Touch Of The Past

Chapter 36

I lean forward on my hands, regarding the white board in front of me with vague boredom. It's math. I mean, I love math, and this particular set of problems is definitely challenging, but right now I want to move.

My leg is bouncing under my desk, the tip of my pencil taps on my notebook with rapid clicks, and my free hand presses my chin, all in efforts of expending some of my excess energy.

"Mr. Grayson?" calls my math teacher with a slight Southern drawl that's only detectable when she speaks especially slow or annoyed. She and I are on good enough terms; after all, I am a mathlete. But she gets irritated when I'm bored, or rather, when I act bored. "Would you like to demonstrate the problem's solution on the board?"

Her chosen tactic of stimulating me is often by doing the problem in front of the class. That or grilling me on the unit.

I give her a brief, bored smile before unwinding myself from the desk and going up to the front. I hadn't done the problem yet, so I do a lot of premature rounding in my head, not having brought my calculator.

When I step away from the board, the class is judging my answer, but I could care less. I return to my seat.

"The roundings messed with the final answer, but if you had them exact, your answer would be fine. That wouldn't have flied at a competition, Mr. Grayson."

My head back in one hand, I shrug with the other shoulder.

"Now, moving on..."

I squirm in my seat as she continues, trying to stop my skin from crawling after sitting so long. Do you ever sit in the same spot so long, it's the only thing you can think about? You actually ache to stand up, and your legs feel too tight, and you just need to move. I can literally feel the bed sores...

"Richard Grayson!"

Crap. She full-named me.

She continues, "Is there something wrong?"

I try to summon the most charmed smile I can given how anxious I feel. "I want to move."

Mrs. Browne lets out a long sigh. "I'm not going to let you go to the bathroom, because the last two times you went, that was the last I saw of you that day." The class snickers and I roll my eyes. They were emergencies, what can I say? "Why don't you stretch in the back? You simply have to listen and not distract the class."

I give her a huge smile, pleased with the compromise. "Okay!"

I dart down the row and stand at the back. After a moment, she restarts the lesson. Regarding the amount of space I was given, I opt for a handstand. No one is watching me anymore, so I walk back and forth, watching from an upside down view as Mrs. Browne continues the lesson in matrices.

With a controlled move, I'm in a backbend and then back on my feet. Then I slip into a splits. Then a side splits. Then, I do another handstand, lowering my feet so they nearly touch the ground, keeping my arms straight and trying to continue listening to the lesson.

Mrs. Browne's speech is abruptly cut off with a shriek and some kind of thump, and it takes all five years of my training not to jerk in reaction and somehow snap my neck.

"Somebody call 911! Dick is broken!" shouts Maddie, sounding genuinely concerned.

"No, wait," I protest, swinging my legs up so I'm back in a handstand. I lower myself back onto my feet and call up an apologetic smile. "Wait. I'm a gymnast, I'm not broken, I swear."

"Nobody should be able to bend like that," claims Charles (yes, Charles, but, I mean, my adoptive dad is "Bruce" and his butler is "Alfred", so.), as if he's made that the law just by speaking. He's a... well. Let's just say he's worthy of my name.