Chapter 15 - Testing
I looked straight at Bruce and he looked at me.
"School is boring," I finally said. "I don't understand why I have to go all the time. I want to fight crime, like you do. I don't understand why I have to learn how to write essays and book reports. What good is history and social studies? How is geometry going to help decide which weapon to use?"
He said nothing.
"What?" I challenged. "You aren't going to tell me that I need to write because I might have to disguise myself and send warning notes to the police that they can't track back to me? That I'm going to need history so I can figure out backgrounds of places and what's been going on? That I need math to calculate better fighting skills and ways to get somewhere faster?"
He smiled. "You took the words right out of my mouth."
I scowled and feigned another kick at his leg, but I didn't land it. "I hate you."
"I seriously doubt that," he laughed. "You mean to tell me that you haven't been trying in school because you don't think it relates to fighting crime directly?"
"It's boring and all the teachers are morons and I get tired of sitting and listening to them drone on and on. You don't drone when you teach me something. You expect me to get it the first time. If I don't, I get in trouble."
The smile disappeared from Bruce's face. "I'm not that strict. I know you have a learning curve. I just thought maybe you were slacking because I was letting up on you too much."
"When have you ever let up on me?" I gave him an incredulous look. "It's always 'Dick, make better grades.' 'Dick, stop playing around.' 'Dick, if you don't shape up, it's going to be trouble.'"
He eyed me for a moment, and I couldn't tell if he was amused by my mocking his deep voice or seriously ticked off.
Then he stood and grabbed my arm. "Come with me."
"What about the book?" I asked as we went out into the hall. "I wasn't done."
He said nothing, and I felt worried.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kick you. I didn't mean to be disrespectful."
"We're way past disrespect now," he replied, but his voice was blank.
I was still slightly sore from getting spanked so much last night that I pulled back a little, but Bruce was so strong that he pulled me forward without even realizing it. We went down to the Batcave, and he pushed me down in one of the chairs in front of the computer screens.
"Computer on," Bruce commanded.
"Good morning," the computer's female voice said. "Load map of Gotham?"
"No, I want you to create a program to test the aptitude of a seventh grader," Bruce replied. "Start with the easiest questions and gradually get harder until it reaches college level."
"Bruce –" I tried to interject.
He ignored me. "Include the following subjects – English, math, history, science, and European languages. Arrange the questions in oscillating ascension."
"Confirmed." The computer began flashing screens so fast that I couldn't make out a single one. "Minutes to completion – 3 minutes and 12 seconds."
"I don't want to take a test," I grumbled as I slumped down in the chair.
"Believe me it's better than what I had planned for you," Bruce opened a side drawer and began rummaging through it.
"I was going to read the Nutcracker book. That wasn't so bad."
"Yeah, but at the end of the day, I was planning to make you wash the drive in front of the manor."
"That's not so bad either."
"With a toothbrush and a cup of water."
"Are you sure you're not a villain?"
He chuckled and pulled a pen, notepad, and ruler from the drawer. He set them all down in front of me.
"Four hours," he said. "You start the program and you answer the questions. You can use the pen and pad for scratch paper. The questions will get progressively harder. For each question you answer wrong, the computer will repeat the same level of question, but a different one. For every one you get wrong, you get a swat with the ruler."
My mouth fell open. "But – but that's not fair. That's cruel and evil."
"Unfortunately for you, I've noticed that you only try your hardest when there is some kind of peril to your person or to me. So rather than have you goof off in here all day, I'll make sure you try your hardest."
My eyes stung and I wanted to start crying, but then something rose inside me, something that would not let me break. Bruce would not win, not this time. He could torture me all he liked, and I would take it because I was just as strong a superhero as he was. I could take a few swats with a ruler – I could take a hundred, two hundred!
"Bring it on," I said, my voice steady and my eyes hard.
He almost smiled.
"Ready to begin," the computer said.
Bruce leaned over the keyboard and pushed a key. A question flashed on the screen: In the sentence, Often seen as tyrant, Caesar promoted his own ideology about Rome over the established hierarchical rule, what grammatical function does Rome play?
Underneath there were four choices: a. Subject, b. Intransitive verb, c. Preposition, d. Object of the Preposition.
I hesitated, my stomach tight with the fear I would get my first question wrong. I read each of the answers again.
"If you take longer than a minute to answer a question, it will be counted wrong."
"Son of a bitch," I hit the d. answer.
He laughed and affectionately tousled my hair. "I should soap out your mouth again, but you got that one right so I'll let it slide for now."
Another question had come up, and I protested, "It doesn't even tell me if I get it wrong?"
"Nope. You won't find out until the end."
"Can I call you a bastard?"
He laughed – he was always in a good mood when he made me completely miserable – and clapped his hands down on my shoulder firmly. "Get to work. I'll come over and check on your progress in a little while. I'm going to put some more features on your motorcycle."
I felt torn between smiling at him and throwing the pen and paper at him as he walked away. Bruce is uniquely Bruce – no one can argue that he doesn't do things his own crazy way.
I went to the next question: 4x – 7x + 24 = 0. Solve for x.
I reached for the pen and paper just to make sure I got the math right.
B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R
I did okay for the first hour, but the second hour the questions got harder and I got tired. Bruce paused the program after two hours and gave me some kind of disgusting healthy drink to help boost my energy. I made a face, but I gulped it down and returned to the questions.
The third hour went a little better though the questions were definitely high school level. I got all the language questions correct; by the third hour they were all complete sentences in different languages rather than single words to be translated. I must have been answering other subjects right a little at least because the math ones began to have symbols I didn't recognize and the English ones had moved to literature questions on books I hadn't read yet. I kept answering the best I could, forcing myself to concentrate.
Hour four was the marathon push. I was sleepy from my late night and I had to pinch my arm over and over again to keep myself from dozing off. Even the fear of the ruler didn't have enough power to wake me up fully. Yawning, I kept answering questions, but I felt I was getting most of them wrong.
It hurt to think as I stared at the time, 3:54, and I wished I were smarter. Barbara would still be awake, I felt certain, though I didn't like the idea of her being in my shoes and getting threatened with the ruler. I wondered if Barbara ever got punished. It wasn't fair, somehow, somewhere, something about not being fair . . .
"Dick," something shook my shoulder.
"What?" I sat up, blinking stupidly. "What's going on?
"The test is over," Bruce said quietly. "I want you to come lay down on the sofa for a while. I'm going to keep working on the bike."
I nodded and I let him help me out of the chair. I stumbled across the top level of the cave to the sofa. Bruce had built a nook of three walls to keep the damp and the bats out, and the sofa was just as comfortable as the ones in the manor. I collapsed on it and he covered me up with a quilt and turned the floor heater on.
I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to, that I could take the cold and whatever else he dished out, but I just closed my eyes and let myself drift back into exhausted sleep.
When I woke up later, he was still working on the bike. I turned off the heater and went over to watch him work.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he grinned at me. "Finally woke up? I put smoke deflectors on the back of the bike. You flip this switch," he touched a small black switch underneath the right grip, "and smoke shoots out of the back, enough to cover you for a mile at 35mph. And these buttons here will shoot lines out from the back wheels so you could go around a streetlamp and use the centripetal force to swing you back in the opposite direction, 180 degrees without stopping. And the front wheels have grenade launchers. But you are not allowed to tell Alfred about any of these improvements, ever."
I opened my mouth to ask why even put them on if we had to hide them from Alfred, but I decided against it. One more weird thing about Bruce – he'd skin me alive if I tried to deceive Alfred, but then he sneaks around and does all sorts of things Alfred would never allow. Adults make no sense.
"Not too bad for an afternoon of work," Bruce stepped back to admire his handy work, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. "I got a few more things to tinker with. But I still think it's ready to take out on the road tonight, provided you practice a few times early this evening."
My mouth dropped open as I stared up at him. "But . . . the test . . .?"
"Oh, I got it right here," Bruce grabbed a few pieces of paper. "You answered 367 questions. Good, solid pace."
I braced myself for the results.
"You got 276 questions right, 91 wrong."
I felt sick. How could I take 91 swats at once? No way I could do that, no way at all.
"The tests say that given your responses, you should be doing early high school work."
He turned to me with an odd sort of delight on his face, but I could only think of 91 swats.
"Should I go get it? The ruler?" I swallowed hard.
"No, Dick, you're not getting it. High school! You're smart. The program said that you don't apply yourself enough, but that you're really smart."
"Yeah, but you said – "
"The ruler? Oh, forget that. That was just to make you concentrate. You did it, you won the program."
I should have felt relieved, but I felt only anger. "You asshole!" I snarled at him, trying to punch him in the face.
Bruce grabbed me, swung me around, and caught my head under one huge arm. He roughly tousled my hair, laughing. "You've got to stop swearing, or I'll make you eat a bar of soap. But I'm just so happy. You don't know how happy this makes me."
He released me, and I dealt him my best death stare. "So you wouldn't be happy if I turned out to be stupid?"
"Oh, I'd like you either way, but you being smart makes it much easier," he grinned a mouthful of white teeth. "First thing Monday morning, we're going down to your school and I'm getting them to run a battery of tests on you. I want you in high school by the end of the week."
"No, I'm not leaving middle school," I crossed my arms. "You can't make me."
The delighted expression turned stern. "You get anything less on the tests at school, and I'll make those 91 swats a reality."
"But I can't leave. I don't want to leave all my friends."
"You don't have any friends."
I flinched, and immediately Bruce protested,
"No, no, I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that you're always complaining about school. You keep saying the kids are immature and dumb and teasing you –"
"And high school kids are better?"
Bruce hesitated. "Well, no, but Dick, you have to be at the place where they will challenge you. Otherwise, it's bad grades all over the place. A little incentive, and you show your true potential." He held up the papers, the concrete proof that I could do better.
"But I don't want to say goodbye to Barbara," I hemmed.
Bruce considered this as well. "How about a compromise? You take the tests, and we put you in the advanced eighth grade classes. You stay in the same school with the same people, but you take harder classes. Sound fair?"
"We don't even know if they'll let me move . . ."
"They will, trust me," Bruce nodded.
He was right. No one said no to Batman, and most people didn't have the nerve to say no to Bruce Wayne either.
"Fine," I sighed.
"Good. Now get the Nutcracker book and bring it down here. Read to me while I add another coat of sealant to the bike. I want this bike to withstand a semi truck T-boning it without getting scratched."
"Something else to not tell Alfred," I muttered as I headed for the lift.
I sat to the side of the cave for an hour, reading the Russian in the book and then translating it for Bruce, occasionally pointing out where the English translation underneath didn't quite match the Russian above. Each time that I noted a mistake, Bruce wore this goofily happy look. I would have found his approval annoying except that it was great to have him so ecstatic over something I was doing.
"I don't like the story," I finally reached the end of the book and closed it. "Stories that end up being a dream are always a let down. You think it's all exciting and fun only to discover that it's all in someone's head. Why couldn't the story end with Clara staying in the magic land? Why does she have to go back to her boring home where the prince is a wooden doll?"
"Maybe because her family would miss her?" Bruce straightened and set his wrench on the wood table.
"What family? An annoying brother who breaks her toys, dumb parents who let it happen, and a creepy godfather who seems a little too interested in the young girls at the party."
"All right, put the weird book down," Bruce was still smiling. He slapped the seat of the motorcycle. "Time to start riding."
I nearly flung the book off the balcony and down to the second level in my dash to get to the bike.
B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R
Alfred stood at the doorway of the manor, shaking his head as Bruce got me situated on the bike. I had to wear a helmet, but due to Alfred's dour looks, Bruce had put me in a bulky sweatshirt and strapped elbow- and kneepads on as well. Rather than feeling cool and badass, I felt like a five-year-old learning to ride a bike without training wheels.
Bruce took far too long to adjust the grips, the pedals, the seat, and the mirrors. He seemed to take extra precautions because Alfred was watching, but I just wanted to ride.
"Please, Bruce, can't I go? The driveway's flat and round. Let me do a loop, then you can fix stuff."
"Almost done," Bruce promised. He tightened one more bolt and then slipped the tool in his pocket. "Turn the gas to On and step down on the clutch hard to start it."
I stepped down hard, and the engine sprung to life, the motorcycle rumbling underneath me. I grinned like I was high on the Joker's toxin.
"Now slowly turn the handle to go faster," Bruce instructed. "You'll be in second gear and then step on the gas pedal easily."
I did so, and the motorcycle pulled away from the front stairs.
"Make a slow loop around the driveway."
I meant to obey Bruce, I really did. But as I drove the motorcycle, I felt something come alive in me, a need for power and speed and everything cool a motorcycle had to offer. Halfway around the drive, I turned the gear up to fourth and hit the gas. I was flying – nothing could stop me – I was invincible!
I let a wild yell like I was Tarzan as the wind whipped at my face around the helmet. Bruce and Alfred had disappeared, but I kept going and going and –
The stone wall came up all of a sudden, and I tried to turn, but I skidded off the driveway. The bike yanked away from me, and I tumbled to a halt in the soft dirt of the flowerbeds. I lay there for a second before Bruce picked me up.
"Is anything broken?" Alfred looked frantic as he ran up.
"Nah, he's fine, "Bruce set me on my feet though I swayed slightly.
"Look at my wisteria beds! He practically broke those two right in half because he wasn't listening to instruction. That blasted bike will be the end of it, I promise you. No good will come of it –"
Bruce sighed at Alfred's tirade, and he turned me to the side and swatted me hard across the seat of my jeans. He walloped me two more times, enough to make me holler, and then pointed to the bike. "Get the bike and take it back to the front stairs. We'll try this again, and any more goofing around will lead to serious trouble."
I did as he asked, trying to ignore the slight sting. I had been reckless, and I made sure I looked repentant and chastised under Alfred's grim eyes as I brought the bike. I stood it up on the kickstand and started brushing dirt off it.
"Sorry about your bushes," I said in a low voice. "I didn't mean to ruin anything."
"Of course, I'm more worried about you than the plants," Alfred insisted. He couldn't resist fussing over me, brushing off the dirt on my clothes and adjusting the protective wear while Bruce checked over the bike. "You must be careful, young sir. I will not have you putting yourself into unnecessary danger. There's already someone here who does enough of that."
He glared at Bruce, but Bruce had wisely taken that moment to duck down to align the wheels on the bike.
"Good as new," Bruce came back up once Alfred had stopped fussing over me. "Now, are you ready to try again without running into walls?"
I nodded and swung back over the bike. Bruce started the bike again, but Alfred stayed near as the bike roared to life again.
"If I get good at this," I asked, quite casually, "can I ride it on a tightrope?"
"It will be the last thing you do," Alfred burst out.
"No talking," Bruce put the bike into gear. "Just drive in slow circles. Get a feel for the machine. Feel it move, Dick, take it slow."
I edged away from them, this time paying close attention to my bike, the machine that would give Robin wings.
"School is boring," I finally said. "I don't understand why I have to go all the time. I want to fight crime, like you do. I don't understand why I have to learn how to write essays and book reports. What good is history and social studies? How is geometry going to help decide which weapon to use?"
He said nothing.
"What?" I challenged. "You aren't going to tell me that I need to write because I might have to disguise myself and send warning notes to the police that they can't track back to me? That I'm going to need history so I can figure out backgrounds of places and what's been going on? That I need math to calculate better fighting skills and ways to get somewhere faster?"
He smiled. "You took the words right out of my mouth."
I scowled and feigned another kick at his leg, but I didn't land it. "I hate you."
"I seriously doubt that," he laughed. "You mean to tell me that you haven't been trying in school because you don't think it relates to fighting crime directly?"
"It's boring and all the teachers are morons and I get tired of sitting and listening to them drone on and on. You don't drone when you teach me something. You expect me to get it the first time. If I don't, I get in trouble."
The smile disappeared from Bruce's face. "I'm not that strict. I know you have a learning curve. I just thought maybe you were slacking because I was letting up on you too much."
"When have you ever let up on me?" I gave him an incredulous look. "It's always 'Dick, make better grades.' 'Dick, stop playing around.' 'Dick, if you don't shape up, it's going to be trouble.'"
He eyed me for a moment, and I couldn't tell if he was amused by my mocking his deep voice or seriously ticked off.
Then he stood and grabbed my arm. "Come with me."
"What about the book?" I asked as we went out into the hall. "I wasn't done."
He said nothing, and I felt worried.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kick you. I didn't mean to be disrespectful."
"We're way past disrespect now," he replied, but his voice was blank.
I was still slightly sore from getting spanked so much last night that I pulled back a little, but Bruce was so strong that he pulled me forward without even realizing it. We went down to the Batcave, and he pushed me down in one of the chairs in front of the computer screens.
"Computer on," Bruce commanded.
"Good morning," the computer's female voice said. "Load map of Gotham?"
"No, I want you to create a program to test the aptitude of a seventh grader," Bruce replied. "Start with the easiest questions and gradually get harder until it reaches college level."
"Bruce –" I tried to interject.
He ignored me. "Include the following subjects – English, math, history, science, and European languages. Arrange the questions in oscillating ascension."
"Confirmed." The computer began flashing screens so fast that I couldn't make out a single one. "Minutes to completion – 3 minutes and 12 seconds."
"I don't want to take a test," I grumbled as I slumped down in the chair.
"Believe me it's better than what I had planned for you," Bruce opened a side drawer and began rummaging through it.
"I was going to read the Nutcracker book. That wasn't so bad."
"Yeah, but at the end of the day, I was planning to make you wash the drive in front of the manor."
"That's not so bad either."
"With a toothbrush and a cup of water."
"Are you sure you're not a villain?"
He chuckled and pulled a pen, notepad, and ruler from the drawer. He set them all down in front of me.
"Four hours," he said. "You start the program and you answer the questions. You can use the pen and pad for scratch paper. The questions will get progressively harder. For each question you answer wrong, the computer will repeat the same level of question, but a different one. For every one you get wrong, you get a swat with the ruler."
My mouth fell open. "But – but that's not fair. That's cruel and evil."
"Unfortunately for you, I've noticed that you only try your hardest when there is some kind of peril to your person or to me. So rather than have you goof off in here all day, I'll make sure you try your hardest."
My eyes stung and I wanted to start crying, but then something rose inside me, something that would not let me break. Bruce would not win, not this time. He could torture me all he liked, and I would take it because I was just as strong a superhero as he was. I could take a few swats with a ruler – I could take a hundred, two hundred!
"Bring it on," I said, my voice steady and my eyes hard.
He almost smiled.
"Ready to begin," the computer said.
Bruce leaned over the keyboard and pushed a key. A question flashed on the screen: In the sentence, Often seen as tyrant, Caesar promoted his own ideology about Rome over the established hierarchical rule, what grammatical function does Rome play?
Underneath there were four choices: a. Subject, b. Intransitive verb, c. Preposition, d. Object of the Preposition.
I hesitated, my stomach tight with the fear I would get my first question wrong. I read each of the answers again.
"If you take longer than a minute to answer a question, it will be counted wrong."
"Son of a bitch," I hit the d. answer.
He laughed and affectionately tousled my hair. "I should soap out your mouth again, but you got that one right so I'll let it slide for now."
Another question had come up, and I protested, "It doesn't even tell me if I get it wrong?"
"Nope. You won't find out until the end."
"Can I call you a bastard?"
He laughed – he was always in a good mood when he made me completely miserable – and clapped his hands down on my shoulder firmly. "Get to work. I'll come over and check on your progress in a little while. I'm going to put some more features on your motorcycle."
I felt torn between smiling at him and throwing the pen and paper at him as he walked away. Bruce is uniquely Bruce – no one can argue that he doesn't do things his own crazy way.
I went to the next question: 4x – 7x + 24 = 0. Solve for x.
I reached for the pen and paper just to make sure I got the math right.
B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R
I did okay for the first hour, but the second hour the questions got harder and I got tired. Bruce paused the program after two hours and gave me some kind of disgusting healthy drink to help boost my energy. I made a face, but I gulped it down and returned to the questions.
The third hour went a little better though the questions were definitely high school level. I got all the language questions correct; by the third hour they were all complete sentences in different languages rather than single words to be translated. I must have been answering other subjects right a little at least because the math ones began to have symbols I didn't recognize and the English ones had moved to literature questions on books I hadn't read yet. I kept answering the best I could, forcing myself to concentrate.
Hour four was the marathon push. I was sleepy from my late night and I had to pinch my arm over and over again to keep myself from dozing off. Even the fear of the ruler didn't have enough power to wake me up fully. Yawning, I kept answering questions, but I felt I was getting most of them wrong.
It hurt to think as I stared at the time, 3:54, and I wished I were smarter. Barbara would still be awake, I felt certain, though I didn't like the idea of her being in my shoes and getting threatened with the ruler. I wondered if Barbara ever got punished. It wasn't fair, somehow, somewhere, something about not being fair . . .
"Dick," something shook my shoulder.
"What?" I sat up, blinking stupidly. "What's going on?
"The test is over," Bruce said quietly. "I want you to come lay down on the sofa for a while. I'm going to keep working on the bike."
I nodded and I let him help me out of the chair. I stumbled across the top level of the cave to the sofa. Bruce had built a nook of three walls to keep the damp and the bats out, and the sofa was just as comfortable as the ones in the manor. I collapsed on it and he covered me up with a quilt and turned the floor heater on.
I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to, that I could take the cold and whatever else he dished out, but I just closed my eyes and let myself drift back into exhausted sleep.
When I woke up later, he was still working on the bike. I turned off the heater and went over to watch him work.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he grinned at me. "Finally woke up? I put smoke deflectors on the back of the bike. You flip this switch," he touched a small black switch underneath the right grip, "and smoke shoots out of the back, enough to cover you for a mile at 35mph. And these buttons here will shoot lines out from the back wheels so you could go around a streetlamp and use the centripetal force to swing you back in the opposite direction, 180 degrees without stopping. And the front wheels have grenade launchers. But you are not allowed to tell Alfred about any of these improvements, ever."
I opened my mouth to ask why even put them on if we had to hide them from Alfred, but I decided against it. One more weird thing about Bruce – he'd skin me alive if I tried to deceive Alfred, but then he sneaks around and does all sorts of things Alfred would never allow. Adults make no sense.
"Not too bad for an afternoon of work," Bruce stepped back to admire his handy work, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. "I got a few more things to tinker with. But I still think it's ready to take out on the road tonight, provided you practice a few times early this evening."
My mouth dropped open as I stared up at him. "But . . . the test . . .?"
"Oh, I got it right here," Bruce grabbed a few pieces of paper. "You answered 367 questions. Good, solid pace."
I braced myself for the results.
"You got 276 questions right, 91 wrong."
I felt sick. How could I take 91 swats at once? No way I could do that, no way at all.
"The tests say that given your responses, you should be doing early high school work."
He turned to me with an odd sort of delight on his face, but I could only think of 91 swats.
"Should I go get it? The ruler?" I swallowed hard.
"No, Dick, you're not getting it. High school! You're smart. The program said that you don't apply yourself enough, but that you're really smart."
"Yeah, but you said – "
"The ruler? Oh, forget that. That was just to make you concentrate. You did it, you won the program."
I should have felt relieved, but I felt only anger. "You asshole!" I snarled at him, trying to punch him in the face.
Bruce grabbed me, swung me around, and caught my head under one huge arm. He roughly tousled my hair, laughing. "You've got to stop swearing, or I'll make you eat a bar of soap. But I'm just so happy. You don't know how happy this makes me."
He released me, and I dealt him my best death stare. "So you wouldn't be happy if I turned out to be stupid?"
"Oh, I'd like you either way, but you being smart makes it much easier," he grinned a mouthful of white teeth. "First thing Monday morning, we're going down to your school and I'm getting them to run a battery of tests on you. I want you in high school by the end of the week."
"No, I'm not leaving middle school," I crossed my arms. "You can't make me."
The delighted expression turned stern. "You get anything less on the tests at school, and I'll make those 91 swats a reality."
"But I can't leave. I don't want to leave all my friends."
"You don't have any friends."
I flinched, and immediately Bruce protested,
"No, no, I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that you're always complaining about school. You keep saying the kids are immature and dumb and teasing you –"
"And high school kids are better?"
Bruce hesitated. "Well, no, but Dick, you have to be at the place where they will challenge you. Otherwise, it's bad grades all over the place. A little incentive, and you show your true potential." He held up the papers, the concrete proof that I could do better.
"But I don't want to say goodbye to Barbara," I hemmed.
Bruce considered this as well. "How about a compromise? You take the tests, and we put you in the advanced eighth grade classes. You stay in the same school with the same people, but you take harder classes. Sound fair?"
"We don't even know if they'll let me move . . ."
"They will, trust me," Bruce nodded.
He was right. No one said no to Batman, and most people didn't have the nerve to say no to Bruce Wayne either.
"Fine," I sighed.
"Good. Now get the Nutcracker book and bring it down here. Read to me while I add another coat of sealant to the bike. I want this bike to withstand a semi truck T-boning it without getting scratched."
"Something else to not tell Alfred," I muttered as I headed for the lift.
I sat to the side of the cave for an hour, reading the Russian in the book and then translating it for Bruce, occasionally pointing out where the English translation underneath didn't quite match the Russian above. Each time that I noted a mistake, Bruce wore this goofily happy look. I would have found his approval annoying except that it was great to have him so ecstatic over something I was doing.
"I don't like the story," I finally reached the end of the book and closed it. "Stories that end up being a dream are always a let down. You think it's all exciting and fun only to discover that it's all in someone's head. Why couldn't the story end with Clara staying in the magic land? Why does she have to go back to her boring home where the prince is a wooden doll?"
"Maybe because her family would miss her?" Bruce straightened and set his wrench on the wood table.
"What family? An annoying brother who breaks her toys, dumb parents who let it happen, and a creepy godfather who seems a little too interested in the young girls at the party."
"All right, put the weird book down," Bruce was still smiling. He slapped the seat of the motorcycle. "Time to start riding."
I nearly flung the book off the balcony and down to the second level in my dash to get to the bike.
B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R&B&R
Alfred stood at the doorway of the manor, shaking his head as Bruce got me situated on the bike. I had to wear a helmet, but due to Alfred's dour looks, Bruce had put me in a bulky sweatshirt and strapped elbow- and kneepads on as well. Rather than feeling cool and badass, I felt like a five-year-old learning to ride a bike without training wheels.
Bruce took far too long to adjust the grips, the pedals, the seat, and the mirrors. He seemed to take extra precautions because Alfred was watching, but I just wanted to ride.
"Please, Bruce, can't I go? The driveway's flat and round. Let me do a loop, then you can fix stuff."
"Almost done," Bruce promised. He tightened one more bolt and then slipped the tool in his pocket. "Turn the gas to On and step down on the clutch hard to start it."
I stepped down hard, and the engine sprung to life, the motorcycle rumbling underneath me. I grinned like I was high on the Joker's toxin.
"Now slowly turn the handle to go faster," Bruce instructed. "You'll be in second gear and then step on the gas pedal easily."
I did so, and the motorcycle pulled away from the front stairs.
"Make a slow loop around the driveway."
I meant to obey Bruce, I really did. But as I drove the motorcycle, I felt something come alive in me, a need for power and speed and everything cool a motorcycle had to offer. Halfway around the drive, I turned the gear up to fourth and hit the gas. I was flying – nothing could stop me – I was invincible!
I let a wild yell like I was Tarzan as the wind whipped at my face around the helmet. Bruce and Alfred had disappeared, but I kept going and going and –
The stone wall came up all of a sudden, and I tried to turn, but I skidded off the driveway. The bike yanked away from me, and I tumbled to a halt in the soft dirt of the flowerbeds. I lay there for a second before Bruce picked me up.
"Is anything broken?" Alfred looked frantic as he ran up.
"Nah, he's fine, "Bruce set me on my feet though I swayed slightly.
"Look at my wisteria beds! He practically broke those two right in half because he wasn't listening to instruction. That blasted bike will be the end of it, I promise you. No good will come of it –"
Bruce sighed at Alfred's tirade, and he turned me to the side and swatted me hard across the seat of my jeans. He walloped me two more times, enough to make me holler, and then pointed to the bike. "Get the bike and take it back to the front stairs. We'll try this again, and any more goofing around will lead to serious trouble."
I did as he asked, trying to ignore the slight sting. I had been reckless, and I made sure I looked repentant and chastised under Alfred's grim eyes as I brought the bike. I stood it up on the kickstand and started brushing dirt off it.
"Sorry about your bushes," I said in a low voice. "I didn't mean to ruin anything."
"Of course, I'm more worried about you than the plants," Alfred insisted. He couldn't resist fussing over me, brushing off the dirt on my clothes and adjusting the protective wear while Bruce checked over the bike. "You must be careful, young sir. I will not have you putting yourself into unnecessary danger. There's already someone here who does enough of that."
He glared at Bruce, but Bruce had wisely taken that moment to duck down to align the wheels on the bike.
"Good as new," Bruce came back up once Alfred had stopped fussing over me. "Now, are you ready to try again without running into walls?"
I nodded and swung back over the bike. Bruce started the bike again, but Alfred stayed near as the bike roared to life again.
"If I get good at this," I asked, quite casually, "can I ride it on a tightrope?"
"It will be the last thing you do," Alfred burst out.
"No talking," Bruce put the bike into gear. "Just drive in slow circles. Get a feel for the machine. Feel it move, Dick, take it slow."
I edged away from them, this time paying close attention to my bike, the machine that would give Robin wings.