Chapta Six

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, but I do own my OC's. Duh. Notice the 'O' in 'OC,' which stands for OWN Character. O yeah. (Worst joke I've ever made.) :P
:Somewhere in the Bronx:
The shadowy figure of a woman moved gracefully around the dark streets, a cool wind blowing her hair gently behind her shoulders. She knew it was dangerous to be alone on an autumn evening, but where she was going, nothing would get her.

A small shop sat, it's windows softly illuminated by candlelight. The shop part of it wasn't open, but as a house, it was.

She tapped on the door a few times, before another young girl, no more than fifteen, opened the door. She greeted her friend with a smile.

"Come on," she said, motioning her inside. With no questions asked, the girl who had opened the door, a young lady named Andria Wells, commonly known as Ali, led her friend up a flight of stairs and into the attic, where five or six other teenagers sat.

"Natalie, hi! We thought you weren't coming back!"

The figure, whose name was Natalie O'Rourke, smiled. "Why wouldn't I?"

Ali pulled her aside, lowering her voice. "We were worried about you and that guy, whats-his-name... Pumming, or whatever you called him. No one thought you would still be with us."

Natalie shrugged, and raised her eyebrows. "Well, that's done with, and I'm still here, so it's all good. Did I tell you what happened a few days ago?"

Julia, another teen in the room, rolled her eyes. "No, you weren't here a few days ago." Natalie smiled sheepishly.

"Hee hee."

"Just, continue."

"Ok, so I was in Brooklyn, the real trashy part, ya know, and I saw these gangs having a fight outside of the Sheepshead racetrack..."

"Really?" piped up one of the girls, "What was happening?'

"I don't know, but one of those guys was gettin' it really badly. Like, really badly. They almost stabbed him."

Ali looked at her. "Did you do anything to stop it? Call the police or tell someone or something? You didn't let him get hurt, did ya?"

"No..."

"Then what did ya do?"

Natalie paused.

"I threw a rock."

It was growing late by the time the Manhattan newsies left Brooklyn. After a day of selling papes, drinking, throwing obnoxious comments at hobos, more drinking, and partying, it was time for sleep. Spot wasn't tired, this was his daily routine, but no one else had prepared for it. So, they were worn. All good things come to an end.

He walked the streets, with the occasional spit into one of his friend's hands, and a wave or a nod here and there. More ways into the radioactive-beachy part of the bay, he could hear the echoes of the unfortunate newsies who, at 8:00 pm, were still trying to sell their papers. Nothing he could do.

After an hour of wandering around, he returned to the lodge, early. Much to his dismay, Curly was there. And the only one there. The two ignored each other for a bit, Curly fixing his bed, but

"Heya, Spot," he said, pretending to be happy.

Spot did not reply.

"So da King a' Brookie don't talk ta his servants?"

Spot glared at him. "Wha?"

"I said, da King a Brooklyn done (don't) talk ta his servants? Ya need my ta say it any louda?"

Spot began taking his suspenders. "Well, no, I try not ta talk ta dirt. It don't look so good in da long run."

Curly, with a scary suddeness, grabbed Spot by the collar of his shirt and glared at him. "Ya think yer so hot when ya wit yer friends, but ya ain't. Ya ain't nuttin' but a kid who think he's Teddy Roosevelt, struttin' round and wavin' yer stupid cane and makin' rules as ya go. Yer a piece a shit."

The two faced each other. Spot knew when it was time to be quiet and when it was time to talk, and this was a time to let the tension grow. Pushing past Curly, he kept his bright blue eyes on the floor and paced around. It could make anyone nervous, and he knew it.

"Ya know..."Spot started, clasping his hands behind his back like an expecting father, "Ya know, faw that, I can make ya lose everyone." He rose his head to stare at his opponent, unblinking. "Everyone ya ever known. Wit a snap, no one will talk ta ya again, an if dey do, ya won't be hearin' from dem again. I could do that."

"Is dat a threat?"

Spot smiled. "I'll be frank. Yeah, it is. An' ya better take my advice. We could put dis behind us. Neva happened. 'Cause we all got voices. But if ya don't step down, no one's eva gonna listen ta yers again."

"I don't like bein' threatened, Conlon."

"Nobody does. But ya betta listen, 'cause dis is da last time I'll be tellin' ya."

He got himself up in Curly's face in a second, only about two inches away.

"Give up. Ya just startin' ta get things in life, like friends an' respect, things ya need ta survive here. Ya don't wanna lose it. It'd be... unhealthy."

Curly turned away, knowing, he had only lost a battle. Going to leave the room, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Onna dese days, yer gonna get it. Yer gonna mess wit da wrong person and get it served ta ya."

"I'll believe dat when I seen it wit my own two eyes."

The Next Day
"Penny faw a pape, lady?" Racetrack called, waving the news about. When the woman did not respond and walked by faster, he asked, "...Ma'am?"

He sighed. He wasn't in Manhattan, he was in the Bronx, and felt like an idiot. No one knew him or trusted him. Just another stupid 'hatten newsie trying to make a living. Let's not buy papers from him.

He didn't know why he had come here, but it probably had something to do with how overcrowded the city was, and although this was considered 'good,' word spread quickly if you were a liar or not. So what if some strange old dude had chased him away from his corner and threatened him with a cane because Race once stole his cigar? So what if he ran for about three miles before realizing he had gone south instead of east, towards Brooklyn?

Whoops.

Another man walked by, ignoring him, and he wondered, 'What am I doin' wrong?'

"Ali!" cried a voice, and he looked over to see a teenage girl running away from her friend, out of breath and trying to laugh.

"Just - Ali! Stop run– Can you just listen?"

Her friend caught up to her and took deep gulps of air, while Ali found something rather hysterical and was doubled over, face red. Her friend, a brown haired, cream skinned girl of about fourteen, tried to contain her laughter.

I... I didn't say..." More laughter. "I didn't say that. It wasn't–"

"No! I know you did–"

"No I didn't! It wasn't me!"

"Only you would do something..."

"No no no no no, that was Julia or Lizzie but that wasn't..."

As he listened to the girls argue over something embarrassing that someone had said, Racetrack realized it may be his accent. The girl's words were pronounced and didn't have a slur. Without knowing it, he muttered, "That was Julia or Lizzie, but that wasn't me," to himself. It sounded more like, "Dat was Julya aw Lizzie, but dat wasn't me."

Regaining his alertness, he fixed his cap and went up to them. Their chatter died down to nothing, and they stared.

"Would ya lovely angels like ta buy a pape? Only a penny."

They looked at him, eyebrows raised, then at each other. The one called Ali had straight, brownish-blonde hair that went to her shoulders, and pretty grey eyes. It was she that spoke first.

"Sure, here." She flipped him a penny and took a newspaper from the pile. He nodded at her and went to walk away, but it appeared that wasn't the custom in the Bronx.

"Wait," she called, and he looked back.

"Yeah?"

"Are you from Brooklyn?"

"No, 'hatten. Why?"

"Your accent."

"Oh."

The friend stepped foward and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "I know you." Race looked at her. "I neva seen ya," he said.

Ali gave her friend a glance, then said, "I'm Ali Wells, and this is Natalie O'Rourke."

Racetrack gave a little bow. "Racetrack. Pleased ta meet ya."

Natalie smiled. "I could swear I know you from somewhere. That, or I've seen you."

Race shrugged. "I ain't usually ova here. I stay in 'hatten an' sell papes, but some guy ran me out. So I'm here faw taday." Ali laughed.

"What, he sold you out of business?"

"Nah, I stole his cigar."

The girls chuckled. Natalie could swear on the Bible she'd seen him somewhere, whether she'd given him a piece of bread or seen him in a crowd, but definitely somewhere. Ali liked him. His forehead looked cute when he was bothered or confused, both of which she had seen in the past five minutes. But it wasn't right for her to just start talking to a boy she met on the street, literally. So she nodded.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you," she said, which meant it was time to end it. "Are you going to be here tomorrow?"

Race paused. He hadn't thought about it, but now... "Change o' plans. Maybe I outta give da guy some time ta cool down." he laughed. "Yeah, I'll be back."

Ali cupped her hands together. "Ok," she said, "Be back here tomorrow. I live on 67River Court, down there." She pointed, and he looked carefully, wanting to remember.

They waved, and went off on their ways.

Race was whistling a new tune when he reached home.