A/N: I am absolutely thrilled with how positive the reaction to this story has been! A special thank-you to Ember411, Ava, JohnnyCadesChick, LOVEPatraickSwayze, hauntedpumpkin56, and fanficfanatic12 for your thoughtful reviews; they really mean a lot to me. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations, even if it turned out a little shorter than I planned. -_- I apologise for that. Also, any spelling/grammar/continuity errors are my fault (I don't have a Beta, other than myself), and if you could please point them out in a review, I'd be grateful.
Disclaimer: Suzie (S.E.) Hinton is God. Therefore, she owns the Outsiders.
Without further adieu, here's chapter two:

2: You Steal (Because You Have To)

"Get out! Just get out, you worthless piece of shit!" Mom had the broom out and whacked me across the back of the knees with it as I scurried out the door like the place was on fire. And in my head, it was. When Mom started drinking, there was no stopping her, like an endless inferno of rage. "You screwed up everything! Get out! Out! Out!"

I already was out. I was out, and racing up the street as fast as my skinny, bruised legs would carry me.

The lot was empty when I got there, panting like a dog. Sweat made my shirt cling to my back, though it was a cool night for September. I shivered as a gust of wind blew through the lot, nearly making me stumble I was so weak. I was weak and tired and battered and hungry. Sometimes, I hate that woman.

I shivered again, wishing to hell I'd brought my jacket. It was my only one, and I usually keep it on at all times, but I'd been asleep when my Mom got home, screeching loud enough to wake the whole neighbourhood. You can't sleep in a bed wearing your jean jacket; it's uncomfortable to do so.

I started walking, hoping that would warm me up, but it did nothing but make the bruises on my knees ache more. My stomach growled ominously, and normally I would've gone to the Curtis's, but I'd already bummed three dinners off them this week, and it didn't feel right to always take and not give them anything in return. I mean, it wasn't like there'd be any food in our fridge at home, and I was taking theirs just because I could. I really did need it, sometimes. There was never anything but half-drunken beers and mouldy cheese in my fridge.

I was nearing the twenty-four-hour supermarket, which was in the neutral zone. The houses around here were on the nicer-side, a little shabby but well-kept like the Curtis's as opposed to ours, but weren't quite as showy as Soc houses. Middle-class folks usually looked down on us a little, but some of them could be tolerant of people like us. But they sure weren't Socs.

I dug around in my pockets, hoping to find a dime to buy myself something to eat. I couldn't find one. I'd already spent the quarter Mom gave me during one of her few sober moments for food this week.

My stomach rumbled painfully, and I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Being twelve years old on the North side was hard enough, without practically starving yourself. I was almost too weak to think straight. I tried to think of the last time I had a decent meal. I bit my lip. ...Two days ago, I had spaghetti with the Curtis's.

I walked into the store anyway, nervous as a wreck. My hands were shaking, so I stuffed them in my pockets. Usually there'd be someone around to borrow money off of, but Dallas was in the cooler again (I still don't know how a thirteen-year-old can get in so much trouble, but he manages it), and Two-Bit had gone to the movies to look for girls. The Curtis brothers would be at home, probably getting ready for bed after eating dinner with their parents, of course. My stomach growled even worse at the thought.

So I was alone. Not a single person even bothered to glance at me. And why would they? I'm not exactly the prettiest thing to look at, what with my greasy hair and too-large clothes hanging off my little frame. I could pass for a nine-year-old if I wanted to. I've never looked my age. Most of the guys described me as looking like a drowned rat half the time, but I never complained or anything. I do look like a drowned rat. Who cares what I look like, anyhow? I sure didn't.

It was past eleven, but the supermarket was hopping anyway. They were having a sale on some new kind of potato chips, and there was a big crowd hanging around the table on which they were placed. It was a kind of big, rectangular pyramid of chip bags, though it was more like half a pyramid now, because everyone was grabbing a couple of bags and shoving them into their carts as they passed.

I wandered into the crowed area around the table, getting lost in it just like I knew I would. I'd done this before. Nobody looked at me as I gently nudged my way forward, then bent down and grabbed a half-crushed bag of the chips off the floor. Nobody noticed as I tucked it under my t-shirt, though it left a sizable lump on my stomach that didn't suit me at all (I was far too small to have that much paunch). Nobody noticed as I walked out of the store, stolen food hidden under my clothes.

I'd done this before, but only twice. If I was really desperate, I suppose even stealing sounds like a good idea. Doesn't mean I didn't feel lousy about it, though. Because I did. I felt awful as I sat on the curb a few blocks away, eating food that didn't belong to me. My heart was heavy in my chest, but my stomach stopped complaining as much. It still had the empty feeling, but I was no longer in pain, once I put something in it.

I emptied the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the bag into my hungry mouth, licking my lips and folding up the bag carefully. They'd tasted like dirt in my mouth. Not because this new flavour was bad or anything; I bet they tasted real nice to the folks who had actually paid for them. But I hadn't, and the guilt was leaving a bad taste in my mouth all on its own.

I felt cold again and shivered, wrapping my arms around myself in a futile attempt to preserve my body heat. Walking back towards the lot was a little better than walking to the store, I decided, because the wind had died down, but it was still rather cool out. My legs ached, but I forced myself to walk the extra block back to my house, rather than curl up under some newspaper or in a grassy corner of the lot; I'd freeze to death if I stayed out wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a loose pair of my dad's old work-pants.

My street was silent as I approached our house. It was almost too silent; eerily so. There were no sounds of breaking glass or yelling or banging around disrupting the stillness of the night as there normally would be when either or both of my parents had been drinking. I cautiously crept up the stairs and peered into the living room through the screen door.

My mom was lying passed out on the couch, a beer bottle held loosely in one hand. It usually took a heck of a lot of alcohol to have that effect on her, so I assumed she'd probably been drinking something stronger earlier in the evening, before kicking me out. I didn't see my father, but I could hear one of his records placing quietly in the basement, and I could imagine him sitting in his favourite chair down there, beer in hand, watching the television and enjoying his music drunkenly. He was surprisingly quiet, but I didn't push my luck to go and check if he was down there.

I tip-toed to my bedroom and closed the door softly behind me. My room was the only place in my house I felt relatively safe in, which was odd, because half the time I woke up to someone hitting me with a household object when I slept there. But it was my room, and I guess there was something comforting in that.

I sat down on my bed and sighed, wrapping my arms around my knees, and burring my face in them, trying to hold back tears. This was no way to be living. Being afraid of coming home, having to steal just to keep yourself going; that was no way for a kid to live. But it was my life. It's not like I was all that proud of it, but it was mine. And I suppose there's something comforting in that, too, because I drifted off to sleep while thinking of it.

INDEX:
1: You Steal (Because You Can)
2: You Steal (Because You Have To)
3: You Feel Stuff Real Deep (But You Can't Show It)
4: Your Friends Matter (More Than Anything, Even Yourself)
5: Money Doesn't Matter (Because You Don't Have Any, Anyway)
6: The Police Hate You (Without Ever Even Meeting You)
7: You Hunt For Action (Because You Need It To Feel Alive)
8: Your Couch is Their Couch (Because They Have Nowhere Else To Go)
9: Jokes Keep You Going (When There's Nothing Else To Laugh At)
10: Beer is a Necessity (Because It Washes Away All The Shit That's Happened to You)
11: Love is Tough To Find (Because Everyone is Too Good For You)
12: Death Can Break You (But You'd Never Admit It)
13: Jobs Are Hard to Come By (Because Everyone Knows Your Reputation)
14: You're Not Afraid (Unless Someone Has a Gun)
15: Knives Stay Clean (Unless You Get Blood On Them)
16: You Stick Up For Other Greasers (No Matter What)
17: You Like Fights (For Assorted Reasons)
18: You Have Blood On Your Hands (And You Can't Wash Them Clean)
19: No One Understands You (Except Other Greasers)

A/N2: Again, feel free to guess whose POV each chapter will be written by, if you want. Reviews are not only welcome, but very much encouraged! (I might even go as far as to beg for them...) And if you don't see a topic on the list above you think should be, tell me in a review and I'll think about adding it. Also, if you're wondering why Johnny went home in the end, consider this: he's a lot younger, and much more innocent/gullible than his future self, probably still believing that his parents want him, deep down.

Thanks in advance,

Casey (BugFan4Ever)