A/N: I've had a few stories bouncing around my brain for the past few months. This is one of them. Characters from my other story "Sticky Leaves" do appear, but this story focuses on Darry and stands alone.

I'm nervous.

I lick my lips and look around. All the other boys are ready, and I guess I should be too. I put my left foot forward, crouching slightly, ready to run as soon as Coach Wilkins blows the whistle. I've waited ages for the varsity football tryouts. I'm not gonna blow it cause I wasn't paying attention.

FWEET!

The sound of the whistle is our cue and we take off running down the field. I'm in first place, although by how much I don't know. I can hear the stampede of feet behind me and the smell of sweat assaults my nostrils, so I know the other boys must be close. But I don't want to look behind me and risk slowing down, not even for once second. Because it doesn't really matter how close they are, does it? All that matters is that I come in first.

And I do. It's me who's the first across the finish line, and the coach gives me an appraising look. I've already impressed him with my ability to catch a ball. Now he knows I can run, too. He's never seen me before, but now that he has I know he won't forget me. Because I'm good. I'm good and I want this, maybe more than any other boy on the field. It gives me an edge.

FWEET!

The whistle blows again, and the running starts all over, only this time we go further. Once again I'm in the lead, but this time another boy almost gets in front of me, the blonde of his hair edging ever so slightly into my peripheral vision. No, I think. I'm not here to be in second place. I grit my teeth and focus. I want this. I want this.

It works. I'm first again, and I notice the coach writing something down on the clipboard he carries. My heart skips a beat and nerves make me run my tongue over my lips again. It's not that I doubt my abilities, I may not have played on a team or anything, but we play a lot of football in my neighborhood since it's cheap entertainment, and I know I'm better than average. What's got my so messed up is the knowledge that every kid here comes from the west side of town, the rich side of town. I can tell myself that the only thing that matters is athletic ability, but I'm not stupid. Coach Wilkins has probably been fielding calls from all the rich dads promising him the sun, the moon, the stars, if he can guarantee junior a spot on the team.

And what can my daddy promise him? A couple of half empty beer cans, maybe. Certainly not money, 'cause he's been out of work for the past two months after slugging his last boss in the jaw.

FWEET!

The whistle blows again and I almost miss it, caught up as I am in my own head. I breath, focusing my mind on the here and now. I'm still fast, but the blonde kis is fast too, and we're neck and neck almost the whole way down the field. Only at the last second do I manage to pull ahead, and even then I only win by a hair.

Coach Wilkins scribbles something else down on his clipboard, and I hope to hell I haven't blown my shot. "Let's take a break," he says, not looking at me. "And then we'll go through some plays."

Most of the others know each other. The field grows noisy with conversation, boys excitedly discussing how they'll rule the school and screw all the cheerleaders once they're on the team. I'm out of place. That doesn't bother me, not one bit. Once I've made the team maybe I'll be ruling the school and screwing the cheerleaders for real. There's no reason to brag about it now.

I move a little bit away, close enough that I'll be able to hear Coach Wilkins when he calls, but far enough away that I don't have to listen to the inane conversations of idiots.

It's not far enough away to discourage one idiot from following me.

"I'm Paul Holden," the blonde kid who almost beat me says. He smiles like a dope, too much teeth and friendliness. Who the hell does he think he is? Doesn't he know it's practically war out here in the field? "What's your name?"

I consider not answering, but finally decide it can't hurt. He'll know me soon enough anyway. "Darrel Curtis."

It's a deliberate choice to use Darrel. In the neighborhood I'm Darry. I've been Darry forever, except to my Dad who just calls me Junior like I'm nothing but an extension of him. But I'm done being Darry... and maybe I'm done being Junior too. I'm Darrel now. The Darrel who'll amount to something and get out of the East Side forever.

"I don't recognize you." Blondie won't shut up. "What Junior High did you go to?"

I hesitate. If I tell him he'll know I'm a Greaser, and I don't want anyone to know. I guess they will eventually, but I was hoping it'd be after I made the team. But I go ahead and tell him, and he nods like it's nothing. And maybe to him it is nothing, because it doesn't discourage him from talking to me at all.

"What position are you trying for?" He asks. "I want to be quarterback-"

"Me too."

We eye each other, sizing one another up. I'm bigger, but he's stockier. I'd be lying if I said he wasn't good. I'm better, but if his dad has any pull I might be out of luck.

Any goodwill I had towards the kid dies as quickly as it blossomed. I'm going to be the quarterback and he isn't. He just isn't. We'll probably hate each other eventually; we should just go ahead and get a head start.

"You're pretty good! I bet you get it." Paul Holden seems too nice, and I wonder if maybe this is some kind of plan to throw me off. He can't be that stupid, can he? Everyone knows quarterbacks are the best. Who doesn't want to be the best? Who in their right mind would settle for less? "Have you played before?"

"Nah, but we play in my neighborhood a lot. And it gets pretty cut throat. So I think it's better than playing for a real team, 'cause I'm prepared for anything."

Paul grins too widely; it shows a dimple in his cheek he must be self-conscious about because he raises his hand to cover it awfully quick. Or maybe he's just laughing at me. I don't know that I've said anything funny, but he seems at least half insane so… who knows.

Another kid drops down into the grass near us, and I'm so mad I could spit. What the hell is wrong with these people? Can't they tell I just want to be left alone?

But the new kid doesn't have time for me, and he lets me know exactly where I stand with him by giving me a really nasty look. I just stare back at him. I've got two younger brothers; looks don't scare me. Not one bit.

"Paul," the new kid whines. "Why are you over here? Aaron and I are going over plays-"

"I know all the plays," Paul says dismissively. "Cal, this is Darrel Curtis. Darrel, this is Gregory Calhoun, only everyone calls him Cal."

Cal glares at me. "You should come back over to our side."

"I'm fine here, thanks."

Cal glares at me, like it's my damn fault his friend is some goddam nutjob. As far as I'm concerned, Gregory Calhoun can take Paul Holden and they can both go to hell. I'm here to play. I'm here to make sure I've got a future. I don't care if I make friends or not. Once I'm taking the team to State they'll both pretend to like me whether they actually do or not.

"Call Aaron over," Paul suggests. "We can all go over plays together."

I don't want Aaron to come over here! I want to say, exasperation making me grit my teeth. I just want to be alone! But before I can get myself together and tell Paul Holden what's what, Coach Wilkins is blowing his whistle and break time is over.

Paul hops right up, offering me a hand up as well. I take it, not because I need it or anything, but just because he's grinning like crazy and I think it's best to humor crazy people.

"Thanks," I say, just because it'd make my mom happy. She's always harping on manners. I'm not actually grateful.

"You're welcome."

Gregory Calhoun is pulling on Paul's arm. He's eager to get his friend away from me. Maybe he thinks poverty is catching, I don't know.

Paul pulls his arm away, and it makes me think better of him that he's not just going along with Cal. Maybe he has a brain in there somewhere after all. But Paul's action makes Cal think worse of me, and I think I've just made an enemy, one that won't be appeased by me filling up the school trophy case.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter at all.

Xx

True to his word, Coach has us practice plays after our break. And in each one of them, he makes me the quarterback.

And that's how it starts. My entire life, I mean. It's starting. Because everything that came before is suddenly meaningless in light of what's happening now.

Xx

"Curtis!"

Coach Wilkins calls me over after tryouts. No one else, just me.

My brother once told me I don't walk so much as I swagger around sometimes, and no one has to tell me that's what I'm doing now. There's not a doubt in my mind that I nailed this. I'm the best.

"You're something else kid," Coach Wilkins says, sounding so impressed I can almost feel my ego inflating to twice its size. "You play before?"

"Yes." I don't tell him it was just neighborhood games. It won't be important now that I'm gonna be on a real team.

"You and Holden were a real team out there," he continues. "Do you two know each other?"

As much as it irritates me to share any of my glory with the dumb blonde kid, I have to admit we do play pretty good together. He's almost like a mind reader. "No sir, I just met him today."

"Well how 'bout that." Coach Wilkins marvels, shaking his head. "Now kid, I hate to ask you this, but I've seen your address on your form… you know this costs money, right?"

And just like that it's all over. The swagger, the ego… it's all gone and I'm back to me again. Because no matter what I do or how good I am, no one is ever going to see me as anything but Darry Junior, greaser.

I'll make them, I vow right then and there. I'm gonna be so good I'll make them forget who I am and where I come from. And then I'm gonna get out of here for good.

Coach Wilkins sees I'm upset, and he starts to backtrack. Maybe he sees his chances of winning State disappearing. "Now look, kid, don't get offended-"

"I ain't- I mean, I'm not." I square my shoulders. "I'm not dumb, sir. I got the money."

"Okay." He checks his clipboard. "Look, I'm not supposed to say anything just yet, but as far as I'm concerned you've made the team. I can put you on second string quarterback-"

"Second string?" I protest without thinking. I know I'm not supposed to question, but I know damn well I'm too good to be backup.

"It's that or nothing," he says curtly. "I've got Henry Abernathy as my starting quarterback. It's his last year. If you do a good job, maybe you can start next year."

I bite the inside of my lip, tasting blood. "Yessir," I say dully. It's disappointing, but I guess I'll just have to work twice as hard.

He gives me what passes for a smile. "Don't get your panties in a twist, kid. You're damn good, good enough that it wouldn't surprise me if you went pro one day, but that cockiness'll end your career before it even starts. No one wants to work with a pain in the ass."

"Yessir," I repeat. If I've got to start kissing ass I guess there ain't no time like the present to start.

Paul Holden is waiting for me by the bleachers, and he matches me step for step as I walk past.

"So what'd Coach Wilkins have to say to you?" He asks eagerly. "Did he tell you you made the team?"

I glance over at him. What the hell is his problem and why won't he go away? But instead of telling him off, I give a short nod. "Yeah. He says I can be second string quarterback next year."

"Second string?" Paul sounds as outraged as I feel, and I find myself warming up to him just a little. "Abernathy's still gonna start? I guess that's what happens when your Dad pays to have the locker rooms completely refurbished. 'Cause everyone knows he didn't get the position on merit."

I laugh. I guess Paul Holden isn't so bad after all.

His smile transforms into more of a smirk. "Lucky for you, my dad thinks sports are a waste of time. No chance he'll buy my way onto the team."

I don't know what to make of that. On one hand, I appreciate the honesty. On the other, it's a little disconcerting the way he just says the truth.

"That's what my dad said too," I finally say. "He doesn't get it at all."

"Well I guess we've both got idiots for dads."

I laugh again, harder this time. No one from my neighborhood has ever said anything bad about my dad: They all think he's great just because he stuck around and doesn't hit us. They all worship him.

"Paul!"

We're nearly to the parking lot when Cal's voice calls out. He waited for Paul, and when he sees him with me he jogs on over.

"Come on," Cal says. He doesn't bother even giving me a look this time. He just ignores me like I'm nothing. "My brothers here to pick us up."

"Okay. Do you need a ride?"

Paul's offer takes both Cal and me by surprise, but it's Cal who explodes. "I'm not asking Jim to drive down to the East Side to drop some kid he doesn't know off-"

"It's fine," I break in. "I'd rather take the bus anyway. Better company."

Paul shrugs, not seeming offended in the slightest by my better company remark. Maybe he knows that I don't include him in that, even though I'm only half certain of that fact myself. Or maybe my initial impression was right, and he really is half crazy.

"Paul, let's go," Cal demands. And when Paul doesn't move he huffs and stomps off.

"You'll have to excuse Cal. It's supposed to be a secret, but his parents are first cousins. It causes problems in dogs and, apparently, people."

I stare at him, openmouthed. "Is that true?"

"Dunno. Sounds good, though. Doesn't it?"

"Maybe. I mean, unless you're Cal."

Cal calls out again. "Paul! Get over here or we're leaving you! Five seconds!"

"Well, that's my ride. See you around, Darrel."

"Of course. If you make the team." Paul's eyes widen just a little. I guess he didn't consider that with me as quarterback he might not make the cut. It's only honesty that makes me tell him, "Coach Wilkins said you were pretty good, too. I'm sure you'll do something."

"Whatever it is, I bet they make me first string."

I snort, pride rearing its head. "First string nincompoop, maybe."

He grins. I grin. He goes off to to join Cal, and I start the long walk to the bus stop.

This is it then, I think, counting my steps as I walk along the cracked pavement. I hardly see it. In my head I'm not here, maybe I'm not even in Tulsa. This is the start to the rest of my life.

I'm on my way.

And not one damn thing can hold me back.