Her Coffee Hearts and Angel Wings

Chapter 2

    After I return to the apartment, I hide in my room to escape the heavy smell of blood radiating from Tiff’s takeout. I’ve lost my own appetite, so I tuck my dumplings into my mini-fridge and sit down at my desk to grade papers. I’m afraid to admit that for the last two weeks, I’ve been sorely neglecting my work as a teacher. I haven’t returned anything to the students, and the reason is shameful.

    It’s also called Damian Wayne.

    He switched into Gotham Public two weeks ago and he is a little satanic demon child that deserves-- but no, I can’t wish harm on my students.

    His father is Bruce Wayne, the richest person in Gotham. Naturally, somebody of Wayne’s social standing doesn’t send their child to Gotham Public. Damian began school at a fancy private academy that cost more per semester then I’ve made, like, ever. But something happened; either he just didn’t fit in there or he got expelled. Since he’s Wayne’s son, it was all kept very hush and nobody could find out the exact details.

    Anyway, two weeks ago, he transferred to Gotham Public and was placed in my homeroom. And I can honestly say that I haven’t had a good day at work since. He’s unbelievably rude and uses language that he shouldn’t know, much less be saying out loud. 

    The thing is, a student’s behavior often echoes their parent’s. Damian’s use of demeaning, sexist terms has given me no choice but to assume that he’s picking it up from his dad-- and anybody who knows anything about Wayne would probably agree that it’s not a crazy guess. 

    “That Wayne kid been giving you problems, Gabby?” Tiff shouts in her husky voice from the kitchen. It’s like she’s read my mind.

    “He’s been giving me problems for two weeks straight now,” I call back.

    “Beat him up, then,” cackles Tiff, and this is why she’s not the best person to ask for advice. 

    “Not funny.” I fixate my attention back to the huge stack of papers on my desk and sift through them, pulling out the ones with Damian’s name on the top and putting them into a seperate pile, my Things I Will Deal With Later pile. 

    I grade the rest of the papers, essays about Halee Trent, Gotham’s first female legislator. The prompt was to write about three ways she changed Gotham. Most of the kids did a good job.

    I turned to Damian’s essay and, with a dreadful feeling in my stomach, read the first line.

    Trent was a harlot and a whore, whose contributions to Gotham were unreservedly insignificant. Rather than compose an essay on this worthless skank, I shall compose one about the Batman, whose contributions to Gotham actually matter. 

    I let out a furious groan and throw his paper back into the Things I Will Deal With Later pile. I throw myself down onto my bed, back complaining at the impact of my hard mattress. And then, I guess, sometime while I’m considering one hundred and one ways to rid the earth of Damian Wayne, I fall asleep.

    The next morning is unpleasant, to say the least. I’ve slept through my alarm, so I rush around, trying to brush my teeth and do my makeup. In record time, I am gathering my papers and stuffing them into my briefcase, and then I run out the door with no time for breakfast. 

    If I run fast enough, I know I can make the 7:45 train and get to work on time. So I dash through the streets, face red with humiliation, turning heads. 

    Just when I’ve shoved my way through the people to my train, the doors begin to close. 

    “No.” I drop my briefcase to the ground and bent over to brace my hands on my knees, eyes stinging. 

    “Are you coming?”
    I glance up to find a man about my age, with light brown hair and tired eyes, his hand hovering in between the two sliding doors.

    “Oh my god,” I breathe out in relief, nodding my head and grabbing my briefcase from the ground. “Thank you, thank you, a hundred times thank you.” He cracks a smile.

    “You’re welcome.” I fall clumsily into the seat next to him, entwining my fingers and pushing my briefcase between my knees. 

    “I was- it’s just, I was going to be late for work-” I scramble to explain myself for some reason, flustered. “I’m a teacher, you know, and so- My name’s Gabriella.” He smiles at me.

    “Tim.” I nod and look him over again out of the corner of my eye. He’s definitely too well-dressed to be from Crime Alley, but his suit is rumpled like he slept in it.

    “Uh, so do you live here?” I ask as the metro pulls away with a lurch.

    “No, not in Crime Alley. Just visiting a,” he hesitates for a second, “a friend.” I nod, trying to hide my smile. A lady friend, no doubt, from the bags under his eyes. You said you were a teacher; may I ask where at?”

    “Gotham Public.” I glance away from him, then, suitably embarrassed. I like being a teacher-- well, at least until Damian Wayne-- but I’ve pretty much told him that I’m broke. A flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes and I raise an eyebrow questioningly.

    “Did you go there?”

    “Oh, no. Some kid I babysit sometimes for his dad goes there.”
    “Oh, who?” I ask, but he either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to, and when he closes his eyes and rests his head against the window I decide not to ask again.

    Something about Tim seems mysterious to me, but I’m well trained enough to just leave it. In Gotham, sometimes it’s just better to not ask.

*DC owns Batman, Gotham, and everything but Gabriella throughout this whole fanfic!