Chapter Text
It was the first sunny day after weeks of rain.
A young boy skipped around drying puddles as he made his way across the Brooklyn Bridge. The full paper bag he carried bumped against his side, unbalancing him only slightly as he wove through the traffic of people. He was in a particularly good mood this morning, not only because of the horse races running later in the day but also because he was finally getting to claim the selling spot of his dreams.
Racetrack had longed to sell at the Sheepshead since he became a newsie. It had been his favourite place when he was a kid, and had saved him during the hardest time of his life. It was more a home to him than any of his residences before the lodging house, and he had missed it terribly over the winter when it was too cold to cross the bridge.
He was just about to cross the threshold into Brooklyn when he was stopped by a firm hand to the chest.
“Where d’ya think you’s going?” the boy in front of him asked. He was short, but muscular in a way that came from more then just movin papes. He had a slingshot dangling from his hip, although Race would bet that he didn’t need it to put up a fight.
Nobody had ever stopped him from entering before, but the Brooklyn boys were known to be weirdly protective of their turf. Who knows what this kid would do if he thought Race was here with bad intentions. Race decided it would probably be better to just go along with it.
“I was looking to sell at Sheepshead,” He explained, “The races are running today and I got a hot tip on a horse.
The boy snarled, pushing him back with the hand that still rested on his chest, “you ain’t Brooklyn.”
Racetrack was good at a lot of things, but shutting his mouth was never one of them.
“Come on! I know no one is sellin' there! I ain’t entrenchin' on no ones turf or anything!” he yelled. For a moment he feared that the Brooklyn boy would shut him up with his fists; he was stock still, yet guarded like a cobra that could strike at any minute. The moment passed though, and Race quickly realized that he wasn’t in any immediate danger.
“Not yet,” the boy conceded in a low voice, “but that don’t mean its free, an ain’t nobody taking kindly to no strangers roaming around.”
“what you talking about?”
“You don’t wanna mess wit Brooklyn right now, kid. The wrong person finds out you is tryna get a sellin spot, a prime one at that, you’s getting soaked for sure.” The boy explained.
“I was here all the time last season, I just didn’t sell. Its not like I’s a complete stranger!” It didn’t make sense why there was such a commotion over selling spots. This wasn’t Races first time going to the races, and it had never been a problem before. Hell, he was even told he could sell there! “…Oh! I know one of the older kids, uh, I think his name’s Rodger? I met him last year an he said I could take the spot if no one else claimed it by the end of the season! Just ask him, I'm sure—”
“Rodger’s dead.”
For the first time since this encounter started, Race was filled with genuine dread. It was like a carpet had been pulled from under him, and the relative safety that he had once felt had left entirely. Rodger was dead? He was 17, just a few years older than Race himself and as healthy as can be. Had he gotten sick? The look on the Brooklyn boy’s face told him it was something more serious than that.
“look kid…” the Brooklyn boy started, something that almost looked like guilt crossed his face, “between you an me, Brooklyn is a mess right now. You don’ wanna be getting involved in any of this. Trust me.”
“I’m not a kid” Race argued before he could stop himself.
“how old are ya then”
Race looked up at the other boy. He wouldn’t normally tell a stranger his age, that was something only Jack and Kloppman knew—and his family, if they even still remembered him—but there was something about this boy that seemed genuine, something that was a rare sight amongst his their peers.
“Twelve.”
The boys face tugged into a soft smile, and for the first time Race noticed how young he was—looking to be a bout a year or two younger than himself. He was rather small for a Brooklyn boy, but Race hadn’t even noticed with the mean mug he had been wearing just moments before.
“you got a name?” the boy asked, tilting his head slightly with the question.
“they call me Racetrack, on account a how often I talk about Sheepshead. ’s why I wanna start sellin' there.”
Race was so taken aback by the boys charm that he hadn’t noticed that he was giving more information to this stranger. It didn’t cross his mind that he didn’t even know the boy’s name until he supplied it.
“Spot Conlon”
It was so simple, yet fitting enough in the short time he had known him. Race did a poor job at suppressing his laughter, composing himself enough to say; “neva' heard of ya.”
“eh, your loss.”
A silence fell over the two of them as they met eyes. Race was taken aback by the soft look that managed to come from Spots piercing eyes. The smile was gone, replaced by the plainly neutral expression that fit so well on his face, but his eyes were like a window to his soul that had been opened. Gentle and sensitive, the look gave away something that Race didn’t understand. Vulnerability. It felt like the stars had somehow aligned and Racetrack could feel the bond forming between them.
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the moment, and in a blink Spot was closed off again as another Newsboy appeared, out of breath and looking frantic.
“Spot its Boots, they’s gonna soak him!”
They were off without another word, the younger boy leading Spot away from the bridge. Race watched them go, loosing sight when they cut into an ally down the street. He stood there for a few minutes, sorting his thoughts about the strange interaction. Shaking his head, Race resolved to head home and try to sell his papes before it was too late. Maybe he’d talk to Jack about it later. Either way, he had a long trek ahead of him, and the longer he took to get back the harder he’d have to work hawking. He began to run across the bridge, trying to shrug off the strange feeling the whole way back to Manhattan.