Miles Morales by Jason Reynolds
FOR ALLEN
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
—Paul Laurence Dunbar, from “We Wear the Mask”
Miles set the good dishes on the table. The white porcelain with the blue detailing glazed over the top—ornate flowers and intricate images of old Chinese villages that nobody in his family had ever been to. Good china, his father called it, passed down from his grandmother only to be used on Sundays and special occasions. And though it was Sunday, today was also a special occasion for Miles, because it was the last day of his punishment.
“My suggestion to you, mijo, is that you make sure you get it all out before his class,” Miles’s mother said, lifting a window and fanning the smoke from the stove out with a hand towel. “Because I swear, if you get suspended again for something like this, it’s gonna be you I’m fanning out the window.”
Miles was suspended for having to pee. Well, for saying he had to pee. After his history teacher, Mr. Chamberlain, said no, Miles begged. And once Mr. Chamberlain said no again, Miles left. So he was actually suspended for leaving class. But here’s the thing—Miles didn’t really have to pee. And no, he didn’t have to do that either. Miles had to rescue someone.
At least he thought he did. Truth was, his spider-sense had been on the fritz lately. But Miles couldn’t risk it—couldn’t ignore what he considered his responsibility.
“I don’t always have time to pee before class, Ma,” Miles replied. He rinsed forks and knives in the sink, while his mother hung the towel on the oven handle. She grabbed a pair of tongs and lifted chunks of chicken breast from the sizzling grease.
“Yeah, you used to say that every night, and guess what? You wet the bed more than any boy I’ve ever seen.”
“The boy could’ve set a record,” Miles’s father chimed in from the couch. He was flipping through Friday’s Daily Bugle. He only got the Friday edition; his theory was that if he were to actually read it each day, he’d never leave the house. Creatures everywhere were threatening civilization—and those were just the articles about reality TV. “Miles, I swear you were the most bed-wettingest kid in Brooklyn. Matter fact, back then I used to get this trash paper every morning, just so we could line the top of your mattress with it in the evening.” Mr. Davis closed the paper, folded it in half. He shook his head. “And then your pissy butt would come waddling into our bedroom in the middle of the night smelling like two-hundred-year-old lemonade, talkin’ ’bout, I had an accident. An accident? I’ma tell you right now, son, be thankful for your mother, because if it were up to me, you would’ve been lying in the wet spot until it was a dry spot.”
“Be quiet, Jeff,” Miles’s mother said, positioning the chicken on a serving plate.
“Am I lying, Rio? You were always savin’ him.”
“Because he’s my baby,” she said, laying a paper towel on the first layer of meat to sop the grease from the glistening skin. “But you not a baby no more. So figure out what you need to do to keep your butt in that seat.”
Miles had already made up his mind that that wouldn’t be a problem. He was going to stay in his seat in Mr. Chamberlain’s class and ignore his beehive brain whenever the bees up there got to buzzing. His spidey-sense had always been his alarm, the thing that let him know when there was danger close, or when someone needed help. But since the beginning of this school year, his junior year at Brooklyn Visions Academy, his spidey-sense seemed to be…broken. Almost like his powers were wearing off. He’d been dashing out of Chamberlain’s class over and over again for fake bathroom breaks, bolting down the hallway and out the door, a gust of wind, only to find…nothing. No monster. No mutant. No madman. Just Brooklyn being Brooklyn, left with a new awkward excuse about what took him so long in the bathroom.
Perhaps, for a kid like him, being a Super Hero had an expiration date. And it wasn’t worth being punished by his folks—it wasn’t worth failing a class, or being expelled—if he couldn’t even guarantee he’d still be able to be Spider-Man by graduation.
The buzzer buzzed just as Miles finished setting the table for four. He scooted past his mother, who was scooping yellow rice from a pot into a bowl, and stuck his head out the open window.
“I don’t know why you look to see who it is like you don’t already know,” Miles’s father said, washing his hands in the sink. He kissed Miles’s mother loudly on the cheek. “Smells good, baby. Matter fact, it smells so good that our son’s knucklehead friend could smell it on the other side of Brooklyn.”
“Be nice. You know he’s going through some changes,” Miles’s mother said.
“We going through some changes, too—nickels, dimes, and quarters.” Miles’s father rubbed his thumb and index fingers together. “I’m just sayin’, I love the kid, but we can’t really afford another mouth at this table.”
Miles’s mother faced his father, placed her hands on his chest, and sighed. “Love is deed, papi. Not just fine phrases.” She planted a peck on his lips.
“Yo!” Miles, grossed out by his parents, yelled down to the stoop. “Hold on.” On the other side of the room, Miles hit the button that automatically unlocked the front door. Then cracked the one leading into the building, the sound of heavy footfalls climbing the steps.
“Yo,” Ganke said, almost falling into the apartment. Ganke, a burly Korean kid, was Miles’s best friend, confidant, and roommate at Brooklyn Visions Academy. He immediately inspected Miles’s face, right cheek, left cheek, then whispered, “You okay? I’m surprised your folks didn’t kill you,” before moving past Miles to greet his parents. “Hey, Mrs. M., Mr. Jeff. What’s for din-din?”
“I’m not sure, Ganke, but guess who would know? Your parents,” Miles’s father said. Mrs. Morales slapped her husband on the arm.
“Oh, I know what they’re having for dinner, Mr. Jeff. I already ate it,” Ganke said with a shrug.
“Um, Ganke, wash your hands and sit down. You know you’re always welcome here, even if it’s for dinner number two. Tonight we’re having chicharrón de pollo.”
Ganke sent a confused look to Miles’s father, who now stood behind a chair at the head of the table. “Fried chicken,” he said, his face volleying back and forth between annoyed and sympathetic.
“Oh, sweet.”
“Not like it would’ve mattered,” Miles’s father jabbed, sliding out his chair and taking a seat.
“Got that right, Mr. Jeff.”