LATER
“Batgirl,” it says, voice like gravel, low and harsh. My name in its mouth sounds like an insult, or perhaps a curse.
In the dark, the black smoke rises, coats my face. An acrid smell fills the air, my nostrils, my lungs. It feels like drowning but worse. So much worse.
“Why are you doing this?” I gasp. But all it does is laugh at me. It laughs and laughs and laughs, though the way its voice cracks sounds more like choking. I may know this human’s face, but I am not talking to a human anymore. I don’t know who or what I am talking to anymore.
My breath hitches again. But this time, it’s with fear. I swallow it down.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
I try to sound brave. I fail.
In answer, it grins at me, eyes wild, teeth bared, and hisses, “Thisss,” before rushing straight for my throat to show me.
EARLIER
CHAPTER 1
There is a sudden, breathless silence after the shot rings out. A second later, the warm gun clatters to the ground, followed by the thump of its wielder’s body against the linoleum floor. He tried to shoot me, but he missed. Luckily, I didn’t. He growls, then curses at the top of his lungs, gripping his kneecap—where a Batarang is now lodged deep in the joint.
This is how it begins: Gotham City on the cusp of fall, a robbery, an uneven fight. Three versus one. I can hear the sirens in the distance, but I don’t pay them much attention. I’ll already have this handled by the time they arrive.
“It’d be very cool if you let everyone here go, please,” I say, drawing the attackers’ attention to myself and away from the dozen early-morning shoppers cowering in the corner of the grocery store. The three men holding up the place all look alike, like a father and two sons, or maybe an uncle and his nephews. A wholesome family crime outing.
The young one with the beard and the gun had been emptying the cash register before I ran in. The other is cowering in the corner looking useless, gaping at me like a fish, while the elder tightens a rope around a crying child’s wrists. In Gotham, it’s never enough to only rob a store these days. Criminals have started kidnapping bystanders too in hopes of securing a ransom. Dream big, like they say.
We’re in Gotham Heights, the gentrified neighborhood near my new school, which is where I’m supposed to be right now, but I got a call about these guys. Or, well, technically, my father got a call about these guys. He’s the police commissioner. And…I may or may not have tapped into his phone and set up a system to automatically route his police alerts to my own phone. He doesn’t know I did this. Or that I’m Batgirl. Or that I’m late to school.
It’s safe to say there’s a lot that people in my life don’t know about me.
“Well, I’ll be—the new Bat kid really is Black,” the bearded one lying on the floor whispers.
I roll my eyes. I get this a lot. “Yeah, yeah. Surprise. You can complain about it online later. Now can we just put the weapons down, please?”
The weaponless older man pauses, considering my suggestion while reaching for a twenty-seven-dollar jar of duck bone broth. He rolls it around in his hand lazily. He laughs, says, “No, thanks.” Then he hurls the
heavy jar straight at my head.
I slip sideways and lower myself into a grounding, steadying stance.
This is the part where the instincts kick in. It’s a form of disembodiment. My body moves, my brain anticipates. My competitive nature surges forward, fueled by pure adrenaline. It always happens so fast. Even with my strong memory, it’s difficult to remember the details of a fight after the fact. I cling to the big picture—did it go well or not so well—but my brain smooths over the rest. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism to keep me from replaying every moment of every fight again and again. Who knows.
The man on the floor tears the spiked edge of the Batarang from his knee, tosses it aside, then dives for the discarded gun. I kick it out of reach, so he pivots, cocks his fist back, and aims for my stomach. I block the punch and land a swift kick to his side. He lunges for my head and my fist collides with his solar plexus. I hear a loud crack.
The leader growls low in his throat as he picks me up from behind in a crushing bear hug. I thrash and thrash, but I can’t break free from his grip. I hate being overpowered, even for a second. It happens occasionally—I’m sixteen and often fighting adults twice my age and three times my body mass, for god’s sake. But I’m good at fighting. And, more important, I am smart. I can escape most holds. All I have to do is—
“Aww, don’t worry. You tried your best, sweetheart,” he coos into my ear. I can feel his muggy smoker’s breath on the back of my neck. My vision goes red.
Well, then. I know one surefire way to get free.
I take a deep breath and swing my head back, shattering the man’s nose. He screams bloody murder and drops me. With a low swinging kick, I knock his feet out from under him. One perp down, two to go.
I take two steps before something like a baseball bat slams my ankle.
Pain consumes every thought, blackening the edges of my vision. Did I hear a crack, or was that just the sound of the door slamming as a bystander escapes? I can’t tell. Not over the loud cackling laughter of the bearded creep as he winds up to strike again.
I will not lose today. The words become my mantra, repeating in my head as I block out the pain and punch him in the jaw. The blow lands hard enough that he drops his weapon. I snatch the weighted baton from the floor and limp behind the counter. I throw the stick hard. It ricochets off the wall, hitting him in the temple. He falls to the
floor, out like a light.
Two down, one left.
But where’d the last guy go?
I crouch behind the cash register to catch my breath. I was on the cross-country team freshman and sophomore years before I transferred schools, but dang. Vigilante cardio is forever humbling.
From the corner of my eye, one of the hostages catches my attention. When we lock gazes, she freezes. She’s young—maybe college-aged—with pretty brown eyes that stare at me, terrified, as if I’m about to pounce on her next. Why is she nervous? I know my black suit looks intimidating, but I never want the people I’m saving to be afraid of me. Maybe she—
Oh.
When she shifts her arm, a tomato rolls out from underneath her coat, along with several carrots. Her face turns bright red. Suddenly, I understand.
Here’s the thing. When I put on this cowl, I pick my battles wisely. For example:
-
Things I Care About as Batgirl
-
Stopping and preventing violent crime
-
Protecting Gotham City from terrorism
-
Infiltrating drug rings, human-trafficking networks, illegal arms deals, and whatever the massively messed-up mobsters and regular freaks of Gotham cook up to sink this city into the ground
-
Things I Absolutely Do Not Care About as Batgirl
-
Jaywalking
-
Fare enforcement on public transportation after the mayor just raised the prices, again, for the fourth time this year
-
Petty theft
I prefer to mind my business and take care of the actual crime unfolding in Gotham. If she gets caught one day, she gets caught. But you’re not gonna see Batgirl punching someone out for stealing food.
The girl’s eyes widen with guilt, but before she can murmur an excuse, I cut her off. “Did you see where the last guy went? The skinny one who’s been hiding the whole time?” Her mouth falls open with surprise for a split second before she points to the third aisle from the right. “Thanks,” I huff.
I drag myself to my knees and rise carefully, keeping my weight off my rapidly
swelling ankle. It hurts like hell, but I don’t think it’s broken. It can’t be broken. I’m starting as a new student at Gotham Academy today and, to be honest, I’m terrified. Gotham Academy is…stressful. Messy. Cutthroat. Batgirl is my only form of stress relief. The last thing I need is to begin the year on medical leave from patrol. Or to let an injury leave me vulnerable at the end of a fight.
I will not lose today.
My pulse skyrockets from pain at my first step, but I force myself to keep moving. I take one last rest against the produce display and toss the girl a souvenir. She catches it, her jaw dropping as she rubs her thumb over the extra tomato. “Don’t let Batman catch you,” I say before moving to take down the final assailant on aisle three.
I smile.
I will not lose today.
There is a faded bat-symbol sticker on the wall across the street from the deli. Beneath the sticker, someone wrote Batfamily 4ever in silver marker. Someone else crossed the words out and instead wrote Eat the rich. Beside this, someone scribbled IDK if Batgirl is rich, to which someone replied BATGIRL SUCKS LOL.
How creative.
The names and innuendos should annoy me, but it’s not like I haven’t heard it all before. In fact, I’ve heard much worse. I have a lot of nicknames. Just this week, I’ve been called the Bat Chick and Bat Brat. Then, of course, there’s the preferred pick of the internet incels, the one that rhymes with “rat witch.” And those are just the ones for when I’m suited up. At my school, I have nicknames too. A lot of people call me PCD, which stands for Police Commissioner’s Daughter. It’s meant as an insult by the kids who think that because my dad is the head guy at Gotham City Police Department, I must worship cops, which is insane because this city is screwed and the police department is a mess, and if I believed in the police so much, then why would I spend my nights risking my life, running around trying to protect this place anyway? But they don’t know that I’m Batgirl, obviously. So when the cool kids shoot icy glances my way and cough “narc” under their breath when I pass, I let it slip. Double lives, secret identities, etc. The less glamorous perks of being Gotham’s newest vigilante.
I turn the corner and don’t look back. I walk faster than necessary—mostly because I’m glad to be back to my usual brisk pace.
My ankle was fractured at the grocery store fight, and I was stuck in a boot for the six weeks. Until today. I celebrated being able to see my toes again with a quick patrol before coming out tonight.
My phone vibrates with a notification.
Alysia: hey quick question wherethehellareu?!
Alysia Yeoh, my best friend, is five feet two inches of pure fire. Loves museums and cooking. Hates when I show up to everything late. She has a painting in the student art show at our school tonight. At my old public school, a student art show would’ve been a normal, boring event. But because Gotham Academy is over-the-top, the event tonight is over-the-top too. There’s been drama surrounding the art showcase all month. A lot of drama. Controversy might be more accurate.
I type quickly.
Barbara: be there soon
Alysia: fyi u were right. those idiots are protesting the art show. the vibe is…tense
Barbara: dont they have anything better to do?
Alysia: being jerks is their “better” thing to do
I speed up. Graffitied walls give way to pristine, tree-lined streets until I arrive at the intricate wrought iron gate of Gotham Academy. I look up at the ivy-covered walls, the majestic brick steps, the school crest waving on a banner in the wind. A heavy sigh crawls from my chest.
It’s been a hard adjustment transferring here as a junior.
Gotham Academy is even weirder than all the rumors say it is. The school itself is one of the oldest buildings in Gotham City. Gothic architecture, long corridors, and stained glass windows give the school an old, stately feeling. It’s pretty, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. But what really draws the most powerful families in the city to this place is its deep pockets. Gotham Academy is a private high school, but it has more money in its endowment than the entire five-year budget for every single public school in the city combined. People call Gotham Academy elite, but what they mean is expensive. I guess it’s both.
The classes are rigorous. The teachers are attentive. The class sizes are small. I am lucky to be here.
The learning environment is cutthroat. The student body is riddled with scandal. The parents and senior faculty are constantly arguing over whether offering scholarships to kids like me and Alysia “furthers the mission of fostering an elite educational experience” for Gotham City’s one percent or “mars the school reputation.” I am constantly being reminded that I am lucky to be here.
Six weeks in and the pressure to prove that I belong is already exhausting. But what other choice do I have?
“Finally!” Alysia shouts seconds after I step onto school grounds. “Oh my god, wait, look at you! Sans boot!” Alysia smirks as she pulls me into a side hug. She’s wearing black jeans and a thin green T-shirt. Her chin-length black hair falls in layered wisps around the mischievous smirk she wears on her face.
“You have hat hair, yet you’re not wearing a hat,” she observes, eyeing me carefully.
She didn’t know that I stashed my bike nearby, changed into my regular
street clothes, and removed the black makeup I use to obscure my eyes beneath my mask. All part of my regular postfight routine. Except I forgot to fix my hair. Oops.
“I…tried on a beanie at home. Took it off last-minute,” I say, fluffing out the hair that’s been smushed under my cowl all evening. Beneath the cowl, I wear a copper-colored wig too, just to throw people off. It’s probably overkill, but the last thing I need is someone figuring out my identity before I’ve even gotten the hang of the whole vigilante thing.
“Good,” Alysia says approvingly. “Don’t you dare try to hide all those curls.”
I met Alysia on the first day of sixth grade. She lives down the street from me, so we both went to the same public middle school before she transferred to Gotham Academy. During that first-day assembly at our old school when we were eleven, she had been called out for an alleged dress-code violation. This was before the school instituted its long-overdue policy about students’ rights to wear clothing that expresses their gender identity. The principal was going in on her, spewing some transphobic gender norms crap, and it was horrible, but Alysia wasn’t having it. She looked Principal Winans straight in the eye and told him to kiss off. It was incredible. Easily the coolest thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t believe that when she sat back down, she chose a spot next to me. Even more incredible was that when I whispered a joke under my breath, she laughed.
Now, five years later, a slightly taller but no less daring Alysia interlaces her arm with mine, dragging me up the grand driveway that leads to the entrance of the Gotham Academy. She’s pretty much my only friend here. There’s no way in hell I would’ve made it even this far without her.
“Guess who called the hotline again tonight,” Alysia says. I tense up at her words and keep my eyes locked on the walkway ahead of us, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Alysia has been volunteering at 88-88, a new mental-health crisis lifeline that offers 24/7 counseling. They also have case managers to send to emergency scenes. It’s pretty cool, which is why—
“Batgirl called in!” Alysia shouts excitedly.
Yup. I did. I called for the first time on the day I broke my ankle. There were three guys at that grocery store when it happened, but when I finally found the last member of the group, he was crouched at the end of an aisle, holding his knees to his chest. Throughout the entire robbery, the guy didn’t hit me, didn’t threaten anyone, didn’t even help his family with their scheme at all. I approached him slowly, but he didn’t seem to notice me. He just sat there, frozen, mumbling to himself. When I asked him if he was okay,
he “can’t do this anymore.” When I asked what that meant, he pointed at his head, then squeezed his eyes shut and kept rubbing his fists into his temples. He clearly…needed help. More help than GCPD would give him. I left the other two zip-tied for the cops to arrest, but this last guy? Giving Alysia’s hotline a shot felt like the right thing to do.
I wasn’t even planning to call the hotline again anytime soon, but earlier on patrol, there was a hysterical witness who wouldn’t stop freaking out, and I was late enough already trying to get here tonight.
“I’m so pissed I wasn’t the one to pick up Batgirl’s call,” Alysia grumbles. “I wonder what made her try us out.”
“Who knows. Gotham’s a mess. Anyway—”
“Wait, shhh.” Alysia taps my forearm and points discreetly up ahead. Her face slips into a stone wall of pure hatred. “Told you they’d be here.”
Lurking beside the entrance to the art show, lo and behold, six student protesters hold hand-drawn signs. Alysia’s grip on me tightens as we pass.
I hold my breath. Maybe if we avoid eye contact with them, this won’t be so bad?
“BOOOOOOOOOO.” One of the guys wearing a salmon-colored polo uses his hands as a microphone.
Nope. Never mind.
The other protesters all laugh and hoot along with him. Alysia spins on her heels, hissing at them like a snake.
The leader’s name is Kyle. He’s in my history class—infamous for playing the devil’s advocate whenever we talk about basic human rights, but I didn’t expect him to take it this far. “Are you seriously…booing people? For coming tonight?”
Tonight’s art showcase is the first of its kind at Gotham Academy. It’s a Diversity Art Showcase for students of color and LGBTQ+ students to share their work. Gotham City’s not particularly conservative, so I was honestly surprised when several students and parents complained about the showcase. They claimed it’s unfair to have an event that only some students can participate in, whining that it’s an unequal use of school resources. Mind you, this is coming from a school that has both a ski club and a polo team, both of which require participants to have their own snow gear and horses—so they don’t have an issue with some school activities being exclusive, as long as they’re exclusive to wealthy families. It all feels pretty performative to me. Luckily, though, the Concerned Conservative Corner is a campus minority. For the most part, everyone else is fine with the showcase. Still, it’s been a weird time to be on campus—as a new kid,
a Black kid, and a scholarship kid.
One of Kyle’s minions cackles and leans back, shouting, “Free speech!”
“Great. Very productive, intelligent dialogue,” I mumble.
Alysia glares daggers at them before tugging me inside.
“You okay?” I ask her once we’re safe in the cafeteria. The space has been transformed into a series of booths showcasing student visual art, while the auditorium across the hall is being used for the dancers, theater kids, and performance artists. Alysia’s painting hangs right near the entrance. It’s a landscape of Hong Lim Park in Singapore with the remnants of a rally littering the lawn. It’s beautiful.
“I eat dumbasses like Kyle for breakfast—you know I can handle a little heat, GBG,” she says, leaning beside her painting.
GBG. One more nickname. It stands for Gordon-Barbara-Gordon, which is how I very awkwardly introduced myself to Alysia when we first met while suffering from a brief moment of social anxiety that apparently left me believing I was in a James Bond movie or something. Luckily, Alysia’s the only person who calls me that. I don’t mind it coming from her.
“Kyle and his minions are just trying to distract us,” Alysia says before taking a long sip from a can of coconut water—the kind from the bodega with the cartoon logo and the chunks of coconut flesh floating in it.
“Distract us from what?”
“I don’t know. From, like, making art, taking care of business—anything. They want to bait us into this stupid argument about whether we deserve to be here. And while we’re losing sleep over trying to prove ourselves, they’ll just keep on studying, doing their thing. It’s all a big game. Distract us so that we fall behind. We can’t let them—”
“Way to make another self-righteous painting, Alysia. You’re from Singapore. We get it.”
“Eat it and die, Kyle!” she shouts back. He falters as she enthusiastically flips him off with both hands. A teacher stares at us disapprovingly.
“Jesus, Alysia.” I laugh.
“Never said I’d be the bigger person.” She shrugs innocently. “Hey, if we want seats for the performance, we should go now. It’s filling up.”
Ah. The performance—aka the epicenter of all the campus controversy. Apparently, a senior named Austin debuted an experimental project for the Diversity Art Showcase during an art class last week and…it didn’t go great. People freaked out and told their parents, who then told the headmaster, and then suddenly we’re all
receiving a schoolwide email from the administration about “tradition and core values,” then a counter-email from the art department arguing against the censorship of student art, and it’s become a whole thing. The showcase is already contentious enough, but Austin’s performance is the cherry on top of it all. Hence, the line out the door.
“So it’s a magic show?” I ask Alysia when we join the crowd of classmates waiting to get in.
“It’s immersive horror theater,” Alysia says.
“Sooo, a magic show with better branding?”
“It’s art, GBG. Have an open mind,” Alysia says, nudging my shoulder.
I recognize both the people handing out flyers up front. The girl is Lily Convey, the beautiful, elusive, constantly vaping daughter of Gotham City’s most famous model. Beside her is a guy from my English class, Nico Baluyot. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
