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

When you're waiting for something, someone, anything, time has the habit of passing as slow as the thickest molasses. It was the day of the rally, and there I sat, fingers wobbling, eyes darting, heart racing, simply waiting for the clock's hands to move just a little bit quicker. The seconds ticked by so slowly the hands seemed to be going backwards.

Unfortunately for me, my nervousness manifested itself in clumsiness, and Caroline Woods noticed (as if she wouldn't). In passing, I accidentally tipped over a table of her beloved hat mannequins and send them sprawling across the shop floor – grotesque felt heads rolling violently from their invisible bodies. My punishment was to organize all hundreds (or rather, thousands) of hat boxes in the back room, sweep the floor, dust the shelves, and on and on and on until Caroline Woods couldn't stand to even look at me anymore.

At precisely four o'clock I bolted out of the shop, hurtled home and threw myself into my room. Today was the day I was going to wear The Dress. Of course, I wore a dress nearly every day, but this was a dress for the books. This was the dress I had always dreamed of, and had finally been able to buy with my meager savings from the millinery. This was My Dress.

It was canary yellow (Lola said yellow was my color), simple and, most importantly, clean. It had no pockets like my daily dresses, or stains from the invisible hole in my mouth. It had been hiding in the deep recesses of my closet for two years, and tonight was its big night. Sure, it was just a rally for poor kids, I knew that well enough, but I had the distinct feeling I wouldn't get a chance to wear it again for quite some time.

I walked out of my room to find my father standing in front of me.

"Dios mío, Isabel. You look wonderful," he said, his head cocked to the left just so. "What's the occasion?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my long lost dress. "Thanks, papá. It's been a while since I've worn it, so I figured I'd air it out."

"Are you going out with Carlos again?"

My mouth clamped shut and my brain went to work full force. It was Decision Time. Tell him I was going with Carlos and risk having him think we were more than 'just friends', or tell him where I was really going.

"Well, he'll be there…"

For the first time in my life, my father smirked. I wished I didn't know what he was thinking.

"You two have been spending a lot of time together. Is there something I should know, Isabel?"

I stuttered, unsure of what I should say. "Oh, p-p-please, papa, Carlos and I are just friends."

The smirk grew wider.

"I swear! Besides, he's too busy flirting with any girl that walks pass him to even remember me."

"Well," he said, prolonging a conversation I was desperate to finish. "Maybe that could change. I would think things might even change tonight, him seeing you in that dress."

"Please, papa, I don't want anything to change. I promise you that nothing is going on between me and Carlos, and it never will. All right?"

He shrugged. "We'll see."

I started to walk to the door and skidded on the high heels I was unused to wearing. "No, we won't see. I'll be back later."

"Be careful!" he called as I walked out the door.

It was a risk having told my father about Carlos. I hoped he would simply have a good chuckle at the fact, but the truth was that there was a possibility he would be genuinely concerned and call Mrs. Martinez to corroborate my story. I hadn't asked Carlos if he had told his mother about the strike, but all bets were on that he hadn't. Mrs. Martinez wasn't a mother to take lightly to son rebelling against authority.

Carlos was already waiting for me on the stoop.

"Jeez, what took you so long?" he said, pushing up his sleeve to look at his invisible watch.

"Oh, pipe down, Carlos. You couldn't have waited for very long."

He looked me up and down and winked, clearly impervious to any and all of my insults. "You look really great, Izzie."

"Oh," I said, waving my hand. "Let's just go." I had no patience for compliments, especially those I didn't deserve.

It hadn't been very long since my first trip to Irving Hall, but I hardly recognized it. The building was lit up as bright as a kid on Christmas, and people were milling all about the entrance. Music vibrated through the walls of the lobby, hiking the nervous energy up to an unnerving level. There was not a frown to be found in the crowd, and for everyone else's sake I was glad for it. It was going to be difficult to frown with so many smiles around.

I turned to see Carlos searching the crowds.

"I don't see anyone, Izzie."

"What are you talking about, Carlos? Jack and David are right over there, and look – there's Blink."

"No, that's not what I mean. None of the Cuban kids we recruited are here."

I desperately wanted to correct his use of "we" but I kept my mouth shut.

"Maybe they're just late, Carlos. Give them a chance, they'll show up."

Who was I kidding? But he looked so disappointed; I hated to knock him down another rung.

Race and Blink waved a happy hello to us from their place on the balcony, Skittery gave us both a strong handshake and a shake of his hair, and Jack and David nodded us over to their table, where I was informed that they, along with a certain Spot Conlon from Brooklyn, would soon speak.

If it isn't clear to you now, there is something you should know: I knew next to nothing about the newsies in Manhattan, and even less about the newsies in Brooklyn. When Jack mentioned that the famous Spot Conlon was to arrive soon, I gave an ignorant shrug, but I noticed that Carlos's jaw set and his eyebrows furrowed just enough. He gave a curt nod and I knew something was wrong. As long as I had known Carlos, he had never been curt. My nervous level jumped nearly a hundred points.

A very pretty, dainty, and all-around lovely girl I didn't recognize was sitting at the table. As we had not been introduced and as I am not the most amiable of people, I planned on spending an awkward evening sitting next to her, getting by with a smile here and a nod there, and generally avoiding any normal conversation. Far be it from me to introduce myself.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), she and I were in no ways alike.

"Hi," she said, smiling and offering a refreshingly un-gloved hand. "I don't think we've met. I'm Sarah."

I bit my lip and took her hand in mine, overly conscious of my abused nails. "I'm Izzie."

"It's nice to meet you," she said, giving me a polite nod as she put her hand back in her lap. "David's told me about you. It's sure nice of you to help them with their strike. It's very important to them – but I suppose you know that."

My interest was piqued. After all, who was she, and why was she sitting at Jack and David's table?

"David told you about me?"

"Of course – he's told us all about the great things you've done to help them."

"I don't mean to be rude, but why would David talk to you about me?"

"Oh," she said, understanding softening her face. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm his sister."

I barely managed to keep my hand from slapping me across the mouth.

"Ah, I see," I said, nodding my head too quickly. "Yeah, well, I'm doing my best, I guess. They tell me what to do and I do it." Actually, when put it like that, I didn't like the looks of things at all.

"Well," Sarah said, inclining her head slightly. "I think you're awfully brave. I wouldn't have dared to do half the things you've done, from what they've told me."

I was about to protest profusely, but I turned when I heard Jack call to me and Carlos. "So where are those kids you two promised?"

I saw Carlos's face pale. Iron-rich blood against my tongue nearly made me gag.

Carlos smiled waveringly and said, "I'm pretty sure they'll be here soon."

He shot me a look as Jack turned away. There was nothing I could do for him but shrug my shoulders unhelpfully.

Just before the show was to officially start, I saw Pancho sneak into the theater with two of Carlos's friends behind him. From the looks on their faces, they were not happy to be there. I imagined that the only reason they had shown up was because they didn't want to risk losing Carlos's female connections.

I whistled to Carlos and nodded in their direction, thankful he didn't have to suffer complete and utter embarrassment. His face lit up with hope for a moment when he saw them, but it disappeared in a flash. I saw Jack watch closely as Carlos left the table and went to badger them for what I assume was the horrible turnout. I was annoyed to see that Jack wasn't surprised. Carlos may have been an arrogant, pushy, over enthusiast, but he was my friend and deserved at least some respect.

So I was left as the lone Cuban at the table. Davey leaned over to me and asked, "What happened?"

Tired of making excuses for Carlos (of which he was not aware), I sighed.

"It would appear that Carlos isn't the great persuader he thought he was."

David laughed under his breath but I could see in his face the surprise that Jack had lacked at the poor turnout. Guilt grabbed cloyingly at my diaphragm.

"I'm sorry, Davey."

David looked at me and shrugged. "Every kid counts."

It was nice of him to say, but I wasn't so sure.

I was staring into the smooth flame of the oil lamp in front of me when I heard the hollow knock of wood against wood. I turned around instinctively, as the sound came from around where I imagined Carlos would be.

There was Carlos, as I had pictured, but he wasn't alone. Facing Carlos, with a group of roughandtumble kids behind him, was a boy (if you could call him that). He was shorter than Carlos, but only by a little and was much scarier, confidently scowling at my best friend's brother, tapping a gold-tipped cane on the ground in front of him.

As much as I should have raced to Carlos's rescue (ha!), I couldn't tear my eyes off the boy. Not for any superficial attraction, but rather because I found him intensely interesting. He was short and scrawny, but had a disposition to match the strongest man in the world. He carried a cane, and the only people I had ever known to carry a cane were the old men that sat on the corner on rainy days. Such blatant disregard for conformity fascinated me. Kind of like Jack's ten gallon hat.

"Ya got some nerve showin' up here, kid," the boy said to Carlos, who was standing with his fists dangerously clenched at his sides.

"I could say the same to you," Carlos said nonsensically.

The boy made no remark to Carlos's jab, but smirked. "So where'd they catch ya next? Not Manhattan – Jacky wouldn't have let ya in if he'd caught ya sellin' in his territory."

"I don't sell papes anymore."

"Ya mean ya can't."

Carlos took a step forward. I tried to pry myself off my chair, but my legs were glued.

"What's the big deal, Conlon, were you scared a new kid could sell better than you?"

The boy's smirk widened. "Nah, I just didn't want people thinkin' ya were one o' mine. Ya woulda given me newsies a bad reputation."

Carlos launched forward, I launched off my chair and Jack launched in between the two of them. I grabbed Carlos by the arm, desperate to avoid a scene. I nearly choked when I saw Jack offer his hand to the kid. Where was loyalty when you needed it?

"Spot," Jack said to the boy as he shook the boy's hand. "This is Carlos and Izzie. They're helpin' us wit the strike."

The boy still had his eyes on Carlos, but slowly moved them to me. "This is the broad that went up against Pulitzer?"

Excuse me? Who else knew about my failed mission?

"She's the one."

I stood uncomfortably as the boy looked me up and down. I had hoped Carlos would stand up for my honor (I know), but he stood mute next to me.

He finished his glance at me and moved to Jack. "The rally's lookin' pretty good."

Was I really that easily forgotten?

I saw Jack puff up his chest in pride. "Not bad, eh?"

They walked to the table and sat down. I saw no introductions being made, and was flabbergasted that David was familiar with such a criminal. Or that Jack had such poor manners.

As I was confusedly watching Jack and his friends warmly welcome Sir Spot Conlon to their group, Carlos wrenched his arm out of my grasp.

Before I continue, I'd like to insert something here: I know nothing about boys. It's important that you understand that, because what happened next came right out of left field, in my opinion. To put it in other words: never in my wildest dreams would I have done what Carlos was about to do.

Seemingly energized by the violent turn of events, Carlos's few friends followed his charge forward, heading straight for Jack's table.

As much as I wanted to close my eyes and pretend nothing would happen, I couldn't. My sick curiosity took its vengeance, and I watched. To this day, I'm still ashamed I didn't make one move to stop the train wreck that was about to happen in front of me.