Same Day, 12:00 Noon
"I still wish ya'd tell me what happened."
Secret eyed her friend suspiciously. The two of them stood side by side at the harbor, watching tethered sailboats bob on the unusually rough water as they methodically sold their papers. Their three partners were spread at intervals farther down the river, upholding the group's newly founded tradition of selling together but at a distance. It seemed to work well.
Flick sighed, scanning the slightly blurred headline of a damp newspaper, and admiring the way the raindrops peppered the surface of the river, each one landing with a soft, muffled sort of pinging sound, sending up a tiny spray of water and creating a very brief pockmark. The sky was plastered in clouds, like someone had stretched a lot of dirty grey cotton over it, and it had been drizzling on and off all morning. They had tried several selling spots, but there was a distinct lull in customers due to the weather. However, none of them could afford to skip selling today; especially Flick, who'd had to borrow from Secret just to buy her papes.
"How many times do I hafta tell ya, Secret?" the dragon demanded, frowning as another raindrop splattered onto the top of her stack, causing the ink to run and reducing the mayor's name to a dark, sticky blob. "Some doity liddle shrimp was hangin' 'round yestaday while I was sellin' in Central Park, an' he musta picked my pocket."
"Huge storm headed fer New Yawk, many casualties expected!" Secret shouted, referring to a short article about the possibility of more rain that night, then turned back to Flick. "Yeah, I got dat much. What I don't get is how dis kid managed it. I mean, Flick, I'se known ya fer eight yeahs. Ya's always hated pickpockets, so ya's always made a point o' knowin' deyre habits, an' ya ain't neveh let yer guard down. Da las' guy dat tried ta rob ya ended up wit a broken arm. Don't try ta tell me some liddle kid managed ta slip dat money right out from unda yer nose widdout distractin' ya somehow foist."
"I mighta been distracted," Flick replied smoothly, though she felt her heartbeat increase slightly. I was on da bordeh between faintin' an' killin' someone, does dat count as distracted? "Authorities say tornado's due ta hit Manhattan! I mighta had my mind on sometin' else." She glanced sideways at her friend. "Don't you try ta tell me yer mind's neveh on...sometin' else."
Secret blanched, and Flick felt guilt squeeze its fist around her heart. But Secret wasn't the type to fall apart...only at night, when everything was dark and quiet. She merely bit her lip and nodded.
"Yeah, dere's...dat. Dat'd be enough ta distract anyone, but..." Looking into her friend's eyes...eyes that were shifting too much for her liking...Secret shook her head. "I don't mean ta interrogate ya or nuttin', Flick, but if dere's anytin' ya wanna tawk about..."
But Flick was saved from having to answer, for at that moment, an event occured which the next day's newspaper would refer to as a "cloudburst". The lazy drizzle of the second before was forgotten, and a torrential downpour came blasting from the heavens. Before the blink of an eye, the five newsies selling at the harbor were drenched to the skin.
Screaming out of pure reflex, Secret ducked her head, folded her arms over her already ruined newspapers, and ran blindly down the riverbank, Flick not far behind. The two girls slammed right into Blink, who was attempting to use his own soggy papers as a makeshift umbrella, without much luck; the powerful rain slammed straight through the paper, peeling huge holes in it and spattering Blink's head and face. Mush fought his way over to the three of them, brown curls plastered to his head, and finally, Race appeared, slipping across the muddy grass, one hand holding his hat on and the other shoved into his pocket to protect whatever treasures might dwell therein. Cigars, a pair o' dice, an' a deck o' cards, Flick thought, then felt oddly disturbed that she could guess the items.
"What are we gonna do!?" she screamed over the pounding of the rain, as the wind began to howl with fury, blowing the rain sideways and soaking the newsies even more.
"I dunno!" Blink bellowed in reply. "No way we'll make it back ta da lodgin' house in dis!"
"Ya t'ink!?" Race and Secret replied in sarcastic unison, then glanced at each other in surprise and suspicion. Flick rolled her eyes.
"Okay, I dunno 'bout da rest o' youse, but I find standin' heah gettin' drenched slightly uncomfortable. Youse t'ree are Manhattan newsies, fer God's sake, don'cha know anywheah we can go!?"
Suddenly, inspiration dawned on Kid Blink's face. "Medda's!"
"What!?" Flick and Secret replied together, but Race and Mush both nodded vigorously, and the Three Musketeers took off down the river. "Medda's!" Race shouted over his shoulder, almost tripping over a boulder obscured by the rain. "C'mon, youse two, dis ain't da time ta ask questions! It ain't far!"
"Best not be!" Flick hollered back as she and Secret raced to catch up with the boys.
True to Racetrack's word, it wasn't long before they arrived at their destination. By then the storm was practically a full-force gale, everyone's remaining papers had been surrendered to the wind and rain, and they were all devoting their entire attention to holding onto their hats or, in the case of Blink and Mush, holding their pants up; their suspenders were hanging down around their waists as usual, and their pants were sagging with the weight of all the water they had absorbed. Flick barely caught a glimpse of a large sign depicting a woman with long red hair and a purple dress lounging in a seductive position. Then the door was flung open, and there stood the very same woman, in the flesh, squinting and leaning hard against the door as the wind battered it and torrents of rain blew into the room, spattering the woman's dress. In an instant, the five newsies had ducked their heads and dashed headlong into the building, and Race and Blink had run to the woman's aid, helping her slam the door shut in the face of the loudly protesting wind, and lock it securely.
"Vell!" The woman turned to face the newsies and smiled, brushing a wet strand of hair out of her eyes and smoothing her damp skirts. "You're not the first arrivals!" She raised her eyebrows at their saturated clothing. "You'll have to get out of those clothes at once, you vill catch your deaths! Right this way, if you please. Some of your friends are already backstage, finding suitable outfits."
Race beamed at her. "T'anks a lot, Medda," he said warmly, taking her hand and kissing it gallantly. Medda swatted playfully at him.
"Ah, get on with ya, Racetrack! All of you, follow me!" She headed toward a door nearby, the Three Musketeers tripping over each other's dangling shoelaces in a race to be the one to open it for her, and it was then that she noticed the two newsies who hadn't moved, but stood staring at her, perplexed.
"Ah!" She spun on them and curtseyed, eyes twinkling. "You must be the newcomers I've heard so much about! Kelly told me of the girls who are living in his lodging house."
"If it's Cowboy dat's been givin' ya reports, ya can't o' hoid anytin' good," Flick predicted promptly. Medda chuckled.
"Kelly's a good boy, but I pass my own judgments. You must be Flick, the fiery one. And the lovely shadow at your side will be Secret, the mysterious one."
"Yep," Blink spoke up, leaving the task of door-holding to a surprised Mush and hurrying over to put his arm around the woman's waist. "An' dis is Medda Larkson, da Swedish Meadowlark, greatest vaudeville star in da country."
"Aww, nonsense! Pure flattery!" Medda protested, though she was clearly blushing with pleasure. Gently removing Blink's arm from her waist, she motioned to the two newsgirls, who, somewhat mystified, trailed behind Medda and the Three Musketeers, through the door and into a spacious room packed with rows of seats facing a huge stage; obviously a vaudeville theater.
"Velcome, my dears," Medda sang, with a flip of her long red hair and a flourish of her huge purple fan, "to Irving Hall."
"We come heah wheneveh we can...all da Manhattan newsies do," Mush explained for Flick and Secret's benefit, taking off his hat and wringing it out rather ineffectually. "Da shows are terrific. Medda owns da place," he added, blushing slightly. Suddenly he realized what he was doing, and glanced down at the huge puddle his hat had just formed on the floor. This drew the gazes of the others to the floor, and the unpleasant realization that each of them was surrounded by his or her own personal little lake, fed by a trail of water leading all the way back to the front door. Secret let out a sort of whimper of dismay, and looked up, wide-eyed, at Medda.
"We's...uh...real sorry 'bout...all dat," she babbled, "we'll clean it up an' ev'rytin'..."
Medda laughed, loud and melodious. "No need, dear, the maids vill take care of it! There wasn't going to be a show today, since we expected no company in this weather, but I vill perform something special just for my favorite customers!" She winked. "Now, to the dressing rooms vith all of you, before you come down vith pneumonia!"
Hurried backstage by Medda, Flick goggled at what was undoubtedly the most bizarre scene she had ever laid eyes on.
They had been brought into a room completely lined with mirrors. It also contained an enormous wooden chest and a row of purple silk screens, so that any who wished to might dress behind them in privacy. There were already six familiar boys in the room. One of them, she was dismayed to see, was none other than Jack Kelly. But this was Jack Kelly as she had never seen him before: in a long navy-blue robe covered in gold moons and stars, that looked like it belonged on some kind of wizard. Trailing behind him was the nine-year-old boy Flick vaguely remembered being named Les something-or-other. He kept tripping over a pair of very ragged and holey pants, matched with an equally ragged red-and-white striped shirt. Waving a dripping wooden toy sword, he resembled a small pirate. His older brother...David?...seemed to be struggling to keep his dignity in...Flick did a double-take...yes, in a very puffy, pom-pom covered, outrageously colorful clown suit. Bumlets looked very awkward in an oversized tuxedo better suited to a groom at a wedding, Specs was wiping water off his glasses with a cloth and ignoring his huge white Greek-style toga, and Crutchy stood straighter than usual with his crutch, proud to have gotten off easy in a khaki military uniform.
"Um..." Six heads snapped around in alarm to stare at the saturated forms of Race, Mush, Blink, Flick, and Secret, whose streams had followed them under the door leading backstage, and were now busy feeding new little private lakes. Race, the one who had spoken, blinked at his six friends, bemused. "Dis I miss sometin'?"
David glared daggers at him. "Rub it in, why don't you, Racetrack?"
"It ain't our fault," Specs moaned. "We was all soaked, an' it ain't like we had any private stashes o' spare clothes lyin' around. So we borrowed costumes from Medda. An' it looks like youse guys'll hafta do da same," he added more cheerfully, grinning at the private lakes. Jack had retreated into a corner, from which he scowled at Flick, doubtless imagining the torment she would subject him to with this new ammunition. But Flick was already busy digging through the costume chest. When Secret cleared her throat, however, Flick looked up just in time to see a furiously blushing Bumlets quickly turn away from Secret. Staring at her best friend, Flick blanched. Secret's dress, blue as usual, and as wet as could be expected, was clinging quite obviously to a certain area. Flick had no such problem, since her shirt had nothing to cling to.
"I'd suggest ya find sometin' ta weah," she called to her friend, while all of the newsboys either struggled not to snicker, not to look at Secret, or both.
"I'd hafta agree wit ya dere," Secret replied, shooting Bumlets a dirty look and joining her friend at the costume chest.
Several minutes later, eleven newsies emerged from the dressing rooms. Race had grown considerably less cocky after being forced into a tiger suit, complete with paws, ears, and tail. Blink managed to retain a bit of self-respect in a shirt, pants, and denim overalls that probably served as a farmer's costume. Mush's long white lab coat suggested a mad scientist, and Secret was fuming in a glittery, feather-covered pink dress, having scathingly refused the accompanying hat, feather boa, and parasol. Indeed, the sole holdout of the ridiculous display, the only member of the group who had managed to come out satisfied, was Flick. In a black suit and sweeping cape lined with red silk, found buried in the bottom of the chest, she was the spitting image of any respectable villain, right in her element.
"Wheah's yer wand, Cowboy?" she hissed maliciously in Jack's ear as an usher escorted the newsies to their front-row seats.
"Shuddup," he muttered, ears reddening.
"Ooh, whatcha gonna do, toin me inta a frog?"
Jack had no chance to reply, for at that moment, Racetrack, who had crept up behind them, roared as loudly as he could. Jack jumped a mile and Flick took off after Race, who hitched up his tail and ran for his life. Mush shouted feeble pleas for them to quit it, while Blink muttered complaints about not being allowed to take the pitchfork that went with his costume. Bumlets fiddled with his tie, and Specs tripped over his toga and fell flat on his face.
"Ahoy, me hearties!" Les shouted cheerfully. David had meanwhile dashed over to claim a seat and curled up in a ball of indignation and shame.
It took the poor usher quite a while to get all the newsies in their seats, planting Flick firmly between Secret and Mush, two of the calmer personalities, and far from Jack and Racetrack, the two most likely to ignite her violent flame.
At last, all was ready. The lights were dimmed, the spotlight was switched on, and to deafening cheers and whistles from the nine newsboys present, Medda Larkson took the stage.
Flick watched and listened lazily, through half-slitted eyes and half-alert ears. The band in the pit struck up the first song. The Swedish Meadowlark began to sing, her voice loud and clear, and as wild and gaudy as her clothing and personality. She danced across the stage, her leaping, kicking, and twirling clearly professional, her voice carrying all the way to the back row, although her audience consisted of eleven ragged young storm refugees in the front row. Medda's eyes shone with delight; she flipped her hair and waved her purple fan. All of the boys were leaning forward in their seats; Les sucking loudly on a lollipop courtesy of Toby the candy vendor, David and Bumlets silent and rapturous, and the others yelling and waving, clapping and whistling and cheering. Jack and Blink actually leapt up out of their seats in their excitement. Flick and Secret exchanged looks and rolled eyes, Flick looking away quickly for fear that the image of Secret in that dress would give her strange nightmares. Medda kept on dancing and singing. The boys kept on getting themselves worked up over beautiful Medda. The music kept on playing. Drums, trumpets, violins, flutes...
Flutes.
Flutes.
The music kept on playing...the music kept on playing...the music kept on playing...
April 6, 1895, 8:00 P.M.
"E'zactly how often d'ya gotta practice dat t'ing? Practice! As if ya even need ta practice. Ya play like some kinda goddess already. Ya can't even improve dat."
"Oh, an' youse some kinda music expoit all of a sudden, Flick?"
"I'se an expoit on yer music anyway, Song. Seein' as it's been da background sound fer pretty much ev'rytin' I'se done fer da past seven yeahs!"
"C'mon, Flick, leave Song alone fer once, will ya?"
"Ya shouldn't tawk, Secret. Ya's only had ta put up wit it fer five yeahs!"
"Hang on, a second ago ya was sayin' dat I play like a goddess! Ya got a real fickle mind, ya know dat, kid?"
"Kid!? 'Scuse me, I t'ink dose t'ree yeahs o' age dif'rence are canceled by da fact dat I can fight an' you can't!"
"Really, Song, don'cha t'ink it is 'bout time ya loined ta fight? Flick's a real good teacha, ya know, an' yer fourteen yeahs old..."
"Aw, don't you start in on me, Secret. I'se a musician. I don't wanna loin ta fight. I HATE fights."
"Ya can hate 'em all ya want, but dat don't mean yer neveh gonna run inta one."
"If I do, you'll be dere ta handle it fer me, Flick."
"Yeah, well what if I'se not always dere? Den you'll regret not loinin' ta fight when ya had da chance!"
June 10, 1895, 11:45 P.M.
"Song, what're ya doin' out on da fiah escape? It's neahly midnight."
"Go back ta sleep, Flick."
"C'mon, what's up?"
"Ya wouldn't undastand."
"Try me."
"It's jist dis one song. I can't seem ta make da notes flow e'zactly right. It kept playin' in my head an' I couldn't sleep, so I t'ought I'd come out an' practice."
"Hmm...guess I can't help ya dere."
"I'll say. Ya still can't even hit one note!"
"Yeah....but...."
"But what, kid?"
"It's Flick, ya heah!? Not 'kid'. Ya want me ta soak ya? As I was sayin'...well, I kinda came out 'cause I couldn't sleep eidda. So, ya t'ink I could stay out heah wit ya an' listen ta ya play? Maybe ya'd get it right wit an audience."
"A'right. It's woith a try........"
"God, Song, I don't see what's wrong wit it. It sounds beautiful ta me."
"Nuttin's wrong wit it...not anymoah. Ya musta brought some kinda inspiration, kid. Ow! I din't desoive dat!"
October 3, 1898, 10:00 P.M.
"Song?"
The music kept on playing...
"Song..."
The music kept on playing...
"Song...ya got robbed. It took ya a lot o' time an' woik, sellin' papes an' playin yer flute, ta make all dat money. But it ain't da end o' da woild. Ya's jist gonna hafta oin it back, an' make even moah. Song, listen, I'll soak da guy fer ya, okay? I'll find 'im an' soak 'im. Song, please come outta dere, or at least stop playin' dat da** flute...dat tune's really weird...it's creepy...Song, please stop."
The music kept on playing...and playing...
August 9, 1899, 1:00 P.M.
...and playing.
"Flick...Flick...FLICK!?"
Like a rubber band, everything suddenly snapped back into focus: the huge hall, the bright lights, the seats, the stage, the crowd of outrageously dressed newsboys surrounding her, and a very concerned Medda. It was Racetrack who was calling her name, Racetrack in a tiger costume.
"Flick, ya a'right?"
But the image didn't register. Flick's only awareness was that someone was touching her, shaking her. It was enough. A moment later, Race pulled his arm back with a cry, watching in more shock than pain as a large, ugly dark-red bruise appeared where Flick had punched him. He stared at her, and she stared back, eyes moving slowly from his face to his arm. Her jaw dropped. Slowly her eyes moved up again to meet his.
"Ya...ya went all stiff," he stammered, seeming to feel he was the one who owed an explanation. "Ya weren't answerin' when anyone tawked ta ya...ya din't get up when da show was oveh, an', uh...yer eyes are kinda dark, Flick...an' Secret..."
Secret? Coming to life, Flick spun in her seat. Secret was huddled on the floor in front of the seat next to her, face buried in the lacey pink sleeves of her dress, sobbing helplessly.
It had stopped raining by the end of the show, but the newsies' clothes were nowhere near dry yet. Luckily, Swifty showed up with a bunch of extra clothing. Apparently, he'd been selling on Duane Street with some of the others when they were caught in the storm, and they had made it into the lodging house. Swifty had figured there would be at least a few fellow newsies stranded at Irving Hall, and was considerate enough to bring them the clothes after the rain stopped, sparing them the excruciating ordeal of going home in their absurd borrowed attire.
The newsies changed in silence. All the way back to the lodging house, everyone either stared openly at Flick and Secret or avoided looking at them altogether. Racetrack alternated between the two options, watching Flick deflect as many glances as possible with her now infamous glare, while Secret walked briskly beside her, cheeks still slightly flushed, eyes glued to the ground. Despite being peppered with questions, concern, even compassion from every newsboy present...little Les had looked devestated, and even Jack hadn't bothered to disguise his worry...there had been no explanations, only curt assurances from both girls that they were fine. This was after Secret's sobs had subsided enough for her to talk, and Flick had returned from her rigid, pale-faced, dark-eyed stupor. Dis can't go on much longa, Race thought wearily. Afta Secret stopped cryin' ev'ry night an' Flick stopped givin' out quite so many shinahs, I t'ought dey musta gotten oveh whateveh was bodderin' 'em. But afta tonight...well, dose two ain't gotten oveh anytin'. Just loined ta hide deyre feelin's betta. It obviously ain't da kinda t'ing ya can jist get oveh. Dey'll hafta face it sometime...an' I'se worried, he realized, startled. I'se worried 'bout what'll happen when dey do face it. I'se worried 'bout how dey might react...what dey might do. 'Specially Flick. He shivered slightly, remembering the look in the redhead's eyes when he shook her arm, and how quickly her fist had shot out. Just like when she hit Cowboy, he hadn't even seen it move. He rubbed his arm absentmindedly, wincing, and suddenly a stray thought drifted unbidden through his mind: If she hits dat fast an' hard when she don't even know what she's doin', what da he** is dat goil capable of when she's really mad? For, after three big showdowns between Flick and Jack, and her countless skirmishes with virtually all the other newsboys, Race still had a disturbing feeling that he hadn't yet seen Flick "really mad".
"Gov'na involved in huge scandal, trial date ta be set!" Mush called from a street corner.
"Hey! Dat's no way ta repay Teddy Roosevelt fer gettin' da Refuge shut down an' Snyda arrested," Blink pointed out, riffling through his own evening edition.
"Dat's biz'ness," Mush replied dryly. "Anyway, it eases my conscience a bit dat dey got a new warden, an' da Refuge's been up an' runnin' again fer two weeks now."
Rather than try to think of a retort, Blink glanced worriedly at Race. The youngest member of the trio had been uncharacteristically quiet this evening. He wasn't selling as well as Blink and Mush, and didn't even seem to be smoking his cigar with the usual gusto. Blink doubted this had anything to do with the shiner Race had collected from Flick. He'd had worse; he'd even had worse from Flick, the day he got her chased by the gentleman with the rolled-up newspaper. No, Blink suspected Racetrack's mood had more to do with the circumstances under which Flick had hit him. Certainly, those circumstances lurked in the mind of every Manhattan newsboy, but they seemed to be affecting Race the most.
"Ya okay?" Blink asked his friend, and Mush glanced over with concern in his eyes. Race frowned.
"O' course. I'se fine."
Blink rolled his eyes. "Right. 'Bout as fine as Flick an' Secret were oylia dis evenin'."
At his words, the Three Musketeers glanced apprehensively down the street, where their two "partners" had claimed a corner of their own.
"Dey's watchin' us," Flick informed Secret.
"I know," Secret replied quietly. "Listen, Flick, I'se real sorry I broke down like dat. It was stupid."
"Se-cret!" Flick gave her friend's hand a squeeze. "All ya did was cry, goil. Ev'ryone's got a right ta cry once in a while."
Secret gave her an odd look. Except you?
Flick was too preoccupied to notice the look. "Ev'ryone's got a right ta cry," she repeated in a murmur. "What no one's got a right ta do is hoit people. Fer no reason."
"Flick..." Secret's ice-blue eyes looked straight into Flick's navy-blue ones. "Ya din't know what ya were doin'."
"E'zactly," Flick replied, eyes flashing. "An' how long'll it be, Secret, befoah it's moah den jist a shinah on da arm...befoah I break someone's arm 'cause I din't know what I was doin'!?" Her voice trembled. "How long'll it be...befoah I..."
"Flick!"
Flick started at Secret's sudden anxious outburst, then shook her head. "Sorry. Look, I'se down ta my last few papes. I'se gonna go apologize, 'kay?"
And she set off resolutely down the street in the direction of the Three Musketeers.
"Racetrack?"
Race didn't spin around as she had expected, but turned rather slowly, almost reluctantly, as if he'd been expecting this, and dreading it. Flick couldn't help being slightly amused at the way Blink and Mush went right on hawking headlines and politely pretending they didn't know she was there; especially since Blink was out of papes.
Race was looking at her. She tried to read his face. A combination of expectation, wariness, and...something else. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on, and wasn't sure she wanted to.
A'right. Now's yer chance. Go ahead. She took a deep breath. Go on. Get it oveh wit. Still she hesitated. Oh, fer God's sake, Flick! Ya jist gotta apologize ta him. Ya punched da guy, an' ya din't mean ta. So now yer gonna say yer sorry. Dat ain't so hard, is it? She opened her mouth. C'mon, ya can do it...'I'se sorry'...'I'se sorry'...
But she couldn't do it. She simply couldn't, even if she had done something that she knew perfectly well was wrong and hurtful and confusing and warranted an apology. Apologies were not Flick's style. Race raised one eyebrow. Flick cleared her throat.
"Ya up fer pokah t'night?"
Well, it wasn't an apology, really; but surely it could be labeled a peace offering.