Author's Note: I did this in the seventh grade as extra credit, and updated it in the eighth. I gave a final edit (on the date of publication), which is what you're reading now. The original version is the second chapter.
I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the library, soaking in the last few rays of light before sundown. I started walking in the direction to home when a familiar red Pontiac pulled over next to me. It belonged to my friend Travis. He walked out, gave me a slap on the back, and offered me a cigarette.
"No thanks. Not in the mood," I answered. "Wait, why are you here?" I asked curious.
"There's a big party and Georgia's and Virginia's place." His breath smelled of beer. He must've gotten his father's stash. Georgia and Virginia were two people I knew from school, and they liked to throw a party every time their parents were out of town. They seemed nice, but I tended to stay within my own little circle of friends. I didn't really know them too well. "I already got your brothers and Blake. They're in the car." I craned my head to the right to see past Travis, and sure enough, I found them. They all stared at me, waiting for an answer.
On any normal day, I probably would've said no. I didn't really enjoy parties. But it was Saturday night, and I had nothing better to do than study. "Yeah, sure, why not," I shrugged.
I climbed into the car and we drove off. Now, most people would be scared if someone drunk was driving them. But not me. If there was one thing Travis was good at, it was driving intoxicated. And I could tell that he didn't have too much.
Sometime on the way to the party, Travis stopped. At first, I didn't know why, until I noticed a Greaser walking along the street.
Greasers are the hoods that live on the poor side of town. Socials (or Socs for short), like me, are snobs that live on the rich side. Richard will probably kill me for calling Greasers hoods, and Travis will probably kill me for calling Socs snobs, but it's the truth. Both sides hate each other, and it usually results in rumbles, like the one that was about to happen that very second.
Travis got out, cracked his knuckles, and began to beat the poor kid to a pulp. Now, I know that I'm supposed to hate Greasers, and I know I should enjoy watching one in pain. But there is no point to violence. And while there are reasons to hate a Greaser, there are reasons to hate Socs too. Like how some of them just randomly beat people up for being on the wrong side of town.
Blake and I chose to stay in the car, while Richard got up and walked out. He didn't do any fighting though. He probably just wanted to make sure that a drunken Travis wasn't going too far. And although he never said it out loud, I think it was to look more like the Soc he was supposed to be.
"That's enough," he said firmly, setting his palm on Travis' shoulder. When I looked closer at the picture, I could see that Travis' hand was wrapped around a knife. It was a good thing Richard was there to set him straight. It seemed to be is job. Had Travis been full-on drunk, the whole situation would've been disastrous. The knife would've been used on Richard. But Travis still had a little common sense, enough to listen to Richard and stop.
They were blocking my view of the kid, but when they turned to enter the car, I could see him clearly. He looked the typical Greaser, probably a year or two younger than me. He had greasy long hair that was pulled back into a tiny ponytail. It was sticking out in all directions. His converse were dirtied and worn out from years of wear and tear. It was probably his only pair of shoes. His leather jacket was thrown to the side. His face was wrapped up in his arms, but I could see that it was badly bruised, and I swore I saw a little blood coming out of his mouth. He fell over on his side, on the floor, crying, cowering in fear. Luckily for me though, the sad sight didn't last long, because the car was already moving.
I caught a quick glance at Blake, looking just as horrified and sad as I was. Through the mirrors, I could see that Richard showed no emotion, as always.
Georgia and Virginia were only ten minutes away. The ride was uneventful. Richard, Gordon, Blake, and me stayed quiet, but Travis burbled on happily about how fun the party would be. I was barely listening though. My mind was completely empty. I focused only on the town and the blur of colors as it whizzed by me. I loved having the window seat.
By the time we made it there, the sun was already starting to set. In a few hours, it would be nightfall.
The whole party was massive. About half of the neighborhood was there. I had never been to Georgia's and Virginia's house before. There was a shaggy brown carpet, looking like the color of chocolate under the dark lights. The walls were painted dark red, and the floors were made of yellow wood, almost brown. I saw drinks on the table and Robert Sheldon with a cup of beer in his hand. I saw Gordon's friend Randy making out with his girlfriend Marcia. Travis was flirting with Georgia and Virginia, while Blake, Gordon, and Richard, starting talking to Robert. I decided to join them. I didn't really know anybody there, and Robert was a familiar face. I had seen him around school.
"Hey Bob!" Gordon called to him. "It's me, Gordon. I'm from your science class. We were lab partners on our last project."
"Oh yeah...Who are your friends?"
"Blake, Richard, and John," he answered pointing to each of us. "Where's Cherry?"
"I came here earlier, we were supposed to go the movies, but the blockhead bailed on me so I came back."
"Who's Cherry?" I asked.
"Sherry Valance." I remembered Sherry. She went to my school. She was Bob's girlfriend, and a cheerleader. I never really talked to her much. She was given the nickname Cherry because of her hair, but I forgot.
"Oh…cool." I waved goodbye and headed off to sit on the couch. I took a little sip of wine. My parents were on a business trip, as always, so they wouldn't know. Richard would murder me if he saw me with a glass in my hand, whether or not I was actually drunk, or even a little tipsy. But he was probably getting drinking himself. And Gordon just didn't care. I reached into my bag and pulled out a copy of "Gone With the Wind". I had just borrowed it from the library that afternoon, and I wanted to read more of it. There was nothing better to do. I didn't know anyone else.
With the harsh lighting, I couldn't really read. I was bored, tired, and had a math test on Monday. I quickly told Gordon and Richard I was leaving, and trudged back home.
By the time I got back, I was wiped out. The cool air took away all of my energy, and the wine left me groggy. I fell asleep without brushing my teeth or changing my clothes.
When I woke up, it was even colder than yesterday. I looked at my alarm clock. It was near ten. I got up, took a hot shower, and changed into clean clothes. I went into the kitchen and made myself some scrambled eggs.
As I was eating, Gordon burst through the dining room. He had probably just gotten back from Church. He had a frantic look on his face. The look I saw when he had a surprise quiz, or if he was late, or just plain frightened. He was nearly out of breath. He sat down next to me, and relaxed a little, right before panicking again. I was used to this type of thing, so I wasn't really concerned.
"A Greaser killed Bob last night!" he screamed in a high voice. "Randy ran into me at Church and told me the whole story! Late last night, after the party, they went to the park and found two guys that were hanging out with Cherry and Marcia. Randy started drowning one of the guys and the other one killed Bob! He killed Bob! The whole town is going nuts! There's going to be a huge rumble!"
Bob and Randy were almost always drunk. They would go to school with hangovers, provided drinks for all parties, and frequently took sips of whiskey. Randy didn't mean it, drowning that guy. He was drunk, and as awful as it sounds, it wasn't too surprising. The other guy probably killed Bob in self-defense, so there was logic to that. And of course a giant rumble would commence in the case of something as big as murder. But despite how calm I made the situation seem, it was truly crazy. Just crazy.
A few days later, I saw an article about the two guys that killed Bob. Apparently, they saved a handful of kids from a burning church in Windrixville while running away from the cops. I wished I could run away like them so I wouldn't have to deal with the conflict between Socs and Greasers. I wouldn't have to worry jumping Greasers or going to the rumble or have the feel of a great divide (which is not a nice feeling).
I didn't want to go to the rumble, not at all. I hated fights, or any form of violence. I was expected to be a snobby, rich jerk, fighting normal teenagers who happened to have less money than me. What is the point in that? But I knew that if I didn't go, the other guys would call me a wimp and bully me for the rest of my life. I couldn't let that happen.
The day before the rumble, I ran into Sherry and the Greaser Travis jumped the night of the party. I wanted to apologize, but I didn't know what to say. Still, I tried. "Hi. I'm John. Sorry about my friend. Travis, the one that beat you up…"
"Yea, I know 'bout him." He didn't seem angry, upset, or understanding or anything. He just said it like a fact.
"He kind of beats Greasers up a lot," I continued. "I'm not like that!" I quickly yelped out. "It's just that he's…kind of scary after he has a drink."
"Just like Bob was," I heard Sherry mumble under her breath. We both heard her though, and looked at her to elaborate. She seemed to want to say more. "Bob was a great guy. The best boyfriend anyone can have. I don't really date. But he was the exception. Sure, he could be scary like your friend Travis. But when he wasn't…"
There was silence. It wasn't awkward, it just gave us time to reflect and think. Was it a time to remember Bob? To think of how alcohol was slowly ruining the people close to us? To recall the heartbreaking events that had occurred over the past few days? I didn't know. And I still don't know. A combination of all I guess. Maybe we all just didn't have anything to say.
"I don't want to go to the rumble," the Greaser announced. "I can't stand violence. I can't watch people fight. But I have to go, or I'll be called chicken."
"That makes two of us. I mean, even the nice guys like my friend Gordon fight in rumbles. And he wouldn't hurt a fly. And if I don't go, I'll be called a loser too. I have to go." There was a slight pause in my words before I added, "I'm sick of this. Greasers aren't that much different than Socs. Why can't people see that?"
"Because no one tried to tell anyone," Cherry said.
"Well I will. I'll tell everyone that. And maybe people won't be so quick to judge someone by where he lives or how much money he has."
Some people think all Socs are like Travis. They think we all beat up Greasers and run away to brag about to our friends, and break the law and not get in trouble, and do drugs and drink and smoke. But some of us aren't like that. I mean, Bob was drunk and he beat up the occasional Greaser. But sober, maybe he wasn't so bad. Sherry said he could be nice.
Gordon is most definitely a Soc, but not the mean, stereotypical version the Greasers expect us to be. He can be like Travis, but he's nice. He won't beat anyone up unless it's in self-defense or in a rumble. He always makes sure Richard and I don't kill each other, and in five seconds, he can make anyone laugh. I bet there's a guy on the other side of town just like him, a nice Greaser.
Blake isn't a Soc or a Greaser. He's like me. We don't care about conflict and stereotypes, we find it pointless. We just want to be people. Maybe that's what that Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade from the article thought when they decided to run off into the countryside. There's no stereotypes or groups of people there.
And then there's Richard. He doesn't fight Greasers either. He even acts like them. One time, I saw him beat up a Soc. I think he would be a Greaser if he lived on that side of town. Maybe there's a Greaser like a Soc.
Maybe Greasers and Socs aren't so different. We fight each other and say the people on the other side are drunk, smoking, stealing, law-breaking, stupid idiot jerks. But I bet a lot of people don't actually think that way. More than you would think anyway. I said before that I wanted to run away. But I can't. Not now. Because someone has to tell people my side of the story.