If you were to glance through a window of the Manhattan Lodging House for Young Girls during the early afternoon, it would be completely spotless. For if you knew anything about New York's factory life you would know that the young occupants had not been home all day.
But if you had seen it that morning, your outlook would have been very, very different.
That morning was filled with jostling, pushing, shoving, yelling, and the occasional punch in the arm. The girls, most between the ages of six and sixteen, were just as rough in the small hours of the morning as the newsboys they despised. The only rules they had pertained to who got the good washcloths and what toilet the younger girls could or could not use. Getting out of the top bunks could be dangerous, and harsh words were constantly exchanged over certain ankles colliding with certain foreheads. The rush to get to the sink quickly became the Kentucky Derby, and only the fastest of the children could get a sink all to themselves. The others had to share, which could easily become a violent splashing war. Lost articles of clothing were common, but after a while they could be found somewhere underneath the owner's bed.
But after the kicking, the dressing, and the washing, thirty-two young girls left the Manhattan Lodging House for Girls looking, if not their best, at least better than when they had woken up. Frayed ribbons holding back uncut hair and faded dresses with indistinguishable patterns adorned the orphans, runaways, and children supporting their struggling families.
At the front of the pack walked a young girl of no more than 15, but no one knew for sure. All the girls knew was that this girl was who to follow. She always had been and always would be. Her authority went unquestioned, as did her personal life. The only people who knew anything about her were her closest friends, all four of them. Each had their own different relationship to her, and subsequently each knew her in a different way.
This girl had the most unlucky misfortune of being born with two names in mind: Rose and Darlene. Sadly, the later won out, as it was her grandmother's name on her father's side. So she went out into the world as Darlene Rose-Molly Bunker. She certainly didn't approve of her family's decision, and thus changed it to simply Danny Bunker, and enforced the change in her one and only childhood friend, a girl by the name of Donna Young. They were an unlikely pair of friends, two girls as different as could be. Danny was indifferent to criticism and always handy with a barrage of sarcastic comments. Donna was of the quieter set, hiding behind her wavy hair and round glasses. But somehow they were the closest any children could get, even when they disagreed on almost everything they came across. Many times they would start the day as follows:
"Danny," Donna would as they lead their young followers through the streets of Manhattan, "Did you lose your hairbrush? Your hair looks a mess."
"No," Danny would reply. "I just forgot to brush it."
This is how many early morning conversations would start. It would then lead to Donna "preaching about the indecencies of humanity" and Danny "continually steering the argument in new directions". It would finally escalate into Donna ignoring Danny and Danny ignoring Donna's ignoring. They were certainly a pair of crossed companions, but they somehow worked through their differences and grew closer year by year. They were a strange example, but the other girls followed the two none the less.
"Hey Danny!" a voice said from somewhere close to our heroine's elbow. Nell Danes, hazel eyes shining, looked up at her from underneath a mop of cropped hair. She rushed to keep step with Danny as they headed down Newspaper Row1 up towards City Hall. Nell, known as "Knickers" to some of the girls, was of a younger age than either Danny or Donna, but made up for her size in her energy and ability to pick a fight with the toughest of the factory lot. Of course, being a group of young girls, physical fights rarely came past a few shoves, pinches, and the occasional bite. Even so, the child did deserve some amount of respect, and it was readily given from almost all of her peers.
"Hey kid," Danny acknowledged her follower. "How's the day going?"
Nell shrugged. "Ain't so bad. It'll turn better if we get a good headline. Those dumb asses writing the stories—"
"Nell Danes!" Donna exclaimed. Donna was against strong language from anyone, and hearing that from a girl as young as Nell was just about too much for her.
Danny laughed and continued along her route. As some of the smaller girls began running on ahead excitedly, pushing their way through the growing crowd on the streets, she pulled Nell up onto her shoulders and began skipping like a circus pony. Nell whooped like an Indian and bat at her ride's head and neck with Danny's hair ribbon, urging her on. Donna ran to keep up, one hand holding on to the back of Nell's skirt to balance her.
And so the pack moved down through the streets of Manhattan, much like they had each morning that year, towards the glinting golden dome of the New York World Building.
1 Newspaper Row was the street along Park Row, a collection of turn-of-the-century newspaper buildings including the New York World Building, New York Tribune Building, and the New York Times Building.