That, along with the fact that Miles had written what he thought were two terrible poems (though the one about Alicia was decent) and would surely need the extra credit, was all he needed to push him over the top. He had to get to the open mic. He had to make sure he was accounted for, and he had to get this poem to Alicia. He could just slip it to her without having to make a big fuss about everything. She could read it when she got back to her room, and tomorrow, they could at least have a human conversation. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.
But how? How was he going to get out of work? It’s not like he could call someone to cover for him. Well, he could, but then he’d have to lie about being sick and all that, and he wasn’t up for the theatrics. The only other way he could think of was to just step out for a few minutes, run to the quad, make sure Ms. Blaufuss knew he was there, say what he needed to say to Alicia, and then head back to the store before anyone came in. He’d already been there over an hour without one single customer. Odds were, no one would ever know.
But first, he had to figure out how to deal with the camera.
There was only one security camera and it was just above his head. Miles didn’t know if Dean Kushner had anyone check the footage, but he knew there was a good chance no one ever did. It would’ve been a waste of time to review a store surveillance film of the back of Miles’s head every other day, occasionally catching him nodding off. But to be safe, Miles needed to disconnect it, just for the little while he was gone.
Based on what he’d seen in every heist movie he’d watched with his dad, Miles knew one of the most consistent blind spots for any surveillance camera is right underneath it. And if he did this right, the footage would just look like he stepped back for a moment, out of the frame, and then stepped back into it.
Miles backed up as far as he could, until he was just about up against the wall, the camera directly above him. He listened for more bumbling kids. Heard nothing. Then, in a flash, he slipped into camo mode, his entire body, including his clothes, blending in with the eggshell paint. He climbed up the wall until he was eye level with the back of the camera. There was a thick black cord, obviously connecting to the power source. He yanked it out. Then climbed down, coming out of camouflage as if literally stepping out of the wall. He listened again for more students, but heard nothing. Then he ripped the Alicia sijo from his notebook, folded it up, slid it in his pocket, and slipped out the door.
The quad was just a square patch of cement in the middle of campus with benches and a small fountain pool that seniors threw their dorm keys in before graduating. Dean Kushner fined every senior who didn’t turn in a key before walking across the stage, but nobody cared about the petty fine—the key tossing was tradition. By the time Miles showed up, the benches were all occupied, girls crammed on each other’s laps, guys perched on the corners of the wooden seats. Everyone else stood around the key pool, listening to whoever’s turn it was to recite.
Of course, Ryan “Ratshit” Ratcliffe was mid-poem, as Miles ghosted around the perimeter of the crowd.
“I just need you to know that I’ll be right here, because I love you today, and I’ll love you next year, and I know I seem cold, but that’s just ’cause I fear, that you’ll break my heart. Don’t break my heart. My heart. Don’t break it, girl.” Ryan’s voice had slipped into sexy-poetry tone. As people kinda clapped and shook their heads, and Ryan took a bow—of course Ryan took a bow—Alicia emerged from the crowd. Miles couldn’t see her at first, just the braided bun on top of her head. But then she stepped up onto the wall of the fountain.
And almost on perfect cue, the buzzing in his head and stomach began.
“Let’s give it up for Ryan, y’all!” she said with forced enthusiasm. “Thank you for sharing. Let’s see who we have next.” While Alicia read down a wrinkled piece of paper containing the list of readers and performers, Miles scanned the room for Ganke, stretching his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse of Ganke’s jet-black hair in the sea of blond, brown, and red. He looked to the left. Winnie Stockton, who could only be there because she opted to do her work-study one hour every morning before class, and weekends, standing between Ms. Blaufuss and Mr. Chamberlain. What was he doing here? Miles thought at first, but realized that Mr. Chamberlain fit the stereotype of everything Miles hated about poets. Super serious. Hands pressed. Eyes closed. Repeating himself, just for effect. Ugh.
Quickly, Miles ran over to Ms. Blaufuss. Because…priorities.
“Hey, Ms. Blaufuss.”
“Miles!” Ms. Blaufuss lit up when she saw him. “So glad you could make it!”
“Thanks, um, I can only stay for a second because—” Buzz. Fight against it. Push it away. You know it’s nothing.
“Because you’re supposed to be working, aren’t you, Morales?” Mr. Chamberlain interjected. Miles locked eyes with him. And again, there was something there, something behind Mr. Chamberlain’s pupils, retracting to let less light in. Something…off. Mr. Chamberlain’s tone was just sharp enough for Ms. Blaufuss to open her mouth in protest.
“Miles,” Ms. Blaufuss said, glaring at Mr. Chamberlain. “Stay as long as you can. I got you marked.” She jotted his name in a small notepad. Mr. Chamberlain walked off. Not just to a different part of the crowd, but out of the crowd altogether, as if one stern glare from Ms. Blaufuss was enough to melt his cold, cold heart.
“Thank you,” Miles said, unsettled and confused. But he was happy Mr. Chamberlain was gone. Actually, he was happy about that and the extra credit. Now with the first note of business complete, it was time to address the second.
He set his sights back on Alicia, who was reading a short poem she said her great-grandmother had written during the Harlem Renaissance. That was the other thing about Alicia that was different. She was Harlem royalty. Old black money. A descendant of artists who hobnobbed with people like Langston Hughes and Jacob Lawrence. As a matter of fact, her family were major donors to BVA, making it possible for kids like Miles and Winnie and Judge to attend.
“My great-granny and her peers were the Dream Defenders of their time. And with that, I’m happy to invite to the mic, as far as I’m concerned, one of the great ones from ours.” Miles caught Alicia’s eye as she wound up her intro, and an unusual smile crept onto her face. “Put your hands together for my girl, Dawn Leary.”
Once Dawn took center stage, Alicia pushed through the crowd toward Miles. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper—the poem. Her poem. But it just so happened that coming from the other direction—from the other side of the swarm of students—was Ganke.
“Hey, man, you made it!” Ganke said, throwing an arm around Miles. Miles immediately shoved the poem back in his pants.
And before Miles could reply, Alicia called out, “Miles!” and slipped past the last person standing between them. Miles pulled the poem back out. But only halfway. Elbowed Ganke in the ribs as cool as possible, which for Miles was not cool at all.
Ganke grunted. He took his arm from around Miles’s shoulder, a smirk dripping off his face. “Um, I…will…talk…to you later,” he said robotically, backing away even more awkwardly.
“I swear, Ganke is one of the strangest dudes I know. And I love it.” Alicia watched quizzically as Ganke faded back into the crowd.
“Yeah.” Miles ignored Ganke’s silliness and tried to swallow his nerves as Alicia turned back to him.
“Anyway, it’s crazy to see you here.” She leaned in for a hug, as Miles jutted his hand out. Then noticing Alicia was going for the hug, he jutted his other hand out as if he were welcoming a slow dance. But Alicia pulled back, confused but still smiling, and awkwardly extended her hand for a bungled shake. Sandalwood and a hint of sweat rushed Miles’s nostrils.
“Why you say that?” Miles said to Alicia way too bluntly. He tried to laugh it off, but that made it even weirder. “I mean…I like poetry.”
“Is that right? You like poetry?” Alicia replied, seeing right through him.
“Yeah. I like yours. And, um, your great-grandmother’s.” Miles slid the rest of the folded paper from his pocket. “That’s art and history. Love that.”
“Do you? Well, maybe art, but I don’t know about history, since it seemed to make you sick earlier today.” Her face flowed from excitement to concern. “You good?”
“Oh yeah, that. Yeah…I’m fine. Just…cafeteria food, I guess. Sorry about that.”
Miles’s body had been buzzing with pure nerves since he saw her. But he was ignoring it, or at least he was trying to. He didn’t sneak out of his job for a performance of Almost Puke on Alicia, the sequel. He could feel the rumble in his stomach, and pushed it back to the point that his hands were shaking.
Alicia noticed the paper rattling in Miles’s grip. “Oh my goodness, did you come to read?”
“No…this…this…”
“Miles, you have to. Come on. I know you’ve got something going on in there,” she said looking him square in the eyes, her lisp like the saxophone playing in the store, except played by a much cooler musician. “I can see it.”
Miles didn’t feel himself nod, and he didn’t hear himself murmur okay. But he did. As Dawn Leary finished her piece, the hand claps immediately sucked the fog from Miles’s head and he heard Alicia tell him that she was calling him up next.
“Wait…what? No,” Miles called, but she was already burrowing back though the crowd.
Miles took a step back. Then another.
“Thank you, Dawn.” Alicia and Dawn hugged. “Y’all give it up for my girl!” Alicia commanded.
And another step back.
“Next up, we’ve got a newcomer. A virgin to the mic.”
Another step. And another.
“So I want y’all to be kind to him. It ain’t easy getting up here, sharing your soul.”
One more.
“Put your hands together for Miles Morales.”
Camouflage mode. Vanished into thin air.
“Miles?” Alicia craned her neck looking for him. And he was there, looking right back at her, retreating.
The journey back across campus was a long and lonely one. Miles talked to himself the whole way.
“All you had to do was say no,” he said.
“There’s nothing wrong with just saying you’re a little shy,” he said.
“Or you just could’ve explained that you had written the poem for her,” he said.
As he passed, some of his fellow students—latecomers on their way to the open mic—snapped their necks to the side, chasing the voice of a person they couldn’t see. Miles hadn’t taken into account that he was still invisible.
Once Miles got back to the store, before he even opened the door, he looked around to make sure no one was there to witness the door open “on its own.” Once the coast was clear, Miles slipped back inside, back behind the register, back against the wall, where he climbed up, plugged the security camera back in, then reappeared just as he had planned.
His shift was almost up, and he spent the rest of it running an imaginary conversation, line for line, out loud, between him and Alicia.
No, I can’t read this in front of everyone, because I wrote it for you.
For me? Miles, you wrote this for me? Wow.
Yeah, I’m not Langston Hughes or nobody like that, but I hope you like it.
Oh, Miles. I love it. It’s beautiful.
And once he caught himself, he waggled his head, shook his imaginary love story out, grabbed his backpack, and closed up shop.
When he got back in the dorm, it was still empty—Miles figured by now Ganke had probably read a poem and signed up for a self-imposed encore. Normally, Miles would use the time to unwind and take his mind off of everything by tuning out and plugging in. Video games. Super Mario Bros., to be exact. But tonight, he chose torture instead. He sat on the edge of his bed, reached for his bag, and pulled out Austin’s letter again, this time starting in the middle and reading to the end.
I’M FIFTEEN, AND AS I’M SURE YOU FIGURED OUT BY NOW, I’M LOCKED UP. BEEN IN HERE FOR A WHILE, AND I HAVE A WHILE TO GO. I GUESS IT’S IN MY BLOOD, AT LEAST ON MY DAD’S SIDE. I’M NOT SURE HOW WELL YOU KNEW MY FATHER. MY GRANDMA SAYS THE BROTHERS DIDN’T REALLY GET ALONG AND THAT THEY HADN’T SPOKEN IN A LONG TIME. SO THAT PROBABLY MEANS YOU DIDN’T REALLY KNOW HIM. MAYBE, IF YOU WANT, I COULD FILL IN SOME OF THAT STUFF. TELL YOU HOW HE WAS, IF YOU WRITE BACK. I HOPE YOU DO.
SINCERELY,
AUSTIN DAVIS
PS: SORRY FOR THE PENCIL. I KNOW IT’S HARD TO READ. BUT THEY WON’T LET US USE PEN IN HERE.
Miles folded the letter once more, set it on his desk. Austin assumed Miles didn’t know Aaron. That the rift between brothers kept them apart. But Miles knew him well. Too well. He knew that the only reason he was Spider-Man was because of the spider in Aaron’s house, stolen from the lab. He knew Aaron knew about his secret and tried to use it against him. He knew they fought, and that because of him, Aaron was dead, and Austin didn’t have a father anymore.
You’re just like me.
Miles yanked his notebook from his bag again, flipped to a blank page, and started writing.
Dear Austin,
Thanks for the letter. I have to tell you the truth. I’m a little surprised. I don’t really know how else to say it. I’m just so shocked. First, I guess I should say it’s nice to meet you, even though it’s like this. Or, maybe a better way to say it is, it’s good to know you exist. I had no idea. I don’t know if your grandmother told you, but I’m an only child, and I always wished there was someone for me to hang with. I always wanted a brother. Not saying you’re my brother, or anything. But just that it’s cool to know there’s someone else in the family in my age group. I wish I would’ve known, but the past is the past but better late than never, right? Maybe we can just start fresh. Okay, some things about me.
I’m sixteen.
I’m from Brooklyn.
I go to a bougie boarding school called Brooklyn Visions Academy. I’m on scholarship, and my folks still can’t afford it. A lot of rich kids acting like rich kids.
I have a homeboy named Ganke. Korean dude. Hilarious. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother.
I think that’s all I got.
And I did know knew your father. Uncle Aaron and I were close for a long time. I used to have to sneak and go see him, because my dad wouldn’t allow it. That’s why I’m surprised he never mentioned you, even though I guess I shouldn’t be because he probably knew that if he told me, I’d want to meet you, and if we met, and got close, eventually it would be harder to keep up the fact that we all had this secret relationship. And then I would be in trouble with my dad, and so would Uncle Aaron, and I’m not sure whether or not your grandma knows about some of the epic fights between those two. Crazy.
Anyway, I guess, if you have time, write me back. This is going to sound messed up, but I don’t mean it in a messed-up way—what’s it like in there?
Sincerely,
Miles
PS: Your father tried to kill me. Maybe someday I could come visit.
Miles set the letter to the side—it was much easier to write than poetry—and lay back on the bed waiting for Ganke to come bursting in, a barrel of braggadocio, going on and on about how whatever poem he shared at the open mic turned the quad fountain into a geyser and everybody cried and clapped as water came misting down onto them. Or something like that. Blah-blah-blah. But Miles wouldn’t make it. He wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes open long enough to laugh at Ganke, which would then turn into Ganke laughing at Miles once he found out that Miles punked out, once again, with Alicia. Because five minutes after Miles hit the pillow, he was asleep.
Miles woke up drenched in sweat, his heart jackhammering and his muscles tight and strained, as if they’d become ice beneath his skin. The only thing he remembered from the nightmare was that there was a cat. A cat he had never seen before. Matted white fur, its tail split into multiple tails all coiling like snakes. But Miles cou
ldn’t remember where he was and why the weird cat was there.
Miles sat up, stretched the stiff out of his joints, rubbed his eyes until they adjusted to the sunlight. He tried to remember what or who else was there in the dream. Was it Uncle Aaron? Maybe. Probably. But he wasn’t sure.
He got up, crept past Ganke, who had his covers yanked over his head, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash up. When Miles returned to the bedroom, Ganke pulled the blanket back from his face.
“What you doing up this early?” Miles asked.
“Not sleeping. Lot on my mind,” Ganke replied.
“You and me both.” Miles grabbed his jeans off the back of his desk chair.
“What about you? What you doing up?” Ganke asked, then went straight into a yawn.
“I have to go to the store to get a stamp and envelope so I can mail this off.” Miles picked the letter up off the desk. “It’s a letter to Austin.”
Ganke nodded. “And you sure you wanna do that?”
“I mean, what bad could it do? If he’s telling the truth, I get to have a cousin. If he’s lying, I get to be a friend to somebody locked down. And it only costs me a dollar.”
“A dollar, huh?” Ganke said, sitting up clearing the sleep from his throat. “I’d argue it’s cost a little more than that. You think maybe you’re doing this because of what happened with Aaron?”
Miles dabbed deodorant under his arms. Then, without responding, he grabbed a black T-shirt from a drawer and pulled it over his head. He went to the mirror. White skid marks down the side of his shirt from the deodorant. Of course. Ugh. He licked a finger and started scrubbing the fabric clean. After that, he brushed his hair, rubbed his thumbs across the stubble growing in around his hairline. Then, he snatched the letter off the desk and picked his backpack up off the floor. “I gotta go.”
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