#I remember working on this under the table at my night biology class in community college lmao

[dragon-pawz]

art from 2019 but ohhhhh I’m soooooo happy about the news!!!!

[captainjimothycarter]

I know how much you love Aunt Peggy & Tony’s relationship, just as I do, but what about Peggy & Peter? Peter idolized Tony, I wonder what would happen if Pete met the person Tony Idolized 😊♥️

I am in love with Aunt Peggy & Tony’s relationship. It’s something I’ve always HC but never truly wrote about beyond mentions. But YES. I didn’t think about this until now. Let’s make this an AU where Peggy was deaged, set shortly after Steve brings ‘em home in the Tony one.

--

When Mr. Stark had called Peter at the crack of dawn, having no respect or idealization of the time and the fact that Peter was now officially in his freshmen year of college, and thus had stayed up far too late doing a paper, Peter considered ignoring the phone call and rolling over to catch a few more minutes of desperate sleep. Mr. Stark had other plans.

“Peter! C’mon, there you are!” Even over the phone, Peter knew that Tony was smiling and hear the excited energy in his voice. “Don’t groan at me, look, I know it’s a bit early but you gotta come over, okay? Come over for lunch. You don’t got class tonight.”

He was right, he didn’t have class after lunch and until tomorrow bright and early but Peter was hoping to use that time to finish his paper and get started on this useless PowerPoint for biology. Though, a break wouldn’t be a bad idea. Ned was telling him he was overworking himself already.

“Alright,” he yawned, scrubbing at his face, now figuring he wouldn’t get some sleep after all. “Alright. I’ll be over for lunch. Might be around one, Mr. Hynes doesn’t let us out until late when we do a lab.”

It was closer to two when Peter finally got to the familiar Tower. He’d text Mr. Stark on and off about how the lab was running over, then there was discussion, and then trying to get off campus was a nightmare with the new security in place. Tony had texted back once to tell him that it was okay, there was no immediate rush, but he hadn’t heard from him after that.

He hoped Tony wasn’t mad at him.

The elevator doors opened and Peter was met with the empty sigh of the communal living room. Well, empty until he rounded the corner and found a slightly familiar face wearing one of Captain Rogers t-shirts and a pair of jeans making tea. He could hear her muttering about the slim selection and ‘teaching these guys how to make a proper cuppa’ before a kettle was put down.

“Oh,” Peter breathed, looking down at the bright red kettle. “That burner doesn’t heat up as fast as the others. The one beside it does.”

The woman turned to face Peter and he was suddenly awestruck, his breath leaving his lungs. He knew her. Well, he knew of her.

He’d seen her photos in Tony’s lab, often coming across as screen saviors when he left his tablet alone for far too long. The photos of a younger Tony and woman with gray hair were in the man’s bedroom too. And in his office. He’d even seen her, a much younger photo of her in Captain Rogers’ room. Even Mr. Barton had one of an older her and a younger him. This was Peggy Carter - Director of Shield. Former Director? 

“Close your mouth,” Peggy said in a polite, but strict manner that makes the young adult snap his mouth shut. “It’s not polite to openly gape. Who are you?”

The way her head tilts to the side, her eyes scan him makes Peter want to squirm. She’s watching him, studying him. He knew how he must look with black bags under his eyes, his mousy hair a complete mess from the wind, the baggy clothes he’d just thrown on this morning with no care. Unknownst to him, there was a smudge of something black along the tip of his nose. 

This was a woman that Peter had idolized, even before he’d known Mr. Stark. He’d done many projects and papers and personal research on her. He’d followed her life story until it abruptly ended until she was supposed to be dead. She was dying, she could remember Mr. Stark getting upset.

He’d often talk about his auntie and it took Peter less than a week to make the connection between ‘auntie’ and the pictures. He knew they were close and he’d admired her. When the news of her third stroke had reached Tony, through Steve or Hill, Tony had locked himself away in the lab for hours on end. He’d only let Peter in when the kid refused to go home. He talked at Peter about Auntie Pegs and how much she meant to him and it hurt how he couldn’t help her and sometimes she didn’t even remember him and that drove a spike through his chest.

It doesn’t explain how she got here and to look so...young.

She was still staring at him and it made the brunette’s cheeks flush with color. She was waiting for an answer. “Uh, P-Peter Parker, ma’am.” His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “I’m here to see Mr. Stark, he-he called earlier. Uh, your...kettle is about to go off.”

Sure enough, a beat later, the kettle was screaming and the poised woman was pouring two cups of steaming, hot water. Peter watched her for the longest minute, trying to wrack his brain with something to say.

What the hell could he say? I admire you. Mr. Stark loves you to death and your sickness hurt him and he didn’t want you to think he didn’t love you but he does. You’re amazing. You’ve done so much for the world and not many people know it but I do and I’m thankful. 

Each one sounded dumber than the next.

“Pegs?”

That was Captain Rogers, sure enough, he was coming into the kitchen with a towel around his neck. His face lit up at the sight of Peter. 

“Hey, Pete. Tony will be down in a minute.” He bent down to kiss Peggy’s cheek, Peter noting the light flush over her cheekbones. “I’m going to take a shower, then we can head out.”

“Where are you going?” The question is blurted out before Peter could stop it. He just wants to melt into this spot. “I-I mean...I don’t...we…”

Peggy laughs, it cuts through the tension and even the young adult can see how relaxed Steve gets. “It’s perfectly okay, love. You know, Stevie, he reminds me a little bit of a younger you.” She elbows his chest gently and stirs in a bit of sugar and cream into her tea.

Steve rolls his eyes but his ears turn a shade of red. “No, Peter’s more put together than I ever was.” He kissed her once more before leaving, leaving the pair alone. 

Why hasn’t the ground just opened up and swallowed him whole?

“As for where we’re going…” She’s turned back to him and gestured for Peter to sit down at the little bar, sitting across from him with her hands around the mug of tea, the other put in front of Peter. “Steve’s insistent on taking me out, something about lost time.”

There’s that knowing smile again and Peter feels like he’s starting to know it well. 

“I-I know you,” He blurts out again and groans, covering his face. Maybe he just should on the mask and run away. Go hide. Never come back into the tower again. “I-I mean…” He sighs out of his nose and drops his hands, might as well just finish digging this hole. “You’re Tony’s godmother. He-he calls you auntie. You were Director of Shield. You -”

“Technically, still am. I never fully gave over that power.”

“Yes, ma’am. Still are. You did so much amazing work! From-from rescuing Sargeant Barnes and the Howlies - giving their families a secured home. From-from durin’ the war and the programs you illegally set up to help refugees find home and jobs and security to-to everything.” 

“Sounds like you have an admirer, Auntie,” a voice teases, a hand clamping on Peter’s shoulder. “Hey, Pete. Glad you could make it.”

Peter turns back to look at Tony and he’s a little stunned. He hasn’t seen him in a few weeks, but they’ve talked. Tony looks so much...healthier. There’s no bags under his eyes - or not so much. He’s got a glow to him, and even not so skinny. There’s a light to his eyes, and it looks like he’s groomed recently. 

“Mr. Stark, I-I’m sorry about being late, I-”

“Pete, it’s okay.” He squeezed his shoulder and dropped his hand, rounding the table to kiss Peggy’s cheek. “I wanted to invite you over to meet her. We’re going out for lunch, I think you should join us.” His eyes look over Peter and click his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “I think you should join us for several meals. Have you been avoiding the cafeteria again?”

“Huh?” Peter looks down at the outfit and feels Peggy’s eyes are on him too. He wants to sink again. “I-I mean I’ve forgotten to eat a few times, but I’ve always gotten a late meal or early breakfast. I’ve been too into my work and Ned works nights so, so sometimes I gotta help him when he gets home and…”

Peggy’s smiling softly at him. It’s a comforting smile, motherly. “It’s okay,” she says, laying her hand on his. “No need to make a fuss about it. Why don’t we make this a daily thing, hm? So we can be sure that you get at least two meals into you a day and you get a break.”

Before Peter knew it, he was agreeing to...this ridiculous schedule. He’d meet Peggy for lunch at a diner close to campus and then Tony or Steve or another Avenger for dinner. Lunch alone with Peggy? His mind was haywire and he couldn’t focus on that fact.

It wasn’t until they were alone, with Tony saying he was going to go get Steve, that he realized Peggy was speaking to him still. “So, Tony tells me that you’re an Avenger?”

“Honorary,” he laughs. “But y-yes, ma’am.”

“You’re just a kid.” He frowns at that, but Peggy shakes her head. He can imagine she’s seen far too much of ‘just kids’ doing adult jobs. “You promise me you’ll be safe, alright? I can’t exactly control you or what you do but I know you’re important to this team and especially to Anthony, so by proxy you’re important to me.”

His mouth opens and closes again, trying to think of something to say. She was worried about him? Peggy Carter? Director Carter? Was worried about him? 

“Good,” she muses, when all he does is nod. “I’d hate to tear this world apart because my honorary nephew was hurt.”

The funny thing was, Peter believed her, he realized as they all left the Tower. That Peggy Carter would tear the world apart if he’d wound up hurt under anyone’s watch.

[eldritchsurveys]

876.

5k Survey IV

151. What is louder and more annoying: 200 adults talking or one four-year-old screaming? >> I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard 200 adults talking at one time. Regardless, I’m sensory-defensive, so many things register as the same level of “too loud” for me. Both of these things would be simply “too loud”. 152. Do you believe the stories about planes, boats and people mysteriously disappearing into the Bermuda triangle? >> I find them vaguely interesting. I liked the X-Files episode about it, Gillian Anderson’s character (it wasn’t Scully, technically...) was excellent in it lol. 153. Who are you the most jealous of? >> I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it. 154. What is the happiest way you can start your day? >> In an Inworld cuddle pile. 155. Do you ever have moments where you feel like everything is all right in the world? >> Occasionally.

156. Who thinks that you are offensive? >> I don’t know who thinks I’m offensive. It’s not like people go out of their way to tell me that or anything. 157. If you had to teach a class in something, what would you be able to teach people? >> I’d rather not. I greatly prefer being a student, anyway. 158. Have you ever had a spiritual experience (an experience that cannot be explained by science)? >> I’m sure science could contrive a reasonable enough explanation for the things I experience (and if it can’t now, it probably will eventually). Regardless, I prefer my explanations, and I’ll stick to them. 159. Do you believe that this experience was truly mystical or do you think there is some scientific explanation for it, only you don’t know what it is? >> An experience being explained in a scientific fashion doesn’t prevent it from being mystical. There are plenty of mystical experiences that science has an explanation for, after all, but the people involved in those experiences keep their own counsel. I think both a mystical explanation and a scientific explanation can exist comfortably side-by-side in my brain; they’re both useful for different reasons, particularly when it comes to communicating the experience to others (I wouldn’t use a mystical explanation when speaking to a hard materialist, for example, because, like... what would be the point...?). 160. Do you get offended easily? >> I wouldn’t say that, no. But I tend to be automatically distrustful of people who seem to go out of their way to be “offensive”. Just because whatever they’re saying doesn’t directly hurt me doesn’t mean I want to hang out with someone who says the kinds of things they say. 161. Would you still love and stay with your significant other if he or she had to have a breast or testicle removed? >> I can’t imagine being affected by that sort of thing at all. 162. Do you believe in fate or free will? >> I don’t care to choose a side. I think the discourse around it is interesting. 163. Do you believe that only boring people get bored? >> Of course not. That’s a rude (and, of course, entirely inaccurate, but mostly rude) thing to say. 164. Can life change or are we all stuck in vain? >> What does this even mean? 165. What changes are you afraid of? >> The kind that cause me pain. 166. Are you a day person or nocturnal? >> I prefer to be awake in the daylight and asleep at night. 167. What one CD could you listen to for an entire week (no mixed CD’s, it must be an album)? >> Why would I even have to do this anymore? It’s 2020. 168. Which is worse, working in retail, food service, or an office? >> For me, all of them are equally bad. Well, okay, maybe food service is worse because there’s the added layer of having to handle food and be around mucky gross things. 169. What’s the coolest job you ever had? >> Manning merch tables at local shows. 170. What is one central idea that your thoughts seem to come back to? >> There is no central idea...? I’m not sure how one even determines this. 171. Have you ever wanted to be an actor/tress? >> I was one in Inworld’s first iteration, when I was physically a child. But I have never really had interest in being one in this world. 172. If you had the power to control one person and make this person do anything you wanted for a whole day, who would you pick and what would they do? >> Total power exchange is totally not my scene, I’d get bored of it way too easily. I could absolutely see myself snapping, “make a fucking decision for yourself for once” after like an hour or two, lmao. 173. What star sign are you and what is your sign like? >> Gemini. I’m not going to go into an explanation of Gemini’s commonly-recognised traits, Google can take care of that for you. 174. Did the Blair Witch Project scare you? >> I haven’t seen it. The new Blair Witch game looked vaguely interesting. 175. Are you in constant fear of death? >> Not constant. I did spend about a year or so like that, recently. It sucked pretty bad. 176. Does fear of death keep you from building a life? >> No. Sometimes I get that bone-deep “what’s the point” feeling, but like... that feeling will just have to exist on its own while I go ahead and keep doing stuff. I can’t give in to that. 177. Do you like all your movies to be in wide-screen? >> I’m not sure what the alternative is, or what the difference is or whatever. 178. Are you a fan of any comic books? >> Sure. 179. At what age did you attend your first funeral? >> I don’t remember. I vaguely recall one happening when I was young, but I have no idea what exact age I was. 180. What do you smell like (lotion, cologne, sweat)? >> Just... like, a person. I showered this morning, but the fragrances from soap and lotion don’t linger very long, and it hasn’t been long enough for me to start smelling like sweat or anything. So I’m somewhere in the middle. 181. What are your greatest sources for wisdom? >> Oh, you know. People. 182. When you were little, where did your parents tell you babies come from? >> My father never had that discussion with me, I figured it out from reading books. 183. What is your favorite band? >> I don’t have one. 184. What’s the best cheesy 80’s song? >> Come On Eileen. /picks one at random 185. What’s the best kind of movie to see on a date? >> I’m not the person to ask. 186. Do you like to sit in the front, middle or back of the Movie Theater? >> Back, absolutely. And woe unto the people who have the same idea and try to sit near me. 187. Have you ever been inside an abandoned building? >> Yeah. 188. Under what circumstances would you agree to work for free? >> The circumstances where I really just want to do whatever-it-is and it isn’t too intensive, I guess. And where I feel like my work is valued in some other way if not financially. 189. Candles or strobe lights? >> Candles. Although sometimes in a dark area, a candle flame dancing around on the wick will have a kind of strobe-y effect, and I hate it. 190. Do you think the Lord of the Rings movies are true to the books or did Hollywood change the story too much? >> I don’t know, I didn’t read the book. 191. When you see a stranger on the street does your first reaction lean towards thinking of this person as a potential friend or as a potential threat? >> I don’t think of them as a potential anything.  192. Is it natural for human beings to fear and distrust each other, or is it cultural? >> Obviously it’s cultural, or every human being in every society on earth would fear and distrust everyone else with or without cause... which... is not the case... 193. What do you really want to buy? >> Nothing. I don’t have the money to buy anything right now, anyway. 194. You have to choose. Would you be happier marrying someone rich for their money or living in the streets and subway tunnels with someone you love? >> God, do I hate this question. First of all, neither money nor love are “everything”, but “love” is work, not some kind of magic bubbly gushy feeling that happens no matter what, and that work starts to take a backseat when all one’s energy is devoted to simply surviving from day to day. How do I know? Take a wild guess. Second of all, the question doesn’t take into account whether you can also love someone you’ve married for the sake of financial security. (Spoiler: remember, love is action and will and intent, not magic, so yeah, you can.) Third of all, can I stress that there’s nothing fucking romantic and movie-like about being homeless? Because sometimes I feel like people imagine “we’ll share a cardboard box and be free of the shackles of modern society <3″ or some shit and meanwhile I’ve seen homeless couples, many homeless couples. I’ve been homeless couples. It sucks. That’s the end of the story. It sucks. (There’s probably similar romantic notions about marrying some tycoon and being a kept lady/boy, or whatever, which do not at all measure up to the reality. I’m sure a lot of people end up abused and neglected and miserable in their gilded-cage master bedrooms, afterwards. But since that’s not my experience, it wasn’t the focus of my fathomless ire with this question, lol.) 195. If someone wanted to understand you what book could they read that would help? >> That’s not going to happen. 196. Do you think it’s odd that Americans have freedom of religion and yet call themselves ‘one nation under god’? >> I don’t think it’s odd because I’m pretty used to how the United States works in that respect. I know it operates under conservative, Christian hegemony while playing the role of secular, progressive Western nation on the outside.

197. In what sense are you a minority? >> I’m Black, disabled/neuro-atypical, socially considered female, trans, and queer. I think that covers it. 198. Are you anti social? >> No. I have a few asocial behaviours and inclinations, but I’m not anti-social. 199. Do you photograph well? >> Sometimes. Not often, in my opinion. 200. Do you think that human beings would survive through a nuclear winter? >> I don’t know. I’m not knowledgeable enough about either human biology (and psychology) or the specifics of nuclear winter to say.

[starsofmirkwood]

I would love to read your story about not being able to disappoint the sun, it sounds interesting :) Hope you have a wonderful day!

Thank you sweetie!!

I wrote this in my Junior year of high school, when I was taking a creative writing class. Our prompt was to write a story with an epiphany in it, so I decided to write mine about the idea of cosmic indifference, and how it could be perceived as comforting, from the perspective of an utterly miserable teenage boy. I don’t remember what I titled it, so… I’m open to suggestions! :)

…

It was drizzling. The sky was a frozen grey, and the wind came and went in halfhearted swirls. It was a lifeless day, a day to stay inside and avoid people. The kind that numbed you, made you feel just as dull as the thick clouds, as cold as the rain. Sam shut his eyes as he took a long breath.

He had never been a morning person. Not on mornings like these. Being awake was better than sleep, at this point. Third night in a row of restlessness. He didn’t feel tired. The air stinging his ears woke him up. He wished he had a hat, and maybe some coffee. He hated coffee. He tugged his jacket tighter around himself and tried dodging the rain as he shuffled to class.

Sam slung his backpack under his table and brushed the rain from his shoulders, shaking as he felt a drop of water run from his soaked hair down his forehead and into his eye. Blinking furiously, he pushed his hair out of his face. He was freezing.

Art class. He liked it a bit. He could draw well enough to capture the beauty in things. His classmates told him he was amazing. Ms. Earley said he had a gift. For him, it wasn’t good or bad. It was relaxing, watching his hand create things. It was a way of getting his feelings out without anyone knowing. A hiding place.

Today he painted. Ignoring the instructions to compose scenery, he sketched a face. Nobody he knew. Dark hair and a sharp nose. A man’s face. Intelligent eyes. The whole thing was done in watery shades of blues and greens. Sam was satisfied. He signed his name in ink, and turned it in. He got a frown from Ms. Earley for dismissing the assignment. He left the room 6 minutes early. He wouldn’t get in trouble. Never did. If anyone asked, Ms. Earley would tell them he was in the bathroom.

The hallway was quiet. Six minutes of peace. He did end up in the bathroom, grabbing a wad of paper towels to wipe some of the water from his hair. It was mostly dry now, but the clinging dampness felt stifling. Sam caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale. Was he sick? He needed sleep. Dark circles framed his eyes. His hair was wild, frizzy with moisture and curled into awkward waves in places. He looked a mess.

He smoothed his hair down with a yawn. He didn’t want to be here. Or anywhere. Restlessness crept back up. Always. God, he didn’t want to be here.

Splashing some water on his face, Sam took a long breath that came out dangerously close to a sob. He stared at his reflection. He didn’t recognize the stranger there. The clothes were his, but the boy wearing them… he looked defeated. Sam turned away. He was tired.

Next class was biology. It fascinated Sam, oddly. All the pretty miracles of nature and the cycles of everything. Ordered, yet chaotic. Not as nice as anatomy would be, but intriguing. Life and how it works. Death. It was all the same. Fascinating.

Watched a video in class. Something about the Sonoran Desert. Sam didn’t take notes. He doodled a saguaro cactus, thinking about humanity, and how it doesn’t matter how tall and strong you are, or how much you surround yourself in protection and spines, when a storm hits, man and cactus alike are capable of falling.

Literature class. Tolerable on good days. Today was not a good day. No days were. Sam endured it anyway, on the basis that it really was something worth learning. Many things were. Most things weren’t.

Sam picked up his copy of Lord of the Flies, opened it to a random page. He had loved the book. It was fast paced, gripping, more beast than boy. Spoke volumes about the human race without saying a word.

The corners of the paperback were getting bent, and one page was folded at an odd angle. He had dropped the book once, and it had landed in such a way that had damaged it. It was funny, in a demented sort of way.

Sam drummed his fingers on his keyboard. An essay about the theme of the book. Due next Tuesday. Sam didn’t know where to start. The theme. Which one? There were many possibilities. Good and evil, civilization and savagery, rules and discord, knowledge and fear and power and wisdom, Ralph and Jack and Simon and Roger and Piggy and it was overwhelming. Sam typed what he knew. Man is inherently evil. Every man. Primitive and unholy. He didn’t need the book to tell him. Jack Merridew. Anarchy and chaos. Order and laws keep people from savagery. That’s what the book said. Sam rather liked Jack. Something about his untamable aberrance appealed to him, reminded him, terrifyingly, thrillingly, of himself.

The printer whirred and beeped as his essay came through. It smelled like ink and stale paper. He proofread his work, for a third time, this time on a physical copy, and decided that his words were sufficiently eloquent and precise, he stapled the papers together with a twang, and tucked the essay into the folder on Mr. Tennyson’s desk.

Ignoring the keyboard clicks and off-topic ramblings of his classmates, Sam spent the rest of the time reading a new book from the library. It was fiction, although Sam preferred fact, but it was entertaining enough to pass the time. About the future and space and war and all those useless distractions. A means of worthwhile escapism, rarely found.

Math was next. Well, Sam loved math. It was the one class he looked forward to, even though his excitement had been rather depleted lately. His teacher loved him. Called on him to solve problems, write out the answer on the board. It wasn’t a chore. Numbers and patterns spiraling to infinity filled his head, and were a thing of beauty to him. Fibonacci’s sequence, algorithms like Turing’s, number theories, abstractions and differentials made sense to him and connected in his head so perfectly, like universal strings inside his mind. A bit too complex for simple geometry, but he smugly enjoyed being smarter than his classmates. It made the loneliness easier to bear.

Today, Mr. Murphy’s lesson was on the area of cones and pyramids and frustums, and Sam already knew all this. He tried to pay attention anyway, because he sort of liked the old man, even if he was a bit too kind and gave the class far too much leniency. Sam personally rooted for him to grow a backbone and actually stand up for himself, but he never mentioned it, figuring a man who couldn’t even trim his ear hair probably wasn’t going to be teaching much longer anyway.

Mr. Murphy didn’t call on him that day, so Sam rotated between doing his homework and taking notes. He only bothered with either because he got a grade for it, and what little motivation he had left pushed him through it. It was just mathematics. Nothing unbearable, he told himself.

Study hall was the worst time of day. Hideously dull, eternally a waste of Sam’s time. He’d played at deductions for a while. Boring after the first three days. Nothing stimulating, nothing more than bland, unexceptional people. Some were less tedious than others.

There was Eliza, the awkward girl with acne on her forehead and thoroughly good intentions. She smiled at Sam occasionally, and probably would have sat with him from time to time if he didn’t make it abundantly clear that he didn’t care for company. She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t particularly smart either, but what she lacked in communicative aptitude she more than made up for in altruism and quiet observation.

Laurel was Eliza’s opposite in nearly every way, Sam had decided. Confident, charming, and brilliant, Sam admired her. She was shallow, but intimate. She wouldn’t say much that wasn’t entirely superficial, but the way she carried herself, the smiles she’d give out so freely, and the way she’d speak so softly you’d have to lean close to hear her, made it feel like she was a close friend, or a lover. But she was clever, and radiated femininity, and although Sam had never talked to her, he could sense her intelligence in the knowing depth her eyes held when her gaze met his.

A boy, Jeremy, had been in Sam’s history class last year. They’d been partners for a project. They weren’t friends, but the taller boy had been kind to Sam, although Sam had done most of the work for the project. They’d both received good grades, and hadn’t spoken since.

There were the typical workaholic kids, furiously scribbling words onto wrinkled lined paper, textbooks open and creased from use. Other kids cared much less, a category Sam was tempted to fall into, but he made good grades regardless. Music blared from one back corner of the room, where a group of assholes refused to put in headphones and valued their short-lived, unsatisfying pleasure over the needs of other people who wanted nothing more than to finish the assignment they hadn’t had time to do last night.

Sam occupied himself with looking out a window. It was raining harder now, and the dimness outside gave way to a ghostly, barely-there reflection on the pane of glass, and Sam stared into the poor imitation of his eyes. He blinked tiredly and tried not to think. He distracted himself from his thoughts with other thoughts. It was bitter and funny, how that played out. It never worked.

Sam dodged and wove his way through the whirling chaos of students in a too-small hallway, shifting and ducking when those prone to being inconsiderate made sudden stops or decided to walk slowly, and in groups.

He still had one class left, but the unsated, miserable part of himself, the foremost part, couldn’t take it. Thinking about any more pressure in his day made his eyes water in anxiety, and his fingers shook a bit. He ducked into the bathroom for a second time in the day, and was surprised that he wasn’t alone.

He coughed as he stumbled into the hazy air, blinking smoke from his eyes and clutching a sleeved fist over his mouth and nose. Another boy was standing by the sink, flicking ash onto the counter carelessly. He had thick hair that fell across his eyes, high eyebrows, and long, bony arms. He turned his noble head lazily to watch Sam, and he must have sensed that Sam was on the verge of breaking down, because he smiled at him. It wasn’t a kind smile, and didn’t reach his eyes. It was akin to sympathy. Pitying. But he reached into his pocket and fished out his box of cigarettes and held it out to Sam anyway.

Sam looked from his eyes to the box and back. He’d never smoked, and never intended to, but when the boy shook the box, threatening to put it away, Sam grabbed one and stuck it between his teeth. Without a word, the boy lit it for him, and Sam took a long breath, and barely managed to swallow his coughing fit. He exhaled in a thick grey puff that made his eyes sting and his throat hurt. He loved it.

A few minutes passed in blissful silence as the two smoked. A time came when Sam turned his head and found the other boy was gone. He didn’t know how long it had been. A smoke alarm went off in a piercing wail, and Sam realized why the boy had left. He took his still burning cigarette and held it against the wood of the counter until it burned a small black spot, growing bigger and bigger until it caught fire, and the fire spread. Sam slipped out of the bathroom door soundlessly and unnoticed, smooth as the cloud of smoke that trailed with him.

…

The night was quiet. Once everyone had gotten over the hype and the hysteria of the school’s fire had died out, it was like the silence after a thunderstorm subsides. The school hadn’t been badly damaged. They had put the fire out before it could spread farther than the bathroom, and no one had been injured. Sam wanted to be glad about that, but he found himself unable to fully care.

Time ticked on in slow hours, and Sam spent it sitting out on his rooftop. It was cool outside. Not so cold as to be painful, but enough that Sam’s breath fogged in front of his mouth, and the slight wind had stolen the color and feeling from his cheeks and fingers. It had stopped raining, and only a few thin wisps of clouds hung in the sky, trailing across the softly glowing moon.

He’d climbed out his bedroom window, wrapping himself in a thick blanket to fight the clinging dampness. From there, facing away from the small road that ran by his house, he had an unmarred view of the sky that stretched above the the trees with leaves clinging to the topmost branches, above the houses that dotted the gentle slope of the land, above everything.

The stars seemed so small, and so far away, like tiny specks of light against a shadow-painted sky. They had always been beautiful to Sam, lovely in their cold, wavering light, but always shining.

Sam thought about how the stars were perhaps the only thing that remained constant. Even though they were constantly changing and drifting and burning away into oblivion, to a human perspective, they were immortal. They were untouchable, throughout time, and while the planet would spin on and on in chaos and entropy, the stars would never die.

The stars were a vast reminder to Sam that while there are limits on life, the universe does not care about people or pain or the trivialities of existence. It didn’t care care about English essays or loneliness or boys who smoked in school bathrooms. In the grand play of everything, Sam didn’t matter. He was small among that which was infinite, and when he was gone, the universe would not miss him.

Sam felt a stillness come over him, and he was calm. He closed his eyes for what seemed to be forever, and when he opened them, he smiled. He was at ease for the first time in a long while, and the tumult in his mind had subsided, at least for a moment, and it was freeing, and Sam felt as though he would be alright.

[irarelypostanything]

7th Grade

Mr. Xu had not spoken in 30 minutes, so we knew he was pissed off at someone.  At first he sarcastically told us to go on and keep talking, the way any teacher might—but then it went dead and he still kept it up.  I knew it had been exactly 30 minutes because we were counting each one.

“I’m really sorry,” announced Nate, breaking the silence.  Mr. Xu just shrugged.  Was Nate the one talking?  Probably not, because that didn’t work.  I looked around the room.  Everyone looked uneasy.

Mr. Xu was what many would describe as a strict teacher, but it wasn’t textbook strict.  You weren’t allowed to yawn, but maybe Mr. Xu thought that yawning was genuinely disrespectful.  You were told to get up and teach the class if you talked too much, but maybe Mr. Xu genuinely wanted to put people in his position.  My own table was talking once, and he told us to teach.  We didn’t know what to do, so he repeatedly complained that he would tell his parents about what lousy teachers we were.  

A whole ten minutes passed.

I don’t remember how the conversation...or...lack of conversation managed to shift, but he did finally start talking again.  After saying a few sentences about the importance of paying attention, he asked me and James if we were sorry.  A little too automatically, we said that we were.

The bell rang.  We walked out of earshot.  

“What did you guys do?” Terry shouted at us, though he may have just been raising his voice over the hallway crowd.  

“I don’t know!” I shouted back.  James later explained to our angry class that he had only said the name Evan after it went quiet, and Mr. Xu had assumed we were talking.

Nope.  No one bought it.

In 7th grade, our classes were divided up by our electives.  We had a core group of about 30 people, and we saw them almost every class period.  I, along with six others, was in advanced orchestra.  Somewhere between 10 and 20 of us were in advanced band.  Then there was drama, and art, and a subset of intermediate music...I don’t remember how it added up to 30.  The way they formed our class was arbitrary, only it wasn’t.

A lot of our class took seventh grade really seriously because they wanted to get into Lowell, which was the academic magnet high school of San Francisco.  I don’t remember if I wanted to go there, but it sure doesn’t seem like it.  My “Seventh grades” more or less put Lowell out of the question.

That was way more sevens than I had intended to use.

7 years later

Agnes, Tammy, Carlos and I were assigned to the same group in BIS2A, or introductory biology.  We had met one time before at the UC Davis 24-hour room, which sucked because it didn’t have air-conditioning at the time.  Thankfully we had met in the night, which was the only time in summer session I ever felt like doing anything.

Nighttime was still hot, the way a frying pan is still hot even after you turn off the heat.

This time it was a Saturday.  I woke up at 11:30 AM in a daze, and even after two tylenol my head was still spinning.  I biked to Tako and met up with Agnes.  The other two came later.  Agnes and I had biked; Carlos and Tammy came on foot.  We walked our bikes with them and headed toward the dorms.

“You can feel yourself get more stressed as you walk toward campus,” said Tammy.  She wasn’t wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t read her expression.  

“Yes,” agreed Agnes, I think.  I don’t remember every detail of that day.  I remember that it was almost 100 degrees, and I know that you had to walk about five blocks to get from downtown to campus.  I remember that there weren’t many people around, not because they were at home but because they weren’t at Davis.

We walked to Alder, which Carlos had access to.  Alder was air-conditioned, and this is one detail I remember extremely well.  Coming into the refreshing coolness was like entering a different world.

When we met our TA for the first discussion, the first thing she said was that she saw some familiar faces.  Why?  Because they had failed the class last time.  Her best advice was to be afraid of the class, because many students regretted not being more afraid.

But we had a whiteboard.  We had markers.  We had CrashCourse, and Khan Academy, and some other resources that it would have been nice to have had in Mr. Xu’s class.  We were going to take on BIS2A, and it was going to be an epic story that we would one day tell our grandchildren about.

We spent ten hours at Alder.  Agnes and I biked home together, at midnight, and Agnes said we should talk the whole way because she might fall asleep otherwise.  We exited Segundo, with its endless rows of bike racks, and we traversed three bike circles with no one else on the road to collide with.  We left campus, and we bypassed the arboretum, and we talked about the class, food, and what it was like to live in South Davis.

We realized our houses were next to each other.

*

Mr. Xu was a thin, middle-aged Asian man who had freckles and wore glasses.  He never raised his voice, regardless of what emotion he sought to convey.  He held a 4.5/5 on RateMyTeachers, alongside a considerably lower score for easiness.

In high school, too late, some of the things he told us about biology came rushing back.

I remember feeling like there was an impassable wall that I could only try to overcome.  It stuck because Mr. Xu himself used the metaphor, but some people really had managed to overcome it.

7th grade was a time of stress, and teen angst, and students who tested each other’s limits by saying the rudest things possible.  It was also a time when people said what they meant, held nothing back, and started to come to grips with what they were bad at.

*

We took our first midterm and we got our scores back.  At first they accidentally gave us random numbers for the free response, and some random numbers were really good and some of them were randomly bad.  Mine just so happened to be about the same, random and corrected.

I felt good, like I somehow had a stamp of approval for my efforts.  I could write as a disclaimer that it wasn’t phenomenal, but it’s been a while.  We continued to meet up, and we met someone named Shirley.  Shirley was the highest scorer for the first midterm.

I walked with Shirley to the library (air-conditioned) and we talked about English classes.  She had wanted to be an English major, but decided to study animal science instead.  For reasons I am not sure of, Shirley took a year off of college but did so abruptly, the way someone might restart a project after getting the first few steps wrong.  That’s why Shirley was my age, while Agnes and Tammy were a year younger.

Agnes and Tammy were both pre-pharm, and this (among other things) allowed them to get close extremely fast.  Carlos still met with us on occasion, but he didn’t share our enthusiasm (or our stress) for the class.

We knocked out a worksheet, talked about studying, then got dinner at the Old Teahouse.  This was a nice goto place because it was open ridiculously late, and we enjoyed studying around that general time.

“I think we might break up,” said Tammy, regarding her boyfriend.  Agnes offered her helpful advice, but I didn’t personally have much experience in this “relationship” thing.  I had taken a class called HDE12, though, which included lectures on proper communication with a romantic proper.  The next morning, I sent Tammy a .ppt file.  One of my favorite tips in this lecture was to never, under any circumstances, insult someone’s character.

It occurred to me that Mr. Xu never did that.  He would embarrass people about their presentations, and he would try to make people feel guilty for not knowing things, and on one occasion he read out the names of people who scored badly on a test.  But he never called someone stupid, or hopeless, or unhelpable.  

On a level, I think that everyone craves that brutal honesty.  It’s the simple idea that we’re not performing well enough, that there’s cause for concern, that we’re failing to meet expectations.  It’s the idea that all of that can be okay, though, because we have the capacity to get better and make things right if we only try harder.

Did it work?  For some it did, and for some it didn’t.  One person he called out for his score went on to intentionally fail a placement exam, so that he wouldn’t get Mr. Xu again.

*

Summer session was only six weeks.  We took our second midterm and then we hunkered down.  Tammy’s boyfriend broke up with her.  Agnes’ boyfriend visited us.  Agnes and I bought discount blueberries, and Circle K had a kickback every Thursday, and my housemate played tennis every evening with a girl he had known since high school.  

I liked to swim when I could.  An advantage of growing up in San Francisco is that everything warm felt like vacation.

I went to the Ramen Festival with my first-year roommate and some of our friends.  My high school friends visited me a few nights before the BIS2A final.  I woke up the next morning with a note in my pocket, in my own writing, that said: The best oreo is the one you feel WITH YOUR MIND.  

We took the class and we were done.  We had wanted to celebrate, but after those two hours we weren’t feeling it.  I packed my bags and I left.

Honesty...is that the only thing Mr. Xu gave us?  I still hear his voice sometimes.  He’s sighing when he hands me back my test.

We saw him again once in high school, and he was perfectly cordial.

Honesty...is that what I’m missing right now?  Sometimes everything feels so filtered.  The way we talk to each other.  The way we present ourselves.  Everyone carries all this pain and insecurity inside, and I think we should share all of it...right?  Do I?

A lot of parents complained about Mr. Xu.  Sometimes we could tell he was hurt by it.  At least five of my friends said Mr. Xu was the best teacher they’d ever had, and was simply misunderstood.  James, the other person responsible for holding up the class that one time, disagreed.  He managed to get an A in Mr. Xu’s class.

“I realized Mr. Xu was a terrible teacher,” he told me, years later.  By now he was at UC Berkeley studying bioengineering.  “I had a bio book, so I just stopped listening to him and self-studied.  That’s it.”

I wrote before of the impassable wall.  A better analogy is that I felt some people had the key to understanding, and others didn’t.  If I only had the key, I could decode the incomprehensible things Mr. Xu taught and become one of the smart people.

Just before I graduated college, I took a 2-unit class from someone who gave us motivational speeches.  He talked about a woman who knew how to push a person’s buttons.  He talked about an 80-year-old man.

Out of nowhere, the 80-year-old man screamed at her.  He shouted, “You’re just like my first grade teacher!  She would belittle me, and I hate that!”

That was 74 years.  74 years, and he still carried that pain with him all the way through.

So whose fault was that?