CHAPTER FOUR

Jack Kelly furiously pounded on the door to the washroom. "Are ya ready yet, Racetrack Higgins?"

Race's voice answered over the sound of rushing water. "Yeah, Jack, I'se ready!"

After a few more moments, the door to the washroom opened and Race appeared. "I'se ready, Cowboy. Are ya ready?"

Jack rolled his eyes and leaned in the doorway to the bunkroom. "I t'ought ya said dat ya were ready."

Racetrack finished lighting his cigar before he looked up at Jack. "I'se ready, Cowboy, I'se ready. Hold ya hoises!" He then walked out the door.

"Ha ha!" Jack sarcastically spat, shutting the door behind him.

"So, who's gonna be at Spot's pahty tonight?" Race asked, as the two boys thundered down the steps.

"Ah, ya know, da us'al guys," Jack replied.

The newsies were about to open the doors to the lodging house when Kloppman stuck his head out of his office. "Hey, Higgins, some girl here to see ya."

Racetrack cast a thoughtful glance over to Jack who shrugged. "Is it Annie, Klopp?"

"Whaddah I look like, Higgins, a psychic?" the old man snapped, before ducking once again inside his office.

Racetrack rolled his eyes. "She must be in da pahlah."

As the two crossed the foyar to the parlor, Jack inquired, "D'ya t'ink Annie changed 'er mind 'bout comin' tonight?"

Race shook his head. "Nah. Da goil said dat she was 'sick.' Said dat dat's da reason she couldn't come. But I shoah da hell don't see no on else wit da flu."

Racetrack pulled open the door to the parlor, secretly hoping it was Annie. But who he saw sitting on one of the wooden chairs was the last person on earth he expected to see in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House.

Butterfly James, the very same down to the black cloak draped over her, was sitting in the parlor, her hands folded in her lap. Although Race hadn't seen her well in the dark, he knew that she looked much worse. Her long hair was matted with filth, causing the wild ponytail not to shine. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her face showing the old trails of tears. Her odd eyes showed no luster, being red from crying. And a patch of dried blood clung to her hair in what looked like a wound to the head.

She looked up at Racetrack with endlesly sad eyes. Race felt a stab of sympathy just looking into her gaze. "What are ya doin here?" he asked.

Butterfly drew in a breath as a tear trickled down her cheek. It was obvious to Race that she was trying hard to control her tears. "I'se need a place ta stay," she whispered, looking once again at the floor.

Race was nudged hard in the side by Jack, who gave him a look. Racetrack made a motion to tell him to stop, and walked over to Butterfly's side. "Shoah, ya can stay here."

As soon as he uttered those words, Jack looked incredulously at him and Butterfly looked at him as though her were a guardian angel.

"Oh, t'ank ya!" Butterfly cried, leaping out of the chair and embracing Racetrack.

Race looked over her shoulder and to Jack with pleasing eyes. Jack shrugged and nodded. Race grinned.

"I'll meet ya dere," Jack said in a low voice.

"Walk alone?" asked Race.

"Nah, I have ta pick up Melissa, anyway. Ya remembah, da goil I met last week?"

Race nodded.

"Git dere when ya can," Jack said, slipping out of the parlor, leaving Racetrack with the embracing girl.

Racetrack finally backed out of the hold. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, goily. Foist I have a few question I need ansahed."

"What?" Butterfly asked, her eyes flickering.

"Who da hell are ya, Buttahfly James?" he asked, inhaling on his cigar.

Butterfly was silent for a moment, as if fighting some inner demons. Finally she said, "I'se Buttahfly James. Like I said befoah."

"Buttahfly James," Race echoed, stepping towards her. "Strange namesake foah a strange goil."

A thin, sad smile crossed her lips, "Ya have no idea."

"All I know is dat I have a pahty da git tah, and since me goil's sick, you'se my date," Race said, putting his hands on her shoulders, and spinning her around.

"What d'ya mean, pahty ta git ta? I'se ain't goin ta no pahty!" Buttefly cried.

"Little goil, ya stink ta high heaven, and I can't have a stinky date!" Race laughed.

Butterfly, forgetting about her troubles, struck a pose with her hands on her hips and her jaw clenched. "I said dat I ain't goin ta no goddamn pahty and dat's it!"

"Oh, is it, Stinky?" Race grinned, scooping Butterfly up in his arms.

"Let me go, ya prick!" she squealed, kicking her legs.

"I t'ink not!" Race said, carrying her up the stairs, and to the bunkroom, where he kicked in the door to the washroom.

"What are ya doin' wit me?" Butterfly howled.

"Givin' da Buttahfly a bath!" he laughed, as he approached a huge wooden tub filled with water.

Butterfly didn't even realize what was happening before Race's arms slid out from under her and she landed with a huge splash in the tub, causing the floor and Racetrack to get soaked. Racetrack was in stitches when Butterfly emerged from the water, sitting cross-legged in the tub. She pushed her tangles of hair back and glared at him with her one green eye and one blue eye.

"Moicy me, little girl, but ya have da oddest eyes I'se evah seen!" he smirked.

Butterfly let out a shriek and ran her hand across the surface of the water, causing Racetrack to get soaked.

Racetrack stared back at her in shock. "I t'ink I'll leave ya alone ta git cleaned up."

Race, trying not to slip, left the washroom and shut the door behind him. He retreated to his bunk--he had the lower one and Mush had the top one. He sat down, lit a cigar, and let his gaze linger to the window. In the mid- June sky, the sun was still in the sky, but electric shocks of blue, orange, and purple dotted the sky.

He would have already been to Spot's party, sitting with his friends and playing poker. But no, Butterfly James had come to the lodging place, asking for a place to stay.

Then it hit him. The girl in the washroom was actually going to live in the lodging house. Live in the lodging house. How he never had expected to see the spitfire who saved him from the House of Refuge show up at his home and ask for a place to stay. He didn't even know her, and yet he had agreed. What the hell had be been thinking? Maybe the cigar fumes had finally affected his brain.

Race then made up his mind that she couldn't stay here. He didn't even know her. And besides, she was a girl!

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard singing coming from the washroom. Through the splashing of water, Racetrack could hear Buttterfly singing--horribly--some song: "My name is Yum Yonsin. I come from Wisconsin. I work in a lumber yard. The people I meet as I walk down the street say, "How do you do, Yum Yonsin?"

Racetrack had to laugh at the girl's awful singing.

After what seemed like a half an hour, Race was getting impatient. He didn't want to miss the party. He stromed over to the washroom door and prepared to knock on it when it opened and Butterfly appeared.

She looked up at his fist. "Ya goin ta hit me, or somet'in?"

Racetrack slowly lowered his fist, and then his gaze fell on Butterfly. He was taken aback. At least, he thought it was Butterfly. But it looked nothing like the girl he had seen barely a half of an hour ago. She was scrubbed clean of all the soot, and her wet hair hung down her back in blonde waves. And all she wore was a towel around her mid section.

He could only gap.

Butterfly reched a hand to his chin, and pushed it up, closing his gaping mouth. "I t'ink I need some cloths."

"I t'ink dat ya shoah jist use da towl," Race commented.

A scowl formed over Buttefly's mouth as she put her hands on her hips. "Ha, ha, you'se real funny. Now can I jist have a pait of goddamn cloths?"

"What I t'ink ya need is a bar of soap ta wash out ya mouth. Ya swear worse dan any of me friends, little goil!" he cried.

"Well, whaddya 'spect me to have, prim and propah language like some hoidy- toidy princess? It's what ya git from livin' on da streets all ya life," she said.

This was the first time that Butterfly James had made any reference at all to her past and Race decided to use this to his advantage. "So, ya say dat ya come from da streets. What paht of New Yawk?"

"Oh, Qu..." Butterfly realized her mistake. She wasn't about to spill that she was an ex-newsie from Queens with a bounty on her head. She had to make no references to Queens or the names Sprites at all. It was a known fact throughout all the newsboys of New York how the Lyners had murdered Jimmy Sprites and drove his sister Sarah out of Queens. She didn't need to go sliping up now.

Racetrack, who had been rummaging through a trunk at the end of a bunk, looked up with a sly expression on his face. "'Qu' as in 'Queens', Buttahfly?"

Butterfly could feel her face heat up to scarlett as she stepped back. "N..no. Not Queens, genuius, Qu...bec."

"Quebec?" Racetrack asked in disbelief. "Quebec is a damn city in Canada, and you'se shaoh as hell ain't Canadian."

"No, dumbass, I mean the restarant Quebec," she stammared.

Racetrack looked Butterfly straight in the eye. "Dere is no Quebec rest'rant in New Yawk or my name ain't Racetrack Higgins"

Butterfly gave him a smug look. "Den ya name ain't Racetrack Higgins."

"Ya grew up in a damn restaurant?" he retaliated.

"No, stupid. I grew up 'round da restaurant."

"Den where is dis 'restaurant' located at?"

Butterfly flipped her hair over her shoulder. "What is dis, da flippin' Inquisition or sump'tin? Why d'ya need ta know so much?"

"If you'se haven't noticed, goily, ya gonna be stayin' in da lodgin' house and I have no clue who da hell ya are and I have no idea why I'se lettin' ya stay here!"

"Well den," Butterfly said with a smirk, "ya shoah's have t'ought of dat befoah."

Race could only sigh.