Eyes Closed, Heart Open

1897, Somewhere in Rural North Carolina

The lights flickered inside of the car as the train passed yet another unrecognizable town. A small figure of a girl turned over in her seat, her efforts to fall asleep failing once again. She sat up sleepily, blinked her tired eyes and squinted from the intensity of the flashing lights. Looking out of her window, she saw the landscape, its trees and houses, fields and villages racing by in a colourless blur. Trees, houses….fields, town….the seemingly endless repetition as the train pushed onward.

"This is the farthest you've ever been," she thought to herself, "the farthest you've ever been from home. You can't turn back now. You just can't."

Every foot, every inch the trained moved was the farthest she'd ever been. Each mile was somewhere she'd never traveled, and then greatly beyond…and her heart ached because of it. She was leaving her past and life as she had known it behind, but not because she'd wanted to. She had no other choice; there simply was no other choice. Though it was hard for her to think about, hard for her to even fathom, everything was truly gone. It had all left her, all changed. Therefore, she reasoned that there was nothing for her to do but to change with it. So, she bought a train ticket with some money that was not hers, and boarded the first train that would carry her swiftly toward her destination.

The looked around the dim car at the few other passengers around her and wondered why they were here. What they were leaving, where they were going. Where they like her? Where they escaping something? Fleeing to a bright new future like she hoped to do? She turned her head to the left and saw a group of dark figures huddled together. It was a mother and her two children. At that moment, she would have prayed to God to help her forget, had she not considered God to be dead. He had ceased to exist in her world. Perhaps, he never had at all. A small tear formed at the corner of the girl's left eye, and she allowed it to fall…to cascade down her cheek as a silvery-traced reminder of things she could not forget.

"There's no going back. You can't. There's nothing to go back to. Now, just go to sleep. Sleep." She shivered and pulled her coat over her for comfort. Turning over onto her side, she faced the window and tried, once again and more desperately, to fall asleep.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, AUGUST 1900

"Extry, extry! Father drowns baby boy! East River takes another life!"

The newsboy's cries rang out through the half-empty streets of Brooklyn at midmorning. The sun had already begun to rain down blistering heat waves on anyone who dared to step out of the shade. The boy removed his dirty gray cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve. "Damn," he muttered to himself, "It's too hot for mornin'." He silently cursed the sun and the fact that he had to be standing out in it.

Opening a paper, and fumbling through its pages, he searched for a headline that would perhaps attract more customers on this idle Saturday morning. On the second page, he found what he was looking for. "Riot on the West Side!" he yelled, "Coppers beat innocent men to death wit' clubs!" As he had hoped, a lady in an elaborate hat complete with feathers approached him to purchase a paper. Flipping his newly earned copper penny into the air, he began to feel somewhat better. However, a quick glance toward his still thick stack of newspapers brought the frown back to his face.

He sighed a ragged exhalation and placed the penny into his pocket of his threadbare pants with the few other coins he had earned that day. Looking up, he saw a well-dressed gentleman heading his way. "Buy a pape, mister?" he offered, holding out the paper. When the dandy returned only a slight shake of the head and continued walking, the boy cursed him under his breath. "Fine den, you just keep walking there with your nose stuck up in the air. It don't matter none that I'm starvin'. You got yourself a real fine hat there and that's damn more important than me eatin! Fuckin' asshole! I hope the damn trolley runs over ya new hat!"

"Whoa! Them's some mean words there, Spot!" he heard a voice say behind him.

Spot turned to face another newsboy, his stack of papers resting on his shoulder. "Heya, Esco. How's it rollin'?"

Esco spit into his palm and shook Spot's outstretched hand. "Eh," he responded it, "From the looks o'things, bout the same as you."

"Piss poor?" asked Spot.

The other boy nodded.

Spot took off his cap once more to wipe the beats of perspiration from his forehead. "It's too damn hot to be standin' out here," he complained.

"Yeah," Esco replied, "But whatcha gonna do about it, huh? Pack up and head back to the house? That is, assumin' any of us get enough money today to actually stay in the house tonight."

Spot nodded, groaning at the disappointment the day was shaping up to be. Suddenly, a devilish grin spread over his face. "Heya, Es," he started, "You wanna buy me papes?"

"Uh, don't take this the wrong way or nothin', Spot," Esco said, "cause I don't mean it that way, but are ya outta ya mind? Hell no, I don't want your stinkin' papes. I got me own to worry about."

"Just thought I'd give it a try," Spot stated with a shrug. "Damn," he repeated, "it sure is hot." And with that comment, both boys took off their caps, wiped the sweat out of their eyes, and squinted up towards the sun.

A group of young women was gathered backstage in a haphazard line: costumed, perfumed, and made up. They were dancers by trade, waiting for their cue to go onstage. Outside, in the main auditorium of one of the many vaudeville theatres in Brooklyn, the room was alive with applause, the yells and catcalls of the many male patrons. The small, dark girl was at the back of the line. Unlike the other girls, she was quiet, her eyes closed, her painted red mouth silently mouthing rhythmic words. Her left foot tapped rhythmically on the wooden floor - tap, tap……tap, tap, tap. A single lily adorned the curls in her dark hair.

Suddenly the band started playing a lively tune, and there was an immediate rustle of skirts and feathers and the clatter of high-heeled shoes on the wooden floor amongst the dancers. Suddenly they were transformed: no longer were they giggling girls, but performers. They began to walk out onto the stage, their steps perfectly synchronized with the music. The last one opened her eyes, as if she had suddenly come to. She plastered her widest, most winning smile across her face and moved with them.

"And now," boomed the announcer's voice, "direct from the Mantovanni Theatre, the Mantovanni Bellas!"

The stage became alive with vibrant colour and lavish dancing as the girls grouped in an inverted triangle formation. The small one was at the back, the point of the triangle, almost hidden from view. She stepped in time with them, one, two, three, step, kick, step. They started to sing in perfect harmony,

"My love, you know that you're my love
But you don't want my love
You don't want my love no more.
So now you're gone."

With the word "gone," the crowd of girls parted, to reveal the one in back. The spotlight shone on her, and she flashed a dazzling smile. "Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed again, "Miss Lily Fox!"

The crowd exploded in cheers, whistles, and applause. She threw up her arms, lowered her eyelids, cocked her head, and paused, shimmering in the light before she began to sing in her most seductive, honey-dripping voice,

"But baby, you're no good for me,
You leave me all alone.
While you go out wandering
I'm crying at home.

So, I won't love you
No, I don't need you,
I don't want you no more
But baby won't you please come home?"

The crowd was on their feet, swaying in time with the music, cheering, shouting for more. An "I love you Lily!" or "Marry me Lily!" could be heard every few minutes.

In the back of the house was a group of boys: street urchins, tough-looking boys, newsies with dirty ink-stained hands. They cheered and caroused with the rest of the crowd, standing and singing along with the performers onstage. That is, all except for one. One lone, gray-capped boy remained seated and still, his body almost enveloped in the shadows. His intense expression gave no suggestion that he was enjoying himself as much as his companions, but his blue-gray eyes followed Lily's every move with fervent interest.

After the performance, the girls retreated into the backstage dressing room to change into their street clothing and rest before their evening performance. There was bustle, chatter, and clatter as the girls undressed, unpinned their hair, removed the thick stage makeup from their faces, and talked amongst themselves. Lily sat alone at a table in the corner. She slowly removed the lily from her hair and put it in a box on the table. She took a white handkerchief and started to remove her red lipstick from her mouth when she heard a knock at the door.

It was not uncommon to have visitors bearing gifts of flowers or requesting dinners with the girls after a performance. Therefore, this knock was not regarded as anything unusual or uncommon. Another one of the girls, Annabel answered the door, expecting the usual flowers, candies, or admiring fan. What she found were two tough-looking, strapping boys with no sign of any of the usual gifts.

"And what can I do for you two – uh - gentlemen?" Annabel asked them, an amused expression playing upon her face.

"We're here to see Lily Fox," they answered attempting to peer around Annabel in order to catch a glimpse of the other girls in various stages of undress.

Annabel quickly caught on to what they were trying to accomplish and quickly slipped in their line of sight, blocking the view with her body. "Um, sure, one minute please," she replied, turning inwards toward the room of girls, "Lil, you've got company!"

"Who is it? What do they want?" Lily said without turning.

"Who are you? And what do you want?" Annabel asked the boys.

One of them replied, "Spot Conlon wants to see Lily Fox." Annabel turned back towards Lily, "They say Spot Con…."

"Yes, I heard them," interrupted Lily facing the boys at the door. She rose from her seat and strode towards the door. She stood with her back straight, her shoulders held back, her posture erect to make her seem taller than she was. When she reached the doorway, she held her head high and looked down her delicate nose at the grimy and tattered young men who stood before her fumbling with their caps.

"Which one of you might be Spot Conlon?" she asked haughtily , her eyes traveling from one ragged boy to the other.

They turned to each other and snickered. "We ain't Spot Conlon," answered the one on the right, "He sent us here to say that he wants to sees ya and we comes over here to get ya."

"Do you just do whatever this Spot Conlon tells you to do?" Lily asked them, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," they answered.

"Why?" Lily countered.

"Cause he's Spot Conlon, and ya do what Spot Conlon tells ya to do when he tells ya to do it," the one on the left replied, rolling his eyes as if fulfilling Mr. Conlon's every wish and command were the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh," said Lily, trying not to laugh, though a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Hmmm, well why don't you just go back and tell Mr. Spot Conlon that when he's man enough to do his own bidding, he can waltz on over here and request the pleasure of my company himself. Now, you two boys have a lovely afternoon. Goodbye." She promptly shut the door, and as it was shutting heard one of the boys say in a low, worried voice, "Spot ain't gonna be too happy wit' that….."

"What was that about?" Annabel asked as Lily strode by her.

"It seems Spot Conlon wanted to see me but wasn't man enough to come here himself," she said simply, "First of all, I don't appreciate my presence being demanded by anyone – especially anyone with such crude manners. And secondly, if Spot Conlon wanted to see me, he should have come himself, and then kindly requested to see me. If he didn't know, then he will know now that I will come and go as I please, and I will never go scurrying off somewhere just because some lowlife tells me to. I have an image to maintain."

When his messengers reported back to him after the unfortunate encounter with Miss Fox, he was sitting in his regular spot on Pier 6 of the North Brooklyn Docks. It was almost a throne, high and hallowed, and Spot relished in sitting upon it regally, looking down his nose at anyone who dared come before him. He was perched there in his usual king-like style, sitting Indian style. Looking bored as his head rested on his left hand, his right hand was busily and rhythmically tapping his gold tipped cane against a crate.

He had been waiting there for quite some time, expecting that, at any moment, his boys would return with what he had sent them to retrieve. As he saw them approaching out of the corner of his eye, he languidly turned his gaze upon them. However, much in contrast with his expectations, they were alone. His eyes narrowed to slate gray slits as he awaited their arrival and their explanation for why they had not done as he had instructed.

After he was told, an odd, almost confused look spread over his face. The expression of silent bewilderment and disappointment remained for a moment or two, but was soon transformed into a look of utter and spitting rage. Who did this broad think she was? Did she not know who he was? That he, Spot Conlon, was not one to be trifled with, much less disobeyed? His knuckles began to turn white as he grip around his cane tightened. His jaw clinched, and his muscles became tense. Seconds became moments of thick tension before he finally spoke. And when he did, his voice came out in a low mutter, almost a growl. "So she ain't comin?" he spat out the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth.

The eyes of both boys immediately fell to their worn and dirty shoes, avoiding the gaze of the one who's scorn burned the back of their heads. Finally one of them spoke up. "Nah, she ain't comin," he said in a low, quiet voice. Spot was silent again for some time as he looked out onto the water, in an effort to control his anger. His blue eyes were filled with fire as he licked his lips and swallowed hard. His efforts to remain calm had been successful, but he still simmered in a slow, burning fury. A fury that he knew in his heart was only compensation for the disappointment he had felt upon hearing the news. A mask to hide his displeasure. But then, he couldn't present that face to his boys. What would that do for his image? They couldn't know that their fearless leader was really somewhat hurt that he had been jilted by the lovely Miss Fox, could they? "Ain't nobody gonna tell Spot Conlon no," he spat, the tops of his ears beginning to turn red with a burning flush of blood, "Nobody."

After a few minutes of angry cursing under his breath, Spot realized how foolishly he'd reacted. This was nothing to get upset over. He'd merely had the wrong outlook on the entire situation. Rubbing his hands together, his face began to form an oddly twisted sort of smile. "Alright," he thought, "If she wants to be that way, then fine. I'll let her." Spot laughed softly. He did always enjoy a good challenge. "She'll be my greatest conquest yet," he whispered to himself.

Three days had passed since the strange encounter with whom Lily had taken to calling "Mr. Conlon's henchmen." Whereas she had at first felt a bit uneasy and threatened by the boys' words of warning, she had now been able to put the entire affair from her mind. The only time it was allowed to linger was as a brief thought, but only when brought up in the form a teasing statement from one of her fellow performers who had witnessed the even.

On the fourth day, after the last performance was over, the lights on the theatre were shut off, and nearly all of its inhabitants were safely tucked into their beds, Lily remained awake in her small room above the left wing of the stage. She sat at her desk, clothed only in a modest white nightdress and a lacy wrapper, carefully writing in a leather bound book. The book was a deep, rich red brown in colour and embossed on its front cover in gold were the words "Le Journal." In it, Lily had penned in careful script a detailed account of her finances….in French. She had chosen the foreign language because it was what she called a "safety device," Not knowing many that could read or speak French fluently, she felt assured that no one would be able to delve into her personal financial business. Each figure, each dollar and cent were accounted for. Written neatly in a detailed, table-like format was her latest figure – Cinq cent quartre f. et soixante trios. (Five hundred and four dollars and sixty-three cents, to be exact.)

Putting down her pen and blotting out the last few stray drops of ink, she stretched and sighed. Shivering, she looked to her open window. "It's cold out tonight for August," she thought. But if she didn't raise the window, she'd die of suffocation in the poorly ventilated room. Summer was in New York was terrible. It was hot during the daylight hours, but at night, it was not warm enough to leave the windows open without some discomfort. Nor was it cold enough to put the winter linens on the bed. "Ah, c'est la vie" she said to herself, and rose from her chair.

She walked over to her vanity and reaching into her pocket, removed a roll of worn green bills that was her week's wages. Unfurling the roll, she counted them over once more before reaching into the top drawer of her dresser and pulling out an old cigar box. One of the hinges was broken and the clasp had begun to wear, but never had the thought of throwing it away had never entered her mind. As she opened the box, the distinct spicy smell of her father's Cuban cigars pierced her nostrils. She sighed deeply, breathing in the scent, and her heart ached as her mind recalled a picture of her father sitting in his crimson chair and smoking one of his cherished cigars. She removed a stack of other worn green, bills and added the former amount to the pile. Thumbing through the notes once more, just to be sure that all was accounted for, she slipped the money and the box back into the drawer, hiding it in the back amongst her unmentionables.

Lily picked up her ivory and gold brush, and began running it through her long raven hair when she caught a glimpse of something moving behind her. It was a shadowy figure – tall, thin. It crawled through her open window and began to slowly move towards her. Her first thought was immediately, "This is what you get for leaving your window open in New York." She was frightened out of her wits, but knew that she must simply remain calm and by all means, not panic. Her breath quickened and her mind raced – overwhelmed with the great pressing question of what the hell she should do. As she desperately wracked her brain for some solution, her thoughts rested upon a silver hilted knife that had once been her uncles, but was now in her possession. She had always believed in being prepared for anything that might arise, so she asked Charlie, a stagehand, to grind it to razor sharpness for her, for situations in which a "need for it may arise." "A girl of my profession can never be too careful," she had told him when he chuckled at her request. Lily had never really thought such a situation would arise, but if ever there had been a need for it, it was then.

She remained calm and acted as if she had not seen anything, steadily brushing her hair with her right hand. While with her left, she fumbled through the still half-open drawer, searching for the knife. "Where is that blasted thing?" she wondered, her fingers still desperately seeking it. Suddenly, they found their target and she held the knife in her hand, slowly drawing out of its hiding place. She had never imagined that an occasion to use it would ever arise, but such an occasion seemed to bed steadily arising over her left shoulder. . "Breathe," she told herself, "Just keep breathing, and you will be fine. Fine."

The figure crept silently toward her with no sign of halting. Lily continued on as though she were completely unaware of what was taking place behind her. When it came near enough that she could hear its breath, she felt her muscles tense with apprehension, clung to the weapon's hilt until her knuckles began to turn white. Just as it was upon her, Lily carefully moved the knife behind her back and pointed its blade away from her. The figure stopped suddenly, its belly having met the sharp point of the blade. Without turning around, and in the calmest voice she could muster, Lily quietly said, "Now, who are you, and just what the hell do you think you are doing climbing into my bedroom?"

Unable to fight her curiosity, she turned around to face the intruder and found herself looking into the stormy blue-gray eyes of a young boy. Her heart stopped beating at that very moment, but could not distinguish its cause from terror or something else she could not quite put her finger on. Instantly, she felt that there was something about those eyes, something about the way they pierced right through her and rendered her breathless and unable to move or speak. After she'd come to back to herself, Lily found herself was inches away from the face of a tall boy with a gray cap and sun streaked dirty brown hair falling messily into his eyes. His face did not display a frightened expression similar to the one she imagined plastered on her own. Instead, his eyes betrayed him, revealing a hint of surprise mixed with a dab of amusement. He was silent for a moment, backpedaling and almost stuttering before he uttered most assuredly, "I'm Spot Conlon, and I can climb into anywheres I damn well please."

Spot watched as Lily's eyes opened wide at the recognition of the name. "So, she knows me name," he mused to himself, "Good work boys…at least ya got that part right. You sure screwed up most of it, but at least she knows me name." His eyes fell upon her weapon of choice, and he contained a laugh. "This broad's sure a funny one," he thought. Being the leader of a bunch of rough and tumble boys like Brooklyn, Spot had seen his fair share of fight, and not all of them fair. He often thought that if he had a dime for every time he'd had a knife, chains, or some shiny brass knuckles pulled on him, he'd be a very rich man. What did this girl think she was going to do to him with her silly little silver knife? If Spot had the mind to, he could have walked up to her and pried the weapon away from her with little to no force. But he decided not to. No, he'd let her have a little fun by thinking that she had the upper hand with her little toy.

"How the hell did you find your way into my window? How did you even know which window was mine?" she asked.

"I did a little research. I know people…who know people," was his response. As Spot was still busy silently laughing at her illusion of control, Lily was fuming at the incredible nerve that this kid must have possessed for marching into her bedroom and stating his right to be there. "I don't believe it," she said incredulously, "the same spineless Spot Conlon that sent his minions earlier to do his bidding is now marching into my bedroom and trying to tell me that he's welcome because he wants to be here. Ha! You've gotta lot of nerve, kid. Now kindly see your way out the way you came in before I alert the entire theatre of your presence or just decide to use this lovely little toy in my hand to slit you from nose to belly."

She turned away confidently, thinking that surely this kid could not have enough gall to stay a second longer. She put the knife back down on her dresser and made a mental note to lock her window from that point on, and then picked up her brush again to continue her preparations for bed. After some time, she finally decided it was safe to look up and see if he was completely out of the window. However, Lily was beyond surprised with what she found. Not only had he not completely made it out yet, but had actually not moved once inch, feet planted to the ground and confident as hell that he was not going anywhere. She laughed once more, this time more nervously, as she said, "And somehow you're still here."

Spot cocked his head to the side and shrugged. "And I ain't leavin'," was his response.

Lily watched in horror as he moved over to her bed and leaned against it. "Excuse me?" she said. "Just who the hell do you think you are? Wait, don't answer that. I know the answer. You're Spot Conlon and obviously you're deluded enough to think that the world is your own private playground……"

"I said I ain't leavin," he took a step toward her and Lily could feel the heat of his anger flashing in his eyes, and radiating throughout the room. Feeling the tension that shrouded the room, he backed away, once again coming to rest against the four-poster bed. "I come in here now because you was rude to me this afternoon and wouldn't talk to me when alls I wanted to do was to tell ya that I liked your song."

"You came up here in the middle of the night to tell me that you liked my song?" she asked incredulously. Spot nodded and fingered a corner of the delicately crochets white throw adoring Lily's bed. She cringed as she saw the dirty gray stain left behind where his fingers had touched.

But Spot remained unaware at how uncomfortable Lily seemed to be at his invasion of her pristine, daintily adorned bedroom. He walked around it casually, stopping to fondle her various possessions as he talked. "Yeah, and there you go swingin' that thing round, tellin' me you'se gonna slice me open. And I'm the one who got nerve?'" he scoffed.

She felt her heart go into her throat every time he picked up one of her belongings. "Does he know how much those things cost?" she thought to herself, "No, he must not. For, if he did, he wouldn't be picking them up by the handle – oh!" Lily felt that in that short frame of time, her entire world had begun to spin out of control, and she laughed in utter disbelief that it could be happening.

"An now you'se laughin' at me?" He walked over to her until he was almost in her face. "Ain't nobody laughs at Spot Conlon and gets away wit it!" he said through his teeth.

"Ain't nobody gets to do anything to Spot Conlon, master of the universe, do they?" Lily retorted dryly.

"Hey…" Spot began to yell. Something about this girl got under his skin. She had gall, nerve enough to challenge him. No one, especially not some girl had been brave enough to challenge him. And he didn't like it one bit. Or at least, he thought he didn't. What was it about this one? The look on his face decreased in intensity and his voice's tone suddenly changed to soft wonder as he said, "How come ya don't talk like everybody else round here? How come ya don't even talk like ya sing?"

"Excuse me?" This was all getting to be a bit to much for her. "One minute you're threatening me with 'ain't nobody talks like that to Spot Conlon' and you're flying into some red-hot hell fury, and then the next you're wondering about my voice? Are you insane?"

"Nah, I'm serious," he said with a smile, "ya ain't from round these parts, are ya?"

Lily looked confused, but then her face somewhat fell as she said softly as if recalling the answer saddened her. "No, I came here about two years ago. I'm from, uh, Charleston. South Carolina, you know?" She still clung to her little knife as she talked, just in case things took a violent turn and she needed to wave it around in his direction. However, her grip had loosened somewhat. She fingered it, gestured with it, used it to accent her words. "I, mean, I didn't think I'd ever end up here, but you see, I kind of had to. I didn't have much of a choice." She was talking too much, saying things about herself that no one, especially not the conceited Spot Conlon needed to know. She could feel her cheeks beginning to burn with embarrassment, and stopped talking.

"What?" he asked suddenly conscious of the change in her, "do I scare ya? Go on, don't be afraid of the likes of me. And put that knife down. Ya making me nervous waving that think round like that. You could hurt yourself or something with that. I ain't gonna hurt ya. I got nothin'. Ya can search me body if ya want."

She laughed again – a nervous titter. She couldn't believe that she was here in her room, talking to some pompous boy about her life, or her voice, or anything else for that matter.

"So, um, an educated speakin girl like yaself, how did ya end up here, in this joint? Ya couldn't have done somthin' else?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure I could," Lily replied, "I could go to work in some factory, slave away all day in some hot shop sewing buttons on men's coats……no, that's not for me. I've got to breathe. So I ended up here. I mean it's not the best, but it's easy for the most part, after you get used to fending off sex craving men's dirty hands and you learn to deal with catty girls who'll hate you if you're given a solo and they're not. But the pay's okay, and I've got a roof over my head and food to eat." She sighed. "Truth is, when I left Charleston, I never imagined I'd end up here. New York was some kind of fantasyland to me - somewhere where I'd imagined I could do anything. And then I actually got here and found out that it wasn't. And that all I had was my "pretty" face. So, I got word of this place and came to try out. I got the job because Mr. Mantovanni liked me, or rather, he liked my face and my legs. He spent the first year trying to convince me to become his 'little missus' and have his children so that one of him could take over the theatre instead of his weasely son that he didn't like very much. He gave me my first solo and made me a star. Well, as big of a star as you can get in a place like this."

Spot interjected, "And he gave ya this presidential-like suite thing all by yaself."

"No," Lily continued, "I had a roommate, but she left about three months ago. She got married so some big shot that liked her tits and her pretty rosy face. But that's a different story. So anyway, after Mr. Mantovanni died about a year ago, and his weasel of a son took over, he kept me here because I kept the money rolling in. And how Junior Mantovanni likes his money. So, here I am. I sing and I dance, and I keep the fellows happy."

Spot smile a mischievous smile. "Um so howabouta little private singin and dancin' for me right now?"

Lily shook her head. "Just when I was telling myself that you weren't as pigheaded as I thought you were, you go and prove to me that you are, in fact, just as pigheaded and cocky as you were the moment you walked in here." She picked up her knife, "Now Spot Conlon, I've said too much, it's late, and I've had just about enough of you for tonight, so get your conceited self back out of my window."

Spot frowned. "Hey, nobody tells Spot Conlon what to do."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard this story before. But I'm telling you, and my knife will tell you again if you chose not to listen to the first warning."

He threw his hands up and backed away, "Alright, alright, I'm leavin'." He climbed out of her window and sat and the fire escape and said, "You an yer knife have a pleasant night Miss Lily." He began to climb down.

"Hey Conlon!" she called after him. He stopped and looked back in. "It's Josephine." Instantly, she bit her lip with regret. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel the need to reveal so much information about herself to this boy? To this kid who demanded her presence, and intruded into her private space?

"Then why the hell ya callin yourself Lily Fox if that ain't ya name?" he asked.

"Josephine is not exactly a name that catches one's attention and rolls off of one's tongue as well as…." She threw her hand up in the air and said dramatically, "Lily Fox!"

Spot smiled and said, "Josephine." He began climbing down the fire escape as he said "G'night kid!"

Lily ran over to the window as she called out, "Conlon, don't call me kid….." But as she looked down, he was gone. Vanished completely. She shrugged and turned her back to the window, leaning on the sill.

"That kid is going to be trouble," she said to herself, "This conceited, pig-headed, sarcastic kid is going to be more far trouble than he's worth. Josephine, you think by now you'd actually think before getting yourself into situations like this. God, use your head every once in a while. You can't go doing things like this. You've got to stick to your plan. Remember the plan? The plan has got to work. You've gotta make it work this time. You're twenty-one years old. God, you're not a kid anymore."

She turned back to the window. The moon was out and in its full splendor. It illuminated her face and hand as she reached for the curtain and pulled it back. She looked out onto the empty street, maybe still hoping to see him there. Then she turned her gaze out, toward the city. "One day," she thought to herself, "one day, I'm leaving you behind." She was talking as much to the city as she was to herself.

Then, a smile played across her mouth and she touched it. "He does have a nice smile," and then she stopped catching herself, realizing what she was saying. "No, you're tired and delusional. You need to go to bed before you turn into a complete crazy. Just go to sleep. Sleep."