Miles had other plans.
The next stop was the dollar store. An older lady held the door open for him as Miles slipped into the land of paper plates, party favors, greeting cards, and the off-brand version of pretty much everything else ever invented. Shaky-wheel carts rattled, registers blooped with each scan, plastic bags shished. Miles bopped around, peeking down each aisle, before spotting Frenchie. She was squatting down, putting price tags on bathroom air fresheners.
“Hey, Frenchie.”
“Miles?” Frenchie looked surprised to see him, which made sense since Miles was rarely around. “What you doing in here?”
“Lookin’ for flowers.”
“Flowers?” Frenchie stood up with a smirk, crossed her arms. “I know you ain’t old enough to be dating yet. I remember when your daddy used to pay me to babysit you, and you ain’t do nothing but pee on yourself, nonstop. Now you in here looking for flowers.”
“Not for no girl. I mean, not for…It’s for my mom.”
“Uh-huh. Better be,” Frenchie teased. “That’s sweet. I hope Martell is as thoughtful as you when he gets older.”
“Oh, he’s gonna buy you a whole rose garden when he gets to the league.”
“Heyyyy, you ain’t said nothing but the truth!” Frenchie put her hands in the air and closed her eyes, like she was sending up a three-second prayer. “Come on.”
She took Miles to the other end of the store, where the flowers were.
“Right here.” She pointed at the row of greens and browns and reds and yellows, all of autumn in aisle two.
“Y’all don’t have real ones? These plastic,” Miles said pinching the fabric petal of one of the fake roses.
“Kid, you at the dollar store,” Frenchie shot back. Miles picked up one of the roses, smelled it, and immediately felt stupid for doing so. Frenchie added, “But just so you know, these two dollars.”
After Miles bought the rose, he went next door to Raymond’s Pizza, not to be confused with Ray’s Pizza. They weren’t the same. Miles figured it would be safer for Raymond to make dinner for the Morales family than for Miles and his father to. Pizza always works and doesn’t require saints.
People lined the counter placing orders by the slice.
“Two regulars.”
“Let me get a pepperoni.”
“A regular and two sausages, please.”
The men behind the counter cut the pizza into slices, slid them into a big oven to be heated for a few minutes before sliding them back out onto paper plates and pushing the plates down the counter to be bagged up.
“Next!” the guy behind the register called out while slamming the cash register drawer.
“Let me get a whole pie. Regular,” Miles ordered.
“Whole pie, got it,” the man repeated. Then he moved on to the next person, a dude who looked a little older than Miles.
“Y’all got anchovy?” the guy asked.
“All outta anchovy, pa-pa.” The thought of anchovies on pizza immediately made Miles think of his uncle, and ordering pizza at the Ray’s by the Baruch Houses. A shudder shot through Miles’s body.
“Aight, well, let me just get a pepperoni. Well-done.”
About five minutes later Miles’s pizza was being shoveled out of the oven and into a box. It came sliding down the counter.
“Regular pie, right?” the man behind the register asked.
“Yep.”
“Fifteen.” Miles put his money on the counter, grabbed his box, and headed for the door, walking behind the guy who asked for the anchovy slice. But the door was being held by someone else. Someone familiar. At first Miles couldn’t place him, but as they all started walking, the anchovy dude first, the door holder stalking behind him, and Miles bringing up the rear, Miles realized who the middle man was. The thief, his face still black-and-blue from the lesson Miles taught him. Miles noticed the guy, who was now holding his pizza slice up to his mouth, was wearing brand-new sneakers. Air Max infrareds. The same ones Ganke had on at the basketball court. Miles’s spidey-sense buzzed. The thief kept looking to his left, and to his right, making sure no cops were around. Or no Spider-Man.
The jack-boy turned around.
But it was just Miles, as Miles, glaring back at him. And when they got to the corner, the thief cut off to the left. The guy with the pizza and sneakers kept straight. And Miles went right.
Miles climbed the stairs to his house, pizza and rose in hand. He could hear music coming from the other side of the door. He jiggled the key just right to unlock it, and was met by his mother and father in the living room, dancing hand in hand. Horns, cowbell, timbales, and conga drums blaring through the speakers. Salsa. The Fania All-Stars.
“Hey, Miles,” his mother sang out, back-stepping, whirling her arms around. His father reached out for her, and she took his hand just for a moment, before letting go and whipping into a spin. Celia Cruz’s voice wrapped around them like a warm quilt as Miles’s father pulled his mother close for an awkward dip.
“Rio, the boy has come bearing gifts,” Miles’s father said, pulling away from his mom.
“Um…I got a pizza.” Miles was in shock. He set the box on the kitchen table. He wasn’t expecting his folks to be dancing and laughing. Not that they never did, Miles just figured after the week they had all had, he’d find them in the house staring at the TV, still discussing bills, waiting for him to get home to figure out a possible punishment.
“Pizza!” Miles’s mother squealed. “So sweet, mijo. Thank you.”
“Did you steal it?” Miles’s father asked, lifting the lid, the cheesy steam wafting up to his face.
“Does it matter?” Miles joked lightly, as his father stuck his finger in a glob of cheese.
“Nope.”
So far so good.
“And I got this for you.” Miles held the rose out toward his mother.
“Me?” She played coy. “I thought that was for your girl at school. Tu amor.”
“No. It’s not. Plus, I don’t have a girl at school,” Miles said. His mother took the rose and held it to her nose.
“You didn’t spill the salsa yet?” his father muttered, slapping a slice on one of the plates he had taken down from the cabinet. “Also, is that rose plastic?”
Miles let his backpack straps slide from his shoulders, clasped his hands together. “This pizza and this rose, it’s just to say I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing and come dance with me,” his mother said, reaching out for him. “You remember this, Miles. We danced all the time when you were little.” Miles’s mother jibed back and forth, her arms and legs moving in sync.
“When you weren’t pissing your pants, or pissing the bed, or pissing me off,” his father joked.
“Whatever.” His mother swatted his father’s words away and set the rose on the couch. “Just follow me.”
And from there, Miles and his mother danced and danced, his body dipping and dodging almost as if he were boxing. “Less culo, more waistline. Hip. Hip. Let your body do what it wants. It’s telling you how it wants to move,” his mother instructed. Until his father cut in.