"She's wheah?" Blink couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. Spot nodded grimly.
"A laundry in Manhattan." He told Blink again.
It was the very last place anyone expected to look. Fortunately, Nix had enough wiles to figure out that Lunch Money would be hiding in the one place no one would suspect. Blink was still having difficulty grasping exactly what the words coming out of Spot's mouth meant. He must have misspoken. Lunch Money would never give up being a newsie. Least of all to become a laundress! Her disgust of the position couldn't have been clearer, all the times Racetrack had hinted around at Lunch Money choosing a more suitable career for a girl. What would Racetrack do when he found out? He knew as well as Blink that something had to be dreadfully wrong for Lunch Money to take such drastic measures.
"Are ya goin' aftah her, Spot?" Roundhouse asked earnestly. It was lunchtime, and word had quickly spread of Lunch Money's whereabouts, and all were curious to how Spot would react.
"Of course he's goin' aftah her," One of the older boys spoke up before Spot could answer. His voice was mocking. "He in love wit' her."
Several of the other newsboys smirked broadly at each other. Spot gave them a sharp look, but only a few smiles disappeared. Most of the boys found it greatly amusing that Spot had fallen in love Lunch Money, and (as Spot had foreseen) this new series of events shed a new light on their leader. Spot no longer seemed so different from the rest of them; true, he still retained his intimidating and commanding presence, but now the other boys knew he wasn't the cold, heartless boy they had always feared. Spot sensed the subtle change, and while he wasn't at all happy with the shift, he felt a strange satisfaction at everything being out in the open. Is that all he'd been afraid of? The reaction of the Brooklyn newsies? All he had been so concerned about, was this all?
"Yeah, I'm goin' aftah her." Spot said shortly to Roundhouse. One of the newsboys whispered something to one of his chums and they snickered. Spot had had enough of this conversation. His time would be much better spent elsewhere. And so he set out. His destination: Manhattan.
It had been a slow day at the laundry, and it was late afternoon before the bell at the front counter rang. Most of the girls (Ava included) didn't even to bother to look up from their washing, let alone leave the workroom to meet the customer at the front of the shop. So Molly took it upon herself to greet the client, setting her iron down and hurrying to the counter.
"May I help ya, sir?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm lookin' fa' Lunch Money Higgins." Ava turned around at the sound of her old name. In the gap between Molly and the doorframe, Ava could just see the visiter. The bottom of her stomach gave a lurch. There stood Spot, cap in his hands, looking apprehensive. He had found her. Ava wanted to disappear.
"I don't know any Lunch Money," Molly giggled, "But a Miss Ava Higgins woirks heah."
"Yeah, that's her."
Molly opened her mouth to call Ava out of the back room, but Ava had already abandoned her laundry and marched around the counter. She seized Spot by the arm, pulling him towards the door.
"What are ya doin' heah?" She demanded angrily.
"I wanted ta talk ta--" He trailed off, looking Ava up and down, "Lunch, whaddaya wearin'?" He had never seen Lunch Money wear anything besides trousers and caddy hats, like the newsboys, so it was a little unsettling to see the unexpected reversal. Ava blushed, suddenly self-conscious.
"I gotta grow up sometime." She said coldly. Spot gave her a probing stare.
"Al'ight then." He cleared his throat and replaced his hat to it's usal position on his head, "Listen, I just wanted ta talk ta ya."
"Well I don't wanna talk ta you." She said shortly, turning away. She walked deliberately back to the workroom, leaving Spot in the lobby. He stood there for a moment, then sighed and followed her.
"I ain't leavin' 'til ya talk ta me." Ava ignored him, returned to folding the pile of shirts on her workbench. She finished folding the first shirt, smoothing it over to rid it of wrinkles. Her hands shook slightly as she worked. Spot noticed and moved his right hand on top of Ava's left, stroking the side of her thumb innocently, "Why'd ya leave?"
Ava jerked her hand away, taking a couple of steps backward and crossing her arms protectively across her chest. Had she not just said that she didn't want to talk to him? She should have known Spot would show up sooner or later. Ava knew she wasn't going to escape her old life that easily. She glanced at the clock hanging on the back wall, and then looked at Spot again.
"I get off woirk at five. Can ya wait an hour?"
"Yeah," Spot nodded, sighing, "Shoah. I'll see ya at five."
The next hour went by far too quickly for Ava's liking. Her stomach squirmed, glancing back the clock every few minutes. If it wasn't enough dreading talking to Spot after the laundry closed, she also had to put up with the other laundry girls fluttering and giggling after Spot had left.
"Ooh, who was that?"
"How d'ya know that boy, Ava?"
"He called ya 'Lunch Money'—what was that about?"
Ava paid them no attention and feigned deafness for the entire hour. She wasn't about to explain the whole story to those stupid girls.
For Spot, however, time didn't pass quickly enough. It was possibly the longest hour of his life. He paced Manhattan; he circled the block four times, giving dirty looks to the newsstands set up on the corners. After days of wondering what on Earth was going on with Lunch Money, the last hour was excruciating. The minutes literally crawled by.
Sooner or later, five o' clock did come. The laundry closed up, Ava and the other girls cleared away the messes in the workroom and Ava trudged into the lobby. Just outside the window, she could see Spot waiting impatiently. She shrugged on her coat. It was the one article of clothing she still retained from her newsie days. It was the same gray woolen coat as always, which was some comfort to her as she stepped outside to meet Spot.
"Wanna take a walk?" He offered nervously.
"Shoah." She said. She started walking down the street, swiftly leading the way. Spot jogged to catch up with her, and they soon fell into comfortable pace, maintaining a careful distance from each other.
"Whaddaya doin', Lunch Money?" Spot got right to the point, "What is this? Woirkin' at a laundry?" Ava shrugged.
"What's it ta you?" She snapped sullenly, "What d'ya care?"
"Oh shut up!" Spot cut her off sharply. She knew perfectly well what his answer to her questions was. "Look, we can eitheh keep goin' around in coircles about this, or ya could actually talk ta me."
"Fine. What d'ya want?"
"I want ya ta explain what the hell you're doin'. Why ya left." He paused, then added, "And don't say 'everything', nothing is eveh 'everything'."
They had reached The World's circlation office. Ava hadn't been there since that day so many weeks ago when she and all the Manhattan newsies first came across a newsstand. Back when all of this had started. Her eye found the newsstand she'd seen Weasel and the Delancy's manning that day. It occurred to her that that little wooden counter had been the cause of all of this.
"I just—" Ava stopped. She wasn't sure what words were supposed to come next. How would she begin to explain any of this? So she lied. "I just don't think fightin' Pulitzeh like this is gonna help no more. He's got us beat. It's hopeless; theah ain't enough a' us ta ovehpoweh the newsstands and delivery boys… and how many more a' us will end up in the refuge befoah this is oveh?"
They crossed the street, approaching the statue of Horace Greeley at the center of square. Spot leaned against the base of the statue, looking skeptical.
"The Lunch Money I know wouldn'ta' given up so easily."
"And I suppose that she was the goil ya fell in love wit'?" Ava replied scathingly. She almost regretted her words when she saw the hurt look in Spot's eye. Almost.
"Well… yeah." Spot shrugged.
"Well, she ain't heah, so you'se can leave." Ava told him harshly, turning to face the opposite direction.
"What's a' matteh wit' ya, goil?" Spot asked furiously, "Gawd, Lunch, ya such a liar. Will ya just come back? Racetrack'll kill me if he finds out ya up and left wit'out tellin' anyone."
"'Cos I always need someone ta look aftah me, right?"
"Exactly." Spot answered sardonically. "Now come on."
"I ain't goin' back ta Brooklyn." Ava proclaimed obstinately.
"Why not?" Spot was quickly losing patience. This was getting ridiculous, and he was tired of arguing with her.
"Because I'm too afraid!" She burst out, glaring at Spot, "Dammit, Spot, that's why I left in the foirst place. Ya wanted the truth, heah it is: I was afraid. Now will ya leave me alone?" Ava let out a long shuddering breath. Spot didn't respond, he just watched her waiting for her to elaborate. Ava leaned her back against the pedestal of the statue as Spot had minutes ago. She slid down the short wall, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her shins, preferring to talk to her kneecaps than to Spot.
"I was afraid a' you." She admitted, still not looking at him, "A' how I felt about ya. I was afraid," she added, with difficulty, "a' what Racetrack said about you."
"What did he say about me?" Spot asked, looking serious. Ava looked up at him, defiantly.
"He said," She was impressed with her own ability to keep her voice steady, though it was hard work to keep it from shaking, "That ta you I was just a challenge. That the only interest ya had in me was ta get me inta bed." Ava maintained eye contact with Spot, watching his grim expression dissolve into that of shock. She, on the other hand, kept the same cold, indifferent stare.
"Lunch, ya didn't believe him, didja?" Spot asked earnestly, kneeling down on the ground next to her.
"Could ya blame me?" She asked frostily. Spot couldn't think of a good answer to that. He couldn't blame her for believing Racetrack on that account. It seemed like something Spot would do, just trying to get some action with Lunch Money—maybe as a bet with some of the boys or something. It did sound like Spot. But it wasn't true, couldn't she see that?
"Can I go now?" Ava asked casually, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
"No." Spot said, "C'mon Lunch, ya don't think I wasn't scared at foirst too? I was terrified." He confessed to her, his eyes begging her to stay, "I 'se neveh been so afraid in me entire life as I was when I met ya. But it ain't woirth it. It ain't woirth pretendin' nuttin' happened, believe me. I love you." The last sentence was spoken softly, sending chills up Ava's spine.
Ava was quiet. She merely gazed at Spot with eyes sadder than he had ever seen them. He could think of nothing else to say, so he leaned in and kissed her. Ava knew it was going against her better judgment, but she didn't want him to stop. He didn't stop. Spot drew her closer so that they were comfortably curled together at the base of Horace Greeley's statue, in the darkness of square. Ava shivered as his right hand just grazed her inner thigh, while the other felt the curve of her waist. The smallest of sighs escaped Ava, lost in the sheer erotica of the moment, the feeling of Spot kissing her. A kiss she was happy to intensify-- until: Ava have ya lost ya mind? Ain't this exactly what ya told yahself ya weren't gonna do? Let Spot charm ya so easily again? A voice reawakened in her head, and she listened to it.
"No, Spot!" She cried at last, pushing him away. Ava leapt to her feet, angry with herself. She was visibly trembling, and literally weak at the knee. "Ya can't—ya can't just kiss me and think everything'll change!" She said in a broken voice, "Ya can't fix everything; ya can't make it betteh just like that! I already told ya, I can't do this. I won't do this! It shows weakness, Spot, and you know it. I ain't givin' in it ta it."
Spot got to his feet as well, his arms folded. Ava had been right: the girl he'd fallen in love with wasn't there tonight. Lunch Money was somewhere under Ava Higgins, a girl Spot was not liking at all right at the moment.
"Ya know what else shows weakness? Runnin' away from ya feahs." Even in the middle of this shattering conversation, Spot managed his usual smirk, "It was all an act, huh? Tough Lunch Money Higgins. She said she wasn't afraid a' nuttin'. She went around pickin' fights with anyone, just ta prove how fearless she was. But when the littlest thing frightens her, she just runs."
Ava whipped around, glaring at him wrathfully, "Oh, ya wanna talk about pretendin' ta be sumptin' ya aint d'ya, O cold, heartless king a' Brooklyn?"
Spot's expression intensified to match Ava's glare. Ava briefly thought of Boots. "If ya evah go ta Brooklyn, Lunch, don't show Spot Conlon that look—it'd kill him if he knew some goil had an expression as fierce as his." Boots had been wrong, of course. When Lunch Money Higgins went to Brooklyn, it wasn't her expression that was killing Spot. It was just her. Not being able to have her. But that would never be solved. Spot was just going to have to deal and go on without her. And Ava, Ava would have to somehow forget the boy she once met. Forget the girl she once was.
"Lunch," Spot began again, not entirely sure of what to say. He was saved the trouble figuring that out when Ava cut him off.
"Spot, please go." She said in a quiet, pleading voice. She had turned her face away from Spot. She didn't want him to see the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes. "Just go." She whispered.
Spot did nothing for a few seconds. Then, without a second word or glance, he walked slowly out of the square, disappearing into the misty winter evening.
For the first time in a long time, Ava cried. Alone and afraid in the middle of the square, the girl stood, tears streaming down her face. They salty tears came slowly at first, but quickly fell thick and fast amid her bitter sobs. Even as she cried, she knew the one person she would ever need was walking away, and she didn't have the courage to follow. And for that weakness, she could only blame herself.