...
for the next few weeks, amara snuck out to manhattan. after the first week, she could walk around without wanting to collapse, so she didn't have to worry about not selling - she just sold in brooklyn during the day and ran away at night. normally, it was alright, nothing ever happened, apart from the occasional slip up while she was running.
one night, though, it didn't go so well.
amara swung herself into the lodging house, a smile on her face as wide as anything. " 'ey boys," she chirped as she ran through the lounge, getting a couple of "hi" 's and a few waves from the boys who were in that room. her leg was doing alright today, and she'd sold all her papers - the headline wasn't exciting, but her lies damn well were.
the girl skipped into the bedroom, immediately turning heads. "hi amara," they said to her, and she gave them a smile. a couple of them got down from their bunks, hoping they'd tell her a story. it was funny, amara barely read to the older newsies in brooklyn. but now, she was having boys as old as jack sitting down on her bed, listening intently.
tonight, as per usual, there were a couple boys sitting on her bed as they waited, looking up at the ceiling, bored. when they heard amara enter, they all perked up, moved away from the headboard of the bed so she had room to sit.
"amara!" jojo noticed her, grin wide as anything as she sat down.
" 'ey, jo," amara returned the smile, resting her head up against the wall. "so where is we up 'ta?"
"the loud noise outside," mush answered, lying on his stomach on the bed.
"ah, right." amara let her eyes fall closed as she imagined the scene in her head.
story-telling was like a different language to amara. it was hard to master, there were so many different elements to it - the delivery, the plot, the characters and their development. all of these you had to pull off effortlessly. lucky enough for amara, she was fluent.
the thing about story-telling, is that it isn't just about the story. it's what's behind it - the emotion and the generations that have shared the story. it's why it's so important to the author, the connection to someone or something they love/loved.
that was why amara adored telling stories - it reminded her of the good memories of her family, before brooklyn. though, were the brooklyn newsies even her family? she wasn't exactly certain. god, she didn't know what real family was.
through amara's eyes, family didn't stay. family broke apart because of disaster or because you simply didn't love each other any more. family fought and family cried. family was messy. so was love. love was scary. love was unpredictable. love left you wondering what you did wrong. love was like taking a jump off a cliff, expecting a submarine to catch you. but love was addictive. love had you running back for more. love was a trap. it lured you in with it's pretty words and it's compliments and it's killer smiles. it braids your hair and kisses your neck and tells you how much you mean to them. it takes you by the hand and twirls you in circles. it pulls you close and gives you butterflies in your stomach. and then, it stabs you in the back, that killer smile still plastered on it's perfect face.
amara wasn't exactly a fan of love.
she had realised that her mind had been drifting off a bit halfway through the story, when a boy's voice entered the space of emptyness. "what happens next?" a newsie that amara recognised as boots asked, tilting his head.
"what happens next is yous go 'ta sleep," amara laughed, getting up from "her" bed - nobody slept in that spot now, knowing that it was were amara sat - shaking her head as the twenty-ish boys around and on her bed groaned.
