so this started out as a headcanon about why Race sold in Brooklyn if he was a Manhattan newsie, but it turned into a story. if this gets some good feedback, i’ll continue the story!
Racetrack shivered as he walked up to the circulation gate, but it wasn’t just from the cold. He watched the boys on the other side of the gate pushing each other around, making fun of the man behind the window. I can do this, he thought to himself. They say that it ain’t all bad, right? He had no idea who ‘they’ were or what they said about it, but the imaginary advice from imaginary strangers gave him the confidence to cross the street and through the gates to The World.
As he passed through the gates, he tried to find the line up to the window, but it seemed to just be a mass of people except for maybe three or four in the front. Anthony reluctantly joined the mass and let himself be pushed along by the crowd. He tried to be invisible amongst the rowdy boys, but some of them became a bit too wild and bumped into Race, knocking him to the ground.
“Hey, looky here! A new kid!” said one of the boys who’d knocked him over.
“Nah, youse lyin’, Bear. That’s just Mush, ain’t it?” chimed in another.
“Nah, it ain’t. I’s standing right here,” said yet another.
As the boys began to argue, Race stayed on the ground, unsure of what to do next. All of a sudden, he felt someone lifting him up from behind. Race turned to see who helped him up. He couldn’t have been much older than Race, but he seemed calm and powerful.
“Settle down! Why don’t we just ask ‘im?” said the boy who’d lifted him up. He turned to Race and said, “Hey, kid, what’s ya name?”
Reluctant to share his nickname with this boy, he hesitated before saying, “Anthony.”
“How old are ya, Anthony?” asked the same boy.
“An’ you wanna sell papes?”
“Well Anthony, it’s a pleasure. My name’s Jack, and you wanna sell with me,” the boy introduced himself. By this point, most of the other boys were satisfied by Race’s answers and were back to ignoring him as they had before, but Jack wasn’t done with him.
“So kid, whaddya know ‘bout selling papes?” Jack asked him as they grew nearer to the window.
“I know ‘bout selling papes, I jus’ don’ know Manhattan too good,” Race told him. “I’s from Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn? Then whatcha doin’ over here?” Jack asked, surprised.
“I’s got folks that I’s running from. I usta’ sell down at Sheepshead, n’ they called me Racetrack, but then I had ta leave Brooklyn,” he admitted. “Knockout n’ Trap said they’d send some birds when I could go back. I’s only gonna be in Manhattan until summer time, not longer.”
Jack looked at the young boy. He seemed to push away the fact that he was running and was quick to remind himself that this was temporary, and that he’d be going back to Brooklyn soon. “Well then,” he sighed, “you’s gotta get a new sellin’ spot. Ya wanna come with me, or ya could go with-” Jack stopped himself and turned back to the crowd. “Mush! Henry! Finch! Get ova’ here!” he called, before turning back to Race, “-one a’ these fellas.”
The three boys Jack had called over were all around Race’s age, but it seemed like they’d been selling with the Manhattan boys for some time already.
“This here, this is Nick, but no one calls ‘im that. We’s all call ‘im Mush,” said Jack, introducing the boy that Race had been mistaken for. “You could go with ‘im-” Jack stopped himself. “Never mind. Ya don’t wanna go with ‘im.”
Mush smirked at Jack. “I’s just goin’ to see my girl. He can come with me!”
Jack nudged him away. “Get outta here. This here is Henry, n’ he always sells over near Jacobi’s.”
“One of the best delis in Lower Manhattan!” Henry interrupted. “But it’s kinda far, ‘specially for his first day. Send ‘im with Finch. He always hangs around the square anyway.”
“You’s right. Alright, go buy ya papes n’ get outta here,” Jack said. Turning to the final boy, he asked, “Finch, ya good with havin’ another kid around?”
Race looked at the last of the boys Jack had called over, and the one that appeared to be the youngest. He had a large slingshot tucked in the waistband of his pants, and he had a bruise on his left cheek just underneath his eye. “Yeah, Jack. I’s good with it. C’mon!” Finch grabbed Race’s hand and pulled him up to the window.
“Mornin’, Weasel. Fifty papes,” he said to the man behind the window, putting two dimes and a nickel into the box on the counter.
Wiesel sighed. “Fifty papes for Finch. And, is this a new kid? How many?”
“This is...hey, what’s your name?” Finch asked.
Race hesitated for a moment. “Racetrack. And I’ll take fifty papes.” He fished three nickels and a dime out of his pocket and dropped them in the box. Wiesel shoved fifty papers at him before calling to the next boy in line.
“So, Racetrack? Where ya from? How old a’ ya?” asked Finch as they walked out of the gates.
“Hey, jus’ say Race. Faster. Born in Jersey, but I’s from Brooklyn. I’s been sellin’ there for two n’ a half years. An’ I’s jus’ turned eleven.”
“Brooklyn?” Finch asked, intrigued. “What’s it like? I’s only been there once.”
“Well, they’s tough. An’ they start trainin’ a new leader when he’s only ten or eleven. An’ a lotta the guys’ve been to the Refuge. Say, how old’ya, Finch?” Race answered.
“There’s one Brooklyn kid, Spot Conlon, he’s already been there twice an’ he’s ten. Ya heard of Spot Conlon? Knockout n’ Trap's gonna train him n’ me and we’s gonna be the leaders of Brooklyn one day. Soon as I go back.”
Finch soaked up everything Race said, but one thing bothered him. “If you’s gonna be leader of Brooklyn, then whaddya doin’ here?”
Race paused a moment, unsure how to answer. “‘Cause I’s runnin’ from some folks,” he said quickly. “Where we goin’, anyways?” he asked, hoping to take the attention off of him.
“First we’s goin’ to Church Street, then down towards the Battery. But I think we oughta hurry. Bit of a slow start this mornin’, n’ I’s gettin’ antsy.” Finch stopped at a street corner and sold four papes to passersby while Race watched. “Wait, ain’t ya gonna sell some?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll go a block that way-” Race pointed towards the Battery “-and sell on that corner there. Then you’ll pass me when you’s done here an’ we’ll go to Battery Park together.”
“Okay. Don’t go too far though, if ya don’ know Manhattan,” Finch said as Race turned and walked down the block. As he walked, he pulled out his cigar. Trap had told him that he shouldn’t take it out until he was by himself, because there were some newsies that would steal it from him. Trap had told him a lot of things. Don’t bet against Boss, no matter how good you are, ‘cause he’ll take your money if you win. Steer clear of Snyder and the Refuge, you’re far more likely to get locked up in Manhattan. Don’t flirt too much. Don’t tell them about Knockout’s girl. Don’t tell them that you’ve got a father, even if he’s the one you're running from. Especially because he’s the one you’re running from. Race had tried to brush the last one off, but Trap had made him swear he wouldn’t tell anyone until Brooklyn sent a bird. He finally approached the corner and started shouting the headline. “Extra! Extra!”
tagging some people who i think would enjoy this: @moondust-and-fairywings @midnight-reader-morning-sleeper @luv-ya-hun @thatsrichhhh @brooklyn-is-here @piper-koko-barnes-rogers @your-lover-crutchie @veel556 @kings-of-newyork
andulkaphoto
pixelskylines
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
origamiaround
