Keep your phone on you."

AKA: I could text you at any minute, so don't leave it behind. Whether it was for a mission, a session in the workshop, or a deal, whenever Uncle needed her, he texted her. And when that happened, Cecelia had to drop everything and meet up with him. It was the reason she'd never gotten a job.

Mom and Dad believed she had an internship with Uncle's company—which was technically true, just not in the way they thought. Although she wasn't making any money, they were happy that she was gaining "valuable experience" that would help her out for college. Cecelia didn't mention that this "valuable experience" was why she'd once had to go to the hospital for a cracked rib.

"Got it." Cecelia tossed her uncle a two-fingered salute, though it didn't have any heart in it. Then she tossed her backpack over her shoulders and slid out of the booth. As she exited the diner, a light breeze swept over her arms. She ignored it and shoved her earbuds into her ears.

With Viva la Vida by Coldplay as the background, she wove through the crowd, suppressing a yawn. Missions always made her exhausted. Lightening her body into intangibility took energy, which meant that spending hours doing it over and over again could prove to be enough to knock her out. Eating definitely helped, but if she wanted to finish her homework and studying tonight, then what she really needed was a cup of coffee. Or an energy drink.

When she arrived back at her apartment, she was practically drifting off. She pulled her keys from her jacket pocket and unlocked the door. When she stepped inside, she was greeted with the smell of baking cookies and the low murmur of the living room's television. She huffed out a breath, hung her coat on the rack, shed her shoes, and went to meet her family.

Mom, Dad, and Jules were all sitting on the couch, watching Jurassic Park for about the hundredth time. Eva was perched on the arm of the sofa, tapping away on her phone, and Alex sat cross-legged on the beanbag chair, nose buried in his Spanish textbook. He only looked up when Cecelia entered.

"Hey, big sis," he teased. Cecelia rolled her eyes. She was older than him, but only by a month. That was what happened when you adopted—you got kids who weren't twins that happened to be the same age. Because of this, they were in the same grade, and always got the inevitable look when they announced they were siblings. People often thought they were a couple, which was gross in so many ways.

Alex was Mom's biological child—he'd been born to Mom's old husband, who was apparently a major douchebag—though he was never treated differently by anyone because of it. Nor was Eva loved any less because she was still in contact with her birth mother and kept a hyphenated last name. They may not have been all related to each other, but that didn't change anything. They might have not been nuclear, but they were still a family.

"Lia! You're home." Much to the disappointment of Jules, Mom paused the movie. He crossed his arms and sank into the cushions. "How was your day? How's my brother doing?"

"Fine. Good." Cecelia dropped into Eva's sofa. Her sister gave her a look but didn't say anything. Instagram must have really enraptured her today. "Something smells good."

"We had the dough, so we decided to make some chocolate chip cookies," Dad said. "Eva, be a dear and tell me how long's on the timer."

"Do I have to?" Eva whined, sounding far closer to Jules's age than the twelve-year-old she was. "I was texting Tara. Apparently, she actually saw Spider-Man today."

Oh. So maybe not Instagram. Cecelia leaned forward anyway. "Really?"

"Yeah. It was only a second, though. He flew past her car."

"Sick," Jules said. "Spider-Man is so cool. I wish I could do flips like him."

Alex set down his textbook. "I'll check the timer, Dad." He stood up, padding into the kitchen. Eva went back to typing on her phone.

"Did you have dinner with Uncle Rick, sweetie?" Mom asked. "There's lasagna in the fridge if you're still hungry."

"I'm good," Cecelia said. "Uncle took me to Ray's. I got a grilled cheese and tomato soup."

"How come he never takes me out?" Jules asked. "I want a grilled cheese!"

"We can make you a grilled cheese here, munchkin," Dad responded. "It'll be gourmet and everything."

Alex returned with the announcement that the cookies would be ready in five minutes, and Cecelia stood up again. "I've got to do my homework," she said. "I'll come say goodnight later, okay?"

"Don't work too hard," Mom said. "Don't stay up too late. You can always finish in the morning."

"That's terrible advice," Alex said with a snort. "We don't have any time in the morning. Do you really want her scrambling to finish up while the teacher is collecting it?"

"She can do it. I believe in her."

Cecelia managed a chuckle, then slipped away to her room. It was split evenly in the middle: one side was hers, and the other was Eva's. This meant that half the room was an explosion of pinks and purples while the other was a simple navy. Two guesses as to which was which.

She stepped over one of Eva's discarded comic books to reach her side of the room. There, she fell back onto her bed—and nearly pitched right through it. Sometimes, her abilities flared up when she was tired. Which was incredibly stupid.

She took a moment to stare up at the ceiling—which was unfortunately popcorned—before slinging her backpack off her shoulder and taking out her textbook. AP Chemistry was slowly becoming the bane of her existence. The previous free time she'd had—even with her fairly frequent missions—was slowly dwindling to nothing.

I wish I could build a robot that would do my homework for me, she thought, moving to her desk. On it sat an Iron Man mug (a gift from Alex for her birthday; she kept it because of its irony) filled with pens, a gathering of torn-out pages from her notebook, and a framed photo of the first Christmas she'd had with the Olivier family. There she was, eleven years old, hair bunched into two pigtails, wearing a fresh pair of overalls Mom had bought her. Beside her was Alex. It was before he'd gone on Testosterone, so his face was a little more rounded. In front was an eight-year-old Eva and a four-year-old Jules. In the back, Mom and Dad, beaming proudly.

Their little family.

Uncle had taken the picture. Cecelia sighed and tipped it onto its face. He never left her alone.

SOMETIMES, CECELIA WONDERED if, when the Chitauri had finally been defeated in the Battle of New York, they'd left behind one more relic of their planet—the New York Subway System. With its permanent stench of cigarette smoke and body odor, jam-packed cars that made each passenger feel like the meat inside a sandwich, and poles that were likely infected with kinds of bacteria that hadn't even been discovered yet, it was hard to believe it was a native to planet Earth. Especially with the strangeness of its people, too. Cecelia had only lived in NYC for five years, and already, she'd seen all sorts of bizarre passengers. A man dressed as a tomato, reading a Vogue magazine. A woman with a Burmese Python wrapped around her shoulders, half of her head shaved. A group of college students playing Poker on the floor.

The best part about it was that New Yorkers were so used to it, they didn't even look up. This morning, for instance, Cecelia and Alex boarded the subway, saw a man dressed as the Hulk playing the recorder, and didn't even flinch. They just squeezed into the only empty spots that were left and shared their earbuds. When a woman let out a hacking cough far too close for comfort, Cecelia dug through her backpack and slathered on a heaping portion of hand sanitizer.

"Give me some of that," Alex said, chewing on a bagel. Cecelia obliged.

If she'd been a germaphobe before, the New York Subway System had wiped that out of her. Still, sometimes, her powers could come in handy. Just something subtle; a hand passing through a chair, a foot phasing through another. As long as she kept it low-key, nobody would notice. Although she doubted they would care, even if they did.

Fortunately, the ride to school only took twenty minutes. Before long, Cecelia and Alex were making their way into Midtown Tech's front hallways. As usual, the daily newscast was playing on the flat screens interspersed throughout. The faces of Betty Brant and Jason Ionello greeted them.

"Rise and shine, Midtown Science and Technology," Betty said.

"Students, don't forget about your Homecoming tickets," Jason added. "Do you have a date for Homecoming?"

"As if," Cecelia muttered. Alex hit her shoulder with his own.

"Thanks, Jason, but I already have a date," Betty said on-screen.

"Okay."

"Yeah."

A drone whizzed by their heads, and, in unison, Cecelia and Alex ducked. This was a normal occurrence at a school meant to harness bright minds. For the Senior Prank last June, the graduating class had stolen the robots from the tech room and set them off in a race around the track.

While the principal chastised the student who'd set off the drone, Cecelia and Alex continued their walk down the hallway towards their lockers. There, they found Christine leaning casually against her own.

As usual, her appearance was immaculate. Her rod-straight hair fell in silky waves down her shoulders, her eyeshadow accentuated deep brown eyes, and her dark skin shone despite the sickly fluorescent lights beaming down on her. She was wearing a perfectly pressed skirt and knee-high socks. When she noticed the siblings' arrival, she grinned and tugged them both into a hug.

"Morning, Alex. Good morning, sunshine. You're looking cheerful today."

Cecelia scowled. "I'm tired."

"Well, you might want to wake up. Mom says we might have a pop quiz today."

"You're kidding."

Christine snorted, breaking the hug. "I actually am. We're just learning more about linear acceleration."

"Ooh, my favourite kind of acceleration."

"Don't act like you hate it, sunshine. I've seen how invested you get in her lessons."

Alex nodded. "So I've heard."

"Don't worry," Christine added slyly. "I won't tell Mom."

Cecelia blew out a loud, exaggerated sigh of relief. "Oh, thank Creator. I don't know what I would do if she knew I actually liked her class."

She meant that literally. Christine's mother may have been sweet whenever Cecelia visited, but she had a completely different personality in the classroom. There, she often sprung pop quizzes on her students, called out those who were obviously not paying attention for answers, and expected them to remember every single equation. Sure, it was an Honours class—like most offered at Midtown Tech—but still.

Cecelia couldn't believe she liked the class so much. She couldn't believe she liked Teacher Mrs. Warren even more.

She was just about to open her locker when Ned Leeds pushed by them. Christine noticed him, and her eyes glowed. Before either Alex or Cecelia could say anything, she was already stepping forward.

"Hey, Ned!"

Ned, who'd been making his way to Peter Parker's locker, halted in his tracks. He turned, and a shy smile spread across his face. "Hey, Christine. Cecelia. Alex."

"Hi, Ned," Alex said. Cecelia kept quiet, for Ned had only said her name out of courtesy. He wasn't really here to say hello to her. He only had eyes for one of them. "How's it going, man?"

"I got a new LEGO Death Star yesterday," Ned responded, bouncing slightly in place. "Almost four thousand pieces. So, pretty good."

"Sweet," Christine said, plucking a piece of lint off her sweater. Her head was bowed, a curtain of hair covering her face. "Are you and Peter going to build it together?"

"Probably," Ned responded. "Nah, what am I saying. He's definitely not gonna pass up the opportunity. Four thousand pieces!"

"Sounds like a mess to clean up," Cecelia commented. Alex elbowed her in the side, and she let out a yelp. Ned was unfazed.

"Dude, I'm not going to take it apart. Once it's together, it's together. I should get a display case."

"That's so cool, Ned," said Christine. By the tone of her voice, Cecelia could tell she was being genuine. "Do you have the Avengers Tower set yet?"

"No, because it costs about a thousand dollars. I'm working toward it, though. Babysitting, lemonade stands... whatever I got to do to get it. Hmm, maybe I could ask Peter... he could put in a word for me with Iron Man! He's, like, a billionaire. I bet the LEGO set would be pocket change for him."

"Because Tony Stark is going to buy a LEGO set for his teenage intern's best friend just because he asked him," Cecelia said skeptically. "Right."

"Hey, I might as well try!"

"Sorry about her," Christine said, nudging Cecelia out of the way. "She's grumpy today."

"Nah, don't worry about it," Ned waved her off. "I know she's just teasing. I'll see you three at Decathlon practice?"

"We'll be there," said Christine. Ned beamed, then turned on his heel and kept heading down the hallway. Christine watched him leave, running a hand through her hair. There was a slight smile on her face, stretching across her lips.

"Who pissed in your Cornflakes this morning?" Alex asked Cecelia. "Was it Jules again? I thought he grew out of that stage."

"What?" Christine spluttered.

"Don't ask," said Cecelia. Then, to Alex: "And no. I'm fine. Just tired, like I said."

"You went to bed at, like, ten o'clock last night," Alex pointed out.

"The internship really wears me out," Cecelia responded. This wasn't even a lie. Even after getting the recommended amount of sleep for a girl her age, she always woke up exhausted after mission days. She could practically feel the bags swelling underneath her eyes.

"Well, you don't have to be a dick to Ned," Christine said.

"I wasn't being a dick. I was just being honest."

"Those two aren't mutually exclusive. Besides, I like Ned. He's the sweetest. Remember when he beat us at the robotics competition, and felt so bad he bought us ice cream afterward?"

"Mine was Pistachio," Cecelia grumbled. "But, yeah, okay, Ned is pretty nice. I don't hate him or anything. Plus, he's one of the best members on the AcaDec team."

"Thank you."

"We're gonna ace Nationals," Alex said, inputting his combination into his locker. "Midtown Tech is taking the trophy home this year, I'm telling you."

"Agreed," said Christine.

Cecelia nodded in assent and opened her own locker. As she extracted her binders from the disorganized mess that had become its interior (fallen papers littered the bottom like a fresh coat of snow, a granola bar was perched on the top shelf, and a collection of old hair ties accumulated dust in the corner), her phone buzzed in her pocket. Her heart stuttered, but when she pulled it out, the text she received was not from Uncle. Instead, it was a message from Mom: Have a good day, sweetie! Soup for dinner!

Pull yourself together. Cecelia slipped her phone back into her jeans and finished packing her bag. So what if Uncle texted her? It was for a good cause. And she didn't even hate the missions—so why was she so on-edge about being called to them? It was ridiculous.

"What kind of soup do you think Mom is going to try today?" asked Alex, eyes glued to his own phone. It appeared that he'd gotten an identical text. "Homemade tomato, broccoli, or potato leek?"

"My bets are on potato leek," Cecelia responded, closing her locker door. "It's her best recipe. I just hope she doesn't make French onion again."

In unison, the siblings shuddered.

Cecelia and Christine had Honours Physics together, but Alex had Honours Biology. It was because of this that they parted from him; he went one way, catching up to one of his friends from chess club, while they went the other. They arrived in class just a minute before the bell rang—thank Creator, otherwise Mrs. Warren would have scolded them. She had a thing about punctuality. There, they found their seats near the front row and opened their notebooks.

As usual, Mrs. Warren managed to keep Cecelia engaged. She took notes until her hand cramped and answered as many questions as she could. Christine did as well, ignoring Flash Thompson's occasional hiss of "teacher's pet". It was all so very typical, except for one thing: for most of the class, Peter Parker kept his head down.

Cecelia wouldn't call herself friends with Peter. Sure, he was on the Academic Decathlon team, and had been in robotics club with her until he'd quit, but even though their extra-curriculars overlapped, they never really spoke outside of them. Still, she had noticed a change that had occurred within him the past few months. Ever since he'd started that Stark Internship—which was kind of unbelievable; why would Tony Stark hire a teenager?—he'd been distant. When he'd quit robotics club, Cecelia had been taken aback. Then marching band had followed, and though he remained in Academic Decathlon, he wasn't as into it as he'd been last year. And now, he wasn't even paying attention in one of his favourite subjects. There definitely had to be something going on.

"Okay, so, how do we calculate linear acceleration between points A and B?" Mrs. Warren asked. Cecelia tore her eyes away from Peter—she was not going to be caught staring—and returned her focus to the board. Before she could raise her hand, however, Flash beat her to it. There was a reason he'd been given that nickname. "Flash."

"It's the product of sine of the angle and gravity divided by the mass," Flash responded. Cecelia exchanged an exasperated look with Christine.

"Nope. Peter. You still with us?"

Peter finally raised his head. "Uh, uh, yeah, yeah. Uh... uh, mass cancels out, so it's just gravity times sine."

"Right. See, Flash, being the fastest isn't always the best if you are wrong."

The class burst into laughter, with Christine stifling her own giggles with her fist. Even Cecelia managed a snort as Flash's face contorted with humiliation. He turned in his seat to whisper something to Peter. It was pretty obvious to guess that it contained some kind of empty threat.

When Peter glanced at the clock on the wall, then sank back down into his seat, Cecelia clenched her jaw. She really wasn't usually the one to care about those other than her friends, but Peter's behaviour was seriously concerning. After all, if his weird moods made him decide to drop out of Academic Decathlon, that would mean Flash would have to take his place. Cecelia would rather have Jules be there with her during Nationals than him.

She peeled off one of her Sticky Notes from the colourful pad she'd brought along and scribbled a quick note to Peter. Everything okay? Then she folded it neatly in half and slipped it into Christine's hand. At her look of inquiry, she mouthed, Peter.

Christine's brows rose, but she passed it over without complaint. The note sat in the corner of Peter's desk for a solid minute before he noticed it. Then he finally looked up and took it.

It didn't take him long to read it. Once he did, he glanced up, bewildered, in an attempt to locate the source of the message. Cecelia locked eyes with him and pointed with her lips to his laptop. He ran a hand through his hair (brown as Cecelia's own, though curled in a way she could never convince hers to do) and clicked his pen. His hand moved in a blur as he scribbled his response.

When the Sticky Note made its way back to her desk, it had two words added on in scratchy handwriting.

Yeah. Why?

There were a lot of reasons Cecelia could have put down in response. Because he was distant, always glancing at the clock, never content with the present moment. Because he'd quit his clubs and completely immersed himself in the Stark Internship. Because he might quit Academic Decathlon, and where would that leave the team?

She didn't respond with any of those. Again: she and Peter weren't friends. If they were, she might have actually told him she was worried.

Instead, her reply was just as short as Peter's: No reason.

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HAVEN: and here's the first chapter! we've got an introduction to fifteen-year-old cecelia, plus alex and christine, my loves <333 and yes, if you were wondering, alex is trans (and so is his faceclaim, elliot fletcher). it's going to be brought up a few times throughout the book, but he will never be misgendered or deadnamed, simply because i would feel uncomfortable writing that. so, yeah, the bad guys here suck, but they at least respect gender identites!

i hope you're enjoying so far! i do warn you, though, the relationship between cecelia and peter is definitely going to be a slow-burn—they do have some interactions, but they don't actually get around to being friends until far later on. hopefully it'll be worth it in the end, though!

thank you for reading!! <333