Thanks to Austra and her incredibly encouraging reviews!

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

"Oh, just be quiet already!"

The birds were back, chatting gaily outside my window. Crawling across the bed, I begrudgingly pulled myself up and slammed the window shut, scaring the meager avian off for a mere 3 seconds.

My father must have heard my somnambulant yelps. "Isabel, what do you want for breakfast?"

"Nothing, papá, I've got to go to work!" I yelled as I grabbed my clothes, which littered the room like massive and aggressive lily pads.

"You have to eat something!"

"I'll be fine, papá, don't worry! See you tonight!"

I didn't wait for his response before I hurriedly shut the door behind me.

Did you think I had already forgotten about the night before?

I wish I had. Sure, on the whole everything went off well at the makeshift meeting. I had minimized my embarrassment and we weren't chased out of the place by an angry mob of newsboys – that was a relief in and of itself.

But there was something lurking of which I desperately pretended I was unaware.

Surprisingly (to myself, at least), it had nothing to do with the newsboys. It had nothing to do with Lola. It had nothing to do with Carlos (although he didn't help things).

It was me. Me and only me. Me, myself and I.

When Jack looked at Carlos and asked him to lead the search for Cubans, what can only be described as a black hole spread throughout my gut. At the time I wasn't entirely sure what it was from, but I had an entire night to think about it.

It was disappointment. More particularly – regret. I had blown the meeting with Pulitzer and Jack had entrusted Carlos with the responsibility of the new mission.

Why would you be angry, you ask, when you were the one who choked, who wanted to give it away? I did, just like I always do. That's why I knew it wasn't Carlos's fault that I was feeling like a child. Jack saw leadership in Carlos and Carlos just did what came naturally to him.

It was my chance and I blew it. And I was now cursing myself for it.

And thus I ran out of the apartment, my poor father likely staring after me in a cloud of confusion.

The neighbor woman was on the stairs again. She had the habit of doing that from time to time, sitting always and precisely on the 14th stair, her expanding thighs resting comfortably against the painfully splintering wood. I don't want to say that she was crazy, but why would you sit on a stair, mumbling particularly obscene things to yourself and the poor neighborly rats, if you weren't?

That morning her red gingham apron was stained with what looked like a bit of tomato.

"Good morning, Mrs. Burns!" I yelled as I ran down the stairs, quick to jump over her sprawling leg, which had grown more expansive since I had last seen her. She grumbled, lifted her arm feebly, and returned to her solitary state.

Since the fateful day I met Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, I always surveyed the streets before I walked down them. I checked for police officers outside the millinery, snooping around for their (innocent) culprit. Thus far, I thankfully hadn't run across any authority in passing or near the millinery, but I took each and every precaution nevertheless. It was a dangerous world out there, and to be on the bad side of the law was even worse.

I arrived that day at the millinery with Lola on my mind. It was obvious from her reaction yesterday that the mere mention of the strike had obviously upset her, so I didn't even want to think about what she would do when she found out I went to their Lodging House with Carlos (and she would find out – that much I knew).

I still didn't understand why she would get so agitated over something so insignificant (after all, I was the one in real danger), but I shook my head and resolved to forget about her for as long as possible. I had known Lola for three years – it was her way to get upset over something for a minute and then blow friendly kisses the next.

The day passed by slowly (as it always does on Wednesdays), and I thanked the moment it rang 5 o'clock in that museum of feathers and beads. Haphazardly stuffing all my belongings into my bag, I bolted out the door, thankful for the afternoon freedom.

For the first time in days, I had a free moment. No newsies, no meetings, no covert plans. I looked around me (checking first, of course, for hidden coppers), finally deciding to see if I could find Lola. She wouldn't be happy to see me, that I knew, but if I could simply get a word in edgewise maybe she would see the point of it all.

I came to her apartment and knocked. No answer – odd, considering Lola was always home at such an hour. I squinted as I tried to peer through the crack in the door jamb. As to be expected, I saw nothing, but I heard a rustle and knocked again. Still no answer.

I could have stomped from indignation. I was no fool – she was waiting for me to go away and leave her in peace. Well, Lola, mi amiga, it wasn't going to happen today. Not after everything I'd been through the past few days. So I sat, my back against the moldy wall, legs drawn up to my chest, arms around my knees.

I was going to wait.

Well, there I sat and IwaitedandIwaitedandIwaited. I waited for two hours (I know, who does that?) when I went up to knock again. I promised myself that if she was going to be so stubborn I'd leave her in her misery, free to wallow in her invented hatred of simple newsboys.

Just as my knuckles were about to rap on the door, it opened and she walked out. She passed me without a word, walking down the stairs as if she hadn't seen me. I jogged up to her and followed her down the stairs.

"What was that, Lola? I've been waiting here for hours." She had gotten off too easy too many times before – it was payback time.

She must have sensed my fury, because she didn't respond.

"Lola, what is wrong with you?"

She whirled around, fists clenched at her sides, eyebrows arching so high they looked as if they had been painted on her teak skin.

"No, Izzie. The question is: what is wrong with you?"

Her question, by all means, shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. I threw my hands up in exasperation, trying to ward off the demons in her glare. "What are you talking about? Nothing's wrong with me!"

She looked at me hard, an indignant fire raging behind familiar brown eyes.

"One of those boys must have really charmed you."

There it was. What I subconsciously knew she would say, but desperately hoped she wouldn't. The cards were all on the table, and Lola was calling my bluff. "What? Them charm me? You don't know what you're talking about, Lola."

She left her gaze on me for a moment more, waiting, waiting for me to let up like I had done so many times before. Her eyes had that familiar golden, triumphant look that before I hadn't noticed but now ripped disgust out of my stomach. Just before the urge to punch her in the face set in, she looked away and continued her obstinate march down the stairs.

"Why are you so upset?" I called after her, the disgust settling back in its hole and my weakness rising up once again. "Because I'm helping some newsies with their strike?"

She stopped mid-step, her hand gripping the iron rail beside her with a force I'd never imagined she had. She turned her head so that I could only see the left side of her face. "I'm upset because you're lowering yourself to help a bunch of dirty kids that would turn on you in a second."

"Oh yeah, and how do you know that?" I saw her take an angry breath before she snapped around to face me.

"Oh, Izzie." (Condescending much?) "Haven't you seen them? They'll just steal your money and leave you to rot. They're not decent."

Now, Lola could be a real prat sometimes, but I'd never heard such poisonous words come out of her mouth. "Not decent? Jeez, Lola, where is this attitude coming from?"

She smiled, but I knew it wasn't the one I wanted. "You know what, Izzie, just go off with your new friends, all right? See if I care."

And she left. She left me standing there like an idiot. And like an idiot, I didn't go after her, but instead stood dumbfounded, jaw dropped, arms hanging, staring after her like she would realize her error and come crawling back.

I may have been naïve, but I was no fool – she would never come back.

I saw on a stair and recovered myself. If Lola didn't want to help, let alone see me, fine. She was her own person and I was mine. Sure we had been best friends for years, sure there was no one else I was closer to, sure I had wanted to be her friend forever. But if she wasn't going to have it, neither was I.

I went to find the only people who were on my side, who were not pouty little girls, who were looking forward to seeing me (I hoped) – the newsies.

The afternoon light was threatening to turn in for the night, but I nevertheless began my trek to their Lodging House. Shadows swam furtively in and out of streets as I walked, my fingers kneading bits of lint in my dress pockets. I never liked shadows – they were too fast and too invincible for my sensitive taste, and I always got the feeling they weren't just shadows that were following me. I tried to escape my own shadow by weaving in and out of alleys, hiding behind spare trees, becoming a shadow myself behind an unsuspecting businessman.

So I walked in the direction of the lodging house, hoping and praying I would happen upon a familiar face. I stopped at a corner, looking around like a drugged animal and trying to remember the way to the place when I heard a voice call behind me.

"Hey, you!"

I turned around slowly – the first image that entered my mind was that of a pressed blue suit and impeccably polished badge. To my surprise, a boy with an eye patch and a vaguely familiar smile was running up to me. My shoulders immediately relaxed a bit.

"I remember you," he said, finishing his jog up to me. "You're that girl from Cuba, right?"

His white-as-lightning smile and curious eye patch weren't enough to jog my memory. He must have noticed, because he continued. "I was there that night at the Lodging House. I'm Blink," he said, holding out his hand.

Still in a daze, I held out my hand. "I'm Izzie."

"I know," he said, winking his visible eye. "So, Izzie," he took his cap off his head and shook his head of dusty blonde hair, "what are ya doin' 'round these parts? Ya don't live 'round here, do ya?"

"Oh," I said, shifting on the balls of my feet. "No, I live over by Battery Park. I was just taking a stroll. It's a nice afternoon, you know." Uncomfortable, I left my eyes wander over his head, casually considering the setting sun.

"Ya live over by Battery Park and yer takin' a stroll by our Lodging House?" he asked. "Ain't that a long way to walk?"

I coughed, and scratched a non-existent itch on my nose. "It's not so bad."

He was considering me now, with his head cocked and cap back on. I was worried he was going to call my bluff, but his confusion quickly turned into a grin. "Well since yer here, why don't ya come help us make signs for the strike? We've got a bunch done, but we need a few more."

The thought of spending an entire evening with a house full of boys gave me the jitters, but what choice did I have? I had been looking for them, after all, and I'd only be sitting around by myself if I went home.

"Sure."

The white-as-bliss grin appeared again. "Great," he said, extending a generous hand for what I assumed was my bag. "Come wit me."

He led me to the lodging house (which, incidentally, had been a short ways in the opposite direction I had been going) where dozens of lounging boys mulled about – cards flying, shoelaces (what was left of them) tripping, hands slapping. I felt as if I'd jumped right into a poorman's saloon.

"Hey, Race!" my one-eyed companion called to the familiar Italian boy leaning against a wall. "Look who I found!"

Racetrack the bullfight enthusiast looked at me for a minute before recognition spread across his face with a curious smile.

"Good to see ya again, Cuba," he said, having walked over to us. "Say, I don't suppose ya'd have a minute to tell me more about those bull fights, eh? You and yer friend Carlos left right at the good part of the story."

I was about to mumble a reminder that I had not ever been to a fight when Blink interrupted. "Aw, come on, Race, give 'er some space."

With a wave of his hand, Race brushed off his friend, turned and looked at me expectantly. When I said nothing he shrugged and put his ink-stained hands in his pockets. "So what're ya here for?" he asked.

"Well –"

"She's gonna help us wit the signs," Blink said.

Race looked impressed. "Yeah? Well come on, then, they're all inside."

I had all but forgotten the small space of the lodging house from the night before. Somehow, it seemed even smaller since then, with boys running around, placards of wood strewn hastily about the floor, and paintbrushes staining everywhere they landed. Not only the sights, but there were so many smells I had never noticed before – boy sweat (much different from man sweat and girl sweat, let me tell you), cigarette smoke, ink, and many more I would be hard-pressed to name.

I let my eyes wander around the space as I was pushed around the room. I didn't see Jack or David, but a face here and there seemed familiar.

"Hey, Cuba," gangly boy with scraggly hair, officially known as Skittery said, waving a short, but pleasant, hello.

My "hey," fell on deaf ears as I was ushered towards a corner.

"Come on, Izzie," Blink said, taking me by the elbow and leading me to a group of intently painting boys. "We've got some signs over here; we just gotta paint 'em."

I watched as their shaky hands painted bold words with intense care. Funny – they were newsies and by trade were required to read, but I had never once imagined them writing. By the looks of their wobbly letters, neither had they.

They were simple signs with a direct, but surprisingly powerful message: "Strike," "Rally Against Pulitzer," "No World," were some of the most common. The slogans were written on anything and everything the newsies could find: paper, sheets, wood. It was all thrown together but oh, so endearing.

I sat down next to Blink, who had gathered up his materials and was observing the plaque of wood in front of him.

"So whaddya gonna do wit that one?" a boy next to him asked.

Blink narrowed his one good eye. "It's gotta be somethin' new, somethin' powerful. We can't have 'em all say the same thing." He folded his hands seriously in front of him.

The group sat in active silence – a few were biting their lips, a couple were picking at their grimy nails, one across from me shifting in his troublesome pants. Their creativity in inventing headlines (I used to buy papers from them, remember?) was failing them.

"What about," I said in a low voice, my hands planted firmly under my behind, "Newsies Against The World?"

Their silence hit me like four by four to the face. I slid my hands out from below me and put them in my lap, my face down. Blink clapped me on the back.

"That's great, Izzie! Put that down, Snipe, that's a good one."

The boys painted furiously on their materials, nodding their heads and mumbling compliments all the while. We all spent a good hour or two inventing new slogans and making up signs, each one better than the last.

Remembering what Jack had said about making the Cuban presence known, I started painting a few of my own signs to give to Carlos and his friends.

"Cuba Against The World"

"Cubans Against Pulitzer"

"Are Newsies the New Cubans?"

I was so wrapped up in my signs that I didn't notice when Jack stepped into the lodging house.

"Those ain't half bad," he said, looking over my shoulder with impressively serious face.

Not seeing, hearing or expecting him to come over, I started, turning the "E" I was painting turned into an indecipherable symbol of swirls and squiggles.

"Oh," I said, looking furiously at my mistake. "Thanks."

"This is gonna be big," he said to no one in particular as he looked around at the group of makeshift artists.

"It sure is, Jack!" Blink said enthusiastically, tossing his sign in a pile next to him.

Jack smirked, took one last look at the beautiful chaos around him, and walked upstairs.

Awake at midnight, I realized a few things:

A group of destitute kids were fighting with all they had to get back at the most powerful man in the world.

Lola (close to destitute herself) was forging a hatred of them for no apparent reason.

Carlos was scheming to create a popular empire he hoped to stand on for the rest of his life.

And me? Well, I was sitting by that window again, staring into the night.