“No. No. And…no.” Miles grabbed the mask and got up from the bed. There was a mirror between his and Ganke’s beds, the same mirror Miles checked out his jeans and sneakers in every day. The same mirror Ganke used to imitate Miles checking out his jeans and sneakers every day. Looking at his reflection, he flipped the mask inside out. Pulled it down over his head, over his face. All black.
You’re just like me.
Miles swallowed, staring at himself, but not himself.
You’re just like me.
“I don’t know.” Miles yanked the mask off, flipped it back to its original side, and put it back on. He grabbed his suit from the bed. “I just need to clear my head.”
By clearing his head, Miles meant going for a jump-and-swing, a shoot-and-soar. He opened the window in his dorm, camouflaged for the initial exit, and crawled out onto the wall, the black and red of his suit now the colors of red brick and mortar. Once he got to the roof, he came out of camo mode and looked out over the campus. The regal buildings and tree-lined pathways. The quad and courtyards, all emulating the Ivy League. And in the distance, the city, pushing into the sky like fingers ready to grab someone—everyone.
Miles took a few steps back, took a deep breath, sucking in everything around him, pushing all the things already in him—Dean Kushner, his parents, Mr. Chamberlain—further down. Then, he took off, and with a running start, jumped off the building.
And from rooftop to rooftop, Miles leaped as easily as if he were jumping puddles on the sidewalk, until he reached the edge of campus. Then he dove into the air, web shooting from both hands and attaching to trees, telephone poles, and any other structure around him, swinging him further into the air, high above the people below, who were scattered through the streets like ants. He didn’t pay attention to where he was going, just tried to remember what it felt like to fly. What it felt like to fall knowing he wouldn’t actually hit the ground.
From the clock tower to the courthouse, from the roofs of luxury condos to those of project buildings. And before he knew it, almost as if he’d suddenly opened his eyes, he was in his own neighborhood. A mash-up of sound hit him, much different than the sounds of Brooklyn Visions Academy. The screeching of bus brakes. The droning horns of taxicabs. Men hollering over bouncing basketballs. Music coming from both the radio and the sounds of the city itself.
Miles perched on the roof of the dollar store on Fulton Street—the one where Frenchie worked—and watched it all, before zeroing in on a group of kids getting off a bus, a blur of bright colors and fly haircuts that made them look older than they were. Miles watched as they walked down the block, laughing and joking, until they hit the corner. Once they reached the end of the street, they all stopped talking, passing by a group of older guys, one of whom said something to the youngins.
Buzz. Buzz.
Miles’s spidey-sense sent vibrations around his head. Buzz.
The young boys didn’t wait or engage. They just split, each of them tearing off into different directions. Only one of the men broke from the crew to chase the young boys, and the one he targeted was the flyest of them all. The one with the blond patch in his hair.
Miles jumped to the next building, and the next, following along with the chase. The boy dashed down the sidewalk, sometimes jumping into the street to avoid the crowd, zigzagging from block to block while the guy followed close behind him.
And then the boy with the blond patch turned a hard left off the boulevard and bolted down a quiet street. Maybe the street he lived on, Miles thought, still lurking from on high. And with nothing in the way, the man opened his stride and ran the young boy down, grabbed him by his shoulders, and then, to play it off, put an arm around him, yoking him up. The boy didn’t scream. Didn’t yell for help. Miles knew that silence. The silence that knows that yelling is futile and against code. Yelling makes things more dangerous.
They took a few more steps, pretending everything was normal, until Miles noticed the young boy squatting, unlacing his sneakers.
Buzz.
Read in the paper earlier that kids are being beaten up and robbed for their sneakers. Miles’s father’s voice swam around his head as he jumped from the building. By the time the boy handed the thief the shoes, Miles was standing right behind him.
The boy’s eyes widened. The thief turned around and met the red-and-white eyes of the spider mask. He didn’t say anything. Just snarled and shook his head.
“You should mind your business,” the thief said, pulling his shirt up to flash the grip of a gun tucked in his waistband.
“This is my business,” Miles answered. He and the man faced off on the sidewalk. The young boy silently stepped to the side, climbed the stoop of one of the houses.
The man dropped the shoes. Suddenly, the tremor of Miles’s spidey-sense spiked, letting him know the man was going to go for the weapon. Before he could even touch the metal grip of the pistol, Miles grabbed the man’s wrist tight. Using just two fingers, he crushed the marble-like bones that help the wrist pivot, causing the thief to howl and use his other hand to brace himself. And once he had bent over in pain, Miles was right there with an uppercut, mean and clean, rocking the thief backward on his heels and onto his back. “Yeah, you act tough, but you ain’t nothing but a coward,” Miles said, shaking his head just before jumping on top of the guy. He grabbed the thief by his shirt collar and raised his fist. Just before Miles dropped it down on the guy’s face like a hammer, he caught the kid out of the corner of his eye. The blond patch. He looked on, terrified. His eyes froze Miles, mid-bash.
You’re just like me.
Miles stopped. He climbed off the thief, who was now just a slug, salted and shriveled up on the sidewalk. Miles grabbed the gun from the guy’s pants and crushed it under his feet. Then he rolled the guy over, yanked his hands behind his back, the broken wrist now grapefruit-size. The thief yowled, and Miles held his arms together and webbed them tight.
Then he reached down and snatched the guy’s shoes off. He handed them to the kid, who was shaking with fear, along with the shoes that belonged to him. “Do what you want with them.” Then he leaned down and got really close to the broken and bloody stick-up man’s face. “Tell everybody what just happened to you. And if you—or any of you—try it again, I will know. See, you don’t know me, but I know you. And I will come for you.”
As the kid bent down and tied the laces of his sneakers, Miles shot web up to a streetlight and swung off. He blasted web left and right, up and over, letting it randomly attach itself to various structures—light poles, high-rise buildings, construction scaffolding. While whipping through the air his adrenaline eased, and he was forced to deal with the fact that he’d just almost beaten a man to death. What if you killed him? Right there, in front of that kid. What if you’d killed him? Tears welled up on the sills of his eyes, but didn’t fall. What came over you? Who are you?