Batgirl: Year One - Kennedy Harkins (black female authors .TXT) 📗

moves into your psyche. Practicing them and practicing them until they become second nature like breathing. You just react and act.

            As I practice, I let my mind wander. I think about Simon. He’s my best friend in the whole world. How can I keep this secret from him? Is it really a secret anymore? I could just be paranoid. Before now, I never had a secret to keep from him. Am I just assuming he knows, because he’s always been privy to my thoughts? Is it guilt? Probably. How could he know? Even if he thought my moves at the gymnastic competition were similar to the ones he saw Batgirl do on that surveillance video, how would he make that impossible connection? It’s gotta be the guilt messing with my head.

            The guilt is like a virus slowly infecting every cell in my body, until I feel crappy all over. If Simon started fighting crime, I know I’d be the first person he’d tell. It’s not like he’d tell anyone. I could trust him to keep it a secret.

            Tell him, or keep quiet.

            If I come clean, I’ll probably feel better. Besides, I’m dying to tell someone. This is too huge to keep to myself. But, on the downside, if he knows, no way he’ll sit idly back. Simon would want to help anyway he could. I can’t get him involved in this. I probably shouldn’t be involved in this! I can’t put him in, or let him put himself, in danger.

            If I keep my mouth shut, and Simon finds out? He’d never forgive me for keeping him in the dark. I’m supposed to be the one person who doesn’t handle him with “cripple gloves”, as he says. Even if he doesn’t figure it out, I can’t imagine being the Nelly he knows around him, while I’m keeping this secret.

            Either way, this could be the end of our friendship.

            “You can’t fight your outer and inner demons at the same time.” Kairi’s English is perfect, with only the slightest accent to hint at her Japanese origins. She’s about thirty with shoulder length black hair and a lean athletic body.

            “I don’t have inner demons.” I said a little too quickly. I turn towards her as her eyebrows rise. I spin back to land a forceful kick on the dummy. “Not any that I want to talk about, anyway.”

            She nodded, clearly understanding. “Your balance is off. Here,” She demonstrated the correct form for a move I’d been working on for half an hour. I put all thoughts of Simon out of my mind, and focused on the task at hand. If I’m going to do this whole superhero thing, I have to be perfect. I can’t let my guard down.

           

_____

 

            The subway was mostly deserted, and I made it home a little after midnight. I walked by my parents’ room. The door is slightly ajar, and I can see my mom asleep alone in their bed. Dad must be still at the lab.

            It took me over an hour, but I finally perfected the newest move in my toolbox. I feel a huge sense of accomplishment, even if I’ll have to practice it for weeks before I’ve truly mastered it. Still, I’m lucky to have a Mom that’s so understanding of my nighttime dojo runs. Most wouldn’t allow it, especially in a city like Gotham.

            She used to be much tougher on curfew rules, before Anna’s coma. I could only practice for a few hours after school and on the weekends. And I couldn’t go out after dark. Wouldn’t that have put a cramp in my crime fighting?

            My phone vibrated in my pocket. Thank god I remembered to put it on silent. Mom hasn’t slept well since the accident, and the last thing I want it disturb what little shuteye she gets.

            “Hello?” I answered without looking at the caller ID.

            “Hey, Nell, it’s Simon.”

            I paused; surprised he was calling so late. “Oh, what’s up?”

            “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I wasn’t feeling well, stomach ache.” You’d think that would make me feel better, right? Well, it would, if I didn’t know he was lying.

            “No problem, but isn’t it a little-” a quick look at my watch, “- er, a little early for this?”

            “Couldn’t sleep.” The boy who could snooze the zombie apocalypse, is having trouble sleeping? I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. Something is definitely up with Si. “Besides, I forgot to ask you about the Martha Wayne Foundation luncheon tomorrow. It’s at the Wayne manor, should be pretty pretentious, but there’ll be food.”

            “Food! What should I wear?” I joked, hoping my inner doubt didn’t come through. Is this really such a good idea? Simon invites me to these charity things all the time, but we’re at a weird place in our friendship.

            On the other hand, these things are usually magnets for people up to no good. A whole bunch of moneybags sitting practically unprotected? It’s a recipe for super villain disaster. Which is exactly why it’d be a good idea to have a Batgirl hanging around.

            “Something fancy.” I can hear him smiling through the phone. “The town car’ll pick you up at about eleven. See you there.”

            I went to bed dreaming of tuxedos and jewelry robbers.

 

_____

           

            I woke up a little later than I had planned on, and had to rush to get ready in time. I grabbed a simple blue dress with a form fitting top and a flared skirt that goes three quarters of the way down my thighs. I threw this on with a pair of nude wedges, Grandma’s pearls, and some dark pink lipstick.

            It’s the kind of get up that Anna, fashion forward girl that she was, would’ve worn, not me. But it’s very appropriate for a charity luncheon; no one goes as themselves for these things.

            “Where are you going all dressed up?” My mom asked from the kitchen, as I walked by. She’s washing light green paint off her hands, and she’s wearing a pair of old and stained overalls.  

            “The Martha Wayne Foundation Charity Luncheon.” Isn’t that a mouthful? “Simon invited me.”

            “Hmm, that was nice of him.” She said rather distractedly.

            “Yeah. Nice. See you tonight, Mom.” She nodded, still looking at her hands, which had been spotless for a few minutes now, but she continued to scrub. Something’s bothering her. I filed that away under Possible Problems for Future Nelly to Solve.

            Just like Simon said, the car is waiting for me when I exit the build at precisely eleven. I still feel a bit silly riding in such an inconspicuous car, but I’m trying to get over it. The Blackstone’s just aren’t the type of family that’ll pick me up in a real person car. I snorted trying to picture Mrs. Blackstone, a former supermodel, wearing sweats and driving a minivan.

            I’ve never been to Wayne Manor before. I see it from afar on my way to Simon’s all the time, but the Wayne charity events are usually held in other, equally grand, locations. As far as I know, the Wayne Manor is only used by three people: Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, his son, and Alfred Pennyworth, his butler, all of whom I’ve met at charity events, and the rest of the vast Estate goes untouched. Seems like a waste of beautiful real estate if ask me, but what do I know? I’m not rich.

            Wayne Manor is shaped like a W, with over three stories of medieval like architecture and statues. The stones that make up the mansion are a beige color that reminds me of Blackstone Manor. Though they give me completely different feelings, one full of life and color, the other empty and a little sad, they were both built within a decade of each other.

            The luncheon is being held on the front lawn. Large, white canopies have been constructed to cover the extravagant seating arrangements and keep out the heat. The driver pulls around the circular driveway and lets me out right next the check in area.

            A woman with long blond hair, dressed in black dress pants and a pressed white shirt that all the staff are wearing, motions me over to her. She’s the only staff member I can see that’s smiling, and it makes her look a little manic.

            “What’s ya name?” Her accent is pronounced and not at all refined like everyone else’s. It makes me like her, just a little bit.

            “Nelly Burnett, Simon Blackstone’s guest.” I said.

            She doesn’t check her sheet to see if I’m on it. “Say, are those real?” She pointed to the pearls around my neck.

            “Uh, yeah.” I said. I’m getting uncomfortable with the way she’s staring at them. Like a man who hasn’t had anything to drink in days looking at a glass of water.

            Her grin gets impossibly bigger, “Go on in, Hon.”

            Shrugging off the weird encounter, I clutched my large, red purse closer to my body, put on my bureaucratic smile, and went to look for Simon. The purse, like my outfit, isn’t my usual style, but it’s the only thing I have that’s fashionable enough to take to a charity function and that’s big enough to shove my Batgirl suit in.

            I spotted him near the refreshments table, trying to reach for the cups, which were placed too far away from the edge for him. I grabbed one and handed it to him, before anyone noticed. One of the main reasons Simon hates these things is because of the pity he gets from everyone attending. He’s not an invalid.

            He gives me a half smile and pours himself some of a bright colored drink. This is the kind of thing that the help usually does for people at formal functions. But most of them are all too familiar with Simon’s temper, and how he likes to do things for himself.

            “You’re late,” He muttered into his drink. Part of me was hoping that I would show up here, and all the awkwardness of last night would have disappeared like it had never happened. But, apparently, whatever’s eating Simon isn’t going to blow over so quickly.

            “Traffic on the bridge.” We lapsed into a very uncomfortable silence. I debated asking him if he needed help removing the stick from up his ass, but decided against it. I’ve never shied away from confrontation before. Then again, things are different now. Now I have something to hide, something to lose.

            A string quartet starts to play a couple yards from us, and people move onto the dance floor, passing the time until lunch is served. The music is beautiful and whimsical; I start to sway along with it.

            I zero in on someone in the crowd, and risk a glance at Simon to see if he’s seen him. The angry tint in his eyes tells me he has.

            With ear length black hair, crystal blue eyes, and a strong jaw line, Damian Wayne is every bit as handsome as his father, Bruce. He’s about average height, still much taller than me, with a lean athletic body, that I can’t help but admire. We’ve met at previous charity events, and he’s not bad conversation. Still, there’s an air of arrogance about him that keeps me from completely liking me.

            Simon hates him.

            No, that’s not right. Simon loathes him.

            “Ms. Burnett. Simon.” He nodded at both of us.

            He’s in a tuxedo, like he usually is, but the suit compliments his physique so well I have trouble formulating a proper response to his greeting.

            “Hey, Damian.” I’ve told him a million times to call me Nelly, but I suspect he chooses not to just to get on Simon’s nerves. However that works.

Men. I’ll never understand.

“Care to dance?” I try not to show my surprise. It’s not that Damian never dances with me personally; it’s