Well, I'm back. After eight years, a high school degree, and a renewed vigor for Newsies, I decided to scrap the old one and make a new, better one.
God I missed this fandom.
Reviews make me better. Thanks, fam.
"Extra! Extra! Man cooked in motor car accident. Page three!" Racetrack Higgins yelled from his street corner. Mornings in New York were busy, but today was pretty slow. It was a Monday, the day of the week everyone dreaded. School was back in session which meant the number of newsies dwindled from the summer months. David and Les were among those few newsies who attended school in the mornings, so there were less Manhattan newsies on the streets than, per say, Brooklyn.
A man came up to Racetrack and bought a paper on his way to work, apparently intrigued by the grisly headline. The dark haired boy stuck the penny in his pocket, along with the other forty-five pennies that made their nest in his pants pockets. He needed to sell five more papes, and he was done for the day. He would hitch a ride on the back of a carriage or a trolley to Sheepshead Bay and, depending on the horses, either blow or double his earnings for the day.
Racetrack went over the agenda in his head and smiled. He was free to do as he pleased. He had no family to speak of to nag him to do chores or homework. He didn't have a girl that would complain about her day and how she didn't like his gambling habits. Racetrack wasn't a stupid boy; he knew he had a problem. But what brought him back was the way he felt like he was floating on air after his horse won. He harbored no resentment for David, who had a family to go home to, or Jack, who was going steady with Plum. If it didn't affect him personally, he didn't give a rat's ass.
"Excuse me," a small voice broke his thoughts. Racetrack looked down to see a small girl, no more than nine. Her hair was in two plaits, with a blue ribbon to hold them in their place. She looked up at him with the biggest hazel eyes he'd ever seen. For some reason or another, they struck a chord with him, like he had seen them somewhere before. Racetrack immediately shook the ridiculous idea from his head.
"How much is a paper?" She looked over her shoulder and then back at him again. "Come on! How much is it?"
"Well aren't you the patient one." He thought bitterly.
"Penny a pape." He replied. He watched as the little girl looked over her shoulder, then dug her little hand into her pinafore to dig out a penny.
"Are you being followed, kid?" He said in a low voice, just in case anyone else was listening. She looked up at him again with her doe-like eyes, shook her head, and continued to dig for a penny. Racetrack was beginning to get impatient. The morning races would be starting at ten, and he didn't want to be late making his bets. He pulled out his, or rather his father's pocket watch, to check the time.
"Hmm." He thought to himself. "Almost half past nine."
"Thief!" Racetrack froze but then relaxed, quickly realizing that part of his life was long over. The little girl in front of him, however, stayed frozen. Racetrack, with his pocket watch still out, looked to the owner of the voice. A blonde girl, about his age or older, was running towards the pigtailed girl in front of him. As she ran, time seemed to slow down. The blonde girl looked like a drawing out of a fashion caricature or a model for one of the new department stores in town. Her honey blonde hair seemed to be made of gold, and her skin was clear as a summer sky. His heart skipped a beat and melted all at the same time. Suddenly, the sound of tearing fabric broke his thoughts as the little girl ran off with his father's pocket watch.
"Hey! Come back 'ere!" He sprinted after the girl. "That doesn't belong to you, ya bum." God! How could he have been such a dunce! He knew better than to be distracted by girls, especially when there were pickpockets throughout New York City.
"When I get my hands on her, she'll be a pile of nothin'." He thought angrily. That pocket watch was the last memento he had of his father's. He vaguely remembered the man, since he split after his baby sister was born. All he knew was that his father was Irish and left Racetrack his gold pocket watch with the Higgins family crest on the outer shell. That pocket watch stayed with him after his apartment burned down with his mother and sister inside and through his time in The Refuge.
Racetrack continued to chase the dark haired girl through the crowded marketplace. He pushed his way through the throngs of cooks and housewives that filled the streets, not caring if he stepped on a few toes here and there. He squeezed his way out until he lost sight of the pickpocketing girl. He threw his cap down on the ground and cursed.
"Damn it!" He tucked one thumb in the hem of his pants, and his other hand reached for the cigar in his breast pocket. He pulled a match from his pocket, scratched it against the building beside him, and lit the cigar. The strong taste of tobacco filled his senses and calmed his nerves a bit. He picked up his hat and walked down the street towards the Brooklyn. He decided he would call it a day and head over to the tracks.
But first, he needed to take a leak.
Race looked over his shoulder, to make sure he wouldn't get jumped, and headed into the dark alleyway. He walked over to a secluded part of the alley, unbuttoned his pants, and sweet relief washed over him.
"Man! That coffee just goes right through ya." He mumbled, his cigar still in his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a dark shadow sitting on some boxes. He made himself presentable and turned his hair towards the blur. It was the pickpocket girl! She seemed to be inspecting his father's pocket watch, her little fingers gingerly traced the engravings. Race stomped over to where she was sitting and grabbed the pocket watch out of her little hands.
"Hey! That's mine!" She cried.
"Oh, really? 'Cause last time I checked youse was the one who took it from my hand." He stuffed his most prized possession in his breast pocket.
"Nuh uh!" She crossed her arms defiantly. "You must have stolen it from my father!"
"Oh yeah, girlie?" He challenged her, taking a puff of his cigar and blowing it in her face. "What's your proof? Because I've had this since I was a boy." The little pickpocket coughed and waved the smoke out of her face.
"Because- "She wheezed. "It has my father's name on it, and it has his family crest on the front." Racetrack raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"What does your family crest look like?"
"It has a knight's helmet with three rooks underneath it. And my father's name was Thomas Higgins." Racetrack scoffed and turned his back on the girl. She was right. That was the Higgins family crest. And his father's name was Thomas Higgins.
But those were two very common Irish names and probably thousands of Thomas Higgins' in New York City.
"You're lyin' kid. You probably looked at the engraving while I'se was taking a piss." Racetrack began to walk away, miffed that he was probably going to miss placing his bets. He heard the thump of two feet landing on the ground.
"My Nonno said that even though my father was a dirty Mick, Thomas Higgins was an honest man! And that's the only thing I have left to remember my family by." Racetrack turned to face the brave little pickpocket.
"Look, kid, I used to be in your position, okay?" He took a puff from his cigar. "I used to pickpockets and make up ridiculous stories after my ma and sister died. It's not a good life. Go find a factory to work in. You might lose a finger, but at least they'll feed you."
"I lost my brother and mother when I was three." She croaked. This made Racetrack stop in his tracks. That's how old—no, it couldn't be. He turned to face her, her hazel eyes filling with tears.
"How old are you?" He shakily pointed his cigar at her. His mother and Francesca were supposed to be dead.
"Eleven. How old are you?" This couldn't be happening. Racetrack felt his heart drop into his stomach.
"S-sixteen."
"There you are!" An irritated voice interrupted the moment. It was that blonde girl that was chasing the pickpocket before. Pieces of her hair were falling out of her braid, and her cheeks were flushed from running.
"Now I have chased you all over kingdom come for that coin purse of mine, and you will give it back or else I'll..I'll.." The little pickpocket looked at coin purse girl with a bored expression.
"You'll what?" The pickpocket challenged. "Beat me up? Because you look like you couldn't hurt a fly." The blonde girl strained to talk like she wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't leave her lips.
"I haven't thought that far ahead yet, lil' missy." She drawled.
"Oh, so you have an accent." Racetrack thought amusingly. Southern coin purse girl looked at Racetrack for help.
"Well? Aren't you going to help me?" She asked, exasperated. Racetrack leaned on the brick building behind him and inhaled his cigar.
"Nah, I'm pretty amused at how you're handling it, though. What would you call it, the Rebel approach, eh doll?" Southern girl's eyes grew as wide as saucers, her green eyes seemed to burst into flames. She marched over to Racetrack and looked him in the eyes.
"Now look here, sir. I have lost my favorite hat, had my coin purse stolen with my lunch money in it, and now I'm probably late to work, so I do not have time to mess around with your tough, city boy act right now. And I do have a name, thank you very much. It's Ca—" She stopped herself and took a breath. "It's Dixie."