𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐄 | ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴʟᴏɴ

𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

"GOOD MORNIN' WEASEL."

Unfortunately, Weasel was not a quick thinker, he looked away from Jack and Crutchy and said, "No."

Frenchie bellowed with laughter. "Good one. I believe the correct response is Good morning, Frenchie."

"Oh, right," Weasel said. "No."

"Whatever. Give me 120." She slammed her money down on the counter.

"120 for Prissy Pants!" Weasel called. "Just as sassy as usual."

Frenchie's fingers froze on the counter, her fingernails digging into the wood. Apparently, Jack was having the same thought she was, because he asked, "What did you just say about my sister?"

"Nothing to do with you," Weasel said fondly. "Here are your papes, now take 'em."

Jack forced himself back to work, and Frenchie forced her hands off of the counter, but her mind was racing. Why was everyone saying all these horrible things about her—calling her names she didn't deserve? She didn't know what that meant, but she had to leave the interrogation to anyone else.

If she, Jack, and Crutchy were going to have any chance of finding new selling spots, then Frenchie had to move fast before the Delancey brothers came back with their fists bared. Frenchie looked up at the bell suspended right above the window.

She wished anyone could find a way to get out of this—maybe they'd all be in better situations. But it seemed that no one wanted to do anything extra. There was no way any other newsie had the time to get a second job, and besides, the headlines had been horrible.

The last part of her plan was the trickiest. Soon enough, she and Jack would be gone, just two siblings, and possibly another friend along for the ride. For the first time in a while, Frenchie had hope that they'd get to Santa Fe.

"These headlines suck," Frenchie said to Racetrack. "Well, maybe not the baby born with two heads."

"Must be from Brooklyn," he whispered.

Frenchie shook her head and took the morning paper out of his hands. "Don't say stuff like that about Brooklyn."

"Oh come on, French, why not?" Race asked her. "Scared Spot Conlon's gonna hear ya?"

"Oh, shut your yap," Frenchie told him. "Not everything in Brooklyn is about Spot Conlon."

"Sure," he said, turning his attention to the paper she had taken. "Alright."

"I like to think that..." she paused, "That Brooklyn is full of nice boys. Good ones."

Get me out of here, Frenchie prayed, and maybe I'll live to see another day.

A boy behind them kept talking, laying on the praise. "I paid for twenty, but I only got nineteen." Which Frenchie figured was bullshit, but he definitely sounded convincing.

"Are you accusing me of lying, kid?" Weasel said, though he sounded pleased.

"No," the boy said. "I—I just want my paper."

"He said beat it."

"No, it's nineteen, Weasel," Jack said, now standing by the window. "But don't worry about it, it's an honest mistake."

Frenchie grinned, standing up by her brother. "I mean, Morris cant count to twenty with his shoes on."

Morris grabbed the bars and slammed his head against the poles.