#hannah newsies

[faefox9s-incorrect-quotes]

[racetrackmybeloved]

background livesies moment that i somehow missed the first 10 times i watched it: meredith being an absolute sweetheart

[saveugoodmadam]

my roman empire is bobbie chambers saying hannah is kathy's mum. I think about it daily What The Fuck.

but what if hannah's surname is plumber and that's why katherine uses it as her byline- to reject the emotionally unavailable father who disowned her and honour the mother who was prevented from ever loving her like a parent should have the opportunity to

[jackmkelly]

gfs & their annoying ass son😭😭🫶🫶

[more-sonorous]

gmybw 2- feelings, feelings, feelings

continuation of the little oneshot i wrote last night bc we've built a whole universe around it and i MUST do that universe justice by bringing it onto the page (screen)

if i write enough of this universe i WILL transfer it to the archive

.....

Medda Larkin firmly believed that the difficult, frustrating intricacies of the foster system needed to be spoken about more often.

She had to endure the longest three months of her life as she and Hannah waited on permission to become foster parents, and they were sorely unprepared. Becoming foster certified wasn't the issue-- sure, there were countless classes and home safety checks, too many interviews and loopholes to count-- but that was easy, run of the mill stuff. All of the difficulties came from the actual process of transferring Jack from one miserable foster family to her own (hopefully better) house. The system refused to budge, and through it all, Medda watched Jack Kelly fall apart bit by bit. She felt sort of like she was falling apart, too. Every new bruise and scrape he wore created another fracture in her heart, and she wanted nothing more than to save this kid. 

Of course, Medda did what she could and provided Jack with a place to escape to. He was always welcome in her theater or her townhouse and he knew as much, but it was a rare occurrence for him to actually turn up on her doorstep. Still, there’d been three or four nights when Jack Kelly spontaneously graced her humble home, and she and Hannah acted accordingly. Medda also found herself picking up meals for Jack during her lunch breaks and offering them to him during rehearsals, where he’d developed a habit of sitting in the house next to her and doodling on an old sketchpad she’d given to him. Medda adored the kid. He was real rough around the edges but he loved hard, passionate and talented and brimming with emotion and potential. Jack Kelly was a sweet kid, if not a little misguided, and he’d wormed his way into her heart with his easy smiles and his hidden depths. 

Summer was ending and that meant Jack would be starting high school, still trapped under the oppressive fist of a foster parent Medda knew frustratingly little about. She’d done her research on Mr. Alexander Snyder and found little to nothing incriminating about the man– just the fact that he worked as the lead campaign manager for the state’s current governor. That little tidbit of information had led Medda to wonder just how many CPS calls directed towards this man had conveniently slipped under the radar, and a protective fury lit like a bonfire within her.

Every second of every day when Jack wasn’t under her care made her more and more anxious, dreading the newest bruise on his young face or badly concealed limp in his step. Time couldn't have passed more slowly.

Then mid-August hit, and suddenly the Larkins were state-certified foster parents. Medda Larkin looked at Jack Kelly and said, ‘I have got to see that child safe and happy’. Once her intentions were made clear, a mess that would haunt her for the rest of her life kicked into action. Snyder didn’t want to give Jack up. He was furious. Started spewing lies to the case worker about how close they’d become and how good Jack was doing under his care. Medda was fighting tooth and nail for Jack, who didn’t seem very excited about the whole situation, and mid-August showed Medda a new, furious side of Jack Kelly.

He cooperated with her, with his caseworker too, but he was sharp and snappy and moody. Brimming with a rage she just couldn’t understand– a rage that was sometimes directed towards her.

Jack still visited the theater with Racer, oftentimes covered in new bruises and cuts and swamped in one of the three hoodies he owned, but he was a glowering, brooding mess of a boy that was prone to snapping. The glimpse of the funny, sweet kid she’d seen before was stamped out by a miserable, obviously terrified child, and Medda didn’t know what to do. She could only hope that getting him away from Alex Snyder would fix things. 

Still, within all of the bad moments, there were glimmering bits of goodness.

During the month before Medda began her custody attempts, Jack grew more at ease within the theater during every passing day. Everyone seemed to take a liking to him. He could be bright and charismatic when he wanted to be, and Medda watched countless others find themselves tugged into his orbit. One of those was one Spot Conlon, Medda’s lead set designer.

Sinead (nicknamed Spot because of the countless freckles covering every inch of her skin) had been working with Medda since she was a child, moving set pieces and operating power drills better than any of the boys her age— and she did all of that with a stoic, all-business expression. Medda watched the girl grow up and perfect her craft, and was proud to see Spot gearing up to start freshman year of community college as a welder. She was strong, independent, and smart as hell, and Medda loved her like one of her own. Spot was, coincidentally, the mastermind behind their Sound of Music set, and she took an instant liking to Jack. They had a rough and tumble sarcastic sort of relationship, but Spot was good for Jack. She was down to earth, grounded, and no-nonsense. He needed someone that would shut down his stubbornness as bluntly as Spot could.

Spot did exactly that on a muggy August day, when Jack was refusing to speak to Medda. He looked an awful mess, hood tugged down over his brow and arms crossed over his chest. A nasty cut sliced open the bridge of his nose, and he’d refused to let Medda bandage it in a fit of stubborn false independence. Medda had to drop the argument, fearing that she was being too pushy towards the kid because of her slow-growing frustration. He was obviously struggling and he was thinner than ever, nothing but a twig of a fourteen year old boy who might not’ve been getting fed at all at home. 

Jack was sitting silently in one of the plush audience seats, an empty chair between him and Medda. Spot strolled up to them, arms crossed, and stopped in her tracks in front of Jack. She raised one eyebrow, radiating a strange mix of confidence and judgement. “Jack Kelly, you look like a mess.”

“Shut the fuck up, Spot.” He muttered, tucking his nose further into the fabric of his hoodie.

Spot only smiled one of those scary smiles of hers (she rarely ever smiled, and she only had two smiles– a close-lipped, terrifying one, and an even rarer full-teeth, bright and happy, genuine one) and propped her foot up on the arm of Jack’s chair. He glanced at her paint-splotched work boot and Medda barely resisted the urge to laugh at his expression of textbook teenage petulance. “Let me do your hair.”

“What?” 

“I wanna redo your cornrows.” Spot said simply, reaching out and tugging his hood off. He growled in frustration and tried to bat her hand away, but she was four years his elder and much stronger, so she rubbed her palm over his hair with ease. He was due for a rebraid, little frizzy curls escaping from the already messily done hairdo. Medda could tell he’d braided it himself— his cornrows were uneven and they were different sizes, inexpert and rushed.  “C’mon, Kelly, we gotta get you fixed up.”

“You really think my foster dad is payin’ for a barber?” He sneered, trying to sound rude and accusatory but coming across as hurt instead.

Spot only raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “What, and you think I can afford a hairdresser? I’m poor as shit, Jack. I do my own damn hair. You ain’t seen me lookin’ a mess one time, either. I’m offerin’ to do yours for free, so why don’t you just man the fuck up and let me?”

“You’re the worst, Conlon.” Jack muttered, though he seemed more annoyed at her insistence than offended. That wasn’t a no.

A toothy grin took over Spot’s freckled face and she patted Jack’s cheek, whipping around to face Medda with the same smile turning her eyes into crescent moons. “Medda, can we go to yours?”

“Absolutely. What d’you kids want for dinner?”

Spot looked at Jack, eyebrows raised up to her impeccably styled edges, and he almost sheepishly met Medda’s eyes. “I guess if you don’t mind making lasagna…”

“I don’t mind at all, honey.” She rose to her feet and carefully brushed her hands off on her trousers, gently patting Jack’s bony shoulder. Medda didn’t miss how he leaned into the contact for a split second despite his still-stormy expression. “Can you handle some garlic bread too, or am I pushing it?”

Jack smiled a lopsided little smile, dimpling his right cheek as he rolled his eyes almost fondly. That was what Medda wanted to see. Comfort. Ease. A version of Jack Kelly that felt like he could smile. If things went how she wanted them to go, Medda hoped to see this smiling kid without all of the cuts and bruises. 

Four hours later, Medda was pulling a steaming pan of lasagna out of the oven while Hannah tossed a salad in the ridiculously pretentious salad bowl they’d received as a wedding gift. The kitchen smelled lovely and Medda was honestly glad to have a reprieve from the constant anxiety she’d been feeling all summer. Jack was in the upstairs bathroom, safe and happy with Spot. Their conversation was an unintelligible murmur from downstairs, but the point was that he was safe in the house with Medda and away from that sickeningly evil man.

Hannah’s snort of laughter pulled her from her daze, and Medda turned to her wife with curiosity written all over her face. “What?”

“I just can’t believe Mr. Pulitzer gave us this. It wasn’t even on the registry.” She snorted, holding up the salad bowl to examine the less-than-tasteful designs on the porcelain. This conversation came up every single damn time they used the bowl, and it never made them laugh any less. Medda could feel herself snickering already at the memory of how shocked they’d been when they unboxed the gift, two twenty-eight year old newlyweds with eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls at the sight of the strangest salad bowl they'd ever seen. “He’s one of the richest goddamn men in this city and he got us this salad bowl I’d find in my Minnesotan grandma’s house!” 

Soon they were devolving into laughter, and Medda had to move away from the burning hot lasagna in order to keep her skin safe. “Oh, God, I can still remember the look on your face when you saw it!”

“He couldn’t have gotten us a coffee-maker? Or even a nice set of china?”

“Hey, baby, at least it has matching salad servers!” Medda just barely managed to crow through her own laughter, which made Hannah burst into a round of cackling as she held up the aforementioned matching forks. 

As Hannah held on to the sauce-covered salad servers, laughing so hard that tears were beading in her pale-blue eyes, Medda grabbed onto the counter for stability and experienced a brief flash of adoration so extreme that she felt breathless for a moment. There was no one in the world she’d rather raise Jack with. Hannah was her person. Her rock in an incredibly turbulent sea. Medda had no idea what she’d do without this incredible spitfire of a woman, wo'd been by her side for months, researching loopholes to try and get their boy home faster.

Her wife’s laughter died and their eyes met for a second. Hannah’s expression softened for just a moment before her brazen personality returned full-force with a grin. “You getting sappy on me?”

“No, no.” Medda chuckled despite herself, because she most certainly was. “Just admiring the view…”

“Well, admire it another time. Why don’t you go tell those kiddos it’s time to eat before I devour this whole damn pan by myself?” Hannah pecked Medda’s cheek in a soft, appreciative kiss as she brought the salad to the dinner table. It was one of those kisses that conveyed just how much she loved Medda and all her sappiness, and Medda Larkin was reminded of just how excited she was to spend the rest of her life with this woman.

Still, Hannah was onto something. Medda was hungry. She made her way up the stairs and gently rapped her knuckles against the wood of the bathroom door before cracking it open and smiling at the sight of the two teenagers. The room smelled sweetly of hair-care products. Jack, sitting cross-legged in front of the toilet, looked very much at ease. Spot was perched on the toilet itself with a comb balanced between her lips, a look of concentration furrowing her brows. Medda noted, with fond amusement, that she was making the same face she always made when she worked on a particularly challenging set piece. Her fingers moved nimbly, twisting Jack’s dark hair with expert precision.

Jack smiled at Medda, and her heart swelled with fondness at the sight of him, hair nice and clean and nose bandaged. “Food smells good, Mrs. Medda.”

“I sure hope it’ll taste good, too.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door, all of the love in her chest making it hard to do anything but look at her kiddos. “You two getting along in here?”

“Yes ma’am.” He responded carefully, not even wincing when Spot tugged the little curls at the nape of his neck into the braid she was finishing up. She’d almost finished his entire head, and Jack’s scalp was decorated with precise, even cornrows that had been braided into a nice design. Medda knew there was nothing like the happiness one felt after getting their hair redone, and she was sure it felt ten times better for a kid like Jack who hadn’t had the luxury in years, maybe.

She felt an uncomfortable clench of anger as she thought about the bastard who was supposed to be ‘caring’ for Jack, who hadn’t even attempted to send the poor boy to a barber in two damn years. Jack probably had to do his own hair, which was surely a difficult and time-consuming task for a kid who might not've been taught how. Medda tried to push those thoughts to the wayside; she was just happy to see him smiling on her bathroom floor.

Spot chuckled, swiveling the comb in her mouth to rest between her teeth. “Good thing Jack ain’t tender-headed.”

“If I was you’d prob’ly be pulling harder.” Jack joked easily, cheeks dimpled. 

“Yeah, you're prob'ly right.”

They shared a giggle– or rather, Jack giggled and Spot exhaled harshly in amusement, because that was about as close as she got to giggling. Medda watched her fingers twist and dart about, finishing the last cornrow up at the nape of Jack’s neck. She’d done an impeccable job. It was the neatest Medda had seen Jack in the three months she’d known him. Maybe even the happiest, too. 

“Alright, shithead, I’m done.” Despite Spot’s words, the older girl’s tone was brimming with affection as she gently slapped the back of Jack’s head and stood from her wide-legged perch. Spot brushed her palms off on the thighs of her classic work overalls as Jack clambered to his feet, making his way over to the mirror.

There was something about the way his face changed that tugged at Medda’s heartstrings. The tiniest smile seemed to blossom on his lips as those dark eyes flicked across his own expression, and he looked happy. Medda could tell Spot was having some big feelings too with the way she was looking at Jack, uncharacteristically soft, comb clenched in loose fingers.

The moment was sweet as honey, and Medda let it linger until Jack finally broke the illusion by carefully, almost reverently running his hand over his hair. He grinned, toothy and dimpled and ridiculously bright. “I like it, Spot.”

“Good, ‘cause my fingers are killing me.” She teased, unable to take a compliment, and lightly shoved his shoulder on her way to wash her hands. Jack continued to grin at his own reflection as Spot rinsed product off of her fingers, rolling her eyes at the loveable bastard squeezed into the space next to her. “Don’t get a big ego, casanova.”

“I’m not.” He shoved back, obviously unable to stop his smiling. “You’re the one with a big ego.”

“Yeah? Well I got every right to it.” Spot smirked at her own reflection and flexed both arms in the mirror, her rolled up sleeves highlighting the impressive muscles in her forearms. Jack gave a massive eye roll and ducked under one of her arms, headed straight towards Medda instead.

“How’d you put up with her for twelve whole years?” He asked, running a hand over his hair once more as if he couldn’t quite believe how neat and clean it felt. 

Spot fell into step right behind him. “‘Cause Medda Larkin is an angel. She puts up with your sorry ass, too.” Jack laughed, loud and unabashed, as he left the bathroom and jogged down the stairs. Spot stopped right next to Medda, uncharacteristically smiley. “I’ll clean your bathroom up after dinner, Medda.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She smiled and carefully took Spot’s hand, squeezing gently. “You did a good thing tonight, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, guess I did.” She shrugged noncommittally, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. Spot’s pretty natural hair was half-up in a bun and half down, hanging around her shoulders in lovely curls. She was still paint-streaked from the theater, but she radiated a confident, grown-up ease that Medda often saw in young adults when they hit this age. Adding to that was the happiness that came from helping out a good, wayward kid like Jack Kelly. Spot was almost smiling. Almost.

As she headed downstairs, Medda thought, warmly, that they would have looked like siblings to the untrained eye. 

The next week was rough. The custody change was close to becoming official and because of that, Snyder cracked down hard on Jack, who disappeared entirely for five painstakingly long days. Medda was almost beside herself with anxiety, constantly annoying Jack’s case worker with her pleas to just transfer his goddamn custody already. They’d completed all of the necessary steps, but Snyder was fighting hard against the system. Or maybe the system was with him and Medda and Jack’s caseworker were the ones fighting, but either way, it was taking too damn long to get that baby somewhere safe.

The caseworker, an elderly man that Medda knew only as Mr. Kloppman, meant well. He was just too damn strict about the laws and rules, always wearing a suit and refusing to consider any loopholes. He seemed to care about Jack and his safety, but then he’d say things like, ‘Jack’s got a violent history– are you sure?’ and, ‘he’s been in and out of foster homes for a while. Just be sure to make an educated decision’, and Medda would see red. What was so damn hard about putting this child somewhere he wouldn’t be hurt? She didn't care about his past. If she never learned Jack's backstory, so be it, as long as he was happy.

Just when she’d started to really and truly worry for Jack’s safety, she received a call from Kloppman. The relief hit her so hard that she nearly cried, because Jack Kelly was going to be fostered by the Larkins, and she’d won a three month long battle against a crooked man and his government ties.

The next day, Jack stumbled out of Kloppman’s beat up Honda Civic holding one singular duffle bag, looking more miserable than Medda had ever seen him. Kloppman even looked more tired than usual, his typically lanky body almost slumped with exhaustion. His suit was rumpled and his circular glasses sat slightly askew. 

Jack was tense with anger and covered with enough bruises and cuts to make Medda feel properly nauseous. She remembered holding Hannah’s hand like a lifeline as the impossibly broken, small child made his way up to the townhouse’s stairs and wordlessly stopped in front of them. Jack was furious. His anger felt like waiting for a thunderstorm to begin, when the energy seemed to buzz and hum in the air, and the clouds filled everyone with a constant sense of foreboding. It was palpable, tainting the air between them as Kloppman stood a few inches behind Jack and read off some useless reminders that only Hannah would listen to.

Medda desperately searched Jack’s face for anything but anger and was disheartened to see fear in his wild, dark eyes, badly masked beneath his furrowed brow. She didn’t understand, but she knew at that very moment that they were about to embark on a difficult journey, and she’d have to be a sturdy pillar of love and understanding for this child that’d lacked both of those things for far too long. 

“Well, Jack?” Kloppman said, with an awkward sort of tenderness that was meant to be reassuring but came across as tired. “You got everything from the car?”

“Yeah.” Jack bit out, voice gruff and low as he wrapped his arms around himself. 

The older man hummed, obviously sensing tension, and even more obviously unaware of what to do about it. He sighed a long-suffering sigh and awkwardly patted Jack’s shoulder. “Well, be good, kiddo. Call if you need anything.”

Jack said nothing in response, eyes flickering between Hannah and Medda as his case worker made his way back to the car. The engine spluttered to life on the sidewalk across from them as Hannah carefully opened the front door, giving Jack one last look of intrigue before carefully squeezing her wife’s shoulder.

“You wanna head inside, Jack?” Medda asked, making her voice as warm and loving as humanly possible. “I can patch you up, honey.”

He only seemed to tense up even further, that terrified anger practically rolling off of him in waves. Medda was at a loss, so she just decided to head inside and prayed that Jack would follow. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he did, lugging his duffel up the stairs with him. He paused at the threshold of the doorway, glancing back anxiously at Mr. Kloppman’s retreating car. It sputtered off into the distance, and Jack seemed to grow tenser with every second that the car grew smaller. Once it rounded the corner and disappeared, Jack stared at the interior of the townhome he’d been inside of countless times before, clutching the strap of his duffle like a lifeline. 

Medda couldn’t begin to understand what was racing through his troubled mind. To be fourteen years old and to have suffered so much was inconceivable to her. Sure, she’d had her own struggles, growing up with a single mother and being a black woman in a country that was nothing if not unkind and unfair, but Jack had been through so much more and he was less than half her age. Just seeing him standing there in his too-big clothes, injured and angry and broken, made Medda break as well.

He was looking at her, and there was genuine fear in his eyes. Her words lodged themselves in her throat and she could do nothing but stand, still and open, and pray that he’d remember to trust her.

Eventually Jack stepped inside, looking between the two women like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It took a moment for Medda’s brain to work again, but she eventually remembered common sense and took a step forward, smiling softly at the boy she’d grown so fond of. “You want anything specific for lunch?”

“No.” He ground out, fingers flexing and tightening further. 

Medda nodded, feeling nothing but patience and confusion. “Alright. Hannah was thinking we’d do grilled cheese and tomato soup. How’s that? Then we can fix up those cuts."

He nodded, eyes boring into hers with a strange, scary intensity.

She smiled, because despite her lack of understanding, she was still happy. Relieved, too. "I’m glad you’re here, Jack.”

Jack blinked at her, brow furrowing imperceptibly. She watched anger twist his mouth into a frown and barely registered his noncommittal shrug before he was storming past her, a flurry of unrestrained adolescent emotions manifesting in loud footsteps on the stairs and the echoing slam of the guest bedroom door. The house seemed to shake with the force of his anger, and Medda realized that she’d only won a small battle when she finally got custody.

There was a war to fight, and God damn it all, she was going to fight that war with so much patience and love. She was going to give Jack Kelly the life he deserved, even if it took him ages to see that he really did deserve it. 

[ill-say-anything-i-hafta]

So, you think Newsies Jr. is a watered-down cash grab? I just finished reading the script (so you wouldn't have to!) and the differences are surprisingly rad:

-There are multiple canonical girl characters in the Manhattan newsies ensemble. Two of them back up Katherine and make Jack agree to give her an exclusive.

-Crutchie is badass and gets more to do. They menace the Delanceys with their own crutch instead of Jack doing it on their behalf, and instead of being "too slow," they get arrested while covering for Jack and encouraging him to run! (I have been wondering for a while whether the fight scene could be staged this way/wanting to write fix-it fic about it.)

-Btw I say "they" because Crutchie is never referred to by any gendered words in the script. They even cut the "your brother" tearjerker. Crutchie's canonical real name is the gender neutral Casey and the stage directions and casting breakdown use they/them.

-Same goes for Les, referred to in stage directions as "David's younger sibling."

Medda's song "That's Rich" " got removed and replaced by a feminist anthem.

-Spot, hyped as the toughest newsie in all five boroughs, is explicitly a girl. Everyone shrinks in fear when she turns up. (Is this where uksies got the idea?)

-Darcy got replaced by Dorothy.

Hannah is the one who has the idea to give Jack a job drawing cartoons. And Katherine negotiates double pay for him!

-No slurs -- not even from the Delanceys while they mock Crutchie, and def not from bff Jack.

-No "Something to Believe In"; no kiss, shifting the emphasis of the story away from hetero romance to a celebration of the strike and friendship.

I feel like Disney is kind of telling on themselves by making the play less sexist and ableist ONLY in the version for young audiences ...

[incorrectuksies]

hannah: so, how did you and davey meet?

katherine: oh, no. no, no, no. no, no, no, no, no. no, no, no, no...no. davey and i are not together. no, no.

davey: sixteen no's? really?

[notthesodaa]

newsies vs. newsies jr.

i was recently in a production of newsies jr. and i had four roles bc there were ten kids total in our cast.

i personally played hannah, darcy, pigtails, and dorothy. now you might notice something about the last two-they are not in the broadway production. dorothy takes place of darcy in once and for all, and darcy is katherine’s photographer instead. hannah is mostly the same, except the bottom line doesnt exist in newsies jr. for some reason (probably to reduce run time-my production had no intermission.)

now pigtails is a newsie. she takes some of albert’s lines and a few others i believe. they are still their own characters, she just has a few of their lines.

for example, in king of new york, she is the one to provoke race to sing, in these lines:

“Look at me, I’m famous!” -Race

“How much does being famous pay?” -Pigtails

“You don’t need money when you’re famous. They gives you whatever you want, gratis!” -Race

“Such as?”

and then so forth. pigtails also sings the “Pastramini on rye with a sour pickle,” line in king of new york.

so yeah idk why im saying this

also ive recently found out that my production of newsies jr is a lot different than most productions-apparently most productions combine santa fe and letter to the refuge? and santa fe doesn’t have the end note? (our end note was optional in santa fe, but our jack did it anyways)

[fansiesmemes]

Pulitzer: *Hits the table*

Hannah: That is MAHOGANY

[atticus-redwood]

I feel like Hannah’s overrated, like I love her personality and all, but I still don’t really like her too much, I don’t see why people like her so much

[wekiaam]

Going off of the person who sent the Delancey ask, do you have any designs for Hannah? I LOVE your animated newsies drawings!!!

Thank you so much <33!!! Here are a few sketches I made of Pulitzer's staff!

[newsies-furry-au]

bottom line

[undescribed1mage]

bobbie jokingly saying that she thinks hannah is kath's mom rewired my brain chemistry

[newmsies]

Evil polycules.

Seitz/Bunsen/Hannah/Pulitzer.

am i sleep deprived or can i actually invision it? Who knows, thank you for this. It took me so long to respond cause i had to process it

[more-sonorous]

give me your broken wing- newsies modern au

medda larkin becomes a mother figure for jack kelly in every universe to me, and it’s about time i start writing that!

this is a little snippet dedicated to the wonderful @jackmkelly !! they are absolutely my inspiration for this and I’ve lovingly adopted some headcanons they introduced me to.

(this is maybe the beginning of a longer story because they just have so many wonderful ideas and we had a very inspiring conversation yesterday)

tw for implied/referenced child abuse!

…..

When Medda Larkin met Jack Kelly, she met an angry, guarded kid with some serious rage against the world around him.

That anger wasn’t misplaced, of course. He was a fourteen year old boy that’d grown up in the foster system. She knew, just based on the bits and bobs she’d heard from the handful of other foster kids that participated in productions at her theater, that the foster system could turn rotten just as quickly as it could save a child’s life.

It was rainy that day– one of those nasty New York summer storms, where the air was hot and sticky and the old building seemed to trap it all inside. Her theater was her pride and joy, passed down through three generations of mothers and grandmothers just to land in her capable hands. Medda loved the place. She’d grown up in it. Made it her own, shaped it into a space for others to hide away, just as her maternal lineage had done before her. Maybe it was fitting that she’d met Jack Kelly there in the backstage loading bay, with rain pelting down outside and the air conditioner dripping noisily in the distance.

Ed Higgins– a strikingly blonde boy that preferred to be called ‘Racetrack’ (she’d been working with theatre loving teenagers for years and had learned not to ask questions)– was one of her best young performers with an unbeatable talent for dance. He was a thirteen year-old foster kid himself, and had been placed in the care of some of her wife’s close friends about two years prior. They signed him up for a summer production with Medda and he’d been working with her ever since. Race was a good kid, if not a little bit impish and sometimes rough around the edges, and Medda loved him like she loved all of her other theater children. If not a bit more, but good directors never openly admitted to having favorites. Still, there was something contagious about his mischievous smile, maybe a little endearingly annoying when you could see that defiant mischief brewing in his bright blue eyes. Plus, the kid had natural charisma that shined like a God-given spotlight when he got on stage.

That soft spot didn’t keep her from feeling just a bit exasperated when she came across Racetrack trying to pick the lock on her theater’s back door at half past eight on a week night. She’d just seen the maintenance men out and was ready to head home to her lovely wife Hannah and some dinner, but there stood one of her babies drenched in water, looking incredibly terrified to have been caught.

“Racetrack, honey, you have my phone number.” She chided, wincing against the wet-hot heat of the summer outside. “You could’ve just texted me if you needed help…”

“It’s not… um…” He glanced behind himself, and that’s when Medda Larkin first laid eyes on Jack Kelly.

He was a small kid, and she couldn’t tell if he was older or younger than Racetrack because he sure was shorter. Jack was wearing a miserable glower, his tightly done braids clinging to his scalp, frizzy from either heat or neglect. His skin was a deep sort of coffee brown, only a shade or two darker than her own, and his cheekbones were alarmingly sharp. He had the sort of face that carried hunger, with wild, dark eyes and the vibe of an animal that would bolt at any loud noise.

She noted, carefully, that the kid had scars on his face. One split his left eyebrow and forehead and the other sliced the right side of his face from his chin almost to the corner of his lips, and he looked a horrible mixture of scared and angry when she met his eyes. He also sported fresh bruising on his cheekbone, a mottled mess of purple and red that crept towards his eye. He was buried in a hoodie and his jeans were too big, dragging against the concrete with the tips of his beat up sneakers poking out, and Medda wanted nothing more than to take this child into her arms and figure out what had hurt him so bad.

She settled for carefully clearing her throat instead. “Alright, Ed, why don’t you bring your friend inside? You aren’t in trouble, but I would love an explanation on why you’ve chosen breaking and entering over good old fashioned conversation.”

“Yes, Mrs. Medda.” He muttered, sounding ashamed enough to be satisfactory and a little bit relieved, too.

Medda waited until both boys made their way into the room, filling it with the sound of water plunking against concrete. She sighed to herself as she took in the sight of the slow-growing puddles beneath them and pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. “What am I ever going to do with you, Racer? You boys take off those wet jackets, hang ‘em up, and wait for me to get you some towels.”

She didn’t wait for a response and headed off to the costume shop, where she found some towels after a bit of rooting around. Then, to give Ed’s friend a little bit of time to acclimate and calm down, she found herself boiling some water in her office and fixing the boys mugs of tea. Medda wasn’t angry, of course. She knew Ed was a good kid, and if he was trespassing, it was probably for the sake of his friend. Still, there was a concerned sort of curiosity welling up within her as she wondered how many times they’d taken shelter here without her knowing.

Once the tea was finished, she let out an exasperated huff and made her way back to the loading bay, hearing the boys’ voices just before rounding the corner.

“...not gonna call the cops, Jack, I promise, okay?”

“I swear to fuckin’ God, Racer, if I end up back in juvie because of you I’m gonna– I dunno. Shit.”

A pause ensued, and Medda wondered exactly who this boy was as she re-adjusted the porcelain in her hands. He’d been to juvie, and he was sporting fresh bruises. Part of her wondered if he was a friend of Ed’s, maybe another foster system kid. She made sure not to pass any early judgement and kept an open mind.

In classic Racetrack fashion, the kid quipped: “You’re gonna shit? Not on Mrs. Medda’s floor, I hope.”

“Shaddup.” Jack laughed wetly, and Medda heard the strain in his voice without even knowing him at all.

She finally found the courage to turn the corner, mugs in hand and towels draped over the crooks in her elbows. Both boys looked up at her from where they were seated on wooden boxes painted to look like crates, Racer smiling nervously and Jack’s face caught in a pained grimace, somewhere between anger and embarrassment. His shoulders were shrugged up to his ears, posture tight and rife with anxiety.

Medda approached slowly, forcing herself into relaxed ease with the talent of a woman who’d been in love with acting since she was four years old. She held out the mugs and once they’d been accepted, draped a towel over Racer’s shoulders and then offered one to Jack. “Well, I think introductions are in order, don’t you?”

“Jack Kelly.” He muttered, glancing up at her through matted lashes.

“Well, I’m Medda Larkin.” She spread her arms wide and smiled, gesturing to the shop and its organized disarray of old set pieces. “Welcome to my theater. Though I assume you’ve been here before?”

Those brown eyes got wide with worry and the two teenagers shared a look lined with guilt. Race winced, balancing his hands between his knees, both of which were bouncing with nerves. “Mrs. Medda…”

“Relax, kid. You aren’t in trouble. Neither of you are in trouble. But I do think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.” He winced, knee still bouncing rapidly. She’d never seen the kid’s wild energy turn so anxious before, and it was an unwelcome change. Any of her theater babies were safe in this place. She thought that Race would’ve known such a thing, after nearly two years of working with her, but she was sorely mistaken. Judging by the misery practically radiating off of him, Medda knew this wasn’t a good time for any sort of interrogation.

“Alright.” She sighed, shifting the third towel she’d brought into her hands before finally offering it out to him. “Drink your tea. Then, if you wanna clean up the water you tracked into my storage space, I’d be pleased with that. And I sure hope your parents aren’t worried sick about you right now, kid...”

“They aren’t. They think I’m over at Crutchie’s.” He assured, shaking his head so hard that droplets of water flung from his damp curls as he took the towel from her outstretched hand.

“Good. Jack, honey, finish that tea and then walk with me, will you?”

She left them for a few moments longer, making sure to lock the back door again after sweeping the area outside for any lasting damages. When she returned, Jack had downed his drink and Race was sitting in silence, still taking small sips. They both stared owlishly and she extended a smile towards Jack, tilting her head towards the hallway.

He stood very reluctantly, exchanging glances with his friend. Race gave a nod, though he seemed just a bit nervous, and she tried to reassure them both with a smile. Soon, a damp Jack Kelly was trailing along behind her as she made her way into the wings and onto the stage itself. Medda flicked a nearby light switch and the space illuminated with the brightness of work lights, revealing a lovely half-finished backdrop spread across the entire stage. An unfinished mural of the Swiss alps lay on the ground before them, fields of vibrant green grass and wildflowers fully painted while the mountains and sky remained blocks of flat color.

“I’ve always said that there’s no better place to hide than a theater.” She explained softly, walking out onto the stage and admiring the rows and rows of plush red seats before them. “I find that true for myself too, you know. This has always been my favorite place to escape to.”

Jack had stopped in his tracks, arms folded tightly over his chest. His head was tilted and he gazed at the backdrop almost reverently, intelligent eyes soaking in every detail. Medda had initially planned to take him into the audience for their chat, but she decided to let Jack set the pace and stood still exactly where she was, perched on the steps leading down to the house.

“You like art very much, Jack?”

“I draw sometimes.” He answered rather reluctantly, giving her a half-shrug and a sidelong glance. The kid was obviously upset about being caught. His small body was nothing but lines of tension.

“This is gonna go up for The Sound of Music next month.” She smiled rather fondly, unable to stop herself from explaining her favorite thing. “My very own theatre company’s putting it on. Your friend Racer’s playing one of the Von Trapp children, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He responded carefully, awkwardly, a guarded sort of respect in his voice. Then, remarkably, a small smile cracked through the misery of his face, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “He won’t shuddup about it.”

She smiled right back at him, well aware that she was already developing a soft spot for this lost little teenager. The lull in the conversation led Medda to continue her descent into the audience, where she took a seat on the front row and gazed out at the unfinished set. Both painted and unpainted wood stared back at her, and Jack Kelly stuck out like a sore thumb in his big clothes, with all of that sadness clinging to him like rainwater. He took a moment to himself, eyes still studying the mural with the gaze of a young artist, and then finally followed the path she’d taken moments earlier.

Medda was pleasantly surprised when Jack spoke without prompting. “Do ya’ own the group that puts on plays here or the buildin’ itself?”

“I own the building.” She confirmed, watching him carefully choose to sit on the foot of the stage in front of her, instead of one of the chairs next to her. His lack of trust in adults was painstakingly obvious. “But I’ve also got a theater company of my own, and we do put on shows here. When my people aren’t using the stage, though, it’s free for just about any group to use. I rent out to anybody who wants to share their art with the world.”

He nodded in that way teenagers often do, respectful but losing interest. Or maybe he was interested somewhere in that troubled head, but Medda’s career obviously wasn’t a top priority for him at that moment.

She allowed the moment to settle before leaning forward in her seat, meeting those guarded brown eyes. ”So, where’d you meet Racetrack?”

“We grew up in the system together.” He explained, proving Medda’s earlier assumptions entirely true. “I’ve been in foster care since I was six, and Race showed up when I was eight. System ain’t as big as people think. A lot of the times you end up in the same group homes with the same kids. We just try to keep in touch. Look out for each other, I guess.”

“And he was looking out for you, finding you a place to stay.” She thought aloud, finally putting all of the pieces together. Well— almost all of them. Racetrack had picked that lock with practiced ease, and Medda was still wondering just how many times this bruised and broken young boy had found himself here without her knowing. “Jack, honey, how many nights have you spent in my theater? I want you to answer honestly, and know that I’m not going to be upset no matter what the answer is. Racetrack isn’t getting in any trouble either. Nobody’s mad– certainly not me. But I think I have a right to know.”

Jack swallowed hard. He blinked hard, too, once or twice, eyes trained unwaveringly on her. Medda could practically see his mind racing. “I mean… I dunno. I stopped counting. It’s– Race lets me in here every time Snyder kicks me out. Racer’s foster parents don’t like me none so I can’t stay at their place.”

He practically spat the name with enough vitriol to send the hairs on Medda’s arms standing up. She was already jumping to conclusions about the bruise on Jack’s cheek and the shabby clothes he wore, but she did her best to remain level-headed. “Snyder. That’s…”

“My foster dad.” He confirmed, a hateful sort of anger coloring his voice. “Real ray of sunshine, that one. I would say this is all his fault, but I know I’m the one askin’ Race to help me break in. So it is my fault. I just… it’s warm here, ‘n nobody’s caught me yet. I don’t touch nothin’, I swear. I don’t ever go farther than that storage space. I would never fuck up your property, Mrs. Larkin, I mean it on my life.”

He seemed so earnest and sure that she couldn’t help but believe him. Plus, there was no evidence to prove he wasn’t lying. She’d never found any remnants of a kid stowing away in the theater– no crumbs or misplaced props– he’d never even changed the thermostat overnight. Medda offered him what she hoped was a warm smile and tried to wipe away the image of Jack sleeping on the concrete floor of the loading dock out of her mind.

“I believe you, Jack. Thank you for being honest with me.” She watched him deflate, just a bit, relief softening the wrinkles around his eyes. Though her mind was brimming with questions about this Snyder man, Medda didn’t dare press Jack into uncomfortable territory. Instead, she settled into her role as a caring adult and stood, brushing her hands off on her skirt. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to take you to my costume storage, and we’ll find you some dry clothes. Then we’re gonna drop Racetrack off at his parents’ place, and after that you can ride home with me and have dinner with my wife and I. I’ve got a guest bedroom with an empty bed.”

“Mrs. Larkin, I couldn’t–”

“Yes you can, honey, and I’m insisting that you do. I’m not going to be able to sleep properly tonight if you’re curled up on that concrete floor in there. Now you wouldn’t rob a poor woman of a good night’s sleep, would you, Jack Kelly?”

That same little smile made its way to his face, and she decided then and there that his real, unabashed smile was probably a sunny thing. Maybe one day she’d earn it. “No ma’am.”

“Call me Medda, kid.”

Two hours later found Medda sitting at the kitchen table with an exasperated Hannah Larkin, whose pretty ginger hair was piled up in a mess of a bun atop her head. Her reading glasses were perched on the tip of her nose and Medda couldn’t quite ignore her wife’s loveliness, even as lines of stress painted her face. Hannah’s intelligent eyes scanned rapidly over her laptop screen as she exasperatedly pressed her thumb and forefinger to her temples.

“Medda, darling, I don’t understand why we can’t call CPS.”

“Because Jack doesn’t want us to.” She explained carefully, for what must’ve been the fifth time that evening. Hannah had jumped to CPS nearly immediately, when Medda had first called her to announce their dinner guest. At that point Jack had been in one of the changing rooms in the costume shop. Now, with Jack showering in the bathroom upstairs, it felt like rehashing that same conversation all over again. “We’ve got to respect his wishes.”

Hannah’s eyebrows shot up, and she glanced over the rims of her glasses in obvious shock. “He’s fourteen. He shouldn’t be making those types of decisions for himself.”

“I understand what you’re getting at, but Jack knows more about the foster care system than we do.” She carefully placed a hand over her wife’s, and dragged her thumb over the gems of her wedding ring for good measure. Hannah sighed, a soft and anxious noise. “We don’t want to make things worse for him, either.”

“But that bruise–”

“He didn’t tell us where it came from.” She said, though Hannah had obviously come to the same conclusion. It was probably from that egregious foster parent, even though Jack had totally avoided the question when Hannah asked. Maybe because the two of them had gotten off on the wrong foot (Jack tracked mud onto Hannah’s tiled floor and she nearly lost her mind), but the fact remained– the bruise was probably dealt by the adult meant to be taking care of Jack, and Medda wanted nothing more than to whisk the boy away from that world. No child deserved to live a life of breaking into abandoned theaters when they wanted somewhere safe to sleep. “And we can’t assume anything. Not yet.”

With a tense sigh, Hannah shut her laptop. “You’re already attached, I can tell.”

“Wh– I’m not!” Affronted, Medda raised a hand to her chest. “I’d do this for any of my kiddos and you know that.”

“Sure, but this one’s earned himself a soft spot already.” Hannah’s voice took on a teasing lilt as she fixed Medda with a knowing gaze, looking as beautiful as the day they first met. “Medda Larkin, you are nothing if not a sap. I don’t think you’re going to back down when it comes to this kid– that’s just how you are.”

Knowing her wife was absolutely correct, Medda could only roll her eyes in an admittance of defeat. Sometimes they knew each other far too well. “You love it, though.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

Footsteps on the stairs alerted both women to Jack, who was carefully and quietly descending. He looked cleaner and more relaxed already, free of dirt and grime and wearing the clothes he’d picked out from the theatre’s eclectic costume storage– just a pair of sweatpants a male dancer had worn during A Chorus Line a few years back and a baggy sweatshirt that they hadn’t managed to sell at the merch table, displaying the logo of Medda’s theatre company proudly on the back. He smiled at them, nervous and awkward and unsure. Medda’s heart melted a bit. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a warm shower and new clothes? She almost didn’t want to know the answer.

Before she knew it, Medda was rising to her feet and going to meet the boy on the stairs. “You ready to hit the hay?”

“Yeah.” Jack ran a hand over his scalp, tugging briefly at the ends of his braids. “I… I just want to say thank you. For alla’ this.”

“Of course. You’re welcome to visit us any time, by the way. I’d love it if you came to a rehearsal or two with Racetrack. Maybe some of our scenic painters’ll give you a few pointers, if you ask nicely.”

Jack’s smile widened, bright and almost excited. Both of his dimples appeared in full force. “You mean that?”

“I don’t ever say things I don’t mean, Jack Kelly.” She chided teasingly, climbing up the stairs with Jack in tow. The guest bedroom was tactfully decorated– that was all Hannah. The woman had excellent taste and an eye for design, so Medda had sat back and let her decorate the entire townhome after they purchased it. She’d never regretted that decision once. Jack took in the bedroom with a reverent sort of awe, the same way he’d looked at every room of the house so far. “Here you are. Now, if you need anything, just let me–”

Without much warning, Jack threw himself forward and embraced her tightly. He strung his arms around her and buried his face in the fabric of her blouse, movements still caught in that gangly pre-teenage phase. Something in her heart blossomed with a maternal warmth as she hugged him back as gently as possible, cradling his head with one hand.

“Thank you.” He said again, and his voice warbled with emotion.

Though she felt a wet patch beginning to dampen her shirt, she said nothing about it. “Of course, Jack. You can always count on me, alright, baby?”

He only managed a nod, and in that very moment, Medda wanted nothing more than to give this wayward child the happy life he deserved. He was sweet and gentle and he obviously loved with his whole heart and soul, and the poor thing had been beaten down by the world far too many times. She held Jack in that embrace and stared resolutely out the window, deciding only to let go when he was absolutely ready.

She’d only known Jack Kelly for a month when she started researching how to become a foster parent. The idea settled within her mind in the middle of a Saturday morning set dressing day, as she watched Jack carefully painting details onto one of her set pieces, smiling brightly at two of his friends. She thought, immediately, that he deserved to be that happy all the time. If Medda was the only adult in his life that could provide that happiness, then she was damn sure going to do it.

Hannah glanced at the screen of her wife’s laptop once and bit her lip with an exasperated smile, the unspoken ‘I told you so’ dancing teasingly through the air between them.