Author's Note: Have you ever made a bet that, later on, you really regretted? And no, I don't mean like in one of those fics where Racetrack is at this all night poker game with the leader of the Queens newsies or something, and he runs out of money and decides, for some reason, "Hey, I'll bet my girlfriend!" And everyone's like, "Racetrack, no!" but he does it anyway, because he's either a bad drunk or really, really stupid. And then, a few days afterwards, he thinks to himself, "that is a bet that, later on, I really regretted."
Anyway, that's not the kind of thing I mean. I mean something you would REALLY regret losing—like your bus fare or your one-of-a-kind autographed snooker ball, or maybe your egg salad sandwich.
Or, in my case, an annoying yet semi-cute preppie muse.
DALTON: DAK! THE BUS FOR DANCE CAMP LEAVES IN FIVE MINUTES!
But I should explain.
Early in July, I made a bet with my pal Mattie that I could update Horses (which I swear on all things holy will be updated soon, O ye of little faith) by a certain date, and if I didn't, she could feel free to wreak her havoc upon me. Well, I failed to update, and Mattie failed to conveniently forget, and so now, at her decision, Charlie is going to dance camp in LA to be tutored for two weeks by Dee Caspary in the art of the pelvic thrust, and while he's gone, musing duties will be taken over by…
DALTON: (runs to open the door) SARAH!
I would just like to say that, at this point, my life couldn't really get much worse. And with no preppie muse, my only joy now is tormenting Jack about his masculinity…which, believe me, I will be doing plenty of. Now that Charlie's gone…(sniff)…well, there really isn't much to do but—
SARAH: (chirpily) And now, on with the fic!
(jaw drops) Why, you little--
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Chinese Lantern
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Chapter Ten—
In the Black Forest
Also known as:
The Chapter In Which Jack Is Completely Not Gay, In Fact, He Is So Straight That It's Almost Not To be Believed, So Straight That He Just Can't Fathom Why Anyone Would Accuse Him Of Being Gay In The First Place, Instead, Of, Oh, Say…Racetrack, For Example, Who Has Never Even Had A Serious Girlfriend, Jack's Just Saying. Not That He's Accusing Race Of Anything, Just Making A Statement Of Fact, Which Is Especially Telling When You Consider That Jack Himself Has Had Numerous Girlfriends, And Is Actually Quite A Stud, If He Does Say So Himself. The Point Is, Jack IS NOT GAY. Thank You For Your Time.
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[Additional A/N: You know he's lying, right?]
…And now, on with the completely non-gay chapter of the fic!
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"I wish you could meet my girlfriend,
But you can't, because she is in Canada…" –Avenue Q
BENDER: When have you ever gotten laid?
BRIAN: I've laid, lots of times!
BENDER: Name one.
BRIAN: …She lives in Canada; I met her at Niagara Falls. You wouldn't know her. –The Breakfast Club
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It was only after the newsies had been living with her for four days that Coin became convinced she had lost her mind completely. After Jack had led the search party out of the city and into the Black Forest in search of Spot and Maddox, a few had stayed behind—mostly the young ones, or the ones who (Coin thought bitterly), were too cowardly to go along with the rest—and now, it was her job to take care of them.
It was all very difficult. They seemed to be going through her supply of toothpaste at an alarming rate, she had to rent out a separate room to take her customers to, and between working all day and spending her nights nested in the room where Spot and Maddox and all the others had come through, prising her mind away from sleep as she sipped hot aniseed tea and guarded the rip in the worldwall, waiting for something to happen, she was getting more and more tired by the day. As she walked into her apartment on the fourth morning, letting herself in out of the corridor's half-light and running a hand through her hair, she was almost sick with exhaustion, and in no mood to deal with eight boys who didn't even know how to squeeze the toothpaste out of the tube properly.
"Morning!" called out one of them cheerfully—Crutchy, she remembered—from her kitchen, making himself busy over her stove while Tumbler stirred halfheartedly at the contents of a glass bowl.
"What are you making?" she yawned, pulling her robe tighter around herself and padding over to take a look.
"Breakfast."
"Mmm." She peered hopefully over his shoulder. "Eggs and bacon?"
"Well," Crutchy said, "first, crêpes, flavored with black truffle oil an' topped with mascarpone and caviar, and then oysters on the half-shell, which we have been simmerin' in a very light saffron cream sauce. Served with pink champagne."
"Goddess," was all she could manage. "How did you learn to cook like that?"
"Oh," he said, dismissively. "Picked it up. I haven't been able ta get ingredients this good, though…"
"Tell 'er about that great soufflé you made las' year outta cracker crumbs an' Itey's socks," Tumbler suggested.
"The essence of Itey's socks, thank ya very much, kid," Crutchy corrected. "It was consommé."
"Same thing…"
Coin just stared at the kitchen range catatonically, barely noticing the conversation around her. The past few days she had been having some difficulty establishing what was reality and what was not, and she had a sneaking suspicion that this was just a little too surreal to be true. A lot like how, yesterday morning, she could swear she heard some kind of harmonized chorale coming from the room the boys were sleeping in, was almost certain she could hear them singing their hearts out in there, but when she stuck her head in to tell them to shut up they were all washing and dressing with utter gravity, barely making any noise, and when she asked them, they strenuously denied it. The whole thing was more than a little unsettling.
Seeing the stricken look on her face, Crutchy carefully lifted a sliver of truffle on the edge of the wooden spoon he had been using to aerate the mascarpone, and brought it to her lips. She closed her eyes, and felt its velvet, smoky taste fill her mouth, softer and more lush than silk. This was real. This was true. She opened her eyes, and was almost ready to believe that the things going on around her could be taken at face value—if she couldn't trust her senses, what was there?
"By the way," Crutchy said, ruining her contemplative mood, "your linen cabinet's broken."
"Oh." She paused, considering this news. "Wait… I have a linen cabinet?"
"Well, not anymore, ya don't."
Suddenly, Coin felt close to tears. What if she bought linen that needed to be stored somewhere? Were all her opportunities passing her by—would she never be able to buy linen again? The world seemed, at that moment, a very bleak place.
"Look," Crutchy said, gently, "why don't ya have a nice bubble bath? I bet Pie's outta the tub by now. An' if you ask him real nice, he might even let you play with his rubber duckie."
Curiouser and curiouser…(and with any luck, the liquor cabinet was still intact. She was definitely going to be needing it today).
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[A/N: Jack would just like to let everyone know that he still isn't gay. And not to listen to anything Racetrack says. Because, in addition to being a compulsive gambler, he also lies a lot. So there.]
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They had been traveling for almost twenty-four hours by the time Jack realized it was entirely possible that Ram might never stop singing. He had started off innocently enough, just whistling jauntily as they headed away from Nour and all that lay inside it, but soon whistling gave way to loud humming, and then quiet singing, and then, by dawn on the second day, he was doing full theatrics, with backup singers and choreography and an awful lot of skipping around.
"Is he always dis bad?" Jack asked Max desperately, just as Ram danced past them, Jack's cowboy hat held aloft, singing "You're The One That I Want" at the top of his lungs.
"Worse."
Looking for a moment like he was about to cry, Jack sighed, and gazed up at a murder of crows that had roosted in one of the tall, spindly trees growing near the path.
"If you feel! An affection…you're to shy, to convey-ey…medita-ate, my direction…feeeeeeeeeelyour way…"
"So, uh, your friend Ram," Jack said to Ginnie, trying unsuccessfully to broach the subject with any sort of subtlety. "Is he…uh…funny?"
Ginnie looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?"
"Well, ya know, is he…queer?"
"No, why would you say that?"
Jack tugged at his collar. "Nothin', he's just a little…swishy, is all."
"Not all guys who like musical theater are fairies, Jack," said Ginnie.
"It's true," Racetrack said helpfully, leaning over from the other side of the path. "Have you evah seen the leader of the Queens newsies do the can-can?"
"No."
"Well," Racetrack said. "Ya should."
"I'll keep it in mind, Race…" Jack paused, looking over at Ram. "So you're sure?"
"Well, I'll ask him," Max said. "HEY RAM!" he shouted.
"WHAT?"
"ARE YOU A FAIRY?"
"NO, I JUST HAVE STUNNINGLY GOOD FASHION SENSE."
"OKAY, THANKS."
"NO PROBLEM! AND NOBODY…IN ALL OF OZ…NO WIZARD THAT THERE IS OR WAS…IS EVER GONNA BRING, ME-E-EEEE DOOOOOWWWWWN!"
"See?" Max said.
Jack just shrugged.
"Actually," Ginnie said contemplatively, "how can we be sure you're not a fairy?"
Jack stared at her, horrified. "Because I'm not."
"Well, I dunno, that cowboy getup's kinda kinky, if you ask me…"
Jack's was almost speechless with distress. "I. Am not. Queer."
"Oh, no?"
"I'm manly!"
"You're butch!" Ginnie squealed gleefully.
"Look, I've had a lotta girls, okay? Ask them, they'll tell ya…"
"It's true," Racetrack said. "Tessie Harper, Moll Shelley, Edna Greene…"
"Amy Sheridan," Mush chipped in.
Kid Blink skipped up, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Georgina," they said together.
"Oh, God!" Skittery moaned. "Georgina 'Bury-Me-In-A-Y-Shaped-Coffin' Thomas…who wasn't with her?"
"So Georgina doesn't count," Blink said, oblivious to the fact that David had tentatively raised his hand. "But who else?"
"I'll tell ya who else," Race said contemplatively, looking over at Jack. "Caroline Mierzwiak."
"Ah, she was great, wasn't she?" Mush sighed, only to have Ershey look at him a little curiously. He just smiled at her, and tweaked her nose.
"She really was," Racetrack said. "Pretty, sweet, knew how to make her own soap if the situation called for it…why'd ya dump her again, Cowboy?"
Jack suddenly became extremely interested in his feet. "She had…thick ankles…" he muttered.
"I see." Turning towards Ginnie, Race whispered loudly enough for Jack to hear: "he's a fairy, all right."
"I heard that," Jack said.
"Well, you were kinda meant to."
"Look at it this way," Jack said. "At least I don't sing."
"Aw…" Ram skipped over and put an arm around his shoulders. "Don't you ever sing, Jacky?"
"No. Nevah."
"Never?"
"Well…"
"He does when he gets drunk," Racetrack said cheerily.
"RACE!"
"When he gets a liddle spiffed," Racetrack continued, "he stands outside da lodge singin' gaelic hymns at the top o' his lungs till he wakes up the whole neighborhood and Kloppman has to drag him in."
"Racetrack, what was that deal we made…?"
"Oh, an' I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen, sometimes, too."
"Jesus! ONCE!"
But Racetrack only smirked.
"So," Ram said curiously, "you only sing when you're drunk?"
"Right."
"Well." He reached into his satchel and pulled out a flask that Coin had been kind enough to pack for them, showing the label to Jack before he pressed it into his hands. "I think we have just the solution."
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Thirty Minutes Later
(At which point, Jack is still not gay.)
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"So, ladies—"
"YEAH!"
"Ladies—"
"YEAH!"
"Do ya wanna roll my Mercedes? Just turn around—"
"Stick it out!"
"Even white boys got ta shout—baby got back!"
Breathless, Jack skipped up and hugged Ram around the waist, much friendlier now that he was thoroughly soused. "When I get back to the lodgin' house," he said, "I'll teach ALL the boys this song. And we'll sing it. All the time." Turning around, he took David's hand and began what seemed like a complicated sort of reel.
"Highland Fling?" David guessed, trying to stifle a laugh.
"Well," Ram said, "I think our work here is done."
They camped in a narrow copse of trees and went to bed not long after the sun set, having long ago lost track of time. Almost everyone fell at once into the deep sleep of the weary traveler, each nested in the chilly woolen tents that they had brought along inside their packs, Ram going to bed with especially sweet dreams of teaching everyone to sing "We Are The Champions" the next day (it was going to be beautiful. Beautiful. And they might not even have to get Jack drunk this time.)
As usual, Race was up the latest, long after everyone else had fallen asleep. He never needed a lot of sleep, and now, especially, he wanted to soak up as much of this as he could. He wandered through the dark forest, always staying close enough to the campsite to see the lingering glow of the fire's last embers. Close to dawn, he passed under an enormous tree, leaves still dark with shadow as they cut intricate patterns across the lightening sky, so if he looked at just softly, he couldn't tell what was before him and what was far away, only see the patterns made by the tree, the leaves, the branches and the sky still hung with stars.
It was at that moment that he felt what must have been a raindrop fall on his head. Just what they needed for a day of walking was rain—he sighed, and was just about to head back to his tent when he realized—
--you needed clouds to have rain—
Above him, almost low and enough to be nothing more than vibration, he half-heard and half-felt a lingering, long growl.
He looked up just fast enough to see yellow eyes narrowed to hungry slits. That was all he saw—eyes, and the lingering memory of teeth, glowing white, ravening sharp, and dripping with foam.
And then the thing pounced. Knocking the wind out of him, and digging those teeth without mercy into his shoulder as it snared one claw in his cheek—a new scar that, he thought just before he lost consciousness, would probably earn him a lot of points with girls. Yeah, some guy in the Bronx pulled a knife. No, I didn't get it from some animal that attacked me in the middle of a forest, in another world.
Oh, Jesus. This can't be my life.
The creature sank its jaws into bone, clamping down as the poison flowed, first just a trickle, then a steady stream, into his veins, headed straight for his heart.
[TBC…]
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Jack would like to let everyone know that he still isn't gay. Although why you would even wonder is beyond him. It's just so obvious that he's straight…right?
RIGHT?
SARAH: Well, if he can resist this body, then...
Dear God, what have I ever done to deserve this?
SARAH: (smirks)
Shout-Outs!
Ershey: (bows) And now, my fair Ershey, with this chapter, I deliver to you…Newsie Raps. (grins) (tackle-glomps back) And now, if we can only kidnap Norbert Leo Butz and make him play…er…scrabble with us…our work shall be TRULY complete.
Sapphy: RAM: (runs in slow-motion through a meadow of wildflowers towards Sapphy)
(shakes her head) Do you have ANY idea how long it took him to learn how to do that?
RAM: (still in slo-mo) KKKKEEEEEPPPP YYYYOOOOOUUUURRRR HHHHEEEEEAAAADDD AAABBBBOOOOVVVEEEE TTTTHHHEEE WAAAATTTTTEEEER! HHHHHEEEEELLLLP IIIISSS OOOONNNN TTTTHHHHEEEE WWWWWAAAAYYY!
Splashey: (grins) Aw, ya found me out… (sings) Lllllooooovve is in the air…ev'ry sight and ev'ry sound…
(hands her a mug) Sip it SLOWLY, m'dear. (winks)
Chaos89: (sings) K-I-S-I-N-G! (pause) Wait…
SARAH: TWO S's, EINSTEIN!
…I knew that…
Written Sparks: As a matter of fact, I'm using your character in the very next chapter, where the characters meet the gypsies...it's been tough to work in original characters quickly, because the plot is moving really slowly, BUT…never fear…OC Girl is here! (Now, where are my go-go boots and cape?)
Soaker: (falls over due to excessive warm fuzzy feelings) (loves) If I ever make a lot of money and publish a book, you can be sure I'll send you an autographed copy, and Gabriel Damon, wearing nothing but a silver ribbon. (Or should I make it gold? Decisions, decisions…)
Nada Zimri: (sighs and looks at Sarah) Oh, I do hate you so…but I still love you, of course. (although kidnapping Christian Bale and Fed-Exing him to my house might help your cause a little) (grins)
Lady of Tir Na Nog: Are singing newsies ever bad? (pause) What am I SAYING? And when they rap, well…(sighs wistfully) If only Kenny Ortega had taken my calls back in '92…
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Next Up: Chapter Eleven, In Which Jack Still Isn't Gay, Thank You Very Much, And The Boys Meet Up With The Blue-Skin Gypsies In An Excellent Section Where Jack Expresses Just How Manly And Upstanding And Completely Straight He Is…And Oh Yeah, That Whole Thing With Racetrack Gets Resolved, Too. But Why Would You Care About Something As Trivial As That, When Jack's Non-Gayness Is Being Discussed? (He Still Isn't Gay By The Way. And If You Care More About Racetrack Than That, Then, Well, Jack Is Just Hurt, He Really Is. (Dramatic Sigh))
Until Next Time
A Thoroughly Straight Jack Kelly (Esq.)
(P.S. If you could express in a review how straight you think Jack is on a scale of one to ten, one being "really, really gay" and ten being "a hunka hunka burnin' (manly) love" it would be much appreciated by Jack, who has recently shown himself to have absolutely no self esteem whatsoever. Do him this favor, guys...I just don't want to spend another sleepless night watching him flex his muscles in his Batman commemorative undies.)