"YOU CAN'T KILL WHAT'S ALREADY DEAD."
Peace never lasts long on the east side. There are always tires screeching, people yelling, something breaking. Whether it be glass, bones, or families never seem to be anyone's major concern, though. We're just happy to sit by and watch the destruction settle in, like a thick smoke that'll stain your family name for generations to come.
It was ten o'clock on a Wednesday night and I was sitting with my brother and sister in the living room. Curly was sprawled across the floor on his back, watching the television through his mass of black curls hanging down in front of his eyes like a curtain. Angela and I were pushed into the corners of the couch, I was smoking, she was filing her nails. Dad had taken off some hours ago, not before slapping a few bills on the table and telling us to order some food, though. Mom was tucked away in her bedroom, drinking herself into unconscious bliss like she'd been doing for years.
I wasn't even sure what we were watching at this point. Another black and white stick-'em-up cowboy flick, probably where Curls is getting his inspiration for jumping fifth graders for lunch money. Sure, it was kinda weird Angela decided to sit down with us since these were never her kinda thing, but I really didn't think much of it. I had a cigarette between my lips as I ran my fingers over the back of my hand, tracing the scars and marks. I'd been pulling Curly's teeth out ever since he started losing them, so pulling it out for Sodapop had been no issue at all. The problem was that he fucking bit me. And maybe I did deserve it for giving his sister a hickey - and taking her virginity - but I was able to push that aside. Sodapop Curtis was a pretty decent kid, but he could fight dirty. It's gonna be a real goddamn shame when someone knocks him into place, and I don't pity them one bit. Not when they'd have to face Marley afterwards.
She seemed pretty pissed at her brother once everything calmed down, so I took that as my opportunity to escape. It didn't stop her from catching up and walking alongside me until we reached the end of her street though. After everything that had happened, watching her smile had been a real nice change - even if it vanished and she cussed me out for giving her a hickey. "Are you fixing to get your head busted in again?" She'd asked me. The obvious answer was no. I was in no way trying to get my head on a spike at the hands of the Curtis brothers, but I didn't say that. I said I didn't mean to, that I wasn't paying attention, that it looked good on her. Same as always, all it took was one compliment for her cheeks to flush red. She told me I was a pain, and that I better get lost before Soda comes to his senses and realizes what we'd actually done. I told her I'd see her around. I left before I told her I liked her. That I'd face her brothers over and over again if it meant I got to see her one more time.
I wasn't a smooth talker the way Ang and Curly were. I was brash and violent, tuff and scary. I don't even know why Marley decided she liked me - or what I'd done to deserve it - but I knew I wasn't about to give her up easily.
"Where'd you think Dad goes?" Curly asks from the floor. He's rolled around onto his stomach, hands under his chin and holding it up. He's looking up at me, eyes wide with curiosity rather than malice. Like he's seven again, coming to me and asking why some mean guys in blue vests pushed him into their car. Like I still have all the answers. I know where he is, obviously, since someone has to be able to come up with a decent alibi if he gets caught. He's down on the Ribbon, selling acid to a bunch of teenagers too stoned outta their minds to know what they're dealing with. I know we'll all head off to bed soon and pretend to be asleep, staring at our ceilings and the shadows that never give us a minute of peace. Dad'll stumble in late, eyes bloodshot and reeking of beer or something stronger. He's just as bothered as the rest of us - shooting your dad at seventeen will do that to you - but we've just grown used to his mumbling and drunken curses. You can't kill what's already dead, so he aims for the few family pictures we have instead.
"Pull your head outta your ass," Angela snaps venomously. "You know exactly what's goin' on, you ain't that stupid." Out of all of us, Angela has the sharpest tongue. A lot of good it does her since looks won't last forever. She's been piling make-up on her face since she was old enough to swipe it off the counters at the drug store, and she's always been able to talk herself outta whatever trouble it lands her in, too. Her eyes are narrowed into thin slits, dark red lips twisted into a scowl. She's waiting for Curly to make a move, just so she can tear him apart worse than the strays that prowl the alleys. Out of all of us, Angela is the worst at hiding her hatred for our father. I know she blames him for what happened. It's easier that way. To pretend nothing would've hurt her if her dad stuck around, if he placed his family higher than some dirty money on his hierarchy of needs. But he didn't, and she shrinks right back into the sofa when the door is flung open, as if begging for the fabric to swallow her whole.
He risks one glance at my siblings before cocking his head to the side. Back to the open door, and the frigid night air creeping in. My smouldering cigarette mixes with the smell of Jack Daniels and weed, all lingering in the air and turning the moment sour. Angela doesn't say anything when Dad looks at her, cold eyes menacing, daring her to speak at all. For the first time, Curly's the brave one. He's the one to stand like a matador between her and Dad. He glares and Curly glares right back, giving Angela enough time to kick her feet onto the floor and climb the rickety old stairs. Once she's out of sight, he turns back to me. "Go to bed," I say sternly. "You've got a test tomorrow, or somethin', right?"
He's gone in an instant, leaving me to face our father as he turns and pulls the door shut. "Don't need to head outside if they're gone," he scoffs before dropping down into Angela's empty seat. There's a thick, brown cigar between his lips now, his boots propped up on the coffee table, arms crossed over his chest thoughtfully. "Give your old man a light, will ya?"
I wish I used that bullet when I had the chance. I wish I cut all my problems off at their poisoned root. I wish I'd taken the opportunity to stain the kitchen table red with his blood when it was there. But I didn't. And now Donna Micheals was six feet underground instead of in her room, probably gossiping with all her girlfriends about her and Darry's next date. Now the east side's divided. Darry Curtis is selling with a couple Socs, completely turning his back on the life he'd been raised on his entire life. Now, Frank Shepard was back in town and doesn't appreciate the competition on what's supposed to be his turf. Now, the eldest Shepard is sneaking around with Darry Curtis's little sister, getting too psyched out to ask her to be his girlfriend. I shoulda used that bullet when I got the chance.
I can't tell what Dad's smoking, but it's too pungent to be tobacco. His eyes aren't red enough for it to be weed, either. It hangs in the air, thicker than the tension that surrounds us. It's like the day the Curtis parents died and he came to pick me up from the hospital. My heart is beating hard enough to break through my chest as the thick grey cloud in front of us finally settles and Dad clears his throat, wiping away the remnants of ash from his jacket. "You've been to Buck's recently?" He asks. It's a simple enough question that I'm almost able to forget who I'm sitting with. Nothing about Frank Shepard is ever simple. "He's real grown up since the last time I saw him," he chuckles. "Hell, Darry an' A-Annie an' I, we used to watch that kid while his daddy was making moonshine in the basement." His statement turns into a cough.
I hope he chokes.
I wait until the coughing subsides and stare back at the television. The actors are moving too quickly and the camera is too shaky to get a good sense of what's going on, but it has to be better than what's going on here. "You head to school today?" I nod stiffly, never turning my eyes away from the t.v. "You left your science textbook on the table," Dad says casually. "Bet Marley Curtis will be wanting her notes back soon, eh?"
In a game of cat and mouse, a mouse can't run forever. The cat knows this and will try its best to capture its prey while using the least amount of energy. The cat knows that if it comes down to it, the mouse will always outrun him. That's why it's best to lay low and wait, lulling the mouse into security before pouncing. I've been running for a while now, pulling out all the stops to save my own skin and keep the truth where it belongs. I'm running out of places to go, even if I keep lying and saying this is what I had planned all along. He's catching up, gaining speed, claws at the ready.
"'S that why she was here last night? Came over, looking for her notes? Maybe studying together?"
The game's over and only one of us can be crowned the victor. I don't even have time to come up with a shitty excuse for the heavy smoke is blown into my face, burning my throat and eyes like acid. His hand is heavy against the back of my neck, keeping me pinned while his nails press further into my skin. Nothing about him has ever been gentle. There were no reminders of the right way to do something. There were no bedtime stories. I fucked up. He knew I fucked up, and he was going to make me pay for my mistakes one way or another.
"You remember John, don't you? Andy's old man?"
"What about him?" I spit out. I try to keep my voice even - as if I'll be able to assure him Marley was nothing more than a girl at school. But the edge in my voice is a dead giveaway. My lungs are burning and all I want to do is shove the cigar down his throat and end the whole nightmare. But Dad's grip tightens on the back of my neck, his go-to move whenever his kids weren't listening.
"He's out," he says simply. "Pulled over in Pawnee and picked up the supplies. He'll be here tomorrow night, at the latest."
The guys on screen are having a shoot-out now. Two bank robbers against the cops, stuck up in a shitty wooden cabin. They think they're winning when the cops finally drawback, but that's when the camera cuts to the back of the shack. There are at least a dozen more cops, all with their guns cocked and aimed. Someone fires and the sidekick drops dead, thick, gooey blood streaming down his face through the hole in his head. That ain't what blood looks like when you shoot someone. That isn't how a body looks, either. I really wish I wasn't sitting here, critiquing Hollywood and how bad their dead bodies are, all 'cause I'd seen the real thing. I wish my dad was still up in Big Mac. I wish he was the one dead in an alley. Even if it meant I couldn't close my eyes without seeing the body.
"An' I know that if you're still getting in her skirt when things get messy, you ain't gonna like what I have to do."
Yup, leave it to Dad. I fucked up, and he'll be the one to tidy the mess I've made. I know the competition will only grow when Dad gets what he wants. When the teens start bouncing between Darry and us, looking for anything to fill the hole they've rotted through their stomachs. The game's over and Dad's won. He knows it, too, as his grip finally falters and is replaced with a smack to the back of the head.
"They've been through enough, don't you think? Don't make those boys bury their sister, too."