The atmosphere on Spar Street was very strained in the following days. Spot and Lunch Money weren't exactly fighting, per say, but they said little to each other and Lunch Money made a point of busying herself with work. No one else in the house was very pleased with Spot either: Jack seemed annoyed that Spot was keeping something from the rest of the group, but he realized how hypocritical he would sound if he accused Spot of lying about his past; Crutchy and Boots just wanted everyone to get along again; Kid Blink and Mush were simply dying of curiosity. Racetrack too, was curious. Spot and Cassie clearly had a history that they were keen to keep under wraps, and he wanted to know what was what. He thought he did, at least.

It was eight days after Spot and Cassie's argument on Spar Street. Eight long, unhappy, irritated days. Racetrack ate his breakfast (porridge and half an apple) at a more relaxed pace than usual. Kid Blink and Mush were seated across from him, very disgruntled as (with their lack of dishes and cutlery) they were stuck sharing the last clean drinking glass. All three had gotten the day off from work, as had Boots (who was still asleep) and Lunch Money (who was dressing behind the curtain the boys had set up for her).

They ate in silence, partly because there was nothing to say, partly because they didn't want to wake Boots, Spot and Jack. Spot and Jack had gotten into the habit of staying up late and sleeping until noon, to the envy of the rest of the group. Only when Lunch Money appeared from behind the curtain did the spark of conversation ignite. She filled a bowl of porridge, as casual as anything, and took a seat on one of the wooden stools next to Racetrack. Instead of the usual dark green skirt she'd "borrowed" from her brief stint working as a laundress, Lunch Money wore a pair of brown wool trousers and some very familiar red suspenders. The three conscious boys goggled at her.

"What?" She asked, noticing the incredulous looks her friends were giving her.

"Can I please not be heah when Spot wakes up an' realizes ya've stolen his pants?" Mush asked nervously.

"What?" Lunch Money said again, "I'm sick of the damn skoirt. I ain't even goin' anywheah today."

Racetrack rolled his eyes. Just when he thought the whole problem of Lunch Money's affinity for trousers would vanish. Naturally she would be difficult. She was difficult about everything. Right on cue, Spot sat up, rubbing his eyes, his hair tousled from sleep. He sat yawning for a moment, not realizing that Blink, Mush and Racetrack were watching him intently. He tossed aside his blanket and started rifling through his things, finding his shirt and shrugging it on. While he buttoned the shirt, he looked around, as though he'd misplaced something. Mush snickered. Spot looked up. It took a moment for him to connect the dots.

"Lunch!" He stood up. Lunch Money glared at Mush.

"Nice goin'."

"Yeah, 'cause he wouldn't a' noticed that his pants were missin' if I hadn't said nuttin'."

"Lunch Money, gimme the pants." Spot said, annoyed.

"C'mon, I got the day off. I'm sick a' wearin' that skoirt."

"You got the day off?" Spot asked. Lunch Money nodded. He grinned, "So why does eidder a' us need pants?"

Racetrack felt a wave of nausea, "Do you'se two jus' wait fa' me ta be in the room befoah ya say things like that?" He gave Spot a murderous look, "Ya could at least give me some warning."


Lunch Money eventually surrendered the pants, after a respectable amount of teasing and flirting. Racetrack could have lived without the flirting, but everyone else was relieved to see Spot and Lunch Money getting along again. True, the couple bickered unendingly under normal circumstances, but usually they're arguments were trivial and easily resolved by a quick kiss or a flattering comment. The arrival of Cassie had caused tension much more serious than usual. But after more than a week with no word from Cassie, Lunch Money was beginning to believe what Spot had said when he told her that Cassie was nothing to worry about.

One person, however, was very unhappy at the lack of contact with Cassie. That would be Racetrack, of course. He couldn't stop harping on the two afternoons they'd spent together. And when he kissed her. At the time, it had been an impulsive action. She was there; he was there, so he kissed her. But now Racetrack had to see her again. He figured maybe she would come back to the track sometime, but so far he hadn't seen the Arden's in the McClellan's box at all. It wasn't just that she was gorgeous. Behind her proper manners and clockwork orange persona, there was an interesting, fun girl fighting to get free. And there was a mystery about Cassie that Racetrack found irresistible. Of course, if he knew all the mysterious details of Cassie's life, he might have felt differently.

The day was spent lazily sitting around at home, talking of nothing in particular. The conversation drifted from a reminiscent chat of the strike that summer nearly two years ago, to a thoroughly outraged discussion of the newsstands, and eventually they settled down to play a round of cards. They played on Jack's suggestion, but when the boys looked to Racetrack for the deck of cards, they realized he was gone. And he'd taken Spot with him.


"What?" Spot asked impatient with Racetrack, who had dragged him out onto the street.

"D'ya know wheah Cassie lives?" Racetrack asked, "I'm mean, ya did woirk fa' her family. So ya said anyway."

"Yeah, I think I remember wheah she lives." Spot said tonelessly, his face devoid of emotion, "Why d'ya wanna know, Race?"

"I--" Racetrack paused. He didn't really want Spot to be clued in to how he felt about Cassie, but what choice did he have? Spot was the only one who could tell Racetrack where to find her. "I wanted ta see her."

"Forget her, will ya Race?" Spot said angrily, "She ain't gonna be interested in a boy like you. She's richie, a bitch. She'll end up marrying whoever her parents pick out for her, an' ya can bet that they'll pick the fella wit' the most money."

"Who said anyt'ing 'bout marryin' her?" Racetrack asked defensively, "I jus' said I wanted ta see her."

"Sure." Spot snapped, "Take it from me, Racetrack, ya don't wanna be mixed wit' Cassie. It's easieh if ya have nuttin' ta do wit' her." he turned away, but Racetrack bolted around Spot, blocking the doorway back inside.

"Ya know, I coulda said the same t'ing when ya started chasin' me sisteh, but--"

"As I remembeh, ya did tell me ta have nuttin' ta do wit' Lunch Money," Spot said coolly, "An' woirse."

"Right." Racetrack cringed, "But c'mon, Spot! My point is, if you'se is havin' sex wit' me sisteh, I think I'm entitled ta ask ya a favoh every once in a while. I just want ta talk ta Cassie."

"Fine. But ya betteh make this quick."


"So how d'ya know her in the foirst place?" Racetrack asked for the umpteenth time and the boys walked quickly through the East Side.

"D'ya wanna see your goil or not?" Spot glared at him, not answering the question for the umpteenth time, "Here." He added, as they turned onto Park Avenue. Racetrack's mouth literally dropped open. The street was clean and orderly. There was no soot on the buildings, and the impossibly huge houses sat neatly in two rows, lining both sides of the street. There were long driveways up to each house, and even trees planted in yards in between the manors.

"She's in that one." Spot indicated a house, third from the end of the block. The boys carefully infiltrated the avenue. Their presence went undetected as the boys slid in and out of the shadows until they staked out a good hiding spot: up a tree in the Arden's backyard. It was an old tree, the leaves just barely green and formed in the spring weather. The knots of the bark and the creepy twisting branches provided an opportunity for the boys. Racetrack scurried up the trunk first, Spot right behind him. They were concealed by the new green foliage and from there; Spot began to outline the next plan of action.

"We gotta figger out which room is hers." Spot whispered, "I ain't sure, but I remember that her window was at the back of the house, so we're in an ideal position really."

"But how--?" Racetrack began.

"Shh!" Spot cut him off sharply as the sound of a screen door shutting alerted them to a new presence. The sounds of two voices wafted up from garden below. One voice was male, the other obviously female.

"Now, Althea, how can you be having second thoughts? Henry is a fine match for our Cassie. The wedding is already set for June." The male voice said. Racetrack almost fell out of the tree. What? Racetrack thought, She's already engaged? She might have mentioned that! Of course he knew he had no chance at any sort of future with Cassie, but it was awfully nice to dream. Racetrack had never even thought of a long future with Cassie, maybe just a few more Saturdays at the tracks. Maybe just a few times out. But even that illusion was broken with the news of her engagement.

"I know, I know." The female voice answered, "But there are better matches. When I think of how that arrangement with the Conlons slipped away from us..." This time it was Spot who almost fell out of the tree. Racetrack jerked his head toward Spot, his eyes disbelieving. He had just heard the name Conlon, had he?

"Althea, Andrew ran away years ago, he's probably dead by this time. Henry McClellan is a much better match for our daughter than that delinquent-- what was that name the other children always called him?-- 'Spot' Conlon."