“What did you have to tell me?” she asked again, still bobbing her head to the music. She gave him a slight smile, her tongue resting gently between her teeth. But Miles was too busy darting his eyes at Mr. Chamberlain’s back as he scolded other kids. He no longer felt the buzzing in his head that he was now certain was coming from Chamberlain, though the buzzing in his stomach, the one from Alicia, was still there. He thought about what his mother said when they were dancing in the living room. Let your body do what it wants. It’s telling you how it wants to move.
“Uh…” Miles held the paper up, unfolded it. He watched as Mr. Chamberlain spoke to another teacher, tapped his watch like it was already time for him to go. “I just…” Miles turned back to Alicia, whose smile was slowly straightening, her head slightly tilted, her eyes ready to roll. Miles checked Mr. Chamberlain again as he headed for the side door, pushed it open. “I wanted to say…” Now Miles’s attention was back on Alicia again. But only for a moment. Then, Chamberlain. Alicia. Chamberlain. Alicia. “Um, this is for you.” Miles finally handed her the blue-stained paper with the sijo scribbled on it. Alicia, befuddled, began reading it, but by the time she lifted her eyes again, Miles was gone.
Miles put the zombie mask back on before slipping out the side exit, which led outdoors. He looked to his left, then to his right, before activating camouflage mode. Then he slinked behind Mr. Chamberlain, who walked along the side of the school. He could hear Mr. Chamberlain’s legs pumping like machine pistons, and matched his pace so Chamberlain couldn’t hear the second set of feet walking with him. Mr. Chamberlain stopped at another door on the far side of the auditorium. He bent down, rolled up his pant legs, then pulled out a set of keys. He flipped through them until he found the right one, pushed it into the keyhole, and yanked the door open. Miles climbed up on the wall and scampered in through the quickly narrowing gap.
Mr. Chamberlain turned on a key-chain flashlight, a single white beam shooting out in front of him like a laser. He whipped it left and right just to survey whatever was in front of him. Miles, still clinging to the wall, crept closer to get a better view. Stairs leading down. Mr. Chamberlain stepped lightly, his shoes clicking on each step as he descended into what seemed to be some kind of dark cellar.
But it wasn’t a room at all. It was a tunnel. Miles knew he couldn’t walk, the water on the floor like some kind of sewer making it impossible to maintain stealth, so he crept along the side of the slimy wall behind Mr. Chamberlain, who kept a steady pace for what seemed like twenty minutes. And finally, at the end of it was another set of stairs. Chamberlain climbed them and pushed open a metal door that was over his head, a lot more carelessly then he did the first time. Like he knew no one would be there.
Miles had no idea where they had come out, or why, but the door seemed to be in the middle of a field. He followed Mr. Chamberlain across the grass until finally a huge house, a mansion with castle pillars, came into view. Miles turned around to see where they had come from—to see if there were any landmarks, anything he recognized—and then he saw it, smack-dab in front of the house. The stone block. Fenced in, barbed-wired and impenetrable. On the fence was a sign: DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS.
The prison?
Miles ducked behind a bush as Mr. Chamberlain walked up to the door, huge and wooden. He rang the bell. It opened, and Mr. Chamberlain entered. Miles made his move up to one of the slightly cracked windows.
Inside the house was beautiful. Full of old things. Sophisticated tile floors. Curtains the color of milk, made of some kind of fine fabric—linen or silk. Big furniture that looked like it had been carved in ancient villages by ancient people. An extravagant chandelier. A cat-o’-nine-tails hung on the wall in between a set of portraits encased in frames as ornate as the fancy clothes of the painted subjects.
Miles felt like he had been there before. Tried to shake the déjà vu, but couldn’t. Where had he seen this place? He spotted an old cabinet across the room complete with shelves stocking crystal trinkets.
Wait…no. There’s no way. It…can’t be. It finally hit him. He had been pushed into that trinket cabinet before, remembered the glass breaking, slicing into his back. He could still feel the sting from the shattered shards, even though it had only happened in his dreams. His nightmares. The one where he was fighting Uncle Aaron. This was the house. This was the house!
Miles listened as closely as he could as men of all ages gathered around one really, really old man with a pasty face and a long white beard. It was the man Uncle Aaron and Mr. Chamberlain turned into in the nightmares. He stood in the middle of the stairwell addressing his guests, like the fanciest, stiffest dinner party of all time.
The old man began to speak, and Miles adjusted his ears to hear clearly though the sliver of space between window and sill.
“Good evening, Chamberlains.”
“Good evening, Warden,” they all said in unison like zombies. Real zombies.
Warden? Miles couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Is there any news to report? Any prospects?” the Warden asked.
Hands went up from the crowd.
A short, skinny man with red moppy hair and freckles raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Chamberlain?”
Yes, Mr. Chamberlain. Miles heard that phrase over and over again as the men in the room announced their weekly victories. Dante Jones has dropped out, thanks to the pressure. And I’ve convinced my principal that I feel threatened by Marcus Williams. He’s loud and has no place, no right to be there. And I’m working on shifting bus routes to make sure they can’t get there. That’ll take care of a lot without us even trying. And Just found out Randolph Duncan is in foster care. He’s nothing. He has no one.
“Let’s make sure he gets snatched, this week,” the Warden instructed. “He’s already invisible, which makes it easier.”
And on and on. Miles listened, trying not to be sick or burst through the window and smash the place, which, he knew, would be a terrible idea. A few minutes later Mr. Chamberlain spoke up. His Mr. Chamberlain.
“Ah, before we hear your testimony, Mr. Chamberlain, first let me compliment you on this evening’s attire. You remind of my old friend, the great Jefferson Davis here.” The Warden pointed to one of the old portraits on the wall.
“Thank you, Warden. It’s an honor. I’d like to report that I’ve been watching the young man Miles Morales.”