Miles Morales

by Jason Reynolds

  While Miles staggered around the room, hazy, the Warden took full advantage and whaled on him. Miles couldn’t see him but felt every strike. To the kidneys and ribs, to the sternum, and to the jaw. Miles was getting pummeled, and swung his arms at nothing, trying his best to connect his fists to something that wasn’t physically there.

  Fortunately, the trance only lasted about fifteen seconds before Miles blinked back to himself. Before the white space that had become his reality unfolded, like a fan being spread open revealing a beautiful image, rich with color and life. Except this image wasn’t so beautiful for Miles. He was back to where he’d never left—the Warden’s house, with full memory of who he was and what he was doing there. It was like how he thought about the security camera. That there would be a time jump but nobody would notice. Except in this case, he was stuck in the blank gap and he was the nobody who wouldn’t notice.

  What he did notice was the Warden, who had just grabbed his cat-o’-nine-tails from the wall.

  “Your life is a nightmare!” the Warden howled, holding the tasseled whip. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.” Instead of trying to hit Miles with the flogger, the Warden cocked it back and heaved the entire thing at Miles. The easiest and most obvious thing for Miles to do would be to simply step out of the way. A simple dodge. But before he could, the handle of the cat-o’-nine-tails became the body of an actual nine-tailed cat in midair. Not the small cats Miles had been seeing around, like the one hiding somewhere behind the Warden’s couch. But a huge beast, twice the size of a bear, gnashing at him. It arched its back, its hair raising into sharp spikes, so tall that if the ceilings weren’t so high in the Warden’s mansion the spikes would’ve left holes. Miles faced off with the animal, moving slowly as the cat watched him, waiting for the moment to pounce on him and tear him to shreds. Its nine tails snaked around the room, the hair on them like razors and the ends hardened and whittled to sharp points. The tails rose up behind the catlike dragon and jutted forward violently every few seconds.

  “Here, kitty,” Miles taunted, craning his neck to make sure he could still see the Warden. His eyes on the cat, those teeth, those tails. Then, his eyes on the Warden, who had now dashed across the room over to the painting of Jefferson Davis. The cat hissed, made a swipe, but not a full swipe. Instead it was more of a test to get a feel for its prey. Miles reflexively rubbered his body, bending backward as if he had no bones, the claw just grazing his torso, taking strips of his suit with it. Watch the Warden, he said to himself, sidestepping into the corner. He touched where the suit had been ripped. Felt his flesh, checked for blood. Only a little. The claws barely broke the skin. Watch the Warden. Miles, with one eye still on the giant cat, watched as the Warden pushed the huge painting to the side, revealing a hidden lever on the wall. He yanked it down, sounding a buzzing alarm. The buzz was the same as the one in the prison. The one that sounded like an electrocution. The one used when guards were being called. Miles swallowed hard, knowing that that couldn’t have been a good sound or a good sign, but he also knew that whatever it meant wasn’t going to stop the problem he had right in front of him. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” Miles called again to the cat.

  Miles’s first instinct was to slip back into camo, but then he remembered that it wouldn’t matter. The cat would still be able to see him. Not to mention, the Warden could, too. Miles realized that his only hope would be to take advantage of the tails.

  So Miles jumped at the cat, bucking to get it to snap at him. And it did. It took a hard swipe, and Miles quickly sprang onto the wall, avoiding the cat’s attack, which left huge gashes in the clay. Miles skittered around, jumping from corner to corner, the cat swinging at Miles like he was a dangling chew toy, but missing, leaving destructive tiger stripes on the walls in its wake. Finally, the now-frustrated cat used one of its tails to strike, but Miles dodged that as well, and it drilled straight into the wall. The razors locked into the stone and clay. The cat struck with another tail, missing again. Another tail caught. And on and on. Miles bolted around the room, calling out for the cat, whose razor tails flung here and there, jamming into walls, and even into the ceiling, hooking into the grout. Moments later, the cat was trapped, all nine tails spread around the room, locking the body of the giant feline in place. And just like that, the monstrous animal let out a piercing shriek and became a simple whip again.

  “You can’t beat me!” Miles called out to the Warden, who ran for the whip. Miles bounded from the wall, drop-kicking the Warden in the chest—returning the favor from before—knocking him back against the Davis painting; the huge frame smacked loose from the wall, crashing down on the Warden. The frame landed on his neck, and the painting fell over him, the canvas stretching and bowing over the old man’s head. By the time he pushed it off of him, Miles had already grabbed the nine-tailed whip.

  “You don’t know what to do with that. You don’t have it in you,” the Warden snarled, flashing a gap in his teeth. He slipped his tongue in the space, then spat blue slime on the floor. “You don’t even know who you are.” Miles started swinging the whip slowly so as not to accidentally hit himself. He zeroed in on the Warden. “You don’t even know who I am!” And like changing the stations on a television, the Warden’s face switched. First to Miles’s father’s. Switch. Austin’s. Switch. Jefferson Davis’s. Switch. Uncle Aaron’s. “You’re just like me!” Switch. Back to the Warden. “An insect! Something to be crushed under a thumb.” The Warden let out a cackle, and again, reached out his arms, gripping the room, peeling it from the world like a sticker. This time, Miles turned to one of the huge windows. His heart jumping, his mind reeling, trying to convince himself that all this was real. That this wasn’t a dream, a nightmare where you wake up still in a nightmare. Wake up. No, you’re awake. You’re awake. Out in the field he could see Chamberlains running toward the house. An army, ready for attack. Miles adjusted his eyes, pulling his attention away from the horde of evil coming toward him, and focused on his own reflection. He knew the Warden was folding the world up again, and it was best this time to brace himself for it. So he stared at the faded image of himself in the glass, rays of sun cutting through the top half of the reflection of the black-and-red mask.

  And then…CLAP!

  Darkness. And then whiteness. Blank. It was as if Miles had been sucked into a vacuum. An echo chamber. A humming in Miles’s ear, a piercing sound ringing louder and louder until it abruptly stopped.

  Silence.

  Can you hear me? Hello? Can you hear me? Can you hear us? Listen to us. Listen closely. Our names are Aaron, Austin, Benny, Neek, Cyrus, John, Carlo, Sherman. Benji. Our names are Rio, Frenchie, Winnie, Alicia. Our name is Miles Morales. We are sixteen. We are from Brooklyn. We are Spider-Man.

  Darkness.

  This is all in our minds.

  Darkness.

  This is all in your mind.

  This is all in your mind.…

  And then, light. It had only been a split second. A blink. And Miles was still in the house. Still holding the cat-o’-nine-tails. Still looking at the window, his reflection in the glass. Nothing changed.

  “What?” The Warden staggered back, shaking his head at the failed attempt at another mind warp. Miles smiled. But his smile was cut short by the Chamberlains surrounding the house, trying to force themselves through the broken window, climbing up onto the porch, slamming into the door like the undead.

  Miles knew he wouldn’t be able to beat them all, so he turned back to the Warden and started toward him, the cat-o’-nine-tails clutched tight by his side, the tassels dangling, barbed. Again, he started swinging it lightly.

  “Don’t do that,” the Warden said, holding up his hand. Miles stepped forward, still swinging it. “You don’t know what you’re doing, boy. You don’t know how to wield that kind of power!” the Warden shouted as Miles swung the whip, the tails circling round and round like propeller blades. As they cut through the air, the whir got louder and louder. Without stepping a
ny further, Miles simply let it go. The momentum of the tails carried the whip across the room, and just like when the Warden had thrown it, in midair, the whip morphed into a cat.

  Just then, the door slammed open and the Chamberlains came charging in like troops infiltrating a camp. There were a few who finally got through the shattered window. Miles assumed a fighting stance, ready to take on whichever Chamberlain jumped first.

  “Help me!” the Warden called to them. But before they could even make a move, the gigantic cat speared the old man with one of its tails.

  Every Chamberlain froze. The cat struck the Warden with another tail. And another. Tail after tail darting into the old man, pushing through his body, nailing him to the wall in the same spot his friend Jefferson Davis had been hanging for years.

  There was no more sound. Not from the cat, or the Chamberlains, or Miles. Not from the old grandfather clock. As if the world had been muted. And then, loud like a gust of wind, the Warden exhaled his last breath.

  Fur from the nine-tailed monster blew through the room like a blizzard, leaving nothing but a house cat. No whip. The Chamberlains snapped out of their stupor, and in a quick moment of reflex, Miles camouflaged himself. They all looked around at each other, puzzled, but didn’t say a word. They just walked out of the house and headed across the field, leaving Miles standing in the doorway staring after them, the prison in the distance and a white cat—two white cats—affectionately rubbing up against his leg.

  Miles climbed back through the window of their dorm and fell into the room. Ganke yelped, then paused the Nintendo game he’d been playing and rushed over to Miles to help him up.

  “Jesus, man. You look like you took a beating,” Ganke said, hoisting him up.

  “Yeah, well, not nearly as bad as the one I gave.” Miles pushed the words through his winces and yanked the mask from his face. “It was weird. He could see me, man, even when I was camouflaged. He looked right at me. Said that when you’re as old as he was, you can see the things that people don’t think are there.”

  “Oh man, he really is the boss of Mr. Chamberlain. Our Mr. Chamberlain. Talking all that crazy stuff. Like, what does that even mean?”

  “He looked me in the face and said, opportunity.” Miles shook his head. “Like I was the opportunity.”

  “Well, I bet he didn’t expect ‘the opportunity’ to beat the hell out of him.” Ganke reached out his fist for a pound. But Miles waved it off, afraid his wrist was too sore. “You did beat him, right?”

  Miles nodded. Ganke sat back in his chair, relieved. Also a little proud.

  Miles told Ganke the rest of the story, what the Warden said, the mind warping, the giant cat monster with nine tails, the way the Warden tried to sic the Chamberlains on him like zombie attack dogs.

  “But when it was over, they just walked away. It was like they had all awakened from a dream. Like they had been sleepwalking and suddenly decided to go home. It was wild.” Miles shook his head slightly. “But what really threw me, and it’s still messing with me, is that they didn’t say anything. They didn’t wonder why or how they ended up at this crashed-up house behind the prison. They just kinda snapped out of whatever trance the Warden had them in and walked off. So what if…what if the trance wasn’t like a full trance? I mean, if they knew where they were, and they didn’t seem surprised, then maybe it wasn’t a total mind control thing, right? Maybe it was a little mind control, and a little…I don’t know, willingness.”

  “Or maybe the spell’s not all the way broken yet. It might just take awhile to wear off, and tomorrow they’ll all wake up feeling like normal people, with no memory of all this,” Ganke suggested.

  “Hmm. Maybe.” Miles pondered for a moment before tacking on, “It’s just crazy, man.”

  “Yeah it is,” Ganke agreed, grimacing at Miles’s wounds. “Yo, by the way,” he continued, now moving the chair out of the way—video game controller dangling from it—so he could get to his desk. “While you were out doing…all of that”—Ganke pointed at the wounds—“I was in here playing video games to keep my mind off the fact that you might get yourself killed. And I was enjoying myself, just breaking bricks and going down sewer pipes—Wow…We’re, like, in sync, man! Anyway, I was doing my thing until I got a bang on the door. Scared me to death, man. I literally almost dove out the window, that, by the way, you left open.”

  “Who was it?” Miles pressed his face lightly, feeling for any sore spots.

  “Alicia.”

  His hand dropped. Miles turned toward Ganke, his eyes suddenly lively. “She told me to give this to you,” Ganke said, holding up a folded piece of paper.

  Miles almost killed himself trying to get across the room, tripping over the controller cord. Everything painful, none of it mattering. He snatched the paper and unfolded it, the smell of sandalwood ghosting up into his nose.

  YES, IT’S SANDALWOOD. AND…

  You don’t think I see you, hiding in the window looking at me, looking at you, looking for some sense in poetry; But don’t you know, poetry isn’t the prize, it’s the prelude.

  Miles played video games with Ganke for the rest of the day, something he hadn’t done all week. And between the gaming binge, Miles reread the poem, sniffed the paper like a weirdo. And once he climbed into bed that night and fell asleep, he stayed there, and woke up the next day rested. No bad dreams. No sweats. No crawling the walls. No haunting relatives. Just sleep.

  Ganke was already up. He was staring at the ceiling, his phone on his chest, as Miles rolled over.

  “Yo,” Miles called. “You aight?”

  Ganke slowly rolled his head to the side, nodded slightly. “Just texted my parents.”

  “Yeah?” Miles wiped crust from the side of his mouth. Drool was always a great sign of a good night’s rest.

  “Yeah. At the same time. Group text.”

  Uh-oh, Miles thought. Knowing Ganke, it could have been a crazy, off-the-cuff joke, or a text explosion of the emotions Miles had been watching him hold in.

  “Uh-oh,” Miles decided to say out loud. “What did you say?”

  Ganke smirked, rolled his head back and returned his eyes to the ceiling.

  “I told them I loved them.”

  “That’s all?” Miles asked.

  “Yeah.” Ganke nodded. “And they both texted back, I love you, too.” Ganke’s eyes shone with water. He blinked, wiped the tears away before they fell.

  Miles sat up, his body still stiff. He felt an itch on his thigh, reached down to scratch it, and realized it was Alicia’s letter stuck to his leg. Miles unfolded it for what was probably the twentieth time and held it up to his face. He knew Ganke needed a laugh. Ganke always knew how to take the sting out of everything. Now Miles was going to try to return the favor.

  “And I love you, Alicia,” Miles said, in a high-toned squeal. “So, so much.” He started kissing the paper, kiss, kiss, kiss, before shouting, “I spilled the salsa! Ganke, I spilled it! I spilled the salsa! Wepa!”

  Ganke cracked a smile, and for Miles, that was enough.

  As Miles headed to Blaufuss’s class, he saw Alicia standing in a crowd outside the room with Winnie, Dawn, and…Ganke. Ganke glanced up and saw him, that signature smile wiped across his face as usual. Ganke mischievously waved him over, and Miles tried his best to send some sort of telepathic middle finger to his best friend. As he approached the group, Miles tried to take deep breaths to calm himself down.

  Wassup? he said to himself.

  No. Hi. Hey, he tried, but didn’t like it. He was quickly approaching.

  What’s good? No. Too much. But she from Harlem. So…maybe.

  And then he was standing in front of them. In front of her.

  “Hey,” Miles muttered.

  “Wassup, Miles.” Winnie spoke first. Then headed into the classroom, along with Dawn.

  “Hello, Miles,” Ganke said. Eyebrow bounce. Pinched laughter. Noticing the look on Miles’s face, Ganke stuck his thumb up and moonwalked aw
ay.

  “What’s good?” Alicia asked, her lips twisted.

  “I…um…I got your letter. Your poem.” His stomach rumbled like he’d swallowed a car engine.

  “And I got yours,” she replied. Her voice was warm, confident, though Miles thought he could hear a slight tremor in it. “It was sweet.”

  “So was yours. I mean, it was—”

  “How did you know it was sandalwood?” She cut to the chase, smiling.

  Before Miles could answer, Ms. Blaufuss poked her head out of the classroom. “The bell’s about to ring. Y’all coming in?”

  “Do we have a choice?” Alicia asked, snarky.

  “You always have a choice.” Ms. Blaufuss winked.

  After Mrs. Blaufuss’s class, when Miles was heading down to the cafeteria for lunch, he saw Mr. Chamberlain in the hallway. Miles knew there was a good chance Mr. Chamberlain would be at school. Why wouldn’t he be? But what Miles didn’t know was if Chamberlain would be different now that the Warden was dead. Stop treating him unfairly. You chop off the head to stop the feet. Just made sense to Miles, especially since he had experienced the Warden’s mind games firsthand. Miles figured the best way to gauge this was to first see if Chamberlain’s presence would trigger his spidey-sense. He walked up behind Mr. Chamberlain. Felt nothing. No buzz. So he decided to test him in a different way—by speaking.

  “Um, excuse me, Mr. Chamberlain?” Miles said. He was even brave enough to tap Mr. Chamberlain on the shoulder. He turned around. His face no different than it usually was. Tight, weird-looking, not the most pleasant mug Miles had seen, that’s for sure. Miles stepped back, braced himself.

  “Yes, Miles?”

  Miles? Mr. Chamberlain hadn’t called Miles anything other than Morales all year. Miles looked in Chamberlain’s eyes, searching for the discomfort he always felt. But it wasn’t there. Just a strange-looking, mean-faced man waiting on Miles to say something. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh…um…you know what, never mind. I’ll just ask when we get to class.”