The Youngest In Midtown High
Peter Parker had a lot of secrets. One of them could bench-press a car. Another one had a billion-dollar lab named after it. But there was one secret that haunted him more than all the others—one he’d fought harder to keep than even the Spider-Man thing.
He was fourteen.
Not fifteen. Not “almost sixteen.” Not whatever age he was pretending to be during every group project, gym class, or weirdly personal question from Flash.
He was fourteen years old, legally a freshman, and had somehow managed to slip through the social system of Midtown High by sheer force of awkwardness and pure academic overachievement.
It wasn’t like he meant to lie. Exactly.
He’d just… skipped a couple grades. Well, three. But Tony Stark had signed off on his Midtown enrolment with enough vague “gifted program” paperwork to convince the school that Peter was totally normal. Which worked for a while.
Until the day Midtown High decided to hold a mandatory student census. A full-grade audit for state reporting. With birth certificates.
Peter didn’t think anything of it when the teacher handed out the forms in homeroom. He was half-asleep and trying to build a prototype micro-condenser in his lap under the desk.
“Last page is your ID info,” the teacher mumbled. “Fill it out before lunch.”
Peter flipped through, yawning—and paused.
Date of Birth: August 10th.
Current Age: 14.
Oh no.
He stared at the numbers, stomach dropping. He hadn’t even thought about this. He figured the school knew—or at least didn’t care. But now there was actual paperwork going to actual state systems, and he couldn't lie on legal forms. And if he scratched it out and changed it, they’d definitely notice. Maybe call his aunt. Or worse—call Tony.
So he did the only thing his anxious, sleep-deprived brain could think of.
He submitted the form and immediately began crafting a plan to pretend he had never been born.
The next day, the secret was out, Somehow.
It started small—just a couple of whispers in the hallway. Cindy Moon blinking at him weirdly during physics. Flash making an offhand joke about “freshmen who think they’re smart.”
By third period, people were staring.
By lunch, everyone knew.
Peter walked into the cafeteria and the entire Decathlon team turned to look at him like he’d just grown a second head. Betty Brant dropped her fork. Abe was choking on his juice box.
“You’re fourteen?!” MJ said, completely deadpan.
Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Ned, bless him, jumped in. “Technically, it’s not that weird. He’s just… advanced.”
“I helped him with a Spanish worksheet last week!” Flash exclaimed from a nearby table, sounding personally offended. “I was tutoring a middle-schooler?!”
Peter slumped into his chair, burying his face in his arms. “I skipped grades, okay? That’s it. End of story. Not a big deal.”
“You’re a child,” Betty whispered, like she’d just found out she’d been hanging out with a baby goat in a hoodie.
“I’m the same person I was yesterday!”
“You were a toddler yesterday,” Abe muttered.
MJ was the only one not losing her mind. She just sipped her drink and stared at him over the rim. “This explains a lot, actually.”
“MJ—”
“Your handwriting. Your unexplainable love for Legos. The fact that you laugh at the word ‘buttress’ every time we go over Gothic architecture.”
Peter looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. “In my defense, it’s a very funny word.”
Then came the worst moment.
“Hey, mini-Stark!”
Tony Stark’s voice rang through the cafeteria as he strolled in with Happy behind him, carrying a literal basket of oranges.
Every student turned.
Peter audibly whimpered. “Please no. Not today. Why is he here—”
“I’m here,” Tony said, clapping him on the back, “because your school called me this morning and asked if it was legal for a child to be working at a global tech firm. Apparently, someone updated your school file with your actual age.”
Peter groaned so hard it echoed.
Tony continued, oblivious to—or maybe enjoying—Peter’s humiliation. “So, I told them yes, you’re technically employed under a science mentorship internship. Then I sent them seventeen articles on child prodigies. And also a fruit basket.”
“Why oranges?” MJ asked.
“Citrus is morale-boosting,” Happy said.
Tony grinned. “Also, I ran into the principal. Very cool guy. He asked if you’re some kind of Doogie Howser.”
“Tony,” Peter hissed, “I’m begging you.”
But it was too late. Flash was taking selfies. Betty was already recording an impromptu vlog. Someone in the corner yelled, “Make way for the baby genius!”
Peter buried his face in the oranges.
The next week was a blur of chaos.
Teachers started double-checking everything he handed in, thinking maybe he’d copied it from an older student. A sophomore tried to offer him a lollipop “for being so brave.” Someone taped a sign to his locker that said "Midtown Daycare."
Ned made him a tiny cape with “KID GENIUS” bedazzled across the back.
MJ made him wear it to lunch.
“I hate all of you,” Peter muttered as he ate his sandwich in shame.
“You’re fourteen,” MJ said, not looking up from her book. “You don’t even have the legal right to hate us yet.”
Peter flopped onto the table dramatically. “I want to be homeschooled by a robot.”
“We tried that,” Ned said. “You kept building more robots.”
Peter moaned into his sandwich.
Eventually, the chaos died down. A little.
People still made jokes, sure. But now, they mostly rolled their eyes fondly when Peter answered three questions at once in chemistry or accidentally built a working laser pointer in woodshop.
Tony even called him “Junior Junior” for a week and then upgraded him to just “Junior,” which, in Stark language, was practically affection.
And Peter? He got over it. Mostly.
Because yeah—he was fourteen. A baby by high school standards. But he was also the top student in three senior-level classes, the undefeated science fair champion, and technically, Tony Stark’s personal intern with access to a multi-million-dollar lab.
He could survive a little teasing.
Still, he made Ned promise to burn the cape.