“No, no!” I yell, as more and more smacks with the broom assault me. I roll to my side as the blows keep coming, “It wasn’t me! It was—Ahh!”
Another blow between my words.
“I swear”—smack!—“it wasn’t”—smack!—“me!” Smack! “It was”—smack!—“that guy who”—smack!—“got away!”
My spidey-sense is tingling up and down my neck so bad it’s practically audible—ringing in my head.
I finally stop seeing stars enough to push myself to my hands and knees and stare up into the eyes of my assailant. I see a woman about my height and my Abuelita’s build, with flashing eyes and her hair pulled into a bun so tight I’m surprised she doesn’t have a headache.
Or maybe she does, and that’s partially why she wants to kill me right now.
Those red and blue lights are all around us now, and just as I’m about to continue explaining that this is all a horrible misunderstanding, I hear the low whine of a siren behind me. I whip around and shield my eyes from the red and blue lights, thankful to see the guys who help Peter and I catch perps like the one who got away all the time. Now that I’m standing, I can feel a thin trickle of blood running down under my nose, and the pounding in my head is radiating down my neck.
Thank goodness these guys are here. They’ll vouch for me.
“Officers, that’s the kid!” comes the voice from behind me.
And then I remember that, right now, I’m not in uniform. Right now, I’m not Spider-Man. These officers don’t know me from the kid who actually robbed this place.
I’m just a Black kid in a hoodie in front of a broken window.
Guns come out and the safeties click off, pointed right at me.
“Get on the ground! Hands in the air, kid!”
And just like that, I’m “kid.” Just a regular guy. I was supposed to be a regular guy who doesn’t give up. But as I raise my hands into the air and swallow back the tears welling in my eyes and fall to my knees, it feels a lot like giving up.
At least they’re gentle as they grab my shoulder, press me to the ground, and put handcuffs around my wrists. But the cuffs are tight, eating into my skin, and after a few moments of breathing hard against the pavement—and trying not to move in case my face is on pieces of glass I can’t see—I feel a heavy boot rest in the middle of my back.
“Now, what seems to be the problem here, ma’am?” comes the officer’s voice. I know they have to do this—keep me contained until they gather the “facts.” But it’s the shopkeeper’s word against mine right now, and I’m the one in the gray hoodie, with the bloody face and the flimsy alibi. For all they know, even if I’m not the perp, I might be working with him.
“Well,” says the lady as she taps the broom handle on the ground right in front of my face to remind me what she’s capable of, “I was enjoying my night, officer, just preparing for our graveyard shift, when this boy busts through my front window and runs in there like a bat outta hell—”
“It wasn’t me!” I holler. “This other kid was—”
“Son, we’ll get to your questions soon enough, alright?”
Alright. I mean, I guess it has to be alright. But this pavement hurts my face, and my chest feels heavy.
“Can I just sit up?” I ask feebly. After a pause, I continue. “I swear I’m not armed. I just want to sit on the curb.”
I feel the boot lift from my back, and two strong hands lift me up from under my arms. I lean myself back until my hip finds the curb, and I push myself up onto it so I can sit kinda comfortably. At least now my face is far away from the broken glass, and I rub my shoulder against my cheek to knock away any pieces that might be stuck.
The shop owner keeps talking for what feels like forever, and I start wondering if I’m going to jail tonight. She talks about how she has footage of a Black kid in a gray hoodie on her cameras, and how I’m a repeat offender but I’ve never been this violent before, and the more she talks, the more I’m convinced the next time my mom and Abuelita hear from me will be from inside a jail cell.
CHAPTER 3
MY jaw burns from holding back the tears, and I sigh and adjust my legs to sit criss-cross so they don’t fall asleep. Just as I start thinking this lady will never stop talking, I hear a familiar sound. A whooshing, snapping sound coming from the sky, and my heart skips. I look up at the cop and the lady and wonder if they hear it too, but he swings in too fast for me to tell.
“You’ve got the wrong guy, officer,” comes Peter’s familiar voice as he swoops down from the roof on his webbing and lands smoothly on the ground. He looks over his shoulder at me, and I can’t tell if his face is one of disappointment, pity, confusion, or all three—but suddenly, although I did nothing wrong, I feel something very distinct that I’m not used to, creeping up into my throat and threatening to choke me.
Shame.
The cop looks from me to the shop owner, to Spider-Man, folds his arms over his clipboard and shifts all his weight to one hip.
“Spider-Man, he fits the description. Black kid, gray hoodie, at the scene of the crime—”
“Oh really?” asks Peter, pointing straight upward. “Then who’s that guy?”
We all look up to see a cocooned boy wriggling in a mess of webbing, suspended between the buildings about thirty feet up. All that’s exposed is his face and his hood hanging down, flopping as he squirms.
“Well,” says the cop, staring up at the boy, “I’ll be.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. What this cop doesn’t know is that the other Spider-Man just sat here and told him he had the wrong guy too, but because I’m not in uniform, my authority is gone.
After a few minutes, I’m out of handcuffs and up off the ground, brushing glass out of my clothes and having my scraped-up left hand wiped off with an antiseptic wipe from the store, and my bloody nose pressed with a Kleenex. The store owner says nothing to me, even after it’s revealed that I’m not the guy who broke into her store, but the one who was trying to stop the guy who did. She just glares at me, like she’s convinced I’m still an accomplice somehow, and if I’m not I shouldn’t have been in the area—and if I was, why am I dressed like that? She says all of that in the look she gives me, and I narrow my eyes at her and then stare at the ground as the last few pleasantries are exchanged.
As I walk next to Peter in silence down this alley, I think of what to say.
Step. Step. Step.
It’s so quiet out here for Harlem. I hear the occasional siren in the distance, and the clanging of someone’s pot or pan in a nearby apartment, probably by someone who’s cooking dinner.
Luckily, Peter starts talking so I don’t have to.
“Hey, man, uh,” he begins, resting his hand on my shoulder, “I don’t know what happened back there, but… are you okay?”
His voice is always so calm. A far cry from mine as I try to reply. I clear my throat and muster, although shakily, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
He stops walking and turns to me now that we’re far enough away from Officer Ornery over there.
“So, uh,” he says, his arms folded over his chest like he’s a little uncomfortable with this whole situation himself, “wanna talk about it?”
I force myself to look up at him, and although Peter Parker has never made me feel inferior to him, or like I’m in trouble or a disappointment, right now I feel especially small.
Like a puppy being asked why he pooped in the petunias.
I shrug and look away.
No. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Not really. What I want to do is go find Ganke, swap backpacks so I can get my gear back before he finds out, and swing all over town, not caring about anything that just happened.
“Um,” I begin, knowing that despite what I want, I owe Peter an explanation for why his mentee was almost arrested for burglary a few minutes ago. “Well, I saw that guy break into the store and um… I didn’t have my mask, so… when I tackled him, he got away and the shop owner thought I looked just li
ke him, so… they handcuffed me.”
Peter glances over his shoulder at the cop again before ushering me a bit farther away and whispering, “Wait, why don’t you have your mask?”
Heat floods my cheeks and I scratch the back of my neck.
“Uh, it’s a long story. But I’m going to get it now.”
Peter is staring at me in bewilderment, and it feels like I’m explaining to one of my teachers why I don’t have a completed homework assignment for them. I need a better excuse. No, I need the truth. I sigh and shake my head at how silly the whole thing is. How preventable.
“Ganke was helping me move today and accidentally took my backpack instead of his.”
I pick my backpack up off the ground, unzip it, and show him the comics.
“But it’s okay,” I quickly continue after Peter puts his hand on his forehead in exasperation, “because I know Ganke only goes to two places—his parents’ place, and our dorm room. He wouldn’t leave his backpack with his parents on a school night, so I’m sure I’ll find my backpack in our dorm. I’m going to get it tonight.”
Peter breathes what I hope is a sigh of relief.
“Alright,” he says, “sounds like a plan. But how do you plan to get to Brooklyn fast without using your powers? Want me to go instead—?”
“No,” I jump in quickly. “This is my mistake. I messed up. Let me fix it. Please?”
Getting accused of burglary for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Could technically happen to anyone. Plumb forgetting the most important possession I own—my Spider-Man gear—accidentally sending it home with my roommate? Unacceptable. I’d be embarrassed if I left my uniform at home if I worked at Burger Bunker, let alone… you know… Spider-Man.
“’Course,” he says, patting my shoulder. “I admire that about you, Miles. Your sense of ownership. Of responsibility. Just… you know… be careful about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He glances over his shoulder at the cop who’s now arresting the other guy who actually committed the crime.
Something about the way Peter says that, although I know he means well, feels impossible, for me anyway. I was trying to stop a crime. That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Be careful about being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
I’m Spider-Man. I’m supposed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it’s extra dangerous for me out of uniform, and it shouldn’t be. My blood is boiling under my skin. What the hell am I supposed to do?
“If I was in uniform, that would’ve been the right place at the right time,” I grumble. The minute I say it, though, I kinda regret it. That came out like I’m a whiny little kid, and I definitely didn’t want it to. I’m just… so frustrated by all of this.
He sighs.
“I know,” he says, resting his hand on my shoulder again and staring me square in the face. “We just got unlucky this time. That guy looks so much like you. You’re even dressed alike. Try not to hold it against Officer Cooper, alright? He made an honest mistake.”
So, what Peter is saying is, if I didn’t look like I do, if I looked like Peter out of uniform, I would’ve been at the right place at the right time too. Rage boils up inside me, and I decide it would be best if I just focused on getting my suit back.
“Gotta go,” I mutter, pulling away and walking down the alley toward where the M train picks up on 116.
“Miles?” calls Peter behind me. But I really can’t deal with any of this right now. It’s all too much. I’m supposed to be a super hero, but can I really be if I’m seen as a villain because of the color of my skin? As I sprint around the corner, not caring how it looks, not caring who sees me as a villain running because I “probably stole something” and not because people who look like me like to run sometimes, my eyes begin to well with tears again.
“Sorry, Dad,” I whisper as I get to the station and swing myself around the railing and down the steps, into darkness and the smell of pee and decades old dust and musk, “I tried.”
CHAPTER 4
OUR dorm is right in the middle of Brooklyn, only two blocks away from Brooklyn Visions Academy. It’s small, but it’s home. Well, my second home anyway. For the longest time, I thought my only home would be my parents’ place in Brooklyn, even when I moved into my dorm. At first it felt strange. Different. Cold. Unwelcome. Almost prison-like. But after a few late-night study sessions with Ganke, some ramen, some movies, and talking about nothing, it warmed up eventually. Now? It feels more like home than Abuelita’s house.
At least for now.
It’s a long way from my Abuelita’s house by train—around an hour, whereas by web sling it’s about half that. But since I’m sans suit and can’t be Spider-Man, I’m just plain ol’ Miles, sitting here on the A train, after transferring from the M train, with my headphones over my ears and my phone in my hand. I’m trying not to bob my head, but this song is it. I close my eyes, and I’m transported to my bed, where I can lie and imagine each beat in my head as a flashing light or a flicker of color. The room is dark and I imagine strobe lights all around me, blinking to the beat as I let my spirit loose and dance like I’m the only one in the room. Because, in my imagination, I am.
But the feeling doesn’t last.
“Next stop: Clinton-Washington,” comes the train’s harsh voice, jolting me back into reality. I blink my eyes open and stand, slinging Ganke’s backpack over my shoulder. By the time I step off the train into the station and the crowds weaving around me, I begin to wonder if Ganke might have already opened the bag. And if so, what then? I sigh and try to ignore that thought and sink into my music instead, but it’s no use. My thoughts are racing already. If Ganke’s already opened the bag, he knows I’m Spider-Man. I’ll have blown my cover and almost gotten arrested on the same night. And I’m still only in training! How could I mess up this bad?!
I frown and kick at the pavement in frustration as I walk, and a couple of teenagers—kids only a couple years younger than me—push past me and sprint up the stairs, bumping into my shoulder as they go. At first I’m frustrated because they could’ve easily said “sorry” or “excuse me” or something, but then I get distracted thinking about how much easier it might be to just be a normal kid, not worrying about who I bump into on trains, not worrying about special outfits and powers and bad guys, and having to run into chaos instead of away from it.
Don’t get me wrong, having super-powers is dope. Who doesn’t want to flick their wrist and soar across the city, or scale buildings, or sense danger nearby? But also, this is hard sometimes.
Like right now.
I’m standing outside our dorm building knowing that Ganke said the after-hours doorman is… prickly. He definitely won’t let me in without my badge, and my badge is clipped to the inside of the front compartment of my backpack, because I didn’t think I’d be coming to my own dorm tonight to get my own backpack. Ganke always keeps his badge clipped to his jeans, whether it’s a school day or not, because that’s exactly what someone who writes their name on the tags of all their clothes would do with a school badge.
“Call me paranoid,” he says all the time, “but it’s always better to be prepared.”
Because that’s exactly what someone who always keeps their badge clipped to their jeans would say about keeping their badge clipped to their jeans.
Well now, here I am, standing outside this building, in the dead of night with the first droplets of rain falling on my face, knowing there’s no way past this doorman unless I dig under him, or fly over him, and the spider that bit me can’t do either of those things. Why couldn’t my spider have had camouflage abilities or something? I sneak into the alley alongside our building, which is made of brick, and hope Ganke is sleeping with the window open, despite the rain. He always checks the forecast too.
Because, of course he does.
I look around carefully, down the alley in the direction I just came from, around each corner, and through to the other side. No one. So I reach out and t
ouch the wall in front of me and close my eyes. I feel the gentle pull of my hand against it, like it’s covered in double-sticky tape, or like my fingertips have magnets inside.
Magnets that stick to bricks, I guess.
One hand latches, then the other. Then my left foot. Then my right. Soon, I’m climbing the wall as naturally as if I were crawling across the floor, one foot and hand right after the other. I keep my eye on the fifth-floor window—the corner unit closest to the street to my left. I’m about three floors up when I hear a sharp, violent intake of breath, like someone just inhaled a whole bowl of baked ziti through their sinuses. I flinch and freeze, but I don’t fall. Instead, I hold my breath and look around, hands still stuck to the wall, feet still stuck to the wall.
What was that?
I hear the nearby sound of blankets rustling, and I follow the noise over my shoulder to the window in the building behind me, where I’m horrified to see a kid about my age sitting upright in the darkness, shirt off, staring right at me. Eyes boring through my soul. I don’t move. I’m petrified. Is this guy watching me crawl up the wall right now? Does he now know I’m Spider-Man? Can he see my face even with the light behind me? Should I wait, or should I bolt for it?
And then comes my answer, as he teeters a bit and asks into the void, “Barbara, did you leave the cat in the bridal suite again?”
I stay frozen still against the wall, confused as all hell at what he’s talking about. If he’s not talking to me… maybe he’s on the phone? Then things get even weirder.
“The maid of honor is the cat!” and ever so slowly and with eyes rolling back in his head, he teeters and leans backward until he collapses back onto the bed.
I take the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever taken and continue scaling the wall. Gotta remember to tell Ganke that if I ever sleep talk like that, news of it never leaves our room. I reach our window and peek inside, finding that—yes! Ganke’s left it wide open! And he’s fast asleep on the bottom bunk, a large, heaving lump under the covers swelling and deflating, leaving me to grab the backpack in silence. And I’d better be silent, too. If I wake this kid up and he sees me switching the bags, it could be all over for my identity. I swallow and muster my courage, scanning the room before I climb through the window. Now, if I could only find… there it is!
Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales Page 3