Miles set the chicken, the rice, and the greens on the table, then took his seat. His mother put big spoons in the rice and greens bowls, and tongs on the chicken plate. Then she sat down as well.
“Bless the food, Jeff,” Mrs. Morales said. Miles, his father, and Ganke instantly snatched their eager hands back from the bowls and spread them wide to grab hold of the person sitting next to them.
“Yep, yes, of course. Bow your heads, boys,” Miles’s father said. “Lord, please help our son, Miles, behave himself in school. Because if he doesn’t, this very well may be the last home-cooked meal he ever has. Amen.”
“Amen,” Miles’s mother said seriously.
“Amen!” Ganke said.
Miles sucked his teeth, shot Ganke a look. Ganke leaned in for the chicken tongs.
Sunday dinner at Miles’s house was a tradition. Throughout the week Miles was away, staying on campus at the Brooklyn Visions Academy, and on Saturday, well…even Miles’s parents knew that there wasn’t a sixteen-year-old in all of Brooklyn who wanted to spend Saturday evening with his folks. But Sunday was perfect for an early family meal. A lazy day for everyone. As a matter of fact, besides his mother making him get up for early morning mass, Miles typically had the rest of the day free to loaf around and watch old sci-fi movies with his dad in the afternoon and pray his mother was making his favorite for dinner—pasteles.
But this Sunday hadn’t been quite as relaxed. Nor had the rest of the weekend. After being suspended Thursday afternoon, Father Jamie down at the church would’ve just given Miles a few Hail Marys to make penance and sent him on his way. But “Father Jeff” gave him a few Hell Nahs and sent him to his room.
It all started Friday, when Miles had been awakened at six in the morning and dragged outside on the stoop by his father.
“What are we doing out here, Dad?” Miles asked. He was wearing a wrinkled BVA T-shirt, holey sweatpants, and flip-flops. Trash cans and stuffed bags lined the block, some torn open by stray cats searching for scraps, others rummaged through by canners who sneaked around at night, looking for cans and bottles to trade in for dimes and quarters.
His father didn’t answer him, at least not right away. Just sat there on the top step, holding a napkin, sipping a cup of coffee.
“So…about this suspension.” Sip, swallow. “What exactly happened?” There was steel in his voice.
“Well, um, it was…my head was doing the…I had a…a feeling,” Miles stammered. His dad also knew his secret and had been keeping it from his mother for a while now. But his father was still a…father. Not of Spider-Man, but of Miles Morales. He made that clear to Miles as often as possible.
“So this was about you saving somebody, huh? Yeah, well, let me ask you something, Super Hero.…” He took another sip from his mug. “Who’s gonna save you?”
Miles just sat there, silent, searching for an answer that would satisfy his old man, while at the same time praying for anything to change the subject.
The sun had just started to rise, a line of gold streaking across the red brick of the brownstones, when a miracle happened in the form of rumbling trash trucks. Saved, Miles thought as he and his father shifted their attention, watching the garbagemen slowly move down the street—one driving, two walking alongside the truck slinging bags, dumping cans, and throwing them back onto the sidewalk. Plastic forks, chicken bones, toilet paper gaskets and other remnants that had slipped through holes in the bags were left strewn up and down the sidewalk. It had been ten minutes and Miles still had no idea what he and his old man were doing out there. Until the trash truck was done with their block.
“You know what, we’ll talk about this more later. For now, son, why don’t you tidy up.”
“What you mean?”
Miles’s father stood, stretched his legs, and took another sip. He pointed up and down the street. “See all these cans? Be a good hero and put them back where they belong. Helping your neighbors is the most heroic thing you can do, right?”
Miles sighed.
“Oh,” his father continued. “And get up all this trash that our wonderful garbagemen left behind.”
“With what?” Miles asked, instantly grossed out. He wished he had one of his web-shooters on so he wouldn’t have had to actually touch, or even get close to, the plastic baggies of dog poop and fish guts. Not that he could sling web in his pajamas anyway.
“Figure it out, son.”
And that was just the beginning of his punishment. After that, Miles had to clean the apartment, schlep loads of clothes to and from the Laundromat, and make dinner for himself, which ended up being Top Ramen with hot sauce and toast. Saturday, his father walked him up and down the block, knocking on doors asking neighbors if there was anything they needed done. He got stuck dragging an old mattress out of Ms. Shine’s basement—where her junkie son, Cyrus, used to live—hanging pictures in Mr. Frankie’s house, and walking all the neighborhood dogs that needed walking. Which meant there was poop that needed bagging. Lots of it.
And on and on with the neighborhood “heroics.” Chore after chore. Job after job. Ramen pack after ramen pack.
Now, over Sunday dinner, Miles shuddered at the memory and reached for a second helping of rice and another piece of chicken. For the first Sunday in a long time he was out-eating Ganke and his father. And that wasn’t just because of the delicious flavor of his mother’s cooking. But also because of the sweet taste of his punishment—his torture—finally being over.
Until Miles’s father chose to douse the dinner with current affairs.
“Read in the paper earlier that kids are getting beaten up and robbed for their sneakers,” his father said, randomly. He pushed greens into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “I’m talking to you, Ganke.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I haven’t had no problems. Just walked here from the train like I always do, and nobody seemed to care,” Ganke said.
Miles’s father leaned to the side to check out Ganke’s sneakers. “No, I’m thinking maybe you’re the one stealing shoes.”
“Ha!” Miles’s mother yipped, pushing herself out from the table. She put her plate in the sink and threw over her shoulder, “You know Ganke couldn’t hurt a fly. Miles couldn’t either.” Ganke and Miles’s father both flashed a quick glance at Miles. His dad made a funny face at him at the same time his mom turned around. “Jeff,” she huffed, catching him in the act. “It’s like I’m raising two boys. Matter fact, just for that, you washing dishes.”
“No I’m not,” Miles’s father said like a disobedient child. He chuckled, and set his fork down on the plate. “Your baby, Miles, is gonna do that. Call it punishment dessert. A cherry on top.” Ganke blew a raspberry. Miles gave him a stone face. “Or, son, we can trade if you like. I’ll do the dishes, and you pay all those bills over there,” he added, pointing to the stack of envelopes rubber-banded on the coffee table.
“I know,” Miles groaned. He knew what was coming next.
“And like I always say, it takes wages, not wishes, to stop washing dishes.” Miles’s father added, “And you gon’ take out the trash.”