Prologue

Once upon a time, you dressed so fine.
Threw the bums a dime, in your prime.
Didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall".
You thought that they were all a-kiddin you.

You always thought that you'd go out with a bang. That slow burn, gradually fizzling out bullshit just wasn't for you. You first got that idea when you were seven, and you had to watch the cancer slowly eat away at your grandpa. You just didn't get it. Over the course of two years, he went from the fun grandpa who would put you on his shoulders to play airplane with you and slip you a silver dollar when your parents weren't looking to a skeletal, hollowed-out version of himself. What was the appeal in dying slowly? Why subject yourself to all that pain?

You stopped thinking that way after a while. You guessed you just grew out of it. But then in junior high, you met Bob Sheldon. Even at thirteen, he was wild and energetic. He was a totally crazy kid, and he had this magnetism that made everyone want to be his friend. If he jumped off a bridge, you knew everyone else would too. You don't know why he chose you to be his best friend, because the two of you were as opposite as you could get. Bob was an only child, and even back then you had the notion that his existence wasn't planned. His parents didn't seem to know what to do with him. They gave him whatever he wanted without a second thought, and when he got caught stealing pop from the dime store, they didn't even punish him. Somehow they got it into their heads that it was their fault. When he turned sixteen, his father gave him a brand new Sting Ray, and he crashed it two weeks later because he was driving drunk. His father bought him a new Mustang the next day.

But your parents were different. You were the second youngest of four, so they knew what to do with you. They spoiled you some, sure, but not as much as Bob's parents. And if you had been caught stealing anything, you know your father would have whipped you good. And, yeah, you had a Mustang too, but you had to help your dad grade final papers to get it. One hundred papers on the Socratic method. Twenty pages each. You hated thinking about how Bob was out cruising around in his car while you were stuck inside. You envied him.

At fifteen, when you were still in junior high, Bob took you to your first high school party. He drank like a pro even then, and he explained to you that he stole from his parents' liquor cabinet. He was shocked that you didn't do the same. At sixteen, partying hard and driving around rip roarin' drunk was a common occurrence for the two of you.

You remember screaming, "you're gonna kill us, Bob!" one night as he sped around a curve at an unsettlingly high speed.

"Life's too short to be scared of dyin'!" he'd replied.

And then, through your drunken haze, you remembered being seven. You wanted to go out fast. You wanted your last memory to be of something fun. What was stopping you? Why not start thinking that way again? So you did. You lived in the moment as much as you could. You fed off Bob's energy and aura of danger, and even when he got out of control, you still loved it. Nothing could beat the rush. Your parents said he was bad for you, and that he was bringing you down. You didn't believe them back then. You should have known they would be right.

Now, as you watch the incense burning down, you wish you had never met Bob Sheldon. Six months later, you're still reliving that night in the park. You're always thinking about what you could have done, but you don't know if it would have made a difference. You could have left with Marcia, you could have driven Bob home or said that he wasn't welcome in your car because he was so drunk. But you know that you were just as drunk as he was. Beating up those greasers seemed like a good idea at the time. You sigh. Adults are always saying that it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. You're finding out that it's all fun and games until someone gets killed.

You remember how Bob said that life was too short to be scared of dying. You can't stop wondering, as that hood stood over him with his knife, if he was scared of dying then.

Your incense stick goes out, but you don't want to get up to light a new one. There's already a thin layer of smoke hovering over your room, so it's only a matter of time until your mother comes in and fusses at you about how it's bothering her allergies.

School is almost out. You'll be a senior next year, and you know that you're doing exactly what you promised yourself you wouldn't do. You're fizzling, slowly but surely fading out. This town is dragging you down. You can't go anywhere without being reminded of Bob, and you see that Ponyboy Curtis kid every day at school. Sometimes you think about talking to him, but you usually just turn your head and walk in the other direction. You've got to forget your past, and being friends with him will only make you dwell on it.

But you just don't know what you can do. You've been thinking about going to California and living in one of those free love communes. People around here think they're sinful and weird, but you don't think they sound half bad. Everyone living together in peace and tolerance would be a welcome change from all the hate in Tulsa. Even after the big rumble, there's still heavy tension between the greasers and Socs. You feel like you're walking on eggshells, and it's driving you crazy.

None of your friends get you any more. You can even see in Marcia's eyes that she's falling out of love with you. You can't shake this feeling that you're changing, and no one else is changing with you. You can't go on pretending that you're the same person you were six months ago. But if you change, you know that you could lose everyone close to you, everyone you've ever cared about, and it's absolutely terrifying. You're only seventeen. You're too young for these kinds of decisions. But you know you've got to make them.

I know I've posted this story before, but I decided to do some editing, and the last time I updated it was so long ago that all the documents for it that I had in document manager had expired. I'm sure there was probably a way to change it, but I'm bad with computers, so it was just easier for me to scrap it and restart.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed before! Reviews are still always appreciated! :)

And just in case you didn't know, S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Bob Dylan owns Like a Rolling Stone.