"EVEN THE HOLY BOOK ITSELF HAS A FEW SCAPEGOATS."
"Miss Curtis!"
Her head snaps away from the window automatically, the hand she was using to support her chin drops to the yellowed pages of her notebook. She's three desks to my left, Patrick is one over and one down on my right. There aren't that many greasers in our history class - none that I recognize, anyway. I bite back the urge to laugh at her like the other kids were doing - Socs, mostly. I don't think any greasers who knew Dally was in her gang would wanna make fun of her. Mrs. Graham shakes her head and takes off her glasses, probably trying not to call us all the worst names she could think of. Considering she was probably older than our textbooks, I doubted she could remember much, anyway. She clucks her tongue disapprovingly and turns her back, Marley's quiet "sorry ma'am," falling on deaf ears.
I wrote down a few notes in my scribbler as Mrs. Graham drags her hand across the chalkboard, smearing the letters as she goes. I'm two rows away from the door and the clock ticking by above it. I end up having to crane my neck to make sense of the numbers - thanks to the glare from the windows - and fall back into my seat. The clock reads ten minutes to three. I have forty minutes left of listening to some old bat drone on about the revolution and its significance. I mean, how significant was it really, if none of us remember anything the second the bell goes?
It doesn't matter though. Mrs. Graham turns away from the board, the front of her dress stained with dust and orders us to read a couple pages in our textbooks. I know for a fact I'm not gonna read them, but I flip past the front cover anyway. From the other side of the room, looks like Marley's doing the same thing. Patrick, on the other hand, is at least trying to push through the "stupid hood" stereotype and actually beings to read the pages our teacher scrawled on the board, Even better, I can just get my answers from him at the end of the day.
Which is still thirty-eight minutes away.
"-Yeah, I heard it from Sarah."
The kid in front of me - Pete Bradley - is gossiping worse than Angela with his buddy to his right. I'm not paying attention, I don't really care. I just sit there and watch the seconds tick by, over and over. "Her daddy's been selling drugs, that's why he took off last night!"
Yup, the rumour mill was fully operational and waiting for the stories to come trickling in. Today it was someone's dead-beat daddy, tomorrow it would be some two-timing girlfriend. But I'd be lying if I said my interest wasn't the smallest bit piqued. Dad went out yesterday for "business", and you didn't have to be a genius to know what that meant. I figured me and Andy coming back empty-handed wasn't what he wanted to hear, so he went searching himself. Anyone tryna work against Frank Shepard wouldn't remain anonymous for long. Maybe I could figure it out right now, sitting in my fucking classroom. I'd prove my dad and Andy wrong, and I wouldn't have to lift a finger.
"I'm telling you! I heard it from Sarah, and she heard it from Jack. Jack heard it right from Darrel! Yeah, Darry-"
"Marlene Curtis and Tim Shepard to the office. Marlene Curtis and Tim Shepard to the office."
The room falls silent as Miss. Gardner's voice dies and I feel twenty-five pairs of eyes dart between me and the girl across the room. Pete looks at me from over his shoulder -doesn't even try to hide the smug grin crossing his lips, probably thinking his daddy will be the one to arrest me next. Marley was the first to move from her chair, dragging the legs across the floor as she pushed back from the desk and gathered her things. The kids around her are buzzing like bees, raking over her, letting the assumptions fly past their lips before they can even string their pathetic little lies together. I shoot Pat a glare as I move to my feet. He doesn't bother shaking the smug look from his face - like he knows I won't deck him in the middle of class. I take the high road instead and flip him the bird as discreetly as I can. I may be a stupid hood, but I know when to pick my battles.
Marley whispers another soft apology to Mrs. Graham before disappearing out the door, the last thing I see is just a flash of brown hair. I have enough sense to pause by the front of the room and rifle through my jacket. I know I put a pack of smokes in here earlier - unless Curly decided mine they were free game. By the time my fingers wrap around them, I've decided Marley has enough of a head start not to look conspicuous. Two greasers getting called down already means trouble, never mind that it was me and her. So I pull at my collar and brush the hair back from my face. And as I finally step over the threshold - Mrs. Graham behind me and ready to slam the door - Pete's loud fucking mouth echoes through the classroom. I can practically hear the record screech in my head.
"Maybe he's pimpin' her out, just got outta the slammer an' all."
Marley is wrestling her worn-out textbook into her book bag at the end of the hall when I catch up with her. Her hair sways with her shoulders as she walks, revealing flushed cheeks and bleeding lips. If she's just embarrassed for getting called out, getting called to the office, or actually heard when Pete said, I have no clue. I didn't care regardless, but I couldn't flush the adrenaline from my veins as I tuck the cigarette behind my ear and turn left.
There were plenty of hookers on the east side, for some chicks here it was their plan after they turned eighteen. And sure, us guys were pretty wild, but pimping was a job reserved for the truly desperate, the kind of guys who probably sold their wife or firstborn - maybe both, if I'm being honest - for crack. Hell, even Dallas fucking Winston wrinkled his nose at the old guys walking into Buck's, a girl barely older than us hanging off his arm like he was the second coming of Christ.
Even if I don't care, the sweat starts running down the back of my neck the closer we come to Mr. R's door. Marley's bag is swinging at her side like a metronome between us, at least it drew my attention from the pounding in my chest. Jesus, I was acting like a little kid again. Terrified of heading to the principal's office, even when I couldn't figure out what I'd done wrong.
Kids like us didn't need to do anything wrong though, even the Holy book itself has a few scapegoats.
Just like last time, Mr. R is sitting behind his desk, hands folded together on top of it. He smiles at us when I push the door open and gestures to the chairs in front of him. Marley is the first to sit down, she smiles at me when I hold the door open, but I know it's more outta obligation than tryna be friendly. I don't wait for an invitation to sit down and slump back in my seat like I'm back in history class. The stiff leather feels weird against my back - and not just because of my jacket. Something is picking away at the back of my mind, a quiet voice I can only hope to hear. I can feel my heartbeat again, this time heavier and louder than I ever thought it could be here. I wasn't scared of Mr. R, I wasn't scared of anything. At least, that's what I tell myself when he clears his throat and my nails dig into the armrest hard enough to leave indents.
"Marlene," he starts politely, "thank you for joining us." Mr. R's squinty eyes flicker over to me like we're old friends and it takes more than all the self-control I possess not to wrinkle my nose at him. We're not old friends. He's a rich old guy from the west side who spends his days flipping through folders and weeding out the hoods before we step foot on the property. Marley's on my right with her hands wound together on her lap and a lump stuck in her throat. By the grace of God, she manages to swallow it and smiles at him, but I catch the sudden turn in her lips as she tries to -at least - look unbothered. "Can I ask what I'm doin' here, Principle Rodgers?"
His teeth are stained yellow, something I'd never expect from Mr. R. I wasn't expecting his hands to slap against his desk before he shuffles some folders around, and I don't expect Marley to stiffen in her seat automatically. I almost feel guilty for the brief smile that crosses my lips, but no one notices so I let it go. I have bigger things on my mind than a little bit of guilt - especially about Marley.
The folder flips open and I can recognize my photo clipped to the upper right corner. There's a lot of red pen and marks I don't understand, but it seems to make perfect sense to the man sitting across from me. "I just need to ask you both a few questions, alright?" Marley stiffens again, I can feel her eyes dart back and forth between me and Mr. R. "Don't worry," he adds, "'s nothing serious."
Marley doesn't settle, smart girl. Mr. R sighs and flips through a couple of the pages, I recognize my writing from a couple days ago. A science quiz I didn't know I had, with a big nineteen percent in the corner. He sighs and I wait for the inevitable lecture.
"Marlene, did Tim tell you about this quiz?"
Her eyes find me again, I'm sure she's glaring daggers but I have too much pride to turn and face her. "No sir," she answers, "we didn't talk about a quiz, just mid-terms in December. We're hoping-" Mr. R cuts her off with a wave of his hand before he lets the folder fall closed and my failure is hidden from view. His smile is so fake, it's almost funny. His tobacco-stained teeth poke out behind his lips as he speaks, never once taking his eyes off me while I dig my nails further into the armrests. "That's all I needed to know, Marlene, thank you. You're free to leave now."
"It's not his fault." I whip my head around fast enough to hear something crack, but that's the least of my worries. "Honest, I-I shoulda paid more attention, asked more questions 'bout what he was strugglin' with." For a minute, she's so convincing I almost forget to play along. Her fingers twist together as she speaks, sometimes fiddling with her bag or pulling at the hem of her sweatshirt. "Really, it ain't fair for you to punish him just because he didn't learn it right the first time. Have you ever tried teachin' yourself the law of Conservation of Mass from juvie, Mr. Rodgers? Have you?"
I haven't a fucking clue who Marley's tried sweet-talkin' before, and I have no fucking idea how it worked. Mr. R leaned back in his seat and rested his hand on his jaw. "Very convincing speech, Miss Curtis. Have you considered trying out for the debate team?" I don't have to turn to know her face is redder than Angela's lipstick. There's something in his eye that almost resembles pride, but it vanishes when he looks at me. He pulls the hand from his chin, too, one fat finger pointing directly at my nose. "You are one bad day away from landing back in juvenile detention, Tim. I know you're an intelligent young man, one that could do a helluva lot better than Tulsa if you tried. Don't think about throwin' your future away just to scorn me-" his lips twitch into a smile as his eyes move over to Marley, his finger still dangling like a worm on a hook in front of my face. "-Esspecially when someone's willing to take the fall for you." I'm sure when I stand up I'll pull the leather with me. I don't think I'd be able to uncurl my hands, even if I wanted to. Mr. R sighs - like this is hard on him or whatever bullshit teachers say nowadays. "Your parents have been made aware of this arrangement, Tim, they also know about your meeting with Officer Lewis tomorrow at one. I know you don't believe me, but I'm on your side." Even Marley has trouble stifling a laugh at that one.
We didn't say anything as he ushered us out the door, there was nothing to say. We walked out through the office and headed towards the entrance, but my tongue jumped out between my teeth before Marley could push them open. "Your daddy took off last night, huh?"
"An' yours tunnelled out from Big Mac," she snarled. Only a few seconds ago, we were two greasers facing the common enemy. Now, the only person willing to accept the stupid insults we threw were each other. I didn't try defending my father, after five years, I was outta practice. Marley on the other hand was just getting warmed up. Arguing was her specialty - same for a lotta girls, I'd imagine. "He and my momma had an argument," she added a bit quieter, "decided he'd rather let her cool off before coming home."
Sure thing, Marley. Whatever helps you sleep at night. I know better than to say anything against her parents, the last thing I need is the Curtis gang ready to spill my brains on the concrete for opening my big mouth. She looks a lot younger now that we aren't surrounded by Socs. Marley almost looks a little lost, standing there in the middle of the school entrance. She starts picking at her lip again before looking around the empty schoolyard - counting the seconds until she can get away from me.
The guilt starts small at first, small enough I can try to ignore it. But before long, it rose to my throat and made it hard to breathe.
I was ten when Dad got arrested. Curly and Angela got teased something fierce about it, we got suspended every other week for fighting. Three kids grieving the loss of their father while their mom drowns her troubles in medicinal booze. I was ten when I searched through every cupboard in our house tryna find something to give the kids for lunch. I was ten when Marley caught me in the schoolyard and pushed a brown paper bag into my hands.
"So your daddy ain't gonna pop a cap in me when I show up tomorrow?"
I hated her. I hated the whole Curtis clan. Nice parents, nice friends, a pretty decent house considering Mr. C built them for a living. I wanted to hate the lunch she'd given me, but hunger won over in the end. Can't be angry, or scary, or the man of the house when you're starving.
The corner of her mouth twitches up, she's grinning at me. "If you looked at those notes like I told you to, you woulda aced that test and we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. Do something like that again, my daddy will be the least of your worries."
I was ten when I learned about handouts - how there's no such thing. I spent a long time waiting for one of the Curtis kids to show up, telling me I owed them for that sandwich. Waiting for them to say they wanted something from me. And now, I can say I was fifteen when I realized the only thing Marley Curtis wanted from me, was to not starve.