Full Summary: Nightclub has been working as a newsboy for years. He has made a good life for himself, but recent events bring back his painful past that he has kept secret from his friends. But now he is being hunted down, and it may be time for him to tell a friend, but who can he trust? Sometimes secrets are meant to be told. The feeling of this one may change or end Nightclub's life.
Author's Note: Heh. I'm not the author, actually. It's my friend Fischy's story, but her dad won't let her get an account. So just know that this is not my work, but hers.
Disclaimer: Neither Fischy or I own Newsies or any part of this story. Only Nightclub, Twist, Jitter, Mr. Stapid, and Smithy. And anything else you may not recognize. And we don't really legally own them, but don't take them or we'll hunt you down and bite your legs off.
Nightclub awoke to a dull ache spreading through his body. He heard a few sleepy chortles and found that he was lying on the rough wood floor next to his bunk in the Lodging House. He groaned and stood, rubbing his sore back and climbed back into his bed, cursing the floor.
"You weren't lyin' when ya said ya was always clumsy," came a sleepy voice from the bunk above. "You just had to be a klutz and fall out of the blasted bed."
"Sorry, Spot. You can stop your jawing; the floor has punished me enough," Nightclub muttered, snuggling under the sheets, desperate to gain a few more minutes of sleep before Smithy came to make him get ready for work. He heard the creak of bedsprings as Spot sat up and stretched above him.
"It's hopeless," Spot said defeatedly, "Smithy will be up soon to wake everyone up." He sank back into his bed but lay with his eyes open. Sure enough, a moment later Nightclub heard Smithy hobbling up the stairs. He shuffled across the room, rousing the Brooklyn newsies by any means necessary, going so far to actually tickle Jitter's feet so that he leaped a foot in the air, almost falling off his bunk. Nightclub chuckled and stretched, found his clothes, and headed for the shower.
After he finished bathing and dressing, Nightclub went to find his suspenders, money, and cap. As he passed through the washroom he met, or to put a finer point on it, collided with Spot. Apparently, someone had been having a little too much fun with the soap. White foam was smeared across Spot's face. The poor boy was wandering around the washroom, groping wildly, his eyes tightly closed so that he didn't get any suds in them.
"Would someone please pass the towel?" he demanded.
"For two bits, I'll consider," said Nightclub, pushing his soapy face away and continuing towards his own bunk below Spot's.
When everyone was dressed, they ran outside to goof-off in the streets until the circulation bell rang. Spotting Spot among the many newsies milling about the streets, Nightclub was struck by one of his frequent urges to pick a playful fight with him. He jogged towards his target and planted himself in front of him.
"Hey pal," he said with a mischievous grin.
"Shove off," said Spot good naturedly, then, spotting his friend's look, added, "Uh oh." Nightclub snatched Spot's cap off his head and then danced out of harms way. He ran as slowly as he dared, staying just out of reach. His strides were long, fluid, strong, and he took up the ground effortlessly. When he knew that Spot was tiring, he "let 'er rip," as Jitter would say, and moved into full speed, just to annoy him.
The circulation bell rang and Nightclub raced back to where Spot stood panting.
"Thanks. I've been in need of a new cap," Nightclub said as they walked towards the distribution booth. "It's a good fit. You must have a tiny head if it fits me."
Spot grinned and snatched Nightclub's cap out of his hands.
"Hey, you might be a lot younger, but you're really tall. You're only half a head shorter than me," Spot shot back. This was true. Nightclub was tall for age ten. "Besides, maybe it's you that has the big head."
"Oh, aren't you clever, Pinhead," Nightclub snapped. "For that I'm going to hold your hat hostage." Spot pretended to look worried as he said sarcastically, "Oh, don't worry, Cap. I'll help you escape his clutches."
They arrived at the pape distribution booth and Nightclub fell into line behind his fellow newsies. Spot stood in front of him and behind Nightclub stood seven-year-old Squeak who was currently tugging on Nightclub's suspenders.
"What do you want from me?" Nightclub asked, pretending to be annoyed.
"What's a hostage?" Squeak asked innocently.
"Oh now, it's not polite to eavesdrop," said Spot, turning to face him.
"What were you just doing then? I wasn't speaking to you," Nightclub laughed, aware that Squeak was once again pulling on his suspenders to regain his attention. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you."
"What's eavesdropping?" questioned Squeak, looking from Nightclub to Spot then back again.
"In answer to your first question, a hostage is like an enemy's captive and eavesdrop –" Squeak interrupted him.
"You and Spot are enemies?" he said tearfully. "I always thought you were pals." Nightclub would have laughed if Squeak didn't look so distraught.
"We are pals," Spot said, putting an arm on Nightclub's shoulders. "We were just goofing around and eavesdropping is listening in on another person's conversation," he explained, pushing Squeak's cap down past his eyes. Squeak smiled sheepishly and adjusted his cap, satisfied now that all of his questions had been answered.
The line had moved up by now, and about half of the newsies had already bought their papes. Marbles had just bought his and waved at Nightclub before sitting down to leaf through his papes.
Jitter was paying for his papes. As he picked them up he must have felt that he was being observed, for he turned around, his hazel eyes searching the crowd. Nightclub raised his hand and beckoned to him. Jitter walked down the ramp and came to a stop beside the raised platform which Nightclub stood.
"I thought I was being watched," he said, adjusting his grip on his papes so that he wouldn't drop them, which he did often.
"Yeah, you were. How many papes did you get?" asked Nightclub; Jitter didn't usually buy too many, but today he carried a larger stack.
"Sixty," he said proudly. "Hey, that's not your cap, what happened to your old one?"
"Spot and I, uh, 'traded'," Nightclub. Jitter nodded knowingly, shaking his shaggy blonde hair out of his eyes. "You mean you stole Spot's cap so he stole yours, right?"
"Something like that, yeah," said Nightclub with a grin. "Fair is fair. I guess." Jitter was now leafing through his papes, reading parts of articles and frowning slightly.
"Do we gots a good headline today?" Nightclub asked him. Jitter shook his head. "Same as yesterday, and the day before and the day before that, and the day –"
"Okay, I get it, same headline," Nightclub cut in.
"They're only covering the trolley strike," Jitter said. "I wonder if they'll give up any time soon." Nightclub shrugged.
"They'd better not, they should finish the fight they started. If they don't, everyone will know that people like us can never accomplish anything."
"Are you going to tell me how many papers you want or am I going to have to stand here all day waiting for you two to finish your conversation?" snapped an agitated Mr. Stapid, the pape distributor. Nightclub gave him one of those looks that scorches. Stapid didn't like the newsies, and the newsies didn't like him in turn.
"Hundred papes," said Nightclub, slamming two quarter dollars. A man behind Stapid shoved Nightclub's papes at him. Nightclub sneered and took his papes.
"You would think we made him work there from the way he acts," said Jitter jerking his head toward Stapid once they were out of earshot. "Stapid hates it, but he isn't even trying to get a job somewhere else." Nightclub shook his head in mock despair.
"Ah, well, tough luck for us I guess. I think I better get selling." Jitter nodded his head in agreement.
"Alright, catch ya later."
Nightclub raced down the streets to his favorite selling spot near a square with a large copper statue of a roaring lion. Once he got there he began waving a pape in the air, calling, "Trolley Strikers Create Fire, Whole Building Destroyed." But as he sold, he had the most peculiar feeling that he was being watched.
XXXXXX
It was late afternoon by the time that Nightclub sold the last of his papes. He ran all the way to Brooklyn's best place: the docks by the Brooklyn Bridge, across from the lodging house. As he strode towards the docks, he recognized a familiar figure.
Spot was perched on his tower of crates, looking out over his fellow newsies and the river. His long brown hair, blonde on the top, fluttered across his face in the gusty breeze. One thumb as hooked in his pocket next to his long black cane which hung through a belt loop. The other was resting lightly on a wooden slingshot in his other pocket. The wind tugged on his checkered off-white and brown shirt. Around his neck hung a large skeleton key on a leather string. His bright, silvery blue eyes seemed to be fixed on something that only he could see and he appeared to be deep in thought. His head was held high, as it always was, with confidence and pride. He had a rebellious, defiant, and independent air that demanded respect and was a stereotype for all of the Brookies. Because they carried themselves this way, most people respected them from the moment they saw them. This respected air was most obvious in Spot. This was probably why Spot Conlon was the most famous and respected newsie in New York.
Nightclub climbed partway up the tower, and called to his friend. Spot started and looked down at Nightclub, he'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed him approaching.
"What were you thinkin' 'bout?" Nightclub asked him.
"Nothing," said Spot with a sigh. Although the way he'd said it hadn't suggested it, Nightclub had a feeling that he had been thinking about him. He felt defensive as he wondered whether Spot knew his secret. He quickly banished this idea. Only he himself knew. Only him. Only him?
"I think I'll go for a swim," Spot announced. "Would you like to join me?"
"What do you think?" asked Nightclub. "Or don't you?"
"How come you never swim?" Spot questioned, brandishing his cane at him.
"Same reason I told you the last time you asked me that," Nightclub replied.
"Well, I still don't believe that it's because you can't swim. All Brookies can swim," Spot spat as he cannonballed into the cold river. Several other newsies swam over to meet him and they conversed, treading water. Nightclub looked pointedly away. He often felt that he was betraying his friends by hiding so much from them but he would have to live with the guilt, for to tell anyone would make things so much worse.
"For all I know, one of them could be working for him as a spy, or I might have already been found out and he's just biding his time," thought Nightclub as the familiar bubble of fear and mistrust rose up inside of him as it always did when he thought of his secret. He felt like a traitor, not being able to really trust his friends and although he could never imagine any of them ever betraying him, he couldn't tell them. Doing so would put his life even further in jeopardy.
"Hey, Night, are you okay?" asked Twist, a tall, lanky boy with flaming red hair that stuck out in all directions, even through a hole in his cap.
"Yeah, I'm fine, I was just wondering about this trolley strike," Nightclub lied, knowing very well that Twist would see right through him. "We need a good headline and everyone's sick of hearing about it."
"Are ya sure that's what's bothering ya? Ya can tell me, ya know," said Twist, placing a hand on Nightclub's shoulder. "Ya can trust me, all of us."
"I know," said Nightclub, knowing all to well that this wasn't true. "I'll be okay."
"I don't believe you," said Twist, his bright green eyes searching the bright blue ones. "I know you, something's wrong; if it was serious, you would tell me, right?"
"Yeah," Nightclub said, "if it was really bothering me I'd let you know, but it's really nothing." Twist studied his face a moment longer then nodded curtly and walked away.
"Look at that," Nightclub thought, somewhat disgusted with himself. He had just flat out lied to his friend, just as he had been doing to all his friends for the three years that he'd been a newsie. Nightclub hated lying, especially to those he cared about and who in turn cared about him.
Nightclub was very fond of Twist. He was deep and good at reading people. He often said (in his modest way) that his first impression of a person had never been wrong yet. He noticed things that others didn't, small details that were easily over looked. He was somewhat distant from the other newsies mostly because when you spoke to him it was though the soul of an ancient man with all the wisdom of his years was residing inside the body of a mere boy.
Jitter was similar to Twist in some ways. He was clever and a deep thinker and could learn a great deal about an individual just by watching. But the thing that made Jitter different from Twist was that he did not seem to be an old man trapped inside a boy's body unless you were having a very down-to-earth conversation. He was cheerful and more jovial than aloof Twist, but both possessed maturity beyond their years.
Nightclub sat at the edge of the dock and dangled his feet in the water. He gazed down at his distorted reflection and saw a small boy of ten gazing back at him. His cheek bones stuck out and his cheeks hollowed to his paper-thin skin stretched tightly over them. He had developed dark shadows under his sunken eyes. He was under so much stress and wasn't eating enough, and therefore was dangerously under-weight, but some of his features remained the somewhat the same.
His blue eyes still glittered brightly and his hair was still a brownish-blonde, the color of wet sand, but even these normal features had been distorted. His eyes no longer showed contentment and happiness, but guarded secrecy, like locked doors, preventing anyone to see what lay within. His hair was shorter now, long like Spot's, but shorter than it used to be. It hung lank in his eyes, so he kept it tucked up inside his cap.
Nightclub looked away from his reflection and headed towards the local nightclub. He went there every night to listen to music. He was enraptured by the instruments, the saxophones in particular. His nightly visits to listen to the lively music earned him his name. After an hour or two of music he would go down to the docks and swim for a while by night when nobody could see him. He could then wander the streets for a while to dry off and return to the Lodging House. His friends would usually be asleep by then and even if they did hear him return, they assumed he had been at the nightclub the whole time.
As he rounded a corner, he stole one last glance at his fellow newsies. This was as close to family as he was going to get. He had no real family left, only a brother, and he didn't know what had become of him. He could be dead or alive for all he knew, and had long since given up ever finding him. If only Nightclub could know that his brother was alive, wondering the same thing.