I was running out of things to clean. Since we had a useless super and no maid, we girls pretty much cleaned up after ourselves. The younger girls had a harder time maintaining any sort of acceptable level of cleanliness, however, so Panic, Lady, Angel, Mugger, Sprint, and myself did most of the heavy cleaning.

But I'd been cleaning for hours now and I was running out of options. The washroom was sparkling, the windows were shining, the floors and tables gleaming. The rugs and cushions had been beaten clean. I'd done all the laundry, no small feat, and hung it all out to dry in the warm sun.

The younger girls were outside playing under Panic's watchful eye, and the older girls were out spying. None of us who had spoke to Bourbon had gotten any sleep after hearing that each and every one of our respective interests was behind bars.

Now, it was nearly nine-thirty. We had no idea what time the boys were due in court, so Sprint had left at six, just to be safe. I was bored. I had no papers to sell, and I was having to use my savings (not my mother's: still, for some reason, not that sixty-four dollars) to pay for my own lodging and food, plus the same for a few other girls who couldn't afford it. The other five oldest girls were all doing the same.

I had just flung a previously clean throw pillow across the room in worry and frustration when the door opened, and there stood Sprint, with Spot behind her.

Sprint didn't speak, but merely gave me a small smile and headed up the stairs, where I knew she would fall into bed, her job for the day done.

Once her heel had disappeared from sight and I heard the door to the bunkroom thunk closed, Spot stepped forward into the room.

"Looks nice," he said, sweeping the room with his eyes. I have him a once-over. His clothes looked rumpled and dirty, his hair was lank and hanging in his face, but there were no bruises or injuries I could see.

"Yeah, well...I've been doing a lot of nervous cleaning," I replied, wondering why we were bothering with inane niceties. "Are you okay?" I asked, kicking myself for not being able to keep the naked concern from my voice.

"Yeah," he replied moving to collapse on the couch, "I'm good. We're all okay. Blink got a little banged up, and so did Race. Jacky-boy got the worst-real nice shiner on 'is right eye."

"So...what happened? What did the judge say?"

Spot leaned into the worn cushions, his legs splayed on the floor in front of him. He stretched widely before sitting back up, leaning his elbows on his knees and studying me. He'd lost his hat at some point, I assumed, since he wasn't wearing it, and had clearly not been home again to get a new one.

"He fined us five bucks or two weeks in the Refuge."

I nodded. Five dollars didn't sound that steep to me, although not everyone pinched pennies like I did. I knew for a fact most of those boys spent all their extra money on booze, cigarettes, bets with one another, more food than they could possibly eat, and, some, on the races. I wasn't living in style or anything, but I would have at least been able to pay a five dollar fine. The boys, however, were another story. Always thinking about today, never giving any thought to tomorrow, or the rest of their lives.

"But then Denton showed up and paid all the fines."

At this my eyes bulged. "How many of you were there?" I asked incredulously.

Spot shrugged, pursing his lips, "I don' know...15, 20?"

"God," I said, feeling a little breathless, "Nice guy, that Denton."

"Yeah." Spot looked troubled about something, and I hesitantly went to sit next to him on the couch.

"What else?" I asked softly.

"Jack. He, uh...Dave told me after that..." he sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "His name ain' Jack Kelly. It's Somethin' Sullivan. Francis. An'...his ma's dead, his pa's locked up."

Poor thing, was what went through my head, but I could tell that Spot was feeling a bit betrayed by the friend he thought he knew. I touched his forearm briefly, just long enough to make him turn his head and look at me.

"We all lie, Spot. It's very rarely that we tell anyone the whole truth of how we wound up here, you know that. You do the same thing."

"I guess," he said, still looking stubbornly put-out. "Anyway, uh..." he seemed hesitant to say the next part out loud. "...The judge sentenced 'im to the Refuge until he's twenty-one."

My heart stopped. I swear, for a second it really did. Four years? Four years? And where would we be without Jack?

"Holy shit," I said faintly, sitting back into the cushions. Spot did the same next to me. "So, what happens now?" I asked, turning my head to the right to look at him.

He considered his next words as I studied his profile. A straight, slightly long nose over full pink lips. High cheekbones over a narrow face. A boyish face. It hit me then, how young we were. The papers had called us the "Children's Crusade," and I had felt vaguely insulted. Now I realized that's exactly what we were. Seventeen years old, and forced into leading children we were not much older than.

In happier situations we would have still been at home with our parents, still at school, preparing for the day when, a year, or two years from now, we would leave the nest for the first time. Instead, here we were, on a "crusade." Maybe I should have been proud; instead, all I felt was sadness, a kind of grief for the life we both could have had.

Finally, Spot spoke, "I'm not sure, really. Dave wanted to meet at Tibby's but I sent Zip to listen in and came here instead."

I let that sink in a moment. "Why?" I asked after a few awkward seconds of tense silence.

" 'Cause I knew you'd be worried," he answered, speaking softly as though embarrassed by the reasoning that had brought him here.

"Oh." For a second, I couldn't think of what else to say. "Well, I was," I said finally, lamely.

"Anyway, I should go," he said abruptly, standing. I did the same. "I gotta get back t' Brooklyn t' hear what Zip says. I'll be back t' update ya later."

"Yeah, okay," I said, still feeling the horrible weight of the awkwardness that permeated our words and movements. It was as though last night, something had shifted. Spot had revealed more of himself and his feelings to me than he'd meant to, I was sure of it, and now he was pulling back, reeling himself back in.

And I was letting him. What did that say about me? I had no answers as I followed him to the door. Once we were there, he paused and turned back, and I was reminded of my conversation with Bourbon early that morning.

"I'm sorry I didn' warn ya that I'd told Bourbon." Well, that was ironic. "Zip tol' me he left early this mornin' and wouldn' tell anyone where he was goin'. He told Zip that I'd know where he'd gone."

"It's alright," I said, smiling a little. "I trust him. I trust you both."

Spot almost smiled at that, nodded, and walked out, not glancing back once.

.

Spot did not return that night, instead showing up the next day a little before noon, with Bourbon behind him. Spot looked shaky and angry, breathing hard, and Bourbon looked tense and uneasy.

I stepped back to let them in, and shooed Wrecker and two of the other little girls out of the Atrium where we'd been playing Old Maid and outside, promising them soda pop and cookies later if they managed to come in with their clothes intact and unripped.

"Bribing them with treats?" Bourbon asked, smirking a little. I laughed, giving a half-shrug.

"Whatever works, right?" I said, smiling.

Spot strode past me into the room and stood at the table in the corner, bracing himself on his arms. Even from a few feet away I could hear his heavy breathing.

My grin faded. Something was seriously wrong here. "What the hell happened?" I asked, glancing from Spot's turned back to Bourbon's once again strained face.

"He sold us out," Spot said, in a low, dangerous voice choked with rage.

"Who did?" I asked, but had a feeling I already knew.

"Jack," Spot spat out the name as though it had burned in his mouth, and finally turned. The fury on his face made me take a step back, toward Bourbon. "He went to work for Pulitzer. For money. To get outta the Refuge."

I bit my lip. Although I understood Spot's anger and sense of betrayal, a part of me was saying, well obviously. We could all say we would never do a thing like that, but...faced with four years of the Refuge and whatever other threats Pulitzer had undoubtedly laid upon Jack, there was no telling what any of us would do.

Spot, however, was beyond reasoning, so I said nothing, merely stood near Bourbon and let Spot pace and fume. After a few moments, he muttered, "I need a cigarette," and moved through the Atrium to the kitchen, where there was an ashtray.

Once he'd disappeared, I turned to Bourbon, who was looking after his leader with an apprehensive expression.

"He'll be fine," I said softly, keeping my voice low.

"I don' know," Bourbon replied, moving to sit on the couch. I followed. I seemed to be spending a lot of time having serious discussions on this couch lately. "When 'e saw Jack, he went nuts. I was in the back with the other boys, but Spot was at the front with Manhattan. They had t' literally haul 'im away so he wouldn' go after Jack. I've never seen 'im lose it like that..." He trailed off and glanced toward the kitchen, from which a thin haze of cigarette smoke was now issuing.

I felt a lust for a drag, although I rarely smoked, and never in front of Spot. But, ah, God, what would feel better at the moment than a nice, smooth smoke? Except maybe a shot of something strong. Or sex...

So not the time, Gleam.

I dragged my mind out of the gutter and back to the matter at hand. Bourbon and I waited in companionable silence for Spot to come back. Suddenly, I was exhausted. I hadn't slept well the night before, even after being up for over 24 hours. I just wanted all this strike business to end so we could all get on with our lives.

I didn't have much longer here. Once I hit eighteen, it was over. I had to move on, find something else to do with my life.

"How old are you?" I asked Bourbon, abruptly and out of nowhere.

To his credit, he didn't look surprised. "Seventeen," he replied, turning his dark head to look at me.

"So we're all running out of time, then," I said, more to myself than to him.

"Time for what?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

I laughed, although it really wasn't funny. "You know as well as I do that as soon as we hit eighteen we have to find new lives. We can't sell papers or live here anymore."

"Well," he said, shrugging, "Our lodging house ain' exac'ly followin' anyone's rules. We've had guys over eighteen b'fore."

"Yeah, but do you really wanna be that guy?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Do you really wanna wind up the twenty-one year-old still living there selling papers?"

Bourbon laughed, a musical sound that made me happy just on its own merit. "No, not really," he said, still chuckling. "I don't know what else I'd do, though."

"None of us do," I answered, feeling a little lost again. "This is our life; this is who we are." I looked around the warm, comfortable room. "I guess when me and the oldest girls all hit eighteen we'll become maids and nannies and shop girls or whatever else there is, and all live together in some teeny tenement."

"So, switch the job, keep the friends?" Bourbon was still leaning back into the cushions, just as I was, our shoulders so close I could feel the warmth emanating from his. I glanced down at them, our shoulders next to each other, mine in a creamed-coffee-colored long john top much like the one Spot had worn to the rally, his in a deep green button-down checked with gold. My shoulders looked so small, right next to his. I was struck by how much he dwarfed me, as though all of me could hide inside him. Spot and I, when we laid together, fit together like puzzle pieces, his body only fractionally larger than mine.

"One can only hope," I said wistfully, after only a moment's pause. "I'd hate to have to go out there into the world all on my own."

"Do you think you'll stay in the City?" Bourbon asked, taking his hat off his black curls and fiddling with it.

"I suppose, yeah," I said automatically, not having expected the question. "This is my home. I was born here. This is where my mother was. She's gone, but leaving the City would still feel like abandoning her."

Why was I telling him this? I didn't talk about this with anyone except Panic, and here I was, telling this boy I hardly knew. There was something about him, though: an inherent goodness that forced you to trust him, to confide in him. He felt safe, I realized, in a way that Spot never did. There was always a trace of danger in the air whenever Spot was around, a hint of peril. But there was also the sense I got of being cherished. Although he never said anything as sappy as that, I could somehow feel it n the way he asked my opinion (or, if not asked, at least listened when I gave it nonetheless), and in the sheer, naked fear I'd felt emanating from him at the rally: fear not for himself, I knew, but for me.

Suddenly, a throat cleared off to the left of us, and we both straightened and looked over to see Spot standing in the doorway. My chest tightened at the sight of him, both from a thrill of being caught, and from the rush of emotion seeing him always gave me.

"Nice chat?" he asked, trying to sound off-hand and failing. I cringed inwardly. If he'd heard as much as I suspected he did, he couldn't have been happy. He'd asked me all those questions and more before, and though I'd answered, I'd been matter of fact, and never once had I mentioned my mother.

"Yeah, not bad," Bourbon answered breezily, standing from the couch in one fluid movement and walking over to stand near Spot.

I stood as well, and faced them both, still feeling nervous and jittery. Spot was studying me, and I felt as though I was caught in a spotlight (no pun intended, but when the shoes fits...). I felt disloyal, somehow, as though telling Bourbon anything had been a betrayal of Spot. But that was crazy-right?

Spot moved forward to stand close to me, physically edging Bourbon out of the conversation. Bourbon, not one to be left out, shifted to the side and stood to my right. Maybe not so crazy, after all.

"What do we do now?" he asked, looking at Spot.

Spot looked away from me and up at Bourbon, who towered over him, fully grown. Spot, also seventeen, wasn't much taller than me, and still looked like a boy. A beautiful boy, for sure, but a boy nonetheless. Suddenly, the simple question: What do we do now? seemed to encompass all sorts of things: not only the strike, but our entire lives. And I didn't have any answers.

"Now...now I talk to Dave and the rest o' the Manhattan boys an' we figure out how t' do this without Jack," Spot said firmly, his mouth set and hard. "We have t' finish this. It's not over even if Jack is done."

.

As it turned out, Jack was not done. The next morning, during what would have been our selling time, the Delancey's mongrels that they were, attacked Sarah and little Les. Jack, passing, swooped in to save them, really earning that "Cowboy" nickname of his. When word reached me that Sarah had punched a Delancey in the face, I felt a surge of grudging respect for her. Maybe she wasn't quite as hopelessly helpless as I'd thought.

Soon after that, Jack, Sarah, Les, and a still-angry David had headed to Denton's apartment. Denton, who had the day before informed the boys of his transfer and new position as ace War Correspondent as way of preventing him from reporting on the newsies, was packing when the group burst in with a plan.

Late that night, when I had skipped going to Brooklyn, unable to face whatever it was that was wrong between Spot and me, Jack, Sarah, David, and Denton had snuck down to the damp, dark basement room Jack had been living in. He'd been sleeping next to an old behemoth of a printing press, and under the cover of darkness, they painstakingly printed their own paper, the "Newsies Banner," and once the sun had risen, they'd ridden, ran, and walked throughout the City along with all the rest of the Manhattan newsies, handing it out to any kid, teenager, and young adult they could find: shoe shiners, stable boys, other newsies, factory boys, bike messengers, young women with small children.

I knew this was the one time we would not be able to prevent anyone from coming to Queens, and I brought in the oldest girls and told them to what to do. I sent Lady and Angel to Manhattan, Panic, Sprint (who'd been there already this morning, collecting information), and Mugger along with them. If the boys saw or found them, it would not be here, where their presence could not be explained, but in Manhattan, where, as the story went, they worked. I organized the girls of thirteen through fifteen, instructing them to take the youngest girls and clear out: go to parks, wander the streets, anywhere, just stay away from the lodging house.

Bourbon's words on trust and letting the secret go rang in my ears. It was good advice, and I was tempted to take it-but not today. Like I'd told him, we had to get through this drama before starting another.

Once the lodging house was empty, I changed into a deep black skirt with a wide black leather belt, my old black boots, and an emerald green blouse, one I usually only wore to Brooklyn. I left my hair waving and loose, slipping an old elastic around my wrist just in case.

I hitched a ride on the back of a lorry and rode into Manhattan, figuring that it was also the best place for me to be. Once I arrived, I stepped off the cart and paid the driver five cents for his kindness. He tipped his hat to me, smiled, and drove off, waving.

The chaos of Manhattan did not look any different this morning, at least not to the untrained eye. Looking closer, however, you could see boys in old clothes running amok, holding single-paged papers, thrusting them at random passersby.

I was walking as casually as possible down the street, when David, climbing down from a lorry much like the one I'd just arrived on, spotted me. He grinned and walked toward me, Jack, Les, and Sarah behind him, Jack also smiling, Sarah looking tentative and nervous, Les completely oblivious.

"Hey!" David said, reaching me.

"Hi," I responded, smiling back. I cast a wave to Jack and Sarah, still watching. Sarah's face relaxed as she smiled and waved back. The girl would have to find a bit more confidence if she expected this relationship of hers to work.

"Can you read?" David asked, holding up a paper.

I laughed. "Excuse me?" I said, reaching out to take it. I knew what it said, Sprint had already snagged a copy earlier and given it to me before she'd left to return to Manhattan.

David chuckled. "I'm sorry. We've been asking everyone. It just slipped out."

"It's alright. And yes, I know how to read," I replied, still smiling. "What is this?" I asked, though I already knew.

While David told me all the things I already knew about the Refuge, the strike, and their plans to confront Pulitzer outside the World building the next morning, I glanced around. Everywhere I could see, adults and children were holding onto the Newsies Banner, reading with looks that ranged from idle interest to rapt horror.

"So," David was saying, "If you wanna help us, come tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock."

"What does this have to do with me?" I asked, just for something to say.

"You're a maid, right?" David asked, and I nodded, hoping that was the right answer. There were so many lies in my every day that it was hard for me to remember what I'd told whom. "And you're, what-seventeen?"

"Yes..."

"Well then you're one of us. A working kid in New York. This isn't just about the newsies anymore. This is about every kid in the City who works hard and wants to be treated fairly." David looked more animated than I'd ever seen him, excited over the prospect of a huge, booming gathering of kids and teenagers from all over New York, demanding fair treatment. "Come. Please. And bring your friends. Will you be able to?" he asked, a plea in his eyes and tone.

"Well..." I hesitated. It seemed safe enough. There would, hopefully, be tons of people there, if all went according to plan. No one would ever have to know who any of us really were. "I don't have to be at work until noon on Saturday," I improvised, "So...okay."

David grinned and turned to Jack, Les, and Sarah, who had been handing out more papers to the people walking by.

"She's coming! And she's bringing friends!"

Jack and Sarah grinned and walked over, Sarah glancing back to make sure Les was staying put.

"Are ya really comin'?" Jack asked, looking excited.

"Yes, I am," I said, feeling buoyant. This, this was something we could do.

"What's your name?" Sarah asked, edging closer to Jack. Confidence, girl, confidence. I'm not going to steal your man.

I hesitated for the space of a heartbeat before deciding to tell the truth. "Lydia," I said, reaching out to shake her hand.

"Sarah," she said, grasping my hand with her own.

"Nice to officially meet you," I replied, smiling. We released each other and stepped back, and I addressed them all.

"I've got to pick up some things and then head back to work," I lied, "But I'll see you tomorrow."

As I turned and made my escape, they all called their goodbyes. I turned a corner and nearly ran smack into Panic.

"We're going to this thing tomorrow," I said without preamble, expecting her to have qualms.

To my surprise, she smiled. "It's perfect, right? We can go and we don' have t' hide or sneak in. We can jus'...go."

I grinned back at her, and we began walking in the direction of home, taking it slow in order to arrive when all the various newsies delivering their banner were gone.

"So, I've been thinking," I said slowly, after fifteen minutes of walking in a comfortable silence, "Now might be the time to let out our secret."

Panic halted, her brown skirt blowing out in front of her. "What?" she said, trepidation in her voice. "Why? Why now? How?"

I kept walking, and she had no choice but to follow me. "It was something Bourbon said to me the other day. About how Brooklyn and Manhattan would protect us from anyone trying to usurp our territory."

"U-what?" Panic asked, her brow wrinkling.

"Usurp. Sorry," I said, giving her a half smile. "Take. And he's right. He's good, and Spot is, too. And now, with you, Angel, and Lady taking up with Manhattan boys, they'd all have incentive to protect us."

"But what if there was some kinda turf war?" She asked, wringing her hands. "We couldn't ask them to fight for us."

"Panic," I said gently, "No one's been in a turf war in years. It was a lot more common thirty years ago, or even fifteen, than it is now. That's why this whole thing was started; why we made this deal with Brooklyn in the first place. It was a real threat, then. But it's not, now. And it especially wouldn't be if Brooklyn and Manhattan had our backs."

"I guess tha's true. But why didn' you do this when you first became leader? Why now?"

I shook my head, looking up at the blue sky, feeling the warm, sticky breeze blow strands of my hair off my face. "I don't know. I guess it just seemed like, 'This is the way things are. This is the way they're meant to be.' But all this with Spot, and all these complications, it just seems...cruel to do this to the next generation. I mean, Scots had no problem not having feelings for her Brooklyn leader, but now I'm wondering: how many other Queens leaders have had their hearts broken over this deal? How many more will be hurt after we're done? And even without the heart getting involved, it seems horrible to force a girl to give her body to a man for a secret that doesn't need to be kept anymore."

We walked along in silence for a few minutes, scuffing our feet and looking anywhere but at each other. "So..." Panic began, but then stopped, looking hesitant. She drew in a deep breath and barreled on, "Are you doing this so you don't have to see Spot anymore?"

"No," I responded automatically, then considered the question. "Well, I don't know. It's not so much that I don't want to see him. I do, obviously, I do. But I don't want to be required to. I don't want him to be required to see me. If anything is going to come of...us...then I want it to be because we want it to, not because it's 'in the contract', you know?"

She nodded, and we walked for a few more minutes in quiet, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts. Finally, Panic cleared her throat. "If ya wanna do this, I'll stand behind ya." She smiled. "It'd be nice to be with Mush and not have to lie."

"Do you think he'll be angry? When he finds out, I mean?" I asked, the thought suddenly occurring to me. I hadn't previously considered the repercussions for her, Lady, and Angel. What would become of their budding relationships if the boys found out they'd been spied on and played for fools for years?

"I don' know," she replied, looking worried. "I hope not. Or, at least, I hope not for long. I hope he'll understand that it wasn' a choice. And that I didn' finally meet him officially as part of any scheme."

I laughed. "Oh, I'll be sure to tell him that your meeting him and agreeing to go to that party in Brooklyn very nearly made me kill you," I assured her.

She laughed too, briefly. Then she composed her face, and asked, businesslike, "So, when do you think you'll do this?"

I thought hard, wondering when would be the best time. "Tomorrow," I decided. "After this thing. One way or another, the strike will be over tomorrow, and we'll either win or lose. But we all turn eighteen within the year, and we don't have much time before we're all done and moved on. I would hate for our next leader to have to deal with letting go of this secret. This is something we have to do now, something we have to get established before we all leave."

"Who d'ya think our next leader will be?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, you hafta choose. Soon, too, so you can train 'er."

"Well, hopefully the training will be significantly less time-consuming and...will not involve anything to do with sex," I replied. "I don't know. I mean, the girls I'd pick right off the bat will all be leaving when we do. Lady, Angel, Sprint, Mugger...It'll have to be someone younger, someone who will lead for two years, at least."

"Can ya believe it's almos' over?" Panic asked, suddenly looking as sad as I felt. "Soon we'se all gonna be outta the lodgin' house. Where we gonna go?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. I don't know what we're gonna do, or where we're gonna go. But," I added, studying her worried face, "We'll go together. We'll work together or at least close to each other, and we'll find an apartment together. Maybe me, you, and Sprint in one, and Lady, Angel ,and Mugger down the hall."

Panic smiled, looking reassured. "I hope so," she said, putting her right arm around my waist and pulling me to her.

"I know so," I replied, hugging her back.

.

A/N: I know this is really long. I couldn't figure out where to end it, mostly because in the movie, all that stuff happens boom-boom-boom, one right after the other. God, this is going much more quickly than I expected. I guess there's something to be said for a sick 20 month-old you can't take outside or anywhere else. :/

A little announcement:

Alright, so...there will be one or two more chapters of this story: finishing the strike, telling the secret, and then some Spot/Gleam stuff.

After that, I will be ending this story and starting the sequel, which will be jumping ahead 2 or 3 years, mostly because since I'm not 16 anymore, writing romantic/sexual things about teenagers makes me feel like a total pedo. So after the jump, all our main characters will be 19 or 20.

It will be a continuation of the same story, just a whole new set of issues...and since their lives will be different, I figure the title should be, also. That story will be significantly shorter than this one-probably no more than 5 or so chapters.

That is all. :) Review!