Kitchen Floors, Taming Shrews, and Misspelled Names

This one shot takes place over several years in the 'Arrogance and Aggression' universe. It's about Dally and his point of view as he navigates relationships with his family and with my principal OFC, Lucy Bennet. Those of you who have been here a long time will already know that. But those of you who might not be familiar with this extended AU might read this characterization of Dally and find yourselves taken aback. Yes, he's got lots of feelings in my AU. Yes, he reads lots of books. Yes, he has a sister, and yes, the 'Arrogance and Aggression' universe is an infuriatingly optimistic and ambitious sister fic. It's a long story – literally. The entire ongoing series makes sense of this characterization – trust me.

And here we go!

He's eleven years old when he decides he's got to get out of that house.

It's going to be hard. It's going to be dangerous. He knows that. He's ready for it. He's seen Shepard run away three times already, but he could never make it on his own. That's all the more reason to get the hell out – to stick it to Shepard and to show him who was really in charge. It doesn't occur to him that there might be other reasons Shepard always comes home. He's eleven years old, and although he's smarter than anybody in that forsaken school the state forces him to attend, he can't think like that yet. He can only think about where he's getting his next meal and whether or not he'll be cold when he falls asleep tonight. Years from now, he'll know how to compare himself to Oliver fucking Twist, but it's not time for that yet. He's eleven years old, and it occurs to him that he's never once used the word home to describe the place he lives. For that, he's got to get the hell out. He's got to.

He gets up off the kitchen floor. He's bleeding from a few places, but he doesn't really have time to figure out where. Violet is screaming bloody murder in the living room. The old man doesn't shut her up. Why doesn't the old man shut her up? He's never been opposed to smacking her upside the head before. Maybe now that she's encroaching on double digits, he's afraid to mess up what will one day be a pretty face. Through the smoke and booze at his poker games, the old man's been making a lot of crude remarks about what he'll bet when Violet's a little older. But the boy is eleven years old, and his mind is not there yet. His mind wants to be anywhere but there.

He can't really remember how he ended up on the kitchen floor, head between the two doors of the Lazy Susan. There were bruises on Violet's legs, and he figured the old man might have started using her as leverage already. He hates himself for not stopping it, but he's eleven. All he can do is try to fight. No matter how tough he is, and no matter how much time he spent whipping out a blade and doing almost nothing with it but scaring people off, he still doesn't love to take out the blade. But he'll do it if it means helping Violet. It seems like the only thing he's living for now is to help Violet. He's eleven years old, and he's already not sure if he's better off dead or alive.

He takes out the blade he's not supposed to have and points it at the old man. The old man doesn't back off … doesn't make a move except to snort. He's like a comic book villain who tells the hero, "You don't have it in you to kill me." And if that's what he's thinking, he's both wrong and right at the same time. He's eleven years old, but he's got it in him to kill the old man. He just won't. He'll beat the hell out of folks who deserve it (and so many of them do), but he won't kill. He isn't that foolish. He wants the people he hates to live and limp in their misery, and that includes the old man.

But damn, if his blood doesn't boil enough to make him to want to end the son of a bitch right there.

The old man picks a frying pan up off the stove – the one Violet used to try to fry bacon in that morning. She's standing just outside the kitchen, crying. Violet is nine years old, but she's never cried like this before.

"Daddy!" she hollers because she doesn't know any better – doesn't know that he'll never deserve such an affectionate name. "Daddy, don't hurt him!"

But the old man doesn't hear. Or maybe he does. It doesn't matter. Violet's never mattered to him. Nothing's ever mattered to him except the drink, the poker, and the ass while he still had one. Since the old lady had died, there was nothing to distract him anymore. He could drink himself into a blind rage and beat the kids until they all saw red for as long as he wanted to now. There was nothing stopping him.

He doesn't know why the old man does this. He realizes he may never know. It doesn't make a lot of sense to him, but it's not like he can ask. You don't ask a rabid dog how he got rabies, and you don't ask a big man with a frying pan why he hates his kids. He's eleven years old when he thinks that maybe there is no reason. Maybe some people just hate themselves so much that they'll do anything to get the pain away from them – outside of their bodies. He just wishes that his wasn't the body that the old man hurt. He just wishes the old man would stop hurting Violet. He would have taken a thousand beatings if it meant he didn't have to see bruises on his kid sister in places a boy should never find bruises on his kid sister.

He thinks about the bruises again. He thinks about how Violet is only nine years old, so she doesn't quite understand what the bruises mean. But she will. And he doesn't want to be around to see it. He doesn't know what comes over him. Maybe it's all the fighting he does with Shepard in the yard that's gotten him to this point. Maybe it's the need to defend his blood. No, it can't be that. The old man is his blood, too, and he has no desire to defend the old man. In fact, before he even quite realizes what he's doing or how to do it, he's running at the old man and pinning him up against a wall. The frying pan goes flying. Out of his periphery, he sees Violet run away just in time. He thanks whoever can hear that she's not hurt. She doesn't need to be hurt anymore.

"Stop!" Violet yells, but he isn't sure whom his sister is yelling at or for. She can't possibly be yelling for him to stop hurting the old man. Not when the old man went out of his way to hurt her. Doesn't she understand? He's her big brother, and he's protecting her. It's his job, and it's the only one he thought he was good at until the old lady died and reminded him otherwise.

Somewhere in between Violet's crying and hollering and the blood on his knuckles, he lets the old man go and runs out of the house. Before he leaves, he swipes the old man's wallet off the table. He won't miss it. He hears more crying, hollering, and smacking from inside the house as he runs out and away. He isn't sure where he's going, but it can't be anywhere near there. It can't be the old Curtis house, as much as he wants to see them right now. That's the first place the old man will look. He doesn't need to be anywhere near the old man. Not after what he caught him trying to do to Violet.

He decides he's going to run to the bus station, and he'll hop on the bus that's going the furthest away from the old neighborhood. It doesn't matter where he goes as long as it gets him there and, more importantly, away.

As he runs toward the bus station, he can't shake the feeling that he's forgetting something. He hits his pockets quickly. The wallet is still there. So, why doesn't he feel like he remembered to grab what he needed out of that house?

He chocks the feeling up to coincidence and keeps running.

He's fourteen years old, and he decides it's time to hop on a bus back home.

Brooklyn had been fine until it wasn't. He decides it's not something he's going to talk about much when he sees the gang again – if they'll take him back in, that is. They don't need to hear the stories about how he slept in the park and rifled through the garbage outside a shitty pizza joint. The best days were the days somebody threw out half a slice. They don't need to know that he lived like that for weeks until some older kids took him in and made him do their dirty work. They don't need to know any of it. He's always prided himself on being something of an enigma to them, anyway. This just gives him more reason to stay a mystery. They don't need to know anything about him. If they spend the rest of their lives guessing, well, then, that will be better. Besides, he knows the score. A kid like him isn't long for this world. They'll lose him in about three years' time, and they'll forget about him in four.

He drops by to see Violet, but the old man won't let him in. Normally, he'd break down the door and drag his sister out by her hair, but he doesn't. He's been on a bus all night, he's in pain, and after three years, he's not sure he would even recognize his sister. He thinks he sees a flash of her blonde hair in the window, and for as much as he wants to put his fist through the glass and take her away from there, he doesn't. He decides it's not worth it – not tonight.

He doesn't know where else to go, but something inside him must have a clue because before long, he recognizes the block he's walking. It's the Curtises' block. They're probably home, he figures. It's late on a Friday night, and even if Darry's out on some date, and Pony's asleep because he's hardly more than a baby, Soda and Sadie should still be awake. Their folks should still be awake, too. Maybe their old lady will take you in for the night. She has before – at least, she's offered. He's usually too proud to stay the whole night. He usually makes her swear that she won't tell Soda or Sadie or any of the other guys that he's there. He believes her. There are only a few people in the world she trusts, and Soda's old lady is one of them.

But when he walks up to the front door of the house he knows too well, Mrs. Curtis isn't the one who answers. No, instead, he's standing face-to-face with Sodapop Curtis, who looks the same but so much different than he used to. He's taller. Maybe he's skinnier, too. He isn't sure what to do, so he just stands there and looks at Soda. There's not much else to do.

Soda just looks at him, too. Maybe he's trying to figure out exactly how he wants to slam the door on his old friend's face. After all, Soda was always a little theatrical when they were small, and seeing your friend who ran away on a bus to New York City and didn't take his poor kid sister out of hell with him is a reason to get real theatrical. As Soda steps closer, he winces. He hates that he does – hates to show fear or pain – but it's out of his control. He doesn't know what comes over him, but he doesn't want Sodapop Curtis to turn him away. His old man has already turned him away, and to get turned away by Soda would hurt even more.

So, it's a good thing Soda doesn't do that. Before he can throw up his hands and block whatever's coming next, Soda's got him wrapped up in a hug. He can count the number of hugs he's received in his lifetime on both of his hands, but there's no doubt about it. This one is the tightest. This one is the one that means something – everything, maybe, if he wants to get real sappy, like some of those shitty and cheap movies he'd walked in on just because he was bored in the city. Sap doesn't matter anymore. Soda is here, he's not turning him away, and he's starting to feel (Heaven help him.) wanted.

"Dammit," Soda says, still not letting go of him. "I was scared we were never gonna see you again."

That does the trick. Beyond his control (or, at least, what he wants to imagine is his control), he hugs Soda back. He can count the number of hugs he's given on one hand. This is only the second, but it feels like it counts twice as much. As he and his old friend hold each other, he knows something. This isn't some temporary trip back to the old neighborhood. He's back for good. This won't be the first time Sodapop Curtis convinces him to stay where he's at, but he doesn't know that yet. All he knows is that he's fourteen years old, his friend is hugging him and he doesn't even care, and he's staying.

He's a few weeks closer to fifteen years old when he meets her.

She's something even before she speaks to him. She wears this pretty red dress that doesn't say she's got a lot of money back at home, but what money her folks do have, they use to spoil the hell out of her. She's short – the kind of short that could take you down in a second. She's got pretty dark hair that she doesn't do anything with except maybe run a brush through in the morning, and she's wearing bright red lipstick. He smirks to himself when he sees her red lipstick. It says so much about her even before she opens her mouth. Based on all the red she's wearing, he knows he's got her number: She dresses like a good girl and carries around a book like one, too. And maybe she is a good girl – sometimes. But her insides … her insides are all tough, and he wonders if she knows.

When she opens her mouth to call him out on his shit, he knows she knows.

"Relax, babe," he says. "I ain't gonna touch ya."

She folds her arms across her chest. He finds that makes him crazy. He cocks his head to the side and gets a better look at her that way. She really is pretty.

"Babe?" she repeats with so much vitriol it could kill him. "You don't even know my name."

"Well, that's kinda the point, babe," he stresses, and she winces. He loves it. He knows she's only wincing because she thinks she has to, but there's a look in her dark blue eyes that tells him she's enjoying this as much as he is. Some three years later, he'll find out for sure he's right, but it's not time for that yet. He doesn't even know her name, much less where she'll be three years from now. He still thinks three years from now, he'll be dead.

"What's the point?" she asks.

"It's a placeholder," he says. "I don't know your name, so babe's gotta do."

She rolls her eyes. He loves it.

"I'm Lucy," she says.

"Lucy," he repeats.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You know my name. Aren't you going to tell me yours?"

He laughs. It's adorable that she thinks this is how it works with him. He almost wants to break all the rules for her because she's so damn cute. But he doesn't. She's got to earn her way in, and he's going to make damn sure of it.

"Don't work that way," he says.

"That doesn't make sense," she says.

"Does around here, and it does with me. You'll find out who I am soon enough, Lucy."

There's a fire in her eyes at the slick sound of her name. He loves it. He wants to look at nothing but her eyes for the rest of his life, even if that is only the next three years. He's never seen a pair of eyes so much like those before.

"Ya know, I'm thinkin' about it," he says. "And I don't think I like your name too much."

"Well, it's my name," she says.

"And you can't have another in your life?"

Lucy's eyes change from harsh to shocked. He smirks. She didn't figure him for a guy who picked up a copy of The Crucible and read it in a couple of hours. Of course, he didn't figure himself for that kind of guy, but there he was.

"I don't believe you," he says. "You got a last name?"

"So, that's how you're going to handle this? I tell you my full name, but I don't get a single one of yours?"

He smirks again. He knew she was going to be tough, but he never thought she'd be this clever – this cynical. He loves it.

"Somethin' like that, yeah," he says.

"Why's that fair?" she asks.

"'Cause you're gonna want for me to call you something," he says. "Trust me."

"Why should I?"

"You shouldn't. But it could be fun."

Lucy narrows her eyes at him one more time. He loves it. He loves her eyes. If she could just look at him that way everyday until he died, he thinks he'd be … well, maybe this fucking neighborhood wouldn't be such a fucking drag. She's going to be something he can look forward to. He hopes Sadie will keep her around.

"Alright," she says. "It's Bennet."

His smirk turns into a full-on grin.

"Bennet," he repeats. "Yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

"I could get used to sayin' that. Bennet. Bennet. Bennet. Yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

"That's what I'm gonna call ya from now on."

Bennet snorts.

"What makes you think there's a 'from now on?'" she asks. "After the way you've already treated me in less than five minutes of my knowing you, why would I ever have you around ever again?"

His eyes flicker over to Sadie and Soda, who are engaged in some private twin talk of theirs again. He looks back at Bennet.

"Is she your new friend?" he asks. "Sadie?"

"Well, I don't know," Bennet says. "She seems alright. Why?"

"I'm in with her brothers. You keep this up with the sister, and you're gonna be seein' a lot of me, Bennet."

She looks horrified, and he claps her on the shoulder and walks away – but more like saunters. He swears he can feel her gaze watching him, but he doesn't dare turn around. He doesn't want her to get any ideas. All he wants is for her to figure out his name.

Then, maybe, she can go back to looking at him like that again.

It's the most alive he's felt since he's been back in Tulsa.

He's fifteen years old when he figures out he loves her.

And he's not stupid. He knows this is love. He also knows he's not supposed to love, so he doesn't say anything. He tries everyday to convince himself it's not true. But it doesn't work. He loves her, and he knows it. He figures it out one Thursday when he actually decides to show up to his English class.

There are two things in this world that he likes but will never admit to liking: literature and her. He's not sure when he decided he liked to read. He thinks it might have been during one of the many detentions he received as a child when the teacher plopped a book on his desk. He didn't have much better to do, and he kind of liked being able to go somewhere other than the old neighborhood. He liked how it made him smarter than the other guys, too. And when he finds out how much she likes to read, well, it just makes him like her even more. It scares the shit out of him, but he likes it. He likes her.

She's not in this class, of course. She's in the honors class with Sadie Curtis, who's so good at books and literature that her teachers moved her into the advanced high school class even though she's still at the junior high for most of the school day. The only reason Bennet's here today is because she's at the top of the honors class, and the teacher wants her to speak in front of the remedial class because Mr. Syme, the honors teacher, says she has something to say about something she notices or likes about The Taming of the Shrew.

It becomes clear early on that she does not like The Taming of the Shrew.

"I know this won't resonate with many of you," Bennet says, pacing up and down the small squares of tile at the front of the room, completely unaware of her audience and that people are snickering at her in the back of the class. He's one of them, but he's snickering at her because she's cute. The others are snickering at her because she's passionate about the fact that she's smart, and in this neighborhood, that's not the kind of thing you want to be.

"But this play is incredibly sexist!" she says.

"Like when Bianca talks about shifting her bush?" someone shouts from the back of the room, and everyone laughs.

He's impressed. Someone actually read part of the play. It's unfortunate for Bennet that that was the part he chose to read, but hey – at least someone other than him had done the reading this time. He always does the reading. He just doesn't show up to take the tests. They're not worth his time. They're not worth anybody's time, including Bennet's, but he can't imagine telling her that.

Bennet turns red at the kid's comment, and he can't tell if she's embarrassed or angry. It's probably both. She's tough, but he can tell there's just enough innocence about her to make her squirm. It's going to be fun.

"Not sexy," she says, gritting her teeth. Her two front teeth stick out and turn in just a little bit. He finds it … he's not sure what the word is, but he loves it.

"Sexist," she says. "It means that women are treated terribly in this play."

"And how are we supposed to treat 'em?"

There are more laughs. None of them come from him. She balls her hands into fists, and he doesn't even think she realizes that's what she's doing. He loves it. She's much tougher than she's trying to be. He hopes one day, she drops the act and is just tough all the time. He thinks she'd be better off, and somewhere inside herself, he thinks she knows that, too. He's enjoying this. He had no idea she was coming to speak to his class today, but he's glad this is the day he chose to show up.

Bennet looks toward the teacher, who offers meager support to Syme's star student.

"Lucy, why don't you go over some of the examples you prepared?" she asks.

Bennet glances down at her notes, and there is a fire in those dark blue eyes of hers once again. He loves it. He likes to think he knows what she's thinking. I prepared examples, she's probably thinking. You didn't prepare me to speak in front of the biggest assholes in this school. Whose fault is that? He wishes, in a way, that he could save her, but it's not within his jurisdiction. His jurisdiction is to sit back and watch her fail – fail and get pissed off. And when she does, he's going to love it. She's so pretty when she's riled up.

She's pretty now that she's riled up about Shakespeare, too.

"Open your books to Act IV, Scene V," she says, as though anyone in this class has remembered their books (He has, but he's not going to take it out and ruin the illusion for anyone.). "This is the scene wherein Petruchio attempts to convince Katharina that the sun is the moon, and old men are budding virgins."

"Are you a budding virgin?" someone asks.

There are more laughs, but she doesn't react this time. She just reads.

"'I say it is the moon / I know it is the moon. / Nay, then you lie: It is the blessed sun,'" she reads the exchange between the two. "Do you see what's going on here? She says she knows something, with absolute conviction, but as soon as the woman knows something, he changes it on her because he's a man. That's his supposed right."

"You're damn right!"

Bennet keeps going. She reads the whole monologue where Katharina submits to Petruchio's will. And as she explains why that's sexist, wrong, and downright vile, he can't help but figure she'd never do anything like that. She'd never tell a guy that the moon was the sun just to get him off her back. It bothered and impressed the hell out of him at the same time. He couldn't stop thinking about how tough her will was. People were heckling Bennet like the classroom was a shitty comedy club back in New York, but she doesn't give one single fuck. She just keeps talking. Every now and then, she locks eyes with him near the middle of the classroom because he's the only person in the room she recognizes. She scowls a little, and he wonders if she knows he's listening. He'd never take notes or anything. He's got a reputation to keep up. But he's listening. He loves to listen to her.

As he sees how tough she is, how much she resists the jackasses' heckling, he realizes that he's never met another broad like her before. He knows that's cliché. He's read enough books and seen enough movies over Ponyboy Curtis's shoulder to know that. But he can't help what's true, and this is. There are tough broads in the neighborhood, but this one's different. She could start a fight if she ever wanted to, but she didn't have to. She's smart enough to talk you out of a fight. He thinks this makes her more lethal than maybe anyone he's ever met.

"In conclusion," she finally says, clearing her throat and well aware that a good presenter never finishes a presentation with something as dry as in conclusion, "this is the importance of closely reading literature while keeping abreast of the historical moment in which the text dwells. Thank you."

Her words are sharp, and she sucks the air out of the room. Some of the jackasses in there understand that this broad isn't to be trifled with. He knows, too, but he's going to trifle with her, anyway. It's a lot of fun.

The teacher tiredly thanks Bennet for her speech, and he suddenly realizes that the speech must have been Syme's idea. Bennet says it's her pleasure with a voice so acidic anyone could tell she doesn't mean it. On her way out of the classroom, she does something that shocks the hell out of him. She stops at his desk and drums her fingernails on it without making eye contact with him. He smirks. It's no surprise her fingernails are bright red.

He looks up at her, feeling helpless for the first time since that night on the kitchen floor.

"Thank you," she says. Her words cut.

"For what?" he asks. His words flop.

But she doesn't answer. She leaves the room without a sound, as though she expects him to know exactly what she means. He does. He has a feeling they're always on the same page, even if she doesn't want to be.

She leaves the room, and he can't deny it anymore. He's in love with her. He loves her. He loves Bennet.

And he's got to spend the rest of his life staying the fuck away from her.

He's sixteen years old when he realizes he can't make himself feel that way about Sylvia.

And it's not like he expected to feel that way about her. He can hardly believe he feels that way about Bennet, but there he was. Ever since that day in his English class, he's known that Bennet is too fucking good for him, and he has to stay the hell away from her. Of course, that doesn't stop him from sneaking tubes of bright red lipstick in her locker when he overhears her say to Sadie and Jane Randle that she's running low, and her folks won't buy her a new one until her next birthday. But that's different. She doesn't have to know it's him. He can sneak things into her locker all he wants and still stay away from her.

(He's not so great at staying away from her, either, but he hopes she doesn't notice.)

In truth, Sylvia is too good for him, too. She's clever, she's pretty, and she's tough as hell. She's even tougher than Steve's chick, and that's a girl he wants on his side in a rumble if they ever let girls in on them. The difference between Bennet and Sylvia is that Sylvia doesn't think she's good enough for him or anybody. He knows that's fucked up, but he's not sure he cares. She gives him what he thinks he needs, and that's got to be enough for the rest of his life – whatever's left of it, anyway.

He wouldn't be surprised if Sylvia knows that he loves Bennet instead of her. He tries to keep it to himself, but there's a part of him that knows he does a real shitty job of it. When the two of them ran into Bennet with Sadie and Jane down at Jay's on Bennet's sixteenth birthday, and he teased her by holding that Coke over her head, he saw the look in Sylvia's eye. It made him feel like shit for a second or two. He's not sure how much Sylvia likes him and how much Sylvia is using him for what she needs, but he also knows that doesn't really matter. When your steady makes eyes at somebody else, you get jealous about it. That's just the way it goes. He's well aware that Sylvia steps out on him every chance she gets, and as much as he doesn't put up a fight, there's a little something inside of him that wants to. But he knows better than that. He lies about it to Shepard and the other guys all the time, but he's never going to hit a girl – not when he's seen a girl get hit and taken the brunt of it on her behalf. Plus, he can't really blame the broad for two-timing him. He's been two-timing her since before they ever met. He'll be two-timing whomever he goes with next because nothing's stopped him from loving Bennet now. He can't see anything stopping him in the future, either.

He and Sylvia are down at the Dingo so they can make out in front of Shepard. He can't explain it. It's a territory thing. It's not like Shepard's ever wanted Sylvia (not particularly, anyway – he's seventeen, and all seventeen-year-old guys want all girls), but he likes to brag about how he can get chicks as well as anybody else. But tonight's different. Sylvia decides she's hungry.

"Get me a hot dog," she says.

"I'm gonna," he says back.

"The kind you can eat."

"Uh-huh."

"You want me bitin'?"

He grumbles something unintelligible, and he walks to the concessions to get the girl a hot dog. His heart just about stops when he sees Bennet in line ahead of him. And to think – he was going to cut the line before he saw her.

"Bennet," he says.

"Go away," she says and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

He loves it.

"Look, I ain't the one bein' rude here," he says. "You're the one who's avoidin' me."

"You're not one that someone has to be kind to," she says. "I don't find myself often showing compassion to the merciless."

"See, you think that makes ya sound like a poet, but it just makes ya sound like an asshole."

She looks at him, stunned and offended. He bites his lip to keep from laughing.

"I wouldn't lie to you," he says.

"That's exactly what a villain would say," she says.

"Ah, see, but this ain't one of them storybooks you're always carryin' around," he says. His eyes float down to the book in her hands. He knows there's going to be one. With Bennet, there's always a book. He reads the title.

"Paradise Lost," he says.

"Yes," Bennet says. "It's by John Milton. And it's not a book, it's a play, written in poems, so …"

"'Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven.'"

Her eyes are shocked again. He loves it. He wants her to look at him that way until he dies.

"How did you…?"

"Don't fuckin' matter. Why're you bringin' a book to a drive-in movie, anyway? It's dark out here. You can't see the fuckin' words."

"I'd tell you, but it would take too long to explain."

"Nerd's only a four-letter word."

"And fuck you is a seven-letter phrase."

He has to ball his hand into a fist to keep from … well, he's not sure what he'd do. He's not the kind of guy who just kisses a girl out of the blue. He's not romantic. But with her … he isn't sure what happens to him. He turns into some kind of fool, and he hates it. But damn, if he doesn't love her silver tongue.

"You're cruel, ya know that?" he asks.

"At least I don't beat people up for sport," she says.

"For sport? Oh, Bennet, you make me laugh. I don't beat people up unless they deserve it."

She narrows those eyes at him, and he eases off a bit.

"And sometimes, my entertainment is what makes 'em deserve it," he says.

"I knew it," she says.

"Oh, come on! You're tellin' me you've never popped another girl good? Right square in the face? Maybe in the jaw?"

She gives him a look that suggests she has. He hopes that he'll live long enough to hear her tell the tale.

"What I do is none of your business," she says.

"You're right," he says. "It ain't. But one day, it's gonna be."

"And what makes you so sure?"

"Well, for somebody who claims to hate my fuckin' guts, you've continued to stand here, talkin' to me. And instead of stepping forward in this line, you're stickin' awful close."

Bennet realizes how close she's standing to him, and he can tell she's equal parts horrified and thrilled to be this close to him. She frowns and takes one giant step ahead of him in line. He chuckles and gives her the space she needs. She'll come back eventually.

He watches her open the book in line and read while she waits. He could stand like this forever. She looks so pretty when she reads, especially when she's reading while angry. She gets this little crease in between those eyes. It's a concentration crease. He'd be content to stand in this line and watch Bennet read all night.

But then she's got her popcorn, he's next in line, and he's got no choice but to bring Sylvia's hot dog back to her. It's better this way. After all, Shepard would give him hell for making out with a girl like Bennet, and he wants to be the one giving Shepard hell instead.

It's unsatisfying, though, when he knows she's out in the yard there somewhere, not giving him a second thought.

He's seventeen years old when he's taking a late-night walk with Two-Bit.

Two-Bit's got a couple of rocks in his hands, and he thinks maybe that should worry him. After all, Two-Bit's piss drunk, and nothing ever works out when Two-Bit's piss drunk. But he doesn't think about that. He thinks about how pretty Bennet looked in her blue dress at the Curtis house earlier that day. She's been over there a lot since Mr. and Mrs. Curtis died; as a result, he's been over there a lot more, too. He wonders if anyone's noticed. He knows Soda has.

"Kathy's gonna break up with me again," Two-Bit says.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah. It's her favorite thing to do. It's like a knock-knock joke, only I ain't laughin'."

"Well, that's what happens when your steady's got the same name as your kid sister."

"That ain't true! Katie's name's Katherine. Kathy's name's Kathleen. Completely different names."

"You're not real complicated, are ya, Two-Bit?"

"Nope."

That's not true, but he's seventeen and more selfish than he's ever been. He doesn't know who anyone is, and he doesn't care. He thinks he's going to die soon, anyway, so why should he bother?

"Ya know what?" Two-Bit asks.

"I don't know," he says. "What?"

"Lucy was lookin' real pretty earlier. Don't ya think?"

His heart stops. He hates that feeling, but it happens any time someone says her name.

"I dunno, man," he says. "I don't really think too much about her."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well, I think she was lookin' mighty good. Blue's a good color on her. Brings out her eyes."

And if he were Sodapop Curtis, maybe he'd agree. But he wasn't. He wasn't the kind of guy who shared his thoughts about a broad's eyes with another guy. Maybe one day, he would be, but he didn't see it as very realistic. He didn't want anybody to know what he felt. The last time somebody knew what he felt, he found himself half dead on the old man's kitchen floor.

"'F Kathy goes and breaks up with me, like I think she's gonna," Two-Bit says, "I dunno. Maybe I'll give it a shot with Lucy."

He grits his teeth. It's instinctual. He hates that. Other instincts, he loves. The instinct to fight. The instinct to screw. But whatever instinct he has about Bennet … all he's ever wanted to do is fight it. He wants to fight it and give into it at the same time. He hopes she's worth the shit she puts him through without even having a clue.

"I dunno," he says. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, man."

"Why not?" Two-Bit asks. "She's a good-lookin' chick, ain't she?"

"You never go for brunettes," he says and thinks back to the way Violet tore him the hell up at Jay's about a year earlier. She'd dyed her hair brown after that since she knew how much Two-Bit liked blondes.

"Might start goin' for 'em. Ain't no blonde's worked out for me yet."

It's unclear whether or not Two-Bit remembers how he treated Violet that night. He certainly doesn't remember getting into that fight with Dally. He knows he got beat up that night, but he doesn't know it was one of his own laying into him like that. He wonders what would happen if Two-Bit ever finds out the truth. Maybe he'd understand. He's got a kid sister of his own, and if anyone ever treated her the way he treated Violet that night, he'd be well within his rights to beat the shit out of the guy.

For a moment, he envies the closeness that Two-Bit has with his kid sister. But in the next moment, he's over it. If Violet wanted him in her life – for real – she'd call.

He doesn't deserve Violet's call. Not after leaving her in the old man's house like that.

"I'm just sayin'," he says. "Bennet's a real smart ass. You've failed, what? A hundred grades?"

"Somethin' like that," he says.

"She'd tear you apart. If any guy could stand to be with Bennet, it'd have to be a guy who's so smart, he could talk the cops into thinkin' he did some shit he didn't even do."

And Two-Bit's drunk as hell, but he's paying more attention than he's ever paid before.

"Fuck," Two-Bit says. "You in love with Lucy?"

"Yeah," he answers without missing a beat. He figures Two-Bit's piss drunk, and he won't remember any of this in an hour, much less the next day. He can get away with this. Besides, it feels good to finally say it. He's in love with her. He's been in love with her even before he learned her name. He's sick of keeping it to himself.

"Figures," Two-Bit says. "You're the only one of us who's smart enough for her, ya know?"

"Yeah," he says.

He realizes where they are. They're in front of the high school, and Two-Bit's picking up more pebbles in his hands, giggling all the way. He realizes what he's about to do, and he's not up for it. But he's seventeen and more selfish than he's ever been, so he doesn't say anything.

"I don't think I'm real into Lucy, anyway," Two-Bit says and rolls a rock between two of his fingers. "You're right. She knows more right now than I ever will."

"Damn right," he says.

"Plus, 'f I'm bein' honest …"

"Since when is a petty thief ever honest?"

"'F I'm bein' honest, I'd like to see what Lilly's all about. She's a little young, though."

His blood boils. Never stopped you before, he thinks.

"'F I was courtin' Lilly Cade, I'd be real romantic about it," Two-Bit says. "I'd stand outside her window and throw rocks to get her to open it and talk to me. Just like this."

He chucks one rock at the window, and it shatters. Two-Bit turns around and laughs hysterically. He takes a step back and tries not to associate himself with the pranks of lesser hoods.

"Romeo!" Two-Bit says. "Romeo!"

"She wouldn't be Romeo, you dumbass," he says. "Romeo's the guy. Juliet's the broad."

"What do you know? You readin' fancy books to impress Lucy?"

He doesn't say anything, but in part, yes. That's true.

He throws another rock into another window. It shatters, too. He's still laughing. He's laughing so long and so hard that he doesn't even notice the cops drive up, sirens and all. When he does, his eyes go wide, and he's suddenly sober.

"Oh, shit!" Two-Bit says. "What is this? Some kinda movie?"

"This is where we live," he says, bored out of his skull. He'll leave in a moment. He doesn't want to get mixed up in this. It's not worth it.

"I can't get hauled in," Two-Bit says. His voice is shaking a bit. "I can't get arrested. I broke these fuckin' windows, and I'm drunk as hell! They'll send me to jail. Ninety days or more."

"Happens."

"No, man, you don't understand! My mom's workin' real late nights at the bar these days. I know my sister Katie's gettin' older now, but I don't like thinkin' about her out there on her own while Mom's at work. I'm the one who takes the most care of her. I can't get thrown in the cooler, man. What's Katie gonna do if she ain't got me?"

And suddenly, he flashes back to that night when he was eleven years old. He's on the kitchen floor, and Violet is screaming bloody murder. He got into that fight for Violet, and he forgot to take her out of hell. He hadn't been there for his kid sister. and even though Two-Bit had treated Violet like a piece of meat, that wasn't the point. He couldn't be there for his kid sister, but he was going to make damn sure that Two-Bit would be.

"Hide," he orders.

"What?" Two-Bit asks.

"Hide."

"But they'll make you take …"

"I know. I don't care. You hide. Take care of your sister."

"But …"

"Fuckin' go!"

Two-Bit runs away, and he's left standing there alone. The cops cuff him and take him away. It's worth it, he thinks. He gives the Mathews girl a chance that his own sister never had.

He's seventeen years old, more selfish than he's ever been, but he's a cool guy once you get to know him.

He's eighteen years old when he finds himself married to her.

The two of them never dated. They just sparred with their wits until Bennet couldn't take it anymore and fucked him upstairs at Buck's place on her birthday two weeks earlier. For two weeks, they spent every night together, and then, on the night of his eighteenth birthday, Sodapop and Sadie Curtis dared Bennet to propose to him.

When she asked him, he acted like he was only going through with it to prove a point. But that wasn't true. When he met Bennet years earlier, he thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life looking at her eyes. Now, he has the chance. He'll keep her guessing, of course – never quite sure whether or not he'll be there when she wakes up. Even though he feels like he'll never leave her, not really, he doesn't want to be that sure. He doesn't want to be tied down. He wants to be able to move around, but if he's going to attempt to settle, it might as well be with her.

Now, here they are: living in her folks' house, in her childhood bedroom. He'll never say so, but he secretly likes living with Dr. and Mrs. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet's a decent cook, and Dr. Bennet treats him like a man who commands respect and not like a hood who deserves the bottom of your shoe. They make him feel … comfortable, for the first time in his life. He realizes that maybe settling in a place isn't such a bad idea. Shepard will give him shit for it, but maybe he doesn't care. He's eighteen years old, he's not dead yet, and he thinks that might be for a reason.

It's early in the evening. Mrs. Bennet is making dinner – chicken biscuits, as she's learning to embrace what it means to be a Southern wife. Dr. Bennet thinks this is cute, but he gently reminds her that their family is from Connecticut.

"You ever been to Connecticut?" Dr. Bennet asks him.

He nods.

"Uh, once," he says. "When I was livin' in Brooklyn, I had to run somethin' up there once."

"What did you think of it?"

He shrugs. If he were a different kind of guy, he would have told him that he hated and loved what Connecticut was all at the same time. Connecticut was the whitest and richest place he'd ever seen, and he hated that. He didn't recognize a single place for himself in there. Sure, he's white, but he's not rich, and that counts for more than anything in America, he realizes. But there was something about Connecticut that was real nice, too. It seemed like a place where you could be part of a real family.

He hates that he never had one of those.

"It's pretty bland," Dr. Bennet says, hearing many of his thoughts without even trying. "We've lived in much more interesting places. Lucy?"

Bennet puts her book down and wanders into the tiny kitchen. She brushes his arm on her way in, and the hairs on his arms stand up straight. She's his wife, and she still makes him feel like a little kid. It's pitiful.

"Yeah, Dad?" she asks.

"Tell your husband about living in the middle of Motown," Dr. Bennet says.

"It's very cool," Bennet says. "We were out to lunch one day in downtown Detroit …"

"Did ya wanna get shot?" he asks. He's never been to Detroit, but he's heard enough never to want to go there. He's starting to value being alive by the minute. Every minute he stays alive is a minute he gets to see Bennet and those eyes.

"We were in the middle of downtown Detroit, having lunch," Bennet says, "and we saw Smokey Robinson. Just right there!"

"It was very impressive," Dr. Bennet concurs. "Lucy and I had just been talking about how much we like that song, 'Shop Around.'"

"Yeah, nothing cool like that happens in Tulsa," Bennet says. "I mean, unless you consider Tim Shepard a celebrity, which I think a lot of people do, so …"

"People consider me a celebrity, too," he says.

Bennet smiles. She can read him like a fucking book. She knows exactly what he means when he says that. He's cool with it. If anyone's going to know him that well, it might as well be her.

"Well, pretty much every place we've lived in before this one is more exciting," Bennet says. "Mmm, except the little town we lived in when my dad was working in Northwest Ohio. Nothing happened there."

"Really?" Dr. Bennet asks like he knows something his daughter isn't saying. "Nothing happened there?"

Bennet stares daggers at her father, and he knows there's a story there. He hopes Bennet keeps him around long enough to tell him the truth.

"So, Lucy," Dr. Bennet asks. "What were you reading out there?"

"Oh, nothing I haven't read before," Bennet says. "The Duchess of Malfi."

"A great play!"

Dr. Bennet turns to him now.

"Have you read it?" he asks.

He snorts.

"Man, I ain't read much," he lies, and he knows Dr. Bennet knows it's a lie. He caught him looking at his Jane Austen selection a few days earlier.

"Well," Dr. Bennet says. "It's a great play to read if you're going to be married to Lucy here. Why don't you tell him what it's about, honey?"

Bennet exhales.

"The Duchess of Malfi is by John Webster," she says. "The Duchess marries a man who's poorer than she is, but her brothers don't want that to happen. Things don't go well, but the Duchess holds her ground. She's a tough broad."

She smiles at him. It's clear she wants his approval for using a term from his vernacular instead of her own. He won't give it to her. He's too afraid of what will happen if she decides to divorce him first. He doesn't want to be too vulnerable in front of her if she's just going to leave him in the end. And yet, it's all he wants. He's a mess of contradictions when it comes to her. Maybe it's stupid to be inconsistent. He read something like that in one of Mrs. Bennet's newspapers. She always had it open to the advice column. He thinks that's simple and bullshit. People are inconsistent. If they're consistent, then they're not people – they're characters, and life isn't one of Dr. Bennet's books, as much as he might want it to be.

"You should read it," Dr. Bennet tells him. "You might like it."

"I'm not so sure I'm a book kinda guy," he says.

"Well, then, you're in luck," Bennet says. "It's not a book. It's a play."

The hairs on his arms stand straight up again. He looks at her, and she's smirking at him like the tough broad she really is. He can't believe what he hears. She remembers. She remembers the talk they had in line for concessions at the Dingo when they were sixteen.

He knows, somewhere inside of himself, that she's not going to leave him any time soon.

He knows, for the first time since they met, that she loves him, too.

He's nineteen years old when his daughter comes screaming into the world.

And he's not there when it happens. Men aren't allowed in delivery rooms, which Bennet tells him is fair because women aren't allowed anywhere else. She tells him about a club in Detroit that won't let women in to this day, and it's 1967 already. So, he feels OK about staying behind while she pushes the brat out.

He almost doesn't meet the brat, either, but Soda convinces him to turn around and meet her. He gives Soda the credit for uniting him with his daughter and for being a better old man than his own, but he knows Soda isn't the only one responsible. After all, he stuck around the whole time Bennet was pregnant, and he didn't have to do that. He's the one with the feet that were walking one way and then turned back around to walk another. Soda didn't do that. He'll make Soda feel special for the rest of their lives, and he'll smile when Bennet says that she wants Soda to be the kid's godfather because of it. But he's not the one responsible. He's responsible for his own actions. He's nineteen years old, and this is the first time he's figuring that out.

It turns out he kind of likes the kid. When he holds her, he feels something different than he's ever felt before. It's not love – and how can it be? This kid might have half of his DNA, but he's not exactly crazy about that inside himself. It seems selfish to give half of it away to this kid who never did anything, much less anything wrong. But he doesn't love her. He doesn't love her because he doesn't know her, and she doesn't know him. She's only minutes old. Maybe he'll stick around long enough to love her and keep it a secret, just like he does with her mother. The feeling he has when he holds the kid in his arms is promising, to say the least. He feels drawn to her. He feels connected to her in a way that he's only felt connected to Violet before.

Bennet names the kid Elinor, after a character from the Jane Austen novel, Sense and Sensibility, which is one of her favorite books of all time. But he fucks up and spells her name the way he hears it in his head, so she ends up being named Elenore. Bennet laughs and accepts it. She's a baby with a misspelled name, and she's going to be OK with that. Maybe they'll start a trend. He hopes not. He wants the kid to be unique.

He can't believe he actually had a thought like that. How much time has he spent around Sodapop Curtis lately, anyway?

Elenore is about a month old when he discovers he loves her, just like he loves her mother. Bennet is away from the apartment above the bookstore for a little while. She's visiting Sadie. He's the one who told her to. He's a little bit shocked she agreed to that. They've known each other along time now, he figures. At least to her, he's proven himself to be the kind of guy who would never hurt a baby … especially if the baby is his.

Elenore almost never cries, despite the fact that she's about a month old. She drinks her milk when he gives it to her, and she seems content to look up at the ceiling. It seems like she's reading the ceiling. He wouldn't be surprised if that's really what she's trying to do. She's got a mother who reads like no other, and her father's known to pick up a book (or ten) when no one else is looking. This kid's going to be smarter than both of them because she is both of them.

He stands over her crib and looks at her. He can't believe what he sees. She looks just like Bennet. She's got Bennet's hair, Bennet's dark blue eyes, and Bennet's tiny nose. Her mouth turns up in an impish grin just like Bennet's does, too. But all of a sudden, her mouth turns down. And he realizes what Soda said weeks earlier. Elenore looks just like her old lady, but damn, if she doesn't frown just like her old man.

He laughs, and instinctively (an instinct he doesn't even bother to fight), he picks the baby up and out of her crib.

"C'mon, kid," he says. "I don't think ya wanna sleep, do ya?"

She murmurs something, and he takes that as a yes to his question. He takes a seat on the bed with the baby – Elenore – on his knee. He spots Bennet's anthology of Victorian poetry on the bed. She was studying it for school the night before.

"You want me to read to ya?" he asks.

Elenore murmurs again, and he uses it as an excuse to see what Bennet's been up to. He picks up the book and reads, staring with the place Bennet must have left off the night before.

"'Morning and evening / Maids heard the goblins cry: / 'Come buy our orchard fruits, / Come buy, come buy …'"

He realizes the poem is long as hell, but he reads the whole thing, anyway. As he reads, the baby in his arms – his baby, his Elenore – is so gentle and attentive. Well-behaved. He can't believe how much she's already like her mother.

He loves her. He's a father who loves his daughter.

He lives to see the day.

He's thirty-seven years old when his daughter graduates from high school.

Elenore isn't valedictorian – that honor goes to her boyfriend, John Webber. She's not salutatorian, either – that honor goes to her former best friend and awkward enemy, CeCe. No, Elenore, just like her old lady before her, graduates third in her class. She's bitter about it because she doesn't get to give a speech. Bennet nudges him on the way to the ceremony and says something about history repeating itself. He's brave enough to smile this time. That's exactly why Bennet had been mad about placing in third back in '66.

He watches his daughter get the diploma he never got, and as she turns around, turns her tassel, and smiles at them, Bennet grabs his knee. He doesn't have to ask what it means. Everyday, he feels guilty for not showing up to Bennet's high school graduation. At the time, he said it was because it wouldn't look tuff to show up to a graduation ceremony. That was only partially true. The bigger reason was that he was a little resentful. He was smart enough to have graduated high school, and he never did. Watching Bennet would have just reminded him of what he'd been too cool to do. He never told anyone that, and he never would. But he had a feeling that Bennet always knew.

But he's here now, watching Elenore graduate, and he couldn't be prouder of her. He never expected to have a kid and be in the kid's life, but he's glad he's part of Elenore's. She's not the kid he ever would have expected. She's well-behaved, she's sweet, and oh Lord, is she ever a nerd. He never expected to have a kid and be involved in her life, but once he committed himself to Elenore, he never expected her to walk around saying things like, "Help me, Daddy-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope" and "I have the death sentence on twelve systems!" He doesn't always understand her, but he always loves her. He's loved her since they read poetry together.

After the ceremony, he and Elenore look at each other. She's beaming, and he's smiling – trying to keep himself from grinning too wide. He might be a father, but he still values his cool. She gives him that look (a look for desperate approval, one she must have learned from her Curtis godparents).

"Well," she says. "You proud of me, Daddy-Wan Kenobi?"

And he doesn't care who sees. Not anymore. He reaches out and holds his daughter – Bennet's daughter, the daughter he shares with his wife whom he loves so fucking much – close to him.

"Yeah, kid," he murmurs. "I'm real proud."

He can't believe it. It's the first time he thinks the word and doesn't recoil after it.

Happy, he thinks. This is happy.

And there's that! It's angst! It's fluff! It's romance! It's … well, it's me. Thanks for putting up with this one. It's incredibly indulgent, but trust me. I need that right now

Hinton owns The Outsiders. I reference The Crucible, a play by Arthur Miller, as well as John Webster's play, The Duchess of Malfi, and Star Wars (1977). I quote William Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew, John Milton's Paradise Lost, and Christina Rossetti's poem, "Goblin Market," which I have an embarrassing story about. All quoted texts are in the public domain, but I don't own them anyway. I own this very cute sticker with an X-Wing on it.