Teasing Fate |The Outsiders|

01. A Failing Grade

"BUT MARLEY WAS NO MORE A JD THAN I WAS A SAINT."

***

I wasn't the smartest kid, but I already knew that and didn't need some guy too old to tie his shoes to tell me. He sat behind his desk, twiddling his thumbs and watching me. The room stunk of cigars- not the good kind you could find at Buck's, these were expensive, and for no good reason at all. But good ol' Mr. Rodgers didn't give a flying fuck. I think he just wanted to piss me off. And blowing a ring of smoke that cost more than my entire house was one way to do it.

He cleared his throat and raised a wrinkly fist to his mouth. Underneath his glasses, I could feel his eyes watching me as I kicked the toe of my shoe against his desk.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Shepard."

"Yeah, you too."

He clenched his fist and lowered it to the armrest of his chair. I kept my eyes down at the carpet and leg of his desk while he watched me. I had better things to do than sit here, and I bet to be had better things to do than watch me scuff up another family heirloom. That's another thing I could never wrap my head around. Why the hell would this guy wanna sit where his dad did? If it were me, I woulda burned it the day they put him in the ground. Fuck, may as well just torch the whole school. It ain't like the kids here need it.

"Mr. Shepard, it's come to my attention this is your first day back since your time in the reformatory."

If the school went up in flames, all the rich kids would just go to the next one. Kids like us, we were up the creek without a paddle. But it didn't matter. Greasers didn't need school, we all gonna end up being thugs one way or another.

At this point, Mr. R was starting to piss me off again. He was talking too slow, the smoke was stinging my eyes, and nobody in this God-forsaken town got away with calling me "Mr. Shepard".

"Yeah, it is. And I have a lot to catch up on, so if you aren't gonna say anything, I'm leaving."

"Don't make me pepper spray you in the principal's office, boy."

I rolled my eyes and dug my nails into my armrest. A beefy hand clapped down on my shoulder, and I didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. The stench of sweat and I-beat-my-wife was a dead giveaway. "Do you ever get tired of seein' me, George?"

George Lewis, the lucky guy who got to be my parole officer. He was stupid and easy to get riled up, but he was also the only cop in town who could beat me in a hundred-yard dash. He may be an alcoholic and a pain in my ass, but he was fast. "You never give me a chance to miss you," he growled. His nails were digging into my shoulder and collarbone, but I managed to keep my face passive. Mr. R waved his hand lazily and George let me go. "We're to talk about your grades, Tim."

I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms over my chest. It was something every guy on my side of town did and usually, it sent vegetables like Mr. R running for the hills. But he stayed as cool as the breeze shaking the leaves. Smoke and ashes fell from the butt of his cigar as Mr. R kept watching me. Now I was beginning to understand why Dally got so pissy if I stared at him. This shit got old, real fast.

A file was stretched across his desk, I could recognize my name written in the top left corner. It was my record. If this was for school or down at the station, I couldn't tell. "You're a very intelligent young man," he said casually. Behind me, George turned a chuckle into a cough. My fists clenched again, and I pictured all the ways I was gonna ruin his life the next time he had to track me down. Surprisingly enough, Mr. R glared at him before I could do anything. "We don't have many students who excel at math."

Jesus Christ, here we go. A rich old fuck surprised a hood can do long division. I rolled my eyes again before I could stop myself. George dropped his hand back to the back of my chair, I guess in a way to 'threaten' me. Little did this jackass know I mugged guys twice his size. "I ain't joinin' any of the little clubs you got goin' on here."

He sighed again and flipped a few pages in the folder. "I understand you don't have the support at home other students-"

That was a low fucking blow, asshole.

"-have, but your grade in science is simply unacceptable. You're doing incredibly well in all the others, considering your circumstances."

"And what circumstances are those? The fact that George over here is breathing down my fucking neck every goddamn day while I'm tryna keep my fridge full?" I laughed and George made sure to yank on my hair. It was his way of telling me to shut my trap without having to open his. "Or how about all the Socs coming to school with their switchblades and shit, but kids like me get expelled for copying some homework?"

I may be a stupid hood, (one that could do math, apparently), but I knew when to shut my mouth. Another thing you learned growing up on the east side of Tulsa.

"I'm talking about your situation at home, Tim. You clearly understand what you are doing here, and I imagine this could take you great places, far greater than whatever you have planned now."

I kept my lips glued together and listened to him rant. It was like listening to my old man, or one of my momma's new guys. They all wanted to play the parent if it meant getting a look up her skirt or taking a whack at me with their belt. Sometimes, you just had to shut up and take it.

"Officer Lewis and I have been discussing the conditions of your parole. You remember that those are, don't you?"

Yeah, I broke them last week. Better luck next time.

"One of your conditions is a passing grade in all classes. Currently, you are sitting at a twenty-four percent in science, Tim."

I still don't get why I need to know that shit. I can read and write, sing my ABCs, name the fifty states, why do I need to know how far away the sun is? Is that supposed to help me rob the movie house on thirty-second street Saturday? I don't fucking think so!

"-We'll have no choice but to turn you over to police custody."

My head snapped up the second his words registered. George laughed again, but I couldn't waste my time cussin' him out. I stared at Mr
R, probably looking like a fish with my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open. "You can't fucking do that," I snapped, "I haven't done anything!"

"Exactly," he groaned. "I'm not the enemy here, Tim, I'm trying to help you reach your full potential."

That sounded like something a dealer would say. What the hell have you been smoking, old man? Well, I guess if you're rich, you can get away with smoking grass all day.

"I don't need your help," I spat. I heard the door open behind me, but I didn't care enough to turn around. It was their fault I was here, so why was I always the one paying for it? Mr. R sighed again, finally looking more worn out than he did before I stepped inside. Without any warning, George grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me to my feet. I twisted in his grip and tried to get a good kick in after he tugged on my hair again, but he let me go before I could. "He ain't gonna do shit for you, boy, that's her job."

Well, I know what I'm doing after school. I either have to find a gun, or enough pills to kill me within the hour. Or maybe I just go home and run my mouth some more, the old man will be more than happy to 'accidentally' throw me down the stairs.

I knew who she was. Her brother was friends with Curly, and Dally spent a few nights on her couch. Why her parents decided he was safe to have in their house with their daughter, I still have no idea. All I did know, was that Marley Curtis wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot-pole and gloves. No matter how good the Curtis' seemed, this was all some bullshit game.

"She's willing to tutor you until your grades are decent," George told me. She kept her hands at her sides as she shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and looked out the window to my right. Jesus fucking Christ, the things I did to stay outta the can. When I didn't answer, George wrapped his sausage fingers over my shoulder and spoke into my ear. "An' I hear she's a hood, just your type."

Let me tell you something right fucking now, Marley Curtis is a lot of things. A stuck-up bitch you couldn't take a joke? Sure.

But Marley was no more a JD than I was a saint.