This Ain't Just Newsies No More ~ Sprace & Javid

18 | Learning | Spot

I don't know what to say here. Oh yeah, except one thing. I know  I said that none of the characters are mine, but I'm about to introduce a character that is Pure and is 100% MINE. They have a long but pretty name. You'll know when you see it on the screen. I don't think there's much else to say here, except that this picks up pretty much where the other chapter left off, and Spot has an inner monologue. Enjoy! :)

Spot walks back to the docks, lost in thought. He can't stop thinking about Race. Had that kind of stuff really happened? And is still happening around them? How had he never thought of it before? Talking to Race really got him thinking.

Why Race? Why is Race the one who got Spot to open up about his past?

It's just Race, a voice in his brain answers. It's always Race.

At the docks, Spot sees a couple of his newsies soaking up a small boy. Normally he wouldn't give it a second thought about it; he soaks scabs himself all the time. But after thinking about what the Walking Mouth said back at Irving Hall about stop soaking scabs, and what Race was just talking to him about, he decides to check out and see what's actually happening.

"Hey!" Spot calls out.

Everyone freezes and turns to look at Spot.

"H-hi Spot!"

"What he'd do to ya?" Spot asks him, all traces of softness toward Race harden once again.

"I caught him sellin' papes here. He spoke Italian." the newsie sneers at the kid.

Spot flinches.

"Ya think he's part of the Mafia, Spot?" his buddy adds. "May be a little young, but ya neva know."

"Either way," the first one continues, "I'se told him I was gonna teach him a lesson."

"Is that the only reason ya have for soakin' him?" Spot asks. "'Cause he's a pint size kid speakin' Italian?"

The soaker seems taken aback at Spot's words. "Well, yeah. He don't know this ain't his turf, so I'se gonna teach him what happens when he messes with us."

"Let me see him," Spot orders.

The newsies smirk and shove the small boy, who cannot possibly be older than ten, towards Spot, thinking that he was going to finish the job.

Spot looks at the small boy, cowering beneath him, with curly dark messy hair and brown eyes wide with fear. He's trembling. Spot can't take it. This is just like what he just saw. An older American towering over a young Italian boy, innocent of whatever crimes he supposedly committed. This little boy looks just like Race did. Spot doesn't want to see anyone else like that. He couldn't do anything about Race then, but he can do something about this kid now.

"What's your name, kid?" Spot asks, gentler than anyone was expecting.

The small boy looks up at him and swallows. "Bar-Bartolomeo, sir," he says in a small voice, shaking slightly.

Seeing him shake only reminds Spot even more of Race. It makes his heart break once again.

Spot smiles down at the boy. "You don't have to call me sir. Just call me Spot."

"O-okay," Bartolomeo stutters.

"How old are you, Bartolomeo?"

"Nine."

"Is it true that you was sellin' papes here?"

Bartolomeo looks down. "S--no, I mean, yes."

"Why haven't ya soaked him yet, Spot?" one of the newsies asks suddenly.