Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Sisterhood was something Virginia longed to have. Growing up with three rowdy brothers affected her in a way she could only realize and understand when she was around tougher or feminine greaser girls. And since her mom's passing... it was always going to be different for her.
Virginia's feet hurt— she had to put aside money to buy a new pair of shoes. The cup of coffee she poured for herself sat untouched in front of her. It lost its steam hours ago. She had only been pulling napkins out of the tabletop container and folding them into random shapes that appeared in her mind.
She heard the familiar rolling of wheels against the ground and looked up to see Evie holding up a coffee pot filled with steaming coffee. They usually stocked up for nighttime drunks needing some method of sobering up. Evie was merciful enough to cover Virginia's last two hours before the nightshift workers would come in. She wondered how it would feel to captain the Dingo during the night. Most of the time, she'd shudder in fright at what kind of trouble could strike the diner at the witching hour.
"She still not here yet?" Evie asked softly. She peered into her friend's coffee cup that was still full and lowered the pot at her side.
Virginia shrugged, fiddling with her fingers. The sliver of skin at the side of her nail was throbbing with pain with how much she picked at it. "I don't think this was a good idea."
Evie snorted. "What? Telling Sylvia Day her boyfriend ain't interested in her 'cause he's got his heart set on someone else? Sounds like a spectacular plan."
"Your opinion is noted," she chuckled.
Evie hummed and finally took away the abandoned coffee. "You oughta call your brother. Let him know you're comin' home late. After what happened downtown, you shouldn't take no chances at night on your own."
"I will," Virginia sighed.
She watched Evie slide in the opposite booth, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. Evie was a gossip fiend and despite all the church's lessons on slander, she couldn't help but let a secret or two slip out. However, now, her lips were pursed in a straight line, and instead of excited, she looked scared.
"Steve was talkin' to Howie Cabot last night."
Virginia's shoulders relaxed at the mention of Bruce's son. He was a small but lanky boy, towheaded and round-faced. His eyes were like his father's, filled with venom but he hid a guarded heart. He was only thirteen years old, just a couple of years younger than Ponyboy and he lost his father at the hands of policemen. She remembered seeing Howie at the wake. It was a simple gathering of neighbors and scarce close friends, Howie and his mother couldn't afford anything extravagant. Bruce was no perfect father or husband and he only beat them when he had alcohol running through his veins and into his fists. When money was tight for the Curtis household, Mrs. Curtis would babysit Howie when his mother worked at the motel changing sheets and towels and his father was drunk in a ditch. Virginia never saw Howie cry, not once until he saw his father dead on a hospital stretcher with a cop's gun aimed at his corpse.
