Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, Empress of the World, or and other media references I may make.
Emperor of the World
June 15th, 7:30 am, Specs's and My Room
I roll over in bed and glance at the alarm clock. It is flashing twelve o'clock over and over again. I shut my eyes and open them again and it is still flashing. I sit up in bed and check my watch.
"Damn it," I whisper groggily to myself, my feet hitting the ground.
I sit on the edge of my bed for a minute before standing up fully and dragging my feet to the bathroom. Behind me Specs is still snoring in his bed, not aware of the time.
While I brush my teeth in front of the mirror I listen intently for any sounds is the nearby rooms, perhaps made by the others. I hear nothing. I pull my shirt over my head and throw it on my bed, pulling a new one out of my duffel bag. The shirt has a giant white print of an eagle with its wings spread and I shrug on my black sweater and my old, worn jeans. Specs's hand is hanging over the side of the bed, swaying as he breathes. I watch him for a minute before poking him sharply in the ribs.
"Specs," I hiss. "Wake up! We're going to be late for class."
He opens one eye and then the other. I pull apart the curtains to the room, allowing the sun to pour in.
"Oh crap, Dutchy, close the damn window," he says sleepily, squinting and sitting up, rubbing his head.
I sit on the bed and open my sketchbook. "We've got to be in the cafeteria for breakfast in ten minutes."
"Dutchy," he says. "Don't be so anal." And then he proceeds to the bathroom where I hear the distinct sound of the tap running and toothbrush on teeth.
He slumps back into the rooms and pulls a dark grey sweater on over his green plaid pyjama bottoms and heads for the door. "Ready?" he asks.
I look at him. "You're wearing that?" I ask.
He nods and steps out the door, bumping into someone in the process.
"Morning Jack," I hear him yawn.
"Morning," says Jack. I step out of the room and close the door behind me.
Beside me Isabel is closing her door too, wearing a jean skirt and a bright, extra-large, purple shirt. She sees me and smiles. "Morning," she says.
The four of us walk out into the chilly morning courtyard and across the way to the cafeteria where I see Medda sitting, smoking a cigarette gloomily beside Jade and Skittery. Skittery is talking very animatedly and Jade is staring at him. Once we get close enough Medda, who is clad in an off the shoulder black dress over hot pink leotards, jumps up and hits Jack in the arm. He rubs it and looks at her approachingly. "What?"
"Look what you've got me doing! Smoking! I was supposed to quit this summer!" She hits him again.
Instead of looking angered Jack looks shocked and slightly amused. "How was I supposed to know?" he asks, chuckling softly.
Medda just glares at him.
"Um..." Isabel interjects. "Can we go inside? It's cold!"
Without answering we walk inside and through the doors. I watch Medda throw her cigarette butt to the ground and Jack put his arm around her shoulders. "I'll buy you all the Nicotine patches you need," he offers, smiling. She hits him again, hard, in the stomach.
Breakfast today is pancakes drowned in 'syrup', which really just tastes like wax. Isabel gags on her fist bite and sips at her orange juice for the rest of the meal.
"What class are you all in?" I ask, realizing I don't know.
"I'm taking Art History," Isabel says, grabbing the opportunity to stop glaring at her pancakes.
"Me too!" exclaims Skittery happily, smiling.
I scrunch up my nose. "I'm doing Business Marketing and Publicity Theory," I tell everyone with a sigh. "It was my mom's idea."
"My friend did that last year," says Medda, not venturing any further. This only makes me feel worse. Maybe that's why her friend didn't come back. "But I'm taking Computer Science. I want to be a computer technician, y'know?" she adds.
I nod.
"I'm taking Advanced English," Specs tells everyone, even though I already knew that.
"And I'm in Advanced Photography," Jack smiles and pats his bag fondly, which I now recognise as a camera bag.
We all look expectantly at Jade.
She looks around stupidly for a minute. "Oh, I'm in Advanced Music."
I find it hard to believe she's in advanced anything, especially music, which I struggle at massively.
We finish off breakfast and ask Medda for directions before separating and heading to classes.
June 15th, 8:30 am, Business Marketing and Publicity Theory Classroom
The classroom is much like the auditorium, in the way it is shaped and in the way the chairs are set up, only smaller. A tall, bearded man strides into the room and throws his briefcase down on his desk.
"Keep it down class!" he demands grumpily, as if we're deafening. I turn to the boy sitting next to me.
"Do you know what's up with him exactly?" I ask.
The boy shakes his head. He is short and has black hair, which is flying away from his head. He has observant brown eyes and studies my face for a minute before saying anything. "Nah, I've never been here before. My parents made me come."
"My parents made me take this course," I admit. We both laugh quietly.
"My name's Race," he says.
"I'm Dutchy," I tell him.
The man has finished fiddling with his briefcase and is facing the class. "I want absolute order and attention in my classroom! My name is Joseph Pulitzer, I teach Business and Technology at a high school in Virginia. Of course, there my students call me Mr Pulitzer and so will you. I would like each of you to come to the front of the class and get a textbook off the shelf. When I call your name please say the number of your book. This will be yours all summer, if you do not hand it back in similar condition at the end of the year you will be fined thirty-five dollars..." he trailed off and looked around the class expectantly. "Well?" he barked. "What are you waiting for? Get your books!"
We jumped out of our seats and pulled books off the shelf. He went down the list rapidly, shooting out names.
"Adams, Harrison?"
"Forty-three."
"Cooke, Davis?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Delancy, Oscar?"
"Fifteen."
"Delancy, Morris?"
"Twenty-two."
"Dutchyshen, James?"
Oh! That's me! "Uh...Thirty-nine."
And so it went on...
"Garret, Peter?"
"Twelve."
"Higgins, Anthony?"
"Sixty-five," says Race.
"Your real name's Anthony?" I whisper.
Instead of answering he asks. "Your real name's James?"
I don't say much after that. He has a point.
End Chapter((There you have chapter two. I probably won't update this quickly anymore, but I hope you liked how it's going so far.))