Chapter One
"Ah!" I bolted upright, sweat enveloping me. Cold, bone-chilling sweat that matched my dream on my clothes, my face, soaking even into the worn cotton sheets around me. Disgusting.
"Hey shut up!" Race hollered from his bunk below mine. "I'm trying to sleep." He banged the bottom of my bed.
"Yeah, and I'm trying to wake you up 'cause you're so great to be around, right?" I sarcastically retorted.
"Save your breath," someone else snarled. "You'll need it for the streets."
"Can it!" Race barked. "See what ya did, Jack?"
I opened my mouth, ready to unleash a string of comebacks, but that would just start a chain reaction. More cranky newsies woken up, more angry comments, less sleep for everyone, and less pennies. No thank you.
I kicked my sheets off while Race burrowed deeper into his. Shaking my head, I noticed his precious (stolen) Corona cigar was missing from his (also stolen) tin cup. In the bunk to our right, Albert, the trickster, muttered in his sleep, "I didn't do it, I didn't do it…" It was barely audible, and Race's ears never worked the same ever since he had the brains to stand next to the fireworks on the Fourth of July four years ago.
I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh and hide a smirk. Good for Albert. Race was by no means a bad person, but he could afford to be knocked down a peg or two.
I laid in bed for half an hour, tossing and turning, constantly readjusting the sheets. Only two hours, probably less, before sunrise, when we had to get up. Unfortunately, my anxiety over getting sleep chased it away. Eventually, after nearly kicking my blankets onto Race, I climbed out of bed, grabbed my dusty leather boots and cap, and headed up to the rooftop.
The smoggy city sky resembled a child's attempt at charcoal drawing. Charcoal spreads and smears so easy; it takes years of practice to get it right.
I pulled my rolled up drawings out of a metal cylinder stuck on the edge. I had no idea what the original purpose was, but it made a good hiding place for my drawings- the ones I wanted hidden, at least. The painting I did for Miss Medda- my second boss of sorts- stayed at her place.
I sifted through the stack of yellowing paper, careful not to smudge anything, searching for my nightmare. Yes, my nightmare. I never spoke about them to any human being, but paper made a good listener. No judging, no gasps of horror, no feigned sympathy; it just did what you wanted. So I made it share my burden.
Finally, I found it. I pulled out the biggest sheet, torn at the sides from being shoved down the cylinder too harshly. A charcoal boy laid crumpled on a filthy floor where rats scurried. Dark, thick rivulets of blood flowed from his side, his legs, his screaming face. Above him, an older man wearing a fine wool suit raised his sleek leather belt high, all too ready to add to the boy's misery.
The pictures couldn't show everything, of course. There's no second drawing of the boy suffering in bed for ten days, nor any image of the pitiful funeral his bunkmates held on the eleventh day. Those now exist only in memory.
I closed my eyes. Wherever this kid's' soul ended up, I hoped he knew I remembered him years later. Especially tonight.
Wearily, I rolled my drawings up, uninterested in editing. My bones ached. Rest, sleep, a chance to wake up normal, without bad dreams or some old man badgering me out of bed. Was that too much to ask for?
I curled up on the hard concrete. The idea alone relaxed me. I just started drifting off when I heard a clang from the stairwell. Annoyed, I cracked an eye open. Crutchie- a kid two years younger than me with a bad leg and crutch (hence the name)- hobbled up onto the rooftop, panting.
"Hey," I said. "Where ya going?" Crutchie ignored me, determinedly heading for the fire escape.
"What are you-" I sighed. "The bell ain't rung yet, go back to sleep."
"I wanna beat the other fellas to the streets," he replied nonchalantly, never taking his eyes off the ladder. "One good foot on the first rung, the bad one still on the roof, the crutch precariously nestled under his shoulder.
He's gonna kill himself.
"I don't want anyone to see that I ain't, uh, been walking so good," he added. He lowered the bad onto the rung. I fought the urge to dash over and drag him back up, but Crutchie hated being carried or yanked like a prisoner of war, or worse, a child.
"Oh quit griping," I muttered. "You know how many guys fake a limp for sympathy? That bum leg of yours is a gold mine." The memory of my father's great hopes of finding gold in California pinched my brain. I pushed it down; the bell would ring any minute, I couldn't get sentimental.
Be angry; angry is strong. Remember that man and his dream wrecked your life.
Crutchie shook his head. "Some gets the idea i can't make it on my own, they'll lock me up in the Refuge for good." The Refuge, the source of my nightmares. I inwardly cringe. "Be a pal Jack, help me down!" He yelped as his good foot slipped. The wooden crutch banged against the wall, Crutchie's right hand clutched the ladder in a deathly grip while the rest of him dangled above the alley.
"Hey you wanna bust your other leg too?" I gave into my previous urge and pulled him back up onto the solid rooftop.
"No, I wanna go down," he sheepishly insisted, totally unaffected by the fact he nearly broke his neck.
"You'll be down there soon enough," I grumbled. "Take a moment, drink in my penthouse. High above the stinking streets of New York."
"You're crazy," he chuckled.
"Why, 'cause I like a breath of fresh air? 'Cause I like seeing the sky and stars?" It didn't feel right to take it out on Crutchie, but I was pissed. I didn't get enough sleep, the nightmares kept me awake, and now Crutchie was acting like I belonged in some asylum after I hauled his ass up from the ladder.
"Yeah, you're seeing stars alright." His snicker cut short when he looked at my scowling face, staring down at the streets. His sepia eyes met mine; no words required, he knew what happened in my mind that night. Jokes flew out the window, and Crutchie leaned against the rooftop's side with me, as if to say, "I'm listening."
I smiled slightly, suddenly not caring about time. I gestured coldy to the gray alley beneath us.
"Them stinking streets down there," I began. "They sucked the life outta my old man. Years of rotten jobs, stomped on by bosses, and when they finally broke him, they tossed him out on the curb like yesterday's paper. Well they ain't doing that to me!"
I hollered to let them know they couldn't break me. I'd get out, do what my father ruined his life, along with mine, trying to do.
My father, my baba, was a man based on hope. He believed that in America, anything was possible. You could be a poor, uneducated, illegal immigrant wandering the port one day and a millionaire the next. If you worked hard enough, you'd surely make it. Too bad that logic didn't work for our type. Far from the first time, I wished my face wasn't a yellow one- an invitation for people to come and judge, not to mention a dead giveaway for Warder Snyder of the Refuge.
"But everyone wants to come to New York," Crutchie whispered weakly. His pupils looked like they wanted to slide back into his private thoughts, deep within his head. I clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. He's thinking about his family too.
A twinge of guilt gnawed at me. Crutchie had no need for my sob stories. I got elected leader; strength was a job requirement.
"New York's fine if you got a big strong door to lock up," I said. "I tell you personally, there's a whole nother world out there. You keep your small life in a big city. But give me a big life in a small town…"
Bad dreams wore me down. They forced me to question everything about everything: my hiding places, the newsies' loyalty, whether I really belonged in this country or not…
So I combatted it with a good dream, which I created myself. Something no one, not even Snyder the Spider, could take away.
"Folks are dying to get here, but me, I'm dying to get away," I mused, gazing into the muddied river of the sky. 'There's a little town out west, made of clay. It's spanking new, so there's lots of work. Planting crops, splitting rails, riding horses… think of it, Crutchie. Imagine doing all that-"
I regretted the words as soon as they came outta my big mouth. Cruthcie glanced at his gimp leg, rendered useless by polio. Remorse hounded me.
"Hey uh, er,-" I fumbled for an apology- one that didn't involve actually saying, I'm sorry. "Hey, uh, why don't you come with me?" I blurted out, not totally realizing what I said. His head perked up. As I stumbled onto this new thought, I tumbled into a treasure trove of dreams. "No gimp leg holds you back there! You ride a palomino; you ride in style!"
"Picture me riding in style!" He laughed.
"I bet that with a few months of clean air, you could toss that crutch for good!"
"That means-" his eyes glowed brighter than stars. "-I stand. On my own. I'd stand, run...we'd go swimming. There's water, right?"
"The Rio Grande. Swim the whole length for the fun of it."
"Yeah, yeah, tell me more!"
I raved about cowboys, campfires, horses, cattle, the sky- especially the sky- especially sunsets and stars- until the orange sun's newborn rays penetrated the purplish clouds. Downstairs, a rusty bell chimed thrice. Damn.
"Time for dreaming's done," I sighed. I bent over the side to face the windows. "Hey, Specs, Race, Henry, Albert, get a move on! The papes don't sell themselves!"
We headed for the stairwell leading inside, to the bunks and bathrooms. The dreamer faded as the tough leader awoke. I mentally away my, now our, dream of Santa Fe, New Mexico, making a beeline for the shaving cream. Crutchie, already dressed, patiently waited beside my bunk. Did I mention he was my best friend?