Queen of New York

Chapter 1:

Racetrack

The shrieks of children filled my ears as I used my sewing machine, careful not to miss a single stitch. I was working at a sweatshop two blocks away from where I live. My little sister, Annie, was working next to me, hazel eyes narrow in deep concentration. I occasionally looked over at her to make sure she was doing okay.

I finally finished the last stitch on the hem the dress I was making. It's a pretty little dress, I thought, some little girl would be very lucky to have it, and, oh how lovely this would look on Annie. It really was a beautiful dress. I crossed my arms and rubbed my arms to try to keep my arms from practically freezing off. It was wintertime. Luckily, I was wearing long sleeves, but not every kid in the shop had that sort of luck. I started to work on the sleeve of the dress looked over at Annie again, just to be sure she was okay.

The events that followed completely changed my life forever.

All I could really remember was a stinging burning, excruciating pain in my right pointer finger. I immediately executed a blood curdling screech and everyone went quiet to look at me. Annie turned to look at me then gasped. Her gasps turned to screams. I figured it had to be the machine. My finger must have gotten under the sewing needle on the sewing machine. I was still screaming. The needle drilled down unmercifully and tears streamed down my cheeks and I began to bang on the table with my free hand. I started to curse wildly, throwing every word out that I knew, swearing at the adults in charge that were still staring at me in shock. "TURN IT OFF, PLEASE TURN IT OFF!" I pleaded before unleashing a cry of pure agony and torture.

Eventually, a large man with a mustache came by and switched off the machine and took my arm. I started shouting at him, yelling at him for not turning the machine off sooner, and demanding that he doesn't touch me. He was trying to guide me out of the room, by I stood my ground. "You're fired!" he hollered, but I stayed put. He then picked me up and carried me off, while I was slapping and hitting at the man's arms commanding him to let me go, still crying and wincing in pain. I saw Annie staring at me, shocked, her big hazel eyes gaping at me. I couldn't just leave her there.

"Annie!" I screamed with all the loudness I could muster. "Annie!" The man was still dragging me out of the room and I was still hitting at him and screaming and crying and bleeding.

We went down some stairs and a lady gave me some white bandages for my wounds that I didn't dare to look at. Then, both the man and lady flung open doors that lead to an alleyway. They shoved me out and the man yelled, "And don't come back!" before slamming the door behind him.

I finally got the courage to look down at my wounds. Well, it was definitely going to scar. The needle pin had dug into my cuticles, and blood was splattered all over my right hand. Half of my fingernail was gone, and a layer of tender, pink skin was showing. I winced. I had no idea how it was going heal. It was going to get infected, so I began to wrap the bandages around it.

"Whoa," marveled a voice. "Well, that ain't 'gonna heal any time soon." I looked up. A boy was standing across the ally, leaning against and drain pipe. He had on a hat, and a vest and a nice shirt. He was a pretty good looking fellow. "'Ya get fired?"

I nodded. The boy nodded back. He took a match out of his vest pocket, and a cigar out of the other. He struck the match against the brick wall and it caught fire. He lit his cigar, and then took a long, slow, puff.

"What'd 'ya do?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. I lifted my right hand in response, to show him my screwed up finger. He started to walk over to me, and I started to panic. What was he going to do? Jump me? It's not like I had anything to begin with.

Instead, he took my hand to get a closer look at my finger. "Did one of the needles get 'ya?" he asked. I nodded. I yelped as one of the embers of his cigar fell on my wound and his eyes widened and apologized, then took the cigar from his mouth and threw it of the ground, careful to step on it with his foot.

When he was done examining me, he asked, "Can't 'ya talk?"

"Yeah." I said back, annoyed.

"What's 'ya name, dollface?" he asked.

Should I tell him? I thought. Or should I make up a fake identity? I looked into his deep brown eyes, sparkling with mischief and curiosity and decided that he looked like a pretty trustworthy guy. "Mary." I said quietly, suddenly becoming a little shy.

"Yeah, that ain't 'gonna work." he interjected, I little rudely in my opinion.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, sorry!"

"Sorry!" I said in a goofy man voice, mocking him.

"Your new name's Birdie," he said right off the top of his head.

I was shocked. As much as I was starting to despise this mysterious boy, he really did come up with a beautiful name. I squinted my eyes and coked my head to the side. "What?" I asked.

"It's your newsie name, Birdie." He said, and winked. Yeah, I definitely didn't like him. He was arrogant, and rude, and aggressive, and immature.

"But I'm not even a newsie."

"You can be, if you want…" he said in a manner that was a little too friendly for my taste.

"But I'm a girl." I retorted.

"Exactly." He shot back. He winked. I raised my eyebrows.

"Wow," I said. "You're really quite the jerk, aren't you. Good God! Why did I ever even tell you my name? Goodbye, whoever you are!" I yelled, tears still streaming down my face from the accident that occurred a few minutes ago.

I stomped away, out of the alley. "Wait!" the boy called. I turned around, long blond hair whipping around as I turned. I stomped toward him, very angry. I stopped and leaned in so I was about six inches from his face. "What?" I snapped.

He smirked. "I'm Racetrack." He said, and stuck out a hand. "I would spit in it, but you might find that rude." He made air quotes when he said the word "rude".

I shook his hand and frowned. "I'm Birdie," I said back, deciding that it would be best to just humor him. He smiled. Before I could say anything else, he took my hand. "C'mon," he said. "I'll show 'ya my place." And before I could protest he raced down the street, dragging me with him.

What did I just get myself into?