"YOU DON'T FUCK WITH GREASERS."
Even several blocks away, the sour stench of beer, smoke, and her perfume still cling to me. My hands tug as the sleeve of my jacket methodically as my feet thump against the cracks in the cement. The sun has finally begun its descent below the horizon, its last few dying rays paint the sky in long strokes of red, orange, and pink. Thick shadows are cast over the neighbourhood, thanks to the dark clouds moving past. The wind pushing through the bare branches of the trees I pass isn't that cold or bitter, in comparison to what I'm feeling, it's like it wasn't there at all.
I hated not knowing. I'd been that way for years. I hated being left out of the loop, only to discover the important pieces far too late. And as of right now, that's all I seemed to be doing. I really didn't expect Marley to react the way she did. What I'd done was really fucking shitty, the kind of thing I'd kill a guy over if he did it to Angela, and I know that. Marley had come to my house because she didn't know where else to go. We'd done things both our families would've never approved of, even if it felt right. And then I told her I used her. That she was nothing more than a girl I'd used to get my dick wet and my chemistry grade up. I could be a good liar when I wanted to be, and I really did hate it under circumstances like these. My mind was still reeling, mostly with my sister's words, and how Marley didn't deny it.
I liked to think I wasn't an asshole to most girls - not as bad as Dally, anyway. I made my intentions clear from the get-go and left once I got what I wanted. That worked out for a couple girls I'd been with who'd after that night, pretend it never happened and we'd move on with our lives. For one or two girls, that didn't blow over too well, and I'd have to avoid their brothers, or cousins, or fathers every time I stepped outside. But never had a girl turned to dealing drugs as a way to get back at me.
Maybe I'd have thought about it a little differently if Marley was just making out with a guy behind the drugstore. Sure, I'd jump him regardless, but it wouldn't make my stomach coil if it was a kid our age rather than an eighteen-year-old blackmailing her. I was chewing on my lip as I walked, eyes darting around the neighbourhood as I looked for my target. I didn't have to walk much further after that, the plumes of smoke curling up to the sky from the back of the house mixed with her high-pitched laughter. I knew better than to get for her front door, and I certainly wasn't about to open her gate and let everyone within a ten-mine radius know what I was doing. So, I opted to climb over it instead and hit the dying grass in her backyard softly as I began to creep around to her window.
I didn't have that many friends in Tulsa at the moment. Pat was still pissed at me, and everyone else I would've gone to hated me for the same reason. Marley Curtis was a difficult girl to hate, and I was a difficult guy to like. Curly and his cronies woulda helped me out if I was in a pinch, but it's Curly and his friends. If I'm ever that desperate, just shoot me. Her voice was getting louder now as I made my way around the side of her house, silently praying I wasn't about to put my trust in the wrong person.
Yes, Sylvia Jones hated me with every fibre of her being and would kill me unprovoked, but I knew she'd hate some guy using Marley just as much as I did. Cheap grass burned in the evening air as I rounded the corner, her legs dangled down over her windowsill and hanging above the ground below. I can already tell this is going to end poorly, especially when there's a guy already leaning against the house beside her.
"I see what you're doin'," Dally chuckles. His eyes glow as bright as the burning edge of the blunt between his teeth, the smoke makes his gaze hazy for a second before it finally vanishes. All it does is make him look more livid. As try as he might though, it's nothing compared to the look Syl's sending me now. "-You stop by the bar an' try to get with Marley again, and when she tells you to fuck off, you come over here."
I don't even have the time to tell Dal how wrong he is before Sylvia's bare feet hit the ground with a subtle thump. Her perfume and hairspray are my first attackers, each being strong enough to burn the back of my throat before she can sink her nails into the front of my t-shirt. Now that I'm looking at her, I can tell where Marley got that blouse. Syl's is a dark blue and barely buttoned up at this point, but my eyes are too focused on Dally - laughing - for them to travel down any further. "You son of a bitch," she hisses through her red lips. I can only imagine the things she and Dally had done before I came along, dragging my failures with me. I really don't have to think that hard, either, not when her lipstick's smeared on Dally's neck and her bra's on proud display. Her fists curl tighter around my shirt - probably because I've missed half of her rant - as Sylvia teeters on her toes to come as close to eye-level with me as she can manage. "Don't you think Marley's been through enough the past few months? The fuck is wrong with you, Tim? Just leave her alone!" She raises her hand to slap me, but Dal's hands snake around her waist and rip her away before she gets the chance.
Sylvia's batshit insane. Which is why I fully believe she'd be the only one willing to help me. "I know you're pissed at me," I say slowly, as if I was confronting one of the raccoons tearing up our garbage at four in the morning rather than one of my casual hook-ups. "You can be pissed at me all you fuckin' want, Syl, 'cause I deserve it-"
"The only thing you deserve," Sylvia spits breathlessly, "is to have your dick cut off and shoved so far down your throat-" At this point, I really can't remember why I decided Sylvia was my best option and closest ally. However, Dally surprises me by giving the girl in his arms a quick shake. "Let him get a fuckin' word out, then decide if you wanna castrate him in your backyard, alright?" All five feet and six inches of her are sharing in absolute fury, her cheeks nearly as red as her lipstick. Her dark eyes are burning with a fire that could rival the flames of Hell as her lips twist into a snarl. "Spit it out."
I cross my arms over my chest in a stupid attempt to look tuff. My hands have been shaking for a while now, I've managed to convince myself it's all because it's been too long since my last smoke. It's one of my worst lies yet, especially since I know the very smell of burning tobacco's been making my stomach twitch worse than a rabbit in a snare for the last or two. "Y'all remember Bobby Smith, right? The pharmacist?" If we can even call him that. Sylvia nods stiffly, still fighting against her boyfriend's hold, but with less of a murderous glow in her eyes. When she nods stiffly, I continue. "He blackmailed her. Pony's sick or something, he said he'd give her the medication if she made out with him." Sylvia can think all she wants about me. That I used her best friend and didn't give a damn about her, but Sylvia didn't need to know about the things Marley'd done to keep her family afloat. Dallas's voice cuts through the silence, quiet and smooth, like the smoke forming at the butt of his joint.
"An' what's that gotta do with us, Shepard?"
"I was thinkin' we show him why Socs don't fuck with greasers."
The four eyes trained on me are alive with an animalistic gleam. They really are perfect for each other, the fucking psychos.
Sylvia slams Dally's hands off of her waist before rubbing her hands together and running her tongue over her teeth. "Daddy's still got some golf clubs in the garage."
I get back home at half-past ten, high off adrenaline and whatever we could find lining the shelves of Smith and Son's. I reek of the cheap grass Dally stole from Buck's dresser, the sour smell is practically fused to my skin, at this point. The back of my hands are scarred and bloody since you can only clear away so much broken glass with a golf club, but I'd found enough bandages there to clean myself up.
The house was dead silent when I stepped inside. Pretty dark, too, except for the soft yellow glow coming from the kitchen. Our lights were the only soft thing about our house since no one bothered to switch out the lightbulbs until they fizzled out with a sudden pop. I'll go ahead and blame the lack of light for the reason I didn't notice my mother - unconscious - and slumped over on our sofa when Dad pushed her head off his shoulder and left her to lean to the side. I'll blame the lack of light and say it was the reason I didn't recognize the dried blood on the back of his knuckles, too. "Where've you been, Tim? Ain't like you to come home this late."
I guess I can't blame me being a total fucking dumbass on the dark though, can I?
"You don't know a fucking thing about me," I scoff. The only reason it's "not like me to come home this late" is because, for the last five years, someone had to make sure Ang and Curls were ready for school in the morning, that they were fed, that their clothes were clean. And it sure as shit wasn't about to be our mother to do all of that. Oh yeah, and I was ten the last time he'd really been around. "I can come home whenever I damn well please-"I ain't even testing the waters anymore, the fact only becomes obvious when Dad chuckles and take a few quick steps towards me, just enough for his silhouette to cast an ominous shadow over the floor.
"Now who the hell do you think you're talkin' to?" Dad asks. The edge in his voice tells me the question's rhetorical, same with the dry, hacking cough that follows. With each cough, I can feel the blood behind my eyes pulsing. Like a migraine starting to form, or a blood vessel ready to burst. I really can't tell what it is, except for the fact that it's driving me insane. It's only amplified when Dad takes a staggering step forward and plants one of his hands on my shoulder, the one still damp with spit and whatever else had passed his lips. "Think you can talk like you're the man of the house now, huh? After everything I've done for your ungrateful little-"
I'm pretty sure pouring a jerry can of gasoline on a bonfire would've done less damage than what I was about to do, but who really cares? At this point, I was still riding the high of breaking into a pharmacy with Dally and Sylvia, all for Marley motherfucking Curtis. Did I think that through? Of course not. Was I willing to own up to my mistakes when they inevitably come back and kick my ass? Not at all. So, I might as well haul off at the guy who'd manage to destroy five years of mediocrity and replace it with complete bullshit in the span of two fucking months.
"An' who do you think you are, walkin' into my fucking house like I have something to be grateful for? Should I be glad that after five years, you've finally shown up again, this time dragging me down the same fucking rabbit hole that got you locked up in the first place?" I slap his hand off my shoulder and roll my eyes, never once letting them lock with my father's. I've stared at myself in the mirror a million times - usually in the dead of night, like right now, when I still thought that enough cold water could erase Donna's body from the back of my eyelids. When I'd finally blink to clear my vision, though, it was always worse. Donna's body had faded, her blood was no longer coating my hands, and her final gurgled pleas weren't burning away in my mind. The worst part was when I tried drowning my sins in the cracked porcelain sink, only to have my father's eyes staring right back at me. Remember every irrelevant detail.
Her eyes were blue.
Like the fact that her eyes were blue and her hair was in blonde ringlets, her name tag was on her left side. She was Darry's girlfriend. She wasn't supposed to die.
His voice is a million miles away when he speaks, I can see the dark glow in his eyes when he leans over me and wraps his hands around the collar of my jacket, but I can't bring myself to do anything about it. Not when the loudest thing of all, is Donna still begging for me to put the gun away. The heat rolls off him in waves, from his hands and rancid breath, even from the blood pulsing through his veins in his hands. I can feel it all, even the sweat and blood that all mingled together on Donna's palm when she laid her hand over mine.
"Do you have any idea what I'm fucking capable of, boy?"
That's when I push away from him for the final time, already stumbling back and out of his grip before I have time to think. My headache is pounding as rapidly as my heart when my fingers reach behind me blindly for the banister. In front of me, Dad's gathered the little sanity he has left and shoved way back inside that fucked up little brain of his. I've said it once and I'll say it again, pumping a bullet in your dad's head when your seventeen can seriously screw you up, and no one was better proof than Frank Shepard.
That night, when I make my way to my bed and slump down onto my mattress, I don't fall asleep as easily as I'd hoped. My mind's still reeling with questions, like a machine just making more, and more, and more. Curly's already fast asleep, snoring away into the wall he's facing. I'll realize in the morning his snores sound so thick and nasally not because he's sick, but because he'd come home a few minutes past the curfew Dad never mentioned he had. I'll realize tomorrow morning at the table, when his broad fist is wrapped around a coffee mug, whose blood is staining the back of his knuckles.
And in one week, I'll realize just how powerful you feel when you have the barrel of a gun pointed against the back of your father's head.