Part I, Chapter XVI
March 27, 1899
Brooklyn, New York
Spot cleared the deck of cards from the barrel between himself and Bolt. He had been losing so far, getting unlucky with almost every hand he was dealt. Suspicion made him think his friend, the only other player, had been cheating. Bolt did nothing but clear his throat and look off onto the docks around them.
"Spot, some kid just busted my damn lip," said a seven-year old newsie running up towards Spot and Bolt. He jutted his chin up to reveal his lower lip swollen and bloody, a nasty cut bleeding at the corner of his mouth.
"Where's this kid from?" asked Spot, eyeing the kid's wound.
"Uptown." The boy raised his arm and ran his shirt sleeve along his lip, the fabric smeared with blood.
"They still heah?"
"Think so."
"Then go show 'em not ta mess with Brooklyn." Spot punched the boy's shoulder lightly. "An' when ya fight 'em, make sure ta cover yer face with one fist. Got it?"
"Got it." The boy, a grimace growing fierce on his face, turned quickly on his heels and ran in the same direction he arrived.
"Glad the kid's got some fight in 'im. Makes me proud. A'right. I gotta go find Emma," said Spot, a hint of obligation in his voice, as he laid down his cards and got up from the crate box chair. "Haven't seen 'er in a while, which means she's probably mad at me. Again."
"What'd ya do this time?" queried Bolt.
"What haven't I done, is more like it. She's been ignorin' me fer the longest time now and I'm sick of it. I told her I got more things ta do now that Oliver and Chase is gone, I don't see why she can't deal with it."
"Looks like you'se got some fight in ya, too, Conlon. Best 'a luck."
Ten minutes later found Spot arriving at the bakery. Mr. Corwell spoke with a customer behind the counter. Briefly he looked at Spot and his dark eyes almost pierced Spot as he did so. The Brooklyn boy was taken aback for a moment, until Emma entered the lobby. He turned around at the sound of the small bell above the doorway and was greeted with the blankest look he had ever received from her.
"Hey stranger," he said lightheartedly.
After a moment, Emma simply said, "Hey," and made her way upstairs without eye contact.
Spot felt his impatience getting the better of him. He clenched his fists at his sides and closed his eyes, summoning up self-control. Eventually he turned around and, avoiding Mr. Corwell's stare, walked upstairs. Just as Emma turned to close the apartment door, Spot grabbed hold of it with his fingers and pried it open.
"Can we talk?" asked Spot adamantly.
"No." Emma pushed his chest backward out of the doorway, but Spot in return grabbed her wrist and opened the door completely.
"Yes. Emma, we need to talk." Spot gripped her shoulders and tried looking into her eyes, though she only stared at the floor. He could feel a fight in her rising.
Lowly, she responded, "I don't wanna talk to you."
Spot let go. "So, you'se mad at me 'cause I haven't been able ta make it ta dinner? That's it? Emma, I told you I been busy. Jesus…"
Emma snapped her head forward with an angry expression taking over her face. "Yeah, Spot, that's it. I'm angry about a few lousy meals!"
"You're bein' completely—"
"What? What, Spot? I'm being what? Ridiculous? Unreasonable?"
"I can't deal with this right now," interrupted Spot as he turned to leave. "You are ridiculous and unreasonable and completely selfish!"
"How dare you sit there and tell me I'm being selfish! Next time you do that, take a look at what you're doin' to me!" shouted Emma, pushing him out the door.
Spot turned in an instant and grabbed her wrists. "Don't shove me, Em! Stop doin' that! I'm sick 'a you always hitting me and shoving me around."
"Don't you ever tell me what to do, Spot! I'm sick of what you do to me and tellin' me what to do and I don't want to talk to you ever again!"
"Fine! I'm glad we're endin' it this way, then! I don't wanna talk ta you again either!"
Spot slammed the door behind him and walked adamantly down the steps. He stormed out of the bakery, paying no attention to Mr. Corwell or any other customer in the lobby. He tightened the gray cap on his head and felt his legs burn from walking so fast. There was still fury racing through his body; the fight in him wouldn't calm down. (That's the thing about having that trait—you always seem to be struggling against something.) His mind spun with the recollection of what had happened, thinking of Emma as the most unreasonable girl he had ever met and chastising himself for getting involved with her.
In a fit of rage, he grabbed the key necklace he hadn't taken off since Emma had given it to him almost four years ago, and yanked it from his neck. He turned and hurled the key high above him and watched it land at the doorsteps of the bakery. Then, without a second glance, he turned his back to the building and marched straight home.
