Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

twenty one

* The few lines of French dialogue will be translated at the end of the chapter

24 YEARS EARLIER

Oliver brushed down the thin lapels of his gray Gotham Academy blazer, giving himself a complimentary wink in the silver-lined bathroom mirror. It was the first day of his tenth-grade year at Gotham Academy (thanks to his stellar repertoire of somehow managing to get kicked out of French boarding school again) and Oliver, in his opinion, thought he looked sexy, for lack of a better color palette.

The grays and blues of the GA uniform weren't exactly "his" style— he always preferred something a little flashier— maybe a deep magenta or forest green (definitely green, his mom always said it brought out his eyes) but he couldn't lie, he was pretty damn hot in navy. Maybe he should wear it more.

Oliver had a very simple plan for his first week, which didn't involve any academics whatsoever, because weren't American schools all about partying, anyway? At least that's what he'd seen in movies. (Cut him some slack, he'd been stuck in a brick-covered French dormitory with ten other roommates for the last five years, what was he to know about the social hierarchy of America's schooling system?)

First: look hot, check. The next steps were to find the "head honcho's" of the sophomore class (and if his movies were correct, then they'd be in the form of disgruntled, rude, roided-out football jocks) intimidate them, steal all of their pretty girlfriends, throw the sickest parties at his empty Star City mansion— courtesy of his parents always being gone and traveling out of country— then become the most popular guy ever.

Easy.

He walked out of the bathroom and offered his best smile to passing groups of students also adorned in uniforms. He received several weird looks, not that Oliver minded. He'd found that, for whatever reason, his personality and outgoing exuberance were not always well-received by most people at first. But Oliver Queen didn't struggle to make friends, and he knew that once his classmates realized what a catch he was, they'd all definitely love him.

His first impression here was important, his parents had told him before they took off for some flight to who-knows-where. Gotham Academy wasn't just another one of his random private schools— it was home to some of the brightest young minds on the East Coast, and had the privilege of educating a few pretty famous people.

The last name Wayne— the Queen's long-time family friends— suddenly brushed across Oliver's mind. His old pal Bruce would probably be in attendance here, shouldn't he? They were in the same grade, and if what Oliver remembered was correct, Bruce's father once also attended the Academy. Bruce always liked to do what his father did.

Oliver wondered for a moment if Bruce was one of the so-called "head honchos." The blond shook his head. From what he knew about the prodigal son of Gotham, Bruce didn't seem like the type to play football or party, or have friends at all, for that matter.

A particular group of students caught Oliver's eye, pulling him from his thoughts. It was a small crowd of probably six or seven boys, with a brunette guy in the center, telling some story with a smirk. He had curly hair and matching brown eyes, a white smile and an expensive-looking leather book bag slung over his shoulder.

That seemed like a good place to start, all things considered.

Oliver pushed his shoulders back and approached the crowd, their conversation falling silent as the boy in the center gave him a strange look.

"Can I help you, Blondie?" The brunette had a certain taunt to his voice which made a few of the other boys snicker.

Oliver's smile didn't falter as he held out his hand. Thank God he still remembered appropriate American greetings. "Name's Oliver."