Papers flew everywhere as the crowd of children cheered in the square, hugging and laughing. Some were weeping with joy, and others simply ran about, shrieking happily. Girls and boys shouted from rooftops down to their comrades below, and newsies threw their caps in the air. Today was a day of gigantic victory for the child laborers of New York, for today, the Newsies strike had beaten Pulitzer, owner of The World.
Cara sat, legs crossed,on a garden wall raised up just high enough to see over the masses crowding the square. Her cap askew on her head andher tongue sticking out of her mouth ever so slightly as she sketched on her shabby newspaper canvas. She was capturing the scene of the square forever on that sheet. Her liberation day. The crowd parted, and Cara leaned over to see whatever caused the move. When she glimpsed Jack Kelly with his arm around a pretty girl, she immediately flipped to a new side of newspaper and began sketching frantically, looking up with her lopsided grin as he kissed the lucky dame. With the basic picture down, Cara began to add in the details; the image seemed frozen in her mind, like a photograph.
The charcoal blossomed over the page as the crowd gradually began to disperse around Cara, though she didn't take much notice. The cheers were now a dim roar to her ears; she was focused only on the drawing in front of her. Soon, only Jack and a few of his friends remained in the square, talking and laughing. Racetrack Higgins, a friend of Cara's, spotted her from the ground and waved up to her.
"Ahoy up there, kid," he called with a smirk. "Whatcha workin' on this time, eh?" He took another puff on his cigarette and stuffed his other hand in his pocket. The others stopped, nodding up and waving at Cara, who tucked the charcoal behind her ear and returned the gesture.
"Just a little keepsake for the 'ero," she replied cheekily. Jack raised his eyebrows, and the girl he had kissed (who was now under his arm) giggled.
"Yeah, and what might that be, Picasso?" he asked.
"I think the lady knows, Jackie boy," Cara replied, folding the cover over her makeshift portfolio and smirking.
Jack gave the girl an inquisitive, dashing look, and she whispered something to him, chuckling. Jack blushed immediately, and Cara laughed for a moment before realizing that he was running up the ladder after her. She shrieked as he grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides as the boys and girl below laughed uproariously.
"Lemme see it," he said into her ear, his fingers threatening to tickle. "Lemme see it, Cara!"
"All right, all right!" she gasped. "Lemme go first. Your clumsy newsie hands'll rip the bleeding paper."
Watching her closely, Jack let go and the young artist pulled back the sheets of newspaper to reveal her latest work-in-progress. Jack grinned and studied the drawing. He cocked his head a little, as if considering something, and then nodded.
"Nice job, for an amateur," he said, smirking. Cara raised an eyebrow at him and nodded at the brunette below them.
"What's 'er name, Cowboy?"
He gave the girl a soft look. "Sarah."
"She looks like a nice girl. Maybe she'll calm you down a bit, Jack, hm?" said Cara, smiling.
"Yeah, maybe. Why don't you come down to the restaurant with us, huh? Denton's buyin' again, kindofa congratulations thing," he said, tugging on her sleeve. Cara considered him for a moment, and then nodded.
"Sure. Anytime I kin get a coke in good comp'ny," she grinned. The newsie and the screever jumped down from the wall and joined the small group. Racetrack, always the gentleman, offered his arm to Cara, who took it gallantly. Jack made some quick introductions.
"Dave, Les, Sarah, this is Cara O'Conner, amateur screever and chimney sweep extraordinaire. Cara, this is Dave, Les, and Sarah. Dave was the brains of this 'ere operation, he's a walkin' mouth," said Jack, grinning.
"Nice to meet you," Dave shook her hand with a smile, and felt the callouses on her willowy hands. "You're an artist?"
"A screever, really. Earns me a few coppa's and silva's a day along with sweepin'," she replied jovially. "You're a bit of a new newsie, huh? Yo' brotha too?"
"Yes'm. I sell the most papes," Les squeaked. Jack laughed and ruffled his hair, and lead the way down to the corner diner, where a crowd of children and teens were waiting for them, bursting into applause when Jack entered. He raised his hands for quiet.
"Everythin's gonna change now," he said. "Now I ain't sayin', I ain't sayin' life's gonna be easy. I'm sayin' you'll still have your jobs and you'll be able to eat properly. And you'll be taken seriously. We got voices now! We ain't nuthin'!"
Cara found herself cheering along with the others, and sat down to a cold glass of Coke and good company. After awhile she found Denton, the news reporter, peering over her shoulder at her drawings, which she was fidgeting with.
"Those yours?" he asked lightly.
"Y-Yessah," she replied. "I'm still workin' on 'em."
"I can see that. You've got quick the talent there. You should think about selling those," he said, nodding.
Cara shook her head. "A little too early methinks, sah. I'll stick to sweepin'," she said confidently. She drank the rest of her coke and cast an eye to the window. The sky had begun to darken, and Cara had a bit of a walk to the projects where she lived. She replaced her worn cap to its rightful place atop her cropped hair, tucking her portfolio under one arm. Jack caught her eye as she was about to get up to leave, and he gave her a hug, beaming.
"Thanks for coming today, to support us, yah know. I really appreciated it," he said. "Be careful walkin' home, there's all types about, yah know."
Cara smiled. "I kin handle myself, Jack Kelly. You worry about walkin' your lady home, you hear?"
Jack nodded, throwing her a salute. Racetrack clapped Cara on the back, and then she took her leave. The streets and buildings still seemed to be echoing with the cries from earlier that day, and Cara smiled again. They had done a good thing today, a tremendous thing. They had beaten The Man. Not terribly, of course, but enough to get them noticed, for people to realize that children and teenagers were people too. Being an orphan and a girl, Cara was on the lowest rung on the New York social ladder. But she didn't mind so much; she had her art and her charcoal behind her ear, and when she was sweeping she had free range of the rooftops. No adults to boss her around, for the most part. But being a screever was her favorite job. She didn't have a boss at all, and only drew what she wanted to, when she wanted to. No one skimped her wages or refused her pay, people simply tossed her a few pennies or nickels, and if she was lucky, dimes and even a quarter or two. Yes, being a screever was Cara's miniature haven.
As she approached the projects, she heard the familiar sounds of babies crying and parents yelling, and the audible squabble of siblings resonating from the dreary stone buildings. She lived in a modest girls' home which contained bunks, sinks, and running water along with its occupants. The rest of the girls wore rough cotton smocks or dresses and worked in sewing or cotton factories; Cara was the only one who wore breeches more often than not, and who worked outside. Unfortunately this distanced her from the rest of the girls, and as a result, she had few friends amongst her housemates. Cara was friends with newsies, shoeshiners, and of course, other chimney sweeps of New York. She came home each day dirtied with soot and smudged with mud and charcoal from screeving. Cara always washed herself, but her comfort with her uncleanliness bothered the other girls and the Madam of the girls' home. So Cara had learned how to get along without friends in parts of her life.
It hadn't bothered her much.
Cara placed her papers and charcoal beneath her mattress and washed her face and arms, scrubbing well behind her ears to rid them of the charcoal. She brushed her cropped hair, letting the ends tickle halfway down her neck. Cara climbed into bed, touching the only item of jewelry she owned: an unadorned, silver cross necklace. Cara was a Roman Catholic, as were most of the girls in the projects. She said her prayers every night and went to church every Sunday she could manage. All in all, Cara was a bit of a working-class oddball. But all the same, she didn't mind. Cara lay down and whispered a Hail Mary to her pillow in the darkness, and promptly fell asleep to the soft lull of excited whispers about the day's events.