“It’s, um…it’s fine.” Miles was distracted.
“Okay, well, there’s something else I need to talk to you about, but first, what did you have to say?” Alicia asked, her face, though green, still pleasant.
“Huh?”
“What did you have to tell me?” she asked again, still bobbing her head to the music. She gave him a slight smile, her tongue resting gently between her teeth. But Miles was too busy darting his eyes at Mr. Chamberlain’s back as he scolded other kids. He no longer felt the buzzing in his head that he was now certain was coming from Chamberlain, though the buzzing in his stomach, the one from Alicia, was still there. He thought about what his mother said when they were dancing in the living room. Let your body do what it wants. It’s telling you how it wants to move.
“Uh…” Miles held the paper up, unfolded it. He watched as Mr. Chamberlain spoke to another teacher, tapped his watch like it was already time for him to go. “I just…” Miles turned back to Alicia, whose smile was slowly straightening, her head slightly tilted, her eyes ready to roll. Miles checked Mr. Chamberlain again as he headed for the side door, pushed it open. “I wanted to say…” Now Miles’s attention was back on Alicia again. But only for a moment. Then, Chamberlain. Alicia. Chamberlain. Alicia. “Um, this is for you.” Miles finally handed her the blue-stained paper with the sijo scribbled on it. Alicia, befuddled, began reading it, but by the time she lifted her eyes again, Miles was gone.
Miles put the zombie mask back on before slipping out the side exit, which led outdoors. He looked to his left, then to his right, before activating camouflage mode. Then he slinked behind Mr. Chamberlain, who walked along the side of the school. He could hear Mr. Chamberlain’s legs pumping like machine pistons, and matched his pace so Chamberlain couldn’t hear the second set of feet walking with him. Mr. Chamberlain stopped at another door on the far side of the auditorium. He bent down, rolled up his pant legs, then pulled out a set of keys. He flipped through them until he found the right one, pushed it into the keyhole, and yanked the door open. Miles climbed up on the wall and scampered in through the quickly narrowing gap.
Mr. Chamberlain turned on a key-chain flashlight, a single white beam shooting out in front of him like a laser. He whipped it left and right just to survey whatever was in front of him. Miles, still clinging to the wall, crept closer to get a better view. Stairs leading down. Mr. Chamberlain stepped lightly, his shoes clicking on each step as he descended into what seemed to be some kind of dark cellar.
But it wasn’t a room at all. It was a tunnel. Miles knew he couldn’t walk, the water on the floor like some kind of sewer making it impossible to maintain stealth, so he crept along the side of the slimy wall behind Mr. Chamberlain, who kept a steady pace for what seemed like twenty minutes. And finally, at the end of it was another set of stairs. Chamberlain climbed them and pushed open a metal door that was over his head, a lot more carelessly then he did the first time. Like he knew no one would be there.
Miles had no idea where they had come out, or why, but the door seemed to be in the middle of a field. He followed Mr. Chamberlain across the grass until finally a huge house, a mansion with castle pillars, came into view. Miles turned around to see where they had come from—to see if there were any landmarks, anything he recognized—and then he saw it, smack-dab in front of the house. The stone block. Fenced in, barbed-wired and impenetrable. On the fence was a sign: DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS.
The prison?
Miles ducked behind a bush as Mr. Chamberlain walked up to the door, huge and wooden. He rang the bell. It opened, and Mr. Chamberlain entered. Miles made his move up to one of the slightly cracked windows.
Inside the house was beautiful. Full of old things. Sophisticated tile floors. Curtains the color of milk, made of some kind of fine fabric—linen or silk. Big furniture that looked like it had been carved in ancient villages by ancient people. An extravagant chandelier. A cat-o’-nine-tails hung on the wall in between a set of portraits encased in frames as ornate as the fancy clothes of the painted subjects.
Miles felt like he had been there before. Tried to shake the déjà vu, but couldn’t. Where had he seen this place? He spotted an old cabinet across the room complete with shelves stocking crystal trinkets.
Wait…no. There’s no way. It…can’t be. It finally hit him. He had been pushed into that trinket cabinet before, remembered the glass breaking, slicing into his back. He could still feel the sting from the shattered shards, even though it had only happened in his dreams. His nightmares. The one where he was fighting Uncle Aaron. This was the house. This was the house!
Miles listened as closely as he could as men of all ages gathered around one really, really old man with a pasty face and a long white beard. It was the man Uncle Aaron and Mr. Chamberlain turned into in the nightmares. He stood in the middle of the stairwell addressing his guests, like the fanciest, stiffest dinner party of all time.
The old man began to speak, and Miles adjusted his ears to hear clearly though the sliver of space between window and sill.
“Good evening, Chamberlains.”
“Good evening, Warden,” they all said in unison like zombies. Real zombies.
Warden? Miles couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Is there any news to report? Any prospects?” the Warden asked.
Hands went up from the crowd.
A short, skinny man with red moppy hair and freckles raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Chamberlain?”
Yes, Mr. Chamberlain. Miles heard that phrase over and over again as the men in the room announced their weekly victories. Dante Jones has dropped out, thanks to the pressure. And I’ve convinced my principal that I feel threatened by Marcus Williams. He’s loud and has no place, no right to be there. And I’m working on shifting bus routes to make sure they can’t get there. That’ll take care of a lot without us even trying. And Just found out Randolph Duncan is in foster care. He’s nothing. He has no one.
“Let’s make sure he gets snatched, this week,” the Warden instructed. “He’s already invisible, which makes it easier.”
And on and on. Miles listened, trying not to be sick or burst through the window and smash the place, which, he knew, would be a terrible idea. A few minutes later Mr. Chamberlain spoke up. His Mr. Chamberlain.
“Ah, before we hear your testimony, Mr. Chamberlain, first let me compliment you on this evening’s attire. You remind of my old friend, the great Jefferson Davis here.” The Warden pointed to one of the old portraits on the wall.
“Thank you, Warden. It’s an honor. I’d like to report that I’ve been watching the young man Miles Morales.”
“Yes, yes, Miles Morales.” Miles’s eyes widened as he heard his name. “The Super Hero.” Sarcasm dripped from the Warden’s voice. Super Hero? But…how could they know? The mere thought of anyone, especially Mr. Chamberlain, and all the others in that room, being made aware of Miles’s secret caused his stomach to flip. The entire room rumbled in amusement as the Warden continued. “Extraordinary power is made only for extraordinary people. And, hear me, you have to be born extraordinary, with pure blood and a strong mind. It’s not his fault he’s a descendant of filth, but it’s dangerous to everyone that he thinks he can be more than that. Yes, Mr. Chamberlain, I’ve been watching him too. I’ve journeyed through his thoughts. I’ve whispered to him in his sleep, the same way I’ve done most of the men in his family. And though he’s a bit more resistant, we have to correct him. And to do that, we must break him.”
“Yes, sir. I tried framing him for stealing…sausages. Though he wiggled out of expulsion, he still lost his job, putting his parents in more of a bind.” Another low laugh spread around the room. “In short, I think we’re close to breaking him.”
Miles’s face crumpled. Reflexively, he balled his hands into fists.
“Ah. That’s fantastic. Do you have anyone else you’re watching?” the Warden asked.
“Not actively, but there is a
boy named Judge.”
“Judge?” the Warden scoffed. “The irony. Well, Mr. Chamberlain, keep us posted, and well done.”
“Thank you, Warden.” Mr. Chamberlain stepped back into the crowd.
The Warden lifted a glass to his lips and drank. “I remember a few hundred years ago, back when America really worked. When labor was not something that had to be bargained for, but something that was readily available by beings that would have no purpose unless we gave them the purpose of servitude. That’s what we need to return to. That’s our mission.” The Warden paused, took a sip of the glass. His swallow looked like a small animal scurrying down his throat. He wiped his mouth. “It disgusts me, what I see now. So we have work to do. More good, important work. Correcting. Remember our motto: Distract and defeat.”
The Warden lifted his glass and made a toast.
“To the Chamberlains.”
“To the Chamberlains!” And the cocktail party started.
Miles backed away from the window. He was still in camo mode, but with that many people watching, it always felt like someone could see him. He dashed back across the field toward the prison until he reached the metal door in the ground. He yanked it, but it didn’t budge. Miles tightened his grip and yanked it harder, ripping it off the hinges. Luckily, there were no prison guards monitoring the back field. Then again, if anybody actually did break out of the prison, made it over the stone wall, and somehow got through the barbed wire fence, they’d have nowhere to run but straight to the Warden’s house, where, clearly, trouble was awaiting.
Miles jumped back into the tunnel and sprinted through the sewer until he finally came back to steps underneath the auditorium. He put his ear to the door to make sure no one was there making out. Once he knew it was clear, he kicked the locked door open, ran back down the side of the building, and slipped back into the winding-down party, where he found Ganke still standing in the middle of the floor, ramrod straight, his hands pressed together like a monk in prayer.
“Miles, you’re being weird,” Ganke said as they walked from the auditorium back to their dorm. “We just came from the best party ever, and you’re acting like it was just another Saturday night at the Morales house. Better yet, you’re acting like it was last night at the Lee house.”
“I’ll tell you what happened when we get back to the room. I can’t talk about it out here,” Miles said through his teeth.
“Well, can I at least just tell you about the prank? So, all night, they were bringing out those bowls of punch, right? So on one of the refill rounds, there was a girl waiting to get some and she dipped the scoop in, and when she brought it up, she screamed. Dude, I mean she really wailed. It was crazy. And guess why?” Miles didn’t respond. “Because she thought there were fingers in it! But they weren’t fingers, they were sausages! The seniors are geniuses!” Ganke hooted, but then awkwardly pinched his laughter off after noticing the look on Miles’s face. Miles wasn’t amused. How could he be when he had just found out Mr. Chamberlain stole those sausages as part of a plan to sabotage him? Maybe the seniors were geniuses, Miles thought…in conjunction with the history department. Or maybe not. “Know what? Never mind. You had to be there,” Ganke said.
Kids were everywhere, many of their costumes now a mess of streaky makeup. They were screaming and playing around, the sugar in the candy kicking them into overdrive. Miles moved quickly through them, though he glanced at all of the faces to make sure he wasn’t overlooking Alicia. But she was nowhere to be found. And that was probably for the best. Miles wasn’t in any shape to talk to her about…anything.
But once they reached their room, Miles tried to explain it all to Ganke.
“So you followed him?” Ganke asked, peeling the pink swim cap from his head.
“Yeah, man. I followed him to a door on the side of the auditor—”
“Wait.” Ganke tapped his shoulders as if calling time-out. “So…you missed the whole party? I just thought maybe you missed the end. Snuck out with Alicia or something.”
“I was there. But then I left, because when I was talking, or…trying to talk to her, Chamberlain came over and messed with me, and my spidey-sense started going off, and I’ve been saying something is up with him. That he’s not—”
“Wait. Time-out. Time. OUT!” Ganke put his hands up, again. “So you did talk to Alicia? And how was that?” Ganke bounced his heavy eyebrows.
“Ganke. I don’t know because I had to leave.”
“What? Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Miles said, pounding his own legs. “Listen. I followed Chamberlain. He went to this other door on the side of the auditorium. He had a key for it. It led down into like a sewer or something, and after a whole lot of walking we came out on the other end, which was at the prison.”
Miles explained everything, the words coming out faster than his brain was working. He told Ganke about how the house matched the house in his dreams, about the Warden, about how they were targeting certain students, and were especially targeting Miles.
“They know I’m Spider-Man,” he said.
Ganke sat quietly.
Miles set the zombie mask he was wearing on the bed and yanked open his closet door. He kicked a few shoe boxes out of the way, and got into the corner, where he yanked out his Spider-Man suit.
“What are you doing, Miles?” Ganke asked, concerned.
Miles laid the suit out on the bed. “You know what I’m doing.”
“Tonight?” Ganke stood up from the bed as if he was ready to try to physically stop Miles. “You want to go fight a whole house full of people? Think, Miles.” Ganke tapped his finger to his temple. “From what it sounds like, Mr. Chamberlain and all the other Mr. Chamberlains are being controlled by this old dude. He’s obviously the guy you need to be after.”
Miles sighed, then sat on his bed next to the black-and-red suit. He stared at it. “You’re right. I’m just so…so…”
“I know. But man, you got that break-a-desk look on your face again. And the last time that happened you, well, you broke a desk.”
“Shut up, man.” Miles allowed himself to calm down.
“I’m just saying, sleep on it.” Ganke sat back on his bed, kicked his shoes off, and yawned. “Just promise me that if you, in fact, do sleep on it, you won’t be crawling on the ceiling and all that. It’s Halloween night and I just don’t think I can take it.”
Miles threw Ganke’s rubber mask at him.
Miles lay flat on his back, his hands cupping the back of his head. He stared at the ceiling and let all the tangled thoughts from the week wash over him. His neighborhood, the only place he’d ever known as home, was full of all the complicated things that made him who he was. His neighbors like Ms. Shine, watering her flowers, and Fat Tony, counting and recounting his money. Frenchie, walking her son to the basketball court. Neek, who had been “snatched,” and how he used to peek through the curtains afraid that one day there might be a tank rolling down the block. House and the barbershop boys, rooting for Miles, seeing him as one of the golden representatives of the neighborhood. Miles’s mother and father, trying their best to provide a good life, with better opportunities than they had.
Miles thought about Uncle Aaron, the good in him, the bad in him, the secret life they lived together, and the secret death they shared. He thought about Austin, how he was unconsciously following in his father’s footsteps down a path he didn’t even know was paved for him the moment he was born. He thought about the dreams that the Warden had planted. The nightmares he and Austin shared. The white cats. The reminders that they had bad blood. Were bad. Were meant to do bad. Be bad. That everyone was after them.
Miles thought about his father’s three friends, Sip, Carlo, and John John, slapping cards on the table and talking trash to each other about the good ol’ days. And how there was always a Mr. Chamberlain, an adult working at a school, leaning on them, working them raw. And then, after thinking about all these things, Miles thou
ght of Alicia. Alicia the beautiful Halloween humpback, who he’d given a sijo—his salsa—to. And before Miles could even think about whether or not she’d liked it, if she’d smiled, he was asleep.
Miles slept on it. Barely. Though he practically passed out from exhaustion, it was a stunted sleep, as he kept waking up over and over again, his heart pounding, his head spinning, nausea overcoming him. There was no way he could get a good night’s rest knowing what he knew. After seeing what he’d seen. So on the fourth wake-up, as the sun finally started to warm the sky with its orange, Miles decided to get up. He slipped out of bed and out of the room. The hallway was littered with candy wrappers and random pieces of costumes that most likely became pretend weapons for teenage boys hopped-up on sugar and ego. Once Miles made it to the bathroom, empty but still damp, he climbed into one of the shower stalls and turned it on, the cold water sending a shock through his body before warming quickly to hot. The steam engulfed him as he stood there, turning the knob hotter and hotter to see just how much pain he could take.
After the shower, he went to the sink to brush his teeth. He squeezed the toothpaste onto the toothbrush, then slipped it into his mouth and glanced up. He was Aaron. He closed his eyes, opened them. Austin. He staggered back, wagging his head, white foam dripping from his mouth. He glanced back at the mirror and saw himself. Spat in the sink. Ran the cold water from the faucet, making a bowl with his hands and splashing his face, cleaning the toothpaste from it, and trying to snap himself out of whatever delusional breakdown was happening. He toweled his face from the nose down, patting it while staring into his own eyes in the mirror. He dried his mouth and his chin, then pulled the towel away, his skin no longer his own. The brown of it now alabaster and thin. Its smoothness replaced by long, stringy hair.
“Wha?” Miles panicked, his heart dropping to his stomach. He pinched his eyes shut one more time, keeping them closed as he chanted to himself, “Wake up, Miles. Wake up.” Then he slowly put his hand up to his chin, to feel…nothing. Just skin, again. The beard was gone.
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