Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey Race,” Blink called, chasing after the other boy through the distribution gates, “Jack says Medda’s openin’ a new act tonight. You comin’?”

Race turned to look at him and frowned. “I can’t. I got plans already.”

He continued walking like nothing had happened, but Blink and the other newsies nearby who had heard him flocked around him.

“What plans?” Blink asked.

“I thought you said you were leaving Brooklyn early today,” Skittery questioned.

“You’re never too busy for Medda,” Jack said.

“I can’t,” Race repeated, continuing to walk towards Brooklyn. “I got plans.”

Jack cut in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “What’re these plans? Why’re youse being all secretive?”

Race shrugged him off. “I’m goin’ to see a show with someone in Longacre Square tonight.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up, surprised.

“You got a date?” Blink asked from behind him.

“No, it ain’t a date,” Race grumbled. “We’s just goin’ to watch a show. Now let me go before I miss all the races.”

Race walked quickly away from the rest of the newsies. They all stood still as they watched him cross the bridge and disappear, then they turned back to each other. Voices overlapped as they questioned and proposed Race’s plans and motivations.

“He’s probably got a girl in Brooklyn and doesn’t want us to mess it up,” Mush suggested.

A cacophony of agreement arose.

“Race ain’t never had a girl before,” Crutchy mused. “Maybe he’s nervous.”

They let the conversation end there, realizing that they needed to quickly get to selling as they had already wasted precious minutes talking about Race and his mystery girlfriend.

After selling the evening edition, many of the Manhattan newsies were getting ready to go watch Medda’s show. They were putting on their best outfits and getting their passes from Kloppman so they wouldn’t be fined for coming back late.

“I guess Race ain’t comin’ back before his fancy date,” Dutchy mumbled absently, squinting as he looked around and wiped dirt off of his glasses with his shirt.

Snitch surveyed the room and shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Medda’s halfway to Longacre square,” Bumlets said. “I wonder why he ain’t comin’ with us.”

“Maybe he don’t want any of us to steal his girl,” Blink joked.

About a dozen of the boys filed out of the lodging house and began the trip to Irving Hall. Meanwhile, Race was sitting on a trolley beside the one and only king of Brooklyn, Spot Conlon. He knew he didn’t tell his friends who he was going with for a reason, he just wasn’t quite sure what the reason was. He didn’t want to scare them? He didn’t want them thinking he was a traitor? He didn’t want them getting any ideas about the two of them? Everyone thinking he was on a date definitely made him feel some sort of way, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He called it annoyance and let it be.

They arrived at Hammerstein’s Victoria Theater and found their seats. Spot had heard about The Rogers Brothers in Central Park from overhearing people on the street, and he’d seen a crumpled flyer blowing in the wind. He recognized the stars because Race had mentioned them before for one reason or another.

As the show started and the music played and the actors took the stage, the two were enthralled. Truly nothing could beat Medda, but the brothers came pretty darn close. Even though they were relatively far from the stage, they could still feel the music and connect with the show.

In one moment of excitement, Race’s hand found Spot’s and he squeezed. Nothing too far out of the ordinary, but what was different was that Race’s hand didn’t leave Spot’s. Minutes went by with Race’s hand still grasping Spot’s until Spot eventually ignored and forgot about it.

As they were leaving the theater, Race pulled a cigarette and a match out of his pocket. He bent down and swiftly lit the match against the paved road, lighting the cigarette before shaking the fire out. He took a peaceful drag as he stood back up.

Spot stared at him as they began walking south. “Now where’d you get that?”

“The lady sittin’ in front of us had a whole pack stickin’ outta her purse,” Race smirked. “She won’t miss a couple.”

He took a second cigarette from his pocket and offered it to Spot, who rolled his eyes before taking it. He held it to the end of Race’s cigarette to light it.

“They’s no Coronas, but they’s good enough,” Race commented, taking another drag.

“Yeah, sure,” Spot said, inhaling from his own. “Now d’you wanna tell me why you were holdin’ my hand for halfa the show?”

Race didn’t even turn to look at him. “Why were you holdin’ it back?”

Spot was caught off guard. “What?”

Race chuckled. “You coulda moved your hand or pushed mine away. You never did.”

Spot sputtered. “Youse the one that did it in the first place.”

Race shrugged. “I really liked that one song,” he said, nonchalantly changing the subject. “Lina, my lady, my sweet thing so true. Sweet child, I’m near wild, for I love but you,” he sang, dancing a little. He whistled the rest tune, not remembering the exact words.

The two hitched a trolley to Brooklyn to return Spot to his turf and retrieve Race’s bag that he’d left at the lodging house for safekeeping. It was dark, but with his pass he would still be able to make it back to Manhattan in time to be let into the lodging house.

“See ya tomorrow, Spot,” he waved as he left.

Spot stood outside the open door. “I hope not,” he laughed, waving back. As he turned inside and closed the door, he began whistling a tune from the show.

For the next few days, whenever Race was waiting in the distribution line, he would tap his feet as he sang that song in his head. When he was scanning for good headlines, he would hum the same one. As he brushed his hair in the morning, he whistled it. Eventually, Jack got tired of the same tune over and over.

“Would you stop singin’ that song, Race?” he snapped one morning as they sat beside the distribution line.

Race looked up at him expressionless, then silently turned back to the paper in his hands. Until the last of their crew got their papes, the only sounds that could be heard from him was his breathing, the flipping of paper, and the occasional blow of cigar smoke. It was unnerving.

“Race,” Jack sighed, following him out of the gates and towards Brooklyn, “I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me.”

“I ain’t mad,” Race huffed. “Just didn’t realize how noisy I was.”

“But we love you noisy! Didn’t feel right when you wasn’t bein’ yourself.”

Race grinned. “Aww, you love me?” he mocked.

Jack rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Don’t act all tough. You love us, too.”

“Yeah, sure,” Race waved him off and went to cross the bridge. That was as much of an admission as he could give.

A few days later, Jack had to go to Brooklyn to talk to Spot. He went to the pier where Spot was likely to be on a Sunday afternoon. The weather cooling down didn’t stop the Brooklyn boys from swimming in their free time.

As Jack approached the pier, he saw dozens of boys scattered around in the river. Spot was in his usual spot perched atop a ramshackle ladder, overseeing all of his newsies. From afar, Jack could hear him whistling, but he froze when he heard the tune.

It was the same one Race had been singing all week.

As he surveyed the pier, Spot’s eyes landed on Jack. “Jackie-boy,” he called, climbing down. “What brings you to this side o’ the bridge?”

“Business,” Jack mumbled, still thinking about how Spot and Race whistled the same song he’d never heard.

Spot squinted. “You don’t seem so sure of that.”

“Hey, what’s that song you was whistling?”

Spot shrugged. “It was in a show I watched.”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly as his brain worked. “You were Race’s date?”

Spot furrowed his brow. “You better watch your mouth, Jackie-boy,” he warned. “I don’t know what youse talkin’ about.”

“Race has been singing that same song since he went to a show last week.”

“I went with ‘im to the show,” Spot told him, “but it wasn’t no date, so don’t think anything of it. You say something like that to anyone else, I’ll soak ya so hard they won’t recognize you, ya hear?”

Jack nodded. “Loud and clear.”

Spot glared for a few seconds, searching for any sign that Jack would disobey. He found none. “Now what was this business you came here for?”

Jack cleared his throat. “I just been hearin’ some rumors from the Bronx that Cricket’s sick or dyin’ or something. Just wonderin’ if you heard anything ‘cause I went a few days ago to ask an’ Frankie wouldn’t tell me nothin’ and wouldn’t let me see Cricket. Figured if anyone knew anything, it’d be you.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Spot confirmed. “I don’t know much but Frankie said he’s preparin’ to take charge if he needs to.”

“Alright.” Jack sighed. “I guess that’s all I came for.”

Spot nodded. He spit in his hand and held it out to Jack, who did the same before shaking their hands.

Jack turned to leave, but quickly turned back, “Is Race still here?”

“Probably,” Spot said. “He ain’t checked in yet to say he’s leaving. He’s probably still at the races.”

Race stopped by the pier on his way back from Sheepshead. Unlike other outsiders, the Brooklyn newsies barely paid any attention to Race as he walked right up to Spot.

“See ya tomorrow,” Race grinned, waving up at Spot.

Spot climbed down from his vantage point. He grabbed Race by the arm and dragged him across the pier. The other boys watched in confusion.

Spot finally stopped after pulling Race into an alley away from foot traffic. He tossed Race against the wall and glared, crossing his arms. “Why did Jack come here earlier sayin’ we was on a date?”

Race squinted. “I don’t know.”

Spot stepped closer to him, getting in his face. “You sure?”

“Honest,” Race said. “I told ‘em it wasn’t a date. What Jack does ain’t my fault.”

Spot huffed but took a step back. “You didn’t even tell ‘em we were goin’ to a show together?”

Race shook his head. “They were convinced I was hidin’ some girl from ‘em,” he grinned. “Imagine that.”

Spot laughed, then his face went serious again. “You better make sure Jack don’t say anythin’ like that to anyone. We’d be killed ‘fore we could even defend ourselves.”

“Of course,” Race agreed, frowning. “Jack ain’t that stupid all the time.”

Spot looked into Race’s eyes and nodded. “Good.”

“We’s both law-abiding citizens,” Race laughed. “Everyone knows we’d never do anythin’ like that.”

“I don’t know why you’re laughing about it,” Spot said harshly. “We wouldn’t.”

“Of course, of course.” Race held up his hands defensively. “I ain’t sayin’ we would. If you was a girl, maybe, but you ain’t.”

Spot stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

Race shrugged. “Nothin’ much. Just that, if you was a girl, maybe I’d date you. But you ain’t, so I won’t.”

Spot’s brain couldn't figure out any words to say, so he stood there staring at his friend until Race eventually pushed himself off the wall and walked away. He hollered a goodbye over his shoulder as he left, but Spot barely heard it, still replaying if you was a girl, maybe I’d date you.

“Spot’s mad at you,” were the first words out of Race’s mouth as he entered the dormitory. He walked right up to Jack, who was sitting on his bed next to Race’s. When Spot’s name was uttered, everyone in earshot froze and stared at them.

“Yeah, I know,” Jack said unconcerned.

“What did you do?” Crutchy asked from his bed under Jack’s.

“Oh, nothin’,” Jack waved him off.

“I’ll tell you what he did.” Race leaned against his bed and stared at Jack. His voice echoed through the room. “He came to Brooklyn today accusin—”

“I wasn’t accusin’ anyone of anything,” Jack shouted, hopping down from his bed in defense. “I was askin’ questions and havin’ a conversation,” he said pointedly.

“Okay, yeah,” Race mocked. “You went to Brooklyn and had a conversation about Spot bein’ the Oscar Wilde type. Real smart, Cowboy.”

The other newsies murmured as they watched and listened. None of them would ever think about saying anything against Spot Conlon to his face, so hearing that Jack had insinuated that he was queer was shocking.

“Well excuse me for bein’ surprised that he’s the one you went to that show with,” Jack shouted. Mouths fell open but none of the witnesses dared to speak. “You coulda said you were goin’ with him and we wouldn’ta thought you was goin’ on a date.”

“I wasn’t lyin’ when I said it wasn’t a date,” Race shot back. “Not my fault you were tryin’ to improve the truth.”

“I know that now,” Jack conceded, nodding.

It was quiet for a minute, Jack and Race staring at each other while the rest of their friends stared at them.

“Well, now we know that Race never lies,” Specs said to break the tension. “He’ll be much worse at poker now.”

It worked—everyone laughed. Race stepped closer to Jack and patted his shoulder to show they were good.

The next day, after Spot sold all his morning editions, he made his way over to Sheepshead Bay where he knew Race would be. He snuck in to avoid paying the entrance fee and crept around until he heard the familiar voice haggling with someone else. Spot stood behind him, waiting for him to finish talking with the man before he walked up to him.

“Oh, hey Spot,” Race smiled. “You sold all your papes already?”

“Yeah,” Spot nodded. “Don’t act so surprised.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I gotta talk to you.”

“Okay,” Race said, turning to a well-off-looking woman to sell a pape.

“Not here.”

Race squinted at him. “Why not?”

“Just—” Spot grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the racetrack. He kept dragging him until they ducked into an alley.

“Why are we in an alley again?” Race asked when Spot finally let go of him.

“Because last time we were, you said you’d date me if I was a girl and I have no idea what to say to that.”

Race shrugged. “Say ‘thank you’? It was a compliment.” He smirked. “I think you’d be a pretty girl,” he teased.

Spot’s face went red. “You can’t say things like that!” he protested. “It makes you sound like a fairy.”

“Oh, well of course I ain’t one,” Race said dramatically. “That’s illegal, you know, and I’d never break a law.”

“You ain’t so convincing,” Spot said through gritted teeth. “Why’s you talkin’ like that?”

“I dunno. I like seeing your reactions. They’re funny.”

“How’d you like seein’ through a black eye?” Spot asked, cracking his knuckles.

“Not so much, thanks for askin’,” Race answered.

Spot sniffed and shook rolled his shoulders.

“So,” Race began, “Medda’s still doin’ that new show we ain’t seen for a bit longer. Some o’ the boys is goin’ again tonight. You wanna come?”

“Are they gonna ask if we’s on a date?” Spot groaned.

“Nah,” Race told him, shaking his head, “I don’t think they’s lookin’ to get soaked tonight.”

“Fine. As long as it ain’t a date, I’ll go.”

“It ain’t a date unless you want it to be one.”

Spot glared harshly at him. “They’d do worse than throwin’ us in the refuge for that.”

“Do you think I’d be a pretty girl?” Race asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

“No,” Spot bit his tongue, then exhaled and whispered, “I think youse pretty enough as a boy.”

Race’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open. He was frozen for a second before composing himself. “You ain’t too bad yourself.”

Spot snorted. “Like you ain’t been tellin’ me you think I’m pretty for the past two days.”

Race shrugged and changed the subject again. “So you’ll come over and meet us on Duane Street and we’ll all go to Medda’s together,” he told Spot.

As if Spot had to be told. They did the same thing every time he went to one of Medda’s shows with the Manhattan boys. “Make sure they know it ain’t a date,” he said.

“They’s all smart enough to not think anythin’ about you,” Race chuckled.

With that, he patted Spot’s cheek and left the alley back towards Manhattan, whistling a tune from the last show they’d watched. Spot followed after, catching up within a few yards. He caught on with Race’s whistling and joined in.

“Say yes, my dearest, my sweet baby mine,” Race sang softly, "I’ve come to wed you, my own Emmaline.”

No doubt Spot was the only one that could properly hear him. His face reddened, shamefully thinking that Race was singing to him. His face got hotter when he realized that, given their prior conversations, he probably was.

Chapter Text

“Lina, Ma Lady” had been playing in the background of Spot’s head for weeks. Although it was fantastic in the show, the only version he could think of was the one in Race’s voice. Spot had heard Race sing plenty of times before, occasionally relenting and joining in, but this was a different sort of song. It wasn’t one of his random off-the-cuff tunes he made up about what he was doing, nor was it one of Medda’s vaudeville songs, nor was it just any random song he could’ve picked up. It was a serenade, a love song. Whistling the catchy tune was one thing, but singing the words loud enough for Spot, and only Spot, to hear was something else. It was making him feel a certain way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Actually, he was pretty sure he knew what it was. His finger was on the name of the feeling, but he was trying very hard to push it away.

But it was a strong feeling. It crept up on him when he let his guard down until, eventually, he had to do something about it.

“Hey, Spot,” Race said, crossing his arms and leaning against the brick wall behind him, “why do you keep bringin’ me to alleys?” He toyed with his cigar as he seemingly stared into the other boy’s soul.

“Because I need to talk to you away from other people,” Spot explained.

“Y’know what happens in alleys away from other people? Muggings.” Race smirked at Spot. “You plannin’ on mugging me?”

“And steal what? You ain’t got nothin’ worth the trouble.”

Race laughed. Spot didn’t.

“Can you stop jokin’ for one conversation?” Spot’s tone was angry—Race could easily tell—but he could also see a slight desperation in his expression. “I can’t tell when you’re joking or when you’re serious and I think I’m gonna punch you if you keep going.”

“Okay,” Race said, more mellow than usual. He straightened his posture a bit.

Spot inhaled deeply, then sighed. He stood inches away from Race, still paranoid that passersby may hear what he had to say. “When you said you would date me, were you joking?”

Race smirked.

“And if you make a joke right now, I swear to God, I will hit you so hard you won’t know a Corona from a pickle.

Race’s smile shrunk slightly, then grew again. “Yeah,” he said casually, like he wasn’t having one of the hardest conversations of Spot’s life.

Spot stared at him, brain short-circuiting as he tried to decide what to say next.

“Is this your way of sayin’ you wants to date me?” Race asked.

Spot stood stiffly. Each breath he took was as deliberate as the words he said. “What if it was?”

Race’s grin overtook his face. “You, Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn, the most feared newsie in all of New York, want to go on a date with me?”

“Shut up,” Spot rolled his eyes but fought back a smile. “Don’t act like this wasn’t what you wanted, too.”

Race let out a short laugh. “So, where do you wanna go?”

“I don’t know,” Spot mumbled. “I didn’t think this far.”

Race raised an eyebrow. “Really? You always plan everything.”

“Well, this whole thing went much worse in my head,” Spot admitted.

“How did it go in your head?”

Spot looked into Race’s eyes, sighed, and looked away before speaking. “Every time I tried to picture it, something went wrong. You freak out and hit me, someone comes and finds us and we get mobbed, we get struck by lightning,” he trailed off.

Race’s expression softened. “Well, none of that happened.” He put a hand on Spot’s arm and squeezed gently.

“Yeah,” Spot said quietly.

“Mush swears by Corlears Hook Park,” Race offered, swinging the topic back to their impending date. “He goes there just about every Sunday to find girls.”

“What if he sees us there?” Spot pointed out.

“I don’t—”

Spot started pacing. “If anyone finds out about us, no one will respect me. I can’t run a borough if no one respects me.”

Race’s eyes tracked the other boy as he walked to and fro. “You don’t gotta be so worried,” Race said. “We’ve been out just us two plenty of times before. No one will think anything.”

“But we’ll know that it’s different.”

“Well, put on a good poker face and nobody’ll know.”

Spot breathed deeply. “You sure?”

“If you’re that worried, maybe we shouldn’t go—”

“No,” Spot said sharply, freezing and staring at Race. He took a breath to steady himself so his next sentence was soft yet assured. “I want to do this.”

“Okay,” Race smiled. “Well, there are places in the Bowery where people won’t care.”

“They might care if two kids show up,” Spot said. “Besides, I think a lot o’ them places have been busted by the bulls.” Race shrugged. “And, unless there’s something you ain’t telling me, I don’t think I’m looking for a prostitute,” Spot added.

“Oh, I ain’t told you?” Race laughed. “Papes just ain’t makin’ enough money these days so I got a second job.”

Spot huffed. “You don’t got any spare time you don’t spend at the races or playing games,” he chuckled.

“What about Coney Island?” Race suggested. “Anyone there that sees us ain’t one of your boys so we can tell ‘em some phony story about why we’s there.”

“Coney’s still Brooklyn,” Spot said flatly. “Still my turf.”

“But not your house,” Race argued. “Anyone tries to make anything of us bein’ there, we tell ‘em we’re lookin’ for one of your littles who got on a wrong trolley. It’s close to Sheepshead so it ain’t so strange of me to be with you.”

Spot considered the idea. “Alright,” he agreed.

Race beamed. “Perfect.” He pushed himself off of the wall and took a few steps towards Spot. “Come find me at the races when youse done sellin’ tomorrow and we’ll go over to Steeplechase Park.” Race patted Spot’s cheek, causing a bright blush to appear on the other boy’s face. “You’re cute,” Race laughed as he started to leave the alley.

“Say that again and I just might soak ya.”

When Race turned around, Spot was glaring at him. Race blew him a kiss and turned around, leaving the Brooklyn leader dazed and alone, wondering if the past ten minutes were real.

The next day, Sunday, Spot and Race got ready like usual. They dressed like it was any other day—maybe putting in some extra effort to make their hair nice but nothing to let anyone else know they had plans.

In Brooklyn, Spot took his rightful place at the front of the distribution line. He saw that all his boys got their papes, knew the headlines, and knew where they were going.

Spot didn’t have one set selling spot like some of the other newsies. Being the leader, he often made rounds to make sure all his kids were safe and prosperous and that all was well on his turf.

As always, he prepared for the worst every time he checked in on someone. As usual, everything and everyone was fine. He didn’t have to come to anyone’s rescue, didn’t have to deal with any other borough leaders and their problems, didn’t have to be a superhero.

He was smiling about that, of course, but he also walked around with a smile knowing that he had special plans when he was done selling. Hotshot noticed his happier demeanor and asked about it, but Spot just said it was because his feet didn’t hurt as much as they usually did. The boy did too much walking in old shoes that didn’t quite fit him. Hotshot was suspicious, but knew better than to pry into the leader’s secrets, so he let it go.

In Manhattan, Race was also going about his morning with an anticipatory grin. He told everyone he had a good feeling about his horses, which was believable, so nobody questioned him further. When he bought double his usual papes, he said he wanted to have more money to play with. With his poker face and ability to fib, nobody thought twice about it.

He started selling his papes on his way to the trolley stop. He wanted to get rid of them quickly so he wouldn’t make Spot wait for him. He spent less time watching the races than he would’ve liked, but he wanted to be empty-handed by the time Spot came to get him.

Spot was out of papes by his second lap around his turf, but his nerves made him start a third. It was about the time that most newsies were selling their last papes and, being Sunday, they had no evening edition to sell. When Spot checked in at the pier, he found a dozen kids already swimming.

“Hey, Spot,” a younger one squealed when he saw him. “You done selling?”

“Yeah,” Spot nodded, “but I got some stuff to do. I’m just making sure nobody’s dying.”

A handful of the boys thought that was the funniest thing ever and had to hold on to the dock so they wouldn’t laugh themselves under the water.

“We’s fine,” another boy—a twelve-year-old who thought he was the toughest kid there was—told him.

“Sure,” Spot dismissed. “I’ll send someone to come keep an eye on you when more of you is done selling.”

The kid rolled his eyes and started protesting, but splashes from some littler ones diverted his attention.

Spot turned around and began walking to Sheepshead. He passed by Myron in Prospect Park and told him to go watch the boys at the pier when he was finished. With that settled, all he had to do was look forward to his date.

As he’d hoped, Race had no more papes to sell when he caught sight of Spot Conlon. His already-present smile grew when their eyes met and he made his way over to him.

“Hey, Spot.”

Spot had no idea why this greeting made his heart swell in a way he’d never felt before. “Hey,” he said back. “You out of papes?”

“Yeah,” Race confirmed. He put a hand in his pocket and jingled his coins around. “And I got extra so I got more money for Coney.”

“Smart,” Spot praised. “I shoulda done that.”

“I can pay for you like a gentleman.”

Spot furrowed his brow. “If you’re a gentleman, what am I?”

Race shrugged. “A fancy lady.”

Spot’s glare got more intense, but Race ignored it. He hooked his arm through Spot’s and began dragging him out of the racetrack towards their destination.

“Don’t you ever call me a lady again,” Spot grumbled. “I’m serious.”

“Alright, youse a gentleman, too.”

The way Race said it, so matter-of-fact, caught Spot off guard for some reason. It was only then that he looked down and realized that his and Race’s arms were still linked. He liked it and convinced himself that enough friends walked around like that and he didn’t have to worry.

Shortly after they crossed the creek into Coney Island, they were greeted by a small newsie whose clothes looked like they belonged to someone twice his size.

He ran up to the pair, stared at Race, and said, “I like your hat.” Then, he turned to Spot and said, “I like your suspenders.” He then held a newspaper up to them. “Do you want to buy a newspaper?”

Before either could respond, a taller boy ran up to them. He grabbed the little one and pulled him close. “Spot Conlon,” the older one said, slightly out of breath.

The younger boy’s eyes went wide at the mention of the name. “You’re Spot Conlon?” he asked, voice shaking slightly.

“Yeah,” Spot said, nodding and grinning.

“I’m sorry sir,” the little one said quietly, “I-I didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Spot assured him, gently tapping his shoulder with his cane. “You seem like a good seller.”

The boy’s face lit up.

“You’re a little far south,” the older one said. “Something happening?”

“Naw,” Spot waved his hand. “One of my little ones got on a trolley to here by mistake. We’s lookin’ for him.”

Race beamed internally, feeling strangely proud that Spot had used his story.

“Well we can help you look,” the older one offered.

Spot frowned slightly. “He gets scared around new people,” Spot told him. “Might run. He knows this one,” he elbowed Race, “so that’s why he’s here. Had to promise I’d let him into your Brighton Beach Race Course, but he’s here.”

“Oh, makes sense.” The boy stuttered for a moment. “Well, uh, we’ll still keep an eye out for him. What’s he look like?”

“About this tall,” Spot held his hand at rib-level, “short blond hair, pale as a ghost. Wearin’ a green shirt today. His name’s Harry.”

“Got it,” he nodded. “Hope you find him.” He pulled the smaller one away and they went back to selling.

When they were out of earshot, Race turned to Spot with a smirk. “You really gonna take me to the race course?”

Spot laughed. “Maybe another time.”

“You’re right. That’s a second date activity.” Race laughed as Spot’s face reddened.

It cost a quarter each to enter the park. Spot wouldn’t let Race pay for him.

“I’m used to just sneakin’ in,” he mumbled to Race before he handed his coins over and got his ticket.

“Look at this guy,” Race laughed, staring at the paper face smiling back.

“He looks like you,” Spot joked.

Race’s smile disappeared. He stared at the face, then looked up at Spot. He pushed the other boy’s face away, causing his steps to falter and almost making him run into another patron. “No it don’t,” Race said. “If I was this creepy, I wouldn’t get close enough to someone to sell a pape. They’d be runnin’ away before I say anything. And I definitely wouldn’t get any prostitute business.”

Race insisted they go on the steeplechase ride first. Spot didn’t have much preference—so long as he was with Race, he was happy. They mounted neighboring horses and, once the race began, they whizzed around the track. Unfortunately, both of them being relatively small boys, neither won. They beat two kids half their ages but lost to the five adults riding the other four horses.

“If we rode together, we’d definitely win,” Race said as they walked away from their first ride.

“We don’t need to win.”

Race stared at Spot, then they both started laughing.

“Even both of us wouldn’t add up to a whole adult,” Spot pointed out.

“We gotta try, though,” Race insisted. “We can’t be done until we win a race.”

Spot rolled his eyes. He should’ve known the prolific gambler and frequent racetrack attendee would be set on winning that ride.

Spot did convince Race to go on other rides with him. They rode horses on the carousel, then went back to the steeplechase with both of them on the same horse. They beat four of the others, but still lost to three. They went on the Switchback Railway rollercoaster, then on the steeplechase again getting third place. They went on the Razzle Dazzle, then back to the steeplechase, getting second place.

With their rank steadily climbing, Race was confident that they were near their winning race. Spot believed Race, but he was still lost in the thrill of being on a date with him.

They went on the Air Ships, then the steeplechase for what Race assured Spot would be the last time—not that Spot minded getting to sit behind Race and holding on to his waist. There were other people doing the same thing so he didn’t even worry that anybody would know the two boys were on a date.

When the ride started, Spot leaned forward into Race to help the horse move faster—that’s what he told himself, anyway. They zipped around corners, flew down hills, and finished the race inches in front of another horse but in first place nonetheless. They both cheered as the ride came to a stop and continued as they dismounted and began walking away.

Their last stop was the ferris wheel. They had been eying it the whole time but saved it for last. Anticipation built as they waited in line to climb into their gondola. Once they started moving, without looking, Spot’s hand crept over and grabbed Race’s. At the contact, Race looked down, then up at Spot. Spot made a quick glance over, then kept his eyes forward. Race just smiled and squeezeed his hand.

“This was fun,” Race said. “We should do it again.”

“You ain’t just sayin’ that so I’ll take you to the other racetrack?”

“Nah,” Race laughed. “We don’t even have to go there if you don’t want to. I’d go anywhere with you.”

Spot nearly choked on his own breath. “We can still go,” he managed.

On their second circle, the wheel stopped with them at the top. They both looked around at the sun threatening to sink below the distant horizon. Hand in hand, they sat peacefully, enjoying each other’s company without the worry that anyone would hurt them. Carefully, Race pulled himself closer to Spot so the sides of their bodies were pressed together and leaned his head on the other boy’s shoulder. Spot looked down at him and thought a million concurrent thoughts—the overwhelming one being that he didn’t want this moment to end.

The wheel started moving again, though. As they descended, they untangled themselves and sat stiffly, not letting any of the other patrons get any ideas about them. They stopped at a hot dog stand before leaving, knowing that they wouldn’t make it for dinnertime at their respective lodging houses. Race handed over ten cents before Spot could even begin counting his change. With their food, they exited the park and began the walk north.

“You can stay here tonight,” Spot offered when they reached Poplar Street. “So you don’t have to do more walking.”

“I shouldn't," Race said quietly. “They might worry back home.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Spot agreed.

“I would really like to, though,” Race added. “Don’t think that I don’t.”

Spot smiled. When he looked away from Race, they were at the doorstep of the lodging house. That wasn’t the place Spot wanted to talk to him, though, so he kept walking.

“Are we going to an alley again?” Race asked.

Spot shrugged. “It went well last time.”

He pulled Race into the first alley they passed. The buildings blocked the moonlight, making it darker than ever. The boys couldn’t see well, so they placed a hand on the other’s shoulder so they stayed close and knew they were both there.

“Were you serious about wantin’ go on another date?” Spot asked, tentative.

“Yeah.” Race’s free hand moved slowly to cup Spot’s cheek. “Only if you want to.”

“I want to,” Spot said.

They both smiled. “Perfect,” Race whispered. “Next week?”

“Deal.”

Race turned to leave, but Spot grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. Confused, Race allowed it and stood a few inches from Spot, staring at him. Spot put a hand on Race’s cheek and they stared at each other for a few seconds before Spot quickly leaned forward and kissed Race.

When they broke apart, Spot’s immediate worry vanished when he saw Race’s face. His mouth was slightly open in shock, but it grew into a broad smile that spread across his face.

“Now I get why Jack kissed Sarah so much,” Race remarked. “That was nice.”

Spot laughed. “Alright, now you can get out.”

“What?” Race said dramatically. “No, I wanna stay here now.”

“Well, you already said you was goin’ home. You better leave now or you’ll be past curfew.”

“Aw, come on,” Race rolled his eyes and grinned. “You can’t kick me out of Brooklyn. I’m dating the king, you know.”

Spot lightly punched his shoulder. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Race finally relented. Spot followed him on his way out, saying their final farewells as Spot entered the lodging house and Race continued for the bridge.