“Gotcha,” Ganke said, the funny finally all faded.
There was an empty quarter-water jug on the sidewalk. They were shaped like small plastic barrels, but Miles always pretended they were grenades when he was younger. He kicked it, and it rolled ahead in front of him. He cleared his throat. “That’s also why I think my superpowers are messin’ up.”
“Uh…you think they’re messing up because of your last name?” Ganke asked.
“No. But because of what my last name means. I mean, what that part of me is. Like, what if I’m not cut out to be…I don’t know…good?”
It all just made so much sense to him. Like how really tall people usually have really tall parents. Or how you can be predisposed to be an alcoholic if one of your parents is. Miles had what he always considered complicated genetics: bad blood. And, to make it worse, his father and uncle were sixteen when they got started in crime, which was Miles’s age now. So maybe that part of his bloodline was fighting whatever changes to it the spider bite had caused, like some kind of grimy blood cell fighting off anything awesome inside him.
“Dude, shut up.”
“I’m serious, man.”
“You’re also stupid. Like, that’s just silly. That’s like saying if you play basketball, your kids are gonna play.”
“Good chance,” Miles said. He used his thumb and index finger as a pincer claw to pick up the empty jug he’d kicked, residual responsibility from Friday’s trash cleanup.
“When’s the last time you’ve seen Michael Jordan Jr.?”
“I’m not sure if Michael Jordan has a junior, Ganke.” Miles tossed the grenade in a neighbor’s open garbage bin.
“Exactly. And do you know why you don’t know if Jordan has a little Jordan?” Ganke asked. “Because Little Jordan didn’t grow up to be…Little Jordan.” Miles didn’t reply. “I mean, you don’t even know why your buzzy head-alarm thingy is all outta whack. Might be because…it’s just wearing off. Like maybe the super stuff from the spider venom, or whatever, was like a virus that took a few years to finally pass through your system. Or maybe it’s just hiccuping because you’re growing. Shoot, for all we know, you could mess around and lose all your superpowers when you finally get a girlfriend!” Ganke’s jaw dropped.
“Sounds like something my uncle would’ve said.” Miles stepped over a pile of dog crap.
“Lucky for you, the girlfriend thing ain’t happening no time soon,” Ganke fired off, tapping Miles on the arm.
“Yeah, for you either!” Miles shot back.
“Look, the point I’m making is, true, you don’t know what’s causing it, but worrying about it probably isn’t helping. You gotta de-stress. Relax a little bit. Have some fun with it.” Ganke sent a wave through his arm as if he were breakdancing. “Shoot, if I had what you have…”
“Man, what? What would you do?” Miles asked, his tone short and sharp.
Ganke stopped walking for the third time. The train station was to the right. Ganke peered down the street, then looked left to make sure no cars were coming. “Let’s go straight, and I’ll show you.”
Two blocks to the basketball court. When they got there, a two-on-two was in play.
“What we doing here?” Miles asked as he and Ganke strolled up to the gate.
“Just a little pit stop. You asked me what I would do.”
“Ah. Maybe next time, man,” Miles said, peering through the gate. “They’re already runnin’ a game.” But Ganke wasn’t having it.
“Let’s go.” Ganke headed in.
“Nah, man.” Miles grabbed his arm.
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
“Ganke, I—”
“Hey, guys! Guys!” He walked onto the court, strutted right into the middle of the game. Miles followed behind him but stopped at the sideline.
“Time-out, time-out!” Ganke called, jamming the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other, making a T.
“Yo, what you doin’?” a short guy with a puffed-up chest asked, picking up his dribble. “You not playin’, so you can’t call time-out. Matter fact, you can’t call nothin’.” He flared his nostrils. Miles shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight and couldn’t risk having his eye blacked or anything like that.
“Get off the court, Bruce Bruce Lee,” the short guy said.
“Who is Bruce Bruce Lee? You mean, Bruce Lee?” Ganke said.
The guys all looked around at each other, bewildered. “You don’t know who Bruce Bruce is? The comedian?” Shorty Puff-Chest put his arms out and blew out his cheeks to do his best and worst imitation of a fat person. “Fat funnyman. And Lee, because—”
“Because that’s my last name,” Ganke deadpanned. Miles stifled a laugh.
“Wait…your last name Lee, forreal?” Shorty Puff-Chest asked.
“Yep. And his name”—Ganke pointed back at Miles—“is Miles Davis.” Miles sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Like the jazz dude?”
“Nah, like the dude who’s about to take your money,” Ganke cracked.
“Oh, word?” Another one of the guys spoke up. He was light-skinned, the color of flu mucus. And slimy, too, from sweat. “And how he gon’ do that?”
“Dunk contest.”
“Wait…what?” Miles squawked, now stepping timidly onto the court.
Mucus Man smiled and tapped the dude standing next to him. A man built like…well…like a Super Hero spoke up.
“Now you talkin’ my language. I don’t know if you know who I am, but ain’t too many cats around here can out-jump me,” he bragged.
“Yeah, Benji got bunnies. Jump out the gym.” Mucus Man played hype-man.
“No doubt. And little jazzman over there look like he ain’t even got nut-fuzz yet. He also look like he ain’t got no money.” The last guy on the court finally chimed in. He’d been standing off to the side drinking water. He was…a bear. Not an actual bear, but not far from one either.
“He don’t.” And as soon as Ganke said it, the guys laughed and shooed him and Miles away like pesky flies. “But,” Ganke added, “I’ll bet these.” Ganke slipped out of his sneakers. “Air Max 90s. Infrareds. OGs. Apparently everybody wants them, and this is my first time wearing them. They probably worth, like, three hundred.” Ganke wasn’t a sneakerhead, but his father was. Yeah, his dad. His two favorite hobbies were hounding Ganke about school (he and Miles’s parents had that in common) and collecting rare sneakers, the bulk of which he gave to his son when he moved out, under the condition that Ganke took care of them. Of course, Ganke never had to. Because Miles took care of them for him.
“What?” Again, from Miles.
“What size?” the man called Benji—the one built like a Super Hero—asked.
“Size ten.” Ganke, ignoring Miles, eyeballed Benji’s feet. “Your size.”