The Adventures of Lixin Bruce Wayne Davis

and Scott The Teenage Wonder Alex Maughan 11/6/2013

This story is dedicated to Brittney Lancaster, whose personal experience with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder has been invaluable in its completion. Her example proves that grief can become a source of strength, something The Batman would be proud of, because, in fact, the loss of his parents is his strength.

Its 2:33 am. Im 8 years old standing in the front of an open doorway holding a blanket. I can smell the night air and feel the chill from the rain as the wind comes in through the door. My feet feel like ice, and my thumb is wet from being in my mouth. Im looking up at my mother. Shes wearing a blue nightgown. I reach out to her but she wont come, and I start to cry: The taste of salt hangs off my lips. Shes being held at knifepoint. The man has dirt on his face. Theres a funny smell like sour apples in the air, and its stronger when the man breathes, and hes breathing hard. My mother can barely breathe, and tries to pull the mans arm off of her throat, but cant break free. Now you just listen to me. The man says. His voice staggers like his posture. Just . . . just listen. Just . . . I raised my head from my desk. My hands were shaking and sweat dripped down my forehead. My bangs stuck to my arm. My heart beat like it had just come out of gym class. A book lay open on my desk, still on page three. I sat up straight and rubbed my eyes. Scott, who was sitting next to me, tapped me on the shoulder. He probably noticed the blood drain from my face. Yo, Lixin? You dont look so good. Did you have a nightmare? Here? You okay? Yeah. But I wasnt. He looked sorry. Everyone looks sorry, but no one knows what to say. I wouldnt know what to say. Posttraumatic Stress Disorder is something I live with, but I dont know or understand everything about it. I know its common among return veterans, car accident victims, and people whove seen someone they love die; after the event comes nightmares at night and flashbacks during the day. A flashback can happen at any time depending on how my brains
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working that day, but usually its triggered by a smell or something I see that reminds me of my mom. So I fall asleep in class because I sleep when I can. If I can. I looked away from Scott towards the front. An older man with thick glasses and a poochy stomach stood in front of a semi-attentive Jr. High School English Literature class, and was reading the tail end of Dashiell Hammetts story The Gutting of Couffignal. I never shot a woman before. I felt queer about it. You ought to have known Id do it! My voice sounded harsh and savage and like a strangers in my ears. Didnt I steal a crutch from a cripple?1 Now class, Mr. Pooch continued, Who can tell me what you liked about this story? Was Continental Op right tove shot Princess Zhukovski? Or perhaps youd like to comment on something about the detective that Hammett has portrayed? Out of the corner of my eye I saw a black blur shoot up into the air: Scott had raised his hand; the teacher looked more attentive as he waited for Scotts response. I like it because it has an old Western feel to it: as innocent bystanders are being gunned down you have Continental Op trying to solve a mystery, though, he breathed in then exhaled, as though his brain was emitting too much smoke and his mouth was an exhaust. The way he solves it at the end doesnt seem realistic: He experiences the physical stress of a sprained ankle, lack of sleep (it was past midnight), getting shot at, fighting with a dude, smoking, lack of visibility during the night-time, and, Scott paused.

Hammett, Dashiell. The Gutting of Couffignal. The Longman Anthology of Detective Fiction. United States: Pearson, 2005. Print. pp. 253.

Scott never knows when to shut up. Still, thats why I like him. Saves me from having to say a word. He usually gets himself into trouble; I often tell him that normal people dig graves with shovels, but he digs his with words: what he said next was just another dirt full in the cemetery of Scotts resting place. Hes too fat for his brain to mentally function at that high a level even without all the other factors interfering, umm, well, sir. . . He stopped, remembering the person at which the comment was directed. I cant see it in their faces when black people blush, but I know how people who are embarrassed act. Scott sank a little lower in his seat and broke eye contact with the teacher. Seeing Scott dig himself into a hole was a better distraction than I had hoped for: I was actually smiling, trying not to laugh. The teacher wasnt offended by the comment, at least, not that I could tell. Maybe he wasnt listening. Very good observations Scott, he said. Is there anything that anyone would like to add? Brock, a pale looking kid with dark irises and freckles that looked like dots of pepper scattered along the shoreline of the Salt Flats, raised his hand. The teacher had gestured toward him, but instead of looking at the teacher, Brock looked at Scott. Oh, its possible all right. Then he turned to me. You just need to be aware of your surroundingthsss. His ss always remind me of the time when Scott and I were riding bikes on a dirt trail last summer, when, all of a sudden, I heard the slow leak of air coming out of my tire. Not to mention its just as annoying. He chuckled to himself after looking away from me, probably because I had fallen asleep or because he heard a joke two days before and finally understood the punch line. His full name is Brock Lee: Scott and I called him The Lisp or sometimes The
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Vegetable. We joked that if he was ever permanently laid up in a hospital wed visit and then point and laugh while he lay there, unable to retaliate: Hospital Visit to The Veg = The Ultimate Pun. We gave nicknames to people we didnt like, but we never said them to their faces. Thats our rule. After a few more comments by some other students and a few more comments by Scott, the bell rang. Thank the Gods. Two more classes to go, but Im ready to leave now. But then, I was ready to leave before I got here. I put my books inside my bag and walked toward the door. Scott followed from behind. You look tired. he said. More than usual today. Man, you gotta try and get some sleep. I dont know how you do it, what with goin to school and livin on less energy than the rest of us. I had stopped just outside the doorway and faced Scott when I saw The Lisp looking up at me from his desk, grinning. Not a stupid grin like the-lights-are-on-but-nobodys-home kinda grin. It was a grin that was like . . . like . . . one of those grins that makes you want to punch that person in the face. Lets go. As soon as we were down the hall I said, Lets go to my locker. I need to pick up a textbook for French class. So what was up with The Lisp today? Hes acting Lispier than usual . . . I stopped in the middle of the hallway when I tasted salt in my mouth. I licked my lips. My feet felt like ice, and suddenly, I was 8 years old . . . mothers gasping for air . . . rain and wind and a staggering voice. Listen . . . Just . . . Listen. For once . . . just . . . Someone shoved me from behind.

Watch where youre standing, loser! Brock walked past and turned around to see me. Too easy: Youre too easy of a target! Loser! His buddies were laughing and giving Brock high fives as someone reached out to catch me. Gotcha! A girl said. She had one hand around my back, the other on her side. That Brock never knows when to quit! Well, hes good at quitting when it comes to school, but She stopped. I was standing now, brushing the wrinkles off my clothes. She wore red lipstick and a thin jacket over a black dress. When I looked at her she quickly looked away, resting a hand on her neck. Her cheeks took on a shade that matched her lips. Oh! Lixin. Umm . . . how are you? Fine. I said. Ill be fine. I corrected. Thanks for catching me. How are you? Oh, Im sorry . . . umm. . . I have to go. Excuse me. As she walked away, I looked at Scott. Okaaayyyy . . . He folded his arms and leaned back on a leg. Women. Cant live with em, cant live without em. Scott put his arm around my shoulder. Dont worry. One day itll be payback for The Vegetable. I shook my head to shake out the image of Brock laughing. Scott was right. Im always right. hed say. Still, if I wouldve known what was going to happen next, if it was a choice between this and teasing, Id choose a month of teasing. When we got to my locker I set my backpack down. My right hand rested on the rusty combination lock, and felt a tiny piece of metal sticking out from the keyhole. I pushed the hair out of my eyes and leaned in closer to see it: it looked like a hairpin. I tried moving the dial but it wouldnt budge, so I pulled on the locker: it swung open.
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Scott and I looked at each other. Why would someone break into your locker? He said. Lets go to the front office and tell em what happened. I ignored him, going through a mental checklist as I searched and rearranged: folders, paper, homework, textbooks, clothes . . . Somethings missing. It was here this morning. My hair had fallen back in front of my face so I pushed it away. My hands frantically searched through what seemed like endless papers, but kept coming up empty. My comic is gone! My heart rate increased. No, stuff gets stolen all the time; it would never happen to me. Maybe its buried in here somewhere . . . I pulled everything out and set it on the ground. The pile collapsed and spilled over into the hallway, causing a brief traffic jam. Some kids stepped around it; others stepped on it. I didnt care. What are you doin? Scott asked as he collected my things and stacked them out of peoples way. Scott, I said as I slid down to the ground, my back scraping against metal slats. Our comic is gone.

What? No. . . It cant be . . . No words came out. Scott was actually (maybe for the first time in his life,) speechless. He looked like he had when he told me his girlfriend told him she loved someone else; he sounded like the wind was knocked out of him. But this was worse. Batman Issue #47s gone. I said. The reprint November 1939 issue we both saved up for and bought at Comic Con last Summerin mint conditionBatmans origin story! The first issue to give a name to the criminalJoe Chillwho killed Dr. Thomas and Martha Wayne! Gone! Gone Scott! I folded my hands on my knees and put my head down. My hair fell over my arms, and I began to cry. I IMAGINED MYSELF dawning the cape and cowl of the Dark Crusader, swooping off into the night with my bat grapple: Lixin Bruce Wayne Davis, or, more simply, The Batman. I swung from building to building like Spiderman, but I was so much cooler because I was Batman . . . Rain pours from dark clouds overhead which block all light from the moon. A flash of lightning reveals my dark figure perched on top of a corner of the local Smiths, only to disappear as the lightning recedes. Faces of a group of boys near the loading dock light up briefly as they inhale drags; rain doesnt reach them under the small overhang of the dock. Brock is standing in the middle of the line of five, the palest of them all. His anemic blood mixes with poison and pleasure; Ill be sure to inject a dose of fear. Brock makes his first mistake. He hands his friends two small bags of white powder and they hand him cash. Brock makes his second mistake.
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He pulls out a clear-cover reprint Issue #47 Batman comic and opens the package. Brock makes his last mistake. He folds it in half and shoves it in his jacket. As he turns the other way, he walks over my grapple cord (which I strategically placed in the direction I knew Brock would be walking to get home): He suspends thirtyno, fortyfeet in the air, upside down, and dangles by a leg. I grab his hair and look into his fear-filled eyes. My face is as hard as my cowl when I pull him close. Just when I thought your skin couldnt get any paler, Brock. But I dont say that. I say something much cooler, in as deep a voice as my adolescent stage of life allows. Where are the other drugs going? Where did you get that comic?2 What are you talking about? He whines. I just gave those drugthsss to my . . . to my . . . he vomits. It runs up his nose and down his forehead and onto the ground below. A dazed look crosses his face, and he begins to cry. I ssschtole a comic from this loser at school! I was looking at Brock, but instead of Brocks voice, I heard Scotts. Lixin! Hey Lixin: Earth to Lixin. Come back to me bro. You having another flashback? Oh man, this isnt good . . . I LOOKED UP. I was sitting in the middle of an empty hallway. Half my stuff was piled neatly and the other half was a mishmash of whatever I decided not to throw away. I wiped the tears on the sleeve of my jacket, and, instead of ignoring Scott this time, I answered his question. No, no. I wasnt. Sorry. I was daydreaming. Maybe I was sleeping . . . or . . . in missing-comic shell-

Batman Begins. Dir. Christopher Nolan. Perf. Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Liam Neeson, Katie Holmes, and Gary Oldman. Writ. David S. Goyer. Warner Brothers, 2005. DVD.

shock. I stood up and brushed the wrinkles out of my clothes. I picked up half the pile to put it back and saw a tiny piece of paper hanging on the inside slat of my locker. I opened it. Cafeteria Commons. 9-10-05. 3pm. I showed it to Scott. Thats today. He said. In an hour and a half. I said. Even though no one was here, I looked around, half expecting to see a pair of eyes and someones head dart behind a wall. I shoved all the papers and books back in my locker and put on my Batjacket. I started to walk around the corner and up the stairs when Scott says, Wherere you going? The front office is that way. He was pointing in the direction behind him. Im not waiting: Lets go pay The Lisp a visit. *** The Vegetable was sitting in back, as usual. He was acting like a nervous prisoner waiting for his parole officer to unlock his cell, except, the cell door was open. He kept looking at itnot past it, but at it, like the door was going to move if he looked away. I backed away a few paces and thought of Scotts questions from on the way here. What are you going to do, exactly? How are you going to get him out of class? What are you going to say? How do you know he has your comic? Even if he does, how are you going to get it back?

Scott, I said as we walked down the hall, I dont want to see my comic get handed back to me in confetti, or worse, opened. Im okay with it being destroyed because then I can show my counselor what he did and hell tell the school and theyll make him pay for a new one. But opened? Theyd just say, At least you got your comic back kid, now get out of our office. We have important things to do and youre in our way. They wouldnt say that. Scott said. No, I said. But theyd be thinking it. I paced, hands behind my back. I didnt know what to do. The more I thought about it the more I felt paralyzed. I sat on the ground and put my head in my knees and hands, hair falling over my arms. I was back in Gotham, the fastest way to reach Brock. Wait here. Ill be back. Wherere you going Arnold Schwarzenegger? Ill be back. Scott said again. Curious, I stood at an angle so I could see inside the room. Scott walked to the front of the class to the teachers desk. I could barely make out the words. Sorry for --------- Mrs. Taylor, ------- need ------ speak with ----- for a moment. Not a problem Scott, She said, smiling. Teachers loved Scott. He was probably the brightest kid in school: He did his homework, contributed to class discussions, read outside of schoolI mean, I read too, but my reading consists of comics like Legends of the Dark Knight and The Joker and Catwoman. Scott reads

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these too, but he never does book reports on them. When teachers give him feedback, they often write things like, Youve a refined reading taste: fresh insightful perspective on a classic work of literature. I usually receive comments like this: Interesting. For your next report, try a Jane Austin novel or work by W. Somerset Maugham. Thats teacher code for, Comics cause braindamage, like alcohol. I only have one life to live so stop wasting it with your mindless cartoons. My papers were about the morality of The Batman and the idea of the law not being the same as justice: They were not a waste of time. At all. Scott walked out of the room followed by Brock, who closed the door behind him. Brock leaned up against a locker and folded his arms. What do you want? He said, glaring. Scott stood in front of me; he was taller than both of us. We want, he said, for you to give us our comic back. Brock smiled. Oh yeah? Whatll you give me for it? I imagined Brocks face hanging upside down, crying. You know, I said, my hands in my jacket pocket as I stepped around from behind Scott. You know, Im impressed that you vandalized the teachers bathroom and didnt get caught. You dont have proof I did that. So how did you do it? I said. I aint tellin you a thing! Not about youre sssthupid comic or how I vandalized the teacherthsss bathroom! Im outta here.

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He started to walk away when I said, One more thing, Brock. He turned. He walked toward me and started to say Im going to beat your until Scott took a step forward and folded his arms. His arms said, Why dont you pick on somebody your own size? You were saying? Scott said to me. One more thing, Lisp. Brock reddened. I pulled out a recorder from my Batjacket in the shape of the Bat Symbol. I pressed play. Brocks voice echoed down the empty hall. I vandalized the teacherthsss bathroom! Brocks eyes opened wide. Oh S%#*! Watch your language! I said. Yeah man! Scott said. That aint cool. As I was saying, you give me my comic, and I wont tell the teacherthsss what you did last year. I dont have it! Brock said. I dont have your comic Lixin, honest. I showed him the slip of paper. Didnt you leave this inside my locker when you broke in? I dont have handwriting that girly. he said, offended. Then, softening, he said, Look man, you gotta believe me. Strangely enough, I did. I think hes tellin the truth. Scott said.
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Okay. I said. I believe you. But if you ever shove me again or make fun of me Ill turn this in and youll be sent to a school where people like you belong. Ive heard about your record from the school counselor when Ive told him about what you do to me. He walked back inside the classroom, a cornered tiger whose claws and teeth mysteriously vanished. We have an hour. It felt satisfying standing up to The Lisp and seeing him down a taste of his own medicine. Did you see his face? Scott said. Man, Ive never seen him so scared! And I cant believe you had a recorder! If theres one thing Ive learned from reading all those Batman Comics, its that intellect makes up for what strength lacks. The Batman always told Robin, Remember, Dick, a good education is one thing not even the smartest crook can steal from you.3 You got that right! Scott said. He sighed. Know whats ironic about that statement? That were missing class? Yeah. Good point. After a while, we just stood there, staring at the slip of paper. Whats the point of going to class if I cant focus on what the teachers saying? Ill just be distracted: I wont learn anything anyway.
3

Friedman, Cary A. Wisdom from the Batcave: How to Live a Super, Heroic Life. New Jersey: Compass Books. 2006. Print. pp. 74.

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We could go to the office and tell them to fix your locker. Yeah. Id like that. Lets pay a visit to the office. I have something to give them. Oh no. You said you wouldnt. I mean, I know its The Vegetable were talkin about, but cmon man: The Batman always keeps his word. I know. I told The Lisp that I wouldnt turn it in, but I never said anything about you. We looked at each other and did our secret handshake. Thats what Im talkin about! But seriously man, after that, lets go to class. *** After class, Scott and I met up in the Cafeteria Commons. I looked down at my watch. 2:45pm. Kids were walking up and down the steps on either side of a sloped enclosure, like a stage with ascending stairs all around it. I stood off to one side and Scott was on the other, but I kept looking back and forth and up and down, expecting someone to hold out my comic to provoke me into chasing them. I mean, Id never catch them, but Id chase them anyway. Why else would they tell me where and when to meet? They probably just want to make fun of me. Maybe theyll light it on fire just to see what Ill do; maybe therell be two of them and theyll play keep-the-comic-away-from-the-freak; maybe its hanging from the ceiling above me right now. I looked up. Nope. Not there. I sat down and closed my eyes. I thought of everything that happened today and realized that I hardly ever do that, you know, think about what happened during the day? Usually I just go through the day looking straight ahead, like Im wearing blinders. Why does it matter what happened today? Why should I care? Out of nowhere I felt angry and apathetic and didnt want
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to be here. I wanted to be anywhere else than at school and with people and just wanted to be alone, with my comic, in my room. Probably in the dark. People suck. I rubbed my temples. If I did it long enough I hoped the pressure would reach the three pound mass and relax my brain. I mustve rubbed the wrong spot: I was 8 years old again. Listen to me! Stop! Please, stop! Sweetheart, I . . . I love . . . I look up at my parents. My mother collapses to the floor, and as she falls, it all happens very slowly, like Im dreaming: A crimson gash across her throat; father drops the knife, runs outside. His face looks angry, then scared. I run to her and slip on something wet, sticky. Time moves normal again and Im alone in my house, holding my mom, crying. I shook my head, trying to scatter the thought around like a snow globe particle, but it wasnt just a thought: It was an experience. You cant shake away feelings combined with thoughts combined with senses. I breathe in and out fast; my heart beats out of my chest. I breathe in, and exhale slowly . . . trying to stay calm. I never was able to say the same things other kids said when they were scared, things like, Its not real. If I close my eyes and go back to bed, the monsters or bad dreams or whatever it is will go away. If anything, closing my eyes and going back to bed is exactly what the monsters and dreams want me to do because theyre real. My nightmares . . . its as real as it was all those years before, and I relive it every day. Its not like a movie, where if something terrible happens you get scared and eat more popcorn. Its like youre inside the movie, being chased by the killer, and, when he catches you, dragged into the floor. The flashbacks are always of

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different parts of the worst moment. Sometimes you feel the pain of the splinters and the heat from your sweat; sometimes you see the killers face as they stand over you; sometimes you feel the rough grip on your ankles and pain as your face smashes against the floor. You know the worst part is coming and theres nothing you can do to stop it. And the movie never ends. It pauses, but its always playing somewhere. Do I want the images to stop? If I could wave a magic amnesiac wand or hold up one of those silver pens like on Men in Black, would I do it? Hi. A voice said. I looked up. Black dress, red lipstick, no jacket. Hands behind her back. My heart rate and breathing had slowed a little bit, but her standing there negated any attempt at recovery. Hi. I said as I stood up. Shylina, what are you doing here? Im waiting for someone. Can we talk another time? Well, she said. Thats why Im here. I was confused. What are you talking about? Scott had walked over by now and was standing next to me. He looked more relieved than anything. Let me explain. She said. This outta be good. Scott whispered next to me. Batman Issue #3. She said.

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I pulled up the Original Issues file in my head, found the corresponding number, and read what was on the card. 1940. Batman and RobinThe first Robin, Dick Greysonfight the Puppet Master, The Ugliest Man in the World, and Catwomanbut back then she was just called The Cat. I paused, looking up from the card. What about it? Think about it Lixin! She said, as if this explained everything. She mustve seen the confusion on my face because she sighed and gave me one of those looks that girls give you when you cant read their minds but they think you should be able to and dont understand why you cant. Girls read minds, I thought, and guys read words: We think about what people say, not what we think theyre saying. What are you talking about? I said. Selina KyleThe Catis hired by two businessmen to be in a fashion show for jewelry and told, by those businessmen, to walk off with the diamonds so that they (the businessmen)I rolled my eyes at her third mention of the businessmen like, ok: I get it.can get the insurance money from it being stolen. She does like they say, but then gets double-crossed by them and almost killed. Then Batman and Robin save her. Batman ties up the two doublecrossersshe emphasized this word like she was saying, See? I didnt say it.and was just about to tie her up when she says, You saved my life! Id like to thank you for that! Like this!4 In the scene, Catwoman kisses Batman: We both knew that. So we stared at the ground instead. My point is, Shylina said, how about I just show you?

Kane, Bob. Batman: The Dark Knight Archives Volume One. Hong Kong: DC Comics. 1992. Print. pp. 167.

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I backed away a few steps thinking she was thinking what Catwoman would be thinking. Her hands came out from behind her back and revealed a comic book, stillthank the godsin mint condition. I immediately reached for it, but it was too late. She opened it. All the worst possible scenarios ran through my head: she was in league with The Lisp; or worse, she was in league with herself; she was making fun of me and wanted to see my face as she opened the package; she was going to start touching pages until I gave her money or makeup or whatever it is girls want. This was the first time in my life that I've been provoked to hit a woman.5 All the frustration from the past year of teasing welled up inside me like . . . like . . . Im so angry I cant even think of a metaphor! Dude! Scott said to Shylina, hands on his head, elbows sticking out to the side, What are you thinking? I know its only a reprint, but that could be worth a lot of money one day! The authenticity, the newnessyou just opened our comic book! Why would you do that? She didnt say anything. She was looking down at the book in her hands, flipping through pages. Then I saw her face. She wasnt smiling or smirking; her hands were gently turning page after page; she barely touched the corners with the tips of her fingers as she moved to the next one. Through her black hair I noticed her eyebrows were knit together, like she was thinking . . . looking for something. Then she stopped. She looked up and walked over next to me.

Friend. Death Note. Cartoon Network. TBS, Los Angeles. 25 Jan. 2008. Television.

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This isnt your comic. she said. Its mine. Here. She held out the comic in front of me so that both of us were looking down on the page. I have something to show you. She said again. I started reading out loud a page that showed Batman and Robin standing on either side, looking directly at me, smiling. Batmans arm was in an upward motion like he was saying Way to go!

The BATMAN

SAYS:

ELLO, Readers! Now that youve read all these new adventures of mine and Robins, Id like to talk right AT you for a minute or so.6

No no no. Shylina said, waving her hand. The other page. Right there. She pointed with an impatient finger. Oh. I said. Catwoman was getting away in a stolen car, talking to herself. I sort of wish the Batman were Driving this car-and I were sitting beside him.another boy and girl out for a ride on a moonlight night. that would be sort of . of . nice!!7

Kane, Bob. Batman: The Dark Knight Archives Volume One. Hong Kong: DC Comics. 1992. Print. pp. 169.

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Huh. I said, shrugging my shoulders. Catwoman would like that. Do I really have to spell it out for you Lixin Davis? Uh oh. Full name: Im in trouble? I remained silent. I . . . . . her voice trailed off till it was barely a whisper. Scott and I leaned in together as she looked down and scraped a heel back and forth across the floor. . . . like you, like . . . a lot. She finished. My intake of breath was audible. Scott leaned back and smiled, folding his arms and looking at me like he was saying Its about time. I had no idea what his arms were talking about. She what? Then she looked straight at me and said, But you never notice! No matter what I do to get your attention, it . . . . . she sighed, then said, it never works. Her arms moved out and down the side of her body. I even put on this dress and then gestured to her face put on eyeliner and lipstick because I thought . . . She stopped. I dont know what I thought. She finally said. If there ever were a worse time to be at a loss for words, I couldnt think of one: I had no idea what to say. I wasnt in to girls. But Im in to Batman, my inner voice said. And, it continued, shes into Batman. The two of us have something in common. Where else am I gonna find a girl like that? Besides, she is pretty. So, what youre saying is, I began. I think I cracked the code. You stole my comic to get my attention? Thats . . . kinda romantic. Sure. Why not?
7

Kane, Bob. Batman: The Dark Knight Archives Volume One. Hong Kong: DC Comics. 1992. Print. pp. 168.

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Why not? what? she said. I think Batman Begins is still playing at the dollar theatres. I said, smiling. Wanna go? Ive seen that movie like, ten times! She said. Of course Ill go with you! HER MOM DROPPED us off at the mall near the theatre. Bye mom! See you soon! Thanks so much! Shylina went around the other side of the car to give her mom a hug. So thats what its like to have a mom. Shylina held my hand as we walked across the parking lot. The sun was barely setting behind us. Two shadows twice our height stretched out in front, moving in unison. The silence was broken only occasionally by the rustling of wind, the passing of a car or two. I couldnt stop thinking about what happened today. It didnt add up: Boy brings comic to school; boy confronts school bully about stolen comic who says he doesnt have it; girl says she stole comic to get boys attention. Boy asks girl on date. Theres probably a lesson in there somewhere. I opened the mental file under Lessons Learned: Wisdom from the Batcave. and pulled out a card. Not exactly what I was looking for, but it works. If its not necessary to speak, its necessary not to speak. Instead, keep quiet. Or do something totally radical: listen.8 I decided to keep quiet. Wait, how can I listen if shes not saying anything? Can I ask you something Lixin? She said.
8

Friedman, Cary A. Wisdom from the Batcave: How to Live a Super, Heroic Life. New Jersey: Compass Books. 2006. Print. pp. 59.

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Sure. I said. Why do you and Scott call him, The Vegetable? I smiled. Oh. Brock? Well, whats his full name? Brock Lee. She said. Say it faster. Brocklee. She repeated. I put up my hands while holding hers and moved them in a circular motion like Get it? She laughed. Oh my gosh! Im going to call him that from now on. Luckily for both of us he wont be around much longer. Scott told me about what you did. Cleaning up the hallways of our Jr. High School? She squeezed my hand. The Batman would be proud. That he would, Shylina. That he would.

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