Chapter Three
Spot kissed the top of Raindrop's head.
"I'se gonna be back inna week. I'se gonna be back b'fore ya know it. You'se jist woik on gittin' yerself some money. Soon as we kin, I'se takin' ya someplace special." Raindrop smiled, refusing to admit to herself, or anyone else, how much she really would miss Spot.
"You'se kin count on it," she promised. He pulled her close and hugged her. Taking advantage of the chance to talk to her without the other newsies nearby hearing, he turned his head slightly and whispered into her ear.
"An' when I git back yer gonna tawk ta me 'bout what's botherin' ya." He said it firmly, there was no doubt in Raindrop's mind he meant business. Most likely about her parents, she assumed. Raindrop swallowd hard at the thought of them and their brutal murders. She pulled away from Spot and shook her hair behind her shoulders, giving a slight smile.
"Don' be silly, ya know dat da only t'ing botherin' me is missin' you'se."
Spot went through the actions of arrogantly agreeing with her, but it was only a reaction, for show. As he talked he intently studied her.
She's lying, he confirmed. There was no doubt about it. Raindrop was masterfully capable of hiding her emotions from her face, but her feelings betrayed her in other ways. Her breath quickened and she stiffened when she lied. And her eyes. Most people wouldn't see anything in her eyes, but Spot knew what to look for.
They walked down the stairs and out the Manhatten Lodging House. Standing alone in the street Spot looked at Raindrop again.
"Ya shoah nuthin' botherin' ya?" he pressed. Raindrop nodded nochanlantly.
"Coise I'se shoah." Spot's eyes darted to her eyes. She was lying. He looked at her for a moment, wondering how he could convince her to talk to him. At last he shrugged inwardly and decided to talk to Tricks about it. Spot grinned.
"Good," he said, and kissed roughly. He turned and walked down the street. Raindrop smiled to herself.
Spot always acts like dat around people. Like I'se just another girlfriend he's fooling around wit until someone else comes along. But it ain't insulting. I don' t'ink 'e know how much I like it when 'e does dat. She turned around and walked happily back into the Lodging House.
Spot walked back to Brooklyn quickly, and strode through his Lodging House. He pointed at Tricks.
"You," he said, and nodded towards his room. "Now." Tricks dropped his cards on the table he was playing poker at and followed him. Spot was leaning against one of the walls when Tricks walked in. He was handling his cane.
"What?" Tricks asked without thinking. He immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut. Spot seemed like he was in a demanding mood, and asking him questions then could be a very bad idea. Spot ignored his question for a few minutes.
"It's Raindrop," he said finally. "I know she's still real upset 'bout 'er parents dyin', and 'bout 'er bruddah, an' who knows how many uddah t'ings, but I kain't git 'er ta tawk ta me. I keep astin' her what was wrong, an' stuff, but she insists she's fine." Tricks raised an eyebrow.
"So what's da problem?" he asked. Spot's knuckles went white as he gripped his cane harder.
"Da problem," he said dangerously, "Is dat she's lying." Tricks pushed Spot further.
"Are ya shoah?" he questioned. Spot's eyes flashed.
"Ah coise I'se shoah, ya t'ink I don' know what I'se tawkin' 'bout?!" he snapped. Tricks was instantly alert.
"Coise not," he apoligized, "I jist wanted ta make shoah." Spot didn't respond. "Maybe," Tricks suggested tentatively, "Maybe ya should tell 'er ya know." Spot shook his head, as if he were coming out of a daze.
"Yeah. Right. Good idea,' he said absently. Then he gestured to the door. Tricks welcomed the chance to leave and went back to the poker game quickly. Spot rolled onto the lower bunk and thought.
Lotta good tawkin' ta him did. It ain't Trick's fault dough. 'e's jist a newsie, how's 'e supposed ta 'elp me? Maybe Pierre'll know sumpt'in'. 'e's da only poison dat's been able ta 'elp me anyways. But dat's cause da only people dat nevah cared whether I was leadah of Brooklyn was adults. An' 'e's da only one dat's evah bothahed ta listen ta some street rat. He shrugged to himself. Not dat I really care what a bunch of muckety-mucks t'ink. I got da status wheah it counts. Jist, dis t'ing wit Raindrop…I don' like it. Not 't'all.
The next morning Spot got up and sold his papes early. Near one o'clock he walked over to Little Italy. He stood outside the clusters of outdoor tables in front of Pierre's restaurant. Maria, who was serving, saw him and walked over.
"Can I help you?" Spot nodded.
"Yeah Maria. Can ya git yer faddah? I gotta tawk ta him 'bout sumpt'in'." Maria smiled.
"Sure Spot, come with me." She turned around and Spot followed her inside and to the kitchen. Pierre looked up from the sauce he was tasting.
"Benjamen?" he asked, "Is something wrong?" Spot nodded.
"Yeah, der's sumpt'in' kinda bodderin' me." Pierre nodded.
"Alright." He fixed a plate of spaghetti and gestured toward the door. Then he turned back to Maria.
"Could you manage the restaurant while I speak with Benjamen? The cooks will listen to you, and Hattie can manage the tables." Maria nodded and smiled.
"Yes Papa!" Peirre and Spot went up the stairs to Pierre's home above the restaurant. They sat down at the table in small kitchen.
"Well Benjamen, what's wrong?" Pierre asked. Spot sighed and the began talking.
"It's about Raindrop, actually." He laughed to himself. "Seems like she always centers 'round me problems." Pierre grew concerned.
"I know you told me you told her you love her, and she feels the same. Has that changed?" Spot looked up.
"Oh no," he said quickly, "Nuthin' like dat. It's 'bout her bruddah." Pierre nodded.
"He...died, right?" Spot nodded.
"Yeah, her parents too. Da t'ing is, she don't act like it boddahs her." Pierre raised an eyebrow. "She claims she's fine, but when she says dat I know she's lyin'. Pierre, she's got so much..I dunno, hoit inside of 'er, an' she won't tawk about it. I kain't 'elp 'er cause she won't lemme." Pierre nodded.
"I see. I know it must hurt a lot not to be able to help her." Spot ran his hands through his hair.
"Ya have no idea. It hoits jist knowin' she feels woise an' I kan' help. An' ya know I hate bein' lied ta. I ain't mad at 'er fer doin' dat, heck, der ain't no way I evah could git mad at 'er. But I jist don't want 'er sufferin' when I'se ready ta do anyt'in' I kin." Pierre frowned.
"I understand how you feel, but I'm not sure there's really anything you can do. If she insists that she is fine, and refuses to talk about how she feels about something you can't make her. Trying to force her into that will only make things worse. She won't trust you, and will tell you even less." Spot sighed.
"Der has ta be sumpt'in' I kin do." Pierre thought for a moment.
"Let her know you can. Do everything you can to make her feel safe with you. Make sure she knows she can trust you not matter what. But don't push her." Spot nodded slowly.
"Awright, t'anks. Ya know, I, I really 'ppreciate yer listenin' ta me all da time." Pierre smiled.
"And I am quite honored the fearless leader of the Brooklyn newsies comes to me when he needs to talk to someone." Spot grinned and they walked downstairs.