Sorry it's been a while between chapters— I recently quit my job and finished applying to law school, so I should have more free time to write now! Also sorry about Curly, but he can't be helped.

"Tim, I'm gonna be late for work—"

"Marry me, and you won't have to work another day in your life."

I wasn't sure if it was just teasing in her voice, or if there was trouble coming down the pike, when she asked, "and how do you plan on makin' that happen, huh?" A second later, the trouble hit; something wavered in the air, like a sheet of laminated paper, or a plastic bag. "Don't tell me that's— wait, why are there tongues on these—"

"They print acid on patterned paper sometimes, this kind's supposed to appeal to Stones fans— don't look at me with them big doe eyes, please, listen, this is a good thing. Buncha rich hippie kids will buy this shit at marked-up prices—"

Faint slap of plastic as the bag hit the wall, like the flap of a butterfly's wings. I was surprised to hear it. Gabi was known for her even temper. "This isn't a game anymore, don't you understand that, your adult record isn't sealed like your juvenile one— you already got locked up again, last fall—"

"Oh, c'mon, one night in the drunk tank, that ain't nothing 'cept a bored cop tryna meet his monthly quotas—"

"We got very different ideas about what counts as 'something', I see." A thin rustle of fabric. "You know how much marijuana they caught my brother with, when they sentenced him? One ounce, and prosecution's only gotten stricter since then. You think just because you're a little lighter—"

"I'm tryin', okay?" Tim's pleading came as a shock: I'd never heard him beg anyone for anything. "Goin' to Mexico lit a fire under Luis's ass, he wants to go farther than all this low-level stuff we've been doin', attract a higher-class clientele with more cash to burn. I'd be off the street—"

"And headed straight where, a VW bus, a campus die-in? You'd hate that even more."

"You don't think I'd make a convincing undercover hippie? Querida, that hurts."

"Stop it, this isn't funny," though her exasperation was tinged with fondness, like a drop of paint dissolving in water. "I don't want you to try to be a better man for me. I want you to be a better man for yourself."

"That's the kind of thing chicks say and it makes perfect sense to them, and none at all to us." A meaningful pause. "I sent the little shit to credit recovery over at Rogers, keeps him busy and out of my hair. Might just start supervising homework while I'm at it."

"It's nice to see the two of you spendin' time together outside of a cell."

"Are you ever gonna let me live that one down?"

"Well, I s'ppose you could always try to help me forget—"

Fabric rustled again. Once the squelching noises started up, a pair of concrete boots couldn't have kept me from booking it.

I was eating cornflakes and reading a Peanuts strip, propped up against the milk carton, when she came into the kitchen; the ancient shower pipes groaned to life in the bathroom. She was wearing Tim's worn-out GRATEFUL DEAD SOUTHWEST TOUR 1965 t-shirt, long enough on her that it hung down to her mid-thighs. "Where do y'all keep the coffee pot again?" As she turned her head, the collar dropped, revealing the hickey suckled into the side of her neck. "I swear I can never find anything in this kitchen…."

"Maybe what we need is a woman's touch around here," I said, unwisely, with my most winning smile. Tim was still on my shit list, but I wouldn't pass up a chance to help him out. "Look at how we've been keepin' the place by ourselves."

She gave me a smile of her own, wide enough to show her permanent retainer, as she paused rummaging through the cabinet under the sink. "That's what I always dreamed of as a little girl, Curly, when I imagined my wedding. White gown, bouquet of roses, and then yet another person's mess to clean up."

Point taken. Amiably enough, I kept it zipped until she'd muttered her way through getting the coffeemaker assembled, then sat down across from me in our torn-up lawn chair. "Why won't you marry him?"

God knew it wasn't any of my business, which was why I wasn't surprised by her canned answer. "Your brother's a twenty-year-old drug dealer, Curly," she said, like Mrs. West in 'special' English after I'd just forgotten what a gerund was again. "I don't think it's the right time. For a lot of reasons."

"He was an eighteen-year-old drug dealer when you met him, c'mon." Don't get me wrong, there were a million reasons why no woman would want to be saddled with him in holy matrimony, but the way she kept turning down his proposals made me wonder if she was stringing him along, if she'd just been trying to piss the old man off and was getting cold feet before the altar. "What's the real reason?"

She stared me down with a fierceness that took me aback. "Because I'm not ready to get married. To anybody. And I'm not going to be pressured into it, either, by him, or by you, or—"

Or? The sentence stayed unfinished, but her dark eyes still flickered like a freshly-stirred coal fire, and even my luck couldn't be pushed far enough to get a name. "I've spent my whole life trying to make bad men good," she finally said, raking her hand through a snarl in her hair. "With what you could call mixed results. I'll let you know when I change my mind, okay?"

I dropped it. I wasn't itching for a fight at seven in the morning with my brother's girl, and if Tim came out of the shower to find one, an act of God couldn't have stopped him from punting me out the window. "Is Ximena still grounded?" The answer would determine whether I'd have to wait for her to sneak out the window, or could try the front door. "Bonnie and Clyde's showin' at the Nightly Double—"

"I've been meanin' to talk to you, about her." Minuscule lines gathered at the corners of her eyes; she tapped the nail of her pointer finger onto the gouged words on the table, S.H. FUCKED J.W HARD. "Ximena is… impressionable, okay, she's no greaser girl just because she goes to some of the same parties. Papi wants to send her to OSU next year. And she is waitin' for marriage."

I let that last part slide over me like bacon grease down a hot pan; sometimes, a spoonful of hypocrisy kept the gears of religion running smooth. "You don't think I'm good enough for your sister, huh?"

That really shouldn't have surprised or hurt me, but it did all the same. I'd spent a lot of time defending her to Luis, at my own risk. I hadn't had to.

"No, but I think you're just lookin' to mess around, Curly, and I don't want—" She cradled her forehead in her palm and let out a frustrated sigh. "I don't want her to end up in the family way, or stuck here without any other options, and it's not because you're trouble." Though of course you are, went unspoken. "If you loved her, that'd be one thing, but I know full well you don't. You've got to be more careful with her."

What was I going to do, argue with her when she was right?

"I gotta go, I'm gonna be late to class," I said, for the first and last time in my life, detaching my mouth from Ximena's. "Listen, Tim's fixin' to put my ass in the ICU—"

She pulled out her compact and started fixing her makeup in the little mirror, dabbing at the places where her lipstick smeared and then uncapping the tube for a fresh coat. She wasn't great at acting bored, but she did make me wait a solid twenty seconds for a reply, which I had to give her credit for. "Since when do you ever listen to your brother?"

8:59— it was now or never. As a bunch of separate parts, she was perfect, but I just couldn't make the whole add up. "Gabi thinks we should slow down some."

Like Bryon had so lovingly put it, I was a yellow-bellied coward— like Tim had sneered at me, as I tried to keep him from attempting homicide, I just couldn't stand to make somebody unhappy if I could dodge the confrontation. This was pretty low even for me, though. "I didn't ask what Gabi thought about anything, either," and the way her eyes cut to the side made it clear she'd already heard plenty on the subject. "Is that what you want to do? Slow down?"

She had my number, but she wasn't about to make this easy on me. Being with her was like downing a couple of beers and playing a game of pool on a weekday night; fun, but forgettable. This was the most passion we'd shared since we first kissed at Walt Yeager's backyard bonfire. "Look, I promise, it's not you, it's me—"

"I don't want to be a warm body while you're thinking about another girl, Curly, as if I can't tell where you're goin' with this." She snapped the compact shut and slid it back into her purse, putting me out of my misery like you'd mercy kill a rabid puppy. "You know what, it's fine. You're just… not a serious person, and I shouldn't have expected different in the first place."

I had no idea what she meant by that, but it already sounded like bullshit. "What, and you are?" We'd never shared too many deep conversations, but even I knew her family thought she was spoiled and flighty, like Gabi said, impressionable. She couldn't stick to a musical instrument or style of curtains for her side of the room, and she was coming after me?

"I mean, you don't take anything seriously, Curly, you're not… goin' anywhere. Up at noon, sellin' for a few hours, drunk or high or both by four, is that what the rest of your life's going to look like? The only reason you're even messin' around with me because you're bored and afraid of being alone." It was a more eviscerating psychological profile than I'd expected— it was the kind of thing I'd come up with. "Whatever, I have youth group." She shrugged her purse higher up on her shoulder. "Call me once you figure out what you really want, but I doubt that'll happen any time soon."

I'd actually had every intention of ditching this joint and taking my chances with Tim later, digging up some more intel on Billy Reynolds while he was still sleeping off last night's hangover, but at this point, I was annoyed enough that I found myself strolling right through the front door of Will Rogers. I'd show her— I could be serious, even if I hadn't taken her much more seriously than my choice of cereal that morning. I could be responsible. Hell, I even remembered the first class I was supposed to be going to today.

It was only as the bell rang, and everybody started filing out into the hallway, that I realized finding the right classroom was half the battle. I was an hour late.

"Carlos?"

The teacher managed to catch a glimpse of me from the doorway, before I could give this up as a bad job. Worse, he was waving me in, too. "Yessir?" I said with fake charm as sweet as Twinkie frosting, as I decided to play it safe and come over to his desk; at least all the other rejects had split by now. "I'm sorry, I must've been late for your… entire class. Thought it was on the other side of the building."

He was the kind of 'fresh out of teacher college' guy who asked the senior girls out on dates, maybe a few years older than Tim. Acne scars cratered his jawline, and worse, the light in his eyes didn't look like it had completely died yet. He wasn't just about to send me to the principal's office with a pink detention slip. "You were supposed to be in my chemistry class last semester too, weren't you?" he asked, pleasantly enough. His tie hung loose, slung over his left shoulder. "I say 'supposed to', because, well, I don't think you ever came. I reckoned it might've been influenza, or that you were transferred to another section…"

A quick look at his seating chart revealed that it had our ID pictures on it. I could've pulled off an Oscar-winning performance about my struggles to regain lung function if I put my mind to it, but if he didn't know about my bad reputation now, he would once he set foot in the teacher's lounge. Plus, I just wasn't in the damn mood that morning. "I had some business to take care of."

It was pretty obvious by the looks of me— not to mention my age— that I wasn't diversifying my stock portfolio. To his credit, though, he didn't flinch. "Don't you think some basic math skills would help you with that? How are you going to keep track of your income, or your expenditures? How are you going to know if you're getting bilked?"

"That'd be a good argument for me to sign up for Personal Finance, not do chemistry— I'll keep that in mind, though, you make a decent point."

He sighed, then pressed his pointer finger up to his cheekbone, his jaw supported by his knuckle. I sympathized with him. Prolonged exposure to the Shepard family could dull that sweet little gleam in even the most idealistic teacher's eyes. "Listen, kid, I'll level with you— this school's dropout rate is through the roof and getting higher every year. If you come to class, I promise we're going to blow something up before September."

"You finally done playin' house now? You ready to pack it up and call it a day?"

Angela was the only person in the world who Tim couldn't intimidate, despite the fact that she barely topped five foot; hand on her hip, she met his gaze with one as hard as a diamond drill bit. The crochet baby booties dangling from her other hand, courtesy of Darry's wife, did nothing to lessen its impact. "Wild horses ain't draggin' me back to my suegros with Rafa, I'll tell you that much."

"You know damn well what I'm referring to, lady."

"And you know damn well that I'm emancipated, so I have no idea what you're doin' here, snapping your fingers and expecting me to jump."

Darry, who was wearing a lumpy pink baby hat like a beret, decided now was a good time to intervene. "Tim, it's fine if she stays here—"

"No, it ain't fine, you can't be serious." It was too bad Darry couldn't recognize the warning signs— Tim had already geared up to lecture, and he'd bulldoze straight through anything fixing to stop him. "You plan on crashin' with Darry for how long, until that baby comes? Until his patience runs out? You need money, you need an plan that ain't bouncin' from couch to couch after every eviction notice—"

"Well, you seem to be just fine with me crashin' on your couch with no plan—"

"I'm your brother! It's my fuckin' job to look after you!"

Now we'd hit the crux of the matter. They both turned to me like I was the umpire in the kind of Little League match where parents fistfought them. I opened my mouth to mediate, tell Tim that Angela was old enough to make her own decisions, tell Angela that Tim was just scared of losing his little girl, go through the all-too-familiar motions. "Curly, you want to go look at our flower garden?" Jasmine asked as she came out of the bathroom. One of her eyes was done up with a thick swoop of black makeup, the other one still untouched. "I think they're really, uh. Bloomin' like crazy since we switched to that new fertilizer."

Darry, Tim, and Angela all broke off midsentence to give her a questioning look. She could come up with a better excuse than that, and with much less warning, but it turned out extracting me didn't take a whole lot of effort— Tim and Angela were back to tearing each other's throats out in the next five seconds. Jasmine wrapped her hand around my upper arm, her grip stronger than you'd expect. "C'mon," she muttered, "you seem ready to combust, if I don't get you outta here."

At night, the summer air was clammy like a just-broken fever. Shasta daisies and irises really were blooming again in neatly-defined rows, out on a green lawn, and they'd installed a swing on the porch I hadn't remembered being there before. Had Darry's wife tried to fix the place up to her Soc-y standards, Ponyboy, maybe? I couldn't imagine it was Jasmine. "Thank you," I said, formally and stiffly. This wasn't the first or second time Jasmine had had to bail Angela out of some shit, and if I was being honest with myself, hanging around our clan had never brought too much joy to the Curtis household. "For lettin' her stay with y'all, talkin' Darry into it."

Jasmine waved her hand, then swiped some stray dirt off the cushion before she sat down on the swing. I forced myself not to pay attention to how her skirt tightened over her ass as she did that. Half her hair was flat-ironed, and she was wearing a low-cut shirt and a pair of black go-go boots; she was getting ready to head out, before a whole parade of Shepards wound up at her door. "Don't worry, I didn't do it out of the goodness of my heart, I need backup with Judy. That bitch ain't hit the second trimester yet and already thinks she's my mother."

I had always been quick off the draw when it came to reading people, and with that, making them do what I wanted— hell, it was almost too easy. I could map out entire conversations in my mind, adding one input, getting another output, better than I'd done the most basic algebra problems they'd slapped in front of me at school. But I just could not figure out what the fuck made Jasmine Curtis tick, and it made me want to pry her open like a Swiss watch, get my hands inside and figure out how all her mechanisms worked. Did she really need somebody else in her corner, in her battles against Darry and Judy, with Soda gone? Did she enjoy having her in her debt, the power play there? Maybe Angela was right— girl friendships were more complicated than guy ones.

"Listen, I didn't bring you out here to talk about her," she said, more brisk and businesslike than when I'd visited her at her actual place of work. "You said you have a problem with Billy Reynolds?"

"Well, he's dead set on trying to have problems with me, is probably a better way to put it—"

"Sucks shit for you, 'cause I heard he's got big ambitions." This guy had more folklore going around about him than Johnny Appleseed. "Fillin' the town's cocaine vacuum, namely, and I don't think he's cuttin' it with no crushed aspirin neither."

I had to stifle my laugh with my fist, so the crew inside wouldn't come out to investigate. Cocaine was called the champagne of drugs for a reason— I knew Joe used to sell the odd bag (and that Tim had snorted a line he'd offered him), but it was almost impossible to get a hold of and hard to move once you had it. "Talk about punching above his fucking weight. We don't even bother with that shit, ain't no good return on the investment, so what's he doin' in our territory?" He'd be better off polishing his manners and planting his ass outside a doctor's office or TU frat house during exam week, if he wanted customers. He wasn't selling that shit to no average East sider.

"Because he hates y'all for gettin' his whole outfit locked up, wants all their old territory back and then some. Honestly, I think makin' any actual money takes a firm second place to that."

I wanted to say 'good fucking luck' to him, and whatever flunkies he'd managed to gather up since the old River Kings got wiped off the street, but then I remembered how Pedro's face looked, the mottled yellow and brown of a bruised banana. He was still preferring to take his meals through a straw, until his mouth healed up a little more comfortably. "Tim wants to sit back, watch how this all plays out." It sounded like an even worse idea out loud than it had all the times I'd replayed it in my head, and I had to wonder if he'd left all of his old nerve behind in Juárez. If there was one thing Tim used to love, it was a good fight. "You reckon he's got the right of it?"

"I think you should take care of this and start playin' white." I didn't usually stare at her tits when she talked, and especially not when it was talking shop, but her blouse's cut let me see part of her bra, and the bow peeking out from the middle had its own gravitational pull. I couldn't believe Darry let her walk out of the house like that— not that I had any complaints, until I remembered it wasn't for me. "Clear Billy off the board before he becomes a bigger problem, and then look into where he's gettin' the coke from, where he's sellin', everything you can figure out. Between you and me, this hippie stuff, the acid, the shrooms, it all seems like more of a one-hit wonder than Buffalo Springfield." She glanced down, grimaced, then yanked the top of her shirt up. "Not that I've got any firsthand involvement or knowledge here, of course. You know me, always spitballing, always running that mouth."

I must've come off as real pussy-whipped, taking advice on what everyone called 'men's business' from a chick, but Jasmine was smart, and thanks to the sheer amount she'd been in, her instincts for trouble were unmatched. I trusted her judgement more than I trusted most of my actual crew— what was left of it, anyway. It wasn't strictly business on my mind, though, when I spoke again. "You dug all this up for me?"

"No," she said as dry as old kindling, "his former gang leader put a hit on my head back in the day, so I try to keep tabs on what that whole crew's up to. Thank God they took care of Joe upstate pretty quick."

"Yeah, but… it was a little bit for me. Admit it."

The reluctant smile wasn't a surprise. The kiss was. Our mouths clamped together, and as I slipped my tongue past the seal of her lips, she let out a tiny, startled moan that spurred something wild and hungry in me; I laced my fingers through her hair as I cupped her chin and tilted her face closer to mine, breathed in the clean scent of her herbal shampoo. Tiny gold specks floated at the corners of my vision, like fireflies. The moment would've been perfect— something straight out of Bonnie and Clyde— if she hadn't pulled away five seconds into it.

The apples of her cheeks were tinged with a violent flush, her pupils dilated; she pressed her fingertips up to her mouth, like she'd been hit and was testing for blood, then started to shake her head. "No, Christ, I can't do this," she muttered. "Not again."

"Are you fucking serious."

This wasn't my proudest moment, but in my defense, Mother Teresa probably wouldn't have handled it much better. Like Charlie Brown and the football, and I just kept falling for it every time. "I have a boyfriend—"

"Well, I'm sorry, but your signals are impossible to read, probably because you change them more often than a traffic light—"

"I made a mistake, this was a mistake—"

"Yeah, one you just can't seem to stop yourself from making. Over and over again."

The flush had migrated north, up to her cheekbones— which was just fine by me, because I was pissed too, the kind of slow-burning anger that wrapped around your stomach like an oven coil. "Because you're always here, waitin' in the wings for me. No matter who I'm with, or whatever the hell else is goin' on, I can count on your one-track mind, Curly. Heat-seekin' missile straight towards my panties."

Tim was right, I was desperate and pathetic, and this had started years ago. We both knew this really had nothing to do with Douglas. She didn't love him, hell, the only reason she'd started going out with him in the first place was to spit in my eye. It was Dallas she'd still be with, the one she'd always chosen when it was down to the wire, and I was the side of the love triangle she'd gotten stuck with by default.

"Funny, I don't seem to remember you ever tellin' me to get bent." My voice came out as dangerously calm as Luis's when he talked to a vice cop, which was an accomplishment, because inside I was shaking like a terrified chihuahua. "You don't just get to keep me on ice to stroke your ego, while you figure out who you really want. It don't work like that."

"I'm not a whiskey bottle that you stole out from under a cashier's nose, either!" The amount of metaphors we were applying to this situation had long since hit critical mass. "I'm not a thing, that you get to be proud of yourself for runnin' off with. I don't know what you think I owe you, that I ever promised you, but the answer ain't shit."

"If you don't want to be with me, fine, you know what, you can go to hell." My mouth tasted metallic under both sides of my tongue, like a lingering poison; my ears rang so much, I could barely hear what I was even saying. "But you better at least tell me why, and for the love of God, do not give me some more shit about that little M & M kid or bein' scared of drugs again. I met Dallas once or twice."

Her laugh came harsh and raw, and more expected than her kiss had. "Dallas died, I didn't dump him and he didn't run off to Guadalajara," she said like she wanted to sink her teeth into my throat. "He died a young and horribly violent death, and if we're really airin' out the dirty laundry, we all know he killed himself. And then you wonder why I ain't ready to fall into your arms right here and now?"

It was a good performance, bolstered by the glimmer of tears in her eyes. Anyone else would've backed off, except I just knew her too well, and I'd never been renowned for my sense of shame. Jasmine could cry on command. "You liar."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you're lying, this has nothin' to do with him." Her hand was at the nape of her neck, fiddling with the clasp of her mama's necklace, a classic tell. What was her angle? "You said you don't owe me shit— after everything— you think you don't at least owe me the truth?"

She opened her mouth, then choked. Angry, proud, still half in love with her, "you can't just keep leadin' me on—"

I didn't mean it like that. I didn't know. But the way her face shuttered, like a house with the blinds drawn, made me regret the sentence before I could finish it. "Or then what?"

"Or then what… what?"

"Or then what are you gonna do about it?"

I still didn't understand the question. Like a blackout in the middle of tornado season, I was left stumbling around in the dark and groping at the walls. It was the first time I'd realized I had the power to hurt her. Then the eerie blankness vanished, and anger came rushing back, fast enough to give me whiplash. "I don't owe you the truth, neither," she hissed. "The hell have you ever done to deserve that? It's mine to tell. Nobody can take that from me."

"Is there a problem here?"

All 6'2 and two hundred pounds of Darry Curtis loomed over me, and his blue-green eyes held all the warmth and goodwill of the Arctic ocean in December. I hadn't even noticed him approach, which was saying something, because he was damn hard to miss. "We're fine," Jasmine said, barely turning her head towards him. She kicked her feet, letting them dangle an inch above the ground; her grip on the swing's chain was tight enough to turn her knuckles white. "Did I ask for a bodyguard? You think I can't handle no five-minute conversation with my ex by my lonesome?"

Darry sucked on his front teeth and released them with a loud snap. "Go show Angela where the spare towels are."

"She needs a map to the linen closet?" Darry said nothing, just waited, and she got up— though not without rolling her eyes first. "You better not hit him. You never managed to drive Dally out of the house for good, and no one can accuse you of not tryin' your damndest."

Imagining Dally getting the shit kicked out of him wasn't as satisfying as I hoped it'd be, especially since it only took a second after the screen door clattered shut for Darry to descend upon me. "Curly, I don't know who the fuck you think you are now, big mota man or whatever it is you're pushin' these days." His even tone of voice and slight smile made him more menacing than if he'd slammed me against the wall. "But if my sister's done with you, and you're tryna threaten her into takin' you back, I am gonna put a bullet in you and bury you under my toolshed— and I don't care who from your family does what to me afterwards. You understand?"

A couple of years ago, I would've reflexively said 'yessir'; my stomach made the same squelching noise as a stepped-on wet towel. Even Tim's old man had been intimidated by Darry's daddy, and at twenty-two, he was his spitting image. But indignation and entitlement ran my mouth, instead. "Trust me, your bitch sister couldn't pay me enough to take her back, at this point."

I should've been able to put two and two together, especially considering everything that had happened with Angela. Why that particular phrase had set her off so much. Why Darry was talking to me like he'd interrupted a rape at gunpoint. Why, back when we were together, sometimes I'd touch her and she'd look back at me with empty, dazed eyes, like she wasn't sure where she was or what she was supposed to be doing with her limbs. But I wasn't firing on all cylinders, just then, and the only thing I knew for certain was that I was done being played.

Darry shoved me hard enough to send me flying backwards, down the porch steps, one foot crushing a hydrangea. I was lucky he hadn't closed his fist, but maybe he thought I wasn't even worth the effort of a good punch. "Get the fuck out of my house."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I was through with her.