The docks were crowded with young boys in their underdresses roughing around, pushing each other off the wood supports, and generally laughing gaily. Off to the side, further away was one girl. She sat with a sketch board on her lap piled with sheets of paper and a length of vine charcoal poised in her right hand. She held the paper at an upward tilt as she drew her observances.
She had made a habit of coming to the Brooklyn docks over the summer, the young men were mostly Newsies, poor boys who sold the newspaper for a living, but they made terrific models in her opinion. Her nanny slept in the summer heat next to her. The artist insisted that she could take care of her self, but her father insisted that the elderly woman accompany her everywhere. Nan, as she called her, was a bit slow and was easy to slip away from in crowded squares.
The younger girl had received criticism from her tutor about her subject choices for her sketching. He insisted she draw the upper class women in their beautiful dresses, but she always refused, preferring the bloodied boxers or street rats to the rich.
She wiped the sweat from her brow with her handkerchief, which was coated in charcoal and left a black smudge on her forehead. She tried in vain to wipe away the dirt when a hand appeared in front of her.
The hand cradled a clean piece of cloth, damped with salt water.
"Ya got a bit of dirt," the boy said gesturing on his face to the corresponding places on her features.
"Thank you," she said taking the offered rag. The cool ocean water felt refreshing as she sighed in relief.
"You should take a dip in the water, if you're so hot," he suggested.
"I'll pass," she responded returning the cloth and returning to drawing.
"You've been coming here a lot," he stated sitting on the crate next to her.
"The breeze is nice, and all of you jumping around is fun to draw," she explained motioning to the contents of her lap.
"May I?" he asked reaching out.
"Oh, of course," she handed him the board with her recent work, and the series of drawings from the past weeks.
"These are really good," he smiled lightly at the pictures, flipping from page to page carefully. He paused on one drawing for a longer moment studying it. The fairer sex leaned over, curious to what caught his attention.
It was a rough portrait of him. She had suspected in the days passed that he was the leader of the boys, and a few days ago her hypothesis was proven correct. There had been a scuffle between two boys, which had quickly turned physical until he had stepped between them. Their quick response to his presence confirmed his authority to her.
"I liked your expression," she offered as an explanation.
"You're quite the artist," he replied looking up with a smile. She noted that it wasn't a true smile, but a crooked smirk. "I'm Spot, by the way," he offered his hand to her.
"Elise," she responded, taking his hand.
"Oh my!" Nan said, jolting up as the church bells rang, "We should be getting home, miss," she stated standing up as Elise gathered her drawings.
"It was lovely talking to you Mr. Spot," she said standing, her work stowed safely under her arms.
"What are you doing tomorrow night?" He asked quickly.
"Tomorrow, uhm, nothing."
"I'll meet you at midnight," He said quickly, "Brooklyn Bridge."
Elise was a well-behaved girl, she didn't speak out of turn or ever make a scene, and she slept soundly at night. Her father worked late, well past dinner and her bedtime. She didn't mind that he worked all hours, what she did mind was that he had never notice that she was seventeen and not seven. So when the strange boy, who was well away from her social class suggested she sneak out after hours, she jumped at the offer.
She may have been harboring a crush on the boy, but she swore that played no part in her choice to go out. She curled up in bed in her camisole and bloomers, pulling the covers up to her chin as Nan said good night and waited in bed. She counted to twenty before hearing her caretaker's snores echo through the walls. She moved quietly about her room getting ready. Doing up the clips on her corset without help was harder than she imagined, but once her bust was restrained she pulled on a petticoat. She looked through her dresses, unsure of which to wear. She settled on a yellow skirt and simple while blouse before sneaking down the hall and out the front door.
She arrived at the Brooklyn Bridge at a quarter to midnight, but standing alone looking at the stars was her gentlemen caller. He jumped as she said, "Hello, Mr. Spot."
"Jeeze, I didn't hear you coming," he commented, looking at her feet, "Where're ya shoes," he asked.
"Oh," Elise hurried to sit down, "I didn't want to wear my shoes because they're terribly loud," she explained trying to pull on her stockings, but she gasped for breath and coughed. She hadn't thought of her corsets restriction until it was too late. Her hand rested on her chest as she caught her breath, "I'm sorry, I'm not used to," she began to explain before trailing off, it wasn't proper to speak of undergarments in company.
"It s'all right," he said kneeling down and taking a stoking from her grasp, "I know all about corsets," he commented rolling the silk up her leg, over her calf and knee.
She blushed at his touch, "You do?"
He paused after applying the second sock, "Well I know all about taking them off," he corrected himself, doing up the buttons on her boots.
Elise felt the warmth of her blushing engulf her features at his comment. He had taken corsets off of other women, but this was her fist time being alone with a man.
"Shall we go?" he stood, helping her right herself.
Spot brought his date to Medda's late show. As per usual, the place was packed with Newsies and other working boys. Elise looked around, wishing she had her sketch pad with her as she watched the younger boys drool over the performer, while the older ones swung their drinks, singing along. There were games of poker towards the back and a few boys dancing with their dates on the floor. Spot lead her through the crowd, his arm securely around her waist as he pulled her along to a table on the side.
A few of the older boys sat there watching the room talking lightly as the raucous swirled around them.
"Spot, you made it," one said as he clapped his hands with her date's.
"Jacky, this Elise, and Elise, this is Jack Kelly, the second most important Newsie in this here city," Spot introduced them.
"It's a pleasure," Elise commented holding out her hand.
"The pleasure is mine," Jake replied kissing her knuckles.
They sat down as another boy handed them both beers.
Elise looked down; the glass was dirty with lip marks and the beer looked murky. She was used to wine in a crystal glass, but threw caution to the wind and took a swig of beer. She finished off two glasses quickly, feeling a comfortable, warm glow settling in her cheeks.
"Care to dance?" Spot asked into her ear, if sober, she might have taken more notice to his closeness.
"I only know, know how to waltz," she stumbled over her words as he took her hands. She positioned her arms in the traditional fashion, a strong frame with a straight back. He ruined her position as he pulled her close against his chest and began to move.
"To bad I don't waltz," He called over the noise, smirking again.
Dancing with spot was like none other. She normally danced with Joaquin, a family friend who was away at college right now. He always respected her space and moved in the proper steps so she could follow easily. Spot broke any personal boundaries she may have had with him, he moved quickly and unpredictably, stepping left when he should've gone right. This caused Elise to misstep quite often, catching his toes under her shoes. Eventually Spot began to move her. She didn't have to think, he supported her weight as they moved, carrying her like a rag doll.
He was smiling now, but his smile was only in response to her foolish grin. 'This is dancing,' Elise thought, it was nothing like the slow movements she was used to. She was happy and elated as they exited the floor. She was spinning and giggling. Elise wasn't entirely aware of her surroundings until she felt a cold breeze on her shoulders, which was quickly stifled.
"What?" she asked looking around, and grasping onto the freshly placed jacket.
"You're drunk," Spots voiced teased from behind.
She spun around to face him, tripping into his grasp, "And you're not?"
"Not in the least," he chuckled, righting her stance.
"Take off my shoes," she whispered into his ear, brushing her lips against his lobe. The Brooklyn newsie obliged his date and knelt down and removed her shoes, then her stockings. First her right stocking, his fingers may have lingered over her knee a second to long, but that was nothing compared to the kiss he left above her left.
As he rose from under her skirt, he saw the rouge creeping into her cheeks, he knew that mostly the alcohol caused it, but he hoped dearly that he also had an influence on the colors of her cheeks.
They stood in silence; Spot fear she may fall asleep right there. Contrary to his guess, she leaned forward placing her lips on his.
Spot could not count on both hands and feet how many lips he had kissed, but Elise's history with lip locking would only occupy two slender fingers. Unlike her first experience, kissing Spot made her stomach flip like it did when she first watched him undress before diving into the ocean at the docks.
"It's time to go home," Spot murmured, resting his forehead upon hers.