𝖇𝖗𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖑𝖞𝖓 𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖌𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓 (spot colon)

Prolouge

        ⇏ Sneaking past the ship's crew, I climbed onto the stern. I was maybe ten at the time and had decided to leave my home country and go to America. Boston, Massachusetts to be specific. To be frank, it was a hasty decision, caused by too much grief piling up.

Between my parents' lifelong ambition being stripped away by my mother's death and my place in society being cemented the moment I was born. Not to mention that with the cards I've been dealt, I was likely to end up homeless shortly. My papa had grown cold since my mother's death, he was a shell of a man. I couldn't stand to be around that anymore.

I was upset and confused. All I knew is that I wanted to start over. I wanted out. I wanted nothing to do with France, I needed a fresh start. I wanted nothing to do with the past. So I left, I hid on a ship that I thought was headed to Massachusetts and I was gone.

The ride was rough and lasted longer than I thought, but it was better than my first year in America.

I had also apparently gotten on the wrong ship.

"WELCOME TO NEW YORK!"

Huh?!

I stumbled off the ship, and past the crowds of the city. 'No. This can't be right. Maybe I got off too early?' I stumbled forward, attempting to keep my knees from buckling. They suddenly felt like jelly. 'No, no! That was a one-way trip, right?'

Walking past vendors and children selling newspapers, I attempted to come up with an escape plan. 'The ship is long gone, maybe I can take a train. Do Americans even have trains?'

Suddenly I hit something and I'm on the ground. Hesitantly, I look up. A man was looming over me. He clutched a cane as he stared. His hair has just started to grey and he looks to be in his late 50s. His eyes crinkle around the edges, and his obviously forced smile widens.

I squeaked out, "Je suis désolé monsieur. Je ne t'ai pas vu là-bas." At the time I didn't know any English, and wouldn't know any for half a year. I didn't understand what his response was. I still can't remember what he said, but I will never forget what he did.

He gripped my hand and pulled me up. Muttering a few words, he dragged me along. I clawed and screamed. Heads turned but nobody spoke up.

I wonder how it must have looked. A wealthy man dragging a girl through a crowd. He didn't stop while she struggled. He didn't care that she was screaming in a different language.

There had been a couple of newsies on the street, all of which had stopped hawking headlines. They knew that if they got involved they'd be sent to the same place I was headed. Though I didn't know this at the time, it was quite normal to see a kid being snatched.

I remember making eye contact with a boy, he had the bluest eyes ever, and he stepped forward. He raised his hand like he was going to step in. He almost lunged forward, before planting his feet and gripping his cane even tighter.

Eventually, I managed to squirm away, booking it down an alleyway. I scrambled up some boxes, gripping the bricks and pulling myself onto a roof. Once I was up I took off again, running across roofs and jumping gaps. Once I was far enough away I settled myself.

I ended up sleeping on the streets for two months, spending twelve hours in a mill making dresses and shirts and pants and clothes I would never wear.

Thanks to the wonderful Medda, a performer I had met, I was given an actual place to stay in. I slept on a couch in her dressing room and was taught some English by her and her colleagues. One day she invited a friend of hers over to help me find a better job.

Jack Kelly was 13 at the time. He had arrived early one morning. Medda wasn't there yet and I was tidying up my couch and my small collection of possessions. All I owned was an extra change of clothes, my French-to-English dictionary, and my mother's necklace.

Rummaging around, I attempted to find my hair bow. I had pulled out the cushions of the sofa and was looking inside it.

"Whos are you?" A voice piped up behind me. Jumping up, I turned around and there was a boy. He was a few inches taller than me and had slicked-back dark hair, and a red bandana.

"Uh- My name is Fae. 'Ow did you get in 'ere?" I responded, mentally hoping I pronounced everything right.

He stared at me for a long while before sighing. "So yous Fae? Medda could've mentioned yous not from here."

'What does that mean? What does me being French have anything to do with this?!'

As if sensing my inner panic attack, he runs a hand through his hair and says, "Sorry kid. Dat sounded bad, didn't it? There ain't nothin' wrong with it. Just didn't know, is all."

I stared back at him for a second. I tried to figure out why Medda would've talked about me. Had I done something wrong? Had I gotten annoying?

He sat me down and explained the situation to me. Basically, Medda told him I was looking for a job that didn't involve sitting in a hot mill all day and would leave my hands bleeding before the day was done.

In all honesty, it ain't the most glamorous job in the woirld, and because yous is a girl you could be put in some undesirable situations, but if you looked like a boy," He drug out the last syllable, thinking hard for a second. "but with a hairs cut and new clothes you could play the part."

I took a second to process the information. "Where will I stay zen?"

Chuckling he said, "At the newsies lodge, with me and some other guys. Would's you like 'dat?"

Nodding my head, I let out a weak, "Oui."

And just like that I had a job. I had a family. The newsies liked me and were willing to give up some of the very few amounts of clothing they owned. I got a hat from Jack, a shirt from Racetrack, and a pair of pants and suspenders from Kid Blink. I already owned a pair of boots so I didn't have to wear Race's pair that would've been too small on me.

Staring at myself in the cracked mirror, I sighed. I did look believable, other than the hair going to my waist. I'd have to cut it. The one thing my mother always wanted was long hair, but she couldn't have it. So I grew mine out for her, and here I was, about to cut it off.

I tried to distract myself from that terrible fact and examined the outfit I had been given. I had on a white shirt, that was slightly big and loose pants. The shirt was only tucked in on one side, and the blue suspenders held up my pants. They both weren't super big but had enough room for me to grow in. My boots had my grey pants stuffed inside them.

My blue and brown eyes blinked. 'Oh god how am I gonna do this?'

Gathering my courage, I pushed my way out of the bathroom. There all the boys were waiting for me. They clapped and cheered when I forced a shaky smile on my face. I stumbled over to Jack, who had a rusty pair of scissors in his hands.

"Is zere anyways we can keep my hair kinda long?" I muttered to him.

He hummed while grabbing a brush and brushing through a few knots. He pulled it back and tied it into a low ponytail. Then taking the pair of scissors he cut off half of my hair.

My head felt significantly lighter. Staying silent, I started to tear up. When I felt the droplets, I quickly wiped them away. I couldn't cry. I wouldn't cry. Mom would understand that it was necessary.

Slowly, Jack removed my hair from its prison and I felt it fall to my ribs. I heard the scissors continuing to snip at my hair. Eventually, he pulled away, and I felt what was left of it brush my shoulders. He pulled it back into a ponytail and set the hat on my head.

"Wow, yous kinda do look like a guy," Racetrack said. My head snapped to him.

He continued with, " I mean you still looks like a girl, with your face and all, but that's only because we knows."

I giggled a little and smiled at him.

"'Zanks."

word count 1464

ive literally had this in my drafts for years wow it's seeing the light of day ig