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𝐢. go, johnny, go ❝me and johnny were birds of a feather.❞
WITH THE WEIGHT OF THE AFTERNOON SUN ON MY SHOULDERS and a well-worn library book clutched in my hand, I left the library, heading down the familiar street that I knew would bring me to the home of the Curtis brothers, the place I had hung out for the better part of my life.
I continued walking down the road, kicking rocks with the tips of my red, torn-up Converse and keeping my eyes ahead. Even though this was our side of town, I was always on high guard—the East Side. I suppose if it came down to it, I could fight, but I would have a better chance at getting away when Socs attacked if I stuck to running. I could run if I could do anything.
The only thing that mattered about anyone in this town was if you were a Greaser or a Soc, meaning social. That question, of course, was just a sugar-coated way to ask "How much money do you make?" If your answer is anything above minimum wage, how does it feel to be a Soc? No, really, I've always wondered.
Socs lived on the West Side of town, the nice side with new buildings and private schools. They had pools and country clubs, everything we couldn't have. At least not legally. Can you guess where we don't live?
Being a Greaser was a lifestyle. There were certain rules to it. Everyone is either a Soc or a Greaser from birth here in Tulsa. Money or nothing. You either choose to hide it or own it. Hiding it was never an option, at least not for me.
As I ripped my gaze off the cover of the book, I noticed footsteps picking up from behind me, so I picked up my pace without even looking back. Sometimes Socs leave you alone if you don't seem intimidated by them. And I didn't need to look back to know it was a Soc. But the footsteps picked up and before I knew it, the book I was carrying was snatched from my hands. Just as I went to grab it back, I stopped.
"Dally, give it back!" I rolled my eyes, talking in a sing-song voice and reaching up for the book. Dallas didn't try to keep it from me and instead just passed it back to me. I knew that he was probably just attempting to make his presence known. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you still be in jail?"
I remembered the sentence in the reformatory was for ninety days, and if memory serves, it had only been about a month.
"They let me out. Good behavior." Dallas said nonchalantly, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. Whenever he got locked up, the first thing he tried to get was a pack when he got back out.
"Never thought I would hear the words 'me' and 'good behavior' in the same sentence, coming from you." I teased, reaching up to flick my brother's neck.
Dallas grinned, pining me into a playful headlock as I tried to get his arms off of me. Dally getting locked up wasn't rare in any world I knew. It happened often, more than once a year depending on how much trouble my brother could get himself into in the span of 365 days. It was almost like a challenge for him, and really, he didn't have anything to lose.
