Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or Jake. In this chapter, I borrowed one more idea from Stretch1 in Alone, namely: the fact that Jake was sad about never being given a nickname. So I'm crediting that here.
I haven't spoken to anyone from my childhood for over seven years. Most would wonder why I haven't gone back for Annie, or sent my brother a letter, or visited the old farm. The only logical truth I can come up with is that I'm scared. I'm afraid I'll be disappointed, because everyone is different. You can't live through seven years and not change in the slightest.
What if I contact them, only to find that my sister's dead, my brother's an alcoholic, the farm and my father's hard work has been destroyed, and that Annie doesn't want me, doesn't even want to speak with me she's so angry.
The memories I have are perfect. The people and places from my childhood rest on a pedestal. I don't want that image to come crashing down.
Maybe when I'm wiser, and when I'm a braver man, I'll send Rebecca my love, or Andrew a hello, or Annie my heart. But only when I'm ready to take the chance of being disappointed.
I regret leaving nearly every day. I've never really fit in up here, not like I did in Georgia. People have been fine enough… Kloppman's given me a place to stay, Jack's given me the experience of the strike, Pulitzer's given me a job, and the other newsboys have given me friendship, which I gratefully took. Now that many of the older ones have left, including me, we are desperate to keep in touch and hold on to that friendship that we all hold so dear.
One thing, however, has irked me for years. The only thing my friends here have failed to give me, and therefore, asridiculous as it sounds, never truly making me feel accepted: a nickname.
I suppose Jake is a nickname, short for Jacob, but how did I get by with Jake, when the rest were fondly deemed "Bumlets", and "Pie Eater", and "Racetrack", and "Mush"? Even Jack and David are sometimes referred to as "Cowboy" and "the Walking Mouth". I'm still just Jake.
Maybe they all sense that nicknames just don't run in my family, my siblings and father preferring to go by their given names, and call everyone else by their given names too, much to the annoyance it created (Annie hated it when they called her "Annabelle"). If only they could hear me now, calling my friends by names like "Kid Blink". Of course, they don't know who my friends are, or even if I'm still alive…
And so I leave my brief history here in the hands of kind old Mr. Kloppman, who I know will make good use of it. He already promised me he'd use whatever I wrote for him to help teach the young newsboys how to read and write- Rebecca knew, and I know now, how important that can be to a young boy's future.
The idea of leaving the story of my past appeals to me. It's something people will read in the future, and remember me by, long after I'm gone. It's something to leave behind…
I also wrote up my past because Mr. Kloppman was always curious about me, being the only one of his newsboys from so far south, and now he'll know all he needs to know about me. To most, a true New Yorker, but still a southern boy at heart.
A/N: And so we end my very first completed chapter fic! I'm rather proud of myself, anyway… Thanks to all that reviewed along the way, and I hope you enjoyed it.