Chapter Text
“Fogs, I’ll be fine.” She rustles up her hair once again.
“You’re sure you don’t want to change? I don’t know how people will react to this…” He’s been fretting about her all morning - first it was waking up on time, then packing a nutritious lunch, now her shirt.
“No one’s going to care. It’s a science school, not Mean Girls. Besides,” she chews another bite of cereal, “I know how to blend in. I’m pretty sure people didn’t even know I existed at my old school.”
“I - don’t know how to feel about that.” He puts a brown paper bag in front of her. Thankfully, there are no big smiley faces or ‘love, your uncle’ written on it. She does check the other side, though.
“I’ll be fine. Promise.” She clatters her plastic bowl into the sink. “Your tie is crooked, by the way.”
He rolls his eyes and adjusts it. “Can’t I worry?” Another man emerges from their bedroom, suit already perfectly done up. “Matt, back me up here. I have a responsibility to worry about her going to a new school.”
“No way.” She grabs her bag. “Not arguing against two lawyers. My uncle, yes, but I can sense he’s about to go into court mode. Bye!”
“Are you coming to the office after class?” Foggy calls out after her. When did she get a granola bar? Why do teenagers eat so much?
“School, Nelson and Murdock, then my actual job, then here!” She shouts back her already busy schedule, halfway out the door. Her backpack is partially unzipped, one of her shoes untied, granola bar held between her teeth. She’s brimming with chaos.
“She’s gonna give me a stroke.” Foggy says blankly, still looking at where his niece just was.
“The wonders of parenting, Fogs.” Matt kisses him sweetly on the cheek. “In the grand scheme of things, she’s a good kid.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem.”
She has everything she (probably) needs; binders, notebooks, calculator she made, like two pencils maybe, and most importantly, headphones. Any day is unbearable without music. Today’s choices will entirely depend on this bus ride. If the kids don’t look nice - Bad Reputation by the legendary Joan Jett. If they’re entirely indifferent - Not Your Kind of People by Garbage. Foggy doesn’t like that band at all. Matt smiles when she plays it, though she’s pretty sure it’s because he knows how much Foggy hates it. And if they’re unexpectedly nice and she wants to share her prized music - anything from DOGBRETH. That’s her favorite underground band. Not everyone gets to hear her most stowed away songs.
Hells Kitchen has the first stops, then it circles back to Midtown. This means there are literally three other people on this bus, including the bus driver who reeks of weed. It’s gonna be a Joan Jett kind of day. She settles near the back of the bus. Those are the best seats. Her backpack takes the space next to her. The sun beams in through the windows a little too nicely for New York in early September. It’s gonna be fine, she tells herself, it’s just a new school. Just a new school in junior year, already known as the most stressful year, when everybody’s already got their cliques. It’s gonna be fine.
She doesn’t bother killing her phone battery scrolling through it. She just watches the buildings pass. She’s from Hells Kitchen. Most Nelsons are. They don’t tend to escape. She went to Rhode Island once, but that’s somehow worse. The murals and the unique architecture are always interesting. The bus hums against the road. First day of a new year.
The bus slowly fills with more kids. Some sweaty, some skinny, some in JROTC uniforms, some still in their pajamas. The wonder of no dress codes, right? She’s not much of a people-watcher, unlike Foggy or her grandma, because she just doesn’t care for it. Plain and simple. People have a tendency to suck. Music and science are steady.
She’s so immersed and used to being ignored that she doesn’t immediately notice the boy asking for the seat her backpack is currently taking.
“Hello?” He waves the air near her. She pulls out an earbud expectantly. “Is this seat open?”
“Oh, sure.” She pulls her bag onto the ground in front of her. “Sorry.”
“What are you listening to?” He asks. Annoying.
“Joan Jett, at the moment.” She’d like to get back to it.
“She’s cool.” She leaves one earbud out, if just for a moment. “My name’s Peter, Peter Parker.” He sticks his hand out.
“Lizzie Nelson.” She returns the handshake.
“Are you new this year?”
“Yeah. I assume you’re not.”
“Why - how’d you figure that?” He stammers, not like he’s nervous, but just because he’s Peter, Peter Parker.
“Patch on your backpack? MSST Ac Dec?” She points out like it’s obvious.
“Oh, I forgot about that.” He fiddles with the fraying thread. “I’m a junior. I didn’t even do it last year.”
“Most stressful year of our high school careers starts today.”
“Maybe we’ll be in some of the same classes.” He smiles.
“Yeah, maybe.” She responds, doubtful. She’s here on scholarship and a good word from her Columbia graduate uncles. Apparently, they have some connections in New York. She’s smart, sure, but a small fish in a big pond full of much smarter and much more privileged fish that probably don’t even have to work, meaning they have more time to study and will do better in classes, and what is she even doing here, she doesn’t belong on this bus - Okay, mini rant over, out of her system. No more worries, none at all.
Garbage starts playing.
Not literal garbage, of course.
She wanders around before finally finding her first class of the day - advanced calculus. Numbers are her thing. They make sense. Words get jumbled up on the way to her brain. Calculus is easy enough. It’s just the math behind change. It’s not her favorite subsector of the genre, but it can still be fun. Do normal people call calculus fun? Foggy said she was insane when she unpacked her books, most of which are on needlessly complex physics or engineering. She has physics immediately after lunch. Unfortunately, she also has to go to classes like English and history before that. Art will be a breeze. She’s not especially good, but no one expects science kids to be awfully good at art. At least, hopefully they don’t.
That kid was right - he’s in her history class. He even sits next to her, of his own volition. Neither of them pay attention. He watches her scribble around her notebook, writing formulas he’s never seen. She crosses out variables and writes new ones in. She assigns them arbitrary values and calculates in her head (or maybe with a telepathic calculator). They all work out once she’s done rewriting. Is she making new formulas for fun? In a high school history class? Between copying down facts about the Civil War, she’s solving for velocity or mass or pressure with her own equations.
The class devolves into chatter. She keeps her head down. Her headphones are less than covertly hanging from her ears. She scribbles down some near forgotten notes. Peter watches over her shoulder.
“What formulas are those?” He asks. His face is paused in surprise.
“Oh, nothing. Just messing around.” She shifts papers around to cover them. “Were you writing chemical equations instead of taking notes?”
He looks surprised that she noticed. “Yeah. I like chemistry.” She shrugs. The bell rings out against the walls of the room, reverberating. Neither of them mention that they’re still talking. “What are you listening to now?”
“Just a Kid by DOGBRETH.”