Lunch Money was not the only one who had trouble sleeping that night. For the second time in a week, Spot Conlon found himself unable to drift off.
Spot Conlon was famously capable when it came to seducing girls, and was considered a master of sweet-talking the ladies. But this wasn't anything Spot had ever experienced. Never before had he lost sleep thinking about some girl. Especially some girl that he thought he hated.
Around him, the snores and garbled sleep-talking of the boys in the dormitory seem to fade in and out of Spot's hearing. He lay on his back, his blanket pulled up to his chin, just staring at the bottom of the mattress above him. He had seen her again today. For the first time in a week he'd seen her. And she was just as annoying and loudmouthed and stupid as she had ever been. Spot hated her. The word 'hate' didn't seem to do Lunch Money justice. It was more than that. He wasn't even sure how to categorize it. She annoyed the hell out of him, yet every time he saw her something inside him hurt. Like physical pain. And Spot resented her for giving him this peculiar feeling.
No, he was Spot Conlon. Spot Conlon didn't feel anything. He didn't feel remorse for letting Jack and his newsies sleep in the streets and fight for the lives. He didn't feel lonely as the elevated, distant leader that he was. He remained completely indifferent to everything and everyone he came in contact with. He liked it that way. Or at least he had before.
If Lunch Money knew what was going through his head… Forget Lunch Money, He thought, if Racetrack knew what was goin' t'rough your head, he'd murdeh ya. Spot rolled over onto his side and shut his eyes tightly, trying to keep out any musings that were likely to keep him up.
He remembered how this had all come about in the first place. He had been out late a week ago, just taking care of some business on the shabbier side of Brooklyn when he happened upon that street. He had seen Lunch Money about a block before she ran into those thugs. Well, he had figured it was her; there weren't many girls running around Brooklyn wearing trousers. He had been running to catch up with her—to give her a hard time, make fun of her a bit (the girl was just so easy to set off into a temper!)—when the men accosted her. At first it had struck Spot as amusing that anyone would be trying to hit on Lunch Money, of all girls, but as the goons closed in, Spot had felt a stab of fear. It was a lucky thing he hadn't been far off when they dragged her into the alley. He had sprinted the rest of the block, breathing hard, reaching the alley only just in time.
He told himself later that his concern had been on behalf of Racetrack. Racetrack and Spot had known each other for a number of years, and Spot knew it would flat-out kill Racetrack if anything happened to his sister. Obviously that was Spot's motive.
And then later that night. When he had held Lunch Money in his arms. Spot couldn't count how many times those moments replayed themselves across his memory. He thought he could have stayed in that alley forever, just watching her sleep. It was amazing how an obnoxious, grubby tomboy could be still so beautiful. He had been a perfect gentleman about the situation, which was odd for a punk like Spot not to take advantage of the circumstances. The really odd thing had been that it all felt so comfortable, so familiar. Like they had known each other for years, and it was only natural that Spot should look after Lunch Money.
God knew someone had to look after that girl. According to Jack, Lunch Money couldn't go anywhere alone without getting into trouble. She would try to pick a fight with a boy twice her size and just wind up with a black eye or a missing tooth. She imagined herself to be a much more formidable force than she was in reality. Lunch Money was a big mouth, with a bigger ego and a dangerous overconfidence in herself. She needed to have Kid Blink at her shoulder, ready to keep her out of a fight. Failing that, Racetrack had to at least be prepared to grab her by her shirt collar and drag her home. Someone had to look after Lunch Money. Why not Spot Conlon?
Wait. This was the girl Spot couldn't get out of his head? This snotty little street rat, who even had the impudence to insult Brooklyn himself? He turned over onto his other side, disgusted with himself. Snap out of it, Brooklyn. You're startin' ta sound like Mush Meyers, him and all his stupid romantic mush.
And what was he going to do about Ritz? Ritz Barkley, regarded as a terrible slut, even among her fellow whores, had now developed a fondness for Spot. Spot would have had to be dumber than a rock not to notice; in the last few weeks, Ritz's flirting had gotten more and more outrageous. And sure, it's been fun the few nights they'd spent together, but as far as he was concerned, that was it, and he was rather irritated at Ritz's constant efforts to seduce him again.
Girls were much more trouble than they were worth, Spot decided, changing his position again so that he now lay on his back. He knew he couldn't lie to himself, as much as he wanted to. He had been lying to himself about this since he saw Lunch Money. Spot could lie to customers when he was selling papers. He could lie to his fellow newsies. But Spot could not lie to himself.
He could lie to Lunch Money, though. He would lie to Lunch Money. Because what respect would the leader of Brooklyn retain if his one vulnerability, his one weakness, was exposed? What would it do to his reputation if the newsies of New York discovered that Spot Conlon had fallen in love?
"What the hell kinda headline is this?"
It was lunchtime, and all the newsies in Brooklyn were slowly showing up for a bite to eat at a little restaurant near the lodging house. It was a dingy, dank place, much less inviting than Tibby's back in Manhattan. The glass window read "Liam's Restaurant and Bar" in red paint, and the tables were in need of a good scrubbing. Still, while it wasn't the Madison Square Gardens, Liam's wasn't a bad place for newsies to kick up their feet and grab a bite.
Lunch Money was just outside Liam's, "perusing the merchandise" with Kid Blink and Racetrack. The front-page story was just some waffle about the some overseas trading company who may or may not be making some deal with some European big shot. It might be vaguely interesting for any stuffed-shirt businessman, but to the general public of Brooklyn, it was irrelevant drivel.
"We nearly get arrested tearin' apart that damn newsstand, and all we get is a load of shit headline!" Lunch Money complained indignantly.
"Headlines don't sell papes—"
"Newsies sell papes. I know, ya don't think I eveh hoird that befoah?" Lunch Money snapped, looking up to find one of her least favorite people in Brooklyn: Spot Conlon himself. Racetrack and Blink swapped looks silently saying here we go again.
"So why d'ya care about what the headline says?" Spot smirked.
"It's just easieh than havin' ta make stuff up." Lunch Money shrugged, "Tell me than, how does the great Spot Conlon spin a bad headline?"
Spot ignored Lunch Money's irreverent sarcasm and responded, "I just make stuff up, like anybody else. Disastehs, murdehs, whatever sells a pape. Obsoirve." He shot her a devious grin before turning his back her and yelling to street:
"Helpless Goil Oveh-Powered by Brutal Rapists! Heroic Newsboy Comes Ta Her Aid!"
"Hey!" Lunch Money cried angrily. She gave Spot a hard shove; he staggered bit, rocking back and laughing. Blink and Racetrack watched the scene on tenterhooks, waiting for the insult that would require them to break up a fight.
"Yeah, I know, our little adventure is kinda old news." Spot said, still choking back laughter, "But I used us as a headline last week, and let me tell you, we was a big selleh. If ya eveh find yahself a victim a' sex-crazed maniacs again, lemme know, it does sell those papehs."
Lunch Money just glared at him before turning away. A man (presumably Liam) had just opened Liam's up for lunch, so she stalked into the restaurant fuming. Spot, Blink and Racetrack followed her. Lunch Money found a seat at a table near the back of the restaurant; to her confusion and irritation, Spot sat down in the chair directly across from her.
"Ya know what you're problem is?"
Lunch Money looked positively exasperated. What else did he want? Through clenched teeth she replied, "What is my problem?"
"Ya don't got any control oveh ya temper. Ya take everything too poirsonally." He told her in a very matter-of-fact manner.
"What?" Lunch Money was insulted, "I do not!" A waiter appeared at their table, a notepad and pen in his hand.
"I'll just have some coffee, Sam. Lunch, you want anything?"
"No." She snapped, still giving Spot a terrible look.
"Okay. That'll be all, Sam." The waiter disappeared and Spot turned back to Lunch Money, who was ready to go off on a tirade.
"I do not take everything too personally, I—"
"Yes! Yes ya do," Spot insisted, "You're gettin' mad again, right now."
"I ain't gettin' mad." Lunch Money said unconvincingly, struggling to keep her tone of voice even and unperturbed.
Spot smirked. She was such a terrible liar, it was rather charming. "Shoah... Deal wit' it, Lunch, ya got no pokeh face."
"Please, I grew up with Racetrack, ya don't think I know that?" Lunch Money rolled her eyes, "He tells me more than once a week I ain't gotta pokeh face. What does that have ta do wit' anything?" Sam the waiter delivered the mug of black coffee to Spot, who eagerly accepted it. He paused for a moment, savoring his drink before answering.
Across the restaurant, more and more newsies came in from the cold, gladly pulling up chairs and sliding into booths. Racetrack and Blink quickly found the other Manhattan newsies. They claimed a booth and ordered their food, talking in low voices and tossing furtive glances to Spot and Lunch Money's table.
"What were they talkin' about, Blink?" Jack asked curiously.
"They were fightin' about sumptin', as usual." Blink shook his head.
"Ya shoulda heard 'em." Racetrack added, "They'se bickerin' like some old married couple." The boys snickered.
"It's just so easy ta tell exactly what ya thinkin'. It reads all oveh ya face." Spot shrugged in reply, "Ya let personal feelin's interfere with everything ya do; it's so obvious. Like right now ya want me ta shut up and get the hell outta ya face."
"You're brilliant, Conlon." Lunch Money said wryly, "Like a mind readeh. I s'pose you're always the cold, tough leadeh a' Brooklyn, and ya neveh let poirsonal feelin's get in the way a' anything." She added sardonically.
"Neveh." Spot lied.
Lunch Money snorted. "Yeah, right."
"Are you always this much of a' bitch?" Spot said conversationally, "I dunno what ya have against me in the foirst place."
"You're an arrogant bastard." Lunch Money said without the slightest hesitation, "That's what I got against ya. Actin' like the king of New York, bossin' people around, tryin' ta be a tough guy." She paused to take a breath and give Spot a revolted look, "Ya blacklisted me an' me friends from every street corneh in Brooklyn, for God's sake! Ya only eveh think about yahself—"
Spot cut her off. "Yeah, I'll remembeh ta only think a' meself next time I see ya gettin' dragged into some alley." He snapped, his eyes flashing dangerously. Lunch Money was quiet for a moment, somewhat abashed. It occurred to her that she had never properly thanked Spot for saving her that night. She shrugged the realization off. Whatever, why should she thank that pig?
"So," Lunch Money broke the silence, "While we'se on that. Why didja help me that night?" She'd been wondering that for the last week. Everyone knew it was out of his usual character to do something so kind for someone else. Especially for a girl he supposedly hated. Spot didn't answer. He was angry that Lunch Money had asked him the one question he didn't know the answer to, and worried that she might see through to the solution herself. Despite his fears, Spot's expression remained as stern and unfathomable as ever. Up until this point, he had done so well in maintaining his facade.
"Spot?" Lunch Money prompted him quietly. Spot looked up. Their eyes met.
"I--" Spot stopped talking, and his eyes flicked downward for a split-second before resolutely meeting Lunch Money's gaze again. Neither moved, nor spoke; they just stared at each other, each trying to decode the mysterious expressions in the other's eyes.
"Spot!" A loud, high-pitched voice shattered the fragile silence around them, and caused both Lunch Money and Spot to cringe inwardly. Ritz Barkley slid into the seat next to Spot, snaking her arm through a crook in his elbow so that their arms were linked. Today Ritz's gorgeous hair was down around her shoulders in elegant waves, and she wore an exceptionally low-cut dress.
"Spot, I ain't seen ya all day." Ritz whined, laying her head on his shoulder. She gave Lunch Money a cold look, as though she had caught Lunch Money trepassing on her property. As usually happened when Ritz entered a room, Lunch Money felt abruptly ill.
"Hiya, Lunch Money, how're the headlines today?" Ritz asked in a perky, sugary sweet voice, her cold manner vanishing behind a falsely friendly veneer. Lunch Money ignored the question, frowning.
"I gotta go." She told Ritz and Spot brusquely, getting to her feet. She turned to leave, but the sound of Spot's voice made her pause.
"Lunch!" Spot faltered for a moment, as though he was unsure of what to say. He thought maybe he'd ask her to stay, or something equally stupid, but he realized that it would be easier to let Lunch Money go. She clearly would rather be elsewhere. He sighed. "Ya forgot you're papes." He finished lamely, thankful that Lunch Money had indeed left her papers on the table. Lunch Money grabbed them and without another word, she walked out of Liam's.
Spot watched her go, unconsciously abandoning all pretenses and looking longingly after her. Fortunately, for Spot reputation, at least, only one newsie in Liam's noticed his mournful expression, and the aforementioned flaneur slipped outside the restaurant right behind Lunch Money.
The Manhattan newsies, while they were out of earshot and unable to figure out how Lunch Money and Spot's conversation had ended, watched the proceedings in interest. They all glanced at each other nervously as Lunch Money exited the bar. (All the boys, excepting Jack, whose attention had been diverted by the red-haired vixen known as Tease Matthews. And, judging by the cozy positions Jack and Tease were sitting in, Jack was wasting no time pining after his ex, Sarah Jacobs.) Crutchy and Blink made to get up from the table to go after Lunch Money, but Racetrack quieted them.
"I'se gonna go see what's up." The elder Higgins told his table, looking slightly concerned. "I'll catch up wit' ya fellas lateh."
Racetrack pushed open the door leading onto the street. It was really getting cold; November had become December at last, and snow was threatening. For now, though, the streets remained clear of ice and slush, despite the low temperatures. Lunch Money was nowhere to be seen. He set off down the road, staying close to the dilapidated buildings. He reached the end of the block, and was about to turn the corner, when he overheard two voices speaking in earnest.
"I don't even know whatcha talkin' about." Racetrack recognized that as his sister's voice.
"Look, when ya've known Spot as long as I have, it ain't too difficult ta figger out when sumptin ain't right wit' him." This voice Racetrack did not recognize.
"Ya outta ya mind." Lunch Money said flatly. Racetrack, dying with curiousity, was poised to round the corner and find out what was going on, but one sentence stopped him cold.
"Lunch Money, I'se tellin' ya!" The unfamiliar voice said with conviction, "Spot Conlon is in love wit' you."