Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(47)
“Okay. But you’re kinda in her space, dude.” It sounds weak to Miles. He hates himself a little. How can he be this big on the outside and feel so small on the inside?
“No. This is my space! You’re the people responsible for this whole Covid mess! Why don’t you go back to your own country!”
A couple of years before, Miles and Danny had been goofing off in downtown Brooklyn when a group of older white dudes started following them, shouting racist comments. They’d thrown Danny’s backpack to the ground and yelled, “Go back to your own country!” before taking off laughing.
Near tears, Danny had shoved his papers angrily into his backpack. Miles handed him a crumpled homework assignment caked in mud. “They’re just assholes. Don’t let them get to you.”
“They do get to me,” Danny said. “What I don’t understand is why they never get to you. Why don’t you ever fight back?”
Something snaps. The inside of Miles buzzes like a hive. He’s never thrown a punch but he wants to lay this rich jerk flat. He wants the satisfaction of breaking his unmasked nose. He puts his groceries on the floor and steps up, violating all social distancing. This close, it’s obvious Miles is a good five inches taller and forty pounds of muscle bigger than this guy. Just give me one reason, dude, Miles thinks.
“This is our country and it’s her store.” Miles’s hands tighten into fists. “Get the fuck out, asshole.”
A flicker of fear shows in the man’s eyes. The second feels like a minute. And then the dude steps back. “Whatever,” he mumbles and swipes his abandoned carton of organic 2 percent onto the floor, where it splits along the seam, spreading milk across the clean tile. “I hope you’re out of business soon!” he shouts as he pushes through the door.
Miles starts after him.
“Miles! Miles! Stop!” Amy shouts. “It’s not worth it, okay?”
Miles picks up the carton. Milk drips across his hand. Amy offers the trash can and he drops in the carton. She gives him a rag for his hand. He’s breathing heavily, which worries him, but he can’t help it. “You okay, Amy?”
“Yeah. You?”
He nods. His head feels balloon full, like he needs to sit down. “You want me to wipe that up for you?” he hears himself say. He wants to race outside, but outside may not be any safer.
“No. I’ll get it,” Amy says. “That’s been happening more lately. I get worried about the older people, like my parents.”
Miles can only nod. He doesn’t want Amy to know he’s freaking out. It’s like the whole world is a video game where everything wants to kill you. He sucks in a shuddering breath, drawing the mask against his lips, lets it out. Takes in another, slightly deeper.
“You sure you’re okay?” Amy asks, brows furrowed.
“Yeah. Just got … I’m good.”
She reaches under the counter and hands Miles a flyer. “Some friends and I have been putting together a squad so we can look out for each other.”
Now that Miles’s panic is settling down, he reads the flyer: HATE IS A VIRUS. STOP AAPI HATE. There’s a coalition number and website at the bottom.
“That’s cool,” he says, pushing the paper back toward her. “You’re gonna make a great lawyer.”
Amy holds his gaze for a few seconds beyond uncomfortable. Then she passes a full stack of flyers over to him and adds a roll of tape. “Like they say, no one can do everything but everyone can do something. Maybe you could post some of these for me on your way home?”
Once outside, Miles peels off his plastic gloves, drops them in a bin, and rubs sanitizer over his hands until they are nearly red. He’s still a little shaky. Fueled by adrenaline, he pedals fast up the mostly deserted Canal Street, then cuts east toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Go back to your own country. “What country is that, you racist pig? Brooklyn?” Miles shouts into the wind. He’s halfway across the bridge now. The earlier adrenaline has gone and in its place is a strange sleepiness. His thoughts are still on the man in the store. The fear in his eyes had been intoxicating, vindicating. Miles had felt justified in wanting to hurt him. He’d felt powerful. But it wasn’t power; it was only intimidation. How easy it is to mistake one for the other. Today, Miles was on the right side of that line. But now he knows just how quickly that line can move. By the time Miles hits the Brooklyn side of the bridge, he’s not just physically tired; he’s soul tired. He suddenly remembers Amy’s flyers. Shit. He’d have to double back to post them—an extra twenty minutes. He’s already tossed his gloves. He doesn’t want to touch light poles, building walls, anything. What if it’s illegal and he gets stopped by the cops? He’s frozen with indecision and anxiety: He promised. He thinks about Mom Lisa going off to war. Mama D running toward chaos with her camera raised. Mormor going undercover against the Nazis. He wonders, as he often does, how they were so brave.Are some people just fundamentally better at this sort of thing? He looks back over his shoulder, weighing his choices. He’ll get to it later. As he rides toward home, the voice in his head matches his pedal strokes: Coward. Coward. Coward.
* * *
Miles is microwaving a bag of popcorn when Chloe FaceTimes him.
“Hey,” he says, grateful for someone to take him away from the shame spiral in his head. He tears open the steaming bag. The hot chemical-butter smell falls somewhere between appetizing and nauseating.