The Outsiders: Book Two

The Attic

I woke up, and my head ached so badly that I almost thought I cracked it open or something. Why was it so bright in here? I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Ow.

Okay, what happened? I remembered we were having...almost a party of sorts, there were so many people there that it seemed like one, at least. Some kid was flirting with me too, and it seemed I couldn't get away from him. He hadn't been that bad-looking either—he had a lean, cat-like figure, and looked tough-as-nails, with dark smoldering eyes. His dark curly hair was greased back, and I knew as soon as I laid eyes on him that he was marked as a hood.

I know the guys I live with seem like hoods, but there's that small shade of difference that separates a hood and a greaser. The guys I'm with are greasers. But this Curly character was a hood. He had a tougher look to him, and when he smiled, it seemed bitter and cool. When Pony, Soda, Two-Bit, or even Steve smiled, at least their smiles were genuine. I don't know about Darry, he didn't smile often enough to tell. He just had too much to deal with to worry about smiling, I guess.

Okay, so that kid tailed me, I remember that, and Two-Bit got me to dance to Chuck Berry on the radio, and then some beer came into the picture...ah, so that's what happened. I got drunk. I remembered playing spin-the-bottle at one point...did the bottle land on me? I felt my face get red just imagining that.

Well, now my head was pounding. Great. I squinted my eyes and removed my hands from them, but it didn't help much, the light burned. I scooted off the bed and stood up. Okay, correction, my head was pounding and rolling. I tried to stand and get my bearings for a minute, but no dice. So eventually I just decided to weave my way to the kitchen, shading my eyes. I stumbled into one of the chairs, and plopped down in it.

I then noticed Soda on the other side of the table, playing solitaire. He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. “Hey, it lives.”

“Give me a break. I'm not feeling so hot,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

“I figured,” he replied, pressing a hand against my forehead. Soda laughed, and I opened an eye inquiringly.

“What?”

“You actually feel warmer than me for once! Not much, but your temperature actually feels kind of...normal!” he said, almost cackling.

“What's so funny about that?” I asked indignantly. “And please stop laughing, the sound is not helping my head at all.”

Sodapop took a deep breath, trying to ease his chortling. “I dunno...it just is.”

“Not really. My head is killing me. I feel half-dead.”

“Wow,” Soda said sarcastically. “You're so nice after getting some booze, we should get you drunk more often. Actually,” he continued, leaning towards me over the table. “You aren't nice in hangover, but you're very friendly when you're under the influence,” he winked.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked, opening my eyes, a feeling of panic welling in the pit of my stomach.

Soda shrugged indifferently, but he was smiling slyly. “I never said it was supposed to mean anything. But coming from someone who experienced it firsthand,” he beamed, “You are a very, very good kisser.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat as I squeaked, “You didn't—”

Soda was in cahoots. I heard Steve grumbling in the living room behind us for us to shut up. “No, you didn't. Curly was trying to get a shot at ya, but you backhand pretty good. Not that that swayed him, just made him back down momentarily. And alas, you didn't kiss me. Or anyone else as far as I know—so stop lookin' like you murdered someone.”