Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.
Chapter 56: The Long and Short of It
The faint chime of the church bells in St. Peter's rang through the stillness of the night, and Race flopped over in bed, rubbing his eyes in frustration.
It was 4:00 in the morning, and he hadn't slept a wink.
He wasn't surprised. He'd gone to bed hot under the collar without having a chance to vent his frustrations, and that never ended well where his sleep was concerned.
Deciding that trying to get any shut-eye at this point was a waste of time, Race rolled out of bed, grabbed his cigar and a pack of matches from the nightstand he shared with Albert, then stole out of the bunk room, his light footsteps hardly making a sound as he passed by his brothers who were all in various degrees of repose.
Making his way down the stairs, he fumbled his way through the dark to Kloppman's desk until he located the doorstop that the elderly superintendent of the lodging house kept tucked behind the front counter. The entrance to No. 9 Duane St. would be locked at this time of night, but even in his sleep-deprived state, Race was clear-headed enough to remember to prop the door open so that he wouldn't be stuck outside.
The early-morning air was cool and soothed his ire somewhat, and Race ambled over to a cluster of barrels several yards away, casually leaning against them as he lit his cigar.
He hadn't had a quiet smoke to himself like this in weeks.
A bit of residual obligation lingered; he knew that he'd left the bunk room unattended, something he'd resisted doing for the duration of the strike, but now that Jack and Crutchie were back, he wasn't the only responsible party in the lodging house anymore, and he could come and go as he pleased.
Race wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but the last few weeks he'd felt trapped - trapped by his unasked-for authority, trapped by the burden of being answerable for the decisions he made, trapped by the seriousness that was required to do the job but felt completely unnatural to him...
...trapped by the constant reminders that he wasn't Jack - and could never be Jack - to the rest of the boys.
The smoke from his cigar curled lazily into the air, illuminated by the waning moonlight, and Race's expression settled into a sullen frown.
The persistent internal comparison to Jack wasn't something he'd expected to come up against during his brief stint as de facto leader. None of the boys had really brought it up - there had been a few questioning looks and offhand remarks early on about some of Race's decisions, but the newsies had generally accepted his directions without protest. Yet as the strike had worn on and Race had been forced to make decision after decision, he'd found himself inwardly questioning his choices at times.
It was mostly in the small things - who should go up to the rooftop when the funds for the lodging house fees ran low, whether or not they could spare some money to buy a couple of meagre meat pies to share for the purpose of lifting their flagging spirits, if Race should stop to cheer up one of the boys who seemed to be dragging behind or to focus on the group as a whole - but the constant necessity of having to make these kinds of choices grated, and it had taken more of a toll on Race than he'd let on.
Well, he was done with all that, he reminded himself. Jack was back, and things would return to normal soon.
If only he could figure out a way to neutralize his residual frustrations towards the newsie in question...
Normally, a visit to Sheepshead and day betting on the horses would be enough to restore his good humor (if he won) or at least redirect his dissatisfaction (if he lost). But the strike had depleted what little cash reserve he'd had, so blowing his dough at the track wasn't an option.
Maybe a visit to Brooklyn, then…
Before he could ponder the possibility further, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices speaking on the rooftop.
Jack and Crutchie.
They were too far away for Race to overhear what they were saying, but he knew that they were probably checking in as they often did in the early hours of the morning. (It wasn't the first time he'd snuck outside for a smoke and had taken notice of their conversation). The two newsies probably had a lot to catch up on after a long two weeks of separation.
Race puffed on his cigar.
His conversation with Crutchie the evening before had been wearying and unpleasant, but thankfully Race had been saved from having to divulge any compromising information about Jack by the arrival of the newsie leader himself, who had come barreling around the corner full-speed, apologizing for showing up late to the party. Crutchie had greeted him with a grin, warm and welcoming, and Race had slapped a smile on his face as well before the three of them had made their way back to Jacobi's, where a rousing chorus of shouts greeted Jack's arrival.
Things had pretty much progressed as Race had envisioned after that - the jokes and the chatter had flowed freely, and Jack was back in his element with most of the boys jostling and bantering with him as though he'd never left. A few, Race noticed, still seemed to hang back a little, but most appeared to have forgotten Jack's absence over the past few weeks and his brief talk of leaving for Santa Fe. Crutchie, too, was the center of attention, all of the newsies happy to have him back in their company, certainly a little worse for wear, but for all appearances strong and unbroken in spirit despite the ordeal of the past two weeks. Even Davey, as sour as he'd been about the whole "party" business in the first place, had attempted to make the best of the situation, joining in on the revelry in his own tentatively cautious way.
Ironically, Race had found himself to be the only one not at ease. He'd ordered his usual - salami and Swiss - then had proceeded to dispatch the sandwich with hardly a word to anyone. Artie had tried to draw him into conversation, but Race had brushed him off and had spent the rest of the evening silently brooding at the edge of the group.
The party had gone late, only breaking up when Jacobi had ordered them out so that he could close up for the night, and the newsies had poured out of the deli and onto the street, heading towards the lodging house and calling out goodbyes as they parted ways with Davey. Race had held on to his taciturnity the entire way back and had avoided speaking much when they'd arrived at the lodging house, citing a headache to any who'd asked. He'd gone to bed, only half-heartedly hoping for any sleep, then had tossed and turned until he'd roused himself from bed upon hearing the bells tolling at St. Peter's.
The sound of the voices on the rooftop again reached his ears, and Race wondered idly if Jack had told Crutchie about everything that had transpired over the past two weeks, or if Crutchie had taken the initiative to ask. In either case, he hoped that the truth was out now so that everyone else didn't have to tread carefully around the subject anymore. It really wasn't anyone's story to tell but Jack's.
Snuffing out his cigar, Race slowly made his way back to the entrance of the lodging house. It was probably almost 5:00 a.m. by that time, and Jack (he assumed) would be giving the wake-up call within the hour, so he ought to head back to the bunk room before any of the boys got up for the day. A few of them - Jojo and Mush in particular - were notoriously early risers, and he didn't want to have to explain his absence to them (though he suspected that some of the newsies knew about his occasional truancies anyway).
After carefully shutting the lodging house door and returning the doorstop to its place behind Kloppman's counter, Race stole back up the stairs to the bunk room, slipping quietly back into bed and tucking his cigar and matches under his pillow (Albert had been especially quick-fingered lately, and Race wasn't in the mood to deal with his pilfering).
He rolled over on his back and tucked his arms behind his head, staring at the worn wooden boards of the bunk above him, and after several minutes passed, he found himself feeling more settled and even a little bit drowsy.
He had just managed to drift into a light and gentle sleep when Jack's bellowing voice suddenly shattered the silence of the bunk room as he sounded the morning wake-up call.
Davey tucked his stack of newspapers into his newsboy bag and settled the load on his shoulder, thinking to himself that maybe he ought to try a new selling spot that day - not that he'd ever really established himself in a particular location; his first two days on the job he'd sold close to the distribution center simply because it had been convenient, and the day the strike concluded he hadn't had to walk far before people had snapped up his papers, but today he knew that his wares were unlikely to move so quickly, so he'd have to take the initiative if he wanted to sell all fifty copies of The World in his bag.
He watched the rest of the newsies as they headed off, joking and laughing with each other and shouting out exaggerated headlines as they went. Race seemed to be dragging behind the others, not his usual buoyant self, and Davey wondered if he ought to jog over and ask the gambler if he'd slept all right the night before, but before he could do so, a man flagged him down for a paper, and by the time Davey had completed the sale, Race was gone.
Surprisingly, the morning edition moved fairly easily, and Davey was able to sell his quota just before noon with only a little effort. He'd ended up meandering aimlessly through the busier streets of the neighborhood, familiarizing himself with landmarks and with the selling spots of the newsies he saw along the way and peddling his own papers as he went.
Most of the boys ate their lunch on the job, though some regularly took a break at Jacobi's, and Davey found himself wandering towards the deli partially out of habit and partially hoping that Race would be there so that he could check in on him. He knew he was probably being overly-anxious and that the other newsie would likely balk at any display of concern, but something had felt off that morning. He couldn't tell if it was his own lingering dismay from the uneasy celebration at Jacobi's the night before, or if he was accurately discerning that something was wrong with the gambler, but either way, it couldn't hurt to ask a few well-meaning questions.
Opening the door to the deli, Davey saw that Race, indeed, was there, sitting at a corner table, nursing his complimentary glass of water and finishing up the remains of a sandwich. He wasn't alone, though; one of the ex-scabs, Artie, was sitting with him, grinning from ear to ear as Race regaled him with what sounded like one of his outlandish stories.
Davey ducked out of the deli, reasoning that his friend had company and seemed to be acting normally enough. He didn't want to intrude on the conversation, especially when he wasn't planning to buy lunch anyway and wouldn't be staying long.
Making his way back towards the distribution center, Davey found a spot to sit down and pulled out the food his mother had packed him for that day. He finished eating quickly, then walked the remaining few blocks to the circulation gate, which was just opening as he arrived for the release of the afternoon edition.
Hopeful that he'd be able to replicate the success he'd enjoyed that morning, Davey purchased fifty more papers, then set off, calling out headlines as he walked.
Reality hit hard that afternoon.
He struggled to sell his papers, unable to move a single copy for over a quarter of an hour despite the fact that the afternoon edition was hot off the presses. And the hours that followed weren't any better - everywhere he went he seemed to run into another newsie who had already staked out the spot, or he found himself in a "dead" area where no one was interested in the headlines he was hawking. As the afternoon wore on, the weight of his still-well-stocked newsboy bag seemed to get heavier and heavier, and Davey found his discouragement growing.
Two weeks of being on strike hadn't done anything to make him a better newsie, and his selling technique was just as awkward and forced as ever. But though the reality of his ill-suitedness for the job was rushing back with unwelcome clarity, he refused to give in and sell back his papers for the day. He kept walking, further than he'd ever explored up to that point, telling himself that if he could just find the right spot, he'd make up for the lost time.
The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, the late afternoon shadows stretching across the street, when he stopped for a moment to count the papers left in his newsboy bag.
He let out a breath of frustration. Over half of the papers he'd purchased remained in his bag. That entire afternoon he'd sold...just over twenty.
It was a little humiliating, especially after the success he'd enjoyed immediately following the strike (though he supposed he should have known things wouldn't always be that easy), but he'd walked so far at this point that he knew if he didn't turn back soon he wouldn't be able to make it to the distribution center to sell back his papers before Weasel and the Delanceys left for the day.
So he started back.
You'd better find a way to make this work, he told himself. One day of poor selling wouldn't put his family on the street, but if he didn't get a handle on things soon, they would all feel it. He wasn't cut out to be a newsboy - the demands of the profession neither showcased his abilities nor capitalized on his strengths (if anything, they only magnified his weaknesses) - but a newsboy was what he was, and that was the long and short of it. He had to figure out a way to get his feet under him.
He came to a busier part of town and began calling out headlines again as he walked, but before he'd gotten far, his attention was suddenly caught by a girl darting across the street several yards in front of him. She was a brunette and rather petite with her hair pinned up under a jaunty-looking hat, and for a brief moment, Davey thought that he recognized her.
Sadie?
The girl made it to the other side of the street, but as she began walking towards him and he got a better look, he realized that she was not, in fact, the landlord's daughter. He must have had her in the back of his mind, knowing that he was due to show up for tutoring that evening.
If there was one thing he was looking forward to even less than selling back his papers, it was his study session with Sadie. He was grateful that he'd be able to get started on catching up with his school work (he was a bit behind since the busyness of the last several days hadn't left him time for anything but matters pertaining to the strike), but he wasn't sure how the awkwardness that had settled between them would affect things, and though he harbored no ill will towards the girl in question, he didn't really want to see her either.
Trying his best not to think about it, Davey continued calling out headlines. He managed to make a few more sales on his way back to the distribution center and hurried through the circulation gate just as Oscar was getting ready to close it for the day. The surly Delancey brother processed Davey's returned papers without a word, counting the change out quickly and then shoving the coins across the counter. As soon as Davey set foot outside of the distribution center, Oscar shut the gate behind him.
The walk home was not a happy one. He wasn't going back empty-handed, but he hadn't made nearly as much as he'd needed to, and the dreadful thought that the next day could bring about a similar lack of success gnawed at him. It wasn't just the fact that he hadn't been able to move the day's allotment that troubled him; it was the sobering realization that tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, he would have to hit the streets again and repeat the humbling process of devoting himself to a task he was both ill-suited for and not inclined to do. He knew that he didn't really have a choice, and that the only way to get better was to keep doing it...but that didn't make the prospect feel any less daunting.
As he drew near the Becker tenement, he found his thoughts suddenly returning to Sadie. Here was a girl who had willingly applied herself to tutoring him, something she (by her own admission at least) was not well-suited for and took no personal interest in. But she'd done it voluntarily and without a word of complaint, though she'd regularly joked about the irony of their situation:
It's really too bad that you're stuck with the least academically-inclined student in class as your tutor, Davey, but I'm sure your above-average intelligence will more than make up for my above-average lack of aptitude.
I'll have you know that I paid extra attention in class today - in fact, you'd be proud to hear that I only caught myself daydreaming twice, and managed not to get caught by our schoolmaster either time, though whether I retained any of the lesson or not remains to be seen.
You're probably bright enough to understand this without my help, but I'm sure that it must be dreadfully boring to catch on to things so quickly all of the time, so perhaps my convoluted instruction will provide a little challenge for that brilliant mind of yours.
He hadn't thought much about the lighthearted remarks she'd made during their sessions (though of course he'd remonstrated them politely at the time), but as he pondered them now, he wondered if perhaps they had been subtle indications that she was well aware of her academic shortcomings, and that it had taken more fortitude for her to continue tutoring him than she'd let on. And yet she had done it, willingly putting herself in the humbling position of attempting to do something that was difficult for her and that she believed she was not good at...all for the sake of helping a friend.
His respect for her grew not a little at that realization.
He still wasn't sure if he wanted to see her and was anticipating their impending meeting with as much apprehension as before, but the reminder of what she'd done for him, and the quiet humility it had required, was comforting somehow, though he wasn't sure why.
Careful, he reminded himself. Nothing good would come from trying to wrap his mind around Sadie - she'd already confused him enough as it was.
Arriving at his family's apartment, Davey unlocked the door and stepped inside, glancing at the clock on the bookshelf as he hung his cap by the door. He'd have just enough time for a quick bite to eat before it would be time for him to head over to the landlord's office. Then, he would have just one last challenge to face before the day would finally come to a close.
A/N: Resolution. Next chapter. I promise. Thanks for reading - I'd love to hear what you thought!
