“Oh…yeah. Just a stamp and an envelope.”
Winnie turned around, ripped a stamp off a roll, and grabbed an envelope. Slid them both across the counter.
Miles pulled a crumpled dollar from his pocket.
“Thanks,” he said, turning.
“What happened here last night?” Winnie prodded. “Like, forreal. I ain’t gon’ say nothing if you or Ganke loves those nasty sausages.” She shrugged like she knew Miles had taken them, though he didn’t.
“Winnie, you a sko-low like me. You of all people know I wouldn’t risk my scholarship for canned meat.”
“True.” She nodded. “Well, it probably won’t be nothing. I mean, all those cans stolen only equals about fifteen dollars. They can just bill you or your folks for that. I just had to report it because if I didn’t…”
“I know.” Miles understood. “I know.”
But he didn’t know there would be a knock on Mr. Borem’s door halfway through calculus. And that Mr. Borem would turn back to the class and call Miles’s name.
“A gentleman would like to see you,” Mr. Borem said, always calculated. And when Miles stood, Mr. Borem added, “You’ll want to take your belongings.”
From there, Miles was escorted by a different campus police officer down the hall, out of the main building, across campus, and into the admin building, where he was seated in the lounge outside the dean’s office—the waiting room of discipline. Miles slumped in a chair made of dark wood and burgundy leather until his mother and father showed up.
“What’s going on?” Miles’s mother asked, her face a knot of confusion.
“I don’t know,” Miles said.
“Did you do it?” his father asked.
“Do what?” Miles furrowed his brow, narrowed his eyes.
“Steal.”
“Steal? Of course not! They think I stole that stuff?”
“What do you think we’re—” Before Miles’s father could finish preemptively scolding Miles, Ms. Fletcher, the secretary, spoke over him.
“The dean will see you now.”
Five minutes later, Miles sat in Dean Kushner’s office in front of a big wooden desk carved with ornate designs similar to the ones on the good china at Miles’s parents’ house. Dean Kushner was a small man, and looked even smaller behind that desk. He had a perfectly round, pale bald head, the veins in it like stitches in a brand-new baseball. He wore small circle-framed glasses—of course—that were the exact size of his wide eyes. The guy was a mess of circles in a wool suit.
Miles’s parents sat on either side of him, their faces twisted. Both of them twitched their legs nervously. For Miles, this was even more of a nightmare then the ones involving Uncle Aaron. At least those all ended with him waking up, snapping out of it. But this was real. He had only been back to school one full day and was already teetering on another stretch of punishment. A much, much worse punishment.
“Please read this aloud,” Dean Kushner commanded, handing Miles a piece of paper.
Miles glanced at the paper, gnawing his bottom lip. He sighed, glanced up at Dean Kushner, then reluctantly cleared his throat and began.
“‘Dear Dean Kushner,
“‘My name is Miles Morales. I’m thirteen years old and from Brooklyn. I have an amazing mother and father who love me more than anything, which I know might seem strange for a teenager to admit. But I know what they’ve sacrificed for me and what they continue to sacrifice for me to stay on a direct path to success, and it’s because of their guidance that I’ve maintained a four-point-oh GPA in middle school. I’ve been taught how to be excellent, which is why I’m interested in attending Brooklyn Visions Academy, a school that also prides itself on excellence.
“‘But I also pride myself on honesty. And if I’m being honest I have to also mention that even though I have a great family, I know there are people who look at us a certain way. The reason why is because my father wasn’t always the man he is today. He was a person who didn’t have anyone to steer him away from the traps of our community. Even though my neighborhood is a beautiful place to grow up, sometimes it can get complicated. And my father and his brother fell victim to the street, becoming teenage thieves, bringing problems to our neighborhood, and all of New York City.
“‘And even though my father, with the help of my mother, pulled himself out of that situation and cleaned his life up, his brother did not. My uncle continued to break the law, hurting people, until finally it caught up to him. This part of my family is also a part of me. The same fearlessness that led them to crime is what leads me to excellence. And my goal, if you give me the honor of attending Brooklyn Visions Academy, is to continue to prove that. I believe it’s not just about where you’re from, Dean Kushner, but also about where you’re going.
“‘Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to your reply.
“‘Sincerely,
“‘Miles Morales.’”
Miles set the paper back on the desk. Defeated.
“Now, Mr. Morales,” Dean Kushner said, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “Is this or is this not the letter you submitted with your application to this institution?”
“It is, sir,” Miles said.
“And did you or did you not say that you wouldn’t fall victim to the toxic patterns of your family?”
“Excuse me, Dean Kushner, but I don’t think—” Miles’s father interjected.
“I’m just paraphrasing what your son wrote, Mr. Davis.” The dean tapped the paper.
“I understand that, sir, but—”
“Um, we understand that, sir,” Miles’s mom stepped in to massage the moment. “But Miles said he didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t. Why would I steal something from the store I work at? And steal what? Sausage?”
“Dean Kushner, is there any proof?” Miles’s father asked, still fuming over the dean’s accusations.
“Well, funny you should ask, Mr. Davis, because actually there’s the footage from the surveillance.”
Footage?
Miles’s father cut his eyes at Miles. “Footage?” Miles wanted to breathe a sigh of relief because this evidence should’ve, in fact, cleared his name. But his muscles were still tight with confusion—there was no way he could be on film stealing sausage because he didn’t steal any sausage! Right? So why was he still so nervous?
“That’s right.” Dean Kushner got up from his desk and opened a cabinet to the left of him, which housed a television. He grabbed the remote, powered-on the monitor, and cut right to the scene of the crime. “Here, Miles is in the store. Now, you’ll see he backs up until he’s out of camera shot for a few seconds, and then suddenly, he’s back,” the dean explained like a lawyer in a courtroom drawing attention to Exhibit A.
“Okay…” Miles’s father said.