Earlier That Night, 7:00 P.M.
Manhattan
"Hey! Stop! Wait up!"
"Dat's my good hat, ya bums!"
"Dat's yer only hat, Blink."
"Shuddup, Race. Get back heah, ya scabbas!"
Mush Myers, Kid Blink, and Racetrack Higgins exchanged looks of good-natured exasperation as they dashed through the streets of Lower East Side Manhattan. Their quarry, however, was swift and agile, and did not tire easily. This quarry consisted of a pair of laughing teenage girls, one of them triumphantly clutching Blink's hat.
"Ya t'ink dey'll eveh catch us?" asked the smaller girl, smoothing the skirt of her light blue dress as she nimbly dodged a fruit stand. Over a month of practice had taught Secret to run in a dress with more ease than most could manage. Silky ebony hair billowed around her shoulders, and her pale blue eyes, always bright to the point of an eerie phosphorescence, were now positively shining with mischievous delight.
"Not a chance," the second girl scoffed, tossing the captured hat from hand to hand. Taking in her flushed cheeks and broad grin, Secret had to grin as well. Her best friend certainly had changed a lot since the two of them had come to Manhattan back in August. Oh, she had the same chin-length hair, a red so fiery it threatened to burn your eyes out; the same scandalous habit of dressing like a boy, in a black shirt and pants, and vest and suspenders of dark navy-blue. The things that had changed were her drawn face, ready fists, and ever-present glare. The Three Musketeers really had taught her to lighten up. Her eyes, Secret noted, those fickle things that David Jacobs had dubbed "chameleon eyes", were currently a charming baby blue; a very good sign, to one aquainted with Flick O'Grady.
The two newsgirls were approaching Duane Street, almost back to the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, which both called home, when they were stopped in their tracks by an all-too-familiar sound: a soft whistle.
Fer da love o' God, not again.
As if hearing Secret's frustrated thought and taking pleasure in it, a boy stepped out of an alley to stand directly in front of her and Flick, blocking their path. He looked to be two or three years older than their fifteen years, and dwarfed both girls easily; Flick being 5'3, and Secret a towering 5'1. He leered down at them appraisingly. Secret automatically clutched the back of Flick's vest.
"Well, what have we heah?" The boy cocked his head to one side. "What would youse two ladies be runnin' from, den? Someone been bodderin' ya? Tell me who; I'll soak 'em fer ya."
What, startin' out by toinin' on da charm? Secret mused sarcastically. To Flick she softly hissed, "Let it go."
Unfortunately, this attracted the boy's eyes to Flick, and they proceeded to practically pop out of his head. "Ya borrow yer brudda's clothes, kid?" he suggested, snickering loudly.
"Count ta ten," Secret whispered nervously, watching Flick's eyes shift steadily, from sky-blue to sapphire...
"If I was you," Flick advised, and Secret winced at the sound of what she called Flick's "poison fiah" voice, "I'd watch who I was givin' lip."
The boy's surprise was as evident as his amusement. "Aww, s'madda, sunshine?" His hand crept toward Secret's arm. "Jealous o' yer friend heah?"
"It ain't woith it, Flick," Secret stated plainly.
The boy laughed aloud at this, jabbing Flick with his index finger before starting off down the street. "Ya won't get many customas wit dat one taggin' along," he called over his shoulder to Secret.
That, of course, was that. Watching those eyes shoot to a startlingly deep midnight-blue, Secret knew that Flick had just been pushed over the edge, and there was no reasoning with her now.
In an instant, she was on the boy; she closed the distance between them in a blur. While Secret looked on dismally, Flick's fists swung through the air, connecting so fast it was like watching the landscape zip by from a carriage. It couldn't have been two seconds before their tormentor was on the ground, eyes blackened, nose bleeding, lip split, bruises being reigned on him from so many angles that Secret could have sworn it was ten people soaking him instead of one.
"Flick!" Secret moaned, still watching from a distance, unwilling to get anywhere near those fists. "Flick, dat's enough! Dat's enough! Flick, yer gonna kill 'im!"
It was these words that finally got through to the outraged redhead; they held a certain ominous and unforgettable meaning for her. Reluctantly, she dropped her victim, who slipped limply onto the street, eyes huge with shock at what had just happened to him. He hadn't even gotten a chance to lift a finger in self-defense.
Flick was eyeing the boy with such loathing that Secret was starting to worry that she would go back for one last punch, when the air was pierced by the second whistle they'd heard that day. This one, however, was much louder and shriller than the first, and had nothing to do with drunken teenage boys harassing newsgirls. This whistle had more to do with fat, pompous men in uniforms, and a place called "the Refuge" that struck terror into the heart of any newsie.
"What's going on?"
"Someone's being beaten! Oh God, it's that crazy girl at it again!"
"After them!"
"Nice goin', Flick," Secret shouted, dashing over to grab her friend's hand. The two of them started to run, but then Secret turned back, twisting out of Flick's grasp.
"Ya crazy, goil?" Flick demanded as Secret hurried back the way they had come.
"Nah, jist had ta get dis!" The dark-haired girl swiftly returned to Flick's side. Dangling from her hand was Blink's hat, which she had retrieved from the street, where Flick had dropped it before going on the warpath.
"It's almost wintah, he'll be needin' 'is hat!" Secret explained in response to Flick's incredulous look as the two of them scrambled up the steps of the lodging house and barreled through the door.
Flick just shook her head. This wasn't the first time she'd been frightened by the way her friend's good sense seemed to stay intact in any situation.
"Well," the dragon panted as she signed Kloppman's Newsies Registration book, then handed the pen to Secret, who did the same, "at least we lost da bulls. No poimenant damage done."
As if the words had been a jinx, the door separating the bunkroom from the lodging-house lobby suddenly swung open. Framed in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, sporting his trademark black cowboy hat and red necktie, was Jack Kelly, leader of the Manhattan newsies. Flick tilted her head up slowly, clothing wrumpled, red hair askew, knuckles conspicuously bloodstained. Her dark, fiery eyes met his. Jack heard the shouts of the bulls from outside as they hurtled past the lodging house. Flick saw the fury on Cowboy's face. They cursed simultaneously.