Paperboy

The winter wind was blustery that night, and it swept leaves and twigs in the air like a big bully.


A boy stood in the middle of the street, his shoes dusty with use and his hair a messy, greasy mop of black curls. His green eyes glinted intelligently though, and he scampered off at the sound of footsteps. He ducked into an alley, inhabited only by an old tabby, clutching a large stack of fairly new looking newspapers.


“Where is he, the little bugger?” A voice roared. The little boy squeezed smaller into a little gap between cardboard boxes.


“I think I saw him run that way,” a second voice called from afar. The boy sighed, with relief, and then immediately stiffened as he saw one boy c*** his head toward his little hiding spot.


“Did you hear that?” This boy’s voice was higher, breathy and whiny. The little boy, only about six or seven grimaced at the voice. He knew that voice. Brandon.

Brandon the bully, Brandon the mean, Brandon, Brandon, Brandon. Henry looked at a small, C shaped scar on his arm, he had gotten it from a fight with Brandon, another time when Brandon had caught him stealing his newspapers.


The little boy darted out of his crevice, his small figure a blur, one arm wrapped around his stack of loot. He sucker punched the other boy – Brandon – in the nose and then darted off.


“There he is!” Brandon yelled, shrill, as soon as he recovered from his shock, and massaged his nose dolefully. But it was too late. As soon as they had rounded yet another corner, and city traffic blocked the way to the other side. There was no sign of the boy, or the papers.

Henry dived through the little hole in the side of the abandoned tenement and pulled the blanket covering the entrance behind him. He sighed in relief as he heard the bigger boys’ voices grow softer and softer.

“Darn, he got away,”

“Well we can’t git the bugger now, he’s with John.”

“We should get outta here, we ain’t supposed to be on this side of the highway.”

The voices trailed away, and Henry sat back happily.

He clicked on the cracked lightbulb and pulled out the newspapers he had stolen from the boys.
The tenement had not been used for many years, but to be safe, Henry- and all the other boys had constructed a large-ish stack of crates around the holes they used to get in and out, so that no one could see them leaving if someone came into the tenement. He spread out the papers he had stolen. Good. They were very recent, possibly even early! He glanced at the date in the corner. He pumped his fist excitedly. It was tomorrow’s news, instead of yesterday’s! The bigger boys must have stolen these from the printer’s.
Henry grinned.
“Henry?” A face poked through the blanket used to cover a gaping hole in the stack of crates he had constructed. Henry smiled and sat up.
“John!” Henry smiled adoringly at the older boy. This was Henry’s crew. John had found Henry about a year ago, shivering in the cold of the NYC streets, and had picked him up. Henry had been out all night in the freezing cold air.
John had brought Henry to the tenement and helped him construct a little home near the hole. All the boys in the crew had one, and Henry had the wall leading out into a little back alleyway, he liked his entrance because it was right next to a small, dingy restaurant, and sometimes he was able to sneak in the kitchen and steal some scraps. Not very often though, and one time he had been caught, and the chef beat him over the back with a spoon.
But ever since then, someone had been putting food out in the alleyway almost every evening. Henry slipped out to check. Sure enough, a bit of bread and butter had been put out. Henry tore into it ravenously.
“Henry!” John’s voice called.
Henry darted back in and deposited the food safely in his little food crate.
“John?”
“Show us the papers you stole! Did Brandon’s crew give you any trouble?” John gave him a once over to check for black eyes and such, but Henry was fine, just cold, and John grinned.
“Guess what guys?” Peter said excitedly as carrying the papers from his crates.
“What is it?” Peter’s face appeared from around the corner.
“They’re tomorrow’s papers! No wonder Brandon’s boys were so ripping mad!”
The boys crowed with excitement,
“Alriiight!” John exclaimed, “Good work bud,” He ruffled Henry’s hair and Henry puffed with pride.
John was like an older brother to Henry. Henry had no one, and then there was John, who had swooped in and rescued him.
Henry grinned and crawled back into his little crate. He lay down, it was dark out now, and getting colder by the second. The stars winked outside the tenement and Henry stared up at his little stack of crates. I wish I may, I wish I might, Henry always made a wish, every night. The same wish, without fail. Even when he wasn’t watching the stars he made the same wish.
… Have this wish I wish tonight.
I wish that my parents would come and take away all the boys to live in their mansion.
“Henry?” A boy with tousled and matted brown hair peeked through the crates. His eyes were wide and brown, and he had a thin, frail body.
“Oh hallo Bobby,” Henry rolled over and made room for Johnny to lie down on the mess of blankets on the floor. “Wots up?”
“Oh, nuffin,” Bobby sniffed casually. He situated himself comfortably on the bed.
“Hmm”
“Hmm”
“Hmm…”
“Henry?”
“Wots it, Bobby?”
“You ever wonder about, your mum and dad?” Bobby pulled a ragged sleeve across his drippy nose and coughed. It was a cold winter. “You know, like your parents? Before John?”
“Yeah,” Henry tried to sound indifferent, but his parents were always on his mind.
“Well what if…”
“Yeah?”
“Never mind.”
“Naw really, you can keep going,” Henry said, his ears pricked.
“What if you could find out everything about your parents by going through your orphanages files?” Bobby sounded excited, but Henry knew he’d never try it, Bobby liked talking about crazy daring things, but he wasn’t into doing them. For that matter, he wasn’t all that interested in his parents either.
Henry remembered the orphanage. It was a crammed, hot place. And the boys there hadn’t been very nice at all. Nothing like John. But Henry had grown up there, and when he was four, he had been adopted by a foster family in Brooklyn, and Henry had hated it.
The lady was very fat and she had always insisted on hugging Henry so tight that he felt rather as if he was going to pop. But she treated him rather like a doll, and her husband often hit him with his belt when Henry had done something wrong.
Henry remembered that he had run away when he was five. The mother was in the bathtub and singing a ridiculous song. Henry went out the door, shuddering at the sight of his ‘father’s’ belt. ‘Father’, as he was made to call him, was out in the factory, overseeing dozens of boys and girls working studiously on their machines.
Henry didn’t like the house, with it’s cigarette smell and the pain of sharp leather against his back.
Henry slipped silently out the door and ran until he was too tired to go on and began walking. He slept that night on a fire escape, with his oversized jacket pulled around him.
He continued to wander around the city, until one day he wandered over the Brooklyn Bridge and that night, while he was shivering on the streets of Manhattan, he was picked up by John and his crew of misfit ‘newsies’, though they weren’t really.
Ever since then, Henry had been with John and ever since then, even though Henry was only seven, Henry had always wondered who his real parents were, and why they had left him.
I wonder what they’re doing now…
“Henry? Henry…. Henry?”
“Wha-What?” Henry sat up, he rubbed his eyes sleepily.
“It’s time to get up, we gotta get some papers sold!” Bobby was shaking Henry, hard.
Henry rolled over and swiped some drool off his chin. He rubbed his eyes once more and pushed Johnny out.
“Okay, Okay,” He stretched as well as he could and bit off a piece of the bread he had saved from the night before. It was a bit stale, but Henry had eaten much nastier stuff.
Henry pulled a stack of papers out of his crate and shuffled outside. It was cold and the air bit at his nose until it was red and numb.
Henry took a small stack, hoping to get it all done early because he had decided he was going to risk getting put back into a foster home and check out his past.
Henry widened his eyes, and put on a quivering smile and a small, vulnerable sounding voice.
He sold his papers faster than anyone else, and most of his victims were women.
Henry wandered over to a crosswalk and tugged on a young woman’s dress.
“Scuse me ma’m?”
She turned and looked down at him, “Yes hon?” Her voice was thick and overly sweet.
“I got a little lost from my group and I’m lookin for the orphanage, can you please help me?” Henry smiled winningly.
“Ohhhh, Of course I can help you,” the woman crooned, “It was very responsible of you to come to an adult.” She lectured him just in the way (Henry supposed) grownups were taught to do.
Henry rolled his eyes, he may have been young but he had his street smarts, and the only reason he had come to an adult was because Brandon and Co. wouldn’t try to get back at him if he was with an adult.

The woman took him by the hand. Her fingers were long and covered in a musky smelling leather. Henry smiled sweetly at the lady, and thanked her politely.

She walked him to a nearby building, gray and very familiar. Inside a ruckus of boys were rough-housing around using pillows as battering protection.

“Here you are honey,” The woman almost sang, and walked away with a spring in her step. Henry rolled his eyes and turned. He scanned the building’s windows and doors. He was just about to turn around the corner when -

“There he is!”

“Git him!”

Henry had barely a moment to turn around when five boys tackled him at once. He was quickly pushed to the ground, and then surrounded. He stood up slowly, and peered up at Brandon.

“You stole our papers!” Brandon accused, for a second Henry just stared at him.

“Oh really? And how did you figure that one out?” He said sarcastically.

“And we went to a lot of trouble to get those papers in the first place,” Brandon grinned threateningly.

“Look Brandon,” Henry widened his eyes innocently, and lifted his face up to meet Brandon’s beady, slitted eyes. “I really don’t want any trouble, so I’ll just be going,” He edged away.

“Oh no you don’t,” A reedy voice behind him spoke and shoved him back into the circle.

Henry clenched his palms into fists and began, “Guys I really-” but before finishing his sentence he quickly lunged and slid under Brandon’s legs. Good thing I’m so small, he thought as he ran past them.

“There he goes!”

“Catch him!”

Henry could see the main entrance of the orphanage looming but he felt his breath lagging. His legs grew weaker.

He heard footsteps behind him and he picked up his pace, before just barely scooting through the large double doors of, ‘Manhattan’s Home for Boys,’ and tumbling right in front of the feet of a disapproving young lady.
Her hair was whipped back into and incredibly tight bun and she drew him up disdainfully, and tapped her pencil on his head.
“To the Matron for you, young man,” she clucked disapprovingly. She sounded rather
like an old mother hen, Henry debated telling her that her voice made her sound sixty instead of twenty, but he decided against it. He didn’t move, he just stood there staring at her, so she grabbed him by the ear and dragged him down a corridor.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” Henry complained, “I can walk you know,” he muttered.

She released him and he crawled to his feet and followed her dutifully. She arrived at the Matron’s office and knocked. No answer, she pushed open the door tentatively and said,

“Stay here, don’t go anywhere,” she pushed him into a hard backed chair and left him there, closing the door behind her.

Henry looked around the room. It was furnished sparingly, with only a desk, a rug and two chairs. However, folders and books lined the walls, and one file cabinet stood at attention. Finally his eyes rested on the cabinet. He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then flitted over to the cabinet.

It was organized by first name. Thank goodness, Henry breathed, I don’t even know what my last name is. He frowned ruefully, and rifled through the manila folders. Henry bit his lip. He couldn’t really read, all he really knew was his name. His foster mother had taught him only that before he had left.

“H-E---M? no…. N-R-Y.” Henry pulled out the file and closed the drawer. He walked lightly over to his seat and sat down, sticking the file up his shirt front, and then closing his jacket around himself.

Almost immediately afterward, a woman, who Henry supposed was the matron, walked- no - waddled into the room. She was incredibly fat. Henry stared at her as she rounded her desk and sat down heavily on her chair. Henry swore he heard it creak.

“Boy, why were you out and about with no chaperone?” she asked accusingly.

“Ummm,” Henry fumbled for an answer, “No reason,” he said so nonchalantly it completely contrasted with the first part of his sentence. He cringed.

“I can’t explain why you were out alone, but there is another boy looking for you”

“Another boy?”

“Yes his name is Braydon, or something of the sort, he says he knows you,” She sniffed haughtily and wobbled out the door.

Brandon. Henry’s palms began to perspire, he jumped up and looked for a window. Only one. Henry shut his eyes in frustration, at least the matron’s office is on the first floor, he looked at the window again. He knew he could fit through, but it was above the file cabinet.

Henry leapt up onto the matron’s desk and stood there, terrified for one moment, before he jumped up onto the cabinet.

The cabinet was cold under his palms, and for one breathless moment his heart seemed to stop as the cabinet tipped precariously under his weight. He closed his eyes, his breath let out it a quick whoosh as the cabinet settled, and he stood up shakily. He unlatched the window and pushed. It opened a few inches and stopped.

What? Oh, he sighed. It was latched from the outside as well. He heard footsteps coming from the hallway, his heart began racing, and he reached his hands to the latch outside the window. His fingers slipped. He bit his lip furiously and felt his eyes grow hot as unshed tears sprang to his eyes. He wiped the wetness away with one hand as his other felt a sharp pain as the metal cut into his skin, but he heard a quick click, and the window sprang open. He squeezed himself out and through just as the matron and Brandon himself walked him.

“Henry youuuu- ” Brandon lept at the cabinet, but Henry pushed himself out the window, and Brandon only had two seconds to react before the cabinet toppled onto the desk and spilled files everywhere.

The matron shook her fist at him, but squatted rather laboriously to pick up the files, her fat fingers brushing the edges of the folders but failing to grasp them.

Henry scooted around the corner, through the grasps of Brandon’s gang and straight on and on and on. He ran until he was hopelessly lost, and here he sat down and sighed.

He rubbed his stomach ruefully, and felt the square file he had hidden up his shirt. He pulled it out and fingered the edges of it softly. He opened the package and frowned.

He couldn’t read.

He picked up a slip of paper that had fallen. It had some words and numbers on it and he shrugged.

He sat there for hours. Almost crying but his tears did not fall.

“Young man?”

Henry looked up, a man stood before him. He wiped his burning eyes and, he did not know for what reason, handed him the paper. The man looked at and rocked on his heels.

“Is this your address?”

So that’s what it is. Henry’s mind raced. If I say its was mine, the guy might take me, there, but if the guy takes me there will my parents believe I’m theirs? But if I don’t say it’s mine then the guy might question why I have it….

“Yes sir.”

“Are you lost?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you want me to help you get there?”

“Yes sir.”

The man took Henry by the hand, just as the lady had done and lectured, “It’s a good thing I found you here, you should’ve gone to a policeman young man….” Henry tuned him out. I wonder where grownups go to get their training… He fingered his manila folder thoughtfully.

“We wouldn’t want you sleeping out here under the stars would we?” He laughed, loud, and long. It wasn’t even that funny. Henry thought to himself ruefully.

“Here we are m’boy,” the man had lost all traces of formality now and was laughing big, long laughs. Henry just kept quiet and occasionally let forth a steady stream of “Yes sirs,” or “No sirs.”

Henry thanked the man politely, who continued on his way, his hands on his jacket lapels and a smile still stretched over his smooth face.

Henry frowned at the house staring him in the face. It was on the outskirts of the city. The man had taken Henry on the bus to get to it. Henry decided he liked it. It was painted pastel yellow, and it was one of many on the long block. Henry had never seen a house quite so big, and he was very pleased with it. He climbed the steps slowly, and reached up one grubby little finger, standing on his very tiptoes and pressed the doorbell long and hard.

He heard heeled shoes clacking on the floors inside and he held his breath.

“You needn’t hold the bell so long Mother,” an irritated woman’s voice came from inside as someone began unlocking the bolts.

The door opened. A tall, thin woman stood in the threshold of the door.

“Hullo,” Henry said plaintively.

She looked down, with a mildly surprised look on her face.

“Hello young man,” She smiled formally, “Are you lost?”

Henry’s brows furrowed, “No I think this is my home.” He gave her the address.

“Your… home?”

Henry handed her the creased and grubby address and she looked at it, still perplexed. Henry stared at her. He noted the creases folding her features in confusion like origami. He saw the mark of red lipstick on her teeth, and he saw the calculating, intelligent green eyes.

“Yes my home.” He handed her the file.

“Where did you get this?” Her voice had a little quiver in it. It warbled like a little baby bird.

“From the orphanage I came from,” he bit his lip nervously. He had imagined his mother would swoop him into her arms.

“Henry,” she breathed. And then she did. She swooped him up (into her skirt at least), and ushered him inside.

That night he slept in a cushion of sheets and pillows. In the next room he heard a hushed argument for hours before he fell asleep, thinking about John and Bobby.
Henry woke up and rubbed a hand through his hair. He fluffed it and then walked downstairs. Still wearing the clothes he had knocked on the door in. The floors were wooden and cold. He hadn’t been out of his shoes so long, Henry had forgotten about the constant blisters they gave him, and his feet were covered in angry red sores.
He prodded at them for a moment before padding down the carpeted stairs. He ran a finger over the polished, smooth rails and looked at the chandelier hanging over the dinner table in awe. He swallowed dryly and looked for some water.
“Henry!” his mother called from the kitchen. He smelled something delicious, but he resisted the urge to quickly dart in and swipe a mouthful. He stood dutifully before her, and she let her fingers play in his hair. She quickly drew her fingers away and looked him up and down. She poured the eggs and bacon out of the frying pan and onto a plate and washed her hands.
The smell of eggs and bacon filled the air, and Henry felt his mouth water uncontrollably. He grabbed a slice of bacon with his fingers and stuffed it into his mouth cheekily.
She turned and put a firm hand on his shoulder, steering him up the stairs and into a clean, hard bathroom.
“You’re filthy Henry,” she clucked like a silly mother hen, but Henry obligingly got into the tub, and let her wash him down. Suds and bubbles cascaded down his face and he spluttered in protest.
Henry closed his eyes and sat still as she requested. He felt his mind wander away from him, just letting the sensation of being cleaned fade into an indistinct blur. and the next few days were not but a bur of sounds, colors and tastes.

Henry lay cushioned in his bed one night. Thinking about the kindness his new mother had been showing her, the grudging acceptance his new father had given him, but he wasn’t as happy as he was when he was playing tag with Bobby, or showing John a new game.
Henry was grateful to his new mother, but he felt himself bending down and tying his worn, dusty leather shoes. He reached for his cap and pulled it on, and fumbled for his jacket. He crept down the hall and peered into “mum” and “dad”s room and saw them asleep.
“Sorry,” he whispered, “But I’m going back to my family,” and crept out the door.


“Poor Henry was probably shipped off to a foster home so fast he didn’t have time to react,” Bobby sniffed sadly.
“Poor little bugger,” Peter agreed.
“I do wonder where he got to,” John shook his head ruefully, noting the green and white sign noting the street, 81st.

Henry stumbled and fell. He sat down and cried. He was never going to find John again. The street was cold and dirty, and his fingers felt frozen to the bone. He felt tears running down his cheeks and he wiped them away with cold and cracked fingers. He glanced up at the street name. Only two numbers stared back, unfamiliar and cold.

“What’s that sound?” John looked around.
“Sounds like sobbing,” Peter remarked.
“Henry?” Bobby peered questioningly at a small figure sitting alone on 81st and Amsterdam.
“Henry’s gone you duck,” Peter reminded him sharply. But he looked up to see where Bobby was pointing.
“HENRY!”
“Henry!” The boys surrounded him and Henry stood up, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“John! Bobby! Peter! Frankie!” He grinned.
“Henry, where were you?” John ruffled his hair affectionately. “We were so worried!”

“I found my family,” he announced as curious looks replaced the joyful ones, “but I decided that I wanted to come back to my real family.” He smiled happily. “And here you all are.”

Together they all raced back to the tenement, Henry, as ever, tagging along adoringly at John’s side.