Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young own "Woodstock."

By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a million strong

And everywhere was a song and a celebration

And I dreamed I saw the bomber jet planes riding shotgun in the sky

Turning into butterflies above our nation

August 17 - 18, 1969

Ella's body swayed to the sound of Joe Crocker's "Feelin' Alright", her hands up in the air, eyes closed as she silently mouthed the lyrics of the song along with Mary. A daisy was tucked behind her ear, one she would keep as a trinket from her experience at Woodstock. A helicopter had flown overhead the day before, or something like that—Ella couldn't quite remember—and had dropped daisies onto the crowd below. Ella, Mary, and Ponyboy had never seen so many people in one place before, for each way they looked, there were dozens among dozens of individuals gathered. Some were in groups, some were in pairs, and some were even alone. It was something to see, though, something to behold, and for the first time in a while, Ella actually felt at ease. Beside her, Mary's own face was relaxed, the worry gone from her eyes, her skin smooth and free of any form of previous tension. Ponyboy simply went with the flow, and Ella was surprised that he had spoken to so many different people. Out of all of them, he had been the most social, delving into more conversations about different topics that both girls hardly knew anything about.

Still, they were all having a great time, and Ella was certain that it would be an experience the three of them would never forget.

As she spun around, engrossed in the music, someone took her hand lightly, twirling her with ease, and she opened her eyes to see Ponyboy grinning at her. She smiled back, her gaze landing on the long necklace he was adorning. She quirked an eyebrow in surprise, looking at the metal pendant depicting a peace sign.

"Where did you get that?" she asked, unable to conceal her curiosity.

Ponyboy leaned forward. "What?" he yelled back, causing his older friend to laugh.

"The necklace," she said, louder that time. "Where did you get it?"

"Oh." He nodded to a small group standing several feet away from them. "They're giving them out, so I took one." A shrug as he lit up a cigarette. "Figured it'd make me look real tough."

Ella chuckled. "You look dashing."

Dashing wasn't exactly a term Ponyboy Curtis would use to describe himself—not in the least—but it was Ella, and she meant it good-naturedly. Woodstock hadn't been at all what the teen was expecting, but he sure was glad Ella had talked him and Mary into it. Of all the experiences Ponyboy had ever had in his life, this one certainly took the cake. It was unlike anything he had ever been to, unlike anything he had ever imagined, but it was . . . something. So many people had shown up, so much so that they had knocked the fences down and came right in . . . from all over. Even though the three of them had gotten there earlier than intended, the place was mobbed—cars were abandoned down the road and then some, people had hitchhiked from all over the country, coming from every which way. Eventually, because of everything happening all at once along with the amount of people, the concert had ended up just being free of charge.

For once, Ponyboy was actually glad that Mary and Ella had brought cameras for the event, because there was some part of him that really felt like all of it was a dream—one that he almost wished he wouldn't wake up from. Still, he never pictured himself at an event such as Woodstock, never could see himself among such free spirited, peace loving individuals who were surrounding him. Hell, just being in New York by itself was an experience for the eighteen year old, and he was pretty damn sure that this was the absolute highlight of his teenage years—and probably would remain as such.

"Right," he mused, twirling her around again. From beside them, Mary snapped a picture, a smile on her face as she did. Just wait until everyone else had a chance to see the rest, Ponyboy thought with a hint of amusement . . . glory.

Ella suddenly came to a halt, her eyes focusing on something, or rather someone, in the distance. Good Lord, but she hadn't seen her in . . . quite a long time, but she was unmistakable. Her hair was much shorter, her skin darker from the Summer sun, but Ella remembered her clear as day, almost at though they were back in Tulsa three years prior to this particular moment when she would come in with her laundry . . . when Ella worked at the laundromat.

Angela Shepard.

Ponyboy followed her gaze, his own eyes broadening in shock as he, too, spotted the youngest Shepard sibling. She was standing with a few people, all looking around the same age as them, each of them exhibiting that hippie appeal. Angela had flowers poking through her hair, a long, frilly skirt hanging over her legs . . . or at least one side of it was, since the other had a long slit through it. She was also wearing a halter top, similar to the other girl she was standing with, but both Ella and Ponyboy had recognized her immediately, even though she looked much different, the moment almost surreal to the two of them. They glanced back at one another, both of them reflecting the same look of surprise across their faces.

Evie,

I can't say much has changed around this place. I think I'll be here for a long while, which is good, all things considered. I haven't heard from Soda, but I got a letter from Ponyboy the other day telling me the same thing. I'll try to get a hold of him, see if I can talk to him some. I'm sorry about Mary. I hope she's doing alright. Y'all tell me the same stuff in your letters, but I think I like hearing everything from you the best. I can't believe Ponyboy is going to that music festival. A lot of the guys have been talking about it here, saying it's some kind of hippie love-fest. I'll be sure to give the kid some hell for it. He better not paint peace signs on my truck or I'll beat the tar out of him. I mean it. Anyway, I sure do miss you, Evie. I drove passed some burger joint the other day, which had a picture of a chocolate milkshake in the window. Made me think of you. Maybe I'll give them a try one of these days. I'll try to call you next Saturday. Quit your worrying about everything else, too. I never did like to see you frown.

I love you, Evie, and I'll be seeing you soon.

Steve

P.S. Remember that kid, Albie Lars, I told you about? Well, he made it home safe. I think he's gonna be okay.

That sounded good, Steve thought to himself—nothing that would make Evie worry herself right out of her mind. He loved that she cared so much for him, but he hated when she got upset, or worried to the point where she would cry. Hell, he could remember the time he had gotten locked up—it seemed like forever ago now—which had only been for a night, but Evie had sobbed herself dry, and according to her kid sister, Beth, she didn't get a wink of sleep because she was so anxious. He shook his head at the memory, a pang of guilt welling up in his chest as he recalled the day he had enlisted. Oh, Lordy, had Evie given him a good piece of her mind . . .

Damn.

Well, at least they could all have something to laugh about in the present. Ponyboy, accompanied by none other than Ella Mitchell and Mary DeVaney, was attending Woodstock. That in itself was enough to make anyone laugh their asses off. Now, truthfully, Steve thought it was pretty tuff that the kid was finally getting out of Oklahoma—he figured it would do him some good. But still . . . if anyone was to go to a concert like that—all that peace and love shit—Steve would have assumed Two-Bit Mathews to be the one . . . maybe not presently, but several years ago, absolutely. He would have gone for the music, the booze, and glory hallelujah, but all the chicks . . .

Talk about free love.

Steve sighed as he sealed the envelope, placing it in the small pile of other letters he had to send out. He was still bothered that Evie and Ponyboy both had mentioned the issue with Soda regarding Mary. Now, when Steve was home and had heard about Mary's problem, he knew something was off with his friend. He hadn't known that Soda wasn't writing to Mary, let alone know that there was even a problem to begin with. He had only asked about her a few times . . . mostly because Soda liked to talk about her himself . . . but he had never thought to consider inquiring when he didn't hear anything about the girl he once disliked. Perhaps, with everything going on, it had slipped his mind, or maybe, anything that Soda was going through had been carefully concealed from him. It both irked him and worried him. Soda and Steve had been best friends since grade school, knew each other as well as brothers, and hell . . . Steve always considered Soda his own brother—even though they had the gang, Soda had always been his best friend.

There was a deep feeling of unease that Steve felt regarding Soda now. It made him wonder why he hadn't noticed anything wrong with him while they were still together in the same group. How long had there even been an issue? Well, there were a lot of things that could have been bothering Soda, Steve was pretty certain, but it did seem odd to him . . . his behavior, that is. And if Darry was concerned, which Ponyboy had specifically stated that he was, Steve knew something was wrong, more than wrong at that point.

Leaning back, Steve let his body relax against the wall. He wished that he could ignore his thoughts for a while, but he knew that he couldn't. A million and one thoughts were racing through his mind right then, and he kept wondering how things would be different if only—if only—he had kept a better eye on his friend when they were sent out on that operation, if only he hadn't followed so closely behind Julius Hicks, if only he had grabbed onto Hicks before he could actually take off, if only he had paid more attention to Soda . . . if only, if only, if only. Steve felt his teeth grinding together, his fucking jaw clenched in anger. How many more times would he let things escape his notice? How less observant could he be to things—important things, no less—taking place around him? Christ almighty, but what would happen if . . .

No, he told himself.

Nothing would happen to Evie. Nothing.

But . . . dammit. Soda was . . . Steve knew that something was wrong with his friend, and everything about the situation irritated him, bugged him in a way he didn't understand. It was almost as though he felt responsible. He remembered the day he and Soda had initially left . . . when he had told Darry he would look out for Soda, make sure he was okay. Well, look where that had gotten the both of them. In Steve's mind, Soda was the only reason he had ever fucking enlisted to begin with. He just wanted to look out for his friend, like they had always looked out for one another, like they had always had each other's backs . . . since they were kids.

And now . . .

Now, Steve wasn't sure what to think anymore.

It felt a bit surreal to Dallas Winston to be sitting in the Big Mac, otherwise known as the Oklahoma State Penitentiary, paying a social visit of sorts to his old buddy—or old rival, depending on the time of day. He hadn't heard all that much about Tim Shepard in the past few years, only that he had gotten himself in some serious trouble—fuckin' idiot—involving a murder charge, or accomplice to a murder, Dallas couldn't exactly remember what Darry had told him. Apparently, he was sentenced fifteen years, and hell, Dallas thought that was . . . pretty fucking whacked. Now, he had done a lot of shit in his life, and being caught up in a murder rap was one of them . . . but Dallas himself had never directly killed a person, though he had seen his fair share of killings and the like in New York. Still, he had to hand it to ol' Tim—the dumbass.

There wasn't a whole lot of talk concerning the Shepard family. According to Darry, their mom had split, Curly . . . disappeared, flew the fucking coup after receiving his draft, which had surprised the ever-living-hell out of Dallas, considering that idiot's criminal background, juvenile or not, and after that, the step-daddy (Leon, or something or other), went out drinking one night and never came back, and then Tim got locked up, which left Angela. Angela Shepard, like her brother, Curly, had up and left, too, and nobody had seen or heard from her since. Dallas had drove passed their old house one day, and even though it had only been a year since Angela took off—the last of any of them to live there—the place looked like a circus had ransacked it. The yard was overgrown, the roof over the porch was caving in, the steps were falling apart . . . some of the windows were cracked, and it looked as though the front door was busted in.

Dallas knew about a lot of the shit that took place in the Shepard household, knew the stories he had heard from other greasers and hoods back in the day, but surprisingly, to look at the house back then, it didn't look that bad, especially for the side of town they lived on; but when Dallas had previously saw it, it really sounded like the type of shithole the Shepard kids had actually lived in.

Good Lord.

The blond wasn't sure what really possessed him to pay a visit to Tim Shepard, buddies or not. Last he had even seen that fucking thug, or really hung around with him, was when that whole issue regarding Ella Mitchell's old man had gone down. Seemed like a lifetime and then some ago, a time Dallas wished he couldn't remember, but hell . . . no matter how hard he tried to forget, those memories kept boiling right to the surface, trapping him in them each and every time. He had never wanted to return to Tulsa, never thought he would really be back in Oklahoma, but since he had been . . . since fucking May, no less, his mind had been simmering. He figured calling things even with Ella Mitchell would help solve some of it, only it hadn't, and now he was pretty sure the girl—his fucking ex—was still wallowing in their former relationship.

He had heard enough talk from her and Ponyboy that one day at the Curtis house . . . when they had been talking about her wild escapades in New York. Yeah, he had walked up just in time to hear one helluva doozy, not that he would ever relay that information to Ella herself—no way. Still, he knew enough, and more than that, her reaction to him telling her that he was leaving only confirmed his earlier suspicions.

Well, so much for having an easy date . . . or for getting som—

"I'll be Goddamned."

Dallas looked up, meeting the cold blue eyes of Tim Shepard. Jesus H. Christ, he thought, giving him a once over. If anyone looked entirely different, it was the oldest Shepard sibling. His hair was cut short, his gaze sharper, cooler, his features somehow more distinct. There was an animalistic glint in his glare, a shit-eating, sarcastic type of smile covering his mouth that Dallas figured suited him well. He could have laughed at the sight of him, though—orange definitely wasn't his color. His face was more gaunt than Dallas remembered, the scar across his one cheek more prominent than ever. But somehow, he was more muscular, built up, a menacing figure to look at.

But the younger of the two didn't mind in the least, and instead, offered a sly grin. "Can't say I'm not," came the smart response, and Tim took a seat across from him at the table, his cuffed hands resting on top in front of himself. "I heard this was your new home for the next fifteen or so years."

Tim's smile was all teeth, not one part of it friendly. "One might say that." He leaned back in the chair, then, ignoring the feeling of the metal cuffs digging into his wrists. "What the fuck are you even doin' here, Winston? Thought you bailed or some shit, last I heard anyway." He made a face. "The wonders of the open road weren't cutting it for you? Tulsa screaming your name on her tongue in the middle of the night, calling you home?"

Now Dallas grinned, taking the jeers with a half-smile on his lips. "Wouldn't be the only broad that was screaming my name in the middle of the night." He leaned back, too, crossing his hands behind his head in a somewhat relaxed position. "You know," he went on after a minute, "that idiot of a brother of yours was right about one thing." He nodded toward him. "Fuckin' place really changed. Bunch of hippies crying the blues for peace and love, and whatever-the-fuck-else."

The thought still irked Dallas, not that he would admit it to anyone. It only annoyed him because, even though he lived for the thrill of action of any type, made it his job to piss people off, or fight because he needed something to feel alive, he wondered why none of this shit could have taken place when Johnny Cade was still alive. That's all that fucking kid ever wanted . . . to be accepted, or at least, to feel like he was part of something. Sure, he knew he was part of the gang, but Dallas knew that Johnny always felt like he was a burden, or the pet because everyone felt sorry for him. Of course he knew that they did care, that they did accept him . . . but still. Because of those fucking upper class Socs, or whatever they were going by now—he didn't know—Johnny Cade was dead, and now they were going around and joining that movement for peace and love.

Fucking hypocrites.

Tim looked . . . disgusted, but not surprised. "So I've heard." He shook his head. "Curly might have been a fucking idiot, but he was observant. I'll give him that."

And there it was, Dallas noted, carefully studying him. Tim knew how to play it cool, knew how to make himself appear apathetic, make like he didn't feel anything. Dallas knew that one all too well, for he, too, knew how to play the game. He had done it for years, perfected it, mastered it, and he knew that Tim Shepard was fucking good at it, too. He could fool nearly any cop into believing him, knew how to pull the ropes and loosen them just enough to get what he wanted—to make himself believable where it counted. It was a trait Dallas had picked up on and learned at . . . nine or ten years old. But he could see it in Tim's eyes, and he had read it well. Besides, he knew Tim Shepard well enough, and it was because the two of them were one in the same . . . both cut from the same cloth.

He grinned, but his expression was calculating. "Not enough."

Tim's eyes slithered over Dallas's form slowly. He didn't say anything, he didn't make a sound. In fact, he hardly moved at all after that. But he knew, and more than that, he knew that Dallas knew the truth, not that he was going to say anything. After all this time, their loyalty to one another still ran deep, and just like Dallas would willingly throw his life away for the kid he considered his brother, Tim would do the exact same for his own.

Where Tim Shepard was seated should have actually been Curly Shepard, but where Tim would serve the fifteen years, or whatever, Curly would have the reputation of a draft-dodging coward for the rest of his life, thanks to Tim's makeshift excuse of a non-existent draft.

And still, after all this time, Tim remained a loyal prick.

Ponyboy wasn't sure what time it was, and he certainly didn't recall ever falling asleep. All he had been able to remember was talking to Ella and Mary and Angela Shepard and the group of people she had come along with. Oh, and smoking some serious grass. But none of that was what woke him up the following late Monday morning, but instead, the almighty sound of an electric guitar strumming out "The Star-Spangled Banner" in a way that nobody had ever heard it before. Ella was awake beside him, sitting up in the spot she had fallen asleep in, her eyes a'glow as she watched the man on stage perform.

The eighteen year old blinked his eyes two or three times, letting his vision adjust before he sat up beside his friend to watch the performance better.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and that was saying something, considering the past three days they had each experienced together. Ponyboy felt almost sad to see it come to an end, but he couldn't say that he was displeased with how his Summer was wrapping up. He glanced to his side at Mary, who was still out like a light, her head resting on her folded arms. Down a bit was Angela and her group of . . . what had been four altogether, but was somehow seven now. Honestly, the teen still couldn't believe that they had ran into Angela Shepard of all people at Woodstock, but they had, and truthfully, seeing and talking with her hadn't been an unpleasant experience at all—especially after the stunt she had pulled with him and Bryon Douglas a few years back.

That had been something that he had explained to Ella over a letter some time ago. But all of it had been forgotten when Angela left Tulsa, and Ponyboy couldn't exactly say that he had missed her. He had never really been a friend of hers to begin with, never really knew her—only her brothers, and that was because he and Curly used to buddy around . . . and well, Tim Shepard had been good friends with Dallas Winston, and had helped Darry out a few times in the past. But one day—Ponyboy could hardly remember any of it now—Angela, while she was still dating Bryon Douglas, decided that she had the hots for him and tried to make a play for him, which had nearly caused a fight with him and Douglas, until the night of the dance. Glory. Yeah, that was something he had stored in the back of his mind, because right after that . . . Bryon Douglas had ended up dating Cathy Carlson for some time, which was followed by her calling things off with him because his step-brother, Mark Jennings, was selling dope, which had resulted in Cathy's kid brother, M&M, getting messed up. And then the two of them had gotten together . . . meaning, Cathy and Ponyboy.

And honestly, all of that had occurred—not the drug bit—because of Angela . . . on Ponyboy's end anyway, it had.

It had made a bitter taste form in his mouth whenever he spoke about Angela Shepard, and when he had told all of it to Ella, she had been stunned . . . though she had never directly said anything bad about the younger girl. But Ella had never been like that—not being one to judge—and instead just told Ponyboy that she hoped she would make something of herself after she had taken off.

Angela hadn't done all that much for herself, Ponyboy would admit from what he had learned, but she was definitely a different girl than what he remembered. She was softer in nature, not as cool, not as bitter, and she was more of a flower child than Ella. She had greeted them all and chit-chatted with them as though they were all really old and good friends, and to be honest, Ponyboy decided that she was okay in his book . . . at a distance. Still, he figured he really wouldn't be seeing all that much of her, considering that she lived in upstate New York these days, along with her flower power friends, and she worked in an antique shop, so she claimed. Neither Ella or Ponyboy had questioned her about it, but either way, she did seem . . . better off, or content with herself.

"What time is it?" he asked, looking over at Ella once the song had come to a finish.

A shrug. "Reckon about ten or eleven," she answered, reaching for a cigarette. "You and Mary both passed out really early this morning . . . during Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young."

"Ah, shoot," came the half-mumbled response. "I don't even remember it."

Ella chuckled. "That's okay. I got pictures." A smile spread across her lips just then. "A lot of pictures."

"I'll bet," he said, letting the nicotine fill his lungs, and then his eyes broadened as he caught sight of something small and dark peering up on the lower part of her abdomen, beside her hip bone, from where the top of her skirt had moved down a bit. It was in the shape of a butterfly, hardly noticeable, unless you really looked. "When did you get a tattoo?"

But the girl merely remained collected. "Oh," she said, "I got that back when Pete and I were in the early stages of dating." A smile. "I was actually . . . drinking, and well . . . Pete and I went together . . ." She looked down for a minute. "To be honest, I'm not sure I even fully remember it."

Ponyboy nodded in understanding. A thought crossed his mind, then, but he wasn't going to bring it up to either Ella or Mary until they left . . . which he assumed wouldn't be much later from that particular moment. Besides, he had told everyone that they would be back home by no later than Wednesday, and they still had a day or so drive to go . . . not to mention a two and a half mile walk back to Mary's car . . . Good Lord. It felt like the three days of peace and music had gone by too fast for anyone's liking, and Ponyboy wished, if just for a moment, that it could last a little bit longer.

We are stardust, we are golden, we are caught in the devil's bargain

And we got to get ourselves back to the garden

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