Without the mask,

Where will you hide?

Can't find yourself

Lost in your lie

-Everybody's Fool, by Evanescence

Lovely. I got woken up by dat crazy liddle thief, won a territory fight fer Manhattan, an' now I'se right back wheah I started.

            Pulling off her shoes and dangling her feet in the cool river, Flick concentrated very hard on not thinking. On filling her mind with nothingness, with blankness, and keeping everything out. Things were much too confusing in there, in her mind. Much too cluttered and chaotic. Better to stay away from that turmoil of conflicting thoughts and memories, to keep it away from her; better to forget about the truth and accept the lie, no matter how terrible that lie might be.

            Footsteps interrupted her meditation on nothingness. She turned her head sharply, not wanting the mysterious kid to sneak up on her again; but it was not the mysterious kid at all. Flick turned back to the river.

            "Go away," she advised curtly.

            Ignoring this order, Racetrack quietly seated himself beside her. Flick regarded him for a time. His hat was on crooked and the sun glinted on his black hair. One hand was in his pocket, fiddling restlessly with a pair of rattling dice. Must be outta cigars. He was looking straight at her with those familiar brown eyes, for once not sparkling with humor, but solemn, and hopeful. She sighed. Apparently it was very difficult to be mad at him.

            "Whadda ya want, Race?"

            "I want ya ta tell me what happened da night Song died."

             Flick jerked around to face him again, stunned. Of course, that was what she'd expected him to ask, but she had not expected him to ask it quite so bluntly.

            "I t'ink," she replied slowly, carefully maintaining that all-important blankness of her mind, "dat ya loined all ya need ta know 'bout dat yestaday in Central Park."

            "I din't loin anytin' den," Race informed her. "None o' us did. Dat kid came outta nowheah an' started accusin' ya, an' ya were confused an' scared...a'right, confused, den," he amended upon seeing her expression, though his tone was mildly exasperated. "Anyway, it was jist like when ya hit me dat day at Medda's...yeah, yeah, I know yer sorry. Ya din't know what ya was doin' den, an' in da park yestaday, ya din't know what ya was sayin'. Ya jist kinda...babbled."

            "Oh, is dat it?" Flick snapped. "Ya want it spelled out fer ya, Racetrack? A'right, heah ya go: I killed my best friend. Her name was Song, an' I was mad at 'er. I moidah'd 'er. I stabbed 'er wit a knife. Is dat cleah enough fer ya!?"

            She was verging on hysterical, and fully expected Race to back off. To her amazement, he remained perfectly composed. "No, it ain't good enough," he said. "'Cause it ain't true."

            Flick gaped. "What?"

            "It ain't true," Race repeated firmly. "Ya didn't kill Song."

            Those metaphorical walls were becoming dangerously shaky. "I...what da he** are ya tawkin' 'bout, Race? Ya know I did. I'se tellin' ya I did! A moiderah confesses ta ya, an' ya tell 'er she didn't do it!?"

            "Ya ain't a moiderah," Racetrack insisted.

            "An' you'd know betta den I would?"

            "Maybe so. Maybe ya t'ink ya did it 'cause ya won't let yaself rememba what really happened."

            "Why would I want ta rememba!?"

            "'Cause maybe da truth's a lot betta den dis lie yer tryin' so hard ta believe, an' ta make ev'ryone else believe."

            "Why d'ya say dat?" Flick demanded. "Why can't ya jist accept da fact dat I'se an evil, dangerous, heartless killa? Why can't ya jist go ahead an' hate me an' leave me alone!?"

            "I dunno!" Racetrack finally lost his cool. His voice rose, and his eyes were bright with anger and hurt. "I dunno why, Flick, but I can't, 'kay? I'se sorry I can't, 'cause it's obviously what ya want, but fer some reason dat I coitainly can't guess, I happen ta care 'bout ya enough ta try an' find out da truth!"

            "I'se told ya da truth!" Flick was shouting now. "I'se told ya!"

            "No ya ain't," Race protested, "'cause ya don't know da truth yaself! If ya'd jist let yaself inta yer own mind an' rememba what happened, really rememba, ya'd know ya neveh hoit Song at all!"

            "How would you know?"

            "I jist know, a'right?" Racetrack's glare almost matched Flick's now. "Look, I know ya, Flick. True, I jist met ya 'bout a week ago, but apparently I know ya betta den ya know yaself. Ya gotta admit dat durin' da time ya lived at da lodgin' house, I saw at ya yer absolutely best an' yer absolutely woist. An' I'se tellin' ya: ya neveh killed yer best friend."

            Just like that. As if it were that simple.

            But it ain't dat simple. I was holdin' da knife. The image surfaced in her mind again: her own hand, clutching the coarse wooden handle of a sharp, gleaming steel blade. She could feel that knife in her hand now, feel its weight, and the rough splinters digging into her palm. She could feel the knife meeting flesh, plunging...the rest was obscured by that red haze.

            It had happened. She was a murderer. Nothing could change that. And now a small, gambling, wisecracking Manhattan newsboy named Racetrack Higgins was trying to make her re-live the greatest horror of her life.

            "Race..." She struggled, struggled, struggled, to keep back the raging fire inside her. "Get outta heah," she hissed through clenched teeth.

            "No," was the response.

            The fire won. Flick leapt to her feet, fists clenched and eyes once again the color of ink. "Racetrack, if ya don't get outta heah dis instant, I'se gonna soak ya!"

            "Den go ahead!" Race rose as well. "Go ahead, an' see wheah it gets ya! 'Cause if soakin' people's always gonna be yer reaction wheneveh yer scared, yer neveh gonna be able ta face what it is dat scares ya!"

            "I ain't scared!" Flick protested fiercely, and if she hadn't been fifteen years old, furious, and an amazingly skilled fighter, she would have sounded like a sullen six-year-old.

            "Yes, ya are," Race corrected. "Why else wouldja be holdin' onta dis lie 'bout you killin' Song, even dough it's so horrible? Ya won't let go of it an' soich fer da truth, 'cause yer afraid o' what ya might find!"

            That was the last straw. Flick's walls crumbled.

            Before she even knew what was happening, she was on the ground again, and Race was crouching beside her. "Flick," she heard him whisper, though his voice sounded far away. "Flick...tell me...please...I know ya don't wanna...ya can soak me aftawards, 'kay? But ya gotta tell someone, 'cause ya gotta find da truth fer yaself...ya can't jist keep it inside..."

            "Dat night..." Flick managed.

            "Yeah?" the distant voice urged gently.

            Flick took a deep breath. Slowly, she let it out, trying to calm herself, trying to sort through all the mismatched thoughts that were swirling and buzzing and clamoring inside of her, demanding to be let out. She spoke slowly, carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing again, to get mixed up, to be misunderstood and to misunderstand herself, as she had in Central Park the day before.

            "It was August thoid. Nighttime. Secret an' Song an' me had been sellin' papes togedda in Harlem, like always. Den Song finished sellin' an' sat outside a bar ta play 'er flute. Song was a...a part-time musician, part-time newsie." Flick actually smiled slightly, remembering how her friend had first introduced herself. The smile faded as she continued. "She was playin' 'er flute, an' doin' real well. She sounded great, an' all da people comin' an' goin' at da bar loved it. She was makin' plenty o' money an' really havin' fun." Now Flick's forehead creased into a frown. Her eyes closed tightly. "She din't wanna stop."

            "It's okay..." That faraway voice again. "It's okay, Flick, jist tell me what happened..."

            "Me an' Secret...argued...wit 'er." The words weren't flowing as easily now. Speech was becoming painful. "We told 'er dat we had ta get back ta da lodgin' house. We din't wanna be late an' hafta sleep on da fiah escape. She told us..." Flick's breath caught in her throat. No...I ain't stoppin' now. Resolutely, she forced the breath past her lips and continued. "She told us ta...ta go back widdout 'er. Dat she'd jist play a liddle longa an' den come home. Dat she'd be fine." Flick's eyes flew open, but they didn't appear to be seeing Racetrack. They were staring down a tunnel in time, straight into the recent past. "We din't wanna leave 'er! We told 'er it wasn't safe! We told 'er..."

            "But she wouldn't listen?" Race predicted softly.

            "She made us go back...she made us. She wouldn't come. We begged 'er...she wouldn't come."

            "So ya went back..."

            "But she didn't. She was out too late. We was waitin' up fer her. She din't come back...da lodgin' house was locked...it was too late...we was so worried...it was stupid o' her, makin' us leave 'er alone like dat. I...I was so..." She drew a ragged breath. "...mad." She gulped. "I coulda killed 'er."

            "But ya didn't."

            "I went out afta her. Secret tried ta stop me, o' course, but I went. I left da lodgin' house. I walked down da street...down da next street...t'rough an alley...I walked..." By now she had to consciously force out every word. "I walked...ta da bar. An' I saw...I saw..."

            The sentence was interrupted by a sharp gasp. Flick buried her head in her arms, shaking it vigorously. Alarmed, Race drew closer, then hesitantly put out one hand and touched her arm. He expected her to lash out at him. He was astounded when she took his hand and squeezed it so hard he was afraid it would pop off, as if it was the only thing anchoring her to the present time and place. This seemed to give her some sort of comfort or strength, and in a trembling voice, she resumed her narrative.

            "I saw Song...an' dis...man. A young man...in ragged clothes, wit a moustache, an' he smelled like beer...I'd neveh seen 'im befoah. He...had..."

            "A knife," Race finished sadly, and Flick nodded slightly.

            "He...he..." Her head jerked up, her eyes suddenly appearing to snap back into focus. "Ya know what happened!" she cried angrily, releasing his hand as if it had just become white-hot. This at least was rather a relief; Racetrack rubbed his throbbing fingers and nodded. "I know...ya don't hafta say dat part."

            "She din't know how ta fight," Flick whispered numbly. "I tried an' tried ta teach 'er all dose yeahs, but she jist wouldn't loin. She hated fights."

            "It ain't yer fault, Flick. It ain't hers, eidda. But dat ain't da end, is it?"

            Slowly, Flick shook her head, propping her elbows up on her knees and resting her chin in her hands. She closed her eyes again, and spoke hesitantly but precisely.

            "Da man...da knife...ya know what 'e did," she murmured. "An' den he ran away, an' I...ran ta Song. She saw me. I was all...numb. In shock, I guess. I din't cry or nuttin'. I jist sat beside 'er an' held 'er hand. I was gonna go fer help, or try an' get 'er back ta da lodgin' house. But she told me not ta. I'd o' done it anyway, but she was tryin' ta tawk ta me...sayin'..."

            "Ya don't hafta..."

            "Yeah, I do. She told me dat man came outta da bar an' saw her. He recognized 'er. Song useta go ta casinos sometimes, ya see, like me. She's da one dat taught me pokah. Da guy rememba'd her. He gambled wit 'er at a casino once an' beat 'er, but 'e cheated. Song knew it an' she wouldn't pay 'im. She ran away from da casino, came home an' told me an' Secret 'bout it. She hadn't seem 'im since, but 'e recognized her dat night. He was drunk. He had da knife. She'd o' paid 'im den, o' course, but he din't give 'er a chance...he jist..."

            "I know," Race whispered, "I know."

            "So she told me all dat: who 'e was an' why he did it. She told me..." Flick's voice was growing thick and husky. "She told me...dat I should keep sellin' papes...I was good at it...dat she was proud o' me. She told me I was 'er best friend, an' she was sorry she could neveh teach me anytin' moah useful den headlines an' pokah. She told me ta look afta myself, dat I was gonna be someone great someday." There was no doubt about it. It was against all of Flick's principles, against all of Racetrack's knowledge of her personality, but it couldn't be denied; her eyes were filling. "She gave me a couple t'ings...her flute an' 'er deck o' cards. I neveh could loin ta play dat flute..." With every sentence now, Flick's voice grew softer, as if it was going to fade away altogether. "She told me..." The first tear spilled over and trailed, warm and salty and sparkling, down her cheek. "...ta take care o' Secret."

            "Flick..." Racetrack's voice caught. He put his arm around her, and she didn't protest. "I'se so sorry..."

            "I know..." But da story ain't oveh. An' I'se gotta finish it, no matta what. No toinin' back now. "I was holdin' da knife," she explained in a rush.

            "Yeah...when was dat?"

            "Dat ain't da place ta start...I'se gotta back up." She hesitated a moment before resuming. "Afta Song...well, I went fer help. I found a couple bulls on patrol. Dey came back wit me an' found Song. Dey wasn't so bad, fer bulls. Dey believed what I told 'em. Dey said dey'd investigate an' try ta find da man dat did it. An' dey...took Song...an' got a funeral arranged for 'er."

            Race nodded encouragingly.

            "But when...when I went back ta da lodgin' house, an' had ta tell Secret an' all da Harlem boys...I was a disasta. I couldn't tawk, couldn't t'ink. I could barely walk, I could barely breathe...couldn't even cry. Couldn't do anytin'. I felt like I jist got killed along wit Song. I had ta tell 'em, o' course, but when I finally managed ta tawk, I din't really explain right." She shook her head. "All dey could get outta me was dat Song was moida'd."

            "So dat's why Secret din't know," Race whispered, understanding. "Dat's why she din't really know da details o' what happened dat night. Dat's why she said only you knew da whole truth."

            Flick nodded. "Song's funeral was da next day. We all went, all da Harlem newsies. We was all a mess, but o' course, Secret an' me was da woist. We couldn't bear ta go back ta da lodgin' house afta dat. We got a room in a boardin' house neahby, but we couldn't afford ta stay dere fer long. Dat night..."

            "Flick, ya don't hafta..."

            "Yeah, I do. Dat night, I went fer a walk afta Secret an' all da odda boardehs was asleep. Couldn't stay in dat liddle room...I was...feelin' too much...y'know?"

            Race thought of how he had felt when he had believed Flick to be a murderer. "I know," he assured her.

            "So I went fer a walk, an' somehow I ended up back on dat same street. Da street wit da bar wheah...wheah Song was killed." Her face hardened. "An' he was dere. Outside da bar. Drunk again. Waitin'. He had da knife. He recognized me. He knew I was da only one dat witnessed what 'e did."

            "Oh, God," Race murmured.

            "He tried ta attack me, o' course. He din't know..."

            "Dat you could fight. Dat you could fight back, da way Song couldn't."

            "Right. In da end...I mean...he dropped it. Da knife. I picked it up, an' he jist kinda...charged at me." She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as tiny droplets ran from her eyes like rain. "I din't mean ta...I pulled da knife away, but it was too late...I neveh meant..."

            "He desoived it!"

            "I won't deny dat."

            "Da bulls?"

            "Dey knew 'e was drunk. An' it was his knife. Dey figuahed 'e killed 'imself, or got inta a fight wit some odda guy from da bar."

            "Secret?"

            "She neveh knew. T'ought I jist came back ta da boardin' house from a late walk. We stayed at da boardin' house a couple moah nights, sellin' papes, buyin' food, su'vivin'."

            "An' den..."

            "An' den," said Flick, "we went ta da same casino wheah Song played da game dat cost 'er her life. We sat at a corna table, an' I watched all da pokah games while Secret napped. An' den I spotted one kid who played betta den anyone I'd eveh met in my life. So I challenged 'im to a game, an' realized he was a newsie, an ast 'im wheah 'e sold, an' in my old habit o' makin decisions widdout t'inkin', I decided it was time fer me an' Secret ta start a new life."

            "An' heah ya are," Racetrack marvelled. "An' now ya know da truth."

            "Guess so," Flick agreed calmly. And with that, she buried her face in her friend's shoulder, and he held her while she sobbed as if she would never stop.

That Night, 8:00 P.M.

Doubling over, Flick's body shook with a few racking coughs. Sitting up carefully, she slowly inhaled, then exhaled experimentally. Her throat felt like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper, and every breath was painful, but at least she found she could  breathe again. She had finally stopped crying; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that her tears had stopped flowing. She seemed to have used them all up. Now she just felt very, very empty; like everything inside her was a big, cold, dark hole, except her heart, which seemed to have been squeezed until it nearly burst, then torn and twisted until it was unrecognizable.

            "Ya okay?" Race asked hesitantly.

            The response was a short, sarcastic laugh. Racetrack sighed.

            "A'right, not okay, but alive? I was afraid ya was gonna flood da rivah dere."

            Swiping one hand across her face in a vain effort to dry it, Flick smacked Race lightly with the other hand. They both realized that they were trying, with the taunting and smacking, to reclaim some semblance of their old relationship, prior to Flick's emotional breakdown. They also both knew that, considering the tears that liberally streaked Flick's face, and the fact that Race hadn't exactly remained dry-eyed himself, the effort was rather hopeless.

            As Flick frantically rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, having very little effect, Race finally noticed her plight. He fished hopefully into his pocket for a handkerchief. But when he pulled his hand out, he found it contained only the pair of dice he'd been rattling around earlier. At the sight of the cheap wooden dice and the dismayed expression on Racetrack's face, Flick had to laugh slightly. Shaking her head, she extended her hand. Race, puzzled, eyed it suspiciously, but she didn't withdraw it. Finally, questioningly, he dumped the dice into it. This seemed to be what she'd been waiting for. Flick's fingers closed over them, and she tucked them into her pocket. Acting as if this was a completely normal procedure, she turned toward the river, splashed some cold water on her face, and went back to her clean-up efforts. Race deemed it best not to comment.

            After a while, Flick realized her face was about as clean and dry as it was going to get under the present circumstances, and she returned to her former position: knees drawn up, elbows on knees, chin in hands. Her companion assumed an identical posture, and they sat in silence for a few moments. Both of them needed time to sort through Flick's story in their minds, getting used to it and accepting it as truth. Flick also needed the time to get used to breathing. Her lungs were screaming for air, but her throat was screaming with the effort of taking it in. I neveh woulda believed anyone could cry dat hard. Or fer dat long!

            Out of the corner of her eye, Flick watched Racetrack's hands plunge back into his pockets, then slip out again, locking together and wringing restlessly. A smile flashed briefly across her face. She knew he was itching for a cigar.

            "Hate ta tell ya, but Snipes prob'ly smoked 'em all by now," she informed him.

            His face fell at this, and Flick went back to concentrating on her throat, and on her stomach, which she felt had just been vigorously scraped by something mercilessly rough. Horrified, she wondered if she was going to be sick. Don't ya dare, ya stupid body. Jist concentrate on breathin' right now, got it?

            The silence returned and lasted longer this time. Racetrack finally broke it, smiling  nervously as he he remembered his earlier words. "Ya plannin' ta soak me now?"

            Flick managed a half-laugh at this before it turned into a weak cough. She groaned. "Betta take a rain check on dat. Ain't got da ene'gy."

            Race quirked an eyebrow. "Guess I'll hafta carry ya back ta da lodgin' house, den."

            Flick snorted. "I'd like ta see ya try. Yer 'bout t'ree inches shorter'n me."

            "I resent dat." Wincing, Race forced himself to his feet. He'd completely forgotten that practically every inch of him was covered in cuts and bruises courtesy of Crow and his gang. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. He attempted to bend it a little and succeeded, albeit painfully, so he supposed it wasn't broken. Shaking his head, he offered his right hand to Flick. "C'mon, we best be gettin' back. Dey'll t'ink ya killed me."

            The redhead stared at him. "Dat was not funny."  Ignoring his hand, she pushed off of her knees and creaked gracelessly to a standing position. Determinedly, the two started off in the direction of the Newsboys Lodging House. Stares at the disheveled pair from numerous passersby were deflected by Flick's trademark glare.

            "Yer hat's on crooked," Race informed her at one point.

            "'Least I don't look like I was jist run oveh by a carriage," she countered glibly.

            "Yer also covah'd in grass stains."

            "So are you, in case ya din't notice."

            "An' yer face's da coloh of a tomato."

            "Don't push yer luck, kid."

            "I t'ought we made a deal on da whole 'kid' issue...dragon."

            "Ya realize yer baitin' a moiderah heah?"

            "It ain't moidah when ya kill someone dat shoulda died by law anyway. An' killed 'im by accident, no less."

            "Yeah, well, I t'ink dis fist might accidentally connect wit yer head in a minute."

            "Den ya'd o' lost yer only woithy pokah opponent."

            "Didja say woithy?"

            Their conversation continued like this all the way back to the lodging house, with Race mouthing off and Flick issuing death threats. They had just gone through a crisis during which both had been forced to go against many of their usual principles, and now they needed to reclaim their rightful personalities. They did not speak at all of anything that had taken place by the river. It wasn't necessary. Together, in times to come, they would discuss it. For now, it was enough to understand, and to accept.

            When they reached their destination, both were relieved to find it void of any lingering Queens newsies. They wondered vaguely how the boys had managed to vacate the area when most of them had been wounded at best, and several unconscious; but it wasn't a matter to dwell on. They climbed the steps to the door, Race pushed it open, and the two friends proceeded into the lobby, automatically signing the registration book out of habit. Kloppman was behind his desk, but he only greeted them both and smiled warmly...making it clear that, somehow, he understood the situation at a glance. Must be one o' dose wise old man t'ings, Race decided as they approached the door to the bunkroom. Then he turned to Flick.

            "Ya want me ta tell 'em?"

            Flick rolled her eyes. "No, I wanna repeat da scene by da rivah in front o' de entiah lodgin' house." She glanced sharply at him. "Keep it short, dough, a'right?"

            Race nodded, understanding. Flick had told him a great deal more than was necessary for him to hear, because it had been necessary for her to say.

            "How 'bout Secret, dough? Are ya gonna tell her ev'rytin'?"

            Flick nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, she desoives ta know...hang on..." Her eyes widened. "Secret!"

            The memory struck Race at the same time it struck Flick: Crow punching Secret, knocking her out. Without any further delay, they flung the door open together and charged into the bunkroom.

            "Secret!" The dark-haired girl was sitting up in her bunk. In an instant, Flick was beside the bunk with her arms around her best friend. "Ya okay!?"

            "I'se fine," was Secret's soft response as she returned Flick's hug.

            Of course, the reaction to this dramatic arrival was an instant uproar. Flick and Race were quickly surrounded by all the newsboys in the lodging house; or at least, all of those who could walk. Specs and Itey and a few others were currently limited to their bunks by their injuries, but the rest, plastered in bandages or sporting makeshift slings, holding bloody cloths or packs of ice to faces and limbs, nevertheless managed to create a din that nearly blew the roof off the lodging house.

            "FLICK?!?"

            "What da...!?"

            "Race...?"

            "Ya okay?"

            "What's goin' on?"

            "What da he** is she doin' back heah?"

            "Shut up! She won da war fer us!"

            "But I t'ought..."
            "Race, what's goin' on!?"

            "Wheah have youse two been!?"

            "Did she or din't she..."

            "Flick, didja...I mean, we t'ought..."

            "Wheah've ya been?"

            "WHAT DA HE** IS GOIN' ON?!"

            That was Jack, of course, and it was enough to silence most of the voices and freeze most of the movement. That gave two newsies a chance to finally shove their way through the crowd and throw their arms around Flick.

            Flick smiled, putting one arm around Blink and the other around Mush, and squeezing them both affectionately. She realized that they, at least, only needed the details filled in. They were already certain of her innocence.

            Others, however, felt quite differently. The look Jack was giving Flick could torture the soul of a lesser person to her dying day.

            Flick didn't even have the energy to combat it with a look of her own. She gently disentangled herself from Mush and Blink, and turned to face the bunk again. Secret stood slowly, still holding a cloth full of ice cubes to the egg-shaped lump on her head, and without a word, the two girls crossed the room. The crowd parted easily, as it always seemed to do for them. Secret pushed open the window, and the girls climbed out, Flick shutting their portal behind them. The boys all watched mutely as they went to perch side by side on the edge of the fire escape, already deep in conversation.

            "What...but...I...how...dey...why..."

            Through his physical and emotional exhaustion, Race felt a flicker of amusement. Cowboy was as speechless as he'd been the night Flick and Secret first arrived.

            "Look," he explained wearily to the room full of boys, all but collapsing onto his bunk, "Flick din't do it, 'kay? She din't kill Song, she's innocent; it was all a huge mistake. She jist 'splained it all ta me down by da rivah, an' now she's gotta tawk ta Secret, so I'll hafta 'splain ta youse guys. Jist...will youse all get back ta yer bunks or whateveh? It's kinda hard ta tawk wit all dese people starin' at me."

            Hurriedly, the newsies obeyed, except for Mush, who was considerate enough to notice his friend's arm and various other afflictments, and go to Kloppman for some bandages and medicine. Race called a weak "t'anks" after him. Scanning the bunkroom and the expectant faces of his friends, he found himself meeting Jack's openly hostile gaze. That, added to the exhaustion and pain, nearly caused him to snap. He didn't have to tell the whole harrowing truth, not now; he'd been through enough today. All he wanted to do was sleep...

            But a picture popped into his mind, a picture of a girl with blazing red hair and tear-filled black eyes, with the strength to tell him her entire heartbreaking story, even after it became a trial just to breathe. He only had to tell a very condensed version, with a lot less emotion, and he hadn't even been there to witness all those events. It wasn't his best friend of ten years who had been murdered.

            Mush returned with the necessary items from Kloppman's first-aid kit, and Race took a deep breath and began the story.

"Secret, I din't..."

            Those were the first three words out of Flick's mouth, before they even sat down on the fire escape. Secret silenced them with a raised finger. Then she rested her hands on Flick's shoulders and locked eyes with her.

            "Flick," she murmured seriously, "didja really t'ink dat I eveh, fer one moment, believed dat ya killed Song?"

            Flick's eyes widened slightly. "Ya mean..."

            "Ya knew I'd hoid da rumahs back in Harlem," Secret pointed out, puzzled, "an' dat I ignored 'em."

            "But when I actually confessed..."

            "Some confession," Secret replied dismissively, lowering her hands to her lap. "Ya wasn't in yer right mind an' I knew it, Flick. I'se hoit. We's been friends dis long an' ya still don't realize how well I know ya?" Secret sighed. "An' fer God's sake, I lived an' sold wit you an' Song fer eight yeahs. I know poifectly well how close da two o' youse were, how much ya cared 'bout 'er. How could ya eveh t'ink I'd believe dat ya would...would...hoit 'er?" She shook her head. "Afta ya ran off from da park, I went afta ya, y'know. Soiched fer ya almost all o' las' night, but I couldn't find ya anywheah. So I slept in some alley neah heah, an' den I got woken up by..."

            "Dat liddle thief?" Flick guessed.

            Secret gaped. "How'd ya know dat!?"

            "Dat's who woke me up, dat's how! He told me 'bout da fight."

            "Me too. But why?"

            Flick shrugged. "Maybe he found out somehow dat I din't really kill Song, an' he felt guilty fer makin' me say I did. Maybe we'll neveh know why. It don't matta, really." She sighed. Can I do dis fer da second time t'night? Well, at least I'se already done wit all da cryin'. "What's important is dat I tell ya, right now, what happened da night Song died."

About ten minutes after Racetrack finished his lengthy explanation, the window creaked open, and two weary-looking newsgirls climbed back into the bunkroom. Secret didn't bother to hide the fact that her face was damp with tears. She retreated quickly to her bunk, and Mush immediately went to sit with her and put his arm around her. She gratefully rested her head on his shoulder. Flick studied the scene thoughtfully. They were funny, those two. Mush had a girlfriend, Victoria, and he was crazy about her. He and Secret really were just friends; but there was something in both of their personalities that caused them to be especially close friends, kindred spirits, maybe. Kind of like Flick and Racetrack.

            No...different from Flick and Racetrack.

            Yet she wasn't given much time to ponder this. Jack Kelly had climbed down from his bunk, and now he slowly approached her, stopping uncertainly a few feet away from her. Flick raised her eyes to his face, not feeling at all up to any of their usual fireworks; but what she saw made the biting words she had prepared freeze on her tongue. Cowboy had tears in his eyes.

            "Flick..." He cleared his throat. Once again, the rest of the bunkroom went silent out of respect for their leader. "Flick...I'se sorry. Real sorry. 'Bout...ev'rytin'. I'se been real unfair ta you an' Secret eveh since ya came, an' Race told us ev'rytin' dat happened, an'...God, I'se jist so sorry."

            Flick took a few seconds to recover from her shock. This was a side to the tough, self-centered Jack Kelly that she had never seen before. Well, fer heaven's sake. He ain't such a bad guy afta all. Dis shoah is one confusin' woild. All of a sudden, Flick began to laugh.

            "What?" Jack started to look hurt, even a little angry. "What's so funny?"

            Flick's sharp blue eyes danced. "I'se a goil dat showed up at yer lodgin' house in da middle o' da night, soaked ya in front o' all yer boys, an' forced ya ta let me an' my friend stay. An' now...yer apologizin' ta me?"

            That was it. The Manhattan newsies were absolutely desperate for something to break the tension. The entire room dissolved into laughter.

            "I guess," Jack surmised, wiping tears from his eyes, half of which were from laughter and half left over from the story of Song's death, "dat we's even now?"

            "Yep," Flick replied. Her gaze hardened. "But dat don't mean we's gonna get along from now on, ya realize?"

            "'Course not!" Jack appeared shocked. Then he grinned. "We's too much alike fer dat. Can we settle on a truce, dough? An' maybe even mutual respect?"

            Flick returned his grin. "Deal."

            She spat in her palm, Cowboy spat in his, and, to ragged cheers from the surrounding bunks, the two toughest kids ever to sell papes in Manhattan cheerfully shook hands.

            "A'right, a'right, enough o' dis! Youse were all in a big fight t'day (never mentionin' it ta me, o' course, kids think they can do whateveh they want these days) an' anyone who ain't in bed in ten seconds is gonna hafta sell tomorrow!"

            Terrified by Kloppman's sudden appearance in the doorway and his cruel threat, thirty boys and two girls all fled to their own bunks. Satisfied, and chuckling affectionatly, Kloppman flicked the light out and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

            After a few minutes of darkness and silence, even breathing filled the bunkroom. Despite still being fully dressed, most of the newsies were out like lights as soon as their heads hit their pillows; all of the stress they had experienced that day and night dissolved into exhaustion, and the effect was overwhelming. In fact, it seemed that only two remained awake, though they were the weariest of the lot.

            "Race?"

            A head of flame-colored tangles and a pair of light blue eyes peered out at him from behind a sheet.

            "Yeah?"

            "T'anks." Flick slipped down her bunk ladder, brushed the sheet aside, and padded softly over to the next bunk. "T'anks," she repeated clearly. It was all she said, but now that he saw her face up close in the darkness, her eyes spoke volumes.

            "Yer welcome," he murmured. "An' t'ank you."

            "What fer?"

            "Fer tellin' me 'bout Song." He shrugged. "Fer lettin' me in."

            She smiled. It was a radiant smile; a smile of passion and purity, of strength and courage, of gratitude and joy, and of love.

            Incandescent: lit from within.

            Beautiful? No, she ain't. An' she coitainly don't need ta be. 'Cause she's Flick, an' dat makes so-called beauty seem like da most common an' useless t'ing in da woild. I'd trade a thousand beautiful goils fer one friend named Flick O'Grady.

            They regarded each other for an indefinite stretch of time before Flick broke the spell by whispering, "Night, Race."

            "Night, Flick," Race murmured, and they returned to their separate beds.

I always knew dat some people was friends an' some was moah den friends, Race mused, but I neveh realized dere was quite so many shades in between. It was his last conscious thought before he fell asleep.

"So, Flick," Secret whispered sleepily without opening her eyes, "welcome back. Youse too 'ave fun?"

            Flick hurled a pillow into the bunk below hers out of reflex, and a muffled yelp let her know she'd hit her target. She smiled contentedly and curled up in a ball, pulling the covers in tight around her. It was so good to be home.