Pages Seventeen and Eighteen
There was a stunned silence after Snitch told him. The two boys sat together, legs dangling over the edge of the roof, the low, broken city stretched out underneath their feet.
"A hunnurd dollars is a lot of money," Snitch said after a moment.
"Oh, I understand," Racetrack said, casually accepting the offered cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye, Snitch saw his friend catch the end in his mouth and inhaled deeply, making the carmine tip flare and die down on his breath. Neither boy looked at the other.
The sun was setting in the distance, making the sky glow in pinks and reds that belonged to a different world, one that burned over the horizon and rippled in the waters of the East River. Racetrack coughed harshly, and pounded at his chest with his fist. Snitch licked his lips.
"And it's not like I'm gonna be a newsie forever," he mused, tilting his head to one side. He took the cigarette back from Racetrack and pulled it towards his mouth with two fingers. "Man's gotta make a living for 'imself. Y'know?"
"I know," Racetrack replied, raising his eyebrows. Snitch nodded, glad that his friend could see both sides of the matter. He took the cigarette from his mouth and examined it, holding the salty taste of it's smoke on his lips. The white paper was soiled with the grayness of his pockets, and there was a thick crease in the center, greasy and smudged. The tobacco was nearly falling out the ends of it.
"Yup," he said. "A livin'."
"A livin'," Racetrack assented.
Snitch tilted his head back and pursed his lips, letting out a thin stream of smoke that stretched itself into a filmy cloud over both their heads, before dissipating into nothingness. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Racetrack staring down into the streets, his hands placed solidly on his knees, gaze thoughtful.
"S'on yer mind?" Snitch asked. Racetrack shook his head.
"That's why that book was missin' those pages, right?" He asked, his voice light with genuine interest. "The one that Jack gave to you, when he toldja that pages seventeen and eighteen were his favorites?"
Snitch looked at Racetrack for the first time, his eyebrows scrunching up high into his forehead.
"How'd you find out about that?" He asked. Racetrack shrugged.
"I was bored. So I took it from your bed stand."
"From my bed stand?"
"From your bed stand."
"That's theivin', that is."
"Where didja put those pages, Snitch?" Racetrack asked. Snitch regarded him for a minute, before sighing out the rest of the smoke and passing the cigarette to his friend.
"I tore 'um up," he said, feeling his shoulders slump into a relaxed position. Racetrack chuckled in admiration, as took a deep drag. "Ripped 'um out and tore 'um up." Racetrack grinned appreciatively.
"Good thing too. Otherwise I woulda made a run for it, huh?"
"I didn't like it either," Snitch remarked defensively, his eyebrows furrowing. The memories of pages seventeen and eighteen resurfaced. Small dirty text underneath the thick, red slashes of Jack's handwriting. He remembered pulling the book closer to his face, eyes wide with shock, murmuring the message under his breath. He remembered sneaking into the bathroom at night and ripping the pages out of the book with trembling fingers, shredding them and letting them flutter to the ground until the only remnants of the fearful message were the echoes of it in his own mind.
"No," Snitch repeated thoughtfully, "I didn't like it either. At first," he added.
"A body gets used to it," Racetrack agreed.
"A body gets used to it," Snitch repeated.
"Jack an' I used to be real good friends, y'know?" Racetrack changed the subject as he pinched the ends of the cigarette to keep the tobacco in, and passed it back to Snitch. "I mean…we were as thick as thieves during the strike. You remember that?"
"I remember."
"You remember when we overturned that newspaper cart on Delancey, and then had to make a run for it when the bulls came by?"
"I remember."
"You remember when we came back to the lodgin' house with all the rock candy we had stolen from that Jew store?"
"I remember."
"Yup."
"Yup."
"Yup." the two boys said simultaneously.
Snitch felt sick as he inhaled the smoke, but choked the feeling down, his heart beating dully in his chest. Racetrack was coughing again, hunched over his knees, his curved shoulders jerking up and down with every heave. Snitch turned away and stared up at the sunset again. The sun itself had just slipped beneath the river, the edges of its fingertips still glowing weakly over the rooftops, leaving a cacophony of color smeared across the clouds. Racetrack had told him that the sky was real pretty when you stopped to look at it, but Snitch had never taken him seriously.
Racetrack's coughing fit had subsided, but he remained hunched over, elbows on his knees. He seemed to be contemplating something.
"That was pretty clever of Jack. Wrote it out in a book like that. Say, where you think he got the money?" He asked. Snitch furrowed his brows and held the cigarette out to his friend.
"The money?" He repeated
"The money,"
"The money?"
"I always thought Jack was as dirt poor as the rest of us," Racetrack mused, accepting. Snitch tucked the tip of his tongue into the crevasse between his front teeth and upper lip, his brows furrowed in thought. His teeth felt dirty and soft, and it made him feel dissatisfied somehow.
"I dunno," he said finally. "I guess he's gettin' it from someone else,"
"I guess,"
"I guess," Snitch repeated.
"Because a hunnurd dollars is a lotta money," Racetrack said, raising his eyebrows.
"That's a lotta money," Snitch agreed.
"A lot."
"A lot."
There was an easy silence that passed between the two boys. Snitch's stomach still felt hot and sick inside of him, but the initial anxiety he had been battling with had seeped away, blown out with the smoke, aimlessly floating upwards towards heaven. They passed the cigarette back and forth with the ease of two old friends, silent in their reminiscing and thoughts. The city was becoming quieter underneath them, as night slowly spread its fingers across the sky, and the lamps in the tenements were extinguished. The raucous laughter of a few night wanderers echoed throughout the alleyways. Snitch thought he heard Jack's distinctive chuckle, but brushed the feeling away, not wanting to let his thoughts stray in that direction.
He remembered a time when he and Racetrack used to find themselves on the corners when the sun began to set. The both of them were night owls, unable to fall dead asleep like the rest of the boys. Those nights were the happiest in Snitch's memory, varied and free. Sometimes they snuck into the pubs that played ragtime all night and found themselves girls, sometimes they stole a whiskey or two and found themselves drunk, and sometimes they simply sat on the curb, passed a cigarette back and forth, and found themselves. They always had to sneak up the fire escape in the lodging house, since Kloppman wouldn't let anyone in past midnight, whether they lived there or not. Snitch smiled to himself, feeling almost happy, despite his predicament.
"We used to be good friends too, huh?" Racetrack's voice cut into his thoughts. Snitch felt his insides tighten with shock and guilt. He turned towards Racetrack, brows furrowed in disagreement.
"Race, we're still friends." He insisted. Racetrack glanced up at him, cigarette dangling carelessly from his lips, fingers folded together comfortably.
"We are?" He asked, his voice thick with doubt. Snitch nodded, lips pressed together.
"We are." He repeated. "This changes nothing, right?"
"Changes nothin'." Racetrack repeated, as though memorizing the words.
"It changes nothin'."
"Changes nothin'."
"Nothin'." Snitch confirmed. Racetrack's brow smoothed, and a smile came to his lips.
"Nothin'." He agreed placidly.
Snitch sighed. It looked like he didn't have much of a choice. It was almost midnight, and Jack would soon be around with the hundred dollars. He sighed once more, as Racetrack passed him the stub of the cigarette. The ember tip was so close, it lit up his fingers, illuminating the smudges and scars that decorated the skin. Snitch shook his head and pushed Racetrack's hand away.
"You finish it." He told him. "S'yours."
Racetrack watched him for a moment, before his face split open in a grin. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
Snitch waited, as Racetrack took his time enjoying the last cigarette. He left it between his lips until it was little more than a stub, before spitting it out. The two boys leaned over the edge of the building and watched as the burning redness of it drifted down, caught on the wind, tipping and turning and landing gently on the pavement, where it smoked itself to ruins.
Racetrack sighed in relief, a smile lighting the corners of his lips. "Thanks, buddy, I needed that."
"Least I could do," Snitch replied amiably. He leaned sideways and reached into his pocket, hands suddenly very sweaty. They circled around the cold, wooden shaft of the knife.
He pulled it from his pocket and held it loosely in front of him, feeling almost sheepish. The tip was broken off, leaving it more of a jagged scrap than an actual weapon. But it would do. He looked up at Racetrack, who wasn't looking quite as composed as he was a moment ago. His face had gone rather pale underneath the gold color of his skin, and his hands were clenched rather tightly, eyes fastened on the blade. Snitch felt hurt.
"No hard feelings, right?" He asked, turning the knife until it was pointed at his friend. Racetrack swallowed.
"Sure," he said. If anything else, his voice was steady, and the smile on his face looked almost natural. "No hard feelings."
"Cuz…y'know," Snitch said, as his friend raised his eyes to his face. "A hunnurd dollars is a lot of money."
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Write about your FAVORITE newsie from the point of view of your
LEAST FAVORITE newsie. (No cheating!)
Any length
1899-ish era
Any genre
It can be a conversation, a narration, whatever you want. And that
doesn't have to be your entire story, though it certainly could be.
The story should revolve around (or just feature) one of these
conflicts:
-a broken knife
-missing pants
-a book which is missing crucial pages
-someone's allergies
-a boarded up door