CHAPTER THREE
I Sign an Autograph for a Billionaire
It’s hard to believe that we managed to rehearse after that. I surprise myself with the way I throw all I have into practice. You’d think after being threatened with guns and knives, our circus would be shaken, worried, and call the police. But no. Mom and Raya fuss over me, though, bandaging my neck, Raya talking my ear off about recklessly rushing into dangerous situations. But how was I supposed to know that a gang was waiting for me in the big top? Who walks into their house expecting to find a grown horse just chilling in their bedroom?
Yeah! My point exactly!
My neck stings and my shoulders ache from where Zucco’s fingers dug into the muscle. But I make the most of it, waving off the terrifying encounter when everyone questions me about it. I don’t talk about how much I wanted to scream; I talk about the jokes I tossed their way and laugh with the others at my banter.
No one talks about the threat. And yeah, it was a threat. Pay us, or else we will make you need protection. Protection from them. What kind of sicko came up with that idea? It’s either super dumb or super brilliant. But either way, it’s super wrong. I can just imagine Zucco and his goons walking into a toy store or something, pulling guns on the poor workers who don’t have any way to defend themselves.
While I cover up my jittering hands, not everyone’s fooled. In fact, when we clamber into the trailer for the night, Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick all look right at me. I want it to be comforting seeing how much they care. I want to go on about how glad I was to see them rushing to save me. But all I think about as they look down at me, those worried expressions on their faces, is how helpless they think I am. How much of a child I am.
Sure, I’m still a kid. And sure, I can be caught off guard, but having my parents look at me with such concern on their faces, well, it rattles me more than any mafia ever could. That look saying, ‘We need to wrap you in bubble wrap and lock you up in a tower so no one can hurt you ever again.’ Well, I’ll just hide in a tower, grow my hair out, and wait for Wonder Woman to save me. Just call me ‘feldsalat’ because I’m not going by Rapunzel.
“Dick…” Dad pauses, unsure. They’re all unsure. Of what to say. Of how to treat me. And I don’t blame them. How do you treat a kid who just had a knife to his throat? But honestly, the more I look back at it, the more I think about how cool it was to see Dad, Mom, and Uncle Rick kick butt. How cool it was for me to kick butt. Gosh, no one should ever mess with our family.
I look at Mom and Dad, at Uncle Rick. The silence drags on for too long. I can hear loud pops and splashes from the clown’s trailer—a pre-circus/post-kicking-mafia-behind party. The thought of them all squeezed into one room, hosing each other down with water guns full of sparkling cider.
I put my hands on my hips and beam up at my family. Sure, I feel better now, but I still don’t want to talk about what happened. At least, not the scary parts. Not yet. So… “Dance party?” I put my hands together, leaning forward. “Please?”
Uncle Rick’s laugh cracks through the cabin like Raya’s whip, dissolving every last shiver in my shoulders. Mom rolls her eyes as Dad wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Mary?”
“Oh, fine.” Mom walks over to our speaker setup, her hand hovering over her phone. “What song?”
“My song?” I bat my eyes at her, trying to suppress my grin. “Please?”
“Oh yeah!” Uncle Rick shrugs off his towel, stretching his muscular arms. “Give me that Bobby Day!”
Mom presses play, and the first “Tweedle-lee-dee-dee-dee!” blasts out of the speakers, and our trailer explodes. Mom starts to twist, her arms moving side to side. Dad does his little dance. You would think that a guy who knows trapeze would have rhythm, but the way he shakes his legs like he’s trying to kick a soccer ball and moves his hands like he’s doing disco makes no sense.
Uncle Rick matches Mom, swiveling his hips, going up and down, belting out the song. Me? I jam, pumping my arms into the air, pointer finger up.
“A pretty little raven at the bird-band stand!” I belt out, swept up with the music. “Taught him how to do the bop, and it was grand!”
“OH!” Uncle Rick grabs my hands as the song gets to the chorus, pulling me into the jig. “Rockin’ Robin!”
Mom, Dad, and I do the ‘tweets’ as Uncle Rick belts, “Rock- Rockin’ Robin!” again. I can’t stop myself. Dad looks so silly, doing his dad dance, Uncle Rick’s unabashedly crooning into Mom’s hair brush, and Mom sings in a lower key on purpose, losing her rhythm to do the dad dance with Dad. I burst out laughing, choking out the next chorus with Uncle Rick.
At the end, we all whistle along before howling, the rolling laughter filling our trailer. Uncle Rick bows, Mom and Dad lean on each other, breathless, and I’m tempted to press repeat on the song.
By now, you may be wondering why Rockin’ Robin is my song. Well, Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick call me ‘Little Bird’ or ‘Dickie Bird’ or sometimes, ‘Robin.’
Rockin’ Robin played at my third birthday party and was the first song I actually danced to, at least in front of people. Everyone thought it was so funny and cute, and I loved the song so much that they started calling me ‘Robin’ or ‘Rockin’ Robin.’ Ever since then, whenever the song comes on, whether on the train, in the middle of a store, or even in the bathroom, I can’t help but cut a rug, no matter how many people stare or laugh.
We all settle down after the dance fest, slipping into our pj's and turning in for the night. The trailer’s bigger than our train cabin, long, white, and fluorescent, but Mom’s covered the walls with so many photos, posters, and awards that you don’t even notice. She makes it a home. And though Uncle Rick and I have to share a bunk, Mom and Dad get their own room.
At least tonight, I won’t have to listen to them argue. I’m sure they will. Not even the laughing fits from a night of family fun can erase the worry lines around Mom’s eyes or the frown growing on Dad’s lips. Things will be better when we leave Gotham. I tell myself, scrubbing my teeth until they shine, splattering the bathroom mirror with toothpaste. Everything will be back to normal. We’ll be away from the gangs and the dark alleys.
Uncle Rick slips into bed first, pulling on his blankets with a sigh, watching me leap into bed. I hear him rustle the sheets as I settle down, taking deep breaths to calm my pounding heart. The sheets feel good on my sweaty legs, the mattress comfortable for my aching shoulder. The light clicks off as Mom and Dad close the door to their bedroom, leaving the flickering bulb of the streetlamp next to the trailer as my nightlight.
I’m not afraid of the dark; I’m afraid that Uncle Rick will ask a question, something like ‘So, how’re you doing, Champ?’ but he doesn’t. Instead, the first snore vibrates my mattress.
I close my eyes, the familiar noise lulling me to sleep. There’re no dreams tonight, not even a glimpse. Only darkness, but not the darkness that suffocates you. It wraps around me, cozy, like my blanket. It’s soft, safe, and nothing like the big top's darkness earlier today.
Though I don’t think I dream, when I wake up, I remember something strange. I heard a voice, one I’d never heard before in my life. But it said my name, clear as day.
Bang, bang, BANG!
C.C. Haly pounds on the door, calling for us to get up. The circus will be up and running in an hour and a half, just enough time for us to get ready. As always, Uncle Rick groans, shoving his pillow over his face. But there’ll be no pillow fights today.
I slip out of bed, bounding across the trailer and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. If Uncle Rick wants to take forever to get out of bed, it’s only right that I get the bathroom first. Early bird gets the worm, after all.
Circus days I could do in my sleep. I get up, take a shower, slide into my white tights and leotard, this one a bright sapphire with the huge G emblazoned in silver on the front, and try to do something with my hair. If bedhead were an illness, I’d be a terminal patient.
After about three minutes of dragging my comb through my hair, only managing to make the raven rat’s nest stand straight up, I stomp out of the bathroom, muttering. I ignore Uncle Rick’s snickers as he takes his turn, dropping down into the breakfast nook, looking up to see Mom and Dad emerge from their room.
Dad’s dressed like Uncle Rick and me: simple leotard, white tights, and trapeze boots. Mom’s outfit is exactly like ours, but some fabric gathers at her back, forming into some sort of ruffled tail. She also wears her makeup, the rich colors sparkling in the light, and the eyeshadow makes it look like she’s wearing a mask studded with jewels instead of just colored powder and gunk. She looks like a peacock, not the ugly brown female ones; no, she looks like a male peacock, the pretty blue and green ones. I can almost see the ruffle on her back fanning up and out.
“Oh, Little Bird.” Mom frowns down at me, her eyes scrutinizing my messy hair. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I don’t know.” I lean forward, offering up my head. “You could send me to a professional stylist? Oh! Or you could just shave it all off.” I like my hair, but sometimes, I think that having no hair at all would be better. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have to suffer.
“Absolutely not!” Mom briskly takes the comb to my hair, yanking it again and again until it’s neatly parted in the middle, and my ears burn from the comb. Torture, I tell you—pure torture.
We eat breakfast quickly. No pancakes this morning, though I score a good bowl of cocoa puffs before they’re whisked away from me. Honestly, who ever thought that berries and yogurt would make a good breakfast?
Scandalous.
The morning light shines through the windows, a salty breeze blowing in from the sea, making the flags snap as they billow, and the balloons dance in a kaleidoscope of colors. The smells of funnel cake, caramel, buttery popcorn, and all things fried and delicious hang over the tents. The turf spreads out flat and spotless, the tents, booths, and stages pristine, standing empty and waiting for the crowd, waiting to be walked over and covered with signs of use.
Closer to the big top, the animals are awake in their cages, making a racket that almost rivals the crowd waiting at the entrance.
Almost.
Though my family and I walk right to our stage, posed in front of a massive poster of ourselves, with prop boxes and a large stack of signs on the side, I can just barely see the mass of people shuffling around at the gate, waiting for C.C. Haly to let them in.
At the stroke of nine, the entrance opens, tickets are purchased and punched, and the circus swarms with guests. Every city is different, and while the City of Gotham is full of psychos, everyone here seems so happy, laughing, pointing, and running around to get to their favorite attraction.
Maybe it’s because their city is so dark that they treasure a light, airy place like Haly’s Circus. Do they have so many dull shadows in their city that they marvel at this tiny wonder? I don’t know, and I don’t have time to think about it for more than a few seconds because the line of people grows in front of our attraction.
The day’s mostly a blur, shaking hands, dropping into the splits, doing cartwheels, posing for photos, and signing my name under Uncle Rick’s. I try to remember the faces, to save them for later. Save them so I can puzzle about the woman whose nose looks like a hook, the man dressed in a clown costume, or the kids that dance around me, their gapped teeth grinning.
One family walks up to us, their faces so full of joy that I instantly beam at them. Their son, a boy about five years old, stands between them, clutching a rolled piece of paper and a small Polaroid camera. I thought those things went out of fashion centuries ago, but apparently, they’re making a comeback.
While Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick meet the parents, shaking their hands and chatting about little things, I kneel in front of the boy, grinning at the wonder in his huge, doe-brown eyes. “What’s your name, Champ?” I hold out my hand for the poster. He passes it to me, ducking his head, though his eyes dance. I take the sign and unroll it, gazing at the older design. It’s from my first year of being an official Flying Grayson. It doesn’t seem like that long ago, but when I look at myself in the picture, I remember how tiny I was.
“My name’s Timmy.” The boy finally returns my smile, his gums riddled with gaps, the teeth he does have flashing. “And you’re Dick Grayson! Mommy told me about you!”
“Oh yeah?” I quickly write, ‘To Timmy, keep smiling! Dick Grayson’ on the poster, handing it back to him. “And what did your Mommy say?”
“That you’re the best trapeze people in the world!” Timmy hugs the poster like a teddy bear, his face so innocent, so cute, I want to pinch his cheeks. Gosh, when did I become such a grandma?
“Thanks, Timmy!” I point to the Polaroid. “Want a picture?” The adults are done talking, Timmy’s parents looking at him expectantly. I raise an eyebrow at them and flash a smile. “Can we?”
“Please?” Timmy holds up his camera; his face is so shy as he looks at my family that I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
“Okay, one picture Tim-Tim, then we need to let the other people in line have a turn.” Timmy’s mom says, her hand clasped in her husband’s.
“Alright, Champ,” I hold my hand for the camera, “let’s do this!” I pull Timmy into a hug, squishing our faces together, raising the polaroid in front of us, trying not to squint in the sunlight. “Say ‘Flying Graysons!’”
Snap!
The photo prints, and I hand it and the camera back to Timmy, standing up and ruffling his hair. I wink at the little boy as he scurries off with his parents, my grin splitting my face at the fading sound of his babbling.
The day passes by, people laughing, music blaring, and my hands speed through signatures. It isn’t until almost dinner time that something huge happens. And I mean, really big.
I’m not someone who eats my words, and I know I’ll forever get teased for this, but as soon as I spot a young man about Uncle Rick’s age with perfect sculpted features, styled coal-black hair, and piercing grey eyes, I know. Raya’s going to faint into the python pit because into Haly’s Circus walks none other than Billionaire Bruce Wayne himself.
This guy isn’t photoshopped. In fact, he’s even more, larger than life in person, if that’s possible. He’s smiling, laughing, and cracking jokes, his smooth, easy-going voice reaching me even above the din of the crowd. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I squint at him when I notice not one but two pretty women clinging to his arms.
People dart out of his way or in his way to snap photos. He humors them, even going so far as to pose for some of them, clapping them on the shoulder and sharing a few words. Now I understand Raya’s fascination with him. Well, fascination is a simple word. It’s more like an obsession. And while I don’t blush, squeal, or fangirl like some girls in the crowd, I gawk.
He must’ve noticed me because I find myself staring into those sharp, steely eyes. I blink, ignoring how dumb I must look with my mouth open, my arms hanging limply at my sides. No way this is happening. No way a billionaire is coming to our circus.
In no time at all, Bruce Wayne is standing in front of me, chatting with Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick. They talk about the circus— Mr. Wayne apparently came here when he was a kid— about Gotham and about little things like the huge crowd and the pains of people asking for photos all the time.
I don’t even hear him until Mom nudges my shoulder. I look up at her, a small “What?” sliding out before I can stop it.
Mom nods at Mr. Wayne. “Mr. Wayne said hello, Dick.”
I turn to him, unable to keep the heat from rising in my cheeks. “Hi, Mr. Wayne. Sorry, I got distracted.” My mouth prattles on before I can stop it. “How many cars do you have? What’s it like living in a big castle?” My voice lowers into a whisper, and I lock eyes with him. “Do you have alligators in your moat?”
I want to disappear as my family, Mr. Wayne, and his girls all burst out laughing. The only thing I manage to do is cross my arms over my chest. “I mean,” I continue, trying to make the best of it. If they’re going to laugh, I might as well keep it going, “What’s a castle without a moat full of alligators? They’re perfect security.”
More laughter. Mr. Wayne pats my shoulder, his smile finally reaching his eyes. They soften. He looks so different, almost… nice. “No, Mister Grayson. I don’t have alligators. I do, however, have a German shepherd with teeth like an alligator.”
“That’s lame.” The heat disappears, so I keep going. “Do you at least have a petting zoo?”
“No baby goats on my lawns.” Bruce steps back, shaking hands one last time with Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick. “Alfred would pop a blood vessel. But now that you mention it, it would be kind of nice to have some more animals around the place. All we have now are wild animals and strays, like birds, cats, and bats.”
He shakes my hand last, giving a parting wave as he walks off into the circus. I watch him, watch him weave through the grounds with his confident stride, his carefree attitude.
But when Bruce turns into a different isle of tents, my eyes are drawn to something else. Something, no, someone, slides out of the big top, hidden in the shadows. It could be anyone: C.C. Haly with last-minute preparations, the Vistris getting the animal cages set up, Mr. Frends finishing with the glitter cannons—
But as I stare at them, the person glances back. It’s as if they’re looking right at me. It could be my imagination, but I swear I see dual-colored eyes winking at me from the shadows.
To be Continued...
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