Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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The Pigeon

He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,
David realizes that there has always been more at stake.

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The streets of Brooklyn might have ears, according to Teller, but she walked so lightly as we went along that it was as if she was afraid the very ground we were standing on was going to snitch that we were here. From the way she was treading our path so carefully I almost expected a Brooklyn newsie—Scotch or Spot’s, it didn’t matter—to jump out at us at any second, demanding to know what we were doing in their territory. They didn’t of course. We were as free to stroll down the crowded streets the same as anyone else.

But that didn’t make me feel any better about the situation; her cautiousness had already rubbed off on me. I found myself ducking ever so slightly, lowering my head so that Teller was even taller, skulking as we kept walking. It probably made me look extremely suspicious, more like I didn’t belong, but I didn’t stop it. Moving over to her other side, I hugged the smoke-stained brick wall, trying to be as inconspicuous at I could.

I caught Teller glancing over at me once and I’m pretty sure she rolled her eyes. I pretended not to notice. Besides, she was the one who was acting so strange. Paranoid, almost, and after she had insisted we continue on over the Brooklyn Bridge and into the other borough. After all, I was the one who had wanted to go back to Midtown.

At least I knew where I stood in Midtown…

My stomach was twisted up in knots, a mix of nerves and a fierce desire to go back and both confront the Sparrow and finally rescue my sister. This time I wouldn’t fail Sarah. This time I knew where the Pigeon was. This time—

So preoccupied with thoughts of finally ending this for once and for all, I barely noticed where we were heading. It had just been easier to follow Teller. I had a hunch that she was taking us to the docks—Spot Conlon loved to lord over those docks as if he was the King of New York—but, if she was, she was taking us another different way. I purposely chose to think that that was the case. I didn’t want to know what would happen if she had a second destination in mind.

There was another thing I didn’t notice at first either: though we’d passed countless corners and prime newspaper selling spots, I hadn’t seen a single newsie out hawking the headlines since we arrived. Yes, it was too late for the early morning edition paper and too early for the evening edition but, still, it was strange. There was always a stray newsie or two, no matter what borough, who sold his papes from sunup to sundown, only pausing to eat and sleep and buy his newspapers when the headlines changed.

But there wasn’t a single one out there. I stopped skulking around once I made that realization, straightening up so that I was about Teller’s height again. I felt foolish. Just who was I hiding from?

Teller, I think, noticed the vacant corners and the absent cries of kids trying to peddle their papers at about the same time that I did. Suddenly her steps weren’t so careful; her heavy shoes pounded the cobblestones of the pavement as she lengthened her stride. She was rushing to get to where she was going.

Trying to match her step—I didn’t dare get myself lost in this part of town—I quickened my pace enough so that I was standing right behind her. We were walking in a brisk single file, with me only a few steps in back of her. It was easier to keep in time with her hurried stride that way.

Her walk had switched from hesitant to agitated, just like that. Teller was clutching the folds of her long brown skirt, swishing it angrily as she strode forward even faster. Lifting the hem higher than was probably proper, I could see the tops of her heeled shoes—the ones that lent her even more height—as she clomped purposefully down the street.

I didn’t notice the slight wind until, somehow, it caught Teller’s skirt just as she gave one hard pull on the fabric. The breeze lifted the skirt up high before twisting the folds around her legs, nearly tripping her. But it was too late—I had already gotten quite the eyeful of the backs of her legs and the bottoms of her thighs before the skirt was back in place. I could feel my face start to heat up immediately. Oh, wow.

I didn’t know many girls apart from Mama and Sarah. There had never been an occasion to make acquaintances with some of the girls in lessons, and it was only recently that the fellas I knew from the lodging house started to bring their lady friends around. Accidentally—because I would never have done it on purpose—seeing so much of her leg was the most of any other girl I’d seen. And it was more than enough to set my heart racing, even if I wasn’t sure if it was out of nervousness or excitement.

I had only ever felt like this before whenever I followed Jack over to Irving Hall and caught a vaudeville show. But I couldn’t really count Medda as a girl, of course. Medda Larkson was beautiful and the costumes she wore left little to the imagination, but she was a performer, just like that girl over the Bowery Theatre was a performer. And, sure, Teller was a street girl, working for her own survival, but she was more respectable than an actress or a singer.

Besides, she was Teller.

And Teller, if she had any idea what sort of effect the sight of her bare leg had on me, would definitely have something to say to me about it. In fact, the last thing I needed was for her to catch me with my face so red, especially after she had caught me… well, sniffing her yesterday. Quickly, before she turned around to check if I was still following her, I had to do something about the redness. I had to focus on something else—anything, that is, but Teller’s skin.

At least that accidental glimpse had done one good thing: I wasn’t repeatedly thinking about the Sparrow and Sarah just then. It was as if everything, every thought I had, had been swept out of my head with that one gust of wind. For the first time since this morning I was free to reflect on how I was feeling.

Now I just needed not to reflect on certain feelings…

My blisters and the soles of my feet still ached, but that was nothing new. I’d gotten used to it—or, at least, it wasn’t my main concern. No, the empty, hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach was definitely more pressing. I was hungry. When was the last time I had really eaten?

I wanted to ask Teller about lunch but one further look at her back and my tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried to shake the feeling off but it didn’t work. And then I remembered what sort of restaurants Teller liked to frequent in Brooklyn and, suddenly, I wasn’t so hungry anymore.

Keeping up with her—the wind had conveniently disappeared and Teller’s skirt wasn’t tangled up in her legs, slowing her down—I contented myself with fixing my eyes on a point in the middle of the back of her blouse. It was a safe spot, one where I couldn’t see anything I shouldn’t if the wind started to pick up again. I did see that Teller had let go of the folds of her skirt, her hands hanging loosely at her side, and I worried that she knew what had happened only a few moments ago. She didn’t say anything but, just in case, I refused to look any lower.

Which was probably why, when the cobbles I was used to gave way to the wooden planks of the docks, I didn’t notice the change until I missed a step and fell forward, landing squarely (and quite foolishly) on my face.

“Clumsy,” Teller chided as she managed to turn just in time to see me fall at her feet. A playful sort of smile curving her lips, she shook her head slightly as she bent just enough to offer me her hand.

This time, when my face turned red, nothing I did made it fade. Because, as if my poor, battered feet had waited for the exact moment where I’d be the most humiliated to give out, when I stood up a whole group of Brooklyn newsies were jeering and laughing and even giving a rude catcall or two. I had the attention of each and every boy crowding the docks. If I didn’t look like a ripe tomato with curly hair, I’d be surprised.

I didn’t climb back to my feet right away. I wasn’t hurt—well, my pride was, but that was it—but I couldn’t find it in me to accept her help after I’d done something so stupid. After everything I’d done to get here, I just couldn’t believe that I had arrived flat on my face.

Teller squatted lower, her knees locked together as she patted my shoulder lightly. “Just ignore them,” she said clearly, sticking her hand back out so that it was within my reach.

Ignore them… that, I decided, was easier said than done.

But I couldn’t stay down forever, either. So, with a small sigh, I grabbed Teller’s hand—I hoped mine wasn’t so sweaty as I did—and let her pull me to my feet. The other boys immediately started to laugh, goofing off and still poking fun as I tried hurriedly to brush myself off. It was no wonder I hadn’t seen any newsies on the Brooklyn streets. From the roar of the laughter I had to think they were all on the docks, handy witnesses to the stupid way I fell.

Trying my best to ignore them like Teller told me to do, I didn’t want to lift my head and face them. When she pointedly dropped my hand and gestured for me to follow her down the dock, I knew I had to—and I was surprised at what I found. Just like I expected, there was a large grouping of newsboys up and down the dock, but there was definitely not as many as there had been that day last summer when I came with Jack to talk to Spot. To be honest, there wasn’t even as many boys today as there were the last time I was in Brooklyn and that was only two days ago.

And then it hit me. I knew exactly why the boys weren’t selling, just why they were gathered at the docks, and why their numbers looked almost halved: these were Spot’s boys. And they weren’t just milling about, waiting for some poor schmuck like me to give them an afternoon’s worth of entertainment. They were getting ready for war.

A street war for Brooklyn: Spot Conlon versus Scotch O’Reilly.

Oh, why wasn’t I back in school where I belonged…

The Brooklyn newsboys seemed to lose interest in poking fun at me when I didn’t answer back. As I followed Teller past the first bunch of them, trying hard not to start limping again—I could already hear the laughter starting up again if I showed the pain I felt—I couldn’t believe it but not one of them said another word to me.

Of course, that could be because I was with Teller and they were wondering what she was doing back in Brooklyn… or because, all of a sudden, I heard a piercing whistle coming from across the way. I—and every other boy plus Teller—turned in time to see Spot Conlon waving us over to him.

Well, at least he was at the docks.

Spot’s whistle did two things: he let me and Teller know where he was and he let his boys know that he was, if not expecting us, willing to talk to us. He recognized our approach and, like that, the rest of the boys left us alone. They went back to what they were doing—talking and standing around and basically just waiting—as if we weren’t even there. Which, I have to say, suited me fine.

He was not too far off from where we were. Teller fell back, letting me take the lead as we picked our way towards him. As we drew closer, it was easy to see that Spot wasn’t alone. With his cowboy hat pulled low to cover his eyes, Jack was standing just behind Spot when we got to them.

“Hey, Mouth.”

It was Spot who greeted us first. Or, I guess, he greeted me first because, like most of his boys, he was pretending like he couldn’t see Teller walking with me.

“Hiya, Davey,” Jack added, raising his hand so he could flip his hat back some. I don’t know if I’d just been too tired to notice it this morning but the dark circles under his eyes were even more noticeable now.

I wondered what happened to him since we separated early this morning but quickly decided that it probably wasn’t a good idea to ask. At any rate, I hadn’t come to ask him any questions. I’d come to tell him—to tell Spot—all about my meeting with the Sparrow. And that was just what I intended to do.

But, first, I greeted them both with a nod, unsure how to open the conversation. Teller, I noticed, said nothing at all.

Jack waved his hand over at me. “You okay?”

I knew he was talking about what had just happened even if I couldn’t understand how he’d gotten a good look at my clumsiness, standing in the shadows of the crates piled up on this side of the dock as he was. My answering grin was sheepish. “I’m fine.”

“Quite a fall,” Spot pointed out, a gruff and tired edge to his voice. Tanned enough, I couldn’t see any circles underlying his brilliant eyes, but there was a good amount of redness to them that made it simple to see that he hadn’t gotten anymore sleep than the rest of us—if any at all. He snorted then, sounding nowhere near amused. “The docks are hard,” he said, “even for someone as hard-headed as you.”

There was something in the way that Spot made his comment that told me he didn’t find my stumble half as funny as his newsies did. He was frowning, his well-known smirk eerily absent, and I knew that he wasn’t glad to see me.

I was right.

Spot’s fingers were absently plucking at his pale red suspenders. “Jacky tells me you went to Midtown,” he announced, jerking his head back at Jack. Jack conveniently dropped his chin, his hat falling forward until all I could see was the brim.

“I did,” I agreed, a little confused. I heard the hesitation in my own voice and I mirrored his frown. I had expected that much, at least. When I left Jack in order to follow Georgie, I knew that Jack was going off to find Spot. There was no doubt in my mind then that Jack would tell Spot about everything that happened that morning—so why was Spot making a point of checking Jack’s story?

“Alone,” Spot added, his fingers picking up a rhythm as he rapped them along the edge of his cane.

Warily, I watched his hand twitch. I had the sinking suspicion that what Spot wanted to be hitting more than his cane was my poor face. “Yes…”

“To meet with the Sparrow.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I just nodded.

Spot was nodding, too. Slowly, bobbing his head up and down, he was nodding as he narrowed his gaze, staring at something that was over my shoulder. He wasn’t glaring at me so much as he was glaring at the rest of the world. “And you’re here now,” he finished, his teeth clenched angrily and his hand now folded into a fist so tight that his tanned knuckles were turning white, “and you brought this girl back with you. But one question for ya: where the hell is Sarah? Huh, Mouth?”

This time there was a thing or two I could say but, suddenly, I didn’t want to tell Spot anything. Not what happened when I followed Georgie into Midtown, not what happened when I came face to face with the Sparrow… and certainly not what happened when I had to leave Sarah behind in that dank, dirty cellar the served as her cage. I didn’t like the way he kept his voice low and hoarse as he spoke to me, or how he treated Teller because she had had the nerve to accompany me back into Brooklyn.

I didn’t want to tell Spot anything, but I had to say something.

But what? Because, if there was one thing that I was sure of—even more than this was all the darn Sparrow’s fault—it was that telling Spot Conlon I chose to leave Sarah behind in order to come see him was the last thing I wanted to do…

Author's Note: Ah, poor Davey. Not quite the welcome he'd hoped for, huh?

-- stress, 09.20.09