First of all, I'd like to say a big thank you to anyone who recently followed and favorited this story. I cannot explain how much your support means to me.
Here's a long chapter for all you lovely readers!
Chapter 8- Charlie
Wednesday, September 15, 1999, 10:45 a.m.
Journalism class was chaotic from the minute Charlie Morris entered the room. Not expecting a class to be chaotic when you came into it on someone else's shoulders was of course unrealistic, but that was beside the point. Jack lowered his friend into a chair, then dashed back into the hallway to retrieve the forearm crutches that had been left behind in the scuffle. As Charlie waited for his new protector to return, he watched the tables fill up around him, keeping a mental checklist of the people he knew. Specs, Henry, Elmer, Albert, Race, Jojo...
Charlie lost track. He had never had so many friends. It was a little scary, if he was being honest with himself. At the last high school he had attended, before everything had changed, he'd been liked by the other students. Simply liked. Not a person anyone wanted to be around by choice, but no one would complain if they were told to spend time with him. There had been a handful of people who knew his name, and plenty of people who made a habit of saying hello to him in the mornings, but no one had ever called him their best friend. Mean people, on the other hand, were plentiful; that was a given when you had a bad leg, and Charlie hadn't had anyone who truly cared for him or bothered to stick up for him. There could only be one Jack Kelly in the world, he supposed, fondly watching the older boy converse with some of the other students.
Only one Jack Kelly. If this was a bad thing or a good thing, Charlie had yet to decide. On the one hand, Jack came with numerous friends who were all quick to accept the battered new kid, and nickname him "Crutchie". Charlie wasn't fully sold on the nickname yet. He pretended he was, because he knew nobody meant any harm by calling him that. The thing was, his parents had always called him Charlie. And now, no one did.
No. That wasn't the reason. Charlie shook that thought away. Really, he just wasn't used to all the strange nicknames. It was hard enough to keep track of people with regular names; he'd never imagined how difficult it would be to become familiar with a large group of people with millions of nicknames. Thankfully, Specs had helped with this a lot, throwing out random facts so Charlie could associate people with something other than their multiple names.
"Jojo's from Harlem," he'd said earlier, when first introducing the person with dark brown skin who had supplied everyone in the group home with coffee that morning. "They live with a couple of nuns who own a coffee shop, because that's a thing."
"Former nuns," Jojo had clarified, "but yes."
Now Jojo was approaching Crutchie's table, a lighter-skinned person at their side. "Hey, how's it goin'?"
"Pretty good. I could've done without that fight earlier, though."
"The Delanceys, yeah. I hate those guys." Jojo gestured to their companion. "This is Buttons, by the way."
"If there's a lice outbreak, it's their fault," said Henry, who was sitting at a nearby table.
"You get lice one time," Buttons lamented, filling the seat beside Charlie. "So is your only method of transportation piggy-back rides?"
"Um..." Charlie tried to think up an explanation.
"That's how you got to school this mornin', an' that's how you got in here jus' now, so..."
"Oh. Well, we were runnin' late this mornin'. Jus' now, that just kinda happened. I can walk."
"That's good. I find walking to be helpful, most of the time."
A silence full of social awkwardness followed.
"So, why're you called 'Buttons'?"
"'Cause I can sew."
"And they're amazing at it," Jojo put in.
"Well, you've gotta be, when you have as many siblings as I do. D'you know how much time I spend fixin' clothes an' such?"
"Hours." Jojo perched on top of the table while Buttons nodded, eyes wide to signal how stressed out their siblings made them. "You got any siblings, Crutchie?"
"Naw, it's jus' me," Charlie answered. "But who needs family anyway?" Buttons and Jojo exchanged a concerned look, but before either of them could say anything, an obnoxious yell broke through the chatter filling the newspaper office.
"Quiet down!" The man who was evidently the teacher bellowed. He had a round figure, covered by a white shirt that had the collar unbuttoned and grey sweatpants. A patch of gray hair and a matching mustache were the only splotches of color on his white head. In one hand, he held a wooden baseball bat, which he banged against his desk to signal order. The man was either a gym teacher or a normal teacher who took great joy in confusing people.
"Mornin', Weasel," Jack smirked. Now Charlie recalled being told about the man who was in charge of the school newspaper. Specs had made a point to clarify that the man's name was Mr. Wiesel (pronounced Wise-ell), but Jack, Race, and all the others consistently called him Weasel.
"Francis."
Jack sighed. "Mornin', Coach Weasel."
"Jack Kelly. I see you're still here to make my life miserable."
"You gonna start this class or what?"
Mr. Wiesel stiffened, looking annoyed at being told what to do by a seventeen-year-old. "Right. First order of business. Which one a' you delinquents came in here this mornin' and edited the pape without permission?" The room buzzed with confusion. BANG! went the baseball bat against the desk, quieting everyone. "Normally, I wouldn't care, but the head a' the school board is very interested in knowin' who wrote this article."
Multiple pairs of eyes fell on Jack. He shrugged. "It's a ghost writer," he said, as if he were explaining the concept to a small child rather than a forty-year-old man and various teenagers. "Nobody knows who it is. Tha's why they calls it a ghost."
"They may 'ave everyone else fooled, but I know it's one a' you kids."
"But can ya prove it?" This came from Smalls, who leaned back in a chair with her arms crossed.
Mr. Wiesel had nothing to say to that. He moved on to the next item on the list that was laid out on the desk. "Says here I'm s'posed ta explain how this class works to all you new kids. Howeva', it looks like all of ya have been here before, so I'm not gonna do that. Any objections?" There were none. Charlie had already learned everything from Jack and the other Duane Street boys. A few seats behind him, Romeo was getting a whispered explanation from Specs. Like Mr. Wiesel, Charlie didn't see anyone else who looked new. The baseball bat met the desk for a third time as the gym teacher turned newspaper editor loudly announced, "Papes for the newsies! Line up!"
A variety of zipper and rustling cloth sounds filled the air as everyone searched their bags for money. Roosevelt High School's funding had just short of dried up years ago. Because the the newspaper program was low on money as well as readership, Mr. Wiesel had decided to make the students pay for the use of the large, slow-running computers with which the paper was typed and edited before being printed off, back when they still printed it off. Now, the paper could be accessed online, but that took forever, hence the lack of readers. For some strange reason, the school board had approved the decision of making the young journalists, otherwise known as "newsies", pay for their work time, and no one questioned the system. It was the way things worked and there was no point in trying to change it. Jack had explained all this to Charlie, for which he was grateful.
It was five dollars for every one hundred minutes of computer use, which didn't really mean anything in a fifty minute class period. If a newsie didn't have money, they either got to roam the school- and the nearby streets, if allowed outside- to find a story for the other, less poor kids to write about. If there were no stories to be found, they offered moral support to the people actually doing the work.
Jack sauntered to the front of the messy line the students had formed at Mr. Wiesel's instruction and slapped five bucks on the table. "The usual. I'll cover Smalls' time too."
"Sweet, thanks Captain," Smalls stepped out of line, tucking her money into the pocket of her shorts.
"Fifty each for the wiseasses," Mr. Wiesel instructed Oscar, who took note of it on the chalkboard.
Race was next. "How's it goin', Weasel?"
The man rolled his eyes. "Call me coach, at least."
"I'll call ya sweetheart if ya spot me two-fifty." A burst of laughter from the other guys followed this.
"Pay up or move on."
Race fished a couple of crumpled dollar bills and two quarters out of his pocket. "Whatever happened to romance?" He dropped the money on the desk and drifted away.
"Fifty minutes for Race," Wiesel told Oscar.
The line progressed until Charlie found himself at the front. He procured the required two dollars and fifty cents, gave the man a smile, and said politely, "Good morning, Mr. Wiesel."
The man smiled approvingly. "Fifty for this kid."
"Fifty for the crip," Oscar repeated and embellished. Mr. Wiesel didn't reprimand him.
Charlie walked over to stand next to Jack. So much for good first impressions. He watched the next boy step up to the front of the line. Studying the boy and trying to recall his name proved futile; Charlie didn't remember being introduced to him, which was odd. He was sure he would have remembered someone as uptight-looking as this boy. "Who's that?"
Jack's brow was furrowed as he tried to place the new kid. "I got no idea, but I feel like I've seen 'im before."
"Twenty minutes, please," the new boy said in an oddly formal way that contrasted the unsure look on his face.
"That's a dollar," Mr. Wiesel told him.
The boy looked utterly confused. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. "I'll pay you afterwards."
Stifling a judgy laugh, Charlie exchanged a look with Jack. This new kid couldn't seriously be that stupid.
"Very funny," said an unamused Mr. Wiesel. "Pay up, newbie."
"Do I get my money back if I run out of time?" Charlie watched Jack's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief at the stupidity.
"Certainly. An' I'm also the tooth fairy."
The new boy's face flushed, and he pulled out a dollar before moving on, making way for Albert to move up to the head of the line. Albert placed one hand on each edge of the table, tilting his head to the side as he looked at Mr. Wiesel.
"You have a very interestin' face," he quipped. "Ever thought of gettin' into da movies?"
Mr. Wiesel was intrigued. "You really think I could?"
"Sure," Albert crowed, hitting the table, but not laying down any money. "Buy a ticket, they let anyone in!"
"Excuse me," the new boy piped up. "I asked for twenty minutes, but you gave me nineteen." He pointed to Oscar's badly handwritten list on the chalkboard. Sure enough, the number nineteen was printed next to the word "newbie".
"How unfortunate for you," stated Mr. Wiesel.
Jack stood up. "He's right, Weasel. We can all see it. An honest mistake, I'm sure, on account a' Oscar can't count to twenty with his shoes on."
Oscar lunged toward Jack, but Morris held him back. Meanwhile, the new guy was staring at Jack with a surprised expression on his face. It seemed he knew Jack from wherever Jack knew him.
Mr. Wiesel crossed his arms, one hand still gripping the baseball bat. "Life ain't fair sometimes, kid."
"He jus' wants what he paid for," Jack attempted to explain.
"Actually," said the boy, "I'd like to know why you're allowed to charge students to use school property."
"Budget cuts," grunted Mr. Wiesel.
"That doesn't make any sense. Why should budget cuts force you to take money from students?"
"You see what I get for tryin' ta be nice to this new kid? Unfounded accusations."
"I'm just trying to understand-"
"Hey! Stop holdin' up the line!" Finch hollered, bouncing up and down in an antsy way.
Jack pulled out a dollar, handed it to the new kid. "I buy ya twenty more minutes ta write an' ya shut up, alright?"
The boy shoved the dollar into Jack's chest. "I don't want more time to write."
"What kind a' newsie don't want more time?" Smalls asked, her eyebrows raised.
"I'm not a news-" the boy shook his head. "I don't need charity. Especially not from you." By "you", he meant Jack.
"Whaddaya got against the Captain? He's only tryin' ta help."
"Help? From what I can see, he's nothing but a jerk."
"His name's Jack," announced a female voice.
The boy in question swiveled around at the same time as the new kid. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw Jack's face turn white as he took in the brown-haired girl who had spoken.
"Hi...Sarah..."
"Hi, Jack," Sarah smiled. "I see you've met my brother, David."
Jack whipped his head back and forth, looking at Sarah, then David, then Sarah again. "'Course. He's very, um..."
"Yeah, he's a clueless nerd." Jack cracked a smile at her words. Sarah laid a hand on her brother's shoulder. "Don't worry, it rubs right off."
"That's for sure," said Charlie.
Smalls also voiced her agreement, then asked. "What're you up to, Sarah? Here ta make Captain Jack suffer?"
Jack shoved Smalls' shoulder. "'m not sufferin'."
"No," Sarah replied. "I'm just helping Katherine out."
The face of Captain Jack fell. "Kath could a' asked me fer help."
"She needed smart help."
"I'm plenty smart."
"Are you though?"
"You two dated, didn't you?" David guessed.
"No!" Sarah looked horrified.
"Absolutely not!" Jack jumped back, as if distancing himself from Sarah would dispose of the tension between the pair.
"Geez guys, be more certain about it," said Charlie.
"They just really hate each other," Smalls explained, "because they both-"
"Shut up, Smalls!" Jack cried.
"Because Katherine likes me better than Jack," Sarah crossed her arms.
"No, no, she hasn't explicitly said so."
"I can't say I'm a particularly big fan of either of you at the moment," a young woman with neatly brushed red hair appeared in the doorway, arms laden with haphazardly stacked books.
"Sorry," Sarah rushed to help her friend.
"Hey, Kath," Jack leaned against the wall in a flirtatious way. "I missed ya."
"Somewhere out there, someone cares," Katherine remarked, shoving Jack out of her way. "Go tell them."
Woo! That there is the longest chapter of this story so far.
Mostly due to the fact that I had to explain a bunch of stuff regarding the school newspaper and all that. I think the way I modernized the paying for papes worked out alright. Though obviously, it isn't the most realistic thing. But this is a fictional story.
What did you think? I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on the chapter in a review.
Until next time, readers!