The Celts (West Side Story: Riff X Reader)

Chapter 1

(I watched West Side Story for the first time at about 1:00 AM last night. Since I love Mike Faist and the characters he has played [Connor Murphy and Dodge Mason, to be specific], I had to write something for Riff. This is in an alternate universe where Riff survives that fight.)

Ronan: Brown hair, brown eyes, freckles. Twenty-five years old.
Raymond "Ray": Dark auburn hair, green eyes. Twenty-three years old.
Hugh: Light brown hair, blue eyes, freckles. Twenty-one years old.
Carolyn "Cara": Brown hair, blue eyes, freckles. Twenty years old.
David "Dave": Black hair, dark brown eyes, freckles. Nineteen years old.
Elizabeth "Liza": Long light auburn hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Nineteen years old.
Colette "Clove": Long red hair, brown eyes, and freckles. Eighteen years old.
Antionette "Nettie": Short auburn hair, grayish-blue eyes. Eighteen years old.
Declan "Clanner": Blond hair, brown eyes, freckles. Seventeen years old.
Seamus "Saucy": Brown hair, hazel eyes. Sixteen years old.
Vincent "Vinnie": Red hair, brown eyes, freckles. Sixteen years old.
Fiona "Fifi": Brown hair, brown eyes. Fifteen years old.

In July, 1949, I joined a band of young adults to sneak onto a cargo ship that was set to travel from Galway, Ireland to sail to Essex, New York. On the way to America, we all came up with cool nicknames. Our group, upon arrival to Manhattan, discovered an abandoned apartment complex. Miraculously, it still had running water and electricity that worked every other day. Unbeknownst to us, we were right in between two Manhattan gangs: the Jets and the Sharks. They didn't seem to have any sort of extreme rivalry, but it still provoked caution amongst our group. It's the year 1950, and the obvious qualities of our accents had faded to the point that we didn't sound like we were from America, but didn't stick out like sore thumbs when we spoke.

"Everyone get downstairs!" I heard Ronan yell. He was the oldest of us, therefore the self-designated leader. The place was big enough for all of us to have our own rooms. Mine was at the end of the hall upstairs. My younger sister, Nettie, had her room right next door to mine, and our windows opened up into the fire escape. Before heading down, I glanced at myself in the mirror that I had found by a dumpster. I was wearing a light purple dress, black shoes, and my hair was tied into a low ponytail with a blackberry ribbon. Everybody had our own jobs: me, Clove, Cara, Dave, and Clanner stole from the betting grounds of the horse races when we could, Fifi, Saucy, and Nettie acted sick or crippled and begged on street corners, and Hugh, Ray, Vinnie, and Ronan broke up fights and watched for police. 

I went down the stairs to the rest of the group and sat down on the old couch. This was one of the days the lights were out.

"Here's the problem." Ronan said to the group. "Someone, I will not say who," he said. His eyes were locked on Clanner, who donned a black eye. "Got into a fight with someone in the Jets. We're on their radar now. For the time being, we all need to avoid the Jets and Sharks as much as possible. That means to run and hide if you see them."

"So, because Clanner is stupid, we all have to roll over and let the Jets and Sharks rub our bellies?" Cara said irritably.

"Yes." Ronan nodded. With glares thrown at Clanner, everybody went back to what they were doing. I went back up to my room to grab my satchel, and then climbed down the fire escape to see if there were any races going on. It was overcast and dark gray clouds were scattered across the afternoon sky. My job is a little bit less difficult because I have been doing it for a year. Over that course of time, I learned that wearing matching colors can help me get away with it if I steal a matching rider's hat from inside the building and collected the bet money from the inside, as well as suffered various injuries: seven black eyes, two broken noses, a sprained wrist and ankle, and eleven pretty serious bruises. Those all contributed to learning my tactic.

I walked with a matter-of-fact swagger into the stables and rider's building. Unfortunately, the Lost & Found box was not where it usually was. I was forced to step out of the comfort zone I had built for myself and ask a rider where they had moved the box. My blue gaze landed on a small blonde girl. I walked over to her.

"Excuse me," I said, getting her attention. "Do you know where they moved the Lost & Found box?"

"Are you supposed to be here?" She asked, looking around to see that every horse had a rider.

"I'm Queenie's rider, we got ninth place last week." I lied, hoping she had no connection to Queenie's rider.

"Oh, sure!" She nodded. "Beautiful horse. I'm Clementine."

"Elizabeth." I said, smiling. The number one rule is to never give out the name you go by. Clementine then began walking me to where the box was, though continuing the conversation.

"I love your accent." She said. "Where are you from?"

"Fresh from Dublin." I said. Another rule is to never give tell people that we're from Galway, since the only ship that's been there in the last seventy years aren't supposed to board people. 

"That's so cool." She said, stopping at a closet that was around the corner from the stables. "Here we are."

"Thank you." I said. Clementine nodded and returned to her horse. I went inside the closet, turned on the light, and shut the door behind me. Sifting through the contents of the box, I found a violet rider's hat, a dagger, and a leather wallet. The hat went atop my head, the dagger went into the pocket of my shirt, and the wallet went inside my satchel. 

And now it's time to collect the bet money. I tucked my hair into the hat to make it look shorter and removed my skirt. This was the kind of dress that is de-constructable. I unclipped my skirt from the top part. I would use the skirt as a sort of shawl. I was wearing dark violet pants underneath. This was the perfect change to make me look like a rider trying to protect herself from the rain. 

When I was completely ready, I left the closet and went out. There were cages along the fence for people to place their bets in. Nobody noticed nor questioned it when I took a small portion of the money from every box. That is, until I reached the end. As I was collecting a little bit from the last box, I made direct eye contact with a man with mousy brown hair and bluish eyes. He was tall and a little scrawny, though I could tell I lived on the streets because of his torn clothes and dirty face. That's a Jet. My heart plummeted to my feet as I looked away and finished what I was doing. Of course he decided to approach me from the other side of the gate. I didn't acknowledge him until he was directly in front of me. There was a metal clang when he hung his right hand on the mesh fence, above both of our heads. He was using this as a move of power. 

"What are you up to?" He asked. His voice was a little bit more high-pitched than I would have expected. 

"It's my job to collect a little bit from every bet. This is all given to the winning rider." I said. My hands were obviously shaking as I closed the latch of the final betting box.

"That's interesting." He said. He didn't look down at the box or my hands once. Instead, he was maintaining one-way eye contact with me the whole time. He was talking like he already knew that I was stealing it.

"It's not," I said, smiling politely like how people in the customer service industry would do. "Enjoy the race. Good day."

He didn't move an inch when I walked away. His eyes stayed in the same spot for a second before watching me leave around the back of the building. By now, it had started to rain. I quickly changed back into my previous attire before leaving the races. I decided to take short cuts through the alleys to get to the abandoned apartments.

"Hey!" I heard someone say sharply. I whipped my head around to see that it was the same guy talking to me before. I only recognized him through his silhouette. Rain was dripping down my face and no sunlight came into the alley. The only source of  legitimate light was coming from the streets behind the man.