Chapter four – please read and review. And thanks again to my beta, LindseyBee.
BTW: Sorry it takes FOREVER to post… I am usually busy doing school work or other things… Also my beta is to busy with her own story and editing other peoples story (Even though I know where she lives *holds up knife evilly*)
Lastly, this is not a romance…. Steve and Friday will not date and if they do they wont last long
I fought internally with myself, deciding whether or not I should tell him. I chose to in the end—I trusted Soda. He wouldn't tell…right?
"Yes…kind of. Ugh…I don't even know…" I sighed and stared the Curtis straight in the eye. "You won't tell him though…right?" I asked.
Soda nodded pleasantly and yawned. Boy is he tired, I whispered to myself, watching as he silently drifted off. After five more minutes or so of my wakefulness, I mentally admitted defeat and paced, rather aimlessly, around the room. I went to close the door, which happened to be slightly opened and creaking as it swayed back and forth thanks to an eerie sort of draft in the air, but before I could shut it a quiet voice spoke "Boo" from behind the wood. I gave a minor flinch and looked to the face the tone had come from; Steve.
"What are you doing up, kid?" he interrogated.
"I could ask you the same thing…" I mumbled sleepily, then shrugged my shoulders and continued with, "I couldn't sleep."
"Oh…. Wanna watch some T.V.?" Steve offered. I agreed instantly—why not? Good-looking guy, late night television—it didn't get much more decent than that.
Mickey was on once again when we flick the glowing box to life. Steve must've decoded the irritated expression on my face, 'cause he said,"We can change the channel. I hate the little rat anyways."
I grinned at Steve's kindness and nodded agreeably, countering his words with a, "It's a wonder how Two-Bit likes Mickey. I can't stand him." The channels flicked between Mickey and some other cartoon, neither of which appealed either me or Steve. In our boredom, the greaser asked to go for a walk, which I immediately agreed to.
"So you used to live in the country?" he questioned, matching my pace. I bobbed my head; country life was very much similar to the greaser lifestyle, just a bit poorer. Steve quit matching my slow pace and went ahead of me. I had to nearly jog to equal his steps. The neighborhood in which we were walking was sorta beat up, which made me feel a bit uneasy. And that troubled feeling only greatened when a red car, maybe a Mustang or something, turned the corner and circled the block.
The wind gave a sudden jolt, rifting through the sky in a gust. The air made me shudder, so I blew into my hands and covered most of my golden-haired head and face with my hood. The wind was whistling as it flurried against my body, icy cold with every blow despite my feeble protection. Then I heard a distinct noise that clearly wasn't the wind. It was a potent sound—the soft vroooom of a car. I turned my head, witnessing the frame of, as I had guessed, a Mustang pulling up beside me and Steve. I knew they were the soc's almost instantly. I glanced at Steve, who was staring at the car just as I was.
"Hey, look—two greasers walking all by their lonesome," a tow-headed boy snickered. There was a small chuckle from the other socs. "Ha one of them is shaped like a girl," A tall blonde guy said—he seemed seventeen, maybe eighteen. The group laughed loudly, making my cheeks flush even redder than they were from the cold. Abruptly, a vast amount of wind blew against me, causing my hood to slide off my face. The soc's could see me clearly now. "Oh, she's girl! Sure looks boyish though. Look at her clothes." He was referring to Soda's clothing that he'd lent me.
"Well…at least I…uh…don't look like nerdy white trash!" I fired back while kicked dirt at the closest soc. I now understood why everyone at the Curtis household despised the wealthy thugs. They deserved to be hated. Like I said—wealthy thugs, that's all they were.
"Ya know—you should tell your girlfriend that she should shut her trap, or you're gonna get it, greaser," the smallest soc, who actually wasn't that tiny, sneered.
"I ain't afraid of you," Steve hissed angrily. "And…and she's not my girlfriend!" he added hastily, spitting bitterly on the ground near the socs shoes.
"Oh, you wanna play it that way, grease ball?" The blonde one scoffed, flicking open a sharpened switch-blade. My face immediately lost every possible ounce of blood—they wouldn't really use that knife on Steve…would they?
I was so absorbed in my own fear that I didn't notice when Steve was tackled. Terrified out of my wits, I squeaked out a horrific, "Steve!" and frantically stared around for something to hit the socials with. Steve was getting slugged hard in the chest, and I became so panicked that I started throwing rocks at them. They were unharmed by the weak offense and punched Steve rougher, aiming especially hard at his face. I then found a decent alternative to the rocks—a beer bottle. I ran over to the blonde boy and shattered it over his head, shouting out a grim, "I do not look boyish!" The soc cried out in pain and retreated to his car, his buddies following cowardly beside him.
The social's shouted out, "You'd better watch it, greasers!" to us before skidding down the road. Once they had vanished around the corner, I looked to Steve who was clutching his nose—a small river of blood was seeping from it, trickling down his chin and neck.
"Need some help up?" I asked nicely, grinning proudly at my previous actions. The dumbstruck greaser grumbled a yes and accepted the hand I was holding out to him. Once he was standing up, he glared at my wrist in alarm. "What?" I asked anxiously, wincing as he grabbed my elbow and examined whatever it was that had caught his eye.
"That's a deep cut, kid," he muttered. I realized what had shocked him—there was a long cut, crisscrossing almost diagonally from my wrist to the middle of my arm.
Steve beckoned me down the street, wiping some blood onto his jeans—I wasn't sure if it was his or mine—as he stalked in the direction of the Curtis's. I followed his lead, flinching every time the wind touched my aching cut, and then sighing in relief when we arrived at our destination. Steve assessed my face closely as he arrived, then smiled and said confidently, "And don't listen to those socs. You don't look boyish. I think you're actually damn pretty." Then he left the room, wandering off to do whatever he needed to do—which left me thinking that was the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.