Happy Holidays, Repeat!

Chapter One.

A Rainy Christmas

Specs stumbled into the Lodging House wearing sodden clothes and a fierce frown. He shook off the excess water on his person by the doorway before removing his hat, shrugging out of his coat, and setting them on the chair in the corner. He paused there for a moment with drooped shoulders. Letting out a mighty sigh, Specs then dragged his feet to the table by the windows and pulled up a seat, plopping himself down lethargically. His head dropped down to the table with a thud.

"I hate Christmas," he muttered.

All this James Kloppman, longtime supervisor of the Newsboys Lodging House, observed with a watchful eye, sitting on his high stool behind the counter.

"Now, Specs—hate Christmas?" Kloppman said. "Surely you don't mean that, boy." He had known many of the boys for years, and all of them, despite the grim of their daily lives in the city, were always thrilled when it came to Christmas.

Specs heaved another tired sigh. "No, I don't," he admitted, raising his head slightly to face the elderly Kloppman. "It's just that… it's nothing. I just had a bad day. Great, now I sound like Skittery…" he moaned, his face falling flat against the table again.

It was an overly pitiful sight, one that he was accustomed to seeing from Racetrack or Skittery, even Kid Blink when a young lady was involved, but not from Specs. Specs was one of the more logical and tempered of the group—granted, he was a bit of a smart aleck—and Kloppman found this show of dramatics quite unlike the newsboy. However, he knew better than to pry. Years of street life had hardened these boys, made the lot of them more cynical and less trusting of people, and though Kloppman was one of the few they did trust—other than each other—he knew how lightning fast those street instincts kicked in.

Instead, he put on his old glasses and opened up his ledger. Feigning vague interest in Specs' unfortunate state, he said, "Well, that's a relief. Everyone has a bad day once in a while…"

"But, Kloppman," Specs exclaimed, straightening suddenly, "it's Christmas!"

Kloppman simply peered over his glasses at the frustrated young man, making himself appear like he didn't comprehend Specs' indignation.

Specs leaned back in the chair and looked forlornly outside the window. "Christmas isn't supposed to be like this," he said to himself.

Kloppman uttered a non-committal sound, sensing that the seams were about to burst.

It didn't take long.

Specs hesitated, his eyes scrunching up as he debated whether to open his mouth or not. "Kloppman," he finally decided, "promise you won't tell anyone."

Kloppman raised his right hand as though he were swearing an oath. "I promise."

"I can't tell any of the guys, see, 'cause… it's kinda embarrassing."

Kloppman chuckled as he said, "What could possibly be so embarrassing that you can't tell your closest friends?"

Specs let out another sigh before he explained, with shame, "I got soaked by a bunch of kids today." The older man said nothing, giving Specs no choice but to continue. "I was sellin' in my usual place when this kid, 'round Snipeshooter's age, comes along and tells me to 'move it.' I ain't stupid, I see he's holdin' papers for The Sun, so I told him to find his own sellin' spot, you know? Told him nicely, too, 'cause he's just a kid—and then he kicks my knee and runs off!"

"The little ruffian…" Kloppman mumbled, shaking his head disdainfully.

"That wasn't the end of it. He comes back with, I don't know, ten of his buddies, and they start throwing rocks at me," he added, as though he were still in disbelief of what happened. Kloppman looked horrified at that. Specs mollified, "They weren't big rocks, Kloppman. Little ones. But they still hurt like hell." He rubbed at his cheek, and upon closer observation, Kloppman saw light scrapes upon the boy's skin.

"So I got chased outta my spot in the morning, but I still tried to sell my papes 'cause I stupidly bought fifty today. Then… it starts raining! Not just some little drops, but a full out downpour."

"Yes, I saw that, too," Kloppman said, recalling the beginnings of the rain earlier in the day.

Specs continued. "No one's wanting to buy papes 'cause they're all running 'round like chickens because of the rain. I sold five papes, Kloppman. Five. Went back to the distribution center, and there's some new guy there filling in for ol' Emers since the morning—"

"Still out sick, is he?" Kloppman mumbled with concern, acquainted with the similarly wizened Emerson, the head of the distribution center.

"Yeah. Ya know what he tells me? He tells me they won't buy back the papes 'cause they're 'damaged goods.' Can ya believe that?"

"Well, that's not right," Kloppman said, frowning his disapproval. "You boys are allowed to sell your papers back, that's the deal ya got from the strike!"

"That's what I told him," said Specs, raising his hands, relieved that someone finally understood him. "I told him that and the guy told me to run along. Stunk more than a Delancey…"

Every once in a while, there was someone selfish and greedy who came along who tried to take advantage of the poor newsboys. Lucky for the boys, they had tenaciously loyal friends in each other and, as the strike in the summer proved, they stuck by one another even in the most dire circumstances. So Kloppman had to wonder why Specs wasn't with those friends now. After all, if he was upset from being denied from selling back his papers, so then were the other boys.

"I'd say that is a bad day you had there," Kloppman agreed sympathetically.

"And the worst part is," Specs maintained, so wrapped up was he in his rant, "that it's still raining!"

The superintendent squinted, peering out through the window into the darkened streets. "It sure is."

"Kloppman, it's Christmas Eve and it's raining. I say it should be snow or nothing at all."

Ah, beneath all that hardened street toughness still beat a young heart, Kloppman thought with a small smile. How nice it was to behold a young man that, despite growing up on jaded streets, still held such childlike ideals like having snow on Christmas.

"I agree," came a small voice at the door.

A young lady stood just inside the door jambs, soaked from the rain. She had entered quietly, tentatively. When Kloppman's and Specs' attention came to her, she blushed and quickly began to apologize. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I know it's a newsboys lodging house, but it was on the way and the rain and my book, I didn't want it to get wet and—"

The superintendent and Specs simultaneously stopped her with a nonchalant wave. Kloppman never minded a few guests so long as it was before the traditional Christmas dinner, which was open to boys only—rules were rules after all—and he never could resist sharing his famous Christmas hot chocolate with everyone who stepped through the lodging house doors. Repeat, clutching her coat about her and shivering by the door, was welcomed with open arms—despite being a girl.

The mood in the lodging house shifted considerably as Repeat stepped inside; Specs straightened, smoothed back his hair, fixed his frames. His frustrated rant was magically forgotten. A small smile even materialized upon his features.

Kloppman shook his head, hiding his mirth: the presence of a lady worked wonders on young lads.

Specs saw Kloppman already making his way to the small kitchen area in the back, no doubt to prepare his famous hot chocolate. That left Repeat and him in the lobby. He scratched his temple awkwardly before leaning across the small table to push back the chair opposite him. It was an offer for Repeat, asking her to take a seat. He always saw other guys do this sort of thing for their lady friends.

With a timid smile in response, she gave him a soft, "Thanks," and quietly sat down. Strands of her blond hair fell over bright moss green eyes. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and her dark coat, which was a size or two too big, was visibly drenched.

Specs liked Repeat. She was nice. Didn't talk a whole lot usually, but he had seen how vibrant she was with her close friends. Clearly, she was the shy type, the kind that took time to open up and to get to know truly.

They met a year ago through mutual friends and, until now, they always met with the company of those friends. An embarrassed silence filled the air between them as both were alone with each other for, seemingly, the first time. Repeat, of course, had the added discomfort of being a girl in a boy's lodging house.

"Uh… crazy weather, ain't it?" Specs tossed in an effort to clear the silence.

"It is," Repeat quickly agreed. After a pause, she added, "I overheard what you said about having snow. I was hoping for the same."

"Yeah, it… it never feels like Christmas when it's raining, ya know? To me, anyway."

Repeat looked hopeful, though. "We still have tomorrow, right?"

Specs brightened a bit at the possibility. "Yeah, I guess. So, what'd you want snow for?"

"Me?" She hesitated, as though uncertain whether she ought to answer his question. After careful thought, she answered, "I guess I was looking for some inspiration."

That piqued Specs' curiosity. "What sorta inspiration?"

"Well, I…" she trailed off as she reached into her coat and withdrew a worn, leather-bound book. "You see, I do a bit of drawing."

Specs' eyes widened. None of his friends had any sort of talent, other than the lying, stealing, or gambling kind. Thus he was genuinely surprised, though now that he thought about it, there was no one more suited to have a "hidden" talent than Repeat, whom he knew as being a quiet and reflective gal. "So you're like an artist?"

"No, no, nothing like that!" she said with a soft laugh. "I just like to draw, you know, when I get the time."

"This is your sketchbook or something then, right? Let's see 'em!" he asked, indicating her book.

"See what?"

"Your drawings!"

"Oh no, they're not very good," she said hastily.

He chuckled at her modesty. "I'll be the judge of tha—wait," he said after seeing the look on her face, "don't tell me you never showed them to anyone?"

She took a slow breath. "Actually, no… I never shared my book with anyone before," she admitted. "It's very personal to me. And, kind of embarrassing! Honestly, they're really not very good," she insisted, laughing.

He smiled along, conceding, even though he was far from convinced.

Kloppman reappeared at that moment, but he didn't carry any hot chocolate with him. Specs raised a brow; perhaps he was wrong about Kloppman's hot chocolate fixation.

"Can you believe we have no more cocoa in the kitchen?" Kloppman muttered. "Got to pick up some from storage…"

… And perhaps he wasn't. "Hey, Klopps, lemme help you with that," Specs offered, rising from his chair. "It's dark down there and ya know, you're gettin' on in years—"

"You callin' me old, boy?" Kloppman snapped.

"No," Specs said immediately, promptly sitting back down. "No, nope—that's not what I was saying. You have fun down there."

The moment Kloppman disappeared into the basement, Repeat burst into laughter.

"What?" asked Specs, grinning despite not knowing what the heck she was laughing about.

She tried to regain her composure, clearing her throat. "He may be 'getting on in years,' but he still has you boys bested, doesn't he?" she said, a twinkle in her eye.

Specs chuckled. "You should see him waking us up in the morning…" he mumbled.

"Say," Repeat began as the thought just occurred to her, "why aren't you with the other boys right now, anyway? Aren't they all at Tibby's?"

"Ah… yeah, they are."

Repeat looked at him expectantly. Then, her brows snapped together and her green eyes honed in on Specs. "What happened to your face?" she said, her voice wired with worry.

"Eh, it's nothing," he replied, waving off the matter.

"Did you get into a fight?"

"Nah. It's nothing, honest."

It was her turn to look unconvinced. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," he maintained as casually as possible.

"Well… all right. But you should have that looked at."

"This?" Specs scoffed, sitting up straighter. "I've had worse than this…" he said, vaguely aware of the fact that he had been complaining about the scuffs only minutes before.

"I still think you should have it looked at," Repeat persisted. "You might get an infection… or worse!"

It was odd, but something about being the source of her concern made him swell with pride. "Fine, I'll take care of it," he gave in. He was glad none of the guys were here to see him cave because of a girl. No doubt there would have been howls and elbow-ribbing all over.

"Promise?"

"I promise… only if you tell me about that, whatcha call it—that inspiration you were talking about. You tell me about that, I'll take care of these little scratch marks." He smirked, satisfied by his cleverness. Specs couldn't help but be curious; he had known Repeat for a year and yet, he knew very little about her.

Her mouth opened to speak but no words came out; she was baffled by his desire to know more about her book. Baffled, and somehow touched by his avid interest. Very few knew about her sketchbook and even fewer had seen its contents—in fact, she was the only one. Never had she revealed the sketchbook's pages with another. Repeat was painfully shy about her drawing and though she wished she could muster the courage to share her sketches… she never could.

Hesitating, her fingers traced the ridges of her sketchbook. "My parents bought this for me several years ago, for my thirteenth birthday," she began then, fondly holding the book up in her hands. "They joked that they got it to keep me from drawing on the tables and walls when there were no scraps around. It took me a long time—years—but I got to the last few blank pages and… well, I don't know why, but I always wanted to have something special to fill them. I'm now down to one last page. I guess I was hoping to fill it with something from Christmas Eve, but… I just haven't found any inspiration…"

Specs nodded slowly in understanding. He thought for a moment before grinning and raising his brows mischievously. "Inspiration, huh? Hey, why don't you draw me then? I'm inspirational." Her cheeks flushed as her glance shyly turned downwards, but a merry chuckle sounded from her lips. "You know, Dutchy always tells me my jokes aren't funny," he said. "I'm thinkin' now he's just jealous of my… superior wit." He grinned, immensely pleased with himself, when she chuckled in agreement.

Repeat then took in a satisfied breath. "It's your turn now," she said suddenly.

"My turn?"

"Yes. I told you about my book, now you have to take care of those…" She gestured towards the marks on his cheek.

"Ah, right… a deal's a deal, ain't it?" He swiveled round in his chair. "Hey Kloppman! Where do ya keep that box of ointments?"

There was no response.

"Kloppman?" Specs frowned. Now that he thought about it, he never saw Kloppman return from the basement. Perhaps he simply missed the elderly man—who was surprisingly stealthy for his age—but if that was the case, where then was the sound of the clattering kettle and the aroma of brewing cocoa?

"I didn't see him come back," Repeat said quietly, herself becoming concerned after observing the grim in Specs' face.

He stood up and headed behind the front desk. Still, he heard nothing but the pattering of rain outside. Again, Specs tried calling out for the superintendent. No sign of Kloppman.

"I'm gonna go check downstairs," said Specs.

"I'll come with you," Repeat offered straight away.

He shook his head. The basement was a dank and murky place with creaky, nervous stairs. It was no place for him to take a nice girl like Repeat. "I'll be right back," he assured. "Klopps is probably just havin' trouble findin' that cocoa. Ya know, he's old and all." With that, he stepped through the basement door and descended.

It was chillier than he remembered. Specs had been down in storage on several occasions when some of the younger kids conned him into playing hide-and-seek with them. With dozens of shadowed nooks, the basement served as the choice hiding place for the kids.

"Kloppman? Ya down here?" He didn't sense any presence nearby. What he needed was a light. There was a light around somewhere, but he didn't have any matches on him. He was just about to retreat back up the stairs for a lamp when he felt a strange breeze swirl round his ankles. It was a vastly familiar and—oddly despite its cold—pleasant breeze.

Specs sniffed. For the first time, he realized that there was not only the usual smell of dirt and old stuff in the air, but a hint of something else. It was fresh and pure. It was…

Well, he couldn't quite put a finger on what it was. But he was most definitely intrigued. Thus, instead of turning back, he shuffled forward carefully, deeper into the storage room. At the far end, Specs discerned a funny glow. Assuming it was the dying light of an oil lamp, he moved towards it. He found, to his increasing curiosity, that the light was coming from inside a half-opened bottom cupboard.

But what was a lit oil lamp doing inside a cupboard?

Was it even a lit oil lamp he was seeing? Because a lamp's burning flame was typically a yellow-orange hue. The sliver of light here was colorless, white.

Specs knelt down to take a closer look. As he pulled back the cupboard door, a cold breeze struck his face, stunning him—for the wind had blown in from the cupboard. Specs blinked back his surprise. Air blowing from inside a cupboard? Was he going mad?

Several hypotheses to explain this strange phenomenon sprung up in his mind. Perhaps there was some sort of a vent around, or a hole in the wall, or perhaps the darkness was simply playing tricks on his senses. But the hypotheses all but dissolved as Specs bent down and saw that beyond the cupboard door lay a narrow tunnel, illuminated by that strange white light at the end.

The fact that there was a tunnel behind the cupboard barely sunk in before Specs, fueled by that dogged curiosity of his, ventured inside. On his hands and knees, he crawled slowly, bit by bit, until—

Too late did he realize that he overestimated the tunnel's length. Specs didn't see the tunnel floor end as his hand slipped downward into an icy mound of—instantly he recognized it—snow. Balance lost, Specs' body tipped forward. A small, strangled cry of panic rose from his throat before he fell face first into the snow.

The sudden chill coursing swiftly through his body stunned him, but he recovered in a flash, scrambling back to his feet.

He dusted the flakes from his face and hair and wiped away the moisture from his glasses. When he slipped his spectacles back on and got a clear look at his surroundings, his jaw promptly dropped.

Snow. Everywhere, as far as his eyes could see. Snow covering the ground, blanketing the hills, falling from the sky.

He blinked in confusion. Hills? There were no hills in New York City! Trying hard to overcome his stupefied state, Specs took a steadying breath. He was acutely aware now that this place—whatever it was—did not look, feel or smell anything like New York.

But if this wasn't New York, then where on earth was he?