Chapter 2
Three Months Earlier

There was not much bright where I was. Just dull, cheap lamp-light. Ya know? The cheap light that bulbs give off. Not until I stepped out into the golden hue of this evening’s sunset could I get a good picture with my eyes. I had been in a bar with my friends or, as it’s usually called, my gang. It wasn’t a real rough bar, the one I had been in. there were a couple fights every so often, but not much. Gavin, the owner, was good about that. He didn’t want the fuzz showing up all the time, so when he wanted a fight to stop, it stopped. He could persuade almost anyone. Even the cops. So his bar was well-kept and a pretty nice hang-out.

The bare, empty rua the bar shared with the antiques store across the road wasn’t very busy. Just a couple of cars here and there. But not many. I don’t live in a very busy town. It was a pretty quiet town, but also loud at the same time. Quiet because nothing ever happens, but loud because there’s always a murder or something. I had always wondered how my town could be quiet and loud at the same time. I still do. And I never understood how it could. I still don’t.
When I had walked out of the bar with my buddy Danny, on my way home, I saw a girl sitting cross-legged on a bench outside the antiques store. She had long, dark, golden blonde hair that fell in loose ringlets around her and went to the middle of her back, and bangs she had pushed all to one side. The light breeze was waving her hair around, making her have to push it out of her face often. She was composição literária with a pen in a composition notebook. I felt like I knew this girl, and I was racking my brain to try and figure it out. It kind of hurt. But she just looked so familiar. I nearly wanted to run over to her and ask her she was, it hurt so bad. And then it hit me. I did know who she was. She was Johnnie Gatlyn. The famous Johnnie Gatlyn. Almost everyone knew who she was. She wasn’t popular or anything; just hated and disliked. And I knew her story pretty well:

She came from a rich and snobby family. She had a lot of friends, and so did her parents and her sister, even though they were stuck up and conceited (but not Johnnie). Her father had a gambling problem. Every time he would play a game, he would lose something. But sometimes he would win (rumor has it that that’s how the Gatlyns’ got so rich; from all the poker he played). He was always gambling the family’s money away. So one night while he was out with his friends he gambled almost all the family’s savings, and lost it, which, por the way, was a lot of money. The man who won it all became even richer.

So her family was forced to mover to the poor side of town or, also known por some of the kids and all the teenagers, the “greasy” side of town. And to make matters worse, all of Johnnie’s friends ignored her at school and anywhere they saw her because she’s not rich anymore, she’s “poor trash” to them, almost all the “greasers” hate her cause she was a rich girl before she became a poor girl, and her dad walked out on her, her mother, and her sister, leaving them with all the bills and rough breaks for themselves. And Johnnie was only eleven when this all happened.

I know all this because Johnnie had told me herself four years ago, the ano it happened. I had been sitting on a bench on one of the sides of the fonte in East Side Park, the only park on the East Side (poor side). I was the only one in the park (it never really gets busy), besides Johnnie, because it was pretty late. On the bench I had been leitura a book. I had also been crying a little. Johnnie had been scrawling in a notebook on the other side of the fountain, probably drawing or composição literária or something.
So, while I was in the middle of my page I noticed a girlish figure looming over me. Once I figured out it was her I quickly shut my book and wiped away my tears. I don’t ever let strangers see me cry. It’s not tough. I looked up at her and saw she had a worried look on her face. But she had a smile. She sat down seguinte to me, slowly.
“Are you alright?” she asked me in a soft, quiet voice. I nodded. She looked at me mais closely, and then shook her head. “No, you’re not. Don’t lie. What’s buggin’ you, stranger?”

I gathered the will to tell her. “My dog died a couple days ago. We we’re real close. Had her all my life.”

Johnnie got quiet again and looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“Its fine, Johanna,” I said casually. At that time I didn’t know that she liked being called Johnnie instead of Johanna. She looked up quickly and had a confused look on her face. She squinted.
“How’d you know my name?” she asked. I kind of laughed.

“Everyone knows who you are, ‘cause…well, you know…” I trailed off, not wanting to remind her of the terrible thing that had happened to her a couple months before.

“Right,” she started. “Well, do you wanna know the story of why everyone knows who I am? And when I say story, I mean the details. Since you told me something personal that you didn’t have to tell me, I’ll tell you something. I mean, like I always say, get a little, give a little. Oh, and you should also know: I don’t like being called Johanna. I like being called Johnnie, if you don’t mind.” And then she told me her story. That dia was the first dia we started talking, and the dia that marked our everlasting friendship.

I snapped out of my long reverie when my buddy Danny nudged me and said, “Hey, man, ain’t that Johnnie Gatlyn? Didn’t you guys used to be friends?” Danny said “used to be” because me and Johnnie don’t really talk anymore. We are still kind of friends, we just don’t talk.

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

“Man, I hardly recognized her. She looks so different from what she looked like when we used to talk to her, three years ago,” Danny started. It was true. Johnnie did look different. She was mais mature-looking, like a 15-year-old should look. Her hair was the same, long and sort of golden brown. Her eyes were the same too; big and round and soft. They were sort of a pale-emerald color or, also known as: greenish-grey. And I knew that about her eyes because she had looked up from her notebook, just to probably randomly look around for a while, and spotted me. She stared at me.
Gosh, she was pretty. She was even mais good-looking that she used to be. She had high cheekbones, a perfect, straight nose, and nice, full rosa, -de-rosa lips. She was very pale though. But it didn’t matter, I guess. She was very good-looking. Most of the Gatlyns’ were. Johnnie looked at me softly. She had a smile on her face. It was gentle. Then, I saw her making a motion with her hand. She was waving at me, and probably Danny too.

“Hey, man,” Danny started, “look at that, she’s wavin’ at us. You think she remembers us?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said sarcastically. “If she’s wavin’ at us, what do you think, smarty?”

“Aw, cut it out, man,” he said with a laugh. “Now, come one. Let’s go, or Peter will be worrying his head off.” We started walking towards the neighborhood that we lived in, and continued our conversation.

“I just don’t get it, Dan,” I started. “I mean, why is Peter always so worried about me? I’m sixteen, for Pete’s sake. And it’s only twilight right now.”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re the baby in the family,” he suggested.

“No, Cindy is the baby. I’m just the youngest boy. You think that’s why?”

“Maybe, man. I don’t know. I ain’t your brother. I don’t know how his mind works.” Then Danny thought of something else. “And he probably wants you in before dark ‘cause of what happens, even if it can happen in the daytime too.” I knew exactly what Danny was talking about: the rich kids.

They terrorize us. And when I say “us”, I mean all the greasers. The rich kids go around town looking for some of us to jump, or maybe even kill if they’re crazy enough. They think its fun. We don’t.

I’m a greaser. I’m poor and tough and wild. I’m in a gang too. I wear blue jeans and white or black T-shirts with the shirttails left out. I wear converse or boots (mostly Converse) and leather or blue jeans jackets. I grease my long, medium brown hair. My hair’s not too long. It’s squared off in the back and long at the front and sides. And my buddies are just like me. They’re greasers too. We’re a gang.

Greasers are the scummy, hoody kids that you see stealing things and smoking and drinking. We aren’t very good people. At least, that’s what the stereotype says.

The rich kids are a lot different from us. First of all, they’re rich. That’s a big difference. And, while we don’t care to dress up at all, the Richies are always too sharp-looking for any regular occasion, with their fancy madras shirts and caqui, cáqui pants and casaco, casaco de lã sweaters. They also wear Varsity Letterman Jackets too. They think they’re too cool to care about anything.
Their idea of fun is throwing cerveja blasts and river-bottom parties and jumping us greasers, like I said before. They drink and smoke and because of all the things they do, everyone thinks they are oh-so-cool. People, meaning teens, look up to them and look down on us. The Richies drive around town in their fancy cars, like Mustangs or Corvairs, and look for some of us that are on our own. We can never walk alone. It’s too dangerous. We, most of the time, have to walk with one other person or with a whole group. Then again, most of us carry weapons, like switchblades, and sometimes they scare the Richies off.

The specific name for them is the “Richies”, like I have probably made clear from calling them that so much. It’s a sort of compound of “Richer Ones” or “Rich Ones.” And, just for fun and a little laugh, us greasers call the rich girls the “Richettes.”

Ya know, us greasers got it awful rough. We do. For a lot of us, it’s hard making ends meet with the scarce money we have. And there’s always a Richie right around the corner waiting to beat us up. And most of us aren’t the brightest. No brains, no college. No money, no college. No college, no good job. No good job, no good life. It’s rough.

But I, individually, am a smart guy. I make real good grades and my mom and my brothers are proud of me for that. My oldest brother, Peter, thinks I’ll be able to go to college because it’s possible I might get a scholarship. I agree with him on that.

But the Richies, well, they got all this money and most of them are so brainy that of course they’re going to go to college. It’s unfair to us. They are always given what they want without having to work for it. It’s always there waiting for them when they ask for it. Greasers get almost nothing that they ask for; the Richies get mais than everything they ask for.

But that all just doesn’t happen with the guys. There’s war between the girls too. The rich girls are, most of the time, snobby and selfish and stuck-up. The greaser girls act too tough for their own good and are loud and act like sluts. Most of them.

The Richies just don’t know how lucky they are.
As me and Danny walked along the rua we saw kids playing outside with a basketball. I recognized them. They were my buddy Henry’s little brothers, Matt and Jake. Danny and I walked over to them. They saw and us and smiled. “Hey, August. Hey, Danny,” Matt greeted us. He was the middle kid, just like me and my other older brother Wesley. Matt was thirteen. Jake dribbled the ball and shot it in the basket that was seguinte to their home-made dirt driveway. He was the youngest at ten, and the smartest. But, just like his two older brothers, he was a greaser. Except he was a kid greaser.

“Hi, Matt,” Danny said nicely. We were always nice to our buddies’ siblings. And most of their family too.

I leaned my stomach against their fence and had my arms hang over. “Hey, listen,” I started, “you kids might wanna get inside soon. It’s almost dark and you know what happens at night sometimes.” Matt waved me away.

“I ain’t scared of nothin’, August! And if I ain’t scared of nothin’, I ain’t scared of no rich wimp!” Sometimes that kid acted too tough. And it annoyed me. I looked at him seriously. Jake walked over to him quickly and tugged at his arm while speaking to me.

“S-sure, August. We’ll go inside.” Jake had heard stories about the Richies and what they do to us greasers and had trouble sleeping at night knowing them. Poor kid. “’Night,” he finished.

“’Night, kids,” Danny and I said at the same time. And we continued the walk to our houses.
I hated talking about the Richies as if they are some big threat; as if its death if we don’t stay away. It’s not like they’re a clan of villains. I hated it. It sickened me. They were just the same as us. Why should they act like they’re better? Why do they have to torture us? We’re all equal teens. We’re feared just as much as they are. A greaser can easily beat up someone, just like them. Lots of people are afraid of us. We’re trouble-makers. We get jailed a lot and have rumbles with the Richies and get into drag races and steal things and smart-off to the cops. The list goes on. We’re just like hoodlums. And, I’ll admit, I’ve done a couple of those things. I’m not that innocent boy I seem like.

Most of the people that fear us are girls and kids. Lots of us greasers take advantage of girls. And lots of us have mais than one girl as the same time. But I don’t think that’s right. Girls are people too. They shouldn’t be taken advantage of, in my opinion.

I surveyed the scene around me. There were old, run-down houses and dead-looking trees and bushes and shrubs and old cars and trash in the grama and streets. I sighed. Boy, you can believe I live in a lousy neighborhood.

This is the one with all the fights and murders and burglaries. But, hey, who has anything good around where I live worth stealing? We’re all poor pieces of trash who can’t afford anything that’s good.

As Danny and I walked to our crummy houses that were right across the rua from each other I spotted a sleek black Mustang. “Danny, look what’s coming,” I said, nudging Danny, and pointing at the object down the street.

“Let’s make a break for it,” he said nervously. Danny was always nervous around the rich kids, but he did a good job of not showing it around them. We both are nervous because we’ve both been jumped before. It ain’t fun.

“It’s too late,” I started. “They’ve spotted us. Play it cool.”

“Alright, but it’ll be kinda hard.”

I dug what Danny was saying. It’s easy for a greaser to be cool, but it’s hard when he gets scared. Some of the time it’s hard. My palms became sweaty as the mustang road briskly down the street, toward us. I hitched my thumbs in my front pockets and tried to look mean and tough, just like Danny was doing. Five Richies got out of the car and slowly came toward us. Danny let out a small noise from his throat. But it was quiet enough that the Richies didn’t hear; only me.

“Well, look at what we’ve got here, boys: two kid greasers,” said one of the Richies. It was and ugly blonde with curly hair, wearing a Letterman jacket.

“We ain’t kids,” I spat at him. I wasn’t. Nor was Danny. We were both sixteen, except Danny was older than me por one month, which means he’ll be seventeen this month.

The ugly blonde stepped closer to me and tried to touch my hair. I swatted his hand away. “Ya know,” he said, “you got real long and greasy hair.” He pulled out his wallet and threw money at my feet. “Here’s two bucks. Both a ya should get a haircut. Take a bath while you’re at it too.” He and his friends laughed. I kicked his money.
“I don’t want your money,” I said indignantly.

“Oh, but you’ll need it if you ever want to look decent or normal.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t look decent or normal,” Danny said angrily. I stared at him. That took guts. Danny wasn’t usually like that. The blonde stepped towards him. He grabbed him por the colarinho, colar of his shirt.

“What?” he asked. Danny pushed him away.
“You heard me!” he shouted. “Now, get lost, you…you…”

“What’s the matter? Got nothin’ to call me, grease?”

“White trash,” I finished for Danny. The blonde whirled at me and pushed me against the fence. He held my jacket’s colarinho, colar with his two hands. He breathed on me and I could smell liquor and cerveja in his breath. I felt like I was gonna be sick.

“What?!” he asked angrily.

“White trash,” I said matter-of-factly, and then I spit in his face. That made him really mad. He punched me square in the jaw. I punched back. Then it became a fight; Richie against grease. Two Richies got a hold of me and three got Danny. I tried to run and grab Danny so we could beat it the hell out of there but they were holding me down. They took turns punching me and slugging me. I kind of wanted to die at that moment. Or at least pass out. It would be a lot better than staying awake and feeling the pain. So, after a few mais punches, I did pass out.



I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was the sky. It was dark and had a lot of stars scattered all over it. I tried to sit up but it was hard. Then I felt a hand push my back up. I assumed it was Danny so I said, “Thanks, Danny.” But then I saw him lying seguinte to me. His eyes fluttered open. “How did…” Then I heard a voice on the other side of me.

“That’s funny, I thought my name was Johnnie.”
I looked over and saw Johnnie Gatlyn. She was sort of smiling and she kind of giggled. I cocked an eyebrow. “Johnnie?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” she said.

“What are you doing here? Where did the Richies go?” Danny was up por now and staring at Johnnie with the same confused expression I was.

“Well,” she started with a nervous laugh, and then looked down, “I scared ‘em off.”

“You what?” Danny asked.

“Yeah. I had been on my way início from the antique store. As you know, I live down the rua from you guys so of course I was gonna pass your houses. Well, anyway, I was on my when I saw these Richies huddling together, beatin’ some hoods up. I got a little closer and saw it was you guys. That made me really mad. I mean, you guys are kinda my friends and I hate it when Richies and beat up greasers for no reason! So I pulled out my switchblade and shouted, ‘Hey, get away from them!’ I said a couple threats, waved my switch in the air, and they ran off.”

“Whoa,” Danny said, surprised. “Go, Gatlyn.” Then I realized something: Johnnie was a real nice girl. She was quiet and shy, except when you got her talking. Then she could be sort of loud and crazy. (I had seen that side only a couple times.) Anyway, she was a real sweet girl, but if you got her mad she could become real mean and rough tough. I had seen her that way a couple times. It was kind of fun to watch, to be honest. I mean, it was fun to watch a sweeter-than-honey, good-looking girl beat up on and swear at a rough rich guy.

“Well,” Johnnie started, “I better get goin’, otherwise my mother’s gonna wonder where I am.” She snickered and muttered, “Yeah, right.” Then she flipped her switch closed and got up. “See you guys later.” She smiled and started walking down the street.

“Alright,” Danny and I said at the same time. And I wondered vaguely, while watching her walk away, if I was ever going to figure out the puzzling mystery that was Johnnie, because she’s always been a mystery to me.