Disclaimer: No, I don't own Newsies…Yet. Mwah ha ha ha ha.
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See Spot Run
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Chapter Four
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Madison Square
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"Where are we runnin'?"
--Lenny Kravitz
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Sunday I woke up before the sun so that I could catch Spot before he escaped again. Spot was not awake yet, just as I had hoped, and there was no note on the door to indicate that he had already left.
He woke up at 7:30 am, long before anyone in my family rose, ever, on weekends, discounting today of course.
I didn't want to appear clingy, so I made myself comfortable at the breakfast car. Realizing that sitting at a bar at seven-thirty in the morning doing nothing but staring at the opposite wall was slightly suspicious, I jumped off my stool and tip-toed to the refrigerator. I opened the freezer, reaching for the first thing that came to mind: my Ben n' Jerry's Cherry Garcia pint of ice-cream.
Lovely mass of frozen heaven swirled with chocolate and cherries. And now for the spoon.
Armed with a utensil and my pint of ice-cream, I sat at the breakfast car, ready to appear as if I were doing something.
Flap flap flap. The sound of shabby sneakers on marble. Moments later Spot came into view.
Quickly I opened my tub of ice-cream and dug into the frozen fluff with the spoon. I didn't take into account the resistance of the icy mass, and the spoon bent. I ignored it and pretended to be eating anyway.
"Hi," I said pleasantly. He stopped and turned and flashed a smile.
"Where are you going?" My own voice resonated off the walls. I was the only one who heard an echo. Going going going.
"Out for a run," he said.
"Could I come?"
He started walking towards the door like he didn't hear me. I abandoned my spoon and ice-cream and walked towards him.
His hand reached for the doorknob and I said again, "Can I come?"
He looked at me skeptically behind his sandy hair.
"Are you serious?"
I nodded briskly. He started at me for a few more moments and I felt my cheeks growing hot. A perfect moment in my movie for Spot to say smoothly, "No one has ever come after me before." The Spot standing before me didn't say that, though.
He turned towards the door again. "Alright. Go change; I'll wait," he said.
"Cool." I walked up the stairs as calmly as I could. When I turned the corner to my room I dashed around and pulled on an old tee-shirt and big shorts. Still pulling on sneaker, I ran out of my room. Before turning the corner, I stopped to compose myself, then stepped into view.
True to his word, Spot was still there. He was shaking his head, probably silently laughing at me.
Let's go, then, "he said as he opened the door. I had to clamber down the stairs to keep up.
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I suddenly remembered why I hated running. It was boring, tiring, sweaty. To my left Spot was taking calm breaths while I was struggling to breathe, jogging down the not-so-crowded sidewalk.
I felt purple. This was the only adjective that came to mind. My face was purple, my veins were purple, I was seeing purple dots. A few people walked by carrying Styrofoam cups filled with steaming coffee. I envied them purple.
I really hate running because:
1. I start to resemble a tomato, or, maybe, a plum,
2. I forget how to breathe,
3. The inside of my ribs starts to cramp so that,
4. I look like a complete fool running with my arms held up high, and,
5. It makes me realize how out of shape I am and makes me wish I still played basketball.
When I make my movie, the actor who plays me shouldn't look as ridiculous.
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He kept running after we passed the dry-cleaning place and the grocery store so I kept running with him.
It wasn't like those marathons where they let people rest a little and give them orange juice and bagels.
We ran. People walked by. Spot waved at a few shady-looking characters and they waved back. Perhaps he met them during the past few days.
At eight o'clock he took a left turn down a street on which I had never been. Quickly I realized why. Mama would never let me set foot in a place like this—the houses were getting shabbier and shabbier until run down apartments took the place of run down houses.
At eight-fifteen he turned into an apartment complex, consisting of three buildings surrounding a small square courtyard. Spot ran straight towards the middle building, opened the front door, ran past the elevator and opened the door to the stairs.
My insides turned to mush. Running, I could do. Climbing up flights of stairs was a different question.
But as he climbed, I climbed.
He climbed until he reached the fourth floor. Then he ran down the hall and stopped in front of 412. The paint on the door was peeling and yellowing. What was I doing here?
Spot put his hands on his head and walked around a bit, breathing in and out. I collapsed against the thin wall and tried to calm my breathing.
"Why," I gasped, "do you do this?" I didn't expect him to answer, but he did.
"Do what?" He wasn't pink at all.
"Run huge distances without stopping."
He shrugged. "Running gives me time to think."
"So does sitting on your bed." Breathe, Itey, breathe.
"Running is soothing. It feels good, especially when you stop."
I nodded my head, not because I agreed, but because my mouth wasn't working.
It was eight-thirty and Spot opened the door to 412 and stepped inside. He motioned my in then told me to be quiet.
The apartment was tiny. The kitchen looked barely used; the countertops were still white, the linoleum floor un-scuffed. Empty pizza boxes strewn over the living room floor explained the kitchen's state.
Spot opened the door to the right, revealing a dimly-lit room—the blinds on the window were shut—and a lump on the bed in the corner.
In the next few seconds I saw the strangest scene in my life. Spot crept towards the bed silently, then jumped up and yelled and tackled the lump.
In the next moment two screams shook the walls; I think they were mine and the lump's.
Then Spot sat cross-legged on the bed and laughed.
Lump said, "Fuck, Spot. It's like six in the morning! What the Hell are you doing here?"
"It's eight-forty, Race You shouldn't leave your door unlocked. Any freak could come in."
The lump—hereby referred to as 'Racetrack' or 'Race'—groaned and squirmed under the covers. Spot was smiling. Sadistic punk.
"Aren't you going to fix your guests breakfast?" He lay down on the bed facing opposite sides of Race, looking towards the ceiling.
I looked at the ceiling. Nothing interesting. Paint peeling in some places.
"Guests?" Race said. He flipped off the covers. He was only in his boxers. "What guests?"
Spot lazily gestured a hand towards me. "That's Itey."
"Oh." Racetrack didn't look impressed. I waved a feeble hello. Spot said, "Itey, this is Racetrack," and then he wrapped a hand around Racetrack's ankle and Racetrack didn't mind. Jealousy, my mind said.
Jealousy is not a little green monster; it's a humongous demon wielding a machine gun and all the demon lets you see is red crimson red.
In my movie I will glare at the figure on the bed with disguised contempt but I'm sure in reality I was seething. I'll make sure not to make Racetrack as good-looking on film.
I knew from that moment that I would hate Racetrack. Everyone says that 'hate' is such a strong word, but really, that's what I was feeling.
"There's some leftover pizza lying around and you can heat it up in the microwave. Now, go away. Come back in a few hours."
"Thanks, Race." Spot rolled off the red, rolling over Race in the process (I think I heard a muffled, drawn out, "Fuuck," but I can't be too sure.) "C'mon, Itey. Let's get breakfast."
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End Chapter Four
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A/N: Sorry it took so freakin' long to come out with this chapter. Went to California for a month and got sidetracked.
Shoutouts:
Buttons14: Itey's mom, a jolly, bossier Santa Claus. Interesting.
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i-nv-u50: Thank you! I love my Spotty v. much and it's nice to know that other people like him, too.
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DigitalAngel4U: I should make my future English teacher read my fic and tell me what underlying themes he/she sees. Probably none. Oh, well. Thanx for the review!
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Strawberri Shake: Race is here! (sort of) There will be more of him and more of Spot ( and more of Itey ) in the coming chapters. Yippee!
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studentnumber24601: blush That's all I can do. Thanx for the review! (Hey! That rhymes!)
You've already read, now review please!!!!