Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(126)
A cop moves toward Miles, crouched in fight stance, a small canister in his right hand. “Hey! Get down from there! Right fucking now!” Miles wants to move but his brain won’t release his legs. There’s a commotion happening on the street just behind the cop. Framed by the flames of the burning police car, it’s important. Miles can feel this in his bones. A moment that should not go unwitnessed. He raises his phone. Just one last shot. He takes the picture. The cop presses the nozzle on the pepper spray. And then everything goes sideways.
It’s as if someone has thrown a lit match at Miles’s face. His eyes burn; the back of his throat feels as if it’s swelling shut. He gags and chokes. His lungs are so tight he can’t catch his breath. Panic overtakes him. What if he dies out here?
“Help.” He can barely get it out. “Help. Please.”
There are hands on his shoulders. A woman’s voice in his ear. “I got you. Hold on.” The unseen angel pours liquid across his burning face. It drips into his tortured mouth. Milk.
“Thank you,” he gasps.
“Give me your arm, baby,” the woman says. “That’s it. Just keep walking. Nice and slow.”
Miles feels other hands taking him now. Questions are asked: “Can you breathe?” Instructions given: “Don’t rub your eyes! You can scratch your cornea that way.” Someone douses him in water and has him rinse and spit. His breathing eases. It takes a good twenty minutes or so for Miles to be able to open his eyes without pain. When he does, he sees he’s in a makeshift medic area with others who’ve suffered the same fate. The woman who guided him here is long gone. He didn’t even get her name. But he’ll never forget her.
By the time he exits the mostly empty subway station at Church Avenue, his footage and photos have gone viral. News outlets are reaching out to ask permission to use his work. He says yes to all of them.
The house is dark when Miles gets back. He’s too wired to sleep. The energy of the protest is in his veins. His eyes are still puffy but at least every blink no longer feels like hot-sauced razor blades. As promised, he takes off his clothes, careful not to get any residual spray on his face, and puts them in a trash bag for the laundry. He showers fiercely, scrubbing too hard, puts on fresh pajamas. It’s 7:00 a.m. His body is starting to unclench, though his mind is still racing.
He group texts Danny and Chi—Hey, hope you guys are okay—and forwards the photos he took to Chi including the one of her with the megaphone, a protective red bandanna stretched across her mouth making her look like a revolutionary. She is outlined by the expanse of sky as if she goes on forever. He forwards the photos to Chloe as well. She calls him back within minutes.
“Hey. You okay? I heard it was pretty intense. I wanted to go but Joyce had a fit. She said if I got Covid, I could give it to the rest of the family, and for once, I couldn’t argue with her.”
Miles searches for the words. When he finds them, they come slowly.
“You know that thing I told you that Mama D says about how there’s a moment when you kinda wake up to the present tense?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m awake. I’m fully present tense, Chlo.” He tells her about the night then.
“Oh my god! Do you need to go to the emergency room or anything?”
“I’m okay. My eyes look a little Night of the Living Dead, but compared to what was happening to some of the other protesters, it’s nothing.”
“Your pictures and video really tell a story. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Not gonna lie—I was scared. And I didn’t know what to do until suddenly, I did. I thought, Somebody should be taking a video of Chi for the people who can’t be here. Somebody should be witnessing this moment, the brutality and the solidarity. And then I realized that ‘somebody’ is me.”
“I’m proud of you,” Chloe says after a long pause.
“Thanks. Hey. Can we talk later?”
“Sure. Get some sleep, Miles-y Cyrus.”
Danny pings the group chat. I’m fine but I have to work at the deli in two hours. Later.
It’s followed by a text from Chi: Glad you’re both okay. Miles, okay to repost these? They’re great, btw.
Miles2Go: Yeah, and thanks. Sorry I lost you in the crowd.
Chi: Almost got arrested but this grandpa put himself between me and the NYPD. Another protest tonight, Foley Square.
Miles2Go: See you there. #KeepShowingUp
Chi sends back a fist, a smiling emoji, and a heart.
Miles has never been this tired. It’s as if all of his adrenaline has burned through his veins and now he is only smoke. He stretches out on his bed, the sounds of the night replaying in his head. He drifts between dream and waking and their connective tissue, memory. Sleep overtakes him; memory shape-shifts fully into dreaming. He’s in a forest. It’s snowing. Snow, as far as he can see. A quiet, comforting presence. It coats his shoulders like the hands of ancestors he has never known but who know him. The roots of the trees whisper to one another. He is a part of this vast network of nutrients. He is a part of something, part of everything, without end. When he wakes, the sun is strong against his drapes. He has no idea what time it is; he’s forgotten what time is. He reaches for his phone. The home screen is alight with several urgent-sounding texts from Chloe—Call me? Please? Sorry. I just need to talk to somebody.