I only woke the next morning because there was some sort of chaotic
disorder going on outside. I grunted as I rolled over, almost forgetting
that I was still in Spot Conlon's clubhouse, and not back in the convent. I
sat up and looked out the foggy window, rubbing my sleeve on it to clear a
little space. Cowboy. Jack Kelly was standing outside, tall and muscular as
usual. His hair was combed back in the usual greasy way, and his
traditional cowboy hat hung around his back from the string around his
neck. I remembered who Spot had called "Jack-y Boy" and what he was like,
he was the leader of the Lower East Side Newsies. Next to Cowboy stood a
girl, around Spot's height, with curly brown hair, a long calico skirt that
swished at her heals and a brown blouse. She seemed to be with Cowboy, but
she looked to be friendly with all the boys, and all the boys seemed to be
friendly with her, particularly Cowboy and Spot.
I rubbed my head as I headed towards the doorway of the small room. I felt a sharp pain in the very back of my head, and I assumed it came from having been thrown against a wall in a dark alley the night before. The events of the previous night came back to me quickly, and I felt a rush of relief and hope. Soon, I might be able to see my brother. I would not feel safe until he was holding me tightly in his arms, the arms of the only person in the world I trusted at the moment.
Leaving the room, I began to descend a stairway down towards the room where I had met Spot the night before. Near the bottom of the steps, a flash of light caught my eye on the wall. Looking back towards it, I discovered a mirror hanging there simply. I looked cautiously into it, a pair of sea- blue eyes staring into my own. The only things I had of my mother's were her eyes. They were the only thing I had ever liked about my appearance, simply because they reminded me of the ocean, which I had once seen in a painting of a beach, with the most beautiful blue water imaginable. Those blue eyes moved up to my hair, which had been perfectly arranged into a disgusting mess. My face had been dirtied up, as well, and my clothes were ripped. Remembering how Spot had called me "garbage" the night before, I knew that I must have indeed looked like it. Examining my reflection, I saw in my mind the girl from outside, and recalled how I had seen Jack Kelly looking at her. Sadly, I wished I had someone to look at me like that, completely different from the look I had received from Spot Conlon. From the glint in his green eyes, I could tell that he was purely disgusted with me, and that I was the last thing he wanted to see dropped on his doorstep in the middle of the night.
I descended the rest of the way down to the main room where the Brooklyn boys had been playing poker the night before. It was almost completely empty except for a young man who had his cap pulled over his eyes, apparently fast asleep in one of the chairs I had been dying to take a seat in the night before. I looked around the room, my stomach was growling, and I didn't catch sight of any food. I closed my eyes momentarily and walked out onto the dock. I breathed in the fresh air after being in that rank clubhouse the entire night, the air rising up from the East River smelt fresh compared to the smoke and sweat of Spot Conlon's clubhouse, as I stepped out, Spot himself turned around.
His piercing eyes were laughing at me again. It made me want to squirm.. He turned back to Jack Kelly, saying, "That's the one I was sayin' about. Kerry, the drunk bastard, comes in with 'er in the middle of the night, and she goes on about one a' your newsies bein' her brother or somethin'." I glanced back and forth between everyone out on the docks. There were a few of the boys from the poker game last night, some of whom were jumping into the river, as if they were bathing. I gave the brown-haired girl a once- over. She smiled gracefully at me. I could tell that she was around my age, from up close I could see that she had the lightest blue eyes that I had ever seen, even lighter than Jack's. She was a really beautiful young woman, her hair falling gracefully on her shoulders. Ordinarily, I would have been able to challenge her beauty, but it had rained over the night when I was out wandering Brooklyn, and my hair was in tangles and my clothes were wrinkled from the moisture in the air. Jack smiled at me, but I don't think he recognized me with my hair like this. Back at the convent, they made us bun our hair every day and wear matching clothing most days.
"So she look familiar to you, Jack-y boy?" Spot questioned, no longer looking at me. I watched him though, his eyes darted back and forth from the stern look he gave Cowboy to the one he was giving to the Cowboy's lady friend, which was difficult to describe, His eyes weren't laughing at her like they did at me, and they weren't telling her to do something like they did to his men, They weren't even asking a question like they did to Cowboy. A thought dawned on me, Spot fancied the Cowboy's lady friend.
Jack nodded, "I think it's Mush's sister.." He said, as if he were contemplating whether I was or not. I opened my mouth.
"Yes, that's what they called Patrick, they called him Mush," I said quietly.
The girl looked me over, still smiling, then she extended her hand in a lady-like way that I wasn't expecting, "I'm Fishface," She said politely, she lacked the thick New York accent that all the Brooklyn boys and Jack had, I assumed she was raised elsewhere. The next thing that dawned on me was what she had said. She said she was called Fishface. She grinned, obviously knowing what I was thinking, "It's just a silly nickname," She said, grinning ear to ear, "See?" She pulled in her cheeks and made the likeness of a fish with her face. I do believe I was the only one who found this odd, because Jack was grinning at her and Spot was just beaming as if she had been his lady friend and had done something of importance.
Despite how odd I found this to be, I smiled at her, "I'm Anabeth Meyers." I said as politely as I could.
Spot's eyes darted back to me, and I could see it in those laughing green eyes, he was still disgusted by me, perhaps because I hadn't found Fishface's namesake as interesting as he had, he then said coolly, taking out his slingshot and a round pebble, "Nows that I got the little runt on 'er way home, I'd better get back to me papers.. They don't sell themselves y'know." He shot an empty bottle up on one of the rails, letting it shatter into the river.
Jack spit in his hand and held it out to Spot. Spot, shaking his head, spit into his hand as well and shook Jack's, saying, "You tell Mush he owes me his sister though." He said icily.
Jack shook his head, "I'll tell 'im Spot." He said, turning around and starting to leave. Fishface leaned over and kissed Spot on the cheek, leaving him with his ears burning as red as his suspenders under his cap. Jack turned around and shook his head in disgust. I jogged to catch up to Jack and Fishface, who were holding hands romantically. I could hear a chorus of "aw"'s going back on the dock outside Spot's clubhouse, and then Spot's angry voice, "YOU LOT DON'T SHUT YOUR TRAPS AND I'LL SOAK YA. TRUST ME, I AIN'T SCARED TO GET MY HANDS DIRTY!" And then there was all but the silence back on the docks, except for the rapping of Spot Conlon's cane on the rotting wooden floor and his angry voice, barking orders to his men.
I followed Jack and Fishface across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. They walked along the side of the bridge almost silently, sometimes throwing in a few comments about the weather and the headlines to each other. From what I gathered from their conversation, Fishface had grown up in a girl's home in upper Manhattan. She was a pleasant girl with a loud and humorous disposition. I must admit, she and Jack did make quite the nice couple.
When we rounded the corner that led up to the Manhattan Newsboys' Lodging House, I knew that Patrick was near. Oh how I missed him, he must know that I'd left the convent. I told him I would leave on my sixteenth birthday to come and live with him, and for once in his life, he hadn't argued with my leaving that prison. However glad I was to get away from the cool laughing green-eyed stares of Spot Conlon, I was a million times gladder to have gotten away from the convent.
The door creaked open as Jack Kelly walked through, followed closely by Fishface, then myself. They hadn't said a word to me the whole trip until just then, "Mush's been pretty shaken up by you not showin' up last night, chya know that?" Cowboy asked me.
"I.. got lost." I said quietly, "And Kerry found me in Brooklyn and brought me to Spot's place.." I protested, though I wasn't sure of what exactly I was protesting.
Jack led me up a flight of stairs to an open room with bunks all over. I had slept through the afternoon and walked through the evening, so it seemed that most of the Newsies were back from selling the afternoon edition, and in their down time before they would go out, possibly to some cruddy bar or dance theater. My eyes scanned the room, I could hardly make out who anyone was, but my eyes landed on one of the center bunks.. Patrick.
I guess he must have seen me too, because almost before I knew it I was enveloped in the second tightest hug that I can remember. I knew it couldn't be anyone else but Patrick, and I hugged him just as closely, almost squeezing the breath out of him. Perhaps I didn't hug him that tightly only because he was my beloved twin brother, but perhaps because I was just so happy to be back with someone familiar, someone I really knew. Whatever the reason, I stayed locked in his arms for what felt like an hour, just crying with happiness at being back with him.
After what may have been ten minutes of blissful silence, I felt him whisper in my ear, "Good to see you again, Shortstack."
I smiled and felt another tear run down my cheek and drip onto his shirt. "You know I don't like it when you call me that." Really, I didn't mind his nickname for me at all, I was just so happy to have him to talk to, I would have said anything. Stretching up to rest my head on his shoulder, I looked around the room. Everyone else had left, undoubtedly to leave the two of us alone for awhile, although being in a huge crowd wouldn't have mattered to me at all. I had my brother, and for now, that was enough. Closing my eyes, I smiled from deep within myself, truly happy for the first time in so long. Giving him another tight squeeze around his waist with my arms, I stepped back to get a good look at him and grinned playfully. "I thought your last letter said you were still good-lookin'?"
"Hey, don't insult how I look!" His feigned anger made me laugh for the first time in what seemed like forever. "We're twins, remember?" This time he grinned with me. My brother and I have never looked alike. I got my appearance from our grandmother, and we've been told he's the spitting image of our father, whom neither of us can even remember. He really did look great though, much better than I must have at the moment. My mood quickly shifted to self-conciousness, deeply upset that my brother had to see me looking roughed up like I did. As always, he could read my thoughts and sense my uneasiness and pulled me close for another "big brother" hug. He always did like to look out for me and protect me, just because he's one minute older.
Then he pulled up two chairs to a table at one end of the boys' room, and we sat and talked for a half an hour. I told him all about my monotonous life at the convent, which didn't take very long to do. He related to me several stories about himself and the other newsies living with him on the Lower East Side. I noticed some familiar names, and some I had never heard. Some of his stories weren't actually very interesting if you think about it, but at the time, just the sound of his voice and his natural enthusiasm made them a hundred times more fascinating. My brother's stories are never as interesting as the way he tells them. He's always had a flair for changing emotions and voices to make a tale funny, sad, or just a little less boring. I've never been as talented, or it could have just been because I never had a wonderful story to tell like he has. And the stories he doesn't have, he makes up. But I was so happy to be with him, I didn't care what was true and what wasn't, only that I had my brother back.
All too soon, it was almost time for dinner at the lodging house, if you could call their bits of bread, meat, and soup a dinner. But to me, nothing was more perfect. Although before dinner, I was in desperate need of a good bath. Patrick's roomates were sweet enough to allow me to have the bathroom all to myself for a little while, so I could wash my hair and clean up. But other than my ripped dress, I had no clothes to wear. In another big brother move, Patrick let me wear a pair of pants and a shirt that he had outgrown, which were still a bit too big for me.
I felt sincerely odd, sitting there in my brother's clothes in a room full of newsboys, minus Fishface, who was over in the corner, giggling and whispering sweet nothings to Jack Kelly. If Patrick hadn't been there, I wouldn't have felt in place at all. All my life was spent in a calico skirt with my hair pinned up, either sitting by a fire working on my studies or at mass. I'd never eaten with a group of wild newsboys playing poker, or with a couple making out in the corner.
The food was rather meager; it explained why Patrick had said he'd often taken his meals at Tibby's, as long as he could find someone to spot him a couple cents for a hotdog and a water. But I saw how the rest of the newsboys gobbled it up as if it were the last food they'd ever eat, so I began to stuff it in my mouth as vigorously as the rest of the people in the room, excepting only Jack and Fishface, who were still in their little corner, having quite the time, or so it seemed.
After the dinner, Patrick cleared out of his bunk for me and took his blanket onto the floor. I found this to be very gentle-man like of him, but I knew that deep in his heart he'd wanted to sleep on it himself.
I lay there for awhile, trying to sleep. But I was being haunted. In my mind, I kept seeing those fierce green eyes, laughing at me, bearing into my soul and humiliating me. I decided then that I hated Spot Conlon, and that I would always hate him. He may have helped me for a night, but he had embarrassed me, even in front of Fishface, who I knew now would always think herself somewhat superior to me. He had made me look and feel like some dirty little ruffian, and I hoped one day I could make him feel just as bad as I did. After an hour or two, I suppose I finally got to sleep, but those eyes burned in my dreams all night long.
I rubbed my head as I headed towards the doorway of the small room. I felt a sharp pain in the very back of my head, and I assumed it came from having been thrown against a wall in a dark alley the night before. The events of the previous night came back to me quickly, and I felt a rush of relief and hope. Soon, I might be able to see my brother. I would not feel safe until he was holding me tightly in his arms, the arms of the only person in the world I trusted at the moment.
Leaving the room, I began to descend a stairway down towards the room where I had met Spot the night before. Near the bottom of the steps, a flash of light caught my eye on the wall. Looking back towards it, I discovered a mirror hanging there simply. I looked cautiously into it, a pair of sea- blue eyes staring into my own. The only things I had of my mother's were her eyes. They were the only thing I had ever liked about my appearance, simply because they reminded me of the ocean, which I had once seen in a painting of a beach, with the most beautiful blue water imaginable. Those blue eyes moved up to my hair, which had been perfectly arranged into a disgusting mess. My face had been dirtied up, as well, and my clothes were ripped. Remembering how Spot had called me "garbage" the night before, I knew that I must have indeed looked like it. Examining my reflection, I saw in my mind the girl from outside, and recalled how I had seen Jack Kelly looking at her. Sadly, I wished I had someone to look at me like that, completely different from the look I had received from Spot Conlon. From the glint in his green eyes, I could tell that he was purely disgusted with me, and that I was the last thing he wanted to see dropped on his doorstep in the middle of the night.
I descended the rest of the way down to the main room where the Brooklyn boys had been playing poker the night before. It was almost completely empty except for a young man who had his cap pulled over his eyes, apparently fast asleep in one of the chairs I had been dying to take a seat in the night before. I looked around the room, my stomach was growling, and I didn't catch sight of any food. I closed my eyes momentarily and walked out onto the dock. I breathed in the fresh air after being in that rank clubhouse the entire night, the air rising up from the East River smelt fresh compared to the smoke and sweat of Spot Conlon's clubhouse, as I stepped out, Spot himself turned around.
His piercing eyes were laughing at me again. It made me want to squirm.. He turned back to Jack Kelly, saying, "That's the one I was sayin' about. Kerry, the drunk bastard, comes in with 'er in the middle of the night, and she goes on about one a' your newsies bein' her brother or somethin'." I glanced back and forth between everyone out on the docks. There were a few of the boys from the poker game last night, some of whom were jumping into the river, as if they were bathing. I gave the brown-haired girl a once- over. She smiled gracefully at me. I could tell that she was around my age, from up close I could see that she had the lightest blue eyes that I had ever seen, even lighter than Jack's. She was a really beautiful young woman, her hair falling gracefully on her shoulders. Ordinarily, I would have been able to challenge her beauty, but it had rained over the night when I was out wandering Brooklyn, and my hair was in tangles and my clothes were wrinkled from the moisture in the air. Jack smiled at me, but I don't think he recognized me with my hair like this. Back at the convent, they made us bun our hair every day and wear matching clothing most days.
"So she look familiar to you, Jack-y boy?" Spot questioned, no longer looking at me. I watched him though, his eyes darted back and forth from the stern look he gave Cowboy to the one he was giving to the Cowboy's lady friend, which was difficult to describe, His eyes weren't laughing at her like they did at me, and they weren't telling her to do something like they did to his men, They weren't even asking a question like they did to Cowboy. A thought dawned on me, Spot fancied the Cowboy's lady friend.
Jack nodded, "I think it's Mush's sister.." He said, as if he were contemplating whether I was or not. I opened my mouth.
"Yes, that's what they called Patrick, they called him Mush," I said quietly.
The girl looked me over, still smiling, then she extended her hand in a lady-like way that I wasn't expecting, "I'm Fishface," She said politely, she lacked the thick New York accent that all the Brooklyn boys and Jack had, I assumed she was raised elsewhere. The next thing that dawned on me was what she had said. She said she was called Fishface. She grinned, obviously knowing what I was thinking, "It's just a silly nickname," She said, grinning ear to ear, "See?" She pulled in her cheeks and made the likeness of a fish with her face. I do believe I was the only one who found this odd, because Jack was grinning at her and Spot was just beaming as if she had been his lady friend and had done something of importance.
Despite how odd I found this to be, I smiled at her, "I'm Anabeth Meyers." I said as politely as I could.
Spot's eyes darted back to me, and I could see it in those laughing green eyes, he was still disgusted by me, perhaps because I hadn't found Fishface's namesake as interesting as he had, he then said coolly, taking out his slingshot and a round pebble, "Nows that I got the little runt on 'er way home, I'd better get back to me papers.. They don't sell themselves y'know." He shot an empty bottle up on one of the rails, letting it shatter into the river.
Jack spit in his hand and held it out to Spot. Spot, shaking his head, spit into his hand as well and shook Jack's, saying, "You tell Mush he owes me his sister though." He said icily.
Jack shook his head, "I'll tell 'im Spot." He said, turning around and starting to leave. Fishface leaned over and kissed Spot on the cheek, leaving him with his ears burning as red as his suspenders under his cap. Jack turned around and shook his head in disgust. I jogged to catch up to Jack and Fishface, who were holding hands romantically. I could hear a chorus of "aw"'s going back on the dock outside Spot's clubhouse, and then Spot's angry voice, "YOU LOT DON'T SHUT YOUR TRAPS AND I'LL SOAK YA. TRUST ME, I AIN'T SCARED TO GET MY HANDS DIRTY!" And then there was all but the silence back on the docks, except for the rapping of Spot Conlon's cane on the rotting wooden floor and his angry voice, barking orders to his men.
I followed Jack and Fishface across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. They walked along the side of the bridge almost silently, sometimes throwing in a few comments about the weather and the headlines to each other. From what I gathered from their conversation, Fishface had grown up in a girl's home in upper Manhattan. She was a pleasant girl with a loud and humorous disposition. I must admit, she and Jack did make quite the nice couple.
When we rounded the corner that led up to the Manhattan Newsboys' Lodging House, I knew that Patrick was near. Oh how I missed him, he must know that I'd left the convent. I told him I would leave on my sixteenth birthday to come and live with him, and for once in his life, he hadn't argued with my leaving that prison. However glad I was to get away from the cool laughing green-eyed stares of Spot Conlon, I was a million times gladder to have gotten away from the convent.
The door creaked open as Jack Kelly walked through, followed closely by Fishface, then myself. They hadn't said a word to me the whole trip until just then, "Mush's been pretty shaken up by you not showin' up last night, chya know that?" Cowboy asked me.
"I.. got lost." I said quietly, "And Kerry found me in Brooklyn and brought me to Spot's place.." I protested, though I wasn't sure of what exactly I was protesting.
Jack led me up a flight of stairs to an open room with bunks all over. I had slept through the afternoon and walked through the evening, so it seemed that most of the Newsies were back from selling the afternoon edition, and in their down time before they would go out, possibly to some cruddy bar or dance theater. My eyes scanned the room, I could hardly make out who anyone was, but my eyes landed on one of the center bunks.. Patrick.
I guess he must have seen me too, because almost before I knew it I was enveloped in the second tightest hug that I can remember. I knew it couldn't be anyone else but Patrick, and I hugged him just as closely, almost squeezing the breath out of him. Perhaps I didn't hug him that tightly only because he was my beloved twin brother, but perhaps because I was just so happy to be back with someone familiar, someone I really knew. Whatever the reason, I stayed locked in his arms for what felt like an hour, just crying with happiness at being back with him.
After what may have been ten minutes of blissful silence, I felt him whisper in my ear, "Good to see you again, Shortstack."
I smiled and felt another tear run down my cheek and drip onto his shirt. "You know I don't like it when you call me that." Really, I didn't mind his nickname for me at all, I was just so happy to have him to talk to, I would have said anything. Stretching up to rest my head on his shoulder, I looked around the room. Everyone else had left, undoubtedly to leave the two of us alone for awhile, although being in a huge crowd wouldn't have mattered to me at all. I had my brother, and for now, that was enough. Closing my eyes, I smiled from deep within myself, truly happy for the first time in so long. Giving him another tight squeeze around his waist with my arms, I stepped back to get a good look at him and grinned playfully. "I thought your last letter said you were still good-lookin'?"
"Hey, don't insult how I look!" His feigned anger made me laugh for the first time in what seemed like forever. "We're twins, remember?" This time he grinned with me. My brother and I have never looked alike. I got my appearance from our grandmother, and we've been told he's the spitting image of our father, whom neither of us can even remember. He really did look great though, much better than I must have at the moment. My mood quickly shifted to self-conciousness, deeply upset that my brother had to see me looking roughed up like I did. As always, he could read my thoughts and sense my uneasiness and pulled me close for another "big brother" hug. He always did like to look out for me and protect me, just because he's one minute older.
Then he pulled up two chairs to a table at one end of the boys' room, and we sat and talked for a half an hour. I told him all about my monotonous life at the convent, which didn't take very long to do. He related to me several stories about himself and the other newsies living with him on the Lower East Side. I noticed some familiar names, and some I had never heard. Some of his stories weren't actually very interesting if you think about it, but at the time, just the sound of his voice and his natural enthusiasm made them a hundred times more fascinating. My brother's stories are never as interesting as the way he tells them. He's always had a flair for changing emotions and voices to make a tale funny, sad, or just a little less boring. I've never been as talented, or it could have just been because I never had a wonderful story to tell like he has. And the stories he doesn't have, he makes up. But I was so happy to be with him, I didn't care what was true and what wasn't, only that I had my brother back.
All too soon, it was almost time for dinner at the lodging house, if you could call their bits of bread, meat, and soup a dinner. But to me, nothing was more perfect. Although before dinner, I was in desperate need of a good bath. Patrick's roomates were sweet enough to allow me to have the bathroom all to myself for a little while, so I could wash my hair and clean up. But other than my ripped dress, I had no clothes to wear. In another big brother move, Patrick let me wear a pair of pants and a shirt that he had outgrown, which were still a bit too big for me.
I felt sincerely odd, sitting there in my brother's clothes in a room full of newsboys, minus Fishface, who was over in the corner, giggling and whispering sweet nothings to Jack Kelly. If Patrick hadn't been there, I wouldn't have felt in place at all. All my life was spent in a calico skirt with my hair pinned up, either sitting by a fire working on my studies or at mass. I'd never eaten with a group of wild newsboys playing poker, or with a couple making out in the corner.
The food was rather meager; it explained why Patrick had said he'd often taken his meals at Tibby's, as long as he could find someone to spot him a couple cents for a hotdog and a water. But I saw how the rest of the newsboys gobbled it up as if it were the last food they'd ever eat, so I began to stuff it in my mouth as vigorously as the rest of the people in the room, excepting only Jack and Fishface, who were still in their little corner, having quite the time, or so it seemed.
After the dinner, Patrick cleared out of his bunk for me and took his blanket onto the floor. I found this to be very gentle-man like of him, but I knew that deep in his heart he'd wanted to sleep on it himself.
I lay there for awhile, trying to sleep. But I was being haunted. In my mind, I kept seeing those fierce green eyes, laughing at me, bearing into my soul and humiliating me. I decided then that I hated Spot Conlon, and that I would always hate him. He may have helped me for a night, but he had embarrassed me, even in front of Fishface, who I knew now would always think herself somewhat superior to me. He had made me look and feel like some dirty little ruffian, and I hoped one day I could make him feel just as bad as I did. After an hour or two, I suppose I finally got to sleep, but those eyes burned in my dreams all night long.