(AN: The first part of this chapter belongs to Morning Dew along with other assortment of characters.
Of Love, Life, and Laughter By CiCi Part of Chapter 8 by Morning Dew
The days couldn't have passed by any more slowly. As boredom started to come into play, the hours stretched out to be incredibly long and Spot found himself wishing more and more that he was back at the Brooklyn docks, overseeing his newsies and talking up the news with his cousin. The only thing that seemed to pass the time these days were the friendships he had made with the many servants throughout the Gates mansion.
Whenever Mr. Gates was off taking care of campaign business and the three ladies of the house off shopping their vast money away, the family would leave Spot to his own devices and more often than not, the Brooklyn leader willingly chose to help the maids and butlers with their daily chores.
His favorite maid was Julie with her British accent. She was rather soft-spoken but had a kind heart and was easy to talk to. Spot found her to be the easiest person to adapt to in the mansion and he passed most his hours at her side, whether it was to chat or clean up around the place. This particular day, he was mopping the tiled floor of the kitchen while she washed dishes as they conversed about favorite foods.
"Ya ever been to Tibby's? It's where all da newsies go for lunch. Da greatest restaurant in da woild! Me and me cousin come all da way from Brooklyn just to eat there!"
"Oh really?" Julie replied in her polished accent while wiping a plate dry. "I'll have to see about it sometime." She watched the Brooklyn leader slave away with the mop and her heart instantly went out to him. He suffered enough on the streets of New York, yet even when presented with the chance to enjoy the high life, he would rather humble himself to servant hood. She smiled with a sigh and regarded him. "You know, Spot. You don't have to do this. Why don't you ask George to take you on a carriage ride through Central Park?"
Spot only smirked. "You kiddin' me? Dis aint all dat bad. And 'sides, I rather talk to youse than wid any a' dem richies." His expression turned serious at the mere mention of their class. Last night, Coriander and Norma had been making derogatory comments about a shoe-shiner who had apparently missed a spot on their boots and it was enough to drive Spot mad. They worried about such petty matters! "Man, I can't wait to get outta dis place. How d'ya survive?"
She laughed, the warm melody filling the air with its vibrancy. "It grows on you after a while. Don't worry, Spot. Maybe you'll actually come to like the Gates family." He gave her a look that clearly said he doubted that and she laughed all the more. "Only time will tell…"
She would've said more, but the ring of chimes sounded through the air, signaling the arrival of someone at the front door. Spot wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and peeked around the corner of the wall to see who it was. Andre opened the door and welcomed the Gates girls into their home, taking their coats and bags from them to properly store the garments and packages in each of their rooms. Spot groaned with annoyance and went back to his work.
"Mother, can I have some of the cookies that were baked yesterday?" he heard Norma ask. She obviously had received a positive answer, for the next thing his ears picked up were the thudding beats of her boots as she furthered towards the kitchen. Without stopping to take the shoes off, she marched across the newly-cleaned tiles, leaving skid marks as she went her way, and didn't make a single expression as to her guilt for ruining the work Spot had spent a good hour on.
"Norma!" he said with the utmost irritation. "Can't ya see that I'se was moppin' heah!?"
She looked back at him from the cabinet she was currently raiding and then diverted her gaze to the semi-wet floor, where black boot prints marked her trail from the hallway to the counters. Then, shrugging, she said, "I see it quite clearly, Spot. What's your point?"
He clenched his fist around the mop handle and glared daggers at her. "That if youse weren't actin' so bratty and maybe thought 'bout someone other than yaself for once, you'da had the consideration to not make dis mess!"
"Don't speak to my sister like that!" It was Coriander who spoke, entering in from the corridor as well. She didn't particularly support Norma's rude gesture, but she wasn't about to let a street rat tell someone from her class what they ought to do. She adamantly believed that Spot had yet to learn his place in their society, and she wouldn't let him forget that. At least that was her mother constantly said behind closed doors once the media had left their premises. "You will apologize to her."
"Yea, don't hold ya breath," he retorted.
Coriander took another step forward, boldly dirtying the mopped floor with her boot prints as well. She found her guards collapse when she was met with the icy stare of his depthless grey irises but she wouldn't back down. "You will apologize!" Their faces were only inches apart now, her heart beating wildly inside her. The Brooklyn leader looked about ready to lash out at her, but a voice from behind ended the argument.
"Coriander, darling, whatever are you doing in the kitchen?" It was Mrs. Gates, clad in the beautiful silk dress she had worn to go shopping. The woman's eyes then fell upon the newsboy and she frowned. "Spot, so long as you're a part of our family, you needn't slave away like the working class. Leave that rubbish to the servants; they aren't getting paid to simply waltz around this place and do nothing."
Though he wasn't one of the servants, Spot still felt offended by the words. He looked back at Julie with high expectations to see her fuming with rage, but the British lady only smiled sadly and went back to scrubbing the dishes. Resigned, Spot shrugged. "Nah, it's alright, m'am. I kinda get bored when I'se aint doin' nothing, ya know? 'Sides, a lil' woik nevah hoit nobody."
"In that case, why don't you assist Coriander in cleaning her room? God knows that little rat's nest could use some tidying up."
"Mother! I haven't any use for him…"
"Nonsense," the woman replied, waving her hand as if it were a petty matter. "Whenever I leave the business solely upon you, you never get any work done. Perhaps Spot's admirable willingness to work will somehow inspire you." Not waiting for a reply, she called to Norma and then headed towards the parlor where the little girl's piano teacher waited to give the child lessons.
Coriander bit her lip to keep from screaming. Her mother always had to do things her way. Forget about how the other person felt, for it simply didn't matter. She was controlled by parental reins she believed would ever tie her down.
"Well then, on to my room, shall we?"
She guided him up the grand staircase, her heels slamming upon each step with anger, and then down a hall painted in shades of crimson and gold, with age-old paintings hung onto its walls and small desks and lounging chairs situated here and there. Though she paid no heed to the objects she had seen since she was a child as she passed them by, Spot couldn't help to stop every now and then and take an appreciation for the works. The paintings ranged in genre from battle scenes to portraits of presidents and war-heroes.
"Would you move along?" Coriander complained when he had stopped for the fourth time within a few minutes. "They're just paintings. What's so fascinating about them? You act as if they were made of gold."
Not in the mood to argue, he rolled his eyes and followed her farther until they finally reached a finely painted oak door leading into a room which she entered unceremoniously. The colors here, blue and green, greatly contrasted the scheme of the hallway but were easier on the eyes for their dull-like qualities.
"Don't touch anything," she snapped at him when he was about to reach forward and do just that. "And don't think I haven't an inventory worked out for every item in this room. I know exactly where everything should be, and so on. I suggest you not result to thievery during your stay here."
That was enough for him. "For ya information, goily, I didn't have any intentions tah steal any of ya stupid stuff. I'se gots stuff of me own back at da lodgin' house, I don't need tah run off wid any of dis fancy crap. And anyways, we newsies usually don't steal 'less we have tah, and even then, we only go for da gents that would get along just fine missin' a dollar or two."
He walked the length of the room, taking in all its details, and wasn't quite sure whether he approved of it or not. The place might as well have been a coffin, for it lacked a certain air of individuality…it was more so a prison cell decorated to fool one's self. He continued on with his statement.
"Some people aint got no choice in life. I'se aint sayin' I enjoy deprivin' people of deir money, but what would ya rather I do? Let me boiys starve? Some of da lil' kids is still too young tah be able tah sell enough papes in a day for a good meal, so it's me job tah look after 'em."
She crossed her arms, refusing to take pity on him. "It's still wrong," she said in a chastising drawl. He did nothing more than shrug and the simple act maddened her. Filthy street rats and their rules. They bend the laws to satisfy their own needs. They should all be thrown into the House of Refuge. It's what her mother had told her time and time again, and she was very near to accepting it as her own creed as well. But something in the way Spot had sugar-coated the act, something in the way he called it a means by which to survive, had opened her eyes just slightly to the drudgeries of a lower class life. True, it didn't make the act any more justified, but she supposed she had to accept him nonetheless and so she held her tongue.
"I never knew goils ya age still kept deir dolls." Spot looked back at her expressionless and pointed at her collection of dolls sitting upon the shelves in her room.
She walked towards the display and plopped down onto her bed, reflecting on the times when she was younger. Even then, her mother had always insisted that she act in the manner of a young adult. Play time was forbidden until after piano lessons, etiquette classes, and tea parties. Coriander loosened her bun and let her hair cascade past her shoulders in silky tresses that made her look like a fairy-tale damsel. With a sigh, she cast one last glance at the dolls and produced the words to an answer. "My mother maintains that they should be kept, for no particular reason, mind you. I would rather they be gone."
"Ya always do what ya parents tell ya tah do?" he asked with a snort.
"Considering they provide for me on a daily basis, I most certainly do!" was her answer. Her eyes were narrowed; the inquiry had insulted her independence. "At least I have keepsakes to remember. From the looks of it, you don't seem the type who would have anything worth keeping around. I assume it's the way of the riffraff? The only thing you carry around is that confounded slingshot and that stupid key around your neck!"
His hand instantly went up to grasp the key in question, his fingers tightening around its cool silver form. Stupid key? Stupid key?! He could have driven the metal object through her skull for having said such a thing. But then again, she wouldn't know that a simple key unlocked so many painful memories inside him, and she wouldn't know that a simple key had unlocked the pathway to his current life. No, she was too naïve and thought too highly of herself.
"Ya know what, princess?" he said in mockery. "Youse can clean dis damn room by yaself. Ya don't even desoive a street rat like me tah help youse."
"You little guttersni…" His hand went over her mouth in one smack and she would have shrieked in surprise had she the ability to, but he covered her lips with his warm fingers and glared down at her.
"I don't care what ya gots tah say, Cori." She mumbled in protest to the shortened form of her name, but he went on. "You're a conceited lil' brat and ya know it. What difference does it make if ya memories is in a grand piano while mine are in a beat-up slingshot, huh? It doesn't make a difference, does it?" He let her go and pushed her away from him in a movement that barely required any effort. "Ya family's got issues, goil. Ya minds is in da wrong place, and by da time youse finally realize dat, it's gunna be too late."
"You just wait until I tell my father about this! Assaulting one of higher class than you? You'll end up in the Refuge by night for sure!" Clenching her fists, she stormed out the room and headed downstairs to complain to her parents. Spot watched her leave and shook his head. If dis place doesn't make me go insane by the end of da month, dat goil shoah as hell will.
(AN: Ok everyone that first part of the chapter belonged to Dewey! As you can see we combined our work to make one chapter. This part is originally mine. Its kind of short, ok incredibly short, but it contains a little background information. Hope you enjoy.)
Spot heaved a great sigh and took another look at Coriander's room. He smirked at all the childish things she had collected over the years. Her light blue, floral chaise chair in the corner by the window had her collection of stuffed animals on it. He walked over to the lounge chair and picked up an unwashed, stuffed bear. It had been beaten up and it was dirty from the years of strained playtime. He violently threw down the bear, resenting his mother for never getting him the stuffed animal in the window for Christmas he can remember so clearly…
His fifth Christmas was coming in a few weeks. His mother had a tight grip on his hand as she hurriedly walked home to get out of the frostbiting weather. Her son tried to keep up with her strides as best as he could. She was halfway past a window that a small crowd was gathered at. The crowd peaked her sons' interest and he abruptly pulled out ofher grasp. He realized that the store that everyone had come to look at was a toy store. On pedestals were the newest and most expensive toy ever imagined. Beautiful porcelain dolls were lined up on the wall. A dollhouse was there for the dolly that a little girl could own. A toy train, rumbled down its track, winding through the assortment of toys. In the corner though there was a teddy bear. An eye was missing and a chunk of its ear was gone, but it was still in good condition and can be used again. The bear wasn't the most spectacular thing in the store, it didn't even spark a glint in any of the other gatherer's eyes, but to him it was the greatest thing he had ever seen. He wanted it for himself.
"Mamma, Mamma," he pulled his mother toward the window to show her the neglected bear.
He pointed to the toy and asked to have that for Christmas.
His mother replied like all mothers do, "We'll see." The elder dragged him along to their small apartment to wait for his father to come home from work.
On the morning Christmas, the little boy woke up extra early to see what Santa had brought him. Package after package, he opened expecting to find the abandoned teddy bear, but to no avail. None of the packages contained the bounty, instead an assortment of clothes was what he received. Though he understood his mother couldn't afford to buy him the beaten bear, he still resented her…
With his memory fading from mind, he turned and made his way over to the open door and walked out without another look back. He started towards his destination, most intent on finishing his recently dirtied work in the kitchen. At the top of the staircase he head the familiar chiming of bells again. Mr. Gates was the one to walk through the door this time. Andre took Mr. Gates bowler hat and . Gates knowing fully what his mission was, called for Spot.
"Yeah, up heah." Spot called down.
Mr. Gates looked up surprised to see Spot at the top of the stairs ready to descend. Mr. Gates, in a hurry, told Spot to get on his coat and that he was coming with him to adestination Spot didn't know. While Spot descended the stairs and submerged into the labyrinth toward his bedroom, Mr. Gates took it upon himself to walk into the parlor where his eldest daughter was upon the couch pouting.
"What's the matter dear?"
"Father…"
"Yes?" Christopher Gates' attention focused solely on Coriander.
"I…I…Never mind."
"Well then… I'm going to fetch more clothes for Spot. Would you like to come?"
"Sure father." Coriander replied as she was lead by her father out of the parlor door.
At the front door Coriander collected her coat and followed her father to the awaiting carriage, fully unaware that the miscreant that caused the earlier disruption was coming with them.
