Author's Note: Okay, this one's a little different. If you're craving a story that has a deep and gripping plot and which delves into the thoughts and hearts of The Outsiders characters, this story is NOT what you are looking for. A sort of extension of my story Ten Years Later, this focuses on Ponyboy's daughter, Gina, and is purely a fun exercise in character development for me. I like to write things that don't necessarily go anywhere and haven't always got a plot, just to keep me writing and to give me a break from some of the more involved stories I'm working on, what with the intense pressure and deadlines coming from undisclosed coughKeiracough entities. Lol, you know I think you're awesome. So if you liked my original characters in TYL and are looking for a story that won't make you think too hard, carry on. If not, back away slowly, and please don't trip over the baby toys on your way through…

I did consider just emailing this to a few people, but I know there are some TYL readers who would probably like to read it, or even posting it on Fictionpress, but that would have involved skirting around some of the characters' names or turning them into completely different people. So, apologies to those looking for a more die-hard Outsiders fic or something more thought-provoking (that one's in the works ;). Just a little summer fun here. Feel free send me a PM to offer suggestions for content.

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. My characters just happen to be related to hers. :D

My Exciting Life and Other Oxymorons
Chapter 1

What is the deal with internal clocks?

You spend all winter struggling to wake up in the morning, skim through the getting-ready routine in a haze, climb onto the bus like a zombie, and spend most of first period yawning and thinking about how warm and cozy your bed is all by itself back at home.

And then, wham! Summer vacation hits, and you can sleep as long as you want – or at least until Mom needs you to help with something – but instead, you pop awake at six in the morning and stare at the ceiling for forty-eight minutes wondering how you'll ever be able to call yourself a respectable teenager.

It was ten minutes to seven when I finally gave up on trying to get back to sleep. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and went out to the kitchen.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hmmm."

I sat up onto one of the stools by the part of the counter that sticks out ninety degrees from the rest of the counter – Mom calls it the peninsula – and took a banana out of the fruit bowl. Dad was leaning on the end of the peninsula feverishly writing in a notebook, so I turned my attention to the warm breeze that lifted the kitchen curtains slightly at random intervals. The view out the back screen door could have been clipped out of a magazine article about perfect summer days – the sky was blue, there were birds picking around in the grass, one of the horses was lazily plodding around grazing, and I could hear our neighbor's lawn mower off in the distance. "Looks like it'll be nice today," I said, sliding the peel away from the top half of the fruit.

"Mmm," Dad agreed, leaning his forehead into his palm and scribbling something out.

"The graduation ceremony was nice last night," I added between bites.

"Uh-huh." He was writing again, hadn't even looked up at me, and I could see he was in the middle of something good.

"We should raise my allowance since I got a couple of awards."

Dad took another few seconds to finish the sentence he was working on. "Nice try." He flipped the page back and re-read something before turning to a blank page and starting up with the feverish writing again.

Dad writes novels in his spare time. Not that he would appear to most people to have tons of spare time, but my dad isn't most people. He works full time in the city as Director of Something Something Something at Child Protective Services, volunteers with all kinds of school events, does freelance writing for a local newspaper, writes novels, and still makes time to spend with us. "Us" consists of me, my twin brother Jon, and our brothers, Robbie and Jason, plus whatever foster kids are staying with us at any given time. Robbie and Jason both started out as foster brothers. Oh yeah, and Mom and Dad are remodeling the kitchen and putting an addition on the house, so Dad spends a lot of time working on that, too. My Uncle Darry, who raised Dad from the time my grandparents died when Dad was thirteen, comes over about every other weekend to help out and make sure everything is moving along smoothly. He's good with building things.

"Why am I awake?" Robbie sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and gazed around like he had just…well…crawled out of bed.

"Your hair looks funny," I told him. It's bright orange (why do they call people like him red-heads? one of the great mysteries), and it was sticking up in wild tufts like it does when he needs a haircut. "It makes it look like your head is on fire. Like that heat miser guy on the Christmas special."

He blinked at me. "My head is on fire?"

"Yes."

Robbie moved a cautious hand up to touch his hair, and screamed so loud when his fingers came into contact with it that I jumped. Dad just kept writing.

"You're such a dork," I said. Robbie was laughing like a fool. He's sixteen years old, likes to laugh, and is always saying funny things. He's the funniest person he knows. I don't always think he's so funny, but at least he isn't moody, snappy, and aloof, like some people we live with.

"Morning, Jason," Robbie announced in an overly cheerful voice. Speak of the devil. "What brings you out here at this hour on such a fine morning?"

Jason ignored Robbie and sank down at the end of the table, reaching for the box of corn flakes as he did. "Is the milk out?"

"We like to keep it in the fridge so people aren't throwing up all over the house," I said.

Jason glanced up at me, annoyed. "I come into a room where three other people are already eating breakfast and I can't ask if the milk is out? Don't be a dimwit."

"Don't call each other names," Dad interjected, not looking up.

"I'm not eating," Robbie offered.

Jason glared at Robbie, Robbie gave an innocent shrug, and I tossed a tiny wadded up piece of napkin at Jason. He didn't notice. "So is the milk out?" Robbie asked, reaching for the Cheerios.

"You -" Jason reached over and took a swing at Robbie, who laughed and jumped out of the way, knocking over one of the stools.

"Guys, I'm trying to write here," Dad said, not peeling his eyes off the notebook.

"Do I have to go to this stupid party?" Jason asked on his way to the refrigerator.

"It's my graduation party!" I said. Who the heck complains about having to go to a party, anyway?

"I thought it was Jon's party," Robbie mused, squinting his eyes and using a tone like he was trying to solve a mystery and I had just admitted my guilt.

"So do I have to?" Jason asked again. Jason is almost eighteen, has been living with us since he was eight, and I'm pretty sure he still doesn't like us.

Dad didn't look up as he answered. "Yes, Jason, we've been through this. It's your brother and sister's graduation party." He crossed out a word and stared at the paper, pen at the ready to capture the right word when it spilled off the top of his head.

Robbie poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and shook his head. "I cannot believe you would go so far as to force one of your children to attend a party. Next thing, you'll be expecting him to have fun! By God, where will it end? Somebody should call Child Protective Services!"

I noticed Dad was trying to suppress a smirk. I just went ahead and laughed. "I'll bet Mom tries to make him eat some of the cake she made," I suggested. "Frosting and everything."

Jason glared from me to Robbie, but didn't say anything with Dad right there.

"Could you pass the milk, please?" Robbie asked Jason with a look on his face that probably made Jason consider belting him. I have to admit, Robbie is funny, but when you're the one he's focusing his energy on he makes you want to slap him. Which I have done on occasion, incidentally.

"Hey Ponypop, do you have something I can use to keep the door shut where I'm sleeping? It keeps swinging open."

I smiled and watched my oldest brother squeeze past me and sit down at the table. He ran a hand through his dark wet hair and pulled on the white t-shirt he'd been carrying. I hadn't even heard the shower running.

"I have some of those hook locks," Dad offered. "We could put one of those up temporarily."

"Good enough," Vic said. "Whatever it takes to keep that damned cat out. He was on my pillow all night."

"Which one?" I asked.

"The white one."

"He actually slept on your bed?" I was surprised. The white cat sort of came along with the house when my parents bought it; he is lean, mean, and a little scary, and he seems to be under the impression that we are uninvited guests in his home. Mostly he stays outside, stretching out in the sun right on the pathway to the barn, daring anyone to step over him and risk getting a scratch on their bare foot. When he's not doing that, he is skulking around hunting for mice and picking baby birds out of their nests to leave on our back porch. He is cold and tough, never purrs, and is always coming home with some bloody new battle scar that he won't let anyone touch. Dad says he reminds him of an old buddy of his, so that's what we call him – Dallas.

Vic shrugged at my question as he checked out his options and settled on the box of Cheerios. "How long has this milk been sitting out?" he asked.

I snickered, Robbie snorted, and Jason gave a death stare. "Two minutes and twelve seconds," he grumbled.

"Hey, don't give me attitude," Vic warned. Jason looked back down at the car magazine he had folded out in front of him.

"Vic, can you take me for a ride?" I asked.

Vic turned around to assess my attire. "Jeans, sneakers, and a jacket," he concluded.

"A jacket?" I protested, indignant. "It's about a hundred degrees out!"

"It's eighty-three. No jacket, no ride."

"Okay, okay, I'll wear my jean jacket. Sheesh." Vic has a motorcycle, and sometimes when he's visiting he'll take me out for a ride. We have a couple of horses, and I have a bicycle, but as far as I'm concerned there's nothing that compares to getting out on the road with the engine rumbling and the wind blowing around you. It's like flying, only lower to the ground. Not that I've ever flown, but I have a pretty good imagination.

Vic was my parents' first foster child, when he was thirteen. He is twenty-eight now, and is the coolest brother on the planet. He drives a motorcycle, lives in the city, and talks to you like you're an adult, no matter how old you are. Vic never tells me something I want to hear just to make me feel better, and he doesn't sugar-coat anything. Some people, including some of my family members, don't appreciate that. I think it's awesome.

"So who was the idiot last night who couldn't even walk across the stage without tripping over his own feet?" Robbie asked loudly just as Jon walked into the room.

Jon gave the back of Robbie's head a shove as he walked past him. "My robe was too long."

Robbie looked surprised. "Oh, wow, was that you? Jeez, I'm sorry."

"You're such a putz," Jon told Robbie, then smiled over at me. I smiled back. We were done with eighth grade. Next year, high school. It was exciting and scary at the same time. But at least I had almost three months to not think about it.

Mom breezed into the kitchen trying to latch her bracelet. "Pone, were you planning to mow the front yard this morning?"

Dad closed his notebook and stuck his pen into the spiral part. "If that's what you need me to do." He caught Mom by the hand and hooked her bracelet for her, so she leaned down and gave him a kiss.

Mom turned to the rest of us. "Is anyone coming to the grocery store with me?"

Silence.

"Whoever stays here has to do the vacuuming and clean the main bathroom," she added.

Robbie's head shot up like he had just gotten hit with a bolt of lightening. "I'm sorry, did I phase out for a sec? Did Mom say she would appreciate some help at the store? Because Jon and I are available. What? I'm just trying to be helpful."

I shook my head. "And you hate vacuuming."

Robbie looked aghast. "Of what do you speak? I heard nothing about vacuuming, only my dear mother's cry for assistance. And of course, as is my nature, I jumped at the opportunity."

"Hurry and finish eating then," Mom said. "I'd like to get there early so I can finish up here. Gina and Jason, you two take care of the vacuuming and bathroom this morning, so they're done by the time I get home." She stopped on her way out of the kitchen and looked back at the table. "And could somebody please put the milk away? I don't like it left out like that, it'll go bad."