Disclaimer: As ever, most of these characters don't belong to me. They belong to Disney and the wonderful person with the original idea for the musical, Newsies. (I wish they belonged to me! BWAHAHA! MINE, ALL MINE! ^,^)
Chapter One: Going Home- - - - -
"Yo, Lucky." The small redhead looked up at the sound of his name. Spot Conlan stood above him, tapping the end of his cane on one of the many crates on the harbor dock. "Yah muthah was lookin' fo' yah up in Manhattan again."
The younger boy's eyes shone with defiance. "I ain't goin' back," he declared.
A short, scrawny girl stepped from behind a crate, leather bound ledger in hand. "Why don't ya just go home, Patrick?"
Lucky scowled at the girl. "My name ain't Patrick no more. It's Lucky."
She thumped him on the head with her ledger. "Your muthah misses ya, so just go home."
"Why don't you go home, ey?" Lucky stood and took a challenging step towards the girl. "Why's you so high an' mighty so's you can tell me what ta do?"
"Her name's Bookie, an' she's me secretary," Spot interjected. Then he pointed the gold tip of his came at Lucky. "An you bettah be nice, kid, or I'll soak ya."
"Look, Patrick, you don't know how lucky you are." Bookie took a step towards the boy, closing the short distance between them. Although she was almost twice his age, they were almost the same height, and he regarded her skeptically as she brushed a lock of mousy brown hair back from her face.
"Yeah? An' how'm I so 'lucky'?" he challenged.
"'Cuz your muthah misses you. 'Round here, most of us ain't got parents at all, let alone ones who miss us. You know what your muthah says while she's out lookin' for ya?"
A look of curiosity invaded Lucky's scowling features. "What's she say?"
"'Patrick, darling, since you left me I am undone. Mother loves you. God save my son.' To every kid she sees. She wanders around like a ghost, reachin' for every newsie in Manhattan that looks the least bit like you from behind, hopin' one of 'em is you."
Lucky dashed a sleeve across his eyes. The older girl laid a pale, ink-stained hand on the eight-year-old's shoulder. "Go home." The boy nodded, scooped up the stones he'd been using as marbles, and headed homeward.
"That was nice o' ya, Bookie." The girl turned to face Brooklyn's formidable leader and was pleased to see his rare smile beaming back at her.
"Little 'uns like that shouldn't be out on the streets." Although I was on my own when I was even younger than him, she added silently to herself.
"Yeh, well, I would'a soaked the shrimp an' sent him home cryin' to his muthah. You was all gentle wid him." The tough-guy look was back on Spot's face and Bookie laughed.
"Oh, Spot! You're such a softie!" Bookie sidestepped Spot's swinging fist.
"Who ya callin' a softie?!" Spot aimed a blow at her head and she had to duck to avoid the brass tip of his cane. "I'm the kind o' Brooklyn. Hell, I am Brooklyn!"
"I can see the headline now: 'SPOT SAVES SOULS OF BROOKLYN BABES!'" Bookie dodged another punch. "I'm gonna go write the article up right now!"
She disappeared into the labyrinth of crates, leaving Spot shaking his cane after her.
- - - - -
"My lovey-dovey baby, I boo-hoo-hoo for you. I used to be your tootsie-wootsie, then you said toodly-doo." Honey pouted prettily at herself in the tarnished old mirror.
"You're gettin' better at that, doll, but you're still too cute to pull it of." The young blonde whirled to face her patron.
"Medda! You startled me!" Honey nervously smoothed the full-length pink gown she was wearing. She was very conscious of Medda and how beautiful she looked in her slinky red-sequined gown, with her black boa and her hair pinned in a tumble of curls atop her head. Self-consciously Honey combed slender fingers through her own golden locks before beginning to braid her hair into its customary double plaits.
Medda bustled around the small dressing room, pushing small mountains of clothing aside. "Have you seen the blue Heidi dress? I need you to sing 'Mountain Lullaby' during intermission tonight." Honey froze, hair twined around her fingers, and stared at Medda as the woman practically dove head-first into a rusty old costume trunk. "Oh, and Kelly should be here later and it'd be nice if you had some cookies made. He's bringing that cute kid - what's his name? Les? - he's bringing Les by."
The older woman finally surfaced, a badly wrinkled sky blue dress with an attached white apron in her arms. "Why is he bringing Les?" Honey asked, resuming braiding her hair with shaking hands. Medda had never asked her to sing on stage before. Sure, she'd danced in a couple of chorus lines and sung in a couple of the choirs, but a solo?
"He's to sweeten up the audience during the 'I Bid Thee Adieu' number. I thought it'd be cute to have him wearing that little sailor suit. He could hold that wooden boat Fleck carved for us." Medda continued shifting costumes around, head craning to see better into the trunk. "Where is that sailor costume?"
"I think I saw it in one of the boxes of 'costumes-to-be-remade-into-something-usable' box just off stage left," Honey told the older woman. She smiled as Medda bustled out of the room without another word, then tied the end of her finished braid with a bit of twine once used to hold newspapers together.
Cradling the other piece of twine in her hand, Honey fondly remembered the day Crutchy gave it to her.
"Your hair's too pretty ta be tyin' it with string, Honey." The girl looked up at the sound of Crutchy's prepubescent voice. "I brought ya this."
Honey considered the offering the lame boy held out for her. He'd taken a bit of twine - probably snitched from Weasel, she'd thought at the time - and wrapped ivy around it for a truly beautiful effect. She took it, fingers brushing his hand as she did so, and replaced the thread binding her braids with his beautiful gift.
The ivy had died long ago, but Honey still always used the bit of twine to tie up her hair. She did up her other braid and tied it off, then settled back into her chair with a sigh. She was just considering getting up and making cookies - either peanut butter or sugar - when a knock sounded outside the dressing room door and a head of mousy brown hair poked around the frame.
- - - - -
(A/N: Yeah, I apologize profusely for my crappiness. X.x;; I'm trying my best, really I am! I'm just tapped out on creativity today 'cuz I wrote a 3-page letter to Gabriel Damon. Gabe's a babe; Spot is hot!
Shout outs:
Heather - thanks so much for reading the first draft in all its crappiness and helping me clear up the whole Lucky/Patrick confusion a bit. You're a doll.
Brenna - ^,^ There! I finished the chapter just 'cause you told me to! Doesn't that make you feel special?
Please review! ^,^ (Lookit me, I'm turning into as much of a review whore as Ari! X.x;;)