Martyna~

"Hurry up, runt." One of the older boys, Walter, yells at me over the hum of the machines. My job is to direct fibers into a series of rollers, so they'll join together to become one strong piece of thread. "I'm hurrying, Walt! Mind your own business!" As I say this, I feel like an ignorant toddler, because that's just how you feel around Walt. Even though he's only seventeen, he has to be at least 6' 4'', and has the biggest arm muscles a guy could have. No one would ever dare to pick a fight with him. Daniel "Danny" Juarez, his younger brother, not as much. He's taller than I am, but about as skinny as a stick, a normal body for us factory workers. Our unheathly figures, grey and black droopy eyes, and dirty faces set us factory workers apart from everyone else. How nice it would be to have money at home. If only I was a rich girl. 

"Danny, just tell her!" A couple boys shout, jokingly, as they push him towards me. Oh great. This is what, the fourth time he has confessed his love for me? Danny spits in hand and combs through his hair, then sticks his thumbs in his pockets and saunters over to me. "Hey Marty," He starts, then continues his usual speech. I almost have it memorized by now! You'd think he'd at least change a few of the words. Whatever. "Danny, go away." I order with no hint of emotion in my voice. He looks a little crestfallen, but returns to his station where the other boys laugh and tease him. It's all in a joking way, I know, so I don't care one bit. Us factory girls have to toughen up. And toughening up is what I've been doing since day one.

~~~~~~

I'm kind of out of ideas right now, sorry.

Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! 

Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!! Top!!!

Please Top!

TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry I haven't posted in so long! Yes, Marty, it's cool that we work at the same factory. And Brooklyn Newsie, I love what you're doing with Wally (Grin, as it is).

~ 

After Wally walks me to the factory, he's off to his newsie job. On my way in, I bump into Marty - one of the toughest girls in the place - and I hurriedly help her, not wanting to stay too long as to get on her bad side. A lot of the guys've got crushes on her, and every time, she talks them off. I'm not one of those guys, but I'm still wary of her. 

I walk up to my place, pushing in between rows of kids, and I stop at an empty spot in the line to my right. "Hey, Cat!" Valeria Rambova, a level-headed Russian girl to my left, says. The other spot is occupied by Andrew Donau, a little kid who's half-asleep most of the time. I know factory workers start young, but I do his part of the mill half the time, just out of pity.

We're not even fifteen minutes into the day yet and I hear someone down the line confessing his love for Marty. I laugh quietly to myself, but then I hear the mechanical thunk of a thread stopping the machine. Calls of "Cat!" "Caaaat!" run down the line, and I sigh. Valeria nods knowingly, and as soon as I step away, she calmly starts feeding my thread into the machine with her free hand.

I run down the line to where I heard the shout. "O'er here!" A girl calls, and I go up to her. She points at a spot in the mill where the thread's jammed. Usually, you could get these things out easily, but we have one of the biggest mills in New York here, and it's tall enough that you have to climb up on it to fix anything. That's where I come in.

I grab the wooden frame of the mill with one hand and plant my foot between two spools of thread. Then I hoist myself up to the top level of the mill, haphazardly balancing on my other foot. Cheers ring out as I lean over and pull the thread free, causing the machine to eat it up and start running smoothly again. 

The kids clear out of a little space on the ground because they know what I'll do next. I size up the area and then jump, landing smack on the floor, and the kids cheer again. "Hey, they say a cat always lands on its feet!" One boy yells, as someone always does after I fix the machines like I have to do so often. The rest give me slaps on the back and encouraging words as I make my way back to my own spot, and I grin, a little flattered. It's funny just how much kids can keep their spirit, even in a place like this. 

Willow~

"Woah," says Spot as I display my five silver coins. "I's never seen so much money in me life! Five whole dollars."

"It is amazin'," I say, as I hand one dollar out to every person.

"Can I 'ave one fer me friend, Ricky?" Grin asks.

"Sure," I say.

"Anyway," Spot says, lookin' over his sholder to make sure that the other newsies haven't seen me. "Sheepshead or Coney today?"

"It's a Sunday. No one's goin' ta Coney. Let's try Sheepshead," I reply.

"Me ma says dat only sinners go to Sheepshead Races ona Sunday," Grin says cheerfully, "But me ma says dat newsies cen go anywheres."

"Alright," Fox begins, "C'mon, or we'll never get to the distribution place."

"Sure thing, Fox," Spot agrees. "ALRIGHT! NEWSIES OF NEW YORK!"

The boys look at their leader, the gold head of his can shinin' in de early mornin' sun.

"LETS GO!"

They cheer, and head off to get the papes. 

Martyna~

"Cat!" Caaaat!" the children call down the line. I can see Ricky from where I work; he and the Russian girl exchange a look, and he steps away towards the jammed machine. Victoria? Valencia? Whatever her name is feeds his thread into the machine. "O'er here!" one of the girls, Molly, calls with a flirtatious smile on her face. I stare at her with loathing, for all I know she might've jammed the mill on purpose just so she could get Ricky to notice her. He holds the mill with one hand and brings his foot up, pulling himself up over the top and freeing the thread. Some of the little ones clear a space for him to jump, as he always does. "Hey, they say a cat always lands on its feet!" a boy shouts. I swear, someday they're going to get in trouble, with all the commotion they make. Ricky walks back to his spot, where the girl has been patiently threading his machine the whole time. Typical factory life for 'ya.

THUNK, I hear a while later. Oh, no, I think. My machine has stopped working. No, no, no! I give it a little shove, but it continues to sit there, motionless. I don't want to say anything, I might be able to fix it myself, but the boy to my right notices the broken mill before I can tell him to shut it. "Caaaaat!" he calls, and before I know it, the great Cat himself is standing right in front of me. He looks at me, waiting for me to tell him what's wrong. "Here," I say grumpily, pointing to where my thread has jammed the roller. Too late, I realize I have pointed with my left hand. The girl to my left gasps, and I quickly hide my hand in the folds of my dress. Ricky glances at me warily, then quickly fixes the machine, his nimble fingers flying. "Thanks," I mutter, turning away before I do anything else so careless. I have two rules: Stay out of Trouble, and Keep your Mouth shut. They've gotten me through every single day here at this factory. 

And don't plan on changing anything soon. 

~~~~~

I don't really know how textile mills work, so I probably got a ton of stuff wrong. Sorry about that. 

Top!

Aw, I'm "the great Cat"? You flatter me, Marty :)

Ricky~ 

I've only been back to my spot at the mill for a little while before a boyish shout of "Caaat!" comes ringing down the line again. 

I glance at Valeria apologetically, but she just laughs softly and takes my end of the thread. "Hey, what can a guy do?" I joke, and she shakes her head. I go down in the direction of the call and I find myself standing in front of Marty's station.

I stiff up a little. I try to steer clear of Marty, a little afraid she'll drive me off like she's done to a lot of other guys I've known. Steeling myself, I wait for her to tell me the problem.

"Here." She motions to a stuck roller in the machine, and then sucks in a breath and puts her hand back in her pocket. But I've seen it; she has missing fingers. Probably from a factory accident. Sadly, it's common. I look at her a bit warily, hoping she won't mention it and put me in the rather awkward position of talking to her, as I un-stick the thread from where it's jammed in the spool.

"Thanks," she mumbles, turning away from me. I'm about to go, too, but on a spurt of emotion, I turn back to her. 

"Hey..." I say nervously, and she sends me a questioning glance.

"That thing you've got?" I motion to my own hand. "It's...it's OK. There's nothing wrong with it. Hey, it happened to me--" I point to the scar on the bridge of my nose- "--and I turned out fine." I laugh. "Was my first time fixing the machines, thread sliced me. I was ten, but it was deep, and it left this.

"My point is," I continue, searching her neutral face for expression, "it's not something you have to be ashamed of, even though people may point and laugh and stare. They'll try and get you down but you're worth just as much as they are, if not more. I know, 'cause for me, it's not just a few missing fingers, but - well - my whole skin. You've got the same right to a spot here on Earth as anyone else. I just don't think you've seen that yet."

I offer her a fleeting, nervous smile and turn before she can say anything back, darting through the lines of kids back to my spot at the mill.

"So the hero returns," Valeria says dryly as she hands me back my thread. There's no venom in her words.

"I'll make it up to you someday," I say, grinning.

TOP TOP TOP.

TOP!

TOP!

TOP!

TOP!

TOP!

TOP!

TOP!

TOP! 

Martyna~

"That thing you've got?" Ricky motions to his own hand. "It's...it's OK. There's nothing wrong with it. Hey, it happened to me--" He points to the scar on the bridge of his nose- "--and I turned out fine." He laughs. "Was my first time fixing the machines, thread sliced me. I was ten, but it was deep, and it left this.

"My point is," He continues, searching my neutral face for expression, "it's not something you have to be ashamed of, even though people may point and laugh and stare. They'll try and get you down but you're worth just as much as they are, if not more. I know, 'cause for me, it's not just a few missing fingers, but - well - my whole skin. You've got the same right to a spot here on Earth as anyone else. I just don't think you've seen that yet." 

I think about what Ricky said. Times right now are really bad for Mexicans and people of color, and I never thought that- well, maybe I have been to focused on myself lately. The rest of the day is uneventful, except for another girl's machine that gets stuck and fixed by Cat. His words stay in my head all day, even as I walk home tonight.

It's not something to be ashamed of.

I feel bad, because Ricky has it so much worse than I do. He's right; his whole skin prevents him from doing things that us white people can. Maybe not girls and women, but we can probably still do more than the people of color. (I'm really sorry if I get lots of things wrong, I don't really know much about this time period) 

If the rumors of the newsboy strike are true, then maybe it could help us, too.

As I open the door to our tiny apartment, I notice my mother passed out on the ground, my father towering over her with a broken wine bottle in his hand. "Father," I growl, hiding my fear under a very-practiced poker face. "Put down the bottle."

He turns toward me and grunts, a terrifying, oppressive look on his face. I almost cower and back away, but if I do that, he'll have won. I stand my ground and stare him in the eyes. "Shut up, stupid girl. Where's your money?"

The weight in my pocket suddenly seems heavier. I remember that we were payed today. "I'm not giving it to you."

"What?" He snarls, his face inches from mine. His breath reeks, and I almost give in to his cruelty. "No," I say. "I am not giving you money to buy more alcohol!"

He slaps me across the face. "Hand it over, girl, or I'll do worse."

I rub my cheek, and resolve that I will never give in. "No. If you need it that badly, get a job and earn it yourself."

His fist collides with my right eye, then my nose, then my stomach. I double over, but I've made it this far. I cannot give in.

"Hand it over!" He shouts in my ear. I shake my head, and he throws me to the ground. The broken bottle is smacked across my forehead, and the last thing I see before blacking out is a gnarly hand reaching into the pocket of my apron, taking the money that I'd fought so hard to keep.

~~~~~~

I awake to a cool cloth resting on my forehead. My mother, my poor, badly-bruised mother, sits by the stove next to a pot of something warm and delicious-smelling. The sun isn't up yet, but you can feel it getting light and lighter. "Ma," I say, my voice cracking. Not because of the pain, but because I don't understand how she could be caring for me after all that she's been through. If anything, I should be tending to her wounds.

We both get up and embrace each other in a tight, fierce hug. Both of her eyes are darkened, from father's hits and sleep deprivation, and a long cut slices across her forehead. I remember everything. The bottle. The money. My insticts kick in, and I pull away. "Where is he?"

I don't need to specify who 'he' is. "I woke up, and he was gone. Your brothers have already left, and you'd better be leaving soon, too." Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry. You aren't safe anymore. I wish-"

I put a hand on her shoulder and kiss her cheek. "We'll find a way to get through this. Ma, you need to get as much rest as you can before work. Let me do something for you, for once."

She starts to say no, but her eyes are clearly grateful. I take the spoon from her and stir the broth, handing her the cold cloth and forcing her to sit down. When it's finished, I take a little for myself and give her the rest. "I have to get going, Ma. Goodbye."

And, it's back to the factory. Oddly, I feel safer in the place that caused me to lose half my hand than the place I call home.