Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1964

Evie’s only three weeks deep into her own personal hell – otherwise recognized as Sophomore year - and she’s already got a bone to pick with Steve fucking Randall. 

“He’s such an asshole,” she complains, at lunch, to Kathy and Joanie – and at least Elaine ought to fucking see it, right there in second period Auto Repair Shop Class with her and Sodapop and Steve and Mattie and Chance. 

“Another sexist boy,” Elaine snarks, cracking her knuckles. “Should we call the papers?”

“No, you’ve seen him!” Evie snaps, voice pitching up to an indignant yelp. “‘Cause I know, it’d sound insane, otherwise. But you saw him steal the 5/8 wrench, yeah? Right out of my bag?”

“What?” Kathy is eyeballing her, like she might be insane, one dark eyebrow arched.

“Oh, forget it,” Evie spits back, rolling her eyes back over at Elaine. “So he doesn’t bother YOU. He’s got it out for me, or somethin’.”

“Hey, maybe he likes you,” Kathy offers, leaning in over her sandwich. 

“Oh, screw OFF,” Evie gags, flipping open her compact mirror and whipping out her lipstick, sneering. “No, it’s war.”

“With Slippin’ Stevie?” Joan snorts. “Yeah, I’d say ya stand a fightin’ chance.”

And Evie does know – somewhere, deep down – just how stupid it may have been to march into shop class, dominated by the boys she grew up with - and not expect to catch some flack. She’s used to it, by now, from the girls who whisper about her short hair and temper; ever since that great divide opened up between boys and girls. Evie never wanted to fucking choose a side; but it’s clear she’s been shoved into some sort of no-man’s-land, now, where it doesn’t matter how sharply she lines her lips, or how well she knows the inside of a car – because Evie fits in exactly nowhere.

Evie Zamora is fifteen and a half and still best friends with Katherine Estivez, like they haven’t been attached at the hip since second grade. It doesn’t matter that Kath turned out all type-A and whip-smart, taking honors classes filled up with Socials, while Evie skips out of school regularly to bum smokes from greasy ragamuffins like Mattie Kravitz. 

Eves and Kathy will always be best friends, even as she makes nice with the jetset pack, and Evie flits among that group of bold, loud, tomboyish girls like Elaine Donehan and Joanie Marcus, who never bought into the old gender divide. They still run wild with the boys in the streets; rolling through hotwired engines and petty scraps, now, instead of games of stickball.

And Evie’s known Steve Randall since, like, fucking fifth grade – ‘cause she remembers that January, clear as day, when he slid out on the black ice coating West Coates Ave. She’d trudged through knee-deep snow to get to The Toboggan - a steep expanse of road, past the DX, where any thrill-seeking kid from their side of the tracks could sling a sled, before the ploughs made it out that far. She’d been standing with Kathy when Steve stood up on a piece of scrap metal, or whatever the hell he’d claimed as his sled - and flew down the hill, sliding from zero to 60 in three seconds flat and crashing out in the gutter. It would be remembered as the first – and definitely not only – time that Steve Randall broke his nose in half, and the day he became Slippin’ Stevie for the rest of middle school. 

Steve ran with a strange crew, and always had, even before the addition of the infamous Dallas Winston. He was best friends with Sodapop Curtis, who’d been famous in his own rite since grade school, just for being so handsome and popular, and something about Steve’s mean, hard little glare made Soda’s pretty grin shine even brighter when they stood side by side. The two of them used to trail around behind Soda’s big brother Darry, who hiked himself straight to college last year on a football scholarship – and now, in turn, Soda’s littler brother Ponyboy tagged along behind them, thirteen and sporty and smart-mouthed. Then there was that quiet boy, Johnny, from their neighborhood, who moved like a shadow and had a reputation for being decent despite the fact that he came from dirt; and Two-Bit Mathews, who still acted like an overgrown schoolboy at almost-eighteen, with equally overgrown sideburns and a rowdy, untamed sense of humor to match. 

Dallas only joined up last year, freshly run out of New York City - over some big turf war and a murder, or so he claimed, until old Tim Shepard let it slip that it was only Dally’s dad, out for his own blood kin. And nobody really knew what to do with Dallas, once he landed in East Tulsa last March, with his stories: all larger than life, and bloodier, too. Everyone waited to see who that dangerous, blonde boy with the rough-rolling accent and the rap sheet would fall in with – and somehow, Evie didn’t expect it to be with those boys she’d known forever; who used to aim kickballs at her and Kathy when they’d walk past that empty lot by the Curtis place.

Steve can’t really be outright awful to Evie in Shop Class; not when they have buddies in common who take up for her, too. At least Mattie has her back – and sometimes, Chance too. But they don’t even see half the shit he does; the sneers and the comments under his breath and the petty fucking thievery. She’s simply got to get him back.

And it’s fine, ‘cause Evie’s no amateur at retaliation. God knows, she’s defended herself and Kath from worse antagonists than Steve fucking Randall, since they were just kids…with two big brothers who taught her to be tough, and smart. The temper is Evie’s alone, though, and something about Steve’s nasty stares and cocky little comments sets it off. She’s gonna turn second period right back on him and make him wish he’d never fucked with her.

***

“Hey, don’t bother, ladies.” He’s smirking over at Evie and Elaine the second they breeze into the classroom, panting with red noses from sneaking a smoke out in the cold by the dumpsters.

“Excuse me?” Elaine narrows her eyes, throwing her bookbag down on the workbench.

“We’re firin’ up the Torch, finally,” Steve grins, shooting over a withering look. “So why don’t ya just head back to Drafting, and let us handle it?”

And in that moment, Evie really does hate him – like she wasn’t the one who fixed the crankshaft on that tuff, red-orange ‘57 Ford that they’ve all been dying to turn on, before Steve convinced Mr. McNeal that he knew something about the air flow. It didn’t matter, then, that old McNeal liked Evie enough in Mechanical Drawing and Drafting last year to let a girl into his Auto Repair Shop Class; the only one aside from Elaine. She’s still bitter about passing the Torch on to Steve and Soda, when it should be her firing that banged-together engine to life.

“You think it’ll work?” Evie glares him down, sarcastic and seething. “Good luck.”

“Won’t need it,” Steve retorts. “But hey, thanks.”

Everyone’s already congregating around the car in the center of the room – the one Tim Watts’ dad gave him for scrap metal money, before he dragged it over to the high school and Mr. McNeal declared it worth saving. Every one of them has had some hand in fixing it up, by now, even as Soda and Steve did the final engine work - and they’re all holding their breath as they open up the garage door and roll that dented Ford into the parking lot. Evie sort of hopes it explodes.

“Alright, Randall.” Mr. McNeal nods, squinting in the sun, handing over the keys. “Let’s see what she’s got.”

Evie squints in the sun as Steve climbs into the driver’s seat – all tacky, and swaggering, like anyone’s actually impressed that he turned sixteen already and got his license. Something tightens in her belly as he turns the key in the ignition, and the Torch sputters and shakes.

“Aw, somethin’s wrong,” Mattie groans, and Evie hushes him, trying to listen to that irregular, jerking hum of the engine cranking over the whispers – but it doesn’t quite start.

“Ease off!” McNeal calls, waving at Steve to kill it, and he climbs bitterly out of the car, shaking his head and radiating pure rage, all bottled up in his tense jaw and mean glare.

“You know what could be wrong?” 

“No!” Steve insists. “No, I don’t…”

“Curtis? Any ideas?”

“Uh, shoot.” Sodapop shoves his hands in his pockets, refusing to make eye contact with Evie or Steve or McNeal. “No, sir. Unless…”

“The spark plugs.” Evie’s not like Sodapop – speaking up, loud and clear; she’s not going to play dumb for the sake of saving Steve any face.

“What’s that?” Mr. McNeal turns to face her, suddenly interested, but Evie’s only speaking to Steve now.

“Did ya replace the spark plugs?” 

“I told ya,” Steve spits, shooting her a dirty scowl. “It doesn’t need –”

“It’s rough idlin’,” Evie goes on, eyebrows raised, staring right at him. “Loud as hell, too.”

“Language, Zamora,” McNeal mutters, turning back to Steve. “Well, did you? Replace ‘em?”

“No!” Steve snaps. “They’re practically new! And I cleaned ‘em out, good, Mr. McNeal. I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Sounds like they need to be replaced.”

And Evie crosses her arms, triumphant, while Mattie elbows her and cracks up, but she keeps a cool, even expression on her face - like it was too easy, actually, to catch Steve slipping and sloppy. She didn’t even have to sabotage his toolbag, or anything. 

“Yes, sir,” Steve growls, ducking his head and heading around to push the car back inside.

“I’ll see if we’ve got ‘em,” Mr. McNeal nods. “And I want ya to bring in Evie, on the install. Okay?”

The look on Steve’s face is worth every minute she’s sure she’ll have to suffer through beside him, covered in grease – but Evie nods at Mr. McNeal, unable to contain her evil little grin. She got exactly what she wanted - hitting him exactly where she knows it hurts, and she can see him simmering over with quiet rage as she joins him, shoulder to shoulder, to push the Torch.

“Cleaned ‘em out good, huh?” Evie mutters, low, just to him, and she shoves the car with a force and doesn’t bother to look back and see him glare her down.

***

“I’m telling ya, it was fuckin’ perfect.” Evie’s sitting on the edge of Kathy’s bed, talking with her hands and still smiling ear to ear. 

“I mean, in front of everyone. ‘Cause he’s always been such an asshole, about me and Elaine being there, like we don’t know what we’re doing or something, and…yeah, God. I sorta destroyed him.”

“She did,” Elaine confirms, crawling over the carpet to grab Evie’s tiny little flask.

“Good on you,” Kathy snickers, spinning around from her closet, which she’s been tearing up and selling off and cutting up, lately, like all those fashion magazines she stacks up on her vanity are really going to her head, or something.

“He did deserve it,” Elaine shrugs, wincing as the liquor goes down.

“I’m sure,” Kathy rolls her eyes, throwing a skirt on top of the laundry pile.

“Ya don’t sound like you’re on my side,” Evie snaps - vaguely annoyed, that Kathy doesn’t seem to understand that the scales have tipped, now, finally in her favor.

“It’s Steve Randall,” Kathy sighs. “He’s always been an asshole. Why’re you so hung up on him, anyways?”

“Hung up,” Evie mocks, scoffing. “He’s been –”

“What, do you actually like him or something?” Kathy’s looking at her sort of funny, with those warm, dark-brown eyes narrowed – like she’s missed the point entirely. “Is that why you’re goin’ out to this booze-up?”

“Kath, NO!” Evie snaps. “That’s, like, the exact opposite of what’s goin’ on. Christ.”

“I guess he’s cute,” Kathy concedes, scrunching up her nose. “Tall, anyways. But – ugh!”

“Are ya comin’ with us or not?” Elaine cuts in, dragging herself up to her feet and grabbing her sherpa-lined jean jacket. 

“No,” Kathy groans. “I’m on babysitting duty. But you two have fun.”

“Thanks,” Evie smiles, humorlessly, standing up too and grudgingly hugging Kathy goodbye as her littlest sister, Camilla, barrels through the bedroom door. “I won’t.”

It’s Friday night, and Evie and Elaine are trudging to Beatrice Campbell’s house, in the next neighborhood over. And Bea is Joanie’s friend, who’s dating Ken Cordon, who’s buddies with Chance and Mattie – so, Evie knows she’s bound to run into Sodapop, and Steve, too, at this party…and she swears, to herself, that she’s not trying to start up any more standoffs. Evie just wants to drink, like, a dozen beers and forget about Kathy’s maddening lack of sympathy for her situation. 

And Evie knows she looks fucking tuff in her smart black slacks and Chuck Taylors, thick James Dean sort of cabled sweater with red lipstick and her short, dark curls bouncing. She stomps right into Bea’s little house like she’d run right through anyone who tried to stop her from raiding the makeshift bar, immediately.

Whenever someone from Evie’s social circle throws a rager, it always sort of resembles an overstuffed clown car: tiny bungalow-style houses, crammed full of teenagers, with greasy boys and tough, laughing girls spilling out onto the porch and backyard. And the pounding rock ‘n roll music and gossipy drama and stupid hijinks always go right to Evie’s head, feeling loose and sweaty and alive – feeling like she’s part of something, for one night, and maybe the whole world isn’t out to get her, after all.

“EVES!” Mattie’s slinging one arm around her, knocking Evie sideways and rambling about a beer pong match – ‘cause it’s true, that she’s sort of undefeated.

“Sure,” Evie shrugs, gesturing for Elaine to follow suit. “What the hell.”

And she puts up one hell of a game, finishing out against Mick Scheier and only missing at the last second - but all the girls, plus Mattie and Chance, are cheering for her, and Evie feels victorious all the same. And, mercifully, already drunk. 

“Loser gets more beer,” Mick announces, pointing right at her.

“There’s an icebox in the basement,” Bea pipes up. “I sent Steve down there a while ago. Think he might have gotten lost.”

“I’ll go,” Evie snorts disdainfully, steadying herself and pivoting for the hall. “Hang tight.”

She takes care not to trip down those steep concrete steps, even though Bea’s dimly lit basement is sort of spinning, and it occurs to Evie that maybe she ought to slow her roll and stop drinking to rival delinquent boys. It’s too late, now, though – and Evie doesn’t even see Steve sulking around, down there, until he turns around and she jumps.

“Oh, great,” he snaps, nastily. “You.”

And Evie doesn’t know why the hell she’s thinking of Kathy’s comment from earlier – about how Steve is impressively tall, towering over her now, like he thinks he’s intimidating, or something. She does feel her cheeks flushing, as he stares her down with those mean, dark eyes. Evie isn’t sure if he’s cute; she’s literally never even stopped to consider that Slippin’ Steve Randall could possess any desirable qualities at all.

“You’re really gonna hate me over spark plugs?” Evie rolls her eyes, glaring right back, wavering off-balance. “When I’m about to find us more beer?”

“Go on, then,” Steve snarks back, huffing out hot air and sitting down heavily on the threadbare couch in the middle of the dark room, gesturing impatiently. “I’m waitin’.”

“You know you’re a totally sexist asshole, right?” Evie asks, offhand, marching over to the icebox in the corner. She’s already nearly wasted – that’s for sure – and feeling sort of emboldened to rile Steve right up and find out if he’s willing to fight her, after all.

“Sure,” Steve counters back, behind her, but Evie’s busy rummaging around in the dark, hands grasping onto cold cans buried in ice, still sweating. She sets all the pilfered beer on top of the icebox and yanks her thick sweater off over her head.

Evie isn’t sure what to expect, when she turns back around and searches Steve’s face for signs of murderous rage – like she wants him to square up, and render their stupid little rivalry real. And he does have a funny look in his eyes - looking her up and down, and Evie realizes too late that he can definitely see her bright red bra right through her camisole.

“Come ‘ere,” Steve nods, dark eyes locked on her from across the room. And Evie shuffles across the concrete floor, as if she’s being pulled over to that couch by some invisible force, cold cans clutched to her chest. 

She’s standing in front of him – over him, almost, extending one arm to hand him a beer, but Steve doesn’t make a move for it. Instead, Evie feels his hands grabbing, suddenly, at her upper thighs, knocking her perilously off balance, and she pitches forward, directly into his lap.

“Hey, what the fuck –” Evie yelps, dropping all the beer cans, bending her knees instinctively to soften the landing and falling right on top of him, straddling his legs and grabbing his shoulders to brace herself. 

“Let me kiss you,” Steve growls, voice all deep and low, and Evie isn’t sure if he’s lost his mind – but her skin is buzzing, all hot and electric where his hands are tightening around her waist, and she doesn’t actually want him to stop touching her, so she grinds her hips down and leans in first.

He tastes sort of like licking something sweet off an ashtray, but he kisses her hard, tangling one hand through Evie’s hair and knocking the wind right out of her chest, trembling in his tight grasp. And when he bites down on her bottom lip, just for half a second, she actually moans – and doesn’t have a second to feel embarrassed about him snickering in her ear; not with his mouth on her neck like that.

“Steve,” Evie gasps, all breathless and sort of half-laughing, in utter fucking shock. Her heart’s banging around in her chest, and her red lipstick is smeared across his face.

“You want me to stop?” He breathes back, sliding one hand up under her shirt - under the band of her bra, reaching for the clasps like he might actually know what the hell he’s doing.

And Evie really doesn’t want him to stop – house party upstairs be damned – but she kind of can’t believe this is happening at all. Mostly, she can’t believe how much she likes it, the way he puts his hands on her. Her brain is reeling through realizations, clicking into place, and Evie’s fucking wet already and half afraid of what she might let him do.

“Someone could come down,” Evie whispers. “Any minute…”

“Mmm,” Steve murmurs. “Wanna risk it?”

“Risk WHAT?!” Evie hisses back, indignantly. She doesn’t really have time to contemplate her own complete lack of experience with anything past second base, or how she just realized thirty seconds ago that she may, in fact, be extremely attracted to Steve fucking Randall.

“I can’t believe it wasn’t obvious,” he mutters, laughing under his breath as he bucks his hips, grinding up into her, and Evie feels like she’s burning up in his hands, shaking with adrenaline and trying to stifle a moan.

“Eves,” Steve mumbles, all hot breath hitting her neck. “I want ya.”

“Clearly,” Evie slurs back, shaking her head in disbelief – but she’ll buy in, for the night, if he’ll grab her hips like that again and keep kissing her. “Alright. All yours.”

***

Evie knows she’s been acting recklessly already this year, falling in with the Shop boys’ crew and trawling the house party circuit like cheap beer is suddenly going out of style. God knows, Kathy’s started looking at her, sort of just like Evie’s own mother does, when she confesses all her petty scraps, or how she got detention. But this – this is way beyond her usual antics, and Evie’s sort of too shocked with herself, still, to even say the words out loud.

“Oh, spill it, already,” Kathy demands, impatiently, from her spot at the vanity where she’s color-coding her fucking blush compacts, or something. Evie takes a deep breath.

“I hooked up with Steve Randall.”

“You WHAT?!” Kathy spins around, eyes flying open, screwing up her face.

“You heard me.”

“Wait,” Kathy narrows her eyes, like Evie can see her trying to connect dots in her brain, demanding to know more. “What the HELL? Last night?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Steve Randall!” Kathy yelps, repeating it over, slowly, in shock. “Steve…Randall.”

“I know,” Evie groans, raking her fingers through her hair and rolling her eyes. 

“I thought you two hated each other.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too,” Evie mutters. “Maybe that’s what made it good?”

“What was IT?” Kathy leaps up, eyebrows raised suspiciously. “Eves! Ya didn’t let him…?”

“NO!” Evie yelps, face burning. “We just made out, okay? In Bea’s fuckin’ basement, on a beer run, alright, so we couldn’t exactly –”

“But you would?” Kathy’s eyeing her in disbelief, like she’s staring right down into Evie’s soul, and lying wouldn’t even work. “And, wait. So it was…nice?”

“It was…somethin’,” Evie murmurs, with a sort of pained expression on her face - ‘cause she really, really didn’t want to admit it, either, at first. “I mean, he got pretty handsy.”

“Jesus Christ, Eves,” Kathy sits back, blinking slowly, like she’s plotting something. “So what now?”

“What do ya mean?”

“I mean, are you guys going out?” Kathy looks at her, curiously, like she ought to know.

“No,” Evie snaps. “We didn’t exactly talk terms and conditions.”

“Well, do you WANT to go out with him?”

“Not sure yet,” Evie mumbles, sort of regretting spilling the beans in the first damn place – because she really doesn’t know exactly what she’s started up, here, or even how she wants it to shake out.

“But you KISSED him!”

“No,” Evie snarks. “HE kissed ME.”

“Yeah, right,” Kathy smirks, knowingly – ‘cause she really does know Evie Zamora inside and out, and knows she isn’t in the habit of waiting around for her rivals to make the first move.

“Aw, screw off,” Evie shoves her, groaning and falling back onto Kath’s quilted bedspread, staring intently at a crack in the ceiling.

“No, this is insane,” Kathy muses, and Evie can hear her slamming vanity drawers shut and crawling over to join her at the bottom of the bed. “Steve Randall. I can’t even…I mean, what if ya start goin’ steady?”

“Just calm down,” Evie snaps, trying to remember that metaphor, about the cart and the horse, or whatever. “Jesus.”

“He’s got a car,” Kathy goes on, poking her excitedly. “You’re gonna get rides to school. And you’re gonna have to stop wearin’ red lipstick. And switch from bubblegum, to mint…”

“Didn’t know sucking face was an Olympic fuckin’ sport,” Evie grumbles, rolling her eyes. “What, do I need goggles, too? Knee pads? Wait, how would you even know?”

“You’ll see,” Kathy giggles. “Has he called ya?”

“No? He doesn’t even have my number.”

“You didn’t give it to him?”

“I was fuckin’ sauced, Kath!”

“That’s okay,” Kathy grins, sounding so very sure of herself – and titillated, too. “He’ll get it from Mattie. Just wait.”

“For WHAT?”

“God, Eves,” Kathy crawls over, up to where she’s lying on the bed, shoving her face into Evie’s view. “For him to ask you out, obviously.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Evie spits, like she doesn’t care one way or the other if Steve Randall rings her up this weekend or not. But of course she fuckin’ wants him to – even if she can’t really make sense of any of these insane consequences Kathy’s talking about; even though she hated his guts three days ago. 

Evie won’t admit exactly how she feels when she remembers back, to how he grabbed her, all hot and quick and desperate – how it set her off and drove her sort of insane. How she’s suddenly thinking that maybe she and him aren’t so different; how maybe they clashed just because they both possess the same exact sort of stubborn, spiteful spirit. Evie’s sort of terrified that she’s finally met her match – even though he was there all along. She’s more scared of just how much she might actually like him; of the very idea of letting her guard down for a boy.

“Evie!” Kathy smacks her, lightly, voice all high-pitched. “C’mon, this is major.”

“THIS isn’t anything, yet,” Evie says, indignantly, like she’s trying to shove the whole idea of it becoming something away from herself, and not have to face it head-on.

“Yeah, okay,” Kathy’s got a wiley, crooked grin on her face; completely invested and already along for the ride. “Call me when he calls ya, okay?”

***

Steve doesn’t call Evie on Saturday, or Sunday – even as she hovers near the telephone, feeling slightly pathetic, after a while. Even her mother noticed her, camped out by the bottom of the stairs, in the way of her vacuuming - and her big brother Dominic almost runs her right over, barreling around the corner.

“Watch it!” Evie barks, aiming a kick at his shins.

“Ya expectin’ a call, or somethin’?” Dom smirks down at her. “Hey, wanna put in some work on the Rambler? Could take a look at that time belt.”

“Yeah, okay.” Evie drags herself up, grateful for the distraction – and for Dom, who sort of reminds her of Steve, all tall and dark and greasy; so obsessed with engine work that he’s been spending his weekends helping her fix up a beater of her own to drive around, as soon as she turns sixteen. Evie already knows how to drive, obviously – she just needs the paperwork. And probably a new time belt. And to somehow reverse this hijacking of her normally-rational brain by a certain Steve Randall, ‘cause God, this is actually getting embarrassing. 

Evie feels most at home on the floor of her dad’s garage, under an engine with grease dripping down on her, wrench in hand – ever since she was a little kid, she’s never been shut out of the family auto business for being a girl. She learned right alongside Dom and Anton, and Evie knows her shit inside and out. She always has. 

“What’s got you all weird?” Dominic asks, casually, digging through the toolbox.

“Nothin’.”

“Huh.”

“Okay, so, like, hypothetically,” Evie ventures, gritting her teeth. “If a guy likes a girl – like, enough to tell her so – he’d probably call her, right?”

“Uh, hypothetically?” Dom eyes her sharply. “Depends. Who’re we talkin’ about?”

“Nevermind,” Evie snaps. “And why the hell would it depend?”

“‘Cause men are bums, Eves,” Dominic grins, ruefully. “Better not be some cat takin’ ya for a ride.”

“Thanks,” Evie mutters. “And no. It’s cool. It’s nothin’.”

And Evie acts all cool and unbothered, too, when she walks into Shop Class on Monday – like nothing ever happened, even if her heart is racing and she’s looking out for Steve. She wonders, suddenly, if he told anyone…if she can detect any hint of knowledge, in Sodapop’s grin, but he looks just as carefree and cool as usual – and Steve doesn’t even look up.

“Hey,” Evie says, finally, hanging up her bag and walking over to their crew.

“Hey,” Steve grunts back – catching her eye, just for a second, before he glances away and turns back to Soda. And Evie inhales sharply, swallowing down her confusion and pretending like it doesn’t hurt, that he won’t even look at her.

Elaine doesn’t know a thing, so Evie spends the whole first half of class in girlworld, gossiping about nothing while they clean out cylinders, just waiting for Mr. McNeal to put her in on the Torch. She isn’t sure if she’s looking forward to it, now – to being forced under the hood with a boy who kissed her and said he wanted her; who’s totally snubbing her, now that he’s tricked her into wanting him back. And it dawns on Evie, slowly and horribly and all at once, that maybe it was all an elaborate prank against her – and maybe she’s the world’s biggest sucker, for falling for it.

“Alright, Little Miss Spark Plugs,” McNeal calls from the middle of the classroom. “Get in here with Randall.”

Evie feels slightly ill, stomach turning like a tornado of butterflies, as she walks over to the Torch, with its hood flung open and Steve Randall standing there over the engine, looking at her just like he always does – sort of like a threat that needs to be squashed out of existence. 

“You got this?” Steve flicks his dark eyebrows up at her, dubiously, like a dare.

“Obviously,” Evie rolls her eyes, searching his face for some answer, as to why he’s still acting like such a fucking asshole.

“Great,” Steve grins back coldly. “Don’t let me stop ya.”

And he stands there, breathing down her neck and handing her wrenches, offering up commentary on everything she’s doing wrong, and Evie can feel his eyes boring through the back of her head as she installs the new wire plugs. She takes her time, tightening everything up intentionally, sweating and sort of shaking with a strange anxiety.

“Looks like good work,” McNeal says, appraisingly. “Want to find out?”

Evie holds her breath as they go through the old routine, pushing the Torch out into the lot, and as Steve climbs back into the driver’s seat. She actually squeezes her eyes shut for a second, waiting for that engine to roar to life – and it does, humming loud and clear, and Evie whispers, “Thank Christ.”

She doesn’t even feel triumphant – just fucking relieved, as everyone else whoops and shouts. Evie gets to work cleaning up the benches, throwing tools into bags, letting the boys rally around the Ford as Steve backs it in. 

She can still hear them yapping raucously, high-fiving each other and doing fucking somersaults out in the lot, as Evie packs up her stuff wordlessly, straining to listen over the rest of the chatter – for anyone to give her a shred of credit, or for anything out of Steve. All she overhears are snippets of an argument about catching a pool game tonight.

“Nah, let’s hit The Alamo,” Chance groans. “There’s never any girls at Artie’s.”

“Girls,” Evie hears Steve spit – like he’s talking about some loathsome subgroup of the human population, and she winces. “Ya ever think about anythin’ other than chasin’ tail?”

“No,” Chance shoots back. “You should try it, buddy. Loosen ya up a little.”

“Hey, him and Evie looked pretty friendly back there.” She hears Mattie’s voice, teasing, and Evie’s stomach drops out, staring down at the floor and listening intently.

“Zamora?” Steve asks, mockingly; meanly. “She’s barely even a girl.”

She knows Elaine hears him say it – leaping into action from across the room, she stalks over to Steve Randall and spits out something lethal about Evie being a better mechanic, and Steve being a jealous little weasel and a sexist loser, and even Mattie’s shaking his head, but Evie can’t even feel grateful for her tough, loyal friends. Her face is burning and she’s struggling, hard, to force it into a neutral, dead-eyed stare. 

Evie hates Steve Randall all over again – so much worse, now, than ever before. She doesn’t even want to fight him anymore. No, Evie wants Steve’s very existence scrubbed from the earth, and especially from her own brain. The one saving grace, maybe, is that only Kathy will ever have to know she kissed him like a totally braindead idiot. 

She tries to tell herself it’s okay, in the bathroom mirror between Shop Class and History – that it was just a minor lapse, in her usually self-protective judgement, and Evie can crawl back from it, now that all the butterflies are dead. She can shut off her feelings, again, just like shutting off the faucet – and she can strike Steve Randall from her heart and mind, and kill whatever crazy ideas she had about being his girlfriend, too. 

Evie’s aware that she might have gone insane for one weekend – but it’s not going to happen again; not on her fucking watch. She’s climbing right back into the driver’s seat, already plotting her revenge; Evie’s gonna set everything right in her world again. 

***

“It’s a shit plan,” Mattie announces, crushing a cigarette butt under his boot and kicking the nearby chain-link fence. “They’d catch on so fast, it’d make your head spin. And I’m not headed back to the reformatory.”

Evie’s not even sure what the hell she’s doing outside the Dingo, shivering in her denim jacket in the late October wind, milling around with Elaine and Mattie and Chance and Sodapop and their friend Two-Bit because nobody had the cash to get in. And, yeah, Steve is there, too – though she’s been ignoring him hard, taking extra time to tease out her curls and then acting as rude to him as humanly fucking possible, for weeks now. She’s pretty sure people have started noticing that nasty tension hanging between them – but Evie’s not trudging back to the girls’ table in defeat. She’ll keep her friends, even if Steve sticks to them like glue, too - even as they’re pulling together this ill-advised plan to “borrow” parts from the Shop closet, to get old Two-Bit Mathews’ car running again.

“Yeah, what about McNeal?” Sodapop says. “What if the school blames him?”

“What if they never find out it’s missin’?” Chance argues. “I mean, who checks?”

“They’ve got, like, inventory lists,” Elaine rolls her eyes. “They’d catch us.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Steve interjects, slick and serious. “Not if we only took the pistons and the rings. I’ll replace ‘em by next week, with whatever we can skim from the DX. Who’s in?”

“Why don’t you just steal ‘em from the DX in the first place, then?” Evie drones.

“‘Cause I’d rather get expelled than fired,” Steve snaps, shooting her hateful glare.

“That’s your problem,” Evie rolls her eyes.

“I’m out,” Sodapop announces, throwing up his hands. “Sorry, buddy.”

“Yeah, me too,” Elaine crosses her arms. “You’re not really gonna –”

“Mattie?” Steve asks, sharply questioningly. “Chance?”

“Yeah, I’m in,” Mattie mutters.

“Evie?” He’s mocking her, for sure – smirking, like he thinks she’s not tough enough to dare. And Evie knows she’s sworn up and down, exasperatedly to Kathy, about how she doesn’t care one way or the other what Steve thinks of her - just like she knows that breaking into the school to steal spare car parts has got to be the worst idea since Joanie’s attempt to bleach her own hair. But Evie feels herself shifting into rare, reckless form, lately – like she wasn’t born full of bad ideas, growing up with something desperate to prove.

“Yeah, sure,” she announces, looking Steve right in the eyes and grinning when he looks at her like that – surprised. 

“I’m workin’ on a Rambler,” Evie shrugs. “Gonna check out the time belts.”

And she feels pretty tough, cutting across empty lots in the dark with Chance and Mattie and Steve and Two-Bit, their loud laughter echoing through quiet streets. It’s only when they approach Will Rogers High School, all shuttered and silent, that Evie starts to think that maybe she’s gotten in way over her head – again. But she can’t exactly back out now and live to let Steve Randall tell the tale, about how she’s a coward. 

Chance’s clever plan seems to be working, as they roll the garage door outside the Shop classroom right up, a few feet, and duck under it like spies. The Auto Shop classroom is full of fucking obstacles to trip over in the dark, but Steve leads the way back to the storage closet, commanding complete silence.

There’s just one second, where Chance knocks into the shelves before they turn the light on – and Evie claps her hands over her mouth, jumping as metal parts crash to the floor, louder than bombs – and she thinks they’re well and truly caught. But Steve pulls the pistons off a top shelf, cradling the parts in his arms and nodding for them to head out.

She can’t take the time belt – not ‘cause she didn’t find one, but because Sodapop Curtis is right. She can’t do Mr. McNeal like that; not after he took a chance on her. Evie’s really just praying she makes it home tonight unscathed and innocent – and it’s looking good, as they gather up the loot and prepare to sneak back through the darkened classroom. She’s already preparing to exhale a sigh of relief when a light cracks on in the hallway, outside, and they all freeze.

“Police, come outta there!” 

Evie’s heart sinks, down to her fucking toes, and it’s like something explodes there in the still air and they all run, helter skelter – Chance skidding out towards the garage door behind Two-Bit, and she sees Steve and Mattie pivot back towards the closet, and she doesn’t have time to think twice about following them. 

“STOP!” Evie hears voices – and bodies – filling up the classroom as she barricades the closet door, and Mattie and Steve scramble up onto the counter – under the big window that opens over the back dumpsters. She was convinced that it was rusted shut, but they’re cranking open the top left pane, and Mattie hoists himself up and shoves his way through that little dark hole like an acrobat, disappearing in space. 

Steve leaps up behind him, lean and lithe, climbing through the window, and Evie swears he takes one last, bitter look back at her, before he jumps out. And there’s nowhere to go, then, but right after him – even though Evie has a harder time reaching up to that high sill, sweaty hands ruining every grip. Steve must be, like, six feet tall, and Evie’s reminded all over again, as she reaches up and slips, that she’s a girl – smaller and weaker, but apparently, just as fucking stupid as him. 

The cops are banging on the door and a panic is settling into Evie’s bones, and she takes a deep breath, crosses herself, and makes one desperate jump, reaching out for the top sill to grab onto. If she can just get a good hold and hoist herself up, then Evie figures she can make it out - not like she has a choice, as the lock cracks and the door swings open. 

And she’s so, so fucking close - thinking, in midair, that she’s gonna clear it, clinging white-knuckled to that windowsill, until her foot slips and she comes crashing down, tumbling sideways off the counter. Evie’s vaguely aware of the hot, stinging pain in her shoulder - and all down the side of her face - where her skin scraped over some sharp, awful piece of unknown metal, but she doesn’t have time to assess the damage, now, as one of those cops flicks on the light again. And they look almost-surprised when they stare down at her, red-faced and panting on the floor, on the edge of tears.

“Well, well,” one of them mutters. “What have you got yourself into, here, honey?”

“Figured we were lookin’ for Kravitz,” the other smirks, shaking his head.  “Or Winston.”

“She’s bleedin’.” The first officer squints down at Evie, half-concerned. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah,” Evie chokes out, through clenched teeth, feeling more pathetic than she has all month. “Could you guys just shoot me, or somethin’?” 

***

“Evangelina!”

She’s bracing herself, waiting in the lobby; shaking, all over again, worse than in that icebox of a holding cell – locked up, like she robbed a fuckin’ liquor store, guns blazing, or something. 

Evie sort of can’t actually believe that they dragged her down to the reformatory. But she’s been dreading the very moment her parents came to bail her out; far more scared of her mother’s cries and dad’s disappointment than she is of being stuck in such a place, like this.

It’s been two fucking nights, now – sleeping on a thin palette mattress and listening to clanks and grunts and shouts, and Evie’s got a sick feeling that her father could have strong-armed someone into releasing her already, if he wasn’t trying to teach her a lesson.

“Your FACE!” 

Her mother’s nearly shrieking, reaching out towards that nasty scrape on her cheekbone, all bruised yellow and angry, and Evie winces and dodges her.

“It’s fine.” Evie grits her teeth, mumbling. “They put some antibiotic ointment on me, or somethin’.”

“Evie,” her mother signs – and it sort of sounds like her voice is breaking, right under the weight of all the disappointment. “I don’t know why you’d do this to yourself. I mean, your face…doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

And Evie flicks her eyes up, sort of in disbelief – as if her fucking looks would matter, now – before casting her gaze right back down to the floor.

“I know,” Evie murmurs, hopelessly. “I’m sorry. I mean, really. I don’t know why I…”

“God help anyone who knows WHY you’d do something like this!” 

And Evie’s dad doesn’t say much of anything – because he doesn’t have to; her mom’s more than capable of dressing her down and making her regret every single choice Evie’s made since she was born, probably. 

She keeps her mouth shut, tight, on the drive home, embarrassed and weary and still sort of unable to believe that she’s got a real juvenile record now, just like Winston and Mattie and the rest of those famous hooligans.

“Well, you’re grounded,” Evie’s mother announces, as they pull into the driveway. “For the month. You’ve got five minutes to call Kathy, or whoever’s been ringin’ us up and worryin’ about ya.”

“Thanks,” Evie mumbles, miserably, nearly sprinting to the phone, crouched over the pad of paper with the day’s messages on it – ‘cause she’s more curious about who else, other than Kath, might have dared to call and spill the beans…but she recognizes Sodapop Curtis’ number, and the words “call back - Evie - urgent(?)” scrawled in Dominic’s messy writing. Evie picks up the phone and dials.

“Hello?” It’s his mother, who sounds kind, and warm, and Evie quickly tempers her voice down into something girlish and polite, rather than demanding. “For Soda? ‘Course it is. Who is it, honey?”

“Evie Zamora,” she whispers. “Thanks.”

And then there’s a shuffling, and muffled shouts, before Soda starts babbling in her ear.

“Evie!” He exclaims, talking in a rush. “Are you okay? Heard they took ya all the way to – well, we tried to track ya down. But they said your parents were pickin’ ya up.”

“Yeah, they did,” Evie groans. “You were right, Soda. Not to go. You’re always…well, always one of the good ones. And I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“It was Steve’s fault,” Soda cuts in, sort of muttering. “Dragging you in, and then leavin’ ya there. But then he told me somethin’, yesterday…”

“What?” Evie asks, belligerently.

“Eves,” Sodapop whispers. “He really likes ya.”

“Ha! Sure seems like it.”

“No, Eves. I’m tellin’ ya, we drove ‘round the police station. And the school. Then he’s talkin’ to the people at juvie hall, trying to find out where they stuck ya…”

“Yeah?” Evie asks, suspicious and strangely elated.

“So, after about half a day, I asked him what was goin’ on,” Soda continues, sort of gleefully, “And – well, ‘course he ought to feel bad about letting you take the fall. But I didn’t know you guys had a thing.”

“A THING?” Evie protests. “Yeah, we don’t have any –”

“I think he wants you to.” She can practically see him smirking through the phone, a little too delighted to have figured it out. “Mercy, Evie, he’s like…I don’t know. I’d say he’s down bad, but maybe you’d be good for him. Like, perfect, actually.”

“Don’t you dare,” Evie snaps. “When he’s been ruining my fuckin’ life.”

“I know, I know,” Soda’s saying, but he sounds like he’s sort of bouncing around, animated. “He’s got some plan, to make it up to ya. Just – give him a chance, will ya, Eves?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Take it from me,” Sodapop says, seriously, but he’s sort of laughing, too, like he can’t help himself. “I’ve never seen him like this. I think you drive him sorta crazy, or somethin’. Like he wouldn’t even admit.”

“I’m hanging up, now,” Evie announces, stifling a wicked little grin as her mother rounds the corner. “Thanks, Curtis.”

***

Evie has plenty of time to think while she’s chained to her parent’s property, smoking about a million cigarettes on the front porch and staring, dead-eyed, down her street. It’s half to piss off her own mother, who discovered her loathsome nicotine habit when she was about twelve – and now, she just shoves a thick wool sweater out into Evie’s arms, muttering something about catching her death in the cold. 

She’s certainly never going to forgive Steve Randall for ditching her, alone, to take the fall for his own evil little plan – but then, it’s also true that she hasn’t been able to get him out of her head for a solid hour, all week. And all her rage is sort of mixed up with those memories, of kissing him…and Steve grabbing her, hard, and confessing that he wanted her. 

She’s thinking about what Sodapop Curtis said, about Steve driving around looking for her – about making it up to her. Evie’s got her fucking doubts. She definitely doesn’t actually expect to see his car prowling down her street – that red Chevy Bel Air, banged back together with nothing but elbow grease. Her heart starts pounding, and she glances back to see if anyone’s watching from the windows as he parks on their curb.

He’s walking across Evie’s lawn - all long strides, mouth set in a hard line, hands in his pockets, heading straight for her. Evie straightens her back and puts on a mean glare as he stops, standing right in front of her - almost eye-to-eye, she’s got the high ground, perched on the top porch step. 

“Hey,” Steve says, simply. He’s got a funny look in his eyes - sharp and serious as always, but there’s something antsy darting around underneath. “Ya stuck here?”

“Yes,” Evie snaps, bitingly caustic and nasty. “For the month. Thanks, for that, by the way.”

“Shoot, Evie.” He’s shifting his weight around, all nervous and repentant. “I’m sorry.”

“And for everything else.”

“I’m SORRY!” Steve looks sort of horribly exasperated, raking his hand through his hair and messing up his fancy greased swirls. “For bein’ an asshole. For everything I ever did to ya, Eves, I’d take it back –”

“Everything?” Evie raises one eyebrow, smirking sideways, staring right at him.

“Not that,” Steve grins back, eyes flashing. “Everythin’ but that.”

“I’m gonna need ya to explain what the hell that means,” Evie demands, crossing her arms. “‘Cause if this is how ya treat girls you like, I think I’d rather you just hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Steve groans, turning red. “I mean, it’s okay, if you hate me.”

“I’m still deciding.”

“I really fuckin’ like ya, Evie.” He’s staring at her, intently, unwavering. “I always did. I just didn’t know what to do with it. I never felt – well, I’m just sorry. I shouldn’t have ever done ya like that, any of it.”

“You got me caught by the fuzz,” Evie laughs, under her breath, at the ridiculousness of it all; of Steve – even though he’s got her blushing, now.

“Mercy, I’m sorry,” Steve chuckles. “Yeah, you’ve got a tuffer rap sheet than me, now.”

“They didn’t even haul me to grown-up jail!” Evie snaps. “Thanks.”

“Eh, it counts,” Steve grins. “Bet nobody will bother ya, anymore.”

“You’re bothering me right now,” Evie mutters - but she’s cracking a smile, and her skin sort of feels like it’s buzzing again.

“What happened to your face?” He’s staring at that nasty scrape down her cheekbone, bruising yellow by now. “Did they rough you up?”

“No,” she groans, sighing in exasperation. “I fell. Tryin’ to climb out that fuckin’ window, after ya.”

“Don’t hate me, Eves,” Steve says – sort of like begging, but he doesn’t look desperate, only determined. “I never should have left ya, like that. C’mon, lemme make it up to you.”

“How?” Evie rolls her eyes. “Gonna scrub my record?”

“No,” Steve smirks. “Pulled ya a mostly-new time belt. Lemme put it in for ya?”

“Oh,” Evie startles, and she can’t help grinning back at him. “It’s the blue Rambler, in the garage. But I’m pretty sure my Dad’s in there now.”

“Great,” he nods, unbothered. “Two birds, one stone, or somethin’.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Steve stands up, slapping his knees and winking at her. “Hang tight, kid.”

***

Evie’s been dreading her family dinner table lately – ‘cause it’s always her on the chopping block, but tonight, she’s dying to hear whatever her Dad has to say. 

She watched from the window, earlier, as Steve walked across the lot to the garage. And Evie’s eyes flew open when she saw her dad emerging, first, and approaching Steve, talking to him in the driveway for a while. She ducked way down below the window, peeking over the sill with her heart pounding, and watched her dad shake Steve’s hand and let him into their garage.

“Who was that, earlier?” Of course, her mother won’t even let them say grace without giving her the third degree, regarding Evie suspiciously across the table.

“Steve Randall,” Evie chokes, ears turning red as Dom starts chuckling.

“He’s not one of those boys you got into trouble with?”

“Um, yeah,” Evie nods coolly. “The main boy, actually.”

“Your father figured,” Evie’s mom remarks tightly. “And what was he doing, out in our garage?” 

Dominic is reveling, with all the subtlety of a fucking atom bomb, kicking Evie under the table - and their oldest brother, Anton, just looks confused, but everyone’s looking to their dad, waiting on his word about a certain tall, sleazy boy sniffing around their property.

“Steve explained to me whose idea that stunt at the school was,” her Dad says, slowly, eyeing Evie across the table. “And he personally apologized, for letting Evie take the fall.”

“Told you it wasn’t my fault,” Evie mumbles, face hot and eyes downcast.

“Well, then he offered to make some honorable amends, to our little scapegoat.”

“What?” Evie asks, almost scared to know what Steve offered up – for her.

“He asked to take her to a Halloween party tomorrow night.” A knowing little smile plays over Evie’s dad’s face, like he’s just as amused as Dom. “Sounded like an important event. I said yes.”

Her mother is raising her eyebrows, lips drawn into a tight, disapproving line, but Evie can’t hide her face, cracking into a triumphant grin. She’s thinking of how to tell Kathy that she was right; that Steve Randall finally asked her out, even if it was in the most roundabout and ridiculous way possible.

“Didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Eves,” Dom winks at her.

“Yeah,” Evie breezes, blushing and smirking. “I didn’t either.”

***

Evie’s in the passenger seat of Steve’s Chevy, flying through the chilly residential streets of East Tulsa on the way to Mattie’s annual Halloween party – and she’s sort of hot as those annoying butterflies she thought she murdered flutter around in her belly. Evie’s all too aware of her own proximity to Steve’s body, and of the fact that she’s about to walk into the biggest social event of the month on his arm. She’s kind of looking forward to seeing whose heads will roll; sticking it to all those evil, awful girls who liked to call her a freak.

And mostly, Evie’s glad she actually took Kathy’s advice about forgoing her usual lipstick, even if she doesn’t feel quite like herself without Revlon Certainly Red. She just wants Steve to kiss her, again, here in the quiet dark or in the middle of Mattie’s crowded backyard; Evie doesn’t care about the details. She just keeps sneaking little looks over at him as he turns onto North Wheeling Ave, and she can hear the noise already.

“So, what are we gonna tell everyone?” Steve grins over at her – coyly; casually, like they’re co-conspirators in a wicked little plot. 

“Um, to mind their business?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.” Evie sort of loves how he speaks her language, all slimy and sarcastic and smart. “I’d rather tell ‘em you’re my girl.”

“Yeah?” Her heart skips a beat, flying over the moon and back into Evie’s chest with a crash while she tries to act all cool and steady and not elated.

“Yeah,” Steve grins, nodding firmly and swinging his arm around her seat while he inches into a parallel spot on the curb strewn with beat-up cars. “I don’t have a ring to give ya, or anythin’, but…yeah, they’ll know.”

And the craziest thing Evie’s ever learned about cars doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the engine parts; she only realized it a few years ago. It’s the way a teenage girl can climb into a sleek machine on a Friday night and come out with an entire boyfriend, or without their virginity. Evie’s working on that next part. Right now, she’s perfectly content to emerge from the Chevy, hand in hand with Steve Randall, and stomp right across Mattie’s lawn, a new woman. 

His hand is warm, with a firm grasp that sort of makes Evie lightheaded, and she’s half afraid she’s gonna trip or pass out, or something, straining her ears as they make their way up to the front door, which is propped open, buddies and rivals spilling out of Mattie’s house, onto the grass. 

And she hears the whispers, already – Pete, talking to Bea’s friend Goldie, pausing for a second from trying to liquor her up and dive into those bushes.

“Is that Evie?”

She has to squash down a giant, tooth-baring smirk, amused by their total disbelief…and it’s dawning on her, slowly, that maybe she’s not going to be the same old Evie Zamora ever again. At least, tonight, she’s not just that scrappy little Tulsa tomboy, picking fights and not fitting in anywhere – and maybe Evie’s better than she thought at being a girl. A girlfriend. Maybe it could even be fun.

“Are they, like, together?” 

It’s Mattie himself, standing like a shadow in the doorway, obviously perplexed and exchanging glances with Sodapop, who appears behind him, as if out of thin air.

“Ask ‘em, yourself,” Soda shrugs, but he’s grinning ear-to-ear, all pleased with himself.

“What do ya think, Mattie?” Steve asks, sarcastically, dragging Evie’s fist up into the sky in a triumphant salute that could punch holes in the midnight blue sky. “Yeah, I fuckin’ got her.”

Chapter Text

JANUARY 1965

“Hey, Sandy!”

She’s been dreading this very moment all morning, sweating under fluorescent lights in a scratchy wool sweater on the threshold of the science lab, wishing she could avoid facing Sodapop Curtis, whose calls she’s wanted to answer all damn week.

And he kept calling, so often that Sandy spent most of her winter break hovering in the hallway of her dad’s trailer, waiting for the first ring so she could hang right up before anyone else heard. Once, she picked up and pretended it was Sylvia for about an entire minute. She still doesn’t have a single half-baked clue how to explain that, now, and she walks into Mr. Hamlin’s class, bracing for that handsome, grinning boy in the chair beside hers to either crack a joke, or snub her entirely.

But somehow, Soda doesn’t look angry at all – like maybe, he’s not thinking he made an awful mistake, picking her to chat up all December. He only looks curious; intrigued, maybe, but not fed up with her, and it’s only as she gives a weak little wave back that Sandy realizes she was holding her breath.

“So, how was your Christmas vacation?”

Sandy’s still not over how incredibly good-looking Soda really is - like a lead actor, plucked off the silver screen and tossed among all the painfully average looking kids of East Tulsa. But that’s not even what makes him so magnetic; it’s that light in his eyes and kind, perpetually laughing smile that radiate a kind of infinite goodwill that Sandy’s rarely known.

“Fine,” Sandy smiles back, tight-lipped and still clammy as she slides into her chair. She’s used to the eyes on her, by now – too much attention, ever since she somehow caught the interest of the golden boy, since they became lab partners in November.

Sandy wasn’t sure if she actually wanted his attention, at first. At least, she didn’t have a clue what to do with it – how to talk to boys, who resembled men, at all. But Sodapop Curtis does seem uniquely decent, and this year, Sandy’s Christmas vacation really was fine; no beatings from her father, or even verbal beratings from her grandma. She’s used to coming back from any school break all bruised, making up excuses not to change for gym class…but Sandy’s got to hang onto this hope, that maybe it could all be mercifully over, now that her dad’s strength is wavering, wheelchair-bound and worn out. 

1964 if in the past, now, and her skin’s in one piece and the most popular boy from their side of the tracks appears to actually like her, like that. So Sandy thinks that maybe 1965 could set a new dawn rising over her old trailer park, way on the outskirts of East Tulsa – one where men weren’t all terrifying. Maybe Sandy could even date one of them – she just can’t believe it’s Sodapop Curtis, of all people, who seems so interested in her.

“Hey, I figured you had a reason,” Soda mutters under his breath, as Sandy’s hitches in her throat. “I don’t really sound like old Sylvia, do I?”

“No,” Sandy smiles, blushing red as the room fills up – and she’s very aware of Soda’s leg, pressing against hers, separated only by layers of denim and wool stocking, willing her to volunteer up a few confessions. “My folks are just strict. About boys, ya know…”

“Shame,” Soda grins back, and the heat of his body, so close to hers in that drafty classroom, is definitely going to Sandy’s head. “‘Cause I was callin’, about the Snow Ball.”

“Oh,” Sandy whispers, heart dropping out and then racing back up to double speed. She’s really been trying not to think about the winter dance, at all – knowing, already, that she’s forbidden from attending; planning on spending that night alone with Sylvia, who still pretends she thinks school-sponsored events are stupid, just out of solidarity. Sandy’s never had a date to turn down, anyway – so she’d already put the whole thing out of her mind, even though everyone else won’t shut up about it. 

“I’m only goin’ if it’s with you,” Soda adds, jostling Sandy’s arm. “Think ya can sneak out? Say you’re goin’ with some girlfriends.”

“Oh, God,” Sandy giggles in spite of herself, giddy and hot. “Maybe. Okay, yeah. Yes.”

“Then it’s a date,” Soda sits back, smiling widely, and Sandy kind of can’t believe that her Christmas vacation into oblivion was the push he needed to actually ask her out; that it didn’t just push him right away.

“A date,” Sandy echoes, thinking of girls she knows who dated – which was everyone, now; anyone who could snag the interest of a boy from their side of the tracks. Dating someone from the West side was practically treason; as if all the Soc’s don’t sneer at girls like them, anyway, like they’re afraid of catching something. But dating Sodapop Curtis would be an entirely different ballgame. She’s bristling, already, imagining all the seething jealousy from the stands; if anyone will be able to believe that he chose her. Sandy’s still in shock, herself.

She can already hear the whispering, from certain classmates – like Whitney, and Iris, practically feeling their eyes crawling over her back as Mr. Hamlin picks up the chalk. And Sandy knows she’s about to start hearing her own name churned through the rumor mill, before she even gets a chance to tell Sylvia.

***

“I still don’t get it,” Sandy revels, slurping her milkshake and blinking, slowly, dazed in Bab’s diner after school. “Why me?”

“That’s what ya get, for being so pretty,” Sylvia smirks, beaming down at her with a glint in her bright blue, kohl-rimmed eyes, shaking her shaggy, dirty blonde bangs out of her face. 

“And c’mon, guys love the whole good girl thing.”

“The what?” Sandy scowls, raising her eyebrows. “Like it’s an act, or somethin’, that I’m not –”

“I’m just sayin’ it makes sense,” Sylvia shrugs, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “The two best-looking, most decent people, hooking up? It’s like, the law, or something.”

“We haven’t hooked up,” Sandy hisses, red-faced, under her breath. “Or even kissed.”

“Well, don’t worry,” Sylvia grins. “I already showed ya, what to do.”

“Oh, mercy,” Sandy moans, ducking her head. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

And Sylvia knows to drop it, and stop pushing – only teasing, with something about Goldie Kennedy’s big old crush on Soda, because Sylvia Greene has been Sandy’s best friend since they were both five years old. And Syl really did show her the ropes, way back in middle school: how to kiss, anyway, Sandy’s first. It was chaste and close-mouthed and quick, but it triggered something in the back of her brain; in her body, between her legs. She remembers how she froze up, mute and stiff in her bed, sort of cradled in Sylvia’s arms, and then finally told her what Sandy’s pretty sure Syl already knew. She told Sylvia – and Syl, alone – what her Dad used to do, when he’d slip into her room in the middle of the night. And she was mumbling, when the words finally came, about not knowing how to ever kiss someone without going insane; mind floating right out of her skull and going somewhere else while a ghost-body moved her lips. She goes there now, again, for a split second, sitting safely in Bab’s diner.

“You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want to,” Sylvia says, seriously, grabbing Sandy’s hands and trying to catch her eyes. “Anything.”

“Ya know that’s not how this works,” Sandy whispers.

“You don’t even have to date him, if ya don’t want,” Sylvia whispers back - and Sandy loves her; her tough, bad-girl best friend who never let anyone walk over either of them; who dated, ultra-casually, and hooked up with boys and knew almost everything about seduction, and saving her own hide.

“I think I do, though,” Sandy confesses, blushing again. “Want to get to know him, anyways.”

“‘Course ya do,” Sylvia grins back, with her crooked smirk and bright, narrowed eyes; Sandy doesn’t even have to bother explaining the intricacies of how she feels, today, because Syl can sense it all, and take it from her.

“So, what color are ya thinkin’?” Sylvia asks, downing her shake. “For the dress?”

“No clue,” Sandy laughs, ruefully. “How am I gonna sneak out, anyway? It’s a long shot, Syl. Convincing ‘em, ya know…”

“Let me,” Sylvia cuts in, decisively. “‘Cause, Sandy? You deserve this, okay? And Soda’s like, the perfect guy for you. Believe me, I’d tell him to shove right off, if he wasn’t.”

“Thanks,” Sandy mutters.

“Come on home with me, to clean up, and I’ll see what we can do,” Sylvia grins, yanking out real dollar bills she earned writing papers for those rich girls in her classes, to bring up to the hostess stand. And Sandy always protests, a bit, about letting Syl cover her – like she’s always been there for Sandy, in every single way, since they were just kids. Like she’s about to do again, now.

It’s over a mile walk, from Sylvia’s downtown apartment in the ashy brick building above Dime’s Drugstore, to Sandy’s trailer park – so they kill the time fine-tuning their story, while Sylvia walks backwards along the dusty two-lane highway out of town, smoking cigarettes and almost tripping over her feet. Syl wiped off all her eyeliner, and changed out of her sheer tights and short dress, replacing her big leather motorcycle jacket with a ratty wool coat…so they don’t freeze, even though Sandy’s breath is coming out in cold, cloudy puffs, just like the smoke, and both their cheeks are turning red. 

And Sandy knows that Sylvia’s smart enough to be scared of her Dad, and shrewd enough to think up a good cover – but she still grabs onto her arm at the last minute, with a grip like a vice.

“Hey, Syl,” Sandy shivers. “Maybe we shouldn’t even –”

“C’mon,” Syl nudges her. “Be brave.”

So Sandy holds her breath and climbs up the rickety steps to her mobile home, opening the door and smelling that stale, wet air and realizing she’s sort of terrified by the very idea of letting anyone else, other than Sylvia, into her life at all. 

“Hi, Dad?” Sandy calls, tentatively, into the dimly lit living room that faded into the kitchen. She sees him sitting there, in his armchair – wheelchair, beside – and he barely acknowledges her…just staring, stormy-eyed and suspicious.

“Hi, Mr. Davis,” Sylvia ventures. “It’s Sylvia.”

And Sandy’s glad that even Syl doesn’t come around much anymore, praying that her dad thinks of Sylvia in his head as Sandy’s quiet, polite best friend – just an innocent kid, the way she used to play at being a long time ago.

“What’re ya doin’ here?” Her dad shifts his weight, slumped into the chair and eyeing Sylvia, who puts on her soft, subordinate tone of voice and starts lying.

“I wanted to ask you, Sir,” Syl says, “If the dance committee could borrow Sandy for the donation table at the Snow Ball next Friday. Since we’re so short on help, and it’s all for charity, ya know…”

“Dance committee?” He’s mumbling, voice all cracked and gravelly, but Sandy braces herself anyway for him to start praying, or screaming.

“Yes, it’s all girls,” Sylvia says in a rush, high-pitched, like all her normal raspy brashness fell away in the front yard. “And we decorate and run the games and collect donations for the Red Cross. And we were just wondering if Sandy could come?”

“To a dance?”

“Well, we won’t even have time for dancin’,” Sylvia adds, quickly. “We’d have her workin’ the whole time, behind the table.”

“Mm.” Sandy’s watching her father’s gray, drooping face as he regards the two of them, eyebrows raised and staring right at her, suspiciously – like he always has, like his own daughter is carrying a little shred of the devil around inside herself. 

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters noncommittally, but Sandy can feel something cracking. Maybe it’s something to do with the new year, or how Sodapop Curtis opened her eyes to the idea of dating a boy – and maybe her father is finally breaking, sick and weak and aging, and Sandy can be brave. Maybe she can even be a normal girl, who went out dancing and giggled in diners and kissed boys who had kind, gleaming eyes and strong, steady hands.

“Gosh, thanks, Mr. Davis,” Sylvia gushes, still in her fake-nice voice, and catches Sandy’s eye and grins out the corner of her mouth. “Ya don’t know how much we all appreciate it.”

***

“Hey, I’ve got an answer for ya.”

Sandy really isn’t sure what’s come over her – ‘cause she usually keeps her head down in the hallways, shuffling silently from class to class like she could be invisible, turning all red and panicky at the most tame sort of catcalls. Those greasy, crass boys – the only ones who gave anyone Sandy knows the time of day – can’t hurt her if she doesn’t flirt or smile or agree to get to know them…but Sodapop Curtis is different than the rest, and Sandy’s feeling emboldened, too, hunting him down in D hall and brushing up beside him.

“Yeah?” Soda startles, face lighting up once he realizes it’s her. “Hey, it better be yes. ‘Cause it turns out I can’t keep a secret, and my buddies are already givin’ me hell…”

“Yes,” Sandy grins over at him, beaming and blushing. “Yeah, Sylvia made up something about being on the dance committee, and – well, nevermind. I’m comin’. With you.”

“There ya go!” Soda whoops, swinging his arm around her, right there in the middle of the crushing crowd, and Sandy sees eyes roaming over in their direction, but she’s only looking at him. “Ya won’t regret it.”

“Why would I regret it?” Sandy muses, out loud, sort of smirking to herself. 

“Ya just won’t,” Soda shrugs. “Can I pick ya up at 7?”

“Yes,” Sandy nods. “It’s gotta be from Sylvia’s, though. If ya don’t mind bringing her, too?”

“Two dates,” Sodapop remarks, cracking up. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Thanks,” Sandy grins. “It’s right over Dime’s Drugstore.”

“I’ll be there. Hey, this is me. See ya, Sandy.”

She’s still smiling ear to ear as Soda releases her and turns on his heel, into some History classroom, and Sandy walks a little taller through the rush of bodies, listening out for whispers about her and one certain handsome sophomore boy.

And she’s really never felt like this over a boy before – excited, instead of apprehensive; so unlike the way Sandy’s ever even interacted with anyone else of the male variety. And, yeah, the very thought of taking off her clothes, or worse, telling a golden boy like Sodapop all about her screwed-up childhood makes Sandy slightly sick, but it’s overshadowed by a triumphant, terrifying sort of hope and a fire in her belly.

“Sandy!” 

She spins around, jumping out of her skin – but it’s just Evie Zamora, who Sandy vaguely knows as Sodapop’s best friend Steve’s girlfriend.

“Hey, fuckin’ FINALLY!” Evie is bouncing on her toes, shoving one sharp elbow into Sandy’s ribs - amiably, with this conspiratorial little glint in her eye, she’s tossing her short dark curls out of her eyes and grinning cheekily.

“God, he’s had the hots for ya for…” Evie rolls her eyes, like she’s trying to tally up the weeks. “Well, for a WHILE. But you’re goin’ to that dance?”

“Yeah,” Sandy stifles down another face-cracking grin. “I’ll be there.”

“Man, I don’t think I’ve been to a school dance since, like, seventh grade,” Evie muses. “But, hey. Maybe I ought to swing by this one. Since we’re gonna be double-dating soon.”

“Oh,” Sandy murmurs. “I don’t know if we’re dating. Officially, anyway, ya know…”

“You will be,” Evie says, decisively, like the matter’s settled already, before she winks at Sandy and waves, dashing down the hall and disappearing into a doorway.

Sandy spends English class running through the implications of her Snow Ball date; whether Evie’s right, and it might lead right to going steady. Sandy hadn’t even thought that far. She hadn’t really considered, either, that dating Sodapop might mean making new girlfriends, too: being initiated into a whole big gang, growing up and hanging out in co-ed circles, or in the back of someone’s car on a double date. Sandy wonders if Sodapop even wants her, for his permanent girlfriend – and if she’s about to have to get to know girls like Evie.

All Sandy knows of Evie is that she’s a wild one, known for clambering up on tables when a fistfight breaks out at the diner or the Alamo, screaming for whoever’s closest to her side to fuckin’ get him – and picking fights of her own, with anyone who’d ever dare to mess with her, or her best friend, Kathy, who Sandy recognizes from Sylvia’s Honors English classes. Honestly, Evie Zamora sort of scares Sandy shitless; with her red lipstick and grease-streaked men’s work shirts and hotheaded temper, and the kind of juvenile record they usually reserved for guys.

And maybe Sandy will never be that kind of girl, all wild and free, but she can sort of imagine herself out on a double date, or hanging around the Dingo on Soda’s arm. She could venture out to the Alamo – that underage dive that advertised itself as a cheap, clean pool hall but sold bootleg beer like prohibition never even ended – and Sandy thinks that she could even kiss a boy without flinching, if it was Sodapop Curtis. Maybe, he could even unstick her from that place where Sandy grew up, cowering in fear, and imbue her with the guts to be a real girl.

***

“God, you look amazing, Sandy.” 

Syl’s standing there in her short, dark floral dress and tights and slingback heels with her hair teased up, appraising her with a sideways grin, lurking behind her in the mirror.

“It’s okay?” Sandy breathes, trying to smooth out her dress – the one she picked out at Annie’s Attic and kept in Syl’s closet to replace that ratty, demure old frock she told her Dad and grandmother she’d be wearing. The pale cornflower blue brings out Sandy’s eyes, and something about the plunging sweetheart neckline, trimmed with rosettes, almost creates the illusion that she has actual breasts.

“Yeah, wow,” Syl nods. “Wait, let me dust ya.”

And Sandy closes her eyes, feeling the tickle of the powder brush dance across her cheekbones; some pearlescent illuminating powder that looks like fairy dust and catches the light just right when she opens her eyes again and tilts her face in the mirror.

“Okay,” Sylvia whispers, fluffing out Sandy’s curls and admiring her handiwork. “C’mon, Sodapop’s gonna lose his mind.” 

And Soda does look impressed, or maybe obsessed, when she slides into the front seat of his parent’s car that he’s borrowing to cart them both around, tonight. Sylvia mutters a hello and sinks down in the backseat, rummaging in her purse like she’s not listening in.

“You look really beautiful,” Soda says, quiet under his breath, like he’s sort of in awe, or something – and Sandy’s never seen it, herself, looking in the mirror, despite what Syl and every catcaller since she was about eleven tells her. But maybe she could believe it, the way Soda says it.

“Thanks,” Sandy whispers back, smiling wide and buckling up. “Oh, I should have warned ya, I don’t really know how to dance.”

“Hey, I don’t really hang around school formals, either,” Soda grins – and he’s so handsome it almost hurts; Sandy’s pretty sure he’s got longer eyelashes than most girls she knows, barefaced. “Just wanted to take ya somewhere…decent.”

And it does seem intentional, like he knows exactly what he’s doing…Sodapop Curtis, who half the girls Sandy knows have giggled and lusted over, even though he’s never seriously dated anyone. It was news if Soda chatted up some girl at the damn Dingo – so, walking into Will Rogers High School on his arm feels like a big, bold declaration of something Sandy hasn’t even thought through, fully, herself.

He looks tuff, in his suit – sharp and mature, more celebrity than boy, even if it’s a hand-me-down, and Sandy definitely likes the way he’s guiding her through the crowd, past the ticket table and into the gymnasium. And normally, so many pairs of eyes crawling all over her would make Sandy want to run and hide, but this time, she feels an elated little grin creeping across her face. And when the music pauses, and it’s just whispers for a beat or two before slow piano music rolls through the speakers, Sandy feels like the luckiest girl in Oklahoma.

“What do ya say we give it a shot?” Soda whispers in her ear, leaning down all close and conspiratorially. “Just sway with me.”

“I can do that,” Sandy grins back breathlessly, gulping a little when he puts one hand on her waist, pulling her in closer. And she lets Soda lead, nothing complicated – just directing her body gently, and they’re dancing, and her lips are inches from his face.

“You’re a natural,” Soda smiles, and Sandy’s heart is still sort of pounding around in her chest, but she feels her body relaxing. And she’s sort of shocked that it isn’t even so daunting – dancing, and talking to a boy like Sodapop, and letting him touch her, in the middle of a crowded room; all those things that normal girls were expected to do, that always seemed so terrifying and other-worldly. 

“Do ya want to meet my friends?” Soda asks, as the music fades out again. “Afraid they’re ogling us, right about now. Sorry.”

“I’ve met Evie,” Sandy smirks, knowingly, spying her watching in a bright red dress, over by the beverage table with her boyfriend – Soda’s best friend, Steve Randall. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Sandy’s always thought that Steve looks sort of like a 50’s movie caricature, like she’s pretty sure those complicated swirls cut into his hair with grease and the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket aren’t ironic in the slightest. And he’s the rough sort – like Evie’s rough – but Sandy hears Syl’s voice in her head, whispering to be brave, and she hardly needs it. She’s walking on Sodapop Curtis’ arm, and it feels like levitating. 

“Hey, you two,” Steve smirks, all slick and slimy and obviously amused. “Smoke?”

“Ya wanna get some air?” Soda smiles over at her, nodding towards the doors. 

Sandy’s never managed to finish an entire cigarette herself without gagging a little bit, but she grins and nods and follows, letting Soda grab her hand. She’s pretty sure she’d follow him right into the labyrinth, just as long as he keeps looking at her like that; like she’s something special. 

And Sandy’s here, holding onto Soda’s hand, and she feels like she’s part of it. Like Sylvia whispering to her, like a swear, that Sandy’s not that beat-up little girl anymore, who had to make herself small; that she could step out and walk among these kids who were tough and vibrant and alive. 

She’s looking over, now, and watching Steve light Evie’s smoke, his body hunched around hers, against the wind. And Sandy’s thinking that they both look so bright and dark all at once, like smirking twin shadows who nestled into each other, somehow, and she wonders if maybe that’s what it’s all about, after all. Maybe the glue holding normal girls together – and making it fun – was only finding a boy who was similar enough to make sense of. Or, even better, one that every sophomore girl wanted to kiss on the mouth. 

He’s guiding her away from Steve and Evie, and the others milling around with their embers glowing in the dark, until it’s just Sodapop and Sandy against the brick wall, and she can practically see the energy between them, popping and buzzing in the dark. And she sort of knows what’s coming, even before he leans in. And even in shadow, he’s beautiful enough to scare her a little – into wondering if he’s real, after all, shrugging off his suit jacket and throwing it around her shoulders

“Sandy,” Sodapop murmurs, drawing her close – and Sandy could pass out, just from the feeling of standing pressed between his warm body and the cold brick wall. 

“Mmm?”

“Ya know how much I dig ya, right?” Soda whispers, serious now, breathing hot on her neck in the cold. 

“Why me, though?” She can’t even help asking, self-conscious and all too desperate to know, feeling safe enough to grab right onto his arms. 

“You’re serious?” Soda grins, hovering right there in her orbit, and Sandy’s hovering on his every word. “You’re gorgeous, Sandy. And the way ya listen, and don’t bother fakin’ all tough…ya know, you’re not like anyone else.”

“Oh,” Sandy whispers. “I’m not –”

“Yeah, you are,” Soda says firmly, even though his hands feel whisper-soft. “Special.”    

And she knows, somewhere in her bones, that this is the part where she’s supposed to fold, softly, and let him in.

“You are too, ya know,” she breathes, blinking up at him. “And I really like you too, Soda.”

“What do ya say we make it official?” Soda asks, smiling with a nervous tic in his jaw. “Would you be my girl, Sandy?”

“Yes,” she whispers back – not even thinking; barely breathing, but she’s exhilarated instead of just plain terrified, swept up in his strong arms and all too aware of the proximity of his lips to her own face. 

When Soda kisses her, Sandy doesn’t shake or wince like she was afraid of…and he’s tentative, at first, hand brushing the side of her face as he leans in softly, waiting for her to throw her hands around his neck and part her lips. She pulls him in closer, instinctively, as if to give him permission, and Sandy kisses him back, harder than he even expected. She can taste his tongue, and it isn’t gross or even half-bad, and her whole body is sort of vibrating, pressed up between Sodapop Curtis and that rough brick wall in the dark. 

“Aw, there they go.” She can hear Evie’s sharp, laughing voice, carrying over through the night air from somewhere by the doors, talking to Steve. “Shit, I guess I owe ya a dollar.”

***

It’s the bitter end of January, and Sandy’s whole life has turned inside out – into something so normal and common and fun, suddenly, that she can barely recognize it as hers. Of course, she knew that saying yes to Soda would catapult her out of the shadows – where, historically, Sandy has always preferred to lurk about – and into the sort of social strata that involves dates and parties and people eyeing her in the hallway. 

It’s a big responsibility, going steady with the sophomore heartthrob, and Sandy herself shares the very same doubts as all the giggling, whispering girls in the midst of the gossip machine…about whether she deserves him. She has no idea, frankly, how the hell she ended up on his arm, anyway – but Soda picked her. She reminds herself of it every damn day, in the mirror, still not quite believing it’s real.

Being with Soda – alone – is shockingly easy, once Sandy’s nerves settle down. School lunch is still a rigidly gender-segregated affair, but she hangs out with Soda after school, at his house, doing homework and watching TV and talking, endlessly, about nothing in particular. Soda doesn’t pry when Sandy glosses over whole parts of the story of her life, and he doesn’t push her past second base, either – though Sandy has become a sort-of-experienced kisser, by now. And she even thinks up a good running lie to tell her dad about her whereabouts, spinning out some tale about helping the church group gather up coat donations, three months too late. 

There’s something about the grown-up, womanly costume she’s slipped on, lately, that makes Sandy miss her mother like hell – as if she can even remember her much, at all. She wishes she could; wishes she knew a damn thing about that long-dead woman who ought to be here, teaching her to curl her eyelashes and handing down those warnings about how boys only want one thing. At least Sandy has Sylvia to step in and play that part, all protective, and prepare her for every last move Sodapop might try to put on her.

What she’s not so prepared for, even though Evie warned her, is the way that dating Sodapop Curtis entails dating his whole gang, too - or at least Steve and Eves. Sandy thinks it’s kind of funny how their names almost rhyme, and they seem sort of like gender-swapped versions of the same exact slightly-intimidating person, down to the damn denim outfits. She doesn’t trust brash, cocky Steve Randall, even if he is Soda’s oldest buddy – but Evie just might be a valuable source of intel, with pages of notes Sandy can steal from that whole playbook about being someone’s girlfriend. It’s not exactly like she can find anyone else to emulate…and Evie’s right there, all the time, now that the four of them really are double-dating all around town, rolling through every venue on East Side turf where they won’t freeze to death. 

“Dingo dates are pretty shit in the winter,” Evie explains, sitting across from Sandy at a chipped vinyl table in the back of the Alamo, answering Sandy’s question about why they keep coming back to the divey pool hall that sells beer under the table to high school kids. “Too many layers.”

Evie smirks, gesturing to her big army jacket – which looks like real military surplus attire, pulled tight around her shoulders, ‘cause the back door keeps blowing in frosty air every time someone barrels in. They’re lounging by the wall, watching Soda and Steve play pool with a crew of boys Sandy sort of knows, enveloped in heavy clouds of cigarette smoke. Sandy’s trying not to gag, every time she takes a sip of beer.

“Wouldn’t someone see ya, anyway?” Sandy giggles self-consciously, shivering. “I mean, if ya tried to fool around at the Dingo?”

“Not the way I do it,” Evie grins back impishly, flicking her eyebrows up. “And who’d care, anyway? Not like we all haven’t…”

And Sandy gulps her awful wheat-beer down, trying to avoid confessing that she hasn’t even let Soda do anything more than some heavy petting. It doesn’t work, and Sandy chokes. 

“Wait,” Evie’s eyes seize on her, hacking, and she leans in and drops her voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. “How far have you guys gone, yet, anyways?”

Sandy sputters and freezes, searching the smoky room for some lie – but then, she knows Evie’s far more experienced, in bed and everywhere else, and she has a funny feeling she’d see right through it, so Sandy tells the truth.

“Not that far,” Sandy murmurs, glancing over at Soda, bent over the pool table, and turning bright red. “I mean, nothin’, like…serious. Yet.”

“Oh, honey. Relax,” Evie cracks up, still whispering loudly. “Soda’s not the type to force it.”

“Is Steve?” Sandy blurts it out before she can even think it through. 

“I can’t believe ya just asked that,” Evie snickers, slapping her knees. “Not unless he’s real riled up. And not like I need forcin’.”

Sandy’s still blushing, hard – ‘cause she believes it; pretty sure that Evie Zamora is technically younger than her, but definitely lightyears more grown-up, even though she’s only been dating Steve for three months. She probably wasn’t even scared to let him dress her down and do all those things that Sandy knows about; that still make her chest tighten up, when she imagines doing them with Soda. 

“Right,” Sandy mumbles, fumbling with Evie’s pack of cigarettes, strewn out on the table. “Yeah, we haven’t gotten there yet. Me and Soda. Ya know.”

“Such a gentleman,” Evie rolls her eyes good-naturedly, winking. “Well, tell me, if you’re gonna. I can give you the rundown, ya know. Basics.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Sandy mutters – and she sort of feels like all the air has been sucked right out of the pool hall, struggling to catch her breath, panic rising in her throat. 

“Sure, Sandy,” Evie smirks, patronizing and dubious, reaching for a smoke. “But hey, for real. Call me, if you’re too embarrassed to buy rubbers. Don’t wanna end up like Jackie.”

“Is she really pregnant?” Sandy asks, eyebrows knit together, only glad that the scandalous gossip is shifting off of her. “Or did Whitney just make that up, ‘cause she’s still sore over Mickey?”

“No!” Evie’s eyes widen, like she’s just living for this latest rumor. “I heard it from Lottie. She’s really knocked up. And she’s plannin’ to take care of it, apparently.”

“Oh, no,” Sandy whispers, shuddering at the implication – ‘cause she doesn’t know Jackie that well, but she really doesn’t need any additional reasons to be terrified of sexual intercourse. “You’re serious? How’s she gonna…?”

“Ya think someone doesn’t know someone?” Evie intones darkly, raising one eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s awful risky, though. I sure wouldn’t want to be in her place.”

“Me neither,” Sandy agrees.

“Just don’t be an idiot,” Evie shrugs. “Whenever you DO get around to it.”

“Aren’t the prophylactics the guy’s job, anyway?” Sandy asks, way under her breath, and Evie shakes her head, wearily, leaning in close again.

“You know I’ve never actually used my switch on anyone, right?” Evie says, slowly, like she’s trying to spell out some incredibly self-evident point. 

“Um, good?”

“But I still carry it, Sandy. Everywhere. ‘Cause ya just never know…”

“Yeah, okay. I get the picture.”

“Good,” Evie grins, satisfied. “Hey, you’re coming out to that barrel race tomorrow night, right?”

“I think so,” Sandy nods, already half-exhausted, just by the idea of another hot night out, and that web of intricate lies she’s strung up in, by now, in order to partake. It’s sort of funny – and extremely lucky – that her Dad thinks Sylvia grew up into some charitable, God-fearing saint; ever since that whole made-up Red Cross dance committee ruse. She thanks the lord above that he’s bound to the wheelchair now, and a hermit by choice, who will never see Syl trawling across town in her regular clothes…and that he’ll usually let her out without a shakedown, if it’s to sleep over at her best friend’s apartment. It’s an excuse that Sandy will most definitely need to pull out, if she wants to make it to this rodeo. But Sandy also desperately needs to see Sylvia, for real. She’s been too busy; wrapped up in Soda and her new almost-friendship with Evie, and Sandy knows it’s lame; the way she hasn’t been over in weeks. And besides, she needs to talk to someone other than Evie about sex; someone who actually understands all the hang-ups Sandy won’t ever speak aloud to anyone else.

“Yes,” she corrects herself. “I’ll meet ya at Bab’s, before. But hey, Eves, I’ve got to run over to Sylvia’s place for a second. I left some stuff I need.”

“Run over?” Evie wrinkles her nose. “Where does she live? Ya need a ride?”

“Nah, that’s okay!” Sandy says quickly, grabbing her purse. “I can walk it.”

“Alright, then,” Evie shrugs, turning back to the pool game. “Godspeed, Sandra Dee.”

***

“You could come, ya know.” Sandy’s aware that she’s kind of begging, unabashedly, defrosting her bones on Sylvia’s bedroom carpet. She didn’t even feel so cold, on the walk over from the Alamo; weirdly insulated by the beer running through her veins and that Pepsi–Cola taste of Sodapop’s kiss still on her tongue, but now Sandy’s melting down.

“To the barrel race?” Sylvia raises one eyebrow, eyeing her from her spot on the bed. “No, it’s your thing. It’s like a double date, right?”

“Yeah, but I feel bad,” Sandy says. “Blowing you off, all the time, lately…”

“Sandy, I don’t really give a good goddamn about horse racing.”

“It’s not about the ponies,” Sandy murmurs. “It’s what’s gonna happen, after.”

“Um, do tell,” Sylvia prompts, looking at her curiously over her dog-eared Vogue magazine. 

“Soda’s parents are going to be out of town,” Sandy gulps, staring at the floor. “They’re drivin’ out to Kansas City to see his aunt. And his big brother Darry’s back at school now…so, he asked me to stay the night.”

“Oh, shit,” Sylvia sits up straight, suddenly. “Well, do ya want to?”

“I don’t know,” Sandy confesses. “Maybe I do. But what if I freak out, if he wants to…?”

She trails off, then, red-faced and hopeless, and Sylvia shakes her head sharply.

“Soda isn’t gonna make ya do anything ya don’t wanna do, Sandy. And if he does, I’ll gut him like a fish.”

“No, I know,” Sandy moans, miserably. “But wouldn’t it be weirder, to stay over and NOT give it up? I mean, I don’t want him to think I don’t LIKE him, or something, or that I’ve got some sort of problem…”

“Ya know,” Sylvia says slowly, like she’s weighing every word, looking right at Sandy, who’s still staring at the carpet. “If ya told Soda about your Dad…I think he’d understand.”

“Maybe I don’t want him to,” Sandy mumbles. 

“He’d be good about it, Sandy. He’s a decent guy.”

“I don’t want him to know that about me at all,” Sandy snaps. “That I’m all fucked up.”

“Then say ya can’t go,” Sylvia suggests, softly. “Blame your strict folks.”

“That doesn’t feel right, either.”

“Okay,” Sylvia nods, clearly plotting something out in her head. “So, go, but think up an excuse, just in case you have to run. And you can come right back here, alright?”

“Alright,” Sandy agrees. “Alright. Thanks, Syl.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re sure ya don’t wanna come?”

“Not really,” Syl grins wryly. “You have fun. Sure Evie’ll look after ya. I’d just be a fifth wheel on Steve’s Chevy.”

“Suit yourself.” 

“You want to stay over here tonight?” Syl offers, hopefully. “I’ve got a bunch of pink wine that I promise you won’t hate.”

“I’ll get glasses,” Sandy grins back, affirmative, hopping up from the floor.

“Damn, alright.” Sylvia startles; too used to Sandy turning down drinks. And she’s looking at her sort of funny, with a strange little smile playing over her lips, and Sylvia starts cracking up.

“What?” Sandy demands.

“Ya know, I never saw this comin’,” Syl smirks, wiggling her eyebrows in Sandy’s direction. “What if ya end up going all the way before ME? That would be, like, the plot twist of the century, I think. I’ll have to go get a whole new reputation."

“Yeah, don’t hold your breath.” Sandy does feel all twisted up and shameful and scared, about just what she’ll do if Soda really does try to put the moves on her. She’s gotten so comfortable with his touch, not even panicking when all his weight is on top of her, making out on the couch in his living room…but still freezes up, when he gets too close to feeling up her skirt, and Sandy feels like she can’t breathe. She’s a little bit more scared about what might happen to her bony, earthly body and heavy, dirty soul if she did let him take her there – if she might have a heart attack and die, right there in his bed. Sandy sort of wants to die, already, thinking back to why he said he liked her in the first place…for not faking and posturing with something to prove; for not being phony.

“Hey, I’ll be here all night,” Sylvia whispers, elbowing her gently and patting her shoulder before stretching out on the dirty carpet, under the bed, and coming up with a bottle. “Possibly wasted, but you know I’ll still come get ya, if it all goes to hell.”

***

But it doesn’t go to hell; at least, not in the tradition of Sandy’s usual nightmares. She goes to Bab’s diner, shuffling in her winter boots through slushy snow for what feels like miles, and doesn’t even make it over until everyone’s finished eating – which would be perfectly fine, because Sandy’s nervous and nauseous and can’t swallow, but Soda insists on getting her a milkshake for the road, anyway, and Sandy sucks it down obediently in the back of Steve’s car, hoping absentmindedly that it goes straight to her chest so she can fill out a real bra, someday, like Evie, who’s sitting in the front passenger seat. 

“We’re not pickin’ anyone else up, are we?” Steve demands, jostling Evie impatiently as he starts up the Chevy. 

“Nah, Kathy ain’t comin’,” Evie waves him off, peeking in the rearview mirror to tousle her short, bouncy dark curls. Evie has an overgrown boy’s haircut, not even shoulder-length – but Sandy admires how she still looks like a real woman, with her red lipstick and nails and sly, overconfident grin. “She hates taggin’ along.”

“Her loss,” Soda smiles, sliding one arm around Sandy in the backseat, and she leans into his solid, warm body on the short ride over to that makeshift rodeo arena. She still has a brain-freeze when they pull up and step out, and the thick stench of manure and cigarettes hits Sandy with a force.

It’s indoors, at least – in a big barn with at least three solid walls, though everyone is still shivering in their winter coats.

“Steve, I’m gonna fuckin’ freeze,” Evie gripes, and her boyfriend rolls his eyes. 

“I told ya to layer up,” Steve shrugs.

“I’m wearing, like, three wool sweaters.”

“Thought ya looked a bit thick around the middle.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Evie snaps. “We’re just gonna have to drink about it, I guess.”

“Where’s the booze?” Steve asks, looking from Evie to Sandy to Soda. 

“I got nothin’,” Soda shrugs. “Didn’t know we signed up to bring drinks, buddy.”

“Oh, Christ’s sake,” Steve snaps. “Eves, Sandy – go shake down Dally and Buck for a bottle. I know they’ve got more than one. And you’re both looking decent. They’re over by the gates.”

And Evie lets out a short, exasperated huff and flips him the bird, stalking over to grab Sandy’s hand, yanking her through the crushed hay and dirt, behind her.

“Get us some half-good seats, will ya?” Evie shouts over her shoulder, at Steve and Soda, before shooting Sandy a look that could kill even Steve Randall. “Lordy. It’s like with the rubbers. If ya want something done, do it your damn self. See?”

“Duly noted,” Sandy nods, trailing behind Evie as she stomps around the arena, towards the stables on the far end, looking out for two men that Sandy would personally never, ever choose to beg for free booze. She’s heard of Steve and Soda’s buddy, Dallas – but never met him, on account of him being booked into the reformatory the entire time she’s been dating Sodapop. And everyone had heard of his rodeo partner, Buck Merril, who owned a sleazy old roadhouse way out East, near Sandy’s own trailer park, that was the infamous site of so many famous fights and hookups. Nobody their age – except for Dallas – even hung around there; not if they knew what was good for them.

“Stick with me,” Evie commands, glancing back at Sandy, still crushing her hand in her grasp. “Yeah, old Kath was right. She’d hate this.”

“Kathy Estivez, right?” Sandy asks, over the noise, attempting to make conversation. “You guys are best friends?”

“Right,” Evie grins back at her. “She’d only come out to keep me out of trouble, anyways. She hates horses. And I hate being looked after.”

“I’ve got a best friend like that, too,” Sandy says.

“Oh, yeah.” Evie chuckles. “I can’t believe you’re best friends with Sylvia.”

“Why?” Sandy asks, narrowing her eyes.

“No, it's just funny. You’re so different.”

“We grew up together.”

“Right on,” Evie shrugs – like maybe it isn’t lost on her, either, that she’s a completely different sort of girl than Kathy, who Sandy mostly knows for holding her own place at the top of their class, and for always wearing tuff, trendy outfits with stylish high-heeled footwear. But maybe they share that same tenacity, and snark – ‘cause she’s pretty sure neither of them are members of that dead moms club that first drew Sandy and Syl together.

“Hey, there they are.” 

And Sandy’s heart catches in her chest, when she sees the two boys – who were really men, different from Steve and Soda. They looked older; meaner…well, the lanky cowboy type looked at least 25, anyway. And the mean-looking one, with the white-blonde hair and hardline grimace, had to be Dallas. 

“Hey, Evie,” he says, turning around, reins in hand, steadying the horse locked up behind him. His eyes are blue, but so pale and icy that Sandy imagines one glare could freeze hell right over – and her blood is running sort of cold, too, as they walk up. 

“Hey, yourself,” Evie nods back, all business. “Help a couple girls find somethin’ to drink?”

“We’re saddlin’ up,” Dallas spits dismissively. “Wait, who’s this?”

“This is Sandy,” Evie announces. “Soda’s new squeeze. You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“Like hell I do.” He looks Sandy up and down, for one horribly long second, before gesturing to the stables. “After the races. Whiskey’s in the saddlebags. Go knock yourself out.”

“Thanks, Dally,” Evie says, sweetly, releasing Sandy’s hand to crawl over a hay bale and unlock the stable door, so it’s just her standing there in front of them, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. It doesn’t work.

“So, you’re Soda’s new old lady.” He’s smirking down at her again, appraisingly. “Christ, I’ve been in a while. Ya got a last name, Sandy?”

“Davis,” she answers, in a small voice, drowned out as they fire up the floodlights on the ceiling and the crowd roars. 

“Pleasure to meet ya,” he grins coldly, like it’s anything but – but maybe he’s slightly entertained, or curious. “Dallas Winston.”

“Dallas,” Sandy repeats, vaguely imagining Texas, as if she’s ever been. Everybody really scary and sleazy that she’s ever met has a Southern cowboy twang to their voice, but Dallas sounds different – all strange and rough around the edges, like he came from somewhere else entirely. Like this is exactly the kind of boy that Sandy already knows she needs to keep far, far away from Sylvia Greene.

“Yeah, Dallas, like the city,” He nods back humorlessly. “Winston, like the cigarettes.”

“I thought you were from New York,” Sandy mumbles.

“And I smoke Kools. Wish me luck, babydoll?”

“Good luck, Dallas.”

Sandy’s pretty sure they won’t be able to fight their way back through the stands to their seats before the pistol fires, so she steps back and presses herself against the far wall, gesturing wildly to Evie, who’s emerging from the stables with a bottle of cheap whiskey in hand. And the crowd is going wild, and the jockey attendants are running to unlock the gates, and Sandy grabs Evie’s arm and yanks her down, out of the way, just as Dallas swings his lean body up into the saddle and explodes out into the arena on horseback.

***

To everyone’s – or, mostly, Evie’s – surprise, Sandy actually has a fucking ball at that barrel race, especially once they clamber up to their seats, passing a cup of whiskey cola back and forth and getting progressively tipsier. Dallas and Buck race first, and hold the high score right up until the end, where it looks for a minute like a couple of guys from the rival roadhouse might give them a run for their money, until they scrub out at the last second. And Sandy’s cheering right along with Sodapop and Steve and Evie, jumping up and screaming, and a strange, quiet thought penetrates through all the dirt and noise…something about how this must be what normal feels like; this feeling she’s been missing out on her whole life. 

And by the time they call the winners and hand over the cash prizes, Sandy’s face is red and her voice is hoarse – but the night is young and the mood is bright, and she practically lets Soda carry her over his shoulder out of the stands, drunk and laughing. 

“Let’s go find Dally and Buck, huh?” Soda suggests.

“Sure they’re already out front braggin’,” Steve laughs. “C’mon!”

It’s a party, alright, rowdy with groups of greasers and cowboys milling around in the grass, mixing together and clapping for the victors until a fight breaks out and some poor kid gets slammed into the side of a horse truck.

“Sucker,” Dallas coughs, like he’s obviously bitter about stepping out of the spotlight already, and Buck mutters something about packing up, and the two of them disappear like ghosts into the night, and it’s just Sodapop and Steve and Evie and Sandy, leaning against the car hood and smoking and attempting to sober up.

“How’re you doin’, Sandy?” Soda smiles, and Sandy can’t help beaming back – ‘cause she never gets this drunk, except in Sylvia’s bedroom. Here, in the rodeo lot under the sunset, Sandy feels like the fabric of her universe is slowly fluttering, like curtains in the breeze, and letting something golden filter in. It’s in Sodapop’s wide grin, and the way Steve is lighting Evie’s smoke and then wrapping her up in his big jacket, and the way that Sandy feels electric and alive and comfortably safe here, all at the same time. In fact, she thinks she could live right here, in this feeling, with Sodapop Curtis and be happy forever. As long as she doesn’t have to spread her legs. 

“Incredible,” Sandy murmurs, letting him pull her in close. “That was somethin’.”

“You liked it?” Soda’s satisfied, and she knows it – how she’s folding herself right into his life, so seamlessly, so he doesn’t have to question a thing about her, or ask about any silly little secrets. 

“I loved it,” Sandy nods, turning to face him, barely cold and buzzing, and he takes her in his arms and kisses her slowly, slightly drunkenly; not shameful about how he’s savoring it, running his hands through her hair. Sandy gasps quietly, leaning in, and she really doesn’t care who sees; as if Steve and Evie aren’t sucking face on the other side of the car. But she comes back to earth when she hears the yelling – repetitive and familiar and getting louder every second.

“SODAPOP?! SODA!” 

And Soda startles, at that first clearly audible shout, jumping up and whirling around.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Steve mutters, squinting in the dim light, but Sandy recognizes that voice – just as sure as she recognizes Soda’s kid brother, Ponyboy Curtis, sprinting through the parking lot like a bat out of hell. Sandy squints hard, too, at his face, which looks all tear-streaked and contorted, as he yells, 

“SODA!”

“Pony!” Soda’s already taken off running, colliding with his brother and nearly tackling him to the ground.

“What is it, Pony? What happened?” Sandy hears Soda asking, over and over.

“Mom and Dad!” Pony yelps, finally, choking through sobs. “They crashed!”

“Where?” 

Sandy feels sick, suddenly, staring as Soda shakes Ponyboy – and she’s never seen Sodapop like this before, all wild-eyed and panicked, and she hears Evie gasp, but Sandy stands there, watching in silence while Pony sobs in the night, collapsed on his knees in the dead grass, and Soda crouches over him, shaking him within an inch of his life.

“WHERE, Pone?”

“They’ve been callin’ about ‘em,” Pony chokes out, “From a hospital in Kansas…”

“Where in Kansas, buddy? We’ve gotta go there, now,” Soda pleads in a rush, spinning around and yelling to Steve to start the car – and Evie springs into action, too, in the background, but Sandy’s just watching in horror, anchored in place.

“Pony, COME ON!” 

“Paola, Kansas,” Pony whimpers, grabbing onto Soda’s arms, and Sodapop’s about to throw him over his shoulder the way he does Sandy and drag him back to the car, still pleading.

“Where the…?” Soda trails off, desperate. “STEVE?! D’ya have a map?”

“Soda, no,” Pony moans, half-standing and leaning on his brother, hard. 

“We’ve got to GO, Pony, c’mon!”

“No,” he breathes, in a cracked whisper that Sandy can barely hear over the wind, “Soda, they’re dead.”

And he goes down like a ton of bricks, then, the second Soda lets go of him and sinks down to the earth, himself, too, only slowly, falling to his knees…and Steve kills the engine, and it’s like all the noise in the world flicks off, for a second, like a dead radio, except for Ponyboy’s wails.

She wants to run to Soda, but Sandy stands, still frozen, reaching out with one clammy, forceful hand to yank Steve back, when he almost barrels past her. She’s already crying, too, when she locks on his dark eyes and shakes her head, firmly, no.

And her frozen fingers are still anchored around Steve’s strong wrist, but he doesn’t bother to shake her off, and Evie stumbles up stage left and grabs onto Sandy’s other quaking arm, and the three of them watch the Curtis brothers crawl back to each other over frozen grass, clinging together and rocking back and forth and howling into the night.

***

The first night Sandy sleeps at the Curtis house, she doesn’t make love to Sodapop – or even kiss him, except around the crown of the head, laid against her chest, sitting upright in the kitchen while he sobs between telephone calls. Nobody’s sleeping, either – not until the early morning hours, anyway, when Evie and Steve finally drift off in living room armchairs, waiting up for Darry to make it down from Boulder. Ponyboy’s been passed out like the dead on the couch for hours, and it’s just Sandy and Soda sitting in communion on rickety chairs under the stove light. 

“I should call the coroner again,” Soda murmurs, voice ragged and whisper-silent. “I mean, the Tulsa coroner, to find out when they’re receivin’ –”

“Call in the morning, baby,” Sandy says, gently, just as he starts to shake again, like she’s got to fill that gaping black chasm of hurt, in the too-quiet house, with words. 

“They’re gonna bring ‘em down to ya, remember? They’re gonna take care of everything, Soda. And Darry’s gonna be here, any minute.”

“God, Sandy,” Soda whispers, voice breaking. “What are we gonna do?”

“Don’t gotta worry about that right now,” Sandy whispers back. “C’mere.”

“I can’t even think,” Soda cries. “How we’re gonna go on, with…”

“Shh, Soda,” Sandy whispers, pulling him into her arms, and letting him cry quietly into her shirt, feeling like she’s holding the whole world up with her weak little arms. 

“I know. I know what it’s like to lose someone. Like that.”

“How’d ya go on?” Soda chokes, and he looks very young and old all at once, leaking out tears and hopeless panic. “Living, I mean, yourself? With your mom, just gone…?”

“I promise, I’ll show ya,” Sandy murmurs. “How to go on, after. But ya don’t gotta think about that right now, okay?”

“Don’t go, Sandy,” Soda whispers, clinging to her body so hard that Sandy wonders if he could crush her ribs. “Just stay with me, baby. Please.”

“Swear I’m not going anywhere,” Sandy whispers, breathless. “I’ve got ya, Soda.”

Chapter Text

FEBRUARY/MARCH 1965

“He’s got his eye on ya, Syl.” 

And Sylvia knows it’s true, even if Evie Zamora’s being the exact fucking opposite of subtle, glancing across the cafeteria to the boys’ table and pivoting back to the spot where they’re all huddled, smack in the middle of the lunchtime territory of greasy girls. 

“Ya think?” Sylvia smirks back, sarcastically, squashing down her wicked glee and refusing to look up and scan the room herself, to see if Dallas Winston really is still looking for her.

“Wait, tell us again,” Kathy squints. “How ya left it. You went to Buck’s, and then – ?”

“Yeah, nothin’ happened,” Sylvia brushes her off, too quickly – Kathy, who’s sitting across from her because she’s Evie’s best and oldest friend, and they both started out as extras. Sylvia can sense the four of them all turning into something like a gang, now – after that long, terrible slide from January into February, when Sandy and Evie bonded over taking care of the Curtis boys, once their parents were buried. And it still makes her head spin a little, to think of all that grief, and how Sandy has a boyfriend – and how they both have a real crew to sit with, regularly, at lunch now. 

Syl’s known Kathy since Freshman year, as one of the only other girls from their side of town sitting next to her in Honors English; whip-smart and well-liked and unbothered by the idea of challenging Socials for top marks. But she doesn’t know Kath well enough, exactly, to spill everything she’s been up to, lately – not that Sylvia ever does spill, anyways. Except to Sandy. 

“I just had to go,” Sylvia shrugs, sipping Coca-Cola. “Keep ‘em guessing, ya know?”

“So you didn’t even make out, or anything?” Kathy looks dubious, and then so wary and half-scared that Sylvia almost has to tease her – like Dallas was really that bad. Like he isn’t exactly the sort of boy she’s been waiting for, all this time. 

“Not yet,” Sylvia grins, roguishly, and she sees Sandy looking at her funny, too, all apprehensive out of the corners of her eyes, and Evie looks kind of impressed.

“You know he’s, like…” Kathy trails off, wincing and rolling her eyes. “Tell her, Eves!”

“Trouble?” Evie shrugs wryly, glancing up from cleaning her nails. “I think she knows.”

And it’s true that Sylvia’s already shaken down Evie for a full report on that dastardly boy she met in detention, the day after Valentine’s Day, just over a week ago – not like she hadn’t heard plenty about Dallas Winston already. Sylvia usually rolls her eyes at so-called infamous juvenile delinquents who terrify or impress more naive girls, but she’ll admit she was intrigued by that towheaded boy with the icy glare who came from New York City – who was supposed to be the worst of the worst.  

And Syl knows she has questionable tastes and a bad reputation of her own, which is sort of funny because she’s literally still a virgin, herself…but maybe that’s why it all feels sort of fucking perfect. God knows, she was fascinated the second she heard of Dally, and ever since that day in detention, when she met him for herself and decided exactly who she wanted to lose it to. 

***

Whatever happened in that classroom after school wasn’t quite flirting, although the stage was set well enough with paper hearts, torn down from the holiday decorations and stomped all over, littering the floor by the windows. And it was just the two of them, unsupervised – a situation that Sylvia figured maybe ought to scare her, but she sat there tossing her hair and crossing her legs instead, ready and willing to fucking tempt him. 

“Bet you got plenty of these,” Dallas sneered, finally, breaking that silence, gesturing down to a shredded Valentine on the vinyl floor. He was staring right at her, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his – not for a second, the way they glowed like that, like the blue fire at the bottom of a butane flame, turning translucent.

“From who?” Sylvia snorted back, rolling her eyes. 

“You’re, uh, friends with Sandy Davis, right?” He said it more like a statement, or a mild provocation – and she can’t tell what’s going on, behind those bright eyes, staring her down. 

“Best friends.”

“But you’re not like Sandy.”

"And you’re not like Sodapop Curtis,” Sylvia countered back, coolly, just desperate to keep him talking, but Dallas just sat there, smirking, like he could see right through her shirt, or something.

“You’re a jockey, right?” Sylvia went on, eyebrows raised. “Ya live at Buck’s?”

“That’s right.” His voice was deeper than she’s used to hearing, out of a seventeen-year-old – or maybe just different, all rough and drawn-out, with a low-rolling New York accent instead of twinging, syrupy Southern twang.

“Heard someone got strangled there last month,” Sylvia muttered, before she could even stop herself, glancing over with bated breath as Dallas nodded, slowly.

“What’s the matter, kid?” Dallas grinned at her, humorlessly, flashing his teeth. “Ya never seen a dead body?”

And Sylvia’s blood ran cold, then, no longer smirking – opening her mouth and then shutting it tight again, shooting him a wary glare.

“Relax, honey.” He pulled out his pack of Kools, leaning way back in that desk chair, stretched out like a cat to crack the window. “That was only my second strangling. As witness, anyway. Smoke?”

“Strangulation.” She corrected his grammar without thinking, suddenly noticing his fingers holding out a lit cigarette, smoke curling out the window and mixing with the frost – and Sylvia accepted the offering, actually nervous now. Still, she couldn’t help herself from asking.

“Who was the first?” Sylvia had whispered, passing the smoke back and letting the nicotine rush to her head, wide eyes anchored on Dallas, who inhaled hard before he answered.

“My mom,” he said, twisting his lips up into a cool grin, like he’d told this story before, maybe, just for shock value. “Yeah, she was smart to get out. ‘Till she came back. And I didn’t get it. You know when you’re a little kid, and ya just – ya don’t get it?”

“Right,” Sylvia whispered, half-choked herself and nodding, blankly, begging him to go on, even if she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it – and she noticed for the first time how Dallas Winston had a way of speaking horribly slowly, drawing out long, casual pauses before delivering the final blow.

“The last time she came back,” he shrugged, “My dad strangled her.”

“You were there?” Sylvia asked, frozen in place, trying to catch his eyes.

“Walked in on the end of it,” Dallas nodded. “I could only see her feet, though. Through the bedroom door, ya know? Jerkin’ around, until they stopped movin’. Hey, pass that.”

She remembers handing over the cigarette, shivering in the rush of frigid air, and staring at that tough, haunted blonde boy with the criminal record, who had something in common with her.

“I was the one who found my mom, too,” Sylvia said – taking care to sound cool, and detached, even as her voice shook a bit, still. “Hanging from the ceiling fan.”

And she really doesn’t know why she told him, except that it felt like some kind of communion – in the way this hardened little delinquent was looking at her, like he was surprised. Like he only wanted to scare her, or something, instead of comparing spilled guts, but Sylvia already knew that it was too late. She didn’t know if it was based in respect or pure lust, but Dallas Winston looked at Sylvia Greene that day like he could see her inside out and still want to know more.

“Shit,” he’d acknowledged, nodding slowly. “How old?”

“I was five,” Sylvia spit, grabbing her big leather bag and digging through the inner pockets, diving to the bottom. “And this is depressing. You want some?”

She waved the little eighth of whiskey over in his direction, snatching it back as soon as he made a move – swallowing hard, like she had something to prove, and maybe Syl did, because she was kind of already smitten. And she made sure to down a good shot and a half before handing it over with an offhand shrug.

“I’ve got homework,” Sylvia remembers announcing, opening up her folder. “Just hide it, when the hall monitor swings by, yeah?”

And she sat there for the next hour and a half and did her stupid History homework, even as she could feel Dallas Winston’s eyes crawling all over her, until the miserable old Ms. Wilson poked her head in the door at five o’clock and cut them both loose. 

“Here ya go,” Dallas muttered in her ear, sidling past her and dropping that bottle back into the depths of her purse as Sylvia stalked down the hall, towards the front doors. She was barely tipsy, buzzing nonetheless, but she could tell he wasn’t quite sober anymore – walking too close, by her side, practically pressing her into the lockers.

“Thanks,” Sylvia nodded, curtly, hefting her bag up on her shoulder – stopped in her tracks, in the fluorescent hall, even though it was already all dark outside, and everyone else had gone home. But Dallas was hovering over her, pushed against those metal doors, and she turned to face him squarely, narrowing her eyes.

“You should come out with me,” he murmured, leaning in closer, pinning her there with one arm slung heavily against the lockers. And his sharp jaw and tight-drawn mouth were only inches from her own, but Sylvia knew to wait for him to lean in, himself, not moving a muscle – so when he did kiss her, it was forceful and quick and eager.

“Should I?” Sylvia breathed, pressed up against the wall and vibrating all over. “Okay.”

And Sylvia watched Dallas Winston grin down on her, winking and walking off through those big double doors, and she waited a minute or five until dashing out the same way, walking home in the freezing, frosted dark feeling giddy and off-balance and sort of naked.

Syl’s always been a fucking loner – other than Sandy, and a bunch of boys who she loves to drink and get up to no good with…but then, there’s Evie and Kathy, now, and it’s like they’re playing at being a real gang, or something. And it feels a bit like wading into totally uncharted waters, between girlfriends and the walking, living legend that is Dallas – a boy, for once, who’s truly interesting, and tough enough to scare her. Maybe he’s even messed up enough to love Sylvia back – even though she swears she gave up on that dumb, romantic idea, about finding someone who really saw her, through-and-through. Maybe she’s just glad to have something to do all weekend, again, other than day drinking and  consuming paperback novels by the stack and resenting the hell out of Sodapop Curtis for hogging Sandy all to himself. 

Sylvia’s heart was catching in her chest as she darted the half-mile home, that night, blushing and buzzing and half-drunk on the idea that maybe she’d found someone just as fucked-up as her, who’d lean right in and ask her out, anyway. She definitely didn’t care about his wicked reputation.

She still doesn’t; not even after she went out to see him at Buck’s roadhouse, and Buck Merril himself scared the living shit out of her. Sylvia might never actually forget how rancid he smelled, cornering her against that bathroom door like he wanted something. And Sylvia fully believes he would have bent her over and taken it, if she hadn’t stomped him, hard, with her heavy boot heel, and made a run for the exit.

She’d walked home that night without bothering to find Dallas, or say goodbye – drunk, again, but still shivering, for miles in the dark. And it made her feel silly, and sick - like maybe she’d stumbled too naively into a world far beyond her depth, about to get knocked right on her ass. But then, maybe it worked like a charm, after all, ‘cause Syl survived, and Dallas has been staring her down all week, like maybe he still wants her. Like maybe her Irish goodbye shrouded her in an air of mystery, instead of just being rude and pathetic. 

Sylvia stands up abruptly as soon as she hears the bell, signalling the end of lunch – not even waiting for Sandy, who gets walked to class by Sodapop, now. She’s only interested in one person bumping into her – and she’s just waiting for him, with a coy smirk painted on her face, pacing slowly down the hall to History class.

“Hey, you.” Sylvia’s heart skips a beat, knowing that voice anywhere. He’s slid up beside her, as if from out of thin air, suddenly walking close beside her, leaning in.

“Ya left me hangin’ last weekend,” Dallas goes on, drawing every word out, painfully casually but pointedly, eyes flickering down on her. “What happened?”

“I just had to go.” Sylvia shrugs, and she looks right up to meet his eyes, just to prove herself unshaken. “Nothin’ to do with you.”

“Huh,” Dallas flicks up his eyebrows, like he’s vaguely amused…or maybe, just not used to being challenged, ‘cause he’s still walking so close to her that people are starting to stare – not like they haven’t been whispering, already, about his obvious, strange new interest in her.

“Hey, I know it’s a dive,” he mutters, under his breath, right in Sylvia’s ear. “What if I took ya out on a normal date, huh? Like the Dingo?”

And Sylvia’s suddenly sweating, brain reeling with all the lurid stories about this infamous crook who she’s been sort of entranced by since the second she laid eyes on him. She could get high, just on the knowledge that he wants her back, but she forces herself to play it cool, pausing by the lockers and turning to face him.

“Is it even open?” Sylvia raises one eyebrow. “With the snow?”

“Bring a jacket,” Dallas shrugs, eyes flashing slyly. “And I’ll bring Tim’s T-bird.”

“Deal,” Syl grins back, nodding slowly. “You pickin’ me up?”

“Yeah, I know your place. Above Dime’s?”

“Right,” she nods, wondering, suddenly, if he’s done his own research on her, too. She can’t imagine it was a glowing review, from Sodapop or Steve – or Two-Bit Mathews, who she’s definitely drunkenly sucked off at least twice. But then, maybe Dallas didn’t care about a rough reputation, either. And why would he?

“I’ll get ya ‘round 7:30,” Dallas nods back, smiling out of the corners of his mouth and showing off all his sharp little teeth. “See ya, honey.”

***

“Syl, don’t go.” Sandy’s standing there, in Sylvia’s bedroom, begging – when she’s supposed to be helping Syl pick out something to wear that’s stylish and sexy and mature and that she won’t freeze to death in. 

“It’s just the Dingo,” Sylvia rolls her eyes, planting hands on her hips. “You go all the time, yourself.”

“Yeah, with Soda,” Sandy spits back, exasperated - like she already knows there’s no convincing her, but that fear creeping into her wide eyes is giving Syl a sort of funny feeling in her chest, thinking back to Buck Merril bending her over his bathroom counter. She’s thinking about all the things that go on, in the seedy underbelly of their town, and how Sylvia keeps brushing closer and closer to being flipped over, herself – but she’s not afraid of Dallas Winston. 

“I’ll just wear the black skirt,” Sylvia announces, already pulling on semi-sheer tights. “And the gray wool sweater.”

“The short one?” Sandy groans, sinking onto the bed in defeat. “Your ass might freeze.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Sylvia grins back, layering on a low-cut long-sleeve shirt. “And hey, don’t worry about me. I can handle myself, huh?”

“Ya know he’s gonna want somethin’, Syl…” Sandy’s voice trails off as she grimaces, raising her eyebrows in implication.

“In the middle of the drive-in?” Sylvia scoffs, shoving down a smile. “In an arctic chill? Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s gonna be taking their pants off. C’mon.”

And Sandy just stares at her, wearily – like she didn’t see Syl in her flimsy black lace underwear and matching bra; like Sandy doesn’t know deep down that Sylvia’s just dying for Dallas to give it to her.

“Just promise me, okay?” Sandy sighs, gathering up her school bag and shrugging on her coat. “You’ll play it safe?”

“‘Course,” Sylvia nods, deadly serious. “He’s buddies with Sodapop, Sandy. How bad can he be? Hey, I’ll call ya tomorrow and tell ya how it went.”

“Okay, Syl,” Sandy nods back, and there’s still something fearful splashed across her face as she hugs Sylvia goodbye, disappearing out into the dark hall and out into the night, headed for the Curtis place as Syl lines her eyes in shimmering black pencil. 

Sylvia’s already told her dad that she’s hanging out with her new girlfriend, Evie – not that he’d care, regardless, but she likes to cover her bases – and she’s downed two shots of whiskey to steady her nerves and put on her big leather motorcycle jacket and heavy boots. She’s standing in the apartment vestibule at 7:30, peering out the frosty window to spy Tim Shepard’s familiar black Thunderbird, already shivering with anticipation.

She’s rode in this car before, only in the backseat – like most of the kids from their neighborhood, who ran wild with Curly and Angela Shepard and treated Tim almost like a collectively shared, extra-mean big brother. Now, Sylvia’s sliding into the passenger side, next to Dallas, who’s slouched down and smiling over at her with one hand slung up on the wheel.

And he doesn’t make a move to kiss her, or anything, just shakes out his pack of cigarettes and looks over and asks, “How are ya?”

“Good.” Sylvia really can’t put a finger on what it is about Dallas that’s making her heart bang around in her chest like that – but it’s even in the way he speaks, questions rolling out so coolly, like he really didn’t care at all. It was something beyond toughness; way beyond boyhood – something Syl can reckon with, so long as she can keep him interested in her. Maybe then, she could crack into his world.

He’s lighting up a smoke and passing it to her, pulling off from the curb and swearing about the cold. And Sylvia feels his free hand come down to rest on her thigh, bony fingers spreading over her skin, through her stockings, like spiderwebs, but warm, and she can only inhale hard and spread her legs a little farther apart as they fly over the dark streets.

The Dingo looks half-deserted when they pull up, with its neon lights blinking through the fog, and Sylvia only sees a handful of cars scattered over that expanse of dark, dead grass. 

“Half price double tonight,” the man in the ticket window, who’s bundled up in a scarf, says when they drive up. “And no promise, on the double. We’re shuttin’ down if we get snow.”

“Is it gonna snow?” Dallas drolls, dubiously.

“Hell if I know, buddy.” 

“Okay, okay,” Dallas nods. “Two doubles, then. Is, uh, concessions still open?”

“Yes, sir. Get ‘em now, if you’re gonna.”

Dallas pulls over and orders two Cokes, bullying the shivering concessions girl for paper cups and peeling around the cones to the far, far side of the parking grass, where blackened, icy patches of snow make bumps and the floodlights overhead fade out into shadowy darkness. 

“Brought your favorite,” Dallas grins, parking the car with a jolt and reaching under the seat, coming up with a bottle of whiskey. “And I know ya can take it straight, but hey. My treat.”

He’s gesturing to the cokes and cups, and Sylvia can’t help snickering - ‘cause she knows this play; knows so many sleazy, hungry boys, who love to play bartender and liquor up their dates, so they can take exactly what they want. They’re always so shocked, to see just how much Syl can drink and still keep her wits about her – but this time, she’s thinking about leaning in, just to feel Dally’s hands on her again.

And she doesn’t have to wait, slurping down extremely boozy sodapop as the opening credits light up the Dingo parking lot and he slides over on the leather seat, swinging his right arm around Sylvia and dragging her closer with a force. 

Dallas has a way of kissing like he’s biting at something, all sharp canine teeth nipping at her neck and making her gasp, while that smoky sweet smell of liquor on his tongue goes right to her head. He’s got his fingers tangled in her hair, fast and desperate and heavy-handed – and God, she likes it. If Dallas Winston wants her…well, then, Sylvia wants him to fucking show it.

And Syl’s kissed her fair share of boys before – and, yeah, fumbled her way through a couple regrettable, drunken blowjobs and maybe let Jack Davison finger her once – but, fuck, this is something else. Dallas moves like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and she’s not about to stop him sliding his hand up under her sweater, shoving up her bra.

“Oh,” Sylvia breathes, digging her fingers into his arms as he feels her up, not even shivering anymore.

“Okay?” Dallas’ voice comes out low and growly, hot against her neck, almost laughing under his breath, like it’s amusing him to feel her clinging to his arms.

“Yeah,” Sylvia whispers back, past caring that it comes out sounding like a whimper, and she only startles when the movie screen goes black, flooding the whole lot in darkness. 

It only takes a few seconds for the lights to flicker on, and a commotion of people clamoring out of cars, calling out questions about what’s going on.

“Oh, what the – ?” Dally rolls down the window, swearing.

“The snow,” Sylvia murmurs, blushing and straightening up in her seat, blinking out the window. She hadn’t noticed it start to come down: big, icy flakes, falling down around them, fast and hard. And she hears the attendant calling for everyone to pack it up and pull out to the side, but Syl’s sort of frozen in place, lips buzzing and brain reeling.

“Aw, Christ,” Dallas spits, surveying the blur of white like he’s plotting something out. 

“Wanna go back to mine?”

“Sure.” Sylvia answers without hesitation – without thinking about Buck Merril’s roadhouse, or the blizzard, or anything but getting Dallas to touch her again – all over, if they went somewhere warm with a door that locked…

Syl does hear Sandy’s voice, ringing in her ears, as they roll slowly out onto the Ribbon, like being whirled around in a snow globe, and she knows she isn’t playing it safe. But tonight, East Tulsa doesn’t even look so dirty; all blanketed in white, and the neon muted – and maybe Sylvia will never be able to explain exactly why she needs Dallas to want her; how they have something terrible in common that nobody else would dare to touch. How Sylvia told him, already, that she’s damaged goods, and he still looked at her with that glint in his sharp eyes - like he’d still swallow her, whole.

And she really isn’t afraid of him – maybe just a little; just enough to make her heart race and her panties wet. It’s certainly not enough to stop herself from riding back to Buck’s with his arm slung around her, driving slowly and still weaving, not quite sober in a whiteout.

“C’mon,” Dally gestures, finally pulling the T-bird into the parking lot – which is still half-full, even as the snow comes down on the outskirts of town, and they make a run for the side doors of Buck’s roadhouse. 

Sylvia breathes a sigh of relief once the door slams shut behind her – tonight, she doesn’t mind Hank Williams or smoke in the air so thick that it makes her eyes sting. As her bones unthaw, and Dallas leads her around to the bar, it occurs to Sylvia that she’s stepped right out of the Will Rogers High School social scene, and over into the one for adult hooligans.

“Fill me up, Louie?” Dallas nods at the bartender – a greasy cowboy sort, lanky and leather-skinned, just like Buck Merril. His eyes dart up and down Syl’s body as Dallas slams cash down on the bar, beside the half-empty bottle.

“And who’s this very young lady?” Louie drawls, Southern twang dripping in sarcasm.

“Oh, this is Sylvia,” Dallas shrugs, watching the bottle fill up. “She’s with me.”

“Neither of ya’s is supposed to be in the bar,” Louie mutters, sliding back their whiskey.

“No, we’re goin’ upstairs,” Dallas grins back, all roguishly, and Louie grimaces.

“You sure you’re okay, there, baby?” Louie’s narrowed eyes flutter over to land on her again, searching, like he wonders if Sylvia knows what she’s getting herself into. Like he has any fucking idea.

“Absolutely fine,” Sylvia answers, coolly, smiling back – like she’s someone who’s totally used to hanging around divey bars with delinquent boys; like she’s had sex a hundred times. God knows, she was already halfway there, with all her bad habits. All she was waiting for was someone like Dallas to dress her down and invite her in.

And Sylvia’s literally been dying for it, since her first drink and cigarette and handjob – kind of obsessed with behaving just as awful as she feels, pissing people off or pushing it too far; tarnishing her reputation and picking petty fights, if only just to punish herself. She likes to act it out, how she feels all black and empty and unlovable, wearing around a hateful little devil-may-care attitude since about age eleven, like armor with spikes on the inside. But it’s occurring to her, suddenly, that maybe it could be fun, instead of punishing – if she had a kindred spirit by her side; a partner in crime who was even worse. 

So Sylvia follows Dallas up Buck’s back staircase, to the second floor, where she’s heard about boys shooting heroin, and whores shuffling in and out…holes punched in walls, heaters drawn, and girlfriends beaten up. But it’s almost quiet, as he leads her down that long hall, and all she hears over the country music coming up through the floorboards is the muffled creak of bedsprings, and grunting. 

She knows exactly what he wants from her, stepping into Dally’s little room at the end of the hall – and Syl’s ready to give herself up, even if she’s sort of shaking as she peels off her leather jacket and hangs it over a chair, so close to the narrow wrought-iron bed, sitting down and crossing her legs while he grabs two smudged glasses from the shelves by the wall.

“Yeah, Two said you could handle your liquor,” Dallas remarks – smirking over at her, like he’s actually impressed, shoving a glass into her hand. He’d stripped off his hoodie, all lean muscles in a black tee shirt.

“Aw, thanks, Mathews,” Sylvia grins and shoots it, taking care not to wince. It’s shadowy, in Dally’s room, and it makes the sharp angles of his jaws and cheekbones look even harsher.

“So where the hell does a girl like you come from?” he asks, staring right at her, flicking up his pale eyebrows. And Sylvia could probably live in the feeling of that gaze - intrigued or amused, Dallas is looking her over like a code he’d like to crack, while she unlaces her heavy, wet boots.

“Right here,” Sylvia laughs, sliding her glass back for more. “Tulsa, born and raised.”

“Ya don’t say.”

“You’re from New York, right?” Sylvia asks, watching whiskey pour into her cup, splashing on the little folding table between them. “What was that like?”

“Hot town,” Dallas shrugs.

“Would you ever want to go back?” Sylvia doesn’t know quite where her questions are coming from, or why she needs to know - but she’s hanging on to his every answer, now, feeling rapidly drunker.

“Nah,” Dallas shook his head, downing his drink and leaning in. “Not for a while, anyways. Think I like it down here.”

“Yeah, we’re tuff enough?” Sylvia grins, raising her eyebrows and blinking, slowly, sort of caught up in those pale blue eyes, like suddenly being tossed out of the frying pan and straight into an inferno - and now, she’s just waiting for him to make a move.

“C’mere.” Dallas nods at her, jerkily, with that humorless smile, and it’s all the provocation she needs to stand up and step around the card table, careful not to lose her balance. It doesn’t matter, in another three seconds - and she isn’t sure exactly how she ends up spun around and flat on her back, on his mattress, gasping to catch her breath as he crawls over her. Sylvia’s surprised he can’t hear her heart pounding out of her chest as she wraps her legs around his body, yanking him closer.

“Tuff enough,” Dallas pants, thin lips set back in a smirk, until he finally kisses her again, hard, before drawing away, flicking his eyes down suggestively. 

“Hey, this ain’t your first…?”

“No!” Sylvia lies, quickly – like it would be so unbelievable, that she’s had experience at this particular rodeo; like plenty of the losers she’s hooked up with wouldn’t embellish…like Evie Zamora and plenty of other less-famous characters they all know didn’t lose it sometime this year, anyway. But it sort of seems like Dallas Winston can see right through her, then – that she’s lying, right through her teeth – even if it doesn’t stop him.

“Okay,” Dallas mutters, kissing her again, and Sylvia’s head is definitely spinning as he pins her down into his bed and peels off her shirt, splayed out in her sheer, lacy bra with her skirt bunched up around her hips. 

“Ya gonna make me cut these off ya?” He growls, digging fingers into her nylon tights, and Sylvia’s stomach drops out, right as he yanks them off and forces her legs open. And she decides to stop fucking talking, right there, fumbling in the half-dark for his belt buckle.

It goes pretty much exactly the way Sylvia figured – ‘cause God knows, she’s read some filthy novels and listened to plenty of girls who like to kiss and tell. Syl remembers Evie describing sex; how it only hurt at first, until that stabbing sort of sensation dulled down and transformed into something pleasurable, and it was too exhilarating to be embarrassing – and then, something about the absolute power of having a boy like that, all wound up and moaning in the palm of your hand. Sylvia gets it, now, even though she’s pretty sure this is rougher than whatever Steve Randall gets off to – but she likes it; being pinned down into Dally’s mattress, with his fingers around her throat.

And she isn’t expecting him to act so nice, after – like maybe Syl drained all the life force right out of him, falling flat on his back next to her and panting and swearing, softly. Dally flings out one arm around her, loosely, as if to invite her to crawl up against his body, just holding her in silence for a minute until the rhythm of their breathing slows back to normal.

“So, how was it?” There’s something snarky clinging to his drawl, all amused and maybe almost tender.

“Oh,” Sylvia whispers, cheek pressed to his chest, and she can feel it rise and fall with that stubborn beat of his heart. “Not half-bad.”

“Good,” he smirks, satisfied, shaking his head. “Ya never forget your first time.”

“What?” Sylvia startles, picking up her head, all wild-eyed. “Christ, how – ?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dallas laughs, scraping his fingers through her hair and forcing her back down to his chest. “Ya just lost that whole tough girl thing, there, for a minute. When we got to it.”

“Oh, screw you,” Sylvia rolls her eyes contemptuously, blushing red and afraid the heat is radiating from her face into his body. “Tough! When was your first time, anyways? Twelve?”

“Eleven,” Dallas shrugs, not skipping a beat.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he goes on, voice slowing down, like he really relishes in shocking her; like it’s some sort of test, to see if he’ll scare her right off. “I came home one day and my Dad was fuckin’ some hooker, in the bedroom. I knew what it sounded like. And I’m watchin’, through the crack in the door, when he sees me.”

“And what’d he do?” Sylvia asks, hanging on his every word and trying to cut the horror right out of her voice; like she doesn’t know about awful fathers, far worse than her own, who push and devour – like Sandy’s.

“He finished up and made me fuck her, too,” Dallas says, and he isn’t joking anymore – even though he’s still grinning. “Don’t worry about catchin’ anythin’. Least the old man taught me to wrap it.”

“Jesus,” Sylvia murmurs, blinking slowly, stomach churning.

“Ya stayin’ over?” Dallas murmurs, grinning – like the weather hasn’t already shaken out a divine conspiracy to keep her here, at Buck’s, all weekend; like Sylvia isn’t already completely naked and tangled up in Dallas Winston’s bedsheets, sharing terrible secrets. 

“You think?” Sylvia deadpans, propping herself up on her elbows and gazing at the white haze outside the window. “I should call my Dad, though.”

“There’s a phone downstairs.”

“In a minute.”

“Yeah,” Dally nods, contented and calm, like maybe she’s never seen him before. “Stay.”

Sylvia thinks maybe she could curl up and live inside the way he commands her, like that, like an oath they’re both swearing on. She doesn’t give a shit if everyone else thinks Dallas Winston is nothing but trouble; she just wants him, like this, locked away somewhere secret and sleazy with her where nobody else even exists. 

And it’s late when she finally crawls up out of bed – or maybe, the snow drove everyone out early – but the sounds from below have faded, by the time Sylvia pulls on her clothes and boots, not even bothering with the stockings or underwear. She trails behind Dallas, down the steps, glancing into the almost-empty barroom on the way to the chaotic back office, where she mumbles a made-up message about being marooned at Evie Zamora’s parents’ house.

“Ya get away with it?” Dally ducks in, grinning at her impishly.

“Yeah,” Sylvia smiles back, still wavering a little bit, tipsy and weak in the knees. “I mean, he’s half passed out.”

“Good,” Dallas smirks. “Come help me with somethin’.”

They drag the bed frame together, tipped sideways through that spare bedroom door, scraping it against the walls, ‘til some half-dressed woman spills out of a different doorway, demanding to know what the hell is going on. 

“Cool it, Roxie,” Dallas groans, picking up the mattress himself and shoving it heavily over the threshold of his own bedroom door. “I got company.”

And the woman, who’s young and pretty and obviously strung-out on something deadly, stares at Sylvia, curiously, as Dallas pushes his old twin bed spring into the hall – swapping it with a spare; rearranging Buck’s fucking flophouse furniture, just to make room for her.

***

It takes a second to remember where she is, until Sylvia opens her eyes, and the snow-bright light of day floods into Dally’s bedroom and it all comes rushing back. It’s Saturday morning, and she’s waking up a new woman – like that sad, subdued version of herself that Syl’s been trying to shove off for so long might have finally gotten fucked right into oblivion.

Sylvia knows she’s just set something into motion, losing her virginity to the most infamous J.D. that any of her high-school friends know – but he looks so harmless now, while he’s sleeping. And if Dallas Winston really is really trouble…well, Syl figures she’s tough enough to handle it. 

She didn’t know the rooms upstairs at Buck’s were outfitted, motel-style, with tiny little half-kitchens crammed in the corner – and she uses the electric kettle to brew coffee, sitting half-dressed by the window and just watching Dally, like some sort of creep, as his chest rises and falls until he finally stirs, sheets rustling. 

“Hey,” Sylvia grins, as his eyes flutter open, and he doesn’t look surprised at all to see her there, camped out in his chair. 

“Oh, good,” Dallas mumbles, a little smirk playing over his lips. “Ya didn’t run out on me.”

“Run where?” Sylvia screws up her face, gesturing out the window. “We got, like, six inches last night.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he cracks up, rising with that devilish little stare. “Ya got a little more than that.”

And Sylvia rolls her eyes, instinctively, blushing down to her fucking toes and laughing under her breath.

“Won’t clear it ‘til midday, at least,” Dallas remarks, falling back into the pillows, not bothering to look at the snow blanketing Buck’s roadhouse parking lot, way out in the East Tulsa boonies.

“Guess I’m stuck,” Sylvia smirks, flicking her eyes back up at him.

“Ya never had a grown-up snow day?”

“A what?”

“It’s when ya stay inside and get stoned,” Dallas laughs, tossing off the sheets and reaching for his shirt. “But, hey. I gotta feed the horses, first.”

She goes with him, out to the stables, in a borrowed pair of jeans that Sylvia has to strip right off, as soon as they trudge back, hems all soaked and snow-crusted. But it’s worth it, just to watch Dallas stroking and settling down the ponies; Syl doesn’t even mind the stinking barn. She’d set up camp out here in the frozen manure, or in the middle of Buck’s barroom, just to be allowed to sit in on Dally’s life and stay a while.

And they come back to his room, after raiding the cellar for canned soup and free booze, and Sylvia’s sitting by the radiator in her wool sweater and thick socks and lace underwear, trying to thaw out again, while Dallas shuffles around – and it occurs to her, suddenly, that nobody else their age has a place like this. A place totally cut off from any of those rules or judgements of the adult world – different, even, than having a dad who didn’t care. Dallas Winston’s room is a real space, with four walls and a bed, where nobody decent could ever find her. Like an island, maybe – where Sylvia can do whatever she wants, come hell or high water. 

“You smoke grass?” Dallas asks, opening up a little metal box, and Syl’s peering in, curious, sort of ashamed of her own inexperience, again.

“Never tried it,” Sylvia admits, leaning in. 

“Ya want to?”

“Obviously.”

So he lights up for her – a little hand-rolled cigarette, only fragrant and funky, and she likes the smell, and the way it feels, after a minute…warm, like wine, but sort of quick and other-worldly. Sylvia’s heard that marijuana fries brains and induces insanity, but it just makes her all loose and limp and floppy, giggling and stretching out on the floorboards.

“You okay?” Dallas is standing over her – so far away, from her spot there on the ground.

“Great,” Sylvia whispers, grinning up at him.

“You’re somethin’,” Dallas swears – staring down, appraisingly, eyes stuck right on her, and she kind of can’t help but flutter her eyelashes, all heavy-lidded and soft and weak.

“Ya wanna make a deal?”

“What?” Sylvia asks, trying to summon some strength and coordination back into the muscles of her arms, propping herself up wavily. 

“You wear my ring,” he explains, coolly – like proposing some casual plan he’s only half invested in. “And don’t mess around, otherwise. What d’ya say?”

“Your ring,” Sylvia echoes, remembering back to one of those stories, passed around secondhand – about Dallas rolling some drunken Senior year Soc, for his big silver class emblem ring; the heavy kind, ideal for breaking noses. The kind that boys gave their girls, to mark them as taken. 

“Sure.” He’s bending down, kind of slumped on the floor beside where Sylvia’s laid out - and she can see his grin, still, blinking at her sideways. “If ya want it.”

“Yes,” Sylvia whispers – and even out of her mind, she knows this might be the most consequential promise she ever utters. She doesn’t really even think twice. “I do.”

“Okay, honey,” Dallas smiles – always, with that humorless grin, but he looks sort of pleased for real, now, bending down. Syl lets him take her hand, sliding that cold ring of metal down her middle finger, only a little bit loose. “There ya go.”

And then he lays out right next to her on the floor, grabbing the joint and sucking in hard, smoke tendrils floating up to the ceiling. Dallas exhales, slowly – like maybe he’d relaxed for the first second in an entire lifetime, tired and triumphant.

Sylvia knows – with that weight on her finger, and that dastardly boy beside her – that maybe nothing in her pathetic little life will ever be the same again. She knows that eventually, they’ll clear the roads and she’ll make it back home, and Sylvia will have to call up Sandy and confess it all…and then, barring another blizzard, she’ll have to go to school on Monday.

Even stoned out of her brain, she knows what it means: the implications of officially dating someone like Dallas Winston. How it might put a target on her back, or shred her reputation for good; how she could get her heart stabbed. Sylvia knows exactly what it will mean for her, to be his girl; how it’ll all come back to her, as soon as the rumor mill churns into action. It’s just that she doesn’t particularly care, reaching out with fumbling hands to bring him back to her, again – ‘cause Syl’s known for a while just what she wants.

She just can’t believe she got him…and she doesn’t know just what’s coming next. All Sylvia knows is that her skin feels hot and her muscles are all slack, like maybe she’s melting right into Dallas Winston’s bedroom floor with her legs flung open – or molting, like a dark, wet butterfly. She’s casting off everything cautious and clean, like layers of clothing, and asking for it with a smile, even as Sylvia braces herself for her whole life to explode.

***

Sylvia knows she really should have seen it coming. She should have listened harder to every lewd rumor about Dallas Winston’s dating history, up till her – if you could call it dating, at all, when all he ever did was fuck and run. Evie told her, and Two-Bit and Sandy, too, and she didn’t want to listen; just hung up on the part about how he’d never given away his ring before, to anyone. All Sylvia wants to do is hurl it back at him, now, still weighing down her middle finger – but Dally hasn’t even been in school this week. 

And Syl likes to imagine that he’s a tiny bit scared to face her, even though the gossip alone could shred her to bits. She won’t show it, sitting up all tough and tall on the cafeteria bench like it doesn’t burn, pretending she isn’t wondering where the fuck he is, now, anyway.

“Would it help if I bought ya fries?” Evie offers, nudging her weakly.

“Oh, yeah,” Sylvia breezes nastily. “‘Cause this wound needs some more salt.”

“S’cuse me to hell, then,” Evie snaps back, puffing out a bunch of air, like she saw this coming a mile away. And, yeah, maybe Syl should have squinted a little harder, ‘cause now she’s just embarrassed, and crushed, every single time she remembers what she saw with her own eyes in Buck’s barroom last Saturday night.

She wonders if it would hurt less if it had been some girl just like herself; another kid just like them. The girl from Chicago was blonde, too, and laid the eyeliner on thick, but Sylvia has a sneaking suspicion that Dallas mostly liked how she would be gone on the Sunday train, before she could turn all complicated and human. As if Syl and Dally haven’t been far too human with each other, lately – fucking and spilling all their guts, for the past three weeks.

“I need a cigarette,” Sylvia announces, standing up from the lunch table and already sidling out towards the doors.

“You want me to come?” Sandy asks, eyeing her up and down.

“No, that’s okay. Stay right there, thanks!” 

And Sylvia doesn’t know where the hell to go, except far away – trudging back down to the street and walking all the way past the middle school, and the corner store where she used to cut class in eighth grade.

She’s hardly even surprised to see Angela Shepard, who can’t be more than twelve years old, hanging around the vending machines with a whole pack of preteen hooligans. Ange has eyes just like her big brother, Tim – all sharp and dark, with an amber-tinted glint, like a cat. And they land right on Sylvia, and she stalks over.

“Can I bum a smoke, Syl?” Angela simpers, leaning in, all made-up in a too-short dress.

“No,” Sylvia snaps, waving her off.

“What happened with you and Dally?” Angela demands, eyeing her up and down.

“Oh, why don’t ya get outta my way, Ange?”

“He’s back at our place,” she goes on, staring at her, still.

“What?”

“He’s all screwed up, again,” Angela shrugs, and Syl can’t quite dodge the accusatory look in her eyes. “Ya must have done a number on him.”

“What do ya mean, screwed up?” Sylvia narrows her eyes, suddenly sort of scared, and asking like she means it. “Ange?”

“Strung out,” she shrugs again, contemptuously, like Sylvia ought to know. “What, are ya lookin’ for him?”

“Lookin’ to give him his ring back,” Sylvia mutters, all bitter and mad, stifling down her curiosity – about Dally, and how he landed on Tim’s couch, in the first place, from New York – wondering what ever connected them in the first place, other than such hooliganism. Syl knows it’s the real kind, and now her heart’s sinking, now that Angela’s confirmed it; that Dally actually did those nasty drugs she knows about Tim slinging.

“Yeah, ‘cmon,” Angela smirks. “Let’s go.”

Sylvia does let Ange bum a smoke on the way over, all buzzing with nerves and still angry, herself, as they get to that sooty brick low-rise, not unlike her own apartment building.

“Who made Tim Shepard your legal guardian, anyway?” Syl spits, eyebrows raised, wrapping her leather coat around her tighter as she trudges behind Ange, up the stairs.

“The state,” Angela snaps back. 

“Go, Oklahoma.”

“Aw, go see your boyfriend.” Angela unlocks the apartment door, standing there in the dim light with her hands on her hips. “If he’s even awake.”

Sylvia presses open the bedroom door – the first one, down the hall, past the living room with the trunk as a coffee table, strewn with ashtrays and coffee cups and lowball glasses. 

And Dallas is lying in bed, shirtless with his pale skin glistening with sweat, bleary-eyed and propping himself up on his elbows with slow, trembling movements. And those eyes settle on her like pale fire; like they might be full of murder, even though he’s the one who looks like he’s knocking on death’s door.

“What are you on?” Sylvia asks, coldly, scared and staring back and shutting the door.

“Ya still mad at me, honey?” Even faded-out and listless, his voice is still cutting – like a dull blade, maybe, all rough and ruthless, like he’s still gonna get the last laugh.

“Do ya shoot up?”

“Ya didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine,” Sylvia says, slowly. “And I asked first.”

“H,” Dallas nods, eyes still locked on her own, just daring her to react.

“Heroin?” Sylvia whispers, blinking hard. “And this is somethin’...ya do?”

“Not much,” he smirks, drawing every syllable out. “Anymore. And what about you, ya little booze hound? Uh, what’d ya come around here lookin’ for?”

“You, fucker!” Sylvia practically yelps, ripping that heavy silver ring off her finger. “I’m givin’ ya this back.”

“Don’t,” Dallas snaps, sitting up as she stalks over.

“What?” Sylvia demands. “You’re the one who said we don’t mess around, besides. And YOU stepped out. Now take it back!”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Dallas shakes his head, stubbornly, flicking his eyes back up at her. “And, hey, I already forgot about her. Okay?”

“What fucking part of this would be okay?” Syl’s trying hard not to yell and disturb the whole building, now, rage bubbling over. But Dallas is just staring at her, all coldly and floating far away, almost smiling as she spins out.

“You’re really gonna get bent outta shape?” he asks, arching his eyebrow up and cocking his head, speaking slowly, almost like he’s mocking her. 

“Over some broad who means nothin’?”

“No, fuck you, Winston,” Sylvia spits, all wound-up and irate, turning on her heel.

“Get back here,” Dallas barks, and she spins back around, in slow motion, ready to fucking fight him. “Ya wanna talk about deals, all of a sudden, when you’re out flirtin’ with…who? Eddie Watts and Jack Davison? Again?”

“At the rodeo?” Sylvia’s eyes fly open, and then narrow again. “That’s not…I’m not interested in Jack fuckin’ Davison, okay?”

“Then keep it.” Dally makes a grab for her hand – all clammy, but he gets a good hold and yanks her by the wrist, shoving it back on her thumb, where it won’t come loose.

“You need to hear it?” He’s definitely taunting her now, a sickly sarcastic tone seeping up into his voice, and Sylvia rolls her eyes around in her skull and then glares daggers right back at him. 

“Do I want to?”

“You’re the only one, Syl,” Dallas groans, rolling those butane-blue eyes all the way around in his skull and glaring at her, hard. “Who I’m fuckin’ interested in. Okay?”

***

“Ya get keyed yet?” 

“‘Scuse me?” 

Sylvia’s already having a godawful Thursday, and she really isn’t in the mood for whatever Kathy’s wiggling her eyebrows around about, breezing past her into the girl’s locker room – but she asks, anyway, trudging behind.

“Bev Brewer’s crew is goin’ around, scratchin’ shit into everyone’s lockers.

“Like what?”

And it’s staring back at her, in metal, shedding little chipped-off paint flecks – SLUT, and Sylvia sort of just has to laugh, cold cackles bouncing off the dingy tiled walls.

“Wow, innovative, Sylvia muses, rolling her eyes wearily. “What’d you get?”

“Nothin’. Yet. I’m goin’ to find Eves.” 

Kathy spins on her heel and speed-walks into the belly of the beast, towards the toilet stalls – and Sylvia sticks around exactly long enough to hear someone hurling, voluntarily, and catch a glance of the word QUEER scratched into Evie’s locker, across the bench, before she decides that she’s completely and totally fucking over it. 

Syl knows the route to sneak out the side doors and skirt along the treeline, undetected – and plus, she’s only skipping out on Home Ec and fuckin’ Algebra, which she’s already failing, so Sylvia only worries about thinking up an excuse to tell her Dad why she’s home early. 

But he’s not even there when she climbs up the dark, stinking stairs and slips into her dusty, dim, silent apartment; she checks his bedroom and bathroom and everything before sinking mercifully into one of the recliner chairs and letting out a pitiful sigh. And Syl’s sick to death of her own moping, ever since Dally’s little rendezvous and subsequent game of grab-back, trying to figure out if she’s actually some sort of exception. 

Syl decides to get up and make something happen, even if it’s just stealing her Dad’s nice whiskey and putting on her Kinks record and hanging out in her own living room – relishing the space, and the stillness, not even bothering to wonder when he’s gonna pop up and interrupt her late-afternoon slide into inebriation. 

And it’s not entirely lost on Sylvia Greene that she’s sort of becoming her dad…drinking nearly as much as him, anyways, if she adjusts for weight; and then there’s that thick skin and skill for icing out all her feelings that she’s been working on – necessarily – since she took Dally back, two weeks ago. But she’s been ignoring that sick sense, hard, unwilling to even unwrap and contend with the idea…and instead, Syl makes herself a drink and goes to pick out a killer outfit, and somewhere to be by the time she’s sauced tonight. 

Her father’s been a drunk since Sylvia can remember back – although she can’t remember being younger than five; not really. Syl can’t remember her mother alive, except in a hazy, inverted blur, like sun-damaged film…and she wonders, sometimes, if he was always like this. If it was part of what pushed her. Somewhere deep-down and evil, she hopes it did – that it was his fault. That it wasn’t her, who was too much to bear. 

And somewhere even deeper – like, in the pit of her stomach – Sylvia likes to think that she deserves to drink until she sees double, too, just like him. Because of him; because her Mom left her here, like she didn’t know exactly what sort of father he’d turn into after she kicked away the fuckin’ chair and left Syl to sink or swim in that very apartment.

She’s certainly wasted when he walks through the door, and they stare at each other for a few seconds, like looking through a mirror. Syl can tell when her Dad is plastered, even if he hardly slurs a word; it’s in that way he stares through her, like she’s not even fully human, just a girl-shaped black shadow, streaking across his living-room floor like a cockroach. 

“What are ya drinking?” 

He shoots her a withering look, eyes traveling slowly to his bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half-empty on the kitchen counter, and back to her.

“Sorry,” Sylvia mutters, slightly too buzzed to bother defending herself. There’s a good reason she sells a cut of their food stamps to Ms. Matarazzo, down the hall, so she can add her own cheap stuff to the liquor store shopping list and hole up in her bedroom in peace most nights. 

“Ya goin’ somewhere?” He asks, coldly – and she catches the slurring, there, as he rakes his eyes down her flimsy little dress and torn-up stockings.

“I might go see some girlfriends,” Sylvia snaps back, already looking for her sweater, even though she’d really rather just crawl back to her room and pass out.

“Out workin’ the corner?” The contempt – and the implication – drips down, all ink-grease black and mean and dirty, and Sylvia doesn’t even bother opening her mouth.

“Pick up milk, if ya hit Sutton,” He spits offhandedly, sarcasm coating every last syllable, snatching up the bottle and sitting down heavily in the recliner, right next to her. “And don’t have the morgue callin’ here, if it’s past 2 when ya’ll get what’s comin’ to ya.”

And Sylvia was already jumping up and hunting around for her stompy leather boots, the second his ass hit the chair – fleeing, again, in slow motion, shrugging on her coat and grabbing her purse and glaring contemptuously back at him before she slams the front door. 

It’s already March, but still freezing out in the midnight-blue night – and not exactly safe, either, any time of year; not that Sylvia has to worry about Soc’s prowling around her shitty part of the commercial downtown, but she knows there’s plenty of her own sort who lurk in the shadows, looking to shake down an underdressed teenage girl. And she’s only made it, like, three blocks from home when the horn from the car that’s been following her blares in the night, and she jumps out of her skin.

“Sylvia!” 

She whips around, shivering in the frosty wind, squinting her eyes at what she’s pretty sure is Tim Shepard’s Thunderbird, rolling slowly behind her, as he leans out the window.

“The hell ya think you’re doin’, wanderin’ around in the middle of the night?” he shouts. “Waitin’ for someone to jump your bones?”

“I’m just takin’ a walk!”

“I’m takin’ ya home,” Tim snaps. “Get in.”

“No,” Sylvia says, sharply, and Tim’s eyes flash – not like Syl hasn’t known him to keep tabs on and pick up for all the neighborhood kids…but he’s been regarding her sort of curiously ever since she started running with Dallas.

“Get in the fuckin’ car,” Tim drawls, all slow and drawn-out and murderous.

“I’m not goin’ home,” Sylvia says, firmly. “And what’s it to ya, anyway?”

“Oh, yeah, ya are,” Tim argues back, voice rising. “Before ya get picked off, and Dally reams ME out a new one.”

“I can’t, okay, Tim?” And she knows he understands having it rough at home, like so many of the boys in his own crew don’t get run out regularly and end up on his couch; like being cast out isn’t what pushed them all right into his gang, anyway. 

“Can ya just take me to Buck’s?”

“Jesus, kid. You’re fast.” He’s staring at her with a mix of admiration and brutal judgement. “Fine. And only ‘cause I happened to be headin’ over there, myself.”

Tim and Syl don’t talk on the drive over – ‘cause she’s suddenly bone-tired and her eyelids keep drifting shut, and when Tim parks in Buck’s dusty old lot and disappears into the bar, she hauls herself up the back stairs, fully prepared to pick the lock if Dally’s nowhere to be found.

But he’s right there – crouched over the makeshift desk by the kitchenette with a newspaper propped in his hands and a smoke dangling from his lips.

“Hey, Syl.” Dally’s eyes are roaming up and down her body, standing there still shivering, like maybe he can see right through her, like always. “Didn’t know ya were comin’.”

“Can I stay here tonight?” She begs, wearily, too exhausted to care about coming off all cool. “Please?”

“Ya get ran out?” 

“Somethin’ like that.” 

“Man, I ought to shoot your dad.” He’s still grinning coldly – like he’s only half-kidding, and Sylvia’s sort of taken, just like always, by that brass-knuckled brand of kindness that he reserves for her, sometimes. When he’s feeling generous. 

“Thanks,” Sylvia mutters. “But I think I just wanna pass out.”

“Ya wanna be sedated?”

“That’s okay,” Sylvia smirks, sitting down on Dally’s creaky bed and peeling off her coat and boots and shredded tights, stripping down to her slip and sliding back into those familiar cigarette-burned sheets.

“What are ya scared of?” Dally drawls, drawing out every word again; taking a long drag and gazing at her from across the room.

“Um, dying, probably,” Sylvia mumbles tiredly, and she’s staring back at him from under heavy lids, at that cold, crooked smirk and the wicked little twinkle in his eyes.

“That’s half the fun,” he counters back. “Seein’ if the horse is gonna trample ya.”

And she knows he’s not talkin’ about the rodeos, although she thinks she understands why Dallas can crush every other East side jockey into the red Tulsa dirt; because he was the only one willing to throw his whole life right down on the line. Because he took it too far, in every barrel turn and scrap and hit of that smack that scared the shit out of Sylvia…and she knows in her bones that asking him to ever take it easy would only be pathetic.

“Yeah, always hangin’ out on death’s doorstep.” When Syl rolls her eyes, they almost drift shut, but she’s got a funny feeling that she better keep talking; that there’s something she’s got to drag out of him. “I know how ya love that.”

“Hey, it feels like home,” Dallas says, bitterly, still grinning at her with all those sharp little teeth. “‘Cept they’ll always let ya in. If ya ask nice.”

And for the first time, ever, Sylvia’s scared of him – of the fucking temptation, filling out his rough, low-rolling voice; of a real flesh and blood boy, her own age, who’s lounging in front of her and speaking obliquely about ending it all.

“But ya don’t really wanna die, right?” she asks, hoarsely, propping herself up on her elbow and searching his pointy little face for some hint of a pitch-black jest…’cause she’s begging him to tell her that he’s only joking; that he’s grown bored of her, already, even, and trying to scare her right off, but Dallas just stares back.

“Not tonight, honey,” he smirks. “Long as ya stay right there.”

Chapter Text

APRIL/MAY 1965

“Kath? Ya know you don’t have to do this, right?”

Evie’s leaning against the shelves, in the storage closet of Kathy’s mother’s hair salon - eyeing her, dubiously, as she rifles through those containers of powdered peroxide and toning products, like she’s judging Kath right to hell.

“Um, yes?” Kathy snaps back. “I want to.”

“Why?!” Evie demands, straightening up and walking over, shaking her head. “So ya can look like everyone else?”

“Oh, shut UP!” Kathy groans, rolling her eyes and shoving developer into her canvas tote bag. “I think it’d suit me.”

“Is this about not having a boyfriend, or somethin’?” Evie’s got her arms crossed, staring her down, curiously - right into Kathy’s soul, maybe, like only best friends can. 

“‘Cause I know we’re all paired off, now, but it’s not all –”

“NO!” Kathy cuts her off, exasperated and ready to fucking scream… ‘cause maybe there’s a hint of truth, in Evie’s accusations, even if that’s not quite why she wants to bleach her hair. And, yeah, maybe Kath’s a little jealous - and it’s not over boys, or sexual intercourse, exactly; maybe it’s just about doing something risky and grown-up and brave.

“I’m just saying, you could get it any day of the week,” Evie throws up her hands, puffing out a bunch of air. “If ya wanted. Without frying your hair off. Hey, ya could’ve hooked up with Mike Cannon at that fuckin’ Saint Patrick’s day party…”

“I already invited Sandy and Syl over,” Kathy shrugs, decisively, like it’s all done and dusted. “And, Mike? You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“You can be bitter, or picky,” Evie smirks. “But not both.”

“I’m not bitter!” Kathy snaps. “Who says I want what you’re having?”

“Yeah, we know what ya think of Steve,” Evie snaps back.

“No, I just still can’t believe everyone’s DOING it,” Kathy mutters. “Especially you.”

“Aw, lay off,” Evie rolls her eyes, grinning cheekily. “Like it’s some big thing. It just happened one day. Like, you’re making out, and then it’s only a few more steps, and – well, whatever.”

“Right,” Kathy groans, screwing up her face and hefting her bag of supplies on her shoulder. “Comin’? C’mon, ya can tell me all about your carnal relations.”

“Anyone would be lucky to have carnal relations with you,” Evie stage whispers, leaning way into Kathy’s ear as they barge through the salon, making their way to the street. “Just wait.”

***

“It’s gonna be absolutely fine,” Sylvia announces, digging through the back layers of Kathy’s hair with the rat tail comb and rubbing bleach into her scalp. “Stop freaking her out!”

“I’m tellin’ you, Kathy,” Evie groans, wincing, like she can’t even look. “This isn’t gonna end…”

“Shut UP!” Kathy hisses, heart pounding, anxiously snatching the comb and picking over her bangs, peroxide concoction simmering on her head. She’s not worried, yet, except about patches in the back, because Kathy knows about hair. She’s seen a million bleachings, growing up in her family’s salon – just never attempted one herself, let alone on herself. And Evie and Syl aren’t particularly helping. 

“Just check the back,” Kathy instructs Sylvia. “Turn over the layers, and make sure it’s all saturated.”

“Give it to me,” Sandy volunteers, stepping up from the edge of the bathtub where she's been sitting, perched. “I’ll check ya.”

And Kathy does relax, a little bit, feeling Sandra Davis sift through her crunchy, chemical-coated hair all cool and carefully, as Evie and Sylvia gravitate back to that little bottle of whiskey Syl brought along.

“You should have a little shot, Kath,” Evie grins, waving it in her direction. “To settle your fuckin’ nerves. Besides, you’re gonna look like a new woman.”

“I ought to keep my wits about me,” Kathy counters back, gesturing to her marinating head, and eyeing Evie, who knows she can’t stand drinking straight liquor.

“It’s ONE shot,” Evie rolls her eyes. “I’ll get ya a coke, too. I just want to smoke, first. Syl? Do we have time for a smoke before she rinses out?”

“I’ll rinse myself out, thanks. In the shower. Ass naked, so I don’t need –”

“Excellent,” Sylvia smirks, grabbing her pack of cigarettes from her big leather bag. “Be right back.”

And Kathy settles down uneasily, just letting Sandy comb through her hair.

“You’re good,” Sandy nods, dropping the comb. “And it’s working. 

“Thanks,” Kathy nods, trying to steady herself and not panic about the irritation, itching along her hairline. “Good.”

“Hey,” Sandy grins over at her, gently. “It’s okay, ya know? I don’t really like to drink, either.”

“Aw, beers okay,” Kathy groans. “But – yeah, I don’t know when Evie started gettin’ boozed up, like this. Maybe it was way back before Christmas. You know, when she got with Steve.”

“Ya don’t like him, do ya?” Sandy offers it up, like a neutral commentary, looking at Kathy curiously out of the corner of her eye.

“Steve Randall?” Kath exclaims. “No, I don’t fuckin’ like him. Evie knows. How ‘bout you, though, huh? What do you think of Sylvia and Dally?”

“Mercy,” Sandy murmurs. “I don’t know.”

“Seriously?” Kathy asks, dubiously, toweling off her neck.

“It scared me, at first,” Sandy nods, quietly. “‘Course. But I never saw her dig anyone like this. Like they’ve got somethin’ in common.”

“That’s not insulting, or anything,” Kathy snarks, raising her eyebrows, ‘cause sure, Sylvia Greene’s always stalked around in her punky boots and little dark dresses, with that snarky mouth and obvious drinking problem – but she’s no crook. God knows, even Evie’s got a worse rap sheet, technically. 

“Just ‘cause you don’t understand it…” Sandy mutters, shrugging and shutting her mouth.

“Understand what?” Kathy demands. “That he’s probably gonna break her heart?”

“I wish he wouldn’t,” Sandy concedes. “But they do it to each other.”

“They’re back together now, right?”

“Since yesterday.”

“Oh, great.”

“C’mon, Kath,” Sandy groans. “He’s, like, obsessed with her. Just won’t admit it.”

“And this is what I’m supposed to be jealous of?” Kathy spits, rolling her eyes bitterly. “Some awful on-and-off thing, where someone makes off with my virginity at Buck Merril’s, and then we fight each other for all eternity? In public?”

“Okay, no,” Sandy mumbles, choking out a laugh. “I think…it’s about findin’ someone who you keep going back to. ‘Cause they’re the only one, ya know, who makes any sense.”

“Please, you’ve got the Soda fountain dreamboat,” Kathy rolls her eyes again. “Least THAT makes sense.”

“It ought to,” Sandy nods. “But hey, let me check your color. Turn around.”

“What d’ya mean?” Kathy asks, curiously, turning around to face the mirror and letting Sandy tousle through the back of her hair, again. “With Soda, do things not…make sense?”

“They’re great,” Sandy grins, brightly, dropping the comb on the counter with a clatter. “And you’ll get your due, Kath. But ya better go rinse this out, right now. It’s blonde, all right.”

***

“God, Kathy,” Sandy whispers, standing behind her again – but this time, it’s the mirror in the school bathrooms, and Kathy’s staring at her new reflection and fluffing out her platinum waves. “It looks so tuff.”

“Ya know there’s a rumor that ya did it to impress Two-Bit Mathews?” Evie snarks, standing next to her, focusing on reapplying her lipstick. 

“Why the hell would anyone think THAT?” Kathy demands, crossing her arms. “‘Just ‘cause he’s friends with YOUR boyfriends? Like it has to be this whole incestuous thing?”

“God, cool it, Kath,” Evie blinks. “I was only kidding. ‘Cause he’s got a thing for blondes, or whatever. It’s dumb.”

“But people seriously think that?”

“It’s a stupid rumor,” Sylvia rolls her eyes, straightening up from her slump against the tile wall. “Who cares? Ya know, Tammy and company are still spreadin’ it around that I’m pregnant, even though I’m literally on my period.”

“Well, why were you hurling behind the dumpsters before school last week?”

“I was fuckin’ hungover,” Sylvia snaps. “Christ on a bike. Can’t get away with anything around here.”

“Nevermind,” Evie groans. “Can we please talk about this weekend? And my birthday fuckin’ festivities, instead of getting all bent out of shape?”

“I thought Steve had ya locked down on Saturday night?” Sandy asks. “And ya said we’d just celebrate at Bobby’s party on Friday, ‘cause sweet sixteens are for Super Soc’s?”

“Yeah, well, I still wanna get loaded before we go,” Evie scoffs. “Ya’ll could come over.”

“Wait, yeah!” Sylvia nods, eyes lighting up. “A birthday pregame. Nothing Soc-y. You can do sixteen shots, or something.”

“Like a sick sixteen,” Sandy grins. “Can we make you a cake, though, too?”

“Too far,” Evie shakes her head. “Booze only.”

“I could do a rum cake,” Kathy suggests, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, this one’s big.”

And Kathy knows it’s a big deal to Evie, too – that she’s already got her parents’ permission to skip school on her real birthday, next Tuesday, to go get her unrestricted driver’s license, and the rest is just noise. 

Evie’s the baby, the last of them to turn sixteen – but she’s the only one with a car; the first to learn to drive, first to date and have sex and start hanging out at those true high-school haunts, like the Dingo. Always running into things, headfirst and unafraid – while Kathy’s been sixteen for two entire months now, and she’s still a virgin with road anxiety and a bad case of jealousy, over the idea of having a boyfriend. 

Still, she doesn't know why her brain keeps floating back to the subject of one Two-Bit Mathews, while she’s zoning out in Algebra. Because, seriously, Kathy isn’t that jealous. Anyway, she didn’t dye her hair to impress any specific boy, at all; maybe Kath just wanted to look a little bit tuffer and more mature, and maybe a little bit more like everyone else.

Kathy already feels old, in so many ways, lingering in the responsibility she shoulders like it isn’t heavy. She doesn’t mind the babysitting, or working the counter in her mom’s salon, or any of the chores. It’s that potential that seems to live in her; the kind that teachers mentioned hopefully to her parents when she was small. 

She’s afraid it grew in her mom’s eyes, when her dad passed, and then again when her big brother Manuel turned into the kind of guy who can’t talk about his work with family. And Kathy’s got a sneaking feeling that her middle-little sister Debbie’s gonna turn out too smart for her own good, but for now, it’s all on her to get into college and make it; to make something of herself someday and yank them all up solidly into the middle class. She’s got the grades, and the sheer fucking will – and maybe a boyfriend would only be a distraction, anyways. 

And Kathy reminds herself, shuffling through cookbooks after school for a rum cake recipe and mentally preparing herself for Bobby Reno’s party, that she’s not actually a loser. No, Kathy’s got a whole plan to save herself from the muggings and mediocrity and rise above. And in the meantime, it’s not like she’s a total square…not like she hasn’t made out with plenty of guys at parties just like this one. And maybe that’s exactly what Kathy needs, after all – just her new gang of girlfriends, and another cheap thrill.

***

Evie’s plastered by 9 o’clock – because she really did down sixteen teeny little shots of Kathy’s extra cooking rum, out of a sewing thimble she pulled from her mom’s sewing kit, proclaiming something about ritualistic tradition and being a Catholic.

“Thought ya swore that would only equal, like, three real drinks,” Kathy mutters to Sylvia, as they finally make their way up Bobby’s street, and Kath’s trying hopelessly to stop Eves from swerving and stumbling right into the ditch. 

“Yeah, she started chugging from the bottle,” Syl smirks fondly, and Kathy groans. The night is way too young for her to be getting blisters from her platform heels already – but at least she can see Bobby’s split-level house in the distance. She’s still getting used to rolling up to social events with a real crew, and they’re all dressed to kill, tonight…finally warm enough for short skirts and strappy sandals, and Kathy can smell summer humming mercifully closer in the muggy early May night air. 

Evie’s in denim cut-offs – cut too high, showing off her toned, tanned legs – and she breaks into a run, dashing off-balance up Bobby’s lawn, as soon as they turn the corner.

“Stevie!” Kathy hears Eves slur merrily in the fading light, jumping into her boyfriend’s arms – and she sees Sodapop Curtis, lounging on the porch with Ken Cordon, ready to snap up Sandy, too. And Kath breathes a little sigh of relief, determined to foist the care and keeping of Evie back onto Steve tonight, if she gets any messier. ‘Cause, yeah, Kathy loves Evie Zamora half to death, like one of her own blood sisters…but she needs a break from all the babysitting, if just for one godforsaken night.

House parties do have a way of making Kathy feel exactly in her element, like a subject she can ace easily. The East Side social scene has never intimidated Kath; not even those infamous individuals that kids like her knew to tread carefully around, or avoid completely…she’s never had any trouble getting along with anyone, even the Soc’s in her classes. Not like Evie, who’s always about half a beer from inciting some small riot. Sylvia has to keep waiting for her, impatiently, on their way to the liquor counter, while Kathy says hello and shoots the shit with about a dozen friends and acquaintances. And she’s feeling alright by the time they make it to the kitchen, buzzing with energy and accepting the slurry of whiskey and coke that Syl mixed up just for her.

“Ugh,” Kathy recoils, choking down a gulp. “That’s strong as hell.” 

“You might need it,” Sylvia says wryly, glancing over the bar-style counter into the crowded living room, where there’s a commotion in the corner, and Kathy’s heart drops a little bit when she hears Evie’s voice rising over the rock and roll music. 

“Oh, lord,” Kathy groans – just knowing that she’s about to have to jump in there and pull Evie back, before she starts swinging. “We’ve been here, what? All of five minutes?”

“Long enough for Cheryl to piss her off, evidently,” Sylvia mutters under her breath. “Ya want help, simmering her down, before…?”

“No,” Kathy says, quickly, and she really doesn’t even know what she’s thinking, but Kathy tips her paper cup of nearly-straight whiskey directly into her mouth, gulping and letting it burn down her throat, before blurting, “I have to use the bathroom!”

And she practically makes a mad dash for Bobby’s hallway, ducking out of the kitchen in a rush and leaving Sylvia standing there, while Kathy speed-walks to the half-bath by the front door, swearing when she tries the locked door. She spins around wildly for a second, listening to hear if anyone’s jeering or yelling, but it’s just Evie’s slurred, snarky voice, and a slew of insults, and Cheryl’s friends Bonnie and Gloria sparring back at high pitch. 

Suddenly, Kathy doesn’t even want to be at this party, at all. And she isn’t sure what’s come over her – except the fact that she really doesn’t want to get socked in the jaw again, yanking Evie out of another scrap – when her eyes land on the staircase, and Kathy decides in a split second to climb up and conveniently disappear.

It’s dark upstairs, and quiet, and the liquor is starting to seep into her bloodstream, and Kathy just needs a minute to catch her breath before she rides back out on the storm. She sinks against the wall, sliding down to the plush carpeted floor and ripping off her sandals, crawling over to a floor vent and pressing her ear to the ground, straining her ears to hear if it’s all gone to hell, yet. She’s pretty sure she hears a girlish shout, and the sound of glass shattering. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Kathy murmurs to herself, still lying on the damn floor, listening to the vent.

“Hey, if you insist.”

She didn’t even hear the door open, but Kathy startles and jumps, turning red and scrambling to her feet as the tall, stocky boy steps out of the upstairs bathroom.

It’s Two-Bit Mathews, grinning down at her – Soda and Steve and Dally’s friend, who’s also Sylvia’s drinking buddy, and the only person Kathy’s ever heard of who’s going to have to retake Junior Year a third time. He’s looking at her, perplexed and amused, with a crooked half-smirk pasted on his face, raking back his auburn hair and chuckling.

“Whatcha doin’ down there, Kathy?”

“Listenin’ out,” she mumbles, hopelessly, gesturing to the vent and feeling flushed. “To see if Evie’s okay…”

“Alright, scout,” Two-Bit nods. He’s looking at her funny, up and down, and still grinning – not like he’s meeting her for the first time; ‘cause Kath’s kicked around with her friend’s boyfriends’ gang plenty…but sort of like he’s considering her, now, or something. 

“What’s she started up?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow.

“God only knows,” Kathy sighs, exasperatedly, and she’s feeling a bit panicky, now, and also tipsy. She drops back to her knees, cupping her ear to the vent again.

“She’s a hellcat,” Two laughs, leaning against the wall, swigging beer.

“Hey, that’s my best friend you’re talkin’ about,” Kathy snaps – but her heart really isn’t in it, and besides, she’s pretty sure she hears a stampede of heels, and shrill shouting.

“KATHY?!” 

The call’s ringing up from below, like now Cheryl somehow wants to kill her, and Kathy’s eyes fly open as she hears footsteps pounding up the stairs.

“Oh, hell no,” she mutters, panicking for real now.

“C’mon,” Two-Bit hisses, reaching down in a rush and grabbing her by the hand, yanking her upright and backwards, tripping into the bathroom, and he swings the door shut and locks it tight.

“Hit the lights!” Kathy pants, stumbling into the sink counter, and he reaches over her and flips the switch, flooding them in darkness.

“Shh,” Two whispers, and she can feel him standing right next to her there in the dark, and hear someone that sounds like Bonnie shouting Kathy’s name again.

And they stand there, breathing heavily in the silence, until fists start pounding on the door, and she can’t help letting out a little yelp.

Two-Bit fumbles towards her face in the dark, clapping one hand over her mouth before she can protest, and the doorknob starts jiggling aggressively.

“Kathy, is that you?!” Bonnie shouts, still banging on the door, and her heart is in her throat, breathing into Two-Bit’s palm.

“Why’s the FUCKIN’ door locked?”

“Hey, I’m in here!” Two-Bit shouts back, faux-indignant, hand locking tighter over Kathy’s lips – and it’s a good thing, ‘cause otherwise she might start cracking up. He’s pulling her closer, so that all of a sudden she’s pressed up against his hard chest, and sort of tucked under his chin. It knocks the wind out of her – and, for some reason, makes her heart leap in her chest, ‘cause Kathy really isn’t used to being manhandled by anyone with that much more muscle than old Evie. 

“Two-Bit?” Bonnie demands shrilly.

“Yeah!” He yells back. “Ya need I.D. for the can, now?” 

“Well, why the hell are the lights off?” 

“‘Cause maybe I wanna imagine I’m a caveman out in God’s beautiful night when I take a shit, alright, Bonnie?”

Bonnie makes a disgusted noise and huffs, and Two-Bit waits until the footsteps retreat and it’s all quiet again to drop his hand from her mouth and feels around for the lights.

Kathy blinks hard when they flash on, like she’s standing in a daze, before she starts giggling – and Two-Bit’s cracking up, too, and standing right in front of her, within kissing distance, with one hand still loosely grabbing her arm. And she might really be slightly sauced, because Kathy feels sort of electrified in his firm, warm grasp, like she can feel the heat radiating off his body, so close to her own.

“Aw, lordy,” Two-Bit murmurs, still laughing, gesturing to Kathy’s chest. “Think I spilled a bunch of beer down your shirt, there. Sorry.”

And Kathy glances down at the wet spot she didn’t even feel splashed across her blouse, until now, soaking into her bra.

“Oh, it’s fine. I can wash it out. It’s just cotton.”

“Guess ya might as well take it off,” Two-Bit suggests, off-handedly, glancing back down at her with a sly glint in his cool, gray eyes and a suggestive smirk on his lips.

“Excuse me?” Kathy busts out laughing again, turning red again.

“Huh?” He changes the subject abruptly, still smiling, nodding at Kathy’s teased up, platinum-blonde head. 

“Hey, did ya change your hair? ‘Cause I could’a sworn, ya used to have…”

“Yeah, I bleached it.”

“I like it.”

“I bet ya do,” Kathy snorts, blushing and remembering back to that stupid old rumor Evie told her about; about her trying to impress him, when Kathy had never thought of Two-Bit Mathews like that in her entire life – not until precisely now, anyways. And she kind of can’t believe she’s trapped in Bobby Reno’s upstairs bathroom, practically pressed up against him; that he’s looking down at her like he’s kind of drunk and hungry and intrigued.

“Nah, I mean – ya looked good before, too,” Two-Bit says, brashly, still grinning down at her appraisingly, all too close. “I always thought so.”

“Aw, thanks,” Kathy snarks, staring up and searching his eyes – trying to figure out just exactly where he’s going with this; ‘cause Kathy’s got a crazy idea that she knows this dance, and isn’t actually sure if she wants to pump the brakes. 

“Kathy, can I kiss ya?”

She startles when he asks, voice rough and low and breathy, hands already creeping around her waist. And her heart is in her throat and body sort of vibrating; every intelligent thought sucked directly out of her brain, and Kathy doesn’t even bother trying to answer him verbally – she just thinks to herself, fuck it, and leans in.

He’s all over her in seconds, one hand hot against her neck and the other around her hips, and his lips are eager and quick and sloppy in a way that makes her gasp, involuntarily. And yeah, sure, maybe it’s been a hot minute since Kathy made out with anyone – but this feels utterly different than it ever did with any of those lanky, juvenile boys. Two-Bit’s sturdy arms feel like they belong to a man, who could snatch her right up in his grasp, and it’s kind of going directly to Kathy’s head and making her pleasantly woozy.

“Hey,” he whispers hoarsely, pulling away for a second, and Kathy almost protests – but he grabs her, firmly, around the middle, and hoists her up onto the sink counter like she’s weightless, so she’s almost at eye level with him, inches from his face, panting.

“Hey,” Kathy breathes.

“This okay?” He’s already running those hands all over her body, again, and in that moment, Kathy really isn’t thinking about the consequences of her actions, or the ridiculousness of the location, or whether Evie’s beating someone to a bloody pulp downstairs, because she’s busy locking her legs around Two-Bit’s body, trying to pull him back closer to herself.

“I’m not stoppin’ ya, am I?” Her affirmative whispering fades into a moan, when he kisses her again and slides one hand roughly under her soggy shirt, feeling her up. And Kathy grinds her whole body against him, pretty sure she can feel where his jeans are tightening, not entirely sure when – or if – she intends on stopping him, at all. 

She’s definitely aware that her short skirt is riding up, perched on the edge of the counter, and Two-Bit’s free hand is wandering down from her hips and over her upper, inner thigh, where Kathy’s exposed, tanned skin feels white-hot, and he’s practically brushing up against her panties.

“Tell me when, honey,” Two-Bit breathes – like a warning, like she’s scared – and he grins at her again, kind of darkly and gleefully, when Kathy just moans and giggles, pivoting her hips to give him more access.

“Like I said,” she murmurs in his ear, digging her fingernails into his bicep. “I’m not stoppin’ ya.”

***

“So, wait. Ya ran all the way back here, in those fuckin’ heels?” Evie’s eyeing Kathy scornfully from her spot on the couch in the Zamora’s sunny living room, nursing a gnarly hangover and a shiner on her cheekbone, obviously still dubious about the story Kathy spun out, about fleeing out Bobby’s backdoor before the harpies could catch her. 

“I took ‘em off, dummy,” Kathy rolls her eyes. “And cut through the backyards.”

“Well, damn, Kathy. You’re a good sneak.” Evie groans, rolling over heavily and blocking out the sun with one hand.

“Why the hell were they after ME, in the first place?” Kathy demands. “What’d ya say?”

“I don’t remember,” Evie moans, snappy and disgruntled. “And don’t you flip your wig on me, too. Is Steve still bent?”

“‘Cause ya passed out before he could get in your pants?” Sylvia’s raspy voice pipes up sarcastically, from the floor. “Don’t know HOW he’ll ever recover.”

“Least he carried ya in,” Sandy mumbles, drawing her knees up to her chest – and they’re all looking a bit worse for the wear, that Saturday morning, wearing Eve’s random old tee shirts and pajama shorts, and purple half-moons stamped under their bleary eyes. And Kathy has to keep stifling a wicked smile in her shirt sleeve, every time her mind drifts back to what really went down at Bobby’s house; the part that none of her friends know.

“And he’s gettin’ lucky tonight, anyway,” Sylvia rolls her eyes at Evie. “Right? Soon as we revive your corpse? Drink that coffee, already. I wanna hit the record shop. Ya can fix your sex life later.”

“How’s your sex life?” Evie spits back, mockingly. “Now that Dally’s back off your shitlist?”

“Great, thanks,” Sylvia snaps. “But I really just want that Sonics record. C’mon, I said I’d buy ya a birthday present, too.”

And Kathy sort of can’t wait for them to disperse downtown, so she can make some clever, believable excuse about chores or errands and scram on back to her own little house to get one goddamn minute to herself, to replay the events of last night in her head and blush and bite her lip in peace, because she really can’t sit in on another conversation about sex right now without thinking of Two-Bit Mathews’ fucking fingers inside of her. 

She doesn’t know why she doesn’t want to tell – not anything; not even a whisper, not yet. Katherine Estivez has told Evie basically everything, from her darkest fears to her most embarrassing secrets, since they were eight years old. And keeping anything to herself, now – but especially something like this – feels blatantly, terribly wrong, like a bold-faced lie…but Kathy wants to keep it just for herself, just a minute longer. Just until she figures out exactly what the hell she’s doing.

So she keeps her lips zipped, entire body still humming with elated, titillated energy zinging around in her chest, until Sylvia drags Evie out of her own house with the temptation of Elvis on vinyl, and Sandy hops on her bike and pedals East, and Kath can finally traipse home in the almost-summer sun and sink into her own couch, mind reeling.

She’s double-extra grateful today that her Ma opens the salon early on Saturdays, dragging her littlest sister Camilla with her, and that Debbie and Theresa are avid hopscotchers who’ve been spending every weekend since the weather turned warm bumming around the corner park with Julie and the other neighborhood girls. The house is empty, and the telephone is ringing off the hook. Kathy practically leaps off the couch to answer it.

“Kathy? That you?” Two-Bit’s voice picks up, the second she utters hello – and Kath’s blushing, again, at just how quickly her heartbeat starts racing, memories of their secret rendezvous crashing over her.

“Yeah!” She squeaks, trying to temper down her tone into something cool and casual. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He sort of always sounds like he’s laughing, with that infectiously unserious voice, and Kathy can’t help beaming down to her fuckin’ toes, that he actually called her. “Wanted to see if you fancied a drive.”

“Where to?” Kathy asks, on the edge of her damn seat, biting down hard on her lip.

“Ya wanna go down to Mohawk Park? By the lake?”

“Yes!” She doesn’t particularly care if she sounds overeager. “Yeah, that’s far enough out in the boonies.”

“What?”

“Nothin,” Kathy breezes, grinning into the receiver. “Ya pickin’ me up?”

***

“Thanks for callin’ me. Polite, and all.” 

Kathy’s sitting on the front bench seat of Two-Bit’s old beater of a ride, and he hasn’t even touched her yet, since they parked by the lake, but the tension between their bodies has been humming like a live wire all the way out of the city, and she’s sweating, and trying damn hard to come off all sarcastic and casual.

“Hey, I’m not a fuckin’ dog,” Two-Bit chuckles, lounging sideways in his seat to face her. “Dunno what you’ve heard, but it’s all lies!”

“Like you’re that infamous,” Kathy rolls her eyes, snorting with laughter. “And I don’t really mind, anyway.”

“Didn’t take ya for a floozy, Katherine. And not that it bothers me, either…”

“Ha-ha,” Kathy mocks. “No, I’m just not sure if I’m lookin’ for somethin’ serious, at the moment.”

“I’m never serious,” Two-Bit counters back, grinning broadly, and she feels a tiny pang of disappointment, deep in her chest – and then shakes it off, abruptly. Kathy isn’t actually completely sure what she wants, but she’s pretty sure attempting anything approaching serious with Two-Bit Mathews would be a decidedly ridiculous choice. And Kathy rationalizes, in her head, that it would be far safer and probably more fun to just behave like some randy boy and monopolize on getting lucky, herself, leaving all the dating and Evie’s heckling and the fucking obligation right out of it. After all, why shouldn’t she?

“No kidding,” Kathy agrees. “That’s perfect, actually.”

“However ya wanna play it, baby,” Two shrugs, shifting over closer to her on the bench, eyeing her up and down again and still smiling. “Long as ya let me do that thing you liked, again.”

“Can this just be, like, our little secret, though? For now?” Kathy asks, blushing hard, finally meeting his eyes…and she knows it’s sort of silly, anxiously swearing him to secrecy, while she’s throwing all caution to the wind.

“So, this IS you comin’ back for more?”

“Sure, what the hell.”

***

By the middle of May, and the last day of Sophomore year, Katherine Estivez and Two-Bit Mathews have something of an established routine – barely acknowledging each other in public, around their respective gangs, except in stolen sidelong glances…but they find each other from across the crowded room at every rip-roaring early-summer rager, flashing the eye and finding some bathroom or laundry closet or basement to stumble into and lock the door. 

And it’s becoming sort of a regular thing, given all the end-of-school revelry and celebration and parents out of town on vacation, and Kathy can sense that she’s playing a dangerous little game; about to be caught any second, but it’s sort of so exhilarating to finally have something that’s just hers that she doesn’t really care to stop at all.

Kathy knows plenty of girls with famous reputations for letting greasy boys rip their clothes off in bathrooms on the house party circuit – hell, she’s quickly becoming best buddies with one of them – but she also knows that Evie would absolutely lose her mind if she knew what Kath has been up to. Surely, she’d never give it a rest if she found out who Two-Bit’s new favorite blonde is…but more importantly, she’d never forgive Kathy for not telling her, like, immediately.

But she can’t actually bring herself to stop the whole scandalous little dynamic; not at Mattie’s or Starkey’s or Joanie’s. Summer’s rolling in hot and heavy, like a bad moon on the rise, and Kathy’s ramping up her fuckin’ game, wearing progressively shorter skirts and higher heels, stealing drags off Evie’s cigarettes like the smell suddenly doesn’t bother her. And, yeah, she does sort of feel like someone’s snatched her body and replaced it with someone else’s entirely, because Kathy is slipping head-over-heels into a totally unprecedented obsession with breaking the rules – and with Two-Bit Mathews. 

She’s fighting hard and failing to squash down those butterflies, launching their offensive in the pit of her stomach every time Kath thinks of him. And it’s not just the thrill of sneaking around, or the way he touches her – although, fuck, she likes that – but no; Kathy knows deep down that this is way, way worse, and she’s already in over her head. 

And so, she can’t help grinning and blushing, heart soaring, the second she spies him across Elaine Donehan’s living room, giving her the eye…’cause he looks all warm and laughing in the dim light, coppery hair gleaming like a halo and eyes sparkling mischievously, like he just knows she won’t turn him down. And Kathy doesn’t. 

Evie’s in the kitchen, preoccupied with helping Elaine unclog the keg, or something, and Sandy is all wrapped up in Sodapop Curtis’ arms, and Sylvia skipped the party entirely, out at Buck’s with Dally, getting railed…so Kathy slips out the side door like a ghost, flying over dry grass hand-in-hand with Two-Bit and letting him yank her down behind the Donehan’s shed.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers, and it goes right to Kathy’s head; the way she knows she ought to tell him to lay off the terms of endearment, because keeping this unserious was her big idea, in the first place. But it sounds so comfortable, and familiar, when he says it in that gruff, low voice, grabbing for her in the dark.

“Hey, Two.” When she kisses him, he tastes like smoke and cola mixed with spiced rum, and Kathy could melt into his body, already crawling over her and fiddling with her buttons – until she hears Evie’s voice ringing out unmistakably from Elaine’s back porch, calling her name, and she swears under her breath. 

“Shh,” Two-Bit whispers, breathing into her neck, “She ain’t comin’ over here.”

“She could be,” Kathy hisses back, wondering when she turned into such a sneak; hiding out from her best and oldest friend behind a woodshed, with Two-Bit Mathews’ hands up her shirt. It occurs to her that maybe she should feel bad – but frankly, Kath’s having the time of her life. 

“Good thing I’m quick, then, huh?” Two growls in her ear, and Kathy’s stomach flips, only thankful for that cover of darkness concealing her red face. “Gonna let me…?”

***

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Evie’s standing there in the doorway between the porch and the kitchen, hand planted firmly on her hip, and Kathy’s glad she’s hovering in the shadows, hiding her guilty smirk and red cheeks, and the grass stains all down the backside of her short little dress. 

“I felt like I was gonna be sick,” Kathy lies, quickly. “And there was a line for the bathroom, so I went out back.”

“Ya don’t even seem drunk,” Evie remarks, looking her up and down and narrowing her eyes. “Just…weird. Wait, did you hurl? Ya look all flushed.”

“Geez, thanks,” Kathy breezes coolly. “And no. I’m fine.”

“Huh,” Evie shrugs, grabbing her hand impatiently. “C’mon, they’ve got the Indy 500 recap on the radio.”

“Oh, wow,” Kathy drones sarcastically, trying to smooth down her hair the second Evie spins on her heel, dragging them both inside. And she’s not exactly stoked to join the mass of bodies crowded into Elaine’s living room, around that radio. She’s sort of wondering if her makeup’s all messed up, and if anyone can tell she’s just been defiled.

“Lordy, sit down, Kath,” Evie snaps. “You’re givin’ me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Yeah, I was just noticin’ all the empty seats,” Kathy bites back, gesturing around the overpacked room – full-up with kids perched on every couch and armchair, and she’s sweating like she’s stepped inside a gas oven.

“Oh, go sit on Two-Bit’s lap, why don’t ya?”

“What?” Kathy’s eyes fly open, ready to deny and defend herself until she’s blue in the face, if Evie thinks she figured something out – but she’s already focused on the radio, and the race broadcast, waving dismissively over at the loveseat under the windows. 

He’s lounging there, alright, next to Sandy, who is, herself, sitting on Sodapop’s lap, one arm slung around his shoulders – like a proper couple, showing off in public. Two-Bit sort of still looks like he’s out of breath from sneaking the long way around, back to the front of Elaine’s house, and the knees of his blue jeans are faintly grass-stained. 

“Yeah, get over here, blondie,” he calls, glancing at Evie with a devious glint in his eye, daring her, gesturing and slapping his knees expectantly. “We got plenty of room for ya.”

And she glares at him, shooting him the evil eye and practically hyperventilating, but he’s just grinning back at her and wiggling his eyebrows.

“Aw, go on, Kath,” Soda teases, pulling Sandy in tighter. “Make his night.”

So Kathy stalks over, snorting and rolling her eyes and trying to come off contemptuous and totally in control of her own body, sliding gingerly into Two-Bit Mathews’ lap while the radio blares.

He’s holding her too close, already – and Kathy doesn’t want to think about how easily she could fade into him, too busy scanning the room to see if anyone’s staring, or otherwise suspicious. And it occurs to Kathy that the fact that Two-Bit himself hasn’t spilled the damn beans about their saucy little arrangement is already a small miracle…but he’s sauced, now, with a shit-eating grin on his face, like he’s got her right where he wants her, right in front of everyone.

Kathy shifts uncomfortably, trying to ease her weight just, like, slightly off his crotch, but it doesn’t work, because he snakes his arms around her waist and yanks her back, and Kath almost keels over, into Soda, inches away on the cushion.

“Hey, ya know,” Soda squints one eye, smiling broadly and elbowing Two’s arm, jostling them both. “You guys look good together. Sandy, baby, don’t ya think they look good?”

“Ya sure do,” Sandy giggles, oblivious or ignoring Kath’s death glare, busy basking unashamed in the sunshine of Soda’s love, and Kathy looks at the two of them and doesn’t know if she’s more jealous or exhilarated or pissed off. 

“As if,” she snarks back bitterly, rolling her eyes hard and stiffening her body, trying to ignore it when she feels Two-Bit wince. 

***

Katherine Estivez is up all Friday night, after Elaine’s party – giddy and half-drunk and totally off her fucking rocker. She’s replaying the whole thing over and over, on a loop, slowing down around the scandalous parts and giggling into her pillow. But then, there’s this pit in her stomach, too, about what she said at the end of the night; and she hopes he knows that she was only keeping up their ruse when she publicly tossed off the very idea of being with Two-Bit Mathews, like it was hot garbage.

She has to admit – of course – that he’s not quite what came to mind, ever, when Kathy worried about letting a boy drive her crazy. And she never could quite imagine what a boyfriend would look like at all, but Kathy never pictured a chronically unserious practical joker with a penchant for beer and blondes – and a juvenile record. But it’s dawning on her, slowly, how it’s with Two-Bit that Kathy feels loose and relaxed and strangely comfortable…how he slows her down, and makes her laugh until her stomach aches. How it feels completely fucking right, deep down inside, actually, despite all her rational brain’s arguments to the contrary. And she hopes like hell that he knows she was only joking, last night, now that Kathy’s pretty sure she knows what she wants.

And she wakes up feeling sort of like she can’t breathe, chest tight and anxiety rising in her throat like acid reflux. Kath spends the morning hovering around the telephone on the wall in the hall, wiping down perfectly clean kitchen counters and picking dirt out of the carpet. Her eleven-year-old sister Theresa is eyeing her from her spot on the couch with the funny pages, and when the phone rings shrilly, they both jump – and Kathy snatches the receiver off the wall and snakes it down the hall before she can even hear his voice.

“Mornin’, Kath.” He doesn’t sound angry, or any less amused than usual, when she picks up the line, and Kathy breathes a sigh of relief. “Ya should come over.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, my Ma’s at work.” 

“Yeah?” Kathy bites down on her lip, heart banging around in her chest while her mind leaps straight to something filthy.

“Yeah,” he drawls. “And Katie’s out.”

“Who’s Katie?”

“Oh, my other secret girlfriend.”

“I’m not your girlfriend,” Kathy murmurs under her breath.

“Yeah, neither’s Katie,” Two-Bit laughs, not skipping a beat. “She’s my kid sister. But, hey, what should I be callin’ ya?”

“Nothin’, remember?” Kathy hisses, cradling the phone in her hand. “We’re undercover. And Katherine’s just fine.”

“Should I make ya call me Keith, then, so we’re even?”

She startles, hearing Two-Bit’s real name – ‘cause even though she knew somewhere in the back of her head that it was Keith, she’s never known him as anything but Two-Bit, and Kathy realizes that she’s dying to know all about this wisecracking, handsome boy who’s been all over her body, but strictly banned from her life. 

“How’d ya end up with the nickname, anyway?” Kathy asks.

“By bein’ a smartass. But, hey, I haven’t said a word. About our thing, just so ya know.”

“Thanks, Keith.” Kathy says, stifling a smile into the phone. “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

***

Inside the Mathews’ empty little bungalow-style house, Kathy wants to paw through all the photographs and start opening drawers; asking him everything. She could sit there on his worn-in couch, rapt, for days, listening to the whole David Copperfield-style biography of Two-Bit – Keith – Mathews, Kathy figures…but standing there in the hall, she realizes she’s never been alone with him and not jumped headfirst into hooking up. Her heart is pounding, and she doesn’t know what the hell to do with her hands, except grab him.

And she really doesn’t have to ask twice before he’s nudging her down the hallway, hands all over her body – tripping over each other, clumsy and rushed, all the way to his bedroom. She wonders, heart in her throat, if it’s going to happen – because Kathy never imagined losing her virginity without a full debrief with one Evie Zamora, before and after. 

Kathy’s flat on her back in Two-Bit’s bed, eyes closed, moving under him, letting him unbutton her blouse…and she knows he wants her. Kath’s just about given up lying to herself, about how she wants it, too. And she feels powerful and small and bold and terrified all at once, fumbling blindly and kissing him, hard.

“Do ya have somethin’...?” Kathy whispers, hot against his neck, hoping her voice sounds more seductive than strangled. 

“Fuck,” Two groans, swearing again. “No.”

“Oh,” Kathy whispers, pretty sure he can hear the disappointment, clear as day. “Then I can’t.”

“Ya sure?” He pulls back, eyebrow cocked, grinning slyly.

“No way in hell,” Kathy giggles back, shaking her head firmly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, if ya don’t want to,” Two-Bit murmurs, glancing down – speaking softly, and looking almost-serious for once in the time that she’s known him, like this. 

“No, I do,” Kathy blushes. “Just not tryin’ to end up like Jackie.”

“Swear, I’m like, an expert at that old pull-out maneuver.”

“Yeah, somehow I doubt that.”

“You’re not gonna let me prove it, are ya?”

“Not today.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Two-Bit smiles down at her, rolling over and propping up his head on his hand. He’s staring at her, all funny, and Kathy has to drop her gaze to the bedsheets, like his storm-gray eyes are boring holes through her body. 

“‘Cause ya know I actually like ya, right, Kath?” 

She has to look up, then, still blushing hard and sort of vibrating a little bit.

“Yeah, I assumed,” Kathy snarks, rolling her eyes all the way around and brushing him off.

“I mean, I don’t think of ya as just some broad I hook up with at ragers. Ya dig?”

“Yeah,” Kathy whispers, heartbeat picking up again, voice all high-pitched. “I dig.”

“So, when are we gonna quit sneakin’ around? Unless ya just don’t wanna be seen with me. Which, hey, wouldn’t be the first –”

“No!” Kathy yelps, rolling over to face him directly. “That’s not it, Two. I promise ya.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m just busy,” Kathy groans, desperately trying to spin out her excuses, which are all falling flat there in the morning sun, streaming through the window onto Two-Bit’s sheets. “I’ve got a lot of family responsibilities. Plus, I help my Ma at her salon, and then school…”

“Kathy, it’s summer.” He’s staring at her with a grin, but it feels like a challenge – and Kathy knows he’s right. “And I have a life, ya know, too. Not askin’ to lock ya up in my basement.”

“I just don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Kathy goes on, carefully, but she can tell her whole thesis is crumbling. “If I can give ya what you want, ya know…”

“I just wanna be around ya,” he says, simply, shrugging with that smile she could fucking melt into, lips-first. “And you’re scared.”

“Yeah, no shit!” she squeaks. 

“Why?”

“Because I think I might be a crazy person,” Kathy whispers, eyes downcast, heat radiating right off her face. 

“What?”

He’s sort of cracking up, and she really resents his infectious laughter, right then – how she can’t help catching the giggles, every damn time Two-Bit starts wheezing like that. 

“I mean, I said nothing serious,” Kathy admits, giggling in spite of herself. “But I'm afraid that I kind of really like you, too, Keith. And that if we do this, I might need it to be…well, not NOT-serious.”

And he’s still looking at her, with squinty eyes; broad smirk and brow furrowed, like he’s trying to parse her proposition.

“And if ya don’t want anything like that, then we can still fool around,” Kathy adds, quickly; hopefully, half-scared to death that she’s fucked it all up and scared him right off, forever. But Two-Bit’s laughing at her again, under his breath, rising to a full-blown chuckle.

“Those your two best offers?” 

“Yeah,” she retorts, giggling self-consciously again. “Guess so. Take it or leave it?”

“Kath,” He says, through the laughter, “If ya wanted, I’d buy ya a fuckin’ ring tomorrow.”