Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. National Dance Institute is a real organization, founded in 1976 by premier ballet dancer Jacques d'Amboise, former principal dancer at the New York City Ballet. Its goal is to bring dance to school aged children, using the medium to motivate excellence while teaching discipline and a love of the arts in its students. I strongly suggest watching the Academy Award winning film "He Makes Me Feel Like Dancin'" to understand what the program—and the man himself, do.

Part Three

Three Years Later

Fifteen Years Old

Path A

Dick was pretty happy about the way things were going right about now. He was doing well in school—like Bruce would tolerate anything less than Honor Roll in this lifetime—he was starting to actually make a couple of friends in his classes after years of being thought of as either a weird charity case, a geek or flat out boring and the stupid rumors about him and Bruce seemed to have died down for a while. Okay, he knew that they'd start up again in a few months because that was what always happened, but for now things were looking all right.

On the Robin front things were even better; He was leading the Titans who were getting the credit that was frankly due them for some of the stuff they were doing—not that credit was why they did what they did, of course, but it was still nice to have. He was beginning to think that Barbara might start looking at him as something other than a little brother one of these days and that thought was the cause of more than one embarrassing incident between Alfred and his laundry (not that Alfred would ever say anything, of course). One of these days. Maybe. If he was lucky.

Sometimes even Dick wondered why he was so hooked on Barbara instead of almost anyone else he'd ever met. Sure, she was smart and beautiful, had a killer bod and they had an incredible amount in common, but he could say the same thing about him and Donna when you came down to it. And Donna was even one of his best friends to boot. But friends though they were, they just didn't have the spark he felt when he was around Barbara. They just didn't click the same way. Once he'd even tried to say something to Bruce about it—the playboy of the western world, right? He should have a clue about this kind of thing, you'd think, right?

Nope. Nothing. Nada.

Well, okay, he'd made the expected comments about how even though he understood that Dick was feeling 'urges' (God!) in that direction, and that was perfectly normal, well, he was not only a bit young for that sort of thing, but he really needed to be concentrating on more important things right now. With his body going through all the changes it was, with his center of gravity shifting a bit so that he had to adjust his gymnastics moves and the amount of work he was expected to be doing in school, on top of his 'evening' job, plus his time spent leading the Titans, well, he could better afford to think about this sort of thing in a few years when his life was a bit more settled.

Yeah, right. Big help.

"Master Dick, there was some mail for you today, did you see it?" Alfred left the tray loaded with milk and cookies on Master Bruce's heirloom solid teak desk, the one his great great great grandfather had commissioned from the Chippendale's furniture company several hundred years ago.

Dick was outlining the history term paper he had to turn in next month while sitting on the floor of Bruce's study, close to the encyclopedia, the rare book collection and the big computer (Okay, not as big as the ones downstairs, but bigger than the one Dick had up in his room). He had to write an entire thirty-plus page paper, complete with footnotes and all the bells and whistles, on the importance of political pamphlets during the American Revolution. God, kill me now. Please. Common Sense by Thomas Paine. And…? There had to be more. There had to be. Maybe if he triple spaced instead of double spacing the teacher wouldn't notice.

Uh-huh, and he could write it in pig Latin while he was at it, too. This was a nightmare.

"What mail?"

Alfred handed him the letter. "It was in Robin's box down at the headquarters and Batman picked it up last evening while you were at that Titans meeting. It seemed a bit different from the usual fan letters, if I might be allowed to venture an opinion." He handed it to the boy who showed mild interest, at best. These things were usually either requests for some kind of favor—visiting a sick kid, spending an afternoon at some school or something or an invitation to some six year olds birthday party. This looked like one of the charitable requests; it was a legal sized envelope with 'National Dance Institute' and some New York address in the left hand corner.

With only the slightest interest, he opened it, scanning the letter inside then tossed it aside. It was about what he'd expected, an invitation/request for him to be part of this year's main fundraiser for the Institute. They were giving a performance at the theater in Madison Square Garden in three weeks, he would be the featured guest and would only be asked to do whatever moves and dance he would be comfortable with. The kids participating had voted, he was the overwhelming favorite to be invited and they hoped he'd consider it. They would be proud if he said yes and would do what they could to work with his schedule.

He got these things all the time and would, occasionally, agree to them if he really had nothing else going on. He tries to help out where he could, but this was the same week they were going to spend at Bruce's place in Aspen—it was spring break and he'd been looking forward to some down time for a couple of months now. Sorry, Jacques, really am, but can't make it. He'd called in the morning to let them know they'd have to book someone else.

Come to think of it, maybe Donna would do it. She liked kids a lot and she'd studied dance. He'd call her later and feel her out on it. If she couldn't so it, maybe Kal—nah, he was always busy and even Dick felt funny about asking him for favors. Donna would probably help him out.

And everyone liked Donna; she was pretty, she was nice, she was always the one to bail him out of this kind of stuff.

He turned his attention back to obscure stuff about the Revolution, feeling slightly guilty and a little annoyed that it bothered him. He worked hard both at school and as Robin and it wasn't like he didn't do charity stuff all the time. He did. He did lots of this stuff. He'd stopped by at Ronald McDonald House just two days ago when they'd asked him to and spent almost three hours talking to sick kids, signing autographs, throwing some basic moves. And last month he showed up at three of Bruce's boring dinners and two more meet and greets for the Titans plus he'd given a couple of interviews that had nothing to do with the current cases—he worked hard and he deserved some time to himself. He really did.

And he was starting to really hate the sound of squealing teenaged girls. They always asked him if he'd kiss them or let them take a picture with his arm around them or to autograph their bras or something. God—it was just so, so…it was so gross. And embarrassing. Yeah, most of his life was going pretty well right now, but sometimes, now and then it got to be weird.

Thomas Paine. Yeah, right. Back to work.

Besides, he'd heard Bruce talking to Alfred when he came down for breakfast this morning; Ra's was around again, recovered from the last encounter and probably gunning for Bruce again. This would mean that Dick—okay, Robin, would be in the line of fire and could well end up tied to a tree/rail road rack/ bridge trestle/speeding locomotive and have to be rescued before the week was out.

It was embarrassing, but it seemed to happen more often than he would like to admit. Luckily Bruce never seemed to get mad about it, though.

Then there was the stuff he had to deal with over at Titan Tower. Something was going on with Roy and whatever it was wasn't good. He'd been moodier than usual, bad tempered, obnoxious and a real pain in the ass. Garth had even come close to losing his temper with him and Garth never lost his temper about anything. Well, hardly ever, anyway. He really had to be pushed to get cheesed off and Roy was doing it to everyone lately. He was acting kind pf spacey, too and Dick thought that maybe he had started drinking again, but hadn't ever smelled any liquor on his so that probably wasn't it.

It could be drugs, of course and that was what it was starting to look like. The question was what drugs and how much and Dick planned on finding out this week then seeing what had to be done to fix whatever the problem was.

He felt kinda bad about it, but he really didn't have time for everything and charity stuff was on the back burner right now.

So was almost everything else, for that matter. He was simply too busy.

Path B

"So are you and Amy going to that movie tonight, honey?" Haley's was playing Scottsdale, Arizona this week and over the last three years Dick and Amy had become a teenaged item. Her mother, Donna, had signed on as head of Haley's wardrobe department two years ago so they were all traveling together most of the year and no one seemed to object when the kids wanted to go into some town or other to catch a film, do some window shopping or just take a walk—so long as it didn't interfere with a performance or rehearsal, of course. Work was work.

"I don't know, maybe. I heard there's a public pool around here we could go to instead."

Mary and John were sitting on folding chairs outside their trailer, enjoying the sun, reading and doing chores. "That would be nice—and did you call that reporter back like I asked you to do?" The annoyed sigh and silence were answer enough for his mother. "Dick, I've asked you at least three times this morning and you know how I feel about not returning phone calls; it's rude. Will you please go make that call? Now."

"…Fine."

Mary looked over at John; irritated he hadn't backed her up on this. "Dick, do what your mother asked."

"I hate reporters, they ask stuff that's none of their business."

"To which you politely smile and tell them you'd rather not answer that one if they don't mind. Go make the call."

He gave an annoyed and theatrical sigh. "Fine." With every line of his body saying exactly what he thought about having to call this guy, Dick went to the box office to use the phone, leaving his parents alone outside of the small trailer. They were quiet for a few minutes while Mary repaired a torn shoulder seam on Dick's new costume and John looked over the local paper.

"Since when does he have a problem with reporters?"

"Since they started writing more about his looks and asking whether he has a girlfriend than about his quad."

"Jack wants to feature him in the new placards and newspaper ads. Did you know about that?"

John kept his face in the newspaper. "I think he mentioned something about that a month or two ago; said that since we're the lead act and he's…"

"And he's a good looking young man…"

"Jack said he's getting fan letters mentioning Dick and referring to him as, I think the phrase was 'that hunk'."

"And far be it for Jack to miss an opportunity to cash in on something." She wasn't happy about this.

"C'mon, Mary, you know how the business works; you sell what the public wants to buy. The better you do that, the more tickets you sell."

"And can you honestly say you're happy about your fifteen year old son being packaged and sold as a teenaged heart throb? You can't tell me you think Dick will enjoy that—and I know I won't."

"I won't enjoy what?" Dick came around the corner of the trailer in time to hear the tail end of his parent's conversation.

"…Nothing. Don't worry about it." John gave him that look which meant 'drop it'. "Did you make that call?"

"I said I'd talk to him after the show tonight."

"Good. Thank you." Mary decided it was time to change the subject. "You also got another call this morning—did Bridget get a hold of you?"

Dick gave her a look like, 'you're doing it again, changing the subject' then gave her his 'you know I'll find out what you don't want me to know sooner later' but settled for now with, "No, I was over setting out the trapeze lines for later and she wasn't in the office just now; what did she want?"

"To tell you had a phone call—go see what it's about, sweetie." She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, "Here you are—'pls call Jack Duboy any time 212-555-9021'. It's a New York number, who's that, honey?"

Dick shrugged "I don't know", stuffed the message in his pocket and went inside to get a bottle of water before heading over to the costume area to pick up Amy.

"Dick? Please call that person back."

"I will."

"Now, please."

"…Fine."

"Hello? This is Dick Grayson, returning a call from Mr. Duboy, is he available?"

"Dad? It's for you. Somebody Grayson."…. "Hello?"

"Mr. Duboy? You called me?"

"Thanks for calling back so quickly, Dick. May I call you Dick?"

"Sure." Whatever. "What can I do for you?" Probably just another reporter.

"My name is Jacques d'Amboise and I head the National Dance Institute here in New York—I saw your show was going to be in town next week right at Madison Square Garden and I was hoping you could do us a favor."

"What favor, Mr. Duboy?" In fact Dick knew exactly whom he was talking to. Jacques d'Amboise was a legend and he'd seen that movie about his dance program just a couple of months ago It was pretty damn impressive. He'd also suspected why the man had called him.

"Call me Jacques, it's easier. Our headliner cancelled at the last minute and we're kind of stuck. You're an athlete, you know music and you're used to performing, plus you'll be in the same building anyway—our show is in the theater right there at the Garden. I was hoping you'd be willing to be our guest artist this year."

"Um, yeah, look—I'm flattered, but I have my own shows to deal with, y'know? We do like six performances a weekend, sometimes nine in three days. It's a lot. And I'm not a dancer, I'm just an acrobat, a flyer."

"Our show is on Monday which is usually dark for you, right? You're smart and you can move. I can teach you what you need to know and I'll make sure it showcases your strengths—so what do you say? You and Haley's get some extra publicity and I get a new guest artist; that sounds like a fair deal to me. Win-win all around."

If he turned it down he knew his parents would kill him and—damn—Jacques d'Amboise—the man was beyond incredible and he was asking—practically begging Dick to help him out. Okay, this was a no-brainer.

"Sure, it sounds like fun. We'll be in New York on the third, I'll give you a call then."

A week later Dick was in double rehearsals for Haley's and for Jacques' show as well. He had performances two or three times a day and then would go over to the theater on the other side of the building for an hour or so to learn the moves that had been choreographed for him. He was tired, but having more fun than he'd thought he would. Jacques was terrific—funny, smart and at the top of his game while demanding as much as Dick's father did with no slacking. He was learning pirouettes, jetes and all kinds of stuff he'd never cared about but which he was determined to get right—or as right as was going to happen in a week. His part mostly consisted of a few tumbling passes across the stage, plus he threw double layouts and some whip backs. It was a kick, but he knew the point of the show was the kids and so he toned it down to keep the main attention where it should be.

Dick had been around shows long enough to know where to put the focus.

The kids were great, too. The girls all had immediate crushes on him but went for cool instead of gushing and giggling, thank God and the boys all thought he was awesome for being a real circus performer and doing all that traveling but still being a regular guy who just sort of happened to be an incredible athlete. He arranged for the kids to see one of the matinees, thanks to Jack Haley being a sucker for his 'family's' requests and it was the first circus most of them had seen. After watching Dick do his part in the act, they were doubly impressed and he had the beginnings of a fan club that would follow him for years to come.

He'd had a good time working with Jacques and the kids. They'd been really patient with his non-dance status and had allowed him to do what he was good at, just like he'd been promised and it had made a fun change, too.

He'd been doing the act with his parents since he was four and sure, he loved it, but it was kinda routine after that long, even when they put in new stuff. Same old, same old.

The reporters who covered the thing for the papers and the local newscasts all knew the score as well, so they took all the dutiful shots of the kids, but spoke with Dick privately. Professionals, they knew a personality when they saw it. Oh, sure there were a bunch of dancers or gymnasts who could have done the moves he'd pulled off, but there weren't many who could have commanded the audience's attention like that or who had the same flair. He'd had them all eating out of his hand and later, when the show's producer asked to speak with John and Mary he'd made it clear he'd be interested in seeing, asking Dick what he'd like to be doing in a few years. Athletes were a dime a dozen—someone with natural charisma and showmanship who could do what Dick had done—steal a show away from cute kids in a theater filled with parents were hen's teeth.

After the production shots were in the New York Times and the Post, the Grayson's got two calls asking if their son was signed with a modeling agency. Both Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren were interested and they'd had hints that Tommy Hilfiger was interested as well. Ford and Elite offered representation in their Men's divisions. Dick was embarrassed but agreed to listen when he heard that he could make money for basically standing around getting his picture taken in his spare time. He made it clear they'd all have to workaround his show schedule because that was his first responsibility, but since they seemed okay with that, he ended up signing with Ford with his first shoot scheduled in two weeks out of Boston since that was Haley's next stop anyway. He'd take a day to go over to the Cape for a few hours and be back in time for the seven o'clock performance. He'd make three thousand dollars for his trouble.

This could work out well if he was lucky. He wasn't sure if he wanted to go to college—okay, he was sure he didn't, but his mother wouldn't listen to that and he didn't want to disappoint her and since they didn't have any money for that right now, this could come in handy in a couple of years.

Then there was the other thing that was going on; Amy and Dick hung around each other as much as they could and that had the parents a little concerned. Every time they turned their backs the kids were off somewhere together. Now none of them were naïve enough to think the kids were just friends and John had broken up more than one session which seemed to be getting a bit out of hand, but they were still only fifteen and Dick's mother was still a devote Catholic.

"You know how your mother feels about that, Dick. Try to watch what you're doing, all right?"

"Dad…God!"

"You are being careful, aren't you? I mean, well—you know what I mean."

"…Could we please not have this conversation? Please?"

"All right, but you know that if you need…anything, I'll get them for you. I don't mind and I'd rather know you're prepared than to worry. So would your mother."

"Jesus, Dad…c'mon, drop it, will you? We're fifteen, for Chrissake."

"Well, you're a lot more mature and a lot more independent than most kids your age, you both are and when I was fifteen…"

"Oh, please don't finish that sentence."

"Just be careful, that's all I'm saying."

Dick had a look of embarrassed horror on his face as his father squeezed his shoulder and went back into the trailer, dreading having to go in there soon to get some sleep. It was tiny, just the one room and he knew his mom had put his father up to this, but there wasn't really any need. It wasn't like he was stupid or anything and neither was Amy.

Besides, they were being careful.

TBC

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