Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

--

The Sparrow

When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret.

--

I took a second to process what she said. I'm sure I looked like a fool, my mouth hanging open as I stared at her. She'd whispered her retort and, for a moment, I wondered if I'd heard her wrong.

"What?"

"You heard me. Those two buffoons are why the Sparrow went after your Sarah."

So many questions were running through my head. "Jack? Spot? What? Why? How?" I shook my head and then tried again. "How… how do you know that?"

She looked stumped, almost as if she didn't want to admit where her knowledge had come from. Her mouth opened once, then twice, but she didn't say anything either time. Finally, she closed her mouth and shook her head before muttering, "The question is, Dave, how do you not know that?"

"I don't understand."

"You wouldn't," she huffed, her attention on the Brooklyn Bridge before us. She didn't move towards it, though. Instead, speaking out of the side of her mouth, she said to me, "How well do you really know your sister?"

I don't know if she meant to offend me with her offhanded question, or if she really thought she knew Sarah better than me, but it was my turn again for my mouth to drop open in surprise.

What a silly question to ask me.

Sarah was my sister, my elder by a year. We lived in the same house, ate at the same dinner table, obeyed the same parents. She'd helped me learn to read; in turn, I helped her with her penmanship. She listened eagerly to any stories I had about my times selling newspapers with the other newsies and I listened as…

… as Sarah told me absolutely nothing about herself.

My mouth closed before any of the flies hovering over a nearby pile of garbage could fly in there.

Maybe wasn't such a silly question at all.

Vindicated and vaguely victorious, Teller didn't say a single word as I, blisters screaming in protest and thoughts racing, started forward again. She didn't say a word—but she didn't have to. Her hands in her pockets and a crooked smile on her lips, her very essence said 'I told you so'.

Maybe that was what made me do it. Common sense told me that, in my right mind, I never would have taken a handful of steps forward before whirling around to face her. It had to be some rash bout of insanity brought on by Teller's contentment that she was always right. Cocky, she was, and it made my frayed temper break. Why couldn't, just once, I get to be the cocky one?

My hands folded into tight fists at my side, I whirled around and demanded, "What do you know about Sarah that I don't?"

She didn't even flinch. Rolling her eyes as she walked right on by me, she waved her hand flippantly. "I'll tell you later."

I didn't like the way she said that. I had the feeling that, no matter how much later it got, she would always feel like it wasn't late enough; simply put, she didn't plan on telling me… and I couldn't have that. I was getting tired of being the last to know everything. If she knew, she was going to have to tell me.

Without really thinking about what I was doing, I shot my hand out and wrapped it around her upper arm. My touch effectively stopped her right in her tracks. "No, Teller," I said, trying to sound authoritative, "tell me now."

You know, if looks could kill, I would have dropped dead at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Wrenching her arm out of my grip before backing away from me, Teller huffed again and gave me the toughest, most disbelieving look I'd ever seen in my life—and I knew Spot Conlon. "I said I'll tell you later," she hissed, her dark eyes flashing.

No surprise, I shrunk back. My hand was still outstretched and, sheepishly, I let it fall. I didn't know what to say to that so I didn't say anything. If I would have, I bet Teller might've bitten my head right off.

"Okay, all right. Later, then."

Silently, I fell back into step behind her. Teller, breathing heavily through her nose, shot one last dirty look in my direction before heading off towards the bridge.

Touchy.

--

This trip over the Brooklyn Bridge went much quicker than my last one, I had to admit. For one thing, I didn't have to stop to shout over the side like I'd done with Jack and Boots; for another, I didn't have the dread of meeting the famed (and feared) Spot Conlon to slow my steps, either.

Teller hadn't said a word to me during the entire walk over the bridge. She started out walking with a purpose, her strides long and her hands moving at her sides as if to power her on. Every now and then she would peek over her shoulder at me. I guess she was making sure that I hadn't done a runner once her back was turned, that I was still following right behind her. I was limping a bit, sure, but to my surprise—and probably hers, too—I kept pace with her.

By the time we'd made it into Brooklyn we were walking almost side by side. Whether she'd slowed down purposely or if she wasn't as angry as she was when we were leaving Manhattan, I didn't know. But it was nice to be standing next to her instead of trailing behind her like a pup.

Her arm brushed against mine once and I felt her fingers touch the back of my hand before she frowned to herself and widened the gap between us. She didn't walk any faster, though, and I found myself struggling to hide a small grin. Her hands were much softer than I would have thought.

The first thing I noticed once we started off into Brooklyn was that the Saturday morning rush was on. Despite the somewhat early hour, there were people out on the streets buying things, selling things and just going about their Saturday business. It was the last day of the week before the Sabbath and most people were trying to get everything done before that day of rest.

Among them all were the Brooklyn newsboys. For the most part a rough and tumble gang of boys led by Spot Conlon himself, I saw no less than one of those newsies on every corner as we made our way through the city. Sometimes there were two or three of them, staking out a good spot, hollering out improvements on the truth in order to attract potential buyers. I half-expected to see fistfights breaking out—or, at least, the sight of a drawn and taut slingshot—every time I saw more than one of those brutish boys gathering.

I found myself staring at them, watching them expectedly as we passed. When all I got were some questioning, and some daring answering looks, I realized that staring at the Brooklyn newsies was a sure way to a fat lip. I made sure to look down, keeping my eyes on the road.

As I did that, my mind wandered from the boys with their papers to the two unofficial newsie leaders I was in search of. According to Snipeshooter—and backed by Teller's unexplained certainty—I would find Jack her in Brooklyn with Spot. But where?

I knew far less of Spot's Brooklyn haunts than I did of Jack's Manhattan ones. I've only been this way once and Jack had led me and Boots straight to the docks. Would that be where I found them today?

Lifting my head up a little, I thought I would ask Teller what she thought. If anything, it would be a nice way to break up the quiet. However, when I turned my head to my left to look at her, I noticed that Teller's attention was already occupied. She was still walking straight ahead, but she was looking at something—someone—across the street.

I wasn't all that surprised to find that the person she was watching was a newsboy. I didn't recognize him but, then again, all of Spot's boys seemed to look the same to me. He was tall, lanky, dark-haired and he carried a stack of newspapers over one shoulder. Not to mention, he was also currently scowling as he made eyes back at Teller.

I couldn't really explain why but I didn't like the way he was looking at her. I felt a sudden and completely irrational urge to run over there and knock his papers out of his hand.

I didn't. I wanted to, but I didn't.

Instead, I reached out and gently tapped her shoulder. As if I frightened her, Teller gave a little jump, her head whirling around so fast that her braid almost hit her on the side of her face.

Once she realized it was just me, she frowned. "What?"

"Do you… do you know that guy?" I asked, trying to sound friendly. Maybe I was reading too much into her strange stare and that boy's scowl. If I was lucky, then they were just friends—even in my thoughts I found myself emphasizing the word—and he could tell us where we could find Spot Conlon.

"Wha—? Huh? Him?" Shaking her head in an overly dramatic fashion, Teller glanced back over at the newsie. He was still watching her, curiously now rather than affronted, but her eyes only flickered to him for a second before she looked shrewdly back at me. "No, I don't know him. I ain't never seen him before in my life. Why? You know him?"

"No, I—"

Warning bells went off in my head right then. I had no doubt in my mind that Teller, for one reason or another, was lying to me but there was no way I was going to call her on it. If I thought she was touchy before, I could only imagine how made she would be if I accused her of fibbing.

"—I just thought you recognized him, that's all. And, if you did know him… well, it might've been nice to have someone to ask where we could find Jack and Spot."

"I don't." She all but barked her answer; there was such force behind her words that I silently congratulated myself for not pushing the subject more than I normally would have. Teller was back to her familiar haughty self as she added, "And I don't need any help finding Jacky or Conlon. I know exactly where they are."

"You do? Where?"

"You'll see when we get there."

And I knew, as she threw in annoyed snort for good measure, that that would be all I got out of her for awhile.

She may be called Teller, I thought to myself as I hurried off after her, but they'd be better off calling her Secret Keeper.

We fell back into silence. Like when we were on the bridge, Teller seemed to be trying her best to ignore me—and failing miserably. More than once I caught her looking at me sideways again. It was beginning to make me very uneasy. Add that to my nagging, growing suspicion that she didn't really have any idea where we were going and it was no wonder that I felt my unusually short temper flaring up again.

Of course, that could also be because I was so hungry. It had to have been a couple of hours since breakfast—and that was if you called a stale roll split between two and a cup of lukewarm coffee breakfast.

My stomach, suddenly reminded that it's been empty for close to a full day now, chose that moment to grumble. It grumbled so loud that, if I hadn't known that I made that sound, I might've thought a trolley car was roaring on by.

"Was that you?"

If she could like when I asked her a question, so could I. "No."

"Oh really?" Pausing, she crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyebrow arched. "You tellin' me that you ain't hungry?"

I could only lie so much. I had a hunch that, if I denied it, Teller would find a way to make sure that I didn't eat again until I found Sarah, brought her home and begged Mama for some of her soup.

"I—I didn't say that."

"Good, 'cause I'm hungry. What do you say we find a cheap shop and get some lunch? We're almost there, anyways. A tiny break won't kill us."

Lunch sounded so good, you wouldn't believe it. There was on problem, though: neither of us had any money.

When I told her that, Teller just laughed off my concerns. "I know you ain't got no money, but I can spot ya. You can pay me back after all this… you know… Sparrow business is done."

I'd almost forgotten all about the Sparrow in our search from Spot and Jack in Brooklyn. I mean, I know he was ultimately the reason we were here even looking for those two but, between Teller's temper, strange newsies and an achy belly, you start to lose sight of the overall picture. Right then the Sparrow was at the back of my mind; trying to turn the nothing I thought we both had into a paid for hot lunch was my priority.

"How can you spot me," I asked earnestly with only the smallest hint of a whine in my voice, "when I know you don't have any money?"

She scoffed, "All the things you know, Davey, could fit inside a thimble." Then, a rather proud smile at home on her face, she reached her hand into the patched pocket on the front of her skirt and withdrew a handful of worn coins. Most were pennies but, sitting in the center, shining like diamonds, were two quarter pieces. More than enough to buy us both some lunch.

Feeling foolish, I said, "But I thought you gave me your last nickel yesterday?" And here I felt like an awful cad, taking the last of her money when she quite obviously had enough to spare.

Teller took one look at my puzzled—and partly sheepish, I admit—expression and then turned her dark eyes on the mound of coins in the palm of her hand. Her lips moved wordlessly and I wondered what she was doing. Counting her money, maybe?

When she finally looked up again there was a dazed look in her eye. She shook her head. "I did give you my last nickel. See?" She held her hand out for my inspection. "I never said I gave you every cent I had."

I glanced down at the proffered coins. I think I really had a hankering to prove her wrong but… I'll be darned.

There wasn't a single nickel in the bunch.

Author's Note: It's been awhile but I had a bad case of writer's block with this chapter. On the plus side, I plotted out the rest of the story -- and what comes after -- so there's only a handful of chapters left after this (at current count two but that could always change). Of course, a part two is more than likey planned in order to keep this story the way I want it. Just wondering -- does a part two sound interesting?

Anywho, my goal is to have this finished by my birthday (in the first week of October) so I can get cracking on part two before NaNoWriMo starts up again in November. Wish me luck!

-- stress, 09.21.08