Disclaimer: Spot Conlon is not my own. He unfortunately belongs to Disney, within the premise of that great classic, Newsies. Also, a number of original characters appear in this tale who also do not belong to me; credit is due to a number of wonderful readers for these personalities. However, Keile Fetuao and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon DO belong to me, so huzzah! Finally, on a technical note, this story has strong language at times, as it concerns the temperamental Brooklyn leader we so adore, but particular words are censored.

Author's Note: The name of the main character in this story, who is of Pacific Islander descent, is pronounced: KEEL-Lee. If you have trouble with it, just think "Kelly", but with a long 'E' in the first syllable.


My Troubles with Adelaide

The newborn rumors were true. New York's most notorious newsboy, the foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, eighteen-year-old Spot Conlon, had at long last met his match. Under the nauseating rays of a July sun, his fifty-something newsies surrounded him in a tight swarm, the older ones hooting with laughter as they pointed and pushed and cracked whatever jokes their wit afforded them. It wasn't every day they could behave so blithely and not suffer the consequences. With Spot this preoccupied, though, they could get away with acting their age. Those cursed with shorter heights, in the midst of this tomfoolery, attempted to weave through the growing crowd, hoping for a better view of the spectacle. When this proved impossible for some, they simply dragged crates over from the docks, climbed upon them, and strained to see over a dozen heads of flea-ridden hair.

It was, after all, a sight not to be missed. The leader of Brooklyn's newsboys was at his wit's end, struggling with a dame who simply wouldn't budge. Locks of sweat-drenched dirty blonde hair fell across his forehead, tangling with the lashes of his angry, cobalt eyes. He had stripped down to a white beater earlier in the brawl, and his faded red suspenders now dangled freely at his legs' sides. A gold-tipped black cane, threaded through a single belt loop, moved from side to side at his back whenever he jerked his body around, and any second now, he planned on pulling it forth to clout his opponent.

For the time being, he needed both hands. They gripped one end of his grey bowler hat so tightly, his knuckles were as pale as chalk. The other end was in the drooling mouth of his worst nightmare, and current nemesis: a ninety-pound American Bulldog. Adelaide; respectively named after the lodging house over which she presided as mascot. For the past ten minutes, she and Spot had been standing eye to eye, neither willing to submit to the other's whims.

Adelaide, fangs bared and ears flattened against her skull, continuously yanked at the hat, hoping to tire out its owner. She was a stocky but compact dog, almost two feet tall at the withers, and entirely muscle. White with large brown patches, one of which dotted an eye, she could've been mistaken as a sweetheart. Those who witnessed Spot's only hat tear in half that afternoon knew better.

Adelaide, delighted with her success, beat her tail to and fro as a jagged chunk of fabric hung from her mouth. Spot watched on, not amused. His arms, defined from years of hard work, were now aching in exhaustion. He rubbed one tanned bicep and winced at how it throbbed. Damn dog. He looked down at his calloused and ink-stained hands, fingers still clutching part of his former hat, a part now rendered worthless. It wasn't the only damage done him this afternoon, either. His pride had been trampled over, as well, by the dirty paws of this damn aggravating mutt.

His newsies were still carrying on, louder than ever, oblivious to their leader's budding temper. It took a while, but one by one, as they realized his menacing glare was upon them, they elbowed hooting neighbors or smacked those miming Spot's tug-of-war defeat. Their laughter died at the back of their throats. They evolved from teenaged street-rats to soldiers before their dictator. They imitated his silence, diverted their eyes, and prayed to God lodging prices wouldn't rise. Satisfied with their obedience, Spot returned his attention to Adelaide. He hurled his half of the hat at the Bulldog—she dodged the toss and bolted off down the docks—and then he turned to snatch his shirt from the ground. Without any word to his regiment, he made for the Brooklyn Lodging House, uttering nothing but profanities with every step.

"I f-cking hate your damn dog, Keile."

Keile was leaning against a splintered pillar of the lodging house, basking in the cool shade it cast upon her. Arms crossed, she tilted her head back just slightly to regard Spot from under the bill of her cap. Her teeth clung to her chapped bottom lip, lest she, too, indulge in the amusement of Adelaide's antics. She was used to the dog's clownish behavior anyway; owning an American Bulldog was like purchasing a variety show for the next fifteen years of one's life.

"I'm sorry. I really am." She bit the inside of her cheek the moment she thought her lips would relax into a smirk. It took a few seconds to regain her composure, and then she continued. "Y'know how she gets, though. She adores you. It's like a game to her when you swat at her with your cane or hat." Her voice was hoarse, reduced virtually to a whisper. She sniffed, then, and dabbed at her nose with the handkerchief cradled within her palm.

Spot momentarily let the matter drop. His eyes now rested on Keile for the first time. "You all right?" When he received no reply, he shoved a palm against her forehead, and despite his findings, his voice remained monotone. "Ya burnin' up." He took her left wrist in his hand to check for a pulse; he wasn't sure what to look for, but he'd seen medics perform this routine check without end, and it therefore made him feel more authoritative.

Having her wrist encompassed between his index finger and thumb reminded him of Keile's lean figure. Her thinness wasn't necessarily as attractive as it was deathly. The girl was all bones, always had been. She needed more meat on her, but the meat refused to stay on. No matter what she downed at Fiddler's, be it even a tuna melt and cheeseburger in one meal (she had an awfully large appetite for someone so wiry), she remained skeleton-thin. Every article of clothing she owned fit baggy upon her frame. She wore skirts only because they added volume to her figure, but even they needed to be held in place with suspenders. Spot guessed Keile weighed no more than a hundred pounds. If he ever wanted to, he could easily toss her over his shoulder and carry his share of Brooklyn Eagles at the same time. The girl, simply put, held little femininity about her. Unlike the majority of girls with whom Spot was acquainted, she lacked the coveted hour-glass figure, and the endowments with which it came. In other words, she was nearly as flat-chested as a ten year old boy. Of course, Spot would never say that—even a prince among paupers had his limits.

Still, there wasn't anything particularly eye-catching about Keile Fetuao. In a city of pretty Irish and Italian immigrants, she was a dark-tanned Polynesian outcast. Her sleek hair, long enough to caress her waist, was dark as the ink on a newsboys's paper. Today, it was tied back in a sloppy low bun, defiant strands sticking out every which way. Her eyes were just as dark. Bland. If it weren't for the long lashes framing them, they'd easily be missed, mistaken for pieces of coal. She never wore makeup, as she didn't like the feel of it, and her lips were ever chapped despite how many times she ran her tongue over them. All that aside, it was the freckles that did her in. There were hundreds all over her! Like colonies of ants maintaining constant patrol upon her skin. Her face was dotted, her arms, her legs, her stomach, her neck. Every last square inch of her was plagued with the tiny chocolate spots.

"Spot, what are you doing? Stop." She pulled her wrist away from him, and turned to blow her nose into the handkerchief.

"Ya look like death."

"Wow, thanks." She rolled her eyes, and stepped out of the shade, squinting against the sun to track down her dog. Adelaide was running up and down the docks, trying to decide whether or not she really wanted to jump into the river with the boys who had already done so. Her portion of Spot's hat was discarded alongside a pile of rope. "I'm sorry 'bout your hat. I seriously am. Once she gets a hold a' some'n, though, you're outta luck."

"Keile."

She turned to face Spot, and was met with that forceful gaze he'd mastered, the one that demanded an explanation of an unsuspecting soul, and heard one whether that soul intended on giving it or not. "Spot, I'm fine."

"No. You're not." He draped his shirt over his shoulders, and continued to watch her, eyes unmoving.

Keile swiped the cap from her head and fanned herself. Damn, it was hot. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down her face with sluggish progress. Her blouse was beginning to stick to her skin. "Okay, so I need a favor."

He crossed his arms, donning his prized 'I knew I was right' expression. It always stroked his ego when his suspicions proved correct. "What is it?"

"I've got a cold, this virus—hell, I don't know what it is. The point is, I obviously can't go to work sick. People don't appreciate you cleaning their house when you're spreading germs left and right at the same time." She brought the handkerchief to her nose to stifle a sneeze, waited a moment, and then continued. "The Sisters suggested I go to St. Paul's for—"

"What's the favor, Keile?" Among the many things Spot Conlon despised, one was a mouth that couldn't stop running. When someone bore news, he wanted the straightforward facts and nothing in excess.

"You're a royal pain, y'know that?" She glanced toward the East River again, and watched Adelaide paddle hard while her human companions laughed and splashed water her way. "I need you to run the Home while I'm gone, Spot."

He opened his mouth to say something, but promptly closed it. A brief moment passed before he spoke. "Aint the Sisters there to do that?"

"They only monitor the building from seven in the morning until five in the evening. They come in to clean, to cook, to walk the younger ones to and from school, to tutor, to counsel. Y'know, the motherly things. But at night, they return to the convent. With Adelaide as our security guard, it aint too bad, but even that's not enough. Tell you the truth, I've just been depending on that gun Cynic gave me—"

Spot rolled his eyes, mostly jealous the idea had come to Cynic before it had come to him.

"—but I aint leaving no gun into these girls' hands, either. We're in the middle of a clique war. Never a good thing to add weapons." A sneeze escaped her, so powerful it inflamed her lungs. She rubbed her chest with a fist and frowned.

A clique war? What the hell was a clique war? "So whaddya want me to do?"

"Check up on them at nights, I guess. You can even stay in the guest room now and then if ya 'on't wanna make the commute. Y'know, the usual. Keep 'em in line, break up arguments, keep the place safe."

Spot mulled the idea over. He didn't know any of the girls at Adelaide's outside of Keile. They mostly were domestic workers in the houses of the upper class, or seamstresses, or nannies, or toy-makers in factories where their smaller hands could put pieces together easily. As far as he knew, none of them worked the paper-peddling scene, which meant they were most likely a group of homely girls, devoid of a personality. He suspected they wouldn't even offer him conversation; if they did, he probably wouldn't return it. It would simply be one more lodging house to run, its population far smaller and uninviting. An afterthought.

He shrugged, leaning forward on his cane as both hands rested upon the gold top. "Sure. I'll do it. How 'ard could it be, right?"

Keile resisted the urge to glance his way, fearing the answer would be written all over her eyes. Instead, she continued watching Adelaide's swimming lesson, and offered a shrug of her own. "Right."