Hey there! Thanks so very much for choosing this story to read out of all the others on the list … it is, you must believe, greatly appreciated.
Again, I am sending a desperate plea to anyone who may be able to help me with a problem. I know that the readers and authors on ff.net come from all walks of life and have all kinds of different experiences under their belts. So to those of you who may know any sort of solution, my problem is this: I am currently seventeen years old, soon to be eighteen. Of the three colleges to which I applied, I have been accepted at all three and could not be happier about that. However, my choice has been, and still is, New York University, a fantastic school for my desired major of journalism. Only one barrier is in the way: money. I know this is a problem almost everyone faces, but as my dad was just recently unemployed for almost a year, it's as if I've been struck by the Plague itself. Although he is working at the moment, the job pays next to nothing, and we are fearful that the loans for which we are applying may fall through and be denied. Of course, if someone out there reading this right now knew a way I could make some money, potentially and most desirably, by way of writing, it would be great. In about another month and a half, I will be working three jobs myself to compensate for our previous loss of income and earn some cash for school. I don't care what it takes. This is my desperate, heartfelt plea for ANY kind of solution at all. Newspapers; children's books; independent agencies looking for a certain plot or character; someone looking for a hand-written, personalised story; ANYTHING … I don't care. I will do it. Email skyefeyden@hotmail.com or leave it in a review, if you'd be so graciously kind.
Many thanks if you've read that, and sorry it took so long to put out this second chapter. I've just arrived back from New York City and in addition to my Manhattan shot glass, I also brought back the flu and was (grumble, grumble) confined to bed for a few days. Thankfully, this time wasn't bad enough for all my muses to leave me like they usually do, and this is the finished product of a few days of nothing else. Thanks, and enjoy! (And sorry the titles of my chapter are so frigging lame!)
Arty -- Yeah, I figured that was the case. It's just that no standardized computer font can beat my decidedly superior penmanship! Just kidding, but in all truth, yeah, hand-written things always seem a little nicer.
Fizban -- haha, love the name … well, I am glad you liked it, but as you can see, I do plan on continuing this. I have tons of plans, but whether or not I actually ever write them in and finish this thing is a horse of another color entirely. New York was great, and thanks for your review!
ershey -- I always see your stuff posted and I swear I'll get around to reviewing it soon. If I wasn't so massively dyslexic, it might be a tad easier, haha. No, really, I am not dyslexic but I can't read too well at all. But never fear, I plan on making it a point to read your fics, too, because you are so wonderfully nice to me. Thanks for your review, I really appreciate it. A third chapter should be coming soon, I hope.
***
Forever
Chapter Two: Skittery Pays a Visit
"MICHAEL, MICHAEL DARLING, ARE YOU AWAKE?"
Sunlight streamed into his world. The voice of his mother floated through his door and she continued to knock for a moment, then called again, "Wake up, Michael, I need you to take Maddy."
"I'm sleeping," he replied curtly, then rolled over. 8:00 AM flashed from his radio-alarm clock in bright neon yellow numbers. "Tell her I'll be ready in ten minutes, Momma."
Standing, he found a clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His hair was mused and dirty, but it did not matter. Quickly, he brushed his hair and teeth before descending to the kitchen.
His mother was standing at the stove. Leftover soup was boiling again in an All-Clad pot and a bagel was toasting in the miniature oven. Skittery could smell it burning.
"Hello, sweetheart," she said, putting her arms around him. "Oh, Michael, thank you. I can always count on you." She kissed his cheek. "Tell your Momma that you love her, won't you?"
"Of course I love you, Mom," he said and stood embracing her for a moment. "When is Maddy's class?"
"It starts at 8:30, dear. You should be there by twenty after so that she can warm up."
"Do I need to get her afterwards, too?"
"Oh, Michael, would you?" she asked, as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. "Oh, Michael, you don't know how much of a help you are to me."
But he had never felt like a help. He loved his mother with a fierce protection, but the all-too-recent divorce had thrown her into an awkward phase, a time between light and darkness. Sometimes, Skittery felt like a burden instead.
"Where's James?" he asked as his mother stirred the soup. She turned to him.
"He's still asleep, bless his little heart. Say, Michael," she said, and kissed his cheek. "Would you like to take him and stop at the market for me?"
He felt that he could not disagree without triggering a small explosion. "Sure, Mom. Do you want me to wake him up?"
"Thank you, Michael. You know how much I appreciate this."
"I know, Momma."
He traced the familiar outline of the stairs with his feet as he shuffled to the third floor. Upon peering around James's door, he saw nothing but the small outline of his middle sibling, sleeping soundly. Then the floor creaked, and James stirred.
"Come on," Skittery said. "Get up. We're going shopping." In a softer tone, he said, "You have ten minutes."
In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of apple juice and drank it all. Maddy came padding down the stairs, her long brown hair splayed out on her leotard. Her voice was little, innocent, trusting.
"Skittery," she said, having long ago picked up on his friends' nickname for him. "Are you taking me to my class?"
"I am, and would you like something small to eat?" he asked, his broad palm on the top of her head.
"I want Jell-O."
"For breakfast?"
She giggled. "It jiggles in my tummy when I dance," she said and looked at him with giant eyes.
In spite of himself, he smiled. "Here, and eat quickly."
She took the cup filled with clear redness as Skittery turned the gas down on the stove. He poured her a glass of water and called for James. Slowly, eyes filled with sleep, the middle child came padding down the stairs.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Shopping for Mom."
"She can go shopping herself," James countered. "She never goes shopping anymore."
"Be quiet," Skittery warned. "She's tired, James, can't you see that?"
James shrugged, but said nothing more. He reached up and poured a glass of water.
"Are we going?" Maddy asked.
Skittery felt as if the kitchen were going to explode. "Alright, get your things together."
Emerging onto the front stairs, he closed the door behind him and a cold blast of wind shocked his senses. Maddy held one hand, her pink backpack in the other, and James stayed a dignified distance away, although Skittery knew to look beyond his brother's cool manner to the sensitive, frightened young boy inside.
"Maria said she was bringing her greyhound today and he was going to wait outside for her." Maddy chattered on. "Why don't we have a dog, Skittery?"
"Because no one would take care of it," he told her. "No one's home enough, either."
"You're home," Maddy replied. "You could help me."
"I have to leave soon, Maddy," he told her gently. "And then who would take care of it?"
"I don't want you to leave," she was quietly honest.
He looked at her. "Oh, but Maddy, I'm not going far, just a little north. But still in the city."
"But the city's so big," she told him, looking up at her brother as she walked along with him. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. "What's Momma going to do without you?"
"You'll help her, and James will, too." he answered confidently. "And I'll come see you, when I can."
He tugged her through the streets of this New York morning, watching the people go about their morning routines. Each one had a story, he knew; each one was an independent story filled with all the tragic aspects of life. Some talked about leaving the city, though he understood that they never would. Most would die here, inside their houses, lost forever in the hustle and bustle of a city that would go on without them. It would be the same in life as in death -- always moving, always changing, never looking back, never wearing the same face twice … forever New York City.
The doors of the studio were open and he knelt down to see her at eye level.
"Now you be good," he said, "I'll be back for you at 10:00, and you don't leave with anyone but me."
"I know, I know," she said impatiently, then kissed her brother hastily. "Bye, Skittery!"
Skittery and James watched her retreating back as she ran into the studio. With his sister gone, the middle child took the opportunity to make conversation with the eldest of the family.
"What's Spot going to do after high school?" he asked, looking up at Skittery, who shook his head.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I think he's going to stay with his dad for a while until they both get used to each other."
"I feel bad," James said. He was quiet for a moment. "I liked his mom. She was very nice."
Skittery nodded. "Yes, she was. But bad things happen to good people, and there's nothing that we can do about it."
"I know." James fell silent.
***
It was still early in the morning when Skittery emerged from the cold streets, groceries in his arms, Maddy close by his side. As James set down an armful of paper bags, the phone rang.
Casting a stern glance at the other two, warning them away from answering it, Skittery picked it up without letting the caller ID identify the other line.
"Hello?"
"Skittery? Is that you?"
He groaned, recognizing the other voice. "Yeah, Dad."
"Hey, son," now it was friendly. "How are you?"
"I'm sleeping," he lied. "Or trying to."
A pause. "Sorry. Is your mother around, then?"
"No." His protective instincts took over. "She went out."
Another pause. The tension was almost unbearable now. "Well, then, tell her I'll call her later. So how are you, son?"
"I'm great, but I'm also sleeping. Or trying to."
Exasperation. "I know, Mike, you said that already. Alright, go back to bed, but call me sometime. We never talk anymore."
Skittery chose, at that moment, not to speak the thoughts that were in his head. "I've been busy, so it's been tough. NYU stuff, you know?"
He sensed some repression in his father's words as well. "Yes, I know. But I love you, son, and take care of yourself and Maddy and James and your mother."
He saluted the phone with just the slightest bit of sarcasm in his manner. "Will do."
"Bye, Mike. Love you."
"Bye." He hung up quickly.
James was on the computer when Skittery left again. He stepped onto the curb and waved down a taxi.
"Between Grand and Broome, please," he said and felt for the money in his pocket. Once assured that it was there, he settled into the leather seat.
Manhattan passed around him in a flash as the cab driver wove his way through the narrow streets. Sometimes he knew his out-of-town and out-of-state friends to be surprised at the speed and dexterity of swerving that the cabbies used when navigating Manhattan's grid system. But he himself had long grown used to it, and it was only minutes later when he stepped out of the yellow vehicle into the famed Little Italy.
Racetrack's family still lived in Little Italy, having come "straight off the boat" when Racetrack was little more than a year old and completely unable to remember anything of Italy. Now, after years of business in America, they were wealthy in their own right, and took great pride in their lucrative little authentic Italian restaurant.
Skittery stopped to buy some colorful flowers from a vendor set up along the curb. They cost him $3 total and smelled good, and he hadn't seen Race in days.
He loved Little Italy for its colors, smells, and fighting spirit. The garlands proclaiming, "Welcome to Little Italy," always gave him cheer, and he loved the inhabiting Italians, too. He thought it best when the restaurant owners standing on the curb, acting as greeters, still spoke with the floating, beautiful accent of their native country. There was nothing better than sitting down and being served wonderful food by dark-haired, dark-eyes, dark-skinned, true Italian people.
"Hey, Mrs. Higgins," he said as he swung into the restaurant. It was still early, but a few customers were dining in the corner.
"Hello, Michael," the warm woman answered, smiling at him. Her accent was still thick and beautiful and her dark eyes crinkled with her kindness. A long time ago she had explained that the un-Italian name "Higgins" had been passed on by some Irishman back in the days of World War I. But the name of their restaurant was her maiden name, and a big sign saying, "Garliduci's" was hung above the door. "How are you?"
"I'm great, thanks for asking, and you?"
"A little tired, with Christmas just passed, but I'm well." She spoke impeccable English. "If you're here to see Anthony, he's upstairs in his room. He's still a little sick."
He lifted up the flowers with one dismissive hand. "If I know Anthony, he needs something to freshen the air."
She smiled. "Go ahead, and bless you, Michael," she intoned kindly as she went to ring up a departing customer.
He climbed the back stairs and knocked quietly. A weak voice answered, "Come in," and he pushed open the door.
"Hello, Race," he said, smiling. "I brought these for you."
"Oh, heya, Skitts. Howya doin'?" Race tried to sit up. The book Seabiscuit lay crumpled on his bed (A/N: excellent book, go buy it if you haven't read it already!).
Skittery smiled at the irony of the question. "I'm great, Race, but you don't look so good."
Racetrack waved away the comment. "Eh, I'm fine. Just caught meself a bit of the flu."
"Everyone was sorry you missed the party last night."
"Me too."
He looked around the room. It was a place he loved, a cheerful affair in which pictures were hung in every available spot along the walls. There were frames filled with Anthony and his father; Anthony and his mother (after all, no one loves their Momma like an Italian); a million pictures of Anthony and the Higgins' thoroughbred, Son of the Pride; and the smiling faces of Anthony and Spot. Newspaper clippings speckled the flat planes were there was too much of an odd space for a full frame, most of them highlighting the great achievements of Son of the Pride and blaring forth black-and-white photographs of a smiling Anthony and the beloved horse.
"So how long are you going to be out of commission?"
"I dunno … I've been stuck in my damn bed for two days already."
"And you say it's just the flu?"
"Yes, Mom," Race said, then laughed weakly. His dark hair was greasier than ever, and his face was overly pale. "Soon, though. Just gimme some rest. Then I'll be fine."
Skittery put an affectionate hand on his friend's forehead. "I didn't mean to disturb you, Race. Tell me where to put the flowers and then I'll be on my way."
"There's a vase over there." A weak hand pointed to a table across the room, under the windows. Against the bright yellow of the walls, the flowers looked especially festive and cheerful.
"There you go, Race. Get well soon, okay?"
"I'm tryin'. Thanks, Skitts. I'll see everyone soon. Just a few more days," he said weakly. He buried his dark head into the pillow.
"Okay, Race." he said gently and pulled the covers up a bit. On the bedside table were two pictures, one of Racetrack cheek to cheek with and holding the bridle of Son of the Pride, and one of Racetrack and Spot, smiling in Central Park. It looked as if they had taken the picture themselves. "I'll say goodbye, then."
"Yeah, Skitts, see ya later." It sounded as if he were already half asleep.
Skittery closed the door on the way out, making as little noise as possible. Then he was gone, and free to wander again.
