First day of finals? Done.
Chapter? About to be posted.
Review Responses? Many.
AndrewKeenanBolgerFan: (Chapter 25) Denton is great. He's one of the few things I actually care about from the original movie. Darcy and Bill are both glorious humans as well. (Chapter 26) JACKIE-BOYYY No, let's not discuss that connection. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. (Yes, yes it was a Sprace beginning.) I'm a huge Spot fan as well. I mean, Tommy Bracco, guys. How can you not love him?
JustVildaPotter: (Chapter 23) Specs' Shoe should be listed in the credits and programs of all Newsies performances. They've gotta goof off sometimes before everything gets all dramatic. And speaking of drama... You'll find out what he wanted to say in this chapter. (Chapter 24) You got the reference! I figured you would. The second I heard Erica say that line in ST, I knew I had to give it to Les at some point. Race is indeed king material. Erm, I'm sorry? (Chapter 25) Denton simply does not care. Luckily, Katherine does. GO KATHERINE! (Chapter 26) No, that discussion thingy did not go well. Oh, poor Race. He certainly is going to get a disgusting candy bar in this chapter.
Hotel? Trivago.
Chapter 27- Race
Friday, September 17, 1999, 10:40 a.m.
Race lay on Weasel's table, holding a cigarette above his head and studying it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the universe. As of the present moment, there was nothing else to do. There was only Race, Albert, and the cigarette in the classroom, all waiting for Jack and Davey to show up with news from Brooklyn. Race didn't know why he spent so much time waiting for Jack, but he did. He probably needed to start doing something else with his life. At least he had this strike thing to look forward to. Unfortunately, said strike was off to a slow start so far. Every single school Race and Albert had visited in Midtown the previous afternoon had been full of students who didn't care about the protest, and as such were not willing to join in. Well, Race reminded himself, that wasn't entirely true. They had all wanted to know Spot Conlon's thoughts on the matter before making a decision. Until then, none of them gave a sh-
Sniper barged into the newspaper office with Finch on her heels. And she looked mad.
"Are we gonna discuss this or what?" Finch asked her. His face also bore an upset expression.
"I'd rather we didn't," muttered Sniper through gritted teeth.
"What d'you want me ta say, Snipes? D'ya need an apology or somethin'? Look, I'm sorry."
"Ya shouldn't hafta apologize."
"That's what I think too. Glad we're on the same-"
"Ya shouldn't hafta apologize because ya neva' should've done it in the first place." Sniper slammed her hand onto the table. "Race!"
Race's head snapped up. "What?"
"Where's Smalls?"
"Hell if I know."
"Great," Sniper stormed back out. Race lay back down on the table, disregarding that random interaction.
"Thanks a lot, Racer," Finch pulled a chair out from under a desk with so much force it toppled to the ground. He righted it and sat on it sideways, continuing to glare at Race.
"What'd I do?" Race asked, sitting up. For once, he was truly unsure.
"Ya made Snipes an' me cover yer shift las' night, an' look how it turned out."
"I take it ya talked wit her about yer feelings?" Race smirked.
"No, I kissed her."
At the sound of that announcement, Albert bounded over. "Whaaaaat?"
"Shut it, Al."
Albert did not shut it. "Ya kissed 'er outta nowhere?"
Finch groaned. "I kept tryin' ta talk ta her, but she kept gettin' interrupted, until fin'ly, we was in the back room, cleanin' up, an' I jus' went fer it."
"Smooth."
"No, it wasn't. She yelled at me."
"She slap ya?"
Finch hung his head and mumbled his response. "Maybe."
"I still don' understand what this's gotta do wit me," said Race.
"You's the idiot who left us alone."
Albert came to his best friend's defense. "C'mon. You's da idiot who kissed her."
"I figured she'd like it!" Finch protested, "Ain't girls s'posed ta like kissin'?"
"Not necessarily," Race answered, though of course he had no frame of reference to back that statement up.
Finch called him out on this, and Albert got in the middle of the pair before the argument could escalate. "Forget about it, guys. Ya struck out wit Snipes again, Finchy. Ain't nothin' new there. An' it ain't Racer's fault."
"What ain't Racer's fault?" Jack had arrived, along with Davey and a handful of others.
Albert was all too eager to explain. "Finchy here tried kissin' Snipes, an' it did not go well."
Jack looked confused at this news. "Isn't Sniper..." he shook his head, then beckoned Race, his face set in a serious expression. "We need ta talk."
"Why?" Race questioned. Once again, he had no idea what he had done.
"Jus' come out 'ere."
Race got to his feet, sticking his cigarette between his teeth and shrugging at Albert, who was giving him a confused look. "Ya seen Spot Conlon, didn'tcha Jack?" He asked when the older boy had pulled him out into the hallway.
"Yeah, I seen 'im." For some reason, Jack was glaring at Race with annoyance.
"So..."
"What'd ya say ta him, Racer?"
"Huh?"
"Spot thinks I lied ta him 'bout gettin' him a job at Jacobi's 'cause a' somethin' you told 'im. So what'd ya say?"
"I..." Race searched every crevice of his brain, trying to recall the instance Jack was referring to.
"An' don't give me no crap 'bout you not rememberin', it was two days ago."
Now Race remembered. Spot had come into Jacobi's, and when Race had been forced to talk to him- thanks to Smalls- he'd clammed up and forgotten to think about the words coming out of his mouth. Slowly, he began to explain this to Jack, in what he hoped was an innocent-sounding way. "I may have, accidentally, kinda... thrown 'im outta Jacobi's."
"Ya gotta be kiddin' me."
"Ya know how I get in front a' him. He was all intimidatin', an' I wasn't thinkin', an'-"
"And nothin'! Dammit Racer!" Jack slammed a fist into the wall next to him. Race was taken aback by the sudden outburst. "Because a' you, we got no reinforcements."
Despite already knowing the answer to the question, Race wondered, "So Brooklyn ain't with us?"
"That depends," Davey, who had been eavesdropping in the doorway, said sarcastically. "If you look and see Brooklyn, then they're with us."
That meant no. At least, Race was pretty sure it did. He didn't quite get the joke. Jack continued ranting, "An' s'far as I've heard, none a' the other kids are willin' ta stand wit us without the okay from Spot."
"Not even Queens?" Knowing Specs had been the one sent over there, Race hoped that those students, at least, would be convinced.
Specs came up the hallway with Romeo right in time to answer the question. Conveniently, he had been within hearing distance of the conversation between the other three. "Oh, Queens'll be right there with us-" he let the phrase sit there for a moment, allowing Jack's face to brighten at the news.
Then he allowed Romeo to bring the mood down: "Soon as we get the nod from Brooklyn."
While Jack growled beside him, Race stared at his scuffed up sneakers. He really had messed things up. "Sorry."
"Gee, thanks. Yer apology's sure gonna give us a lot a' backup." Even though he wasn't looking at the older boy, Race was sure Jack was rolling his eyes overdramatically.
Race was about done being picked on for one morning. "What d'ya want me ta do, Jack?"
"Gimme yer phone."
"What?"
"Give it."
Muddled by this request, but not wanting to argue any more, Race fished the cracked hunk of plastic out of his pocket and handed it over. He watched as Jack flipped it open and punched in a number, then forced it back into his hands. "Um..."
"That's Spot Conlon's number. I want ya ta call him an' get 'im down ta Jacobi's this afternoon. See if ya can't convince him ta join us."
"Wait-"
"Uh-uh. You's doin' this."
There was no way Race was going to talk to Spot, not after the way their last interaction had gone. "I can't."
"Yes, ya can. You made a mistake, Racer. So fix it."
Before Race could protest again, Crutchie appeared, leading the rest of the newsies. The mood in the air was completely changed with his arrival. This was due, of course, to the presence of the blonde boy's smiling face, as well as a strange new addition he had made to his crutches. Attached to one was a white, raggedy piece of cloth, onto which someone had painted the word "STRIKE" in black capital letters.
"Hey Jack, look what I made!" Crutchie brandished the crutch with the makeshift sign, faking rage as he yelled, "Strike!" The effect of this was somewhat ruined by the perpetual existence of his smile, but his effort made Jack laugh. And to think he had been yelling at Race minutes before.
Smalls elbowed her way through the crowd, coming to Jack's side as well. "Crutchie an' I made us a cheer las' night, too." She cupped her hands around her mouth. "Manhattan Newsies?"
"Carrying the Banner!" Crutchie shouted.
The two short kids beamed at Jack, and he grinned back. "I love it, guys." Race didn't see what there was to love about it. The cheer barely made sense. But as usual, Captain Jack was playing favorites. No wonder Henry had blown up at him a couple nights before. Now Race fully understood why he had done so.
He snapped at Smalls, "Long walk ta the Bronx, was it?"
"Yeah, a long walk fer nothin'," she mumbled. "Freakin' Spot Conlon messed up everythin' before we had a chance ta even explain da plan. They wouldn't listen ta us."
"He might a' been on board if Race hadn't practically banned him from Jacobi's," Jack told everyone. "Then we wouldn't be in this situation."
Smalls shook her head at this news. "Really, Racer?"
Outraged, but hiding it somewhat well, in his own opinion, Race blurted, "Finch kissed Sniper." It wasn't a retaliation so much as it was a statement made to throw Smalls off.
And it worked. The sight of Smalls' pale face was enough to lessen the blows Jack had been inflicting upon Race. "Oh, th-that's nice," was all she could say, while the Captain glared at the curly-haired boy, implying that he should shut up.
Instead, Race grinned at Crutchie, lacing his next words with sarcasm. "Cool sign." Then he walked into the classroom, muttering audibly to Davey as he passed him, "That's the most pitiful thing I've ever seen." In contrast to the satisfaction he had gained from catching Smalls off her guard, Race didn't feel a thing upon seeing Crutchie frown at the remark.
He did, however, feel a great deal of pain when Jack whacked him on the back of the head. "Stop that."
Race gritted his teeth and rubbed the spot Jack's hand had just impacted. "Oh, sorry, did I make yer boyfriend feel bad?" Behind the newsie leader, Race saw Crutchie shift awkwardly on his uneven footing. Good. There was no point in insulting someone if the insult didn't make some kind of impact.
Davey held Jack back as he tried to rush at Race. "Enough, both of you. We got a strike that needs to get started, and that can't happen with you two clawing at each other's throats." Visibly, several other people nodded in agreement.
Jack insisted, "Race started it."
"Did not," Race retorted, though he most certainly had started it.
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"Did-"
"We don't care who started it!" Albert yelled. "Jus' kiss an' make up already!"
Race crossed his arms. "I will if Jack stops blamin' me for everythin' that went wrong this mornin'."
Jack fired back, "I will if Racer agrees ta give Spot Conlon a call and try ta reason with 'im."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Davey relinquished his hold on Jack, and Albert nudged his best friend forward. The two boys stared each other down for a second. Then, each of them raised a hand to his mouth, and spit into his palm. A traditional handshake followed this.
As Race dried his palm on his jeans, Albert nodded approvingly, but Davey looked repulsed by the exchange. "That's disgusting."
"That's jus' the price a' doin' business," explained Jack. The use of the spit-shake was a common occurrence among the newsies, so nobody else had questions.
"What business?"
"Don' worry about it," Race said.
Jack gave him a pat on the back as he walked up to the blackboard. He paused for only a split second, so he could whisper in Race's ear, "Don't be such an idiot next time, alright?"
Race nodded, trying his hardest to pretend that the warning didn't sting. He knew, internally, that one handshake- whether it included saliva or not- failed to suddenly make everything all right. However, that didn't matter at present.
It was time to strike.
I smell... drama. Mostly between Finch and Sniper, 'cause that's going to go on for a while.
Don't randomly kiss your best friend, kids. Unless you happen to be dating them. You don't want to end up like Finch and Sniper.
Okay, this time, I swear, the next chapter will actually be about the strike. I keep saying the strike is going to start, and then it doesn't, but I'm for real this time.
I'll leave you with a chant: Manhattan Newsies?
(Now respond in your review, with "Carrying the Banner!")