Extra, Extra! (A Newsies fanfiction)

The World Will Know---Esther/Jack

"Papes for the Newsies." He says.

"Relax. It's got to be a gag." I say, reassuring the others. I walk up to Weasel and give him fifty cents.

"Good joke, Weasel. Really got the fellas going. I'll take a hundred and be on my way." I say.

"A hundred'll cost you sixty." It feels like Oscar aimed his brass knuckles at my chest. It ain't a joke.

"I ain't paying no sixty---" But I am cut off.

"Then make way for someone who will." He says.

"You bet! Me and the fellas will take a hike to The Journal." Esther says.

"Yeah!" All the newsies start to walk away but Specs' voice stops us.

"I'll save you the walk. They upped their prices too."

"Then we'll take our business to The Sun!" I say.

"It's the same all around town. New day. New price." Weasel cracks that smile again.

"Why the jack-up?" I ask.

"For them kind'a answers, you gotta ask a little further up the food chain. So, you buyin or moving on?" He asks.

"C'mon fellas." We all huddle.

"They can't just do that, can they?" Finch asks.

"Why not?" Esther asks.

"It's their paper." Race says.

"Ain't we got no rights?" Henry says.

"We got the right to starve. C'mon, let's get our papes and hit the streets while still can." Crutchie said.

"At them prices?" Henry says.

"We got a choice?" Crutchie turned to leave. Esther taps his shoulder. Crutchie turns back around to look at me. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, making him stay.

"Hold on. Nobody's paying no new nothin'." I say.

"You got an idea?" Tommy Boy perks up at this.

"Keep your shirt on. Lemme think this through." I say.

"What's your angle?" Buttons asks.

All the other newsies crowd around me. Les pushes the others back.

"Stop crowding him. Let the man work it out." They all watch me think.

"Hey Jack, you still thinking?" Les asks after about ten seconds.

"Sure he is. Can't you smell the smoke?" Race asks and earns a laugh from my sister. I love Esther's laugh.

"All right, here's the deal: if we don't sell, then no one sells papes. Nobody gets to that window till they put the price back where it belongs." I tell them the plan.

"You mean like a strike?" Davey asked.

"You heard Davey. We're on strike." Esther says excitedly. Davey on the hand, looked frantic.

"Hold on. I didn't say-----" He started.

"We shut this place down like them workers shut off the trolleys!" I say.

"And the cops will bust our heads! Half them strikers is laid up with broken bones!" Finch objects.

"The cops ain't gonna care about a bunch of kids. Right, Davey?" Esther says, now by my side.

"Leave me out of this. I'm just here to feed my family." He says.

"And the rest of us is on playtime? Just because we make pennies don't give nobody the right to rub our noses in it." I look at Davey.

"It doesn't matter. You can't strike. You're not a union." He says.

"What if I says we is?" Esther challenged.

"There's a lot of stuff you gotta have to be a union. Like membership." Davey explained.

"What do you call these guys?" I gesture to the newsies.

"And officers." Davey points out.

"I nominate the Kellys to be presidents!" Crutchie cheers and soon the others are cheering with him.

"Gee, I'm touched." Esther says.

"How about a statement of purpose?" Davey shrugs.

"Must've left it in my other pants." I say.

"What's a statement of purpose?" Race asks.

"A reason for forming the union." Davey answers.

"What reasons did the trolley workers have?" Esther asks.

"I don't know. Wages? Work hours? Safety on the job?" Davey supplies.

"Who don't need that? Bet if your father had a union, you wouldn't be out here selling papes. Yeah?"

Davey just looks at me before saying yes.

"So this union is hereby formed to watch each other's backs. Union'd we stand. Hey, that's not bad. Somebody write that down." Esther says and the other newsies nod and murmur approvals.

"I got a pencil." Les says.

"Meet our secretary of state. Now what?" I ask.

"If you want to strike, then we all have to vote." Davey says.

"So let's vote." I say, letting Esther take the floor or in our case, a crate she stepped onto.

"What do you say fellas? The choice is yours. Do we roll over and let Pulitzer pick our pockets, or do we strike?" She pumps her fist in the air casting her vote.

The air is soon filled with that one word. "Strike!"

(Play the song up top)