Okay, I am so sorry for all of my new stories. I should be updating the My Little Pony ones, but I just watched Les Mis for the third and now I'm in the spirit. So… enjoy!

My Sincerest Regards,

-Almost an Actress (Novi)

XXX

"JAMISON ARKEN!" The screech was what woke Jamie up that fateful Sunday. Her light brown eyes snapped open; their first sight was the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. They faintly glowed green in the darkness of the room. She opened her mouth in a giant yawn.

"Yeah, Mom?" the young teenager answered sleepily, swinging her legs off of the bed. She stretched and stood, staggering out of her room and down the stairs.

"Are you aware of what time it is?!" her mother snapped.

Jamie refrained from rolling her eyes. Even on relaxing days like Sunday, her mom was always ready to wake her up with more screaming and yelling. "Um…" Jamie checked the clock on the wall. "Noon. Why?"

Her mother's eye twitched. "We missed the service," she said, struggling to remain calm.

Oh, boy, Jamie thought. One week ago today, she had chopped off her long, curly ringlets and dyed the remaining hair light green in an act of almost revolutionary rebelliousness. She had been tired of her mother's constant nagging about being perfect, getting good grades, and so forth. The one thing she never criticized Jamie on had been her hair – long, luscious, and brown. Jamie had grown tired of the hours-long routine it took to keep her hair bouncy and unsnarled a long time before she lopped all of the hair off. When her mother had seen her, she had actually fainted. It had taken Jamie fifteen minutes to revive her mother, and the moment she did, Lucille Arken had began screaming and raging at her daughter. The rant had lasted a full forty-five minutes – Jamie had counted – and was full of redundant shrieks of "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" Jamie had explained as calmly as she could that she was tired of being the perfect, obedient, dull, and utterly unhappy daughter of the saintly businesswoman. That had brought on another barrage of accusations and incredulous "IF YOU'RE UNHAPPY, YOU CAN TELL ME!"-type cries.

Now it was officially one week later, and Jamie's mother had her mouth screwed up in a very tiny, very angry shape. It was as if she had swallowed a lemon. "I cannot show my face in that goddamned church ever again as long as your hair is like that," she hissed.

Jamie resisted the urge to contradict her mother. She could have said, "You can go alone." She could have said, "I can wear a bandana, a hat." She could have even said, "Why are you saying "goddamned" and "church" in the same sentence?" But she didn't. She kept silent, gritting her teeth and running a hand defiantly over the light green, unspiked Mohawk she sported.

"We've missed the service because I allowed you to sleep in," Lucille Arken continued icily. "Get dressed and brush your teeth for God's sake. Then we're going to go to the barber shop and shave the rest of your hair off. We can say that you have a shaved head because you donated all of your hair to charity. Come on now."

At that moment, something in Jamie snapped. She had played the quiet, yes-mother-no-mother daughter for thirteen years now, and she was tired of it. "No," she said firmly. "I actually really like my new hair, Mom. I'm not about to go practically bald just so you can save your social image." She narrowed her brown eyes defiantly, daring her mother to contradict her.

And contradict her she did. "Jamison Rose Arken!" she shrieked. "I do nothing but good for you-"

Jamie stopped listening after that. There were many repetitions and reprimands mixed into the slew of words, but they were just that: words. Almost every day for every single one of her thirteen years, Jamie's mother had had at least one critical thing to say. Sometimes it was small – Change out of that shirt; it looks shabby. Don't track mud in the house. Stop signing your schoolwork with that horrible nickname. Sometimes it was big – Good God, Jamison! You're just like your no good bastard of a father, you know that? You stay silent all the time, thinking everyone adores you, and then you're just a snake in disguise! A God damned snake!

Words that like had made Old Jamie cry. Old Jamie, the curly-headed, brown-haired mouse of a girl who did everything her mother said and sobbed in her room for hours when no one was home. Old Jamie, the girl who squealed over every A-plus, spent many headache-inducing hours making sure her schoolwork was just perfect, and didn't dare say a word out of turn. Whenever Old Jamie had been reprimanded, she would think, Whatever I did must have been my fault. Why would I ever want to take ballet dancing? That's stupid; of course I'm too short to be a ballet dancer! Or: Of course this shirt looks sloppy; why would I ever even put it on?! Even: I must be like Dad if Mom says so. He must have been a horrible person… just like me.

But New Jamie was different.

New Jamie had shaved her head and died the remaining strip a beautiful leafy green. New Jamie was quite fond of her hair, and thought it made her look tough. New Jamie didn't want to go to church and suffer through the hours-long sermon rambled on by some fire and brimstone pastor. New Jamie was more confident and sure of herself, and if it meant getting reamed by her mother, New Jamie didn't mind.

Jamie took a deep breath. "Mom," she interrupted her mother.

"You are such a disgrace of a-" Lucille Arken cried. Jamie's interruption had cut right through the rant, and she sent a steaming glare her daughter's way. "What?" she hissed.

"I have some stuff to say," Jamie began carefully. "Mom, almost every day you make me feel horrible about myself. I'm done." With that, she turned her back and walked slowly back upstairs to her room. She clicked the lock shut and sat on her bed, blowing a breath out. She turned the light off and lay back down on the bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars until she was almost dizzy. They burned softly down on her, pale and green. They were comforting, and she closed her eyes. "I wish I could go somewhere where nobody would treat me like dirt," she whispered to the stars. "They would value me for who I am." With that, she rolled over and screamed into her pillow.

XXX

When Jamie woke up, she found herself with a mouth full of grass and dirt. "ACK! PFFT!" she spat, frantically grabbing the little stalks of grass off of her tongue. She accidently swallowed several clumps of dirt, and managed to choke for about three minutes until she dislodged them from her throat with an unattractive hack. She spat again for good measure and got to her feet, looking around. "Where… am I?" Jamie murmured. She was standing in a park of some sort, wearing a tattered, faded blue frock and clunky brown boots. Over the frock was an equally-faded white corset that was forcing her to stand up straight. The frock itself was ripped in many places and hung off of her in others. The boots were much too big, and when she wiggled her toes she could feel crumpled papers stuffed inside the toes of the boots. Over the ugly dress and washed out corset, she was wearing a tight, yet threadbare brown coat. The sun was shining and the grass was practically glowing on the pleasant summer day.

Jamie looked around her. There were no glow-in-the-dark stars or nagging mothers to be seen. She saw a few men and women walking by, and she approached a man in nice – if old fashioned – clothing. "Excuse me, sir?" she implored him. "Um… I just woke up in this park…" – she gestured around her – "… and I can't seem to remember where I am. I'm not pranking or joking, I promise. Can you tell me where we are?"

The man looked at her blankly. "Je ne parle pas votre langue," he said carefully.

Jamie was utterly dumbfounded. The man in front of her seemed to be speaking… French! Jamie closed her eyes and walked away. She sat down on a bench in the park and rubbed her temples, confused. What's going on? she thought. One minute I'm screaming into my pillow, and the next I'm in some park! Suddenly, she sat up rigidly, her light brown eyes almost seeming to glow with realization. Facts and pictures, sensations and sounds, memories and music, all began slamming into her head.

You are in the city of Paris, France in the year 1832. You are going to meet some positively revolutionary people, and meet your fate in the process, an invisible voice seemed to whisper. You are Jamie Arken, thirteen years old, street urchin. You have no family.

No family? Jamie thought. But Mom-

No, the voice whispered regretfully. Your mother does not exist in this world. You are alone now, but friends will be coming soon, Jamison Rose Arken. I promise.

Jamie snapped back to reality. A boy a year or so younger than her was standing next to her, shaking her shoulder. "Mademoiselle?" he questioned. "Couldja spare a franc 'r two fer a poor urchin?"

Jamie was surprised to be able to understand him. She gave him a small smile. "Sorry, kid. I can't. I'm broke, I guess."

The boy shrugged. "Worf a short, non?" he said with a lopsided smile. He had messy, slightly-curly blonde hair and a ratty outfit. He smelled as if he never washed, and his teeth were practically growing moss. Jamie inwardly cringed, but the boy seemed friendly enough. That was… until he noticed her hair. His eyes traveled up her figure, appraising her poor clothes. When they met the top of her head, his mouth dropped open. "Yer 'air!" he shouted. "It… it's green!"

Jamie sighed, fingering a leaf-colored stand between her fingers. "I suppose so. Mom wasn't too happy about it either." She paused, remembering her apparent lack of a mother and the fact that she had been shot back in time. She grimaced. "I guess girls don't have this sort of hair here," she grumbled to the boy. She was still shocked and reeling from the fact that she could now suddenly speak French, but the fact that everyone still reacted so violently to her hair still bugged her.

The boy shook his head. "Nope, mademoiselle," he said. "But I don't mind too much. Me kids 'r all weird. Little Lisbeth don't have a right hand." He leaned in, whispering, "She was borned without it."

"Your… kids?" Jamie questioned.

"Yep!" the boy answered proudly. "I take care of 'em all! Orphans and th' like, y'know? Some of 'ems gots mums and papas, but they treat 'em bad. Y'know, kickin' 'em around! I ain't ever gonna let nothin' bad happen to me kids!" he declared.

"Oh," Jamie said. "Well, I guess it's cool that you take care of kids. My mom didn't kick me around, but she kicked me around with… her words."

She boy nodded. "Know 'ow ya feel. Before I ran off, me mum and papa was always raggin' on me sisters and I." He paused. "Don't think I've introduced meself. I'm Gavroche!" He stuck out a grubby hand.

Jamie took it. "I'm Jamie," she said with a smile.

"Shhjamie?" Gavroche repeated, struggling with his French accent to pronounce her American name. "Er… what sorta name is that?"

"It's American," Jamie supplied.

"Nasty folks, those Americans," Gavroche said with a rueful shake of his head. He didn't give a reason why, but Jamie suspected it was that sort of unneeded, childish want to hate something or someone. "I'd advise ya t' get a new name! A French name!"

Jamie shrugged. She tried to think of something. "Er… Lysette," he mumbled to herself. Huh, that has a nice ring to it, she thought. Well, Jamison did come from Mom, and I don't have a mom in this world. A smile crept across her face. "My name is Lysette," she said confidently to Gavroche. She leaned in, whispering, "Don't tell anyone my real name, alright?"

The young boy seemed delighted to have a secret to keep. "On me honor, Mademoiselle Lysette," he said with an exaggerated wink. He sat down on the bench, and the two began talking. Jamie learned a great deal about Gavroche in the span of just a few hours. She learned all about his sisters Eponine and Azelma, two girls whom he loved very much. He said that 'Ponine, as he called her, was foolishly in love with some bourgeoisie fellow named Monsieur Marius, who plainly was interested in more groomed women. He told her that 'Zelma, as he called his other sister, was fifteen years old, and practically invisible.

"A right wisp of a gal she is," Gavroche said. "All pale and unhappy-like. Mum and Papa don't seem t' have much use for her, so she gets ignored most of th' time, unless Papa feels like smackin' 'er around."

He told her about the thieving, murdering dandy named Montparnasse whom he saw as an idol. "He's right pretty for a fellow," Gavroche supplied enthusiastically. "Gots all this nice, curly black hair and these right pretty clothes. He's silent as Monsieur Death himself, he is! He can sneak up on an alley cat and kill it dead 'fore it even knows what happens!" He enthused about the young man for a good ten minutes, assuring his newfound friend of the man's cold spirit and wicked skill with a blade. "He and 'Ponine were goin' for a while," he said at one point. "She'd always be kickin' me out whenever 'e came over, tellin' me they was havin' "private adult time." Whatever that means."

Jamie felt herself involuntarily blushing, not wanting to think about Gavroche's big sister and her lover and what they did during this "private adult time." "Um… yeah," she said.

He then went on to tell her about another group he idolized, the Amis de L'ABC. "They're revolutionaries!" he said excitedly. "They wanna cut the fat ones down t' size, and give the people monies and stuff! They wanna form a republic and kick the fat old king offa the throne." He went on to tell her about a few years ago when France had killed the current king, and how it had just lead to senseless bloodshed. "Kids my age were killed wiff crowds cheerin'," Gavroche said with a disgusted shake of his head. "Wasn't their fault they were nobles. The Amis don't wanna see stupid bloodshed; they'll kill if they hafta, but they don't wanna." He told her more about the members. There was the leader of them, a boy named Enjolras. It was said that no one knew his first name, and no one dared create a nickname for him. He had beautiful blonde hair, and was seemingly flawless. Gavroche's eyes lit up, practically sparkling when he told of Enjolras's skill with impassioned speeches, causing entire crowds to erupt into cheering. He then told her of the other members, from the notoriously unlucky bald one, to the hypochondriac who served as his lover.

"They're gay?" Jamie questioned. "I thought people didn't approve of that in this time period."

"Of course they're happy!" Gavroche giggled. "Why'd the people not approve of bein' happy?"

Jamie rolled her eyes. "Go on."

He told her of the womanizers of the group, Courfeyrac and Bahorel, the fan-making Orphan boy obsessed with Poland, and the Romantic poet Jehan. "He's a right fop," Gavroche chuckled. "Always wearin' hair ribbons and ruffs and the like. He's got this hair that he cares so much about and-" He began to describe in detail about Jehan's luxurious hair and how much he cared. He then told about the last member of the group, a black-haired drunkard named Grantaire. "He's only there 'cause he's obsessed with Enjolras," Gavroche explained, perfectly happy to explain people's life stories to a girl who just a short time ago had been a stranger. "He'd be right handsome if he didn't waste away all day drinkin'," the boy said.

Jamie listened to Gavroche's detailed descriptions of seemingly every person he'd ever met until the sun began to set. She looked around, and saw people beginning to retreat into their homes, bidding one another goodnight. A few beggars and urchins scuttled into the shadows for a long night. Gavroche looked around at the orange hued sky and smiled. "Well, Mademoiselle Lysette," he said, "I'd best be goin on me way now. Gotsta take care 'a me kids."

Jamie blanched. "Wait!" she cried. "I… I don't know where to go... to sleep, I mean."

"Haven't ya been livin' on the streets longer 'n I?" the boy questioned.

"No," Jamie said. "I just got here. I'm obviously not rich enough to be in a house, but I don't exactly feel comfortable sleeping with…" She gestured around her at the beggars settling in for the night. As if to prove her point, a man swooped down beside a woman and snatched the crust of bread she had been gnawing at. The two began to squabble loudly, the woman squawking angrily and the man yelling at her in a deep voice.

Gavroche nodded. "When yer not used to it, the people can seem right scary." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I s'pose summa the gents wouldn't mind too much if ya roomed with 'em, pretty girl like yerself."

Jamie balked. "Wh-what?" she stammered.

Gavroche looked genuinely surprised. "What'd ya mean?" he asked curiously.

"Well… are you suggesting… I mean, do you think…?"

Gavroche looked surprised again. "How else d'ya think poor gamin girls be earnin' their fortunes?" He gave her a smile. "I guess ya could go down to the wharf where some of 'em are," he said helpfully. "Some girls just try to lure the mens right 'ere."

"I'M NOT A PROSTITUTE!" Jamie cried, earning her a few surprised glances from the beggars in the shadows. "I'M THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, FOR GOD'S SAKE!" she yelled at the urchins.

Gavroche laughed merrily. "Pardon m'mistake Mademoiselle Lysette," he giggled. "I thought… judgin' by the corset and such…"

She rolled her eyes and gave a heavy sigh.

Suddenly, the boy's eyes lit up. He was looking at some point over her shoulder and trying desperately not to burst into laughter. "Mademoiselle Lysette!" he cried through a fit of giggles. "Look out!"

Jamie, confused, ducked down so that her face met the slats of the bench just before a hand grabbed her back the bag of her threadbare jacket and yanked her up. "Who is Gavroche's little green-headed friend?" a voice purred into her ear.

She squirmed, panicking even though Gavroche seemed to be sensing no danger. In fact, he was cackling with laughter, having spasms against the backrest of the bench. "Let me go!" she snapped to her mysterious attacker.

Suddenly, before she even registered it, she was pinned to the backrest of the bench with her hands tied behind her back and her chin harshly gripped in the hand of an unusually red-lipped fellow. He had wild, yet well-kept black hair with a large top hat sitting atop his curls. "Montparnasse," she spat, remembering Gavroche's excited descriptions of the dandy.

"At your service, mademoiselle," he said with a wink.

She brought her bound hands over her head, meaning to smack him on the nose, but he had danced away before she could get within six inches of him. He moved very gracefully, appearing to be about eighteen or nineteen. He tapped her nose with a wicked grin. "Untie me!" she roared over Gavroche's giggles.

"As you wish," Montparnasse almost sighed, producing a knife with a flick of his wrist. He snapped the ropes binding her hands and grinned, trying to be charming, but coming off as a smarmy jerk.

Jamie rubbed at her wrists angrily. "Who do you think you are?!" she snapped at the young thief. "Coming here and making me look like an idiot! Well I've got some information for you, Mr. 'Parnasse-!" Before she could finish, she found herself against a tree with Montparnasse's face dangerously close to hers.

"Something you'd like to say, petite soeur?" he growled.

"Yeah!" Jamie snapped. "I'm not your little sister!" She kicked him hard in the shin, running back to Gavroche. "Now beat it!"

The murdering dandy's eyes lit up dangerously. "Oh, you little whore, you just crossed the line," he snarled. Only then did Jamie remember Gavroche's vivid descriptions of Montparnasse's temper that ranged from soothing and gentle one moment to wild and murderous the next. She wasn't afraid though, only offended.

"Excuse me?!" she shrieked. "Why does everyone think I'm a-?!" Before she could finish, Gavroche had grabbed her arm in a vice grip, and was dragging her along, running as fast as he could.

"Don't ever cross paths with Monsieur 'Parnasse again if ya know what's go fer ya," he breathed. "We're gonna go see some nice gents now, Mademoiselle Lysette. They'll help ya proper. Besides," he added, "it's my duty t' take care of ya now, y'know?"

Jamie sighed and kept running, wondering what the heck had just happened.