Newsies Imagines

Didn't You See (Specs)

You can see him just a few feet in front of you. He's disappeared around the wall of an alleyway now, roughed up shoes flashing past a corner. A shock of blond curls and blue eyes is the only identifier, but you'd know him in a heartbeat. Race, who's finally returned to sell the last of his papes. The two of you have always been selling partners, but he said he had to slip away for just a second, leaving you alone on the streets with a bag of curled newspapers selling like hotcakes. He's back now, although you're not sure why he's running away again.

You follow him, of course you do. You've known Race for what feels like forever, and you've noticed that he has a way of playing games, of wanting to mess with people's heads. By people, you mean newsies like yourself- whether it be stealing cigars or tossing witty jokes back and forth, Race loves to feel like he's winning in some grand competition. You're not sure what the goal is right now, and so you follow him. Your feet are silent on the dusty cobblestones, and you don't make a sound, even when you see the real reason for Race's disappearance.

He's kissing some girl, his hands tangled in her curls. Their eyes are closed, their worlds shut out to anything that doesn't involve the two of them, and so they do not see you slipping away, back out of the dark of the alleyway and into the sudden blinding sunlight. You're grateful for the rush of light, though- it forces you to squint, to stop in your tracks and remember to put on a brave face. A plaster mold of a smile that allows you to rush through the remainder of your papers until your bag is finally empty and you can leave the bustling city center. Once you exchange the crowds of Manhattan for dim, empty alleyways, you finally let your cheerful demeanor crack and fall away.

Your hand finds your mouth, holding in a sob. Surely you had seen something wrong, surely you hadn't just walked in on Race kissing that girl he's been making eyes at all morning. Yet your brain refuses to let you forget the scene, and every detail is forced before your eyes with all the clarity of those newfangled photographs you see in the papers. There were his arms, pulling her close. There was his smile, sweet as a drop of melting candy, intoxicating as sugar. There was that girl, the only recipient of his feelings. That girl, who was not you.

You had been in love with Race for a while now, too long for your own good. You knew better than to fall for Racetrack, everyone did. He'd flirt with a nun if he thought it would get him another cup of coffee, and he moved on from a brokenhearted girl faster than a steam engine headed west. You'd known better than to fall in love, and yet you did, letting your heart plunge down the well only to break upon impact.

You'd fooled yourself into thinking you had some chance with him because you sold papers together. He always picked you as his selling partner, surely that meant something? Yet it doesn't, does it? He chose you because you were easy to lose when he wanted to slip away, because he knew you would sell papes and wouldn't rely on him too much. You were like a little wind up toy that he could set out and ignore, someone who wouldn't get him into trouble and make up excuses like clockwork. He had played you for a fool and you had believed every honey-sweetened word.

The jealous, bitter sadness is washing over you in waves now, and you manage to stumble through the doors of the newsies' lodging house and exchange forced pleasantries with Jack and the others before hurrying upstairs and out of sight. You keep climbing those rickety wooden steps, up past the rows of bunks until your head is practically scraping against the roof. There's a little attic up here, a small crawl space that everybody else overlooks. It's practically perfect for you- nobody knows it's here and so you can finally be left alone.

It is only now that you finally allow the tears to run unbidden from your cheeks, that your shoulders shake with the pain of a century. Jack used to joke that you were always able to sell papes so quickly because you had a good heart and people trusted you. Well, that earnest, full, stupidly trusting heart had finally gotten itself in too deep and now you were paying the price. Your head jerks up as you hear footsteps echoing up through the space behind you and you hurriedly turn away from the stairs, wiping the tears away from your face with the back of your hand.