Authoress' Note: Just a little heads up on style, when you see bold and italics it means we've shifted between the story and "reality". Don't worry, you'll figure it out. Chapter Two: "Buttercup, By Which I Mean Sarah"
It was with a soft sigh of resignation that Specs opened the book, nervously reading out the first sentence aloud. He was all too aware of the six pairs of eyes focused intently upon him, silently pressuring the newsie into giving a good performance. Swallowing hard, he began.
"Buttercup was raised on a small farm –"
"You're readin' it wrong, Specs." Already the bubble had burst. Snipeshooter rose triumphantly to his feet, pulling the book into his own hands with a grin. Startled by the unexpected interruption, Specs could only stare at the twelve year old in shock.
Jack, however, had other ideas. "Alright, Snipes," he sneered up at the younger newsie, eyes flashing in challenge, "What does it say then?"
Snipeshooter examined the book carefully. Like the other newsboys, he could read quite proficiently, even if half of the headlines he hawked were of his own devise. Having looked over the first page, he scowled and passed it back to Specs. "Okay, so it's right." Glowering at the book as though it had intentionally chosen to defy him, he sat back down. "But can't you make it more interesting?"
"Yeah," Racetrack puffed lightly on his cigar. "Some girl named 'Buttercup' isn't exactly literary gold."
"Could be a nickname," Mush argued, quick to defend. "Maybe she's got yellow hair or somethin'. Like a buttercup."
Biting back a sharp retort, Specs let the comments slide and looked down impatiently at the first page. It was clear that this was going to be a long night. "Fine. You want it interesting? Well, fine." Clearing his throat, he began anew.
"Sarah was raised on a – "
"I'm likin' this story already." Nothing could dampen the goofy grin on Jack's face as he spoke, even the three pairs of elbows that jabbed themselves into his ribs as an attempt to shush him.
"Sarah was raised in a small apartment in New York City. Manhattan, should you care for the particulars. It wasn't a very big apartment – her parents had little money – but it was a dream home when compared to the newsboys' Lodging House three blocks away." Specs paused, taking a sweeping glance at the entranced faces around him before continuing.
"This was back before there were theatres and light bulbs, but after newsies and lodging houses. Now, Sarah's favorite pastimes were sewing lace and tormenting the newsboy who sold papes on her street. His name was Westley – oh, ehm, I mean Jack."
Sarah Jacobs smoothed a dark strand of hair behind her ear, glaring haughtily at the tall newsie as he turned the corner onto her street. She'd been expecting him.
"Newsboy!" She called out, brow furrowed. "We need two papers this morning. The one that you gave us yesterday was damp." Although quite pretty, Sarah was not of particularly high brain power. "From now on we're going to need two every day to prevent such a mistake from happening again."
Jack looked back into Sarah's face, his dark brown eyes meeting hers perfectly. He had every right to retort that it had been pouring rain the day before and there had been no way to give her – or anyone else – a dry paper. In fact, if he had emptied the distribution office to give her every single copy of the World that there was they would still all have been soaked through.
But all he could say was, "As you wish."
"As. You. Wish?" Jack smacked his hand against his forehead in a dramatic show of dismay. "As you wish? Seriously? Who says that, Specs? Who?"
"There's a point behind it."
The bigger newsie groaned. "Well, can't we change it to somethin' else? Somethin' less ridiculous? I could say 'Sure, fine, here you go!' or somethin'."
Deciding that it was in his best interest not to argue with his friend's logic, twisted though it may be, Specs resumed the story – with the added line.
"But all he could say was 'Sure, fine, here you go!'"
In fact, 'sure, fine, here you go!' was all that Jack ever said to her.
"Newsboy!" Sarah held her skirt just barely above her shoes. It was raining again and there were puddles everywhere, puddles just begging to soil her dress. "Would you take this jug to the water pump and fill it with water?" She seemed to second guess herself for a moment and shyly added, "Please?"
It was a pointless, even demeaning task, particularly as the water pump in question was directly between them, but Jack took the container anyway. Without breaking her gaze, he filled the jug and gently handed it back, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Sure, fine, here you go."
This was the day that Sarah was amazed to discover something. Not only did she learn to try and avoid puddles during a torrential downpour, but she also learned that when Jack was saying 'sure, fine, here you go!' what he really meant was 'you're smokin' hot and I love you.' Even more amazing than this was the day she realized that hiding behind a translucent curtain isn't really an effective means of hiding yourself, but also that she loved Jack too.
"Newsboy," Sarah looked around the street for something to get Jack to do when she spotted a bright, yellow daisy growing in a pot on the ledge of her neighbor's fire escape. "Fetch me that flower."
Jack glanced in the direction of the neatly cultivated daisy then, with his eyes always on Sarah, he plucked it from its pot. "Sure, fine, here you go." Moving ever closer, he pressed it into her hands.
Not another moment passed before he had her in his arms, lips pressed soundly together.
Sarah was quite certain that if Jack hadn't been holding her so tightly she would have fallen, her knees felt so weak. Her attention was pulled away from this thought – and the slight pain of the fire escape railing pressing into her back – as he erased all attempt at coherent thought by moving his tongue into -
"Hold it!" Snipeshooter's eyes were wide, his face red with outrage. Next to him, Les appeared to be blushing. "Hold it." He rose to his feet, advancing on Specs accusingly. "What is this? They're kissing? What is this? That's gross! I can't believe you're still reading it wrong!"
"I am not and never have been reading this wrong," Specs replied, hotly. "If anything, warping Westley and Buttercup to 'Jack' and 'Sarah' is what's wrong!"
"Okay, you two," It was Mush's turn to rise, jostling Racetrack in the process. He reached out to grab Snipeshooter's shoulder turning the boy around to face him. "Snipes, if you can't be quiet, just go to bed. And Specs, just humor him, okay? Cut out the kissing bits."
Now it was Jack who leapt to his feet, eyes flashing dangerously. "Cut out the kissing? But it's all me and – "
"Exactly why we don't want to hear it," put in Racetrack, incapable of resisting himself.
"I'm going back to the story now," Specs cut in. "The next person to interrupt is going to get walloped." He paused, as though waiting for Snipeshooter to protest. "Anyone? No? Good."
"Jack did not have enough money for marriage, let alone the other important things essential to the life of newlyweds. So he packed what few belongings he had, bid farewell to his newsie friends – giving over leadership to his dear friend, Specs – " Jack snorted at this, but otherwise remained silent, " – And left New York to seek his fortune in Santa Fe."
Sarah shivered in Jack's arms, her mind wandering over the distance between New York and Santa Fe and the dangers that doubtless lay between. Like the heat. Wasn't it hot in Santa Fe? Wouldn't that make Jack sweaty and a little gross? Sarah wasn't sure if she could deal with that. What If he was one of those people who not only sweat, but sweat profusely? Grimacing at the thought, she looked up at the newsboy, trying to keep the idea of his potentially sweat-soaked body out of her head. "I don't know if I'll ever see you again?"
Oblivious, Jack smoothed her hair and held her closer. "Of course you will."
"But what if something happens to you?" She gazed at his face, a tear sliding down her cheek. She meant something like sweat or a physically marring encounter with the burning sun. Sarah wasn't so sure that she could deal with a horribly sun-burnt Jack, either.
Raising a hand, he wiped away the small tear drop. "I'll send for you. I'm gonna strike it big in Santa Fe, maybe work on a ranch. Then you can come and join me." He bent to kiss her forehead. "This is True Love, y'know?"
Unfortunately, Jack never made it to Santa Fe. He was waylaid by a strike about newspaper distribution prices in Jersey, after which he was attacked by the Dread Robber Kid Blink, infamous for never leaving captives alive. When Sarah got the news that Jack had been brutally murdered -
"Brutally murdered by Blink is good. Real good. In fact, so good that – "
"Shut up, Snipeshooter. Just shut up." Mush's valiant attempt to gloss over the outburst was lost when Jack threw himself at Specs.
"What is this? What is this, Specs? You made me a character who dies in the first five minutes? What the – "
Specs pulled back from his friend, dodging away from Jack's outstretched hands. "I'm sorry, okay? It gets better. Calm down."
"When Sarah got the news that Jack had been brutally murdered, she went into her bedroom and shut the door. For days she neither ate nor slept."
Sarah curled her legs beneath her, pulling herself into a tight ball on a chair near the fireplace. Her father had been horribly injured in a terrible factory accident and her mother was too deeply engrossed in her cooking for beginner's class to pay attention to the grieving girl.
Her True Love was dead.
Tears flowed freely from her eyes, but no sound came from her cracked lips. She had screamed in agony when she first heard the news – greatly disturbing the neighbours – and now did not have the energy for even the softest whisper.
Jack was dead and there was nothing she could do about it. (This was a concept even she understood.)
Five years later, Newsies Square in New York City was filled with its usual hustle and bustle. Newsboys milled about, chatting with friends while they waited for the evening edition of the World to be released. Upon the Horace Greeley statue in the center of the square, a figure rose above his peers.
"My people," he shouted. Once, twice, six times before anyone bothered to look at him. It was Oscar Delancey, not an actual newsie at all, but the nephew of the infamous proprietor of the distribution office. "A month from now, I shall marry a young lady who was once attached to one of yourselves."
This generated more attention as the newsboys began to re-evaluate past relationships, wondering who on earth would accept Oscar as a fiancé.
"I give you the future Mrs. Delancey!" Oscar gestured to his right, where his older brother dragged Sarah into the crowd.
"Wait!" Jack stared at Specs in horror. "I die in the first few minutes and then Oscar comes and takes Sarah away from me? I demand to be unkilled!"
"Ehm," Specs fumbled with his eponymous glasses, nervously wiping them on his shirt. "I can't do that, so you'll have to be quiet and listen to the story."
"Tough luck, Jacky-boy."
"Shut up, Racetrack."
"Sarah's emptiness had consumed her. While she had – under some duress – agreed to marry him, she did not love Oscar Delancey. With Jack gone, her only joy now was to be found in her daily walk. And also sewing."
Some time after her public display in Newsies Square, Sarah found herself blissfully alone with time enough for a walk. After moving through the crowded streets of Manhattan, she soon enough reached the waterfront, the Brooklyn bridge looming tall in the distance.
Kicking off her shoes, Sarah considered dipping her feet into the water and was startled when a voice suddenly called out from the right.
"Girl! Hey, girl!" The speaker was male with very pinkish skin and a particularly fat head. Everything about him screamed that there was something not quite right, from the thin crop of blond hair perched atop his scalp to the bowtie wrapped rather tightly around his neck – perhaps the cause of the redness in his face? While this in itself was unnerving, it was the man's smile that frightened Sarah most. "Am I right," he continued, "To assume that you are in the habit of keeping company with newsboys?"
Sarah wasn't quite sure of how to answer this. Did Jack count? She hadn't spent much time with any of his friends, so really she was only in the habit of keeping company with a newsboy, in the singular.
She didn't have time to ponder long over the grammatical implications of his question any further when a heavy hand wrapped itself around her neck. It squeezed and Sarah was enveloped in cool darkness as she slumped to the ground in a dead faint.