Part I, Chapter V
June 7, 1897
Brooklyn, New York
Mr. Edward Corwell had been ringing up his last customer for the day when Spot entered the bakery lobby. He had approved of the young newsie spending time with his daughter, only under the circumstances they would remain friends. Sure, Spot was respectful enough towards Mr. Corwell and they got along just fine, but the relationship between the boy and his daughter was not to cross the line. In no way would he allow Emma to build a future with a newsboy, orphan, or gang member.
The two exchanged normal conversation, talking about the weather and politics and baseball. "Yes, I noticed the temperature was a little low for June." "He's a damn right fit to be mayor of Brooklyn." "Yep. Our boys are doin' fine."
"You guys are boring," interrupted Emma as she exited the kitchen. "Talk about interesting things for a change."
As Mr. Corwell counted the money from the cash register, Spot and Emma hopped up onto the counter and sat eating the sandwiches Emma had made that evening. They chatted about this and that, nothing anymore fascinating than Mr. Corwell's and Spot's conversation. Spot had informed her that Bolt walked out of Sheepshead Bay with eighteen dollars in his pocket, to which Emma almost choked on her food.
He also told her Oliver had been making trips to places Catch didn't even know about. Upon this, Emma prompted him to keep talking, and in response, Spot nodded at Mr. Corwell. Emma nodded and understood, shoving more of her turkey sandwich into her mouth.
Mrs. Corwell came down from the apartment with hands full of papers. She set them on the counter beside her husband and just as she left to climb the staircase again, she said to him, "Edward, when you get upstairs we need to talk about going to…" she hesitated, glanced at Emma, who had not been paying attention, and continued, "we need to talk about Philadelphia."
"Oh. Right, Helen. I'll be up in a second." Not a minute passed and Mr. Corwell had made his way upstairs.
Spot looked at Emma once he was gone and asked, "What's in Philly?"
Emma shrugged. "I dunno. Family. So, what's up with Oliver? You cut me off at the good part."
"Oh, yeah." Spot scooted in closer and looked back to make sure Mr. Corwell was out of earshot. His voice quieted and he continued, "Thompson tells me Catch is gettin' all bent outta shape about Oliver keepin' things from him and randomly not showin' up fer days at a time. Oliver was gone for three days and didn't tell nobody he was goin' anywhere and didn't say nothin' when he got back."
"So, what's that mean? What was he doing?" asked Emma, completely enthralled in the story. Her face grew full of expression and intrigue.
"I think it's got somethin' to do with Thayer Street. But I ain't positive 'bout what exactly. I know it's startin' ta get around and rumors are startin' ta get out in the bunks. One 'a the boys comes up to me today and says, 'I heard we're goin' in and killin' off Thayer Street an' I want you'se ta know I'm with ya!' But I ain't confirmed anything yet."
Emma looked up in thought. She bit off the last bite of bread. "Why'd that kid say he was with you?"
Spot looked down and Emma could tell he was hiding a smirk of some sort. She raised his chin with her index finger so she could look at him in the face. She repeated her question and Spot sat back against the counter shelf.
"Thompson says he overheard Oliver fightin' with Catch last night. Catch was givin' him shit about startin' up somethin' with Thayer Street and how he's not gonna have any support if Catch's got anythin' to say about it. Then he says Oliver tells Catch, 'That ain't true, I'se got more guys'n you'd think. Hell, I'll just take Conlon and we'll both just go handle the situation!'"
Emma swallowed her food and thought about how to respond. "So, Oliver's takin' a liking to you, has he?"
Spot shrugged and sat up straight. His eyes traveled upward as if to the sky and his chest puffed out arrogantly before answering, "Apparently I'm hot shit."
Emma rolled her eyes and punched him in the chest. Spot immediately hunched his shoulders and he let out a breath of air. Offended, he rubbed the spot she had hit him and cursed.
"Damn, what was that for?"
"Bein' a cocky bastard."
"Hey, ya gotta let me know now if ya can't handle me movin' up in the ranks, Em. Honestly."
He picked up his sandwich and brought it up to his mouth. Before he could take a bite, Emma grabbed it and threw it on the floor. He threw up his hands and cursed again at her. Emma hopped down from the counter and cleared her setting without a response.
"Emma, whatsa matter with you today, huh?"
Spot followed her back into the kitchen. Emma remained silent as she rolled up her sleeves and began scrubbing her dishes clean. She shoved a rag into Spot's hand and, without asking, ordered him to do the same.
"No." He threw down his food, plate, and rag all onto the floor.
"Hey!" Emma placed her hand on her hip adamantly in frustration.
"I ain't doin' anything till you tell me what's up. You been actin' weird evah since I mentioned Thayer Street and Oliver. Hell, just yesterday ya spilled yer drink all over me as soon as I made a comment about it!"
"'Cause you're gettin' full 'a yourself about all this! Makes me sick every time you mention it 'cause I know you're gonna make some self-absorbed revelation about yourself and how Oliver just loves you so much!"
"What's that s'posed to mean?"
"It means you're goin' up your own ass and I don't feel like following!"
She picked up what Spot had thrown to the floor and tossed the food into the trash. She prompted Spot to clean his own plate, and so, the two of them, wrapped up in their own obstinacy, stood at the wash bin in silence.
The argument Emma had had with Spot earlier in the evening had struck a chord with Emma. It was a fact the two had always quarreled and gotten into their fair share of arguments. It was only in their nature to do so, and usually they were over almost instantly. They would each speak their piece about the topic and because they both refused to back down, nothing was ever quite resolved, but generally forgotten.
She had been lying in bed for over and hour, staring up at the ceiling and tossing around beneath the covers. The situations within the last week had been bothering her more so than any pickles Spot had gotten himself into before, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. She just had a feeling this would end up different.
Just as Emma had imagined the argument for the umpteenth time, there came a round of knocks at her bedroom window. Emma knew instantly it was Spot. She sighed and got out of bed. Pulling back the curtains and opening it up, she found Spot sitting on the fire escape looking up at her through the tops of his eyes. She crossed her arms over each other and placed them on the window ledge.
"Hi," she greeted flatly.
"Hi."
"What're ya doin' out this late?"
"Thinkin'."
"About what?"
"You."
At first, Emma was tickled and felt her cheeks burn by the fact he had been thinking about her. Flattered she was, but it made her giggle the way she had when she first met him seven years ago. However, she remembered the only reason Spot had been thinking about her was the same as why she couldn't sleep either. They had had a fight. They were friends, and they had a fight.
"Things are changing, Spot. I can't help but think you're losin' your head sometimes."
Spot inhaled deeply as if he were trying to hold in his anger. He took a few steps up and down the wrought iron stairs and eventually made his way back to Emma.
"You'se right about one thing, but I ain't losin' my head, Em. I know what I'm doin' and I know what's goin' on with Thayer Street. So, Oliver thinks I'm good fer the job, if there even is a job to begin with. I know I'm good for it, too…"
"But you don't know what's goin' on with Thayer Street, Spot." Her voice was full of repetitious exhaustion, as though she had been trying to beat it into him. "You don't know what Oliver wants you to do, if anything at all. The more I think about it, the worse the situations I'm imagining for you. I'm just…"
"Worried," finished Spot to her trailing sentence, and she looked at him when he said it. "You're scared fer me."
Emma eyed him. The moon was dim and the lighting low, but she could see him clearly, and a part of her ached. A part of her yearned for him but she didn't for what. She looked at him directly and for the first time, she felt like she could back down.
"Yes," she heard herself say. "I am scared for you, Spot."
He placed his hands in his pockets and looked down. He felt like because she was being honest with him, he should listen to her for a change. For her sake, he decided to listen, and somehow he felt it would benefit him as well.
The breeze whirled around him gently and he sat back down, facing her. He looked at her, though she looked down, and tucked piece of her light hair behind her ear. This time, Emma looked up into his eyes without hesitation. My god, she thought, his eyes are gorgeous. Even in the dead of night.
Spot moved closer to her and pressed his cheek against hers, and close enough so his lips could speak into her ear, though he said nothing. They had been close the moment they had become good friends, but not like this. It was scary and monumental and exciting at the same time. Friends, Spot knew, rarely had moments of that magnitude. He had kissed her, without even letting his lips touch her.
"I should go," interrupted Emma. Slowly, she pulled away from his embrace.
"Right." He waited a moment while he looked at her before turning away. He saw her in a different light. "Goodnight, Emma."
"Goodnight, Spot."
