counterfeit [newsies x reader]

chapter four

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CHAPTER FOUR

"MAKING THIS UP AS I GO"
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RACETRACK AND ALBERT had decided that they'd each take one of you, and show you how things went. Racetrack called dibs on you but not before Albert objected. The two of them played a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors for you, until in the end Albert held up a "scissors" to Race's "rock".

Davey wasn't exactly overjoyed that no one was exactly happy to be with him, but he shrugged it off. You bid goodbye as you fell into step behind Race.

You surely didn't trust him, but you were commanded to follow him by who seemed to be their leader. You shrugged your bag into the proper place as you looked up to him.

"So, you're going to show me the ropes?" You prompted, opting him to start his instruction.

He nodded, before turning to you, still walking as he did so. "I'se supposed to," he paused. "But I'm not really sure of what we do ourselves." He laughed.

Your face paled, the worry of receiving no assistance dawning on you. Race must've noticed, because he began to explain himself.

"I'se just joking! I'se been sellin' papes since I was seven," he explained. "You'se too uptight Shortstack." He tugged at his newsies bag before starting up on a corner.

"In all honesty's though, I just makes it up as I'se goes." He explained as he pulled a paper out of his bag and turned to you again. He didn't give you much time to react to his previous statement, before starting up on his instruction.

"So the when the headline is a load of dung, which it usually is, just make one up." He paused, shrugging his shoulders. "Something outta the box crazy, makes folks wanna read."

Before you could nod your head that you understood, Race was already giving you an example. "Brooklyn Bridge 'bout to collapse! Dangerous stakes!" He hollered, louder than you'd ever heard him speak before.

A woman with a furrowed brow walked up quickly, handing Race a shiny new coin. She snatched the paper from Race's hands and began to scan over it as she walked, searching for the Brooklyn Bridge story that Race has made up not even five seconds ago.

Race swaggered back up to you, tossing the coin–which seemed to be a nickel–in the air and catching it as it fell down.

"That's how you'se sell a pape, Shortstack." He had a dumb smirk on his face as he pocketed his profit and removed his cigar from his mouth.

You stared at him, confused. "But," you paused. "isn't that lying?" You asked. Your mother had taught you not to lie. Not only was it not ladylike, it wasn't right. You were raised to be a model citizen and respect those around you. Lying went against everything you stood for! Then your thoughts faltered, you'd been lying all day, pretending to be Frank.

You pushed away the thought as you awaited Race's response. "Yeah, ain't nothin' wrong wit' it," He elaborated. "It's all in a good day's work." He shrugged, before motioning for you to take out one of your own papers.

"Now, you give it a try." You swallowed as you picked out one of your own papers. You stepped off the curb, into the street, just as Race had done. Then you spouted the most ludicrous things you could thing of.

"Man killed by runaway carriage! Leaves behind a fortune!" You yelled. It was beyond crazy, but you could've sworn you'd read a book with a similar plot at one point.

Three people ran over to you, quickly pulling out change purses and wallets. They probably wanted to know who had died, or if they were in the will of this somehow "fortunate" man. Soon enough, once your three customers cleared, you walked over to Race with a pile of change in your hands.

He was beaming. "Couldn't have done it better myself, Shortstack." He examined how much change you held and nodded in approval. "You'se already doing fairly well for a new kid." He admitted.

You wanted to smile, but you remembered that your darn smile made you look more feminine so you nodded, hoping to mirror Race's expression.

"Now, all we gotta do is get through all your twenty papes!"

Race spoke like it was simple. For him, it probably was. He'd had to have done this for what seemed like forever. How long did he say he'd been at it? Since he was seven? He looked about sixteen. That made it nine years. Nearly a decade!

You were thankful you still knew some arithmetic, even if you didn't have the skill your mother did.

You nodded at Race, before you both parted onto the street. You could still see him from your line of vision, of course. The two of you only split up slightly so you'd both be able to cover more ground and drum up more business.

You were surprised at how good you were at this, making up headlines. Maybe you always had a streak of creativity in you, or you just had a knack for remembering subplots of books you'd read years ago.

Toward the end of the afternoon, you were out of papers. You expected to be stuck here until nighttime, unable to sell your papers, but you surprisingly did pretty well. Just like Race said, you did pretty well for a new kid.

You walked over to Race, clutching your pocketful of loose change. He sold his last paper as he turned to you.

"Done already Shortstack?" You nodded, pulling at your empty bag.

"Well, Jack told me to take you back to him 'fore the day was over, so now's a good a time as any." Before you could ask why Jack wanted to see you, Race was already walking down the street, back the way you came.

Your mind wandered for reasons why Jack wanted to see you. Had he figured out? Maybe he just wanted to let you know about something, or a place to avoid selling. Your mind ran wild with the negative outcomes as you followed Race to your possible doom.