Running away - let's do it.
Free from the ties that bind.
No more despair
Or burdens to bear
Out there in the yonder.
Running away - go to it.
Where did you have in mind?
Have to take care:
Unless there's a “where,”
You'll only be wandering blind.
Just more questions,
Different kind.
Where are we to go?
Where are we ever to go?
Running away - we'll do it.
Why sit around, resigned?
Trouble is, son,
The further you run,
The more you feel undefined
For what you have left undone,
And more, what you’ve left behind.
~Mysterious Man, Into the Woods
Mouse knocked lightly on the window of the Harlem newsgirls’ lodging house, her dark blue eyes timidly scanning the bunkroom within. Seeing no movement in the room, Mouse retreated, climbing hand-over-hand down the fire escape ladder and then quietly opening the front door.
“Flash?” she asked quietly, poking her head into the entryway. “Olivia?” she added after a pause. Still no response from the silent house. “Mrs. Evans?” she ventured, more quietly.
“Who’s there?” came a sharp reply. “Maria, is that you?”
“Annie McMullen, ma’am,” Mouse responded quickly as a dark-haired woman approached from the hallway before her, her skirts rustling about her purposeful step. “I was looking for Olivia Swipple,” she added, almost apologetically. She ducked her head slightly. “I see she’s not here. I can go…”
“No, no, Olivia ought to be right back; she usually returns from selling papers about now. If you want to take a seat in the lobby, I’m sure she’ll—”
“No, um, thank you…that’s all right. Thank you, ma’am,” Mouse stuttered, hastily tripping through the words and backing through the door.
“Hmph. All right, then.” Mrs. Evans shrugged and sat down at her desk to sort through the rent due.
The small brunette took a seat on the curb before the house, not wishing to intrude, but not willing to have walked here—something that terrified her—for no reason. She didn’t want to miss Quill’s return.
She retied the light purple ribbons decorating the ends of her braids and then traced one finger through the grey-brown dust that had gathered in the gutter. It was mid-June, and New York had yet to get more than a sprinkling of rainwater. Where concrete and cobblestone met grass, deep rifts caused by drought-like conditions had formed. The trees were wilting, and what grass was still green was limp and yellowy, and not growing at all.
Without rain in June, cyclone weather soon, Mouse thought to herself. There aren’t cyclones in New York, though… Her mother had often said that sort of thing. Silly ditties about weather conditions based on star patterns and cloud types.
“Mouse,” announced someone as footsteps approached. “What’cha doin’ sittin’ out heah in the—geez! You’se totally burnin’!” Flash knelt and roughly took Mouse’s chin in her hand. “You’se all red from the sun, Annie. You oughta be getting’ inside. Gettin’ sunburnt is stupid.”
Mouse glanced up, putting her cool fingertips to one red cheek. “Oh dear,” was all she said. “I hardly even noticed.”
“Well, c’mon inside, fah God’s sakes,” the brown-eyed girl muttered, helping Mouse to her feet and nearly pushing her up the stairs and into the house. “What brings yah tah this side a’ the rivah? Lookin’ fah Quill?”
“Actually, yes,” Mouse answered quietly.
“She oughta be back in a while. She’s always goin’ off tah that ‘New Yawk Marble Cemetary’ lately. She’s actin’ kinda nuts…sayin’ ‘er fathah tawks tah ‘er an’ stuff…”
“I know,” Mouse said gravely. “That’s partly why I came.”
“They’re all saying I’m crazy.”
You’re not crazy, Lydia. If you were crazy, you’d know. I’d know.
“They keep telling me you’re dead, and I told then that you wrote me a letter and couldn’t be dead, but I seem to have lost it, and they don’t believe me.”
Perhaps I should write you another, so that my dear daughter isn’t called crazy.
“I’m so glad you listen to me. No one listens at the Harlem house. They ignore me. I think I’m going to come live with you for a while.”
I think that would be lovely. I get lonely when you’re gone, and I worry about you.
The warm, dry air sat on Quill’s soft, dark brown hair and shoulders, and the silence enveloping her gave her a sense of serenity. The multitude of headstones, mostly of drab grey granite, within the New York Marble Cemetary surrounded her, but she was interested only in the ones belonging to Thomas and Eleanor Hammond.
“Flash lied, didn’t she. She said she would come and tell you not to worry.”
No one ever came to tell me where you were…
“I did so!” Flash exclaimed. “Heavens to—good God, Quill, what do you want, fresh dirt on my hands?” She threw up her arms and stalked toward the doorway. “I don’t go walkin’ tah cemetaries fah fun, yah know, Quill,” she muttered before slamming the door behind her. Through the wood came her voice, “Your father is dead, Swipple.”
Quill winced at the flippant use of her last name. Having “Swipple” shouted at her was too reminiscent of—
“She doesn’t mean it,” Mouse murmured from her perch on the edge of Quill’s bunk.
“She does,” Quill responded equally as softly. “They don’t believe me. They hate me here. No one ever listens to me.”
“I listen,” Mouse offered. “I will always listen.”
“No one here ever listens to me. It’s like they don’t even hear me.” She paused, looking toward the window and turning the cold cloth over with which she was nursing her swollen leg. “I want to go live with my father. At least for a while. He listens to me, and he gets lonely.”
“Oliv—” Mouse bit her lower lip lightly and then she looked carefully into Quill’s dark brown eyes. “Can I go along?”
“You’se doin’ what?” hollered Storm, her emerald eyes flying open as Mouse calmly folded a white undershirt and set it carefully inside the handmade cloth bag she was packing.
“Going with Olivia Swipple so she doesn’t get hurt,” the brunette responded simply.
“You’se a ravin’ idiot! You’re seein’ that she don’t get intah—” Storm threw her hands up and turned around full circle. “You’se a lunatic. An’ a fool, Annie McMullen, a fool. Where the hell are you goin’?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I’m not letting her go by herself.” Besides, I know how she feels, and no one else can go with her without making her feel terrible about herself.
“Yah don’t know. She doesn’t know!” Storm inhaled deeply and closed her bright green eyes for a moment, cooling their blazing. “Annie. Listen. Please.” She put her hands on the younger girl’s shoulders and looked her in the face. “I know yah wanna help; I know that. But, Mousie…” she sighed gently. “You ain’t really…yah ain’t capable a’ livin’ on yah own.”
“I’m not going to be on my own,” was all she said, and then she pulled lightly away from her Italian friend and sat down on her bed, looking at her belongings and trying to decide what she still ought to put into the small bag.
“Quill Swipple is not a—”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I know of her. An’ she ain’t gonna be much help if the two a’ you are jumped ‘er the like!”
“We’ll be careful.”
“This ain’t about careful! This is ‘bout smart!”
“I never claimed to be smart. I’m only trying to help.” She looked back up at Storm. “Someone has to go with her, Connie, and no one else…if anyone else goes with her, she’s not going to get any help. She has to be with someone who understands where she’s coming from.”
“Oh, hell’s bells,” muttered the black-haired girl. “Anastasia—” Mouse winced and looked away. “—Sorry. Annie McMullen. Yah know that nobody heah is gonna let ‘chu run off tah live on the streets someplace fah God knows how long. Yah know that.”
“They’re going to have to.”
“I’se nevah imagined yah bein’ so stubborn!”
“I don’t like to hurt people.”
“Well, you’se hurtin’ me by sayin’ you’se gonna run off.”
“Olivia needs my help more than you do right now, I’m sorry.” She looked back up at Storm and her hands were shaking slightly in her lap. “I’ll be careful. I don’t want to hurt you, either, Connie. I’m not running off. I’m going to be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of each other.”
“Mouse McMullen and Quill Swipple, survivalists extraordinare,” muttered Storm in response. “God, Annie, be careful.”
“I think I’m going to go live with him,” Quill added quietly, looking down at her hands instead of at Ruby.
“Look heah, Rubes, I’se been tryin’ tah get this stupid thing tah hem properly, an’ it jus’ won’t. What’m I doin’ wrong?”
“Hm?” Ruby turned away from Quill and toward a frustrated Breathless. “Since when’ve you started sewin’, Breathy?”
“I ain’t started sewin’, I jus’ don’t like my clothes fallin’ apart’s all.”
“Well, let me take a look at it,” Ruby said, standing up and giving Quill a light parting nod before beginning a bit of sewing chatter with Breathless.
At least I know they won’t miss me, Quill thought with a sigh, wrapping her quill pen in a scarf and placing it beside a bit of paper in her small suitcase.
“Well, I’m going out,” she said, picking up her suitcase and limping toward the door.
“Bye,” Breathless said offhand, waving her hand which held her thin silver needle abstractly in Quill’s direction.
“G’bye, love,” Ruby added as the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl disappeared down the hallway, her slightly uneven steps heard slowly descending the stairs.
“Wheah’s she goin’?” Breathless inquired after a moment’s painstaking stiching.
“Ah…” Ruby shrugged slightly. “Fer a walk? She’s been goin’—”
“With a suitcase?” the curly-haired girl inquired, both dark eyebrows raised as she looked at Ruby expectantly.
“She had a—” Ruby looked toward the door that Quill had departed out of. “I’m sure she’s comin’ back…”
Breathless shrugged. “Maybe she’s takin’ Flash’s advice an’ goin’ tah stay in the Bronx fah a while.”
“I bet that’s it,” Ruby responded. Flash hadn’t been quiet about the conversation she’d had the previous evening with the quiet Harlem newsgirl in question.
Both hands tightly gripping the railing, Mouse peered over the edge of High Bridge, watching the water of the Harlem River flow by beneath her as she waited for Quill to arrive.
“Annie,” greeted the dark-haired girl as she limped over to her. “Hello.”
“Hi,” smiled Mouse. She was gripping the long shoulder strap on her cloth bag with both hands to keep them from shaking; she hated to show she was nervous.
“I’m glad you’re coming with me to see my father,” Quill stated with serious brown eyes. “No one else believes me about him.”
I don’t think it’s fair of me to say that I have difficulty believing her myself. “Well, I’ll be pleased to get to meet him.”
“Flash says he’s dead.”
“I know.” Mouse paused and then looked sideways at the younger girl. “Is he?”
“He wrote me a letter,” Quill responded sharply. She rested her hands on the railing and looked similarly at the water. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
Hesitating only moments, Mouse nodded slowly, swallowing the small lump in her throat. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. We can start walking, now, I think. Because we should probably get there before dark.”
“How long a walk is it?” inquired Mouse, adjusting her shoulder bag and allowing Quill to set the pace before falling into step beside her.
“Not…not so very long.” Quill bit her lower lip lightly as they walked along. At the moment, her clubfoot was not bothering her much, but she knew that by the time they’d reached their destination, she would be in a great deal of pain.
“I’ll just follow you, then,” the blue-eyed girl said quietly. A few steps later, she spoke again, very quietly, “Are you a little scared?”
“Of my father?” answered her friend, her tone somewhat sharp.
“No, of…um…” Mouse bit her lip, “n-nothing.”
“No, what?”
“I just mean…you know, of staying with your…in…in such an unfamiliar place? I don’t mind visiting, but are you sure we shouldn’t just go back to the Bronx—or, or Harlem—afterward?”
“I want to stay with him. If you want to go back, that’s all right.”
“Quill, doesn’t your father live sort of…out in the open?”
“No,” she answered. “It has been said that he lives in the cemetery, but he really lives beside it.”
Mouse shivered. “In…in a house?”
“No.”
“All…all right.” She shivered again, adjusting her shoulder bag. Because she had made it, she hadn’t taken everything into account when doing so, such as the fact that it was now rubbing against the skin of her neck. Quill shifted her suitcase to her other hand, her pace lagging slightly as she began to favor her right leg more so than previously.
After a time, Quill spoke again. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Mouse shook her head. “I don’t think you’re at all crazy. You’ve just gotten a short straw.”
“So have you,” she answered. “And you aren’t stupid like me, and—”
“Olivia,” Mouse said softly, “you don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to.”
Late afternoon sun filtered through the dry, dust-filled air of Mott Haven, and Dove looked around the rooftop his soft brown eyes scanning the girls and boys who were chatting up there. Mouse was not among them. “Hey, ah, Malone?” he said to the Bronx newsboy nearest him.
“Parker!” greeted the brown-haired boy with a smile. “What brings yah up heah?”
“Tah the Bronx ‘er tah this particulah rooftop?” Dove grinned but his eyes still drifted over the assembled newsies on the roof.
“Both or eithah.”
“Lookin’ for Ann—”
“She ain’t heah,” Storm spoke up darkly.
Dove whirled to face the dark-haired Italian girl. “What d’you mean? Like she ain’t on this particulah rooftop ‘er she ain’t in the lodgin’ house ‘er what?” He found he did not like the annoyed expression on Storm’s olive-skinned face. That particular expression had, in fact, crossed her face less and less since her wedding.
“She ain’t heah. If yah really wanna know, I ain’t got the slightest idea wheah she is.”
Dove looked at her with slightly narrowed eyes, his breathing becoming slowed and voluntary. “What are you talkin’ about.”
“I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout nothin’. I’se sayin’ that I don’t know wheah she’s at an’ no one else does eithah.”
Dove’s eyes narrowed, and his light brown eyebrows knit. “What do you know?”
“She was heah,” Storm began, sitting down on the concrete ledge to Dove’s right. “She was packin’ ‘erself a bag, an’ I said where’re yah goin’.”
Dove nodded for her to continue.
“She said she was goin’ someplace wit’ Quill Swipple from Harlem. I said she’d bettah not an’ I told ‘er not to, but she was bein’ a stubborn lit’le—”
“You couldn’t stop her? You’re Storm DeSario Morgan an’ she’s Mouse McMullen an’ yah couldn’t stop her?”
“What did yah want me tah do, tie ‘er up? It’s not like she ain’t smart!”
“This ain’t ‘bout smart, this is ‘bout—”
“Parker.”
Dove stopped and looked down at her, meeting her emerald eyes and frowning slightly.
“If you think I didn’t try an’ stop ‘er, you don’t know me.”
“If you’d tried tah stop ‘er, you would have stopped ‘er. You’re bigger an’ stronger an’...hell, you just know more.”
“Than Annie?” Storm’s tone was skeptical.
“I—” Dove sighed and sat down likewise on the concrete ledge. “All right...what’re she an’ Quill plannin’ on doin’?”
The sweet scent of recently mown grass floated on the air that ruffled Mouse’s brown bangs in the waning sunlight, and she wrapped both hands tightly around the black cast-iron post of the narrow fence surrounding the New York Marble Cemetery. Quill was sitting on the ground, her sore leg stretched in front of her, strewing bits of drying grass around her on the ground. She was talking.
“Annie,” she said, turning her head until she could see her brown-haired friend in her peripheral vision. “Come here, my father would like to meet you.”
Mouse blinked, releasing her knuckle-whitening grip on the fencepost and stepping across the brown-green grass which made crisping noises beneath her scuffed black boots. She knelt on the ground beside Quill, looking at her expectantly, although her heart was fluttering.
“This is my father, here,” the clubfooted girl stated as if she were introducing something other than a grey granite headstone. “His name is Thomas Hammond. My mother is...” she trailed off and looked back up at the nothing in the air before her. “She’s not here right now. I haven’t actually gotten to meet her yet.”
Nodding slowly, Mouse looked where Quill was focusing intently. “I...I’m Annie McMullen,” she managed to say. She glanced over her shoulder at Quill, but the quiet authoress was quite serious. "I-I’m a friend of O-Olivia’s, y-your daughter’s…"
It’s very nice to meet your friend, Lydia, but I’m afraid she doesn’t really believe you that I’m here.
Quill turned quickly to her left and looked up at Mouse’s profile against the green of the grass and the fading gold of the sun. The brunette did not look distrusting, but slightly nervous and a little bit frightened.
"It’s not that she doesn’t believe me," Quill stated in response to her father’s statement. "She’s always nervous like that around people she doesn’t know. You know, like I am, sometimes."
Well, good. She’s very nice.
"Thank you."
"Is he talking to you?" Mouse asked quietly as Quill’s conversation with the air reached a lull.
"Can’t you hear?" the brown-eyed girl inquired, something like incredulity in her voice, but she didn’t look over her shoulder.
"I—I’m sorry," Mouse responded quickly. "I—I guess not. Maybe, um, maybe I’m just…"
"Why can’t she hear you?" Quill demanded, turning narrowed brown eyes toward the rough-cut headstone before her.
I haven’t the slightest idea, unless she just doesn’t believe you so much that she can’t even hear what I say.
"Can you see him?" Quill pressed, looking more intently at Mouse. The Bronx newsgirl stared back, looking desperately at the empty space between her friend and the printed slabs of granite stretching out in rows before her.
"No," she whispered, sinking to her knees and then to a sitting position on the ground beside Quill. She tucked her knees up to her chin and hid her face in her arms, shaking. "No, no, no I can't."
Quill paused, startled, and turned her body to face Mouse, away from the headstone and her father. "I…I don’t…" she bit her lower lip lightly, placing one hand on the brunette’s shoulder. "Annie, I’m sorry, I—" she stopped.
You what? Now look at what you’ve done, Lydia.
"You are getting all mixed up with my conscience and I wish you would just leave me alone for a minute!"
Relax, for goodness’ sake.
Taking the advice her father put forth, Quill instead blotted his voice and presence from her mind and spoke to Mouse, who had put her head up, her eyelashes wet, and was watching these proceedings with silent terror.
"Quilla," she murmured as the Harlem newsgirl removed her hand from her shoulder. "You don’t have to be c-crazy for people to c-care about you."
"Crazy."
The world shot like a bullet from Quill’s lips and pierced Mouse’s nearly nonexistent armor mercilessly, but she didn’t flinch. Her hands trembling, the brunette’s dark blue eyes flew open but she said nothing; the only thing that moved in the darkening cemetery was a rock dove that flew overhead, landing behind the next row of headstones. Mouse followed it with her eyes until it was beyond the periphery of her vision; she didn’t turn her head.
"Crazy."
"I don’t mean you’re—"
"Crazy."
"’Livia."
"You think I’m crazy."
"I didn’t say that!" Mouse protested. "I didn’t say that at all!"
"What did you say, then?" Quill crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes bright in the greying air of dusk. "What did you say?"
"I—I s-said…" Mouse shook her head and looked down at her knees, hugging them tightly. "I said you d-didn’t have to be c—you didn’t have to be—you didn’t have to—" she stopped and took a deep breath. "You don’t have to pretend like you’re crazy for people to care about you. That’s what I said—or that’s what I meant."
"So you think that I’m pretending to be crazy—pretending that my father—pretending. You think I’m pretending in order for people to be fond of me. Is that why you’re bothering with me?"
"No!" Mouse took several gulping breaths and then looked imploringly up at her friend. "You have to understand," she murmured. "I just want you to be happy, but…but…"
"But you think I’m crazy."
"I didn’t say that!"
"But that’s what you think." Quill’s assertion was very strong, and her lips were pressed so tightly together that they were white against her flushed cheeks. She looked intently at Mouse, who was all but cowering, for a response.
Mouse inhaled deeply, sitting up more straightly, crossing her legs in front of her and putting her hands on her knees. She blinked slowly, then looked up at Quill and spoke her mind. "’Livia, do you know that your father is dead? I mean—" she held up a silencing hand. "I mean that I know you…you converse, sort of, with him. I believe that you believe he’s there right now, I believe that. But…really, truly, you do know that he’s dead, and that you’re sitting in a…a c-cemetery, and it’s n-nearly dark out, and…" she bit her lip and waited before continuing, her eyes focused on Quill’s unchanging emotionally shielded face. "D-did y-y-you m-mean s-something e-else w-w-when y-you s-said…" she trailed off and glanced sideways, toward the sun that was now barely a sliver of orange above the buildings that made up the horizon.
Quill tilted her head slightly to one side, looking Mouse straight in the eyes. "When I said what?" She was unflinching, whereas Mouse was terrified.
Mouse could only whisper her response. "When you s-s-said you w-w-w-were g-going to l-live with y-your father."
There was an intense silence in the cooling air surrounding the girls, and neither dared say anything, move at all, even to blink or breathe. Everything was suddenly perfectly still, and then a wind that had been nearly dormant for weeks began to softly blow across the graveyard, rustling the small heaps of grass-clippings, and ruffling the brown hair of the two timid girls in the midst of tall grey granite inscriptions for people long past.
The wind blew, the sun set. The breeze grew chill as night set in, and neither of the girls had yet spoken. Mouse shivered.
"You’re cold," Quill observed quietly. "We should go out of the wind, I suppose." Her speaking was stiff and as brisk as the wind. There was no nonsense in her business-like tone. Mouse flinched and shook her head in response.
"Yes, you are," Quill struggled slightly to her feet and then held out a hand for Mouse, but the blue-eyed girl stood up on her own terms, clutching her cloth bag tightly. "We can go over—" she paused, glancing around the cemetery quickly. "How about we go sit behind a building out…out there." Annie’s scared, isn’t she. She started to walk toward the gates separating the city and the cemetery. Mouse followed, but in silence.
The cobblestones were cold against Mouse’s arms and hands, and uncomfortable against her body, as she lay on her stomach, her chin resting on her folded hands, against the rough brick wall on her right. She was facing Quill, whose soft, dark hair was falling over her shoulders, nearly obscuring her face. They looked into each other’s quiet eyes.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Mouse, breaking silence that had seemed oppressively impenetrable. “But…I mean it, too.” She dropped her dusk-blue gaze to the ground.
“What?” Slightly startled, Quill paused in her thinking and looked down at her leg, which was stretched out in front of her. “Oh. I—I don’t think it matters, really.”
“It matters to me, is all,” Mouse responded softly.
“Everyone says it anyway.” The brown-eyed girl shrugged her shoulders, looking as nonchalant as possible.
“M-maybe, but I don’t mean it that way. I really don’t.”
Quill tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, looking quietly away from Mouse. “That’s good, then,” she said, one hand absently massaging her sore leg.
The ringing in Mouse’s ears was becoming stronger with the silence that continued to press on her, and she winced slightly, looking down at her tightly folded hands. She pushed some fine grey dirt around on the ground with one finger. “What are you scared of, Quill?”
“Scared?” She smoothed her hair behind her ears again, a nervous habit she had developed, and raised both of her brown eyebrows in question.
Mouse nodded quietly. “Yes. Scared.”
The quietude of the air was tangible, and both girls found that it obstructed breathing. Mouse sensed that it seemed Quill was speaking somehow, silently, with her eyes before her lips moved. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
Mouse’s head snapped up, studying her friend’s pale face. “Nothing?” Something like incredulity was lurking inside of her but not revealed in her voice.
Quill closed her eyes briefly. Scared of nothing was probably as opposite the truth as she could muster right now. In fact, the list of things she was afraid of was so extensive that to list it would probably take her deep into the night. Being returned to the orphanage, for one, although she knew that was impossible due to its closure a few months ago—or so she’d heard. Another would be Fingers Mulcahy—oh, of course she knew that she wouldn’t hurt her, but fears are never rational…death, though sometimes she wants it, Jacob Meyer, almost painfully so…
“Nothing important, anyway,” she stated simply.
“Oh.” Mouse bit her lip lightly, frustrated tears building behind her eyes, though she would not ever cry them. “I’m scared of a lot of things.”
“There are a lot of things to be scared of.” Quill’s tone was anything but condescending, although—no, it was very silly to be afraid. Unavoidable, but still— “Too many things. In fact, there are…so many things to be scared of that it is silly to be afraid.”
Tired but self-conscious, Mouse sat up and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly. “You’re lucky that you can be…not-scared.”
“I didn’t say I was not-scared.” Quill paused, “Yes, I did say that, but I—I’m afraid of a lot of things. I’m afraid of…of so many things. But it is silly to be afraid though. Sometimes.”
“I know that.” Mouse nodded her head, slowly, her eyes focused on the brick wall across the alleyway from her. “You know what? You’re never scared until you know of things to be scared of, you know? I never used to be scared of anything. A long time ago,” she added quickly. All of two years…
“You’re lucky, I think,” Quill responded softly. She brushed her hands over her hair again, though it was well tucked behind her ears. “I’ve always been afraid.”
“Even when you were very small?”
“I grew up in an orphanage with my leg like this.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper and she looked pointedly at Mouse.
But the smaller girl was more naïve. “People made fun of you?”
Quill nodded.
“Just because of your leg? But…” she trailed off, allowing that to remain untouched, because she did not understand enough herself. Knowing nothing of orphanages or having an imperfect limb that people could easily make fun of and which could not be disguised, she instead returned to the topic that was eating her from the inside out as the darkness pressed in on all sides—fear. “I hardly even left my house before I—really left my house, I mean—and…well…even then I wasn’t—I suppose I was scared of some things, but now I’m much more scared of…everything.” She hugged herself more tightly. “Like the dark, and outside, and…and stuff.”
“I like the dark,” Quill responded after a moment. “When I’m in bed, or in a quiet place where I know I’m safe.” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid of alleyways…dark alleyways in the night.”
Mouse nodded slowly and moved a couple of inches closer to her friend. “Except it’s not safe anywhere.”
Quill’s voice returned, sounding far-off and not like it was she speaking. “I know. God, do I know.”
“That’s why I’m scared,” Mouse responded, nodding her brown-haired head with her blue eyes wide. “And—and people make fun, but…” she shrugged slightly, looking away. “I guess I’m used to that, now.”
There was a long silence, and both girls felt it weighing on them; they both had so much to say and so few words with which to say it.
“No one calls me clubfoot at the lodging house,” Quill said softly. The statement was an entire argument all on its own. “I don’t…I don’t understand why, I suppose. Everyone used to make fun of me.” She managed a humorless laugh. “I don’t think the girls in Harlem care enough to make fun of me.”
“I should think they care too much to make fun of you.”
“If that was the case,” returned Quill, her soft brown eyes wide and earnest, “they’d at least talk to me.”
“Maybe they don’t want to hurt your feelings.” Realizing this sounded entirely unsubstantiated, Mouse pressed on, “Flint said some people don’t talk to me because they’re afraid they’ll scare me.”
“Maybe.” The younger girl sounded unimpressed and she traced one hand along the dark concrete. “Do you—do you try to talk to people, and then they talk back, but just…just for a moment. And then they decide to ignore you and talk to someone else that’s more interesting?” She didn’t pause to allow Mouse to respond before jumping back in: “It happens all the time, and I—”
“’Livia,” Mouse murmured. “People do care about you. You don’t realize it, is all.” But she found she had no real proof, except for a deep conviction in her heart that no one could really dislike someone who was trying so hard, who was so like herself, and was so quietly afraid on her own.
“Oh.” She managed to look sincere, but her tone was too flat, and Mouse felt skepticism.
“I, for one, care about you more than…more than I care about me.” She managed a slight smile and added lightheartedly, “Although I suppose that isn’t saying a great deal. I’m so…passive.”
“Oh, sometimes that’s a good thing,” Quill responded with a false smile of her own. “My…my non-passivity has gotten me into more trouble than I can even start to explain.”
“Being passive is more troublesome, believe me.” Mouse’s eyes were sad behind the dimpled cheeks.
“I suppose I wouldn’t know,” Quill said. Her eyes drifted through the darkness in the direction of the cemetery. “I should go and apologize.”
Mouse’s eyes flew open and her words were imploring. “Oliv—Quill—‘Livia…don’t go away.”
“I upset him,” came the quiet response. The dark-haired girl winced slightly as she got to her feet. “I just want to apologize. I’ll be right back.”
“Please.” Mouse reached for the younger girl’s hand.
“Hm?” Quill turned, surprised by Mouse’s action.
“Stay.”
“I…” Quill paused, contemplating, and then pulled her hand away. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Mouse watched her friend’s slim figure limp away, through the cheerless night. She hugged herself and shivered.
Mouse realized that she must have fallen asleep, because she woke up. Something warm was next to her, and it moved, and she jumped. It was very dark. The something that was warm breathed. Then she remembered that it was Quill.
She sat up, stiffly because of the uncomfortable cobblestones and concrete beneath her. She’d only spent two nights of her life on the streets—a pitiful number, she knew, in comparison to those the majority of her housemates had—and was frightened by the entire idea. Her eyes were large and dark in the blackness around her. It was probably morning, but not by much.
“Qu-Quill?” she murmured softly, wondering if the Harlem newsgirl was awake. The dark-haired girl curled up against the rough brick wall gave no response, and Mouse sighed quietly, biting her lower lip. She was scared.
She could hear someone moving out in the street, beyond the dark alleyway in which the two girls were camped. She squeezed her eyes shut, every ounce of her attention focused on the sound—what was it? A person? A sheet of newspaper blowing along the gutter? A stray cat?
“’Livia,” she whispered. “’Livia, are you awake?”
She obviously was not, though Mouse’s words were not as audible as she felt that they were, and anyone to see her would think she was just moving her lips soundlessly.
Mouse pulled her knees up to her chin, hugging them tightly with her thin arms. The nights were still chilly, though it was nearing the end of April, and the short sleeves of her beige-brown, button-up shirt were very little protection against the late-night air. Her dark blue eyes were wide open, surveying the darkness around them. There were no shadows, but that also meant that everything was a shadow. There were too many places to hide in a dark alleyway in the midst of Lower Manhattan. She curled up and hugged herself more tightly, trying to make herself completely invisible.
Someone—and it was definitely a someone—stumbled around a corner and fled into the alley, pressing him or herself against the brick wall and breathing heavily. Mouse’s eyes widened so much that they began to water, but she didn’t dare to even blink. The someone was obviously out of breath, and began edging along the wall. Directly toward them.
They’re going to run right into us, Mouse thought with an oddly calm sort of panic in her throat.
The visitor was not looking in the direction that he or she was traveling, but rather at the entrance he’d come into the alley through. Mouse’s eyes, enormous in her completely white face, were entranced with the shadow-black figure moving steadily, slowly, in the direction of she and Quill.
I should wake her, and we should get out of the way, Mouse thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to move at all. But what if I wake her and she makes noise?
The stranger was only a handful of feet away now, but they seemed to have stopped, thinking they were far enough from the alley mouth. There was a sharp staccato of footsteps outside the alley, and the intruder panicked, walking rapidly backward, and then—
“What the—shit!”
The person was a young man, and he’d tripped over the dark-haired, dark-eyed Harlem newsgirl; she awoke with a start. “Wha—” Mouse pressed her hand over Quill’s mouth, pulling her by the wrist into the shadows of the opposite wall. The girls inched further back into the alley as another person entered the scene.
Just be smart and keep your mouth shut, Quill, Mouse pleaded silently. She took her hand carefully from the younger girl’s mouth, and Quill said nothing. Two pairs of saucer-plate eyes gazed into the darkness of the alley.
“So, Harriss, y’thought y’could get the bettah of me,” sneered a voice, snakelike in its delivery.
“What the hell?” snapped the one lying on the ground. “Who the—where’s the—” he glanced around but saw nothing but more shadows on all sides of him. “What the—”
“Probably the littah ones cowerin’ ovah there.” If Quill and Mouse had been able to see the speaker, they would have noticed he was gesturing a bit in front of them, but they instead flinched as one at his words. “But we’ll deal wit’ them latah.” His leer was hidden from them, but Lee Harriss saw it quite clearly, and he did not attempt to get up from his place on the ground. “More accurately, I’ll deal wit’ ‘em latah, as yah won’t be able tah move much.”
“Look, it’s not like I did it alone…you wouldn’t kill me in front of witnesses, Aiserman…it’d be—”
Mouse, who had been crouched and frozen, completely lost her balance and fell backward, hitting her head hard on a wooden crate that had once held fruit. Her yelp was insuppressible, and Quill flew to her, pulling her to a sitting position and trying to silently deal with it. Mouse kept shaking her head.
“Ahh…it sounds like they want to be dealt with now,” suggested Lee, trying not to sound too pleased with the turn of events; his voice drifted unpleasantly toward the newsgirls.
“Yeah, an’ maybe they do.” The gruff-voiced speaker fell silent, and Mouse began shivering uncontrollably as she heard approaching footsteps. She tried to move behind Quill, but her headache was startlingly intense, and she found it difficult to even think clearly. It didn’t help that, whether her eyes were open or closed, all she could see was blackness.
“Go away,” Quill said clearly, her dark eyes very angry as the shadows looked appraisingly at the two girls. Mouse hid her face in her hands, shaking so she could scarcely concentrate. Quill gave her a sideways questioning look.
“Criminy,” commented Lee, sniffing slightly. “That’s not such a warm welcome. It isn’t like we’ve done anything to hurt you.”
“Leave us alone,” Quill responded, her voice as serious as before.
Pleased with the diversion, Lee leaned back against the brick wall, and a slight glint from a bit of street lamp light fell across his face; his eyes were pale and deep set in his face, which seemed rather gaunt, and his hair was shaggy and dark. “So, Aiserman,” he began. Quill noticed that the name sent Mouse into further paroxysms and moved closer to her, placing an arm around her shaking shoulders as Harriss continued, “Seems we can postpone our differences and deal with,” he gestured to Quill and Mouse as if they were a rather irritating infestation of slugs, “these ladies at present.”
This time, the sneer on his face was unmistakable, and Quill’s dark eyes narrowed further. Mouse hadn’t looked up since she’d hit her head on the box, but she could feel Quill tense beside her, and it made her shiver again.
Annie, you idiot, you’re not helping, she scolded herself. But every part of her was fighting her conscience tooth and nail to keep her from dealing with it—from going face-to-face with the very person her fear of darkness, her fear of loneliness, and the fear that had become a part of her life, had stemmed from. One encounter, five months prior.
She blinked her eyes and felt her lashes brush against the thin, nearly imperceptible scar on her arm that was the only visible sign of her encounter. Everything else was hidden in her own memories, as she refused to share her pain with those who already had plenty. And it was quite easy to see that everyone around her already had plenty.
Quill was shaking her shoulder and she finally forced herself to look up. Her dark blue eyes drifted over the faces of the two boys and she inched back, pushing herself against the crates. The taller one was obviously…obviously him, Ryan Aiserman, the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy of Mouse’s secret terrors. And the other one…
Mouse flinched and suddenly whispered, “Josh?” in a faltering voice.
“Heey,” the boy with surreally pale eyes openly grinned at her and she found herself unable to take her eyes off him. Quill’s gaze, however, was directed at Ryan. His face was awestruck, flickering between anger and shock. Josh—or Mouse thought he must be Josh—elbowed Ryan in the side and kept speaking. “This little one knows my brother.” He couldn’t help but smirk.
Ryan gave a forced laugh. “I know this little one better than anyone.” He reached out and tugged one of her braids and she recoiled sharply in complete horror.
“Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
Quill turned, startled, and looked at Mouse, who appeared to be fairly spitting with anger. Her dark blue eyes were narrowed viciously, her flushed face white around her lips which were pressed tightly together.
“Looks like the lady means it, Aiserman,” smirked Lee, stepping back a few paces. If he could bolt while Ryan was distracted…
The dark-eyed boy laughed loud and long, his chortles echoing off the stone and brick of the alleyway. “This,” he snorted, “ain’t no lady.” He leered amusedly at Mouse, and Quill inched still closer to her friend. “This,” he continued with a chuckle, “is Anastasia McMullen.”
Mouse’s eyes rounded in disbelief as a wide grin spread across Lee’s face, and he too began to snicker.
“Why is that funny?” she demanded, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
“An’ you was callin’ ‘er a lady!” Ryan was completely lost to a wave of laughter. “Anastasia McMullen, a lady…”
“She is a lady,” snapped Quill, tugging Mouse to her feet while the boys were off guard. “And you’d stop laughing at her if you were anything like gentlemen.” The girls began a slow retreat, walking backward, keeping their eyes on the boys, as they trusted them as far as they could throw them, which was not at all.
“Where yah stayin’, doll?” called Lee after her. “Still where Ryan found yah last time?”
Their laughter burned tears into Mouse’s eyes and Quill laid a hand on her arm. “A-Annie,” she said quietly.
Mouse shook her head. “Don’t.”
“No, really.” Quill turned her around, placing both hands on the brunette’s shoulders and looking her straight in the eyes. “They’re just being malicious.”
“I don’t know what they were laughing at,” Mouse murmured, her eyes overflowing with tears.
“They were just laughing. The one boy just wanted to distract the…Ryan. And Ryan, he was just…just trying to be mean to you.”
“He was serious,” Mouse argued quietly. “He means it. And now the other boy is going to come, too…he said so.”
“He was just teasing you,” Quill pressed. “Mouse, listen to me—they weren’t actually going to—”
“Weren’t actually going to what?” whispered a voice, and someone’s hands slid around Mouse’s waist. She yelped, tripping and falling into the person who’d grabbed her.
“Harriss, you’se an idiot!” growled a voice, and Quill yanked her wrist away from the person trying to grab it.
“Quill,” Mouse gasped, fighting with the person clutching her for the ability to even inhale. “I am not kidding—go get someone.”
“But—” Quill’s brown eyes flicked frantically in all directions.
“Do you think I’m kidding?” Mouse wriggled in Lee’s arms; he was a younger brother, but that didn’t make him a less strong brother.
Quill frowned deeply, her dark eyes narrowing, and ran without regard to her limp.
Straight for the cemetery.
With the last dregs of orange-grey light being drained from the exhausted setting sun, Dove Parker stood with hazel eyes large in the doorway to the Bronx newsgirls’ lodging house. Waiting.
“Stayin’ in ‘da boys’ house fah ‘da night, Parkah?” inquired Lazybones Johnson as she paused in the lobby.
“Dunno,” answered the pale-haired Brooklyn newsboy, leaning against the doorframe. “Maybe.”
“If yah ain’t, y’oughta start home. Gonna be a dark night fah walkin’ halfway ‘cross town.”
“All ‘da way ‘cross town, really,” he answered with a barely visible sparkle in his eyes. “I’se gone in darkah.” He folded his arms across his chest, looking out at the cobblestones that paved Featherbed Avenue and then back toward Lazy. “I wish she’d get back,” he mumbled.
“Standin’ ‘dere ain’t gonna bring ‘er home no soonah,” was all the brown-haired seventeen-year-old said. “She’ll be home when she’s home.”
“What’s she thinkin’?” demanded the young man, his voice still low. “She’s not thinkin’…”
“Sometimes she thinks wit’ ‘er heart.” Lazy sat down on one of the lobby chairs, picking at its fraying upholstery as she talked. “An’ not wit’ ‘er head. She’s worried ‘bout ‘dat li’l’ girl, an’ I undahstand ‘dat.”
“So Annie, of all people, goes off tah try an’ take care a’ somebody who obviously can’t take care a’ ‘erself.” Dove sighed heavily, pushing his heavy row of blonde bangs back with the palm of his hand. “It’s cold out ‘dere,” he added softly. “She’ll freeze.”
“She’s smartah ‘den you’se givin’ ‘er credit fah bein’,” Lazy commented. “Annie ain’t stupid by any measure.”
“But ‘dere’s a lot she don’t know.”
“An’ a lot she can’t do. Even when she knows what she oughta.” Lazy stood again, motioning with her head toward the kitchen. “Want somethin’ t’eat?” she asked after a moment. “If yah wanna stick ‘round, since yah don’t look real bent on leavin’…”
“I jus’ wanna know she’s all right.”
“Can’t know ‘dat wit’out seein’ ‘er.” Lazy motioned him into the kitchen. “Heah. Cookies.” She pushed the plate at him and tugged lightly on a string that dangled from the ceiling; one yellow bulb snapped to life, flickering as it swung slightly on its tangled wires.
“Thanks,” smiled Dove quietly, picking up one of the chocolate-chip confections and taking a bite. “Annie make these?”
“Prob’ly,” smiled Lazy. “I’ll ask ‘er when she gets back.”
“Yeah,” murmured Dove, breaking his cookie into small pieces and pushing them around on the marred wooden countertop. “Do ‘dat.”
“I—I can’t breathe,” Mouse managed to blurt, wriggling. “There’s two of you and one of me; I’m not stupid. Just—let me go,” she exclaimed.
“She isn’t going anyplace, Harriss,” Ryan said. His words were smooth. His eyes were overly simpering. His hand was on a knife. Lee released the brunette.
“The options are all too appealing,” commented Lee, leaning back against the brick wall that formed one side of the narrow paved road. “I can’t quite decide who to appease first. Mark would be very pleased to have first dibs on you.”
“You could have found me anytime,” stated the sixteen-year-old with narrowed dark blue eyes. “You know where I’m living.”
“But alone. And at night. Anastasia, you’re a difficult commodity to acquire from that lodging house you’re staying at.” Ryan grinned broadly at her. “There’s an awful lot of people who’d hate to see anything happen to you.”
“Mouse is in trouble!” Dare shrieked to the darkness in the lobby. Dove sat straight up, his disheveled hair the only sign that he’d ever slept at all; he was already on his feet, eyes wide.
“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout,” he snapped at the younger girl, his hand already on the doorknob. “Wheah is she?” His face had flushed with intensity.
“Oh, Christ,” breathed Dare, brushing past him and yanking the door open. “Come wit’ me,” she managed to hiss. Her heart was pounding—she was terrified, but not really for Mouse. “I—I t’ink I know wheah we gotta go.”
“There’s—there’s a problem, father,” Quill managed to stammer through the locked iron of the cemetery gate. “A—a very, very big problem.” She was shaking all over.
A very, very big problem? What’s my dear daughter in trouble with?
“N-not me.” She rattled weakly at the gate’s bars. “A-Annie.” The dark-haired girl gulped her breath, pale hands trembling. “There’s—there’s people who know her. They—they—we need someone to help.” Her malformed leg was paining her after so much running and she rubbed it absently, sighing a little and leaning heavily on the fence.
If they know her, what’s the problem? His voice sounded concerned.
“They—they don’t like her.” Urgency returned to her voice and she rested one foot on the base of the black wrought-iron. “Please, please tell me what to do…”
Sit. She blinked round brown eyes. Just sit. You’ll be safe. I’ll take care of it.
Quill held her breath, carefully easing to the ground. “I—I—I trust you,” she managed to whisper.
“We’se turnin’ heah,” Dare panted, grasping a light-post and swinging herself around it, starting down a dimly-lit road. “I t’ink.”
“Wheah’re you gettin’ ‘dese directions?” demanded Dove with franticness in his voice. “Damnit, Dare, explain yahself.”
Nighttime pressed cold against Quill and she hugged herself tightly, rubbing her goose-pimply arms with the palms of her hands to create a tiny bit of heat from the friction. She looked up at the sky, the white pinpricks of stars growing further masked by grey-black wisps that thickened into clouds. Swallowing hard, she hoped it wouldn’t rain.
“Sixteen,” responded the slight young woman with hands tightly folded in her lap. “Seventeen in December.”
“Awful young to get killed off just yet,” Lee answered, a little nervously. His ice-blue eyes flickered now and then to Ryan’s dangerous expression. He’d never seen the elder boy look quite so at ease. It was out of place. “’Course, Mark’ll have his reasons.”
“You don’t call him Mark to his face,” Mouse stated softly. “I don’t see why you would behind his back.”
“’Cause it’s shorter than Mr. McMullen,” Ryan told her gently. She clung to the upside-down broken wooden crate she was sitting on.
“He’s your teacher,” she mumbled.
“Well, he’s not my teacher anymore.” The dark-headed boy smiled. Mouse just eyed him skeptically, then looked back at her clasped hands. She had convinced herself that she was dreaming.
Dreaming. Nightmare. Dreaming.
One of the binders had fallen off of Dare’s braid, tumbling somewhere into a gutter along their out-of-breath trek over bridges, through alleyways, under fire-escape ladders, and now half of her long brown hair was hanging in wavy, disheveled strands over her shoulder and sticking to the side of her sweaty face. She hardly noticed. “I—I think we’se almost—” she broke off, stumbling, “Sh—oot!” Dove stopped short before he, too, tripped over the startled young woman seated on the concrete sidewalk before the New York Marble Cemetery.
“Ohmigosh,” breathed a frightened Quill Swipple.
“Damnit!” exclaimed Dove, nearly colliding with Dare as she stared down at the seated girl. “Uh—um…” He blinked briefly at her. Somehow he thought he knew her. Quill gazed with large muddy eues through the dark.
“Quill Swipple,” she managed to breathe to the two newsies. “Oh, God, help me!”
“No little heroic antics this time, girlie,” Ryan laughed. He seemed uncertain, though, of what to do next. He kept looking to Lee, who continued to look nervous and edgy.
“What planet are you on, Ryan?” Mouse asked tonelessly, studying the mouth of the alleyway with the interest of paste. “You want to kill me, go ahead, damn you.” She narrowed her eyes. “I—I don’t understand you. You don’t find anything fun. You say all this about how you’ll kill me, or you’ll hurt me, or you’ll—you’ll whatever. And then it would be so easy for you. And you never, ever do it. I’m so tired of it.” Folding her arms over her chest and tensing her muscles to keep from trembling, the brunette continued. “For the love of God, would you just do whatever—bring me back to my father, shoot me in the head, do whatever it is that you want to do so badly, and then—be done? Because honestly, I am so damned tired of just sitting here waiting and wondering and being afraid.”
“It’s not so much the fun of killing you, Anastasia,” commented Ryan. “It’s the fun of watching you get all frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” she said after a moment. “I’m just tired.” She rested her face in the palms of her hands.
Stay tuned! More to come!
