“Hi, Ms. Blaufuss,” Miles said, a slight twinge of embarrassment in his voice. He knew everyone knew he had been suspended, and more importantly he knew everyone thought they knew why. The kid who had to pee so bad he was willing to be punished for it. When really he was the kid who is Spider-Man. Well, as of the night before, the kid formally known as Spider-Man.
“Yo, Ms. Blaufuss.” Ganke followed up, excitedly, “I’ve been working on my sijos.”
“Yeah, he has.” Miles shook his head, but stopped shaking it when Alicia Carson sat down at the desk beside him.
Alicia. A beautiful lump in his throat. All brains, brown skin, and braids. A slightly crooked smile and just enough of a lisp to be charming. She smelled like vanilla, but Miles knew there was also a touch of sandalwood, probably a spritz of some kind of perfume just behind her ear. His mother loved sandalwood. Burned sandalwood incense to kill the smell of fried fish in the house all the time.
“Hey, Miles,” Alicia said.
“Hey, Alicia.” In the corner of his eye, Miles saw Ganke bouncing his eyebrows like a creep. Miles talked to Ganke about Alicia all the time, and, being the best friend he was, Ganke was always trying to convince Miles that she liked him back and that he should make a move. But Miles wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wanted to, but all the cool he thought he had was currently balled up into a spandex mess in his closet.
“Okay, everyone, settle down.” Ms. Blaufuss stood in the front of the class with just her fingers tucked into her jean pockets. “I hope everybody had a good weekend. I hope you all took a moment to breathe in the poetry all around you.” The poetry all around you. Normally statements like that made Miles cringe, but Ms. Blaufuss could get away with it. “We’re going to be working on sijos all week, using the first ten minutes of class to write. It doesn’t have to be perfect or even finished, but I want you to build your syllabic muscles.” Ms. Blaufuss curled her arm as if flexing her bicep. “Now, does anybody wanna throw out a prompt we should use?” Chrissy Bentley, who was sitting on the other side of the room, flung her hand up. “Chrissy?”
“Dogs.”
“Dogs?” Ryan Ratcliffe scowled.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with dogs?”
Ganke leaned forward and whispered in Miles’s ear, “Dude, I can’t write a sijo about a cockapoo. Not gonna do it.” Miles held in his laughter.
“Okay, so Ryan, what do you think is a better prompt?” Ms. Blaufuss asked.
“I mean…” Ryan wiped one hand over the other as if he were washing them. “Love.”
The class groaned. Seriously? Ryan “Ratshit” Ratcliffe was the kind of dude who never left his dorm without splashing his neck in old-man cologne that smelled like black pepper. Plus he had the I look like I might be on TV thing down. Blue eyes. Face like it had been chiseled out of stone. Teeth like they’d been specially made from elephant tusk. Dude was so TV. So gross.
“Love, huh?” Ms. Blaufuss said. “Okay, well, how ’bout we do love, but we keep it open. That way, Chrissy, you can talk about how much you love your dog. Ryan, you can talk about how much you love—”
“Yourself,” Chrissy dropped in. The class rumbled with muted laughter. Ryan was too cool to even be fazed.
“Or whatever you want.” Ms. Blaufuss pinched back a chuckle. “Everyone can use the love prompt any way they desire, okay? Ten minutes, starting…now.”
The class instantly quieted. Ms. Blaufuss darted over to Miles and squatted beside his desk.
“Has Ganke explained any of this to you?” she whispered.
“He…sorta.”
“I tried,” Ganke said, too loud.
“Shhhh,” from someone in the class.
“He tried,” Miles confirmed.
“Okay, it’s real simple. Three lines. Each one has to be between fourteen and sixteen syllables. And they all have jobs. The first line sets up the situation, the second develops it, and the third is the twist.” Ms. Blaufuss spun the top off of an invisible bottle. “Got it?”
Seemed easy enough. But once Miles started thinking about what he wanted to write about, especially as it pertained to love, he got stuck. Of course, there was his mother—she was the easiest person to write about, but he didn’t know what to say about her. I love you is only three syllables. I love you, Ma—four. I love you so much, Ma—six. Or he could write about his father. Miles had been thinking about him a lot since he got back to BVA the night before. Thinking about the talk on the stoop about how Uncle Aaron had been suspended a lot. About how the most heroic thing you could do is take care of your community. About how sometimes to love someone, you have to be hard on them. Miles started scribbling.
My father’s love looks like…
Miles counted out the syllables on his fingers. Started again.
To my father, love sometimes means—
“And time’s up,” Ms. Blaufuss announced. Ugh. He was just finding his groove. “Does anyone want to share?” Ms. Blaufuss asked.
Lots of hands went up, and Miles didn’t have to turn around to know that Ganke was waving his around like a madman.
“Um…how ’bout…you, Alicia.” Ms. Blaufuss motioned for her, smiling. Miles could hear Ganke deflating behind him, his frustrated breath crawling up the back of Miles’s neck. “Come up to the front of the class.” Alicia took her place in front of everyone, her paper in her hand, the purple ink bleeding through the back. “What’s the name of your sijo?”
“It’s untitled,” Alicia said. She pursed her lips for just a second, then began.
“A romantic mountaintop view of the world is love for most
Being that close to clouds strips them of form, turns them to fog
Perhaps the real beauty is on the way up, where like is.”
The class erupted for a grinning Alicia as she returned to her seat.
“That was amazing,” Miles leaned over and said to her. She was known around BVA as a poet and even headed up the school’s poetry club—the Dream Defenders—which of course, Ms. Blaufuss was the advisor of. Miles figured she was good—he never thought anything negative about her, ever—but he had never actually been to any of the poetry club’s events, mainly because he didn’t think he’d get it. Only one person could say stuff like the poetry all around you, and that person was not a teenager. Unless of course, Alicia said it. She could’ve said anything. She could’ve written about her love for freakin’…cockapoos, and Miles would’ve found some redeeming quality in it.
“Thanks,” she said, blushing slightly.
“Fantastic, Alicia,” Ms. Blaufuss said. “I should mention, Alicia and the Dream Defenders will be hosting an open mic this evening at six in the quad. I’d love to see you all there sharing some of this work, okay? And to sweeten the pot, if you show up, there’s extra credit in it for you. Poetry is about community—it’s not just about expression, but also being a witness to that expression.” Ms. Blaufuss glanced at Miles. He could definitely use the extra credit. “Again, nice job, Alicia.”
“Yo, you think maybe Alicia’s half-Korean?” Ganke whispered in Miles’s ear.
Miles didn’t respond. Just swatted Ganke’s words away like a swarm of annoying gnats.
In the midst of the cafeteria cacophony of pitchy voices, Miles choked down what he could of his lunch and took two small sips of apple juice before the bell rang. Kids jumped up from the lunch tables and poured into the hall. Ganke, who had already had Chamberlain’s class that morning, slapped Miles’s hand before they went their separate ways.
“Good luck,” Ganke said.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Cue the ominous organ music.
As Miles entered the classroom, Mr. Chamberlain was scribbling a quote passionately across the board, his handwriting scratchy and jagged. When he finished writing, Mr. Chamberlain turned to face the students, still filling in their desks. His skin was yellowy and thin, and his lips—beneath his furry slug of a mustache—were chapped from constant licking. He assumed his normal meditati
ve stance—hands together, woven fingers, his face a tight fist.
“War means fighting, and fighting means killing,” he said softly. Miles refused to look him in the face. Actually he refused to look anyone in the face, still embarrassed about how the suspension went down. Alicia, who also had this class with Miles, sat in front of him. Right in front of him.
“War means fighting, and fighting means killing,” Mr. Chamberlain repeated, the students settling into silence. He was referring to the quote he’d scrawled on the board behind him. “War…” he started again, now closing his eyes. There was a hush in the room. For a few, it was because they were amused. For others, like Miles, it was out of respect…or maybe fear. But for most, it was from boredom. Most students used Mr. Chamberlain’s class as nap time, dozing off while he droned from the front of the room with closed eyes, almost as if he was speaking in some kind of intense dream state. “War means fighting, and fighting means killing,” he repeated for the last time. Every day, he delivered a new quote three times like a chant, an incantation summoning the spirit of this sucks.
And…this sucked.
Mr. Chamberlain picked up right where Ganke said he left off, explaining to the class what America would be if slavery hadn’t existed.
“It could be argued that the country as we know it wouldn’t even be here. The luxuries you all love so much, like your precious cell phones, might still be just a lofty thought meant for an alien planet somewhere far away. Slavery was the building block of our great country. We shouldn’t just blindly write off the argument for the Confederacy wanting to keep it. It could very well be argued that they weren’t just fighting for the present, but also for the future.”
While Mr. Chamberlain was yapping, Miles squirmed in his seat. Not because he had to go to the bathroom—no, he knew what Mr. Chamberlain was stating so boldly was dead wrong. Morally. There were so many things to consider. The most obvious was…slavery. Human beings enslaved, mistreated, killed.
Then again, maybe Chamberlain was calling everyone’s bluff—all the bored students who he had to know weren’t paying any attention. Maybe he was trying to make them angry so they would engage. Like Brad Canby, a trust-fund goon with a pockmarked face who was always more concerned with getting a laugh than getting an A. He never paid attention in any class, but especially not in Mr. Chamberlain’s. But judging from Alicia’s head shaking in front of him, Miles knew she was just as disturbed by what the teacher was saying. And that was enough to make him put his hand up.
But before he could call out for Mr. Chamberlain—who could never see raised hands because his eyes were always closed—Miles lowered his hand. Then he brought it up to his temple.
His head was buzzing.
Oh no. Not again.
Miles sat still in his desk, trying to block Mr. Chamberlain out and let it pass. The buzzing will go away. No big deal. It’s nothing, anyway. But Mr. Chamberlain was really digging in now. “And, though given so much credit after the war for freeing slaves, it mustn’t be ignored that at the beginning of his presidency, Abraham Lincoln’s policies shifted dramatically from the antislavery platform he’d campaigned on.”
Buzz. Buzz.
Mr. Chamberlain’s voice distorted in Miles’s ears. Don’t get up. It’ll pass. It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing. He stared at the back of Alicia’s neck, the fuzzy hair left unbraided at her nape, curling toward him. What if…? No. But seriously, what if someone’s hurt? What if the city’s being torn apart? He kept trying to ignore it, but with every pulsing vibration came the nagging possibility that someone was in danger.
Miles Morales was having a full-on meltdown.
Miles thought about the people he saw in his neighborhood tweaking on the block, trying to fight off whatever they might’ve been addicted to. The old men, crashing into the bodega door with the shakes, just trying to get to the fridge. The ladies, scratching their heads and forearms, trying to remember how to get home. Trying to remember when they left the house in the first place. The Cyrus Shines.
“They going through it,” Miles’s father would say to explain the withdrawal, the sickness. “Hang in there,” he’d say to them as he and Miles walked by.
Miles needed to hang in there. To resist the urge to save someone other than himself. But he was getting light-headed. His heart was beating faster than it ever had, and it felt like his veins had tightened, making it possible to actually feel the blood coursing through his body.
To try to steady his mind, he fell into a routine, a pattern to get through the class.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Breathe. Blink the blur away. Breathe.
Sandalwood. Calm.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Block out the droning wah-wah-wah of Mr. Chamberlain’s voice.
“Yes, the Thirteenth Amendment states that there shall be no more slavery in the United States, except as punishment for crime. Perhaps it could be argued that the enslavement of our criminals is still keeping our great country alive.” That statement was like a needle stuck in Miles’s spine, tightening his body, forcing him to glance up. He caught Chamberlain’s eyes, which, surprisingly, were open just for a moment, leering directly at him. Then Chamberlain closed his eyes, steeled his face, and finished his statement. “That is, in the minds of our Confederate forefathers.”
Buzz.
Breathe. Blink the blur away. Breathe.
Was he…smiling?
Sandalwood. Calm.
Alicia, sensing Miles staring at the back of her neck like a weirdo, turned to the side, caught him out of the corner of her eye. Smirked, her cheek dimpling deep enough for Miles to want to dive in.
Sandalwood. Calm. Breathe. Breathe.
And then, finally…finally…the bell rang. Chair legs scraped against linoleum as people jumped up from their desks. Miles slowly stood, a ring of sweat around his T-shirt collar, relieved. He’d made it.
“You think he’s serious, or is he baiting us?” Alicia spoke softly to Miles as she packed her books away in her bag.
“Um…I don’t know,” Miles said, wiping his forehead, then zipping his bag. Mr. Chamberlain was erasing the quote he’d written at the beginning of class. Miles scowled at his back.
“Why you looking like that?” Alicia uttered, studying Miles’s face. Miles caught himself and turned his grimace to a grin. But Alicia seemed doubly confused. “Now, why you looking like that? Did you enjoy that mess?”
“What, the class?” Miles looked down for a moment to gather himself. “Of course not. No. No.” His head still buzzing, his stomach still churning, sweat still leaking from his skin. He probably looked like he had pneumonia. Don’t pass out, he thought. Don’t pass out. And while coaching himself out of passing out, he also knew he couldn’t pass up on this opportunity to say something nice about Alicia. A compliment. But not about the way she looked or smelled or the slight th she substituted for every s. He needed to say something that would offset the creepy look on his face. Then it hit him—he’d tell her how much he’d liked her poem. About the mountain. Of love. And like. “Hey…um…so, this is random but I enjoyed your po—” he started, but the words got trapped under the rock rolling up his throat. He swallowed it back down, and tried again, no longer smiling. A burp escaped. Alicia cocked her head to the side. “Sorry.” Miles covered his mouth to block belch breath. “I was saying I—” His words caught again. “I was saying I enjoyed your…your…” Suddenly it was more than just hiccups or burps. He was heaving. Alicia took a step back, stared at him, a look of concern on her face.
“Miles?”
“Sorry, sorry, I…” He put a hand over his mouth, lurched forward. “Oh…God. I…” And then he bolted away from Alicia, past Mr. Chamberlain, almost bowling over the lingering students standing in the doorway, to get to the bathroom.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
“Yooooo.” Ganke came slamming into the dorm room, holding some envelopes in one hand, and wa
ving around an orange piece of paper in the other. Miles was lying on his side scribbling his best version of a sijo. He glanced up at Ganke. Ganke slowed. “What’s wrong with you?”
Miles put his pen down. “I talked to Alicia. Like, talked to her talked to her.”
“Okay, and…”
“And…I almost threw up on her.”
“Wait. You mean, like, you actually almost puked on her? Like…puked pesto penne pas—”
“Yes, man,” Miles cut him off. Ganke strained his neck muscles to stifle his smile, but couldn’t hold it. He threw the envelopes on his desk and slapped his hand over his mouth to muzzle the laughter. “It’s not funny,” Miles grumped.
“Oh, I know it’s not. I mean, it is. But it’s also not. Because it’s…disgusting. Like, there’s not enough hot water on Earth to make you ever feel clean again. I mean, I would have to figure out if there’s some kind of surgery to replace my skin if somebody splashed me with a vomit comet.” He mimed a gag. “Seriously, think about—”
“Yo, you wanna hear what happened or not?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”
Miles ran through the story—Chamberlain’s lesson, the spidey-sense malfunction, the small talk with Alicia, and of course, the almost-upchuck, which led to a mad dash down the hall to the boys’ bathroom.
“But by the time I made it into a stall, the feeling was gone. My spidey-sense had finally worn off, or…whatever.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I just…I don’t know.” Miles scratched his chin. “Chamberlain gave me this look.”
“What kind of look?”
“Like, a look. I can’t explain it.” Miles took a second to think about that moment in class. The way he was feeling, Chamberlain’s searing eyes. “I mean, you know how every time my spidey-sense starts buggin’ out and I run to see what’s going on and I never find anything?” Ganke nodded, and Miles continued. “Well, what if it’s coming from inside the classroom?”
“You mean…”
“I mean, what if it’s him setting it off?”
Ganke looked at Miles sideways, then closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. “Look, Chamberlain’s definitely out of his mind. Like…out there. The mess he says in class proves that for sure. Plus, you know he probably eats stuff like cottage cheese, and anybody who eats that crap gotta be evil, not just to people around them, but also to their own taste buds and butts, because I hear cottage cheese makes you—”
Miles Morales Page 5