#F6E0A9
ONE YEAR LATER
Miles stirred from his slumber to the ramping finale of Tuesday's Beethoven.
"Morning man," Judge greeted cheerfully. "You sleep okay? You nearly missed it."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Guess I was just tired." Miles rubbed the stubborn sleep from his eyes and brushed his knuckles down his spine. An undulating brigade of ants skittered up his shoulder blades before fading into the usual dull static. "Thanks."
Unused to the eccentricities of sleeping where he went to class—especially without his parents there to haul his ass out of bed—Miles racked up three tardies within the first week of term, along with a standing threat of suspension should he oversleep again. Thus, their system. Judge would play any music of his choice half an hour before the first bell, and if Miles wasn't awake by the end of the song, his roommate could do whatever he wished to ensure he didn't miss another class. After Elephant's Toothpaste in his socks, itching powder in his pyjamas and a live snake in his pillowcase, Miles wasn't late again.
It was also a good way to keep track of the days. Judge was a big believer in consistency. Marvin Gaye every Monday. Beethoven on Tuesdays, of course. A Capella sea shanties marked the halfway point on Wednesdays. 8-Bit video game soundtracks on Thursdays. And something new every Friday, to celebrate the start of the weekend.
Yes, technically the system was supposed to apply to whoever was up first, but so far as Miles could tell, Judge never slept. He was always well into his third wind when Miles went to sleep and was fully fit for class by the time he woke up. Seriously, the kid was a machine. Marching Band, Chess Club, Mathletes, and those were just his extracurriculars! His prodigious expertise in all things Chemistry-related put Miles' old teachers to shame. It was as if God had put twice the typical effort into crafting the perfect fourteen-year-old to make Miles feel inadequate.
Or it would have been if BVA wasn't marketed exclusively as the premiere school for the Judges across the Eastern Seaboard. Literally. His picture was on the front of the latest pamphlets.
Miles' foot got caught in his slacks.
"See you in Sumida's?" Judge asked, his hand on the doorknob.
"Yup," Miles grunted, tugging as hard as he dared. They weren't exactly struggling, but Miles had heard his uncle rant about the cost of their 'brainwashed and hung-dried' clothes more than once. He'd rather attend class in his underwear than tell Aaron he'd ripped another pair of trousers.
With one final, desperate hop, his foot popped out the other end.
Victory!
Miles let out a deep sigh of relief, quietly cursing whichever suppressed faculty member picked such a slim fit for their uniform.
Judge let out a snort. "Nice. Break a leg." He knocked on their door frame twice and left before Miles could respond.
"Thanks," Miles said under his breath, surveying the untidy room. Now, where were his notes?
Mr Sumida was kind of a hipster. His hair was white and rather long—often tied back in a low, messy bun with twine or left free to hang straight down his shoulders—but Miles pegged him in his mid-thirties, at most. Granted, his sense of style probably helped detract from any age lines. Every day he wore soft, slip-on shoes without socks and a short-cut kimono draped loosely over his shoulders. And if anyone showed up early for class, he'd offer them a small cup of pour-over and a vegan lemon square, before going on a fifteen-minute tirade lamenting the death of creativity in Hollywood.
Okay, strike that. He was just a hipster, full stop. Still cool, though.
His class was fun, it was impossible to deny. Keeping positive was one thing, but Sumida provided a place for other people to enjoy themselves. Plus a room on the side to be alone if they didn't.
Miles didn't know how he managed it all.
For two months they'd been learning about the anatomy and evolution of stand-up comedy. Miles' dreams were plagued with incomplete setups. He lived, spoke and breathed punchlines. He could recite a full assorted album of history's greatest comics by rote, while simultaneously playing a mashup of the best comedy songs of the past decade on the accordion. And he wasn't nearly as studious as some of his classmates.
When they first started the unit, several parents complained. They said their children shouldn't be learning jokes at a time like this. They called it insensitive. Inhumane, even. Mr Sumida's response had been floating through the back of Miles' mind since.
"Tragedy and Comedy are cousins. Laughter is inherently cathartic, and so the very best comedians come from pain. Look out for a new wave in stand-up. It's coming, I promise you. And when it does, the world just might begin to heal."
Two months of work, distilled into a two-minute routine. His back buzzed with anticipation.
"Whenever you're ready, Miles."
The very second the bell rang, Miles was already halfway out the door. "Oh my God, that was terrible!"
"It wasn't that bad," Judge placated, jogging to keep up.
"No one laughed! Not even a half-hearted pity laugh!"
"I thought you were funny."
Miles whipped around and pointed accusingly. "You didn't laugh either!"
"I… chuckled. A few times."
"What an accomplishment. I'll be sure to inscribe that on my headstone after I die of shame: 'Made Judge Chuckle.'"
"So it didn't go exactly how you thought it would. Sumida's great—I'm sure you can make it up."
"And go back up there!? Are you insane!?"
"It's ten per cent of our grade, man."
"Performance is only half," Miles reminded him.
"So five per cent, still a lot to miss."
"I can afford it." He was doing pretty well so far. So long as the final project wasn't terrible he should be able to maintain his 'A' even with the hit.
"You want to chance that?"
"Judge!" Miles threw his hands into the air, finally at the end of his rope. "Leave it alone. It happened, it's over, I'm moving on. See you at Lunch."
"Alright. It's your business," Judge shrugged helplessly as he walked away, waving over his shoulder without a care in the world.
He was going to kill for his turn on Thursday, Miles just knew it. And he still couldn't justify being annoyed about it either.
His moping was interrupted by a second bell ringing through the hall.
Shit! He was late for Physics!
"You're doing it again."
Miles' careful eyes flicked up to trace the flow of the hoodie, his pen following the move.
"It's just practice."
"It's creepy. Like you're some scummy paparazzo taking a picture without her knowing. Only worse, because it takes so much more effort."
"It's observational sketching. It needs to be candid."
"See, that would only work to your defence if you drew anyone else nearly as often." Miles squawked angrily as the sketchbook was swiped out of his hands. Judge took advantage of his superior arm-length to keep Miles at bay as he flipped through the pages. "Yup. Tiana. Tiana. Tiana. Sumida. Me. Tiana. Me again. Tiana. Jorge. Tiana. Spider-Man? Hey, this is pretty cool. I wonder if you have Black Widow in here… nope! Tiana aga—"
Miles was finally able to snatch the book back, his entire head red as a cherry tomato. "Shut up! She has satisfying facial symmetry, that's all. Easy to draw."
"The human adjective is 'hot', Miles. Alternatively: pretty, cute, fine—"
"Do you ever stop!?"
"What exactly is your plan if she notices and confronts you about it?"
"I dunno," Miles mumbled, his eyes trailing down into his lap. "Show her the drawings and hope she understands?"
"Great, because she's on her way here."
"What!?" Miles shouted, jerking upright. The spontaneity of his outburst drew the attention of every other eye in the room. Including the curious eyes of Tiana, still sitting with her friends across the cafeteria, decidedly not 'on her way' over to their table.
Judge simply cackled cruelly, slamming his fist into the table.
Miles slumped in his seat—utterly mortified—drawing his hood up over his burning ears. "I hate you."
He was in the middle of Art class when his phone vibrated with a message from his uncle.
"U free tonite? Got a surprise for you. Been in the works for a while."
A surprise? And it couldn't wait until the weekend? Miles reached out to grab his phone to reply before catching sight of the state of his hands.
Miles was currently up to his ears in a portrait painting. Or more accurately, up to his elbows. Messy swatches of acrylic were stamped all over his wrists and up his forearms, pooling around the pads of his fingers. Careless prints were scattered all over his easel and clothes, but so far he'd been really good about keeping his phone away from the paint.
His phone buzzed again.
"We can eat before we go. Ill grab ur fav."
"Hey Drake," he whispered to the bespectacled boy across from him, "can you activate the Voice Assist on my phone?"
Drake rolled his eyes and swiped his clean fingers over Miles' phone screen. It wasn't an uncommon request. "Do you plan to finger-paint your way through college? Just take some time and practice properly. Eventually, you'll run into a teacher who doesn't let you do…" he waved at the peeling paint on Miles' skin and the open, spotted plastic bottles, "all of this."
Miles had very poor brush control, a fact that became glaringly obvious within the first month of taking the class. Every exercise, every tip, every internet life hack failed; his hands still shook. It was a studio class. He couldn't exactly get away with failing every painting assignment, so he came to a compromise with their teacher—a stern but passionate woman named Willa van Vile. So long as Miles turned in paint on canvas, he was free to work however he wished.
"I'll cross that unfortunate bridge when I get to it. I owe you one," he nodded as Drake slid his phone back in front of him, ready to receive his commands. "Reply to Uncle. Aaron. I'll be there."
The phone chimed merrily and eagerly displayed his message for Miles' approval. "Ready to send it?"
"Send." His text wooshed off into the cloud.
Ms Vile leaned over Miles' shoulder. "It's coming along beautifully. Make sure you don't overdo it with the purples under the chins. You'll wash out the highlights, and we really want them to pop."
Miles dipped his middle finger into the yellow bottle and pressed it firmly to the wettest patch of purple on the inside of his wrist. "Something like this?" he asked, swiping the muted hue around the edges of the more vibrant cast shadows.
"Much better," she smiled softly. "Keep it up. We only have a few days to finish this project, you should really start on the eyes."
She moved on to help another student.
Finger-painting was great. It was tactile, responsive and frankly, a lot more fun. But it couldn't draw out fine details very well. Miles' precision was limited by the width of his pinkies. Great for most things, but not the eyes. They were too important.
Miles felt like something of a super spy sneaking off campus. In reality, he just put his hood up and walked out unimpeded.
Random people came and went constantly, so save for a cursory screening for any weapons, the guards never blinked twice at another hunched body skulking by. After the Decimation, the surplus of empty beds and the promises of significant subsidiary contributions were enough to convince the school board to cordon off a wing of dorms for state-sponsored housing. That, plus the influx of extra non-boarding students the state split between able schools, meant that Miles didn't even stick out with his backpack.
Though that would never stop him from humming the Mission Impossible theme on repeat as he tip-toed through the gardens.
The trek to Aaron's apartment was similarly uneventful. There were fewer homeless people on the curbs. Tourists were non-existent. The odd person Miles did cross paths with kept their eyes on the sidewalk and gave him a wide berth. Empty streets—a sight that would have sent any New Yorker into a fit from sheer unnaturalness only a year ago—were now commonplace.
The building itself was a bit run-down but liveable. Sure, the elevator was terminally shaky and the request for someone to repair it will likely never be answered, but the stairs were fine. Miles' physical therapist had constantly harped on him about regular exercise, so it all worked out. Even if he had to stop and catch his breath a couple of times on the way up to their floor.
"Uncle Aaron? I'm home!"
"I'm getting changed," Aaron called back, his voice muffled slightly through the walls. "Food's in the kitchen."
Miles slipped his backpack off his shoulders and scanned the label on the side of the takeout bag, Sub Haven. Figures. Contrary to his uncle's belief, Miles wasn't exactly a fan of their brick-burnt toasted loaves and criminal bread-to-filling ratios.
He dug into the bag and picked out the smaller parcel. Plain pastrami on half-toasted wheat, a combination worthy of the gods. He'd already devoured half of his sub by the time Aaron was washing his hands in the kitchen sink.
"So how was school?" Aaron asked, setting down two bottles of root beer and an empty tumbler next to the bag.
His forehead landed with a dull thunk.
"That bad, huh?" Aaron chuckled.
"I bombed."
Aaron's brows pinched together. "Your set? That was today?"
Miles tried to nod, but his nose caught painfully against the wood. "Mhmm."
"What happened? It was good! Tight and punchy."
"I screwed it up," Miles groaned. "No one laughed."
Aaron winced sympathetically. "You graded on that?"
"Mhmm."
"Sorry, man. That sucks." Aaron used one of the bottles to pop the cap off the other before sliding it into Miles' elbow. He opened his own with the back of his chair.
Miles pushed himself back up and took a grateful swig of the sugary soda.
"Woah, slow down." Aaron tipped his drink towards the glass.
Miles' eyes went wide as he jerked away, the carbonation sparking a raging inferno in his nose and throat. "Ahh!"
"That's karma, right there." Aaron chuckled at his nephew's suffering like the natural caretaker he was.
"Sorry, Dad," Miles mumbled, presenting his bottle. Together, they filled the tumbler and clinked the rim softly.
"Cheers."
"Cheers."
They finished their drinks in silence.
"Want me to toss it for you?" Aaron asked, pushing his chair back.
Miles handed him the empty bottle and stood up after him. "Thanks."
"Ready to go?"
"Not yet." He reached into his backpack and pulled out his folder.
"Already?"
"Just one: my Geometry teacher's sister. Vile told him about my wall, and he showed up at the meeting yesterday asking if I could make her a sticker."
"Let's see it."
Miles gave him the folder.
Aaron whistled appreciatively. "Damn. Alright. Don't get too precious with the placement, I wanna get to your surprise while we still have daylight."
"I'll be quick."
Aaron scoffed. "Now where have I heard that before?"
Miles rolled his eyes and walked to his room.
Olivia Sorenson found her first love in the violin. Playing it, listening to it, hell, a few times Mr Sorenson found her cuddling her prized instrument in her sleep. In its case, of course, she would rather burn than allow it to come to any harm. The only thing in the world that made her happier was her son. The second she held him in her arms, the violin was all but forgotten.
She found a lot of comfort in neons but despised pastels with a rare passion. She maintained a thriving garden of leafy vines and citrus trees, eschewing typical flowers for their 'stuffiness'. She was bored out of her mind sewing but learned anyway to repair a ratty stuffed dragon.
Mr Sorenson probably had plenty more to say but by this point, he broke down and couldn't continue. Miles assured him he had enough to work with and started his thumbnails while Vile escorted him back to his classroom.
Eventually, Miles settled on a neon pink violin with cyan accents of overgrowth and moss. Working in her kid was a bit of a challenge, but he was pretty happy with the end result. A pair of motherly arms were swaddling the instrument like a baby. Bit on the nose, but effective. Mr Sorenson seemed to like it.
When he first started the project, it was much smaller. Just a cheap 24x18 panel with over a dozen tags to represent the Decimated loved ones of the other members of the Art Club. Every single sticker was unique, bringing a splash of new colours and creatures and objects inspired by the people that were lost. He presented the finished collage at the next meeting, retelling the stories behind every sticker and why he chose to include certain symbols. A few people cried, a few people laughed, plenty did both. He hung the panel in his room and posted a picture of it on Instagram. And that was it.
But then Miles ended up adding one for Judge's mom. And then he added another for Sumida's husband. And then Drake's younger sister. Van Ville's best friend. A security guard's wife. The Vice Principal's granddaughter. People he'd never talked to before walked up to him and asked if he had room for more. He'd get private messages through social media requesting stickers. When he did finally run out, he nailed an extra board to either side of the first and kept going.
Six months, twenty total panels and nearly a thousand stickers later, the wall stretched ten feet across and six feet tall. It was a chaotic sea of clashing personalities, held together with a messy lattice frame of 2x4s.
"Miles! Let's go!"
He sighed before tacking Olivia's tag into an empty spot at the bottom right. "Coming!"
Time to see what his uncle was so excited to show him.
"You like it?" Aaron asked, tucking his helmet between the handlebars of his bike. "The last guy paid a boatload to merge three of them together. Pretty sure he was cooking in here, but I've cleaned out all the dangerous and fun shit."
"It's… nice?"
Miles couldn't think of anything else to say. It was a storage locker. Or three. It was nice, as nice as one could probably be, but otherwise plain.
"C'mon." Aaron kicked the latch loose and pulled the garage-style door up.
It was surprisingly spacious, with decent ventilation and overhead lighting. There was a marble island and cabinets, with covered electrical sockets built into the counters. Three monitors were mounted to one wall next to a rolling whiteboard. It even had a couch long enough for Miles to lay down comfortably, and was that a mini-fridge? It was also a lot cleaner than he thought it'd be, though not exactly what he would call tidy. There was a distinct lack of specialised equipment, but it almost looked like…
"A lab? This is a full-on lab." Miles took his own helmet off and set it on the island.
"That's what I said. Most of the expensive stuff was ripped out by looters, so the owner can't even resell it as a working lab. No one else has the funding to make their own—and no one wants a storage locker this big—so I got it for cheap."
Miles bounced around the lab, inspecting every relic of its previous use he could find. "You said he was making drugs! I was imagining a meth den or something. Not this!"
"Cool, right?"
Was he kidding? It was a semi-livable secret lab disguised as a storage locker! "This is awesome!"
"Glad you like it, it's yours."
Miles jerked up, closing the mini-fridge door with a sharp snap.
"What?"
"This is your space. It can be a gym, a hangout for you and your friends." Aaron waggled his eyebrows. "Place to bring a nice girl? What was her name… Tina? Tara?"
Miles couldn't even muster the proper energy to be embarrassed. "H-how much?"
Aaron shrugged noncommittally. "Like I said, no one wanted it."
Like that was an actual answer!
Aaron rolled his eyes as his voice took on a light tone of warning. "Do you want it or not, Miles?"
He threw his arms around his uncle's middle and thanked him profusely.
"Better. We're within walking distance of your school, too. We can put an easel in here, some fans. I know you always wanted your own training bag. Whatever you want to do with the space, it's entirely up to you." Aaron's phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out and clicked his tongue, visibly annoyed. "But it'll have to wait, we gotta go. I'll drop you off. Put your helmet on."
But Miles was barely listening. He was slowly scanning the room with his eyes, picturing where he wanted everything to go. He was halfway through mapping out the placement of his desk when Aaron snapped to get his attention.
"Yo, Earth to Miles. We're leaving."
"Walking distance, right?" he asked, straining to remember the dimensions of a standard bookshelf. "You go ahead."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"Mhmm."
"Alright." He placed a small key on the counter. "Lock up when you leave."
"Wait, really?" He was half-joking.
"Your space, remember? I'm not gonna police when you're allowed in here. Bye, Miles."
"Bye," he responded hollowly. Miles listened to the rumble of Aaron's bike before it ramped up and then faded into the distance.
He actually left.
…
Holy shit, Miles had his own studio!
"And it's all yours?" Judge asked, his disbelief clear in his tone. "No oversight, no looming figure ready to take it away the second you screw up?"
"All mine," Miles grunted, his knees shaking under the weight of the box he was desperately trying to move. "He gave me the key and left me on my own."
"Jesus Christ, man."
"I know, right? I figured we could finally set up your Playstation." Visions didn't allow game consoles in the dorms. Something about power costs, which was completely bullshit considering the amount of electricity high-end gaming PCs consumed every hour.
"You have power?"
"Yeah. I told you, it used to be this super advanced lab."
"How?"
Miles dropped the box on the counter and shrugged, so exhausted he forgot Judge couldn't see him.
"Miles?"
"I'm here, sorry," he gasped. He leaned against the counter and took a second to catch his breath. "Dunno. Didn't ask."
"You should probably find out. You don't want to rack up debt to whichever shady owner sold the place."
"Fair enough," he conceded, trying not to smack his lips too loudly. He really should have packed a bottle of water; the inside of his mouth felt like chalk.
"What are you doing right now? You sound like you're running a marathon on a tightrope."
"Just moving a few things around. Seeing if there's anything left I should keep."
"Looters probably got everything worth more than fifty cents. And are you sure you should be doing all of that on your own?"
Miles rolled his eyes. "I'm not an invalid."
"You think I carried all my shit myself when I moved into our dorm? Just leave 'em where they are. I'll go back with you tomorrow and we'll handle the rest together."
"I'll be fine." He crouched down low and narrowed his eyes at the open box furthest from the door. Bracing his knees under the hinge, he wedged his shoulder beneath the shelve and swiped around blindly.
Pain shot down his wrist. His hand got a bit too close to the top shelf and must've snagged on something sharp.
Biting through the pain, he kept reaching. Lower, this time.
Almost… Almost… —Got it! The back of his hand burned, but he successfully hooked the tip of his middle finger over the cardboard wall.
Triumphant, he slid the box out into the light and winced when he saw the blood welling up below his knuckles.
"You okay? What happened?"
"Exposed nail or something poking out one of these shelves." He ducked down to try and spot the offending hazard, but the late hour compounding with the neglected light fixtures made any attempt hopeless.
"Ouch. You good?" Miles looked over to the source of Judge's voice. Oh right, duh.
He picked his phone up off the counter and activated the flashlight app. "Just a scratch, really. I've had shots bleed worse."
"You hate shots." Judge dryly reminded him. "That's probably a sign you should stop."
"Mhmm," he hummed, shining the light around the box. No nail, staple or anything. Maybe it was a splinter?
"Seriously man, curfew's in twenty. If you're caught out of bed—"
"I hear you, I'm coming," Miles sighed, deactivating the flashlight and switching off speaker. "It's like four blocks."
"You get winded walking to Physics."
"Hilarious. You should add that to your set."
"Not a joke. I've seen you take a break from standing in the lunch line."
"Goodbye, Judge." Miles hung up.
It took him twenty-three minutes, the latter half of which was spent fielding an incessant stream of texts from Judge.
"ETA?"
"Yo, where r u?"
"Dude, hurry!"
"I can hear Salas down the hall."
"Whats ur plan to explain y u arent here?"
"Hes next door."
When Miles reached their wing of the dorms, he got one final message.
"Come thru the bathrooms. Ill tell him u have diarrhea."
Miles buried his face in his hands, contemplating for a solid minute whether the detentions for leaving campus would be worth his dignity. Ultimately deciding any detentions would cut into valuable time better spent setting up his studio, he dragged his feet to his floor's common restroom.
He splashed water on his forehead to imitate sweat and practised his face in the mirror. He needed to craft the perfect blend of pain and disgust.
Guinea pig genocide. No, too sad. Political slam poetry. Too satirical. Infected belly-button. Yeah! An oozing, peeling, yellow naval infection. Miles was fortunate enough to have never had one, but his mother showed him a picture from the hospital once after he refused to take a shower after soccer practice. The following few months were probably the most hygienic he'd ever been—or ever would be—in his life.
Their Residential Supervisor, a rather heavyset man named Mr Salas, had his head poking in their room, likely talking to Judge. As Miles drew closer, he brought the image of the hellish injury to the forefront of his mind.
Infected belly-button. Infected belly-button. Infected belly-button.
"Morales!"
Salas was suddenly deep into his personal space, glaring sceptically at his pallid complexion and damp hairline.
"Dredden says you're not feeling well."
"Yes, sir," Miles croaked.
"Hmm…" His eyes drifted towards the bathrooms. "Make sure you're quiet if you need to go at any point before morning."
"Yes, sir."
Salas straightened. "Alright then. Get in."
Miles nearly knocked him over with the speed he ran into the room.
The man shot them both one last suspicious look before shutting the door. Miles waited for a beat, keenly listening until he heard him finish checking the room on their left.
As his footsteps faded down the hall, Miles turned to Judge. "Thanks, man." Humiliation aside, it was an easy way to avoid questions.
"Don't mention it. Night, Miles."
"Night."
Judge flipped the light switch and plugged his headphones into his laptop, getting comfortable to do whatever it was he did while Miles slept. Knowing him, he'd probably have the cure to cancer come sunrise.
The busy glow from Judge's computer screen threw strange patterns on the ceiling. Misshapen spotlights clashed and folded into the bedframe's shadow, distending into all manners of nightmare creatures. He lazily reached up and broke the illusion with his hand, cutting through the facade with long, silhouetted fingers. But the spots were tenacious little bastards. Undeterred by the gap, they swirled over his skin instead.
Miles entertained himself trying to 'catch' the lights until the weight of his eyelids trumped his stubborn resolve.
