I don't own Newsies or anything. Don't sue me. Thanks!

Oh, also, this doesn't really have a plot or anything. It's just a character piece.

A Girl to Keep

Racetrack liked girls.

He liked looking at them on the street as they passed. He liked how their skirts swished around their feet and sometimes gave him a scandalous glimpse of an ankle not hidden away by stockings. He liked shouting the headlines just a little louder when they walked by, so maybe one of them would stop and buy a paper.

And then… then they would sashay up to him, walking like dancers in boots that pinched, and grace him with a smile as he tipped his cap at them. He would be engulfed in their scent – even the girls that didn't wear cologne still smelled like something nice – and if they spoke to him… oh, that was heaven.

Girls had nice voice. They had quiet voices, smooth voices, voices like silk against Racetrack's callused palms. Day after day, Race was surrounded by the chorus of his fellow newsies, but when a girl spoke to him, the dirt and grime of the city seemed to just wash away, leaving Race clean and smiling like the day he was born.

Racetrack liked touching girls, too. That didn't happen as often as he'd wish, but when he and the boys stayed up late in the lodging house and traded tales of exploits, Race could hold his own. Half the stories they told there were made up anyway, he justified, so if someone ever topped him he could top them right back with a little improvement on the truth.

Girls were softer than boys. They had curves – even the skinny ones did, though Race didn't like them quite as much. Boys were all hard angles and bones, especially the newsies, and they pushed and shoved, which was sometimes just a little too close for comfort in Racetrack's mind.

But a girl! A girl would never dream of pushing and shoving. Girls used their hands in a different way from boys. Sure, most of the girls Race had had were factory workers who spent all day bent over a machine, using their hands, but in Race's arms, girls' hands worked wonders. They smoothed away sore muscles, they caressed a dirty cheek, and they interlaced themselves with cold fingertips.

Race had known some men in his day who didn't appreciate girls like he did. They thought that girls were toys, maybe, or serving maids, or even animals. They slapped their girls around and treated them like dirt, and that never made sense to Racetrack. Girls (soft, supple, demure girls) needed respect and a gentle kiss on the hand. You brought a girl flowers and shook her father's hand. You took her to dinner, even when it meant no papers the next morning and ordering yourself the cheapest thing on the menu just so she could have what she wanted.

And you loved girls. That's what they were for, to be loved and admired. Girls were made to be held on the fire escape long past dark until their brothers came looking for them, and girls were made to smile at you like no one else could, and girls were made to be married when the time was right.

Race wanted that someday for himself. A girl who'd walk up the aisle with him – though Race was never particularly religious, he knew enough to say he was Catholic – and who'd make him a family man.

Someday, Race decided, he'd meet the right girl, and he'd sweep her off her feet, and away from the dirty streets he called home. They'd find a little corner somewhere and raise children, and maybe it wouldn't be happily every after – was there really such a thing? – but it would at least be a good way to live. For now he'd smile at them as they walked by, he'd sell them their papers, and he'd picture in his mind as they walked away, the day he'd find a girl to keep.


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