Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales

by Brittney Morris

  That’s another thing.

  It’s nice here.

  But it isn’t home.

  Yet, that is—Mom must notice me lost in thought, because she pushes herself to her feet and starts cleaning up. Abuelita yawns in her chair. Ganke stands up to stretch, pulling his shirt down to cover that bottommost bit of his stomach again when he’s done.

  “Well,” he says, “the A-train waits for no man. I’d better get going if I want to be back at the dorm before 10 p.m. That’s when the second shift porter guards the door. Guy acts like nothing good’s happened to him since the Browns won the Super Bowl.”

  After a long, awkward pause, my Abuelita says, “And the Browns haven’t won the Super Bowl since I rode all the way to Memphis on horseback.”

  “You what?” asks Mom. “Did you really?”

  “Rio, you must get that gullible side from your daddy,” laughs Abuelita, and Ganke and I crack a smile as she rolls her eyes at us all.

  “Faith, actually.” My mom smiles. “Trust.”

  “Oh, don’t start that mish-mash with me,” jokes Abuelita. “Now, help me get these pizza boxes broken down.”

  “Wish I could stay and help,” says Ganke, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and heading for the door, “but I gotta go. Yo, Miles, you want me to take a box over to the dorm for you?”

  “You’re going to take a whole moving box onto the subway with you?” asks my mom. “Is that a good idea? Is that safe? What if you get robbed?”

  “Mrs. Morales,” says Ganke in what I’m sure he thinks is his fanciest British accent, “I have braved the worst of souls in the worst of weather carrying the most outrageous of parcels. I think I’ll be fine.”

  “Alright, alright, m’lord whoever-whatsit,” I say. “I’ll go get my box of clothes.”

  “Weirdest thanks I’ve ever gotten, but I’ll take it!” laughs Ganke as I head down the hall to Mom’s room.

  I fumble for the light once I get to the end of the hall, and when I find it, turn the knob to Mom’s room and step inside, I immediately feel weird.

  All of Mom’s bedroom furniture is here—her bed, her nightstands, her dresser, even some of her clothes are unpacked and arranged on the bed. But it’s not her room. Her room had a mysterious stain on the wall just under the window, and heat marks on the bottom of the radiator by the dresser, and there’s supposed to be a tree on the other side of her window with branches that scrape the glass because “the city’s so slow with trimming in the summer.”

  I sigh, because I know no matter how much I feel out of place, this is my new home. When I tell Ganke that I’m going “home” for the weekend, I mean here. So I better get used to it.

  Maybe a walk would help.

  I find the box I need by the dresser and stoop to pick it up. It’s the lighter of the two, so Ganke should have no problem carrying it on the train. It’s not even that big. I take it back out to the living room, where I find Ganke leaning against the front door watching the TV.

  “Here you go, man,” I say with a nod. “Thanks a bunch. This actually helps me out a lot.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Miles,” he says, taking the box from me. He’s clearly struggling with it more than he lets on, and part of me wishes I could pause time, grab the box, and web-sling across town with it, all the way to Brooklyn. I could be there in thirty minutes tops. Doesn’t seem fair to make him carry it down the stairs, down the street, down more stairs into the subway, swipe his pass with one hand while struggling under its weight, and then lug it onto the train, transfer to a second train, carry it up more stairs, and finally, down the street to our dorm—but I guess this is what Peter meant by “it’s not always easy keeping a secret identity secret.”

  So I watch Ganke stumble down the steps to the next flight from my place at the balcony and begin the long journey back to Brooklyn, the place I called home just yesterday.

  Literally.

  “See you tomorrow, man!” I say.

  “See you tomorrow!” he grunts.

  I step back into the house to find Mom leaning on the counter smiling at me, and Abuelita still sitting in her favorite armchair in front of the TV, also staring at me. I raise an eyebrow. The last time they looked at me like this, they said, “We think it’d be great for you to see a therapist,” after Dad died, so I’m dreading whatever they tell me they’ve got for me next.

  I lean my arm against the wall to look casual, like I’m not all that bothered by them looking at me like they are.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” asks Mom, stepping forward and running her hand along my cheek. “I’m looking at you like you’re my son and I love you.” Then she plants a firm kiss on my forehead.

  The look I give her tells her I know there’s more that she’s not saying.

  “Mama and I were just thinking,” she says, rolling her eyes in defeat. “It might be good for you to get outside a bit tonight. You know, to explore your new neighborhood. It’s not too dark yet. Just stay within five blocks, keep your phone close, be back in an hour, and keep your hood down. Oh, and your hands out of your pockets. And don’t talk to strangers—”

  “Good idea, Mom,” I smile, and I mean it. Fresh air sounds great right now. And walking off some of that pizza. I look out the living room window and take a deep breath as I think of how good it would feel to dive off the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, catch the top of a bus with my webbing, and fling myself back up into the sky before sailing through my old stomping grounds.

  But I decide that here in Spanish Harlem, with all these people I’ve never met, in a neighborhood I’ve only been to in passing, maybe a chill walk through the neighborhood is a better choice. I collect my gray hoodie from off the barstool, and slip my feet into my sneaks by the door, lacing them up one at a time. After another kiss from Mom, a swipe of the key from off the counter, and with a—hopefully—final reminder to stay within five blocks, keep my phone close, be back in an hour, keep my hood down, hands out of pockets, and not to talk to strangers, I’m out the door and down the steps into my new stomping grounds.

  CHAPTER 2

  I take up my backpack by the front door, caught a bit off guard because I don’t remember it being this heavy. I sling it over my arm and wave goodbye to Mom and Abuelita, and I’m down the stairs and out the front door into the night air. I pull my sweatshirt sleeves down over my hands and pull up the zipper. It’s way chillier out here than I remember. But I won’t stay out here long. Just long enough to clear my head. It smells fresh, like the faintest hint of strong laundry detergent and… motor oil maybe? Something harsh and probably caustic. That reminds me of Brooklyn. That might be most of New York, actually. I start walking down the sidewalk and immediately notice a new mural on a brick wall to my left that’s a picture of Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, and another important-looking Black guy I don’t recognize, with glasses and a mustache, real professor-like. All three figures are made up of several thousand Spanish words. Some I recognize, like amor, paz, esperanza, and paciencia, and others I don’t, like grandeza, cambio, and derechos civiles.

  He must have been somebody great, I decide, and keep walking.

  I hear someone reel back and let out a deep, guttural belly laugh like my grandpa had—one of those laughs that’s sure to get everyone else in the room laughing right along with him. I turn to the source of the noise—two men across the street poring over a game of dominoes, one old and one about my age. The older man slaps a piece down on the table, pushes himself to his feet with his hands on his knees in that heavy-laden way old men do, and laughs again.

  “You thought you’d catch me slippin’, did you?” he cackles. “Try again, young blood. I’ve been playing this game longer than you’ve been alive.”

  I smile, missing my grandpa. We used to sit in Prospect Park and play checkers all afternoon, often losing track of time and letting the sunset light up the sky around us. Dad and I used to do the same t
hing when Grandpa died. Thought he’d carry the torch.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket twice and I pull it out to read the texts. The first is from my mom.

  MA: Your heavy coat is by the door now in case it’s too cold for your hoodie out there.

  I smile and text her back.

  ME: Thanks, Ma, but I’m okay. It’s actually pretty nice out here.

  And I don’t just mean the weather. Someone’s playing something with a great bassline from a balcony somewhere above me, I’ve already seen a mural of a man who looks like me, and two dominoes players who remind me of me and my grandpa, and now I’m walking past a girl in a beanie and fingerless gloves tearing away at a guitar and belting out a voice that seems almost too big for her. I miss Brooklyn. I think I’ll always miss living in Brooklyn. But this place? It’s alright.

  Then I spot something else—a whole wall of street art. Rainbow colors from floor to roof all over the bricks. I can make out a few words—mostly names. But I can’t read most of it—not because it’s illegible, or because it’s too big in front of me, but because right across the center of the building is a brand-new hospital-white advertisement, plastered over most of the beautifully formed letters with the word, “Terraheal.” A logo lies in the center, blue and gold with a red first aid kit plus symbol sticking out of the top. It looks deliberate, like someone came, saw the graffiti, and went, “Gross,” and then tried to clean it up with this big, clean, super-fancy white computer-store-looking poster that looks like it belongs at a space station. If someone thought this wall needed to be sterilized, then they could’ve chosen a bigger poster. The art was still the first thing I noticed about this wall, spilling out from underneath this poster from all sides in silent protest.

  I’ve never heard of Terraheal, but it’s clear they’re not based here in Spanish Harlem. There’s a “patent pending” note in the bottom right-hand corner, with fine print so tiny, I have to step right up to it and lean my face in to see it.

  My phone buzzes, and I remember the second message and open my inbox to find two from Peter.

  PETER: Hey, man, you busy tonight?

  PETER: Thought we might do some training later.

  I smile and want nothing more than to tell him YES, in all-caps, italics, bold, and surrounded by emojis. But I glance back over my shoulder at the little open window on the fifth floor of the building between the laundromat and the corner store, and I know that in that little room are two women who need my help tonight. Who need to see my face. Who need to know I’m safe.

  ME: Can’t, Peter, sorry. Just finished helping my mom move in and I’m kinda tired. Maybe tomorrow?

  My phone lights up with a surprise call from him, and I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Miles, moving day was today?! I’m sorry, I wish I’d stopped by to help.”

  “Nah, it’s okay! I’m sure you had crime fighting stuff to do.”

  “It’s true. There was a skirmish up in Prospect Park between two dog walkers who got into it after their dogs got into it. Turned into an all-out brawl.”

  I smirk. Good ol’ Peter, no problem too big or too small. I guess that’s what being Spider-Man means. Helping everyone, even when it doesn’t seem like a huge deal. I turn the corner at the end of the block and keep walking. Here, the streetlights are slightly sparser, and there’s more trash blowing by around my feet. I begin to feel faint snow crystals on my cheeks and nose.

  “Yikes,” I say. “How’d you handle it?”

  “Sent ’em to opposite ends of the park.”

  I let out a laugh.

  “Like kids in time-out? That’s cold.”

  “More like adults who were having an off day,” he says. “Everyone’s got to cool off sometime, Miles. Speaking of cooling off, this temperature out here, am I right? Might have to line my suit with fleece inside.”

  I hear a noise that yanks me out of my thoughts—the sound of breaking glass up ahead.

  “What was that?” asks Peter.

  “Not sure. Sounds like trouble.”

  A holler follows the glass, along with the sound of shoes sliding on the broken pieces on the concrete. Up ahead, I see a flicker of lights around the corner, which I jog to, and peer around. A small convenience store with fluorescent lights sits in the middle of the block—the only store lit up on either side of this street—with a huge panel of broken glass in the front, and a big piece dangling back and forth in the gap before falling in a sheet and shattering completely. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know people don’t break their own store windows. And then, a shriek confirms something’s horribly wrong—a blood-curdling scream, and the sound of a huge crash. Signs of a struggle. Someone’s in trouble in there. Instinctively, I dart into the nearby alley and duck behind a dumpster.

  “Gotta go, Pete,” I say, and hang up before he can respond and tell me to be careful or wait till he gets here. If Peter can handle a brawl in Prospect Park without calling on me, then I should be able to handle a store break-in without calling him.

  I pick up my backpack. Miles is here now, but this is a job for Spider-Man.

  I unzip the big compartment and pull back the top flap, expecting to find my spider-mask front and center, reminding me who I rep, and what I’m capable of. The one Peter gave to me, after I made him promise he’d washed it at least three times. In a way, no matter where I am or how I feel, when I put on that mask, I feel at home.

  But instead, I find…

  A stack of comics?

  My heart pulses in my neck as I shuffle through them.

  “No, no, no!” I growl. “What happened? What is this?”

  And that’s when I notice it—a single word written in sharpie on the tag at the top of the bag.

  Lee.

  As in, Ganke Lee.

  I stand up and step back, unwilling to believe I grabbed the wrong backpack on the way out the door. My heart is pounding through my chest as I hear another scream from somewhere inside the store.

  “No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” I murmur, resting my hands on the back of my head and walking around in a circle, kicking at an empty Styrofoam cup on the ground.

  What do I do?

  What do I do?

  What do I do?

  I need to be Spider-Man, but right now, all I can be is Miles. Ganke left so long ago, there’s no catching up to him before all of this commotion at the store has died down and the burglar has gotten away. I zip up the backpack and sling it over my shoulder. Then I run back to the corner and look around it again. A noise like something heavy dropping on a hard floor rings out, and I hope it was an object and not a person. I gulp down my fear and realize I have to act fast. Mask or no mask, someone’s getting robbed right now, and I’m the only one around to stop it. I think about texting Peter, but I can’t do that whenever trouble comes up. What kind of super hero am I if I have to call my mentor every time I see a broken window? What is he, my babysitter? My hands are clammy under my sweatshirt sleeves, but my dad’s words from the day he gave his speech at City Hall come back to me and give me renewed strength.

  “I’m no super hero,” he told me just before he turned to walk up the stairs to the stage, “I’m just a guy who doesn’t give up.”

  And that’s going to be me tonight, I decide. No mask. No webs. No Peter.

  Just me.

  Choosing not to give up.

  And with that fear turned energy coursing through me, I step out from around the corner and keep my eyes trained on the store as I approach. My shoes begin to crush the glass particles littering the ground, which I can feel are getting larger and larger as I get closer. Glass pieces still fall sporadically from the gaping hole in the glass. Something big shuffles inside, and then a jarring crash! I jump and stop cold. Then another crash! just as a whole shelf comes careening through the other glass window at the front of the store.

  What is this thief doing in there? Bowling?

  And just a few seconds later, I’m sorry
I asked.

  The perp—a surprisingly short guy about my height, comes barreling through the shattered front window head-first and trips on the lip, sending himself face-first into the glass-covered pavement. I cringe at first—forgetting that I’m supposed to be trying to catch this guy—and then I spring into action, sprinting forward. I leap and dive-tackle him around his waist, and we tumble across the ground. His gray sweatshirt must have some kind of silk interwoven, because he squirms halfway out of my stronghold before I can think. I’ve scraped my hand on the glassy pavement, but I can’t worry about that now. First I have to worry about his—

  Poom!

  A flash of white across my face. The smell of blood. After a moment, the shape of the guy who just kicked me moments ago, now with his back turned and his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, fades into focus. From a side profile, I can tell his skin is the same medium shade as mine, although his nose is a bit narrower, and his eyes more bulging. His eyebrows are knit together in the middle, and his face is twisted into an angry grimace as he looks everywhere but directly at me. Red and blue lights light up his face, and he turns in a panic and bolts down the street. I force myself up onto my elbows, despite everything spinning and my head throbbing, and as I listen to the sound of his footsteps thumping away down the road and push myself to my knees, I feel a shoe jab hard in my side.

  “There you are, you worthless thug!”

  In a flash, I see the business end of a broom flying toward my face, and I put up my forearms reflexively to block the barrage of hay and floor dust.

  “I told you you wouldn’t get away from me! Think you can just break into my store in my neighborhood and get away with it?!”