Then again, maybe Chamberlain was calling everyone’s bluff—all the bored students who he had to know weren’t paying any attention. Maybe he was trying to make them angry so they would engage. Like Brad Canby, a trust-fund goon with a pockmarked face who was always more concerned with getting a laugh than getting an A. He never paid attention in any class, but especially not in Mr. Chamberlain’s. But judging from Alicia’s head shaking in front of him, Miles knew she was just as disturbed by what the teacher was saying. And that was enough to make him put his hand up.
But before he could call out for Mr. Chamberlain—who could never see raised hands because his eyes were always closed—Miles lowered his hand. Then he brought it up to his temple.
His head was buzzing.
Oh no. Not again.
Miles sat still in his desk, trying to block Mr. Chamberlain out and let it pass. The buzzing will go away. No big deal. It’s nothing, anyway. But Mr. Chamberlain was really digging in now. “And, though given so much credit after the war for freeing slaves, it mustn’t be ignored that at the beginning of his presidency, Abraham Lincoln’s policies shifted dramatically from the antislavery platform he’d campaigned on.”
Buzz. Buzz.
Mr. Chamberlain’s voice distorted in Miles’s ears. Don’t get up. It’ll pass. It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing. He stared at the back of Alicia’s neck, the fuzzy hair left unbraided at her nape, curling toward him. What if…? No. But seriously, what if someone’s hurt? What if the city’s being torn apart? He kept trying to ignore it, but with every pulsing vibration came the nagging possibility that someone was in danger.
Miles Morales was having a full-on meltdown.
Miles thought about the people he saw in his neighborhood tweaking on the block, trying to fight off whatever they might’ve been addicted to. The old men, crashing into the bodega door with the shakes, just trying to get to the fridge. The ladies, scratching their heads and forearms, trying to remember how to get home. Trying to remember when they left the house in the first place. The Cyrus Shines.
“They going through it,” Miles’s father would say to explain the withdrawal, the sickness. “Hang in there,” he’d say to them as he and Miles walked by.
Miles needed to hang in there. To resist the urge to save someone other than himself. But he was getting light-headed. His heart was beating faster than it ever had, and it felt like his veins had tightened, making it possible to actually feel the blood coursing through his body.
To try to steady his mind, he fell into a routine, a pattern to get through the class.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Breathe. Blink the blur away. Breathe.
Sandalwood. Calm.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Block out the droning wah-wah-wah of Mr. Chamberlain’s voice.
“Yes, the Thirteenth Amendment states that there shall be no more slavery in the United States, except as punishment for crime. Perhaps it could be argued that the enslavement of our criminals is still keeping our great country alive.” That statement was like a needle stuck in Miles’s spine, tightening his body, forcing him to glance up. He caught Chamberlain’s eyes, which, surprisingly, were open just for a moment, leering directly at him. Then Chamberlain closed his eyes, steeled his face, and finished his statement. “That is, in the minds of our Confederate forefathers.”
Buzz.
Breathe. Blink the blur away. Breathe.
Was he…smiling?
Sandalwood. Calm.
Alicia, sensing Miles staring at the back of her neck like a weirdo, turned to the side, caught him out of the corner of her eye. Smirked, her cheek dimpling deep enough for Miles to want to dive in.
Sandalwood. Calm. Breathe. Breathe.
And then, finally…finally…the bell rang. Chair legs scraped against linoleum as people jumped up from their desks. Miles slowly stood, a ring of sweat around his T-shirt collar, relieved. He’d made it.
“You think he’s serious, or is he baiting us?” Alicia spoke softly to Miles as she packed her books away in her bag.
“Um…I don’t know,” Miles said, wiping his forehead, then zipping his bag. Mr. Chamberlain was erasing the quote he’d written at the beginning of class. Miles scowled at his back.
“Why you looking like that?” Alicia uttered, studying Miles’s face. Miles caught himself and turned his grimace to a grin. But Alicia seemed doubly confused. “Now, why you looking like that? Did you enjoy that mess?”
“What, the class?” Miles looked down for a moment to gather himself. “Of course not. No. No.” His head still buzzing, his stomach still churning, sweat still leaking from his skin. He probably looked like he had pneumonia. Don’t pass out, he thought. Don’t pass out. And while coaching himself out of passing out, he also knew he couldn’t pass up on this opportunity to say something nice about Alicia. A compliment. But not about the way she looked or smelled or the slight th she substituted for every s. He needed to say something that would offset the creepy look on his face. Then it hit him—he’d tell her how much he’d liked her poem. About the mountain. Of love. And like. “Hey…um…so, this is random but I enjoyed your po—” he started, but the words got trapped under the rock rolling up his throat. He swallowed it back down, and tried again, no longer smiling. A burp escaped. Alicia cocked her head to the side. “Sorry.” Miles covered his mouth to block belch breath. “I was saying I—” His words caught again. “I was saying I enjoyed your…your…” Suddenly it was more than just hiccups or burps. He was heaving. Alicia took a step back, stared at him, a look of concern on her face.
“Miles?”
“Sorry, sorry, I…” He put a hand over his mouth, lurched forward. “Oh…God. I…” And then he bolted away from Alicia, past Mr. Chamberlain, almost bowling over the lingering students standing in the doorway, to get to the bathroom.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
“Yooooo.” Ganke came slamming into the dorm room, holding some envelopes in one hand, and waving around an orange piece of paper in the other. Miles was lying on his side scribbling his best version of a sijo. He glanced up at Ganke. Ganke slowed. “What’s wrong with you?”
Miles put his pen down. “I talked to Alicia. Like, talked to her talked to her.”
“Okay, and…”
“And…I almost threw up on her.”
“Wait. You mean, like, you actually almost puked on her? Like…puked pesto penne pas—”
“Yes, man,” Miles cut him off. Ganke strained his neck muscles to stifle his smile, but couldn’t hold it. He threw the envelopes on his desk and slapped his hand over his mouth to muzzle the laughter. “It’s not funny,” Miles grumped.
“Oh, I know it’s not. I mean, it is. But it’s also not. Because it’s…disgusting. Like, there’s not enough hot water on Earth to make you ever feel clean again. I mean, I would have to figure out if there’s some kind of surgery to replace my skin if somebody splashed me with a vomit comet.” He mimed a gag. “Seriously, think about—”
“Yo, you wanna hear what happened or not?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”
Miles ran through the story—Chamberlain’s lesson, the spidey-sense malfunction, the small talk with Alicia, and of course, the almost-upchuck, which led to a mad dash down the hall to the boys’ bathroom.
“But by the time I made it into a stall, the feeling was gone. My spidey-sense had finally worn off, or…whatever.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I just…I don’t know.” Miles scratched his chin. “Chamberlain gave me this look.”