Chapter Eleven: In Which Mush Reads a Certain Letter and Jack Is Convinced

Word count: 2,638

As Cassie left, everyone (excluding Mush, of course) shared knowing glances with each other. Then they all looked at him. "What?" he asked. "What're you all lookin' at me like that for?"

"Y'know," Blink began slowly, "for one of two newsies named for their romantic tendencies, I wouldn't have thunk you'd be as oblivious as you is."

"What do you mean? Oblivious about what?"

"Allow me to explain," Romeo chimed in, sauntering over and motioning for Blink to get up so he could sit down in his place. "Cassie likes you," he said simply.

"Well, I'd hope so, we's best friends, ain't we?" He was confused.

Romeo chuckled lightly and shook his head as if Mush was a naïve child who didn't know how things worked. "No, no, no. Cassie likes you. Romantically. As in, you'se that mystery crush ya keep askin' about."

"She likes...me?"

"Well, duh! I mean, all the signs is there."

Mush felt himself blushing as he looked around at the newsies, who were all nodding or agreeing. That would explain why she'd been acting so strange lately...actually, that would explain a lot. But still. "I'se sure that ain't what this..." he trailed off as he opened the note Cassie had given him.

"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest."

-William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

Dearest Mush,

How do I put this? You are the best things that's ever happened to me. You are really kind, and cute, and you always manage to make me laugh. I'm sorry if it seemed like I was being weird, but it's only because I really, really like you, and I've never liked anyone this way before (except fictional characters, of course).

I've only known you for a few years, and not much longer than anyone else has. I know you've had lots of interests in the past, none of which, I'm sure, have been me, and if there are any more in the future, I encourage you to pursue them. I know you're the kind of person that would feel bad if I still had a crush on you but you were into someone else, but if there's anything I don't want to do, it's keep you from doing what you want to do.

I really appreciate our friendship, and I'll be okay if you don't feel the same, but it was killing me to not be able to tell you, so...here I am, telling you. Um.

Je t'aime,

Cassie

Mush looked up, sure his face was bright red now. All he could manage to get out was, "There's, uh, French, I think."

Romeo took it and read it. After a moment, he laughed. "Oh, that's great!" He exclaimed.

"W-what does it mean?"

"No way. I ain't translatin' - you gotta ask her yourself!"

Romeo grinned and walked away with no further explanation. Real helpful.

Mush wasn't sure when he started walking to the door, but the next thing he knew, he was outside, looking for Cassie. "Cassie!" he was suddenly shouting as he ran down the street and towards the lodge.

If he couldn't go to Santa Fe, he could at least try to paint it. Pinks and oranges and blues and reds, sunsets and mountaintops and the strokes of the paintbrush that all but calmed him down. Every moment he thought he was okay, every moment he thought he was cool and collected, thoughts of Crutchie and the refuge and his letter came swarming back.

Dear Jack, he'd written. How are you? I'm ok. Jack had the whole letter memorized by now. He'd only gotten it a day or two ago, but he'd read it and reread it and reread it again and now he knew it by heart. He was glad that, at least at the time of the letter being written, Crutchie was fine. Now though...who knew? When Jack had gone up to see him, his best friend hadn't even been able to come to window. Jack had tried to be like Crutchie and see the positive in the situation, but the best he could come up with was that at least Crutchie wasn't dead. Yet.

Then, as he was walking (more like sneaking) back to Irving Hall, he saw the other newsboys in line to buy papers. Thankfully, none of them had noticed him, but he couldn't believe the strike was off. It definitely made him angry – after all they'd endured! - but more than that, it saddened him. How long had it been? He'd been more or less camping out at Irving Hall, ever since Crutchie got taken away. He'd assumed that they'd been on strike the whole time, and after all, Specs had managed to deliver Crutchie's letter, but now that he thought about it, they could have stopped trying at the same time he had. And though he'd have no other way of finding out, he sure wasn't going to ask.

He painted some more. This painting was coming together well, he decided. His fantasies of Santa Fe were much better, and he figured he wouldn't be able to do them that much justice, but this was close enough.

"This is lookin' pretty good, Jack," said Medda's familiar voice as she rounded the corner to fully admire the painting.

"Thanks," he muttered as he kept on.

"Here's everything I owe you for the first backdrop, plus this one," she continued, handing him an envelope – with money in it, no doubt. He hesitated to take it. "And a little somethin' extra on accounta because I'm gonna miss you so."

"Medda, I - "

"Jack," she insisted.

He sighed and obliged her. "You're a gem."

She smiled wistfully. "Just tell me you're goin' somewhere, and not runnin' away."

"Does it matter?" Not like anyone would care anyway. They probably weren't even looking for him.

Which Jack knew wasn't true. Someone was probably wondering where he was...right?

"When you're goin' somewhere, if it turns out not to be the right place, you can always go somewhere else. When you're runnin' away, nowhere is ever the right place." Medda looked him in the eyes, hers warm and comforting, his probably colder than he wanted them to be.

He had no idea as to whether or not he was running away. He had a set destination in mind, so wasn't that going somewhere? He knew one thing though: Medda was right.

As he continued to contemplate whether he was actually going somewhere, he heard a familiar voice that sent a pang of guilt through him.

"How about lettin' a pal know you're alive?" Davey said. "Where'd ya go? We couldn't find ya!"

So they had been looking. And he suddenly felt bad that he'd left them on such short notice.

"I'll leave you with your friend," Medda said rather unhelpfully. She walked off.

"Didja ever think I didn't wanna be found?"

Jack suspected his friend hadn't quite anticipated a response like that, but if it surprised him, he showed no signs. "That a real place? That Santa Fe?"

Who told him about that? Jack didn't respond.

"Hey, we are front page news above the fold. Oh, yes – above. The fold." Davey grinned excitedly.

"Good for you."

His friend's thrilled smile didn't falter. "I mean, everyone's dyin' to meet ya! Mr. Famous Jack Kelly. Even Spot Conlon sent over someone just to say that next event, we can count on Brooklyn. Guess we 'got what it takes to win' after all."

"We got stomped into the ground."

"Well, yes, this time, but we took round one. With papers, with press like this, our fight is far from over."

"Every newsie who could walk," began Jack with an anger he rarely felt anymore, "was out there sellin' papes this mornin' like the strike never happened." He emphasized the word strike – that word that he'd quickly grown to detest over the last few days. He thought again of Crutchie in the refuge.

"And I was right out there with them."

The admission sent another wave of unreasonable vexation through Jack.

"If I don't sell papes, my folks don't eat - "

"Save your breath, I get it: It's hopeless."

"But then I saw this-this look on Weasel's face. He was actually nervous! And I realized this is not over. Far from it, in fact. We got 'em worried." He met Jack's eyes. "Really worried. And I walked away. Lots of other kids did too, and that is what you call a beginning." Davey looked like he wanted to say more, but then someone else walked in. Or two other people, he saw when he looked up.

"There he is, just like I said!"

In all honesty, Les' small, childish voice was welcome and refreshing. Jack didn't know why, but he was relieved to hear it. Still though, he appreciated his solitude.

"Where's a fella gotta go to get away from you people?"

"There's no escapin' us, pal. We're inevitable."

Jack had to turn to hide his small smile. He was still in a lousy mood, but it was almost funny – the newsies were definitely rubbing off on him, but only Davey Jacobs would use a word like inevitable in an everyday sentence.

"So what's the story?" asked Les, racing down to join his brother. "Will Medda let us have the theater?"

"Pipe down, I haven't asked yet."

"Well, what's the holdup? I need to let my girl know we've got a date!"

"Your girl?"

"You heard me! I've been swattin' skirts away all mornin'! Fame is one intoxicatin' potion, and this here girl Sally? She's a plum."

As Davey started whispering to his brother, Jack saw Katherine. She looked concerned. He hated that.

"Word is, you wrote a great story."

"Hey, you look terrible."

Jack ignored her. Les pointed to the painting. "Hey Jack, where's that supposed to be?"

"It's Santa Fe," said Davey, like it was obvious.

Katherine groaned. "I gotta tell you, this 'go west, young man' rountine is getting tired. Even Horace Greely moved back to New York.

"Yes, he did," agreed Les. "And then he died."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Aren't reporters supposed to be, uh, non-partisan?"

"Ask a reporter," she replied, with a note of annoyance in her voice. "Pulitzer's had me blacklisted from every news desk in town."

"Can we table the palaver and get back to business? Can we use the theater or not?"

"It's what I've been tryin' to tell ya!" Davey said, turning back to Jack. "We wanna hold a rally – a citywide meeting where every newsie gets a say. And a vote. And," he added, looking particularly pleased with himself, "we do it after working hours so no one loses a day's pay. Smart, huh?"

"Yeah, smart enough to get you committed to a padded room."

"The guy who paints places he's never seen is calling us crazy?" Katherine's voice was calm and level, though it also sounded somewhat strained, like she was trying to keep it from becoming strident.

"You wanna see a place I'se seen, huh?" he asked, making no effort to hide the frustration in his tone. He turned around the canvas he was presently working on to show something he'd painted earlier. It was a cartoonish depiction of the newsies being, quite literally, crushed underfoot. "Newsies Square," he said, as if it needed any explanation, "thanks to my big mouth. Filled to overflowing with failure. Kids hurt, other arrested."

"Lighten up, no one died," said Davey. Jack knew his friend probably meant that in the best way possible, but at this he finally gave up any pretense of calm.

"Oh! Oh, is that what you're aimin' for?" He paused. "Go on, call me a coward. Call me a quitter. Ain't no way I am puttin' them kids back in danger."

"We're doin' something that's never been done before! How can that not be dangerous?"

"Specs brung me a letter from Crutchie. In the Refuge. I tried to see him. Went up the fire escape. They busted 'im up so bad, he couldn't even come to the window. Are you willin' to shoulder that for, what, half a penny a pape?"

"It's not about pennies, Jack!" retorted Davey fiercely. "You said it yourself – my family wouldn't be in the mess we're in if my father had a union. This is a fight we have to win!"

"If I wanted a sermon, I'd show up for church." And honestly, he'd rather be there right now.

"Tell me how quitting does Crutchie any good." He opened his mouth and admittedly couldn't think of anything to say. "Exactly. So here's what happens when we win."

"When?"

"We're winning already."

"Sure."

"And the first thing we do when we win is tell them to let Crutchie go, or else."

"Or else what?"

Davey ignored him and started talking again.

"Dave, what? Do ya not remember that whole fight that brought us here? We got our teeth kicked in. They win!"

"The battle maybe, but not the war."

Jack rolled his eyes.

"Consider it. Like, actually think about it. We've got them surrounded. We've got them outnumbered. We'll do whatever it takes."

"Okay, but ya know what? Guys like Joe is...they's like rattlesnakes."

Davey faltered for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. "You, Jack, are exactly right."

I am?

"Rattlesnakes are called rattlesnakes because, you know, they rattle. But do you know why?"

"No, why?" Jack didn't really care to know, but he'd asked before he realized he'd been asking.

"Because they're scared."

"Oh, right."

"Seriously! You can look it up if you want to." Davey shook his head. "But that's not the point! The point is, Joe is scared. The poor guy's head is spinning! Same for Weasel, and Oscar and Morris and the bulls - even they know that we're a force to reckoned with."

"And how can you be so sure?"

"I mean, why else would they send for so much extra protection? The goons, and the cops. If they were so confident, why would they need all that?"

"Ya know...ya may be right," muttered Jack.

"Thank you, God!" exclaimed his friend.

"If he wasn't afraid..."

"Exactly! He knows we're winning!"

Katherine and Les joined in trying to convince him, and eventually they wore him down. He would rejoin the newsies and go back on strike. Like Davey said – they'd do whatever it takes.

"Shake on it?"

They all spit into their hands and shook. "We're back!" beamed Davey as he wiped his hands on his pants.

"And I've got a date!"

A/N: This was a fun little chapter. I think Jack has always been one of the characters that's been harder for me to write, though I felt like this chapter was a little easier. I did enjoy writing Jack sort of battling with his own emotions – he's busy brooding, and then Katherine and the Jacobs brothers come in and make him smile. It was also nice to write the back-and-forth between Davey and Jack that goes down in Watch What Happens (Reprise). I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

-mouse :)