Hullo, you lot. Here's the second-to-last entry (I hope.) Some minor edits have been made, and the author's note was added to the end, so as not to make everyone feel cheated when they saw more chapters than there actually are.
Emma hadn't even made it to the distribution building before Jack Kelly had manifested his unwelcome self beside her.
"So, Raggedy-Em," he said, "how's it feel, bustin' young boys hearts?"
Emma was forced to think about the order of his words because not only did he talk too fast, but some bastard had managed to turn up the sun.
"Uuuh…" she said.
"I knew you was full of bite, but Blink? that's a whole new—" Emma held up an unsteady hand.
"Francis, I'm so hung-over right now, that all I've understood so far is bite and Blink, so stop bein' a lousy horseless cowboy, and tell me where he is."
Jack re-settled his cowboy hat, clucking his tongue.
"You shouldn't drink, half-pint," he told her.
"Are you gonna tell me where he is?"
"And if he don't wanna be found?" Jack was serious. Frustrated, Emma rested her stinging eyes under one hand.
"I didn't leave him on purpose," she said. "In case you ain't noticed, I'm a lousy drunk."
Jack shook his head.
"He's at Stubby's, but he's not exactly whatcya call pleased."
"I could tell him I'm pregnant," she said, bleakly, following Jack towards the restaurant. He turned to look at her.
"Are you?"
"No," she said. "But I'm really, really uncoordinated."
"'Sprobably not gonna help, then."
They lapsed into silence, as Emma squinted, focusing on the Cowboy hat bobbing in front of her. It leered at her through the haze of brightness and noise as Jack lead her toward Stubby's, where he deposited her on a stool by a morose-looking Kid Blink.
"I done my part," Jack said, tipping his hat and turning, quickly, towards another booth.
Emma blinked, saw sunspots and tried again.
"Umm..."
Oh, yeah, Emma, she congratulated herself. That's the way to start a conversation.
"Don't bother," Blink said. "I got the message loud and clear."
She winced.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"I waited for you," he told her.
"I know, Candide got me—"
"Are you really gonna blame Candide?" he asked.
"drunk last night."
"That's convenient," he said, turning to look at the menu.
"It's true!"
"True like Candide's squirrels, or true like yesterday's headlines?"
"That's not fair," Emma stood up, wobbled and grabbed the counter. Her head ached.
"Well, you rig your dice," he said. "You're a cheat and a tease, what's fair about that?"
The calm dismissal nettled her. She turned away, ransacking the pockets of her skirt for money.
"Beer," she called to the bartender.
"You shouldn't drink," Blink said. He didn't look up from the menu.
"Go to hell," she murmured, sitting.
There was a prolonged silence while Emma waited for, received and murderously contemplated her beer. It foamed cheerily, like the cheap distraction it was, which somehow only made Emma angrier. Being hungover after cardnight was a perfectly good explanation for tardiness. In fact, it was a testament to her lousy good intentions that she'd pulled herself out of bed that morning. And if he'd just listen, she had an even better reason for her reaction to his kiss. But no, like a true newsboy, he didn't care if his headlines were fake, so long as they made an impression.
And so what did it matter if Blink was only another thick-headed street-rat? Had she somehow expected him to be different? Soft on the inside, maybe, like a pie? No, he was made of black eyes, dirty streets and the bravado that comes from growing up too soon just like Jack and Race. Just like Spot.
She took a rebellious drink, swishing it around in her mouth. Her stomach clenched.
"I guess it's my own fault," she lectured the beer mug, morosely. "I shoulda known better than to waste my time on a one-eyed, two-faced, gutter-trash, newsboy."
Her voice was soft and mean as she stood again. She spat her disgust onto the floor, and stalked out the door.
The sunlight shot through her eyes to the base of her head, pulsing painfully. She could feel her stomach begin to turn again and even her eyes were watering. Leaning against the alley wall, Emma cursed. She wanted to take on both Delancey brothers and beat them into oblivion. She wanted to go back to working on the docks, mindless, back-breaking labor was exactly what she needed. She wanted to unravel each one of Sarah's meticulously crocheted doilies, slowly, while Sarah watched. She wanted to throw up.
On the doilies, if at all possible.
Emma was wavering between the doilies and the Delanceys when she heard the door slam. Twisting to see behind her, she was startled by the instant proximity and intensity of Blink's body. She didn't move. He didn't touch her.
"Ooh. Big, angry newsboy," she said. "Look at me. I'm shakin'."
"You're fulla shit, Emma."
"Get offa my back, Kid." He was so close to her, but she couldn't focus on his body or the heat or her headache. Just the mutual anger.
"See, there's the thing, you crazy little monkey, you ain't Spot. You don't get to give orders."
"I'll give whatever I want. It's your own fault if you can't handle it."
"For Chrissake, there ain't a newsie in town who'd let his girl talk to him like that."
"I'm not your girl, I'm not your anything."
"If I wasn't sure about that after the two times you ran away and the fact that you'd rather be an idiot drunk than around me, what you said at Tibby's made it clear to most of Manhattan. I'm sure this whole thing is just a waste of your time."
"You forgot the part where you called me a cheat and a tease," she said. "I got drunk. I'm a goddamn newsie!"
Sweat gathered at the base of her neck. His hair was damp with it.
"You made me look like a fool, today. I just stood there, waiting for you," he said.
"If that's what you're worried about, I got news for you. You don't need my help to look like a fool. You wear an eyepatch. And what do you care, anyway? I'm sure you'll soothe your pride with another one a Medda's assistants, since clearly I'm not doin' it for you."
There was a moment of silence as they both stood, evaluating each other. She watched as the anger steamed off of him, dissapating, slowly. The intensity remained. She scowled at him, fighting the urge to scratch her nose. The silence gave her time to be distracted by his body. He looked as though he'd spent the day running, or fighting. His vest was unevenly buttoned. Tension lined the muscles of his arm and neck. There was dirt smeared on his cheek.
"I've known you since you came to Manhattan. Jack likes you pretty good, the guys, too. But you don't touch 'em. Spitshake, maybe. Friendly fighting, but nothing else," he studied her.
Unimpressed, Emma lifted an eyebrow.
"Who asked you?"
"I wanna know why," he told her.
She let herself relax against the brick wall. She couldn't refuse to tell him. Not after she'd mentally read him the riot act for not listening. There was a moment of silence, then, finally:
"Brooklyn."
"Oh, come on, Conlon's bad, but-"
"Shut up, Blink. It was in Brooklyn," she said.
He shrugged, gently, clearly telling her that his conclusion was an 'honest mistake.' The anger had evaporated from the air, and it left nothing between them. The closeness didn't take her breath away or anything, but it was distracting.
"I was younger, it was late- dark. He was drunk and I- wasn't a newsie, then. He grabbed my wrist and I got away. But I was different, after," she stopped and looked up, coldly.
"Extra, extra," she quipped. "Read all about it."
Dear Reader,
Let me start this off by saying how much I hate author's notes. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them. But I wanted anyone who's been reading this story, especially those who have stuck by me the entire way, and those who have reviewed begging me to finish or wondering if I will, to see this.
I promise you that I will finish this story. So take a deep breath, I will never abandon Emma.
That said, she needs a hell of a lot of work. I wrote this story when I was about nine or ten on a yellow legal pad. And then I hid it from myself for several years. I wrote it for the same reason any fangirl writes a Mary Sue© production: I was in love with a fictional boy and I wanted to make him mine.
I decided to rewrite the story four years ago. My freshman year of high school. And man, did I think I was god's gift to fanfiction. Since then, I've had four inspiring years of journalism, and spent time on the literary publication at my school, in addition to volunteering at the local writer's camp, and, well, reading a ton of fiction, fanfiction and other literature. I also discovered the Universal Mary Sue Litmus Test. I think the first time I ran Emma through that biyatch, she scored… well… Let's just say that we were well past 'danger' territory, and veering into the void of 'I have created a monster.'
I mean, if you want to talk about over-used plot devices, you'll find most of them in the original Such A Newsie. You'll actually still find a lot of them. Sexual assault, cannon-free romance, an inexplicably close relationship with Spot…
But I'm getting off-track.
Because the truth is, I'm absolutely in love with this story, and how it's growing and changing. When I started, Emma was a spoiled brat who ran away from home and was too proud to go back after being assaulted by a boy in an alleyway. Now she has a culture, a true motivation for leaving, and a reason for carrying the banner. That said, she has a long way to go.
I've only just realized how far.
In editing and changing (sometimes drastically) the first few chapters, I've been forced to re-evaluate the story arc, which is jumpy and fraught with plot-holes. It's just not smooth or believable enough. I'm beginning to get an idea of how it needs to change, but it's going to take time: something that I don't have right now.
To let you in on my personal life, (since it seems like I'm just going to ramble on forever, god, Joan, why aren't your chapters this long?) I'm headed off to college this year. A wonderful, liberal –arts school in Ohio, where I plan to study creative writing, Spanish and physics. If my writing has changed over the last four years of high school, I can't imagine how much improvement college will make on it. I hope that improvement will be reflected in the quality of my editing and, eventually, by the super-awesome-mega-cool-ending that I have in no way planned or conceived of, yet.
To give you an idea of what my vision is, in so far as editing, the story will be a lot shorter. I feel like there are a lot of unnecessary tangents and some serious anachronisms (Swan, as a Mexican, is not totally sensible, she should definitely be Italian, the problem being that I speak no Italian). But the pivotal change that needs to be made (as far as I'm concerned) is the scene in which Emma is assaulted. I have been staring at that chapter for about three days. It needs to be completely, completely, rewritten. I don't think any one chapter shows my childish understanding of reality more than that one. It's embarrassing.
It's also going to be shorter because, instead of the choppy, little chapters that I have now, I'm hoping to combine a lot of them into smoother, more logical chapters, which will hopefully give the entire story a more connected feel.
I'm sure you're tired of reading this, but it feels so good to address you all. I have never, in my life, finished a prose story. And it is all of you who keep me determined to give Emma a proper ending. One that doesn't make you puke with how disgustingly sweet it is, but one that also leaves you feeling a little happier about the world. Thank you all so much for putting up with me and with Emma. You have inspired my writing, and I could not be more grateful.
Love,
Jo
P.S. I'd still love to hear from you in reviews or private messages. It helps so much to know what the readers like and don't like, what they're expecting out of the story and where it has failed them. Every time I get a review, I come back and look at the story, and think about it a little harder, because I really, really want to do right by all of you!