Disclaimer: If I owned "Newsies", it actually would've gotten publicized.

Matchmaker: Chapter One

Confessions of a Secret Admirer

February 14. St. Valentine's Day, Lover's Day, whatever you want to call it. A day of stolen kisses and romantic strolls beneath the silver moonlight. A day of hearts and flowers and all that other lovey dovey junk.

And last but certainly not the least, it was a day of confessions. For Racetrack, at least.

Too bad it rained.

Ha. I crack myself up sometimes.

It positively poured.

On such dreary days, and trust me, it was very dreary indeed, papes can't be sold. Even if anyone were mad enough to even stick their head outside, I doubt very much that they would bother to buy a soggy, waterlogged bunch of pulp, which is what our neat stacks would've become within about five seconds. We had woken to rain pounding on our drafty windows and the sound of thunder rolling across the skies. By noon, it still hadn't let up, so we'd given up on any hope of food for the day. Ain't it grand to be dirt poor?

Course, Kloppman keeps some food in the pantry for days like this, and he ain't a bad cook or nothing, don't get me wrong. There just ain't enough to go around. I don't blame him or nothing, 'cause, honestly, how much do you make taking care of a bunch of street rats like us?

Yeah. Well, the older ones are real good about it, though. We usually let the young'uns have the food. 'Cause we're so sweet and caring, you know? But being nice sure don't fill your stomach up...

Anyhow. We were all hanging out at the lodging house. I mean, we really couldn't have gone anywhere else, what with the weather and everything. There really wasn't much to do, though. It was one of those storms where it was just light enough to see people's expressions but not enough to actually see what you're doing, you know what I'm talking about? And it's not like we could afford to waste light just 'cause it was dark. Somebody - I think it was Snipeshooter - tried to start a game of marbles in a corner, but it wasn't going so well. I mean, it's kind of hard to play when you can't see. Then, one of them accidentally hit Blink, and the game stopped right then and there. You don't make Blink mad. You just don't. Unless you're Mush, but that's a different story...

Usually, I would've been right there with them, setting up a poker game by the window with Race or something. But that was the key phrase. With Race. Setting up a poker game without Racetrack takes the fun out of it. There's no risk, you know what I'm saying? The bets never go over five cents without him. Besides, he didn't look like he was willing to share his cards today.

"Boy, I'm bored," I said, hinting to Race and failing. He sat beside me, concentrating on a game of solitaire. Honestly, he's such a selfish pig sometimes...

"Mm."

I looked over his shoulder at the game. He didn't look like he was getting anywhere with it. I mean, he'd been at it for at least an hour. Not that I knew the time or nothing, but it sure felt like it.

The bum hadn't even started.

I turned to him, eyebrow raised, and noticed his expression. You know that look that people get when they're concentrating hard on something that has nothing to do with what's in front of their face at the moment? Yeah. That's what he looked like.

"Thinkin' 'bout someone?" I teased. Race stared at race forms more than he ever stared at girls. Not that that's saying much.

He suddenly blinked, and his eyes cleared up. "What?"

I rolled my eyes. Good to know that he's heard every word I've said today. Not that I did say much, you understand, but it's just... Aw, never mind.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout someone?"

"'Course not! Why would I do dat?" he said quickly. A little too quickly.

"Who is it?" I asked, intrigued. When Race was stuck on someone enough to be distracted from his cards, that someone had to be pretty special. "Come on! Tell me! You were dreamin' about someone! I can tell!"

"Yeah, Sneaks..." he replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "I was dreamin' 'bout Spot Conlon, I was. He's got me head over heels for him."

I stared at him. "You're jokin'!" I knew he was, of course, but annoying Racetrack is a lot of fun. First, he gets this look on his face, like a stop-being-an-idiot look. It's real comical, and he gets so mad when you start laughing at him, 'cause you just got to, you know? Then he starts gesturing all over the place with that look on his face. Swear he almost took my eye out once. It's probably how Blink lost his... Anyway, if you keep it up long enough, he'll start raging up and down the lodging house like nobody's business. It's hilarious, especially 'cause he's so short, and his temper's even shorter than he is, and he's just the cutest little thing when he's aggravated, and he hates it when you point it out to him...

Aw... Come on! I was bored!

"Of course I was jokin', ya bonehead!" he replied, words clipped in annoyance. But if he was joking, why was there a panicked edge to his voice? And why in the world was he turning such a remarkable shade of red?

"Race?" I said after a very long pause, during which he had turned back to his cards, still blushing furiously.

"Yeah?" he mumbled back, sounding depressed and grumpy.

"You really weren't kiddin', were you?" I asked seriously. The silence that ensued was enough to confirm my suspicions. "Well, then..." What was I supposed to say? Racetrack Higgins was in love with Spot Conlon. A boy. And not just any boy, oh no, but Spot Conlon! Who had every girl in New York State chasing after him, by the way...

"So..." I broke the silence again. "What're you gonna do about it?"

He whipped around so fast, I swear he must've gotten whiplash from the air alone, and he stared at me as if I'd grown a third head or something. It was a bit alarming.

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You mean... Ya don't mind or nothin'? It don' bothah youse dat I like a guy?"

It was then that I noticed just how tensed up he was underneath that sullen posture. I thought about my reply carefully. "No... No, it don't. I mean, we get all kinds of people in the lodging house. If it now includes fellas who like uddah fellas, then..." I shrugged to emphasize my point. "I wouldn't say nothin' to da uddah guys, though. They might get a liddle paranoid 'bout it."

He suddenly relaxed, like he just realized that he'd gambled right and hadn't just lost a week's pay. I can understand that. I mean, how often do you say to your friends, "Hey, I like other guys. You don't mind, do you?" Well, I'm supposed to like guys, but... You know what I'm saying. He settled back into a more comfortable position, tired of hunching over.

"So... Whaddaya think I should do about it?" he asked in a conversational tone, as if nothing had happened.

"Have you talked ta Spot yet?" I didn't know how guys work, but, I mean, you got to talk to a person first if you want to establish a relationship, right?

He scoffed. "Of course not! What are ya, outta yore mind?" He paused for a moment, looking real thoughtful. From the look on his face, I could tell it was one of those plans that sounded logical but probably wouldn't work. See, it's the insane plans that light a spark in your eyes that always end up working. Don't ask me why. "Could you... Could you maybe talk to him for me?"

It was my turn to scoff. "What're ya, stupid?" I demanded. "Don't you know anything? When you like somebody, you don't ask someone else ta tell 'em. Go tell 'im yourself!" I wasn't sure if it was just me or whatever, but I'll be damned if I ever even consider delivering a message like that to Spot Conlon. Yeah, I can see it already.

"Hey, Spot," I'll say. "Ya probably heah dis all da time, but my best friend's in love witchou."

"Wha' she look like?" he'll ask.

"Naw. You know 'im. Racetrack Higgins."

A look of incredulous amusement would cross his face. "Racetrack Higgins? Race? Da Italian charmer who's stolen quite a few goils from me, includin' yore beautiful self, if I'm not mistaken?"

All right. So humor me. You never know. It could happen. He could call me beautiful. I sigh and dream of the day...

Then I'd say, "Da one an' da same."

Then Spot would laugh his ass off, saying that it had to be one of my best jokes ever.

"Naw, man! I'm serious!" I would cry in frustration.

Then he'd get serious and say, "Come on, now, Sneaks. It ain't funny no more."

"It ain't supposed to be funny! I ain't jokin' witcha, Spot!" Of course, being the girl that I am, I would now be on the verge of tears. Ha. The day I cry in front of a guy is the day that we're all walking in the sky.

"Get outta here! I nevah wanna see you again, ya heah?!" He'd get angry and blame it all on the messenger, namely me, and I'd be the one with the honor of leaving headless. Not to mention the one to get the brunt of the punishment.

Or things can happen the way Race probably dreams about it, and as soon as I tell him, Spot will skip all the way to Manhattan or Coney Island or wherever Race is and say, "I've felt that way about you since we were two, Race, and I've been hoping that you'd feel the same way about me," and then proceed to sweep Race off his feet and give him a whopping kiss in public.

I really wonder which scenario is more likely to occur.

Racetrack sighed. "I was gonna go ta Brooklyn an' tell 'im taday, 'cause it's Valentine's an' all, but what wit da storm an' everythin'..." He shrugged. "I jus' don' think I'll evah be able ta convince myself ta do it again, let alone actually do it."

Why is it that he has such a talent for making you feel horrible without meaning to?

I thought about it hard. There was no way I'd be willing to get my head bitten off by Spot Conlon for Race. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'd give my life for him, but pissing Spot Conlon off is another matter all together. However, it'd be completely evil of me to tell him to go alone. That meant... "All right," I decided. "I ain't tellin' Spot for you, but I'll go witchou ta lend... uh... moral support."

"Why can't you just go for me?" he whined, pleading me with his big, doleful, brown eyes, successfully breaking my heart and my resolve all over again. I am such a sucker for pitiful faces.

"I'd lie about it to spare you," I warned. "You know I would." And I really would. You have not seen Racetrack depressed before. You don't ever want to see him depressed. It's as contagious as his laughter, and before you know it, the entire lodging house is in tears over a broken nail.

He grinned ruefully. "Yeah, you would, wouldn't you?" He sighed and stared off into space for a moment before answering me. "Yeah, I'll come. But you'll probably hafta do most o' da talkin' anyway."

I laughed and threw an arm around his shoulders. "Wit my beggin' skills an' yore pitiful face, how could he resist?"

Okay... Well, that was a piece of crap... Like I said, my dialogue muse is dead, and I actually had to make the entire thing up by myself. [sigh] The next chapter will be better... I hope...

And yes, I know, I'm a pitifully slow updater ("Pitiful", apparently, is my word of the day...). However, I have neither the time nor the talent to churn out a chapter a week. Just stick with me, and I promise it'll go somewhere sometime...

Please review! To those who have reviewed, much gratitude and 24 hours with your favorite newsie(s) to you!

Gothic Author