Title: A Hero's Sin

Author: Buttons

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Drama/General

Chapter 3: Questions and Pride

I was about eleven when the questions started.

To me, my father was never anything more than a good story and a wrinkled newspaper photograph. I hadn't ever seen him as a real person. He was just something we brushed aside, like potato peelings or the leaves that follow us home in the fall.

It was because of Alana and Mr. Higgins that I started thinking. They get me thinking about him.

I liked the way Mr. Higgins would kiss Alana on the forehead and the way she would talk about her 'Daddy'. I made up a list.

Nichole's List of Questions:
1. What colour is Papa's hair?
2. Why does he like Santa Fe so much?
3. Where are my grandparents?
4. Does Papa have any brothers or sisters?
5. What is Papa's horse's name? (since, of course, he was now a Western Cowboy)
6. Does Papa like music?
7. Did he really meet Mr. Pulitzer, like Uncle David says?
8. Do his ears and mouth really look like mine?
9. Does he have a big ranch and a six shooter?
10. Does he have a family?

But, being an eleven-year-old, I wasn't very good at being discreet and when Mama found the questions she told me to stop wondering and entertaining ideas about him. So I didn't and even when I was older I didn't dare wondering about him. At least, not too much. Just in case Mama found out.

0o0o0o0o0

Lyra turned up at my door. She was wearing a heavy grey coat with shiny black buttons. Her hat had a single, long feather protruding from it. Her cheeks were rosy and her green-grey eyes were bright. In her hands she clutched a thin clutch and a round, navy blue hat box.

She ruffled into the flat in a flurry of coat tails and sweet perfume. Her curly brown hair bounced with every crisp step she took.

She looked me up and down in the unnerving way only she ever did. "Nichole…why in heavens name are you wearing your mother's clothes?"

I knew better to protest. Lyra was always the sophisticated, outspoken one, cutting to the chase. Pidge was the fun-loving, sweet and cheerful one. And Alana was the playful, adventure-thirsty one. I was the boring, safe, always-think-twice-before-acting one.

And it had always been that way.

"These are not my mother's clothes Arin Meyers, and you know it."

11. Could he joke around with his friends, because I can't.

Lyra clicked her tongue disapprovingly and looked around the apartment, as if wishing something with modern style would jump out at her. It didn't.

"At least do your hair better," she insisted, yanking the bun out and fixing my boring, straight brown hair with a intricate working of overlapped shining bobby pins, which she produced from her clutch. Next she pulled a blouse out of her hat box, insisted I put it on, and rolled the waist of my skirt so that it rested just below the knee.

I was used to these 'sessions' by now. I could very well take care of it all by myself, but I would rather not. I just tell myself that one day Lyra would give up trying and leave me be. That day never came.

Lyra threw my jacket to me and led me out the door. I locked the door and slipped the key into my pocket, trotting to keep up with Lyra's ambitious pace.

"Where are we going?" I queried, flattening my hair cautiously along my head with a gloved hand.

"Christmas…" she paused, "browsing."

"Lyra, you know I don't have any—" money.

She didn't let me finish. "Don't worry." She pulled a cheque out of her clutch and unfolded it so that I could see the clear black ink print. $100/ One Hundred Dollars. Wow. "Payday. Denton gave me a Christmas bonus."

No kidding.

"So we need to stop at the bank first so I can cash it and make a deposit. Heaven knows I'm not going to be spending this much." She laughed, discreetly flipping her hair over one shoulder so that it was out of her face.

The streets were busy. People were rushing in every direction, pushing through the crowd with boxes full of Christmas purchases, weekend groceries and worn leather briefcases.

The streets of New York are always booming and alive. I suppose all big cities are like this.

12. Did he have a wandering suspicion about the other parts of the world?
13. If so, is that why he left?

0o0o0o0o0

Svenski Bakery was owned by another newspaper veteran. His name was Stephen Svenski, or 'Crutchy', as he was known 'back in the day'. However, it had been since realized that this name was degrading and insulting and was promptly discontinued.

Mr. Svenski was a cheerful man. He had a large nose and a long, thin face, much like the rest of his body. He still wore his newsboy hat, it was grey and slightly checked. Mr. Svenski was always smiling.

14. Did he miss his friends?

The bakery smelt like bread and pastry. Behind the counter were two girls, Cathlynn and Allegra, who had known Mr. Svenski and each other since they were young.

Lyra approached the counter and banged her nickel down, ordering a loaf of bread and a Swedish pastry. "C'mon 'Cakes, I've seen you move faster than that!" exclaimed Lyra in a joking way as Cathlynn slid the loaf of bread into a brown bag with care. She made a face at the use of her childhood, but obviously still dear, nickname.

Allegra disappeared into the back room for a moment and came back with flour on her nose. She wiped her hands on her apron and cranked the record player in the corner. Allegra loved music, providing a fitting nickname for her.

15. How did he get his nickname?

Someone coughed in the back room and Mr. Svenski appeared at the doorway. His worn face brightened when he saw us. "Didn't forget about me then?" he asked.

We smiled back and Lyra took the bread and pastry, sliding the nickel across the counter. Mr. Svenski slid two pennies back. "The pastry's on the house," he told her in a booming, generous voice.

"More than we get," joked Cakes. "I'll be dammed if I ever get a free pastry."

Music laughed and wiped the flour off her nose.

There were Christmas shortbread cookies already out in the display. They were decorated with delicate green and red icing.

We made small-talk for a while, Mr. Svenski asking me about my mother and then telling me to make sure my Uncle David told him when the next poker night would be. I nodded and smiled, assuring him that I would.

As we left Cakes called out to me, "Hey, Nichole, I like that skirt!"

I shot Lyra a look and she stuck her tongue out at me.

0o0o0o0o0

The shops in Manhattan carry everything. Lyra and I browsed in a hat shop. It was warm and the lightly falling snow outside looked far away through the frosted windows. Out boots make small noises as we move carefully around the shop.

"What do you want for Christmas Nichole?" Lyra asked, fingering a hat with a lacy rim.

I shrugged. "Don't worry about it. We're not supposed to exchange anyways, right?"

Lyra paused. "I guess not."

I knew what was wrong. It was the money. She wanted to spend it.

"You wouldn't have to buy me anything."

I didn't answer. I didn't have to, but I would have felt awkward if I didn't.

"Really, I wouldn't mind."

"Lyra," I said, "I would. Just don't. Get Alana something instead."

Lyra's gaze lingered on me for a few seconds longer than it should have.

Sometimes I wish I didn't have pride. It hurts too much.

11. Is he proud like me?

End Chapter

((Didja like it? C'mon, I know you did! Even if you have no idea where I'm going with this. Not to worry though, I've got it all figured out. For once.))

Shoutouts:

Lady of Tir Na Nog—Nope. I am younger…Yep…I'm fifteen. Whoo hoo (does unenthusiastic dance) Life is super. And sorry, but Irish is in the later chapters! You'll have to hold tight for a while!

Coin—Thanks for the gingantabulous (yes, I did just make that word up) Birthday wish! It was awesome. And I love Medda. And I am fifteen. Ew.

Hawk Kelly—Ouch. Moving out of the fourteen-year-old thing now! However, if this were The Price is Right, you would have won so far because you didn't guess too old! (bells and other annoying fanfare)

Ccat—I can't wait for Jack either! It's all I can do from rushing it all out, so instead I think I'm dragging it along at a snail's pace.

Gypsyruth—Don't worry, I may take a while, but the updates will still come. I get all my info from different sites including (www dot onlinecostumeball dot com) for fashion and (www dot angelfire dot com/co/pscst/) for music and other information.

Two-Bits—No problem missing my birthday. As long as you reviewed! And I am fifteen! You win!

TIME FOR: CONFESSIONS FROM AN ASHAMED AUTHORESS: I lied about my age last year when I said I was fifteen. The truth is that I am fifteen this year. Really. No lies. This time.