Last day of finals! Let's gooooo!
Review Responses:
JustVildaPotter: (Chapter 30) Just a typical hair-ruffling interaction among our newsies. Thanks! (Chapter 31) To be legal or not to be legal... that is the question. Yes, 'twas a very long chapter. I love turning the songs into chapters as well, and will be doing that a few more times. Glad you liked it.
AndrewKeenanBolgerFan: Bill is great. He just gets to be there, make sarcastic remarks, and eat popcorn. It is a shame that the last chapter beat Crutchie for longest chapter, but I think Crutchie's first chapter might still be the second longest. THANK YOU!
Alright, we got another long chapter today. Enjoy!
Chapter 32- Albert
Friday, September 17, 1999, 6:05 p.m.
Albert didn't care how many times Race told him to get lost; he wasn't going to leave Jacobi's. Not leaving when somebody instructed him to was a skill Albert had perfected over the years. Firstly, with his two older brothers, and then with the boys at Duane Street after his father had decided that the hyperactive boy could no longer be kept in his own family's apartment. By this point, he was king of annoying the people in his life. As such a person, Albert also did not care if Race called him insufferable. He had promised Jack that he would ensure Race's mission of smoothing things over with Spot Conlon went well. Okay, so maybe Jack had told him to do so as a joke and never mentioned it again. Nevertheless, Albert was a man of his word.
He had easily found Race working with Smalls behind the restaurant counter- because where else would Race be on a Friday night- but he had yet to locate Spot within the dining room. Therefore, Albert had no choice but to pester Race about the King of Brooklyn's whereabouts.
Approaching his friend earned Albert an annoyed glare. It also caused Race to begin attempting to ignore him. Of course, Albert wasn't about to let those attempts work. He went up to the counter and stood there staring at Race until the other boy took notice of him. "Go away."
"No."
Exactly as Albert had wanted, Race turned away from the customer he was talking to in order to make his next comment. "Please?"
"No."
"I can't deal with ya tonight."
"What, 're ya 'fraid I'll embarrass ya in front a' Spotty?"
Race pulled his cap down over his face, groaning. "No, I jus' don't want ya hangin' around 'ere ev'ry night."
"I'm keepin' ya company, what's wrong wit that?"
Returning his hat to its original location, Race told him, "Ya have a habit a' makin' a scene."
"Makin' a scene? I don't do that."
The customer cleared their throat, motioning for Race to return his attention to them. "Young man?"
Race obeyed them. "Sorry, got sidetracked. What'll ya have?"
"What'm I, just a blur?" Albert demanded, once again breaking Race's focus.
"Ya sit here all night, ev'ry night, an' ya neva' buy anythin'. Jacobi's gettin' fed up with it, an' so'm I. Now get outta here, I got a customer."
Albert was not going to take this kind of treatment, especially not from his best friend. "That's a lie. Yer a liar, Racetrack Higgins." He slammed his hand onto the counter, making the customer, who had been in the process of ordering, jump. "The otha' day, I had a seltza'."
Race bored his eyes into Albert's own. "Ya couldn't pay fer it."
"Oh yeah," Albert realized. Race turned back to the customer. Or attempted to, at least, by this point they had become fed up with the bad service and decided to leave the restaurant.
As they were leaving, someone else walked through the door, and Smalls announced "Spot Conlon," the way she always did when he showed up in Manhattan.
Spot ignored her, pushing his way to the front of the line. Typical king behavior. Albert almost laughed when he noticed the freckled teenager's height barely surpassed that of the counter.
"What brings a guy such as yerself ta Jacobi's this time a' night?" asked Albert, pretending he didn't know exactly what was going on.
Spot looked up at him. "Who wants ta know?"
"Yer ma-"
By throwing his hat into Albert's face, Race cut off the incredibly childish joke. "No one. He's no one. No one at all. He needs ta go away. Not that no one can go away, 'cause if yer no one, then you, uh, ain't there. Um... hi, Spot."
"Hey..." Spot dragged out the word, as if he were trying to remember what to say afterwards.
"Race."
"I know yer name."
"'Course ya do." Probably cursing himself internally, Race stood there. Albert wanted to jump in with anything that could make the scene less awkward, but Spot kept the conversation going.
"So ya wanted ta talk ta me?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Make it quick, I ain't got all night."
"Right, sure. So, uh, I'm sorry, 'bout kickin' ya outta here the otha' night." Following this statement came the return of Race's fidgeting. Today he was winding one of his curls around his fingertip, over and over and over. If he could have done so without it sounding insulting, Albert would have told him to stop doing that.
However, Spot responded before Albert could come up with a way of telling Race off that wouldn't offend him. "Ya already apologized ova' da phone."
"Did I?"
"Uh-huh. An' honestly, it ain't a big deal or nothin'. I kinda deserved it."
"Ya were bein' a lil' shit," Race remarked, clearly regretting it seconds afterwards.
To Albert's- and Race's- surprise, Spot smiled. Yes, Spot Conlon, self-certified King of Brooklyn, was smiling at Racetrack Higgins, Albert-certified delinquent. "So were you."
Narrowing his eyes, Race wondered, "Oh really?"
Doing the same, Spot responded, "Yeah."
This had taken an unexpected turn. Now it seemed Race and Spot were having a staring contest. It was a strange, but somewhat friendly mental battle, at least from what Albert could tell, being on the sidelines of the whole thing. "So, Spotty, what's da deal wit you an' da Delanceys?" he blurted.
"What?" said Spot, appearing to snap back into reality.
"I hear ya joined 'em and youse plannin' ta break up our strike."
"Where'dja hear that?"
"Da Delanceys. Duh."
"It ain't true."
"Ain't it?"
"Okay, so I joined 'em. Sue me. But it wasn't ta mess wit yer protest."
"Then why're ya still on their side?" Smalls demanded, becoming part of the conversation. "An' why haven't ya joined us?"
"I told Jackie-boy I'd wait an' see how da first day went, so I did. An' I'm glad I did, 'cause youse met my expectations."
"That's good, right?" Race asked.
"My expectations were that youse would fail, an' ya did."
"We didn't fail," Smalls shot back. "Considerin' no one else stood by us, we was fine this mornin'."
"Yeah, it sure went well," His words dripped with sarcasm. "How long didja last? One, two hours, was it?"
"Oh, go ta hell, Conlon."
"I'm only congratulatin' youse. Ya definitely got rid a' that scum Pulitzer."
"It's a work in progress," Race insisted.
"Don't you sound smart."
"I am."
"Ya 'spect me ta believe you ain't a slacker like the rest a' 'em?"
"Like you ain't a slacker."
"Shuddup."
"Oh, so ya can't take it, but ya can dish it out?"
"I can take it."
"Prove it."
"I ain't provin' nothin'. Not until youse prove ya can actually do somethin' wit all this protest shit."
"We don't gotta prove nothin' ta you."
"Then you's a coward."
Pissed off from watching this interaction, Albert volunteered, "I can prove it. I can do it right now." And before Race could potentially stop him, he walked to the nearest table and stepped up onto it, ignoring the annoyed looks Sniper and Finch were giving him for nearly knocking over their water glasses. "Patrons a' Jacobi's!" He announced. The group of people in question was already beginning to exit the business due to horrible service from Smalls and Race, but Albert didn't care if they were leaving, so long as there were a few people left to hear him. "We, da newsies a' Lower Manhattan, are gathered here today ta celebrate da birth a' our strike, which was this mornin', if ya missed it." Though their number was small, one could easily pick out the normal people trying to enjoy their dinners, as they all looked severely concerned. This pleased Albert. "So I would like everyone ta raise a glass-" he bent down, picked up Finch's water, then straightened up, holding it high- "to the union!"
"To the revolution!" Race and Smalls called in unison.
Unfortunately, the reaction from the customers was less enthusiastic. Several more people got up and left, disregarding the fact that they had not paid for their food.
"I hope you're goin' to provide me an explanation as to why you're standin' on one a' my tables," said Jacobi as Albert took a sip of Finch's water.
"Provin' a point," was his lame explanation.
"What point is that?"
"That we ain't cowards."
Jacobi frowned at his steadily decreasing number of diners, then sighed. "If you must."
"Thanks." From his seat, Finch was giving Albert a what-the-hell look, so he handed back the glass before turning to the small crowd. "Who here is a starvin' artist?" Aside from the newsies, about five people had decided to give Albert their attention, and a couple of those five raised their hands in response to his question. "Great. Then ya got somethin' in common wit us."
"Which part?" Sniper asked. "The starvin', or the artist?"
"Both a' 'em, or eitha' one, it don't really matter. Who here don't like yer parents?"
A few more customers put their hands up along with Albert. Finch followed, as did Sniper, Smalls, and Specs. At a corner table, Henry's arm was halfway up.
Albert continued, pleasantly surprised with the feedback. "Tha's anotha' thing we got in common. I ain't a fan a' my dad, an' Finchy here don't even speak ta his mom, though he's s'posed ta be livin' wit her. An' Snipes' dad-"
"What da hell're ya doin'?" Finch interrupted. He was looking worriedly at Sniper, and Albert realized he had all but crossed a line.
Turning back to the crowd, he noticed three more chairs had emptied during his ramble. "Um, neva' mind that. Anyway... Here's a question: who here hates Joseph Pulitzer?" That, thankfully, brought up almost every hand in the restaurant. The interest wasn't completely lost yet. "Yeah, I thought so. As ya can see, we do too. Tha's what we's protestin'. An' we ain't gonna back down until Pulitzer stands ta listen ta us. Whaddaya say ta that?" Another pair of people vacated their seats.
"I say get off the table before ya hurt yerself," said Specs.
Glaring at the three remaining normal customers, Romeo stood up on his chair. "I say, the rest a' youse need ta act up." He punched his fist in the air. "Seize the day!"
"Siddown." Rebelliousness gone, Romeo immediately complied with Specs' request.
"Seriously, Al, couldja get down?" Sniper implored as the last three customers skedaddled.
Finch countered, "Don't listen ta her. She can't tell ya what ta do."
"I didn't tell 'im, I asked. 'Course, ya wouldn't know nothin' 'bout askin' folks ta do things."
"Here we go." Finch looked at Albert, who until that moment had forgotten Sniper and Finch were in the middle of a fight. "Can ya believe her? What's wrong wit not askin' ta kiss someone?"
A lot a' things, was what an honest person would have said. An honest person, however, was something Albert was not. When it came to his friends, he aimed to please. "Honestly, Snipes, ya should a' seen it comin'."
"'Scuse me?" Sniper was incredulous.
"I mean, it's pretty clear Finchy's in love wit ya." Finch looked away from his best friend as Albert made that information public.
"Why're we havin' this conversation?"
"Ta kill time."
In disbelief, Smalls asked, "Seriously?"
Albert shrugged. "Romance is interestin'."
Smalls looked back and forth between Sniper and Finch. "Not this one."
At that, Sniper climbed up onto the table beside Albert. "Okay, assholes. Fer the record, Finch an' I do not have a 'romance'."
"Why not?" Finch wanted to know, eyes on Sniper again.
Smalls rolled her eyes, blurting, "Haven't ya figured it out yet?"
"What?"
Spot raised his eyebrows. "You ain't her type. 'Least, I don't think so."
"Whaddaya mean by that?"
"For da love a god, Finchy!" Race exclaimed, "She's clearly-"
"Race!" Specs reprimanded, causing the other boy to clap a hand over his mouth.
"Clearly what?" Sniper asked the two of them. Race only shook his head. "Specs?"
"Nothin', Sniper."
Like I'm gonna believe that. What're ya assumin' 'bout me?" She glared at the other newsies. "Smalls, you'll tell me."
The poor girl in question had turned pale. Considering she had gotten everyone on the subject, this was understandable. "I can't tell ya."
"Can't tell her what?" said Finch. "I still don't get what y'all are tryin' ta say."
"Ain't nothin', don' worry about it," Albert attempted to assure both him and Sniper, but it didn't work.
Sniper warned, "Whateva' it is, I want youse ta stop thinkin' it."
"We ain't thinkin' nothin', so that works out," Romeo responded. He managed to sound convincing.
"'Cause yer all wrong. Ya hear? Ya don't know nothin' 'bout me."
No one tried to argue with this. Sniper jumped off the table, and no one stopped her from bolting out of the restaurant a moment later, though Smalls looked like she wanted to say something as the other girl ran off.
After she had gone, Finch snapped, "Great job, Race."
Smalls glared at him too. "Ya had ta open yer big mouth."
Albert jumped off the table. "Guys, c'mon. He didn't do nothin'."
"Albert..." Race started to say.
"No. Ya can't control what ya almost said."
"Well, he could, if he tried," Spot pointed out. "But whateva' ya say, Allie-boy."
"It ain't his fault," Albert insisted, then targeted his next statement toward Smalls. "'Sides, most a' youse wanted ta say somethin' 'bout it anyway, didn'tcha?"
"Somethin' 'bout what?" cried Finch, clearly fed up with the subtlety, although it was a wonder he had not yet caught on. Even Albert had done so by this point.
"Well," said Specs, "we certainly ain't gonna tell ya straight." Then he winked, but even that most obvious clue didn't clear things up for Finch. In a theoretical, exasperated way, Specs suggested, "Do ya need us ta give ya a hint?"
Romeo got on top of his chair again. "May I?"
"Knock yerself out."
So Romeo did. By bending down and kissing Specs full on the mouth for about ten seconds. When he pulled away, revealing Specs' surprised face, several of the other guys- Albert included- made oohing sounds.
Patting Finch's shoulder, Albert declared, "There's a hint fer ya."
"Great. I get it now."
But Finch did not sound or look happy to have his question answered.
Woot woot! Go Romeo!
And poor Sniper. She's having a day. It's not a good day. Please just let her figure herself out, people.
Okay, I'm really tired now. Please review, and I'll see you next time!