Snitch stared out the window of the Lodging House. He'd lived in the building all his life, since before Kloppman had been given it to make into a home for the newsies. Prior to that, it had been an orphanage. Snitch had been left there on the front step just days after he was born. All he knew now was his name, which had been sewed onto the blanket that lined the basket he was left in, and his age, fifteen.
And now he had almost totally forgotten his first name. He barely used it, and it might have been David or Daniel or even Dalton. Something that started with "D." He would rather people called him "Snitch," a nickname derived from the way he would "snitch" things from other people. As for his last name, he knew it was "Riccio," but, well, he couldn't even spell it.
Snitch's one dream, however, was to have a birthday. Most kids in the Lodging House remembered or knew theirs and would get treated to a night at the theatre and get presents from their close friends. But you can't receive a birthday present if you didn't have a birthday. Snitch even asked Kloppman once, but Kloppman had nothing that personal about the boys on their files. Snitch couldn't hide his disappointment. Nobody had ever even asked him when his birthday was.
Once, he told his friend, Itey, about it. Itey laughed. He told Snitch to just make up a day. At the time, Snitch couldn't do that. He wanted to know his real birthday. But, now... now, Snitch was desperate. He'd have to make up something. He still sat, staring out the window. It would have to be soon, but not so soon that the boys wouldn't find out. A week. Snitch stood up and looked at the day calendar. Today was Sunday, February 4, 1900. Next week... Snitch tried to figure it out mentally and settled for flipping the pages of the calendar to the next Sunday. February 11.
February 11. Snitch said it out-loud unconsciously. He liked the way it sounded. He'd find a way to tell somebody and he'd hope they would tell someone else. They'd have to do something for him. It was his sixteenth birthday, after all.
No, it isn't..., he thought, It's my first birthday.
** * **
The days crept by slowly. They seemed to get even slower as Snitch's birthday got closer. He imagined it every time he closed his eyes and walked around with a huge grin on his face. His friends laughed and joked about it, but Snitch just laughed along with them and waited.
Snitch didn't work very hard. He'd start selling and then his voice would get softer and softer as he daydreamed about his birthday. Itey had to lend him money for papers twice. Snitch couldn't calm down about it, but, then again, he didn't really want to.
And calm thoughts were definitely out of the question on February 11. It was the most exciting thing for Snitch to wake up Sunday morning and whisper, "It's my birthday, today." He was practically singing as he got dressed and he told at least five people it was his birthday as they bought papers from him.
"I can't remembah when I'se evah seen youse dis happy, Snitch," Itey remarked. Snitch and Itey were selling together today. Itey wanted to try and keep Snitch's attention on their job. He couldn't afford to lend Snitch any more money.
"'S me boit'day, Ites. Ya don' undahstand, since youse had some befoh." Snitch tried not to giggle. He was giddy with excitement and Itey just shook his head good-naturedly.
Back at the Lodging House, Itey handed Snitch his first birthday present, an expensive cigar and a good-quality bar of soap. Both were luxuries a newsboy rarely saw. Snitch, grinning from ear to ear, thanked Itey, and Jack popped up with all the other boys, ready to take Snitch to the vaudeville show that was going on that night.
** * **
Snitch came back late, full to the brim with happiness. He hung around the lobby with Kloppman, too excited to go to sleep. Snitch sat in a rickety wooden chair as Kloppman chatted with him. He couldn't help but feel a slight pang of disappointment that he still didn't know his real birth date, but, for today, he had no regrets.
Kloppman started muttering and picking up papers in a search for something.
"Somet'ing missin'?" Snitch asked. Kloppman nodded with a furrowed brow.
"Don' undahstand wheah it went, boy." Snitch tilted his head and Kloppman threw up his hands in frustration after looking through a drawer. "Da books fer last year. Need 'em fer accounts. Bet dere in da office." Snitch jumped up.
"I'll get it, Kloppman, youse stay heah." Snitch, still overly cheerful, bounced into the office. It was a dusty room full of old tables and boxes, shelves lining every wall. Snitch spotted the book on a shelf that was too high for him to reach. A table was under the shelf and Snitch leaned on it to grab the book. His fingers just barely touched it at this height. Snitch put a leg on the table and lifted himself up onto it. He grabbed the book... and the table collapsed. He landed with a "thump" on the edge of a cardboard box.
The box tipped over and Snitch was surprised to see baskets roll out. Baby baskets. He reached out and touched one absent-mindedly. He turned it over and gasped.
Stitched on a blue baby blanket that was worn with age and full of holes was the name "Daniel Riccio." Snitch grabbed the blanket and hugged it to his chest, not noticing the yellowed envelope that fell out of it. He checked to make sure he wasn't badly hurt and stood up. Something rustled under his foot and he bent down to pick it up. He read what was inside it and his eyes went wide. Snitch fell onto his knees in shock.
** * **
Inside the envelope was a short letter that told the orphanage to keep "little Daniel." Tucked behind the letter was another old piece of paper, Snitch's birth certificate. "Daniel Riccio, born to Emilio Riccio and Fiorella Riccio, on this day, the Eleventh of February in the year 1884."
** * **
Author's Note: Truth be told, I'm not entirely happy with this. The idea sounded really, really good in my head, but on paper I think it's a little weak. But screw all that, it isn't what's important.
Happy 16th Birthday, Thumbsucker Snitch!