You straighten your hair, your clothes, the bag hanging at your waist. You've been to plenty of places all up and down New York City on reporting business before, you're not sure why this one occasion has you so worried. It could just be that this article is going to be one of the most important articles you've written yet, or it could be because you're going to be headed to Brooklyn, a place known for the particular hostility frequented by the same newsboys you're supposed to be interviewing.
Eventually, your friend has enough of your frenetic fixing of your appearance, grabbing your hands and forcing you to stop moving. Katherine Pulitzer, already well introduced to the newsboys of New York, does not have time for silly things such as fear. "Y/N, you're going to be fine. Honestly." You sigh, looking at her morosely. "You don't know that. I mean, what if they don't even want to do the article at all? That'll send me back to the review pages forever."
Katherine rolls her eyes. "Even if the Brooklyn newsies took one look at you and decided never to say a word to any reporter again- which they won't- you couldn't be fired if you tried. Your last piece on the strike was fantastic. That's why they're giving you this opportunity, right? Because they know you'll be perfect." Despite your growing nerves, this is true. You had taken advantage of the hubbub of the city following the Children's Crusade and the newsboy strike, interviewing teenage shoe shiners and elevator operators alike. They hadn't been willing to speak to that many people, so your words were broadcasted up and down the city. It had been fantastic for the sales of that issue of the newspaper, and fantastic for your career.
So, you've been handed a reporting opportunity regarding the future of the strikers once more. This time, you'll be tracking down the newsies of a select borough, talking to them about how life working for the many New York newspapers has changed and if they still stand by their actions. This alone would be fine, were it not for the fact that you'll be speaking to the Brooklyn newsies. It's not that you think they're going to attack you, more that you have no idea what to say to a group of boys whose preferred weekend activity is soaking errant teenagers. How do you convince a bunch of Brooklyn boys to spill their hearts out for your article?
However, Katherine is right. You're going to get nowhere by merely moping around, so you pick up your bag, square your shoulders, and set off across the city. You intend to show up at the Brooklyn Lodging House around the late afternoon, when the boys will all have finished selling their papes, so you can talk to them freely without interrupting their work schedule.
Despite your forced confidence, you can't help but feel doubt descend on you as you walk through the streets of Brooklyn. You've spoken to a few of the Manhattan newsies before, mainly Jack (at Katherine's insistence) as well as Davey and Crutchie. From what they tell you, the Brooklyn boys are completely different. Even Jack is hesitant to talk to Spot Conlon when he's in a bad mood.
Regardless of your hesitations, you're still a reporter, and you have to get through this job. You've been through enough with the idiot journalists on your newspaper team that you can't stomach returning an empty pad of paper to them, so you must walk on. Even certain death at the hands of the Brooklyn boys is better than the jeering looks you're sure to endure if you back down. So, you walk resolutely across the cobblestones, pausing only once before the door of the Brooklyn Lodging House to settle your thoughts before marching past the threshold.
All eyes descend on you the second the door clicks shut behind you. The boys look up, curious as to why you could possibly be there. Remembering yourself, you clear your throat once before you start talking, delivering the speech you'd run through countless times in your head on the walk over. "Good afternoon. My name is Y/N, and I'm a journalist for the Evening Telegram. I'd like to speak to you about how life has changed after the strikes."
There's silence in the room, a deafening silence that seems to press in on you from every corner of the dimly lit gathering. At last, one boy steps towards you, shirt smeared slightly from the grime of the streets. He sneers down at you. "Why would we talk to a goil like you?" Indignation flares up in you, and you speak again before you can stop yourself. "Maybe if you talked to a goil like me, you could actually manage to use your brain more than once a week. You might even be able to know important things like telling your left from your right."
The boy stands there, stunned, but before he can open his mouth to say anything else a voice rings out from the open door behind you. You turn around to see a new boy entering, this one clad in a red shirt and a gray cap that hides the top of his dark curls. "Damn, Giant, she killed you. Is this what all journalists are like? We might have to have more articles written just to meet you all." You freeze slightly, recognizing him from the descriptions Katherine gave you. "Are you Spot Conlon?"
The boy grins even wider. "Guilty as charged. Is there a reason you're here, other than insulting my boys?" You wince at that. "Sorry, I didn't mean to- I was here to ask you some questions about life after the strike? It's for an article I'm writing." Spot, however, does not seem bothered by the fact that you've offended one of his newsboys. Instead, he just waves for you to follow him down the hall and into a room that likely serves as his office. "He can take it. Come on, I can answer your questions without everyone looking on."
You stand in his office of sorts for a second, hands still closed tightly around your notepad as you try and fail to think of what to do next. Although you may have planned out the first thing to say upon finding the Brooklyn newsies, you're not entirely sure where to go from here. There was no line in your schedule where you dissed one of the biggest boys there, and nothing saying what to do when Spot Conlon asked to be alone with you in his office.
Speaking of which, the dark-haired boy clears his throat, looking meaningfully at your pen and paper. "Well? Don't you have some questions to ask?" You turn to him with an embarrassed smile. "Right! Um, how has taking part in the strike changed work as a newsie? Do you feel more protected by the presence of Roosevelt in office? Do you believe that Pulitzer and the other newspaper companies could work together in the future to minimize chances of another successful strike while still lowering the cost of the papers, or was your strike crucial enough to allow you to retain your autonomy in the selling industry?"
Spot blinks at you for a second, surprised, then lets another grin stretch across his face. "I see you came prepared. Well, I can't speak for everyone when I say this, but I suppose we'se doing alright for ourselves. Pulitzer knows better than to try and change the prices again, not after the stunt we pulled." You nod. "You think you're protected by the public's disapproval of Pulitzer?" Spot shrugs. "Something like that."
You finish scribbling down his answers, then tap your pen against your notebook, contemplating something he'd said. "You mentioned something about how you couldn't speak for everyone. I thought Brooklyn was one of the most important boroughs in New York? I mean, a lot of the Manhattan newsboys get nervous whenever they have to head over here on business endeavors."
Spot chuckles. "That may be true, but we all got our own opinions. Part of how you stay on top isn't just your fists, it's your head. You have to pick the right fights, you know?" You jot this down. When you look up, he's regarding you with a faint smile, one he doesn't even appear to know is there. "That's oddly wise for someone who claims to spend all his time fighting or selling papes." Spot flashes you a grin. "Are you putting that in the papers, too? About how I'm oddly wise?"
You can feel your cheeks burning. "Probably not." Spot shrugs, although his grin is shameless. "Unfortunate. I wouldn't have minded it being there." He lets you stew for a second longer, then extends a hand to you. "Here, it's getting dark out. You'll want to be back in 'Hattan before too long." You take it, letting him lead you to the door. He pauses once before opening the door, still keeping your conversation between the two of you. "Oh, and Miss Reporter? You can come back any time you like."
Spot ends up walking you back to Manhattan, despite your protests that you knew exactly where you were going. He'd simply tossed you a wink, saying something about how he wants to make sure his guests get home safely, especially when they're pretty reporters. You could tell from the victorious grin on his face that he'd said it just to mess with you, although to be entirely honest with yourself, you're not sure that you mind at all.
You end up writing the entire article that night, still abuzz over the conversation and the moonlit walk back to your apartment. The clatter of your typewriter fills the empty spaces in the room, and you drown out the sounds of the city with the spill of thoughts onto paper. In the end, you're left with an entirely excellent article, and a growing want to go back to Brooklyn and keep talking to the dark-haired boy who seemed to find nothing more interesting than trying to rile you up.
As it turns out, you'll get your wish- your boss thinks your work is excellent, ordering you back to spend another day among the Brooklyn newsies. You're all too happy to accept, and the delighted grin on Spot's face when he sees you darkening his door once more is only the icing on the cake.
You end up spending a lot more time in Brooklyn, even after the focus of your articles leaves Brooklyn and the newsies behind. You can't help it- something about his maddening grin, or the way he always looks for you in the crowd, makes you want to keep coming back again and again. Spot certainly doesn't mind, and he ends up coming to visit you too, sneaking in through the fire escape of your apartment window so your landlady doesn't suspect a thing.
In the end, you're not sure that there could have been any other ending to your time with Spot. He tells you he loves you after a couple weeks, you can't help but feel the same. You've spent your time wandering up and down the streets of New York, and you're certain that there is no one in the entire city that makes you feel quite as happy or as free as Spot. He just has this way of making you feel like the brightest star in the entire sky, although he's more than willing to stay up late stargazing with you if you want to see if there are any contenders to your status.
Sometimes there are days when no one seems in the spirit to buy a paper, or the other men at your newspaper seem like they'll never truly see you as an equal. That's when you take a visit over to the lodging house, finding solace in whispered words and smiles even when you feel the worst. Life in New York might be hard, but at least you have Spot. To you, that is enough.