I do not own the outsiders. This is set before the events in the book.

Chapter 2

I walk over to mom and asker her if there is any food.

“There’s something... in the fridge...” A timid voice echoed in the small sized living room penetrating the bubble of misleading safety. My mother was a small and timid lady like a rabbit waiting for the hunting dogs to attack.

“Of course there’s something in the fridge, sweetheart, and its called food... a necessary commodity in order to sustain life, even for those of us who lack hearts.” Dad grunted from behind his newspaper at mother, he never uses her name he says she’s below him and not worthy of a name.

My mother and I stay quiet, knowing were treading on very unstable ground.

I nod once thanking my mother. And proceeded to look through the fridge. I pull out a peach, knowing that in a while I’ll have an empty stomach again. I always do after he ‘teaches’ my mother and I a ‘lesson’.

Dad straitened up from leaning over the table toward myself, he was nearly ready to lose it. I could see it in his eyes that look of total sick amusement. Mother and I are in for one rough night.

I suddenly felt a sharp sting on my face and I let out a shriek of pain, not ready to be hit with a broken bottle. But I says nothing else thought after that, not even a whimper. I’m prepared now to take whatever my ’father’ wants to give. Then I realizes what he wants to give is a lot worse then usual. Great. Just fucking great. I was right about this night being rough. Another sharp pain is jolted into my frail form.

He bends down and grabs my wheat hair and raises his fist over and over again, I don’t scream and I don’t beg my pride won’t let me. Johnny says pride is what gets us greasers killed. But I wont make a sound knowing it gives him sick satisfaction from hearing my mother’s and my pleas. Doing my best to escape by kicking my legs, I manages to get a good kick to his abdomen, and he falls back, and I’m released from his abuse for a few seconds. Sooner then I could comprehend his hands are around my neck, I knows my life’s now a complete wreck. Wonder where Johnny is? Is the though that goes through my head as blood splatters against the wall from his fist, as he starts to hit me and kick me again.

Finally satisfied with the betting he’s given me, he walks to the living room to teach my mom a ‘lesson’. Sasdist fuck… Is my last thought before giving in to the darkness surrounding my vision, saving me from hearing my mothers cries.

Next Day

I stepped out the front door and pulled my blonde hair into a ponytail. That’s the thing about blonde hair; it’s always the most beautiful hair anyone’s ever seen. The same people said it every week at Grocery over on Fourth Street. I had to put up with it because it’s the only grocery store in greaser territory and I was the one in charge of the buying. I secretly looked forward to the outing; I kicked pebbles I pretended someone scattered from a sandy beach or looked for ground squirrels along the sidewalk. I liked walking by Lester’s Sweet Shop to reminisce about Lester, the mechanical horse in the window I used to ride for a quarter. He stood in front of the Grocery when I was little, but years passed and Lester was behind glass, like Mom’s eyes often were.

The day was cool and sunny and perfect for walking. I wanted to get out of the house before Dad got home from his welding job at Snyder Steel Inc. It was a name much too big for our little town. But it gave Dad a job, even if the welding sparks put holes in his jeans that he mended with duct tape. That damned tape was all Dad used to fix anything, and I heard people joke on more than one occasion that he looked like an astronaut.

I dismissed my thoughts and took in the sights, how the trees waved in the wind like they were happy to see me. Trees were just the opposite of everything I hated. They were strong and patient, silent, and there. I’ll probably get in trouble for walking off and not telling anybody. Dad’s never in a good mood anymore, and I wish he were gone. I felt the color rush to my cheeks in guilt. Crimson that clashed with my hair; the hair everyone looked at when I wanted to be invisible.

I still loved my Dad no matter how much I wish I didn’t. Or how badly I wished and hoped to stop. I asked Johnny once why he never fought back when his pa hits him. But he just shrugged and said quite simply, ‘He’s my dad.’ And that was it. I wanted to ask him if real fathers were suppose to hit there kids, and if they were all suppose to call them worthless trash and mistakes. But I let it drop, not wanting to push Johnny away.

When I got home a couple hours later, I crept inside quietly. “Damnit, you sons-a-bitches! Where is my good shirt?” Dad bellowed from my parents’ bedroom. I wondered what Mom saw in him when they met, wherever it was. Some names go together, like Romeo and Juliet or Harry and Sally, but Roger and Tansy Maples would never sound right to me. I cringed. The yelling made me feel like a piece of trash, a second-place loser to the baggage of memory. Dad strode into the living room before I could get out and shot me a nasty grin that looked more like an irritated wince. Looks like I’m sleeping on the bridge again. Wonder if Johnny’s gonna be there?

“Girl!”

“Yeah?”

“Where’d you hide my shirt? That blue one with the stripes?”

“Dad, I didn’t hide it. I don’t care about your shirt.” His eyes were the shade of the green olives with the pimentos in the middle. And Dad’s eyes had red in them, too. I half-expected him to grab me by the hair and throw me to the floor like he did last week, but he cussed under his breath and stomped to the laundry room. I cringed. Nothing was worse than his hair-pulling and I prayed he wouldn’t do it again. He was the sort of man who would take his family to church on Sunday and beat the hell out of them when they got home.

Dad must have found his shirt I realize as I hear the front door on our small trashy home slams shut. Good ridings’ is all I can think maybe he’ll fall in a gutter and drowns.

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