The cat from his dream.
And the wrist of Mr. Chamberlain.
Mr. Chamberlain.
“Come on,” Miles’s father said. Miles tripped over his feet, turning with his father while keeping his eyes on the cat. Mr. Chamberlain. Miles looked over his shoulder once more as he reluctantly headed on. His brain was firing thoughts. Well, really just one: It’s Mr. Chamberlain. He wasn’t sure what that actually meant, but he knew something was up with his history teacher. Something more than just him being a jerk. But there was still so much that didn’t make sense. Like, what did Chamberlain have to do with Neek? And what did Miles have to do with any of it?
“So…you okay?” Miles’s father asked, five steps into the walk, if you could call what Miles was doing walking. He had resorted to more of a bumble. Not very Spider-Man–like.
“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Miles tried to shake the distraction. He stuffed his hands into the hoodie’s kangaroo pouch, then, unable to resist, looked behind him once more for the cat. It was gone.
“You don’t seem like it. Anything you need to talk about? Maybe about what happened today?”
Miles swallowed the marble still lodged in his throat and turned to his father. “Do you…um…believe me?” This is what mattered more than anything. It was one thing to be accused by his dean. Another to lose the trust of his folks. “Or you think I really stole that stuff from the store?”
Miles’s father sighed. “I believe you, son.”
“And what about her?” Miles asked.
“Who, your mother?” Miles’s father stuffed his hands into his pockets. “She’s just worried about you. I mean, think about it from our perspective. Our son, who we’ve known his whole life, who has never been in any real trouble, got suspended from school last week for basically ditching class. And then as soon as he gets back to school, loses his work-study job for stealing. Now, I don’t believe you were stealing, but you said you left to go to an open mic. My son, the math-and-science guy, leaves work to go see what? Some singing? Rapping? Poetry? You’ve gotta understand how this looks. You seem to be going off the rails, Miles. So, understandably, she’s scared that you’re going to be like…”
“Uncle Aaron.”
“Yeah. Like Uncle Aaron. Shoot, I never thought my brother would be pillow talk between me and my wife, but something tells me that’s what it’ll be tonight.” Miles’s father stopped walking, grabbed Miles’s shoulder, peered into his eyes. “Look, just tell me everything is okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then explain why you left the store. Forreal.”
“I told you.” Miles started walking again. His father followed suit. “I went to an open mic.”
“You went to an open mic.” Miles’s father nodded, glaring at the side of Miles’s face. “For what?”
“For extra credit.”
“Ah. Okay.” Miles’s father nodded, then let the awkward silence balloon between them until it burst. “So…what’s her name?”
“Who?”
“Whoever got you snoopin’ around open mics, son. Look, I believe you when you say you went for extra credit. But something tells me that wasn’t the only reason. You do know I was a teenager once, right? Somebody got your head spinning, unless you about to be the next Langston Hughes and I don’t know it.” Miles shot a look at his father, who was trying to keep a smirk from becoming a smile. “So…what’s her name?”
Miles shook his head. “Alicia.” His father chuckled under his breath.
“And does she know you like her?”
“I don’t know. I thought she did, but I’m not sure now. I have two classes with her, but every time I try to say something to her I feel all queasy. At first I thought it was my stupid spidey-sense, and it might be that too, but…”
“But you think it’s also something else. Butterflies.” Miles’s father sang it out in a silly operatic voice, and waved his hands in the air as if conducting an orchestra, knocking up against his son.
“Whatever.” Miles pushed back. “Anyway, I was also going to the open mic to give her this thing I wrote for her.”
“So you really wrote a poem for this girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. It really might be butterflies. And what happened when you gave it to her?”
“I didn’t. Before I had the chance to, she asked me to read it in front of everyone. And I panicked.”
“Well, I’m happy to report that you got that from yours truly.” Miles’s father pointed to himself. “Your uncle was confident around women. But not me. You ever hear the story about how I met your mother?”
“Yeah, Ma told me y’all met at a party and how you were all smooth.”
“That’s how she tells it, because she’s sweet. But here’s the truth. It was a Super Bowl party Aaron and I were throwing at our crappy little apartment over on Lafayette. Now your mother came with her cousin, who was one of our boys. But she didn’t belong there. She was a Catholic girl from the Bronx who had no business with us. But as soon as she walked in, man…I was done. I couldn’t do anything else for the rest of the night. I don’t even think I remember who was playing in the championship. All I was trying to do was figure out a way to spark conversation. But when I tell you I was nervous…I was nervous. The only thing I figured I could do was act like a good host and serve everybody drinks, chips and salsa, and all that.” Miles and his dad stopped at the corner for a second to make sure no cars were coming before they crossed. “Now, first I pour her a drink. Champagne?” Miles’s father pretended to tip a bottle. “She thanked me and gave me a little smile. Then I asked if I could get her some chips and salsa. Hors d’oeuvres? But at the time I said it like this: Or derbs? And she said yes, again, laughing, which is always a good sign. So I go back across the room and grab the whole bowl of salsa. As I’m moving through the crowd, coming right up on Rio, I kick the side of the coffee table and start fumbling the bowl.” He moved his hands around as if he were juggling invisible balls. “See where this is going?”
“You didn’t.”
“All over her.” Miles’s father nodded. They cut across the park. Shortcut. A man was lying down on a bench. Another man stopped midwalk, patting his pockets, checking for something he clearly had forgotten. A crowd of teenagers joked with each other. “A whole bowl of salsa,” Miles’s father confirmed.
“And what did she do?”
“Miles, did you hear me? I said I spilled a wholebowl of salsa on her. She flipped out!” Miles’s father burst into laughter.
“But then…I mean…how y’all end up together?”
“Ah, that’s not important. What’s important is I don’t think we would have if I didn’t spill the salsa.” He put his hands on his head, braided his fingers together. “So, that poem you wrote her, that’s your salsa. You gotta spill it on her, understand?”
“Like, you mean, read it to her?”
“Exactly. Spill the salsa, son.” Miles’s dad’s smile was self-assured, as if he knew this was a fatherly moment. A gem.
They were now on the other end of the park, standing at the steps leading down into the train station. Miles dropped his shoulders. “And what about Uncle Aaron?”
“What about him?” Miles’s father snapped back into seriousness, his body tightening, his eyes lowering.
“I mean, what was his way of getting girls?”
Miles’s father took his hand and swiped across his mouth as if wiping secret words away before they were heard. “Y’know, I don’t really know. But he did it, and he did it a lot.” He bit down on his bottom lip, gave a single head shake. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded up piece of paper, slapped it in his other palm. “Guess this is as good a time as any,” he said all huffy, handing the paper to Miles.
Miles unfolded it, recognized the pencil. And the capital letters.
DEAR MR. DAVIS
MY NAME IS AUSTIN. I’M FIFTEEN YEARS OLD, AND WRITING TO YOU FROM THE JUVENILE WARD. I GOT YOUR INFO
FROM MY GRANDMOTHER. SHE KNEW YOUR NAME, AND I THINK SHE FOUND YOUR ADDRESS ON THE INTERNET. I HOPE YOU DON’T MIND. SHE’D BEEN TELLING ME ABOUT YOU AND SAID THAT I SHOULD REACH OUT TO TRY TO GET TO KNOW THE OTHER HALF OF MY FAMILY. MY FATHER’S NAME WAS AARON, AND IF THIS IS THE RIGHT ADDRESS, THEN YOU ARE AARON’S BROTHER. THAT MAKES YOU MY UNCLE. I’M NOT SURE IF YOU EVER KNEW ABOUT ME, AND MY GRANDMOTHER TOLD ME THAT YOU AND MY FATHER DIDN’T REALLY GET ALONG. SO MAYBE YOU DIDN’T KNOW, OR MAYBE YOU DID BUT WAS TOO MAD TO REACH OUT. I CAN UNDERSTAND THAT. ANYWAY, AS I’M SURE YOU KNOW, MY FATHER IS NO LONGER AROUND AND SO I DON’T KNOW IF THIS IS OVERSTEPPING MY BOUNDARIES, BUT I WOULD LIKE FOR YOU TO MAYBE COME SEE ME. SATURDAYS ARE MY VISITATION DAYS. I DON’T GET ANY VISITORS, AND IT WOULD BE COOL TO SEE FAMILY, EVEN IF WE DON’T KNOW EACH OTHER.
I HOPE YOU GET THIS LETTER.
AUSTIN DAVIS
Miles folded the letter back up and tried to hide his skepticism. Tried to bite his tongue. “Did you know about him?”
“Of course not. I mean, I hadn’t really talked to Aaron in a long time, and whenever I did it was to tell him to stay away from you.”
“So you didn’t even know this kid existed?”
“Not until this past Sunday when I opened the mail.” The paper Miles’s mother was holding when he’d come from the bathroom. The one that snatched the color from her face.
Miles’s mind was reeling, his tongue now unbitten. “Well, I did.”
“You did what?”
“I knew about him.” Miles said. “I mean, not until yesterday. But, he sent me a letter too.”
“To BVA?”
“Yeah.” Miles handed the letter back to his father. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be mad about it. But…yeah.”
“I don’t like this, son.” Miles’s father wagged his head, stuffed the paper back into his pocket, and folded his arms across his chest.
“We have to go see him,” Miles blurted, his insides rattling.
“Absolutely not,” Miles’s dad snapped. “I mean…look, I don’t know. It’s not that simple.”
“Well, what does Ma think?” Miles knew that his mother had a soft spot for kids and hated to see them struggling. And they didn’t have to be family for her to feel for them. She loved Ganke like he was her son. But if Miles’s mom knew that there was even a chance Austin could be related, despite how she felt about Aaron, she would want to connect with him. She’d have to.
Miles’s father blew a hard breath, one that inflated his cheeks. “You know your mother. She thinks I should go see him.”
“Well, then…I mean, that’s it. You gotta go. And I’m going with you.”
“First of all, watch yourself ordering me around, kid,” Miles’s father said, steely. “You still on thin ice, and punishment is not off the table. Just because you feel like you can walk out of work don’t mean you can walk on me. Not to mention you withholding the truth.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Miles adjusted his tone. “But…well…since we’re being honest about stuff, you should also know I wrote him back.”
“You did what?” Miles’s father gripped the top of his own head as if trying to rip it off his neck.
“I had to. I mean, it was like I couldn’t help it. I just…did it. Dropped it in the mail this morning.”
Miles’s father turned away from Miles, then turned back to him and stared into the sky as if searching for the answer in the half-clouded moon. “Look, I don’t know if any of this is a good idea, Miles. I mean, we don’t even know this kid.”
“That’s why we gotta go and meet him.”
“We don’t even know if he’s telling the truth.”
Miles looked at his father, gave him an unwavering side-eye.
“Okay, okay.” His dad threw his hands up. “The kid’s probably telling the truth. I mean, he ain’t got no real reason to scam us.”
“Exactly. So…?”
“So, please get on the train and go back to school.” Miles’s father was suddenly full of frustration. His cell phone chimed. He checked it, then grabbed Miles by the back of the neck and pulled him in for a rough but loving hug, almost bouncing Miles’s body off his own. “That’s your mother. Let me get home so I can talk to her about it again.”
When Miles got back to his room, Ganke was sitting in front of his computer. On the desk beside his laptop lay a bag of cheese puffs.
“Hey,” Miles said, closing the door behind him.
“Hey,” Ganke said, without looking up from the screen. He stuck his hand in the bag and grabbed a puff, threw it in his mouth, and sucked the cheese powder off his fingertips. Then he glanced over at Miles, who inched past him. “Whoa there, Spider-Man. You left in tights and a mask, and came back in dusty jeans and a hoodie. What’d you do, take up a life of crime and rob a hipster?”
“You got jokes. But you have no idea.” Miles pulled the sweatshirt over his head, the black-and-red-webbed body suit underneath. “I just came from my folks’ house.”
“And you’re still alive, so I take it there was no second phone call from today’s classroom misadventures?” Ganke hoity-toitied his voice.
“Nah. But they’re in there counting their money and calculating bills. So robbing somebody to help them out don’t sound half bad.”
Ganke pushed his fingers back into the snack bag, pulled out what looked like an orange Styrofoam packing peanut, and tossed it in his mouth. “Miles, please,” he said. “You couldn’t rob nobody.”
Miles plopped down on his bed. He pulled his mask from the pocket of his sweatshirt and tossed it to the side. He wanted to tell Ganke about beating up the guy he caught trying to stick the kid up for his sneakers. How he pummeled him. How the guy’s blood dotted the sidewalk. How he snatched the sneakers from the guy’s feet and gave them to the kid as some kind of added justice. Miles understood that kind of vengeance. It was in him.
But he couldn’t tell Ganke that. Plus, if he was being honest with himself, Ganke was right, he couldn’t do it.
“Because no matter what you say, you’re just like me.” The words slow-motioned down Miles’s ear like sap and he instantly flashed back to the white cat, and from the white cat he flashed to his uncle, snarling, his hands reaching for Miles’s neck. Ganke continued, “Except, of course, I can dance. Oh, and you a Super Hero, remember?” He wiped orange dust on his sweatpants.
“Man, just give me some cheese puffs. And what does your dancing have to do with anything?”
“Why don’t you come steal them?” Ganke laughed, and held out the open bag to Miles, who snatched it. “Nah, but seriously, what if you…I don’t know, danced for money.”
“What?” Miles screwed his face up.
“Not like that, man. I’m sayin’…like, showtime.”
“No.”
“Miles, you’ve seen the kinda bread those kids get and you need—”
“Ganke”—Miles put a hand up—“I’m not pop-lockin’ up and down the train for quarters.”
“First of all you wouldn’t have to pop-lock. And secondly, with your abilities, we’d make dollars. Not quarters.”
“We?”
“Well, I gotta get my management fee. A small cut. Plus, somebody gotta collect the cash.” Ganke flashed an angelic smile. “At least think about it.”
Miles shook his head. There was no way. Miles definitely couldn’t be a jack-boy, but he also couldn’t be a subway dancer—a showtime kid. Because he couldn’t dance. He had all the coordination in the world when it came to jumping across rooftops or dodging punches, but to get his body to move on rhythm was a superpower he just didn’t have.
“How ’bout you think about this!” Miles shot web across the room, thick floss making a spaghetti mess on Ganke’s T-shirt.
“Petty, Miles.” Ganke shook his head and didn’t even bother trying to peel the string from his sleeve.
Miles shrugged. “What you doin’ anyway?” He grabbed the cheese puff bag.
“Researching my name for Bla
ufuss’s homework, which by the way you still have to do. I know you needed to go get some air, or whatever it is you did when you climbed out of the window, but I just hope you breathed in some poetic inspiration. Unless you plan on trying to get more extra credit.”
“Yeah…no. Extra credit is out.” But the thought of having to write a poem at this time of night, after the day he’d had, made his head feel like it was being pinched in a vise. “This is the what’s the meaning of your name thing, right?”
“Yep. And guess what? I don’t think my name means anything,” Ganke said.
Miles munched on a cheese half-moon. “Have you looked it up?” he asked, the cheese puff melting in his mouth.
“Yeah, before you got here. Matter fact I looked up a bunch of names. Like, Alicia, her name means ‘nobility.’ Oh, and a good one was Chamberlain. Dude, that jerk’s name actually means ‘officer who manages the household.’ Ha! But the best and worst one was Ratcliffe. Literally means ‘red cliff.’ Too bad Ryan won’t jump off one.” Ganke waved for the bag of cheese puffs, then rambled on. “Anyway, the point is, when I looked up mine, the only thing that came up was some definition from Urban Dictionary that said it means ‘kill.’”
“Kill?”
“Yeah, like…when you kill people, apparently you ganke them.”
Miles’s stone face of exhaustion cracked into a smile. Then that smile became a chuckle. “Nah, man. That’s gank. You gank somebody.”
“Oh, gank? I know gank. The internet said ganke.” Ganke eased up. “I was about to say, dang, my name means murder?” Miles and Ganke laughed. “But forreal, my name don’t really mean nothing. I don’t even think it’s Korean, which is weird.”
“Did you call your folks?” Miles asked. The laughter that had just lightened the mood of the room was gone. Ganke’s face grew heavy.
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