" BUT MARLEY WAS NO MORE A JD THAN I WAS A SAINT."

There's something kinda surreal about barreling down the highway in the middle of August, while every bump in the road sends me bouncing around in the backseat like some week-old takeout from the last time George got paid to stalk a couple of kids. The sun's beating down through the window, real bright and angry, like George's face when I point out the leftover donut under his chin - chins It's turning the car into a sauna, so hot I can't even lean forward and grab at the bars separating me and George without risking third-degree burns. At this point in time though, I was willin' to risk it. A guy can only listen to the fucking Browns for so long. Judging by the quick flash of green to my right, with Tulsa; 20 Miles painted on its surface, I really shouldn't have to suffer in silence much longer.

I throw myself back against the leather upholstery, ignoring the way it clings to the back of my shirt like a second skin. It ain't even my shirt, so I think that's why everything's so baggy. The food in reform isn't the best, either, but I doubt it made me drop ten pounds in eight months thanks to malnutrition. They take everything from you when you get there, even cut your hair real short, too. It grew back twice as quick every time it was cut short though, and it ain't like the nurses are about to come at me with a pair of scissors when security is too busy to hold my hands back.

I don't mind the nurses that much - especially the younger ones. Not like that, it\s just because they're all too nice to be real bitchy 'bout the fact we're all 'unstable teen boys.' They're kinda scared of us too, at least of me, I think. Hitting a girl's a line I really ain't itching to cross, but they don't know that. Guess it's just the Shepard rep working its charm again. I know I wouldn't pull anything with those girls, but I guess I couldn't say the same for the rest of the guys I got roped up with.

"Nancy told you to stop rubbin' it."

It's been eight months, but the skin still doesn't feel like mine. All gnarled and nasty, I can end up picking at the flesh that's tried its hardest to heal and not feel a damn thing. Nancy was one of the nurses in the reform, with real dark hair almost down to the small of her back and brown eyes to match. Besides being in the yard, class, or my 'room', I ended up spending a lot of time stuck on a cot while she poked and prodded away. I stare through the bars and catch George's eyes in the mirror. He doesn't look away until I drop my hand back to the seat, letting my nails scratch up his seats when the itching starts again. "Well maybe if you sped up I could do somethin' 'bout it," I grumble. I hear him scoff, low enough it could pass for just another bass note from Patti Page's Tennessee Waltz, but I hear it. "Christ, you're a fuckin' cop. No one's gonna snitch if you're goin' a mile over the limit."

"You could always walk, Shepard. Lord knows enough hitchers end up ditches, think anyone would miss you if you did?"

His words make something coil up inside me like the time Pony was wailing on our door last year after Curls fell from the phone pole. It hits the back of my throat like the stench of gasoline, sharp and bitter. It's a little like gunpowder, too. It took a long time to get the stink of gunpowder off of me. Outta my hair, off of my skin and shit like that. Everything stunk that first week, like stale beer and too-cheap-to-be-good cologne. Apparently, no one else was smelling smoke curling through the air and rotting wood either. "You good back there, Tim? Lemme turn up the AC."

I can still smell it at the forefront of my mind. I can feel the smooth metal trigger pushed against my finger, can still feel the rifle balancing precariously in my grip. I try telling myself I'm just rocking 'cause George can't drive for shit, dig my nails a little further into the seat, none of it works that well though. God, it's thick enough to taste now, coating my tongue and the back of my throat ready to suffocate me. "Ah, fuck-"

Squealing tires don't help my blinding headache now, either. My shoulder crashes against the door to my right side as we screech to a sudden halt, but I don't bother opening my eyes. It's too hot in here, too loud. Smells too much like beer and gunpowder, with Marley's hairspray all tangled in the mix, just to fucking tease me.

"Hey, kid, I'm talking to you, you little shit-"

I can only imagine how much core strength must be involved for a guy the size of George to look over his shoulder to stare at me like a freakshow behind the bars like I'm on the front page of The National Enquirer. My laugh comes out too shaky to sound genuine, but I really don't care at this point. I just wanna get outta here and head home. "C-can you change the station?" I ask with as much bite as I can muster. George doesn't seem to buy it, with his brows still furrowed into one solid line above his eyes while the air huffing out of his nose ruffles the grey hairs above his top lip. "I ain't a real fan of The Four Seasons."

I pull my eyes open when I hear him huff again and feel the car creak. We're pulled over into the ditch, with tall, unkempt prairie grass stretching up to brush against our windows. There's a chilled breeze creeping through the car now following the sudden click of a button. "Walk Like A Man" disappears immediately and is replaced by the familiar twang of a guitar and accompanied by a low bass note here and there. George's got his hand pressed up against the bar now that my eyes are straining back into focus, with a tiny pink pill in the middle of his palm. "Tryna kill me so you can dump my body here?"

He chuckled for a second before shaking his head. If the words running rampant through my mind were anything but "he's gonna kill Darry," "Marley's choking," and "pull the trigger," I might have said something about the way the fat under his chin wobbled; like a turkey's. "It's just aspirin kid, my job's to keep kids like you outta ditches."

I take the pill from him, accidentally dragging the back of my hand across the iron-hot bars. I pop into my mouth as soon as I can and collapse backwards into my seat again, keeping my gaze plastered on the brazen sky. My head rocks against the window as we pull back onto the road, the loud rumble - plus the feeling of the itch and sting subsiding are almost comforting. Well, until George opened his mouth and wasted his energy on asking questions instead of scarfing down a few more doughnuts. "Where'd you get that scar, huh? Curtis Junior finally lay you out after he caught you get cozy with his sister?"

I can feel my skin ripple as my lips curve into a sneer. He's got his eyes stuck on the road now, which I guess kinda works in my favour. It's been close to two hours in the back of his fucking car and I was really starting to hate it. "Got in a fight," I growl. "He cheated, used a broken bottle 'stead of just hitting me. Fuckin' pussy."

Sure, I was pissed he'd come back into my life just to fuck everything up for me, but I hated the fact that it took him so long to do it, too. I know a lotta kids from the neighbourhood don't walk on eggshells at home - not when they don't have anyone to watch out for. I'd spent months bending over backwards for that slimy sonuvabitch, still waiting for the inevitable club on the back of the neck or right hook when I gave the wrong answer. And when it finally came to a close, he didn't even have the balls to actually hit me? How the fuck does that work? I only speak again when I feel blood coat my tongue and almost spit the metallic taste to the floor. "I won though. He didn't stand a chance."

He's watching me through the rearview mirror again, nothing but beady eyes and dark, bushy hair. George doesn't say anything before turning his eyes back to the road and letting my head loll against the window. Johnny Cash really wouldn't be my first choice, but I was already pushing my luck with everything else I'd made this guy do for me. The phantom gunpowder finally clears once we pass a sign. Tulsa; 5 Miles

"Hey Porter, Hey Porter

please get my bags for me

I need nobody to tell me now that we're in Tennessee

Go tell that engineer to make that lonesome whistle scream

We're not so far from home so take it easy on the steam."

It's just as hot outside, under the burning sun in the Curtis' front yard. It had taken a lot of convincing and awkward conversation (mostly just about the letter Mom wrote to me after a week of being locked up. It was this whole big deal, saying I was the reason Dad took off again and that I was single-handedly responsible for ruing her life. She's right, just not in the way that she thinks.) For a Friday afternoon in the middle of August, the house is looking a lot quieter than normal. My hands are dug into my pockets, rifling around with all the junk I'd had confiscated for eight months. I didn't have much in them, but it was still nice to feel the cool side of my switch tucked in my hand. George's got his window rolled down, one hand running back and forth under his nose thoughtfully. "Hey, Shepard."

I don't even bother glaring at him anymore, since he's kinda immune to it, I guess. I give him a quick glance over my shoulder and raise an eyebrow - just enough for him to know I was listening. I'm still stuck staring at her door, the white paint chipping away at the edges and the worn-out curtain over the window behind the screen door. The gate is still closed, which is kinda weird for them. Then again, I guess the whole year's been weird for them. From dead parents to dealing drugs, to their only guardian almost getting shot in the chest at point-blank range. And here I was, the son of Darry Curtis's attacker, trying to make amends after disappearing for eight months.

"These kids are good people, Tim."

I nod stiffly and find myself wondering how long I'd have to stand here before someone notices me. There's a good chance the door's still unlocked like it's always been, but am I really just about to walk in? "They're really good," I say instead. "A lot better than they should be, for kids so fucked up." The Curtis family has always been good; whether that meant taking in kinds that weren't theirs to raise, or packing an extra lunch for the kids whose parents forgot to restock the fridge. They all deserve a lot better than to be lumped in with the stupid, downtown hoods. They deserve a lot better than to have one of those downtown hoods worming his way inside their yard, but I can't stop myself as I drag my hand outta my pocket and drop it on top of the gate.

"You could really use some good people in your life."

That was not what I was expecting, 'specially coming from a guy who gets paid to chase my ass around town every time I fuck up. I really don't know what to believe when I turn to face him and see nothing but genuine concern. There was something in his eyes I couldn't make sense of - probably the lack of malice and disdain - that was throwing me off. I wasn't new to the ways of mental manipulation, but something about the way his gaze shifted between me and the door just didn't send off the right warning bells. "You ain't a bad kid when you don't wanna be," he huffs again. That's when the pressure builds in the pit of my stomach, slowly moving up until it's burning in my chest with a fire more intense than the summer heat. It isn't anger or rage, I can't feel it bubbling through my veins and making my fists clench. It's something else entirely, something akin to the feeling I felt when Ang brought home an essay she'd written, with a big, red, A scribbled in the corner.

Pride? Maybe.

"You dig alright, George. Still hate your guts, but you dig alright." I know better than to put my trust in a pig, but I wasn't about to withhold some mutual respect. I'm still gonna make his life hell the next time he has to track me down, though, don't you worry. "You're still gonna run the next time I gotta pick you up though, ain't that right?" Geroge asks as he settles back into his seat. I shrug, raising my right shoulder until it brushes against my ear. "Pretty sure it's the only thing keeping you in shape."

The rev of the engine works to drown out the string of curses falling from his lips, even if I'm sure he didn't really mean it. "Get your ass inside now, y'hear?' he scolds once the engine's goes quiet, "an' don't make me haul you off again, either. Now that Little Miss Curtis's got you back an' all-"

I wave him off with the back of my hand and turn back to the gate, listening to the tires squeal against the dark tar. There's only one thing separating me from walking up the path amid the tall grass, and it ain't the stupid gate under my palm. The Curtis family really had been through hell and back the past few months, and I really did find myself doubting they wanted another reminder of what they had faced. That's all I really was, a walking reminder - with one of his own carved into his cheek.

I know I should take the responsible route now that I'm damn near sixteen, but I'm always gonna be a hood at heart. A stupid, downtown thug with little consideration about how others may feel about his actions. Hell, at this point, I was beginning to think the S at the end of my name stood for selfish. But, really, what else should they expect? I just got outta reform. I flip the latch to the gate and watch it swing open before dragging my fingers through my hair. There really was no use in going back now.

She's the first thing I see when I step over the threshold. Damp curls hang against her bare shoulders, hiding the back of her bikini top from view. She's with Sodapop right now, spinning around in the living room and narrowly avoiding the television when he spins her around. None of them have noticed me yet as I stand there, leaning against the doorframe with my foot keeping the door propped open. Music is flooding from the radio, with guitar and drums and singing. Soon enough, Marley's voice joins along, just breathless laughter as Sodapop doesn't give her a second to catch her breath. "Well now, swing me, swing me, all the way- Soda!"

"What?" The brother asks loudly, "you said to spin you, so I spun y-" I swear that kid is staring into my fucking sou while I shake my head like a wet dog and raise a finger my lips. Sodapop Curtis has got a million and a half reasons to hate my guts, but the kid manages to keep his mouth shut before planting his arms firmly on his sister's sunkissed shoulders. "There's somethin' I wanna show you," he says quickly, "close your eyes an' don't turn around!" Soda's gone in an instant, disappearing into the kitchen and down the hall to their bedrooms. I can hear him sliding on their floor in his socks since the ratty pair of converse chucked behind the couch have got to be his. "Pone! Get the camera!"

Marley chitters to herself quietly as she picks at her nails, never once turning her eyes to anywhere but the doorway and the kitchen table behind it. I don't think she's about to be mad at me for sneaking up on her like this, maybe a bit annoyed, but not mad. I just gotta do this quick before the eldest Curtis can decide if I'd look better with my head on a spike, or used as a football. She's humming with the radio still - Richie Valens is the guy's name, died a couple years back in that plane crash over in Iowa. Not really my favourite type of music, but at least it wasn't the fucking Beatles. I wrap my hand around the doorknob behind me, careful to pull it completely closed without giving anything away. Marley doesn't turn, but she twists a piece of hair around her finger. Around and around again, like a record.

That's what her top reminds me of, now that I'm getting closer. Just black fabric, dotted with red and white, like the red in the middle of a vinyl. She's wearing dark shorts on the lower half, though they're pulled up so high the bottom seam barely hides her ass at this point. Guess Darrel wasn't home after all. It's still hot inside, but not hot enough to be walking around like this. Not that I'm complaining. Her skin's dotted with freckles, dark shadows painted over her skin like the stars she'd rambled on about for twenty minutes without a break back in November. You could see the stars real good in reform at night, a lot better than you could in Tulsa anyway. That was about the only thing that didn't suck about it. "Soda, if you don't hurry up!" I'm surprised she can't feel my breath on the back of her neck at this point now that less than two feet away.

Close enough to smell the hairspray she'd used, even if it's watered down with chlorine. Close enough to smell the cheap weed, potent enough to roll off her in waves stronger than an ocean tide. Seems pretty fucking accurate, I guess. I'm gone for eight months, come back, and my girlfriend's smoking dope with Sylvia Jones.

"You really should start lockin' your door, babe. Any ol' creep can just waltz right in, heard a kid shot his dad back in January-"

Too many things happen at once. Marley spins around, fast enough for her hair to slap me across the face, Soda and Pony run down the hall, a camera in hand and clicking ten times a second. Her chest rises and falls as she raises a hand to her mouth in shocked silence. Life would be so much more bearable if little brothers never developed the ability to talk, but I don't think God's in the mood to answer any of my prayers. Sodapop leans against his little brother, waving the thin slip of paper like a fan in front of his tanned face. "This one's a keeper," he says as he takes a quick glance at the image, "young love at its finest." They can call it whatever they want, but I know that picture will go down in history as "the day Tim got caught staring at Marley's tits."

She's staring at me now, eyes wide and shiny with something other than Sylvia's cheap grass. "You're back?" She asks me. It's all ready to keep your cool when the girl you like is standing in front of you in a little less than a bra while her brothers are watching - waiting to drag you out to the yard and beat the fear of God into you worse than any of our teachers' lessons. So, I clear my throat and pull at the loose, threadbare collar of Darry Curtis's t-shirt, and smile. "Yeah, you miss me?"

The camera flickers again when she shoves me.

"Six months! You told me you'd be back in six fucking months!"Marley goes on, yelling worse than Mrs. Rodriguez down the street when her husband comes home smelling like perfume she can't afford. "You said you'd be in-and-out while I stuck around here, waiting for eight goddamn months!" Each word is emphasized with a half-hearted push to my chest. I shoot my worst glare over her shoulder to Soda and Pony as they laugh - which works pretty well in shutting them up. I wait 'till Marley's out of breath and her cheeks have flushed back to a somewhat natural hue before my hands closed around her wrists. I could feel her pulse beating against my skin, stronger than the snare drum coming from the radio. It isn't until her forehead collapses against my chest that I hear her murmur, "'course I missed you, dipshit."

I'm a whole head taller than her now, which means she can fit under my chin without either of us straining. My arms wrap around her, settling on her waist and winding through her belt loops while I ignore the steely-eyed glare Sodapop's sending my way. "Been wearin' my jacket?" I ask into her hair. Her eyes turn up to meet mine then and there, green and grey all swirled together, like they could make a colour of their own. "You were serious about that?"

Ponyboy, the fucking dickhead, has enough nerve to snicker while Sodapop and him wrestle their shoes on and take towards the door. "Trouble in paradise already," he sighs fondly. The door is pushed open as another heatwave flows through the room. "Don't worry, Marls," Sodapop says, waving the two pictures in front of his eyes again, "I'm sure we can come up with some kind of negotiation, an' Darry'll never have to know...How's it go again, a picture's worth a thousand words?" Before vanishing into the street, he gives me one more nasty glare I didn't even know a kid like him was capable of. "Wonder how many words two pictures will be worth!"

Marley lets her eyes roll when the door finally slams shut and we're left alone. "You think it's too late for me to drop 'em off at the fire station with a note?"

Even though I should be just as annoyed as she was, Marley's brothers were the least of my worries. She's pushed away from me a bit, just enough that her arms are only slightly bent with her hands interlocked behind my neck. I can feel her eyes fixed on the scar - can see her eyes wander all over it, too. "What's all this about my jacket, huh? I left it here for a reason," I say suddenly. Her face goes red for a second as she rips her eyes from the ugly torn flesh stretching from my temple to chin. "I...I didn't know you meant it," she stammers uneasily. Summer's really brought her freckles out, they're more noticeable than they were the last time I'd seen her, anyway. She takes a quick breath when I brush my hand against her cheek, just light enough to push the hair from her eyes and feel goosebumps explode over her skin. "An' why'd you think I say something I didn't mean?"

I regret the words as soon as they tumble outta my mouth. I know damn well our relationship ain't exactly built on the foundations of honesty and trust, but Marley seems to be too far in her own mind to catch on to my stupid slip up. "You were hurt, Tim," she exclaimed quickly. "We'd just woken up an' then you were gettin' arrested an' I really didn't know if you meant anything you'd just said so I really thought that just forgetting about everything would make it go back to normal but-"

She has this tendency to talk with her hands a lot, 'specially when she was nervous. Unfortunately, with her hands behind my neck, that meant her fingers were twirling their way through my hair as she shifted her weight back and forth between her feet. And don't get me wrong, I liked her top - I really fucking liked it - but I'd been away for eight months. In reform. As you can imagine, there wasn't a ton of hot chicks there I had a chance with. I just had to be glad my scar wasn't acting up anymore, otherwise, that would be a whole other can of complicated emotions to describe. My hands are on either side of her face before I can stop myself, skin to skin. She's real warm, but not in an angry kinda way. It's comforting.

I don't remember a lot of things I did in the reform school, but I do remember sitting in -what was supposed to be - my English class, combing through Greek literature. That's the only reason they ended up in a prison for kids, not even the orphans wanted 'em. Having her this close is like a shock to the system, I can feel it running in my veins, making my heart pound faster than adrenaline could ever dream of. I can't help but feel like Icarus with his candle wax wings. He must have known he was falling from the very start, but he must have felt real warm, too.

"I want you to be my girlfriend, Marley.

She's got dimples, too. There shallow enough that you don't really notice them until you're up close, but even biting down on her lip to suppress her smile doesn't work half as well as she thought it would. "It's just a yes or no question, babe," I joke. I can feel her skin burning beneath my fingertips again as her eyes widen. "Y-yeah, that uh, I mean yes, yeah. Yes. I-I mean yes."

Well, now that she's my actual girlfriend, I guess I can be a bit of a dick. "You're cute when you're flustered," I mumble quietly before dragging my hands down her neck and her sides before finding her waist again. She rolls her eyes again before moving a bit closer, our lips less than an inch apart. Cherry lipgloss is my first guess once I move a little closer. It's strong enough to smell, even just a bit, just not enough to mask the sour stench of grass.

"You're cute when you kiss me."

Now, I may be a hood - an' a stupid one at that, but I ain't about to keep a lady waiting.

That's all I was really was. Some wanna-be gangster from the eastside, living in his daddy's shadow but too scared to admit it's all he'll ever become. I know that by this time tomorrow, the rumour mill will be in full swing over my homecoming and the jagged scar carved into my skin. If I'm lucky - and I rarely am - they'll know better than to bring up the bruises dotted across my neck like flowers. They're already forming, and Marley and I ain't even in her bedroom yet. She's got her hands on my belt and I'm working on the straps of her bikini, though.

Marley Curtis, on the other hand, she's a lot of things. Damn near the top of her science class, a good sister, and a good person. She really is a mix of her father and mother, with his hair, her skin, and eyes I'd never seen on anyone else besides her baby brother. Marley Curtis is a lot of things. She's letting my hands work up across her chest as I untangle the knot behind her neck, she's reaching for the hem of my t-shirt. She's smart and sarcastic, clever as the Devil and twice as pretty. Try as she might, but Marley was no more a JD than I was a saint, and I knew she'd never change.

I was right about her lipgloss, too.