"I want to be like her," were the common words my little sister, Elsie, said everyday as we passed Medda's theater. We stopped to look at her poster in front of her theater. She looked at the poster overly excited as I tugged her along.
"Ella, come on, two more seconds, please." She rolls her eyes at me. She stands in admiration at the poster, looking puffy and red as she always does from selling her papes. I don't blame her though, when I was little, I always wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to do something with my life I know I could help impact the world with. Not some silly job like singing and acting. I always told her she should have another plan in case it didn't work out. She hated it when I said it. She always told me she could see herself on the stage, all lights on her. Not to imagine, growing up with her, she was the youngest; the baby of the family.
"Here we go," I say as I pick her up. She hates it when I do this and starts screaming. All eyes are on me; I put her down and take her hand. Sometimes I let her look at the posters; sometimes I don't let her at all. She pouts at me, the regular way an eight year old would.
"You never liked my idea of being an actor," she scorns, this takes me aback, even though she is my sister I still have to be stern with her sometimes. If only mom and dad were around to control her. In a way, we are kind of like all of the other newsies, but we are considered to have it made. Our dad was still alive, but I guess that's because half of the newsies are orphans. We have a place to rest without it being louder at night than in the day, normally. We also don't have to get food from the nuns, usually. My little sister can sure rack up some money though, but I made her promise to give some of it back to help support out dad. He is nothing like us, we hate everything he does and we can't change him. He is an alcoholic, I can't blame him though, he got injured on the job and the company just let him go. He always picked Elsie over me, but that's okay, I am independent and I liked it that way. Our mom died when I was eleven. Elsie was four back then and didn't know what was happening. We got our newsies job that way, had it for four years, will have it for many more.
"Elsie, we are done selling our papes," I say as we walk back home. Again, she begs me to stop by the theater, in hopes she will see Miss Medda. I see a large orange hat disappear through the theater doors. Apparently, Elsie sees this too as she takes my hand and pulls me through the doors. It's the richest place I have ever been in; Elsie sets her sights on the stage, its gleaming right in front of her. She never expected it to be so beautiful as she hugs my leg and whispers:
"I am home." I actually smile when she says this because I know I can't tell her what she can and can't have as a job, she can always be a Bowery Beauty. I jump in surprise as I turn around and see Miss Medda. I step back a little and pull Elsie out from behind my back. She looks at us as if we were hopeless, which in some causes we kind of were. She looked so unreal though, the bright colors, her creepy smile. It all gave me reason why Elsie shouldn't be a singer. Though there are some good reasons, good actors are rich; they almost always have the spotlight on them. They always have everyone imitating what they do. Just reminding how my little sister would be a great singer or actor.