Burning with determination to finish selling the shit papers for the day, Spot collected the penny from his last customer and headed off down the street. It was cloudy and overcast with an unusually low temperature that made Spot's strong arms become dotted with a few goose bumps. His hat hugged around his head tightly as his eyes turned a silvery gray color filled with concern and, although he didn't want to admit it, fear.

He approached Bolt as he strode up to his corner where he finished his last paper. Bolt sensed that something was up and the same look of concern took over his face.

"What's goin' on?" he asked Spot.

"Did you know about da new leadah?" Spot's tone was firm.

"What?" Bolt made a puzzled face.

"Bronx. Hoid they'se got a new leadah."

Bolt's eyes widened slightly. "When did dis happen? And how did ya find out?"

Spot sat down on a nearby bench and rubbed his forehead. "I think it just happened not long ago. Hoid from someone last night." He paused for a few seconds. "I got a real bad feelin' 'bout dis guy, Bolt. Kinda makes ya think about what he can do if he can overthrow da old one."

"Yeah." Bolt readjusted his hat as he stood in front of Spot on the bench, thinking about the news.

The streets were crowded with busy consumers and merchants. Mothers walked around hurriedly, workers returned to their jobs after taking a short break, children ran around the streets without a care in the world. Spot looked around the city and his surroundings. What was he to do? What if the new leader suddenly showed up in Brooklyn? What was he going to do then? He couldn't let his emotions show, but his feelings were too strong to hide. He couldn't mask them behind the signature cane or slingshot. For once he was completely vulnerable to even the weakest person.

"Ya look a little pale," Bolt pointed out.

Spot tried to ignore him and thought for a couple of minutes. Thompson, another Brooklyn newsie, walked up to them. He was a slightly thin boy of sixteen years, with almost black hair and eyes of the same color. "Did ya hear?" he asked.

Bolt turned around and Spot looked up.

"Bronx?" Bolt asked.

Thompson nodded. "What're we gonna do?"

Spot squinted his eyes at him. "What'd ya mean 'what're we gonna do'? Go about normal and pretend like nothin' different is goin' on."

The two boys looked at their leader and nodded in silence. It was quiet as the three conflicted over the issue. Then, after almost two minutes, Spot broke the silence:

"We'll have a meeting."

"What?"

"I'll have a meeting for all tha leadahs. I'll say it's about territory stuff, and it'll give us a chance to see this guy. Keep it quiet, though. Only you, Bolt, are comin' with me."

Thompson and Bolt nodded again. It was set.

"He's not even that good-lookin' if ya really look at him," Autumn spoke about Spot to Ginger as they walked back home to their apartment.

"Who?" Ginger asked dumbly.

"Spot. I don't know why everyone treats him like a god or somethin'."

Ginger kicked a small pebble in front of her. "Autumn, admit it: you're attracted ta Brooklyn. You'se just don't wanna say it. It's okay; he's gorgeous."

Autumn stopped in her tracks and placed her hands on her hips. "That ain't true!"

Ginger stared at her with a knowing look.

Opening her mouth and closing it again, Autumn gave up. "Fine! He may be good-lookin', but I still don't like him." They started to walk again.

"Nobody said ya had ta like him."

"Can we just stop talkin' about him please?! God!" Autumn shouted in agitation.

Ginger pressed her lips together trying to hide her smile. One of the essential qualities of a best friend is to recognize when a friend is denying attraction to the opposite sex; and Ginger could do just that with Autumn. But why was she so scared to just admit it? It was the Conlon spell.

Conversing as they strolled along the street, Ginger accidentally bumped into a slender boy with a light brown cap. "Oh, sorry."

Thompson, the boy, glanced back without saying anything. Bolt turned around and Spot looked up.

"Got my key back," Spot said to Ginger with an angered tone.

Ginger stopped in front of the boys. "Sorry."

"Yeah."

No longer was Ginger afraid to talk to Spot now that his precious necklace was back in his possession. She had also moved on from him.

"I said I was sorry, Spot, stop givin' me shit for it," she said defiantly.

Thompson, Bolt, and Autumn all looked at her, wide-eyed. Spot glared at her coldly; it made Ginger step back emotionally. He rose up from the bench.

In an angrily calm voice he said, "Ginger, I can't deal with you right now. Would ya let it go?"

It looked as though Ginger had shrunk a couple of inches. She said nothing. Their conversation was over.

Spot looked at Autumn and tipped his hat lightly to her. Autumn blinked, a little surprised. Frustrated jealousy ran through Ginger and without thinking she reached out to Spot's chest in an attempt to yank off the necklace that was so dear to him. Spot grabbed her thin wrist and pushed it back to her. Ginger gasped and rubbed her hand that now had small red marks forming on it, and held it to her chest.

"I mean it, Ginger. I can't deal with ya right now."

Within the next few hours, the Brooklyn newsies were buzzing about the sudden and unexpected meeting of the leaders. Usually they had a few days notice before one, but Spot decided on the meeting that afternoon and it was to be held in the evening. The vibe going around was mostly anxious and curious.

"Is it really just 'bout territory?" one would ask.

"There must be somethin' else goin' on," another would put in.

"I wonder what tha new leadah is like," others would say.

Spot paced up and down the dusty, brown floor of the abandoned building. It was once a successful factory, but now its sole purpose was to house the occasional bum and a meeting house if Brooklyn called for a gathering. The walls were still very sturdy without too much damage, and the windows were either broken or extremely dirty. Dozens of crates lay around the second floor room forming a circle. In the center was a lone crate with a lantern burning for its only light, with the aid of the setting sun. The strong smell of dirt and dust filled the air as the light crackling of the flame sounded. Bolt sat on top of a crate and gazed out into the window, anticipating each of the leaders' arrival.

"Dere's Jumper," he pointed to the tall and thin Harlem ruler walking toward the shut-down but still useful edifice. "Look's like he left his little sidekick bitch behind." Bolt chuckled to himself at his own hilarity. "Dat boy's always got some lil' kid hangin' on his side. Weakness, if ya ask me."

Spot ignored Bolt's commentary as he gripped the key dangling from his neck tightly, leaving red marks in his palm. His heart beat rapidly through his chest as his forehead became dotted with tiny beads of sweat. A habit he had never killed was tapping his feet nervously and it had begun to create music against the floor. His mind going a mile a minute, he took a few deep breaths and exhaled slowly.

"Jack's makin' his way up," informed Bolt, "I think Davey's wit him." He jumped down from the crate and leaned far behind him to stretch out his back. "Is dat da smart one?" he inquired with a powerful yawn.

Spot's feet picked up the beat again and sped up without an answer.

Bolt continued to "stretch" and accepted Spot's no response. He swung his arms around and loosened up his wrists. He rolled around his ankles and shook his head violently, grunting occasionally.

"What da hell are ya doin'?" Spot asked him, completely puzzled.

"Oh, ya know," Bolt smacked his face, "gotta be prepared for anything. Can't trust these fellas."

His friend's comic relief relieved Spot a tiny bit and his footwork slowed. Footsteps along the creaking staircase were heard from behind them. Spot rose and took a deep breath. Jumper appeared in the doorway with his head barely reaching the top of it.

"Evenin'," he greeted in his low and soulful voice. He approached Spot and they proceeded with the usual spit-shake. Seeing Bolt in the background, he tipped his dark green cap. "So, is dis gonna take a while?" He took a seat on one of the crates close to the door.

"Shouldn't last more den an hour," Spot answered.

Jumper let out a small groan. "All rights. Betta be worth it."

Spot bit his lip and tried to hold it in; he wanted to yell at him. Obviously it was important if he called them out here on short notice! He rolled his neck a few times and tried to ease the tension. Jack and Davey, citizens of Manhattan, came up to the room; Jack with his red bandana around his neck and look of careful concern, and Davey with his curly brown hair sticking out from under his cap and a look of subtle fear. Jack was the actual leader and Davey was just the brains and strategist. The "walking mouth", as Spot named him upon their first meeting a few years back just before the start of the historic strike.

"Hey Spot," Jack stuck out his hand.

"Hey fellas."

They took a seat and everyone sat in silence while they waited for the others. Shortly upon Manhattan's arrival, the Queens boys marched up the stairs into the room that was slowly growing with tension. Four down, one to go. The thought of the last one sent shivers up and down Spot's spine, and that was very rare.

Almost a half hour passed as everybody waited in the room in almost quiet. It was getting stuffy and the boys were nervously trying to keep busy. Bolt jingled the coins in his pocket, Spot tapped his feet, Jumper snapped his fingers silently. There was a large amount of discomfort going around. Practically struggling for air, Bolt jumped up and picked up a rock lying on the floor. He chucked it at the window and took in the fresh oxygen.

"Ya okay, bud?" Jack asked.

Bolt fell back down to the crate and fanned himself off.

"Screw dis shit, man," Jumper exclaimed. "I gots places ta be!" He got up from his seat and proceeded toward the door. He was stopped suddenly by two bulky dark figures. Put together they practically squeezed through the entrance. Each had thick and scratchy voices.

"Where ya goin'? The meetin' just started."