Part I, Chapter XVII

April 2, 1899

Brooklyn, New York

Mr. and Mrs. Corwell had noticed the rapid change in Emma within the past week. She had gone from silent and upset, to confused and miserable, and presently to enraged and vindictive. The daily chores had been carried out as usual but with much more vigor and speed. (She was incredibly efficient when she was angry). Now she had been pacing up and down the stairs carting crate boxes into her bedroom for the move. At nine p.m., Mr. Corwell gripped the handle of his coffee mug and turned to Mrs. Corwell.

"I don't appreciate this anger at all, Helen," he said, concerned, as they sat in the kitchen. "This had better not be directed at us because we're moving."

"No, Edward, I really don't think it is. She hasn't snapped at me personally and I've caught her scoffing at herself several times." Mrs. Corwell craned her head back and looked at Emma moving quickly around her bedroom; a random grunt came from within. "She's doing it right now. It's like she's replaying something in her mind."

Mr. Corwell took a sip of her coffee. "Could it be Spot? D'you think he had anything to do with this?"

Mrs. Corwell sighed. "I think he's got everything to do with this."

In her bedroom, Emma stopped for a moment and looked around. Almost everything had been packed already—her nice clothes were pressed and folded in a suitcase; underneath the bed had been cleared out completely; the closet was empty, dusted and cleaned spotless; there were no more personal items in the nightstand, including the sandy books in the drawer which hadn't been moved since they had been placed there. Everything was put away and it was all prepared for the movers to take to Philadelphia. The thing was, she still had to live in this bedroom for another eight days.

"Well! You've certainly cleaned house, haven't you?" commented Mrs. Corwell at the entryway.

Emma stared at her. "Yes. I'm getting it done so I don't have to worry later."

"Good idea." Casually, Mrs. Corwell picked up one full box and moved it closer toward the wall. "Just helping you make a walkway."

"I don't need a walkway. I just need to get from my bed to the door. That's it," said Emma quickly. She snapped her head to the window and recalled the many times Spot had sneaked through it; he kissed her for the first time on the fire escape. Immediately preceding that thought was the memory of him stumbling in drunk and almost unconscious.

"No. A walkway's good. Stack the boxes up over the window," said Emma.

"The window?" asked Mrs. Corwell puzzled.

Emma stared at her and responded flatly, "I don't need to use it."

Mrs. Corwell nodded and placed one box underneath the windowsill, assuming more would be stacked on top of it. Emma followed suit and Mrs. Corwell took a seat on the bed, observing her daughter's behavior.

"So, your room seems to be all ready to move. How 'bout you? You ready?" She gave an oblivious, unassuming smile.

"Yes, I'm more than ready. I'd like to get out of here."

"Why's that? You were born down the street, you've lived here your entire life."

"Because change is good. It's healthy and everyone deserves a fresh start. Don't you think so, mother?"

Mrs. Corwell nodded in agreement, maintaining her ignorance to the underlying issue. "That's a good way of looking at it. I'm glad you're seeing this move as a positive, not so much as a negative anymore…"

Emma emptied one box full of items into another, hoping to compress and make more room. The objects clattered loudly and she acted as though the noise didn't bother her.

"You're going to meet a lot of new people there. Of course, your cousins will be there and they're mostly your age. I'm sure they have some lovely people for you to meet as well, maybe even a nice boy."

Another box emptied into another, a powerful jolt behind it. Emma was moving faster now, using more force to control the objects within the box. She smashed everything down into one crate and stacked it on top of the other, forming a barrier between the window and her bedroom.

"Emma, did you tell Spot you're leaving?"

"Why does it matter?!" responded Emma angrily. She stormed out of the bedroom, her boots stomping against the floorboards loudly. She returned a moment later with dry clothes in a laundry basket.

"It wouldn't change things," said Emma. "We're not speaking. I'm still mad at him and we're over for good. I'm sick of his arrogance and stubbornness. I don't need to say bye to him, there isn't anything to say bye to. He's different now."

"Oh. Okay." Mrs. Corwell remained calm and oblivious. "Do you need help?"

Emma scooted over and made room for her mother. They folded the clothes silently and efficiently. Mrs. Corwell's pile was noticeably smaller and cleaner than Emma's—she had paid no attention to the quality of folding, nor wasted any time bothering to notice. The basket neared empty, and once it was, Emma gripped the sides of it and stopped moving.

"He deserves to know, no matter what happened between you two," said Mrs. Corwell. "At least give him the time to say goodbye."

Emma felt her jaw harden. Her foot began tapping against the floor and soon she grabbed the sweater from her mother's pile and threw it over her shoulders. Mrs. Corwell said nothing and sighed, contentedly, as Emma bounded down the staircase and out the door.

She had eight days left to tell him, but Emma's legs couldn't take her to the lodging house fast enough. Her mind was screaming at her, "He's hurt you, he's treated you terribly, you need to be away from him for good." She still remembered seeing Spot walk out of Sonny's with that waitress. God only knows what happened between them. But even as these thoughts raced through her mind, she ran faster and faster and faster.

There were many boys littered across the lobby and porch when Emma finally got there. She paid not attention to them and bounded up the narrow staircase. Panting and flushed, Emma entered the bunkroom and noticed Spot's empty bed. Bolt sat up with a stunned look on his face.

"Uh, what's goin' on, Emma?" he asked awkwardly.

"Where's Spot?" hurried Emma. "I need to talk to him."

"He went to Sonny's with some 'a the boys…" Bolt got to his feet cautiously as if weaning her into something difficult. "I, uh, I'm not sure what else there is ta say ta him, Emma."

Emma scrunched her face angrily. "No, Bolt, you don't know what's going on at all."

"Look, I've been talkin' ta him the past week. I don't think talkin' is gonna help this time." He placed his hand on Emma's shoulder, only to have it jerked away in her offense. "I'm sorry. I know he's—"

"Don't do this, Bolt! Don't do his talking for him! I'm going to Sonny's."

"Emma, I really don't…" Bolt trailed off, helpless, as Emma hurried downstairs.

Sonny's restaurant was closed for the night, but the basement, whose entrance was around the corner, was certainly not. The speakeasy secretly came alive at night and Emma had attended on several occasions. The most recent she could recall had taken place after she found out she was moving, and she had peeled some sleazy barmaid from Spot's lap as soon as she arrived.

She wandered through the crowd of drunken guests, straining her eyes to scope out anyone she knew. Across the room, she came upon Thompson, a close friend of Spot's. He and three other newsies sat crammed against the bar, drinking shot after shot and ordering more rounds.

"Hey!" Emma grabbed Thompson's arm tight and pulled him close.

"Oh! Hey…Emma!" he slurred.

"Where's Spot? It's really important I talk to him!"

Thompson, his eyes glazed over significantly, pressed his lips together and looked above him. "Um…ya know, I think…he went upstairs."

"Upstairs? To the restaurant?" Emma grew suspicious as Thompson fluttered his fingers around above them.

"Yeah, try the kitchen maybe? I heard 'im say he was hungry…or somethin'."

"The kitchen. Alright. Thanks."

Emma weaved her way out of the crowd again effortlessly. Her pulse had sped up and she even felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead. She was scared to death to see what Spot was doing upstairs but a part of her wanted some sort of confirmation. It was as though she wanted evidence for hating him so much.

The doors were locked when she tried shaking them. Inside, the kitchen door opened and, not to her surprise but definite horror, Elizabeth made her way across the restaurant. Emma swallowed the lump in her throat and composed herself when Elizabeth opened the front door.

"We're closed."

"I know, I just…" Emma felt her voice tremble and she felt powerless standing in front of Elizabeth.

"You okay?" she eyed Emma carefully. "I'm not exactly supposed to do this, but you can go 'round the corner and down that staircase…It might cheer you up, if you know what I mean."

Emma shook her head and hung her head low. Looking up again, she strained her eyes into the restaurant and back into the kitchen. She noticed a boy sitting on the counter, faced to the side, reaching his arms behind him to lean his weight upon.

"D'you know Spot Conlon?" Emma heard herself say.

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side and subtly pointed behind her. "Yeah, I…do you know him?"

"You could say that, I guess." Emma now grew angry with each passing moment. Elizabeth was smiling in her face as if an old friend had met up with her out of coincidence. She had no idea who Emma was.

"Oh, wait," said Elizabeth in a moment of clarity. "Is he one 'a those, 'I had a really good time last night, pick you up tomorrow' type of guys? Ya know, only good for one thing?" She laughed as if it were an inside joke between them.

Emma closed her eyes and held up her palms. Her friendship with Spot sped through her mind at warp speed. "I don't really…I don't know what to say to that. I guess he is now."

"Well, thanks for the tip!" said Elizabeth obliviously. "I believed him when he actually said that a couple of days ago when I kicked 'im out! Then he shows up again, I thought he was just messin' with my brain or something!"

Emma stared hard at Elizabeth as she continued to speak. She smiled in her face, laughing at the coincidence that they had shared Spot between them, that they had something in common to bond over and perhaps share drinks over their broken hearts with. This girl was the most audacious, charismatic, gorgeous, confident girl she had ever met and Emma wanted to knock her teeth out.

"…I mean, I had a feeling he was a playboy like that, but you know what I mean when I say sweet talk, right? The boy's good, the boy's good." Elizabeth sighed contentedly, unaware at all of Emma's feelings or expression on her face. "But hey, thanks for confirming that about 'im. I'll just kick 'im out after tonight and tomorrow I'll buy you a drink, how's that sound?"

Emma nodded as the bile from her stomach felt as though it was coming out. She smiled weakly, with squinted eyes full of tears, and nodded along. As Elizabeth gave her a hug goodbye, Emma could confirm, in a painful moment of clarity, that it was the same Spot Conlon they were talking about sitting in the kitchen, and made her way home.