I walked slowly down the street, the cool night air ruffling my shoulder length blonde hair as I made my way down the streets of the east side of town. I knew it wasn't the smartest thing to be doing- walking down the street in the middle of the night. Night is when the Socs get boozed up and drive around, feeling all tuff in their Mustangs and Corvairs, looking for greasers to jump. I, however, was doing it anyway, because I am a Winston, and Winstons do what they want.
My name is Grace Winston, ad I'm fifteen years old. Yes, my brother is the infamous Dallas Winston. The one who has been jailed too many times to count. I myself have been thrown in the cooler a few times, and I can't say I'm not proud of it. What do you expect? Like I said before, I'm a Winston. People can always tell that Dally is my brother. It's from our eyes. Ice blue and piecing. People aren't usually wary of girls in the street, even greasy ones, but for one reason or another, sometimes people shirked around me when I passed them in the street. I can't say why. Maybe it's my temper, which has never been the calmest, or it could be the simple fact that I'm related to Dally. But I can be dangerous. It can't be helped. When you live with my old man, you learn to get hard, to numb yourself. I may not be as bitter as Dallas, but I can sure take a beating and get right back on my feet.
Anyway, I was walking down the lamplit street, smoking a cigarette. I heard that Buck Merrill was having another party, and I thought I could hunt some action, maybe have a beer or two. The trip to Buck's was uneventful, and I was almost disappointed by that. I would have liked to have a fight, to show those Socs what happens when you mess with me.
When I got to Buck's, I let myself in. I could hear the terrible music cranked even from outside, and I knew that even if he would be able to hear the door, by this point in the night he was probably too drunk to open a door. He was sitting in an overstuffed chair, a blonde on one leg, a brunette on the other.
"Hey baby," he called to me as I walked into the foyer. He was slurring and I sighed, knowing that Dally was probably here too, and that meant that he was probably drunk. I grabbed a beer and went upstairs. I knew which room he would be in. Second door on the left, the one with the crooked doorknob from the time that Dally was so drunk he collapsed against the handle, disfiguring it. I knew I probably shouldn't be going in there, but if Dallas was in there hurting someone...
The door with the broken handle was ajar, and Dally was on the floor, making out with a good looking greaser with too much makeup and a skirt that looked more like a belt than anything. They looked up as I pushed the door open and went inside. Oh god. Dally was completely hammered, and when Dallas was drunk, he was dangerous. I mean, Dal was usually dangerous, but now, he looked murderous. I took control.
"Go home," I told the girl, pointing to the door and taking a swig of the cheap beer. She glared at me.
"Why," she demanded. "We're in love." That made me laugh out loud, a hollow, empty laugh. Dallas, love somebody? Hah! I was his own sister and he didn't give a damn about me. He never loved me. Dally was incapable of love. He forgot how to a long time ago.
"Are we talkin' about the same guy?" I asked. "He doesn't love you." That was when Dally staggered to his feet.
"Gohome, Grace," He slurred. I shook my head and crossed my arms, gulping more beer as I did so. Dallas pulled out his blade. The girl's eyes got real wide as I flipped out mine.
"Leave," I told the girl again, knowing that Dally could use his blade on me. This time she backed out the door and ran down the hall.
That was when Dallas did a double take, as if realizing what he had been doing for the first time. He put his switchblade away, and I cautiously did the same. Then, he collapsed against the wall, too drunk to support himself. I rolled my eyes in disgust and went to help him. I draped his arm across my shoulders and half dragged him to the bed in the corner. Then I pulled off his boots and grabbed a plastic ice cream pail from under the bed. I had placed it there months ago, special for situations like this.
"Here's your hurl bucket," I told him. "You'll need it." He looked like he wanted to hit me, and I knew he would have, had he not been too drunk to focus.
"Seemslike you've done thisbefore," he slurred.
"I have."
"Howcome I don't remember't?"
"Gee, let's think," I said sarcastically. He gave me a rude gesture and a dirty look. "Happy hangover, Dallas," I said.
Then I left, just like that. That's how smooth I am. I grabbed another beer on the way out. I would have stayed longer, but everyone was reeling drunk, and I didn't really feel like getting stoned just then, so I left. I lit up another cigarette as I walked away from the party, my head pounding with the too-loud sound of Hank Williams, and started over to the one place I could truly call home. Yep, you guessed it. The Curtis house. This was just another night of my insanely un-original life.