"IF I GO THERE WILL BE TROUBLE, BUT IF I STAY IT WILL BE DOUBLE."- The Clash (Should I Stay Or Should I Go?)

The shrill scream of the bell still drilled its way through my eardrums, even as we stood outside, cigarettes between our fingers. The wind wasn't as strong as it had been for the last few days, but it was strong enough to keep most of us inside during the lunch hour. Not greasers though. Whenever we hung around the cafeteria, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Whether it really was our fault or not never seemed to matter, we'd get blamed for the broken window or bloody nose all the same. That's why most of us took our chances with the Dingo or the DX - a gas station a few blocks away. The food wasn't nutritious, it was barely edible, but it was something to do.

"Figure Liams will notice if we're gone?" Pat asks me between drags off his cigarette. He's standing next to me with our books at our feet and heads tipped back against the brick wall. Everybody smokes on the east side, even indoors. We only ever head outside if the girls say they don't like it, or if there's something we wanna talk about away from prying ears. But word's been getting around from some big shot universities about how dangerous it actually is, and Pat isn't gonna risk anything. Christ, it wouldn't surprise me if this was his first smoke since yesterday.

"Probably not," I shrug. He's a new teacher, Liams. A few years older than us with plans and operations a hell of a lot bigger than Tulsa. But I guess he figured this was as good as it was gonna get - until he could get a transfer, anyway. He comes into fourth period with bloodshot eyes and messy hair. Oh yeah, and as of last week, lipstick stains that looked too much like Louise Parker's colour of choice. I wouldn't really care much, not if Lousie was a year older than seventeen. But, as long as Liams kept this up, I could blackmail myself into an A all semester.

Not that we needed it. Greasers were already pretty good at running the mile, runnin' from the pigs, an' all.

Pat's watch face glimmers in the afternoon sun as he tucks the cigarette back between his lips and stretches his hands up to the sky. "You wanna get outta here?" He asks. "Could head down to the DX and skip out on running the perimeter." I can hear the sound of shoes clicking against the blacktop as kids hurry our way. They reek of cheap weed and their parents' liquor. That was another reason we didn't hang around much when we had the chance to slip away. Sober Socs were already worse than some monotone teacher, but soused they were even worse.

We watch them pass us, sneaking back into the gym via one of the old, dented doors. I recognize two of them, the guys, but I can't say the same for the girls hanging off their arms. Bob Sheldon and his lackey, Randy Anderson. Only fifteen and already walking around like they own the town. Like this is their big shot, and we're just here to ruin the moment. They ain't that wrong though. Last I heard, the ugly purple bruise under Sheldon's eye came straight from Sodapop Curtis and his buddy after they tried picking on his little brother. Curly told me all about it since he was still stuck in class with the youngest brother. All four Socs pass us wordlessly, but I catch the way Sheldon's grip tightens on the redhead he's holding when they do. I watch them for a minute, tempted to say anything and get the adrenaline outta my system. It would be real easy, too. All I gotta mention is something about his daddy buying him his grade. Or maybe I'd take a low blow and mention the girl. Tell her that if she wanted a good time, she should swing by mine later tonight.

I drop my smoke onto the cold ground and crush it beneath my heel as my tongue darts out between my lips. Before I can even think of what to say, Pat's hand clamps down on my shoulder and steers me in the opposite direction. "Don't you fuckin' start," he mumbles.

Kids are already wreaking havoc in the front yard when we get there, yelling and throwing things back and forth, the occasional Soc revving his engine and taking off down the street. Pat and I pay them no attention as we push through the crowds, not even wasting a second glance at the squad car pulled up, front and center. "It's a fucking Monday afternoon," I scoff, "what're the cops doing here?" Pat's shoulder nudges against mine as we continue on our way across the yard and to the pavement. "Just be glad they ain't here for you, dipshit."

I push him back, harder this time than he had me. But before either of us could say a word, the doors slam open and one voice cries out much more recognizable than the rest.

"Can one of you just tell me what's going on?"

Once I see a gold badge clipped to a belt, and Marley trying to yank her arm back from his iron grip, the world just sorta fades away. She twists desperately, hair falling in front of her eyes as the crowd of students split like the Red sea. The second officer looks considerably younger than his partner and has a writing pad in his hand. Mr. R is standing next to him, waving his arms around wildly while the officer scribbles down every muffled word. The whispering starts the second Marley hits the concrete. They fill the air like an electric shock, full of energy and power, feeding off of those around them. "I'll tell you whatever you wanna know, just stop pullin' me-"

She's ten feet away, just to my left and still trying to pry the officer's fingers from her jacket sleeve. When Marley finally realizes it's all in vain, she turns her green, foggy eyes to the crowd. She's searching for her brothers, one of the gang, someone stupid enough to at least try and help her. Before I can stop myself, I'm looking around with her. For Darry or Sodapop, maybe even Steve, Two-Bit, or even Dally at this point. Jesus, even Sylvia is stupid enough to make a scene in a time like this. But, despite having five guys wandering the halls of Will Rodgers, none of them are outside at the moment. The yard was filled with middle-class kids and Socs. The kind of kids to look at us like we were something they had to scrape off the bottom of their shoes. By the way Pat's hand rests heavily on my shoulders, I know he knows it too. Without a single word or inkling of an idea, we step forward.

"Move." His badge is obstructed by his heavy fist clamped down on his belt, though his fingers aren't wrapped as tightly around that as they are Marley's forearm. I roll my shoulders back and straighten my spine before pushing my tongue between my teeth, trapping me in silence. I can hear Pat say something - I can even see him gesture to Marley, but everything still feels like I'm watching it through a screen. Instead of focusing on my friend's muffled words, or the tried look in the officer's eyes, I focus on the girl in front of me. Her cheeks are red, but it only makes the freckles dotting her face more prominent. She's wearing a dark jean jacket - probably on her brother's - over a pale green t-shirt, the colour reminds me of Angela's latest lipstick tube. The only thing that ruins the look is the meaty hand locked onto her shoulder, and her nails leaving marks on his fingers. I realize too late that she's scared. That she's alone, surrounded by people who would never help her, even if they had the chance. I realize she's managed to make the man holding her bleed as her chest rises and falls in short, rapid breaths.

"I dunno what's goin' on, I was just in class an' then-"

"Hey man, we know our fucking rights! You can't just take her-"

Clarity hits me like a truck. The sun, shining down through the veil of clouds stings my eyes as the buzzing whispers fill the air. "She's not in any trouble," the officer assures, "we just need her to answer a couple questions. We'll have her back in time for science if she cooperates."

"Then why'd you need Marley?" I ask. This guy isn't like the other cops I've seen. He's pretty slim for the most part, with clean hair and eyes that don't cover red veins. He's sober and doesn't reek of cheap cologne or the inside of the brothel. The biggest change of all is that he doesn't seem to enjoy this. "What's the problem, lookin' for Winston or something? 'Cause I can tell you right now, she hasn't seen him."

His hair is short and clean, combed back in a fashion identical to all the other Socs I've seen in town. he doesn't seem that old, younger than a majority of the guys on the force, but that might just be because his hair isn't that grey yet. His hair isn't grey, but his eyes are tired and only close as he sighs. "You know these kids, honey?"

Marley nodded seriously, still shifting awkwardly on her feet and trying to find another familiar face in the dissipating crowd. The officer sighed again, this time risking a quick glance over his shoulder to his partner. "No one's in trouble. No one's looking for one of your little hood friends, we just need her to come with us and answer a few questions."

It always starts innocent enough. Just a couple questions here and there, nothing serious, and no one's in trouble. That's their way of saying they don't believe you. That you were a dumb hood from the get-go, that this mark on your record would be the first of many. That ever since Dad got locked up, the Shepard kids were like their own nuclear bombs ready to take out entire cities when the time came. We are violent and destructive, products of a poisoned environment no one ever bothered to fix. But I wasn't the one being pushed into a squad car. Neither was Angela or Curly, it was Marley fucking Curtis. Call me a cynic, but something about that didn't sit right with me.

"Marley ain't gonna tell you jack shit," I hiss. I'm not even looking at him when I say it, I'm staring at Marley and her wide eyes. It doesn't take a genius to realize she's terrified, that she's heard enough stories about what cops can do to kids "resisting arrest" and get away with a medal of honour. But Marley's smart enough to shut her mouth and straighten her spine, keeping her eyes fixed on me before I stare down the cop still fucking holding her. "She ain't gonna tell you a damn thing without someone there," I continue. Pat's elbow finds my ribs, but I don't let it bother me. I'm too focused on staring at the cop in front of me and grinding my teeth, waiting for him to finally break. "Now, what kinda questions are you asking?"

And that's the story of how instead of heading to the DX, I was shoved into the back of a squad car on a Monday afternoon.

I don't know how long we sat there in the hospital waiting room in heavy silence. People came and went, nurses, doctors, and patients alike. Never sparing us a glance, just the two greaser kids tucked away in the corner rather than being in school. The only people who didn't move were the officers responsible for bringing us in. The older one stood at the front desk, whispering hurriedly with the receptionist while his partner sat beside Marley, making sure we didn't take our chances and bolt. She alternated between smoothing out her hair and toying with the frayed edges of her skirt. I watch the seconds tick by on the clock, the only piece of colour sticking out against the beige walls.

"Why'd you do that?" When I look to my left, Marley still has her eyes fixed on her hands, rather than looking at me."You coulda just went out with Pat instead-"

I did it because the last time some cops wanted to ask me some questions, I spent nine months in the reformatory. I did it because cops are slimy bastards who would manipulate anything you say to fit their narrative. I did it because they didn't care about kids like us, they cared about meeting their quota and getting a raise. But I didn't say anything out loud. I just shrug my shoulders and drop my hands to my knees, occasionally side-eyeing the officer sitting next to her. "Curiosity. You don't seem the type to get into trouble with the pigs." She copies me and shrugs, almost letting her jacket slide off her right side completely. "Thanks for stickin' 'round on Saturday," she adds softly. I barely have time to think of an answer before we're both hauled to our feet and ushered down the hall. I haven't bothered learning their names, but the one in front is obviously the youngest and new to the force. He leads us down the hall after hall as we follow a couple nurses. This was the first time they've acknowledged us, and all we're getting is sad glances. I take a few quick steps, just so I can walk beside Marley instead of behind her. Her lip is bleeding and her hands are wrapped around herself as we walk in silence. "Relax," I mutter, "we haven't done anything wrong. They've got nothing on us."

She nods as we stop in front of room two fourteen. The only thing separating us from whatever is inside is a thin, green curtain that the nurse peels back silently. It takes a minute, but the shapes finally register in my mind, as if it was all something I was watching on the Drive-In. Marley is the first to step forwards over the threshold. I imagine the cop behind us probably pushed her along, or maybe the overwhelming realization had finally struck.

I've seen it on television. The hospital beds and bright lights, nurses walking around in dresses real short and heels far too tall to be believable. Curly and I used to make fun of 'em all the time back when we were younger. Especially after being on the other side a couple of times, pointing out inaccuracies was one of our favourite pass-times. Looking back on it now, the only thing those shows got right was how a body looked under a sheet. Bodies.

Even though she's right beside me now, standing between the two cots, Marley's voice has never sounded so far away. "W-who's under there?" The young officer carefully brushes the hair back from her face and sends us both a weak smile. "That's what I need you two to tell me, okay? Just let me know if you recognize 'em." He nods solemnly and the nurse pulls down the top of the sheet, blinking back the few tears already winding down her cheeks. I recognize the first face, which only means I know who's under the second sheet, too. I saw him two days ago, in stained jeans and a filthy jacket, with unkempt hair and reeking of desperation. Mr. C was right when he said he never wanted Marley to see him like that, but I doubt this was any better. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this was just a stranger, lying here dead in a hospital cot. The scars and bruises painting his face certainly helped hide his identity, but it seemed to only solidify the fact. I could be looking at Marley's father or her eldest brother.

She finally realizes what she's looking at. Instead of crying out like I was expecting, Marley simply gasps and stumbles backwards. Before I sort out my emotions or take responsibility for my actions, my arm reaches out and settles on her waist. I end up keeping her from stumbling backwards into the second cot, but I also end up pulling her shoulder against mine. "That can't be him," she whispers desperately, "Tim- there's gotta be a mistake-"

More people file into the small hospital room, hushed voices and pencils scribbling on paper all blend together. And I just stand there. One arm still snug on the girl's waist as she finds out both her parents are dead, and I can't bring myself to look away from her father. The same guy who told me to keep his daughter away from whatever trouble Dad had me roped up in, the same guy who didn't get a chance to say goodbye to his sons.

I still remember the first time Dally told me about the Curtis parents. About how nice they were, how much they cared about their kids. Even the ones that weren't even their's. I think we were in seventh grade when word got around about some Soc wanting to take Marley to a dance. It took less than a day for that kid to get jumped by the Cutis gang, I'm pretty sure Curly joined in, too. Jesus, that kid got his ass beat, all for thinking about asking her out. And here I was, with my arm around her waist and watching her father get wheeled out of the room. Worst of all? I didn't mind having her that close. I can't tell if my throat gets tight because I just saw a dead body or because of Marley's hand on my arm, but it does. The word still feels foggy and distant, but the girl standing close enough to probably hear my heartbeat seemed much more in focus than the rest. "Those are my parents."

Her voice is soft and weak, like she was trying her hardest to keep the tears at bay. I couldn't blame her, I wouldn't wanna cry in front of me, either. I've never been the best at comforting people, it just wasn't something Shepards ever did. So, at that moment, I relied completely on instinct. And oh boy, did they fuck up.

I pulled her in closer, like an idiot, and let her head fall onto my shoulder. How comfortable was that? I have no fucking clue because I'm wearing a leather fucking jacket that hasn't been washed since I was like, twelve, or something. But grief must be one hell of a drug. Neither of us seemed to notice we had moved into the waiting room until a voice knocked me out of whatever psychosis I was in. I looked at Marley first, the blank look in her eyes, they were now more grey than green as her teeth sank into her lip. A thin line of red flowed from the mark. "I'm so fucking sorry, Marley."

"I dunno how I'm supposed to tell my brothers," she admits. I don't have time to answer before a hand clamps down on the back of my jacket and she's swarmed by nurses, officers, and a few other people I don't recognize. I know who's pulling me out of the hospital though, I know I'm in for a lecture, too.

"You better have a good fucking reason for getting in that car," Dad growls the second we're in his car. For once in my life, the thick stench of smoke swirling through the cab isn't comforting. It's nauseating. Even more so is the fact that my mind is just starting to clear. That I'm just starting to piece together the puzzle that is Mr. C, and why he was driving a truck out to Pawnee for my father. "The Curtis folks are dead," I say. "Car accident." I have no idea who told me they were in a crash, but I repeat it like fact. We reach a red light when Dad tears the cigarette from his teeth and flicks a few ashes out the window. "So you're makin' a move now that her daddy ain't around to stop you?"

"Why was he drivin' a truck out to Pawnee for you?"

We take off like a shot the second the light turns green, strong enough for my head to hit my seat. A dark smile crosses his face as he grips the wheel even higher, knuckles turning white. "Darrel owed me a few favours," he snarled. Usually, I never would've gotten this far. Sure, I'd think about it, but I'd value being able to see outta my left eye more than Mr. Curtis. But now, for whatever reason, I wanted to see how far I could push him. "He came by his house on Saturday," I mumble. "Saw me and Marley. Grabbed some of his shit and took off."

Nothing.

"Then Curly heard from Ponyboy Mrs. C drove out to pick him up and bring him home."

He clears his throat. That's it. To anyone else, it might've seemed like nothing, but it's all I need to push him again.

"They're dead 'cause of you."

Snap.

His heavy foot slams against the brake pedal hard enough for the tires to squeal. I don't know where we are, just that the houses are a lot shittier than where we're from. And that's saying something. But our location is the least of my worries as Dad grabs my shoulder and pushes me back against the seat. "They're dead 'cause Annie's been popping pills for years," he sneers. "They're dead 'cause Darrel's too much of a coward to admit when he's wrong. They're dead because his wife's been taking those pills like candy ever since we rolled into this shithole." His voice has lost its edge. Calm and cold, that alone is enough to make dread twist through my stomach and the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "So don't go acting like they were saints," he spits again. "All 'cause they were feeding kids that weren't theirs? Jesus-" Dad tosses his cigarette out through his window and chuckles, weaving his fingers through his hair. "I can tell you things about the dearly departed that would make your fucking skin crawl,boy."

Suddenly, he starts rifling through the pockets of his brown leather jacket. In his hand is a thick envelope, stained with tobacco and God only knows what else. It's heavy in my hands when he passes it to me and points to one of the houses. "You remember Jim Clark?" It was kinda hard to forget him. Jesus, how long since he's been in the ground? A week? "That's for his wife. Don't think Lucy wants me around after what happened."

The next thing I know, I'm standing on some dying grass, with an envelope with enough money to pay my rent for six months in my hand. Oh yeah, and my dad's eyes burning like bullets in the back of my skull. The steps to her door creak under my weight, threatening to break underneath me. Her mailbox is in no better condition either. I don't know Lucy Clark, I barely knew her husband. I knew he and Mr. C worked together though, that they were buddies. Up until a couple of minutes ago, I had no idea about Mrs. C and her problem, hell, I didn't even know Dad knew who she was. But as I slipped back into the passenger seat and the engine roared to life, one simple fact only became clearer.

What they say is true. Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.