"Sorry, 'bout bein' late." Porter ran up to join her friends who were standing just inside the gate of the distribution center. She'd seen a familiar face she definately did not want to run into hanging around outside the lodging house that morning, and had convinced the others to go on without her. It had meant missing breakfast, but she hadn't considered one stale roll and a cup of coffee worth getting soaked over. Not in this case, at least.

"I gotta get me papes. Wait heah for me, aw right?" She ran off and joined the newsies still on line. Crutchy watched her go, letting out a sigh that was just barely audible.

Jack looked up from his paper, saw the direction of his friend's gaze, and hid a grin. He'd never seen Crutchy wearing quite that moonstruck expression before. That was usually Mush. Apparently, Blink had been right, for once. "She's pretty, ain't she?" he said aloud.

Crutchy started and looked at him. "Who?"

"Porter." Jack rose and stood next to him, watching the line of newsies progress - slowly, since it was unwritten law that each newsie do his or her utmost to annoy the heck out of the distribution officer.

"Porter?" repeated Crutchy with badly feigned indifference. "Yeah, I s'pose so."

"Smart, too." The grin was becoming harder to hold back. Jack looked away for a moment to hide his expression. "She reads. Books, I mean, not jist papes."

Crutchy nodded. "Yeah." That look was coming back to his face. Crutchy stiffened and his spirits sank. He didn't have a chance, anyway, but if Jack was interested in Porter . . .

"An' what a newsie!" Jack teased further, then noticed his friend's replies were becoming less enthusiastic. "Crutchy?"

"Yeah." Porter had gotten her papers and was coming toward them with a large stack.. Crutchy moved to meet her, trying to hide his dismay.

He was a bad actor; Jack noticed immediately that something was wrong. "Crutchy," Crutchy looked back. "Ya know I was on'y teasin', right? I mean," he finally allowed his grin to show. "Ya was lookin' at her like Race wit a winnin' hoss, or Blink when da mayor's daughter rides by."

Crutchy blushed, but he was secretly relieved. "Um, ya ain't gonna tell nobody, are ya?"

Jack raised his hands. "Me lips are sealed."

"On what?" asked Porter who had just reached the two.

Jack turned. "Oh, heya, Porter. How's da headlines?" he asked.

"Bad as usual. An' don't give me dat, Kelly. Spill!" Porter hefted the stack of newspapers onto her shoulder and glared at him.

Jack gave her his most innocently charming look. "Spill what?"

"Dat one's Truth's trademark. Now what is it?"

"Did I heah my name?" Truth approached and joined Porter, presenting a solid front. "What's new?"

"Heya, Truth. I'se waitin' for dese two ta tell me what deir hidin'. T'ink ya can help?"

"Shoa." Truth smiled at Jack sweetly - and dangerously. "Now why don't ya jist do what Porter, heah, tells ya ta before I tells Sarah how ya's been cheatin' on 'er, hmmm?"

"I ain't been cheatin' on Sarah!" Jack yelped indignantly.

"No, but I can make 'er believe ya has." she smiled. "Truth."

"You wouldn't." Truth smiled. Jack looked at Crutchy helplessly. "I'se sorry, Crutchy, but-"

Porter saw her friend's face and relented. "Aw, fergit about it. If it's Crutchy's secret at least I know it's a honest secret."

"Dat hoit, Porter." said Jack. "Dat really hoit!" He would have said more, but Truth's gasp distracted him. "What's da matter?"

"Honest!" The girl exclaimed dramatically. "Woids dat burn!" They split up, still laughing, to sell their papers.

"T'ank you, sir." Porter smiled at her last customer, then noticed a policeman eyeing the two newsies. She whistled to Crutchy and nodded in the officer's direction, while thanking another customer. He looked up curiously, then noticed the object of her attention, and nodded, shifting his stack of papers on his arm in preparation for a quick exit.

"Hey, dere's a fight ovah dere!" Porter exclaimed, pointing. As the people in the park (led by the police officer) ran off in the direction she pointed, the two newsies quietly left the scene in opposite directions.

Porter waited near a boxing ring 2 miles from the park, hawking the headlines. She knew Crutchy would find her from the code they'd invented - a fight meant meet at the boxing ring, Teddy Roosevelt, at City Hall, an actress, at Medda's. Indeed, she saw him coming even as she thought it. As he reached her, a little boy came up to them, coughing. "Buy me las' pape?" Then Les recognized them. "Oh, heya, Crutchy! Heya, Porter! I sold fifteen papes today! Ya wanna see how?" He repeated his routine.

"Dat's great, Les! Heya, Dave! Heya, Jack!" The two were close behind the boy.

"Mind if we sell heah taday?" Porter asked. "We had a liddle - uh-" She looked at Crutchy and grinned. "-legal trouble in Central Park." It wasn't that funny, but they all laughed anyway (Dave figuring it out about 30 seconds after the others, but that was normal).

"Shoa." said Jack. "Les was tellin' da truth for once. We're almost outta papes, anyway. We was jist watchin' da fight mostly."

"EXTRY! EXTRY! DROWNED CORPSES WASH UP IN BROOKLYN!" The 'corpses' belonged to seven rats, a story Porter had dug up from the bottom of the back page, but she didn't think it necessary that she tell her customers that. She wished she'd had money to buy more than thirty-six papes that day. Jack had been right. They were selling well. But it takes money ta make money. she reminded herself. At least, wasn't as broke as she'd been a few days ago. She smiled and thanked a man as he dropped a penny in her hand, then called out another 'improved' headline.

God, it's hot! She wiped her forehead and looked around for the others. Jack was leaning against a building, his cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes, fast asleep, an expression of absolute and utter contentment on his face. She called to Crutchy and pointed. They both laughed.

"What's so funny?" Dave asked. They gestured at Jack who chose that moment to release a huge snore. All three nearly collapsed with laughter. Porter was literally rolling on the ground. "Hey, Jack!" Dave called.

Jack woke with a start, his hat falling off his head. This doubled their laughter. "Enjoy yer nap?" asked Crutchy.

"Ya know," Porter attempted to sound annoyed and failed miserably because she was laughing so hard. "Ya makin' it really hard for the rest of us ta be virtuous an' woik."

"Since when've you an' 'virtuous' belonged in da same sentence, Porter?"

"Watch it, Cowboy." Porter warned. "I got one last pape, an' den let's go, huh? 'Less youse guys are really dat fond a watchin' two guys beat da crap outta each odder?"

"Fine."

Jack had been wondering about Porter even before the newsies' conversation the previous night. He couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere. He pulled her aside on the way home, resolving to find out once and for all who she was. "Hey, Porter."

Porter sighed - she'd noticed that speculative look in Jack's eyes more than once and guessed what was coming. Why don't 'e jist give up? "Yeah?"

"I was jist wond'rin about ya. I nevah fergit a face, an' yers looks real familiar. I been tryin' ta rememba where I seen it before?"

"I'se lived in New Yawk all me life, same as you." she replied, supplying no more information than he already knew.

"An' how would ya know I'se lived heah all me life?" he asked, feeling clever.

"Did it evah occur ta ya dat someone might a told me?" she retorted. "An' whatevah happened ta not astin' fer secrets?"

"Porter, I ain't gonna tell nobody, if ya don't want. I jist wanna know."

She suddenly felt tired. "Yeah, I bet ya do, Frankie, but jist fergit about it, aw right? Please?" She pushed away from him and rejoined Crutchy. Jack, his jaw moving soudlessly, let her go.

Dat was a stupid t'ing ta say, Porter. she told herself. He was gonna figure it out sooner or latah. Another part of her retorted. Yeah, an' ya jist had ta make it sooner, din't ya? May I remind ya, dat if Jack remembas, den he's gonna tell Spot, an' where will you be, den, huh? Ya been heah too long, anyways. If Spot don't find ya, den Pop will, or da bulls - an' need I remind ya what happens den? Ya want a repeat a Brooklyn?No! She nearly sobbed, drawing a concerned look from Crutchy. She shook her head when he asked what was wrong, and looked over at Jack. He still couldn't seem to formulate a reply. She couldn't help, but laugh. Same old Frankie. She could just see him and Spot . . .

"Hey, Evan, watch dis!"

Porter and her cousin both looked up to see their friend balancing on a gate, making faces at the ugliest, meanest lookin' bulldog, any of them had ever seen. "Hey, 'e looks like ya, Frankie! Youse two related?" Evan asked.

The other boy jumped down from the wall. "Naw, I t'ink he looks more like one a yer relatives. Huh - Spot?" He'd forgotten, however, that to go after one Conlon, automatically made him an enemy of the other. And for a five year old, Porter could pince. "Hey!" He grabbed her, and started tickling her in revenge, trained for as long as Porter could remember, never to hurt a younger kid.

Evan watched them for a while before picking a side, his own. He went after both of them equally. Never mind that Porter had started out defending him. They soon formed a ball of flailing arms and legs and laughter. "Hey, kids, get out of my yard!"

They untangled themselves. "We'se on dis side a da gate!" Frankie yelled back, ready even at seven to take on the odds. However, when the man started to loose his dog, the future strike leader opted for the better part of valor and ran. They all did.

By the time they'd stopped, they were outside a fairly ordinary-looking tenement building. A tall, blond came down the steps. Porter ran around the side of the building to get out of his sight. "Francis! Evan!" She saw the boys wave at her before they followed him away. Patrick Conlon had no use for his brother's family, and Evan would be in for it, if his father knew he'd been playing with her. She climbed on a trash can, and made it to the fire escape, through the open window to her room. She could hear loud arguing through the door.

"I don't know why ya bother teachin' her dat stufff. Ain't like she'll evah use it!"

"Her grandparents couldn't read, by law! She can, an' she's gonna!"

Porter sighed. Ma and Pop were at it again, about her, no less. Uncle Patrick had probably been talking to Pop, nothing else would get him started. She honestly could not figure out what had brought her parents together. Naw, I can guess. It was a cynical thought for a five year old, but one grew cynical quickly in New York. Pop was drunk, an' Ma wanted ta teach da woild a lesson. Problem is, da woild don't wanna loin. Knowing the 'ways of the world' hadn't stopped a small bit of her mother's idealism from infecting Porter. It was just well hidden.

The argument reminded Porter what she was supposed to be doing - he reading lesson. She opened her mother's heavy Bible that she'd left on the window sill, and began reading just as her mother walked in. I-N, in. T-H-E, the. In the be-gin-ing. "In da beginnin' . . ."

"In da beginnin' was da Woid, an da Woid was wit God, an' da Woid was God-"

"Porter!"

Porter looked up, then closed the Bible and handed it to her mother who lay in the bed next to her. At the age of nine, she knew better than to ignore her father. "Time ta woik." she said, a sick feeling in her stomach. She sighed.

Her mother mistook the sigh. "Porter, we needs ya ta woik, ya knows dat. Da Bailey twins can't be dat bad."

Porter winced inwardly. "I know. Dey ain't. Sorry."

"Goil." Her father appeared in the doorway, looking impatient. "I ain't waitin forevah."

"I'se comin'." She grabbed her hat off a bedpost, kissed her mother quickly, and ran out after her father. She also picked up a sack that lay just inside the door, glancing back at the bedroom door guiltily. Her mother was under the impression that Porter babysat for a neighbor's twin boys in the evenings while her father worked at a factory. This was a lie. Porter hated lying. She also hated stealing which was what they were really doing. House-breaking to be exact - the same thing they'd been doing on various pretences for the past two years. One of the children who lived in the building had left a ball sitting on the stairs, and Porter tripped on it. Her father, several steps ahead of her, turned around and glared.

"Sorry, Pop." Porter mumbled. She picked herself up and ran after him. She wasn't sure why she still went along with this. It was a mixture of fear of her father and hope that he'd someday admit she actually did something well - even if it was stealing. Not dat dere's much chance a dat. she snorted. Her father turned abruptly at the sound and glared at her again.

"Ya laughin' at me?"

"No, sir."

"Well come on. An' be quiet."

"Yessir."

The jimmy scraped the paint on the windowsill, but it got the window open. Porter's father boosted her up roughly, and practically threw her through the window. Jon Conlon was not one to be gentle. Experience had taught her how to fall, so she was able to minimize the sound of her landing and her bruises. She crept through the house, looking for jewelry boxes, valuable decorations, money stashes, in case the owners of the house were the kind that didn't believe in banks. She moved along the walls, but carefully, not wanting to rip her clothing on some stray hook or nail. That was why she wore her hair short. Her father had insisted she cut it more than a year ago. She filled her sack, slowly, then returned to the window. She handed the sack out first - it would mean a beating if she tried to carry it out herself - then climbed down.

As they walked home she prepared a story to tell her mother the next day, about the escapades of the Bailey twins.

"Skip! Skip! As fast as ya can! Stop on da letta a youse future man! A! B! C! D!"

Porter sat on the front steps of her building, watching some girls jumping rope in the street. She'd been invited - once - to play. Then been delibrately tripped into a mud puddle. She'd never asked again. The book she was reading was much more interesting, anyway.

"Hey, Porter!" The girls and a few boys stood at the bottom of the steps. "Hey, Porter!" She ignored them. They'd get her attention, then they'd - one of the boys grabbed her book out of her hands. "What'cha readin', huh?" she didn't answer, but kept her eyes on the book in his hands. "It a good book? Got lotsa pictcha's, huh?" The last time they'd gotten a hold of one of her books, her father had been passing, noticed, and grabbed it back. Then he'd beaten her for reading it in the first place. Speak a da devil. At that moment Jon Conlon came walking up the street. She turned to go inside. "Hey, thief!"

She whirled around, forgetting about the book, and her father. "What'd you say?"

"Ya t'ink nobody knows where ya goin' ev'y night! Da whole neighborhood knows about you! Yer nothin' but a theivin' liddle-" Porter very rarely got angry enough over anything to express it in public. This was one of those times. It was all the worse for being true. She jumped on the boy, never mind that he had three of his friends with him.

It would have been a losing fight even if she hadn't been outnumbered. Fighting had never been one of her best skills. Still, she scratched, kicked,and bit without mercy, until some adults nearby intervened and stopped the fight, blaming her, of course, for hurting their poor innocent children.

"Porter!" Her mother had seen the entire fight through her bedroom window. Her father hadn't even stopped. "Come heah!" She was angry. Dat's all I needed, God. Porter thought. T'anks a bunch! She picked her book off the step and started inside, dragging her feet. She could just imagine what her mother was going to say.

"Porter, I know ya gets angry. But ya gotta loin ta control yer tempa." There was as much weariness as anger in her mother's voice. Bess Conlon lay back in bed and examined her daughter closely.

Porter stared at the knots in the wood floor, tracing the lines in the grain with her toe. "Yes, mama. I know." She wanted to shrink down and sink through one of those knot holes. Of all the things her mother hated, fighting was at the top of the list.

"Jist cuz some stupid children lie about ya ain't no reason ta hit dem. It makes ya as bad as dem."

"Yes, mama."

Her mother sighed and relented just a bit. "Honey, don't let dose lies get ta ya. You know an' I know da truth. An' who cares what dey t'ink?"

The knot hole became even more interesting. Porter was silent. "Porter, honey?" A small, round spot appeared in the dust on the floor between Porter's feet. "Porter, dey is lies, ain't dey?"

Porter sniffed and studied the floor even more closely. She could feel her mother's eyes on her. Stealing ranked even above fighting on Bess's list of deplorable acts.

"Porter Margaret Louise Conlon, look at me!" Porter looked up finally to meet her mother's disappointed eyes, then ran from the room.

I'se sorry, Mama. She'd curled up on the fire escape outside their apartment. She couldn't face her mothr again. She didn't think she could face anyone again. Strangely, she wasn't crying. She was too full of shame to cry. Hadn't her mother once said that tears were sacred, too precious to waste on trivial things she'd called them. An' too good fer a thief like you! She thought at herself angrily. She didn't believe she would ever be able to look her mother in the eyes again.

She heard loud voices from inside the apartment, but ignored them at first. Her father must be home with his drinking buddies. Although, he never brought friends home, now that she remembered it. Jon was too ashamed of his black family to let anyone else meet them. So who . . .? She climbed through the window and saw a man dressed in black talking to her father.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Conlon, but you must know she was weakening. Her heart, I suspect, was never strong in the first place. Any shock could have killed her." He looked around nervously and with slight distaste at the dirty tenement. "Shall I tell the girl?"

"No need, docta. She should heah from me dat 'er mudda's dead."

Porter's eyes widened and she pulled back from the doorway, backing up all the way through the window. She's dead? Still, she didn't cry. Too precious for a thief. Too precious for a murderer.

She was still sitting there on the fire escape, against the wall of the tenement building, tearless, when Spot came three days later to tell her his family was moving.

"Porter?" she looked up to see Crutchy watching her worriedly.

"I'se aw right." she answered before he could ask.

"Hey, guys?" Dave said, disregarding gender. "I've gotta get something for my mother, how about I meet you at the lodging house around nine? Oh, and Jack you're invited to dinner tonight. Sarah's cooking and she said specifically to ask you."

Jack's eyes lit up. "'Sound's great. We'll see ya latah, den."