I'm tempted to quit the job. It's a shitty, cowardly thing to contemplate as I drag a razor down my cheeks the next morning, cuss when I nick myself in a way I haven't since I first started shaving— those same guys laughing their asses off at me are still going to remember I'm a sucker if I don't show, except I'll be twice the sucker for running away instead of facing it like a man. That's the mantra I keep repeating as I stare myself down in the mirror, my eyes, habitually, skating over the scar. What gets me out of the house, in the end, is that Darrel put his own neck on the line to recommend me, and that bailing would just be the icing on the cake of shit I've given him in return for an act of kindness I'm sure he's regretted a hundred times over. When you've got nothing left to do, you can always do your duty.

I shouldn't have hit Darry. Throughout my childhood I learned, through years of long and harsh experience, that the best comeback was silence and the best revenge was your absence. Nothing I said would exonerate me, only dig me in deeper, and there was nothing that got under my mama's skin worse than me just standing there, a smirk on my face, while she raged with every impotent bit of anger buried inside of her. She was beneath my notice, beneath my contempt. I wasn't really there at all.

And that was the best I could've come up with, having a public meltdown so bad I had to be dragged off the scene? Confirming, beyond any doubt, that it was true? Maybe Luis was right, exposure to these people is making me soft, and I flick the light switch off a little too hard before I can talk myself out of it again.

I don't hate myself quite enough to be able to keep working with Darry, though. Even if I don't have the seniority to insist on some kind of transfer, then I can at least appeal to Darrel's common sense— his little experiment trying to make us friends again failed miserably, no matter how many variables he adjusted. Next time, we're going to end up causing serious property damage, not just smashing each other's thick skulls in. Which is why I can't believe my eyes when Darry comes over to me by the water cooler and lets the words 'I'm real sorry, Tim, that was fucked up' drop from his lips. Not a shred of sarcasm or irony in it either, which makes me even more suspicious.

I peer over his shoulder for him, make a show out of scanning the whole lot to see where he is, and I'm shocked the boss man's not standing right there, making sure Darry didn't sneak any digs in. Maybe he mistimed his cue. "Your daddy ain't here yet, don't worry, you've still got a few minutes."

"I'm not apologizing because he made me," Darry says, looking like he's over-conscious of how much space he takes up for the first time, and wants to make himself smaller. "It's the right thing to do— I know better, I don't say shit like that. To anyone, even you. But yeah, he laid into me on the way home, you ain't wrong."

I survey him pretty carefully, once, then again to make sure I haven't missed anything. Takes my mind off the whole even you jab, which at least reassures me it's still Darry and that he hasn't been replaced by a pod person. "You don't look no worse for wear." Save what I did to him yesterday, anyway. I'm not convinced he won't have a bump on his nose to rival mine, once it heals proper.

"He didn't hit me," he says like that's a self-evident truth, barely refrains from rolling his eyes. "Was hollerin' at me plenty, though, 'bout how he thought he raised me better, how he better not ever catch me throwin' somethin' like that in Dally or Steve's faces, how just because I grew up in a nice family, that didn't make me better than anyone else—"

"And?"

"And I asked him why he didn't have half those decibels to go around when Soda said he wanted to drop out of high school, or when Dallas got arrested for grand theft auto. While I'm here gettin' the third degree for sayin' something rude, to someone he barely even knows."

"... I still ain't convinced you weren't forced to apologize. Nothing you're sayin' right now is convincing me otherwise, you want me to be real honest."

"Y'all just think he's so perfect." I didn't realize it was possible to pour a cup of water aggressively before I watched him do it, then gulp it down in one go, his throat pulsing. "You and Dallas— I guess I get it, you don't have a dad, and his would've sold him for smack money a long time ago if anyone was a willing buyer. But he ain't. Trust me."

"How come you ain't gone to college yet, if you can't stand bein' around him so much?" It's not the most polite question in the world, but I've never been famed for my good manners. "Not like I know how much it costs, but you been workin' and all, ain't you? And got that scholarship?"

He clenches his jaw so hard, I'm concerned about the state of his teeth. "Because I blew all the money I saved in high school on a brand new truck— stop fucking laughing, you know who I was friends with, they never would've let me hear the end of it if I was rolling around town in some rustbucket." I should've known that sweet little Chevy truck wasn't a gift, who the hell would blow their cash on giving a sixteen-year-old something like that, who wasn't already the heir to an oil fortune? "So that was the end of that, and Dad couldn't front me what was left over after the scholarship—" I get the sense there's more to this story than what he's telling me— "so I figured I'd work a little and save up, but—"

"But?"

"I mean..." He fidgets with his shirt collar. "Look, it's a lot easier at home now, with two people bringing in paychecks— I mean, Soda's got a job, but it's part-time and he blows all the money on hair grease and girls. And Mom's started watching some little neighbor kids for spare cash, but she's not exactly milkin' her friends for it either, you dig? Dad ain't thrilled, digging into my paychecks, but I'm not just gonna hoard everything for myself. Wouldn't feel right.

"It's just that they're really startin' to get a little too comfortable," he says next, and that's the Darry Curtis we all know and love.

"They shakin' you down for every cent you got now?" I can sure relate to that one, unfortunately, not just from my kid siblings, who want the latest record or lipstick without the trouble of having to lift it. Often enough, my mama's the worst offender.

"I mean, I'm basically Santa Claus at this point," he just goes on ranting, "everyone needs something from me, and there goes the savings account. Mom wants to remodel the kitchen because she's embarrassed to bring her bridge club around, with the leak in the ceiling we can't patch properly, and then she's looking at new furniture that's less beat-up too. Soda's up my ass buggin' me to help him get his own truck, and I'm damn near close to doin' it, just so he'll quit beggin' to borrow mine every weekend. Jasmine wants new clothes that don't come from the consignment store or Mom's closet, she can't wear the boys' hand-me-downs. 'Bout the only one who ain't botherin' me at this point is Ponyboy, and that's 'cause the library's free and tickets to the movies are only a buck twenty-five each." He pauses for a moment. "Should tell him sometime that he's my favorite, but he already knows. How come you ain't gone by now, huh? Didn't take you for one to stick around past eighteen."

"Gotta look after the kids a while longer," I say, and he knows why. "Besides, I couldn't afford it, keepin' a separate roof over my head and a roof over theirs."

"You can't even afford some slumlord's apartment, pushin' drugs?"

"I mean... I don't just get to keep the money I make," I explain to him slowly, like he's ten or something. "I don't deal with suppliers— Luis does. I sell the product, then I give the money back to him, and he gives us our cut later." Whatever he decides our cut should be, that is.

"Can't you just... not give him all the cash, at the end of the day?" Darry asks, and now he's playing a dangerous game. He's lucky his daddy got him out of this before he ever did more than push grass to kids at our middle school. "Put some of it in your own pocket?"

"Yeah, I tried that once, wanted to get the kids decent Christmas presents." I'm making myself sound a little more sympathetic than I deserve to come off— no small amount of what I siphoned went to packs of Kools and a new switchblade. "Worked for a little while, then he started doin' some more careful calculations. He whooped the hell out of me, trust me, I didn't try it again."

That was back when I was around Curly's age, and Luis still wanted to play the father to me, more embarrassing than anything. Darry looks at me with blatant pity, which just makes me uncomfortable and itchy. "What, you never get the belt, Boy of the Year?" I snort to try to make myself seem a little less of an incorrigible JD. "Like I didn't hear your daddy on the porch the other day, threatening to smack Ponyboy into next week."

"Oh please," Darry says, rolling his eyes, "Ponyboy got grounded for the weekend, Mom and Dad's baby ain't never in trouble. And let's just say I never got it for stealin' cash to buy my kid siblings Christmas presents— that's like somethin' out of a Charles Dickens book, Jesus Christ. How the hell is it fair you're the one out on the street and you have to settle for whatever pocket money he's handing out?"

"Your daddy's boss drives a nicer car than your daddy does, lemme guarantee that."

"Don't mention that to him, or he might just start dragging you to his union meetings— he's already got Dallas trapped," he says, then sighs. "We're too close, that's the problem... I spend all day with him at work, then I spend all night with him at home, we never get a damn break from each other. It'd be a waste of money, but I'm thinkin' of moving out, maybe one of the guys on this crew needs a roommate or something. Can't even hear myself think anymore, six people jammed into our house, and that's even without Dally or Johnny or Steve on our couch half the time."

"Hell, you're startin' to make it sound like we should sign a lease together," I say, and he actually snorts out a laugh. When I cut ties, I cut them for good. I'm sure as shit not the kind of guy who apologizes easily, or much at all— once we've fallen out, you might as well be dead to me, for all I care what happens to you anymore. I'm a little disturbed by how easily, after five minutes of talking, I can manage to fall back into camaraderie with someone— even him.

"Tim, Ma says you have to give me five bucks," Curly's already accosting me the second I come in through the front door. Not so much as a please thrown in there. "Since you're workin' now and all."

I kneel down to unlace one of my boots. "You want cash, you can go ask Tío Luis for it before you start diggin' through my pockets, how 'bout it? What d'you need that much for, anyway, lose money you don't have at poker?"

Not that likely. Kid's barely a teenager and he can already wipe me out, it embarrasses me to admit. His face never moves an inch.

"She says I have to pay Ponyboy if he's tutorin' me, she's not gonna have me hangin' around the Curtis place empty-handed, when their mama thinks her shit don't stink." He wobbles on one leg like a colt just figuring out how to walk. "Mrs. C's real nice, though— she bakes me and Ponyboy cookies and banana bread when we study. It's his daddy who doesn't like me."

I can't even tell if it's because he's constantly eyeing his only daughter or because he's constantly smoking up his son. "What's Ponyboy chargin' such high rates for all of a sudden, huh?" Then a suspicion dawns on me. "If you think I'm just handin' over my money for you two to be gettin' high—"

"We wouldn't do that at his house," Curly says witheringly— just at ours, I guess. "We're doin' work, for real, he's helpin' me out. Look—" he fishes a crumpled, dirty piece of paper out of his back pocket— "I got a C- on my physical science test."

My first instinct is to say something sarcastic, but that's... well, not only counterproductive, but a little more unkind than even I'm willing to be to Curly. He listened to what I told him, for about the first time in his life, and a C- is better than the row of F's he was bringing home before— besides, though he was being a little brat the other day, I really did take what he said to heart, that I was hardly topping the class myself. "You keep this up, you might just start passin', kid," I say, and give him a rough rub on the head in my best attempt at showing affection; that's when I pull out my wallet.

I still suspect he's trying to play me— Curly's sneaky and he likes to consider himself charming, but five bucks is a decent chunk of change, and I refuse to believe the Curtises, who are thinking about things like college and remodelling their kitchen instead of keeping the lights on, would ask for that much or let Ponyboy walk off with it if he had the audacity. But I'm feeling generous, and to be honest, I'm not really in the mood after a day of work to nickel and dime him. "Here," I say as I peel out a five, "don't think you're getting nothin' good for Christmas, though."

He smiles at me, which almost makes the hole in my wallet worth it— if he ever manages to make it up to the B range, I'm going to owe Ponyboy a steak dinner. I might just get to hear a thank you, but then the doorbell goes off and he's always the first to run to it. "Hey, doll," he says in... God help me, what is that voice he's putting on? Does he think that comes off as suave? "What are you doin' here?"

I elbow him out of the doorway, it's Gabi, and if my kid brother thinks I'm competing with him for broads, I'm going to have to kill him. "Did somethin' happen?" I ask her and want to kick myself, maybe I need to take a few tips from Curly after all. I didn't expect to see her, and especially not at my house when I'm in desperate need of a shower, either— and she looks... hot. I mean, not to say that she doesn't always look hot, but she's really amped it up today— dramatic dark eye makeup, wearing a white dress that ends above her knees, her hair curling over one shoulder. I have drywall caked to my forehead. My mouth is a little dry as I blink at her, but then I get a good look at Curly again before he slinks off. "Wait, that's my sweatshirt, you little asshole, do I have to embroider property of Tim Shepard on everything I own to keep you from stealing it—"

"It's one lousy sweatshirt, you're such a dick, all of mine have holes and Soda lets Ponyboy wear his stuff—" he hollers as I get him by the armpits and pull it off over his head, but his voice is muffled by the fabric as I almost suffocate him in the process.

"Tim, don't hit him." Gabi actually looks kind of alarmed as I spin around with a fistful of hair from Curly's greasy scalp; I'm not going to roll my eyes at her, but I'll admit it, I come close. This is character building for him. "Does he hit you a lot?"

"Yeah, all the time," Curly says, all wide-eyed innocence with the tiniest smirk in my direction, and I about smack him another one. Bonnie would've told him not to be so slow, and not to steal my shit besides, which is why he was never her biggest fan. "He never lets me borrow anything, neither—"

"Because he wrecks everything he touches—"

She ducks her head and laughs a little, and then she's looking me up and down in a way that makes me think she really could care less if I've showered or not. "I just wanted to see you," she says, and her tone is curiously shaky, "but if now's a bad time... is anyone else home?"

Now I'm shoving Curly out onto the porch. "Just him, an' not for long— go spend Ponyboy's five bucks on a new wardrobe, then, and don't be back before dark."

"Ain't you usually tellin' me—"

I slam the door in his face in lieu of an answer.

I'm a little embarrassed to show her my room— first of all, because it's not mine, only the duct-taped half I try to keep as far away from Curly's junk as possible. Second of all, because both of us were responsible for taping Playboy and Rogue cut-outs to the walls, but she doesn't even seem to notice as she sits down on my bed and straddles me— she's unbuttoning the top of her dress and pulling it off over her shoulders, and my pulse quickens beneath my skin as I realize where this is going. We haven't gotten real far yet, after our raging success of a first date, I haven't tried to push anything beyond slipping my hand up her sweater or cupping her behind— I might be an asshole, but I'm not that kind of asshole. But now she's hovering above me, awkward and self-conscious in lingerie with goosebumps rising on her upper arms, and she's the most beautiful thing I've seen in a long time as she goes in for a kiss.

"I really like you, Tim." That is not a sentence I've heard a lot in my life, but she says it all low and breathless as I unhook her lace bra with embroidered roses, cup one of her breasts once it's on the floor; she grinds further into my thigh, clumsily, like she's doing it on instinct. If I don't take off my pants in the next minute, it's going to get physically painful. She tugs at my shirt collar and I let her pull it over my head. "I think I want to go all the way... I mean, again."

I can't believe I'm about to sleep with a girl who calls it going all the way. I can't believe I'm so clueless I didn't even realize she was trying to seduce me. I can't believe I don't have a rubber in arm's reach and gave more than a millisecond's thought to just going for it anyway, because I didn't want to break free long enough to get one.

"Timothy Luis, just what the hell do you think you're doin' in here?"

There's nothing that can sink an erection quite like my mama's dulcet tones— I figured she was out, or at least passed out drunk, she was being so quiet. We spring apart like we've been scalded by each other, but it's pretty obvious we weren't hosting a book club. "Don't you ever knock?" I come out with instead of anything halfway intelligent, but in my defense, I was busy trying to shove my head into one of the arm holes of my shirt.

"I'm not knocking on any doors in my own house— which I guess you think is your own personal bordello now." She starts picking abandoned pairs of boxers off the floor on Curly's side, building up her anger like a hurricane picking up speed; figures that Ed committing assault and battery in the living room is beneath her notice, but this is what she wants to come down on. "I am sick and tired of this parade of half-dressed little skanks comin' in and out at all hours, skirts hiked up past their behinds, and with that woman pokin' around every twenty minutes— can you imagine if she'd walked in on this?"

"I'm a grown man," and don't I really seem like tough shit in front of my girl, arguing that while Ma's moved on to gathering up my dirty laundry and taking disgusted sniffs at my t-shirts. "You can't come in here and tell me what I can and can't—"

"You live under my roof, now you suddenly think you don't have to follow my rules, you can just fornicate wherever you please? You're grown now, huh?"

I'm about to point out who keeps that roof over her head, when Gabi's finally finished fastening her bra again and started sputtering out apologies. "Señora, I'm so sorry, we weren't thinking—"

"... Señora?" Ma stiffens like she just touched an electric fence. She looks the part, she speaks better Spanish than I do and she's got three kids who are obviously mixed with it— this isn't the first time someone's assumed, and it won't be the last, either. But that doesn't mean she's about to take the insult lying down, that it doesn't nag right at her, the thought that she might be even lower down on the totem pole than poor white trash. She tried to bleach her hair once when I was younger— Meemaw wouldn't stop laughing at the shade, fluorescent orange, for weeks. "I'm Irish," she says indignantly, "you must've gotten the wrong idea—"

"It's señorita, baby, but don't worry about it."

If looks could kill, I'd be dead and bloated, but she's got bigger problems right now. "Young lady—" she's swelled herself up like a bullfrog— "don't think I'm not fixin' to call your daddy up and tell him just what you've been doin' in my home."

Gabi shrinks down even further— I think that last exchange permanently killed her desire to speak. "How the fuck do you know her daddy?"

"We both go to Our Lady of Grace, that place with the singin' and the prayers, don't you remember it? I've met him plenty of times. Her, too."

I shouldn't be that surprised— Tulsa ain't exactly what you'd call a hotbed of Catholicism, most everyone around these parts is Baptist, which is why Our Lady of Grace caters to both an Irish and Hispanic clientele, with mixed results. (Listening to Father Eoin try to lead a heavily-accented chorus of entre tus manos esta mi vida, señor is always a treat.) Ma squints one of her eyes up. "What are you doin' with him?" she continues to press, and she sounds genuinely confused. So much for mothers not thinking any girl is good enough for their precious sons, though I shudder to think of what's in store for any chick Curly brings home. "He's a bad boy, a delincuente... you better be careful. I used to be just like you, real sweet and naive, goin' to Mass twice a week." Judging by Meemaw's stories, this is, to put it mildly, a stretch. "Then I met my old man, I was seventeen with a baby on the way, and it was all over for me. Tim might've gotten my mouth, but he got his daddy's ego and his daddy's temper, and he's fixin' to end up like him too at this rate."

Having run out of titles, or just out of ways to process this whole speech, Gabi defaults to the safest option. "Yes, ma'am." She's fully dressed now, and clambered to her feet already— I'd offer to walk her home, but she looks like she's the thinnest shred of decorum away from sprinting out of here like a gazelle being chased by a lion, and it's not so dark out yet. "I'm so— I don't normally act like this— oh, hell, nothing's going to fix this one, is it."

It's the first time I think I've heard her cuss. With one last panicked look, she flees the scene, leaving me alone with Ma. "You happy?" I ask, raise an eyebrow at her. "Got your pound of flesh from us? It's great to know you've already got your rosary picked out for my funeral, too."

"I like her," she says, instead of replying to a thing out of my mouth. "She a Salvi o qué? Mexicans don't usually get so—"

"No." I flop down onto the bed, on my back, cross my arms over my chest like I'm a bouncer at a club; if I'm being honest with myself, more like two-year-old Curly when I tried to give him a timeout in the trunk of our car. "Can't anyone come up with another discussion topic about her? Is this really the most interesting thing?"

"Honduran?" She shakes her head then. "Whatever, I don't care. At least I know she's Catholic, and she's got a sense of shame. Too good for you, that's for sure."

She smiles as she says it, though, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that she's trying to tease me. "Awh, Mom, shut up," I mutter, but it's not with a lot of heat. The two of us never agree on shit, it's always a minor miracle when we do, but she's right. She is too good for me. I try not to think too hard about that.