Author's Note: I had originally published this under another account, and stumbled across it again recently, so some of you may recognize it from its previous posting. There's been a bit of a rewrite, and I think I'm more satisfied with it this way. It's only a one-shot, but if there's interest in it, I've been toying with the idea of writing a companion piece to it. I suppose that all depends on it's reception this time around. But that's enough from me! On with the story.
Skittery hated her red shoes.
When it was morning time, she was always shy, hiding her face and that secret smile that made him weak the knees behind her hair as she slipped out the window onto the Lodging House's rickety old fire escape. There were always hoots and hollers from the other boys if the two of them woke up too late to sneak her out before the others roused themselves, but Skittery never heard them. The only thing he heard was the faint sound her worn old work shoes made as they scraped lightly against the rusty old rungs of the ladder as she made her way back to the streets of New York. His heart would beat wildly in his throat as he watched her, every muscle taut with worry - his mind racing violently with images of one of the old bars giving out, sending her tumbling to the concrete below – until her small feet were safe on the ground, and she was blowing him a kiss, disappearing into the early morning crowd.
When it was light out and they were alone she wore the faded floral print dress with the frayed hems, and she held his hand and laughed at his jokes. She spoke softly into his ear when all the other boys were too busy amongst themselves to pay him any mind. Her hand would rest softly on his stomach whenever he'd start to start to lunge forward towards someone who tossed an insult his way, holding him back from doing something he'd regret. During the day she was his voice of reason, his rock and his heart. She was the only good thing to ever come his way and the only thing he had that kept him hanging on. She sat with him even though the other newsies were loud and rude and hardly used language that was proper in front of a girl. She would rest her side against his, fitting herself into him like a glove.
She never complained when he drank too much, or ate too little. She never scolded him for using foul language, or for picking fights with some of the younger newsies. Truth be told, she didn't have to. All it took was one look from her, one simple sad glance from those eyes that held the kind of secrets you usually only found in the very, very old, and he was stopped on a dime. And all it took was one smile, just the simple upturning of the corners of thin lips, and he felt the weight of the world that was usually settled between his shoulders lift. Skittery had never been a happy man, but when she smiled, oh when she smiled, he felt as close to happiness as he thought he could ever hope to achieve.
Late at night she was his, and his alone. Long after the rest of the city had gone to bed, when even the most ill-reputed of New York's citizens were tucked in tight, they were in a world of their own and his name was the only one on her lips. Her bare skin pressed up against his, her breasts crushed against his chest as he clung to her like a dying man, their hips moving in rhythm to a song only they could hear. Afterwards, he would dig around his dresser, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake the other boys, and pull out a cigarette. They never smoked their own, they always shared. And in hushed whispers they would tell each other secrets about past lives. Late at night she belonged only to him and he could hold to her like there was nothing more in his world.
But in the evening, just as the sun was setting, his entire universe was turned on its head. When she put on those red shoes she was anyone's. She became every man's fantasy when she stepped out onto that stage, all long legs and loose dancing. And every man in Manhattan seemed to find their way to that tiny theater to gawk at her as she dropped her clothes for a nickel a customer. When she put on those red shoes she wasn't Skittery's Emma anymore, she was Emmaline and every man could put themselves in the position he was in every night with her, if they had enough imagination. When she put on those red shoes, he was out of the picture and out of her mind.
She never looked at him while she danced. She never glanced his way as the sequined clothing hit the stage with a rustle all too faint for anyone to hear about the sultry horns, but which seemed to hit his ears like cannon fire. Maybe if she'd looked at him, given him some sign that secretly, as she bared herself for the world to see, she was really only thinking of him things would have been alright, but her eyes would focus on anyone, anything but him as her body told stories of how she would treat every man in the packed theater – every man but him. Every boy but him. That's how he felt when she danced, looking at the balcony, the statues, the other men, but not at him- like a boy, a child she felt she needed to care for rather than love. All because of those damned red shoes. Skittery hated those shoes.
She came back to her dressing room that night, wrapped tightly in a robe that had been waiting for her when she stepped off the stage. She would show her entire body to a room full of strangers but when she came back to him, she always hid everything away, like he wasn't worthy. He had his feet up on her vanity and his head in his hands and when she stepped in, a slight smile on her face he sent her a glare that could have killed. She paused, obviously shocked by his attitude. He'd never looked at her like that before, though he'd wanted to a million times. But tonight, tonight he'd had enough. It was those red shoes or him.
"Did you watch?" She asked softly, her hands moving gently to push his feet off of her dressing table. He reached up and slapped them away irritably, his gaze unwavering and fiery. She swallowed hard and took a step back, turning from him, from that stare. Wrapping her thin arms about her waist she took a few steps to her dressing screen, slipping behind it and reaching for that floral print dress with the frayed hem. Hiding, always hiding. Where did this sudden modesty come from? Skittery could feel his blood boiling under his skin as he watched her fragile silhouette through the screen. He had had enough.
"Ya know damn well I watched, Em." His voice was as sharp as daggers and she winced, suddenly gladder than ever that she was well hidden from his view, her head dropping slightly as she fumbled with her stockings. "Don't hide behind dat thing. Ya know I, an' halfa New York has seen ya in your skimpies and less." The venom in his voice made her skin crawl across her spine. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to explain that she hid because she was ashamed. She wanted to explain that she was ashamed because she was never going to be able to make a living doing anything but this. And that, in turn, frightened her, because one day she was going to get old, and wrinkled, and bent, and no one was going to want to look at her anymore – not even Skittery. When that day came she was going to die old and alone, and penniless. But instead she stayed silent, kept her eyes glued on her stocking seams and she made no move to show herself to him. Within moments the screen was knocked back against the wall, one of the hinges coming loose as it hit. She let out a slight gasp and brought her hands up to cover her exposed chest. He looked at her in disgust and turned away. "What da hell do ya think yer doing, Em? What kinda life is dis?" Her stomach turned at the truth of his words.
But she didn't speak, didn't reach out for him, didn't run to him and beg him to save her like she wished she could. She just stood there, arms wrapped so tightly around her chest her skin was turning blanch white. His hands were clenched in anger, his entire frame was shaking from unreleased vicious hate and her heart was breaking knowing it was because of her. He only shook his head and looked back at her, taking a step forward to close the distance between them, leaning down so his nose almost touched hers. Her eyes darted down to his chest, unable to bear the burn of his gaze.
"Huh? What da hell kinda life is it, Emma? Tell me."
"I … I don't know."
"Ya don't know?" A short bitter bark of a laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head, taking another step forward so that she was pressed back against the wall, his hands resting on either side of her head. "Well, I don't know eitha." Those shoes. Those fucking red shoes were laid out carefully on top of a chair. She put more love into those shoes than she would ever put into him. Without thinking he'd snatched them off the chair and flung them at the wall. Their hard spiked heels cracked the mirror of her vanity with a sickening crash and one of the heels broke off in the fray. His eyes met hers again, his hand coming up to cup her face so that she couldn't look away. "Ya choose. Tanight, ya choose. I ain't gonna sit around and watch ya show everything ya've got to a room fulla chumps forever, Em. Dis is it. I've had it upta here." Her heart sank. She knew what was coming next. It always came. It was always this way. "Choose. Dem or me." He felt his heart in his throat, choking him, trying desperately to tell him to take back his foolish words. But he only set his mouth in a grim line and stared her down.
Her words came out as a barely audible whisper, and he had to strain to hear so that he wasn't asking her to repeat herself. Her words were soft but once they hit his ear they were unmistakable. He let his hands drop from the wall as he looked at her, his eyes squinting slightly as he looked at her. She stood on tip toe and pressed a kiss to his forehead before moving to clean up the mess he'd made. And he, he could only stand in complete shock. Those words. Those words had determined the rest of his world, and his life.
"I'm sorry."
Skittery hated those red shoes.