“Miles!” Ganke called. But before Benji could even sucker-punch Miles’s best friend, or reach for the shoes, or do whatever he was going to do, Miles had already stepped in front of him. There was a tingling just behind his kneecap. In his ears. His palms and fingertips, too.
Benji flashed that raggedy, reptilian smile—Miles could hear his mouth curve, hear the thick saliva on the back of Benji’s tongue—and pushed against Miles’s shoulder to move him out of the way. But as soon as his hand touched Miles, Miles grabbed it and flung Benji around, away from Ganke. Benji shook his head clear and charged, but Miles leaped over him, a clean jump clearing Benji’s head. He ran toward Ganke and speared himself into a jump-kick, spreading his legs at the last minute to miss Ganke’s face, but catching Mucus and Shorty straight in the jaws. It wasn’t enough to hurt them bad—Miles wasn’t trying to—but it was enough to get them to let go of Ganke, who then ran back to the side of the court. Benji grabbed Miles from behind, and in a flash, Miles delivered three elbows to Benji’s breadbasket. Zoop, zoop, zoop! Benji doubled over. Miles didn’t finish him. Wanted to give him a chance to chill out—call off his dogs.
Shorty stalked over, his hands up, assuming the hood boxer pose. “I don’t want no trouble,” Miles said, his body still firing tiny rockets through his veins. Shorty didn’t respond, just continued to set up his stance, then reset it. He finally threw a jab. Miles bobbed. He threw another. Miles leaned back, moved from side to side, his arms down, letting Shorty know he didn’t want to fight.
“Hit his ass!” Benji squealed, still trying to catch his breath. Shorty threw a third jab, but this one Miles caught. He grabbed Shorty’s wrist with one hand and used his other one to cup the joint of Shorty’s elbow so that Shorty would have no choice but to punch himself in the face. A clean fist to the nose. His own fist. Miles heard the septum snap.
“ARGH!” Shorty yelled, slapping his other hand to his face. Blood, lots of it, started pouring from his nostrils. For a moment, Miles was stuck. The sight of blood startled him—he didn’t mean for the hit to be so hard.
Mucus backed off, and instead of coming for Miles, he went for Ganke. Ganke made a bumbling dash across the court, yelling at the top of his lungs, while the Bear came toward Miles.
“You have nothing to do with this, man,” Miles said, trying to talk him down.
“You hustled us,” he growled. Then he rocketed toward Miles. Miles, again, jumped over him and kicked him in the back of the head, using the leverage to push off and dart over to Ganke. He grabbed him under the arm like a toddler and hopped up on the fence, dragging Ganke up the metal grate with him. But not before Mucus Man grabbed the backpack. The one Ganke was wearing on his front—Miles’s backpack.
“Miles!”
“No, Ganke. Don’t let it go!” Miles yelled, one hand clawing the iron gate, and the other clutching the armpit of his friend. He needed that bag. His secret was in there, red and black.
“Give it to me,” Mucus Man growled. “Y’all leaving everything here!”
“I can’t…I can’t hold it!” Ganke yelled, as Mucus Man yanked and yanked on one of the straps, the other strap pressed into the crook of Ganke’s free arm like it was going to rip straight through it.
“Ganke, do not let that bag go!”
Ganke looked up at Miles, his face full of worry. “Miles…” Mucus Man tugged again and Ganke’s arm dropped, the bag dropping with it.
Now loose, Miles climbed farther up the fence, yanking Ganke up with him.
“I’m sorry,” Ganke panted.
“Just hold on and stay up here,” Miles ordered as Ganke gripped the gate, looking down from the top. Below, Mucus Man started unzipping the bag as the rest of the goons waited like alligators in basketball shorts. They weren’t going to get out of this the easy way. Miles took a deep breath, and dove into the gator pit.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“Miles, forreal. I’m sorry.”
More silence.
“At least you got your bag back. And we got the money, too. Those are good things, right?” Ganke and Miles sat on the B train, finally on their way back to school. Miles turned his phone off. He knew his parents would be calling, and he knew he’d have to lie—and I couldn’t get service—so he had to make sure the phone went straight to voice mail. “Crazy thing is, I don’t even think these shoes are worth this much.” Ganke flipped through the money, split it and gave Miles his share.
Miles sat next to him, his bag on his lap. His knee sore. His hands bruised. The spider-bite scar itching like it always did. He kept his focus straight ahead on the subway ad slogan: IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING. Couldn’t look at Ganke or even talk to him, he was so mad. Mad at himself, mostly.
The doors opened and four kids got on. Three were definitely in high school. One, elementary. Couldn’t have been older than nine.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” the little one announced. “Y’all know what time it is? It’s showtime!”
“SHOWTIME!” the older boys shouted. Then they began dancing—ticking, waving, popping, locking, getting light. They climbed train poles, flipping back, then forward, all while avoiding kicking any rider in the face. Miles didn’t even look. Most people didn’t. You can always tell a tourist because they stare in amazement at showtime boys, as if they’re at the circus. But when you live here, you know their tricks, their jokes, the way the talented and adorable young one is the sweet spot to the pockets of fools. When you’re late and annoyed and your knuckles are bruised, there’s no time for showtime.
Ganke nudged Miles as the kids clapped and the music blared from a handheld stereo. Miles stared straight ahead. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” the young one said, running up and down the train car with a hat in his hand collecting money. When he got to the end of the car, where Ganke and Miles were sitting on a cramped two-seater, Ganke took one of the dollars he and Miles had just gotten from the basketball court and put it in the hat. Miles reached over and grabbed all the money left in Ganke’s hand.
“Kid…” he called. Little man turned around and Miles held the fistful of cash in the air. The kid’s face lit up and he beelined back over.
“What you…?” Ganke started, but he couldn’t get it out. “Miles…don’t…” Miles put his half and the rest of Ganke’s half in the hat. “Miles!”
Then, as if it were nothing, Miles returned to his position. Straight ahead. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.
“Um…Hi, Mrs. M. This is Ganke.…Yes…yes, I know, but see…Miles is…he’s in the bathroom. Yeah…he’s…I think it was the chicken. I think it messed him up.”