Disclaimer: Don't own, don't own, it's always negative with these people.

Author's Note: Thanks to Cat Feral's review, I finally got the inspiration to continue this! Thank you to my other reviewers, and I hope you're still out there! Yes, there is a point to her referrence to Annie's girlishness, but that's not the point of this chapter. The point of this chapter is that I finally managed to write some cheesy hints of romance and that I DID actually check for typos. That's not to say that there aren't any I missed, that's to say that I DID check for them. Anyway, if you're still out there, please keep the reviews coming!

Oh, yes, and so you know, some of this was inspired by "I Want to Break Free" by Queen. Yeeeah . . .

"Hey, Ronnie!"

I had been sitting on my bed in a state of something near pleasantry, massaging my feet and casting the occasional glare at the shoes which had caused them. Being nice and Boylan-esque to little miss Annie had taken a bit too long for my liking, but it was finally over and I was finally away from that girl.

"Hey, Arty. What'cha doin'?"

"I saw a cheap lunch joint down the street that serves late. Wanna come?"

"I would if I could walk," I sighed.

Arty's head appeared over the ledge and he heaved himself up into my living quarters, lacking his usual smile. "Ya don't have to wear those shoes, Ronnie, or the belt or the dress, for that matter. Your ol' Hooverville clothes'll do just fine. Or, hey! You been workin' here awhile. Why not take some o' your earnin's an' buy yourself some good comfy clothes an' shoes?"

"But, Arty, the dress an' the belt an' whatnot are the only things keepin' me from lookin' like a boy!" I explained, the argument sounding irrational even to my own ears now that it had been said aloud. I looked down at my hands, clasped together in my lap.

Arty sat down next to me and put a hand on my shoulder and shrugged awkwardly. "I think ya look fine no matter what."

Looking up, I felt something. It wasn't like what I had felt the first day I met Bert Healy, and it wasn't like what I had felt when my mother had embarrased me in front of everyone on the 59th Street Bridge. It was like . . . like the kind of happy feeling I used to get being Rosalila Marie Davis. Like the feeling I got when I had the Coat. But it was better than that . . . more fullfilling. I smiled and felt myself blush a little.

"Thanks, Arty. Sure, I'll come."

I ended up with a very comfortable used pantsuit and some well-worn shoes, but not so well-worn as to be torn, just a little scuffed in a homey sort of way. The pantsuit was dark blue and was very cheap because there was a button missing on the shirt. It didn't matter, and I could probably fix it myself. As a whole, it fit me well. It didn't exactly look gorgeous, but Arty reiterated that it mattered more that I was comfortable.

Something about Arty's statement earlier had made my life just a bit brighter. I wasn't really ready to puzzle it out yet, but there was something freeing in knowing that someone liked me for who I was, and that was as far as my thoughts wanted to venture just then.

Arty walked me back to my apartment and bid me farewell, and after changing into my new clothes, I began to traipse about the building to pass the time until I grew tired.

Bert had come to and had Cindy's ex-boyfried subtly removed from the premesis. He wasn't the brightest crayon in the box, but he did understand that if any of his Boylans were harmed, he'd be out of a radio show.

At around nine, I managed to coerce myself to sleep. The sun had just recently enfolded itself into the recesses of the sky and I could clearly see the skyline of the city that never slept. I wished I had the kind of excitement that would keep me awake that long.

"Oomph!" Oh, my. Such an exclamation and a flurry of apologies smacked of being back at square one: just an awkward little girl trying to make it in a place just a little too big for her.

"No, I'm sorry, miss," he had an accent which I supposed was British. "I wasn't watching my way, either. But considering I did run into you, or vice versa," he chuckled at his own joke, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in an audition?"

I thought a moment.

I had been employed by the Hour of Smiled for about a year now. The show was doing considerably well for a radio show running that long and Bert Healy and his special friend were rolling in dough while Cindy, Arty, and I were saving every cent for two meals a day. And here was Fate, handing me a second chance.

"What kind of audition?"

"An audition for a show."

"A . . . show?"

"Indeed. Do you sing."

"Yeah," I didn't bother being modest.

"Do you dance?"

"A little, I guess."

"Wonderful, then! We can teach you a bit if you're good enough." He took out a small piece of paper and scribbled something, then handed it to me. "Here's the address. Show it to anyone else you can manage, as well. We're running low on chorus members."

"All right. I'll do it!" I offered a smile.

"Good. And you are?"

"Ronnie." I paused for a moment. "Ronnie Davis."

"Jonathon Weathersby. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Davis."

Just hearing my name, my real name, made my smile widen. "And a pleasure meetin' you, Mr. Wathersby."

"Hey, Arty!" I knocked loudly on his door.

"Hey, Ronnie!" Arty swung the door open with a huge grin. "What'cha doin'?"

"Well, I ain't stayin' here. How's that sound ta you?"

If it was possible, his smile grew even bigger. "Sounds like a million bucks. What'cha got up your sleeve today, Ronnie Davis?"

"A card."