DISCLAIMER: The characters from the movie Newsies belong to Disney. Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Cody, Runner Conlon, Becker Princeton, Maverick O'Malley, and Aunt Bethany belong to me. All other characters are owned by their respective owners. Hehe.
A.N.: Wow! I received quite a number of reviews and profiles. Thank you so much to everyone who's sent in schtuff! ^_^ I was actually planning out this story to be small in duration (as compared to my more lengthier stories) but I recently came up with this new storyline and it'd take more than ten chapters upon which I could elaborate. And I suppose that's a good thing, because I'm not really into introducing a wagon full of characters within single chapters…so with more chapters, I could have deeper characterization…all right, enough of that, lol. You're probably anxious to read chapter two. Shout-outs to: Sita-beans, Cyanne, CiCi, Fantasy, Dreamer, Sniper, Lavender, Jazz, Touchdown, Strawberri, geometrygal, ershey, sniper, Miracle, Cerri, Nina, Matchin' Laces, and Kane! Sorry I couldn't use everyone for the story, but I thank you kindly for showing interest! There's always the next CC, hehe. And now without further ado…
~*Where the River Flows Bright*~
Quite a miraculous day it had been within the walls of the Brooklyn lodging house, for such was the silence that even the minutest of ear-pricking sounds could be heard. The smooth roll of a marble across the hardwood floors as the half-pints quietly rivaled one another with their aim and precision, the flipping of cards as the older youth were dealt cards for another hand of poker, and the whispered words of Ash Russnak as he made every attempt to blandish Miracle's ears with honey-coated promises to take her on a date as never she had experienced. She, of course, rejected him with a carefully repressed agitation, as always she did, and tapped her foot impatiently upon the ground as she waited for the time at which the Brooky's would all head out to the distribution office for the afternoon edition. For the moment, though, she would have to put up with Ash's arrogance, as the time to peddle papers had yet to come, and the others willingly took advantage of opportunity to retreat into their thoughts and simply relax.
At last, the reign of silence was at once shattered when a much exasperated shriek pierced the air, followed by a yell all instantly knew to have escaped the lips of their very own leader, Spot Conlon. Soon followed a sharp slapping sound, further altercation, and the rusty hinges supporting a door thrust open in haste.
"You bastard!" a high-pitched female voice accused as she descended the staircase a step at a time, bare feet slamming down onto the wood with rage as the girl held her stilettos in her hands and half her upper clothing draped over her arms. Her hair was a tousled mess, and her lips-smeared with faded rouge-currently tightened into a straight line. "Spot Conlon, I hope you rot in hell, you damn…" She finished her statement with another scream, and rushed the rest of the way into the main room. Once on flat ground, she placed her shoes back on, and quickly donned upon herself the sweater which she'd been carrying.
Spot followed after her. It was quite clear what his playmate of the day had been seduced into doing, for the Brooklyn leader's face was marred with the red prints of full lips, his hair tangled and blue eyes glowering at their prey. His shirt was fully unbuttoned, and both his suspenders hung loosely at his sides, but even then this demigod the Brooky's so adamantly worshipped looked the full part of a brat prince. "And I hope to see ya there, sweet face," he threw back at her, standing halfway down the staircase.
"Oh believe me, I'll turn a saint this very night if it means I'll be as far away as possible from the likes of you!" Her face was an amazing shade of red, her body nearly shaking as she spoke each word.
He only licked his lips and smirked in return. "That's not what ya were sayin' last night," was his reply. "S'matter of fact, youse was wishin' ya could get even closer. Sorry, doll, I can only go so deep…" He winked at her, then, hoping she'd catch the perversion of his innuendo. She had, for no sooner had he uttered the foul words, her tear-filled eyes widened with shock, and she stormed out the lodging house, not even waiting until she was out of ear-shot before she began to weep from embarrassment.
The others stared at their leader in a state bordering indifference and shock. They were use to his dealings with the female population, and even more so with the usual outcome of such rendezvous, that of verbal lashings and heartbreaks. Spot ignored their looks easily, and sat down to play cards with a nonchalant elegance at once appalling, and admirable. The day continued on as if nothing at all had happened.
That night told a different story, however. Upon the Brooklyn Bridge, Spot stood gazing down at the obsidian sheet of the sea, allured by its dark beauty, fascinated by the trappings of an untimely demise resting within the body of water. His arms were crossed and resting upon the bridge's railing, as if he were a child leaning against the banisters before a zoo exhibit utterly motionless because that which stood in his line of sight rattled his mind with astounding riddles. He smiled in spite of himself and inwardly shivered at the frigid bite of the late winter winds.
One jump, and I could end it all, he thought to himself, his eyes now a darkened shade to match the desolation of the sea below. Life grew tiring day by day. Managing over four dozen newsies was never a task for the faint-hearted, and with the rising threat of offenses from the factory workers, responsibility heightened for any leader. But Spot was exhausted! He wanted to wake up and just for one damned morning be the young man he could've become had his idiotic aspirations for a freeborn life not overridden mere rationality! He could've been someone on the verge of their college studies…he could've matured into a successful individual with much prosperity and…and purpose! But no, all was lost now.
He sighed and passed a hand through his silken locks of sand-colored hair. All was lost indeed. With what background could he possibly attend graduate school? With what education had he to impress a prospective employer? In a bout of frustration, he raised a fist and pounded it onto the railing, not even registering the pain surging through his hand. "Damnit Conlon! Ya gunna end up just like 'im…a worthless drunk…some stupid, penniless street rat who'll go to the grave with two cents in 'is pocket."
The sound of light footsteps alerted his attention and he instantly terminated his ranting to turn and face whoever dared disturb him. His nerves were at ease when his eyes rested upon a familiar face. "Runnah," he said with a half-smile, "what are ya doin' here?"
Runner wasn't wearing his usual grin. Quite frankly, his features were plastered into a status of worry and apprehension; it showed in the pallid color of his face, which wasn't entirely due to the drastic drop in weather. No, he'd been fretting for quite a time now, and the color only returned to his cheeks when he saw Spot to be safe and well. "Spot, I was lookin' for ya and found this in ya room…"
The elder watched as, from the back pocket of his pants, Runner took out an envelope and handed it over. Spot closed his eyes for the briefest moment and sighed. Upon the envelope in small, neat print it read: To the Love I'll Never Find. It'd been rather melodramatic, he'd admit, and its composition had taken place during one of his frantic mentalities in which the world had no sense, nor did the call to live. It was a love letter of sorts, with cynical notions intermingled in a foul mixture, but had been addressed to no one in particular. Perhaps he'd prayed with flimsy desires that it'd somehow fall into the hands of one who cared by some unearthly strain of divine intervention, but of course there had also been his want to destroy it upon returning from the bridge…now that he'd made up his mind to return at all.
He simply looked at the letter for a moment, and then shrugged when Runner gave him a questioning look. What was there to say? Sometimes the pressure of his circumstances was simply too much to bear. Was it wrong for him to breathe life into his misery through words? Was it wrong for him to express himself in the form of a disparaging yet love-seeking letter? He turned from his cousin to look back out at the horizon, and knowing Runner was about to pose the inquiry verbally, finally sighed yet again and simply said, "I wasn't aimin' on doin' nothin'. I got too many people to watch out for to do somethin' so selfish…plus, I know ya wouldn't last a day if I was gone."
His lips widened into a grin and he turned back around to Runner, laughing wholeheartedly as the younger only rolled his eyes. "Ya know half of it is half-true, Runnah. Don't gimme that look." Spot draped an arm over his shoulders and began leading them back to Brooklyn. "So tell me, kid. Were ya really that worried? Were ya?"
"Seriously speakin', Spot, the next time ya even think of doin' somethin' like this, I'm gunna have to beat the idea out ya head! D'ya realize what a wreck I'd be? The Brooky's would all admit me into some…mental institution!" Placing the envelope back into his pocket, he frowned at the elder, being entirely altruistic in his concern. Spot was his life-source; he admired the leader fiercely and was devoted to him more as a brother would be, for when his family had turned its back on him, it was Spot in whom Runner found a bond and a place to belong.
Spot saw the look and almost felt horrible. Unfortunately, he saw the bitter truth in Runner's words; he knew his cousin was deeply attached to him, and that a blow to one Conlon was a blow to both of them. A conversational hiatus passed between them and endured for the duration of their walk back to the lodging house, but just as they were to enter what had become their respectful abode, Spot looked to Runner seriously and said, "ya won't have to worry 'bout me leavin' youse for a long time, Runnah." And he meant every word.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Close to three weeks later, Dewey Rembrandt strolled down the walks of downtown Brooklyn in search of a confounded newspaper. Apparently, now that her aunt had someone who could read to her the current events of the world, it was of the utmost necessity to obtain a morning edition for such entertainment. In any other circumstance, Dewey wouldn't have very much minded, but the elderly woman was getting quite annoying, what with her incessant chatter and wretched overpopulation of felines. Sure, having lived on a farm in New Jersey had called for quite a variety of pets both of the livestock and domesticated species, but Dewey had never been reared to share a single abode with well over a dozen cats, and the constant discovery of fur balls, excrement trails, and needless mewing was getting quite on her last nerve.
On top of that, she yet missed her parents terribly. Every little thing would only serve to remind her of them and the legacy they left behind; especially Sundays, when the gong of church bells lifted their song into the air and the huddled throngs of people decked out in their finest attire hurried into the local cathedrals for mass. Her parents had been missionaries, evangelists who devoted their lives to spreading the gospels…but this last mission trip had taken such selfless lives when the train upon which they rode in route back to New Jersey derailed from its tracks and thrust fatality upon its passengers. How Dewey had wept when she'd learned of the tragedy! How morose her days had been thereafter. She and Patron had spent weeks in utter silence, lest the dialogue was between themselves, and the tears never ceased to fall. In fact, they still fell even now…months after the deaths.
Dewey sighed at the haunting memory and continued her tread through Brooklyn. Perhaps when her brother saved up enough money, they could move to the south away from the recollections and people, and start life anew; she could even attend a new women's college that had been built in Florida. And perhaps all was no more than wishful thinking. But in any case, such thoughts dissipated instantly when she finally caught sight of a newsboy.
She opened her palm to examine the glistening silver nickel her aunt had given her and wondered how those who hawked the headlines could possibly ascertain a worthy salary by the day's end. Patron had acquired employment at a well-known oil refining factory and had promised her he'd soon have enough to pay for the lifestyle their parents would have wanted for them. "But what if this was the lifestyle we were meant to have?" she asked of no one in particular.
In less than a minute, she had closed the distance between herself and the newsboy. He was shorter than her, and most certainly three years her junior, for his face hadn't yet developed into that of a man's and his fidgety nature seemed to add all the more to his child-like attributes. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, and under a pair of full dark lashes flashed blue eyes brighter than a summer sky. Currently, his gaze was set upon a cart full of freshly picked apples, his expression one of blatant appetite.
"Excuse me, could I please buy a paper from you?"
Dewey's query had obviously stunned him, for he turned to her with a start and for a moment couldn't quite formulate the words to speak. Fortunately, he gathered his bearings soon enough. Taking one of the morning editions from the stack he held under his arm, he then proceeded to hand it to the girl after receiving her nickel.
"Keep the change," she said with a kind smile, before walking off back to her apartment. She'd figured he needed the money more than she did, and it didn't bother her in the least to indulge someone less fortunate this time around. After all, it's what her parents did all their lives.
The newsboy was so taken aback by the act of charity that he hadn't even been able to utter a "thank you". And when his senses finally did befall him, Dewey was already yards away. He shrugged with a sigh and stared down at the shiny coin with relish. His eyes immediately diverted back to the cart filled with apples, but he knew this nickel would have to go toward paying off a debt imposed upon him by a fellow Brooky. If he wanted to eat, he'd have to go about it the sly way.
When the vendor of the produce was caught up in a heated altercation with a seemingly displeased customer, the newsboy shuffled on toward the cart hungrily, climbing onto the spokes of its wheels and leaning forth to draw for himself the red fruit that so allured him. But a miscalculation in the proportionate spreading of his weight ended up flipping the cart onto its side with him atop it; dozens and dozens of apples lollygagged across the walks and streets, a horse carriage coming to a sudden halt and nearby pedestrians either laughing at the mishap or grumbling of how it'd delay them. The vendor was in an uproar, and flailing his arms about in the air manically, he yelled the most obscene curses…though no profanity could rival that which he spat upon seeing the one to whom all blame was due.
After a number of curses, he pointed at the newsboy and yelled of how he'd get the authorities to throw the boy in the Refuge if he could help it. The newsboy in turn snatched an apple from the ground, jumped to his feet, and dashed away, abandoning his papers on the street curb. Dewey was among those spectating the commotion, though she couldn't see the details as those in front of her were much too tall to see over. She did, however, notice the crowd steadily parting as the boy from whom she'd bought a paper tore through the space provided as if his very life depended on it.
When the newsboy saw the familiar girl, he shoved the apple into her own hands and then took off again, thinking he'd be freed from the charges of theft so long as he'd given up the stolen object. Dewey watched him go in utter bewilderment, looked down at the apple, and then straight ahead through the parted crowds where the fuming vendor stood alongside a policeman having just then arrived at the scene. "That one!" yelled the vendor, pointing now at Dewey. "She's wrongfully taken advantage of this mess!"
Realizing the trouble she'd been forced into, the girl instantly dropped the apple and took to a frenzied run, within minutes catching up with the newsboy a few blocks away from the scene. "Do you have no remorse for what you did to me?" she asked, as they darted in and out of crowds in attempts to lose the officer yet pursuing them.
"What's remorse?" he asked in return, his voice rounded with a youthful tone. He offered no more than a glance her way, somewhat embarrassed at having made an accomplice of an innocent bystander.
"Never mind." They ran for five minutes more, and even when she was about to voice her opinions concerning their having distanced themselves reasonably from the policeman, the newsboy only found the need to quicken his gait and bid her do the same. She couldn't understand his reasoning, but did as was told, for she concluded he knew more of street-living than she'd gather in a lifetime. They were in the process of rounding a sharp corner when suddenly they crashed head on with others.
Dewey stumbled back and landed roughly on her hip, her forehead swelling with the pain she'd received from the hard impact of the collision. Half an eternity seemed to pass as she sat upon the sidewalk massaging her temple, and glaring at the stains and torn threads her dress had received. She at last looked up to see about the newsboy, only to notice the pages of several morning editions scattered across the walks, and four additional peddlers aside from the one she'd just met.
The newcomers consisted of a boy and three girls, all dressed in the same bland attire of their thief companion. The boy was taller than Dewey by an inch or so, the ends of his golden locks just visible under the derby hat he wore. Emerald eyes danced with mischief, though, when this boy came to the realization that he was sprawled out upon his back, his female friend fallen upon him. "Mayfly," said he with a smirk, "as much as I love bein' in this position, I don't think we should be puttin' on shows in public." He winked at her.
The one called Mayfly downright laughed at this as she combed long, wavy black hair behind her ears and re-arranged her glasses perfectly atop the bridge of her nose. After flashing the boy a wide grin, she grabbed his face in her hands and leaned down to grace his lips with a quick kiss before rising to her feet. "Ya such a joke, ya know that, Runnah?"
Runner remained lying on the ground, hands folded behind his head as if basking in her affection. "But ya love me anyway."
"I know. What could I possibly be thinkin'!" She brought her hands up to cover the giggles escaping her as his pride was now reduced to a scowl. Throwing her arms around his neck one he'd arisen, she, in over-enthusiastic tones, went on to assure him her words were all in jest.
There were two others standing by; a petite girl watching Dewey coyly with hands clasped behind her back, and another with her hair tied back in a long braid-though wisps of her fine tresses had escaped the tieback and now flew gently in the wind, framing her face-and a knitted shawl thrown over her plain dress. Dewey wondered whether this shawl was worn as an accessory, or more so as a means by which to modestly cover the upper regions of her full figure. She opened her mouth to excuse herself for the foolhardy accident once she too stood to her feet but the blonde boy interrupted her.
"Cody!" he cried out to the newsboy who'd stolen the apple. "Look what youse and ya girlfriend did to all me papes!"
Cody rolled his eyes as he started retrieving the pages from each morning edition. "She's not my girlfriend, Runnah."
"Oh?" Runner suavely walked up to Dewey and, taking her hand in his, placed a gentle kiss onto her knuckles. "Runnah Conlon at ya service, sweet face." Mayfly cleared her throat in warning, but the young Conlon was oblivious to it.
Fortunately, Dewey wasn't easily won over by such kind words. In fact, she didn't take too easily with a complete stranger touching his lips to her hand, and she most certainly didn't approve of the charm he so eagerly flaunted. She'd had her dealings with smooth-talkers in the past; if she couldn't fend them off with her spirited attitude, she knew Patron could with his fists. Not equipped with clever retorts presently, though, she only stared back at him expressionless.
The girl wearing the shawl had by then begun to help Cody in picking up the fallen papers, meanwhile lecturing him in a motherly fashion over how he needed to be careful more often, and stop causing riots here and there. She had a maternal instinct he'd been on the run from something just minutes earlier. "I don't want Spot to have to break ya outta the Refuge, ya know." Her thin, chapped lips were smiling warmly as she handed him the last of the papers.
"Ah, Cyanne," said Cody, "ya worry too much 'bout everyone. Ya'd make a good mother some day."
The others laughed at this, and even Dewey found herself smiling. There was something about Cody and his four companions that conveyed a sense of warmth and unity. The smallest in the quintet, though, still hadn't spoken a single word. Dewey had heard Mayfly call her "Mouse" and assumed her big brown eyes and their observant nature had won her the title, after of course her being as quiet as one. When Cyanne and Cody had finished collecting the papers, they joined this would-be mute girl and discussed amongst themselves where they should dine later for lunch.
Runner remained before Dewey with a friendly smile. He was yet holding her hand until Mayfly came up from behind him and, grabbing the belt loops of his pants, had pulled him away from the not so innocent interaction. She then offered Dewey her own cheerful smile; her protectiveness brought a laugh out of the girl.
"Don't worry," Dewey assured her. "I doubt my brother would allow me to date anyhow."
Mayfly's dark eyes sparkled in merriment. "So are ya new 'round here?" she asked, going on a tangent from the original topic. "I haven't seen ya in these parts before."
"Oh, my brother and I moved here from New Jersey close to a month ago."
"Ah, wantin' to experience the city life, huh?"
"Actually…we came here against our will. Our parents unfortunately passed away, and we've come here to live with our aunt…"
Mayfly's features darkened as she heard the news, and aside her, Runner seemed sympathetic as well. They both knew what it was like to lose parents, whether by death or abandonment, and the reminder that such yet happened in life re-opened wounds that time had still to heal. Mayfly pitied the girl deeply, and wanted to somehow reach out to her. "Heya, me and my friends were headin' off to grab a bite to eat in Manhattan. D'ya think ya'd like to come? We could show ya 'round the city, introduce ya to some friends. What's ya name, by the way?"
"Well, Dewey has been a family nickname for a while now," she said with a reminiscent and brooding smile. "But I think I'll have to pass up on your offer. My aunt is expecting me back home…" she held up the paper she'd earlier purchased from Cody "…to read, or rather, listen to today's news. But it was nice meeting you all. Maybe we could get together another time?"
Runner nodded. "Most definitely, Dewey. We'll be sure to look 'round for ya one of these days." He beckoned to the others, and with a final word of farewell, the five newsies headed off to their destination, Runner and Mayfly bringing up the caboose of the fellowship hand in hand as they playfully argued with one another.
Dewey lagged behind, watching after them longingly, wishing she could be a part of their camaraderie but knowing for the moment she had to tend to her aunt. Laughing to herself, she started for the direction she knew would lead her back to a main street, but no sooner had she taken five steps, she noticed Cyanne and Cody had overlooked the page of a morning edition lying limply across the curb of the walks two or three yards away. She went to pick it up, and afterward noticed an envelope cast aside which the paper had been covering.
The small rectangular sachet was dampened at the corners, but she was able to make out the neat print on its face which read in fading ink: To the Love I'll Never Find. She studied it for a moment, and figuring it might turn out to be a good read, tucked it into the pocket of her light sweater. Then, it was off to Aunt Bethany she went…Aunt Bethany, and those crazed felines of course.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Please Review! Next Chapter: The Factory Workers & The Letter's Contents!