Disclaimer: I do not own S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders or any of the characters in that story. I also do not own Angel With a Shotgun by The Cab.
This is my first ever published story so it's probably going to suck but oops...also the characters may seen out of context becaue this is my take on the story, blah blah blah.
PS. My friend recommended this become fanfiction rather than just a story, so it might seem off. This is set in 1966, one year after the outsiders.
When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I only had two things on my mind: The Professionals and a ride home. I wish someone cared for me like J. W. Grant cared for his wife. No one in their right mind would ever risk that much just to save my life. Maybe it was for her looks- I wished I looked like Maria Grant. I guess I did. I had long dark hair and coffee-colored eyes. But when people look at me, I get sneers and glares, rather than astounded looks. Those I only get when I'm forced to fight, and that's just because girls aren't supposed to. Nevertheless, I'm not walking around Tulsa without a blade. Guy or girl, if you ain't a Social, then you're better off with defense.
The streets of Tulsa are barren compared to those of New York City. But still, cigarettes littered the ground. It's sad how many people smoke- and i'm the kind of person to let people do whatever that pleases their small hearts. But the one person who actually cared for me lost his life to a nicotine-filled stick. Not that anyone knows that- my life is full of lies I'm forced to live by. But a person becomes like steel after living like that- neglect and danger shouldn't be the only things on a kid's mind. But I refuse to believe I grew up to fast. Lots of people do. I knew this one guy back in the city, helped me out, somewhat. A few years older, had a police record, but knew how to get food. And I'd rather be on the streets than with my family, it's not like they remembered to feed me anyway. But after "running" away to Tulsa, I was told he became like steel. And that he was the toughest hood around town- but he lost it. Now he's dead too, been dead. Haven't seen Dallas Winston since I was small, but for a while he was one to admire. Now he's just a beacon, a warning.
I checked my watch. "God forbid I ever be early for anything..." I hoped Soda was there. Of course that also meant I actually had to work, but I enjoyed his company. Plus sometimes he'll get me a drink before our shift. I took off in a sprint toward the nearest DX station.
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