Pretty
I step out, in your way. You stop and stare; you haven't seen me in weeks. Not since the strike ended. Uncle Wease got transferred, Morris and I went with him, and we haven't been back to Manhattan since then. But I've been thinking about you, and I'm back. I'm going to deal with you, get you off my mind, once and for all.
You stare at me, and I don't even pause, I take a swing at you and we tumble back into an alley. "Heya, Cowboy," I murmur, mostly to myself. I bet you don't even remember that I was the one who gave you that nickname. It's the nickname that made you the arrogant bastard you are now, among other things, an' you oughtta be on your knees thanking me, Jack Kelly.
Yeah, on your knees in front of me. Not that unpleasant a thought.
Christ, there's something wrong with my head. I get real turned around every time I see you, I always have. I mean, I know what I am, but I like girls as much as boys and so I don't exactly go around making it obvious that I like boys at all. Hell, Morris don't know, but he's a real knucklehead anyway. But you, you're smarter than that.
I bet you never realized that's why I let you live. I coulda killed you, back when I gave you that nickname. When we was all just kids–you was twelve or thirteen, maybe, an' I was sixteen and realizing what I was and coping with it–well, you was real pretty. Not old enough to be real pretty, yet, but anyone who looked at you could tell you was gonna be. And you were already starting to have that attitude, the one that makes you so damned popular, the one that's always drawn me to you.
So those first few days, when we used to fight in the morning, I really coulda done a number on you. You was the first newsie who ever got away from me when I wanted to soak him, you know that? You must, I bet you bragged about it. Twelve year old Jack Kelly, able to give the toughest thug in the city the slip. Yeah, you'd have bragged about it.
But you wasn't really able to. I let you, 'cause I didn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours. I shouldn't a' let you go, though. I shoulda dealt with you before you got to be so gorgeous, so I'd never a' had the problems with you that I got now.
An' I never, ever should a' called you Cowboy. But there you was, with that damned hat of yours, talkin' about Santa Fe like it's some sorta paradise, every time you was in line for your papes. That's all we ever heard from you, an' so I started calling you Cowboy to make fun of you, you bastard. But when everyone else started calling you that too, it wasn't an insult no more, and what the hell was the point?
But things was out of control by then. You was starting to grow up, get arrogant, and I still couldn't stand the thought of doing you no permanent damage. An' then one day you actually managed to swing back at me, and it was too late. Too late for me to deal with you.
I couldn't a' known that then, but I do now. I used to hate having to see you every day, 'cause it always reminded me that I let you grow up into something I can't beat. Couldn't beat, I mean. I can now. I been workin' on it, and finally decided to come back and just do it. Do what I should have, back when you was just a kid.
We fall into the alley together and you scramble to your feet and try and kick my side, but I grab you leg out from under you as you do it and you hit the ground again, on your back. My right hand grabs the knife in my pocket, and you hear it click open and stare at me, almost too afraid to move. Ain't that a sweet sight.
You must a' known, then. You must a' known I'd never really hurt you, 'cause I just couldn' make myself, but the knife means I'm playin' for keeps now. You start to try and move again, but I've got you cornered, I half-throw myself over you and land crouching on your chest, knife to your throat. I change my mind then, and put the blade up near your face. I'm gonna mess your face up so bad, Cowboy, you ain't gonna be pretty at all no more.
But when I move it, you can talk again. You don't squirm, 'cause I'd cut you if you did, but you catch my eye, and you smirk. God damn you, I got a knife to your throat and you smirk at me? You're going to pay for everything, Jacky Boy, you're going to pay.
"Ya know, Oscar," you say, real casual like, so I know you're up to something, "I never actually said thank you for the nickname you gave me. Bet you don't even remember that, though."
Damn you, Jack Kelly. You had to go and remember. Why the hell did you have to remember? You ain't never thought of me before, not at all, so what the hell did you think to say it now? I hate you, Jack. I really, really hate you.
I stare down at the knife in my hand, and your goddamn pretty face. I stare at the slight trickle of blood from the point of the knife, since I pressed it in too hard. It rolls down your cheek like some kind of red tear an leaves a scarlet line after it, dark compared to your damn perfect skin.
I'm gonna do it this time, Cowboy. I swear to God, I'm gonna mess up that face if it's the last thing I do.
You look up at me. You see how serious I am. Your eyes go wide… And you smile.
*
"Hey, Cowboy," Racetrack said, not even looking up from the poker game he was running.
"Heya, Race." He greeted everyone else, sounding kind of daze. Finally, after playing a few cards, Race glanced up at him, then stared.
"Where'd ya get the shiner, Jack?" he asked.
"Oscar," Jack said, still sounding like he couldn't believe it.
"Christ, don't tell me the Delanceys is back," Mush moaned.
"I don't think so. Just… Oscar. It was so weird. Like there's something wrong with the guy's head."
"Whaddaya mean?"
"I just never seen him back down from a fight so quick before in my life," Jack finished lamely, and headed upstairs before anyone could ask what he meant; go to bed and put it out of his mind.
But Jack knew he'd never be able to get the feeling of Oscar Delancey's lips against his out of his head.