Chapter Text
The first time I cried, it was when Racetrack Higgins held me like the world depended on me and me only.
I didn’t cry when my father hit me until I bust my lip open. I didn’t cry when the nuns told me that the church viewed wanting to be a boy as a mortal sin. I didn’t even cry when I was beaten so badly by a gang of boys that I was left “spotted” by bruises and cuts. Not even then.
When Racetrack Higgins came into my life, it was everything, everywhere, all at once. He was like heaven and hell molded into one being. The concept of him made my stomach churn, yet I found myself waiting at Sheepshead just to see him.
I don’t see another universe where it isn’t him and I. Heaven and Hell, Yin and Yang, Orpheus and Eurydice. He is my muse and I the humble painter. He is the light in my dark, and although neither of us are perfect, we are one.
I had zoned out while cleaning Racer’s wounds from the strike, until an “ouch!” was heard from the man himself.
“Sorry.” My voice came out hoarser than I intended. I figured I’d play it off as my voice being shot from yelling, but Racer knows better than that. He always does.
As much as I’d like to pretend it didn’t, the strike took a toll on me. I had to wrestle a big dock worker off of Hotshot, which got me a bruised throat and a broken nose. Subsequently with my nose, a Delancey (Morris or Oscar, I don’t care) took advantage of my disorientation, grabbed my arm and twisted. Thankfully it didn’t break, but I managed to clock him in the jaw, and move onto protecting a group of little kids who had weaseled their way into the street.
For a long time, it was a cry of “Spot! Spot! Where’s Spot?”, and that itself exhausted me more than anything. I don’t mind helping out anyone who needs it, but I’m a child. I’m a child who took on the role of a king.
I must’ve nodded off, because I remember a gentle hand on my jaw, and eyes as blue as the ocean staring into mine. “Sean.” I saw heads turned, because surely no one calls me that and gets away with it! I’m the king of Brooklyn, right? I’m Spot Conlon, I am, I promise!
Even York, with his sore neck, turned. “Don’t call me that, Racetrack.” I managed, dropping my eyes again. To distract myself, I scrubbed a little more furiously at a patch of dried blood on his left shoulder.
“Sean, don’t ignore me.” That blasted name again. I stood up, and marched halfway to the door, until a sudden force made me stop.
His arms were around my waist and his head on my shoulder. I froze as stiff as a board, my eyes flitting everywhere they could. No one would meet my eye.
Then, the tears came.
No.
No.
No.
Not now, not when I’m supposed to be strong, not when people need me.
I need rhythm, I need symmetry. But all I hear is static, and my own sobs. Sobs? When did those start?
I need to touch my face. My left cheek, two times. My right cheek, the same eight. The middle of my forehead, eight. Down my nose, eight as well. But I can’t. Then Racer will know—they’ll all know—how dependent I am on order. That’s the same routine I’ve been doing every morning right when I wake up, and every night just before I pray, and- I’m getting ahead of myself.
Thats why I’m Brooklyn. I do my best to be kind, but in Brooklyn, there’s always a set schedule. I wake up the older boys at the break of dawn, let the little ones sleep in around half an hour, go out and sell… blah blah blah.
Too soon for my liking, I am aware of the hot tears streaming down my face. My skin feels as if there are bugs crawling, biting, and scratching under my skin if I don’t have routine right now.
I need it. I feel unclean—no, know I’m unclean. I know I’m unclean if I don’t have some semblance of control. But I can’t now, I can’t-
“Breathe.” I look up at Racetrack, really look. I study his eyes, his lips, his oddly symmetrical freckles… and my brain goes quiet.
A beat.
I’ve never heard this much quiet before.
My thoughts seem to stream like a clean river, compared to the thunderous static, like the East River.
When I get used to the quiet, I do as he says. I breathe, sobs stilling into small sniffles. I let myself tap out a small rhythm onto his back, my breathing turning into soft huffs.
Barely an hour later, I’m being fussed over by almost every Brooklyn newsie. I know some of them are intimidated by me, but they care. They really do. Brooklyn, despite its reputation for being the toughest borough, is family to me.
“Spot, are you’se still the toughest newsie eva’?” A little newsie (whose name is Cheese, by the way) asks, tugging on my pant leg. His lisp comes from his two missing front teeth, which I find oddly adorable.
“‘course I still am. Ain’t no shame in having a good cry once in a while.” I catch Race almost snorting out a laugh at that, but when I elbow him in the ribs, he shuts up.
Cheese brightens up, and skips off to play with his brother Mac.
York, with the help of his best friend, Myron (who he swears he isn’t messing around with, but we all know the truth), stumbles over to me with a cup of tea. Myron must’ve bought it as a gift, since I saw the two hobble out while I was resting.
“Keep it to yourself, York. You’re worse off than I am.”
I don’t run Brooklyn off of fear, and try to be kind where I can. Of course, some of the newer kids don’t know me as well are scared, with the rumors spread about me, but I prefer to let all my newsies—despite some being older than me—know that I’m a safe person. I’ll protect them with whatever I have.
Well, maybe I like scaring some people from the other boroughs, but maybe that’s just because I’m Brooklyn.
”Yessir.” He jokingly salutes, and both boys leave with a smile on their faces.
The chatter of the lodging house fades with the light, as God paints the sky with colors that rival the love I have for my newsies. They have been my family through thick and thin, and I’d do anything to protect them.