Author's Note:

Just in case you didn't know, I will be using the book description of Dally in this story. His picture (as a cartoon) is above. Secondly, there will be bad AND good Socs in this story, so hopefully you will come to like a few. (*cough* main character *cough cough*)

I hope you enjoy!

-Amanda

__________

"You mean a Greaser just asked you out in the middle of English?" Bonnie questioned as we walked down the front school steps. She threw a laugh, "Oh my God. Who was it?"

I sighed. "Some kid named Pip. He's real sweet, but he's a Greaser. I kind of feel bad that I had to turn him down, but if I didn't, I probably would have been the laughing stock of the entire class."

"Leila, you did the right thing—a Greaser's got nothing for you. Besides, even if you did say yes, your father wouldn't even approve of it."

I nodded in agreement, but then I shook my head. "Why do we have to hate the Greasers so much?"

Bonnie's face curled up into a scowl. "Uh, hello? They're all delinquents. They practically live off the streets, and the girls are all hookers."

"Not all of them," I defended, "They're people just like we are."

"No, they're not," Bonnie snapped. "The Socs have it made and the Greasers are just the dirt we step on. It's always been that way, and you know that, Leila."

Sighing, I looked away. "I wish we could just get along sometimes."

Bonnie scoffed, "That'll be the day."

Monica—Bonnie for short—Reid was my best friend. She had straight, dark charcoal-brown hair that flowed a little past her shoulders, and two buggy, brown eyes. Underneath her nose were pouty lips that she used to scorn, mock, and input her daily dose of sass to Greasers who came her way. Bonnie was the typical Soc, for she thought that the Greasers deserved contempt because they were in the working class whilst we stood high at the top of the pyramid. But that's how all Socs thought.

Except for me.

Honestly, I felt bad for them. For the Socs, because they had a bad case of selfishness and always bullied the Greasers. For the Greasers, because they were bullied by the Socs and came from rough backgrounds. For both sides of town, because of the seemingly never-ending rivalry between the West Side Socs and the East Side Greasers. I felt bad for everyone. I felt for everyone. I was an emotional person. I knew it wasn't a good thing, since having a good heart screws you over in this society, but that's just how I was.

Honk, honk!

I looked forward and spotted my father's sleek cop car pulled over at the curb of our high school. I pursed my lips and sighed. "Well, that's my ride."

Bonnie walked off. "See you later."

Holding my binder against my chest, I walked to my father's car. I opened the front passenger seat where saw my father in full uniform and with a cup of coffee. As I sat down, I greeted him with a soft smile. "Hey, Daddy."

He put down his coffee in the cup holder between our seats. "Hey, sweet pea. How was school?"

I shut the car door. "The usual."

"David's at football practice?"

I shrugged, "I guess."

David was my older brother by one year. He was on the football team and had a lot of friends, including the popular quarterback, Bob Sheldon. David was tall and had a mop of light brown hair and hazel eyes. He had Dad's personality, but Dad never went around the East Side and jumped Greasers for kicks like David and his friends did. I hated that he did that, and that's probably why David was never fond of me much. He didn't like being associated with me, even though everyone in school knew me as his little sister.

I set down my bag underneath my feet and put on my seatbelt. Then, my father pulled out from the school and calmly drove off.

Suddenly, my father's portable, which was sitting in the other cup holder between our seats, started buzzing. Quickly, my father picked it up, pushed the top button, and held it close to his lips, all while continuing to drive. "Montgomery to station, what's the hold up?"

The person on the other end responded quickly and sounded staticky, so I couldn't make out a word.

"Alright, I'm on way," my father said finally, suddenly slamming the portable back in the cup holder, turning on the sirens, and speeding up a little.

"Dad, what's going on?" I asked frantically.

He sighed, a little annoyance in his voice, but there was no official answer. He was now fully speeding with the sirens blaring, and I knew that we wouldn't be home for a while.

Seven minutes later, we pulled up on the side of Sutton street. Dad left the sirens rolling and opened the door. "Stay in the car," he ordered, climbing out and slamming the door shut.

I nodded, though breathing anxiously and shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

Another five minutes later, he came out from one of the stores, shoving a tall, blond-haired boy in front of him. I watched the two throw words at each other before my father shoved him into the backseat of the car. Once in the driver's seat, my father sighed. "This isn't good for your record, Winston. You've been doing this for what—six, seven times? Don't you have something better to do?"

"I ran outta hoes, Rich," the boy grunted.

I flinched—his language surprised me, but his voice startled me more. It was deep and hoarse, causing me to freeze in my seat.

Surprisingly, my father chuckled. "You better find yourself a new hobby, Winston, or else you're going to be spending a lot of your time down at the station."

"Yeah, whatever."

My father started the car and he took off for the station. The ride had gone quiet. Curious, I searched for the boy through the rearview mirror. My heart suddenly leaped into my chest when I saw two icy, platinum-blue eyes staring back.

"Keep your eyes down, Winston," my father suddenly snapped. He just had to have eyes at the back of his head. Then, to my surprise, my father smiled smugly. "This here's my daughter. Ain't she a doll?"

My face reddened immensely; my father always loved talking about me, even if it was to strangers, much less a criminal.  "Dad," I whined shyly.

"I'd say she's quite the looker, sir," the boy slightly smirked, and I blushed hard.

My father chuckled. "Ah, too bad she's off limits for you, boy."

"'Ey man, no worries," Winston sighed, bored, and leaned back into his seat. It was like he was enjoying the ride.

It became quiet again. I tried taking my mind off the criminal in the backseat by looking out the window, but quickly I felt his eyes on me again. To be sure, I checked the rearview mirror again. I was right; the criminal's bright blue eyes were fixed on me once more.

My heart pounded anxiously. His eyes were mesmerizing, yet they were cold and hard, and it felt as if they were burning right through mine. I glanced at his other features. He had a pointy, elfish face, a pointy nose, and ears like a lynx. His hair, the color almost blinding me it was so blond, wisped out in front and curled around his ears. His face wasn't the most appealing, but his eyes, I have to say, were very intriguing. I could almost get lost in them.

Suddenly, the boy smirked at me through the mirror.

I almost jumped in my skin—was I staring too long? I didn't want him to think I was checking him out, because I wasn't. (Well, kind of, but not in that way.)

I averted my eyes and focused outside the window. In a few minutes, we were finally at the station. My father hopped out of the car and opened Winston's door. "Time for some shuteye, ey, Winston?"

The boy rolled his eyes but played a mischievous smirk on his face before he was grabbed by the shoulders and pulled out of the car. My father then took him by the cuffs and pushed the boy out in front of him as he escorted him into the station. I followed behind, school bag in tow, for I was going to try to do some homework while my father dealt with his own business at hand.

Once under the lighting of the station, I noticed Winston's attire, immediately concluding that he was a Greaser. My father made him strip his worn-out, brown leather jacket, which left him in just a black t-shirt. My father also made him empty the pockets of his tattered blue jeans. He even made him take off his scuffed, black combat boots, probably because he didn't trust him or was still suspicious of something. I attentively watched my father void a number of objects from the boy: a pack of Kools, one switchblade, a St. Christopher ring, silver dog-chain lighter, ten dollars. My father left these objects and the leather jacket sitting on the counter, but he returned the boots to the boy just as he locked him up into his own prison cell.

Afterward, my father hurried to his office to add the arrest into Winston's file. "Whatever you do, Leila, don't talk to him. I'll be back in a few minutes," he ordered, and I nodded.

When my father left, I continued watching the boy as he sat on the bench of his prison cell and slipped back on his boots. Based on his features, I figured he couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen. He was tall and lean, probably six-foot, and it was noticeable (to me, at least) that he had a good build and muscles in all the right places. I didn't know why I was staring at him so much. I mean, I'd seen Greasers before in school, but this boy seemed different. For one thing, his blond hair wasn't heavily greased—in fact, I didn't think it was greased at all, since his hair wisped and curled all over the place. The sight was weird to me, but it also seemed weird that I cared so much about this stranger, but I was used to caring about everything.

Remembering my place, I turned away and set up my math homework on the counter. It was now or never to complete the graph-the-equation thing, so I started right it away. It was awfully quiet in the station, allowing me to process my thoughts quickly.

"Hey, Blondie!" the boy suddenly called, and I flinched in my seat.

Is he talking to me? He better not be, I thought. I wasn't good with talking to people; I was pretty reserved and shy. So I just obeyed my father's rules and ignored him.

"Hey," the boy pushed. "Hey, Blondie. I know you can hear me."

I sighed. This boy wasn't going to stop, was he? I turned my spinny chair around and spoke to him sweetly, my voice softer and more delicate than his. "Sorry, but I'm not supposed to be talking to strangers."

I turned around and went back to my homework.

It wasn't too long until I heard a snicker escape the boy's mouth. "You just did, sweetheart."

I grimaced to myself. Sweetheart?

I turned around again, this time raising my eyebrows. "Can I help you with something?" I questioned.

He nodded his head toward the objects that had been confiscated from him and were now sitting beside my math homework. "Toss me my Kools."

I glanced at the pack of cigarettes among the other objects and then glanced back at the boy. I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to give you anything that was just taken away from you."

The boy rolled his eyes in annoyance at me. "Come on. Just toss me a stick, will ya?"

I grimaced again. "No."

The boy frowned. "Fine."

"Good," I nodded, quickly swiveling back to my homework.

Quietness blanketed the room once more and I continued my math. I was right in the middle of a word problem when suddenly the boy's gravelly voice bounced off the walls again.

"What's your name," he asked—or rather, he stated—and I felt tingles running down my back.

I turned around hesitantly. "What?"

"Your name?" he pushed.

I hesitated. I wasn't supposed to be giving out personal information to strangers. Remembering how my father would act if I were to, I bluntly stated, "I'm not supposed to be talking to you," and I turned around immediately.

I heard the boy sigh from behind me. "Fine. I guess I'll just call you Blondie from now on."

"Please don't," I mumbled.

"What?"

I sighed and spun around again. "I said, don't."

The boy merely shrugged. "I can do whatever I want."

Confused, I shook my head. "No, you can't."

"Uh, yeah I can. The fuzz got nothin' on me, hun."

Who was this guy? He acted like he ruled the place. I mean, it seemed like he knew the arrest routine so well—he even looked bored of it.

"Who are you?" I questioned him.

"Winston's enough," he replied matter-of-factly.

With that, I put two and two together, meaning 'Winston' and the cold, hard look in his eyes. He was Dallas Winston. I had heard too many things about him. Bonnie would mention his name a few times when she would complain about all the lowlifes on the East Side. The rumors were everywhere: how tough he was, how mean he was, how long his police record was—all of it. And here he was, at seven on a Friday night, a few meters away from me, sitting in a cell in which my own father put him in. Oh, would I have something to tell Bonnie!

I tried being nice to him. "Oh, so you must be Dallas—"

"Dally," he quickly corrected, "Nobody calls me by my full name. Do it and you'll face the consequences."

That shut me up real quick. I didn't want to end up on his bad side, so I quickly mustered an apology just in case. "I'm sorry, Dally."

"You're excused," he responded with that same bored look on his face.

I sighed and looked away from Dally, now eying his belongings on the counter. I glared at the sharp-looking switchblade. I shook my head and 'tsk'ed. "You know, Dally, you oughta be careful while carrying around a blade. You can cut people with these things."

He rolled his eyes. "That's kinda the point."

I picked up the blade by the handle and found my reflection in it. I pursed my lips at the small weapon; I didn't like blades. One time, I had overheard David bragging about how he and his friends had jumped a Greaser and cut his cheek so deep that it had left a scar. I wasn't comfortable with my own brother owning a blade, much less my father not knowing that he had one.

"Well, I don't like it," I simply stated to Dally before setting the blade down in its original place.

"Yeah, I don't care. Can you just give me my Kools?" he asked impatiently.

I sighed and shook my head. "I already told you, Dally, I can't."

He muttered something under his breath and looked away. He was being stubborn so I just removed my attention from him. I tried focusing back on my homework. After a minute of silence, I heard heavy footsteps enter the room. It was my father.

I knew we were going home, so I packed up my things into my school bag and stood up from the swirly chair. In the meantime, my father sneered over at Dally who was sitting unfazed in his cell. "Better sit tight over there, Winston. A few days and you'll be out."

To my surprise, Dally scoffed at my father's remark. "That's what you think, old man. I'll be out before ya know it."

"Don't try anything with me, boy," my father snapped.

"Whatever," Dally said coolly.

My father and I headed for the exit. Then, before I could step out into the cool autumn air, in an almost seductive tone, Dally added from afar, "Bye, Blondie."

Shocked and embarrassed, my cheeks flared into a rosy color and I threw him a half-smile without saying goodbye, the heavy gray door closing behind me.

That was the last time I saw Dallas Winston. Or so I thought.