“Who does? It’s gross.” Ganke unpaused the game, his thumbs working the controller as Mario jumped on bricks and onto the heads of goombas.
“Gross, stupid, whatever. It doesn’t matter. Dean Kushner fired me from the store, and the whole work-study program, so now my folks have to pay out of pocket to cover my food and my luxurious life in this funk-box with you.”
Ganke paused the game again, turned back toward Miles. “My man, I know you mad right now, and you just talking, but this ain’t no funk-box, and if it is, it ain’t because of me. First of all, you the one who wears the same jeans every day.”
“That’s how you break them in.”
“Whatever. And second of all, I’m Korean. We don’t have BO.”
“What?”
“Just trust me on that one.”
Miles looked at Ganke like he had two heads. “Look, the point I’m trying to make is, I can’t let my parents pay for this—for my mistake. Things are already tight, and the amount of money they’re probably gonna have to shell out to keep me in this dorm is gonna jam them up.” Miles knocked on his forehead. “So I gotta figure something out.”
“Just beg Kushy Kushy for your job back.”
“Thought about that, but let’s be real. When was the last time you’ve seen Kushner smile? I mean, he won’t even loosen up his face, so why would he loosen up on me? Not to mention, none of this is probably gonna matter anyway, because I just flipped out on Chamberlain and smashed a desk. So they’ll probably expel me for destruction of school property.”
“You did what? A desk? Dude, what’s wrong with you?”
“Ganke, I’m telling you, he’s…there’s something about him. I just couldn’t help it. But surprisingly he didn’t say nothing to me after class, or even try to stop me from leaving, so, we’ll see.”
“I mean, he ain’t write you up, but you still might be screwed. So what you gonna do?” First from Alicia, now from Ganke. This was a question Miles was getting tired of hearing. Ganke leaned back in his chair, rested his arms on his belly. He noticed the suit on the bed. “Wait, is the sabbatical over already? Are you about to become a hero-for-hire? I hope so. Or are you just about to go find a replacement desk for Chamberlain? Which, I have to tell you, doesn’t really seem like a job for Spider-Man.”
“No. No. And…no.” Miles grabbed the mask and got up from the bed. There was a mirror between his and Ganke’s beds, the same mirror Miles checked out his jeans and sneakers in every day. The same mirror Ganke used to imitate Miles checking out his jeans and sneakers every day. Looking at his reflection, he flipped the mask inside out. Pulled it down over his head, over his face. All black.
You’re just like me.
Miles swallowed, staring at himself, but not himself.
You’re just like me.
“I don’t know.” Miles yanked the mask off, flipped it back to its original side, and put it back on. He grabbed his suit from the bed. “I just need to clear my head.”
By clearing his head, Miles meant going for a jump-and-swing, a shoot-and-soar. He opened the window in his dorm, camouflaged for the initial exit, and crawled out onto the wall, the black and red of his suit now the colors of red brick and mortar. Once he got to the roof, he came out of camo mode and looked out over the campus. The regal buildings and tree-lined pathways. The quad and courtyards, all emulating the Ivy League. And in the distance, the city, pushing into the sky like fingers ready to grab someone—everyone.
Miles took a few steps back, took a deep breath, sucking in everything around him, pushing all the things already in him—Dean Kushner, his parents, Mr. Chamberlain—further down. Then, he took off, and with a running start, jumped off the building.
And from rooftop to rooftop, Miles leaped as easily as if he were jumping puddles on the sidewalk, until he reached the edge of campus. Then he dove into the air, web shooting from both hands and attaching to trees, telephone poles, and any other structure around him, swinging him further into the air, high above the people below, who were scattered through the streets like ants. He didn’t pay attention to where he was going, just tried to remember what it felt like to fly. What it felt like to fall knowing he wouldn’t actually hit the ground.
From the clock tower to the courthouse, from the roofs of luxury condos to those of project buildings. And before he knew it, almost as if he’d suddenly opened his eyes, he was in his own neighborhood. A mash-up of sound hit him, much different than the sounds of Brooklyn Visions Academy. The screeching of bus brakes. The droning horns of taxicabs. Men hollering over bouncing basketballs. Music coming from both the radio and the sounds of the city itself.
Miles perched on the roof of the dollar store on Fulton Street—the one where Frenchie worked—and watched it all, before zeroing in on a group of kids getting off a bus, a blur of bright colors and fly haircuts that made them look older than they were. Miles watched as they walked down the block, laughing and joking, until they hit the corner. Once they reached the end of the street, they all stopped talking, passing by a group of older guys, one of whom said something to the youngins.
Buzz. Buzz.
Miles’s spidey-sense sent vibrations around his head. Buzz.
The young boys didn’t wait or engage. They just split, each of them tearing off into different directions. Only one of the men broke from the crew to chase the young boys, and the one he targeted was the flyest of them all. The one with the blond patch in his hair.
Miles jumped to the next building, and the next, following along with the chase. The boy dashed down the sidewalk, sometimes jumping into the street to avoid the crowd, zigzagging from block to block while the guy followed close behind him.
And then the boy with the blond patch turned a hard left off the boulevard and bolted down a quiet street. Maybe the street he lived on, Miles thought, still lurking from on high. And with nothing in the way, the man opened his stride and ran the young boy down, grabbed him by his shoulders, and then, to play it off, put an arm around him, yoking him up. The boy didn’t scream. Didn’t yell for help. Miles knew that silence. The silence that knows that yelling is futile and against code. Yelling makes things more dangerous.
They took a few more steps, pretending everything was normal, until Miles noticed the young boy squatting, unlacing his sneakers.
Buzz.
Read in the paper earlier that kids are being beaten up and robbed for their sneakers. Miles’s father’s voice swam around his head as he jumped from the building. By the time the boy handed the thief the shoes, Miles was standing right behind him.
The boy’s eyes widened. The thief turned around and met the red-and-white eyes of the spider mask. He didn’t say anything. Just snarled and shook his head.
“You should mind your business,” the thief said, pulling his shirt up to flash the grip of a gun tucked in his waistband.
“This is my business,” Miles answered. He and the man faced off on the sidewalk. The young boy silently stepped to the side, climbed the stoop of one of the houses.
The man dropped the shoes. Suddenly, the tremor of Miles’s spidey-sense spiked, letting him know the man was going to go for the weapon. Before he could even touch the metal grip of the pistol, Miles grabbed the man’s wrist tight. Using just two fingers, he crushed the marble-like bones that help the wrist pivot, causing the thief to howl and use his other hand to brace himself. And once he had bent over in pain, Miles was right there with an uppercut, mean and clean, rocking the thief backward on his heels and onto his back. “Yeah, you act tough, but you ain’t nothing but a coward,” Miles said, shaking his head just before jumping on top of the guy. He grabbed the thief by his shirt collar and raised his fist. Just before Miles dropped it down on the guy’s face like a hammer, he caught the kid out of the corner of his eye. The blond patch. He looked on, terrified. His eyes froze Miles, mid-bash.
You’re just like me.
Miles stopped. He climbed off the thief, who was now just a slug, salted and shrivel
ed up on the sidewalk. Miles grabbed the gun from the guy’s pants and crushed it under his feet. Then he rolled the guy over, yanked his hands behind his back, the broken wrist now grapefruit-size. The thief yowled, and Miles held his arms together and webbed them tight.
Then he reached down and snatched the guy’s shoes off. He handed them to the kid, who was shaking with fear, along with the shoes that belonged to him. “Do what you want with them.” Then he leaned down and got really close to the broken and bloody stick-up man’s face. “Tell everybody what just happened to you. And if you—or any of you—try it again, I will know. See, you don’t know me, but I know you. And I will come for you.”
As the kid bent down and tied the laces of his sneakers, Miles shot web up to a streetlight and swung off. He blasted web left and right, up and over, letting it randomly attach itself to various structures—light poles, high-rise buildings, construction scaffolding. While whipping through the air his adrenaline eased, and he was forced to deal with the fact that he’d just almost beaten a man to death. What if you killed him? Right there, in front of that kid. What if you’d killed him? Tears welled up on the sills of his eyes, but didn’t fall. What came over you? Who are you?
You’re just like me.
“I’m not!” Miles said, aloud, his voice muffled by the mask. Not that anyone would’ve heard him anyway because he was gliding through the sky on Teflon Tencel above Brooklyn. “I’m not!” he repeated, cutting the web and landing on the rooftop of a school, the momentum forcing him into a forward roll. Once to his feet, he snatched his mask from his face, his chest heaving, then peeked over the ledge as boys hung around outside the front door of the school, tall, sweaty, passing a basketball back and forth like a live grenade. They all wore practice jerseys of the school’s team. A school not far from Miles’s house. He hadn’t been paying much attention while gliding around, but it seemed like his mind autopiloted him home. Or at least close to home. So he took the hint and decided to continue on to his house.
Miles was shocked he even thought about heading that way, because home didn’t seem like a place Miles would want to go. Not after everything that had happened earlier in the day, especially since he didn’t know if the news of the broken desk would be waiting for him there. But he had so much on his mind, so much he needed to figure out, that he’d rather be in the company of his upset parents in the comfort of his own home than in his stinky dorm room bombarded with the annoying chimes and dings of Super Mario Bros.
So, with the day beginning to dim, Miles slunk down the back wall of the school and decided to walk the rest of the way to his house in camouflage. Dogs being taken for walks would get excited when they passed him, their owners scolding them, unaware of Miles standing right in front of them making faces. A white cat scoped him out, backpedaling into attack mode, arching itself into an n, and hissing before dashing off under a car. But this car wasn’t just any car. Actually, it was more of a house than a car. Bodega coffee cups lined the dashboard, along with random pieces of paper and trash. Garbage bags were stacked on the front seats. The sky-blue paint of the car was splotched with rust. This car was as much a part of the neighborhood as anything else. And though Miles never knew the guy’s name, everyone knew that there was a man who slept in the backseat. No one bothered him. Kids spent minutes each day trying to work up the nerve to peek in at him. Today, Miles, nosy and invisible, decided to take his shot. Finally put his curiosity to rest. He peered in the back window. A tousled, striped blanket lay there alone, like a sleeping ghost. The door wasn’t totally closed, and the overhead light was on. But the man wasn’t there. So Miles bumped the door closed and continued on.
His block was quiet. No cars. No people. Not even Fat Tony and his boys, which was weird because they were always outside, unless cops were around. But as Miles moved farther up the street, he realized that was exactly what was going on. Police officers escorted Neek from his house. Neek, bushy-bearded and balding, looked confused, like he didn’t know why he was being arrested. His face was a fireball, his mouth spouting flames.
“Let me go! Let me go!” he yelled hoarsely. “Don’t let them capture me!” For a moment Miles forgot no one could see him and thought Neek was talking to him. But he wasn’t. He was just yelling out. Breaking the code that had been upheld by the young man whose shoes were almost stolen. Miles figured Neek was probably having a flashback, a symptom of his PTSD. A white cat—most likely the same white cat from before—brushed its body against Neek’s bottom step as the cops stuffed Neek in the backseat of the squad car and drove off.
Once they were gone, Miles climbed up the wall, over the roof, and down the backside of the house to his bedroom window. He always left it unlocked for these moments. He raised the rickety pane and slipped into his room with the grace of a ballerina. Miles could hear his parents talking in the living room and listened to them gripe, but was at least comforted by the fact that there was no new bad news.
Stealthily he dug through his dresser for clothes, slipping on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt over his spider suit, along with a BVA hoodie from freshman year. Each garment changed colors as he got dressed, everything blending into the wood of both his dresser and his floor. Then he climbed back out the window, back across the rooftop and down the face of the house, looking in all directions before letting the blue come back into his jeans, and the brown return to his skin.
He hit the buzzer.
“Who is it?” Miles’s father’s voice came crackling through the speaker.
“Um…it’s me.” Miles leaned into the talk-box.
Nothing for a second.
“Miles?”
“Yeah.”
The door clicked, and Miles pushed it open and headed upstairs. His mother opened the apartment door at the exact moment he got to it.
“Miles?”
“Hi, Ma. Sorry, I forgot my key,” he said, closing the door behind him. His father was just sitting back on the living room couch, bills spread out across the coffee table as if his parents were spending a cozy night alone doing a jigsaw puzzle. And in a sense, they were—trying to figure out which pieces go where. A puzzled portrait of bills.
“Almost didn’t let you in. What you doing here?” Miles’s father asked, cold. Miles immediately braced himself for We just got a call from the school. You smashed a desk?
But instead he got “You supposed to be in school, son” from his mother. Miles never thought that would sound so sweet.
“Not only are you supposed to be there, I, for one, don’t want you to be nowhere else. I want you to be at school so much that you feel like a damn textbook.”
“Jeff.” Miles’s mother sat on the arm of the couch, looking at him quizzically, yet still motherly.
“I just…” Miles started, but the words caught in his throat like a fishhook. He glanced over at the coffee table. The papers. So many of them. Numbers printed in black ink. DUE. PAST DUE. FINAL NOTICE. White envelopes stacked up at the far corner of the table. URGENT. A pencil and pad and calculator, blurring as Miles tried to speak. “I just came to say…sorry. I’m so sorry,” Miles said, his voice cracking, his eyes now back on his mother.
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “And now you’ve said it. We know you’re sorry. But what we don’t know is what’s going on with you.” Her eyes glassed as she stared at Miles.
My uncle’s death.
My school.
My teacher.
My newfound incarcerated cousin.
My superpowers.
“Nothing,” Miles said. “Well, I mean, I guess I just feel so much pressure. But I’m…fine.”
“You sure?” his mother leaned in, her eyes lasering through the layers of him. Through the mask.
Miles looked away, back to the coffee table. Back to his father, who was also looking on. “Yeah.” Miles nodded. “I’m sure.” He gave his mother a hug. “I’ll figure out how to make this okay.”
“No.” She pulled away. “You figure out school. Your g
rades. That’s it. Your father and I will figure all this out.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Miles said.
“Oh, Miles. This is what you sign up for when you become a parent.”
“I didn’t!” Miles’s father growled.
“Don’t listen to him. Yes, we did. Papi, the two of us will starve if it means keeping your belly full. Understand?” A marble formed in Miles’s throat. “Speaking of full bellies, let me pack you a sandwich to take back with you.”
“And it’s getting late so I’m gonna walk you to the train,” Miles’s father said, leaning forward. “I told you they’re robbing people for sneakers. And even though yours ain’t all that expensive”—he glanced at Miles’s shoes—“they clean.”
Outside was still pretty quiet, besides the sound of Fat Tony and his boys. They had returned to the block, and were leaning against the gate, their laughter cutting the still air.
“What’s good, Mr. Davis? Miley Miles?” Fat Tony said, tossing a hand up.
“What’s happening, Tony?” Miles’s father said, closing the gate at the bottom of the stoop. Before Miles could speak, his father grabbed him by the arm and walked the opposite way.
“Yo, Mr. Davis?” Tony called. Miles’s father turned around. “You saw what happened to Neek?”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“What you think he did?” Tony asked. Miles glanced across the street at Neek’s house. The cat was now sitting on the top step of the stoop. It licked itself before snapping its head up to catch Miles’s eye.
It was as if it knew Miles was watching.
It was as if it knew Miles.
“I have no idea,” Miles’s father said, shaking his head, and turning back around. Miles was locked on the cat. The eyes, strangely familiar. Almost magnetic. It cocked its head, studying Miles before standing up and bending into a ferocious arch of fur again.
You’re just like me, Miles swore the cat said. Swore he saw the cat actually fix his mouth to make those words. Miles narrowed his eyes, only to see the cat was just hissing. Its tail waved back and forth, but not like normal. Most cats’ tails move like charmed serpents. This one’s moved like a snake’s rattle. Miles’s father grabbed him by the arm again, but Miles couldn’t turn away. His eyes started to dry out, his vision blurring, the single tail of this feral cat splitting into several coiled tails.
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