So, I had to read the outsiders for school. And guess what? INSPIRATION! I don't own the outsiders. ONWARD!
As a kid, my Mom was always reminding me of those baby sayings- you know, "You get what you get, and you don't get upset!" Or, "Sharing is caring!"
The one she recited the most (Don't judge a book by it's cover!) ironically never really stuck.
I was raised on the west side of Tulsa. That's right- I'm a spoiled, whiny, too rich for words soc. Or, at least that's what greasers must think I am. I guess I fit the description alright in their eyes. Curly brown hair, green eyes, and expensive clothes. Just your average social.
Really, my eyes didn't open until that one day in science. We were dissecting worms (ew) and I was sitting next to Ponyboy Curtis.
I'd heard all about this kid. He was fourteen, he'd skipped a grade, and rumor had it, he was in a gang with the infamous Dallas Winston.
He was trying to cut open his worm, but I could tell he was having trouble. His face gave a look of utter frustration, and he dropped his scalpel on his tray.
I noticed him pull something out of his pocket, and I gasped when I saw a switchblade.
"So it's true. You are a hood." I sniffed, looking away, but not before catching that look in his eye. Surprise, anger, and sadness danced across his face, as if he couldn't decide how to feel.
Emotion.
It was the first time I felt guilty, even if it was just a tiny twinge. A knot had formed in my stomach, intent on making me feel sick for the rest of the day.
Our encounter at school had made me keep closer tabs on him, I guess I thought he'd snap and go on a killing spree one day. He didn't. He never did anything that would deem him as a juvenile delinquent. He respected the teachers, answered every question, and as far as I knew, he'd never gotten a detention.
I finally took a good look at him, too. He was handsome, with greenish grey eyes and light brown hair that was too long. He, of course, never looked at me. Not only was I a soc, but I'd accused him of being a hood.
My friends still agreed with that. Well, now that I think about it, we weren't really friends. We were just a clique of rich girls who's parents had discretely put together as kids. It's hard to make real friends my parents would approve of.
We were at our usual haunt- Barbara's nail and hair salon.
They were twittering about every other Dick, Tom, and Harry they had just been flirted with, exactly the thing I'd been doing most of my high school life. That kind of shocked me, the fact that I could hear how dumb it all was. They were probably equally shocked at the fact that I wasn't joining in.
It wasn't until they began to gossip about Ponyboy that I listened.
I was still just beginning to see past the grease of his hair. They weren't. Too them, he was still Ponyboy Curtis. The greaser who carried a switchblade in his pocket and once used it at school. To me, he was Ponyboy Curtis. The kid who'd skipped a grade, the star of the track team, and the only person who'd ever managed to get me to feel something more than the bland emotions I was so used to.
"My boyfriend told me he smokes whenever he's out of school!"
"Yes, I heard that too. I even saw it once."
"Hey, Heather?"
I glanced up from my nails. "Yeah?"
"Is it true he pulled a switch in science? You're in his class, right?"
I turned away.
"He didn't go around threat'en people, if that's what ya think. He had that one dull scalpel, and it wasn't working. He used the switch instead."
"Gee, he actually used it?"
"He's a Greaser; what'd you expect?"
I tuned them out there, a scowl set neatly on my face.
When we left the salon, I was in a pretty sour mood. Bidding them a curt goodbye, I began to walk home, leaving three flustered "Friends" behind.
When word got out that Bob Sheldon was dead, I was shell shocked. The knot that was still sitting there in my stomach became an all-out boulder.
I could hardly believe it. But there he was in black and white newsprint. Ponyboy Curtis. He was still as handsome as ever, the press had used his school photo.
But it couldn't be right. Ponyboy couldn't have killed Bob.
That would make him a hood. And Ponyboy Curtis was not a hood.
He was a kid. A kid like my little brother, who'd just hit his thirteenth birthday.
He never cheated.
He didn't bad mouth people for the heck of it.
Above all, he wasn't any murderer.
When Ponyboy came back to school, he wasn't the same guy anymore.
He fell asleep in class more than once.
His hair was bleached and poorly cut.
He got every problem wrong.
This was nothing like the kid who had so subtly changed my life. This was not Ponyboy Curtis.
Okay! Awesome. I finished. Review, it will give you inner peace.