Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned, nor am I making profit.
Summary: Throughout the year, Mush knows that seasons change, and so do people. But, like seasons, even people have to stay for a while.
The spring is when Mush's nose itches incessantly, stinging him with sneezes he can't pass and making his eyes leak like old faucets. It's in the spring when the sun's fresh rays burn away winter's dead frost, revealing diamonds of dew bedecking the young grass. The spring is when bouquets of flowers unfold, and wet, spindly foals are born. The spring is when girls braid flower chains and boys venture back onto the warming streets, and women and men grow old enough to appreciate the beauty of the world regenerating. And it's in this season when Mush is sparked with a feeling of novelty, invigorated by the sights and excited by the fragrances of spring.
He likes selling newspapers the best in this season: the world's freshness seems to put people in a better mood, making them more willing to buy. He and Blink finish earlier in the spring than they do any other season of the year, and sometimes they're able to save enough spare change throughout the week to buy strawberries from a street vendor. They share them under a tree in the park, relishing and choking on the bright, spring blossoms. Mush isn't sure what he likes better, the sweet flavor of the berries, or that the bitter winter is gone and ruthless summer hasn't arrived quite yet. But really, Mush knows, somewhere that he hasn't even completely discovered himself yet, he likes spending the longer afternoons with Blink. He likes the way the ink from the papers stains his fingertips, and the scarlet juice stains the corners of his mouth and leaves bands of color underneath his fingernails. Because of the insensitive pay of their job, they aren't able to buy fruit too often, and Mush doesn't feel right about stealing it. It would feel too much like he's pilfering the afternoons with Blink; but in a way, he always feels that way. Only on the tender, new shoots of grass, veiled from sight by the spring leaves is Mush completely able to enjoy Blink, and not have to worry so much about whose eyes might stray.
Summer is a harsh mistress. Mush remembers somebody telling him that once, but for now, he's too exhausted from the heat to remember who. He just mops at the grease that has gathered on either side of his nose and pushes the thick sweat deeper into his hairline. Mother of Christ, summer is brutal. And in New York, it's not just the white, blaring heat of the sun- it's the air: wet, heavy swelter that soaks his clothes until they smother his skin; air like hot, damp cotton. The deeper Mush breathes, the more it feels like he's suffocating. The sun's rays ricochet off the pavement, eliciting fountains of sweat and springs of grease. Mush's palms feel almost as if they're dripping. He clamps his fingers around his stack of papers, the ink and sweat feeling like charcoal brooks down his fingers. It's really something, he muses, his mind muddled from the heat, that there are places even hotter than New York. He's heard stories that the temperature rises beyond 150 in places down south, like Texas. Mush doubts that human flesh stays on the bone in heat like that, but he tries to concentrate on it anyway to make the stifling New York air seem a little cooler.
It fails, though, and Mush's muscles began to feel taut and yet too springy, like his head. His stomach churns violently, and Mush thinks that he is going to vomit; until he realizes that he has nothing to give. He looks over and Blink and clutches his arm with a slick, dizzy hand, managing to gasp, "Sit... shade. Too hot." Exhausted, he stumbles towards an alleyway and collapses against a building in the slight shade. He tilts his head back and listens to the hot air muffle his breathing, shutting his eyes and trying to forget the itchy sweat trickling down his back. He hears Blink settle beside him, clapping his unsold papers on the shadowed pavement. Blink takes off his hat and gently wipes at Mush's soaked face. Mush would reject Blink's gesture- the hot, scratchy fabric pushing the sweat around hurt more than it helped. But the occasional graze of Blink's fingertips against his skin and his quiet voice helps more than the shade, more than anything Mush can imagine. And for the moment, he starts to think that summer isn't so harsh a mistress after all.
In the fall, when David Jacobs goes back to school, with his books with the tattered pages and the tired look on his face, Mush wishes that he could be even half as smart as David. David says that Mush is smart. He's definitely smart: it's just a different kind. Mush doesn't care for the kind of intelligence he possesses, because it hasn't gotten him anything but bruises and hunger pains. Even though Mush has twice the experience of David, he'd still trade all of it for the frustrating assignments and too-cramped desks. It's like David belongs to a whole other world that Mush won't ever get to see, and it's not fair that David gets to go to school and live as a newsie. David has everything in Mush's eyes: street smarts and book smarts, and so much opportunity that it makes Mush dizzy. David can learn the past on week days and shout the present on weekends. Mush doesn't have any need for the past: he keeps looking forward, perhaps too forward, and just keeps staying on the street, feeling that clench in his stomach whenever David says something especially smart that Mush won't ever learn.
It's in the fall when the leaves change color and litter the streets of New York with a crunchy, brown carpet. Mush's mother used to tell him that there was a man who would come out and paint the leaves. Mush used to try and stay up and look for the man, but it always seemed like he'd color the trees whenever Mush's back was turned. And Mush doesn't mind this at all: as long as the trees change, then he's content. It's a control that he can't control in his life, and he likes it. He doesn't know why the leaves change colors; he doesn't know who or what paints them. He just knows that they do change, and that it's a good thing.
Winter is undoubtedly the most merciless season. Even the blaring, cruel sun of summer allows one to take refuge, but winter creeps in and finds you wherever you are. Some boys are strangled by winter's icy hands. Some boys lie down on the warm rug of snow and never wake up. Still others swallow winter and choke on it, and lie awake at night under cold sheets, coughing and wheezing and thinking that if they could just fall asleep, they'd be better off: regardless of whether or not they woke up. Mush is one of the few who manages to stay awake in the snow and hold his breath while frozen Death winds its way through the city. He's never suffered too horribly from winter, but he doesn't think about it because he doesn't want to jinx it. He ties an old scarf around his neck so tight it feels like a band around the dead arm of an amputee, and tries not to breathe or think too deep. He tells himself that cold is just a feeling, just a tingling; like an itch, and if you don't mind, then it doesn't matter. Mush minds the cold: he minds it a lot. He just doesn't tell himself that he does.
In the winter, all the boys sleep two to a bed to share warmth. Mush doesn't like sharing a bed with Racetrack because he kicks too much, and he doesn't like sharing a bed with Cowboy because he breathes too heavily. Mush likes sharing a bed with Blink the best: he likes the way he sometimes makes little noises in his sleep, like a newborn struggling in its swaddling. He likes the way Blink barely stirs in his sleep and breathes through his nose, and the way he washes his face just before bed, so he always smells clean. More than anything, Mush just likes to be close to Blink. When everybody is finally asleep, and Racetrack is calm and Cowboy's breaths have quieted to sound like a whisper ticking off the seconds of the winter night, Mush likes to pretend that he and Blink are sharing much more than warmth.
And it's in that year, in that moment, that Mush knows that seasons change, and so does he. But, for a while, even seasons have to stay.