Chapter 1
I wiped the sweat from my face, the morning sun already high and hot as I finished my chores. It had to be around 10:30 when I slipped into the house, careful not to make a sound.
There he was - passed out on the couch, reeking of liquor and smoke. I held my breath and crept upstairs, each step measured. Waking him was a death sentence. Last time, he beat me so bad I couldn’t stand for two days. There were nights I should’ve died. But I’ve got too much to live for. So I keep going. I always keep going.
Once in my room, I jumped into the shower, scrubbing away the dirt and dried blood caked into my skin and tangled in my hair. The water stung where fresh wounds had opened again, but I didn’t flinch.
When I was clean, I stepped out and wrapped a towel around myself, drying my hair before throwing it into a high ponytail. I pulled on a pair of old denim shorts and a white cropped tee, then laced up my beat-up high tops - the soles barely hanging on, but they still carried me wherever I needed to go.
I clasped my sunflower necklace around my neck - the only thing I had left from my mama - and put on my earrings. When I looked in the mirror, the fresh cut on my cheek from last night was screaming red. No point trying to hide it. That wasn’t the only scar anyway.
I looked down at the map of wounds my father had carved into me over the years and felt the fire burning hotter than ever. I was going to get out of here - come hell or high water.
Once I managed to slip out without waking the beast downstairs, I climbed into my old, dented truck - the one I’d busted my ass to buy - and drove off, dust trailing behind me like smoke.
It was about noon when I rolled into the East Side and spotted something that made my stomach drop: the red Corvair. A pack of Socs had someone cornered - a kid.
Ponyboy.
Shit.
I reached into the center console and grabbed my heater. The second I slammed the truck door, every one of their heads turned.
“Next one to touch him, I’ll shoot.”
They didn’t hesitate. They scrambled into their car and peeled off like cowards. They knew I wasn’t bluffing. I’ve pulled the trigger before. And they damn well know it.
Then Darry came running up, panic written all over his face. “Ponyboy! Are you alright?” He grabbed him hard, shaking him.
“Darry, stop. He’s fine,” I said, stepping in.
Ponyboy nodded, voice a little shaky. “I’m okay. Quit shaking me, Darry. I said I’m okay.”
Darry pulled back, guilt flashing across his face. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes scanned over Ponyboy, shoulders tense. Pony sank down to the curb, rubbing his bruised cheek.
“They didn’t hurt you too bad, did they?” Darry asked, jamming his fists into his pockets.
“I’m okay,” Pony repeated, but I could see the lie written all over his face. He was scared - too scared to tell Darry what really happened.
I shot him a look, sharp and knowing. He met my eyes, then looked away.
That’s when Soda came loping up, all energy and worry. “You got cut a little, huh, Ponyboy?”
Pony looked confused. “I did?”
Soda gently dabbed the side of his head with a handkerchief, then showed him the blood-soaked cloth. “You’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig, kid.”
“They pulled a blade on you,” I said, voice low and serious. “Just because this is greaser turf doesn’t mean you’re safe. You never think, Pony. You can’t be walking around alone like that.”
He looked up at me. “You do.”
I sighed, crossing my arms. “Yeah, but I’m not you. I’m prepared. I know how to fight, and those Socs know better than to mess with me.”
He nodded. Darry added, “She’s right, Pony. You never use your head.”
Ponyboy just sighed.
Just then, the rest of the gang came running toward us, wild and fired up. They’d chased the Socs all the way to their car and had heaved rocks at them as they drove off.
Four lean, hard boys came to a stop beside me - as tough as nails and looking it. They were my family, my shield, the only ones who ever stood between me and my father
Steve Randle was seventeen, tall and lean, with thick, greasy hair he kept slicked back in complicated swirls. He was tacky, sharp, and Soda’s best friend since grade school. Cars were his thing-he could strip a hubcap faster and quieter than anyone in Tulsa, but he also knew cars inside and out. The guy could drive anything with wheels. He and Soda worked at the same gas station-Steve part-time, Soda full-time-and it was the busiest station in town. Whether that was because of Steve’s skill or Soda’s looks drawing in every girl within a ten-mile radius, I couldn’t say.
Two-Bit Mathews was the wisecracker of the gang and the oldest, even if you wouldn’t guess it by the way he acted. He was six feet tall, stocky, and proud of his long, rusty-colored sideburns. His gray eyes always gleamed with mischief, and his grin was wide and constant. The guy never shut up. He always had to get his two-bits in-hence the name. Even teachers forgot his real name was Keith. Life was just one big joke to Two-Bit. He was known for shoplifting and for that black-handled switchblade he somehow got his hands on. He was always mouthing off to cops-not because he hated ’em, but because he thought they needed a laugh. He liked fights, blondes, and, for some strange reason, school. He was still a junior at eighteen and a half, not because he was dumb, but because he just didn’t care.
But if I had to pick the real character of the gang, it would be Dallas Winston-Dally. He had an elfish face, high cheekbones, a pointed chin, sharp little teeth, and ears like a lynx. His hair was a wild, shiny brown, never slicked down like the rest of us. It curled in the back and fell in tufts across his forehead. His eyes were deep brown and cold-full of a kind of hatred that didn’t seem to burn out. Except, maybe, for me. Dally had run wild in the streets of New York and got locked up at ten. He was tougher, colder, meaner than the rest of us. There wasn’t even a line between greaser and hood with him-he was full-blown trouble.
Out in New York, Dally let loose in gang wars. Here in Tulsa, it was different. No real gangs-just tight crews and turf scuffles. Most of the fighting was class-based: greasers vs. Socs. But no matter how many times you whipped a Soc, they still came out on top. That’s why Dally was always bitter. He had no real target, no rival gang. Just the world. He had a record, a rep, and a temper. Got drunk, rode in rodeos, lied, stole, rolled drunks, jumped little kids-he did it all.
Then there was Johnny Cade-quiet, jumpy Johnny. He was the smallest of the gang, next to Ponyboy. Jet-black hair, big black eyes in a dark, tanned face, and a frame so slight it was like he’d disappear if you blinked too long. He looked like a scared pup that’d been kicked one too many times. The beating from the Socs only made it worse. He was the gang’s pet-everybody’s little brother. His old man beat him, and his mom only acknowledged him when she was pissed. If it weren’t for us, Johnny wouldn’t know what love even felt like. I had a soft spot for him-same way I did for Pony.
“Didya catch ’em?”
“Nah. Got away this time, the dirty...”
Two-Bit kept going, cussing out the Socs with every insult he could think up.
“The kid’s okay?”
“He’s okay.”
“I didn’t know you were outta the cooler yet, Dally.” That made me snap my head around. My best friend was standing there, smirking like always.
“Good behavior. Got off early.”
“That’s a shocker,” I said, sarcastic.
Dally lit a cigarette and handed it to Johnny.
“Says the girl who’s in there more than me. Honestly, doll, I’m surprised I didn’t run into you inside.”
I rolled my eyes and smirked.
Everyone settled in, lighting up. A smoke always helped. Took the edge off. Gave you a second to breathe before the world crashed down again.
Two-Bit raised an eyebrow at Ponyboy. “Nice lookin’ bruise you got there, kid.”
Pony touched his cheek. “Really?”
Two-Bit nodded. “Nice cut, too. Makes you look tough.”
Tough and tuff-two different things. Tough was rough. Tuff was cool-like a slick Mustang or a killer record. Around here, both were compliments.
Steve flicked his ashes toward me. “What were you doin’, walkin’ around by your lonesome?” Leave it to Steve to ask the obvious.
“I was comin’ home from the movies. I didn’t think-”
“You don’t ever think,” Darry snapped.
“Not when it counts. You might ace school and bury your nose in books, but you got no street sense. If you had to go alone, you should’ve carried a blade.”
“Darry, we already talked to him. He’s learned his lesson,” I cut in sharply.
Darry turned on me. His ice-blue eyes went wide as he stepped forward, but Dally was already between us, his voice low and dangerous.
“Darry. Back. Up.”
Soda stood too, his jaw tight.
“Leave him alone, Darry. It ain’t his fault the Socs jumped him. And it sure ain’t his fault he likes the movies.”
Darry growled, “When I want my kid brother to tell me how to handle my other kid brother, I’ll ask.”
“Next time, get one of us to go with you, Ponyboy,” Two-Bit said.
“Any of us would,” I added.
Dally stretched, flicking away his cig. “I’m headed to the Nightly Double tomorrow. Anyone up for huntin’ some action?”
Steve shook his head. “Me and Soda are takin’ Evie and Sandy to the game.”
Darry sighed like he always did-man barely had time to breathe anymore.
“I’m workin’.”
Dally looked around. “What about you two? Johnnycake? Pony?”
“Me and Johnny’ll come,” Pony said.
“You in, Noah?”
“I would, but I’ve got a rodeo.”
“I was plannin’ on gettin’ boozed up,” Two-Bit said. “But if I’m not, I’ll head over.”
Steve glanced at Dally’s ring. “You break up with Sylvia again?”
“Yeah. This time it’s for good. She was two-timin’ me while I was in jail.”
“I told you she was no good,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Dally ignored me.
I thought of all the girls that hung around us-tough, loud, painted-up blondes who swore too much and laughed too loud. I didn’t wear much makeup, but I swore like a sailor and had skin thicker than boot leather.
Sandy was different. Soft laugh. Natural blonde. China-blue eyes. She had it rough too, but she was real. She was one of us.
It was late when I pulled into the driveway. I shivered. The lights were still on.
That meant one thing.
He was awake.
I swallowed hard and stepped inside. He was there-sitting on the couch, belt in hand, his face as dark as a thundercloud.
“Where the hell were you?” His voice was low and dangerous.
“Out with my friends,” I whispered, not daring to look him in the eyes.
“Look at me!”
My eyes snapped to his, and I flinched just in time for the belt to whip across my face. Fire bloomed on my cheek, but I didn’t move. I never did. Fighting back only made it worse.
He kicked me, hard. I curled in on myself, trying not to scream. The world blurred through tears. My ribs ached, my head spun.
Then he brought out the knife.
I saw it glint in the light and my breath hitched.
“Please,” I whispered, barely able to lift my head.
He only laughed and grabbed my arm.
I screamed when the blade sank in, carving into my skin. The pain was fire, and it dragged on-forever and a second all at once.
When he was done, he dropped my arm like it was trash. One final kick to the ribs, and he was gone.
I lay there, bleeding, broken, and alone. Cold floor. Warm blood. No strength to move.
My eyes fluttered shut.
Darkness swallowed everything.
