Sylvia

Chapter One: Sylvia

Give this book a chance, give Sylvia a chance. Love to all, Dedicated.

I don't even know if I remember the first time I saw him. Back then I didn't pay one glance at him, but there was something about Dallas Winston like the irritating way gum sticks to the bottom of your shoe, and glory, I hated to love him. He was bold, he was tuff, and damn was he hard to love.

The sun is nearly blinding as I step from the doorway of the Dingo and out onto the blazing pavement. I swear if it was any hotter you could cook a proper meal right out on the street.

"Sylv, wait, can you work a double tomorrow?" Bev, my manager calls after me, panting when I pretend not to hear her so she has to run me down.

I twirl around to face her, my eyes running over her disheveled appearance. I attempt not to wince when I notice the way her chest heaves in and out as she sucks in air like she's fixing to die. Her red curls are already starting to frizz in the heat. They make her head look like it's been set ablaze by a wild sort of fire, and her makeup has begun to dampen seeming more like thick frosting on her weathered skin.

"Sorry, Bev. That should be fine. I'll have to check with the old man first." I grin, but I know he won't mind.

Money is getting awful hard to come by these days, and most of the time he's too busy in the shop to notice my ins and outs.

"And that's why you're my favorite." She barely manages to grunt out, hustling back in to bother someone else.

I smooth out my uniform, eyeing a brown stain on my stomach with disdain. Some Soc kid spilt his chocolate milk straight on me. If I had been anywhere else, I would have given his mother a piece of my mind, but instead I laughed it off, cursing him in my head the rest of the day through.

Thanking all things good, I'm able to cool off on my walk as the sun sinks low in the sky. As it sets lower, the people on the streets start to get fewer and fewer. I know why.

This part of town will be crawling with Soc's looking to pick a fight shortly. Of course, they always seem to be around, but a good Friday night, and enough alcohol, they will be over here in droves.

I don't bother worrying about them though, they don't usually bother with jumping us girls, although there's always a few exceptions. Last year, my dear friend Karen got caught in a fight between Curly and a few Soc boys who did her up real bad just to get to Curly while he was being pounded on by the other two. That fight led to the rumble of the century, especially when Curly saw the big scar it left across her chin. I swear that boy was out for murder.

Anyone who was anyone fought in that rumble, course I was working, but I heard from Karen that a few boys pulled blades, and the cops showed up to find four boys on the ground pouring blood. Everyone else had split by then.

I roll my eyes to myself at their stupidity, nearly jumping straight out of my skin when loud laughter comes from a house I'm walking by. A whistle of approval cuts through the air and I frown, trying to distinguish the faces of the boys spread around the lawn. When I can't, the same whistle comes again. I just scowl and keep walking.

There's loud laughter, and I can hear then hounding on someone loudly, most likely the one who whistled. Again, I am unable to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

I just keep my head down and pick up my pace, turning the corner down my unlit street. The city put in lamps ages ago, but when they burnt, no one bothered fixin' them.

Our porch creaks and groans as I walk up the familiar steps. Swinging open the ripped screen I toss my shoes and purse to the side, locking the door behind me.