Disclaimer: If I owned "Newsies", it'd be a Broadway show, and I'd be in it.
Matchmaker: Chapter Two
Confronting the Monster
"Race! Sneaks! What're youse two bummahs doin' heah, huh?"
Leave it to Spot to give people warm, heartfelt greetings. Okay, so maybe his greetings were heartfelt, but they sure didn't have to be warm. Which, in our case, it was, but if we'd been anyone else... You get the point.
"Heya, Spot," I replied, grinning. He grinned back. I could just die... It was clear why Race had fallen for him. The guy's gorgeous! Dirty blonde hair, striking blue eyes, pouting lips... Not to mention a wiry frame and the poise of a king.
"How's it rollin'?" He spat in his palm, and waited for me to return the salute. I obliged and grinned again, trying to hide the fluttering butterflies and the uneasiness that dampened it ever so slightly - not a great feeling, let me tell you. Where'd Race go? I might as well have come all alone by myself for all the good he was doing... He was there, 'cause I was hanging on to his arm, but why wasn't the idiot saying anything? Trust Race to chicken out on me at a time like this. The bum was probably trying to hide behind me, looking like a rat surrounded by hungry cats or something.
By Spot's raised eyebrow, I could tell that he had noted Race's undoubted terror. That's not good... He'd noticed that Racetrack wasn't being Racetrack. Race is always open and forward, cocky to a fault but friendly nonetheless. Besides, the guy was from Brooklyn. There was no reason for him to be scared. Well, there was, obviously, or he wouldn't have left, but that ain't got nothing to do with me. For a minute, I considered giving him a good, hard whack upside the head. The way he was carrying on, Spot would think we were there to kill him or something. Course, it wouldn't be that far from the truth, but there was no reason to get him all suspicious and paranoid or nothing.
But I couldn't do it. One look at his pitiful, pale little face, and I went all soft again. I am such a sucker for pitiful faces. Especially Race's. He's got that way of making it look extra vulnerable, like a toddler kid... Les couldn't even pull it off if he tried, which is why it's mighty confusing why Jack doesn't sell with Race instead. I mean, sure, Les was younger-looking, but Race is undoubtedly the better hawker. What can I say? The kid has more experience.
Anyway, I remembered his reaction when I'd told him we were going to Brooklyn that morning and decided not to push him too hard.
"Taday? But... We didn't sell yestahday! I gotta sell taday..." he'd said, looking like I'd just told him it was the end of the world and clutching at his papes like they was his stairway to heaven or something.
I'd rolled my eyes at him. "We'll sell on da way dere, genius," I'd told him. "An' yes, we hafta go taday, or ya won't even have a remnant o' all dat courage ya scraped tageddah. Now, c'mon!"
I'd grabbed his wrist and dragged him along, determined to get him to Brooklyn. We'd had a little heart-to-heart last night, and he'd told me he'd been feeling that way for awhile now. Now, Race ain't the most patient of men, but when it comes to love... Let's just say that "awhile" doesn't exactly mean a month, you know what I'm saying? So, in my good, righteous opinion, I decided right then and there that "awhile" was way too long and that I would knock him out and carry him to Brooklyn the next day if I had to.
Of course, I hadn't told him that.
So here I was, an oddly silent and fidgety Racetrack in tow, trying to find the right words for this... this... this.
"Listen, Spot, uh..." I sneaked a glance at Racetrack. The boy had his hat in hand and was wringing the poor thing to death. "Could we talk ta ya fa a minute, huh?"
"Sure t'ing," Spot said cheerily. Today must be a good day. I wasn't too sure if that was good or not. "Jacky-boy need a little help gettin' outta trouble again or somethin'?"
"Nah... Dis ain't got nothin' ta do wid Jack," I said. He looked at me, surprised, since boroughs almost never visited unless it was delivering a message or poker night. I could only grin back, trying to hide the nervousness that had suddenly blossomed into a heavy, suppressing cloud in my chest, drowning any flowery daydreams entirely.
Without asking any further questions, Spot led us into a tiny little abandoned building nearby. Great man, Spot. Probably saw that this was a personal thing with those eyes of his. I swear, the guy could read your soul in one glance. That's why he's leader of Brooklyn, you know.
I stood to the side and leaned against the wall, leaving Race in the center of the room. I'd done my part, thank goodness. People as young as me shouldn't have to go through this torture...
When Race evidently didn't want to do anything except stare at the floor and play with his hat, I prepared myself for another harrowing conversation with Spot. However, just when Spot looked like he was about to fall asleep sitting on those crates, Race suddenly straightened up. I could tell he'd been steeling himself for this moment. For a moment, I saw the usual jaunty Racetrack. The frontal view didn't seem to be as convincing, however, from Spot's indescribable expression. If he looked like this now, I didn't want to see him when Race spilled.
"See, it's like this..." he began, voice slightly shaky. He took a deep breath. "You an' me, Spot... We've known each uddah fa awhile, right?"
Spot smiled at this, perhaps recalling times from their youth. Those two have known each other forever. I'm not quite sure why Race left Brooklyn - as far as I know he hasn't told anybody - but even though he did, they're still the best of friends. In fact, it was through him that Jack made his connections with Spot, thus ensuring Manhattan's standing in the newsie world.
"Sure t'ing! Born and bred in Brooklyn, eh?" Spot said, giving Race a friendly punch on the arm. The poor boy could only laugh half-heartedly.
"Yeah... Well... What I wanna say is... I kinda..."
Race's gaze returned to the ground as he shifted from one foot to the other. I could see why. Spot Conlon had just turned that infamous gaze on him, having realized that this was not a normal little chat between old friends. Boy, do I feel bad for the kid... You ain't never been stared at by Spot Conlon before... It just ain't right, you know? It's like he's reading your soul or something, but you don't know what parts of you he's found.
And Race, poor kid, he's shaking like a leaf. I ain't never seen him this shy before, especially not when it came to courting. He just kisses your hand and whisks you away to some romantic little place for dinner, where he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, but it don't matter 'cause he's the one whispering them, and that makes it something. Not that I would know personally, of course, but I've heard all his girlfriends sigh and daydream about the next little meeting. But they're all gorgeous little beauties with perfect, porcelain faces and shimmering, glossy tresses... I'm just a scruffy little newsgirl; I don't know anything about it and probably never will.
Anyway, I suppose it's different with a guy, especially a hard nut like Spot, but I still feel bad for him, you know? But just when I'm about to step in and perform the daring rescue, he suddenly blurts it all out like there's no tomorrow.
"I t'ink I'm in love witchou, Spot!"
Amazingly enough, it was actually understandable, despite how fast he'd spoken. I swear there was smoke floating off the end of his tongue. Looked like he was breathing fire or something...
Spot laughed a little, like I knew he would. "Dat's funny, Race. Dat's real funny... Now why'd you really come heah?"
At this, Race looked at the floor again. I ain't never seen him act like this before. It's almost scary 'cause he's all quiet and shy... It just ain't him. Racetrack always knows the right thing to say. He has to have the last word, even if it gets him soaked. That's why I like hanging around him. He's always sure of himself, never lost, never undecided. You look at him, and you just know that everything's going to be all right, 'cause even if the world turns on you, he'll still be there.
So seeing him lost like this was a bit of a shock. Unnerving as anything, I tell you.
"Do we look like we'ah heah ta joke aroun' witcha, Spot?" I asked, sounding a bit more harsh than I'd intended to. The silence that ensued was deafening and tense. Spot's face just suddenly became empty, you know? Race must've saw it, too, 'cause he turned even paler than he already was, if that was possible. If he'd been standing in fresh fallen snow, you wouldn't be able to differentiate between his skin and the snow. Maybe you would, but the snow wouldn't have been the paler of the two.
"You're crazy..." Spot's whisper shattered the atmosphere. Again, it was deafening but in another fashion.
"Spot, I just..." Race began, uneasily.
"No! You... You're... You're crazy! Or drunk! Or somethin'!" His voice rose to an alarming volume. Was it just me, or did he sound panicked? Well, well, well... Spot Conlon sounding panicked... I never dreamed I'd see the day.
And I wished, with all my sentimental little heart, that I'd never have to see him like that again.
He stood violently, knocking half the crates over in the process. His face was pale, too, and by his heavy breathing, I could tell he was working himself up.
"Spot..." Race started again softly, voice calm but laced with worry, concern, and just a touch of pleading.
"Don't you 'Spot' me!" Spot yelled. "You're drunk or crazy or somethin', but don't you dare come back heah 'til you're sobah again!" He stormed savagely across the crate-littered floor and went to the window, looking out at the river.
Race backed away, and I would've, too, except that I was already standing against a wall.
"Spot, I..." Boy, that kid's insistent.
"Just go."
Spot had finally managed to calm himself again. His voice was quiet now but more than a little cold. Race looked at him one last time before slipping out the door quietly. I stayed right where I was.
Race is a sweet kid. I swear I feel like his mother sometimes... He's just such a kid. Sure, he acts all tough and everything, but who doesn't on the streets? You've got to, you know? When you live like we do, you learn real fast that you can't afford to be a kid no more. Except for Mush. That boy's just phenonmenal. Somehow, he still manages to believe in the best of everything and everyone, even after all the shit he's been through.
But Racetrack's different, you know? He's always joking around, the funny guy, until you hear the bitterness in everything he says. He's been selling a lot longer than most of us, and that includes Jack. He's the one real connection with Brooklyn; Spot would never trust Jack over Race, especially after all that shit he pulled during the strike. But who gets to be leader? Jack. Who's the one everyone listens to? Jack. Even though half the time, he's leading us on nothing more than a wild goose chase. People like Jack, for reasons I can't comprehend. Sure, he a nice guy and everything, but something about him just ain't real. It's like he's there, but he's never really a part of anything. He's so... separated, I guess, from the rest of us, but there's nothing to separate him, except a few rides in Teddy Roosevelt's carriage and a dream of the west. And that's all he is, really. A dreamer.
Racetrack, though, he's someone you can talk to and get good, practical advice from. He doesn't tell you to follow your dreams and do what you think is right or any of that useless junk. He helps you deal with your situation, whether it's letting you rant on about the injustices of the world or getting you drunk and helping you plot against whoever ruined the past week of your life. Or sometimes he just gives you a good smack and rather sharply reminds you that "...Everythin' doesn't revolve aroun' you, ya bonehead!" Whatever it is, he always leaves you a happier person afterwards while making sure that you don't do anything you'll probably regret when you're sober.
So damn if I'm going to let him down at a time like this!
"So dis is how da great leadah o' Brooklyn deals wid his problems." My respect for Conlon had dropped considerably in the last five minutes or so. "Makes me feel a lot bettah 'bout myself."
"I meant both o' you, ya know." Shit, he sounds like nothing happened, all calm and centered. What's he pulling, huh?
"Yeah, well, I'm sobah. An' so was he."
"I know."
What the hell was he pulling, huh? He fucking well knows, and he fucking said all that crap anyway? What is this?
"So what was all dat for, huh?"
I ain't never been the type to beat around the bush, me. Nope, if I want to know something, I ask you straight out. Some say it ain't a smart thing to do, but it's never failed me yet.
He stayed silent. I thought he hadn't heard me, but even if he had, he probably didn't know the answer. Yeah, everybody knows Spot Conlon, the tough leader of Brooklyn who doesn't take shit from anyone. The boy who, though a few inches shorter than most of his own crew, is tough enough to lead them all. But I know him better than that. He's a kid, too, at the heart of it. I remember when he was so excited about that picture in the papes. It hadn't even been a very good one; Jack, of course, was the only one who was actually ready for it. He'd bounced around like a rabbit trying to see it, poor guy.
Then a new thought occurred to me. "You were scared, weren't you?"
"'Course not! Spot Conlon ain't scared o' nothin'!" Such a kidder.
"You were scared," I accused. I knew he could probably soak me halfway to hell, but I didn't really care at the moment. Shit, I was doing him a fucking favor! "You were scared, and ya broke yore bes' friend's heart for it, is that it?"
"But I wasn't..."
"Yeah, you were. Don't give me that crap. You know you were. Hell, look at yourself, shakin' like a leaf... You're terrified!"
"Get out," he whispered. I didn't even bother stopping. He was going to listen to me, damn it, and he was going to listen good.
"I've seen you, ya know. You t'ink nobody sees what you do, but I've seen da way ya look at 'im. An' now when he finally gets up da nerve ta tell you, you have da gall ta be mad at him. What's da deal wid dat, huh?"
It was a complete lie, of course. Spot never had eyes for anything but headlines and girls. It just felt so good to accuse him of something.
Why am I mad at him anyway? He didn't do anything to me. But something about this whole situation was wrong, and I was going to fling it at him. It'd just take me awhile to find it. And when I did, boy, you'd better watch out.
"You t'ink you're so great... Are you jus' too good fa da rest o' us, huh? Prolly da foist time anybody's really loved you in yore life, an' you jus' blow 'im off like a nasty bug or somethin'..."
"What's that supposed to mean, huh?" His temper flared up again, but I could've taken him on.
"Wake up, Spotty-boy! How long has Race known ya? How long has alla yore goils known ya? Huh?! Ya really t'ink dat dey could possibly love ya anymore den he does?!"
"Yeah? Well... Well..."
"He's known you a lot longah den dey have, Spotty, an' he knows you bettah den any o' dem evah will. Remember dat he was yore friend foist. All dose goils, you sure dey ain't just in love wit yore face? If dey weren't, why ain't any o' 'em heah now? Huh? But Race, he knows you. He knows what you've been through. Hell, he lived through it wit you! How could you even think dat he wasn't being serious? You know 'im bettah den I do, and I know dat he would nevah joke about somethin' like dis."
I finally stopped my rant, breathing hard. Spot was silent. I'd struck him deep with that one.
"Go back ta Manhattan, Sneaks," he said finally, quiet. But he wasn't looking me in the eye anymore. Ha. "Go back ta where you belong."
And where I'm wanted.
Yeah. He didn't need to finish that sentence.
DONE. Finally, finally DONE. And no more finals. And no more SCHOOL. [looks slightly dazed at her luck]
It didn't really turned out the way I wanted it to, but... it works. And that's what counts.
Obviously, I wasn't really aiming for humor in this chapter, though I did put it under humor... It was just too serious a topic... Well, I hope you like it anyways! And review!!
Gothic Author
Replies:
The Omniscient Bookseller:
Sexy? Of course he's sexy... Racetrack is ALWAYS sexy, no doubt about it. [nods]
SPOT/RACE RULES!!!!!! Race cannot be with anybody else. He just can't. I didn't really think that until I watched that bit after Spot's "On the grounds of Brooklyn, your Honor" line in slow-mo. 0.0 That was some SERIOUS awakening, dude...
Anyhow, thanks for all the compliments!!! I felt all nice and fuzzy and had to do my best to stick with my original plot and not make Spot like Race, too...
hilaRyB:
"Emma"? Never hoid of it. Sorry.
Sneaks will fall in love with... [drumroll] ... You'll have to wait for it!!! I was gonna do it in the next chappie, but seeing as how you publicly called me a "heifer", I might just have to drag it on and make you suffer...
JUST KIDDING!!!! Yeah... The first chapter of the new fic's posted just for you, by the way... Can't have angry reviewers now, can I? [grin]
Anyway, if you didn't get it in THIS chapter [neon arrows towards "THIS"], then I'm not doing my job...
Mercuria:
Thanks for liking this little ficcie!!
About the wording... Quite a few hardcore "Newsies" fangirls who've no doubt done much research on turn-of-the-century lingo have read it, and they haven't said anything, so... [shrugs]
Oh, well...
Thanks for reviewing!!
Fallen Seraphim:
SCHOOL'S OUT!!! I CAN WRITE ALL DAY!!! EVERYDAY!!! [hoots and does victory dance]
Thanks go to: sugarNspice, Owl, Keza: Queen of Procrastination, and Dreamer for reviewing!! Y'all are great!!!!
