Disclaimer: Good Charlotte owns the title and Hinton owns the book; I just borrow.

[April 1959]

Four months had passed since I'd last seen my dad. I had waited until eleven that night for Social Services to find me a willing foster family. Apparently not a lot of people wanted to take in the son James Winston. "Tried to cheat half the city out of their money," I had heard an officer say.

They found one family though, I guess. The Timests were a middle-aged couple on the rough side of the city. We had never been rich, but we were comfortable to say the least. These people took in loads of kids all the time, of all ages, apparently, and lived in a small three-bedroom apartment on the tenth floor of a crummy building. There were two girls and two boys already there by the time they had taken me in. I was smack dab in the middle, younger than the two boys, Rick and Tommy; they were fifteen and sixteen, tough as nails, high in command in a gang, and most importantly, they told it to me straight.

The Timests were in it for the checks and my dad was a good-for-nothing asshole, they'd told me. I believed them about my foster parents; the officers had fed me better than they did most nights. I was in denial about my dad though. I didn't want to hate him, but he had just made me so angry. He had told me it was wrong to hate people, and I was trying my best, but glory, was it ever hard. He didn't even look at me that night. He didn't even look at me…

"Dallas! Get your butt out the door," Mrs. Timest called sharply from her position in the kitchen. I scrambled off my bed and shoved my feet into my shoes, grabbing the letter I had just written on my way out. It was our week, being the boys, to get the groceries.

Tommy and Rick were already out the door when I left and I had to run to catch up with them. "Hey Tommy, Rick," I called. "Either of you have money for a stamp that I could borrow?"

They stopped and looked at each other, waiting for me to reach them. "Whadda ya need a stamp for, kid?" Tommy asked, cocking an eyebrow in question.

"I wanna mail this," I replied and showed them the letter. I wanted my dad to know what I thought about him. He wasn't good like he made me think he was. He… he… I didn't know what he was…

Rick snatched it from my hands and read it. He sneered and shoved it at Tommy. "You deal with it," he said, his eyebrows raised. Tommy read it hesitantly and stared at Rick for a while.

Rick held his stare. They knew something I didn't and I hated it. Rick finally shrugged in response, telling him, "I got places to be, man."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Fine, but meet us at Joe's in three hours. You got to carry stuff too, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he replied and headed across the street towards his girlfriend's apartment.

Tommy looked after him for a few minutes, not saying anything and leaving me in an uncomfortable silence. I shifted on my feet, fiddling with my shirttail, and waited for him to say something.

Finally Tommy turned and looked at me. "Dallas, we're not mailing this letter," he said calmly, and tore the letter into a million pieces.

"What the hell did you do that for? I woulda bought my own stamps!"

He slapped me upside the head, flipping his switch. I had seen him flip the switch once before; Rick was getting hassled on the way home from school and Tommy had beaten the other kid up so bad, I didn't even recognize him by the time Tommy had finished. The guy Rick had taken on didn't come out lookin' so good either.

"You listen to me, Dallas, and you listen good," he growled and crouched down to my level. "You sound like a spineless punk and I'll be damned if I got a foster brother who's a punk. Your dad isn't anything to be proud of. The only thing that came out good from his little plan was the fact that he put half the Knights in jail, right along with him. He gave us less to worry about; that's the only thing good. Your dad's a low life piece of shit, now get it through your head." He poked a finger at my chest and narrowed his eyes.

I punched him a good one across the face, sending him off balance, and stood my ground. "Take it back," I told him.

He shook his head, a glare in his eye, and rubbed his cheek, grabbing me roughly by the arm. "I oughtta teach you a lesson, you little punk." He started dragging me down the street, towards the bus stop. "You don't fucking believe me, kid? I'll fucking show you what a piece of shit he is."

I grabbed at his wrist, trying to free myself from his grip, but he wouldn't let up. He dragged me over to the bus stop and pushed me on the bus, leading me to a seat in the back.

"Where the hell are we goin'?"

Tommy rubbed his cheek absently. "You got quite a mouth and quite a punch, Dal."

"Where are we going, Tommy?"

"I already told you; I'm showin' you what a piece of shit is." He paused and leaned his head back, letting out a breath. "We're goin' ta see your dad in prison."

I crossed my arms over my chest and huffed, "I don't wanna see him."

He ruffled my hair; he had flipped back to the regular Tommy. "You forget I read what you wrote… Trust me, you want to see him."

I pushed his hand off of my head and leaned against the window, trying to ignore him.

"Dal?" I kept looking out the window. "Dally?" I grunted in acknowledgement. "Dallas?" He made me face him. "Look, I get it. My dad's in jail too. I thought the fucker was a good guy until 'e killed a guy. And even then, I tried to convince myself that it wasn't 'im. They got the wrong guy, I'd tell myself. I was older than you even, and I believed it."

"You don't believe that now do you?"

He ran a hand over his face. "Naw, kid, I know the truth now. I begged my old foster family to let me visit him and they let me. Gave me nice clothes and took me to see 'im. Now, I can't give you nice clothes, but I'm takin' you to see your old man. You got to see shit to believe it sometimes."

We stood down the street, looking up at the barbed wire fences that surrounded the prison. Tommy shoved his blade into my hand. "They won't check you. They shouldn't check me either, but I can't risk it with you in tow."

I flicked it open, running my fingers over the cool metal of the back of the blade. "You sure they're not gonna check me?" I asked, pocketing it.

"Naw, you ain't a criminal yet," he said, shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered off towards the entrance.

I followed, and stuck my hands in my pockets, fingering the blade.

Tommy had to show the guards his fake ID to get us past the gates and into the prison. When we got inside the actual building Tommy showed them his ID again and we were buzzed into a larger room.

The guard didn't look any different from a police officer. "Who'd ya wanta see?"

Tommy nodded at me. "The kid wants to see his father."

The guard looked at Tommy like he was the scum of the Earth. "And that would be?"

"James Winston," he sneered. "And uh, I wanta see Brian McNeally."

"Stay here," the guard grunted and left the room, leaving us with the janitor.

I looked at Tommy. "You're not coming with me?"

He ruffled my hair and chuckled. "Naw, you do this by yerself, kid."

I opened my mouth to protest, but shut it upon seeing the guard come back in. "McNeally's waiting. Let's go," he barked, holding the door open for Tommy.

"See ya in a bit, kid," Tommy said and followed the guard down the hall. The door closed behind them and I sat on a bench, waiting for the guard to come get me.

I was starting to get nervous about seeing my dad. No one liked him anymore. I wasn't supposed to be mad at him; he was supposed to be there for me no matter what. But that night… He hadn't even looked at me…

The guard coughed from the doorway, a sneer placed on his face. I jumped up, my heart caught up in my throat. "Winston says he doesn't have a son," he grunted.

"He's lying! I'm his son! I'm his son…"

The guard stepped into the room and walked towards me. "Look kid,"—he grabbed the collar of my shirt—"I asked him three times. He doesn't have a son." He shoved me to the door we had walked in through. "Now sit down and wait for yer friend like a good little kid."

I grabbed the switchblade Tommy had given me from my pocket and flicked it out, holding it against his stomach. "He's lying; I'm telling you, he's lying," I growled, fighting back the tears.

"Put the blade down, kid, and I'll forget you even pulled it."

I stepped closer, pushing it into him. "No," I told him through gritted teeth.

His eyes flashed past mine for a split second before returning the scowl I was giving him. Before I could run, the door behind me opened and someone had tackled me to the ground and thrown the blade across the room.

The first guard was at the phone, tugging at the rip the blade had caused when I'd been knocked down. Metal slapped against my wrists and the guy who tackled me lifted me to my feet roughly. "You're in for it, kid. Oh, you're fucking in for it."

He dragged me through the door I hadn't been allowed past, down a few hallways and past a few rows of cells. The inmates yelled and cheered as we past, but I just shot them dirty looks. The only who didn't seem to react was a man of about thirty-five with white-blond hair and blue eyes—my father.

"I hate you," I spat at him as we passed, fighting the tears back. "I fuckin' hate you!"

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