The 1960s were eventful years. The most eventful years of my life, I'd say. And it's fairly ironic, because those were the years that were completely out of my control; the years before I ever really chose how I wanted to live my life. And looking back, I wouldn't change a thing.

1960 started like any other decade as far as I could tell. I was ten, and would be turning eleven towards the end of the year. I was a sheltered child, curious by nature and a Soc by birth. I had never known anything different. I had looked the part. My hair was always groomed perfectly; trimmed every two months since before I could remember. It was brown, and naturally straight. It fell down to about the middle of my back, something I resented growing up. I had always wanted it shorter, therefore all scissors were hidden from me. It wasn't until I was thirteen years old that I started to like my long hair. I was the only girl of three children. I was also the youngest. I was as spoiled as you can imagine. Brand new skirts every time I turned around, shiny saddle shoes every year, innumerable shiny barrettes, you name it. My father was the best lawyer in Tulsa, and my mother was the highest paid nurse in the county. I wasn't too proud of everything being handed to me on a silver platter, but was unaware at the time that I was able to reject it.

1962 was the year where I started to realize things. The pivotal years, you might say. As a kid in elementary school, I guess you don't really see the social stereotypes. Everyone sort of looks the same to you. That changes in middle school. On my first day of seventh grade, I had walked with my best friend, Emily, to home room. I was wearing my favorite red skirt, white collared blouse, and lace socks with my shoes. It was the first year that I could dress casually to school on the first day; something I had insisted on. I had sat in the middle of the classroom, to not seem too eager. I had started to look at the other kids as they poured in, and noticed how there seemed to be two different kinds of outfits occurring. One group of kids dressed like me: skirts and blouses with pinned back hair, and madras shirts with tan pants and short hair. Then there was another group of kids, an unfamiliar group. They wore jeans, leather jackets, and t-shirts. The boys and the girls. The only differences in the wardrobes was the hair. The boys' was heavily greased, and swirled in intricate loops. The girls' was curled and teased and huge. The definitive difference between the groups bothered me all day. People I had talked to the year before would not even look at me. And people who I didn't talk to last year treated me like an old friend. I learned that we were all part of two groups that didn't get along well: greasers and Socs.

I had gone home that day and asked my mom which one I was. A greaser, or a Soc. I asked her what each one meant, and what each group was entitled to. She explained it in a way that left me confused. She had said that there were poor kids in Tulsa, just as there were rich kids. I didn't like the harsh labels, and was confused on why they had to dress a certain way. She made it clear to me that that was what they used to prove themselves. Greasers represented themselves poorly, and Socs represented themselves richly. She also said that I should be fortunate to be a Soc, and that I had a reputation to uphold. I mustn't associate with greasers, and shouldn't try to make friends with them. I strongly disagreed with what she said, but I didn't disobey it. It became my foundation of thought.

As the years went on, I started to believe what my mother told me. I fit perfectly into that Soc stereotype, I found. The space between the two groups grew as I got older, as did the tension. I was hardly surprised to walk down the hallways to find a greaser with his eye blackened, and hardly ever surprised to learn that someone I was friends with had done it. I was insensitive, rude, and hostile towards everyone. I knew somewhere in my mind that I did not have any power to look down on people, and that I was no better than any kid in that school. We were all just teenagers. Sure, we could slap names on people and treat some kids better than others, but we weren't.

My story starts on a warm Friday night in May, 1965. I was fifteen, turning sixteen in about three months. I had been doing my homework when my father had asked me to run down with him to get an oil change on his car. I had asked why, as I never was invited to go with him to get an oil change, but did not receive an explanation. However, I obediently complied. Something that I knew about my dad was that he did not like to go down to the gas stations on the Soc side of the town. He said that the kids there didn't know a car from a cement wall. No, he preferred to go the local DX, on the side of town where I was never allowed to go. I never asked why, but couldn't help but admit that I was a little curious about what it was like down there. I wondered if it was the polar opposite version of our side of Tulsa that I imagined it to be.

Once we got into the car, I had confronted my father with the question again.

"Why exactly did you invite me with you to go to the DX?"

He smiled at me, and laughed a little. "Because, honey. I am afraid that you need a bit of a reality check."

I raised my eyebrow slightly. I had known that my father did not grow up as a Soc like my mother had. He had been a greaser. It wasn't something we mentioned at all. It wasn't really relevant. It wasn't even something I learned until last year.

"A reality check?" I asked, genuinely confused. I was guessing that he could hear the obliviousness that lingered in my voice.

"Yes, a reality check. I know the life you live. And I'm glad that you and your brothers are able to live it. But one thing that your mother and I agreed upon long ago was that we wouldn't bring you up like the snobs that used to pick on me when I was a kid. Yet, here you are, doing exactly that."

I was upset by the accusation. In my mind, there was always an alarming voice that told me that the way I acted was wrong, but there was nobody that ever said it to me. I was also conflicted. Wasn't it my mother who had taught me that lesson?

I had thrown the thought around in my head for a long time. Just when I was about to ask it, the car came to a stop. We were inside of a small garage with tools all over.

"Ready?" My father asked. I nodded.

We had gotten out, and walked into the small adjoining store connected to the garage. It smelt like hair pomade and gasoline, but it didn't bother me. The mess of it all was comforting. A teenager appeared out of nowhere and began working on it without a word. He seemed a little hostile, possibly towards the fact that I had on a light, white sweater and a navy blue skirt, which wasn't typical greaser apparel. He scoffed, and turned away from me. A boy was standing behind the counter, and looked up when he heard the small bells above the door ring.

The feeling in my heart when I saw him for the first time will never leave me. Of course, he was gorgeous. He had long, silky hair that didn't look like it had the same amount of grease as other greasers use. It was the color of hazelnuts and honey; the most beautiful hair color that I'd ever seen. His eyes were something entirely different. Usually brown eyes are bland to me - especially mine - and I don't find any particular interest in them. But his eyes were much more unique. Not that they were physically different from any other brown eyes, because they were very much the usual color, but because they held life and energy in them that you don't usually see in a person's eyes. They were like a freshly opened book.

"Mr. Calvin!" A fresh voice boomed with energy. It was like a choir. Like the most beautiful noise you've ever heard in your life magnified times a million.

"Sodapop!" My father shouted back. He firmly shook his hand, and patted his back. He studied his face for a second, then smiled. "Long time, no see. How have you been, kid?"

Sodapop wiped his hands on a dirty rag that was slung over his shoulder. "Good. Real good. How are you doing?"

"Fine. Feeling old, but fine," he said, chuckling.

"Always good to hear," he answered with a crazy grin that sent my heart fluttering.

My father suddenly got very serious, and leaned into Sodapop so that I was out of earshot. It shocked me, because I hadn't even known that my presence had been acknowledged. "How are you really, Soda? Don't lie to me, son. It's natural to be upset after losing someone," he said in an authorative voice. It was no secret that Sodapop's parents were killed a few months ago. My dad had gone to the funeral; he had mentioned that one of them had taken it particularly hard.

Soda licked his lips nervously and rubbed the back of his head. His happy demeanor faded away for a second, but showed itself once again. "Really. We're doin' fine. Darry has two jobs and-"

"Darry? Twenty year old Darry?" My father asked, astonished.

Sodapop nodded and smiled. "You bet. He's a good guardian. Takes real good care of Pony and me. We're doin' okay."

"I'm glad. If you ever need any help-"

Soda raised his hand up. "There's no need, Mr. Calvin. We'd appreciate it if you'd drop in once in a while, though. I know that's what Dad would have wanted. Y'all were best buds."

My dad smiled sincerely. "Say no more. You can expect to see me a lot more from now on."

Sodapop seemed glad. "So what are you here for?" For the first time since we arrived, he noticed me there. He smiled a friendly smile, and I shyly turned away.

"Just an oil change. It's been awhile."

Suddenly, the boy from before was in the doorway. He scoffed again. "It's been more than 'a while'. How exactly old is your car?" He asked.

My father rubbed his forehead and tried to think. "Eighteen years?" He said. He started to count the years in the air with his finger.

"That explains it. You're gonna have to come back here for a 'sec. The whole engine may need fixin' and..." he trailed off as my dad followed him into the garage. That just left me and Sodapop in the store together.

Sodapop started to straighten up the candy on the shelves and turned to me quickly. "Hey there," he said, and wiped his palm on his pant leg before extending it towards me. I took his hand and shook it. It was warm and friendly, just like him. And it was totally lost on me that a kid this well put together and charming could be a greaser.

"Hello," I said. My cheeks and ears were burning, and I hoped that the dull lighting hid it. It was pretty warm outside, and the door was open just enough to allow the warm breeze to fill the store. There were plenty of stars outside. It was beautiful out.

"I'm Sodapop Curtis."

"Avery Calvin."

He slid on the counter and stopped just before the front display of small candy that was near the cash register. "Avery? I've never heard that name before." He smiled.

"And I suppose that you know many kids with your name?" I asked a little too curtly. I changed my tone. "I like having a unique name. It's my mother's maiden name."

"Well, it's a beautiful name."

I couldn't help but laugh with embarrassment at the compliment. "Where does Sodapop come from, anyway?"

He shrugged. "Nowhere but my dad's imagination."

"Well, I like it." If I didn't know any better, I thought that he may have blushed. I was sure that it was my imagination.

He hopped off of the counter and walked over to the cooler. "Can I get you anything to drink? I have a feeling you might be here a while."

I looked over my shoulder and saw my dad and the boy talking. I could see the confused look on my father's face from the dim light of the lightbulb overhead.

"Sure, but I need to go get some money from my-"

"Don't worry about it. It's on me."

"It's alright. I'm not that thirsty," I said, not too fond of taking soda from strangers.

"It's no problem. Just take it," He said. He smiled warmly, and I accepted the offer.

"That's awful nice of you."

"Don't mention it," he said, handing me a Pepsi. He hopped back on the counter and patted the spot next to him.

I hesitated for a second. It sure wasn't lady-like to jump on a counter with a hood. But Sodapop wasn't a hood. He wasn't a hood by any means. And there wasn't anyone around to witness it, anyway. What did I have to lose?

Once I was seated on the countertop, Soda turned to me. "How old are you, Avery?"

"Fifteen, but I'll be sixteen in a few months."

He nodded, almost knowingly.

"How about yourself?" I asked confidently.

"Sixteen, almost seventeen."

"Really? I don't see you around school much."

He laughed whole-heartedly. "I'm not in school much. I dropped out a few months ago."

I touched my heart. "Oh my goodness, I didn't mean to-"

"Don't worry about it. No hurt feelings."

I laughed nervously, eager to find a subject to change to.

"Your father is a really good guy, you know," Sodapop said.

I smiled. "Yeah, he's the best. How do you know him, anyhow?"

He looked at me for a second, as if I would know. "He was my dad's best friend. You really don't remember my brothers and I from when you were little?"

I gasped. "Oh, no. You are not the little boy that I used to pin down and put my mother's make up on, were you?"

He laughed. "Yup, that was me."

I started laughing along with him, until we were both laughing uncontrollably.

"I used to love coming over your house. What ever happened?" I asked. I had only been about four or five years old when I faintly remembered that we stopped going over there.

He shook his head. "I'm not sure. Our families were pretty close. I guess things change. And then-" He stopped abruptly.

I studied his face. He looked sad. I didn't want to press the subject, so I moved on.

"Your brothers? How are they?" I asked. He was happy once again.

"They're good. Ponyboy is almost fourteen, and Darry is twenty."

I covered my eyes. "Now I remember when we used to put Ponyboy in my baby carriage with a bonnet on and drag him around the front yard." I started laughing again.

Sodapop started laughing with me. His laughter sounded perfect. I faintly acknowledged how easy it was to talk to a person that everyone claimed to be so different from who I was.

Just then, my father walked in with a phone receiver pressed tightly to his ear.

"Avery, I'm afraid that I'm going to be here all night. I can bring you home quickly if you'd like, or you can just stay here with me."

"Well, I had plans to go to the drive-in with Emily-" I started.

"I could bring you. My shift ends in ten, but Steve's doesn't end for another two and a half hours," Sodapop offered.

I looked at the clock, realizing that I was about an hour late. "I was supposed to meet her an hour ago. She probably made other plans. You can just head home if you'd like. I can stay here with my dad." I jumped off of the counter. My feet were numb from hanging over the edge of it, but I made my way to the garage.

My dad looked from Sodapop to me. "Or how about you just go over Sodapop's house? Catch up with old friends. I might be here for at least two more hours. You'll get bored."

I looked to Soda. "I can't just intrude. You probably have plans-"

He stood there, confident but slightly uncomfortable. Or maybe it was just me imagining that he wasn't as okay with it as I was. "No, I don't."

"Then it's decided. I can swing around and pick you up on the way home. I'll stop in and visit with the boys for a while, too. It works out perfectly."

I stood there for a moment, processing what exactly what was going on. Was I really being invited over to the most handsome boy I've ever seen's house? Was it possible that he was also a greaser, who my mother taught me to not associate with by any means necessary? I processed these things, but they all fell short to capture my attention.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Avery, are you ready?" Sodapop asked. I noticed that he stood almost five inches above me. He smelt like the comforting scent that welcomed me when I walked into the garage. It was captivating.

I nodded my head. "Yes."

Okay, if you have read all the way to the end of this, then you deserve to read this little note.
Thank you! So much. It means a lot that someone actually opened up this little story and read it.
 This is my first ever fanfiction. And as cliché as it is, tell me if you like it. Don't get too comfortable with the happy plot, though. It isn't going to stay that way...