Chapter 6 - Annoying
I stared in horror at Bruce, praying he was joking. Bruce never jokes, but all I could think was that he was kidding, bluffing, and a few seconds from now we would be laughing about his statement. However, his face remained serious, and he opened his mouth with determination.
"I know about sex!" I blurted out, frantic to get him to stop.
Bruce blinked, caught off guard for a second.
"I learned about it at school," I went on hastily.
Bruce frowned. "I knew I should have sent you to a private school. Those children have no –"
"I learned about it in health class," I told him. My face was turning red, my eyes were burning, and I had the horrible urge to start giggling hysterically though nothing was funny.
"Health class?" Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't remember you taking health class."
"It was part of gym," I explained. "We spent two weeks on . . . stuff. And I know how babies are made, from biology. I'm thirteen, not five! Everyone my age knows about sex."
"Maybe," Bruce did not look convinced. "I still think we should talk."
I groaned, slumping in my chair. "Why?"
"Because sex is more than just about sex," Bruce told me.
"That's stupid," I replied.
"Richard," Bruce's tone held a warning, "you don't talk to me that way."
"Fine," I huffed.
"Tell me what you learned – er, what you covered in class," Bruce told me.
I wanted to sink into the floor. I wished I had the courage to sit up and start spouting what I learned in the most graphic terms, being so crude and gross that Bruce would get disgusted and end the conversation. But I only shrugged miserably and refused to look at him.
"Okay," Bruce paced in front of me a few steps and then dropped in the chair across from me, "sex is something between a man and a woman –"
"Or two men or two women," I put in, remembering all the snide gay comments I heard at school.
Bruce blanched for a moment, then continued in a slightly unsteady voice, "Y-Yes, that as well. But for the purpose of this conversation, let's pretend it only happens between a man and a woman. Now, being male, you know about the guy's body, but a girl's is different."
I rolled my eyes. "Of course a girl's is different. They have breasts and a –"
"Yes, the other part," Bruce said quickly. "And in sex, the guy's body and the girl's body fit together in a very close way because they're sharing something very special."
It was like listening to a goody-two-shoes TV show for a three-year-old. Bruce was especially patronizing, nodding his head as he spoke as if that would help me understand all about this wonderful connection between men and women. Somehow, he explained the whole thing without mentioning a single body part or saying the word orgasm. For something so exciting, I was bored as he kept talking and I wondered if sex was as blah as he made it to sound, almost a chore of moving around into different positions (which he would not explain a single one).
"And afterwards," Bruce concluded, "the man and woman will feel slightly tired and want to sleep. The woman usually likes to be held by the man, and together in a hug, they go to sleep, very happy to be together. Do you have any questions?"
I jerked myself awake. The expression on Bruce's face, patient and attentive as if waiting for a silly question, annoyed me to no end.
"Yeah," I said bluntly, "when can I start having sex?"
Every villain inside Arkham would have given two weeks solitary in a padded cell to see Bruce's face right then. He looked like he was having a heart attack as his eyes grew real big and he seemed to have trouble breathing. I forced my own face to stay calm, like I was really expecting an honest answer.
"Dick," he wheezed.
"Yes, Bruce?" I asked politely.
"I – I . . . you need to – you have to understand. Sex is for adults."
"Hallie Woods got pregnant over the summer," I pointed out. "She's only a year older than me."
Bruce tried to speak, his mouth opening and shutting without a word coming out.
"And if sex is so special," I went on, "why can't I have it?"
"No," Bruce finally found his voice, "no, no! You're supposed to have sex when you get married. Only then, not before. End of story."
"But you're not married, so . . . you've never had sex?" I tilted my head to the side to observe him as if I was very curious.
Bruce looked like he had another heart attack. I felt a small sense of revenge at torturing him. Served him right for those two spankings he gave me. I knew he had dated before and if he said he hadn't had sex, he was lying, and if he said yes, he was a hypocrite for telling me to wait.
"That's none of your business," Bruce finally told me.
"Ha, I knew it," I jeered, smirking.
Bruce gave me another anguished look, and then he straightened, towering over me. "All right," his voice deepened, "let's make one thing very clear. You don't have sex, young man, until you're married. If I find out you've tried – and believe me, I will find out – you won't live to regret it."
"Do as I say, not as I do," I muttered under my breath.
A moment later, I was laying face down on my bed and Bruce was holding me down with one iron hand on my back. He swatted me across the backside with the other hand, and I grunted at the flash of pain.
"Now that I have your attention," Bruce said sternly, "let me say this – I am the guardian and you're the ward. You do what I say now, and when you've lived a lifetime of regret, loss, and fear, you can make your own choices."
"I was just kidding," I said from the bedspread. "I'm not going to have sex – I don't even know how to do it. I haven't even kissed a girl yet."
"Were you planning to?" Bruce challenged, not letting me up.
"I don't know," I confessed.
"Maybe at the dance?"
"It's just a dance, Bruce. And I don't even dance. And adults will be there, and I don't know why you're so worried."
"Because at your age, boys start talking girls into doing things," he said above me. "This Hallie you talk about – she probably didn't even know what she was doing, and now she's pregnant. Girls can be sensitive at your age, and if I ever think you're pushing a girl into doing anything –" he stopped, letting the ominous silence hang over me.
I tried to picture a guy pushing Barbara Gordon into doing anything, or even trying to kiss her. I could see her kneeing him in the crouch and then bringing her fisted hands down on his back when he doubled over, knocking him to the ground. I thought Barbara was pretty safe as far as the guys in junior high went. Which reminded me . . .
"She asked me," I blurted out, still held down on the bed. "I was hanging around the house, and she came up and Alfred made me talk to her, and she asked me. Why aren't you yelling at her?"
"Because Barbara Gordon isn't my responsibility," Bruce ground out. "But you are, and I expect you to treat girls kindly and with respect, like a sister."
"I don't have a sister," I complained.
"Well, pretend like you do," he replied. "Someday you might have children, a daughter. How would you like a boy to treat her?"
I couldn't even imagine having a daughter or being married or even having a girlfriend. Why does Bruce have to put all these things on me? I just want to fight alongside him and put the villains back in Arkham, not discuss sex and respect for girls. Besides, girls pick on me, but he never cares about my feelings, only how I make everyone else feel.
"Let me go," I insisted, trying to push up off the bed.
I got another firm swat, and he ordered,
"Stay still. I want you to promise that you will act politely and properly and respectably and that I will never receive a call from some irate father whose daughter you have wronged."
"What if she wrongs me?" I said in a snippy voice.
He spanked me again, and I hurried to say,
"Fine, I'll behave and you won't get the call."
He backed off and I rose, whirling to face him.
"Why do you have to do that?" I demanded, resisting the urge to rub. "If I'm old enough to know about sex, I'm too old to be – you know."
"You," Bruce pointed a finger at me, "are never too old to be spanked. You remember that."
I couldn't really argue with him though I wanted to. He had proved he was right, but what he should have said was that as long as he was bigger than me, he could always spank me. Age had nothing to do with it, and I could only hope someday I would be as strong as he was.
"Get in bed," Bruce directed. "Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday, and we can get back to training over the weekend."
I got into bed and pulled up the covers, trying to look surly and uncaring. I had not brushed my teeth, and I wasn't going to tell him.
Bruce usually comes into my room to tell me good night, probably because he wants to make sure I'm in bed and not playing GameBoy with lights off, but I don't want him to make a big deal about it. He used to ask if I needed to use the bathroom – okay, I wet the bed like twice, but I was eight and my parents had just died and I had nightmares, all right? I haven't done it in years, but Bruce kept asking, all the way up to last month when I told him pointblank that I knew when I had to piss. He warned me not to use such crude language, but he hasn't asked since then.
"Get some sleep," Bruce told me, patting my shoulder.
It barely past nine, and I was tired, but I didn't want the night to end with him getting the last word. I waited until he reached the door and turned off the light before I asked,
"Bruce, can I masturbate?"
He said nothing. He marched out the door and shut it behind him firmly, leaving me in the dark. I snickered, glad to finally get him one on him. The score was now me – 1, Bruce – probably 1500. Still, a victory for me is a victory.
I waited until his footsteps disappeared, and then I rolled out of bed.
Moonlight shone through my window, and I crept across the floor, careful to avoid the one board that squeaked loudly. I settled on my stomach in front of the grate in the floor, slowly opening the vent and laying my head down on it. It was warm from the heat, but if I stayed still and I breathed quietly, I could hear everything that happened down in the den. Bruce liked to read in there at night, and he and Alfred usually talked.
I heard all sorts of good stuff from the vent, where Bruce was going next, who he had been fighting, what he was doing at work, and why he mad at me.
I had heard the whole "Dick has ADD" conversation from there, and I usually knew what would be happening to me the next day or two because Bruce would tell Alfred to pick me up here and take me there. Bruce doesn't always inform me what I'll be doing the next day; he thinks I'm still nine and will be happy to ride in the nice car no matter where we're going.
"You talked to him?' Alfred asked in a voice that was firmer than his usual tone with Bruce. Alfred's always nicer to Bruce than to me.
"Yes, not that it did much good," Bruce sighed. "He wasn't listening to half of it, and then at the end he started asking irrelevant questions to just to make me uncomfortable. I had to swat him twice to get him to listen."
Three times! I corrected furiously but silently.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with him," Bruce went on. "I get so frustrated with him. If he's not goofing off, he's sulking and giving me angry side glances."
"He's still young," Alfred assured him. "He's barely more than a child."
I snarled in the darkness, but they could not hear me so it didn't mattered.
"I know, I know," Bruce said. "And I'm glad he's enjoying being a teenager and doing normal stuff and he's still excited about training with me but . . . is it wrong that I wish I could spank him every morning to get him to shape up?"
I sat up, horrified. How dare he say something like that? He was supposed to want to help me, not punish me.
Alfred, the traitor, chuckled. "Ah, Master Bruce."
"Yes?"
"No, I just remember feeling the same way when someone I know was not much older than Master Dick and just as impulsive and frustrating."
"Now, wait," Bruce protested, "I wasn't nearly as much trouble. I did what you told me."
"Indeed?" I could hear the smile in Alfred's voice. "I seem to remember taking one young man in his first dance who did not want to go, dressed under protested, and spent the entire car ride kicking the back of my seat until I threatened to stop the car and deal with him."
"I hated dancing," Bruce objected, but he seemed to be laughing.
"I also remember a young man getting suspended for a week because he was caught under the bleachers trying to take off a young lady's bra while they were kissing."
I nearly fell over at that information.
"I was older than Dick," Bruce insisted.
"You were fourteen," Alfred replied calmly.
"I had to be older than that," Bruce held his ground. "And you caned me for that."
"Indeed I did, and you deserved every stroke."
I dug my fingertips in the metal grate. I could not imagine Alfred ever punishing Bruce, not Bruce who did everything right and never made a mistake. Bruce was perfect – why would Alfred ever have to get on to him?
"I don't know what to do with him anymore," Bruce said after a moment of silence. "He keeps . . . annoying me."
"He's a teenager," Alfred told him, still talking in a calm voice.
"But when he came here, he was different. You remember what he was like back then."
"Yes, a sad little boy who missed his parents and wanted to be loved and comforted. You provided that for him."
"We did," Bruce corrected.
"But you never expected him to stay that child, did you? I knew he would become a teenager and later a young man and then an adult. And you weren't just taking in any child – this was a child with very different circumstances. That's why I questioned if you wanted to keep him or not."
The words hit me so hard I could not breathe. Alfred had not wanted me? I couldn't believe it – I knew Alfred didn't like me to get into mischief and I caused trouble and didn't like his fussing, but how could he say something like that?
I waited, I prayed for Bruce to deny it, to tell Alfred he was wrong.
"Yes, I remember," Bruce admitted. "But you remember what I said at the time?"
"Then what can we do now?" Alfred said, his tone showing he didn't expect an answer.
Silence, and then Bruce said, "Good night, Alfred," and I heard him walk away.
I crowded over the vent for a few more seconds, hoping I would hear something else, but no sound came through.
I went back to bed, got under the covers, and stared up at the ceiling. Alfred had not wanted me. Why not? I tried to remember what he had been like when I first came. He had scared me when I had arrived. Bruce had opened the door, and I saw a tall man in black, just like the men at my parents' funeral, and I started crying.
I think Bruce talked to me then, and I'm pretty sure that Alfred talked to me as well, because my next memory of him was sitting in the kitchen, eating cookies and drinking milk that he brought me. He makes these awesome chocolate nut cookies that I love, and I remember trying to steal them from the pantry when he wasn't there. He caught me the third time and scolded me for running my dinner, and I wasn't allowed any dessert that night as a punishment. I watched him put the cookie jar up on the high shelf beside several cans of condensed milk, and he muttered something about keeping sweets out of everyone's reach.
I tried to put that Alfred with the one that just said he didn't want me. But I couldn't remember Alfred doing anything that would make me think he disliked me. He was always around when Bruce was away, and Alfred never seemed mean. He wanted me to follow the rules and behave – one when I was about nine or so, he told me to go brush my teeth and go to bed. I was mad because Bruce wasn't home yet (this was before I knew about his nighttime job), and I threw my toothbrush on the floor. Alfred swatted my hands, not really hard, and said he would be telling Bruce when he got home. I think I burst into tears and begged him not to tell Bruce, and I'm pretty sure I ended up in bed with Alfred sitting beside me while I cried and promised not to throw things in the future.
If he had not wanted me, wouldn't he have slapped me across the face, screamed at me to shut up instead of being nice about it?
I rolled on my side, staring at my clock as I tried to understand what this meant. Why did he act the way he did if he hated me? Why fuss over me, making sure I wasn't sick, being nice to my friends, breaking up quarrels between me and Bruce – it was weird that he would do all that for someone he despised.
It took me forever to calm down enough to go to sleep, but my last thought before I dozed off was that I would just keep out of Alfred's way and try not to bother him. Maybe if he didn't notice me, if I kept out of the way, he wouldn't hate me so much.
Friday was a normal day, and I went to school and told everyone about seeing the Joker. Alfred was out for the evening which I was glad, and Bruce had brought Zathura for us to see. It looked really dumb, but I didn't say anything, not wanting to annoy him. We settled down to watch the movie on the huge screen in the movie room, and it turned out to be pretty good, kind of scary, especially when the sister got frozen and banged down the stairs like she was about to break into pieces. Bruce looked amused by the movie, and at the end, he commented, "I thought you would like it."
I don't know if he meant the story or scariness or the older brother who annoyed everyone, but I nodded along. I went upstairs to bed before Alfred got home. I meant to play Gameboy under the covers, but I fell asleep before I could.
Bruce was having coffee and reading the paper the next morning when I came down. I was careful to pick up my room and even make my bed, and I made sure the clothes I wore looked nice, weekend clothes of jeans and a long-sleeves shirt, but still nice. Alfred was standing over the stove when I came in, and he glanced at me. "At what breakfast would the young master like?"
Was he being sarcastic? I would have told him that I wasn't hungry, but I was. What was the easiest thing to fix for breakfast? Cereal? Toast?
"Whatever is the easiest," I replied quietly as I took my seat beside Bruce.
Bruce raised an eyebrow at me. "It's Saturday," he told me. "You can have Pop Tarts if you want, but only two."
I opened my mouth to reply that I didn't want Pop Tarts, I really would eat anything, but Alfred had already reached for the box.
"What else do you want?" Bruce asked after a sip of coffee.
"Nothing."
"Dick, we're training this morning. You need to have more than sugar. Alfred can fix you some oatmeal and turkey bacon."
I wanted to say no, but Alfred was already pulling out the two pans. I gave Bruce an agonizing look for making Alfred mad at me, but Bruce had gone back to reading the paper.
"Thank you," I said politely when Alfred brought my food. He smiled briefly and turned away, but I knew he was sneering at me on the inside.
What could I do to make him like me? I kept asking myself the same question over and over again as I ate. Maybe I could do some of the housework – I could vacuum and sweep and scrub the floors and wash windows and iron clothes. How hard could housework be? I would do my homework and I wouldn't try to sneak watching TV, and Alfred would realize that I wasn't just a pain in the neck, but someone who was worth keeping.
I finished my food, and I made my first step towards winning Alfred – I took my own plate to the sink. Alfred clears the table – when I first came to live here, he asked me to take my plate to the sink when I was finished, but that very night the plate slipped from my hands and broke on the floor. It was an accident, but after that, he said he would take care of the dishes.
But this morning, I stood up, put my fork and knife on my plate, and carried it and my glass to the sink. Bruce froze, his eyes watching me over the top of his coffee cup as I rinsed my plate and cup.
I turned to find Alfred staring at me. "Thank you for breakfast," I said.
"You're welcome," he said blankly.
"Bruce," I turned to him, "I'm going to go change for our training. I'll meet you down here in ten minutes."
As I left the kitchen, I heard Bruce ask Alfred, "What in the world's gotten into him?"
I hurried my walking so I wouldn't have to hear Alfred's answer. I was afraid it might be something like "Well, it's about time he shaped up," or something else mean.
I guess I could have worn my workout clothes to breakfast, but I was trying to make a good impression and a tee shirt and gym shorts do not impress butlers.
As I went into my room, I knew I would have to put worrying about Alfred on hold until later. Right now, Bruce would demand all my attention. Five minutes later, I headed down downstairs to train with Batman.
"I know about sex!" I blurted out, frantic to get him to stop.
Bruce blinked, caught off guard for a second.
"I learned about it at school," I went on hastily.
Bruce frowned. "I knew I should have sent you to a private school. Those children have no –"
"I learned about it in health class," I told him. My face was turning red, my eyes were burning, and I had the horrible urge to start giggling hysterically though nothing was funny.
"Health class?" Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't remember you taking health class."
"It was part of gym," I explained. "We spent two weeks on . . . stuff. And I know how babies are made, from biology. I'm thirteen, not five! Everyone my age knows about sex."
"Maybe," Bruce did not look convinced. "I still think we should talk."
I groaned, slumping in my chair. "Why?"
"Because sex is more than just about sex," Bruce told me.
"That's stupid," I replied.
"Richard," Bruce's tone held a warning, "you don't talk to me that way."
"Fine," I huffed.
"Tell me what you learned – er, what you covered in class," Bruce told me.
I wanted to sink into the floor. I wished I had the courage to sit up and start spouting what I learned in the most graphic terms, being so crude and gross that Bruce would get disgusted and end the conversation. But I only shrugged miserably and refused to look at him.
"Okay," Bruce paced in front of me a few steps and then dropped in the chair across from me, "sex is something between a man and a woman –"
"Or two men or two women," I put in, remembering all the snide gay comments I heard at school.
Bruce blanched for a moment, then continued in a slightly unsteady voice, "Y-Yes, that as well. But for the purpose of this conversation, let's pretend it only happens between a man and a woman. Now, being male, you know about the guy's body, but a girl's is different."
I rolled my eyes. "Of course a girl's is different. They have breasts and a –"
"Yes, the other part," Bruce said quickly. "And in sex, the guy's body and the girl's body fit together in a very close way because they're sharing something very special."
It was like listening to a goody-two-shoes TV show for a three-year-old. Bruce was especially patronizing, nodding his head as he spoke as if that would help me understand all about this wonderful connection between men and women. Somehow, he explained the whole thing without mentioning a single body part or saying the word orgasm. For something so exciting, I was bored as he kept talking and I wondered if sex was as blah as he made it to sound, almost a chore of moving around into different positions (which he would not explain a single one).
"And afterwards," Bruce concluded, "the man and woman will feel slightly tired and want to sleep. The woman usually likes to be held by the man, and together in a hug, they go to sleep, very happy to be together. Do you have any questions?"
I jerked myself awake. The expression on Bruce's face, patient and attentive as if waiting for a silly question, annoyed me to no end.
"Yeah," I said bluntly, "when can I start having sex?"
Every villain inside Arkham would have given two weeks solitary in a padded cell to see Bruce's face right then. He looked like he was having a heart attack as his eyes grew real big and he seemed to have trouble breathing. I forced my own face to stay calm, like I was really expecting an honest answer.
"Dick," he wheezed.
"Yes, Bruce?" I asked politely.
"I – I . . . you need to – you have to understand. Sex is for adults."
"Hallie Woods got pregnant over the summer," I pointed out. "She's only a year older than me."
Bruce tried to speak, his mouth opening and shutting without a word coming out.
"And if sex is so special," I went on, "why can't I have it?"
"No," Bruce finally found his voice, "no, no! You're supposed to have sex when you get married. Only then, not before. End of story."
"But you're not married, so . . . you've never had sex?" I tilted my head to the side to observe him as if I was very curious.
Bruce looked like he had another heart attack. I felt a small sense of revenge at torturing him. Served him right for those two spankings he gave me. I knew he had dated before and if he said he hadn't had sex, he was lying, and if he said yes, he was a hypocrite for telling me to wait.
"That's none of your business," Bruce finally told me.
"Ha, I knew it," I jeered, smirking.
Bruce gave me another anguished look, and then he straightened, towering over me. "All right," his voice deepened, "let's make one thing very clear. You don't have sex, young man, until you're married. If I find out you've tried – and believe me, I will find out – you won't live to regret it."
"Do as I say, not as I do," I muttered under my breath.
A moment later, I was laying face down on my bed and Bruce was holding me down with one iron hand on my back. He swatted me across the backside with the other hand, and I grunted at the flash of pain.
"Now that I have your attention," Bruce said sternly, "let me say this – I am the guardian and you're the ward. You do what I say now, and when you've lived a lifetime of regret, loss, and fear, you can make your own choices."
"I was just kidding," I said from the bedspread. "I'm not going to have sex – I don't even know how to do it. I haven't even kissed a girl yet."
"Were you planning to?" Bruce challenged, not letting me up.
"I don't know," I confessed.
"Maybe at the dance?"
"It's just a dance, Bruce. And I don't even dance. And adults will be there, and I don't know why you're so worried."
"Because at your age, boys start talking girls into doing things," he said above me. "This Hallie you talk about – she probably didn't even know what she was doing, and now she's pregnant. Girls can be sensitive at your age, and if I ever think you're pushing a girl into doing anything –" he stopped, letting the ominous silence hang over me.
I tried to picture a guy pushing Barbara Gordon into doing anything, or even trying to kiss her. I could see her kneeing him in the crouch and then bringing her fisted hands down on his back when he doubled over, knocking him to the ground. I thought Barbara was pretty safe as far as the guys in junior high went. Which reminded me . . .
"She asked me," I blurted out, still held down on the bed. "I was hanging around the house, and she came up and Alfred made me talk to her, and she asked me. Why aren't you yelling at her?"
"Because Barbara Gordon isn't my responsibility," Bruce ground out. "But you are, and I expect you to treat girls kindly and with respect, like a sister."
"I don't have a sister," I complained.
"Well, pretend like you do," he replied. "Someday you might have children, a daughter. How would you like a boy to treat her?"
I couldn't even imagine having a daughter or being married or even having a girlfriend. Why does Bruce have to put all these things on me? I just want to fight alongside him and put the villains back in Arkham, not discuss sex and respect for girls. Besides, girls pick on me, but he never cares about my feelings, only how I make everyone else feel.
"Let me go," I insisted, trying to push up off the bed.
I got another firm swat, and he ordered,
"Stay still. I want you to promise that you will act politely and properly and respectably and that I will never receive a call from some irate father whose daughter you have wronged."
"What if she wrongs me?" I said in a snippy voice.
He spanked me again, and I hurried to say,
"Fine, I'll behave and you won't get the call."
He backed off and I rose, whirling to face him.
"Why do you have to do that?" I demanded, resisting the urge to rub. "If I'm old enough to know about sex, I'm too old to be – you know."
"You," Bruce pointed a finger at me, "are never too old to be spanked. You remember that."
I couldn't really argue with him though I wanted to. He had proved he was right, but what he should have said was that as long as he was bigger than me, he could always spank me. Age had nothing to do with it, and I could only hope someday I would be as strong as he was.
"Get in bed," Bruce directed. "Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday, and we can get back to training over the weekend."
I got into bed and pulled up the covers, trying to look surly and uncaring. I had not brushed my teeth, and I wasn't going to tell him.
Bruce usually comes into my room to tell me good night, probably because he wants to make sure I'm in bed and not playing GameBoy with lights off, but I don't want him to make a big deal about it. He used to ask if I needed to use the bathroom – okay, I wet the bed like twice, but I was eight and my parents had just died and I had nightmares, all right? I haven't done it in years, but Bruce kept asking, all the way up to last month when I told him pointblank that I knew when I had to piss. He warned me not to use such crude language, but he hasn't asked since then.
"Get some sleep," Bruce told me, patting my shoulder.
It barely past nine, and I was tired, but I didn't want the night to end with him getting the last word. I waited until he reached the door and turned off the light before I asked,
"Bruce, can I masturbate?"
He said nothing. He marched out the door and shut it behind him firmly, leaving me in the dark. I snickered, glad to finally get him one on him. The score was now me – 1, Bruce – probably 1500. Still, a victory for me is a victory.
I waited until his footsteps disappeared, and then I rolled out of bed.
Moonlight shone through my window, and I crept across the floor, careful to avoid the one board that squeaked loudly. I settled on my stomach in front of the grate in the floor, slowly opening the vent and laying my head down on it. It was warm from the heat, but if I stayed still and I breathed quietly, I could hear everything that happened down in the den. Bruce liked to read in there at night, and he and Alfred usually talked.
I heard all sorts of good stuff from the vent, where Bruce was going next, who he had been fighting, what he was doing at work, and why he mad at me.
I had heard the whole "Dick has ADD" conversation from there, and I usually knew what would be happening to me the next day or two because Bruce would tell Alfred to pick me up here and take me there. Bruce doesn't always inform me what I'll be doing the next day; he thinks I'm still nine and will be happy to ride in the nice car no matter where we're going.
"You talked to him?' Alfred asked in a voice that was firmer than his usual tone with Bruce. Alfred's always nicer to Bruce than to me.
"Yes, not that it did much good," Bruce sighed. "He wasn't listening to half of it, and then at the end he started asking irrelevant questions to just to make me uncomfortable. I had to swat him twice to get him to listen."
Three times! I corrected furiously but silently.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with him," Bruce went on. "I get so frustrated with him. If he's not goofing off, he's sulking and giving me angry side glances."
"He's still young," Alfred assured him. "He's barely more than a child."
I snarled in the darkness, but they could not hear me so it didn't mattered.
"I know, I know," Bruce said. "And I'm glad he's enjoying being a teenager and doing normal stuff and he's still excited about training with me but . . . is it wrong that I wish I could spank him every morning to get him to shape up?"
I sat up, horrified. How dare he say something like that? He was supposed to want to help me, not punish me.
Alfred, the traitor, chuckled. "Ah, Master Bruce."
"Yes?"
"No, I just remember feeling the same way when someone I know was not much older than Master Dick and just as impulsive and frustrating."
"Now, wait," Bruce protested, "I wasn't nearly as much trouble. I did what you told me."
"Indeed?" I could hear the smile in Alfred's voice. "I seem to remember taking one young man in his first dance who did not want to go, dressed under protested, and spent the entire car ride kicking the back of my seat until I threatened to stop the car and deal with him."
"I hated dancing," Bruce objected, but he seemed to be laughing.
"I also remember a young man getting suspended for a week because he was caught under the bleachers trying to take off a young lady's bra while they were kissing."
I nearly fell over at that information.
"I was older than Dick," Bruce insisted.
"You were fourteen," Alfred replied calmly.
"I had to be older than that," Bruce held his ground. "And you caned me for that."
"Indeed I did, and you deserved every stroke."
I dug my fingertips in the metal grate. I could not imagine Alfred ever punishing Bruce, not Bruce who did everything right and never made a mistake. Bruce was perfect – why would Alfred ever have to get on to him?
"I don't know what to do with him anymore," Bruce said after a moment of silence. "He keeps . . . annoying me."
"He's a teenager," Alfred told him, still talking in a calm voice.
"But when he came here, he was different. You remember what he was like back then."
"Yes, a sad little boy who missed his parents and wanted to be loved and comforted. You provided that for him."
"We did," Bruce corrected.
"But you never expected him to stay that child, did you? I knew he would become a teenager and later a young man and then an adult. And you weren't just taking in any child – this was a child with very different circumstances. That's why I questioned if you wanted to keep him or not."
The words hit me so hard I could not breathe. Alfred had not wanted me? I couldn't believe it – I knew Alfred didn't like me to get into mischief and I caused trouble and didn't like his fussing, but how could he say something like that?
I waited, I prayed for Bruce to deny it, to tell Alfred he was wrong.
"Yes, I remember," Bruce admitted. "But you remember what I said at the time?"
"Then what can we do now?" Alfred said, his tone showing he didn't expect an answer.
Silence, and then Bruce said, "Good night, Alfred," and I heard him walk away.
I crowded over the vent for a few more seconds, hoping I would hear something else, but no sound came through.
I went back to bed, got under the covers, and stared up at the ceiling. Alfred had not wanted me. Why not? I tried to remember what he had been like when I first came. He had scared me when I had arrived. Bruce had opened the door, and I saw a tall man in black, just like the men at my parents' funeral, and I started crying.
I think Bruce talked to me then, and I'm pretty sure that Alfred talked to me as well, because my next memory of him was sitting in the kitchen, eating cookies and drinking milk that he brought me. He makes these awesome chocolate nut cookies that I love, and I remember trying to steal them from the pantry when he wasn't there. He caught me the third time and scolded me for running my dinner, and I wasn't allowed any dessert that night as a punishment. I watched him put the cookie jar up on the high shelf beside several cans of condensed milk, and he muttered something about keeping sweets out of everyone's reach.
I tried to put that Alfred with the one that just said he didn't want me. But I couldn't remember Alfred doing anything that would make me think he disliked me. He was always around when Bruce was away, and Alfred never seemed mean. He wanted me to follow the rules and behave – one when I was about nine or so, he told me to go brush my teeth and go to bed. I was mad because Bruce wasn't home yet (this was before I knew about his nighttime job), and I threw my toothbrush on the floor. Alfred swatted my hands, not really hard, and said he would be telling Bruce when he got home. I think I burst into tears and begged him not to tell Bruce, and I'm pretty sure I ended up in bed with Alfred sitting beside me while I cried and promised not to throw things in the future.
If he had not wanted me, wouldn't he have slapped me across the face, screamed at me to shut up instead of being nice about it?
I rolled on my side, staring at my clock as I tried to understand what this meant. Why did he act the way he did if he hated me? Why fuss over me, making sure I wasn't sick, being nice to my friends, breaking up quarrels between me and Bruce – it was weird that he would do all that for someone he despised.
It took me forever to calm down enough to go to sleep, but my last thought before I dozed off was that I would just keep out of Alfred's way and try not to bother him. Maybe if he didn't notice me, if I kept out of the way, he wouldn't hate me so much.
Friday was a normal day, and I went to school and told everyone about seeing the Joker. Alfred was out for the evening which I was glad, and Bruce had brought Zathura for us to see. It looked really dumb, but I didn't say anything, not wanting to annoy him. We settled down to watch the movie on the huge screen in the movie room, and it turned out to be pretty good, kind of scary, especially when the sister got frozen and banged down the stairs like she was about to break into pieces. Bruce looked amused by the movie, and at the end, he commented, "I thought you would like it."
I don't know if he meant the story or scariness or the older brother who annoyed everyone, but I nodded along. I went upstairs to bed before Alfred got home. I meant to play Gameboy under the covers, but I fell asleep before I could.
Bruce was having coffee and reading the paper the next morning when I came down. I was careful to pick up my room and even make my bed, and I made sure the clothes I wore looked nice, weekend clothes of jeans and a long-sleeves shirt, but still nice. Alfred was standing over the stove when I came in, and he glanced at me. "At what breakfast would the young master like?"
Was he being sarcastic? I would have told him that I wasn't hungry, but I was. What was the easiest thing to fix for breakfast? Cereal? Toast?
"Whatever is the easiest," I replied quietly as I took my seat beside Bruce.
Bruce raised an eyebrow at me. "It's Saturday," he told me. "You can have Pop Tarts if you want, but only two."
I opened my mouth to reply that I didn't want Pop Tarts, I really would eat anything, but Alfred had already reached for the box.
"What else do you want?" Bruce asked after a sip of coffee.
"Nothing."
"Dick, we're training this morning. You need to have more than sugar. Alfred can fix you some oatmeal and turkey bacon."
I wanted to say no, but Alfred was already pulling out the two pans. I gave Bruce an agonizing look for making Alfred mad at me, but Bruce had gone back to reading the paper.
"Thank you," I said politely when Alfred brought my food. He smiled briefly and turned away, but I knew he was sneering at me on the inside.
What could I do to make him like me? I kept asking myself the same question over and over again as I ate. Maybe I could do some of the housework – I could vacuum and sweep and scrub the floors and wash windows and iron clothes. How hard could housework be? I would do my homework and I wouldn't try to sneak watching TV, and Alfred would realize that I wasn't just a pain in the neck, but someone who was worth keeping.
I finished my food, and I made my first step towards winning Alfred – I took my own plate to the sink. Alfred clears the table – when I first came to live here, he asked me to take my plate to the sink when I was finished, but that very night the plate slipped from my hands and broke on the floor. It was an accident, but after that, he said he would take care of the dishes.
But this morning, I stood up, put my fork and knife on my plate, and carried it and my glass to the sink. Bruce froze, his eyes watching me over the top of his coffee cup as I rinsed my plate and cup.
I turned to find Alfred staring at me. "Thank you for breakfast," I said.
"You're welcome," he said blankly.
"Bruce," I turned to him, "I'm going to go change for our training. I'll meet you down here in ten minutes."
As I left the kitchen, I heard Bruce ask Alfred, "What in the world's gotten into him?"
I hurried my walking so I wouldn't have to hear Alfred's answer. I was afraid it might be something like "Well, it's about time he shaped up," or something else mean.
I guess I could have worn my workout clothes to breakfast, but I was trying to make a good impression and a tee shirt and gym shorts do not impress butlers.
As I went into my room, I knew I would have to put worrying about Alfred on hold until later. Right now, Bruce would demand all my attention. Five minutes later, I headed down downstairs to train with Batman.