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Racetrack Higgins knew he was a boy.
The dresses his mother had put him in all those years ago just didn’t feel right. He would wriggle out of them as soon as he could and pull his hair up and out of his eyes to see what he would look like with short hair.
When his mother died and he ran away from his deadbeat father, it was a little easier. He cut his hair with a shard of glass he found in the streets in the reflection of a corner store window and stole a pair of suspenders and trousers from a tailor. Jack found him living under the stands at the Sheepshead Races and brought him over to Manhattan, where no one knew him as “Alexandra”. There, at the Manhattan lodging house, he was Anthony, which Jack changed to “Racetrack” quickly enough.
He had scraped together some tight fabric to wrap himself in. It felt better. It was uncomfortable and awkward and he was sure he wasn’t doing it right, but no one had noticed. He thought he had seen Crutchie giving him a few odd looks, but he never said anything. And Race was grateful.
When Race met Spot, nothing changed. Spot said nothing, and never objected when Race pushed his hands away before they could roam under his shirt, mumbling about wanting to stop. That’s how it always was. Nothing should have ever changed.
“Ya know, for a kid named Race, I’m surprised I ain’t never seen ya run that fast.”
Race glanced up from where he was counting his earnings for the day, looking at Spot amusedly.
“That came outta nowhere,” he said, shoving the coins in his pocket.
Spot shrugged and leaned against the wall, fiddling with a stubbed-out cigarette. “Just thinkin’. I mean, ya spend half your time at a place called the ‘Sheepshead Races’.” He gestured out at the tracks, where the scoreboard was just being wiped clean and the horses from the last race were being led back to their stalls. “Hell, your name’s Race.”
“Trust me, I’ve had my share of leavin’ the Delanceys in the dust,” Race said, grinning. “You sayin’ I can’t run?”
“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t.”
“Fine, smart guy,” Race said, leaning closer. His face was just inches from Spot’s and he wanted nothing more than to capture him in a kiss, but they were in public and he had a good feeling the folks of Brooklyn wouldn’t be too fond of taking in an eyeful of that. “Ya want me to prove it?” He snatched the cap off Spot’s head and took off running to the gate of the Sheepshead, out of sight before Spot could even shout after him.
He sprinted down the street with a smug smirk on his face for a solid minute, feeling the cool wind bite his face as he just barely managed to keep his own hat from falling off his head. Then, he slowed down a little, his smile fading. His chest ached painfully. Did he usually get this winded? He put a hand over his chest, trying to steady his breathing. The world was spinning slightly. A passerby gave him a strange look, so he ducked into an alley he was passing and fell to the ground, breathing heavily.
“Hey, Race?” Spot called in the distance, but Race was too busy wheezing to yell back at him. He could see black spots dotting his vision. Man, he’d really wrapped his chest too tightly. He could still vividly remember when he’d accidentally fallen asleep with the fabric still on and how he’d woken up in the middle of the night to his chest aching painfully. This wasn’t quite that level, but it was close.
“Race?” Spot said again. He was just about to pass the alley Race was huddled in, looking around bewilderedly, when Race managed a squeaky, “Right here.” Spot swiveled around and was in front of him in a second.
“Woah, Race. What’s up?” he said, hands hovering around Race as if he wasn’t sure where to put them. His voice and face were impassive, but Race knew him well enough to know he was worried out of his mind.
Race wanted to say something - anything that would convince Spot he wasn’t dying - but all he could think to do was point at his chest pitifully. Spot just stared at him. “Your shirt?”
Race shook his head and lifted the hem of his shirt. He knew Spot would probably leave when he found out, but he would have known eventually anyway. Now was as good a time as ever.
Spot said nothing as he finally got the hint and lifted Race’s shirt carefully, peeking underneath. His eyes widened, and Race could feel his hand brush against the fabric on his chest. No going back now.
Spot pushed his shirt back down and spun him around to put his hands underneath from behind instead, fiddling with the fabric. He untied it and loosened it around Race’s chest. Race breathed out a long sigh, welcoming the air back into his lungs, as Spot slid the fabric off all the way and tossed it to the side.
But Spot wasn’t done. “Race, what the hell?” he shouted, jumping to his feet. Race winced and stared at the ground between his knees, harshly chewing on his lip. This was where Spot got angry. He would shout that Race had lied to him about being a boy, maybe even lash out and strike him. He would tell Jack, and Race would be kicked out of the lodging house by the end of the day with nothing but the clothes on his back and a bruise on his face.
“Why didn’t ya tell me?” Race flinched, curling in on himself a little tighter as Spot spat out the words. “Ya can’t run in somethin’ like that, especially when you ain’t even doin’ it right! Ya gotta tell me so ya don’t go and kill yourself!”
Race frowned. Wait, what?
He slowly looked up, blinking owlishly at Spot, who looked as if steam could be blowing out of his ears. “You…You’re mad about me wrappin’ myself too tight?”
Spot rolled his eyes and scoffed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well, duh, Race. Take a hint. What else would I have to be mad about? What, you been sleepin’ in it too?”
“No,” Race muttered, averting his gaze back down to his shoes. “It’s just… I mean… ain’t ya mad that I lied to ya?” He swallowed roughly. “That I ain’t a real boy or whatever?”
Spot’s hard stare softened. He sighed, dropping back down beside Race and taking his hands. “No, I ain’t mad,” he said. “Of course I ain’t. You’re a boy, Race. That’s what matters.”
Race shook his head feverishly. “No, I ain’t. I’m a girl. I get it. You should leave. You’re here to date a boy. Not, ya know, someone like me.”
“Race, listen to me. Now.” Spot took Race’s face in his hands, tilting his chin so watery blue eyes met brown. “I don’t care what’s goin’ on under your shirt. You’re still the dumb asshole I fell in love with. You’re important to me.” He grinned a little. “Besides, ya think there ain’t kids just like you over here in Brooklyn? C’mon,” he got to his feet and offered Race a hand, which he hesitantly accepted, “I got a guy called Flip over here. He can show ya how to wrap your chest without killin’ yourself.”
Race grinned shyly. “I thought I was doin’ pretty well on my own.”
“Well, ya wasn’t.” Spot looked over his shoulder and quickly planted a kiss on Race’s lips. “Let’s go, Higgins.”
When Race left the alley, his cheeks hurt from beaming so widely more than his chest ever had.