Robin: Beginnings - Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

I Schmooze the Paparazzi 

The next week passes mostly the same. At first, I stay home, free from lessons and training, but only for one day. One measly day. Then, it’s back to the races. 

I get up stupidly early, yawning my way to the bathroom, then I train with Alfred. I’m pleased with myself, though, because every day, I get a little better, faster, and stronger, and the better I get, the more I enjoy myself. My shoulder sometimes bugs me, but it’s more of a phantom pain, a reminder. 

Then it's off to school like a normal kid. Well, when I say ‘normal,’ I mean normal for me, which means more work and teasing. Some kids treat me like some sort of legend, going through a crazy thing like being shot point-blank by a gangster. Other kids avoid me like the plague. I don't care, though. At least, that's what I tell myself. I joke and laugh with the best of them. I get to know the other students, enjoying our conversations, no matter how ridiculous and shallow. Anything to escape the musty silence of the Manor House. 

Babs and I really get to know each other. Of course, I stick to Babs. She’s the first kid I met in Gotham outside of the circus, the girl who stuck by me even when I was bleeding all over the place. And yeah, she's nice and funny and— no! I don't have a crush! Don't you even dare! 

I love gymnastics too. Or, at least, I would if Coach Drewitt would let me back to practice. Either he feels bad about what happened or actually thinks I need more of a break because every time I step into the gym, insisting that I can do it, he sends me home. I keep up my routines at home, though. At least I have something to work on while I shred up the equipment. 

Most kids like me at school and mean well, so I ignore them when they bring up Bruce, my parents, and the people out to get me. When they say they’re sorry about my parents, I smile and say thank you. When they ask how scary it was to almost get killed by a mobster, I crack jokes and brag about how I fought them off. If I laugh, it doesn’t hurt as much. Doesn’t sting. 

When they talk about how much of a jerk Bruce Wayne is, I bite my tongue and laugh along with them. It's hard, knowing that these people don't know what Bruce’s actually like. Then again, I still don't know what he's like. It’s hard to get to know someone when they’re never around. 

Every night after school, I come home and do my homework, then I’m allowed to goof off. I kinda of feel bad, catapulting through the halls and making a mess of the carpets, ruining all of Alfred’s hard work, so I move my antics outside. 

Ace and I finally became friends. He’s still scary, with those huge teeth and paws as big as my hands, but we have a blast exploring the grounds and chasing each other across the lawns and through the hedges. Besides, how can a dog be scary when they’re running with their tongue sticking out and their ears billowing like tiny flags?

If anyone looks at me now, as Ace and I barrel across the green, running towards the small cluster of trees that hide a small koi pond, they’d think I’m happy. They’d be touched that the small orphan boy’s finally settling down, moving on. 

But if they think that, they’ve never lost something. What they see is what I desperately want to be. The Dick Grayson I was before those lines loosened. Before they fell. The Dick Grayson I show is the person everyone falls in love with, who does all the cool things, jokes and laughs, and mocks death right in its face. 

But… Whenever I hear my last name in roll call, I hear C.C. Haly’s voice. Every night I hear their cries. Every night I wake up sweating, my throat hoarse from screaming. Sometimes Bruce comforts me, but more often than not, it's Alfred who sits beside me, wrapping my injured hands, his clipped tones soothing my frayed nerves. 

More and more, I dream about Zucco. His hands draw across his neck. His voice whispers that I'm next. His thugs shoot me with guns, laughing all the time. 

I’m probably just paranoid, but now I see people following me everywhere, waiting in dark alleys to jump out at me. They creep into the locker rooms and broom closets at school. They lurk in the darker hallways of the Manor. Am I so crazy that I think people’re waiting to attack me from my closet? Yeah, yeah, I am. 

Even now, as I run alongside Ace, my feet pounding through the grass, my arms pumping, my laugh ringing through the grounds, I feel watched. You know that feeling when your hairs stand on end like a hedgehog’s spines? The tickling on your neck? 

Yeah, it’s like that. Every day, every night. 

I slide to a stop at the cluster of trees, leaning against the smooth bark, my head resting back as I catch my breath. Ace moves into the trees to bug the Koi for a drink. Something rustles in the bushes just behind me. I jump up and away from the tree, landing in a defensive stance, my eyes searching for the threat. 

I feel so stupid as a squirrel scampers out of the bushes and into one of the trees, chattering at me. I know, I know. I’m seeing things. I’m hearing things. Threats that aren’t even there. I’m suspecting squirrels as kidnappers. But hey, if you get shot and almost drugged and pinned to the ground by a big tattooed goon, you can laugh at me. 

I jump again when I hear Alfred call from the porch. “Master Dick! Time to come in! Chop, chop!”

I look down at my phone. It’s only five. Why’s Alfred calling me early? I run up to him anyway, leaving Ace behind to terrorize the squirrel, my chest heaving and my arms stinging. “What is it, Alfred?” I gasp, following him inside the Manor. “Did I forget a point on my essay again?”

Okay, that is kind of an annoying story. You would think it would be so easy to hit all the points necessary for the essay— you know what? It’s not important. 

“No, Master Dick.” Alfred’s too fast. Honestly, you‘d think someone who walks with short, smart steps wouldn’t blaze forward, but I have to jog to keep up with him. Who is he, the Flash’s grandfather? The Blazing Butler? “Master Bruce is asking for you.”

Bruce… asking for me? Usually, I do the asking. In fact, I ask him to come to dinner every night. More than ever, though, he isn’t showing up. His place sits empty next to mine. It might as well be collecting cobwebs. Does he never eat? Alfred says he has more work to do, but then I think, what about me? What about the poor little orphan living under his roof who got shot? 

No, I’m not being selfish. Is it selfish to want to eat dinner with the person who took you in, who claims to care about you? Is it selfish to hope that maybe, just maybe, they’ll think you’re more important than their stupid business meetings for once? 

So it’s nice, but weird, having him ask for me. It’s not time to work in the garage, it’s too late to help me with my school work, and he isn’t really the kind of person who asks to chat just for the sake of it. And believe me, I should know. 

I have to swallow a small noise when Alfred leads me to him, standing, framed in the firelight, gazing into the dancing flames. He’s in something I haven’t seen him in yet, other than in pictures. A three-piece suit like Alfred’s, identical, even down to the black bowtie. His hair is done, smooth, and slicked back. Honestly, he looks like a private eye.

I smile when he turns to me, even when his steely eyes bore into mine. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t frowning. He’s just… looking. “It’s time, Dick.”

I don’t even ask. I already know what he means. And I’ve never wanted to throw a tantrum so much in my life. “Oh no, no, no, come on, Bruce!” I shove my hands into my pockets, Bruce finally smiling at my scowl. Why is it that adults always smile when you scowl or frown? Why can’t they sympathize? Weren’t they kids, too? “I don’t want to go!”

“You’re all over the news, Dick.” Bruce’s voice isn’t stern anymore. It’s amused. Well, at least one of us is having a good time. Figures. “Getting shot doesn’t help you stay out of sight and out of mind.”

Oh yeah, the revelation of the century. You know, I was actually hoping that the news people would stay away, but he’s right. Maybe I feel like I’m being followed all the time because cameras and stupid reporters who want the exclusive scoop keep stalking me. You wouldn’t believe the people that our school security has had to run off campus. 

“But why tonight?” I want to whine so bad I have to clench my hands into fists. I won’t be a baby. I won’t stoop that low. I’ll try to reason with him. “We were going to watch Inception, remember?”

“I know. But we have to go, Dick.” Bruce steps towards me, a hand coming to my shoulder. “The media knows about you. It’s time they actually met you. Besides,” Bruce winks at me, “I’m sure you will look adorable in your suit.”

Because that is exactly what every twelve-year-old boy wants to hear: that they’ll look adorable, oh boy, just put ‘He was embarrassed’ on my grave. 

“Oh, ha, ha.” I only make him snort when I stick out my tongue. I don’t want to go to some stuffy, rich people's gala where they dress in uncomfortable clothes, talk about stupid things, and eat yucky food. I don’t want to have to practice the etiquette Alfred’s forcing me to learn, which happens to be my least favorite subject by far. All I wanted was a nice, fun evening with just Bruce and me. What? Was he already planning on ditching me to go to the party? Then why’d we even bother making plans in the first place? “I’m sure all the grandmas will love it. But, Bruce, how should I even act? I mean you—”

And I mean it. If Bruce acts differently in public, does that mean I have to act differently, too? What are the rules? I’m loud and chatty and goofy, ya know, the little boy that everyone loves? So what, I’m supposed to be quiet and depressed and tug at their heartstrings with my sob story? Bruce shakes his head, his hand holding me down, keeping my worries from spiraling out of control. “Just be your normal, charming self. They’ll love you.”

“Gosh, I’m sure that’s just what I want to hear, Bruce!” I mean, he’s not wrong. But, all jokes aside— I meet Bruce’s eyes, letting him know I’m serious. “Bruce, have they caught him yet?”

Just a simple question. It could mean anything to any other person. But not to me. Not to Bruce. Ever since the whole gun-ho showdown, every time I see Bruce, which isn’t much, I ask him. Have they caught him? Has Batman and the GCPD caught Zucco yet?

“No.” Bruce’s hand drops from my shoulder, the look in his eyes says so many things at once, I can’t even tell what he thinks about it. “But don’t worry. You will be with Alfred and me the entire time. I’ve called in a few favors from the police, too, so there will be extra security.”

“It usually doesn’t help in the movies.” I point out. Yeah, so helpful. Really. Way to make yourself feel better, Grayson. I am right, though, aren’t I? Something always happens at parties. A stickup or something. You know, the part that makes all the silliness worth it?

Bruce laughs. That short but genuine laugh that I don’t hear enough. “It sure doesn’t. Good thing this isn’t the movies. Alfred,” 

“Yes, Sir?”

“Please get Dick ready.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s hand is on my shoulder now, tugging me towards my certain doom. “Come along, Master Dick.”

When I was younger, I always thought that C.C. Haly looked incredible with his red and black coat tails and white suit embroidered with gold. I always thought that the spies who kicked butt in their three-piece suits were awesome, like Alfred. But now, as I stand in front of the full-length mirror, Alfred lecturing me on how to tie my bow tie just so, I don’t look incredible or awesome. I look stupid. 

And here I was thinking that my school uniform looked ridiculous. 

I run a hand along my perfectly gelled back hair, my scrubbed face, my primed and pressed suit. I gawk at myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, my nose wrinkling. Who in their right mind sprays cologne on a kid? “It… itches.” I finally say, tugging on the suit jacket, trying to roll my shoulders, only to be rewarded by a sharp ache in my bad shoulder and my arms getting stuck. Oh ho, ho. I’m so loving this. 

Alfred helps me get my arms back in place, smoothing out the last of the wrinkles. He looks happy at least, the tiniest twitches in the corners of his mouth showing that he approves. Well, at least one of us can enjoy my misery. “Of course it itches, Master Dick. It is new.”

I don’t want to think about wearing this thing enough for it to be comfortable. I’d rather wear my bright green leotard and feather mask than this. “Do I have to wear this, Alfred?” I tug at the collar that keeps my neck straight and stiff, lifting my legs up and down. What kind of person thought about making or, even worse, putting someone in one of these things? Why not just put me in a straitjacket?

“Yes, Master Dick. You must. Now, come along. We mustn't be late for your first gala.” Alfred guides me out of my bedroom and into the front room, where Bruce is waiting, dressed to perfection, looking down at his phone until we walk up. I want to punch that small, amused smile right off his face until he says. “You look just about as comfortable as I was when I wore my first suit.”

He still manages to surprise me. Now, if only he were like this all the time and was, oh, I don’t know, actually around. What? No, I’m not angry! Well, not much, anyway. 

Instead of grumbling, I snicker, imagining a young Bruce, like the one in the Wayne Family portrait, being forced into a suit. At least I don’t suffer alone. “Yeah, I’m sure you just loved these things. Probably slept in them, too, huh?”

“Trust me,” Bruce says as we walk towards the doors together, “I would love to burn them all and go casual, but we do have a reputation to uphold.”

Something tells me that that might actually be something the media would expect him to do. Show up to an important event in a T-shirt and jeans. I laugh at the thought, but stop short when Alfred opens the door.

It’s a crisp evening, with the sun dancing golden on the clouds and the breeze tickling the leaves. Everything would seem nice and right. Except, there’s a woman on the doorstep. I feel like I’ve seen her before. Maybe it’s the auburn hair and green eyes that remind me of Babs, but she doesn’t have any freckles or the same look in her eyes. Babs is a take-charge kind of girl, at least in tense situations. This woman has that inquisitive, sniff-out-your-story kind of look. She’s pretty, though, in her white, silky dress, her hair done up in some sort of bun-thing, her earrings glistening in the sunset. Hey! She looks nice, that’s all I’m saying. 

At first, I think it’s one of the women who came with Bruce to the circus, but no. Bruce must’ve noticed my face because he holds out a hand to her, then turns to me. “Dick, meet Vicki Vale. Vicki, this is my ward, Dick Grayson.”

Vicki Vale… I’ve heard that name before. Then, it hits me. Vicki Vale, the photojournalist. The person whose name is stamped underneath almost every article of Bruce Wayne that had Raya so excited. Wait, we’re going to the gala with her? One of the media, who Bruce said to ignore? How much sense does that make?

“Dick?” Bruce nudges me. “Vicki said hello.”

My cheeks might as well’ve been fire hydrants. Or, even better, a house fire. I shove out my hand, my grin sheepish through my blush. “Sorry. Hi, Ms. Vale.”

“Not a problem, Dick. And please,” Vicki takes my hand and gives it a firm shake. Her fingers are delicate and soft. Her smile is gentle, too. So, is she nice or a gossip? I want to ask Bruce so badly, but I can’t. Not with her around, “Call me Vicki.”

“You’re coming with us, Vicki?” If I can’t ask Bruce, might as well ask her. Well, not to her face. What would I even ask? Something like ‘say, are you a nice person or out to make us look bad on the cover of your magazine?’ If there's one thing I’m learning from Bruce, Alfred, and school, it's that there’s more than one way to get someone to drop the information you want. Usually, people do it to me, like Bruce and Detective Yin. But if they can do it, I can do it too.

Or at least, that’s what I hope.

“Yes.” Vicki’s hand slips through Bruce’s offered arm, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Oh boy, this is just the worst and best thing to ever happen to me. I get to be a third wheel! “I’m going to make sure you boys don’t get into too much trouble at the party!”

Suddenly, the Bruce I started to know is gone, replaced by the Bruce I always thought he was. All charm, all wit, all big grins but cold, disinterested eyes. “What? Trouble? Now, Miss Vale, I have a young boy to look after. I can’t get into trouble anymore.”

I give a hard cough. Well, if he meant what he said, I can still act like myself. But maybe I can act more like myself. If Bruce is going to be like this, I need to be his foil. Someone has to be the funny one around here. What? You think a sappy, suave billionaire is funny? Yeah, okay, just you watch! “What he means is I have to keep him out of trouble.” Alfred’s raised eyebrows get us moving towards the limo, but I keep going. “I’m the responsible one.”

Am I? Yeah, pretty much. I mean, at least I actually eat my dinners and go to bed at a decent hour. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised about that.” Vicki nudges Bruce playfully as we sit down. Bruce tries to sit next to Vicki, but I make a huge show of sitting between them, grinning at her as Bruce scowls, then shrugs, draping an arm behind us. “You do seem like the responsible one.”

“I am!” I say, beaming. I cross my arms behind my head and let out a sigh. “I might’s well have adopted him.”

“Hey! See here, you little—”

We go on and on the entire car ride. Bruce can act, but I can play it up better. Maybe because this is how I am if I’m cut loose. When I actually say what I want to say. I can tell you the exact moment Vicki Vale melted, her small giggle at my huge grin and twinkling eyes so funny that I almost burst out laughing right then and there. But I can’t blow our cover. 

So instead, I ask questions. About Vicki, about what she does, how she and Bruce met, embarrassing him with stories about our misadventures in the garage, which really were as funny as I tell them. I don’t care how much he denies getting grease all over his new paint job. It happened, and the hose really did spray out of control. 

I tell Vicki about how awesome it is in the manor, how great Alfred is, and how much fun Bruce and I have… When he’s around. And yeah, I complain about that. If I can’t do it right to his face, I can do it like this. 

Bruce’ll make himself seem shallow, arrogant, and selfish, but I’ll show them a different version. The version that the poor little orphan boy sees. They’ll still scold him and say he's such a selfish jerk, keeping me alone with Alfred. But they’ll also see how much it means to me when he does spend time with me. And really, it’s the truth. 

I make up my mind as we pull up in front of one of the taller, newer skyscrapers with spotlights dancing across the smooth, white surface that I’m not going to be Bruce Wayne. Or, at least, not the Bruce Wayne the public sees. I’m going to be Dick Grayson. The silly, poor little orphan boy who doesn’t understand anything about this world. And maybe that's the truth, too. 

So that’s what I roll with when I step out of the limo behind Bruce and Vicki and onto the red carpet. Lights flash in my face, and people slam me with questions. While Bruce powers through, only posing to take a few photos with Vicki, I stop and answer questions. Yes, I’m Bruce Wayne’s ward. Yes, I am the son of John and Mary Grayson. Yes, I am keeping up on my trapeze work. And no, I’m not returning to the circus anytime soon. 

Only halfway to the door, and I’m already the talk of the night. The Cinderella story of the century, apparently, from rags to riches. A poor little boy who got swept up by a mysterious billionaire. They eat it up so much, in fact, that I have to run to catch up with Bruce and Vicki, who wait for me in front of the elevator. Who wants to be a reporter or a photographer for a living? Really, how can someone be that annoying or think it’s cool to shove a mike into someone’s face?

“Way to impress the press, Dick,” Bruce says as the doors slide closed and we lift upwards, heading towards the gala on the top floor, “I couldn’t have taught you better myself.”

“Please,” I grin up at him, letting my eyes dance with mischief, “I was dealing with the press long before I met you, old man.”

It’s true. I was the talk of the circus-going world since I was born. When you’re a Flying Grayson, greatness is expected. I never felt the pressure for that, though. It’s in my DNA. But this is an entirely different zoo. 

“He’s got a point, Bruce.” Vicki’s smile is sweet, her red lipstick so bright in the fluorescent light of the elevator that I can’t look at her. “This one’s already trained.”

Am I trained? Eh, maybe. I just hope that the crowd doesn’t expect me to do some crazy acrobatics, not in this suit. 

I’m not ready for what waits to pounce on me from behind the elevator doors. The gala’s held in a huge, round room, the walls, if you could call them that, are all windows looking out into the city because that’s just a spectacular view. A colossal chandelier as big as my four-poster hangs from the ceiling. I try not to think about swinging from it too much. 

The room’s decorated in a way that Raya would call ‘elegant,’ which is basically another word for boring. Navy and silver drapes, pure white table cloths with simple flower centerpieces, and the only actual cool thing in the room, a massive ice sculpture of a swan. Did I just make an ice pun? Okay, well, fire me, but it is cool. 

A band plays slow, sleepy music from the stage as I walk next to Bruce, Vicki holding on to him on the other side. I might take a nap, but who could take a nap in this ruckus? Bruce introduces me to so many people that I think I’ll spontaneously combust with names. 

Miss Starr, Mr. and Mrs. Belmont, John Wycliffe, Ms. Carson, Mr. and Mrs. Powers, Oliver Queen, and so on and so forth into eternity. A lot of these people seem to know Bruce well, and either respect him because of his company, talking about the latest from Wayne Enterprises, or think he’s a ridiculous showboat. Those people make me feel like some sort of bragging right. After all, this is the Gotham City Orphanage Gala, with a big pot in front of the stage taking donations.

Some people even ask if Bruce adopted me from there. So I chatter on about the GCHB. If I’m going to be a ‘charity case’ and a ‘poor little orphan boy,’ I might as well draw attention to the kids who actually need their sympathy, their charity. 

I don’t know about the kids in Gotham City Orphanage. All I know is that they were too full to take me. The Home was too full to take me. So I talk about that. I talk about sleeping on the floor, eating slop, messing around with the older kids, and playing with the younger ones. 

By the end of the night, you’d think that I was some sort of hero. 

“No, that’s what she said!” I’m explaining my conversation with Ms. Corvi on my first day at the Home to Mrs. Powers, trying to ignore how many bricks seem to be sitting on my eyes. Honestly, why do adults stay up this late? And how can they talk this much all the time? It’s exhausting. Smiling, waving, and shaking hands. I’d rather be doing this at the circus, you know, when I could show off and relax. “She told me she would ‘find a place for me.’”

“On the floor?” Mrs. Powers shakes her head, her white hair pinned neatly into a fancy updo, her throat laced with pearls. “My dear boy, that is positively dreadful.”

I shrug, keeping my voice as chipper as possible, swallowing back a yawn. “Well, it wasn’t so bad. Ms. Corvi was really nice, and the younger boys were so funny.” Maybe, if I can pique their interest, some of these people will go to the Home and adopt a kid of their own. Maybe I can spark a trend. 

Instead, Mrs. Powers reaches out a hand, her golden owl brooch winking at me. “Well, it was a pleasure speaking with you, young Grayson. I will make sure to drop some extra in the pot for your little friends at the Home.”

I shake her hand, smiling through the awkwardness of shaking the hand of someone with so many rings on her fingers. “I’m sure they would appreciate that a lot, Mrs. Powers.”

“Dick.” Bruce and Vicki walk up to me, arm in arm. Vicki’s smiling, but Bruce has that look on his face. The look tells other people, ‘I’m so done with all of this.’ “Time to go.”

I’m so relieved to leave the party, and even Vicki, behind that I don’t notice the eyes watching me slip into the limo. 

But I feel them, I hear his voice, and I see him… in my nightmares. And when I wake up, Bruce isn’t here.

To be Continued...