"YOU HAD ONE JOB, SHEPARD."

"An' then, she has the nerve to bitch and moan about Daddy always bein' at work, as if it ain't to pay off all her fancy fuckin' dinners!" The words fell over Syl's tongue like venom. I was sitting at my vanity while she stood behind me, dragging the comb through my hair and detailing the knots. Her eyes narrowed into slits when her tongue flicked over her ruby lips again. I just kept my head still and picked at the dirt coating the underside of my nails. Daddy had convinced the boys to rake the yard last night, but one of them forgot to put the lid on the trash can. In exchange for having the house to myself, I had to spend the first twenty minutes of my Saturday picking up the ripped remnants of your trash. "You've got real nice hair," Sylvia sighed after a while. Her voice had lost its dangerous edge, now it was absent-minded and a bit quieter.

Everyone knew Sylvia. Not just the fact that her momma took off, but because she had her momma's tongue. Quick and forked, Sylvia was beautiful like a copperhead slithering through the grass, eyes darting back and forth in search of prey. Her eyes were dark and shone constantly — whether it was excitement or malice, I could never tell — with long chocolate hair to match. Right now, it was my job to keep her from cutting it herself. That's what we did the last time she managed to sneak some beers from the fridge, she started bawling once we sobered up and saw the hair covering the floor. "Never bleach it," she added as she drug the comb through the last section of my hair. "It'll kill it in no time."
I looked back to the mirror, my eyes flickering to meet hers while a smile pulled at my lips. "You bleach your hair."

"My hair's been dead for years, Marls. There ain't much I can do about now, so might as well go blonde."

There was still something eating away at her, you could tell by the way her brows furrowed in concentration. I love Syl like my own sister, but the only thing she ever concentrates on is eyeliner and stuffing her bra. She didn't really need to do it, her eyes had a natural curve — just like her chest — and her eyelashes were already thicker and darker than mine could ever dream of being. But it gave her something else to think of, instead of her parents' divorce, her momma's new man, and the Step-Bitch getting too cozy, way too quick.

Sylvia took a step back and placed her hands on her leather-clad hips. She smiled proudly before lacing her fingers back through my hair and tossed a bit over my shoulder. Sylvia has one of the best smiles — by east side standards — only a few of her teeth were crooked, but those were hard to see, and none of them were chipped or broken. And I swear, when she was in a mood, you could see them sharpen to a point. We'd gotten into our fair share of fights, so it wouldn't surprise me if my best friend really did have fangs.

swivelled around in my seat when Sylvia sat at the foot of my bed. I had an old watch sitting on my bedside table, underneath my lamp. "What time is it?" I asked. Syl rolled her eyes at me, a sarcastic smile pulling at her lips again when she reached for the watch. "Five after three," she said plainly, "why? Tryna get rid of me?"

"Not unless you wanna see Dally," I lied. Immediately, Sylvia sat up straight and straightened the wrinkles out of her wine-red blouse. She glared at me, long, hard, and mean. Unfortunately, I've been on her bad side too many times for the cold stare to have any effect on me. Sylvia Jones and Dallas Winston were less compatible than gasoline and a lit match. I could barely go a week without hearing the guys going on about how Sylvia was a cheat, or watching Sylvia pretend she didn't care after Dal got caught behind the bleachers with his hand up some girl's shirt. I don't know what happened between them this time — the topic was more or less banned in the Curtis house — but this was the longest they had gone without one crawling back to the other. "He went out with Soda and Steve, they should be back any minute."

Begrudgingly, Syl pushed herself off my plain pink bedspread and moved to the border between my bedroom and the hall. Her nails were long, sharp, and painted a dark blue as they drummed against my doorframe. I could see it in her eyes — even if they were focused on the carpet — the far away and troubled look. Like when Darry used to catch the copperheads and chase me around the yard. Sometimes they hissed and thrashed violently, other times they were silent and rigid, waiting for their opportunity to strike. She almost looked like Johnny Cade, if little Johnny was capable of cussing out every kid and adult in town. I guess he and Sylvia weren't so different after all. They both had brown eyes, they both lived on the east side, they both wore denim. They were both afraid of their fathers, even if they never admitted it aloud. Hell, they were the two people in the entire state to be on Dally's good side every now and again. Trust me, that ain't no easy feat.

Just as quickly as it registered, the blank look vanished and was replaced with her signature smile. "Have fun playin' house till your momma gets home," she chuckled. With a small wave of her fingers, Sylvia disappeared into the hall and left me at my vanity, grinding my teeth.

You had one job, Shepard. Get here on time.

We stopped locking our front door some years ago. I was part of the few kids that had decent parents on this side of town, so the Curtis house quickly became the one place everyone could turn to. Our couch and Daddy's recliner were always here, our fridge was — for the most part — always stocked. The number of times I'd woken up to get a glass of water, just to see Dally bandaging his ribs, or Steve muttering to himself while holding a frozen bag of peas to his face was enough to make any teenage girl a little uncomfortable. But girls like me didn't have the luxury of feeling uncomfortable when my friends needed a place to stay, or someone to bandage their ribs, or someone to pretend they were never crying in the first place.

I was busy scrubbing the last of the dishes when there was a knock at the door. The trees and all the other junk filling our yard managed to block the porch from my view as I craned my neck to stare out the kitchen window, but I already had a suspicion as to who it might be. Momma would only knock if her hands were full and couldn't open the door, same with Daddy. I turned the tap off and wiped my hands on my jeans when the anonymous stranger knocked at the door again. They weren't really my jeans, Darry just didn't wear them anymore and it was getting too cold for skirts.

My fingers wrapped around the doorknob and before I twisted, I almost gagged. Never in my entire fifteen years of living, had I ever hoped Tim Shepard was on the other side. Then again, he'd be better than the alternative.

Lo and behold, I was able to relax a little bit when I opened the door and was met with the thick stench of cigarettes, grease, and cheap booze. He wore a scowl that could rival Dally's or Sylvia's and a familiar leather jacket with another cig tucked behind his ear.

My eyebrows furrowed as I watched him through the screen door — partly outta annoyance, another part instinct. I had stared down hoods like him before, and I can promise Tim Shepard was not the scariest on the list. It was already getting cold for November, the icy breeze was back rattling the door when my fingers closed around the door knob again. Tim caught it effortlessly when I flung the door open and spun on my heel. "You're late."

Our house was small - I'm not gonna sugarcoat it the way Darry tries to with his football buddies. When you open the front door, you have two feet before you crash into the back of our couch. There was a coffee table between the couch and our television, with Daddy's recliner sitting off to the side by the window. Right behind the t.v. was the entrance to the kitchen and our dining table. It didn't even have enough chairs to sit all five of us, but we didn't eat there regularly enough for it to matter.

For a minute, the silence was disrupted as we both pulled our chairs out and took a seat. Then, just to add to the surprise, Tim dropped his textbook onto the table and ignored how it rocked under the new weight. "I was busy," he scoffed.

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. I could hear the tapping of his shoes on the floor as I pulled my own worn-out book towards me and thumbed through the pages. "Doin' what, sleeping off your hangover?"

"Mugging orphans, actually. S'not like they're gonna tell their parents."

The cover fell to the table with a heavy thump, the centuries of random knowledge finally weighing it down. Its pages were yellowed and worn from age, there was more ink and graphite from students' pens and pencils than words on the page. But it didn't take long for me to find what I was looking for as my eyes darted from the page to my own scribbled notes to my right. "We can start on page one ninety-three," I told the guy across from me, "difference between ionic and molecular compounds."

I fiddled with my pages and tried to make sense of my messy, scrawled notes, racking my brains and tryna remember what Mr. L said we should start with. Finally, when my notes were a little better off than I left them, I raised my eyes back to Tim.

His textbook hadn't moved. Neither had he. "What are you doing this for, Curtis?"

"Excuse me?"

For a second, the smallest hint of a smile pulled at the corner of his chapped lips. Keeping his cool facade, his eyes followed my every move - like he expected me to jump him in my own kitchen. "What kinda dirt does Rodgers have on you? Said he'd tell your momma you were blowin' guys behind the gym?"

It was my turn to cross my arms under my chest and lean back. Tim wasn't the first guy to assume I was easy, everybody knew he wouldn't be the last, either. His eyes were back on my face, searching for even the tiniest crack in my mask. I wouldn't give it to him. "Said he'd excuse my shitty English grade if I did."

I broke eye contact first and let my eyes fall to the textbook in front of him. "Page one ninety-three," I reminded him. "I'm not gonna have the house to myself forever."

To my relief, Tim seemed to get that through all the grease coating his skull. He opened the cover and flipped through lazily, not bothering to glance at the page numbers as he went. "Why'd he pick you?

Lord, please give me strength. I promise I'll stop teasing Pony about his hair, I'll stop threatening to put bleach in Steve's cake, hell - sorry, I meant I'll even drop some of my old clothes off at the church know, the one that donates to kids in need or whatever they do now?

"I dunno, class difference? You don't seem like the kind of guy who'd listen to Pete Bradley if this was his job."

Hell, I could barely bring myself to listen to him. Especially when he talked to me like I was the stupidest kid in class.

Tim scoffed again. This time, the edge of his mouth peeled up into a badly hidden smirk. "Curtis, I wasn't even listening when you told me which page to flip to."

I know I'm not the smartest kid, but I know a lot of random things. I can tell you the difference between an ionic and molecular compound, I can tell you how many packs of camels Dally can smoke in a row - three - and I can tell you how hard you need to run to escape a mustang full of Socs who wanna beat your head in. And now, I can even tell you what hell on earth feels like.