Dwindling hopes
The next day, Peter was in a chemistry lesson, a boringly easy chemistry lesson, and with a night being locked into a broom cupboard as punishment for his 'disrespect' according to a slightly drunk Mr Wilson, he wasn't running on much sleep.
Doodles crawled all over his worksheets, with multiple of those cool s signs and a few chemistry quips that matched the lesson plan. He had ducked behind a propped up textbook trying to avoid his teacher's scrutiny.
“Peter, paying attention?” She called out.
“Yup .. yeah definitely, just writing detailed notes on...errr,” he glanced up at the board trying to figure out what exactly she was teaching.
“Thermodynamics.”
“Of course, yeah... so interesting,” he replied. To be fair, chemistry was one of Peter's best subject but high school level, despite the advanced curriculum that Midtown offers, was never enough to keep up for Peter's thirst for knowledge and his obsession with reading more advanced research that the Midtown library had access to.
Maybe his concentration could improve somewhat, but he aced all of his tests and he mostly showed up to lessons therefore he concluded that he was a decent student. Most teachers enjoyed his presence, especially the science ones with their passions for their subjects evident through spirited conversations with him. While a few meaner teachers seemed to have it out for him, his English teacher Miss Matthews sprung to mind in particular who had decided he was a lazy, cocky foster kid whose 'lack of parental figures had caused his resistance to authority.' Her words not his. Perhaps there was merit to that - not the way she thought but he definitely had a 'resistance to authority.'
Ned tapped him on his shoulder snapping him out of his thoughts. The pen in his hand pointed to a written message on a notepad.
Arcade Sunday? I've just got my allowance
Peter smiled in return, and inclined his head. Fuck the Wilsons - this was his best friend and he might even be able to organise something to make up for the disastrous birthday he'd had last week.
One of the neighbours might give him something if he cut their grass, at least he won't be called lazy now.
The intercom sounded out over their heads interrupting the quick message Peter was trying to scribble back forcing Ned to agree to play on of the arcade games he's been eyeing for a while.
“Peter Parker to the Principle's office. Peter Parker to the Principle's office.”
Students all around him murmured oohs and the teacher let out a little sigh of disappointment.
“Go on then, off you go. Oh and take your books, you don't know if you're coming back or not,” she said, herding him out of the door before he even had the chance to say goodbye to Ned.
Shuffling into the empty hallway, Peter racked his brain. He couldn't think of anything that he had done - he'd avoided Flash for the past week, gone to all of his classes, and even apologised to Mr Harrington by promising to go to the next practise.
Entering Morita's office, it became glaringly obvious the reason for this meeting and Peter clenched his fists around the straps of his backpack.
Sitting across from his Principle was his social worker - a tall woman with a slick bun and round glasses in her late thirties. She was always dressed in an immaculately pressed white shirt without a crease in sight and a out of style old blazer to finish the look. Peter had always thought that her fashion sense, if you could even call it that, aged her another twenty years, but hey ho it was her life.
Peter reckoned that she must have got into social work for genuinely good reasons. However, this woman looked as she hadn't struggled a day in her life and the privileged position led her to blame all the troubled, delinquent teenagers for the failing system. She refused to acknowledge the reality of Peter's life, choosing to trust the word of the foster parents every time without fail, which was honestly exhausting. She was also a strictler for the rules which was probably one of her most irritating qualities.
“Good morning Peter, come sit down,” she commanded barely giving him a glance. Peter glared into the back of a head which surprised Morita due to the intensity of this glare. Morita tried to placate his with a soft smile and a gentle incline of his head gesturing to the large leather seat just in front of the desk, but Peter's anger was obvious. He knew what this was, what was happening and the empty greetings did nothing to quell this rage.
“What's happened?” He demanded shortly.
“Come take a seat.”
“Not until you tell me what is happening.”
In response, the social worker put down her shuffling sheets and fully turned her body to look the teenage boy in the eye. Just as she was about to open her mouth, there was a harsh, short-tempered interruption.
“They've kicked me out, haven't they? Could have at least had the decency to do it to my face. You know, it wasn't my fault at all. Those Wilsons will have completely twisted the story. Okay yeah I might have tried to take some money, but it was only five dollars and considering the shitty food we get is the only time they spend money on us, I'm pretty sure I'm entitled to give measly bucks for my friend's birthday. And I couldn't have exactly asked cause that Mr Wilson, well let me tell you, some of the things that he..”
“Peter,” she cut off sharply, “The Wilsons have decided to stop fostering at this moment.”
Peter grimaced and pulled out a chair to sit on.
The social worker continued hastily, “They have allowed you to collect your belongings today, and then I'll be bringing you to St Edmunds home for boys where you will stay until further notice.”
Peter almost jumped out of his seat.
“St Edmunds ?? No, surely not, that's a group home - a high security group home. No, no I've met some of the kids that have been there - it's like prison. I said no group homes - no group homes, can't you find a foster home?”
“Unfortunately not. With your record, a group home is the only option at this time.”
“Shit,” Peter whispered under this breath. He brought his knees to his chest and curled into a ball, burying his head between his knees. Group homes were not a good sign. He'd probably get all of his stuff stolen, and he really couldn't afford to lose any more stuff. He should probably hide some of the only possessions of May he had left and a few pictures of his parents until he could give them to Ned.
“I really don't want to go to a group home,” he whispered again, a last desperate attempt. Morita looked upset or was at least pretending to look sympathetic.
“You're a good student Peter, and this school is always here for you,” the Principle said gently.
Peters slowly raised his head. He tried to muster up a smile, but it came out more as a grimace. Turning to look at the social working sitting beside him, he muttered, “How am I gonna get to school from this 'St Edmunds'?”
“Arrangement will be sorted to see if you will be allowed to return to Midtown. St Edmunds runs a homeschool program for all of its residents if arrangements cannot be made.”
Peter’s eyebrow rocketed at the idea of leaving Midtown. The only save haven in his life. If he left, he’d lose out any shot at a scholarship at a good college, he’d have to leave his only friends and some of the only teachers that had ever cared about him. Leaving Midtown was not an option.
“I’m not leaving. I earned my scholarship and I will not be leaving my education to a fucking group home.”
“Language, Peter,” hissed the social worker harshly, “And you wonder why this is the only home that would of take you in.”
Morita interrupted with a short cough, and declared,
“Peter is an extremely bright, intelligent kid and we love having him at our school. If transport is difficult, I would be willing to sort out some other arrangements. It would be a shame to see such talent and intelligence to wasted.”
The relief was evident as Peter slumped back into the chair. ‘Poor kid’ though Morita, after all he has been through, leaving Midtown would be the exact wrong thing to do. Peter had a bright future in front of him, if only he is given the opportunity to succeed and Morita doubted that this St Edmunds place would provide the kid with any other opportunity than minimum wage jobs, let alone the high college aspirations that he had no doubt that Peter possessed.
The social worker then ushered Peter out of the room, and it seemed obvious that she was not in support of this conversation and overrule of her power. Peter Parker looked utterly resigned and defeated, unable to give Morita even a smirk, which made him uneasy at the thought of this group home.
Morita scrawled on a little post-it note a reminder to check up on the kid - God knows he needs it.
Meanwhile, Peter was trailing behind his social worker in the Midtown hallway, deciding whether or not to leave his school back in his locker. That seemed the only way to guarantee the security of his school stuff - the standard issued laptop and a few newish textbooks that he definitely could not afford to replace. However, his social worker seemed to be thinking differently as she marched determinedly towards the exit. Looks like she had no time to spare, and did not create much optimism for Peter’s new home.
The shiny, black car that Peter dreaded seeing was parked very noticeably in the first car park spot available. Sitting in that car was almost as suffocating as the Wilson’s kitchen. The not so silent judgment and the exhausting lectured about politeness and that this generation has no manners anymore, or that every little bit of abuse that Peter has endured was his own fault. That fighting back against his alcoholic uncle in defence of this terminally ill aunt somehow made him the villain? Yeah, do the maths on that one.
Anyway, Peter was thanking the heavens above when he saw thirty minutes on the navigation thingy on the screen. He could endure half and hour in this enclosed space with a judge social worker - he has had much longer journey.
Though as the car pulled up to the ancient gates of a prison-like grey building with bars adorning the windows and an ominous atmosphere surrounding the place, Peter suddenly wished that he could stay in that stupid, sleek black car forever.
“Right out you get,” the lady insisted upon noting his resistance.
“I just - I’m not gonna be here long, am I?” his quiet subdued voice returned. Peter knew his behaviour hadn’t been great, and he knew that the folder his social worker was clutching marked with his name didn’t exactly sing his praises, but he had been careful. No arguments at all in school, and he had avoided all physical conflict at home. Maybe he should have been nicer to the Wilsons. While Mrs Wilson wasn’t exactly May, she was alright, wasn’t involved in any uncomfortable situations and sometimes fed him dinner. She might have advocated for him staying if he’d been a bit nicer. Than again poor Tommy deserved to go home with his aunt. Finding out from the other two boys when he returned to the Wilsons to pack his limited belongings that he wasn’t a foster kid anymore, was enough to make all this bullshit worth it to Peter. While he himself didn’t have an out, he relished in others leaving this by broken system.
The other two boys wouldn’t have faired any better than Peter - nobody seemed to want teenage boys, especially troubled teenage boys which all three of them were. They were decent roommates and Peter hoped they would do alright, but like most kids he’d met through the system, he would lose contact. And with the shocking statistics for foster kids ending up homeless or in prison, the odds were not in their favour.
Peter always though he’d been an exception advantaged by his intellect but looking up at the disapproving look of his social worker and the hideous building in front, his hopes were dwindling.