Chapter Text
"What does San Diego mean, father?"
"Hmm, I'm not sure, Miles. What do you think?"
"Well, you've told me that Los Angeles means 'The City of Angels' in Spanish. Does San Diego mean something in Spanish?"
It's only his first week at their new home in the San Diego suburbs, but Miles already recognizes the subtle shift from craggy, concrete roads to well-kept palm trees. Ivy Elementary School is just around the corner. He feels his belly scrunch up into a tiny, tense knot. Second day of classes, and Miles already knows he hates it here.
"It does! You could ask your classmates, I'm sure they would love to tell you," Gregory Edgeworth responds brightly. It does nothing to loosen the knot.
"They wouldn't know. They're all idiots."
"Miles..." his father warns. "You're too young to be so crotchety. Besides, you won't know until you give them a fair chance."
"Yes, father."
Miles drags his backpack up from between his knees and swings it over his shoulders. He gets out the car, but before he can trudge up the entrance steps, Gregory rushes out the car to fix his son's bowtie. The open misery on Miles' face breaks Gregory's heart, but all he can do is kiss the top of his feathery, gray hair, and send him on his way.
"Have a good day, Miles. I'll see you soon."
Miles waves goodbye, then resumes pouting. Mr. Curls is impressed by Miles' formidable glare. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, but it makes him hesitate to greet the boy, just for a second.
"G-good morning, Miles!"
"Good morning, Mr. Curls."
The chair screeches when Miles plops himself down, drawing unwanted attention towards himself. The new kid. Giggles and whispers begin overtaking the background babble. Miles just takes out one of his many books, and focuses intently on visualizing the pages' imagery so that he doesn't accidentally hear what they have to say about him.
The chatter barely dulls when the morning announcements blare over the intercom.
"Good morning students, and happy Tuesday! Please stand for the pledge of allegiance."
The students lazily wrap up their conversations as they stand from their seats, hand over heart. Except for Miles, who remains resolutely seated. This caused quite the conundrum for Mr. Curls yesterday.
Miles, did you hear the announcements? Stand for the pledge.
But why? My father says that the pledge is unconstitutional. And, if I don't want to stand, I shouldn't have to.
Well, it's the rules.
It's also unconstitutional to make me stand.
Mr. Curls took in a deep breath, ready to contest Miles' statement, but upon second thought, he decided that there wasn't really a fight to be had. It's not as though the pledge represented anything more than some school routine to the tired teacher. If the boy really cared so much about the pledge, then no harm, no foul, right? The teacher just shrugged, deciding not to escalate the situation, but Miles' action had stirred the pot.
Who is this kid? Who does he think he is? Stuck-up snob...
One boy reacted only by letting a curious expression cross his face. Miles was immediately taken in by those strange eyes, one blue, and one brown. Miles stared back into that wide, mystified expression, but soon took note of the boy's spiky hair. Miles had a lot of questions to ask his father about human biology and the limits of people's natural physical appearances, but at the time, he turned his head back towards the scratched up, plastic desk.
Today, the students keep their eyes on the new kid instead of the flag. Miles remains seated, completely silent while the room fills with the mindless drone of the pledge. Miles pretends he doesn't notice, but that knot from this morning is now a sharp sting in his gut.
Miles supposes he had many opportunities to reverse the first impressions he had made, but he refuses to compromise who he is. He doesn't hide the fact that he can answer every question posed to the class, that he is the quickest student during math drills, and that he can offer the most comprehensive analyses of the texts they read. He is confident, competent, and opinionated, just like his father. He feels this way when he speaks, but when everyone is doing independent work at their desk, or when Mr. Curls is speaking and there's nothing for Miles to do but listen, he doesn't feel like his father. He feels small and hated.
Nerd.
Freak.
Snob.
That was their favorite. Snob.
The spiteful chatter follows him to lunch as well. Gregory never shies away from celebrating Miles’ Japanese-British lineage, particularly since his mother was no longer in the picture. He packed a lunch with neat little parcels of rice, egg, and spam wrapped up in seaweed. As a treat, he put in a packet of Hello Panda cookies. A meal fit for a king. Miles tried to eat it inconspicuously, but the other kids were itching for another reason to pick on the poor boy.
"Ew, what is that?" A red-haired girl leaned across the table to scrunch her nose at the foreign green wrapping in Miles' hands.
"Seaweed..." Miles mutters.
"Seaweed? From the ocean? I can't believe you eat that! You're worse than Phoenix. Ain't that right Feenie," she giggles, jabbing the withdrawn boy beside her with a bony elbow as he meekly picks at his tofu. "What's that pink stuff?"
"Why would I answer you? You're just going to make fun of me," Miles snaps. Every head at that table turns to watch the drama unfold before them. Everyone except for Phoenix, who keeps his gaze in his lap.
"It's spam, Dahlia. It's canned pork," a blue-haired hair girl interjects matter-of-factly, fixing the ruffles around her brooch. She pays no mind to the look that Miles sends her way.
"It doesn't look like pork," Dahlia replies, eyeing the girl with obvious disdain. Dahlia's attention quickly returns to Miles though, the prime victim at this moment. "And it stinks. Why don't you eat normal food?" Her lips twist delicately as laughter around her begins to bubble up from her friends at each quip she utters.
Miles doesn't say anything. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked with Dahlia's, refusing to break away, and takes an enormous bite of food. Dahlia eventually looks away, scoffing at Miles' strange defiance. Even then, Miles keeps his eyes on Dahlia, finishing his remaining lunch in five minutes flat. He slams his metal lunchbox closed with a sharp crack. Dahlia gasps and squeezes her eyes shut for a second. The whole table whips their head towards the new kid.
Eyes still trained on Dahlia, Miles shouts at Dahlia. "You're just an ignorant little kid, that's why you think my food is weird! But my musubi is delicious. Grow up."
"Get over yourself, you're just a kid too, snob," she sneers, her haughty posture unrelenting, but her face suddenly pale. Miles feels no regrets about his actions though. This self-assuredness doesn't keep him from feeling relieved when no one attempts to talk with him during recess. Or between classes. Or on the after-school bus home.
He takes the path through People Park to walk home, preferring the grassy breeze over the drab cement. It's a little easier to let his guard down, to let the rustling leaves and rushing stream clear his mind. He's so distracted by the relaxing sounds, that he almost doesn't see Phoenix sitting on the bench overlooking the stream.
Miles stops in his track, stumbling over himself in the process. The crunch of the gravel cuts through the air, betraying Miles’ presence. Phoenix doesn't look up though. He pulls something out of his backpack, and begins concentrating on something in front of him with such fervor, Miles can only imagine those blue and brown eyes as bright and shiny as polished marbles. Even when he's up on his tippy-toes, Miles can't see over the boy's spiky head at what's so interesting. Phoenix's head pops up from his lowered gaze every so often, and Miles tries to see what his classmate sees, but he fails to understand what it is that could possibly hold anyone's attention for so long. Many minutes pass by until Miles is suddenly too aware of the time he's spent watching Phoenix. Miles breaks into a run, desperate to leave before Phoenix ever knows he was there.
By the time he arrives at the apartment, Miles is red-faced and sweaty, much to Gregory's confusion.
"Miles, is everything okay? Did you run over here?" He inquires, dropping his knife on the cutting board to better inspect his son.
"Y-yes. Nothing to...to worry about," Miles huffs and puffs, trying to catch his breath. "Can I help?"
"After you shower. You smell foul." Gregory takes an exaggerated sniff of Miles' head, and pushes him towards the bathroom with the affectionate disgust that parents grow so familiar with.
Later, when Gregory finishes putting Miles to bed, Miles pipes up, reluctant to sleep just yet. It's difficult for his dad to resist indulging his only family, but he attempts to enforce bedtime rules and prove that he is a competent father.
"Tomorrow, Miles. Go to sleep."
"Wait, one last question! Can people have spiky hair?"
"What do you mean by spiky?" The image of the liberty spikes in the punk groups he once knew immediately comes to mind, although Gregory struggles to believe that a child would sport such a look in the fifth grade.
"Like...like a hedgehog? But it goes straight back instead of all directions, so, not like a hedgehog exactly."
"It's possible to have spiky hair if you use a lot of hair gel."
"No, I don't think it's that. His hair looked soft."
"Oh, is this a friend that you're talking about?"
"No!" Miles exclaims, instantly wide awake. "He's just a random boy in my class. I've never even talked to him."
"Okay, okay! My mistake." Gregory pulls the lightweight quilt up to his chin. "Get some rest, Miles. Goodnight-"
"Wait, wait, wait! Last question, I promise!"
"No-"
"I really promise! I've been wanting to ask you since yesterday!" He pleads with wide eyes. Sensing hesitation in his father, Miles immediately shoots the question before Gregory can refuse. "Can people have two eye colors?"
"Yes," Gregory says curtly, not wanting to encourage Miles any further. "It's called 'heterochromia.'"
"Why does he have it?"
"Why does 'who' have it? The boy from your class?"
"No! I mean, yes...It doesn't matter!" Miles pulls the quilt over his head, and turns towards the wall to hide his embarrassment. His father just laughs softly, and switches off the lamp.
"There are a lot of reasons why he might have it. His parents likely had it, and your classmate inherited it from them."
Gregory begins carding his hand through Miles' hair, coaxing the boy into a drowsy state. A small hum leaks out from beneath the cotton-linen blanket, a last ditch attempt at prolonging the conversation and keeping his father in the room.
"Our bodies create a thing called 'melanin,' which are molecules that bring color to our eyes, hair, and skin. Remember molecules? The teeny, tiny building blocks in our body. There are many types of melanin, and people make different amounts of the different melanin." Gregory stands up carefully, making sure not to disturb Miles. "Most pairs of eyes have the same amount and types of melanin for each eye. Your friend's eyes create different amounts and types of melanin from each other."
"Not my friend..." Miles quietly protests, stubborn even when barely conscious.
"Goodnight. I love you, Miles."
"I love you too, father."