Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.
. : ^_^ : .
A/N: Originally this was just going to be a one-part angst fiction, but I just had an urge to follow up on it. Spot is such a strong character he is so much fun to write about. I can't help it! This story will not be just about Spot, I guess you could call this a background story for things that will happen in my other fictions. Mainly this is the prequel to the fiction "Blind Spot". Name references, situations, and such. Take cares and enjoy!
. : ^_^ : .
Warning: This chapter is rated PG for mild language use and for some violence but not much. If you don't like cussing, don't read this. There isn't much, but it is part of the newsie life, if you can't deal with it, got read something else. Thank you and have a nice day. ^_^
. : ^_^ : .
// Her heart is as stone
Her touch as cold as winter frost
She calls for me to come to her
But only in my dreams…//
. : ^_^ : .
Brooklyn, arguably the toughest part of New York, rivaled only by Queens and Harlem. Manhattan wasn't a competition and Stanton Island wasn't even in the picture. Who went to Stanton anyway? Nobody in his or her right mind bothered to go to that God forsaken place. They isolated themselves a long time ago and Spot didn't care much about them. In fact, Spot didn't care much about anything but himself.
"Take cahah of yous self cause no one else gives a damn."
That's what he said and he meant it. No one else was going to take care of you in Brooklyn. No one was going to tuck you in at night or make sure you had washed your face and hands before you ate dinner. No goodnight kisses or bedtime stories here, nope, you were on your own. If you didn't fight for the kill you were killed. Spot knew that and respected anyone else who knew it.
The strike had drawn statewide even nationwide attentions to the newsies. The seemed celebrity status drew orphans and runaways by the dozens to lodging houses filling them to the brim, making selling different all together. They had no skill, no ability to sell, but they tried anyway. Spot could point out each out and be able to tell if they would fail or not and how long it would take them to break. It was a sport in which Spot excelled.
Lately though, the game brought him no pleasure. Late at night, he found himself sneaking out the front door and going for long walks in the dark. Sometimes he would smoke a cigarette he had managed to bum. Lately, he was going to the bridge a lot. It was always quiet there. The wind would whip though his hair and he would take a long drag off of the white stick. The cherry at the end would grow closer to his lips with every deep inhalation, and then he would throw it over the edge. Slowly it would spiral towards the swirling black below. The nicotine flowing through his veins would make him forget that he was hungry for awhile. Even the most famous and proficient newsie in New York went hungry on a regular basis.
The hunger in his stomach wasn't the only thing that longed to be filled in Spot's life. Living as a ruthless legend was hard work. Constantly he had to be aware of what was going on around him, who he was talking to, what he was talking about. All of the time he would have to guard his carefully formed image. The pressure was more than any boy should have to shoulder and it was really starting to weigh him down.
A few months ago he had been in the refuge. The hellhole had left its mark on the still visible scars over his body. The worst had been on his arms, but his neck showed them too, and only a few were one his face too. They weren't too deep, and would heal with time, but the mental scars were the ones that lasted. Only in the past few visits had the suicidal thoughts kicked in full swing. So far, every time he had gotten close to jumping something had happened. Someone coming up to him, loud noises, and even once it was one of the bulls.
It was going to take a lot more than that to stop him next time and he knew it. Life was losing its luster and its challenge. For Spot, life was a death sentence. Too many things lay on his head. Too many lives bloodied his conscious. His father's life was gone because of him, but he was glad for that. The bastard had beaten Spot to an inch of his life, what else was he supposed to do? Let him father kill him? No, he was lucky that the gun had been within his reach that night in the streets. His father was gone now, so it didn't matter did it? So many things were done and gone but Spot still couldn't shake them from his mind. Friends long gone, people he had hurt, people he had loved, all of them gone. Someday this bridge would take another life, but the only question was when.
. : ^_^ : .
"John, come heah would ya?" Rebecca's voice called through the dreary tenement rooms. "I needs youah help," the distinct New York accent rang out.
"I'se busy now, can't ya do anyt'ing by youah self?" John grumbled, he was particularly grumpy today.
"I can't figure dis problem, an' yous da one wit' a head foah numbahs," Rebecca complemented sweetly.
"Fine," the teenage boy muttered and began to explain the different concepts on the blackboard she held on the table.
Little Patrick watched his older brother and sister exchange their affectionate bickering. Frowning, the little boy went over to see if he could help his sister too, but he didn't understand the numbers that were scrawled over dark surface. John was scowling, he did that a lot lately. Every day he had been waking up really early and going to work at a factory. Sister Rebecca had been going too, then she would come home and work at school. Rebecca wanted to be a teacher.
Little Patrick went with his mom to where she worked, but he wasn't allowed inside. Too little, he heard them say, too young to come in here. So he would walk around the streets, wondering why he was too little to go to where his mom worked. During his days on the busy streets he would get bored and soon became fairly good at telling stories, and taking dares. It wasn't until he learned how to pick pockets that he really started to make more money. It never occurred to him that taking something from someone was wrong.
His daddy worked at the factory where his brother and sister worked, but he worked longer. Every night he would come home very tired and Patrick did his best to make his dad happy. One night he decided to give his dad all of the money he had made from taking it from others. Gathering together the collection of several coins and a few bills, Patrick put it in front of his father as he sat and read the days paper after dinner.
"Whot is dis?" His father boomed.
"I gots it woykin'," Patrick beamed.
"Doin' whot?" His father frowned, fingering through the money.
"Playin' games wit' some oder boys on da street," he admitted proudly.
When his father didn't press what kind of games he was playing, Patrick didn't tell him. Something made him keep his mouth shut, but soon enough his father would find out. That would be the night all hell broke loose.
. : ^_^ : .
"Button's is gone," A newsboy known as Outsider informed Spot as they relaxed after a long day of selling. It was sometime in January and the weather was freezing. No place on earth had weather like New York. Summer it was like hell's very doors had opened and was blowing its unearthly heat into the city. Winter reduced temperatures low enough that they could compete with the Yukon. Sharp northeast winds blew chilling them to the bones, but they learned to adapt to it.
"Where'd the goil go?" Spot asked, firing up a cigarette. His addiction to nicotine was becoming stronger since his late night walks began.
"Back ta da orphanage," Outsider eyed the fag enviously. "Couldn't take the newsies' life."
"Not many can," Spot answered dismally. "'Ow many weeks did she stay 'round?" He took a lazy drag.
"I'se guessin' 'round foah," Outsider counted the days off on his fingers.
"Longer dan I guessed," Spot grimaced. "I gave 'er t'ree an' a half," the trademark smirk came across his face. "Who's goin' ta be da next ta go?"
"I'se dunno," Outsider looked around the large open bunkroom. "I'se guessin' on da new boy, da fake crip," Outsider watched his leaders expressions change.
"Nah, he'll stay longah dan da new fact'ry boy," Spot pointed with his cane. "Risk," he clarified using the boy's nickname. "I gives him six moah days, tops."
"Yous pro'ly right," Outsider nodded. The two boys considered their quite contemplation as they leaned against the wall of the bunkroom. The girl's still shared the same large room, but the lodging house owner had hired a few carpenters that were out of jobs to change an old storage room into a separate bunk space. The owner said something about not wanting pregnant newsgirls.
It mattered not to Spot, most of the female newsies didn't attract him. Most of the ones here were the orphans and runaways that had been inspired by the strike to try their luck at selling papers. Some of them were factory kids looking to get out of those hot smelly buildings. Spot knew that they were trying to make something of themselves, and all of them were running from something. What Spot didn't know was that someone else was running that night, someone that was going to change the way he looked at things for the rest of his life.
. : ^_^ : .
Feet crunched in the snow that had remained virtually untouched in the many alleys and narrow passageways of Brooklyn. The sound echoed off of the brick sending it in a thousand different directions. The first pair of footsteps was followed by another pair, and yet another as they wove through the nearly deserted streets. The only people out on a night like this were the bums, the drunks, the whores, and the people like this group. The people that had scores to settle, or desires to fill, and the two pursuers desire just happened to be the one they were chasing.
A pair of short legs carried the prey incredibly fast as it tore away from its chasers. Speed fueled fear so strong it could almost taste it like the blood in its mouth. The two chasing had a motivation behind this chase, not only were they attracted to this little runner, the sprinting person had picked their pockets and they were aimed at teaching her a lesson. Finally a refuge for escape caught the runner's eyes and it bolted madly for the door. Gripping the handle with its numb hands, the prey tried vainly to open it. Nerves and near frostbite kept it from getting a firm grip. Nearer and nearer the two bullies grew and in the last possible instant it managed to fling open the door and close it with a resounding bang.
Upstairs, everyone heard the crash and froze before they all clamored down the stairs. Spot moved with a grace and dignity that he always moved, and pressed through the crowd as he moved down the stairs. He arrived at the bottom in the front of the group to see a heavily bundled person hastily attempting to put the lock on the door. When they succeeded, they turned to the group of boys and girls and began removing the layers of clothes. No one spoke or moved, everyone just watched the stranger slowly take off the bulky outer-wraps revealing the body of a young lady. Finally, she took off the bundles that were wrapped snuggly around her face and pulled off her hat. An abundance of tangled chestnut hair tumbled out and even through the heavy scarf her face was red from cold. Once she was adequately arranged, she looked up and made eye contact with Spot.
"I needs a place ta stay," She stated simply. "Wheah should I put me t'ings?"
Spot raised a surreptitious eyebrow and his trademark smirk creeped onto his face. Swaggering over to her, he slowly circled her, seeming to inspect her. The girl turned with him, shooting daggers from her black eyes. Seeming to be content with what he saw, Spot stopped circling and crossed his arms across his lean chest. He was only about an inch taller than the girl was, but that was enough.
"Whot makes ya t'ink we'se goin' ta have room?" Spot asked.
"Dese rat-holes always has got room," She looked Spot up and down with disgust. "An' who says dat it mattahs whot yous t'ink. I'se only cahah whot da head guys gotta say," she thought about what she said, then added. "An' even den I don' cahah dat much."
"You talk big foah such a lil' goil," Spot mocked.
"An' you talks big foah an ass," she retorted and the whole group gasped. Spot, not used to the challenge of authority, was shocked but didn't show it.
"Well, well, well, we'se got us a goil wit' some spahk heah," his smug grin came. "You a newsie goil?"
"Of coyse I'se a newsie," She stood akimbo.
"'Ow many papes do ya sell?" Spot was curious.
"One-fifty," she sighed and tapped her foot and a low murmur went through the crowd. Only Spot sold that many papers.
"Wheah yous from?" Spot's steel-blue eyes narrowed with doubt.
"Look, I ain't heah ta ansoah questions," She sounded frustrated. "I'se got me money foah board, I gots me stuff, an' I sell papes just like the lot of ya," She fumed. "Now wheah's da man in chahge?"
"I'se in chahge," Spot knew she meant the lodging house owner, but he couldn't resist.
"You's da man in chahge, huh?" She looked at him skeptically. "I t'ink dat we'se must gotta differ'nt meanin' foah da woyd man," A mirthless smile crossed her heart shaped mouth.
"Lis'en yous," Spot growled. "I'se got da powah ta make ya great oah make yous wish yous weah nevah boyn," he threatened.
"Oh, yous must be Spot Conlon," She said, the same cold smile on her lips.
"Yeah I'se 'im."
"Shame," she brushed her fingers through her long hair. "I'se kinda hopin' foah somet'ing impressive," her careless manner irritated Spot. A burning retort was melted on his mouth when a soft voice came from behind the counter.
"Can I help you?" It was the lodging house owner's daughter, Emily. Her raven hair tied back in a simple braid, her tiny features marking her childlike manners.
"Yeah," the new girl stepped away from Spot and slammed her dime on the counter. "I'se heah foah a bunk," Quietly, Emily took the money and motioned for the new girl to follow her.
"Wait," Spot called out and the chestnut head of hair turned to look at him. "Whot's youah name?"
"Yous can call me Frost," She answered, then ascended the stairs, the group of newsies part the way for her.
When she was upstairs all of the newsies started talking. Some to each other, some to Spot, some to themselves, others simple stood in shock. Had that girl really just challenged Spot Conlon? That hadn't happened since Spot had gotten out of the Refuge. The power struggle had been brief, but deadly. No one spoke of the time anymore though, nobody wanted to risk the consequences.
Slowly the group filtered back upstairs, seeing that the action was over. Only Outsider and Spot were left in the front entryway. Deeply, Spot was brooding, he had to make this girl realize the way it worked around here. There were rules and limitations, and she had to follow them just like the rest of the newsies.
"Who does dat broad t'ink she is?" Spot muttered, he was pacing and Outsider looked nervous. "I'se Spot Conlon! I could 'ave 'er kilt if I wants ta!" he took off his cap and twisted it in his hands angrily. "I lasted six damn mont's in da Refuge wit'out nobody ta talk ta," He continued. "If she t'inks she's so tough, let's see 'er do dat!" Spot stopped pacing and looked at Outsider. "We'se gotta teach dat goil who's boss 'round heah."
"'Ow we'se goin' ta do dat?" Outsider scratched his head.
"I'se dunno," Spot's face furrowed. "We'se goin' ta do it dough," he looked at the stairs as Emily descended. "Hey yous," He went over to her and she looked at him blankly. "Wheah did ya put da new goil?"
"In one of the empty bunks in the girl's room," She replied softly. "I hope that isn't any problem."
"Nah," he shook his head. "T'anks anyways," he started up the stairs, maybe he could talk to this girl. What was he thinking? Of course he could talk to this girl, he could talk to this girl any time he wanted to , anywhere he wanted to. This was Brooklyn, he was Brooklyn, and this girl had no say about it whatsoever.
. : ^_^ : .
"Heah Pat, go get dat one," a taller boy pointed to a man bustling down the streets. He was well dressed and looked like he would have a fat wallet. Smiling, the little boy moved close to the man.
The street was fairly crowded today, but not as much as normal. Picking had been slim for their 'game' but Patrick still enjoyed being counted with the 'big' boys. Moving swiftly between people, ducking under carts and skirting out of the way of the passing traffic, Patrick moved so he was in front of the man. Then headed against the traffic so he sounding knocked into the left side of the man. At the contact, Patrick slipped his little hand into the pocket and pulled out a wallet, muttering an apology, he went back to the group of boys who looked pleased.
"Heah," little Patrick said, holding up his prize. They took it and opened it. By their faces it was apparent that the man would sorely miss it, but Patrick didn't realize this. All this meant to him was that he won the game again, and for his efforts they would give him some of the money from the wallet. The more he could give to his dad, maybe the happier he would be.
. : ^_^ : .
Frost followed the quiet raven-haired girl, up the stairs. Handling the infamous Spot Conlon h ad been easier than she expected and now she was away from those that were chasing her. Foolhardy boys who thought her merely a prize, but they didn't get what they wanted and now she had to stay here. When they made it to the girl bunkroom, the girl who had led her there pointed to a bunk then left. Taking her things, she dropped them on the bed.
These were all of her worldly possessions. The only things she had to show for her fifteen years. A moth eaten coat, gloves worn thin as paper, a knit hat that she had stolen and a thick scarf made of wool. Money and other personal articles were stored in her pockets, never leaving her body. The only thing of real value was the necklace she wore around her neck. From a thin gold chain hung a tiny cross with a red jewel in the center. As red as the life-blood that ran through her veins. Reaching for the chain, she pulled it up above her shirt to look at it. Gently, she fingered it until she heard someone come into the room. Hurriedly she replaced it inside of her shirt.
Another girl with bright red hair and doe-like blue eyes entered followed by a brunette with eyes that matched the warm chocolate tone of her hair. Straightening to her full height, Frost glared at the girls. Neither of them looked too impressed, but they did seem slightly wary.
"Hi, I'se Spitfire," the girl with red hair spoke. "An' dis is Flower," she introduced.
"Frost," She said simply spitting in her hand and holding it out to them. At the customary newsie greeting, the other two girls eased slightly and spat into their hand shaking Frost's.
"Wheah yous from?" Spitfire asked.
"I ain't from nowheah," Frost sat on her bunk, not attempting to further the conversation.
"Oh," Flower answered. "Yous don' knows wheah yous from?"
"No, I just ain't from nowheah," Frost made no pleasantries.
"Well I'se from Harlem, but I cames ovah heah a few yeahs back," Spitfire related.
"An' I'se new," Flower admitted. "But I comes from Brooklyn."
"Dat's nice," Frost said bitterly, laying down and closing her eyes. It was a good thing that Spot came through the door right then because the Spitfire and Flower were running out of topics. One look at them and a wave from his cane and they left hastily.
"I see yous met some o' da goils," Spot started, sitting on the bunk across from Frost and she didn't even open her eyes, but a sly smile crept onto her relaxed face.
"Spot Conlons," She said his name with a certain flare of distaste. "I hoyd yous weah in da Refuge," She cut him off before he could lay out the 'rules'. "Whatcha do ta get in dere?"
"Got caught," Spot said simply and she smiled a little more.
"The great leadah o' Brooklyn, caught," she seemed to find great mirth in this, and Spot bristled at this. "'Ow long did de lock ya up?"
"Six mont's, soilitahy," He was reminded of the conversation he had just had with Outsider.
"It took ya dat long ta get outta dere?" She kept her eyes closed as if she was sleeping, but her mouth moved freely. "I'se disappointed Conlon. I t'ought dat a legend like yous se'f woulda gotten outta dere fastah," She peeked open one eye and looked at him. "Yous shuah yous Spot?"
"Yeah, I'se shuah and I gots some t'ing ta tell ya," He grabbed his shoulder suddenly and jerked her upright. Turning, she rose out of bed and moved a hand to strike him, outraged by his bold action, but he caught her fist in mid-air rising to his feet as well, keeping her wrist in his grip. "I'se da leadah heah an' if yous gotta problem wit' dat yous can leave," he ground out in a deadly low voice. "I don' cahah how many papes you sells oah if yous can pay foah youah board, I'se da leadah an whot I says goes," He let go of her wrist and she stepped back, jerking her hand down and holding it against her stomach. "Got it?"
"Yea, I'se got it," Frost muttered.
It had been too easy and Spot looked at her suspiciously. This was the first time he really got a good look at her, the other times he had been so mad that he hadn't taken her in. Her face was plain, almost ugly, her eyes were nearly black, blending in with the pupils, and her nose looked like it had been broken more than once. The hallows of her cheeks were painfully pronounced, she looked thin enough to break in two, her heart shaped mouth was pressed into a firm line, but Spot guessed that it could be very pretty if she ever genuinely smiled. Unarguably, her hair was her best feature. The waist length of thick reddish-brown tresses was straight as a board, even when tangled. Her stance was guarded, her face was set, no emotion was in her eyes and Spot chuckled, then turned and left her alone.
Flinging herself down on her bed, Frost closed her eyes again. It wouldn't do to let him see how seething mad she was, she couldn't afford to show emotions. Now was the time to sleep, tomorrow she had a busy day and connections to make. Right now, her only goal was to make due in Brooklyn… and to be able to stay here.
. : ^_^ : .
As was his custom, Spot rose earlier than the rest of the boys and headed to the washroom to prepare for the day. The time alone helped him to clear his head and prepare for the day. His early morning quiet time would be short lived however because someone else was in the washroom. Someone was in there without a shirt on, her long chestnut hair streaming down her back. Spot cleared his throat and she swiveled her head quickly to see who was there.
"Holy shit!" She exclaimed softly grabbing for the shirt on the washstand, and Spot turned around. "Whot da hell ah you doin' sneakin' in heah like dat?" Frost yanked the undershirt over her head and reached for her button-up.
"I'se comin in heah ta get ready ta sell papes," Spot answered. "Whot else would I'se be doin'?" He retorted. "It ain't like I wants ta see yous."
"Well ya could woyn a poyson!" Frost snapped as she turned around. "Just cause yous da leadah don't mean ya can't have no manners." Her tone was icy again.
"I'se 'ave just as much right ta dis heah bat'room as yous," Spot pointed out. "Pro'ly moah," he added for good measure, trying to get a reaction from her, he failed. "So don' you staht getting' all high an mighty wit' me!" He started unbuttoning the front of his long-john's.
"Whot ah yous doin'?" Frost asked.
"I'se getting ready foah da day," He answered, if she could be careless, he could be too. "If yous don' wanna see not'in don' look," he continued to button down the front of his jumpsuit until he was at the waist. Then sliding out his arms, he wrapped the empty sleeves around his waist, tying them firmly.
Frustrated, Frost turned away and began brushing her long hair before plating it into a long braid. Every once in awhile, if she moved to the side enough, she could see him stripped the waist, washing. Then hastily she would move back, not caring to see that. Taking her sweet time with her braid, she would check every so often to see if he was dressed yet. It wasn't until after he had his long underwear buttoned back up that she turned and brushed past him out of the washroom. How the Brooklyn leader prepared himself for the day was no business of hers.
Bundling up, she hurried out the door into the cold. Fresh snow lay on the ground, hardly spoiled by the early morning activity. It was beautiful, but she reminded herself that in less than an hour it would become nothing more than sludge. The bitter thought was true for much of the world. Things start out fresh and beautiful, but as time wears on they become overused and dirty. The philosophy made Frost walk a little faster to the distribution center. No one else was there yet, and it let her have time to think.
The time to think was lessened considerably when Frost saw a boy with a cocky swagger approaching her. Spot, she thought and instantly turned off her emotions.
"I goes in foist," Spot informed her without any of the customary greetings.
"But I was heah foist," Protested Frost.
"But I'se da leader an' yous follow me," he crossed his arms and stood beside her at the front, not looking at her. "Got it?"
"Got it," she spoke evenly. Being second wouldn't be too bad; it was better than third, but worse than first. The only part she heard of that was the worst.
"So whot were yous runnin' from last night?" Spot attempted conversation.
"Nonya business," she snipped.
"I knows why dey call yous Frost," Spot chuckled to himself.
"Dey probably call yous Spot cause ya ain't any biggah dan one," she retorted sourly.
"Watch youah mout' goil oah I'll make it so yous can't talk," Spot threatened dangerously. He may have been short, but he wouldn't take any guff from anyone.
"Fine," she relinquished, but there was no submission in her tone.
"Fine," he said to emphasize the point that really hadn't been made.
"Fine," she repeated, always trying to get in the last word.
Spot let her have her little victory knowing that he held power over her. The sweet feeling of control seeped into his cold blood like honey. It was something he relished and something that no one could take away, even a fast tongued girl.
The silence between the two droned on as the sounds of the street began to pick up. Just as Frost had predicted, the lovely white snow was already being trampled into a brownish-gray sludge that seeped into the holes of her shoes, soaking into her socks, and making her miserable. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself a little tighter.
"Cold a'ready?" Spot mocked and she looked at him. He had been watching her, that terrible smirk covering his face.
"No," She answered. "I was thinking," she added then ignored him.
Strange goil, Spot thought. Friendly enough ta make ya want ta get to know her but just enough ice ta chill ya.
The skies opened as they stood there and frozen angel's tears floated to the ground, covering the people with white specks. They watched the flakes float lazily to the ground to disappear into the endless piles of them that already were there. It was an odd sight for anyone that passed by. Two people huddling against the cold, but a few feet apart from each other. Obviously having a connection but not wanting one, sometimes a few words would be exchanged and the boy would look strangely pleased with himself, but the girl's face was unreadable. The was the scene that the group of newsies approached, the girls huddled together as they gossiped and the boys grouped only to fend off the cold from cutting into their skin.
Together they talked and joked at the gates, the girls tried to include Frost, and she would comment here and there but took no real part in the conversation. Finally the gates opened and they made their way to get the papers.
. : ^_^ : .
"Yous in my spot," A voice came from behind her and she whirled around to see Spot Conlon standing there, smirk in place.
"I didn't see no signs tellin' me dat I couldn't sells heah," Frost shot back.
"Well I'se da markah yous lookin' foah an' dis heah is my spot," he adjusted his papers on his shoulder and noted that she did have just as many as him.
"So you wants me ta leave?" She tinted her voice with a little sarcasm.
"Nah, yous can stay foah today," he offered and she raised an eyebrow.
"Whot's da catch?" She waited to hear what his angle was.
"Yous stop challengin' my aut'ority," he answered simply, obviously he had thought this out.
"An' how do I knows dat dis is youah spot? How do I knows that you ain't just bluffin'?" she shifted her papers.
"Cause Spot Conlon can sell wheah evah 'e wants," the boy told her. "But dis is wheah I noymally sells me papes."
"Wheah do ya not noymally sell youah papes?" Her keen business sense kicking in.
"Wheah evah da hell I want," with that he smiled and began hawking the headline.
Right now wasn't the time to be making powerful enemies, it was the time to make nice with them, and she had enough enemies without adding Spot Conlon to the list. So she walked away, selling the occasional paper as she kept moving. A few streets away, she started selling. It didn't seem like anyone else was laying claim to that Spot right then so she used her sales skills to begin selling her papers. The reason that no one was staked here was soon fairly obvious, no one was buying papers. Even with her exceptional skills, no one would even give her a second look.
Whot is it an' dis street? She wondered, and moved into a different area. Selling was better there, but not by much. By lunch she hadn't even sold half of her papes and her feet were already completely numb. Scowling, she trudged into yet a different spot. It was dark before she limped back to the lodging house, she could already see the satisfied smirk on Spot's face.
. : ^_^ : .
"Look whot I got da," little Patrick shoved his way inside and dumped all of his treasure onto the table in front of his father.
The money clattered as it rolled and landed on the hard wooden surface. Bills and coins lay scattered over the surface and Patrick's father looked more suspicious that surprised.
"You won all dis in a game?" He asked skeptically and the little boy nodded. "Yous dat good at pokah?" his dad asked.
"Whot's pokah?" Patrick scratched his head, he was sure that wasn't the name of the game he played. Now that he thought of it, the boys had never told him what the name of the game was. All he knew was that when he got caught, the people got really mad and he had to run fast.
"It's a cahd game," His father explained, eyes darkening. "Yous not been getting' dis money from a cahd game?"
Patrick looked around the room, his mother was looking at him expectantly, Rebecca was pretending to study, but was really listening to the conversation and his brother had already left the room. Something inside of Patrick told him that he had done something very bad, very bad indeed. Frantically he turned his big turquoise eyes to his father and his lip began to quiver.
"Da boys on da street said dat it was good," he tried to explain. "Dey said it were a game."
"Patrick, wheah did ya get da money?" His mother prompted.
"I'se been takin' it outta people's pockets, but dats da way da game is played," he pleaded and saw the fear leap into his mother's eyes and the anger leap into his fathers. "I didn' mean ta be bad."
"Come wit' me boy, I'se goin' ta teach you a lesson," His father spoke gravely, taking the boy by the wrist and leading him into the bedroom. Whenever father said that it meant that someone was going to get a beating.
"Giles, he didn't know no bettah," his mother begged for her baby. "Don't hoyt him!"
"I'se sorry," Giles muttered then shut the door.
Patrick didn't remember much else about that night except the fear and the pain he felt the next morning. All he knew was that he wasn't allowed to go to work with his mommy anymore. Now he went with sister, Rebecca and brother, John to the factory and worked. He worked on the big machines that wove cloth for the rich people. He grew pale and despondent. It was inside those factory walls, that the tiny boy who never spoke much, and often could be seen hiding against a wall was named Spot.
. : ^_^ : .
//The memories of days long ago,
The dreams of yesterdays long dead,
Come back at night,
Come back and haunt me…//
. : ^_^ : .
"You knows dat if you coat da bottom of ya shoes wit' tah dey don't leak none," she heard a voice come up behind her as she cowered at the stove, trying to bring life back to her long dead feet.
"Whot?" she asked, turning to see Spot smoking a cigarette.
"Ya go down ta da docks an' da sailors gots tah foah dere boats. Sometimes dey'll give ya some ta put on ya shoes," he lifted his foot to show the dark rubber like substance that coated the bottom of his shoe. "Keeps out da snow," he pointed at her shoes as they dried by the fire. "Yous'll be needin' a doctah ta cut off youah toes afore winters ovah if you weah does much longah," he pointed out and she bristled.
"T'ank yous," she muttered and moved back to rubbing her numb foot. The slightest prickles of life were beginning to show and it hurt, but the pain was a good sign. Tar, who would have thought of that for a solution? True, there were fishermen around that used it to patch their boats, but shoes? It was so simple it was almost too simple.
"So wheah yous from?" Spot asked again.
"I ain't from nowheah," she answered, eyeing the smoke hanging carelessly from his lips. "Ya got anodda one o' doe's?" she asked and he fished deep into his pocket before handing her another nicotine stick. Lighting it in the stove, she took a long deep inhale. It had been a long time since she had been able to satisfy her nicotine fix. "T'anks," she breathed a deep sigh of contentment.
"So yous goin' ta tell me wheah yous from now?" He knew that she bow though the cigarette only a bribe.
"I told ya, I don't come from nowheah. I'se been too many places ta call one home," she breathed in deeply again, watching the cloud of smoke come from her lips. "Yous from 'round heah?" she turned to conversation to him.
"Yeah," he answered. "I'se from 'round heah," he frowned, and watched the red ball at the end of the white stick grow nearer to her lips. "How many places yous been from. You sounds like yous from New Yawk." He stated.
"It's easy enough to change youah voice," she slipped into a slow southern drawl. "You canna be judging a lass by her tongue," she added in a Scottish brogue. "I'se from lotsa places," she finished back in her street speak.
"Yous a confusing goil," Spot frowned, more than slightly amazed at the ease of her vocal transitions.
"I'se been called woise," she smiled slightly, holding the fag loosely in between her fingers. "How old ah yous?" She squinted slightly, as if trying to picture him differently.
"Fifteen," he admitted, taking a long haul off of his nicotine stick. "Feel oldah dough." She laughed slightly at his last comment, understanding what he meant.
Most of the newsies could claim the same thing. Their innocence had been shattered a long time ago, but their hope was the only thing that kept them alive. If they let that die, then there wasn't any chance for them. Most of these kids had seen more of the bad side of the world than anyone should ever have to see in a lifetime. Most of them had lived most of what they had seen too. All of the had been beaten, or abused in some way. They all had lost someone, by choice or not, and they all were running from something.
"So who's you runnin' from?" Spot picked up the conversation again as he watched her rub her feet, her cigarette balancing in her mouth.
"Who evah I can outruns," she grimaced as feeling started to surge back into her toes. The truth of her cryptic answers puzzled Spot. He could walk away from this conversation feeling like he knew a lot about this girl when he really knew nothing for sure. "Everybody's got somet'ing dey are tryin' to outrun. Whot 'bout you?"
"I don't got not'in," he lied. "No one cahahs enough ta chase me," a wry grin crossed his face as he tossed the butt of his cigarette into the flames.
"'Ey Spot," Outsider came up to him. "'Ey Frost," he greeted the girl and she nodded in acknowledgement.
"Whot do ya want Outsidah?" Spot asked.
"We'se stahtin' a game o' pokah," He informed them. "If yous two wants ta join us, ya can," he offered.
"I'se in," Spot stood and looked at Frost. "Yous wanna play?" He offered his hand to Frost to help her off of the floor.
"Shuah," she took Spot's hand and he pulled her up so they were standing nearly nose to nose. "I'se hoyd dat da Brooklyn leadah's good at pokah," she breathed. "Let's just see how good he is," she pulled back and followed after Outsider leaving Spot to trail along behind them.
. : ^_^ : .
A group of ten had started in the game and now they were down to four. Outsider, Spot, Frost, and Spitfire were the only ones that held out long enough. Spot showed no emotions, but neither did Frost, Spitfire would frown now and then and Outsider almost looked bored. Spitfire folded the next round, Outsider added money to the pot as did Spot and Frost. Frost appeared to have quite a bit of cash on her for taking so long on selling, but Spot didn't comment. He already knew the kind of answer he would receive.
Soon they were all simply staring around the circle, making eye contact with each other as they held out, waiting for another to fold. They all held the steel-eyed calm and the composure of the most trained criminal. No one in the room talked as they watched the three in the depths of concentration. Finally Outsider lay down his cards.
"Straight," He declared and turned to Spot who lay down his cards.
"Flush," he smirked, knowing that the flush beat a straight, but not by much.
"Flush," Frost frowned as she lay down her cards, she and Spot had drawn the same hand in different suits. Each held the exact same numbers, and Spot scowled.
"How'd ya do dat?" He asked.
"I didn't do not'in'!" Frost exclaimed. "Dat's just whot I got," she pointed and he looked. Her hand was the mirror image of his heart, but hers were diamonds.
"How ah we'se goin' ta know who's da winnah?" Outsider scratched his head, already forgetting the sore disappointment of losing in the rarity and hilarity of the situation.
"Draw anodda cahd," Suggested Flower. "High cahd wins."
Looking back and forth at each other, Spot and Frost agreed that Flower's solution was probably the most reasonable and each picked up a card from the top of the pile. Neither one looked but waited, then turned them over to reveal the winner.
. : ^_^ : .
"I beat ya," Spot gloated over Frost the next day.
"By one damn point," she reminded him.
"But I still won," they had walked down to the docks early that morning and had Frost's shoes patched. Then walked to the distribution center.
"I'll beat ya next time," she swore.
"No ya won't," he challenged.
"Oh yeah?" she raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Whot makes ya say dat?"
"Nobody beats Spot Conlon at not'in," he said, his voice filled with pride.
"I'se goin' ta prove ya wrong one o' dese days," she promised. "Just yous wait."
"Is dat a threat?" he mocked.
"Only if ya want it ta be," she shoved her hands into her threadbare coat pockets.
"It ain't polite foah lil' goils ta be makin' threats," he teased, and on went the bickering.
A pair of doves huddled above them on a lamppost, watching the boy a girl with curiosity. Their play was disruptive to their calm morning, but they were oblivious to the intrusion that they were causing. The noise, they could stand, but it was when a poorly aimed snowball hit dangerously close that they decided to fly away. Pushing off of the freezing metal, they flew up into the swirling snowflakes and into the horizon.
. : ^_^ : .
A/N: Well I hope you liked this. It is kind of long I guess, but I really am depressed that I can't just sit down and write a friggin' long chapter. -Growls- Oh well, I would love it if you would review me because I am a review monger. I don't just want you to be nice to me either, tell me what sucks about this story! NOW! Candy-corn to all of those that are honest with me.