"Race."

"Lover-boy," someone cooed in his ear. "Oh, Racetrack."

"Medda," he murmured, still half asleep.

"Oh, Race!" Blink squealed in a girlish voice. He grabbed a pillow and planted it on Race's head.

Several boys standing around laughed as Race, who was finally awake, struggled to breathe. Disheveled, he threw the pillow at Blink.

"Morning!" Blink laughed, holding onto the pillow. "Have a nice sleep?" He watched Race search madly for something on the bedside table.

Race was exhausted. He had barely gotten two hours of sleep and the dark circles under his eyes were proof of that. He rubbed his eyes and with a swipe of his other hand, he succeeded in knocking everything off the table. "Cigar," he muttered feverishly. "All right. Who the hell took my cigar? I had one left and now it's gone. And Snipes, if I find out it's you again, you're gonna wish you was never born!"

"It weren't me!" Snipes said, waving his hands in surrender.

Race let out a frustrated groan and got up. He needed to get dressed and go. He walked sleepily to the sinks and washed his face.

"Jesus, Race, you look terrible."

"Thanks, Cowboy," Race said without looking up. He didn't need to—he knew it was Jack.

"Did someone soak ya?" Jack Kelly had fashioned this nickname "Cowboy," because he wanted to run away to Santa Fe and become one. He had been telling them this for years and so far, he hadn't gone anywhere.

"Very funny."

"Heard you had quite a night." Jack gave him a bemused look.

Race looked up. "Oh, didja? From who?"

Jack shook his head. "I ain't no snitch."

"It wouldn't be that little one-eyed twit, would it?" he questioned innocently.

Jack raised an eyebrow and said seriously, "What's it worth to you?"

Race threw down the bar of soap. "You kiddin' me? It ain't worth nothin'—I already know Blink told you!" He wiped his face with a towel, of which was already quite dirty.

"Race," Jack called before he left.

"Look." Race turned around. "I don't got time to talk about this now. Nothin' happened. We talked, she went home. That was it!" He disappeared down the stairs.

"Hey, Wease," he said a few minutes later. "Give me forty papes, huh?" When the stack of papers was handed to him, he said, "Thanks," and went on his way. As he walked, he looked through the paper. He read one of the headlines: "Will Earth stop spinning? Apocalypse on horizon." Race sniggered softly, turning the page. Another headline immediately caught his eye: "Medda Larkson—Great future on and off Vaudeville stage." He narrowed his eyes and read on, "Vaudeville star Medda Larkson finally told correspondents of her recent engagement to tycoon Roger Mitchell."

The cigar that had been in his mouth fell when he read the word engagement. He had come to a complete stop. People walked around him and some simply pushed him out of the way. Not knowing what else to do and ignoring his conscience's warnings, he went straight to her door.

Medda answered wearing a frilly robe over her nightdress. "Race!" She sounded surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Medda," he said sternly, "I don't mean no disrespect, but…are you getting married to this bonehead?" He held up a picture of Roger Mitchell from a front-page story.

She glanced around and pulled him inside, shutting the door. She looked different without makeup and her hair all done up. She came very close to his face and demanded, "Where did you hear about that?"

"Whaddya mean?" Race asked incredulously. "It's all over the papers!" He gave the page to her so she could see it. "Says right here that you told 'em."

She shuddered angrily. "That rat! That filthy bastard!"

Race was lost, but he ignored it and went on, "Look, Medda, I thought we could've had somethin' special. I mean, I really liked you—like you—, and you can't imagine the hell I went through from the other newsies—"

Medda slapped him then and Race, jaw dropped, stared up at her completely dumbstruck. Before he could say another word, her mouth had connected with him in a quick but passionate kiss.

Race broke it, panicking. "Medda, you can't just go and kiss ev'ry admirer you got! 'Cause y'know, we get these ideas in our heads…"

"Any idea of yours is all right with me," she replied, smiling flirtatiously.

Race swallowed, then said, his voice cracking, "So—so, who's this joker, huh? Sounds like he's giving you trouble."

Medda gave him a stern look. "Race, I don't want you getting involved. He has goon twice the size of scabs." Her hand wandered absently to her head, where she realized she had forgotten to do something. "Oh my god, the curlers are still in!" she gasped, horrified. "Excuse me!"

She started to walk off, red in the face, when Race said, "Hey, Medda, don't." She stared at him. "It looks nice. Y'know, I ain't used to seeing you like this."

Medda smiled. "You're not supposed to." She paused. "Um, do you want some coffee?"

"Sure." He set his papers down and followed her into the kitchen.

Once she had given him his cup of coffee, she sat down at the small table. "I'll grant you, we were lovers—were. And he did ask me to marry him. But I said I couldn't." She sighed. "That was about ten years ago…I think—before he became so wealthy. I didn't say 'no' because of that, either, it had nothing to do with the money. I mean, I was twenty years old—probably about your age," she added. "I wanted to make a name for myself, be independent, before I ever considered marriage." She took a sip of coffee and leaned back in her chair. "But apparently Roger saw it differently. All the money in the world couldn't change bad to good."

"So," Race began slowly, "you didn't agree to this engagement?"

"What engagement?" she asked angrily. "There is no engagement! Just a misguided, foolish man in a suit. I can't believe the World printed this story!" She sighed, and at his worried look, said, "I'll get out of this somehow."

Race finished his coffee. "Uh, Medda, why did you kiss me…before? I know when I get talkin', it's hard to shut me up—"

"Like now?" she teased.

He laughed nervously. "Sorry. So, uh…?"

"The kiss?" He nodded. "I did it because I like you. Besides, I had to make up for the slap in the face."

He was nearly out the door when he suddenly asked, "How 'bout dinner?"

"Sure."

"Tonight?"
"All right. Six-thirty?"

He smiled. "Any time works for me. I don't got nothin' better to do." She laughed. "So, I'll meet you outside Irving Hall, then?"

"Sounds great," she said. "I'll see you then."

"G'bye, Medda." He headed off. Selling papers wasn't very difficult at all, not because he was in such a good mood, but because the headline was so hot. Standing outside the Sheepshead racetrack shouting about the coming of the apocalypse seemed to make people flock toward him. But he really wasn't thinking about the papers. He was thinking about Medda, about how he couldn't wait to see her. He even abstained from betting at the track just so he would have more than enough money to pay for dinner. His stomach was tied in knots over the whole thing. A grown woman had feelings for him, real ones. What could be better?