One Step At A Time (~*Open*~)

[Dreamer]

No one was back from selling newspapers in the Manhatten Newsboy's Lodging House, which was all right for Dreamer. At the moment, she didn't want to be bothered or anything of the sort. Dragging herself up the stairs to the bunk room in a tired pace, with her newspaper satchel dragging behind her in one hand, and her cap in the other, Dreamer was happy that another bad day of selling newspapers was over.

Hurry up and wait. So close, yet so far away. Everything that you've always dreamed of--Close enough for you to taste, but you just can't touch.

Sighing to herself, Dreamer turned on the light to the bunk room, and examined it. Just as she concluded in the first place, no one was around. Throwing her newspaper satchel and cap to the side of the entry way, she made her way to the window, unlocked it, and opened it, but just as she was about it to climb out of it to the roof, she stopped...And took a look at the City of New York, with the orange-red setting sun in the background, and the wind blowing a slight breeze past her.

You wanna show the world but no one knows your name yet. Wonderin' when, where and how you're going to make it. You know you can if you get the chance in your face and the door keeps slamming...

...She didn't feel like going up to the roof tonight. So many things have happened, Dreamer couldn't even think of how this whole thing with Mike was going to end. She closed the window with a frustrated sigh, and walked back to where the bunks were, collapsing onto the first one in sight in exhaustion. What was going on around this city? When was this whole thing going to stop? Everything was falling apart: Jinks switched over to Midtown, Mike was getting more and more people on his side each day, and Dreamer had just now heard the terrible news of Mush's girlfriend, Nellie. She had never met her before or anything like it, but Dreamer couldn't help but shed a little tear. If what she heard was correct, and that Mush was devasted when he learned of his beloved's death, then it must've been bad. Real bad.

The only good thing that happened lately was that the bruises on Dreamer's arms were gone.

It was times like this when Dreamer would take out a small picture she always carried with her out of her pocket. Taking it out, Dreamer laid back on the bunk bed, rested her head on the pillow, and held the picture with both hands in front of her. It was the only picture she had of her parents, and, in her opinion, the best one of them yet.

Now you're feeling more and more frustrated. And you're getting all kind of impatient...Waiting...We live and we learn to--

She traced their outlines carefully with her finger, as if she was memorizing their faces for the hundredth time. It was the only thing at this time that would get Dreamer to even crack a smile, but she knew that, if things got worse, not even a picture of her parents would get Dreamer to be a even a little happy.

Take one step at a time. There's no need to rush. It's like learning to fly, or falling in love. It's gonna happen and it's supposed to happen and we find the reasons why. One step at a time

Dreamer's mind was diverted to the first day Mike made himself known. It was also the day she learned in the papers that the gang she double crossed, causing them to murder her parents and try to murder her as well, had escaped prison. Her face grew red hot at the memory, and she tossed the picture aside, so as to cast away the bad memories with it. She turned over on her side so that her back faced the doorway, and tried to surpress the small tears squeezing out of her eyes. She didn't sob or anything, but she just let the tears run down her cheeks. It was a good thing no one was there to see her cry. Whoever would've been there might scold her for it, and Dreamer was being sick of scolded by the others. It made her feel less than she already was.

[Anthony Higgins]

It was a good day for selling, but a pretty lousy day for anything else. The news about the Bronx was fresh in every Manhattan newsboy's mind, and everyone was on edge about it. To Racetrack, it seemed like a witch hunt. Every unfamiliar boy who walked through Manhattan was whispered to be from the Bronx, a spy, a murderer, a fink. Sometimes, if tensions were high enough and suspicion had a wide enough range, a gang of them would approach the boy and start interrogating him. It would invariably turn out it was a Queens or Harlem boy; a shoe-shine boy from Brooklyn or something like that; or else the boy wasn't even a newsboy at all, just a schoolboy or the like. Such was the paranoia going around the Manhattan boys. Because everyone knew: if it hadn't been Nellie Lope, it would have been someone else. It could have been one of them.

Racetrack was on edge when he returned from 42nd Street, a prime place for selling, especially with the headline being as hot as it was today. And wouldn't you know, the Sheepshead was closed for a few days. Just his lousy luck. Apparently some joke had decided to whisper a little tidbit about fixed races in some high-brow's ear, and suddenly every bookie, jockey and manager was under interrogation by the bulls. It was at times like these that Racetrack realized why he was so good at gambling: he got lucky at cards and dice because he had the lousiest luck in the world when it came to anything and everything else.

He was pleased to find the lodging house empty. No one to bother him, excellent. Now he could calm himself, or else start venting if that didn't work, and be in a fine mood for when the boys came back in an hour or two. As he climbed the stairs and entered the bunk room, he sang to himself in muted tones: an old Italian folk song his entire family often sang in the evenings, especially during the holidays: "C'è la luna a menzu 'u mare; mamma mia me maridare. Ficchia mia chiu da dare; Mamma mia pensaci tu. Se ti do un pescatore; iddo va, iddo viene; sempre il pesce in mano tiene. Se ti capa la fantasia; te pescialia figliuzza..."

He stopped abruptly as he turned into the bunk room and saw Dreamer, laying down on a bunk that wasn't hers, her face wet with tears. Racetrack swore loudly as he stormed past her. What was she doing here? He hoped she knew she had completely ruined any good mood he had been in previously, if at all. "God damn it, Dreamer!" he cried, crossing to his own bunk and throwing his hat down. "Go...somewhere else, eh? If you gotta whine again I ain't in the mood to hear it." He glared at her clothing, and the cabbie hat near the door. "And for God's sake, ya crower. Go. Buy. A damn. Skirt." He was already on a short fuse, and was yelling at her unprovoked. Normally he would have ignored her, but he was already set off by a number of things, it took very little to get him to explode.

[Dreamer]

(A/N: Not cool man! All right. Fine. Two can play at this game. lol)

"C'è la luna a menzu 'u mare; mamma mia me maridare. Ficchia mia chiu da dare; Mamma mia pensaci tu. Se ti do un pescatore; iddo va, iddo viene; sempre il pesce in mano tiene. Se ti capa la fantasia; te pescialia figliuzza..."

Somebody was coming up the stairs. Frowning a bit, Dreamer was a little disappointed that she didn't get the quiet time she wanted. She prepared herself to be scolded for crying by any of the Manhatten newsies. Who would it be? Jack? Chance? Mush? Blink? Ha. The last person she wanted to hear from, out of pure annoyance, would be...wait a minute...oh don't let it be...

"Not Race, not Race," Dreamer chanted softly under her breath. "Please, not Race. Anybody but him..."

"God damn it, Dreamer!"

She flinced at Race's booming voice, and Dreamer rolled her eyes. Great. Just great. That's all what she needed. Racetrack to just waltz in here and start yelling at her. What the heck was his problem? Was he just bored out of his mind all day, and decided to yell at the first he saw at the Lodging House?

She rolled over on her back and stared at the bottom of the top bunk and gave an annoyed grunt. She knew she should've went up to the roof. But no! She just had to get sick of sleeping outside and decided that it would be a nice change to go back to sleeping on a bunk.

Some change.

"Great. Just Great," Dreamer whispered to herself as if Racetrack could hear her.

Rubbing her temples to get rid of an upcoming headache, Dreamer let out a breath she held in.

"What did I do now Race?" she groaned in an annoyed tone.

"Go...somewhere else, eh? If you gotta whine again I ain't in the mood to hear it."

Still trying to surpress a headache, Dreamer managed to smirk a little bit, almost evilly. When was Racetrack ever in a mood?

"Yeah," she started. "I heard about the Sheepshead being closed today,"

Sitting up, Dreamer faced Race with an amused look as she wiped the leftover tears off her cheeks.

"Must be devastating. Makes you want to go out there and find the sap that ruined your day, doesn't it?" Dreamer's voice suddenly got very angry. "Well, you know what? I'm not in the mood to hear you blow a gasket every time one insignificant little thing gets you cranky,"

Then, Dreamer pushed herself off the bunk bed and gave a mock curtsey.

"And if it would please your majesty," she remarked sarcastically. "That even though I was here first and wanted a little quiet time myself, I'll go and whine somewhere else. The roof is better anyway,"

Before Dreamer left, she went back to where she was resting and grabbed her parents photograph on the floor. Putting it in her pocket, she made her way to the window again, and opened it, until...

"And for God's sake, ya crower. Go. Buy. A damn. Skirt."

Dreamer slammed the window shut so hard, she thought she heard a small crack. But she didn't care. She snapped her head around and glared at Racetrack, anger twinkling in her eyes. That was it. That was the final straw. Racetrack had taken her last nerve and was practically dancing a jig on it while playing that stupid harmonica. He was gonna get it now. Before she could stop herself, Dreamer had strolled over to Racetrack's bunk where he stood and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

Oh yeah. She was fuming mad now.

It was rare to see her mad like this; Impossible to see her furious. Well, it was happening. Bravo, Race. Bravo.

"Let's get a few things straight here, you tightwad!" Dreamer practically yelled at him with a red face. "First of all, I don't like wearing a skirt. I never do except when I'm going to church or someplace where the high-brows like to get together. Secondly, has it ever occured to you at all that maybe I wasn't in the mood to have people yelling at me? And most of all--"

Dreamer poked Racetrack hard for the next few words she said.

"You. Are. So. Up. Tight!"

(A/N: Yeah. How do you like that? ;D)

[Anthony Higgins]

Ah, perfect. Just what he needed. When it rains, it pours. When she talks, she rants. He was beyond pissed off at this point, but he told himself he wouldn't dignify her meaningless, childish rant with any kind of reply. He didn't even listen to half of what she said. All he wanted was for her to storm out of there like he knew she would, and he could have a while in peace before the boys came back. He heard the door to the roof creak open, and then slam shut again with a brute force. Good, she's gone, he thought. But then he saw her run up to him, and she smacked him across the face.

She smacked him. Across the face.

"Let's get a few things straight here..."

That was all he heard. His temper was already at a boiling point, and now it exploded over the top. His hands tightened on the edge of the bunk. He knew he was going to hit her. He managed to restrain himself...until she jabbed a finger at his chest. He could no longer dignify that by being unresponsive. He swatted her hand away, stood up, and punched her in the jaw with all his strength, and he was no wuss. He was momentarily in shock at what he had done...he didn't usually his girls, and wouldn't even hit a boy with that kind of force. He'd just put his full weight behind the punch, and wouldn't be surprised if he had broken some of Dreamer's teeth or something.

Still, he was fuming. His breathing was heavy, almost savage, and he said to Dreamer, "Ya see? I'll hit you without a second thought. You know why? I don't hit girls. But girls wear skirts. An' if you wanna be the only girl newsie in Manhattan, you better watch your back. Don't expect no special treatment cause you're a dame. And don't expect none cause of what happened to ya a while back. I will hit you...and just try to find somebody who cares." He stepped away and over to the other side of the bunk room, sat on Snitch and Itey's bunk, and put his feet up as if nothing had happened.

[Dreamer]

It wasn't long before Dreamer felt pain on her jaw and found herself on the ground, spitting out blood.

She just slapped him and it was nothing.

Did he just hit her?!

All Dreamer could do was glare as she got up and walked to the washroom as she listened to Racetrack yak away in the bunkroom. This was going to be a long night.

"Ya see? I'll hit you without a second thought. You know why? I don't hit girls. But girls wear skirts."

"You hit like one," Dreamer mummbled under her breath as she looked at herself in the mirror.

A metallic taste in her mouth was making Dreamer feel queasy as she spat out blood in the sink. The deep red droplets slowly drooped down the old marble sink. Racetrack still ranted.

"An' if you wanna be the only girl newsie in Manhattan, you better watch your back. Don't expect no special treatment cause you're a dame."

Dreamer turned on the sink, made her hands into a cup, filled it with water, and rinsed out her mouth. Why couldn't Racetrack just shut up and leave her alone?

"And don't expect none cause of what happened to ya a while back. I will hit you...and just try to find somebody who cares."

She finished rinsing out her mouth, though it did little good. Looking in the mirror at her red face and soon-to-be-bruised jaw, she saw tears well up in her eyes again. That made her more frustrated. She was sick of crying. She was sick of everyone thinking of she wanted special treatment. She knew nobody would care, nor did she care if anybody did.

But Racetrack's words had really hurt her. Not as bad as the punch in the jaw, but somehow it hurt worse. Slowly she backed up into a wall, slid down it, sat on the ground, pulled her knees to her chest, and let her arms rest there. She took out her parents photograph again, but instead of looking at it, just tossed it away. After that, she just sat there quietly, staring at nothing but the wall.

[Anthony Higgins]

"You hit like one."

"Yeah? Tell me that in a week when you're black and blue." Race said smartly, his cool returning now that he was sure he had inflicted some damage on her. He knew for a fact that he could punch hard--no one could come up from a hit from him, unscathed. "You got a little somethin' right here..." he indicated the corner of his mouth, and pointed at Dreamer. He could see a drop of blood escaping from the side of her mouth. Good. He had gotten her good. He was sick and tired of girls wearing pants. If they wanted to dress like a boy, they had to be able to handle being treated like a boy. And Dreamer couldn't handle being treated like a boy.

She disappeared into the washroom and did not come out again. Race found that he didn't quite care. Nothing about Dreamer impressed him. Hell, he knew that nothing about Dreamer impressed anyone in Manhattan. And intimidating? Even when she was yelling her little bird lungs out, the seven-year-old shoeshine boy with a lisp over on Hoover Avenue was more intimidating than her. But he decided that he was wasting his time thinking about it. He had bigger fish to fry. Didn't they all. He tried to sort out his thoughts in his head. He and David were Jack's right-hand men, and they needed to lead the others almost as much as he did.

Race considered several things. Queens agreed to fight with them. Jack was talking with Harlem, who knew what Vice would agree to. Vice was a mysterious one; Race didn't know him well, and actually didn't care to. Better to leave the broody ones alone, anyway. Brooklyn. Oh boy. Jack had to talk to Spot. Race had been saying the whole time that Brooklyn was ten times as important than Harlem, and Jack thought he had a handle on things. Now rumors were flying around that Spot had a mind to join in on Mike's side of things. If Spot makes up his mind, it's a lost cause, Race thought. The Bronx was lost, too... Thinking of the Bronx make Race think of Nellie Lope, and of Mush. As terrible as it was, Nellie's case was being used as a model. Innocent lives lost because of Mike and what he's trying to do. Don't let it happen again. It shouldn't have happened with Nellie.

Race's thoughts were interrupted by footfalls coming up the stairs. Dio mio, aiutami... he thought, rolling his eyes. More aggravation, or what? But his temper had cooled, and it was more than likely one of the boys coming back from selling. He sat up on the bunk to see who was coming in the door. "Boots!" he called with a grin when he saw his fellow newsboy in the doorway.