A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed. Your comments made me smile! Here's the next chapter :)
Chapter Two
"Biz… Biz, wake up!"
I wake up to a not-so-gentle prodding on the back of my shoulder. Rolling over on to my stomach, I mumble incoherently into my pillow. But the prodding doesn't stop and my blanket is yanked from my grip. I grope around for it blindly, my hands making contact with someone's head.
"Ow! Watch it!" It's Maude's voice, I think. She always sounds ten times bossier in the morning.
"Leave me alone," I tell her, my voice croaky from sleep.
"Those papes ain't gonna sell themselves," she says cheerily. Before I can react, something grabs at my nightgown and I tumble to the floor. While everyone else laughs at my expense, I scowl at Maude, whose eyes twinkle at me in merriment.
"What if I was on the top bunk?" I say, crossing my arms indignantly. "You could have killed me!"
"Would have served you right for sleeping so late," Maude says matter-of-factly. "You were burning the midnight oil last night, weren't you? I woke up at maybe two o'clock in the morning and I could still hear you rustling in your little corner there."
I flush, reminding myself to be quieter next time. "I was writing," I explain. "I was on to something good."
"And it couldn't wait till morning?" asks Maude with a raise of an eyebrow.
"Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise," quips ten-year-old Adage, imparting her daily proverb as Barton braids her hair.
"That's right," says Barton, giving Adage an affectionate pat on the head.
I sigh and get out my clothes for the day. These girls may be my only family, but there are some things about me they will never understand. Gathering my towel and toothbrush, I make my way from the attic to the washroom, careful while crossing the still-sleeping boys' bunkroom. I will never get over the injustice of having to wake up a good fifteen minutes earlier just to use the toilet while the boys get to continue dreaming their sweet dreams.
"Morning Ferris," I say with a yawn.
"Whaddaya say, Biz?" she greets and spits into the sink, smiling at me with her grin still full of baking soda. Ferris is tiny and frail, but with a mouth to make up for it. As I am the lodging house resident gossip, we make quite a team in divulging all the newsies' dirtiest secrets. I suppose you could call her my best friend, if I believed in them.
"How did you sleep last night?" I ask, starting to untie the rags from my hair. Barton always says I look like a high-class girl with my dark curls – quite a contrast to my worn, faded blue dress that was a hand-me-down from Maude. When she gave it to me, it was already patched up in a few places and reached my mid-calf. Now, it falls to just below my knees and has several more patches. I sigh and pull my only pinafore over it, which is in slightly better shape than the dress. If only I were able to afford pretty, fashionable clothing.
"On me back," Ferris replies with a toothy grin. "Guess who I am?" She grabs a razor from over the basin and pretends to shave, all the while making ridiculous faces at herself in the mirror.
"You could pass for Jack," I tell her. "Except for the fact that you ain't got a single hair on your chinny chin chin."
"Well, neither does Jack, but that don't stop him," she answers truthfully. I laugh so hard that I almost swallow my toothbrush. Ferris has to clap me on the back a few times as I cough noisily into the sink.
"What's going on in there?" Kloppman's elderly voice calls from the bunkroom, where I suspect he is beginning to wake the boys.
"Nothing, Kloppman," our voices chime innocently.
"Biz and Ferris, is that you making all that racket?"
"Sure is!" I say.
"I shoulda known… Just hurry up before I rouse the beasts," he tells us through the door. "And try not to kill each other!"
We giggle, both knowing that Kloppman has always had a soft spot for us girls. I finish brushing my teeth and wash my face quickly, which is always difficult with Ferris pestering me to get a move on.
"Come on," she whines as I am lacing up my boots. The moment I stand up, she tugs on my arm and I find myself flying out the front door and over to the distribution office. We end up being the first ones there. Weasel and the Delancey brothers are as charming as ever.
"So the runt's still here," is Weasel's customary greeting. He glances at me before going back to his bookkeeping. "What'll it be?"
"Fifty," I say, throwing down a quarter. He nods his head in Oscar's direction.
Oscar plops the stack in front of me and leans his elbows on it just to annoy me. "Morning, Biz," he says, leering at me.
I audibly gag in response before prying the newspapers from him, hefting them on to one shoulder. Stepping back, I wait for Ferris to buy her papers.
"Same as her," she says and hands Weasel the two bits.
"Fifty for the chink," he says to Oscar.
Ferris and I both stiffen. I am so angry that I can hardly even speak. But Ferris can handle her own. "You ain't got no right to talk that way to me," she retorts coolly. Seizing her papes, she and I storm off, but not before giving them a middle-fingered salute.
We walk along Duane Street, with me ranting on about how fat and idiotic Weasel really is. "He's vile – a downright asshole, if you ask me," I tell her. "But you could take him. You could take on anyone."
"Thanks." She gives me a half-smile, staying awfully quiet. We go off on our separate ways soon after. We don't normally sell with each other. Ferris feels more comfortable selling around Chinatown, where her and Swifty's aunt lives. Now I understand why. I prefer to wander, staying mostly in the Lower East Side. I often venture throughout the boroughs to visit my sources, who keep me up-to-date on the goings-on in New York. Today, I decide to go to the Brooklyn Bridge, where I have struck a deal with some of Conlon's people. I tell them what's happening in other parts of the city, and in turn, they dish out a few secrets of their own. I also get to move freely around their territory without getting soaked (a fair deal, if you ask me).
By noon, I have sold a little over half of my newspapers. I start to slow down for lunch, buying hot dogs with my friend, One-Up, who's your typical rough and tumble Brooklynite. He's loud and obnoxious and for some reason, he's taken a liking to me. He's good-looking enough, I guess, with his wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes. But he annoys the hell out of me each time he asks me to come with him to see the flickers. The only reason I waste my time with him is because he's one of Spot Conlon's prized birdies and the youngest of his inner circle. Obviously, he's in the know about lots of important things.
"What's shakin', Biz?" One-Up spits into his palm and holds it out to me. I return the gesture, not liking the way he won't stop smirking at me. He also holds onto my hand longer than necessary.
"Could be better," I say, prying my hand from his sweaty grip. "How goes it with you?"
"Same old," he replies, slumping lazily in the park bench.
I take a bite of my hot dog and savor its meaty goodness. "Ain't no hot dog like a Brooklyn hot dog," I say. Often, I find that it is most effective to compliment the borough of the person I'm getting information from. The pride gets to them and makes them more willing to open up. I've been doing this a long time, you see.
One-Up grins toothily. He's already finished his lunch and is wiping his hands on his trousers. For a few minutes, we watch the people as they stroll through the park on this surprisingly warm October afternoon.
"You know, it's almost like we're on a date," he points out and moves to put his arm around me.
I frown and shove him off. "Cowboy would kick your ass if you pull something like that again," I snap, moving over to the far end of the bench.
"Cowboy ain't got the guts to kick nobody's ass," he says challengingly.
"He would too," I argue irritably. "Even if that ass is property of Spot Conlon."
That shuts him up for a bit. But he only laughs and tells me it was worth a shot. I feel bad when I lie and say that Maude won't let me see any boys on account that I'm not old enough. Truth is, no one knows that I sometimes go to Brooklyn to see him. Not Ferris, not Jack, and not even Snipeshooter. I have a feeling that Snipes wouldn't be so happy if he found out.
"You ever trust in your gut, Biz?" he says abruptly, his expression suddenly turning serious.
"I suppose so," I answer, trying to hide my eagerness. Whatever he is going to tell me, it has to be good.
"I saw a couple of Toronto's boys sneaking around here. So I followed them, and saw them head over the border straight into Queens."
"Toronto?" I say, my eyes widening in surprise. "What business do the Bronx boys have in Queens? Last I heard, they wanted nothing to do with each other."
"That's what I thought," says One-Up, biting his lip in uncertainty. "But I don't know. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe they just came to visit family or something."
"But what's your gut telling you?" I ask, meeting his gaze.
He does not break eye contact when he says, "It's telling me that a storm's brewing, and I don't like it."
That evening, I make it back to Manhattan early enough for dinner. By the time I get to Tibby's, most of the newsies are already there. Having spent the whole day walking, I am terribly exhausted and ready to collapse. Falling into my usual seat beside Snipeshooter, I tell the waiter, "I'll have a sarsaparilla, a ham and cheese sandwich – actually, make that two ham and cheese sandwiches – some fries, some chicken, and an apple tart for dessert."
"Feeling hungry, Biz?" Boots asks with a raised eyebrow.
"You have no idea," I say, rubbing my empty stomach. Sure, it's a lot, but I am famished. Let's just pretend I can afford it.
"Did everyone have a good day selling?" says Ferris brightly. Without waiting for a response, she launches into a blow-by-blow account of a seemingly earth-shattering event involving her Aunt's chickens, a laundry line, and a traveling circus. Ferris knows that the rest of our table usually pretends to listen and she doesn't care. But Boots is the only one who is actually interested, always smiling at her and laughing at the right spots. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was fond of her.
"Slow down. You might choke," I say to Snipeshooter, who is shoveling his food into his mouth a mile a minute. He continues to do so, so I grab his wrist. He scowls and wrenches his hand away from me, pushing yet another mountain of sausage into his mouth for a good measure.
My plate piled with food finally arrives and before I can even swallow a mouthful, Snipes reaches over and grabs a fistful of fries, saying, "You gonna eat that? Thanks," and takes the fries for himself.
He makes a grab for one of my sandwiches, but I bat his greedy fingers away. "Whoa there, carnivore! Buy yourself your own ham and Swiss," I cry, elbowing him in the side to keep him at bay. That boy has been eating his weight in chicken wings each day but manages to stay the same. Go figure.
When he sticks out his tongue at me, I'm given a front row view of the remnants of his dinner. "How gentlemanly," I tell him dryly, sitting back in my seat. Boys these days have absolutely no manners.
The door opens and in comes Jack with his arm around Sarah (us girls all shudder because none of us genuinely like her, but no one wants to say that to Jacky's face). Les follows, looking angelic as ever, and then… My breath catches and I suddenly start to sweat. David Jacobs. He's wearing that blue pinstripe shirt that brings out his eyes. It's slightly unbuttoned on top – no tie – and unbuttoned enough so I can see a hint of the gray long johns that lie beneath. His face is perfect. His curly hair is the perfect amount of disheveled. I watch, transfixed, as the corner of his mouth quirks upward when he says, "Hiya fellas," and slides into a booth beside his sister. I scan his profile, lingering at his jaw line then straying to his torso. Jack cracks a joke and David laughs. I notice how his shoulders kind of shake when he does so. May the day come when David Jacobs laughs at one of my jokes, when I make his shoulders shake like that, when I finally get him to glance my way. When I…
A splash of water (at least I hope that's what it is) lands on my face and splashes down my dress. I let out a shuddering gasp, discovering that it is in fact water and it's ice cold. Around my table, everyone is laughing at my expense – Ferris, Boots, Slider, Les, Adage, and… Snipeshooter, who has still got the straw he squirted me with dangling from his mouth like a cigarette. For a long time, I watch him, the water dripping into my eyes, as he slaps his knees and guffaws idiotically. I take a breath – then I pounce. Grabbing a half of one of my sandwiches, I take it in one hand, seize the back of his head with the other, and shove it into his irksome gob. The rest of the table watches in amusement as his arms flail about, trying to detach himself from me, simultaneously trying to swallow the glob of ham and Swiss cheese I had forced into his mouth.
The moment I release him, Snipeshooter takes a few breaths before swallowing the entire thing whole. Standing, he raises his arms in triumph, appraising the crowd just as a boxer does after winning a match. Ferris applauds and Boots whistles through his fingers. I roll my eyes because swallowing sandwiches whole can hardly be considered a talent. Snipeshooter turns to me with an expectant glint in his eyes.
"You sprayed water on me," I tell him pointedly. "You deserved it."
With a menacing smirk, he steps closer, towering over me while I'm seated. "You think so, Biz?"
I do not even time to prepare myself for the assault that follows. The moment his hands seize my sides, I topple out of my chair with a tiny shriek. Over and over again, I curse Snipeshooter for knowing my one true weakness.
"Stop it, Snipes," I cry between peals of laughter. But he doesn't. Even when my body has shifted to be half under the table, he mercilessly persists on tickling me.
"What's the magic word?" he asks in a singsong voice. I manage to regain my composure for about two seconds to scowl at him.
"Never," I say dramatically, fruitlessly biting back the laughter. When my self-control is not enough, I decide to look for outside support. Looking under the table, I tug at the first pair of shoes I can find. "Boots," I plead, bursting out into a fresh fit of giggles. "Make him stop!"
Boots ducks his head to look at me under the table and shrugs. "Sorry Biz, but this is even more entertaining than a night at Medda's."
I didn't even realize what a ruckus we were making until I caught sight of a checkered vest over Snipeshooter's shoulder.
"Everything alright over here?" Racetrack asks, mirth evident on his face.
"No! Just get him off of me," I say, releasing an inhuman sounding squeal. When this is finally over, I will never forgive Snipeshooter for this.
Racetrack, who seems to be the only one Snipes actually listens to, takes his darn time contemplating my request. "I don't know, Biz," he says with mock-uncertainty. "I ain't gonna be around all the time to fight your battles for you. It's something you've got to learn on your own."
I groan in frustration. Will no one in New York take pity on a poor girl on me, who can't help but be extraordinarily ticklish?
"Just give up," says Snipes with an air of superiority. I don't have to voice my submission. He sees it in my eyes.
I try to hold it in for a moment longer, but I can't. The fight leaving me, I shout out, "Please!"
A self-satisfied smile spreads slowly across his freckled face and he releases me. He practically struts back to his seat, tossing over his shoulder, "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" I purse my lips, instantly regretting it. Soon his ego will be so heavy, he can hardly walk.
With an injured pride, I rise to my feet. I make a big show of straightening my clothes and dusting myself off. Then, I stroll over to the other side of the restaurant. When I pass Snipeshooter, I gave him a harsh flick to the head.
"Hey!" he calls after me, but I ignore it.
"Can I sit here, Jack?" I say, walking over to his booth. "Them Neanderthals are giving me a headache." I make it a point to send a contemptuous glare behind me. Snipes busies himself with my leftover food in retaliation.
"Snipeshooter giving you problems again?" Jack asks with a knowing smirk, scooting over to make room for me.
Climbing in beside him, I gratefully accept the napkin he offers me. "Yeah," I tell him, wiping the water from my face. "He's being a real pain in the ass."
I notice Sarah purse her lips at my unladylike swearing. I look at her challengingly, as if daring her to tell me off about it. Her brother, however, chuckles warmly. My heart lifts, pride filling me as I realize I had just made David Jacobs laugh.
"Davey, you remember this here girl, don't you?" says Jack.
Nodding, David says to me, "Yeah, I think I saw you a couple of times during the strike."
My face heats up slightly as I smile into my lap. So he does remember me. So he has noticed.
Jack wraps his arm around me and says, "We call her Biz, short for business, as in ain't none of yours. She's been sticking her nose where it don't belong for as long as I've known her. Knows all the comings and goings in New York. Spot Conlon would have tried to recruit her as one of his birdies if I'd let him."
I feel myself turning even pinker. "Nah, that ain't true," I say, trying to appear as sweet and modest as possible. Truth is, I'm only sweet when I want to be and I sure as hell ain't modest. I'm good at finding things out that I'm not supposed to and I have no problem letting people know that.
"Spot Conlon? Really?" says David with a raise of the eyebrow. "That's impressive. And Spot doesn't seem like the type of guy who's easily impressed."
"I think you impressed him," I blurt out suddenly. Then, I sit back, and fumble nervously with my dress. "I mean, what you did during the strike… I don't know. You sure impressed me." I give him a shaky smile, trying to conceal how horrified I am at what I had just said.
"You impressed us all, Davey," says Sarah, patting her brother on the arm.
Jack finally notices how red I am and looks at me in concern. "You okay, Biz? You look like you're coming down with a fever," he says, pressing the back of his hand against my forehead.
"I'm fine, really," I say, scrambling out of the booth. "I'm just a little tired. I think I'll go back to the lodging house to lie down."
As I walk out the door, I catch Jack telling David, "She's a real sweetheart, ain't she?"
"Yeah," says David. "She's adorable."
Adorable? My heart sinks. He's three years older than me. Of course he'd still see me as the other newsies do – a younger sister, a silly little girl. I want to cry because nothing will ever become of it and I was stupid to think otherwise. Stupid, I berate myself with a slap to the forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A/N: Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up soon. Thanks for reading and don't forget to review!