Disclaimer: Dally is S.E. Hinton's, and the basic idea is S.E. Hinton's, but Mason is mine (although his name is also S.E. Hinton's--I got it from Tex).
A/N: This is what I think could've happened the first time Dally was in jail, at the age of ten. It's from his cellmate's POV.
I'd been in the cooler for several months already when I met the kid. I don't know exactly how long, 'cause it was real boring, with each day dragging on and on. I didn't know how long I'd have left, either, but I figured I'd get out early for "good behavior"—that's what they call it when you just sit and brood instead of scream obscenities at passing policemen, like some loonies do.
It was late afternoon when I heard two sets of footsteps. One was heavy, the other much lighter and real quiet.
"Hey, Harry, lookit what I've got here!" called a man's voice. It was one of the guards--the lower policemen who get stuck watching us hoods.
"What've you got, Joe?" Harry called back. I heard another set of footsteps from the opposite direction, and all three people stopped outside the door to my cell.
"I've got a kid." Joe sounded amused. "Where do you think we ought to put this one?"
"Don't want him to get hurt, but we're pretty full," Harry replied. "Let's stick him with ol' Mason."
Ol' Mason. That was me, though in my opinion, seventeen ain't all that old. They were right about a kid being safe with me, though. I'm a greaser, a hood, but I ain't gonna hurt some kid for no reason at all.
The door opened, and I saw two men and a boy standing there. The kid looked younger than I'd expected.
"Hey, Mason, we gotta cellmate for ya," Joe said, giving the kid a little nudge. The kid stepped forward, into the cell, and the door slammed behind him. I heard Joe and Harry walk off.
The kid stood awkwardly by the door, watching me warily. He was skinny as a stick, with dirty, tangled, straw-blond hair that reached to his shoulders. He was younger than any JD I'd ever seen, but I could tell that life on the East side was hardening him. I saw it in his eyes, which were like chips of cold, pale blue ice. Still, there was a flicker of fear in them when he looked at me, but he hid it real well.
After eyeing me for a minute, the kid went and sat down in a corner, the farthest he could get from me. Like all greasers, I look real tough. The kid looked tough too, though, despite the fact that he couldn't have been more than twelve.
"Hey, kid, how old are you?" I asked.
The kid was leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out and his arms crossed over his torn white T-shirt. He gave me a real dirty look, then went back to staring at the floor.
"I ain't a kid," he finally muttered. "I'm fourteen."
I just stared at him, narrowing my eyes. I can look real mean when I want to, and right then I wanted to. I wanted to find out how old this kid really was.
I saw that flicker of fear in his eyes again when he saw how I was looking at him, and he said, "Fine. I'm ten. Whatcha starin' like that for?"
I really was staring at him. The kid was ten years old, and already in jail. I'd never even been close to being jailed when I was ten. This kid really was tough.
"What'd you do to get stuck in the cooler, then?" I asked. I really wanted to know how a ten-year-old would go about getting jailed.
"Tried to lift a Socy girl's purse at the movies and got caught at it." He sounded so casual, like this was something that happened often.
I was still staring at him. "You know, kid, you're either really brave, really desperate, or really stupid," I told him.
"Ain't we all." He grinned, but not happily. His smile was bitter. "But I told you, I ain't a kid. My name's Dallas, so call me that or just shut up. Your name's Mason, ain't it? So what're you in for?"
Man, this kid had guts. You never talk to some hood you meet in jail like that, especially if he's bigger than you. But if Dallas was still scared of me, I sure couldn't tell.
"Yeah, I'm Mason," I said. "I'm in for shoplifting. Mostly I'm good at it, but then I tried to lift a gun and that didn't go over too well with the fuzz."
I really was good at it. When you grow up on the East side like I did, you have talents like that. I just got unlucky one time and ended up here.
We didn't talk to each other after that. Dallas was silent, brooding or planning or just plain sitting, and I did the same thing.
Even though I was seven years older, I kind of admired Dallas. He hid what he was feeling real well, and he seemed tough. Not bad for a kid his age.
But that night, as I was about to fall asleep, I heard a noise from the other cot that had been added to the cell. It was Dallas, and he was crying.
"Hey, Dallas, what's wrong?" I whispered, walking over and kneeling by his cot.
"Nothing," Dallas snapped at me fiercely, sitting up. "And I'm n-not…" His voice quavered, threatening to break. He took a shuddering breath. "I'm not crying."
"Yes, you are," I said. "Now tell me why."
He didn't answer right away. All the other hoods were asleep, so there was silence, except for Dallas's ragged breathing as he fought to stop crying and get control of himself.
"I…I dunno," he answered finally. "But we get all the tough breaks. We don't even get a chance 'cause we're greasers. Life's so hard…"
I knew exactly what Dallas meant, and I'd felt that way too, when I was younger. But I didn't anymore, because I couldn't.
"Here's some advice, Dallas," I told him, "and you better listen good. Get smart, kid. Look out for yourself, only yourself, and nothing can touch you. You hear? Get tough."
I don't know why, but I felt a tiny pang of regret then. Looking into Dallas's eyes, I saw something forming. It was hatred, hatred of the whole world, of everything and everybody.
"Get tough," I repeated, to cover up my sudden uncertainty.
"I will," said Dallas. Even in the darkness, I could see how his eyes were blazing, and there was no doubt in my mind that he would.