Author's Note: Hooray for Blink Week! I've never actually gotten to compete in one of these "Week" things, so I think it's pretty cool. Honestly, this is my first story totally centered around Blink, so I'm interested to see what people think. Ha, ha. Check out the rhyming. It's also part of my get-over-the-writer's-block plan I have, so that I can continue writing Twenty One. I'm just stuck, guys, and it's driving me nuts! Le sigh. Anyway.

Disclaimer: I don't own Kid Blink. Or Newsies. What would possibly make you even consider otherwise? Oh, yeah, and I don't own the title, either. It's a line from The Godfather: Part II, though it's totally unrelated to everything in this story. I think the character in the movie says it about a whore he was with who was killed ... But you didn't need to know that.

I Remember She Was Smiling

Kid Blink isn’t smiling today.

He’s sitting, curled up in the cold shell of himself that no one ever sees. He said he was going selling, and nobody doubted him. He said it and he walked away from the distribution wagon. Away from the jokes and the laughter. Away from his friends with only a dozen or more papers under his arm.

Kid Blink isn’t selling today.

He’s trudging up the tenement steps with the papers still under his arm. Some man drunk on the step asks for one. He gives it to him without taking the penny. The man probably didn’t have one, anyway. Besides the man, the stairwell is empty. Most people have left for work, for the factory or the grocery or wherever.

Kid Blink isn’t going to the factory today.

Maybe next year. Maybe not. He’s not thinking about it right now. The factory is in the future; his mind is in the past. He stops at a landing, and starts down the hall. Lights flicker pallidly against his face. It is dark, despite the heavy sunlight outside. He hears things: a baby’s plaintive cry, jacks snapping against the wooden floors, a fit of diseased coughing, a very un-diseased moan. Something scurries across his path. The something’s coarse, greasy hair brushes the toe that protrudes through his shoe, and sends a shiver racing up his spine. The heavy, poignant reek of humans living cramped together fills his nostrils with a suffocating toxicity. He’s glad he has reached the door.

Kid Blink isn’t seeing his father today.

His father is at the factory, and he knows he won’t be back for a very long time. He pulls a nail from his pocket and trips the lock. He knows this would upset his father, but his father is not here. He opens the door and walks inside. The kerosene lamps are not burning, but sunlight filters into the room through the window.

Kid Blink isn’t staring out the window today.

He walks right into the bedroom and lies down on the humble bed. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of lavender and vanilla. He turns his head to stare at a painted little box on the bed stand. He closes his eyes, and takes another deep breath.

Kid Blink is not a one-eyed newsie today.

He is five again, and his mother is brushing her hair. Long, soft, amber-colored waves that gleam like the gold about her finger in the lamplight. Somebody said he looked like her, but he didn’t remember whom. She is smiling. Singing quietly in a tone that would smell like lavender and vanilla, if it could. She turns to glance at him, and he pretends to be asleep. She smoothes a lock from his face. He does not stir.

Kid Blink isn’t Kid Blink today.

She says his name gently, and he opens his eyes. She ruffles his hair playfully, and tells him he should go to bed. Tells him she’ll be there to tuck him in in a minute.

Kid Blink isn’t stopping himself from crying today.

He leaves the room without a fuss and climbs into his cot in the living room. He lies there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her to come in. He hears something drop onto their fire escape, and he wonders if Mrs. Kubacek’s cat fell from her window again. He doesn’t like that cat. It only has one eye. He stays in bed. She doesn’t come in. He begins to feel afraid.

Kid Blink isn’t happy today.

His father comes home, and he feels better. He asks him, politely with a “sir”, to see why his mother hasn’t come in yet. His father looks suddenly worried, and rushes into the room. He hears him call her name. He hears him call his name. Quickly, he gets out of bed and hurries into the room. His mother isn’t there.

Kid Blink doesn’t love his mother today.

His father finds a note on her little painted box, and his face becomes dark and angry.

“Have you seen a man here before?” he demands harshly.

He is scared. “I don’t know.”

“This is important! Has a man come over before?”

He starts to cry. His father’s voice is frightening like this.

“I don’t remember…”

His father takes a breath for patience, and takes hold of his shoulders. He stares into his eyes, and he seems very, very serious. “Please, listen to me. Do you remember a man here? A man who isn’t me?”

He chokes on a sob, and shakes his head.

“Did she tell you she was going somewhere? Did she say she’d be back for you?”

He still cannot speak. He shakes his head again.

“She—she said she’d be here. To tuck me in. She said …”

His father’s eyes spark, almost happily. He takes another calming breath.

“You were with her? Tonight? And she told you she’d tuck you in?”

He is shaking with confusion and fear. “Uh-huh. In her—in your room.”

His father nods. “In my room. Was she putting clothes in a trunk, or in a sack?”

He shakes his head, wiping a trail of mucus from his nose.

“She was singing …”

His father’s expression falls, and he looks away. And he doesn’t know why he feels more sad than scared right now.

“Was she doing anything else? Do you remember?”

He thinks about this for a moment, but nothing that comes to his mind seems like the kind of answer his father wants. His confusion and wonder is knotting into a horridly difficult mess that he cannot figure out. His head hurts.

“I remember … she was smiling …”

Kid Blink isn’t naïve today.

He rolls away from the box, to his father’s side of the bed, and curls up as much as he can. He thinks about sleeping, but doesn’t. He thinks about a lot of things, but mostly lavender and vanilla and smiles and beautiful golden hair. He sits up, after a while, and doesn’t really move. He knows his friends will be wondering where he went, and want to know why he had gone.

Kid Blink isn’t telling them today.

He gets off of the bed and walks out of the room, looking around the living room for a brief moment. His cot is gone. It would be too small, anyway. He leaves the apartment, and the tenement house, before he realizes that he left his papers inside. He shrugs and starts walking toward Tibby’s.

Kid Blink isn’t selling today.

But his friends don’t need to know that. He keeps walking, wondering what his father will think of the newspapers. He thinks it could be amusing to see the expression on his face, and he keeps this thought to himself.

Kid Blink isn’t smiling today.