A/N: AIRITH DOESN'T HATE ME ANYMORE!
...And, in other late-breaking news...
Let's see now...my sixteenth birthday is in...*ponders*...exactly forty-eight days. (Okay, no countdown. That's just not dramatic.) If my parents are right and are *not* lying, as they have so often in the past—until I was almost eight I still believed that eating crusts would make my hair curly, like my father told me—I was born at exactly 4:01 a.m. on April 22nd, thus making me the third youngest person in my entire sophomore class. But hey, I gotta have some kind of excuse for immaturity.
And now, on to the fic!
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
It didn't take Racetrack very long to find Mush. He knew his usual selling spots, and he could recognize his voice from a mile away. But when he finally reached him, he very nearly passed him by completely. Even when Race looked at him close up, he could barely recognize him at all.
Mush's typical attire of boots and brown pants had been replaced with a low- cut purple dress and what seemed to be an awful lot of heavy-duty lingerie underneath the skimpy fabric (Race couldn't imagine any other way that Mush could have managed to get cleavage. Nor did he really want to). A surprisingly authentic-looking blond wig was on his head, and he had been expertly made up in soft shades of lavender and rose.
"Hey, Race!" Mush called out, when he saw his friend walking right past him and stepping off the curb. "What's goin' on?"
"Mush?" Race said, in shock, walking over slowly and trying unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. "That you?"
"Well," Mush said, looking at Racetrack unabashedly as he batted his substantial eyelashes, "it's actually Michelle. But, yeah."
"What da hell happened ta you?" Racetrack demanded, horrified.
"Whaddaya mean?" Michelle asked innocently.
"Youse wearin' a dress, Mush. In case ya haven't noticed."
"It's Michelle."
"Whatevah."
"So, Race, why'd ya come lookin' foah me?"
As Michelle sidled up to him, Racetrack just stared, terrified. Never in his life had he ever though that Mush would make a pass at him. Jack, maybe—but Mush? No. Never.
Seeing the look in Race's eyes, Michelle sighed. "Don' worry, Race, I don't swing dat way."
"DEN WHY ARE YOUSE DRESSED AS A GOIL?"
Michelle smiled in a secretive sort of way. "Lemme ask ya somethin', Race—have you evah felt velveteen?" Race just shook his head, unable to speak. "Well," he continued with a smirk, "once you've worn it, you don't nevah want ta go back."
At this point, Race got a strange sort of look on his face that made it seem as if he was either about to throw up, or faint. Or both. Evidently, Michelle found it is his (or her) heart to take pity.
"Aw, Race, c'mon. It ain't as bad as it looks, I promise. An' it ain't like youse nevah acted strange befoah. Remembah th' time I walked in on you in da middle a' the day singin' "Born in da USA" in yoah long johns?"
"HOW IS THIS 'NEVER TALKING ABOUT THAT EVER AGAIN'?"
"Calm down, Race. C'mon. Stop yellin'."
"I'M NOT YELLING!" Racetrack yelled.
Michelle just sort of sighed and put a comforting arm around Race's shoulders. "I guess it must be a shock," he admitted. "It don't make sense right now, but it will."
"I'm sorry," Racetrack mumbled. "I shouldn't of acted dat way."
"S'okay, Race. Now, what did you want to talk ta me about?"
"Well, I gotta find a half-birthday present foah Sapphy, an' I figured you would know somethin' about it. Will ya help me?"
"Shoah thing, Race!" Michelle said happily. "Can I give ya a makeover?"
"Uh..."
"I dink youse'd look good wid' a sorta corally color on yoah lips."
Racetrack considered his options. He actually did not think he would look at all good with coral lipstick, he had much better coloring for burgundy, but he didn't want to hurt Michelle's feelings, either. "Well, uh...I guess youse can do somethin' ta my hair, if ya want," he said at last.
Michelle squealed happily and leaped up, braiding shoulder-length extensions into Racetrack's hair with lightning precision. "Now then," he began, "th' way I see it, do more dough ya spend, da better. Goils always go for chocolates an' stuff like that, but if ya wanna really make a statement, jewelry woiks best. After all, ya know what they say..."
"No, Michelle," Racetrack sighed, "what do they say?'
"A diamond is forevah."
"A DIAMOND?" Racetrack exclaimed in horror.
"Race, youse shoutin' again."
"WHEAH AM I GONNA GET TH' MONEY TA BUY A DIAMOND? WHERE WOULD YOU GET TH' MONEY TA BUY A DIAMOND?"
Of course, this led to a lengthy explanation of Michelle's success with girls being such that wherever he went women would actually throw money at him. He had apparently made a pretty good living that way; he was saving to go to bartending school.
And this, of course, led to another lengthy explanation of how not all newsies had wads of hundred dollar bills tossed at them every day, which Michelle had a hard time believing for an inordinate amount of time.
"So ya can't afford jewelry?" Michelle asked tentatively, putting the finishing touches on Race's new hairdo.
"Michelle, c'mon. I can barely afford ta stay at th' lodgin' house. If I had the money, I'd buy Sapphy a diamond ring. I would. But as it is..."
"Oh." Michelle pondered this for a while, clearly at a loss as to what sort of advice to give. "Well, y'know, Race, ta tell th' truth, this is really kinda beyond my experience. Tell ya what, though, why dontcha go ask Crutchy? He may not be as studly as me—"Race rolled his eyes at this, "but he's good at givin' advice, an' he's always pretty helpful. Did I ever tell you about th' time he taught me how ta cook? I—"
Race covered his ears and cowered, screaming in fear. "NOOOOOOOO! NOT DA MANICOTTI STORY! NOT AGAIN!"
"Awright, awright," Michelle said, exasperated. "Fine. I won't tell it. Now, I'm gonna do your nails for ya...whaddaya think, seashell or frosted grape?"
But, of course, by that time Racetrack had torn off down the street and around the block, wailing like a banshee. Michelle just sighed, wondering what had gotten into his friend, and began the arduous process of choosing between green and purple eyeshadow.
...And, in other late-breaking news...
Let's see now...my sixteenth birthday is in...*ponders*...exactly forty-eight days. (Okay, no countdown. That's just not dramatic.) If my parents are right and are *not* lying, as they have so often in the past—until I was almost eight I still believed that eating crusts would make my hair curly, like my father told me—I was born at exactly 4:01 a.m. on April 22nd, thus making me the third youngest person in my entire sophomore class. But hey, I gotta have some kind of excuse for immaturity.
And now, on to the fic!
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
It didn't take Racetrack very long to find Mush. He knew his usual selling spots, and he could recognize his voice from a mile away. But when he finally reached him, he very nearly passed him by completely. Even when Race looked at him close up, he could barely recognize him at all.
Mush's typical attire of boots and brown pants had been replaced with a low- cut purple dress and what seemed to be an awful lot of heavy-duty lingerie underneath the skimpy fabric (Race couldn't imagine any other way that Mush could have managed to get cleavage. Nor did he really want to). A surprisingly authentic-looking blond wig was on his head, and he had been expertly made up in soft shades of lavender and rose.
"Hey, Race!" Mush called out, when he saw his friend walking right past him and stepping off the curb. "What's goin' on?"
"Mush?" Race said, in shock, walking over slowly and trying unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. "That you?"
"Well," Mush said, looking at Racetrack unabashedly as he batted his substantial eyelashes, "it's actually Michelle. But, yeah."
"What da hell happened ta you?" Racetrack demanded, horrified.
"Whaddaya mean?" Michelle asked innocently.
"Youse wearin' a dress, Mush. In case ya haven't noticed."
"It's Michelle."
"Whatevah."
"So, Race, why'd ya come lookin' foah me?"
As Michelle sidled up to him, Racetrack just stared, terrified. Never in his life had he ever though that Mush would make a pass at him. Jack, maybe—but Mush? No. Never.
Seeing the look in Race's eyes, Michelle sighed. "Don' worry, Race, I don't swing dat way."
"DEN WHY ARE YOUSE DRESSED AS A GOIL?"
Michelle smiled in a secretive sort of way. "Lemme ask ya somethin', Race—have you evah felt velveteen?" Race just shook his head, unable to speak. "Well," he continued with a smirk, "once you've worn it, you don't nevah want ta go back."
At this point, Race got a strange sort of look on his face that made it seem as if he was either about to throw up, or faint. Or both. Evidently, Michelle found it is his (or her) heart to take pity.
"Aw, Race, c'mon. It ain't as bad as it looks, I promise. An' it ain't like youse nevah acted strange befoah. Remembah th' time I walked in on you in da middle a' the day singin' "Born in da USA" in yoah long johns?"
"HOW IS THIS 'NEVER TALKING ABOUT THAT EVER AGAIN'?"
"Calm down, Race. C'mon. Stop yellin'."
"I'M NOT YELLING!" Racetrack yelled.
Michelle just sort of sighed and put a comforting arm around Race's shoulders. "I guess it must be a shock," he admitted. "It don't make sense right now, but it will."
"I'm sorry," Racetrack mumbled. "I shouldn't of acted dat way."
"S'okay, Race. Now, what did you want to talk ta me about?"
"Well, I gotta find a half-birthday present foah Sapphy, an' I figured you would know somethin' about it. Will ya help me?"
"Shoah thing, Race!" Michelle said happily. "Can I give ya a makeover?"
"Uh..."
"I dink youse'd look good wid' a sorta corally color on yoah lips."
Racetrack considered his options. He actually did not think he would look at all good with coral lipstick, he had much better coloring for burgundy, but he didn't want to hurt Michelle's feelings, either. "Well, uh...I guess youse can do somethin' ta my hair, if ya want," he said at last.
Michelle squealed happily and leaped up, braiding shoulder-length extensions into Racetrack's hair with lightning precision. "Now then," he began, "th' way I see it, do more dough ya spend, da better. Goils always go for chocolates an' stuff like that, but if ya wanna really make a statement, jewelry woiks best. After all, ya know what they say..."
"No, Michelle," Racetrack sighed, "what do they say?'
"A diamond is forevah."
"A DIAMOND?" Racetrack exclaimed in horror.
"Race, youse shoutin' again."
"WHEAH AM I GONNA GET TH' MONEY TA BUY A DIAMOND? WHERE WOULD YOU GET TH' MONEY TA BUY A DIAMOND?"
Of course, this led to a lengthy explanation of Michelle's success with girls being such that wherever he went women would actually throw money at him. He had apparently made a pretty good living that way; he was saving to go to bartending school.
And this, of course, led to another lengthy explanation of how not all newsies had wads of hundred dollar bills tossed at them every day, which Michelle had a hard time believing for an inordinate amount of time.
"So ya can't afford jewelry?" Michelle asked tentatively, putting the finishing touches on Race's new hairdo.
"Michelle, c'mon. I can barely afford ta stay at th' lodgin' house. If I had the money, I'd buy Sapphy a diamond ring. I would. But as it is..."
"Oh." Michelle pondered this for a while, clearly at a loss as to what sort of advice to give. "Well, y'know, Race, ta tell th' truth, this is really kinda beyond my experience. Tell ya what, though, why dontcha go ask Crutchy? He may not be as studly as me—"Race rolled his eyes at this, "but he's good at givin' advice, an' he's always pretty helpful. Did I ever tell you about th' time he taught me how ta cook? I—"
Race covered his ears and cowered, screaming in fear. "NOOOOOOOO! NOT DA MANICOTTI STORY! NOT AGAIN!"
"Awright, awright," Michelle said, exasperated. "Fine. I won't tell it. Now, I'm gonna do your nails for ya...whaddaya think, seashell or frosted grape?"
But, of course, by that time Racetrack had torn off down the street and around the block, wailing like a banshee. Michelle just sighed, wondering what had gotten into his friend, and began the arduous process of choosing between green and purple eyeshadow.