Title: Secret
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Keeps my muses from starving
Summary: "I have a secret…it's not safe to have this kind of secret."
Disclaimer: Newsies is not mine. I'm sure no one is shocked.
Warnings: Some gay slurs, angst-ish
Notes: Terrible-no-good-rotten-very-bad day + work + Shimmerwings = This junk. The speaker can be whoever you want.
*************
I have a secret. It's the kind of secret that keeps me awake at nights, that makes my hands tremble in a way that I always say is tobacco-craving, that would have me drunk in the gutter every night if only I wasn't so damn afraid of what I'd say before I passed out. The kind that eats away at me until I swear I can feel my heart flaking away, like rust. That kind of secret.
You have no idea what it's like.
It's not safe to be like me.
I haven't always been so afraid. Sure, I've had it rough; my dad knocked me around some before I ran away, but that's something most guys in the Lodging House can claim. Those who had parents, that is. Even after I left it was hard. The streets is a tough place if you don't know your way around. I still got roughed up a lot. Those times it was the Delancey brothers, or the bulls, or some thug even more hard up for cash than I was. And that's sayin' a lot because most days I barely scraped together enough to pay Kloppman for a place to sleep. But I had learned real fast that sometimes it was better not to eat, if it was a choice between a meal and a bed, because you might not wake up after a night in an alley.
So I was always afraid, but I always managed and I enjoyed life as best I could. I'd sneak into a show at Irving Hall here or there, or, if I'd done especially good sellin' that day, treat myself to something besides soup at Tibby's. Life was decent.
Even after I realized I wasn't like the rest of the guys, I wasn't afraid like I am now. I wasn't dumb; I knew I couldn't tell anyone. I was lonely with my secret and it hurt like hell to keep it bottled up, but there was always hope that maybe --someday-- I could tell. I let myself believe that maybe someday I'd work up the guts to tell him. And maybe he'd feel the same. A whole lotta maybes, but enough to live on.
Yeah. My secret is that I like guys.
My secret is that I like my best friend.
Sometimes I'd get reckless, I'd get drunk. I almost let my secret spill a thousand and one times. Just thinking about how close I came all those times knots my stomach and makes me want to puke. If I prayed, I'd thank God that I kept my mouth shut. Because now I've seen what I really have to be afraid of, and it ain't some preacher's promise of fire and brimstone for daring to love another guy.
I'm lucky, I've never had anyone look up to me, never had to live up to a reputation. When you're up on a pedestal, the fall is that much harder. You also get examined a whole lot more closely. People notice the little inconsistencies in your behavior. They pry out your secrets, no matter how good you are at hiding them. And they hold you accountable for them.
It's likely Jack would have gotten away with his deception, if only there hadn't been a strike. He was a big player before, but the strike made him famous. To us street kids he became more than a vague legend connected with a carriage ride outta the Refuge and a dusty place out west. He became a savior. A god.
Gods have the farthest to fall.
Jack fell hard.
I'm not sure how they found out; Jack was a real good liar. Most of us had to be. Lyin' was our living. Jack was better, though. Better at lyin', so it was only natural he was better at sellin' papes; the two went hand in hand. But even the great Jack Kelly met his match.
One thing that I'll always remember is coming back to the Lodging House and hearing someone shout "Fucking fag!" That's when the fear started. That one phrase echoes in my brain like a shout off the Brooklyn Bridge. It wasn't aimed at me, but I stopped dead in my tracks and started shaking. How was I supposed to know that Jack--Cowboy, strike leader, tough guy--was a fag, too? That they were yellin' it at him, not me? I was ready to run, then I saw the scuffle.
The day we taught Jack Kelly a lesson. That's what it's called now. It's one of three great events celebrated with Jack's name: The day Jack escaped on Roosevelt's carriage. The day Jack won the strike against Pulitzer. The day we found out Jack was queer so we ganged up on him and taught him a little lesson about leadership and being different. Guess which one they talk about most.
I've seen plenty of fights in my life. Hell, I've been in my fair share of 'em. So this one wasn't anything special in that regard. It was when I reluctantly approached the scuffle that I saw what made it so terrible: proud Jack Kelly was on his knees and bleeding.
Do you know what it's like to see a god forced to bow?
Do you know what it's like to see a friend made to bleed?
Eight-against-one is never fair odds, but when it's your friends doing the fighting, it hurts more. Of course, Jack didn't show that at all; he was fighting back and cursing like it wasn't some of his closest friends landing punches, and spitting, and aiming carefully placed kicks. If it had been any other guy, I think they would've let it pass. Maybe would've threatened him to stay away, worst case scenario. But Jack was the leader, was supposed to live up to some kind of standard, and when he didn't . . . they taught him a lesson.
I just watched. I stared and felt my terror grow with each insult; comments about Jack mixed up with jeering comments about Jack's Walkin' Mouth. I would have wondered where Davey was, if I could've thought of anything at all beyond "Oh, god, please don't let them find out about me". I could see myself in the gasping boy they finally left, struggling to his feet and staggering away with blood in his eyes.
We never saw Jack after that. Or David. I think they both just left. Didn't matter if they were here or not; the story still got told. I wanted to crawl away every time someone piped up with "Did you hear Jack was a fag? Yeah, Dave, too. Well, we taught him good." I had finally learned what I had to be afraid of. My secret isn't one with pleasant tones of maybe-somedays anymore. It's the wide-eyed, looking over your shoulder kind now.
I have a secret.
It's not safe to have this kind of secret.