Will:

Yup, that's him. Skinny and good at selling made-up headlines. (I can't really blame him; sometimes the news is so dull.) Anyway, from what I hear, he's pretty glad he doesn't board with the lot of you, and thinks even his siblings are better than the Saturday ritual. I'm no good at coming up with pranks, but Wally suggests you just give Spot a taste of his own medicine and rig a door with a bucket of bathwater.   

Don't let this die! Willow, can we start soon?

So… I guess we need to start! Since we're in the beginning stages of this RP, feel free to join at any time. 

Will~

"Argh!" I yell, as the soap stings my eyes, an' the filthy water dribbles out my ears. "Spot Conlon! Dis is honestly da last time!"

Spot pokes his head out of the window an' yells, "Nah! Don' be rediculous. 'Sides, youse gotta taka bath like the res' of us." 

More than anything now I wish I could board with the newsies, but I ain't got enough quite yet. Besides, the alley is comfortable, an' right next to the newsies' boardinghouse.

The only bad part is, my street claim is right under the window next to Spot Conlon's bunk.

An' Spot always saves his dirty bathwater, sose he can douse me with it every Saturday.  

Augh is right.

But anyways, it's not so bad, I think, as I pull on my overalls, and get a shirt on over my wet undershirt. I dress in boys' clothes because they's a) less expensive b) easier to put on an' c) easier to run in. 

Ya'd be surprised how much of a newsie's job involves runnin'.

I quickly grab my notebook an' pen in their special bag. The pen has Da's name on it, an' Ma's drawings grace the front pages of the journal. An' my scribblings, stuck with their crude words and writing, written with ink drawn from the pen of a poet, used to create faeries an' Biblical beasts, with gargantuan eyes, that somehow, were filled with humility.

And then, my words, cursing that notebook with endless ranting a of better headlines, an' better days, scribbled where odes to this foul city or a sketch of a fantastical sea creature should have been.

Written in short, scrawled print, where an artist should have touched its paper with brush, or charcoal, or where a real writer should have entered thoughts in flowey cursive.

"Eagle!" a sharp cry rang out, followed by a frantic, "Catch!"

Scuffs threw me a grey towel, most likely worn out from horseplay an' male sweat. Anuder reason to sleep on the streets. I, impulsively, toss it onto a barrel in the alley, an' take a few steps away. 

"OY!" yells Romeo, "Pass the towel, willya? Somebody pass the towel!"

"Gimmie a buck, I just might," I holler back up through the window.

I hear a bang, then a splash, then cursing, an' arrive at the conclusion that Romeo has jus' backed into a washbasin. 

"Alright, alright, git out da door!" the warden yells, "Carry the Banner! Sell the papers!" 

I stand far from the front of da stairs, and finish tying off my braid. As the boys storm out, a factory goil walks by. She looks like a factory goil, with tired eyes, and bleached pale skin-still, she is kinda pretty. Her long hair is woven into a braid, and she carries a basket under one arm. 

"Hey, doll," Romeo says, an' walks casualy to her side. "Mighty heavy load youse got dere. Howse bouts I…"

"Back off, Romeo," she cuts. Romeo, however, being his annoying self grabs Spot, an' starts shakin' him. 

"She knows my name!" he cries. "How did she know my name?"

"Willya be quiet for once, Romeo?" I ask, at least trying to defend her. "Youse just a hopeless flirt."

At this, Romeo lunges at me, and I dart away, glad to see that it's gunna be a typical day.

Hey, I never said bein' a newsie was easy.

So, there you have it! Sorry if I used your charrie too much, Bluebird, or described her looks in the wrong way. Gee, we all need to post appearances. Put that on your CB bucket list! And please, use Romeo however you want. He's a fun character, maybe because he's sort of the annoying flirt that NO ONE really likes.

TTFN! And yes, we are starting NOW! 

@Willow- 

You did not use Martyna too much! I kind of see her how you described her- bags under her eyes, pale skin, braided/put up hair. Her hair is light brown, almost dirty blonde, and she has grey-blue eyes. She is average height(though she often slouches), and lean/muscled from working so much. I think that's all? I already said she's always frowning…Oh, she wears old work dresses and boots! That's all. I'll try to post by tonight.

So, I just realized tha I forgot to tell you to post appearances in the charrie sheet. Oops. But, now, feel free too, and it can be a drawing or a description. 

So…here she is! My beautiful Will. I am SUPER proud of this drawing, and personally think that it is one of my best. Please enjoy. And sorry, I didn't include her slingshot in this drawing, so, oops.

Anyway, this is what Will looks like! 

Yay, it begins! I don't know much about the rest of you so I guess this bit will be mainly setting the stage for my part of the story.

Ricky-

"Okay, okay, say it again."

"You know the first part-"

"'Course I know the first part, knucklehead. The rest part."

I sigh. Wally Lawrence and I sit on the hard front steps of the tenant building. We're right next to the bay, and I can see where the bridge stretches to Manhattan from our spot. The air smells like smoke and something bitter, salty from the dock full of fish a few streets over. Everything is draped in the five-forty-five grey haze.

"Hey, Ricky, don' give up on me here!" Wally says good-naturedly, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I blink and then look back to him skeptically.

"You ready?" I say.

"Yep," he says back.

I take a breath. "Enrique…"

"I told ya, I knows that part!"

"Keep your shirt on, I'm getting to the rest!" I say exasperatedly. Then I take another breath.

"Enrique Ronaldo Frederico Martin de Zavala Morales Quintanilla." 

Wally whistles. "And why've you got a name like that again?"

I rub my forehead. I've told him this a million times. "It's my given name, then my grandfathers' and uncles' names, then my father's last name, which I use, then my mother's," I say slowly. I'm still working on my American accent and sometimes "mother" sounds like "moder."

"Oh-kaaay…" Wally says, processing. "I think I've got it. But just to be sure, tell it t'me anuther time?"

I grin and swat him. We break out laughing. Just then my mother looks down from the second-story window. "Riquecito!" she calls. "'s hora de ir, no?" 

She's right. It's time to go. I tell Wally so and we get up, straightening ourselves and brushing off some dust from our clothes as if we had a chance of removing it all. Luckily, our shift only starts at six, and we're both early birds. It's not much of a walk to the factory – we know the same thing's coming every day. Yet there's always that sense of dread when you file into the building and stare down the machines, your twelve-hour companions, those great musty monsters.

~

Okay, I think I got my facts/Spanish right (I've been learning it since I was in kinder :P) but if anyone's a legit Hispanic person and knows I got something wrong, please say so. Other than that, I hope this doesn't die, so TOP TOP TOP! 

I'm sorry that I haven't posted yet. I will be gone tonight and tomorrow, sorry. 

TOP! 

Martyna~

I can't believe that boy had the nerve talk to me. Doll? Seriously? I roll my eyes and continue to walk down the street. Why can't he pick on some of those lovesick girls back at the cigar factory? I'm sure they would be happy to have Romeo to flirt with. As for me, I do not need a boy in my life. Other than my brothers, of course. If that rat tries to do anything for me again, such as taking a basket that I can obviously carry myself, I will give him what he deserves. A big blow to the nose.

"Hey, Stumpy!" one of the girls taunts as I near the factory. I glare at her, even though her words have no impact on me. She thinks her job is hard. Try doing it with three fingers on your dominant hand. (Martyna is left-handed, btw.) "Get lost, Molly." She laughs and turns away, closing the door behind her. When I get there, I find that she has locked it. I grumble and curse, using language that would get me beaten at home, and make my way around to the back of the factory. This is going to be a long day, I think. Lord, please let it go well.

I'm so busy praying that I don't notice a boy walking straight towards me. "Ah!" I smack right into him, sending the contents of my basket all over the alley. "Sorry," he mumbles, helping me pick up my items from the street. "No, it's my fault. Oh, hey Ricky," I say. "Thanks." Thanks a lot, God. Now I know that this day is just gonna be great, I think sarcastically. Oops. I did not mean to back-talk the Lord. Who knows what'll be next? By now I'm probably late. "See ya," I say as I rush into the factory. I wonder what kind of troubles this day will bring.

~~~~~~~~

Hey, Ricky, is it okay if we work at the same factory? If not I can just say that I bumped into you on when you were on the way to your other place.

P.S. Sorry if that was horrible, I just got back from a long trip and I'm exhausted. Got to go, bye. 

PLEASE TOP!

PLEASE TOP!

PLEASE TOP!

PLEASE TOP!

PLEASE TOP!

PLEASE TOP! 

Yay! We're starting!

Also, I checked out the movie from the library, and it was AWESOME!

I am obsessed…

Samantha~"Mother, no! I can't! Not to him!"

"Mr. Nicolson is a fine young man. He will make a spectacular husband."

"I would rather die then marry him!"

"Darling, you don't mean…"

"Don't call me that!" I yell, then sprint up the marble stairs. I don't care if running "isn't ladylike." Sometimes you just have to do it. I head up to my room, where nice, yet definately poorer clothes await me on my bed. If I don't hurry, I'll miss driving the nun's carrage at 6:10 in Brooklyn. 

Of course, Mother doesn't know about that.

So… sorry it's so short! I didn't have much time to write, but I will continue soon.

Au revoir!