"Y'know what, Flick? I don't care what 'e said, I don't care what 'e did, I don't care if 'e insulted yer fam'ly six generations back! Ya din't hafta soak 'im!"

"When someone mouths off ta me, Cowboy, I soak 'em. I t'ought ya loined dat da night me an' Secret foist came heah!"

"Da it, Flick, I dunno how dese kids provoke ya, but when yer gettin' inta six fights a week, yer da one at fault, an' I'se tellin' ya it's gotta stop!"

"'Scuse me, is dere sometin' wrong wit my eahs, or did I jist heah ya try ta give me an ordeh!?"

"Dat's right, Flick, ya did...'cause I'se yer leadeh, rememba? Yer a Manhattan newsie, an' I'se been in charge o' da Manhattan newsies since long befoah ya came, whedda ya like it or not!"

"An' I'se told you at least a hundred times dat da only leadeh I'se eveh recognized is myself, an' dat ain't about ta change jist 'cause o' da borough I'se livin' in!"

"Dat attitude ain't eveh gonna get ya nowheah, but leadaship issues aside, ya can't deny dat da bulls are gettin' fed up wit findin' you on da scene o' ev'ry soakin'. When ya get yaself t'rown in da Refuge, I shoah ain't gonna be da one ta break ya out!"

"I wouldn't take yer help if it was life an' death, Kelly, an' so what if da bulls are afta me fer soakin' a few guys? 'Least I din't toin scab an' betray all my friends, like some people I know--"

"Will youse two please cut it out fer once?" Secret implored from her bunk.

"Who ast you?" Flick snapped.

"Oh, now yer toinin' on her?" Jack growled.

"What da--she ain't even involved in dis!"

"Ya t'ink ya can jist treat all yer friends like doit an' expect 'em ta undastand?"

"How da he is it yer biz'ness how I treat my friends? You shoah ain't among 'em!"

A triple chorus of groans from the bunkroom doorway caused the two angry newsies to whirl in that direction. There stood the Three Musketeers, all clearly out of breath, unsurprised at the scene before them, and dismayed nevertheless.

"Don't even bodda tellin' us," Blink ordered, holding up a hand when Secret opened her mouth. "Flick soaked someone, da bulls went afta her, an' now Jack's threatenin' ta t'row 'er outta da lodgin' house again."

"Yep, what else's new?" called Snoddy from the floor, where he was playing blackjack with Pie Eater. The handful of other newsies who had returned from selling the evening edition were keeping well out of the way of the heated argument.

Ignoring Snoddy's comment, Flick responded to Blink's summary of the situation. "I'd like ta see 'im try dat again!" she challenged, smirking. "'Memba what happened da foist time?"

Jack's hand involuntary strayed to his cheek at that, and Secret had to carefully keep any trace of amusement from her face.

"Actually," she informed the three boys who had just entered, "he ain't started on da threats yet."

"I was gettin' ta dat," Jack hissed, turning his attention back to Flick.

"Yeah?" the dragon mocked, eyes hard and dangerous. "Ya lookin' fer a repeat o' da night I got heah, den?" She started to draw back her fist.

Secret shot a glance at the Musketeers that basically communicated the message, "Dat's our cue." Before Flick could carry out her violent intent, she found her right arm grabbed by Secret, her left arm by Race, while Mush and Blink restrained Cowboy, whose hand had also been ready to lash out.

"A'right," Secret announced briskly, "we's goin' now." She directed a curt nod at Jack, who looked as furious and bewildered as he usually did after an encounter with Flick, and she and the Musketeers proceeded to drag Flick out onto their favorite retreat: the fire escape.

"So," Blink asked wearily once they were seated, "what happened?"

"Da usual," Secret replied. "Some guy was bodderin' us, an' started ta walk away, an' Flick soaked 'im."

"Bodderin' us," Flick repeated incredulously through clenched teeth. "Bodderin' us! He..."

"Flick," Secret pleaded, "I t'ink dey can guess what 'e implied." She hurried on, because all three boys' eyes had had flashed murderously at those words, "It ain't like 'e did anytin', dough. Ain't like 'e would've. An' it ain't like 'e could've."

"'Course he couldn't have," Blink replied. "Dat ain't da point. Da point is dat insultin' ya's bad enough."

"No," Secret moaned, "da point is dat we's s'posta be convincin' Flick ta stop soakin' people."

"Oh, well, dere's dat too," Blink admitted. Secret shook her head and turned hopefully to Mush, the member of the trio with whom she was closest. He didn't disappoint her.

"Flick," the curly-haired boy spoke up at once, "Secret's right. Ya gotta stop gettin' inta so many fights. Not only is Jack right 'bout da bulls bein' afta ya, but pretty soon dey'll start blamin' ev'rytin' dat happens 'round heah on ya. An' not jist on you; on all da Manhattan newsies. Dat's da way da bulls t'ink."

"E'zactly!" Secret, delighted at the support, then turned a pointed glare on Race and Blink. While he was still furious over what the boy had said to Flick and Secret, Blink did have his own contribution to offer.

"Well, Flick," he began hesitantly, "I gotta say, I really t'ink ya oughta be showin' moah respect fer Jack. He is da leadeh 'round heah...an' he's a good leadeh, too. I t'ink ya know dat, even if ya don't happen ta like 'im poisonally. He only wants what's best fer 'is newsies. Even you."

"I'd soak da lot o' youse if my fists hadn't been t'rough enough t'day," Flick declared.

Rolling her eyes, Secret turned to jab Race. As a rule, each of them was supposed to help out whenever they were forced to lecture Flick on her violence...which was about once a week. The task was so arduous, and so hopeless, that it needed as many supporters as it could get.

Flick too turned to Race, eyes growing lighter with trust. For about the first week of these episodes, Race had supported Flick staunchly, helping her argue with the others to justify her actions. Then, when Jack had finally stopped speaking to him altogether, he had started making up rather weak admonishments for Flick on every occasion that they were required. No matter how convincing, Flick always knew his scolding was fake. Though he didn't share her passion for fighting, Racetrack was in every other way her partner in crime; from raking in the dough in a poker game to losing it all at horse races. She could count on him not to turn traitor.

Race stalled for time, pulling the cigar out of his mouth and exhaling a stream of smoke before speaking. When he did, turning to look straight at the girl beside him, it was with such force that all four of his friends were rather surprised.

"I really wish ya would stop fightin', Flick. An' not jist 'cause o' da bulls or Jack, 'cause I know ya don't care 'bout dose t'ings." He took a deep breath, motioning first around the fire escape, then toward the window. "It's 'cause o' us dat I wish ya'd stop. Da five of us, 'specially, an' all de oddas too. Ev'ry time ya soak someone, you an' Cowboy fight. An' ev'ry time ya fight, it puts da whole lodgin' house on edge. It's been goin' on long enough now dat befoah ya know it, people are gonna start takin' sides, an' we'll become a divided gang o' newsies. I mean, God, we could end up in as much trouble as Queens."

By the time Race was through with this speech, all of his companions were staring at him; three expressions surprised and grateful, one betrayed and questioning.

"Well," Secret murmured to Flick, "ya consida yaself told off now?"

Flick glared at her. "I jist don't undastand ya dese days. I'se been soakin' people as long as youse known me, an' ya neveh badga'd me 'bout it befoah."

Secret's eyes strayed to the city below them. "Dat," she explained softly, "is 'cause, back in Harlem, we was always beggin' Song ta loin ta fight. It wouldn't o' helped mattas if I toined around an' started tellin' you ta stop fightin'."

 Flick was silent at this; her eyes lowered quickly, a sure sign that she was experiencing an emotion she wanted to hide. Secret shut up guiltily. Although she and Flick had, over the past month, slowly become comfortable with talking about Song, her name was still painful to both of them, and invoking it was hardly going to help mend the current situation.

Blink regarded the two girls sympathetically and tried to help by changing the subject. "Ya mean Flick's been soakin' people since she was seven?"

"Oh yeah," Flick answered proudly, grateful for the diversion. "I'se been soakin' people...well, a'right, at least tryin' ta soak 'em...since I was 'bout five."

 "Geez!" Mush whistled. "No wonda ya fight so good by now. Dis goil belongs in Brooklyn, don't she, Secret?"
Secret's head jerked around to face Mush as if she'd been slapped. Her mind whirled just as quickly, flung into the past so fast and so vividly that it was almost like being possessed.

An August night. A cold, softly glowing white moon, wreathed in silvery clouds. A veil of mist over a darkly rippling, whispering river. The perfect serenity shattered by words that cut deep into her soul, turning her world upside-down and stirring emotions inside of her that she didn't even recognize. She was wearing strange clothes, clothes that were not her own...a shirt and pants. Boy's clothes. She was angry, afraid, and there was a face before her...golden hair, ice-blue eyes so like her own, and those words that drove her over the edge and into a state she didn't recognize. Running, trying to escape those words and their cruel meaning...her hand shooting out, her fist, and then a sound, to wake her up again, to bring her back to her senses...a loud splash.

 "Secret? Secret?"

 "Wha-?!" Instantly, Secret was drawn back into the present, but with a lingering sense of discomfort and annoyance at the strangely haunting memory and the power it held over her.

 Quickly, she urged her surroundings to come back into focus, and dredged up something practical to say. "C'mon, we best be gettin' inside. Kloppman'll be callin' fer lights-out soon." And with that, she rose and climbed back in through the window. Mush and Blink, exchanging puzzled glances, followed her. Race started to do the same, but Flick grabbed his sleeve.

 "Pokah?" she demanded.

 Race turned back toward the redhead, grinning. "Always," he assured her, and sat back down on the fire escape, already pulling out his deck and starting to shuffle.

"So," Flick commented casually as Race dealt the cards. "Dat was some good actin'."
His brown eyes darted briefly to her face before returning to his task.
"T'anks."

 The girl nodded thoughtfully. She accepted her hand from him as he dealt it, examined her cards, then added, "Dat was some really good actin'."

 "What can I say? I'se jist got da talent, I guess."

 He wasn't meeting her eyes, Flick noted. He'd had no trouble meeting them when he was lecturing her about tearing the lodging house apart. Pretending to lecture her, that is. Acting, to keep on Secret and Jack's good sides. Or so he claimed.

 "Betta actin' den I'se eveh seen ya pull off befoah..." she mused as she made her ante.

 "So, whadda ya t'ink's up wit Secret?"

 Flick raised half-amused, half-irritated eyes to Racetrack's face. Race berated himself silently.

Oh, real smooth, Higgins. Nice, quick change o' da subject. Why not be a bit moah subtle an' jist say, "Y'know, Flick, let's tawk about sometin' else, okay?"

 Though far from fooled by Race's obvious evasion, Flick decided to play along, only because the subject he had brought up was one of real concern for her. "Secret? God, I dunno. She's been doin' dat eveh since da whole biz'ness wit Song an' da territory war cleahed up. Yeh'll be tawkin' ta her, an' suddenly she'll jist go all blank an' far away, like she don't heah a woid yer sayin'." She started to continue, then stopped, thinking better of it. "Start ya off at five," she announced, placing a nickel between the two of them.

 She saw Race eyeing her suspiciously as he called her bet, but pretended not to notice. If he wasn't going to explain exactly why his little tirade about her violent habits had sounded so disturbingly sincere, then she wasn't going to mention what she'd figured out about Secret's little "trances". Namely, that they occured every time someone mentioned Brooklyn.

"All right, ta bed with all o' youse! C'mon, ya got papes ta sell tomorrow! Snitch, Itey, Blink! Snoddy, give Specs his glasses! Snipeshoota, put that cigar out this instant an' I'll just pretend I didn't see it, a'right?" Kloppman turned to the window, giving it a sharp tap with his broomstick before raising it. "Flick, Racetrack, get in heah! Enough pokah t'night! An' Flick, I wanna see yer eyes open tomorrow at 6:00 sharp!"

 Secret watched from her bunk as Flick and Race gathered up Race's cards and climbed, grumbling, back into the bunkroom. Nodding, Kloppman bade them good night, turned out the light, and left the room.

 "I dunno why he still boddas me 'bout wakin' up on time," Flick yawned as she grabbed her nightgown and headed into the washroom. "I ain't ovehslept since you started handlin' my wake-up calls, Race."

 Snickering, Race peeled off his suspenders and shirt and climbed into the bottom bunk across from Secret's.

 "Hey," he whispered to her, his voice inaudible to the room full of newsboys due to their usual pre-bed clamor, "you okay?"

 "I'se fine," Secret mumbled in response, turning over so that her back faced him. "Night, Race."

 A few moments later, Flick emerged from the washroom, striding across the room and climbing into the bunk above Secret's without so much as a good night. Secret supposed she was still mad over the organized scoldings. Well, she desoived 'em.

 Assuring herself that her conscience was clean, the newsgirl huddled under the covers and closed her eyes. This was a mistake. For behind her eyes lurked an all-too-familiar image. A night back in August...a misty moonlit river...and a face that threatened, challenged, taunted, and tantalized. She knew then that once again, sleep was not going to come.