"I SEE TROUBLE ON THE WAY." - Creedence Clearwater Revival (Bad Moon Rising)

I liked sleeping in, I just didn't have a ton of chances to do it. Being the most responsible person in the house at any given moment can do that to a person. Sunday mornings were always pretty quiet - even on the east side of town. I guess the fear of God and eternal damnation managed to reach across the divide from the Socs' fancy churches and Sunday dinners. Or maybe it was the other way around.

My knuckles scraped the floor, fingers uncurling and reaching for the first t-shirt I could find. Now, it just would've been nice if the shirt was mine. My fingers hooked onto the sleeve of my brother's sweatshirt as my eyes finally decided to pull themselves open and study the disaster that had become my life. The only real carpet we had in the house was downstairs in the t.v. room, but the clothes hiding our floor from view worked as good as any. At least, my half of the room was fine. I had the odd sock stuffed under the bed, my jacket hanging off the edge, a few shirts that were too clean to wash but too gross to wear outside the house. But Curly - like always - was a hot fucking mess. Clothes everywhere, stray dishes balanced off our windowsill like a circus act. I think the most disturbing part of it all, was the playboys peeking out from underneath his pillow, covers still sticky.

I used to say anything was better than spending one more night in the reform, but that was before I remembered how old my dear little brother was, and how all boys reacted to raging hormones. At least in the reform, I could beat the shit outta the guy jacking off in the cot next to me without waking Mom or Angela.

it didn't take me that long to find my clothes once I pushed the blanket back and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Across the room, Curly still slept peacefully with the first few rays of sun beating down on his face through our curtains. I slumped against the foot of my bed as I pulled my shirt over my head - trying to ease the knot I managed to tie in my neck by lying still. My jeans slipped up pretty easy, my belt still stuck in the loops. Curly and I's shoes sat by the door surrounded by the socks we hadn't bothered to tidy. We'd have to clean the room eventually, but we'd wait until Mom had her belt gripped in her fists.

I grabbed my shoes before I crossed the hall to the bathroom and brushed out my hair. Sure Angela's was the longest, and Curly's was the - y'know what? Take a wild fuckin' guess. But they shave your head when you get sent to reform and I had just gotten back from looking like a fucking egg. I wasn't fixing to cut my hair again anytime soon. Grease coated my fingertips and the tap to the sink when I spat the last bit of toothpaste down the drain, slowly watching it swirl through the water until it vanished. I flipped the light off, catching sight of Curly shuffling around under his covers in the mirror and my darkening reflection. The mirror was just another reminder of Mom's shit taste in guys, the crack in the glass ran right down the left side of my face. Christ - all 'cause she tried telling Gary she wasn't in the mood.

Elvis's guitar followed me down the stairs, my shoes thumping against my leg with every small step I took. I came down right into the kitchen, just in time to watch my old man pour the steaming coffee into a cup and take a sip with his back still to me.

He was my father. Sure he spent some time up in Big Mac, but at least he came back. I kept those words in the forefront of my mind every time I came down the stairs. Or when he and Mom talked in the kitchen, the food on the plates abandoned and just taking up space. He came back for us, and that was a lot more than some of the dads around here had done. Christ, even Pat's old man ran out on him. Didn't come to the dock when he and Mrs. Macrorie were getting ready to live the American Dream. Still, I managed to bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood every time he felt like telling Ang to get a longer skirt, or wash off her makeup, or even when he felt like chewing Curly out over some shitty grade. So what if we weren't the smarter pricks at Rogers? We still showed up, didn't we?

But this wasn't science class. I was smarter than to call him out on it.

The sound of my feet hitting the cold floor was muffled by Dad pulling open a drawer and pulling out a frying pan. He didn't bother to turn around as he moved around the kitchen quickly, only pausing to take a sip from the red and chipped mug on the window sill. The pan dropped to the burner with a loud rattle as he twisted the knob responsible for the tiny blue flame. Without a moment's hesitation, my father plucked a cigarette from behind his ear - it was a Shepard thing - and held the butt to the flame until it came back smouldering. He breathed in the tobacco as the scent flooded the kitchen, our half-empty carton of eggs sitting off to the side at his disposal. Dad cracked them effortlessly, one in each of his hands. Even with his back to me, I caught sight of his lips curling up - not as much as Dally's, but the closest he ever came to smiling. The simple pleasures of life, I guess. Smokes whenever you want 'em, no prison guards ready to beat your face in. Decent food, too. I only interrupted him when he reached for the pepper shaker.

"That for all of us?"

My tongue went back to the familiar spot between my teeth when he looked over his shoulder. His hair was thick and dark, speckled with grey and white tangling through the curls we shared. The corner of his mouth immediately dropped into a scowl - reflex more than hatred for his oldest son. The cigarette teetered between his teeth carefully, thin tendrils of smoke rising from it as it threatened to plummet to the tile six feet and two inches below. That's when he turned to face me, arms crossed over his broad chest, the spatula in his hand like a weapon as he pulled the smoke from his mouth and forced a puff into the air. "What? Can't make my kids breakfast?" I still wasn't used to seeing him and not thinking it was just a mirror. Same blue eyes, dark hair. Same menacing smile and tricky tongues, asking simple questions and ready to eat you alive when we got the wrong answer. Dad didn't seem as tall, now that I was older. He seemed skinnier, too, but I knew the reasoning for that. He wore the scars across his arms and chest like medals of honour. To him, they were simple reminders of the things he had done for us. The ring on Mom's finger, the Barbie dolls Angela hasn't touched in years but is too scared to throw away. The bail money tucked under the floorboards, just in case. Things had changed since the last time I had a dad.

But I was getting smarter, and I was still my daddy's son.

I dropped my shoes to the floor and leaned against the chair to my right, crossing my arms just as I did. "Angela's allergic to pepper."

Angela had tears in her eyes before he even stood up, but dropping one hand to the back of her neck and the other against the table was just enough to make the dam burst. The red flush started in her eyes and nose, but it spread like Hellfire down her cheeks and neck, soon enough engulfing her arms. All the while she shrieked like a banshee, Mom just let it happen. She let him pull on her hair and push the pressure point just enough to make her writhe and scream. I was sure I would end up biting through my tongue before the whole thing was over, but I was wrong. I was out of my chair the second his hand caught her cheek, even if the imprint was lost on her skin. We screamed back and forth, I clawed at his arms and Curly cheered me on. We only stopped when Angela's wails turned into choked gasps and Dad knocked me into the fridge so hard all I could see was a curtain of red pouring over my face as he wrestled us into the car. Jesus, the only way to spend a Tuesday night here, was in the hospital waiting room.

Dad never seemed to remember shit like that. Didn't remember beating on Curly and me - even when we deserved it - but he sure as Hell remembered all the times Ang was too scared to sit next to him when we ate. All he remembered was the times Curly brought home failed assignments, not the times he wiped the belt against his side until the paper couldn't be read through the blood and tears ruining the letters on the page. Worst of all, I think he only remembers the times I called him out for it. I wasn't about to make that mistake again.

"I want you and that Keep kid to hang around the Dingo today," he said plainly. His back was to me again, but I knew he was listening. Waiting for me to bite back and argue, waiting for his opportunity to put me in my place and remind me I wasn't the man in charge. "It's Sunday," I said instead, "nothing'll be open until noon."

"The Devil works hard, son. We gotta workharder."

I could argue, and get beat worse than any Soc could dream of, or I could play along and waste my morning walking around the empty streets with a guy I barely knew. This is what I get for skipping Sunday school, ain't it? The last thing I did before I left, stick a note on my bedroom door.

Get outta the house and stay outta trouble, I got errands to run. Tell the same to Angela.

If I have to suffer through God only knows how long with Andy Keep, then I'm not gonna be the only one.

"Can you go five fucking minutes without seeing your kid? Not like she'll forget what you look like-"

Pat didn't bother snapping back or covering Katie's ears - an improvement from the last time I said "fuck". He jostled her around a bit as she squirmed, tucked beneath a jacket too big for her and a blanket wrapped around her legs. "Maybe if you gave me more than five fucking minutes to get ready, I would've found childcare," he said after a minute. I didn't bother responding though, my eyes were too busy fixed on the cars circling the parking lot of the Dingo, occasionally interrupted by the smokey haze floating in from my left. I had known Andrew Keep for a little less than forty-eight hours, and already decided I didn't like him.

My dad didn't have a ton of friends, but he and Mr. Keep went way back to the first year he spent in Big Mac. Skip forward a few years, they both have sons and a personal vendetta against all the rich assholes who own the town. Now, I was spending my day next to him, eyes peeled for a red nineteen sixty-three mustang and her passengers. The brick was rough and cool against my neck as I tipped my head towards the cloud-covered sky, watching the last bit of Andy's cigarette follow them into the wind. I couldn't decipher it, but there was something about his voice that made my fists clench on instinct. The burning end of his smoke landed at my feet and turned into nothing but a mark on the cement when I crushed it underneath my boot. "You got a problem, Shepard?"

"Haven't decided yet," I said cooly. I could feel his eyes on me while Pat tried to distract the baby in his arms. Across the road, people were sitting on the hoods of their cars, still dressed in their Sunday best and talking without a care in the world. But here we were, hands clasped into fists in the pockets of our leather jackets, hair dripping with grease as we watched to see who had enough nerve to sell powder on our side of town. I had almost managed to forget about Andy's existence completely as I watched the kids and their cars scuttle around the pavement, like beetles waiting to be squashed. Almost.

"You got the hots for that Curtis chick we met yesterday, that it? You're pissy I got to her first?"

It would've been real easy to push him into traffic. Or to just beat the shit out of him here and now, tell our dads things got a little messy when we went out running their little errand, but I wasn't gonna give the little bastard the satisfaction he wanted. If we played our cards right, I could go after some Soc instead. But of course, that didn't happen. Pat's head whipped around fast enough to give him whiplash, but it didn't stop his lips from moving a mile a minute. "You're kidding me? I'm fucking knew it!" Next thing I know, Pat was leaning over me, filling Andy in on all my business and gossiping worse than Buck. "-Ran into her at the store last week, yeah, she's pretty nice. Not much like-"

And that was when I saw it. A cherry red mustang peeling outta the parking lot, tires squealing against the pavement and a kid standing where it had been moments before. Like the guilty little snitch he was, the kid ran like the Devil was chasing him when he noticed me. He wasn't wrong though, adrenaline was burning through my veins like a woodfire as I shoved the boys outta the way and took off after him. Andy ended up at my heels quicker than I thought he would.

Our worn-out soles beat against the cement as we ran with our switchblades clenched in our fists and eyes on the jean jacket just out of reach. We moved against the crowds slowly flooding the streets like salmon fighting upstream, pushing past Socs and greasers alike with nothing but the need to get as far away as possible forcing our hearts to beat faster. When the kid ducked into an alley, I almost laughed. Had it been Curly, I woulda let the guys beat him black and blue. What kind of idiot goes into an alley when you're running? The stupid kind, that's who. Andy and I pulled to a halt, his silver blade shining through the few weak rays of sun forcing their way through the clouds. The kid was plastered against the wall at the end of the alley, the little colour his pale face once held seemed to drain even more as we stalked forward.

"I-I swear man, I didn't buy anything from 'em, s-said they had nothing to sell!" Okay, maybe he wasn't as stupid as I thought he was. He stuttered over every other word, all so that that he could tell us he had no idea who any of the guys in the car were, anyway. It didn't take long for our message to sink in, though. When we finally left the alley, the kid's nose was little more than a bag of shattered bones and cartilage in the middle of his face. Andy and I walked the gravel road in silence as we made our way back to my place, our fists stained with blood and minds heavy. Each step forward only seemed to solidify the fact that some rich kids really thought they could get away with selling drugs on the east side. Maybe the cops would turn a blind eye to their sons selling hash in the basement of their church fundraisers, but greasers didn't work like that. We were either breaking the law or taking it into our own hands. This time would be no different. If some spoiled little bitches wanted to make some big money, we'd show 'em what big competition looks like.

"Holy shit."

I couldn't get away from her no matter how fucking hard I tried. Looks like the rest of the Curtis clan wasn't an exception, either. I glanced over my shoulder as Andy turned on his heel and let my eyes lock onto the busted screen door of the Curtis house. We were seven houses down, but it was close enough to recognize the cherry red mustang pulled up in front when the passenger door flung open and the fucking Beatles tried to shank my eardrums. "That's the fucking car," Andy chuckled humorlessly. I nodded again as my heart began to beat against my chest rapidly.

I knew what it meant. It was some sick survival instinct, the kind yelling that something was wrong. My face was getting hotter by the second, nails digging into my palms deep enough to draw pin-pricks worth of blood. There I was - like an idiot - standing a block away and watching. Watching to see if the Socs were there for a fight. Watching to see if they had come for one of the Curtis gang. Watching to see if I needed to step in.

Watching Darry Curtis climb out.