The First Night

Isabelle followed Spot around the lodging house, meeting different boys in every room. She wasn't sure if she'd ever remember all their names.

"…An' dis is 'da kitchen. There's never really much of anythin' in heah, or anyone, but it's an extra sink 'n… yeah, I don' really know why we'se got it…"

As he led her down hallways and up stairs, through doors and out them again, she tried to make a mental map of the place. It wasn't huge, but it did house about sixty full-grown boys. There were many doors, most of which opened into closets or cupboards, and she was not about to open each one to find the room she wanted.

She kept listening intently, but turned her thoughts toward her guide. She had heard about Spot Conlon, but who in Brooklyn hadn't? She'd overheard that he was arrogant, cold, and dangerous, but he didn't seem like any of that in person. He had an air of confidence, but not conceit. He had come to her and taken her in, so how could he be cold? He looked strong, tough, and she didn't think she'd want to pick a fight with him, but while he may be intimidating to his enemies, she didn't think he was necessarily dangerous.

She studied him a bit harder. He looked a couple inches under six feet tall, to her, and muscular. He wasn't brawny, but slender, and his body showed the effects of basic nourishment, hard work, and a strenuous lifestyle. His brown hair was clean, not a common sight among newsboys, and his lips were perfect. Curled into a smirk, a grin, a laugh, a frown, or pairing up with a glare, they were absolutely perfect. "Oh, and those eyes…" Isabelle thought, as "those eyes" met hers. They were gray-green seas that one could get lost in within moments. Piercing and soft, laughing yet sad, and simply beautiful.

She shifted her thoughts back to the tour. They had gone through the main lobby, the "meeting room" (an empty room that was used for storage and privacy), up the stairs to the bunkroom, the washroom, and all the various closets and such. Then they went up another flight of stairs to the rather sparse-looking third floor, which had only a table, a few stools, a lamp, and a desk.

She had met what felt like hundreds of boys, although none of their names came back to her immediately, and most of them had expressed amusement or disbelief at the idea of a newsgirl. At the moment, Spot, who had been called down to the lobby and just returned, was opening various closets and cupboards, trying to find the dry rags. He was grumbling something about spilled milk and a boy named "Sparks."

Opening the nearest door, Isabelle happened to find a stack of neatly folded strips of cloth. She grabbed one and handed it to Spot, and as he dashed down the stairs, she wandered back to where she remembered the bunkroom being.

When she and Spot had stopped in a few minutes earlier, they had decided on a bunk for her. It was next to his, so he could "keep an eye on her," as he put it. Both were bottom bunks. He liked being able to come and go without anyone noticing, and she was afraid of falling off. Spot had actually had one of the boys, Knuckles, move to a different bunk for her.

She welcomed the sight of the bed and, despite the chatter and activity around her, she promptly fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

· · · · · · · ·

After Spot cleaned up the mess in the lobby, he too headed up to the bunkroom. He had intended to tell Isabelle of the regular schedule, so she at least had some idea of what was going on. However, when he found her, she was already asleep.

He looked at her, noting that she had nothing other than what she was wearing. There was no way she was going to roam around New York selling newspapers in a dress. He guessed her to be about the size of Skipper, a fourteen-year-old boy with a knack for skipping rocks. The boy was rather willing to give up an extra shirt and pair of pants for the "new gi.rl". Spot folded them, along with one of his own undershirts and some suspenders, and placed them on the small table between their beds. Then he went to join the pok.er game on the other side of the room, thinking about Brooklyn's new beauty all the way over there.

· · · · · · · ·

The next day

Spot was a few minutes before the sunrise, and was surprised to see Isabelle's bed already empty, and the clothes on the table already replaced by the dress. He looked around the room for her, but didn't see her anywhere. Assuming she had to be somewhere, he went to the washroom, splashed some water on his face, pulled his shirt and pants on, tied his shoes, and headed up to the roof for a few minutes of solitude before the rest of the boys woke up.

When he reached the top of the fire escape, he found his idea was less original than he had thought. Isabelle was already up there, sitting on the edge and staring at the horizon, as the sun took its first steps into the day. As he walked nearer to her, he realized she had something in her hands that she was playing with.

"Mornin'," he said, climbing up to sit alongside her.

She turned and smiled a bit. "Good morning. You're an early riser, too, huh?"

He nodded, noting how melodic her voice sounded. "How'd ya sleep?"

She shrugged. "Well enough…"

Spot noticed that she had left the answer hanging a bit, as if there was more to it, but ignored it. "So, Isabelle… Got a nickname, or is it jus' Isabelle?"

"Well, I guess you can call me whatever you want," she said with a smile. "I'll answer to it, so long as you let me know it's my name."

"Fair enough," Spot replied. "How old're you?"

"I turn seventeen in a couple months. You?"

"Turnin' eighteen."

She nodded, and they fell into silence and watched the sun climb up the edge of the sky until it was fully visible. After a time, voices drifted up from the window, getting louder and louder.

"We'd betta' go," Spot admitted reluctantly.

Isabelle took one last glance at the sky, then turned around and walked over to the fire escape, following Spot down and into the window.

They were met with a few odd looks, but for the most part, they came in unnoticed. The bunkroom was a madhouse, with half-dressed boys everywhere, and many loud conversations fighting to be heard. Spot made sure everyone was up, and that the smallest boys were getting ready. Then he grabbed his cane and slingshot from beside his bed, and motioned for Isabelle to follow him out the door.

((Thank you's go to elleestJenn, PeliculaJane, Gamble, and Lilyanatos for reviews! Thanks guys!))