The mess in the market didn't change your day as much as you hoped it would. Other than George and Thomas rising early to get the stand suitable for the customers, you went about the day like any normal day.

You watched your siblings as you normally do, keeping them safe and cared for inside the apartment. Though you welcome the comfort that a routine brings, you found yourself partially wishing that something would happen to cause you to leave again.

You love your younger siblings greatly, but there was something entertaining about getting to spend your day in the market. You liked interacting with the customers and running the risk of seeing a friend.

Or possibly the Jets.

But nothing happened. You stayed upstairs where your mother and George insist that you are more needed. Your work of cleaning, cooking, and babysitting is apparently a skill that they feel only you can handle.

You disagree, but it's not up to you.

As your day comes to a close, you're relieved that your siblings go to bed with ease. Your mother and George claim that they're exhausted from the long work day and head to bed early.

That leaves only you and Thomas awake in the dimly lit kitchen.

"Could you mend my shirt?" He asks, pulling at his gray shirt to point to the hole that is now forming just under his arm.

"What did you do?" You ask as you squint and lean forward to see it better.

In the typical teenage boy fashion, he shrugs. "I don't know. I think I got it caught on one of the stands while we were fixing them this morning."

You hum and stand from your place at the dinner table. You head to the living room and scan for your mother's sewing kit. Neatly tucked on the shelf next to her rocking chair, you find the purple tin.

"I'll see what I can do." You say as you sit at the table again. Without needing to be told, Thomas removes his shirt and tosses it to you.

He leans against the stove to watch you work. "As long as the hole doesn't get bigger, I really don't care how you do." He says.

You wish you had the same sentiment. You're sort of a perfectionist when it comes to things you're expected to know. You suppose it has something to do with your mother's expectation of you being the family's homemaker, but it makes doing little tasks like sewing a bit more stressful than they need to be.

Rather than sit in silence, you try to find a conversation to hold. "Any of your friends thinking about going to the dance?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Maybe Baby John. But the rest of us are either working or helping out the family."

You let out a snort. "Baby John?" You repeat with a raised eyebrow.

A smile plays on your brother's face. "Stupid name, right?"

You don't comment on it. Because it is pretty stupid, but it's catchy, you got to admit. "When did he start going by that?"

"When he joined the Jets."

You lock your jaw. Part of the reason why George let Thomas begin working in the market was because your mother feared that he might join one of the gangs in West Side. This job was meant to keep him too busy to even think about hanging around those boys.

You thought it was a bit extreme at first. You didn't think they'd want anyone Thomas's age hanging around them.

So hearing that John is now a part of the Jets is sort of a shock to you.

You finish off your work with a small knot. "There." You declare, hoping to clear the air. "What do you think?" You ask as you hold it up.

Thomas takes it from your hands. "Looks good." He mumbles as his eyes quickly scan over the now hidden hole. He gives you a quick smile. "Thanks."

You begin to return the needle and thread back into the tin when Thomas lets out a sigh. "I'm pretty tired. You'll be okay if I head to bed early too?"

You give a gentle nod. "Of course."

"You sure?" He shrugs. "I know dealing with kids all day can get kinda annoying. I don't want you to only talk to tots."

You've confided in your brother about the mental strain dealing with your younger siblings can put on you. When you're expected to act as their mother and never get the opportunity to interact with other adults, you can feel isolated.

You smile and rise from your seat. "I was thinking about checking up on Priscilla. I'll get my weekly dose of gossip from her."

Thomas lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Alright. Just don't stay up too late." He says, heading towards his shared room with Margaret. "Good night."

"Good night." You reply before turning off the kitchen light. Now that the apartment is only lit by the streetlights outside, you place the sewing kit roughly where you found it and head towards your bedroom.

You let out a content sigh when you close the door, thankful that you were given your own room in the apartment. You and Margaret used to share one, but your mother figured that as a young woman, you deserved to have a space completely to yourself.

Thomas was upset at the decision to move Margaret to his room, but it didn't seem right to cram four people into one room, even if Danny only takes up a little space.

You quickly open your bedroom window and step out onto the fire escape. A gentle breeze causes goosebumps to rise on your arms, but you ignore the chilly air.

You begin the climb up to Priscilla's room. Carefully, you grip the rungs on the ladder and take it one step at a time. Heights aren't really something you're comfortable with, but it's the only way you can see your best friend without disturbing either of your parents.

Once you reach her floor, you gently tap on the window to her room.

Without any hesitation, you see her red curtains swipe away from the glass. When her dark eyes meet yours, a wide pearly smile crosses her face.

She eagerly slides her window open, your name enthusiastically falling from her lips. "Come in! Come in!" She encourages.

Her tan hands grab yours and she pulls in before you can tell her you can do it yourself. You let out a laugh as she smoothes out your dress. "What's got you in such a good mood?" You tease as she leads you to her bed.

"I've had such a great day!" She grins. She tosses her dark hair over her shoulders and she dramatically spins with a giggle.

"What do you mean?" You lay on your stomach, your day's worries rapidly slipping away from your mind. Priscilla seems to have this effect on you. Her bubbly attitude and infectious laugh always calms you and makes you feel as if you have no responsibilities.

"I got the biggest tip tonight while I was waitressing!" She exclaims, placing both of her hands on top of yours with wide eyes. "I finally have enough to buy that dress I've been eyeing for the past month."

"I'm glad to know it's about money." You tease, rolling onto your back with a groan. "And not some boy for once." Priscilla scoffs at you, lightly swatting your cheek before she skips to go behind her folding screen.

"I don't talk about boys that much." She argues. Her work dress is suddenly tossed onto the top of the screen, barely hanging on. She curses in Italian and you can't help but shake your head in amusement. When she re-emerges, she's dressed in more comfortable clothes. "You act like all I do is think about boys." She complains as she jumps beside you onto her bed.

You scoot to make room, knowing that you aren't wrong. Priscilla seems to always have a man at her beck and call. In fact, you're sure she's spent more time dating random guys than she's spent being single.

Not that her life choices bother you. You end up finding out which boys in West Side you should avoid and which ones are real sweethearts all without actually having to date them.

Plus, you get to hear about the Jets from a more personal view.

Priscilla has dated most of them, or at least has been pursued by quite a few. She's always eager to spill which ones are single and who she wants to set you up with. Having spent her whole life in West Side, she knows the boys fairly well and believes that she can be your matchmaker.

That is, if you ever get a life outside of your apartment and family.

"Did you hear there's a dance on Saturday?" She teases, lightly bumping your shoulder with hers. "There will be plenty of boys for us to mooch off of. We could get good food all in exchange for looking pretty."

You groan, making her laugh and toss her head back. She already knows how much you dislike dances. "I've already been informed about the dance." You say, looking down at your nails.

Priscilla freezes with her dark eyes going wide. "How did you hear about the dance?" She asks, her voice rising in pitch.

"Tony invited me." You scoff.

She lets out a squeal and squeezes your hand in excitement. "And you said yes, right?" She asks, looking at you expectantly.

You avoid her gaze. "I told him I don't like dances."

She drags out your name with a stern whine. "Why would you do that?" She demands.

"Because I don't want to go to the dance." You huff. You pull your hand out of her's and cross your arms over your chest. "Besides, it's not like I would be allowed to go anyway."

She sits up and tilts her head at you. "Did you even ask?"

You begin to stutter. Because, technically no, you didn't ask. "It got mentioned at dinner last night." You answer.

Priscilla lets out a huff and rolls her eyes. "That is not asking."

You scoot off of her bed and begin pacing around her room. You didn't come here to talk about the dance or get scolded about not going. It's not like you really have a choice in the matter, anyway. "Doesn't matter. George seemed pretty against me going. He doesn't like that the Jets will probably be there."

"So what?" She shrugs. "George isn't your dad. He can't tell you what to do." She offers. She begins to run her hands through her hair, thinking about her next question. "What did your mom think?"

You stop in your tracks, now twirling the bracelet on your wrist. You hadn't really thought about her opinion on the topic. "I don't know. She didn't really say anything."

"Okay." Priscilla hums as she rises from her bed to stand beside you. "Did she seem to hate the idea of going?"

Now that you're thinking about it, your mother didn't seem totally against the idea of you going to the dance. In fact, she seemed upset that you weren't going. "My mom didn't hate the idea." You reply, causing Priscilla to smile.

"That's good!" She cheers. "You see if you can talk your mom into letting you go to the dance."

Though you were against the idea of going in the first place, you now feel more obligated to go than before. With the idea of making George mad, going with Priscilla, and possibly meeting some boys, you're starting to get actually excited about the dance.

It had seemed like an impossible social event.

Now that has completely changed.

"But what if she says no?" You ask, not wanting to get your hopes too high. "Then what?"

A devilish grin crosses your best friend's face. "Then we sneak out!"

You don't bother telling Priscila that you'll go to the dance because you already know that there is no backing out now. When Priscilla puts her mind to something, she always accomplishes it. She has decided that you will be attending on Saturday night, whether you want to or not.

And whether George or your mother agrees.

You find yourself smiling with Priscilla, adrenaline now pumping through your veins. For the first time in your life, you're thrilled about going to a dance.

Saturday can't come soon enough.

~~~~~~~~~~