Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Stevie Nicks owns "Sometimes It's a Bitch."

You gotta take it as it comes

Sometimes it don't come easy

1994

Do you know what's worse than being a teenager? I do. It's the fact that you have to attend high school with other teenagers. It's like navigating your way through a sea of raging adolescent chaos with words of gossip adding to the ever-turning rumor mill. It made me sick, if you want the truth. I mean, I didn't consider myself to be better than anyone else, but sometimes, I really got sick of people my age. I was only sixteen-turning-seventeen—a junior—and the sea of chaos that I attended was none other than Will Rogers High School in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

There were plenty of times that I wished I could simply blend in through the mass of sea creatures I had called my peers, but with my mother co-owning the most popular bakery in town for the past twenty-two years, I was doomed to infamous-y—not that I was popular or anything, but still . . .

My mother, Ella Mitchell, was well-known in town, and she—along with one of her longtime friends, Mary Curtis—owned the local bakery. It was always buzzing with people from the early hours of the morning until they closed up in the late afternoon. I believed that my mother thought that I was going to take over once she retired, but I wasn't exactly sure that following in her footsteps was what I wanted to do with my life. I had nothing against my mother—honestly—but she could be overbearing at times with drilling it into my head about how important it was to get a good education and then to get a job with benefits, blah, blah, blah.

Other than that, she was pretty aloof. She put a lot of time and effort into her work, and when she wasn't doing that, she was bustling about the house making sure that it was clean, or that all of the basic house chores were completed, or that dinner was on the table . . . Basically, my mom was the perfect definition of a homemaker . . . without a husband, or any other children in the house. My dad wasn't out of the picture, but he and my mom had a very . . . complicated relationship, one that apparently had been the driving force that initially brought them together. I mean, I saw my dad almost regularly, but I lived with my mom primarily.

My dad was a pretty notorious guy, and not for the right reasons. He was a former hoodlum, a criminal, and . . . he wasn't exactly the nicest person. He lived in the middle of Timbuktu in a small house that needed more work than it was worth. But he was still my dad, and the one thing we had in common was our love for freedom and horses. In fact, my dad—gruff as he had been—taught me everything about working a ranch and taking care of horses. I guess he was a cool ol' guy in the long run, but his past reputation kept most civilized people away.

And neither my mom or myself could blame them.

I guess, in some way, I was thankful for my parents' complicated relationship that produced me . . . because it also produced the fact that I didn't share my father's last name. Nope. That was the one thing he made clear that he didn't want, so . . . I shared my mother's last name—Mitchell. I think it was mostly to save me the trouble of having a rough time as I got older.

Like I said, my dad wasn't the most favored of people. I guess when you do enough illegal shit as a teenager, not to mention becoming a menace to society for a living, Dallas Winston's name would forever be etched into the minds of those who knew him back when as something that wasn't good.

Harley Louise Mitchell was the name I was given on November 29, 1977 when I came into this world, and let me tell you . . . it wasn't pretty. My mother was crazy enough to reject painkillers and passed out right after she gave birth, and when asked for a name to put on the birth certificate, my dad came out with Harley. I think my mother almost strangled him when she found out, but for whatever reason, she never made any attempt to change it.

Yeah, my parents were complicated.

But this story isn't about them or their crazy relationship. (Only somewhat.)

No, this story is about how I once wanted to knock Marvin Randle's teeth down his throat, and what a pain in the ass he became in my life during my junior year of high school.

It was a Monday afternoon in October, the final bell rang, and I was walking down the hallway when suddenly, Vinny Cossler was forcibly shoved into me. I nearly face-planted as I hit the ground—hard—and then I heard the laughter of the two idiots that had caused the incident—Marvin Randle and his instigating buddy, Richie Hart. They were two of the most annoying boys in the eleventh grade, and I guess I must have done something terribly wrong in a past life to end up having both of them in my last class of the day—English III.

"Damn, are you okay?" Marvin asked, and for a second there, I thought he looked genuinely curious, but I reminded myself that it was Marvin, and we didn't exactly like each other. Looking back on it, I think he might have been a little upset that he and Richie knocked me over. "Me and Richie were just messing around."

I picked myself up and eyed him coolly. "Yeah, well, maybe y'all shouldn't be messing around like two buffoons that belong in the circus."

Marvin wrinkled his nose, before running a hand through his hair. He was a spitting image of both of his parents—Steve and Evie Randle—with dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead and covered a good portion of his light brown eyes. There was something very puppy-like about his face, and I figured it must be the way his eyes slightly slanted downward. He was tan and had a small but muscular build, and I thought that he must have some strength playing football. Standing close to him probably made us look like an Oreo cookie or something, because I was the exact opposite with freckled fair skin, blue eyes, and lighter brown hair—a cross between my parents.

Like me, Marvin was an only child, and it surprised me that our mothers were practically best friends since high school, or something like that, and yet, we didn't get along. We weren't in the same clique by far, and where he was upbeat and laid back, I was reserved and . . . annoyed very easily. It wasn't like Marvin or I were better than each other, honestly. Both of his parents owned businesses in town—his father the best mechanic Tulsa had ever seen, and his mother the most popular beautician in the area, as far as I knew.

But my mother owned, or co-owned, a business, too. And even though my father was . . . a former hood, Marvin's father and him used to be in a small gang together back in the day and were close buddies for a long time.

Marvin's throaty voice brought me back to reality. "Lighten up, would ya? It was an accident." He shook his head as he walked away.

"Harley, are you okay?"

I turned to find Mr. Curtis's green eyes looking me over, his lips pressed into a thin line. He must have saw me face-plant, I guessed, but I was fine. Actually, I was irritated, mostly because I just wanted to see Marvin Randle get a good jab for once. But nothing ever bothered that kid, I mean it. It was as if he didn't let one thing bother him—and that frustrated me. I guess it was because our moms were such tight-knit pals, and yet, Marvin always came off as cool and cocky, like his own shit didn't stink, and for whatever reason, he was always hot and cold with me. I was either annoying him, or he would try and make conversation with me like we were old-time friends.

I just couldn't understand him.

"I'm okay, Ponyboy," I replied, and smirked as he rolled his eyes. Yeah, my English teacher and my mom were close friends, too. After his divorce four years ago, they had somehow gotten closer, and Marvin once made a remark that they were into each other. I never wanted to deck him so hard than I did then. That's the problem with living in an area where everyone knows everyone. Too bad his kids went to Union High School. "Mr. Curtis," I added, correcting myself. "Thanks."

I made my way to my boyfriend's locker, perking up at the sight of him. Now, there's a guy who made the football uniform look halfway decent.

"Hey!" I greeted, smacking a hand against his locker door. "What's up?"

Ethan grinned a little, holding his history book in front of himself. "Mrs. Briggs is making us do a report on the American Revolution."

"Why do you look excited about it?" I asked, blowing a small bubble with the (now) tasteless gum I was chewing.

A shrug. "I might have some nerd do it for me."

"Ethan," I began, making a face, but he only laughed lightly.

My lips pursed as I looked him over while he sorted through the rest of his stuff. Ethan Reynolds and I had known each other since the seventh grade, but we didn't really notice one another's existence until some time in high school. I mean, I had always thought that he was awfully cute with his dark blue eyes and light chocolate colored hair. He had always treated me decently, too, even when we had first gotten together. I decided that I was lucky to have a catch like him. I mean, he was handsome, had good manners, wasn't a slob about himself . . . and he was popular—not that popularity was a contributing factor that way, but still . . .

"Relax," he reassured me, or tried to anyway. "It's not due 'til Friday. I've got plenty of time to get around to it."

I knew if Ethan started falling behind on his studies his parents would blow a fuse. We had been dating for the past seven weeks and I had heard plenty about his mom—especially her—cracking down on him about his grades and playing football. According to him, she had always been like that. I could kind of understand, at least a little. My mom was always finding ways to remind me about how important school and having a career was. My father, on the other hand, never really inquired about how I was doing in school or anything like that.

I nodded as Ethan dropped the book in his backpack. "Sure."

He gave me a look. "I gotta get to practice, but I'll call you tonight, okay?" His eyes met mine, then, and his lips pursed. "You don't have practice today?"

"No," I answered, somewhat disappointed; I loved playing field hockey, having played since junior high, and I was good at it. "Tomorrow." I stifled a laugh. "But I got my workout just a few minutes ago when Marvin Randle and Richie Hart pushed Vinny Cossler into me and I face-planted and ate the floor."

"Ouch," he commented, and looked me over. "Are you okay?"

A nod. "Yeah, I'm good." And then I gave him a sharp look. "And you don't have to kill Marvin during practice, either, although I'd pay big bucks to see that."

He laughed wholeheartedly and placed a chaste kiss against my cheek, promising again to call me that night, something I was looking forward to. Turning on my heel, I grabbed my Walkman from my bag, pulling the headphones around my head as the sound of Stevie Nicks's voice filled my ears.

I didn't have my license yet, so after school, I walked the few blocks to my mom's bakery. I honestly never minded the walk; I actually enjoyed it. I supposed that I was athletic that way—sporty—unlike my mother, who Dad referred to as a dope back in the day. The remark had made me laugh, but in some way, I could see it. Don't get me wrong, I loved my mother, but she fussed over almost everything, and she hated when her schedule or plans were interrupted. She and Dad were really two different people, but I figured I was a cross between them both.

Mary Curtis was standing by the register, her face instantly lighting up when she saw me walk in. I had always liked her well enough. She was funny and smart, like her husband, and I think her presence had eased Mom's stressed disposition a lot. Mary and Soda had one daughter named Hope, who is three years younger than myself. We got along okay, but I never saw too much of her, because she was in eighth grade and I was in eleventh. She was an awfully shy girl, but she could be funny in her own way; she just had to be comfortable enough around you to open up.

"Hi, Mary," I greeted, making my way around the counter and toward the back office where I knew my mom was. "How're you?"

Mary smiled, and I hoped that when I was her age I could look that good. "Fine, sweetheart. How was school?"

"Like school," came the sarcastic response, though it was the truth. I could never figure out why adults asked that question; it felt more like it was something to ask rather than anyone actually caring. I saw Mary shake her head, brows raising beneath her dark wispy bangs, as I poked my head into the office where Mom was seated, looking over the next day's schedule. "Hey."

She looked up at me, smiling. "Hey yourself. How was school?"

There it was again.

My eye-roll must have given her enough of an answer, because she dropped the topic. I could have told her that I had gotten a C- on some stupid pop quiz in environmental science, or that I thought I might be in love with Ethan, or that I was indirectly shoved by Marvin (Dipshit) Randle, but my mom and I never discussed interpersonal things that way. We were close and we saw a lot of each other, but that was about as far as our mother/daughter relationship went. Plus, I would never divulge to her how much Marvin Randle annoyed me, because his mother was her best friend—aside from Mr. Curtis and Mary—so I just bit my tongue on that subject. To add another layer to this collapsing cake called my social life, every adult I seemed to come in contact with either knew one or both of my parents, so if I wasn't with them, I was still hearing about them, and I considered that to be close enough. One of life's many gifts, I reckoned.

"What do you need me to do today?" I inquired, peering over her shoulder at the list for the rest of the week. I was unofficially hired at the bakery; my mom paid me to help out for a few hours after school two or three days a week. Usually, I picked up more days when sports season ended.

Mom shrugged. "The usual, if you want."

I nodded. "Okay."

Truthfully, I considered on sarcastically skipping for joy to do "the usual", which consisted of wiping the tables and chairs, sweeping and mopping the floor, cleaning the bathroom, and washing and drying any dishes that might have been left in the sinks. Mary was pretty good about taking care of that, though, and most of the time, the other employees left everything tidy. I had to admit that my mom and Mary had hired pretty decent people, and they were respected. The measly three hours I worked were worth what my mom paid me, and almost every penny I received, I saved.

I was looking forward to buying myself my first vehicle once I turned seventeen and got my license in a month and a half.

There was a '72 Chevy Cheyenne at Randle's that I had my eye on for the past few weeks. I had yet to actually inquire about it, but I knew that I wanted it—badly. It was perfect . . . light blue with white stripes down the middle . . . In my mind, it had my name written all over it. Unfortunately, Mom wouldn't let me buy any vehicle until I officially got my license, so I was left to drool over the old pickup and pray that nobody else staked a claim on it.

What a time to be alive.

Against my mom's better judgment, she had let me visit my dad after I'd completed what she needed me to do at the bakery. Now, my mom and dad got along well, and when it came to me, usually my dad would just agree with my mom to save himself from an argument. Deep down, I knew that Mom just wanted the best life for me, and sometimes, she thought that Dad wasn't exactly a good influence. I couldn't exactly disagree with her; I had gotten my truck driver's mouth from him, after all. (Not that I ever swore in front of Mom, because she'd kill me.)

Mom and Dad spoke for a few minutes, Dad even greeting her with a quick kiss—gross—before Mom drove off, making sure that Dad understood that it was a school night and I should be home by no later than eight o'clock. I had rolled my eyes when I heard her say that; I was almost seventeen years old, and she still treated me as if I was twelve. I guess that's the thing that made my parents two completely separate people. Dad was more careless about certain aspects in life, whereas Mom was too much of a worrier.

"Hey, kid," Dad called in his gruff voice, which was followed by a short cough; he really needed to lay off those Kool's. "Wanna take a ride?"

I smiled. "Yeah."

I knew that we were going to the old ranch, and I was right. Dad and I never talked much when we were driving together, instead opting for listening to the radio. It wasn't awkward or anything, and I figured that this is how we were alike. It's a funny thing to be two halves of two human beings that were complete opposites of each other. Dad once told me that Mom hadn't always been so uptight, like she became when I was born. He told me that she was dopey and strange back in school when they first met, and surprisingly, they didn't like each other. But that's a story all on its own. Anyway, he had described my mother as quiet and reserved, goofy but genuine. When she found out that she was pregnant with me, she changed.

Mom was somewhat reserved where it concerned her past, never sharing too much or giving too much away. Sometimes, I wished that she would—even if it was just a little . . . that way I knew there was some part of her that I was similar to.

I pulled my old baseball cap out of the glovebox, placing it on my head as I followed Dad toward the stalls. This is the one thing that I could truly say I looked forward to. Dad and I would ride together up the trail, and sometimes we would race, and when we weren't doing that, I would help him out with small, mediocre tasks, like I did with Mom at the bakery. On weekends—if there wasn't a game—I would ask Mom to drive me up to the ranch so I could hangout there and help out, too, if it was needed.

A few times, Mom had stayed with me, and the three of us had gone riding. It hadn't happened in quite some time, and truth be told, I missed those days.

Dad and I spent some time brushing a few of the horses, and Dad checked Rain's—a former rodeo star—leg. She was a beautiful horse, a combination of light and dark brown, a white patch between her dark eyes that was shaped like a raindrop. She was a good horse.

After that, we went riding through the back trails for a while, neither one of us bothering to make any form of conversation, but that was fine with me. I think Dad liked it that way, too, mostly because he wasn't much of a conversationalist to begin with. To be honest, he mostly kept to himself, did his own thing, and like Mom, he never revealed much of his past to me. I knew that I could have asked around, or went to any of their close friends that they had grown up with, but I felt like that would be almost asking for trouble. There were things that I wanted to know about my parents that, for some reason, they didn't want to share with me.

Maybe it was all for the best.

My dad's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "Kid," he called, and I snickered because he never really bothered to use my name—the very name he had given me. "C'mere." I walked over to where he was standing, following his gaze across the field. "See him out there?"

And I did.

A wild black mustang.

My eyes nearly bulged as I stared back at the wild creature watching me. It was funny, because in that horse, I could see my father. Untamed, ornery, and free. My mother had always said that he was like that—wild. I believed it, too. Even at a month shy of forty-seven, there was a look of pure wildness deep in his eyes, the seemingly permanent half-frown on his lips, and his untamed hair that curled down his neck just above his shoulders. I figured he could use a good shave, but for as long as I could remember, Dad's face was always covered in a thin layer of white-blond stubble.

But he was internally just as wild as that Mustang, and as we stood side by side looking back at that horse, I came to the conclusion that nothing would ever take that away from him.

It was a while later when Dad and I were sitting on his front porch together. I was drinking a bottle of Coke, and he was leisurely smoking a Kool and drinking a beer. I had to be home soon, and I was dreading the fact that going home only meant that it was closer to the next school day. The only two things that I was looking forward to were talking to Ethan on the phone, and then field hockey after school the next day.

To make some form of small talk, not that my dad usually engaged in it, I said, "There's a truck I'm thinking about buying down at Randle's." I went on to explain the make and model, watching Dad's face for any hint of disappointment. "Mom won't let me purchase it until I actually have my license, though, so I hope nobody else wants it."

Dad snorted, taking a drag of his cigarette, the end burning cherry red. "Yeah, good luck with that."

I nearly hung my head, knowing that he was right. "I almost have all the money for it. Do you think Mr. Randle would hold it for me for the next few weeks?"

"Nope," came the straightforward answer, and even though I hated that my dad didn't share my mom's form of empathy, I also respected how forthright he was. "I wouldn't. Someone wanting to buy the truck and get it off the property is better than holding it for someone else, friend or not." He stole a quick glance in my direction. "Life's a bitch, kid. Get used to it."

I could have laughed at how casual he sounded, but I knew he was right. But then an idea struck me, as if someone turned a light-bulb on over my head.

"What if I buy it outright and leave it here?" I said, probably looking as eager and hopeful as I sounded, and boy did I sound it. "Would that be okay?"

Dad's expression was unreadable. "What would your mother say?"

And just like that, my idea went soaring straight into outfield.

A shrug was my only response, because I knew that I would never get anywhere with my mother. She would probably flip a lid if she found out that I bought a car. I knew that it wasn't because she didn't want me to have one, or have any sort of freedom, but she thought everything was like a list of progression—complete one task to get to the next. Plus, it would cause a fight between her and my dad, and truthfully, I didn't want to be in the middle of it. Not by a long shot. No thank you.

Dad's next words took me by surprise, though. "I'll take a ride and check the truck out, see what Steve has to say 'bout it." He offered me a cool look. "You tell your mother and I'll beat the tar outta you, you hear me, girl?"

I nodded quickly, and slightly enthusiastically. "I hear you."

My father had never raised a hand to me, though, not even when I got sassy as a child. Mom was the one who handled any form of discipline, and believe me, her tongue could be as sharp as her eyes when she was pissed off. Dad, on the other hand, had one helluva nasty temper, and I had seen him plenty angry before; I never wanted to have him mad at me.

He put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table between our chairs and stood up a few minutes later, stuffing his hands inside his denim jacket pockets.

"It's about time I get you home, huh?" He pulled out the keys to his truck. "Let's go."

Mom wasn't exactly thrilled when my friends called after what she considered "appropriate hours", but for my sixteenth birthday, she allowed me to have my own phone in my bedroom, which was just grand with me, because it meant that Ethan and I could chat longer during later hours without disturbing my mother. Before Ethan had called, though, my best friend, Lisa Ulrich, had, and we spent twenty minutes chatting about this and that, before her mother yelled at her to get off of the phone.

I was in the middle of watching an episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air when Ethan called. Mom told me that my phone had been ringing while I was at Dad's, and I mentally scolded myself for forgetting about Ethan. He was cool about it, though, and we spent a good while talking . . . or just sitting on the phone without saying anything to each other . . .

It was after ten by the time we hung-up, and I looked up from where I was laying upside down on my bed when I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I didn't have to answer, because Mom would just walk in anyway; I never really bothered to lock my door, not seeing the point in it, unless I was getting changed or something. Mom slowly entered my room, looking around as she did, her eyes landing on the small box-TV in the corner of my room by the window where Will Smith was doing something on the screen. She wasn't exactly a fan of "modern television", but there were things that she liked—this just wasn't one of them.

I had only gotten a TV in my room a year before this, as Mom thought one television in the house was enough. I wouldn't say we were exactly wealthy, so to speak, but I knew that we were more than okay were it concerned our finances, so that wasn't the problem. I think that Mom always wanted me to be humble in life, to appreciate what I do have and not expect more. She also liked to preach that it was important to "live within your means". Truth be told, I did agree with her. I just never fully understood the extent of her preaching until I was older.

"You really like him, huh?" she remarked, referring to Ethan, and I thought that this was probably the first time in forever that she was making an attempt to involve herself in my personal life. "He seems like a decent boy."

I couldn't help my cheeks heating up. "He is."

"Why don't you invite him over for dinner, then?"

There was a part of me, and I don't know why, that felt weird about that. I mean, I wasn't embarrassed by either of my parents at all, but . . . I wasn't even sure if people still did that kind of thing. Would it be weird to ask Ethan to come to my house for dinner? He already knew my mother from the bakery—most people did—but I wondered what he would think about coming to my house . . . officially . . . I also wondered if my mom expected me to cook dinner for him, then, or if she would just assume that task herself . . . and then I remembered the leftover Hamburger Helper she had heated up for me earlier for dinner . . .

A slight nod. "Yeah . . . sure . . ."

And then she had to ruin the entire thing by saying, "By the way, Evie invited us over for dinner Friday night, and I told her we would be there."

"What?!" I nearly choked, and thought of Marvin's icky face. "Why?!"

Mom looked at me as if I had offended her, and looking back on it, I probably had. Evie Randle, née Martin, was one of Mom's closest and lifelong friends, and I had basically sounded as though visiting the woman's house was like kissing a toilet seat. Don't get me wrong, I had absolutely nothing against Evie, who had cut and styled my hair numerous times since I was a toddler. But Marvin was her son, and I couldn't stand him. And he lived there, which meant that I would have to see him. How was any part of my dinner that night supposed to properly digest itself?

Gross.

But Mom's mind was made up, which meant that I would be going along with her. Hmm. Maybe I could fake being sick . . . or that I died in my sleep. Either one sounded good to me, and the more that I thought about Marvin Randle, the more I thought about decking him the next day in English class.

Dad was right.

Life was a bitch.

Sometimes it's a bitch

Sometimes it's a breeze

Sometimes love's blind

Sometimes it sees

And we're back, y'all! I guess I just couldn't let these characters go.

This story is set after the "Green Light Series", so if you haven't already, definitely check that out!

Thank you for reading! :3