Welcome to my first story in over a year, and the first one in seven years on this account. It feels good to be back writing, especially in the world of our favorite Greasers.
The Outsiders and all characters belong solely to S.E. Hinton.
My life changed the day I fell off the back of a red pickup truck.
Nobody is driving or anything, it's parked in the sparse gravel and dirt mixture that substitutes our driveway. The bed is filled with boxes, big and small, full of kitchen appliances, dishes, and books. All of us moved our clothes and furniture in a few days ago, but Nancy just got back from the last trip to Nevada, and while I'm mad that I—not the youngest, but definitely the smallest—am forced to carry almost everything in, I'm grateful that we had saved up enough to make two trips so that we didn't have to give up more than we already had.
I had already moved two boxes of books—both mine—so I guess I can't complain. And I go to lift another before realizing too late that the box is mislabeled. Instead of books, this one is filled with glasses for the kitchen, but I have already heaved it up with all my might. This sends me flying backwards, off the bed of the truck and onto the ground below. The box flies out of my grasp, landing next to my head with a noise loud enough to raise the dead.
Yeah.
Those glasses are all broken.
I'm content to just lay there, waiting for Nancy to burst out of the house to scream at me. Instead, what I hear is laughter. Not from the house, but to my right. And, I guess that's technically when I first meet him.
On the sidewalk several feet away is a boy, maybe near my age, but possibly a little older, and way too amused for the occasion. I can feel the white-hot flash of embarrassment race up my spine, because I just tumbled head over foot off a truck, and this stupid boy had seen the whole thing. And he is cute. Really cute.
His jeans are old and faded, with a tear on one knee, and his t-shirt is well-worn too. It's thin in the way that says it's several years old, most likely washed dozens of times, making the fabric thin and soft. His jacket looks new though, or at least well taken care of. The leather is a deep black, and so shiny that you can tell it's regularly maintained. I don't know this boy, but I know he's proud of that jacket. It looks good on him. It somehow highlights his hair, a lion's mane of wild dark curls. I can't see his eyes from here, but his stupid laugh is enough to tell me he means trouble.
"You okay there, baby?" he asks me, approaching my place on the ground. His voice is thick with a twang I would expect from somewhere deep in Texas, not here in Oklahoma.
I swear it's a reflex from warding off the boys back at home, but I raise one hand and flip him off. He just laughs again, almost doubling over from the force of it. The situation is not funny enough to warrant a response like that, but whatever.
"Hey, now," he says, leaning on the bed of the truck, "tha's not very nice."
He tilts his head to the side, examining.
"Nice legs," the grin that spreads across his ridiculously pretty face is filthy.
I scurry to sit up and pull my skirt down from where it had flown up around my thighs. My head smarts, and my back does too from where I landed on it. Without prompting, this guy grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet. I let out a sound like a cat that just got its tail stepped on.
Up close, holding my hand, he looks even prettier—so pretty that it's stupid. His eyes are a deep blue, like the ocean on a stormy day, and his grin is a little crooked; his teeth white and slightly turned towards one another. There's a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and on the tops of his hands, and there's a soft dimple on his left cheek.
Wow.
Seriously, wow.
"Now, who left you to move all these boxes all by your lonesome?"
I yank my hand back, partly because I don't know him, and partly because he's making me nervous and my hands are getting sweaty.
"I'm capable," I say. It's all I can think to say. Sure, something about him makes me want to spill my life story, that my family just moved here from Reno, and my sister is inside nursing a beer because she had to leave behind the man she thought she would marry. But, I don't know him. If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that pretty people can make you do stupid things, and I don't want to do stupid things. Not here, not when we're getting a fresh start.
Pretty Boy chuckles.
"I can see that. Heard all that glass break from a mile away."
"Shut up, you did not."
He turns so that he's leaning his back against the truck and starts digging through the pockets of his leather jacket. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one with one of those fancy flip lighters. He holds the pack out to me to offer me one. I want to say yes. God, I want to say yes. I started smoking when I was 13, and I'm three months into quitting. I have dreams about smoking. I daydream about smoking. Every time I see someone smoking I want to slap the cigarette out of their mouth and smoke it for myself.
"No thanks, I'm trying to quit," I say.
"Why for?"
"Got a cough from smoking too much."
He shrugs and puts the pack back in his pocket.
"Suit yerself."
I'm starting to think I've been single for too long, because the cigarette poised between his fingers, the smoke curling from lips, looks way, way too attractive.
"Wha's yer name, baby?"
"What's yours?"
"Curly Shepard," his face scrunches up into a grin again, "I'm sure yer gonna hear 'bout me."
Curly. What a stupid name. And yeah, sure, maybe I'm lying to myself, maybe it's a cute name and it fits him like a fine pair of shoes, but still, what a stupid name.
"Why's that?"
"Well, yer in Shepard territory, baby."
"I have no idea what that even means," I deadpan.
"Yer on the East side. Far on the East side. The Shepard gang runs this place. Farther out, ya get the Brumly Boys," he reaches a hand out and prods at the hair hanging in my face. I'm tempted to slap his hand away. "Yer surrounded by hoods, baby."
"Stop calling me baby."
"Then wha's yer name?"
I sigh.
"Annette. People call me Annie."
"Annie, huh? I like it. It suits you."
"So, what's on the other side of town? The West Side?"
Curly scoffs.
"Socs. Rich kids."
"Ah," I sigh with understanding. Reno has places like that too—the grand social class divide. Kids with too much money and too much time, getting way too rough just because they can.
"Annie!" Nancy kicks the door open hard enough for it to bounce back off the paneling of the outside wall. It scares me so bad, I swear my heart jumps into my throat and I instinctively put a hand to my chest like a startled damsel in a film.
"Jesus, Nancy!"
Curly chuckles.
"Shoot, runs in the fam'ly, huh?"
I don't know what he means.
Nancy and I don't look a lot alike. She's 23 to my 18 and stands a good six inches taller than me. Her hair is long and brown, and she wears it in an elegant fashion that she once saw on the cover of a magazine. Her face is delicate and fine featured like a Hollywood starlet, her body lithe and built for athletics. It's rigorously maintained, that body, because God forbid she lose her cheerleader figure. I'm a little more rough around the edges. Sure, we have the same dark hair and eyes, but the big difference is that I'm lazy. Fashion and hair are just way too much work for me. I remember being in middle school and trying to do my hair like Nancy's. That shit's hard. My arms got tired. So, I wear my hair short, and I wear my clothes plain, and my curves are soft in a way that says I spend a lot of time inside. I am not embarrassed or shy about that; I value my comfort over everything else.
"You're supposed to be bringing in boxes. Who the hell is this?" my sister demands. I feel disappointment settling deep in my gut. Nancy's probably had one drink too many.
Curly goes to answer and I interrupt him by waving my hand dismissively in front of his face, not looking at him, but at my sister.
"Nobody, just a neighbor. I'll be inside in just a minute."
Nancy retreats, muttering something, and the door swings shut behind her.
I turn back to Curly and he looks twelve different shades of offended. It's funny, and it's cute, and it makes me want to laugh. He takes one last drag on his cigarette and tosses the filter out into the street.
"Who're ya callin' nobody," he asks. "Jesus, baby, I thought we had something special."
That actually does make me laugh, and while I'm not concerned about my looks or my occasionally unladylike attitude, I find my laugh incredibly embarrassing. I have three levels of laughter: The giggle, the scream laugh, and the silent "give you abs while you cry" laugh. That comment in no way deserved a scream laugh, but somehow it got one.
"I don't even know you!" I exclaim.
Curly's grinning again, and I know my face is red because I'm humored and embarrassed, and did I mention he's very pretty?
"Ya wanna?" he asks?
"Do I want to what?"
"Know me?"
I scoff good naturedly and turn my back to him so I can pick up the box of broken glass.
"Nah, I think I'm good."
"Ya sure, baby—"
"Annie," I interrupt.
He ignores me.
"I think we'd have a real good time."
I prop the box on my hip as though I'm carrying a toddler.
"Curly Shepard, I'm scared to find out what you think a good time is."
I walk up the stairs to my house, avoiding the hole in the rotted wood of the porch. I glance over my shoulder at him.
"I'll see you around," I say as I disappear inside. I meant for it to be a dismissal. Turns out it was a promise.