Author's note: Just wanted to thank Iris and Jenny for their feedback; it
was greatly appreciated. So thanks guys! I hope everybody likes this part
(if not, let me know and I'll see what I can do). Enjoy! Oh, and if anyone
knows how to get rid of that irritating 1 following the title (on the intro
page), please let me know.
New York had never known such a hot, dusty summer. It seemed as though the merciless sun had caused all of the water and life of the city to simply vanish. A feverish, dry wind occasionally whipped across the streets but it brought no relief from the unbearable sun; in fact, it only seemed to increase the heat. Even at night, it was still far too warm to come close to any sort of comfort. Those who had the means immediately raced to their elegant, massive summer homes in the mountains and by a crystal lake at the first sign of unpleasant weather. Everyone else was forced to stay and simply had to wait for rain.
Specs pushed his cap up just slightly and wiped away the perspiration gathered at his forehead with the back of his hand. Night was just beginning to fall and he wondered how in the world was he going to sell his last three papers. No one seemed inclined to read about the affairs of Washington in this weather. He didn't blame them, however; who needed that extra aggravation?
Out of the corner of his eye, the newsie glanced at a cart selling ice-cold lemonades to young children dressed in spotless sailor suits and accompanied by no-nonsense, cold (even in this weather) nannies in dresses of various shades of gray. Man, for jus' one of dose... he thought as he gazed at the refreshing drink, and then shook his head. Not befoah ya sell dese papes.
"Lightnin' strikes da Statue of Libahty!" he called to those passing by and prayed that someone would give a damn about the 'slightly improved' article on page nine. "Panic and chaos at da famous monument!"
"Face it, Specs, ya're gonna be eatin' dose papes tahnight," a familiar, frank voice responded to his cries. Shadow strolled up to the tall boy and leaned against a nearby wall. He rolled his eyes.
"T'anks so much for da vote of confidence."
Shrugging indifferently, the dark-haired girl whose red highlights were particularly evident in this sunlight skimmed through one of her last newspapers. "Ya might as well get used ta da truth. Oddahwise ya start believin' in t'ings dat ain't nevah gonna happen. And ya ain't gonna sell dose papes by tahnight, it's jus' da way t'ings are."
"Yeah, but da truth is dat I'm gonna sell my last papes," Specs replied boastfully.
Shadow's frown deepened when the newsie sold another copy to a wealthy young man not a minute later.
Puffing up proudly, he turned to the dark-haired girl and grinned. "So, whadda ya say ta dat, Miss Doubtin' My Excellent Abilities?"
"I say," she replied dryly as she checked her nails for the usual ink and grim, "dat da people of New Yawk are gettin' way too gullible dese days." She cast the figure of the retreating wealthy boy a withering glance before returning her usual, serious and enigmatic statement back to Specs.
"Eiddah way, I'm not eatin' any papes tahnight," he replied somewhat arrogantly and even more teasingly. Then he nodded down the block, saying, "Hey, let's try and sell dese last ones on our way ta Tibby's. I'm about ready ta eat my own hat."
Shadow smiled despite herself as she followed the newsie, thinking that Specs would be barely recognizable without the cap he always donned. It would be like Spot without his cane, Race without a cigar, and Jack without his infamous cowboy hat. Of course, there had been that one time during the strike when Jack had turned into a scab (the very mental image of Jack dressed in scab garb still made the majority of newsies sick to their stomachs) that he had been without his hat. The newsgirl thought back to that day, with the cries of "Stop the World! No more papes!" echoing in her ears and the heat seemingly almost as unbearable as it was today, and recalled that she hadn't been as shocked as her fellow strikers to see Jack on the other side of the line. Several of the boys had attempted to charge their former leader, but Shadow had merely stayed to the back of the crowd and regarded Jack with cool, calm eyes. It was as though she had been expecting it all along, as though she expected everyone to disappoint her eventually. It was a simple fact of life for Shadow, just as truthful as the facts that the Delancy brothers stunk and that improving the headlines sold more papes than merely using those created by the over-paid World writers were.
Everyone hurt you eventually; it didn't matter whether it was accidental or intentional. It still happened.
Just as Specs and Shadow were about to turn a corner, the girl caught sight of a policeman several blocks away and in the midst of a crowd of denizens. As always when she saw an officer, her cheeks paled slightly and her eyes widened like a deer's as it stared down the barrel of a rifle. She grabbed Specs' arm. "Come on," she muttered and bolted around the corner, practically dragging him for three blocks before he yanked his arm away from her death grip.
"What's wid ya?" he demanded, staring at the girl as though she were severely mentally disturbed. Of course, he reminded himself, this was Shadow he was talking about. No one really knew anything about her and even less people understood the meaning behind the majority of her actions.
She glanced behind to make certain that the cop hadn't trailed behind (despite the fact that the man, with his pot belly and stubby legs, had seemed unable to race very fast or very far anywhere). "Not'ing," she murmured and didn't feel the need to explain further.
Specs shrugged, used to such behavior, and began strolling down the sidewalk as though nothing had happened. He waved a newspaper at arm's length above his head and shouted about an article on page seven, which was actually about the political stances of the Progressives and the Republicans, but which the newsie proclaimed to be about a brawl between two well-known, elderly politicians.
"Blood in da Senate! Fists flyin' in Congress!"
As she followed Specs, Shadow found herself lost in thought. The sight of a policeman always induced a rat-like chill in the girl's spine, despite the fact that she made very certain that she was never in any trouble with the cops of New York City. While other newsies gambled, occasionally swiped a pear from a street cart while a vendor's back was turned, or practically threw themselves into fights with scabs, Shadow preferred to stay on the fringe of such activities. Sure, that frigid night had occurred several years ago; the Chicago police had most likely ceased their search for her, and the New York bulls probably cared even less about her whereabouts. Despite this, however, she was still unable to glance at a policeman or politician without feeling her throat close up for a split second. Forget it, she told herself as she and Specs (amazingly) sold their last few papers and strolled to meet their fellow newsies at Tibby's. No one's gonna find ya. It happened years ago; nobody gives a damn about some long-since dead politician, especially now dat Teddy Roosevelt has his eye on da Presidency. Ya're safe, just as long as ya don't get inta any unnecessary trouble. Ya got off scott-free, Shadow, so jus' quit worryin' about it.
She would later recall those as her famous last words.
*****
A tall man with a body that still retained some of the athletic grace it had possessed in its college days sat calmly in the nearly empty train car and scanned the sports section of a Chicago newspaper as though it were any other day and any other journey. He mentally cursed the weather and the perspiration which was beginning to gather under his formerly well-ironed gray suit. His hair, which had once been thick and the color of dark honey, was turning scant and light as a result of age and years of frustration. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth were now apparent to even the less keen of observers. And yet, despite the seemingly endless months of fruitless searching, Joseph Sarmons was beginning to feel a youthful anticipation bubbling in his veins.
Three years, he reminded himself for the thousandth time that day, three long years finally coming to an end.
The case of the mysteriously murmured Senator Bainsworth had haunted the detective for years. It seemed as though the killer had vanished into thin air. While other police officers told him that the identity of the murderer was to remain forever an enigma, Detective Sarmons refused to believe them. I always find my man, was his motto, along with, By any means necessary. He would not allow a killer to run free, no matter how long it took him to track the fiend down.
And it had taken him years. No one seemed to have the slightest clue even as to why the senator would have even been at his summer home in the middle of winter. This case, with its constant dead ends and unreliable witnesses, had driven Sarmons to near insanity.
Yet, after years of tireless efforts, he had finally discovered the identity of the killer.
A young girl named Lucia Navar.
And she was somewhere in New York City.
"Last stop, Manhattan!" the booming voice of the conductor echoed throughout the car, causing the detective's lips to curve into a nearly unnoticeable, slightly maniacal grin.
*****
At Tibby's, there was the usual throng of newsboys and newsgirls, all chattering, laughing, and boasting about the sales of the day (highly exaggerated versions, naturally, and the most far-fetched stories coming from a corner of the room where Pocket was declaring how she had sold forty papers to a gaggle of nuns). As soon as Specs and Shadow stepped into the restaurant, they could clearly hear Racetrack moaning about his losses at the track.
"Nevah trust a Fifty-Eighth Street factory kid about da hoises. Gotta listen ta da Harlem kids." Cole and Kid Blink were getting friendly in a booth, and Twink was clutching her stomach as she pretended t retch at the sight. Jack, Violet, Painter, and Swifty were making plans to visit the lodging house in the Bronx later that week. Sam, Tibby's infamous waiter whom everyone knew secretly longed to act on Broadway, was serving Les and a few of the younger newsies plates of hotdogs and cups of sarsaparilla.
"Man, am I stawved," Specs remarked loudly as he and Shadow slid into two uncomfortable chairs positioned around a long table. "At least ain't plannin' on eatin' any papes tahnight."
"Quit braggin'," Twink shot back with venom dripping from her tongue. The girl flipped her long, tangled tresses over her shoulder and, rolling her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest.
"Bad day, shorty?" was what Specs, a teasing grin already plastered on his lips, had intended to say. He actually only got out, "Bad day," when he was whacked over the back of the head by Violet and Bumlets. Shadow merely eyed the boy with her common detached, mysterious statement which left one to wonder about just what the girl was thinking of.
Specs' eyes widened and he threw up his hands in confusion and irritation. "What?" he demanded, looking to his two attackers- who shook their heads in wordless rebuke- and then resting his gaze on Shadow. "What'd I do?"
She studied him silently for a moment (Specs guessed to either gather her thoughts or for the mere dramatic effect). "No maddah what, everybody has da lone wolf instinct," she murmured, so low that even Specs could catch her words over the din. But the boy knew very well that even if he had heard Shadow, she wouldn't have continued to explain herself any further; so instead of pursuing the matter, he ordered a roast beef sandwich and a sarsaparilla.
As she gazed around the room, Shadow contemplated her own remark. Everybody leaves or screws ya ovah eventu'lly, and dat's dat, she sighed silently and began to recall years ago, when she had barely been big enough to carry a paper, let alone sell it. When she had lived (or if you could call a life like that living; when she really thought about it- something she'd prefer not to do- she knew that under those terms, she hadn't done much living during her seventeen years) in the Bronx, was called Lucia, and stayed huddled in shadowy corners of the tenement (where she could not be seen from much of a distance) without fear of the rats or roaches which freely and frequently stalked the room. What she actually feared were the empty bottles of hard liquor strewn over the dusty floor, their aroma still potent even after several days. They were weapons if she ever saw one. The drink alone- whiskey, brandy, anything and everything- would turn her father, Ram, into a raging maniac, his eyes bloodshot and his voice so loud it threatened to shatter the entire building. She wished it had shattered all the bottles of alcohol everywhere. But then her father could simply use the shards of glass to cut her, which he sometimes did if she managed to get in his way or make any sort of irritating noise or even breathe. Shadow still bore several scars, marks that ran through her skin and into something far more complex and fragile. Lucia learned at a very young age to stay silently and hidden, like a shadow.
Her mother hadn't been any better. Maybe I could have taken it if she had done somet'ing, anyt'ing ta help, Shadow mused without allowing herself to feel any emotion at the thought, in fear that tears would pool in her eyes right in front of everyone at Tibby's. But she couldn't stop herself from thinking of her mother.
She recalled her mother's dark hair, the same as Shadow's own. And yet it wasn't the same. Her mother, Carmen, had been forced to cut her locks very short as a result of an accident at the factory where she worked. When she was younger, Lucia often wondered if her hair had been where her emotions resided, and why her mother always seemed elsewhere in every sense of the word. But now she had to admit that her mother had always been that way, even when Lucia had been in the cradle. Carmen was always sitting somewhere, silently smoking a steady stream of cigarettes and gulping down quarts of cheap gin.
Shadow didn't recollect how she had decided to run away. Maybe it had been a headline shouted at the top of some Bronx newsie's lungs: 'Son ta millionaire attempts ta run away ta join a travelin' band of acrobats!' Or maybe it came to her as she left the tenement building one day, wishing never to return and finally decided to make that wish come true. Or perhaps it had always been in the back of her mind, something she had been born with and took a while to realize. Whatever the reason, Lucia had found herself on the unkind streets of New York City by the time she was seven years old.
I must've looked like some kinda animal, she thought and absently took a sip of her sarsaparilla, wid my dark, tangled hair and my torn, dirty clothin' and dat wild look in my eyes like I woulda ripped apart anybody who tried ta mess wid me.
The ghost of a gunshot blasted through her mind.
T'ink about somet'ing else, anyt'ing else, Shadow said to herself, feeling as though she could vomit up the stale bread and week coffee from that morning. But memories forced themselves upon her. Street cornahs, guys ya nevah knew, cold hands along your skin, sick smells, emptiness.
"Hey, Shadow," a small voice greeted uncertainly, and Shadow was thrown out of her memories to see Ivy take a seat beside her. Crutchy was moving to sit next to Specs, and the two were already in a deep conversation concerning which of the day's headlines had been the best to improve (Specs was declaring it had been an article about a golf tournament in Long Island, while Crutchy held out for one concerning the mayor's heart condition). "Are you all right?"
Her heart still pounding loud enough to be heart in parts of Connecticut, Shadow nodded with a perfectly calm statement and was silently but extremely thankful that Ivy had come along when she did. "Yeah, I'm fine."
To be continued…please review!
New York had never known such a hot, dusty summer. It seemed as though the merciless sun had caused all of the water and life of the city to simply vanish. A feverish, dry wind occasionally whipped across the streets but it brought no relief from the unbearable sun; in fact, it only seemed to increase the heat. Even at night, it was still far too warm to come close to any sort of comfort. Those who had the means immediately raced to their elegant, massive summer homes in the mountains and by a crystal lake at the first sign of unpleasant weather. Everyone else was forced to stay and simply had to wait for rain.
Specs pushed his cap up just slightly and wiped away the perspiration gathered at his forehead with the back of his hand. Night was just beginning to fall and he wondered how in the world was he going to sell his last three papers. No one seemed inclined to read about the affairs of Washington in this weather. He didn't blame them, however; who needed that extra aggravation?
Out of the corner of his eye, the newsie glanced at a cart selling ice-cold lemonades to young children dressed in spotless sailor suits and accompanied by no-nonsense, cold (even in this weather) nannies in dresses of various shades of gray. Man, for jus' one of dose... he thought as he gazed at the refreshing drink, and then shook his head. Not befoah ya sell dese papes.
"Lightnin' strikes da Statue of Libahty!" he called to those passing by and prayed that someone would give a damn about the 'slightly improved' article on page nine. "Panic and chaos at da famous monument!"
"Face it, Specs, ya're gonna be eatin' dose papes tahnight," a familiar, frank voice responded to his cries. Shadow strolled up to the tall boy and leaned against a nearby wall. He rolled his eyes.
"T'anks so much for da vote of confidence."
Shrugging indifferently, the dark-haired girl whose red highlights were particularly evident in this sunlight skimmed through one of her last newspapers. "Ya might as well get used ta da truth. Oddahwise ya start believin' in t'ings dat ain't nevah gonna happen. And ya ain't gonna sell dose papes by tahnight, it's jus' da way t'ings are."
"Yeah, but da truth is dat I'm gonna sell my last papes," Specs replied boastfully.
Shadow's frown deepened when the newsie sold another copy to a wealthy young man not a minute later.
Puffing up proudly, he turned to the dark-haired girl and grinned. "So, whadda ya say ta dat, Miss Doubtin' My Excellent Abilities?"
"I say," she replied dryly as she checked her nails for the usual ink and grim, "dat da people of New Yawk are gettin' way too gullible dese days." She cast the figure of the retreating wealthy boy a withering glance before returning her usual, serious and enigmatic statement back to Specs.
"Eiddah way, I'm not eatin' any papes tahnight," he replied somewhat arrogantly and even more teasingly. Then he nodded down the block, saying, "Hey, let's try and sell dese last ones on our way ta Tibby's. I'm about ready ta eat my own hat."
Shadow smiled despite herself as she followed the newsie, thinking that Specs would be barely recognizable without the cap he always donned. It would be like Spot without his cane, Race without a cigar, and Jack without his infamous cowboy hat. Of course, there had been that one time during the strike when Jack had turned into a scab (the very mental image of Jack dressed in scab garb still made the majority of newsies sick to their stomachs) that he had been without his hat. The newsgirl thought back to that day, with the cries of "Stop the World! No more papes!" echoing in her ears and the heat seemingly almost as unbearable as it was today, and recalled that she hadn't been as shocked as her fellow strikers to see Jack on the other side of the line. Several of the boys had attempted to charge their former leader, but Shadow had merely stayed to the back of the crowd and regarded Jack with cool, calm eyes. It was as though she had been expecting it all along, as though she expected everyone to disappoint her eventually. It was a simple fact of life for Shadow, just as truthful as the facts that the Delancy brothers stunk and that improving the headlines sold more papes than merely using those created by the over-paid World writers were.
Everyone hurt you eventually; it didn't matter whether it was accidental or intentional. It still happened.
Just as Specs and Shadow were about to turn a corner, the girl caught sight of a policeman several blocks away and in the midst of a crowd of denizens. As always when she saw an officer, her cheeks paled slightly and her eyes widened like a deer's as it stared down the barrel of a rifle. She grabbed Specs' arm. "Come on," she muttered and bolted around the corner, practically dragging him for three blocks before he yanked his arm away from her death grip.
"What's wid ya?" he demanded, staring at the girl as though she were severely mentally disturbed. Of course, he reminded himself, this was Shadow he was talking about. No one really knew anything about her and even less people understood the meaning behind the majority of her actions.
She glanced behind to make certain that the cop hadn't trailed behind (despite the fact that the man, with his pot belly and stubby legs, had seemed unable to race very fast or very far anywhere). "Not'ing," she murmured and didn't feel the need to explain further.
Specs shrugged, used to such behavior, and began strolling down the sidewalk as though nothing had happened. He waved a newspaper at arm's length above his head and shouted about an article on page seven, which was actually about the political stances of the Progressives and the Republicans, but which the newsie proclaimed to be about a brawl between two well-known, elderly politicians.
"Blood in da Senate! Fists flyin' in Congress!"
As she followed Specs, Shadow found herself lost in thought. The sight of a policeman always induced a rat-like chill in the girl's spine, despite the fact that she made very certain that she was never in any trouble with the cops of New York City. While other newsies gambled, occasionally swiped a pear from a street cart while a vendor's back was turned, or practically threw themselves into fights with scabs, Shadow preferred to stay on the fringe of such activities. Sure, that frigid night had occurred several years ago; the Chicago police had most likely ceased their search for her, and the New York bulls probably cared even less about her whereabouts. Despite this, however, she was still unable to glance at a policeman or politician without feeling her throat close up for a split second. Forget it, she told herself as she and Specs (amazingly) sold their last few papers and strolled to meet their fellow newsies at Tibby's. No one's gonna find ya. It happened years ago; nobody gives a damn about some long-since dead politician, especially now dat Teddy Roosevelt has his eye on da Presidency. Ya're safe, just as long as ya don't get inta any unnecessary trouble. Ya got off scott-free, Shadow, so jus' quit worryin' about it.
She would later recall those as her famous last words.
*****
A tall man with a body that still retained some of the athletic grace it had possessed in its college days sat calmly in the nearly empty train car and scanned the sports section of a Chicago newspaper as though it were any other day and any other journey. He mentally cursed the weather and the perspiration which was beginning to gather under his formerly well-ironed gray suit. His hair, which had once been thick and the color of dark honey, was turning scant and light as a result of age and years of frustration. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth were now apparent to even the less keen of observers. And yet, despite the seemingly endless months of fruitless searching, Joseph Sarmons was beginning to feel a youthful anticipation bubbling in his veins.
Three years, he reminded himself for the thousandth time that day, three long years finally coming to an end.
The case of the mysteriously murmured Senator Bainsworth had haunted the detective for years. It seemed as though the killer had vanished into thin air. While other police officers told him that the identity of the murderer was to remain forever an enigma, Detective Sarmons refused to believe them. I always find my man, was his motto, along with, By any means necessary. He would not allow a killer to run free, no matter how long it took him to track the fiend down.
And it had taken him years. No one seemed to have the slightest clue even as to why the senator would have even been at his summer home in the middle of winter. This case, with its constant dead ends and unreliable witnesses, had driven Sarmons to near insanity.
Yet, after years of tireless efforts, he had finally discovered the identity of the killer.
A young girl named Lucia Navar.
And she was somewhere in New York City.
"Last stop, Manhattan!" the booming voice of the conductor echoed throughout the car, causing the detective's lips to curve into a nearly unnoticeable, slightly maniacal grin.
*****
At Tibby's, there was the usual throng of newsboys and newsgirls, all chattering, laughing, and boasting about the sales of the day (highly exaggerated versions, naturally, and the most far-fetched stories coming from a corner of the room where Pocket was declaring how she had sold forty papers to a gaggle of nuns). As soon as Specs and Shadow stepped into the restaurant, they could clearly hear Racetrack moaning about his losses at the track.
"Nevah trust a Fifty-Eighth Street factory kid about da hoises. Gotta listen ta da Harlem kids." Cole and Kid Blink were getting friendly in a booth, and Twink was clutching her stomach as she pretended t retch at the sight. Jack, Violet, Painter, and Swifty were making plans to visit the lodging house in the Bronx later that week. Sam, Tibby's infamous waiter whom everyone knew secretly longed to act on Broadway, was serving Les and a few of the younger newsies plates of hotdogs and cups of sarsaparilla.
"Man, am I stawved," Specs remarked loudly as he and Shadow slid into two uncomfortable chairs positioned around a long table. "At least ain't plannin' on eatin' any papes tahnight."
"Quit braggin'," Twink shot back with venom dripping from her tongue. The girl flipped her long, tangled tresses over her shoulder and, rolling her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest.
"Bad day, shorty?" was what Specs, a teasing grin already plastered on his lips, had intended to say. He actually only got out, "Bad day," when he was whacked over the back of the head by Violet and Bumlets. Shadow merely eyed the boy with her common detached, mysterious statement which left one to wonder about just what the girl was thinking of.
Specs' eyes widened and he threw up his hands in confusion and irritation. "What?" he demanded, looking to his two attackers- who shook their heads in wordless rebuke- and then resting his gaze on Shadow. "What'd I do?"
She studied him silently for a moment (Specs guessed to either gather her thoughts or for the mere dramatic effect). "No maddah what, everybody has da lone wolf instinct," she murmured, so low that even Specs could catch her words over the din. But the boy knew very well that even if he had heard Shadow, she wouldn't have continued to explain herself any further; so instead of pursuing the matter, he ordered a roast beef sandwich and a sarsaparilla.
As she gazed around the room, Shadow contemplated her own remark. Everybody leaves or screws ya ovah eventu'lly, and dat's dat, she sighed silently and began to recall years ago, when she had barely been big enough to carry a paper, let alone sell it. When she had lived (or if you could call a life like that living; when she really thought about it- something she'd prefer not to do- she knew that under those terms, she hadn't done much living during her seventeen years) in the Bronx, was called Lucia, and stayed huddled in shadowy corners of the tenement (where she could not be seen from much of a distance) without fear of the rats or roaches which freely and frequently stalked the room. What she actually feared were the empty bottles of hard liquor strewn over the dusty floor, their aroma still potent even after several days. They were weapons if she ever saw one. The drink alone- whiskey, brandy, anything and everything- would turn her father, Ram, into a raging maniac, his eyes bloodshot and his voice so loud it threatened to shatter the entire building. She wished it had shattered all the bottles of alcohol everywhere. But then her father could simply use the shards of glass to cut her, which he sometimes did if she managed to get in his way or make any sort of irritating noise or even breathe. Shadow still bore several scars, marks that ran through her skin and into something far more complex and fragile. Lucia learned at a very young age to stay silently and hidden, like a shadow.
Her mother hadn't been any better. Maybe I could have taken it if she had done somet'ing, anyt'ing ta help, Shadow mused without allowing herself to feel any emotion at the thought, in fear that tears would pool in her eyes right in front of everyone at Tibby's. But she couldn't stop herself from thinking of her mother.
She recalled her mother's dark hair, the same as Shadow's own. And yet it wasn't the same. Her mother, Carmen, had been forced to cut her locks very short as a result of an accident at the factory where she worked. When she was younger, Lucia often wondered if her hair had been where her emotions resided, and why her mother always seemed elsewhere in every sense of the word. But now she had to admit that her mother had always been that way, even when Lucia had been in the cradle. Carmen was always sitting somewhere, silently smoking a steady stream of cigarettes and gulping down quarts of cheap gin.
Shadow didn't recollect how she had decided to run away. Maybe it had been a headline shouted at the top of some Bronx newsie's lungs: 'Son ta millionaire attempts ta run away ta join a travelin' band of acrobats!' Or maybe it came to her as she left the tenement building one day, wishing never to return and finally decided to make that wish come true. Or perhaps it had always been in the back of her mind, something she had been born with and took a while to realize. Whatever the reason, Lucia had found herself on the unkind streets of New York City by the time she was seven years old.
I must've looked like some kinda animal, she thought and absently took a sip of her sarsaparilla, wid my dark, tangled hair and my torn, dirty clothin' and dat wild look in my eyes like I woulda ripped apart anybody who tried ta mess wid me.
The ghost of a gunshot blasted through her mind.
T'ink about somet'ing else, anyt'ing else, Shadow said to herself, feeling as though she could vomit up the stale bread and week coffee from that morning. But memories forced themselves upon her. Street cornahs, guys ya nevah knew, cold hands along your skin, sick smells, emptiness.
"Hey, Shadow," a small voice greeted uncertainly, and Shadow was thrown out of her memories to see Ivy take a seat beside her. Crutchy was moving to sit next to Specs, and the two were already in a deep conversation concerning which of the day's headlines had been the best to improve (Specs was declaring it had been an article about a golf tournament in Long Island, while Crutchy held out for one concerning the mayor's heart condition). "Are you all right?"
Her heart still pounding loud enough to be heart in parts of Connecticut, Shadow nodded with a perfectly calm statement and was silently but extremely thankful that Ivy had come along when she did. "Yeah, I'm fine."
To be continued…please review!