Shoutouts!! WAHOONESS!
Megan .:. Wow! Thanks so much. Sorry you almost cried though!! I hope you continue to read. Thanks again. :D
Gypsy .:. Heh. Goilie, you cracketh me upeth. Your reviews are mappy! Hahaha. ((I can't remember if you're in on the "mappy" lingo… if not, please disregard my insanity…)) If you're not in on it, mappy means wonderful. YAY! Anyhow. Yes, this story is rather sad… matches my mood at the moment. *shrug* So yeah. And I don't think this is gonna be a happy mappy ending, either. Eh.
Moody .:. if I get time anytime soon, I'll read your story. But no promises, my life is amazingly hectic! LOLOL. Thanks for the review hun!
Blinks-Tiger .:. Smack me upside the head and remind me to read your story again if I don't get around to it this afternoon, okay? Thanks. :D LOL. Thanks for all the reviews hun!!! I just got the weirdest feeling that I missed you, but you haven't gone anywhere, now have you?? LOL Sorry, I'm insane today. Oui.
lange .:. I don't like Blinky-182 looking down on Mushy Banana Boy, either. It makes me sad as well. And I'm the author. ^_^ Hahaha, Blink will change. Hopefully in the next chappy cuz I want to get to when they're 18 sometime soon… and I think this is the third chappy where they're 15… hrm. Too many 15-year old chappies. Ah well, c'est la vie. I'm very protective of Mush as well. I love the boy!! And oh GOD is he gonna be depressed in the next chapter. But I'll turn Blinky Darling nice. Hopefully. Well, I gotta, cuz technically they only have a year until the strike, and during the strike they're all buddy-buddy insane. LOL! Oh, and Otter isn't dying… well, she might at some point, but not anytime soon. I've got big plans for Miss Otter…
Maniac Conlon .:. Timby! I'm happy no one died either. No one dies in THIS chappy either. I find that exciting. Of course, there is the part about Lucy… HEH HEH HEH! Now you have to read to know what I'm talking about. BWAHAHAHAHAHA!
Sobe a Lizard .:. Yes, I like to mess with your head! Hahahahahahahaha! It's part of my great fun as an author gone insane. BAM! "What you are? A vampire gone insane that pollutes its own bed?" BAM! Sorry, that was a flash to Interview with the Vampire. Heh. Don't ask, I'm weird today. THE VIDEO PLACE DIDN'T HAVE D2?! What are they, INSANE??? That one has all the good quotes in it! Like "Eating ice cream with the enemy, huh Coach?" and when he growls at Averman and Averman is all scared of him cuz he has a tattoo… AHHHH! *Everyone rolls eyes at Mondie's insanity and continues on ignoring her*
BitterSweet .:. I miss you too!!!!!!!!!!!!! :( I'm glad the story rocketh your socketh tho!! Have you figured out how to add people to your faveys yet? You can do it from the review… there's little boxes you can check… *shrug*
Misprint .:. Ah, how I adore your reviews dahling! LOLOL. Well, you're SUPPOSED to think red nose with Rudolph, as that's HOW he got his name… his red nose… from his allergies… **Mondie huggles Rudy even tho he's never been one of her favey-davey characters** LOL it's not fathernal, but paternal… it's all related to French… like mere starts with an M, so maternal is with an M… pere, paternal… frere, fraternal… Of course, there's nothing for sister, but I suppose we could call it saternal for soere… or however the heck you spell it… WAHOO! I have good newsie perception! I think I need a banner that says that… or a badge or something… MUSH IS NOT FAT!!! LOL he has some baby fat on his face that makes him CUTE, not FAAAAAAAT! You hurt his feelings Mis. :( Look at him, he's crying. And as for the story… yes, Blinky's an asshole in it… yes, he's turning softer… aw, poor Blinky. He's having a tough time. It would suck to be a teenager on the streets. Yes, yes…
Pegasus .:. WAHOO! You're the first person to ask for my autograph. **sniffle sniffle** I feel loved. LOL! I *did* submit to the NML FF! Hahahahahahahaha.
Holiday .:. Aloha! Sorry I made you cry. I seem to be doing that to a lot of people lately. Including myself. HOO HA! Thank you very much for your AWESOME review.
kimimay85 .:. HAHAHA that's a weird story about Clueless… anyhow. NO BLINKY IS NOT RIGHT! Mushy Darling is right to be emotional. Hahahaha! Anyhowz… this would be in no way because I'm biasedly in love with Mushy.
rumor .:. Thank you!!!!!!!!! :D LOLOL. You're a sweetie rumor. I heart you muchly!
Author's Note .:. The general consensus is that everyone is angry at Blink and feeling sorry for Mushy Darling. (This is excluding Kimi, who feels instead for Blinky and not for Mushy.) Thanks to Misprint thwapping Blinky on the head with Spot's cane, everything is right in the world. Okay, so not. But whatever. REVIEW AFTER THE CHAPPY! Or during the chappy for a run-on review… whatever floats your boat. ;D MUAH! Love you all.
Growth – Chapter 9
Brooklyn
Cowboy jumped expertly across the planks of wood, tipping his hat at Brooklyn newsies. "Wheah's Spot, Phan'om?" he asked of a burly newsie who'd been scowling at some scampering, younger newsies.
Phantom turned to him, and let a half-smile cross his face. For Phantom, that was positively friendly. "Heya, Cowboy." He spit in his hand and held it out. Cowboy was a bit anxious to hurry on, but knew better than to rush any ritual with any Brooklyn newsie. He spit in his own hand and they shook. Phantom hooked his hands on the loops of his suspenders, the right one idly resting on the slingshot jutting threateningly out of his pocket. "Spot's down furder on. At da end a' da pieh. 'E's been waitin' fer someone from Man'attan ta come down heah ta talk abou' Rudolph's death."
"I guess dat's me," Cowboy said, laughing a little nervously. "See ya 'roun', Phan'om."
"Take care a' yousself, Cowboy." Phantom turned back to the young children as Cowboy carried on.
Spot was sitting on the edge of the pier, talking to a girl who looked suspiciously too old for him and who had rouge circles on her cheeks. Cowboy, a bit anxiously, knew this meant the girl was a … lady of the streets.
When Spot saw Cowboy approach, he quickly jumped to his feet, almost guiltily, as if he should have known better than to sit down with Manhattan coming. He pulled himself up to full height, and though he was still five inches or so shorter than Cowboy, he still seemed to tower over him mentally. His eyes became trained into his best glare. "Well, well, well. I heah dat you's changin' you's name ta Jack," he accused. Cowboy stared at him, amazed that the news would have traveled so fast already. It wasn't like he was anyone IMPORTANT from Manhattan. Spot continued, still glaring, "Wha', like lil' Jack Horneh, sittin' in da cohneh?" The scorn in his voice seemed to elevate Cowboy's growing amazement of the holiness Spot seemed to demand. The Brooklyn newsies gathered, hands instinctively clutching their slingshots, let out chortles of their leader's wittiness with nursery rhymes.
"Oh, so ya stayed at home wit' yer Ma long a'nuff ta loin yer noisery rhymes," Cowboy scoffed. He knew immediately this was the wrong thing to say. The grips collectively tightened on the slingshots, and Spot looked positively boiling mad.
"Wha' did you jus' say?" he asked deliberately, his words slow and long.
Cowboy sighed, knowing he'd toed the line. "I's sorry. Dat came out wrong. I's know dat you rule dis heah area, an' I has no right ta come in heah an' poke fun at you."
Spot eyed him suspiciously, then nodded. It was like a command; the stance of the other Brooklyn newsies became relaxed again. If Cowboy hadn't been scared out of his wits, he might have laughed. He thought ironically on the fact that if Racetrack were present, whether he was scared or not, he would have laughed anyway. That was just the kind of person Racetrack was. Cowboy felt a longing for not just Race, but every Manhattan newsie. More particularly, he craved the sense of belonging he got in Manhattan. He certainly did not belong here in Brooklyn.
"So." Spot suddenly seemed to realize that all the Brooklyn newsies were gathered around. He turned and glared at all of them. "Go da hell away!" he shouted. Instantly they all found better things to do. He turned back to Cowboy. "Ya prolly wanna know abou' Rudolph an' stuff. Right?"
"No," Cowboy answered. Spot looked vaguely confused, then shocked, then amused.
"No?" he repeated, a little mockingly. "Wha' den, pray tell, do ya wanna know?"
"I wanna know abou' Challenge," Cowboy answered bravely. "Wha' did ya mean, 'e killed hisself?"
Spot started to shake his head. "No, Jack. I ain' tellin' ya…" He looked around himself. Though all the Brooklyn newsies had dispersed, they were still hanging around, just in case Cowboy tried to make a move of assassination towards their leader. "Not now." His voice got a note of panic for a moment, before relaxing back into liquid elegance.
"When?" Cowboy asked, his voice skimming the line between whisper and speaking.
Spot looked thoughtful. "Ta'night," he answered. "At da point a' da Brooklyn Bridge meetin' you's side."
Cowboy licked his lips. "But…" He faltered for a moment. "How d'I know ya ain' jus' gonna come an' keel me or sum'thin?"
Spot let out a laugh. "Why would I do dat?"
"I dunno…" Cowboy said, trying to seem carefree and trying to ignore the fact that his heart was drumming with a warning of not to go.
"Tell ya what. You pick a Brooklyn newsie ta come wit' me, an' I'll pick a Man'attan newsie ta come wit' you. An' den dere'll be witnesses an' stuff."
"Okay," Cowboy said, after thinking it over a bit. "I pick Phan'om ta come wit' you."
Spot nodded. "An' I pick dat coily-headed newsie dat's always cryin' ta come wit' you. 'E looks like 'e could use a good night on da town."
"Mush?" Cowboy asked. "Well, a'right. Dat woiks fer me."
"A'right. Nine a'clock. Don' be late." Spot turned back to the girl, who was fanning herself with her hands, looking bored.
"Wouldn' dream a' it," Cowboy answered, turning to leave. He couldn't wait to get back to Manhattan.
"Oh, wait!" Spot yelled after him. Cowboy turned back. Spot smirked. "Take care, Bruddah-a-Jill. Go on up yer hill ta fetch yer pail a' watah."
Cowboy just shook his head and laughed. Spot was harmless, really. …Or was he?
Lucy stifled a yawn. She was so bored. She'd sold her twenty papes about an hour ago. Mush had gotten fifty that day, so he still had quite a few to go. And now she had to stand around with him, waiting for hours on end, while he listlessly yelled out headlines. Lucy rolled her eyes. She didn't see why he was so caught up on Seraphim. As far as she was concerned, Sera hadn't been pretty enough for Mush.
"Hey, Mush?" she asked five minutes later. She was leaning against a lamppost that looked halfway clean, yet touching the wood as little as she could so not to soil her pale pink dress. "I'se gonna go on a walk. A'kay?"
He looked down at her, and his eyes were filled with tears. He nodded. As soon as she was out of his sight, she snorted to herself. Crying over Seraphim! She shook her head and her blonde curls danced.
Mush shouldn't have been out on the street. This thought consumed Lucy day and night. Of all the newsies, she and Mush were the two who didn't belong. He was too soft, too feeling, too emotional for a newsie. Every loss was way too much for him, and every little excitement was way off the scale in the other way. Just watching him was exhausting.
Likewise, Lucy knew she didn't belong selling newspapers, either. But it wasn't because of her disposition. Lucy was hard and street-smart, and knew what she was doing and just how to scam people and then look innocent when they came back so they never knew she'd duped them. But Lucy was meant for the aristocracy. She was supposed to wear diamonds and furs, and have presents showered on her at all times. She was supposed to sit in a parlor and have maids wait on her hand and foot. And she was supposed to be learned in school, taught numbers as well as her letters, and penmanship.
Or, she decided as she paused for a moment in front of a large building, I should be on a stage.
The theatre intrigued her. The thought that the people who stood there with their faces painted up, with lights shining on them and people clapping for them, actually had life stories and families astounded her. She had felt a tugging in her heart when Six Strings and Chocolate had been performing; not just because they had been a part of her growing-up, but because they'd become newsies who had gotten out and lived wonderful lives. She wanted to do the same. She wanted to be in the theatre.
She realized she was standing in front of Irving Hall. She felt the swift tugging at her heart again, and before she acknowledged what she was doing, she had darted into the building with some of the afternoon matinee crowd. They weren't dressed as exquisitely as the evening audience usually was, and so Lucy fit right in, wearing her lacy dress. She latched onto a young couple without their knowledge, and the doorman overlooked her. Once she was far enough into the theatre, she abandoned the couple and walked through some doors. An usher tried to get her to tell him where her parents were, so he could direct her to her seat, but she assured him she could find them. An elderly couple came up behind her and the usher became so preoccupied with them that he waved Lucy on.
Lucy sat as close to the stage as she could, and enjoyed her afternoon immensely. She watched Vaudeville acts and took to memorizing their shows. Lucy was actually a very intelligent, albeit know-it-all, girl.
The audience left as soon as the show was over, chattering gaily. Lucy still sat in her seat. She wondered what would happen if she just sat there for the rest of the evening and didn't leave.
Medda peeked out from backstage, and, not seeing the little girl, breathed a sigh of relief. She thought the theatre was empty. "Okay, boys," she called, simultaneously dropping her fake Swedish accent and stepping back onto the stage. She was still wearing her stage outfit, a sparkly blue dress that had made Lucy gasp when Medda had first stepped onstage earlier that afternoon. "I want the floors mopped, and the curtains—"
"Ms. Larkson, dere's some'in heah still," one of the "boys" told the woman, pointing a stubby finger into the audience.
Medda looked out and blinked. The girl was as still as a statue, dressed primly, and seemingly made of stone. "Why, hello," Medda said, straining to see features of the girl. "Where are your parents?"
Lucy shrugged. "Dead," she answered. Then she stood up and walked towards the stage. "Medda?" she asked. "Will you teach me how ta… ta be on stage?" She looked into the woman's eyes hopefully as she ascended onto the stage and stood, hands behind her back, giving her best winning look.
Medda let out a short laugh. "You cannot be dressed so properly and an orphan, my child. What, did you run away from home? This isn't the circus. Go on back to your mother and father."
Lucy glared. "Mush keeps me dressed so nice. Sometimes Blink or Cowboy will help 'im. I's a newsie. An' I don' wanna be. I wanna be on da stage."
Medda stared at Lucy. The nine-year old was demanding, and fussy, and obviously mollycoddled: in fact, she reminded Medda perfectly of herself at a younger age. Medda held out a hand and let it run over the girl's bright blonde curls. Come to think of it, the Demarko Brothers' act last week had been two boys aged seven and eight, and they'd done spectacularly… And hadn't Martha Ringson said just the other night that she wished she had something new for her act? She'd even mentioned maybe a younger girl, who she could pass off for her sister. Martha had the same blue eyes, the same blonde hair as Lucy…
"Okay," Medda agreed. Martha would be pleased.
But Lucy shook her head. "Jus' one promise aforehand." She sounded so serious, Medda almost laughed again, but held it in. Lucy continued, "I'se don' wan' you ta tell Mush where I is. 'E's too attached ta me. An' if I don' leave 'im, 'e'll neveh leave me. I'se gonna give 'im 'is freedom."
Medda nodded, pretending to think it over and consider it. This, of course, was part of her daily act. "Okay. I'm going to tell Martha Ringson that you can be part of her act. And Martha is part of the troupe performing here now. The troupe is leaving in two weeks. All right?"
Lucy nodded. "Can I jus' stay heah ta'night an' stuff? I can't lie ta Mush. An' I can't say goodbye, neidder."
Medda looked down at the girl, and was amazed at how old she seemed for her age. "Sure, kid," she answered. "Well then, you might as well come meet Martha now." She strode off the stage. The cleaning men were still waiting to clean off the stage. Lucy said a short prayer to herself in her mind and then followed Medda off the stage.
She missed Mush already.