My Manhattan Goil

"Extra! Extra! Man found dead in apartment! Oi, pretty, youse want a pape?" called that handsome guy from the Lodge, Racetrack.

"Wow, Racetrack, youse really don't know who Ise is? It's Y/N Kelly!" you replied.

"Oh, sorry doll! Anyway, I can't sell my last pape."

"Give it! If I sell it in five minutes, I get a kiss. Deal?" you ask.

"Deal." he finished, with winning in his eyes.

Needless to say you sold it. He took you down to the track and handed you a cigar. You didn't take it, but yanked the one he was smoking right out of his mouth and planted a kiss on his lips. "So, youse wanna be my goil?" Race asked.

"Was it that obvious? Ise has loved you for a while now! Ise has made every excuse in the woyld to come here with you, waiting for you to catch on. Now, hand me a cigar, will ya?" You replied.

"No! I ain't lettin my goil smoke!" He exclaimed.

"I won't smoke if you don't smoke. Deal?"
"Anything for my Manhattan goil." Race finished, turning his head back toward the racing horses.

From that day on, you never saw Racetrack smoke another cigar, and from that day forward, not another cigar touched your lips. Only his lips hit yours. The two of you were totally in love. The other newsies loved you, except when you made more money than them. Everyone would always support Racetrack Higgins and his Manhattan goil.

Everyone, that is, except for Spot Conlon. Now, every newsie that could sell a newspaper knew that Spot had a crush on Race, and a big one at that. He always had. So, as per expected, you completely panicked when you saw the King of Brooklyn at Sheepshead one foggy Wednesday afternoon, after you had been dating for about a month. "So, youse is the goil the Manhattan's won't shaddup about?" he asked.

"That's me!" You said. "The name's Y/N Kelly, and I'm Jack's sista. Of course, I could sell more papers than him on any given day, but that's not my job."

"Just gonna say, I'm okay with you dating Race. As long as he's happy. I'm disappointed, of course, but I still love him even if you two are dating." Spot said as soon as Racetrack looked away. Phew! If he supported you, then everyone would support you. Spot's word is law.

That night, the horse you bet on won, and you got two whole bucks. You decided to take Racetrack out to dinner. It was the best meal either of you had ever had. As you wandered home, you began singing.

"Dang, Y/N! You have a set of pipes, don'tchya?" He asked.

"Oh, shaddup! I can't sing at all!" You exclaimed. "Either way, I was singing about Santa Fe. *begins singing* They say folks is dying to get here. Me, I'm dyin to get away to a little town out west that's spankin new. And while I ain't never been there, I can see it clear as day, and if you want, I'll betchya you can see it too. Close your eyes, come with me, where it's clean and green and pretty and they went and made a city out of clay. Where your friends are more like family, and they's begging you to stay. Ain't that neat? Livin sweet in Santa Fe. Where's it say you gotta live and die here? Where does it say a goil can't catch a break? Why should you only take what you're given? Why should spend your whole life living trapped where there ain't no future, even at 17, breaking your back for someone else's sake? If the life don't seem to suit ya., how 'bout a change of scene? Far from the lousy headlines and the deadlines in between? Santa Fe, my old friend! I can spend my whole life dreamin, although I know that's all I seem inclined to do. I ain't getting any younger, and I wanna start brand new! I need space, and fresh air! Let 'em laugh in my face, I don't care! Save my place! I'll be there. Just be real, is all I'm asking, not some painting in my head, 'cause I'm dead if I can't count on you today. No, I've got nothing if I ain't got Santa Fe!"