How does one describe Miles?

If you want Miles to describe himself, his view is likely to vary drastically depending on the day. If you want to know who Miles is, it could be a simple matter of opening his “journals” from the years. Understanding said “journals” is another matter entirely. (Journals being a loose interpretation that has ranged from composition books, empty recipe books and sketchbooks to check registers and baseball card holders filled with index cards—whatever he could reach to scribble or doodle.)

Perhaps the best way to somewhat understand Miles is from his disciplinary reports ranging from elementary school to high school.



A hyperactive boy treated as a “problem child” in school up until his family moved North. With his mom traveling for work and his dad working during the day, he often found himself alone, especially now that he was an only child. Being the new kid was enough. But add being black and a little weird? That was cruel. Not that the other kids were cruel, they just decided not to be anything to him at all. At the end of his first year at Crestwood Middle, a teacher finally bit the bullet and proposed he be bumped up a couple grades. He needed a different pace. Something, something more stimulating environment. Something about how good this was for…somebody. It didn’t seem to be him.

Miles’ first thought was an immediate rejection. He barely could stand being outcast among kids his own age. Now they wanted to thrust him into high school. She wouldn’t have let them. But she wasn’t in Crestwood with them. So his dad told agreed and the teacher applauded and the principal smiled and nobody asked Miles what he thought.
About a week into his transfer to Mathers Memorial High, Miles was assigned a “class mentor” from his new graduating class. Someone he could ask questions and ease his transition into classes with students 2 years his senior. He wasn’t thrilled, especially when he found out it was a white girl named “Vanessa.” He’d already been the token pony before, and she looked like the type to ask about his high-top. But what he got was a genuine smile, a handshake, and actual questions about what he liked to do. By the end of their free period together, they were already laughing. By the third day, she’d nicknamed him “Mice” due to the squeak he got in his voice when got excited. A week into seeing her throughout his class schedule it struck Miles that Vanessa reminded him of Simone. His older sister who would be just a year older than Vanessa, were she still alive.

One day, he chanced to show her his current iteration of “journal”: an address book he’d gotten his hands on. “These are just he stories I want to tell about Simone, y’know. I guess if I ever feel they’re good enough.” Vanessa met his gaze with a smile: “Never doubt the stories you have to tell. Or the truth you have to share, it’s beautiful just be able to create something, Mice.”

[TBC – I just can’t think of a way to condense all dis shit down right now.]