Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

Chapter 8: It's Hard to Remember

Spot

It's cold in my bed. Across the room Racetrack is scribbling in his notebook. Why does he need to talk to Cherish? She told me she'd be happy if it worked between us. Doesn't he get it? This is what she wants! Isn't it?

I remember when I first met Cherish. It was after class one day in this very room. If I stare at the doorway I can still see her walking in it, just as she did that Wednesday in September. She was wearing a light blue tweed jacket, very European, and a matching scarf tied around her neck.

"It's my Paris theme for the week," she'd told me later.

The things that I noticed were her eyes. She was wearing her hair in a very similar fashion to the way she was wearing it the other day, tied back very tightly. They were deep and green and glowing. I remember looking at her and realizing that I'd only ever seen eyes like that one place before. On...

"I love your eyes," she'd whispered to me on our first date, "they're so blue." Then she's giggled and sipped her drink.

I remember the first time I told her I loved her. It was a month ago. We were sitting outside under the maple tree reading over our class notes. It was still warm for October, even though now it is freezing. A leaf fell out of the tree and I pulled it out of her hair and snuck a kiss.

"I love you Spot," she said, smiling.

I remember that I didn't hesitate. "I love you too."

Why is it that easy to tell someone that you love them? I didn't feel any different after saying it, did she? I think she did. I can't believe that I'm this senseless. I don't experience feelings like other human beings. Do I really love Racetrack, or is it just a thing that I can say without meaning it?

I remember when Cherish and I met her parents. They were visiting for the week and stopped in to say hello. Cherish's mother is very much like her, the same sandy blonde hair and startling green eyes. Her father is a very formal man, at least, from the impression I got of him, and is many years older than her mother. He has salt and pepper hair that he combs into a flat line across his head. His eyes are wrinkled and dead looking, contrasting his family's.

"How are you young man?" asked her mother, "Simon, is it?"

I nodded. "I'm fine. Nice to meet you Mrs Chastain."

She laughed shrilly as if I'd made an excellent joke. "Please, call me Brenda."

Mr Chastain glared at me and stepped closer to his daughter.

What is it about fathers? Do they not trust me? I never give them reason not to.

"People know how powerful you are. They know you were born knowing what you want to do: succeed. Don't become setback Simon, they're just intimidated," my mother used to say. Whenever she said this I wanted to tell her that in reality Dutchy was the determined and brave one, that I was just a bridge- loving coward.

I don't think I need Racetrack to sort this one out. I think I need Dutchy.

Racetrack

The window is open, allowing the cold November air to waft through. I am buried beneath a pile of heavy blankets and I'm cuddled against the wall so that the light from a nearby streetlamp is just barely shining on my feet.

When I lie here I am reminded about Toronto and what has happened since I've been here. I met Spot, I introduced him to Cherish, I met Itey and Mush, I met Bumlets, I fell in love with Spot. And now I'm here. What should I call this point in my life?

"Call it what ever you want mi hijo, you're a bright boy. You'll find a way out of this mess," is what Bumlets' mother would say. I can picture her smiling face instructing me through my confusion. Bumlets' family has always been there for me.

If I think back carefully I remember when we first met. It was during Calculus class and he was sitting in front of me. He was much taller than I was, and still am, so I couldn't see the front of the room, and hence his head disrupted my learning habits.

"Could you move your head please? I can't see the board." This was the very first day of classes.

He nodded apologetically and ducked down into his collar to no further obstruct my view.

"Thanks," I whispered.

Class began and I didn't say anything more to him until after when I agreed to join him as a study partner. We went back to his house and I met his mother who was the same as ever, except more cautious. She didn't begin calling me 'mi hijo' until about our fifth study session.

I love Bumlets' house. It's so warm and always smells sharply of spices and faintly of tea and mothballs. His mother is usually in her overstuffed armchair and his father usually sits at the kitchen table and reads. Sometimes it's the paper but usually it's a mystery Bumlets has picked up for him. They are always so cheerful and seem to have a thirst for life, as if to grab life by the horns and demand the most out of it.

"Tell me, what of my son's classes are you in?" asked Mrs Flores.

"I take Calculus with him. But he's much better than me," I said, telling the absolute truth.

She smiles when I compliment Bumlets like this. She really loves seeing him succeed in life it's like her hobby.

The only family members of Bumlets that I've ever met are his three cousins. They are from Manhattan like me and seem friendly towards most. Their mother is Bumlets' mother's sister, making Mrs Flores their aunt. Their names are Sarah, David, and Les.

"When I graduate I want to come to school here," I remember David telling me.

Sarah rolled her eyes and tsked him. "I want to go to Brown. I've already applied and everything."

Les just grinned and asked if I wanted to play swords. I told him not today, but maybe next week.

"But I won't be here next week!" He pouted.

I don't know where the Flores' have room to keep everyone, but they manage. Houses in Toronto, like most large cities, are small at best. Contractors want to cram as many houses into one plot of land as they can. The Flores' are the most giving people I know. If our relatives came down my father would put them up in a fancy hotel. Not because he's generous, but because he wants them out of the way and taken care of. It is usually misinterpreted as a good deed.

I also remember how I met Mush and Itey, right down to the first sentence.

"Do you sell...normal clothes here?" I asked.

"Does it look like it?" asked Mush, who was having another smart-assed mood swings.

"This is a costume shop," Itey informed me, "There's a good handful of us here in Kensington."

Mush and Itey's parents are another prime example of what mine aren't. They're loving and cheerful, but can be a little wacky at times. This, of course, is all part of their charm and makes them more alluring than ever.

Their father's name is Nigel Meyers and their mother's name is Katrina Tadesco. They decided to name each of their children with both of their last names, while changing theirs to match. Therefore the family name is Tadesco-Meyers and that is what the costume shop is called; Tadesco-Meyers Traditional Costume Boutique and Dress-Up Goods Store.

Whenever Mush goes through one of his infamous mood swings, which I assume he's inherited from his mother, he turns to me for consultation. I don't really have anyone to turn to. I talk to Bumlets about Calculus, Itey about Mush and Spot about nothing at all. The surprising thing is that I never really noticed it until now. I never really noticed how alone I really am.

((There you go, chapter number 8! I like writing about remembrance it's so fun! Is it OK that I made Bumlets and the Jacobs' cousins? I don't think it's been done before, and it doesn't really fit, but I wanted to get them in. Review please!))

Shoutouts:

First off, I couldn't make Cherish evil. How could she be with a name like that? Exactly.

Erin Go Bragh- the first thing I think upon reading that line is 'heh heh, Race is a girl'.

Strawberri Shake- (stocks out tongue back) I guess Cherish is like a Sue in a not so hated way. She wants what's best for her little gay friends and doesn't mind that she's on the side. I'd let my two gay best friends be together. If I had two gay best friends.

Coin- (Buttons bloats from compliments) I love being loved, and therefore when my work is loved. Thanks!

Madison Square- they way you say the putting the beds together thing gives me a vivid image of Spot in vibrant pink hot pants dancing around the beds as he makes them. It's very funny, if not a little wrong. I have an overactive imagination.

Padfootismyhero- yeah! Go Gabe! Did you see the Harry Potter movie (just assuming upon your name)? My friends did and were all 'poof!' and laughed, but I don't know what happened because I had soccer practice and couldn't go. (frown) that's to bad, really.

Oh! And a question, do any of you have fictionpress accounts? And if so, when you posted a story did you get an email about publishing or something? I don't know what's going on but some lady emailed me. I'm scared!