Disclaimer-I don't own the Outsiders
Dess's POV
I woke up the morning of May 11, 1995 in my own bed, which was strange, since I had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs. I mulled over my exceptionally strange encounter with the Lord of the Hoods last night for about ten minutes and stopped abruptly when I came to the conclusion that I wanted to see him again. Not as though that could happen. First obstacle-my big brother, leader of the gang, Darryl Shayne Curtis, Jr.
Darry was the one who had wanted me to come home after Johnny died, as a way to cheer Ponyboy up. He had sent me to our Aunt who lived in Kearney, Nebraska when our parents died- a failed attempt to keep me well off the streets. I came home only a year after the incident involving Johnny's death and my exceptional dancing partner's attempt at suicide. This happened to be…yesterday.
And I was already in trouble. I sighed and stomped downstairs, realizing as I did so that I was in the clothes I had worn yesterday: a tight, low collared shirt and a pair of mid-thigh shorts. Huh, no duh Dallas had found me if I was dressed like this.
As I stepped off the last stair, my mouth dropped open in amazement. The whole gang had somehow fitted itself inside my house. Soda, my godly other big bro wove through chairs and such, some of which holding still-sleeping greasers. He tapped Pony, my only little brother, on the head sharply to wake him up. One of the gang, I don't know his name, but he had an amazing jaw line and hard brown eyes, laughed when Pony jumped.
A rusty-haired greaser with bright grey eyes said something to Pony, who grimaced. The redhead howled with laughter. And sitting on the couch with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, reading the paper while shouting something at the kitchen, was Dallas Winston. He stopped in mid shout as he saw me come down, out of the corner of his eye, even though I had been quiet as moonshine.
He nodded ever so slightly at me and resumed what he was shouting, presumably at Darry. As I crossed the living room into the kitchen, he stood and followed me. I heard somebody say something then chuckle. Dallas picked up a shoe from the floor as we walked and threw it over his shoulder.
"Ouch! Hey Dally, what was that for?"
"How many times have you been told not to be lewd when there are kids around, Two-Bit?" Dallas replied softly, but somehow his sharp voice carried. He must have had better hearing than me, because I had only heard an utterance, when he must have heard all of what Two-Bit said. I stifled a laugh and walked into the kitchen with a straight face.
Darry turned when he heard my bare feet patter on the tiles of the floor. I envied Dallas, for even with his sneakered feet, he made no sound.
"Well, look who's finally up. Guess a party this early in your homecoming was a bad idea huh?"
"Sorry Darry," I muttered, looking at the ground. Dallas had stopped a half pace behind me and now stood with his legs braced apart and his arms folded behind him. Like a prison guard, I though bitterly.
"Sorry? Did I not tell you that some people on this side of town could give you more than you asked for? Did I not tell you that you could get hurt?"
"He didn't do anything!" I exclaimed heatedly, my head snapping up. "So he danced with me, big deal! I don't see you yelling at Soda, and he was dancing with Lolly!"
"Soda is-" he didn't finish.
"Soda is what? Tougher? Older? A guy? How very sexist of you to notice," I countered vehemently.
"Soda is careful. You haven't been here long enough to tell trouble from a good time."
"Says you! I was on the streets in Kearney! Ever thought of that? I've worked my way out of situations worse than last night, believe me. That was not dangerous. And he didn't hurt me, so I don't see any reason we should even be having this conversation! He showed me a good time. It wasn't anything but a favor."
Lie, my conscience piped up. Shut up, I argued with myself. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.
"Darry, lay off her. She didn't know it was me."
"And that's another thing! Do you know what-" another break off. This time he glanced at Dallas, who shrugged.
"Don't worry bout it. I've heard this before. Not like it ain't the truth."
"Do you know what he's capable of?" Darry finished.
"Does it look like I care?" I asked moodily.
"You should." I looked up in surprise. It was not Darry who had spoken, but Dallas. He looked at Darry. "Darr, I'm sorry, okay? It won't happen again. I get that you wouldn't want me around her. Just…don't be too hard on her. It was mostly my fault anyway." He turned to leave. "See ya round, Dess."
I stood glaring at Darry until the screen door slammed and Dallas was gone. Then I noticed that the living room was silent. Everyone had been listening to the argument. I felt a blush creep up my neck. Darry sighed.
"You can go, Dess. It's not like I can stop either of you from doing whatever the hell you want. Just be careful around him. He can go from controlled to animal-" he snapped his fingers. "That fast."
"I've dealt with his type before," I replied nodding. "He's nothing I can't handle. At least he doesn't drink anymore." I had heard Dallas had stopped both drinking and smoking when Johnny died, but I still glanced at Darry for correction. He shook his head.
"Still sober, by some miracle." I nodded and left the kitchen. I felt all eyes on me as I climbed the stairs to my room.
Dallas's POV
Confusion made me walk the streets of east side Tulsa aimlessly. I honestly didn't know what was wrong with me. There was definitely something wrong, but I didn't know what. I felt sick, but no greaser ever got sick because we were so hardy. We only went to the hospital when we were hurt bad from a fight or rumble.
Sick and confused, I thought. What a way to be when you're walking the streets alone. I knew no one in their right mind would jump me…unless they had friends. Not that I was worried. That was the last thing on my mind. I had awoken this morning on the Curtis' couch, seeing as it was free after I'd carried Dess up to her room, feeling lighter and more alive than I had ever felt.
"Hey, for the first time in my life, I have a purpose!" I had mumbled. It had felt as though a weight I had been carrying so long I was used to it was gone. And I couldn't get Dessarea Curtis's face out of my head.
"That little broad's gonna be more trouble than she's worth," I muttered darkly. Still, though. I had made a pledge to myself a long time ago that no girl would get me hung up. No way would the untouchable demigod Dallas Winston fall for a mere mortal. Every girlfriend had just been a way to pass the time.
Then why had a part of me growled when Dess had claimed that the dance last night had been nothing? Why had a random thought in my mind told me to force Darry to lay off her, instead of requesting it? Why had it been so hard to walk away peacefully from a fight that wasn't even mine? My mental beating ceased as I began to hear a set of car tires crunching slowly on the gravel road behind me.
"Oh, just what I need," I thought. "The West. This early in the morning."
The car didn't go away, didn't speed up. My eyes flickered ahead without me raising my head, and I saw he was coming out of the residential area, with its cramped and dark streets, and into the main part of town. My hand drifted lazily to the pocket of my brown leather jacket, searching for my blade. With a soft curse, I remembered I had left it at the Curtis' place. I could picture it clearly, sitting on the coffee table. Not where it should be.
Sweeping the ground with my hard gaze, I started looking for a piece of scrap lumber, a busted bottle, even a piece of glass big enough to hold in my hand. I might get my own hand sliced a little, but that was a small price to pay. Or, if nothing could be found, I could fight with just my fists and win. It was just that bare hands would take longer, and I was trying to think.
There was nothing in the immediate vicinity that I could use, but I saw a glinting something in the grass about seven yards away and above it a broken window. That could work, I thought, provided it's big enough when I get there, and I do get there before they get to me. I knew I had no such chance. The car had been trailing me for about three minutes already, waiting to see if I was going to meet somebody, but it was pretty obvious I was alone and was going to stay that way.
Fists it is then. I sighed resignedly and began cracking knuckles. Then I tensed up, cussing myself out ferociously in my head. Up till now, I had missed the sound of feet on asphalt. One of them must have jumped out. I had to give whoever it was credit; I hadn't heard them do it. I winced slightly at the sound of a blade flicking out of its own handle. This could get a little messier than I had originally planned.
A thickly muscled arm circled around my chest and tightened. I could have and would have broken out of its grasp if I hadn't felt the cruelly cold metal of a switchblade press directly over my windpipe.
Suddenly and surprisingly, I had a desperate urge to fight and get out alive. I had never really cared if I won or lost, I just usually won for reputational reasons. Now I wanted to walk away from this fight in good condition. Because I wanted to see Dessarea Curtis again. I
wanted it with every fiber of my being.
"Ready to die, greaser?"
Dess's POV
I stayed in my room for ages, drawing and writing-my favorite ways of working out my creative energy. The first drawing I did was a masterpiece. An angel, male, with huge feathery wings and a tee shirt and jeans. The thing that made him unique was that one hand was chained-on a rather short chain-to a brick wall plastered in graffiti. He was on his knees, the chained hand clenched into a fist. A girl-mortal, no less-stood away from him with a pained expression on her face.
As I jerked out of the stupor I usually fell into while drawing with something on my mind, I realized that the damned angel had fine, pixyish features, and the girl bore a striking resemblance to me. The angel carried a fierce, fiery pride in his eyes, and the girl looked a bit frightened, but she didn't turn away. Struck by a sudden storyline, I grabbed a lined pad and a pencil, cursing it for not being sharp. I wrote the title out in delicate, curving script and neatly printed beneath it the title of the first chapter in my small, even manuscript handwriting.
An hour later, my hand was cramped from writing so fast and so small, but I was proud of myself for having written with no stops or places where I had to think. My old English teacher always said that words poured out of me like milk and honey, which was fine with me. I stood and stretched like a cat, wincing slightly as my back popped unpleasantly. I crossed my room to the door.
"Lolly!" I yelled. "Come up here, I have something for you to read and edit!" A faint "Kay!" satisfied me, and I closed the door again. Lolly's love was editing, and she ate up anything I wrote. She had never been quite the writer I was, had never been as good with words, but she was a lingual genius. Commas, fragments, run-ons, intransitive verbs, these were her life blood. Not so much spelling, but I was pretty much a walking dictionary anyway.
About three milliseconds later, Lolly was tramping up the stairs and banging on my door mercilessly. I let her in with a bit of a smirk on my face and she sat on my bed and pulled the pad toward her.
"What tense is this in?"
"Past."
"As always. I'm guessing first person?"
"Yes, with a little third person from the male character. Marked with obvious symbols so you don't bite my head off this time."
"Good my pet, you're learning. Pen please." I rolled my eyes behind her back and fought off a smile. After a moment of rummaging about in the messenger bag that served as my backpack in the fall and my writing case in the summer, I procured a red gel pen. She took in from me with a dignified satisfaction and commenced editing. I grabbed a second notebook and began writing the third chapter of my brainchild.
After a few minutes of relentless editing, Lolly spoke. "Dess, what on earth inspired this masterful piece of writing?"
"A sketch," I replied evasively.
"Can I see it?"
"Promise me you won't tell anyone it exists first. I don't think I'm quite ready to show it to anyone yet. I'll tell you the story behind it later."
"I promise," she told me seriously, crossing her fingers over her heart.
"Okay, I guess it can't hurt. Here." I reached under the bedspread and withdrew the beautiful drawing I had finished a while ago. When she saw it, her jaw dropped and her tawny-gold eyes widened.
"Is this you and-?" she asked, but I cut her off before she could say Dallas's name.
"Yes. I told you I would tell you the story. Do you want to hear it now?" She nodded in awe.
"How did I know?" I sighed. I took a deep breath and pondered exactly how much detail I would put into the telling. "It started last night…"
And so, much to my apprehension, I told Lolly about how I felt about Dallas, how we had met, and, ultimately, the reason for Darry's and my yelling fest. At the end of the all too real yarn, Lolly sat back and pulled something that resembled fish lips, her eyes becoming a brownish-gold, which they always did was she was considering something.
"Do you think he feels that way about you?" she asked gently.
"Hell no. Ain't no way a guy like him's gonna fall for someone like me. He's too wild and I'm too tame."
"I wouldn't be so sure if I was you."
"What are you insinuating?"
"You didn't see the way he looked when he walked out of that kitchen. He looked like he was about ready to haul off and smack the next thing that came within three feet of him. And…he looked a little hurt, if you'd believe it."
"Why would he be hurt over something I said?" I asked, a little annoyed.
"I dunno. Maybe he liiiiikes you…" I frowned.
"Don't even. You know what? I know for a fact Soda-ki liiiikes you." She gasped, her eyes lighting up.
"Really? How do you know?"
"I'm his sister. His eyes are my library. I can read all the Curtis boys like open books." Lolly sighed wistfully.
"Yeah, I wish I could do that with Two-Bit." I remembered then that Lolly was a sister to one of the gang, although which had slipped my mind for a moment.
"Which one is he again?"
"The redhead…the one who laughed at you two earlier."
"Oooh. The one Dallas threw a shoe at. Right. What did he say, exactly?"
"Hon, take it from me, you do not want to know. I'm kinda surprised Soda didn't hit him for saying something like that about his sister."
"I see. Do I have your permission to hit him when we go downstairs?'
"Why do you need my permission?"
"Oh, it ain't like that's gonna stop me, just thought I'd drop you a warning." She shook her head as though pitying me. "What?"
"It's just…they way they talk is already rubbing off on you. Ain't…gonna…him's…"
"I like it. It just sounds smoother than the right way. And they way they move, how they can tell you what they're thinking with one look. I just wish I could be like that."
"I know. It's kind of a commanding aura when one of them walks in the room. And that weird way they have of talking so low, but everyone in the room can hear them."
We were both transfixed by the strange, quiet power the gang possessed. You could feel strength and lethalness coming off them in waves, but it was behind a quiet, calm front.
Like a tiger. I guess the best way to describe it is this; when you see a tiger in a zoo or someplace, sometimes it'll look right at you like its saying "I could kill you without even trying. I'm stronger and faster and more powerful than you, and I know it. But I won't. I'll just sit here. You never did anything to me." It's like that. Weird and bizarre and ridiculously freaky.
Now, Tim Shepard's gang, or the Socs, there's another deal. They're like mean dogs. The ones that growl at you and throw themselves at the fence and bark at you, generally making fools of themselves. Flashy and arrogant, all smoke and mirrors. Our greasers are the really dangerous dogs. Then ones that just watch you and wait. Never make a noise. Never threaten. Until you do something to them.
So I had my challenge. Catch a tiger by the tail…