Chapter 9:

On the steps of the lodging house, Crutchie's knees threatened to turn to water. She looked up. "Oh, help," she muttered. Then, just in case Heaven wanted clarification, she added, "Jesus, Mother Mary, and, well, if You got anyone else handy."

"Little early for prayers, Crutchie," Race laughed. "Strike's barely started."

"It ain't the strike. It's Denton. What's he gonna say? What's he gonna do? He could have us all out on the street, little kids, too. And that's not even mentionin', Mrs. Martinelli is either gonna starve us out or bust our tails."

"Or both," Davey agreed. "Jack, I don't know if I should've gotten us into this. We didn't take time to think it through, we need plans, we need…"

Jack flashed his signature charming smile. "Will you two worrywarts calm down? We's gonna be fine, you'll see. We all go in there together, we tell 'em what happened. If they's the good folks we think, they'll understand. If not, we'll work it out. They don't call me Cap'n Jack for nothin'." He swept the door open, doffing his newsie cap, clearly ready to yell the news, until Mrs. Martinelli rushed out and embraced him.

"We heard! We've been so worried—but my bambinos, so brave! In my day, we'd have never dared—but now, perhaps now, America can be…" She gushed on like that, cutting herself off every few moments, hugging the newsies and kissing them on both cheeks, including Crutchie.

"And oh! My bambina! I wondered—but then why should I not expect…but Jack! Getting her up on the statue like that—you must be more careful!"

"Yes." Mr. Denton's voice rose above the chaos. "You've all gotta be careful. But I'll back you a hundred percent, as long as you need."

Jack turned to Davey and Crutchie. "What'd I tell ya? These two was thinkin' they was gonna sleep in Central Park tonight."

"But why support us?" Davey asked. "Most people hate strikers, think they cause chaos and destruction. And my parents are gonna hit the roof!"

Denton came over, put a hand on Davey's shoulder. "I hope not, Mr. Jacobs. But if you need me to speak in your support, I can and will. You see, my Felicity and I wanted children, but…sometimes these things don't work out. It's been my calling and my honor to be a father to my newsies for years. I've seen how little they get by on, how Pulitzer and Hearst and Snyder treat them."

"I myself can't do as much as I'd like," he continued, "not if I want to keep this house open. Some things, I can't even prove. So I've done what I can, charging less rent than other proprietors, offering a place to younger newsies. Accepting newsgirls when it was, is still, considered scandalous." He glanced to Crutchie, who mouthed her thanks and ducked so the other newsies wouldn't catch her face heating. "And so now," Denton said, "I'm behind you all. I won't take rent until the strike ends, unless it's completely voluntary. And here, you're safe. I don't know who's striking or what they're doing or where they're going. No matter what anyone says."

He means if—when—Snyder shows up, an evil little thought taunted Crutchie. She shoved it down.

"I second all the motions," Mrs. Martinelli said. "Our families left the old countries to get away from Pulitzers and whatever-their-names. I won't have them bullying my bambinos. Now come, I'm waiting dinner and it's getting cold."

Jack whooped. "Three cheers for Mr. Denton, first official backer of the Newsboys'—uh, News…Kids' Union of New York City!"

"Hip, hip, hooray!"

"And for Mrs. Martinelli, who's gonna make sure we don't starve so we faint and look like idiots…uh, Crutchie, how you say 'all-around plum' in Italian?"

"Well, 'plum' is 'prugna,' but that's the fruit. I think you mean somethin' like, 'Regina de Casa de Camare Trentasei.'"

"Yeah—what she said," Jack laughed.

"She said, 'Queen 'a' Lodgin' House 36, ya bum," Race said. "And that's right! Hip, hip, HOORAY!"

"Enough, you're making me blush. And you're insulting my eggplant parmigiana. Davey, Les, surely you will stay tonight? Perhaps it might give your parents time to absorb the idea?"

"Yeah, can we?" Les pleaded. "We can plan how we gonna stick it to Pulitzer, but good!"

"It's gonna take more than one day, Les. But…" Davey turned to Mr. Denton. "If—someone could get a message to our parents? They've probably heard, and they—could maybe use a night off from us."

"I'll do it," Jack volunteered. "And I'll try talkin' 'em round. We got an extra bunk over mine, you can take it."

"Thanks. Crutchie, you don't mind taking on a sixth newsie for the night?"

"'Course not. Les, you can take my bed. I'll tuck everybody in and then stay in the kitchen."

"Crutchie, you don't have to…" Davey began.

"I don't mind. It's warmer down here, better for the leg. We need to, we'll figure up a bunk bed situation."

"Swell!" Les exclaimed. "I been hearin' a lot about your stories and voices and stuff. You got any with kids like me and Davey in 'em?"

"Not unless those kids are motormouths," Dodger said.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I do have one about newsies who get powers, makes 'em able to stop time, change events. Not quite fleshed out yet, but how about you guys help me figure out what happens?"

"After you finish dinner and your studies," Mrs. Martinelli reminded them. "And Miss Crutchie, I expect you to use your time to rest, not worry about the strike. The papers will go unsold no matter how you worry—and our little cucciolos will be just fine."

"Sure we will," Les piped up. "We gotta help with the strike, too."

"Now hold on," Crutchie said. "Youse guys can't get too involved in this, you're too young."

"We ain't, neither," Dodger protested. "'Sides, you ain't the boss of us for real, Denton is. And Jack."

"She's the boss when I say so, and I have," Denton warned.

"Yeah, and she's right," Jack agreed. "It's gonna get rough out there. Youse kids could get hurt real bad."

"So could you!" Dodger protested. "And so could Crutchie! She's a darn crip!" 'Cept he didn't say 'darn.'

"That's enough, you little smart mouth," Jack barked. "Wherever you heard that, forget it. And quit worryin' about me, or Crutchie, or anybody. We're old enough to handle this, you ain't. You wanna be treated like a big kid, do like you're told and respect the people who've done nothin' but help ya. You get me?"

Dodger had the grace to keep his eyes down, and his lip actually trembled. "Yeah."

"'Yes, sir.'"

"Okay. Yes, sir."

"Good." Jack tilted Dodger's chin. "Aw, kid. I get it, you wanna help. But trust me, we wanna protect you younger ones—and Crutchie wants that more than anybody. She's been in the Refuge, and she knows, if you get caught strikin', that's the first and last place you go. She don't want that for you."

Dodger's eyes welled, but remained defiant. "I could get away, you know I could."

"But on the chance you didn't. Look, we're gonna need ya, you don't know how much. You'll see."

"Absolutely." Crutchie traced her finger under Dodger's left eye. "You know what? I almost told Jack not to strike today. Know why I stuck with it?"

"'Cause you're best friends."

"Well, yeah. But even then. Until I thought, 'No, I gotta do this for my boys. So they've got a better chance than I did. So when they get big, they've got more choices than takin' what people like Pulitzer give 'em."

"Really? You're strikin' for us?"

"Yeah, Dodge. Well, there's other reasons, like the money, and the fact that what Pulitzer's doin' just ain't fair to nobody. But mostly for you."

"Thanks. And…I'm sorry I called you that name. I guess I thought since everybody calls you a crip—and even you say it."

"'Cause you can say it two ways," Jack explained. "You can say it like, 'That's the way it is.' Or you can say it to be mean. And either way, it ain't the nicest word. Better you use her name, like everybody else."

Dodger nodded. "I won't say it to be mean again."

"That's good, Dodge. Say, why don't you help Crutchie out tonight, okay? Get Mrs. M to show you how to make that special tea with the herbs in it. And you and Les, make sure the other newsies do what she says. We all know Pepper's been sneakin' and not brushin' his teeth, and Little Man's been leavin' marbles out where people gonna trip."

"Okay, I will."

Crutchie took the first opportunity to slip upstairs. Almost as soon as the door closed, an overwhelming urge hit. Despite the risk to her leg, her knees, her hips, she crossed herself and knelt. Yet the words wouldn't come, only her fellow newsies' names. So she whispered them, one at a time, along with who they were to her.

"Jack. God, you know where I'd be if not for him. Help him know how to lead. Don't let him get hurt."

"Davey. He's scared, I can tell. He's got a family, shouldn't be mixed up in this mess, but he wants to help. He needs to stay cool. He needs clarity. He needs—what's that word? Perspicacity, I think. If St. Thomas or St. Bridget or anybody up there known for bein' brainy's got the time…"

"Race. I know Your rules about the stuff he does, the way he talks. And I don't like that he could be influencin' the little kids. But…please, God, he's hurtin', real bad. He needs the strike to succeed, more than maybe anybody. He needs proof he's worth somethin'."

"Henry. You know how newsies are, God. He can't cop to missin' his ma. Bein' scared that without a family, he can't make it. And no matter how Mrs. M feeds us, the hunger don't leave his eyes. I don't know if he needs food or what, but whatever he needs, can You help? Maybe ask St. Lawrence to pitch in?"

"Specs. Oh, God in heaven. He gets it worse than any of us. People think dark skin means you're a literal piece of trash. But he learned to read. He can almost beat me in math. He's worked too hard for somebody like Pulitzer to take him down. Shouldn't have to work like that at all. The strike's gotta work, so he's got a chance."

"Finch. Man, that kid can't keep still for two seconds. Maybe he's been waitin' for somethin' like this. Maybe he knew all along it was gonna get so we couldn't sit still and take it no more. But…" Crutchie gulped. She hated mentioning it, even to God. "He's got Refuge memories, too. He's run almost as much as Jack. If the strike works, maybe he could quit runnin'. Feel safe."

"Romeo. Yeah, I know, he ain't for me. Nobody is, and that's okay. He don't know why gals dream about white weddin's, bein' a guy's only one. But you ask me, what he wants is real love. Kids of his own someday. You could use the strike to help that happen, couldn't You? So girls wouldn't look at him like dirt? And not just girls, people in general."

Crutchie went on like that, naming every newsie she'd ever met, even for a moment. Heaved herself up, touched each bed in the younger newsies' room, prayed their names, too. Even prayed for stupid things, like adoption for Freddy and Kurt, together. The last bed's, Pepper's, took her back around to the bathroom, the mirror.

And you?

Crutchie shook her head. "No. Not me. I'm okay. I ain't nobody's crip burden, not even Yours." Dodger's careless slur, that word in others' mouths, her own, clenched her heart. For a moment, leg pain hit hard, and she grabbed the sink to stay upright. She stared herself down in the mirror.

"Don't you do it, girl. You don't fall, you hear me? Not ever, but especially not now. Jack, Davey, everybody—they got more important work than lookin' after you. You don't let them down. Not for one second. Even if you're prayin' for Jesus to come down and cut off your leg, you don't let them down. You go get those newsgirls, tell them they matter, too. You get them in this strike, and you help Jack win. Got that?"

The girl in the mirror tilted her chin. The gauntness in her cheeks took on a determined red, a contrast to the worn pink of her cap, the hole where the ribbon used to be. Raven strands had escaped her braid, but right now, they flew as if applauding her. The gray-green eyes she'd learned not to look at, the ones Snyder and the matrons called "half-breed marks," dared her to go back on her word. She crossed herself and saluted.

"Yes, ma'am." And because she was sure God had told her the same thing, not to fall, she looked up.

"Yes, Sir."

Rooftop, A Few Mornings Later

"Hey Crutchie, how's this?" Kurt wanted to know. After the first few hot and increasingly miserable days in Newsies' Square, Jack and Davey had called a strategy meeting.

"We can't waste our breath. We gotta go more serious," Jack had declared. "Need to spread out. Our customers see they can't get their papes in the usual spots, they'll take us more serious. Everybody, go to your most frequent sellin' spots and set up there. We need signs, banners, stuff that says straight out what a lyin', lousy, yellow-bellied, empty-headed sack of monkey poop Pulitzer is. Davey, Crutch, Specs, you got us covered on that? You's our best spellers."

"Sure," Crutchie said. "And let's get the littles involved there. Show 'em they really are doin' their part."

"Good idea. And you and Davey can go ahead and take Les and Dodge with ya, so long's as you're near the lodgin' house. You hear a whistle, see a bull down the block, you drop the signs and turn and walk away. Davey, you carry her if you gotta, don't let 'er start that independent disabled person crap on ya."

So Crutchie had salved the hurt of what that comment implied and joined her boys in their endeavors. She checked Kurt's sign, crude but colorful with paint, ON STRICK across it.

"Nice work. Remember though, about silent letters?"

"Oh, crap, there's a E."

"Yup—right, just paint over it. And if "strike" has a long "I," then…"

"No C. Got it."

"Crutch, how you make that dollar sign thingie again?" Little Man asked.

"Let's see—oh, almost. It faces the other way. Yeah. Keep goin'."

"Crutchie?" Dodger asked. "Can we say somethin' 'bout Snyder, too? How the Refuge ain't a good place, just jail? He lied to us just like Pulitzer did."

Crutchie's heart squeezed. "I know. Better not, though. This ain't about Snyder—though he and Pulitzer are likely pals. He sees his name or the Refuge in our strike, it gets his attention. And we do not want attention from him or his personal bulls." She thought a moment. "But lyin' and cheatin' kids is wrong no matter what. Focus on that."

"Okay, got it."

Meanwhile, Crutchie kept her focus on the wordplay in her head, and the challenge of making her statement mobile, so she could carry a sign without juggling her crutch. Her first thought was, The World is a limp rag, but that didn't make much sense 'less you knew "limp" was kind of a pun. And although a bad newspaper was a "rag," the insult was kinda weak. Maybe "Pulitzer owns the World, not us," like Jack said yesterday in the protest? Nah, didn't fit on the sign. "Joe's a money-grubbing jerk?" No, people wouldn't have the attention to read "money-grubbing," and heck, little Pepper could do better than "Joe's a jerk." She pulled out her journal, kept brainstorming.

The smell of ink and honest dirt tickled her nose. "Hey, Crutch, how's our junior crew doin'?"

"Great. You'd think they was gonna march in and get Pulitzer fired all on their own. Davey and Les comin'?"

"They're hidin' out at Medda's 'til the bulls take a lunch. I talked to Sarah and their folks. They're with us, but they think the boys is safer here 'til the strike's over. Davey's pop—he and the grandfolks, they took a lot of flak for bein' Jewish in the old country. He's scared of the bulls singlin' his sons out if they ain't with us."

"Makes sense. I—been prayin' for 'em. You think they'd mind, me bein' Catholic and all?"

"Shoot, no. I don't think Les and Davey take the religion thing as serious as their folks. Davey said they'll take all the help they can get. Hey, maybe you should write that on a sign. Tell Pulitzer he can go straight to…heck," Jack amended when Crutchie shot a look over her shoulder.

"I dunno. Crip girl, she's got to have a message that sticks more than most. Gotta be perfect."

"You're overthinkin' it. Breathe."

Breathe. Right. Crutchie crossed to the railing, pulled in a few lungs full. "Mmmm. Mr. Chang's put out sunflowers."

"Your favorites, right?"

"How'd you remember? I think I mentioned it once."

"Hey, Jack Kelly don't forget. Plus…you were doodlin' on your slogan list." He pointed, and indeed, Crutchie had unconsciously drawn a few petals. "Kinda a sad stick, but ya got somethin' there." He shook his head. "Dunno how you find those sunflowers over the smoke and the garbage and the horse crap."

"Somethin' I learned at the hospital. The antiseptic and med stink drove me nuts, but there was this one nurse, wore orange blossom water. I focused on her when she was around. She taught me to look for the little tiny good things, 'cause folks was gonna tell me a crip life wasn't a good one. Prove 'em wrong."

Jack thumped her shoulder. "That's what I love about ya. Despite the whole crip thing, your life's still great. You really do have a smile that turns people's heads."

Crutchie brushed away the discomfort that made her forehead pinch in a headache. After all, she brought up the hospital. "Right now, I need a slogan, not a smile."

"So turn it off. Think. What's the thing you hate most about what Pulitzer did? For you, not the little kids, or me, or the kids gonna be newsies in like, 1941."

"Not sure." She closed her eyes. "I guess—he's tryin' to take the sunflowers. Just like Snyder and the matrons, and the doctors, and…Jack, I am sick of gettin' knocked down and trampled on."

"Yes!" Jack high-fived her. "Go with it. You, Carlotta Monica Crutchie Murphy, are not a trampled kinda girl. You don't lay down and take this crap. Now, what's that gotta do with papes?"

"All I've ever asked for, all any of us do, is a chance to stand somewhere and sell papes to feed ourselves and our folks. If that's a crime, folks need a reality check. Ugh! See, Jack? I can't boil it down to a sign."

"No, no, keep goin'. Focus on the standin' thing. Think about how you gonna get the newsgirls in on this. Who's the tallest woman you know?"

"That was my mother, but—no. She would tell me that. She'd tell me to stand tall, to help the newsgirls…wait. Jack—you know how to draw Lady Liberty?"

"I can sure try. With maybe a pape instead of the torch?"

"Nah, she needs the torch. But she's readin' somethin', that tablet thing. We could make that a pape instead." Crutchie grabbed her signboard, and she and Jack went to work. NEWSGIRLS ON STRIKE screamed above a rough-looking, but honest Lady Liberty. The Lady wore a newsboy cap in place of her crown, and Crutchie added a few stray hair tendrils.

"And it even fits on the crutch," she said with a flourish. "This might work. 'Cept—some newsgirls, like Nancy and her toady Viola. They're scabs, I know without askin'."

"Then we'll get the others. We gotta spread out more. Davey and me and Les is headin' to upper Manhattan later."

"Good luck. Lots of rich kids there, mostly sellin' for pocket money."

"Hey, you watch. We'll have all Manhattan with us by tonight."

Lodging House, Next Morning

Upper Manhattan didn't budge. In fact, the other newsies of Lower Manhattan didn't, either. And when Crutchie spotted Hannah and Trudy from her old lodging house in the flower district, they both looked at her like she was crazy.

"Standing up to Nancy is one thing," Hannah said. "But run around with Jack Kelly, you're asking for trouble. Bad enough you're acting like a boy. Now you're going to get yourself even more crippled over ten cents?"

"It's ten cents to you, Hannah. It's survival to me."

"To me, too! You think anyone's going to hire a Jewish parlor maid? Milliner's apprentice? And the lace and match factories are conveniently full. What is this, some pride thing over being crippled?"

"Would you get the heck off my leg, already? It ain't about that. It's about lettin' Pulitzer and those people who won't hire you win—or not."

"They already have won," Trudy said. "Jack Kelly's all in your head. We're just kids. We don't change things—and you certainly can't."

Crutchie gripped her crutch harder. "Hold up. Is this about the strike, or about me? I somehow hurt you, movin' out?"

"Don't flatter yourself. We don't care what you do. But you weren't worth getting on Nancy's bad side, and frankly, you aren't worth this. We won't use the strike against you, but you better keep walking. Word got out we joined on the word of a cripple, we'd never live it down."

"Better those snobs should worry about how they're gonna live, period. It's the newsies today, who's to say it ain't the factory workers or servants tomorrow?" Jack asked when he heard, between cuss words. "Don't sweat it, Crutch. There's newsgirls all over the city. Takes longer to find 'em, but they's out there."

"But we need more newsies with us," Davey pointed out. "Doesn't matter if they're girls or boys. My customers can't buy from me, they just wait and pick up a pape in Queens or Staten Island or Brooklyn. We look like idiots."

"So then we persuade 'em," Jack insisted. "You and Les, get all the guys together. Time to split up."

Once Davey gave the word, the other newsies flocked to Jack for assignments. "So, Race, Specs, you got Queens…Davey, you're with me and Crutch, we take what's left…Buttons, you and Romeo take Finch and head over to Woodside…Henry, you and Buttons cover Richmond…and who wants Brooklyn?"

Nobody spoke or moved. Jack rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, Brooklyn's got the biggest group 'a' newsies in the city."

"Yeah, but that's Spot Conlon's territory," Buttons pointed out.

"And them Brooklyn boys is so big," Romeo put in.

"Hey, Spot Conlon's smaller than you, Romeo."

"Whatever, it's still his turf."

"We ain't afraid of no turf! Spot Conlon—makes us a little nervous."

Crutchie gripped her crutch, caught between laughing and reamin' out her fellow newsies like they was the little kids, leavin' socks all over the floor and the toilet seat up. They was practically grown men, for heaven's sakes, a lot of 'em Refuge inmates, and afraid of a Brooklyn newsie? Well, fine.

"I'll take Brooklyn."

Jack spun on his heel. "Over my dead body! Spot Conlon's the type'll shove a crip in the gutter 'cause he can."

"And after that, what's he gonna do? He's played the only card he's got. 'Sides, you know and I know, Brooklyn's the only neighborhood got more than three or four newsgirls."

Jack shrugged, muttered somethin' about crazy girls. "Fine, but not without me, you don't. And for Pulitzer's sake, change outta that skirt."

"It's 88 degrees out here. The skirt's cooler."

"And Spot Conlon's temper rivals Satan's. I said, change."

"Fine. Maybe Spot can give me some tips on keepin' your rear in its place."

Brooklyn

"Well, if it ain't Jack be nimble and his rookie sidekick, the Mouth. Been hearin' about you," Spot Conlon told Davey.

"Yeah, and he's also got a brain," Jack said. "You got half of one, you'll listen to him."

"Okay, talk." Spot aimed a slingshot at a milk bottle, which shattered.

Davey cleared his throat. "You see, Pulitzer's raised prices, so we're on strike. And uh, we need some backup. The word is, you're the one to ask."

Spot aimed again. "Yeah, I see how it is. Jackie-boy bringin' in crips and rookies to convince me. But I don't do pity."

"Yeah, well, neither do I," Crutchie said without thinking. So much for lettin' Jack do the talkin'. But really. She gave her fellow newsies a little credit—Spot had dock workers' muscles, and quite the swagger. But she could look him in the eye, and her nose told her that while he pretended to chew tobacco, it was a man-sized wad of Double Bubble.

"Oh, this is rich," Spot laughed. "Not only a crip, you brung down a—what are you kid, seven? Eight?"

"Forget it, Spot. The point is, we can't do this alone," Jack said. "Word is, if Brooklyn joins, the rest 'a' the newsies will, too. That you're the king or somethin'."

"And the best you could do was the Mouth and some newsie sells what, a pape a week for pity points? Ain't good enough, Jackie-boy."

"Look, Conlon, we have been on the picket line for a solid week, what do you want?" Davey demanded.

Crutchie tapped Jack's arm. "Hand me one of those bottles, will ya?"

"Crutchie, what…"

"Cute. Even his name says he ain't nothin' but a…"

Crutchie nodded as Jack set a milk bottle on a ledge, choked up, and swung her crutch at it. It flew off the ledge and cracked straight in half while she removed her cap. "Sob story, huh?"

Spot actually stepped back, tripped over some crates, fell on his butt. Jack crossed his arms, gave Spot a death stare. "Yeah, Conlon. Yeah. How is it down there?"

Spot jumped up, dusted himself off. "Yeah. Sorry, I…" He offered Crutchie his hand. "I been hearin' about ya for months. Figured it was some kinda urban legend."

"What do I look like, a leprechaun?"

"Right now, you look like trouble. You pullin' my leg, Jackie-boy? Uh, no offense. I mean…she sells, legit? She can handle this?"

"The fact you're still askin' proves you're a first-class idiot, Conlon," Davey said. "None of us knows can we handle this. But we sure can't without you."

"Nobody, but nobody, calls me idiot, Mouth. Let's go." Spot took a stance, swung, and Davey ducked. "That was weak."

Crutchie sighed. "You ask me, all three 'a' you are idiots, okay? It's a common disease of the male species. Conlon, if you ain't in, you got newsgirls I can talk to? 'Cause I can guarantee, we ain't chickens."

"I got newsgirls? Sure, if you wanna go there." Spot ducked into what appeared to be a small abandoned warehouse. "Bridge! Get out here, Manhattan gal wants to talk to ya! Bring Sniper and Smalls with ya."

Three girls appeared from different directions. One, with dark hair, piercing dark eyes, and huge soot smudges on her cheeks, hopped directly to the highest crate in Spot's stack. The second, a girl even shorter than Crutchie, wearing a split skirt and a French braid, blew by so fast Crutchie almost missed her. But it was the third that made Crutchie's jaw drop.

The third girl wore trousers, her honey-red hair tucked under a battered black newsboy cap in a dancer's bun. Her shirt though, was decidedly feminine, a blouse with a few green buttons. And as she tucked up her skirt, the sun glinted—off metal braces.

Crutchie whirled on Spot. "Crip this, crip that…and then you…" Her hand flashed out before she could think, and she slapped him. "Double-standard spewin', arrogant, bigoted…you make me sick! What is she, your little pity mascot? You make her walk with you and don't give her the money? Or maybe you got a thing about braces, wanna get her in your…"

"Hey, Manhattan," the redhead cut in, with a mishmash Irish-Brooklyn brogue. "Now would be a great time for you to shut up."

"I like her," Jack muttered at Davey.

"My jury's still out," Redhead said. She pointed at Crutchie. "What's your sellin' record per hundred papes?"

"Ninety-seven."

"Not bad. I can do ninety-nine if the weather's good. You wear skirts, or you boy up, scared what customers think if they see you got a chest?"

"Skirts or trousers, dependin' on what my leg's doin'."

"Fair. How long you been in the game?"

Redhead had her beat there, but Crutchie squared up. "Almost two years. Got in for the folks, they's gone now. Polio took me out, then the Refuge. Temporarily."

Redhead blinked. "Polio and Snyder? Huh. Keep talkin', Manhattan. Ever serve time in the iron lung?"

Crutchie beckoned, unbuttoned her shirt just enough. "This spot's still pretty sensitive."

"I got the same, opposite side. How long you in Germsville?"

"Two months, maybe three."

"Yeah, I lost some time, too. How'd you ditch the Refuge?" For the first time, the question communicated interest, not a challenge.

"I owed a gal I smuggled food to. Laundry basket."

She nodded. "Not bad. I always just ditched through the basement. Gettin' locked there anyway, might as well learn how to pick the dang thing."

"You was—where, Hannigan's?"

"Hon, Miss Hannigan is a fairy godmother. Ever hear of Mrs. Merkle's? Not as bad as the Refuge, it's true, but it's a miracle if you get outta there. In fact, Merkle's why I'm still in braces. Whipped my legs so bad, they had to take all but a stump on the left."

"You've been through amputation? Wow."

"Are we on this dock?" Crutchie barely heard Davey ask.

"We are, but we shouldn't be," Jack answered. "Crutch, we should…"

"Crutch? You let these jokers call ya that?"

"It's better than Manhattan. Who are you?" Crutchie asked.

"Bridge. I'm leader of the newsgirls. They call me that 'cause Spot found me under the Brooklyn Bridge—when I was eleven. For real, it's Shannon Sofia Daly, but—what about you?"

"Crutchie, actually. And the crutch is kinda a signature, so it's okay. Carlotta Monica Murphy, if we're talkin' real names."

"Italian? No way. I'm half Greek. You musta gone to Our Lady of Hope, right? I was at St. Basil's. Used to spank your gals in field hockey."

"Yeah, think I trounced a St. Basil's rep in the spelling bee my last year."

Bridge straightened her cap. "Yeah—but these ain't games or spellin', Crutchie. You want the newsgirls on your side, you gotta stand with me. We don't get taken serious as it is."

"So, what do you want from me? Because I'm not breakin' no more milk bottles. Or jumpin' off the roof."

Bridge laughed. "No. We let the boys duke it out their way, but remember Crutch, it's a different game here in Brooklyn. Newsgirls ain't tokens. We do our thing, the boys do theirs. We's family, but we got equal voices on the counsel. You gotta prove to me you're ready for that."

"I been provin' myself for years, Bridge. Quit talkin' riddles and spell it out."

"Okay. You're tough, squarin' up to Spot like that. But I got your number. You're a good girl. And that's cool. But for you, good means, shy, goin' for pity when Kelly tells ya to. Lettin' your spark die soon as somebody mentions that Refuge. Doubtin' yourself 'cause everybody says you should. You gonna strike, and especially gonna stand with me, that ends now."

"What, you wanna beat it out of me?"

"Not like that. But yeah, better square up. Physical, mental, and spiritual. I don't take gals with a weak heart—not the organ. None of us do. Spot, you and the boys joinin' or not?"

"Not until Jackie-boy shows me he can be serious."

"Fair. Crutchie, same deal. Send Kelly back to your lodgin' house with your regrets. You gotta meet the girls."

"What…"

"You heard me. You got a sleepover invitation tonight in Brooklyn."

Gulp. "You don't—do blood rituals, do ya? Dance around naked? Hang people upside down?"

Now Bridge doubled over. "You got more imagination than the worst headline. Nah, you'll be back in Manhattan in one piece tomorrow. Just remember—we can be your best friends or your worst enemies. All depends on what happens tonight. But I think you got this in the bag."

"Hey, you wait a minute, Brick or Bridge or whoever!" Jack jumped in. "This ain't…"

"Relax, Kelly. Or are you scared to let her be a girl?"

"Go ahead, Jack," Crutchie said with a confidence she didn't feel. "We need them, and I want their vote."

Jack exhaled. "Okay—because I feel like this Bridge is cool. I'll tell Denton, pinch hit for ya with the little kids. But Conlon? I'm warnin' ya now. Any of you lay a finger on her, boy or girl, I'll soak ya into the ground. And you will personally escort Crutchie back to Manhattan."

Spot doffed a bow at her. "Sure thing. Sunup if you want."

"Thanks."

"Good," Bridge said. "Smalls? Sniper? Make sure our new recruit gets downstairs all right."

"Now? Wait, I can't, we've got…" But Crutchie's words died as she was lifted and carried into the warehouse. She tried to drop from Smalls' incredibly strong arms. "You don't have to…"

"Newsboys look out for each other, New Girl. Newsgirls take it up a level. You get what you need, and you don't apologize for it. You can't learn that, you've failed already."

And if there was one thing Crutchie Murphy didn't do, it was fail.

A/N: Hold onto your caps as Crutchie learns the truth of the newsgirl sisterhood—and finally gets an opportunity for a voice. And just in time, because the strike is going to hit Seize the Day and That Scene sooner than anyone thought. Will Bridge and the other newsgirls' friendship, Jack and the newsies' support, a little faith, and our girl's grit be enough?