Notes: Set three years after the strike. Most of the Newsies are sixteen - twenty one at this point. Based on the idea of twenty-one being the age that the Newsies must leave their lodgings. Please rate and review. If you're going to criticize, it's only welcome if it's constructive. Thanks! Like the title suggests, this is just the prologue (yes I got it from the song because i'm just that in love), and Boots isn't really a main character. But his story added an interesting element, no? And we'll find out everything about his story later. It touches on the extreme racism that unfortunately occurred in the 1900s, and mentions abortion.
Seventeen year old Boots held his head in his hands and he heard the news. The girl was pasty pale white, and if anyone found out, he would be running for his life. She was pregnant, and he had no idea what to do. If he were white, and older, he would marry her. But marrying her would create a life of hardship for both of them. "Matilda, are you sure?" he asked, hoping she would indeed take back everything and say she'd only been kidding. The brown-eyed, blonde haired beauty simply burst into fresh tears, and Boots sighed. Fuck. How had he allowed this to happen?
"I could say I was raped." Matilda said suddenly, staring at him, wide eyed.
His eyes widened, too. If she said that, the baby could be gotten rid of rather quickly. Hardly any questions asked. Of course, he was sure it was completely wrong but... it seemed so easy. "And what if they asked who raped you? You better not be pointin' any fingers at me, Matilda. You and I did that, and it was completely consensual. I hav'a bunch 'a boys who will attest to that." Of course, they were all filthy, nasty, poor boys. But they'd seen them together, heard them together in the bunks in the middle of the night. After all, they were all teenage boys. They had needs.
"Of course not, Boots. I would never say that. They don't need to know who. They probably don't even care. I just need to say he's black and they'll take it out of me." She looked down at her belly, and once again became hysterical. She flopped down on the bed beside his and soaked Cowboy's pillow. "But I don't know if I can." She sobbed.
He couldn't help but ask the burning question. He was pissed, and with good reason. She had been using what he thought was infallible birth control - a half lemon inserted before sex. They were religious about it, both knowing what a baby between the two of them could do to three lives. She'd sworn her mama used it; the woman had been a whore and only got pregnant once: with Matilda. Twenty years of turning tricks and one child seemed like pretty good odds. Matilda said it was impossible to get pregnant with a lemon in, as her mother had said it. "So why did this even happen? I thought you had it taken care of."
"I don't know..." the fourteen year old girl cried. She was unprepared for this life, just as unprepared as her boyfriend, or her lover, or whatever he was to her. "We could get married," she looked up at him, illogical, irresponsible, just plain stupid.
He used to like her questions; he thought her nearly always confused state and inappropriate remarks were cute at one point. Now they made him sick. How had he trusted her? Did real people even use lemons as birth control? He knew she wasn't the brightest girl in the world, and yet he'd trusted her. He'd have to convince her to get rid of it. He stood up, strode over to her, knelt and summoned all his previous affection for the girl. "We will take care of this. But right now you need to get up, wash your face, go to work, and go home. Come back tomorrow when you're off and we'll talk more." He kissed her forehead, and before he really did get sick, stomped downstairs to where the boys were playing cards. As he entered, they were all looking at them.
"So uh - what happened wit you two?" Racetrack asked, taking a drag off his cigar just after. Racetrack was twenty years old and had one more year before he had to get a job for adults - nobody really wanted that.
Boots scowled, "Nothing at all." It usually meant that whatever it was wasn't up for discussion, but since it was just Race and Skittery, they would probably expect him to talk. Although Boots was the youngest of the three, they'd been close for a long time. They would expect it; and besides, nobody liked to see a crying girl ushered up the steps to the bedrooms.
"Alright, don't go spreadin' this around, you hear?" He asked, to which they both nodded solemnly. He sat back for a moment, took a drag of Race's cigar, and took his time answering. "Matilda's knocked up and we got no idea what to do about it. It's not like Snipe and his girl. This situation's totally different, and I'm fucked if we don't find a way to solve it." Snipeshooter had gotten married last year, at fifteen, when he knocked a girl up. Of course, that girl was eighteen and Snipe's had a gun to his back when he said his vows, but they seemed pretty happy now, young as they were.
Race dropped his cigar and Skittery's eyes were about the size of saucers. They both knew the implications of this. Matilda was from a large Irish family; no doubt her brother would have something to say, or to do, about this situation. "You guys talk about any other options?" Race was like that; frank and to the point. Although he claimed to be a deeply religious Catholic, he sinned almost every day by having sex, not going to church, gambling, and never attending Mass. Now he was suggesting something Boots was pretty sure the Catholic Church was against, but it seemed like his only option.
"I've tried, but she won't stop cryin'. She should leave soon. I don't know what's gonna happen, but I know doctors will terminate on account'a rape, and before a certain amount of time has passed." Boots knew more about the law than most of these newsboys did, he was one sharp cookie. Too bad that didn't help him keep his girlfriend from getting pregnant.
"I think I might be cryin', too, if I was knocked up by some black guy." Skittery tried to lighten the mood with a laugh, but then he got serious, "But honestly, Boots, no good could come from her havin' that baby. Everyone would hate you, hate her, and hate it." Skittery was right about that. America was just about the racist place in the world, Boots was sure. Even though Skittery was two years older than him, at nineteen, he didn't know near enough to help him in this situation. Skittery either didn't have sex or had sex quietly. Nobody really knew.
"Well, whatever you do, make a decision fast. Ignorin' a situation like this ain't wise, my friend. Now if you'll excuse me, I have myself a date." Race smirked and put his cigar out on the table, stood up and straightened himself out. How the boy could go out to the brothel - everyone called time at the whorehouse "dates", honestly, it was more polite, but came to be confusing when the boys had real, proper dates - after Boots' ordeal was beyond him, but nothing ever stopped Race from two things; going to the tracks, and going to the whorehouse. Both these things he did at least once a week.
Boots, once realizing that his girl wasn't going to come down by herself, made the trek upstairs to deal with the situation like a man. Life was difficult, and it always seemed so for the darker skinned Newsie. His friends' love stories would no doubt be more easy breezy than his. But then again, he never had fallen in love. Not yet, at least.