A Real Friend

April 1931

Steve tilted his head back to feel the sun's warmth on his face. He sucked in a couple deep breaths, and held back the cough that rose in his chest.

The winter had been long and cold, even longer and colder to Steve, who had spent most of it in bed. So many afternoons he had spent blowing his nose, drinking hot tea, and listening to snowball fights in the street. This was only the fourth time his mother had allowed him outside, now that it was spring.

She had left for work at the hospital, but Mrs. O'Rourke in the next apartment over was to keep an eye on him. He was a little annoyed at that. He was thirteen, for goodness sake. Alright, almost thirteen. But both Steve's parents had come from Ireland as teenage orphans, before they met and married in New York City. Steve's father had died in the war before he was born and the boy had never known any home but the little apartment with his mother's flowered curtains in the window and Mr. Prito across the street who drove the ice cream truck.

Steve's train of thought brought him back to the front steps of his own building. With a little sigh, he settled himself on the top step and opened his sketchbook. He licked his pencil, and squinted up at the numerous lines of laundry, criss-crossing between the buildings. "Start with the houses," he murmured.

Deep in capturing the intricate dance between sheets and shirts and the breeze, it was several minutes before Steve became aware of an argument going on across the street. But the scream of a small child finally broke his concentration, and he glanced up, blinking.

He took in the situation at a glance: George Linwood—Georgie-Porgy, still big, still ugly, still mean—had seven-year-old Danny McClellan's arm in his meaty fist, with little Mary flailing away at his legs. "Let him go!" she was screaming.

Two other big boys were laughing as Georgie lifted Danny off the ground, and shook him like a rat.

Steve did not hesitate. He was across the street in a moment, running in a straight line for the big bully. "Hey!" he yelled, before he collided with Georgie, and all three boys went sprawling.

Coughing, and a tad stunned, Steve picked himself up. "Danny," he gasped. "Get Mary back in the house." He saw Danny snatch something that looked like a big marble out of a mud puddle, before grabbing Mary's hand, and backing away.

Georgie was still sitting on the sidewalk, staring up at Steve. One of his friends, no longer laughing, made a move toward Steve, but George put up his hand to stop him. "You little-," he started. "You little… brat." His face was flushing red as he got to his feet, and Steve's heart skipped a beat, before taking off like a racehorse. This was bad.

But he held his ground. "Pick on someone your own size," he blurted.

George's eyebrows went up, as if he was surprised to hear Steve even speak to him. "Looks like we got another immigrant brat here that doesn't know his place," George said over his shoulder to his friends.

He took a step forward, and Steve stood firm. Suddenly he was angry too. "What do you mean 'our place'? I'm as American as you, and so are they." He jerked his head toward the McClellan children, still watching from their doorway.

"If you're from Ireland," Georgie sneered, "you're a dirty little Mick. Wherever you go."

"That might have been true in England or wherever your family came from," Steve answered. "But here in America it's different. It doesn't matter where you're from. What matters is where you call home."

"Little punk," Georgie blurted. And then he was on Steve.

Steve went down at once, though he kicked out and swung his fists valiantly. A punch landed on his mouth, and he tasted blood. This was definitely not the first time he'd been beaten up by a bully, but now he had three to deal with. He was also suddenly aware of how hard it was getting for him to breathe.

A blow caught him in the stomach, and he doubled up in pain. He closed his eyes, trying to force his lungs to work, trying to get up and fight. He made it as far as his hands and knees, before someone kicked him in the stomach again.

"That's enough!" came a distant bellow, and Steve was aware of a sharp exchange of blows somewhere over his head. No more punches came his way, but he was so focussed on catching his breath, that it was a minute or two until he registered that the street was quiet again.

Slowly he opened his eyes and looked up into the faces of little Mary, Danny, and… Dark floppy hair, dark expressive eyes in a serious face, a strong, friendly hand reaching to pull him up… "Steve! Gosh, do you like getting beat up?" There was concern mixed with admiration in the boy's voice. "Haven't seen you in ages. You 'kay?"

"Bucky," Steve managed, sitting up and wiping blood off his lip. "What are you doing here?"

"We just moved here," Bucky said, pointing up at the tenement house beside Steve's. "And if this is what you've been doing with all your time, I think it wasn't a minute too soon."

"I got my marble back," Danny said, smiling now. He held up his fist, and Steve glimpsed bits of color between his fingers.

"Brave boy, Stevie," Mary said, patting his arm.

"I'll say." Bucky helped Steve to his feet, then steadied him as he wavered. "You sure you're okay?"

"I will be," Steve said, attempting a smile. It took all his will power to walk back across the street to his perch on the steps, but he wouldn't let Bucky think any less of him. He retrieved his sketchbook and sat down, suddenly exhausted.

Bucky thumped down beside him, and Danny and Mary sat a couple steps down. Mary tilted her head back between Steve's feet, and looked at him upside-down. He smiled at her.

"Wait." He turned to Bucky who was looking back at him, still worried. "What? You moved? When? Why? I mean…" Stunned by the full impact of Buck's statement, he gestured around, taking in the close quarters, the dirt and poverty of what was actually one of the better streets in this part of Brooklyn. "Why are you here?"

Bucky looked away. "Dad's company was going down. Like everything else these days. But then back in December, before Christmas… the bank collapsed." His voice dropped so Steve could barely hear him. "Lost every cent." Then with a jerk he straightened, turning to Steve with a brittle sort of smile. "So… we're here."

Steve could see the shame hidden behind Bucky's tough front. He smiled. "Well I'm glad, for one. I missed not seeing you at school."

"Yeah." Buck looked away again. "Sorry, I didn't–"

"Steve?" a woman's voice interrupted them. Steve glanced up to see Mrs. O'Rourke leaning out her window. "Are you all right? I thought I heard a fight or something going on."

So much for keeping an eye on me. "I'm okay," he called back.

"Well, why don't you and your friends come in here? I've been baking." Steve caught a scent of shortbread drifting out of the window.

"Gladly, ma'am," Bucky called back, doffing his cap. He grinned at Steve, chasing the shadows away. "If this is what I get for rescuing you, you're gonna to have to let me do it often."

The next day was a Saturday, but Sunday was the only day of rest Sarah Rogers ever got. She always started early on Saturdays in order to finish her shift and do her shopping before the stores closed. Steve would meet her at the soda shop on the corner of Third, for three o'clock.

He was lying in bed, thinking about that cool Coke, only half awake, when he heard the front door shut. He stretched, and froze, pain cutting across his abdomen.

Now he was definitely awake, and he sat up, gingerly rubbing his stomach. At least he'd been able to hide the bruises from his mother. But even that could not detract from the glory of a Saturday morning.

He ate breakfast—shredded wheat and milk—slowly, wondering what he would do today. Maybe he should take the streetcar down to the Navy yard and sketch some boats; he had only done that once last summer. But Mother would probably be furious when she found out. He sighed. For today at least, he would stay close to home.

He went back to his room, ran a finger along his shelf of books, and pulled out a random volume. Hardy Boys: the Missing Chums. Tucking it under his arm along with his sketchbook and pencils, he headed for the front door. He almost fell over Bucky sitting on the top step in Steve's usual spot.

"Hey," the boy said, with something less than his usual enthusiasm. He slid over, stared out across the street.

"You 'kay?" Steve asked, sitting down.

"Look," he started. "I wanted to– I should say I- I- I'm… sorry. That I didn't visit," he finished in a rush. "I just–"

"S'okay." Steve shrugged. Gosh, how he'd missed him. But if he'd been facing that… "I get it."

The words came tumbling out, finally released. "Becca won't even talk to my parents, she hates them she says, she never wanted to move. She actually ran away to Rachel's house and my dad had to bring her back and now she has to share a room with the twins again and she keeps slapping them when they get in the way and they're young enough that they don't really get why everything's changed, it just has, and I can't remember the last time–" He stopped, fighting the choke in his voice, except Steve was close enough to catch the whisper, "–Dad smiled."

Steve bit his lip, hearing Bucky's uneven breathing, hesitated, and casually propped his elbow on Bucky's shoulder as he opened his sketchbook and started scrawling.

After a while, a gang of boys came past, Steve glancing up, then dropping his gaze. With their gloves and a couple bats, and Malcom the leader tossing that ball casually with one hand, they were a group he didn't belong with.

"Hey, new kid!"

Steve jerked his head back up. The boys were clustered around the bottom of the stairs, staring up. Bucky hesitated, glanced at Steve, and then sat forward, pointing to himself. "Me?'

"Yeah." Malcom was a tall coloured boy, about fourteen, whom Steve had once seen lace a pitch through the window of a moving car. On purpose. At least, he was pretty sure it was on purpose. "You play?" Malcom held up his glove.

Bucky hesitated and sort of sank back onto the step. "Yeah."

"Come on down to the sandlot with us. We'll give you a tryout."

"Sorry, no thanks," Buck said. "I don't feel like it right now." He glanced at Steve. "And we got something else planned."

In that moment, Steve knew three things. One: Bucky adored baseball, almost as much as boxing, two: he was willing to let this chance at getting in with the neighborhood gang go for Steve, and three: Steve couldn't let him.

"Go!" he hissed, poking Buck hard in the arm.

"Aw, you can bring Shrimp if you want," Tony Russo drawled, pushing back his cap. "Keep score for us, Shrimp?"

Bucky suddenly grinned. "Alright, Shrimp. We'll hit up the movies another day. I'll go grab my glove and stuff and tell my parents where we're going."

Sitting cross-legged against the fence, scorecard tucked into the pages of The Missing Chums, Steve watched Bucky crush balls, and field grounders, and turn a dashing double-play as shortstop.

When they finally broke up for dinner, Bucky—bat over his shoulder, dirt on his face and on his pants—came swinging across to Steve, put out a hand, pulled Steve to his feet. He met Steve's eyes, the grin softened, and he punched Steve's shoulder lightly. "Thanks, pal. You're a real pal."

"Same to you," Steve smiled, socking him back.

Bucky deflected the swing with ease. "Wow," he groaned. "Someone's got to teach you how to throw a punch."

Notes:

More words from the day:
Mick: derogatory term for an Irishman.
Dinner: today we call it lunch!