Author's note: Thanks so much to Waterfall O'Rourke, Bottles, GypsyRuth, firecracker, Sureshot Higgins, and Bookie for their great reviews. I really appreciate it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.
Jean hummed a merry Creole tune as he slid confidently through the crowds on Seventh Avenue. Still not mollified from the previous day's argument, he eyed his sister (who was reading an elderly woman's wizened palm on a nearby corner) resentfully. He felt the distinct urge to run to another street, just to see what her reaction would be, but the strong tug of guilt and loyalty held him back. To get his mind off of his sister's ability to irritate him like no other he decided to concentrate harder on the task at hand.
The boy fancied that, had he been born in the right era, he would have made a fantastic pirate. Pickin' pockets is the closest I'll get to ridin' the seven seas and pilagin' ships, I guess, he thought with a small sigh. Automatically, his father's image flashed before him. Now he looked like a regular pirate—dark hair and mustache and all. I look like him, I think. He pushed a hand through his thick, unwashed locks. I bet Papa would have been a great pickpocket; he always said that he had a little help at cards. I bet I take right after him. He sneered in Imogene's general direction. She doesn't know what talent she has on her hands. It'll serve her right when I can go out on my own.
The fair weather had tempted people from all social classes to leave their homes. Ladies and gentlemen of fortune strolled with parasols floating above their heads like friendly clouds. Small girls in shabby clothing carried bundles of wilting flowers and shoved their wares in the faces of pedestrians. Boys in private school uniforms hurried passed with books or baseball bats tucked under their arms. The uniforms of delivery boys were blurs of faded red as they sped passed on rickety bicycles. Jean's feet itched restlessly inside of his shabby boots.
Generally Jean stole from only the wealthy pedestrians. The poor got enough troubles—and don't I know that from experience! But at the tantalizing sight of a few dollar bills peeking out of the pocket of a newsie, he found that his fingers could not resist reaching out to grab him.
That was his intention, at least. His fingertips had just curled around the paper when a strong hand grabbed his wrist. A pair of dangerously flashing green eyes bore into his fearful brown ones.
"I…uh…" he stuttered helplessly, staring at the girl before him. Her shabby clothing and ease on the streets identified her as some kind of street kid. A newsie, most likely, Jean deduced from the amount of money in her pocket. He glimpsed Imogene out of the corner of his eye and, for a moment, considered crying to her for help; but then, thinking better of it, he attempted to struggle free from her grasp.
Suddenly the newsgirl's eyes softened and an amused smile curled around her lips. "Hey, hey, easy deah kid. I ain't gonna hoit ya."
Jean's eyebrows rose so that they disappeared under his dark bangs. "You're not?" he squeaked. In all of his experience as a pickpocket, he had never found someone pleased after catching him. Shocked, he neglected to thank whatever deity was looking out for him while making a swift exist. Instead, he gaped at the newsgirl and stuttered helplessly. "But…but…why not?"
She shook her head and chuckled. "Ya mean ya'd rather have me kick da shit outta ya?"
The thought of a thorough beating returned Jean to his senses. "No, no, not at all. I just…I don't usually…"
"Used ta not gettin' caught?"
Flushing embarrassedly, he replied, "Yeah, that's it."
"Well, ya outta stay away from people who know how ta pick pockets demselves," she informed him with a sly grin.
Jean's eyes widened. "You're a pickpocket?"
"Well, dat was a while ago. But ya nevah lose da knack, right?" At the sight of the boy's enthusiastic nod, she grinned wryly. "Dat's why I caught ya, see. Next time, try ta stick close ta da rich folks who ain't nevah needed ta pick pockets in deir lives. Dey make for some easy targets. Nevah go for teenagahs—dey know too much about da streets—but oldah people, even da ones who was raised on the sidewalks, forget t'ings easiah. Dey'll nevah notice ya reachin' inta deir pockets. And keep your fingahs kinda bent, like dis"—she held up her hand—"because den your fingahs don't tense up, and—"
"Hey!" a voice called from a few feet away, interrupting the newsgirl's lecture. "Ya done teachin' da kid yet? We got woik ta do."
"Hold on, I'm comin'," she cried in return, before returning her gaze to the young boy. "What's your name, kid?"
The boy's grin suffused so that he thought his face would break. "Jean Gray."
"And I'm Bittah." She flashed an amused smile. "Good luck wid da crowds, Jean. See ya around." Jean watched her saunter down the sidewalk to meet a waiting newsboy, whose impatient expression was evident even from where Jean was standing. Soon they both disappeared into the milling crowds.
Jean did not notice when a curious Imogene came to stand beside him; he jumped at the sound of her voice. "Who was that?" she inquired with more forcefulness than she had intended. Her forehead was furrowed and her mouth was twisted into an apprehensive frown.
"What's it to you?" he spat defensively.
He knuckles whitened as she clenched her fits angrily, and she cursed herself for not predicting this show of independence. "I don't want you talkin' to just anyone who walks down the street, you know."
"Why not?" he demanded. "You do it."
"It's my job, you idiot! If I didn't talk to people, I couldn't get paid for readin' their cards or palms or somethin', and I wouldn't be a distraction from what you're doing, you absolute twit. And besides, I'm older."
The words burned Jean's flesh like a brand. "Oh, so it's okay for you to talk to people," he debated, his eyes growing darker and narrowing as fury consumed his small body. "It's okay for you to talk to just anyone who's around. It's okay for you to just walk up to people and it's okay for you to talk to everyone and it's not okay for me." Imogene opened her mouth to chastise him, but he swiftly continued. "Well, I can talk to anyone I want to talk to. You think I'm just this stupid kid who can't take care of himself, but that girl didn't seem to think that I was so young. She treated me like I'm a person, not some stupid kid. You're not as old as you think, Imogene."
Imogene clenched her teeth so that she would not reply as she wished, so that what she had promised she would keep secret from her brother would stay secret. Her face paled as she remembered running through the bayous, worrying less about the alligators than what she had been running from. Tears of fear coursed down her cheeks as she had stumbled as though drunken. Her shawl had been wrapped around her body and her pack of tarot cards were clutched in one hand. Even in her frenzy, she had known that if she dared to read her cards at that moment, she would have seen the nine of swords. At that moment, racing away from the ramshackle cabin she had called home for her first eleven years, she had vowed to herself that she would never relate to Jean what she had seen that night. Now Imogene gulped and struggled to think of a better reply than the one that rested on her tongue.
"Well, neither are you," she finally growled. "And stop makin' a scene. Do you want to get the attention of every police officer from here to the Mississippi?"
Her brother, recognizing the danger of being caught, did not reply. Instead, he turned and slipped into the crowds, deciding to concentrate on picking pockets rather than his infuriating sister.
Imogene's cheeks reddened to a deep crimson as she watched her brother slip around the unsuspecting pedestrians. She remembered a time when he had completely depended on her judgment. Well, not completely, she reminded herself. He's helped me just as much as I've helped him. But still, that doesn't mean he has to get all defensive and make friends with random newsies. Although she didn't want to admit it, she could not ignore the jealousy that gnawed in her stomach.
Jealous of what? she demanded of herself. Who cares who he talks to? I sure as hell don't. With an impatient toss of her head, she returned to the business of gazing into the future.
*****
"Sheepshead Races ta close!" Jack shouted as he waved a paper high above his head. He eyed a group of men on a nearby corner, all of whom displayed their wealth with great pride although they had the less refined physical features of the upper class. Grinning inwardly, he continued, "Days at da track comin' ta an end! Mayor tries ta stop gamblin'!" The men rushed to him in distress and each bough a copy of the paper. "T'ank ya, gentlemen. Good luck ya ta."
Les, who had been selling a few feet away, approached Jack with a curious expression. "The tracks are closing? Maybe Race will want to know."
The newsboy laughed heartily as he shook his head. Seeing that the group of men had walked away, scanning the paper frantically, he leaned forward to Les. "Actu'lly, da track's jus' closin' for a day ta get some work done on da track befoah da wintah." He winked playfully and pulled another paper out of his stack. "Why don'tcha go ta da oddah cornah ovah deah? It looks like deah's a group of nuns dat're just askin' for da sick kid bit."
"Tricking nuns now, huh?" a familiar voice quipped from behind. "You're just asking for trouble with that one."
Jack turned to grin slyly at David. "Well, newsies sell papes, not headlines. I t'ought I gave ya enough of an education ta know dat, Davey boy. Maybe school is takin' dat away?"
David sighed heavily and rolled his eyes at the memory of school. A clean shirt and a pile of battered books under his arms were evidence to where he had just come from. "Sometimes I wonder."
"Are ya sellin' tahday?" Jack inquired as he gazed absently at one of his papers. Usually David would join his friend and younger brother after school, selling the evening edition. Now that David's father had healed and managed to find another job, money was slightly less of a concern, but the addition of a few dollars helped considerably.
"Yeah, but the papes aren't ready yet, so I thought…" David trailed off as he realized that Jack's eyes were no longer focused on his paper. Following his friend's gaze, he caught sight of two figures walking towards them. He saw Jack's shoulders sag and the faint lines in his forehead deepen. "Is that—"
"It ain't good news, dat's for sure," the leader of the Manhattan newsies replied solemnly as he watched the forms of two Brooklyn newsies approach. His stomach clenched as he wished that his assumption would be wrong. When he caught sight of Spot and Bittah's identically solemn expressions, he realized that he had been correct. Eying David soberly, he greeted their visitors. "Long way from home," he remarked and spit into his palm.
"Well it ain't exactly a friendly visit," Bittah grumbled under her breath.
Jack knew that neither apologies nor defeat came easily to Brooklyn newsies. Tone dropping sympathetically, he inquired, "It's a missin' kid, right?"
Spot and Bittah cast each other a blank expression, but their eyes were full of grief. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies nodded and glanced at the sidewalk, as though searching for something that would make this confession easier. Then he spoke quickly and directly. "Yeah, last night. It was Emu."
Damnit, Jack thought violently, but his face betrayed no emotion other than sympathy. His stomach twisted as he wondered how he would break the news to Kid Blink, Emu's boyfriend.
"She was sellin' late last night and nevah came back," Spot continued.
"And she ain't da type ta run off widout tellin' us wheah she's going," Bittah interjected, as though to quell any doubts that Jack might have had about the validity of their story.
Jack nodded, ignoring the urge to raise an eyebrow at Bittah. "I get it. Well, I'm sorry it happened. I hope ya believe us now."
"Yeah, yeah, we believe ya," the other newsboy mumbled. "Now what are we gonna do about it?"
Under the watchful gaze of the Brooklyn newsies, Jack wanted to squirm like a child in church clothes. He was reminded of the strike, when he led dozens of newsboys against one of the most powerful men in the city. I didn't ask for dat position, eiddah, he told himself. Why does ev'rybody t'ink dat I'm beddah dan anybody else at fixin' problems like dis? He momentarily raised his eyes to the sky. Why don't ya want me ta jus' sell my papes in peace, God?
"I wish I knew," he admitted, shrugging. "Nobody has any idea about how dis is even happenin', let alone who's doin' it."
Bittah scowled and folded her arms challengingly over her chest, but did not reply. Spot glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the leader of the Manhattan newsies. "Bookie and Quipstah went ovah ta Harlem ta see if dey've found out anyt'ing else. We'll let ya know if dey got any news."
Jack nodded, hoping that Harlem would have even an inkling of evidence. "Yeah." He watched the Brooklyn newsies turn on their heels and stride away, their heads held confidently but their shoulders hunched slightly in defeat. Too bad it had ta come ta dat, he thought wearily, for a moment ignoring the curious expression that David was casting him. Jack realized that soon things would escalate out of control, unless something was done. Sighing lightly, he wondered why his friends seemed to think that he would be the one to do that particular something.
To be continued…please review!