For a week that seemed like five years, I was imprisoned inside that house. Don't take that the wrong way, for they were more kind and caring guardians than I had even allowed myself to dream of. But either way, an average seventeen-year-old girl needed her freedom, a chance to socialize.

My saving grace came from Birdy. As I soon found out, she had a job closer to my adopted home . . . she was a singer at Medda's. I guess it wasn't that unlikely that I hadn't found her before, I'd only been to Irving Hall twice in my short time with the boys. Either way, she worked there every night but Saturday, which was when the vaudeville stage was covered in travelling stars.

At first, they had said the risk was too high; they said they had promised to protect me, and protect me they would. Eventually, however, I wore them down, and I was allowed to go to the shows. Little did I know what sights I would behold there . . .

~*~*~*~

"Ya shore I have ta get all dolled up jus' ta stand behind da coitan an' watch ya perform?" I groaned as Birdy applied the make-up to my face. I scrunched up my eyes as she brought a colored powder towards them.

She forced the crimson powder into the creases of my eyelid and eventually forced me to loosen the muscles I had contracted so abruptly before. "Ya need ta look desirable at all times. Who knows when you'll see a man ya want."

I looked down at my firmly clasped hands. "What if I already have?" I questioned more to myself then to Birdy. If she heard this, or the sigh that followed, she didn't let on. I silently thanked her whether she meant to do that or not.

~*~*~*~

"Maybe/You're gonna be the one that saves me/ And after all/ You're my wonderwall," Birdy concluded the song in her beautiful voice.

I clapped with all my might, even standing from the barrel I had used as a makeshift stool during my duration of the show. I glanced out at the audience to see their reaction. All were clapping, but I noticed a group clapping more loudly than the rest; standing on their feet and with their loud whooping they drew my attention. Slowly the mass began to take shape. I spotted a tall, lean boy raising his cowboy hat, his arm around a girl in a puffy blue skirt. I identified the rest of my newsie crowd, going down the line. Most had a girl on their arm, though a few were going stag that night, flirting with the line of floozies behind them.

I sunk back into my seat as my eyes focused in on the short, curly haired Italian. I followed his gorgeous brown eyes right to the source of the extra shine: a petite girl with flowing blonde hair hidden beneath a pink hat. I was wishing on imaginary stars when I hoped they were just friends, as he bent over and kissed her with what looked like the passion he had expressed for me.

That was the night that changed my general attitude towards men.

~*~*~*~

I had never been tempted to find a beautiful stranger on the street and follow him home before in my life, but I found myself doing just that every night I was able to get out of the house. I had, after all, been wounded beyond repair. Men became a pathway for my hurt, a way to forget it all. Conversations the next morning almost always went like this:

Man: Well, that was amazing.

Me: Thank you.

Man: Well, that's all.

Me: Is it?

Man: What did you expect?

Me: Nothing, nothing at all.

Man: Goodbye then.

Me: Goodbye.

I pretended to be all right with that, of course, but I never truly was. I'd always been a hopeless romantic, and I wasn't going to change overnight. I wanted a relationship; I wanted to be loved. But instead of settling down, I continued to sleep around, despite hazards of such behavior.

And then came that fateful morning . . .

"Birdy," I said, quaking with fear as I approached my friend. "I think I have a problem."

"What's dat?" she asked, evidently worried.

"I'se pregnant," I said. I repeated the word over and over again as tears spilled out my eyes. "What am I going to do?"

"I don't know," Birdy replied truthfully. "But we'll do something."

A/N: That's what happens when you don't use protection, kids. Sorry, I had to say that. But anyway. . . I'm back from London and back in the updating circuit (which you can tell by my posting a new chapter the day I get back from the 10 hour plane ride home).

Disclaimer: The song Birdy sang was 'Wonderwall' by Oasis. Quite a good song, go listen to it. Oasis is one of my calmer bands (compared to AFI, The Clash, etc.)

Shoutouts:

Sprite- Lucky you! You got to go for two weeks! There's so much to see, I know I missed a bunch. It was still great though. And yes, yay for the french.

Reffy- Thanks so much for your support. I'm so glad people like my work.

Drama-Queen- The waiting is done, here's your chapter!!

Sli- I know you got my email, so I won't pound you with shit in here. But on with that: Yes, I know what I need to do. Either the next chapter or the one after this, I will do it too. I'm sorta stuck in this melodrama bit for a while though. I promise!!

Soaker- Race is existant, and still an ass in this chapter. I didn't mean to make him such a bloody wanker ('scuse the British slang, England does that to a person), but it just sort of happened. Either way, Racetrack is my hero, so I probably won't end him as an ass. Yes, yes, Spot is clueless . . . for now.