Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders.

Chapter Three

I was shaking along with the shockwaves from the gunshot. The walls were shaking, too, rippling violently like they were hard water, and dust was shaking off the roof, coming down on me like I was caught in a snowstorm of dust. There was a blue bird flying around my head, chirping at me, but I had no idea what it was trying to tell me. Then it pecked me, and I started walking away, but it kept pecking me, it's beak pinching at my skin, making me wince in pain. I swatted at it but ended up tripping myself instead, unable to stop myself from falling, right into the pool of blood suddenly at my feet.

Smack I went against the floor. I opened my eyes to see Birdie pop his head over the side of my bed and snort at my discomfort.

"Scare me to death, why don't you?" I hissed and grabbed his hand so that I could sit up. "Jesus, I thought you were dead, Birdie." I almost hugged him, but then I thought better of it. That would have been awkward. We didn't hug.

He let his grin fade away as he furrowed his brow. "Dead?" he asked slowly. "Why would you think I was dead?"

I swallowed hard, and shook my head ever so slightly, changing the subject. "Forget it. Where've you been? You smell like you've been rolling around in grass." I didn't want to explain it; I wanted to forget it. I was just glad all my paranoia turned out to be just paranoia.

He laughed. "You're worried about me being stoned? Jesus, I thought you'd passed out it's so early. Soda get you drunk?"

I gave him a look. "Do I look like I've been drinking?"

He shrugged and looked at the wall, a smirk creeping onto his face ever so subtly. "Dunno. I ran into Izzy and he said you were acting weird. Thought maybe those freaks you hang out with finally got you to take a trip with them."

I pushed him. "They ain't freaks."

"They're freaks. You're all freaks."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Just wait 'til you get to college, baby brother. You'll start doing and seeing things you never did before. Maybe you'll take a trip yourself."

He laughed. "You act like I've never taken LSD before."

I smacked him and ran my hands through my hair. He was seventeen for chrissakes! I sighed, shaking my head and letting it go. Birdie was gonna do what he was gonna do. It wasn't like he was a bad kid, and I couldn't exactly scold him for something I was okay being around. Just because I was scared of taking it didn't mean anyone else was. I mean, as much as the kid thought we were all out of it, he fell into a lot of what we did.

The only time he got jailed was for protesting. Yep. Protesting. It was right after Mom left, before we had to sell the house, and he'd decided he wanted to get out of the house for the day, get some fresh air. Somehow he ended up in a jail cell, shirtless, with a big peace sign painted on his chest and Beatles lyrics on his back. I mean, I thought he knew by then not to throw rocks. Something always gets broken.

I didn't ask questions, though. Just like I wasn't gonna ask about the LSD.

Birdie pushed me on my side, breaking me out of my thoughts. "Man, you really are a freak. What's got your panties in a twist?"

I avoided his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it." My hands were starting to shake, and I got this weird feeling. You know, the kind of feeling where you want to share, but even more of you doesn't, and you convince yourself that it's stupid even though you're about ready to cry.

He stood up, giving me a skeptical look. "Alright," he said and walked out, knocking his knuckles on the doorframe as he did so.

I took a deep breath and fell back onto my bed. This is crazy, I told myself. Birdie's fine. God, he's fine. It was someone else. That poor someone else. Oh God, I was going to crazy over this. And Soda … he said he'd been through this before. How did not go crazy?

I sat up and rubbed my face, putting it all to the back of my mind, before getting up and walking out into the living room. Birdie was sitting on the counter that divided the kitchen and living room, eating leftovers from last night, the radio playing "Revolution" in the background.

He looked at me for a brief moment, then went right back to eating. "So you saw Izzy tonight? I thought he was working."

He shrugged. "I stopped by the bar. I almost got a drink out of him when dad walked in, so I booked it out of there."

I shook my head at him, smiling, but not one hundred percent into it. I was too sluggish to smile, really. "You're lucky Dad didn't see you."

Birdie chuckled. "Boy, don't I know it," he said, and then stabbed at a few green beans with his fork, shoving them into his mouth.

Our dad is pretty clean cut and easy going, but man, the minute you step out of bounds on a repeat offense, it's like you're hell bound in a ski jacket. You start sweatin' somethin' fierce and all you can do is obey the guy. At least, that's how it works for me. Izzy just stands there with his arms crossed and takes it when he does screw up, which isn't often these days, and Birdie is usually too smashed to react all that much, which gets nerve wracking because sometimes Dad throws things and Birdie's reaction time is way too slow for his own good.

I turned around and leaned against the counter myself, resting my hands on it, my elbows bent. I was kind of glad that Dad was out at a bar. He never went out anymore; he was always working or sitting at home. Occasionally we ended up over at a friend of his house for dinner, but aside from that, he didn't go out nearly as much as he used to. He picked up more hours at the store last month so he wouldn't have to have the shame of asking Izzy to help out with bills along with his share on the rent.

Birdie hopped off the counter and walked around me into the kitchen. The dishes made a big clanking sound just as the water turned on. "Seriously, what's with you tonight?"

I felt my shoulders tense. "It ain't nothin'. I told you, just forget it."

He flicked water at the back of my head. "You're actin' like someone died."

"Maybe someone did," I muttered and turned to face him, leaning on the counter.

He scrubbed his dirty dish and then rinsed it off, setting it to the side without bothering to dry it. He turned to me. "I don't even know why I care so much, but where were you today? Seriously, what were you doing? I don't know when the last time I saw you like this was."

"I was down by Madison Ave with Soda."

His eyebrows shot up under his bangs. "No shit?"

I nodded. "No shit."

"Aw, shit, Andy, I didn't know you were downtown. I thought you were just with Soda all day like Izzy said." He ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

I rubbed my face and sniffed. "So you know about the shooting, then?" If you wanted to know the truth, I was starting to bawl.

"Hey, look, don't cry. The guy had it coming to him from what I hear. One of Shepard's boys was doing a drug deal with the guy and the guy pushed him when he didn't have what the guy wanted. So the guy got himself shot instead of getting drugs like he wanted."

I walked over to the couch and sat down. "Yeah, but I saw him. I saw the blood."

Birdie sat down next to me. "It was just gang stuff, it's not that big a deal." If he was trying to comfort me, it wasn't working.

"Oh, climb it, Tarzan. I saw him lying there dead. That's not like seeing a fist fight." I dug my palms into my eyes. "God, I want the image out already!"

Birdie made a sound like he was going to say something, but stopped as the door opened and in walked Dad. We both tensed. "Hey, Dad," Birdie greeted.

I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my feet on the edge of the couch, holding onto my ankles with my hands. Dad walked over to us, kissed my head, and patted Birdie's shoulder. "You kids have a good night?" he asked and started walking towards his bathroom, loosening his tie as he did so.

"Yeah," Birdie replied. I didn't even bother to nod; Dad was already behind closed doors.

I looked at Birdie, my eyes narrowed. "Don't mention this to Dad."

"But—"

"Just don't, okay?"

Birdie nodded and I wiped my eyes. We sat in silence for a long time, just listening to the static that had become the radio, barely noticing as Dad came out and barely noticed us himself as he stretched out on the chair in the corner.

"You feel like hitting the drag strips tomorrow night?" Birdie asked suddenly.

"I'm already going," I told him. It was true. Soda had asked me yesterday if I wanted to go. I was visiting him at work when he grabbed me around the waist and asked if I had any plans. I had told him no, and he had said, "Good, 'cause after work on Sunday I'm taking you to the strip." And that was that.

I started thinking about Soda again. About what he said. I almost considered asking Birdie about what Soda meant by it, but thought better of it. If I was going to find out, I was going to find out from Soda; I wasn't about to go around asking everyone but him. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew Soda better than Birdie did at this point. When he'd introduced us, they hadn't been good friends. They got along, but it wasn't like they hung out on purpose.

Birdie wouldn't know. We weren't from this side of town originally. Birdie and I went to a different school than Soda, hung out with different people up until last year. Birdie got around, but I doubt he knew, and I was too hesitant to ask him anyway. Soda … Soda had seen someone shot? He'd seen what was replaying in my head every five minutes before?

It was just … I don't even know what it was.

I was starting to obsess over it, and the only reason I wasn't stopping myself was because it made me forget about the new image engraved in my brain. The shooting I could get over, the image I could not.

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