Blurring and stirring the truth and the lies
So I don't know what's real
(So I don't know what's real and what's)
Don't know what's real and what's lies
Always confusing the thoughts in my head
So I can't trust myself anymore.
-Going Under, by Evanescence
August 11, 1899, 1:00 A.M.
It was getting late. Racetrack didn't know precisely how late. He didn't feel like lifting his pocket watch to the moonlit window and checking the time. In fact, he felt that he would rather not know what time it was; he didn't really want to find out how long Flick had been out on the fire escape, pacing. Back and forth...back and forth...back and forth.
Not that he could hear her footsteps through the closed window. But he could see her, and he had been watching her for what seemed like an eternity. Again and again she passed the window, eyes lowered. In the darkness, the most visible part of her shadowy form was her hair; sometimes, when his eyelids started drooping, it was all he saw, like a lazy flame drifting through the air. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands; sometimes they were clasped behind her back, sometimes crossed over her chest, sometimes locked together in front of her, twisting and wringing brutally as if fighting some silent battle.
There she went again. What is she doin' out dere? What's she t'inkin'? Tryin' ta separate da truth from da lies, like she was tawkin' 'bout befoah? Or jist...broodin'? A strange weight had seemed to develop inside of Racetrack the moment he heard Flick's cryptic confession of her worst fear. Every time she passed by the window, that weight seemed to grow a bit heavier. Whateveh it is she's tryin' ta accomplish, it ain't woikin'. She obviously ain't figuahed anytin' out yet. An' it can't be good fer her, all dat pacin', alone out dere...
As he pondered the situation, he couldn't help but picture Flick back at Sheepshead...had it really been earlier that very night? She'd been so happy then...so enthusiastic, so full of unrestrained energy, excitement, and affection. How...well, beautiful, really...she had looked then, blazing with that joyful inner light. He had seen that light for the first time that evening, and barely had time to savor it and marvel at it before it had gone out completely. Only to be replaced by...this. The contrast blew his mind.
After agonizing all this time, Racetrack finally reached a decision. Quietly, he pushed back the covers and started to rise from his bunk.
"Don't, Race."
Starting, Race spun to face the bunk across from his. Secret was sitting up, shaking her head. He'd been so careful not to make any noise; how had he managed to wake her?
Then he saw the depth of the anxiety in her eyes and knew: she had never been asleep. Like him, she had only been lying awake in bed, watching the window, waiting...waiting, he assumed, for Flick to come inside. Secret was peering at him with concern, and he realized that his own eyes must be mirrors of hers. It struck him then that he and Secret were the two people in this room who cared about Flick the most.
"Why not?" he found himself whispering in response to Secret's order. "We can't jist let 'er do dis all night. She needs ta sleep. She has enough trouble gettin' up ta sell ev'ry mornin' as it is." Even as he spoke the words, he knew they sounded pitiful. Somehow, selling newspapers--their job, their livelihood--seemed trivial right now.
Secret sighed. "I want 'er ta stop as much as you do, but...c'mon, Race, ya know Flick. It ain't safe ta try an' tawk ta her when she's like dis."
"I know dat," Race replied impatiently, still careful to keep his voice low so as not to wake any of the others. "I figuahed someone had ta make 'er come in, dough, an' I t'ought I was da only one up. But you are too...so why don't you do it?"
Secret frowned. "Din't I jist tell ya? It ain't safe."
Race gaped. "But she'd neveh hit you, would she?"
"She neveh has," Secret replied. "But den, I'se neveh known 'er dis...upset...befoah."
"Upset?" Racetrack Higgins was definitely not a newsie known for losing his temper. Indeed, the only time any of the others could remember him doing so was when Jack turned scab during the strike. But now, like Secret while Spot was talking to her in Brooklyn, he felt himself reaching his limits. "Secret. She ain't 'upset'. She's depressed...furious...terrified ...confused...not ta mention violent. I'd be seriously tempted ta say she was goin' insane. An' you..." His voice was rising, "you know why, an' you won't tell us, when ya know we only wanna help!"
"Racetrack!" Glancing around apprehensively at the other beds, Secret hopped to her feet, grabbed Race's sleeve, yanked him off his bunk, and dragged him over to the door. She opened it, and they ducked out into the lobby. Race shut the door behind them and turned to Secret. He was startled to see that her eyes looked moist.
"Listen," she started, and a chill ran down his back; he had never heard her voice so cold, or so very deliberately void of emotion. "It ain't dat I don't trust ya, Race. I might tell ya, an' Mush an' Blink too, if it was sometin' simple. But it ain't. Dere are t'ings dat make it...complicated. Confusin'. So confusin' dat at dis point, I don't even know da whole truth." She took a deep breath, obviously struggling to hold on to her precious semblance of calm. "What ya gotta realize is dis: dere's only one poyson dat knows da whole truth 'bout dis situation."
"Flick," Race guessed dully.
"Uh-huh. An' I'se tried ta tawk ta her so many times ya wouldn't believe it, but she don't want no one's help. She's detoimined ta find da truth on 'er own an' deal wit it in 'er own way, an' nuttin' we say or do is gonna change 'er mind."
"Yeah?" Race snapped. "Well, dat's fine, 'cept fer one liddle detail. Ya's obviously known Flick a lot longa den I have, Secret. So ain't ya eveh noticed dat her way o' dealin' wit t'ings when she ain't in control...an' she shoah as he** ain't in control right now...usually involves hoitin' people?"
Secret went white. Truly white. A color that skin was never meant to be.
"I'se noticed," she murmured almost feverishly, putting out one hand to lightly touch the wall, as if making sure it was still there. "Dat's what started it all."
Terrified by the color of her face, Race quickly put out an arm to steady her. "God, Secret, ya okay?"
Touching her cheek, as if guessing his reason for the question, she nodded weakly. "I'se fine. Flick, on da odda hand..."
"Secret, please...ya may not know ev'rytin', but ya obviously know a lot 'bout why she's like dis. An' it ain't jist her...it's affectin' you too. I hoid ya cryin' yer foist two nights heah...yeah, don't look so su'prised, my bunk's right across from yers, y'know...plus dere was dat time at Medda's. Sometin' happened dat hoit da two o' youse bad. What..."
"I promised Flick I wouldn't tell no one," Secret explained. "Whedda I believe dat's da best t'ing ta do or not, I promised 'er, befoah we even came heah. An' I neveh...neveh...break promises." And her face stubbornly became the blank slate again, the closed door, that it had been the first couple days she and Flick had lived in the lodging house.
Race argued. He pleaded. He even did a bit of angry ranting, then argued and pleaded some more. But he was trying to get a secret out of a girl named Secret, a girl whose most famous characteristic was keeping her mouth shut. Finally, he had to call a truce, and the two of them returned wearily to the bunkroom and their warm, inviting beds.
Flick was still out on the fire escape. Still continuing her lonely, monotonous march...back and forth...back and forth. Race closed his eyes, the powerful pull of sleep overtaking him. The last thing he knew before surrendering to it was that the weight on his heart now felt like a ton of bricks, and the thought of tomorrow filled him with a terrible, helpless sense of foreboding.
Next Morning, 6:00 A.M.
"Up! Up! The presses are rollin'! Outta bed, boys! An' goils! Carry the banna'!"
Secret drifted up out of dreamland to the familiar sound of Kloppman's wake-up shouts. At first she wondered why her mind still felt fuzzy, her body reluctant to leave the comfort of her bed. Then the events of the previous night flickered back into focus in her mind. No wonder she didn't feel ready to get up; she hated to think how late she'd been awake. And Flick...
In a second, Secret was out of bed, weary bones forgotten, stepping back and peering up into the bunk above hers.
There lay Flick, awake, eyes open and alert. They were a terrible murky blue, ringed spectacularly in huge, dark circles. Secret herself hadn't slept well the night before, and from the yawns she heard in the next bunk over, Racetrack hadn't either; but it was obvious that Flick literally hadn't slept at all.
"Flick?" Secret spoke very calmly and carefully, as one might address a rabid animal.
"Mornin', Secret."
Secret stared at her friend for a moment. There were so many things she wanted to ask, to say, to do. But from the color of those eyes, she knew there was only one safe response.
"Mornin', Flick."
Aside from her appearance, Flick made no allusion to her ominous vigil of the previous night. She dragged herself out of bed, complaining good-naturedly, kicked a few of the boys out of the washroom, washed up, and dressed. She chatted with Snoddy and Pie Eater, argued with Jack, bantered with Mush and Blink, and even went so far as to offer to coach Tumbler in marbles sometime. This was a novelty; Flick was normally terrible with little kids, being too short-tempered to have patience with them, and tried to steer clear of them. Now, she was obviously making an effort to use the age-old deceptive tactic: Everything's fine, just fine.
Watching Flick grab Blink's hat and take off out of the lodging house, Secret shook her head. Even if she hadn't seen Flick out on the fire escape the night before, or the circles under her eyes this morning, and even if she hadn't known the girl for eight years, Secret wouldn't have been fooled. Flick had never been any good at lying or acting. She valued truth too much. At least, she always did befoah...befoah dat night. Befoah da truth became 'er woist enemy.
All the way to the distribution center, Racetrack persisted in shooting Secret sidelong glances. He was no more fooled by Flick's act than she was. And he wasn't the only one. Though they responded to her gaiety cheerfully enough, Secret caught the worried looks and grave whispers that Mush and Blink exchanged when Flick wasn't watching. They didn't know the dragon quite as well as Race and Secret did, but they too were her friends and had come to care deeply for her. They couldn't miss the false tones hidden in her words and laughter, the stiffness in her gestures, and most of all, the darkness in her eyes.
"Fifty papes, please, Trout."
Accepting her papers from Mr. Trotwood, and ignoring the amused little shake of the head that accompanied them, Secret immediately sought out the familiar shock of red hair among the boys. There was no delaying it any longer: she had to talk to Flick. At this point she didn't care if it landed her in the hospital. The need was urgent, the place was here, the time was now.
She found the redhead alone (t'ank God), leaning against a nearby brick wall, under the pretense of scanning one of her papers. Taking a deep breath, Secret approached her best friend, slipping quietly over to stand beside her and gently lower her newspaper.
"Hey."
"Heya!" Flick replied, smiling broadly. Secret resisted the extremely unwise urge to slap her. Instead, she called upon her old technique of making her voice even, casual, controlled.
"Ya don't look like ya slept dat good."
Perched atop the wall much farther down, Race was scrutinizing the headlines a bit too closely, straining his ears to catch every word he could.
Flick's frown was the briefest flicker, almost undetectable. Secret detected it. "Yeah, well. I was up pretty late. But I'se okay an' all. Feelin' fine. Great, actually." That horrendous clown-sized smile again. Secret snapped.
"Flick, da** it, don't you try an' pull dis on me. I know ya too well, an' I'se known ya too long, so don't try an' lie ta me like dis. It's fake, it's creepy, an' it's pointless."
Flick's mouth fell open. She actually took a step away from Secret. Her eyes locked onto the ground.
"I don't need a shade o' blue ta tell me how yer feelin', Flick." Secret's voice was gentler now.
No answer.
"Flick. Ya gotta tell 'em. We gotta tell 'em. It ain't fair ta dem anymoah. If dere's sometin' else involved dat even I don't know 'bout, well, dat can wait. But as fer da part we both know...well, da odda newsies care 'bout us, 'bout you, 'specially Ra...'specially da Musketeers. Deyre real worried, an' we jist can't keep it from 'em anymoah. Ya know dey jist wanna help," she added, remembering Racetrack's words.
No answer.
"Flick..." Secret's voice caught. "Ya know what I mean. We's gotta tell 'em 'bout Song."
That was it. The one word, the one name, that could break through Flick's facade. Her eyes snapped up from the ground and stared into Secret's...pools of navy fire blazing into pools of ice.
"No." The word came out as a whisper. Flick was vaguely surprised by this. She'd meant to shout, but her voice wasn't cooperating. Of course, that shouldn't come as a shock. When her fists had stopped obeying her, why shouldn't her voice rebel as well?
"But why not!?" Secret was upset. Oh, yes, she was very upset. This saddened Flick, but also angered her. Secret had no right to be upset. She don't undastand. She ain't da one...
"Listen." The words were very difficult to utter, but Flick managed to scrape them through a throat that had gone dry, a mouth that only wanted to scream. "Listen, Secret. I can't. We can't. I won't. It ain't...it's okay now. 'Bout Song, I mean...we's both okay now...ev'rytin's okay...so why would we need ta tell 'em?"
Fine, fine, ev'rytin's fine. Nuttin' happened. Nuttin's wrong. I won't rememba. I won't believe. It's okay. It din't happen. It neveh happened.
"Flick..."
"We gotta go sell now, Secret. Da Musketeers are waitin' fer us." Flick heard the menace in her own voice, the threat. It made her heart shrivel with guilt and shame, but she knew it was the only way to make her friend leave her alone. Her thoughts were in turmoil, shouting and arguing inside her head, asking questions in demanding tones and struggling to answer them.
It's da only way, 'cause I can't let 'er find out. Once she did, she'd wish she neveh knew. If she knew...I gotta protect 'er.
But who'll protect me?
Protect ya from what?
From da truth.
An' what's da truth?
I don't know. Oh God, it's jist a blank...I don't know, I can't t'ink, I don't wanna t'ink. I jist wanna f'get.
Not an option.
Secret regarded Flick in silence. There was no anger in her face anymore; only fear, concern, and hurt. The sight of it made Flick feel like the most worthless human being on the face of the earth. Then, slowly, wordlessly, Secret turned and strode over to Race, Mush, and Blink, her stack of papes tucked under her arm. Flick followed, listening to the chatter of the oblivious newsboys all around her, and to the other voices as well, those that fought for power within her mind.