"SHUT UP, DICKHEAD."

I left the house feeling weird. Not like a sick kind of weird, but the kind of weird you feel when you walk into a friend's house and his mom is still giving him the third degree about the dirty clothes in his room. At least I was able to detangle the web of rumours spinning in Will Rodgers - old man Curtis had officially taken off. And by the looks of it, he didn't plan on coming home any time soon.

I didn't say anything when I left, just looked back to her and swung the door open when she nodded. Girls like Marley, they aren't used to this kinda thing. Maybe she knows how to bandage a few broken fingers or cook a decent meal, but she isn't used to her folks screaming at each other, or one coming home in the early hours of the morning drunk and looking for a fight. It was the same thing with Angela when Dad got hauled off. Sure, she cried some, but she tried her damnedest to hide it from me. I knew better than to overstay my welcome, especially when Mr. C knew I was here. If he was already heading outta town, no reason he couldn't just shoot me dead in the living room. To be honest, I'm surprised she made it that long without crying, throwing something, or both. I was plenty surprised to see Mr. C never hit her, either.

The wind had finally died down some and the clouds had pushed back from the sun. Gravel crunched under my feet as I walked with my textbook tucked under my arm, making me look like the kind of loser you'd expect to get jumped in this neighbourhood. I wasn't worried about getting jumped, though, I'm walking the same way I did a couple weeks ago, the day Dad sent me and Andy to keep an eye on the Dingo.

I knew Darry ended up ditching his buddies for a spot on the football team, a cheerleader, and not getting jumped every time he stepped outside, Dally had bitched about it for an hour when I got outta reform. I just didn't expect him to get a ride in a red mustang - the car we were supposed to be looking for. Something about the whole thing just made my stomach twist and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The wind had died down a bit, but it still whistled past my ears, worming dread and doubt further into my skull. The streets are too quiet for a Saturday, even if half the neighbourhood is meeting up with their PO's or heading down to the courthouse to finalize their divorce and figure out who keeps the kids.

Tulsa is too quiet as I imagine how Mr. C coulda fucked up bad enough for his wife to kick him out - that woman hasn't even kicked Dally outta her house yet. I think about the blue chevy he was driving, and why it was heading to Pawnee, of all places. My feet keep stepping on gravel, my thumb keeps knocking against the back of my book. Christ almighty, to think all this started because I can't remember a few things about atoms.

Yeah, feeling weird was one way to describe it. I managed to convince myself I didn't give a shit about Marley - or any of her gang - by the time I reached the corner. That I only stuck around that long because she wouldn't be able to tutor me if her old man put her in the hospital. Or an early grave.

I spit the taste of copper out of my mouth and onto the pavement as my tongue moved to inspect the new scar I had bitten through my lip. I had a habit of chewing on my lip, a quiet way to distract myself from whatever was going on inside my mind. At the same time, my hand had tightened around my textbook tight enough for my fingers to ache when I finally uncurled them. The Curtis house was barely visible past the multiple unkept lawns and slanting houses that separated them from the end of the street.

You could go back. Say you didn't feel like heading home - you wouldn't be lying.

Mr. R wasn't bluffing about calling my folks. Dad wasn't bluffing about dragging me outta bed at eight o'clock and telling me all the ways to look and act "responsible", either. Really, it was just kind of ironic. The same guy giving me a lecture on being a responsible young man is the same guy who coulda spent the last five years with his family instead of in a cell if he was a little more responsible when it came to recognizing an undercover cop. But I didn't say it out loud - especially when he was dragging the razor down my jaw and telling all about the first time he shaved.

I didn't feel like going home. I didn't plan on heading back to the Curtis house either. I may be a greaser and a criminal, but I'm not an asshole - okay, I am, but swinging by a girl's house after that would just give her ideas. Assholes like Dally love giving broads ideas, he likes keeping them lined up at his disposal for the next time Sylva realizes she can do better. I may be a greaser, a criminal, and an asshole, but I'm not that type of asshole. Hell, I ain't even the type of guy to gossip to half the east side about every little thing. I like keeping my gossip down to one guy in particular.

Pat's hair is a mess and Katie is screaming for his attention when the door finally opens. The front of his shirt is stained and splattered with something I don't bother asking about as he ushers me inside and immediately bolts back towards the kitchen. That's when I realize two things. Something is burning, and Mrs. Macrorie isn't home, otherwise, she would've already beaten her son within an inch of his life. I follow Pat soundlessly towards the thin black smoke rising from the frying pan and his daughter tucked in her highchair. "Rough afternoon?" I ask as he pulls the frying pan off the burner and plunges it into the sink to his right. I can see the thin beads of sweat travelling down his neck and forehead as he wipes his hands on the dishcloth hanging off the oven door. "Told Ma she could go back to work," he admitted. "Katie's just about old enough to head to a babysitter's."

Kaite goes ballistic every time her father is out of sight, but I don't bother bringing that up as I pull out a chair and sit next to her. The chair is the ugliest shade of green I've ever had the displeasure of looking at, with steel legs that creak and threaten to snap whenever Katie squirms. Her hair is a dark auburn colour - a mix of her mom and dad's - and pushed back from her face with two hair clips just visible through her thick curls. The tray responsible for keeping her in the chair is stained and dirty, covered in crumbs of animal crackers and whatever else Pat has managed to push her way. Regardless, Kaite's one of the happiest babies I've met as she traced designs in the smeared blueberries.

"Your daddy doesn't know how to cook, does he?" I ask her. She babbles like all babies do, almost sounding like words, but too jumbled together to understand anything specific. "Shut the fuck up," Pat hisses instead. I snicker. For the past nine months, this little girl's had Patrick Macrorie wrapped around her fat little finger. For good reason, too. Even if his mom would never actually do it, she threatens to drop Katie off at the police station if he can't prove he can take care of her. I help out when I can. Sometimes it means nicking baby formula from the grocery store or digging through the attic and tryna find some of Ang's old baby clothes. It isn't that big of a deal though. He would do the same for me, and has, back when Dad was still gone and Curly and Angela were both sick to their stomachs. Behind me, the fridge door creaks open and a rush of cold air lands on the back of my neck as Pat fishes out a carton of milk. He drop it on the table, along with a box of cereal, a bowl, and a spoon so small, it's a miracle Pat was able to hold it without it snapping. I lean back in my chair, tongue running over the fresh scar on the inside of my lip.

"What are we gonna do with you, Pat? Fifteen and unmarried with a baby on your hip, and you can't even cook a decent meal. What woman is gonna marry you now?"

Cereal rains down over the floor as Pat jerks and stifles a laugh. It takes a minute, but he manages o force a smile down as he spills the rest of the cereal and milk into the bowl and raises the spoon to his daughter's lips. "I'd be more worried about yourself, Tim. 'Specially when half the school thinks you're Marley's pimp."

"I'm not a fuckin' pimp," I snap.

"I dunno, man, you said that pretty quick- hey! Stop that and eat your lunch, missy," Pat scolded. Katie responded with a fit of laughter and clumps of soggy cereal dribbling down her chin. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest, eyes trained on him as Pat wiped her face with his sleeve. I know what he wanted and I would be dead before I gave it to him. "Who'd you think I'd be pimping then?"

The spoon dropped back to the bowl with a loud clatter. "Take a wild fucking guess," he teased. Yeah, right. Even if I was a pimp, what kinda girls would I employ, middle schoolers? Marley and Sylvia? Fuck no. I couldn't even count on one hand all the guys that would have my head on a spike if I even joked about it. "Yeah," I chuckled back, "the Curtis brothers would be real pleased with me selling their sister in one of Buck's bedrooms." Pat shot me a glare from across the table, "relax, Tim, I'm just tellin' you what people were saying on Friday."

Before I could bring myself to glare back at him, Pat raised an eyebrow curiously as he lowered the spoon back into the bowl. "What was Friday about, anyway?"

I had a reputation. I was a greaser and a hood, I picked on little kids and fought with the rich Socs every time I passed them on the street. I had a reputation to protect, but I also had a long fucking story I wanted to tell someone. I might have been able to twist up some clever lie as to what I was doing passing the Curtis house with my textbook in hand, but by the time I tried piecing a story together, Pat had already snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Hey asshole, I'm talkin' to you!"

"I need a passing grade in science unless I wanna be back in reform," I finally snapped. "Mr. R roped Marley into helping me out once a week."

The silence held thick in the air. Like one of Dad's cheap smokes, or when Marley opened the door and faced her father. I did the only thing I could think of and raised an eyebrow back. "What? You wanted the truth, Mr. R was pissed 'cause I bombed a quiz and wanted to make sure Marley was doin' her job." In an instant, Pat's face lost all colour.

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph," he cursed quietly, "that poor fuckin' girl-"

"Shut up, dickhead, I ain't that bad," I snarl in response, "I forgot I had a quiz, alright?"

His shocked expression had finally softened as his lips split into an awkward smile. "Christ, it ain't that," he explained between gulps of air, "I saw her a couple weeks back at the store-"

I had begun to push myself from my seat, textbook tucked back under one arm. "Get to the point, Pat, I should probably be gettin' home."

"I thought y'all were foolin' around! I told her to remember some condoms!"

Just like that, all the dread I had managed to lock in the back of my mind came back full fucking force. "If anyone heard your bullshit, you're a dead man, Patrick Macrorie." The threat slides past my lips effortlessly as I imagine the Curtis brothers lined up on my front lawn. Jesus, their dad probably swung by Brumley on his way outta town - just to fill them in. "I mean it, once her brothers and the rest of her fucking gang are done playing football with my head, I'll send 'em right down here to you."

"Cool it," Pat scoffed carelessly, "it's just a stupid rumour. Y'know, like the ones saying the football team sell parents' pills at all their victory parties."

Sure they were stupid rumours, but that didn't stop even stupider rumours from piggybacking off them. Lord have fucking mercy, Will Rodgers is gonna have a field day if they ever hear about this. As of Friday, last period, Tim Shepard is Marley Curtis's pimp. And according to Pat Macrorie, he's fucking her, too.

"Whatchya hurrying home for? Curly and Angela went down to Brumley with the Curtis gang to watch the fight. Folks are saying Bryon Douglas and his buddy got involved."

"How come you know Ang and Curly went?" I ask skeptically. Katie drums her hands against the tray as her daddy slowly raises his thumb and brushes the hair back from her face. "Curly thought you were here and wanted you to go with them," he paused and laughed. "He's got a big mouth, too, kept goin' on about Mr. Curtis showin' up sometime this afternoon."

I'm back in my seat in an instant. My hands are starting to sweat, a strange tightness forms in the back of my throat. "Why the fuck is he comin' round my house?"

"Curly said they were talkin' 'bout some deal. A truck."

I already know the answer, but I ask the question anyway. The pieces start falling into place, my mind is already painting the picture together. "What kinda truck?"

"Said it was a blue Chevy."