Author's Note: I think the plant on the windowsill is alive. ((pauses)) That sounded odd. It's a fake plant. I think it's alive, and it's going to come and strangle me in the night. I'm extremely creeped out.

Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, I own West, Tempest, Mouse, and Rims, and everything else belongs to the play "West Side Story". Simple enough, eh?

.o.

East Side Story - Chapter III.

.o.

There's a time for us,
Some day a time for us,
Time together with time to spare,
Time to look, time to care,
Someday!

Somewhere...
We'll find a new way of living,
We'll find a way of forgiving
Somewhere,

Somewhere…

There's a place for us,
A time and place for us.
Hold my hand and we're half way there.
Hold my hand and I'll take you there--
Someday, Somehow,
Somewhere!

-"Somewhere" - West Side Story

.o.

Bumlets woke up on Sunday morning, incredibly confused and incredibly hung-over. He was lying on top of his rather small bed with his clothes and sneakers still on and a fine layer of stubble dusting the lower half of his face. He licked his lips and propped himself up on one elbow, immediately regretting his actions when a sharp pain exploded in his head.

"WherethfuckwasIlstnight..." he mumbled as he let his head drop back onto the pillow. He ran both hands through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut against the bright sunlight filtering into his room, wondering how he had managed to get such a major hangover.

Aha. He had left the dance early with Kid Blink Parker last night, both of them eager to escape the hatred radiating between the two gangs, and they had headed into a small restaurant a few blocks down. "I work here on weekdays," Blink had declared, flashing that wide, white smile of his. Bumlets remembered thinking that Blink had a much nicer smile than Anita. Around midnight it had begun to rain, but they were both too drunk to really take notice.

After that the memories were blurrier, fringed with the strong taste of cool liquor. The owner of the bar had eventually kicked them out-- perhaps. Or perhaps the two young men had left the restaurant of their own accord. In any case Bumlets could vaguely remember finding himself pressed against a cold, wet surface-- the wall of some obscure shop-- with Kid Blink's lips gently up against his.

Bumlets shot up in bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, and looked at the digital clock on the floor beside his bed. It was 1:45 in the afternoon. "Shit."

There was a knock at his door. "Go away!" Bumlets yelled as he buried his face into his pillow. "Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit..."

The door opened anyway, and in stepped the one and only Racetrack Higgins. "You missed church this morning, buddy," he said with a grin.

"I know."

"Ooh, someone's hung-over."

"Fuck you, asshole."

Racetrack's smile broadened, and Bumlets decided that the shorter boy was mildly sadistic -- or else he had had a Botox injection last night without telling anyone. He removed his cap and placed it on the dresser by the door and approached his miserable friend. "Where were you last night?" he asked.

"At the dance," said Bumlets into his pillow.

"No -- after that."

Bumlets sat up and touched his lips. "I went home."

"Why?" asked Racetrack. He didn't sound suspicious or accusatory, simply curious. His dark eyes flickered over Bumlets' fully clothed body and tired face, but his expression did not reveal his thoughts. Damn poker face, Bumlets thought irritably as he dragged himself out of bed.

"'Cause Anita was botherin' me."

"She was botherin' you?"

"She's annoying."

"She's hot!"

Wrinkling his nose, Bumlets peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the floor. "Hey Race?" he said after a minute.

"Mm-hmm?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than watch me strip?"

Race grinned and sat down on the edge of his friend's bed. "No, not really."

"Oh." Bumlets sat down and yanked off his left shoe. "Damn."

"Has anyone ever told you that you look kind of like Keanu Reeves when you haven't shaved?" asked Race suddenly.

Bumlets looked up at him and lifted an eyebrow. "Um, no."

"Oh. Just wonderin'." Racetrack sighed happily and looked around the small bedroom. There was nothing particularly disgusting about it; it just didn't look clean. Everything was rather faded-- the bedspread, the flowery wallpaper (which the apartment's former occupants had loved, but which Bumlets was saving up his money to replace)-- and the few pictures on the walls were crooked and old. Classic Bumlets, thought Racetrack fondly. Head in the clouds, too busy dreaming to clean his friggin' room.

"I'm taking a shower," Bumlets announced.

"Well I would hope so," said Race, eyeing him with distaste.

Bumlets wrapped a towel around his waist. "Fuck off, Race," he said calmly, and he left the room, closing the door neatly behind him.

"Hey, did you hear about the meeting tonight?" Race called.

There came the sound of the shower being turned on in the bathroom. "I can't stay out late tonight; I have work tomorrow, remember? Mrs. Carone burst into tears the last time I came in late, and I'm not exactly eager to repeat the experience."

"The Jets'll be there," said Race.

There was a pause, and then the shower went off and Bumlets stuck his head in through the door. "Why will the Jets be there?" he asked

"That's what the meeting's about, dumbass. Last night, after you left, Jack and West swore at each other a little, flipped each other off a little, and decided to settle this crap once and for all. We're workin' out the hairier details tonight at Paul Shanley's pub-- I think some of Kelly's boys work there, so they fixed it that we can stay there after it closes. Come join us, dahling?"

Bumlets blinked. "Never say that again."

"Sorry, hon."

"You're incredibly homosexual, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Well-- no one except Spot, but he thinks everyone's homosexual so he doesn't count."

"Right." Bumlets ran a hand over his face, loving the prickly, masculine feeling it gave him. Keanu Reeves, eh? Damn, that guy was hot... "Yeah, I'll come."

"Good," said Race with a grin. "Now get your ass into the shower, you're stinkin' up the entire apartment."

"I won't shave, though."

"Don't."

"I won't."

"Good."

"I'm a sexy Keanu-Reeves look-alike, and I have sexy stubble."

"Go get 'em, tiger."

.o.

Kid Blink did not like spiders. He did not like being hung-over, either, and the fact that he was being forced to deal with both at once did not please him in the slightest. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, not taking his eyes off the large, black spider that was making its way slowly up his left sleeve.

"What's goin' on?" asked Mush, glancing at him.

Blink took a deep breath and pulled the bug off his sleeve by one of its long, hairy legs. "Nothin'," he said, and he flung the thing as far as he could away from him. It hit the window of one of the shops and stayed there, glaring at him with eight glittering eyes. Blink quickened his pace.

Paul Shanley's restaurant was just ahead. The CLOSED sign was up on the door, but the lights were on and the main room was full of people anyway. Mush pushed open the door and Blink followed him in, squinting slightly against the bright light and smoky air. "BLINK! MUSH! OVER HERE!" someone called. The two boys pushed their way through the crowd to see Swifty sitting on the counter with Dutchy.

"Heya boys, what's happenin'?" said Mush cheerfully.

"Very little," said Swifty. "Dutchy is tryin' and failin' to teach me how to play Solitaire. We've been at it for the past twenty minutes. Help."

"It's true-- Dutchy barely knows how to play the game himself," said Specs, coming up behind them.

Mush leaned forward and examined the card arrangement. "Holy shit," he murmured, then, "Move over, lemme fix this. Jesus, Dutchy, where the hell did you learn to play?"

"Specs taught me," said Dutchy.

"An hour ago," said Specs.

Blink grinned and left the four boys to it, crossing the room to where Jack and West were talking quietly. It was really quite astounding how composed Jack was being; that Puerto Rican seemed to have a calming effect on people. "Hey, Blink, you got here," said Jack, smiling. "Mush come with you?"

"Yep," said Blink.

"I guess we can get started, then, now that everyone's here," said West, and he smiled grimly and put his cigarette butt in a nearby ashtray.

The meeting was called to order. It was nothing particularly organized; the Sharks and Jets simply gathered around the two leaders, who were still leaning against the counter. "Let's get this done with," said Jack, taking a drag from his cigarette. "We want to work things out once and for all, am I right?"

Spot whistled loudly, directly into Racetrack's ear. There was a loud smacking sound a yelp, and Blink distinctly heard Race mutter "Fucker" under his breath.

"Hey," said someone softly in Blink's ear. He turned and saw Bumlets at his shoulder, smiling lightly. He hadn't shaved yet, and Blink noticed (with extreme pleasure) that it gave him an uncanny resemblance to Keanu Reeves' character in "Much Ado About Nothing". Unbelievably sexy. Ahhh...

"Hey," Blink answered shakily.

"So what we're gonna do is have a sort of rumble to determine the ultimate winners and losers," Jack was saying. "Knives, guns--"

"No weapons," West interrupted.

"What?" said Jack, astounded.

"No weapons. We don't want any complications, yeah? It'll just be man to man, the way it should be, and the police will be less likely to suspect anything."

Jack frowned. "I dunno, Méndez," he said.

"Whatsa matter, Kelly? Afraid to touch dark skin?" West asked idly, examining a splinter embedded in the palm of his hand. "Nothin' but a lousy chicken, if you're just gonna hide behind the barrel of your gun." He smiled in a way that seemed pleasant but at the same time almost deprecating and flicked his hair out of his eyes. Cocky.

"Well every dog knows his own," said Jack softly.

"C'mon, Kelly, you turned nineteen in April."

"So what?" Jack snapped.

"So it's not just juvenile hall anymore, that's what. If Krupke catches you shootin' at one of my men, you could wind up in jail." West's smile broadened ever so slightly. "And we don't want that, do we?"

Jack was chewing on the end of his cigarette, brow furrowed, thinking hard. "Fine, no weapons. Man to man."

"Where's it gonna happen?" Mouse called out.

"Shit, it's the bulls!" yelled one of the boys from the window.

They had expected this, and they were ready for it. Race hoisted himself up onto the counter and immediately dealt out some cards for Spot, Rims, Mouse, Dutchy, Specs, and Tempest, and they began to play poker. Jack challenged West and Swifty to a game of darts, and Mush and Itey turned on the television in the corner. Everything was as it should be when Officer Krupke burst through the doors.

"I have to see you again," said Bumlets as Blink poured him a drink. "Before the rumble."

"Ah, Officer, lovely evenin', I daresay!" said Jack airily, his arm around West's shoulders. "Just havin' a little male-bondin' time with our friends." He emphasized the last word very much, smiled amiably, and took aim at the dart board.

"Tomorrow," Blink whispered.

"Male-bondin' time, eh?" Krupke repeated sardonically. "At ten o'clock at night?"

"Only time for it," Jack reassured him. "And look-- we're not even drinkin' alcohol! Nice, healthy lemonade, ain't that good? Show 'im, Blink."

Blink held up the pitcher and forced a smile. "I'll be at work here tomorrow afternoon, but I'll be off at eight," he said quietly to Bumlets.

The other boy smiled, and Blink decided that he looked like a nineteen-year-old son of Keanu Reeves and Johnny Damon. "I'll be there," he whispered.

Krupke was moving among the two gangs, eyeing them suspiciously. "Whatchya watchin', Meyers?" he asked Mush.

"Baseball, sir," Mush answered.

"Who's winnin'?"

"The Sox, sir."

"Red Sox fan, Meyers?"

"Yes, sir."

Krupke seemed to be considering placing Mush under arrest for this reason alone, but he shrugged the information off and turned back to Jack. "Well, I'm goin' back to my beat," he said. "There'd better not be any problems in here when I pass this place again, y'hear me?"

"Course, sir," said Jack politely.

"See you 'round, Kelly. If these Puerto Rican boys give you trouble, lemme know."

Krupke left. The instant the door swung closed, Racetrack gathered up the cards, Swifty put away the darts, Itey turned off the television, the two gangs separated like vinegar and water, and the meeting resumed. "The rumble'll be on the basketball court," said Jack as though there had been no interruption.

"Stupid," said Tempest. "Krupke'll find us; it's right on his beat."

"By the river, then."

"Too open. That's no good, either."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Well who died and left you in charge?" he demanded irritably. A few of the Jets snickered.

"Under the highway," said Blink suddenly, looking up from his lemonade.

"What?"

"Krupke'll never check under the highway. There's open space and easy escape routes in case we need to get out fast. It might work." He looked back down, unsure of why he had contributed to the meeting at all. He really didn't want the rumble to happen; the idea of seriously fighting with the Sharks terrified him, not only for himself, but for his fellow gang members. And Bumlets. His only comfort was that they weren't using knives-- he didn't want anyone else losing an eye.

There was a moment of thoughtful silence as the rest of the boys considered the suggestion. "Under the highway, then," said West finally. "What time?" He smiled devilishly through shaggy bangs. This was his element. He had a sort of fiery passion not unlike his brother's when it came to organized violence like rumbles, and his graceful hands seemed to itch to release all the anger and bitterness he had been keeping inside of him. It was quite alarming.

"Your call," said Jack.

"Wednesday. 11:00."

"Done."

They shook, looking like they wanted to crush each other's fingers. "Don't be late," said West. "No weapons-- man to man, remember."

"All right, all right, keep your pants on," said Jack coolly. This sounded rather preposterous at the moment, because the Puerto Rican had been nothing but calm and pleasant throughout the entire meeting-- it was Jack who was acting like a teenage girl at that special time of month. "I'll see you then, Méndez. No more fights till then--"

"And no more jumpin' my men," said West with a meaningful glance at Bumlets.

"Who jumped Swifty last Friday?" Jack snapped.

"Who jumped Itey on our first day here?" West replied.

"Who asked you to fucking move here in the first place?"

West laughed, putting a hand over his face. "Aw, Kelly," he chuckled, and then he straightened up again. "Well let's get outta this dump, Sharks. See you, Cowboy."

Jack flipped him off and tossed out his cigarette. "Bunch o' lousy chickens," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, as the group of boys filtered out of the pub.

"Yeah, but that Racetrack..." said Spot faintly as the door closed behind the sharks. "I'll tell ya, his ass is almost as nice as Bumlets'."

Jack finished his lemonade. "Hey Spot?"

"Hmm?"

"Shut up."

.o.

Bumlets had no idea how it had happened, but somehow his pack of cigarettes had fallen into the hands of Racetrack (who was now offering them around the room), his apartment had been transformed into a hang-out area for fifteen sweaty boys, and Anita had planted herself firmly on his lap and was stroking his stubbly face. He made a mental note to shave it all off as soon as it was humanly possible.

"Krupke's a racist son of a bitch," said Tempest with conviction as he accepted a cigarette from Race. "I swear if we were white, he wouldn't give a damn about whether we fought with the Jets or not."

"Aw c'mon, Tempest, you know that's not true," said Anita.

"It damn well is true," Tempest snapped. "It's true everywhere we fucking go. D'you know, I got a job as a delivery boy last week, and the guy took one look at my face and turned me down. How's that for the land of the free, hmm?"

"He wasn't being discriminatory, he was just terrified of your ugliness," said Anita, and she and Leya sniggered irritatingly.

On the whole, Bumlets decided that he didn't like girls much at all. They were loud and giggly and beautiful and wore ridiculously high shoes, and they were overpowering his masculine environment. He had even heard one girl, Rosalia, talking to Anita about redecorating his place. What the fuck...

"No, I gotta say I agree with Tempest." Race leaned against the table and pulled out his lighter. "Considerin' we are livin' in the land of the free, I haven't seen much freedom-- for anyone but whites, anyway."

"I miss Puerto Rico," said Mouse after a moment. There was an unusual tone in her voice; she sounded nostalgic rather than loud and determined, and it startled everyone.

Anita tossed her head back, dark curls getting in Bumlets' face and making him cough. "Puerto Rico-- what an ugly island. Man it sink back into the ocean, for all I care," she said disdainfully.

"Too many bullets, to many hurricanes, too many people..." Leya ticked them off on her fingers, frowning. "I like it better here," she said, and she leaned her head against Itey's shoulder and closed her eyes.

"I like the island Manhattan," announced Rosalia.

"Of course you do," said Bumlets. "You ladies don't see half of what's goin' on; you don't have to deal with the police--"

Anita stood up angrily. "Are you trying to say that we don't know what America's really like?" she snapped

"Yes, he is," said Mouse with a smile.

"I fucking live in New York City!"

Bumlets quickly crossed his legs to prevent Anita from returning to his lap. "But you obviously don't really know it, because you seem to be under the impression that whites aren't treated better than the rest of us," he said evenly.

"I have a washing machine," Anita whispered, a deadly glint in her eyes. "No one had a washing machine in Puerto Rico; it was to expensive."

"Oh, that's nice," said Tempest. "Or it would be, if you had any clothes to keep clean. You spent all your money on the washing machine, and you're too poor to get anything to use it on."

Anita kicked him.

"I don't care what you say, but the boys here are definitely cuter than they are in San Juan," said Rosalia firmly.

"Gotta agree with you there," said Race dryly. Mouse laughed and punched his shoulder playfully, and he winked at her and took another drag from his cigarette.

"Anyway, how does that help you?" Itey said reasonably. "At least in San Juan, you were allowed to date the good-lookin' boys, such as myself. Here, the guys take one look at the color of your skin and run as fast as they can in the other direction."

"Honestly, the way we're goin', soon we're gonna have to marry our own brothers and sisters to avoid extinction," said Tempest, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ow-- shit, Anita, would you stop kickin' me?"

Itey stood up. "We should go to bed," he said firmly.

"Not here, I don't have enough beds!" Bumlets yelped.

"No, not here, you lunatic, I meant we should go home. We all have work tomorrow--"

"Except for Tempest, who's still unemployed," said Race.

"I hear he's looking into an occupation as a manwhore," said West.

"I am NOT!" yelled Tempest.

"He'd be good at it, too," said Race. "Very seductive, that Tempest."

"Oh, definitely."

"Shut UP, asshole!"

"That would be assholes, bro. There are two of us."

Bumlets stood up. "All right, everyone, get the HELL out of my apartment!" he yelled, and he herded them out and closed the door behind them. He could hear their laughing and bickering all down the hallway, and he smiled to himself. Lunatics...

.o.

Puerto Rico...

You lovely island...

Island of tropical breezes.

Always the pineapples growing,

Always the coffee blossoms blowing.

Puerto Rico...

You ugly island...

Island of tropic diseases.

Always the hurricanes blowing,

Always the population growing...

And the money owing,

And the babies crying,

And the bullets flying.

I like the island Manhattan--

Smoke on your pipe and put that in!

-"America", West Side Story

.o.

Author's Note: ((sings)) ONLY YOU, YOU ARE THE ONLY LIGHT I SEEEEEE, FOREEEEVEEEEEEEEER! IN MY EYES, IN MY WORDS, AND IN EVERYTHING I DOOOO! NOTHING IS BUT YOOOOOOOU, EVER!

Racetrack: AND THERE'S NOTHING FOR ME BUT SATURDAY! EVERY SIGHT THAT I SEE IS SATURDAY!

RACETRACK, RACETRACK...

Racetrack: ((picks me up)) ALWAYS YOU, EVERY THOUGHT I'LL EVER KNOOOOOOOOOOOW! EVERYWHERE I GOOOOOO, YOU'LL BEEEEEE!

((sing together)) ALL THE WORLD IS ONLY YOOOOOOOOU AND MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

((sighs happily)) Yes, when I fall in love, that is how I'm gonna do it. So Race, I owe you how much?

Racetrack: A hundred bucks, you romantic loser. And NEVER make me do that again. ((drops me)) ((holds out hand for money))

((frowns from the floor)) That seems kinda steep, Higgins. How 'bout I give you a nickel and we call it even? ((cowers under his furious gaze)) All right, all right, I was just kidding... heh heh... ((gives him a hundred dollar bill)) Sheesh.

Racetrack: ((to audience)) Please review, or she's gonna make me do that again... Her theory is that if she doesn't get enough love from her reviewers, she'll just squeeze it out of me. And it hurts.

((smiling happily)) Heart-shaped cookies for Strawberri Shake, rumor, Scout73, Madison Square, Braids21, Dreamer110, Sapphy, and Coin because I adore you guys!! MWAH! ((skips away, whistling "West Side Story" songs))

-Saturday