Hey people, I don't have much time so I'll make this quick. T.H., glad to
see you're still alive! I hope to see some more stuff from you! Anyway,
I have finals tomorrow, wish me luck! Got to go!
Race stormed down the street, not slowing until they had reached the house. Once there, he slumped down on the steps, rocking himself. Teo didn't know what to do, other than to sit by him and offer him the presence of another soul who felt for him.
Race cursed himself, how could he have done that? He had just become what he had promised he never would, he'd done what he swore he never would. He'd turned his back on his friends, his family. He resisted the urge to cry, only sighing and climbing to his feet. His still wet hair stuck to his head and his wet shirt stuck to his back.
It was cooler, the evening breeze bringing in a cool front to cool off the hot city and Race was thankful. He walked in, just as his aunt exited the parlor.
"Anthony! Teodoro! There you two are, we've been waiting." She eyed Race's wet hair and skin, frowning deeply. "Anthony, get upstairs and get changed. We have guests." Race sighed and climbed the stairs, not caring anymore.
As he opened his door, he sighed, looking around. These bland, emotionless rooms would be his forever. He was not going back, not this time. There was nowhere to go, even if he could leave. He closed the door and slumped against it, wondering how he could have been such a fool. Jack would never take him back, not after what he'd done.
Slowly, he got to his feet and changed, taking his time about finding a clean shirt and pants and drying his hair. For a long while, he only stared in the mirror, wearing only his pants, his hair still damp, cursing himself.
He didn't even notice when the door opened and his grandmother stuck her head in. She had meant to only pause on her way down and tell him he was expected, but she stopped when she saw him, looking at himself.
Race bit his lip as he stared at himself. This is not you, Racetrack, he thought, this is not you. This is a lie. You are a lie. Racetrack is dead, he thought, dead, and he isn't coming back. At this thought, he bit his lip and dropped his head into his hands, covering his face as his shoulders shook.
He had never cried, not even on the night he had found himself an orphan. One of his first memories was that of his father's fist sending him across the room, and the drunken slurred voice shouting at him that only little babies cried, and he was not a baby.
But he cried now, for the death of a part of himself, for the true soul that he was. His shoulders shook and the tears streamed from his eyes, staining his pale cheeks with little rivers of salty drops. He curled up in the tiniest ball he could manage, covered his face with his hands.
It was when he felt warm hands on his bare back that he looked up, the tears still streaming. He jerked away from the old woman, as her usually cold eyes watched him. He wiped at his face, trying to make his shoulders stop shaking, but he couldn't.
God, he must look a fool, he thought. But she only pulled him in closer and held him. Race gave up and buried his face in her long black dress, fingers digging into the expensive material. She rocked him silently, only occasionally whispering words of comfort to him in Italian.
Soon his shoulders stopped shaking and his sobs quieted, but he made no move to let go and she did nothing to detach his hands from her dress. She only rocked him gently as if he were only a child that she loved, and not a boy who was almost a man, whom she had blamed for everything that had gone wrong in her daughter's life.
After a long time, he stumbled to his feet, and reached blindly for the basin of cold water and splashed some on his face, trying to soothe his red, burning eyes. He wiped at them, trying to pretend that it hadn't happened, that he hadn't let himself cry.
"Anthony," her voice was smooth and warm, not cold like it had been for so long. Race looked up at her, biting his lip. In that instant, he looked so much like her daughter that her breath caught in her throat.
"Dinner is being prepared whenever you are ready." Race nodded, turning back to the mirror and scrubbing at his hands. She noticed several dark stains, like newsprint. He was rubbing at them furiously, until the skin was almost coming off. Gently, she took the towel from him and dipped his hands into the cool water. The ink did not disappear, as she knew it wouldn't.
"Do not try and hide what you are." She whispered. Race gave a hiccupping sob.
"I dunno what I am. I ain't like youse," he whispered, "But I ain't no newsie no moah." In an instant, he realized he'd let his secret slip and he stared at her in fear. She shook her head.
"I take a walk every morning in Central Park. Do you think I did not see you? I did, and I also saw that you were happy." Race nodded, letting his gaze drop. The tears threatened to come again and he pushed them back.
"I wus, I wus happy." He whispered.
"Then why come back? Why not stay as you were?" Race looked up at her. And then he shrugged.
"Bedda food." he said, and she knew he was lying. He had a wall, a thick wall, this boy, built up after years of pain, and a promise not to get hurt anymore. No one could get through this fabricate of cynicism and apathy, no one but the child who slept in the room next door. She knew the feelings well; she herself had built such a wall. And this boy was about to break through.
"Do not lie, it does not become you." She said, scolding him. Race shrugged again.
"Why da youse caeh?" he shot at her, pushing the cold heartless man to the front, hiding the frightened uncertain boy behind him.
"Because, you are my grandson, my daughter's child. She gave her life for you, and I will do all that I can to see that she did not die in vain, and I expect you to do the same." She told him, just as coldly. The hard look in his eyes vanished, replaced by the worst emotion for him, uncertainty.
"She did?" he asked, hesitantly. Did this woman even know how she died? Did she?
She nodded, "Of course, indirectly perhaps, but she loved you enough to leave everything she knew to give her unborn son a new and better life." Race didn't say anything.
"Now tell me, why do you stay?" Race's shoulder's slumped and he sighed, closing h is eyes.
"Cause a Rosie," he whispered. "Rosie, she counts on me, she needs me. I gotta be dere foah her, she's all I got." His voice was quiet, as if realizing for the first time, that the little girl was truly all he did have.
Realization dawned too, on the old woman as she realized the depth of love that this boy must have for the girl, and how little she knew of it. Not many brothers were willing to give up everything to make sure their little sisters had a better life. Now that she thought of it, hadn't that been exactly what his mother had done? Left Napoli to give her son a new life in the New World, as much as she had tried to stop her.
"You are truly your mother's son." She said, brushing his hair back. He glanced at her, his brown eyes full of hurt and pain. She held him close and he let her, sensing perhaps, that she needed this as much as he did.
"Now get dressed, your Uncle will be wondering what happened to us." And she got to her feet, sweeping out of the room with a final kiss to his cheeks, which he returned out of habit.
When she had left, Race turned back to the mirror, no longer hating the boy starting back. Though he was annoyed with himself, the biting edge of hate had left and he moved to pull his shirt on, and dry his hair. When he looked passably presentable, he made his way downstairs where he heard the rumble of voices had moved to the study.
Carefully, he poked his head in, watching as his Uncle introduced his grandmother, who offered her hand in a cold fluid motion, her cold hard eyes back. He hesitated, wanting nothing more than to run back upstairs to his room, but it was too late.
"Ah, there you are, Anthony. We were beginning to think you had run away." He laughed at the joke, but Race's attention was centered on the tall man with the thick beard that was focusing his attention on his grandmother. When his Uncle spoke, the man turned and Race gasped.
It was Pulitzer! There was no mistaking those hard cold eyes that had laughed at him when he came to beg for Jack, that day Jack had been arrested and sentenced. Race had made the trek up the long winding stairs to beg for his friend's life. He had nothing to bargain and he knew he was coming in with an empty hand, but the others had voted. They felt Davy needed to stay out of sight, and Race, being the next highest in line, had been volunteered for the job. Race took a deep breath, and a step back, feeling for the doorknob. But it was too late.
Pulitzer stared at him for a moment, puffing on his cigar. Then he moved forward quickly with a speed he thought strange for a man of his age. He stood before Race, studying him.
"This is your nephew?" he asked. His Uncle nodded.
"This is Anthony." Pulitzer laughed.
"Strange that a nephew of such a man as yourself would have spent the last ten or so years selling my papers." There was a stunned silence in the room as all eyes turned to Race. He gave his uncle a weak smile, but could not ignore the sudden flare of hate that filled his Uncle's eyes.
"Selling your papers?" his voice was soft and dangerous. It reminded him of his father's voice when he was drunk and Race winced. Pulitzer nodded.
"Of course, I try to keep tabs on all my regular newsies, and this boy, Racetrack, I believe he goes by, is one who gives me a great deal of trouble."
"I ain't nevah gave youse no trouble!" Race insisted. Well, there had been that one time he had been caught pick pocketing and had been brought straight to Pulitzer, he'd been about ten, maybe eleven. And the time he'd been caught gambling on the church steps. That time he'd gotten a lecture on the sins of gambling and the long road that would take him to hell. Afterwards, he'd gone home and set up a game of poker.
"Never caused me any trouble? May I remind you, boy, just who organized the rally at Irving Hall?" Race glared at him. He had been rather proud of that feat, it took a lot to get five thousand boys to gather in one place, and though it had turned into a disaster, that was hardly his fault.
His uncle was glaring at him, full blast and Race knew he was in trouble. He had often heard his Uncle complain about the strike and how it hurt business. But Race had ignored him, or changed the subject.
"I hope you took extreme measures with this one, Alfonso, he's been arrested several times." Pulitzer said, glaring at Race over his cigar. "Not to mention his involvement in the strike." Race clenched his fists.
"Ya was cheatin' us! What else could we do?" Pulitzer only smiled as if he knew something Race did not. "Ya charged us moah widout tellin' us! Ya didn't even tink ta wonda if we could spare anudda lousy ten cents! Youse could, so why don't you make up da difference instead a taking a dime from us woikin' kids. I could eat foah a whole day on dat lousy dime youse took!" Race was yelling now, the arrogant publisher reminding him once again why he had joined the strike in the first place.
These rich folks, they think they can walk all over us kids, well, not anymore! Jack's words rang in his head and he forgot where he was, he forgot who was there, and he couldn't care anyway. This was a man who had wronged him, who had stolen something from him. True, the strike was over, but the things he had learned from the strike, Race held dear to his heart. And the fact that he no longer had the newsies, made his hurt much worse.
"Listen to him, Alfonso, they're all the same. Always complaining, nothing is ever good enough for the newsies." The publisher laughed. Race shook his head.
"When was da last time youse starved so some bigshot could grab an extra ten cents from you dat day? I had ta choose, sometimes, between eating and sleeping at home, I didn't have money foah bot! And as foah da rally, yeah, I organized it! Da whole goddamned ting! It woulda gone poifect if youse bums hadn't shown up and almost kicked me side in! Ya almost killed a couple a da kids, some not even ten yeahs old! Just tink, what if dat had made da papes? What would da woild tink a Old' Joe den, eh?" he said, glaring, feeling his blood run hot and then cold.
"See how they disrespect me, Alfonso? They call me Joe, in the streets, these street rats." Race rolled his eyes.
"Well, it's yer name, ain't it?" he crossed his arms and glared at the old man.
'Anthony, if you could please be quiet, we are quite tired of this conversation. Show Mr. Pulitzer that you are a respectful boy, and you do not bring dishonor upon this family. Now apologize." Pulitzer looked at him expectantly. Race glared at him, there was no way in hell he was apologizing, not to this man. This man had killed the spirit of so many of his friends. He knew it and he would not bow to the mountain. He would not allow his voice to be silenced. Instead, he was going to be heard.
"I ain't nevah aploigizin' ta him! Nevah!" he hissed.
"Now Anthony-" his Uncle began before Race lost his temper and told him to do something physical impossible.
There was a stunned silence. His aunt gasped, holding her hand over her heart, as she turned white. His cousins stared at him open mouthed, and Rosie had turned white. His grandmother was watching in with a strange look in her eyes, something he'd never seen before, almost, was that pride? It couldn't be. She couldn't be proud of him, she was not proud of any of her grandchildren. But his Uncle crossed the room and slapped him across the face.
Instantly, Race held up his hands and flinched, the memories too strong, too overpowering. He held his hands over his face, warding off more blows. When they didn't come, he let his arms go.
His Uncle was breathing hard, face red, and he slowly pointed to the door, hand shaking in anger.
"Go to your room and stay there. We will discuss your punishment tomorrow." Race turned and fled.
He slammed his door, and leaned against it panting. His pulse was still racing and he let out a long breath, trying to calm himself. God, in a matter of one day, he had managed to screw up, not once, but twice.
But, by God, he was not going to let anyone tell him what to do anymore! He was sixteen, almost seventeen! And he was not going to let any one get the better of him.
The anger faded as he leaned against the door and his blood slowed. He sighed, suddenly feeling so very tired. He moved towards the bed and collapsed onto it, falling asleep almost instantly.
Race stormed down the street, not slowing until they had reached the house. Once there, he slumped down on the steps, rocking himself. Teo didn't know what to do, other than to sit by him and offer him the presence of another soul who felt for him.
Race cursed himself, how could he have done that? He had just become what he had promised he never would, he'd done what he swore he never would. He'd turned his back on his friends, his family. He resisted the urge to cry, only sighing and climbing to his feet. His still wet hair stuck to his head and his wet shirt stuck to his back.
It was cooler, the evening breeze bringing in a cool front to cool off the hot city and Race was thankful. He walked in, just as his aunt exited the parlor.
"Anthony! Teodoro! There you two are, we've been waiting." She eyed Race's wet hair and skin, frowning deeply. "Anthony, get upstairs and get changed. We have guests." Race sighed and climbed the stairs, not caring anymore.
As he opened his door, he sighed, looking around. These bland, emotionless rooms would be his forever. He was not going back, not this time. There was nowhere to go, even if he could leave. He closed the door and slumped against it, wondering how he could have been such a fool. Jack would never take him back, not after what he'd done.
Slowly, he got to his feet and changed, taking his time about finding a clean shirt and pants and drying his hair. For a long while, he only stared in the mirror, wearing only his pants, his hair still damp, cursing himself.
He didn't even notice when the door opened and his grandmother stuck her head in. She had meant to only pause on her way down and tell him he was expected, but she stopped when she saw him, looking at himself.
Race bit his lip as he stared at himself. This is not you, Racetrack, he thought, this is not you. This is a lie. You are a lie. Racetrack is dead, he thought, dead, and he isn't coming back. At this thought, he bit his lip and dropped his head into his hands, covering his face as his shoulders shook.
He had never cried, not even on the night he had found himself an orphan. One of his first memories was that of his father's fist sending him across the room, and the drunken slurred voice shouting at him that only little babies cried, and he was not a baby.
But he cried now, for the death of a part of himself, for the true soul that he was. His shoulders shook and the tears streamed from his eyes, staining his pale cheeks with little rivers of salty drops. He curled up in the tiniest ball he could manage, covered his face with his hands.
It was when he felt warm hands on his bare back that he looked up, the tears still streaming. He jerked away from the old woman, as her usually cold eyes watched him. He wiped at his face, trying to make his shoulders stop shaking, but he couldn't.
God, he must look a fool, he thought. But she only pulled him in closer and held him. Race gave up and buried his face in her long black dress, fingers digging into the expensive material. She rocked him silently, only occasionally whispering words of comfort to him in Italian.
Soon his shoulders stopped shaking and his sobs quieted, but he made no move to let go and she did nothing to detach his hands from her dress. She only rocked him gently as if he were only a child that she loved, and not a boy who was almost a man, whom she had blamed for everything that had gone wrong in her daughter's life.
After a long time, he stumbled to his feet, and reached blindly for the basin of cold water and splashed some on his face, trying to soothe his red, burning eyes. He wiped at them, trying to pretend that it hadn't happened, that he hadn't let himself cry.
"Anthony," her voice was smooth and warm, not cold like it had been for so long. Race looked up at her, biting his lip. In that instant, he looked so much like her daughter that her breath caught in her throat.
"Dinner is being prepared whenever you are ready." Race nodded, turning back to the mirror and scrubbing at his hands. She noticed several dark stains, like newsprint. He was rubbing at them furiously, until the skin was almost coming off. Gently, she took the towel from him and dipped his hands into the cool water. The ink did not disappear, as she knew it wouldn't.
"Do not try and hide what you are." She whispered. Race gave a hiccupping sob.
"I dunno what I am. I ain't like youse," he whispered, "But I ain't no newsie no moah." In an instant, he realized he'd let his secret slip and he stared at her in fear. She shook her head.
"I take a walk every morning in Central Park. Do you think I did not see you? I did, and I also saw that you were happy." Race nodded, letting his gaze drop. The tears threatened to come again and he pushed them back.
"I wus, I wus happy." He whispered.
"Then why come back? Why not stay as you were?" Race looked up at her. And then he shrugged.
"Bedda food." he said, and she knew he was lying. He had a wall, a thick wall, this boy, built up after years of pain, and a promise not to get hurt anymore. No one could get through this fabricate of cynicism and apathy, no one but the child who slept in the room next door. She knew the feelings well; she herself had built such a wall. And this boy was about to break through.
"Do not lie, it does not become you." She said, scolding him. Race shrugged again.
"Why da youse caeh?" he shot at her, pushing the cold heartless man to the front, hiding the frightened uncertain boy behind him.
"Because, you are my grandson, my daughter's child. She gave her life for you, and I will do all that I can to see that she did not die in vain, and I expect you to do the same." She told him, just as coldly. The hard look in his eyes vanished, replaced by the worst emotion for him, uncertainty.
"She did?" he asked, hesitantly. Did this woman even know how she died? Did she?
She nodded, "Of course, indirectly perhaps, but she loved you enough to leave everything she knew to give her unborn son a new and better life." Race didn't say anything.
"Now tell me, why do you stay?" Race's shoulder's slumped and he sighed, closing h is eyes.
"Cause a Rosie," he whispered. "Rosie, she counts on me, she needs me. I gotta be dere foah her, she's all I got." His voice was quiet, as if realizing for the first time, that the little girl was truly all he did have.
Realization dawned too, on the old woman as she realized the depth of love that this boy must have for the girl, and how little she knew of it. Not many brothers were willing to give up everything to make sure their little sisters had a better life. Now that she thought of it, hadn't that been exactly what his mother had done? Left Napoli to give her son a new life in the New World, as much as she had tried to stop her.
"You are truly your mother's son." She said, brushing his hair back. He glanced at her, his brown eyes full of hurt and pain. She held him close and he let her, sensing perhaps, that she needed this as much as he did.
"Now get dressed, your Uncle will be wondering what happened to us." And she got to her feet, sweeping out of the room with a final kiss to his cheeks, which he returned out of habit.
When she had left, Race turned back to the mirror, no longer hating the boy starting back. Though he was annoyed with himself, the biting edge of hate had left and he moved to pull his shirt on, and dry his hair. When he looked passably presentable, he made his way downstairs where he heard the rumble of voices had moved to the study.
Carefully, he poked his head in, watching as his Uncle introduced his grandmother, who offered her hand in a cold fluid motion, her cold hard eyes back. He hesitated, wanting nothing more than to run back upstairs to his room, but it was too late.
"Ah, there you are, Anthony. We were beginning to think you had run away." He laughed at the joke, but Race's attention was centered on the tall man with the thick beard that was focusing his attention on his grandmother. When his Uncle spoke, the man turned and Race gasped.
It was Pulitzer! There was no mistaking those hard cold eyes that had laughed at him when he came to beg for Jack, that day Jack had been arrested and sentenced. Race had made the trek up the long winding stairs to beg for his friend's life. He had nothing to bargain and he knew he was coming in with an empty hand, but the others had voted. They felt Davy needed to stay out of sight, and Race, being the next highest in line, had been volunteered for the job. Race took a deep breath, and a step back, feeling for the doorknob. But it was too late.
Pulitzer stared at him for a moment, puffing on his cigar. Then he moved forward quickly with a speed he thought strange for a man of his age. He stood before Race, studying him.
"This is your nephew?" he asked. His Uncle nodded.
"This is Anthony." Pulitzer laughed.
"Strange that a nephew of such a man as yourself would have spent the last ten or so years selling my papers." There was a stunned silence in the room as all eyes turned to Race. He gave his uncle a weak smile, but could not ignore the sudden flare of hate that filled his Uncle's eyes.
"Selling your papers?" his voice was soft and dangerous. It reminded him of his father's voice when he was drunk and Race winced. Pulitzer nodded.
"Of course, I try to keep tabs on all my regular newsies, and this boy, Racetrack, I believe he goes by, is one who gives me a great deal of trouble."
"I ain't nevah gave youse no trouble!" Race insisted. Well, there had been that one time he had been caught pick pocketing and had been brought straight to Pulitzer, he'd been about ten, maybe eleven. And the time he'd been caught gambling on the church steps. That time he'd gotten a lecture on the sins of gambling and the long road that would take him to hell. Afterwards, he'd gone home and set up a game of poker.
"Never caused me any trouble? May I remind you, boy, just who organized the rally at Irving Hall?" Race glared at him. He had been rather proud of that feat, it took a lot to get five thousand boys to gather in one place, and though it had turned into a disaster, that was hardly his fault.
His uncle was glaring at him, full blast and Race knew he was in trouble. He had often heard his Uncle complain about the strike and how it hurt business. But Race had ignored him, or changed the subject.
"I hope you took extreme measures with this one, Alfonso, he's been arrested several times." Pulitzer said, glaring at Race over his cigar. "Not to mention his involvement in the strike." Race clenched his fists.
"Ya was cheatin' us! What else could we do?" Pulitzer only smiled as if he knew something Race did not. "Ya charged us moah widout tellin' us! Ya didn't even tink ta wonda if we could spare anudda lousy ten cents! Youse could, so why don't you make up da difference instead a taking a dime from us woikin' kids. I could eat foah a whole day on dat lousy dime youse took!" Race was yelling now, the arrogant publisher reminding him once again why he had joined the strike in the first place.
These rich folks, they think they can walk all over us kids, well, not anymore! Jack's words rang in his head and he forgot where he was, he forgot who was there, and he couldn't care anyway. This was a man who had wronged him, who had stolen something from him. True, the strike was over, but the things he had learned from the strike, Race held dear to his heart. And the fact that he no longer had the newsies, made his hurt much worse.
"Listen to him, Alfonso, they're all the same. Always complaining, nothing is ever good enough for the newsies." The publisher laughed. Race shook his head.
"When was da last time youse starved so some bigshot could grab an extra ten cents from you dat day? I had ta choose, sometimes, between eating and sleeping at home, I didn't have money foah bot! And as foah da rally, yeah, I organized it! Da whole goddamned ting! It woulda gone poifect if youse bums hadn't shown up and almost kicked me side in! Ya almost killed a couple a da kids, some not even ten yeahs old! Just tink, what if dat had made da papes? What would da woild tink a Old' Joe den, eh?" he said, glaring, feeling his blood run hot and then cold.
"See how they disrespect me, Alfonso? They call me Joe, in the streets, these street rats." Race rolled his eyes.
"Well, it's yer name, ain't it?" he crossed his arms and glared at the old man.
'Anthony, if you could please be quiet, we are quite tired of this conversation. Show Mr. Pulitzer that you are a respectful boy, and you do not bring dishonor upon this family. Now apologize." Pulitzer looked at him expectantly. Race glared at him, there was no way in hell he was apologizing, not to this man. This man had killed the spirit of so many of his friends. He knew it and he would not bow to the mountain. He would not allow his voice to be silenced. Instead, he was going to be heard.
"I ain't nevah aploigizin' ta him! Nevah!" he hissed.
"Now Anthony-" his Uncle began before Race lost his temper and told him to do something physical impossible.
There was a stunned silence. His aunt gasped, holding her hand over her heart, as she turned white. His cousins stared at him open mouthed, and Rosie had turned white. His grandmother was watching in with a strange look in her eyes, something he'd never seen before, almost, was that pride? It couldn't be. She couldn't be proud of him, she was not proud of any of her grandchildren. But his Uncle crossed the room and slapped him across the face.
Instantly, Race held up his hands and flinched, the memories too strong, too overpowering. He held his hands over his face, warding off more blows. When they didn't come, he let his arms go.
His Uncle was breathing hard, face red, and he slowly pointed to the door, hand shaking in anger.
"Go to your room and stay there. We will discuss your punishment tomorrow." Race turned and fled.
He slammed his door, and leaned against it panting. His pulse was still racing and he let out a long breath, trying to calm himself. God, in a matter of one day, he had managed to screw up, not once, but twice.
But, by God, he was not going to let anyone tell him what to do anymore! He was sixteen, almost seventeen! And he was not going to let any one get the better of him.
The anger faded as he leaned against the door and his blood slowed. He sighed, suddenly feeling so very tired. He moved towards the bed and collapsed onto it, falling asleep almost instantly.