Flight glanced to his left and right. No one saw him as he entered the alley between the Lodging House and the shop next to it. Flight preferred to use the back entrance; it made him feel more at home that way. It sounded strange, but Flight was a strange person. That was all that could really be said of Flight's behavior.
Flight's footsteps echoed eerily in the alley. Late afternoon sun light stretched Flight's shadow into a monstrous looking form. The green eyed newsboy was deep in thought, so when the low voice came, Flight was rudely startled out of his daydream.
"So, Caden, you're lurking in alleys now." Flight jumped a foot before whirling around to face the silky voice. Flight later wondered how on earth he had walked right past Skittery without noticing him.
He was seated on a barrel, leaning against the red brick wall. His infamous pink long johns were open at the top, revealing a smooth and muscular chest. Skittery was sharpening a glittering silver knife against a whet stone.
Scrape. Scrape.
"You're lurking in alleys, Caden," he repeated, never looking up from his task. Flight nodded.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Flight started to turn, planning on continuing to the back door, but Skittery stopped him.
"Stay." Flight stopped where he was.
"Hold out your hand, Caden," Skittery demanded. Flight sighed.
"Look, Skittery, I really don't have the ti--," Flight began, but he was silenced by Skittery.
"Your hand, Caden." Flight rolled his eyes but held out his right hand anyway, palm up.
Skittery took Flight's hand in his, and then he slowly slid the knife over Flight's palm in a half circle. Blood blossomed on Flight's skin as he took a sharp intake of breath. Skittery didn't let go.
"Is it sharp enough?" Flight slowly lifted his eyes to Skittery's, a wicked grin spreading over his face.
"Not nearly."
"Oh, good."
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
"Hand," Skittery commanded. Flight held out his hand again, and the knife cut a diagonal line from the left edge of the half circle to the bottom of Flight's palm.
The knife cut bitterly through Flight's flesh, and he winced, but said, "Not quite."
Scrape. Scrape.
Blood trickled between his fingers, slowly and heavily dripping to the parched ground on which he stood. Skittery worked away on his knife.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Flight offered his hand before Skittery asked for it. The blade bit into soft pink skin for the last time, making the other half of the circle, the right tip connecting to the diagonal line.
A crude, oozing "S" was carved into Flight's palm now, but the blood soon blurred together, and the "S" could no longer be seen.
"I think that's good, Skittery," Flight finally said, tears welling in his eyes.
'I'm and idiot,' Flight thought.
"Oh, thank you, Flight. I desperately needed a tester," Skittery sneered, dropping the bloody hand from his grasp, which Flight pulled to his chest protectively.
"You may go."
"Yes, your majesty," Flight said, rolling his eyes and bowing in a mocking way. He then turned and walked as calmly as he could to the back door of the Lodging House.
Flight sat up in bed. Weak, grey morning light filtered in through the window to the east side of the bunkroom. The other newsboys were still sleeping.
Flight let his gaze fall on his brother, whose eye patch was askew. His blonde hair was mussed from sleeping on it funny. Racetrack, in the bunk bellow Blink, had fallen asleep with a half smoked cigar between his lips. Mush's sheets were wrapped around his legs, and he shivered in his sleep. Flight smiled, this was all so peaceful to see.
And then there was Bumlets, who was hanging almost all the way over the side of the bed, though (thank the Lord,) he hadn't fallen off yet. Snitch cuddled up to Itey to keep warm. Jack's cowboy hat was placed firmly over his face to ward off any sunlight.
Flight liked to watch the boys sleep. It was, as already mentioned, peaceful. Then Flight's eyes landed on Skittery. His hand was curled loosely around the handle of the knife. Flight groaned.
Having been cut up by Skittery once was enough, but now the kid was going to sleep with the knife! Flight knew he was going to have nightmares for weeks.
Flight settled back onto his pillow. He might as well wait for Kloppman to wake everyone else up before he got out of bed.
Flight smiled again. The rally at Irving Hall was tonight, and he would have something to look forward to, for once. Flight wasn't obsessed with Medda like the rest of the boys were, but it was still fun to watch the show.
The day couldn't have dragged by any slower. Because the newsboys weren't selling papers, they had a lot of free time. This usually would have delighted Flight, but time passed quickly when he was selling newspapers down by the boxing matches in front of Tibby's.
Flight and Racetrack, just the two of them, played crapshooter for three and a half hours before anyone else joined the game. Flight did make a dollar after Mush, Blink, and Bumlets joined the game, which was really the only highlight of the day.
Finally, after what seemed like eternity, night slowly rolled around, and Flight found himself stuffed inside Irving Hall with about a thousand other newsies from all over New York.
Flight was crammed between Racetrack Higgins, Pie Eater, and several newsies he didn't know from Brooklyn, staring up at Jack Kelly, David Jacobs, and Spot Conlon. The three were standing on a makeshift bridge that would be used in Medda's performance later on.
"Carryin' the banner!" Jack yelled to the New York newsboy force.
"Carryin' the banner!" a thousand voiced cheered back at him. Jack grinned.
"So, we've come a long way, and it may just get tougher. But that's okay; we'll just get tougher with it!" Jack started, and this little speech was followed by tumultuous applause.
"But we also gotta get smart, and start listinin' to my pal David," more cheers, "who says: 'Stop soakin' the scabs.'"
"So what are we suppose to do to the bums, kiss 'em?" Racetrack shot at Jack. Flight guffawed, and Racetrack poked him in the ribs, though he was grinning too.
"Look, any scab I see, I soak 'em. Period." Spot spoke up for the first time that night.
"No, no, no! If we get violent, it's just playing into their hands," David told the crowd. Spot came to face David.
"They're gonna be playin' with my hands. 'Cause it ain't what they say, it's what we say, and no one's gonna listen to us unless we make 'em," he told him.
The crowd murmured amongst themselves. Jack yelled at them for fighting with each other, and then Race let Jack know that everyone was with him, but they just needed Spot's approval.
"I say, that what you say, is what we say," Spot finally said, offering a spit laden hand to the leader of Manhattan. The crowd cheered, and Medda's show finally began.
It was, of course, wonderful. Flight was enjoying himself immensely, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Spot. Flight stiffened, but followed him out of the room anyway.
Spot settled himself on a beer barrel, and stared at Flight, who shifted uncomfortably.
"Well? What do you want Conlon?" Flight finally got up the nerve to ask.
"I want to ask you a question," he finally replied. Flight nodded.
"Shoot."
"How many people know?" Whatever Flight had been expecting, it wasn't this.
"Excuse me?" Spot smirked.
"You know what I mean."
"Actually, I really don't," Flight said in confusion.
"Uh huh, right."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Just you, your brother and me, then?" Spot guessed.
"Uh, sure." Flight was becoming panicked now. Spot was not supposed to know this.
"All right then. Your secret is safe with me," Spot informed Flight before leaving, tipping his hat as he went.
Flight slowly made his way over to the table where he had been sitting with his brother earlier, and sat down. His brother was up on stage, making a fool out of himself, as usual. Blink was blowing kisses to no one in particular. Flight snorted, his brother was so stupid sometimes.
A shrill whistled sliced through the merry air, and Flight turned in his seat to see what it was. Policemen were invading the hall. Flight had to get out.
Flight, however, was not one of the lucky few who escaped the police that night. He rounded a corner and had been whapped by an officer's stick right in the side of the head.
Everything went black.
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