Chapta Nine
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Newsies.
A/N: Please R&R!
'Sleeping with someone else,'Spot thought, 'Feels way more safer.'
This was his last conscious theory before he dozed off. He and Race lay in the attic, using mounds of hay as their pillows and a thick comforter Natalie had given them. She, of course, had slept in her room with her nice bed and down pillows and thick sheets and all that good stuff, but what could they expect?
"As soon as Race leaves," she said, "You can have the attic to yourself, Spot."
He still hadn't told her his real name, which was Sean Patrick Conlon, very Irish, but somehow, no one noticed. Hecould speak a tiny bit of Italian, thanks to Race's selling papes to the immigrants who came in, but he could never hold a conversation.
He loved Irish music, though. Once, when he was twelve, a group of artists came into the green and played some old tunes and sang in Gaelic. They stuck in his head, and he could recite them even to this day. That was one of the last good things in Brooklyn, and after that, no other musicians visited, period. But as a King, he was expected not to care, and that's what he did.
Even though he did.
"Ta me chomh mor sin i ngra leat..." he muttered to himself. He did not know what the words meant, but they were from the song.
He had a strange dream that night. In it, he saw a young girl, around his age or younger, laying there on her back, golden hair tossed around her shoulders on a pillow, tired.Peace filled his mind, either at the sight of the girl or for some other reason. Another picture came into his head, a more disturbing one - a tombstone, and, as he was about to read the name on it, it faded from his mind, and someone shook him awake.
"Spot...Wake up, ya big potata."
Spot groaned and rolled over. Race. He opened his eyes, but to his surprise, when he glanced at the window, it was still dark. Very dark.
"Whaddaya want?" he asked, angrily, glared up at his friend.
Race looked nervous. "Ya had me worried there, Spots. Ya were tossin' around an' ya were sayin' "No!"
Spot squinted. "I said wha?"
He jumped a bit, because he realized Natalie was peering over Race's shoulder. "Hey," she said gently, "You almost woke the whole house up. You started screaming."
Spot had forgotten his dream. Searching his brain and pulling himself up onto his elbow, he shook his head. "Can't rememba."
Natalie felt Spot's forehead. Her hand was soft and cool, and she looked surprised. "My god, you have a fever!"
Race scrambled away. "I was sleepin' in da same bed as ya!"
Spot rolled his eyes - he didn't feel sick. "Relax yaself, Race. Ya woulda been sick by now if ya got it."
Natalie tiptoed down the steps and returned a minute later with a wet rag and handed it to him. "Put that on."
Spot dabbed himself with it, then dropped the thing onto the hay and layed back down. "Wha time is it?" he asked. The rag, which had been cool, was now warm. He did have a fever.
"Six. Ya might as well get up now, no point in sleepin' on yer bum," said Race, "Nattie–"
"Don't call me that."
"Oh, yeah, sorry, forgot. Natalie, do ya think Andria'd be 'wake now?"
"Probably. She's an early bird."
"Can ya do me a favor?"
"Sure, what?"
"Run ova ta her house an' ask her ta ask her folks if someone can stay wit dem faw a while."
Natalie nodded. "Sure," she agreed, 'But when the sun comes out. Do any of you want breakfast?"
Spot and Race both raised their hands.
After breakfast, Natalie told her parents about Spot. They were... more than nicely surprised, to say the least.
"Mother, Father," she addressed them, "Can I ask you both to let me do a huge favor for a friend?"
Her mother, Molly, was washing dishes. "I don't see why you need to ask us if you can do a favor for your friends, honey," she said, busy, "It is a good favor, isn't it?"
"That depends."
Molly put the chinaware down and wiped some sweat off her forehead. "What is it?" Her father, John, sat at the table, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.
"Do you remember how you always told me to help those who needed it?"
"Yes. Why?"
Natalie took a deep breath. "Can we let someone stay here for a few weeks?"
Her mother stared, and her father put down his coffee. "Who?" he asked.
"Someone I know."
"That's not good enough. Who are they?"
"...You don't know them."
"Do I know their parents?"
Natalie gulped. "I don't know if they have any family. That's why I want to take them in for a while."
"It isn't Andria, is it?" asked Molly. Natalie shook her head. "You know Ali has family, mum."
"A homeless person?' asked John.
All he got was a shrug.
"Who is she? I want a name!"
"It... isn't a she."
No one made a move, and quite abruptly,John picked up his coffee and paper again. "A boy? Absolutely not."
"But - Father, I—"
"No. We are not taking in a stray boy into this home."
"He can stay in the attic! Please, he's my friend, and he really–"
"Tell me, Natalie Catherine, how old is this boy?"
"Fourteen," she answered, and Spot, who had ben listening in, slapped himself on the forehead. He hadn't told her his age, either.
"Fourteen! Fourteen is not a boy, it is a man! Absolutely not! How do I know he isn't a secret crush!" asked her dad angrily. Molly went back to washing dishes, staying out of it.
"We don't have anything! He's just a friend in need, and I'm trying to help him out!"
"Fine, then," John said smartly, "You tell me his name and I'll let him stay. Go ahead."
Some how, he must've known she wouldn't know, because his voice was filled to the brim with confidence, and a bright grin lit up his face. He'd never let a strange stay in the same house as his daughter.
Natalie stopped short. She knew Spot stood in the other room, but if he whispered anything, her father would hear it.
"His name is..."
But, too late. Spot bent over and whispered, "Sean Conlon," quietly, and luckily, at that moment, her mother dropped a dish, so no one heard anything.
"His name is Sean Conlon."
John's face dropped like a stone in a pond, but he tried to conceal it, and turned back to his paper. There was a long, awkward pause, before he said, "Fine. Where would I find this boy?"
"Let me go search for him. I'll be right back."
She snuck away, quietly motioning for Spot to follow her footsteps. Race appeared by their side, and the three left the house without a word.
As soon as they were far enough from the humble abode, Natalie sighed. "I do so much for you guys. Race, Ali's feeling better, but her parents and her are all in a twitter over you staying. I don't see any problem with visiting, though."
"Da Bulls ain't gonna be down here anymaw, are dey?" Race asked.
"No, they're in Harlem."
"So can we's walk 'round?"
"Are you going to Andria's?"
"Yeah."
Spot grinned and slapped Race on the back. "So ya goin' out wit her?"
Race smiled back and a look came into his eyes. "Naw, not yet," he said, and Spot slapped the end of his hat, "I'd like ta, but I dunno 'bout her."
Natalie smiled. She was used to hearing this kinda thing. "She's single," she offered. Spot laughed. "Gonna be out all night, Racy?"
Race rolled his eyes and pushed him away. "I ain't even asted her yet, stupid. Do ya think I should?"
Natalie nodded.
There was a silence, as Race looked at his friends. A wind picked up, and he did what he did best - looked at the odds of her saying yes.
About 1/1349958423545798. (I can't even say that number!)
But, stupidity and hormones took control and he nodded. "I won't ast her taday, but I'll be all 'Ya look nice.'"
"Why dontcha just do 'er? Ya don't 'ave ta ----"
"Spot!" cried Natalie, in horror. Spot laughed, then said loudly, "Dat's what I did."
Race chuckled, and Natalie rolled her eyes. "Great," she said, "That's what I need to know."
Spot tapped his cane on the ground. "I was kiddin'."
There was an awkward silence, as Spot and Natalie looked at each other. Race broke the quiet by loudly clearing his throat.
"So, I'll be goin' now," he informed.
And with the goodbyes from his friend, he headed towards Ali's house.
Gaelic Translations:
Ta me chomh mor sin i ngra leat - I love you so much