Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.
A/N: This chapter is in honor of Will's second birthday: August 8th, 2005. Awwww. It's also dedicated to my copy of Blood Drips. Woo. And Sita, along with her wondrous story (stories?) Fairly Stupid Tales. Read them. They're gold.
A/N 2: I just can't get past the feeling that I'm sucking. Taking a year off writing screws you up.
Warning: LANGUAGE!
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"Jeez, Swifty, got your panties in a bundle?"
I glare over my shoulder at Racetrack as I lift Skittery's bedpan- being careful to hold it out an arm's length away, of course. "Shuddup, Race, I spend enough time dealing with your shit."
"Everyone else's as well, wench."
Fuck it. I come in to tell my mom about poor Justin, and instead of any reaction about the news that my baby- er, my horse- is about to kick it, my mom gives me direct orders to come down here and deal with this shit. Both literally and figuratively.
I ignore Race and storm upstairs- well, as much storming as is safe when you're carrying a bucket full of excrement- and get ready to slam the door when I hear-
"Saucy little wench, ain't he?" My eyes narrow and I slam the door hard enough to cause the wall to shake.
Asshole.
I go to the bathroom, dump the Shit de Skittery, and storm into the kitchen. My mom turns to me as I enter- my storming is much more impressive now that I'm not as weighed down- and I throw the bedpan at her feet.
"I'm done with this."
Mom sighs wearily. Normally that would be enough to make me feel guilty, but I don't give a fuck right now. "Kevin, really, that's enough. You-"
"Shut up, Mom." I snap, and she raises her eyebrows at me. "Seriously. Things are bad enough here, with the horses and all, that we don't need these damn muties . Or family's livelihood is out in the barn, dropping like flies, and you don't seem to give a damn. You care more about those bastards in the basement more than you do your own family!"
I stop to take a deep breath. "If you want to keep them here, fine, but I'm not helping. And I think it's a stupid idea."
Mom's and my eyes meet for the first time since I started yelling.
Seriously, I don't know what I expected. Maybe it was for her to burst into tears, and apologize for making my life miserable for the past few weeks. Maybe a resigned sigh, and a promise to get the muties out of the house by the end of the week.
Certainly not for my mother to glare pure death at me- all five-feet-two-inches of her seeming to tower over six-foot-one me- and definitely not her icy response of, "Well, Kevin, I don't take advice from seventeen-year-olds. God knows how you became such a selfish brat- I'm ashamed that any son of mine acts the way you do."
For a second I'm shocked. But then I'm seeing red.
"Well, fine, then." I snap back, straightening up to my full height in a futile attempt to appear more dominant than my mother. "Ignore me, and get our house burned down like the Bennets'. Make us homeless, maybe even dead. I'm done with your shit, mother, and I just hope I'm around when this all blows up in your face."
As I glare at my mother, I know I'm going to be ashamed of this moment in retrospect. But that's later. Right now, I am so not giving a damn. Anger clouds my vision as I tear out of the kitchen and towards the back door. I snatch at my mask once, twice, only the third time is my vision clear enough to actually grab hold of the mask. I pull it down quickly over my face, ignoring the pain as the elastic band snaps harshly against the back of my head, and then leave, slamming the door behind me.
----
I am Kevin Michael Li, and nothing escapes my fury.
An empty water bucket sits in the aisle as I enter the barn. I aim a well-placed kick at it, and send it flying down the aisle.
It crashes against Angel's stall door, and I hear the filly give a startled snort and scamper from the sound.
I feel myself melt. Okay, so the horses escape my fury. But nothing else does- not that woman in the house who calls herself my mother, and most definitely not those soon-to-be-corpses in the basement.
It's not my fault my mother's a soft-hearted fool, and it's not my fault they had to come here.
But I have other things to deal with- more important things.
I stop at the tack room to grab a lunge line, and then head towards Justin's stall.
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"Come on, boy, you can do it. I know it." I pant and put my hand against the wall, leaning against it to catch my breath. "Just stand up, and you'll feel better. I promise."
Justin looks up at me with sad eyes, and I grimace at the defeat I see in them.
I grit my teeth, and get a better grip on his halter. I'll be damned if radiation sickness'll kill any more horses of mine. And I'll be damned twice if Justin's included in that number.
"Okay, kiddo, the count of three." I ignore the look he gives me as I widen my stance to one that will supply the best support for heavy pulling. "One… two… three!"
I pull, slowly but surely, on Justin's halter. The horse grunts, shifts his weight so that his feet are under him, and slowly, shakily pushes the front half of his body up.
I let out a whoop of mirth- damn I'm good!- but it soon becomes apparent that my joy is far too premature. Far too premature as in, within seconds, Justin crashes back to the ground.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
"You know, I once had a dog."
I jump and wheel around, and see Snoddy leaning against the stall door.
"Don't care." I respond to this unwelcome interruption.
Snoddy shrugged. "He was a puppy-mill dog. Ended up developing a brain tumor. He had seizures for most of his life, and then one morning he refused to get up. He just lay there, refusing to get up, eat, drink, whatever. My mom told me it's because animals have no real will to live. I mean, look at your horse, he's giving up."
"Seriously. Fuck off, Dean."
He shrugs again. "I'm just trying to help."
I snort. "Oh, yes, because your little anecdote is such a consolation."
"Race is right, Swifty, you can be a bitch."
"Listen, you freaks can play Fun-With-Nicknames all you want, but I'm not a part of your little clique, alright? My name's Kevin."
"Oh, like that's so much better. Wench."
Great, Racetrack's starting to rub off on him.
Snoddy sighs and grumbles to himself a little as he walks over to where I'm standing, bends down, and grabs a hold of Justin's halter. He gives a little tug, while clicking his tongue, and Justin starts trying to stand up again.
I'm sick of this. Sick of him, sick of them all, sick of everyone. And, almost before I realize it, I'm taking a swing at Snoddy. As my fist connects with his jaw, he stumbles back against the stall wall.
"What the hell, man, I'm trying to help you!" He glares at me as he rubs the spot where I hit him, which looks like it's already starting to bruise.
I glare back. "I don't need your help. Now get the hell out of my stable. You don't belong here."
He snorts in response. "Sure, I do. Your parents invited me, your precious little farm is where I belong now."
"No. It isn't." I get up in his face, anger once again blurring my vision. "You don't belong anywhere."
For a second, Snoddy looks as if I had hit him again, but his face contorts into a scowl so quickly that I'm not quite sure that's what I saw. "Freak." He snarls at me, and then stalks out of the stall and down the aisle.
"Look who's talking!" I yell back.
Oh, yeah, great comeback, Swifty.
Kevin. I meant Kevin.
Fuck.
-----
I waited about five minutes- plenty of time, I figured, for Snoddy to get back into the house- and snuck out of the stables and into the garage.
By the time I fired up the ol' Chevy, I was home free.
The old pickup flew (okay, sputtered) over the gravel road, and squealed in protest as I quickly turned it down the next driveway I came to.
It had barely stopped before I threw it into park, and barreled out the car door and up to the house's own door, and knocked. After a second the door swung open, and Kristen Bridges stood in the doorway.
"Hey, Krissy, is Katie home?" The twelve-year-old shook her head, brown curls bouncing. "Fantastic. Can I use your phone?"
Smiling sweetly, Kristen backs up and lets me into the house- the kitchen, to be exact. On the left side of the door hangs the telephone, and next to it the Bridges' had posted a sheet of paper with emergency phone numbers. I scan it quickly, and find what I was looking for at the sheet's eighth entry.
I dial quickly, and listen as the phone rings once, twice, then:
"Radiation Control Center, how may I help you?"
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Aaaand, it's a cliff hanger. Don't you love me?
Shoutouts!
Melissa: Thanks!
Sita-Pita: Told you I'd do a plug. Don't you love me? And here's the next chapter- did you die of shock again? 'Cause it amuses me so.
Jacky Higgins: I've updated AGAIN! You should be even MORE glad.
L.T.N.N: I effing LOVE Joyce. My old DVD had died, so I had to get a new copy. And Yes. It rocks. And is this a better amount of time between chapters?
Hobbit1400: I probably won't, but shhhh! Don't tell anyone.
P.S: I'm having SERIOUS nostalgia attacks, loves. For pre-M.F. times.