"SHE WANTS TO KNOW WHAT YOU WERE DOING WITH MARLEY CURTIS, TOO!"

I met Patrick Macrorie back when we were in the sixth grade. He was new to the neighbourhood, and I was new to the feeling of a broken nose. I don't really remember how it happened, all I remembered was hearing the gravel crunch behind me and my fists balling on instinct. He's a pretty lanky kid — we all are on this side of town, but I could count damn-near every bone in this kid's chest — and was only a few hairs taller than I was. I found out later that day he was from Europe, that's why his accent sounded so weird. It was the same reason his hair was red. The only kids I knew with red hair, was the Mathews kid running with the Curtis gang and a couple of Socs.

Pat was laying on the floor at my feet. He was holding his English textbook over his face, tryna read while Katie kept babbling nonsense. Mrs. Macrorie was behind me in the kitchen, I could hear the cupboards slamming shut as she cursed under her breath. She was nice enough, but I didn't talk to her that much. I didn't know if she liked that I had turned her kid into a hood, even it was impossible to escape, but she had yet to slam the door in my face when I didn't feel like going back to my place. I was running my tongue back and forth over my teeth.

We'd stopped at the tracks once school let out, there was always a couple bottles left over the latest party, maybe a pack of cigs or a fight to watch if we were lucky. When we got there, the only thing we found were empty bottles of Schnapps and the entire yard abandoned. I picked up the bottle by its neck and angled it towards the sun. Inside, I could still make out a few leftover drops, but it was nothing worth drinking. The only people who drank fucking Schnapps over here were the old ladies who couldn't get their wrinkly witch hands on the real stuff. I knew right then and there this shit came from some rich guy's cabinet, and that his rich, stuck-up kids were gonna be right back on our territory the second they could get outta the house. Pat didn't say anything when I chucked the bottle. Not a damn word. He just stood beside me and kicked at a few of the rocks surrounding us, his backpack sliding off his boney shoulders every so often.

I guess I can't recall call him boney anymore. Since we'd met back when we were thirteen, Pat had really filled out. His jaw was harder and square and his hair had finally darkened to red instead of a godawful ginger. He could finally hold his own in a fight, too. He had always been able to fight, but now he just had a better chance of winning. Christ, I swear the guy's bicep was thicker than some kids' necks, even.

The most that changed were his eyes. Back when we first met, he looked around every corner twice and couldn't go a minute without looking over his shoulder. He was always worried, and he had every reason to be. A new greaser in town — and one without any friends or gang to watch his back — was a shiny new target. Over the past three years that I'd known him, his eyes turned cold and harsh, just like I knew they would eventually. The only times I ever saw the guy worried now was when we were hanging out here.

I looked down at the shaggy carpet when I felt something — someone pull my shoelace. Just as I was expecting, Kaite had crawled across the floor once she realized her daddy found Robinson Crusoe more interesting than she was.

When Pat called me up nine months ago, saying he knocked a girl up, I called bull. There were enough lying, cheating broads creeping around Tulsa and trust me, those girls had a lot of tricks up their skirts. I told him to just lay low for a bit and wait for the whole thing to blow over, but he never did listen to me. I didn't think he had really knocked her up, none of the guys we hung around with seemed to believe her, either. Skip ahead a couple of months, and her big brown eyes were all the proof we'd ever need. There was no chance in hell Katie was anyone else's little girl, and there wasn't a chance anyone was taking her away the second Pat held her.

That was nine months ago, three hours before Rebecca Jean was shipped off to a Catholic school in Tallahassee. Now that I was looking at her, I had to admit Katie had her momma's hair. Wild and dark, her curls were pinned against her damp cheek.

"What're you lookin' at, kid?" I asked out loud. Katie smiled at me, her single tooth proudly on display as she tugged at my laces once more. She started up at me, her face suddenly dull and void of any emotion. Her eyes were trained on my face, so I stuck my tongue out at her. Apparently, making kids laugh was easier now than it was when my siblings were little. That kid's giggles rocked the fucking foundation of the house. "Would you stop making her laugh, asshole? I still got thirty pages to read," Pat groaned as he sat up. The book flopped against the floor as he rested his jaw on his scarred knuckles. "Why don't you come play with her?" I questioned sarcastically, "I'm tired of playing Uncle of the Year."

I didn't realize how much the kid had been laughing until she hit the floor. Even with the carpet, her head making contact with the wood below made an audible thunk. Before she could even process what happened, Pat shot forward and pulled her into his arms, gently pushing her hair back from her face. "Some uncle Tim, huh, girly? Just lettin' you faceplant like that-"

"Shut yer trap, Macrorie," I scoffed. "Kids her age are made of rubber, she's fine."

Like she could understand me, Kaite's lips staring curving up again when Pat pushed his nose against her cheek. "I dunno Shepard, she's telling me she's pretty disappointed in your babysittin' skills-"

"I didn't come here to watch your kid, dipshit."

Pat pulled his face back from Katie's after placing a quick kiss on her cheek and smacking his lips until they made a loud pop. "She 's telling me wants to know what you were doin' with Marley Curtis, too!"

Pat chuckled into his daughter's hair and I could feel my nails poking into the palms of my hands. I rolled my eyes instead, trying to seem indifferent. Pat and I talked a bit since I got outta reform, so he knew the conditions of my parole better than I did. He said it was his "parental instincts", I just told him it was pissing me off. Without looking at him, I drummed my fingers against the arm of the couch, subconsciously grinding my teeth as I did so. "That's her name, right? I can never remember since her brothers' got the weird ones-"

"Would you shut your fucking mouth?" I snapped bitterly, "she's the only other grease in my English class. I needed some notes unless I wanted to get suspended again."

Pat raised his eyebrows skeptically and slowly lowered his face back to Katie's again. "She thinks you're lyin', Tim." Before I even had a chance to get to my feet, Pat was already moving to his, pulling Katie up with him. "It's gonna be a real shame when I gotta break those shiny teeth, you got there, Patrick," I hissed and cracked my knuckles.

Everyone on our side of town fought. Hell, everyone in Tulsa fought everyone six and a half days a week. It was one of the best ways to settle an argument, or just for kicks. The best kind of fight was the Rumbles. The nights when Socs crossed the line and needed all the greasers in town to shove them back into place. When I stood up, I pushed my shoulders back and cocked my head to the side, cracking the joints. I smiled and narrowed my eyes when Pat started bouncing back and forth on his feet. I raised my hand, squeezing my fingers into a fist and lined it up with his nose. As I grounded myself and prepared to swing, a chubby face popped up in front of my hand. "Don't hit the baby, Tim," Pat warned with a teasing smile. "She's the one who asked the question." I dropped my arm against my side when Katie started giggling again as her daddy moved her through the air in sharp, jerky movements. Before I could say anything else, Mrs. Macorie spoke instead.

"Why don't you just put her brain in the blender? It would work quicker!" She stood beside the couch, wiping wisps of hair back from her face before wiping her hands on her apron. Her fake scowl disappeared when her son's face made a reappearance. "We were just having some fun, Ma. Nothing you gotta worry about." Mrs. Macrorie clucked her tongue and wagged her finger as she stretched her arms towards her granddaughter. Katie immediately began wiggling in Pat's grip, trying to get to her Nana before she could leave. Wordlessly, Pat passed her over. Once the baby was settled in her hands, Mrs. Macrorie turned her eyes to me again. "An' what's this I hear about a girl, hm?"

"It's nothing," I mumbled automatically. "Just your kid havin' a big mouth." Pat scowled at me defensively as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Call it what you want, Shepard, I know what I saw."

I scoffed back at him and started walking towards their door. Judging by the way I could barely see the street anymore from their window, I assumed it was getting late and should better head home. Angela and Curly would be there — should be, anyway, it's only Thursday — and they both had their fair share of homework. I said a quick goodbye to Mrs. Macrorie and flipped Pat the bird before my hand found the doorknob. I didn't know if Mom would be home, I didn't really care, either way. I just knew there was no way she's be the one to cook dinner or help Curly with algebra. Hell, she stopped doing Ang's hair when she was three 'cause she "squirmed too much." I knew Gary wouldn't be much help, either. He was short and fat, his beer-belly always sagging river his jeans. I don't know how he managed to bag my momma, but he's still crawling into bed with her at the end of the day. The kids don't have a fucking clue where he came from either, he was just in my chair at the table one day when they came home. I didn't care about Gary. I didn't worry too much about Mom, either. I think she's where Curly got the stupid-and-reckless gene, they were both always diving headfirst into the stupidest shit without a second thought about anybody else. Like the time she packed up and drove down to the border for a week, all because her cousin might get deported back to Mexico. Or the number of times she's let guys old enough to be our granddaddies stomp into our house, drunk off their asses.

As far as I could remember though, she never let them hit us. It was only two days ago — the last time Gary raised his hand to Curly — and Mom had a knife against his throat before I had time to blink. She's probably where Angela got her batshit-crazy genes, too. No, putting us in our places was a job for the guy who put a ring on her finger. The guy's whose name was on the lease for the house, the guy who was sitting up in Big Mac, never bothering to write.

"Go on, Katie-Kat, say bye-bye now," Mrs. M. cooed. Pat chuckled and stood beside his mom, carefully brushing the hair off his babygirl's face when I looked over my shoulder and waved my hand. "Bye, Katie. Don't let your daddy sleep tonight, yeah?"

A lot of unpredictable shit goes down in Tulsa. Or at least, I think so. No one ever expects the rich kids on the west side to sell their mom's pills at parties, but that's what they do. No one ever expects some crazy bitch who married a gangster to beat the living hell outta the guys to ht her kids. No one expected a greaser to tutor another greaser in chemistry once a week. Hell, I didn't even know what to expect when I got home. A lot of unpredictable shit goes down in Tulsa, and I think it started when Katie said her first word.

"Bye!"