January 13, 1900 (Six Months after the Strike)
"Have fun while I'm gone, okay?" Jack had said as he left the Lodging House that fateful night.
"Yeah, sure. Fun," Racetrack called out the door after him. "You have fun too, while you're out visiting that old aunt of yours, okay?" Jack laughed.
"Uh huh."
Racetrack, of course, was going to have fun. He had an excuse to have fun; Jack had basically commanded all of the Manhattan newsies to have fun. And Race's idea of fun was gambling. Since the races at Sheapshead Bay were over for the day, the only other thing to gamble on was poker. And to play poker you needed . . . a poker party.
And so they had a poker party. A big poker party. They'd invited all the Brooklyn newsies, but only Spot came. He had decided to have fun with Manhattan while the other Brooklyn newsies were practicing with their much loved sling-shots.
The newsies from Queens came, and those from the Bronx as well. Kloppman had decided he needed a night at home, so he wasn't in the newsies way at all.
At two o'clock in the morning, the Lodging House was littered with broken bottles, cards, cigarette butts, and several knocked out bodies that had had too much liquor. Even so, only the Manhattan newsies and Spot remained, huddled around a little table in the corner of the bunk room. The little ones had already climbed into bed, thoroughly exhausted by the events of the night.
Most of the remaining boys were extremely intoxicated, and only Racetrack Higgins, Spot Conlon, Mush Meyers and the Caden twins had their wits about them. They were the ones who were the die-hard poker fans. They needed to be able to think straight to win.
Flight peeked over the top of his cards. Spot had his forehead furrowed in concentration, Blink was grinning (he had the worst poker face ever, but was still good at the game), Mush's eyes glinted (but only slightly) in delight, but Racetrack had a poker face. Couldn't tell a thing.
Flight added another dime to the accumulating pile of coins. He had a very good hand.
"I fold," Spot finally declared, placing his cards face down on the table. "That hand sucked."
The other four players placed their cards face up. Blink had a straight, but not a real good one. Mush had all tens, and Racetrack had all the queens. Flight grinned. All four aces were in his hand. Flight pulled all the money to him.
"Sixty cents," he said after counting. "Not bad."
"Play again?" Racetrack asked.
"Oh, yeah. Deal me in. I will beat Flight here at some point, if I have to stay here all night," Spot declared, jabbing his thumb in Flight's direction.
It was twenty minutes later, Flight had won yet another game and they were in the middle of their fifteenth round (if Mush had been counting right, for he had had a little bit to drink).
Mush glanced up from his cards. Blink had set his cards down and was in the process of pushing his chair out from under the table as silently as he could. No one else had noticed he was leaving.
When Blink was half way to the door, he seemed to notice he was being watched, because he spun around. Mush opened his mouth to say something, but Blink shook his head violently, so Mush shut his mouth again and looked down at his hand. When he looked up, Blink was gone.
Mush shook his head. He would never understand why, but Blink did that every now and then. He just needed to be alone, and never wanted anyone to know he had left. Usually when Blink did this, he came back several hours later, completely drunk. Mush just hoped he wouldn't get into too much trouble.
"That's not fair! You have got to be cheating!" Spot yelled at Flight. He was extremely frustrated. "We've been playing for two hours since Blink disappeared into the floor, and you haven't lost once! That's not fair!"
"I'm sorry you're so bad at poker, Spot," Flight said calmly. "Want to try again?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, deal me in, Race."
Flight actually couldn't understand how he had won because he was so distracted with the absence of his brother. But he had managed to do it anyway.
In the middle of round thirty-seven, a large BANG could be heard from downstairs. The four boys turned in their seats.
"What the hell happened to you?" Bumlets voice floated up the stairs. There was no reply.
Then there was a stumbling, shuffling, and someone's attempt to walk straight. Up the stairs and into the bunkroom.
The steps were slow and heavy. The person kept running into walls. Finally, after what seemed like ages, a head appeared at the top of the steps, with one more step before actually entering the bunkroom.
Flight stood up suddenly, his chair screeching as it slid backwards and it toppled to the floor. Tumbler sat up in bed.
It was Blink, and, as predicted, he was very drunk. He was also covered head to toe in blood. Blink's shirt was ripped; a tooth appeared to be missing. His eye patch was completely gone, and from the way his closed left eyelid pitted in, it was obvious that there was no eye in the socket.
Blink looked around the room, spotted Flight and waved madly.
"Hiya, Josephine!" he called to Flight. He then let out a high-pitched giggle and pitched forwards, tripping over the last step.
Flight screamed, and when he didn't move, Flight rushed to his side.
"Blink! Blink!" Flight poked his brother with each word. "Get up! Come on, this isn't funny! Blink!"
Blink finally lifted his face from the floor, and giggled again.
"Hey, you look just like you did when Ma died, Josephine. Like you wouldn't be able to walk again, you was so scared," he slurred.
"Joseph," Flight corrected softly. "My name's Joseph."
Blink squinted at Flight.
"No it's not. My twin sister's name is Josephine."
"Twin brother, Blink. The name's Joseph."
"Nuh uh. Remember, Josephine, when Ma died? She told us to stick together, remember?"
"Yeah, but that doesn't matter. What happened?"
"Well, we did stick together. We worked for this one guy. You were a cook; you were so good at cooking. I was a stable hand, remember?"
"I meant what happened that you're covered in blood."
"Got in a fight, Josephine. Anyway, one night the guy comes home all drunk remember?"
"No," Flight said firmly. "Help me get him over to his bed," Flight said to Mush. Mush picked up Blink by himself and put him on Racetrack's bed, the bottom would be easier to get to than the top. Blink babbled on.
"But you gotta remember, Josephine. He was all drunk, and he pulled us out of that room we was using to sleep in. He grabbed that big sword over the fireplace and he –"
"Get towels and warm water," Flight said to no one in particular. Tumbler scrambled off to get the towels, with Dutchy right behind him with the water.
"And he cut out my eye, Josephine. It hurt so bad. I remember seeing it on the floor, and my whole face was covered with blood. I couldn't do nothing but sit and scream. Remember Josephine?" Flight was doing an extremely good job of ignoring him.
Flight dipped one of the towels into the water, and pressed it onto Blink's face, attempting to wipe away the blood. Blink flinched, but continued talking.
"You was trying to clean me up, like now, then the bloke came over and raped you. That was awful, too." Flight's face clouded over.
"When the guy's wife found out what happened, she did what she could an' then let us leave. We lived for a whole year on the streets. And you found out you was pregnant with that guy's kid. It was a girl. Caroline. Remember, Josephine? Remember?" Flight didn't answer, just scowled down at Blink. "But you gotta remember! We left Caroline on someone's front step, and you bawled your eyes out for weeks!" Blink was pretty well cleaned up by now.
"After a while, we got enough money to buy you some boy's clothes, and cut your hair all short, so you would look like a guy. Then we went to be newsies. We knew that they'd never let a girl in, so that was why you were hiding. An' Ma said we have to stick together, so we did. You remember now, Josephine?" Blink looked up at Flight, and Flight finally nodded.
"Yeah." Blink smiled.
"Oh, good. An then there was that time where –"
"Blink, just rest, okay? I know my history just as well as you do." Blink pouted for a moment, and then looked up at Flight, a smile spreading across his face.
"All right, but only if you sing." Flight looked down at Blink. Flight tucked a leg under another, sitting on the very edge of the bed. Blink placed his head on the tucked in leg and closed his eye as Flight ran a hand through his hair absently.
"Which song?"
"The one about the horses." Flight leaned back against the bed post, trying to recall the words.
"Hush bye bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy little baby. When you wake, you have sweet cake and all the pretty little horses," Flight began, a clear soprano voice filling the room. "Blacks and bays, dapples and grays, a coach and six little horses."
The newsies around the room stared at Flight. Boys couldn't sing like that. They had taken Blink's drunk ramblings as just that, drunk ramblings. But once they looked at Flight, he, or she rather, was very much a girl.
It struck them as odd that they had never noticed or bothered to notice at all before. Wouldn't it have been obvious?
Apparently not, Racetrack thought, leaning in to get a closer look at Flight. Flight did have very feminine features, high cheekbones, a small nose and lips. And looking at her chest, well . . . duh. Flight was his best friend, and he probably wouldn't have known in a million years. Racetrack felt really stupid.
He glanced over at Spot, who was still sitting at the poker table, his hat pulled low over his eyes and his arms crossed. He didn't appear to be too surprised.
"And all the pretty little . . ." Flight's song faded once she realized her brother was asleep. "Oh, good." She looked up at all the boys watching her intently. She stared a few of them down, before looking at her brother. She moved gently away from the bed, and stood, sweeping the room with her eyes. It was deadly silent.
"You can't stay." Flight looked around.
"What was that, Skittery?"
"I said you can't stay. Girls aren't allowed here," Skittery said, coming forward, his hands in his pockets. "But, just to be fair, I say we vote on it." Flight looked up sharply. She knew Skittery wouldn't say that unless he knew he was going to win the vote.
"So," Skittery continued, turning back around to look at the newsies, "all in favor of Flight . . . or . . . uh . . . Josephine was it? . . . leaving, raise your hand." Most of the hands in the room went up. Flight paled considerably. Skittery smirked. "All in favor of her staying raise your hand." Only Racetrack, Mush, Crutchy, Bumlets, and Tumbler (who didn't really understand what was going on) raised their hands. Actually, their hands more like shot up than were raised, not that that counted for anything.
Flight nodded and swallowed. She turned to what had been her bunk and grabbed her hat from the post, her extra pair of clothes and her pair of dice, stuffing them into an old bag. Skittery sat and watched.
"So, Flight, where you gonna go?" he asked, leaning against her bed as she counted up all the money she had. She glanced up to him before returning to her money.
"Streets," she answered simply. "I'll find something to do." Racetrack literally roared at Skittery.
"You can't let her sleep on the streets, not this time of year! She'll freeze to death! And, well, she's our friend; you can't just kick her out!"
"Watch me," Skittery said menacingly, towering over Racetrack. He then turned to Flight and dragged her to the top of the stairs and threw her down them. She landed at the bottom with a sickening crack.
"Damn it Skitts, you trying to kill her?" Racetrack yelped, running over to the stairs, but Skittery pulled him back.
"If you try to go to her, I will kill you."
"With what, huh? Threats?"
"No." Skittery pulled out his knife. "No. Not at all."
Spot had taken this time to quietly slip down the stairs, without Skittery noticing him. Racetrack didn't say anything else, so he was either dead (unlikely), or had apologized immediately. Spot squatted down next to Flight, who was struggling to sit up.
"What cracked?"
"Ankle," she panted, her face contorted with pain.
"You're lucky that wasn't your skull."
"Yeah." Spot could see the ankle in question already swelling grandly. Flight pulled herself up with the help of a chair.
"Here, I'll take you to Brooklyn. We allow girls there," Spot said, helping her to stand up straight.
Flight hobbled out the door, refusing Spot's help.
"You know, you really shouldn't be walking on that," Spot commented from just behind Flight. She just nodded. "Want me to carry you?"
"No."
"K."
By the time they reached the Brooklyn Bridge, Spot was carrying Flight's bag, which wasn't heavy at all, but she acted as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
At the other end of the bridge, Flight had her hand on Spot's shoulder, and she was leaning on him heavily. Spot slipped an arm around her waist for support.
The two mile walk from the Manhattan Lodging House to the Brooklyn Lodging house never seemed to take so long. It was probably the longest it had ever taken anybody to get from one to the other. At least Flight had an excuse.
Spot smiled. Flight was tough, she had lasted extremely long. In fact, she didn't pass out from the pain until they had stopped just outside the Brooklyn Lodging House.
Spot scooped her up without any trouble. She must have weighed a hundred pounds, if not less.
When Spot entered the Lodging House, Catwalk (a girl who acted somewhat like a mother figure to the newsies) stared.
"Spot, what . . ."
"Get a doctor. Unless you can set broken ankles." Catwalk couldn't, so she flew out the door, tugging on her coat as she went, in search of a doctor.
Spot trudged up the stairs, and laid her on the closest empty bunk.
Even in unconsciousness, Flight's face was screwed up in pain. Spot could only pray (something he didn't do often) that the doctor would get to the Lodging House soon.
Yay! Seven Pages!
Um, he he. I didn't really think that would work so well, but I ended up getting tons of reviews (more than usual anyway).
Random list of why this took me from 10:00 to 4:14 today to write this (and other things):
1. I was drafted to clean the bathrooms. All 1,572 of them. Okay, three. But who's counting?
2. My mom says my hair looks good today (maybe I spent extra time on it?)
3. I'm really tired because I had a swim meet last night. My team won 311 to 254, and I got first in backstroke! Yay! I might have won in the I.M. if my goggles hadn't fallen off the second I dove in. If I touched them, I would have been D.Q.ed. I got third anyway.
4. It took me forever to read through this story, so I would actually know what the heck I had written, and if I could actually make a little plot line.
5. It took me forever because it's . . . seven pages.
Anyway . . . Shout outs!
Cinnamon Spice: What line did Race supposedly steal from you? Oh, and do I get my five cents now?
lainie-d: Thank you. Will continue.
antiIRONY: I hope this turns out to have a plot, and I'm sorry, it probably was really obvious. Oh well. Please forgive me, as it's myfirst fic and all. I wanted it to be six months because then it would be Flight's half birthday. The strike would have started on July thirteenth (which I said was Flight and Blink's birthday), so January 13 would have been the half birthday. Birthdays aren't usually that great for Flight and Blink.
SilentTwilight: No! Review! Review! I'll update if you just review!
Review, I say! Review!
