Ch 1
All of us newsies have a story, and the children had been begging for me to
tell mine for weeks, not believing that I actually don't know what happened
to me. I remember certain things, like how to read, and how the streets of
Manhattan were laid out, but I never could remember the details of my life
before I was brought here. But the young ones had their way of making me
seem like a hero and one day I caved to the flattery. It passed through my
mind that I could tell them a marvelous tale about how I escaped from some
villain, and they would believe every word of it, but I couldn't bring
myself to lie to them. We lived in a severely real world, and it would not
help to make my life seem any more or less exciting than it was. So one
night, when it was Dutchy and my turn to watch the little boys, I sat down
to tell them my little story. My history, if you will.
"It's been about three years since that day; I was only twelve at the time. I don't really remember anything before it, just that it was horrible and I had to get away. That night is clear in my memory, although I've prayed to forget the panic, prayed to forget the anger, and the desperation I felt. Strange, how I can't remember the things that seem to matter, like my name, where I came from, my parents names, if I even had parents, or even what I was running from. All I remember is running through the disgusting streets, the rain seeming to chase me, egging me on, telling me to keep going, because if I didn't make it away from them this time, they would kill me. I held my skirts up and cursed my boots as they skidded and caught in the cobblestones on the street. And then I remember slipping on a wet newspaper and being thrown headfirst onto the grimy curb. The smell of the street had been almost overpowering. The humid day had extracted all of the smell from the discarded trash that morphed into a gray sludge when it rained. I fought for consciousness as I heard running footsteps approaching me. They were so frequent and loud, it seemed like a crowd, but it may have just been my injured head playing tricks with me. I felt something warm leaking into my eyes so I couldn't see. Then I heard voices shouting to each other, I felt a crippling pain in my stomach, and I lost the battle, letting myself slip into oblivion.
"The next thing I was conscious of was a pair of sparkling blue eyes floating above me, floating in an almost blinding background of whitish yellow light. Slowly, as I blinked, a face materialized. The skin was pale; in fact everything about the face was pale, except for those glorious blue eyes. I thought I was dead; it was the logical effect of being chased by an angry mob, as I had believed I was. 'God?' I asked, reaching a hand up to touch the face. I don't know what compelled me to just reach up and stroke the pale, baby blond hair of the face hovering above me, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time. The eyes smiled, and I could see a shadow of a mouth chuckling at me.
"I ain't God, just somehow don't think God woulda come to this earth as a newsie, just a street rat.' The blue eyes seemed to wrap me up and hug me, and I smiled.
"Oh..' I said, just glad that he was smiling. It made me feel good. I closed my eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
"When I woke up again, there were many faces staring at me, including blue eyes. I took my time and looked at each one of them. They all had soft, brown eyes except one boy, who had an eye patch. His visible eye was blue, but it did not sparkle. I searched for blue eyes, and found him right in the middle of all of the faces. He brought glasses out from somewhere, and placed them on his nose, smiling.
"You'se awake. Good. 'Sa bout time. Had Davey look ya ova, and ya don't look too hurt, just a cut, here,' he said, lifting a finger and running it gently above my left eye. I reached up and felt the scab, gasping at the length of it. It ran along my eyebrow and even down my nose a bit of the way. 'And that's a beautiful shinah you got goin there.'
"Oh. So that's why it hurt to move that eye, I thought silently. My world became more detailed as I woke up, and I saw that there were about five boys standing around me, looking relieved. I realized that I was in some sort of a bed, and meant to sit up to get a better view, but my newly clear world went fuzzy, and then swam in front of my face.
"Yeah, don' think that's such a good idea, not quite yet,' blue eyes said, then put a hand behind my back and gently laid me down on the hard mattress.
"As soon as my world became defined again, I was struck with a myriad of questions. I was scared at the idea that I did not know where I was, what I was doing there, how, exactly, I got there, and even who I was. The survivor in me searched for a way to take care of myself constantly and suddenly, I was scared to death. I looked at blue eyes in a panic. 'Where am I? Who are you? Who am I? How did I get here?' I asked desperately. The sense of chaos was taking over my mind, and I was starting to go to pieces. Blue eyes shoed the other boys away, and sat down next to me, taking my hand.
"Now, calm down, miss. You'se alright now. You'se in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House. They call me Dutchy, and I don't know who you are or what you's called. Me an' Specs was runnin back to the lodging house to get outta the rain, and he tripped over ya. We brought ya back here, and you'se been sleepin ever since.'
'Though it was good to know how I had got there, I was terrified by the fact that I had no idea who I was or what I was running from, and tears started flowing down towards my temples, and my eyes squinted painfully to try to stop them. It was a habit I had formed who knows where, but I felt like crying was the worst, weakest thing I could do, and I braced myself for repercussions. Dutchy was taken aback.
"Oh, no, miss, it's okay now, see the sun is shinin, and it's tomorrow. It's a whole new day and you's get to start over. It's more than most of us gets, we usually has to just pick up and go, even with the memories. Now I sees you lost ya memory, ya musta, and I don't know if it's gon' come back, but I promise ya it's okay. I think you's even lucky. "Now you'se get some rest, cause tomarra, I'm takin ya sellin, and we'se gonna see watchu gots in the way of some talent.'
'I was not thrilled at this idea. In my present condition, I didn't feel like I was going to be able to walk without getting dizzy for a month, and although I figured what Dutchy said was probably right, it did not soothe me. I couldn't remember anything and it was frustrating and scary. I wanted to have control of my situation, and without even knowing my name, I had absolutely none.
"But, what's my name? Who am I running from? Where am I from?' I realized that I could be fifty feet away from my worst enemy and not even know it, for I could not remember for the life of me, almost literally, who or what they were.
"I told ya, kid, I don't know. But don't worry. Jacky boy's got some of his boys askin Spot and King about any of their goils if they knows ya. We can protect ya if ya need it, we's used to it, we's all runnin from somethin'.' The poor Dutch boy seemed frustrated with me and I didn't blame him. I was frustrated with me. His look softened as we tried to stare each other down and I finally had to close my eyes in pain. He held out his hand, hesitated a moment, looked around then brushed a few tendrils of hair off of my face. I involuntarily tensed up at the look in his eyes. It seemed like he was sizing me up like I was dinner, and I didn't like it. He sighed, lost the look, and said, 'I'm gonna get the missus. She'll take care a ya, and give ya a room worth bein in, away from the boys. I don't like the idea of a pretty young goil like you bein in da room with them. They. well they ain't all like me...' I had only the faintest notion what he meant, but I nodded my head in agreement, bringing on a sharp jolt of pain through my head. He patted my hand, which he had grabbed when he was trying to convince me of my safety, and got up, cracking his back.
"Dutchy left then and a bit later, a woman with a motherly smile came in to see me and carried me to a small room with a soft bed and soft light, with soft colors of fabric draping the walls. It was Mrs. Larson, though I didn't know that then. She was the proprietor's wife, and she became almost like a mother to me, but more like a friend and mentor. That day, she bathed me, fed me, gave me a nightgown to sleep in, and then washed my clothes while I slept some more. I woke up when it was dusk to see her rocking in a chair in the corner, sewing contentedly. I watched her deft little hands fly over a beautiful rose colored fabric, and smiled at the happy tune she whistled. She was a young wife, very pretty and very proper. Her jet-black hair was silky smooth and usually in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and her dresses flowed over her slim frame like water. Her green eyes were kind and sparkled, much like Dutchy's. 'Hello there, you're awake at last, you are,' she said in a barely-there Irish accent. 'And do you feel any better?' she asked, setting down her sewing and coming to look me over.
"I'm feeling better, thank you very much.' I said as she took a rag from a bowl of water, dabbed the sleep out of my eyes, and gently positioned it over my cut.
"I'll have the boys bring in an extra mattress and you can stay in here with me. They did the right thing washing this cut up, and it was right smart of them, but there is no care like a woman's, yes?'
"Mmhmm,' I agreed, spellbound by her soft voice and charming manner of speech.
"Now. Can you sit up?' I tried, and found that if I moved slowly, once I was up, I felt fine. Mrs. Larson helped me to her chair, and pushed me in front of her mirror. I winced. My long auburn hair looked like something could live in it; my eyes were all black and blue, and the cut above my eye looked gruesome. I looked scrawny and undernourished, and I was. My stomach growled as I thought of it, and I giggled, looking meekly at Mrs. Larson. 'Ah. And I suppose you're hungry?' She handed me a soft roll from a basket on the desk. 'Now, let's fix this gorgeous hair of yours.' Gorgeous was not the word I would have used to describe my hair, but Mrs. Larson seemed to have faith in it. She started brushing it gently and by the time it was all detangled, smoothed, and braided, it was dark, and the room was lit by two oil lamps. I yawned, and felt like sleeping again even though I had woken up not an hour earlier.
"Aye, and you'll be needing your sleep. I'll just go get the boys now, and they've wanted to see you all day.' She smiled and opened the door. To our surprise, Dutchy fell into the room, rolling backwards. Mrs. Larson nearly got rolled over, and exclaimed, 'Dutchy, and what've you been doing here, boy-o?' I giggled again and noticed her accent got thicker when she was flustered.
"Dutchy scrambled to his feet, snatched his hat off of his head, and readjusted his glasses. "I just wanted ta know how Miss was doin, ma'am, seein' as I's the one who brought her here." He rung his hat in his hands, and when Mrs. Larson smiled, he looked around her and sent me his own radiant smile, which I returned as well as I could while I yawned again.
"Dutchy, you may talk to Miss as soon as you and some of the boys bring down a mattress for her, and don't be dawdling about it. Now shoo!'
"Dutchy stayed long enough to give me a wave, and shot out of view. Mrs. Larsen turned back to see me leaning out of the chair, looking after Dutchy. 'Well, Miss, it seems to me they've chosen you a name, and a pretty one it is too.'
"What?' I asked. I hadn't heard anyone call me anything in particular.
"Why, didn't you hear it? Maybe it's because I've been hearing newsies naming each other my whole life, but it seems obvious,' she explained, sorting out some more fabric, and putting it in a pile on the desk. I was about to ask why it was obvious when she answered my question. 'Oh, and I suppose it's a tone of voice. You can say I'm wrong, and I'll bet my bottom dollar they'll be calling you Miss for as long as you know them.'
"I smiled, and felt myself regaining a bit of the control that I had felt I'd lost when I lost my memory. Maybe it was being clean, maybe it was being comfortable and feeling good, but I started to feel some hope growing in my heart. 'Miss.' I said out loud, savoring the sound of it. Yes, I thought. It sounded like me. 'Miss.'
"It's been about three years since that day; I was only twelve at the time. I don't really remember anything before it, just that it was horrible and I had to get away. That night is clear in my memory, although I've prayed to forget the panic, prayed to forget the anger, and the desperation I felt. Strange, how I can't remember the things that seem to matter, like my name, where I came from, my parents names, if I even had parents, or even what I was running from. All I remember is running through the disgusting streets, the rain seeming to chase me, egging me on, telling me to keep going, because if I didn't make it away from them this time, they would kill me. I held my skirts up and cursed my boots as they skidded and caught in the cobblestones on the street. And then I remember slipping on a wet newspaper and being thrown headfirst onto the grimy curb. The smell of the street had been almost overpowering. The humid day had extracted all of the smell from the discarded trash that morphed into a gray sludge when it rained. I fought for consciousness as I heard running footsteps approaching me. They were so frequent and loud, it seemed like a crowd, but it may have just been my injured head playing tricks with me. I felt something warm leaking into my eyes so I couldn't see. Then I heard voices shouting to each other, I felt a crippling pain in my stomach, and I lost the battle, letting myself slip into oblivion.
"The next thing I was conscious of was a pair of sparkling blue eyes floating above me, floating in an almost blinding background of whitish yellow light. Slowly, as I blinked, a face materialized. The skin was pale; in fact everything about the face was pale, except for those glorious blue eyes. I thought I was dead; it was the logical effect of being chased by an angry mob, as I had believed I was. 'God?' I asked, reaching a hand up to touch the face. I don't know what compelled me to just reach up and stroke the pale, baby blond hair of the face hovering above me, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time. The eyes smiled, and I could see a shadow of a mouth chuckling at me.
"I ain't God, just somehow don't think God woulda come to this earth as a newsie, just a street rat.' The blue eyes seemed to wrap me up and hug me, and I smiled.
"Oh..' I said, just glad that he was smiling. It made me feel good. I closed my eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
"When I woke up again, there were many faces staring at me, including blue eyes. I took my time and looked at each one of them. They all had soft, brown eyes except one boy, who had an eye patch. His visible eye was blue, but it did not sparkle. I searched for blue eyes, and found him right in the middle of all of the faces. He brought glasses out from somewhere, and placed them on his nose, smiling.
"You'se awake. Good. 'Sa bout time. Had Davey look ya ova, and ya don't look too hurt, just a cut, here,' he said, lifting a finger and running it gently above my left eye. I reached up and felt the scab, gasping at the length of it. It ran along my eyebrow and even down my nose a bit of the way. 'And that's a beautiful shinah you got goin there.'
"Oh. So that's why it hurt to move that eye, I thought silently. My world became more detailed as I woke up, and I saw that there were about five boys standing around me, looking relieved. I realized that I was in some sort of a bed, and meant to sit up to get a better view, but my newly clear world went fuzzy, and then swam in front of my face.
"Yeah, don' think that's such a good idea, not quite yet,' blue eyes said, then put a hand behind my back and gently laid me down on the hard mattress.
"As soon as my world became defined again, I was struck with a myriad of questions. I was scared at the idea that I did not know where I was, what I was doing there, how, exactly, I got there, and even who I was. The survivor in me searched for a way to take care of myself constantly and suddenly, I was scared to death. I looked at blue eyes in a panic. 'Where am I? Who are you? Who am I? How did I get here?' I asked desperately. The sense of chaos was taking over my mind, and I was starting to go to pieces. Blue eyes shoed the other boys away, and sat down next to me, taking my hand.
"Now, calm down, miss. You'se alright now. You'se in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House. They call me Dutchy, and I don't know who you are or what you's called. Me an' Specs was runnin back to the lodging house to get outta the rain, and he tripped over ya. We brought ya back here, and you'se been sleepin ever since.'
'Though it was good to know how I had got there, I was terrified by the fact that I had no idea who I was or what I was running from, and tears started flowing down towards my temples, and my eyes squinted painfully to try to stop them. It was a habit I had formed who knows where, but I felt like crying was the worst, weakest thing I could do, and I braced myself for repercussions. Dutchy was taken aback.
"Oh, no, miss, it's okay now, see the sun is shinin, and it's tomorrow. It's a whole new day and you's get to start over. It's more than most of us gets, we usually has to just pick up and go, even with the memories. Now I sees you lost ya memory, ya musta, and I don't know if it's gon' come back, but I promise ya it's okay. I think you's even lucky. "Now you'se get some rest, cause tomarra, I'm takin ya sellin, and we'se gonna see watchu gots in the way of some talent.'
'I was not thrilled at this idea. In my present condition, I didn't feel like I was going to be able to walk without getting dizzy for a month, and although I figured what Dutchy said was probably right, it did not soothe me. I couldn't remember anything and it was frustrating and scary. I wanted to have control of my situation, and without even knowing my name, I had absolutely none.
"But, what's my name? Who am I running from? Where am I from?' I realized that I could be fifty feet away from my worst enemy and not even know it, for I could not remember for the life of me, almost literally, who or what they were.
"I told ya, kid, I don't know. But don't worry. Jacky boy's got some of his boys askin Spot and King about any of their goils if they knows ya. We can protect ya if ya need it, we's used to it, we's all runnin from somethin'.' The poor Dutch boy seemed frustrated with me and I didn't blame him. I was frustrated with me. His look softened as we tried to stare each other down and I finally had to close my eyes in pain. He held out his hand, hesitated a moment, looked around then brushed a few tendrils of hair off of my face. I involuntarily tensed up at the look in his eyes. It seemed like he was sizing me up like I was dinner, and I didn't like it. He sighed, lost the look, and said, 'I'm gonna get the missus. She'll take care a ya, and give ya a room worth bein in, away from the boys. I don't like the idea of a pretty young goil like you bein in da room with them. They. well they ain't all like me...' I had only the faintest notion what he meant, but I nodded my head in agreement, bringing on a sharp jolt of pain through my head. He patted my hand, which he had grabbed when he was trying to convince me of my safety, and got up, cracking his back.
"Dutchy left then and a bit later, a woman with a motherly smile came in to see me and carried me to a small room with a soft bed and soft light, with soft colors of fabric draping the walls. It was Mrs. Larson, though I didn't know that then. She was the proprietor's wife, and she became almost like a mother to me, but more like a friend and mentor. That day, she bathed me, fed me, gave me a nightgown to sleep in, and then washed my clothes while I slept some more. I woke up when it was dusk to see her rocking in a chair in the corner, sewing contentedly. I watched her deft little hands fly over a beautiful rose colored fabric, and smiled at the happy tune she whistled. She was a young wife, very pretty and very proper. Her jet-black hair was silky smooth and usually in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and her dresses flowed over her slim frame like water. Her green eyes were kind and sparkled, much like Dutchy's. 'Hello there, you're awake at last, you are,' she said in a barely-there Irish accent. 'And do you feel any better?' she asked, setting down her sewing and coming to look me over.
"I'm feeling better, thank you very much.' I said as she took a rag from a bowl of water, dabbed the sleep out of my eyes, and gently positioned it over my cut.
"I'll have the boys bring in an extra mattress and you can stay in here with me. They did the right thing washing this cut up, and it was right smart of them, but there is no care like a woman's, yes?'
"Mmhmm,' I agreed, spellbound by her soft voice and charming manner of speech.
"Now. Can you sit up?' I tried, and found that if I moved slowly, once I was up, I felt fine. Mrs. Larson helped me to her chair, and pushed me in front of her mirror. I winced. My long auburn hair looked like something could live in it; my eyes were all black and blue, and the cut above my eye looked gruesome. I looked scrawny and undernourished, and I was. My stomach growled as I thought of it, and I giggled, looking meekly at Mrs. Larson. 'Ah. And I suppose you're hungry?' She handed me a soft roll from a basket on the desk. 'Now, let's fix this gorgeous hair of yours.' Gorgeous was not the word I would have used to describe my hair, but Mrs. Larson seemed to have faith in it. She started brushing it gently and by the time it was all detangled, smoothed, and braided, it was dark, and the room was lit by two oil lamps. I yawned, and felt like sleeping again even though I had woken up not an hour earlier.
"Aye, and you'll be needing your sleep. I'll just go get the boys now, and they've wanted to see you all day.' She smiled and opened the door. To our surprise, Dutchy fell into the room, rolling backwards. Mrs. Larson nearly got rolled over, and exclaimed, 'Dutchy, and what've you been doing here, boy-o?' I giggled again and noticed her accent got thicker when she was flustered.
"Dutchy scrambled to his feet, snatched his hat off of his head, and readjusted his glasses. "I just wanted ta know how Miss was doin, ma'am, seein' as I's the one who brought her here." He rung his hat in his hands, and when Mrs. Larson smiled, he looked around her and sent me his own radiant smile, which I returned as well as I could while I yawned again.
"Dutchy, you may talk to Miss as soon as you and some of the boys bring down a mattress for her, and don't be dawdling about it. Now shoo!'
"Dutchy stayed long enough to give me a wave, and shot out of view. Mrs. Larsen turned back to see me leaning out of the chair, looking after Dutchy. 'Well, Miss, it seems to me they've chosen you a name, and a pretty one it is too.'
"What?' I asked. I hadn't heard anyone call me anything in particular.
"Why, didn't you hear it? Maybe it's because I've been hearing newsies naming each other my whole life, but it seems obvious,' she explained, sorting out some more fabric, and putting it in a pile on the desk. I was about to ask why it was obvious when she answered my question. 'Oh, and I suppose it's a tone of voice. You can say I'm wrong, and I'll bet my bottom dollar they'll be calling you Miss for as long as you know them.'
"I smiled, and felt myself regaining a bit of the control that I had felt I'd lost when I lost my memory. Maybe it was being clean, maybe it was being comfortable and feeling good, but I started to feel some hope growing in my heart. 'Miss.' I said out loud, savoring the sound of it. Yes, I thought. It sounded like me. 'Miss.'
