AN~ So, I'm trying this out, I'm not quite sure how this will work but
hopefully I'll think of something.
Disclaimer~ Annette is mine; the Newsies belong to Disney and Maps books is owned by whoever owns it.
-----[*]-----
Old. That was the general feeling around the bookstore. Old books, old paint job, old people, and even older customers. The faded paintings scattered strategically on the walls were of stern faced women in restricting dresses and supposedly stately looking hats with large plumes of feathers.
Annette liked it. She laid her canvas messenger bag on a small round table, the antique creaked in protest. Her long midnight hair brushed against her shoulders as she bent to inspect an interesting looking camera type contraption by the counter.
A rich violet hat with a giant deep purple feather sat on top of the camera, the feather was held on by a jewel encrusted pin. The feel of wealth.
She gently laid the hat on her head, circling in front a large antique mirror. A soft laugh behind her made her quickly remove the hat, pink creeping up her cheeks.
"It looks as though that hat was made for you, dear." A petite woman with a face containing more lines than the city map and greying hair stood before Annette, her mouth lifted at the corners.
"Your Annette I believe? I'm Mrs. Ellis, the owner. I do hope you'll like working here." The woman continued, stroking the hat fondly.
"Yes, I'm so sorry for putting on the hat like that, it was just for fun. I hope you don't mind." Annette apologized, her heart hammering from nerves. The woman ran a withered finger along the jeweled pin and faced Annette.
"No, not at all. It was obviously meant for you, it belongs to you."
Annette furrowed her brow, she didn't understand. Before she could inquire any further Mrs. Ellis waved a dismissing hand and motioned Annette to follow her.
"I think we should start you off by sorting the books down here, it's quite drafty I'm afraid, but that's fall in New York for you. There's a light right over here," She pointed to a small cord lamp above, "basements are not usually too bright."
She frowned disapprovingly at the dust that scattered off the lamp. Annette put her hand to the small brass key on the chain around her neck. She had received it last year when she turned 15. Now 16 she felt an indescribable connection with it. Mrs. Ellis carried on with her pleasant chatter, "Not many girls your age care to work these days. I suppose school keeps you busy?"
Annette reluctantly tore her eyes from an old poster for something entitled "Toulouse - Lautrec: Paris 1900" hanging delicately on the pale wall.
"Oh, no, school is only half a day. I go to a theatrical academy. We only have lessons for the first half, and then it's drama." She replied gazing thirstily at the turn of the century items clustered everywhere. "Do you collect antiques?"
"No, these have been in my family forever. I inherited them. That time wasn't so long ago you know." Mrs. Ellis confided. A tweed cabby cap hung lifelessly on a hook from a wooden chalkboard, the kind you find in diners. "I suppose I should leave you to your work, I do hope you don't mind the basement. Stack the books over there in that barrel, those are to be sold. That pile over there are not to be put on the shelves," She said, treading back up the stairs.
Annette started stacking the dusty old books in the appropriate places, she smiled contentedly. She didn't mind working with the antique books intended to be sold to mostly elder people looking to remember the olden days.
She felt along the top shelf of a large corner cabinet, searching for any more books to be organized into the not-to-be-sold category.
Her hand glided along the smooth lacquered shelf, finally banging against something hard. She felt the item. It was a book.
The book was quite old, as most things in the shop were. It's dark brown leather binding was tattered and distressed. The yellowing pages ripped slightly in the corners and the silver writing on the cover announcing, "Diary" in elegant script was faded to a dull grey.
Annette let a breath out slowly, her deep blue eyes wide with curiosity. She ran her hand on the cover, almost scared to dare open it. Trying to suppress her excitement she turned the book over. There was nothing on the back, nor on the spine. She shivered.
The pages seemed to beckon her. Slowly, so slowly, she opened it. The first page held an owner's notice: "This book belongs to: Newspaper Annie (Keepe yor hands off!)"
Annette noted the wrong spelling, suspecting it was a child's diary. She quickly turned to the first page, the writing was filled was messy and filled with spelling errors but Annette dismissed them, an odd feeling started to well up in her. It wasn't fear or sadness, she couldn't recognize it. Nonetheless, she carried on to the first entry.
Black ink made up the writing, smudges blurred some of the words and small fingerprints bordered the edges.
June 15, 1899
Everyday is the same. Weasel gives the papes and we sell them. Prints stole my selling spot today. I should have gone to Jack and told him, but maybe that would looked weak. Everyone thinks being a Newsie is a free life; we can do whatever we want. I'd like to see all them hoity toity adults try to sell enough papes to survive each day. We can go where we want and all that, but I miss mother and father. Sometimes I regret running away, they didn't do anything wrong. It was me. My entire fault. But if I hadn't, I wouldn't have met Jack or Spot or Mush and the rest of them.
What should I do?
Yours, Annie
Annette let out a soft breath. Why did the name Newspaper Annie sound so familiar? She decided to ask Mrs. Ellis about the diary, perhaps she would have some answers. She tucked the diary under arm, shaking slightly. Something kept telling Annette she couldn't quite put her finger on.
Newspaper Annie. The name kept repeating itself over and over in her head. Annette clenched her teeth; it felt so familiar yet she couldn't name it.
She stopped at the counter to ask Mrs. Ellis about the diary but she was gone. Annette glanced around the store softly calling the old woman's name. No answer. She sighed and put the diary in her bag sure Mrs. Ellis wouldn't miss it for now. She could return it later.
Her shift was over. She started out the door but the silver pocket watch from before caught her eye. Annette picked it up, her fingers trembling. The engraved case flipped open easily as if it was new. There was an inscription on the inside cover.
"To: Annie, I love you. Yours Always, M"
Annette looked over her shoulders before slipping the watch in her bag as well. The watch seemed to fit with the diary, besides the obvious notion that it belonged to Newspaper Annie. But who was M? Even just the letter gave Annette butterflies in her stomach. She nearly stumbled. She couldn't understand why she felt this way.
The chilly fall air encircled Annette, biting at her cheeks and ears. She wrapped her scarf around her neck, covering the key necklace.
She needed to find out more. Tomorrow she would ask Mrs. Ellis. It would all come together.
Disclaimer~ Annette is mine; the Newsies belong to Disney and Maps books is owned by whoever owns it.
-----[*]-----
Old. That was the general feeling around the bookstore. Old books, old paint job, old people, and even older customers. The faded paintings scattered strategically on the walls were of stern faced women in restricting dresses and supposedly stately looking hats with large plumes of feathers.
Annette liked it. She laid her canvas messenger bag on a small round table, the antique creaked in protest. Her long midnight hair brushed against her shoulders as she bent to inspect an interesting looking camera type contraption by the counter.
A rich violet hat with a giant deep purple feather sat on top of the camera, the feather was held on by a jewel encrusted pin. The feel of wealth.
She gently laid the hat on her head, circling in front a large antique mirror. A soft laugh behind her made her quickly remove the hat, pink creeping up her cheeks.
"It looks as though that hat was made for you, dear." A petite woman with a face containing more lines than the city map and greying hair stood before Annette, her mouth lifted at the corners.
"Your Annette I believe? I'm Mrs. Ellis, the owner. I do hope you'll like working here." The woman continued, stroking the hat fondly.
"Yes, I'm so sorry for putting on the hat like that, it was just for fun. I hope you don't mind." Annette apologized, her heart hammering from nerves. The woman ran a withered finger along the jeweled pin and faced Annette.
"No, not at all. It was obviously meant for you, it belongs to you."
Annette furrowed her brow, she didn't understand. Before she could inquire any further Mrs. Ellis waved a dismissing hand and motioned Annette to follow her.
"I think we should start you off by sorting the books down here, it's quite drafty I'm afraid, but that's fall in New York for you. There's a light right over here," She pointed to a small cord lamp above, "basements are not usually too bright."
She frowned disapprovingly at the dust that scattered off the lamp. Annette put her hand to the small brass key on the chain around her neck. She had received it last year when she turned 15. Now 16 she felt an indescribable connection with it. Mrs. Ellis carried on with her pleasant chatter, "Not many girls your age care to work these days. I suppose school keeps you busy?"
Annette reluctantly tore her eyes from an old poster for something entitled "Toulouse - Lautrec: Paris 1900" hanging delicately on the pale wall.
"Oh, no, school is only half a day. I go to a theatrical academy. We only have lessons for the first half, and then it's drama." She replied gazing thirstily at the turn of the century items clustered everywhere. "Do you collect antiques?"
"No, these have been in my family forever. I inherited them. That time wasn't so long ago you know." Mrs. Ellis confided. A tweed cabby cap hung lifelessly on a hook from a wooden chalkboard, the kind you find in diners. "I suppose I should leave you to your work, I do hope you don't mind the basement. Stack the books over there in that barrel, those are to be sold. That pile over there are not to be put on the shelves," She said, treading back up the stairs.
Annette started stacking the dusty old books in the appropriate places, she smiled contentedly. She didn't mind working with the antique books intended to be sold to mostly elder people looking to remember the olden days.
She felt along the top shelf of a large corner cabinet, searching for any more books to be organized into the not-to-be-sold category.
Her hand glided along the smooth lacquered shelf, finally banging against something hard. She felt the item. It was a book.
The book was quite old, as most things in the shop were. It's dark brown leather binding was tattered and distressed. The yellowing pages ripped slightly in the corners and the silver writing on the cover announcing, "Diary" in elegant script was faded to a dull grey.
Annette let a breath out slowly, her deep blue eyes wide with curiosity. She ran her hand on the cover, almost scared to dare open it. Trying to suppress her excitement she turned the book over. There was nothing on the back, nor on the spine. She shivered.
The pages seemed to beckon her. Slowly, so slowly, she opened it. The first page held an owner's notice: "This book belongs to: Newspaper Annie (Keepe yor hands off!)"
Annette noted the wrong spelling, suspecting it was a child's diary. She quickly turned to the first page, the writing was filled was messy and filled with spelling errors but Annette dismissed them, an odd feeling started to well up in her. It wasn't fear or sadness, she couldn't recognize it. Nonetheless, she carried on to the first entry.
Black ink made up the writing, smudges blurred some of the words and small fingerprints bordered the edges.
June 15, 1899
Everyday is the same. Weasel gives the papes and we sell them. Prints stole my selling spot today. I should have gone to Jack and told him, but maybe that would looked weak. Everyone thinks being a Newsie is a free life; we can do whatever we want. I'd like to see all them hoity toity adults try to sell enough papes to survive each day. We can go where we want and all that, but I miss mother and father. Sometimes I regret running away, they didn't do anything wrong. It was me. My entire fault. But if I hadn't, I wouldn't have met Jack or Spot or Mush and the rest of them.
What should I do?
Yours, Annie
Annette let out a soft breath. Why did the name Newspaper Annie sound so familiar? She decided to ask Mrs. Ellis about the diary, perhaps she would have some answers. She tucked the diary under arm, shaking slightly. Something kept telling Annette she couldn't quite put her finger on.
Newspaper Annie. The name kept repeating itself over and over in her head. Annette clenched her teeth; it felt so familiar yet she couldn't name it.
She stopped at the counter to ask Mrs. Ellis about the diary but she was gone. Annette glanced around the store softly calling the old woman's name. No answer. She sighed and put the diary in her bag sure Mrs. Ellis wouldn't miss it for now. She could return it later.
Her shift was over. She started out the door but the silver pocket watch from before caught her eye. Annette picked it up, her fingers trembling. The engraved case flipped open easily as if it was new. There was an inscription on the inside cover.
"To: Annie, I love you. Yours Always, M"
Annette looked over her shoulders before slipping the watch in her bag as well. The watch seemed to fit with the diary, besides the obvious notion that it belonged to Newspaper Annie. But who was M? Even just the letter gave Annette butterflies in her stomach. She nearly stumbled. She couldn't understand why she felt this way.
The chilly fall air encircled Annette, biting at her cheeks and ears. She wrapped her scarf around her neck, covering the key necklace.
She needed to find out more. Tomorrow she would ask Mrs. Ellis. It would all come together.