A/N:
Next up we have Race! Yay!
Anthony Higgins sat in the corner of his family's tiny one-room apartment. His mother sat at a table a few feet from him rocking his baby sister, Sara, who was crying uncontrollably. It was late at night, and a single candle burned in the window, the only light in the apartment other than the soft glow from the stove in the corner. Suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps was heard on the stairs, and Anthony sat up straighter, tensing. His mother glanced at him nervously, then began frantically trying to shush his sister, who began to cry louder. The door to the apartment suddenly banged open, and a tall man walked in, stumbling and cursing as he took a swig from the flask in his hand. He sat down in the chair across from Anthony's mother, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. For a minute, the only sound in the room was Sara's crying. Suddenly, the man slammed his fist down on the table, causing both Anthony and his mother to jump. "Shut that brat up, woman, before I do it for you," he growled, his murderous eyes showing that he meant every word he said. Anthony's mother's eyes widened, then she turned to him. "Anthony, take Sara while I get your father's dinner for him," she said, carefully placing her in Anthony's arms. Anthony nodded, standing and hurrying out of the apartment and out into the street. The air smelled dirty and foul out here, but at least Sara could cry in peace. He slowly rocked her, murmuring words of comfort, inwardly wincing at the heat coming off of her skin. Sara had been sick for a week with some kind of fever, and his family knew that without a doctor it was only a matter of time before she died. Sighing, Anthony looked up at the sky, catching sight of a few stars that poked through the clouds, and allowed his mind to travel far, far away from the hell that was his life.
Anthony stood next to his father, staring at the fresh grave in front of him. Marked with only a flimsy wooden cross with the words Anna Higgins 1862-1888 painted on it, this was where his mother was buried, right next to his sister Sara Higgins 1886-1887. Anthony sighed, turning away from the graves and following his father out of the cemetery and back to their apartment. He had seen too much death and felt too much loss for someone who had just turned five.
"Just leave. No one wants ya anyway, ya worthless brat." Anthony's father's words ran through his mind over and over again as he marched away from the only home he had ever known. I will leave. I'll leave and become rich and famous and you'll be sorry you ever told me to go Anthony thought to himself. Now all he had to do was find a way to make his fortune. Looking around, he realized that he had wandered out of the quiet block of apartments where he lived and onto a bustling main road. He gazed wide-eyed at all the people hurrying around him, poor people dressed in nothing but rags, rich people dressed like kings and queens in fancy dresses and suits. Walking down the sidewalk, he eagerly drank in all the sights, sounds, and smells of the city he had called home all his life but never truly experienced. Walking faster, he smiled to himself as he thought about his new-found freedom. He could do anything, go anywhere, say whatever he wan- he stopped short at a gate with the words The New York World written over it. Gazing up at the letters, he tried to decipher what they said. No one had ever taught him to read. "Hey!" Anthony looked up, startled. A teenage boy was staring at him, an amused expression on his face. "You buyin'?" Anthony frowned. "Buyin' what?" he asked. "Newspapers o' course," the boy answered, gesturing for Anthony to come closer. Anthony walked over, now more confused than ever. "What's your name?" the boy asked when Anthony reached him. "Anthony," came the simple response. "How old are you?" "Seven." This answer seemed to please the boy, because he smiled. "Got any money, kid?" Anthony shook his head, and the boy shrugged. "I'll spot ya a nickel, then. Name's Red. This here's my pal, Socks," he said, gesturing to the younger boy standing next to him. The line they were standing in moved forward, and Red slapped a few coins down on the counter, declaring he wanted "100 papes, and 10 extra for my friend here." Handing Anthony the papers, he placed his own in a bag by his side and began talking. "So, here's how it goes. You go out onto the street and try ta get people ta buy your papers by yellin' the headline." "What's the headline today?" Anthony asked. "Runaway horse and wagon kills two, injures five," Red answered, looking excited. "You go out, yell that ta get people ta buy your papers, and meet me back here when you're done." Anthony nodded. It seemed simple enough.
Three hours later, Anthony was wishing he'd asked Red more questions. Like how to get back to the distribution center. He had sold his papers easily, proving himself to be a natural newsboy, and had eagerly hurried back to show Red his earnings, but now he was fairly certain he was lost. Looking around at all the unfamiliar buildings, he nervously fingered the coins in his pocket. What if someone stole all his hard-earned money? He was just about to turn around and head back the way he came when a small boy looking to be a few years younger than him walked in front of him, blocking his path. "You from Manhattan?" the boy asked, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring in a manner that was extremely intimidating. Anthony nodded, and the boy rolled his eyes. "Just like Red ta let his boys wander through Brooklyn willy-nilly. Come on, I'll walk ya home." Anthony hurried after the boy, who walked quickly despite being so small. "I'm Anthony," he said after a while, and the boy nodded. "I know. Willy told me." "Willy?" "The leader of Brooklyn," the boy answered, and Anthony nodded, though he was still confused. "Spot," the other boy said after a while. "What?" "My name. It's Spot." Anthony nodded, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.
"Well, here ya are," Spot announced unceremoniously. "Where's here?" Anthony asked, and Spot sighed heavily. "Newsboy's Lodging House. The place where all the Newsies in Manhattan stay." "Newsies?" Spot narrowed his eyes. "What are ya, stupid? Anyone who sells newspapers is a Newsie." "Oh." Anthony gazed up at the building, feeling very small and out of place. Spot sighed again, and grabbed him by the arm. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
"Extra, extra! Man pushed in front of train, authorities baffled!" Anthony grinned to himself. After a full year of practicing, he could read and hawk the headlines all by himself, he had friends in Manhattan and Brooklyn (though Spot Conlon would disagree), and he had a new name. Racetrack, or Race for short, due to the fact that he liked to sell his papers over at Sheepshead Races. Reaching in his bag for another newspaper, he grinned again as he held it high and shouted the headline. He might not have been rich or famous, but he had shown his father. That was certain.
A/N: What is it with me and killing off people's sisters? I wish I knew. Anyway, please review this, and let me know if you think I should write about Romeo or Specs next. I can't decide. Also, I published my Newsies/Anastasia crossover thing so please go check that out and show it some love! See ya!