1938

Already I miss the harsh feel of the city. Things seemed weird on the road; the lack of skyscrapers and people. I know this hick town won't be any different. No people. No skyscrapers. Most importantly, no Thomas. I sigh, "I still don't see why we had to leave."

"You don't? Really?" Micheal turns to look at me, not caring that he should keep his focus on the road. His voice is full of venom, and I have to remind myself that he's hurting too.

"I meant I don't see why we have to go to…" I pause, forgetting the name of the town we've left our life for. No matter how hard I wrack my brain, I can't find it; however I do know the state. "some backwater town in Oklahoma."

Oklahoma. We're going to Oklahoma. The only reason I know it's even a state was because it was mentioned in the one geography class I attended, and it was in some play on broadway. The least Micheal could've done was pick an interesting place to move, but no. I'm gonna get stuck living in Oklahoma.

"It's called Tulsa." He sighs, clearly tired of me. "It's where mom lives."

The last memory I have of my mother was of her crying and walking out the door. From what I've been told, she didn't very much like the life of crime my father liked to lead. Apparently, she liked the fancy clothes daddy gave her, just not the means in which he managed to obtain the money for those fancy clothes. Not that I can blame her, I didn't really like the fact that he was bootlegging either. Especially since it got him arrested, then killed.

I almost smile, "What's she going to think of our life of crime?"

It's a painful callback to three weeks ago, but it also involves some of our happier memories. My favorite memory of my brothers is still that time we robbed that pharmacy in Chelsea. Mainly because they took me out for ice cream afterwards.

"There is no life of crime. All that gets left behind." He spits some of his tobacco into the cup that was sitting on the floor by his feet. "Tulsa is going to be a fresh start."

I want to argue that it can't be a fresh start, not really. Especially since we're getting to this Tulsa by way of stolen car. I wonder what kind of message that sends, certainly not the one about us wanting a fresh start. I keep my mouth shut though, not really wanting to argue.

"And it means you're going to school. On a regular basis."

Any idea of me not wanting to argue goes out the window with my cigarette butt. "Nope. No way." I don't even remember the last time I sat through a full day of school. I don't really even remember my grade, though I'm pretty sure it's eight.

"Yes. Yes, way." Micheal has always done that. Always said the exact opposite of whatever Tommy and said. Tommy liked it, me… not so much.

"I don't need school. I'm smart." It's true. I used to only go in on test days, and I'd do pretty good. Better than some of the kids that actually attended classes. Everytime we weren't out trying to get some more money, I was studying or reading. Most of our books were stolen… but I tended to overlook that fact.

Micheal sighs, turning to look at me. He looks a lot older than he should, a lot older than nineteen. He's probably been older than he actually is for his whole life; he'd been helping daddy with bootlegging since he was six. No one ever suspects a kid. (Maybe that's why I've been helping on jobs since 5.) He smiles sadly. "You are smart, Lily. You are so smart. Just imagine what actual schooling could do to that brain of yours."

Schooling has nothing to do with my smarts, Is what I want to point out. He couldn't really argue with that because he knows it's true. I just look out the window, avoiding his gaze. "I guess. But you didn't go to school and you've turned out just fine."

He laughs then, but it's not one of humor. "Lils, I am a nineteen year old criminal who's lucky he hasn't been shipped off to Rikers. Tommy…"

For a moment I think he forgot the reason why our brother wasn't in the car with us, but then he remembered and stopped talking. Tommy wasn't in school all that much either, and well… I didn't work out for him I guess. It didn't work out well for Micheal either, he's right about that. Not that I'd admit it to him of course, but he's right.

I don't want to go because people are judgy. The times I showed up in class, people were always starring. A lot of them knew my father was a bootlegger, and they all knew he ended up in prison. But even after the effects of that wore off, people still stared. They judged the hand-me-down clothes I wore. They judged the fact that I didn't wear dresses and played rough at lunch. They judged me, and it rubbed me the wrong way.

"I don't like school." I say finally, turning back to my brother.

He grins, almost a real grin, "Well that's just tough luck there girly. You're going."

I don't know why, but I almost grin too.

1953

You'd think with three rebellious kids, bedtime would be the hardest thing to deal with. Surprisingly, they're good when I tell them to go to bed. Ponyboy's normally asleep already, in the arms of either Darrel or I, and Sodapop and Darry are good at getting ready to sleep. Nope, bedtime is a breeze. In my house, it's mornings that are a bitch.

Everyone of my kids is different, and I love that about them. Just not in the mornings. In the mornings, I wish they were all like me. I've been a morning person since I could walk. Darry's normally ok. He gets a little moody and snappy, but that's just because he hasn't had anything to eat. Once the kid gets breakfast, he's usually fine. Ponyboy's pretty easy too, but he's the most sensitive right after he wakes up. Any little thing can make him cry; anything from Darry not looking at him right to me giving him the wrong cereal bowl. Soda is my main problem in the mornings. Like right now, the only reason his face isn't in his cereal bowl is because Darry had the good sense to push it out of the way. So instead of sleeping in milk and cheerios, he's currently sleeping on the kitchen table. Wonderful.

"Soda, honey." I shake his shoulder gently, "Baby, come on. Gotta get up and eat." He manages to lift his head off the table, and blearily look around. I figure that's about as good as I'm going to get, but I maneuver the spoon back into his hand. Once he's holding the spoon, I get him to rest it in his breakfast. Finally, he seems to realize what's going on and starts eating.

The shower shuts off down the hall and a few minutes later, Darrel saunters in fully dressed. We usually get up and eat before the boys. Mostly trying to avoid the circus of endless tantrums, angry words, and makeshift pillows that have somehow become breakfast in this house.

His arrival is somehow upsetting to our youngest, who decides that he no longer wants his cereal and flings the spoon halfway across the room. He starts crying before Darrel can even make a move to comfort him, and I am still trying to get Soda alert enough to eat his cereal. Little kids are fun, aren't they?

It takes a good twenty minutes to get everyone fed, then dressed, and now we're running late. Ponyboy's finally content, but I feel bad for just sticking him in front of the tv while I get the other two out the door. He doesn't even understand what's going on, he just likes watching the moving pictures. Soda's following his daddy out to the truck; now that he's dressed he seems to have no problem at waking up. Maybe we should put him in clothes before breakfast. It's Darry who causes me problems this morning, and I have to say I'm surprised. He's normally my easy child, with the exception of the wild defiant streak.

"C'mon Darry, you're gonna be late."

He crosses his arms over his chest, giving me his best attempt at a glare. He'll look a little more intimidating once he loses all that baby fat. "I ain't goin'."

I want to just shove him out the door and force him into the car, but normally Darry has a reason for things. I may not always like it, but there's a method to his madness. "Why not?"

"They're judgy."

I almost smile. I could tell you about that sometime. "Everyone's going to judge, you just gotta deal with it."

He pouts, not liking that his answer won't get him out of school.

"I don't like school." His face is set and, though he's the spitting image of his father, right now he looks a lot like me. I can't help but grin. "Well, that's just tough luck there, little man. You're going."

He huffs, but runs out to his father and hops into the truck. I watch them drive off before turning to look at my youngest, enjoying the cartoons while sitting happily on the couch. "Well, Ponykid. Looks like it's just me and you."

"Darry!"

I turn around. Timmy Sheppard is waving me over to his group of third grade friends. I usually won't talk to them, but there isn't anything happening so I walk over. I haven't seen him in a few days, he hasn't really come over at all. Mom was yelling at his dad the last time, when they thought we were all asleep, maybe that's why.

"Hey, Tim." He doesn't like being called Timmy in public, and I sorta understand. Once, mom called me baby right after school, in front of everyone. I nearly died. Well, actually, I hid in the back of the truck until we were all the way home.

He gets up off the step of the playground he's been sitting on. "Sé lo que nuestros padres han estado haciendo."

The spanish surprises me. We only speak in spanish when we don't want Soda to understand what we're saying. Or mom. It's mostly because we're teasing Soda, and it's fun to do it when he doesn't understand. That way he can't tattle.

This is different though, and I think he's doing it so his friends don't know what we're saying. I'm pretty sure a lot of them are mexican though, so I don't know how this'll help. I pull him away from them a bit. "Qué quieres decir?"

Our dad's work together. We know that already.

"Cuando llegan tarde" He says, "Ellos están vendiendo drugs." I guess he doesn't know the spanish word. I don't either.

"Drugs?" I know what drugs are. I'm nine, not dumb. Sometimes you can see older kids exchanging little baggies of it in the alleyway near our house. I don't think my dad's involved in that. No way.

Tim nods. "It's what they're doing when they're late."

He's wrong. I shove him a little, but hard enough so he hits the ground. He looks like he wants to punch me, and it wouldn't be the first time we've had a little fight between us. I don't know if it's luck, but the bell forces us to go back inside before anyone can shove anyone else. Tim's wrong.

"Darry, you know how I feel about you throwing that ball in the house." My mom scolds me without even looking up from the needle work she's trying to do.

This cannot be considered throwing. I am gently lobbing the ball in an underhand fashion so Ponyboy can try (and fail) to catch it. I'm trying to teach him to play catch, like dad taught me. Dad should be the one teaching Pony, but dad isn't here. Again. He's late. I roll my eyes.

This time mom looks up. "Don't you roll your eyes at me, little man." She always knows when we've done something bad, even if she's not really watching. Sometimes she can even tell when I've said something mean about Soda, even if I've said it in spanish. It's crazy.

"Sorry." I mean it too. I lob the ball again, this time a little closer to Pony so the kid has a better chance of maybe catching it. "I'm teaching Pony how to play catch."

This gets her to smile when my brother picks up the ball and throws it back at me. It only gets halfway, but it's a decent try for a kid his size. Mom watches us do it a few more times before shaking her head. "He's two, honey. He doesn't need to be learning catch just yet."

This time she doesn't go back to the embroidery hoop in her hands, but watches us with a smile. "Sodapop Curtis, sit your butt back down at the table. You're not done yet."

Mom's on the couch, sitting in the one spot that gives her a glance into the kitchen. Soda didn't eat all of his dinner, so mom's making him sit there until he finishes it. I don't think it's really fair, Soda can't ever sit still.

"But momma…" My brother's a bit of a drama queen. "I'm done."

Mom just shakes her head. "How old are you?"

Soda doesn't answer, but I know he's holding up his four fingers. Mom nods, "Alright four years old. That means only four more bites."

Soda finishes his dinner and shoots up from the table. Four bites seemed manageable to him, and they were done quickly. I shake my head, just eating would've been easier but whatever. He's joining in on our little catch game on the floor, and I remind him not to throw the ball so hard. I'm the one who'll get in trouble if one of his throws hits Ponyboy in the face.

The ball gets dropped when the front door swings open, and Soda's already running towards dad. Nine is too old to be running over and jumping up into his arms, way too old. I just walk over and smile as he ruffles my hair with the hand that's not holding my brother.

"Hey, chaparrita." Dad smiles. I don't know who he's talking to, Soda or me. I reckon it's Soda because he's still pretty short. I'm not. He sets Soda down and goes to give mom a kiss on the cheek. "Hey, querida."

My mom doesn't know a lot of spanish but she knows a few words. Mostly swears and terms of endearment. I know she knows swears because I tried one that Tim taught me. It didn't end well, and now I know what soap tastes like.

"Hey, where were you?"

He waves it off. "Oh me and Tony went for some drinks after work." I almost feel sick to my stomach when he mentions Tim's dad. I shoved Tim after he told me. Because he was wrong. My dad didn't do that. But he had said that it's what our dad's did together when they were late. Dad was late tonight.

"How was that?" Mom's starting to finish up with the dishes from dinner. Dad goes to follow her into the kitchen, and I notice his hand's hurt. The one he ruffled my hair with. He catches me watching him and tucks it quickly into his pocket.

I can hear them talking in the kitchen, but they keep their voices low enough that I can't understand what they're saying. I don't dare sneak closer to try and hear them; I don't have a death wish. Maybe Tim was right. I'll talk to him later. I go back to throwing the tennis ball.

Ok, so I apologize to any Spanish speakers. I don't speak Spanish, so I ended up using google translate. My apologies once again.

This story is going to jump around in time a lot. Mainly to Darrel and Lily's past and back to the present. I've wanted to explore their backstories for a very long time, and I'm excited to be doing it here. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

S.E. Hinton owns.