-

David

-

My sheets are twisted into a wad at the bottom of my empty bed. I awaken from where I am curled on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Jack didn't bother to wake me up as he left. No, he would rather allow me to sleep on the cold, hard floor, sacrificing my comfort for him. Asshole.

"David! David!" How is it that little brothers possess so much energy this early in the morning? Les is jumping up and down beside me, his small face beaming. He runs to the window, looking out hopefully at the empty fire escape. "Where's Jack?"

"He had to go," I reply sleepily, muffling my voice with the pillow Jack so graciously allowed me to have. I rise with a groan, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. Too early. This is way too early to be awake.

"Aw," Les makes an extremely disappointed noise, but in seconds shakes it off and scampers to the kitchen, where I can hear my mother making the preparations for breakfast. I stretch as I stand, clumsily making my way to our closet. I pull on a button-up shirt over my undershirt and a pair of pants, grabbing my hat. As I pass the bathroom I pump some water into my hands and splash it over my face.

There is a mirror above the sink. I look into it as I dry my face off with a rough green towel, my skin slightly red from the vigorous rubbing and cold water.

I don't look like me. I look like someone foreign. Who is that blue-eyed, tired boy staring back at me? His hair has the same unruly blond curls as mine, but there is such a weary expression on his face that he can't possibly be me. His eyes, those dark, denim-blue eyes, look haunted. So scared, and yet so angry.

Who is that?

Is that me?

That anger in my expression...shit. Shit, shit, and more shit.

I look like Twitch.

What has happened to me?

Who am I?

I quickly lock the door to the bathroom and sit heavily on the toilet. The lid of it is down, and a little crocheted cover that my sister made cushions the seat. I bury my face in my hands, my knobbly knuckles pressed against my forehead.

Breathe, David. Just breathe.

In, out. Slowly, slowly, smoothly, let the air fill your lungs before escaping. Watch the dark spot on the ground that your mother can't get off, no matter how long she scrubs at it.

Racetrack. The world is spinning quickly, like one of those spinning platforms at the playground of my old school. Several students would hold tightly to the rails, and two students would run them in circles, spinning them until they teetered off, laughing. Laughter. Coarse in my ears, false laughter. It hurts. Fuck, does it hurt.

Jack is going to take out Racetrack. Twitch sent a boy last night to take care of Race, make it seem like he had been consorting with the Harlem newsies. God, I have to get there. I have to get there as quickly as I can.

I unlock the door and bolt to the kitchen. I snatch a piece of toast from my startled mother and hurtle out the front door, down the hallway, down the five flights of stairs. Behind me I can hear Les's confused shouting and my mother screaming at me to come back and take my brother to work. It's early, isn't it? About six thirty in the morning. I can make it. I have to make it.

My feet pound against the cobblestones as I race to the Lodging House, shoving the toast in my mouth, trying not to choke on the dry bread. I nearly knock over an elderly woman, apologizing beneath my breath as I dart away. Two more streets to go. There, there's the corner of the first street. There! There it is! I can see it now, the sign and the building. The familiarity of it brings hot tears to my eyes. What have I done?

Someone is sitting on the steps. Someone who looks remarkably like Snipeshooter, playing idly with a rock. He throws it up into the air and catches it, blocking my access to the door.

"Where're you'se goin' in such a hurry, Mouth?" Crane sneers at me.

"Out of the way, Crane," I growl, my face hardened into a scowl. The insolent boy just stares upwards, grinning.

"You should've seen 'im last night, Mouth. Didn't know what had hit him. Jack's in there right now, talkin' to Blink. I think he'll be the one to go next. Whaddya say?" His tone is so conversational that something inside me snaps. I lean down so that my face is inches away from his, then grab a fistful of his shirt and yank him to his feet.

"This isn't a game. Don't you see that? This was never a game!" I snarl at him, flecks of my spit landing on his cheeks and in his eyes. He winces, squirming in my hands.

"Lemme go!" He demands angrily, shoving at me with open hands. I drop him, watching with satisfaction as he hits the ground heavily, like a stack of wet papes. Crane watches me warily from his position, sprawled uncomfortably on the stairs.

"Not a game? Then maybe you shouldn't be winnin' all this," Crane says slowly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a fistful of coins. Shit. With that, we could afford a real doctor for my dad, maybe send Les back to school.

Who is more important to me? My family or my friends? Who have I known longer? Who cares more for me? Suddenly the solution is so clear that the day seems brighter.

"Right," I take the coins carefully into my pocket, trying to slow down my quickened breath. I tug my hat on over my curls, unbuttoning the top half of my shirt. "Blink, you said?"

"Yeah, Blink," The Harlem newsie replies nonchalantly. He winks at me and struts away.

I pause before banging on the door to the Lodging House. Kloppman lets me in, grumbling under his breath. He makes me swear that I won't go upstairs, that I will wait for the boys down here. I catch a glimpse of myself in the old man's glasses.

I look so certain, so unafraid. My pockets are heavy with money. Confidence flows out of every pore of my body.

Who am I?

I am David Jacobs, a newsie of Manhattan. The Walking Mouth, trusted advisor of Jack Kelly. Someone who knows what he wants from life. Someone who will do anything to achieve what he wants.

Yes, that's who I am.

But I'm also a traitor.

Breathe, David. Just breathe.