Teasing Fate |The Outsiders|

15. Dead Men Tell No Tales

"IF I GO THERE WILL BE TROUBLE, BUT IF I STAY IT WILL BE DOUBLE." - The Clash (Should I Stay Or Should I Go?)

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The shrill scream of the bell still drilled its way through my eardrums, even as we stood outside, cigarettes between our fingers. The wind wasn't as strong as it had been for the last few days, but it was strong enough to keep most of us inside during the lunch hour. Not greasers though. Whenever we hung around the cafeteria, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Whether it really was our fault or not never seemed to matter, we'd get blamed for the broken window or bloody nose all the same. That's why most of us took our chances with the Dingo or the DX -- a gas station a few blocks away. The food wasn't nutritious, it was barely edible, but it was something to do.

"Figure Liams will notice if we're gone?" Pat asks me between drags off his cigarette. He's standing next to me with our books at our feet and heads tipped back against the brick wall. Everybody smokes on the east side, even indoors. We only ever head outside if the girls say they don't like it, or if there's something we wanna talk about away from prying ears. But word's been getting around from some big shot universities about how dangerous it actually is, and Pat isn't gonna risk anything. Christ, it wouldn't surprise me if this was his first smoke since yesterday.

"Probably not," I shrug. He's a new teacher, Liams. A few years older than us with plans and operations a hell of a lot bigger than Tulsa. But I guess he figured this was as good as it was gonna get -- until he could get a transfer, anyway. He comes into fourth period with bloodshot eyes and messy hair. Oh yeah, and as of last week, lipstick stains that looked too much like Louise Parker's colour of choice. I wouldn't really care much, not if Lousie was a year older than seventeen. But, as long as Liams kept this up, I could blackmail myself into an A all semester.

Not that we needed it. Greasers were already pretty good at running the mile, runnin' from the pigs, an' all.

Pat's watch face glimmers in the afternoon sun as he tucks the cigarette back between his lips and stretches his hands up to the sky. "You wanna get outta here?" He asks. "Could head down to the DX and skip out on running the perimeter." I can hear the sound of shoes clicking against the blacktop as kids hurry our way. They reek of cheap weed and their parents' liquor. That was another reason we didn't hang around much when we had the chance to slip away. Sober Socs were already more annoying than some monotone teacher, but soused they were even worse.

We watch them pass us, sneaking back into the gym via one of the old, dented doors. I recognize two of them, the guys, but I can't say the same for the girls hanging off their arms. Bob Sheldon and his lackey, Randy Anderson. Only fifteen and already walking around like they own the town. Like this is their big shot, and we're just here to ruin the moment. They ain't that wrong though. Last I heard, the ugly purple bruise under Sheldon's eye came straight from Sodapop Curtis and his buddy after they tried picking on his little brother. Curly told me all about it since he was still stuck in class with the youngest brother. All four Socs pass us wordlessly, but I catch the way Sheldon's grip tightens on the redhead he's holding when they do. I watch them for a minute, tempted to say anything and get the adrenaline outta my system. It would be real easy, too. All I gotta mention is something about his daddy buying him his grade. Or maybe I'd take a low blow and mention the girl. Tell her that if she wanted a good time, she should swing by mine later tonight.

I drop my smoke onto the cold ground and crush it beneath my heel as my tongue darts out between my lips. Before I can even think of what to say, Pat's hand clamps down on my shoulder and steers me in the opposite direction. "Don't you fuckin' start," he mumbles.