The hallway was empty, deprived of its usual lively happenings, habitually
including music and eventful people. The servants had all gone to bed, most
likely already entrapped in the only silent solace of the day. They were
constantly kept busy with the comings and goings of the household they were
in charge of keeping clean. The Plenar household was a worthy and well-
bearing majesty for them, filled with people most of the time, gaily
laughing and swaying in their silk and satin materials. The women were
always exaggeratedly well kept and naturally brilliantly lit- glitter in
their eyes and an unearthly sparkle all throughout their pale luscious
skin. There beautiful faces shined with more than just typical rouge. It
was the pure happiness and innocence of someone without a worry in the
world.
The men had the same radiance; nothing would dare hinder their good mood and trivial likes and dislikes. It was a perfect society inside the Plenar walls, full of happiness and spoilt indulgence. Cally Plenar fit in just flawlessly.
She was the daughter of Old Mr. Plenar, a huge businessman in New York City who had no need to work. He had inherited his money with many investments and most likely could live comfortably off it for many hundreds of years to come. He and his family, including a beautiful southern wife and four girls, each of whom he loved in a different way, lived comfortably throughout their lives. Cally was the youngest of these four daughters.
The oldest, Caroline, (her mother, being a Southern Belle, would hear of nothing else than having her first child named in a Southern fashion) had been happily and easily married off to some young rich gentleman, who had instantly fallen in love with her at first sight. There was no doubt that Caroline was the prettiest of the four girls, for she possessed such glorious golden curls, and such a sweet smile, that when she decided to upturn her lips, it was as if she had flicked a switch that sent a vivacious and energetic fire through her entire body. This caused a disdainful sparkle to commence in her deep brown eyes, making any man near her drop his mouth open, only the fact of their supposed grace preventing them from drooling. The immediately infatuated gentleman, by the name of Clark Dafton, had taken one look at Caroline Plenar and had at that point started a relentless fight to have her all to himself. He had won. Caroline found that she could not resist her new founded completely enthralled, man, so when he proposed to her, Caroline had accepted. She had barely been eighteen at the time, and he barely twenty-one.
The next daughter in line, three years younger than Caroline, was named Marilyn, and happened to be quite a ravishing beauty herself. However, she would never exemplify the unearthly elegance and splendor that Caroline had somehow come by. Marilyn's hair was a deep auburn, her eyes a magical green. She had a slender figure, making her almost as irresistible as Caroline and a laugh that sounded like a ringing bell, clear and confident. Marilyn was the Irish beauty of the household, and nearly three years after Caroline's own departure made one herself. Another man named John Hidenal, twenty-eight at the time, swore his undying love for Marilyn and she was swept away from her loving, aging father, leaving only two girls behind.
That had been nearly two years ago. Now the remaining girls had aged slightly. The third child, Christine, was not at all as her two older sisters had been. She now was seventeen years old, and held no hope for getting married any time soon, or even starting a future. She did not possess radiance, or even a luster that would make her visible in a crowd. She was not plain either, but something about her, was so tomboyish, so unattractive, that men stayed away. With light brown hair, straight as a board, and hazel eyes, freckles also dotting her cheeks in an unfair fashion, she was doomed to single hood for the rest of her life. Perhaps out of sympathy, she was her father's favorite, and the most spoilt, but still in all of the family's mind, and all of the surrounding men, they knew she would grow to be the spinster.
The last child though, was quite a different story to behold. She was a jewel, plain and simply, with bright green eyes as Marilyn had, but dark russet curls accompanied it as well. She had untamable hair, as Christine had dared to call it several times, and just as untamable a spirit. Some might dare to call her a wild monster. Others with more couth could possibly entertain the idea that she had a free spirit, relentless of earthly troubles.
This was the view with which Old Mr. Plenar chose to hold his sixteen-year- old daughter in. He knew she was not a bad child, for the many sweet kisses she had implanted on his cheek so many times before had been so innocent and naturally good-natured. He knew she was no troublemaker. She had upon occasion gotten into mischief, but slight mischief at that. It only included the few vases in the kitchen being broken and every once in a while, she would wander the streets a tad too late, (and sent her mother into a fabulous southern frenzy) but she would always come home. If anything, the only action that Cally had done to cause him even a slight stress, was the way she acted at parties. She was lively, perhaps too lively. She would drink, and talk loudly and be kind. Sometimes he wondered if the drink softened up her already softened heart. Maybe she did things that she shouldn't…
Little did Mr. Plenar or anyone else in that house know, that Cally Plenar had indeed done things she shouldn't, starting with the Christmas party of her sixteenth year when she had taken it upon herself to listen to a guest…
Chapter 1
Cal started abruptly as she felt her bottom thump against the wooden planks of the docks. She sat on the ground for a moment, too horrified at her easily closing lids to pick herself up right away. Falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon reflected not only her weariness, but her lack of will to prevail as well.
Finally, she pushed her grubby hands against the harsh wood of the docks, feeling the heat reflected off it from the noon sun. Pulling herself up and dusting her dark brown pants off (for no reason at all. They were filthy anyway). She turned around shocked, hoping no one had seen her unlikely blunder. As it was, several people were staring her way, smiles smugly etched onto their faces. Their second in command was falling asleep on the job. It gave them every reason to laugh.
"Eh, Cal, wassa matta witcha? Ain't gettin' enough sleep?"
Cal wistfully turned her head in the direction of the speaker, who happened to be none other than the dull-witted Rummy. She rolled her eyes, frowning at the insult.
"Well, Rummy, I guess only you would know how to spot somethin' like that, considerin' you do it every day!"
She arrogantly walked over to his shocked form and pushed the dirty cap on his head down harshly, covering up his tedious, lifeless eyes. Chuckling, she put her hands on her hips and stalked off, her natural gait gloriously smooth and articulate. A slew of oaths filled the air as Rummy pushed his hat back to proper place atop his mop of blonde curls.
"Ya damn tricks ain't funny no more, Cal! Do ya job or else I'll tell Spot ya aint! 'E'll be mad at ya, all righ' an' I'll take ya God-forsaken position…"
Cal simply waved her hand in the air, disregarding his malice-filled words. Spot, even if his quick temper were riled at her laziness on the job as of lately, would never even fathom giving the incredible oaf, Rummy, her hard earned position. Spot was no fool, and in order to keep this eminence of his usual brilliance, he needed a just as accomplished companion to help him along the way. Until Cal had come a year ago, Spot had not known the meaning of the word, "right hand man". He had been a solo leader, and had wanted to keep it that way. He knew of no one else that would have the brains and guts to go through the almighty terrors he had been through, and still continued defeating. That is, until Cal, her fluent words, pushy, yet somehow at the same time easy going and free personality had entered the picture.
Cal reminisced silently, as she climbed on top of several boxes, marveling at her stamina against the heat, and watched the younger boys play. Spot had been happy enough to give her a bed to sleep in and nourishment for her withered body, when she had dazedly walked onto these docks one blazing day a year ago. She had sensed the smell of water, and in a complete disregard for all that was proper, had every intention of jumping off the docks to cool off her disgruntled dress and sweating heated skin. She had not noticed that people actually inhabited the docks. Set on her destination, she had ignored the stares, the laughs and even the catcalls.
Once she had reached the edge, knees bent and ready to complete the task, she had thought, (and only she to this day knew this) why not forgot the swimming that came so easily to her? Why not…sink? The blue water's depths had been so inviting to her longing soul that she did not even notice someone grasp her around the waist and proceed to lift her away from the water. She had been so surprised by the blue waves sudden disappearance that she had not even fought the person. There had been realization then of her worn out nerves, and how her tireless searching had caused her to resist sleep for two days…. maybe more…
When the person had relinquished his (for he had very strong arms) hold upon her, she had collapsed on the wood, usually burnished black boots now turned brown with the mud she had walked through, flailing out, long green dress, haggard and torn as it was, falling softly around her.
That was all she remembered of that fateful day she had walked into the docks of the Brooklyn newsies. The day where her life had taken a complete swirl onto greener pastures. She loved it here and would not trade this new hard-core, non-frivolous life for anything. Her only terms with the newly founded company were that they were not to ask questions. If they asked questions, she would leave them without a thought, without a qualm.
"Cal!"
Cal shook her head, remembering once again how she had absently forfeited her present duty.
"What?" she snapped, looking around for the caller. Only too soon did she realize that it was Spot and she shook her head in embarrassment and ran a hand through her sweaty long brown hair.
Spot's figure immediately exposed itself through the hot mob below her. She squinted seeing the gray cap traveling toward her, seeing the lanky legs covered in brown pants. He was not too out of the ordinary, looking down on him. He looked like every other newsie, adorned in the usual pants, button down shirt and cap. Except as he climbed up on top of the crate where she presently resided, she knew he was anything but ordinary.
"Cal, why didn't ya ansa me da foist tree times I called ya?" Spot bounded up to her position, smiling slightly, that usual half-smirk of goodness. The smirk lit up his stunning face, bright blue eyes, tan skin and all. Slight dimples protruded the side of his cheeks.
Cal simply shrugged saying, "I didn't hear you the foist tree times." She snickered at her own imitation of his thick Brooklyn accent. She had never been able to acquire it fully, only bits and pieces, for her proper accent was strong and would not go as fast as she wished.
He rolled his eyes at her mocking, smiling again.
"Cal, you're insane." Oh, how many times had he said that in the past year, and how little did he know that the joking words he spoke were so close to the truth there was no point to laugh. In this manner did a light frown touch her lips once more.
"I know I am," she answered simply, not even a smile daring to touch her lips.
He patted her on the back, her blue shirt sticky with the sweat of a hard day's work. It was how it was everyday. She glistened in the morning, the summer heat starting with the coming of the sun, then through the afternoon, when she was most likely done with selling, the glisten would turn into an outright downpour as it was now. By the end of the evening, her long brown curls, wilted, and clothes sticky and putrid, she would wash away the nasty smell with a cold bath. It was so simple it required no thought.
"Ya know dere's a show at Medda's tonight. Jacky-boy's asked us ta be dere."
She turned quizzically facing him, putting a hand over her eyes to shield the sun out of her vision. She met blue sparkling ones, still quite lively through the heat.
"That's all Jack called you over ta talk about? To invite us to a show? Well that's a waste of a meetin'."
Spot rolled his eyes at her usual audacity to see more into the situation.
"Yeah, dat wudn't da whole meetin', Cal, you're right," he muttered, slightly annoyed, "We'se talked bout different tings."
With this, she laughed heartily, jumping down from the crates. Spot followed her lead, inattentively grabbing the top of his luminescent cane— his weapon, his joy. Cal walked underneath a quiet shading, sitting among the various ropes and rotted wood. Spot continued to stand, blocking the sun completely from Cal's vision.
"Quit being secretive and tell me what the meeting was about," Cal said after several minutes of silence, "I'm your second in command, Conlon. You should trust me by now."
Spot stayed silent for several more moments, unable to will the truth out of his guilty mind.
"Ain't nuttin' you need ta heah bout," he mumbled in an undertone, taking his cap off to wipe the gathered sweat droplets on his brow.
Again, Cal let a loud snicker escape her lips, and Spot felt his good mood vanish with the boldness of her knowing.
"In other words, Conlon, you were talkin' about me, and maybe a few other insignificant things."
Cal pushed herself up again, adjusting her sweaty hair to one shoulder, her customary do. Spot forcefully put his hands in his pockets and Cal stared him down, her green eyes ablaze.
"Cal, I'm sorry. It's just…" Spot's voice trailed off with the coming wind.
Cal heard several calls in Spot's direction, but he ignored them all, still trying to feign his feelings into plausible words.
"Spot!" came a yell again.
"Yeah, what is it?" Spot's head turned abruptly away from her as he sharply replied to his new company, which happened to be a six-year-old boy named Downy. Downy had tears in his big blue eyes, making his name even more conceivable.
"Cal," Downy said, seeing Spot's immediate irritation, then looking shocked from her's as well.
"What, Downy?" Cal responded, softening her tone to make up for the look on her face that was purely meant for Spot.
"Stealth threw me sword inta da wata, an' I cain't swim, an I wanna get it, but I don't know—"
Cal held her hand up to silence the incoherent babble. Downy quickly shut his mouth.
"So basically, you want one of us to go into the water to get it?" she asked.
He nodded, then added, "Or one o' youse can beat up Stealth. Dat'd be jist as good—"
He shut his mouth again as he saw Cal's look of anger and Spot's look of "get the hell away before I beat ya". Downy still persisted to look sad and dejected as the two leaders determined what to do with their ridiculous predicament. Spot's face plainly read "leave it be. He's a big kid". However, Cal's looks represented quite a different emotion. Perhaps it was compassion, perhaps just the freedom and plea to jump in the water. Nevertheless, she was plainly looking at Spot telling him to back off. Spot acquiesced holding his hands up in surrender.
Cal slowly walked to the pier she had not visited since that day a year ago, when those many disturbing thoughts had presented themselves. It was uncanny, seeing it again, but she felt there was every need to face the fear, and conquer it.
Standing at the edge of the old wooden planks, almost ready to jump in, the heat pressuring her with every second of her hesitation, her thoughts again wandered. They wandered to the conversation Spot and Jack had most likely had. It must have been their worry and deep confusion of Cal that they discussed. If not, then she knew not what.
"Eh, Cal, are ya gonna get me sword?"
Cal snapped her head in Downy's direction, hurriedly replying a cruel, "Can it, Downy!" He again shut his trap and scuttled off to find comfort in a tolerable host.
Cal rolled her eyes, realizing how often her thoughts wandered as of lately, when she had distinctly promised herself not to think about it. She needed distraction. That must be a cure. Going to Medda's was a good idea after all. Booze and some music to her senses might get her working as she usually did. She usually acted attentive, perhaps not always kind, but she was usually all there. She wondered what was going on.
Finally, without anymore excuse preventing her contact with the water any longer, she looked out into the blue abyss and saw the worthless wooden sword floating five feet away. With a quick jump, she felt suddenly a lovely sensation fill her as first her feet, then her torso, and then her head collided with the water. It was cool, and appealing to Cal's senses, she opened her eyes for a moment, seeing the filthy water around her, seeing her long now unruffled hair floating about her in russet strands. She saw her sunburnt arms float in front of her, her hands looking a tad less grubby then usual. All this ended though, as she remembered her challenge, and floated upwards. Her head popped up and she immediately swam over to the sword, then easily swam back to the dock, lifting herself onto the planks once more. She threw the sword aside, seeing Downy's yelp of glee as he saw it, then sauntered back over to Spot, flipping her hair over then wringing it out.
"Feel good?" Spot asked quietly, staring, an unreadable statue, into her face.
"Yeah, it's a helluva lot better then this damn heat if that's what you mean."
Spot painfully glanced at her, pacing backwards and forwards.
"What is wrong with you?" she asked. He stared at her face again, fervently waiting, but apparently could no longer hold back his intentions.
"Actually, Cal, I was bout ta ask ya da same thing…"
Cal stared at him, no longer quizzical, but simply awaiting the next stupid thought to come out of his mouth.
"Nothing is wrong with—"
"Yeah, Cal, I knew dat ya would give me dat. I knew ya'd say, 'O, nuttin at all is wrong, what are ya talking bout?'. Cal, I know ya! Don't take me for stupid cuz I know evertin your gonna say. I also know dat every word comin out of ya mouth afta dis is gonna be a lie."
Cal kept her mouth shut, realizing with angry resolution that he was speaking the absolute truth. She would be lying if she continued and said what she had trained herself to say. Spot seeing her resolute silence, continued his tirade, already gaining some stares from the surrounding boys. Cal felt her insides boil as he spoke more.
"Ya know, Cal, bout tree munts afta ya came heah, I'm sure as hell ya don't remember it, but, I asked ya…I asked, why're ya heah? And you know what you told me? Cal, ya told me dat you would tell me da truth finally. You said, 'Spot, maybe not today, but soon.'—"
"Shut up, Conlon!" Cal yelled finally.
After she said this the surrounding boys, having paused at the commencement of Spot's yells, now started hooting catcalls such as "Fight, fight!" and "Beat 'er!" A circle formed around the two, as the silence was prolonged. It was almost tribal. The boys clapped and beat their fists together. Some knocked on the wood, starting a very lively pulse throughout the docks. Cal and Spot stared at each other, Spot's fists clenched at his side, wishing with all his might that he could smack some sense into her.
"Cal, I'm so tired of ya lyin'! You ain't usually dis disagreeable, and I ain't ever thought dat I would need ta ask questions, or even get mad atcha, but," he paused seeing her eyes glow with a brilliance only absolute fury could cause. Unaffected he continued, " it's impossible not ta! Ya slackin', Cal, an'…an'…I can see ya ain't all heah. Ya don't even see it yaself!"
"You gonna hit me?"
The question rang through the air, as Cal backed up slightly in mild surprise, watching Spot bring his fists up. There were cheers from the onlookers and Cal's face again became something Spot had never seen- afraid.
She quickly covered this with the same mask she had worn the entire year he had known her.
"Conlon, you would hit me, huh? I'm not shocked…"
Cal smiled slightly, a very malicious glint in her eye, the passion spurring on the cruelty.
"What da hell is dat supposed ta mean?" he grunted, stepping nearer to her. She remained still, laughing slightly, the wind picking up her hair and making it fly in front of her face in beautiful waves.
"God, Conlon, of all people, and you don't think I can tell? You don't think that I can see right through you? I know what's happened ta you—"
"Oh, really, Cal? Then tell me, what da hell happened ta me! I bet its gonna be nuttin but lies! Dat's all ya do! You're lyin' an' you know it!" Spot walked a step closer to Cal, noticing how she didn't take a step back. Instead, she walked several steps closer, making them only two or three feet apart. Her veins were boiling with pent up anger, and suddenly, the only outlet that would please her the most was Spot Conlon.
"Your acting like your damn father, Conlon, and ya blasted mother! I can tell he beat you…its obvious! I don't know why you expect me to go on and on about my past, when yours is even more screwed up!"
Cal glared ferociously at Spot, the massive beat taking her several steps closer to him. He came closer too, his fists raised. His teeth were gritted in anger and his clamped hands were shaking in anxiety.
Cal took the remaining step between them, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
"So, why don't you hit me, Conlon?"
There was a deadly pause; only the banging on the wood and the clapping and cheering could be heard and that stopped too as all the boys saw Spot's hands come down. Cal and Spot stared at each other, a complete surprise rising in Cal's flushed cheeks and a very cold-eyed stare from Spot.
"You ain't worth it," he whispered angrily, stalking through the silent crowd, pushing and grunting as he went.
Cal stood there in a stony silence, letting the words sink in. There could have been many things she replied to his insulting truth. She could have muttered something about how she most certainly was not, that he was the worthless one here. She might have said how he was afraid of her, maybe even whisper that he had lost his nerve.
Cal dared not to do it though. She dare not insult him, for she knew that this was not the end. She had said the unthinkable. She had gone too far and he would not let her off the hook. Patiently, she waited in the circle, watching, as everyone else was, Spot's quiet pace back and forth, to the circle, and then away again. He was thinking horrible things about her. She was sure of it.
Back and forth, he paced, and Cal stood there, daring to breathe. Was she to feel guilt? She could not sense anything in her resembling remorse; she did not know if she was sorry for what she had said. She knew the truth in her words as well as his, they were equals in each other's eyes now, but it mattered not. He was fuming and she would not get away with it.
Finally, his gait stopped. He was turned away from the circle; his hands could only be crossed against his chest in their usual position.
"Oh, an', Cal," he muttered, lazily turning towards her, his eyes glinting still with heated fury. "I ain't needin' a right hand man. Youses demoted, until ya can tell me da truth, dat is."
Perhaps if she had not been hardheaded or easily angered, Cal would have accepted these terms and gone off to leave the leader alone and smolder elsewhere. However, as it was, the anger only seethed inside of her, finally willing itself to come out for a second degrading time:
"Screw second in command!" she yelled, clenching her fists together.
Spot turned to her, his eyes clearly telling her to shut her mouth or else worse would happen. She didn't heed it, for she was tired of this. It was time for something new anyway.
"Screw demotion!" she yelled again. The crowd stared at her, wondering why she pursued this madness. "I'm done with this place! No need to demote me, Conlon! I'm out of heah!"
Without a second thought, Cal walked out of the circle of boys, pushing and hitting until she obtained her freedom. She stalked off furiously, and then as she got to the end of the dock, she turned, smirking spitefully.
"Farewell, Brooklyn!"
Cal walked out of the place, not knowing exactly what to do.
The men had the same radiance; nothing would dare hinder their good mood and trivial likes and dislikes. It was a perfect society inside the Plenar walls, full of happiness and spoilt indulgence. Cally Plenar fit in just flawlessly.
She was the daughter of Old Mr. Plenar, a huge businessman in New York City who had no need to work. He had inherited his money with many investments and most likely could live comfortably off it for many hundreds of years to come. He and his family, including a beautiful southern wife and four girls, each of whom he loved in a different way, lived comfortably throughout their lives. Cally was the youngest of these four daughters.
The oldest, Caroline, (her mother, being a Southern Belle, would hear of nothing else than having her first child named in a Southern fashion) had been happily and easily married off to some young rich gentleman, who had instantly fallen in love with her at first sight. There was no doubt that Caroline was the prettiest of the four girls, for she possessed such glorious golden curls, and such a sweet smile, that when she decided to upturn her lips, it was as if she had flicked a switch that sent a vivacious and energetic fire through her entire body. This caused a disdainful sparkle to commence in her deep brown eyes, making any man near her drop his mouth open, only the fact of their supposed grace preventing them from drooling. The immediately infatuated gentleman, by the name of Clark Dafton, had taken one look at Caroline Plenar and had at that point started a relentless fight to have her all to himself. He had won. Caroline found that she could not resist her new founded completely enthralled, man, so when he proposed to her, Caroline had accepted. She had barely been eighteen at the time, and he barely twenty-one.
The next daughter in line, three years younger than Caroline, was named Marilyn, and happened to be quite a ravishing beauty herself. However, she would never exemplify the unearthly elegance and splendor that Caroline had somehow come by. Marilyn's hair was a deep auburn, her eyes a magical green. She had a slender figure, making her almost as irresistible as Caroline and a laugh that sounded like a ringing bell, clear and confident. Marilyn was the Irish beauty of the household, and nearly three years after Caroline's own departure made one herself. Another man named John Hidenal, twenty-eight at the time, swore his undying love for Marilyn and she was swept away from her loving, aging father, leaving only two girls behind.
That had been nearly two years ago. Now the remaining girls had aged slightly. The third child, Christine, was not at all as her two older sisters had been. She now was seventeen years old, and held no hope for getting married any time soon, or even starting a future. She did not possess radiance, or even a luster that would make her visible in a crowd. She was not plain either, but something about her, was so tomboyish, so unattractive, that men stayed away. With light brown hair, straight as a board, and hazel eyes, freckles also dotting her cheeks in an unfair fashion, she was doomed to single hood for the rest of her life. Perhaps out of sympathy, she was her father's favorite, and the most spoilt, but still in all of the family's mind, and all of the surrounding men, they knew she would grow to be the spinster.
The last child though, was quite a different story to behold. She was a jewel, plain and simply, with bright green eyes as Marilyn had, but dark russet curls accompanied it as well. She had untamable hair, as Christine had dared to call it several times, and just as untamable a spirit. Some might dare to call her a wild monster. Others with more couth could possibly entertain the idea that she had a free spirit, relentless of earthly troubles.
This was the view with which Old Mr. Plenar chose to hold his sixteen-year- old daughter in. He knew she was not a bad child, for the many sweet kisses she had implanted on his cheek so many times before had been so innocent and naturally good-natured. He knew she was no troublemaker. She had upon occasion gotten into mischief, but slight mischief at that. It only included the few vases in the kitchen being broken and every once in a while, she would wander the streets a tad too late, (and sent her mother into a fabulous southern frenzy) but she would always come home. If anything, the only action that Cally had done to cause him even a slight stress, was the way she acted at parties. She was lively, perhaps too lively. She would drink, and talk loudly and be kind. Sometimes he wondered if the drink softened up her already softened heart. Maybe she did things that she shouldn't…
Little did Mr. Plenar or anyone else in that house know, that Cally Plenar had indeed done things she shouldn't, starting with the Christmas party of her sixteenth year when she had taken it upon herself to listen to a guest…
Chapter 1
Cal started abruptly as she felt her bottom thump against the wooden planks of the docks. She sat on the ground for a moment, too horrified at her easily closing lids to pick herself up right away. Falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon reflected not only her weariness, but her lack of will to prevail as well.
Finally, she pushed her grubby hands against the harsh wood of the docks, feeling the heat reflected off it from the noon sun. Pulling herself up and dusting her dark brown pants off (for no reason at all. They were filthy anyway). She turned around shocked, hoping no one had seen her unlikely blunder. As it was, several people were staring her way, smiles smugly etched onto their faces. Their second in command was falling asleep on the job. It gave them every reason to laugh.
"Eh, Cal, wassa matta witcha? Ain't gettin' enough sleep?"
Cal wistfully turned her head in the direction of the speaker, who happened to be none other than the dull-witted Rummy. She rolled her eyes, frowning at the insult.
"Well, Rummy, I guess only you would know how to spot somethin' like that, considerin' you do it every day!"
She arrogantly walked over to his shocked form and pushed the dirty cap on his head down harshly, covering up his tedious, lifeless eyes. Chuckling, she put her hands on her hips and stalked off, her natural gait gloriously smooth and articulate. A slew of oaths filled the air as Rummy pushed his hat back to proper place atop his mop of blonde curls.
"Ya damn tricks ain't funny no more, Cal! Do ya job or else I'll tell Spot ya aint! 'E'll be mad at ya, all righ' an' I'll take ya God-forsaken position…"
Cal simply waved her hand in the air, disregarding his malice-filled words. Spot, even if his quick temper were riled at her laziness on the job as of lately, would never even fathom giving the incredible oaf, Rummy, her hard earned position. Spot was no fool, and in order to keep this eminence of his usual brilliance, he needed a just as accomplished companion to help him along the way. Until Cal had come a year ago, Spot had not known the meaning of the word, "right hand man". He had been a solo leader, and had wanted to keep it that way. He knew of no one else that would have the brains and guts to go through the almighty terrors he had been through, and still continued defeating. That is, until Cal, her fluent words, pushy, yet somehow at the same time easy going and free personality had entered the picture.
Cal reminisced silently, as she climbed on top of several boxes, marveling at her stamina against the heat, and watched the younger boys play. Spot had been happy enough to give her a bed to sleep in and nourishment for her withered body, when she had dazedly walked onto these docks one blazing day a year ago. She had sensed the smell of water, and in a complete disregard for all that was proper, had every intention of jumping off the docks to cool off her disgruntled dress and sweating heated skin. She had not noticed that people actually inhabited the docks. Set on her destination, she had ignored the stares, the laughs and even the catcalls.
Once she had reached the edge, knees bent and ready to complete the task, she had thought, (and only she to this day knew this) why not forgot the swimming that came so easily to her? Why not…sink? The blue water's depths had been so inviting to her longing soul that she did not even notice someone grasp her around the waist and proceed to lift her away from the water. She had been so surprised by the blue waves sudden disappearance that she had not even fought the person. There had been realization then of her worn out nerves, and how her tireless searching had caused her to resist sleep for two days…. maybe more…
When the person had relinquished his (for he had very strong arms) hold upon her, she had collapsed on the wood, usually burnished black boots now turned brown with the mud she had walked through, flailing out, long green dress, haggard and torn as it was, falling softly around her.
That was all she remembered of that fateful day she had walked into the docks of the Brooklyn newsies. The day where her life had taken a complete swirl onto greener pastures. She loved it here and would not trade this new hard-core, non-frivolous life for anything. Her only terms with the newly founded company were that they were not to ask questions. If they asked questions, she would leave them without a thought, without a qualm.
"Cal!"
Cal shook her head, remembering once again how she had absently forfeited her present duty.
"What?" she snapped, looking around for the caller. Only too soon did she realize that it was Spot and she shook her head in embarrassment and ran a hand through her sweaty long brown hair.
Spot's figure immediately exposed itself through the hot mob below her. She squinted seeing the gray cap traveling toward her, seeing the lanky legs covered in brown pants. He was not too out of the ordinary, looking down on him. He looked like every other newsie, adorned in the usual pants, button down shirt and cap. Except as he climbed up on top of the crate where she presently resided, she knew he was anything but ordinary.
"Cal, why didn't ya ansa me da foist tree times I called ya?" Spot bounded up to her position, smiling slightly, that usual half-smirk of goodness. The smirk lit up his stunning face, bright blue eyes, tan skin and all. Slight dimples protruded the side of his cheeks.
Cal simply shrugged saying, "I didn't hear you the foist tree times." She snickered at her own imitation of his thick Brooklyn accent. She had never been able to acquire it fully, only bits and pieces, for her proper accent was strong and would not go as fast as she wished.
He rolled his eyes at her mocking, smiling again.
"Cal, you're insane." Oh, how many times had he said that in the past year, and how little did he know that the joking words he spoke were so close to the truth there was no point to laugh. In this manner did a light frown touch her lips once more.
"I know I am," she answered simply, not even a smile daring to touch her lips.
He patted her on the back, her blue shirt sticky with the sweat of a hard day's work. It was how it was everyday. She glistened in the morning, the summer heat starting with the coming of the sun, then through the afternoon, when she was most likely done with selling, the glisten would turn into an outright downpour as it was now. By the end of the evening, her long brown curls, wilted, and clothes sticky and putrid, she would wash away the nasty smell with a cold bath. It was so simple it required no thought.
"Ya know dere's a show at Medda's tonight. Jacky-boy's asked us ta be dere."
She turned quizzically facing him, putting a hand over her eyes to shield the sun out of her vision. She met blue sparkling ones, still quite lively through the heat.
"That's all Jack called you over ta talk about? To invite us to a show? Well that's a waste of a meetin'."
Spot rolled his eyes at her usual audacity to see more into the situation.
"Yeah, dat wudn't da whole meetin', Cal, you're right," he muttered, slightly annoyed, "We'se talked bout different tings."
With this, she laughed heartily, jumping down from the crates. Spot followed her lead, inattentively grabbing the top of his luminescent cane— his weapon, his joy. Cal walked underneath a quiet shading, sitting among the various ropes and rotted wood. Spot continued to stand, blocking the sun completely from Cal's vision.
"Quit being secretive and tell me what the meeting was about," Cal said after several minutes of silence, "I'm your second in command, Conlon. You should trust me by now."
Spot stayed silent for several more moments, unable to will the truth out of his guilty mind.
"Ain't nuttin' you need ta heah bout," he mumbled in an undertone, taking his cap off to wipe the gathered sweat droplets on his brow.
Again, Cal let a loud snicker escape her lips, and Spot felt his good mood vanish with the boldness of her knowing.
"In other words, Conlon, you were talkin' about me, and maybe a few other insignificant things."
Cal pushed herself up again, adjusting her sweaty hair to one shoulder, her customary do. Spot forcefully put his hands in his pockets and Cal stared him down, her green eyes ablaze.
"Cal, I'm sorry. It's just…" Spot's voice trailed off with the coming wind.
Cal heard several calls in Spot's direction, but he ignored them all, still trying to feign his feelings into plausible words.
"Spot!" came a yell again.
"Yeah, what is it?" Spot's head turned abruptly away from her as he sharply replied to his new company, which happened to be a six-year-old boy named Downy. Downy had tears in his big blue eyes, making his name even more conceivable.
"Cal," Downy said, seeing Spot's immediate irritation, then looking shocked from her's as well.
"What, Downy?" Cal responded, softening her tone to make up for the look on her face that was purely meant for Spot.
"Stealth threw me sword inta da wata, an' I cain't swim, an I wanna get it, but I don't know—"
Cal held her hand up to silence the incoherent babble. Downy quickly shut his mouth.
"So basically, you want one of us to go into the water to get it?" she asked.
He nodded, then added, "Or one o' youse can beat up Stealth. Dat'd be jist as good—"
He shut his mouth again as he saw Cal's look of anger and Spot's look of "get the hell away before I beat ya". Downy still persisted to look sad and dejected as the two leaders determined what to do with their ridiculous predicament. Spot's face plainly read "leave it be. He's a big kid". However, Cal's looks represented quite a different emotion. Perhaps it was compassion, perhaps just the freedom and plea to jump in the water. Nevertheless, she was plainly looking at Spot telling him to back off. Spot acquiesced holding his hands up in surrender.
Cal slowly walked to the pier she had not visited since that day a year ago, when those many disturbing thoughts had presented themselves. It was uncanny, seeing it again, but she felt there was every need to face the fear, and conquer it.
Standing at the edge of the old wooden planks, almost ready to jump in, the heat pressuring her with every second of her hesitation, her thoughts again wandered. They wandered to the conversation Spot and Jack had most likely had. It must have been their worry and deep confusion of Cal that they discussed. If not, then she knew not what.
"Eh, Cal, are ya gonna get me sword?"
Cal snapped her head in Downy's direction, hurriedly replying a cruel, "Can it, Downy!" He again shut his trap and scuttled off to find comfort in a tolerable host.
Cal rolled her eyes, realizing how often her thoughts wandered as of lately, when she had distinctly promised herself not to think about it. She needed distraction. That must be a cure. Going to Medda's was a good idea after all. Booze and some music to her senses might get her working as she usually did. She usually acted attentive, perhaps not always kind, but she was usually all there. She wondered what was going on.
Finally, without anymore excuse preventing her contact with the water any longer, she looked out into the blue abyss and saw the worthless wooden sword floating five feet away. With a quick jump, she felt suddenly a lovely sensation fill her as first her feet, then her torso, and then her head collided with the water. It was cool, and appealing to Cal's senses, she opened her eyes for a moment, seeing the filthy water around her, seeing her long now unruffled hair floating about her in russet strands. She saw her sunburnt arms float in front of her, her hands looking a tad less grubby then usual. All this ended though, as she remembered her challenge, and floated upwards. Her head popped up and she immediately swam over to the sword, then easily swam back to the dock, lifting herself onto the planks once more. She threw the sword aside, seeing Downy's yelp of glee as he saw it, then sauntered back over to Spot, flipping her hair over then wringing it out.
"Feel good?" Spot asked quietly, staring, an unreadable statue, into her face.
"Yeah, it's a helluva lot better then this damn heat if that's what you mean."
Spot painfully glanced at her, pacing backwards and forwards.
"What is wrong with you?" she asked. He stared at her face again, fervently waiting, but apparently could no longer hold back his intentions.
"Actually, Cal, I was bout ta ask ya da same thing…"
Cal stared at him, no longer quizzical, but simply awaiting the next stupid thought to come out of his mouth.
"Nothing is wrong with—"
"Yeah, Cal, I knew dat ya would give me dat. I knew ya'd say, 'O, nuttin at all is wrong, what are ya talking bout?'. Cal, I know ya! Don't take me for stupid cuz I know evertin your gonna say. I also know dat every word comin out of ya mouth afta dis is gonna be a lie."
Cal kept her mouth shut, realizing with angry resolution that he was speaking the absolute truth. She would be lying if she continued and said what she had trained herself to say. Spot seeing her resolute silence, continued his tirade, already gaining some stares from the surrounding boys. Cal felt her insides boil as he spoke more.
"Ya know, Cal, bout tree munts afta ya came heah, I'm sure as hell ya don't remember it, but, I asked ya…I asked, why're ya heah? And you know what you told me? Cal, ya told me dat you would tell me da truth finally. You said, 'Spot, maybe not today, but soon.'—"
"Shut up, Conlon!" Cal yelled finally.
After she said this the surrounding boys, having paused at the commencement of Spot's yells, now started hooting catcalls such as "Fight, fight!" and "Beat 'er!" A circle formed around the two, as the silence was prolonged. It was almost tribal. The boys clapped and beat their fists together. Some knocked on the wood, starting a very lively pulse throughout the docks. Cal and Spot stared at each other, Spot's fists clenched at his side, wishing with all his might that he could smack some sense into her.
"Cal, I'm so tired of ya lyin'! You ain't usually dis disagreeable, and I ain't ever thought dat I would need ta ask questions, or even get mad atcha, but," he paused seeing her eyes glow with a brilliance only absolute fury could cause. Unaffected he continued, " it's impossible not ta! Ya slackin', Cal, an'…an'…I can see ya ain't all heah. Ya don't even see it yaself!"
"You gonna hit me?"
The question rang through the air, as Cal backed up slightly in mild surprise, watching Spot bring his fists up. There were cheers from the onlookers and Cal's face again became something Spot had never seen- afraid.
She quickly covered this with the same mask she had worn the entire year he had known her.
"Conlon, you would hit me, huh? I'm not shocked…"
Cal smiled slightly, a very malicious glint in her eye, the passion spurring on the cruelty.
"What da hell is dat supposed ta mean?" he grunted, stepping nearer to her. She remained still, laughing slightly, the wind picking up her hair and making it fly in front of her face in beautiful waves.
"God, Conlon, of all people, and you don't think I can tell? You don't think that I can see right through you? I know what's happened ta you—"
"Oh, really, Cal? Then tell me, what da hell happened ta me! I bet its gonna be nuttin but lies! Dat's all ya do! You're lyin' an' you know it!" Spot walked a step closer to Cal, noticing how she didn't take a step back. Instead, she walked several steps closer, making them only two or three feet apart. Her veins were boiling with pent up anger, and suddenly, the only outlet that would please her the most was Spot Conlon.
"Your acting like your damn father, Conlon, and ya blasted mother! I can tell he beat you…its obvious! I don't know why you expect me to go on and on about my past, when yours is even more screwed up!"
Cal glared ferociously at Spot, the massive beat taking her several steps closer to him. He came closer too, his fists raised. His teeth were gritted in anger and his clamped hands were shaking in anxiety.
Cal took the remaining step between them, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
"So, why don't you hit me, Conlon?"
There was a deadly pause; only the banging on the wood and the clapping and cheering could be heard and that stopped too as all the boys saw Spot's hands come down. Cal and Spot stared at each other, a complete surprise rising in Cal's flushed cheeks and a very cold-eyed stare from Spot.
"You ain't worth it," he whispered angrily, stalking through the silent crowd, pushing and grunting as he went.
Cal stood there in a stony silence, letting the words sink in. There could have been many things she replied to his insulting truth. She could have muttered something about how she most certainly was not, that he was the worthless one here. She might have said how he was afraid of her, maybe even whisper that he had lost his nerve.
Cal dared not to do it though. She dare not insult him, for she knew that this was not the end. She had said the unthinkable. She had gone too far and he would not let her off the hook. Patiently, she waited in the circle, watching, as everyone else was, Spot's quiet pace back and forth, to the circle, and then away again. He was thinking horrible things about her. She was sure of it.
Back and forth, he paced, and Cal stood there, daring to breathe. Was she to feel guilt? She could not sense anything in her resembling remorse; she did not know if she was sorry for what she had said. She knew the truth in her words as well as his, they were equals in each other's eyes now, but it mattered not. He was fuming and she would not get away with it.
Finally, his gait stopped. He was turned away from the circle; his hands could only be crossed against his chest in their usual position.
"Oh, an', Cal," he muttered, lazily turning towards her, his eyes glinting still with heated fury. "I ain't needin' a right hand man. Youses demoted, until ya can tell me da truth, dat is."
Perhaps if she had not been hardheaded or easily angered, Cal would have accepted these terms and gone off to leave the leader alone and smolder elsewhere. However, as it was, the anger only seethed inside of her, finally willing itself to come out for a second degrading time:
"Screw second in command!" she yelled, clenching her fists together.
Spot turned to her, his eyes clearly telling her to shut her mouth or else worse would happen. She didn't heed it, for she was tired of this. It was time for something new anyway.
"Screw demotion!" she yelled again. The crowd stared at her, wondering why she pursued this madness. "I'm done with this place! No need to demote me, Conlon! I'm out of heah!"
Without a second thought, Cal walked out of the circle of boys, pushing and hitting until she obtained her freedom. She stalked off furiously, and then as she got to the end of the dock, she turned, smirking spitefully.
"Farewell, Brooklyn!"
Cal walked out of the place, not knowing exactly what to do.