It was an ordinary day. I woke up feeling no different than yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that.
The only morning I truly felt different was when I made out with a girl for the first time. It was just a girl at one of Shepard's parties. Her name was Lori, and she was 15 years old, like me…
xXx
I was sitting on the Shepard's porch, alone, looking out into the pitch black night, contemplating whether to leave or stay longer. The loud, thumping music, the smoky haze from cigarettes dangling from the boys' (and some girls') mouths… it was getting to be too much for me, and I knew Darry would want me home soon, anyway.
Even though I'm older, he's still protective. Both of my brothers are. And I don't think that's changing anytime soon.
They still see me as the scrawny, prepubescent kid I was last year. And maybe they're right; I mean, I still don't have to shave. Which is pretty damn humiliating.
But when I look at my reflection, I don't see the bird-like boy I once was.
My eyes don't swallow up my face anymore; to be honest, I think my face is well structured, and even though I'm still on the smaller side, didn't Soda say that girls like boys who are lean?
xXx
Suddenly, I heard a loud pop from behind him. I whipped around, startled from my reverie.
It was a girl. She was holding a pink sucker in one hand- that's what the noise was, he thought- and a joint in the other. She had blond, wavy hair that landed at her collarbone, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and pretty hazel eyes.
"A little jumpy, aren't you now?" She said, smiling slightly, her eyes twinkling. She was beautiful, truly. "Got a name?"
"Ponyboy. And, before you ask, no, my parents were not on drugs. My dad was a creative guy."
She laughed. It was a warm, low sound.
"Well, I'm Lori. Pretty common, but, unlike yours, my parents were probably on drugs when they named me. Don't worry, nothin' serious, they're just two weed-lovin' hippies."
I nodded, feeling my mouth curve into a smile. In my head I was desperately praying that I didn't mess this up. I could tell this was going somewhere; I've heard enough of the gang's bull sessions, enough of their best stories, to know the signs.
xXx
I was right. It was going somewhere, and I didn't mess it up. My first make out session left me with the taste of that pink strawberry sucker on my tongue and lipstick smeared across my face. Which I forgot to wipe off before I went home.
The gang ribbed me mercilessly for a week, before they realized that I was growing up.