Chapter One
I could hear them behind me, the soles of their expensive sneakers pounding the scarred cement of the sidewalk in an excited tattoo. I was running as fast as I could, not bothering to pace myself; either they'd catch me, or they wouldn't. I figured my only chance was to get to the gas station two blocks away, hoping I could find safety in numbers.
A primal wave of fear had washed through me when they'd charged at me. It had transformed me into prey and had me spinning and running full tilt before I'd even processed the threat. Now the panicked thoughts burst through my mind- What would they do to me? Beat me? Rape me? I wasn't sure of anything except the fact that if these two high-society boys were chasing one 'white trash' girl down a deserted sidewalk, it wasn't to carry her books. They had tried to herd me towards a group of dilapidated old abandoned buildings, but I wasn't eager to oblige.
It was beyond disturbing that I knew these boys; I had three classes with both of them. Ernest Munchetti and Brock Sandingham were Socs- socialites- from the respectable and wealthy South side of town. They came from money, looked like movie stars, and were both on the cross country team at the only high school in our town.
They had hardly ever even acknowledged my existence before today. During the study hall I shared with them, I had dropped my Biology book at the back of the crowded classroom. As I bent down to retrieve it, Ernie had whistled appreciatively while Brock laughed and punched him on the arm. I had straightened jerkily and plopped into my seat, glaring at my desk and trying to hide my furious blushing behind my auburn hair. I should have appreciated my social invisibility while I had it.
The pounding feet behind me were getting closer, but so was the gas station. I could see two uniformed attendants servicing an ancient El Camino at the first pump. There were several other boys, some leaning against the car, and I could hear them laughing and razzing on each other over the pounding of blood in my head.
I squinted against the wind that whipped into my eyes, trying to see past my tears; the last thing I needed was to escape the frying pan only to jump in the fire. The boys looked safe, familiar- they all wore their hair longer than the kids from the South side, and there wasn't a single brand name thread among them. Since we were now on the North side of town, I thought it was a pretty safe bet that they lived here.
I bit back a shriek as I felt fingers brush the back of my cotton t-shirt, trying to find purchase. Distracted from the rhythm of my canvas high-tops slapping against the sidewalk, I stumbled and crashed to the ground, not quite catching myself on my palms.
There wasn't time to take inventory beyond the sharp stinging that emenated from my hands and knees. One of the boys that were chasing me- probably Ernie, the heavier one- skidded to a stop beside me and lost his balance. He landed on top of me, his wildly thrown elbow bouncing my head off the sidewalk and his weight knocking the wind out of me.
My vision was blurred and I was gasping violently, trying to force air into my bruised lungs. A thunder of footsteps vibrated through the ground, straight to my skull, followed with angry shouting and the metallic shick of switchblades being sprung. Two pairs of bony hands were suddenly gripping me under my arms, hauling me to my feet and pulling me backwards to the brick side of the building I had crashed in front of.
Sliding down the wall I was propped against, I could feel the corners of the old bricks digging into my back and snagging on my shirt. I sat huddled in the sparse grass with my arms wrapped around my chest and my knees drawn up to my chin. My breath was coming easier and I distantly noticed that the knees of my jeans were shredded and soaked in blood.
Two of the boys from the gas station stood in front of me, legs braced and fists up, intently tracking the scuffle on the sidewalk. They were about the same height, and both were slim and wiry, but the one on the left showed more of the gawkiness of early adolescence. I recognized the back of his head form school- I spent about 50 minutes a day looking at it in History class. His name was Ponyboy Curtis, and although he was only 14, he took classes with sophomores, having skipped a grade in junior high.
The boy on the right was totally unfamiliar to me. His hair was inky black and uneven, his complexion russet, maybe Native American. I could see a nervous tension in him that held his body tight, and he was twitchy like a beaten dog. He had two fingers in the back pocket of his grubby jeans and I could seem the telltale gleam of a blade peeking out.
On the sidewalk, one of the station attendants had Brock in a headlock, grimly holding on as a brown-haired boy in a Mickey Mouse shirt slammed fist after fist into the jock's vulnerable midsection. He pulled the last punch and chuckling, patted Brock on the cheek and nodded to his accomplice, grinning. The other guy let go, and Brock dropped to his hands and knees and started vomiting.
The other fight had moved out to the middle of the street, where the other uniformed boy had backed off in deference to a taller young man in a worn, brown bomber jacket. His back was to me, but I took in the shape of his body- he had broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips, and I could see his thigh muscles working underneath his jeans. His hair was a dark chocolate brown and curled slightly where it brushed his ears and the nape of his neck. I also noticed his scuffed, mud splattered boots, because he'd just kicked Ernie in the face.
Brock scuttled over to Ernie and was hauling him to his feet, half dragging him back the way they had come, while my saviours hooted and howled, throwing rocks after them. As the socs disappeared around the corner, all eyes turned to me.