Author's Note: Well. Here we are. Again.

I kept going back and forth about whether or not I was going to do this. I mean, I have been writing about these characters for a decade now. The first version of this story was written when I was in the seventh grade, about a month after I first read the book for school, and it was truly pitiful. That attempt was wiped from the internet, and the only things you can access about its existence on the Wayback Machine are its title, summary, and publication date. But that story gave me a character I love to write about – more than one, actually – and so I revisited it several months later and published the first version of Don't Think Twice. Both of these drafts were written when I was in middle school. Then, a few years later, I tackled the story from Two-Bit's point of view, thinking it was a story that sort of stood on its own, but I later realized was just me getting to know the original story better – was just another draft.

None of those were stories I was completely happy with.

And that brings us here. This story was always meant to be from the perspective of an original character, and while the fandom is rife with them, this story is hers to tell. And I want that story to be as good as I can possibly make it while still keeping as much of the previous iterations intact as I can.

So we have this revision. My hope for this is that it is the best, most complete, most compelling version of the story I first started telling about Bridget Stevens and Two-Bit Mathews when I was thirteen years old. I'm 23 now, with a degree in English – thanks in part to these characters – and I want this story to be what I always wanted it to be. I want to share with you the version of these characters I was clumsily striving to create when I was just starting to write, and I hope I can deliver that for you. I cannot leave these two, this universe, alone. They mean too much to me.

If you're familiar with me, my writing, and this story and these characters, then thanks for popping in. I hope you can enjoy this final revision and can see how I have tried to make changes that I believe make the story better. If you're new here and have no idea what I'm talking about in regards to this story and these characters and the journey of this piece…well, I still hope you enjoy it. Because I have had a blast writing these guys every single time.

I do not own The Outsiders. SE Hinton does. I also do not own Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right", or anything else you may recognize.

Alright. Time for me to shut up. Let's tell this story one last time.

Happy reading. :)

"I'm a-thinking and a-wonderin' walking down the road

I once loved a woman, a child I am told

I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul

But don't think twice, it's all right."

- Bob Dylan, "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right"

xXx

I think a good place to start our story would be at the beginning.

Not the very, very beginning. I consider that to possibly be at about the time of my conception, and that's not something I want to get too detailed about. No, our story starts when I'm sixteen years old, about to be a junior in high school. I don't think that's a bad place to start at all.

One day in May of 1966, my father walked into my bedroom. It was one of the first days of my summer vacation, and I was already looking for ways to preoccupy myself until school started again in the fall. We always went somewhere for vacation, always spent some time with my father's family, and I would spend a couple of weeks with my mother's family at a resort in the Catskills, just like always. Daddy had let my grandparents on my mother's side send me to summer camp every year until the summer after eighth grade, when camps decide that girls are suddenly too old to be sent off into the woods to ride horses and make bracelets, and I didn't want to be a camp counselor, so that was out. But that left the rest of the summer, and I was a girl with few friends. I was about ready to call the whole summer a wash when my father walked into my room and said,

"We need to have a talk, Bridget."

I had no idea what he could be referring to. I was a good girl, kept my nose clean, so I knew there was no way I was in trouble. (Which is sort of sad when I think back on it, because part of the reason I didn't ever get in much trouble was because I never did anything.) But I knew it was serious by the look on his face and the tired slump to his shoulders, and that's when I started wondering who died. I figured it must be Grandpa Rubenstein, with his high blood pressure and all, or maybe some distant relative I had met only once, but when I asked him what was going on, it turned out that the only thing that had died was his career in New York University's history department.

This was a shock. Daddy had been teaching my entire life. He had been at NYU for several years at that point. I had grown up on that campus, sitting in his office as he graded papers and wandering the halls of his building. We knew all the faculty, had been to all of their houses for department parties and had them over to ours. I had planned on going there for college. But my father had been denied tenure for reasons he couldn't quite understand – or wouldn't tell me – and all of it suddenly went out the window: his office, the parties, my future, it seemed, were all gone.

But that wasn't the part that made me cry.

Up until this point in my entire short life, I knew I hadn't had too many struggles. I wasn't blind to that. I may have been sixteen and nearly friendless, but I wasn't stupid. I knew that Daddy and I were a couple of trust fund babies. I knew that was the reason – along with the academic texts he had written over the years – that my father could work in a relatively low-paying job compared to the other men in my family, and his work and the money that had been given to us through those trusts were the reasons we lived so comfortably. I got all of that. And I knew he would find another job because my father is a very smart man.

A month later, he came back into my room. I was listening to The Beatles' Yesterday and Today after picking it up just that day from the record store a few blocks over, already with its alternate cover in place. (Probably for the best – if Dad had seen me with a copy with the original cover, with all the blood and butchered baby dolls, he would have probably had a heart attack and banned me from ever listening to them again. I would sooner die.) He immediately moved to my record player and removed the needle, turned it off, and sat down at my desk. I was laying on the floor, magazine now on my stomach as I stared up at him. He was trying to smile at me.

"What's up?" I asked.

Dad took a deep breath. "I've been offered a position at another university."

I sat straight up. This was wonderful news – Dad had been stressed out and aimless for the entire month he was out of work, and it had been like walking on eggshells around him. "That's great, Daddy. Where at? Columbia? Barnard?"

His face twisted up like he had just taken a bite out of a lemon. Dad wasn't always so great at delivering unpleasant news – he wasn't the touchy-feely type, and I was (am)…an emotional girl, as the older women in my family put it. Too much like my mother in that way. Leading with the heart and not the head.

"How do you feel about Tulsa?" he asked, his eye contact intense and searching.

I blinked. Tulsa? I knew nothing about Tulsa. I knew it was in Oklahoma, and I knew Oklahoma!, but that was as far as my knowledge went. "What do you mean, how do I feel about Tulsa?"

I remember how he sat with his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together as he tried to delicately deliver the blow. "Well – you know Greg Daniels. We have a friend down there who we flew with during the war. He works at OSU, pulled a favor…" Dad trailed off and finally broke eye contact to stare down at The Beatles on the cover of Yesterday and Today, standing around that luggage trunk – or in it, in Paul's case. "And the campus is only an hour away from Tulsa, and I thought it might be better living there than in Stillwater. More to do, nice houses. I thought you would like a more metropolitan area, like here. And did you hear what I said about the houses? We'd live in an actual house, not a townhouse, with a real yard. A lot more space." He tried to smile. "So? What do you think?"

What did I think? What did I think?

I immediately burst into tears.

New York City was my home. The NYU campus was my home. That townhouse was my home. I had lived there my whole life – my father had lived there his whole life! And he was throwing it all away because he thought he might get tenure at Oklahoma State University in Stillwater, Oklahoma. And he thought Tulsa was comparable to our city. I cried because I knew, though, that I really had no say in it, that this was a done deal and that I would be leaving my home and my extended family and the few friends I had to move to Tulsa, Oklahoma, a place I knew nothing about and had no desire to.

The two of us drove all the way down there, some of our belongings in tow while the rest would be arriving by movers. It was a long drive, I remember that, and I remember that my father insisted on talking at least two-thirds of the way there. My father can be a very talkative man, naturally, lecturing for a living to his students – and to me. He was my sole disciplinarian growing up unless we were with the family. No au pair, no nanny – just him. Just him and me.

My mother left not long after I was born. That's why it was just the two of us. I don't remember her; the fact that she was gone is just a part of my history. Not having her was awkward at times, like when I, uh, became a woman or however adults (men) say it. That was one of the longest days of my life, and I suspect my father's, too.

But Dad was good. He had always been there, or as much as he could be. It was what it was.

Tulsa was nothing like New York City. As we drove in, the skyline was uninspiring and everything looked and smelled dry. It left a lot to be desired, as far as first impressions went. When we got to our new neighborhood, though, I hate to admit that I was sort of impressed. I had lived in a townhouse my entire life, but now we had a big old house.

Really big.

Terribly big.

The architecture was in the plantation style, the realtor had told my father, minus all the baggage that word carried, meaning it had not been a literal plantation, but the descriptor still felt awkward. It was painted white and had blue shutters and a big wraparound porch downstairs, and a porch on the backside upstairs. You could get to the upstairs porch from a staircase below. There were about a bajillion rooms and all of the appliances were updated. And there was air conditioning, thank God.

I didn't quite know what we would do with all that space. It was just the two of us.

When I stepped into my new room, I remember standing there and staring at the emptiness. Yes, my boxes and some of my new furniture was already in there, and the painters would be coming in soon. The upstairs porch was right outside my bedroom, and I pushed open the screen door and walked right out to look at the backyard, which was incredibly green. The yards in the neighborhood were large and well-kept, and there was plenty of space between each property. There was a small tree line, but as I looked out, I couldn't see the sprawling expanse of ranch and farmland like I expected – just city. Just Tulsa, uninspiring and dusty.

When I started unpacking, it felt strange to see all of my things in this new space. It was mine, but it wasn't. Not really. Not even as I made my new princess bed or put my old glass elephant on my new vanity or put my same old clothes in my new closet. It was mine. But it wasn't. And as I listened to my father unpack and saw him admire all of this new space, watched as he created his study and library and filled it with all his books with a little bit of pride, I wondered if he even missed our home, our city. I never asked, though, and as it was the middle of August and the semester was to start in the next few weeks, he was driving out to Stillwater a lot to get things ready for his new job.

It was a very lonely time.

We had this big house, Dad had his nice new job, and we had made the journey to Tulsa in one piece. I had a few weeks of summer left, but until the school year started that fall, I sat in my new room and felt sorry for myself. Very, very sorry. It was pathetic. I sat in my big room, unpacking and rearranging and thinking and sulking.

I didn't go out.

I didn't make friends. I didn't even try to.

I sulked.

And felt sorry for myself.

Because that was the thing to do.

xXx

About two weeks into living in Tulsa, my father decided he should have another talk with me.

"Bridget," he said.

"Mmhmm," I hummed, flipping through the pages of Vogue.

"You've hardly left this room," he said.

I nodded. I didn't look up from my article. "I know I haven't."

"Why is that?"

"I don't want to, that's why."

An answer worthy of an A+ if you ask me, but Dad didn't seem to think so. He once again sat down at my desk – my new desk because Dad had sold me on the move in part because he had promised me a new bedroom set – and went on. "Bridget. I'm serious. You start school soon, and you won't know anyone. Don't you think you'd be more comfortable knowing someone on your first day instead of having to figure everything out for yourself?"

I put down my magazine. He had a fair point. I had gone through ten years – eleven if you count kindergarten – of school without ever having to make any major adjustments. But this, this whole moving thing, was my major adjustment. And he was right, I wouldn't know anybody. And I'm not always so good at making friends.

So I smiled at him and held out my hand. "Could I borrow your car?" I asked.

Dad rolled his eyes and sighed. I wasn't crazy about cars or anything, but Dad had just gotten a new convertible, and I'm a sucker for convertibles. "There are plenty of young girls your age in this neighborhood, Bridget. I'm sure they've heard about you from the realtor and would like to meet you." Well, they could have introduced themselves, then. "Why don't you go out and visit with one of them instead of driving out to find someone to talk to?"

"Because that's too easy," I answered, standing up and smoothing my skirt. Plus I just liked to vex him. "Besides, maybe I'll pass them as I drive. Please, Daddy? Please?"

He gave me one of those looks, but in short, that's how I ended up with my dad's keys, taking a drive around my new town, looking around and soaking everything in. There were bars and dance halls and somewhat tall buildings, and a few schools. Plenty of houses. A police station. On and on.

The people were what was interesting.

Some of them were men in boots, bolos, and cowboy hats. Some of them were well-dressed and looked well-to-do, not a hair out of place. Some of them had slicked-back hair and wore leather, even in the heat. Not as much variety as I was used to, but…different.

It was about a half an hour later that the needle started to hover around E, and I pulled into a gas station. I hadn't spoken to anyone yet in Tulsa.

But I was about to.

It was a little DX gas station. I pulled next to one of the pumps, and within a few seconds a guy about my age came out and started to fill up the car. He greeted me and gave me a friendly wave, but then went back to focusing on what he was doing. I watched him closely. He was handsome, that much was for sure. Nice brown eyes, blond hair that was kind of long. He seemed nice enough, so I decided it would be okay to ask him a few questions.

"Hey, um..." I trailed off, but then my eyes lit on his nametag. "…Sodapop? That can't be your real name."

I instantly felt embarrassed, and I could feel my face going red-hot to match what were probably a pair of very pink ears. But the station attendant's head snapped up, and he was smiling at me. "Yes, ma'am, it sure can be," he said, laughing a little.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What a name. Don't hear that one every day.

"Sorry," I mumbled, still feeling awful about it. "I just…thought it might be a nickname or something," I said, trying to defend my outburst, but he just shook his head.

"It's alright. I get it a lot. Anything I can help you with?"

I cleared my throat, recovering. Just move past it, Bridget. "Yes, actually. Would you mind telling me what exactly there is to do around here?" I asked. Might as well start with the basics, but I still felt stupid asking. I didn't get out much, but I liked to go around the drugstores and grab milkshakes, duck in and out of different shops.

Sodapop looked at me funny. "You ain't from around here, I s'pose? Cuz the goin's-on of this town are pretty common knowledge. Unless, of course, you ain't from around here." He raised an eyebrow, but he kept smiling, still handsome.

"No, I'm not from around here," I answered. "How'd you guess?"

"Just lucky, I suppose."

"I suppose so. Still, anything interesting to do?"

He gave me an amused look, like he wanted to laugh at me, and he pulled the nozzle out of my car. Then he held his hand out and I paid him. "Ya know," he started, "I really don't think I'm the guy you should be askin'. I don't really think we have the same interests." He slammed the hood of the car twice. I started up the engine, ready to pull out. "But…maybe I'll see you around," he shrugged. Sodapop flipped me a wave and I drove off, completely miffed.

What did he mean we didn't have the same interests? He probably didn't have time to elaborate, but a bit of an explanation would have been appreciated. Strange town – people named their kids Sodapop and apparently couldn't be bothered to answer a simple question.

I was probably just being bitter. Actually, of course I was being bitter. I didn't want to be in Tulsa, I wanted to be in New York. But I guess it just wasn't meant to be. Not at the time, at least.

I drove home after that, too confused to go on. I pulled the car into the driveway and headed back inside where my father was sitting in his new study, which at the time was still mostly boxes and built-in shelves. But he had his desk and chair set up, and he was sitting there reading the paper. He looked up at me when I entered.

"Hey," I greeted.

"Bridget. How was the drive?"

"Fine. I filled up the car on my way home."

Dad nodded slowly, turning the page of his paper. Not The New York Times anymore. He took another glance at me. "You're back sooner than I expected," he said. "Not much to see?"

I shrugged and sat down next to his desk. "Oh, there's plenty to see. Just not a lot of people out in the neighborhood," I sighed, resting my head on my knees. "I did meet someone, though, when I was filling up the car."

"Oh?"

"His name is Sodapop. He works at the gas station I went to. He wouldn't tell me what there was to do around here, but he was nice about it. I guess."

Dad set his paper down. "Sodapop?" He repeated tiredly, and suddenly it was the funniest thing in the world to me and I started laughing. It was absolutely absurd, right? First time I talk to anybody in this town besides the realtor and the guy's name is Sodapop. It had to be some sort of joke.

"That was his name, alright. I'll probably never even see him again."

"Oh, you never know."

That's true. You never really know.

So maybe this is where the story really starts. The rest of this is all set-up, boring background stuff. There's a lot to tell, and a lot has happened since I met Sodapop Curtis. I mean, it wasn't much of a meeting – just a few words and the possibility of seeing him again sometime. And I did see him again, plenty of times.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. A lot happened between my first day of school at Will Rogers High School and that spring, and it's going to take me a while to tell it all. I feel obligated to. It's a story about history classes and secrets and a lot of conversations between me and a guy named Two-Bit Mathews.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

How can I talk about Two-Bit Mathews without telling first how I met him? That's a good story, I think, and if he had never decided to open his big mouth that morning, I wouldn't be where I am right now.

And where am I?

Well, wherever I am, it's all Two-Bit Mathews' fault.

AN: What do we think?

Updates Sundays and Wednesdays. See you then.

Thanks for reading!