Author's Note: Happy reading :)
I didn't recognize the girl in the mirror. Was that really me? Was I really wearing the tight sweater and skirt, with the little white tennis shoes? With my hair in one of those little bows?
It was me.
I never thought that I could become one of those Pom-Pom girls.
It hadn't been hard, not in the technical sense. All we had to do was learn a few chants and cheers and the school fight song (something about ropers and riding, naturally) and a few simple little moves. It was no different from learning lines for a play or memorizing a piece for a recital.
But I hadn't been ready for our sponsor, Miss Sterling, to examine how we presented ourselves, though I probably should have been. We had all come in sweaters, knee-length skirts, and Keds, and while she and her assistant didn't outright say that was what they were doing, you could tell when they approved of how a girl had put herself together and silently decided she would be a good representative for the school and a worthy member of the squad.
I caught them looking over at me once, their faces unchanging, and I could only imagine what they were whispering to each other. I was sure at that moment they had decided that it didn't matter I knew all the cheers and could memorize steps; they probably thought my hair was too big and my posture not quite tall enough.
Guess not, though.
"Since when do you have any interest in being a cheerleader?" Dad asked when I came home all excited after I learned I had made the team. He didn't sound too dismissive, more curious, but my face still fell.
"My friends thought I should try it. We went out for it together, and we all made it."
"Oh. Well – congratulations," he said, working to keep his voice light, but I could see he still didn't get it.
I wondered to myself if my own father, too, thought I didn't look the part.
But it didn't matter now. I stood in front of my mirror after our first practice, just days before the first football game of the season, and admired myself in my uniform. I barely knew a thing about football, but I thought I looked good in the bright yellow and blue and my hair looked nice in a bow. Mrs. Valance had taken a picture of the six of us in our uniforms, then told us tales of her days as a cheerleader with a nostalgic smile. I had taken it all in with a girlish delight, not able to stop myself from thinking up an image of my own mother as a cheerleader, too, like I was now, trying to give us something in common besides blood.
My mother was pretty enough to be a cheerleader, I know that from pictures. My grandparents still kept some out, and Dad had stashed a few away, and I used to look at them all the time. She had been blonde and beautiful, like Vickie and Missy – cheerleader beautiful. But something told me it would make Dad sad if I brought up the subject, so for the time being, I had to pathetically live out those mother-and-daughter daydreams through the mothers of my friends.
xXx
"You are going, aren't you?"
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed the books I would need for homework that weekend out of my locker. Missy was actually trying to convince me to go to a party, a real, actual, party that somebody was having down at the riverbed. I didn't even know riverbed parties were a thing – I had never really been much of a party person, so what Missy was trying to do was extremely commendable. Trying to convince me to do anything is...difficult.
So trying to convince me to go to a party? With drinking and God knew what else? Let them try.
"I dunno, Missy," I drawled. "Couldn't we get in trouble?"
I thought I had her cornered with that one. Missy practically abstained from any activity that could possibly get her into any trouble. Prudence personified.
But she surprised me by shrugging and saying, "It'll be fine. It's not like we have to drink. Besides, the other girls go to parties like this all the time. They know what to do if anything goes wrong. C'mon, just come with us. We probably won't even end up staying that long, anyways."
I gave my cause one more feeble shot. "There could be greasers there," I mumbled. "Right?"
"Big deal," she grinned with a flick of her wrist. Since when had Missy become so devil-may-care? "Just ignore them."
Back then, I think I had this irrational fear that if a kid from the East side even looked at you wrong, something bad would happen. Something that could scar you for life. Something so horrible and awful that it would tarnish your name and send you to the fiery pits of Hell. Like being told a guy hates you in front of your entire history class. Something like that.
"Is it really that easy?" I asked. Missy nodded. Who was this girl? I sighed, knowing she wouldn't leave it alone. "I suppose I'll go," I breathed. "Just so long as you promise to leave with me if it gets weird. Deal?"
Missy grinned. "Deal."
xXx
I groaned as I flicked through my closet. What were you supposed to wear to a party? Was it something I could wear pants to? I hardly ever got to wear them; the dress code at school didn't allow girls to wear pants. (Which, for the record, I didn't understand. It was really very modern for women to wear them.) I had loads of pairs of pedal pushers that I could wear, one with little daisies running up the sides, and there was a white blouse that I could wear with them.
Yes.
That could work.
It would have to work, because it was what I was wearing, no matter what anyone else said. I had some real social status now; I should be able to wear what I wanted without people thinking I was odd; to fantasize about being a trendsetter like I was Colleen Corby.
I sat outside and waited for Cherry to come by and pick me up. I was the last stop, right after Penny. Penny lived a street over from me, but the rest of the girls lived a little further away.
As I sat under the hot Tulsa sun, feeling the last of the summer breezes, I let my mind wander. It wandered to the other side of town, to the so-called greasers. To my annoyance, I thought of Two-Bit. What were his parents like? His house? From what I had heard about him, I could pretty safely assume that he was on a pretty long leash. He was often seen out late at night, hunting up action and getting into trouble. I knew he had been arrested before, but he'd never had to serve prison time.
Bob Sheldon sure had a lot to say about boys like Two-Bit. Bob was an okay guy, good-looking and smart and all that, but he had a bit of a mean streak, that much was obvious. I knew he jumped greasers, but I could never know for sure who. Two-Bit often came to school with cuts and bruises, and I knew which group of people was the most likely culprit. But I'm sure he started his fair share of fights.
It made me feel guilty. Sometimes, I wondered if what I had done to Evie Martin was any different than what Bob and Randy Adderson, his best friend and Marcia's boyfriend, did when they got into fights with those boys. But I hadn't hit her or anything, so it couldn't be as bad. Could it? But I would always justify it, you see. Tell myself that Evie was probably too chicken to defend herself, or that what I did wasn't as bad as beating somebody up. Besides, I had backed off. I didn't exactly want Steve Randle coming after me.
The honk of a car horn got my attention, and I saw Cherry and Co. in her Stingray. I slapped on a smile and ran out to the car, sliding into the back seat next to Marcia. It was a tight fit – Cherry's car was not made to fit six teenaged girls.
"You look nice, Bridget," Missy complimented.
"You don't think I underdressed?" I asked, noticing that the rest of them were wearing skirts or sundresses.
"You're fine," Marcia insisted. "I wish my parents would let me wear something like that out."
"Mine too," Penny sighed, looking me up and down. "How'd you convince your dad?"
The girls knew about my mother situation. It had come up somewhat early on in meeting them, and it had been kind of awkward, telling them she had left but not being able to explain why or where she was. I always got so mad at her when I had to tell people about it. Who was she to avoid her responsibilities? Why did she get to run away? Why would anyone let her? But it was a pointless road to go down, one with more anguish than answers.
"He doesn't really care," I shrugged.
"Lucky you," Vickie tisked.
I took note of the hint of disdain in her voice but didn't say anything.
There was general chatter the rest of the drive, about what was playing on the radio and who was and wasn't date-worthy and whether or not our parents would let us be caught dead in a mini skirt.
And then we arrived.
It was already the mother of all parties, at least to my eyes, but I didn't exactly have a point of reference for that sort of thing. There were so many people just milling around talking and laughing and drinking. And I had been right; people from both sides of town were there. They weren't exactly talking to each other, but they were there, those kids from the East side. Maybe even Two-Bit, I thought to myself. It seemed to be his scene.
But no, I didn't see him. Who I saw was ten times worse.
It wasn't like I saw him right away, no. Once my friends and I had gotten to the party, pulling up squealing in Cherry's Stingray and causing a scene, we headed down the hill to the river, foregoing drinks like the good girls we were and looking for someone we knew. (Although, if we were really so good, we probably wouldn't have been there in the first place.) It smelled like moss and beer and cigarettes and Old Spice, mixing together with the stench of the river and all of it lingering and invading my senses in the most unpleasant way.k
"Oh-ho, look who's here," some big guy laughed when he saw us. By the size of him, I assumed he was yet another football player. "Who invited you prudes?"
"Can it, George," Vickie snapped, but she favored him with one of her winning smiles. "We all know you were prolly standin' around waitin' for me to show up."
The two of them briefly went off into their own little world, and when I looked at Cherry, she said, "George Washburn. The two'a them have been dancing around each other all summer. I bet they're together before the first game of the season." She shrugged. "Vickie just likes playin' hard to get."
I wondered when people would no longer have to explain things to me. It was all one massive game of catch-up, and I was the perpetual outsider.
"Now go on, get," Vickie said playfully, shoving George's arm. "I didn't come here to see you."
"Uh-huh. Sure, Vick," George said, then walked off. I had missed their entire conversation. Vickie came back over to us looking very pleased, and I thought to myself that it was strange how we had all stood there and waited for her – the attendants awaiting their queen.
"There's Jenny Eitel over there..." Vickie mused. She clearly didn't want to get into her conversation with George. "C'mon. Let's go talk to her."
Jenny Eitel? What business did I have talking to Jenny Eitel? She was one of the most boring people at Will Rogers, no joke. I had known her for hardly any time at all, and even I knew that. She wore the same penny loafers every day with the same kind of skirt and the same kind of blouse and she talked about the same thing all the time: her boyfriend.
Shoot me.
But there will always be things worse than talking to Jenny Eitel. Jenny was trivial, minute, a mere blip on the spectrum of Shit that happened to me since moving to Tulsa.
I walked over to Jenny, tucking myself between Missy and Marcia, taking in my surroundings and trying to avoid the subject of Boyfriend of the Year, Mister Wade Draper. I could hear Jenny babble continuously as Vickie, Cherry, and Penny hung on to her every word like it was gospel. I supposed this was what people did at parties: stood around and talked. And drank. I lost count of how many drinks my friends and I refused, but there were other, rowdier girls off in the distance who had clearly partaken. I recited the probable suspects in my head: Evie Martin. Kathy Lawson. Sylvia Capoletti. Sandy Baxter. The girls with the short skirts. Those kinds of girls would take a drink from a perfect stranger and make a fool of herself.
"I swear I'll scream if I have to hear one more word about Mr. Perfect," Marcia said out of the side of her mouth. "Let's bail."
"You've never had a better idea, Marcia," I deadpanned, making Missy giggle.
We slinked away from the conversation, almost on tiptoe, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves and appear rude. We didn't want Jenny knowing we thought she was a bore – even if it was true.
It was getting dark, and more people had shown up since we had arrived, and I quickly lost my friends in the crowd. As I moved through the mass of sweaty, yeasty humanity, uselessly calling their names, I felt a hand reach out and rest on my shoulder. I yelped and spun on my heel, and there Dallas Winston was.
To this day, I do not understand what the appeal was with him. He was pale and towheaded, sharp-eared and icy-eyed. This was a mean boy, no doubt. I had exactly two conversations with Dallas, and both times, he made me feel cold. That hand on my arm, though – that burned hot.
"Well, well," I barely heard him drawl. "If it ain't Li'l' Miss Charity. You lookin' to give out loans, or are you here on more personal business?"
I looked around, making sure no one was paying attention. Dallas leaned back against the base of an ancient-looking tree, and I scowled. "None of your business," I said, forcing bravery.
He laughed, a dry cackle that I can still hear now. "C'mon now, don't be so mean. I'm just tryin' to make conversation."
I was all alone with this boy. The crowd was big enough to lose friends in, but small enough that as the two of us stood under the tree together, it felt like we were the only two people beside that river.
"So what're you doin' here, huh? Slummin'? Cuz lemme tell ya, none of the guys here would touch you with a ten-foot pole." He took a drag off his (presumably stolen) cigarette. "Maybe a few of your friends, though. I'd take a bite outta that blonde one."
I curled in on myself, feeling uncomfortable and, strangely, insulted. I wasn't there to slum; there were people from all over town at that party, so how could I be slumming if we were surrounded by both socs and greasers? Besides, I didn't even want to be there all that much. And I didn't want him talking about my friends.
(But is it bad I was wishing he thought I was pretty, too?)
"I'm just here because my friends asked me to be here," I said, avoiding Dallas's eyes.
"'Course you are."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
Dallas smirked. "It means whatever you want it to mean. Now go on, get 'fore someone sees us."
I stared at him for a beat. There were a million questions to ask, and I've since learned that you can ask all the questions in the world, but there aren't too many answers. Dallas Winston had stopped me to talk, and I'm still not sure why he would bother.
So I beat it out of there to find my friends.
But someone saw us.
xXx
"You gotta gap 'tween your teeth."
Oh. My. God.
I slowly raised my head and looked at Missy. She wasn't paying any attention to me, busy jotting down notes, like I had been trying to do before Two-Bit got in the way. Again.
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my head. I knew he wouldn't shut up unless I shut him up myself. I turned from Missy to him, something I seemed to do a lot. The jackass was grinning like a damned fool and was looking mighty proud of himself for discovering that about me. He was the only person – the only one! – to have brought it up.
"Yeah," I said. "I know." It wasn't a very wide gap, but just noticeable enough. Not even the braces had been able to close it all the way.
Two-Bit nodded some, pursing his lips. Then he opened his stupid mouth again. "Does it bother you?"
I blew out a steady stream of air, trying to keep from flying off the handle. "No, it doesn't," I replied. "Why, does it bother you?"
Two-Bit shook his head furiously. "No, no, not at all. I'm not bothered by it a bit. I just wanted to make sure you knew."
I bit my lip. He was so frustrating. The urge to start hitting him over the head with my textbook was overwhelming, but Mr. James probably wouldn't have liked that. Come to think of it, no sensible adult would, so I settled for a more appropriate response.
"Thank you for your concern, Two-Bit," I responded, "but it really wasn't necessary." Then I smiled at him and went back to my work.
It wasn't thirty seconds before I heard him talking again.
"I guess that's just who I am, ya know? I look out for people," he declared.
I snapped my head up, getting irritated. "Two-Bit," I sighed, "will you stop talking?"
He nodded, diverting his attention away from me and back to...whatever it was he was doing before he decided to bug me.
And then a folded-up piece of paper landed on my desk.
Passing notes...how naughty of me. Ha! But I noticed you're a fan of the written word. Anyways, heard you've met the Devil himself. – Col. Two-Bit Mathews Esquire the Third
I rolled my eyes at his ridiculous signature.
But I still wrote back.
What?
That's what you do when someone passes you a note. You write back.
I guess we're speaking again? - Bridget Stevens
Yes indeed, ma'am. You are my favorite person to annoy, after all. I can't get a rise out of anybody else like I can you, so I couldn't resist anymore. Now answer the question: is it true you've been talking to Dallas Winston?
So that's who he meant.
A grand total of twice, which I wouldn't really count as "talking to", but yes. Why do you care?
I care because he's a buddy of mine. A right pain in the ass, but a buddy, nonetheless. Anyway, what were you thinking talking to him? He's dangerous!
So I've heard. But it isn't like I chose to talk to him. He spoke to me first. Well, the second time. The first time I was the one who spoke to him first, but that was before I knew who he was. I wouldn't have ever talked to him if I had known.
Just stay away from him. I'm doing you a favor telling you this.
I thought you said you were buddies?
We are. Doesn't mean I can't warn you.
I can take care of myself.
Yeah, yeah. Sure you can. But when he tries playing tonsil hockey with you and you don't like it...don't come crying to me.
Don't worry. I won't.
He didn't bother passing it back after that. But when the bell rang, he stood in front of my desk, delaying my leaving for my next class as he so often did. I was used to it by then, though, used to his antics and his complete inability to take anything seriously or leave me alone. This was the first time since the Jimmy incident that he had really bothered to talk to me, though, and it was strange. I hadn't realized until then that I had gotten so used to him pestering me that everything had felt off since he stopped.
Two-Bit drummed his fingers on my desk. For once, he didn't seem to know what to say. "Do you need something?" I asked, making sure I sounded as uninterested as possible. He raised an eyebrow.
"I see how it's gonna be," he said. "You're pissed. I get it, it's fair. And I ain't gonna pretend like I don't deserve it. But – look," he sighed, palms on the table, "we ain't each other's favorite person on the planet. I get that. Hell, it's the natural order of things. But guys like Jimmy and Dallas take it too far, and…and, well, that just ain't right. So I…well, I just wanted to say that, is all."
I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. As I stood up with my things, I realized that I actually was waiting for him to say two things: that he was sorry, and that he didn't hate me.
But I also knew not to wait long.
"Alright," was all I said. "Good talk."
I left.
AN: Thanks for reading!
