“Little man probably can’t even grab the net,” Benji said. He held the ball in both hands, took two steps and effortlessly jammed it through the rim. No warning. No warm-up. “Should be a piece of cake.”
“Or a piece of steak,” Ganke said from the sidelines. Miles swung around, ice-grilled him. Ganke mouthed, Sorry, sorry, as Miles called for the ball. But as soon as Benji threw it to him—zipping it as if he were shooting a fireball from his hands—Miles realized he knew very little about basketball.
He bounced the ball fumblingly, slapping at it with a stiff hand. Okay, no more dribbling. Dribbling wasn’t his thing. He gripped the ball, the tips of his fingers instantly becoming sticky. It felt like there were tiny cannons firing off inside him. A tingle in his elbows and fingertips. A surge of electricity shooting down the back of his legs, throbbing in the soft spot behind his knees. And then, as if it were nothing, he took two steps, jumped eye level with the orange ring, and easily dropped the ball in.
“Yo…” Mucus Man said, shaking his head. That’s all he said. No follow-up. The others didn’t say anything, but all their faces were saying the same thing: Yo…
“Aight, little man. I see you,” Benji said, taking the ball. “So let’s just get this over with, forreal this time.” He started from the three-point line, took off running, jumped, and turned his back toward the rim midair. Holding the ball with both hands, he brought it down between his legs, then flung it up over his head and behind him, hammering it into the net with a grunt.
“Ungh!” Shorty Puff-Chest repeated the grunt, again, like a good hype-man. He grabbed his chest and howled dramatically. “That was so hard you almost took me out!”
“Woo!” Mucus hooted.
“Don’t get no better than that, lil’ man,” Benji boasted, kicking the ball over to Miles.
“Oh, it does,” from Ganke.
“Yeah, whatever, Bruce Bruce. We’ll see.”
Miles went back to the three-point line. Again, no dribbling. He eyed the rim. But right before he was about to take a running start, Ganke, of course, waved him off.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” He skittered to the foul line, shoeless and double-backpacked. “Listen, fellas. This is fun and all, but the truth is, we don’t have all night. So, how about we just get it over with?”
“We will as soon as your man makes a fool of himself by trying to do what I just did.”
“Yeah…” Ganke held one finger up, then pointed it at Benji. “No. How about this: if he can do the dunk you did, without all that running, we win.”
“Wait,” Shorty Puff-Chest spoke up. “So you saying if he can do the back dunk that Benji did, on a vertical jump, y’all win.”
“Exactly. And if he can’t—”
“We win, and y’all get your corny asses outta here?”
“Yep,” Miles said. The whole thing had been a bad idea, but this was the only part of the bad idea that sounded like a good idea. They still had to get back to school. Miles still had to make a phone call to his parents. And even though he could say the train was messed up—because the train’s always messed up—he didn’t want to lie.
Benji looked surprised, but everyone backed off the court again as Miles stepped up to the rim. He looked up at it: the familiar webbing of the net, the rusty orange circle, the dirty glass backboard. He glanced at Ganke, then at the court goons—Shorty Puff-Chest, Mucus Man, Benji, and the Bear.
In all the movies Miles had watched, there was always some kind of pep talk or intense battle drum rhythm playing in the hero’s mind in these kinds of situations, but in Miles’s head, he heard silly music. Like, whistling, and the theme song to Super Mario Bros. Whatever. All the staring up at the rim “concentration” was just for show, anyway. After the tension in his body had built enough, Miles sprang up. He twisted in midair before spreading his legs into a full split, dropping the ball down, then drawing it up over his head and into the net with such force that veins of cracked glass traveled through the backboard.
No big deal. To Miles. Or Ganke.
But from the looks on the faces of the court goons, they might as well have just witnessed the second coming of Jordan. Or maybe the second coming of Earl “The Goat” Manigault—everyone in New York had heard the legend about how, at only 6΄1˝, Earl had snatched a dollar bill off the top of a backboard and left change. Benji and his boys were completely stunned.
Until Ganke reached for his shoes. And the money. Then the howls turned to barks. And the astonishment turned to anger.
“What you think you doin’?” Benji pressed up on Ganke as he slipped his feet back in the sneakers and picked up the cash.
“Y’all lost. I mean…nobody’s beating that,” Ganke bragged.
“Maybe I can’t beat that, but I can beat you. So I suggest you leave the cash.”
“Y’all hustled us,” Mucus Man cried. Streetballers always cry about being hustled, even though they hustle people nonstop. Nobody likes to lose.
“Oh, so it was okay for y’all to take advantage of kids, though?” Miles said. “You just couldn’t resist what you thought was an easy come-up on a fresh pair of sneakers. I mean, we got backpacks, man.” He didn’t necessarily care about the money—this was all just Ganke’s attempt to get him to take his mind off being Spider-Man and all the Super Hero mumbo-jumbo. But now it was about principle. About these clowns keeping their word.
“Don’t matter. Leave the money, and leave with your lives.”
Ganke looked at Miles, nodded. Miles shook his head. Ganke nodded again. And again, Miles shook his head.
“No.”
“What?” Ganke now was somewhere between a nod and shake.
“Yeah, what?” Benji repeated. The rest of the lumpheads gathered around.
“I said no,” Miles confirmed.
It’s amazing how quiet the basketball court gets when things are about to go south. There’s a stillness. A dead air. The streetlights had flickered on by now, and what was left of the sun was just about gone—only the faintest recognition of blue in a black sky.
“Guys, you don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” Benji shot back at Ganke, pointing at him. “Hold him!” Shorty Puff-Chest and Mucus Man instantly flanked Ganke, grabbing him by the arms.
“Miles!” Ganke called. But before Benji could even sucker-punch Miles’s best friend, or reach for the shoes, or do whatever he was going to do, Miles had already stepped in front of him. There was a tingling just behind his kneecap. In his ears. His palms and fingertips, too.
Benji flashed that raggedy, reptilian smile—Miles could hear his mouth curve, hear the thick saliva on the back of Benji’s tongue—and pushed against Miles’s shoulder to move him out of the way. But as soon as his hand touched Miles, Miles grabbed it and flung Benji around, away from Ganke. Benji shook his head clear and charged, but Miles leaped over him, a clean jump clearing Benji’s head. He ran toward Ganke and speared himself into a jump-kick, spreading his legs at the last minute to miss Ganke’s face, but catching Mucus and Shorty straight in the jaws. It wasn’t enough to hurt them bad—Miles wasn’t trying to—but it was enough to get them to let go of Ganke, who then ran back to the side of the court. Benji grabbed Miles from behind, and in a flash, Miles delivered three elbows to Benji’s breadbasket. Zoop, zoop, zoop! Benji doubled over. Miles didn’t finish him. Wanted to give him a chance to chill out—call off his dogs.
Shorty stalked over, his hands up, assuming the hood boxer pose. “I don’t want no trouble,” Miles said, his body still firing tiny rockets through his veins. Shorty didn’t respond, just continued to set up his stance, then reset it. He finally threw a jab. Miles bobbed. He threw another. Miles leaned back, moved from side to side, his arms down, letting Shorty know he didn’t want to fight.
“Hit his ass!” Benji squealed, still trying to catch his breath. Shorty threw a third jab, but this one Miles caught. He grabbed Shorty’s wrist with one hand and used his other one to cup the joint of Shorty’s
elbow so that Shorty would have no choice but to punch himself in the face. A clean fist to the nose. His own fist. Miles heard the septum snap.
“ARGH!” Shorty yelled, slapping his other hand to his face. Blood, lots of it, started pouring from his nostrils. For a moment, Miles was stuck. The sight of blood startled him—he didn’t mean for the hit to be so hard.
Mucus backed off, and instead of coming for Miles, he went for Ganke. Ganke made a bumbling dash across the court, yelling at the top of his lungs, while the Bear came toward Miles.
“You have nothing to do with this, man,” Miles said, trying to talk him down.
“You hustled us,” he growled. Then he rocketed toward Miles. Miles, again, jumped over him and kicked him in the back of the head, using the leverage to push off and dart over to Ganke. He grabbed him under the arm like a toddler and hopped up on the fence, dragging Ganke up the metal grate with him. But not before Mucus Man grabbed the backpack. The one Ganke was wearing on his front—Miles’s backpack.
“Miles!”
“No, Ganke. Don’t let it go!” Miles yelled, one hand clawing the iron gate, and the other clutching the armpit of his friend. He needed that bag. His secret was in there, red and black.
“Give it to me,” Mucus Man growled. “Y’all leaving everything here!”
“I can’t…I can’t hold it!” Ganke yelled, as Mucus Man yanked and yanked on one of the straps, the other strap pressed into the crook of Ganke’s free arm like it was going to rip straight through it.
“Ganke, do not let that bag go!”
Ganke looked up at Miles, his face full of worry. “Miles…” Mucus Man tugged again and Ganke’s arm dropped, the bag dropping with it.
Now loose, Miles climbed farther up the fence, yanking Ganke up with him.
“I’m sorry,” Ganke panted.
“Just hold on and stay up here,” Miles ordered as Ganke gripped the gate, looking down from the top. Below, Mucus Man started unzipping the bag as the rest of the goons waited like alligators in basketball shorts. They weren’t going to get out of this the easy way. Miles took a deep breath, and dove into the gator pit.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“Miles, forreal. I’m sorry.”
More silence.
“At least you got your bag back. And we got the money, too. Those are good things, right?” Ganke and Miles sat on the B train, finally on their way back to school. Miles turned his phone off. He knew his parents would be calling, and he knew he’d have to lie—and I couldn’t get service—so he had to make sure the phone went straight to voice mail. “Crazy thing is, I don’t even think these shoes are worth this much.” Ganke flipped through the money, split it and gave Miles his share.
Miles sat next to him, his bag on his lap. His knee sore. His hands bruised. The spider-bite scar itching like it always did. He kept his focus straight ahead on the subway ad slogan: IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING. Couldn’t look at Ganke or even talk to him, he was so mad. Mad at himself, mostly.
The doors opened and four kids got on. Three were definitely in high school. One, elementary. Couldn’t have been older than nine.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” the little one announced. “Y’all know what time it is? It’s showtime!”
“SHOWTIME!” the older boys shouted. Then they began dancing—ticking, waving, popping, locking, getting light. They climbed train poles, flipping back, then forward, all while avoiding kicking any rider in the face. Miles didn’t even look. Most people didn’t. You can always tell a tourist because they stare in amazement at showtime boys, as if they’re at the circus. But when you live here, you know their tricks, their jokes, the way the talented and adorable young one is the sweet spot to the pockets of fools. When you’re late and annoyed and your knuckles are bruised, there’s no time for showtime.
Ganke nudged Miles as the kids clapped and the music blared from a handheld stereo. Miles stared straight ahead. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” the young one said, running up and down the train car with a hat in his hand collecting money. When he got to the end of the car, where Ganke and Miles were sitting on a cramped two-seater, Ganke took one of the dollars he and Miles had just gotten from the basketball court and put it in the hat. Miles reached over and grabbed all the money left in Ganke’s hand.
“Kid…” he called. Little man turned around and Miles held the fistful of cash in the air. The kid’s face lit up and he beelined back over.
“What you…?” Ganke started, but he couldn’t get it out. “Miles…don’t…” Miles put his half and the rest of Ganke’s half in the hat. “Miles!”
Then, as if it were nothing, Miles returned to his position. Straight ahead. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.
“Um…Hi, Mrs. M. This is Ganke.…Yes…yes, I know, but see…Miles is…he’s in the bathroom. Yeah…he’s…I think it was the chicken. I think it messed him up.”
“The train. Tell her about the train,” Miles whispered from the other side of their dorm.
“And that’s why I’m calling and not Miles, to tell you that we were stuck on the train. I think somebody jumped or something…yeah…and Miles had to poop the whole time, so when we finally got off…I mean…Mrs. M., I swear I’ve never seen someone run so fast.” Ganke covered his mouth, stifling the laughter. “But we made it safely. And yes…he made it safely. Uh-huh. Okay, I’ll tell him to call you when he’s out. Okay, bye.” Ganke tapped the screen on his phone to end the call. “Boom. That’s how you do it.” He pretended to drop the cell phone as if he were dropping a microphone.
“Thanks.” Miles stretched his fingers, slowly squeezing air, his knuckles cracking.
“It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s cool, man.”
“Hey, I know things got a little crazy at the court, but can you at least admit that it was fun?” Ganke stood up, pulled his shirt over his head, then pulled down the white tank top he had on underneath. Miles didn’t budge. Not even a smirk. “Seriously? You mean to tell me you didn’t have a good time, not even when you slammed that last dunk and shattered the glass? Miles Morales, the stress box who everybody knows at this school, but nobody really knows, the geek with a razor-sharp hairline and the clean kicks…uh, most of the time…You didn’t enjoy being the man? Really?”
Miles sat on his bed scratching the back of his hand. He had kicked off his shoes and pitted his big toes against each other, one on top of the other. Ganke stared expectantly at him. Waiting for it…waiting…waiting…until finally a smile slipped onto Miles’s face.
“I knew it!” Ganke cheered after seeing the grin.
“Relax. You make it seem like dunking a basketball was a day at an amusement park. Maybe it was for you, but I’m the one who had to do all the work. Not to mention, I almost had my bag stolen and had to fight. That ain’t fun.”
“Okay, so maybe not the bag almost being stolen and the fighting part. But the rest of it…gold.”
“Ganke, it—”
“Gold.”
“Dude. Seriously, it—”
“Gold!”
“Okay, fine.” Miles sighed. “It was gold. It was freakin’ gold.”
Ganke burst into laughter. “Now that we got that settled, next order of business: I need to find out who Bruce Bruce is,” he said, pulling his laptop from his bag.
“Well, mine is getting in the shower. Wash Benji and the Bear off me.”
Miles sidestepped Ganke and headed for his closet where he kept his shower caddy. His and Ganke’s room was small, a tiny box, only a little bigger than Miles’s bedroom at his folks’ house. There were two twin beds, one on either side, desks in front of the beds, a closet along the back wall (with an added hook for Miles’s caddy) and a poster of Rihanna on the front wall that was tacked above a small table with a television on it. Under that table, a mess of wires and video game consoles. Old-school. Nintendo. Sega. An Atari they couldn
’t get to work. All controllers maxing out at four buttons. They were Miles’s and Ganke’s fathers’, passed down to their offbeat kids who had a love for eight-and sixteen-bit games. Games that were all fun and no stress. No shooters, no monsters—nothing, for Miles, that was real.
The games needed a closet of their own.
The showers were no better than the rooms. Everyone on their floor shared a big bathroom with toilets on one side, sinks in the middle, and shower stalls on the other side. Tiny cells with slimy walls. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty when Miles got there. They’d gotten back late, so most boys—at least the ones who actually took showers—had already come and gone. Miles set his caddy on one of the sinks. Looked at himself in the mirror. No marks on his face, which was all he really cared about. He knew he had to be careful to not leave evidence of fighting. His knee was a little puffy, but it was fine.
But as he put toothpaste on his toothbrush and jammed it in his mouth, Miles couldn’t stop thinking about what they said about him, why they wanted to beat him and Ganke up so bad anyway. That he had hustled them. Brush, brush, brush. And…he had. He knew that he could do things they couldn’t do. That there would be no way they could win the bet. He took advantage of them. Brush, brush, brush. And then after he took advantage of them, he beat them up. And that also wasn’t right. They had a right to be mad. Everyone gets mad at hustlers, especially if you’re on the victim side of the hustle. And Miles knew hustling was in his veins. You’re just like me.
Ugh, he thought, splashing water on his face. Whatever. He turned the shower on, his flip-flops slick on the floor from a week’s worth of soap scum. Someone’s hair was in the drain, gluey from mixing with a piece of soap the size of a skipping stone. It was fun, though, Miles thought. Even that part. That’s why…whatever.
When Miles got back to the room, Ganke was sitting at his desk, flipping through a notebook, his laptop frozen on a clip of a comedy series from the nineties. Miles put on a pair of shorts and sat back on his bed to massage his knee. “So what’d I miss?” he asked, pointing at Ganke’s notebook.
Miles Morales Page 3