I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life - and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do. -Georgia O'Keeffe

Dallas Winston shook the excess water off his threadbare clothes. With a thunderous glare, he looked past the model hands on the windowsill and out the art room window; of course the fuckin' downpour had to stop the moment he walked in the building.

Dally was in a bad mood and being stuck in Girdlé's art class with dopey Ella Mitchell did nothing to make him feel better. What made him feel better was kicking the back of Jerry Thompson's chair and throwing soaked paper wads at him.

"What the hell is your problem, Winston? You want to take it outside?" Thompson said in low voice, pulling pieces of soaked paper off his husky frame.

Dal merely yawned, "ooh, 'take it outside' I'm supposta be shaking right now, huh?" Dally's words were cool, but his hot temper forced his hand into a fist. He was dangerously close to knocking Thompson's two front teeth.

But something stopped him. It wasn't the fear of Thompson or the Vice Principal's paddle. Not that he would take being paddled. Fuck, Ol' Leon even thinks of paddlin' him and Dally would be back in prison on a homicide charge.

He had no fear of beltin' at home either. In his neighborhood a dad who didn't belt his kid once in a while was a rare bird, and his Pops was a regular ol' shit reeking pigeon just like the rest of 'em. A proud grin spread across the towhead's elfish face when he remembered the last time his ol' man belted him. Busted Dally's lip. Pops couldn't see out of his left eye for a week.

Pop never belted Dally again.

See, I was right kid, get tough and fight back, and nothing and nobody can hurt you.

What stopped Dallas Winston from fucking up Thompson's perfect teeth was the thought of going back to jail.

He mess up at Will Rogers and he would be on his way to serve a five year sentence at the Big House. Not that Dal was afraid of no prison, but being stuck in a 5x8 cells with a bunch of sweaty guys wasn't really what Dallas Winston had in mind for a good time.

Dally crumpled up his drawing and angrily threw it in the trash basket. He felt like the biggest punk in the world.

Taking his switchblade out of his pocket he began to carve a few unrepeatable words into the desk. Standing up to sharpen his pencil, Thompson smirked at Dallas, "why Winston, I didn't know you could even write. Guess the county prison 'learn to read' program is better than I thought."

Rage exploded from Dally's pale, slouchy frame, dropping his blade on the table; he knocked Jerry Thompson to the ground.

Jerry was a better fighter than Dal gave him credit for. In one fell swoop he pushed Dal off and pinned the greaseless-greaser against the wall. Thompson's arms locking him in place. Dal, in spite of himself, grimaced and eyed his blade, its handle still spinning on the table.

"Thompson! Winston, break it up now!" Girdlé yelped out.

Well, shit, took Girdlé long enough to realize that two of her students were trying to kill each other.

The entire class turned to the back corner; stools and chairs scraped against the floor. A few guys stood up, like they were going to attempt to break up the fight.

Ol' Girdlé, her glasses slapping against her boobs, ran to the back of the classroom. Jerry let go of Dally and Girdlé, still looking shaken, shifted her eyes from boy to boy.

Dal expected her to send them to Leon's office but instead she moved to the front of the class and continued to talk as if nothing happened; "now by the end of this week I want you each to have a preliminary idea of how you want to represent your partner. Remember, you don't need to make a direct comparison, if your partner is tall, you don't need to draw him as a Redwood, get to know them, find out what makes them tick and go beyond physical appearance."

Dal noticed that when she said 'tick' her eyes went right to him. Dally rolled his own eyes back at her.

The last five minutes of class some dark haired chick with high arched eyebrows that sat next to Dopey Ella kept on looking back at him. So, Dal figured he'd do the friendly thing, and wave at her. He just forgot to include his thumb and three fingers. The girl wasn't as ugly as Ella but she wasn't no looker either. Not that Dal was on the hunt for a girl or nothing, but if he was gonna be stuck at Will Rogers they could at least give him some broads worth looking at.

The black haired girl didn't blush or snitch or nothing, she just shook her head and went back to her work.

Stuck up little broad.

Ol' Gird kept Dally and Thompson after class. She asked the boys what happened, of course she asked Thompson first. Dal glared at his teacher and tightened his fists at Thompson. Teachers were always taking the word of douchebags like Thompson over greases like Dal.

To Dal's surprise, Thompson gave is straight. Not adding or taking away nothing, including his stupid crack about Dal being illiterate. He may even looked a bit guilty, but Dal could give two shits.

"Is this so, Mr. Winston?" The art teacher looked at him, and pulled her stupid glasses closer to her nose.

Dal shrugged, "yeah, guess so," and popped a piece of gum in his mouth.

She sighed, like she actually gave a flying fuck, and wrote Jerry Thompson a three day detention for fighting and told him he could leave. Thompson started to stammer about fighting in self-defense.

God for such a big guy he sounded like a whiny little bitch.

She smiled at Jerry, "I know Mr. Thompson, but you know this school has a no fighting policy, just be glad it's three days and not a week."

Jerry nodded politely but the moment he turned his back, his shoulders bunched up and huffed out the room.

Fuckin' pussy.

Dal crossed his arms, expecting the matronly woman to write him a detention slip when she looked at the towhead's iced eyes, "I could write you a detention, Mr. Winston, but I have a feeling that's not going to make a difference."

Anger rushed through Dal, so this was it, huh? He got in one little scuffle with a douche Soc football player and he was gonna get suspended or kicked out of school. Fuck ol Girdlé, fuck Jerry Thompson. Dal grabbed his books, ready to storm out of the classroom and out of Will Rogers, when the art teacher's words broke into his internal rant.

"You know Mr. Winston, I was taking a look at your um, 'carvings' and content aside, you have a distinct style of handwriting, your drawings too are very expressive," there was the slightest curve of a bemused smile on the older woman's mouth.

"So what, now you goin' through my trash?" Acidic anger poured out of Dal's mouth. Those drawings, no one was meant to see them. Hell, even Dal didn't like looking down at the jeans jacket and coal black eyes. Didn't like to think about what they meant. Of who they reminded him of….

"Well, Mr. Winston, I apologize if you feel I invaded your privacy; I assure you, I haven't gone through your trash, but from what I have seen from walking around my classroom, you have an interesting style." If she was pissed at him, she didn't show it, if anything she seemed almost amused at Dally's outburst.

Usually Dally would play it cool, using his winter-ice eyes and cold expression to do all talking for him, but before he knew it, the words spewed from his mouth.

"Yeah, so what you tryin' to say?" If she was tryin' to get him to butter him up with compliments so he'd behaved she was in for one rude surprise. Sides, Dally have talent? Who the hell was she kidding?

Fuckin' ridiculous.

He cracked his gum loudly, but the middle aged teacher didn't blink.

"What I'm saying, Mr. Winston is that instead of spending a few hours in detention, I think your energy and creativity can use another outlet. I'm assigning you to the Homecoming Art and Design Committee."

If Mrs. G wasn't an old lady Dally would have throttled her pea-brained neck right there. Homecoming Committee? Art and Design?

Was she fuckin' nuts?

"You nuts, lady? You want me to be part of Homecoming? I ain't doing it. Send me to Leon, kick me outta school," send me to prison, Dally thought to himself, "I ain't doing it."

Dally locked eyes with the older woman, but to his surprise, she looked right at him, not taking her eyes of his thunderbolt glare.

"This isn't just because of your little scuffle with Mr. Thompson…" She then went on to list all of the Dal's misbehaviors in class; throwing the wad of paper at Dopey Ella, defacing school property, giving the finger to the black haired broad with the stuck-up eyebrows.

Dal grunted, jeez, what was this, Candid Camera? With this shit he might as well be in the slammer.

"I'm giving you an option, Mr. Winston; it's either Homecoming or suspension."

Dally didn't say anything, he walked up to the windowsill pushed one thumb and three fingers down on the wooden model hand, leaving the middle one up.

He stormed out of the room.

She had her answer.

XXXXX

"Checkmate." With a serious grin that only he could pull off, M&M Carlson put his father out of his misery.

Jim Carlson sighed with mock frustration and shook his eldest son's hand, "well done Mr. Fischer."

Cathy couldn't help but beam as she walked up to father and gave him a peck on the cheek. The only thing hip about Cathy was the two joints that held up her slender figure, but Cathy wasn't ashamed of how much she truly loved her family.

Even the little kids, loud mouthed brats that they were, could be fun and sweet. At times.

"When did you get home, Daddy?"

Mr. Carlson worked for an insurance company downtown and his arrival home was usually met with sticky hugs and stampede of little feet. Cathy was too busy getting her room set up for Ella's arrival to notice.

"A little over an hour ago, hey you want to play a game? Your brother already beat me three times in a row; I might as well add another loss to my records," the thick haired man said with a benign smirk.

Cathy wasn't surprised that M&M beat their father in chess. M&M was a genius, a genuine Einstein with shaggy black hair and a sharp pointed nose. His English teacher was practically begging their parents to let him test into the eighth grade, saying that he was the most brilliant mind she'd ever run across in 26 years of teaching.

"He knows it all, Mr. and Mrs. Carlson, I can't teach him. He's beyond me." Mrs. Carlson repeated with heaping of pride and a dash of worry to Cathy.

But M&M wouldn't budge, "I like it in her class," he told his slack jawed parents. "Besides, if I'd test into the eighth grade in a few months some English teacher or math teacher would just say that I should be testing into the 9th grade or 10th grade."

From most kids that would come across as conceited, but not, Cathy thought, from M&M. He was the most honest kid she ever knew. He never bragged about himself, he couldn't help it that every single one of his teachers went positively gaga over his brain.

Both Momma and Daddy were smart and Daddy's job made it possible to support a family of nine; but money in the Carlson's house was a tablecloth that never quite stretched across the entire table. Vacations, extras and Department store clothes were few and far between.

Instead, the family shopped at discount stores like Shoppers Fair, the younger kids wore hand me downs, the older kids received perfunctory Christmas gifts, in order for the true believers to receive their dolls and toys from Santa.

In addition to being the mother of 7 and a former 1st grade teacher, Mrs. Carlson was also the world's most foremost coupon cutter.

Mr. Carlson didn't understand why his son was so nonchalant about his intelligence, constantly telling M&M that he was sure to get a full ride to any college in the country, maybe even, Harvard, with his brains.

Both her parents had gone to college, but Cathy knew that if she wanted to go, and she did, more than anything; Cathy would have to earn a scholarship or pay her own way. Cathy was smart, but not M&M smart, so she worked at the hospital snack bar hoping to squirrel away enough cash to afford the University of Tulsa in 3 years.

But anytime her father mentioned college to M&M, the young boy would sigh and start talking about politics. Cathy was apolitical, she supported Johnson for President, her parents were both Goldwater supporters, but she wasn't even sure if they voted in last year's election. In conversations M&M would spout out an alphabet soup of names: SNCC, Mario Savio, Berkley, SDS and Cathy would feel as lost as her middle aged parents.

Cathy didn't get why her father hunkered down on M&M so much. The boy was brilliant, of course he was going to college, couldn't Daddy just leave him alone?

"So, you want to give the game the old college try?" Mr. Carlson tapped his fingers on the chess board.

Cathy grinned, "love to, but I got company coming over."

"Do I need to get my shot gun out?" Mr. Carlson raised an eyebrow and gave Cathy a wink.

"Ha, very funny, it's a girl in my art class. Her name is Ella Mitchell, and she's very nice." The last words and the pointed stare which accompanied her words aimed squarely at Bonnie Carlson.

Bonnie, lying on the couch like a lolling cat, stuck her tongue out at her big sister. "Bet she's a total dork."

"Bonnie…"Daddy warned, and Bonnie offered an apology so dusty Cathy could sneeze off it.

Daddy shot Bonnie a warning glance and, as he walked out the living room, Pete, clad only in underwear and socks, his hands dripping with soap suds from helping wash dishes, ran into the living room and jumped on M&M's back.

"Oh for Pete's sake, put on some darn clothes!" Cathy said with exasperation and everyone, even M&M, chuckled.

Cathy's palm hit her forehead when she realized what she said, she started to laugh, when the doorbell rang.

XXXXX

Ella Mitchell arrived, a slight scowl on her face and Cathy noticed she seemed more frazzled and frayed than normal. Her hands tightened around her school books, her purse falling and catching in the crook of her arm.

"Hi," the brown haired girl said shortly, "sorry I'm late."

Cathy tried to give a friendly smile, all while trying even harder to remember what she said or did to make Ella Mitchell so crabby. They seemed to get along in class just fine. Did she give Ella a dirty look? She winced remembering the murderous glare she gave to Bridget.

Ella took one step in the small, simply furnished but well-kept home, and SPLAT fell flat on her face.

Her legs sprawled behind her, her feet banging against the door, her arms rose in front of her as if she was surrendering, her petite face an inch from the floor.

Cathy, M&M and Pete Carlson, still pantless, rushed to Ella's side. Bonnie Carlson lifted her head, her bottom still glued to the couch.

The brown haired girl's face blushed slightly and her ears turned red. She seemed more embarrassed than hurt and Cathy felt guilty.

Poor Ella.

The rest of the family members rushed out to see what the commotion was, baby Jennifer toddled with the demon speed of a hyper two year old, completely naked except for the clean diaper she wore on her head as a crown. With a dramatic sigh, the little girl 'fell' to the floor, bumping her diapered head against Ella's forehead and giggling, "hiya, hiya, hiya!"

Sara Carlson ran out of the master bedroom, "Jenny, comeshere" she ordered, a diaper pin in her mouth.

"Oh, my, what happened?" The mother of seven asked, removing the diaper pin from her mouth and giving a sympathetic cringe to Ella's splat form.

Bonnie's identical twin Leslie, Jim and Christopher Carlson popped into the living room. Leslie, Cathy knew, was secretly glad for any temporary distraction from violin practice.

Nine Carlson, with their coal black hair and light eyes bore down at Ella with expressions ranging from curiosity, sympathy to indifference and humor.

Ella dusted herself off and with a nervous smile told Cathy's mom that she was "I'm fine. I just tripped, Mrs. Carlson." Ella moved a bit from the doorway and right there shimmering like a diamond in the rough, was the offending weapon, Bonnie Carlson's silver roller skate.

"Bonnie!" Cathy grabbed the roller skate and walked over to her sister, who was trying (and failing) not to giggle. "Stop leaving your roller skates all over the place, someone could have gotten hurt."

"You little psychopath," Cathy added under her breath.

"I'm fine," Ella said softly, but Cathy waved her off, the girl was still shaken, she clearly was not fine.

"No, she needs to learn not to leave her junk lying around, you could have really gotten hurt."

Ella looked even more embarrassed and she drew her head in slightly.

"Cathy, it's…" the brown haired girl began, a hint of annoyance snaking through her voice.

"OKAY," Jim Carlson broke in his voice firm, "Bonnie, give me your skates, you can't care enough to put them away properly, you won't care if you lose them for two weeks."

Bonnie crossed her arms and gave Cathy a withering glare, as if she was the one who forced her to give up her beloved roller skates. She pointed her head towards Ella, "total dork," she whispered to Cathy.

With a bright smile and warm Sunbelt chuckle, Cathy pushed her younger sister, sending her flying down to the floor.

Not missing a beat, she grabbed Ella's forearm, "come on, let's go to my room."

XXXXX

"Are you okay? I don't mean the fall, but is everything okay?" What Cathy meant to ask "are we okay?" Ella seemed distant and cool tonight, her eyes a million miles away, her hands bunched up tight.

Ella sighed and brushed a flying strand of hair out of her eye. "Yeah, I just have a lot going on, my mom, school…"

Cathy felt awful she didn't even know there were any issues going on with Mrs. Mitchell. Cathy thought she should ask if Mrs. Mitchell was okay, but she could tell that Ella didn't want to talk about her personal life. Cathy understood perfectly.

"…tutoring Dallas Winston," Cathy broke in with a smirk and Ella gave her a knowing smile.

"Hmm, I was trying to forget, thanks Cathy." But Ella's warm blue eyes told Cathy she was joking and Cathy felt foolish for assuming Ella was mad at her in the first place.

The girls tried to work on their art project, they really did, but couldn't stop talking about what took place in class.

"You know," Cathy treaded slowly, "Dallas kinda reminds me of a kid my brother knows, Mark Jennings, do you know him?"

Ella looked up for a second and shook her head no.

"Well, his parents killed themselves, simultaneous homicide and he's a…" Cathy couldn't call Mark a 'nice guy' even though he was decent enough to M&M and her parents. "He's an… interesting guy. He's rough, but he's always able to draw a crowd. Dallas reminds me a bit of him. He's one of those guys that would be real fascinating if he were a character in a book, but in real life…" Cathy leaned towards her partner, her elbows resting on her thighs, "he's an ass."

Cathy stood up straight and brushed her hair out of her eyes, she was good at analyzing people.

Ella sighed, and with a weariness that made her seem wiser and older than her years, softly muttered, "I think I had enough of Dallas Winston for one day." From her tone of her voice, Ella seemed to have enough of Dallas Winston for a lifetime.

The girls continued to talk, Ella asked a lot of questions about growing up in a big family and Cathy was surprised at how easy their talk flowed, once they stopped talking about Dallas.

"Are you going to homecoming?" The question popped out of Ella Mitchell's mouth and she shook her head, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

Cathy, remembering the conversation with Bridget Stevens, shook her head, "I don't know," she said honestly. "I'd like to go…" There was a lot Cathy Carlson could have said. How she wanted to date, but could never find right guy, the boys were either too stupid, too immature or she wasn't pretty enough or sociable enough. Which Cathy noted sourly meant that she wouldn't put out.

How she wished that she could bring her summer boyfriend, Mike, to the dance, but that would mean introducing him to her parents and Cathy liked the idea of having a secret boyfriend all to herself. It sounded romantic, like something out of a French novel.

But instead she blurted out, "besides my hair never looks good." The honesty of Cathy's answer caught her by surprise and she cleared her throat as if she did not recognize the words as her own.

Cathy ran her fingers through her straight, black hair, poofing her hair up in volume.

There was something in Ella's kind eyes that made Cathy want to continue, it wasn't a distant sympathy, but empathy; and Ella, seemingly without realizing it, touched her own hair, smoothing down her soft frizzy hair with her hands.

For a second two girls formed mirror images of each other, each wanting what the other girl had. Of course, Cathy wouldn't want her hair to be as unmanageable as Ella, but some volume would be appreciated.

"I've had the same hairstyle since the second grade," Cathy noted dryly. And I'll have the same damn hairstyle when I'm seventy.

"For once," she continued her voice rising with a deep mine of emotion, "I want to try something new. I want to take a risk." Her chest felt warm and her stomach bounced, was this how being honest felt? God, it felt like the night she snuck whiskey into her dorm.

Cathy cringed, wishing she could stuff the superficial, but honest words back into her mouth. "I know it's stupid, I mean with all of the problems in the world: the war, poverty, race riots," she sounded like M&M.

"I don't think it's stupid Cathy, I mean, I don't think there's anything wrong with your hair at least it doesn't have a personality crisis depending on the weather," Ella smirked.

"But, if you want to go to Homecoming, there's a girl in my English class, Evie Martin, she does hair, if you're interested, maybe she can try a new style on you?"

Evie Martin? The name sounded familiar, but Cathy couldn't remember where she knew it from.

She thought of the girls in her neighborhood, the girls with beehive hairdos and teased bangs; Cathy was not that type of girl, Ella didn't seem to be that type of girl either. But who were they?

From her chair she could see her reflection in the mirror, a girl of average height, average looks, average everything. Only her eyebrows broke the pattern of monotony etched on her face.

"But only if you want to Cathy, I'm getting my hair done, it might be fun."

Glory, Ella made it sound fun. But Cathy wasn't ready to give a definitive answer, she wasn't even sure if she'd be going to homecoming, and then she remembered Bridget's offer and a whole new can of worms emptied in her guts.

But Cathy Carlson was the master at playing it cool. She merely shrugged politely, "maybe."

She looked at Ella; the blue eyed girl gave Cathy a wide smile, her palms stretched open.

XXXXX

Evie watched as Steve zoomed out of the hospital parking lot, his cool mint breath still rolling down her throat. Goosebumps ran up her arms, but inside a warm sensation spread across her chest.

Only Steve could make her feel so cool and warm all at the same time.

Today was Evie's day to deliver flowers and get well cards to patients; and the roses, daffodils, carnations and buttercups were piled so high Evie couldn't see where she was going.

A bouquet of yellow and white daffodils in her hand, Evie knocked tepidly on the patient's door.

"Uh, excuse me, Mr. Barton?"

"Bertha! Bertha is that you? I need my bath now;" the grumpy voice yelled at Evie from his bed.

"I'm not Bertha, are you Mr. Barton? I got a delivery for you," Evie called out from the doorway the annoyance in her voice ratcheting up a notch.

"You're so lazy Bertha, I swear I don't know what I'm gonna do with ya' honey." His voice softened and he shook his head in laughter.

"Mr. Barton, I'm not Bertha, I'm the flower…"

"I always have to do everything myself, Bertha." His voice rose but there was a hedge of laughter in his exasperation.

Without warning, Mr. Barton ripped off the top of his hospital gown. Evie quickly shut the door. Jesus Christ! Evie rolled her eyes and shuddered. But the further she moved away from the room, it wasn't Mr. Barton's exposed chest and chapped nipples that followed Evie down the hallway, but his soft laugh.

Whoever Bertha was, she meant a lot. Evie didn't think of herself as a mushy type of gal, growing up on the east side made you aware of the harsh facts of life from an early age, but she couldn't shake Mr. Barton out of her mind. She wondered what it would be like to go stark crazy with age and senility, but still remember your love?

Evie ran a hand down her throat. Maybe she was imagining it, but she could still taste Steve's mint scented breath.

She swallowed hard.

Most of the flowers were destined for new mothers in the maternity ward. Evie hadn't really thought of having children yet. Heaven knows there were plenty of girls who dropped out of school with no explanation, rumors and whispers running down the halls of Will Rogers like cheap mascara down tear streaked faces.

Then there was Sandy. Steve had plenty to say on that subject, his soft, cool voice exploding in a fiery storm of anger whenever Sandy's name came up in conversation. Evie didn't condone what Sandy did, but sometimes she thought of her friend, pregnant, alone and labeled a 'slut' by Kathy and she felt sorry for her.

Not that she would tell that to Steve. Steve would never get rough with her, but when it came to his best buddy Soda Curtis, Steve could only see Soda's side. Nobody else mattered. Evie wasn't envious, she liked Soda and she knew that Steve loved her.

Nope, Evie wouldn't tell nobody that she still thought about Sandy, hoping that she was doing okay, wondering if she was going to have a boy or girl. Not that it mattered, Evie thought glumly.

Sandy would probably come back home by next summer and her baby would be with some other family, the kind of family where the girls were good and well-behaved and real ladies. Regular Bridgets and Lucys and Cherrys all of them, Evie thought with a snort.

Even without the baby, everyone would know what Sandy did and why she really went away. As much as Evie didn't want to think of school or that book, a passage stabbed through Evie's mind:

"But the point which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer-so that both men and women who had been familiarly acquainted with Hester Prynne were now impressed as if they beheld her for the first time-was that SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her bosom. It had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself."

Sandy's growing stomach was her Scarlet Letter. Evie shook her head, Sandy had made her bed, and now she had to lie in it. It wasn't Evie's problem. Wasn't Evie's problem Sandy was loose.

She had one more bouquet on her list, a Mrs. Fisher.

Evie peaked into the room; a girl with a blank expression leafed through the July issue of Cosmo. "The new pill that promises to make women more responsive," the cover's side headline blared out.

"You got flowers for me?" The girl winced as she pulled herself into a sitting position, but she grinned. Evie walked in the room, the girl was around her age, she guessed, maybe sixteen or seventeen, no older than that. When she sat up, Evie could see that she was pregnant.

"Uh, are you Mrs. Fisher?"

With that, the girl chortled, "Mrs?" She stuck her hands out in front of her, and waved her ringless fingers in front of Evie's face, in a slow, almost elegant manner, as if she was a hand model.

"I'm sorry, I musta gotten the wrong room, I should…" Evie said quickly, but even quicker, the girl cut her off.

"I should have known, nobody is gonna bring me flowers. My parents haven't visited me once, said I've tarnished the family name, my…"she drew her rolled eyes down to her stomach, "he doesn't visit me either. We were together for a year…" the girl let out a bitter snort and Evie wanted to get out of there.

But before Evie had a chance to turn around the girl reached a hand out to her, the light of the room's shadow making her fingers seem especially slender and bony, fragile even; "my name is Lynette, what's your name?"

The hospital had rules about not touching patents, they could be diseased or something, and glory with Homecoming the last thing she needed was to be bedridden. But Lynette seemed almost starving for touch, and before she realized it, Evie reached out her own hand in a quick handshake.

"I'm Evie," Evie said in the polite, formal voice Evie used when she interviewed for the hospital job.

"Evie?" There was a spark in Lynette's eyes, "as in the first woman, the mother of us all?" Lynette was joking, but Evie was too damn tired to care.

"Nah," Evie sighed, "it's short for Evelyn and I have no clue who the hell she is."

XXXXX

Cathy Carlson was doing her best to avoid Bridget Stevens; it wasn't hard, the two of them belonged to two different social circles. She liked Bridget, but she still didn't have an answer for Bridget about finding a date. Part of Cathy thought of the idea of being set up on a date would be exciting, and her heartbeat sped up, the light pounding under her chest matching the rhythm of sneakers, boots, loafers and heels tapping against the aged hallway.

But, then she thought about some of the boys at Will Rogers and her excitement deflated like a lead balloon.

Cathy turned the combination of her locker, for a straight A student, she sure had a difficult time remembering her combo.

Rats! Messed up again. Heaving a sigh, Cathy tried again and with a strategic kick and a whispered "damn it!" the locker opened. Cathy pulled out her Algebra book, Chemistry and U.S. History she slammed the locker and there stood Bridget Stevens.

"Catherine, have you thought about Homecoming?" Bridget didn't appear to wear makeup, but even if she smothered herself in powders and eye shadow, her excitement was so transparent, it would have been impossible to cover up.

Cathy did her best to match her expression, perked eye for perked eye, grin for grin.

A million excuses ran through Cathy's mind, her parents forbade her (not true), she had to babysit (could be true), she was apprehensive and wasn't sure if she could trust Bridget (true, but it might hurt Bridget's feelings).

But Bridget's eyes were bright green lights, excited and encouraging. It was that moment that Cathy, the girl with one foot always hovering over the brake pad, slammed one Mary Jane shoe onto the accelerator.

"I think it sounds like a lot of fun," and a grin spread across Cathy's face, which the dark haired Sophomore thought, was sort of funny, because the prospect of being set up on a date still terrified her as much as it excited her.

"Oh Catherine! This is going to be so much wonderful. We can double date, you and your date, Jerry and me, and I promise you, I won't set you up with a creep." Bridget grinned and it was hard to square this open, smiling girl with the cool-headed sophisticate Cathy met at the assembly. Even her posture seemed more relaxed. Her nails though, were still perfectly done.

"I can help you pick up a dress and we can do your hair and…"

Cathy squirmed, she felt like one of Jenny's dolls the little girl liked to fuss over, brushing its hair to make it "pwetty." But Jenny would brush the hair so vigorously that clumps of synthetic doll hair would fall out, leaving the doll's scalp covered with large bald patches.

Cathy hated being thought of as helpless.

"Oh, don't worry about the hair, I'm thinking about having Evie Martin do my hair."

Well, I guess now Evie is going to do my hair, if I'm going to Homecoming, I might as well go all out.

Bridget's Nebula green orbs dimmed to a shade almost as grey as Cathy's as she shifted uncomfortably against the side of the locker, "oh."

Cathy's stomach turned, she knew she had said something wrong, but wasn't quite sure what.

"Do you know her?"

Taking herself out of the equation, Cathy watched Bridget's expression, her lips pursed slightly, her brows raised up and then down. Cathy knew she was good at observing people and there was a mixture of dislike, guilt and envy on the older girl's pretty face.

"Not real well, she's in my English class." Bridget's voice was tight, and Cathy could tell she wanted to say something else, but instead the wild haired girl fidgeted with her necklace.

A sinking feeling gnawed in Cathy's stomach, and she put her hand on top of her nervous stomach, hoping to quiet anxious butterflies.

Ella Mitchell seemed to like Evie, Bridget seemed weary of her. Cathy? She had no idea. All she hoped was that Evie Martin wouldn't shave her bald.

All her life Cathy had been terrified of rocking the boat, but in a short period of time she made two leaps of faith, trusting her hair to Evie and her love life to Bridget, she hoped she wouldn't regret it.

We still don't own the Outsiders. ;) Shoppers Fair was a real discount store in Tulsa. The issue of Cosmo that Lynette is reading is the the first issue edited by Helen Gurley Brown, author of "Sex and the Single Girl." The July issue also featured a groundbreaking article on birth control.