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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

So there we were: three kids standing in the middle of a back hallway discussing a newspaper revolution.

Was I hooked by Davey's initial plea? Not particularly.

I was curious. How could an inconsequential Cuban girl like me make a difference in their strike? So I resolved to hear them out, for nothing else but to feel significant. Besides, Jack was giving me a glare that chilled me so deeply I didn't know if I'd be able to move a step farther even if I wanted to.

"Well," Davey said, shooting Jack a quick look. "I guess we should start from the beginning."

I tapped my foot impatiently (as I have a habit of doing when I'm nervous) while Davey told me all about Joseph Pulitzer and the newspaper price jack-up. I had heard the name Pulitzer in passing sometime during my three years in New York, but hadn't paid much attention to his influence. Like good patriots, my father and I had read newspapers up until the end of the war, so I have no doubt that The New York World was purchased in there somewhere.

It was a curious situation – the fighting seemed to have returned and The World was involved once again.

Jack was silent while Davey went on with his account. He told me how their clan had been going to any and all New York boroughs to solicit support amongst the other newsies. They planned to recruit factory kids next, and then anyone they could get.

"So here is where you come in," Davey said. "Pulitzer published a lot of articles about the war in Cuba. Well, him and Hearst."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I read them," I said.

Both boys looked at me with raised eyebrows. "What?" I said. "You think I can't read?"

That seemed to knock them off their high horse.

"No one's sayin' ya can't read," Jack said, pulling his hat over his eyes, seemingly bored with my unwarranted aggression.

"Actually," Davey interrupted. "That's even better – that you've read the articles, I mean. You know what they wrote about then, right?"

It had been a long time since I had talked about the war. The question made me nervous and I pulled quietly at the skin between my thumb and forefinger. "Well, yes. I mean, it was everywhere – all the terrible things happening," I said hesitantly.

Davey's eyebrows knit together. "Well," he said. "So you know that Pulitzer published loads of articles saying the Spanish were tyrants and describing how horribly the Cubans were being treated. Both he and Hearst wanted to create public outrage so the country would to go to war."

Davey grew impatient when I didn't react. "War sells papes, and Pulitzer pulled in a whole lot of money thanks to the war. People wanted to help the abused Cubans because of those articles."

Jack interrupted. "Come on, Davey, we ain't got time for all this. Don't ya get it?" he said aggressively, turning on me. "We need yer help to show Pulitzer and the world that he's as big a hypocrite as they come. He wrote all about wantin' to save you Cubans but now he's practically killin' kids here in New York."

I started pulling more forcefully on my thumb web. Their argument made enough sense; that much I couldn't deny. As glad I was that someone had published compassionate articles about the Cubans, I couldn't deny the hypocrisy of this invisible man's actions.

Davey must have seen my tortured expression, because I saw him shoot Jack a warning look.

"I get what you're saying," I said, trying my best to put on my determined face. "It makes sense and all, but what can I do about it? I'm just one kid."

Jack smirked. "That's the beauty of it. We only need one kid."

"What?"

Davey looked at me sympathetically, fumbling with his hands only slightly.

"Jack's right," he said, avoiding my eyes. "We just need one person to go talk to Pulitzer."

I felt my eyes grow three sizes in a matter of seconds. "Excuse me? You want me to go talk to Pulitzer? I don't even know the man!"

"Yeah," Jack said evenly, "and neither does anyone else. That ain't the point. The point is you're Cuban, and he'd listen to you before anyone."

"Wait," I said, waving my hands hopelessly in the air. "Why am I responsible for this? You're newsies, why don't you go and talk to him?"

"We did," Davey said, looking everywhere except my face.

"And?"

Jack pulled his hat down again. "He didn't wanna see us."

I threw my hands up and covered my eyes. "Are you out of your mind? He refused to see you – what makes you think he's going to want to see me?"

"Well –" Davey tried to say.

"He won't," Jack interrupted. "But he ain't gotta choice in the matter."

Up until that point, everything had gone horribly wrong. Now it was becoming even more convoluted. "What are you talking about?"

Davey stepped forward, probably to block Jack from my death glare.

"We can't afford to have him send you away, so we're going to give him no choice but to listen to you."

"Oh, really? Pray tell, what is this plan in which you have misplaced so much confidence?"

"You'll sneak into his carriage."

It was too much. I had reluctantly let myself be persuaded to listen to their hopes of me joining their strike, but a futile mission such as the one they proposed was out of the question.

"Forget it."

I turned to walk away down the hall, but Davey put his hand on my shoulder.

"This could really work, Izzie."

"And if it doesn't? I'll be thrown in jail for the rest of my life and you'll still be penniless newsies!"

"But imagine if it does work. You could singlehandedly convince him he is wrong and save hundreds of newsies from living on the street."

"And I'll still be in jail."

"We'll come up with an escape plan."

"And it won't work."

"You're the most stubborn girl I've ever met, ya know that?" Jack said, stepping out from behind Davey. "What's so great about yer life that ya can't take a little risk?"

His words stung, just like the bee sting I had kindly received on my third birthday right below my left eye. He was right – I didn't have a reputation to risk, a family to risk (my father could take care of himself), a home to risk, a well-paying job to risk. Although I wouldn't count my life to date as a horrible monstrosity, I certainly lacked for variety and adventure, which Lola had the habit of reminding me.

I didn't say anything for a minute. Then I blurted out, "I just don't know about this. I mean, do you even know if Pulitzer has a carriage? What if someone is in there with him?"

"That ain't for you to worry about, Cuba," Jack said, puffing up his chest. "I went lookin' for a kid like you that day we met" (I choked back a cry of surprise) "to see if we'd have a chance. You're that chance. We'll tell ya what to do and when to do it. 'Sides, ya may not be a newsie, but you're one of us. You want to spend the rest of yer life workin' like a dog for that hat lady? Gettin' no respect?"

"Well, she's not so bad," I tried to say.

"Stop tryin' to convince yerself, Cuba. We're givin' ya the chance to stand up for all the poor kids here in New York."

He struck a nerve with his desperate (although I was sure he'd deny it) speech. I didn't mind working for Caroline Woods most of the time, but the image of Lola working at the cannery came immediately to mind. I knew how much she hated working there, sealing tins of food endlessly. Injuries, deaths, sickness, low pay – not much unlike what the newsies experienced. It was a fluke encounter that brought me to work for Caroline Woods, and I knew I would be in the same situation as Lola had it not been for the lack of hat deliverers in Manhattan.

And Marisol… Marisol was Lola's sister, younger than Carlos, but older than Lola. A year after her family moved to New York they hit tough times after her father was fired from his job. They had barely had enough food to feed the children, and Marisol up and left one day. Lola's parents pretended they didn't know where she had gone, but Lola and I had sloppily investigated and found out – she left to live at a house run by one of the well-known neighborhood "ladies". Once a month she would send money anonymously to Lola's house, but as hard as they tried, they could never contact her.

Once, Lola and I tried to get into the house to talk to her. Walking dejectedly from the bleak building, we had nothing left to show for our valiant efforts at contacting the girl except sore bottoms courtesy of the matron on duty.

They found out four months later that the checks would not be coming anymore. Finally, after months of absence, Marisol was returned to her family – but not as they had hoped.

She had died alone – sick in a cesspit of sweat and lace.

How many times had I tried to ask Lola about what had happened? She would never tell me. I finally found out one day as I bought my daily paper for war updates and saw an article on the death of a young foreign girl. Although the article didn't mention a name, I knew it was Marisol and I didn't ask Lola ever again.

Would the strike prevent what happened to Marisol from ever happening again? Not in slightest, but that wasn't the point. The point was that it was right to stand up against injustice, and let the world know that the downtrodden had a voice, however feeble it may sound.

"I'm not making any promises," I said, perhaps a bit snobbishly. "I need to think about it."

They nodded and Jack stuck out his hand to shake mine. "Then think about it, but we ain't got a lot of time. Meet us at Tibby's tomorrow."

"Tibby's?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Yeah, Tibby's," Jack said before he opened the back door for me to finally exit.

"Jack!" called the spy kid, running up to us. "I gotta talk to ya."

Jack nodded at Davey and gave me a hard look before turning to address his compact companion. Davey held the door open and motioned for me to go out. We walked down a short set of wooden stairs and stood at the bottom.

"Jack's kind of pushy sometimes," Davey said. I had forgotten he was still with me and turned around to face him. "But he's usually right."

I reached my hand back and held onto my bony neck. "This isn't easy, you know."

"I know," Davey said with a half-smile. "But it's a plan. Pulitzer will see that what he's doing is wrong."

"I doubt it."

"He will. He has to."

"I hope so. For my sake, mostly."

Davey laughed a little then looked at me for a moment. "I didn't get a chance to introduce myself to you. I'm David Jacobs."

"Isabel Romero. Well, David Jacobs," I said, holding out my hand, "it was nice to meet you. I better be going – it's getting pretty late."

"Did you come alone?"

"No, a couple friends are waiting for me at the entrance."

"I'll walk you."

I was too tired to argue with him.

As David and I got closer to the theatre entrance I saw Carlos talking indignantly to Lola, who had turned around completely and folded her arms. Another fight that was sure to continue all the way home – oh joy. Perhaps I am not one to speak on the subject, seeing as I am an only child, but do siblings ever get along? There must be some out there – I'd sure like to ask them their secret.

Carlos must have heard our footsteps because he turned and waved. "Hey Izzie! What took you so long?"

Seeing David, he stopped waving and narrowed his eyes. Davey must have seen this because he turned to me and said, "I think I'll leave you here. I don't want you to get in any trouble with your admirer."

I laughed – well, more like a guffaw – so hard I almost doubled over. "Oh no, it's not like that. No, oh no, no, no."

Davey looked confused, but smiled slightly. "Alright. I guess I'll see you around."

"Night, David."

"Goodnight, Izzie."

"Who was that?" Lola asked as I caught up to them.

"Yeah, Izzie, who was that?" Carlos chimed in.

"Oh, no one," I said. "He just helped me deliver the hat."

They both cocked their heads at me and narrowed their eyes – an irritating family habit.

"He helped you deliver the hat? What in the world would you need help for?" Lola asked, her skinny arms sticking out unattractively from her hips.

"I got lost."

"In a theatre? For goodness sake, Izzie, are you really that helpless?"

"Oh, come off it, Lola. Stop pestering her," Carlos said.

"Oh please, Carlos, can't you see she's lying to us?"

"I'm not lying!" I cried.

"You're becoming a real spoilsport, Lola, you know that?"

Carlos's last comment definitely put Lola in an even more cantankerous mood.

"Come on," she said, flipping her hair angrily. "Let's go."

I didn't tell them about Jack and David's plan. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of shame, perhaps out of selfishness.

"Really, Izzie, who was that boy?" Lola asked in a whisper after we had walked a good distance away from the building.

"No one, Lola, I promise."

"I don't know what's going on with you, Izzie," she said, looking me over distrustfully in the darkness. "You've been seeing quite a few boys lately. It's not like you."

I threw up my arms and raised my voice, making her jump. "It's not like I seek them out, Lola, they find me! Look, it's over and I don't want to talk about it, alright? I just want to get home."

Lola didn't talk to me for the rest of the evening. She didn't need to, really, because Carlos took it upon himself to regale us with stories of his most recent date. An Irish girl, he said, and the rest I paid no attention to. I was too busy thinking about "the proposition." Would I be able to pull it off?

Would there be rats in jail?

A/N: An OOC canon? Anachronism? Like it? Let me know!