"Eh," Racetrack Higgins would usually reply, "strangah t'ings have happened. Why, it didn't even make da papes." He'd add an obligatory peck on the cheek for the fiery girl beside him. "At least," he'd continue, "don't let it keep ya up at night."
That's how Race would respond to the many queries about their relationship. And it was true that they didn't bear any similarities to each other. Not in the least. He would often explain that they weren't brother and sister, either, but merely step-brother and step-sister. The girl would smile, her green eyes dancing, and say something to the effect of how well he took care of her anyway. They would exchange a loving glance, his dutiful and doting, hers admiring and adoring.
And yes, that was the way it had always been. Born to Mr. Matthew Higgins by his first wife, Racetrack Higgins was a spunky seventeen-year-old Italian. A deep longing for the vices of life did not keep him from safely perching atop the pedestal his sister provided for him.
Mrs. Oliver Higgins died in childbirth. A year later, Mr. Higgins remarried an Irish woman, and soon young Bridget entered the world. Entirely different from her brother, Bridget had never ceased to surprise her family. Headstrong and impulsive, proud and unabashed, she was yet playful and clever. Stereotypically Irish, Bridget had flaming red hair in large ringlets and dazzling green eyes of the Emerald Isle. She had that distinction of being the sort of person that one either loved or hated, or maybe both, but never neither.
Race was a dutiful protector and provider, ensuring that she never worked more than a half-shift at the local textile factory. When she was young, Race had insisted that she come to the newsie's lodging house after her work had ended so that he could keep an eye on her. She'd never abandoned that practice. As a young child, she'd enjoyed playing with the boys, before she turned 11 and spent two years hating them. Towards 14, though, she spent a good year flirting incessantly with them, before finally settling down to befriend the boys. In doing this, she'd caught the eyes of more than a few of them.
Together since childhood, when the influenza swept New York and took both Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, Race had never failed to provide for his sister. But he wasn't quite sufficient, by himself and at such a young age, to be two fine parents, and that's where our third character comes in. Enter Graham England. Tall, blond, with chiseled features and steel-blue eyes, he was sterner, and more serious than the other newsboys, set apart, almost. Rather like a puzzle piece that won't fit, no matter how many times one pounds. But he never alienated the boys with his seriousness - he had a laugh that overwhelmed his face and warmed hearts. His heart-of-gold made him a favorite with most of the boys, and gave him the natural tendency to care for Bridget in a different way than her brother.
He'd always known her, and while Bridget knew to run to Race to be protected, she knew to run to Graham when she was upset. He took it as his duty to console her, but in his own style. Not softening any blow of truth, but still managing to console her. He also took it upon himself to advise her, no matter how painful that was for either of them. And indeed, Bridget was often angry with him, her pride insulted because he knew her and her faults so well. But his words, "I'd rather have your rage than see you hurt yourself," echoed in her ears. But she found the truth even more irresistible than the kindness, and he was patient with her.
"How lucky she is ta have two bruddahs," Race would say. And Graham England would look away.