Thursday was hot and miserable

Thursday was hot and miserable. For all the obvious reasons.

That afternoon, we laid around at the docks in Brooklyn. The heat was unbearable, but worse yet was the mood. The very air around us was thick with misery, like smog. Joey and I had met up with the Jacobs and Denton that morning, and we had all gone to see that the boys got out of court. And of course, Jack was instead taken to the Refuge. It was all downhill from there, especially with Denton adding the final touch. Though no one would have voiced this to Davey, suddenly the strike was looking like an impossible victory. Only Davey refused to believe we couldn't succeed.

Of course, I tried to keep a positive attitude. I mean, I knew that we would win in the end—right? But this time travel stuff just complicated everything. It must just have been everyone else's mood influencing mine, but whatever it was, I found it hard to put on an optimistic front.

Between the heat and the mood, there was little action at the docks. A few boys swam, but there was no horsing around, no cannonball competitions. I was too depressed even to admire the boys in their clingy, wet undershorts. Well, okay, not that depressed. I'll admit Mush's physique took my mind off the strike for a little while. Anyone who's too depressed to notice that boy in wet skivvies must be pretty darn near suicide. But the point I was trying to make was, we were all pretty mopey and listless.

Race leaned against a pile, his shirt open at the collar and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I plopped down next to him and leaned my head on his shoulder.

"Tired?" he asked, moving so I could get more comfortable.

"Yeah," I replied, and yawned to prove it.

"Up late wit Joey?" he asked.

I turned and looked at him a moment, trying to figure out what he meant by that. He stared straight ahead over the water. "No, actually," I said at last. "Went to sleep as soon as we got back."

"Where'd ya sleep?"

I sat up more and stared at him. He looked at me, then quickly away. "What is this, the Grand Inquisition? Just where do you think I slept?"

"Was just a question," he answered quickly. "Nothin' meant."

"I should hope so," I huffed, crossing my arms and settling back against him. What was he thinking, that I liked Joey? Well, brave and smart he might be, but he just wasn't my type, and for a variety of reasons. I stole a look at Race out of the corner of my eye. Why was he asking? No, he probably didn't… He couldn't possibly… No, he just wanted to poke his nose in my business, that was all. Like an older brother. It was impossible to imagine him as anything more.

Weird thoughts. I stood up and shook my head. "I think I'll watch the guys swim. Walk with me?"

He pulled his hat lower over his eyes. "Nah. I'm gonna try ta nap. Prison cells ain't got da most comfortable beds."

"Didn't seem to bother the others," I observed, looking farther down the docks where the boys were getting a bit more lively. A few were swimming, and the others lounged around, playing dispirited games of cards or marbles or even, in one case, chess. I wandered a bit, looking at this and that, and suddenly shrieked as I was grabbed from behind.

"Ahh! What the heck!?" Eew, somebody had me in a cold wet grasp. I pulled away and saw Blink, soaking wet in his underclothes.

I gawked for a full minute before remembering to act irritated. I gave his shoulder the requisite girly-smack and yelped something about not getting me wet, yadda yadda. Rules of the flirting game.

"Why ain't ya swimmin', Margaret?" he asked with that adorable grin, pushing his wet hair off his forehead. "Da wata's great."

"Very funny," I retorted. "What am I supposed to do, strip down to my underwear like you boys?"

The newsies howled with laughter, shocked and delighted to hear this from the mouth of a girl. Oh right, like they weren't already imagining it.

"Margaret!" Blink said, pretending to be embarrassed for me. "We'd nevah suggest such a thing. If you came swimmin', we'd hafta get you a decent swimming costume."

"No way," I said. "I wouldn't be caught dead in your version of a swimsuit either."

"Modesty, from you?" Spot teased. Ah, look ma, I barely know the kid and I already have a reputation.

"Modest? The opposite. What bothers me is that those things cover you from neck to knee. I wear less to school!"

"Ya do?" Mush asked. A dozen newsboy heads swiveled toward me and twenty-four unblinking eyes fastened on me. "Like what?"

"You know, flip-flops, bare legs, a tank top or t-shirt, shorts to here," I said, drawing a line where my shorts usually ended.

"You serious?"

"Bare legs?"

"Most people would wear less if it weren't for the dress code," I added.

"May I live to see the day," Mush whispered with reverence.

"You just might," I said, working some quick math in my head. People didn't start getting really free with dress 'til the sixties… That'd make Mush, what, seventy-five? Ahhh, I had a mental image of Grandpa Mush as a dirty old man, leching after girls in their school clothes. A bubble of laughter rose up in my throat and I let it out for the sheer joy of laughing. I hadn't laughed all day, and it felt good to relax. I think all of us were starting to put the depressing events of the morning behind us.

We ended up organizing races up and down the docks. When I disgraced myself by losing the sprint twenty times in a row, my punishment was a surprise attack. One boy seized each limb and swung me out over the edge of the pier. I shrieked hysterically of course, terrified not of the water but of hitting my head, but I landed with a safe (albeit painful) bellyflop into the water. "I'm going to kill you!" I screamed once I'd hauled myself out, and chased them down the planks like a bedraggled banshee. But, well, there's a reason I lost those races. The boys disappeared into the darkening city streets before I could lay a hand on a one of them.

"I'll get you, my pretties," I yelled hoarsely, my fists clenched and water streaming off of my soaked clothes, "and your little dog too!" I cackled evilly in my best Wicked Witch imitation.

"What are you babbling about?" Racetrack. I blushed.

"Neeevermind," I said. "Now be a gentleman and hand over that jacket. I swear, I'll have their guts for garters!"

But of course, Racetrack's jacket had been half off before I'd even said the word. Why he had been wearing it to begin with was something I couldn't fathom—even as the July evening grew dark, the weather was oppressively warm. In my saturated condition, though, it was appreciated. Race and I strolled back together, his arm around my shoulder, and talked a little of the strike.

"But we'se gettin' Jack outta da Refuge tanight, so–"

"Oh yeah, I'll help watch Les."

"Hunh?"

"When you bring him back. Nevermind." Again. Why did I always let my mouth get ahead of me?

"You take some gettin' used to, ya know dat?"

"Thanks," I said breezily. "I get that a lot back home, too." For the first time that whole day, my home crossed my mind. And Racetrack's, too, I guessed by his silence. Was now the time to tell him what I'd been thinking about? I would have, but suddenly the lodging house was right there on the left, and Davey and the others were out front, apparently already waiting for Race.

"Well, you go on," I said. "Can I just help myself to some of your clothes?"

"Shoah, whatevah's clean," he said. "See ya later."

And when he came back not too long later, Les in tow, I just smiled all-knowingly and said, "See?"

"Aw, stuff it, and deal da cards."