Disclaimer: If it looks familiar, Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, Jerome Robbins, Arthur Laurents, and Ernest Lehman wrote it. If it doesn't, I did. Simple and easy. :)

Note: This is a fic I've been working on since 2009, focused on my two favorite characters, and as such, it's very close to my heart. Though it's not necessary, you may want to read my fics catch the moon, the passing grade, words left unspoken, and seven kisses, as this ridiculously-long fic more or less references and ties them all together in my own little version of this universe.

Proper credit: many of the characterizations and details were thought out in collaboration with Bardess of Avon, as the now defunct LCV Productions back when I first started writing West Side Story fanfiction. Also, I used LindyHop's idea behind Riff's name; her fic, "The Beginning of the End," is one of the first (and best) WSS fics I have ever read and deserves more attention. It's under the M section, though it could just as easily be K+ or T, in my opinion.

For: everyone who ever had influence on this fic, from the original creators to the immensely talented actors who brought the characters to life. Happy Birthday, Tucker Smith. You are missed. This chapter is for you. And also Carole D'Andrea, because I absolutely love her. Without these amazing actors, this fic would not exist.

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

one : forward

.

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded.

—W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage

.

So many feelings fit between two heartbeats
so many objects can be held in our two hands
Don't be surprised we can't describe the world
and just address things tenderly by name

—Zbigniew Herbert, "Never of You"

.

Today is payday.

At five years old, John Kelly Callahan already knows what that means. On payday, his father comes home with just half the money he's made that month, stinking of booze and liquor and worse. On payday, his mother cries and cries and won't stop. On payday, John crouches, shivering and shaking and waiting in the dark under the covers for it to be over. Sometimes, it's slow, and sometimes it's quick, but it's never done 'til the screaming is burned into his memory through all the pillows and blankets he stuffs over his ears.

In the morning when his teacher comes over to check his work, he looks up at her. She has lots of dark brown hair and soft eyes and a nice smile and John thinks she will understand.

But when he tells her in a shallow whisper that something is terribly, horribly wrong, his pretty teacher just looks confused. "Who's hurting her, John?"

He hesitates, because his mother has always told him that the dark purple bruises on her skin are just accidents. But even at five John knows what he sees and he knows what he hears at night. It is not an accident.

In the afternoon, his teacher comes to their small apartment and admires his mother's lace and listens to her pretty Irish voice and asks if everything is all right. John's mother smiles and says of course it is. John sees her hands shaking, but he doesn't know if his teacher does. It doesn't matter, though, because his father is home and today is a good day, he can tell. He smiles a lot and John can see that his teacher isn't worried anymore, that his is a happy loving family. He's lucky. And today, John believes it, too.

He thinks it will be okay. He can still remember when his mother sang all the time and his father came home early with all the money from work and everything was good. Because it was, once upon a time, and tonight is a lot like it was back then.

But when his teacher leaves it doesn't take long before the shouting starts again and this time it is worse than it ever was before because after awhile when his mother has stopped sobbing John's father comes into his room and it's not his father standing there, it can't be, because fathers are supposed to love their children and no one who loved his son would ever hurt him like this.

The next day, when Mrs. Gambini asks if everything is well at home, John tugs the sleeves of his shirt down and nods. At five, he is a fast learner.

.

At five years old, Vilhelmina Christina Andersen is irresistibly curious about the world.

"What's that, Pappa?" she asks, pointing at something long and shiny hanging from her father's neck. Today she is at the clinic with her father because according to him, it is Take Your Youngest Daughter to Work Day, and even though she's not quite sure that day really exists, Vilhelmina is excited anyway. She has a white coat to wear and her blonde hair is braided back and she feels like a real grown-up East Side doctor, just like her father. She's never been allowed at work before, and she wants to see something happen.

"That's a stethoscope, Vilhe," says Dr. Andersen, taking it off and handing it to her.

"What can you use it for?" she wonders, blue eyes wide. She traces the long, skinny arms with her fingertips. It looks like a toy to play with, but she knows it is not. This is what her father uses to make sure kids just like her are healthy and all right. This is what he uses to help people.

Her father smiles. "I'll show you." He takes the stethoscope and settles the ends carefully in her ears, then rests the rounded disc against his chest. "Hear that?"

Vilhelmina listens. There's a faint kind of thudding, thumping noise. It tickles. "Yes."

"Well," says Dr. Andersen, "that's my heart."

She blinks. "Does mine do that too?"

He smiles. "Yes, it does. Here, listen." And he moves the chest piece over her heart.

It's even quieter than her father's, but it's there, beating steadily. "Wow," she whispers. "Wow."

.

John is seven years old when he comes home and his mother tells him with a smile that she is going to have another baby. He is going to be a big brother.

John is excited, because all the kids at school have brothers or sisters and they say it's lots of fun, at least before they start crying and spitting up all over the place. And John knows that if his mother has a baby it will be one step closer to being a normal family, just like everyone else. Maybe having another kid around will bring his real father back to him, since John can't do it all by himself. Maybe.

But then his father comes home and it's clear he's been tossing back liquor like water and instead of being happy like John and his mother hope he will be, he just scowls. That's all the warning they have before his mother reels under the force of Mr. Callahan's backhand.

"John—go to your room—" she gasps, and John, terrified and heartbroken and ashamed of himself, runs and buries himself under layers and layers of clothes and pillows and blankets and anything he can reach to muffle the sound, but it's no use: he can still hear everything. And John grits his teeth and wishes he could be big enough to stop his father. To make a difference. Anything so he never has to listen to this nightmare again.

In the morning, John creeps to his parents' bed, where his mother greets him with shadows under her eyes. He doesn't say anything, just looks at her.

She made a mistake, she tells him, avoiding his eyes. To John her voice always sounds like music, but today the melody is gone. He is not going to be a big brother, after all.

John's gaze does not move an inch.

She's very tired, his mother goes on, and she's just going to spend some time in bed today.

John wants to scream and shout and hit something and hurt something because she didn't make a mistake, he was going to be a big brother, and someone needs to help them but no one is and how much does his mother think he is going to believe, anyway? He clenches his fists. If only he were bigger. Someday, he promises himself, someday, things will be different.

.

"Vil-hel-mi-na Andersen?" asks the girl with the long brown braids on the first day of second grade. "That's a long name. Don'tcha have a nickname?"

Vilhelmina blinks. "My mamma and pappa call me Vilhe."

The girl frowns. "But that sounds like a boy's name. Like Willie, or something."

Vilhelmina shrugs. She's used to it, and no one has ever complained about her name before.

"Anyway, it doesn't sound American," says the brunette girl solemnly. "It sounds like a Commie name."

Vilhelmina's eyes widen. "But I'm not a Commie. And my parents aren't, either. They're Swedish."

The girl shakes her head wisely. "Tell that to the government when they come to getcha, Willie."

Vilhelmina bites her lip. She is perfectly happy with her name, but what if this girl is right? "Well, what else could you call me?"

The brunette thinks for a moment. "Well, there's…Violet. An' Wilma. Or maybe Velma."

One of them, at least, sounds nice. "Velma," she says, thoughtfully tasting the sound of the third name on her lips. "Velma Andersen."

"That's a real American name," the girl tells her approvingly. She sticks out her hand. "I'm Ecaterina Radescu."

Vilhelmina stares at her for a moment. "A real American name," she repeats, nonplussed.

"Yup," the brunette says happily. "But you can call me Catie."

.

At ten, John is a swift, wiry kid, quick enough to dodge and scramble out of the way before his father can get to him. It's not often that you'd find a bruise or scratch on him. Not someplace visible, anyway.

But today just happens to be that one time out of a hundred that he wasn't fast enough the night before. There's a dark, angry starburst right around his left eye, and all day long people have been staring at him. So it's no surprise when his teacher takes him to see the school social worker. There is the obligatory how are you, I see you're doing all right in school, no sports? that's a shame, and then Mr. Benowitz gets down to business. That's an awful big shiner you got there, son.

John sits there stone-faced. It was an accident. He fell. Everything's all right. Don't call his mother. Definitely don't call his father. No, he doesn't need ice. He is fine. He is fine.

He can't tell if they believe him or not, but what he does know is they let him go. Outside, John aches to wrap his fist around something and squeeze 'til it bursts, releases the tension inside of him. But he doesn't. He never does. Instead he snaps his pencil into two, four, six, eight splintered little pieces and dumps them in the trash can.

The social worker has followed him out into the hall and is looking at him. "John—"

John pushes past him. No matter what the man says or does, John has learned by now that it never makes a difference in the end.

.

"Tap it through gently. This will make the cake lighter."

Mrs. Andersen's soft voice, murmuring instructions in Swedish, is deeply hypnotic, and Velma, sifting flour through wire mesh, feels as though her mother is singing a lullaby as she watches the fine white powder drift down to settle in dusty hills, just like snow.

"My mamma taught me how to make almond cake when I was ten, too," Mrs. Andersen. She has been in America since she was twenty but still she feels nervous speaking in a language that is not her own. "You'll teach your daughter, too, won't you?"

Velma answers her in English, and now, as always, they understand each other perfectly. "I will, mamma. But that's a long time away."

Mrs. Andersen smiles. "That's what I thought, too, when I was your age."

Velma makes a face as she taps the last of the flour through the sifter. "I don't like any of the boys at school. They're stuck-up and too loud."

"Maybe they just don't know how to talk to you," suggests her mother, smoothing Velma's hair.

Velma frowns. "They talk too much. And then whenever something bad happens they go running to their mammas."

Mrs. Andersen laughs. "Better that than not speaking to their mammas at all, hmm? But don't worry," she says, her soft voice gentle and sure, "they will change in a few years. You'll see. They just have some growing up to do. Now," she goes on, "it's time to mix the batter."

Velma smiles. This is her favorite part, not least because she gets to taste-test to make sure it's perfect. "Maybe," she allows, dusting her hands off on her apron, because it is impolite to contradict an adult, especially her own mother. "In a few years."

Maybe, she thinks again to herself, but she doubts it.

.

John is beating up two kids who jumped him looking for lunch money when he sees two more approach, grins plastered all over their faces. John, wary, watches them as they near.

"Damn, kid," the taller one says, an admiring look in his wide eyes, "you got a fist like a hammer."

"Hey, where'd ya learn to hit like that?" the shorter, stockier one chimes in.

He doesn't answer. For John, fighting is about the quickest way to take his opponent out. No fuss, no frills, just brute efficiency. And the truth that no one wants to hear is that he learned to fight by watching his old man, night after night. Belly. Eye. Jaw. Every place it hurts the most, right in the kisser. The truth is John knows how to pick his punches for maximum impact on the human body because he's been the test subject in the world's best lab experiment for fifteen years.

"So, ah, we been lookin' for a kid like you," says the taller boy when it becomes obvious that John is not about to say anything. "You in a gang?"

He shakes his head.

The second one grins. "Ya wanna be?"

John gives a noncommittal shrug. All he knows about gangs is that they hang around together and scare other kids off their streets. The Emeralds, that's one he's heard of, because a bunch of the other Irish kids have been coming around lately, and John figures they're looking at him to see if they want him. But gang or no gang, it doesn't matter to him. "Don't got nothin' against it."

"Ah, he speaks," laughs the second one. His grin stretches wider. "Well, if you're gonna be in our gang, buddy-boy, you're gonna need a name."

John eyes the two boys. In the past year or two he's taken to sticking with his middle and mother's maiden name; it's not like his father has ever given him anything worthwhile, anyway. "John Kelly."

"John?" asks the kid, making a face. "Don't get me wrong, that's a great name, but man, you're crewin' with the best now. You need a cool name."

John shrugs again.

The other one snaps his fingers. "Riff, I got it. Cool, right? Like this kid, who don't look like nothin' ever bothers him." He grins. "How about…Ice?"

Ice, he thinks, turning the name over in his mind, Ice.

"That good?" asks the taller one, blue eyes open and happy. This is the kind of kid who's got the world at his feet already, and John can almost swear he used to know what that felt like. Once.

He nods.

"Fan-fuckin'-tastic," says the stockier one. He can't be more than fourteen, but the swear word rolls off his tongue easily. "Welcome to the Jets, Ice." He cracks a smile. "Ya don't talk much, do ya?"

John doesn't answer this. "Who else's in the Jets?"

The first boy grins. "Well, there's me—Tony Wyzek—an' Riff Lorton, here," he says, thumping the other boy on the arm. "Kid's gotta name, but it's a real doozy an' his own grandma wouldn't take him seriously if he used it, an' God knows the girliest gang in the world wouldn't either. It's a big secret, 'kay, an' I really wish I could tell ya since you're a Jet now an' all, but I promised the kid I wouldn't ever tell anyone his real name's Ralph."

Riff lunges at Tony, and they spend the next few minutes wrestling until Tony gets Riff into a head lock and the stockier kid gives. John just watches, bemused.

"An' now there's you," continues Tony breezily, getting up and dusting himself off like nothing's happened. "Oh, an' Ricky, a-course. He's off chasin' girls right now, or somethin'."

"One girl," grumbles Riff, springing to his feet. "That redheaded chick who keeps him on a string."

"So yeah," finishes Tony, flashing a bright grin, "the four-a us for now. Some gang, huh?"

John half-smiles. "Yeah," he says, wondering what he's gotten himself into, "some gang."

.

Velma tentatively pushes the door to her sisters' room open. "Kat?" she calls. "Are you in here?"

There's a flicker at the corner of her eye as Velma's eighteen year-old sister Katrina starts guiltily at the window. "Oh, hi, Vel," she says, a sheepish smile on her face. "What's up?"

Velma closes the door behind her and comes closer. "Astrid won't like that."

Katrina takes a quick drag from her now-exposed cigarette and blows the smoke out the window with a laugh. "Don't tell her, and she won't know. Mamma or Dad, either." She pats the bed next to her. "C'mon, Vel, tell me what ya want."

Velma eyes her, then crosses from Astrid's pin-neat side to Katrina's half of the room, which looks like an explosion of clothes, shoes, and hats has just gone off. There might as well be a line drawn down the floor. "Kat," she says, "some of my friends were talking about the older girls, and their makeup, and I was just wondering—"

"If I could show you how?" Katrina grins and flicks her cigarette onto the street below. "Baby sister, I thought you'd never ask. C'mon." Jumping up, she grabs Velma's hand, drags her over to her cluttered vanity, and plunks her down.

Fifteen minutes later, Velma looks at herself in the mirror and gasps. The face that gazes back at her is unmistakably older, lips and cheeks blushing with color and blue eyes neatly outlined. She does not, Velma thinks with amazement, look like a kid anymore. "Kat—"

"You're so cute, Vel," beams Katrina. "D'ya want me to do your hair now?"

Before she can answer, though, the door opens again and tall, slim Astrid walks in. She stops when she sees her younger sisters. "Katrina, what are you doing?"

The blonde smirks. "Just helpin' little Vel out. Don't be a killjoy, big sis, it's just a little lipstick."

"She's thirteen," Astrid says primly, putting her hands on her hips. "Vilhelmina doesn't need to be wearing that yet, Katrina." She sniffs. "Even if you did it when you were ten, not everyone else wants to."

Katrina rolls her eyes. "Just 'cause you didn't wear makeup until you were old enough to legally drink doesn't mean the rest of us are that boring."

Velma, sensing a fight coming, pipes up: "Astrid, I asked her to do it."

Astrid is not amused. "That doesn't mean she should indulge you. And I am not boring."

Katrina sticks her tongue out. "Are too."

"Are not—" Astrid stops, visibly sniffs the air, and glares. Velma cringes. "Katrina, please tell me you haven't been smoking in our room again."

Katrina smirks. "Astrid, I haven't been smoking in our room again."

The twenty year-old looks outraged. "Don't lie to me!"

"Well, you told me to say it," Katrina says innocently. "Don't tell me if you don't want to hear it."

Astrid purses her lips. "Katrina—"

"I, um—I'm gonna go," says Velma faintly, getting up and edging for the door. "I have to, um—go. Now."

Her two sisters don't even pause, and as Velma closes the door behind her, she breathes a sigh of relief. Velma loves her family more than anything, but sometimes she wonders what it would be like to be an only child.

At least it would be quieter, Velma imagines with a small smile as she slips back into her room.

.

The silence is unbearable.

John's mother speaks less and less as time goes by, and as much as he hated the screaming before, this is so much worse. It's like she's vanishing, dissolving into thin air, and he can't do anything to stop it.

So John, mute and helpless to change things at home, stops trying. For the first time now, he has buddies to hang out with whenever he wants to escape, and none of them cares why he's with them—just that he's there. John has never had anyone but his mother before, and it's a real rush, running down the streets with the wind at their backs, chasing adventure. They're growing now, picking up more kids and making a name for themselves, and John wants to be there for all of it—every single moment that makes him indescribably glad Tony and Riff found him on the street that day. So he trades his time at home with his time in the alleys and even though he feels guilty, he brushes it aside.

His mother worries, of course. It's what she does because it's all she can do. "John," she says one night, voice soft, "I wish you wouldn't see those boys so much."

He shrugs it off. "Don't worry about them, Ma," he says easily. "Tony an' Riff're good kids."

"I know they are," she agrees hesitantly. "But you're stayin' out late, and not doin' your schoolwork, and I just don't know, John."

He half-smiles. "It's Ice, Ma."

She reluctantly smiles back. "I just don't know."

"Don't worry," John says again, dropping a kiss on her cheek. He is already heading for the door. "I'm fine."

And if that is starting to become true in any way, he thinks, it's because of the Jets.

.

Velma is fourteen when Robbie Lawrence walks up to her and, without preamble, asks her to go for an ice cream Friday after school. And Velma, surrounded by her half-swooning friends, blinks and nods a startled yes before she knows it.

Robbie is only just round the corner when Marjorie, Helen, and Laura let out a high-pitched squeal as one.

"Velma!" breathes Laura, looking thunderstruck. "Your first date!"

"I always knew he'd make a move one day," says Marjorie in a very satisfied voice. "Remember when he said you were pretty and kissed you in kindergarten?"

"He kissed you, too!" protests Velma. "All three of you!"

"Don't think we don't know it was only 'cause you paid him in cake to do it so we'd shut up," Helen reminds her with a wicked giggle. "Gee, I wonder if that's what he's looking for now—cake."

Velma elbows her, but she can't help flushing because to tell the truth, she does remember kindergarten, and she wonders if he does, too.

She gets her chance to ask on Friday when they are standing outside the ice cream shop with their cones, but Velma is feeling uncharacteristically shy. It is her first date, after all, and Robbie, if not absolutely perfect—but then, no boy ever is—is very, very nice. So instead she takes another lick of her vanilla ice cream.

Robbie smiles a little. "You've got ice cream on your lip." He reaches up with his thumb to wipe it off, but when he's done, his hand stays there, resting lightly on her cheek as his blue eyes gaze straight into hers. "God, you're pretty," he murmurs, and Velma feels a jolt of excited recognition hit her before he leans forward and kisses her and no, it is not like kindergarten at all, it's sweet and soft and better, so much better.

Later when he is walking her home he grins at her. "Wish I'd done that sooner."

Velma blinks. "But you did. Don't you remember?"

Robbie laughs. "I'd remember with a girl like you." His voice is sure and confident and bright. The sun is setting now, and with the light behind him it's hard to see his face.

After a pause, Velma smiles. No, she supposes with some regret, life doesn't work out neat and perfect that way. "Yeah," she says. "I guess you would."

.

By the time John is sixteen, he's not hiding under the covers anymore.

"Dad," he says grimly. "You're drunk. Leave her alone."

"You stay outta this!" warns his father, advancing toward his cringing mother.

But John stands his ground. He is not five years old anymore, and he'll be damned if he is going to let this happen tonight. "No."

His father glares at him. "You shut up, ye hear me?"

"Dad," he repeats levelly. "Stop."

His father makes a disgusted noise and pitches his fist at his son. He probably doesn't mean to actually hit him—there is a clear difference between this wild, careless swing and the usual hard, focused blow—but by this time John has spent too long reacting in a split-second to other boys' punches. He sees it coming, he counters. It's not a choice anymore, and before he knows it, John's fist is crashing into his father's jaw.

Sean Callahan staggers back, disbelief in his face, and John is breathing hard and he didn't mean to do it, but he doesn't regret it, not at all. He'd do it again, a thousand times, and he's only sorry he didn't sooner. But for their breathing there is absolute silence. None of them—not his father, his mother, or John himself—can believe what has just happened.

There is a strangled, choked half-sob from the corner where Mary Callahan is huddled, and with that whimper her husband comes to life again.

"You get outta this house right now!" bellows his father, clutching his face. "I never want te see ye again, never!"

John stares at him. That is just fine with him, he thinks dizzily. He's wasted too much time here anyway. The only reason he's stayed so long is—

He turns on his heel and faces his mother. "I'll come see you."

Her already pale face blanches. "No—don't go, he doesn't mean it—"

"Yes, I do!" snaps his father. "Get out!"

So he does, turns his back on his parents and heads for his window and clatters down the fire escape into the night. John can't get his mother's face out of his mind. He hadn't had a choice, true—and even if he wanted to, he couldn't go back—but that is not exactly comforting when he thinks about her all alone in that apartment with no escape. John has the Jets, but Mary Callahan only has her son, and now she doesn't even have that anymore. He wanders the streets for awhile, his mind a tumble of half-connected thoughts, but there's really only one place he can go.

When he thumps at Tony's window, he's not sure what's going to happen. He knows that Riff lives with Tony and his family for some reason no one wants to talk about, but he figures that's different; Riff and Tony have been buddies forever, and John is a Jet, sure, but really he's just the kid they picked out for his uncanny ability to knock someone out in three seconds. What is he to them?

Tony pops up in front of the window, hair sticking up and fists rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Ice-man," he greets, yawning as he shoves the glass up. Riff is sprawled out on one of the two tiny beds crammed into the room. "What's up?

John is quiet for a minute. "I need a place to stay."

Tony eyes him curiously for a long moment, then staggers over to Riff, yanks the pillow out from under his head, and tosses it and an extra blanket on the floor. "Jets is family. You can crash there." And within seconds he's flopped back onto his bed and is snoring again.

John stares at the sleeping Tony incredulously. Family, he repeats in his mind with a sense of wonder. Is this what that word means?

Try as he might, Ice can't sleep at all that night.

.

"James—Jamie, no," Velma says, pushing the tall, sandy-haired boy back with some effort and yanking her skirt down. "That's enough." They are supposed to be studying in his room, but her boyfriend clearly has a different view of hitting the books than she does—Velma hasn't been able to keep his hands off her for the last twenty minutes.

James groans, dragging his hand through his hair. "Vel, look, it's been months; don't you think we've waited long enough?" He reaches for her waist again, blue eyes dark and intense. "You don't know what it's like for a guy."

But Velma pushes him away again. "Jamie, stop."

James sighs. "You're the only girl in the whole school who'd say no, Vel. You're the one I want, but…don't you like me?"

"Of course I like you!" Velma reassures him quickly. And she does. For the most part, James Richardson is a nice boy, charming and handsome and a very good kisser. But still… "I just—nice girls don't do that, Jamie, you know that."

James eyes her for a moment, then rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, frustrated, scooting away from her with a huff. "Have it your way."

Velma bites her lip. "Jamie, I'm—"

"You wanted to study," he says, grabbing their English book and settling it over his lap. "Let's study."

She is undecided as to whether or not she should cry when he breaks things off two days later. On the one hand, Jamie is a real catch, as she is quickly reminded of when she sees him with Catie Radescu that same afternoon. But on the other, that doesn't change the fact that Velma knows it wasn't just that she didn't want to give it up—it's that she didn't want to give it up to him. It's a small difference, but it is there all the same. If—when—she does share that part of herself with someone else, Velma doesn't want there to be any regrets afterward. If Jamie is the kind of boy to dump her over this, she supposes with a sigh, there would have been. And that is not good enough for her. Not by a long shot.

.

A few months later, Ice gets word that his old man's dead. Killed in a bar fight over a spilled mug of booze and a bad hand of poker.

He's not surprised at all, and he doesn't much care. But he knows his mother will (he doesn't understand how, but she's never stopped loving the bastard) and so Ice moves back in, takes care of her, ignores how she jumps at the smallest noise and tries to pretend the shadows under her eyes don't grow larger and larger every time he leaves. She'll be all right, Ice tells himself. She has to be.

"Don't go," she asks him one night. "I know what you boys do and where you go, and it isn't safe. Don't go, John."

He thinks about it, for a minute, but he's not John anymore, he's Ice, and he has spent too long wandering the night to stop now. He needs it, craves it, wants to be out there in the open instead of this cramped gloomy apartment that presses in and suffocates him every time he enters it. Ice loves his mother. There is no question about that. But to give up his new life of no boundaries, to keep himself here—Ice isn't sure he can do that.

"I'll be fine, Ma," he tells her. There is the ring of absolute truth in his voice because he believes every word he is saying. He is young, strong, there is nothing out there that can hurt him. "Don't worry. Nothin's gonna happen to me."

His mother gazes at him, pale blue eyes troubled. "Someone's always leavin'," she whispers with a wistful sigh.

Ice doesn't quite understand this, but the lingering sense of guilt he has is reason enough to reach out and hold his mother close. He loves her. And she loves him. And this is what it is.

After a moment, Ice releases her and heads to the door. He doesn't look back. The Jets are lifting weapons tonight in the old auto lot, and he's already late.

.

Velma is a few weeks shy of her sixteenth birthday when her father comes home and says to them all that he's been thinking about this for awhile, and now that Astrid and Katrina have left the house (both through marriage, though they only found out about Katrina's when she called them from Atlantic City to let them know), it seems like a good time to tell them: Dr. Andersen is taking a job in a hospital. On the Upper West Side. The pay is lower, and he'll need to be on call at short notice. They are moving.

Velma sits still for a moment. That's an interesting birthday present.

Peter is skeptical. Why, he wants to know, if the pay is lower, is he taking the job?

Dr. Andersen regards his fourteen year-old son calmly. "Because they need good doctors," he says, "and now that your sisters are married we can live on less money."

"How soon are we going to go?" asks Christoffer. Velma knows what he is worried about: her twelve year-old brother is shy. Starting over in a new neighborhood, she thinks, will be especially hard for him. For her, too—after all, Velma's got her friends here—but she's heard bad things about the Upper West Side and she's not sure it's a place for her quiet little brother.

Dr. Andersen glances at his wife. "In a month," he answers. "After your sister's birthday."

Velma gazes at her father. "And you really want to do this?"

He gives a firm nod. "Yes. I can help there, make a difference."

Velma thinks about this. Her father is a doctor, and she can't imagine what it must be like to hold all those peoples' lives in his hands. It's a big responsibility. And he is doing this because he thinks he can still do more. It's not fair, of course it's not, but how is Velma supposed to tell her father she doesn't want to go? That's not what he's always taught her, and even though she doesn't exactly feel like putting on scrubs and wading waist-deep into a room full of crying kids like her father will have to, a resigned Velma can't deny that this is the right thing to do. She sighs.

"Well," she says, "I hope the people won't be too dirty over there."

Her father laughs, looking relieved. "Keep an open mind," he says with a small smile. "They might surprise you."

.

Being a Jet, Ice has figured out, is pretty simple. Sure, there's protocol for war-councils and rumbles and all that jazz, but the gist of it boils down to this: find your piece of turf. Stake your claim. And then hold it, with everything you have, because sure as hell someone is going to come along and try to take it away from you.

And they do try, because that is life. Once or twice, like when a bunch of Emeralds jump him after school and he has to pick the glass out of his arm later, hissing from the pain, or when the Musclers sneak over from Harlem with zip guns and an eye for anything that moves, he wonders whether it's all worth it. But Riff and Tony are the closest things to a real brothers he's got, and much as sitting there and hearing Action bitch and Gee-Tar moan gets old, the Jets are, for better or for worse, his family. They have each others' backs like no one ever has or ever will. That's a promise made when you become a Jet, and over the years, Ice has learned to depend on—trust, even, when he'd thought he hadn't had any of it left—that. When you're a Jet, as every one of them is to the bone, you're a Jet for life.

Which is why Ice can't figure out why Tony's been kind of distracted lately. Tony is a dreamer, Ice knows, always has been and always will be. He wouldn't have started the Jets if he hadn't been. But Tony has always been everyone's go-to man, the one who can make you feel like a million dollars about being a Jet, and now that he's floating around with his head in the clouds, it's almost as if he doesn't buy into his own myth. As if Tony, as much as he is the Jet everyone looks up to, thinks there is something missing. Something else out there besides the Jets.

Is there? Ice doesn't know. He has never been the type to think big; he knows the world doesn't work that way, and he is perfectly content to be a Jet. As a Jet, Ice always knows what to do. It's simple. Uncomplicated. Just the way he likes his life.

At least it is when Riff isn't asking him to double-date with some girl who'll probably be as silly as Riff's redhead. But, as his friend and lieutenant reminds him, Jets have each others' backs in everything. If that includes a date, well…

It's just one night, Ice tells himself over and over again, wishing he'd never gotten himself into this mess. And, as Riff's sworn up and down, if he doesn't like her, he never has to see her again.

.

Velma doesn't like the Upper West Side. It's cramped and claustrophobic and the air is stale and every time she walks down a street, her skin crawls because who knows what could be around? Velma has never thought of herself as particularly uptight or prissy before, but something about this place sets her teeth on edge. She wants to go home.

"Just be patient," soothes her mother, voice gentle. "Look at your father. Look how happy he is doing his work here. Try a little bit longer."

So Velma does, because Dr. Andersen has always done his best to give his children everything they ever wanted. And she can tell that this is what he wants, more than anything. To make a difference, one sick boy or girl at a time. And if anyone deserves that, Velma knows, it's her father.

Not too long after, a girl with the reddest hair she's ever seen bumps into her on the street. "Sorry," says Velma automatically, even though it wasn't her fault.

The girl stares at her. "Who're you?"

Velma raises an eyebrow. "I live on this street."

"No, ya don't," she says adamantly. "I live on this street, an' I've never seen ya before. I'd remember ya," she adds, her gaze sweeping up and down Velma's outfit with a touch of envy.

Velma shrugs. "I just moved here."

The girl absorbs this. "Oh. Where ya from?"

Velma shrugs again. "The Upper East Side," she says, trying to keep the hint of pride out of her voice.

The redhead snorts. "Why'd ya move to this dump, then?"

Velma sighs. "Search me."

The girl's full-lipped mouth quirks up into a smile. "Graziella Spanella," she announces. "You can call me Graz. C'mon, let's go introduce you to some-a the girls."

This girl is different, thinks Velma, and different, she supposes, is refreshing. So she gives a small, reserved smile back. "Velma Andersen."

"Okay, Vel," says Graziella with a smirk, "time to go have some fun."

Graziella introduces her to a side of life she's never known before, one that involves staying out late and dancing all night and for once really living her life without caring what other people think. It's dizzying, giddy, and Velma likes it. This is new. This is different. And different, Velma comes to realize, can be not just refreshing, but good.

Over the next month, Velma begins dropping the ends of words and picking up others she's never heard before. Slowly but surely, she starts blending in, starts being comfortable here on this side of the city. Velma meets Minnie (really adorable and sweet), Clarice (very pretty—she suspects they'll get along well), and Pauline (a complete and utterly low-class tramp). She also meets Riff, a fast-talking, funny guy whom Velma can tell Graziella is absolutely crazy about. And he's just as gone on her. Although less so when Graziella starts bringing Velma along on their dates because, as the redhead says in private, she wants to see a few movies for a change.

When Graziella tells her that Riff has found some guy for her, Velma just rolls her eyes. It's about time, she thinks, she's figured Riff will end up doing this ever since Graziella started dragging her with them. Velma's only surprised it's taken him so long to come up with a pal.

"I hope he's clean," she says with a sigh, and Graziella laughs.

"He's a Jet."

The way she says it is almost reverent, and Velma is immediately intrigued. She's heard the word before, and she knows that Riff is one, whatever that is, but she doesn't actually know what it means. "What are Jets?"

"The greatest," Graziella breathes dreamily. "The Jets are—well, you'll see."

A still-skeptical Velma shrugs. "Okay."

But then she meets him, and he's interesting. He is like no one she has ever met before. He is silent, capable, intense, and certainly not like the boys on the Upper East Side, running to their mothers at the first hint of trouble. Instead, observes Velma, intrigued, this boy runs straight at trouble, doesn't let it scare him one bit.

Does it scare him? she wonders as they walk the streets at midnight. After all, the life of a gang member is a pretty risky one. Plenty of opportunities to get hurt or beaten up or maybe even killed. He doesn't seem to show much emotion, though, this one. And this fascinates her.

His name is Ice. And when he kisses her at the close of the night, long and slow, Velma thinks for the first time that maybe—just maybe—the West Side isn't quite so bad, after all.

.

Ice doesn't quite know how it's happened, but suddenly he's found himself with a girlfriend.

The Jets find this hilarious, of course.

"Ain't that sweet," Action snaps, rolling his eyes as the Jets dissect, for the fifth time that night, the betting pool they'd set up on when Ice would finally get a girl (Riff, Ice is nonplussed to find, wins by six months over Big Deal). "An' maybe you'll be a regular Mary Sunshine now you've got a broad to lay, huh? She's a looker, she any good in—"

Ice isn't sure how this happens, either, but the next thing he knows, he's got Action by the collar up against a wall and is glaring the hell out of him. "Shut it."

It's a testament to how shocked Action is that the hot-tempered boy doesn't even look mad. Instead, his half-smoked cigarette falls from his open mouth. "Jesus Christ, buddy-boy," he breathes in horror instead. "You're a goner."

"Damn straight," adds Riff extra-cheerfully. "Happens to us all."

And then the door to Doc's swings open and she walks in and suddenly Ice doesn't give a shit about what everyone thinks anymore. Not that they're ragging on him right now; their expressions range from boredom (A-Rab, Snowboy, Joyboy and Gee-Tar), avid interest (Tony, Riff, Action, Big Deal, and Tiger) to abject adoration (Mouthpiece). Which, Ice thinks sourly as he lets go of Action and redirects his glare at the tall, dopey Jet, it's obvious, he's going to have to deal with sooner rather than later.

But not now. Right now he's just thinking about his girl. And yeah, it's strange that he even has one when he's never even thought about it before, and yeah, he doesn't know how it happened, but at this point, Ice doesn't care. He's never felt so good in his whole life.

Velma smiles at him. "Hi."

And Ice can't help his answering grin as he hurries over to meet her. "Hi."

.

Ice, Velma finds out soon enough, doesn't talk much, sure, but it's a different kind of quiet than she's used to with boys. Their silences are comfortable, like they're speaking even when they're not. And even if he doesn't say a lot, he's good at listening. Which, Velma thinks, she of all people—sandwiched in the middle of four other siblings—appreciates very much.

They tell each other bits and pieces of the past, discovering each other slowly and methodically. The long summer nights say there is no need to hurry, that their future is forever. It's amazing, Velma thinks, over and over again, how very different it is when it's the right boy. Of this she's sure: this is the right boy. He is everything that she dislikes about the West Side—scuffed up, rough around the edges, and dangerous—but in spite of (or is it because of?) this, Velma is fascinated by him, just the same. She can't learn enough about who he is. So she asks him. And he tells her.

"Your real name's John?" she repeats one night, lips curving up into a smile. They're sitting on her fire escape, leaning into each other, and Velma is amazed by this latest piece of information. John. It's such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary boy that she has to double-check to make sure.

Ice just shrugs. "No one's called me that in forever 'cept my ma, but yeah."

"Well," she tells him in return, "mine's Vilhelmina."

A half-smile flickers onto his face. "That's a mouthful."

"Yeah," agrees Velma, dimpling. "So, see, it ain't just you big tough gang members who get to change their names."

Ice tilts his head and studies her for a moment. "But even Velma—or Vel—that don't sound like you."

Velma meets his pale blue gaze with her own. It's not the first time she's thought this, but she still can't understand how this boy understands her like he's known her all her life. "What do I sound like?" she asks curiously.

He shrugs. "Vee."

Velma thinks about this. Short, simple, like a whisper in one breath. Hers. And his.

He doesn't need to be told that she likes it; Velma has a feeling he knows already, anyway. Instead, she just catches his hand and smiles. "Well, Ice," she murmurs, tilting her head up to see the night sky, "it's gettin' late, so this is Vee, sayin' good night."

She feels, rather than sees, him smile before he leans over and kisses her. "Good night." And then his long limbs are up and moving and he is descending her fire escape and falling into the night.

Velma stays outside for a moment longer. She doesn't know what the future will bring, but looking up at the bright stars, she doesn't think it matters. All she has—all they have—is now, and that, she thinks contentedly, is enough.

.

So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four