DISCLAIMER: None of the characters featured in Disney's Newsies belong to
me but instead belong to Disney! *SuRpRiSe* Everyone else, ESPECIALLY
Runner Conlon, belong to me! ^_^ Have a nice day! Kaylee and Firecracker
own themselves.
A.N.: Thanks for the reviews! Although, they were a bit slacking. *sighs* But in any case, I was grateful to receive the ones I did receive. ^_^
Geometrygal: OoOgles, kidnapping Runner, are we? *snickers* He'd probably have more fun with you than he would getting beat up by Harlem. : )
Imaginelet: WoW, you've been reading a lot of my stories! LoL! Thanks so much; it means mucho to me. Which one's your favorite so far? ^_^ Ah, Silver...the color of the gun Runner was holding? Or maybe the silver bullets? *shrugs* It's open for interpretation. Heehee.
Dimples: Hahaha, poor Spot. He's crying his eyes out now. Jack is crazy for saying I was lusting after him. I can't even remember what it was I had said! LoL! Our boys is crazy! ^_^
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary
Rosary sat on the lower bed of the bunks situated in Spot's room and leaned her back against one of the posts, a sigh of grief escaping her lips and her eyes closing to prevent the tears from coming. Was this what everything would result to? An all-out war between all the major boroughs in New York? Thinking upon the matter made her ashamed to have any blood relations with Marcello; how much more of a brute could one strive to be?
Spot was no better, she decided. On his blind itinerary to excommunicate the Harlem brood from the state, he was merely insuring the demise of others! She couldn't believe how obstinate each were being? Why couldn't they simply make amends like civil young men instead of adopting the personality flaws of bitter diplomats? And what had led to their pledge of hatred in the first case?
These questions scurried through her mind like creatures set loose and try as she did, she could not tame any one into a solution. She combed her hands through her raven black tresses of hair in thought. Spot had acted so foully towards her last night at the meeting with Manhattan. And for what? To prove that he would always sit at the top of the street rat hierarchy even when the strongly opinionated dared question his beliefs? If anything, he probably could benefit from fresher ideas, ideas that would wash away the angst he so often clung to.
Her eyes scanned the room and fell upon Runner's calendar, a heap of papers bound together by a red vinyl binding. Calendars as such were rather costly, which is why she had been curious to know as to how the boy had acquired it in the first place. December 19th stood out amongst the rest, highlighted with a brilliant star that seemed to jump from the paper and beg for attention. It was a day away.
How ironic, she thought. Had Runner known all along what day Brooklyn and Harlem would march into battle? Had he predicted it long ago? She had her doubts, but they weren't sprung from her disbelief in the boy's possible gift of premonitions, but rather from Spot's earlier outrage over Runner having made the date so obvious, as if it was anyone else's business what had happened on that day.
Naturally, that fury was but a temper-tantrum when compared to the anger Spot felt upon returning to the Brooklyn lodging house last night after the meeting only to find that Runner was missing from his bedroom. For hours, he had ordered his boys to search all over the borough for the boy, braving the darkness if only for his cousin's sake. But Runner hadn't turned up anywhere. Things just kept rolling downhill.
Rosary actually pitied the Brooklyn leader. He had seemed astray, as if he was at a loss...as if he didn't know what to do. They exchanged no words when they retired for sleep. Spot was too busy fueling his revulsion for Marcello; Rosary too busy wondering why Spot was never too quick to reveal the emotions that stirred life, those of love, concern, and empathy.
She brushed the matter aside. Desperate times called for desperate prayers, and this morning she prayed that all those involved in tomorrow's fiasco would not be harmed any more than they needed to. In fact, she hoped they wouldn't be harmed at all, but she realized that was perhaps too much to ask for.
She reached into her pocket and took out a silver rosary which she cradled in the bed of her palms. The charm's beaded chain intertwined with her fingers, tightly holding them together much as its power held the pieces of her heart intact. The door to the room swung open then; she raised her head to the sound and watched as Spot entered in, his eyes set in a blaze. It didn't take much to see he was still in tart moods.
"What are you doing?" he asked, not really caring whether she answered or not. He just needed to spill out words to keep his mind off the realities presently at hand.
Rosary kept her gaze on him as he pulled up a chair to her bedside and plopped down onto it. His eyes captivated her; they were like precious sapphires with an innocence turned hard. The irises of an angel now fallen. They always managed to control her somehow. "You care very much for your cousin, don't you?"
Spot was caught off guard. He hadn't expected her to raise such an inquiry and it clearly showed in the way he tried to avoid answering directly. "Whaddya talkin' about? I'se treat 'im just like I treat all me other boys. If one of 'em was missin' and gone, I'd send all a' Brooklyn tah look fer 'im too."
"You needn't deny it, Spot. I'm aware that it would make you appear weak as a leader, especially a leader so respected throughout New York. But I'm not going to let your little secret get out; you can tell me. I actually find it admirable that you watch after him as an older brother."
"He's me cousin. I kinda have tah; I'se owe it tah 'im." His face darkened at the recollection of something. "Anyways, ya didn't answer me question. What is youse doin' heah by yaself, instead of bein' wid Cherry and Patches and gossiping 'bout whatever it is youse goils gossip 'bout."
"Actually," she replied, "I was in the middle of praying."
"Prayin'? Prayin' fer what?"
She managed a small smile. "Just that everything works out tomorrow, that there won't be any need for too much violence. That you and Marcello and all the others will be kept safe. Basically, that everything turns out well. I know it might sound naïve given the nature of the matter, but there's always room for optimism in life."
"Yea, sure. Whatever ya say." He rolled his eyes. It figured that this girl who he already could not stand as it was would only worsen things were her fluffy speeches about hope and 'peace on earth'. When would people grow up and live in the real world? "In case ya haven't noticed, sweetheart, we'se aint exactly preparin' tah go on some happy-go-lucky gatherin'. This is the real deal; I'se had boys lose their lives in fights like these."
"Don't you think I understand that? Don't you think that's why I'm praying in the first place?"
He grew annoyed and shook his head as if he didn't think she understood at all! "D'ya think youse sittin' in bed talkin' tah someone who don't even listen tah the people who really need Him is gunna make any difference? Are youse expectin' some damn angel tah fly down and keep us from killin' each other?"
"Life isn't going to be a picnic when you start believing," she replied, surprisingly calm for someone who had just been offended. "There are still countless trials that await you in life, but they're there for the purpose of revitalizing your faith."
Spot's mouth had been opened to begin protesting but once the girl had finished her rebuttal, he paused in contemplation. He had never though of things in that sense, as having to conquer tribulations to grow stronger in faith, but even so, a little help was in due order from now and again. Surely he wasn't meant to go through life all on his own battling with fate, for it certainly seemed as if on occasion the help he would otherwise ask for wouldn't even come if he begged!
Rosary rested her hand onto Spot's arm and looked deeply into his eyes, trying to connect with him. "Ours is a rough life. We go day by day not knowing whether we're going to have enough to eat for dinner, unsure whether we'll make it home safely after a day's work. Faith can help you pull through."
"So can street-smarts," he threw back. "Why do I need faith when hating everybody that turns scab on me suits me just fine? Ya don't understand, goil. Sometimes just bein' angry at the woild helps ya fight against it."
"So can believing, especially when it's the only thing you have left." She turned her body so that she was completely facing him. The air in the room was suffocating all of a sudden, but she couldn't pull away now. She couldn't abandon the conversation now that she and the Brooklyn leader had at least ceased in barking at each other like siblings. "Even the toughest of people find themselves searching for something more, Spot."
Their gazes locked and he found himself entranced by her words. Was he so concerned with his reputation that he'd miss out on something greater?
The sweet scent of her skin drifted to his senses and he felt something awaken by the aroma. He moved from his chair onto the bed next to her and sat like that for what could have been hours. Time passed unnoticed when he was in her presence like this...simply awed by who and what she was.
Rosary hesitated at being so close to Spot. She couldn't let herself drown in his devious seductions, couldn't let herself become yet another dame fallen prey to the womanizer that the leader was. She'd seen how he had treated such girls before, and she wasn't looking forward to joining their ranks. She also didn't fancy being considered a traitor in her family's eyes.
Then again...she was drawn to him in unexplainable ways. True, sometimes he was an obnoxious jackass with an ego ever-inflating. True, he had a temper that was detestable and just as well, terrifying. But truer it was that she had fallen for him nonetheless, that she had overlooked his flaws and seen him for the person he had never shown to others for fear that they would think him pathetic.
Spot didn't know what was overcoming him but Rosary's soothing words were like enchanted melodies that could discipline any wild beast, and they had done the like to him. He found that he didn't want to live up to his name when he was with her. She was different from others in that she wouldn't criticize him if he refused to be Brooklyn and instead chose to simply be Spot Conlon.
He leaned in closer to her, his heart beat quickening as he did so. Would she reject him again as she had done at Medda's? There was only one way to find out. He furthered his intentions; the adrenaline was surging within the both of them. But just as Spot's lips were to brush against Rosary's, the girl turned her head with a frown.
"Spot," she whispered. Her eyes were glassy, water stretching across their surface and unwilling to be shed as tears. "I...I can't do this with you."
Frustration snapped in his eyes, but he withheld it. "Why not?"
"It wouldn't be right. We're two different people, Spot. We weren't meant to...to be like this. I'm from Harlem and you're from Brooklyn and the two do not mix at all. It would cause too many conflicts if we did. I apologize, but I just can't."
"Rosary..." His face was taught; he couldn't comprehend her reasoning. "Why do youse stay loyal tah someone like ya bruddah, knowin' the type of person he is? Marcello's moidered people, Rosary, for no reason whatsoever. D'ya really wanna stay at 'is side, even after all that?"
She, herself, wasn't sure why she continued to defend Marcello. Perhaps she was merely making excuses now. "I wish you the best of luck tomorrow, Spot. I honestly do." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then rose to her feet even quicker. "I'm truly sorry, but we can't be more than this. I wish we could, but it's not meant to be."
Holding out her hand, she presented him with the rosary she had earlier been praying over and he accepted it indifferently. "You may need this more than I do tomorrow, for good blessings." Then she turned away, and disappeared out the door.
Spot looked down at the piece of jewelry the girl had given him and smiled wryly. Even then he knew that he would always remember December 19th as the day when Brooklyn needed a rosary. His borough needed hope, and he...he needed the girl who had taught him a valuable lesson about life.
~*~*~*~*~
"Patrick...darling..."
The woman smiled down at her only son and caressed his cheek with a small, frail hand. The boy, in turn, returned the smile and beamed with pride at having won her affection. He had just gotten an 'A+' on an exam. Only his first week of school and he was already performing excellently. The teachers were already predicting the wonderful future the boy would have.
- - - - - - -
"Patrick Thomas Conlon is among the highest ranking students in this entire school! At the rate he's going, he has a chance at valedictorian in his senior year!"
- - - - - - -
Andrew pulled his younger cousin out into a secluded area of the courtyard where they wouldn't be as noticed by administrators or fellow classmates and unclenched his fingers to reveal a pocket knife in his hand. He pulled the blade back, all the while laughing, and nodded to a tree that was before them with a smirk.
"Let's leave our mark on Trinity Prep, shall we?" And then ever so meticulously, he brought the blade's point to the bark of the tree and began carving his initials into the wood. 'M.A.C.' Merryll Andrew Conlon. Then he handed over the knife to his cousin.
The younger of the two stared at the object and grinned. Merryll always had to detach from the conforming masses at their high school, and he supposed this was merely another way of doing it. So as before, he would always follow along. He spent the next few minutes carving in his own initials. 'P.T.C.' Patrick Thomas Conlon.
- - - - - - -
Three months later, the two cousins were on the run. "They've got nothing against us," Merryll had said, "but I'll be damned if I'm going to stay in that hellhole another day! Be a stuck-up little scholar all you want, Patrick. Try to make friends with that bastard Steven-because you know he's the one that set us up! Do you realize what everyone's going to think when we step foot back on that campus? That we actually were getting high on that shit-load of drugs stashed in our room! But screw that; I'm done with this life. I want a life of my own."
Patrick's eyes were wide with fear, but he admired Merryll, he looked up to the elder, and so he followed after.
- - - - - - -
"Heya Spot," Flame greeted as he spit shook with the new leader of Brooklyn. "Quite a show youse put on a few days ago, challengin' Baker, and then winnin' ya title as leadah. Allow me tah introduce meself. I'se in charge of Queens; ya ever have a problem, know ya allies, huh?"
A week before Christmas, he returned with a calendar. Spot wasn't at his usual throne of crates, but his younger cousin was. Flame approached the boy with a wide grin and held the calendar out to him. "Heya Patrick, still woikin' on that newsie name?"
"I rather be called by the name I already have."
Flame shrugged. "Sure, whatever. Listen, I'se had a few extras of these so I'se was givin' 'em out tah the boys in Manhattan. Want one?"
- - - - - - -
Patrick sat in the room he shared with his older cousin and stared at the wall in front of him for lack of better things to do. He wasn't like Spot in that he could easily socialize with the others. He missed his education, his home, and most of all he missed his family. Sometimes when he and Spot would pass into Manhattan, he would catch a glimpse of his mother handing out food to the children all over the city, but Spot would always drag him along so as not to be seen.
He wanted to tell his mother that he was all right, that he was living with Spot now on their own and that, though they were riff raffs making a dime here and there, he still loved her, and one day hoped to reunite with her. At least once Spot was ready.
He looked down at the calendar Flamed had given him. It started in the upcoming month of January. Letting out a sigh of longing, he brought a pencil to the bottom of the calendar's frame and wrote out his initials. 'P.T.C.'
- - - - - - -
He had been trampling through the snow all day, hiding behind looming edifices that reached upwards like monsters reminding him of his dastardly doings. The snow was making his trek a laborious one; Spot was already a few yards up ahead. They were going to St. John's Cathedral; Patrick had finally convinced Spot to let him visit his mother just once before Christmas.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. There was a muffled noise, and then men shouting as if ordering about slaves. Spot tried to pull Patrick into an alley to keep him from danger, but the younger cousin pulled out of his grip and dashed to the source of the noise just in time to see a man pull a trigger...
The gunshot would forever sound in his heart. He fell to his knees where before him the snow was steadily changed to red.
- - - - - - -
*'P.T.C' ..."I don't want that name anymore, you hear me? I hate it! I hate it! I don't want it!" He upturned the desk in Spot's room and tore the first three months of Flame's calendar to shreds. "I hate it! I hate it! I don't even want to remember it again! Don't ever call me by that name again!"*
*"Patrick...darling...."*
*The 'white beauties' fell everywhere. That's what she use to call the snow...'white beauties'. He was entranced with them as they descended, hoping perhaps his mother would love to build a snowman this year.*
*He changed his name to Lucas; it was his father's name. He thought it suited him better than the name by which his mother called him. It wasn't filled with bitter memories at least.*
*His face was dirtied with tears, blood, and a loss of incorruptibility. His body convulsed once and then he fell limp to the ground. "Warm the boy," he heard someone shout from afar. "The cold is getting to him!" The cold? He remembered thinking the cops were idiots.*
*"Patrick! Patrick!" Spot had materialized out of nowhere. He took Patrick into his arms and shook him vigorously. This carried on for weeks afterwards. Patrick would speak to no one; he would stay isolated on his bed, gazing at nothing. He might as well had been a mere sculpture. There were fits of utter embroilment only twice, and then bothersome silence.*
*"I hate that name! I hate that name! Damnit, why'd she have to go? Why!? What did she ever do to anyone! I hate that damn name!"*
*The Brooklyn newsies gathered all around his bed while a doctor sat at the mattress's edge, examining the boy before him. Patrick's skin had gone completely pale, his cheeks and lips lacked color, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was trembling as if going through a seizure; three Brooklyn boys had to restrain him from harming himself or the others.*
*"Is he going to make it?" No one knew.*
*It was early February. Patrick had since adopted the name Lucas as his own, but had only declared it in one of his rantings about the injustices of a society laden with evils. Now he had retreated back onto his cavernous mind of indifference. God, he wanted to die.
Spot came to him that same day. His green-blue eyes were inwardly sobbing. "Lucas," he whispered. "I'm sorry..."*
- - - - - - -
Runner nearly shrieked when he came to a rude awakening from the nightmare that had haunted him that morning. The boys who were suppose to be guarding him were fast asleep, but he assumed Marcello was wide awake downstairs. Escape would prove futile, and fatal. Surprisingly enough, the Harlem leader had held back on the punishment so far. Perhaps he was having a change of heart.
Runner pressed his hand against the pane of a nearby window and wiped away the frost so that he could see the city below him. Harlem looked like the peaceful city of a snow globe...white masses, like blankets of cotton, were accumulating on the streets and walks. Overhead, the midnight skies were mysterious, a black satin dress ornamented with sparkling sequins.
'White beauties.'
Weariness came upon him then, his eyelids becoming heavy. Sleep beckoned. But just before he was to retire, it suddenly hit him more viciously than an ambush from all sides. It was December 19th! He would have collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion, but the realization of what today represented caused him to pass out into unconsciousness right there.
~*~*~*~*~
REVIEW! ^_^ Love ya!
A.N.: Thanks for the reviews! Although, they were a bit slacking. *sighs* But in any case, I was grateful to receive the ones I did receive. ^_^
Geometrygal: OoOgles, kidnapping Runner, are we? *snickers* He'd probably have more fun with you than he would getting beat up by Harlem. : )
Imaginelet: WoW, you've been reading a lot of my stories! LoL! Thanks so much; it means mucho to me. Which one's your favorite so far? ^_^ Ah, Silver...the color of the gun Runner was holding? Or maybe the silver bullets? *shrugs* It's open for interpretation. Heehee.
Dimples: Hahaha, poor Spot. He's crying his eyes out now. Jack is crazy for saying I was lusting after him. I can't even remember what it was I had said! LoL! Our boys is crazy! ^_^
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary
Rosary sat on the lower bed of the bunks situated in Spot's room and leaned her back against one of the posts, a sigh of grief escaping her lips and her eyes closing to prevent the tears from coming. Was this what everything would result to? An all-out war between all the major boroughs in New York? Thinking upon the matter made her ashamed to have any blood relations with Marcello; how much more of a brute could one strive to be?
Spot was no better, she decided. On his blind itinerary to excommunicate the Harlem brood from the state, he was merely insuring the demise of others! She couldn't believe how obstinate each were being? Why couldn't they simply make amends like civil young men instead of adopting the personality flaws of bitter diplomats? And what had led to their pledge of hatred in the first case?
These questions scurried through her mind like creatures set loose and try as she did, she could not tame any one into a solution. She combed her hands through her raven black tresses of hair in thought. Spot had acted so foully towards her last night at the meeting with Manhattan. And for what? To prove that he would always sit at the top of the street rat hierarchy even when the strongly opinionated dared question his beliefs? If anything, he probably could benefit from fresher ideas, ideas that would wash away the angst he so often clung to.
Her eyes scanned the room and fell upon Runner's calendar, a heap of papers bound together by a red vinyl binding. Calendars as such were rather costly, which is why she had been curious to know as to how the boy had acquired it in the first place. December 19th stood out amongst the rest, highlighted with a brilliant star that seemed to jump from the paper and beg for attention. It was a day away.
How ironic, she thought. Had Runner known all along what day Brooklyn and Harlem would march into battle? Had he predicted it long ago? She had her doubts, but they weren't sprung from her disbelief in the boy's possible gift of premonitions, but rather from Spot's earlier outrage over Runner having made the date so obvious, as if it was anyone else's business what had happened on that day.
Naturally, that fury was but a temper-tantrum when compared to the anger Spot felt upon returning to the Brooklyn lodging house last night after the meeting only to find that Runner was missing from his bedroom. For hours, he had ordered his boys to search all over the borough for the boy, braving the darkness if only for his cousin's sake. But Runner hadn't turned up anywhere. Things just kept rolling downhill.
Rosary actually pitied the Brooklyn leader. He had seemed astray, as if he was at a loss...as if he didn't know what to do. They exchanged no words when they retired for sleep. Spot was too busy fueling his revulsion for Marcello; Rosary too busy wondering why Spot was never too quick to reveal the emotions that stirred life, those of love, concern, and empathy.
She brushed the matter aside. Desperate times called for desperate prayers, and this morning she prayed that all those involved in tomorrow's fiasco would not be harmed any more than they needed to. In fact, she hoped they wouldn't be harmed at all, but she realized that was perhaps too much to ask for.
She reached into her pocket and took out a silver rosary which she cradled in the bed of her palms. The charm's beaded chain intertwined with her fingers, tightly holding them together much as its power held the pieces of her heart intact. The door to the room swung open then; she raised her head to the sound and watched as Spot entered in, his eyes set in a blaze. It didn't take much to see he was still in tart moods.
"What are you doing?" he asked, not really caring whether she answered or not. He just needed to spill out words to keep his mind off the realities presently at hand.
Rosary kept her gaze on him as he pulled up a chair to her bedside and plopped down onto it. His eyes captivated her; they were like precious sapphires with an innocence turned hard. The irises of an angel now fallen. They always managed to control her somehow. "You care very much for your cousin, don't you?"
Spot was caught off guard. He hadn't expected her to raise such an inquiry and it clearly showed in the way he tried to avoid answering directly. "Whaddya talkin' about? I'se treat 'im just like I treat all me other boys. If one of 'em was missin' and gone, I'd send all a' Brooklyn tah look fer 'im too."
"You needn't deny it, Spot. I'm aware that it would make you appear weak as a leader, especially a leader so respected throughout New York. But I'm not going to let your little secret get out; you can tell me. I actually find it admirable that you watch after him as an older brother."
"He's me cousin. I kinda have tah; I'se owe it tah 'im." His face darkened at the recollection of something. "Anyways, ya didn't answer me question. What is youse doin' heah by yaself, instead of bein' wid Cherry and Patches and gossiping 'bout whatever it is youse goils gossip 'bout."
"Actually," she replied, "I was in the middle of praying."
"Prayin'? Prayin' fer what?"
She managed a small smile. "Just that everything works out tomorrow, that there won't be any need for too much violence. That you and Marcello and all the others will be kept safe. Basically, that everything turns out well. I know it might sound naïve given the nature of the matter, but there's always room for optimism in life."
"Yea, sure. Whatever ya say." He rolled his eyes. It figured that this girl who he already could not stand as it was would only worsen things were her fluffy speeches about hope and 'peace on earth'. When would people grow up and live in the real world? "In case ya haven't noticed, sweetheart, we'se aint exactly preparin' tah go on some happy-go-lucky gatherin'. This is the real deal; I'se had boys lose their lives in fights like these."
"Don't you think I understand that? Don't you think that's why I'm praying in the first place?"
He grew annoyed and shook his head as if he didn't think she understood at all! "D'ya think youse sittin' in bed talkin' tah someone who don't even listen tah the people who really need Him is gunna make any difference? Are youse expectin' some damn angel tah fly down and keep us from killin' each other?"
"Life isn't going to be a picnic when you start believing," she replied, surprisingly calm for someone who had just been offended. "There are still countless trials that await you in life, but they're there for the purpose of revitalizing your faith."
Spot's mouth had been opened to begin protesting but once the girl had finished her rebuttal, he paused in contemplation. He had never though of things in that sense, as having to conquer tribulations to grow stronger in faith, but even so, a little help was in due order from now and again. Surely he wasn't meant to go through life all on his own battling with fate, for it certainly seemed as if on occasion the help he would otherwise ask for wouldn't even come if he begged!
Rosary rested her hand onto Spot's arm and looked deeply into his eyes, trying to connect with him. "Ours is a rough life. We go day by day not knowing whether we're going to have enough to eat for dinner, unsure whether we'll make it home safely after a day's work. Faith can help you pull through."
"So can street-smarts," he threw back. "Why do I need faith when hating everybody that turns scab on me suits me just fine? Ya don't understand, goil. Sometimes just bein' angry at the woild helps ya fight against it."
"So can believing, especially when it's the only thing you have left." She turned her body so that she was completely facing him. The air in the room was suffocating all of a sudden, but she couldn't pull away now. She couldn't abandon the conversation now that she and the Brooklyn leader had at least ceased in barking at each other like siblings. "Even the toughest of people find themselves searching for something more, Spot."
Their gazes locked and he found himself entranced by her words. Was he so concerned with his reputation that he'd miss out on something greater?
The sweet scent of her skin drifted to his senses and he felt something awaken by the aroma. He moved from his chair onto the bed next to her and sat like that for what could have been hours. Time passed unnoticed when he was in her presence like this...simply awed by who and what she was.
Rosary hesitated at being so close to Spot. She couldn't let herself drown in his devious seductions, couldn't let herself become yet another dame fallen prey to the womanizer that the leader was. She'd seen how he had treated such girls before, and she wasn't looking forward to joining their ranks. She also didn't fancy being considered a traitor in her family's eyes.
Then again...she was drawn to him in unexplainable ways. True, sometimes he was an obnoxious jackass with an ego ever-inflating. True, he had a temper that was detestable and just as well, terrifying. But truer it was that she had fallen for him nonetheless, that she had overlooked his flaws and seen him for the person he had never shown to others for fear that they would think him pathetic.
Spot didn't know what was overcoming him but Rosary's soothing words were like enchanted melodies that could discipline any wild beast, and they had done the like to him. He found that he didn't want to live up to his name when he was with her. She was different from others in that she wouldn't criticize him if he refused to be Brooklyn and instead chose to simply be Spot Conlon.
He leaned in closer to her, his heart beat quickening as he did so. Would she reject him again as she had done at Medda's? There was only one way to find out. He furthered his intentions; the adrenaline was surging within the both of them. But just as Spot's lips were to brush against Rosary's, the girl turned her head with a frown.
"Spot," she whispered. Her eyes were glassy, water stretching across their surface and unwilling to be shed as tears. "I...I can't do this with you."
Frustration snapped in his eyes, but he withheld it. "Why not?"
"It wouldn't be right. We're two different people, Spot. We weren't meant to...to be like this. I'm from Harlem and you're from Brooklyn and the two do not mix at all. It would cause too many conflicts if we did. I apologize, but I just can't."
"Rosary..." His face was taught; he couldn't comprehend her reasoning. "Why do youse stay loyal tah someone like ya bruddah, knowin' the type of person he is? Marcello's moidered people, Rosary, for no reason whatsoever. D'ya really wanna stay at 'is side, even after all that?"
She, herself, wasn't sure why she continued to defend Marcello. Perhaps she was merely making excuses now. "I wish you the best of luck tomorrow, Spot. I honestly do." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then rose to her feet even quicker. "I'm truly sorry, but we can't be more than this. I wish we could, but it's not meant to be."
Holding out her hand, she presented him with the rosary she had earlier been praying over and he accepted it indifferently. "You may need this more than I do tomorrow, for good blessings." Then she turned away, and disappeared out the door.
Spot looked down at the piece of jewelry the girl had given him and smiled wryly. Even then he knew that he would always remember December 19th as the day when Brooklyn needed a rosary. His borough needed hope, and he...he needed the girl who had taught him a valuable lesson about life.
~*~*~*~*~
"Patrick...darling..."
The woman smiled down at her only son and caressed his cheek with a small, frail hand. The boy, in turn, returned the smile and beamed with pride at having won her affection. He had just gotten an 'A+' on an exam. Only his first week of school and he was already performing excellently. The teachers were already predicting the wonderful future the boy would have.
- - - - - - -
"Patrick Thomas Conlon is among the highest ranking students in this entire school! At the rate he's going, he has a chance at valedictorian in his senior year!"
- - - - - - -
Andrew pulled his younger cousin out into a secluded area of the courtyard where they wouldn't be as noticed by administrators or fellow classmates and unclenched his fingers to reveal a pocket knife in his hand. He pulled the blade back, all the while laughing, and nodded to a tree that was before them with a smirk.
"Let's leave our mark on Trinity Prep, shall we?" And then ever so meticulously, he brought the blade's point to the bark of the tree and began carving his initials into the wood. 'M.A.C.' Merryll Andrew Conlon. Then he handed over the knife to his cousin.
The younger of the two stared at the object and grinned. Merryll always had to detach from the conforming masses at their high school, and he supposed this was merely another way of doing it. So as before, he would always follow along. He spent the next few minutes carving in his own initials. 'P.T.C.' Patrick Thomas Conlon.
- - - - - - -
Three months later, the two cousins were on the run. "They've got nothing against us," Merryll had said, "but I'll be damned if I'm going to stay in that hellhole another day! Be a stuck-up little scholar all you want, Patrick. Try to make friends with that bastard Steven-because you know he's the one that set us up! Do you realize what everyone's going to think when we step foot back on that campus? That we actually were getting high on that shit-load of drugs stashed in our room! But screw that; I'm done with this life. I want a life of my own."
Patrick's eyes were wide with fear, but he admired Merryll, he looked up to the elder, and so he followed after.
- - - - - - -
"Heya Spot," Flame greeted as he spit shook with the new leader of Brooklyn. "Quite a show youse put on a few days ago, challengin' Baker, and then winnin' ya title as leadah. Allow me tah introduce meself. I'se in charge of Queens; ya ever have a problem, know ya allies, huh?"
A week before Christmas, he returned with a calendar. Spot wasn't at his usual throne of crates, but his younger cousin was. Flame approached the boy with a wide grin and held the calendar out to him. "Heya Patrick, still woikin' on that newsie name?"
"I rather be called by the name I already have."
Flame shrugged. "Sure, whatever. Listen, I'se had a few extras of these so I'se was givin' 'em out tah the boys in Manhattan. Want one?"
- - - - - - -
Patrick sat in the room he shared with his older cousin and stared at the wall in front of him for lack of better things to do. He wasn't like Spot in that he could easily socialize with the others. He missed his education, his home, and most of all he missed his family. Sometimes when he and Spot would pass into Manhattan, he would catch a glimpse of his mother handing out food to the children all over the city, but Spot would always drag him along so as not to be seen.
He wanted to tell his mother that he was all right, that he was living with Spot now on their own and that, though they were riff raffs making a dime here and there, he still loved her, and one day hoped to reunite with her. At least once Spot was ready.
He looked down at the calendar Flamed had given him. It started in the upcoming month of January. Letting out a sigh of longing, he brought a pencil to the bottom of the calendar's frame and wrote out his initials. 'P.T.C.'
- - - - - - -
He had been trampling through the snow all day, hiding behind looming edifices that reached upwards like monsters reminding him of his dastardly doings. The snow was making his trek a laborious one; Spot was already a few yards up ahead. They were going to St. John's Cathedral; Patrick had finally convinced Spot to let him visit his mother just once before Christmas.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. There was a muffled noise, and then men shouting as if ordering about slaves. Spot tried to pull Patrick into an alley to keep him from danger, but the younger cousin pulled out of his grip and dashed to the source of the noise just in time to see a man pull a trigger...
The gunshot would forever sound in his heart. He fell to his knees where before him the snow was steadily changed to red.
- - - - - - -
*'P.T.C' ..."I don't want that name anymore, you hear me? I hate it! I hate it! I don't want it!" He upturned the desk in Spot's room and tore the first three months of Flame's calendar to shreds. "I hate it! I hate it! I don't even want to remember it again! Don't ever call me by that name again!"*
*"Patrick...darling...."*
*The 'white beauties' fell everywhere. That's what she use to call the snow...'white beauties'. He was entranced with them as they descended, hoping perhaps his mother would love to build a snowman this year.*
*He changed his name to Lucas; it was his father's name. He thought it suited him better than the name by which his mother called him. It wasn't filled with bitter memories at least.*
*His face was dirtied with tears, blood, and a loss of incorruptibility. His body convulsed once and then he fell limp to the ground. "Warm the boy," he heard someone shout from afar. "The cold is getting to him!" The cold? He remembered thinking the cops were idiots.*
*"Patrick! Patrick!" Spot had materialized out of nowhere. He took Patrick into his arms and shook him vigorously. This carried on for weeks afterwards. Patrick would speak to no one; he would stay isolated on his bed, gazing at nothing. He might as well had been a mere sculpture. There were fits of utter embroilment only twice, and then bothersome silence.*
*"I hate that name! I hate that name! Damnit, why'd she have to go? Why!? What did she ever do to anyone! I hate that damn name!"*
*The Brooklyn newsies gathered all around his bed while a doctor sat at the mattress's edge, examining the boy before him. Patrick's skin had gone completely pale, his cheeks and lips lacked color, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was trembling as if going through a seizure; three Brooklyn boys had to restrain him from harming himself or the others.*
*"Is he going to make it?" No one knew.*
*It was early February. Patrick had since adopted the name Lucas as his own, but had only declared it in one of his rantings about the injustices of a society laden with evils. Now he had retreated back onto his cavernous mind of indifference. God, he wanted to die.
Spot came to him that same day. His green-blue eyes were inwardly sobbing. "Lucas," he whispered. "I'm sorry..."*
- - - - - - -
Runner nearly shrieked when he came to a rude awakening from the nightmare that had haunted him that morning. The boys who were suppose to be guarding him were fast asleep, but he assumed Marcello was wide awake downstairs. Escape would prove futile, and fatal. Surprisingly enough, the Harlem leader had held back on the punishment so far. Perhaps he was having a change of heart.
Runner pressed his hand against the pane of a nearby window and wiped away the frost so that he could see the city below him. Harlem looked like the peaceful city of a snow globe...white masses, like blankets of cotton, were accumulating on the streets and walks. Overhead, the midnight skies were mysterious, a black satin dress ornamented with sparkling sequins.
'White beauties.'
Weariness came upon him then, his eyelids becoming heavy. Sleep beckoned. But just before he was to retire, it suddenly hit him more viciously than an ambush from all sides. It was December 19th! He would have collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion, but the realization of what today represented caused him to pass out into unconsciousness right there.
~*~*~*~*~
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