I own only what you don't recognize.

THURSDAY, Oct. 27, 2011

A week later, I'm lounging on the sofa in a living room on the second floor, watching an old basketball game on TNT.

My bedroom is on the fourth story, the highest floor. My room is one of the ones that you might see in a Martha Stewart magazine: a circular bed with maroon and white sheets and feather pillows; a large window opposite my bed that overlooks the front lawn with a cushioned bench and pillows that match my bedding; a walk-in closet to the right of my bed with rotating hanger racks; and a mahogany desk, cork board and matching dresser.

To the left of my bed is my personal bathroom. It comes complete with a Jacuzzi tub, and a waterfall shower head decorated with LED lights that have too many settings to count. There's also a rather large full-length mirror on the door connecting the bedroom and the bathroom.

Last but not least, my room has another walk-in closet, this one on the opposite wall of the bathroom. On one wall is a set of three shelves and a rack for hanging clothes underneath. There is another space at the back of that wall reserved for a writing desk where I can draw and do my homework. On the opposite wall are a large whiteboard and a cork board.

In addition, I learned that Bruce has another ward- Dick Grayson- whose room is two down from mine. He's away now, visiting relatives in Europe (1). Yes, I am a little jealous. I've never been to Europe outside of the circus tours, so I never really got to go sight-seeing. Maybe in the future, if I ask nicely...

Since my bags are already unpacked, there isn't really anything for me to do. I shuffle down the stairs and find myself in the kitchen, watching Alfred cook. "Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?" I ask the British butler.

"That's okay, Miss Andromeda," he replies. "You don't have to help."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am."

"If you say so. Just call if you do want any assistance." With that, I return upstairs to my room and flop down on my bed. I pull out my phone and speed-dial my friend across the country in Los Gatos: Zoey Martin.

The circus traveled to San Jose about a year ago, when I was twelve. It was then that my family and I decided to break off for a year so I could attend regular school. I didn't want to go into seventh or even eighth grade, because I knew it would be too easy for me. Since I look older than I actually am, I could get away with entering Los Gatos High School as a freshman. I enrolled in color guard, which is where I met Zoey, a fellow freshman (she, however, was the normal freshman age). The experience was great (and I am now corrupted from most of my innocent childhood, but that's marching band for you!) and now I have a ton of Golden-Coast friends. After that year, though, we joined back in with the circus.

"Hello?" I hear from the other end of the line.

"Heyy!" I say as a greeting. "It's me."

"Ohmygosh Andy! How are you doing? Are you okay?" she gushes. "I'm so sorry!"

"About what?" I ask, confused. I haven't called her since way before... you know.

"About..." she pauses, sighing. "About what happened!"

Now I'm really confused. "How do you know? I haven't posted anything on Facebook yet, or emailed anyone, or texted anyone, or anything."

"I heard what happened on the news! The coverage must've been all across the country!"

Oh my gawd. "It was on the news? Are you friggin' kidding me?" Uhg! This cannot be happening! But, I guess that's what happens when I'm adopted by the most famous playboy in New Jersey.

"No! You're famous now!"

"Well, can you guess who I was adopted by?" I can't help but scoff.

"Obama?"

"No, not quite that famous. Ever hear of Bruce Wayne?"

I hear my friend gasp and squeal excitedly on her end. "Annie, much? But without the bald dude and diabolical orphanage owner. He's like, so hot! Get me an autograph?"

"Dude! Ew! That's just nasty!"

"What? He's only like, thirty!"

"'He's so hot'? That's disturbing and creepy on way too many levels. I'm like, basically his kid now!"

"Well, I'm not."

There's a small silence. "It feels so weird. Everything in general. I'm not used to having everything done for me or having such a big bedroom or having so much more money at my disposal. Dude, I even have my own shower."

"I bet. It must be cool, though, too." Another pause. "So… how's everything with, uh, you-know-what?"

"We're the last two who know- for sure- about the existence of… well, yeah. Not even Stephan knows." I hear footsteps out in the hallway. I stop in my tracks and mull over what I should say next.

"I don't want to say much over the phone." My words are quick and quiet. "I can't risk a bug, even though I have no idea who would do that."

My friend gasps. "I once saw in a movie that people in super-secret government agencies listen in on conversations that people have by hacking into their cellphone lines."

I groan. "Thank you very much for making me feel so much less paranoid."

"Sorry."

"Sure you are. Enough about me, now. What's the scoop on life over on the West Coast?"

"Golden. School, of course, has started. But other than that, I've just been chillin' in that Californian way that people somehow manage chill, even though they're taking honors chem, algebra II, and honors English."

"What about outside of school?" I ask, laughing softly. "Bacon, boys, and Bones?"

"The three B's necessary for my life. Not including barbecue. That would be the fourth."

See, that's the thing about Zoey Martin: she never stops eating. Like, ever. She doesn't need to worry, though; she plays so many sports that she rarely gains even a single pound. It's the same case with me, but I come with the extra curves.

Anyways, I'm just starting to smell food, which probably means that dinner's finally ready. "Eh, I should go now. I think it's time for dinner. I'll call you or text you or video chat you later. Bye!"

"Bye!"

I hang up and rush down the stairs. When I see Alfred setting the table, I ask, "Need any help?"

"That's okay, Miss Andromeda," he repeats. "Thank you, though. I appreciate you offering."

"No problem," I shrug. "It's just that since you're the only one here..."

"Will Bruce be coming?" I switch topics. "Or does he have to work late- again?"

"Ah, the latter, I'm afraid. But don't worry; he will be home later."

"Within the past week, he's had dinner with us once." My face turns stony. "He's never around. I don't get the point of this whole adoption thing if he isn't there, being my foster parent. I asked for someone to be there for me. He said he would be, so why isn't he? I know he's rich and famous and all that, but so is Tom Cruise. So is Emily Deschanel. So is, like, Will Smith."

And about a million other celebrities, I think bitterly as I dig my knife into my steak.

That night, at about eleven o'clock, I've finished getting ready for bed, and I lounge on my bed in a tank top, sweatshirt, and sweatpants, reading The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey. Bruce only got home about ten minutes ago. I sigh, set down my book, and fire a text message to Zoey.

ME: Vid chat?

It takes two minutes for her to reply.

ZOEY: Sure. Bt isn't it L8 4 u?

ME: IDC. No skool 2morrow, no nothing 2morrow.

ZOEY: K. I'll b there in a sec.

I jump out of bed and quietly shut my door. I turn on my Dell laptop, open the program, and wait for Zoey to log in. In a couple minutes, her face is filling up almost my entire screen. A small box in a bottom corner of the window shows me.

Zoey is about three inches taller than me, has shoulder-length wavy brown hair, and somewhat pale skin. Her hazel eyes remain partially in the shadows cast by her brow bones.

"So, anything new since I last talked to you?"

"Not really. Had dinner without Bruce. Again. He got home at eleven. Again. No good-night from Bruce. Again. Ha! At least Alfred's here," I smirk.

"What exactly is the point of him being your guardian if he isn't there, actually guarding you?"

"That's basically what I ranted earlier to Alfred. I hope he didn't take that personally. I wonder what he's gonna say to Bruce, if he tells him at all."

"I don't think you should get in trouble or anything for saying that. I mean, there are dozens of other celebrities who have kids and still act or sing or be stupid or whatever. They mostly seem to manage it well."

"That's exactly my point."

She smiles. "Great minds think alike."

I return the happy gesture, even though it quickly fades. "I just miss you so much. You're the only one who understands anything I'm going through."

Tears start silently streaming down my cheeks unexpectedly. "I... right now, I just feel more alone than ever," I admit, trying not to sob. "The death of my parents tore my confidence apart. I need that somebody to lean on. But apparently, that somebody isn't Bruce, and for very obvious reasons. I don't even get why he even thought of adopting me. Was it because Stephan's his buddy? Was it just out of sympathy or kindness? Or for publicity?"

Zoey pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. "After our conversation earlier, I looked him up on Wikipedia. It said that his parents died, too, but when he was younger than you. They were mugged and murdered right in front of Bruce's eyes." I remember the distant look Bruce had in his gaze at the funeral. Then I think of the last sentence Zoey said.

What? "Murdered?" I repeat. I wipe the last tears from my eyes.

"Yeah. Must've been traumatizing."

"Not very different from my story." I silently mull my life over in my mind when two thoughts form in my brain. I decide to reveal the first to Zoey.

"Maybe it's a possibility… that your parents would let you fly over to Gotham? During winter break. You could stay here at the manor with me."

Zoey squeals with excitement. "Ohmygosh that's such a good idea! I'll have to ask my parents."

"Yeah." I extinguish the light. "I'll talk to Bruce and Alfred tomorrow, assuming that Mr. Workaholic has time to talk on a Saturday. Maybe if I can tear his focus away from the basketball game for long enough."

Zoey laughs quietly. "Ah, so he's a typical guy."

"Ya think? You shoulda seen him last night! It was the Nicks versus the Lakers. He was pretty pissed when the Lakers won. They always win!"

"I saw the game. Seventeen-point lead at one point. Wow."

"Yeah, I know, right?" I smirk. "Man, we are such dudes. Well, I should probably go to bed. It's almost twelve here."

"Yeah. Goodnight, Andy. And don't forget to ask!"

I giggle in agreement. "I won't." I watch as the window closes automatically. I slap the laptop shut and tiptoe to my dresser. I pick up a cylindrical piece of glass approximately five inches tall and two and a half inches at its widest diameter. Inside is a jellyfish made of bubbles, suspended inside the glass. It looks like one of those decorations that humans sometimes have in their offices or bedrooms, but I know better.

I light up my hand with energy, and the jellyfish comes to life. It twirls and floats around the glass, sometimes bumping into the sides. This is what we, back on Astridareus, called an illuminá essentiae, or light being. It feeds on the energy given off from my hands. Just watching it helps me think. It gets my mind off of most annoying things in life.

The second idea that I have is that my parents' deaths weren't random freak accidents. Before I met Zoey, I had two other friends, one in Iowa and one in Nevada. Both of them knew my secret, and both of them died. Their deaths were meant to look like accidents: both car crashes.

But I know better.

Illuminá Essentiae (ih-LOO-minh-ah ehs-SENT-shiah): from illuminábit essentia: Light Essence

(1) Yes, Dick actually is visiting his relatives in Europe, not on a secret Young Justice mission. At this point in time, YJ hasn't been formed yet. I will, however, write about how that comes into play later.

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