Disclaimer: I own precisely nothing having to do with The Outsiders, with the exception of my copies.

Summary: Perception is in the eye of the beholder. Beliefs and judgements stem from perceptions. Can one stranger really have a profound effect on another? It's all in how you look at it.

What's Your Story?
Never having much patience for troublemakers, I avoided the east side of town like the plague. In school, I lost myself amidst a cloud of people like me—just like me. They were all talk, the ones I hung out with. They had opinions and such, but mostly what they thought they were supposed to think—an irony in itself. I had no substance, either, and that's why we were perfect for each other. But that was only my particular breed in a world of limited species.

On a chilly January day, while I was out to buy some confectioner's sugar and cocoa powder, I rode the bus to the stop nearest the grocery store. I really could have walked that distance, but it was awfully cold, so I chose the easy way. The ride was only approximately ten minutes, not including stops, but it was just enough to get me thinking.

At the second stop, a cluster of jacket-wearing bodies climbed on, and I recognized one or two of them. I knew no names, but I saw their thin jackets and flushed, scowling faces, and I bit my lip. They weren't there to cause trouble—they just wanted to use the bus, and that was their right. But I never have been good with strangers, or people I'm not supposed to trust—it seems to me that they're frequently one and the same.

Sighing, I flexed my fingers over my bag, then surreptitiously tucked it between my arm and side, pressing it tightly. No one looked up.

I hadn't brought a magazine or anything else to occupy my attention, so I studied my fellow public transportation goers. I made up games in my head, like little histories—What don't I know about you? That worked for a few minutes, but then I began to question the validity in my assumptions. None of it was real, I knew, but I suddenly wanted very much to discern what was. By any chance, could I have guessed correctly? Was that fellow clad in the blue scarf and heavy work boots really be a fugitive? Could that severe-looking woman holding the hand of the tired-looking child beside her really be descended from royalty? Did that make the child an heiress?

My questions remained unanswered, but my eyes continued to scan the row of people across from me, searching out candidates, until they abruptly reached the end of the line, and those sinister, aimless characters.

I was just beginning to examine my own row when I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Could that mean-looking teenager really have squeezed the shoulder of the boy next to him? It looked to be reassuring, but it didn't seem to help the boy, whom I now realized looked suspiciously like he may have been crying. His eyes were slightly red, but so were his cheeks and his nose, and for that matter, so were the cheeks and nose of his comrade. But there's always a look in someone's eyes that suggests sadness and the recent release of tears, regardless of the weather.

What was his story? I wondered. Could I whip up a tale in time to see them off of the bus? And so I tried.

It seemed to me that every draft I prepared was too far off the mark than I could allow, so I waited, and I watched some more.

I had been right in my observation; in the smallest of unobtrusive ways that could only be detected by the unblinking eye, the dark-haired boy did seem to be periodically comforting the other one, whose stunning beauty I now noticed as he looked up for a moment to glance out the window behind me, a few seats down. I gasped—a very small, very quiet sound—and averted my eyes quickly, resting my gaze raptly on my feet.

I fashioned a nickname for him, and that is what I called him for the remainder of our company: Blonde Beauty. It was a silly pet name, but there was something about the haunted, lost look in his eyes that warranted it—for there was a certain elegance and allure contained within them.

BB muttered something to his companion, the boy with the perpetually annoyed and distrustful scowl on his face, and Old Scowl shook his head. Looking back down at the dirty floor, BB closed his eyes. OS shook his shoulder briefly and he looked back up, seeming miserable, and yet ashamed. Neither did or said anything for what seemed to be a full minute—they just watched each other—until OS mumbled something, and BB turned his head away again. OS didn't persist, and simply glanced around the bus. I don't know why, but I had expected his eyes to settle on me longer when he reached my seat. I felt rather put in my place, however, when he seemed as uninterested in me as the people on either side of me. I was almost affronted, in fact.

I slipped my purse back onto my lap and opened it carefully, extracting a tissue with which to blow my nose. I did—loudly—and folded it, placing it in my pocket to dispose of later. Still no notice. I remembered that I had left my house keys in my jacket pocket, and I reached for them so as to drop them into my bag. They tinkled and jingled as I removed them, but still I did not arouse OS's curiosity.

My last attempt was feigning a suddenly vexed expression, appearing shocked, and reaching back into my bag as if to check something. I opened my wallet and counted the money I had brought with me, and all for nothing.

Old Scowl and Blonde Beauty remained as unaware of my presence as ever. I nearly laughed at the notion that I had been hoping for just that only a matter of minutes ago, and instead resigned myself to accepting my plainness.

Now that I really considered it, they both did look rather menacing in their own rights—especially BB's unnerving, unfocused stare. Actually, they looked like you could do anything to them and they wouldn't bat an eye—although they might kill you for trying. But I still couldn't get over the prospect of someone like him crying—I almost hoped he hadn't been, just because it would have made my flat opinions and sure ways of life look dumb and useless. If he could cry, then maybe he could cry when one of his friends was roughed up. Maybe he wouldn't want to get even—he would just be concerned with using all in his power to aid his buddy.

I guess I always knew they were human, sort of like me, but not just like me—that was reserved for those with a mute interest in anything and knowledge of less.

So they did look tough, and OS even looked fearsome in his own way, but if you looked closely, you could see why. They looked uncomfortable, but at the same time almost serene. BB looked sullen and OS seemed to be almost daring someone to disturb his friend—you could see the raw, animalistic, protective instinct in his eyes, but only if you looked. Maybe I was making it up, though—conjuring more tales. Maybe I just needed to give them reasons.

I had never really paid much attention to people like them before, and I don't think I've said more than a few curt words to any of them at any given time, but if you changed their clothes, just then, they could have been me; could have been anyone I knew. But in another way, they weren't hollow—I couldn't have been them because I had spent too many years not feeling enough at all, and there they were oozing all the emotion I should have been feeling and their own.

I laughed, and OS finally looked at me. I was startled, though, because I hadn't been expecting it. His attention was torn away moments later, as the bus rolled to a stop and I stood to get off—time to go. He didn't seem fazed as I shuffled toward the door with the rest of the people exiting, and instead turned and whispered something to BB, who smiled faintly, reaching a hand up to his shirt pocket and tapping the small, rectangular shape.

"Go ahead," someone said from behind me, prodding me forward.

I got off of the bus and entered the store, purchasing my items, and almost expected to see Blonde Beauty and Old Scowl sitting in the back as I boarded another bus to take me back. They weren't there, and I had known they wouldn't be, but I had indulged in my absurd fantasy.

I thought about them on the return trip, and I didn't even know why. Barely ten minutes of simply staring at them, and I felt as if I had known them for ten years. I almost missed my stop.

As I opened the front door of my house and proceeded into the front room, then the kitchen, I studied it. Did they have any of this? Were their jeans ripped simply because of prolonged wear and a lack of funds to replace them? Of course, I would usually think. They're just people without money who like to rattle the people with money. But now, although I was still sure that that was the reason, I wondered if they didn't typecast themselves just as everyone else. Maybe they wanted to mark themselves as different.

I was still considering that when I heard my mother, sitting in the next room with my stepfather, say sadly, "Oh, did you hear anything else about that trial?"

"Doris, I told you—I can't discuss matters that belong in the courtroom," he reprimanded. "They're not for your ears."

"But those poor boys!" she argued. "Can't you at least tell me if you think they'll be together?"

"I shouldn't have mentioned it in the first place."

"It wouldn't matter, I already would have known. We went to church together, Arthur," she said earnestly. "I've met them. Everybody knows. And I think that Darrel is a perfectly responsible young man."

"I don't know yet, Dory," he said quietly, and I heard his chair creak as he leaned forward. "Has Dennis written?"

I tuned out the rest of their conversation—it didn't much matter to me. I was still so preoccupied with trying to find where I had gone wrong in my judgments. I was still haunted by the look in Blonde Beauty's eyes.

I wonder what was the matter.

A/N: Any and all suggestions welcome, as this is Part One in a series. (Furthermore, this is the original draft, 'cause I didn't actually edit any of it...though I'm pleased with how it came out, even if it strayed from my original plan.)

Thank you for reading.