Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies or any of the characters/story plot.
Disney does and boy are they lucky.
"Lillian Reese get down here this instant!" I made a face at my closed door and huffed irritably. There was no way I was going downstairs; I'd have to help my mother move all the heavy boxes into the basement. Looking around at my new bedroom, I shook my head. Outside the townhouse traffic blared and screeched.
Getting up, I brushed my black hair over one shoulder and moved to a box full of posters sitting next to my unmade bed. Rummaging around I found a container of tacks and began carefully arranging my posters on the walls like they had been in my old room in Vermont. Vermont was nothing like New York City and I was definitely experiencing culture shock.
"Lily!" this time my mother's voice was wheedling and plaintive and I heaved a huge sigh.
"Lily I found a bunch of old books in the basement! Want to see them?" This perked up my ears and knowing fully well that it was a trap, I bound up my long hair with an elastic and raced down the flight of stairs, that opened up directly into the living room. My mother had said that the two story apartment had been a lodging house for newspaper boys at the turn of the century. I had been more concerned with leaving behind all my Vermont friends than what our new home in Brooklyn had once been.
My mother stood in the living room, thumbing through a dusty book. A cardboard box was resting on the sofa next to her. I attacked the box hoping to find some decent things to read. I devoured books and had read most of the ones I owned ten times over. My mother told me that I could have the books once I finished helping her move things. Rolling my eyes, I had no choice but to comply.
An hour later found me sitting on my bed once more, excitedly piling the books around me. Most were classics, like Oliver Twist and David Copperfield. Some were blank, meant to be written in not read. One that I pulled open had a tattered velvety blue cover and had sloppy, sprawling handwriting on its yellowed pages. When I carefully opened the book a key on a black string and an ancient newspaper clipping fell out of the pages.
Taking the newspaper clipping in-between thumb and forefinger, I held it up gently to examine it. It showed a picture of some fifteen odd boys, all smiling with their chests puffed out. Putting the clipping to one side, I looked at the key next. The string was frayed and the key tarnished with age. It was an old key, made out of wrought iron. Tracing the design on the end with a fingertip, I opened the journal to the first page.
"Property of Spot Conlon. You read, you die."
I snorted with laughter and wrinkled my nose suddenly. My room smelled like cigarette smoke. Casting my green eyes towards the window I was shocked to find it closed. My mother didn't smoke and a second ago the room had smelled like the cleaning materials she had used on the floor.
Shaking my head slightly and muttering something about the stink, I began to read the journal.
"This ain't gonna be one of them prissy boy books, for starters. I'm using this to write about turf fights and to keep track of my newsies. Action, my right hand man told me it would be a good idea and since he's smart and all, I figured why not.
I am Spot Conlon, the almighty leader of the Brooklyn newsies, the most notorious kid in New York. Don't laugh, it's true. Honest Injun."
I did laugh and as I continued to read, I was struck almost immediately by how arrogant and self-assured this boy was. He went on to say that he was seventeen, like me and an orphan in charge of twenty boys ranging in ages from five to his age.
I was absorbed by this strange journal. The spelling was atrocious (A/N – I'm only spelling it right when I write it out because I'm lazy) and his mannerism's crude. But he had a compelling oftentimes charming personality. Although he said he wasn't going to write about "prissy boy" things, he often sidetracked into topics such as girls or worries about friends.
"I went out with Lizzie Andrews today and God I don't know why I don't just stick to the girl newsies. This Lizzie broad wouldn't even so much as kiss me, let alone anything else. Not that the girl newsies are sluts, but I'd have gotten more action from a nun."
I burst into laughter and was startled when I looked around to see that the light in my room had dimmed dramatically. Switching on a lamp I had positioned on my bedside table I tossed the key up into the air and then caught it. Looking down at it, I put it around my neck. I could hear my mom yelling up the stairs asking if I was hungry, and I hollered back that I wasn't.
Opening up a box I rummaged around until I found sheets, my pillows and my quilt. Setting up my bed, I had my back to the window and was bending over when I suddenly smelled cigarette smoke again, this time so strong it was as if someone were smoking in the room with me. I looked down at my arms that had stopped mid-flinging motion, my quilt hanging listlessly from my hands. My arms were covered with goose bumps. The temperature in the room had chilled dramatically.
"It's about damn time someone found that key. Turn around so's I can get a look at ya." I jumped a mile into the air and swung around so fast I almost fell over, my eyes wide with terror. A translucent, hazy form stood by the window, a cigarette hanging out of a smirking mouth. Though it was see-through and when it moved, the features lost their detail, it looked as real as an actual person.
"What the fuck?" I cowered near my bed as the boy, for it was clearly a boy, moved about my room looking with interest at my belongings. I rubbed my eyes but when I was done, the ghost was still there and my eyes were just sore. The boy smirked at me still, amusement on his pale face.
When I jerked a shoe off of my foot and threw it at him, he bent over and laughed so hard that his image blurred and flickered and I thought he might disappear. Swiping at his eyes with a sleeve, he crossed his legs and floated an inch or two off of the ground, studying me intently.
"What do you want?" He didn't answer me immediately and we just watched each other, him curiously and me with both curiosity and fear. He was dressed like a boy from the turn of the century. He had on a button- down long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and pushed past his elbows, a vest that hung open, long pants and a cabby hat cocked on his head.
"Ya found the key and put it on didn't ya?" When I mutely nodded, he grinned at me, cocking his head to one side as if that explained everything.
"I'm bound to the key, whenever someone puts it on it sort of calls to me and that's who I haunt." My mouth hung open and the boy cackled again. When he was finished I bombarded him with questions.
"What's your name?"
"Spot Conlon."
"What year were you born?"
"1882."
"How come you're a ghost? How did you die?" Spot Conlon sighed and shook his head, a lock of pale hair falling into one of his eyes. Wiping it away, he gave me a stern look.
"Don't you know it's rude to ask someone how they died?"
"I'm sorry I don't talk to ghosts often," I said dryly. He snorted and lit another phantom cigarette. I noticed that after his arrival, the smell had departed although the coolness in the room did not. I got up and put on a hooded sweatshirt.
"I'm a ghost because I have unfinished business, and as to how I died..." He made a face but pointed to a spot on his vest I hadn't noticed before. There was a hole there and my eyebrows went up.
"You were shot."
"Exactly Sherlock, and yeah it hurt. Well, it only hurt for a little bit."
"What's your unfinished business?" He glared at me, and I shrank away from his general direction at his obvious displeasure. When he spoke again, I had to strain to hear him; his voice was pitched that low and quiet.
"I broke the heart of the one girl who loved me and as a result, she ended up with a real jackass. He's the one who killed me, as a matter of fact. My unfinished business is that I single-handedly ruined her life and never got a chance to set things right." When I scoffed, his eyes glowed with anger and he pointed a finger at me, too mad to speak.
"THAT'S your unfinished business? How is it that you ruined her life just by dumping her?" Making an exasperated sound, he rose from his sitting position and waved an arm.
"If it wasn't for me being an asshole Cinder never woulda run off to Harlem and into Spook and she never woulda ended up marrying him and getting her ass beaten every day. He broke that girl, and let me tell you her spirit and personality were stronger than stone. He killed me before I could help her get away from him and she never did leave him."
He pointed to the key I wore around my neck and I looked down at it.
"She gave that to me, which is why I suppose I'm connected to it. Nobody's put it on in over fifty years. It's good to come back again." He stretched and gave me a wolfish grin which was disconcerting to say the least because his face blurred again and I could see my Misfit's poster through his head. The grinning skeleton on the poster and the grinning visage of the boy-ghost made me swallow hard.
"How do I get you to leave?" The boy threw back his head and laughed, and I regretted asking the question.
"You don't sweet face. Last person who wore that key had to die in order for me to stop haunting 'em."
"D...D...Die?"
"Ah calm down doll. I didn't do it, they died from natural causes. Now if you'll excuse me, I got places to go. It's been way too damn long since I've been able to get out of that basement."
And with that, he disappeared. I sat on my bed hard, and it was a long time before I could look away from where the ghost had been sitting. It was even longer before I could manage to close my eyes and actually sleep that night as well.
"Lillian Reese get down here this instant!" I made a face at my closed door and huffed irritably. There was no way I was going downstairs; I'd have to help my mother move all the heavy boxes into the basement. Looking around at my new bedroom, I shook my head. Outside the townhouse traffic blared and screeched.
Getting up, I brushed my black hair over one shoulder and moved to a box full of posters sitting next to my unmade bed. Rummaging around I found a container of tacks and began carefully arranging my posters on the walls like they had been in my old room in Vermont. Vermont was nothing like New York City and I was definitely experiencing culture shock.
"Lily!" this time my mother's voice was wheedling and plaintive and I heaved a huge sigh.
"Lily I found a bunch of old books in the basement! Want to see them?" This perked up my ears and knowing fully well that it was a trap, I bound up my long hair with an elastic and raced down the flight of stairs, that opened up directly into the living room. My mother had said that the two story apartment had been a lodging house for newspaper boys at the turn of the century. I had been more concerned with leaving behind all my Vermont friends than what our new home in Brooklyn had once been.
My mother stood in the living room, thumbing through a dusty book. A cardboard box was resting on the sofa next to her. I attacked the box hoping to find some decent things to read. I devoured books and had read most of the ones I owned ten times over. My mother told me that I could have the books once I finished helping her move things. Rolling my eyes, I had no choice but to comply.
An hour later found me sitting on my bed once more, excitedly piling the books around me. Most were classics, like Oliver Twist and David Copperfield. Some were blank, meant to be written in not read. One that I pulled open had a tattered velvety blue cover and had sloppy, sprawling handwriting on its yellowed pages. When I carefully opened the book a key on a black string and an ancient newspaper clipping fell out of the pages.
Taking the newspaper clipping in-between thumb and forefinger, I held it up gently to examine it. It showed a picture of some fifteen odd boys, all smiling with their chests puffed out. Putting the clipping to one side, I looked at the key next. The string was frayed and the key tarnished with age. It was an old key, made out of wrought iron. Tracing the design on the end with a fingertip, I opened the journal to the first page.
"Property of Spot Conlon. You read, you die."
I snorted with laughter and wrinkled my nose suddenly. My room smelled like cigarette smoke. Casting my green eyes towards the window I was shocked to find it closed. My mother didn't smoke and a second ago the room had smelled like the cleaning materials she had used on the floor.
Shaking my head slightly and muttering something about the stink, I began to read the journal.
"This ain't gonna be one of them prissy boy books, for starters. I'm using this to write about turf fights and to keep track of my newsies. Action, my right hand man told me it would be a good idea and since he's smart and all, I figured why not.
I am Spot Conlon, the almighty leader of the Brooklyn newsies, the most notorious kid in New York. Don't laugh, it's true. Honest Injun."
I did laugh and as I continued to read, I was struck almost immediately by how arrogant and self-assured this boy was. He went on to say that he was seventeen, like me and an orphan in charge of twenty boys ranging in ages from five to his age.
I was absorbed by this strange journal. The spelling was atrocious (A/N – I'm only spelling it right when I write it out because I'm lazy) and his mannerism's crude. But he had a compelling oftentimes charming personality. Although he said he wasn't going to write about "prissy boy" things, he often sidetracked into topics such as girls or worries about friends.
"I went out with Lizzie Andrews today and God I don't know why I don't just stick to the girl newsies. This Lizzie broad wouldn't even so much as kiss me, let alone anything else. Not that the girl newsies are sluts, but I'd have gotten more action from a nun."
I burst into laughter and was startled when I looked around to see that the light in my room had dimmed dramatically. Switching on a lamp I had positioned on my bedside table I tossed the key up into the air and then caught it. Looking down at it, I put it around my neck. I could hear my mom yelling up the stairs asking if I was hungry, and I hollered back that I wasn't.
Opening up a box I rummaged around until I found sheets, my pillows and my quilt. Setting up my bed, I had my back to the window and was bending over when I suddenly smelled cigarette smoke again, this time so strong it was as if someone were smoking in the room with me. I looked down at my arms that had stopped mid-flinging motion, my quilt hanging listlessly from my hands. My arms were covered with goose bumps. The temperature in the room had chilled dramatically.
"It's about damn time someone found that key. Turn around so's I can get a look at ya." I jumped a mile into the air and swung around so fast I almost fell over, my eyes wide with terror. A translucent, hazy form stood by the window, a cigarette hanging out of a smirking mouth. Though it was see-through and when it moved, the features lost their detail, it looked as real as an actual person.
"What the fuck?" I cowered near my bed as the boy, for it was clearly a boy, moved about my room looking with interest at my belongings. I rubbed my eyes but when I was done, the ghost was still there and my eyes were just sore. The boy smirked at me still, amusement on his pale face.
When I jerked a shoe off of my foot and threw it at him, he bent over and laughed so hard that his image blurred and flickered and I thought he might disappear. Swiping at his eyes with a sleeve, he crossed his legs and floated an inch or two off of the ground, studying me intently.
"What do you want?" He didn't answer me immediately and we just watched each other, him curiously and me with both curiosity and fear. He was dressed like a boy from the turn of the century. He had on a button- down long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and pushed past his elbows, a vest that hung open, long pants and a cabby hat cocked on his head.
"Ya found the key and put it on didn't ya?" When I mutely nodded, he grinned at me, cocking his head to one side as if that explained everything.
"I'm bound to the key, whenever someone puts it on it sort of calls to me and that's who I haunt." My mouth hung open and the boy cackled again. When he was finished I bombarded him with questions.
"What's your name?"
"Spot Conlon."
"What year were you born?"
"1882."
"How come you're a ghost? How did you die?" Spot Conlon sighed and shook his head, a lock of pale hair falling into one of his eyes. Wiping it away, he gave me a stern look.
"Don't you know it's rude to ask someone how they died?"
"I'm sorry I don't talk to ghosts often," I said dryly. He snorted and lit another phantom cigarette. I noticed that after his arrival, the smell had departed although the coolness in the room did not. I got up and put on a hooded sweatshirt.
"I'm a ghost because I have unfinished business, and as to how I died..." He made a face but pointed to a spot on his vest I hadn't noticed before. There was a hole there and my eyebrows went up.
"You were shot."
"Exactly Sherlock, and yeah it hurt. Well, it only hurt for a little bit."
"What's your unfinished business?" He glared at me, and I shrank away from his general direction at his obvious displeasure. When he spoke again, I had to strain to hear him; his voice was pitched that low and quiet.
"I broke the heart of the one girl who loved me and as a result, she ended up with a real jackass. He's the one who killed me, as a matter of fact. My unfinished business is that I single-handedly ruined her life and never got a chance to set things right." When I scoffed, his eyes glowed with anger and he pointed a finger at me, too mad to speak.
"THAT'S your unfinished business? How is it that you ruined her life just by dumping her?" Making an exasperated sound, he rose from his sitting position and waved an arm.
"If it wasn't for me being an asshole Cinder never woulda run off to Harlem and into Spook and she never woulda ended up marrying him and getting her ass beaten every day. He broke that girl, and let me tell you her spirit and personality were stronger than stone. He killed me before I could help her get away from him and she never did leave him."
He pointed to the key I wore around my neck and I looked down at it.
"She gave that to me, which is why I suppose I'm connected to it. Nobody's put it on in over fifty years. It's good to come back again." He stretched and gave me a wolfish grin which was disconcerting to say the least because his face blurred again and I could see my Misfit's poster through his head. The grinning skeleton on the poster and the grinning visage of the boy-ghost made me swallow hard.
"How do I get you to leave?" The boy threw back his head and laughed, and I regretted asking the question.
"You don't sweet face. Last person who wore that key had to die in order for me to stop haunting 'em."
"D...D...Die?"
"Ah calm down doll. I didn't do it, they died from natural causes. Now if you'll excuse me, I got places to go. It's been way too damn long since I've been able to get out of that basement."
And with that, he disappeared. I sat on my bed hard, and it was a long time before I could look away from where the ghost had been sitting. It was even longer before I could manage to close my eyes and actually sleep that night as well.
