A horse-drawn trolley clattered by on its steel rails. She watched enviously as some boys she recognized from her school dashed low and fast to the back of the horsecar, jumped onto the stairs and grabbed hold for a free ride up Market, crouching, laughing, and hanging on.
She thought longingly of her days in Leadville, when she’d dressed as a boy and worked as a newsie for The Independent newspaper. All the other newsies had thought she was a boy, and treated her like one of them. They’d been her friends and called her “Deuce,” because of her odd eyes, which had been fine by her. And she’d sold lots of papers, and been just as good as all of them.
If only she was wearing trousers now, and not the hot, itchy wool stockings, and her petticoats and skirts, all wrinkled and fussy, and the bonnet that kept flapping down over her eyes, she’d be out there too on the street car. She bet she’d be able to hang on longer than any of them, maybe hitching a ride all the way to—
Someone shoved past her, bumping her sore arm hard. The lunch pail clattered to the boardwalk, and her book strap caught. The leather strap ripped from her grasp, burning her palm and carrying its bound contents tumbling off the walkway and into the street.
“You no-account so-and-so!” shouted Antonia, enraged, as the older boy who had shoved her sprinted to join his mates on the car. The book strap had broken, and the Swinton’s, along with the Young Folks magazine she’d hidden within its pages, were now lying in the dirty gutter.
The boys hooted at her and one yelled back, “Ooooo, savage as a meat axe!”
The commotion brought the conductor pushing to the back of the car. The boys jumped off and raced to the other side of Market, laughing, as the conductor shook a fist at them. Fuming, she grabbed her lunch pail and prepared to clamber into the gutter. She’d get it from Persnickety for sure now. That ruined book would probably result in a thrashing, more “I will not…” sentences scratched up at the chalkboard, and a note from the teacher to Mrs. S.
A shadow moved over her, and a voice from behind said, “Hold on there, Miss.” An older boy—she’d seen him around at school—took a long step into the street. He scooped up her things, then hopped back up to the boardwalk, saying, “That Charlie, he’s a hoodlum, heading for the lockup sooner rather than later, or I miss my guess.”
“Thanks,” muttered Antonia and held out her hand.
He didn’t give her things back, so she finally looked up into his face. A friendly pair of blue eyes regarded her. He pushed his cap up. The sun whitewashed his freckled face and put an extra shine into his burnished red hair. “I recognize you,” he said cheerfully. “You go to Lincoln, right? Me, too. I’m Mick Lynch. You are—?”
Antonia hesitated. She didn’t give up her name readily. It was a habit her maman had drilled into her. “Names hold power,” she’d said. “Never give your name to those you do not trust.” And Mrs. S had told her, “You are under no obligation to share your name in a casual situation with people you do not know.”
Still, he’d helped her. He’d told her his name. And he still had her book and magazine. “Antonia Gizzi.”
“Gizzi.” He grinned. “You part Guinea, then?”
Antonia reached out for the strap. Questions about her background—“Where are you from?” “What are your parents?”—made her uncomfortable, because she didn’t know. Maman had never said, and Antonia had never asked.
So instead, Antonia shot back, “You Mick the Mick, then?”
He nodded, unperturbed. “Yep. Sometimes. Mostly folks call me Copper Mick, ’cause of my hair, and ’cause my da’s a copper. A detective in the force. When I’m out of school, I’m going to join the force too.”
“Copper Mick,” said Antonia, “can I have my books?”
“Oh! Sure. Here, let me fix this first.” He tucked the book and magazine under his arm, swiftly knotted the broken leather strap back together, then snugged the book and the crumpled Young Folks into the loop, remarking, “You like this magazine? Me, too. You must be pretty smart if you’re reading this. Lots of fellows in my class, I’m in seventh grade, can’t read a lick of anything. Have you been reading Treasure Island in there? Wish they’d do more’n one chapter at a time. It’s a crackin’ good story.”
Surprised, Antonia responded, “Yeah! That’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too.” Copper Mick handed the bundle to her, adding, “How about if I go with you a bit?”
She shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
They started walking.
He asked, “You live on the other side of Market? How come you don’t go to Denman Grammar, then?”
“What’s with the questions? I thought it was your pa that was a detective,” said Antonia, then added, “I’m in Miss Pierce’s class in fifth grade. And I can take myself home. No need to go out of your way.”
He grinned and said, “Sorry! My ma says I take after him. My da, that is. Always with the questions and pestering folks. That’s what she says, then my da says, ‘Chip off the old block!’ My da also taught me to help folks whenever I get the chance. I’ve got six sisters, all younger’n me, and two brothers older.” He added, “How about I walk along, just to be sure those b’hoys don’t come back and give you six kinds of heck, if you excuse my language?”
Antonia didn’t say that she’d heard and said much worse, instead opting for a nod. He seemed friendly enough, plus it’d be fun to talk to someone about Treasure Island.
Remembering what Mrs. S always said, Antonia suggested, “Let’s cross at the corner. My aunt, Mrs. Stannert, doesn’t like me jumping into the streets.”
Mick shortened his stride, apparently realizing Antonia had to scamper to keep up with him. “You and your folks live with your aunt?”
