CHAPTER 1

Clara Foster had grown up in a healthy, inviting lifestyle. Her family gave to the poor, went to the theatre, and provided the best education they could afford for their child. They weren't wealthy, but they were happy.

Clara's mother, albeit a lovely woman at the time, stood in the background as a mother to Clara-her place was to cook, clean and keep the household running-that was how she liked it. Never truly connecting with her daughter, she let her husband dote on, and teach Clara. Clara didn't mind-her father was there, and that was all a five-year old really needed.

However, one could imagine Marjorie Foster's discontent when her daughter, then seven, announced she wanted to learn to dance and sing after seeing a group of newsies run singing through the streets for a penny or two. But, like always, she slipped into the background while Clara learned and improved quickly. After all, what made Clara happy made Mr. Foster happy, which, in turn, made Mrs. Foster happy.

5 YEARS LATER

Clara awoke from a restless sleep to the sound of sirens and her mother sobbing. She ran into the dining room to see what in heaven's name was the matter. Lying on the table next to her shaking mother was the newspaper. On the front page the headline sprawled across it read: MAJOR CRASH: ACCIDENT OR MURDER? Next to a picture of a smoky automobile collision were the names of the deceased; 23 in all. 7th on the list was what Clara feared the most-

7. Benjamin Foster

With a gasp of horror Clara looked to her mother for some kind of assurance- but none was there. Gasping for breath, Clara started shaking uncontrollably. She sprinted down the hall and threw open the door to her parent's bedroom, hoping beyond hope that papa would be there-but he was gone. Forever. He would never be in that bed again. Having never experienced the reality of death before, all young Clara could do was fall to her knees and sob. Sob for her father, and for the lives he left behind that would never be the same again.

Clara and her mother both dealt with the death in totally different, and totally separate ways. Marjorie Foster took to ignoring; keeping busy constantly and pretending like no body else had ever lived there other than herself and this young girl. Clara on the other hand, delved into using her father's death as a motivation to only become better at what he and herself had loved-music and acting. She stored her emotions that unleashed whenever she remembered that awful day inside herself, ready to come out whenever she asked them to. Writing lyrics helped her get her thoughts, rants, and pre-teenage angst out without bothering her mother. She promised herself, after 3 months of unexpected fits of sobbing, that she would do as her father would have wanted-keep her chin up and never stop believing. However, she and her mother never discussed it-one day Clara was at the piano when she was about 12-singing and playing a song that she had written about him-when she looked dup and saw her mother in the doorway, staring off into space.

"Mother", she asked timidly, "Do-do you think…he's happy where he is? Without us I mean?"

Her mother looked up sharply and sighed. "Get back to your schoolwork, Clara- we don't want you to fall behind." And left the room.

In frustration, and a cry for the attention that her mother never gave her, she picked up a glass figurine and flung it across the room, where it shattered against the wall. Waiting for a scream or the sound of footsteps, she stayed perfectly still. But it never came. Sighing in resignation, Clara grabbed a broom and cleaned up all the pieces. She knew that her mother and herself would never talk about it-Clara was on her own, but would never understand her mother, try as she might, and her mother would never understand her. Mr. Foster had been a bridge that connected the two-but now that bridge was broken, and it wasn't going to be rebuilt.

Two months later Mrs. Foster married a man Clara had never met in her life-Christopher.

5 YEARS LATER

Seventeen-year-old Clara slammed her door for the umpteenth time that month.

"For the love of God…" She murmured under her breath.

Clara didn't dare yell, for she didn't need any more scars to remind her to obey him-Christopher's word was the law, and if you didn't follow his instructions, you were punished. Fighting away the burning tears coming to her eyes, she recalled this fight as being one the worst yet….

Christopher's whiskery, angry face filled Clara's vision as he picked her beloved music book-the book of all her compositions-and dropped it to the ground like a piece of discarded trash. "You THINK you can just sit here all you like, not doing a scrap of work around here, with your books of useless garbage and just STARE out the window like that?" Clara could tell her was half drunk by the way he slurred his words-the fact that she had spent the whole day scrubbing the kitchen floor unnoticed was nothing unusual. But this time his rage was different. He knocked her to the floor, catching her by surprise. Clara's radar went on full alert as he fell on top of her, placing sloppy kisses all over her face. "No…" C lara thought as her whole body tensed up. "Not here…not this way…NO!" With trained strength, she pushed Christopher off of her. It was easier considering he was half passed out by now. Standing up, she rushed to her room…

Clara sat down on her bed. This was getting to be a fairly regular occurrence- of course tonight had been the worst, but this was not the first time he had come home drunk and ranting…Clara never had gotten a full story on why her mother had married the pig. He could provide for the family, her mother knew him well…always half-formed answers.

Clara smiled as she picked up her favorite book of the month, Great Expectations. She'd bought it at a local sale with her extra change. Despite the fact she almost never got money from her mother or Christopher, Clara had saved up a modest amount of money on her own; one of many secrets she hid from them. It just so happened that every other Saturday Clara would go down to the local Irish pub, play the piano, sing and lead group dances with all the customers. She'd become quite good friends with the local artists-well, whatever "artist" was in the suburbs of Seattle, 1901. Throughout the last year she'd accumulated enough money to buy the occasional treat for herself, and have some to save for the future. Also, it was nice to know that since Chris had no idea about the money, he couldn't take it away.

Thinking of the secret, her mind drifted to what she would use it for one day. One day-there was always going to be that day in the future, but would that day ever really come? Of course she had ideas but...why not? Why not tonight?

Alert now, she looked up to a photograph on her wall. Central Park. A boulevard filled with theatres- a place of dreams, where limits were nonexistent. Of course, Clara knew all this couldn't be as wonderful as it seemed, but photos don't lie…

Hearing Chris drag his feet to the bedroom, Clara made a split-second decision. This was it. For the last ten years she'd dreamed of this, but never really considered it-run away? To New York? What kind of an idiot was she? She, with almost no professional experience, no contacts, no friends. She, in the biggest city in the country?

"Don't think, just pack, " she told herself.

In a tweed bag, Clara threw in a few simple dresses, suspenders, and other basic necessities, a picture of her REAL family in happier times, and select books, being careful to pack lightly Last of all, she dug her fingernails underneath a loose floorboard and took out a bag of coins and paper bills. She knew there was enough. Taking out a piece of paper, she thought of the proper words to write in this situation.

Dear Mother,

You may care, you may not, but if you're reading this, it means that I'm gone. I do wish that things could have been different in our relationship, but you and I both know that before Father died, we had already gone our separate ways. I do love you, but I can't stay here. I'm sure Chris can tell you why. Should you need me,

Your daughter, Clara

Taking one last look around the room she'd cried in so many times before, she headed out. Tip toeing as quietly as she could, she slipped out her bedroom door and down the hall. Waking up her mother or Chris meant certain pain. In the living room she saw her composition book on the ground-5 years of work. Picking it up and slipping it into her bag, she chastised herself-her bag couldn't be too heavy, but this was important to her. About 3 yards to the door she heard a creak behind her and her heart literally jumped out of her chest. Terrified, she turned-nothing. Why was this so hard for her? Like a dog, she'd been trained to stay in her boundaries-leaving was never an option. But, wish sheer determination, the seventeen year old turned the door know and stepped out into the cold, dark night.

That's' when she heard it. "What the hell do you think you're-" the second she heard that voice, Clara broke into a mad run. Right behind her was the now sober, but even more furious Christopher. It was a 30-minute walk to the train station-if there wasn't a train leaving soon she was done for, and she knew it. Sprinting down allies, trying to lose Chris, Clara was halfway there in ten minutes. She thought she'd lost him, but then she heard voices. "Officer," Christopher was saying, "my disturbed daughter ran away earlier tonight. Light Brown hair, about 5'6, slim. She is not to be trusted alone, and if you see her, please keep her." He went off looking again.

"Great," thought Clara. "Now I have the police after me too. What a wonderful night this is turning out to be…"

Going back down the alley, she saw the faint glimmer of lights and the sound of a horn…the station was just half a mile away now. Leaping out of the alleyway, Clara sprinted the route to the train station. She got some looks and comments from the shady characters of the streets, but by the time she saw the entrance, she was safe. Nearly out of breath, and cursing herself for bringing one too many books, she asked the woman in the ticket booth,

"When is the next train to New York?"

"Well, darling, there's one leavin' in 5 minutes, but I doubt you'll want to-"

"I'll take it," Clara replied without hesitation.

"Alright, Alright, 1rst class, sec"-

"Third, please, " she answered bluntly. The price rang up more than she bargained for, but she paid the woman quickly and started a dash to gate B-24. 3 minutes to go…then the worst. She spotted Christopher, and he had spotted her as well. Clara ran to the train just as it had blown its horn. Hopping on, the train started to move.

Chris just stopped and stared dumbly at Clara, who was leaning out the window with a look of triumph on her face. She shouted what she assumed to be the last thing she would ever say to him.

"I hope you have fun finding your way home, Chris! They just locked the gate behind you! Don't you know you're not allowed here without a ticket? Have a good life! Bye now!"

With a smirk and a wiggle of her fingers, Clara sank back into the hardwood bench, exhausted. Before she drifted off to sleep, "New York," Clara thought, "I sure hope you're ready".