"Spot. Spot! Wake up!" Spot became vaguely aware of the voices above him. He stirred, regaining consciousness. His head was throbbing. What had happened? Someone was slapping his face.
"What the hell?" he muttered, not opening his eyes.
"Conlon! Wake up, what happened?" Spot reluctantly pried his eyelids apart. Jack and Racetrack stood over him, looking concerned. Hovering nearby was Boots, Crutchy and Mush, also worried. Spot sat up, his head still spinning. He thought he was going to vomit. He was in the refuge. In the dorm room, apparently: the boys were all wearing the bland nightshirts issued by the state employees. Spot himself was still fully clothed. He had no idea what time it was. Very late, was his guess. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Spot tried to organize his thoughts. The bulls had hunted them down in the lodging house… Snyder had been there too…
"What does it look like happened?" Spot asked, annoyed, "The bulls busted into the lodging house and arrested all'a us."
"All a' ya?" Racetrack looked confused, "Then wheah's everybody else?"
Spot looked around. Where were the others? He didn't see Blink, or Roundhouse, or any of the newsgirls. What did Snyder do to them?
"I don't know." Spot said slowly, rubbing his head, "But I know they'se was arrested. The place was swarming with coppehs. An' Snydeh was theah too." He added significantly. The Manhattan newsies exchanged knowing looks.
"Yeah." Jack nodded, "The old bastard's gots some friends in high places. He got outta jail six months ago, and Pulitzeh pulled some strings and arranged some fake ids so Snydeh could get his job back." Jack explained, "It was all a plot, see? Joe's been plannin' his revenge since we beat him out a' that lousy tenth of a cent. He knew Snydeh was the only warden ruthless enough ta take care a' us street rats the way Pulitzeh wants us taken care a'. We'se been a thorn in their sides fa' too long. It's all undeh the table, a'course. Roosevelt don't know nuttin' a' what's goin' on."
Spot tried to process all of that information. So Joe Pulitzer was behind Snyder's sudden good fortune. It all made sense: Pulitzer wanted the newsies taken of, and Snyder was just the man to get the job done. So naturally Pulitzer bribed the mayor, got Snyder his job as warden back, and now Snyder was delighting in picking off the newsies as quickly as possible.
Spot reverie was cut short, however, by the arrival of some familiar faces. Snyder opened the door, ushering in a handful of boys. Blink was among them, as was Roundhouse. With them were seven more boys, all of whom Spot recognized as Brooklyn newsies: Mezzo, Jigger, Double Time, Muckety, Sweeps, and Wishbone. They all looked distinctly miserable, though they brightened ever so slightly when they saw the other newsies. Kid Blink gave his friends a wide smile, pleased to see them all again.
"Hey, ya bummehs! Long time, no see." Blink tossed an arm carelessly over Mush's shoulders. Mush shoved him in the face, smirking. "Ah, c'mon, ya don't think I got enough bruises al'eady?"
"Blink! What happened, wheah are the otheths?" The other newsies were impatient with Kid Blink's casual greeting. They wanted news. Blink's grin vanished. He didn't say anything. Did they really have to discuss this now? Blink would have preferred getting few minutes to hang with his chums again, before worrying about the grave situation they now faced. It was the boy named Double Time who finally answered. Double Time was a burly young man, one of the older newsies, and was thuggishly intimidating. His rather volatile temper didn't much help this image.
"The fuckin' rats sold us out!" He told Spot, fuming, "Snyder let 'em go. He told all'a us that he would drop all changes against us if we wrote some statement ta use against you and Cowboy in court."
"What?" Spot demanded, his eyes flashing. He sprang from the bunk, ignoring his pounding head. "They'se betrayed us? I'll kill 'em." He said with conviction. No one doubted his sincerity. "I'll kill 'em. All'a them betrayed us?"
"Blink." Racetrack asked urgently, cutting across Spot. Racetrack knew if anyone gave him the opportunity, Spot would rant for days about this. And he had to know: "Blink, wheah's Lunch Money?"
"So, what wit' the boy's clothes?" Lunch Money inquired about the bundle in Tease's arms, raising an eyebrow hopefully. It was late, and the girls had chosen to spend the rest of the night under the cover of the red striped awning over Liam's. It was nice to be back in Brooklyn, though Lunch Money was still wary of what she was getting herself into. "Maybe a gift fa' me? I could shoah use a pair a' trousehs; I don't understand how ya weah these damn skoirts all the time, it's murdeh, I tell ya—"
"It ain't fa' you." Nix answered, "They'd be too big fa' ya anyway. Tease gets ta be the boy this time."
"I'm intrigued. Whaddya plannin'?" Lunch Money grinned. It had been a while since she'd last been involved in a great scheme such as springing kids from the refuge, and Lunch Money liked the sound of Nix's plan, "Gimme details."
Nix laid out the particulars to the other girls, who listened eagerly. It was a simple plan. Feivel and Tease got the first task, and as Nix explained further, the bundle of boys clothing became clear. Feivel was to make the first move; she and Tease would be stationed just outside the refuge, within earshot of the numerous guards. Feivel would draw their attention by screaming bloody murder. Assuming the guards weren't absolutely heartless, they would come to Feivel's aid, and rescue her from the 'boy' trying to assault her. Tease (of the Brooklyn newsgirls, she was easily the quickest on her feet) would then hightail out of there, pulling the guards away for as long as possible. That's when the other girls came into play.
As Lunch Money listened to Nix's scheme, she realized that she felt more like herself than she had in a long time. She was back to being Lunch Money, not Ava, and not the desperately confused and distraught version of Lunch Money she had been since coming to Brooklyn. This threw Lunch Money; it was most unexpected. She hadn't felt so normal since... since when, exactly? Lunch Money thought for a bit before realizing that she could pinpoint the moment when she'd started feeling like someone very different from herself.
"Hey!" someone shouted from the end of the alley, "You punks bettah clear out now, or you'll be answerin' ta Spot Conlon."
That was when Lunch Money had first felt like everything was spinning out of control. But now? Now she was still scared, still uncertain, but suddenly she was herself again. Was it possible that Lunch Money could be who she was, even in the face of all the turmoil? Could she be both a tomboy and a girl in love? It was the first time that thought had crossed her mind, and she found it very interesting that it had never occurred to her before. She barely heard another word Nix said; the rest of the night she was preoccupied with what could have been, or (if she had the strength) what would be.
"Blink, wheah is she?" Racetrack asked again. Kid Blink shuffled his feet, and glanced quickly at Spot.
"She's fine." Blink said, trying to tell the truth without having to tell Racetrack what had really happened.
"I don't like the sound a' that."
"She is!" Blink insisted, "She ain't been arrested or nuttin'."
"But wheah is she?" Racetrack looked between Spot and Blink. They knew what had happened to his sister, and they didn't want to inform him as to her whereabouts. This did not lessen Racetrack's curiosity or concern.
"She's in Manhattan." Spot answered, hoping that would be enough of an answer for Racetrack. It wasn't, of course.
"What? What's she doin' theah?" Racetrack was confused. Why would Lunch Money just up and leave for Manhattan? "Was she tryin' ta recruit the otheh boys? Dutchy, an' Bumlets, an' Tumbler an' Specs an' everybody?"
"Nah, nuttin' like that." It was Blink who responded this time. He took in a deep breath, bracing himself for Racetrack's reaction. "She says she's done bein' a newsie. She's woirkin' at a laundry."
All the Manhattan newsboys stood aghast. None of them could believe it – none of them wanted to believe it. Mush looked like someone had hit him across the face. Boots and Crutchy glanced at each other; their mouths open in shock. Lunch Money? A laundress? It had to have been two or three times a week that they heard Racetrack suggest that career to Lunch Money, and it was two or three times a week they heard Lunch Money scornfully shoot him down.
"You." Racetrack seized Spot by the arm and marched him away from the group, "I need ta talk ta you."
Racetrack led Spot as far away from the other boys as possible, stopping near the barred window on the opposite end of the dorm. Spot shrugged Racetrack's hand off irritably. The newsboys watched Spot and Racetrack, all interested in hearing what was sure to be an intense conversation. But, alas, both boys spoke in whispers too soft for them to hear.
"What?" Spot asked defiantly. He knew 'what', of course, Racetrack was going to blame him for letting Lunch Money roam New York unattended. He was going to accuse Spot of being the reason Lunch Money left the newsies. He wouldn't be wrong either.
"What d'ya do?" Racetrack demanded quietly, "What d'ya do ta me little sisteh? Listen, I know Lunch Money, and she ain't no laundress. She loves bein' a newsie, and I can only think a' one reason that might make her give it up, and that's you, Conlon."
"Al'ight, it was me." Spot snapped, "But nuttin' happened, I swear it, Race."
"Ya told her you love her."
"Ya hoird about that, huh? Yeah, so what if I did?" Spot almost regretted his flippant tone when he saw the expression on Racetrack's face. He really looked like he wanted to kill Spot.
"I don't like ya leadin' Lunch Money on like that. I know how ya woirk, Conlon." Racetrack sneered, "Ya go breakin' goil's hearts right and left, an' theah I was, tryin' ta make shoah that me little sisteh wouldn't be the next. Ya did her an' dumped, her, didn't ya?" He shook his head, angry with himself for putting a stop to everything when he had the chance. Now his sister had run away to Manhattan, just to escape Conlon.
"No!" Spot was adamant. That wasn't what had happened at all. "Anway, what makes ya so shoah I didn't mean what I said?" Spot glared at Racetrack. Racetrack looked confused. What is he talkin' about? He can't seriously mean…?
"This ain't how ya think it is. I'm in love with her." Spot avoided Racetrack's incredulous stare. He wasn't sure which Higgins it had been more difficult to tell this to: Lunch Money, or Racetrack.
"Really?" Racetrack was still skeptical. Spot nodded. Racetrack was quiet, thinking for a minute before he spoke again. "Then what made her run off?"
Spot exhaled slowly. He'd been trying not to answer that question. "I think she's tryin' ta figger some things out. When I went ta talk ta her, she said… she said she was scared."
"I don't believe ya." Racetrack's sneer was more pronounced than ever, "I don't believe any a' that. Lunch ain't afraid a' anything. You took advantage a' her as soon as I wasn't theah ta look afteh her every wakin' moment. Don't even try ta pretend." Racetrack walked away, returning to the group of newsboys.
"Race!" Spot called after him.
"Go ta hell, Conlon." With those parting words, Racetrack returned to converse with the other Manhattan newsboys. He was probably convincing them that the reason Lunch Money had run off to Manhattan was because had raped her, or whatever horrible violation Racetrack was so Spot had committed.
Spot leaned against the window, one hand carefully rubbing the deep purple bruise that covered the patch of skin just over his left eye. Just when he thought he could start to make things right again by talking to Racetrack, just when he thought he could get someone on his side. It was hard to believe he could be in any deeper, but Spot had only made his situation much, much worse.