I was thinking about the kid as I walked along the streets of the east side.

That kid, the one Tom had jumped, he just seemed so, innocent. Okay, maybe I think too much about things like this, forgetting the outside world, and everyone knew it. My mom's always told me that it could get me into trouble someday.

I knew it would, but not big trouble, not anything I couldn't handle. I don't know why, I'm just like that. My dad says that all of the Whitney's (that's my last name, by the way, my dad's side of the family) are. And when I think about it, it does make sense.

My sister Chloe, my dad, and me, we've all got those talents. Chloe can just look at someone, anyone, and she can read they're minds. My dad can always see a person's past; he can tell how much someone had been through, or why they are the way they are. And me, well, I can "see the future." I've got a sense of what to do and what not to do, because I know what will get me in a pickle (I'm a baseball fan, what can I say?). I can also look at someone (well, usually kids because they've got more to come) and just know where they're headed. Like that greaser being cornered today, I sorta knew something about his fate. I knew one thing; this division of the town would make a tragedy out of his life, and soon.

I suddenly remembered what side of the streets I was on. I quickly looked up and noticed that it was getting dark.

It was a miracle I hadn't been jumped. People were still staring at me like I had three eyes and a nose in my mouth, which wasn't surprising. No girl I had ever seen dressed like I did, and plus there was that sixth sense of the sides. They all knew I wasn't their kind, but still, no one came near me. Hm. Maybe it was too dark for them to tell.

I had reached my destination; the Dingo. I knew I was nuts for coming down here; this place was the roughest hangout in Tulsa. But I wanted a drink, and I was going to get one.

I walked through the doors, feeling like a cowboy entering an old west saloon. You know, when a new cowboy comes to town and is so different that he's not always welcome. There had been a fight going on a little farther down, and I was even thinking about going to watch until I remembered that I was in the Dingo...and saw the knives. No, I'm not scared of knives...just the damage they can do to you. Other than that, I'm not scared of anything, and I mean that.

I thought the heads on the street had turned...as I walked down clear aisle there were jaws dropping and eyes popping out. I ignored them, I did it every day. People were just unoriginal idiots, afraid of a little individuality. Finally I reached the bar, and took one of the stools. (Author's Note: I don't have a copy of the book with me right now, and I'm not exactly sure if the Dingo is a bar or not. Just thought it'd be interesting if it was, sorry if I'm wrong!)

I knocked on the bar, and saw the man inside slowly turn around, a dull and tired look on his face.

"Yes?" he said, attempting to be polite. It didn't work very well, as his tone was still so...lackluster. But as his lazy eyes finally got a good look at me, he jumped awake. I hid a grin. I loved making exhausted people remember that they're on this planet.

I grabbed a menu and skimmed it quickly, handing him my order. He seemed to remember his job, because he stopped starring at my slitted sleeves and put his polite face back on, but I could tell he was still dazed.

He brought me my shot of alcol (my nickname for any kind of alcohol). I drank it slowly, savouring the taste.

Chloe's always hated me drinking, but I never got drunk, and besides, I couldn't resist. You read about most people drinking when they're high on stress, but not me. I drink whenever I'm feeling best. I was feeling great because of that win the greasers had, and I always drank after something like that because it just makes me feel on top of the clouds. No need to have stress cut in on that drink, it's just perfect without it.

I had just finished my shot when I heard some commotion behind me. I ignored it and went on back to thinking, but I nearly cringed when I heard a voice far behind me, a voice I had heard before.

"Hey, out-soc!" he called. Damnit. Tim Shepard.

Tim Shepard was known 'round all of Tulsa as the king of the eastside. He, like so many others, called me 'rebel and 'out-soc' for a living. This was a real hood. He went around fighting and fisting and bragging and jumping. He and his gang had always made me sick.

He and some others (I wasn't looking at them but I could hear them) were far behind me, but they were coming up quick. I had the temptation to swing around and land one on Tim's jaw. But I knew better. The Shepard gang usually carried blades, and unlike those greasers I saw today, these kids used them.

Instead, I quickly knocked on the bar with my fist. "Bar tender!" I called quietly, a demanding edge in my voice. Whenever I was dealing with adults, particularily bar tenders, that voice worked miracles. The man turned around, stunned again.

"Hand me a knife," I stared directly into his eyes, and I could see the fear in them. Whenever I use that tone and glare, I could make a tiger scared.

He wanted to refuse, but he was still unsure. But when I nodded my head to the side, indicating Shepard's gang, he understood. From his pocket, he pulled out a blade. It wasn't much, in fact it couldn't have been more than a slightly large fruit knife, but it was nice and clean, and deffinitely sharp. It always helps to have a shiny blade, because it looks more dangerous that way.

I nodded approvingly and gave the man one of my special smiles. I only caught a glimpse of his flushing cheeks (people just seem to like that smile) before Tim came right behind me, all of his flunkies snickering and laughing at me.

I hid the knife in my pocket before I turned around. When I did, I stared right into those dark, hoodlum eyes of Tim Shepard, king of the East.

Unlike any other jerk in his gang, Shepard was street and almost cool, with that curled black hair and long scar by his cheekbone. I've always thought of him as good looking, but hell with that. Any thug like that who prowled the streets like a panther looking for kids to shove just wasn't someone I was interested in. He was looking at me with that sneer of a smile, but I could tell he wasn't drunk.

Even if he wasn't, the rest of his gang was. All of them were swaggering and looking at me with stupid, far away eyes. I hated them. Every last one of them. Stupid, cruel, uneducated .

"So, out-soc," Tim began, that smirk of a smile and those words making me want to strangle something (most likely his neck). "Taking a visit down to our neck of the woods, eh? What's the matter, they don't let broads drink on your side?"

His cronies laughed at this, and I swear, if I didn't hate Tim so much, I would have snapped them like twigs too.

I gave them a sneer, one of my worst. "Actually," I said, my voice dripping with hate. "The broads drink too much on our side, so I came down here, hoping to find some sanity. Guess I found the opposite."

They laughed at this, but my attention was drawn to a laugh that didn't seem so cruel. For the first time I glanced behind Tim and saw a kid about my age, probably Tim's brother. I didn't know why his laugh and face seemed different, they just did.

His face seemed kinder, just a bit kinder. The difference was so slight I could hardly see it, but it was there. I glanced into this kid's future and I was surprised to see a hoodlum, just like his brother. Maybe he was being forced into it, he was already pretty bad now.

I turned my gold-eyed glare back to Tim, who was starting to look at me in a way that reminded me I was a girl. Oh great. Maybe he is drunk after all.

"You know, for a rebel you've got some good looks on ya, girl," he said, sliding up close to me. I recoiled in disgust as he fingered my shirt. Okay, I've made up my mind. I hate this guy more than I hate being called a Soc.

He was leaning his face in when I couldn't take it anymore. I pulled out my fist and swung at his face harder than I've ever swung at anything before. My hand landed on his eye, and he stumbled back and almost yelled, falling to the floor, a hand on his eye.

I grinned triumphantly at him. I glanced up at his gang, whose mouths were hanging open. I quickly pulled out my knife and held it in front of me, ready to defy any of them.

I started to call out a threat, but suddenly I looked at his brother. He was staring at Tim, hurt on his face. Then worry. I don't know what happened, but I almost felt...sorry for Tim Shepard. I looked at him on the floor, but this time, I saw him so much differently. He just looked...broken. Defeated. Useless. As if in one punch, I had taken everything from him...like I had taken the one thing he had; his reputation...another glance at the brother and I knew I would be sick.

Wait, what am I thinking? He's going to be physically fine...he'll just have a black eyes, no biggie...

But the brother turned his eyes to me, and I felt just horrible. What's happening to me? Why am I feeling sorry for this hoodlum, this idiot who had made fun of me for so long...

Suddenly I heard a little voice in my head. It wasn't really there, but I heard it. I had heard it before, whenever I did something wrong, but this time... it just sounded so different. For once, I wanted to obey that voice, but I didn't understand it.

'He has a story too, you know...'

I don't know why I did it, but I just lowered my knife. It just didn't feel right to have it up anymore.

I tossed it back on the bar, and ignoring the shouts of anger from the Shepard gang I slowly walked out of the door, just feeling dazed and confused.

Well, there's another chapter. I don't own the Outsiders, and thank you so much to the people who reviewed. And Tim's going to be okay, Valere's just having some realizations come to her. Thanks for reading! (I apologize for any spelling, grammar, or any mistakes, I wrote this pretty late.)