(Authors Note: I didn't write this chapter. My buddy Morning Dew wrote this chapter and a part of chapter 8 for me. I was without internet for a while when these chapters were written so I'm going to leave up the Disclaimer and A/N that Morning Dew wrote.)
DISCLAIMER: Hmmm, this story belongs to CiCi. All the original characters are her own. Runner Conlon and some selected Brooklyn newsies are mine. And then the newsies from the actual movie are…Disney's! Surprise, surprise! ^_^
A.N.: Okay, this is Morning Dew reporting for duty. Sorry it has taken me so long to update this baby, but there was a lot on my shoulders these past few weeks for college and all. Plus, I had to re-read this story to make up a character list, as well as review the outline CiCi had given me regarding this story. Uhm…I feel pretty weird continuing a story that isn't mine. I've never done this before, lol. But I hope you all enjoy this work, and hopefully the original author will be back soon. I kinda feel like Runner undertaking leadership for Brooklyn in Spot's absence. Heehee. ^_^
Of Love, Life, and Laughter By CiCi Chapter 7 by Morning Dew
Heya Runner,
Life's a living hell with the Gates family. I'se only been here one week and they's already made me go to TWO dinner parties. And it weren't no simple eat-and-leave hoopla. I'se talking about ballroom dancing and all that other crap. That's where I am right now, actually. Wearing some damn tuxedo the hoity-toity Mr. Gates made me wear. I feel
like…
Spot Conlon pursed his lips in thought, giving his hand a moment to rest in the middle of the note that he would later mail to his cousin. In all honesty, he couldn't even find the right words to describe the internal struggle he was undergoing presently. These money-chasing aristocrats were making him into something he wasn't, and it infuriated him to no end. Did they realize how shallow they acted towards one another? Did they realize their lives were no more than pre-dictated actions in one big marionette show?
He groaned in annoyance and read over what he had already written down. He wondered upon Runner and how the boy was holding up in his leadership duties over Brooklyn. Hopefully, nothing considerably bad had happened. Yet. He brought the pen to paper to once again continue his letter when he was interrupted by a young voice he had grown to hate.
"Spot, my mother says you have to dance with me!"
The Brooklyn leader turned around to find himself facing Norma Jean, her blonde ringlets done up in a fancy bun and her lips pouting proudly. Spot was amazed by how proper she acted all the time, her shoulders always back and her nose always in the air. Tonight, she was donning a light blue gown complete with laced gloves pulled all the way to her elbows and sparkling shoes that glimmered under the lighting of the above chandelier.
He scoffed at her and shook his head. "I don't think so, goily. There aint no way I'se is gunna dance with da likes a' youse." Without waiting for her response, he turned back around to regard his note and started to write again.
With hands on her hips, Norma glared at his back and then walked around the table so that she could face him. She cleared her throat, fully expecting him to divert his attention towards her, but when the attempt failed, she merely resulted to speaking either way.
"You're in no position to order about your own life, Spot," she replied tauntingly. "Either you do as my parents say, or you end up in that filth called the House of Refuge."
"Right now, I'se rather be there than in this damn place," he mumbled under his breath. But folding the letter in half and placing it into the inside pocket of his blazer, he grabbed the girl's hand and led her onto the dance floor. "I'm only dancin' one song, ya heah me? I already look enough like a fool…"
"Okay, you have to put one hand on my waist and with the other, you hold my free hand, okay?"
He only nodded as she placed his hands in their rightful positions. He couldn't feel any more like an idiot. Here he was taking dance lessons from an eight-year old brat. If the newsies saw him like this, he'd be the laughing stock of the state! In a matter of minutes, though, the dance had ended. He noticed a number of people from Mr. Gates' campaign taking photographs of him and the girl and it made him sick to the stomach. What were they trying to publicize? That the Gates were as accepting towards the lower class as they were to the millionaires? That couldn't be any further from the truth as far as he was concerned. When he parted from Norma, he saw her wipe her hands onto a handkerchief out the corner of his eyes, no doubt ridding them of the 'germs' of a newsboy. He rolled his eyes and resumed his seat at the table where George, the Gates' carriage driver, sat alongside one of the family escorts named Andre.
"Heya," Spot greeted them. "Any a' youse gots a cigarette I can take a drag on?"
George arched his eyebrows at the inquiry but had to laugh at the blatant outcry. Like most of the servants in the home, he had actually come to accept Spot as one of the family. Though they weren't of the same class, the Brooklyn leader had given the home a much needed air of casualness; his easy-going spirit made the servants feel more comfortable around him. Contrary to this, whenever one from the Gates brood was around, the butlers and maids were always uptight, always afraid of somehow making mistake.
"Having trouble with the locals, Spot?" George asked with a light chuckle.
Spot took a seat next to the man and sighed. "Do they always act like dis? Like they's bettah than everyone else?" Subconsciously, he took a hand to run his fingers through his hair, but then remembered belatedly that his sandy locks were combed back with some hair grease Mr. Gates had given him. He'd have to wash it out as soon as he got to their house.
"Oh, if you think this is bad, you should've seen Coriander in finishing school. The girl acted as if she were a goddess. And Norma Jean isn't too far off from following in the same footsteps. It's the way they were raised, I suppose."
Spot nodded in agreement. He was about to strike up another topic of conversation when he saw Earnest Clooney, the campaign manager, waving him over towards the table where the family was dining. Moaning as if deeply pained, the Brooklyn leader rose from his seat with much reluctance and headed their way.
"Oh hello, Spot!" Cecilia Gates said with a feigned cheerfulness. She smiled brightly at the newsboy and nodded at him, as if grateful for his presence. But Spot knew it was only for show.
Mr. Gates beamed when the journalist and photographers drew near to get the inside scoop on his having taken in an underprivileged youth into his home.
"I would like to thank you all for coming out here tonight," the candidate for mayor began. "As you all know, the leader of the Brooklyn newsboys…Spot Conlon…has been staying with my family for the past week. This is, in essence, to stress my concern for the lower classes of our society and their needs as individuals. As mayor, I hope to better opportunities city-wide, making them available to all individuals."
A stream of questions filled the air as reporters speedily scribbled away into notebooks while their cameramen flashed pictures here and there of Spot all decked out in his three piece suit. Mr. Gates laughed heartily and held up his hands, gesturing to them to kindly stop.
"If you don't mind," he said. "My family and I have got to be getting to dinner now. But I look forward to speaking more about my plans for New York's future later tonight. Come on, Spot." He gently placed a hand on the newsie's shoulder and led him to the table where the others were already seated.
Spot had the displeasure of being appointed a chair in between Norma and Coriander. On the other hand, the food laid before him was enough to make him thankful for at least one thing when it came to being stuck with the Gates. An appealing slice of meatloaf drenched in gravy with some lasagna and fettuccine on the side made his stomach roar in hunger. He reached for the nearest fork when Norma slapped his hand and looked at him in disdain.
"We always pray over our food first, street rat," she spat at him, low enough for no one else to hear.
He would've countered her with a profane retort, but was at that moment interrupted by Mrs. Gates' reiteration of grace. He rolled his eyes and bowed his head in respect. As soon as "Amen" was uttered, however, he dropped his napkin onto his lap as he had seen the others do and once again reached for a utensil, only to find that he had quite an array to choose from. There were at least three different types of forks, spoons, and knives available.
Pursing his lips, he glanced towards Coriander to see which she was currently applying, but she was only using the spoon to drink away at her soup. And he wanted to eat the meat, damn it! He sat back in defeat and figured he'd simply butter his bread rolls until he could espy one of the family members using the rightful fork; it made no sense to make himself look like any more of an idiot than he already did.
"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Coriander asked him after a reasonable amount of time had passed. She couldn't care less if he had decided of a sudden to starve until he was given back his freedom, but she was still curious. She would've thought a street rat like himself would eagerly jump at the first sign of food. "That meal wasn't free, you know. You surely aren't going to waste it, are you?"
"Nah, we usually don't waste food like you richies do," he replied dryly.
"What are you talking about?" She cleaned her spoon with a napkin and then placed it atop the tablecloth, turning to face him, utterly offended.
He glowered back at her, not at all daunted by her high social rankings. "Ya know exactly what I'se talkin' 'bout. Y'all throw away leftover food alls da time, and never think for one minute that maybe some kid on da street could use a really good bite to eat. It's like ya don't even care! Ya'd rather see it all go to waste than give a street rat like me a warm meal for a change."
"We work hard for our food!"
"So do we! And we'se thankful for it, even when we aint got that much. And I'se can tell ya one thing. If one of me boiys in Brooklyn only had a roll of bread for 'imself, but knew a fellow newsie was hungry, he wouldn't even hesitate to share dat bread with 'im. But youse!" He laughed in mockery. "You'd rather see ya own family suffer than even think about offerin' 'em a helpin' hand. Ya whole family is screwed up!"
She gasped at his words, fully ready to rise from her feet and march towards her father in protest of this whole idea. Spot was so…intolerable! Her father had been mad to bring in a newsboy merely to win some confounded campaign! "You're completely out of line to be speaking to me like this," she told him through clenched teeth. "I'm above your class and you will treat me with respect."
Spot couldn't take it anymore. He practically jumped to his feet and slammed his chair back under the table. "If ya want someone to obey youse, buy a friggin' dog! I've had about as much of youse as I can take. I'se leavin'." He stalked away from the table and when Mr. Gates called out to him and asked where he was going, Spot answered without even looking back.
"I need some fresh air. It's gettin' hard to breathe in all dis crazy business."
