Disclaimer: You all know the drill. Flick, Secret, Song, Shadow, Odds, Muscles, Crow, Scamp, Mulberry, Broom, Mott, Bat, Scrap, and Mr. Trotwood (AKA Trout) belong to me. Please don't use them without my permission. All the other characters in this story belong to Disney. I am using them without permission. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made.
Hello by Evanescence
Playground, school bell rings
Again
Rainclouds come to play
Again
Has no one told you she's not breathing?
Hello, I'm your mind
Giving you someone to talk to
Hello
If I smile and don't believe
Soon I know I'll wake from this dream
Don't try to fix me, I'm not broken
Hello, I'm the lie
Living for you so you can hide
Don't cry
Suddenly I know I'm not sleeping
Hello, I'm still here
All that's left of yesterday.
Song of Healing
by Midnight Flare, AKA Flare
August 7, 1899, 11:00 P.M.
Racetrack Higgins was on a roll. For several hours now he'd been sitting in a casino in Harlem, crushing every poker opponent who dared to challenge him. Despite his friends' frequent attempts to break him of this habit, because of the dangers involved in gambling, particularly with people who were bigger and older than you were and often drunk, Race refused to abandon his hobby. Though he usually contented himself with poker games against fellow newsies, once in a while he needed a night of excitement and big winnings. Between this money and the profits from the extra papers he'd sold today, he was really looking forward to the races next time he managed to get to the tracks. During his fifteen-year lifetime, about six horses Racetrack bet on had won, but this never seemed to discourage him in the least.
From a dark corner, Flick watched the various poker games in silence. Her attention was mainly focused on a short, baby-faced Italian boy with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a white shirt, brown pants, and red-and-black checkered vest. A black cabbie hat was perched on his head, pushed back so that just the right amount of hair was sticking out the front. A cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth, smoke spiraling lazily from its tip. He appeared to be about twelve, but Flick had a feeling he was older than he looked. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that he was one of the best poker players she had ever seen in her life.
"Flick?"
Flick turned questioningly toward the soft voice of her companion, who sat in the chair across from hers at the small corner table. Secret flinched slightly under her friend's gaze, questions bombarding her mind.
What are we doin' heah? How is sittin' heah watchin' pokah games all night gonna do you or me or anyone else any good? Biting her lip, Secret sighed. "Neveh mind," she muttered, folding her arms on the table and resting her head on them. It wasn't long before she had dozed off.
Wordlessly, Flick turned back to the game. The boy she'd been watching had just raised the stakes twenty-five cents. His opponent, a burly, greasy-haired man in his early twenties, arched his eyebrows as the boy pushed a quarter into the middle of the table. "I'll see ya," the man cackled, tossing in a quarter to match the bet. He clearly thought the younger gambler was bluffing. Flick knew better. A moment later, the black-haired boy was grinning as he displayed an Ace of Diamonds...and an Ace of Hearts...and an Ace of Clubs. "T'ree of a kind." Cursing, the man slammed his fist onto the table so loudly that several other people glanced up from their games. The boy didn't seem phased by this behavior. Cocking one eyebrow, he cheerfully swept his winnings off the table and dumped them into his pockets. He then stared his fuming, crimson-faced opponent straight in the eye until the man swore a few more times, lurched to his feet, and staggered out of the casino.
Da kid's got guts, Flick thought approvingly. She found she could appreciate that even at a time like this.
Yawning, the Italian boy glanced around the casino, obviously hoping for one more game, to finish off the night with another handful of coins jingling in his pockets. "Anyone else wanna have a go?"
It looked as if his wish wasn't going to be granted. Most of the other customers seemed absorbed in drinks, conversation, and of course, their own games of poker and blackjack. But a moment later, Secret's head jerked up in alarm; Flick had risen to her feet, walked briskly over to the victor's table, sat down across from him, and begun to deal.
Race was taken aback.
For one thing, after all his victories tonight, he really hadn't been expecting anyone else to take up his challenge. For another thing, he was used to his opponents saying something when they approached him, rather than just sitting down and launching right into the game. For a third thing, Racetrack had never encountered a girl in a casino before.
And for a fourth thing, this was not just any girl. This was a girl dressed in a black shirt and pants, navy-blue vest and suspenders, and a jaunty brown cabbie hat.
When Race stared too long, not knowing whether to be shocked or scandalized or merely fascinated, the girl shoved his cards at him impatiently. Wide-eyed, struggling to regain his composure, he automatically picked them up and examined his hand.
The betting began. The girl called, raised, and announced how many cards she wanted to exchange in a low, almost frightening monotone. Her New York accent strongly pervaded every word. As he gradually relaxed into the familiar rhythm of his favorite game, Race began to take note of the girl's appearance beyond her clothes. She was of average height, several inches taller than he was, and probably about his age. She had short hair, shorter than any girl's he'd ever seen, so that it barely reached her chin. It was also flaming red, so vivid that he couldn't believe he'd missed it at first; a blazingly bright shade of coppery red-orange about as subtle as the sun. The brief glimpse he got of her eyes before the game started revealed them to be a dark, stormy blue; after that she kept them glued to her cards, not raising them once. She was slightly pale, and her hands were tough and calloused. Race had never been obsessed with girls like his friend Mush, except for a hopeless crush on Medda Larkson the vaudeville star. But he figured even Mush wouldn't go for this girl. She wasn't pretty...no, definitely not. Not ugly, but a far cry from pretty. She was too pale, too skinny, completely flat-chested, her hair was too short, and she was dressed like a boy. It was even more than these things that denied her any beauty, though, Race observed. It was her personality. It seemed to shine through her whole appearance. She was...tough, Race decided. Closed-up, hiding all feeling. Strong, fiery...untouchable. Nothing at all like the soft, shy, feminine girls Race was used to.
Hand after hand passed in silence, money shifting between the two of them. They seemed about evenly matched in the game. As he discarded a Ten of Diamonds and took an Ace of Spades, Race glanced again at the girl's hat. It was exactly the same style as his, and it was normally a good indicator of the wearer's occupation.
"Yer a newsie?" he ventured, taking a puff on his cigar and adding two pennies to the pile.
The girl seemed to stiffen for a moment, but her posture returned to normal so quickly that he wasn't sure whether he might have imagined it. "Call," she murmured in the same flat voice, tossing two pennies down on the table, "an' raise ya two," she continued, adding two more. "Yeah, sorta."
Sorta? Race nodded thoughtfully. He knew there were female newsies in some parts of the city, though none lived or sold in his own borough.
"Wheah d'ya sell?" he asked casually, seeing her bet and raising three cents.
This time there was a pause long enough to show that the girl was not at all comfortable with the question.
"Wheah da you sell?" she demanded, tossing down a nickel that nearly caused Racetrack to drop his expertly cultivated poker face and wince.
"Manhattan," he replied, thinking, How'm I s'posta catch any tells if she always keeps 'er eyes down like dat? "Lowa East Side. Call, an' raise ya two."
"Raise ya ten. What's da neighbahood like?"
"R-raise ya...one. Not bad. Sometimes it's kinda rough, what wit da Delanceys lookin' fer trouble an' all."
His opponent snorted softly. Apparently she didn't find mention of the Delanceys particularly intimidating. "Raise ya five. How's da sellin' dere?"
Dis goil is gonna give me a noivous breakdown. I ain't neveh seen anyone play pokah like dis befoah! Eidda she's a masta at bluffin' or I'se in big trouble...
"Great. We's got Bottle Alley, da Harba', Central Park...all da best spots. Call." He glanced down at the table and was startled to realize that he was out of money. Peering across the table, he saw that his opponent was in the same position. Every cent involved had gone into the pot. He hesitated. "Moment o' truth."
Holding his breath, Race swept his cards out in a row in front of him: straight, in Spades.
For the first time since the game began, the redheaded newsgirl raised her eyes. They were the pale blue of a summer sky, and she tossed her cards down face-up: a royal flush.
"I'se Flick," the girl announced as Race, shocked and devestated, watched her scoop up every cent on the table and dump it into her pockets.
"Racetrack Higgins," he managed, before her words registered, then wondered aloud, "Wheah d'ya get a name like Flick?"
Flick ignored the question. "Secret!" she called. Like magic, a second girl appeared from a cobweb-laced corner, rubbing her eyes as if she'd just been awakened from a nap. A bit shorter than Flick, she had shoulder-length, silky black hair and rather eerie eyes: pale, sparkling ice-blue, and so bright they were almost phosphorescent. These eyes were fringed in very long, very black lashes, and she wore a ragged light blue dress and grey cabbie hat. A large, patched and shabby old pack was slung over her shoulder.
"Secret," Flick announced, "we's gonna be Manhattan newsies."
"Rememba, I had absolutely nuttin' ta do wit dis," Racetrack glumly reminded his two shadows as they approached a shabby-looking building. "It ain't my fault da two o' youse decided ta follow me. Why don't ya jist go back ta Harlem? Nice place, Harlem. Good lodgin' house, or so Blink says. Dere ya go, read da sign," he urged hopefully, motioning toward the sign over the door of the building that read "Newsboys Lodging House".
Flick glanced dismissively at it. "Yeah, it said da same t'ing on da door o' our last lodgin' house."
It also said the same thing on the door of the Brooklyn lodging house, which housed seven newsgirls, but Race found it unnecessary to mention this. "An' ya ain't gonna tell me wheah dat was," he muttered in exasperation, pulling the door open and entering the building. He'd been questioning Flick and Secret all the way from Harlem, trying to figure out who they were, where they were from, and why they were currently homeless newsies. He'd had absolutely no luck. Flick had a curt, biting, useless response for everything; her dark-haired companion remained completely silent.
Half-hoping they would back down at the last moment, Race grimaced in resignation when Flick and Secret followed him into the tiny front hall. He wasn't surprised to find that Kloppman, the old man who ran the lodging house, had already gone to bed. He wouldn't be able to throw the girls out; that would be left to Cowboy.
"I'll bet dere was odda goils at yer old lodgin' house, dough," he guessed as he turned to a small table, picked up a pen, and signed the large and rather dusty Newsies Registration Book.
The silence that followed was so filled with tension that Race, as he finished signing his name, turned toward the two newsgirls. Secret had turned away. Flick's eyes were the color of sapphires, and from her expression, he could only guess that she was about to take a swing at him. Hurriedly, he stepped back from the table, tossing the pen at Flick, and headed up a few broad stairs and through the door that led into the bunkroom, shutting it behind him.
"Hey, Race, yer back late--" Jack Kelly began, sitting up in his top bunk.
"I din't do it," Racetrack blurted out, dashed into the room, and dove into his bunk under his friend Kid Blink, just as the door opened again and Flick and Secret entered the bunkroom.
First came a yell from Jack at the sight of two strange shapes coming through the door. Chaos swiftly followed. Everything seemed to happen at once. Jack called, "Who's dere?" and vaulted down from his bunk, fumbling on his bedside table for a candle and match. Slider screamed, Blink sat bolt upright and looked around wildly, Snoddy cursed, Dutchy fumbled for his glasses, Odds fell out of his bunk, Mush sat up and demanded to know what was going on, and Skittery yelled for everyone to shut up and go back to sleep.
Finally, Jack located the two objects he was seeking, struck the match, and lit the candle. Blowing out the match and tossing it aside, he raised the candle and strode forward to illuminate the utterly calm faces of two teenage girls.
Twenty-nine grumpy, sleepy faces stared bug-eyed and slack-jawed at the pair framed in the doorway by the flickering, ghostly light of Jack's candle. Race hid his face in his pillow and wished it would swallow him.
"What da..." Jack's exclamantion trailed off into incoherent stutters.
"Heya," the redhead greeted him cheerfully. "I'se Flick an' dis's Secret. We's gonna be Manhattan newsies fer a while. Ya din't hafta wake ev'ryone up ta let 'em know, dough."
Flick waited while the boy holding the candle stuttered, apparently at a loss for words. She might have smirked, if it hadn't been a time like this. Now she gazed defiantly at the huge swarm of half-dressed boys that crowded behind Jack to goggle at Secret and her. The confused din of half-asleep questions was deafening, but Flick knew that it was the boy with the candle who mattered; he must be the leader. She looked him over. He was tall, about seventeen, and had dark blonde hair, mussed from sleep. Glancing up at the bunk he'd jumped down from, she saw a black cowboy hat sitting on the foot of the bunk, confirming her suspicions. So this was the famous and infamous Jack Kelly, leader of the Newsies Strike of last month. She had participated, of course, she and Secret, and they had heard him make his speech with David Jacobs and Spot Conlon on the stage of Irving Hall at the ill-fated rally, but there had been herds of tall newsboys standing in front of them, and they hadn't had much of a view. A West Side newsgirl called Brook, who had maneuvered her way to the front of the crowd, had informed the few other girls present that Jack was handsome. Seeing him up close now, Flick disagreed.
"Yer, uh...yer goils." finally popped out of Jack's mouth.
"When last I checked," Secret replied faintly. Snickers rose from the crowd of newsboys. Flick touched her friend's hand lightly and nodded. Jack quickly pulled himself together. Glaring, he leaned toward them and crossed his arms.
"Okay, who are ya, wheah ya from, an what're ya doin' heah?"
"I told ya our names," Flick replied patiently. "Wheah we's from ain't important. An' I seem ta also rememba tellin' ya why we's heah. We's gonna be Manhattan newsies fer a while."
That did it. The boys were over their shock by now, and at this repetition of Flick's statement, an explosion of laughter erupted. Racetrack, the only newsie still in his bunk, winced and peered up from his pillow to watch the action.
Struggling to stop laughing, and finally succeeding after a fit of half-laughing coughs, Jack's face assumed an amused and dubious expression which was known to be highly irritating. "Right. A couple goils show up at a Newsboys Lodgin' House in da middle o' da night, one o' dem dressed as a boy, an' tell da thoity boys who live dere dat deyre gonna join da fam'ly."
"Yeah," Flick replied softly. "Dat's e'zactly what we's gonna do."
The laughter died slowly. Flick's voice had the strength of steel and the temperature of lava. Her eyes had darkened to a rich and startling ocean blue. That voice and those eyes were not to be laughed at. Suddenly, this bizarre cross-dressing redheaded girl did not seem remotely pathetic or ridiculous. She seemed dangerous.
"An' I ain't dressed as a boy," she added as an afterthought. "I'se dressed as a newsie."
Jack ignored this last statement. Despite the original humor of the situation, he found he was forced to realize that the girls were actually serious.
I can't believe dis. Dis has gotta be a dream or sometin', he thought wildly. But those glaring eyes were no dream. And Jack was quickly finding his amusement replaced by anger.
"'Scuse me," he said loudly, taking a step closer to Flick and Secret, "but ya can't jist show up like dis at some ungodly hour o' da night. If ya need help or sometin', dat's one t'ing, but if ya jist took a notion dat ya wanna become newsies, try some odda place. Ya ain't livin' in a lodgin' house wit thoity boys."
Many sighs of disappointment swept through the crowd, Mush and Bumlets chief among them, but Jack silenced them with a glare and turned back to the intruders. "So, if yer lost or jist need a place ta stay fer da night, we'll be 'appy ta oblige ya. Ya ain't becomin' Manhattan newsies, dough. Try Brooklyn. Dey got goils dere."
"We ain't lost, we don't need help an' we don't take charity," Flick replied, her voice fiery and sharp as a blade. "An' hang Brooklyn," she added more softly and thoughtfully, then continued angrily, "we got money enough ta pay fer our stay heah, an' we's both been sellin' papes fer yeahs. If ya got da money an' ya know da trade, ya can stay in any lodgin' house ya please. Dere ain't no law 'gainst goils sellin' papes 'round heah."
"Ya wanna sleep in a room wit thoity boys?" came Kid Blink's disbelieving voice. "Not dat we ain't all gentlemen an' ev'rytin'," he added hastily, to a snort from Jack, "but I wouldn't t'ink a couple goils would wanna chance sometin' like dat."
Flick turned her gaze on him. "Secret an' me ain't got nuttin' ta worry 'bout. If any o' youse so much as touched eidda o' us, we'd soak ya till ya wished ya was dead."
Blink, taken aback, pondered this answer. Race, for one, believed it. Jack was evidently not impressed.
"Listen, youse two are really weahin' out my patience. I don't hit goils or nuttin', so jist get outta heah, 'kay?"
Flick gazed up at him. You could have heard a pin drop. The newsboys were silent, tense, waiting. "Ya don't hit goils, huh? Well, let me suggest ya change yer policy dis once. Take a swing. I'd be absolutely thrilled ta see ya try."
Race sat up, leaning forward on the edge of his bed, watching intently the trio in the pool of candlelight. Secret was a dark, silent shadow, still in the doorway, not receiving much attention, as she had barely said a word during the whole encounter. The two figures everyone's eyes were upon were Flick, the candlelight causing her crown of hair to glow like a flame on top of her head, fists clenched and slightly raised, azure fire blazing in her eyes; and Jack, staring down at her, breathing heavily, also with fists clenched, eyes wide and full of amazement, anger, and confusion. Racetrack was worried, but for whose sake he honestly couldn't say. The tension in the room was so thick it could be sliced with a knife. The newsies were hardly daring to breathe. Sure, there had been fights in the lodging house before, but Jack was usually the one to break them up, not start them. And obviously, there had never been a showdown between their leader and a spunky girl in boy's clothes. Finally, Jack spoke.
"I'se givin' ya one last chance," he said between gritted teeth. "Get outta heah now an' no one hasta get hoit."
"Back down now," replied Flick (the newsies winced collectively, expecting her to start breathing fire at any moment), "an' no one hasta get hoit." Secret's shudder went unnoticed.
That was the last straw. Glaring, Jack drew back his fist and swung at Flick.
No one could really say just what happened next. One second, Jack's fist was flying toward the redhead. The next second, there was a loud crack, and their leader was staggering backward, then falling to the ground, with an involuntary cry of pain. The candle fell from his hand and went out at once. It was Snaps who grabbed it and re-lit it with a match from his pocket, holding it up to once again illuminate the scene. An enormous bruise had bloomed on Jack's cheek in fantastic shades of red, purple, and green. Flick stood with her arms folded. Not one eye had seen her move.
Secret groaned.
For a moment, everyone stood frozen to the spot in pure, complete and total shock. Of all the shocking things that had happened tonight, this topped them all. No newsie in New York, except maybe Spot Conlon, could give Jack Kelly a shiner. No newsie in New York (except maybe Spot Conlon) or anywhere else as far as they knew, could hit that fast. Or that hard. And a girl!
Finally Crutchy tentatively murmured, "Jack?" Cautiously, he approached Cowboy, his crutch tapping the floor. Mush followed, and they each offered Jack a hand, helping him up. Jack's face was scarlet with rage and humiliation, but his eyes registered something else as well. Racetrack, used to reading tells in people's faces during poker games, thought it might be a hint of grudging respect. No one was sure how to react to Flick's injuring their leader. Normally they would back Jack up in any fight and soak anyone who hurt him...although normally, no one hurt Jack. But this was different. This was a girl; none of the newsies was used to hitting girls. And she had only been defending herself. The silence was broken, rather tactlessly, by Pie Eater.
"God," he said, "ya shoah can pack a punch, goil."
Flick's eyes, now flickering between sky and stormy blue, met Jack's squarely. "Any moah objections?" she asked quietly.
Jack glared at her. An invisible thought bubble seemed to form above the newsies' heads: Is he gonna try dat again? Finally Jack sighed and said, "Are ya at least gonna tell me why ya showed up heah, o' all places?"
Flick's eyes darted to Racetrack's bunk. He flinched and shook his head furiously, gazing pleadingly at her. Rolling her eyes, Flick turned back to Jack. "We jist hoid da sellin' was good in dese parts."
Race relaxed somewhat for the first time that night. Jack glanced at Secret. "She fight as good as you?" he demanded.
"Nah," Secret answered, "but I'se decent. Ya gotta be decent if ya loined from Flick."
Jack shook his head and seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, "A'right. I'll tell ya right now dat I don't like dis. I don't like youse an' I wish ta God ya'd jist get outta heah an' leave us alone. But if yer dat detoimined ta be Manhattan newsies, I ain't gonna try ta stop ya no moah." (I wouldn't eidda, thought Race, an' risk anudda shinah like dat. It was now aquiring a yellow tinge.) "Dere's an empty bunk right dere," Jack continued, indicating the bunk next to Race and Blink's. "Ya can hang up a sheet, if youse really are goils."
Ignoring this last stinging remark, Flick and Secret walked over to the bunk, the newsboys hurriedly clearing a path for them, each one obviously trying valiantly not to look at the two girls. Flick grabbed a sheet from a pile near the washroom door and stood on the bottom bunk. Secret took the other end and joined her, helping her tie each corner to a low ceiling beam, so that the sheet hid both bunks from view. Then the girls headed into the washroom.
The moment Secret had closed the door behind them, excited babble broke out in loud whispers. The boys headed back to their bunks, none bent on sleep now, all intent on gossiping about the new arrivals as much as possible before they came back into the room. Racetrack's best friends, Kid Blink and Mush, came to crouch beside his bunk and contribute their opinions.
"Dat Secret's da most beautiful goil I eveh saw," Mush declared dreamily, stars in his eyes. He wasn't alone with this notion; Bumlets and Swifty were voicing similar opinions.
"Dat Flick, dough," Blink marvelled, "can ya believe dat? She...jist...hit...Jack! Gave 'im a shinah da size of a dinna plate, an' somehow got away wit it widdout gettin' any ha'self." He adjusted his eyepatch, his one blue eye focusing on the silent Racetrack. "Well? Whadda ya t'ink o' all dis, Race?"
Race shrugged wearily, settling back onto his pillow. "I t'ink deyre both crazy an' dey won't last long. Now, will youse two get ta sleep? An' Blink, don't roll oveh so much t'night. Last night ya shook da whole bunk."
When his friends were gone, Race kicked off his shoes, peeled off his suspenders, shirt, and undershirt, and pulled up the blanket. At that moment, the washroom door opened, and Flick and Secret emerged. Both were wearing ankle-length, sleeveless white cotton shifts that they must have taken from the pack Secret was carrying. Race raised an eyebrow, and there were soft whistles around the bunkroom. This was not just from the excitement of seeing Secret in a nightgown, though that was certainly part of it. In this attire, it was plain to see that Flick's shoulders and arms were rippling with a solid layer of hard muscle. And Secret, while not quite in Flick's league, was clearly no weakling herself. Several newsies winced in new sympathy for Jack. Jack himself feigned sleep.
Ignoring the whistles and comments, both girls quickly disappeared behind the sheet, Flick climbing into the top bunk and Secret shoving their pack under the bed and taking the bottom bunk. Soon, regular breathing came from behind the sheet and from all around the lodging house, as one by one, the newsies sank back into slumber.
Racetrack fell asleep hoping these crazy newsgirls would be gone soon, and everything would go back to normal. But he dreamed of endless poker games with the first worthy opponent he'd had in years.
It seemed to Race that he woke up once more during the night. Well, really, around 5:00 in the morning. What woke him was the sound of ragged sobs coming from the sheet-enclosed bunk. He had never heard sobs like these before; they were wild and uncontrolled, with gasps in between, as if the person who was crying couldn't stop or control herself, could barely even breathe. And the amount of pure, raw pain that the sound expressed made Race shiver. However, despite their crazed and desperate tones, the sobs were heavily muffled, probably by a pillow; Race, in the bunk right across from Secret's, was the only boy they had woken. Then came Flick's voice, using a tone he hadn't heard her use before, and indeed, couldn't imagine her using: gentle and soothing. Race was going to ask what was wrong, whether Secret was okay, but thought better of it. After a few minutes of Flick's inaudible comforting, the crying subsided and Race drifted back to sleep. The next morning, he wasn't even sure if the whole incident had really happened or been just another dream.