Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.
You don't want to be here. You really don't want to be here. You'd rather skip out and hang with your buddies, maybe even convince your girl to get a coke with you. It's not hard. One grin from you is like seeing her bat her eyelashes — it makes you both utterly helpless to the other, and that's why she scares you sometimes. Cassandra Bell is too good to be true.
The way she tightens her sweater around her by pulling at her sleeves makes you stop and stare at her like a complete fool. You can't help it. It drives your hormones mad for some reason even though you consider yourself a class act, a genuine gentleman, because that's how your mother brought you up to be, and now that she's gone, especially now that she's gone, you feel the need to pay homage to that fact. At least for the most part. Sometimes you can't help getting a little rowdy when you're with Dallas Winston.
It's okay though because your mother loved him even with all his crassness.
You remember how she used to just sit there and talk to him, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. It made Dallas Winston look like he had your charm when he was with her. Hell, maybe he did. Sometimes you wondered, like now, what could have been different, if your mother was still able to talk to him like that.
Your buddy Ed nudges you with his elbow and raises his hand. "Excuse me, Mr. Delan? Can I please use the restroom?"
The teacher doesn't look up. He just turns a page in his book, readjusts his glasses perched on his nose, and keeps reading. "No, you may not."
"But I really need to use it." Ed starts bouncing his legs.
Your teacher still isn't fazed. "You can hold it, I'm sure. If not, feel free to find a bush." He grins a little and the class faintly erupts in giggles.
Ed stands up and winks at the girl next to him. "Well, time to find a bush then," he says and walks out.
Mr. Delan glances up as Ed walks out before telling him very loudly, "Try looking in the principal's office!"
Ed salutes, and you realize that this is your chance. You raise your hand and flash an innocent smile, hoping it will work almost as well as it does on the female teachers. "Mr. Delan, would you like me to escort him there?"
"No, Soda, I would not. Back to your assignment." He's on to you.
You hang your head and scratch the back of your neck. Shit. This stupid assignment is what was making you want to ditch in the first place. This was the stupid kid's English class. You don't understand why he thinks that taking a break from reading and analyzing or what-the-fuck-ever else will help any of you at all. Besides, since when was English class Creative Writing? You knew kids in that class; this wasn't that class.
And anyway, what use is it trying to write a letter to a younger you? What happened in the past happened, and there's no use changing it now. You're not the type who lives with regrets. You like your impulsive decisions; they make for good stories and a fun time. So why on Earth would you want to write to a younger you?
You wish you could just talk to Sandy. She'd have an idea; she always had an idea. She was always ready with an easy laugh and nice smile to make things better. You didn't even really know her before the funeral. You had been sitting on the bridge, smoking cigarette after cigarette, your feet dangling off the edge, as your forehead rested against the rail, when she passed by with a bunch of her girlfriends. One of them had said "Hey" to you, but you barely responded, and as a result heard them discuss your parents' recent deaths. The rusting metal dug hard into your skull as their conversation faded into the distance.
That's when somebody plopped down gracefully next to you and asked for a cigarette. You didn't ask her name, and you certainly didn't look at her.
"Got a light?" she had asked, placing her hand on your thigh. You tossed a pack of matches at her, finding her hand on your leg oddly comforting. "Guess the girls were wrong about you. They said you were a real hunk. I don't know about that, what with you growing a bridge out of your head."
You kind of smiled at that, but it was probably mostly because you could feel her smiling at you as she blew smoke to the side.
Her thumb brushed back and forth against the fabric of your jeans. "You know, when I was little, my mama and I would always walk across the bridge to the ice cream parlor on Baker Street. I remember when she died, I ran away here." She laughed lightly, reminiscing. "Kind of a shitty bridge don't you think?"
You pulled away from the rail and looked at her, blinking. She smiled, her eyebrows raised empathetically. She understood like no one else but your brothers did.
When she showed up to the funeral a few days later and hugged you, you didn't want to let go. No other hug felt as good as the one she gave.
It's been two months now that you've known her, and a month since you've officially been together, and you already don't know what to do with yourself. It would have been nice to introduce her to your parents instead of just your brothers and the occasional cousin you see around the city. It would be nice to just have your parents around.
You suppose you could write about changing that night, making sure they hadn't gone out, but you're a greaser, a certain Mister Sodapop Curtis, so you just write down that you'd tell yourself how great you are in the future.
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