Miles Morales



Miles lay flat on his back, his hands cupping the back of his head. He stared at the ceiling and let all the tangled thoughts from the week wash over him. His neighborhood, the only place he’d ever known as home, was full of all the complicated things that made him who he was. His neighbors like Ms. Shine, watering her flowers, and Fat Tony, counting and recounting his money. Frenchie, walking her son to the basketball court. Neek, who had been “snatched,” and how he used to peek through the curtains afraid that one day there might be a tank rolling down the block. House and the barbershop boys, rooting for Miles, seeing him as one of the golden representatives of the neighborhood. Miles’s mother and father, trying their best to provide a good life, with better opportunities than they had.

Miles thought about Uncle Aaron, the good in him, the bad in him, the secret life they lived together, and the secret death they shared. He thought about Austin, how he was unconsciously following in his father’s footsteps down a path he didn’t even know was paved for him the moment he was born. He thought about the dreams that the Warden had planted. The nightmares he and Austin shared. The white cats. The reminders that they had bad blood. Were bad. Were meant to do bad. Be bad. That everyone was after them.

Miles thought about his father’s three friends, Sip, Carlo, and John John, slapping cards on the table and talking trash to each other about the good ol’ days. And how there was always a Mr. Chamberlain, an adult working at a school, leaning on them, working them raw. And then, after thinking about all these things, Miles thought of Alicia. Alicia the beautiful Halloween humpback, who he’d given a sijo—his salsa—to. And before Miles could even think about whether or not she’d liked it, if she’d smiled, he was asleep.





Miles slept on it. Barely. Though he practically passed out from exhaustion, it was a stunted sleep, as he kept waking up over and over again, his heart pounding, his head spinning, nausea overcoming him. There was no way he could get a good night’s rest knowing what he knew. After seeing what he’d seen. So on the fourth wake-up, as the sun finally started to warm the sky with its orange, Miles decided to get up. He slipped out of bed and out of the room. The hallway was littered with candy wrappers and random pieces of costumes that most likely became pretend weapons for teenage boys hopped-up on sugar and ego. Once Miles made it to the bathroom, empty but still damp, he climbed into one of the shower stalls and turned it on, the cold water sending a shock through his body before warming quickly to hot. The steam engulfed him as he stood there, turning the knob hotter and hotter to see just how much pain he could take.

After the shower, he went to the sink to brush his teeth. He squeezed the toothpaste onto the toothbrush, then slipped it into his mouth and glanced up. He was Aaron. He closed his eyes, opened them. Austin. He staggered back, wagging his head, white foam dripping from his mouth. He glanced back at the mirror and saw himself. Spat in the sink. Ran the cold water from the faucet, making a bowl with his hands and splashing his face, cleaning the toothpaste from it, and trying to snap himself out of whatever delusional breakdown was happening. He toweled his face from the nose down, patting it while staring into his own eyes in the mirror. He dried his mouth and his chin, then pulled the towel away, his skin no longer his own. The brown of it now alabaster and thin. Its smoothness replaced by long, stringy hair.

“Wha?” Miles panicked, his heart dropping to his stomach. He pinched his eyes shut one more time, keeping them closed as he chanted to himself, “Wake up, Miles. Wake up.” Then he slowly put his hand up to his chin, to feel…nothing. Just skin, again. The beard was gone.

Ganke was still asleep when Miles got back in the room. He dressed quickly—jeans and a sweatshirt—then slipped out of the room again and headed downstairs. It was Sunday morning. A familiar time of day—usually when Miles would be walking to church with his mother.

“Father Jamie’s got a word for us, Miles,” his mother would say, the sound of her high heels clacking up the sidewalk. But Miles was never that enthused about it. However, this Sunday, Miles was yearning to sit next to his mother in the pew while she passed him candy. The two of them sharing a hymnal, singing off-key. So he headed to where he’d never gone the entire time he’d been at Brooklyn Visions Academy—to the campus chapel.

The weather wasn’t nearly as beautiful as it had been earlier in the week, but it was definitely just as peaceful. The sunlight of daybreak was now being overshadowed by the gloom of clouds. A light rain fell, which usually would’ve been a turnoff, but on this particular morning was refreshing.

The chapel was located on the other side of campus, so Miles meandered down the littered cobblestone pathways between palatial buildings, all marble and brick. He walked past the store, figured Winnie was probably there. Thought about stopping in, but decided to keep moving. He passed the library, EX NIHILO NIHIL FIT engraved in the white stone above the gigantic double doors. Mrs. Tripley was probably in there, asleep. An image of her dressed like Mary Shelley—which was basically her dressed in a black ball gown—curled up between the stacks popped in Miles’s head. It made him smile.

He continued on, and eventually got to the quad, where the raindrops pimpled and dimpled the fountain water. Miles flashed back to the open mic. Instantly, the drizzle felt colder, his sweatshirt, slowly wetting, now heavier than it was a few steps before. So he moved on, and just beyond the quad was the chapel.

It was a small white building, two steps, nothing fancy or ornate. Nowhere near as regal as the rest of the campus. The doors were closed, but Miles figured the church was always open. Maybe he could go to confession, get some things off his chest, apologize for what he wanted to do to the Warden—what he was planning to do. His mother would be proud of him if she knew he’d gone. But when Miles climbed the steps and got to the door, yanked the tarnished brass handle, the door didn’t budge. Miles yanked again. It was locked. So he sat down on the steps and waited.

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