Hi guys-
Thank you again for all the support you have shown for this story, in the form of reviews or follows or favorites of even just reading it. It's still so exciting every time I read someone's feedback on something I've written. And, miraculously, it's been less than a month since my last update, so I am getting better at posting, and I will try to continue that. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
Davey blinked as the soft brightness of the morning flowed in through the cracked filter of the dirty lodging house windows. He was unused to being woken up by the sunlight; usually he got up while it was still dark and the city was relatively dormant. He had never been a good sleeper anyway, so he typically woke multiple times during the night. Davey shifted in his bed, gasping slightly as he accidentally put weight on his ribs. Especially given his injuries, he had slept unusually soundly.
Looking around the room, he concluded that he was alone. Of course, he realized, it was a regular selling day. The newsies had to sell to pay for their lodging, to buy themselves food. Davey knew he couldn't expect any of them to stay behind, that wasn't fair. Still, with a prickle of jealousy that he felt disgusted about, Davey thought that if it had been Crutchie who had been hurt, everyone would have cared a lot more. At least Jack, if not Race and maybe others, would have refused to sell to remain with Crutchie.
Davey sat up, wincing, and sighed, forgetting how much it would hurt his chest. He caught sight of a grimy and crumpled piece of paper folded up on the little table next to the bed, and he grabbed it. It was a note from Jack.
"Dave,
Hope you's feeling better. We had to go sell, but we'll be back at lunch to check on ya. I took Les with me again, and we's gonna stop by your folks' place and let them know you's with us. Everything's fine. Just sleep and stay in bed, yeah? See ya later. "
The bottom of the paper, almost cut off at the end, read, "Feel better Davey!" Davey recognized Les's harsh handwriting and smiled. He appreciated the note, he really did. And he was impressed by Jack's sensitivity too; he'd clearly thought about not only taking care of Les, but also communicating with his parents. He was a good friend, Davey couldn't deny it. But that meant that it was Davey's fault that he still wasn't satisfied; he truly was out of place. It wasn't that the newsies weren't trying to make him feel part of their family, it was that Davey was impossible to be welcomed. Davey wanted to cry. He'd been wrong, things hadn't looked better in the morning.
Judging by the fact that the light streaming in was still soft and warm, not quite the stark and unforgiving heat of midday, Davey guessed that he had some time before Jack and Les came back. He thought about trying to go back to sleep, and then abandoned the idea. Instead, he stood up slowly, wincing, but biting his tongue to make himself keep going, and moved towards one of the drawers. He stuck his hand inside and moved it around, finally landing it on a grubby pencil and some paper. Davey had always been an excellent writer; in school, even though he'd never been allowed to write about the things he wanted to, his teachers had always told him he was talented. And writing had always made him feel better too—sometimes, on paper, Davey could manipulate words to make him believe things that his brain just wouldn't accept otherwise. Perhaps, now, too, if he wrote down everything he felt, it might be therapeutic. To talk to himself, in a way, about things that he could never say to anyone else in his life.
Davey carefully sat back down on the side of the bunk, curling his fist around the pencil and resting his chin on his hand. He stared out the window, imagining everything that he knew would be going on outside the lodging house. There were rich couples riding in carriages, existing in their own world of luxury, and dirt poor families cowering in the slums. And of course, throughout it all, there were newsies. Newsies who came from backgrounds of abuse and pain and abandonment, of dead family members and poverty, who had formed a family because they had no biological ones to speak of. And there was Davey, hidden, like a castaway, in the very place that housed so much suffering—suffering that Davey felt ashamed of not having—who didn't belong anywhere.
Davey uncurled his hand and pressed the pencil to the paper. He began to write.
Les flung himself onto Davey's bed. Jack and Crutchie had convinced his brother to try and walk outside to get some fresh air, and Davey had begrudgingly agreed, leaving Les alone in the lodging house. His day with Jack had been fine, he supposed. They'd sold exceptionally well, earning enough to make up for Davey's absence, and when they'd gone to Les's apartment to check in, his parents hadn't even been too mad that the boys had stayed over with the newsies without telling them first. Which was surprising, Les noted, because usually they would have been livid, threatening to not let Davey and Les sell again (which all four of them knew was an empty threat; they needed the money, but still). Les had seen his parents exchange a significant look, which he had wondered about, but he had let it go.
And now Les was left to focus on the task set to him by Jack: find out what was up with Davey. He sat up and knelt on the bed, staring out the window to where Davey and the rest of the newsies were talking and roughhousing. His brother was perched on an abandoned cart, next to Crutchie, and the two were conversing, but Les could see that Davey was tense, not relaxed and at ease like all the others. Les sighed. This was going to be difficult.
As he flopped back down on the mattress, Les heard a slight noise from beneath him—it sounded like paper? He immediately lifted up the pillow his head had been resting on and gasped. He'd been right, there was a neatly folded sheet of paper lying right there. Without a second thought about invading his brother's privacy—he was doing this for Davey's own good, after all—Les spread out the note, and recognizing Davey's meticulously neat handwriting, set about deciphering the incredibly fancy words that were a trademark of all of his brother's writing—Les remembered receiving birthday cards from him that seemed to be written in a foreign language. Even though Les had never been a particularly good reader, he concentrated on sounding out all the letters and syllables, just like Davey had taught him.
It took him a while to get to the end, and although Les was certain Davey wouldn't have approved of the material with which he was practicing, Les almost wished his brother had been there to witness how much he had improved as a reader. But more importantly, Les held in his hands the explicit explanation for Davey's behavior. Les was shocked at how much pain Davey had gone through, without telling anyone. Les remembered Sam, but couldn't believe he was tormenting his brother again. But at least that part he understood; all of the complicated feelings of loneliness and no one understanding that Davey had so eloquently detailed, Les couldn't quite grasp. He needed to show this to Jack, who was an expert on understanding people.
Les tucked the piece of paper in his pocket and launched himself off the bed, charging out the door to find Jack. He'd done his job. Now it was Jack's turn.