Thanks so much for reading and the feedback! Just a heads up, this chapter doesn't wander into M territory, but there is some sexiness. Yep. And I still don't own The Outsiders, "Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word" by Elton John, or "I'm Sorry" by Brenda Lee.
Chapter 2
You squeeze into a booth next to Dallas Winston, but you're not entirely sure how you got there. And no, you're not drunk, not stoned, not even particularly tired.
Everything's such a blur that, when you think back on it, you can't pinpoint the exact time you started dating. Your best guess is somewhere between the second fight between Hanson and Dally and that time you got kicked out of the Nightly Double for stealing someone's food off the counter right in front of them.
"Two Cokes," Dally orders right when the waitress walks up to you, before she can start spouting off about the daily special and all that shit. The Dingo tries to be a real classy place with friendly waiters and all, but it's useless. They've got cheap burgers. You greasers will keep coming and wearing it down till the cops bar the doors.
The waitress is about to scamper away, but you stop her. "You got Pepsi?"
"Pepsi?"
"Yeah. Pepsi. Y'know, 'Taste that beats the others cold'?" You lean back and look at Dallas, then the waitress. "Haven't you seen the advertisement?"
"Sorry. We've just got Coke. That alright?"
"They put cocaine in it."
The girl's eyes twitch, like she's trying hard not to roll them. "Not anymore."
"I'll take a Pibb."
She nods and leaves you to your flirting. You train your eyes on her back as she goes. "She looks like a Phyllis."
He ignores your comment, resting his arm on the tacky booth behind your shoulder. "You always make a big production out of everything?"
"Only the important stuff."
"It's a fucking soda."
"So?"
You can't tell if you're fighting or not. And for God's sake, you're only two minutes into your date.
"I always ask. Every time I come in," you say when he doesn't respond. "I figure the soda might change sometime."
"That's stupid."
He's right. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, nothing changes. Not the people, not Will Rogers, and definitely not the drinks.
XXX
For one whole week, your cheeks flush red, your fingernails curl around your skirt, and your skin lights on fire every time he touches you. He could slap you right across the face and you'd probably still bust up in giggles.
He doesn't know it yet, but you're thinking about sleeping with him.
It shouldn't be a big deal, but you can't seem to shake the thought. It creeps in all the time, when you least expect it. Every night before you fall asleep. In the middle of a math test when you're trying to multiply in your head. When he meets up with you in front of your house.
Will you embarrass the hell out of yourself when you tell him you've never done it when he obviously has, lots of times with lots of girls? Will you feel dumb and trashy afterwards? Will he dump you on your ass?
You drive yourself crazy for seven days, then you decide. In your room, you hoist your black lacy panties up your legs, hunt down the matching bra, and check yourself out in the mirror. The underwear cost damn near all your savings, and you felt like an idiot when you bought the stuff, but you made a good choice.
Dally's got a room at Buck's, and you only have two beers before you two head up the stairs. He leads the way up, as always.
Your hand stretches forward to grab his, and his pace slows a little. He shoots you a look over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
"What?" you ask.
He spits the word back at you, quick as a bullet. "What?"
"Nothin'."
He's not the hand-holding type of a guy.
But he sure does love kissing. His mouth finds yours as soon as the door shuts, and your arm lopes around his neck. You brush your chest up against his, and your virgin-side hopes he can't tell you put on a special bra just for this.
You're all over each other—your palms, your fingers, your lips—and you're so nervous you hardly enjoy it.
Your shirt winds up on the floor next to his. His hand brushes your waistband and tugs. Then—
"Shit." You pull back.
He doesn't seem to hear you. His hands slide up, and his long fingers brush your abdomen, the dent between your ribs, the underwire of your bra.
"I forgot my purse."
His breath tickles the skin on your neck as he kisses along your throat. "Huh?"
"My purse is downstairs."
"Get it later."
"I can't. Somebody's gonna steal it."
That's what you get for bringing money in a place full of crooks, you suppose. Can't trust 'em with anything.
His hand drops to your thigh, and longing tugs at the pit of your stomach. It finds a home just a little further down. Where was this feeling a minute ago, before you needed to call a time-out?
You pull his hands away from you. "I'll be back in a minute, promise." His shirt's closest, so you put that on instead.
You leave the door open just a crack when you step out into the hallway. From inside the room, you hear his mattress squeak, then a gruff, "Jesus Christ."
Mitch Campbell is sitting at the bar, guarding your purse. Or maybe he's waiting for the perfect moment to make off with it. Either way, you're relieved it's still around. The only downside is Scott Hanson, who's taking up too much space in the seat next to him.
"Mitchie," you say, propping an elbow up on the back of Scott's chair. "You watchin' my purse just for me?"
Scott is so drunk he can't sit up straight; he's hunched forward, chin almost touching the bottle in front of him.
Mitch straightens. "I was wonderin' who this belongs to."
Bullshit. You had it back when you were dating him. He must've seen you with it a hundred times.
"Well, it's mine." Your reach forward to grab the purse, but he slides it away.
"You ain't going to thank me? I did you a favor."
"Thank you."
Scott turns his head to the side, resting his temple on the top of his drink. "That wasn't the kind of thanks he had in mind. Favors for favors is the name of the—That shirt looks like shit on you."
Mitch's grip on the purse goes slack, and you feel his eyes rake over your body. It's different than the way Dally looks at you. No lust at all.
"Whose is that?" he asks.
"Nobody's."
"At least you're wearin' your own pants, I guess."
"Not for long," Scott says. "Right, Sylvia? It's a sorry night if you don't take 'em off at least once, right?"
Your claw the skin just below his right eye. He howls like a fucking dog, so loud that you're surprised the whole building doesn't shake.
Buck appears behind the bar with that tired, too-old-for-this-bullshit look that always shows up around one a.m. Unless there's a great party going on and he gets to join in. "That's your last one," he says, jabbing his thumb at the near-empty bottle under Scott's face.
For a second, you think he's about to howl again.
You turn back to Mitch. "Give me my purse."
He doesn't hand it over, but his face softens, eyes darting towards Scott. "He's not always like this, Syl."
"What do I care?"
More important, why does he? What's it matter to him if you think his friend's worthless?
"You don't," he says. His lips form a thin line as he lifts the purse. "Here, take it and go."
You're not interested in losing your virginity with Scott Hanson's voice in your head, so you go upstairs, tell Dally what the asshole said, and wait in the room while he handles things in the bar. Then, you pretend you're asleep.
XXX
When the big day finally comes, you don't feel trashy and dumb. You don't think about Scott Hanson. You don't even remember to wear your special underwear.
"You're not so bad," you tell him afterwards, lying with your head against his chest. It's sweaty, but you don't care.
He shifts underneath you. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"I wasn't speakin' in code."
Here it is again—that uncomfortable exchange when you can't tell if you're having a fight with your boyfriend or not. Maybe he's playing with you. Maybe he hates your guts.
He doesn't respond. You lie there together God knows how long until someone starts jiggling with the door handle.
You twist and pull the blankets tighter around you, clutching them tight to your chest, and Dally swears under his breath. Sluggish, he starts to detangle himself from you.
Then, you hear a woman's voice outside. "Honey." She giggles. "Honey, this isn't our room."
The jiggling stops.
"Oh," a man says. "Shit."
"We're on the other side."
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, babe."
If he owes anybody an apology it's you. But you'll let it go, so long as he doesn't come barging in.
Now, it's just you, Dallas, and The Monkees floating through the speakers downstairs.
Your cheeks turn red, and you bury your face back in his chest, hoping he can't feel the heat. After a few seconds, his arms wrap around your waist—first one, then the other—and that says everything you need to know.
XXX
You've never dated anybody who takes as much pride in fighting as Dally does. But one day, he isn't so cool about it.
You run into him at Buck's, and the first thing you notice is his dark knuckles. Then his black eye, and the deep, setting bruise along his jaw.
The look on his face tells you not to ask, but you do, anyway. "Who'd you get in a fight with?"
He shoves right past you to the bar, and you tail him like a kid. He orders a drink.
"Dallas."
He turns his back on you to take a swig, and you stand behind him, shifting you weight. "What, you givin' me the silent treatment?" Still nothing. "For what, you asshole?"
"Fuck off."
Looks like it's one of his simmering days, where he's angry about everything and anything, and you don't have any way to make it better.
Your voice drops, even though you want nothing more than to snap back at him. "You okay?"
He doesn't say anything then, either. So you walk away.
About an hour later, Curly Shepard says Dally's headed for reform school. He says it with a smile, even though he really should be saying sorry. You just lost your boyfriend. Again.
You don't liek being alone, so you head toward Veronica's house. On your way, you spot two greasers on the sidewalk. Horsekid is hard to miss with his Curtis looks, but the person next to him is almost unrecognizable. He's got a lot of bruises. When you get a closer, you see his arms are inked with black and blue, and there's even one on his neck.
You don't talk to Johnny Cade much. He's not a real good conversationalist. But more than once, you've seen him hurt, and every time he is, Dally simmers. He gets in more fights, swears more, drinks more, and he doesn't have the time of day for you.
A lot of people think you're dumb and easy, and maybe they're right. After all, you are dating Dallas Winston. But you know a thing or two about people and patterns and you can make a connection when you need to.
Johnny's hurt, so Dally's locked up, so you're out of a boyfriend. Dally likes Johnny better than you.
At least there's a way to change that. But you can't do it when Ponyboy's around. He'll go running to his brothers, who'll swat you off like a fly.
Dally's going to be gone awhile, so you're patient. You wait until you can talk to Johnny alone.
After about a week, you stumble on him by accident while he hangs around the old junkyard. As far as you can tell, there isn't anyone around.
You approach him slowly. "Johnny?" you call, your voice sweet.
He looks up, freezing in place, and stares at you. You're not sure what to make of the look—it's not impressed, fearful, anything at all. Pretty cool and collected like all the other greasers you know, mostly, but without all the anger underneath.
You stop a few feet away, with a car between you. "You're Johnny, right?"
He nods. Still not a big talker, apparently.
"How come I've never talked much to you before?" Now, he shrugs. Your eyes narrow. "You got a workin' tongue, or are you mute?"
It gets quiet, and you just stare at him, waiting for one damn word to leave his mouth. Eventually, he says, "I guess I don't go to Buck's much."
"That's not the only place I hang out. You ever stop by the Dingo? The bowling alley? The drive-in?"
"Sometimes."
"You got a cigarette?"
He hesitates, reaches for his coat pocket. His movements are stiff, like he's still a little sore after the beating he took. Rumor has it, his mom went after him with a belt.
He holds it out to you, and you move around the car to take it.
You take a drag and watch him. He shifts, eyes darting back and forth like he's praying someone will come.
It'll take you days to make any progress with this kid, so you skip right to the chase. "So, you got a favorite place to go?"
He shrugs again.
"How about the Dingo?" you ask, edging closer. "You like the Dingo? 'Cause I'm itchin' for a hamburger."
His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. You try a few more times, suggest a few more places, and his head never changes course.
You weren't expecting this. You're not used to rejection, especially from some quiet greaser who's at least a year younger than you.
"To hell with you, then," you say, turning on heel. You make sure to take his smoke with you.
You try the same thing two more times, but all you get is a couple lousy cigarettes.
XXX
Veronica's got a date with Charlie Williams, which leaves you all alone at Buck's when Steve Randle finds you. As soon as he opens the door, you can tell he's all worked up, but when isn't he?
You sit at the bar, listening to some old Brenda Lee song, and pretend you don't notice him walk in.
"I'm sorry," Brenda croons. "So sorry that I was such a fool. I didn't know love could be so cruel…"
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" Randle greets you, looming less than a foot away.
You sip at your Pibb.
He takes a step closer. "Don't you come around Johnny again, you hear?"
Your straw whooshes as you suck air.
"I mean it, Sylvia. I ain't in any mood to play games."
You glance at him, mouth still attached to your straw. "Who's playin'?"
"You are, and if you know what's good for you, you'll knock it off."
"Or what?"
"I'll personally beat the tar outta you."
"Personally?" you repeat. "I gotta say, Randle, I'm flattered. It ain't every day you'll mess up that stupid hair o' yours over nothin'."
He scowls and gives you the finger before he goes.
XXX
"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" you ask. "You're joking, right?"
Dally's been in a bad mood ever since Johnny Cade got his ass kicked by a group of Socs, and today's no different. Apparently jumping that Soc just off Main Street didn't blow off as much steam as he thought it would.
You jab a finger in his face. "They've got a warrant out for you, and you ain't even gonna—?"
"What the fuck do you expect to me say?"
Veronica's at your side, loyal as always. "You could say sorry for getting yourself thrown in jail all the time."
"Why the hell are you even here?" he asks her, and she shrinks back. You start to think maybe you should leave Buck's parking lot and get drunk inside, but you're afraid Dally will wander off if you move.
Your arms cross over your chest. "How stupid d'you have to be to go jump somebody—especially a Soc—offa Main Street? Do you like gettin' caught?"
"Better than hangin' around with a bitch like you."
You'd like to take his cigarette out of his mouth and jam it down his throat. "What's the point of havin' a girlfriend if you leave her alone all the time?"
"Been wondering that myself."
Your chest starts to hurt. "What's that mean? You don't want me anymore?"
He takes a drag, and you hear a car honk miles away. "Who gives a shit?" he asks, then he points at the ring on your finger. "That ain't gonna stop you from fuckin' the first guy who looks your way while I'm gone."
You freeze.
That's not true. You kiss other boys, but you sure don't sleep with them. Veronica shifts next to you, but you turn on her. "Go away."
"What?"
"Go inside. I'll see you later."
She leaves you alone, and you turn back to Dallas. "And havin' me around isn't gonna stop you from gettin' thrown in jail, is it?"
He rolls his eyes like some thirteen-year-old girl. "No."
You stand in front of him, wondering what just happened; if you're broken up, if he wants his ring back, if the fight's over. But you've never had an argument with Dally that didn't end quick. You yell, you cuss, you say all kinds of awful things, then it blows over.
This time feels different.
You're too tired to fight with him anymore, and even though you shouldn't, you know you'll miss him like hell as soon as he's arrested.
"You wanna come inside?" you ask.
"For what?"
"I dunno. A drink."
He looks at you like you're crazy, sort of like he did when you tried holding his hand all those months ago. But he agrees.
You sit next to each other at the bar, both quiet until he gets a few drinks in him.
"As soon as I'm out, I'm gonna find those fucking Socs," he says.
And then he'll be back in jail again. And you'll be alone.
You swallow hard and run your finger along the metal of the ring. Then, you rip it off your finger. It moves easy, like you put lotion on before you tried. Maybe it's a sign you never should've worn it to begin with.
You slide the ring along the counter so it's resting in front of him. He faces you, saying, "Keep it till I'm out, huh? Don't want some fucker stealing it in there."
It'll be so much harder then. By the time he gets released, you know you'll be half out of your mind with loneliness. You always are.
But you're not a strong person, so you shove it back on your finger and promise to enjoy a few more months as Dallas Winston's girlfriend. Then, you'll find somebody else, and Dally will spend the rest of his life doing what he does best—fighting and hating and pretending he's happy with it all.
You see the future so clearly that you don't have any question what's in store for you. Or him. Everything in Tulsa is so predictable it about makes you sick.
The police come get him the next day.
As soon as he's gone, you head off to the movie house, sit in the back row, and watch Henry Fonda work. But your real favorite part is always the trailers, and that's how you know a Paul Newman movie's on its way.
You lean back in your chair and decide to play a little game with yourself: If Paul Newman comes out before Dally returns, you'll leave the ring off on his bed, let him make his own assumptions why. But if Dally's back first, you'll keep the ring and pretend nothing ever happened.