Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Miley Cyrus owns "High."

And you, like a neon light

Shining through a door that I can't keep closed

And you, like a rolling stone

Always building cities on the hearts that you broke

August 23, 1969

". . . but it was really something," Ella went on, a dreamy look on her face. "I really wish you could have gone with us."

Evie rolled her eyes. "Me, too, but try talkin' my father into any of that—what he calls nonsense—and see how far it'll get you. Besides, the three of y'all getting tattooed would really floor him. Can you just imagine me coming home with one?" A sigh as she took a sip of her wine. "At least y'all have plenty of pictures I can look through, huh."

Ella nodded. "Oh, definitely." She grinned, recalling the more humorous shots she had gotten of both Ponyboy and Mary . . . especially the one of Ponyboy sleeping with his mouth wide open. He was most likely going to kill her for that, she was certain, but at least in years down the road, they would have something to laugh at. "I took pictures of nearly everything," she went on. "From the beginning of our trip all the way to the end." And then her brows pressed together as she shot Evie a look. "By the way, it wasn't my idea to get tattooed . . ." A chuckle. "That was all Ponyboy, and besides, they're not that big . . . really."

And that was true, Ella thought. Since Ponyboy had seen her butterfly tattoo—something that nobody else beside Pete Rhodes knew about until then—he had wanted to get one. It had come out of the blue . . . while they were walking back to Mary's car after the concert. Ella hadn't given it much thought, and the next thing she knew, the three of them were walking into a tattoo parlor an hour away . . . and then, they each had the same identical word permanently inked in small letters into the upper right side of their rib cages, which read: Free.

It had taken a little convincing to get Mary to walk into the shop, but she had. She had been incredibly surprised to learn that Ella had already gotten a tattoo, even though it was hardly noticeable, saying that it was . . . improper for women to have them, or very unorthodox. And then she busted out laughing at her own words, which had caused Ella to laugh, too. Oh, of course it was improper for women to have tattoos, but Ella? Ella didn't care about that stuff anymore, hadn't in a while actually. She did and lived as she wanted to, uncaring of the minds of those around her. Ponyboy had thought it was tuff enough, even though he, too, had been a little stunned. But the tattoos had been his idea—that was the truth—and Ella really had to wonder what Darry was going to think about it. For Evie, she had been shocked, but . . . she did think it was cool, and besides, Steve had gotten one when he was sixteen.

"Damn," the younger girl said, brows raising. "How'd Mary make out?"

Surprisingly, Ella honestly thought that Mary had been okay, and she figured the trip was exactly what the girl needed . . . after what she had gone through. New York had been a trip for both Ponyboy and Mary, but whereas Ponyboy seemed enthralled and more into the people and the differences between Tulsa and upstate New York, Mary had seemed more amused by the scenery. Ella couldn't exactly fault her there, for where they had gone was beautiful, practically in the middle of nowhere—and even though they had to walk over two miles each way to and from the car after the festival, Ella had to admit that it had been a nice walk. Mary, though, had been more relaxed than Ella had seen her in quite a long time, and she appeared content, happy, which Ella was glad for.

"She was alright," came the honest answer. "She seemed happy, really into the music and stuff." She took a swig of the alcohol, leaning back against the side of Evie's mattress. "I know she misses Soda, and I know she feels downright awful over what happened, but—"

"I told Steve."

Ella glanced at her, then. "About Soda?"

A nod. "About him, and what happened with Mary." She bit her bottom lip, an anxious expression forming over her face. "I wasn't looking to upset him or nothin', but I am worried about Soda, and I know—" She inhaled slowly, shoulders slumping forward. "I know that he would feel . . . responsible if something happened and he didn't do anything, you know?" Her eyes met Ella's. "Steve's always been like that . . . taking responsibility for things he can't control, and that's why he used to get so upset and angry about things. He claims he don't care, but that's just it. He does care, and he always has." The tone of her voice had shifted to frustration. "And I'm worried about Soda, too. I mean, I know he loved Sandy Vincent, but Mary . . . I don't know. He was genuinely happy being with her, I could tell, and I know Steve could, too."

And that had taken a long time to admit, Evie thought to herself. There was a time when Sandy and her had been best friends—her, Sandy, Sylvia, and Kathy. When Sandy had left Tulsa to go and live with her grandmother in Florida, pregnant with another man's child, it had caused some serious friction in Evie's relationship with Steve, mostly because Evie couldn't bring herself to take sides, so she had kept in contact with Sandy for a while, which had irked Steve beyond anything. He had a right to be mad, though, Evie knew, because she and Sandy had spoken while Soda sent her letters . . . which had all been sent back unopened. Evie felt bad about the whole thing, really she did, and it still surprised her that Sandy had done what she had. Soda had been upset about it for a good length of time, which was completely understandable, especially considering what else had gone down in the those past few months, which was followed by the one year anniversary of the loss of his parents.

It was . . . a lot.

But then Mary had come along, and even though everyone had been wary of her, because of . . . well, her social status, not to mention Soda's vulnerability, they had basically come to accept her. And it was more than obvious that Soda was happy again, that he was returning to his former self, albeit with a mediocre difference, but still . . . It was Mary who had brought him back again—even though both of his brothers had a major hand in helping out, too—and it was Mary who helped him put the past in the past . . . where it belonged.

Hell, even thinking about Sandy felt bizarre to Evie, mainly because they hadn't corresponded in a damn long time. In some way, it did slightly bother Evie that Sandy basically disappeared off the face of the planet, meaning that she simply didn't bother with her anymore, but she wouldn't go around and tell anyone that. Things had changed for all of them . . . Sandy and Sylvia had both left town, sent off by their folks because they were knocked up . . . and Kathy had moved. Evie hadn't heard from any of them, the last being Kathy . . . and that was . . . good Lord, but over a year ago. But still, just the thought alone that Soda had done what he had to Mary . . . the very girl that he loved, and everyone knew that he did love her, made Evie upset.

"I know what you mean," Ella replied, chin lowering a little. And that was the God's honest truth of the matter, a fact that Ella herself had been trying to fight off. "I wish I knew what to make of it. Have you heard back from Steve yet?"

Evie shook her head. "Not yet, but we're supposed to talk on the phone tonight . . . you know how we have our phone call date nights?" She chuckled. "He's going to call me later on, and I can't wait."

"That's great!"

"You know," Evie said after a good minute or so, "I can't believe that it's nearly the end of Summer. I mean, I know it ends in September, but . . . it don't even feel like the end of August, does it?"

The question caused Ella to freeze, her insides suddenly feeling cold, goosebumps rising upon her arms and legs. She didn't want to think about the end of Summer, because that meant it was closer to the time when Dallas would leave . . . and it scared her to think about seeing him again, or when she would ever get the chance to. But Dallas was a free spirit, always did his own thing without playing by the rules or taking other people's concerns into account. He had always been like that, as far as Ella knew. It felt more than surreal to her just then . . . her feelings seeming to surface again. She didn't want them to, and she desperately tried to fight them off, tried to bury them with the rest of her past. Only she was completely unable to . . . unable to officially let go and leave the past in the past.

And it frightened her.

It seemed as though everyone would soon be gone, and hell, Ella had to wonder where the time had really gone. It felt like just yesterday when she had ran into Ponyboy in the cemetery, when Steve had come home, when Darry had the Memorial Day get-together, or . . . when she had seen Dallas for the first time in over two years. And now he would be leaving again, and so would Ponyboy. He was leaving for school the very next evening, having promised to spend the day with Darry. Ella understood that, and she had promised to mail him some of the pictures from their trip to Woodstock. But she still felt a longing, a nagging in her heart, as though she wanted to reverse time or freeze it, and for the very first time . . . in a long time . . . Ella actually felt afraid to move forward.

Now she realized exactly how Mary felt, understood what she had been telling her.

"You know," Evie began, her polish coated nail tapping against the neck of the wine bottle, "I still can't believe, for the life of me, that y'all actually saw Angela Shepard there . . . at Woodstock." And then she laughed lightly. "Maybe it's a good thing I didn't end up going after all."

Unable to refrain, Ella snorted. "Maybe." She shook her head. "I really can't believe that we bumped into her, either . . . and—"

"She's a damn flower child," Evie finished, amusement in her voice. Golly gee, but that was something that had shocked the hell out of her. Angela Shepard, the once cat-like, undermining, conniving, self-absorbed younger sister of Tim and Curly Shepard, now a promoter of peace and love. It seemed a bit hypocritical to Evie that the girl who once started wars between people was now protesting wars between countries. Jesus H. Christ. "I still can't believe it." And then she grinned largely. "Please, Ella, please tell me that you got a picture of her. I just have to see it."

A sly smile formed on the older girl's lips. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Free?" Dallas questioned, nose wrinkling. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Ponyboy rolled his eyes, wishing that Dallas was still at the ranch cleaning the stables, or unloading bales of hay . . . or something, instead of being there. Earlier that morning—since Dallas didn't need his help that day—the eighteen year old had gone on a run, only coming back to the house when he heard his stomach growling for food. He had taken a shower, and without thinking anything of it, he had left his shirt off, because it felt like sauna, and both the run and the shower had made his blood feel like it was boiling beneath his skin. Unfortunately, Dallas had arrived back at the house earlier than what he usually did, and Ponyboy had completely forgotten, or just simply wasn't thinking anything regarding his new tattoo, which he had gotten with Ella and Mary.

But Dallas wouldn't quit bugging him about it. Well, nobody would quit asking him questions about Woodstock, and what it was like, or how New York was . . . and heck, Ponyboy had been more than glad to share his experience with everyone, mostly because it felt like he was going through it all over again, which was just fine with him, but . . . if Dallas opened his mouth about the tattoo to Darry, he knew he was going to hear it. It's not that Darry would scold him so much as he would probably have some remark to make about it Ponyboy didn't want to hear. Well, at least he wouldn't tell Dallas that both Ella and Mary had gotten matching ones.

"It means exactly what it says," he retorted, shoveling the cereal around in his bowl. "I really hope that I don't have to get you a dictionary, Dal."

Dallas pointed a finger at him. "Don't get mouthy, kid." His tone was direct, but the words hadn't been said harshly. "It was a question."

The teen shrugged. "It doesn't have a meaning, well, not really anyway . . ." He spooned more cereal into his mouth, trying to find the right words to explain the tattoo. "I reckon it's more like . . . free-spirited, unwilling to conform to the rules of society, or be like anyone or anything else . . ."

He made a sound like a snort and a grunt. "Kid, I hate to break it to ya, but . . . you're starting to sound like one of them flower children, or whatever the fuck they are."

"A hippie?"

"Whatever."

And at that, Ponyboy laughed, unable to hold it in. "Dallas," he said, shaking his head, "there is a big difference between a hippie and a free-spirited person . . ."

The blond cocked an eyebrow. "Drugs?"

For some reason, Ponyboy didn't find that answer to be overly comical. Dallas's expression was one thing, but the response had caused him to feel a pang in his gut. He knew what drugs had done to people, had seen it up close and first hand. It wasn't pretty. Now, he remembered Cathy Carlson's, his ex-girlfriend's, younger brother, M&M, a child prodigy who had accidentally overdosed. He had been real messed up for a while, and that had put a strain on the relationship. Ponyboy and Cathy hadn't ended on bad terms, though, but had gone their separate ways on a friendly basis. They had only been in a relationship for a few months, not lasting very long, because one day, Cathy called things off with him, stating that there was too much happening with her home-life, and school, and of course, her hospitalized brother. He had been more than understanding with her, and they had parted as friends, but Ponyboy honestly hadn't seen or heard from her . . . in a long time.

"No," he half-whispered, and set his bowl on the table beside himself. "Angela Shepard, or even Randy Adderson are hippies," he explained. "Ella is . . . more of a free-spirited person."

Dallas couldn't remember who in the hell Randy Adderson was, but the name sounded familiar. As far as what he'd heard about Angela Shepard from Ponyboy . . . he couldn't say he was too surprised. Of course she would turn out to be one of them flower children, all peace lovin' bullshit and whatever-the-fuck-else, but Ella Mitchell? The thought alone was ridiculous. But Dallas took into consideration her overall individuality, her style, her independence, and well, she really didn't fit in. In fact, she never really had, and it had only just then dawned on the former hood how different Ella really was. It was the same with Ponyboy, just as it had been for Johnny Cade. Sure, they were all part of their social status, because that's what they were labeled as by society, but taking a closer look, none of them had fit into their given labels. Ponyboy, and even Darry, were too smart, or too good, or too brainy, or hell, even too soft, and Ella was too independent, too complete in who she was . . .

None of them fit into the normal status factors.

Perhaps Free had been the perfect fucking thing to describe each of them.

"Well," Dallas drawled, "speaking of Ella, I have plans to see her later tonight."

Something about the way he had relayed that message made Ponyboy think that Ella was clueless to his plans, and he shot him a look.

"Does she know that?"

A grin. "She will . . . when I show up."

Even though they had been home for a few days, being back in her aunt's house felt weird to Mary. It was almost as though she wanted to leave again, to take off, and never look back. She had been really debating on doing it, but would it be too quick? Too soon? Well, she remembered when Ella had left so suddenly, even though she had an acceptance letter to Berkeley, and her mother's ill-fated passing had sealed the deal for her, not to mention, her breakup with Dallas Winston. But still, being out and finally having an experience—one out of state, no less—had opened Mary's eyes to different possibilities and new opportunities. Ella had indirectly showed her that by convincing her that going to Woodstock would be beneficial to her, and she had been right.

Mary was awful glad that she had decided to go, the experience one that would be etched into her mind for the rest of her life. She had always dreamed of bigger and better things. Everyone always thought that she had it so good because she came from the better side of town, (if only they knew), or because her aunt was rich and didn't bat an eyelash at spending money on expensive luxuries, something Mary really never saw the joy in. No, she had always wanted to go traveling, or exploring; she wanted to learn the mysteries of the world, see and experience them for herself. She remembered telling Soda all about it some time ago . . . back when they had first gotten together. He had listened to her, brown eyes intent and focused as he absorbed every word that came out of her mouth. Something that she desperately loved about him was his innate interest in her dreams . . . in what she wanted—he wanted to make them his as well, and make her part of his future. It seemed like a long time ago now, one that hardly existed, except for in her own mind.

But still . . . Ella and Ponyboy had awoken those dreams again, and Mary could feel the itch to leave, to go and discover new and exciting things. Oh, she knew that she could up and leave, too, at any time that she so desired to. She could put the house up, sell practically everything, collect the income, keep all her money—including her aunt's, which was now her own—and go. There were so many things that Mary really wanted to do, and now that she had gotten a taste of it, she was craving it. For a while, she really thought that she might one day have those fantasized experiences with Soda, but they had long dissipated during his time in the Army . . . and when they had ended their relationship nearly a month ago, Mary had been too absorbed in her own depression that she had forgotten about anything that she honestly used to care about.

It seemed surreal to her now.

Still, she allowed herself to dream, and more than that, she really wanted to go. Perhaps she would take another vacation . . . even though she would be going alone. There wasn't anyone she could go with, unless she asked Ella, but her older friend most likely wouldn't be able . . . at least not for a good while with her upcoming new job lingering just around the bend. Mary still couldn't believe that Ella would make a bet with a cowboy like Buck Merril the way she had . . . and now she was paying the price. On the other hand, Mary figured that Ella was making out okay either way, considering that she would be getting the pony she had come to love.

With a half-smile on her face, Mary curled up in bed, a copy of Beverly Butler's Light a Single Candle in her one hand, her eyes falling onto her favorite picture of her and Soda, which was still in a small frame on her night table.

And just like that did all of her memories of him and her come to the forefront of her mind.

Ella was sitting on Jan's front porch later that night, leisurely smoking a cigarette, her older friend having gone to bed an hour or so before. She was wrapped up in her own thoughts, thoughts that she had been attempting to snuff out for quite some time. It always led to this, though—her staring off into the night, cigarette in hand, mouth pressed into a thin line from her own worry and stress. Honestly, the young woman wasn't even sure why she felt this way, or rather, what was drawing her back into her past—a time which no longer existed. Beforehand, she had really thought that Mary was merely stuck in her life, unable to move forward, and she never considered the fact that maybe she was, too.

And now it was too late.

Either way, she didn't want to think about it, though, didn't want to let herself get caught and wrapped up in a time she so desperately wanted to let go of. It scared her to think that perhaps she wouldn't be able to . . . no matter how hard she tried. And it was all because of one particular person, the very same person that was able to get under her skin unlike any other, the same person that she had long ago fallen for . . . who wouldn't let her get away no matter how hard she wanted to. He was always there in the back of her mind, his shit-eating grin, his overall grim countenance, shaggy blonde hair . . . and even him and her . . . back when they were together.

It made her chest ache just thinking about it, or letting herself get too absorbed in her past.

And even though she had been the one to initially break things off with Dallas, he had been the one to end them officially—and he had broken her heart.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind and deep in the very crevices of her heart, Ella knew the truth, and she always had, but coming to terms with it and accepting it was another thing entirely, and she wasn't sure if she was able to. It meant that she would have to face herself, and she wasn't prepared for that, no matter how much older she was, or how much more mature that she was. The very thought scared her, because it meant letting go in a different way. Maybe, she thought, it was best that Dallas was leaving soon . . . that way, she would be able to put him out of her mind.

Unfortunately, luck wasn't on her side that night—hadn't seemed to be in quite a while—because Dallas had rolled to a stop in front of Jan's house not even two minutes later, his eyes meeting hers as he stared at her through the truck window. Ella's jaw practically dropped, one brow raising ever so little as her eyes widened in . . . innate shock. There was a moment that past, and neither one of them seemed to move, but suddenly, Ella's body seemed to come to life as she stood up and made her way over to the passenger side door, all previous thoughts forgotten. She wondered what he was doing there, though, usually never doing anything without having a reason for it, which she was very well aware of. Still, though, she didn't say anything as she climbed into the truck, and neither did he, silence overtaking them for the next few minutes while he drove along the road . . . no destination in mind.

Truthfully, Dallas had wanted to see Ella just to talk to her, let her know that Buck would probably be expecting her to show up for work within the next week. He finally had enough dough to get something that would get him back on the road . . . and with last week's earnings coming in, plus what he would make (not that it would be anything worth shit) on the truck, he had enough pocket change leftover to last him a good while. He planned on giving Darrel a good portion of it, too, because he had been more than generous—and Dallas wasn't above looking out for his buddies. Yeah, he had planned on talking to Ella, though . . . but for some reason, the jab that had been on the tip of his tongue had been nearly forgotten when he pulled up in front of the house. He hadn't been expecting to see Ella out there on the porch . . . looking the way she had; he planned on actually walking up and knocking on the door to surprise the shit out of her . . . but now he was glad it hadn't gone like that.

Ella looked . . . downright miserable . . . that was the only way to describe it. The blond wasn't sure who crapped in her eggs, but he honestly didn't dig that look on her, not for the firecracker of a girl she had turned out to be anyway.

It didn't suit her.

Dallas made a face, his tongue running across his upper front teeth. The silence was beginning to make him feel antsy, and he didn't like feeling antsy, or on edge. He could play it cool, though, make like nothing was bothering him . . . but now that Ella was beside him in the passenger seat, quiet as a mouse, it was irritating him.

"Someone ruffle your feathers or somethin'?" he asked, stretching his hand over the steering wheel. His voice was low, measured. "Surprised you didn't say nothin' to me."

Ella swallowed the forming lump in her throat. "I—" She inhaled deeply, trying to calm her nerves. "I wasn't expecting to see you, or have you show up . . . and Jan's asleep, so I didn't want to make noise and wake her, so . . ."

Dallas shot her a look. "Sure."

"You're leaving."

The words were out of her mouth before she could even process them, and her breath hitched in her throat as Dallas pulled the truck to the side of the road, turning to face her in the seat. From the way she was sitting, he could easily tell that she was troubled—and he had a good feeling as to why. He wasn't stupid, far from, and he knew Ella better than what she ever gave him credit for. Any other person he wouldn't have given a shit about, and quite frankly, there was still a small part of him that wondered why he bothered with Ella. Did her feelings really stir something in him? Was it because she was still included on the small list of individuals he did care about? Or was it because— He paused, shaking that thought off immediately.

He didn't want to get attached, didn't want to feel—

Fuck.

His face twisted into a sneer. "So?" And then, as if forcing himself to do something, he began searching for his pack of cancer sticks, a glare forming in his eyes when he realized that he was out. "You got any cigarettes on ya?"

To his annoyance, she shook her head. "Just smoked the last one in that pack."

His back pressed against the seat hardly, fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel in a repetitive beat, his jaw clenched together. Something about being around Ella always either put him on a high, or brought him to a low—sometimes both—and it caused emotions to circulate in his mind that he really didn't want to concern himself with. Fuckin' Ella. He would never tell her that she got under his skin, dug herself in real deep, like a scab that wouldn't go the fuck away. Lord almighty, but this wasn't how he planned his night. Why in the fuck had he even bothered? And why the fuck did she care so much that he was leaving? Oh, he knew why alright, knew the very reason why, as well as why she was acting so off around him.

He had known for a good while.

But him? Why did he care?

He turned back to face her, then, expression as stony as ever. "You never answered me," he pointed out, voice firm.

Ella's lips pursed. "Nothing," she replied, sounding as meek as she looked, which irked the former hood even more, because he knew her better than that, and she wasn't meek . . . or whatever the fuck she was being right then. "It's nothing."

"Bullshit," Dallas snapped, and Ella shifted a little. "You ain't the type to—"

She was across the seat before he could even finish what he was going to say to her, the upper half of her body stretched out on an angle as her right hand reached up to touch his cheek lightly, her lips on his own as her fingers brushed against his hair. The kiss was firm and desperate, everything that Ella had been feeling up to that moment boiling right to the surface. Dallas had been stunned for a good second or two, but he kissed her back good, hard, and long, his own hands tangling into her hair and pulling her closer to him, the smell of her perfume and . . . whatever she used in her hair wafting into his nostrils, the heat of her body taking over his senses . . .

Neither Ella or Dallas had honestly expected it to happen . . .

. . . but neither one of them wanted to stop, either.

And in my head I did my very best

Saying goodbye, goodbye

And I don't miss you, but I think of you

And don't know why

I still feel high

Thank you for all of the tremendous support and feedback on this story! Y'all keep me going! :3