Misfit
Chapter Two
Disclaimer: Thus far, believe it or not, I own everything and everybody in this story except for Bruce, Dick and the movies he's seen, Alfred, Pop Haly and the dead people. And Bruce Springsteen. If you want to use any of the other characters or items, ASK FIRST for cryin' out loud!! It's not like it'd kill you...
Hey. Nobody asked about the glasses. Interesting. (and don't you dare tell me you didn't notice them! I know you did...) Since nobody asked, I don't think I'll answer. :-P
William West watched the fight from the principal's office. That Grayson kid was good! He was making mincemeat out of his pals (okay, that part he'd have to get revenge for later). There were just a couple of things that Billy was wondering about: where had he learned to do all those fancy flips? And why did the name 'Dick Grayson' sound so familiar?
Usually, Billy wasn't into research of any kind, but now he thought some research on Four-Eyes Grayson was in order. Besides, it might uncover something embarrassing enough to get his revenge with.
He snuck over to Principal McNeilson's computer and logged on to the Internet, hoping that nobody would hear the dial-up tones from the hall.
Even if they do, they'll think it's the principal, Billy thought.
As soon as he was on, he visited one of those search engines and typed in
Dick Grayson
He came up with about a zillion results, but the one he wanted proved to be right on top.
"No way!" he murmured in amazement. "Get out...! Man, Grayson, I am gonna murder you tomorrow! This is—"
The doorknob turned. Billy hurried back to his desk in the corner and pretended to continue copying definitions out of the dictionary.
"Oh, Billy," said Principal McNeilson, as if she had forgotten he was there.
As the principal called one of the "Pride Patrol" officers from the hall and asked him to escort Billy back to his classroom, Billy took a minute to glance at the four disheveled students out of the corner of his eye. Grace looked frightened, but clean. Dylan and Peter looked as if they had tried to wrestle a tornado (which might have been safer). And Dick... well, let's just say he didn't look as 'picture perfect' as he had earlier.
"Billy," called the principal. "James here will take you back to your classroom. Ms. Whitman should be there already and will keep an eye on you until recess is over."
Billy merely got up and followed James obediently, still thinking about his new-found weapon to use against Four-Eyes. As he got closer to the classroom, an elaborate plan began to form. Billy grinned devilishly.
Just you wait till tomorrow, Grayson! You're toast!
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
"Now, I would like a complete explanation for the irrational behavior I just saw out there," said the principal.
Must she use such big words? Dick thought. Not that he didn't know what 'irrational' meant, but Dick just felt stupid when people used big words like that (and between the principal, Bruce Wayne and Alfred, Dick had been feeling very stupid lately).
Grace began the story:
"It started when I told Ms. Whitman that Billy was pulling Nichelle's hair..."
Between Dick and Grace, the whole story came out, except for the part about the necklace which had been carefully omitted by Dick. Dylan and Peter refused to say anything, which didn't please the principal at all.
"Alright," she said when they had finished. "Grace, you return to your class and tell your teacher that Dick will be returning shortly."
From the way Principal McNeilson emphasized 'Dick', it was pretty clear that Dylan and Peter would be spending a good, long time in detention.
After Grace left, McNeilson escorted the three remaining students to Nurse Takei's Office. She was about to go back to her own office when Dick's quiet voice stopped her.
"Principal McNeilson... you aren't going to tell Bruce about this, are you?"
The principal looked confused for a minute. "Bruce?" she repeated. Suddenly, her eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh! You mean Mr. Wayne! Bruce Wayne!"
Dick was more than tempted to say "Of course, Bruce Wayne! Who did you think I'd be worried about, Bruce Springsteen?!" However, he figured he was in enough trouble without adding 'back-talking the principal' to the list. So instead, he nodded as he nudged the glasses upwards again.
It's a wonder they didn't fall off and crack during the fight.
Principal McNeilson squatted in front of Dick and said gently, "I'm afraid I have to tell him—and even if I didn't, he'd be sure to notice that bloody nose of yours."
Dick dabbed at the space between his nose and upper lip with two fingers. It stung, and the fingers came away red.
"But don't worry," the principal said, "I'll make sure that he understands this wasn't your fault."
Dick nodded a little, but couldn't shake the feeling that he was going to be in big trouble just the same.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Dick's feeling proved to be partially correct: Bruce Wayne was far from pleased when Dick came home with a bruised cheek, a bloody nose and about a dozen other minor injuries. However, Principal McNeilson had gone out of her way to make it clear that the injuries were not Dick's fault, and he didn't blame Dick for anything.
Then there was Alfred. He wasn't happy with Dick at the moment either. Dick had just ruined his school uniform, and there was no way any of that "miracle detergent" would ever get out all the dirt and grass-stains and rips in the navy blue pants and formerly white shirt.
Now, only fifteen minutes after coming home, Dick was in his room. Bruce wasn't much for giving lectures. Come to think of it, he wasn't much for talking, period. In the two months that Dick had been here, Bruce hadn't said more than a couple sentences at a time to his ward. Why? Dick didn't have a clue. He had tried to be nice, always smiling whenever his guardian came into a room, trying to make conversation. But nothing ever worked. Bruce rarely ever spoke to Dick, and as for smiling... well, it was non-existent as far as he went. Much different from the circus life, where everyone was always smiling and talking and laughing...
Dick sighed, thinking of his parents and his former home. He leaned over the side of the bed and pulled out a little wooden box that Pop Haly had made and given to Dick just before the ex-trapeze artist went to live with Bruce Wayne.
"It's a memory box," Haly had said. "You put things in it that are important to you. And I already have something for it."
Haly had pulled something out of his pocket, put it in the box and then shut the lid.
"Don't open it till you get to your... new home," Haly instructed. Dick did as he said and, when he did open it that night, he found the chain necklace with two gold bands strung on it—his parents' wedding rings. Dick had cried all that night, and hadn't taken the chain off for a minute since.
Now, all that the box contained were a few letters and photos of 'the gang' from Haly's Circus. Dick spent a lot of time looking at them and wishing he was back with his real family.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," Dick said, quickly shoving the Memory Box back under his bed. He didn't really want anybody else seeing his private stuff.
Alfred stood in the doorway.
"Oh, hey, Alfred. And if you've come to lecture me, I'll save you the trouble." Doing his best Alfred-imitation, Dick said, "Master Dick, your actions at school this afternoon was abominable. I am shocked and disappointed that you should display such horrible behavior."
Alfred shook his head, looking amused and annoyed at the same time.
"No, young sir, I merely came to talk."
"That's the same thing."
"Not at all, Master Dick," Alfred insisted, sitting next to Dick on the boy's bed. "I merely thought that we were long overdue in getting to know one another."
"Well, that's okay then," said Dick. "Whaddya wanna know?"
Alfred tried to ignore Dick's less-than-impressive terminology as he replied, "Anything you wish to tell me, Master Dick—perhaps you'd be willing to start with why you wear those glasses when I'm sure contact lens would do just as well?"
"Oh. These?" Dick pulled off the glasses and pretended to look at them, although he honestly couldn't see a thing when they were off. "Well, I could wear contacts, I guess, but I don't like 'em very much. I didn't have a choice when we were performing—the glasses would fall off, and they'd be pretty hard to fix after falling seventy feet to the ground!" Dick was silent a moment, then added, "You were surprised when I walked in the front door for the first time with these things on, weren't you?"
"I must admit, I did not expect you to be wearing spectacles."
"They're glasses, Alfred. 'Spectacles' make me feel old. Which I'm not."
"Of course not," Alfred complied amiably, watching as Dick replaced the glasses. After watching the boy's facial features for a moment, he said, "There's another reason you prefer those glasses to contacts, is there not?"
"Well..." Dick hesitated. "They used to belong to my Dad. When he discovered contact lenses, he gave them to me. They're sorta special..."
There was another silence as Dick thought about his late father. He had always been so lively and funny and animated... why had he died and left him all alone? Why...
Breaking the somewhat uncomfortable pause, Alfred inquired, "What sort of things did you do with your father, Master Dick?"
"You mean besides perform before hundreds of people under a muggy ol' circus tent?" Dick quipped. "Not much, but I remember that he used to love old movies. Sometimes, I thought the only things he liked better than Judy Garland were my mom and the trapeze."
Dick grinned a little to himself at some fond memory of the past. "Sometimes when we took the night off from practicing we'd all sit down on the couch and watch Gone with the Wind or Cover Girl or something. Mom would always cry through the end of West Side Story and I'd usually talk through half of Here Comes Mr. Jordan, then Dad would pretend to get mad and box my ears."
"It sounds as if you and your parents really, really loved each other," Alfred commented thoughtfully.
"We did!" Dick agreed. He swallowed back the rapidly growing lump in his throat. He hadn't talked about his parents since their deaths. It was scary, yet strangely relieving, too.
After a minute, he continued, "I think my favorite movie was An American in Paris. Know why?"
"Why is that, Master Dick?"
"Well, not only was the music and dancing great, but I remember the first time we watched it. Right in the middle of the scene where Gene Kelly sings "Love is Here to Stay" to Leslie Caron near the river, Dad got up, bowed to Mom... and they danced. I'd never seen them dance before, and never did again. But it seemed to make them so happy..."
Alfred watched sympathetically as Dick pushed at his glasses again to wipe away the tears.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Later that same day, someone else knocked at Dick's bedroom door.
"Come in," he said.
Bruce poked his head in.
"Phone call, Dick," was all he said before disappearing.
"Phone call?!" Dick repeated in confusion. He followed his guardian back downstairs while saying, "Whaddya mean, 'phone call'? I don't know anybody, and nobody knows me! Who is it?"
By this time, the duo was downstairs. Bruce handed Dick the phone and promptly left. Dick sighed at the lack of friendliness between the two of them and said, "Hello?"
"Is this Richard Grayson?" a slightly peeved female voice asked. If Dick was confused before, he was even more so now. The only females he knew were the Dubois twins, who rode bareback in the circus, but they were French. Of course, it could have been Bertha the Bearded Lady, but Dick knew a bearded lady when he heard one. Besides, no-one ever—ever—called him 'Richard'. Dick, yes. Dickie, yes. And his mother had called him 'little Robin' often enough. But never was the name Richard used unless he was in humongous trouble.
"Yes, this is Richard... Dick... Grayson," Dick told the voice.
All of a sudden, the woman started ranting and raving about... about what? Dick couldn't make out a word she was saying. All he knew was that this woman was either crazy, or that he had inadvertently done something to offend her.
"Uh, ma'am? Why are you yelling at me?" Dick asked. "I don't even know who you are!"
"I'm Mrs. Anderson, that's who I am!" the woman shouted. Anderson... Dick repeated the name to himself... this couldn't be Dylan Anderson's mother, now could it? Dick asked the enraged woman if she was indeed Dylan's mom.
"I most certainly am! How dare you beat up my son like this! He won't be able to walk without limping for a week!"
"Well, don't blame me! It's not my fault if he threw the first punch!" Dick protested, unaware that Bruce had come back into the room and was leaning in the doorway, listening to everything his ward said.
"He was teasing a girl at school!" Dick was saying on his own behalf. "I told him and another guy to knock it off and he tried to kill me... no offense, lady, but I don't care what your son says. He's twice my size; why would I—... YES, I AM calling your son a liar!"
Bruce winced slightly. Not exactly a tactful move there, he thought, wiping a hand down his face.
"Well, excuse me for telling the truth!... Hey, do I insult your mother?! Mine's dead anyway! What has she got to do with this... well, now you DO know... forget it! I'm not apologizing to Dylan for trying to knock my block off and threatening to beat up a girl... good-bye, ma'am!"
Dick slammed the phone on Mrs. Anderson and turned to leave the room. He saw Bruce standing in the doorway and gulped. Was he in trouble again?
"You heard?" Dick questioned, already knowing the answer.
Bruce nodded. "I heard," he said quietly.
Bruce chanced a look into Dick's face, half-hidden by the ridiculous glasses he always wore. Bruce thought that Dick was a rather plain-looking boy with midnight-black hair that was never in the same place twice, pale skin that easily flushed when embarrassed, a slightly turned-up nose and—from what he could see through the glasses—crystal-clear blue eyes. He could see a pain in those eyes, as well as a sort of longing. But what for? Bruce couldn't ask. Heck, he could barely even look at the boy without being reminded of that fateful night so very, very long ago.
"I... guess I'm in big trouble again, huh?" Dick said. He looked guiltily down at his feet as he poked at the glasses once more.
"Not exactly."
"Meaning...?"
"You stuck up for yourself, which was good."
Dick grinned a little.
"It's the way you phrased it that was bad."
Dick's face fell and he looked back down at his shoes.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a very short temper?"
"Sure, lots of times."
"I think I know why."
"Me, too."
Dick looked up at Bruce. Was this guy actually talking to him, or was he just making observations that Dick wasn't supposed to be answering?
Either way, I guess it's like a conversation... triumph number one! I talked to the Zombie!
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Later on that day, Peter's mother called the Wayne household. And she was no less infuriated than Mrs. Anderson had been.
"Mr. Wayne, I demand that your son be removed from the school! He nearly killed my poor Peter!" she yelled.
"From what I've seen, it was more like the other way around—and he's not my son," Bruce told her in a low voice.
"Well, whatever! He's still in your care and you're responsible for him and his actions!"
"I'll admit that I am responsible for Dick, but Dick is responsible for his own actions."
"I still say remove him before he hurts someone else!"
"How could Dick 'nearly kill' a boy twice is height and weight? And he's been my ward for almost two months already: Dick wouldn't hurt anyone unless attacked first."
This lady was really beginning to get on Bruce's nerves. If this is the way Mrs. Anderson had acted, then he suddenly understood why Dick had been so rude to her earlier.
"Are you calling my son a liar?" Peter's mother demanded in a shrill voice.
"What did he tell you?"
"My boy came home looking half-dead, Mr. Wayne!" the woman insisted. "He walked right through our door with about a hundred cuts and gashes and a still-bleeding lip, just barely managing to tell me that it was Dick Grayson who had jumped him for no reason—good or bad!"
"If that's what your son said, then YES, I AM calling him a liar."
"Well!"
::SLAM::
Bruce sighed. What was with these parents anyway? He was just glad that he had sent Dick to bed a half-hour ago; otherwise he surely would have heard the conversation. And the last thing Bruce needed at the moment was a smart-alecky comment from Dick Grayson about his choice of words.
Reviewer Replies (yea!)
I am Dick. I am doing the reviewer replies for this story because... well, because I feel like it.
Bumpkin--It's not crud? Oh, good. Panamint will be very happy to hear that... if she ever stops singing that song from the "Cover Girl" finale, that is... if you can call that singing. ;-)
annie--More? Of course there's more! There's gotta be at least a zillion pages in this story!! Where she comes from, Panamint has been infamous for writing long stories ever since the second grade.
Teri--'It means 'no worries' for the rest of your days...' oops, sorry. Been watching too many cartoons again. :-) Anyway, thanks. Panamint was scared stiff that she'd get about fifty flames for this one. Why, don't ask, cuz I happen to like it. And apparently, so do you.
Jenn11--Of course I have honor!! Whaddya think I am, a fink like that Billy jerk? Anyway, glad you liked it (truth be told, this was originally going to be four parts instead of two, but Panamint could never finish the first two parts and chopped the whole thing in half. But don't tell her I told you that.)