Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I don't own Tumbler, Skittery or anyone else in this story except for Tumbler's family. I only own the plot.

Author's Note:

So this is my one-shot entry for Tumbler week '09 (Yay!) I've been looking forward to this for awhile!

Let me know what you think XD

I was always afraid of thunder, ever since I was small. Smaller than I am now, I mean. I'm eight but I still look awfully small.

But even when I was six and I wasn't Tumbler yet, I was still afraid of storms. Back then during thunder storms my mommy and I would bundle ourselves up in blankets and hunch down under our bed with the oil lamp on the floor and we'd whisper, and we'd sneeze from all the dust that flew up our noses. She didn't like the thunder either, maybe that's why I don't, but I'm not sure.

I just remember that warm, safe feeling of hiding in a small space, and pressing my nose into my mommy when the thunder got real loud. She'd whisper my name, Duncan, into my hair and kiss my forehead.

I remember crying the first storm after my mommy died. I was all alone and I was outside and I was so scared. The thunder was crashing around and the rain had soaked my clothes. I was shaking and crying and snot was running down my face. It was awful. I ran and ran and ran until I found this little tiny crate, just big enough for me to squeeze into.

I crawled inside and I closed my eyes and I wished and pretended so hard that I was back home. I just sat with my eyes closed and with the box around me, and played like I was warm and the box was my blanket, my bed, and my mommy all in one.

It was almost like it was, but my mommy was warm and soft.

Except for that last day. That last day when I woke up and she wasn't warm at all; she wasn't really Mommy. She was cold and stiff and her eyes were staring out at nothing.

I didn't tell anyone at first. I went to school and came home and checked and my mommy was still laying there, cold and unmoving. Her blond hair was hanging off the edge of the bed and the breeze through the open window made it swing, like hundreds of nooses. I lit the lamp and asked her to get on the floor with me, Mommy, I'm scared, Mommy and I want to see if hiding under the bed will help.

She wouldn't move. Her weight made the space between the mattress and the floor tighter and smaller, but I fit. I was always small. I got under the bed by myself and I curled up and I sneezed and I whispered to her, even though she was up at the top of the bed and I was underneath.

"It's not the same, Mommy," I told her, "Please come down here with me." She just didn't say anything and I started crying. I crawled out from under the bed and she just started at the ceiling. I pulled on her arm and she just rocked. I pulled harder and harder until she fell out of bed and she lay there on the floor. Dust didn't swirl under her nose. She's didn't get sneezes and giggle about it. Her eyes just kept staring, blank and cold.

I shook her then. "Come on, Mommy, get under the bed, Mommy, please. I'm scared and cold." She still wouldn't move. I touched her face and her head turned, but not toward me, it lulled over, staring at the floor. I hid under the bed with my back to her and I cried and cried.

She still didn't move, but now I wouldn't touch her. I promised myself I wouldn't touch her again.

The next morning at school I told my friends that my mommy was dead and they laughed and told me I was lying. I told the teacher and she patted my head and gave me a sad look. I guess she thought she'd been dead awhile, I don't know. All I know is no one would help me.

When I was walking home from school I knocked on the door next to ours, the Moretti's. Mommy used to smile and talk to Dominic Moretti every time she saw him in the hall. I knocked on the door and Dominic answered. When he saw me there he squeezed out of his apartment and shut the door behind him quickly. I told him about my mommy and his face fell. He asked to see her and I took him to her. He leaned over her and brushed her blond hair out of her face and closed her eyes and stroked her cheek. He had tears in his dark eyes when he turned back to me. "Duncan," He said, "What happened?"

I told him I didn't know. She was coughing some the last days, but we just went to sleep and the next morning she was cold. He let his head hang between his shoulders and he cried. I cried too. "How old are you, Duncan?" He asked, "Six right?"

I nodded, rubbing my sleeve across my snotty face. "How old are you?" I asked. I had to ask twice before he looked at me and muttered an answer: Twenty-two. "You were sixteen when I was born." I told him, because I had just been learning to subtract.

He looked up at me and blinked, "Sixteen. I was only sixteen." He looked down at my mommy and touched her cheek again. "We were so young." He mumbled. I didn't understand and it made me angry at him. I wanted him to stop touching my mommy and I wanted him to stop mumbling.

"What are you going to do?" I asked him. He said we had to get her buried. "What about me?" He looked at me with sad eyes, and shook his head.

"I wish I had a papa," I told him.

He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands and cried and cried. I didn't understand why, but Skittery told me once.

He says that he thinks Dominic is my father, because I'm Italian and Mommy wasn't, so my papa had to be. I said I didn't understand how, because Dominic didn't live with us and Skittery just patted my head and told me to ask him later.

When I asked him again that night he laughed and he told me he meant in a few years.

When Dominic stopped crying he wiped the tears off his face. He breathed a little then wiped the tears off my face too, and hugged me. It was awkward and stiff and cold but I didn't pull away. When he pulled back he shook his head, "I don't know what to do with you." He said, "I guess we'll have to find an orphanage."

Mommy had told me about orphanages. She told me if I left her during market day or didn't stay close when I was playing outside that someone could steal me and take me to the orphanage. It was a bad, bad place. Mommy had lived there when she was little, and she told me stories. I wasn't going to go there.

I kicked Dominic in the knee as hard as I could and I ran out of the apartment, tearing down the stairs. Dominic didn't even call after me, but when I got to the street I still ran until it hurt to breathe and my mouth felt hot and dry.

I walked around the city alone and cold and scared. I worried someone would grab me and put me in an orphanage, but I didn't know where to go. I walked and walked until the thunder storm came and I found that little crate.

When the rain stopped pouring and it just dripped, dripped, dripped into the crate through the slats I crawled out. I was wet and cold and I hadn't eaten since my mommy started staring at nothing. I started crying again and walking down the street wishing for someone to come up to me and hold me and tell me it was alright. Wishing for someone to give me food and a good bed to hide under.

I tripped, falling down onto my hands and knees and I cried even harder. My hands started bleeding and I was so cold. I stared at my wrinkly, blue fingers and my pink bleeding palms and cried and cried. I stood up again and kept walking.

I saw it then, an apple core. Brown and putrid and perfect. When I picked it up it was mushy and made my hands sticky and it bubbled where I touched it. I ate it anyway, then I got sick on the street.

I kept walking. It was getting dark again, and I didn't see any crates to hide in.

I wanted my mommy.

I kept walking until I just couldn't anymore and I fell again, on the sidewalk. I didn't want to move so I just closed my eyes.

"Whoa," I heard a voice say, "You okay there?"

A boy leaned over me. He was older than me, fifteen or so, and his eyes looked sad and worried. I started crying and I pushed the boy away, "Don't touch me!" I tried to yell, but it just sort of bubbled in my throat.

"It's okay, I won't hurt you." The boy said.

He sat down a stack of newspapers and leaned back on his heels. He took off his cap and pushed his hand through his greasy brown hair. "You got parents or someone?"

I didn't want to tell him anything. If he knew I didn't have anyone he'd send me to the orphanage. I stood up and tried to run away but I was too dizzy. I took a few running steps and fell again.

"You're quiet the little tumbler, huh?" The boy said with the hint of a sad smile.

I kept crying and held my knee, it hurt so bad. I hoped the boy would leave me alone. I just wanted to be home with my mommy, under the bed with our noses pressed to each other and whispering about the thunder. Instead I just cried.

The boy sat down, a little ways away from me, and I saw him lean back so he could stick his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a nickle and glanced at me. He put his newspapers next to me, "Watch these, please?" He said going into the bakery behind us.

I thought about running, I really did. But I was cold and dizzy, and my knee hurt, and my hands stung, and he had left me in charge of his stuff, and I just couldn't. He came back out a little while later and handed me a warm roll and a cookie. He didn't have anything for himself. I ate it all and wished I had eaten it slower, because I felt a little sick. He smiled at me and it was a nice smile.

"How old are you, kid?" He asked me.

I told him I was seven. I don't know why I lied for sure, maybe I thought he wouldn't hurt me if I was older. He stuck his hand out and shook mine.

"I'm Skittery. How about you? You got a name?" He asked lifting his eyebrows to the brim of his cap.

I didn't tell him my name then, even if he was nice and gave me food, I didn't trust him.

I shook my head.

"Tumbler," He said, "I'll call you Tumbler, unless you have a better idea." He watched me for a second. I just didn't say anything. I wasn't feeling so good.

I started really wishing I hadn't eaten so fast, because I was feeling more and more sick. Skittery said something to me, but I couldn't understand him. Everything just sort of buzzed around me and I felt so sick and dizzy and eating had just made me feel worse. I felt really, really sick now.

I threw up on his papers.

I wanted to apologize, but my mouth felt heavy and the words were too gummy and thick to come out. I remember looking up at Skittery and seeing his eyes go wide.

I don't remember what happened next.

Skittery told me that I passed out, and he had to carry me to the Newsboys Lodging House. Skittery always teases me about heavy I was for how little I looked, then he ruffles my hair and grins.

But I don't remember any of it. I just remember waking up in the Lodging House and it was dark and I was scared and I didn't know where I was.

I was on a top bunk, above Skittery. When I realized how high up I was, I got scared and decided to get down to the floor. I tried to step down on the bunk where Skittery was sleeping and I sorta missed the edge with my one foot and I fell flat on the floor. It hurt and I couldn't breathe for a second but I didn't care. I crawled under the bunk with the blanket someone had left on me and I hugged it, wishing it was my mommy.

"Hey," Skittery hissed, "What'er you doing under there?" He peeked under the bed, his curly hair hanging down as he looked at me upside-down from the bunk.

"I'm scared," I told him.

He smiled, a little sad, and got on his belly on the floor, slithering under the bed to meet me. He laughed quietly as he lay with his face against the dusty floor. There just wasn't enough room for his lanky teenage body.

"So, is this your place?" He asked.

I giggled a little and he grinned at me through the dark air.

We lay under there for a real long time.

I remember I cried when I thought about my mommy, and Skittery says I whispered for her and whimpered a lot. I don't really remember if I did, but Skittery doesn't lie about stuff like that.

What I remember most was watching Skittery.

He was staring at the wooden slats that held the moldy mattress in place above us. I could see his cheeks were shiny, like he'd been crying too. I remember it made me happy and sad all at once that he'd been crying but he hadn't grabbed onto me. When mommy would cry, she'd grab me and hold me and squeeze me so tight, like I was the only thing that'd keep her alive. The only thing that could bring her back.

It was scary sometimes. It was too much for me to be and too much for me to carry, but I couldn't have told her that, and now she was gone.

"Wanna rejoin the living?" Skittery asked me finally, wiping the almost dry tears off his face.

I nodded and scooted out from under the bunk and watched him crawl out after me and shake the dust from his hair. I giggled again. He smiled when he saw me laughing and made a face at me, sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes.

I fell down laughing and could hear him start to laugh, too. I was just so tired, and I so relieved that he hadn't taken me to the orphanage, that everything felt funny and nice.

"Har, har, har." A voice called across the room, "Can your little giggle fit wait until morning?"

"Aww," Skittery whined, "Come on, Race, don't be so glum and dumb! We're having fun." Skittery ruffled my hair.

"Be quiet!" Another voice hollered.

"Go to sleep!" Someone else chimed.

The rest of the newsies called out their own ideas until finally Kloppman had to come up the stairs. He told me and Skittery to get into bed and told the rest of the boys to all be quiet.

Skittery let me sleep on the bottom bunk so I wouldn't be so scared.

I did good for awhile. I sold with the newsies and I only cried at night and I only hid under the bed when I was real scared.

It wasn't until a few months later that I started to realize how much I still missed my mommy. I kept thinking I saw her and would run away from the person I was selling with to follow her and when it wasn't my mommy I would cry and cry. I would come back from selling and have to crawl under a bunk and I didn't come out even to eat. The newsies all tried to keep me happy, but I was so sad and I needed my mommy too much.

One day I finally told Skittery that I wanted to find her grave.

Every day after selling he'd take me around to different graveyards and I'd walk through and stare at each tombstone trying to find her. Skittery kept asking what her name was so he could look too but I didn't want him to know it. I kept thinking about Dominic touching my mommy's face and it made me angry and I didn't want Skittery knowing her name. She was my mommy.

It was over a week before I found her.

Her grave had a sprinkling of new grass on the top but it was still mostly dirt from when they buried her. I put my hand against cold short block of stone that had her name carved into it. I realized that Dominic must have buried her here and I got angry. I kicked the stone because it was Dominic's. He had touched my mommy's face and he had closed her eyes and he had buried her and he might have been my papa but he was going to put me in an orphanage.

He didn't love me. No one loved me.

I started screaming. I yelled at Mommy for not getting under the bed with me and I yelled at Dominic for touching my mommy's face but not loving me. I yelled at him and told him how much I hated him.

Skittery stood behind me quietly and let me scream and cry and pull out the grass on Mommy's grave.

I was so tired I finally sunk into the dirt and lay there with my face against the ground, imagining my mommy sleeping underneath the dirt.

I remembered being under the bed all alone and how much I needed her, and thought she must feel the same. I wanted to feel the warm safe feeling of being hidden under the earth. No one could hurt you there and the thunder was nothing but noise. I wanted to be with her.

I needed to be with her.

I dug my fingers into the warm dirt and scooped up handful after handful. I dug, and dug, and dug until my fingers started to bleed from all the rocks and sticks and hard clumps of dirt. I threw the dark soil behind me and ignored all the bugs and worms that slithered around in my hands. I just knew I had to get to her.

It was too deep. I tried to dig but I got too tired and I just couldn't do it. I stopped digging and watched the little pricks of blood on my fingers and I started wailing. Screaming and crying all over again.

"You okay, Tumbler?" Skittery asked.

I picked up a sharp rock that had already cut my fingers and I weighed it in my hand before I stood up, turned around, and I threw it at Skittery. "I hate you," I told him through my tears.

Skittery closed the space between us and he got on his knees in the dirt and hugged me against him. I let my hot, tear slicked face dig into the collar of his dingy shirt and I just cried with all I had in me. He fell backwards a little and ended up sitting on the brown grass. He pulled me into his lap and rocked me and hummed. I felt his tears drip down in my hair and onto my ears, but I didn't mind.

We stayed there for a long while, well past dark. We had both stopped crying but were just sitting, exhausted and cold and staring at my mother's grave.

"I don't hate you," I choked out between shuddering breaths, "Or Dominic."

"I know, kid." He said, his voice was hoarse and tired sounding. "I knew it even when you said it."

We sat a little while longer. I sat down next to him, rested my face against his arm.

A warm breeze rustled through the tall grass and the few trees that were jutting up from the ground. I felt Skittery's arms tighten when a flash of lightening lit up the clouds, but there wasn't any thunder.

"We should head back," He said.

I nodded and started to get up but I was still tired.

He ended up picking me up and carrying me all the way back to the Lodging House again. He never says if I was heavy then or not. Maybe I was lighter after I had cried so much grief out of me. I don't know.

I haven't thought I saw my mommy again, not since that night.

Skittery's happy for me, and sometimes he still takes me to my mommy's grave. Sometimes he takes me to other people's graves, too. To his mommy and papa, and his little brother, and his older sister, and all the babies that his parents had that died real young, and lots of other people.

Sometimes I take Race or Specs or Mush to visit my mommy, but it's not the same.

I haven't seen my mommy again, but I did see Dominic once.

I was already eight, and I had gotten used to everything. I didn't cry as much and only got under the bed on really bad days. That was I saw Dominic and he didn't even know me.

I was selling with Mush and I ran off when I saw Dominic coming out of an apartment building. He had a woman with him and she held a baby. I grabbed at Dominic and tried to talk to him and he sorta shoved me back and handed me a penny and took a paper.

I didn't go back to Mush, instead I just went back to the Lodging House. I must of looked pretty upset because that night Skittery asked, and asked what was wrong until I told him.

When I told it all to Skittery he muttered curses under his breath about Dominic and it made me feel better. Even if I don't know I agree with what he said, it was nice to have someone angry for me.

I cried pretty hard that night but I didn't get under the bunk until it started to thunder. But I didn't like how dark, and itchy, and hot it was under the bunk. It made me remember my mommy staring up at the ceiling and then it made me remember Dominic crushing me in a stiff, cold hug and it made me angry. I got out from under the bunk and crept across the shadowy room.

The room was still and warm and I could hear the boys' sleeping noises. I got to Skittery's bed and perched on my tip-toes at the edge of the bottom bunk, lifting up to see Skittery sleeping on the top. I teetered on the very tips of my bare feet and clung to the wooden frame around the mattress staring at Skittery as a flash of lightning lit up his sleeping face.

"Skittery," I hissed, "Skittery, I'm scared!"

Skittery moaned.

"Skittery!" I said again.

"I thought you liked to hide under the bed, not climb to the top." He whispered lazily.

"I wanna be with you." I told him.

Skittery opened one eye and looked at me, he frowned, defeated. "Fine," He muttered.

I tried to swing my leg up, but I couldn't make it all the way there and my arms were too weak to lift my body weight.

"I can't get up, Skittery."

"Use the ladder," He muttered just before another crash of thunder. I clenched my fingers deeper into the thin mattress, too afraid to let go for a second.

"I can't get down."

"Can you sleep standing up?" Skittery teased.

"Please!" I whined, getting more and more nervous as the lightning pulsed outside the dirty Lodging House window.

Skittery sighed and sat up, grabbing my upper arms and hoisting me onto the bunk before collapsing back. I slid in next to him and put my face on his pillow and sighed.

"Uhg, Tumbler! Your breath smells awful!" Skittery said.

I giggled and turned so my back was to Skittery instead.

"Okay, don't fall." Skittery whispered, closing his eyes.

I lay there for a long time thinking.

I hadn't really realized that I'd been holding on to the idea of Dominic, but I was. I was still holding onto the idea of him changing his mind and being my papa. But now that I knew for sure it was over, and he'd never come for me, and he didn't love me, I was also sure of something else. I was sure of Skittery, and I wanted to show him that I was.

"Duncan," I whispered.

"Hmm?" Skittery mumbled.

"My name's Duncan." I said.

Skittery's eyes opened and he smiled sleepily, "Love you, kid." He muttered, pulling me against him.

It was times like this I was so glad that I'd run so hard, and eaten that cookie so fast, and thrown up on Skittery's papes. I knew that Skittery was going to be there for me. There to lift me up and out from under the bed and into the world.

"I love you too, Skittery." I said.

The thunder kept roaring outside, but I knew I was safe with Skittery.

Even without hiding under the bed.

A/N: Please remember to review!