Terry actually cries himself to sleep, something he hasn't done since his dad died, and before that…he doesn't remember. His body shakes, not with suppressed sobs, but with the violence of a heroin addict going through withdrawal. He presses his face into his pillow so that it will soak up the downpour of tears.
When his dad died about a year ago, he had been able to turn to his mother for comfort. She was the only person whose shoulder he could cry on, and she still is. But he can't bring this to her, and it wouldn't be right to make up some other reason. So he has to keep it hidden, a small secret tucked into the larger one that looms over his whole life.
It occurs to him to wonder whether Bruce Wayne had ever cried alone in the dark like this, for an unknown, innocent person he'd been unable to protect. That's the last thing to go through his mind before his senses are hammered by the beetling of the alarm clock.
Terry sits bolt upright, propelled by a powerful mixture of confusion and sheer animal terror. He looks around, wild-eyed, and catches sight of the clock, which reads 6:45 AM. His bewilderment evaporates as his brain starts getting into gear. With a muttered curse he punches the clock's OFF button. The incessant shrill of the alarm is suddenly aborted.
He yawns as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, then knuckles his eyes to get the morning gunk out of them. And only then does he become aware of how sore and heavy and sticky his eyeballs are, of the ache in his throat, the crustiness on his cheeks, and a generally shitty feeling that's more intense than the usual just-woke-up miasma. He wonders if he might be sick or something.
Then it comes back to him, in a rapid series of images and sounds that hit him like blows. The gun. The girl. The blood. The tears. His bloodstream, only just recovering from the massive dose of adrenalin released into it in response to the alarm clock, gets a fresh jolt. Terry feels as if his head has turned into vapor and his stomach to ice. The room seems to spin, and he puts his hands over his ears, as if trying to hold his head in place. Maybe it was just a nightmare – right now, it doesn't seem quite real.
Yeah, right, says a bitter voice in the back of his head. You wish it was only a nightmare. Terry looks down at the pillow and then, cautiously, reaches out a hand to feel it. Part of it is still damp, and much of the surface is stiff with the salt left behind by the evaporating water. In his mind there flashes an image of the pillow stained with dried blood: He pushes it down.
His mother can't know about this. She can't know that he was crying. He gets up and flips the pillow over, so that the dampness and salt are hidden. But it isn't enough. With a sudden, manic frenzy, he tugs at the ground sheet, trying to straighten it out so that there are no creases. Then he yanks the sheet and blanket off the bed and starts remaking the whole thing. He's just finished putting the sheets back on and is getting ready for the next phase, the blanket, when he gets his third shock for the morning.
This time it's a knock on the bedroom door. "Terry? Are you up?" It's his mother.
He jumps with surprise and almost drops the blanket, but manages to catch it. "Yeah, Mom, I'm awake," he calls out, hoping that his voice sounds steady enough.
"Good. Remember to put on some nice clothes," she reminds him, her voice fading as she moves away from the door.
Nice clothes? He mulls over this for about five seconds before making a connection.
Graduation day. It's graduation day.
He finishes making the bed, moving more slowly this time. Then he dashes to the bathroom down the hall, brushes his teeth, takes a shower, combs his hair and zips back to his room. He goes through his closet, looking for something decent to wear. After a short search he settles on a dark blue button-down shirt, black trousers and a pair of shiny black shoes. He moves through this whole sequence like a zombie, and the only time he actually thinks at all is in the choosing of his outfit for the day. For the rest of it he tries not to think at all. Real thought is more than he can deal with right now.
Once he's done, he takes a look at his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging in his closet. He looks pretty good – his eyes look a little red, but not noticeably so. Physically, at least, he feels a lot better than he did when he woke up. He checks the clock – 7:10 AM. It may be the last day of school, but he still has to be in by 7:45 so that he can get the final grades from his teachers. At least he knows that he's passed them all. If he hadn't, there would have been a phone call or a note home by now.
There won't be much time for breakfast, but at least he'll have time to grab a nutrition bar and a glass of water, which is better than usual. Terry closes the closet door, walks to the window, and presses a button so that the shades will open. Sunlight comes flooding into the room. He blinks his eyes against it.
Somewhere in the back of his head, Batman chooses this moment to smirk and make some wry comment about how easy Terry McGinnis is finding it to ignore him right now. Most of the time, Terry doesn't mind that sort of thing, but now he grits his teeth and vindictively pushes Batman down. For the next several hours, the only person in Terry's conscious mind will be Terry McGinnis.
~***~
If Maxine Gibson has to shake one more hand, just one more, she is going to scream her lungs out.
Okay, maybe she won't. But she's getting sick of the endless stream of adults (she's eighteen years old, but can't quite manage to think of herself as an adult), many of them strangers, all their congratulations and smiles and features and handshakes blending into one big, undifferentiated whole. Shaking hands is even more of a problem because it's difficult to hold her degree and her valedictorian award plaque with one hand. The plaque has gotten steadily heavier and heavier since it was given to her about half an hour ago. She's been wandering around the main gymnasium, where the reception is being held, trying to find Terry. Max didn't get a chance to talk to him before the graduation ceremony, and hasn't seen him since.
The gym, which is a little too warm even in the dead of winter, is stifling in the early June heat. The black cap and gown, though they are made of thin, cheap polyester, make it even worse. Max pushes through the crowd, trying to keep from making eye contact or getting squashed.
Suddenly, she hears a voice behind her. "Max," it says simply. The voice is soft, but it manages to make itself heard despite the surrounding din. And though she's only met the speaker a couple of times, it's impossible to mistake him.
Max turns around to face Bruce Wayne, who is dressed in his usual black but does not seem to be sweating. She saw him sitting in the back of the auditorium during the graduation ceremony. Even though part of her had expected him to come, she'd been surprised to see him there. She is even more surprised to see that, even though the gym is so crowded, Bruce Wayne seems to have plenty of space. The man seems to have a personal force field that assures him three feet of clearance on all sides. What makes it really weird is that nobody else seems to notice him.
In Max's case, the force field is ineffectual. She steps into the cleared space to talk to him. "Hi, Mr. Wayne. How are you?"
He nods. "Fine." His eyes narrow just a little, for the shortest second – she almost doesn't catch it. "You look a little overwhelmed."
She's relieved that someone's finally noticed. "Yeah. Too many handshakes." Max realizes too late that Mr. Wayne may find this offensive, since it's likely that he was planning to congratulate her as so many other people have.
But he smiles, just a little. "I thought so," he said. "Do you mind if I ask what college you're going to?"
That's another thing she's gotten too much of, the college question. Coming from Wayne, though, it's not annoying at all. "Cornell. I'm not sure what I want to major in yet, though. Maybe art or music or history."
Mr. Wayne actually looks surprised. "Hm. That's funny, I thought you'd pick engineering."
Max shrugs. "Yeah, but it's stuff I've done before. I want to try something new." She's got the feeling that Wayne is laughing at her behind his eyes, but not in an unfriendly way. "So, is Terry going to work for you full-time from now on or what?" she asks casually.
"For the summer, at least," Mr. Wayne clarifies. "He's going to start at City College in the fall." The two-year Gotham City College is supported mostly by tax money – the base tuition is relatively low – and will admit any high-school graduate residing in Gotham as long as he or she has decent grades. Terry had told Max that his mother was pressuring him to go there instead of just changing his current job from part-time to full-time. It looks like Mrs. McGinnis got her way.
"Oh," Max says. "Where is he, by the way?"
"He's talking with Dana," Wayne answers. Max finds it odd that he called her 'Dana' and not 'his girlfriend.' But then again, Wayne's more than just Terry's boss.
At that moment, Terry himself joins them, pushing his way out of the crowd. Max opens her mouth to say hello, but shuts it.
It's the expression on his face. She doesn't need to ask him what's wrong. The whole story is practically written on his forehead.
Mr. Wayne probably sees it too, but he asks anyway. "What is it, Terry?"
Terry takes a deep breath and lets out a weary sigh. "Dana just dumped me."