I was sleeping at Medda's for the second time in my life. The first night I'd spent in New York was on her doorstep, until she tripped over me and brought me in.
Out of the lights, the makeup, and the wig, Medda is quite a different person. She has light brown hair, pale skin, and much less of a presence. You can tell by looking at her that she's been through a lot.
"What's bothering you, Race?" She has no trace of a Swedish accent. "Is it something from before you were a newsies?" She pauses for a second. "You know, you never told me your whole story, just the outline of it."
I open one eye and look at her. She reminds me of everything that could have happened if I hadn't tried what I'd tried- or if I hadn't failed. Not because she leads a perfect life, not by far- she's had her share of problems, just like all the newsies. No, it's because, as much as I don't like to admit it, I am in love. With her. But, because of what I've done, she sees me as a sixteen-year-old boy, more of a son than a friend. Her words at the rally echo inside my head. "He's just a child, can't you see that?!"
I open both eyes and fix them on hers, dropping the accent and slang that have become second nature.
"My name is Michael O'Donan. I am twenty-five years old."