TULSA IN THE '60s WAS MORE THAN
just vibrant colors and "free love." It was divided smack down the middle: the East and West. Socs vs. Greasers. One side arguably ruled by the pariah Tim Shepard and the other controlled by the name Sinclair.
Only th...
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•✧────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────✧• THE LINES WE CROSS; CHAPTER TWO 【 june 25 1967 】
"I'm jealous." My little sister, Marjorie, huffs from where she leans back on my bed, her palms pressed into the duvet with her legs crossed properly. "You're so pretty. Then look at me... I'm just– meh!"
I roll my eyes. She says the same thing every time I get dolled up to go out, and each time I reply the same, "You know we're all the same in the eyes of the lord."
"I hate you."
I laugh. This phrase has earned me several kicks to the shin, multiple threats on my life, and even a few long sit-down talks with my preacher father, but it's all worth it to see Marjorie's face twist in that familiar, sour way. Like she just sucked off a lemon.
I love my sister dearly, but sometimes the fourteen-year-old can be a little nuisance.
My fingers go through the slight waves in my hair, fluffing them up before I turn to her and kiss her forehead, being sure to leave a big lipstick-shaped stain on her skin only cause I know it'll make her mad later.
"You're beautiful, Mari," I tell her cause it's the truth and nothing but. "Don't forget it. Now c'mere." I pull her hand, dragging her off the bed toward the rack where all my pretty Sunday dresses hang in the corner of my room.
We flip through them together before we find a pretty blue one, a socy blue, that looks lovely on her but is far too big. She sighs in defeat. "I'd be swimmin' in it."
I chuckle, "Then in a year or two when you grow into it, it's yours."
"It'll be outdated by then," Marjorie's face twists into a foul expression, to which I can only snort.
"Don't be a brat," I tell her, putting the dress back on the hanger and back on the rack, "You're still young. When you get to be my age, you'll be wish in yous were thirteen again."
"Fourteen." She corrects.
I shrug. "Same difference."
She's so annoying. But I can't do anything about it what with Daddy roaming around downstairs. Instead, I clip part of my hair back, and run my palms down the little white dress Vivian and I picked out at The Strip the other day.
Behind me, Marjorie flops back down on my bed after placing on a record and checking the hall. "Coast is clear," She mutters. "Daddy's downstairs read in the evenin' paper, probably."
