"I could fall in love with Dallas Winston...I hope I never see him again, or I will"

Chapter 1

I was sitting in my bedroom, legs crossed on the floor, with my arms wrapped around me. I was shivering from the wind coming through my window and I had goosebumps all down my legs, but I couldn't move even if I wanted to. I was listening, nervous as anything, to faint noises of chaos somewhere far away outside. I wanted with all my soul to get up and close that window, but I couldn't. My eyes and ears were fixated on that window, and my imagination was providing the gory images that I knew were going on somewhere.

Outside, a fight was going on. A "rumble", that's what they call it, acting proud to be a part of the horror.

A fight between Socs and Greasers shouldn't bother a nice, pretty, West Side Soc like me this much...but that's just it. This isn't a fight between Socs and Greasers. It's a fight between people. Between my friends, for whom I have become a spy of sorts, and my neighbors, with whom I have grown up and once-upon-a-time chosen a boyfriend from among. Proud, ha!, I thought bitterly.

A shiver ran down my spine, this time unrelated to the wind blowing on me. Suddenly, my heart gave a wild jump as I heard gunshots ring out into the night air, and then I heard screams. Was I imagining it? Or was someone shouting a name? No...it couldn't be...it couldn't be him.

I finally broke out of my trance-like state. I walked shakily to the window, and pulled it closed. I dropped into bed, still fully clothed, with uncomfortable, chilly thoughts running through my head. A blond, icy-eyed boy, no, really a man. A thief, a criminal, a Greaser. Dally. Surely I was imagining the name. Surely it was just the wind, blowing through trees, transformed into that word by my mind. Surely it was just because that name had been running through my mind so often that I thought I heard it shouted into the unforgiving night.

I tried to fall asleep, but nagging thoughts kept me awake, and finally I got up. I walked out of my bedroom, left a hurried note on the table just in case my parents woke up wondering where I was, slipped into my sneakers, and walked out the door. I made sure not to let the screen door slam, but even my footsteps on the walkway outside seemed too loud and unnatural.

I don't know why I felt the need to investigate. Maybe it would have been better if I had just gone to sleep and forgotten about that boy. But something told me that I needed to go, and I listened.

----------------------------------------------------------

After walking aimlessly on numerous East Side streets, wishing I had brought my car instead, I finally realized that I had found what I had been looking for...and what I had hoped would not be there. A body, soaked in deep crimson blood, with bullet wounds that seemed impossibly gruesome. The blond hair and too-familiar face told me all I needed to know. My head reeled and I wanted to throw up, but I managed to get away at a half-walk, half-run. I went for what seemed like a long time, until my legs threatened to fall out from under me, but I was finally able to think coherently.

A split second idea formed in my head, and there was no time to be wasted. I ran up to the nearest house, and knocked on the door. I saw a light in an upstairs room turn off, and soon enough, an elderly man opened the door. I breathlessly asked to use the phone, and he nodded a gruff yes. "Yeh look like a nice enough gal, go ahead and make a call...you know I had a little girl looked just like you when she was youn'...pretty red hair and all..."

I hastily thanked the man, who was still muttering about his daughter, as well as God for letting me find a house where I would be allowed in.

I found the phone, and dialed 9-1-1 as quickly as shaking fingers would allow. The man who picked up asked what I wanted, and I managed to tell him the street and that there was someone badly hurt by bullets. I didn't tell them my name, and neither did I tell them any more than the bare minimum. After all, what else did I know? Just a name, and that was a name that was certainly too painful to utter out loud.

I made another phone call to Marcia, who I knew would be awake still. She agreed to pick me up after I made up some half- baked story about why I was out here.

When her car pulled up, I sat down in the backseat and she drove me home. I thanked her as she pulled into my neighborhood, and stumbled in the door and into the silent house. As I walked along the wooden floors, I prayed that Dallas would be all right. Even though he was a Greaser, and a criminal, and I wanted to hate him.

I told myself it was because I couldn't deal with someone else dying--It hurt enough when Bob (no, don't think about Bob) died. Sweet Bob, alcoholic Bob, Soc Bob, dead Bob. I told myself that was the only reason I cared.

I went to bed again, this time falling into a blurry, dark dream of funeral marches and flashing lights.