Miles Morales

There was only one security camera and it was just above his head. Miles didn’t know if Dean Kushner had anyone check the footage, but he knew there was a good chance no one ever did. It would’ve been a waste of time to review a store surveillance film of the back of Miles’s head every other day, occasionally catching him nodding off. But to be safe, Miles needed to disconnect it, just for the little while he was gone.

Based on what he’d seen in every heist movie he’d watched with his dad, Miles knew one of the most consistent blind spots for any surveillance camera is right underneath it. And if he did this right, the footage would just look like he stepped back for a moment, out of the frame, and then stepped back into it.

Miles backed up as far as he could, until he was just about up against the wall, the camera directly above him. He listened for more bumbling kids. Heard nothing. Then, in a flash, he slipped into camo mode, his entire body, including his clothes, blending in with the eggshell paint. He climbed up the wall until he was eye level with the back of the camera. There was a thick black cord, obviously connecting to the power source. He yanked it out. Then climbed down, coming out of camouflage as if literally stepping out of the wall. He listened again for more students, but heard nothing. Then he ripped the Alicia sijo from his notebook, folded it up, slid it in his pocket, and slipped out the door.


The quad was just a square patch of cement in the middle of campus with benches and a small fountain pool that seniors threw their dorm keys in before graduating. Dean Kushner fined every senior who didn’t turn in a key before walking across the stage, but nobody cared about the petty fine—the key tossing was tradition. By the time Miles showed up, the benches were all occupied, girls crammed on each other’s laps, guys perched on the corners of the wooden seats. Everyone else stood around the key pool, listening to whoever’s turn it was to recite.

Of course, Ryan “Ratshit” Ratcliffe was mid-poem, as Miles ghosted around the perimeter of the crowd.

“I just need you to know that I’ll be right here, because I love you today, and I’ll love you next year, and I know I seem cold, but that’s just ’cause I fear, that you’ll break my heart. Don’t break my heart. My heart. Don’t break it, girl.” Ryan’s voice had slipped into sexy-poetry tone. As people kinda clapped and shook their heads, and Ryan took a bow—of course Ryan took a bow—Alicia emerged from the crowd. Miles couldn’t see her at first, just the braided bun on top of her head. But then she stepped up onto the wall of the fountain.

And almost on perfect cue, the buzzing in his head and stomach began.

“Let’s give it up for Ryan, y’all!” she said with forced enthusiasm. “Thank you for sharing. Let’s see who we have next.” While Alicia read down a wrinkled piece of paper containing the list of readers and performers, Miles scanned the room for Ganke, stretching his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse of Ganke’s jet-black hair in the sea of blond, brown, and red. He looked to the left. Winnie Stockton, who could only be there because she opted to do her work-study one hour every morning before class, and weekends, standing between Ms. Blaufuss and Mr. Chamberlain. What was he doing here? Miles thought at first, but realized that Mr. Chamberlain fit the stereotype of everything Miles hated about poets. Super serious. Hands pressed. Eyes closed. Repeating himself, just for effect. Ugh.

Quickly, Miles ran over to Ms. Blaufuss. Because…priorities.

“Hey, Ms. Blaufuss.”

“Miles!” Ms. Blaufuss lit up when she saw him. “So glad you could make it!”

“Thanks, um, I can only stay for a second because—” Buzz. Fight against it. Push it away. You know it’s nothing.

“Because you’re supposed to be working, aren’t you, Morales?” Mr. Chamberlain interjected. Miles locked eyes with him. And again, there was something there, something behind Mr. Chamberlain’s pupils, retracting to let less light in. Something…off. Mr. Chamberlain’s tone was just sharp enough for Ms. Blaufuss to open her mouth in protest.

“Miles,” Ms. Blaufuss said, glaring at Mr. Chamberlain. “Stay as long as you can. I got you marked.” She jotted his name in a small notepad. Mr. Chamberlain walked off. Not just to a different part of the crowd, but out of the crowd altogether, as if one stern glare from Ms. Blaufuss was enough to melt his cold, cold heart.

“Thank you,” Miles said, unsettled and confused. But he was happy Mr. Chamberlain was gone. Actually, he was happy about that and the extra credit. Now with the first note of business complete, it was time to address the second.

He set his sights back on Alicia, who was reading a short poem she said her great-grandmother had written during the Harlem Renaissance. That was the other thing about Alicia that was different. She was Harlem royalty. Old black money. A descendant of artists who hobnobbed with people like Langston Hughes and Jacob Lawrence. As a matter of fact, her family were major donors to BVA, making it possible for kids like Miles and Winnie and Judge to attend.

“My great-granny and her peers were the Dream Defenders of their time. And with that, I’m happy to invite to the mic, as far as I’m concerned, one of the great ones from ours.” Miles caught Alicia’s eye as she wound up her intro, and an unusual smile crept onto her face. “Put your hands together for my girl, Dawn Leary.”

Once Dawn took center stage, Alicia pushed through the crowd toward Miles. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper—the poem. Her poem. But it just so happened that coming from the other direction—from the other side of the swarm of students—was Ganke.

“Hey, man, you made it!” Ganke said, throwing an arm around Miles. Miles immediately shoved the poem back in his pants.

And before Miles could reply, Alicia called out, “Miles!” and slipped past the last person standing between them. Miles pulled the poem back out. But only halfway. Elbowed Ganke in the ribs as cool as possible, which for Miles was not cool at all.

Ganke grunted. He took his arm from around Miles’s shoulder, a smirk dripping off his face. “Um, I…will…talk…to you later,” he said robotically, backing away even more awkwardly.

“I swear, Ganke is one of the strangest dudes I know. And I love it.” Alicia watched quizzically as Ganke faded back into the crowd.

“Yeah.” Miles ignored Ganke’s silliness and tried to swallow his nerves as Alicia turned back to him.

“Anyway, it’s crazy to see you here.” She leaned in for a hug, as Miles jutted his hand out. Then noticing Alicia was going for the hug, he jutted his other hand out as if he were welcoming a slow dance. But Alicia pulled back, confused but still smiling, and awkwardly extended her hand for a bungled shake. Sandalwood and a hint of sweat rushed Miles’s nostrils.

“Why you say that?” Miles said to Alicia way too bluntly. He tried to laugh it off, but that made it even weirder. “I mean…I like poetry.”

“Is that right? You like poetry?” Alicia replied, seeing right through him.

“Yeah. I like yours. And, um, your great-grandmother’s.” Miles slid the rest of the folded paper from his pocket. “That’s art and history. Love that.”

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