Miles Morales Read online

  © 2017 MARVEL

  All rights reserved. Published by Marvel Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Marvel Press, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  Designed by Maria Elias

  Cover illustration by Kadir Nelson

  Title lettering by Russ Gray

  Abstract spiderweb image © Shutterstock

  Cover design by Maria Elias

  ISBN 978-1-368-00137-3

  Visit www.marvel.com and www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  FOR ALLEN

  We wear the mask that grins and lies,

  It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

  This debt we pay to human guile;

  With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

  And mouth with myriad subtleties.

  —Paul Laurence Dunbar, from “We Wear the Mask”

  Miles set the good dishes on the table. The white porcelain with the blue detailing glazed over the top—ornate flowers and intricate images of old Chinese villages that nobody in his family had ever been to. Good china, his father called it, passed down from his grandmother only to be used on Sundays and special occasions. And though it was Sunday, today was also a special occasion for Miles, because it was the last day of his punishment.

  “My suggestion to you, mijo, is that you make sure you get it all out before his class,” Miles’s mother said, lifting a window and fanning the smoke from the stove out with a hand towel. “Because I swear, if you get suspended again for something like this, it’s gonna be you I’m fanning out the window.”

  Miles was suspended for having to pee. Well, for saying he had to pee. After his history teacher, Mr. Chamberlain, said no, Miles begged. And once Mr. Chamberlain said no again, Miles left. So he was actually suspended for leaving class. But here’s the thing—Miles didn’t really have to pee. And no, he didn’t have to do that either. Miles had to rescue someone.

  At least he thought he did. Truth was, his spider-sense had been on the fritz lately. But Miles couldn’t risk it—couldn’t ignore what he considered his responsibility.

  “I don’t always have time to pee before class, Ma,” Miles replied. He rinsed forks and knives in the sink, while his mother hung the towel on the oven handle. She grabbed a pair of tongs and lifted chunks of chicken breast from the sizzling grease.

  “Yeah, you used to say that every night, and guess what? You wet the bed more than any boy I’ve ever seen.”

  “The boy could’ve set a record,” Miles’s father chimed in from the couch. He was flipping through Friday’s Daily Bugle. He only got the Friday edition; his theory was that if he were to actually read it each day, he’d never leave the house. Creatures everywhere were threatening civilization—and those were just the articles about reality TV. “Miles, I swear you were the most bed-wettingest kid in Brooklyn. Matter fact, back then I used to get this trash paper every morning, just so we could line the top of your mattress with it in the evening.” Mr. Davis closed the paper, folded it in half. He shook his head. “And then your pissy butt would come waddling into our bedroom in the middle of the night smelling like two-hundred-year-old lemonade, talkin’ ’bout, I had an accident. An accident? I’ma tell you right now, son, be thankful for your mother, because if it were up to me, you would’ve been lying in the wet spot until it was a dry spot.”

  “Be quiet, Jeff,” Miles’s mother said, positioning the chicken on a serving plate.

  “Am I lying, Rio? You were always savin’ him.”

  “Because he’s my baby,” she said, laying a paper towel on the first layer of meat to sop the grease from the glistening skin. “But you not a baby no more. So figure out what you need to do to keep your butt in that seat.”

  Miles had already made up his mind that that wouldn’t be a problem. He was going to stay in his seat in Mr. Chamberlain’s class and ignore his beehive brain whenever the bees up there got to buzzing. His spidey-sense had always been his alarm, the thing that let him know when there was danger close, or when someone needed help. But since the beginning of this school year, his junior year at Brooklyn Visions Academy, his spidey-sense seemed to be…broken. Almost like his powers were wearing off. He’d been dashing out of Chamberlain’s class over and over again for fake bathroom breaks, bolting down the hallway and out the door, a gust of wind, only to find…nothing. No monster. No mutant. No madman. Just Brooklyn being Brooklyn, left with a new awkward excuse about what took him so long in the bathroom.

  Perhaps, for a kid like him, being a Super Hero had an expiration date. And it wasn’t worth being punished by his folks—it wasn’t worth failing a class, or being expelled—if he couldn’t even guarantee he’d still be able to be Spider-Man by graduation.

  The buzzer buzzed just as Miles finished setting the table for four. He scooted past his mother, who was scooping yellow rice from a pot into a bowl, and stuck his head out the open window.

  “I don’t know why you look to see who it is like you don’t already know,” Miles’s father said, washing his hands in the sink. He kissed Miles’s mother loudly on the cheek. “Smells good, baby. Matter fact, it smells so good that our son’s knucklehead friend could smell it on the other side of Brooklyn.”

  “Be nice. You know he’s going through some changes,” Miles’s mother said.

  “We going through some changes, too—nickels, dimes, and quarters.” Miles’s father rubbed his thumb and index fingers together. “I’m just sayin’, I love the kid, but we can’t really afford another mouth at this table.”

  Miles’s mother faced his father, placed her hands on his chest, and sighed. “Love is deed, papi. Not just fine phrases.” She planted a peck on his lips.

  “Yo!” Miles, grossed out by his parents, yelled down to the stoop. “Hold on.” On the other side of the room, Miles hit the button that automatically unlocked the front door. Then cracked the one leading into the building, the sound of heavy footfalls climbing the steps.

  “Yo,” Ganke said, almost falling into the apartment. Ganke, a burly Korean kid, was Miles’s best friend, confidant, and roommate at Brooklyn Visions Academy. He immediately inspected Miles’s face, right cheek, left cheek, then whispered, “You okay? I’m surprised your folks didn’t kill you,” before moving past Miles to greet his parents. “Hey, Mrs. M., Mr. Jeff. What’s for din-din?”

  “I’m not sure, Ganke, but guess who would know? Your parents,” Miles’s father said. Mrs. Morales slapped her husband on the arm.

  “Oh, I know what they’re having for dinner, Mr. Jeff. I already ate it,” Ganke said with a shrug.

  “Um, Ganke, wash your hands and sit down. You know you’re always welcome here, even if it’s for dinner number two. Tonight we’re having chicharrón de pollo.”

  Ganke sent a confused look to Miles’s father, who now stood behind a chair at the head of the table. “Fried chicken,” he said, his face volleying back and forth between annoyed and sympathetic.

 
; “Oh, sweet.”

  “Not like it would’ve mattered,” Miles’s father jabbed, sliding out his chair and taking a seat.

  “Got that right, Mr. Jeff.”

  Miles set the chicken, the rice, and the greens on the table, then took his seat. His mother put big spoons in the rice and greens bowls, and tongs on the chicken plate. Then she sat down as well.

  “Bless the food, Jeff,” Mrs. Morales said. Miles, his father, and Ganke instantly snatched their eager hands back from the bowls and spread them wide to grab hold of the person sitting next to them.

  “Yep, yes, of course. Bow your heads, boys,” Miles’s father said. “Lord, please help our son, Miles, behave himself in school. Because if he doesn’t, this very well may be the last home-cooked meal he ever has. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Miles’s mother said seriously.

  “Amen!” Ganke said.

  Miles sucked his teeth, shot Ganke a look. Ganke leaned in for the chicken tongs.

  Sunday dinner at Miles’s house was a tradition. Throughout the week Miles was away, staying on campus at the Brooklyn Visions Academy, and on Saturday, well…even Miles’s parents knew that there wasn’t a sixteen-year-old in all of Brooklyn who wanted to spend Saturday evening with his folks. But Sunday was perfect for an early family meal. A lazy day for everyone. As a matter of fact, besides his mother making him get up for early morning mass, Miles typically had the rest of the day free to loaf around and watch old sci-fi movies with his dad in the afternoon and pray his mother was making his favorite for dinner—pasteles.

  But this Sunday hadn’t been quite as relaxed. Nor had the rest of the weekend. After being suspended Thursday afternoon, Father Jamie down at the church would’ve just given Miles a few Hail Marys to make penance and sent him on his way. But “Father Jeff” gave him a few Hell Nahs and sent him to his room.

  It all started Friday, when Miles had been awakened at six in the morning and dragged outside on the stoop by his father.

  “What are we doing out here, Dad?” Miles asked. He was wearing a wrinkled BVA T-shirt, holey sweatpants, and flip-flops. Trash cans and stuffed bags lined the block, some torn open by stray cats searching for scraps, others rummaged through by canners who sneaked around at night, looking for cans and bottles to trade in for dimes and quarters.

  His father didn’t answer him, at least not right away. Just sat there on the top step, holding a napkin, sipping a cup of coffee.

  “So…about this suspension.” Sip, swallow. “What exactly happened?” There was steel in his voice.

  “Well, um, it was…my head was doing the…I had a…a feeling,” Miles stammered. His dad also knew his secret and had been keeping it from his mother for a while now. But his father was still a…father. Not of Spider-Man, but of Miles Morales. He made that clear to Miles as often as possible.

  “So this was about you saving somebody, huh? Yeah, well, let me ask you something, Super Hero.…” He took another sip from his mug. “Who’s gonna save you?”

  Miles just sat there, silent, searching for an answer that would satisfy his old man, while at the same time praying for anything to change the subject.

  The sun had just started to rise, a line of gold streaking across the red brick of the brownstones, when a miracle happened in the form of rumbling trash trucks. Saved, Miles thought as he and his father shifted their attention, watching the garbagemen slowly move down the street—one driving, two walking alongside the truck slinging bags, dumping cans, and throwing them back onto the sidewalk. Plastic forks, chicken bones, toilet paper gaskets and other remnants that had slipped through holes in the bags were left strewn up and down the sidewalk. It had been ten minutes and Miles still had no idea what he and his old man were doing out there. Until the trash truck was done with their block.

  “You know what, we’ll talk about this more later. For now, son, why don’t you tidy up.”

  “What you mean?”

  Miles’s father stood, stretched his legs, and took another sip. He pointed up and down the street. “See all these cans? Be a good hero and put them back where they belong. Helping your neighbors is the most heroic thing you can do, right?”

  Miles sighed.

  “Oh,” his father continued. “And get up all this trash that our wonderful garbagemen left behind.”

  “With what?” Miles asked, instantly grossed out. He wished he had one of his web-shooters on so he wouldn’t have had to actually touch, or even get close to, the plastic baggies of dog poop and fish guts. Not that he could sling web in his pajamas anyway.

  “Figure it out, son.”

  And that was just the beginning of his punishment. After that, Miles had to clean the apartment, schlep loads of clothes to and from the Laundromat, and make dinner for himself, which ended up being Top Ramen with hot sauce and toast. Saturday, his father walked him up and down the block, knocking on doors asking neighbors if there was anything they needed done. He got stuck dragging an old mattress out of Ms. Shine’s basement—where her junkie son, Cyrus, used to live—hanging pictures in Mr. Frankie’s house, and walking all the neighborhood dogs that needed walking. Which meant there was poop that needed bagging. Lots of it.

  And on and on with the neighborhood “heroics.” Chore after chore. Job after job. Ramen pack after ramen pack.

  Now, over Sunday dinner, Miles shuddered at the memory and reached for a second helping of rice and another piece of chicken. For the first Sunday in a long time he was out-eating Ganke and his father. And that wasn’t just because of the delicious flavor of his mother’s cooking. But also because of the sweet taste of his punishment—his torture—finally being over.

  Until Miles’s father chose to douse the dinner with current affairs.

  “Read in the paper earlier that kids are getting beaten up and robbed for their sneakers,” his father said, randomly. He pushed greens into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “I’m talking to you, Ganke.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I haven’t had no problems. Just walked here from the train like I always do, and nobody seemed to care,” Ganke said.

  Miles’s father leaned to the side to check out Ganke’s sneakers. “No, I’m thinking maybe you’re the one stealing shoes.”

  “Ha!” Miles’s mother yipped, pushing herself out from the table. She put her plate in the sink and threw over her shoulder, “You know Ganke couldn’t hurt a fly. Miles couldn’t either.” Ganke and Miles’s father both flashed a quick glance at Miles. His dad made a funny face at him at the same time his mom turned around. “Jeff,” she huffed, catching him in the act. “It’s like I’m raising two boys. Matter fact, just for that, you washing dishes.”

  “No I’m not,” Miles’s father said like a disobedient child. He chuckled, and set his fork down on the plate. “Your baby, Miles, is gonna do that. Call it punishment dessert. A cherry on top.” Ganke blew a raspberry. Miles gave him a stone face. “Or, son, we can trade if you like. I’ll do the dishes, and you pay all those bills over there,” he added, pointing to the stack of envelopes rubber-banded on the coffee table.

  “I know,” Miles groaned. He knew what was coming next.

  “And like I always say, it takes wages, not wishes, to stop washing dishes.” Miles’s father added, “And you gon’ take out the trash.”

  After dinner, Miles grabbed the trash bag, ran down the stoop, and tossed it into the can. When he turned around his dad was sitting on the top step, the same step where he’d sat on Friday. It was like a game of Simon Says, except with Jeff. Jeff says sit down, Miles. Jeff says don’t talk until I ask you a question, Miles.

  Neither of them said a word for a minute, the silence sizzling in Miles’s stomach, as if the chicken he had just eaten were refrying itself.

  “You know me and your mother love you,” his father said, finally.

  “Yeah.” Miles could feel the setup coming.

  “And you gettin’ ready to go back to school, so listen, I need you to underst
and.…I just need you to, like…” Miles’s father was the one doing the stammering now, searching for the right words. Finally, he just shot it straight. “You know your uncle was suspended. A lot.” Miles’s father pressed his hands together. “He didn’t think he ever had to follow rules. And it got him killed. And the last thing your mother and I want is for you to be…like him.”

  You’re just like me.

  The words pierced Miles, lodged in his neck. Suspended. Rules. Killed. Miles swallowed hard, washed his guilt down with confusion. He was used to his uncle being brought up in times like these, but it stung every time. In fact, the only time Uncle Aaron was brought up was when his father was trying to explain to him all the ways not to be. His father and uncle were street kids—Brooklyn jack-boys—who were always robbing and hustling, going in and out of court and juvie until they were old enough to go in and out of jail. Miles’s father met his mother and ended up choosing a different path, but his uncle Aaron kept chasing fast money in dark alleys. Now Uncle Aaron was the standard for stupid, the example for all things wrong in their family, as far as Miles’s dad was concerned.

  “You understand?” Miles’s father asked.

  Miles sat there gnawing on the inside of his cheek, thinking about Uncle Aaron. What he knew about him. Not just what he had been told by his father over and over and over again. But what he knew firsthand—that he was there when his uncle was killed. That three years ago, Uncle Aaron had accidentally killed himself while trying to kill Miles.

  “I understand.”

  Miles rolled the mask down over his forehead, over his eyes. For a split second, darkness. Then he lined up the holes so his vision cleared and continued stretching it over his nose, mouth, and chin. He looked at himself in the mirror. Spider-Man. Then he rolled the mask back up, again, that quick moment of darkness. He’d been doing this—the back-and-forth with it—for a few minutes. Miles’s father had told him time and time again that when he and Uncle Aaron were young, they used to take their mother’s dark stockings and pull them over their heads, cut the rest of the leg part off and tie it in a knot before pulling robberies. He said it was uncomfortable, and took a second to get used to, like being trapped in some kind of cocoon. “Aaron didn’t become no butterfly, though,” he would say. “He became something else.”