One of the older boys, Race can't remember who, is the one to put it up. He brags for a week that he's sneaking in a girl to the newsies' Christmas shindig at the lodging house, but she stands him up at the last minute. Now there's a corner adorned with an optimistic sprig of mistletoe, and the boy who planned to make use of it is moping on the opposite side of the room.
The newsies all rib at each other with winks and rolled eyes, and a few of them are brave-or stupid-enough to get caught under it. Race, twelve years old and a Manhattan newsie for three years, is one of a few who positions himself right beside it, trying to glimpse whoever will fall victim to the kissing tradition.
So far he's only jeered at Kid Blink, who sheepishly pecked Mush on the cheek before stomping off. It's gotten boring, but he and Albert are making the best of it, laughing and joking and enjoying a night where Race can put aside his financial worries and feel at home with his second family.
As the lodging house gets crowded-newsies from other boroughs are sauntering in, having heard about Manhattan's festivities-someone pushes into Race's back.
"Hey, ya mind?" Race swivels around, interrupting his own story to come face to face with Spot Conlon. Spot only barely tolerates him; he lets him sell at Sheepshead, technically his own turf, and occasionally lingers around threatening to demand a cut. He never does, and Race would like to think it's because of his sparkling personality, but he also knows not to question the will of Brooklyn's most powerful newsie.
The newsie who is now glaring at him like he hasn't since Race first started selling at Sheepshead.
"Spotty," he grins. May as well try the old charms. He's only gotten a few scrapes from Spot so far. "What brings you across the bridge? Ain't Brooklyn having some sorta soiree too?"
"Makin' the rounds," Spot says curtly. "Havin' audiences. Your cowboy needs to remember my eye on 'im."
"Your eye don't see everything," Albert snickers. He grins like it's his birthday as well as Christmas and points above Spot's head.
They look up simultaneously to see the dangling mistletoe.
"What, they don't got mistletoe back in Brooklyn?" Albert crows when neither Spot nor Race move. "Not even the king himself can pass on tradition."
"First time yous had this particular decoration," Spot says, but it sounds more like a demand. Race, in the meantime, is slowly pinkening as he realizes who Spot is nearest to. It's not Al.
"Spot, it's no trouble, don't mind his shit," he says. "We was just waiting to see who else might-"
Before he can finish, his lips are muffled by a second pair. Spot's. Race's eyes remain open, but he can see nothing, hear nothing but his own breathing, feel nothing but a pair of chapped, warm lips that belong to none other than the king of Brooklyn.
Spot pulls away and snorts at Race as if he looks indecent. He probably does, with his mouth still half open and his face flushed. "Consider it my Christmas generosity that I don't soak ya for it," Spot informs...one of them, and makes his way through the crowd before Race can figure out who.
Albert taps him on the shoulder. "You better be glad you're still breathin', Race."
"Shut up," Race mutters. He shuts his open jaw and whacks Albert on the shoulder. "Was all your idea anyway."
Albert only laughs.
Spot mentions nothing about the kiss the next time Race sells at Sheepshead. Or the next. It's like it never happened, and Race tells himself that every time it comes up in his mind, which is more than he expects or would prefer. Can't ruin a good working relationship.
