A/N: My sisters, it has been many moons. Actually, I'm not entirely sure how long a moon is, exactly, only that you're supposed to walk two of them in someone else's moccasins. Now, just tell me that doesn't sound dramatic…
DALTON: DAKKI!
OKAY! Anyway… (sighs) it's been a while. But now (cue trumpets) I have as much time as I want to spend in fic-land…finals are over…school's through…(sighs happily) and now, along with frequent updates, I can continue in my lifelong mission to count exactly how many times Christian Bale's accent slips in the course of "Newsies".
The current tally is at thirty-seven. It's gonna be such a fun year.
DALTON: A long, long time ago…didn't author's notes have a point?
Oh, is that what's bothering you, Bunky?
DALTON: (sobs)
Actually, for once, I do have something to say. Can you believe it? (waggles eyebrows McCoyishly) So, three things you should know…
1.) Shout-outs are henceforth at the end of the chappie (they were taking over the fic when left at the front--much like the Blob, only not so closely resembling maple syrup).
2.) Buffalo chips=buffalo poop, to everyone who didn't read the Dear America books in the fourth grade…which is probably everyone (therefore you guys are much, much cooler than me).
3.) …Aaaaand, this one is less information than a cry for help. In a coming chapter, there's going to be a campfire scene which involves a ghost story, and try as I might in a month I haven't been able to find anything that works, and I'm about this close to having one of the characters say:
"In October of 1994, three student filmmakers disappeared in the woods near Burkittsville, Maryland, while shooting a documentary. One year later, their footage was found."
RACETRACK: But…what happened ta Heather?
(sighs) Sooo… if you have a good ghost story, send it in; I'll love you forever.
…But, not that I don't already. (wink)
And now, on with the fic!
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Chapter Five—
A Horse of a Different Color
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"Are ya sure you don't want any, Race?"
"Mis, for the thousandth time—"
"You just look like you need it, okay?"
"Well, fine, but…"
"But what?"
"Misery. I ain't a goil."
Misery rolled her eyes. "Race," she said. "Using lip balm doesn't automatically make you a girl. It just means you know how to take care of yourself."
"Well, you say potato, I say—"
"Oh, just shut up."
Racetrack grinned, and despite herself, Misery laughed along with him. It was two weeks into May and they were in the last leg of their journey through Kansas, walking along side by side next to the wagon, enjoying each other's company. In the past month and a half they had grown to be close friends, walking together during the day, waking each other up in the mornings, and moaning to each other about the respective objects of their affection.
"So," Race said, trying very hard to be casual. "Mis, uh…just outta curiosity…"
"Hmm?"
"Ya still got any of that lip balm stuff left over?"
With a sigh, Misery handed it over. These past few weeks had brought drier weather than she had ever known before; her skin, as was everyone else's, was dry and sore under the beating sun and the dry prairie wind, and she could barely see sometimes for the dust kicked up by the oxen as they pulled the wagons—but worst of all maybe was what the dry air did to your lips, leaving them raw and parched, so tender that they would crack and bleed whenever you opened your mouth enough to laugh out loud. Hope's mother had been giving out beeswax lip balm that did a lot to soothe the pain, but of course the boys refused to even consider using it—until now, at least.
"Thanks a lot," Racetrack said, sheepishly.
"I'll never leave ya, little buddy."
Wisely, he chose to ignore that one. "So how's Spot?"
"Oh, Spot," she sighed, pulling the battered, dingy wide-brimmed hat she always wore away from her face, letting it rest by its strings on her back as her long auburn hair came loose.
"Oh, Spot," Race mimicked.
"Honestly," she said. "I wouldn't know. After the whole duck incident he was sort of scared of me for a while, but then we got close, and spent a lot of time together, and—"
Race scratched his head. "Uh, Mis? If ya sleep with a lantern in your tent, it casts some pretty interestin' shadows…doesn't leave much to the imagination, if ya catch my drift…"
She blushed, punching him in the shoulder. "Anyway," she continued, clearing her throat. "We sort of had a falling-out, and I haven't talked to him lately…"
Racetrack sighed, thrusting his hands deeper in his pockets and kicking at the dusty ground. He looked up at Jack, sitting at the front of the wagon, Gwen wearing one of his old shirts, frayed and rolled up at the cuffs, resting her head on his shoulder and whispering something in his ear. He smiled that gooney grin of his and kissed her on the forehead--why did love come so easy to everyone else?
"So what about Sapph?" Misery asked suddenly.
"What about 'er?" he said irritably.
"Well?"
He squinted out towards the horizon, watching her thunder across the prairie on her gleaming golden stallion, talking with Checkmate as she rode alongside on her mare, Clover, their distant laugher drifting across the plains.
"Sapphy's…she's a horse of a different color."
"Admit it, Race…"
"Admit what? I'm not gonna say anythin' until—"
S
P
L
A
T
!
Taking a deep breath, Race looked around to see just who had decided to throw a not-fully hardened buffalo chip in his direction, and wasn't terribly startled to see Lute standing about a hundred feet away, doubled over and giggling hysterically.
"You look really funny when you're angry," Misery observed. "There's this vein in your forehead that kind of stands out; you should really see yourself."
"Race!" Lute shouted. "Be lenient! That wasn't meant for you!"
But before he could say anything at all, he was startled to see Snitch come darting towards him from behind the wagon, looking frantically around. "Hide me," he whispered, and then did his best to crouch down beside Racetrack, which was slightly difficult as Snitch was about eight inches taller.
"WHERE'S MY LITTLE SNITCHIKINS?" Lute shouted at the top of her lungs, holding a buffalo chip aloft.
"Race," Snitch whispered, swallowing nervously. "Ya gotta help me. Lute's on the warpath…an' she's armed."
"Well, I guess I have some bad news, then…" Race muttered, and before Snitch could say anything he scraped what was left of the buffalo chip away from his face, and brought it down squarely on Snitch's head.
"AAH! NOT TH' HAIR, RACE!"
Meanwhile, Misery looked as if she was about to choke to death, she was laughing so hard. It only worsened matters when another buffalo chip came sailing over the top of the wagon and landed on Snitch's shoulder.
"Nice shot, Lutey!" Misery gasped.
"OLLIE OLLIE OXENFREE!" Snitch yelled, picking up a buffalo chip from the ground and hurling it across to the other side of the wagon.
"AUGH!"
He tipped his cap to them, and ran over to the other side to finish what he had started.
Racetrack stared ahead a moment in silence. "So…was that just me, or…did that actually…just…happen?"
Misery nodded.
"Madre del dio!"
"You can say that again," she muttered. "…Y'know…whatever you just said."
He sighed. "Right."
"Is it just me, or could this day not get any more bizarre?"
The words barely out of her mouth, the wagon train leader came hurtling towards them, grabbing Racetrack by the shoulders as soon as he saw him, and shaking him soundly. "We're here! We've made it through—paradise awaits!" And with that, he ran away as fast as he had come, kicking up dust in his wake.
"Somehow," said Racetrack, "I just don' think so."
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Well, maybe everyone else had gone insane, Skittery thought later, but for once, the old wagon train leader was right on target. That afternoon, they arrived after two relentless hot weeks on the Kansas prairie in Alcove Springs, and paradise was the only word that could ever be used to describe it.
Alcove Springs was an oasis in the very most northwest tip of Kansas, where the dry badlands of the prairie graded into lush grass and spindly spring trees—water flowed cold and sweet into a shallow pool, filtering out in a thin creek before it joined the Big Blue River, which they would be crossing any day now. The girls were bathing in the watering-hole and the boys had been banished to the other side, to rest by the stream in the shade of the poplars and cottonwoods, finally finding a little cool air and shade.
Skittery put his arms behind his head, closing his eyes against the late-morning sun and dangling his toes in the warm mud of the creek-bank. Blink was up daydreaming in a tree somewhere, Jack was a few yards away reading his latest letter from David, and Snoddy was—
--"AAAAH! NOOOO! DA HORROR!"—
--…pushing him into the creek.
Skittery looked up with one eye open to see Snoddy standing on the creek bank, laughing hysterically. Skitts just smiled lazily and rolled around, letting the water seep through his shirt and onto his sunburned shoulders, composing a song about the mud.
"OH! Da lovely sprin' mud is a thriiiiillll to meeeee, it squelches be-tween me tooooooooooooooooooeeees…"
Snoddy wiped his forehead and eyed his friend, currently smearing mud all down the front of his chest and grinning like a lunatic. "Seriously, Skitts…you musta been a pig in a past life."
Skittery made no reply to that, just grabbed Snoddy by his leg and pulled him in as well.
"Hey, it is squelchy…"
"Guys!" Jack called suddenly, ruining any chance for a second verse, "listen ta this." Hi picked up the letter and read to them in a mild, pedantic voice which, to his credit, could easily have passed for Davey's:
…Last week, Sarah decided to go out and pick the cherries from our trees out back for a pie. The trees are covered with fruit, almost too much for the branches to hold—our neighbor down the road says that after an ice storm like we had last winter, it's always a good year for cherries—but problem is, even when they're ripe, they're completely sour—they're only good for cooking. For some reason, though, Les likes them plain, and he's wonderful at climbing the trees. So at first, Sarah tried sending him up to pick them for her and send them down on a colander, but he ate more than he picked, so she gave up on that idea.
A few days later, though, she saw an ad in the paper for a cherry picker for rent. I can't imagine what she thought it was—maybe some kind of wire loop or basket, your guess is as good as mine—but until the day I die I'll never forget the look on her face when three workmen showed up in our yard with a machine the size of a bulldozer and a metal cage attached that reached up thirty feet in the air…
"Imagine Sarah tryin' ta cook," Skittery remarked, idly smearing some mud on his cheekbones so he looked like he was wearing war paint.
Blink laughed. "Didn't she set her hair on fire tryin' ta bake you a birthday cake las' year, Jack?"
Jack smiled at that. "Yeah. It was great. An' then she had this whole explanation 'bout how it was the newest style in France…"
"What happened to the cake?" Skittery asked.
"It died. We had a birthday turnip, though…candles an' everythin'."
"You sure know how to pick 'em…"
Jack grinned. "It's okay. I really like turnips."
"Even so, though…" Skittery settled his chin on his arms, looking up at the sky. "Maybe it's right you shoulda ended it with 'er…"
Jack just laughed a little and kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. "'Cept that she ended it wit' me…"
Skittery perked up a little at this. "Really?"
"Are you kiddin'?" Jack said, staring at Skittery in mock-surprise. "A chance ta marry a real-live roughneck farmer, she'll stick with some untitled newsie from Lower Manhattan?"
"Geez," Blink muttered. "Where'd he learn a woid like 'untitled'?"
"You're forgettin' something, Jack," Snoddy murmured.
"Oh? What's that?"
"In a few months…we'se gonna be roughneck farmers."
There was a very, very long pause. "…Let's just not think about that one…"
Skittery sat up a little. "Almost makes you wish this'd never end, don't it?"
"How so, Skitts?"
"Well…we've left behind one home, we're goin' to another…could be good, could be bad, y'know, but now…we're free, almost. Like gypsies. It's so great here anyway, and…how could anythin' be better?"
"It is wonderful," Jack said, quietly.
Skittery cocked an eyebrow. "…Know what's even better?"
"What?"
"This," Skittery said, quite calmly, and pulled Jack into the creek with him, depositing a giant mud pie in his hair.
Jack sat in the shallows of the creek, his suspenders hanging loose below his waist, his shirt untucked, looking strangely dignified as he looked serenely up at the sky, smoking his cigarette.
"Ahh," he said, contentedly, taking a drag. "Now this is a life a' luxury."
All over the camp, happiness was being found. Lute and Snitch, having long ago run out of buffalo chips, were now throwing overripe wild strawberries at each other, staining their clothes as if with blood, rolling around on the ground, wrestling—Snitch nipping at the tip of Lute's nose, and whispering in her ear, as if it was a romantic sweet nothing, "put up ya dukes, goilie,"—and Lute doing her best to retaliate, although not going so far as to bite his tongue when he kissed her.
Dutchy and Dreamer were feeding Violet the Bunny cowslip leaves while Specs rolled his eyes at them, and Mush and Hope, out walking in the woods, had their hands clasped together, her bonnet trailing down her back and looking from a distance like wings, her soft red hair making her seem like and angel on fire. The girls where basking in the pool, underneath the waterfall, and Sapphire Eyes of the Overactive Imagination was the lone survivor of a horrendous shipwreck, clinging to a piece of driftwood, desponded over lost lovers, friends, riches, until Racetrack innocently ambled by and she pulled him in, forgetting her sorrows and asking if he wanted to be a mermaid or a pirate.
"What about a shark?" he asked.
"No sharks."
"Well…mermaid, then, I guess."
Sapphy grinned.
All through the camp, laughter could be heard, whoops and shouts, the sound of water on water, and Snoddy and Skittery's mud duet. In the entire wagon train, only one person wasn't smiling. Far away from all the games and conversation, in the cool, dark shadow of his wagon, Buck Mulligan, their leader, sat scrutinizing his map of the trail, the faint markings of his pencil almost faded with age from the paper.
They were making good time. Alcove springs marked the end of the first quarter of the trail, and with any luck they would reach Independence Rock by the fourth of July. It wasn't that that worried him. What worried him was the forthcoming obstacle—they would reach the Big Blue River in three days, four or five at the most. These boys were the motliest crew he had ever led, and the Big Blue one of the most treacherous on the trail. It was rare that he ever made it across without losing a life…
[TBC…]
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Shout-Outs!
Sapphy: (gasp)Y-you have 'Friends' on DVD? (shyly) …can I come over?
DALTON: (clings)
…You'll have to try harder than that, Nuwanda…
DALTON: (collapses to his knees) …And I am standing here, begging for your forgiveness, holding these couch cushions…MUCH LIKE THEY DID IN BIBLICAL TIMES!
(Squeals) Charlie! You remembered! (glomps)
Misery: Aw, Spot's just a softy…
SPOT: (glares)
Plus, I think he's a little threatened that if you could kill a duck with your bare hands, you could probably manage something the same size, like…say…(cough) him! (cough)
Nada Zimri: The day that I go off cough syrup…(hic)…would be like…(ponders) the day that I went off cough syrup! (falls over)
DALTON: Which…should probably be now.
(groggily) …Okay…
Duck: (hands Duck an E-Z Sew) (brightly) You can fix a dropped hem at work!
Hmm…could that be a lyric for the band's hit single?
SPECS: (bangs on his drums a la Animal) E-Z SEW! E-Z SEW!
Teepot: (falls over giggling hysterically) And, I'm not even gonna pretend I'm above that…because don't pronouns do that to all us "Newsies" fans? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
DALTON: …You should try helping her with her homework some time…
(sings) The only boy! Who could ever reach me! Was a semi-cute preppie boy! The only boy! Who could ever reach me! Was a semi-cute preppie boy! Yes he was…he was…lord knows he was! (winks)
Hope: Aw, you were in this one, see? (points)
DALTON: Dak…she can read, you know…
(blushes) Um. Anyway…
I'm technically Jewish, because it comes from my mother, but I still get both Passover and Easter…depending on which side of the family we visit. Although, my own personal religion is based on the principles expounded in "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure"…
DALTON: "Be…excellent to each other."
(grins) See how I've got him trained?
Dreamer: Aw, did a little ego boost ever hurt anyone? I think not. (after reading the review, her head is too big to fit through the door)
Um, Charlie? (pause) A little help?
Checkmate: Ack! Wild killer Canadian Geese! Armed! With Hockey sticks! (pause) I don't know whether to laugh my ass off or flee from the border…oh well. (shrugs) Probably both…
DALTON: (grins) Dakki's afraid of swans…
(glares)
Shooter: Yay! (throws breadcrumbs to celebrate the bail money)
And, never fear…you shall be in the next chappie, and it shall be dramaticky, with thunder and lightening and smoochiness and bread crumbs…well, maybe not breadcrumbs…(pause) Kinda used all of mine… (grins)
Sparks: (sighs) I love goats too…my family used to raise them, actually, when I was little, and they were always nice to me. Although, did you know that more people are killed annually by sheep than by sharks? (pictures a collie dog herding hammerheads across a grassy knoll)
Ireland: But bacon, it's…it's delicious! It's protein-packed! It's the defender of truth, justice, and the American way!
DALTON: Actually, diet-Gestapo,that would be Superman you're talking about…
Oh…whatever. (grins) Besides, anyone who watches all of D3 too just to see the penalty box striptease has to be a kindred spirit.
Seriously, you should see the looks on the faces of some of the kids I've baby-sat. (wink)
me lee12: (grins) I'm glad you liked it. At least all this torturing of Racetrack has gone to a good cause, right?
RACETRACK: (glares)
Um…I'll just walk…this way…now…
Independent Fire: However bad your computer is…mine's gotta be worse. It's older than me, and I named it the White Whale. Think that might be unlucky?
DALTON: Well, at least it didn't eat your leg…
Wanna bet?
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(waves) Come back next chappie…same bat-time, same bat-channel—
DALTON: (cough) Copyrightinfringement! (cough)
--and if you ask extra nice, you might even hear the rest of Skittery's song about mud!
SKITTERY: YAY!
(wanders off into the sunset) Squelchety-squelch, down in the marsh, that is the sound that I love the most…
SKITTERY: (accompanies her on banjo)
(and all is right in the fanfic world)