An Absolutely True Story

(I Swear!)

By Princess MacEaver,

who's written some serious fanfiction, too.

[A/N: This is sort of a silly little story that I started writing after my trip to NYC last summer. And I swear by the streamers on my princess hat, every word is true. And, well, if you find that hard to believe, that's just you…]

The Requisite Disclaimer: I don't own anyone in this story, except myself, of course, and my little brother. (He sold me his soul to get out of ever washing the dishes. Sucker.) Mostly everyone else belongs to Disney. Lucky Disney. I'll swap 'em my little brother for a newsie any day.

"He must have already left, honey," Mom said. I didn't want to agree, though it was likely. We'd been waiting for our autographs for over ten minutes, and the doorman had said that he was usually the first to leave. It was all my brother's fault, I thought angrily. He had to run off to the bathroom the second the curtain closed, and like idiots Mom and I waited around for him, wasting five whole minutes. That would have given him plenty of time to leave before we got there. I could just kill Daniel, I thought, twisting the playbill in my hands like I was ringing my brother's neck.

"Do you want to go?" Mom ventured, knowing how much I'd wanted this autograph. I sighed. He was probably gone, almost everyone was. But still, what if we left and he came out a second later? Getting his autograph was one of the major reasons I'd chosen to see The Music Man on Broadway. I didn't tell my mom that, thinking she'd think I was obsessed (which I am). I told her I wanted to get his signature for my friend Karen- and one for me, too, while we were at it, why not? I had really been looking forward to this since we'd gotten our tickets that afternoon. During lulls in the day, I'd actually gone so far as to create fantasy conversations. "Oh, so you're a Newsies fan?" When dressing for the theater that night, I'd chosen to wear my new black-and-white flowered dress to this show with his reaction in mind. I was completely bonkers, and I knew it, but I couldn't help it.

"How about we wait until the next two people come out?" Mom suggested, and I agreed. Better she didn't know how obsessed her poor dear teenage daughter was, I thought. She'd be frightened for me.

The next person emerged. We thrust our playbills at her and made conversation as she scrawled her autograph across the page. "Do you know," I asked casually, "if Max Casella has left yet?" My heartbeat actually quickened as I waited for her reply. Asking used to be my mother's job, but my desperation overcame my shyness and I did the asking now.

The actress shrugged. "I haven't seen him, but he's usually pretty quick. Sorry." She was gone. The door opened again and I sent a silent prayer heavenward that it was him. No such luck. Some ensemble performer managed to slip out without having to sign any playbills. I bit my lip and felt very disappointed.

"That was our two," Mom said. "I'll get Daniel now. Do you want to wait out here?" Part of me didn't want mom to abandon me, I was too shy, but if it gained me an extra few minutes, minutes in which he might come out? I nodded and Mom walked back inside the theater, leaving me in the thinning group outside the stage door. I knew I was being silly, if so many people thought he was already gone, well he was probably already gone. But I still hoped…

The door opened again. Darn, not him. The female lead, though, not quite as good but better than nothing. She produced her own pen and signed across her picture. I asked my usual question and she shrugged. "Did you ask the doorman?" Yes. She moved on to have her picture taken with some tourists. Mom had said she would take a picture of me with Max Casella (I couldn't think of him as just Max, too informal) but I insisted that that would not be necessary. Too embarrassing. It would have been a great picture, though… And wouldn't Karen be so jealous?

Behind the actress, I saw the door swing open and someone hurried out in the opposite direction, a guy in a blue jacket, wearing a white baseball cap and sunglasses, though it was eleven o'clock at night. Could it be who I hoped it was? The doorman had said something about a baseball cap… Without thinking, I slipped behind the line of people and hurried after him, clutching my pen and playbill.

He weaved his way through the people on the sidewalk and headed toward the corner, raising his hand to call a cab. I couldn't let him get away, not when he was so close! I started jogging after him, my purse bouncing against my thigh and my black strappy sandals threatening to let me topple, (like I had fallen down the subway stairs earlier, causing a run in my hose). What was I going to do now? Call his name? I continued chasing after him, too shy to try shouting after him. Oh God, now he was going to think I was a stalker.

He turned the corner and I was afraid I would lose him, so I put on an extra burst of speed and followed, right on his heels. I slammed into somebody's back and went flying, dropping my playbill and knocking my victim off balance.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" I said immediately, grabbing his elbow to keep him upright. I was so mortified. And when he turned to look at me- "Oh sh—oh! Mr.Cas—Max—oh jeeze!" I started babbling apologies, still clinging to his elbow and staring at him. He stared back at me as if I was a lunatic. "I didn't mean to, Mr. Casella," I must have said a million times.

"Whoa, dere," he said, gently releasing his elbow from my hand's life-or-death grip and bending to pick up the hat that I had so gracefully knocked off his head. Well, I told myself, at least he's talking in his Newsies accent—that much is true to your fantasies. Then I realized something. If he was picking up his hat, where were the sunglasses? And the sleeve I had been holding was white, not blue. Why was he wearing a vest and a button-up shirt? He dusted off his hat casually and tugged it on his head, and my heart froze. That was not a baseball cap. That. Was. A. Newsies. Cap. And I knew he hadn't been wearing one before.

"Whassa matta wit you, look like you seen a ghost," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder and holding me at arm's length.

"You're… You're not Max Casella," I stammered.

"Well, I coulda told you dat. Nevah hoid of 'im. Friend a yours?"

"No. You don't understand… You were Max, just now, I swear… and now you're Racetrack."

He pulled his hand back and frowned suspiciously. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, but how do you know my name?"

"Oh my God. I'm right. Oh my God." I was shaking like a leaf. This was unbelievable. I glanced around me, and the street was almost empty. Almost empty! It had been crowded a moment before! And the road- cobblestone! The traffic lights, the billboards, the cars- all nonexistent! When I fell, had I hit my head or something? Was I going insane? Apparently Racetrack- Racetrack! I was talking to Racetrack! had the same thought, for he looked concerned, though he was still keeping his distance.

"Are you alright? How do ya know me? An' what happened to your clothes?"

"My clothes?" I glanced down at my dress and realized what he meant. Not only were my legs showing, covered only in skin-tone tights below my knee-length skirt, but that neckline was a little risqué. I stared at my chest and blushed, thinking he must think I was a hooker or something. I looked up and he was staring at my chest as well. I snapped my fingers and his head shot up. "Hello, buddy, I'm up here," I told him sharply, offended but, hey, I'll admit it, also a little flattered. I wouldn't say my chest is anything remarkable, but in 1899—or whatever year this was—the fact that so much of it was showing would be enough to make anyone stare. I pulled my white cardigan tighter and buttoned a few of the top buttons self-consciously.

"When is this?" I asked him.

"Whattya mean? What time?" He reached into his pocket for his watch but I stopped him, putting my hand on his arm.

"No, I mean… What's today? The date? And the year?"

He gave me a really long look and told me it was July tenth, 1899. The date meant nothing to me, but the year made me laugh out loud and clap my hand over my mouth. "Oh my God! 1899? Are you for real? This is so amazing!" In my mind, Racetrack's voice started the familiar monologue: "In 1899, the streets of New York City echoed with da voices of newsies…"

That was it for Racetrack. He took my elbow protectively (sigh, how romantic!) "Heah, lady, I'm gonna take you to da hospital or the lodgin' house or somethin'."

I whirled around and grinned at him. "The lodging house! Take me there! I want to see everybody! Jack, Mush, Blink, Boots, Bumlets, Dutchy, Specs, Snoddy…everybody!"

He froze. "How do you know deir names?" he asked me with disbelief.

"I know everything! I know all about the strike and all of that!" I told him excitedly.

"What strike?" he asked, dropping my arm and staring at me again.

"The… The newsboy strike! Against the newspapers! With Brooklyn and everybody! You mean—there hasn't been a strike yet?" His blank stare answered my question and I laughed out loud again.

"This is… Ohmigod!"

"That's it, I'm takin' you to da hospital," he said determinedly, taking my elbow again.

"No! Not the hospital! I have to see the lodging house, I have to!"

"You need help," he told me firmly.

"No! I'm not sick, I'm not crazy," I insisted, but then I doubted my own words. I was seeing someone who had been alive 101 years ago. No, I was seeing a Disney character! Rethinking what I had said, I quickly added, "At least, I don't think." At least I'm an honest crazy person.

"Den what are you?" he demanded, stopping to face me. "If you ain't crazy and you ain't sick, how come you ran into me in dose weird clothes an' knew my name an' my friends' names and everyt'ing?" I gaped at him, seeing real fear in his eyes. God, I couldn't blame him. If the same thing had happened to me… Would he understand the truth?

"I'm… I'm from the future," I told him meekly. He stared. "I am. Really."

"Dis is nuts," he said, taking my elbow and walking again. I pulled away.

"No! Let me prove it! I bet you five dollars I can tell you something about yourself that you didn't think I knew," I blurted without thinking, appealing to his gambling nature.

He stared at me skeptically. "You t'ink I'm made a money? Five dollars? Nobody I know's got five dollars to waste on a bet."

"I do," I said quickly, unzipping my purse and pulling out my wallet. I passed him a five-dollar bill and his jaw dropped. He turned it over a few times like he couldn't believe he was seeing it. I had forgotten how much five dollars was to a newsie, but that wasn't his cause for amazement.

"Dis is what money'll look like?"

I nodded, watching him to see if he believed me yet.

"An' who's dis?" he asked, pointing to the face on the bill.

"Abraham Lincoln. You know, the president?" I was pretty sure I knew my history well enough to know that Abraham Lincoln had been alive before 1899. Racetrack shrugged and passed the bill back to me. I put it back in my wallet and stuck that into my purse.

"So do you take the bet?" I asked, wanting to prove myself. He had to believe me. This was my chance to meet all the newsies!

He shook his head. "I ain't got five dollars to bet."

"Fifty cents then. Four bits."

He seemed reluctant to bet even this amount of money. I guess he wasn't sure how much I knew, seeing as I'd surprised him enough by knowing his name.

"A dime," he finally said. "Now tell me what you know about me."

I took a deep breath. I hadn't really thought about that. Jack, Jack would have been easy. It wasn't like Racetrack was the main character, though… "You… You love to go to the racetrack," I said lamely.

"Yeah, an' who don't know dat? You lose," he said, extending his hand expectantly.

"No, wait!" I protested, thinking fast. Damn, if only I had actually owned a copy of the movie this would be simple. Where was Karen when I needed her? "Okay. You love to go to Sheepshead Races." He gave me a look like, 'keep tryin', toots'. "And… and what you want more than anything is to have your own box there," I said. His look now said 'you can do betta'. But I wasn't sure I could. This was going downhill fast. "Uh… You, you smoke cigars. And you sell newspapers, you sell The World. Your favorite place to hang out is Tibby's. You play the harmonica. You're a fan of Medda Larkson's." I looked at him desperately.

"All right, a'ready. So you know a lot about me," he finally admitted, grudgingly digging in his pocket for a dime and passing it to me.

"So do you believe me?" I asked him, holding the dime.

"Knowin' a lot about me ain't the same as bein' from the futcha," he said, shaking his head.

"I am!"

I could tell I still hadn't convinced him, but he said "C'mon, I'll take you to da lodgin' house."

I grinned and threw my arms around his neck. "Thanks!"

He smiled and gently pushed me away, looking like he was going to reprimand me for my spontaneous public display of affection, but he stopped and his expression softened. "Don' mention it."

I followed him like a puppy all the way to the lodging house, feeling giddy. So this probably was a dream, a really strange one at that—hadn't thought I was that obsessed with this movie, obsessed enough to dream about it. But who cared whether this was real or not? It was fun while it lasted. I didn't bother pinching myself to see if I woke up or any hokey trick like that; everything else had felt real so far.

"I've got like a million questions to ask everybody," I told him eagerly.

"Questions? Sounds to me like you know plenty."

"No! There are so many things I wanna know. God, actually getting the chance to meet y'all, ask you questions, this is like the Newsies fan dream come true." He looked at me like I might as well be speaking Greek for all the sense I was making, and I giggled. "This is really really weird too," I added.

"It's weird for you? You're da one from da futcha, ain't ya?"

"But it's like… Wow… I'm in the past!" I said, unable to express myself. I stared up around me at the buildings, memorizing what they looked like. I was living in history! All day in the city that morning I had been looking at the old buildings, imagining what they would have been like in the time of the newsies. Now, I didn't have to imagine!

"Hello, futcha goyl," I heard Racetrack call, and I turned, realizing that in my staring I had fallen way behind. I hurried to catch up to him, apologizing.

"What's your name, anyway? Assumin' ya got one."

"Oh. I'm Margaret, sorry," I said.

"Really? I know some goyls named Margaret." He was looking at me skeptically again.

I shrugged. "It's sort of an old-fashioned name, I know. I mean, like, old-fashioned for my time anyway."

"Well nice to meetcha. Even if you are some nut and not from da futcha," he added, extending his hand. I giggled and spat in mine before offering it to him.

He grinned and spat in his own palm before we shook. This was great. I was spit-shaking with Racetrack! It should have been gross—okay, it was—but still, I was spit-shaking with Racetrack!

"It ain't fah to da lodgin' house from heah," he said, starting to walk again. I fell in step beside him and continued staring at whatever we passed. When I lagged too far behind to gape at a horse-drawn carriage, he took my elbow again and pulled me toward him. I smiled in the darkness and let him hold my arm all the way there. This is just too cool, I thought happily.

"Heah it is, home sweet home," he said, pushing open the door. I was still staring at the sign- "Newsboys Lodging House". "You comin' in or gonna stay out dere t'night, Margaret?" I liked hearing him say my name. It seemed just right in 1899.

"I'm coming in," I said slowly, letting him pull me through the doorway while I still stared at the sign. But inside was even more interesting. The lobby (should it be called a lobby?) was just like in the movie, with the staircase and the desk and everything. Racetrack started heading up the stairs but I dawdled, staying behind to look at the registry book. Kloppman reached up and took it from me.

"Can I help you?" he asked, just the way he asked Snyder in that one scene! I laughed out loud!

"She's wit me," Racetrack said, appearing behind me and putting a hand on my shoulder. I could feel him trying to pull me back with him but I just grinned at Kloppman like an idiot. This had to prove it, prove I was in 1899, (or at least, Disney's version of 1899. That was something to think about later) that here was another Newsies character live and in person. Live? Wait; don't think about that either, I'd get a headache.

Kloppman shook his head and pointed to the clock over his head. "It's too late," he told Racetrack gruffly. "No girls over after eleven."

Race and I exchanged a look. I tried to do my puppy-dog eyes and he turned back to Kloppman.

"But she's my cousin."

Kloppman shook his head. "Not a chance. She looks even less like you dan your last 'cousin'," he said with a chuckle. I frowned. I would have thought Racetrack would be a better liar. Who would believe a blond-haired, blue-eyed Italian? The only thing we had in common was our height.

Racetrack pulled me away from the desk and we held a whispered conference.

"Sorry," he said. "Kloppman's apparently not in a great mood t'day. Maybe tomorra, alright?"

"Tomorrow? I don't even know if I'll still be here tomorrow," I hissed, and Racetrack held a finger to my lips to shush me. I continued, more quietly. "Look, I dunno how I got here, I dunno when or how or if I'm going back, but goddammit I'm going to meet all the newsies before I do!"

Looking a little shocked at my language, Race shrugged. "Alright. Alright. I'm gonna hafta sneak you in, den. Go around da back, I'll see you by da fiah escape."

"Fine," I said, and Racetrack stepped away.

"G'night, den," he said, loud enough for Kloppman (who was watching us intently) to hear.

"G'night, cuz," I said, smiling.

Racetrack went up the stairway and I left the building and circled around the back. I waited below the fire escape, noticing how the ladders stopped several feet off the ground. We didn't have fire escapes back home in South Carolina, and this was new to me. Shortly, Racetrack appeared on the stairs a flight above, and bent over the rail to see me. I waved, and he disappeared, reappearing a moment later on the landing closest to me.

"Grab dis," he said, tossing a rope down to me. A rope? Was it Jack's rope? I wondered, wrapping it around my hand.

I heard a second voice above me and noticed that there was another boy with Race. I squinted and tried to guess. Was it Blink, or Jack maybe?

"Goin' up," Race's voice said, and the two boys began pulling on the rope. I leaned back and once they got me off the ground, used the side of the wall to walk up until I was level with the bottom rung of the ladder. They swung me over and I was safely on the ladder, my hand was throbbing from rope-burn. I climbed up the ladder and joined them on the landing.

"Hey, Margaret, meet my friend," Racetrack said.

"Kid Blink!" I said, enthusiastically shaking his hand. "You're even cuter in person," I blurted, and immediately blushed. He didn't say anything, just gaped at me, and then Racetrack.

"I told ya she'd know who you were," Race said with a shrug. Blink frowned and passed over a quarter.

"Last time I make a bet wit you," he said sullenly.

Race smirked. "Dat's what you say every time."

"When can I meet everyone else?" I interrupted, sounding like a little kid but who cares?

"Right now, if you want," Race said, starting up the stairs. I followed, and Blink came behind me. We got to a window, and Racetrack pushed it open. "Aftah you," he said (so gentlemanly! Wow, girls had it great back then!). So I slid through the window and landed in the bunk room of the lodging house! It was incredible. Just like in the movie too, bunks all over the place, cute boys sprawled across them, too. They all turned to stare at me when they heard me land, and behind me Racetrack and Blink entered, too.

"Who's dis?" I turned toward the voice to see Jack get up off a bunk, dressed just like in the movie, with his bandana and everything. Racetrack passed him back the rope (ha! So I'd been right, it was Jack's rope!) and said, "Dis is me new friend from da futcha, Margaret."

The guys all laughed, Jack included. "Yeah? From da futcha ya say, Race?" He grinned over his shoulder at all the boys who were gathering around.

"Yeah she's from da futcha. Why don'tcha tell 'em all deir names, Margaret." Racetrack was confident they would believe me, and the look on his face told me so. I took a deep breath and stepped up, pointing to them one by one as I went down the row.

"Bumlets, Specs, Mush, Snoddy—you're Snoddy, right?" He nodded, looking bewildered, and I felt very relieved. "Jake, Boots, Snipeshooter, Dutchy, Itey, uhh…" I faltered, stuck on the one newsie I always forget. Pie Eater? Luckily, Racetrack saved me from looking like an idiot.

"I'd say she knows us," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. Everyone was staring at me, their jaws dropping in surprise.

"What is dis, Race, some kinda trick?" Boots finally asked.

"No trick," I said, spreading my hands innocently. "I'm just… I'm from the year 2000." I decided not to elaborate that they were the subjects of one of my favorite movies. I'd have to explain about movies then, wouldn't I? Not to mention that Race had said they hadn't gone on strike yet.

Some of the newsies gave each other skeptical looks and snorted, but a few only looked more amazed. They gathered closer, firing off questions.

"What's it like in da futcha?"

"Whattya got in dat purse dere?"

"How come you're dressed so weird?"

I was feeling a little overwhelmed until Race pulled me out of the cluster. "We gotta get you dressed decent now, don't we?"

Several of the guys objected quickly.

"What's da matta wit how she's dressed?" Mush asked innocently.

"Nice try," Jack said, shaking his head. "Race is right, we gotta get 'er some clothes. Race, she about your size?"

We were close the same height, (he's so short! It's adorable!) so Racetrack dug up some clothes and handed them over to me, pointing the way to the bathrooms. I was pleased; I'd always thought Racetrack had great fashion sense. But I gave the clothes a surreptitious sniff as I walked over. Good, they smelled like they were fresh out of the washing machine. Definitely I was in the Disney version of 1899.

I got dressed (with a little difficulty) in my new clothes, and tugged at my vest, wishing there was a mirror handy to admire myself in. Suspenders, a vest, those billowy sleeves—now all I needed was to bum a cap off of somebody and I really had the look. I did a little dance in the privacy of the stall and then, my old clothes and purse in hand, exited back into the bunkroom.

Jack, Racetrack, and a few of the other older boys were standing in a small group, talking quietly. Racetrack noticed me and said something to the others, and their conversation quickly ended.

"Were you talking about me?" I demanded, walking closer.

Mush and Blink tried to give me, "Who, me?" looks, but Jack told me straight up. "Yeah, we was. We'se tryin' to figure out what to do with ya."

I gave him a look. "Well I can figure out what to do with myself, thanks."

"No offense," Race started, "but you're either completely insane or you've nevah been in dis century b'fore. I think you should drop da 'Miss Capability' act and let some people who know what's goin' on handle da situation."

I was embarrassed, but he was right. "Fine," I grumbled. "Where do I go tonight?"

"You got money, right?" Jack asked.

"Some," I replied. Wait, my idea of 'some'—$50—was more than a newsie could make in a month. In three months. "Well, a lot, really," I amended.

"So you could pay for a hotel, right?"

"Sure," I had to admit. Dang, and I really wanted to stay there.

"So tonight," Race said, "we'll put you up heah. Tomorrow you get your own place, a'right?"

"Great!" I said, pleased. "Now where can I put my stuff?"

My dress, sandals, and stockings—and those got some weird looks from the guys—got folded and stuck on some shelf. Somebody, I think it was Snitch but that's another one of those guys whose names I screw up, gallantly offered their bunk for my use, so I sat down on it and dump my purse out on the mattress to take stock of what I had with me. A pen, a tube of lipstick, two receipts, a brush (thank God!), a hair holder, some small change, my wallet with the $50 and my phone card and library card. Okay, so some of it would be of use in 1899, some of it was completely useless. I swept it all back into the purse, after pocketing a five-dollar bill, and tossed the purse under my bed. I was on the bottom bunk.

Racetrack came over to check on me as I was brushing my hair up into a ponytail. "Dis'll be okay for ya?" he asked.

"Dis—I mean, this is great," I said, and giggled at my mistake.

"Alright den. You gonna get up at da crack of dawn wit us, or should we let you sleep?"

"Wake me up!" I said, delighted. And believe me, I'd never been so eager to wake up early in my life. "I want to see what selling papers is like! I want to hawk the headlines! I want to go to Tibby's and order fifteen-cent sauerkraut! I want to ride in a carriage! I'll help you sell your papers!" I stopped myself, realizing I must sound really messed up.

But Racetrack just cracked a grin at me. "Weirdo," he said, shaking his head, before heading away to his bunk at the other side of the room. I smiled and wrapped my arms around myself. I was almost afraid to fall asleep, fearing that I would wake up again in the hotel bed in New York City, 2000, and it would all have been a dream. But, as excited as I was, it didn't take long for me to drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning I woke to the sound of singing. I yawned, buried my face in the pillow, and automatically reached beside me to hit the 'off' button on my CD player alarm clock. But my hand fumbled around on the table beside me without feeling the smooth plastic button of the CD player. And the singing continued.

"It's a fine life, carryin' the banner tough and—ow!"

My eyes flew open and I sat up fast. Crouching beside my bed, Boots rubbed his eye and smacked my hand away. "What'd you hit me for?" he demanded over the continuing music.

"Sorry," I said automatically. I blinked a few more times. "Oh my god, what's going on?"

"We'se all gettin' up," he told me, sounding like I should have been able to figure this out, seeing as all the newsies were dressing and shaving and getting ready. "An' you should be, too, if you wanna sell papes wit us."

Only then did everything else sink in. I was still back in the past! All right! I clambered out of bed and found that I was still wearing Racetrack's clothes from the day before. Oh well, they were wrinkled, but clean enough. I worked a brush through my tangled hair, redid my ponytail, and hurried down the stairs just on the heels of the last newsie. As Kloppman counted me passing by, he looking confused for a brief moment, but I was out the door before he could react. But I was too far behind the rest of the newsies, I could only see them ahead, leaping over barrels and dancing as they went. Curse Boots for letting me sleep until the last minute! I'd make it in time to sell the papers, but I had had no time to drool over the half-dressed boys, and now I was missing all the dancing.

I only caught up with everyone in time to elbow my way into the crowd surrounding Jack's fight with the Delanceys. It was the weirdest feeling of déjà vu, let me tell you, to see the exact same fight moves that I'd watched so many times before, only now I was watching it from right in the middle of the crowd. And the strangest thing was how the music ran in the background the whole time, and nobody thought anything of it. From listening to the soundtrack so often, I knew every word and jumped in at the right times.

I didn't find Race again until after the music was over and he had bought his papers. He came up to me, handing half the stack over, as Jack went to talk to some guy in a blue shirt. "Hey," I said, peering over Racetrack's shoulder, "that's Davey and Les, isn't it?"

"What, you know 'em?" Race asked.

"Don't you?" I replied, confused.

"He must be new around 'ere," Race said with a shrug. How weird! Did that mean this was the first day we met David—which meant the day before the strike? I glanced down at my papers. There was that headline: "Trolley Strike Drags on for Third Week". Just reading it, I heard Pulitzer in my head, saying, "and this so-called headline drags on for eternity." I skimmed the other pages. Sure enough, there was the two-headed baby story, and, on page nine, 'trash fire next to immigration building terrifies seagulls.' So it must be that same day, I realized with excitement.

"You comin', Margaret?" Race asked, a few feet ahead. "You said you was gonna help me sell my papes."

"Oh, yeah," I said, folding up my paper and jamming it under my arm before hurrying to catch up with him.

The rest of the day, I got to sell papers with one of my favorite newsies. The whole time I was thinking, I feel like a walking, talking, Mary Sue, but it was real and it was happening. I felt the crowd jostling me, I smelled fish and factories in the air, I got splattered with mud when a carriage drove through a puddle. I knew enough to realize there weren't supposed to be any puddles until that night, but in the Disney Newsies universe, if it can be dusty dry after a rainstorm, why not wet before?

I didn't make the best newsie—Race was always having to jerk my sleeve and get my attention when I stopped and stared and something new. But I could improve the truth with the best of them, and after I wheedled him into giving me his cap to cover my hair, nobody even gave me a second look for being a girl. And I got to eat lunch at Tibby's! The food sucked, but it was so cheap I bought everyone free drinks all around, which was much appreciated.

Since it was two of us selling, we finished up early, and Race took me to the tracks. I was so caught up in the excitement that only when the race was over and Racetrack was groaning about his loss did I remember that I should have told him that his hot tip wasn't really all that hot. To make it up to him, I treated him to dinner, and then he showed me to a hotel. That's when we got stuck in the rain so we borrowed somebody's deck of cards and played poker awhile. I've never been any good at that game, so after he'd relieved me of almost a dollar in losses, I taught him Egyptian Ratscrew and Mau and we even got the landlord's children to join us in playing B.S. After the rain cleared up and we realized it was dark already, Racetrack said he'd better head home.

"You gonna sell wit me tomorra, too?" he asked before he left.

A grin crept across my face as I realized I knew something he didn't know. "Sure," I replied. "I'll meet you in the square in the morning."

The newsies strike! And I was going to be there to see the whole thing.

More to come! Now review what I've got so I won't give up on this thing. ::smiles sweetly::