Racktrack woke with a start, the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. He looked at the clock on his nightstand: 2:37. It was the middle of the night, but nothing in his house was quiet. His heart kept time with each step of heavy boots on the floor. He sat up in his bed, waiting. He knew it was coming; the only mystery was when and how bad. He watched as the knob on his door began to turn, but then it stopped. Racetrack was confused. He heard the footsteps continue down the hallway, toward the larger of the two bedrooms. One voice spoke, softly, begging. "Please, just leave him alone, Michael. He's only a boy."
The low chuckle that came from the man's mouth was anything but friendly. "Well, then, we'll just have to make sure to turn him into a man." He started back towards Race's room, and Racetrack felt his heart thudding in his chest once again. He knew it would come to this; he should have been better, done better. "Please, just leave him—"
"Enough, Louisa!" The man barked. "He knows his place and he messed up. How's he going to learn unless he's taught a lesson? This has happened too many times and I won't have it happen again!" Racetrack could hear the woman's quiet cries and a shallow thump as she slid down the wall to the floor. Race continued to stare at the door, trying to control his breathing. It was useless he knew, and after what he'd done he was surprised he could sleep at all.
The door opened with a sickening creak, and the tall, dark haired man stepped through it. "Anthony." He growled. "I think we've been over this enough, don't you?"
Racetrack could do nothing but nod, the fear inside him growing. He knew he'd messed things up, created more problems by getting caught, and cost his family a lot of money. And it was clear that this time his father wasn't going to take it; he was angry and it radiated from every pore in his skin, hung in the air like an unwelcome visitor, and wrapped itself around Race's throat, choking him.
"I'm sorry Pop." Racetrack tried to make eye contact with his father, but the look in his eyes was too menacing and the boy looked away. "I'm sorry." It was a worthless few words, but they were all Race had, all he could think of; no wonder his father thought the worst of him.
"You're ten now. You should be out there with me, beside me. But instead I give you one small job to do, thinking because you're a child it would be easy for you. But you messed up, Anthony. Cost me a lot of money." His voice rose as he spoke, recalling the past night's events. Racetrack remembered what had happened. He was supposed to take a package from one man and deliver it to another. It didn't have any markings, no way to trace it. But along the way, Race had tripped up, managed to drop it somewhere. He wasn't careful enough. He tried to pickpocket, knowing he would have to make up for the money the package was costing his father, but he was so nervous after losing the package, that he managed to get caught. His father had to pick him up at the police station, then head back out to settle things with the men he was dealing with. Too much of an ordeal, too much trouble, too little money. And it was Race's fault.
"Turn over, Anthony. Ten licks, one for every year you've made me sorry you're my son." He sneered. Racetrack felt the tears prick his eyes, but kept his head down, not wanting to look even weaker than he already did. He turned his back to his father, as ordered, and after hearing the belt come loose, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The first lash stung, but he could take it. The second was harder, biting his skin, and he could feel the blood trickle down his back. Putting a shirt on tomorrow would hurt, but he would have to, to cover the results of his mistake, one that never should have been made. As his father continued, he gritted his teeth, aware that with each whip of the belt, his father was taking out years of pent up anger at Racetrack. He wasn't good enough, fast enough, strong enough.
When his father was finished, he stood breathing heavily, staring down at Race, who was shaking but trying not to. "I hope you understand how we do business around here." He said seriously. His anger was gone now, replaced by a more subtle authority.
"Yes, sir." Racetrack breathed.
"We have another job in a few days. I expect you to be ready."
"Yes, sir." His father left then, closing the door behind him. He could hear his mother's soft cries muffle as his father drew close, most likely putting his arms around her. As much as he wanted to show Racetrack who was boss, he didn't necessarily want his wife to cry. Racetrack curled into a ball, lying on his left side, and sobbed into his pillow. Not so much for what just happened, but for the words his father spoke. He knew his father meant them, knew he was nothing more than a business deal.
One thing was true: from that night on Racetrack was the best pickpocket in Manhattan. He hadn't been caught since. And once he turned twelve, he decided to leave the 'family business' and ran from his home, not having been back since. His father, and maybe even his mother, had shown no sign of looking for him, and eventually he found the Newsies, where he got a new name (Racetrack) and left the past exactly where it belonged: in the past.
