Chapter 3 - Upset
My bad week started the next morning. I woke up on time, but I don't really consider myself a morning person. It takes me a while to wake up, and it's not 'til early afternoon that I'm at the top of my games. You'd think Bruce would admire that, seeing as how he does all his Batman stuff late at night, but apparently he thinks I should be alert at all times.
So the next morning I dragged around a little bit and was only late to breakfast by, like, two seconds, but he started right in on me.
"Dick, why are you always so slow in the morning?" Bruce grumbled as he drank his coffee. "You know we eat at every morning at seven so you can get to school by eight,"
"Why?' I grumbled as I sat down.
"So you can have a healthy breakfast."
"Why? Other kids get to have Pop Tarts in the car. Why do I have to come down early?"
Alfred set my plate of eggs, toast, and fruit down in front of me along with a glass of milk.
"Hurry up and eat," Bruce told me. "I'm driving you today and I don't want to be late for my meeting."
"You're the boss," I said, poking my fork into my eggs. "Let the meeting be late or just don't go."
Bruce took a breath, the sort of deep, bracing breath he usually takes right before he ploughs into a long lecture.
"There isn't much traffic," Alfred said quickly. "You be able to get right into town. I'll get Master Dick's school things together, and you'll be ready to go in no time."
"No, he's supposed to take care of his own stuff," Bruce told Alfred. "He's in charge of organizing his schoolbooks, making his bed, and picking up his room before he leaves each morning."
I had not done any of those things, but before I could say so, Alfred was heading for the door. "No problem, sir, but this once . . . since we're running late . . ."
Bruce turned to me, but I was stuffing food into my mouth. Bruce pointed his finger at me, a way of saying Get it together! and started drinking coffee again.
Usually, I like Alfred's food. Bruce may be Batman, but I think Alfred could be anything else he wanted to be. Alfred can cook and clean, but he also can run all the computers and machines down in the Cave and he can take out bad guys, and he knows doctor stuff for when Bruce gets hurt. I think Alfred once had to take care of Bruce when Bane broke a bunch of his bones, but Bruce won't talk about it. I mentioned it once to Alfred, and he got a real scared look in his eye and said that he helped set Bruce's bones and all's well that ends well and we didn't need to talk about it. I wonder what really happened then.
But back to the food – yeah, Alfred's food tastes really good, but that morning I really wanted a Pop Tart. Well, I really wanted four Pop Tarts, the cherry kind with the icing on top. Bruce says they're too much sugar, that I might as well eat cookies for breakfast. I wouldn't mind eating those either, but Bruce has this thing about me having too much sugar.
"It doesn't have that much sugar," I blurted out.
"Huh?" Bruce lowered the paper he was reading to look at me. "The fruit?"
"No, other food," I said evasively. "Sugar doesn't bother me."
"Other people would tend to disagree," Bruce remarked. "Oh, but that reminds me. You need a dentist visit soon."
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. I've seen a few horror movies. Usually late at night when I slipped downstairs or in the afternoon before Alfred caught me and turned off the TV. But all the awful things that happen in those movies – arms and legs getting cut off, blood everywhere, hooks gauging out people's eyes – none of that is as scary as going to the dentist's office in real life. I'll take the Joker's acid over the dentist's pick any day of week.
"When ?" I tried not to whimper.
Bruce looked me, and I could tell he was deliberating on what to say. "Why don't we get it over with? You want to see if I can get us in today/"
"You, too?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Yeah, might as well," Bruce nodded. "Want to make sure I'm up-to-date, too." He smiled at me, showing his straight, white teeth. "Besides, I want to see if you're going to need braces soon."
Why didn't Bruce just punch me in the face and get it over with? Why did he prefer to torture me long and slow? Of course, going to the dentist with him was better than going by myself. Maybe I would get to see him laying back in the chair with all that gritty stuff in his mouth and trying to talk around the metal scraper to tell the dentist that he was about to gag.
"I'll call the office and see if we can get in early this afternoon, right after school," Bruce said. "I think Dr. Klortz said he wanted to fill one your back teeth."
Scary dentist turning into horrific nightmare. Filling meant shots . . . in my mouth. Why did Bruce have to remind me? I would be thinking about it all day at school.
"All right," Alfred walked back in the kitchen, holding my black backpack, "got it. Your books are inside, along with a note explaining why you don't have yesterday's homework. Your lunch is packed, and your coat is hanging on the doorknob."
"I don't need a coat," I objected. "It's not cold."
"It's October," Bruce said flatly. "You're wearing a coat."
"None of the other kids do."
"It's forty-eight degrees out there," Bruce told me. "You're wearing a coat."
"I don't like my coat," I complained. "It's dumb."
"Coats can't be dumb," Bruce replied. "And we just bought it a month ago."
"I didn't like it then," I grumbled. "I told you I didn't want it, but no one listens to me."
Bruce flung his paper down on the table. "What don't you like about it?"
"It's all blue and happy and dumb," I insisted. "It looks like something a little kid would wear, and it buttons up instead of zips, and I don't like it."
Bruce looked at Alfred, but Alfred had already turned back to the huge stove and was rattling pans around, pretending not to pay attention.
"You're wearing it," Bruce told me.
"I'll take it off during recess," I retorted.
"Oh, look at the time," Alfred turned from the stove before Bruce could start yelling. "Why don't I take Master Dick to school?"
"Forget it," Bruce snapped. "I'm taking him in the blue coat right now."
The drive into Gotham was quiet. Bruce stared out the window resolutely, gripping the wheel and breathing tightly. I sat in my stupid blue jacket, holding my backpack and wondering what would happen if I threw my jacket in a garbage can and walked away.
I don't even know why I felt so out of sorts. I just felt grouchy and mad and upset. But I knew if I complained at school I would get that wide-eyed disbelief look from my friends. They never say anything, but I can tell from their expressions that they don't understand why the ward of Gotham's richest man should complain about anything. Just once I would like to stand up and shout "Money doesn't solve everything!"
But maybe to people living in trailers or with dads and moms having poor jobs, money would solve a lot of their problems. But I feel like I can't complain because then they give each other the "Oh, look, the rich boy is whining" look.
"Plan to go to the dentist after school," Bruce broke the silence. "I'll stop and get you a toothbrush so you can brush before we go."
I swear, sometimes he liked torturing me. That might be a mean thing to say, but he gets this look in his eyes that tells me he enjoys my suffering. Of course, I see that expression usually after I've been bad and have to go through whatever consequences I've earned. But once again, he should feel sorry for me, not enjoy that I'm paying for whatever I did. He should feel bad I'm suffering, not like that I got what was coming to me.
"Fine," I muttered.
"Honestly, Dick, what's wrong with you this morning?" Bruce demanded as he switched lanes. "You're all sulky over nothing."
"I'm tired," I shifted restlessly.
"You went to bed by nine last night," Bruce pointed out.
"Then I'm too wide awake," I retorted.
"Is this about yesterday?"
"No," I snarled, hugging my backpack to my chest.
"You can't be upset about that," Bruce declared.
"Yes, I can," I burst out. "You spanked me and washed my mouth out with soap."
"You disobeyed me and swore."
"I don't care. I'm thirteen! That's too old to get spanked. Nobody else my age gets punished that way. I'm not a kid."
"Then stop acting like it," Bruce told me.
"I'm telling the school you hit me," I cried out. It was a low blow, and I felt bad the moment I said it.
Bruce's hand tightened around the steering wheel. "Richard Grayson," he said in his fiercest Batman voice, "that is enough. If I hear one more word out of you, I'm taking you home, paddling you, and standing you in the corner for the rest of the day."
"I can't miss school," I objected.
"I'll tell them you're sick. I'll say that you –"
A beeping noise sounded out suddenly. Bruce pushed up the sleeve of his left arm and glanced at the intricate wristwatch that was beeping. He pushed a button on the watch, silencing it, before turning on the radio.
"I repeat," a woman's monotone voice said, "the Joker has escaped from Arkham Asylum an hour ago. The Joker made his escape using a toxin, bred from the asylum's prescribed drugs and used it to knock out the guards. Citizens of Gotham are encouraged to call the police if they see a man with pale skin, dark hair, and an enlarged smile on the streets. Do not attempt to approach the Joker – keep your distance and call the police. Commissioner Gordon has offered a $25,000 reward for any information leading to the Joker's capture. There will be a bulletin updated every thirty minutes until the Joker is returned to Arkham."
Bruce turned the radio down and spoke into his watch. "Alfred?"
"Here, sir," Alfred's crisp British voice came from Bruce's watch.
"Joker's escaped. Get the Bat Mobile ready," Bruce ordered.
"Affirmative, sir," Alfred said before cutting off.
"Let me come, too," I clamored.
"No," Bruce shook his head, "you've come a long way in your training, but you're not ready to face the Joker. I don't want you anywhere near him. You go to school and Alfred will pick you up."
"Aw," I started to complain, but Bruce froze me with a stern glare.
"I mean it, Dick. Don't not leave the school property. Stay with other students, and if anything happens do exactly what the teachers say. Got it?"
"Got it," I muttered, know he wanted a verbal answer.
"We'll go to the dentist some other day," Bruce told as he pulled up in front of my school. "Be good, and don't leave the school."
"Yeah, yeah," I nodded along as I got out of the car. I shut the door behind me and started for the school.
In homeroom, everyone was talking about the Joker's escape.
"Bad," Barbara Gordon was saying as she sat the wrong way in her seat to talk to Pamela Isley behind her. "Really bad. The worst thing ever. Joker just waltzes out of Arkham. Dad was furious. So many guards will be getting fired once Joker is returned."
"Terrible," Pamela agreed, tossing her red hair back. "Just think of all those toxins he released. Think what they'll do to the environment. Think of the trees and the plants."
"And the people," I added as I slid into my seat.
Pamela fixed me with a hostile look. "It's the people who damaged this earth enough already. If they're not dumping chemicals into rivers or cutting down rainforests, they're letting criminals free to destroy the atmosphere."
"No one freed Joker," I objected. "The lunatic broke out on his own."
Pamela opened her mouth to retort something mean, probably about how I was responsible for the whole global warming issue, but Barbara spoke up.
"Oh, leave him alone. What does he know about the environment? Or the Joker, for that matter? He's just repeating what he heard on the radio."
"I am not!" I declared. "I know about the Joker."
"I know about the Joker," Barbara corrected. "Dad's the commissioner, remember? I get the news firsthand. But don't worry, Dick, I'm sure Bruce lets you read the newspaper when he's done cutting it up."
The two girls shared a secret smile, and I demanded, "What's so funny?"
"Barb told me about that time you and Bruce visited the police station," Pamela laughed. "She said you wanted to see the Most Wanted board, but Bruce wouldn't let you. And when you walked by the investigation board, Bruce covered your eyes so you couldn't see the crime scene photos either."
My cheeks flamed red, and I declared, "That was three years ago. I was ten."
The girls looked at each other and smiled again.
"I bet you still sleep with a nightlight," Pamela teased. "And have Alfred check under the bed for monsters."
I wanted to say something cool and grown-up right then to show them I wasn't a dumb kid, but as always, I couldn't think of the right words to say. So I sat there, red and flustered, trying to come up with something – anything! – to say to the two stupid, annoying redheads.
"Shut up," I finally said.
"Now, now," Mr. Horton came into the class, shaking his head. "That is no way to speak to two young ladies, Mr. Grayson. Perhaps you'd like to apologize."
I should explain here that Mr. Horton is very old-fashioned though I don't think he's much older than Bruce. But he wore old tweed coats and always had a scowl on his face. Even though our school is completely modern and up-to-date with computers and stuff, Mr. Horton insists on calling all of us by our last names and making boys be nice to girls.
"They started it," I protested.
"Mr. Grayson!" Mr. Horton snapped.
The whole class had come in and sat down by now; I found twenty-two pairs of eyes staring at me.
"Sorry," I muttered to the two girls.
"Since Mr. Grayson seems determined to start our morning off on a sour note," Mr. Horton said, "we will help continue his feelings by having a pop quiz on determiners and modifiers. Everyone take out a sheet of paper."
For the next ten minutes, the whole class went back and forth between scribbling down answers and glaring at me. I don't see why everything has to be my fault, and I certainly don't see why I'm the only kid blamed for Mr. Horton's bad mood. And I don't see why I have to know anything about determiners. Am I going to be out someday with Batman and a criminal will jump out and demand "Tell me the difference between this and those in standard English or I destroy Gotham"? Well, maybe if we're tracking the Riddler, but still very unlikely.
I finish my quiz and turned my paper over. I sat perfectly still with my eyes straight ahead and tried to look innocent. It seemed day for people to pick on me, but did anyone feel sorry for me?
The day did not get better as it went along. I realized too late that we were having a short test in science which I had not studied for, I couldn't remember any of the names of the state capitals in social studies, and when I had to solve an algebra problem on the board in math, my mind went blank.
I stared at the equation for several long moments: 8x/2 – 5 3x, Solve for x.
I hate math.
"Come on, Dick," Ms. Wells encouraged, giving me a small smile from her desk. "Remember what we talked about last week. Try to get x by itself."
I started working, gripping the piece of chalk so tightly it nearly broke in half. I began moving numbers back and forth on both sides of the equal sign, and a snicker rose from behind me.
I whirled around to see Pamela giggling from behind her hand. I thought about raising my hand and flipping her the bird, but I couldn't imagine what Bruce would do then when he found out. So I settled for giving her a death glare and trying to work on the problem.
Ms. Wells finally had mercy on me and let me sit back down.
"Ha!" I heard Pamela whisper loudly. "You think with all that money, Mr. Wayne could buy him some brains."
I turned to Barbara, hoping she might defend me. I hate the idea of a girl fighting for me, but I don't think of Barbara as a girl. I mean, I know she's a girl, but she's fierce and loyal and cool about standing up for her friends (which I guess I'm one of). But she was more concerned about being funny because she joked, "Yeah, maybe Mr. Wayne will send him to the Wizard for a brain."
I think that movie is the dumbest thing ever, but apparently everyone had seen it because they all laughed.
"All right, that's enough," Ms. Wells shook her head. "Dick started the problem, but he forgot to minus 3x from both sides. Matthew, why don't you give it a try?"
Even Ms. Wells' kindness didn't help me feel any better, and by lunch, I was ready to scream. Alfred had packed my lunch, and I flopped down in my chair with a disgruntled look at the whole cafeteria.
"What's got into you?" Barbara demanded as she down across from me.
"Nothing," I snapped, angry that she planned to sit beside me because, oh yeah, sure enough, here came her shadow, Pamela.
"Why do we have to sit with him?" Pamela asked as she dropped her tray. "It's bad enough that we have to see him in class."
"Get lost," I told her shortly.
"Make me," she retorted. "Just because you live with the richest guy in Gotham doesn't mean you own the school."
"I never said I did."
"No, you just act like it," Pamela sneered. "You come in, in your nice clothes and expensive backpack with your little electronics –"
"It's called a Gameboy," I told her. "And your parents aren't exactly poor."
I didn't know much about Pamela's parents except they were rich and never around, but I must have hit a sore spot because her green eyes flashed at me.
"Yeah Well, I'm not stuck up like you," she spat. "You don't care about the school or the environment –"
"Screw the environment!" I shouted.
"That's what I thought!" Pamela yelled back. "You side with all those bull-headed capitalists who want to destroy Planet Earth. Just what I expect, seeing how you live with Mr. Wayne, the head of the biggest eco-toxic company in Gotham."
"You leave Bruce out this," I returned. "You're just mad because your parents are never around to care what you do."
"Mr. Grayson!" Mr. Horton bellowed from across the cafeteria. I saw him coming towards me, a frown on his face. I saw the hurt on Pamela's face and the shock on Barbara's, and I knew that would only get me into more trouble.
Something inside me snapped. I knocked my lunch off the table, jumped out of my seat, and ran for the exit door. I heard Mr. Horton yelling for me to stop, but I didn't care.
I ran across the recess yard and off the school property. I didn't stop running, my shoes pounding on the pavement, until I found myself in the middle of downtown Gotham.
People were walking all around me, hurrying through the blustery wind that blew down the streets. I wished I had a coat with me, even the stupid blue coat that I had left in homeroom. I began trudging towards Wayne Corp., knowing I could wait in Bruce's office until he got there. He would be mad, but surely once I told him about what Pamela had said . . .
I rounded the corner and stopped in front of the used electronic store where twelve different-sized TVs all showed the Joker's face. It was really creepy, and I looked away, an instinctive reaction to the pale, disfigured face and the awful smile.
"Four hours now," the announcer's voice sounded through the glass, "and the Joker still remains at large. No victims have been discovered or robberies made, but all of the Gotham waits and prays that the Batman finds the Joker before any serious crimes are committed."
I glanced down the street. Gotham was a dark, lonely place to begin with, but in light of this recent news, every person seemed to rush faster and gazed down at the cold cement, refusing to look at anyone else.
I kept watching the people, men in business suits, women in skirt or pants, occasionally a teenager playing hooky like me. These people were who Batman protected, who he gave up his nights to save – they needed him. And someday he wanted me to work along side him all the way.
A sense of peace flooded over me, and I turned to continue to Wayne Corp, ready to be civil to Bruce.
But then I saw the Joker's face. And this time it wasn't on TV screens.
He stood in front of me, wearing the tattering orange costume of Arkham. His face was nearly white, but I could see the scars around the corners of his mouth where he had been shot and the doctors had sewn up the gaping wounds, forcing him to wear the hideous smile all the time.
All around us, I heard people start screaming, recognizing him at once.
But the Joker didn't even blink. His eyes lit up with evil glee at the sight of me.
"What have we here?" he said in a low voice, nearly a chuckle.
"Nothing," I whispered. "Nothing – I was just leaving."
"So soon?" the Joker's smile seemed to widen though I would have sworn it was impossible. "Let me give you something to help you relax."
He pulled out a gun and aimed for my head.
I nearly fainted as my heartbeat spiked at the sight of the gun.
"Sweet dreams," the Joke said.
He pulled the trigger. A spray of green mist shot out of the barrel.
I saw the Joker's demented smile before my knees gave out. I fell forward, sinking into endless darkness.
So the next morning I dragged around a little bit and was only late to breakfast by, like, two seconds, but he started right in on me.
"Dick, why are you always so slow in the morning?" Bruce grumbled as he drank his coffee. "You know we eat at every morning at seven so you can get to school by eight,"
"Why?' I grumbled as I sat down.
"So you can have a healthy breakfast."
"Why? Other kids get to have Pop Tarts in the car. Why do I have to come down early?"
Alfred set my plate of eggs, toast, and fruit down in front of me along with a glass of milk.
"Hurry up and eat," Bruce told me. "I'm driving you today and I don't want to be late for my meeting."
"You're the boss," I said, poking my fork into my eggs. "Let the meeting be late or just don't go."
Bruce took a breath, the sort of deep, bracing breath he usually takes right before he ploughs into a long lecture.
"There isn't much traffic," Alfred said quickly. "You be able to get right into town. I'll get Master Dick's school things together, and you'll be ready to go in no time."
"No, he's supposed to take care of his own stuff," Bruce told Alfred. "He's in charge of organizing his schoolbooks, making his bed, and picking up his room before he leaves each morning."
I had not done any of those things, but before I could say so, Alfred was heading for the door. "No problem, sir, but this once . . . since we're running late . . ."
Bruce turned to me, but I was stuffing food into my mouth. Bruce pointed his finger at me, a way of saying Get it together! and started drinking coffee again.
Usually, I like Alfred's food. Bruce may be Batman, but I think Alfred could be anything else he wanted to be. Alfred can cook and clean, but he also can run all the computers and machines down in the Cave and he can take out bad guys, and he knows doctor stuff for when Bruce gets hurt. I think Alfred once had to take care of Bruce when Bane broke a bunch of his bones, but Bruce won't talk about it. I mentioned it once to Alfred, and he got a real scared look in his eye and said that he helped set Bruce's bones and all's well that ends well and we didn't need to talk about it. I wonder what really happened then.
But back to the food – yeah, Alfred's food tastes really good, but that morning I really wanted a Pop Tart. Well, I really wanted four Pop Tarts, the cherry kind with the icing on top. Bruce says they're too much sugar, that I might as well eat cookies for breakfast. I wouldn't mind eating those either, but Bruce has this thing about me having too much sugar.
"It doesn't have that much sugar," I blurted out.
"Huh?" Bruce lowered the paper he was reading to look at me. "The fruit?"
"No, other food," I said evasively. "Sugar doesn't bother me."
"Other people would tend to disagree," Bruce remarked. "Oh, but that reminds me. You need a dentist visit soon."
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. I've seen a few horror movies. Usually late at night when I slipped downstairs or in the afternoon before Alfred caught me and turned off the TV. But all the awful things that happen in those movies – arms and legs getting cut off, blood everywhere, hooks gauging out people's eyes – none of that is as scary as going to the dentist's office in real life. I'll take the Joker's acid over the dentist's pick any day of week.
"When ?" I tried not to whimper.
Bruce looked me, and I could tell he was deliberating on what to say. "Why don't we get it over with? You want to see if I can get us in today/"
"You, too?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Yeah, might as well," Bruce nodded. "Want to make sure I'm up-to-date, too." He smiled at me, showing his straight, white teeth. "Besides, I want to see if you're going to need braces soon."
Why didn't Bruce just punch me in the face and get it over with? Why did he prefer to torture me long and slow? Of course, going to the dentist with him was better than going by myself. Maybe I would get to see him laying back in the chair with all that gritty stuff in his mouth and trying to talk around the metal scraper to tell the dentist that he was about to gag.
"I'll call the office and see if we can get in early this afternoon, right after school," Bruce said. "I think Dr. Klortz said he wanted to fill one your back teeth."
Scary dentist turning into horrific nightmare. Filling meant shots . . . in my mouth. Why did Bruce have to remind me? I would be thinking about it all day at school.
"All right," Alfred walked back in the kitchen, holding my black backpack, "got it. Your books are inside, along with a note explaining why you don't have yesterday's homework. Your lunch is packed, and your coat is hanging on the doorknob."
"I don't need a coat," I objected. "It's not cold."
"It's October," Bruce said flatly. "You're wearing a coat."
"None of the other kids do."
"It's forty-eight degrees out there," Bruce told me. "You're wearing a coat."
"I don't like my coat," I complained. "It's dumb."
"Coats can't be dumb," Bruce replied. "And we just bought it a month ago."
"I didn't like it then," I grumbled. "I told you I didn't want it, but no one listens to me."
Bruce flung his paper down on the table. "What don't you like about it?"
"It's all blue and happy and dumb," I insisted. "It looks like something a little kid would wear, and it buttons up instead of zips, and I don't like it."
Bruce looked at Alfred, but Alfred had already turned back to the huge stove and was rattling pans around, pretending not to pay attention.
"You're wearing it," Bruce told me.
"I'll take it off during recess," I retorted.
"Oh, look at the time," Alfred turned from the stove before Bruce could start yelling. "Why don't I take Master Dick to school?"
"Forget it," Bruce snapped. "I'm taking him in the blue coat right now."
The drive into Gotham was quiet. Bruce stared out the window resolutely, gripping the wheel and breathing tightly. I sat in my stupid blue jacket, holding my backpack and wondering what would happen if I threw my jacket in a garbage can and walked away.
I don't even know why I felt so out of sorts. I just felt grouchy and mad and upset. But I knew if I complained at school I would get that wide-eyed disbelief look from my friends. They never say anything, but I can tell from their expressions that they don't understand why the ward of Gotham's richest man should complain about anything. Just once I would like to stand up and shout "Money doesn't solve everything!"
But maybe to people living in trailers or with dads and moms having poor jobs, money would solve a lot of their problems. But I feel like I can't complain because then they give each other the "Oh, look, the rich boy is whining" look.
"Plan to go to the dentist after school," Bruce broke the silence. "I'll stop and get you a toothbrush so you can brush before we go."
I swear, sometimes he liked torturing me. That might be a mean thing to say, but he gets this look in his eyes that tells me he enjoys my suffering. Of course, I see that expression usually after I've been bad and have to go through whatever consequences I've earned. But once again, he should feel sorry for me, not enjoy that I'm paying for whatever I did. He should feel bad I'm suffering, not like that I got what was coming to me.
"Fine," I muttered.
"Honestly, Dick, what's wrong with you this morning?" Bruce demanded as he switched lanes. "You're all sulky over nothing."
"I'm tired," I shifted restlessly.
"You went to bed by nine last night," Bruce pointed out.
"Then I'm too wide awake," I retorted.
"Is this about yesterday?"
"No," I snarled, hugging my backpack to my chest.
"You can't be upset about that," Bruce declared.
"Yes, I can," I burst out. "You spanked me and washed my mouth out with soap."
"You disobeyed me and swore."
"I don't care. I'm thirteen! That's too old to get spanked. Nobody else my age gets punished that way. I'm not a kid."
"Then stop acting like it," Bruce told me.
"I'm telling the school you hit me," I cried out. It was a low blow, and I felt bad the moment I said it.
Bruce's hand tightened around the steering wheel. "Richard Grayson," he said in his fiercest Batman voice, "that is enough. If I hear one more word out of you, I'm taking you home, paddling you, and standing you in the corner for the rest of the day."
"I can't miss school," I objected.
"I'll tell them you're sick. I'll say that you –"
A beeping noise sounded out suddenly. Bruce pushed up the sleeve of his left arm and glanced at the intricate wristwatch that was beeping. He pushed a button on the watch, silencing it, before turning on the radio.
"I repeat," a woman's monotone voice said, "the Joker has escaped from Arkham Asylum an hour ago. The Joker made his escape using a toxin, bred from the asylum's prescribed drugs and used it to knock out the guards. Citizens of Gotham are encouraged to call the police if they see a man with pale skin, dark hair, and an enlarged smile on the streets. Do not attempt to approach the Joker – keep your distance and call the police. Commissioner Gordon has offered a $25,000 reward for any information leading to the Joker's capture. There will be a bulletin updated every thirty minutes until the Joker is returned to Arkham."
Bruce turned the radio down and spoke into his watch. "Alfred?"
"Here, sir," Alfred's crisp British voice came from Bruce's watch.
"Joker's escaped. Get the Bat Mobile ready," Bruce ordered.
"Affirmative, sir," Alfred said before cutting off.
"Let me come, too," I clamored.
"No," Bruce shook his head, "you've come a long way in your training, but you're not ready to face the Joker. I don't want you anywhere near him. You go to school and Alfred will pick you up."
"Aw," I started to complain, but Bruce froze me with a stern glare.
"I mean it, Dick. Don't not leave the school property. Stay with other students, and if anything happens do exactly what the teachers say. Got it?"
"Got it," I muttered, know he wanted a verbal answer.
"We'll go to the dentist some other day," Bruce told as he pulled up in front of my school. "Be good, and don't leave the school."
"Yeah, yeah," I nodded along as I got out of the car. I shut the door behind me and started for the school.
In homeroom, everyone was talking about the Joker's escape.
"Bad," Barbara Gordon was saying as she sat the wrong way in her seat to talk to Pamela Isley behind her. "Really bad. The worst thing ever. Joker just waltzes out of Arkham. Dad was furious. So many guards will be getting fired once Joker is returned."
"Terrible," Pamela agreed, tossing her red hair back. "Just think of all those toxins he released. Think what they'll do to the environment. Think of the trees and the plants."
"And the people," I added as I slid into my seat.
Pamela fixed me with a hostile look. "It's the people who damaged this earth enough already. If they're not dumping chemicals into rivers or cutting down rainforests, they're letting criminals free to destroy the atmosphere."
"No one freed Joker," I objected. "The lunatic broke out on his own."
Pamela opened her mouth to retort something mean, probably about how I was responsible for the whole global warming issue, but Barbara spoke up.
"Oh, leave him alone. What does he know about the environment? Or the Joker, for that matter? He's just repeating what he heard on the radio."
"I am not!" I declared. "I know about the Joker."
"I know about the Joker," Barbara corrected. "Dad's the commissioner, remember? I get the news firsthand. But don't worry, Dick, I'm sure Bruce lets you read the newspaper when he's done cutting it up."
The two girls shared a secret smile, and I demanded, "What's so funny?"
"Barb told me about that time you and Bruce visited the police station," Pamela laughed. "She said you wanted to see the Most Wanted board, but Bruce wouldn't let you. And when you walked by the investigation board, Bruce covered your eyes so you couldn't see the crime scene photos either."
My cheeks flamed red, and I declared, "That was three years ago. I was ten."
The girls looked at each other and smiled again.
"I bet you still sleep with a nightlight," Pamela teased. "And have Alfred check under the bed for monsters."
I wanted to say something cool and grown-up right then to show them I wasn't a dumb kid, but as always, I couldn't think of the right words to say. So I sat there, red and flustered, trying to come up with something – anything! – to say to the two stupid, annoying redheads.
"Shut up," I finally said.
"Now, now," Mr. Horton came into the class, shaking his head. "That is no way to speak to two young ladies, Mr. Grayson. Perhaps you'd like to apologize."
I should explain here that Mr. Horton is very old-fashioned though I don't think he's much older than Bruce. But he wore old tweed coats and always had a scowl on his face. Even though our school is completely modern and up-to-date with computers and stuff, Mr. Horton insists on calling all of us by our last names and making boys be nice to girls.
"They started it," I protested.
"Mr. Grayson!" Mr. Horton snapped.
The whole class had come in and sat down by now; I found twenty-two pairs of eyes staring at me.
"Sorry," I muttered to the two girls.
"Since Mr. Grayson seems determined to start our morning off on a sour note," Mr. Horton said, "we will help continue his feelings by having a pop quiz on determiners and modifiers. Everyone take out a sheet of paper."
For the next ten minutes, the whole class went back and forth between scribbling down answers and glaring at me. I don't see why everything has to be my fault, and I certainly don't see why I'm the only kid blamed for Mr. Horton's bad mood. And I don't see why I have to know anything about determiners. Am I going to be out someday with Batman and a criminal will jump out and demand "Tell me the difference between this and those in standard English or I destroy Gotham"? Well, maybe if we're tracking the Riddler, but still very unlikely.
I finish my quiz and turned my paper over. I sat perfectly still with my eyes straight ahead and tried to look innocent. It seemed day for people to pick on me, but did anyone feel sorry for me?
The day did not get better as it went along. I realized too late that we were having a short test in science which I had not studied for, I couldn't remember any of the names of the state capitals in social studies, and when I had to solve an algebra problem on the board in math, my mind went blank.
I stared at the equation for several long moments: 8x/2 – 5 3x, Solve for x.
I hate math.
"Come on, Dick," Ms. Wells encouraged, giving me a small smile from her desk. "Remember what we talked about last week. Try to get x by itself."
I started working, gripping the piece of chalk so tightly it nearly broke in half. I began moving numbers back and forth on both sides of the equal sign, and a snicker rose from behind me.
I whirled around to see Pamela giggling from behind her hand. I thought about raising my hand and flipping her the bird, but I couldn't imagine what Bruce would do then when he found out. So I settled for giving her a death glare and trying to work on the problem.
Ms. Wells finally had mercy on me and let me sit back down.
"Ha!" I heard Pamela whisper loudly. "You think with all that money, Mr. Wayne could buy him some brains."
I turned to Barbara, hoping she might defend me. I hate the idea of a girl fighting for me, but I don't think of Barbara as a girl. I mean, I know she's a girl, but she's fierce and loyal and cool about standing up for her friends (which I guess I'm one of). But she was more concerned about being funny because she joked, "Yeah, maybe Mr. Wayne will send him to the Wizard for a brain."
I think that movie is the dumbest thing ever, but apparently everyone had seen it because they all laughed.
"All right, that's enough," Ms. Wells shook her head. "Dick started the problem, but he forgot to minus 3x from both sides. Matthew, why don't you give it a try?"
Even Ms. Wells' kindness didn't help me feel any better, and by lunch, I was ready to scream. Alfred had packed my lunch, and I flopped down in my chair with a disgruntled look at the whole cafeteria.
"What's got into you?" Barbara demanded as she down across from me.
"Nothing," I snapped, angry that she planned to sit beside me because, oh yeah, sure enough, here came her shadow, Pamela.
"Why do we have to sit with him?" Pamela asked as she dropped her tray. "It's bad enough that we have to see him in class."
"Get lost," I told her shortly.
"Make me," she retorted. "Just because you live with the richest guy in Gotham doesn't mean you own the school."
"I never said I did."
"No, you just act like it," Pamela sneered. "You come in, in your nice clothes and expensive backpack with your little electronics –"
"It's called a Gameboy," I told her. "And your parents aren't exactly poor."
I didn't know much about Pamela's parents except they were rich and never around, but I must have hit a sore spot because her green eyes flashed at me.
"Yeah Well, I'm not stuck up like you," she spat. "You don't care about the school or the environment –"
"Screw the environment!" I shouted.
"That's what I thought!" Pamela yelled back. "You side with all those bull-headed capitalists who want to destroy Planet Earth. Just what I expect, seeing how you live with Mr. Wayne, the head of the biggest eco-toxic company in Gotham."
"You leave Bruce out this," I returned. "You're just mad because your parents are never around to care what you do."
"Mr. Grayson!" Mr. Horton bellowed from across the cafeteria. I saw him coming towards me, a frown on his face. I saw the hurt on Pamela's face and the shock on Barbara's, and I knew that would only get me into more trouble.
Something inside me snapped. I knocked my lunch off the table, jumped out of my seat, and ran for the exit door. I heard Mr. Horton yelling for me to stop, but I didn't care.
I ran across the recess yard and off the school property. I didn't stop running, my shoes pounding on the pavement, until I found myself in the middle of downtown Gotham.
People were walking all around me, hurrying through the blustery wind that blew down the streets. I wished I had a coat with me, even the stupid blue coat that I had left in homeroom. I began trudging towards Wayne Corp., knowing I could wait in Bruce's office until he got there. He would be mad, but surely once I told him about what Pamela had said . . .
I rounded the corner and stopped in front of the used electronic store where twelve different-sized TVs all showed the Joker's face. It was really creepy, and I looked away, an instinctive reaction to the pale, disfigured face and the awful smile.
"Four hours now," the announcer's voice sounded through the glass, "and the Joker still remains at large. No victims have been discovered or robberies made, but all of the Gotham waits and prays that the Batman finds the Joker before any serious crimes are committed."
I glanced down the street. Gotham was a dark, lonely place to begin with, but in light of this recent news, every person seemed to rush faster and gazed down at the cold cement, refusing to look at anyone else.
I kept watching the people, men in business suits, women in skirt or pants, occasionally a teenager playing hooky like me. These people were who Batman protected, who he gave up his nights to save – they needed him. And someday he wanted me to work along side him all the way.
A sense of peace flooded over me, and I turned to continue to Wayne Corp, ready to be civil to Bruce.
But then I saw the Joker's face. And this time it wasn't on TV screens.
He stood in front of me, wearing the tattering orange costume of Arkham. His face was nearly white, but I could see the scars around the corners of his mouth where he had been shot and the doctors had sewn up the gaping wounds, forcing him to wear the hideous smile all the time.
All around us, I heard people start screaming, recognizing him at once.
But the Joker didn't even blink. His eyes lit up with evil glee at the sight of me.
"What have we here?" he said in a low voice, nearly a chuckle.
"Nothing," I whispered. "Nothing – I was just leaving."
"So soon?" the Joker's smile seemed to widen though I would have sworn it was impossible. "Let me give you something to help you relax."
He pulled out a gun and aimed for my head.
I nearly fainted as my heartbeat spiked at the sight of the gun.
"Sweet dreams," the Joke said.
He pulled the trigger. A spray of green mist shot out of the barrel.
I saw the Joker's demented smile before my knees gave out. I fell forward, sinking into endless darkness.