A/N: Well..here it is, my brainchild, my baby...there's little else to say right now, because I'm waiting to see what kind of reaction it gets from the crowds here at is nervous

Disclaimer: Really, If I owned 'Newsies' would I be here talking to you good people? No. I would be on a yacht somewhere on the French Riviera, being fed grapes by Spot Conlon. Er..where was I? Oh, yeah. Not owning stuff. I claim Bridget Conlon and her parents--but other than that, Disney can take credit for it's beautiful characters. Lucky bums.

Keep in mind that I am in the market for a beta reader, so if you're interested---please, please, please drop me a line. Hee. The quote for this chapter seemed appropriate, and it's also from a Disney movie! is a dork

Also, because I know it will come up, I shall adress it now---is Bridget a Mary-Sue? Probably. But hopefully she's well-written enough that no one will mind. I mean, one of the best stories I've ever read (Hellie a' Brooklyn by: Brunette) involved a Mary-Sue..so give her a chance, plzkthnx.

x

Enough of my ramblings! On with the story!

I will never pass for a perfect bride / or a perfect daughter

-Disney's Mulan

Midnight in Conneticut. By all accounts, Bridget Conlon should have been asleep hours ago. She was getting married in the morning, after all, and her mother would have her head if she arrived at the church with dark rings under her eyes. Everything was very still and quiet and Bridget felt as if any movement she were to make would shatter that tranquility and alert everyone to the fact that the bride-to-be was not sleeping soundly in her room.

So she lay quietly, barely daring to breathe, for some time, until she realized that if she didn't make her move now, the oppourtunity would pass her by and she would be utterly lost. She sat up and looked around her spacious room, decoarated in pale shades of lilac, and her closet, where her voluminous wedding dress was hanging, mocking her, like a huge white omen.

She got up timidly and crouched down to retrieve the suitcase she'd stowed away three days ago, hidden behind an obscenely frilly, equally lilac-y dust ruffle. She opened it and sat back on her heels, checking over the contents one last time and looking around the room to see if there was anything she needed to add. If there was one valuable thing her mother had taught her, it was to be fastidious in her traveling arrangements. A lady always packed for every concievable occasion, and thought she didn't know much about New York City, she was betting that the occasions she would encounter there would be very different from the ones in Hartford.

Once she was satisfied that she had everything she needed, and her suitcase, which was really intended for daytrips to the country and not for the entire wardrobe of a young lady, was bursting at the seams, she went over to her desk and took out a sheaf of stationary (lilac scented, naturally) and stared at the blank page for a moment. She had meticulously planned every inch of her escape---except this. She thought for a moment, and when no sudden flash of inspiration came to her, she put her pen to paper and wrote the simple truth.

My dear parents,

Allow me to apologise in advance for my unseemly actions. I know that I have forever been a mystery and a dissapointment to the both of you---and you will never know how hard I tried to please you. I have spent seven years trying to make up for Ben's absence in our lives, but I cannot do that anymore, just as I cannot marry Jospeh tomarrow. He is a lovely man, I'm sure, but I do not love him--and when (if) I do marry, I want it to be to a man who cares for me as much as I care for him.

I have spent such a long time trying to be someone I thought you would approve of, that somewhere along the way, I seemed to have misplaced the person I was.

Please rest assured that I can take care of myself and that I am in good company. I will contact you when I am settled---

Bridget hesitated, unsure of how to close the letter.

I love you both.

Your erstwhile but well meaning daughter,

Bridget

As a final touch, she scratched out the name at the top of the stationary, which her mother had had newly printed just yesterday; Mrs. Lucas Davenport,and carefully placed the letter on her pillow. She thought about writing Lucas a letter, but decided against it. They never had any idea what to say to each other in person, she could hardly imagine filling a whole page with words to him. She looked down at her left hand and wrenched the ornate gold ring, peppered with diamons, from her finger and set it atop the letter. She figured that would be good enough.

Swallowing hard, Bridget stooped and picked up her bag, cast weary eyes around her room one last time, and felt as if she was going to be faint. You don't have to do this. She reminded herself. She could stay. But what was there to stay for? If she stayed all that lay before her was an elaborate wedding to a man she barely knew and a cookie cutter existence as a Conneticut life. If she stayed, she would forever be defined by her husband and her last name---there was no life left for her, no surprises in her future, if she didn't leave.

Bridget squared her shoulders, strode purposefully over to her window and pushed it open (thank goodness her room was on the first floor, or she didn't know what she would have done). She struggled briefly with her heavier-than-expected suitcase and finally suceeded in shoving it out the window. It hit the ground with a muffled thump, and she peered around anxiously, worried that even that slight noise had woken someone in the silent household.

She forced herself to count to ten before she hoisted herself onto the windowsill and dropped carefully to the neatly manicured lawn below, and felt a surge of exhilaration. She was doing it. For once, Bridget Conlon is taking a risk. The grounds of the Conlon estate were always beautiful, but her parents had taken extra pains to make it the most spectacular landscape in the whole state, all for the marriage of their only daughter, Bridget, to Jonas Pierpont, son of one of the wealthiest oil tycoons in the United States. The thought of how much money her parents had sunk into this event made her feel sick to her stomach. But she could not---would not turn back. Not now. Not when freedom was so close she could taste it, could grab it with both hands if she reached out far enough.

Jump, I'll catch you. Ben's voice sounded in her head as clearly as if he'd whispered in her ear, and she smiled, trying to mask her irrational urge to be sick in her mother's prize-winning rose bush.

With a determination she suspected she had inherited from her long-gone brother, Bridget headed down the long gravel driveway, feet already hurting in her stylish but pointless shoes, lugging the suitcase that contained ninety-five dresses but not one book to read on the train, and resolutely did not look back once at the life she was leaving behind her.