Chapter Text
Jack didn’t know how he became the ringleader of the Newsboys.
He thought it was when he came back from the Refuge with stories of a daring escape and a carriage ride, but stories didn’t make boys follow you off the ends of the earth.
There really was only one explanation for the way the boys acted. Most none of ‘em had a family, and if they did, they didn’t want to talk about it. Jack was the closest thing to a big brother they had. None of them even knew the amount of times Jack spent his own money on them. If one of the younger boys hadn’t sold enough papes the last few days and couldn’t eat, a sandwich would end up in their hands. Jack couldn’t stomach one of them not eating, one of them freezing in the middle of the night.
It was safe to say that, out of all the boys, Jack had the most money. He sold the most papes, and he didn't spend more money than he had to. Sure, Race sold almost as much as him with that silly little charm of his, but his gambling tendencies weren't very pro-saving.
Jack had plans, and he was smart enough, even without a solid education, to know he couldn't have plans and no money. Life didn’t swing that way.
There was this place he hadn’t told anyone about: Santa Fe…
He just knew the minute he left New York, his life would truly start. Like… his time here was just the test run before he really lived his life, and Jack Kelly knew that Santa Fe was his start line.
But he didn’t have the money to leave… yet.
He didn’t have the stomach either.
He told himself the only reason he felt like he couldn’t leave the Newsies was because it was the coldest part of winter and everyone was struggling. That once it warmed up and everyone would be okay, he wouldn’t feel as bad leaving.
He really, really prayed that was the case.
’Cause Jack Malcolm Kelly was going to Santa Fe, and nothing could change that.
Jack wouldn't say he was observant.
Sure, he dabbled in painting, and that required some detail orientation, but outside of that, the small things weren't a concern of his. He was a big-picture kinda guy. Not a thousand small pictures makes a mural.
It was weird, though, on one of the colder mornings of a wintry Tuesday in the middle of January, that he started noticing this young boy, no more than the age of eleven.
His leg didn’t look right, and his hand dragged against the rough brick wall of an old building.
Jack stopped his insistent yelling, the morning papers slung over his shoulders.
No one paid attention to the young kid struggling through the brittle winds. They had work to go to and people to see, and those same people didn’t notice when the thirteen-year-old street rat known as Jack Kelly set down his papers on a rusted windowsill and walked over to the young kid.
“Name’s Jack Kelly,” he said proudly, his hand outstretched, the words heavy with a New York accent.
The boy looked up at him, eyes sunken and cheeks void of any color but a stark white.
The kid had a ratty old hat, his blond hair sticking out of the ends, looking matted and greasy. He could make out little spots of freckles on the sickly-looking boy’s face.
“Casey Morris…” he said hesitantly, his hand shaking as it took Jack’s. His grip wasn’t strong and made Jack cold just by the brief contact.
“Well, Casey, I know someone who would kill me if I let you stay out here any longer, and I'd love an excuse to go see her.”
He paused, watching the boy’s slow reaction.
Yeah, Jack could not leave this barely double-digited kid out here any longer with a good conscience.
“Ever been to Irving Hall, kid?”