DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Outsiders, or any of S.E. Hinton's characters within the story. But I'm figuring you already knew that.
"It's weird she was only a freshman last year. That's like junior high. That's like … your brother. She's not that young."
Steve sat in the Curtis living room with Sodapop looking through Ponyboy's 1965 Yearbook.
"Well Pony skipped a grade, remember? He's younger-lookin'. Besides, you were only a sophomore last year. That's pretty young."
"But not that young."
It was necessary to find Evie's picture in the old Hamilton Jr. High Yearbook after Steve inadvertently forgot to get her number. It was too late to ask her now.
"Here," Soda said, pointing to her picture. "Her last name is Davis. Evelyn Davis. That's weird. She doesn't look like an Evelyn."
Steve pulled out the phone book. "Yeah, that's probably why she's called Evie, dumbass."
"Evie Dumbass? Well Steve, don't you think that's kind of a rude thing to call your girlfriend?" Soda laughed and playful punched Steve in the arm.
"You're a real card, Soda," Steve replied, laughing lightly with him. "And she's not my girlfriend."
"Yet."
Steve rolled his eyes and flipped open the phone book. Tulsa was too big, the book too thick. There were probably dozens of Davises in the entire city. How did Soda manage to keep up with so many girls' numbers? Oh, that's right—by not calling over half of them. Talk about taking things for granted.
He found the Ds and skimmed down the page until he found Davis. They took up over half a column.
"Well damn, how do we figure out which one is Evie's?" Soda asked
"Look at the addresses. Anything past 51st street obviously isn't her."
After a bit of arguing they ended up narrowing it down to three names: Mr. and Mrs. Robert Davis, Mr. and Mrs. George Davis, and John Davis. Steve wrote the names and phone numbers down a piece of paper.
"Ya think she sounds more like the daughter of Robert or George?" Steve asked. "Probably not John."
"I dunno. You'll have to call and see."
Like hell he'd be doing that. Hadn't he embarrassed himself enough over the past couple days? Ringing up random people in search of a girl would add fuel to the fire.
"Dammit," Steve said, standing up and walking to the telephone. He shook his head and dialed the number for Mr. and Mrs. Robert Davis.
It rang. And it rang. And it rang again. One more time.
"Hello?" The voice sounded like it was coming from a dying old man with emphysema.
"Um … is, uh, Evie there?"
"Who? I don't know any Evie. Who are you?"
"Uh, sorry, wrong number." Steve hung up. He had never been a fan of unnecessary awkwardness.
"Not her, huh?"
"Nope," he sighed. "George Davis next."
He dialed the number and listened to the ring.
"Davis residence, Janet speaking." The woman's voice was a little too sugary-sweet.
He stifled an annoyed sigh. "Yeah, is Evie there?"
"No, I'm sorry, son, I think you have the wrong number."
Steve hung up without apologizing. "Well goddamn, neither of those is her."
"Call the other guy. Joe or whatever—call him," Soda said tiredly, resting his feet up on the table.
"He doesn't have a wife. Wouldn't she have a mother?"
Soda shrugged.
"Whatever," Steve muttered, and dialed the number.
It was answered after just one ring. "Hello?"
Steve almost grinned. "Evie?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"Steve. Steve Randle. I was just, uh, makin' sure I had the right number. I guess I do."
"I guess you do, Steve Randle."
"Yeah. So, I'll, uh, see you at school then."
"You probably will."
"I will. All right, so I'll call ya on Friday. Or do you think you'll have to wash your hair then, too?"
She giggled lightly. "No, I don't suppose I'll have to wash my hair that day."
"Then I'll call you."
"You'll call me then."
"Right. Talk to you later."
"Bye-bye."
He hung up. Jeez, talk about an uncomfortable thirty seconds.
"You sure do act like a goof when you talk to a girl you like," Soda teased.
"Shut up, Sodapop. Best buddy or not, I ain't afraid to knock your teeth in, got it?" Steve returned to his seat next to Soda.
Soda hooked his arm around Steve's neck. "Aw, am I really your best buddy?" He wiped away an imaginary tear.
"I warned you, man …" He reared back his fist.
"Shit," Soda said, dodging the punch and hurrying into the kitchen.
Steve followed in close proximity, his left hook ready to swing. "I warned you!"
XXX
As he drove home, Steve could feel the bruise forming on his cheekbone. He laughed. For a smaller guy, Soda could really pack a punch.
He reached his house, parked the car and went inside. He hoped there'd be food in the icebox; he and Soda's kitchen brawl had left him rather hungry and they'd eaten the last of the chocolate cake the day before. He put his keys in his pocket—Steve never kept them away from his person, especially while in his father's house—and headed for the refrigerator. His dad was still at the oil refinery and his mother was likely out playing bingo. Thank God for small favors. The three of them together in the same house almost always ended up in a huge verbal-rumble, which Steve of course consistently won, though in exchange for the win he usually ended up spending the night on Soda's couch. What a sore loser Randle Sr. was.
After a few minutes of opening and reopening every cupboard in the kitchen Steve decided there was nothing to eat. The only decent thing he found in the icebox was a carton of eggs. He shrugged. Eggs would have to do. He took two out of the carton, pulled his dad's morning-cereal bowl out of the sink and got to cooking. In his nearly-seventeen years of life Steve had learned a thing or two about making his own food. It was a necessary survival skill and one that he had mastered. At least when it came to scrambling eggs, anyway.
Ten minutes later he had his very own gourmet-style scrambled eggs. He got them on a plate and took a seat at the table. He took a bite of his hard work and savored the taste. The perfect amount of salt and pepper. Delicious. He took the time between bites to look through the mail sitting in front of him. Mostly bills (of which he pocketed the gas final notice) and a letter addressed to him from his brother. He opened it and pulled out the piece of paper with the intention to read it, but only got as far as, "Hey Steve," before he heard the front door swing open and the sound of his father stomping in.
Steve quickly and swiftly stuffed the letter into his pocket with the bill, ate his last few bites of eggs, put the fork and plate into the sink, and left out the back door.
I hope this chapter didn't move too quickly. Feel free to tell me if it did. I realize the last half was a little pointless as far as pushing the story along goes, but I wanted show a little glimpse of Steve's home life. Obviously this a very, very small glimpse, but a glimpse all the same. And you might be wondering about the seemingly-random brother I mentioned at the end. He will not be a character in this fic, but he does serve as purpose, as I am going along with Hinton's idea of what happened to the characters after the book. If you'd like to know the details just PM me.