YOU'VE GOT ME
By Princess MacEaver
Disclaimer: Newsies
and all its characters are property of Disney.
CHAPTER ONE: ENTER ALICE
Sometimes I wonder why I even
bother selling papers. Times like this
morning, when it's barely light and my eyes are barely open, but here I am,
shuffling down Bleeker Street with a stack of papers on my shoulder. Hardly anybody's even awake this time of day
to buy anything. The only other people
on the street are the hot chestnut man at the corner and two policemen
harassing a bum a little ways down. Now
let me say right here, I don't like policemen.
After what happened with the strike last year, do any of us newsies
anymore? But as much as I hate the
bulls, I'm not about to go make trouble just on account of some bum who picked
a stupid place to fall asleep and is getting a bit of a rude awakening. Until I'm close enough to hear the bum cry
out in pain as he gets another sharp kick in the ribs. And then I can tell that he is
actually a she.
So like the moron I am, I run
over to her defense. The whole time I'm
thinking, "Skittery, you've got to get over this damsel-in-distress thing," but
I really can't help it; I have this thing about guys hitting girls. Call it my upbringing. Ha.
Thinking fast and trying to avoid trouble, I quickly concoct a plausible
story.
I drop to my knees beside
her. "Alice!" I say—the first name that
comes to mind. "I found ya!"
The
bigger policeman's fat hand lands heavy on my shoulder. I almost drop my newspapers as he jerks me
to my feet. "What's dis about?" he
demands suspiciously, looking me over with his little piggy eyes.
"You
found Alice!" I say, trying to sound joyful though I'd really love to sock him
in his fat nose. "You found me runaway
sistah!"
"Dis
is your sistah?" the thin cop asks, giving the girl a look. Maybe wondering how I could recognize her
through the layers of dirt on her face.
She's really a pitiful sight, wearing nothing but some really tattered
rags and a filthy blanket, her hair matted on top of her head, dirt coloring
her face brown as a Havana cigar. "Just
my luck to get the dirty street rat," I think sourly, but I grit my teeth and
keep up the act anyway.
"A course
she is!" I tell the policeman, kneeling back beside the dirtball, setting down
my papers, and taking one dirty hand in mine.
"Alice! Don'tcha remembah
me? It's me, Skittery!" She just stares at me with these huge blue
eyes and doesn't say anything. Now I'm
thinking, "Great, and she's an idiot, too", but then she surprises me.
"Skittery?"
she says softly, in a tone of disbelief, her eyes suddenly coming alive with
recognition. "Me own brudda
Skittery?" Wow. That's some acting. For a moment there she has me doubting I was
an only child. Maybe she isn't as thick
as I thought.
The fat
policeman snorts and breaks the moment.
"A touching fam'ly reunion we got heah.
Now Mr. Skittery, would you be kind enough to tell your sistah she ain't
allowed to sleep on da streets no more, an' we can get back to our jobs." And the policemen leave, grumbling.
I drop
her hand. "Well ain'tcha gonna say
t'anks?" I snap at her. I immediately
wish I could take my words back. I know
that I'm mostly just angry at myself for getting involved in this mess, but
then I go take it out on her. Just the
sort of thing I'm always doing.
"T'anks,"
she says obediently, making me feel worse.
I stand
up. "Well, you heard what da good
officers said," I tell her, trying to sound cheery to cancel out my harshness a
moment before, but I don't think really succeeding. "Getcherself someplace ta stay."
She drops
her head and mumbles something.
"What?" I
ask impatiently, squatting down beside her.
She
doesn't reply but her shoulders are shaking and a little whimper escapes her
throat.
"Oh, no,
no, don't cry," I beg. Maybe it comes
out sounding comforting, but what I'm thinking is, "If she starts crying I'm
just going to start feeling sorry for her, and then I'll be stuck trying to
make her feel better when I need to be out there selling my newspapers."
"I'm,
I'm," she tries to say, raising her face to look at me. Sure enough, a glistening clean track of
tears cuts through the filth of either cheek.
That's it. I'm helpless when I'm
up against a crying girl. I'd have to
be pretty heartless to leave her there.
Goddamnit don't I have other things I need to be doing???
I pull
out my handkerchief and start wiping her face, swearing nonstop in my head the
whole time. If she could have read my
thoughts… But she can't, and she just keeps crying, and lets me clean her face.
"Now,
whatsa matta?" I ask her, fighting to keep the irritation out of my voice. "You can't afford a place ta stay?"
She sobs,
and grabs my handkerchief away to crumple into her eyes. Okay, I never liked that handkerchief
anyway. "It's, it's not that," she
says, her voice thick with tears.
Oh, give
me a break. "Den what're you sleepin'
on da streets for?" I demand.
She makes
a little strangled noise, but stops dabbing at her eyes. "Wouldn't noplace take me in," she says
miserably.
"Why
not?" I start to ask, but then her blanket falls off her shoulder, and I see
the telltale bulge of a round, full stomach beneath that rag that serves as a
dress. My words die in my throat and
it's my turn to sound like I've been strangled. She must see the expression my face, because
she bursts out crying again.
"Oh, no,"
I blurt, for I'd thought she had just about cried herself out. "No, wait, don't cry again." Her response is to let out a little wail of
self-pity. "No, please," I'm getting
desperate now, "Can't I help you or somethin'?"
She
sniffles and looks up at me. Her cheeks
are almost washed clean from tears now, her eyes glistening wet. "What can you do?" she challenges,
and rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"I can…"
I can leave you here crying in the street and go sell my papers so I can afford
some food tonight, that's what I can do.
No, I can't. I sigh. "I can try ta help you find a place to stay,
a'right?"
She rubs
her eye with her left hand. No ring, of
course. I knew that without
looking. She can't be any older than
sixteen, anyway. She seems to be
considering my offer and then she nods.
"Okay," she finally says.
Finally. I offer her my hand, and she carefully
arranges the blanket around herself again before standing up with me. I pick up my papers, wonder again why the
hell I'm doing this, and take her back to the lodging house.
Of course,
none of my friends are there, since they're all out selling papers and making
money like I need to be. Even
Kloppman's out, running errands I guess.
Who knows what he does during the day.
I show Alice up to our room, which is big and messy and lined with bunk
beds. I kick somebody's undershorts out
of the way under a bed and stick my hands in my pockets.
"Well, dis is wheah I stay. I gotta go out and sell da papes, but you
can stay heah an' make yourself at home 'til I'm back. An', ah, something to eat…" I see an old sandwich wrapped in paper on
top of Snipeshooter's bed and pick it up.
After sniffing it carefully, I pass it to her.
She just holds it and looks at
me. "I t'ought you said you knew
someplace I could stay?"
"Well no, I don't really, I said
I'd help ya find one. Kloppman runs dis
place, I t'ought maybe he'd know someone who'd take ya in. Or one a my friends would. Or something." I know it's not the best thought-out plan in the world, but she
doesn't say anything. I rub my
neck. "Anyway, 'til den you're gonna
hafta stick around heah. We ain't got
any clean clothes for ya, but we got a tub in dere." I point to the washroom
and she nods. "An' ya might wanna lay
low a while 'til I get back. I don't
know what Kloppman'll think 'bout me bringin' a goyl heah."
"Okay," she agrees.
I stick my hands in my pockets
again. "Well, you need anything
else?" She'd better not. I've lost at least an hour of selling time
for this girl.
"No, dis is
fine. Dis is nice."
"Good." And I leave before I can get stuck doing
anything else for her. Jeez, I'm such a
softy.
I don't see
Alice again until that night. I thought
when I took a break for lunch I'd try and make sure she was okay and keeping
out of sight, but I ended up working straight through the day without a lunch
break since I'd lost so much time that morning. As a result, I'm in a really foul mood when I do finally get
home, my arms finally empty of newspapers but carrying a dress I picked up at a
cheap shop downtown. It took almost
every cent I'd made that day, but the girl can't run around in the scraps she
was wearing before. It ain't decent.
Most of the
boys are still hanging around at Tibby's or hitting some of the Vaudeville
acts, but I hurry back to the lodging house to make sure I'm there when
everybody else notices that I have taken home a very dirty, very pregnant girl. When I get there, Kloppman isn't around, and
when I reach the room it doesn't seem that Alice is in there, either. But I knock on the bathroom door and call
her name, and it opens. I almost do a
doubletake. God, it's weird how much a
person can change if you remove a few inches of grime.
She must
have spent hours in that tub to scrub away every trace of dirt. I see for the first time that her hair is
dark blond, and thick and shiny past her shoulders. She has most of it tied back with what looks like somebody's
shoelace. Instead of putting her rags
back on, she has helped herself to somebody's blanket—mine!—and wrapped it
around herself, tying it at the belt with a rope—Jack's. Her feet, showing just below the hem of her
makeshift robe, are bare, as before, but now pink from being scoured.
"I look dat
different?" she asks, obviously reading my facial expression. I didn't know my thoughts were always so
apparent on my face.
"Yeah," I
agree, flustered. "I mean, a good
yeah. Good different. Oh, but, ah—" my face flushes red as I
realize she's not wearing much, and I avert my eyes, shoving the dress out
toward her. "I gotcha dis dress."
"Oh,
t'anks, but I t'ought I'd just stick wit da blanket," she replies. "Start a new fashion trend."
"Huh?" Only when I look up to see the sparkling of
her eyes do I realize she's joking. She
laughs at me and my stupid expression, takes the dress, and shuts the washroom
door.
As I stand
there planning out a way to introduce Alice to Kloppman without him jumping to
any conclusions—namely, that I was the jerk who got the girl in
trouble—I look out around the room.
There's something different about it that I just can't figure out. Then I realize what's changed. It's all perfectly tidy. Every bed is made, clothes are picked up off
the floor and placed in folded stacks on beds, the floor is neatly swept. Obviously, this is Alice's handiwork,
because Kloppman never cleans. Did she
really get bored enough to want to pick up after us slobs?
The door
clicks open behind me and I turn to see Alice.
The dark blue dress fits her like a tent, except where it clings to her
belly, but now at least I can look at her without blushing. She strikes a modeling pose, holding an
imaginary parasol. "I nevah looked so
good," she says, beaming. That is, I
think, the nicest way she could have thanked me, and I smile, but then I feel
uncomfortable and clear my throat.
"So, you
gonna come wit me to tawlk ta Kloppman?"
"Oh, I
already did," she replies brightly.
"You what? Alice, I toldja to stay outta his way!" She must be a real moron. Or was she purposely ignoring me, after how
nice I was to her?
She just
looks at me calmly. "I woiked it out
fine, Skittery."
"Worked what
out?"
"I'se gonna
stay heah."
"Heah? Alice, are you crazy? Dis is a newsboys lodgin' house. Kloppman couldn't'a' said you could stay heah."
Her patient
expression doesn't change. "I tawlked
ta Mr. Kloppman, an' he said he didn't know noplace dat would take me in, but
den he offered me a job heah. So I told
'im I'd stay. I like dis place."
I'm still
having trouble taking all this in. "A
job? What kinda job?"
"Housekeepah,"
she tells me. "An' cook."
"A house—a
what? What's Kloppman thinking? We nevah needed no housekeepah b'fore." Though I wouldn't say no to a cook. But I don't tell her that, it'd only
encourage her.
She frowns
a little and gives me a hurt look with those big sad eyes. "What, don'cha want me ta stay?" she asks in
a quiet voice.
Do I? Not particularly, but how am I going to
articulate that without hurting her feelings?
I'm not, that's how. I swallow
my words and sigh.
"Shoah. Shoah, I wantcha ta stay."
She grins
at me, triumph shining from her smile.
"Den I will."
And she
does.
Alice fits
right in here at the lodging house.
Before the week's out we feel like she's been around forever. She's a fantastic cook, and she keeps
everything so clean, and she gets along with all of us—yeah, even me. In fact, we're becoming pretty good
friends. Race says it's because she's
the only person in the lodging house who can tolerate my moodiness. Maybe that's true. She goes through a lot of mood swings herself. One minute she's laughing hysterically at
something Boots says, then she's throwing around pots and pans and screaming at
everybody to get out of her kitchen.
Worst is when she starts crying over a tiny little thing, like she burnt
a casserole or spilled a bucket of water.
I hear her start up the waterworks, I'm out of there. I still can't stand to see a girl cry.
Of course,
she blames it all on the baby. "I ain't
normally like dis," she explains, wiping her eyes. "I just don't feel like meself no more." Then all of us boys split before she can
start talking about the baby, because it makes us embarrassed for her just
hearing about it, though she doesn't seem to care. When she's not cooking and cleaning, she's knitting little baby
booties like she expects it to have seventeen feet. At least, I guess, she's happy now. Certainly happier than she was when I first saw her.
And wow can
she cook. Roast beef and potatoes,
thick and creamy vegetable soup with fresh-made bread, cakes and pies of every
description… makes my mouth water just thinking about it. I haven't had food this good since, well,
since my mother died, I guess. Funny
how much my mother's been on my mind lately.
Nine years since I've let myself think of her, and it's all coming
back. The nightmares, too. And I see it all over in my head. How he grabs her and hits her and throws her
to the wall—
I sit up
suddenly, shaking and gasping. My
breathing slows as I see that I'm up on my bunk, not cowering in the corner of
the dingy apartment, but my hands keep shaking. I press my hands against my mouth, against my forehead, and try
to get the images out of my mind.
Frustrated, I finally jerk the twisted, sweaty blanket away from my legs
and climb down to the floor. I need a
drink of water. I grab my pants off the
bedpost and pull them up, snapping the suspenders over my shoulders, and head
for the door, not bothering to be quiet.
Wake up a sleeping newsie? It's
easier to wake the dead.
Downstairs
is pitch dark and surprisingly cold for a spring night in New York. I make my way to the kitchen and take a
glass from the cupboard, fill it with some cool clear water. A few sips and I calm down a little, my
tensed muscles relaxing, my hands ceasing to tremble.
The door
clicks open behind me and I whirl around, startled. It's Alice, in a nightgown and wrap, a candle flickering in her
hand.
"I'm sorry,
did I wake ya up?" I ask, remembering that her little room is adjacent to the
kitchen.
She shakes
her head and enters, holding her wrap closed with her free hand. "Oh no, I was just gettin' somethin' to
eat." She sets the candleholder on the
counter and looks at me. "What're you
up for, Skittery? Bad dreams?"
She's
joking, at least I'm pretty sure, but I'm embarrassed. "Uh, no," I lie, forcing a laugh. "Just couldn't sleep."
"Den you'll
keep me company, huh?" she asks, helping herself to a few jars from the pantry.
Sitting
around in the dark with a girl in her nightclothes might sound like something
out of Mush's fantasies, but this is Alice we're talking about, so it's
completely innocent. I don't see why
not. "Shoah," I agree, taking a seat at
the counter.
She smiles
up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and spreads something across some
bread.
"What's dat
you're makin' dere?" I ask, looking over the counter.
"Sandwich,"
she replies, closing it. "Bacon,
pickles, cheese, and mayonnaise." She
takes a huge bite and grins at the revolted look on my face. "Mmmm…" she murmurs, shutting her eyes and
looking blissful. "Heavenly."
"Dat is truly sick, Alice," I tell
her with disgust.
She comes to seat beside me, and
licks mayonnaise off a finger, the vile sandwich in hand. "I can't help it," she protests. "Da strangest t'ings are tasting good ta me
now. And I'm always wanting ta eat at
da strangest times…" She shakes her
head. "Don't evah have a baby,
Skittery."
"I won't,"
I assure her quickly, and she laughs again.
"Dat's what
I thought," she grins, and takes another bite of the sandwich.
We laugh
and talk a long time, but even sitting there cracking jokes with a friend can't
push the nightmare completely out of my thoughts. Because the scariest thing about that dream is, waking up doesn't
make it any less real.