Outnumbered

It’s Saturday morning, but it might as well be a Monday, Peter thinks, because halfway through a bowl of oatmeal at the kitchen island, Tony and May walk in together. May’s giving a sheepish smile, but Tony has his arms crossed against his chest.

As if things could get any worse than they were last weekend at States.

“What?” Peter asks, playing dumb even though he knows exactly what’s up.

Support group.

The one he’s supposed to be leaving for in less than an hour. Only he hasn’t showered yet, spent the last hour watching cartoons with Morgan with the hope that Tony would forget.

But now May is here, and he’s feeling a little stupid for assuming it would be any different.

He takes another spoonful because he needs to cover the insulin he’s just taken with carbs and mentally prepares himself for another lecture.

It’s always another lecture.

Change your lancet. Use an alcohol swab. Pre-bolus. Make sure you have everything before you leave the house. Charge your phone. Listen to your body. Plan ahead for that test before lunch so that you don’t go low. Make sure you’re at least 160 before exercise. And, most recently, we need to get your A1C down.

Blah blah blah.

Even with his lows, his A1C, which measures the average of his blood sugar levels over the past three months, is 9.5. That means he’s spending too much time in the mid-200s. It tends to get high at night, after dinner, and stay there.

“Ideally, it should be seven or lower,” Bruce had explained in Peter’s appointment this week. “I know we’re only a couple of months in, but if we don’t get this under control, especially with your Spidey metabolism–“

“I know, I know. Blindness, loss of limbs. You don’t have to keep reminding me,” Peter had mumbled.

It’s not so much that Peter doesn’t want to face reality; it’s that he doesn’t know how. Not when this is still brand new and these complications won’t happen for years to come even if things continue to stay the same.

Some days, this doesn’t feel real. He wakes up and has that split second of bliss before he remembers.

Right now, though, it’s a little too real.

Peter cuts the tension in the room with some sarcasm and a small laugh. “This feels a lot like an intervention.”

Tony’s jaw is set, but instead of angry, he looks sincerely concerned. “Deflecting with humor doesn’t magically make this all disappear, kiddo. We need to start dealing with this before it gets worse.”

Peter huffs, incredulous. “Worse? How could this possibly get any worse?! I’m superhuman, yet my immune system went haywire and attacked my own body! I was in a coma for two days only to wake up and find that I’m stuck with an incurable disease forever! I prick my fingers and inject myself with insulin and rely on devices to keep me alive 24/7! My life is a numbers game now! The carbs in a banana, what Dexcom says my blood sugar is, the micro units I bolus, my A1C! Over and over and over with no breaks! And then,” he yells, tears pricking his eyes, “everyone is on me about how I’m…how I’m handling this, or not handling this, and so I finally admit that this is hard, and your answer is that I have to go talk to strangers about everything! How could this possibly get any worse, Tony?!”

He wants so much for May to open her arms up and wrap them around him, shield him from the pain that he can’t even begin to describe. The pain that he pushes down every time it comes screaming to the surface when he loses another thing because of this stupid disease. But she doesn’t, and Peter is afraid that if he lifts his eyes to meet hers, he might never stop crying.

“We just felt like the support group could be a positive thing for you,” May coos. “You’ve been shutting everyone around you out to protect us, but we know, Peter. We know you’re not okay, and it’s alright to admit that.”

“I think I’m doing pretty damn well considering, but okay,” Peter whispers, taking a big spoonful of oatmeal.

“Stop with the snarky comments,” Tony replies. “And could you stop eating for a second and focus on the conversation at hand?”

“No, I can’t, because I just bolused and I don’t want to go low!” Peter throws back, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. “I’m not even hungry anymore,” he complains mid-chew, “but I don’t really have a choice. It’s like this all of the time! I never have a choice anymore! Not that either of you know what that’s like!”

He knows there’s no truth in his words, that it’s just a cheap ploy to hurt them. He scrapes the oatmeal stuck to the sides of the bowl off while he thinks.

“I just wish you could feel what I feel sometimes, because then maybe you’d understand!” He shakes his head and sighs, drops his spoon into the bowl with a clatter. “I should have never said anything in the first place!”

“No, baby,” May soothes as she rounds the island.

Peter’s first instinct is to back away, but then his lip trembles and his breaths are coming in short spurts. He leans right into her embrace and cries quietly. “It’s important that you communicate with us. We’re both really glad that you opened up.”

“Really? Because I’m not!” he cries. “I admitted that this is hard because I had to get it out, and then you teamed up to force me into this!” There’s anger in his words, in the way he’s talking with his hands as the tears run down his face.

He wants to both run and be comforted, is so damn tired of everyone and everything all of a sudden.

“Peter, that’s not what this is and you know it,” Tony says softly, but the words still bite.

“I don’t know anything anymore, honestly. I thought I did, but now…”

Tony sighs, lowers his voice. “If you want to attend Nationals–”

“What Nationals?!” Peter asks angrily. “Because of me, there is no Nationals for my team!”

Tony closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

May kisses him on the forehead. “Peter, baby, this is important. We both feel you really need this.”

“I know, okay? I’m not stupid! I know I need help with the emotional stuff! I just don’t think this is it!”

“Never said you were stupid, Pete. Maybe too smart for your own good,” Tony says with a small chuckle, “but never stupid.”

“We want to help you live the life you want with this, baby, that’s all,” May offers.

“B-but I am living my life with this! I’ve been doing just fine! M-my grades are great, a-and I made the decathlon team, a-and things are good with the Avengers! I’ve proved all of that, so I don’t know why I have to go and do this when I’ve done everything you asked! I’m doing the best that I can!”

“Of course you are, Peter,” Tony affirms. “You’ve done an amazing job so far and we’d never let anyone tell you otherwise, but this is about more than that. You have to learn to balance the physical and mental components of this disease. If you don’t, you’ll burn out.”

May chimes in with, “And even with the balancing act, you’ll still have times when you burn out, but that’s okay. It happens. This group is meant to give you some tools to work through those moments. You might even make some friends who do understand.”

Peter lets out an aggravated groan, drops his arms at his sides and feels himself physically deflate. “I just…I don’t want to have to live Plan B,” he whispers. “I hate this so much!”

“Plan B?” May asked, confused.

Tony fills her in on the being a pilot with type one diabetes situation, or rather, the not being a pilot with type one, while Peter stares at the floor.

“Peter, why didn’t you tell me?” May asks, sadness in her voice.

“I t-thought you knew and didn’t want me to know!” he says, sniffling. “I thought you were keeping it from me because you didn’t want me to think there are things I can’t do now, but there are things I can’t do a-and everyone keeps telling me they don’t exist but they do, a-and–“

“I promise that I had no idea,” May says. “Oh, baby, I wish you had come to me. I know how much you wanted that.”

“I didn’t want you to think that I was depressed!” he yells out. “I’m okay! I promise! I don’t need to go to a therapist or a support group to prove that to you guys!”

“Do you trust us?” Tony asks.

“Trust you? After you corner me in the kitchen and force me to go and tell strangers how I feel about all of this? Are you serious?!”

Tony’s eyes meet Peter’s. “Do you trust us to do what’s best for you?”

Peter huffs. “You think that sending me to a support group is the best thing you could possibly do for me right now?”

“You’ll understand after the first meeting,” May explains. “I know you, Peter. Better than I know myself. Please trust me on this? Trust Tony on this? We might not get it, not yet at least, but the people there will.”

Peter’s not sure why, but even though Nationals is no longer on the table, and even though there’s technically no more ultimatum, he places his bowl in the dishwasher and trudges off to take a quick shower.

X

Peter takes the Q uptown toward the cluster of hospitals on the Upper East Side in Lennox Hill. He lets the music in his headphones drown out the reminder that the support group meeting is in a hospital, which is the last place he wants to be. Children’s is visible as he climbs the steps to the street level, the yellow and blue of the lettering towering above the nearby buildings, standing out from four blocks away.

He promises himself a churro on his way back to the subway, a reward for getting himself to actually step foot in the meeting.

Churros make everything better.

When he gets there, he enters through the sliding glass doors, cool air hitting his face. It’s a welcome reprieve from the June heat.

He checks his phone to confirm which floor the meeting is on and lets out a shaky breath as he presses the up arrow to call the elevator. For a moment, he thinks about taking the stairs, but between walking four blocks from the subway and his nerves, he’s panicked about getting an urgent low alarm. It’s the only one he can’t silence, the one that sounds like it’s warning everyone of an impending nuclear meltdown. It doesn’t matter that he’ll be in a room of diabetics; he doesn’t want any attention on him today. Keep your mouth shut and get this over with, he reminds himself as the elevator dings and the doors open.

By the time he gets to the eighth floor, he’s lost in his music again, bumps right into someone while exiting the elevator. When he looks up, he finds MJ staring back at him. He pulls his headphones out.

“Hey, loser,” she says, surprised, as she steadies herself.

“Hi?” he answers, confusion apparent on his face. “Y-you’re…”

“Here. For the meeting,” she says, gesturing to the conference room on the left. “I don’t like subjecting myself to any more socializing than I have to, so I wait outside until the last possible second.” A beat later, when she realizes Peter isn’t catching her sarcasm, she adds, “My parents kind of force me to come.”

“Yeah, I know the…feeling,” he says, biting his lip. “Um,” he says, laughing nervously as he points at her. “Just to clarify, you’re here for the–“

“Type one group.”

“As like, a sister?”

“As myself.”

Peter takes a breath to steady himself, because he was not expecting that. “W-why didn’t you say anything?” he asks. It comes out as if he’s taking her keeping this from him personally, even though he isn’t.

He isn’t, right?

“Why didn’t you?” she throws back.

He shrugs, grips the straps of his backpack. “Come on, MJ. You knew. It’s not like it’s easy to hide this,” he says, pointing to his pump. “And then with everything that happened with Flash? Gluconeogenesis? And States?”

“So, you were listening,” she says, lifting an eyebrow.

“I was, but I had to look it up after. I barely know anything about any of this, to be honest,” he admits. He takes a breath and exhales heavily. “It’s all kind of been…”

“Overwhelming. I know. I’ve had it since I was eight. I was going to tell you, because of that day in Griggs’ class. With the cell phone that was really your pump?”

Peter stares blankly at her.

“When he thought you were smoking weed…”

“I know what day you’re talking about.”

“And then I kind of panicked,” she admits.

He lifts his eyebrows and teases, “Michelle ‘MJ’ Jones panicked?”

She fake punches his arm and shrugs. “I was going to say something to Griggs, but then I didn’t want to speak for you, and by the time I figured out what I was going to say, you already had the referral in your hand and were walking away.”

“You could’ve told me, at least. After, I mean. I wouldn’t have said anything. Knowing someone else would’ve made this whole thing much more bearable than it’s been.”

She bites her lip. “Is that why they made you come?”

“Is that why they made you come?” he throws back.

“Yup.” He had been expecting her to lie, make a sarcastic comment. She tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “So, shall we?” she asks, nodding toward the door.

Peter grips his backpack straps, takes a deep breath, and follows her in.

X

Peter’s palms are sweating. He does not want to pass “Go.” He does not want to collect $200. He does not want to be here.

Being in a room full of teens with type one does not feel like Tony and May promised it would.

It’s pressure he wasn’t expecting. Pressure he can’t put into words.

He thinks about slipping out to use the bathroom and leaving as everyone attaches pre-made name tags to their shirts, but the door is now closed and getting up, especially as the new kid, might just bring more attention than staying.

A Dexcom high alert goes off, Peter instinctively looking down at his watch, and then his pump, in confusion, before realizing that it isn’t him.

For once, it isn’t him.

He feels relief, and then guilt, watches as a boy across the room, Danny, fiddles with his pump.

Another boy across the room, name tag scrunched and unreadable on his shirt, shakes his head and roll his eyes in response.

“That’s Jacob,” MJ whispers. “He’s pretty judgmental when people talk about bad diabetes days or get alarms. He’s gonna go on and on about how he doesn’t let diabetes change anything about his life because he’s got it all under control.” She makes air quotes beneath the table so that only Peter can see. “He’s not fooling anyone here, though, so it just makes it kind of hard to watch. He’s trying to beat out Natalia over there for Most Positive Attitude. He’s still somewhat new and honeymooning, so maybe it hasn’t hit him yet?”

Peter wants to add, “I’m brand new,” but he doesn’t. He’s shocked that MJ is gossiping. They’re at a support group meeting, the one place where they shouldn’t critique each other on how they’re dealing with this. “Everyone there will understand,” May had tried to explain right before he left. “No one will judge you.”

He thinks about leaving again, but the room has grown quiet.

“I see some familiar and new faces,” the social worker, a woman with a name tag that reads Joyce, prompts with a smile. “Welcome, everyone! I was thinking we could start by sharing something we’re each grateful for.” She holds her arms out as if she’s going to give everyone a giant hug.

Peter’s really ready to run now.

“I’ll start,” the guy MJ identified as Jacob says. “I’m thankful for access to insulin and technology. Not everyone has access, so,” he explains, looking around the room. There are a few nods, which brings a smile to his face.

Peter thinks Jacob has a point; he knows how expensive all of this is, how many people ration insulin because they can’t afford it. He shudders to think what this would all be like without Tony’s financial help. May’s insurance probably wouldn’t cover his Dexcom and pump, which would probably have made the last few months more difficult than they’ve already been.

Jacob shrugs. “So, yeah, I guess there are worse things, you know? When life gives you lemons and all that…”

That quote. The one Peter hates.

May’s been all, “When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade” about this.

It makes his skin crawl.

Peter hates that quote. Like, on the deepest level possible, he has always hated those words. He hates the bitterness of lemons and lemonade, remembers May saying it after his parents died, after Ben died, after Tony almost died, after his diagnosis. He knows May is just trying to keep things positive, but the phrase only drags the sentiment down, further and further. He’s tired of misfortune, and the phrase only makes reality sting that much more.

Facing reality is not one of Peter’s strongpoints right now.

“Actually,” MJ starts, and Peter can picture the gears turning in her head as she pulls a fact from the depths of her brain. “Humans cross-bred lemons, so we kind of brought that shit upon ourselves.” She’s pleased with herself, gives a chuckle and grins.

“Thank you, MJ, for that lovely science lesson,” Joyce forces, “but we need to watch our language, yes?”

Peter tries to suppress a laugh but fails miserably. Others laugh, too, so he doesn’t feel as embarrassed about it.

She’s setting her jean jacket on the back of her chair when Peter catches a white Omnipod on her arm with C257H383N65O77S6 sharpied onto it. The formula for insulin. Peter smiles to himself because it’s so MJ. He’s not ready to openly admit it, but having a familiar face here is making it a little easier to digest being here today.

“Honestly, can I acknowledge something I’m not thankful for?” MJ asks, completely serious. There isn’t an edge to her voice, nor is there the sarcasm Peter noted earlier. “Isn’t that why we’re here? So that we don’t have to hide that stuff?”

Joyce purses her lips. “Go ahead, MJ.”

“I’m not thankful for the lack of sleep. It’s really hard to explain to my parents why I’m exhausted all of the time. It’s like I’m speaking another language. They help, but they just don’t get it.”

“Agreed,” half the room murmurs, Peter included. He hadn’t been expecting to react, but he’s glad his voice blends in with everyone else’s.

“I’m not grateful for people thinking my pump is a phone,” Danny grumbles.

“Teachers?” someone across the room, Carolina, asks.

Danny is exasperated when he adds, “Yes! Especially subs! They’re the worst!”

“I’m not grateful for ignorant comments,” Anders explains. “I swear, if one more person asks me if I can eat something or if I ate too much sugar, I’m going to lose it!”

Peter, along with most of the room, nods and laughs knowingly. He may only be 4 months into this, but he feels that last statement to his core.

“You seem to be nodding in agreement, Peter,” Joyce comments. He stiffens immediately as every eye in the room turns toward him. “Why don’t you introduce yourself and then state something you’re not grateful for?”

Peter gulps. “Um. Hi, my name is Peter. I’m 16 and I was diagnosed 4 months ago.” He takes a few breaths to try and slow his racing heart. “Oh, and, uh, I guess I’m not grateful for having to…” he trails, thinking. What was it that I said to Tony this morning? “I’m not grateful for having to live Plan B?”

Joyce tilts her head in interest. “Plan B?”

Peter hadn’t planned on talking about the Embry Riddle conundrum today or ever, really. He wonders if he can explain without going into too much detail.

He settles on “I wanted to become a pilot” and immediately regrets it.

A guy across the room who looks about Peter’s age, Marcos, perks up. “Dude, me too! They’re working on it, you know. There’s like ten years of ADA lawsuits and stuff to get us the medical certificate and in the air. The first round of pilots with diabetes just applied and are supposed to get approved.”

Peter lifts his head a little, smiles at the use of us. “Yeah?” There’s hope in his question, but he hates the idea that he has to wait. That because of this one thing, something out of his control, he can’t do any of this on his own terms.

“I’m hopeful. For one day, you know?” Marcos says, offering a smile.

This whole disease has been about “one day.” One day, there might be a true artificial pancreas. One day, there might be a cure. One day, they might let people with type one fly.

He’s tired of “one day.”

Even if Marcos is right and changes are coming, he’ll be the only one at Embry Riddle, possibly the first. His brain has done enough analysis to leave him with this: How could Embry Riddle want him, diabetes and all?

He just wants to blend in, get to be like everyone else.

He’s suddenly angry that May and Tony made him come here, where one seemingly simple and innocent question has him admitting what’s been keeping him up at night.

It’s not just the Embry Riddle pilot conundrum.

It’s actually everything.

Peter used to think he knew what the future might hold for him, what it would look like if he followed the plan.

Plan A.

He’s not sure what to do with this new normal just yet. It’s painful to think about.

Peter bites his lip, refuses to say anything else for the rest of the meeting. Letting things out is supposed to be helpful, cleansing. This seems to only have made the truth heavier and he doesn’t understand why.

At least he didn’t cry.

That’s what he’d worried the most about on the way here.

30 minutes left.

He counts down the minutes.

X

“I’m trying to invite you for coffee,” MJ says when the meeting’s over. She’s not annoyed, but Peter realizes she’s been trying to get his attention while he’s been staring off into space.

“I don’t really drink coffee.”

“It’s not really about the coffee. It’s to hang out. But I totally get it if you don’t want to. Joyce’s group can be a bit overwhelming the first time.”

Tony and May will be expecting him, waiting to pounce and hear how it went, but if he says he’s spending time with kids from support group for the afternoon, he won’t have to face them just yet.

It’s just MJ, but they don’t need to know that.

“Yes,” Peter replies as he pulls his backpack on.

“Yes to the coffee or to the group being a lot the first time?”

“Both.”

She grabs her jacket and ties it around her waist. He doesn’t remember her ever allowing her Omnipod to be visible before. She’s usually wearing long sleeves or sweaters at school. “Great! There’s a Starbucks on First Avenue.”

He likes that she doesn’t ask him if he can have it, isn’t afraid to invite him somewhere where there will be heaps of sugar. It’s relieving in a way he wasn’t expecting.

The churro will have to wait.

They end up spending the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening together, starting at Starbucks before they move onto the Shakespeare & Company bookstore a few blocks west.

He’s not expecting to lean so easily into MJ.

It just kind of happens.

Maybe it’s because, after they each order a drink and snack, they both go to bolus, Peter on his pump, MJ on her PDM for her Omnipod, without having to explain.

Or maybe it’s because when he gets a Dexcom low alert at the bookstore a few hours later from all of their walking, MJ whips out a packet of Skittles and wordlessly hands it over before going back to browsing books.

They don’t talk diabetes. They just do the things and move on.

It feels good in a way he wasn’t expecting.

He didn’t know it could be like this.

Like…like it’s normal.