Part II, Chapter II

March 31, 1902

Brooklyn, New York

"Bettah be more next time, Nickel. I ain't playin' around."

"Yes, sir. I'll double it t'morrow."

"Triple."

The young boy gulped. "I will."

"Go tah bed, Nickel. I'm expectin' more outta ya tomorrow."

As the red-headed runt of the newsies sulked away from the older leaders, Spot placed the lid on top of the cash box and wrote down the day's total on a scrap of paper. A year ago, he and Bolt had devised a plan in which he charged younger, newer newsies a portion of their daily earnings as they were shown the ropes to Spot's territory. The plan, they had told the boys, was to get beginners to sell more papers since a fraction of it went to Spot. Really, it was entirely likely that Spot and Bolt just wanted to, shamelessly, make some money on the side. In between the daily editions, however, Spot and Bolt would toughen them up to become Brooklyn newsies.

"Kid's gonna be payin' my way out West if he don't show up good enough," said Bolt. "Don't know if he'll make it anyday."

"Well, then we'll just keep chargin' 'im till he gets it right. And I ain't got a problem with that," responded Spot. "B'sides, we deserve all the reward we can get. This job ain't easy."

As Spot locked the cash box and tucked it underneath his bunk, he noticed one of his boys, Sneaks, holding a washcloth to his face near the washrooms. Sneaks was nearly fourteen years old, and was generally reserved, hardly speaking up at meetings or making a fuss—not very common traits for Spot's newsies. It was boys like Sneaks that Spot was bound and determined to mold into tough, warrior-like newsies who suited Brooklyn's tough reputation.

Sneaks caught a glimpse of Spot approaching him. He recoiled slightly, and tossed the washcloth into the sink, turning to walk in the other direction.

"Not so fast, Sneaks. Lemme see it."

Sneaks sighed, defeated, as Spot grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"Whoa, nice shinah!"

The boy's left eye was swollen with a purple and red bruise circling his eyelid.

"What happened?" asked Spot, looking down at him harshly.

As Sneaks recollected the story, Spot squinted his eyes, examining the bruise closely as he listened absently. Interrupting him, Spot said, "Ya know, there's a trick to gettin' rid 'a those."

"Really? What's—"

Before Sneaks could finish his question, Spot threw a quick punch to the other side of his face. The boy reeled backward, caught entirely off guard, and intuitively grabbed his face.

"Shit!" blurted Sneaks, stumbling backward and holding his face.

"The trick is knowin' how ta block a punch," finished Spot arrogantly.

"Well, I wasn't expectin' that!" screeched Sneaks. "Damn!"

"Ain't that how ya got the other one in the foist place?" Spot ran cold water over the rag and rung it out. "After mornin' edition, come to tha docks and we'll go ovah some more 'tricks.'"

Sneaks looked up and nodded dutifully. Spot let out a laugh and shook his head, tossing the washcloth back to Sneaks and patting him on the back.

"Nice, Conlon. Why don't'cha go teach them kids in the schoolhouse down the block?" joked Bolt once Spot had returned to his bunk.

Something about Bolt's comment suddenly reminded him of someone he hadn't thought of in a long while. It sounded exactly like a comment Emma would make. He disregarded those thoughts, though, and merely replied, "They'se gotta learn sometime, right?"


March 31, 1902

Philadelphia, PA

"Cheers to good health and happiness!"

"Cheers!"

Emma knocked her glass against the others'. She smiled delicately and sipped, closing her eyes. She felt a hand against her back.

"Everything alright?"

"Alright," she confirmed. "Yes."

The celebration was underway in the small apartment. Her parents, who had seemingly aged dramatically, congratulated the couple engaged to be married. It was her cousin and the preacher's son who lived half a block down from them. Her parents spoke with joy about their new lives. Emma sat the window with the boy who lived across the hall, Peter.

"Can I get you anything?" offered Peter.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

Peter winked at her congenially and got up to congratulate the couple. Annette Crenshaw, Peter's mother, appeared at Emma's side unexpectedly.

"Tell me, dear," started Annette, taking a sip of her drink, "how long do I have to wait to see you and Peter this way? Hm? Don't keep me waiting too long, dear, I'm an old woman these days!" She puffed her short, brown curls which had fallen limp and were graying at the roots.

Emma bit her lip. "I suppose you can't rush this sort of thing, Mrs. Crenshaw," replied Emma as politely as possible. She gulped down her drink slowly, shaking away the screwy thought of herself in a white wedding gown with nobody else but Peter at her side in a black and white photograph.

"Oh, please! Dear, we'd only introduced your cousin and her fiancé a little over a month ago. I do believe you've lived here much longer than a month…"

"It'll be three years on April tenth," corrected Annette promptly.

"Hm. Yes, well, I do think you and Peter should get a move on, then…" Annette trailed off as she floated away from Emma's side and into a small group of family friends.

Emma closed her eyes. If I have to hear about marrying Peter one more time…

"Dessert?"

She opened her eyes to a small, light pink pastry sitting in the pale palm of Peter's, his torso slightly bent as if bowing to her, and his lips spread into his cheeks amiably.

"Thank you, Peter," she sighed lightly, taking the small cake and biting into it graciously.

Peter took a seat next to her on the window pane. She didn't look at him, but she out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him staring at her. She blinked and brought the pastry to her mouth once more, taking a bigger bite. A moment later, she felt Peter's fingers gently running through the blonde strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"W'd'you 'scuse me fer a second?" mumbled Emma through a mouthful of food.

She quickly got up and weaved through the crowd out the front door, fleeing down the hallway and into her own apartment. She slammed behind her bedroom door, resting against the wall of her room. With a breath of fresh air, she crawled out of her window and fixed herself comfortably on the fire escape when she felt something smooth underneath her hand.

There upon the wrought iron structure was, as if written in the stars, a daisy. She recalled the day she had given it to Spot—the same day she had met and named him, as if claiming him already. She quickly ripped the flower to shreds and flung the contents off the fire escape and into the alley. She no longer associated happiness with Spot Conlon.