Wedding of the Century 2

Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes. That did nothing for how they were starting to glaze over, the words he looked at blurring together. Four years as a teacher… that couldn’t be enough time to get sick of grading papers, could it?

And the worst part was, it wasn’t like they were some cliché out of a scaremongering news report. The kids were smart. He was teaching them well. They had the material down pat. The only thing wrong was that, well, they were children.

Of course they didn’t yet fully grasp the subtleties of scientific knowledge, couldn’t express themselves with any degree of poetry. Even he hadn’t before college. But the fact remained that to him, all their research and essaying and even excitement came off as… sophomoric.

Peter got up, stretching his legs, cracking his neck, pacing around his cramped apartment like a caged tiger in the hopes that getting out of his comfortably uncomfortable seat would bring some freshness to his routine. But the rut went deeper than that.

He taught, he took freelance gigs at the Daily Bugle for spare change because God knew his teacher’s salary didn’t pay enough. For free time, he had books and movies… a few people he had grown cordial with, but he wouldn’t say he’d befriended them… and women… forget it.

He liked swimming, but there was a difference between that and treading water. Treading water and just keeping his head above water.

For no reason, Peter jumped up on top of his desk, now standing on the papers he’d just been going over. Having them under his socked feet didn’t really give him a new perspective on them.

He didn’t want the same old, same old. But if he wanted something different, he knew he’d need to do something different. But what? Book a model for a photo session? It’d allow him to express himself artistically more than the dollar-a-day jobs the Bugle gave him, but wouldn’t do anything on the human connection front. He didn’t claim anything more than a modest knowledge of the fairer sex, but he doubted any of them working as models wanted to befriend… or more than befriend… the guy who hired her for a job.

He was thirty and what did he have to show for it? A middling career as a teacher, an even more middling career as a photographer, a bracing tolerance for isolation… and, now, a tendency to self-pity. Well, he’d always had that. But it used to be for good reason. Dead parents. High school bullying. College tuition. Now it was just more depth to the rut.

At least he had his health, Peter mused, jumping down from the desk and landing in an athletic crouch, one hand further supporting his weight on the ground. He lifted his hand, curled it into a fist, and knocked his knuckles on the floorboards. They held, just as they had when they’d taken his weight. He wasn’t as spindly as he’d been as a teenager, but he wasn’t heavyset either. And he had a full head of hair.

Maybe he should do something with the faculty. Four years and he’d made no real friends with the other teachers at Midtown High, just gotten used to them. He’d kept himself so busy with getting set up, getting to know the kids, offering them support. Now he was a thirty-year-old man and some of his best friends were adolescents. That wasn’t a good look.

But he could change that. Chat up his fellow educators, see if they were going to any wine tastings or whatever. He wouldn’t be so picky as to demand they be into Battlestar Galactica or something. He’d meet them halfway.

In fact, he’d do it now. Suzie… or maybe Sophie… the on-call substitute for the district, had given him her number, saying to call her if he ever developed a hang-up in his lesson plans. Seven years older than him, she’d been teaching and subbing for twelve years now. Seen it all, done it all. He’d phone her up, ask her if she was up to anything… maybe offer to take her to a movie or buy her coffee. Or a milkshake, if she were vegan.

Were milkshakes vegan?

Was coffee notvegan?

Christ, he was not good at this. But as every RPG ever held, there was only one way to get better. Starting now, he was going to stop being an overgrown child, good at nothing more than holding down a job and indulging himself. He would be a fully functioning adult, with a social life and hobbies, maybe a pet, and a ringing phone…

Ringing phone?

Peter looked at the phone he’d picked up, thinking for a moment that Suzie/Sophie had called him. One of those almost-psychic ‘I sensed you sensing me’ things. But the caller ID showed it was no one whose name started with an S. It was Robbie Robertson.

That was the other reason Peter never managed to get clear of his rut. Something always came up. But Robbie had been good to him over the years. Peter would be under a mountain of debt if it weren’t for him, the Daily Bugle, and any number of sweetheart jobs. So if Robbie needed him… well, it wasn’t like he had a date with Suzie. He hadn’t even talked to her. He didn’t even know that her name wasn’t really Sophie.

“Hey, Robbie, long time no ringtone. Any chance you’re setting up an office party?”

Robbie’s warm chuckle came over the phone loud and clear. “Not this time, kid. You’ve heard about the bug going around?”

Peter went to the window to look through the blinds. “How big is it? What size lens should I pack? Does insect repellent work?”

“The flu bug, Peter.”

“Oh.” Peter let the blinds snap shut. “You never can tell in this city.”

“Half the staff photographers are out sick and we need anyone who can point a camera to pick up the slack.”

“Don’t tell me how far down the list I am.”

“Don’t worry about it, Peter, you’re near the top. That’s why I’m giving you a plum assignment. I know I’m pushing my luck now, but you have to have heard about Mary Jane Watson?”

Peter went to start packing his camera. “The movie star? Yeah, isn’t she getting married?”

“She was. Her fiancé, Paul, he called the whole thing off.”

“What kind of idiot wouldn’t want to marry a redheaded supermodel?”

“He came out of the closet too.”

Peter whistled. “That’ll do it.”

“Watson’s been on a total social media blackout since the news broke. Got her fans calling for the cops to check up on her. It’s gotten so bad her publicist has called a press conference. Now, maybe not everyone in America wants a look at that girl right now, but whoever does—she’s the front page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow morning.”

Peter paused, setting his camera aside. “Aww, Robbie… you’re sending me out on a puff piece?”

“It’s a sweet gig. You take good pictures of her, you can name your price.”

“And Jolly Jonah’ll will say no to it,” Peter retorted. “You know I don’t like these tabloid things.”

“Last time, you told me you didn’t like taking pictures of mangled bodies and car wrecks either.”

“I don’t, but at least it’s news.” Peter told himself he wasn’t going to do it. But he hadn’t checked his camera in a while. Pursing his phone against his shoulder, he gave the camera an inspection. “Some poor girl gets left at the altar and you want me to snap photos of the tears in her eyes.”

“If you don’t want it, you don’t want it. But you said you wanted something different. Not the usual craters and shell casings and fluttering red capes. This is something new. And you’d be surprised how much your life can change once you start letting new things into it.”

Peter stopped. Almost dropped his camera. He wondered if Robbie meant all that—had discerned the ennui he’d been in before Robbie called—or if it was just a coincidence. Or if it was a coincidence that wasn’t just a coincidence. A sign from God.

Well, that was melodramatic. But he’d been about to call Suzie (or maybe Sophie) on the off-chance that she might want to go to the movies with a virtual stranger. That was pathetic. Maybe so was snapping pictures of a redhead on the worst day of her life, but it was much more spectacular degree of pathetic. He’d be in a ritzy hotel… there might be cheeses offered… and hell, getting paid to be in the same room as Mary Jane Watson, that had to be someone’s dream job.