Acknowledgement: I'd like to thank Louise, Loren, and Cat for their 
assistance; their critical input was priceless in the final development of my 
story. 

Disclaimer: All the characters are owned by DC Comics and Time/Warner; this 
is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. 
Feedback is welcome! Copyright 1999 

Word count: 5,877 

My Girl
by Syl Francis (efrancis@earthlink.net)

***

Of all the wealthy manors in all the world, she had to walk into mine. I knew 
she was trouble the first time I laid eyes on her. Orange-red braids tied 
back with kelly-green ribbons. Tortoiseshell glasses that gave her a studious 
(yet, sexy) owl-like look. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of her 
nose, which added just a touch of character to an otherwise perfect 
complexion. 

Behind the glasses, she had eyes that matched the color of her hair ribbons.
 
She had legs that went from here to--well to the ceiling it seemed. Gosh, but 
she was tall! I had to crane my neck back almost as far as when I was 
addressing Bruce . . . well, maybe Alfred. But, hey, I was only nine and 
until she walked through the door of the study I was quite reasonably and 
maturely explaining to Bruce why nine year old ex-acrobats didn't require the 
services of a . . . babysitter. 

"I don't *need* a stinking babysitter! Mom and Dad *always* let me stay home 
alone! They *never* called a babysitter!" Well, hardly ever. 

Bruce totally and unfairly ignored my perfectly sound argument. 

"Captain Gordon's daughter has very graciously agreed to help us out of this 
spot, chum, and *you* are going to be nice to her! Now I don't want to hear 
any more on the subject, understood?" Even back then, Bruce wasn't big on 
conversation. 

"But--" 

"No buts!" Bruce interrupted, holding out his hand. "Now scoot on up to your 
room and get ready for bed. The Gordons will be arriving soon, and I want you 
looking presentable when you meet Barbara." 

I'd only been living with the guy for about five weeks, but I'd already grown 
used to *that* tone of finality. 

Conversation over. 

Master Bruce had spoken. 

Thirty minutes later, I was being relentlessly subjected to Sergeant Major 
Alfred's military inspection of ears, clean hands, and fingernails, as well 
as his nightly litany of ceaseless interrogations: 

"Did we brush our teeth, Master Dick?" He spoke politely, but there was 
something in the eyes. Almost as if he *knew* what I was thinking. 
My first night here, I'd made the mistake of giving a flippant answer. "No, 
*we* didn't brush *our* teeth!" 

Alfred's crossed arms and right eyebrow raised in silent disapproval met my 
broad grin. I felt the laughter die in my throat. Didn't these guys *ever* 
smile? 

Now, five weeks later, I still held on somewhat rebelliously to the "age 
inappropriate" thought, but no longer dared to give it voice. His right 
eyebrow went up. He knew. 

Insubordination died a quick death here in Happy Acres, I thought. 
"Yessir," I mumbled. 

"Very good, young sir. Did we wash our hair . . . with shampoo and not the 
bar of soap?" 

Again, his voice dripped politeness, but his eyes . . . there was this gleam 
there . . . the same gleam a scientist had when he studied a bug under a 
microscope. I surrendered to the inevitable. He was a drill sergeant breaking 
down the raw recruit in order to build him back up again. 

"Yes, Alfred," I sighed. Another one bites the dust. 

"Your pajamas are laid out on your bed, Master Dick." 

Pajamas! I still couldn't believe that these people had clothes for every 
occasion of the day! Special clothes for school, different ones for Sunday, 
other ones for just going for a walk or a ride or playing that silly game 
where you hit a ball back and forth across a net; there were even special 
shorts for swimming--can you believe that?--a change for dinner, even if what 
you were wearing was perfectly clean, and weirder still, clothes for sleeping 
in! 

I mean how many clothes can one guy have? Before, I'd had two pairs of jeans, 
a couple of T-shirts, and a dress shirt. Oh, and my costumes, of course. I 
can't remember ever needing any more. 

And here I'd thought that the huge house was gonna be hard to get used to. I 
mean, I was born in a circus trailer and lived in one all of my life. 
Quarters had been pretty tight and privacy almost nonexistent. At times it 
seemed as if Mom and Dad were never more than about two feet away from me. 

Now I had a bedroom that was almost four times the size of our trailer, *and* 
I had my own private bathroom. Heck, I had a walk-in closet that was so big 
I'd thought at first that it was another room! I guess that around here a guy 
needed a huge closet in order to hang all the clothes he had to wear in the 
course of a single day. 

But I'd trade it all in to get my Mom and Dad back. In a heartbeat. Every 
time I thought about them, all the fun went out of my new adventure. Because 
it *was* an adventure. Bruce and Alfred had introduced me to a whole new 
world--the outer world represented by Wayne Manor, and more importantly, the 
darker world represented by what lay hidden below. 

So here I was . . . the future partner of . . . oops, that's a secret . . . 
but anyway, I was obviously much too old and mature to need some *girl* to 
come *baby-sit* me! 

Well two can play at this game, Master Bruce. I can give the old silent 
treatment just a good as the next guy! I've been taught by the best. 
I waited impatiently in the study, freshly bathed and smelling better than 
Margie the Tattooed Lady ever had! I was dressed in my Superman PJs (Heh, you 
should've seen *Bruce's* reaction the first night I wore them!) and my dark 
blue monogrammed bathrobe, which completed the picture of Gotham's newest 
eligible bachelor. 

The quiet knock on the door warned us of our guests' arrival. Alfred stepped 
in and announced them. 

"Mister Wayne . . . Captain Gordon and Miss Barbara Gordon." 

"Thank you, Alfred." Oh, did I mention Bruce was dressed in one of his many 
totally babe magnet dinner jackets? I don't think I've seen him wear the same 
one twice. He stood and walked over to our guests, shook hands with Captain 
Gordon and smiled politely. 

Even after having known Bruce for only a short time, I knew that *smiling* 
did not come naturally to him. So when he was forced to smile, it always 
fascinated me. I found myself studying his facial muscles, checking for undue 
tension or spasms. He *had* to be in some kind of physical pain! 

I *almost* felt sorry for him, knowing that he had to spend the next few 
interminable hours at some boring soiree and keep that vacuous mask on. I 
said *almost*. Humph! He brought this on himself. If he and Alfred *both* 
didn't have to go, then *I* wouldn't need a babysitter and *he* wouldn't have 
to smile. 

Served him right. 

" . . . And you remember, Captain Gordon, don't you, Dick?" 

"Huh? Oh, uh, yes sir. Captain Gordon, how are you, sir?" I was genuinely 
glad to see him. Captain Gordon had been really nice to me that night; he'd 
kept the reporters and even his own police officers away, allowing me to 
answer questions at my own pace. I guess I'll always be grateful to him. 

"Just fine, son. Let me introduce my daughter." Captain Gordon turned 
slightly to his right and gently pressed his daughter forward. "Dick Grayson 
. . . Barbara Gordon . . . Barbara, this is the young man I told you about . 
. . " 

The rest of Captain Gordon's words were lost on me, because *she* had walked 
into my life. A vision in braces, knee-high socks, and saddle shoes. She 
carried her book bag, which looked entirely too big and heavy for her. I 
gallantly offered to take it from her. 

She smiled mischievously and held it out for me. I almost fell under the 
weight. What was *in* here? 

"Thank you, Dick." She easily lifted the bag again, and slung it casually on 
her right shoulder. 

It was love at first sight. 

"Call me Babs," Gorgeous added, smiling politely. She turned her attention to 
Bruce, billionaire playboy, whose path was littered with the cast-off bodies 
of women who'd thrown themselves helplessly at his feet. (I overheard Gotham 
Gertie say that to a group of ladies at a party here the week before. I'd 
snuck out onto the second story landing to observe Gotham's glitteratti at 
their most cutthroat. The next few days I searched the mansion for bodies but 
couldn't find any. I'm still confused.) 

Babs didn't even blink. She was totally oblivious to the Wayne charm. 
Beautiful *and* intelligent! 

"Mister Wayne, do you have a list of phone numbers or other instructions that 
I should know about?" 

"Yes . . . somewhere here on my desk. Alfred . . . ?" Bruce fell into his 
helpless rich guy act. 

"Under the telephone, sir. Miss Barbara, you'll find several numbers there: 
the car phone, Mister Wayne's cellular number, the host's number, Master 
Dick's pediatrician's number, the hospital emergency room, fire department, 
and various and sundry other emergency numbers . . . Oh, and you'll also find 
a color coded schematic of the Manor detailing the location of fire 
extinguishers and all nearest exits. I trust you'll find everything in 
order." 

Babs nodded and turned a wide-eyed look at Bruce. 

"I haven't seen such a complete list of numbers since I babysat for the 
Henderson's new baby." At Bruce's questioning look, Babs explained further, 
"They were new parents and felt really nervous about leaving the baby for the 
first time." 

She suddenly smiled. 

"I guess this is *your* first time, too, huh?" I swear, Bruce actually 
flushed in embarrassment! 

Alfred saved the day by clearing his throat at just this moment. 

"Excuse me, Mister Wayne . . . Captain Gordon, if we are not to be late, then 
we must depart in five minutes." 

"Of course, Alfred. Bruce, anytime you're ready." Gordon spoke a little more 
jovially than necessary, I thought. He turned to Barbara. "Honey, is there 
anything else you need to know before we leave?" 

"I just have a few questions," Babs replied in a no-nonsense manner. She 
pulled out a mini-spiral notebook and began reading. "In order to optimize 
the effectiveness of the duties with which I am entrusted, I need the 
following information: exact bedtime, maximum allowable drinks of water, 
maximum allowable bedtime stories . . . recommended genres and/or location of 
books currently being read . . . any allowable before-bed snacks, and any 
other information which you may deem necessary to ensure a safe and 
uneventful evening." 

Bruce and Alfred both looked nonplussed, the first and only time I've ever 
seen them both caught off guard. I guess that's what becoming a parent does 
to you. Even when you try to plan for every contingency, something happens 
you never could've anticipated. 

Obviously, neither Bruce nor Alfred had *ever* been a fifteen-year old 
babysitter, entrusted with the health and safety of a nine-year old. Alfred 
recovered first, of course, and answered each question in order. 

"Nine o'clock sharp . . . one drink . . . two chapters maximum of _The Three 
Musketeers_ . . . you will find it on the nightstand . . . absolutely *no* 
snacks, *no* videos of any sort, *no* television period . . . and Elinore is 
sitting on Master Dick's dresser in case he asks." 

It was *my* turn to flush. No *way* would I ask for Elinore! I mean, I was 
almost *ten*! I'd brought down Boss Zucco by myself . . . Okay! I had a 
little help from . . . sorry I can't tell you that . . . *and* I was in 
training to be the partner of . . . almost forgot, I can't tell you that 
either . . . Well, let me assure you, I *didn't need* Elinore! 

Elinore is my stuffed elephant, by the way, a gift from Pop Haly on the day I 
was born. 

I crossed my arms and gave Alfred the darkest scowl I could muster. (I'd 
studied Bruce closely in this area, too.) He gave me a raised eyebrow in 
reply. I uncrossed my arms and dropped my eyes in defeat. 

"Come on, Dick," Babs said smiling. "Why don't you show me around the Manor? 
I've never been here before!" I beamed under the bright light reflected off 
her braces. 

"Okay. You won't believe this place! Some of the rooms are as huge as the Big 
Top at Haly Circus! I almost got lost here my first week, but I remembered a 
story my Mom read to me once about a guy with a ball of string . . ." 

"Dick . . . Barbara, we're leaving now," Bruce called. "Remember, don't open 
the door to anyone under any circumstances, and don't answer the telephone . 
. . let the answering machine take the calls. When we call to check up on 
you, listen for our voices first before you pick up the phone. Understand?" 
Babs and I both nodded. Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . go on willya? 

**** 

Babs had a photographic memory and entertained me by scanning _The Three 
Musketeers_ quickly, and then reciting random passages word for word while I 
followed along. I was amazed. Bruce had been training me with different 
Eastern disciplines that he said would help strengthen my powers of 
observation and retention, but it was hard work. It required intense 
concentration and always left me feeling exhausted afterwards. 

"You would've been great at Haly Circus!" I said admiringly. 

She told me that she was on her school's gymnastics team and showed me a 
little of her floor exercise. She was actually pretty good for an amateur, 
but she wasn't quite up to the Flying Graysons' league . . . Heck, nobody's 
perfect, I figured as I applauded enthusiastically. The time passed all too 
quickly. 

My eyes strayed to the bedside alarm clock; I felt my shoulders slump in 
abject resignation. 

It was nine p.m. Bedtime. Babs had gotten me my one drink of water (Don't 
condemned men get at least a full meal?); she'd already read me *three* 
chapters of _The Three Musketeers_; but she'd been as unmoving as a rock 
about television. She was an experienced babysitter in other words. 

"But--" Even *I* thought that sounded kinda whiny. 

"No buts!" Gajes sure weren't versed in the Romany art of bartering, I was 
beginning to realize. My Dad had been full-blooded Rom, or gypsy, as they're 
more commonly known, and had been a really smooth talker. To the Rom, a 
"Gaje" was just about everybody else in the world. 

I sighed in disappointment. This had been the most fun I'd had since coming 
to live at Wayne Manor. Babs looked at me askance. She placed her hands on 
her hips, slowly shook her head, and sighed. 

"I can't believe I'm gonna do this," she muttered. "Okay, Buster, thirty 
minutes more and then that's it! No more wheedling, whiny excuses. All 
right?" 

"All right!" I jumped up excitedly. "Babs, you're the greatest!" And I meant 
it, too. I'd been beginning to believe that the world actually shut down 
promptly at nine p.m. I mean, I knew that Bruce . . . well, never mind that . 
. . but Alfred always turned the lights off at nine and I guess I went to 
sleep immediately because I couldn't recall anything else until he turned 
them on again at five a.m. 

Early to bed and early to rise was the current commandant that dictated my 
life. Later, when my training was completed, Bruce assured me I'd be allowed 
to stay up past midnight on non-school nights. Otherwise, the nine p.m. 
bedtime would hold. 

So, what to do with the unexpected stay of execution? I wasn't allowed to 
watch television (Alfred thought prime time was too violent!), but listening 
to music was okay. Unfortunately, Alfred's idea of music involved stuff 
written by guys who'd been dead for several centuries. Thank goodness Babs 
was a little more up to date. 

"These are oldies, but still goodies, I think," she explained. 
"That's okay. I don't even know what's current, so I wouldn't be able to tell 
the difference." I was kneeling on my desk chair, leaning over curiously, 
watching Babs as she set up her mini-sound system. She turned suddenly, a 
wicked glimmer in her eyes. She undid her braids and in seemingly slow motion 
shook out her long hair, allowing it to fall down over her shoulders in 
shimmering red cascades. 

I watched mesmerized. She removed her glasses and placed them carefully on my 
desktop. 

"Okay, kid . . . get set to tear down the house! . . . Ladies and Gentlemen . 
. . The Doors!" 

She punched the play button and my room suddenly resonated with the fast, 
syncopated jazzy sounds and rhythms of the sixties cult band. I didn't know 
any of the songs, of course, but I watched Babs' miming along with Jim 
Morrison and caught on quickly. I accompanied her with my air guitar and 
keyboards. Spying the bed, I somersaulted onto it and executed a few 
acrobatic moves in my best-guess imitation of a rock star. 

Sergeant Major Alfred would disapprove wholeheartedly. 

"Come on, baby light my fire . . . try to set the night on . . . FIRE!" 
What a blast! We both finally collapsed in a fit of giggles on my bed. 
"Master Dick," I said in my best Alfred imitation, "young gentlemen do not 
cavort about their room in the presence of young ladies." 

We burst into more helpless giggles. 

"You're a great kid, you know that, Dick? I'm glad Mister Wayne asked my Dad 
to have me come over." 

"Thanks." I lay back with my hands behind my head. "It hasn't been easy, you 
know? I mean Alfred and Bruce are great . . . even with all the rules and . . 
. some other stuff I'm not s'posed to talk about . . . but I really miss Mom 
and Dad." 

I felt the tears that were always just threatening to spill begin to fill my 
eyes. 

"If only I'd been able to *warn* them! I mean, I *knew* that guy didn't 
belong there." 

Babs sat up and leaned against the headboard. 

"C'mere, kid." She took me into her arms and held me quietly for a few 
minutes, her chin resting on the top of my head. Mom used to do that. The 
tears suddenly came of their own volition. Babs didn't say anything; she just 
handed me a tissue and held me a little tighter. I felt grateful . . . I 
mean, a guy doesn't want the girl of his dreams to see him bawling his eyes 
out. 

"You know, you can't blame yourself . . . the only person to blame is that 
monster Zucco . . . you didn't do anything wrong. Nothing that happened was 
your fault . . . the sooner you can forgive yourself, and lay the blame where 
it should go, the sooner you'll be able to get on with your life . . . the 
way your Mom and Dad would want you to." 

"That's what Alfred says. But it's so *hard*! Look at Bruce . . . his parents 
were killed, too, when *he* was a little kid, and he *still* hasn't forgiven 
himself!" 

"That's *his* problem, not *yours*," Babs insisted. "You have to learn to 
live with yourself and remember that your Mom and Dad loved you and wouldn't 
want you to suffer." She turned me around and held me at arms length. 
"Promise me, Dick . . . promise me that you will do everything in your power 
to put the pain behind you." 

She held my eyes with her own. I found myself nodding under her intense 
scrutiny. On impulse I hugged her tightly. 

There was a sudden crash from downstairs. Babs and I froze. 

"You don't happen to have a dog or anything, do you?" Babs whispered. Her 
eyes were as big as saucers. I felt certain mine matched hers as I shook my 
head. 

"Uh-uh." What would *Bruce* do? 

Babs looked around quickly and hurried over to the phone on my desk. She 
picked it up, then turned to face me, her eyes frightened. 

"It's not working," she whispered. I swallowed nervously. Another crash 
downstairs galvanized me into action. I moved quickly to the light switch and 
turned off the bedroom lamps. 

"Quick," I hissed. "Shut the bathroom lights!" 

I could see Babs' head nod in the dim lighting streaming in from the 
bathroom. I listened through the door. I heard muted voices . . . okay, 
there's more than one, then. I had to protect Babs, but going against unknown 
odds would be too dangerous. No, the better part of valor was the best course 
of action. 

I suddenly felt Babs next to me. I pulled her down so I could talk directly 
into her ear. 

"There's more than one downstairs. We've got to get out here and go for help. 
The Crenshaw Estate is about two miles down the road directly east from here. 
If I lower you to the ground can you make it there?" 

"Are you *crazy*? I'm not leaving you here alone! If one of us goes, we 
*both* go!" Babs' look said she'd brook no argument. Well, it'd been worth a 
try anyway. What to do? 

I had to get into the cave downstairs and contact Bruce. But I had to do it 
without risking anyone else finding out that it existed . . . oh, sorry . . . 
did I say "cave"? Uh, I meant Bruce's *play*room . . . I, uh, call it his 
cave 'cause Bruce won't allow anyone else in. See he has all kinds of neat . 
. . toys . . . that he doesn't want anyone else to play with. I guess he 
never learned to share. I'm only the third person who's ever even seen it! 
Anyway, Bruce kept a spare . . . cell phone . . . there. I was under strict 
orders *never* to use that . . . phone . . . unless it was an extreme 
emergency. I looked at Babs. First rule of engagement: Ensure that all 
civilians are safe. I *had* to get her out of the house. Forget the cave. 

"Okay, out the window . . . let's go!" I took her firmly by the hand and led 
her towards the French doors. They opened out into my second story balcony. 
It was pretty cool, actually. There was a huge oak tree with a branch that 
stuck out at just the right angle for grasping. I'd used it my second week 
here when I went out looking for Zucco. 

But Babs wasn't an aerialist. Okay, she was a high school gymnast, but in my 
professional opinion I knew that she'd *never* make the jump. How to get her 
down safely? I ran back into the bedroom and hurried to the desk. I followed 
the phone line to the wall jack and quickly yanked it. I remembered Alfred 
complaining that if we placed my desk by the window, then we'd require an 
extraordinarily long line to reach the room's sole jack. 

Bruce had dismissed it as a minor problem. "We'll install a few more jacks in 
his room when he's a little older and needs an extra line for his computer." 
I'd remembered something else: while phone lines had copper wires for 
conduction, they also had steel wires for added tensile strength! It should 
be able to hold up Babs' weight for the few minutes necessary to lower her to 
safety. I hurried back to the balcony. 

"Okay, Babs," I whispered in a rush. "I hope you're not the shy type." 

"What?" she looked down at me uncomprehendingly. 

"I just don't want you to get the wrong idea . . . Look, I gotta get this 
line around you . . . It won't be very comfortable 'cause it's so thin . . . 
it may cut into you a bit, but it'll only be for a few moments . . . Trust 
me?" 

She nodded. I immediately began running the line around her and through her 
legs, making a rappelling seat. I told myself that this would work better 
than just tying the line to her waist since her weight would be more evenly 
distributed. Still, I felt a little uncomfortable about touching her. 

When I finished, I looked at her critically, my acrobat's instinct assessing 
her weight. 

"Hmm-m . . . Five-foot five, about one-hundred ten pounds . . . add about 
five for clothing and shoes . . . okay, approximately one-hundred fifteen." 
She looked outraged. Women, I sighed. 

"Sorry," I said not really meaning it. Mom used to protest her daily weigh-in 
all the time, too. It was a standing joke between Dad and me. Whatever weight 
she claimed for the daily matinee, Dad would always add ten pounds when he 
checked our rigging. 

I can handle this . . . I hope. 

I easily lowered her to the patio immediately below. Hmm-m. She seemed closer 
to one-oh-five. Maybe all of the intensive weight training I'd been doing 
these past few weeks was finally beginning to pay off. I quickly followed 
down after her. 

As soon as we were both at the bottom, I grabbed her hand and began to lead 
her across the grounds. As we turned the corner to the front of the mansion, 
I spotted the first lookout. I stopped in my tracks and quickly covered Babs' 
mouth with my hand. 

"Bad guy," I whispered. She nodded her understanding. Then impatiently 
removed my hand. 

"Don't *do* that!" she hissed. I put my finger to my mouth, then quietly 
began to inch towards the intruder. Unexpectedly, I was suddenly jerked 
backwards by my pajama top. 

"Just *what* do you *think* you're doing, Richard Grayson?" It was *her* turn 
to cover my mouth, which was a silly thing to do since she'd just asked me a 
question. She was also suffocating me! I struggled under her unexpectedly 
strong grip. She let go immediately. "Sorry," she said, not meaning it. I 
gasped for air. 

"We . . . gotta . . . go through him," I managed to wheeze. 

"And just what do you expect to do with him? He outweighs you by about a 
hundred and fifty pounds!" 

"Don't worry . . . I know what I'm doing . . . Geez! I *told* Bruce I didn't 
need a *babysitter*!" I muttered. I looked around the corner. Ugly was still 
there; he was having a smoke. Okay, then he's relaxed and not really paying 
attention to his surroundings. He doesn't expect anything . . . so . . . I 
visualized the obstacles, angle of approach, and take-off speed. I took two 
steps back and drew a slow calming breath. Ready. 

Go! 

I took off. Amazing just how maneuverable these Superman PJs are, I thought. 
I wonder if the Batman ones are any better? Naw . . . don't want to give 
Bruce a swelled head now, do we? Let 'im stew over my choice of sleepwear for 
a while. 

As the extraneous thoughts zipped through my brain, *his* voice broke through 
the clutter. "Concentrate, Dick . . . you're a natural athlete, but when I've 
finished training you, you'll be even better!" 

"When will my training *be* finished?" I asked eagerly. 

"The more you learn, the more you'll know that there's always something else 
that needs learning." He paused ominously and studied my uncomprehending 
look. "In other words . . . never." 

I gained speed, went airborne, and slammed feet first into the back of my 
target's head. He was out! I conscientiously crushed his cigarette under my 
heel. I signaled for Babs to follow. To my astonishment, she bent over the 
goon, pulled his jacket partway off, tied some fancy knots this way and that, 
and basically left him trussed up as pretty as any turkey for Thanksgiving 
dinner. 

She then removed both his shoes and socks. She stuffed one sock into his 
mouth, and tied the other one around his mouth, effectively gagging him. 
She dusted off her hands nonchalantly. 

"I'm a cop's daughter, remember?" I grinned wolfishly. There were many more 
layers to my ladylove than even *I* would've suspected. 

We continued across the front lawn when I saw their getaway van. Hmm-m. I 
approached it carefully, from the driver's blind side. Sure enough, another 
smoker inside. I signaled Babs to wait behind the van. I silently climbed on 
top of the cab, walking softly and lightly the image of rice paper below me. 
(Yeah, yeah, I'm a regular grasshopper . . . I've heard all the David 
Carradine jokes already, okay?) 

I assumed one of the Aikido positions I'd recently learned and found my 
center the way Bruce had taught me. I felt a sense of quiet calm spread 
through me. Finally, I mentally gathered all of the strength I could muster, 
went down into a handstand position, and then sprang down and through the 
driver's side window. 

Contact! My small size proved an advantage. I was able to move easily inside 
the cab of the vehicle with little problem. Therefore, after my initial love 
tap across the guy's temple, I was able to recover enough to follow through 
with hard kick to the jaw and an elbow jab to the windpipe. The driver slowly 
began to slump across the steering wheel; I caught him quickly before he 
could set the horn off accidentally, and threw him into the back of the van. 

I found some rope and old rags and quickly tied and gagged him. There . . . 
nothing fancy, but it worked. As an afterthought, I removed the keys from the 
ignition. 

I stepped out the back door. 

"Babs!" She jumped, and turned quickly in annoyance. "Can you drive this 
thing? I think it's a stick shift, but I'm not sure." 

"Let me check." She shook her head regretfully. "My dad's been teaching me, 
but so far I've only driven an automatic." 

That does it. Bruce teaches me how to drive next thing. I don't *care* if I'm 
underage or too small to reach the peddles. A guy's gotta know how to handle 
wheels! 

Babs reached under the dashboard and pulled out a few wires. 
"There . . . that should slow them down a bit." She grinned in self-
satisfaction. 

"What did you do?" 

"Starter cables." I matched her grin. 

***

I wish I could say that we met with more obstacles, but in truth we had no 
further trouble reaching the Crenshaw Estate. Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw as usual 
were out of the country and their little boy, Dillon, I think, was staying 
with relatives. The housekeeper let us in immediately and we called 911. 

A half-hour later the front doorbell rang and Captain Gordon, Bruce and 
Alfred all appeared. They all looked harassed, as if they'd each been put 
through the wringer. 

"Daddy!" Babs ran immediately into her Dad's arms. 

Bruce and Alfred both walked toward me, looking relieved and uncomfortable at 
the same time. 

"Are you all right, chum?" I looked at Bruce and held his eyes calmly. 
Suddenly, I broke into a proud smile. 

"Sure, I've been taught by the best, remember?" 

Get this . . . Bruce actually broke into a smile . . . a *real* smile, I mean 
. . . not one of the phony-baloney billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne patented 
smiles . . . but one with genuine feeling. And there was a touch of pride 
there, too. Honest! 

I looked over at Alfred and *his* smile confirmed it. 

The next part is a little embarrassing, and hard to believe, but hey, it was 
a night of surprises. Bruce suddenly bent down and picked me up, like I was 
his real kid or something. He held me closely for a few seconds, then sort of 
held me out so that Alfred could hug me, too. 

Gosh, a guy a can only take just so much outward demonstration of affection, 
I know . . . but, I figured . . . just this once, I guess it would be okay. 
So, I hugged Bruce's neck a little longer than was absolutely necessary, and 
he carried me out to the limo and held me on his lap all the way back to the 
mansion. 

I should've protested. I should've insisted that he let me sit down on the 
seat. I mean Babs was sitting right there watching the whole thing. But hey, 
a guy who's only nine and still needs a babysitter needs to be carried and 
fussed over once in while, right? 

***

"Goodnight, Master Dick," Alfred said quietly. 

"G'night, Alfred," I said sleepily. Elinore lay safely tucked next to me on 
my pillow. 

"Well, chum, looks like you had quite a night. I'm very proud of you. You 
kept your cool and you protected Barbara. I don't know if I could've done 
better myself." 

Although exhausted by now, I beamed at his words. A sudden warmth suffused my 
whole being. I hadn't felt this happy since before the accident. 

"D'you mean it, Bruce?" 

"Uh-huh, I sure do." His mouth quirked up in his usual half-smile. 

"Babs helped a lot, Bruce . . . did you know she has a photographic memory?" 

"No, I didn't." 

"Well, she does . . . and she's a gymnast . . . and she knows how to tie up 
crooks with their own jackets and what wires to pull to disable their getaway 
vehicles. She's really special, Bruce. You think she'll marry me?" 

"Marry you? Don't you think it's rather sudden? I mean you've only had one 
date, after all." 

"Well . . . I guess." I lay back on my pillows disappointed. 

"Good night, chum." Bruce held my shoulder a little longer, then playfully 
ruffled my hair. 

"G'night, Bruce." 

I lay awhile longer staring up at the ceiling. I smiled at the memory of 
Babs' and me miming to The Doors. A sudden thought struck. There was a 
charity ball a week from next Friday and Bruce had already sent his RSVP 
stating that he'd be attending! Half of Gotham society would be there, which 
meant that there would be a run on babysitters. 

I'll get Alfred to call her first thing tomorrow, I promised myself. 

As I slipped off into sleep, my thoughts were of a pair of green eyes that I 
instinctively knew would haunt me for the rest of my life. 

The End