Joker, Batman & a Bit of High School Romance
High school was a world of new coordinates: the endless stretches of corridors, the sprawling campus that dwarfed our previous lives, and the bewildering number of new faces spilling from a dozen different class sections. For my best friend, however, it was a map to a singular treasure: a girlfriend. And as his loyal first mate, I took up the quest, like a family arranging a marriage.
Our early efforts were defined less by successful scouting and more by the long, delicious walks we took during intervals. We drifted through far-flung floors and corridors where our own classes never ventured, simply enjoying the aimless journey, the faces that blurred past, and the private tapestry of jokes and shared secrets that only we understood. The actual “finding” became secondary to the shared exploration.
Then, one day, high up on the third floor, the search found us.
We were mid-stride, discussing some triviality, when a sudden, crackling peal of laughter echoed from an open classroom door. It was pure energy, utterly unrestrained—a sound of freedom and unexpected beauty that brought our loud steps to a sudden, screeching halt.
We stepped back. It was a junior class, one year below us. The room was mostly empty, save for a small knot of girls. Our eyes locked onto two:
One, with a bright scarf tied over her short hair, was the source of the joyful noise. She was jovial, animated, barely contained. Her scarf fluttered like a small flag of rebellion as she threw herself into her own joke, her intelligent eyes sparkling, her smile wide and wonderfully cheeky.
Her friend was her perfect counterpoint: calm, soft, and utterly composed. She held her smile carefully, a masterpiece of restraint, yet every few seconds, her friend’s antics would break her composure, forcing a gentle, tender laughter.
A moment later, four curious eyes turned toward us—two conspicuous boys loitering where we didn't belong. We quickly retreated. My friend's face was lit up, a thousand-watt smile on his lips. His eyes, usually half-lidded with boredom, were wide and spoke a single, urgent message.
The mission had its target.
We didn't know their real names.
So, with the reckless logic only high school boys possess, we named them ourselves —
the lively one, Joker;
the calm, composed one, Batman.
From that day on, intervals had a single destination: the third floor. Our efforts, while initially a joint venture, soon focused on a single intention. And if you appear often enough, obviously, your intentions—or at least the fact of your presence—become known.
The twist, however, was in the target. My friend, the one who craved the grand gesture, fell completely for Batman, the calm, gathered girl. It took careful maneuvering to pry her attention from the Joker, her inseparable and wonderfully boisterous friend. Slowly, surely, the signs began to flicker: shared glances, delayed goodbyes. Batman was starting to like him back.
The culmination came on an afternoon after classes. I couldn't reach my friend on his phone, but I knew exactly where he would be. I took the stairs two at a time, walking onto the third floor with a practiced familiarity.
There she was: Joker. Alone—a strange and silent sight without Batman. She was smiling, there was the spring in her step, but something felt off. It was a smile that seemed to require effort, like a flower struggling to maintain its fragrance.
Just then, my friend's message chimed: "...batman.."
I messaged a confused question mark.
His reply: "...With batman..."
The realization was a sudden, joyful punch to the gut. She finally said yes. My friend had his dream.
I looked up at Joker. She wasn't exactly waiting, but wandering; her hands on the corridor rails, adjusting the telltale scarf. Everything around her felt subdued. A wave of deep, unexpected guilt washed over me. A victory that hurt someone nice. She had lost her constant companion, and I suddenly feared she was realizing what Batman’s attention had meant to her.
I took a few steps toward the stairs, ready to retreat, to leave her to her quiet moment. But I stopped. I stood still, listening to the sinking, wrong feeling in my chest.
Then, I turned back. I started walking toward her. We had never officially spoken. I was still a stranger from the wrong side of the third floor.
As I approached, she raised her head. A slight, fragile smile broke on her lips, and she made her trademark gesture; a brief adjustment of the head scarf. Was it curiosity? Recognition? Understanding? Her smile grew bigger, brighter, as she recognized the strange boy who loitered by her classroom.
I stopped right in front of her. Took a deep breath, and let the strange, true feeling in my heart lead my voice.
"Hi," I said. "I heard a rumour that Batman finally lost her cool."
The Joker's composure broke completely. A genuine, unrestrained laugh —the beautiful, crackling one— burst out of her, echoing down the empty corridor.
"And you came all the way up here for a rumour?" she countered, her intelligent eyes bright with mischief and a sudden, shared secret.
"No," I admitted, my guilt dissolving in the sound of her laughter. "I came because I suddenly realized who my favorite superhero was."
Our early efforts were defined less by successful scouting and more by the long, delicious walks we took during intervals. We drifted through far-flung floors and corridors where our own classes never ventured, simply enjoying the aimless journey, the faces that blurred past, and the private tapestry of jokes and shared secrets that only we understood. The actual “finding” became secondary to the shared exploration.
Then, one day, high up on the third floor, the search found us.
We were mid-stride, discussing some triviality, when a sudden, crackling peal of laughter echoed from an open classroom door. It was pure energy, utterly unrestrained—a sound of freedom and unexpected beauty that brought our loud steps to a sudden, screeching halt.
We stepped back. It was a junior class, one year below us. The room was mostly empty, save for a small knot of girls. Our eyes locked onto two:
One, with a bright scarf tied over her short hair, was the source of the joyful noise. She was jovial, animated, barely contained. Her scarf fluttered like a small flag of rebellion as she threw herself into her own joke, her intelligent eyes sparkling, her smile wide and wonderfully cheeky.
Her friend was her perfect counterpoint: calm, soft, and utterly composed. She held her smile carefully, a masterpiece of restraint, yet every few seconds, her friend’s antics would break her composure, forcing a gentle, tender laughter.
A moment later, four curious eyes turned toward us—two conspicuous boys loitering where we didn't belong. We quickly retreated. My friend's face was lit up, a thousand-watt smile on his lips. His eyes, usually half-lidded with boredom, were wide and spoke a single, urgent message.
The mission had its target.
We didn't know their real names.
So, with the reckless logic only high school boys possess, we named them ourselves —
the lively one, Joker;
the calm, composed one, Batman.
From that day on, intervals had a single destination: the third floor. Our efforts, while initially a joint venture, soon focused on a single intention. And if you appear often enough, obviously, your intentions—or at least the fact of your presence—become known.
The twist, however, was in the target. My friend, the one who craved the grand gesture, fell completely for Batman, the calm, gathered girl. It took careful maneuvering to pry her attention from the Joker, her inseparable and wonderfully boisterous friend. Slowly, surely, the signs began to flicker: shared glances, delayed goodbyes. Batman was starting to like him back.
The culmination came on an afternoon after classes. I couldn't reach my friend on his phone, but I knew exactly where he would be. I took the stairs two at a time, walking onto the third floor with a practiced familiarity.
There she was: Joker. Alone—a strange and silent sight without Batman. She was smiling, there was the spring in her step, but something felt off. It was a smile that seemed to require effort, like a flower struggling to maintain its fragrance.
Just then, my friend's message chimed: "...batman.."
I messaged a confused question mark.
His reply: "...With batman..."
The realization was a sudden, joyful punch to the gut. She finally said yes. My friend had his dream.
I looked up at Joker. She wasn't exactly waiting, but wandering; her hands on the corridor rails, adjusting the telltale scarf. Everything around her felt subdued. A wave of deep, unexpected guilt washed over me. A victory that hurt someone nice. She had lost her constant companion, and I suddenly feared she was realizing what Batman’s attention had meant to her.
I took a few steps toward the stairs, ready to retreat, to leave her to her quiet moment. But I stopped. I stood still, listening to the sinking, wrong feeling in my chest.
Then, I turned back. I started walking toward her. We had never officially spoken. I was still a stranger from the wrong side of the third floor.
As I approached, she raised her head. A slight, fragile smile broke on her lips, and she made her trademark gesture; a brief adjustment of the head scarf. Was it curiosity? Recognition? Understanding? Her smile grew bigger, brighter, as she recognized the strange boy who loitered by her classroom.
I stopped right in front of her. Took a deep breath, and let the strange, true feeling in my heart lead my voice.
"Hi," I said. "I heard a rumour that Batman finally lost her cool."
The Joker's composure broke completely. A genuine, unrestrained laugh —the beautiful, crackling one— burst out of her, echoing down the empty corridor.
"And you came all the way up here for a rumour?" she countered, her intelligent eyes bright with mischief and a sudden, shared secret.
"No," I admitted, my guilt dissolving in the sound of her laughter. "I came because I suddenly realized who my favorite superhero was."
