The first thing Moira noticed about the orphan boy was his accent. She had been skipping heartily around the grimy downtown district of Bedford Park, lightly humming the tune to "Danny Boy" when she crashed right into him. Her head of light brown waves smacked the pavement first and her syrup colored eyes momentarily saw a shade of bright white. Moira could faintly make out a thick Bronx accent over the ringing in her eardrums.
"Aye, punk, watch where you're goin'-" His face slowly took form through the white of the sky, his bright blue eyes giving her a quick one-over as he spoke. His wild deep brown locks hung over the tips of his ears and threatened to cover his eyes. His nose took up half of his face. But the only thing Moira could think about was his accent.
"Hell-o, anyone in there? You deaf 'er somethin'?" He drawled, raising a bushy eyebrow at the young girl. Moira continued to stare at his face; the bright sunlight accenting his fairly chiseled jawline. She replayed his words in her mind, his tone tattooing itself in her brain. After a long moment she finally found the strength to speak.
"Nah, I ain't deaf," she croaked, offering the boy a small smile. She suddenly wished she had taken her Ma's advice and thrown on that lavender gown she had sewn together the week prior. Instead, she sported a pair of grey Beach pajama pants with a long-sleeved white blouse tucked into the waistband. She was sure it was covered in filth from the sidewalk now. The boy's scowl gradually melted into a softer expression, a light smirk tugging at his pink lips.
"Y'must be blind, then," he offered his hand and she took it gratefully, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet by the stranger. "Were ya' walkin' with your eyes closed?"
His hands were huge;at least twice the size of her own feeble paws. She stared at them even after he let go, his thick fingers twitching slightly against the disheveled tan fabric of his Steampunk trousers.
"Nothin' like that, I's just distracted, that's all."
"Well, next time, y'pay attention to where you're goin'."
Moira glanced up at the ancient brick building towering above the two children. The stained wood sign displayed above the entry way read, Little Brothers and Sisters' Orphanage in faded yellow paint. She pointed up the stairs before them. "You live here?"
The boy snorted crudely. "Yeah, s'pose I do."
Moira glanced back at the boy. "Don't matter. It's nicer than my place."
"Where's that?"
"The brick apartment complex over on Marion Avenue."
The boy's eyes widened in surprise. "Y'don't look like the goons that sulk around the Marion block."
She shrugged at his comment. "No where else to go." Her father, a night-time janitor for an office building on Bedford Park Avenue, hardly made enough to pay the rent for their one-bedroom shack on the fourth floor of the complex. Moira's mother, who had given birth to her baby sister no more than 6 months prior, performed daily household chores for farmers in exchange for a portion of their crops. She would milk the cows, clean their homes, and even cook their dinner for a small ration of household essentials. Moira, being an innocent seven-year-old beauty with the best puppy-dog pout on the east coast, was sometimes able to sweet talk a middle class family for a little extra food during the week to bring home to her family. It was the reason why her parents allowed her to run free around the neighborhood so often. She always found a way to lend a helping hand.
The kid eyed her curiously, his head tilted to the side slightly as he sized her up. An old Austin Seven chugged past on the blacktop, honking at a group of giggling children as they darted in its path. It felt like an eternity before he spoke again.
"So, why are ya' over here?"
"I come over to this side of town a few days a week. Sometimes rich people visit the shops, and they give me food cause' they feel bad for me."
He chuckled, flashing a side-smile in her direction. He had pretty nice teeth for an orphan, not yellowed and crooked like most children from the slums of the Bronx district. "A business woman, eh? I like it."
Moira smiled back at him proudly, happy to provoke such a reaction out of someone. "Thank you kindly. Glad someone around here appreciates my work."
"Y'hungry?" Blue-eyes suddenly nodded towards the orphanage. "I think for lunch we're havin' beef and cheese casserole. Trust me, it's better than it sounds."
Moira looked up towards the sun. It sat damn near the center of the sky. She didn't need to be back home for a few more hours, at the least. She met the boy's blue eyes once again and nodded. "Sounds good to me."
Moira started for the stairs before a strong hand grasped her forearm. "Wait," she turned towards Blue-eyes, that same side-smile plastered onto his face. "I never caught yer' name."
Moira peered at him from under her lashes and opened her mouth to answer him. "M-"
She felt something large and furry scurry across the tops of her white Tennis sandals and glanced down, making direct eye contact with the largest rat she had ever seen. She shrieked mid-sentence and just about leaped from the straps of her shoes. "-EEPS!" She finished, kicking at the rodent as it scampered down the stairs and into a nearby alleyway. She was breathing hard, her eyes as wide as saucers.
"Meeps?"She locked glances with Blue-eyes who was chuckling behind his fist. He had a very amused and relaxed expression on his face.
Moira gulped and shook her head frantically. "N-no,not Meeps.That's the dumbest name I ever heard." She sputtered, a blush creeping into her cheeks quickly. "It-It's Moira.Moira Maines."
"Yeah, sureit is, Meeps."He grinned, his eyes filled with mischief. Moira groaned and rolled her eyes.
"That's notmy name."
"It is now!" He snorted as he strode up the steps ahead of her. He turned halfway up the staircase to glance back. "Hope y'know I ain't ever callin' you anythin' else." He winked.
"I figured." Moira sighed, trailing along behind him to the moldy entry door. Before he reached for the doorknob Moira piped in. "Hey, y'never told me your name."
He put a hand on the knob and peeked over his shoulder behind him. "Frank. Frank Hartley."
"Nice to meet you, Bronx," she smirked at her new nickname for the orphan, and it was his turn to roll his eyes.