CHAPTER THREE.
HIDDEN FEELINGS

" Living with secrets was like living in a haunted house. "

PETER was regretting not killing Ned in his sleep. See the thing was, he had figured out from yesterday night's not existent sleep of his, that yes he did still like Amelia. And when he'd told this to Ned, he had gone neurotic in his reaction. He had not stopped asking questions all night and when he had finally gone to sleep, Peter couldn't sleep all night thinking about said questions. And then, every time he heard a siren outside, his heart would lurch. He should go out there, he should help.

He did.

And he had a nasty bruise on his cheek to prove that. When Ned had asked what had happened, he told him he had fallen in the bathroom. He'd told Aunt May he'd fallen in the bathroom. If you told a lie over and over you start believing it yourself. That's the trick, to believe it yourself. On his way to school, he had realized he hadn't finished his History homework. Fine, he would do that in Lunch hour sitting quietly in the library. When he reached the school steps, Flash tried to run him over with his car. Thanks to his spider senses, he dodged it and got to see Flash's disappointed face. It was glorious. Inside, as soon as he had opened his locker, Ned was beside him, talking about Amelia again. Peter almost groaned. Almost.

"So . . . you like her?"

"Maybe, Ned. I don't know. I've talked to her like once. Twice, if you consider the culmination of words exchanged in the last three months before yesterday."

"But you like her?"

Peter glared.

"Does she like you?"

Peter scoffed. "How would I know?"

"She definitely likes you."

"No, she does not."

"She does."

"No, she doesn't. Ned!"

"She was holding your hand!"

"That was different. That was nothing. She doesn't like me."

"Who doesn't like you?" 

Peter froze. He knew that voice. Of course, he knew that voice. Oh my god, why? Why? He really, really wanted to disappear. He glared at Ned, asking him not to say anything that would make the situation even worse. Then he turned to look at her. Amelia Sóng stood there in all her glory, smiling wide like a candidate in a voting campaign. Now that he saw her, he realized she must have been wearing make-up last night. The top half of her hair was pulled back, a few strands escaping and framing her face. Her cheeks were stretched tight by her smile and rose-colored from the emotion. Now that he thought back, her face showed emotions very easily. She must have repeated her question, or called his name because Ned shook him. Peter blinked.

Worry and confusion etched on her face, Amelia was watching him. Peter stuttered, embarrassed, and finally said, "H-Hey."

Though still confused, her face stretched in a smile and she repeated his greeting. Then, she said grinning, "So, who doesn't like you?"

"Uh," Peter started, stammering, "who doesn't like me ─ who, it's ─ I mean, a lot of people don't. It's a very subjective question if you think about it ─ "

"Peter," Amelia said. Nothing shocked him more than the tone of her voice. Not a command or an order, yet still Peter felt compelled to answer.

Not the truth, he thought. Anything but the truth. He glanced up. Up ahead, at the end of the hallway was Liz Allan. Peter almost thanked god aloud in relief. Liz was a senior, she would probably be gone before she found out about this conversation. She probably never would. "Uh, Liz. Liz."

"Liz Allan?" Amelia asked, eyebrows furrowed. Peter nodded. She fake gasped. "You have a crush on Liz. Oh my god, Peter!" She playfully punched his shoulder. He felt his face heat up but before he could embarrass himself any further, the bell rang. It was a nasally sound and Amelia cringed. Someone called her name. Peter didn't see who it was, his eyes followed Amelia as she strode over and shook hands with him. Shaking hands? What kid did that? At least not with another kid? Talking to Amelia didn't feel like talking to a child. He collected his books, said goodbye to Ned, and made his way to class.

Meanwhile, Amelia strode inside her English classroom with a polite smile and settled beside Gemma. They glanced at each other with their usual nod of acknowledgment and Gemma said, "You're a little late."

Amelia kept her eyes trained on her notebook. "I was talking to Peter."

Gemma furrowed her eyebrows, gaze flitting from the board to her friend. "Parker?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Nothing," Amelia shrugged. "I was just talking."

Gemma sighed with exasperation. After they had dropped Peter and Ned off and Amelia had started driving towards Brooklyn to drop off Gemma, she had said something she shouldn't have. Like healing and back-from-the-dead batshit magic was Amelia's thing, secrets were Gemma's. She collected them like some people collected books or dolls or trinkets. 

Living with secrets was like living in a haunted house. Sometimes you could pretend everything was normal, a perfect utopian place in the summer sunshine. And then there were days where she could feel the walls starting to close in. When she put her hands against them, she would feel them breathe. The walls in her haunted house breathed and listened and whispered. Everywhere she went there were whispers. The third room to the left on the first floor was a one-room apartment in Brooklyn she shared with her mother who worked two jobs just to be able to afford all that. The first room on the right on the ground floor was filled with expensive shoes and dresses she could never hold, her hand passing through them as if they were holograms. The foyer was huge and tall. You could tip your head back and it would just go, go, go and the staircase was long and windy with names inscribed into every step. Elaine Burke, the first step said. Robert Burke, another said, her absentee alcoholic father. One said Amelia Sóng and another Monika Godfrey. And the latest one said: Peter Parker.

The problem with her mind palace was this: So long she kept meeting people and touching them, it would never stop growing. And every so often it started to suffocate her. It had started happening more and more these past few weeks. Even the slightest brushes with strangers ─ skin against skin ─ would ignite an inferno in her mind. It felt like someone had taken a metal rod and was branding her brain. With only clothes to act as a barrier, Gemma rarely showed much skin. 

Her hand had touched Peter's when she had handed him the car keys yesterday night. She always felt so guilty after it happened. After the excruciating pain buckled her knees and she fell to the floor in agony, curled into a fetal position ─ she would feel tremendous guilt and shame pointing at her in the most humiliating way possible. She felt like an open wound. Every deepest, darkest secret of every stranger she had ever touched remained locked away behind the doors of her haunted house. Gemma said, "Amy." Because she had nothing else to say. She felt exhausted and in serious need of sleep.

"What?" Amy quirked an eyebrow, not looking away from her notebook where she was jotting down notes. "You said that he's like us."

"Yes," Gemma agreed half-heartedly. "And I also said that nobody knows."

Now, Amy pursed her lips. See, privacy was something very personal to her. And so was kindness and politeness. If nothing else, you could always appeal to those senses of hers. She sighed and nodded. "I know. Anyways," she shook her head as if she were clearing her thoughts, "I was just talking to him about Liz."

"Liz Allan?" Gemma asked confused as she looked up and down from the board to her notebook to check whether she had copied it correctly. "Why?"

Now, Amelia stopped writing. She said, with barely hidden amusement, "Because he has a crush on her." The smile on her face indicated that she was somehow very entertained by this particular piece of information. Gemma raised an eyebrow. Amelia continued, "It's so cute. He's all stuttering and nervous when he's talking about her."

"Everyone!" the teacher announced, catching both girls' attention. "Please submit your essays on the table!"

Amelia reached for her backpack, wiggling her eyebrows at Gemma. "Did you write it? Who did you choose?"

Fetching her paper from where it was tucked between the pages of a book, Gemma replied, "Peggy Carter. You?" The assignment was to write an essay on the person who you admired and aspired to the most.

Amelia smiled as she pulled her out. "Constance," she said in return. Gemma went quiet. She had never met Constance, Amelia's older half-sister. But from the way Amelia talked about her, she would have very much liked to. You would have liked her, Amelia used to say. She never made mistakes unlike me. She never disappointed anyone. That was until she had died, the biggest disappointment in Amelia's life. But, she supposed, that was not Constance's fault. "Gimme," Amelia's voice broke her silent spell. "I'll submit it."

Gemma gave it to her. She parted her lips and called her name. "Amy." Or had she? She didn't seem to remember. The moment seemed long past already, like a forgotten memory. She remembered exactly how she felt at the time but did not remember how the moment had gone. Besides, Amelia had not responded, so maybe she hadn't said it.

Amelia came back. She sat. They wrote some more before Gemma remembered what she had to tell Amelia. She poked her with her elbow. "Okay, look. There's this new cafe that's opened in downtown Brooklyn and the donuts are delicious. Do you wanna tag along today?"

"Sure," Amelia nodded. "Is Monika coming?" When she received no answer, she glanced at Gemma. "You haven't talked to her?"

Gemma shook her head. "No, you?"

"No," Amelia admitted quietly just as the bell rang. With her frustration about Monika directed towards her notebooks as she shoved them in her bag, Amelia continued to rant. "What was she thinking? I told her, no more poker. No more bets. Why doesn't she just listen? What more can I do?" She let out an exasperated breath, clutching the roots of her hair as they exited the classroom and walked into a hallway filled with Midtown High students.

Gemma frowned. "Maybe just . . . let her be?"

"I don't stop her from being who she is," Amelia retaliated. Gemma pursed her lips. "Do I? Gem?" In the absence of response, Amelia stopped in her tracks and turned to face Gemma. When she saw the blonde's expression, her lips parted. The hurt placed itself nicely, tucking itself behind her heart. Thorns and poison ivies wrapped around her beating organ, daring it to beat again.

"Look," Gemma started, "when she's with you she always feels like there's this expectation that she has to stand. That she has to be a certain way, act a certain way."

"I never ask that of her!"

"No, but the people who see you two together do." Gemma shook her head. "Amy, it's not impossible to see why she acts out for attention when she feels outshined by you."

"But, I don't outshine her," Amelia quietened. She had struggled with this problem all her life. She never meant to be privileged, she never wanted this second life, she never wanted people looking at her when she walked down hallways. She never wanted sons of politicians inviting her to D.C black-tie parties. She never wanted to Amelia Sóng. She only ever wanted to be Amelia. She rested her head against the cold metal of her locker. "I mean . . . I thought she didn't care what people thought."

"She doesn't," Gemma agreed, coming to stand just across from her. Gemma hated confrontation, but some things just needed to be told very sincerely. "She cares what you think."

Amelia raised her eyebrows. "Well, then?"

"Have you told her what you think?" Gemma asked rhetorically.

Amelia kept staring at her and shaking her head in disbelief. She swiped her tongue over her teeth to stop a chuckle from escaping. She asked, "Why are you so wise?"

"Thanks," Gemma nodded opening her locker, "it's the trauma." As she shoved her books in and took her lunch out, she waved the bag of confectionary under Amelia's nose. "Dude, that place has this blueberry syrup donut that'll blow your mind."

"Really?" Amelia snatched the bag that said Blue's and opened it to take a look inside, interest piqued.