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Letters to an Almost Cowboy
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Chapter Two
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Madison Square
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Mr. Kelly,
GET UP! You have to sell your papes. Kloppman shouldn't have to yell at you more than once! Shouldn't you be setting an example for the younger newsies? That's right. Move along. You slowly trudge into the washroom to clean up a little.
Move faster! What are you, a snail?
Don't you remember what you have to do today? You're meeting Spot at your end of the bridge tonight. Which means, get everything done fast. And you can't go to Medda's tonight, or you'll drink and then you'll forget Spot and by doing so you've forgotten Race! What kind of a leader would you be then?
Skittery stands next to you while you are shaving and says, "Hey. You okay? You don't look too good."
"I'm great, Skittery." Are you kidding? He'll see right through that. You're supposed to keep everyone's hopes up because you're the leader. But instead, your newsboys are cheering you up.
Itey pats you on the back and says, "Don't worry. He's fine, I'm sure."
You ignore him and walk back to the bunkroom to change.
Wow, not much of a morning person, eh?
—Advice for Leaders
Ltd.
Glad that you ended it with Sarah. But
really, she's been whining and moping all day.
I would tell you who I am, but I can't bring up my courage to do so.
Love,
Anonymous
Loverboy,
Ooooh! Another letter! Don't you just wish your admirer would hurry up and reveal herself? Don't you? What a way to start the day, finding a love letter in your cowboy hat in the morning.
People know something's up. Bumlets just walked by and looked at you like you've grown horns.
You know why, Jack? Because you're smiling. You haven't smiled like this since Racetrack disappeared.
XOXO,
The Young Romantics
Association
Boycow,
Let's play a game. See if you can figure out Anonymous' real identity before she reveals it!
Clues: smart enough to use the word 'anonymous,' knows Sarah, possibly more than you know her.
Think, Boycow. Do you know who it is?
Furtively,
Amateur Sleuths
Association
Jack,
Amazing! It's only Wednesday, and you've sold your papers in record time! 100 papes! And that's just the morning edition! Think how much you'll sell today! You'll make at least three dollars by tonight. Save up that money, Cowboy, and you're on your way to Santa Fe in no time.
Cheers,
Pepper Up Alliance
You really shouldn't just leave your cowboy hat lying around. Just anyone could steal it. I bet these anonymous notes are starting to
freak you out. Don't worry, I don't
stalk you.
Love,
An Almost Stranger
Kelly,
Can you believe it's already dark? You walk around the streets of Manhattan, killing time before you have to meet Spot. Can you imagine Spot doing the same thing?
Obviously not. No one goes walking around Brooklyn at night alone. Not unless said person can take real good care of himself.
Well, Spot can take really good care of himself. So maybe he is wandering around the dangerous streets of Brooklyn alone. Maybe, he's even thinking of you while you're thinking of him. Maybe he's wandering the dangerous streets of Brooklyn thinking of you thinking of him!
Oh, well, look at the time. You walk over to the Bridge. Spot is already there.
Inquisitively,
The Worry-Warts Ward
Loverboy,
He takes out a cigarette and a matchbox. He doesn't try to offer you one, but that's probably because he is so worried about something.
Aren't you surprised that you know him so well? When he's worried, he narrows his eyes and wrinkles his nose from time to time. And he smokes. You can't think of another time when he smokes.
He inhales deeply on the cigarette, then holds it over the rail between his thumb and forefinger. His blue eyes focus on you and you drink in his appearance. Gray cabbie hat, pink suspenders that were once red, slingshot, that mysterious key, his sharp blue eyes. He says, "I'm gonna get straight to the point."
You love the way he always gets straight to the point.
"So talk," you say, and then you put your elbows on the rail next to him.
"Racetrack's in trouble."
You stiffen.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he affirms. "I got these two notes from some guys about him. Didn't say who they were." He hands over two neatly folded pieces of paper. You open the first one. In big black letters it says, "WE'VE GOT RACETRACK."
Before you can read the second note he puts his hand over yours and it sends tingles through your nerves.
"Listen, Jack-y, I know you want to keep this problem in Manhattan, but the guys who have Racetrack thought he was one of my boys." He pauses and inhales on his cigarette. You notice his hand has not moved and you blush.
"I want to help, Jack." He removes his hand and the uncovered skin prickles with the lack of warmth. He takes another drag on the smoking white stick.
"Racetrack is a friend of mine. A good friend." A small smile graces his lips. You decided not to read into the statement.
You look over the river so he cannot see that you are uncomfortable. "Of course you can help, Spot. Just—I'll—I'll see what we have to do first." You hold up the second unread letter as if to prove a point. He nods, claps you on the shoulder with the same hand that once lay over yours, and says, "Let me know."
Then he's gone.
You really should be thinking of how to help Racetrack. But all you can see is Spot's blue eyes.
Can we say crush?
Telling it like it is,
The Young Romantics
Association
YOUR FRIEND RACETRACK OWES US QUITE A LOT OF MONEY. $75, EXACTLY. IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN, WE SUGGEST
YOU BRING THAT MONEY TO THE TIGER'S EYE PUB, BACK ROOM, MIDNIGHT, FRIDAY.
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End Chapter Two