I had a brother. Bet you didn't know that. His name was Andrew. His hair
was curly and dirty blonde, and his eyes were the same shade of chocolate
brown as mine. Everyone said he could have been my son, we looked so alike.
The boys called him Sidekick. You know, like Cowboy and his Sidekick. I
loved him more then life itself.
Notice how I use past tenses? Yeah. There's a reason for that.
Andrew died. He was 7 years old. I killed him.
I wanted to be a Newsie leader, just like Spot Conolon and Hooks Monroe. And I told them as much. That I was going to be the leader of the Manhattan boys. Spot laughed it off, but not Hooks. He said he'd help me. For a price.
When Hooks said price, I thought he wanted me to pay him. But no. He wanted something to show him I was serious about wanting to be a leader.
He said if I hurt my brother, he'd help me.
I slugged him and walked away. At first.
Andrew and I were racing across the street 2 weeks later. I had almost forgotten about the dare. Almost. I remembered when Andrew fell in the middle of the rode and started to cry. He couldn't get up-his foot was stuck in a crack in the pavement or something. I was on the curb already, about to turn around and go help him, until I saw one of Hooks boys watching. I had heard from Spot that Hooks was willing to forgive my knocking him down if I went through with the dare. And I wanted to be a leader, wanted it real bad, wanted it enough to ignore my brother's desperate cries for help.
So I did. I pretended I couldn't hear him and kept walking.
I don't remember things in pictures. I remember things in sounds. I remember the sounds of the fishmonger shouting his wares as my brother cried for help. I remember hearing his terrified scream mix with that of the out of control carriage horse. I remember the sound my boots made on the pavement as I spun around and started to run for him, the sound of the strangled cry in my throat as I saw it was too late.
I remember the crunch as the carriage wheels drove over my baby brother's chest.
When people ask me why I changed my name, I tell them it was to help me survive after I escaped from the refuge. Not true. Jack Kelly is a decent fellow, with a good heart and high hopes for the future. Francis Sullivan killed his brother. He has no hopes, no dreams, just guilt and sorrow. I dunno, who would you rather be?
Francis Sullivan did have dreams once, though. They were dreams passed on to Jack Kelly, dreams of getting out of the city and going to some place far, far away. Someplace he'd only seen on a train as a little boy. A dream Jack Kelly can achieve now that he's a leader, a dream Francis Sullivan doesn't want any more. Because it was Andrew who really wanted that ranch, not him. And Andrews dead.
The day my brother died, my dreams came true. I'd have the money for that ranch in a little over 5 years, I was a leader, my cheating father got so drunk off his ass when he heard the news, he killed my bitch of a mother and was hauled off to prison, and I even got to see the last half of a show at Irving Hall, a treat I had missed for weeks.
All my dreams came true. At the price of a life. The life of my brother.
Nothing should be worth that.
My name is Francis Sullivan. They call me Jack Kelly. Cowboy. This is why I am the way I am.
How about you?
Notice how I use past tenses? Yeah. There's a reason for that.
Andrew died. He was 7 years old. I killed him.
I wanted to be a Newsie leader, just like Spot Conolon and Hooks Monroe. And I told them as much. That I was going to be the leader of the Manhattan boys. Spot laughed it off, but not Hooks. He said he'd help me. For a price.
When Hooks said price, I thought he wanted me to pay him. But no. He wanted something to show him I was serious about wanting to be a leader.
He said if I hurt my brother, he'd help me.
I slugged him and walked away. At first.
Andrew and I were racing across the street 2 weeks later. I had almost forgotten about the dare. Almost. I remembered when Andrew fell in the middle of the rode and started to cry. He couldn't get up-his foot was stuck in a crack in the pavement or something. I was on the curb already, about to turn around and go help him, until I saw one of Hooks boys watching. I had heard from Spot that Hooks was willing to forgive my knocking him down if I went through with the dare. And I wanted to be a leader, wanted it real bad, wanted it enough to ignore my brother's desperate cries for help.
So I did. I pretended I couldn't hear him and kept walking.
I don't remember things in pictures. I remember things in sounds. I remember the sounds of the fishmonger shouting his wares as my brother cried for help. I remember hearing his terrified scream mix with that of the out of control carriage horse. I remember the sound my boots made on the pavement as I spun around and started to run for him, the sound of the strangled cry in my throat as I saw it was too late.
I remember the crunch as the carriage wheels drove over my baby brother's chest.
When people ask me why I changed my name, I tell them it was to help me survive after I escaped from the refuge. Not true. Jack Kelly is a decent fellow, with a good heart and high hopes for the future. Francis Sullivan killed his brother. He has no hopes, no dreams, just guilt and sorrow. I dunno, who would you rather be?
Francis Sullivan did have dreams once, though. They were dreams passed on to Jack Kelly, dreams of getting out of the city and going to some place far, far away. Someplace he'd only seen on a train as a little boy. A dream Jack Kelly can achieve now that he's a leader, a dream Francis Sullivan doesn't want any more. Because it was Andrew who really wanted that ranch, not him. And Andrews dead.
The day my brother died, my dreams came true. I'd have the money for that ranch in a little over 5 years, I was a leader, my cheating father got so drunk off his ass when he heard the news, he killed my bitch of a mother and was hauled off to prison, and I even got to see the last half of a show at Irving Hall, a treat I had missed for weeks.
All my dreams came true. At the price of a life. The life of my brother.
Nothing should be worth that.
My name is Francis Sullivan. They call me Jack Kelly. Cowboy. This is why I am the way I am.
How about you?
