Hey, guys! Thanks to the people who reviewed the first chapter! Here's the second one, much more length and depth! Thanks guys! Read and Review! :)

I stroll down 45th Street, humming to myself as I fiddle with the pencil in my hands. I've been searching the city for an hour trying to find inspiration for something worthy and interesting to write about. As I pass Mullany's Drugstore, I peer into the window display. Today it's a new book. I squint from the sidewalk to see the title. Awakening by Kate Choplin. Sounds interesting enough, but I haven't heard any buzz about it. I'll make it a distant possibility for my article due Friday. I keep walking.

My hair blows into my face, attacking me with brunette curls. I brush it out of my eyes and trying to find that spot where my hair parts in a straight line down my scalp. When it feels satisfactory, I survey the other side of the road. Same old buildings, same old streetcars, same old everything. I'm lost in my thoughts when suddenly, I run into someone going the opposite direction.

I look up, about to apologize, but no one's there. I look down, and it's a little boy. He's alarmingly filthy, with a dirt-scraped face and a ratty cap that barely contains his bright red hair. No older than 12, I'm guessing. He looks up at me with hopeful eyes. In his fist are several rolled-up newspapers.

"Mornin', miss," he says, with a genuine hint of enthusiasm in his voice. "Can I gets ya a copy of The World? Only a penny apiece."

I'm torn. Should I buy it? I don't need it. Hell, my father owns that newspaper. But on the other hand, he looks so hungry.

You see these children all the time around Manhattan. They call them "newsies." They have their own system for selling papers, and my father's company sells them a pack of a hundred papers for 50 cents. They stay out of the way, if you're a man. If you're a lady, they hound you, since they figure that the wives are more gullible than the husbands. I know perfectly well that they don't have to, because my father ensures that they get enough food, proper shelter, and clothing. At least, I hope he does. Looking at this oddly thin, poorly-dressed boy, I hope he does.

I sigh and look him in the eye. "Sorry, son. I already read it today." His face, so full of light five seconds ago, suddenly deflates like a balloon. He trudges away forlornly. I keep walking, hoping that no one saw me do that to the poor kid. But of course someone did. This is New York.

As I continue on my way, I pass the newsie lodging house. It's nothing more than a big wooden shack, like the tenements that the Russian and Polish immigrants live in. A few blankets hang over the entrance for decoration. As I pass, I see five raggedly-clad newsboys huddling in a group, talking. One kid lights a cigarette, and as he puts it to his mouth to take a drag, his eyes find mine.

He elbows his buddy next to him. When he's got his attention, he motions toward me with the butt of his cigarette. Then, they all turn and look at me. The one smoking says to the rest of the newsboys, "Well, she's a nice-lookin' dame, ain't she, fellas?"

The boy on his right nods and smiles, showing crooked teeth. "Sure is. I wonda' how much she would charge ya for a night, eh, Jack?"

I roll my eyes, walk faster, and try to ignore them. Suddenly, the kid named Jack calls out to me, "Hey, lil' missie, come on back. I gots somethin' to tell ya."

I know I shouldn't go back, but something compels me to do so anyway. When I reach them, I get a better look at all of them. The one called Jack is the second-tallest out of the five; the tallest one, who wears round spectacles, is very thin and very slender, as if you could snap him in half like a twig. "Crooked Teeth" is of average height with sandy corkscrew curls. The last two are definitely twins: light brown hair and green eyes, with a shower of freckles on their cheeks and noses. All of the boys wear a wide variety of wool vests and brightly-colored flannel undershirts. The only things that unite them in physical appearance are their tweed pants, suspenders, and floppy caps, the universal newsie uniform, all in various stages of wear and tear.

"So, yeah, I got somethin' to say to ya." Jack nods in my direction, talking with the cigarette in his mouth. I try not to gag from the smoke. "But it ain't a proper conversation without introducin' my comrades here first. I'm Jack. This here's Specs and Race," he says, gesturing both to the tall one and Crooked Teeth, "and those two there are Pick and Pocket." The twins give me simultaneous smiles, and I'm guessing they're nicknamed for their ability to steal.

"Specs, Race, Pick, Pocket, and Jack," I say, half to myself, half to Jack. "You have quite the interesting band of…comrades. If you don't mind so much as to make your point sometime soon, then I should be going now."

"Yeah, I was gonna ask what an uptight-lookin' girl like you's doing flounderin' round the newsie territory." His smirk makes me want to punch him.

"Uh-huh," says Pick. "And what's ya doin' with that fancy paper n' pen of yours?"

I glare at him. "I'm a journalist. At least, I'm getting tested to be a journalist. I have to write an article about something and submit it on Friday. I was just looking for some material to write my piece about."

Pocket grins. "Ooh! You can write about us!"

"Shut up, Pocket!" they all say in unison.

"Great idea!" I say. Already I can feel the cogs turning in my head. "Nobody ever gives two bits about the newsies that give them their papers every day! I can write about your daily lives, your regimes, and what you do for fun! Yes! A piece of news about the bringers of news! It's genius!"

They stare at me, surprised that I'm serious about it.

"Alright, little miss," says Jack with that irritating smirk. "I'll tell ya about the daily life of a newsie. But be warned…it's for strong stomachs only, ya hear?" The other boys chuckle mischeviously.

And so I stand there for at least a half-hour, hearing every detail about every newsie's day-to-day agenda. I learned some valuable pieces of information, but most of it was just completely uncalled for, inappropriate tidbits of the…er…habits of the newsboys. After a while of hearing about this, jotting down interesting notes that one of the boys would interject during Jack's long speech. And then, he just stops.

"Well, that's it."

I look at him. "Really?"

With an impatient note to his words, as if the topic suddenly bores him to tears, he replies sharply, "Yep. Nothin' more to say. Come on, fellas, these papes ain't gonna sell 'emselves. Nice talking to ya, missie. Whadaya go by?"

"Katherine."

"Well, ain't that swell. See ya 'round, Katherine." And with that, they disappear, literally, out of thin air. I look up and down the streets, but they're gone.

Strange.

As I continue on my way that I should have been going on a long time ago, I skim over my notes. Seven whole pages. Seven.

Though, to tell the truth, I doubt even half of what Jack told me was true, judging by the constant laughter of the other four boys. God, who can you trust anymore?

I remember my father's strict words: "And damnit, Katherine, it better be accurate! If you fabricate even a single fact in your draft, you're finished!"

And suddenly, a spontaneous, awful, ridiculous, crazy, glorious idea forms in my mind. If I want the truth, I have to get it myself, firsthand. No middleman, just the cold, hard truth. If I want the facts, I have to live the facts.

I wonder if any dress stores around here would sell suspenders to a seventeen-year-old girl.

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