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Alessia. Alessia.
The name rang through his head as he sat on the steps of a strange tenement on the Manhattan street. He heard it in his mind, again and again. Sometimes in a woman’s voice, his mother’s, whispering in his ear just before she died. Sometimes in his father’s loud, angry tone, screaming at him drunkenly in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes in a screechy female voice, the one that seemed to collectively belong to all of the nuns at the orphanage, the name they would yell before smacking his palm with a ruler.
Sometimes, the voice he heard was the one at the back of his head. The one that softly told him that something wasn’t right.
The boy buried his head in his knees, trying to stop the tears from coming. He knew he could never go back. Not after what happened. Not after what those boys did-
He couldn’t finish the thought before his head began to spin once more. His breathing grew faster. The sounds around him, of children shouting, peddlers bargaining, people walking, seemed to pound right next to his ears. They grew louder with every shallow breath that escaped his lungs.
No. No. No.
The pain in his ribs had worsened when he was running from the orphanage. He had collapsed on the step once the adrenaline faded, too exhausted to move. He knew stopping to rest on a strange street at night was stupid, but pain fogged his judgement. If he was going to die on the streets, better to get it over with sooner than later.
His head spun, threatening to lose consciousness. His lightheadedness was not helped by the strips of cloth that he had tightly wrapped around his chest the night before. The binding made it difficult to breathe, even without broken ribs. Luckily, he had left wearing trousers and a shirt. He would certainly have lost it by now if he had run away wearing his- no Alessia’s- dress and layers of underwear.
The boy was so overwhelmed by the onslaught of panic, that he didn’t notice the person that was now standing over him with a concerned expression on his face.
“Hey. Kid.”
The boy on the steps looked up, tears staining his miserable face. He frantically began to scrub at his face with the back of his hand.
“Who’re you?”
The boy was medium height, and had a confident swagger. His blue shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and his vest was open almost defiantly. He looked around a year or two older than him. Upon closer inspection, the boy noticed black cowboy hat hanging off the other’s back. He wondered what that was about.
The cowboy looked down at him, expression unreadable. The tearstained boy clenched his fists, and began to stand up. Pain shot through his ribs as he did so, but he knew he couldn’t show weakness. For all he knew, this cowboy was here to pick a fight.
Instead of throwing a punch, the cowboy reached over to help the other boy to his feet.
“Jack Kelly” he said as he took the other boy’s hand. “leader of the Manhattan newsies- whoa! You ok kid?!”
The injured boy had doubled over, the sharp sting of movement too much for him to take. Jack caught him just before he hit the ground. He slung his arm around Jack’s shoulder, leaning on the older kid for support. He didn’t like relying on a stranger too heavily, but it was either this or dying on the street.
“Clearly not. Lemme take youse down to the lodging house. I can ‘elp you there better. Did youse happen to have a name?”
The boy blinked slowly. His chest felt like it was about to explode. He managed one syllable before passing out.
“Don’t-”
Next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes to see ten faces staring down at him. Faintly, he heard a voice telling someone to let him rest. Rest sounded good. He slipped back into unconsciousness.
When he woke up again, he was alone. Almost. Jack sat there, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt.
Panic shot through his heart as he noticed the lack of pressure on his chest. He looked down, and was horrified to see that his cloth wraps were gone, replaced by a bandage loosely tied around his busted rib. He clutched the blanket to his chest, praying that Jack, or anyone else for that matter, hadn’t seen what the binding cloth had been concealing.
Shit shit shit. The curses rang through his head as he saw Jack glance over and notice that he was awake. He could only hug the sheet tighter as Jack got up, and made his way over to the bunk.
Jack crouched beside the bed.
“What did you say your name was again?”
His thoughts raced. He couldn’t tell Jack his birth name. If he said he had a girl’s name, Jack would know that he wasn’t born a boy. He had to think.
He thought back to the first time he had gone out wearing pants and trousers. He had stolen them from one of the boys at the orphanage, and felt, for the first time, like he looked right. Basking in the glow of his newfound freedom, he had summoned the bravery to go out into the city. He ended up at a horseracing track and, as a boy, could go inside no problem. He decided to bet three pennies he had earned from giving soda caps to the metal collectors.
His horse ended up winning once, twice, three times. He stuck around until dusk, betting his winnings on one horse after another, winning every time. It was as if his new clothes were giving him luck.
He frequented the track after that. When he was able to escape the orphanage in pants with his hair tucked up into a cap, he would run down and bet all he had on his favorite horses. Even when he hadn’t anything to gamble, he stayed and watched the beasts run around the track. Since he was there so often never giving a name, the folks there started calling him Racetrack.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he told Jack:
“Racetrack. I’m called Racetrack.”
A smile lifted the corners of Jack’s mouth.
“Racetrack. Welcome to the Manhattan Newsies Race. Stay awhile if it pleases youse. We’re always lookin for good newsies.”
Race grinned back.
“Newsie. I like the sound of that.”
Jack replied:
“Good. Youse can start as soon as that rib heals up. I’ll cover your stay at the lodging house until then, so long as my luck with sellin keeps up. You can pay me back once youse sold your first papes.”
Jack stood up, pulling his cowboy hat onto his head.
“I gotta go out and sell before it gets dark, but I’ll be back soon with the other newsies. They’ll love to meet ya Race!”
With that, Jack left Race to scramble to wrap his bindings before the other newsies arrived. He knew he should have learned his lesson from the broken rib, and he would try to find a safer way to bind in the future, but he couldn’t have the other boys figuring out his secret just yet.
He got the bandages on, and, wincing all the time, rolled over and tried to rest. His new name ran through his head, sending thrills down his spine.
Race. Racetrack. Racetrack the newsie.