You've Got Me

YOU'VE GOT ME

By Princess MacEaver

Disclaimer: Newsies and all its characters are property of Disney.

CHAPTER ONE: ENTER ALICE

Sometimes I wonder why I even bother selling papers.  Times like this morning, when it's barely light and my eyes are barely open, but here I am, shuffling down Bleeker Street with a stack of papers on my shoulder.  Hardly anybody's even awake this time of day to buy anything.  The only other people on the street are the hot chestnut man at the corner and two policemen harassing a bum a little ways down.  Now let me say right here, I don't like policemen.  After what happened with the strike last year, do any of us newsies anymore?  But as much as I hate the bulls, I'm not about to go make trouble just on account of some bum who picked a stupid place to fall asleep and is getting a bit of a rude awakening.  Until I'm close enough to hear the bum cry out in pain as he gets another sharp kick in the ribs.  And then I can tell that he is actually a she.

So like the moron I am, I run over to her defense.  The whole time I'm thinking, "Skittery, you've got to get over this damsel-in-distress thing," but I really can't help it; I have this thing about guys hitting girls.  Call it my upbringing.  Ha.  Thinking fast and trying to avoid trouble, I quickly concoct a plausible story.

I drop to my knees beside her.  "Alice!" I say—the first name that comes to mind.  "I found ya!"

            The bigger policeman's fat hand lands heavy on my shoulder.  I almost drop my newspapers as he jerks me to my feet.  "What's dis about?" he demands suspiciously, looking me over with his little piggy eyes.

            "You found Alice!" I say, trying to sound joyful though I'd really love to sock him in his fat nose.  "You found me runaway sistah!"

            "Dis is your sistah?" the thin cop asks, giving the girl a look.  Maybe wondering how I could recognize her through the layers of dirt on her face.  She's really a pitiful sight, wearing nothing but some really tattered rags and a filthy blanket, her hair matted on top of her head, dirt coloring her face brown as a Havana cigar.  "Just my luck to get the dirty street rat," I think sourly, but I grit my teeth and keep up the act anyway.

            "A course she is!" I tell the policeman, kneeling back beside the dirtball, setting down my papers, and taking one dirty hand in mine.  "Alice!  Don'tcha remembah me?  It's me, Skittery!"  She just stares at me with these huge blue eyes and doesn't say anything.  Now I'm thinking, "Great, and she's an idiot, too", but then she surprises me.

            "Skittery?" she says softly, in a tone of disbelief, her eyes suddenly coming alive with recognition.  "Me own brudda Skittery?"  Wow.  That's some acting.  For a moment there she has me doubting I was an only child.  Maybe she isn't as thick as I thought.

            The fat policeman snorts and breaks the moment.  "A touching fam'ly reunion we got heah.  Now Mr. Skittery, would you be kind enough to tell your sistah she ain't allowed to sleep on da streets no more, an' we can get back to our jobs."  And the policemen leave, grumbling.

            I drop her hand.  "Well ain'tcha gonna say t'anks?" I snap at her.  I immediately wish I could take my words back.  I know that I'm mostly just angry at myself for getting involved in this mess, but then I go take it out on her.  Just the sort of thing I'm always doing.

            "T'anks," she says obediently, making me feel worse.

            I stand up.  "Well, you heard what da good officers said," I tell her, trying to sound cheery to cancel out my harshness a moment before, but I don't think really succeeding.  "Getcherself someplace ta stay."

            She drops her head and mumbles something.

            "What?" I ask impatiently, squatting down beside her.

            She doesn't reply but her shoulders are shaking and a little whimper escapes her throat.

            "Oh, no, no, don't cry," I beg.  Maybe it comes out sounding comforting, but what I'm thinking is, "If she starts crying I'm just going to start feeling sorry for her, and then I'll be stuck trying to make her feel better when I need to be out there selling my newspapers."

            "I'm, I'm," she tries to say, raising her face to look at me.  Sure enough, a glistening clean track of tears cuts through the filth of either cheek.  That's it.  I'm helpless when I'm up against a crying girl.  I'd have to be pretty heartless to leave her there.  Goddamnit don't I have other things I need to be doing???

            I pull out my handkerchief and start wiping her face, swearing nonstop in my head the whole time.  If she could have read my thoughts… But she can't, and she just keeps crying, and lets me clean her face.

            "Now, whatsa matta?" I ask her, fighting to keep the irritation out of my voice.  "You can't afford a place ta stay?"

            She sobs, and grabs my handkerchief away to crumple into her eyes.  Okay, I never liked that handkerchief anyway.  "It's, it's not that," she says, her voice thick with tears.

            Oh, give me a break.  "Den what're you sleepin' on da streets for?" I demand.

            She makes a little strangled noise, but stops dabbing at her eyes.  "Wouldn't noplace take me in," she says miserably.

            "Why not?" I start to ask, but then her blanket falls off her shoulder, and I see the telltale bulge of a round, full stomach beneath that rag that serves as a dress.  My words die in my throat and it's my turn to sound like I've been strangled.  She must see the expression my face, because she bursts out crying again.

            "Oh, no," I blurt, for I'd thought she had just about cried herself out.  "No, wait, don't cry again."  Her response is to let out a little wail of self-pity.  "No, please," I'm getting desperate now, "Can't I help you or somethin'?"

            She sniffles and looks up at me.  Her cheeks are almost washed clean from tears now, her eyes glistening wet.  "What can you do?" she challenges, and rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand.

            "I can…" I can leave you here crying in the street and go sell my papers so I can afford some food tonight, that's what I can do.  No, I can't.  I sigh.  "I can try ta help you find a place to stay, a'right?"

            She rubs her eye with her left hand.  No ring, of course.  I knew that without looking.  She can't be any older than sixteen, anyway.  She seems to be considering my offer and then she nods.  "Okay," she finally says.

            Finally.  I offer her my hand, and she carefully arranges the blanket around herself again before standing up with me.  I pick up my papers, wonder again why the hell I'm doing this, and take her back to the lodging house.

            Of course, none of my friends are there, since they're all out selling papers and making money like I need to be.  Even Kloppman's out, running errands I guess.  Who knows what he does during the day.  I show Alice up to our room, which is big and messy and lined with bunk beds.  I kick somebody's undershorts out of the way under a bed and stick my hands in my pockets. 

"Well, dis is wheah I stay.  I gotta go out and sell da papes, but you can stay heah an' make yourself at home 'til I'm back.  An', ah, something to eat…"  I see an old sandwich wrapped in paper on top of Snipeshooter's bed and pick it up.  After sniffing it carefully, I pass it to her. 

She just holds it and looks at me.  "I t'ought you said you knew someplace I could stay?"

"Well no, I don't really, I said I'd help ya find one.  Kloppman runs dis place, I t'ought maybe he'd know someone who'd take ya in.  Or one a my friends would.  Or something."  I know it's not the best thought-out plan in the world, but she doesn't say anything.  I rub my neck.  "Anyway, 'til den you're gonna hafta stick around heah.  We ain't got any clean clothes for ya, but we got a tub in dere." I point to the washroom and she nods.  "An' ya might wanna lay low a while 'til I get back.  I don't know what Kloppman'll think 'bout me bringin' a goyl heah."

"Okay," she agrees.

I stick my hands in my pockets again.  "Well, you need anything else?"  She'd better not.  I've lost at least an hour of selling time for this girl.

            "No, dis is fine.  Dis is nice."

            "Good."  And I leave before I can get stuck doing anything else for her.  Jeez, I'm such a softy.

            I don't see Alice again until that night.  I thought when I took a break for lunch I'd try and make sure she was okay and keeping out of sight, but I ended up working straight through the day without a lunch break since I'd lost so much time that morning.  As a result, I'm in a really foul mood when I do finally get home, my arms finally empty of newspapers but carrying a dress I picked up at a cheap shop downtown.  It took almost every cent I'd made that day, but the girl can't run around in the scraps she was wearing before. It ain't decent.

            Most of the boys are still hanging around at Tibby's or hitting some of the Vaudeville acts, but I hurry back to the lodging house to make sure I'm there when everybody else notices that I have taken home a very dirty, very pregnant girl.  When I get there, Kloppman isn't around, and when I reach the room it doesn't seem that Alice is in there, either.  But I knock on the bathroom door and call her name, and it opens.  I almost do a doubletake.  God, it's weird how much a person can change if you remove a few inches of grime.

            She must have spent hours in that tub to scrub away every trace of dirt.  I see for the first time that her hair is dark blond, and thick and shiny past her shoulders.  She has most of it tied back with what looks like somebody's shoelace.  Instead of putting her rags back on, she has helped herself to somebody's blanket—mine!—and wrapped it around herself, tying it at the belt with a rope—Jack's.  Her feet, showing just below the hem of her makeshift robe, are bare, as before, but now pink from being scoured.

            "I look dat different?" she asks, obviously reading my facial expression.  I didn't know my thoughts were always so apparent on my face.

            "Yeah," I agree, flustered.  "I mean, a good yeah.  Good different.  Oh, but, ah—" my face flushes red as I realize she's not wearing much, and I avert my eyes, shoving the dress out toward her.  "I gotcha dis dress."

            "Oh, t'anks, but I t'ought I'd just stick wit da blanket," she replies.  "Start a new fashion trend."

            "Huh?"  Only when I look up to see the sparkling of her eyes do I realize she's joking.  She laughs at me and my stupid expression, takes the dress, and shuts the washroom door.

            As I stand there planning out a way to introduce Alice to Kloppman without him jumping to any conclusions—namely, that I was the jerk who got the girl in trouble—I look out around the room.  There's something different about it that I just can't figure out.  Then I realize what's changed.  It's all perfectly tidy.  Every bed is made, clothes are picked up off the floor and placed in folded stacks on beds, the floor is neatly swept.  Obviously, this is Alice's handiwork, because Kloppman never cleans.  Did she really get bored enough to want to pick up after us slobs?

            The door clicks open behind me and I turn to see Alice.  The dark blue dress fits her like a tent, except where it clings to her belly, but now at least I can look at her without blushing.  She strikes a modeling pose, holding an imaginary parasol.  "I nevah looked so good," she says, beaming.  That is, I think, the nicest way she could have thanked me, and I smile, but then I feel uncomfortable and clear my throat.

            "So, you gonna come wit me to tawlk ta Kloppman?"

            "Oh, I already did," she replies brightly.

            "You what?  Alice, I toldja to stay outta his way!"  She must be a real moron.  Or was she purposely ignoring me, after how nice I was to her?

            She just looks at me calmly.  "I woiked it out fine, Skittery."

            "Worked what out?"

            "I'se gonna stay heah."

            "Heah?  Alice, are you crazy?  Dis is a newsboys lodgin' house.  Kloppman couldn't'a' said you could stay heah."

            Her patient expression doesn't change.  "I tawlked ta Mr. Kloppman, an' he said he didn't know noplace dat would take me in, but den he offered me a job heah.  So I told 'im I'd stay.  I like dis place."

            I'm still having trouble taking all this in.  "A job?  What kinda job?"

            "Housekeepah," she tells me.  "An' cook."

            "A house—a what?  What's Kloppman thinking?  We nevah needed no housekeepah b'fore."  Though I wouldn't say no to a cook.  But I don't tell her that, it'd only encourage her.

            She frowns a little and gives me a hurt look with those big sad eyes.  "What, don'cha want me ta stay?" she asks in a quiet voice.

            Do I?  Not particularly, but how am I going to articulate that without hurting her feelings?  I'm not, that's how.  I swallow my words and sigh.

            "Shoah.  Shoah, I wantcha ta stay."

            She grins at me, triumph shining from her smile.  "Den I will."

            And she does.

            Alice fits right in here at the lodging house.  Before the week's out we feel like she's been around forever.  She's a fantastic cook, and she keeps everything so clean, and she gets along with all of us—yeah, even me.  In fact, we're becoming pretty good friends.  Race says it's because she's the only person in the lodging house who can tolerate my moodiness.  Maybe that's true.  She goes through a lot of mood swings herself.  One minute she's laughing hysterically at something Boots says, then she's throwing around pots and pans and screaming at everybody to get out of her kitchen.  Worst is when she starts crying over a tiny little thing, like she burnt a casserole or spilled a bucket of water.  I hear her start up the waterworks, I'm out of there.  I still can't stand to see a girl cry.

            Of course, she blames it all on the baby.  "I ain't normally like dis," she explains, wiping her eyes.  "I just don't feel like meself no more."  Then all of us boys split before she can start talking about the baby, because it makes us embarrassed for her just hearing about it, though she doesn't seem to care.  When she's not cooking and cleaning, she's knitting little baby booties like she expects it to have seventeen feet.  At least, I guess, she's happy now.  Certainly happier than she was when I first saw her.

            And wow can she cook.  Roast beef and potatoes, thick and creamy vegetable soup with fresh-made bread, cakes and pies of every description… makes my mouth water just thinking about it.  I haven't had food this good since, well, since my mother died, I guess.  Funny how much my mother's been on my mind lately.  Nine years since I've let myself think of her, and it's all coming back.  The nightmares, too.  And I see it all over in my head.  How he grabs her and hits her and throws her to the wall—

            I sit up suddenly, shaking and gasping.  My breathing slows as I see that I'm up on my bunk, not cowering in the corner of the dingy apartment, but my hands keep shaking.  I press my hands against my mouth, against my forehead, and try to get the images out of my mind.  Frustrated, I finally jerk the twisted, sweaty blanket away from my legs and climb down to the floor.  I need a drink of water.  I grab my pants off the bedpost and pull them up, snapping the suspenders over my shoulders, and head for the door, not bothering to be quiet.  Wake up a sleeping newsie?  It's easier to wake the dead.

            Downstairs is pitch dark and surprisingly cold for a spring night in New York.  I make my way to the kitchen and take a glass from the cupboard, fill it with some cool clear water.  A few sips and I calm down a little, my tensed muscles relaxing, my hands ceasing to tremble.

            The door clicks open behind me and I whirl around, startled.  It's Alice, in a nightgown and wrap, a candle flickering in her hand.

            "I'm sorry, did I wake ya up?" I ask, remembering that her little room is adjacent to the kitchen.

            She shakes her head and enters, holding her wrap closed with her free hand.  "Oh no, I was just gettin' somethin' to eat."  She sets the candleholder on the counter and looks at me.  "What're you up for, Skittery?  Bad dreams?"

            She's joking, at least I'm pretty sure, but I'm embarrassed.  "Uh, no," I lie, forcing a laugh.  "Just couldn't sleep."

            "Den you'll keep me company, huh?" she asks, helping herself to a few jars from the pantry.

            Sitting around in the dark with a girl in her nightclothes might sound like something out of Mush's fantasies, but this is Alice we're talking about, so it's completely innocent.  I don't see why not.  "Shoah," I agree, taking a seat at the counter.

            She smiles up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and spreads something across some bread.

            "What's dat you're makin' dere?" I ask, looking over the counter.

            "Sandwich," she replies, closing it.  "Bacon, pickles, cheese, and mayonnaise."  She takes a huge bite and grins at the revolted look on my face.  "Mmmm…" she murmurs, shutting her eyes and looking blissful.  "Heavenly."

"Dat is truly sick, Alice," I tell her with disgust. 

She comes to seat beside me, and licks mayonnaise off a finger, the vile sandwich in hand.  "I can't help it," she protests.  "Da strangest t'ings are tasting good ta me now.  And I'm always wanting ta eat at da strangest times…"  She shakes her head.  "Don't evah have a baby, Skittery."

            "I won't," I assure her quickly, and she laughs again.

            "Dat's what I thought," she grins, and takes another bite of the sandwich.

            We laugh and talk a long time, but even sitting there cracking jokes with a friend can't push the nightmare completely out of my thoughts.  Because the scariest thing about that dream is, waking up doesn't make it any less real.