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The first day of school is actually one of my favorite days of the year. School itself is fine and all, but what I really like is the buzz that surrounds the campus that first day. It's a fresh start. You get to see your friends, compare schedules, and establish a routine for yourself. I like having a routine. It makes me feel more certain about what I'm doing; I'm not an impulsive person. So, I was looking forward to it.

Well.

Sort of.

As my father had pointed out, I wouldn't know anybody, so I had no one to visit with. No one to compare schedules with, no one to sit with at lunch. I had only met one person, but he had already established, without saying much at all, that he wasn't too interested in getting to know me, so he was out of the picture. At least in New York I had my small little group of friends – girls who were the kids of fellow NYU faculty, girls I knew from summer camp and various dance and etiquette classes we had been forced to take over the years, girls from the choir – but here in Tulsa, I had no one on that first day. Which, yes, was my fault. Partially. Again – it's not like anyone came over to introduce themselves.

But it's not like I did, either.

I decided I needed to preoccupy myself with something, so – naturally – I obsessed over what I would wear. How I did my hair. If I could get away with wearing some makeup without my father flipping out. I wanted to look good because goddammit, I needed to make some friends. And people are superficial. I'm superficial. At least a little bit. I like to think I'm not, but I know that I am.

As I analyzed myself in my bedroom mirror on the morning of the first day of school, I decided that I had done the best I could to look presentable. If we're being completely honest, the only thing that ever truly annoys me about how I look is my hair; it gets frizzy sometimes because it's real curly. Annoyingly curly. Terribly curly. And I'm just no good at hair – the best I can do is pin it back.

My father and I were silent on the drive to school. There was plenty to talk about, but I wasn't exactly wanting to engage myself in any sort of conversation. I was pretty absorbed in my schedule, anyway. All of the new students had gone in last week to set their schedules, and I was disappointed to discover that the choir was full for the semester and I wouldn't be able to sign up for it until the spring. Instead, I got stuck fulfilling a fine arts credit first period, which I secretly thought was a stupid requirement. I like art and all, love going to museums and galleries (largely because that's what Dad would do with me on his days off), but I wasn't about to make an idiot of myself with my poor art skills. Unfortunately, the Will Rogers curriculum didn't care what I thought – I had to fulfill the credit.

Besides that, there was the usual lineup of juniors across the country: US history (Dad, of course, was especially excited about the US history, but that's a course every junior in high school in the entire United States has to take, but it's his thing, so I let him prattle on about it), pre-calc, chemistry, English literature, and study hall. I was able to get into a drama class last period, though. I had done a couple of plays over the years. Small roles. When we were still in New York, Dad used to take me to see plays all the time.

But there was no Great White Way in Tulsa.

When we pulled up to the front of the school, the first thing I noticed was that the sign out front was missing its W – looked like I would be going to Ill Rogers High School from then on. I felt my stomach sink. There were so many people, all in their groups, talking and laughing and making it look as though making any friends would be damn near impossible.

Will Rogers High School was a point of interest for me, and not just because it was my new school. It was a contradiction: a beautiful, Art Deco building sitting on perfectly manicured grass in the midst of this southwestern metropolis, and it was named after an old Vaudevillian. Dad said Will Rogers had been Oklahoma's Favorite Son. I just thought it funny that I came from the city of Rockefellers and Carnegies, but here everything was named after comedians and cowboys.

It was just different. That was all. Just different in the same way everything else in my life was different.

"We're here, Bridget," Dad announced, as if it weren't patently obvious. He had insisted on driving me to school for my first day, which was never something he did. He was either too busy or too lost in his own little world of stories and myths and civilizations and people long gone. When I was little, though, he and I would walk out of our townhouse and into the cool September morning hand-in-hand, and he would walk me to school. As I got a little older, he would walk with me just on the first day, minus the handholding. By the time I was in high school, he was usually already working in his study before leaving for his on-campus office, and I would just say goodbye to him at home.

I guess that morning was him trying to make it a little easier, feel like old times in a new place. I wasn't nearly as grateful for it at the time as I should have been.

"Yep."

My father looked out the window, following my gaze. He must be able to read my mind because he gave me one of those fatherly, sympathetic looks. "You're going to make friends, Bridget, and you're going to be just fine. I promise. Anyone would be lucky to know you."

I gave him an uncertain look. That was something all dads said. They all believed that their kid was just as smart, just as likable, and just as worthy as everybody else. Maybe even more so. I had learned through years of being surrounded by other people, seeing what they had achieved, that it might not be true.

That was something I feared: being completely average, regardless of what my father said. I gave him a small smile, though, trying to meet him halfway.

"Thanks, Daddy. I'll see you later, okay?"

And with that I got out of the car and walked towards the building, clutching my notebooks close to my chest. I heard Dad drive away, and I was left to stand staring up at the façade of Will Rogers High School, the butterflies in my stomach turning into bats.

xXx

The first thing I did that morning was get lost.

The building was huge – beautiful, almost strangely so for a public high school, but huge. I hadn't gotten the chance to walk around and explore it when I had come in for scheduling, and so I ended up feeling disoriented. To make matters worse, the halls seemed overcrowded with all the various cliques and groups, and none of them seemed to be in a rush to get to class. I went ignored by all of them, but the only thing worse than getting ignored would have been being noticed, so I took it as a small mercy. There were groups of boys in lettermens and leather, girls in short skirts and shift dresses. I had gone with my usual stockings and school dress, saddle shoes click-clacking against the marbled tile.

I had no idea where the art classes were, so I wandered through the halls, not having any idea of where I was going, recognizing I probably looked quite the sight. At the sound of the warning bell I started to panic, and I decided I should probably just ask where I needed to go. I tapped the nearest person to me on the shoulder, a big guy in a blue and yellow letterman jacket. I wondered to myself why he would bother wearing it in this heat but thought better than to ask.

"Uh, would you mind telling me where this is?" I asked, pointing to my first period class on my schedule. He looked closely at me first, like he was examining me, then gave a short nod. Almost like he was saying to himself that he had deemed me worthy of an answer.

"That's downstairs in room thirteen. Better get moving," he said. I quickly thanked him and made my way through the mass of people and downstairs to room thirteen.

Room thirteen was definitely an art room, and I was definitely the last person there. My seat was the only one that still needed filling. The teacher, Ms. Marvin, was nice about it though, pointing out to me where my seat was even though it was pretty obvious. I was still somewhat embarrassed, but at least people stopped looking at me once I sat down.

Almost.

The boy sitting next to me kept glancing at me during the morning announcements coming over the tinny PA and as the teacher began to discuss what the class would be like. I don't know why, but he looked at me like I was the one putting him in an awkward position. How I do not know, but you'd swear I was doing something to him with the looks he was giving me.

Making friends was looking like it would be harder than I thought, but what else was new?

Our first assignment that day was to make nametags for Ms. Marvin to use for the first couple weeks of school. She passed around thick drawing paper and drawing pencils while she gave us instructions.

"Your first name will work just fine. I also want to see if you can integrate any of the elements of art into your drawing. If you don't know what those are, the definitions are posted around the room. As a final note, I encourage you to speak with the person you're sitting with – you'll be sitting next to each other for the rest of the semester, so you might as well get used to it."

There were a few groans, but Ms. Marvin didn't bother with any reprimands. As I looked around, I noticed that none of the tables had a boy sitting next to a boy or a girl sitting next to a girl. We were all mixed up. Maybe that's why the kid next to me looked so uncomfortable. In truth, it was making me a bit uncomfortable, too – at least I would have something to talk about with another girl. No boy wanted to talk about the things girls talked about. They either dismissed it as stupid or went straight in on the embarrassing remarks. Or ignoring you – that had been my experience.

I looked down at my paper and picked up my pencil and got to work. I was no artist, but I made it look as nice as I could. I was pretty proud of it actually, and when I finished, I looked over at my neighbor, hoping that maybe he would want to talk. I was mulling over various conversation topics in my head, going as far back as my days in etiquette classes, when something caught my eye:

His nametag.

It read Ponyboy.

I almost laughed, but then I remembered Sodapop. He had a strange name, too. It just seemed to be the thing to do down here, but I thought Ponyboy was a little on the nose when it came to the whole cowboy thing.

"Your name is…Ponyboy?" I asked, and he seemed to startle at the sound of my voice before looking up from his drawing, which was about ten times better than mine.

"Yeah. That's my real name, too," he said, sounding defensive. I decided I should probably overlook his tone if I didn't want the conversation to start running away from me. He leaned over and looked at my nametag, looking nervous about it, like maybe he was crossing some sort of line with me. "And I guess you're Bridget, then."

I nodded, grinning at him, trying too hard to appear friendly and approachable. "That'd be me," I grinned. I pointed to his nametag. "You're a good artist," I told him, and his ears turned pink.

"Thanks," he mumbled, ducking his head.

I could tell he probably wanted to leave the conversation there, but I was desperate. Dad had been right, I grudgingly admitted to myself – I should have introduced myself around the neighborhood before school started because I felt like I was scrambling for any sort of human connection. "So, uh, what do you have after this?" I asked, falling back on the easy subject of school and classes.

Ponyboy furrowed his brow slightly and reached over to his notebook and pulled out his schedule. He laid it out between the two of us. "I have algebra next. You taking that too?" He asked. I shook my head.

"No. I took that my freshman year. I have pre-calculus. But I have US history next."

Ponyboy made a little O shape with his mouth and slowly nodded, like everything suddenly made sense. "I guess you're not a freshman, huh?" He asked. I nodded. "Well. Okay, then." He pursed his lips before speaking again. "So, uh…I don't think I've ever seen you before."

Uh-oh. This was the part of the whole meeting people thing that I was least looking forward to. The whole talking about where I came from, why I came here thing. Maybe it was because I'd have to do it several times, or maybe it was because I didn't really want to acknowledge the fact that I was actually in Tulsa and not in Manhattan.

It was just a constant reminder that I was in a place that didn't really feel like home to me.

"I moved from New York City this summer," I told him, trying to keep my voice neutral, like it was no big deal. "That's why you haven't seen me before."

And that was it. That was the first time. And that's when it sunk in for me, too: I wasn't going back to New York. I simply wasn't, it wasn't in the cards for me. I tried to convince myself that it would be okay, but the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. So I shut my mouth, the only other time I spoke being to ask Ms. Marvin where my next class was.

xXx

Remember how I said that before I started talking about Two-Bit Mathews, I had to first talk about how I met him? And it's important that you know how it happened, not just that it did, in fact, happen. Context is absolutely key when it comes to whatever the hell it is he and I have.

This is how it happened.

Here's the thing about history: I grew up surrounded by it. (I mean, we all do, but you get what I'm saying.) My bedtime stories were Greek myths. My friends were the daughters of other history department faculty. It was just a part of my life, the same way my mother being gone was also a part of it. There were things about it that interested me, and things that didn't. My father could go on at length about a plethora of historical figures and eras, and since it was just the two of us, I was often his only audience for his musings. And he was always more than happy to help me with my homework in the subject.

Needless to say, I was looking forward to a fairly easy class.

But that was before Two-Bit Mathews walked through the door.

I was able to find my second period history class with the help of Ms. Marvin's directions, and got there well before the bell rang, much to my relief. I had felt so on-display as I had entered into my first period class after everyone else, even though the teacher hadn't minded and had greeted me with a smile. My history teacher, Mr. James, simply looked at me and pointed to an open seat and left it at that.

I ended up sitting next to a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that couldn't seem to stop smiling. "I'm Missy Redar," she greeted.

"Bridget Stevens," I said.

Missy cocked her head and studied me carefully. "New here?" She asked, and I bit back on a sigh and tried not to roll my eyes.

"How could you tell?" I deadpanned.

"It's in how you talk. Where're you from?"

"New York."

"Upstate, or…?"

"Manhattan."

Well, that just absolutely sent her over the edge. Her smile got even bigger, if that was even possible, and it looked as though her face just might split in half. "That's boss!" She nearly squealed. "Hey, why don't you come sit with me and my friends at lunch, so you could tell us what it's like there. I mean, I've always wanted to go there."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. That was fast. It could really be that easy? That's when it occurred to me that having lived in New York could play to my advantage; I had come from somewhere, someplace everyone knew about. Even though I was stuck here now, too, I was from a place that everyone recognized and saw in movies and read about in books.

"Alright," I said, still a bit reluctant. "I guess I'll see you at lunch, then." Missy looked positively pleased.

And then it happened.

He was wearing a flannel and white tee over Levi's, cowboy boots, and sunglasses. When he walked in, he pushed the dark shades up so that they pulled back his hair, which was longer than most boys wore it. He looked slightly nauseated as his eyes scanned the room for a seat. For a moment, he looked right at me, making my breath catch, and then he moved to sit directly behind me. He shook hands with the mean-looking boy next to him and I heard his voice for the first time.

"What's with the shades?" The other boy asked.

"Hangover from Hell. Remind me to tell you about last night later on – got fucked right up the ass."

The two of them laughed, but Missy shot me a wide-eyed look and I felt myself blush. I sort of felt like laughing at what he had said, too, but more out of shock than anything else. I had never been around anybody who talked like that, let alone in school as we sat waiting for the bell to ring. Missy turned in her seat and smiled at the guy with the hangover.

"Have a nice summer, Two-Bit?" What the hell.Did everybody in this town have a stupid name?

"Oh, just the best," he drawled. "Miss me?"

"You wish," Missy said, flicking her hair behind her shoulder and turning back around. She smiled at me and nudged me in the side. "That's Two-Bit Mathews," she whispered. "He's a handful."

"And that's putting it mildly," Two-Bit said. I hadn't turned around to look at him, but I swore I could feel his eyes on the back of my head.

As the bell rang and class began, Two-Bit Mathews and his little friend – Jimmy Hopper, I would later learn – sat behind me and Missy snapping their gum and flicking paper footballs. Mr. James was too caught up in going over what to expect to notice them goofing off, but I was trying to pay attention to what he was saying, so I kept turning around and glaring every couple of minutes or so. Missy didn't even bother, so I assumed she was just used to their antics, but I wasn't in the mood to deal with a couple of rude boys who thought they were the funniest damn people on the planet. Jimmy would look away and act like he hadn't been doing anything, but Two-Bit would just smile.

Every goddamn time I turned my head around, he grinned at me. A big, shit-eating grin that I couldn't stand. And then I would turn back around, try to read back over whatever Mr. James had passed out to us, and they would be back at it. And then I would turn around. And Two-Bit Mathews would smile. It was a vicious cycle.

"Would you stop?" I hissed at him at one point, hoping Mr. James wouldn't hear us. I figured I was pretty safe, sitting in the middle of the classroom, but you should never underestimate a teacher's abilities, especially when it comes to their ears.

I know this from personal experience.

"Stop what?" He asked, acting all innocent. I rolled my eyes.

"Being a nuisance," I said. He just smiled.

"I'm afraid that answer's a bit too vague for my liking. When you have a better one, I'd be more than happy to listen."

I stared at him, jaw slack. Who gave him the right to be a pain in my ass?

"How about you at least stop smiling at me every time I turn around?"

Two-Bit shook his head. "How about you just stop turning around?"

Mr. James got through his first day spiel and let us have the last five minutes to talk amongst ourselves. I was going to take the time to try to get to know Missy a little better before seeing her again at lunch, but before I could even open my mouth, I heard a loud scraping of metal against the floor, and Two-Bit Mathews was in front of me, sitting backwards in his chair and staring me down.

He needed to shave his sideburns.

"So. Who's your friend, Missy?" he asked her, but he was looking right at me.

"This is Bridget Stevens, Two-Bit," she said coolly. "She's new to town."

"You don't say," he drawled. Jimmy Hopper snickered behind us, and I wondered what in the world could be so funny. "See, I spent darn near the entire class period tryin' to place you, and it was just buggin' the shit outta me, but you bein' new explains it."

I didn't know what to say. Truth be told, I was wishing he would just leave us – me – alone, but it became clear after a few moments that he wasn't going to do that until I said something. "I would say so, yes."

His mouth twitched. "Well, then. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miz Stevens."

"I wish I could say the same."

Missy stifled a laugh, and Two-Bit kept on looking at me like I was already, somehow, the thorn in his side.

xXx

Lunch couldn't have come soon enough. Only half a day had gone by, and I already felt ready to sleep for a week. Missy met me outside the cafeteria with that same ever-present smile and led me over to her group's usual table and introduced me to her friends. There were four of them, two on each side of the table: Cherry Valance, Marcia Powell, Vickie Harper, and Penny Simpson. All juniors, like me and Missy. I sat down next to Vickie, who was sitting next to Marcia, and Missy sat next to Cherry, who was sitting next to Penny, completing the flank around either girl.

"Bridget just moved here from Manhattan," Missy said, like it was some big, juicy secret. Marcia and Penny looked impressed. Vickie raised an eyebrow but looked otherwise indifferent. Cherry...well, Cherry looked like she was thinking really hard. "We started talkin' in history," Missy continued. "Unfortunately, we've got Jimmy Hopper and Two-Bit Mathews sittin' behind us."

Vickie shook her head. "That boy is a piece of work."

Marcia slid her eyes over to her, looking like she was trying hard to fight off a smile. "I seem to remember him bein' half in love with you not so long ago."

"And you love any boy who'll give you a minute of attention," Cherry said, smothering a laugh by sipping on her Coke. Vickie scowled.

"Shut up," she snapped. "Like I would ever give him the time of day." I wasn't quite sure which boy they were talking about, but I figured I probably shouldn't ask. Cherry just held up her hands in surrender. Then Vickie turned her attention to me. "But enough about him. What about you, Bridget?"

There was suddenly five sets of eyes turned on me, and I instinctively shrunk in on myself a bit. I started nervously twisting the stem of my apple. "What about me?"

"I dunno," Cherry shrugged. "Why'd you move here?"

"What classes are you taking?" Penny asked.

"What do you think of it here so far?" Missy asked.

"Do you like it, ya think?" Marcia asked.

Vickie just watched me expectantly. I was already getting the impression that she was in charge around here – or, at least in charge at this table. "Um," I began, "well, we moved here because my dad got a new job teaching at Oklahoma State, but he thought we would like living here better than in Stillwater."

"He was right about that," Marcia interjected. "There's nothing out in Stillwater."

"Right," I said, even though I didn't know that for myself. I had only gone out there the one time to see the campus and help Dad move into his new office. "And I'm taking all the same classes you guys probably are. I was going to sign up for choir, but they're full this semester, so I'm just taking art in the meantime. And…"

I thought about whether or not I liked it here. Had I been here long enough to know?

"And…what?" Vickie nudged.

"And…" I shrugged. "I guess I'm not sure what I think of it here yet. It's fine," I decided on saying. "It's different. You guys are pretty much the first people I've really talked to."

All ten eyes widened. "No kidding," Penny said, putting a hand to her cheek.

Vickie shot her a look and then smiled at me with her pearly whites. "Well, don't worry, Bridget. We're going to get you socialized." I noticed Cherry rolling her eyes behind Vickie's back, and whisper something to Missy behind her hand. "You'll be sure to sit with us again tomorrow, right?"

I was in no position to turn them down.

xXx

"Bridget?"

I looked up from my food. My father was staring at me from across the table. We had a formal dining room that was even bigger than our dining room back in the New York townhouse, but since there was just the two of us, we never ate in the dining room unless we were having company over. We usually just ate at the kitchen table. "Yeah, Daddy?"

"I said that the painters are coming on Saturday, and I need to know what color you'd like for them to paint your room."

Pink. No question. I know it might seem like a cliché, but it was and is my favorite color. As long as I could remember, I loved pink. Any shade, on anything, in any design or pattern for my entire life. So, I told him I wanted my bedroom pink, and he didn't look a bit surprised.

"How was your first day?" He asked, changing subjects. I shrugged.

"Fine," I answered. "Pretty typical." My father nodded.

"Did you make any friends?"

Ugh. What an awkward question. I wished he would stop asking it; it should be a simple question with a simple answer, but that answer wasn't always a simple yes or no. "I guess so," I said. "I mean, I met some nice girls. Sat with them at lunch, and they invited me back tomorrow."

That seemed to satisfy him, and he stopped talking. That's how we were, I guess. The two of us didn't always talk a whole lot. Our dinners were usually quiet like this, and I was used to it, the quiet.

After dinner, Dad went to his study to work and I carefully made my way up the stairs to my bedroom. I had nearly slipped about a hundred times already going up and down the slick wooden staircase and was worried about the day I inevitably bit it and tumbled down them, landing in a heap at the bottom. But today was not that day, and I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

I set my clothes for the next school day out and changed for bed. As I rubbed lotion into my hands, I stepped out onto my porch, and decided that the porch and the sounds of the crickets and the occasional sparkle from the lightning bugs in the nighttime summer sky were my favorite thing about Tulsa so far.

And that my least favorite thing was obnoxious boys with too-long sideburns.

AN: Thanks for reading!