Miles was never outside that early, and he was surprised at how peaceful it was. The leaves on the trees were fading from green to reddish-orange, like nature’s new color scheme for army fatigue. There was a crispness in the air, a breeze causing a whir all around him. It reminded him of early mornings in his neighborhood before everyone and everything was awake. Before sirens, and bus motors, and old-school soca blared from open windows. And as Miles walked across campus to the store thinking about the disaster the day before—possibly the worst Monday of his life—he reveled in the peace.
Until he got to the store.
The door was propped open and the campus police were inside interrogating Winnie.
“Just so we’re clear, you’ve had no customers this morning?”
“Sir, I told you. I came in a little while ago. I opened the door, did my usual inventory check to see what needed to be restocked because that’s usually what I spend my time doing during my shift since nobody is shopping this early in the morning anyway.” Winnie scratched her scalp through the silk scarf wrapped around her head.
No one’s shopping ever, Miles thought, but his snark was interrupted by the officers noticing him in the doorway.
“Son, no one’s allowed in the store right now. It’s under investigation,” an officer who looked too young to be balding barked. He held up the Halt! hand.
“Investigation?” Miles asked, his voice seesawing between concern and sarcasm. Miles’s eyes shot from the officer to Winnie.
“Yeah, I came in and all the cans of sausage were gone. Like, all of them. So I pulled up the inventory report because I couldn’t believe we sold them, and I was right, there were no sausages sold, which meant they were stolen.”
“Or vanished,” Miles said, now half nervous, half joking.
The officer cut his eyes at Miles. Cocked his head to the side, unamused.
“Wait.” Winnie looked like she was connecting the dots to something, dots that Miles had no clue needed connecting. “Maybe y’all should talk to him,” Winnie said pointing at both Miles and the officer. “Miles, weren’t you working last night?”
“Yeah,” Miles said, the words needling his throat. He glanced back at the young baldy, caught his steely eyes, then looked away. “But nothing happened.”
“Oh, something happened,” the officer said. Miles was perplexed, watching the young officer lick his chops. Nothing happened last night. At least, nothing in the store. But something was happening now. Something bad.
With a pen and pad at the ready, the officer started in on a string of questions, each one making Miles more and more nervous. “What time did you get to work?”
“Four.”
“About how many customers would you say you had?
“None.”
“Any suspicious behavior?”
“From who?”
“Did you ever leave the store for any reason?”
No answer.
“Did you ever leave the store for any reason?”
“No.”
“Did anyone look suspicious outside?”
“I just told you I didn’t leave the store.”
“Just checking. What time did you leave?”
“I didn’t leave.”
“I mean, when was your shift over?”
“Around seven.”
“Cool. If we have any more questions, we’ll find you.”
After the officer left, Miles tried to remember if he noticed anything different about the store when he’d returned from the open mic. The truth was, he hadn’t checked. Why would he? For one, his mind was on a bunch of other things: Alicia. Austin. Furthermore, the store didn’t seem different. Nothing was ever moved or rearranged. The notepads were along the wall. The pens and pencils behind the register. The sausage in the back. The only reason Winnie did the inventory report was because she had to in order to keep her job, not because it made any sense. Miles racked his brain for a moment, standing smack in front of the counter, before Winnie finally snapped him out of it.
“Miles?” she said. Then repeated, “Yo, Miles?”
“Yeah.” Miles blinked out of his daydream.
“Did you need something?” Winnie was perched on her elbows the exact same way Miles was the night before. Like a yoga pose—bored-convenience-store-worker pose.
“Oh…yeah. Just a stamp and an envelope.”
Winnie turned around, ripped a stamp off a roll, and grabbed an envelope. Slid them both across the counter.
Miles pulled a crumpled dollar from his pocket.
“Thanks,” he said, turning.
“What happened here last night?” Winnie prodded. “Like, forreal. I ain’t gon’ say nothing if you or Ganke loves those nasty sausages.” She shrugged like she knew Miles had taken them, though he didn’t.
“Winnie, you a sko-low like me. You of all people know I wouldn’t risk my scholarship for canned meat.”
“True.” She nodded. “Well, it probably won’t be nothing. I mean, all those cans stolen only equals about fifteen dollars. They can just bill you or your folks for that. I just had to report it because if I didn’t…”
“I know.” Miles understood. “I know.”
But he didn’t know there would be a knock on Mr. Borem’s door halfway through calculus. And that Mr. Borem would turn back to the class and call Miles’s name.
“A gentleman would like to see you,” Mr. Borem said, always calculated. And when Miles stood, Mr. Borem added, “You’ll want to take your belongings.”
From there, Miles was escorted by a different campus police officer down the hall, out of the main building, across campus, and into the admin building, where he was seated in the lounge outside the dean’s office—the waiting room of discipline. Miles slumped in a chair made of dark wood and burgundy leather until his mother and father showed up.
“What’s going on?” Miles’s mother asked, her face a knot of confusion.
“I don’t know,” Miles said.
“Did you do it?” his father asked.
“Do what?” Miles furrowed his brow, narrowed his eyes.
“Steal.”
“Steal? Of course not! They think I stole that stuff?”
“What do you think we’re—” Before Miles’s father could finish preemptively scolding Miles, Ms. Fletcher, the secretary, spoke over him.
“The dean will see you now.”
Five minutes later, Miles sat in Dean Kushner’s office in front of a big wooden desk carved with ornate designs similar to the ones on the good china at Miles’s parents’ house. Dean Kushner was a small man, and looked even smaller behind that desk. He had a perfectly round, pale bald head, the veins in it like stitches in a brand-new baseball. He wore small circle-framed glasses—of course—that were the exact size of his wide eyes. The guy was a mess of circles in a wool suit.
Miles’s parents sat on either side of him, their faces twisted. Both of them twitched their legs nervously. For Miles, this was even more of a nightmare then the ones involving Uncle Aaron. At least those all ended with him waking up, snapping out of it. But this was real. He had only been back to school one full day and was already teetering on another stretch of punishment. A much, much worse punishment.
“Please read this aloud,” Dean Kushner commanded, handing Miles a piece of paper.
Miles glanced at the paper, gnawing his bottom lip. He sighed, glanced up at Dean Kushner, then reluctantly cleared his throat and began.
“‘Dear Dean Kushner,
“‘My name is Miles Morales. I’m thirteen years old and from Brooklyn. I have an amazing mother and father who love me more than anything, which I know might seem strange for a teenager to admit. But I know what they’ve sacrificed for me and what they continue to sacrifice for me to stay on a direct path to success, and it’s because of their guidance that I’ve maintained a four-point-oh GPA in middle school. I’ve been taught how to be excellent, which is why I’m interested in attending Brooklyn Visions Academy, a school
that also prides itself on excellence.
“‘But I also pride myself on honesty. And if I’m being honest I have to also mention that even though I have a great family, I know there are people who look at us a certain way. The reason why is because my father wasn’t always the man he is today. He was a person who didn’t have anyone to steer him away from the traps of our community. Even though my neighborhood is a beautiful place to grow up, sometimes it can get complicated. And my father and his brother fell victim to the street, becoming teenage thieves, bringing problems to our neighborhood, and all of New York City.
“‘And even though my father, with the help of my mother, pulled himself out of that situation and cleaned his life up, his brother did not. My uncle continued to break the law, hurting people, until finally it caught up to him. This part of my family is also a part of me. The same fearlessness that led them to crime is what leads me to excellence. And my goal, if you give me the honor of attending Brooklyn Visions Academy, is to continue to prove that. I believe it’s not just about where you’re from, Dean Kushner, but also about where you’re going.
“‘Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to your reply.
“‘Sincerely,
“‘Miles Morales.’”
Miles set the paper back on the desk. Defeated.
“Now, Mr. Morales,” Dean Kushner said, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “Is this or is this not the letter you submitted with your application to this institution?”
“It is, sir,” Miles said.
“And did you or did you not say that you wouldn’t fall victim to the toxic patterns of your family?”
“Excuse me, Dean Kushner, but I don’t think—” Miles’s father interjected.
“I’m just paraphrasing what your son wrote, Mr. Davis.” The dean tapped the paper.
“I understand that, sir, but—”
“Um, we understand that, sir,” Miles’s mom stepped in to massage the moment. “But Miles said he didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t. Why would I steal something from the store I work at? And steal what? Sausage?”
“Dean Kushner, is there any proof?” Miles’s father asked, still fuming over the dean’s accusations.
“Well, funny you should ask, Mr. Davis, because actually there’s the footage from the surveillance.”
Footage?
Miles’s father cut his eyes at Miles. “Footage?” Miles wanted to breathe a sigh of relief because this evidence should’ve, in fact, cleared his name. But his muscles were still tight with confusion—there was no way he could be on film stealing sausage because he didn’t steal any sausage! Right? So why was he still so nervous?
“That’s right.” Dean Kushner got up from his desk and opened a cabinet to the left of him, which housed a television. He grabbed the remote, powered-on the monitor, and cut right to the scene of the crime. “Here, Miles is in the store. Now, you’ll see he backs up until he’s out of camera shot for a few seconds, and then suddenly, he’s back,” the dean explained like a lawyer in a courtroom drawing attention to Exhibit A.
“Okay…” Miles’s father said.
“Dean Kushner, this doesn’t really show much,” Mrs. Morales said.
“Ah. But it does.” Dean Kushner almost sounded cheerful. “Take a look at the time stamp. It jumps from six thirteen to six forty-four. Now, I don’t know how or why the camera cut out like that, but it would be silly to believe it was a coincidence. And quite frankly, if Miles didn’t steal anything, surely he should know who did because he would’ve been standing right there.” Dean Kushner tapped the TV screen. “It only makes sense that he somehow, during the thirty minutes the camera was down, stocked up—”
“On sausage?” Miles snapped. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked at his mother and father, their faces sour with uncertainty.
“Miles,” his father said. “Just tell me you’re not trying to protect anybody. If you didn’t do this, then tell Dean Kushner who did.”
“I don’t know who did it.”
“That’s because you did it,” the dean said matter-of-factly. “Just tell us the truth, son.”
Miles’s father drew a breath. His mom stepped in again.
“Sir, with all due respect, can you give us a moment?” She turned to her son, lowered her voice as if she could somehow have a private discussion without Dean Kushner hearing. “Miles.”
“I didn’t do it.” Miles’s head was swiveling back and forth between his parents. “Why would I steal that stuff?”
“Maybe to sell it in the dorm. Strip and flip just like—”
“No…that’s not…I didn’t…” Miles pleaded.
His father sighed. “Miles, son…please.”
“Dad, I really, really don’t know who did it.” He looked at his mother. “Ma…” His mother shook her head.
“Well, then, I’m not sure what other choice we have,” Dean Kushner said, pointing the remote at the TV, clicking it off. He picked up the personal statement Miles had submitted with his application, glanced at it again. “As you wrote in your own words, you could have chosen to rise to excellence,” the dean said, shaking his head. Miles’s father clenched his jaw. “Such potential to break the chain,” he continued. Miles’s father now gripped his chair and tapped his foot more intensely. “But unfortunately it doesn’t look like that will be happening.” Dean Kushner let the paper fall from his hand.
“Wait.” Miles spoke up. His parents perked up. Dean Kushner looked up. “I left the store. I didn’t steal anything, but I left for…a few minutes.”
“What?” Miles’s mother said.
“You did what?” from his father.
A childlike embarrassment washed over Miles. The kind he used to feel when he wet the bed when he was a kid. “I just…I just wanted to check out the open mic. So I cut the camera, and…left the store.” Miles dropped his head dramatically, pressed his chin against his chest, and rocked back and forth, deflated.
Miles’s parents glanced at each other.
“Are you sure you’re telling us the truth, son?” Miles’s father asked, his voice dipping into further suspicion.
Miles lifted his face. “Dad, I’m not lying. That’s what happened,” he said. His father nodded, then looked back at the dean.
“Well,” Dean Kushner started. He rubbed his round jaw. “Without further proof of who actually stole the items from the store, I suppose I can’t expel you, son. Not this time.” Miles’s mother instantly relaxed her shoulders, relieved.
“Oh, thank you, Dean Kushner,” she said, her hands clasped together, followed by, “Gloria a Dios.”
“But.” The dean whipped the glasses from his face and pointed them at Miles. “You’re fired from the store, and the work-study program. I’m sorry, folks, but, effective immediately, your room-and-board voucher has been rescinded.”
The post-meeting walk was a silent one. Just the sound of hard soles and high heels clacking against the pavement. Once they all got to the car, Miles’s father got in the driver’s seat. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said in a gruff tone. Then he closed the door.
Miles’s mother gave him a cold hug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for…” Miles’s voice began to crack. His mother didn’t respond. She just tightened her lips like she had something to say, and then released him. “I guess I’ll see you this weekend,” he said, low, as she climbed in on the passenger side.
Miles caught the tail end of Ms. Blaufuss’s class. He handed her his pass and took his seat.
“Where were you?” Ganke whispered in Miles’s ear. Miles didn’t say anything. Just shook his head.
“Miles, we’re sorry you missed the fabulous poems about family,” Ms. Blaufuss said. “But just to catch you up, the homework assignment tonight has to do with even more family exploration. I want you to either call your parents or search online for the meaning of your name.” Great. If there was one thing Miles didn’t want to do, it was call h
is parents. About anything. Ms. Blaufuss fiddled with the plastic bracelets on her wrists and continued. “It can be your first name, your middle name, your last name, it doesn’t matter. And if you can’t find any actual meaning, then ask your folks why they named you what they did. Then write a sijo on your findings. Got it?”
Miles offered a slight nod, still reeling from what had just happened in Dean Kushner’s office. He sucked his lips into his mouth and pinched them down. He felt like he wanted to cry. Or scream.
The bell rang.
“Bro, where were you?” Ganke asked. “I needed you to talk me off the freakin’ ledge. Everyone was talking about how much they love their families. And, I mean, I love mine too, but…y’know. People were talking about their dads the same way they talk about their dogs. And all I kept thinkin’ was, where the hell is Miles?”
“Kushner’s office. With my folks.” Miles hadn’t even taken anything out of his backpack, so he just threw it over his shoulder and watched Alicia walk out of the room without even looking back at him.
“With your parents?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you about it later,” Miles grumbled, now moving through the grid of desks.
“Wait, you’re not coming to lunch?”
“Nah, I’m not hungry. I think I’m just gonna go sit in the library until it’s time for Chamberlain’s class.”
Ganke didn’t try to fight Miles on that one. Just gave him five and walked away.
Miles ghosted down the hall in a total head-funk, his fellow classmates zipping by him as blurs of pink and peach and the occasional brown. Like Judge, who extended his hand to Miles as he approached. Miles, by sheer muscle memory, gave Judge a five as he sounded off about the Halloween party.
“Ganke said you finally gon’ come,” Judge said, the words sort of floating around Miles’s ears but not actually entering. Miles was too busy thinking about what his parents might’ve been talking about.
Do you think our son is a thief?
He said he didn’t do it.
But do you believe him? I mean, did you tell the truth when you were stealing?
Sausage in a can?
Where was Ganke?
An open mic? We didn’t send him there to be a rapper.
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