Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any of its characters, but I do own all others.

"Hurry up, papá – you should have been at work ten minutes ago!"

"Calm down, Isabel. The cigars can wait a couple minutes."

That's my father – the best cigar maker in all of New York. When my mother died, he took over taking care of me. Actually, he has been taking care of me since before I was even born. He made the food for my pregnant mother, bathed her, sang to her, and even helped me out of that cramped womb. I owe everything to that man.

So now I take care of him. I know I'll never be able to make it up to him, but I try.

"But your breakfast is getting cold."

I stood at the stove and heard my father's heavy footsteps walk slowly towards the middle of the room. I heard the unyielding scrape of the chair across the floor and knew he had sat down. I brought over his toast and coffee and set them down in front of him.

"Gracias, cariño," he said under his breath.

"You're welcome, papá," I said, cleaning up the mess I had made.

"So my dear, what are you going to do today?" he asked.

"Just going to work, papá."

"And you're going to be very careful, aren't you, Isabel?"

"I always am, papá," I said, rolling my eyes and then kissing him on the cheek.

He nodded and stood up.

"I'll see you tonight, Isabel."

"Have a great day, papá."

In case you are wondering, I never told my father about meeting Jack Kelly a couple of days earlier. As much as I loved my father, I never really told him much of anything. He knew a couple of my close friends, but we never talked about much further than that. So I let it be. No need to make him worry, right?

It's funny – I had left the apartment extra early to make sure I didn't arrive to work late, but it hadn't worked. To this day, I still can't explain the physics of it, but if you can figure it out, please let me know. It would have saved me a morning lecture and walking out of the shop with my figurative tail between my legs.

"Isabel."

That was all she had to say.

"I know, I promised, but –"

"I'm not interested in your excuses, Isabel. I expect you to be on time. Why is that so difficult for you?"

"I'm trying really hard, Ms. Woods, it's just –"

"Your trying isn't getting you anywhere, Isabel. You either arrive on time, or not at all. You understand?"

"Yes, Ms. Woods."

I went in back to organize the custom orders and to get away from those scrutinizing green eyes that stared back at me behind wire-rimmed glasses. Damn those eyes. If only she didn't have any – I wouldn't have so many problems.

I had been working in the back for a couple hours when I heard Caroline Woods's favorite assistant – Helen (ugh) – talking to my daytime tormentor.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Woods; I went to buy a newspaper for you but there are no newsboys."

I peeked out of the back room to see Caroline Woods's face. I didn't want to miss that face of bad news. In case you were wondering, I sure wasn't disappointed. Caroline Woods looked up from the needlework she was adding to Mrs. Parker's next elaborate hat and pursed her lips. She pursed her lips and folded her hands, which I knew from experience was a bad sign.

"No newsboys?" she asked, her countenance making clear her patience was wearing thin. I truly thought her perfectly painted face would implode and explode from her exertions.

"No, Ms. Woods," was the reply, with fiddling fingers.

"And how are we going to get our news, Helen?" was the next question out of that solidly pursed mouth.

"I'm not sure, Ms. Woods. Would you like me to walk to Midtown? Perhaps they – "

"Oh, never mind, Helen. Just get back to work."

I was relieved that Helen's newspaper failure took the attention off of me. The disappearance of all the local newsboys was a bit odd, but I didn't think about it much because it didn't affect me insofar that Caroline Woods would be in a bad mood for the rest of the day. The only newsboy I had ever "known" was that Jack Kelly kid, and I couldn't say it was the best experience I'd ever had. The streets were quieter without the newsboys' "hawking," anyways.

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed with a few mishaps and I was almost out the door.

"Isabel, before you go, I have something to ask you."

It was a Friday. A favor on Friday was not a good sign. She walked over to me at the door, which I held open out of hope I would be able to sneak out.

"What is it that you need, Ms. Woods?"

"I must ask that tomorrow, you bring this hat over to Irving Hall," she said, handing me a purple velvet hatbox with a satin ribbon.

She continued, "There is a woman there, named Medda Larkson. Are you paying attention? Very well. She is a new customer of ours and I have great hopes that she will be a loyal patron in the future, which is why I need you to deliver the hat tomorrow. Don't give me that look, Isabel. I know it is a Saturday, but I also happen to know that you don't have anything better to do. I expect it to be delivered on time, understood?"

"Yes, Ms. Woods," I said, pouting. I took the hat box from her hands and marched out the door.

As I stepped out of the shop, I saw a boy to my right – pretty small, and in some ratty old clothes – take off down the street, his curly hair flapping under his cap. I didn't see anyone running behind him, so I was immediately suspicious. No chase? What in the world did he run off for? And why had he been so close to the door?

"Izzie! Por Dios, it took you long enough!"

That's Dolores, but she'll pinch you where it counts if you call her that. She's Lola to everyone, except her mother and my father.

"Sorry, Lola. Caroline Woods dearest wanted to chat."

She saw the box in my hands and frowned at me. "What, you have to work this weekend too?"

I tried to brush it off. "It's just one hat. I have to bring it to Irving Hall tomorrow, if I can find the place, that is."

"Irving Hall, huh?" she said as we walked. "I think Carlos knows where that is. We'll go with you." In case you were wondering, Carlos is Lola's older brother who prides himself on knowing all the ins-and-outs of Manhattan.

"I don't need you two to chaperone me," I insisted.

"Izzie, you and I both know you'll get lost."

"Really, Lola, you don't have to."

"Oh, shut up, Izzie. We're going, so stop complaining."

There really is no arguing with Lola.

"So," she said. "Have you seen that boy again?"

I regretted telling her about my "encounter" with Jack Kelly.

"No, and I don't want to."

"Aw, come on, Izzie. You haven't had a suitor yet – maybe he'll be the first!"

I pursed my lips (just like my favorite milliner) and narrowed my eyes.

"Lola, drop it, alright?"

"But it's so fun to tease you, Izzie. Why stop now?"

I dropped her arm, which had been looped through mine and walked faster ahead of my friend.

"You shouldn't pout, you know. You look ugly when you pout," she called after me.

Turning around, I yelled back, "And what do I care about looking ugly? That will keep those newsboys away from me."

"It was a joke, Izzie!" she insisted, running up to hook my arm once again.

Not only is it impossible to argue with Lola, it is also impossible to stay mad at her. That charming smile of hers could convince the executioner to lower his axe.

We kept walking and I laughed at the boys staring after her, hoping she'd turn around and waltz over to them.

"What?" she asked, having caught my laughing gaze.

"Those poor boys, Lola. You drive them crazy. You should really give them a chance, you know."

She turned and glared at me. "I have given them a chance, Izzie, you know that. We'll talk and they all just end up staring at me and not listening to a word I say."

"Tough life," I said, which earned an elbow in my side.

Here's the thing: Lola isn't really that beautiful. Don't get me wrong, she's pretty, but she's not the kind of girl that spends hours in front of a mirror in the hopes of catching a man (And thank goodness, because if she did I wouldn't be able to stand her). Lola's beauty (or attraction?) comes from confidence.

We dodged the last few staring boys and finally got to the apartment. I could tell my father was in a good mood. He was bustling about by the time Lola and I came in, and dinner was already on the table.

"Cariño, I'm glad you're home," he said, rustling my already mussy hair. "Good to see you, Dolores."

I saw Lola flinch as he used her full name, but she nodded good-humoredly at his greeting and we both sat at the wood-knicked dinner table.

"Papá, what's gotten into you?" I asked. I could count on one hand the number of times he had cooked dinner for the two of us.

"Nothing," he said, looking slightly hurt. "I just felt like cooking for my daughter, that's all."

I felt a twinge of regret for having questioned him, but I got over it.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Romero? Izzie told me you had been feeling unwell recently," Lola said.

"I'm feeling much better, Dolores, thank you. Just a bit of a cold, that was all. But tell me, how is your family?"

I listened for about a minute before I drew myself into my mind while Lola explained her mother's stresses, her brother's fights and her father's work. It was usually the same old thing, so I didn't ask and Lola didn't tell, but my father as a polite man couldn't help himself.

"So did you have a good day at work, Isabel?" he turned and asked me.

Lola bit her lip to keep from smiling. She knew I rarely told my father the truth of what happened at the millinery. I didn't want to worry him with Caroline Woods's snide remarks and unjust punishments.

"It was fine, papá. I've learned a lot from Ms. Woods." (Yeah, like how to avoid those frightening angry eyes.)

"What is that you brought with you? A weekend delivery?" he asked.

I glanced at the box sitting next to the door, hoping it would have disappeared since I had set it there.

"Unfortunately," I mumbled.

"Carlos and I are going to take her, Mr. Romero," Lola piped in, happy to include my father in her plan. She was funny like that: her parents never knew where she had run off to, but when it came to everyone else she wanted their parents to know everything.

"Gracias, Dolores. I'm sure Isabel will enjoy the company," he said with a wink.

"Sure. As long as Carlos doesn't stop to talk to every girl he sees."

Lola laughed, probably because she knew all of the girls in Manhattan had learned Carlos's tricks. His reputation had finally caught up with him.

A/N: Let me know what you think!