Archive of Our Own ^beta

Newsie Square was no stranger to crowds, but the amount of action that filled it on the day of the strike was unlike what anyone, even Wiesel, had seen.

Clashes of bodies filled the space. Groups of newsies fought with goons from the Refuge, scabs, Wiesel and the Delanceys… for all anyone knew, there could've been newsies fighting each other out there, unknowingly, just swinging for the sake of the cause. Clouds covered the sun. The scene was cast in shadow. The smell of fresh newspapers had long since given way to the pungent smells of sweat, body odor, dirt, and blood. And the sounds… grunts and cries of pain fell on everyone's ears. All across the square, people yelled frantically to each other. While she was used to the noise – this was far from Racetrack Higgins’ first fight – one she hadn't been expecting was the sudden sound of her own scream when Oscar Delancey grabbed both of her arms and pulled her sharply against him, her head colliding with his chest.

Race screamed, because she’d thought she could handle them but she couldn’t. It’d been fine with other newsies at her side – Mush, Henry, some others – truly, she hadn’t focused on their faces, just focusing on the fight, punching, kicking, and scraping the Delanceys wherever she could, just trying to get them away, away, away. Then Morris had fallen, and her friends had run, and she had tried to run with them, but then Oscar was grabbing her by the elbows and yanking her back and then Morris was back up and she was blocked on one side and restrained on the other and there was nowhere to go. 

“Get her, Mor’!” Oscar yelled, as Race struggled hopelessly against his pinning of her hands behind her back. The first punch to the stomach hurt. The second one hurt more. Race twisted left and right as much as she could, but all that did was anger them, it didn’t get her away – and as she turned her head right her face was knocked back to the left by a strong hit to her cheek, just under her eye. 

Race blinked back stars as Oscar wrapped his arm around her ribs, his strong and well-fed body fighting a winning battle against her malnourished one. “What, you think I’ll go easy on ya just because yous’ a girl?” he growled in her ear, widening his stance so that he could dodge her attempts to step on his feet. “Because yous’ a girl, huh?!” 

He threw her to the ground. Race felt like she was falling in slow motion, and as she dropped, she caught a glimpse of Jack fighting just ahead of her. Then time sped up again and she hit the pavement, scrambling backwards as the brothers advanced. “Jack!” she screamed, and she saw Jack look around wildly before his eyes locked on her. “Jack, help!”

“I’m comin’, Racer!” he called, but then he had to dive out of the way of a barrel aimed at him by some scabs. When the barrel rolled away, all she saw was his back as he ran farther and farther away towards another scuffle, herself seemingly forgotten. 

“Jack…” Race croaked out despairingly as Oscar and Morris continued to whale on her, and she choked out a sob as Oscar landed a particularly strong punch to her rib cage. She managed to half-sit up but had to duck her head, arms flailing, as she choked out a coughing fit. She vaguely saw blood. Her midsection burned and her head pounded, and she thought, they could kill me right here, but through her watering eyes she made out a flash of red and a swirl of black and suddenly the blows had ceased and two boys each had one of her arms and were pulling her up firmly. Race struggled against them for a moment before she heard a familiar voice in her left ear.

“Woah, R, it’s us!” the voice said, and she could've cried. Albert and Finch. Her body went slack with relief, and she stumbled into Albert, who caught her gently. He was sticky with sweat. “Man, they really got you good, huh?” 

On her right, Finch flipped the bird to the Delanceys’ retreating backs. “Fuckin’ shitheads. What do they think they’re doin’, pickin’ on you?” 

“And what, you thought you could take em’ by yourself?” Albert added on. “I mean, look, Racer, I’m not sayin’ you can’t fight, but the Delanceys are a different deal…”

Race coughed again. She was dizzy and felt like she might throw up. “I thought… Jack…” 

“Yeah, he ain’t comin’,” Finch muttered, throwing one last look back at the fight before turning around. “He’s caught up. Helpin’ Les or someone. C’mon, let’s get out of here.” 

***

When they arrived in front of Brooklyn’s lodging house, a small girl with dark curls looked up from drawing pictures in the dirt and stared at them blankly.

“Hi, Pips,” Race said weakly, trying to force a smile. She was no longer being supported by Albert and Finch, but they had taken frequent breaks on the way to Brooklyn, avoiding the cops and ducking into alleyways so that Race could catch her breath. “How are you?” 

Still on each side of her, her friends now fixed the young girl with stony-eyed stares. Race understood the sentiment, but she ignored it for now. Pips probably knew little about the strike – Spot preferred not to worry the younger girls – and besides, she had bigger issues to focus on. Namely the fact that she was currently holding a piece of her torn shirt to her bleeding bicep. And that she felt like she could fall over at any second. 

In response to Race’s question, Pips gave a noncommittal shrug. 

“Cool,” Race said. “Uh,” she turned to Albert and Finch and lowered her voice. “I can take it from here.”

Albert was still glaring at the ten-year-old, who was staring at him right back. Finch furrowed his brow and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Race assured him, digging her heels deeper into her boots to keep her balance. “They know me. You guys just get back to Jack and the other kids. I mean, Jack will tell you, I bet, but just in case he and Dave are busy– see who’s, you know… still there. Keep a log of who’s missin’, who ran off, you know? Send runners to the other boroughs, too.”

Finch still looked worried.

“Finch.” She fixed on him the look that she usually reserved for the younger newsies when they played in her cot. “I got this.”

“Alright,” he let up. He wrapped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder softly. “We’ll see ya back at the House?”

Race nodded, and with one last look back each, Albert and Finch set back off to Manhattan, heads bowed close together as they walked and talked.

Once she had watched their backs retreat all the way around the corner, Race turned back towards the front door. Pips had resumed drawing her pictures, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth with focus. “Pips.”

The girl looked up at her innocently.

“Can you go get Spot, pretty please?”

Pips rewarded her with a gap-toothed grin, and Race managed a real smile back this time. The young girl stood up, her pictures abandoned, hurried up the steps, and disappeared inside. 

Race only had to wait a couple moments before the door swung open again. “Pips, I told you I don’t wanna talk t–” Spot cut herself off when the door had opened fully and she was able to take in Race standing there, bleeding, bruised, and shaking at the knees. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” Race replied through gritted teeth. The wind picked up slightly, and the dirt scattered further down the street, Pips’s drawings erased. The little girl seemed unbothered as she hopped back down the steps to begin a new project. Race kept her eyes rooted to Spot’s. “A little help?”

Spot tore her eyes away from the bruises blooming yellow and blue on Race’s midriff and craned her neck further into the lodging house to call, “Stray! We need’ya!”

***

Race hissed as Stray gently pulled the wet fabric away from her arm. “Sorry,” Stray said softly. “Hav’ta take a look.”

“Yeah, I know,” Race winced as Stray ran her thumb around the edge of the wound. 

“Well, it doesn’t look deep,” Stray said confidently, reaching behind herself for a fresh strip of fabric. “Looks like it’s beginnin’ to scab already. You just bled like a bitch. I still hav’ta clean it, though. Your scrapes, too.”

Race sighed, resigned. She knew it was true – besides the cut on her left arm, most of her right arm plus both of her palms were still glittering with grit and raw skin. As Stray dipped yet another cloth into a bowl of water and began to gently clean out the wounds, Race had a thought.

“Hey, I thought you moved out,” she frowned. “Weren’t ya living on the streets again? With your dogs and shit?”

Stray hesitated, her nails digging a little deeper into Race’s forearm as she stilled the hand holding the cloth. At her silence, Race looked up, eyes darting around Spot and Scope’s room. It was barely large enough to fit the two cots, but private as it was, it functioned as a makeshift infirmary. As Race and Stray had settled on top of Spot’s bed, Spot was now seated on Scope’s, frown lines worrying sharp grooves into her forehead. Mack hovered nervously in the doorway. 

“I had moved out,” Stray finally said, cautiously, “but I–”

“I told her to come back,” Spot cut in, dark brown eyes boring into Race’s blue as if daring her to oppose. “You know how it is, more cops around recently – I didn’t want her endin’ up in the wrong place.”

Race gladly took the bait, irritation prickling inside her chest like a persistent weed. “Funny you should mention the bulls – I seem to remember runnin’ from ‘em quite recently, without the help of somebody.”

“I won’t apologize for not putting my girls in danger,” Spot replied simply, taking off her cap and running a hand through her curls.

“Maybe there wouldn’t’ve been so much danger if we had had a little assistance!” Race shot back, voice rising. The scrapes on her arm stung. She felt heat rise to her cheeks. Against her pride, she was embarrassed. Embarrassed that she was so riled up, embarrassed that she’d limped all the way to Brooklyn to have her injuries treated because she couldn’t bring herself to go back to Manhattan, embarrassed that she was still begging for help. She felt a painful twinge deep in her stomach. She’d left her newsies behind. For all she knew, the fight could still be brewing. She swallowed her pride back down, feeling the dryness of it in her throat. “Spot, nobody came. Besides us. Flushing, Richmond, Queens– they’re all waiting on your okay. I got outta there, but the others–” she felt her pulse pounding in her head. “I don’t know what happened to the others. I don’t know what’s gonna happen if we have to fight again. But I think we’d have a hell of a lot better chance if your girls were there.”

Spot didn’t respond for a moment, staring at her newsie cap where it rested on the sheets next to her. For a while, the only sound was that of a soft plop as Stray dropped the wet cloth back into the bowl and picked up the dry fabric from her lap to wrap Race’s arm. The silence hung heavy in the midday light. Finally, Spot spoke, still avoiding Race’s eyes. “Your hair’s a mess. Mack, can you-?”

“Aye, I’ve got it,” Mack said immediately. She darted out of the room and returned seconds later with a comb, clearly eager to have some distraction from the tension. She slid onto the cot and playfully nudged Race’s shoulder with the flat of her palm. “Move over.”

Race just kept staring at Spot. She vaguely registered Stray moving through her field of vision towards the door, her task completed. Mack stilled awkwardly beside her. Only when Spot lifted her head to meet Race’s gaze did Race speak. “Seriously?”

“It’s not a no, Higgins,” Spot said testily as the door to the room clicked shut, “but I need to think. Let Mack fix your hair. Ya think they won’t throw you right in the Refuge lookin’ like that?”

Race groaned, but relented and slid over, pulling off her cap and turning towards the window to give Mack access to her knotted hair. Still addressing Spot, she grumbled, “Workin’ with you’s like tryin’ to reason with a flock of pigeons.”

Mack started yanking the comb through Race’s hair, a little harder than necessary. 

“Look, Racer–” Spot started, but she was cut off by Race’s yelp.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” Mack said, slowing her movements and relieving some of the tension to Race’s scalp. Race didn’t feel that she was sorry at all. “You have a lot of knots.”

Race gritted her teeth. “Yeah, well, funny how that happens when you’re outnumbered two to one and runnin’ for your life. You should try fighting for somethin’ some time.”

“Maybe you should try bein’ a better fighter,” Mack retorted.

“Oh, I’ll show you who’s the better fighter–”

“That’s enough!” Spot reprimanded. “Both of you! Mack, stop pullin’ on her hair. Race, just – stop.”

They fell silent. Race could sense Mack’s tension in the way her breathing shallowed, but at least she was no longer attempting to give Race a bald spot.

Spot blew out a long breath. She gazed out the window, her mind somewhere far away. When she spoke, it was hesitant. “You know I don’t trust Jack Kelly as far as I can throw him.”

Uncomfortable, Race instinctively reached towards her pocket, but it was empty. Shit. Her cigar must have fallen out during the fight. She settled for fiddling with her tattered shirt instead. “Right.” 

“And I know you…” Spot hesitated. Race stared at the wall. Tried to keep her face stoic despite her shaky breathing. “I know you… kinda live in the in-between, ya know? Sometimes you’re here, sometimes you’re there, sometimes you’re at Sheepshead doin’ god-knows-what… but I… I know where your loyalties lie.

“I’d love to have you here all day. You’re a damn good seller. There’s always a place in Brooklyn for you, whether you just need some food or to get patched up or you just want to chat or smoke or whatever. But as much as I mean that… I know your… heart… is elsewhere. It can’t be fair for me to risk my newsies for one person I trust, and a whole lot of kids I don’t.”

Race opened her mouth to protest, but Spot held up a hand. “But… it sounds like Jack Kelly proved me wrong today. He was out there fighting with you all?”

Race remembered falling to the ground. The look on Jack’s face when he spotted her through the smoke. The frenzy of the moment. She wondered if she should tell Spot about any of that. She decided against it. “Yeah. Yeah, he was.”

Spot sighed again. She watched as Mack gently tugged on Race’s hair, weaving it into a simple plait. The rubber band made a snapping sound as she secured the braid. Race immediately reached up to touch it, relieved to have something to do with her hands. 

Mack swatted her hand good-naturedly. “You’ll make it fall out.”

Race smiled, picking up her cap instead and pulling it tight onto her head. “Thanks, Mack.”

“I’ll get you a new shirt.”

Race hummed, and with a gentle squeeze to her shoulder, Mack left the room.

Race stared at Spot – not with unkindness, not with vulnerability, just being. Spot gazed back. Maybe they could have stayed there forever, just existing in each other’s presence, with yellow sunlight piercing through the window. But Spot was the one to break the silence, pressing her palms into the edge of Scope’s cot.

“I didn’t expect Jack to put up a fight,” she admitted, speaking with more confidence now. “I expected him to fold. To take his papes at sixty cents per hundred and to go about his day because the alternative was too much risk. It’s not that I don’t think he can commit to a cause. I just worry about him bein’ able to face trouble head on. He’s always found a way to escape – escapin’ the Refuge, escapin’ jail, you know. I’ve always seen him as more of a runner. Not able to stay in one place.”

“Maybe you don’t understand him as well as you think you do,” Race said softly.

“No,” Spot agreed, holding her gaze. “I guess not. So,” and she said this with conviction. Race sensed a shift in her tone. She had the impression that she was now speaking to Spot Conlon, the fearsome leader of Brooklyn’s newsies, not simply Spot, her friend and kindred spirit. The air felt colder, somehow. She understood that Spot was done being vulnerable. “We’re gonna get you some food and water and a new shirt. And then you go back to Manhattan, and you tell ‘em that the next time you’re all ready for a fight, you can count on Brooklyn to be there backin’ you up. How’s that sound?”

***

As soon as Race entered the lodging house, she made a beeline for the back corner, where Davey, Albert, and Finch were huddled in a group. Albert’s expression revealed nothing, per usual. Davey spoke quickly and in hushed tones, and Finch was nodding exuberantly along with what he was saying. All three looked up as she joined them and clapped Albert on the back. 

“Race!” Davey said with relief. To her surprise, he pulled her into a hug. After a second of confusion, she accepted. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she smiled despite her exhaustion, “Stray patched me right up.”

Davey, confused, glanced around the group for clarification on the unfamiliar name. 

“One of Spot’s girls,” Race explained. “In Brooklyn. That’s where I was. And, hey, get this–” she leaned forward, and the three boys mirrored her, “Spot said Brooklyn’s in the next time we have to fight. Jack earned her respect – well, we all did, I guess, because we didn’t back down.” 

She expected a big reaction at that, but instead, Albert, Finch, and Davey just exchanged glances. “Great!” Davey managed after an awkward moment passed. “So, where’s Jack?”

Race felt her face tighten up. “Whad’ya mean, where’s…”

She spun around and actually took in the room for the first time since arriving. The sight that greeted her wasn’t pretty. While most of the newsies met her eyes with forced smiles, everyone looked stressed and in pain, and there was a general feeling of anxiety in the air. Bruised jaws and black eyes were practically a given. Henry and Kenny both sported bloody noses. Romeo was clutching his elbow, wincing. Buttons’s dress was torn, revealing scraped knees as she flitted around the room like a frightened bird, attending to wounds. So did another girl Race didn’t recognize, although she noted that this girl looked a lot like Davey. Even the youngest newsies seemed subdued, huddled together and fighting to stay awake in the opposite corner. And, Race realized as she scouted, Jack was nowhere to be found. Neither was Crutchie. 

“We thought for sure he’d be back by the time you got here, or you’d have run into him, or he’d have gone looking for you,” Finch muttered somewhere near her ear.

Race turned back around. “And Crutchie?”

All three boys’ faces fell. Albert said gruffly, “Snyder got him. The Delanceys were gloating about it, those assholes. If we weren’t all so messed up, I would’ve started another fight with ‘em.”

Race’s heart felt heavy. Her stomach flipped. “Not Crutchie...”

“I wish it weren’t true,” Albert said grimly.

“We already sent Specs to check on him,” Davey assured Race. “To get some intel. And we’ve got some guys back out at Newsie Square, making sure there’s no stragglers. We just don’t know what to do about Jack. He’s not at the square, or on the r– in his penthouse, I mean.” Davey laughed uncomfortably. Race felt bad for him. His forced demeanor reminded Race of her own, and it was only his second day on the job, so that couldn’t be a good sign. “So, on the assumption that he’s okay… any ideas where he could be?”

Race immediately thought of warm, fuzzy lighting. A soft, sweet-smelling embrace. A rack of bright pink and purple costumes.

“Yeah,” Race sighed. “I think I might know.” 

***

Race tried to be as inconspicious as possible as she followed two official-looking men into the lobby of Medda’s theater. One glanced back at her and gave her a stern look, to which she returned her best “I’m-supposed-to-be-here” smile. It dropped as soon as the man turned back around. Race glanced around the theater frantically for Medda, and, to her luck, saw her emerging from a door to the right. Race rushed over. 

“Miss Medda, I–”

“Hi, honey,” Medda greeted her with a warm smile, but her eyes showed concern as she swept them over Race. Race imagined what she must be seeing – she hadn’t bothered to check her reflection since leaving Brooklyn, but she knew that she still probably looked a mess. She knew her hair had long since fallen out of the braid that Mack had so carefully plaited, and the purple bruise on her cheek still throbbed. Although the girls of Brooklyn had been able to retrieve her a new shirt, one sleeve was ripped, revealing the 6-inch scrape where her elbow had dragged along the asphalt. Her knuckles and knees were sore from fighting, and her stomach twisted when she thought about the bruises Medda couldn’t see – ones of all shades and colors across her abdomen from where Oscar and Morris had punched her. Visions of green and blue started to swim before her eyes, but she blinked them away along with the tears that threatened to spill.

“Miss Medda, I can’t find Jack. Is he–?”

“Yes, sweetie, he’s here,” Medda replied, and Race breathed a sigh of relief that spanned her whole body. She forced the persistent tears and the urge to collapse somewhere deep down in her stomach. “He’s just through that door. Now, I hate for you to see each other like this, honey. I know you two are…” she hesitated, and Race’s head spun. “Just…he’s quite upset already.” 

“I can imagine,” Race murmered, trying not to think of Crutchie. “I’ll talk to him. Thank you, Miss Medda.” 

“You can just call me Medda, hon,” Medda said, and winked. “We girls have to stick together.” 

Race managed a small smile that she hoped conveyed everything she couldn’t find the words to say. She moved towards the door, and had just barely touched the handle when Medda added, “Race, honey…” Race glanced back questioningly, and Medda’s eyebrows knitted together when she said, “Tread carefully. He really is in a harsh mood.” 

Race swallowed, nodded, and turned back toward the door.  

When she entered, Jack was absorbed in his work, sketching on a backdrop that was taller than he was. He had discarded his vest and overshirt, revealing a few bruises along his face and arms, but other than that, he appeared unharmed. Race’s heart pounded. He’s okay. Thank the stars, he’s okay. She felt that she could cry.

The door slammed loudly behind Race, and they both jumped. Jack looked up. Race had a lot of things she wanted to say, like, Thank God you’re alive, and Everyone’s worried about you, and Spot is actually proud of us, isn’t that cool? What came out instead was, “Have you been hiding out in here this whole time?”

Jack scowled, turning back towards his drawing. “Not now, Racer.”

She hurried down the steps, boots scuffing loudly on the basement floor. She grabbed his arm. Knocked the pencil out of his hand. It clattered to the floor, too loud. “Jack.” 

She forced him to look at her. His eyes roamed her face, taking in her new bruise. Up close, she could see his bruises too. They were uglier than she had presumed them to be from far away. Blue, yellow, and one red scratch just under his eye. He had dirt on his face and hands – evidently he hadn’t bathed since the fight. Race thought bitterly that together, their bruises made a rainbow. 

“You’re hurt,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I – yeah,” she said softly, not letting go of his arm. “So are you.”

“Is anyone else hurt?”

“Well, we’re all a little banged up,” she let out an emotionless chuckle. Jack didn’t smile, instead watching every movement of her face as though he could find the secrets of the universe within it. “The kids are fine, though – you know, the youngests – Les and everyone. They got out of there quick. So’d Davey, he’s okay. Some others are hiding out in other boroughs for now, so I haven’t actually seen them, but according to Finch and Albert everyone is accounted for – except, well…”

She hesitated. Jack noticed. Of course Jack noticed. “Except?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Willed herself to keep her voice steady. “Jack, Crutchie’s in the Refuge.”

When she opened her eyes, he didn’t look surprised. 

“I know,” he said, and his eyes were cloudy. Race had known him long enough to spot the nuances in his expressions – this wasn’t a far-away look of dreaminess. He was reliving a memory. “I saw it.” 

“You…”

“I was there,” he said, and Race couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her. “Snyder and the Delanceys were on him – he yelled for help – I couldn’t make it in time. Ran up to the fire escape until I was sure they were gone, then straight here. Haven’t been back since.”

She pulled him into a hug. “Jack, I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t imagine what he had gone through. “Davey sent Specs over there to check on him. I hate it, but I guess we just…” she swallowed back tears, “have to hope that he’s okay. At least until we can figure out a way to get him out of there.” Jack was stiff in her embrace. She pulled back, confused. “Jack? Ya still in there?”

“Is Crutchie the only one in the Refuge?”

“Wha – uh, yes. As far as we know, anyway.”

“Okay, uh…” His eyes sliced back and forth, still halfway in the past. As concerned as she was, Race hoped he was coming up with a plan. Some way that they could fix this together. Get Crutchie out of the Refuge, avoid the cops and the goons, succeed in the strike. She’d thought about it for the entire walk to the Bowery and had nothing to show for it. But Jack was the ideas guy. He’d had some time to ruminate. Surely he had a solution. “That’s… and everyone else is alright?”

“Well, I mean…” she hedged. Her left hand inched towards her empty pocket. She ran her thumb back and forth over the seam. “Most of us are kinda bruised up. You know. Romeo’s got a broken arm, they think, and… Buttons stitched up a few people. Davey brought his sister along to help – turns out she’s handy with a needle, who would have thought? But, Jack… what are we gonna do?”

He stared at her. Blinked slowly. She wasn’t sure what was going through his head, until– “We’re gonna walk up to the circulation desk tomorrow and pay our sixty cents per hundred, that’s what we’re gonna do.”

She stared back at him, brows crinkled together. He can’t be serious. “What?!”

“You wanna strike again?! See how well that turned out the first time?”

“Jack, I-”

“I’m not gonna let more newsies get hurt on my watch. I’m not. Crutchie in the Refuge – who knows how many others could end up there if we try this again? Because of our mistakes?”

“Jack-”

“Or do you want to just keep going because it’s fun? Just ‘hope that it’s okay’?” Jack was on a roll now, arms flailing as he made his argument. Race wasn’t sure if she should slap him or kiss him. Or both. Or neither. “I can’t see anybody else hurt. Not Davey, not Al, not Finch, not Katherine, not you– nobody! So you can just go ahead and–”

Crash!

They both stared at the easel and backdrop, now crumpled on the floor, then at each other. Race’s arms, still extended out in front of her, shook. 

A beat passed, where all they heard was their own labored breathing.

“Kids? Everything okay in there?”

“We’re fine, Miss Medda!” Jack yelled back, chest heaving. “Sorry about the noise!”

Another beat passed.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Race said in an uncharacteristically small voice. “You was ramblin’ – and I know it’s funny when I do it, but…”

She trailed off. Jack grabbed her shoulder roughly and held it, as though he was trying to ensure that she was still real.

“I can’t see you hurt again,” he said quietly. 

She touched his hand on her shoulder, but forced nonchalance. She gave a half-shrug. “Oh, I’m fine. A little worse for wear, but–”

“I saw you gettin’ beat up,” Jack murmured. His voice was low. Gravelly. Race forced herself not to interrupt. “I was gonna run over there– I swear to ya, Race, I was goin’ to–” She squeezed his hand encouragingly. They were both standing very still in the dark basement. “But then more people were screamin’ and I didn’t know where’ta go and I just ran to the first newsie I could see. I swear, Racer, if I could go back–”

“But you shouldn’t,” she replied firmly. She squeezed his hand again. “There’s no need to go back. I made it outta there. And so did you. And so did–” her voice caught halfway through the word ‘everyone’. “So did most of us, okay? And we’re gonna get Crutchie out. We’re gonna find a way. Right?”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “Race, I couldn’t have forgiven myself if you’d been taken too… if you hadn’t made it out. I can barely focus as it is. Crutchie bein’ gone is bad enough, but… Crutchie’s resilient. He’s got one of the strongest wills I ever seen. I keep thinkin’ about them gangin’ up on you… there’s a reason I can’t go back to Newsie Square. I don’t wanna relive this morning. If we strike again… the risk is too much. Not just you but everyone. I can’t do it.”

Race shrugged out of his hold. “You don’t think I’m resilient?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you didn’t say, though. Isn’t it?”

“Race,” he insisted. He grabbed her forearm and pulled her towards him. In the back of her mind, Race had the thought that maybe she should let go, that she should push him away and run without turning back. But his eyes drew her in. Deep brown and so earnest, searching her face for understanding. She had never been able to escape Jack’s eyes. They were the eyes of an artist, a dreamer, a leader whose rotten luck had made him the best of the worst. That described the two of them, Race thought fiercely, royalty among the hopeless. “Listen to what I’m saying,” he said. She could see every tint and shadow of emotion in his eyes – she had always been able to. In the depths of her heart, she craved knowing what each one of them meant. Jack had always been a mystery she’d committed herself to solving. She couldn’t have run even if she wanted to. “I know you’re resilient. You can hold your own in a fight, and you’re one of the best sellers we got. You could charm a tiger into buyin’ from you. That’s not what this is about. What I’m sayin’, Race, is that I know you’d do whatever it took to win a fight. You’re great with the kids, but you’re always puttin’ others above yourself. I love those guys, and I know you do too. I’m worried you love ‘em too much. I mean, look at you. You’re losin’ sense of yourself. No cigar, and – God, Racer, when was the last time you ate?”

She suddenly found it very easy to avert his gaze. “I was in Brooklyn before I came here. I ate there.”

“And before that?” Jack implored.

She looked at the ground. “Two days ago. I’ve been giving my food to the kids.”

He let go of her arm and groaned, turning towards the crumpled backdrop. She hurried over to help him lift it. “This is what I mean, Racer. You have to take care of yourself. We’re down on our luck enough as it is. I’m worried that you – and so many others – Al, Finch, Davey, everyone else who truly gets what’s goin’ on – are gonna lose yourselves in the strike. Fight ‘til you have nothin’ left to give.” 

Race caught a glimpse of the back of the canvas. The sketch was in its early stages, but she could still make out the subject – a giant boot, crushing crying stick figures underneath. She moved around the easel to look closer at the drawing, and Jack joined her, hands stuffed in his pockets. When he spoke, it came out gruff and harsh. “See, this is what I’m worried about. Really worried about. They could have killed us out there. Do you really believe we got a fightin’ chance against them? We’re beat up, we got no one comin’ to help us, and they’ll send us limpin’ back to the lodging house every day until we comply. I don’t wanna let everyone down, but… I don’t see where else we can go.” He walked back around the easel, picking up his pencil and starting to sketch on the backdrop again. “I’ll see you when this is done.”

Never one to give up on a fight, she followed him. “Jack.”

“What?” He drew out the word. It had the tone of What could you possibly have left to say?

“Jack, you have to come back. There’s a bunch of kids back at the lodging house that are countin’ on you to give ‘em some morale. We’re all in shambles. No one knows what to do or where to look. They’re lookin’ to me and Davey for a plan, but…” her voice wavered unexpectedly. She shook her head. “We’re at a loss. We’re as worried about Crutchie as you are. We just… we need your help.”

He shook his head, too. “If you’re so desperate to keep goin’ with the strike, you don’t need me.” His pencil made angrier strokes on the canvas, his expression sour. “You can figure it out yourselves.”

“What if I need you?!”

Her voice echoed off of the walls. Jack’s hand stilled over the canvas. He didn’t look at her, though.

“Jack, you’ve slept in my bed. We’ve pooled profits for as long as I can remember. I know I’m in your drawings. I know the lines of your hands better than I know my own. We’ve kissed, Jack. We’re…” she took a step towards him, shaking her head again. “If we had a better life I’d say we were a couple. Instead, I’ll call us… survivors? Partners? I dunno. But there’s somethin’ here. Obviously. You keep tellin’ me you can’t see me hurt again. I can’t lose you, either.” 

She took the last couple steps towards him until there was only an inch of space between them. She could smell the dust of the backdrop, could hear the rhythm of Jack’s breathing. She could feel the shakiness in her own chest. He was looking at her now, with an expression she couldn’t read. She wished she could read it. She wanted to open up his mind and consume his thoughts. To know what he was really feeling. Stars, she wanted more than anything to know. So she did the only thing left she could think of to do. The only thing that had a chance to close the distance.

She leaned in to kiss him.

Jack pulled away. 

Race felt her heart drop to the floor, shattering at her feet like crystal.

“Jack?”

“I…” for a second, he looked surprised at himself too. But then his expression set into something sad, yet determined. “I can’t.”

“Why?” she demanded to know. She could feel her heart rate quickening, the tears prickling at her eyes. A lump forming in her throat. A thought occurred to her, irrational but loud. She didn’t mean to say it, not really, but she was too far gone to not spit it out. The words were acid in her mouth. “Is this about Katherine?”

“What? No, it’s not about Katherine. I just… Race, we can’t do this. As soon as we resolve the strike, I’m goin’ to Santa Fe. You know that.”

Race did know. She’d known since their first kiss, on Jack’s rooftop penthouse while the stars shined overhead. Even in the searing brightness of the moment, the thought had hung over her like an anvil: He won’t be here forever. He wants to leave. He’s going to leave.

And yet she’d kept up the charade. Hoping that the more he bonded with her, the more he’d want to stay. Had let him sleep in her bed, had let him hold her hand, had stood next to him in line at the circulation desk every morning. Even as she told herself over and over again that it was temporary. He’s going to leave, and he’s not gonna take me with him.

Because even if he asked, she couldn’t go. How could she? Her whole life was here. Her work, her friends, her regular selling spot, Manhattan, Brooklyn. And now, the strike, and whatever would come after. Leaving would be a betrayal to her newsies. One that she could never make.

She forced herself to speak. Her voice wobbled. A tear rolled down her cheek, settling into her bruise. Stinging. “I just thought you cared about me. About us.”

Jack looked stricken. She found some sick satisfaction in knowing that she had put that expression on his face. “I do care about you. I just…”

“Care about Santa Fe more.” Race squared her shoulders back, blinking hard to will the tears away. Unintentionally reaching for her pocket and once more finding it empty, she settled for digging her nails into her palms instead. Hands balled into fists, she strode towards the steps. Jack stayed rooted in place.

“Race, I– I’m sorry –”

“Don’t worry about it,” she reached the top of the staircase. “I guess we’ll figure it out ourselves. Isn’t that what you want us to do?” 

“I–”

“Have fun in Santa Fe.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I hope it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Maybe if we’re lucky, I’ll see you in hell.”

She wrenched open the basement door, letting it swing shut behind her. Only when she had left the warm, comforting light of the theater lobby for the inky darkness of the outdoors did she begin to let herself cry.

***

When she arrived at Jacobi’s the next morning, Davey pulled her aside before she could enter. “Did you talk to Jack?”

Race leaned against the wall, then quickly pulled away. It was before noon, but the red bricks were already baking in the July sun. She undid the bottom button of her shirt, trying to get a little more air. “Yeah, I did.”

“And…?” Davey prompted, all piercing eyes and nervous energy.

“And it didn’t go well,” she grumbled, fanning herself with her shirt. “Dave, I don’t think he’s comin’. I didn’t see him at the desk this morning, did you?”

Davey shook his head, frowning. He ran his hand along the strap of his bag, up over his shoulder and back down. He did this a couple times before daring to ask, “So if you saw him, but he’s not coming… um, did something happen?”

Race rolled her eyes. “He didn’t much want to come in the first place. Said he wanted done with the strike. That we were all just gonna have to pay our sixty per hundred. I mean, we all did this morning, so I guess he got his wish, right?”

Davey was visibly frustrated. “That doesn’t sound like Jack.”

“You’re gonna tell me what sounds like Jack?” She gave up on fanning herself with her shirt, switching to her hands instead. “Come on, let’s go inside. I want a water.”

“Race, wait,” Davey said, his long strides allowing him to block the door before she could walk inside Jacobi’s. “Are you sure nothing else happened? It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he added quickly, seeing her indignation, “just… trying to get all the facts.”

Under Davey’s intense stare, she felt her determination slowly fading. She gave a long sigh, rolling up her sleeves. “Okay. Fine. We had a fight. He basically told me he couldn’t give a shit about me because he’s headed to Santa Fe as soon as he’s done painting his stupid backdrops. Is that what you want to hear?”

Davey’s brows were furrowed. “And that’s… it?”

“I guess so,” Race said, pushing past him to the door. “He might still be at the theater, if you want to try and change his mind. I didn’t have much luck.”

When they walked into the restaurant, Davey a few steps behind Race, Jacobi was already passing out waters. Specs waved her over, moving his legs off of the chair next to him with a grunt. She gladly accepted the seat, and a glass from Jacobi. She was considering drowning herself in it when the sound of quick footsteps alerted her to another person entering the room. Oh, lovely. Katherine. Just the person she wanted to see.

“Well, would you get a load of these glum mugs?” Katherine trilled. None of the newsies laughed at her joke. Race wasn’t sure half of them were even awake. Then again, everyone was so slumped over, it probably didn’t make much of a difference. Katherine tried again. “Could these really be the same boys who made the front page of the New York Sun?”

Race’s head snapped up. The newsies around her started waking up, too. Les’s mouth was agape. Henry and JoJo whispered to each other. Murmurs spread around the room. Race found herself making eye contact with Davey. She jerked her head towards Katherine, trying to say, You’re the morale guy. You take this. He shook his head with wide eyes. Nope. All you. 

Without thinking, Race stood up. Time seemed to slow down as she scanned the room, her friends all watching her with half-hopeful expressions. Waiting for her to show them their next move. Royalty among the hopeless. 

Race strode across the room and plucked the paper out of Katherine’s hands. Took in the image of herself and her friends, all smiling brightly on the front page of the paper. Behind her, newsies clamored for a look at the picture, grabbing and wrestling it out of her hands. Over the rush of her mind, she half-registered excitable conversation – the newsies and Katherine discussing the paper, the news blackout, Jack’s whereabouts. 

She glanced over at Albert. He looked up from the paper, and she saw that he was smiling for the first time in a while. She nodded at him. He nodded back. She called out over the noise, “Would you stow the seriosity?” She jumped up onto a chair, gesturing to Albert for the paper. He handed it to her gladly. She took a breath, plastered a smile onto her face, held up the paper, and exclaimed, “I’m famous!”