Monday, November 17th, 2008, 08:15
New Jersey
Gotham City
Gotham Academy
The irony wasn't lost on Malik that he'd gone from trying to steal from rich kids to sitting next to them in calculus class.
Gotham Academy looked exactly like every movie about elite private schools he'd ever seen. Gothic architecture that screamed old money, manicured lawns that probably cost more to maintain than most people made in a year, and students who wore their uniforms like armor made of privilege and entitlement.
The scholarship program that had gotten him through the doors was Bruce Wayne's doing, according to the paperwork Selina had somehow procured. But sitting in the back of Advanced Mathematics, Malik wondered if Wayne had actually thought through what happened when you dropped East End kids into the deep end of Gotham's social hierarchy.
"Mr. Robinson." Professor Martinez's voice cut through his wandering thoughts. "Perhaps you'd like to solve the equation on the board?"
Malik looked up at the mess of numbers and symbols that had been growing steadily more complex while he'd been people-watching. The other students turned to stare at him, and he could practically feel their expectations. The scholarship kid who'd probably struggle with basic arithmetic, let alone calculus.
He walked to the board and picked up the marker, studying the equation for a moment. His father had been good with numbers, had to be for the fencing business. You couldn't survive in that world without being able to calculate percentages and profit margins in your head. Malik had inherited that gift, along with his father's steady hands.
The solution came to him in pieces, each step building on the last. He wrote it out methodically, aware of the silence behind him. When he finished and turned around, Professor Martinez was nodding with something that might have been approval.
"Correct. Thank you, Mr. Robinson."
As Malik walked back to his seat, he caught the expression on Brandon Thorne's face. Judge Thorne's son looked like someone had just force-fed him something bitter. The other kids in Brandon's orbit followed his lead, their casual dismissal shifting into something sharper.
Great. He'd made an enemy before lunch on his first day.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of classes where Malik tried to blend into the background. But Gotham Academy wasn't built for blending. The uniforms, the small class sizes, the way teachers actually remembered your name all conspired to make invisibility impossible.
Lunch was when things got interesting.
The cafeteria was a social map made of marble and mahogany, each table representing a different layer of Gotham's young elite. Athletes clustered near the windows, their conversation loud and performative. Academic achievers claimed the center tables, their discussions peppered with vocabulary that sounded like they were auditioning for college admission boards. And scattered throughout were the various subspecies of rich kids, each group defined by their parents' particular brand of wealth.
Malik grabbed a tray and loaded it with food that would have cost him a week's worth of stolen meals on the streets. The irony of eating lobster bisque in a school cafeteria wasn't lost on him.
"Well, well. Look what the scholarship program dragged in."
Brandon Thorne's voice carried the particular accent that came from growing up in Gotham Heights, all crisp consonants and inherited authority. He stood with three other boys who had the look of people who'd never heard the word 'no' applied to anything they actually wanted.
"Brandon." Malik kept his voice neutral, remembering Selina's warning about school fights.
"That was quite a show in Martinez's class this morning. Almost makes you think the scholarship kids might actually belong here." Brandon's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "But we both know better, don't we?"
The cafeteria had gone quiet around them, the kind of hush that preceded either entertainment or violence. Malik could feel dozens of eyes watching, waiting to see how the new kid would handle his first real test.
"I'm just here to learn," Malik said.
"Learn." Brandon repeated the word like it tasted funny. "That's cute. Tell me, Robinson, what exactly did daddy do for a living before he... well, before he stopped doing anything at all?"
The mention of his father hit Malik like cold water. His hands tightened on his lunch tray, and for a moment he could see himself swinging it into Brandon's smug face. The satisfaction would be enormous and brief, followed by expulsion and disappointment in Selina's green eyes.
"He worked hard," Malik said finally.
"I'm sure he did. Probably broke his back doing honest labor while Judge Thorne was building his career on the backs of criminals like..." Brandon let the sentence hang, his implication clear.
"Like what?" A new voice cut through the tension.
A girl had appeared beside their table, seemingly from nowhere. She was small and pale, with mousy brown hair that looked like she cut it herself and clothes that suggested scholarship student rather than trust fund baby. But her voice carried an edge that made Brandon take a step back.
"Rebecca." Brandon's tone shifted, wariness replacing mockery. "This doesn't concern you."
"Funny, because it sounds like you're making assumptions about people's families based on their economic status." Rebecca's smile was sweet poison. "Which would be ironic, considering your father's reputation for taking bribes from those same criminals you're so worried about."
The silence that followed was absolute. Brandon's face went white, then red, cycling through emotions too quickly for Malik to track. When he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet.
"You want to be careful, Reeves. Some accusations can follow a person for a very long time."
"Good thing I'm not making accusations. Just observations about irony." Rebecca turned to Malik, dismissing Brandon completely. "You want to sit somewhere that doesn't smell like entitlement and bad cologne?"
Malik followed her to a table near the back of the cafeteria, aware that every conversation around them had shifted to whispered speculation about what they'd just witnessed.
"Rebecca Reeves," she said once they were seated. "But everyone calls me Becca. You're the new scholarship kid, right? Malik Robinson?"
"Ugh, Yeah. That's me." He studied her, trying to figure out what made a girl who looked like she'd blow away in a strong wind comfortable standing up to Brandon Thorne. "Thanks for the backup, but you didn't have to do that."
"Brandon's been a prick since kindergarten. Someone needs to remind him that his daddy's money doesn't make him untouchable." Becca unwrapped a sandwich that looked homemade, a stark contrast to the gourmet offerings most students were eating. "Besides, scholarship kids need to stick together."
"You're on scholarship too?"
"Academic merit. My mom's a nurse, my dad fixes cars. Not exactly Gotham Heights material, but I test well." She took a bite of her sandwich and studied him. "What's your story? And don't give me the official version from your file."
Malik hesitated. He'd gotten used to lying about his past, but something about Becca's direct gaze made dishonesty feel pointless.
"Parents died. Living with a guardian who has connections." It was true enough, just missing the parts about street fights and women in leather costumes.
"That sucks. How are you handling all this?" She gestured around the cafeteria, encompassing the marble walls and crystal chandeliers.
"It's different."
"That's an understatement. Most of these kids have never been inside a public school, let alone seen real poverty. They think hardship is when daddy's yacht is in the shop." Becca's voice carried bitter experience. "You'll get used to it, but it takes time."
The rest of lunch passed in comfortable conversation about teachers, classes, and the social minefield they were both navigating. Becca was smart, sharper than most of the kids who'd grown up with private tutors, and funny in a way that suggested she'd learned to use humor as armor.
When Malik got home that afternoon, Selina was waiting with homework expectations and curiosity about his first day.
"So...how was the culture shock?" she asked, settling into the chair across from him as he spread textbooks across the dining table.
"About what you'd expect. Rich kids being rich kids, and me trying not to punch anyone."
"Did you succeed?"
"Barely." Malik opened his calculus book to the assigned problems. "There's this kid, Brandon Thorne. Judge's son. He's going to be a problem."
Selina's expression sharpened. "Judge Thorne's boy? Yeah, he would be. The whole family thinks they're untouchable." She leaned forward, studying the math problems over his shoulder. "You need help with any of this?"
"I think I've got it." Malik started working through the equations, but paused when he noticed Selina was following his work with the kind of understanding that suggested more than casual familiarity with advanced mathematics.
"You know calculus?"
"Really kid, you think that badly of me? I know a lot of things." Selina reached over and corrected a small error in his third equation. "College was a long time ago, but some things, even annoying, stick with you."
"Which college did you go to?"
"Gotham University. Art history major with a minor in classics." She smiled at his surprised expression. "What, you thought I was born knowing how to pick locks and scale buildings?"
"I just..." Malik struggled to reconcile the woman in silk pajamas helping with homework with the leather-clad figure who'd tracked him through half of Gotham. "You never mentioned it."
"You never asked. And it's not exactly relevant to what I'm doing now." Selina stood up, ruffling his hair in a gesture that was becoming familiar. "But education matters, Malik. The things you learn in that school, the connections you make, they'll serve you long after you figure out what you really want to do with your life."
She moved toward the kitchen, leaving Malik to wrestle with calculus and the growing realization that everyone in his life was more complicated than they appeared on the surface. Selina the criminal mastermind was also Selina the college graduate. Brandon the entitled rich kid was also the son of a corrupt judge. Becca the scholarship girl was also someone brave enough to stare down bullies twice her size.
And Malik Anderson, formerly a street kid with dead parents and stolen tools, was now Malik Robinson, Gotham Academy student with a guardian who could solve calculus problems and apparently had a degree in art history.
The world was full of masks, he was learning. The trick was figuring out which faces were real and which ones were just performances designed to hide the truth underneath.
It was almost normal, if you didn't think too hard about how he'd gotten here.