Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to update. I kind of forgot about this fic... and then my craving for SpRace kicked in, so I'm back. I apologize for the delay.
Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own Donna Cadnum, Tara Avery, and Amber Rosenthal. Oh yeah, baby. Three whole OC's. I rock.
Lover, I'm on the streetGonna go where the bright lights and the big city meet
With a red guitar on fire
Desire
She's a candle burning in my room
Yeah I'm like the needle, needle and spoon
Over the counter with a shotgun
Pretty soon everybody's got one
And the fever when I'm beside her
Desire, desire...
-"Desire," U2
The first thing Spot noticed about the outcasts was that they all had hair. Especially Bumlets, who was rather alarmed when he realized that an odd, bald teenager on the end of the lunch table had been raptly staring at his hair for the past twenty minutes or so. Spot couldn't help himself. The Hispanic boy's hair was just so clean and black and long and thick and glossy, and it made Spot miss his own hair very much — even more so than usual, if possible. He ran a hand over the smooth top of his head and grumpily resumed eating his sandwich, which tasted suspiciously like burnt cardboard.
All in all, he was not having a particularly good time dealing with his new lack of friends. The social outcasts were never outright mean to him when they took the time to notice he was there; they just gave him small smiles and continued to talk, polite but altogether uninterested. Spot was not used to being ignored in this fashion, and this sort of behavior did not please him at all. He put down his sandwich and pouted.
There were eight main outcasts (not including Spot, because he was still in denial that he was anything but the most popular boy at Knapman Regional High School), and they all seemed friendly enough. Their unpopularity was somehow magnified by the fact that they all hung together in one clump of rejects, but when you looked at each one individually, they seemed all right.
On the other hand, it was easy to tell why each boy had been ostracized from normal high school life. In a nutshell, the group members stood thus: Racetrack Higgins — unofficial leader, complete smartass, and well-known fag. To be avoided at all costs. He was in Spot's English class, but he didn't really want to think about that. Snitch Lawrence was a kleptomaniac (although he denied it vehemently) and an overly enthusiastic member of the school band, which was terrible and consisted of approximately fifteen members. Sad. Mark Shanley had been officially dubbed "Skittery" because of his acute paranoia, wide, dark eyes, and tendency to shriek "I didn't do it!" when startled. It was common knowledge that he was an escaped convict on the run — another fact that was denied vehemently.
Bumlets Paredes was a dancer, which had automatically ruined any chances of him ever being thought of as anything but a fag and a sissy. He was incredibly good-looking, with a wide smile and a sweet disposition, but he was a dancer, and that was that. Case closed. His best friend was Swifty Davis, who was rumored to know more about computers than the lab teacher herself, and who had a subtle sense of humor that was only appreciated by the rest of the outcasts. To everyone else, he was simply too boring to be noticed.
Mush Stuart was the only boy in the school chorus, which greatly disturbed the rest of the school. He was loud, grinning, and good-natured, but his sneakers were definitely bright yellow with purple zigzags down the sides. Ew. He could usually be seen with Kid Blink Taft, who was missing an eyeball. He was obviously radioactive and highly contagious, so people tried to keep away from him as much as they possibly could.
The last two members of the group had, over time, been painted as essentially one person, and that was Specs and Dutchy. Or rather, Sputchy. They had been best friends since before anyone could remember, and seemed to be attached at the hip. Both being committed artists, highly talented pianists, and renowned "four-eyes", it was no wonder their personalities were so compatible. Out of all of the outcasts, Spot like Specs and Dutchy best for reasons he couldn't identify.
Not that he was choosing favorites or anything. He wanted nothing to do with them, and they wanted nothing to do with him. It was quite simple, really.
At the moment, Skittery was recounting his adventures at the Nashoba Valley Ski Area, much to Snitch's displeasure. Spot tried very hard not to be amused—Snitch looked like he had just swallowed something particularly nasty, and he kept clearing his throat loudly to try to interrupt the story. Skittery ignored him.
"...So we're standing in line for the lift, and Snitch is on a bit of a slope so he keeps sliding backwards every so often," he was saying, gesticulating wildly to add to his story. "I tried to pull him back when I noticed he was slipping, but this one time I didn't see, and he just sort of—well, slid back into the line—"
"Skittery!" Snitch yelped. "Don't tell 'em!"
"Aw c'mon, Snitch, I told you when I went to my aunt's wedding with toothpaste all over my ass," Mush pointed out.
Snitch shook his head, eyes wide. "That was different!"
"How?"
"I'm not going to—"
"AS JACKASS OF THE MONTH, I COMMAND YOU TO IGNORE THE PLEAS OF OUR THIEVING LITTLE FRIEND AND FINISH THE TALE," said Race in a loud, booming voice, and Skittery quickly obeyed (after Snitch had had the chance to flick Racetrack's ear for calling him a "thieving little friend").
"Well, there was this kid behind us," said Skittery with a grin. "He couldn't have been more than eight."
"He was VERY YOUNG," said Snitch seriously.
"And for some reason, he convinced himself that Snitch was someone he knew named Carter. So he was like, 'HEY, CARTER! I didn't know you knew how to ski—ooh, nice hat! I thought yours was red, though. Did you get a new one? I never see you anymore—WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO ME, CARTER? DO YOU HATE ME? AHHHHH, CAAAAARTERRRRR—"
"All right, we get the point!" Specs laughed.
Skittery smiled. "We ended up cutting about ten people in line to get the hell away from the kid," he said. "It was great."
"No, it was not!" Snitch pouted. By now he was roughly the color of a ripe tomato, and he turned quite possibly redder when Dutchy asked how Snitch had reacted to the boy's ranting.
"He fell over again." said Skittery, and Snitch slapped him. "And cried," he added, winking, and Snitch slapped him again.
"All right, I think Snitch is going to have a nervous breakdown, so I'm changing the subject," said Swifty. "How goes the party-planning, Sputchy?"
By now, Spot was very alarmed. He had had no idea that these outcasts were intelligent enough to carry on a normal conversation, let alone actually go skiing. He had always though of them as sort of barbaric—too stupid to understand themselves or anything around them. He had been wrong, apparently, for here they were actually being more civilized than his old friends.
He looked over at the other table where the popular crowd was seated—Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs, Oscar Delancey, Oscar's girlfriend Amber Rosenthal, Morris Delancey, Morris' girlfriend Tara Avery, Donna Cadnum (blonde today), and David Jacobs (who was incredibly popular, although nobody could figure out why). Jack was making some sort of disgusting mixture with his lunch, much to the amusement of the rest of the table. As Spot watched, Oscar reached forward with his fork and took a bite.
"Hey—kid-with-no-hair, you deaf?"
Spot, brought back to earth with an unpleasant lurch, and glowered at the tall, skinny outcast waving a hand in front of his face. "Can I help you?" Spot demanded.
"Hark! He has a voice!" Snitch sang dramatically. "I was beginning to think he was mute and deaf, but apparently he is neither. Oh, what twists and turns this life holds in store for us—"
"Aw, put a lid on it, Snitch," Specs laughed. He turned to Spot. "Dutchy and I are having a party tonight, and we were wondering if you wanted to come."
"Why?" Spot asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow.
"Well you seemed…" Specs trailed off awkwardly, avoiding Spot's gaze.
"Seemed what? Like one of you?"
Specs looked rather taken aback. "I guess," he said.
"Drop it, Specs, he ain't in," said Race without looking up. "Jackass thinks he's above a stupid outcast party, y'know? Doesn't want to damage what little popularity he has left."
"Excuse me?" said Spot in what he hoped was a dangerous voice.
"You heard me." Race sent him a withering look. "It's Conlon, right? Spot Conlon, Mr. Too-Absorbed-In-Himself-To-Notice-He's-Not-The-King-Of-The-Universe—yet. 'Cause I'll be damned if you're not, in the end."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Spot demanded, unsure of how to react to this type of abuse.
"You've got it all fucking made, dontcha?" Race continued calmly. "You think you're gonna stay a social reject just because you've got no hair! It'll grow back, for Chrissake, and they'll be just as willin' to accept you back into their stupid little clique." He paused. "Hell, for all I know you still are in their stupid little clique, and you're just here so you can find some new trivia about us freaks to humiliate us with."
"With which to humiliate us," Dutchy corrected gently. "And try to tone it down a little, Race, the cafeteria staff're giving you funny looks."
"Don't invite 'im, Sputchy, he ain't worth it," said Race.
"FINE!" Spot exploded. "I didn't WANT to go anyway, ASSHOLE."
"Good. Goodbye." And with that, Racetrack picked up his tray and strolled across the cafeteria to throw out the remains of his lunch.
It was in this way that Spot Conlon fell in love.
He had never told the rest of the popular group that he was bisexual; he figured it would be a bit of a turn-off, and the last thing he wanted was to be dumped out of the popular clique for stupid reason like that. But he had never been insulted with such passion before, and he found Racetrack's courage incredibly sexy.
Swifty smiled at Spot. "Don't mind him; he's just been PMS-ing a lot lately. He's usually a lot more..."
"Creative with his insults," said Bumlets. "Honestly, I got him cheesed off at me the other day..." He shuddered, which made his hair sway nicely in the light. "It was incredible. He kept switching between Italian and English, but even when he was talking in English, I had no idea what he was saying half the time. I've never been more terrified in my entire life; I thought he was going to come and pour kerosene down my throat in the night."
Swifty nodded fervently. "It's true. I helped him lock all the windows."
Despite himself, Spot was very thankful that he had not been exposed to this kind of abuse from the mean Italian midget. There were too many windows in his house that were too high for him to reach.
Specs smiled. "But never mind him; we're not going to allow our sadly antisocial friend to get in the way of potential friendships," he said genially, bending down to reach into his bag. "You're still invited, you know."
"You're such a little girl scout, Specs," said Dutchy fondly.
Specs paused. "...But I'm a guy."
"Don't be so sexist," said Blink with a frown. "Just because the term 'girl scout' implies an entirely female membership, it's incredibly presumptuous of you to assume that a boy can't be one too." He turned slightly pink and bent down over his tray so that they couldn't see his face, and Mush burst out laughing.
Specs shook his head slightly and handed a slip of paper to Spot, smiling apologetically. "Quick, read it before Race comes back."
They all looked over at the trashcans, where Racetrack was apparently swearing at a terrified-looking freshman who was much taller than him. Heh. Spot glanced back down at the piece of paper in his hand, and felt a smile slide unbidden across his face.
Printed in scrawling, loopy letters across the top were the words: In honor of Graham "Snitch" Lawrence's EIGHTEENTH birthday— Underneath was a recent picture of Snitch attempting to juggle what looked like a hard-boiled egg, a roll of Scotch tape, and a pair of socks. He didn't seem to be having much success. Beneath, the words continued: —and the fact that he hasn't grown up at all. The location, time, and date were printed below.
Spot looked up, grinning. "Those are some pretty kickass computer graphics," he said. "You do that, Swifty?"
"Hell, no. That's a real picture; Skittery found it in his stash of porno magazines a few weeks ago."
"I don't read porn," said Skittery tiredly, punching Swifty's arm. It seemed they had gone over this many times. Spot nodded and decided to avoid spending too much time with this guy in the future.
"So can you come?" asked Dutchy, smiling at him.
Spot shrugged. "If I don't have anything else planned, I'll try," he said vaguely.
"Great," said Dutchy.
Spot stood up, half the food still on his tray, and headed over to the trashcans to throw it out. He really didn't want to go to that party. He couldn't risk being seen in public with the social rejects of the school; it would completely exterminate any chances he ever had of regaining his former social status. He tried to ignore the popular table as he passed it, but he couldn't help looking over when he heard Amber saying to Donna, "Don't you just hate Frieda Selden's face? Look at her! Her zits are, like, symmetrical!"
Oh, what he wouldn't give to be back at that table...
-----
"So," said Mrs. Conlon conversationally as she loaded the dishwasher. "How was school, sweetums?"
Spot, who was halfway up the stairs to his room, froze and stared at her. Sweetums? "It sucked beyond comprehension," he said slowly, wondering what she was getting at.
"That's wonderful, shnuckums!" she said distractedly, dumping a few plates into a random drawer and kicking it closed. "I'm so proud of you, hunny-bun! You're so SMART!"
What the fuck.
"All right, what's with the freaky terms of endearment?" Spot demanded, pulling himself up onto the kitchen table. "I'm not three, you know, mom. Eighteen is a little old for 'shnuckums', whatever the hell that means."
"Oh, I know how old you are, tootsie," said Mrs. Conlon, smiling lovingly at him and trying to pinch his cheek. "Oh no, what happened to this plate? It must have gotten chipped in the wash—"
"TOOTSIE!"
"I'm really having doubts about this new dishwasher. Look! Look at this fork! There's still remnants of mashed potatoes on it! Wait a minute. Who was eating mashed potatoes with a fork?"
"...TOOTSIE!"
"Have you seen your father? He'll probably be able to fix this—Oh dear, three chipped plates. This is absolutely t—"
"Mom, I think it's time we had a little heart-to-heart," said Spot, still recovering from his initial shock at being called 'tootsie' by his own mother.
Adeline Conlon looked up at him, eyes wide. Everyone had always said that she and her son had the same eyes, but Spot didn't like to think about that. In fact, he didn't like to think about being related to his mother at all. "You... You want to talk to me? A mother-son chat?" she asked softly.
Spot sighed. "Yeah, I guess. Could you please explain why you, over the course of the past twenty seconds, have managed to call me 'sweetums', 'shnuckums', 'hunny-bun', and..." He couldn't bring himself to say the last word, so he settled with mouthing it and hoping that she would figure out what he meant.
"...Well don't those names make you feel all cozy inside?" his mother asked.
Spot stared at her. "No, they make me want to slit my wrists," he said seriously.
"Oh." She seemed confused for a minute, and then scurried over to the counter and retrieved a small, paperback book. Spot squinted at it the title. Taking Care Of Teenagers, by Julia Stone.
Oh, dear GOD.
"As your teenage boy grows older, he may try to detach himself from the family and spend more time in his room or with his friends," Mrs. Conlon read aloud. "You must not allow this to happen. By using special pet names when addressing him, you may be able to give him the feeling that he is reliving his childhood years. This will make your teenager want to remain at home as long as possible—"
"Are you bloody MAD!" Spot yelped, unable to take any more.
Mrs. Conlon looked up at him. "No, darling. I'm just trying to do what's best for you," she said.
Spot exhaled loudly and closed his eyes. "If you want to use a 'pet name' or something for me, just call me Spot. I think 'shnuckums' is a little extreme, not to mention disgusting beyond belief."
"Oh no, sweetie-pie!" she gasped. "I can't call you Spot! Here, listen to this," and she spent a few more minutes flipping through her little book before finding the passage she wanted. "'In the event that your son develops a special school nickname, never, under any circumstances, allow it to be used in the house. This will allow a gang-like atmosphere to develop in your home, and the homey mood you have worked to create will be destroyed.'"
Spot stared at her. "That is such a complete load of sh—"
"Baseball game tonight!" John Conlon announced, coming into the room and smiling at the pair of them. He looked like an exact copy of Spot, except for the fact that the eighteen year old was much shorter and much skinnier. "Red Sox vs. the Yankees. It's gonna be great."
"So?" Adeline demanded. "Baseball is a bad influence on our home, John!"
Mr. Conlon didn't appear to hear her. "What's that, Addy?" he asked, nodding at the book she was still clutching. "A new Jane Austen? Y'know, I really don't like her style. That movie 'Emma' was—"
"No, it's not Jane Austen!" Mrs. Conlon interrupted. "It's a book on making a better home for our precious son, Gabriel."
"Spot," said Spot firmly.
"Mister Freckle-Nose," said Mrs. Conlon, pinching his cheek.
"HAHA! I like that," said Mr. Conlon, and he opened the fridge and took out leftovers from last night's dinner. "Afternoon snack #1," he said happily. "So. Who's up for a little baseball tonight? If Ortiz gets another grand slam, I'm just going to—"
"I can't!" said Spot loudly, interrupting him. "I'm, uh... I'm going out with some friends."
He didn't want to go to the outcast part. At all. But, looking around at his simpering mother and baseball-obsessed father, what choice did he have? Besides, he'd rather look at Bumlets' hair than Mr. Conlon's lack thereof. Ahh.
-----
"Well, prom king, I see you decided to come after all."
Spot glared at Kid Blink from over the neck of his jacket, trying not to shiver. It was extremely cold out, and it looked like Dutchy's house was the kind that was deep in the woods with an unnecessarily long driveway. "Yeah," he said irritably.
Kid Blink seemed unperturbed by the other boy's obvious bad mood. He locked his car and put the keys into the pocket of his fleece, pulling the sleeves down over his fingertips to try to keep them warm. "Is that your car there?" he asked conversationally, nodding at the black Mercedes Spot was locking up.
"No, I decided to take Oscar Delancey's car instead," Spot answered acidly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Blink grinned at him. "You're a bit of an asshole, aren't you?" he said as they began to walk.
Spot chose to ignore this, instead peering down the driveway at the house that was supposedly at the end of it. "Why the hell did this driveway have to be so fucking long?" he demanded.
"I dunno," said Blink, shrugging. "It kind of sucks now, but when it's colder out, it freezes over and we all play ice hockey on the weekends. It rocks."
Spot snorted. "You play ice hockey?"
"Yep," said Blink.
The pair of them lapsed into awkward silence as they made their way up the driveway. They passed an orange piece of shit with mud streaks across the sides and duct tape all over one of the windows, and Spot lifted an eyebrow at it.
"Mush's," said Blink by way of explaination. "Snitch hit a baseball into the window this summer, and none of us have been able to afford to fix it. We're all broke. He doesn't mind, though; he says that driving around in an old, broken-down car builds character, y'know?"
"...Right," said Spot slowly.
RETARDED.
After what felt like ten minutes, they reached the end of the driveway and the disappointingly normal house at the end. After all this walking, Spot had been expecting a palace. This neighborhood sucked, man.
"Ah, nothing like some good exercise to clear the senses!" Blink sighed, stepping forward and ringing the doorbell. Spot decided not to answer. This kid was messed up.
The door opened, and Dutchy leaned out, cringing slightly against the cold air. "Ahh—come in, guys. Are your fingers completely falling off?"
"Not yet," said Blink. "Should be a few more minutes, I estimate."
"Excellent." Dutchy let them in, closing the door behind them, and took their coats with a flourish, which made Blink laugh.
Spot stared around the house, eyebrows raised so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hair. In the middle of the living room directly to his left, Mush and Skittery were singing a perfectly harmonized version of "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel, complete with hand motions and everything. Bumlets was doing pirouettes next to Swifty in front of the television, where the end of Moulin Rouge was playing. Swifty was sobbing uncontrollably, and, when he stopped spinning long enough that his head looked like more than just a dark blur, Spot realized that Bumlets was, too. On the steps directly in front of them was Race, Specs, and Snitch, who were all playing poker, and over all this, Rage Against The Machine's "Wake Up" was pounding from the speakers.
"Skittery chose the music," said Dutchy while hanging up their coats in the closet. "He's not an angry person, but he likes angry music."
Spot stared at him. "He's singing Simon and Garfunkle, though."
"He's very well-rounded," said Blink, shrugging.
"BLINK'S HERE!" Mush exclaimed, running over and throwing his arms around the other boy. "You're late," he chided, nuzzling his nose into Blink's neck.
"I had to wrestle my car from my older brother," Blink answered, grinning. "Please let go of me, fag, you're strangling me."
"Sorry." Mush smiled at him.
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love... and be loved in return..." sang the television set.
"I CAN'T TAKE THIS!" Swifty cried, grabbing a nearby pillow and smushing his face into it, shoulders heaving.
"What, exactly, are they doing?" Spot asked.
Mush looked over at them. "They're having a romantic movie marathon," he said. "They're just finishing 'Moulin Rouge', and next they're gonna do 'West Side Story', 'Shakespeare in Love', and 'Titanic'. Oh, and Bumlets is trying to see how many pirouettes he can do in a row."
"I figured," said Spot.
"Hey," said a voice with a thick New York accent. "What the hell are you doin' here?"
Spot looked over at the speaker, identifying him as the one and only Racetrack Higgins. Be still my beating heart. "Evenin', asshole," he said pleasantly.
Race started up from the steps, but Specs grabbed his wrist. "Don't be an idiot, Race. You know Dutchy's parents will kill you if you do any damage to their house while they're out tonight, and I daresay I'll miss you," he said with a bit of a grin.
"NOO! DON'T DIE! YOU'RE OKAY YOU'RE OKAY YOU'RE OKAY, DON'T LEAVE CHRISTIAN ALL ALONE! AHHHHH!" Bumlets yelled, dropping to his knees and sobbing unrestrainedly into Swifty's shoulder.
"Wow," said Spot.
Blink grinned at him. "Haven't you ever seen 'Moulin Rouge'?" he asked. "It makes everyone cry. The only person I've ever met who didn't cry when he watched that movie was my great-great grandfather, and he was half-deaf and completely blind."
"I'm not the crying type," said Spot firmly.
Race muttered something from the stairs that made Snitch start laughing hysterically, but Spot decided to ignore it. He looked over at Skittery, who was bouncing around playing air guitar to Rage. "I guess he's moved on from Simon and Garfunkel," he said bemusedly.
Snitch looked over at Skittery. "Yeah, he's a very inconsistent kind of guy," he said. "You wanna play poker, Blink?"
"Nah, I'm gonna watch 'West Side Story' with Swifty and Bumlets," said Blink. He grinned. "I like to be in Amer-i-ca!" he sang, and sort of skipped out of the room with Mush close behind him.
"All right, I'm folding," said Specs. "Good luck, Snitch, you're on your own."
"WAAAAKE UUUUUUUUUP! WAAAAAAKE UUUUUUUUUP!" screamed Skittery with the music, still hopping up and down.
"THAT WAS THE SADDEST MOVE I'VE EVER SEEN!" Swifty blubbered as he ejected "Moulin Rouge" and put in "West Side Story".
Needless to say, Spot was more than a little overwhelmed. He sighed a small sigh that he couldn't hear over the loud music, glanced at Racetrack again over his hand of cards, and sat down awkwardly behind Mush on the couch. He had never heard of "West Side Story" and he certainly wasn't looking forward to a mushy, romantic musical, but there wasn't much else to do.
Except kill his voice with Skittery. Once, in sixth grade, Spot had tried to sing the end of "Rape Me" by Nirvana, but all the screaming had caused him to lose his voice for a week and a half. He wasn't exactly eager to repeat the experience.
So he leaned back against the huge, fluffy pillows and prepared to be bored to death with Swifty's movie.
At 7:15, Race came and sat down next to him to watch too. Both of them carefully avoided making eye-contact, and made sure their thighs didn't brush against each other on the couch.
At 7:30, Snitch impressed them all by reciting Anita's incredibly Spanish name. "Anita Josefina Teresita Beatriz del Carmen Margarita, etcetera, etcetera!" he said with Bernardo. His Puerto Rican accent was very nice.
At 7:45, Blink tried to do the "America" dance. Racetrack announced that he had been scarred for life. Blink smacked him.
At 8:00, Bumlets was bombarded with pillows because he wouldn't stop singing along with the songs. He nearly suffocated before he was rescued by Swifty, and the pair of them sat down together on the floor and continued to sing along.
At 8:30, Skittery turned off Rage and curled up on the floor next to Snitch to watch the movie. "I don't want to be the only person not crying when it ends," he said solemnly. Spot assured him that he was going to cry at the end, and Skittery laughed and shook his head.
At 8:45, Bumlets sniffed very loudly. They all pretended not to notice.
At 9:00, Race announced that he was going to the bathroom, and didn't come back until the movie was over.
At 9:15, the character Tony was shot and everyone started to cry, very quietly, except for Swifty, who cried very loudly.
At 9:25, Spot Conlon began to cry too.
Oh god, he thought, desperately wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his long-sleeved t-shirt and trying to control his breathing. I shouldn't be crying, this is wrong, this is stupid, I can't relate to the social rejects at all, I'm not the crying type, I'm not the crying type, I'm not the—
"Well," said Blink softly, smiling at him. "Looks like the prom king is the crying type after all. Don't feel bad; nobody is immune to the tragedy of 'West Side Story'."
Spot leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Shut up, Blink," he sniffed.
Shoutouts.
studentnumber24601:Why, thank you! I've been trying to stay more on-canon lately, although I'm stretching it a little with Spot in this story. Thanks for reviewing!
Southern Spell: Honestly? I feel bad for Spot, too. I have a tendency to torture him in my fics, even though he's one of my favorite newsies. I'm so sadistic... Thanks for reviewing!
rumor: In all honesty, the idea of Spot with no hair terrifies me. But I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for reviewing!
Dreamer110: Thank you! (You always leave such nice reviews, it's great.)
CiCi: What can I say? Thank you! Luvs and hugs back to you, lol.
Coin: Mr. Spot Goldilocks? Dude. That is why I love you. Thanks so much for reviewing!
StormShadow21:Actually, the story behind my name is pretty sad. I thought, "Hmm, what do I want for a penname? Friday is my favorite day of the week—I'll do that!" Friday was taken, unfortunately, so I decided to do my second-favorite day of the week. I'm such a loser:-D HOORAY FOR THE MONKEES! Thank so much for reviewing! (I love your penname, by the way. Two short words, and I get such a fucking image!)
singin'-newsies-goil: Well, you and Dutchy singing Cole Porter is most definitely hotter than Race and me singing Gary, Indiana. You two are mad sex-ay. Thanks so much for reviewing! (And I want more of "One Of Those Days", dammit!)
repeat:REEEEEEPEEEEEEAAAAAAAAT!
Race: What the hell are you doing?
I missed her! Hey, don't laugh at me, Race, I never get to talk to Reps anymore. ((sighs)) Anyway, thanks for the review, I love ya!
Dakki:I honestly have no idea how to respond to that. My customary "dies laughing" just doesn't seem effective enough. ((sighs)) I apologize for my lack of articulation. Thanks for reviewing!
Sapphy: ((hugs back))((loves back))((fawns back)). I LOVE YOOOU! Thanks for reviewing, babe. ;-)
Erin Go Bragh: SpRace is my favorite, too. I think it works in just about any scenario as long as they don't get all mushy-sappy-romantic with each other—their personalities just don't work that way, y'know? Just my opinion. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!
Braids: AHH, THEY DIDN'T CUT OFF YOUR REVIEW! IT'S A FUCKING MIRACLE! ((does a happy dance)) Yeah, the image of Spot with a shaved head scares me too. I like to put a hat on him and pretend he has hair, y'know? ;-) Thanks for reviewing!
Scout73: I hope you found this intriguing enough. ;-) You gave me a review, albeit an extremely short one, so I thank thee. ((grins)) Thank you!
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Author's Note: GOD BLESS THE RED SOX! That's all I have to say. Please leave a review!
-Saturday