Same Day, 4:00 P.M.
The Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House was silent.
No newsie in the history of New York City could remember this phenomenon ever occurring before.
There were no card games. No dice games. There was no talking, no laughter. No teasing, paper-reading, penny-pitching, or money-counting. Only a silence, as heavy and deadly as a January snowfall, as dark and mournful as a shroud.
It was a good thing there was no clock in the bunkroom. A clock would have ticked, and that would have been unendurable...its slow, methodical ticks filling up the silence with a cryptic reminder of the steady, relentless passage of time.
Jack was gone. No one knew where. To search for Flick? For Secret? To run and run until he found a place that was sufficiently far away from everything else, and stand in the middle of this place and scream?
Most of the newsies worried about Jack, worried a great deal that he had gone to find Flick. That he would find her...and try to soak her. It was a noble goal, to be sure, but hardly a safe one. She was a murderess, after all.
The rugrats were the most subdued. This new and terrible knowledge was a great burden to ones so young. Snipeshooter lay back listlessly on his bunk, puffing almost violently on a cigar, yet somehow ending up looking more like the child he was than he ever had before. Odds sat on the floor nearby, silently twisting a corner of the bedsheet between his fingers. Tumbler stuck close to Skittery, eyes full of a pain too great for his years. Slider and Boots had gone downstairs to be comforted by Kloppman. In a dusty corner huddled Shadow, eyes closed, head down. He was such a quiet kid that the others rarely knew what he was thinking, but the small boy seemed to be in a deep state of contemplative misery.
As for the others, their reactions varied. Some, like Cowboy, had left the lodging house, finding the crowded bunkroom too small to contain their stormy emotions. Swifty, for example, had gone running. Pie Eater had headed for Midtown, to talk to a friend of his who lived in an orphanage there. Snitch had disappeared quickly and with little explanation; those who bothered to think about it suspected he had temporarily gone back to his old occupation. Picking pockets was the only way he knew of to let his feelings out.
Of course, many boys still remained in the lodging house, smothered by this suffocating blanket of silence. The newsies even avoided looking at each other. Here and there, however, a few curious glances did dart toward the witnesses of this stunning revelation.
Since the painful story had been related, Mush had not left his bunk. His head was buried in his pillow. Most of the others were fairly certain that he was or had been crying, but didn't comment, knowing their attempts at comfort would be neither welcome nor effective.
Blink paced the bunkroom. His good eye alternated between blinking back tears and darting around the room with a sort of hopeless fury. Occasionally he kicked a bedpost or a wall. Kid Blink wasn't the type to bottle up his feelings, and if there was anything he was known for, it was never being in a bad mood. The combination of his whirlwind of negative emotions, and his feeble attempts at expressing them, made his friends distinctly uneasy.
One witness was not available for glances of curiosity or unease. Racetrack hadn't said a word while Mush and Blink had choked out the strange and awful story of Flick's confession. When it was over, and when the deafening din of gasps and shouts and frenzied conversation had finally subsided, and when Jack had stormed away, Race had quietly gone out onto the fire escape, closing the window behind him. No one was foolish enough to disturb him.
On August 7, 1899, at 11:00 P.M., Racetrack Higgins had met a girl in a casino in Harlem. A girl with hair like red-hot copper and blue eyes that changed their shade to match her moods. A girl who dressed like a boy and played poker like a professional gambler and fought like nothing he had ever seen before. A girl with the temper of a wildfire, the spirit of a wild mustang, with courage and strength and wit and a blazing flame of passion that could dazzle your eyes and scorch you if you got too close. A girl whose anger seemed like it could destroy the world...and whose joy seemed capable of inspiring the whole world to burst into song and dance.
Flick was certainly many things. Smart, tough, spunky, fiery, impulsive, quick-tempered and quite irrational at times. And dangerous? Yes, she was that as well.
But a murderer?
Curled up on the edge of the fire escape, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, Race stared intently at the city below him without seeing it at all. His mind was filled with images, words, and feelings conjured out of the recent past.
Flick punching Cowboy, knocking him to the floor.
A bunkroom full of Manhattan newsboys sporting split lips, bloody noses, and outstanding shiners.
Flick starting forward when Jack had accused Secret and her of being spies for Queens.
Flick looking around wildly...murderously...when she thought one of them had stolen her money.
Flick's eyes darkening, flashing with navy fire.
Flick at Medda's on that rainy afternoon, her body rigid, her eyes disturbingly blank, her fist shooting out in an invisible blur of speed and connecting with his arm. (He rubbed the faded bruise ruefully at the memory.)
Flick on the fire escape only last night, tense and reluctant, as they all urged her to confess her worst fear.
"What are ya most afraid of, Flick?"
"Myself," she had finally answered.
"Myself."
And finally, worst and most vivid of all, today in Central Park...Flick standing there staring without seeing any of them...the darkness of her eyes, the paleness of her face, the white-knuckle clutch of her fists, her trembling words..."A knife." The mysterious boy's question..."An' who was holdin' it?" And Flick's answer, the last two words she had spoken before vanishing from the park and from the lives of the Manhattan newsies. "I was."
Every one of these memories felt like a blow to Race, like a knife in his own heart. After today, it seemed cruelly obvious; every event, every action, every word since Flick had arrived seemed to point in this direction. "...killed 'er best friend..."
But they were not the only memories!
Unbidden, unwanted, uncontrolled, other words and images came bursting to the surface of his mind.
The solemn, earnest redhead in the casino that first night, amazing and dismaying him by beating him at poker and taking every cent he owned.
"I'se Flick."
The gentle, soothing voice he'd overhead those first couple nights, murmuring its words of comfort to Secret till her tears stopped.
"We's gonna be Manhattan newsies fer a while..."
Flick racing out of an apartment building, cheeks flushed with exhaustion and righteous anger, blue vest flapping, tripping over a tie draped haphazardly over one shoe.
"It's called fun, Flick. Get useta it!"
That promise she had made to Jack after his accusations had been withdrawn...a promise that had truly seemed to ring with sincerity, loyalty, and pride.
"If dere's a war, we's in. As Manhattan newsies."
The poker game they had played, he and Flick, so late into the night. That game that had been such a turning point for their relationship, and indeed, for the girls' relationship with all of the boys. Her eyes, when she briefly raised them after a good hand, that beautiful robin's-egg blue. How she had let her guard down a little before they called it a night, lapsing into a bit of friendly banter.
"An' dat is my name, by da way. Flick O'Grady. Not 'dragon'."
At Tibby's the next day...her disgust at Queens' attack on the rugrats.
"...soakin' liddle kids dat ain't got a chance at fightin' back. Typical."
And of course...the last time. The last time he had seen those rock-hard defenses melt, seen through that façade of curt words and ready fists.
The horse race. Flick leaping up from her seat and cheering. Her glowing cheeks, her light and shining eyes, her hair billowing out in the breeze, all toughness and careful reserve gone, as she was carried away by pure passion; no longer passionate fury, but passionate joy. Joy at the victory, the triumph, of a creature as wild and powerful and free as herself.
She'd hugged Race that night. A hug wasn't normally anything special. It wasn't a very common gesture among newsies, but not a novelty, either. Yet coming from Flick, it was astounding...and very, very precious. And though she had tried to cover it up afterwards by quickly rebuilding those stubborn walls of hers, he knew that those cheers, that hug, that pure and beautiful burning light, had been genuine.
Those were the events Race was now mentally re-living. And what did they show? A very different Flick from the other memories, that was for sure. A Flick who was still tough, still strong and bold, but also kind, compassionate, joyful, playful and energetic and full of life. A Flick who loved poker, loved horse races, was proud of and loyal to her borough, would never hurt a little kid, a Flick who was capable of gratitude, of friendship, of love.
An' so dis goil...dis Flick O'Grady, dis wildfiah, da most amazin' an' confusin' poyson I'se eveh met in my life, got mad at 'er best friend...an' killed 'er. KILLED 'er.
He had only known her for five days. Five days! So why did he feel like his heart and soul were being brutally torn apart?
Surely he knew Flick no better than Mush and Blink did. He'd barely spent any more time with her than they had. Just that late-night poker game, and Mush hadn't been at the race. The other two Musketeers had also been Flick's friends. They cared about her too, and about Secret. He knew that Mush, especially, cared about Secret.
Yes, Mush and Blink had befriended the girls as well. And they were reacting to all this more strongly than any of the other newsies. Any except Racetrack.
He knew that what he was feeling now was more powerful even than what his two best friends were feeling. Why?
And what about Secret? She was innocent of any crime. Everyone realized that she'd had no idea what Flick had done, no part in it; that she had only believed that Song was murdered and Flick discovered the body. Secret had run away, gone after Flick, the killer. The whole lodging house was worried about her. Why had she barely entered Racetrack's thoughts?
There was that face again, in his mind. The face of his friend, his companion, his rival, his...
Da** it, dere's no use tryin' ta label 'er. Dere's no way ta put inta woids what she became ta me durin' dese past five days. She's FLICK, dat's all. An' I care 'bout 'er. An' now I know what she did, an' ev'ryone else hates 'er, an' I STILL care 'bout her. An' I don't know why.
"Race?"
"Go away, Kid," Race murmured without turning around.
"Race..."
"I said go away!"
"Yeah, I will...jist...Race, I know yer t'inkin' 'bout...'bout her. I jist wanna say...ya shouldn't be, y'know? She's...y'know what she did!"
"What dat kid claimed she did."
"She confessed, Race! She stood dere an' told us dat she moidah'd dat goil!"
"No," Race muttered as Blink hastily retreated back in through the window. "She said she was holdin' da knife."
August 12, 1899, 6:00 A.M.
"Race? Race!"
Racetrack's eyes opened slowly. "Jack?" he muttered, squinting at the figure standing beside his bunk.
"Yeah." Cowboy's voice was grim. "Ya betta get up. We's got trouble."
Sitting up groggily, Race stared incredulously at his friend. "What, moah trouble?"
Jack's face hardened, as bitter sarcasm entered his voice. "Not dat type o' trouble. Flick din't go an' moida one o' da newsies or anytin'." Then he seemed to remember his previous train of thought. "What we's got now is trouble from Queens."
For a few moments, Race blinked blankly. In all the turmoil over Flick, the problems they'd had with Queens newsies lately had completely fled his mind. The name of the nearby borough seemed irrelevant. Then, in a flash, the significance of it came back to him.
"Queens!?" Suddenly he was wide awake and on his feet, looking around wildly. Now that he had shaken off the mist of sleep, he could hear a noisy din of voices from the washroom. He groaned. "Jack, are ya tryin' ta say we's havin' a war? NOW!?"
"Yep. Poifect timin', huh?"
"Cowboy, no one can fight now! I can't fight now! We's...we's all..."
"A mess," Jack finished. "I know. An' didja t'ink, Race, dat maybe dis's e'zactly what we need? We's all upset...a'right, beyond upset...we's all depressed, an' angry, an' in terrible shape, an' dere ain't nuttin' we can do 'bout it, 'cause no one's got any idea wheah Flick's gone." (Race flinched at the name.) "So maybe jist what we need is a fight, so we can take all dose feelin's out on Queens."
"Brilliant theory," Race mumbled, reaching into the cup on his nightstand for a cigar, "but why right now?"
"'Cause de entiah lodgin' house is surrounded by Queens newsies," Cowboy informed him gravely. "Da rugrats are stayin' in heah, o' course; Crutchy's gonna watch 'em. But if da rest o' us ain't out dere soon, I got a feelin' deyre gonna start comin' in heah."
"Great. Dat's jist great." Clutching his cigar like a lifeline and muttering curses, Racetrack headed to the washroom to get dressed and prepare for the fight.
Previous Night, 8:30 P.M. (Shortly after Flick ran away from Central Park)
The East River was beautiful tonight. Of course it was. When had it ever been otherwise? Yet tonight it seemed more beautiful than it had ever been before in Flick's memory. The silver-white moonlight and heavy mists, and a mosaic of the tiny glittering reflections of the stars, turned it into a wonderland of magic and fantasy. Its beauty was so overwhelming that it made Flick want to cry. And yet it seemed to be mocking her. How could anything be beautiful in her eyes anymore? She didn't deserve beauty.
She had come here expecting to find a reflection of her mind, her soul. Expecting something cold and harsh and threatening. Jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge into a dreamland of mist and moonlight wasn't what she'd had in mind. That was a romantic sort of death, something she neither deserved nor cared for. Flick had never been the romantic type.
Not that any of this was relevant. She'd known long before she reached the bridge that she wouldn't actually jump. Sure, she'd told herself she was coming here to die, to punish herself, but what had she really come for? Probably just what she had found: beauty, solace, comfort.
Yer a coward an' a liah, Flick. An' da poyson ya lie ta da most is yaself.
Which was what she'd been doing all this time, of course...lying to herself. She thought of the Manhattan newsboys. Of course they'd assume she'd been hiding this horror from them all this time. She'd been violent, defensive, secretive...it would all seem to fit now. They'd never know that she had been concealing the truth from herself as skillfully as she had from them. They'd never know about the walls that she had rapidly built around one section of her mind on the night of August 3, 1899. They would never know how, all these days, before and after coming to Manhattan's lodging house, she had refused to speak of Song or of that night, despite the frantic pleas of a deeply worried Secret.
Secret...
Flick paused in her slow, meditative walk along the riverbank, a massive shudder passing over her whole body. After eight years, Secret had become more than a friend to her, more even than a sister. It was like they had been part of a set of triplets, two-thirds of a whole.
But the whole would never be complete again. For the final third was gone forever, thanks to Flick. And Secret, who she had thought of as her best friend since Song's death, Secret with her quiet manner and good sense, her sarcastic wit and gentle laugh, and all of her kindness and courage and loyalty...
If she saw me now, she'd prob'ly try ta kill me.
Flick didn't know where Secret was now. Perhaps she had gone back to the Manhattan lodging house. They knew Secret had nothing to do with the murder. Doubtless they would accept her back, and she would stay there as a newsie for years to come, recovering from her emotional wounds, surrounded by loving friends, until she was old enough to leave and make something of herself.
Or maybe she would go to Brooklyn. If he believed her innocence in the business with Song, Spot would be sure to let her stay; she was as good as fighter as most of his newsies, girls and boys. Secret loved Brooklyn, Flick was sure of it. She could find a good life there.
There was no need to worry about Secret. She had always been the sensible one, the one best suited to surviving, really, even if she was not the better fighter. She would have no trouble getting along without Flick.
An' how 'bout de oddas?
Oddas?
And then the names and faces were there before her.
The rugrats. They would be so confused, uncomprehending, unable to accept. Bumlets...he'd be worried about Secret. Skittery...he probably wouldn't be surprised. This would be just another tragedy for him to use to support his pessimistic outlook on life. Crutchy, Dutchy, Swifty...the quiet, cheerful, trusting ones...this would be a blow to them. Jack's face blazed up clearly in her mind, vivid and completely unwelcome. She could just hear his voice now..."I told ya so! Neveh trusted dose goils, did I? I knew dey was trouble from da start, but did any o' youse listen ta me? No, ya ignored yer leadeh...no matta how many people Flick soaked, ya still acted like she was yer new best friend. An' now look what happened! A moiderah! I coulda toldja dis'd happen..."
The faces and voices ran swiftly through Flick's head as she mentally assigned a reaction to each one. It wasn't long before only three faces remained.
Kid Blink. Blonde hair, roguish eyepatch, that one blue eye always twinkling with merriment and mischief. A smile that could break hearts, a raucous and endearing laugh, boundless energy and playfulness, a perpetual good mood, always friendly and gallant and up for anything. She saw him running down the street with her hat. She heard his voice calmly explaining his worst fear. "Not bein' trusted. An' not knowin' who ta trust."
Mush. Cinnamon skin, curly brown hair, brown puppy eyes. Quiet and shy, gentle, sweet, and sensitive. Girl-crazy as they came. Timidly explaining to Secret, just last night, how he was thinking of going to Brooklyn..."Ya wanna come?"
Of course, there was still one face left. And there it was, without any warning at all. Clearer, sharper, more vivid than any of the other faces.
Black hair, sticking out of the front of a black newsboy cap. Brown eyes that were full of humor, and yet had a certain serious aspect peeking from their depths. A small smirk that was impudent but lighthearted, inviting you to join in the joke. A cigar sticking out of the corner of the mouth and spouting a stream of smoke.
A deck of cards. A pair of dice. A tarnished gold-colored pocket watch.
"Yer a newsie?"
"Call, an' raise ya two...pair o' eights...two pair...t'ree of a kind...straight..."
"Rememba, I had absolutely nuttin' ta do wit dis."
"Hey, Sleepin' Beauty, I t'ink I smell smoke!"
"Hey, dragon, heah's some fiah ta match yer poisonality!"
"It's called fun, Flick. Get useta it."
"I can prove deyre from Harlem..."
"None o' us stole yer money, Flick!"
"How 'bout a compromise? If yer name ain't 'dragon', mine ain't 'kid."
"It shoah is good ta know she's hopeless at sometin'!"
"...jist in time ta get ta da track!"
"But, uh, Flick...ya wanna come again sometime?"
"What are ya most afraid of, Flick?"
"Leave 'er alone!"
By the time the memories had faded, Flick found herself standing motionless by the river, head bowed, hugging herself tightly as if to guard against some kind of approaching collision. The pain hit her like a sledge hammer.
Oh, God...
It was the one thing she had not expected, had not anticipated. The crumbling of her emotional walls, the realization of her crime, the horror and repentence, those had been inevitable. And now three people...one in particular...had to complicate things even more, had to take her pain and multiply it tenfold.
Yer a da** idiot, Flick. Neveh saw DIS comin', didja?
Flick was used to anger, she was used to grief, she was used to guilt and fear and every other kind of suffering. She had learned to harden her heart against these things, to curl her emotions up into a tight frozen ball and protect herself. The only emotion she had no defense against was the one which she was experiencing now, thanks to a few poor, ragged, irrepressible Manhattan newsboys called Kid Blink, Mush Myers, and Racetrack Higgins.
There had been one thing she'd counted on, one blessing she'd been grateful for. It made things so much easier. Flick had thought that she'd forgotten how to love. Evidently, she'd been mistaken.
Slowly, she lowered herself to the riverbank, lay back on the grass, closed her eyes, and let the pain wash over her and consume her until it was the only thing left of the person who had once been Flick.
She didn't cry. Flick had not shed a single tear since Song's death. That was one thing she really had forgotten.