A/N: Wow. A whole month. Sorry dudes. Well, this is the last chapter, I
want to say "finally!", but I'm gonna miss this... but it's not over.
Bwahahahaha. BUT. I do have to do cookies. Cookies (specially baked, JUST
FOR YOU... and me. And the other me. And me again. None for Shortstack...
okay, maybe just one.) go to: Meredith, Snooza (You're the best, really,
you are!), Megabee Athelete, Cinnamon Curls, Devonny, Anna C., Deanie,
Pencil 3, Um..., Fictionlover, and Tiger17! Yum. *eats the leftover
cookies* even YUMMIER. On to the story... *stuffs face*
***
As I stood at the train station, I had the ominous feeling that this would be where I would say goodbye to New York City within the next few days. It was strange to see all the Manhattan newsboys again after spending so much time in Brooklyn. I hardly remembered some of their names, though I did remember Skittery, who had brought Fishface's things, and Kid Blink, my brother's best friend. They had come to see their leader off once more. Jack and Fishface were finally going to Santa Fe.
Fishface smiled at me and engulfed me in a hug, "You take care, alright?"
"I will," I managed to say, could I be crying? No, I couldn't cry over a girl as flaky as Ruth MacKilligan leaving, she had gotten on my very last nerve since the day I met her, and yet, yes, I was crying, "You take care of yourself too..." I smiled, "And your fiancé, you know how men are, completely pathetic." I grinned and winked at her.
"Sh," she shushed me quietly then leaned over, "Jack hasn't told the boys yet."
"He hasn't?"
Fishface shook her head. I couldn't help but notice how she did so...exactly like her brother. "I love him." She said softly, glancing back at him, and then back towards me, "I've got to go."
"Goodbye," I called to her as she boarded the train.
She turned around and gave me one of her million dollar grins, "It's not goodbye, Anabeth, It's see you later!"
As the train started to roll away, I felt strange, sort of torn between being sad, and being incredibly happy for her, incredibly happy for myself, or sad for Spot. I wasn't quite sure what to feel, so I didn't bother trying to place it.
As the end of the train pulled out of the station, I grinned. Jack Kelly had flung his head out one of the windows and yelled to his boys, "I'm in love with Ruth MacKilligan, and I'm going to marry her!"
I laughed and let the cheers of the Manhattan newsies drown out the rest of my thoughts.
There was a poster on the wall for Saint Louis, "Where Dreams Come True" and there was a young man and woman standing there smiling. Wryly, I grinned, leaned over, and whispered to Patrick, "I know where we should go."
He nodded, and after giving me a kiss on the forehead, counted out his money from his factory night-job and went to buy us some tickets for the next day.
I had noticed how Spot hadn't come to see off Fishface. Perhaps it made him depressed, but I wondered whether or not Fishface had been hurt by it, she loved him like she'd loved her brother, did he even respect that she loved him at all? Just because she didn't love him like he wanted, didn't mean she didn't want him to see her off, it didn't mean that she didn't love him at all.
Despite the rowdiness from the returning Brooklyn newsboys, it was in a sense of utter loneliness that I reentered Spot Conlon's clubhouse that afternoon. There was no Kerry MacKilligan to smile and greet me, there was no Fishface to regale me with her letters from the famous Jack Kelly, there wasn't even Patrick, who had left me to return to Manhattan and gather his belongings before we left the next day.
The only familiar face, if it was with his expression, was that of Spot Conlon's. He looked sullen, yet not so, pensive almost. After glancing at him, I decided to go upstairs and pack.
"Anabeth?"
I turned around and looked at him, "Yeah, Spot?"
"When are ya' leavin'?"
"Tomorrow."
"Oh..." He paused, and I turned to leave, thinking that he was finished, and that was the only information that he wanted, but he started again, "I'm gonna miss ya."
I kept walking, but after about the third step, I caught myself and turned around, "I'll miss ya too, ya bum."
Shaking my head, I went upstairs and began to pack my things.
I turned over the blanket I had been using for my pillow and moved something very familiar into my new carpetbag. Then, I thought the better of myself and picked it back up, and softly pulled my handkerchief from around the slingshot. The handle was rough and worn, nothing like that of Spot Conlon's, who's was specially whittled, perhaps because he was the best shot, or perhaps that he was the leader. But Kerry's slingshot had a different look to it. I pulled back the string where the tiny leather strap would hold a pebble and aimed. Maybe I, too, could have "impeccable" aim. But this, in fact, was a ridiculous thought. What on earth would I do with a slingshot in Saint Louis?
I jumped as I heard that thick Brooklyn accent behind me, "That one was Kerry's," He was saying, "He never replaced it. It was the first one Warrick ever gave 'im when he was nine. I was eight. It was the year after he became a newsie."
I raised an eyebrow at him, "How'd you know that?"
Spot shrugged, "I don't know... when you spend enough time in Brooklyn you notice these things." He sat down on my mattress, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
"Really?" I asked skeptically, "Pray tell, what else did you notice?"
I don't think Spot caught my sarcasm, either that or he was completely ignoring it, "Well, three of my boys never shot at nothin' but cans, except once, that was durin' the strike. I'm sure Mu-Patrick told ya about that. And this one kid, I call 'im Alleycat, can really play a fiddle. He hid it someplace in the lodgins'... Guess he didn't think anyone would notice 'im practicin' up on the roof..." Spot smiled.
And I smiled back.
After a few moments of silence, he stood up to leave, I guess he thought we'd finished or something, but I interrupted him, "You miss 'er, don't ya?"
He turned around and nodded, "Yeah, yeah I do."
"Why didn't you go to see her off, then?"
He took a deep breath and looked away in a daze. "I just... couldn't."
"I think she wanted you to."
Abruptly his glance came back to me, "She probably did. But I just didn't wanna see her get on that train with another guy and have to think about how happy they'll be." He smiled a bit, but his eyes didn't change. "I'm selfish like that. Maybe not going was a mistake..."
"Maybe. The only real mistake is the one that doesn't teach you anything." When he gave me a questioning glance, I turned my eyes sharply back down to the slingshot in my hands. "What'd you come up here for anyway?"
He deliberately tapped his cane on the floor, "I don't know... I guess I just didn't want you to leave without sayin' good-bye... y'know?"
"This is a good-bye?"
"It's the best I can do."
Something shifted in his eyes, I wasn't quite sure what it was either, but then he rubbed them and inwardly, I almost laughed, was the almighty Spot Conlon on the verge of tears?
"Got somethin' in me eye."
"Aha," I nodded, re-wrapping the slingshot and putting it in the bag. In my mind, I could hear my own voice whispering, "Ask me to stay," over and over. I tried my best to block it out, wringing my hands anxiously, hoping he would say something before I did.
"Hey, I'm gonna go back downstairs, have a cigarette, but... if I don't see ya before ya leave, good bye." He turned and started down the stairs.
I got up and stuck my head out the door, "Hey Spot?" He looked at me and I smiled, "It's not goodbye, it's see ya later."
He laughed, perhaps a little bit wryly, "See ya later, Shorts."
"See ya later." I said, and closing the door behind me, I closed my eyes, "Good bye, Spot." I whispered to myself.
Leaning back against the door, I silently asked myself what I was doing. He had been right there, I could have told him what I was feeling and been done with it. The need to tell him was eating away at me. Whatever reaction he would have didn't bother me, I just wanted him to know.
It hadn't been this difficult to tell Kerry that I loved him, but I cared about him in a different way.
Suddenly, something caught my eye. Fishface had left her fountain pen sitting there on the window sill like she left it there on purpose for me to use. Quickly, almost spasmodically, I pulled out my copy of The Man in the Iron Mask and opened to the front cover; I grabbed the pen and sat down on the mattress where Fishface had slept. Hesitating, I dropped a little ink on the paper. Yes. It wrote. As neatly as I could, I formed in my own script the words "I love Spot Conlon." Then, underneath, I signed my name and printed it again underneath, just as they had taught me in school. I blew on it to make sure that it would dry before shutting it again. I fell back on my bed, knowing that all my things were in that bag, and soon I would be leaving, and slowly, I closed my eyes and let sleep overcome me.
I wasn't quite sure what woke me the next morning. Perhaps it was that I had had enough sleep, but as my eyes opened, I realized that I essentially had to get up. As I re-braided my hair, using the window as a mirror, I glanced back at the room, remembering the smell of the fresh flowers that Kerry used to bring me, I closed my eyes, and almost, as if in the back of my mind, I could still smell them.
I was just gathering my things as I heard a knock on the door to the upstairs, and then the door slowly creaked open, "It's just me, Anabeth," I heard my brother say as he entered, I turned around and smiled at him.
"Hey Patrick."
"You... you almost ready to go?" He had his hands stuck in his pockets, and I could tell he was beside himself. I don't think that he was used to getting up in the morning and not going to sell his papers.
"Just about." I said as I picked up my book. In my mind sometime the night before, I decided what I was going to do with it, "I just have to give this to somebody."
As I slowly descended the stairs to the lower room, I realized that he probably wouldn't be there. I mean, why would he be? He needed to sell his papers. He hadn't even come to see off Fishface, and he was in love with her. Why on earth would he wait for me?
But he did.
His eyes met mine as I turned the corner. There he sat, same as when I first saw him, his cap pulled over his head, his cane hanging on his right belt loop, and his slingshot in his left pocket.
"I thought you'd be out sellin;..." I said quietly.
He stuttered for a moment, "I just... last night didn't seem like a proper good bye to me."
"I told you," I said, half-way biting the sides of my mouth so that I didn't scream my feelings for him, "It's not good bye it's see ya later."
Spot laughed, perhaps a little dryly, and I recovered, "I..." I stuttered, "I wanted to give you this." I handed him the book, and as he went to open it, perhaps to flip through the pages, I jumped, "No! Don't open it. Not, uh, not yet. Don't open it until you know I've gone."
He simply raised that damnable eyebrow at me, but I didn't return his quizzical look, I simply laughed, it was the best I could do, "Finish it sometime, alright?"
"Okay," he smiled, but it was a sad smile.
"Well..." I searched my mind for something to say, but all I could see were those regretful eyes. I looked up at him, and he was everything I shouldn't want. With his thin arms and short stature, he was a scrawny sarcastic little perfection. It wasn't painful to think that I couldn't ever kiss him again; it was heartbreaking to know that I once had. I'd had a taste of perfection, but now it was gone forever. And it was standing right in front of me.
"I guess there's nothing left to say," he shrugged.
Wrong, Spot. There's an eternity of words left, I just don't have the courage to say them aloud. But with just one kiss, one touch on your cheek, I could tell you all you'd ever need to know.
I wasn't quite sure whether I was imagining it or not, but his eyes seemed to be searching me for something, some kind of indication.
"What are you thinking?" I asked him quietly.
He frowned. "You know, suddenly I was thinkin' about what you said about happy endings. Not sure why, though," he shrugged again.
"I don't think I believe in endings anymore, happy or sad," now it was my turn to frown.
"Why not?"
"Well," I pretended to smile, "why would you want to live thinking that eventually you'll reach the end? Wouldn't it be nicer to always believe that it isn't over yet?"
Spot looked at me sympathetically, most likely taking it as a reference to Kerry.
It was then that Patrick came down after me, in his hand he held my carpetbag and a small bag thrown over his shoulder. "You ready Shorts?"
I glanced at Spot before turning back to my brother, "Yeah Patrick, I'm ready."
Spot looked up and Patrick walked over to him, "Thanks Conlon, for takin' 'er in, y'know. I don't know what I woulda done."
Spot regained his arrogance quickly, "Yeah, well I got my clubhouse cleaned," But in his eyes, I could see something different, he glanced at me and they seemed to be grinning at me. He was still holding the book as if he were about to open it.
Patrick shook Spot's hand and said his goodbyes. As we were walking out, I turned around, "See ya later Spot."
He tried to grin, and said slyly, "Take care of yourself."
I mustered a smile back, "Yes, sir."
And then the door closed, and I knew I wouldn't open it again. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment then opened them again, following my brother silently all the way to the train station. I wondered what this meant for him, leaving everything he ever knew behind. Patrick had been a Lower East Side Newsie his entire life. Were there newsies in Saint Louis? There had to be. How else would they get their news?
There we were, waiting in line, when Patrick turned to me, "Are you sure this is what you really want?"
"I'm not sure of anything lately." I stared ahead blankly.
"Well," he tried, "What do you want to wake up ta every mornin'?"
"If I could answer that question, I wouldn't be here right now."
The seats in the train were cushioned. I hadn't sat on a cushioned seat since my confirmation. It held some sort of fascination to take my mind off of things. Patrick let me have the window seat, and as I looked out, I wondered if Spot had opened the book yet or if he had just left it laying there for anyone to read. Dear God, I hope he had put it where only he could find it. Patrick had gone off to find something for us to eat. I really didn't want to be reminded of it, but it made me think of that disgusting mush stuff that Spot had given me.
I'd been sitting absentmindedly staring for almost ten minutes when I finally felt someone sit down beside me. Hopefully Patrick found something good to eat to take my mind off of everything else for at least a moment or two. So I turned around and my mouth promptly fell open in shock.
"Hey Shorts," he flashed me a grin and nodded casually.
I tried to find my voice, barely able to choke out a syllable. "I- Wh- Yi- Spot?"
"Impeccable observation," the Brooklyn leader was still grinning, sitting there like an ethereal vision.
"Wh- what are you doing? You can't be here..." I gasped out my thoughts, my mind racing in wonder as to how in the world he got onto the train.
"Sure, I can," he held up a ticket, Patrick's ticket. When I looked at him in disbelief, he pointed out the window behind me.
I whipped around and saw Patrick standing about twenty-five feet away on the platform, waving and smiling at the window.
Turning back around, I ran a hand through my hair in confusion. "This doesn't make any sense... Patrick and I are going to St. Louis... we're gonna get an apartment or... something..."
Spot leaned over and said quietly, "Doesn't look like it to me."
The joking look in his eyes was only confusing me more. "Is this your idea of a big good-bye or something? This is all a joke right?"
"No," he leaned over a bit more and his smile faded, "this is me, asking for a chance to never have to say good-bye again."
All I could do was shake my head over and over in disbelief, and he added, "I hope that's not your answer."
"I... why? You... you're in love with Ruth..."
"I was... and then there was you." His green eyes bore into me, completely mesmerizing, "I think I love you, Anabeth Meyers."
The only thing I could think of to do was avoid answering him. "You think, or you know?"
A smile crossed his face again, and he spoke firmly. "I know." The finality of what he said made me want to cry, he sounded more sincere than ever. But I couldn't find anything to say back. After a moment, he raised that eyebrow at me, just as he always had but not quite like ever before. "Stay with me?"
It wasn't a command; it was a question, an offer. He was giving me a chance to wake up every morning not knowing what would happen to me, the possibility of the unexpected.
"You want me to sleep on a mattress on the floor? It doesn't sound so appealing..."
He smirked at me, which was exactly what I wanted. "Yeah, but we could have a lot of fun on that mattress."
I let out a small laugh. "Do you think we'd be happy?" Again, I avoided.
"No," Spot smiled, "but we'll be together." Another moment of silence, and then a more pleading, "Please, Anabeth, stay here..."
Trying to choke back a sob, I shook my head over and over quickly. "Okay."
Before I could even think, I felt him throw his arms around my waist and pull me into the tightest hug of my life. It was difficult to breathe, but it wasn't like I really needed air at the moment. Then I felt the train begin to move.
"Well now what are we gonna do?" I laughed into his arm.
"Enjoy a short trip to Saint Louis, I guess," he laughed as well, and I felt him kiss my cheek as he did.
Pulling away, I look at him with mocking reprimand. "Didn't I tell you not to look in the book until I'd left?"
He looked at me curiously, "I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"No...why?"
Laughing lightly, I settled back into my seat and he did the same. Resting my head on his shoulder, I said lightly, "You'll see when we get back." Closing my eyes, I whispered, "I love you," and felt his chest rise and fall with his steady harmonious breathing. Soon, I had fallen asleep to the faint melody of "Loch Lomond" going through my mind and the warmth of the fingers interlocked with mine forever.
* * *
Oh my goodness, I can't believe this part is over. it's like the ending of an era. I'm stealing a leftover cookie, by the way. Giving me just one, how cruel. Anyway, don't worry, this isn't the last you'll hear of Spot and Anabeth, neither is it the end of Jack and Fishface. What will become of our heroes? What about Kerry and his mysterious past?? Will Anabeth ever learn to tolerate the cane? Stay tuned for the answers to these and more questions, coming soon!! We've also had ideas for some VERY odd non- relevant stories, too. Not quite as dramatic as this was, though. And wait till we give you a peek into Spot and Anabeth's THERAPY SESSION, featuring none other than. COUNSELOR DAVID!!! Okay, no more cookies for me. Birdy herself has been working on a prequel focusing on Kerry, titled "A Boy and His Slingshot," but she won't tell me anything about it. That's it for now; keep reading!!! Love ya. It's been great. *pulls Fishface off of the stage where she is still bowing dramatically* Time to go, see ya later!! *bows* Okay, we really are leaving now.
***
As I stood at the train station, I had the ominous feeling that this would be where I would say goodbye to New York City within the next few days. It was strange to see all the Manhattan newsboys again after spending so much time in Brooklyn. I hardly remembered some of their names, though I did remember Skittery, who had brought Fishface's things, and Kid Blink, my brother's best friend. They had come to see their leader off once more. Jack and Fishface were finally going to Santa Fe.
Fishface smiled at me and engulfed me in a hug, "You take care, alright?"
"I will," I managed to say, could I be crying? No, I couldn't cry over a girl as flaky as Ruth MacKilligan leaving, she had gotten on my very last nerve since the day I met her, and yet, yes, I was crying, "You take care of yourself too..." I smiled, "And your fiancé, you know how men are, completely pathetic." I grinned and winked at her.
"Sh," she shushed me quietly then leaned over, "Jack hasn't told the boys yet."
"He hasn't?"
Fishface shook her head. I couldn't help but notice how she did so...exactly like her brother. "I love him." She said softly, glancing back at him, and then back towards me, "I've got to go."
"Goodbye," I called to her as she boarded the train.
She turned around and gave me one of her million dollar grins, "It's not goodbye, Anabeth, It's see you later!"
As the train started to roll away, I felt strange, sort of torn between being sad, and being incredibly happy for her, incredibly happy for myself, or sad for Spot. I wasn't quite sure what to feel, so I didn't bother trying to place it.
As the end of the train pulled out of the station, I grinned. Jack Kelly had flung his head out one of the windows and yelled to his boys, "I'm in love with Ruth MacKilligan, and I'm going to marry her!"
I laughed and let the cheers of the Manhattan newsies drown out the rest of my thoughts.
There was a poster on the wall for Saint Louis, "Where Dreams Come True" and there was a young man and woman standing there smiling. Wryly, I grinned, leaned over, and whispered to Patrick, "I know where we should go."
He nodded, and after giving me a kiss on the forehead, counted out his money from his factory night-job and went to buy us some tickets for the next day.
I had noticed how Spot hadn't come to see off Fishface. Perhaps it made him depressed, but I wondered whether or not Fishface had been hurt by it, she loved him like she'd loved her brother, did he even respect that she loved him at all? Just because she didn't love him like he wanted, didn't mean she didn't want him to see her off, it didn't mean that she didn't love him at all.
Despite the rowdiness from the returning Brooklyn newsboys, it was in a sense of utter loneliness that I reentered Spot Conlon's clubhouse that afternoon. There was no Kerry MacKilligan to smile and greet me, there was no Fishface to regale me with her letters from the famous Jack Kelly, there wasn't even Patrick, who had left me to return to Manhattan and gather his belongings before we left the next day.
The only familiar face, if it was with his expression, was that of Spot Conlon's. He looked sullen, yet not so, pensive almost. After glancing at him, I decided to go upstairs and pack.
"Anabeth?"
I turned around and looked at him, "Yeah, Spot?"
"When are ya' leavin'?"
"Tomorrow."
"Oh..." He paused, and I turned to leave, thinking that he was finished, and that was the only information that he wanted, but he started again, "I'm gonna miss ya."
I kept walking, but after about the third step, I caught myself and turned around, "I'll miss ya too, ya bum."
Shaking my head, I went upstairs and began to pack my things.
I turned over the blanket I had been using for my pillow and moved something very familiar into my new carpetbag. Then, I thought the better of myself and picked it back up, and softly pulled my handkerchief from around the slingshot. The handle was rough and worn, nothing like that of Spot Conlon's, who's was specially whittled, perhaps because he was the best shot, or perhaps that he was the leader. But Kerry's slingshot had a different look to it. I pulled back the string where the tiny leather strap would hold a pebble and aimed. Maybe I, too, could have "impeccable" aim. But this, in fact, was a ridiculous thought. What on earth would I do with a slingshot in Saint Louis?
I jumped as I heard that thick Brooklyn accent behind me, "That one was Kerry's," He was saying, "He never replaced it. It was the first one Warrick ever gave 'im when he was nine. I was eight. It was the year after he became a newsie."
I raised an eyebrow at him, "How'd you know that?"
Spot shrugged, "I don't know... when you spend enough time in Brooklyn you notice these things." He sat down on my mattress, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
"Really?" I asked skeptically, "Pray tell, what else did you notice?"
I don't think Spot caught my sarcasm, either that or he was completely ignoring it, "Well, three of my boys never shot at nothin' but cans, except once, that was durin' the strike. I'm sure Mu-Patrick told ya about that. And this one kid, I call 'im Alleycat, can really play a fiddle. He hid it someplace in the lodgins'... Guess he didn't think anyone would notice 'im practicin' up on the roof..." Spot smiled.
And I smiled back.
After a few moments of silence, he stood up to leave, I guess he thought we'd finished or something, but I interrupted him, "You miss 'er, don't ya?"
He turned around and nodded, "Yeah, yeah I do."
"Why didn't you go to see her off, then?"
He took a deep breath and looked away in a daze. "I just... couldn't."
"I think she wanted you to."
Abruptly his glance came back to me, "She probably did. But I just didn't wanna see her get on that train with another guy and have to think about how happy they'll be." He smiled a bit, but his eyes didn't change. "I'm selfish like that. Maybe not going was a mistake..."
"Maybe. The only real mistake is the one that doesn't teach you anything." When he gave me a questioning glance, I turned my eyes sharply back down to the slingshot in my hands. "What'd you come up here for anyway?"
He deliberately tapped his cane on the floor, "I don't know... I guess I just didn't want you to leave without sayin' good-bye... y'know?"
"This is a good-bye?"
"It's the best I can do."
Something shifted in his eyes, I wasn't quite sure what it was either, but then he rubbed them and inwardly, I almost laughed, was the almighty Spot Conlon on the verge of tears?
"Got somethin' in me eye."
"Aha," I nodded, re-wrapping the slingshot and putting it in the bag. In my mind, I could hear my own voice whispering, "Ask me to stay," over and over. I tried my best to block it out, wringing my hands anxiously, hoping he would say something before I did.
"Hey, I'm gonna go back downstairs, have a cigarette, but... if I don't see ya before ya leave, good bye." He turned and started down the stairs.
I got up and stuck my head out the door, "Hey Spot?" He looked at me and I smiled, "It's not goodbye, it's see ya later."
He laughed, perhaps a little bit wryly, "See ya later, Shorts."
"See ya later." I said, and closing the door behind me, I closed my eyes, "Good bye, Spot." I whispered to myself.
Leaning back against the door, I silently asked myself what I was doing. He had been right there, I could have told him what I was feeling and been done with it. The need to tell him was eating away at me. Whatever reaction he would have didn't bother me, I just wanted him to know.
It hadn't been this difficult to tell Kerry that I loved him, but I cared about him in a different way.
Suddenly, something caught my eye. Fishface had left her fountain pen sitting there on the window sill like she left it there on purpose for me to use. Quickly, almost spasmodically, I pulled out my copy of The Man in the Iron Mask and opened to the front cover; I grabbed the pen and sat down on the mattress where Fishface had slept. Hesitating, I dropped a little ink on the paper. Yes. It wrote. As neatly as I could, I formed in my own script the words "I love Spot Conlon." Then, underneath, I signed my name and printed it again underneath, just as they had taught me in school. I blew on it to make sure that it would dry before shutting it again. I fell back on my bed, knowing that all my things were in that bag, and soon I would be leaving, and slowly, I closed my eyes and let sleep overcome me.
I wasn't quite sure what woke me the next morning. Perhaps it was that I had had enough sleep, but as my eyes opened, I realized that I essentially had to get up. As I re-braided my hair, using the window as a mirror, I glanced back at the room, remembering the smell of the fresh flowers that Kerry used to bring me, I closed my eyes, and almost, as if in the back of my mind, I could still smell them.
I was just gathering my things as I heard a knock on the door to the upstairs, and then the door slowly creaked open, "It's just me, Anabeth," I heard my brother say as he entered, I turned around and smiled at him.
"Hey Patrick."
"You... you almost ready to go?" He had his hands stuck in his pockets, and I could tell he was beside himself. I don't think that he was used to getting up in the morning and not going to sell his papers.
"Just about." I said as I picked up my book. In my mind sometime the night before, I decided what I was going to do with it, "I just have to give this to somebody."
As I slowly descended the stairs to the lower room, I realized that he probably wouldn't be there. I mean, why would he be? He needed to sell his papers. He hadn't even come to see off Fishface, and he was in love with her. Why on earth would he wait for me?
But he did.
His eyes met mine as I turned the corner. There he sat, same as when I first saw him, his cap pulled over his head, his cane hanging on his right belt loop, and his slingshot in his left pocket.
"I thought you'd be out sellin;..." I said quietly.
He stuttered for a moment, "I just... last night didn't seem like a proper good bye to me."
"I told you," I said, half-way biting the sides of my mouth so that I didn't scream my feelings for him, "It's not good bye it's see ya later."
Spot laughed, perhaps a little dryly, and I recovered, "I..." I stuttered, "I wanted to give you this." I handed him the book, and as he went to open it, perhaps to flip through the pages, I jumped, "No! Don't open it. Not, uh, not yet. Don't open it until you know I've gone."
He simply raised that damnable eyebrow at me, but I didn't return his quizzical look, I simply laughed, it was the best I could do, "Finish it sometime, alright?"
"Okay," he smiled, but it was a sad smile.
"Well..." I searched my mind for something to say, but all I could see were those regretful eyes. I looked up at him, and he was everything I shouldn't want. With his thin arms and short stature, he was a scrawny sarcastic little perfection. It wasn't painful to think that I couldn't ever kiss him again; it was heartbreaking to know that I once had. I'd had a taste of perfection, but now it was gone forever. And it was standing right in front of me.
"I guess there's nothing left to say," he shrugged.
Wrong, Spot. There's an eternity of words left, I just don't have the courage to say them aloud. But with just one kiss, one touch on your cheek, I could tell you all you'd ever need to know.
I wasn't quite sure whether I was imagining it or not, but his eyes seemed to be searching me for something, some kind of indication.
"What are you thinking?" I asked him quietly.
He frowned. "You know, suddenly I was thinkin' about what you said about happy endings. Not sure why, though," he shrugged again.
"I don't think I believe in endings anymore, happy or sad," now it was my turn to frown.
"Why not?"
"Well," I pretended to smile, "why would you want to live thinking that eventually you'll reach the end? Wouldn't it be nicer to always believe that it isn't over yet?"
Spot looked at me sympathetically, most likely taking it as a reference to Kerry.
It was then that Patrick came down after me, in his hand he held my carpetbag and a small bag thrown over his shoulder. "You ready Shorts?"
I glanced at Spot before turning back to my brother, "Yeah Patrick, I'm ready."
Spot looked up and Patrick walked over to him, "Thanks Conlon, for takin' 'er in, y'know. I don't know what I woulda done."
Spot regained his arrogance quickly, "Yeah, well I got my clubhouse cleaned," But in his eyes, I could see something different, he glanced at me and they seemed to be grinning at me. He was still holding the book as if he were about to open it.
Patrick shook Spot's hand and said his goodbyes. As we were walking out, I turned around, "See ya later Spot."
He tried to grin, and said slyly, "Take care of yourself."
I mustered a smile back, "Yes, sir."
And then the door closed, and I knew I wouldn't open it again. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment then opened them again, following my brother silently all the way to the train station. I wondered what this meant for him, leaving everything he ever knew behind. Patrick had been a Lower East Side Newsie his entire life. Were there newsies in Saint Louis? There had to be. How else would they get their news?
There we were, waiting in line, when Patrick turned to me, "Are you sure this is what you really want?"
"I'm not sure of anything lately." I stared ahead blankly.
"Well," he tried, "What do you want to wake up ta every mornin'?"
"If I could answer that question, I wouldn't be here right now."
The seats in the train were cushioned. I hadn't sat on a cushioned seat since my confirmation. It held some sort of fascination to take my mind off of things. Patrick let me have the window seat, and as I looked out, I wondered if Spot had opened the book yet or if he had just left it laying there for anyone to read. Dear God, I hope he had put it where only he could find it. Patrick had gone off to find something for us to eat. I really didn't want to be reminded of it, but it made me think of that disgusting mush stuff that Spot had given me.
I'd been sitting absentmindedly staring for almost ten minutes when I finally felt someone sit down beside me. Hopefully Patrick found something good to eat to take my mind off of everything else for at least a moment or two. So I turned around and my mouth promptly fell open in shock.
"Hey Shorts," he flashed me a grin and nodded casually.
I tried to find my voice, barely able to choke out a syllable. "I- Wh- Yi- Spot?"
"Impeccable observation," the Brooklyn leader was still grinning, sitting there like an ethereal vision.
"Wh- what are you doing? You can't be here..." I gasped out my thoughts, my mind racing in wonder as to how in the world he got onto the train.
"Sure, I can," he held up a ticket, Patrick's ticket. When I looked at him in disbelief, he pointed out the window behind me.
I whipped around and saw Patrick standing about twenty-five feet away on the platform, waving and smiling at the window.
Turning back around, I ran a hand through my hair in confusion. "This doesn't make any sense... Patrick and I are going to St. Louis... we're gonna get an apartment or... something..."
Spot leaned over and said quietly, "Doesn't look like it to me."
The joking look in his eyes was only confusing me more. "Is this your idea of a big good-bye or something? This is all a joke right?"
"No," he leaned over a bit more and his smile faded, "this is me, asking for a chance to never have to say good-bye again."
All I could do was shake my head over and over in disbelief, and he added, "I hope that's not your answer."
"I... why? You... you're in love with Ruth..."
"I was... and then there was you." His green eyes bore into me, completely mesmerizing, "I think I love you, Anabeth Meyers."
The only thing I could think of to do was avoid answering him. "You think, or you know?"
A smile crossed his face again, and he spoke firmly. "I know." The finality of what he said made me want to cry, he sounded more sincere than ever. But I couldn't find anything to say back. After a moment, he raised that eyebrow at me, just as he always had but not quite like ever before. "Stay with me?"
It wasn't a command; it was a question, an offer. He was giving me a chance to wake up every morning not knowing what would happen to me, the possibility of the unexpected.
"You want me to sleep on a mattress on the floor? It doesn't sound so appealing..."
He smirked at me, which was exactly what I wanted. "Yeah, but we could have a lot of fun on that mattress."
I let out a small laugh. "Do you think we'd be happy?" Again, I avoided.
"No," Spot smiled, "but we'll be together." Another moment of silence, and then a more pleading, "Please, Anabeth, stay here..."
Trying to choke back a sob, I shook my head over and over quickly. "Okay."
Before I could even think, I felt him throw his arms around my waist and pull me into the tightest hug of my life. It was difficult to breathe, but it wasn't like I really needed air at the moment. Then I felt the train begin to move.
"Well now what are we gonna do?" I laughed into his arm.
"Enjoy a short trip to Saint Louis, I guess," he laughed as well, and I felt him kiss my cheek as he did.
Pulling away, I look at him with mocking reprimand. "Didn't I tell you not to look in the book until I'd left?"
He looked at me curiously, "I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"No...why?"
Laughing lightly, I settled back into my seat and he did the same. Resting my head on his shoulder, I said lightly, "You'll see when we get back." Closing my eyes, I whispered, "I love you," and felt his chest rise and fall with his steady harmonious breathing. Soon, I had fallen asleep to the faint melody of "Loch Lomond" going through my mind and the warmth of the fingers interlocked with mine forever.
* * *
Oh my goodness, I can't believe this part is over. it's like the ending of an era. I'm stealing a leftover cookie, by the way. Giving me just one, how cruel. Anyway, don't worry, this isn't the last you'll hear of Spot and Anabeth, neither is it the end of Jack and Fishface. What will become of our heroes? What about Kerry and his mysterious past?? Will Anabeth ever learn to tolerate the cane? Stay tuned for the answers to these and more questions, coming soon!! We've also had ideas for some VERY odd non- relevant stories, too. Not quite as dramatic as this was, though. And wait till we give you a peek into Spot and Anabeth's THERAPY SESSION, featuring none other than. COUNSELOR DAVID!!! Okay, no more cookies for me. Birdy herself has been working on a prequel focusing on Kerry, titled "A Boy and His Slingshot," but she won't tell me anything about it. That's it for now; keep reading!!! Love ya. It's been great. *pulls Fishface off of the stage where she is still bowing dramatically* Time to go, see ya later!! *bows* Okay, we really are leaving now.