Sylvia had warned me that the day Buck Merril played any music better than Hank Williams, Merle Haggard, or Loretta Lynn at his parties, Satan would be making snowmen in hell. Unfortunately for my sanity, I'd still decided to crash one.

"Who're you?" some girl asked as she pulled the door open and let out a loud, drunken giggle, gripping the front of my blouse to steady herself. The sound of those godawful tunes was hitting my ears with the force of a jackhammer, and I could already smell the cheap beer and even cheaper weed from the porch. Shit, Dallas's taste could never be called impeccable, but this place was really pushing it. "One of Buck's girls?"

I knew I looked different, at least older than fifteen, dressed in the clothes Sylvia had lent me, my lips painted bright, my eyes lined thick and black. Enough to belong here. "Yeah," I just said, extracting myself from her grip and elbowing my way inside. "One of Buck's girls."

It didn't take long for me to spot my target— Dallas's messy towhead glowed, even in the dim light and the crowd of grinding dancers, drunks stumbling around, couples slurpily making out on the staircase and in the darker corners. I grabbed a plastic cup of beer off of a nearby table and sidled over to where he was slumped on a couch, shot glass in hand, stupid smile on his face. "Shit, Jasmine, ain't it past your curfew?" he called as I approached, barking out a laugh. "The hell're you doin' here?"

"Came to see you." I took a sip of the tepid beer and swished it around in my mouth. "Guess it's my lucky night."

"I oughta take you home," Dallas mocked, downing the shot in one neat swallow, though him drunk behind the wheel was an even more terrifying thought than him sober behind the wheel. "Before Darry and Soda realize you left. Boy howdy, they'll beat me stupid if they find out I left you at a place like this— again."

"Like you're gonna."

"Nah, can't be assed." He shrugged and picked up another shot. "You ain't my kid sister."

"Where's Angela?" slithered out of my mouth, though I'd certainly planned a more subtle approach. God, did this beer taste like shit, and it wasn't getting me near drunk enough for a conversation with Dallas. "Thought she'd be here."

"Grounded 'til the next century, accordin' to ol' Tim. I mean, knowin' her, she probably climbed right out the window the second he turned around—"

"Cut the shit," I said. When he was drunk like this, loose and floppy and talkative, I still saw the fourteen-year-old kid carving his name into our kitchen table, all knees and elbows. He didn't scare me. "Sylvia told me everything already— you've been screwin' around behind her back. For the thousandth time."

He snorted. "I ain't with Angela Shepard, that's for fucking sure. You really think I can't do better than some crazy bitch barely outta grade school?"

"Looks like Tim did a number on your nose," I said mildly, noticing that there was still dried blood crusted all over his face. "You sure that had nothin' to do with it?"

He scowled in a way that was supposed to intimidate me, but I didn't so much as flinch. Unlike my brothers, even Darry, I'd long since discovered the truth about Dallas Winston— he was all talk and no action. "If your daddy had ever told you girls oughta be seen and not heard, you'd be a hell of a lot prettier."

"Don't tell me you're into brunettes now," I said, my eyes narrowed. Like he had any right to judge how my daddy raised me, when his held a pitbull fighting ring in his yard and got arrested for public drunkenness every week.

"Let's just say I know what Sylvia really is," he said with a smirk, putting the arrogance back on, then abruptly shifted gears. "Listen, what I got with any broad ain't none of your fuckin' business, so shut your trap and go home. This ain't cute no more."

"And just what does that mean?"

"Means you're gonna get yourself into some trouble you have no idea how to handle, if you keep hangin' around places this rough."

I downed the rest of the cup in one gulp, just to piss him off. "You're worried about me. Ain't that sweet."

"Like I said, only thing I'm worried about is your brothers on my ass," he retorted quickly. "I know you an' Sylvia are real tight, but you ain't the kind of girl that goes to flophouses with her tits out, way she is."

"I think I can take care of myself, thanks," I said, my smile razor-thin. "You'd better stay done with Sylvia. She don't deserve your bullshit."

"Last time I was in reform school, I came back home and found that slut sniffin' around Johnny. That seem like a good enough reason to dump her to you?"

"But you didn't dump her, did you?" I grabbed a shot from the coffee table and downed it, the alcohol burning my throat, and viciously swallowed a giggle. Now I'd really had too much, though I would've cut my tongue out before I admitted it to Dallas. "Why the fuck won't you just end it, then, if she's such a slut?"

"'Cause that broad's like the first time I shot up." He laughed. "Gonna fuckin' kill me someday, but I just keep comin' back for more. You'll understand when you get a boyfriend."

I was fixing to slap him when Buck himself wandered over to us; I shifted uncomfortably, afraid he might ask questions, but he stared straight past me like I was part of the upholstery. "Hey, Dally," he drawled; I couldn't look away from his missing front teeth, which didn't do much for the few charms he'd ever had. "You got any more of that—" He mimed popping something into his mouth.

"Keep your voice down, 'less you want the whole party pawin' at me," Dallas hissed in his direction. "You'd better not be here when I get back," he told me, grabbing hold of my arm— the imprints of his fingers burned after he let go. "I'm serious."

Maybe I would've stuck around out of sheer spite, or given more thought to Dallas's new business, if some projectile vomit hadn't splattered an inch away from my shoes just then. At that point, I figured it was long since time to cut my losses.


When I woke up the next morning, it was with a raging headache on the left side and the taste of stale beer in my mouth— I'd collapsed onto my bed at three A.M. and slept fitfully, still wearing the clothes I'd had on last night. I knew without getting up that my mascara had smeared all over my face, and didn't much feel like getting up at all; I flipped onto my stomach and buried my head into my pillow, trying to keep any rays of sunlight from penetrating my skull.

Dallas was right, goddamn him; if Mom and Dad hadn't died, I wouldn't have started sneaking out to sleazy parties just to feel something that wasn't furious, or sad, or so hollow I had to pinch myself to make sure I still existed. I wouldn't have started lying to my brothers about it as easy as breathing. And I definitely wouldn't have started keeping a bottle of... 'medicinal' whiskey under my bed, for mornings when I thought about my parents' disapproval a little too long.

Groaning at the stars flashing across my field of vision, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and pulled said bottle out, unscrewing it fast and letting the liquid course down my throat, into my veins— mentally flipping Dallas off. Any guy selling prescription benzos to Buck would be a lot better pressed to focus on his own damn self.

"Jasmine, sit down for a minute, okay," Darry said once I finally wandered into the kitchen, meaning to make myself a plate of toast and retreat right back to my room before he saw me. There was a thick, worried crease across his forehead. "We need to talk."

Reluctantly, I took the place he'd pulled out for me at the kitchen table, wondering if he could sense the miasma of 'very, very hungover' coming off me in waves. I'd showered, changed, and scrubbed with a toothbrush until my gums bled, but that was one hell of a stern, parental tone. "I'm sorry 'bout yesterday," I said, staring down at my lap, half genuinely sorry and half hoping to defuse his temper.

"Well, social worker called again this morning," he said, not even throwing so much as an 'it's all right' in my direction. Figured. "She ain't thrilled, let's just say that."

"What, 'cause I was a couple minutes late?" I huffed, crossing my arms and trying to swallow some bile back down— not from last night, either. I knew what this was about; I knew every word of this conversation before it even happened. I never should've interpreted anything with that barricuda of a woman as a friendly talk.

"Can you quit bein' a shit for five seconds and listen to me?" I met his gaze as he stared me down; he looked away first, studying the pattern on the tablecloth. "She ain't got a problem with the boys— even though Soda's dropped out and everything, we can at least manage the bills now. And Pony's skipped a grade—"

"This story had a point, right? Somewhere?"

The glare he gave me then could've nailed me to the floor, and I tried to look ashamed. Mom had always said I had a mean mouth, and that it'd get me into a lot of trouble someday, but I couldn't bring myself to apologize again— not when my heart was pounding and I felt like wax was melting all over my scalp.

"Yeah, there's a point," he said slowly. "She's real worried 'bout you. Says that she's not sure how you're supposed to grow up into a woman with no... 'feminine influence'."

I let out a nervous snort, unsure of how else to react. "Ain't like we're livin' in a bunker, right? I go outside. There's women everywhere."

"Not a woman in the house, and that's what matters to her. Not someone who can... you know... show you how to be a wife and mother." He looked more uncomfortable than he had when I'd explained what 'girl things' I needed money for every month, and that was saying something. "She thinks it's a little rough around here for you. With all the boys in and out."

"And what, she thinks it'd be better for me to grow up in a girls' home? 'Cause we don't have any other family, unless you count crazy Uncle Gene."

"Don't talk about Uncle Gene like that," he half-heartedly scolded. "Ain't his fault the war messed him up."

"You sure weren't so nice about him when he came to visit and got Soda hooked on three different kinds of kush."

"He ain't our only relative, okay?" Darry said, right before I mentioned the weird mushrooms he'd also brought with him. "Listen, how much do you remember about Dad's family?"

"Not a lot." Deadbeat, drunk white father, and Nana Liluye, who'd lived on the rez in New Mexico without running water and died when I was three. Not exactly regular fixtures around the house at Christmastime. "Don't tell me—"

"Turns out he has a sister," Darry grimly concluded, and I would've burst out laughing if the situation hadn't been so damn serious. "His old man hooked up with another woman after he left Dad, and they had our Aunt Rose. She's been livin' in Lubbock, and Miss Edwards managed to track her down."

"Our... aunt?" I echoed, my jaw falling slack. "We have some mystery aunt down in Lubbock? How come Daddy never mentioned her, then?"

"'Cause I don't think he ever met her," Darry said, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "I only just found this out myself, okay? I dunno much at all. Just where she lives, and that she's heard about Dad, and that she wants to come up and see you."

"Wants to come up and see me, or wants to come up and adopt me?"

"I'm still your legal guardian," Darry insisted. "She can't do anything yet except have some visits— she ain't even a lot older than me. Social worker was nice enough to at least make that much clear." He sighed, looking younger than he had to me in a long time. "I didn't want to worry you. Shit. But you need to be on your best behavior, all right? No gettin' into any trouble, good grades, that kind of thing. The three of you are on thin ice, but you especially right now."

"Okay," I said in a tiny voice, suppressing a guilty twitch. Best behavior, indeed. Well, at least it hadn't my worst.

"Don't worry about it, baby," he said gently, putting his hand on my shoulder for a moment. "I'll take care of it. Nobody's going anywhere. Social worker'll probably be satisfied with her comin' around every now and then, or she'll take one look at you and realize she doesn't need that kind of trouble in her life."

I choked out a laugh, but it was pretty forced, and the sliver of a smile on his face wasn't too genuine, either. "Go back to bed," he ordered, brushing his palm over my brow as I tried to twist away. "You feel a little hot."

"Yeah, okay," I said, suddenly drained of the energy it'd take to argue with him, and stopped long enough in the kitchen to grab that plate of toast. For once, Darry didn't bother to give me hell for bringing food into my room, and that scared me more than anything he'd just said.


Whenever my brothers had feelings they didn't know how to express, they went down to the garage and beat the hell out of Dad's old punching bag. Mom hadn't thought that was appropriate for a little girl, and Dad never bothered to teach me, so that left me with the next best thing; a sheet of paper to scribble all over.

Ponyboy liked drawing portraits, but I was an abstractionist, with the odd landscape; I didn't have enough patience to make decent faces, or a decent much of anything. I crashed down at my desk and pulled out my sketchbook, then started aimlessly doodling with a black colored pencil, my thoughts running too fast for me to develop one at a time. Who the fuck was this aunt, and why hadn't she bothered to show after Mom and Dad died and we were broke and had no idea what to do? What if she made Darry's brand of strict look like a kindergarten teacher's? Suppose the social worker got her way, and I had to move down to Lubbock, and only see everyone I knew on Christmas and summer break?

The pencil snapped in my grip and I threw the pieces across the room (my room, with walls Dad had painted purple, Mom's old quilt on my bed), furiously blinking back tears. I wanted Sylvia. More than that, I wanted a blunt. But I was probably still supposed to be grounded, and after what I'd pulled last night, I didn't want to test my luck that much. Instead, I planted my face onto the cool surface of my desk and left it there.

"I knew you stole these!"

My head popped up as Pony grabbed the colored pencil box and waved it around like it was war booty; I hadn't even noticed him stroll in here. "Who else would've?"

"Hey to you too, and don't think I forgot what happened to my oil pastel set." Then my eyes caught the massive bandage wrapped around his middle finger. "What'd you do to yourself, huh? Looks a little worse than a paper cut."

"Mind your business," he quickly said, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink as he shoved the hand into his jeans pocket.

I reached out and gave his earlobe a vicious tug, only letting up when he squawked— a privilege exclusively reserved for big sisters. It was good to at least be able to lord over one person in this house. "Either you tell me, or you tell Darry. Won't he like to know all about this?"

"Screw you," he muttered, but not with much heat. "Fine. Curly an' I was playin' chicken with a couple of weeds, and I was about to win—"

"You two tried to burn each other's fingers off?" I slapped my hand against my forehead, hard. "Ain't you supposed to be so smart you're skippin' a grade, Einstein?"

"I was about to win," he started again with a glare, "but then Tim showed up and cracked our heads together and said he'd kill us if he caught us again. Happy?"

"Not too thrilled by you burnin' holes into yourself with a Shepard," I shot back. "At least you had enough sense to put a bandage on that, though I dunno what the hell you're gonna tell Darry when he sees it."

"Sorry, Mom." He flopped down onto my bed and stretched his arms out like a starfish; he was almost taller than me, as little as I wanted to admit it. "Can't one day go by without you an' Darry naggin'?"

"You might just get your wish," I muttered, pressing down so hard with the purple pencil that the tip broke.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Social worker wants me out." This wasn't shaping up to be much of a drawing; in all honesty, I just felt like ripping the entire thing to shreds. I settled for scraping a vicious line across the paper. "To go live with our aunt."

He gave me a look like all of my brains had fallen out onto the floor. "We don't have an aunt."

"Dad's old man had another kid," I said shortly, not in the mood to retell the entire story. "An aunt that can help me grow up to be a real proper young lady, or whatever shit Miss Edwards is always goin' on about. She's comin' up to visit soon."

"That bitch," he said, and I wasn't sure if he was referring to our aunt or the social worker. "Dammit, that's crazy, Jas. They can't just make you leave 'cause they feel like it."

"Can too, if I'm a girl." Girls always got the toughest breaks— that was a law of the universe or something. "She thinks I'm livin' in a real den of debauchery here. Boys wanderin' around with their shirts off, drinkin' milk straight outta the carton, you know. Y'all are real bad influences."

Him throwing his arms around me was unexpected— Pony had been all about acting tuff since he turned the ripe old age of fourteen— but not unwelcome. Not in that moment, when I felt ready to fly apart. "You can keep the colored pencils," he offered magnanimously, letting go after a few seconds. "And nag. If you want."

I let out a weak, watery snort. "God, you're a dumbass. What are you even gonna tell Darry happened to you? Trust me, he'll notice. He notices everything."

He grimaced. "At least Darry ain't Tim. Christ hell. He dragged Curly all the way down the street by the collar."

Well, seemed like Tim wasn't about to take much shit from his kid brother— still didn't explain the trash fire that was Angela Shepard. "Don't worry," Pony said, snapping me back into the present. "There's no way Darry's gonna just let them move you out. I mean, me, maybe..."

That made perfect sense, in his mind. To Pony, Darry was a god; a harsh god all right, a real prick most of the time, but still omnipotent. Of course he could stop the social worker and our cipher of an aunt from getting what they wanted— what'd he have to fear from the state when even Dally listened to him?

I knew better.