"I FOUGHT THE LAW AND THE LAW WON." - Buddy Holly (I Fought The Law)

Sitting in her kitchen wasn't as bad as it could've been. I've been in there before, but that was usually after a Rumble, when my eyes were too swollen to really see, or when Curly managed to get the flu and Missus C said to bring him over to her's. It was nice, for a house its size, especially when you think of all the guys running through the halls day in and day out. From what Dal's said - and I take everything he says with a grain of salt - some of their parents have swung by, start screaming empty threats. Every time, Mr. C answers with a cocked shotgun. Apparently, he's a pretty decent shot with it, too.

I was racking my memory as soon as I stepped outta the house, but I'm pretty sure that was the first time I had ever been there without Dally or Curly dragging me along. I almost laughed as the road turned from asphalt to gravel again and took the turn onto my street. If anyone here caught me coming outta Marley Curtis' place, rumours would fly faster than a cat with a match on its tail. Then, her brothers would be beating down my door and taking turns kicking my ass.

They'd have to get used to it, I guess. Everybody knew here was better than the inside of some old reform school, but everybody knew that's where I'd end up if I broke another condition of my parole. But hey, as long as I "tried", there ain't a damn thing anyone could do about it. Not George, not Mr. R, and definitely not little miss Marley Curtis.

I passed the sixteen houses lining the street with my hands jammed in the pockets of my jacket. My popped collar didn't do much to keep the wind out as it whistled in my ears and stung my eyes. As usual, you could hear yelling coming from every house on the street. The sound came from the cracks in their windows, their open doors, or straight from their mouths - sometimes, people lacked the decency to confront their cheating spouse away from prying ears. Jesus, who was I kidding? The rumour mill was operational seven days a week. If you were two-timing your missus, we're gonna hear about it.

"You slimy sonuvabitch- think you can come into my house and fuck my wife while I'm gone?"

Crying wives, screaming husbands, hoodlum kids, and breaking glass. They all melted together into some sort of east side symphony, one you didn't need tickets to attend. And unlike the ones on the west side, people would be talking about what went down here for a week at least.

I was six houses away when I heard the door creak open. It was more of a slam, but it wasn't slamming shut. That's when my eyes landed on the mess of curly hair sprawled across our lawn and I felt my heart stop. You fucking dipshit, Curls, I taught you better than this, didn't I? Before I could stop myself, I was running down the street like Judgment Day came early. My nails were digging into my palm as they wrapped around my switchblade, but that was a problem for later. I was a bull in its pen, not worried about the ache in my lungs or the blood dribbling down my fingers, just my brother writhing like a toddler on the ground and the ugly fuck leering over him. "Think you're tough shit, kid? Tryna be a man like your Daddy, ain't you? Where'd that get him again?"

I was close enough now I could see the blood leaking from my brother's face and the bright purple shiner circling Gary's beady eye. Angela was standing on the doorstep, shouting enough profanities to make a sailor blush with her arms wrapped around Mom's waist. She was clawing like a bear, screaming just as much as her daughter. Gary didn't take much notice, all he was concerned with was keeping his foot on Curly's chest and pinning him to the ground.

I was on the edge of the grass now, parallel with our rusty, dented mailbox sitting lopsided on its stand. Even with blood running out of his face and trailing its way through his hair and a guy who probably outweighed him by a good two-hundred pounds, I could still see his eyes shining underneath the bruises. "This is getting your dick real hard, ain't it, Gary? Beating on me is the only way you can make my momma scream."

And here I was, like the idiot I am, thinking Angela couldn't control that mouth of hers. Beneath Gary's boot, his smile was proud and victorious. He'd won. Even if you beat Curly within an inch of his life, that would only solidify the fact in his screwed-up little brain; twelve years old, and he could rile grown men up worse than the pussies he fought on the schoolyard. That's when Gary's face - usually the kind of sickly yellow that reminded me of dog piss on a carpet - turned fire hydrant red. His eyes got all squinty, and all that came from his mouth was a long string of spit instead of insults. His meaty hands were balled into fists at his sides when he raised his other foot off the ground and held it above Curly's face.

He didn't need to say anything. The Shepard trio wasn't known for their manners, so I could only imagine how long he'd been wanting to put a dent in the kid's smile. But there was just one problem. Gary didn't plan on me coming home so early, and I didn't plan on seeing my old man for the first time in five years a few minutes after.

I rushed him without warning. Sure, he was a big guy and the beer belly definitely kept him sturdy, but once his foot left the ground it was like knocking over one of the plants Mr. R kept in his office - too easy not to push. I was on him in a second, pushing my fists into his face before the guy could figure out which direction was up. I couldn't tell where the blood was coming from. It was rolling down his fat face like rainwater, staining his skin and the already-ruined front of his wife-beater. He squirmed under my weight pathetically. My legs kept both his arms pinned to his side while one hand grabbed his chin and forced his face to the sky - a good angle to have if you wanna win a fight. That's when I noticed the open gashes tracing my knuckles and the chipped edge of his front tooth as his eyes finally rolled back in his head. At the same time, a cold hand latched onto the back of my jacket and hauled me off him, like I was some kid picking fights on the playground. Like I was Curly.

Speaking of, he was the first thing I saw. Mom was on her knees next to him, one hand on the back of his head tilting it down, and the other holding a handkerchief to his nose. Angela was beside us and for once in her life — was silent. Her eyes were wide and focused on something behind me, probably Gary finally limping away. I studied the open wounds on the back of my hand and scoffed. It stung a bit, but it wasn't unbearable. I don't think he broke any of my fingers, which was even better. My face was damp with sweat, spit, and blood.

"Really, Momma, it's just a bit of blood." His voice was thick and nasally. Even as he tried to cover his grimace with a cheesy smile, it just reminded me of how young he really was. He was the same age as the Curtis' youngest, and he wasn't tryna beat his step-daddy on the front lawn. I don't know what they put in the fucking water over here, but they need to take it out.

Curly swatted her hand away for the final time. Sighing, Mom gave me a once-over. I didn't need her playing nurse — we'd never really done that, anyway. But for the split second her eyes locked with mine, I figured out why the fight started. For a split second, I wish I clocked Gary harder, too.

Mom was good-looking. I guess it was one of the benefits of having a kid at fifteen — three kids later, and still getting hit on by boys whose balls haven't dropped yet. She cut her hair short a couple years ago, but it only exaggerated her curls and her eyes. They weren't as blue as our dad's, but still much more pigmented than Dally's. Her face was still sharp and angular, but in certain lights, I could see where Curly got his baby face.

he only thing ruining the look, was her busted lip and the dull, black bruise underneath her left eye.

Still, they twisted into a scowl identical to my sister's as she rose to her feet. Then, with a voice shrill enough to shatter fucking glass, she started yelling.

"Five years, I sat here for five fucking years! No phone calls, no letters, then the first thing you do is call, start a fight, and let your sons take all the hits for you! You're a selfish, evil, lying son of a-"

I knew who it was before I turned around. There was only one guy — alive or dead — who could get Mom worked up like that. Her yelling was cut short when Dad pulled her into him, her head tucked in the crook of his neck. "I missed you too, Josie."

I was looking in a mirror. Well, if the mirror made me six inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and twenty years older. Even from where I was standing, I could smell his cologne — wafting through the air like a cloud. Dad was running his hand up and down her back, whispering into her ear while she tried to muffle her tears.

If it was anyone else, there would be a whole other fight going on about her cheating, but my folks weren't like that. They both realized back when I was little that they've both horrible people. They're always gonna lie, cheat, and steal, but at the end of the day, she still wore his ring and gave him three kids.

Once Curly saw me stand up, he did the same. Even after getting the shit kicked out of him, his electric energy filled the sky as he stared at our father. He wanted to say something — he always does — he just didn't know what. If we were normal, it probably would've been something similar to what Mom said.

I was looking at Angela when Dad finally pulled away. We all had black hair, long and curly, but she put us all to shame. It was long — obviously — and nearly reached her butt if she looked up. Now, my little sister was curling a lock around her finger and tapping her shoe against the ground. She was only eight when Dad went away — Curly, a year younger. Since then, the last few years had guys coming in and out worse than the reform. We never really knew what they were here for. Sometimes, they just wanted a bed and someone next to them. Others, they were rifling through our medicine cabinets and piggy banks.

Before I went in the reform, Mom was seeing this guy. I don't remember much about him, except that he liked to drink and bled a lot more than I was expecting. Besides that, I can only remember his figure with one hand over her mouth and the other reaching up her nightgown.

I could tell she didn't know which guy Dad would end up being.

To be honest, I didn't know anymore, either.

Curly took to him like a duck to water. When they were side by side, it was obvious where my brother got his charismatic smile — the kind that could get him out of trouble. The talent that seemed to skip the first kid. Dad had his hand slapping against his shoulder, a wry smirk on his lips as Curly showed him the bruises on his knuckles. Mom just shook her head, careful not to bite her lip.

Dad looked over to Angela while talking to Curly. I didn't know what he wanted to say — if he wanted to say anything at all. But he waited. Patient and calm, just like he always had when we were young and wreaking havoc. Even with his lips curled in a smile, I couldn't help but watch his eyes. They looked like mine, like the sky after the first rain in June. When the sky was still thick with clouds and you could smell it in the air. His smirk faltered when he reached for Angela and she stepped closer to me.

Scrutinizing and cold, I fought back the urge to blink as he followed Ang's movements. "Jesus. You've grown up now, haven't you, boy?"

I just nodded, but the sight of Curly looking around stupidly almost broke the facade. Using his other hand, Dad slapped it down on my shoulder, though it was muffled by my jacket. For a moment, his eyes darted down to my fists — yup, still bleeding.

"Can't call you boy anymore though, can I? After what you did to that old sonuvabitch? Lord almighty, reminds me of the time-"

And just like that, it's like nothing changed at all. Dad turned around, wrapped his arm back around Mom's waist and fished out an old brown wallet from the pocket of his blue jeans. He has two five-dollar bills in his hand when he's done and gives them to Angela and Curly. "One for each birthday I missed," he says. The porch steps creak and sag under his weight as he sits on them and pulls Mom into his lap, but he couldn't care less. He's a free man back with his family, blue eyes jumping between his wife, children, and the bloodstains on the lawn.

I tuck my hands back in my pockets, tryna block out the fact that he missed five of my birthdays, too. It didn't matter much — if at all — I probably wouldn't think about it if it weren't for Angela and her fucking calendar.

So I just sit there and listen. I listen to the words pouring over his lips, the story about how he ran his dad outta town in the winter of forty-five. It's a story he's told us all a thousand times each, but it's been five years since I've heard the way he said it. By this time, Curly was pulling the back of his hand across his face, smearing the blood as it raced over his lips and chin. Dad had forgotten about his previous story - even though his hands were still up and holding the imaginary pistol - and immediately tried to soothe the racing minds of his wife and kids.

The stairs creaked again as they stood up. Mom was the first to push the door open, followed by Curly and Dad. "Really, baby," he called, "it wasn't that bad. I'm fighting for our rights, sweetheart.

"Your 'rights' don't include selling cocaine, hun."

"Of course they fucking do!" Five years had passed, but his booming voice was still enough to freeze us in our tracks. Dad chased Mom further into the house, his hands out and reaching for her - the closest to begging I had ever seen him. "They let those rich little shits get away with fuckin' murder and we take the fall for it, all 'cause we don't have the same fancy fuckin' lawyers! So if those cocksuckers up in Washington want the south to support all their equality bullshit, they'll either make this shit legal or arrest their fucking sons!"

The door slammed shut behind Angela, cutting off the rest of the conversation. As the high finally came crashing down, I shivered in the biting wind and clenched my now-aching fists. Around us, people were peering out their windows, some even stepping onto their front steps. I liked watching them scatter to look busy once they noticed me. Like Missus Ramirez down the street, pulling her robe tighter around her and frantically reaching for the papers in her mailbox. I scoffed and kicked a rock with my shoe before watching it fly to the middle of the road.

Yup, the rumour mill was alive and well. By this time tomorrow, everyone would know Frank Shepard was here to stay.

For how long? Now that was the question.

Sure, we were loud and violent, we talked about our granddaddy getting shot like most folks talk about the weather, but that's how life goes around here. We were just another act in the east side symphony.

I took one last look at the faded blue sky and the clouds slowly crossing in front of the dying sun before the stairs creaked under my weight. I didn't even notice I forgot my textbook on the Curtises kitchen table until the next morning.