I blink back tears.
“Nah,” I say. “No luck at all.”
CHAPTER 8
I’M standing in the F.E.A.S.T. kitchen, watching the coffeemaker drip and sputter, gradually filling the glass pot beneath it with dark-as-night liquid energy. Making coffee is therapeutic in its own way. It’s distracting. It takes just the right amount of time—long enough to breathe and chill, without taking so long that the guests start wondering where I disappeared to. I sigh as I watch the last few drips of the stuff fall, and I try not to re-hash what went wrong last night. So many things I could’ve done better. So many decisions I’d take back. So many more decisions I’d make, quicker and with more commitment. More certainty.
I should’ve been more decisive.
I shouldn’t have broken so many S.H.I.E.L.D. windows. Shouldn’t have let Pigeon break through so many floors. Should’ve called Peter earlier. Shouldn’t have let my pride convince me not to call him earlier.
Shouldn’t have let Pigeon get away, under any circumstances, even with her contact info.
I take the white feather-shaped card out of my jeans pocket and turn it over in my hand. It’s so glossy it almost looks silver in the fluorescent lights. And those red wings across the middle reflect so bright it looks like they’re made of the same lacquer coating her wings.
Who knows what she made off with? Tech blueprints, serums like the Devil’s Breath, medical diagrams from Doctor Octavius, detailed plans of wacky ways villains have tried to take over Brooklyn before and might try to do again if they get any ideas, maps of underground bunkers and secret hideouts, prison escape plans, you name it. Everything that matters is housed in that facility, and while I’m sure an entity named the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division would have their most precious highly classified materials locked away behind password-protected doors with eye scanners, fingerprint-locked keypads, and safes and vaults protected with lasers and voice-activated door locks, I certainly didn’t help. She made off with whatever she came to get, and because of me, she had plenty of time to do it.
What kind of hero gets slammed into the side of a building three times in a row?
I look at the number on the card and pull out my phone to text it. It’s my only chance. The only lifeline she left me for getting that briefcase back.
ME: Hey. You said to call you?
Short, simple, and to the point. Let’s see what she says now.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I sigh and fold my arms over my chest. I was supposed to be the bird-eating spider yesterday. But I was a daddy long-legs up against a hawk. No, something bigger.
An ostrich.
Nah, the biggest bird that flies, I guess. What would that be?
A giant condor.
Yeah, let’s go with that.
“Hey,” comes Peter’s familiar voice to my left, interrupting my thoughts. I quickly shove my phone into my pocket. No need to involve Peter in this just yet. I got myself into this mess by letting Pigeon get away. I can at least try to get myself out. Peter steps into the kitchen with his duffel slung over his shoulder and his dark brown hair plastered to his forehead. “S’rainin’ pretty hard out there, but you’re all dry. Been here awhile?”
I nod, my eyes still fixed on the coffee pot, hoping to feel a buzz in my pocket at any moment.
“You okay?” he asks.
I look at him with a nod like of course I’m okay, out of reflex. I’m so used to people asking if I’m okay, between losing my dad, starting a new school year, and moving across New York, that nod has become second nature by now. But am I really? I mean, I’m bummed about yesterday, but… I think I’ll be okay. As long as I can just track down that Pigeon girl and recover whatever she stole from S.H.I.E.L.D.
“Yeah,” I say.
Peter shakes his head and shrugs out of his jacket.
“I’m just saying,” he says, “okay people don’t—”
“Stare forlornly at dripping coffee pots,” I finish for him, dislodging the pot from the coffeemaker. “I know, man.” I sigh in concession. “You’re right. I’m not okay. I’m bothered. What happened yesterday—”
I’m interrupted by another person turning the corner and joining us in this small kitchen—a young woman with blue eyes, in a flannel shirt with reddish hair tied up into a bun, shuffles past and starts opening cabinets.
“Hey, MJ,” says Peter. “Looking for something?”
“Hey, you two,” she says, resting her hands on her hips and stepping back to get a better view at the open cabinet before her. “Either of you seen the plastic spoons?”
“Under the sink on the left,” I say in what I hope is my usually bright voice.
“Thanks, Miles,” she says, holding up about ten in each hand before heading back for the door. Before she can leave, I clear my throat and step forward.
“Hey, MJ?” I ask. She turns and looks at me inquisitively.
“Yeah, Miles? What’s up?”
Heat creeps into my neck at my own embarrassment about the whole situation, but I know apologizing is the right move here.
“Sorry about, uh… interrupting your gala last night with that call. I know you and Peter were probably enjoying your night out and… I sort of ruined it.”
She smiles warmly and shrugs.
“Eh, don’t worry about it. Ten minutes later, Vulture was swooping through the place anyway. Wouldn’t have given us that much more uninterrupted time together. Don’t sweat it.”
It lifts a weight off my shoulders. I guess she’s right.
“But thanks for the apology,” she says, stepping out into the F.E.A.S.T. lobby.
“What happened yesterday,” I continue, turning to Peter again, “should’ve never happened. Wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t so careless. I messed up, Peter. Again.”
“Yesterday was just another part of the job,” he says with surety in his caramel brown eyes. “Even Spider-Man can’t win every battle. The point is to win the war. Both Vulture and Vulture 2.0—”
“I’ve just been calling her Pigeon.”
“That’s a great nickname,” he grins proudly. “Super Heroing 101. Think of good bad guy nicknames. You’re well on your way.”
I have to smile at that.
“Both Vulture and Pigeon came for something. They both left in a hurry after swiping what they needed. They’ve got a bigger plan in the works, I just know it. And when they rear their ugly feathered faces again—”
An older man in a fedora and a worn brown blazer shuffles through the door, leaning heavily on a walker as he goes past us, and Peter hushes his voice to a whisper. “When they do, we’ll be ready.”
I sigh and shrug.
“I don’t feel ready.”
It’s hard to admit. I thought I did. I felt ready when I was chasing Pigeon up the side of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility yesterday, and even during some of our faceoff on the roof. And that rush of adrenaline when I slammed into her and knocked her clean out the building felt otherworldly. But when she threw me back against the building and crawled back into the hole I’d just launched her out of, that one-step-forward-six-steps-back feeling that crept in?
Made me feel instantly un-ready.
And every subsequent slam against the side of the building, every time she escaped to a new floor, and even that tumble through that guy’s yard I took, chipped away at my confidence until I was too rattled to even think of a way to escape from two grappling hooks around my arms! I could’ve even webbed Pigeon in the face! She was right in front of me and my hands were free!
I wasn’t just unprepared yesterday, I was downright useless.
“The trick is to jump right in before you feel ready, and figure it out as you go. That takes practice. Besides, Miles, I know you don’t like to hear it, but you are still seventeen. When I was your age, I had no idea what I was doing,” he smiles, the nostalgia clear as day on his face. “No idea. Still don’t, reall
y. I’m always figuring it out,” he says with a wink, grabbing the handle of the mop that’s sitting in the cleaning bucket in the corner. “Anyway, bathroom floors need me. Holler if you need anything. I’m free to talk over dinner if you want. No pizza today for me, though. All those tiny plates last night added up. I brought a salad so I can feel a little better than I did this morning.”
I nod at him with a smile. Can’t imagine not wanting pizza for every meal, personally, but alright.
“Thanks, Peter.”
He nods back with a salute and a spin exit into the hallway, and I breathe out a sigh at the remembrance of my dad—he used to do that salute thing, too. It’s a police academy thing, I think. And what did Peter mean by, “jump in before you’re ready and figure it out as you go?” Surely he doesn’t do that himself while he’s fighting. I mean, I’m sure it helps that he’s been doing this for years already. When you know the habits and tendencies of so many villains, I bet it makes it easier to just ad-lib each fight. But this was someone totally new. I hadn’t even had a chance to study Vulture in this wild game called super heroing, let alone his granddaughter, with her new tech and razor-sharp claws…
I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, strictly logically speaking.
But it’s hard.
I sigh and turn to leave the kitchen with the coffee pot in hand.
“Alright, Miles,” I say to myself as I step back into the rec room, “get it together. Let’s go. These people need you and your undivided attention right now.”
There are only a few people in F.E.A.S.T. today, but most of them have mugs in front of them. It’s extra cold outside, and it’s fading into late afternoon. This is post-dinner coffee time, for people who are going to have to be up all night for whatever reason, or who just… don’t get affected by caffeine that much, I guess? The older lady sitting in the corner named Dreeny is staring at the wall as usual, lost in thought. She doesn’t say much, but she nods off into space as I refill her coffee cup for her.
“Hi, Dreeny,” I say, “I made the light roast strong, just like you like it.” I notice her table’s sugar dispenser is running low, even though I just refilled all of them this morning. So I pick up a full dispenser off a nearby table and swap it out, taking the empty one with me to refill in the kitchen. “There ya go. You have a good day, now. It’s good to see you.”
“Miles!” A familiar voice comes from across the room. Mr. Flores is sitting with his little girl in the kids’ area, surrounded by books and blocks and other bright wooden toys. He’s reclining in his favorite spot on the worn leather sofa in front of the TV, and she’s playing with blocks on the coffee table in front of him. “Hola, Miles.” He smiles up at me. “Como estas?”
I’m lucky I know so much Spanish from my mom, and I smile at the thought that I’m probably about to learn so much more from my grandmother. They’ll be sitting somewhere and just bust out some Spanish out of nowhere, and I’ve been keeping up just fine!
“Estoy bien, Mr. Flores, y tu? Como esta, Isabella?”
She doesn’t say anything back to me, but she smiles up at me shyly before holding up a block.
“Bloques?” I ask in English, “Blocks?”
“Uh-huh, she knows the English word for ‘bloques’ now,” says Mr. Flores. “And ‘ball’ and most other toys. We’re working on expanding into verbs, too.”
“Ah, bien, Isabella, very nice!” I say, holding up my hand for a high five. She slaps my hand with a pride that lights up her whole face, and it makes me feel all warm inside. Whatever my role is as a super hero, moments like this feel like I’m doing my job on a micro scale. I guess, in a way, the work I do here at F.E.A.S.T. is just as important as what I do while swinging through the city. Pouring coffee for people who just need a kind person in their lives and a helping hand, and high-fiving a kid who may not have a place to lay her head from night to night, makes me feel like I’m making some kind of difference, however small.
But there goes that feeling again—the feeling that I could be doing more. I’m suddenly relieved my mom is running for city council. Isabella needs more than a high five, free food, or even a place to sleep tonight. She needs permanent resources. And hopefully officials, and future officials like my mom, will help her get them.
Someone unmutes the TV, which is always tuned to the news. Usually they’re covering City Hall stuff—legislation going through, or re-routing some street, or the weather. Sometimes, like today, it’s all about Spider-Man.
My eyes light up as I see that slick photo of myself swinging in Prospect Park, and then something sinks in my stomach like a stone as I read the headline. Spider-Man: Having an off day?
Rage and frustration boils up in me at the sight of J. Jonah Jameson exploding onto the screen, lunging so aggressively at the camera that spit speckles the lens a bit as he seems to emphasize the P in the word “Spider-Man.”
“…isn’t just having an ‘off day’ here, folks. ‘Off days’ are for people who usually have ‘on days.’ This man is flying around unregulated, breaking windows of multimillion-dollar buildings, crashing through roofs and multiple floors… who knows how long it’ll take to repair the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, where law enforcement stores some of its most sensitive classified materials, or how many millions of dollars it’s going to cost taxpayers. And that’s not even mentioning whatever the perp made off with. Without Spider-Man there, they might’ve still gotten away, but at least they might’ve done it without costing you and me so much money in the process. If you ask me, it’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference between Spider-Man’s ‘crime-fighting,’ and the antics of a rowdy teenager on a joyride—”
“Thank you, JJ, for that quite informative commentary,” the reporter cuts in. The camera fades to her face as J. Jonah Jameson’s mic dwindles away into mute. I have to smile at the involuntary silencing of the ever-bitter sputtering crankbox that he is.
“Phew, that guy can talk,” says Mr. Flores. “You would’ve thought Spider-Man attacked him personally.” I smile at Mr. Flores before turning to the reporter with the much more level head.
“Reports are coming in that not only did Spider-Man’s actions at S.H.I.E.L.D. last night tear holes through the top twenty-six stories of the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters downtown, but because the holes ripped straight through a main power line, all electricity at S.H.I.E.L.D. has had to be restricted, strictly reserved for the most highly secured intel. Employees are encouraged to work from home, as backup generators are unreliable at this time, and all twenty-six of the topmost floors have been deemed too hazardous to conduct normal business.”
I sigh.
How did I mess up this bad?
And for the love of everything, why hasn’t Pigeon texted me back yet?
I do it again. I play it all over in my head, wondering what I might’ve done differently, wishing I’d had a chance to nip Pigeon in the bud when she was first scaling the building. I could’ve mummified her in my web so she couldn’t move, before she could drill a hole straight through the building and compromise everything and everyone inside. It’s lucky no one was killed just from that. Apparently, most of the employees were conveniently at an offsite meeting at the time. And it’s especially good since she managed to dismantle all of the onsite S.H.I.E.L.D. security in a matter of minutes.
“Hey, Miles?” Mr. Flores asks, pulling me back into the F.E.A.S.T. rec room. “Could I get some cream too, please?”
“Oh, sure,” I say, turning to head back toward the kitchen.
“Oh, is it in the kitchen?” Mr. Flores pushes himself up off the sofa. “I can go get it. It’s no trouble.”
“No, it’s fine, I was going that way anyway,” I lie. I like feeling helpful here, and I feel like keeping busy. Anything I can get right makes me feel like I’m not bopping around Brooklyn making everything worse.
If that includes fetching creamer for people in need of a helping hand, so be it.
I head for the kitchen and find the c
reamer on the door of the fridge and the extra sugar to refill the dispenser in the cabinet. Once the dispenser is replaced on the table next to Dreeny and the cream is in one hand and the coffee pot in the other, I step back into the hall and out into the rec room. The front door of the place is swinging open, the bell letting out a gentle rrrrring. I look up to see who it is, just as a large guy around my dad’s height, same skin tone, same haircut and everything, and a shorter guy about my height wearing a gray hoodie pulled over his head, saunter in. The dad removes his beanie and presses it to his chest as he checks in at the front desk with Clifton, the receptionist. The other guy, who I can only assume is the man’s son, steps farther into the room and looks around. His black basketball shorts are dripping with rain, and his gray hoodie is soaked so dark that I don’t recognize him until he pulls his hood down around his neck. There’s a set of white wings spread across the chest of his hoodie.
I gasp and jump so hard, I slosh some of the coffee right out of the pot in my hand. It splatters on the floor in front of me but I barely notice. My heart is pounding so hard. He’s locked eyes with me. He’s just standing there, staring blankly.
It’s the kid from the other night.
That kid that robbed the store. The one Peter turned in.
Does he recognize me?
Did he get a good look at my face that night?
I mean, I brushed my hair this morning after lookin’ rough that night, so maybe he won’t recognize me? I’m also wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans now.
Oh god, he’s walking over here.
Oh god, he’s still looking at me.
Okay, wait, he nodded at me with that awkward smile people get when they first meet someone.
He’s probably wondering why I’ve been staring at him for so long.
Oh god, look away, Miles, look away!
I lean down to pour the coffee into the mug of a lady sitting at the table next to me who’s engrossed in a newspaper, but she gasps.
“Oh, no no no, this is tea!”
Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales Page 9