barbara gordon

   He sighs. "No, try again."

   I huff. "Am părul roșu. There?"

   "Not even close, Gordon." We were at the school cafeteria, him teaching me Romanian while we splurged on Alfred's amazing sandwich wraps.

   It had been four years since I've met Dick Grayson. During his "lessons" with me, he finally got the accent hidden so well, I could barely guess he was ever Romanian. Back then, we were 9. Now, we're 13.

   Gotham Academy's fun. The homework isn't too pressing, even though I need Dick's help with the math questions sometimes. Calculation is a breeze, but the word problems are really complex. Somehow Dick has this magical ability to solve the hidden meaning in seconds. In return, I teach him my little hacking tricks. Being the smart kid he was, though, we were soon swapping the latest JavaScript framework and how to break the newest firewall upgrades.

   I keep noticing Dick wincing whenever he moved his ankle. He sees my glances. His specialty is seeing the little motions that people made and interpreting them in seconds.

   I just decide to ask. "What happened-"

   "I sorta pulled it playing basketball with Bruce last night," he says offhandedly. "I'm fine."

   I nod as if I believed his excuse. Lately, he's been getting more hurt and coming up with excuses. I know Dick. He measures every situation before diving in. Like a kid that smart could get himself hurt in a basketball game.

   The bell rings. We look at each other.

   "Study hall," we say simultaneously, and burst out laughing as we clean up our table and head to the hall.

:: 12:37 am

   I face-desk myself.

   I. Don't. Understand. This. Freaking. Question.

   Pity Dick had to go out in some business. He could had helped me and we could have finished up our project on autism.

   My brain aches, so I decide to take a break. Slamming the desk lamp's power button a littler harder than what was necessary, I kicked against my desk and rolled my wheeled chair all the way to my bedroom window.

   I leaned against the windowsill, looking out into the dark Gotham night. I've always liked the moon. The way it reflects the Sun, yet brings out the darkest secrets.

I turned around and - being lazy - started wheeling myself over to my desk when I heard an urgent taptaptap. It came from...behind! The window!

Leaping off my chair as if someone had singed my butt, I raced over to the window. Black and yellow cape..red suit...black tights...it was Robin! I pulled my window open and helped the Boy Wonder inside my room.

That's when I noticed the red on his suit spread down to his tights and cape. It was blood. He was hurt. I helped him down on my chair, pulling out my first aid kit from my drawer. Pushing back a blush, I helped him take off his shirt. In a desperate effort to keep the pink from crawling up my cheeks, I began to talk.

"What happened?" I asked, beginning to put disinfectant over the wound.

"...ngh...stupid Talon - yeesh, don't press too hard - Batman pulled out safely, but...ack...we were...argh...separated and I...ahck...was a bit too slow..." he gasped out.

The cut was ghastly. It was deep, and stretched out vertically long. I hurriedly began to stick a bunch of butterfly bandages on it, knowing that it wouldn't help; he needed stitches, but I couldn't do it. To make sure blood didn't escape, I put cotton on the wound and bandaged it on Robin.

"Sorry; can't stitch wounds," I apologized. He smiled, albeit strained.

"It's fine. I'll get proper treatment later."

He pulled on his shirt and - clenching his teeth - headed to the open window. Before he shot his grappling gun, I burst out, "Why me? Why did you come here?"

Robin stopped. Indecision flared across his face. Then, he stepped down from the window.

"Babs, I'm so sorry I didn't tell you earlier," he said. There's only one person in the world who calls me Babs other than my dad, and that's-

Dick Grayson stood in front of me, looking more beaten than ever with his guilty aura.

*********am părul roșu = I have red hair