Part I, Chapter II
November 27, 1895
Brooklyn, New York
"Hey Spot!"
The thirteen-year-old turned to find Bolt and Thompson, his two closest friends and newsies, running down Pine St. towards him. He exhaled and watched the cold puff of air leave his frozen lips. The winter wind whipped around him viciously and he pulled his coat around him closer. A single snowflake fell into his eyelashes and, irritated, he shook his head.
"What're ya guys doin'?" asked Spot Conlon.
"Comin' ta get you," answered Bolt, raising his shoulders to his ears. "Poker tournament goin' on right now. Spits is killin' ev'ryone. Ya gotta see it!"
Spot looked down at his stack of fifty papers to sell. That was three day's worth of food. He looked at the shivering frames and red noses of his friends. They hadn't even been out in the cold that day and they were already frozen; he couldn't imagine what he would soon look like. The word was that a snow storm was preparing to hit New York in a few short days, but he could already feel its effects.
He crammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and responded, "I'll be there when I'm done sellin'."
"Oh, come on, Conlon!" Bolt punched his arm. "Outta the whole house, twelve guys're sellin' today. And you'se one 'a the crazy bastards that's part 'a that twelve!"
"Yeah, it's one afternoon, Spot, ya don't gotta freeze yerself ta death just fer breakfast," added Thompson with a sniffle.
Nevertheless, Spot Conlon was going to sell every last one of those papers if he died on that street corner. He had never voluntarily eaten his money and he wasn't going to start now. He shook his head and refused to leave.
"Yer loss, man!" shouted Thompson as he and Bolt tore off down the street back to the poker tournament.
Spot turned to his papers. With a raw, pale white hand, he grabbed one and shouted, "Blizzard headed straight fer Brooklyn!"
Five blocks away, Corwell Bakery was busy with customers preparing for Thanksgiving the next day. Edward and Helen Corwell manned the crowded lobby, cashing in orders of breads, rolls and desserts, while a small contingent of bakers worked tirelessly in the back. Emma, the only child of the owners, sat on the narrow staircase of the shop which led up to their apartment.
"Kelby's is closed, you'll have to go to the shop near Benham's Market," said Mr. Edward Corwell to Emma as he passed the staircase, his face flushed with stress. He handed her a list of items and money.
"What!" shrieked Emma, and then came to her senses. "Sorry. It's just so far and do you realize how cold it is out there? There's supposed to be this huge snowstorm headed over anyway. I'm not goin'."
"Helen, when'd we teach her to be so mouthy?" asked Mr. Corwell to his wife across the lobby, who simply shrugged with a face full of agreeing expression.
"Take this." Mr. Corwell handed her a key which had a long shoestring through it. "The backdoor to the kitchen doesn't open from inside, so you'll have to use this. Cooks won't hear you if knock. Whatever you do, don't lose it, 'cause I haven't made any copies yet, got it? I just got the locks changed, so be careful."
"Fine," she muttered beneath her breath with a scoff. "I'll be back later."
Emma had always been somewhat defiant. It wasn't that she was an angry child or that they had any family problems. She had always read into rules, rather than obey them; open her mouth to speak, even when it wasn't her turn; and express what was on her mind with little hesitation. In a word, Emma had always been stubborn. When it came to things that mattered, like matters of the heart or of the mind, nobody could tell her what to do, feel, or think. Looping the key loosely around her neck like a piece of jewelry, Emma buttoned up her coat and exited the bakery.
It was only after Emma had reached the sixth block that she happened upon the corner of Pine and 4th, an area she rarely visited. Spot Conlon had lessened his stack of papers to ten, and as soon as Emma rounded the corner, she ran directly into him.
"Oh! I'm sorry," apologized Emma. "You shouldn't stand so close to the turn there."
"Yeah, well, it's worked fer me fer the past five years, lady," snapped Spot, and he turned back to the opposite direction without having made any eye contact with Emma.
"Well, obviously it doesn't work anymore, kid, if I just ran into ya." She scoffed and continued on her way, but she couldn't understand the butterflies she felt in her stomach as she crossed the street to Flynn's, the only other baking shop her father would go to if Kelby's was closed.
A sharp breeze picked up and Spot clutched his coat closer. He couldn't remember the last time it was this cold outside. His eyes, for some reason, jumped across the street and through the window he could see Emma talking to the clerk.
Emma left Flynn's with a burlap sack filled with baking ingredients. She had to round the same corner, and knew she'd have to deal with the newsie again. As she trotted by, with the same weird feeling in her stomach, she caught a glimpse of Spot's piercing blue eyes as they connected with hers for a brief moment. The two said nothing.
Half a block later, Emma's hand flew to her chest. She stopped and dug her hand inside her coat and scarf, feeling her neck and collarbone. Nothing. She had lost the key.
Not only would her father be furious, but she'd have to trudge in through the front door and explain she would have to stay up for the whole night standing guard to make sure no one broke in. Emma's pulse sped up and her nerves raked through her body.
Moments later, she was on her hands and knees in search of the key. She crawled around most of the block until she looked up and saw Spot staring at her awkwardly. He gave her a weird look, said nothing, and simply turned his head. Emma took to her feet and marched over to the corner.
"I lost something very important," she said, looking at him directly, "so don't give me that look! If you've…"
Pausing, as if came a burst of mental clarity, she cocked her head to the side and looked up at the street sign above them. "I remember you."
Spot looked at her more deeply. His eyebrows knitted and there was a blank expression on his face. It was vague to him, very vague, but he knew he remembered this girl. She gave him a flower and gave him his name.
"This is your spot, right?" she joked.
Spot breathed a laugh. "Right…"
"Emma."
"Emma. I remembah you."
She smiled subtly. "Well, it was nice seeing you again. If you happen to find a key on a shoelace…"
"I will, and I'll get it back to ya."
"Right. Well, Happy Thanksgiving, then. Stay warm."
Walking away, Emma couldn't help but smile, but it soon vanished when she thought of her father. He had always kept a tight hold on the bakery with high expectations and several rules. For Emma to waltz in there and approach him at the counter, he would have to restrain his anger and save it all up to yell at her later.
That is precisely how the situation played itself out. Emma sat nervously on the staircase which was a safe distance from the customers. With her dark green eyes full of shame, she ushered her father over with a wave of her hand. She explained what had happened, trying her best to turn on the waterworks, and hung her head low.
"It's…I…" stuttered Mr. Corwell with frustration. His mouth opened and closed, keeping some words in and letting some out. His arms rose up in anger and a vein in his forehead stressed. "We will talk—when we are closed—got it?"
Emma stomped her way up to their apartment and slammed the door, unable to hide her emotions, something she had trouble with. She sat on her bed, ripped off her boots, and chucked them across the room. With a dramatic sigh, she plopped herself down and closed her eyes.
Moments later, though, she couldn't help but see Spot Conlon in her mind. The image in itself calmed her down, and she thought it was rather peculiar at the same time.
A while later, with three papers left to sell, Spot Conlon's eyes shifted to the cold ground and found something peculiar as well. There, at the base of the street sign, with a shoelace attached to it, was a bronze key. He picked it up and examined it as if to make sure it were real. He blinked and made his way to Flynn's, but found a bold sign on its door: "CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER."
Spot knew no other way of reaching Emma. He didn't know her last name or anything else about her. He would stop by the shop tomorrow, or the next day if need be, to talk to the clerk to track her down. Until then, he would wear the key around his neck, nestled right next to his heart, so he wouldn't lose it.
