Chapter one
April 22, 1899 Dublin, Ireland
In my world everything is ordinary. Everyone is the same and every day is the same.
I suppose that I must introduce myself to you, my faithful readers, so that you can understand my ordinary story thus far. My name is my identifier, my one true original trait; every piece of me belongs to somebody else: my thick, and sometimes unruly dark hair to my mother, my blue eyes, which I am told are beautiful, though I do not believe it, to my father and my stubbornness is my grand mother's (though what Irish lass is not stubborn? I have yet to meet one easy going person in the whole of Dublin!). I am not thin nor am I grossly obese like the baker's wife (I am sure that she takes her share of the sweet pastries when her husband is not watching her). Mother says that it is not proper for a young lady to talk of such things, but I take great pride in my rather full bosom. Oh dear, I am embarrassed now to have spoken of it but I feel as if I can tell you my secrets, no matter how dark they may be. The rest of me, I fear, is too large. Mother tells me that I should be proud of my "full lips, round bottom and child bearing hips". (If that subject is not the least bit awkward as it is, than it surely is most embarrassing when coming from ones own mother)
My family and I live in a small village outside Dublin, Ireland. Constantly filled with people, our house is a warm, loving place, even when there is not much to eat and nothing to burn in the fireplace. I cannot pretend that we are the richest people but neither are we the poorest family on the block. Everyone does their part and we get by on what we have. Father is a coal miner with my three older brothers, Daniel who is 25 and has four children of his own, Michael who is 23 and has five children and finally Peter who is 19 and my best friend within my family. Mother works in the factory along with my older sister AnneMarie who is 19 and Peter's twin. Both, Mother and Annemarie work from 8 to 3 then rush home to take care of the house. Personally, I do not envy their work and I do believe that I am the luckiest one in the family when it comes to daily jobs. My work consists of reading stories all day long to a senile and blind old woman who lives down the road and is currently going deaf in both ears (a boon for me, to say the least, when my Irish temper gets the best of me and I utter some unladylike vocabulary). Let me tell you that I could be destined for stage greatness someday, with my dramatic antics and knack for accents, which I have picked up during my work. The job does not pay much and half the time Mrs. Ford drifts off, into a fitful (and loud!) sleep, in her chair. When she does fall asleep, I indulge my own imagination with the classics that she keeps in her well stocked library. Despite it all, I am proud to be contributing something to the family.
Of course, AnneMarie insists that I spend my days dreaming and sitting lazily about while she works her hands to the bone in the factory (She neglects to realize that, had she worked her hands to the bone she would be considered a skeleton!) I suppose that I would consider AnneMarie and me to be complete opposites, she is day to my night and white to my black. She has long, straight russet locks which flow down to her miniature waist. Come to think of it, every part of her is tiny, well except her height. Any other tall girl would be thought to be gangly if they were 5'8", but not the graceful AnneMarie; it only adds to her allure. All of the young men in our village are in love with her (or so it seems to me), and how could they not be? She works hard, is beautiful, is kind (to everyone but me) and sings with the voice of an angel. I have found it very hard to stay out of her shadow (though it is much too small for me to get lost in).
I suppose that a small part of me is jealous of her. Alright…a very large part of me is jealous of her, but I can safely say that I am much more intelligent than she is. You see, my faithful confident, that AnneMarie's only contact with the hordes of young men that love her, is through the batting of her lashes and an occasional smile. Unlike me, she would never try to engage them in a philosophical discussion or academic debate. I could sit for hours, arguing anything and everything with the educated males of my village and they like me for that (and only for that!) I guess I should not complain but what is intelligence and personality on a plain girl of medium height, with a medium to matronly frame who will never be able to use her wit and knowledge for anything useful? I have heard that women in America can be anything they want to be: a teacher, a nurse and some are even doctors. Recently, I have be contemplating leaving Ireland and going to America, but where would I ever get the money to buy a passage on one of those fancy ships?
You must forgive my ranting and raving but with four older siblings it is difficult to find someone to talk to who can relate to me or even has the time to talk. Speaking of talking, I have realized that I forgot to tell you the two most important things about me. One: I am the youngest child in my family and I am 17 years old.
Two: My full name is Genevieve Elizabeth O'Malley and you can call me Genevieve, nothing else! I hate the nickname Gen, Vive and Vee, so do not even think about calling me that!
Alas, Mrs. Ford has woken up and I must keep reading her Bible Verses, in Latin! I shall write again my faithful comrades.
Till then,
Genevieve
Manhattan, New York, United States 1899
The sun is barely rising on the horizon when the owner of the NewsBoys Lodging House, Mr. Kloppman, creeps upstairs to wake his tenants: the newsies. The routine is typical. First he yells "Boots!" at a dark, young boy, who springs into action at the sudden noise. Then, he slaps the feet of a tall, dark haired boy, whose immediate response is to proclaim "I didn't do it!". One by one, the boys of the lodging house stumble off their bunks and into the washroom. After a quick wash and shave (for the older boys), they all file out, following the call of the chiming circulation bell. The newsies buy their papes from a crabby, middle aged man, Mr. Wiesel, whom they not so affectionately have dubbed "Mr. Weasel".
Sunny and warm, the day is just an ordinary one for the newsies of Manhattan. No particularly important headlines and no interesting events on the streets of New York. On occasions like this, the newsies must be imaginative and create their own headline to draw in customers.
The tall, handsome leader of the Manhattan Newsies, Jack Kelly, was seated on the concrete steps outside the circulation office. He was skimming the papes, to see if anything interesting would catch the curiosity of his normal customers. Page one, nothing. Page two, nothing and nothing for the next few pages. Just when he was getting desperate, he glimpsed a small article in the bottom left hand corner of the page that he was about to turn.
"Hmmm" said Jack. "There might be something here."
He rose from the concrete step and sauntered towards the gate to the streets of New York.
"Hey Jack! You got a good story?" yelled a blond boy with a worn, leather patch over his left eye.
Jack nodded and continued on his way. When he was out of earshot of the other newsies he began to call his headline.
"Olympic size passenger ship set to flood the streets of America with thousands more Irish immigrants. United States citizens in uproar over predicted rise in unemployment!"
"Damn Irish!" thought Jack "Why can't they stay in their country where they can't take jobs away from everybody else?"