Disclaimer: We, taylorjeanjn and whatcoloristhesky, do not own The Outsiders or any other references you might notice.

When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had two things on my mind: Elvis Presley and dancing. I want to be like Elvis. He's my hero up on the screen, and I like his movements. The way he thrusts his pelvis from side to side, making the ladies swoon. I keep trying to get the move down, but it doesn't seem right. Dally has it though. He's one tuff dancer, let me tell you.

I had a long walk home and no company, and if there was one thing that Dallas always threatened to beat into my head, it was to practice when I had nothing better to do. Well, the movie was over, and I didn't have anything better to do, so I decided to sway my hips as I walked, turning my knees in like Elvis does.

I decided that I should tone it down though when some Socs drove by and shouted "Greaser!" at me. See, the Socs are classically trained dancers because they can afford it. Us greasers are just as good as them, but we usually can't afford the classes that the Socs can. They wear their tights and we wear our jeans. They have technique and we have soul. I'm not saying Socs or greasers are better; that's just the way things are.

Before I knew it, a red Corvair pulled up beside me and five Socs got out; I couldn't help but notice how gracefully they did it. Automatically, I stood up straight, my feet jutting out into first position. I wondered if I could get away unscathed by acting like a real, trained dancer. I could only hope, though.

"Hey, grease," one Soc said in a rough voice. "We're gonna show you what happens when you soil the name of dance—pointing your toes like that." He nudged my feet, causing me to nearly topple over and lose my swan-like form. The only thing that saved me was Dally's voice, echoing through my head: C'mon, kid, you gotta be the swan. It was as if it was just yesterday that he was teaching me the basic steps of ballet.

I froze, standing silently as the Socs cussed me out, mocking me. There aren't a lot of options when you know you're either about to be mugged or out-danced. I only moved when I heard another Soc's voice behind me. "Need a dance lesson, greaser?" I turned in time to see the speaker reach into his back pocket and pull out a pair of bright pink ballet shoes with a flourish.

I pushed my shoulders back and lifted my chin—the way a true dancer holds himself—and told him, "No." I backed up, toe-ball-heel with my feet turned out. My form was just as good as theirs was, but did they care? No.

The Soc with the ballet shoes took a flying leap towards me. "No one sickles their foot and gets away with it!" They twirled me around, but I didn't get the chance to find my center and ended up falling to the ground, ungracefully.

I started screaming for help. Five Socs against one kid greaser was not a fair dance-off. "Darry! Soda! Help!"

Someone shoved the ballet shoes in my mouth, and I nearly gagged. Whosever these were needed to wash their feet more often. "Shut up, kid, shut up!"

Suddenly, they were running and the gang was doing flying leaps over me to get at them. I didn't do well when I wasn't prepared. Dally did. He could find his center and do a perfect pirouette from any position. He was even better than Darry, who actually used to take lessons with the Socs when he was in high school.

The Socs drove off in their Corvair, leaving one lone Soc behind, still dancing. Dally stepped towards him menacingly and I guess that he'd had enough dancing for the day because, as soon as the Soc was within his reach, he simply gave him a rough shove. The Soc fell over, jumped back up, and then sashayed away, crying.

I spit the ballet shoes out of my mouth, shaking. Darry came into my line of vision and took a hold of my arm, helping me up. He twirled me around a few times, looking me over. I told him to stop; he was making me dizzy.

"I'm sorry," he said. He wasn't, really. Darry's only been sorry once before in his life. That happened when, a year or two ago, he and Soda had been practicing lifts in our living room. But just as Darry had lifted Soda up above his head, he'd gotten a cramp in his arm. He'd felt real bad when Soda's face had been introduced to the carpet like that.

Soda appeared at my side, inspecting me. Finally, his eyes rested on the nasty ballet shoes that were still on the ground. He nodded towards them. "They pull those shoes on you?"

"Yeah." I looked away, ashamed. "I didn't point my toes right."

Darry looked at me incredulously. "You don't ever think."

"Hey," Soda snapped, grinning at Darry but being serious at the same time. I still don't know how he manages to do that—be serious and reckless at the same time. "Leave my kid brother alone. No one puts Pony in a corner."

Darry gave him a look before cracking a grin. Soda's the only one who can get him to smile anymore. It's no wonder Darry likes to dance with Soda more than he does with me. "You're nuts, Soda."

Soda raised an eyebrow, still grinning as he leant over and ruffled my hair. "Must run in the family."

The gang decided to come over then—four lean, hard guys that were real tuff dancers.

The first to mosey on over to us was Steve Randle. A few years ago, we all got together and decided that Steve's just too boring of a name, so we decided to brainstorm some stage names for him. He said no to everything that we threw out there, so now he's stuck with "Scary Steve" for a name. He is kinda scary though; he gets this real intense look on his face whenever he starts dancing. It's the kind of look that makes you think that, if you forget the moves, he'll come kick you in the shins. Still, lifts are Steve's specialty. He can just pick you up, anytime, anywhere, and suddenly you're in the perfect lift position. And if not, "Scary Steve" comes back out and makes you get it right.

Following him, Two-Bit Mathews came along. Two-Bit's a stage name, too. His real name's Keith, but almost nobody remembers that now. One day, just before we renamed him, Two-Bit came into the house really mad because "no one in the dance world took him seriously with a name like Keith." We tried telling him that no one took him seriously because he just couldn't shut up, but he still wouldn't stop talking. Eventually, we came up with a nickname decent enough for him and he's been a real happy guy since. Two-Bit's a pretty tuff dancer, and he's our secret weapon, too. Whenever we're in trouble, we just have him stand next to our opponent and talk their ear off. We figured out that they'll give up some time or another just to get away from him.

If I had to pick the real character of the gang though, it'd be Dallas Winston. Dally's the angriest and scariest of all of us. Even a double pirouette can't calm him down sometimes, and that's really saying something. For example, there was one time where a guy went up to him and suggested that, under a stage name, he should call himself Roxy. The guy ended up losing three teeth.

He spent three years in a show on Broadway in New York; the line that separates the professionals and us normal dancers isn't present in Dally. He hates the Socs because they have the "artistic freedom" that, without money, he was never able to get. At age ten, Dal starred in a show over a course of three months, playing a lynx. He was a child star, but could never get past that "lynx-boy" image. He hates the world now.

Johnny Cade was last and least. If you can picture a little dark puppy that has been kicked too many times and is lost in a crowd of strangers, you'll have Johnny. He was the youngest, next to me, smaller than the rest, with a slight build. We'd started out as partners—he and I are constantly playing catch-up to the others in some respects. We aren't nearly as strong or experienced as them, and Johnny's constantly getting smacked around by his father for letting his hair get in his eyes when he dances. He has this nervous, suspicious look to his eyes, like he isn't a good enough dancer to hang around with us. I blame the Socs for that.

Steve lit up a cigarette. "What're you doin', dancin' home by your lonesome?" he asked, flicking his ashes at me.

I stared at the hole in my tennis shoe. "I was at the movies, and I was tryin' to copy Elvis' dancing."

I knew Steve was just about to say somethin' smart back, about never dancing without a partner when you're trying to learn something new, but Dally spoke up before he could. "Speakin' of movies. I'm thinkin' of walkin' over to the Nightly Double tomorrow night. I heard there was a new musical out. Thought I'd check it out and see if there were any new moves. Anyone wanna come?"

Steve shook his head. "Me and Soda are pickin' up Evie and Sandy for a dance."

He didn't need to look at me the way he did then. I wasn't going to ask if I could come; I knew what kind of dance he meant. It was the kind of dance that all the greasers went to, and none of the Socs. Soda had explained it to me once. Socs had dances that were "home to the family foxtrot," and greasers had "dirty" dances.

Darry sighed, just like I knew he would. Darry never had time to dance much anymore. "I'm working tomorrow night."

Dally looked at the rest of us. "How about ya'll? Two-Bit? Johnnycake, you and Pony wanta come?"

"Me and Johnny'll come," I said. "Okay, Darry?"

"Yeah, since it ain't a school night." Darry was real good about letting me go off and dance with the guys on the weekends. On school nights, it was all practice and homework.

"I was plannin' on getting boozed up tomorrow night," Two-Bit said. "If I don't, I'll walk over and find ya'll."

Steve was looking at Dally's hand real intense-like. Dally's ring, which he out-danced a senior to get, was back on his finger. "You break up with Sylvia again?" I knew what Steve was thinking. Sylvia was Dallas' dance partner and they were always breaking up. Somehow he always got her back when he needed her, though.

"Yeah, and this time it's for good. That little broad was out dancin' with some other guy the other night."

If it were anybody but Dally, I would have been worried. You needed a dance partner in this part of town, just like you needed a gang for a dance-off.

A/N: Muffin basket and greaser of your choice to whomever can find the most references!

Reviews are much appreciated, and look out for the next chapter!