Summary: On the walk to Brooklyn to ask Spot for help with the strike, Jack worries of the outcome of his visit. He reminisced the days when him and Spot were inseperatable, the days when they were James Conlon and Francis Sullivan.
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As David, Boots, and I left the familiar streets of Manhattan, I couldn't help but feel my spirits diminish. I knew Spot wouldn't help aid the strike; he wouldn't help anyone who associated with me. I remembered when Spot became a newsie. He was a completely different person; back then he was James Conlon; back when I was Francis Sullivan.
Not many know it, but Spot wasn't always a Brooklyn newsie, he was a Manhattan one first. I know what you're thinking, Spot's too tough and uncaring to be a Manhattan newsie. But truth be told, Mr. Apathetic wasn't always like this. He used to care, used to care a lot.
Spot and I met on the streets before we even knew what newsies were. He had only been on the streets for about a week, and evidently had no comprehension of how dangerous they were. We had a lot in common the day we met; both young, broke, and in need of a friend.
It was near midnight and I was wandering around hoping to find some drunk and maybe get away with his wallet. I heard someone sobbing down an alleyway and in hope of money or food, I crept up to my next victim. That's when I first laid eyes on James Conlon. He was all beat up, pale, and skinny as hell. My heart broke at the sight of him, so I left my hidings in the shadows and sat down next to him.
He was so absorbed in whatever he was crying about he didn't even acknowledge my presence. "What's da mattah kid?" I had asked, even though he looked about my age.
He looked up at me, eyes bloodshot and watery, "I just made the biggest mistake of my life." I cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. "I just left my home and now I'm starting to regret it."
Ah. A runaway, I thought to myself. "Why don't ya go home den?" I asked, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He looked at me, eyes wide, "Oh. I can't go back. Father would kill me."
I furrowed my brow in confusion, "Den why ya regret leavin'?"
"I left my brother there. Father isn't going to make his life pleasant. Father will beat him till the day that he dies," the boy said a tear streaking his dirty face.
I gave him a reassuring smile, "Why don't we go get 'em?"
The boy shook his head furiously, "He won't leave."
I pursed my lips, this was a difficult situation. "Look, what's your name?"
The boy stuck out his hand, "James Conlon."
I shook it, smiling, "Francis Sullivan."
We became good friends that night. He told me about his bastard of a father, and I told him about mine. I told him about life on the streets and he told me about Christopher, his brother. We shared stories good and bad, basically spilling our guts to a stranger. But soon the past wouldn't matter, because now we had each other.
Boots stopped at the Brooklyn Bridge, forcing me out of my thoughts, and looked over the edge. We bent over the rail and screamed, our voices echoing around us, making us feel powerful and larger than life. After a few words between us we set off at a brisk walk, silence engulfing us, leaving us to our thoughts.
Spot and I became partners in crime, stealing what we needed to survive. We were surviving and having a blast while we did it. Spot's memories of Chris faded and he talked of him less and less till nothing more was said of him. Chris had become part of Spot's past, part of something insignificant and forgotten.
We soon found ourselves in the refuge for stealing a loaf of bread. In there we learned what hard work and respect were. When released Spot and I made a pact to start clean and actually work for a living. We started a brand new life with new names and new goals. That was when Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon became newsies. Hard working young men who didn't have a worry in the world and always a friend by their side.
Then we got a new newsie. His name was Fruit. A lad small for his age, immediately took up Spot as his roll model. The two became so close you would've thought they were brothers. I should've realized Spot was trying to make up for his mistake with Chris, but I was too young and carefree to care about the past. Winter came and Fruit became extremely ill and eventually bed ridden. Spot worked as harder than ever that winter, trying to make enough money for himself and Fruit, but it made no difference. Fruit passed away January 6th, and Spot was never the same.
He became depressed and never said more than two words to anyone. He stopped selling papers and began stealing again. His new morals and values lost in a sea of depression and sorrow. I decided to confront him and try and fix his ways but instead I got mad, telling him to leave Manhattan if he was going to be a scab. He said nothing but stared me in the eye. "So be it," was all he said as he grabbed his belongings and left.
Years passed and I became leader of Manhattan and him of Brooklyn. I was known as the charming leader who cared for all, and Spot was known as the stone-eyed leader who could get the job done. And that's where I am now. Going to an old friend for a favor. Some one I hadn't spoken to in years.
I lied when I told the newsies Spot didn't make me nervous, I was about to soil myself thinking about seeing him again. But I didn't fear Spot for the same reason as Boot and Dave did. I feared that he wouldn't forgive me; nervous that he wouldn't help out me and the newsies in a time in need.
I walked up through a sea of Brooklyn newsies, a pit in my stomach growing by the second. I spotted Spot on a pile of crates. He jumped down smirking, "Well, if it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick."
Relief spread throughout my body like a tidal wave; maybe Spot hadn't changed that much, maybe he would help. I smirked hiding my emotions behind a mask, just as he was doing. I smirked, knowing he could see right through my mask, just as I could him, "I see you moved up in the world, Spot. Got a river view and everything."
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A/N: Okey dokey! Time to review! ^_^ Please?!