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 4: The Confrontation

Jack walked into the bunkroom to clean his bandana and saw Racetrack lying listlessly on his bed. Alone in the room. With a poker game going on just down the stairs. Hmm. He dropped the soiled bandana on his bunk and walked over. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Thinkin'."

"'Bout what?"

"Whadda'ya?" Race demanded. "Me muddah? I don't gots to tell ya nothin'."

"What's wrong wit' ya lately?" Jack returned sharply. "You's been actin' like a scabber or somethin'."

Look who's talking, Race thought, though he didn't give voice to that thought. "Spot wants me to come back to Brooklyn." Race said it slowly, deliberately. It wasn't the exact truth, but he knew it would hurt Jack. And it did. Because for some reason, all Race wanted to do at that moment was make Jack hurt. Make him hurt for leaving the newsies when they had needed him the most.

"He does, does he?" Jack knew about Race's history in Brooklyn. It wasn't a secret; all the newsies knew. How Race had started his career as a newsie in Brooklyn, one of Spot's boys. How Race had always been Spot's second correspondent—after Jack, of course—after coming to Manhattan.

But why had Race come to Manhattan? Jack wasn't sure; he'd never asked. With the newsies, it was always a don't ask, don't tell policy when it came to their pasts. But Race had been a Brooklyn newsie and then changed to Manhattan; he did know that. Since Race had come, of course, his loyalty had gone to Jack first—Jack was the leader of the Manhattan boys, and Race was a Manhattan boy.

As a matter of fact, Jack couldn't think of a single clash between them. Race had always deferred to Jack. Always. Even on occasions when Spot seemed uncertain about agreeing with Jack, Race hadn't. It was the way things worked. Race was loyal to his borough, and Jack was the leader of his borough. So he was loyal to Jack. Always.

"Yeah," Race said, something that reminded Jack of someone else's sneer crossing his face. "He does."

"Why's that?" Jack asked, struggling to keep his anger in check.

"'Cause I's better off there."

"Why?"

"Whadda'ya care, huh?" Race raised his eyebrows. "Maybe ya ain't everythin' you's cracked up to be, Kelly."

Jack was completely confused by the seemingly unprovoked conversation, but internally, his confusion was all processed and concentrated into frustration. "Yeah," he said. "Whadda'I care anyways?" He scuffed a foot against the wood floor and flexed his fingers. "You's the one who's actin' like a bummer. Whadda'I care?"

This didn't seem to be the response Race had been going for. He rolled over onto his stomach and glared at the mattress. "Ya'd know all 'bout that, huh, Jack?"

"What?" Jack's voice took on a strange disgusted tone. He didn't understand. He had no idea why Race was acting like this. "Whadda'ya talkin' 'bout, Racetrack?"

Race hit the mattress with a fist once, glaring harder at it. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Ya wanna run that by me again, Higgins?" Jack demanded, feeling his temper start to slip. "'Cause I can't understand a word you's sayin'… Think maybe I ain't missin' much worth the time, though."

Race snorted. "Spot's right!" he said bitterly. "He's right 'bout'ch'you. Once a scabber, always a scabber, ain't that right, Cowboy?" He spat out the nickname.

"Don't be talkin' 'bout stuff ya don't understand," Jack shot back. "An' ya don't understand 'bout that day!"

"Pretty handy ya never talk 'bout it!" Race told him fiercely. "You's hidin' somethin'. I ain't stupid, Jack!"

"I can't tell ya!" Jack yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then, he checked himself and lowered his voice—the last thing he needed was the others coming in. "It don't concern ya, so's you can just lay off."

"Ya can't even be trusted," Race said. "I don't even know who you is anymore. Ya one a' us? Or you's a scabber? Ya can't be both."

"Ya seemed fine when I came back," Jack said gruffly. "I don't see how's it's changed so fast." Then he did. He knew how. He knew why. "It's Spot," he said. "You's listenin' to Spot. He don't know nothin'!"

Race got off of his bunk and faced off with Jack furiously. "Listen, Jack. Spot ain't stupid neither. He's known ya longer than anyone, an' he knows you's not one a' us no more!"

Jack blanched. Spot had said that? Yes, the two had known each other for years, since Jack had first come to Manhattan and Spot to Brooklyn. Their paths had crossed many times, but never in a bad way. They had never had a fight in their lives. Not one. There was a level of mutual respect that neither boy had ever broken. It hurt, hearing that Spot had said that. Race wouldn't lie—all right, he did lie a lot—but he'd never lie about something like this. It was Spot who had let Jack down.

As if reading the other's mind, Race said suddenly, maliciously, "Ya let him down, Jack. Ya let all a' us down."

Before he could stop himself, Jack's fingers had clenched tightly against his palm, and his arm jumped out, slamming his fist against Racetrack's face so hard that the smaller boy stumbled backward and fell against his bunk, hitting the floor. Race swore loudly in Italian, but he didn't stand up, didn't move to punch Jack back. He stayed on the ground.

A slight sound behind Jack made them both turn to the door, just in time to see a familiar form slip back out the doorway. Mush. It was Jack's turn to curse. He glared at Race, as though the entire thing were his fault.

"Ya wants to go back to Brooklyn, go. Get outta here. But'ch'ya can never come back, got it? Ya leave, an' we ain't takin' ya back."

Race hauled himself to his feet, holding the wooden post of the bunkbed with one hand, the other covering a rapidly growing bruise under his left eye. With as much dignity as he could muster, he went to the small table beside his bed and pulled out his beloved deck of cards and his dice, wrapping them all into his spare shirt and tying the bundle off. Jack watched, his face blank.

Then, finished, Race slung the bundle over his shoulder, and, with his free hand shielding his injury from view, pushed past Jack and went out the door and down the stairs. Jack followed, his face still blank, but with a strange taunt quality now.

"Hiya, Race," Crutchy looked up from where he was watching a few of the boys play poker. "Ya wanna join the game?"

"Nah," Race replied. "I gotta go somewheres."

"Where?"

Race went to the front door of the boarding house before looking back—his eyes sweeping across Mush, who sat in a corner alone—at Specs, who'd asked the question. "Brooklyn."

And then, he was gone.

*****

Shout-Outs

Braids: Hey! Thanks for reviewing; I'm so happy to hear you like the story. Fear not, Davey's not out of the story. Not by a long shot. Eep! Don't hurt Spot, lol!

Shakeseegirl: The characters are all right? Good! I'm trying really hard to make them the way I saw them in the movie. Thank you so much for the encouragement. :D

Thistle: Mush is a sweetie, isn't he? Yeah, that talk with Spot really stuck with Race, didn't it? Treading dangerous waters here…

Angelfish: lol! I'm glad you like it! Here's…chapter 4!... :D Hope you liked it all right!

B.: Wow. You made me smile! I'm thrilled that you liked that last chapter with the Jacobs family; you're absolutely right that they're fun to write. They feel very real and lovable. Like…the 1899 Cleavers…okay… ;} …Race's bitchiness…oh yeah! lolol…