"And that's where the whole trouble is. We're too much alike to understand each other because we don't even understand our own selves."
―Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Evie tapped her pen against her desk repetitively, a dull look on her face. She really hated biology―the whole process of dissecting things, studying algae, or even cell structure bored her to death, not to mention, grossed her out. Her gaze landed on the girl who shared her lab table; she was intently staring at her worksheet, seemingly engrossed with the day's lesson. Evie couldn't fathom it, how one could be so absorbed in this stuff―it was sickening.
Then again, her lab partner, Helga Osbourne, was one of the―if not the―most geekiest girls at Will Roger's High School. Evie knew her since grade school, and she'd always thought the girl was rather strange. She was dating Floyd Wyatt, a tall and lanky hick with two missing teeth in the top of his mouth, compliments of Dallas Winston. Evie wasn't exactly sure what had ensued between the two boys, but it was said that Floyd accused Dallas of fixing races. Evie only knew him from the rodeos, though, as he was a friend of Buck Merril's, who was Dallas's rodeo partner. Evie thought he was a creepy character, and it surprised her that he would seek out the likes of Helga Osbourne―at least she had some . . . decency.
Feeling the girl's eyes on her, Helga glanced up, raising one bushy, uncombed eyebrow. "Do you need help?" Her gaze dropped to Evie's blank assignment.
It took Evie a second to realize the question was directed at her. She wanted to accept the offer, but with one look at Helga's yellow bucked teeth, she nearly gagged. Helga was nice and all, but she wasn't the most hygienic of people, and with her morning breath, combined with the smell of coffee wafting in her direction, Evie was surprised she hadn't gagged.
She forced a small smile onto her lips, which appeared more like she was gritting her teeth. "No, that's okay."
"Alright, well, suit yourself," Helga replied, and went back to her assignment, adjusting her incredibly thick-framed glasses, and then forcibly coughing to clear some mucus from her throat.
Evie went back to staring at her own worksheet, rolling her eyes and wishing that the class would just end so she could get out of there. She never really bothered to pay attention in biology, so she merely guessed on half of the questions, hoping for a decent grade, even though that feeling was blanketed with genuine bleakness. She was already failing the class, so any chance of passing the marking period was practically out the window.
What did she care, though? How the hell did this crap apply to her future when her ultimate desire was to become a beautician? She asked herself that question numerous times over, but it hardly did anything to settle her nerves when it came to actually passing the school year.
With another glance at Helga, she imagined what she would do to fix the girl's appearance. Well, she thought with an impish expression, some hot water and bleach would definitely be a start. Evie liked to picture herself styling hair, or painting nails, or . . . well anything regarding beauty when it came down to it. She was always the one her friends would seek out when they wanted advice on their makeup, or input on how their hair looked, and Evie was all too happy to oblige them.
She could just see it, herself taking over her mother's salon . . .
The rest of the period droned on, and when the bell finally rang, Evie nearly ran out of the classroom, bombarding past three Soc girls, two of which offered her some nasty daggers. She didn't care, she told herself, it's not like they were really all that better than her―what, with their long skirts, high-collared sweaters, and their scuff-free loafers? Evie inwardly cringed just thinking about it. She was just fine enough in her own attire consisting of old worn shoes, a skirt that was threadbare and exposed a little too much of her legs, and a blouse which was old and tight, one button too many undone. Yeah, she told herself, she was just fine.
An arm snaked around her waist, causing her heart to speed up in her chest. She didn't even have to look to know who it was. The familiar touch and smell of cheap cologne gave him away, and Evie relaxed as she pressed herself a little closer to her boyfriend, all previous thoughts forgotten.
"You alright, babe?" he asked, fingers curling around her hip bone.
Evie nodded. "Yeah."
The two came to a stop at Steve's locker, and Evie instantly missed his touch as he pulled away from her to spin his combination. She studied him for a moment as he switched his math book out with his literature book, a black notebook crammed inside. There he stood, dark hair greased back in swirly curls, dark eyes bright and determined. He was cocky, and Evie liked that about him. His voice, which was low and cool sent tingles up and down her spine, and when she was alone in bed in the middle of the night, she often fantasized about him altogether, softly and quietly whimpering his name into her pillow, missing just exactly how he made her feel when they were alone together.
She loved him, she told herself, she knew she did, because he made her feel . . . well, he made her feel good about herself. They'd known each other for quite a long time, having grown up in the same town and all. Steve was a year older than her, though, but that one day last Spring when he'd asked her out, she had nearly fainted from shock, wondering if he was being serious or not, but he damn well was serious, and he was serious after that when it came to her and their relationship.
Evie's thoughts were cut short, though, when Steve slammed his locker shut, both of them stunned to see Ella Mitchell standing there, looking scared out of her wits, her attention on Steve. Evie stared at her hardly for a moment, wondering just what she could want.
"What?" Steve's voice came out bitter and impatient. "You need somethin'?"
Ella looked like she might faint, and Evie's brows pulled together as she watched her. "You're Steve Randle, right?" she asked, and her cheeks turned a shade.
"Yeah, and?"
Now Evie was interested, more so than she was just a second ago. She'd only spoken to Ella once or twice, and she immediately thought the girl was weird―not weird or out there like Helga Osbourne, but weird enough. Still, though, she stood out somewhat, and Evie figured it was her head of bushy hair that did it. If not for that chaotic contribution to her overall ghostly pale features, the girl might as well have been invisible.
Ella continued on, trying not to look too embarrassed. "I'm looking for Dallas Winston. I'm supposed to be tutoring him.
Evie grimaced at the mention of Dallas, that white-haired devil. Glory, but she sure felt bad for Ella then, knowing just what kind of inconsiderate animal Dallas was. Evie wondered how Steve could buddy around with a guy like that, but she reminded herself that Steve was a greaser, too, and Dallas had come through for their "gang" more times than none―he was part of their little family.
Steve nodded, looking mildly put-off. "Yeah, sure. Listen, kid, I don't where he's at right now, but I'll pass the message that you're lookin' for him, dig?"
"Thanks," Ella replied, voice dull and apathetic.
Evie crossed her arms, pursing her lips, and once the girl was out of earshot did she speak. "Ella Mitchell is going to tutor Dallas Winston?" The thought alone made her nauseous, and she felt horrible for the girl altogether.
"Guess so," Steve answered, and looked down at her. "You know her?"
She shrugged, pushing her dark hair off of her shoulder. "Not too well, but she's in gym with me. She don't hardly talk to any of the girls, though." She didn't bother to mention the fact that the two of them were paired up for their English assignment, or that they even shared Miss. Tracy's English class.
It was strange, Evie thought to herself. She had seen Ella in gym a few times, but she never bothered to pay her any mind. How the hell had she missed the fact that she and Ella were also in the same English class, too? It never occurred to her how unaware of her surroundings she really was until then, and with a sinking feeling in her chest, she and Steve walked to their next classes.
XXXXX
Her name was Cathy Carlson.
Ella thought she was nice enough, considerably so, especially in comparison to the other students at Will Rogers High. Ella was used to sitting alone in art, that is, until Cathy came along. The only seat left available in the room for the new student was at the table Ella occupied, save for the one across from Dallas Winston, but nobody in their right mind wanted to sit anywhere near him.
Cathy took her seat across from Ella, placing her bag in front of her feet on the floor. She offered Ella a smile, one which the brown-haired girl returned. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Mrs. Girdlé went on and on about the assignment they were given the day before. Ella was mighty glad, not to mention relieved, that Cathy had come along when she did, less she end up paired with Dallas.
Glory, she would be spending enough time tutoring the hood, and that was enough to make her feel as if she were suffocating in a six foot hole―he was that awful.
While Mrs. Girdlé spoke, Ella stared at the new girl, wondering what she could compare her to. She was a pretty girl, she decided, with stormy eyes underneath perfectly arched eyebrows. Her cheeks were round and plump, her face framed with short, inky black hair. Ella immediately thought of an ocean, waves rising high above the surface, and a darkening sky with one lightning bolt. But that was only going on the girl's physical appearance, and she decided that she would need something more to go on.
She remembered their conversation from the other day, and thought of Cathy's brother―Edwin Carlson, or M&M, as most people knew him. He was an alright kid, real nice, too, not a whole lot like his sister, Ella thought, but she didn't really know her to make such an opinion, either.
"So," Ella said after a moment, her voice sounding a little nervous, "you're from Tulsa?"
Cathy glanced across the table at her, a small smile on her face. "Yeah. I was attending private school and stayed with my aunt over the summer."
"Wow," she replied, sounding intrigued. "I wish that I was able to leave Tulsa."
Cathy nodded, a thoughtful look on her face, as if she were attempting to analyze the girl. "Well, what would you like to do if you were ever given the chance to leave?" Her gray orbs seemed to lighten a bit as she continued. "What's your dream career?"
Ella shrugged, trying to imagine herself ten or so years down the road. "Gee, I'm not sure. I've always enjoyed writing and singing―maybe I'd be a journalist or something. Maybe a singer."
Deep down, Ella knew that she would never have the guts to get on a stage and sing in front of a bunch of people. Hell, she could hardly sing in front of her own mother. Still, it was like a guilty pleasure or something, she figured. She remembered briefly talking to Sylvia about it once at her job in the music store, and the girl had perked up at the thought and told her that they ought to start an all-girl band. Ella had flushed just imagining that, but the conversation was lost and never mentioned again. Besides, it wasn't as if Sylvia was actually being serious anyway.
From behind, Ella could hear Dallas muttering swears to himself, which was followed by the sound of paper tearing. Across the table, Cathy's lips curled back in revulsion, and Ella could tell just from her look that the girl despised the hood's very existence, not that Ella herself could fault her. At the sound of a stool toppling over, Ella craned her neck a little, trying to see what the commotion was all about, and she wasn't the only one, either.
Mrs. Girdlé was already on her way to the back of the room where the angry, towheaded teen resided, and Ella shook her head at his behavior. For a split second, their eyes met, and before Ella could blink, a rolled up piece of paper was sailing in her direction, bouncing off of the easel beside the table and landing next to Cathy on the floor. Ella's cheeks turned a shade as she left Dallas to Mrs. Girdlé, hoping that she would survive those upcoming tutoring sessions, because she had an awfully terrible feeling that she wouldn't.
Cathy, who was sneering in the direction of the blond-headed hood, turned her attention back to her partner, trying to strike up the conversation again. Her voice had come out somewhat sharp, her annoyance at the blond seeping through. "What kind of music are you into?"
Now that was a subject Ella could go on about all day. "Well, I dig The Rolling Stones, Elvis, The Four Seasons, The Beatles―"
Cathy's entire face lit up, but another emotion crossed her face, too, as if she were remembering something else. "You like The Beatles?"
Ella nodded. "Yeah. I know, everyone around here is―"
"No," Cathy interrupted, sounding amused. "I do, too!"
"Really?" Ella's voice nearly squeaked, and she blushed a little. Her blue eyes were excited, and she chuckled lightly as Cathy giggled at her reaction. Well, she thought with sheer pleasure, perhaps her and Cathy would get along just fine after all.
Perhaps the sky in her envisioned painting of the girl would be a lighter blue.
XXXXX
The girl's locker room was thick with steam, humid to a fault, and congested with various different smells of perfume and hairspray, and not to mention, clouded with powder. Evie hated gym, hated it more than any other class she had, which included biology. She disliked Mrs. Reynolds even more, though, for forcing the girls to shower after class. Something about showering with the other girls always made Evie feel vulnerable and on display.
"What are you thinkin' so hard about?" Sylvia asked from beside her, finger-combing her wet hair. Evie nearly choked to death when the girl added another hundred squirts of that floral shit she used all over herself. "Well?"
"Nothin'," she answered, using her arm to wipe the mirror. "I just hate this class."
"Don't we all?"
The girl rolled her eyes. Maybe Sylvia did hate gym, too, but at least she didn't look like an emaciated muppet running across the field or doing laps around the track in her gym suit. Evie felt like some shriveled up vegetable every time she adorned her own, and the thought made her feel self-conscious. Thing was, for as uncomfortable as the damn thing made her feel in her own skin, she once socked Frankie Parker in the mouth for talking lousy about her during sophomore year when she and Sandy were heading back inside to use the bathroom.
As Evie leaned forward to put the finishing touches of her makeup on, she caught sight of a familiar looking girl standing behind her in the mirror. She had to do a double-take to make sure the girl she was looking back at was really Ella Mitchell. She hadn't recognized her with her hair practically flat to her head from being wet.
"Ella," she greeted, dropping her makeup kit inside her bag. "You look different." She mentally slapped herself for sounding so brazen, but when she saw the girl's smile, she brushed it off. She was surprised to see her, though, wondering what she could want. "You need something?"
The brown-haired girl shifted on her feet. "Well, do you have some time to discuss our English assignment? I was wondering when we could get together to work on it."
"Sure," Evie answered, aimlessly snatching a piece of gum from Sylvia's bag. She watched with a raised brow as the two girls greeted each other, surprised that Ella would even associate with the likes of Sylvia. They were two different breeds, Ella and Sylvia. Where Ella was timid looking and nearly invisible, Sylvia was well-known, not one ounce of shy running through her veins.
Once the two were done chatting, Sylvia heading in the direction of Angela Shepard and Jenny Arsele, Evie turned her focus on Ella. She imagined that the girl was uptight and on top of things judging from her appearance―she looked slightly severe.
"So, how far are you in . . . what book did Tracy give ya?"
Ella frowned. "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and I've barely made a dent in it." A sigh. "You were assigned The Scarlet Letter, right?
Evie almost felt relieved, and nodded in affirmation. "Same here. I read the opening and practically died of boredom." As the two headed toward the hall, Evie huffed. "Glory, you'd think Tracy was trying to make an accusation by giving me that book. If she was trying to say something at all, she should've just given me a red 'W' for whore."
The brown-haired girl snorted, eyes broad with wry amusement. "I don't think she meant to insinuate that."
"You don't?"
Ella shook her head quickly, chewing the inside of her cheek. "I guess we're supposed to just read and make comparisons of our books, then." She frowned. "Do you want to meet up at the library this weekend and try to figure something out?"
"She really outdid herself this time, though," Evie replied, sounding annoyed. "Assigning us as partners with these books, I mean. The only thing I'm making a comparison of is a labeled whore growing up in the city." She pursed her lips after a moment, looking like she was in thought. "I can meet up Saturday afternoon if that works for you."
Ella nodded, wondering if Evie knew the difference between comparison and combination. "That's fine."
A smile formed on the dark-haired girl's lips. "You know, I'm glad I got paired with you. Lord knows I can hardly stand the other girls in that class."
Ella sympathized, she knew how it felt being an outcast. But the tone of Evie's voice hinted at something else, something more personal, and her partner couldn't help but wonder what it was. She never really paid attention to the other students in her classes, well, save for Craig Bryant, a boy in her science class who made her chest tighten and caused her head to spin.
Evie continued on, and for a second, Ella wondered if she just needed to vent. "Just the other day―you remember when we got paired up in groups to do The Catcher in the Rye assignment, right?―well, the new girl, whatever the hell her name is, tells me that I'm practically a female version of Holden just because I dig his character." She chewed hard on her gum. "Can you believe that?"
Ella immediately thought of Cathy Carlson as the new girl, but Cathy wasn't in their English class, was she? Shoot. "Cathy?"
"No, the stuck-up snob in our English class," Evie replied, voice bitter. The girl's name was definitely not Cathy. She raised an eyebrow at Ella. "She's got crazy black hair, just moved here from the city not too long ago . . ."
As if someone flicked a light on, Ella's eyes widened in stark realization. "Oh, yeah. Bridget Stevens."
"Yeah, her."
The shorter girl pursed her lips. She hadn't given Bridget much thought, although her wardrobe and style were something to be admired. Ella felt her heart sink in her chest as she wondered if she would ever be able to afford things like that, and judging from Evie's cold expression, her dislike of Bridget Stevens went further than just a snide insult―she envied the girl.
XXXXX
Ella sighed, tapping her fingers against the counter. She liked working the shifts at the store after school more than working the weekends. Usually, Jan, her co-worker, was there to keep her company for a while, but that particular afternoon, she wasn't. Ella felt bored out of her mind, her eyes flickering toward the break room as she thought about her English assignment.
She was a little nervous to meet up with Evie Martin that weekend, but in a way, she was also glad to be doing something other than going to work, not that she was scheduled for a shift Saturday. With a sigh, the brown-haired girl rested her chin in her hand, staring at the few customers who were doing some light shopping. As her thoughts drifted around the events that had occurred that day, Ella found her stare resting at the end of the register across from her, imagining M&M standing there bagging up some groceries, a smile brushing her lips.
She liked Cathy Carlson well enough, and the next time she saw her kid brother, she was going to have to tell him about meeting Cathy. She could just imagine the grin that would adorn his face as she mentioned how they were sharing the same art class and that they were assigned partners. Boy, his eyes would probably be bigger than saucers by the time she finished. M&M was a nice kid, everyone who met him couldn't resist his charm. He was just . . . likable.
"Excuse me?" a voice called, jarring the girl back into reality.
Ella's jaw nearly dropped as she looked at the girl standing in front of her―Bridget Stevens. Ella could hear Evie's voice in her head calling the wild-haired girl a stuck-up snob, but up close, Ella's impression was a little different. Sure, Bridget's exterior screamed upper-class, but she still looked like almost every other girl, except for her hair, which was a forest in itself. Her eyes were vivid green, bright and piercing. There was no doubt that she was pretty, but Ella couldn't imagine her as truly stuck-up. Then again, Evie had more interaction with the girl, unlike Ella, who was just about to utter her first word to her.
"Hi."
Bridget smiled a little, placing two items on the counter for Ella to ring up. She stared at her for a moment, and Ella assumed that she thought she might recognize her from class.
"Have I seen you before?"
Ella nodded. "We're in the same English class."
The girl's brows pulled together, and then her face lit up ever so slightly. "Oh, right! I'm new, so I don't really know everyone around just yet. I'm still getting used to things."
"Oh," came the reply. "That's okay."
Bridget continued on as she paid for her items, grabbing the little bag Ella had placed them in. "So, what book did Miss. Tracy give you for that assignment?"
"A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," Ella answered with a frown. "I was paired up with Evie Martin. What about you?"
At the mention of Evie's name, Bridget cringed a little, and Ella wasn't sure if it was out of disgust or embarrassment. "I was given Their Eyes Were Watching God, and I'm partnered with Lucy Radner."
Ella inwardly grimaced when Bridget said Lucy's name. She definitely wasn't one of her friends, so to speak. "That's a good one."
"You've read it?"
She nodded. "A while ago, yeah. It's a deep read, a little melancholic."
Bridget shrugged, a small frown on her lips. "Well, I can't wait to delve into it." She gave Ella another smile before leaving, and Ella couldn't help but wonder if she was being sarcastic or not.
She grinned to herself, though, finding it awfully humorous that Evie had seen the film adaption of the book that she was assigned, and that Ella herself had read the book Bridget was given. Strange how things seemed to . . . connect like that. Or was it just a coincidence? Ella wasn't sure either way, but the thought was lost when another customer approached the counter.
XXXXX
Evie's eyes flickered toward the clock in Steve's car, a breathy sigh escaping her mouth as his lips worked her neck, hands expertly roaming across her body. It was rare that the two of them got moments like this alone together, so whenever either one of them saw the opportunity, they always went for it. Evie liked being alone with her boyfriend, liked the way they could talk about this and that, and she liked the way he treated her, the way he kissed her, touched her . . .
She gasped as his hand slipped under her blouse, the feeling of his calloused fingers forming goosebumps across her abdomen. It was only when they began traveling south did the girl jerk away, moving to sit up.
"Not tonight," she murmured, planting a light kiss on his mouth.
Steve looked a little annoyed, but he didn't hassle her about it―he never did. "Not a good time?" he guessed, pulling his shirt over his head, eyes fixed on her face.
"Not, it ain't that," she answered, pulling her bottom lip through her teeth, almost wishing it was. "I don't know. I'm just―"
Steve, picking up on his girlfriend's frustration, lit two cigarettes, passing one off to her. "Here," he said, moving to rest his arm around the seat. The tip glowed as he took a drag of his cigarette, dark eyes losing their earlier glassiness, his expression reflecting concern.
Evie leaned back in the seat, inhaling deeply. "Steve, can I ask you somethin'? It's something I've been thinkin' an awful lot about, and well, it's been eating at me."
He cocked an eyebrow, giving her an odd look. Steve loved Evie, really he did, but sometimes, and it was times like this, where he knew she was about to be dramatic over something, and usually, he would tune her out after a while. Judging from her fixated gaze, he knew he was in for one of her deep talks, the kind that could put him to sleep if he didn't care about her so damn much.
"What is it?"
"Well"―Here we go, he thought―"Beth said I dress like a whore."
Steve almost gagged. "What?"
Truth be told, Steve was no fan of Evie's kid sister. Beth Martin was just . . . annoying. Whenever he stopped by the house, the brat would intentionally sneak up on them, or purposely try to sit between them, or she would make kissy faces at them when Mr. and Mrs. Martin weren't looking. Steve just flat out couldn't stand her, but she was Evie's sister, and well, he tolerated her.
Evie continued on. "It's just been buggin' me, you know? I keep thinking that I'm being labeled . . ."
He began to drown her out after that. Evie never showed any sign of caring what other people thought of her. Glory, she was a tough girl, one of the reasons that he was so attracted to her―that and the fact that she was good looking and had a great personality. He never thought she dressed like a whore; he'd seen worse than just skimpy attire. Perhaps she was just gaining a reputation because she hung around the likes of Sylvia. But what did it matter?
"Look, babe," he began, rubbing the space above his nose. "You ain't no whore, alright? You're my girl, and I think you're beautiful, no matter how the hell ya dress, dig?"
Evie felt her heart beating faster as he leaned over to kiss her, his free hand cupping her cheek, and even though his feelings and support meant the world to her, his words did little to comfort her.
"In all her intercourse with society, however, there was nothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it... She stood apart from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt."
―Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter
S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.
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