Bob's P.O.V.
"That was real fucking nerve, man," I said, and gulped whiskey from my flask. We were driving around the north side of town, hunting down those greasers who picked up Cherry and Marcia.
"We'll probably never find 'em," Randy said, and I turned to him quick, gave him a sharp look.
"We'll find 'em," I said grimly, ignoring the slur to my words. Randy had seemed almost like he didn't want to find them. Like he was chicken shit.
Weaving down the shabby little streets, the Mustang handling like a dream. I listened to the raucous laughter and swears from the backseat.
"Well, lookit that, shit!" David said, but I was too drunk to see anything. Everything was blurred and smeared, and as we glided by the park with the fountain the movement I saw from the corner of my eye could have been anything at all.
I swung the car around, headed toward the edge of the park. And now I saw the boys, greasers for sure, and with any luck they were the little shits who'd been at the movies.
We got out, stumbled toward the greasers on the monkey bars. Even through my inebriation I could sense their fear. As we got closer I knew it was them, the two younger ones.
"You're outta your territory. You'd better watch it," one of them said. I stumbled and squinted at him. He was nearly familiar, that long greasy black hair, big black eyes. Shit. How'd I know that kid? Probably beat the shit out of him once.
"No, pal, you'd better watch it," Randy said, and the greaser flinched. I laughed.
"You know what a greaser is?" I said, coming closer to them. They narrowed their eyes at me, and the one with the lighter hair spoke.
"What?"
"White trash with long greasy hair,"
"You know what a soc is?" he shot back, and I stumbled again but caught my balance.
"What?"
"White trash with Mustangs and madras," he said, then he spit on me. For a second everything froze, and I felt an electric rage tingling fiercely through every cell, building momentum. I'd kill this little greaser piece of shit.
Little girl in the fire at the church P.O.V.
"Lucy," Peter said, whispering. I'd been picking some flowers to give to the teacher. Her name was Miss Jean.
"What?" I said, and then picked the prettiest purple flower. So pretty.
"Let's go in the church," he said. I looked at the church. Old and falling apart and empty.
"No, Miss Jean said not to,"
"C'mon, Lucy. Real quick. She won't know," Peter said that and smiled. Peter was nice but got in trouble kinda a lot.
"Well, I don't know…" I looked over at the church. It was a little scary but a little neat looking. I wondered what was in there.
Peter grabbed my hand and we ran toward it, went in. It was shadowy and cobwebby.
"Someone lives here," Peter whispered.
"What? What do you mean?"
"Look. Food. And a book, and cigarette packs, and cards. Someone lives here,"
"What if they're still here?" I said, and looked everywhere. I didn't see nobody, but Peter was right. Someone lived here.
I smelled the smoke before I saw it and heard the fire crackle before I felt the heat, but soon Peter and me were backed into a corner.
"We gotta get out!" Peter shouted over the noise of the fire.
"We can't! There's nowhere to go!" I shouted back. We were in a corner and the fire was all around. And it came to me that I would die here, not an old gray haired lady rocking in a chair like my grammy. I'd die still a little kid in preschool, and mommy and daddy would be so sad. So I closed my eyes and started screaming. Maybe mommy and daddy would hear me.
"Shut up!" I opened my eyes and saw two older boys, one with black hair and a jean jacket, the other with blond hair and a leather jacket. The one with black hair said shut up.
"We're gonna get you out!" he yelled, and reached for me through the smoke. The blond reached for Peter. I closed my eyes again as I was lifted up and into his arms.