Disclaimer: I do now own the Outsiders.

I couldn't believe the outfit she picked.

It had to be the shortest mini skirt I have ever seen. Briefly, I wondered about the longer skirts I had seen her wear on the date and at the party a few days earlier. I got easily sidetracked, though. For two simple reasons. One, the skirt was yellow, and two…she had nice legs. I'm a little ashamed to say that I was checking her out when she bent over to put on her white go-go boots, which had a high heel. She had tucked in a white silk blouse, which I wanted to touch, but I thought that would seem strange, so I didn't.

I must have been staring for a while because the next thing I knew, her make up was done, as was her hair.

We headed down stairs, and she said good-bye to her father. I thought he was going to tell her to go and get changed, but he just said something like, 'ok, honey, have fun' and gave me a look that said 'try anything and I will kill you.'

The walk was nice. We held hands and talked about the Marx brothers. Harpo is her favorite. Groucho was mine. We did cheesy jokes and bad impressions. It was fun. We laughed a lot.

A car horn from behind us made me reach for my razor. I looked over my shoulder. I didn't recognize the car, but I did recognize the grinning greaser in the driver's seat.

Curly Shepard.

He pulled up beside us, rolling down his window, "You two wanna lift?"

He was checking out Rose. He had the same kind of look in his eye like his older brother did when he found a new conquest. I say kind of because if it was Tim, any man around the girl would be out of there before you could say 'amscray'.

And at the same time, I got this strange feeling in my gut, and I felt like punching the stupid grin off of Curly's face.

Despite this feeling, I said sure.

I pushed the front seat forward and held the seatbelt out of the way for Rose to climb into the back. I readjusted the seat and got in.

I told him where we were going, and he drove off.

I noticed Curly kept glancing up into his rearview mirror, looking at Rose sitting timidly in the back seat.

"Didn't you have a four-door car a few days ago?" I asked him, hoping to distract him from my girlfriend.

"…naw, man. This is the car I had."

I thought for a moment, " Uh…no…you had a dark blue four door Ford…"

"What's your point, Ponyboy?"

"My point, Curly, is that this is a cheery red two door Supreme."

"Inconsequential details, Pony." He told me.

That seemed like a real big word for Curly to use. Everyone seems to be hiding hidden intelligence. He must pick these things up from Tim.

"I'd hardly call these details 'inconsequential'. This is a stolen car, isn't it?"

"Irrelevant, Pony…"

"How the fuck is it irrelevant, Curly? You're driving a stolen car, you don't have a license, and you are on PROBATION –"

"Quit being so fuckin' tedious, Ponyboy."

"Tedious? Are you that fucking stupid, Curly?"

"Don't call me fuckin' stupid, Pony…"

We started yelling at each other. There was a lot of cursing. Something which I usually tend to avoid doing.

When he pulled up at the front of my house, I opened the door, slid out, and was about to slam the door, when I remembered Rose was in the back seat.

She looked mildly frightened.

I pushed the seat forward and helped her out.

Then I slammed the car door. Curly drove off

Rose was walking a bit uneasy. Probably her heels on the cracked and uneven pavement. I apologized. Told her how Curly tends to bring out the worst in me.

We held hands as we went into the house.

Elvis was playing on the radio. Sodapop was setting the table. Darry came in and out of view.

Soda must have heard the storm door close, because he looked up, smiling, "Hey Pone…" His smile got slightly bigger when he noticed Rose, "Who's your friend?" Of course, Darry heard Soda ask that, and looked out at us, too.

The dinner went…fairly well. I don't think Rose had been expecting blue potatoes. Actually, I don't think anyone outside of the gang would ever expect potatoes of any other color then the off white hue they usually are.

A few polite questions. Hi. How are ya? Where ya from? Generic, albeit pleasant small talk. There was a few moments of uncomfortable silences. I could tell that my brothers wanted to ask Rose a few questions, and vice versa, but probably felt it would inappropriate to ask.

She helped with the dishes. More pleasantries. Smile.

Steve stopped by. Apparently he and Soda were going out tonight. They offered Rose and me a ride back to her house, but I'd have to walk back home. That was fine with me.

The drive would have been awkwardly silent if Elvis hadn't been blaring on the radio…with Soda and Steve singing along.

In what seemed like a longer time that it really was, we were dropped off at the end of her driveway.

I watched the car as it sped off. Rose tugged my arm gently. I turned to her and smiled. We kissed for a few minutes, then she went into the house.

I stuck my hands into my pockets and headed back home. It was a quiet twilight. Mackerel scaled red sky. Cool breeze. It seemed to be a perfect evening. Of course, it would have been.

I wasn't even three blocks away from Rose's house when a cherry red supreme pulled up beside me. I sighed, and walked around to the other side, sliding into the passenger seat. He sped off. We were two blocks down the before I had a chance to put my seat belt on.

I looked over at Curly. He was gripping the wheel so hard, his knuckles were white. He was pale and kind of shaky.

"Curly…what's wrong?"

He gave a nervous chuckle. "W-wrong? What makes you think anything's wrong?"

That was a bad sign, "Curly, man, you're shaking…you're pale…er than usual…"

"Okay…maybe there is something wrong…"

I rolled my eyes, and looked at the scenery speeding past the window. Where were going? I wondered, then looked back at Curly. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing…well, nothing important, I don't think…I was kinda' hopin' you could help me out…."

"Of course, Man. Just…tell me what's wrong."

He was silent for a moment. I looked over at him. He was chewing nervously on his bottom lip.

"Curly…" I asked quietly, "What's - -"

"I killed somebody."

There was a ringing silence in the car. Oxy-moronic, I know, but, damn if it isn't true.

"Curly, stop the car…"

"Ponyboy…"

"STOP THE FUCKING CAR!"

He did.

I think he was expecting me to say something else. I didn't. Not at first.

"Ponyboy?..."

"You killed somebody." I stated.

"Yeah..."

"You."

"…Yeah…"

"You. Curly Shepard…you killed somebody."

"Yeah."

I went silent again. Then I smacked him in the head. Twice. He hit me back. It went back and forth like that for several minutes. It probably would have turned into an actual fight, but we both still had our seatbelts on, limiting our mobility. When we stopped, there was another silence.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, Curly, how the fuck do you think I can help you?"

"I don't fucking know, Pone. I mean, Christ, you're the smart one, here. Please, man. You gotta help me out…"

I started to think. How the hell could I help him out? "Okay…uh…Who…who didja kill?"

"uh…" He reached over to the glove box and pulled out a wallet. He opened it, "Jason Walsh. 24."

"Gah, you killed him, then stole his wallet?" I asked, taking the wallet from his hands. I looked through it. Drivers license. A few credit cards. I noticed with a mild repulsion at the fact that he didn't have a library card. I recognized the photo on the license. One of the would-be rapists from a few nights previous. He also had over two thousand dollars in cash. This seemed like a lot of money for a greasy gang-banger.

"Where'd it happen?"

"Ya know that shitty old barn just out side of town?"

"Yeah." I remember reading something about it in the paper. After nearly a decade of uselessness they finally decided to tear it down and build something else. I forget what, but it had something to do with a well that was behind it.

"There."

"Inside or outside?"

"Inside…why?"

"Curly…I have a plan." A half-assed plan, but still, a plan none the less. "How much blood?"

"Not a lot when I left…but…"

"I know…"

I told him to head to the nearest department store. I listed off things we'd need to buy. Mop and bucket, paper towels, rubber gloves, bleach, garbage bags, duct tape. Together all of these things may have seemed suspicious by a nosy and overly imaginative clerk. That's why I told Curly to get the mop bucket, gloves and bleach, while I got the paper towels, garbage bag and duct tape. I also suggested buying other small things. A coke, deck of cards, lighter, gum. Just to make it seem more natural. I said we should go in at different times, a few minutes apart, at least. Everything to be paid in full by our dear friend Mr. Walsh

While he drove, I pulled out a hundred dollars from the wallet, all in small bills. I gave fifty to Curly, and put fifty into my own pocket.

Curly went into the store first. He picked up what I told him too, plus some hair grease, a comb, pack of smokes, cheep lighter, match book, a Pepsi, gum, a chocolate bar and cool pair of sunglasses. I got what I had come for, plus a sketch pad and some pencil crayons, deck of cards, some hair grease and comb, and the same pair of sunglasses as Curly. That was all that I was going to get, but as I waited in line, I noticed a few racks of books and road maps. I looked through the books and picked on called Confessions of an English Opium Eater. I heard about it before. That looked pretty good. But then something else caught my eye and my half assed plan suddenly became a full blown genius plan.

Just as I put my things onto the counter, I grabbed a Louisiana road map.

After I paid, I hurried to the car. Curly seemed impatient.

"What the hell took you so long?" He asked.

"Inspiration, Curly, that's what. Where are the nearest pay phones?"

He gave me an odd look, but drove off to the nearest set of pay phones. They were outside of some gas station. Curly followed me out of the car, probably curious.

I picked up the phone and fed it a quarter. I dialed my number and waiting.

"Hey Darry."

"Hey, Pony." He sounded tired, which was good for me.

"Listen, Me and Curly ran into some friend from school…"

"Yeah?..."

"And see, they were planning on going camping out in the country…they have a space booked at a real camp site and everything…"

"So?"

"So Curt and Rodney were supposed to go with them, but cancelled at the last minute, and they were wondering if we could fill in, since they have enough for five people, and two ditched…"

"Ponyboy, isn't it a bit late for them to be heading out now?"

"That's why they have to leave right now, Darry."

"Now? But you would have to pack…"

"Naw, we're at Curly's. He's gunna lend me something to wear for tomorrow."

"Did Tim say that Curly could go?"

"Well, Tim ain't here right now…"

He sighed heavily, " I dunno, Pone….I just don't think.."

"Come on, Dare. I mean, they need at least one person there to be responsible, ya know? To keep 'em out of trouble…I mean normally it would be Curt, but I'm the only other level headed person they can find on such short notice…" There was a silence on the other end…or there would have been if the radio wasn't so loud. I bit my lip.

"Is there going to be any drinking?"

"No."

"Any drugs?"

"No."

"Girls?"

"No…and even if there was, I wouldn't be doing anything with or to them. I got a girlfriend now, remember?"

"Alright…" He said, but then added in a stronger voice, "Call me in the morning, ya hear?"

"No problem, Dare."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"I know, Darry"

"Stay out of trouble."

"I will, Darry."

"You better." He sighed. I assumed he was rolling his eyes. "Goodnight Ponyboy."

"Night, Darry…Oh, and tell Soda I said good night…and tell Tim where Curly is, if he asked."

"Alright. Have fun…and be CAREFUL." He hung up the phone.

"Wow." Curly said, shaking his head slightly, "I almost believed you myself, Pony. But why a camping trip?"

"This is going to take a while, Curly. We need as much time as we can get. This gives us at the very least, twenty four hours."

He nodded, then asked, "Why'dja ask Darry to tell Tim? Why could I just call him?"

"Because you're a terrible liar. He'd never believe you."

"And how come Darry believes you?"

"Because I don't do stupid shit on a daily basis. Now let's go."

"Wait a minute."

I stopped and turned to face Curly.

"Who the fuck is Curt and Rodney?" He asked me.

I shrugged my shoulders. They had been the first names to pop into my head.

With Curly behind the wheel, it took less than five minutes to get to the barn.

I told Curly to go around to the back and fill the bucket with well water. I carried everything else inside.

There was less blood than I thought. The bullet hit right between the eyes. I was mildly impressed by the aim. There was a gun by the body, maybe seven feet from the right hand. I picked it up and checked the chamber. Two bullets missing. One bullet in the body. Curly seemed to have killer aim. Literally. Surely he wouldn't have missed the first time. He was kind of a big target. It was around that time I noticed that the gun I was holding in my hands was not the one Curly had a few days earlier. It must have been Walsh's. Self defense. I was feeling less guilty for helping Curly out. Tulsa was starting to become a kill or be killed kind of situation. Survival of the fittest. And apparently, Curly was fitter than Walsh.

I slid the gun into the waistband of my blue jeans, then laid out several garbage bags a few feet from the body.

"Where'dya want this?" Curly came in with the water.

"Just leave it there for now. We gotta move the body first." I told him. I looked over at the body, and the hole between his eyes, then back at Curly, smiling ever so slightly.

"I was wrong about one thing, Curly."

"Yeah?" He asked, "What's that?"

"Look's like you got some yarbles after all."

Miniskirt lengths tended to vary by continent. In America the more conservative 4-5 inches above the knee reigned but in London, 7-8 inches or more was considered hip.

The reason the dinner seemed rushed is because it was. I felt I was spending too much time on the Pony/Rose 'romance' sub-plot, and not enough time on the 'Crime' and 'Humor'

The names Curt and Rodney have no significant purpose or clever back story.

When I say cool glasses, I mean Bob Dylan kind of sunglasses. Look up a picture of Bob Dylan from the 60's. He's got cool sunglasses, man.

Confessions of an English Opium Eater by Thomas de Quincy was written in 1821. It was also made into a movie in 1962, starring Vincent Price.

Reasons to why a gang banger would have a few thousand dollars in his wallet will be logically explained in the next chapter.

The last line is this chapter is a reference to the last line in the first chapter.