Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, the characters, the actors, the music, the script, etc. That's all Disney's. The only thing I own is the story I've written here. Please do not move this story from this site. It only belongs here. Anyroad, hope you like it (my first Newsies fic!); let me know what you think!

Chapter 3: Dealing with the Truth

Jack knew every painfully scrawled signature in the ledger book. Every single one. Even if it were simply an 'X,' he could assign a face to the letter: a face, a name, a newsie. Some of them were long gone; some were still at the lodging house. Boys like Skittery, Kid Blink, Mush, and Crutchy had been there for years and years. Almost as long as Jack. He liked to read the book from time to time—the others didn't really understand when he told them that it was just to keep from forgetting…although he knew he'd never forget.

The others littered the lodging house foyer's floor. A few of them had set up a marbles game, headed by Boots, and everyone was crowded around a small section of the floor. Whenever one of them won a marble, he would hoot excitedly, and Jack would look up from the ledger book, smiling slightly. He could look at any newsie in the foyer and know which signature was his.

Snipeshooter had just won one of Jake's best marbles when Racetrack appeared in the doorway. Jack looked up from the book again. "Hey, Race," he said. "Kloppman's lookin' for someone to run somethin' over to the post office for him, an' we's volunteered ya."

"Post office ain't open," Race muttered, not moving from the doorway.

"Right. Tomorrow, before ya go to Sheepshead."

"Why don't'ch'ya do it yourself?" Race demanded.

Jack frowned and started to answer, but, looking up from the marbles, Snoddy cut him off. "'Cause you wasn't here, Race. So's we all volunteered ya for it."

"That too hard for ya, Race?" Jack asked. "Too much work to ask a' ya? Huh?"

"Oh no, your honor," Race replied, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "I'd be happy to do anythin' for ya, your honor. Maybe…maybe I can shine your shoes for ya too, while I's at it. Get'ch'ya somethin' to drink?"

Jack just looked at him. Your honor? he wondered. What had been wrong with Racetrack over the past week? He hadn't been acting like himself at all. Jack willed himself not to get mad at the other newsie. "Nah," he said slowly. "Just deliver the letter to the post office. That's it."

"Thanks, then," Race said. "An' don't worry 'bout it; next time, I won't worry ya none, your honor. I's just gonna deal wit' your office boys." He tossed a nod in Snoddy's direction.

Abruptly, Jack closed the ledger book, jumped down off of Kloppman's desk, and headed for the door, where Race still stood unflinchingly. When he got there, Race stepped calmly aside, and Jack glanced back into the room. All of the others were watching him now. "I's just goin' outside for a bit. Take a walk."

The others nodded, and Jack left. Race walked through the foyer. "Do this, do that," he muttered. "Who does he think he is, the king a' New York?"

"Pipe down," Skittery said. "He just asked ya to deliver somethin' for Kloppman."

Race looked at him, frustrated, and said, "Why don't none a' ya see nothin'?"

"Look, don't worry 'bout it," Mush said. "I can deliver the letter for ya. Tomorrow mornin'. Me an' Blink's sellin' together. We'll take it. Ya don't gotta do it."

"Don't bother," Race said. "Don't matter none to me." He walked around the marbles game and headed up the stairs.

Blink glanced at Mush as soon as Race left. "What's wrong wit' him?"

"Dunno," Mush replied. "Don't seem real happy."

It was true. It had been a week now of this bizarre behavior from Racetrack. He hadn't been happy—hadn't been interested in poker, in joking, in being with the other newsies—for a whole week. He hadn't been himself.

"He ain't nice to Jack no more," Snitch said.

"Glum an' dumb," Skittery agreed, and the others groaned and rolled their eyes. That was Race's favorite insult for Skittery.

******

"So, David." Mayer Jacobs sat back in his chair and looked across the table at his eldest son, not yet eating. "You've been back at school for a week now. How is it going?"

A week. A whole week. David nervously set his spoon down and tried to meet his father's eyes. Why was it so hard to lie to him? "Good—I mean well. It's going well. I'm not behind or anything. Same place as everyone else."

"Except maybe a little richer?"

"Excuse me?" David asked confusedly.

Mayer placed a small rag on the table, by the central plate that held the bread. As he put it down, the edges of the rag fell apart and pennies and nickels spilled out. "What's this, David?"

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no… His newspaper money. "What's this?" he repeated weakly. Sarah and Les were both looking at him. They had known. But David knew his mother must have found the rag. Neither Sarah nor Les had told on him; they wouldn't do that. They were probably looking at him with support, or maybe with pity. Maybe both. But David couldn't look up at them to see. He couldn't look up from the rag in the center of the table.

"David." Esther said evenly. "Your father asked you a question."

David dragged his eyes up to meet his father's. "Yes sir," he said.

"How has school been going?" Mayer repeated.

"I'm sorry, Papa," David said quietly. When his father didn't respond, he continued, "You don't understand. I couldn't quit. I couldn't quit being a newsie. It's just what I am."

"No," Mayer said sharply. "What you are, David, is a schoolboy. You are to go to school. That was our deal. When I went back to the factory, you would go back to school."

"But I don't belong there anymore!" David looked to his mother for support, but she shook her head.

"You do belong at school," she said. "You're a boy. You have plenty of time to work later. For now, you study. You go to school."

"But Mama, I—"

"That's enough," Mayer said. David turned his gaze to him. "You lied to us, David. I thought I taught you to tell the truth."

"You taught us to be loyal to our friends!"

"And to be loyal to your word," Mayer said. "You gave me your word, David. And you just sat here, at this table, and lied. You told me that school was going well." David bowed his head, frustrated and caught. Mayer exhaled deeply. "You're finished with dinner. Go to the bedroom."

Startled, David looked up. "But Papa—"

"Now." The tone was calm, but it brooked no nonsense. David stood and walked slowly into the bedroom.

Esther looked toward her husband. "Should I go talk to him?"

"No," Mayer said. "I'll go." He rose grimly and turned to the bedroom. Both Les and Sarah watched, both silent, both uncertain. Les was unconsciously moving his spoon in his soup, sloshing it gently so that it didn't spill, and Sarah had a corner of the table cloth in her hands, twisting it uneasily.

Esther went to her husband. "Don't be too hard on him, Mayer."

"It's all right," Mayer said. "I'm just going to talk with him. But he can't lie to us, Esther. You know that."

He embraced her briefly, and she leaned gratefully into it before pulling back and nodding shortly. Mayer kissed her cheek, a reassuring gesture, and disappeared into the bedroom after his son.

David was sitting on the edge of his parents' bed—because it was the one farthest in the corner, farthest from everyone else, farthest from the problems and the newsies and school—looking at the floor.

"David?"

"I'm sorry I lied to you," he said forcedly, looking up to his father. "But I'm not sorry I'm a newsie."

"David…" Mayer sat down slowly beside David. "I'm not asking you to give up your friends. I would never do that to you. But I am telling you that you need to go back to school. We made a deal, and you are going to keep your end of it."

"Jack and the others—they don't get to go to school." David couldn't keep the slight mocking tone out of his voice. "I have to go to school so I'll be better than those street rats. So I won't be as horrible and dirty as they are."

"That is enough, David," Mayer said sharply. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. You are not to speak to me like that—not to speak to anyone like that."

David looked down, suddenly feeling guilty. He'd never spoken like that to his father before. Never. "I-I'm sorry. It's just…not fair."

"There are a lot of things in life that aren't fair," Mayer said. "But we take what chances we can take. I know that's hard to understand. You going to school doesn't hurt the newsies. But it helps you. School is your opportunity."

"I'd rather be a newsie."

"You loved school," Mayer reminded him. "Don't you remember?"

"That was before I realized there was more to life than books and studying. It's out there, Papa," David said, gesturing at the window, at the street so far below. "It's with the people and the newsies and the real world. I can read all about it in the books, but that's nothing compared to living it. To selling papers, to striking with the others…that's where it is."

"Your mother was right though," Mayer said. "You have plenty of time for that part of life later. But you need to go to school now. You are still a child, David, and you're my child. And I'm telling you that you're going back to school. Tomorrow. No more putting it off. You're going back. You'll be a working man someday. But not tomorrow, not the next day. Not until you've finished with school. Understand?"

"But, Papa…" David could feel tears in the back of his throat. But he wouldn't let them out. Never. "Please…"

Mayer shook his head. "No." His voice softened. "David. I hate doing this to you; I hate feeling like I'm taking something you love away from you. I know you've found people you like, a job you enjoy." He paused. "This isn't about the other newsboys, understand? It's fine that you're friends with them, that Jack comes over for dinner, that you spend time with them—outside of school. You don't have to stop being friends with them. This isn't about that. This is about you lying to your mother and me, and about how you need to keep your end of our deal about school."

"Yes sir," David said quietly. He hated it. He hated it with all of his heart. But he knew his father was right. Going to school was the right thing to do—he was just so frightened about losing the world of the newsies, the friends, the laughter, the fun…

Standing, Mayer gave his son a half-smile. "School isn't an ending, David. It's a beginning. I only wish that the other boys could have the same opportunity. But just because they can't doesn't mean you can't. I know it sounds cruel, but it's the truth, David. It doesn't mean that you're better or that they're worse. It simply means that you make the most of the opportunities you receive."

"Yes sir," David repeated, forcing himself to meet his father's eyes. There was sympathy there—and love—but David didn't want to see it at that moment. He wanted to see nothing, to hear nothing, to feel nothing. His father put a hand on David's shoulder for a minute, then gave it a slight squeeze and left the room to go back to dinner.

When Mayer had gone, David slid his boots off and pulled his feet up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees, his fingers clutching the thin material of his pants as though it were his last stronghold in the whole world. His stomach rumbled slightly, but his thoughts went quietly and painfully to Jack and the other newsies. How could he tell them that he was letting them down?

******

The marbles game hadn't really ended, but had sort of diffused. The older newsies had split off from the younger ones and begun a poker game by the staircase. The younger ones had split up a little too, some still playing marbles, others starting their own card games or other little activities. Jack came back into the lodging house, his face more relaxed, and he made his way through the smaller newsies to sit on the stairs by the older ones, watching silently.

"Ha! I's beat'cha!" Mush crowed, raising his arms in a victory V over his head. He didn't normally win at poker. His every card reflected in his face, and the others knew how to read him perfectly. But tonight, he had won, for reasons beyond any of the others' comprehension. It was nothing short of a miracle. "I's beat'cha! Lookit that!"

"Aw, you's just lucky Race ain't playin'," Skittery told him, angrily shoving the small pile of pennies, candy, and cigarettes toward Mush.

"An' you's just a sore loser," Kid Blink said.

"Am not!" Skittery protested.

"Yeah, yeah," jeered Snitch. "A real bum 'bout it."

"Race woulda been cheatin' anyways," Jack said, fiddling with his cowboy hat and reclining against the staircase. He tilted his head to the side, stretching his neck, and leaned forward. "Ya gonna deal another game?"

Blink nodded. "Ya want in?"

"Sure."

Mush was now doing a silly victory dance across the foyer of the lodging house, much to the amusement of the younger newsies, who looked up from their various games to watch him. Always smiling, dancing, singing, laughing, sharing…Mush was one of their favorite older newsies. Just as they each looked up to Jack with a sort of idolatry, they all loved Mush for his fun.

"Didja win, Mushy?" one of the youngest ones asked excitedly.

"Mush, ya want in on the next game?" Blink called from across the room.

"Ya betcha!" Mush said cheerfully. "Gotta defend me title, huh?" He danced goofily around a few of the younger kids and hopped nimbly over the cards Skittery was now shuffling to his spot on the bottom stair. As Skittery began dealing, he raised his bottle of soda—saved from an excursion to Tibby's a few days prior—and said, "Here's to me!"

"Mush…" Blink groaned good-naturedly.

"What?" Mush asked, feigning innocence. Snitch gave him a slight elbow in the ribs, but accidentally caught him off guard, and instead of going into Mush's mouth, the soda spilled neatly onto Jack's bandana.

The older newsie leapt up. "Oh man!" he yelped, startled, his hand shooting to his bandana. "What was that!?"

"Mushy," Skittery said, laughing, his mood considerably better all of a sudden.

"I's sorry, Jack!" Mush said instantly. "I's sorry."

"Aw, s'okay, Mush." Jack shook his head more in amusement than anything else. "Look, I's just gonna go clean it now. It'll be fine." He smiled at Mush's worried expression and went upstairs. "Don't be startin' that game wit'out me!" he called back over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bunkroom.

*****

Shout-Outs

Alarice: Thanks, mate! I've been struggling along with the accent and slang and such. But it's fun sort of challenge!

Thistle: lol, something tells me that Spot wouldn't much like being shaken. But you shall see what's up with him. With everyone, actually. Yeah.

Angelfish: You're feeling the story? Excellent, excellent. Emotion is what life is all about. And so that is the fun of reading…and writing, too.

B.: Ah, I'm glad this worked better! Yes, yes, there are definitely problems with Spot and Jack. And Race and Jack. And poor, poor Davey…

Harlem: Yeah, those Brooklyn newsies weren't the nicest guys, were they? But they had their orders from Spot… And that crazy Davey. Who knew he had a rebellious streak? Not I, not I.

Arlene: Definitely put Newsies on your weekend to do list! :D Yeah, I don't think Scabber!Jack (haha) really knows precisely what to do about this situation. I'm glad the reworked accent is sounding better. It was too much at first! (and lol, the "Poor Jack" chapter indeed!)