Heya. I'm HamAndCheese. Or Alley, since it's shorter. Okay, so this in my first fic, and I know this chapter is horribly short, but it's late, and I have to get up early in the morning. I promise that subsequent chapters will be longer.

Also—I am a full time student, with a job, and a band, and too many chores. I update when I update. I apologize for this, but there's this really neat "Add to Story Alert" option below, and it emails you when I update. Telling me to update faster will make me move slower, because I am a mean person. ;)

Disclaimer: While this should be assumed since I am posting on here, I don't own the Newsies. Just Charlotte.

I whistled cheerfully as I walked, my breath fogging in the cold winter air. My cap perched jauntily on my head, and more than one head turned to stare curiously in my direction. I readjusted my leather satchel as I rounded a corner.

It was a short, fifteen-minute walk from the small community theatre where I had performed tonight to my mom's and my small fifth-floor walk up, so I hadn't bothered to change out of my costume. I had just finished the last night of a set of performances based on the newsboy strikes of 1899, and I was eager to get home, where it was warm and dry.

We had managed to pack the house for three weeks of shows, performing over a dozen times. The play was a hit. The director had written his own account of the strikes, using characters that seemed to be only legends of the strike. Our performance centered on a young man named Jack Kelly, and his gang of newsies, whom he lead to striking against Joseph Pulitzer, bringing about change for the child laborers of New York. It was a very dramatic performance, every time. My character was an eleven year old orphan who was part of the gang, and idolized Jack Kelly.

"'ey! Charlotte!" A voice called my name. My whistling stopped abruptly as I turned. A young man in his early twenties stood there, also dressed in costume, a red bandanna around his neck.

"'ey, Cowboy!" I called back. The actor who had played Jack "Cowboy" Kelly in the play was leaning on a wall outside a bar, his long fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer.

"You want one?" He held it up. The condensation on the clear bottle caught the light and sparkled like diamonds.

"Mm. Tempting, but no. I wanna go home so I can stop being an eleven year old boy." I motioned to my chest, which was bound flat under the loose shirt of my costume. He just laughed and waved good bye.

I continued on my journey home. My breath continued to swirl and fog around me. I tugged my coat, which was rather light, closer. I suddenly wished that I had remembered my own coat, instead of the coat that my character sported. The wind picked up and blew the dry leaves that littered the gutter. They danced and swirled around my feet with small, raspy, skittering noises.

Yep. That's me, Charlotte Bennett. I thought. Aspiring to Broadway at only fifteen, making herself known in theatre as "The Eleven Year Old Boy."

I laughed to myself. I had gotten in to theatre when I was ten, and had only played three female parts out of the dozens of roles I've held. Since I had the small build and high voice of a young boy, but I was better at taking directions than actual young boys, I was often cast for that kind of role.

I readjusted my satchel again, bouncing it on my shoulder. A cloud passed across the quarter moon, and I suddenly felt myself falling.

Manhole! I shrieked in my head. I hit the floor and darkness enveloped me.

Yep. Short. Okay, you know what to do, so start typing those reviews! Thanks for reading, and remember, there's a difference between criticism and flames. Guess which one ain't welcome here?