One of the best parts of being a newsie was watching New York City wake up. At least Pocket thought so. She loved being out first thing in the morning, in that first half hour when everything still moved slowly. No mistake, Pocket was a New Yorker through and through, she thrived on the frantic pace of the city. But she relished those brief periods of early morning calm that gave her time to fully wake up and face the day.
Pocket, Spot, and Race strolled down the block; Pocket smiled as she listened to Race's running commentary on the people they passed. Every now and then she'd laugh out loud as Spot joined in with his own dry comments. The three of them reached the square just in time to see the nuns arrive with their cart.
Since most of the newsies were still passed out back at the lodging house, only a handful of younger street kids hung around, eagerly munching their hunks of bread. With so few children to feed, they each got a bit extra. When the sisters began to pray, Pocket retreated to a bench to drink her coffee.
Having lived on the streets as long as she could remember, religion had never been a big deal to her. But Spot, being Irish, and Race, Italian, had of course been devout Catholics in their former lives. Gratefully sipping the strong brew, Pocket watched with affection as both the crafty gambler and the fierce leader doffed their caps, bowed their heads and quietly said the rosary.
The two boys finished their Hail Mary's and thanked the sisters then joined Pocket on her bench. They chatted lazily about mundane things. Spot entertained them with his story of his younger boys throwing each other off the docks. Racetrack spoke enthusiastically about a "sure fire winnah" down at the tracks, eagerly describing what he would do with is winnings if he could only get down there to make a bet.
"Better save ya pennies, Race," Pocket cautioned him. "Me birthday's comin' up next week and I 'spect ya to buy me somethin' nice."
"It ain't ya birthday ya big fake," he argued. "You're only just lookin' for presents."
"Is so me birthday next week," she insisted.
"Is not!" he shot back childishly.
"I guess I know when me own birthday is," she told him indignantly.
"Says who?" he challenged. "Ya don't even know for real when ya birthday is. Ya just picked one."
"So what? Everybody gots a birthday and if I don't know what mines is why can't I pick my own?" She shrugged. "Me birthday's next week cuz I say it is," she declared triumphantly. "What's wrong with that?"
Race started to answer her, but Spot cut him off.
"Nothin' wrong with ya pickin' your own birthday," he said dryly. "Only ya had a birthday last month. And a couple months before that, if I rememba."
Pocket didn't bat an eye, just punched him on the shoulder, saying "So now you'se tryin' to get out of buyin' me presents too?"
Racetrack laughed uproariously while Pocket and Spot grinned at each other, enjoying the familiar argument. When she'd first joined the newsies, Pocket had attended a birthday celebration for one of the older boys. Birthdays were a new concept for her, since she'd never known her family. At first she'd been upset that she didn't know her birthday, or even how old she was, until she came up with the brilliant idea of declaring her own day. Since then, she'd happily celebrated her birthday several times a year. The other newsies teased but went along with it, always looking for an excuse to throw a party. Nobody ever had enough money to buy gifts. Only Spot had never missed one yet, always finding her something special.
Pocket lit a cigarette, handing one to each of her companions. She absently rubbed her leg, sore from the couple of kicks the Crip had landed before Spot had knocked him out. Seeing this, Spot frowned but said nothing. Pocket tended to get feisty when she thought he was being over protective. Needless to say, that happened a lot.
Looking around, Racetrack noticed that the square had gotten busier, and realized they'd been gone for a while.
"Guess we bettah head back," he said reluctantly.
"Nah, not yet," Pocket disagreed. "Most of the fellas is just wakin' up. We ain't in no hurry."
"Yeah," Spot seconded. "Jackyboy prob'ly ain't even back from his 'walk' yet. Few more minutes won't hurt. I'm for relaxin' right here for a bit."
With that, Spot stretched out on the seat, resting his head in Pocket's lap. He closed his eyes as she took off his cap to play with his hair.
The three friends stayed for a while longer. Spot dozed peacefully, Pocket and Race sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Race was just pleased to see his two friends finally making progress. Lately he'd wondered if they would ever get it together. A born gambler, Racetrack had a natural talent for reading people. He'd long ago picked up on the undercurrent between them – figured it out way before they even realized it themselves. Over the years he had amused himself watching them try to pretend there was nothing going on. He'd refrained from mentioning it, only teasing her gently every once in a while. As much as the scrappy Italian loved to talk, he also knew that sometimes it was better to keep his big mouth shut.
Now that it seemed they were going to finally acknowledge their feelings, Race couldn't be happier. Pocket and Spot fit perfectly together. They were enough alike to understand each other, but different enough in the ways that mattered. They argued a lot, both of them had strong, stubborn natures that frequently clashed. But they needed each other – she needed him to look out for her when she forgot that she wasn't invincible. He needed her to come home to.
Spot wore the mantle of leadership well, and he genuinely enjoyed it. It was a role that suited him perfectly- he was born to command- but sometimes the weight of that responsibility was exhausting. Sometimes he needed to relax and let his guard down, and Race knew that he could do that with Pocket.
Finally Pocket sighed and shook him awake. "We bettah go," she said softly.
Pocket was distracted the whole way back to the lodging house, walking quietly beside them, studying Spot out of the corner of her eye. When he'd been asleep on her lap, she had looked down at him, features softened in rest, and she could see traces of the boy she'd known since they were eleven. She reflected back on those first few months after she'd come to Manhattan, when he'd laughed all the time. The long, brutal struggle for Brooklyn and the responsibilities of leadership had hardened Spot, made him more serious, watchful. For a couple of years after he took over it was very seldom that she saw glimpse of the old Spot. At first she had missed her easy-going friend, but over time, she'd come to understand Spot leader. With that understanding had come deep respect and, she realized with a gasp, great love.
"Well damn," she whispered to herself. I love him.
'Huh?" Spot nudged her arm. "What'd ya say?"
Startled she looked up to find him giving her an odd look.
"Nothin'. It was nothin'," she told him, looking away to hide her embarrassment.
She knew he wasn't fooled, but he let it go, leaving her free to grapple with this new revelation on her own.
Jack and David waited with the others on the steps of the lodging house. The Jacobs boy eyed Spot warily as the rest called out greetings.
"Heya fellas, Pocket," Jack welcomed them, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and tossing it to Racetrack. "Found it," he answered in response to Race's questioning look. Pocket bit her lip to keep from laughing.
"So what's the plan, Cowboy?" Race wanted to know.
The other boys all spoke at once, each with a different suggestion.
"I gotta get back to Brooklyn soon, Jacky-boy," Spot raised his voice to be heard. "So if ya wanna talk, it's gotta be now."
Jack stood and nodded his agreement, already walking away. Spot fell into step beside him, and the two leaders headed off down the street in search of a private place to talk. David started after them but stopped in his tracks when Jack glanced back and said "You stay here an' keep an eye on things Davey. Me an' Spot got a lotta things ta discuss."
Flushing, the novice newsie stared at his feet, embarrassed at being publicly shut out. His face grew even redder when the Brooklynite shot him a superior look.
"Meet at Tibby's for lunch, Jack instructed his newsies, who quickly wandered off to find their own amusement.
Pocket walked over to Racetrack, shoving his shoulder.
"C'mon Race," she invited. "Bet we can get a game up over in Harlem."
Hearing this, Spot turned and motioned her to him. She strolled over, and he bummed a cigarette. He leaned forward and murmured low into her ear, none of the other newsies heard him warn her not to go too far.
She gave no reply, just turned and link arms with Racetrack, but as the two of them sauntered around the corner, David heard her say, "Ya know Race, on second thought, we could always go down the block and watch the fights."