“You shouldn’t have to,” Miles said.
“Oh, Miles. This is what you sign up for when you become a parent.”
“I didn’t!” Miles’s father growled.
“Don’t listen to him. Yes, we did. Papi, the two of us will starve if it means keeping your belly full. Understand?” A marble formed in Miles’s throat. “Speaking of full bellies, let me pack you a sandwich to take back with you.”
“And it’s getting late so I’m gonna walk you to the train,” Miles’s father said, leaning forward. “I told you they’re robbing people for sneakers. And even though yours ain’t all that expensive”—he glanced at Miles’s shoes—“they clean.”
Outside was still pretty quiet, besides the sound of Fat Tony and his boys. They had returned to the block, and were leaning against the gate, their laughter cutting the still air.
“What’s good, Mr. Davis? Miley Miles?” Fat Tony said, tossing a hand up.
“What’s happening, Tony?” Miles’s father said, closing the gate at the bottom of the stoop. Before Miles could speak, his father grabbed him by the arm and walked the opposite way.
“Yo, Mr. Davis?” Tony called. Miles’s father turned around. “You saw what happened to Neek?”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“What you think he did?” Tony asked. Miles glanced across the street at Neek’s house. The cat was now sitting on the top step of the stoop. It licked itself before snapping its head up to catch Miles’s eye.
It was as if it knew Miles was watching.
It was as if it knew Miles.
“I have no idea,” Miles’s father said, shaking his head, and turning back around. Miles was locked on the cat. The eyes, strangely familiar. Almost magnetic. It cocked its head, studying Miles before standing up and bending into a ferocious arch of fur again.
You’re just like me, Miles swore the cat said. Swore he saw the cat actually fix his mouth to make those words. Miles narrowed his eyes, only to see the cat was just hissing. Its tail waved back and forth, but not like normal. Most cats’ tails move like charmed serpents. This one’s moved like a snake’s rattle. Miles’s father grabbed him by the arm again, but Miles couldn’t turn away. His eyes started to dry out, his vision blurring, the single tail of this feral cat splitting into several coiled tails.
The cat from his dream.
And the wrist of Mr. Chamberlain.
Mr. Chamberlain.
“Come on,” Miles’s father said. Miles tripped over his feet, turning with his father while keeping his eyes on the cat. Mr. Chamberlain. Miles looked over his shoulder once more as he reluctantly headed on. His brain was firing thoughts. Well, really just one: It’s Mr. Chamberlain. He wasn’t sure what that actually meant, but he knew something was up with his history teacher. Something more than just him being a jerk. But there was still so much that didn’t make sense. Like, what did Chamberlain have to do with Neek? And what did Miles have to do with any of it?
“So…you okay?” Miles’s father asked, five steps into the walk, if you could call what Miles was doing walking. He had resorted to more of a bumble. Not very Spider-Man–like.
“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Miles tried to shake the distraction. He stuffed his hands into the hoodie’s kangaroo pouch, then, unable to resist, looked behind him once more for the cat. It was gone.
“You don’t seem like it. Anything you need to talk about? Maybe about what happened today?”
Miles swallowed the marble still lodged in his throat and turned to his father. “Do you…um…believe me?” This is what mattered more than anything. It was one thing to be accused by his dean. Another to lose the trust of his folks. “Or you think I really stole that stuff from the store?”
Miles’s father sighed. “I believe you, son.”
“And what about her?” Miles asked.
“Who, your mother?” Miles’s father stuffed his hands into his pockets. “She’s just worried about you. I mean, think about it from our perspective. Our son, who we’ve known his whole life, who has never been in any real trouble, got suspended from school last week for basically ditching class. And then as soon as he gets back to school, loses his work-study job for stealing. Now, I don’t believe you were stealing, but you said you left to go to an open mic. My son, the math-and-science guy, leaves work to go see what? Some singing? Rapping? Poetry? You’ve gotta understand how this looks. You seem to be going off the rails, Miles. So, understandably, she’s scared that you’re going to be like…”
“Uncle Aaron.”
“Yeah. Like Uncle Aaron. Shoot, I never thought my brother would be pillow talk between me and my wife, but something tells me that’s what it’ll be tonight.” Miles’s father stopped walking, grabbed Miles’s shoulder, peered into his eyes. “Look, just tell me everything is okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then explain why you left the store. Forreal.”
“I told you.” Miles started walking again. His father followed suit. “I went to an open mic.”
“You went to an open mic.” Miles’s father nodded, glaring at the side of Miles’s face. “For what?”
“For extra credit.”
“Ah. Okay.” Miles’s father nodded, then let the awkward silence balloon between them until it burst. “So…what’s her name?”
“Who?”
“Whoever got you snoopin’ around open mics, son. Look, I believe you when you say you went for extra credit. But something tells me that wasn’t the only reason. You do know I was a teenager once, right? Somebody got your head spinning, unless you about to be the next Langston Hughes and I don’t know it.” Miles shot a look at his father, who was trying to keep a smirk from becoming a smile. “So…what’s her name?”
Miles shook his head. “Alicia.” His father chuckled under his breath.
“And does she know you like her?”
“I don’t know. I thought she did, but I’m not sure now. I have two classes with her, but every time I try to say something to her I feel all queasy. At first I thought it was my stupid spidey-sense, and it might be that too, but…”
“But you think it’s also something else. Butterflies.” Miles’s father sang it out in a silly operatic voice, and waved his hands in the air as if conducting an orchestra, knocking up against his son.
“Whatever.” Miles pushed back. “Anyway, I was also going to the open mic to give her this thing I wrote for her.”
“So you really wrote a poem for this girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. It really might be butterflies. And what happened when you gave it to her?”
“I didn’t. Before I had the chance to, she asked me to read it in front of everyone. And I panicked.”
“Well, I’m happy to report that you got that from yours truly.” Miles’s father pointed to himself. “Your uncle was confident around women. But not me. You ever hear the story about how I met your mother?”