The Queen of Brooklyn~A Spot Conlon Fanfic

Chapter Fourteen: Traitor!

The next morning, the newsies gathered around Newsie Square with our strike signs, screaming, "STOP THE WORLD! NO MORE PAPES! STOP THE WORLD! NO MORE PAPES!" 

We're all trying not to think about Jack or Denton, I can tell. After Denton left the restaurant yesterday, Davey had told us that the plan was just to continue the strike like Denton never existed.

"Who needs to be in the papes?" Davey had said. I could tell he was angry. "We can win this strike without being on the front page of some newspaper!" We'd all agreed with him, but I could tell that nobody had been happy about it.

Anyway, now we're in Newsie Square, yelling at a carriage that was carrying newspapers. We thrust our signs in the air and yelled "STRIKE!" over and over again. We felt powerful. Well, we did feel powerful...until fights started to break out between the newsies.

Two little boys were fighting like crazy. Spot sighed and walked in between them, reaching out his arms and pushing them away from each other. "Okay, break it up," he said. The little boys, who I'm sure have heard of the great Spot Conlon, nodded, eyes wide. Spot glanced around, then did a double take, his eyes fixated on a point above my head. "Hey, Race. Red. Come here," he said.

"What?" I walked over to him.

"Tell me I'm seein' things. Just tell me I'm seein' things."

Race looks in the direction Spot's looking. His eyes widen. "No...you ain't seeing things." Woah, what's going on? I look in the direction they're looking, and I gasp. Jack is standing there with fancy clothes—slacks, a blazer and a tie, a button-up shirt. And he's walking with Weasel...carrying a newspaper. "That's Jack, all right," Race adds mournfully.

"What's he doing?" Kid Blink demands as the other newsies slowly notice what's going on.

"He's dressed like a scabber!" Spot says indignantly.

A line of cops, bulls, steps forward and blocks us from getting to Jack. Mush squeezes between two police officers. "Hey, Jack, it's me, Mush! Look at me, will ya?" he begs. But Jack just keep staring at his shiny black leather loafers, not making eye contact with any one of us.

"Where'd he get them fancy clothes?" Skittery yells.

Weasel smiles an evil smile. "Mr. Pulitzer picked 'em out hisself. A special gift to a special employee." Wait. What? But...I shake my head. How is this happening? Is Jack giving up on the strike? Well, considering the fact that he's carrying a stack of newspapers and wearing scabber-style clothing, I guess he is.

"What?" Spot cries. "He sold us out!"

Race makes eye contact with Jack and glares at him. If looks could kill, Jack would be dead and buried. "You bum," Race growls. "I'll soak ya!"

"Oh, just let me get my hands dirty." Spot lunged at Jack, only to be pushed back at the cops and pulled back by the newsies. "Come here, ya dirty rotten scabber!" he yelled. "I'll murder you!" I grabbed Spot's shoulder to calm him down, but I was resisting soaking Jack myself. Anger, red, blinding anger, was brewing inside of me, and it was hard to keep it in.

We all start yelling things at Jack, things like "Scabber!", "Traitor!", and "You've stabbed us in the back!" Davey pushes his way to the front of the crowd. He doesn't yell anything; he just stares at Jack, shaking his head.

"Oh, do you want to talk to him?" Weasel asks, noticing Davey. "Come on, it's all right. And you?" He points to me. "Come on." Davey and I slowly make our way over to Jack.

"So this is why you didn't escape last night," Davey says. I don't know what Davey's talking about, but I assume it has something to do with the Refuge. "You're a liar! You lied about everything!"

"Not everything," Jack mutters. Even his voice is different. His New York accent is less thick. It's more...I don't know how to describe it. It's not Jack's voice, that I know for sure.

"Yes, everything," Davey shoots back. "You lied about your dad waiting for you out west because he's not out west." Jack turns to me for backup, but I simply nod. Jack did tell all of us he had folks out west, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He lied about that.

"So?" Jack shrugs. "What are you gonna do about it, Dave? I'm done with the strike. Because you know why? I got money in my pockets. Real money! Money, ya hear?" He shakes the fabric of his pocket, just to make sure we understand. A jingling sound (coins?) cuts through the air. "I've got no one tuckin' me in at night like you." (Oh, so Davey and Les have parents. I was always wondering why I never saw them at the Lodge House.) "I need to take care of myself."

That's it. "Well, guess what, Jack?" I snap. "I've got no one tucking me in at night, either! And neither do Spot or Race or Skittery or Mush or Kid Blink or any of the other newsies. So stop thinking about yourself and think about the strike! Y'know what I told Spot, the first day I met him in Brooklyn? I told him that he had to join the strike if he ever wanted to make a change for the working boys and girls in New York. I thought you wanted to make a change, too." I grab at the fabric of his blazer, and he flinches away. I hold on, though, and a small rip forms in the seams of the fabric.

"Let go of me!" Jack yells.

"Make me," I seethe, my long red ponytail brushing along my back.

"Red." Davey gently takes my arm away from Jack's sleeve. "That's enough." He turns back to Jack. "Please tell me this is some sort of joke."

"It ain't no joke, Dave," Jack says. When Davey opens his mouth, then closes it, Jack repeats, "What are you gonna do about it? Huh?"

I swing at him, throwing a punch. Weasel grabs onto me before I can hit him and holds me by the shoulders. "Maybe," he says, looking me in the eye with his ugly round face, "you'd like a new suit of your own, huh?"

"Never!" I yell.

"Get out of here!" He pushes me right into a bull. Race grabs my arm and drags me back into the crowd. Davey slowly walks back to the crowd, looking stricken.

As Jack walks off to sell papes, the bulls block us from him like they're his bodyguards so that none of us can attack him. Les, who's only nine and pretty clueless, is stuck on the idea that Jack's faking it.

"He's fakin' it!" Les insists. "He's fakin' it so he can spy on 'em or something!"

We all look at each other, not sure what to say. Finally, Spot tousles Les's hair and says, "Yeah, sure, kid. He's faking it." 

We all watch as Jack Kelly, Francis Sullivan, our leader, the traitor, walks off.

Away from us.

Away from the strike.

Away from change.

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"Getting Spot Conlon angry" should be added to the song "Dumb Ways to Die" lol

The "Jack, look at me, will ya?" line from Mush always breaks my heart. :(