Two girls stood on a street corner in New York City one afternoon. One of the girls wore a pair of dark blue slacks, a white sleeveless undershirt, a red and blue and periwinkle plaid shirt, a pair of black boots, black suspenders hanging from her waist, and a gold chain hanging out from a pocket of her slacks, signifying a pocket watch. She had long, reddish-brown hair pulled back into a loose braid from the nape of her neck. Her green-hazel eyes were the kind of eyes that could be either warm, cold, amused, or furious, never anything else. Her skin was lightly bronzed by the sun and as soft as peach fuzz. She was thin and tall, nearly five foot seven, and quite strong.

Her friend was something else. She was somewhat shorter, only five foot one, and not as thin. She wore a pair of dark gray slacks, a sleeveless undershirt, a plain gray shirt, a pair of black kid boots, and a brown and gray checkered vest with a green and blue plaid patch near the pocket. She had long, dirty-blond hair that was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her blue-green eyes were always warm and caring and full of life. She was never pessimistic about anything, a complete opposite of her friend. They were a good pair. Her skin was paler and rougher than the other girl’s, but she was still somewhat pretty. They were a wonderful pair. The first had a tendency to lose her temper all too frequently, while the second spent a good deal of time apologizing for her friend. They complemented each other well.

“Hey, Chrys,” the tall girl began, “ya think we’ll have any problems heh’?”

“Doubt it, Abby. We nevah had no real problems nowhere else. No real big ones, zat is,” the short one replied with a smile. She had an Upstate New York accent, a slightly uneducated one, that is.

“Yer right, Chrys. I gotta ease up, don’t I?” she queried with a smirk.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it none, Abby. It don’t matter no more. We’re in New York City, da city’t nevah sleeps. They’re gonna love ya heh’,” Chrys explained.

“Ya think so, eh?” Abby inquired.

“Sure, Abs. I heard this a while ago, ‘bout this fella’t lives in Brooklyn. I dunno what ‘is name is, but I know zis. He’s real handsome ‘n’ real strong. He’s a whole lot like you. He don’t mess ‘round, ‘less it’s with girls. He kin soak ya ten times ‘fore ya hit da ground!” Chrys explained.

Abby pondered the idea. “I’d like ta meet this fella. Ya say ya dunno ‘is name, eh?” Chrys shook her head. “Ya think ‘e’s still ‘round?”

“I don’t see why not. It was jist ‘bout a month ago I heard it.”

“Hm. I think I should look ‘im up. We’d make a dangerous pair, almost like we were back home,” she concluded with a grin. Her mind wandered.

“Come on, Abby. Let’s go make us some coins,” Chrys commented happily.

Abby smiled and nodded. They stepped off the curb and walked down the street. They were in search of either a job or some cold, hard cash, preferably both. Chrys watched for an opportune job while Abby looked for any trouble.

Abby noticed several teenage boys engaged in a brawl up the street a ways. She grinned mischievously and touched her friend’s arm. “Look,” she began, “up by th’ park ‘ere.”

Chrys looked. “One er both?” she asked and glanced back at Abby.

“Both if yer up fer it.”

“Sure.”

Abby smiled at the chance for a good fight and started toward the park. Chrys walked a little faster to keep up with her long-legged friend. They arrived at the scene a moment later.

Abby surveyed the fight for a second before joining in. She decided that the older, larger boys were beating up on the smaller, unarmed boys. It looked to her that the boy with the black mustache was the leader of the group of aggressors. She tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to look at her.

“Aftahnoon,” she greeted and punched him in the eye. He stumbled backward. The boys all paused in their fighting. “Well, don’t stop on our account,” she commented with an amused smile and a sparkle in her eyes.

The unarmed boys exchanged glances and took the older boys off guard. The larger boys began fighting back once more. Abby spent her time working the leader over. Chrys helped one of the smaller boys fend off his attacker. After several minutes, the attackers retreated into the park. Abby was the only one who came out of the fight unscathed.

“Hey, t’anks, girl. We wadn’t doin’ real great dere. T’anks fer da help. Da name’s Paul Delaney, Griffin,” the tall, brown haired boy greeted.

“Sure, anytime, kids. The name’s Abigail, Abby. This’s m’friend–”

“Chrysanthemum,” Chrys interrupted.

The boys looked at her. “Hunh?” they all stammered in unison.

“Chrysanthemum, but ya kin call me Chrys. She does,” she explained with a shrug.

“Uh-huh,” a boy with red suspenders began, stepping toward Abby, “da name’s Spot Conlon.”

Abby appraised him quickly and carefully. He had sandy-blond hair, flint-gray eyes, and soft, sun-tanned skin. He wore dark brown slacks, a half-buttoned gray checked shirt, a pair of dirty red suspenders, black boots, and a slingshot in his pocket. He was an inch taller than Abby and quite thin. He looked strong and powerful though. As he’d demonstrated by his stance, he would definitely keep an attacker at bay.

Abby spit in her palm and held it out to Spot. “Nice meetin’ ya, kid,” she replied.

Spot smirked and spit in his own palm. They shook hands. “Dat’s some grip ya gots dere, Abby,” he commented, a bit surprised with the firmness of her handshake.

Abby chuckled a little. “I’m used ta fendin’ fer maself ‘n’ Chrys heh’.” She paused and glanced around. “So, you fellas’re newsies, eh?” she asked.

They all nodded. Griffin began the introductions. “Abby, Chrys, des’re me friends from heah in New Yawk. Dat’s Slim ‘n’ Dice ‘n’ Dishes, ‘n’ ya knows Spot. He’s from Brooklyn, but we don’t hold it ‘gainst ‘in er nuthin’,” he said with a laugh. “Slim ‘n’ me’s from Uptown. Dice’s from da East Side, ‘n’ Dishes from Midtown.”

Chrys and Abby exchanged glances. “Brooklyn, eh?” Abby questioned, staring hard into Spot’s flint-gray eyes.

“Ya got a problem wit’ Brooklyn?” he demanded. She shook her head. “An’ what’s wit’ dis ‘eh’ thing a yers?!”

“Ya never met a Canadian before, eh?”

Spot just blinked. Griffin intervened. “So, you’se from Canadia, too, Chrys?” he asked.

The two girls stifled their laughter. “Naw,” she began, “ I’se from Buff'lo. It’s ‘cross da state by Lake Erie.” The boys nodded, some not knowing where Lake Erie was, but satisfied with the former explanation.

“So, d’you girls wanna come eat wit’ us?” Griffin asked. The girls exchanged glances. “Well, our papes is wrecked, ‘n’ it’s gittin’ on dinnah time,” he explained quickly.

The girls exchanged glances again. Abby looked right into Griffin’s eyes. He shuddered a little. “Sure, kid, we’ll eat with ya. Ya just gotta do somethin’ fer us.” Griffin shrugged and nodded, as did Spot. “Show us a good place ta work. We’re tryin’ fer a respectable livin’ heh’, nothin’ like what we ‘ad before,” she instructed.

Griffin and Spot looked at each other and nodded. “Yeah,” Spot began, “we kin find ja somethin’ good ta woik at.” He smirked a little.

Abby inclined her head a bit, being thankful and polite. “Great! Let’s go eat!” Chrys chirped happily, hungry for some good food. Abby shook her head, slightly amused with her friend’s glee.

Chrys, Griffin, Dishes, Dice, and Slim walked up the street together first. Spot hung back to speak with Abby alone. Once the others were out of earshot, Spot spoke.

“So, what’s wit’ ‘er?”

“Chrys? Aw, she’s just havin’ fun. I ain’t too much fun ta be with, ya see. She’s 15 ‘n’ seein’ fellas, really, fer the first time, I s’pose. She’s just playin’; she don’t mean no harm. Just let ‘er be.”

He nodded, and they began walking. “So, what ‘bout you?” he asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah. How come ya ain’t no fun?” The second he’d said it, he realized that he’d insulted her. “I mean, uh–”

Abby ignored his error. “Chrys likes ta talk ‘n’ stuff. I don’t see no reason ta carry on a conversation that don’t go anywhere.”

“What d’ya call dis?” he asked with a sexy smirk.

“Finished,” she answered and looked at him with emotionless eyes. She just stared at him with no emotion on her face whatsoever.

Spot just looked at her as she continued walking. After a minute or two, Spot struck up another conversation. “So, you’se from Canadia?” She nodded. “It nice dere?” She nodded again. “Ya like it?” She nodded still. “Kin ya do anythin’ else?” he asked.

“No reason ta say anythin’,” she replied stolidly. There was a short silence. “So, yer from Brooklyn, eh?” she inquired.

“Yup,” he answered proudly.

“Chrys tells me there’s some fella in Brooklyn that’s real strong ‘n’ handsome ‘n’ powahful. I’m guessin’ that’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s pro’a’lly me.”

“I figured as much. Ya seem like th’ type a fella that’d be that way.”

Spot nodded. “So, Abby, how come you’se goyls is heh?” he wondered.

“It’s kinda a long story,” she said softly, trying to avoid telling it.

“We gots time. I mean da boys is jist goin’ fer dinnah. We kin sit at our own table, ‘n’ ya kin tell me ‘bout it,” he suggested, curious about her story.

Abby sighed. “Awright, kid. I’ll tell ya m’story. It really started ‘bout twelve years ago. Me ‘n’ my ma were livin’ in a flat in Toronto. I was ‘bout three, four years old. We'd fallen on hard times, almost no money fer food.

“Abigail, darling, we don’t have a whole lot a money taday. We’re gonna have ta eat only a little fer a while,” Abby’s mother, Karen, explained to her small child.

“But, Mama, how come we don’t got any money?” the child wondered.

“Because your papa’s not with us anymore, dear. I don’t make enough money fer us ta eat such fine meals,” she apologized.

“Why?”

“Because he had a job that took ‘im away from us.”

“We gonna get lots a money someday?”

Karen looked at her daughter sympathetically. “She’s so innocent. I really hate ‘er ta grow up like this, but I can’t help it,” she thought. “Yes, dear, we’ll have money someday,” she comforted her child.

“Pop came in then ‘n’ took me away. I lived with ‘im fer th’ next ten years. I don’t remember ever seein’ Ma again. Pop said she was sick. It turned out that Pop was some sort a mobster. He’d go around ‘n’ kill people fer money. He was real good, so we had lots a money. When I was ten, Pop took me ta work with ‘im. His boss had me mix drinks ‘n load their guns. After a year, I got ta be a real part a The Family. I collected money ‘n’ such fer ‘em. One a the fellas taught me how ta fight, I learned real fast.

“After a while at that, when I was fifteen, I got in some trouble, not with Pop er anythin’. That’s when I left Toronto. I went ‘cross za lake ‘n’ down inta Buff’lo. I met Chrys there after a month er so.”

“Hey, girl, ya bettah watch out. Dis part a town’s real dangerous zis time a night,” a girl of thirteen warned.

“Don't worry ‘bout me, kid. I can take care a maself just fine,” Abby replied.

“Ya sure, girl? This place’s real rough at night. I should know; I used ta live ‘ere.”

“I’ll be fine. I used ta work in a neighborhood like this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The name’s, Abigail Barsalou, Abby.”

“Chrysanthemum.”

“Mind if I call ya Chrys?”

The girl looked at her. “No one nevah called me that ‘fore. People usually jist calls me kid er girl,” she answered.

“I like bein’ different. So, Chrys, ya lived heh’ in Buff’lo fer a long time, eh?”

“That was when Chrys ‘n’ I met. We got ta be real good friends. She’s da good, quiet one. I’m da strong, vengeful one. Growin’ up in the mob ain’t exactly sweet, ya know. She likened th’ two a us tagether when she was tellin’ me ‘bout you.

“Well, Chrys ‘n’ I got in trouble in Buff’lo. It was my fault, but Chrys decided it was hers, too. We were stuck in jail fer ‘bout a week. I broke us out, ‘n’ we left th’ city. We came east ‘n’ ended up heh’. It’s a pretty simple story, but it takes a while ta tell,” Abby explained.

“Dat ain’t so bad. Most a us boys is been in jail one time er anuddah. Ya cain’t call yerself a newsie ‘less ya been locked up fer a while,” Spot commented.

“Yeah, but any a you fellas been in fer a triple homicide?” she challenged.

Spot blinked. “Ya killed t’ree people?!” he exclaimed.

“Keep it down, kid. Ya’d think ya never knew a hitman before,” she whispered.

Spot was silent. “We’d bettah catch up if we’se gonna meet da boys fer dinnah,” he finally said.

Abby nodded, and they continued toward the rest of the group. They caught up with them a few minutes later. Chrys was busy babbling about how she and Abby had become friends. She wasn’t telling the whole story, nor had Abby. Chrys just told the part about them meeting in the ghetto of Buffalo. The boys were somewhat interested, though, more interested in the story teller than the actual story.