A/N: Thanks and a giant internet hug to everyone who supported (and will
hopefully continue support me) in the endeavor. Sorry this chapter took
sooooo long to post, but my muse ran away and I couldn't find her for days.
She only came back yesterday when Backstage brought her to me, having
found her trying on Diamond's dresses. Anyway, my muse *finally*
acknowledged the fact that she really has no place in the world of fic and
I have now chained her to the computer, where she it jabbing vigorously (if
rather angrily) at the keys.
*~*~*
The Newsie Princess Of Brooklyn
*~*~*
I didn't cry that first night, or the night after that, or the night after the night after the night after that. For the longest time, I didn't even feel it. After he walked away it was all I could do to get into the lodging house and fall into bed, staring at the darkness that surrounded me on all sides and willing myself to fall asleep. Through the mattress I could feel the weight of that cigar box filled with nickels and dimes and silver dollars aglow with hope. If I had had the energy I think I would have gotten up, pulled it out and thrown the whole thing out the window. But at that moment the best I could do was to close my eyes and try to forget.
Over the next few days I became very good at avoiding people. I avoided my friends at the lodging house, I avoided anyone who had heard about my dinner with the Jacobses, I avoided people who looked at me on the street or asked me the time of day. Most of all, I avoided Spot. It was only after a week, when he finally caught up with me and arranged to meet for breakfast the next morning, that I had to acknowledge my plan might harbor a few flaws. I knew he deserved to find out what had happened, and why I had been acting so strangely, and what Jack had said-but I still had no intentions fessing up unless I was forced to. Which, I was sure, was what was going to happen. But after all was said and done, he was still my brother.
We both had the same thing as we had before, and just like last time I only sipped my coffee, sick with anticipation. He looked like he didn't want to ask the question any more than I wanted to answer it. Instead of the uneasy small talk he had made with me last time he was quiet for longer than I could remember him being. When he finally spoke up it came from nowhere, startling me so much I jumped in my seat.
"Sammy, somethin' happened last week that you're not tellin' me about, and I wanna know what's going on." It all came out in a rush, each word falling over each other trying to get to the finish line first.
"Nothing's goin' on," I said evasively, taking a tiny bite of my oatmeal.
"Sammy," he said, forcing me to lock eyes with him, "c'mon. You really think you can fool me that easy?"
So I told him. Everything. What else was there for me to do? He had to hear it and I had to tell it, and it was only when I was done talking that I realized I had started crying.
My god. Tears. When was the last time I had felt tears on my cheeks? I couldn't remember a time I had wept since the day our mother died. But of course there must have been others--how could there not have been? But it was such a strange feeling to be sitting there staring down at the scarred wood of the table as I tried in vain to purge everything I had felt over the last six months. And for all I was worth I couldn't think of a single time in the last ten years when this had happened.
Spot must not have remembered anything either. At the beginning of the conversation he was mainly curious and felt only mild indignation towards Jack. At the end of it he was about ready to kill him. I was, to be honest, more than a little tempted not to try to dissuade him.
"Spot," I said finally, after he had fumed and smoldered long enough to begin to think about calming down, "whatever you're thinkin' about doing, don't."
He looked at me levelly. "How can I *not* do somethin'?"
"Because. I asked you not to."
"You know he deserves a good beatin', don't you?"
"Yes," I said quietly. And I did. I hated him so much for what he had done to me that at that moment I couldn't even stand to think about him. But I knew I had to try harder. I had to get to the bottom of it and still have hopes for a happy ending, and no matter how satisfying the idea of letting Spot beat him to a bloody pulp was, I knew that I could never let him.
"So...you know what you have to do, don't you." Of course I did. But I let him tell me anyway. "You gotta talk to him, Sam. You can't avoid him for the resta your life."
"Sure I can."
"You know what I mean. Be a man, Sam."
Reluctantly, I smiled. I had a feeling the sort of girl Jacky boy generally went for didn't usually follow this kind of advice. *Take me or leave me, Kelly* I thought. And for the first time, I truly believed it.
*~*~*
TBC...
The Newsie Princess Of Brooklyn
*~*~*
I didn't cry that first night, or the night after that, or the night after the night after the night after that. For the longest time, I didn't even feel it. After he walked away it was all I could do to get into the lodging house and fall into bed, staring at the darkness that surrounded me on all sides and willing myself to fall asleep. Through the mattress I could feel the weight of that cigar box filled with nickels and dimes and silver dollars aglow with hope. If I had had the energy I think I would have gotten up, pulled it out and thrown the whole thing out the window. But at that moment the best I could do was to close my eyes and try to forget.
Over the next few days I became very good at avoiding people. I avoided my friends at the lodging house, I avoided anyone who had heard about my dinner with the Jacobses, I avoided people who looked at me on the street or asked me the time of day. Most of all, I avoided Spot. It was only after a week, when he finally caught up with me and arranged to meet for breakfast the next morning, that I had to acknowledge my plan might harbor a few flaws. I knew he deserved to find out what had happened, and why I had been acting so strangely, and what Jack had said-but I still had no intentions fessing up unless I was forced to. Which, I was sure, was what was going to happen. But after all was said and done, he was still my brother.
We both had the same thing as we had before, and just like last time I only sipped my coffee, sick with anticipation. He looked like he didn't want to ask the question any more than I wanted to answer it. Instead of the uneasy small talk he had made with me last time he was quiet for longer than I could remember him being. When he finally spoke up it came from nowhere, startling me so much I jumped in my seat.
"Sammy, somethin' happened last week that you're not tellin' me about, and I wanna know what's going on." It all came out in a rush, each word falling over each other trying to get to the finish line first.
"Nothing's goin' on," I said evasively, taking a tiny bite of my oatmeal.
"Sammy," he said, forcing me to lock eyes with him, "c'mon. You really think you can fool me that easy?"
So I told him. Everything. What else was there for me to do? He had to hear it and I had to tell it, and it was only when I was done talking that I realized I had started crying.
My god. Tears. When was the last time I had felt tears on my cheeks? I couldn't remember a time I had wept since the day our mother died. But of course there must have been others--how could there not have been? But it was such a strange feeling to be sitting there staring down at the scarred wood of the table as I tried in vain to purge everything I had felt over the last six months. And for all I was worth I couldn't think of a single time in the last ten years when this had happened.
Spot must not have remembered anything either. At the beginning of the conversation he was mainly curious and felt only mild indignation towards Jack. At the end of it he was about ready to kill him. I was, to be honest, more than a little tempted not to try to dissuade him.
"Spot," I said finally, after he had fumed and smoldered long enough to begin to think about calming down, "whatever you're thinkin' about doing, don't."
He looked at me levelly. "How can I *not* do somethin'?"
"Because. I asked you not to."
"You know he deserves a good beatin', don't you?"
"Yes," I said quietly. And I did. I hated him so much for what he had done to me that at that moment I couldn't even stand to think about him. But I knew I had to try harder. I had to get to the bottom of it and still have hopes for a happy ending, and no matter how satisfying the idea of letting Spot beat him to a bloody pulp was, I knew that I could never let him.
"So...you know what you have to do, don't you." Of course I did. But I let him tell me anyway. "You gotta talk to him, Sam. You can't avoid him for the resta your life."
"Sure I can."
"You know what I mean. Be a man, Sam."
Reluctantly, I smiled. I had a feeling the sort of girl Jacky boy generally went for didn't usually follow this kind of advice. *Take me or leave me, Kelly* I thought. And for the first time, I truly believed it.
*~*~*
TBC...