This will just be a tiny, three-part fic. S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders, and Elton John gets credit for the title.

All reviews are welcome :)

XXX

You're five years old the first time anyone tries shoving that stupid "sorry" word in your direction.

Ms. Tess found Veronica's grimy hands stashing your yellow marker away in her backpack—it has your name on it and everything—and everyone knows the yellow ones matter most. You know stealing is wrong, but apparently nobody told her that.

Her nose scrunches up, and she gives you the marker back while Ms. Tess watches. "Sorry."

"It's okay." You give her your widest smile. You can play nice when you want to—a talent Veronica doesn't have. She doesn't know how to stay out of trouble.

You can get away with whatever you want.

Just before Ms. Tess turns around to stop Steve Randle from eating glue (again), you look Veronica right in the eye. "You can keep the marker." Your voice is sugary sweet, just like the one you use on your daddy when he's mad at you. It's not a voice you like, but Ms. Tess puts another gold star by your name, so it gets the job done.

She puts the marker in her backpack with a frown. You get back to your coloring and try not to smirk. It's good she keeps her head down after that, otherwise she might realize you're using the brand new marker you swiped from her while she was busy trying to take yours.

Too bad she didn't realize your marker was going dead, anyway.

XXX

Up until now you've enjoyed hearing people say sorry to you because it means you've won something. But now it makes you feel bad. Like you're lower than low, dumber than dumb, uglier than ugly. And it's all his fault.

Stupid Sodapop Curtis. He's a liar, and not even that cute anyway. Though you do wish you couldn't see him from where you're sitting on the swings by yourself.

Four-Eyes Debbie finds you there, and you kick up some sand while she opens her mouth to start talking.

"I'm sorry Soda likes me better than you."

"Go away."

"He said you're funny, but I'm—"

"Shut up, Debbie."

"I let him have my cupcake, so maybe that's why—"

"I don't give a damn about Sodapop Curtis!"

It's the first time you've ever said a bad word at school, and you quickly look around in a panic to make sure there's not a teacher nearby. Lucky for you, Mr. Reave is across the playground, busy telling Tim Shepard that he's not allowed to hit his little brother in the head with basketballs.

You noticed Tim a couple years ago, and you've decided he's pretty handsome. Especially since he's two years older than you and sometimes stays out at recess for an extra five minutes, even when he's not supposed to. You wish you were brave enough to do that.

Grinning, Tim tosses the ball to Steve, the quiet kid from your class last year and the Kindergarten glue-eater. You barely notice him, since you're busy watching Tim follow Mr. Reave inside the building. He doesn't look worried at all, though you're sure he's about to get in trouble.

Behind you, a voice speaks up. "He's mean—Tim Shepard, I mean." You turn to find Veronica standing there, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. Debbie's gone. "But you're mean, too."

You hop off your swing and stand in front of her, just a few inches taller. Before you can say anything, she adds, "I think you'd like him better than Soda, though, anyway."

Four years after you stole her yellow marker, you decide Veronica isn't so bad.

Your mouth runs dry as you glance back at the door where Tim just disappeared. You nod. Swallow.

So much better than Sodapop.

XXX

"Dan, I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't thinking, you know? I'm really sorry. You know I'm really, really, really—"

You've heard enough. Doesn't the weepy girl know she's supposed to take her personal shit somewhere else? You paid for a hamburger and a Pibb, not dinner and a show.

The Dingo's front door opens and catches your attention. Over the noise, you barely hear the bell above the door chime, but in steps Dallas Winston, a cigarette stuck between his teeth. He looks around, uninterested, before he spots Tim Shepard's table and walks over.

Across from you, Veronica sighs and you give her a look. She acts like she's doing you some big favor being here, but she really just wants to see how Charlie Williams is holding up after his break-up with Charlene Harrison. Hopefully he's doing just fine, because Veronica is ready to pounce as soon as he's up for a date. Personally, you just want him to stay away from Charlene because Charlene and Charlie sounds like the stupidest damn couple you've ever heard of.

Dally sits down across from Tim not far from where you are. They talk for a while, probably about some stupid boy business

You get bored and stand up to leave. Veronica doesn't notice, too busy looking between Charlie and Charlene, who are both moping at separate tables and surrounded by friends.

Somehow, while you're digging around in your purse for money to pay, Dallas slips past you on his way out. He doesn't notice you at all, and it pisses you off. Even if you've never really talked to him.

You toss a lock of your hair over your shoulder in agitation as Tim slinks by. You follow him. "Hey. Tim." Keeping pace with him, you continue, "Hey, he racin' tonight?"

When Tim finally acknowledges you, his voice doesn't betray much. "Dally? I got more important shit to do than keep track of him."

"Somethin' the matter, Tim?" You don't really need to ask. One of his gang members switched over to Brumley last week. You heard that from the kid who sits next to you in Geography.

He stiffens. You make a mental note to keep your mouth shut and are just about to head back to Veronica when he says, "None of your business."

If you hadn't known Tim for years, he probably would've told you to fuck off by now. He still might, but you can't help pushing for more. "You di'nt answer me."

He quickens his pace, giving you a dark look. "He's not racin' today—cheats anyway."

"I heard he doesn't."

You wish you could take the words back as soon as they're out of your mouth. The last thing you want is him knowing you've been asking around about Dally. Not when there's a small part of you that isn't completely over Tim yet. After all, you've carried a torch for him since the fourth grade. But if anybody asks, you decided he's not worth your time. Especially since he's dating some chick named—who gives a damn?

The corners of his mouth twitch, and the slightest hint of a smirk appears. He doesn't look so annoyed anymore. "I don't think Dally's too interested in kids, Sylvia."

"I'm fourteen."

"Yeah? Still a kid."

You have a sneaking suspicion that Dallas really isn't much older than you are, but Tim disappears before you can ask.

XXX

You're starting to believe that Dally does cheat. You've seen enough of his races to notice that he wins a lot of them, and it doesn't look like he's trying too hard. But maybe that cool indifference is why you like him so much.

He can get pretty damn mad though, that's for sure. Scott Hanson isn't smart enough to see that.

"Hey, Winston," he says, standing not far away from you. Rolling your eyes, you think you'll leave the rodeo just to get away from the asshole, but he piques your interest as he raises his voice. "Fucker, I'm talking to you."

That gets Dally's attention. "What the fuck do you want, Hanson?" he asks, turning away from the girls around him.

"I wanna know how come you think you're hot shit when everybody knows you can't win a race unless you fix it."

You lean back against the wall behind you, looking on with interest. It seems to get real quiet, and for a second, you think Dally might just walk away. But before you know it, Scott the Dumbass is on the ground, getting pummeled. You think his comment doesn't deserve a beating, but it's not your business anyway.

Even though you've never liked fights much, it doesn't turn you off to Dallas. In fact, it makes you want him more. Though you have to admit, when it's all over, watching the other guy spit out a few teeth doesn't do much for your stomach. But it's Scott Hanson, so who cares?

As Dally gets up, wiping blood away from his nose, you could swear he looks right at you. For a brief moment, you stare back. Then you get nervous.

Before you can make a fool of yourself, you walk away. As you leave, you hear Scott. "Sorry, man. Forgot you could fight like that or I would've left you alone."

Later, you find Dallas again. Some older guy is patting him on the back, saying, "Good race, kid." He keeps talking for a while, and you're just about to give up and go somewhere else when he finally shuts the hell up and leaves.

You saunter over, one side of your mouth curled up into a tiny smirk. You've talked to Dally a few times before, so you skip the niceties. "Why does everyone think you cheat?"

If the question pisses him off, he doesn't show it. Instead, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. Just before he puts it in his mouth, he replies, "'Cause I never lose." He speaks in the most level voice you've heard him use, like it's a fact you should already know. He's not joking, either.

"Sure you do. I've seen it."

"Yeah? When?"

You want to say, "Last month, when you came in second against Ron Lucas," but you don't. Besides, you only remember that because it was one of the rare times Dally approached you first.

"I dunno," you say instead. "Probably a couple days ago or somethin'. I don't go to many o' your races." That's a lie, but he doesn't have to know.

Dallas raises an eyebrow, looking down at you. "Could've swore I saw you at the race last week."

"Get your eyes checked."

"Whatever you say, Sylvia." He takes a drag and walks off.

At least he remembers your name.

XXX

It's rowdy, loud, and the whole place smells like rubbing alcohol, but you don't care. A party's a party. Anyway, you'd feel like a real dipshit if you spent your Friday night playing Monopoly with your little sister instead of having some fun at Buck's.

With a drink in hand, you place yourself by the door so you can feel the occasional breeze of cool air. Almost immediately, Mike Wood approaches. He's decent-looking, middle-class, and has a breezy sense of humor, so you don't mind talking to him, even if you're not paying any attention to what he's saying.

Soon enough, the door opens, and you catch the tail-end of Steve Randle's sentence. "—said Susie Banks was eyeing you all night at the bowling alley."

"She said something about bein' friends with Kathy, and how dating me hurts the 'feminist cause'," Two-Bit Mathews says, pushing his way through the crowd of people blocking the doorway.

"Feminist cause?" Randle echoes.

"That's what I said. She walked out in a huff 'fore I could even say sorry for not knowing what dating me has to do with—Oh, hey Dal!"

You keep your gaze locked on Mike, but you really want to look around for Dally. You nearly jump, spilling beer on yourself, when his low voice speaks up from right behind you. "Where's the broad you said you were bringing? The one with the legs you kept talkin' about?"

"She's off fighting for the feline cause." You can't tell if this mistake is intentional or if Mathews is just a dumbass, so you don't say anything.

Steve snorts. "Two-Bit's taking it real hard."

Somebody starts to respond, but you turn to face Mathews and cut in. "I heard there's some kinda party at Miller's house tomorrow night. You oughta come, cheer yourself up. Get over the heartbreak."

He cocks an eyebrow, unfazed by your interruption. "You think I ain't heard about that already? Hell, she had to make sure I was comin' before she could even call it a party."

Dallas looks at you. "Who, that Mary chick? The short one?"

"'Scuse me, I wasn't talkin' to you," you say. "I think this is one of those parties you hafta be invited to, anyway."

"I don't need some shitty invite."

You shrug. "Guess not, if you can convince Mathews here to take you as his date. Maybe he will, since his other one left to go make the world a better place an' shit."

You keep a straight face until the exchange is over with. The, you let a tiny smile dance on your lips. Without another word, you move past him, careful to brush your arm against his while you go.

XXX

The next day, he shows at Miller's party. Sure, it might just be to spite you, to prove that he does whatever the hell he wants and you can't stop him. But then again, he's not stupid. Your manipulation may have worked on some other guy, but there's no way it worked on him. Nobody plays Dallas Winston unless he wants them to.

Regardless, he's there. As far as you're concerned, that means he wants to see you.

If that's what he wants, you make sure you don't give it to him. At least not right away. Instead, you mosey around to different groups, striking up a conversation with whoever you happen across.

Even though you went to the party for Dally's sake, you can't help noticing that Mitch Campbell is looking at you from across the room. You make eye contact and shoot him a somewhat sarcastic grin. He's not a big fan of yours, and vice versa. But he keeps you on your toes, and that's all you can really ask for.

You look around, decide there's nobody interesting left to talk to, and head over to him for the hell of it. With a hand on your hip, you look up at him. "What the hell d'you want, Mitch?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "I wasn't exactly beckonin' you over here. Or really wantin' you anywhere 'round here."

Shaking your head, you raise your drink up to your lips, then say, "You haven't taken your eyes offa me since I got here."

"Bullshit. I've been too busy payin' attention to Debbie to give a damn about anybody else—'specially you."

"Any guy who says he'd choose Debbie"—you spit the name out, making it clear exactly how you feel about Debbie Hill—"over me is full of shit."

To make a point, you adjust your shirt so a little more cleavage shows, though you're displaying plenty already. He notices. His gaze flickers well below your face.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were flirtin' with me," he says. "Doin' a shitty job of it, too."

You open your mouth to shoot back some retort, but you don't get the chance.

Dally steps up, right next to you, and smirks at Mitch. "I thought they stopped inviting you to parties after you pissed in front of Lucy Greenwood's house."

"Yeah? And I heard you ain't been laid since you gave Molly Bane VD."

"You ever met Jenny Parker? 'Cause she'd tell you you don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about. She hasn't shut up about me since I fu—"

Mick takes a drink. "Jenny was saying the same shit about Louie Reed a couple months ago. I wouldn't go braggin' about havin' his sloppy seconds."

"I heard you've never had a chick, so you'd be happy with anybody's sloppy seconds." To your surprise, Dallas nods at you. "She told me."

He's lying, but you look at Mitch with wide eyes. "Sorry. I couldn't help it. I've never told a lie before, an' I can't just start now. Not even for you."

Mitch shrugs, unconcerned. "Guess you ain't countin' yourself then, 'cause I'm pretty sure you were callin' yourself my girl not too long ago."

Unfortunately, that's the first honest thing he's said all night. But before he mentions any other details, he flips Dally off and leaves to get himself more beer.

You feel your face flush. Your whole deal with Mitch was a waste of time, and you don't appreciate him bringing it up. After all, he dumped you three months ago because "a friend" (Scott fuckin' Hanson, you found out later) said you were screwing around, and that's bullshit. You've never even fucked anyone in the first place. But he didn't listen to you, so the hell with him.

Frowning, you look at Dally, who's watching you with an unreadable expression. "You dated that bastard?"

Instantly, you get defensive. "You dated Molly Bane, so shut the hell up."

He snorts. "I don't know who that broad is."

"You don't?"

"Fuck, no. Campbell makes up shit like that all the time."

It's your turn to scoff. "Compared to Scott, he's some kinda saint. Nice job beatin' him up a couple weeks back, by the way."

"Who, Hanson?" He says the name with as much disdain as you said Debbie's. "He was asking for it." He pauses, and then gives you a knowing look. "I'm gonna kick his ass again next week. Same track as last time."

He's probably right. Scott can't race. Still…

"You got a pretty big ego."

He grins. "No shit? Then how come you're over here talking to me?"

You bat your eyelashes. "Who said bein' a cocky asshole was a bad thing?"

"An' being a bitch ain't so bad either, huh?"

"Right." You ruffle your hair. "So long as you look good while you're at it."

"That's what I was thinkin', too," he says, looking down at you.

Then, just like that, he walks off again, and you're left wanting more.