The Queen of Brooklyn~A Spot Conlon Fanfic

Chapter Six: A Talk With Spot

"So," Spot says as we sit on the dock, our legs dangling off the edge, "what's this about? The strike? Because if it is, I swear to God—"

"It's about the strike," I reply sheepishly. Spot rolls his eyes, clearly debating getting up and walking away. Needing him to stay, I drop the bomb. "Crutchie got taken to the Refuge today."

Spot stares at me for a second, then says, "Am I supposed to know who that is?"

"Y'know," I elaborate, "the skinny, scrappy kid with the crutch. His leg's weakened from polio?" When Spot still looks blank, I say, "He's one of my friends, okay? And now he's locked up at the Refuge with Snyder the Spider."

At the mentioning of Snyder's name, the color drains from Spot's face. He doesn't look scared...more like anxious. 

"Is...everything okay?" I ask him.

"Yeah. It's nothing." He fidgets with the tip of his cane.

"Spot, I can tell it's not nothing. I ain't stupid. Is everything okay?" I repeat. "What's wrong?"

He looks right at me, the color returning to his face, and says, "Youse ain't gonna give up 'till I start talkin', is ya."

"Nope. So you'd better tell me what's up." Woah—who am I, sass-talking Spot Conlon? But I guess it works, 'cause Spot sighs and stares out at the ocean for a minute. Then he turns to me and starts talkin'.

"Snyder and I go way back," he explains. "See, my childhood...wasn't the best. In fact, it sucked. My parents were alcoholics—they each drank at least a bottle a day. I don't remember a time when they weren't drunk." My eyes widen. Spot's not looking at me—he's still staring out at the ocean. "They were real abusive, too—even when they weren't drunk, which was rare. They'd hit me..." He rolls up one of his sleeves. A long white scar snakes its way up his arm.

"Oh my God," is all I can say. "Oh my God. How did..." I don't want to know the answer, but I ask the question anyway. "How did that happen?"

"My dad cut me with a shattered piece of glass from one of his bottles." Spot quickly rolls down his sleeve again, clearly regretting having showed me.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault." Spot rubs his sleeve for a second, right over the spot where his scar, then, without warning, picks up a pebble sitting on the deck and hurls it into the ocean.

"But..." I don't want to be nosy, but I need to know more. Spot's turning out to be...a lot different than I expected from him. Sure, I didn't wonder before how he became a newsie—I just figured his parents died like the rest of us. But I had no idea his childhood would have been so harsh. "How do you know Snyder because of that?"

Spot's eyes start to glisten with tears, and I'm shocked. Spot Conlon, crying? I'm tempted to reach over and hug him. But before I can, he starts talking. "My parents took me in the car when I was nine. They drove me around the city, tellin' me we were goin' on a 'field trip'." His voice breaks on the words 'field trip'. "They ended up takin' me to the Refuge. They treated it like it was an orphanage or something...I guess they were done with havin' a kid. And that's good!" Spot added, his voice rising. "That's good, because I was tired of being their...their punching bag!" Three more pebbles go into the ocean.

"So...what was life in the Refuge like?" I ask.

"Just as you'd expect. We barely got any food for dinner...just two slices of bread each. I had some friends there...Blue, G, Phantom, Fun-Size, Champ, and Race."

"Wait." The realization hits me hard. "Wait. Wait. Wait. Did you say Race?"

Spot nods. "Yeah...?"