Author's Note: Mrs. Girdlé is This Is Melodrama's creation, featured in her stories and God Help the Girls. I just think she's the best art teacher Will Rogers has to offer, is all. ;)

Happy reading :)

XXXXX

I was quickly learning that middle school and high school were two totally different beasts. The homework was one thing, and staying up as late as I needed to in order to get it all done was making me feel sick to my stomach. I love sleeping; it sounds stupid, but I really do, I need my sleep. Sleep is something you can feel, smell, taste. Sleep is divine. What wasn't so divine was getting even a minute less than eight hours. I needed those eight hours, and right now, I wasn't getting them, and it was throwing me off. I wanted to cry when my alarm went off in the mornings because it felt like I had just crawled underneath my covers, and Will Rogers High School is nowhere near as comfortable or as inviting as my brass bed in my purple room.

But it was more than just the homework and missing sleep – it was…everything. It's hard to explain, but I went into high school hoping for a fresh start, but instead found myself feeling like I was being drowned out, and worse than I was in middle school because Will Rogers is absolutely huge. There were so many people from other middle schools who I didn't know, didn't even know how to approach. And not only were there all these new freshman from these other schools, but there were the upperclassmen as well.

The upperclassmen hated freshmen. The seniors were the worst, but the juniors looked down on the sophomores and freshmen, and the sophomores – with no one else left to hate – hated the freshmen. Seems the older you get, the more people you despise, but the hate is more concentrated when you're younger. The seniors didn't like anybody younger than them, but the dislike was spread out; the sophomores, having just escaped the clutches of being the youngest in the school, had only the freshmen to look down on, so it seemed more severe. We were all too clueless, too young, had too many questions, were too, well, fresh. If I have to hear the 'freshmeat' joke one more time, I swear, I will explode.

When my brother and his friends were in high school, they'd had to deal with guys from the West side of town looking down on them, getting in fights with them, blaming them for anything and everything that went wrong. (I'm sure they were asking for it some days, though I'm not so sure Keith would agree with me.) These days, it's not quite like that, but every time Janie and I make our way up those front steps, I still can't seem to escape that feeling of being just so, so small – a feeling I had been hoping to escape. I simply disappear into Will Rogers High School, get carried away in the current in its sea of people.

Something needed to be done about that.

Problem is, I'm better at making plans than I am at actually executing them.

Janie doesn't have that problem, though. When she wants something, she will do everything in her power to get it. And right now, what she wanted more than anything, apparently, was women's athletics. This sort of threw me for a loop; I had no idea Janie wanted to play sports so bad. My interest in sports stopped with my brother, who was a nut for baseball and could have gone to the majors if he hadn't been drafted instead to Vietnam – at least, that's what he had told me. Otherwise, I couldn't really care less about them. I liked going swimming when it was hot, and riding my bike, or even dancing, but besides being forced to watch ballgames growing up, they just didn't do much for me. I thought Janie was the same, but apparently not. We were sitting at lunch one day when she decided to tell us all about this new interest of hers.

"I mean, I have a cousin in Louisiana who plays tennis. She has three letters. Why can she play tennis in Louisiana, but I can't in Oklahoma?"

Ann-Marie curled her lip. "Since when do you want to play tennis? I've never heard you talk about wantin' to play tennis."

Janie just shrugged. "It's not so much that I want to play tennis, I just think it's stupid that girls can play whatever sport they want in some places, but all you can do here is be a Pom-Pom girl." One of my brother's ex-girlfriends had been a Pom-Pom girl. I didn't see anything wrong with it – they always seemed to have a lot of fun and knew all the cutest boys in school.

"So what do you want to do then?" Kim asked. "If you don't wanna play tennis, and you don't want to be a cheerleader, then what?"

Janie thought about it for a moment while she picked at the corn on her tray. I was glad I brought my lunch from home – all of the school food always looked so…sad. Mom said it was too expensive, anyways. I wasn't sure I agreed with that, but there was really no arguing with my mother. It just wasn't worth it to get into it with her – she always won. "I'm a good swimmer. Maybe I'd like to do that," she said easily. "You've all seen me swim, ain't I pretty good? Or maybe I could do track."

"What even made you think about all this?" Julie asked. She was playing with the charm bracelet on her wrist, something she was always adding to. I remember back in the sixth grade, it seemed like every girl in our class had wanted one of those silver charm bracelets, and one by one, almost all of them got one. I never did. It was sort of nice to see that Julie still wore hers, otherwise all of that fuss would have seemed like a waste of time.

"Saw a story on the news the other night about how they introduced a bill that would make it so you can't discriminate based on sex. They said it would apply to places like work and school, so the school would have to have girls' sports anyways."

"So it's a law about sports?" I asked. That seemed a little ridiculous to me, to have laws about just athletics, but Janie shook her head.

"Not just sports. All sorts of things. It just would mean that you can't stop someone from doing somethin' just because they're a girl. Some guy from Indiana came up with it, I think."

Oh. Well, that made more sense. It actually sounded pretty good to me. I've heard of the Equal Rights Amendment and all that, but I guess it wasn't going anywhere because nobody had talked about it on the news for a while. I'm all for men and women being equal, but I still didn't really care about sports all that much. I wondered if this new law would mean that we could start wearing pants to school every day, not just on Fridays if we wanted. I saw a boy trying to look up a girl's skirt the other day – you can't do that with a pair of pants. But maybe boys should just stop looking up girls' skirts.

I still wasn't quite sure why Janie suddenly cared so much, though, about sports or politics. Maybe she always had, and I just hadn't noticed. Either way, I decided then and there that if this was important to her, I should help her get it. That's what friends do for each other. My brother helped his friends out no matter what, whether he agreed with them or not, because that's just what you're supposed to do, especially when you've been friends with somebody for so long. Maybe we could help Will Rogers High School get girls in sports and pants before the rest of the country did.

xXx

While Janie was looking to become some sort of modern day cross between Susan B. Anthony and Althea Gibson, I was still trying to figure out how to make something of myself in this school. I was sick of how I had just allowed myself to fade into the background all these years, and it was time for that to change. If Keith and I had been born closer together, I'm sure he would have overshadowed me, and with nearly ten years between us, he still does in some ways. I'm not even sure most people knew that Two-Bit Mathews had a sister, let alone that the sister was me. Personally, I don't mind that we're different, or that he's a lot older than I am, and I think it's actually kind of funny when people learn that he's my brother. I'll tell somebody that my brother is Keith Mathews, and then when they get confused, I'll correct myself and tell them my brother is Two-Bit, and once they've got that down, they always ask,

"He's your brother?"

And I have no other choice but to say yes.

Some people are impressed. They'll tell me that their older siblings or cousins know him, that they remember all the pranks he used to pull and the fights he got into and the homeruns he hit. They remember his friends, his enemies, his girlfriends. They remember how he was friends with Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston, and the dirty version of the school song he had come up with, and when he and his friends crashed the summer cotillion. My brother was some sort of living legend in these parts.

Some people aren't so impressed. They'll tell me that their older siblings or cousins know him, that they remember all the pranks he used to pull and the fights he got into and the homeruns he hit. They remember his friends, his enemies, his girlfriends. They remember how he was friends with Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston, and the dirty version of the school song he had come up with, and when he and his friends crashed the summer cotillion. People hated him for the same reasons they loved him.

When people gushed about him, I had to pretend that he was a real bother; when they complained about him, I felt the need to defend him. It was strange, how you can be both annoyed and endeared by someone. But maybe that's just how it is with the people you love.

However, nobody in my home economics class knew who my brother was, and that was something of a first for me, and something I found myself not minding too much. I could just walk in there each morning, say hi to my table partner, and say the pledge and listen to the morning announcements without any fuss. My table partner was a girl named Betty Howard, a sophomore, but she was one of the nice ones. Maybe the older kids were only mean when they got together in their cliques; individually, they weren't so bad. Betty was always asking me about my weekend, if I was liking the teachers and the school, things like that.

One morning, she asked me, "Are you thinking of joining anything?"

I glanced at her as I set my notebook and pencils out. It occurred to me that I didn't have any idea what sort of things Betty was into, and that I hardly ever asked her any questions about herself like she did me, nothing beyond How are you, how was your weekend, did you think the homework was hard? And it wasn't because I didn't like her; it was likely because I was just so nervous and worried about being polite to someone older than me that I just kept my trap shut.

"Like what?" I asked stupidly. I could have hit myself.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "What are you interested in?"

I bit my lip, thinking. "I'm in choir. I sing at church, so I figured I might as well join the school's."

"Cool, what else?"

What else? I needed more? But then I remembered that I wanted to put myself out there, get to know more people, and I knew that one of the best ways to do that was to join clubs and get involved. But there was something scary about that.

"I don't know," I shrugged, writing out the header for today's notes on sewing. I could already sew and make my own clothes from patterns, but I needed to take the class for the credit. Boys had to take home economics now, too, but there weren't any boys in my class, which I thought was odd. My brother hadn't had to take it back when he was in high school, and he said he dodged a bullet. I thought it was idiotic that boys thought they could get out of housework, and that made me remember Janie and her talk about that new law that man from Indiana proposed.

"Well, what do you like? What are your hobbies? You're probably in a language, you could join your language's club."

Things that I liked…well, I liked going to church, singing, singing at church, reading, and…well… "Sometimes I draw, a little." Gosh, I really made myself sound like a bore. It's always so hard to tell people what it is you like or who you are as a person right when they ask. It's like I completely forget who I am.

But Betty lit up and pointed her pencil at me. "Hey, perfect! If you like drawing you should join the art club. They've only had one meeting so far, and I loved it last year. You should definitely come. We learn how to use different media, help design sets for the theatre department and dances, stuff like that. You'll love it, promise."

This might seem odd and sort of lame, but this was a big step for me, and it was a hard one for me to take. Just because I liked to doodle sometimes didn't mean I was any good at art; they would probably all laugh at me. But I guess these are the little risks you have to take. I smiled at Betty. "I'd love to," I said, and Betty lit up.

"We meet tomorrow right after school in Mrs. Girdlé's room 'til four-thirty. We're planning out what we want to do for the rest of the semester, so it's really important you be there so you have a say."

Democracy in action, then. I nodded, and as class started and I thought about it more and more, the more I thought – knew – that this was a good idea.

xXx

It was not a good idea. At least, not at first.

But more on that later.

xXx

"Sadie! Sadie, wait up."

Janie rushed up to me through the throng of band, choir, and orchestra students milling around in the performing arts hall, many of them carrying around clunky instruments both in and out of their cases. She looked very excited about something, so I knew I was about to get an earful. "What's up?" I asked.

"I've had the best idea," she said. I raised an eyebrow, which was my signal for her to keep talking. "So you know how I was talking the other day about how we should get girls' athletics at the school?" I nodded. "Well, I've decided to run for student government, and when I win, I could make that one of my initiatives."

My eyes went wide. "Really?" I asked. "Student government? Since when do you want to be in student government?"

Janie rolled her eyes. "Since now. C'mon, I thought you'd be excited for me," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"I am! I'm just surprised, is all. I never knew you wanted to do anything like that. I think it's a great idea," I told her at the suspicious look she gave me. "You have my vote all the way."

That got her to smile. "I was sorta counting on it, but thanks. So why don't you come over after school, we can start making posters and putting together my speech and all that."

Janie seemed really excited, and of course I wanted to help her, but I couldn't. Not today. "I would, Janie, but I sort of already have plans."

"Plans?" She repeated, her voice sounding all weird, like the idea of me having plans was ridiculous. "With who?"

"It's an art club meeting," I said simply. "A girl in my home-ec class said I should join."

Janie made a thoughtful noise. "Well, you do like painting, I guess. And you won that award in seventh grade."

I felt myself blush all the way to the tips of my ears. "Eh, it wasn't that good."

"Are you kidding? It was really good! I swear, Sadie, you gotta get some confidence and learn how to take a compliment. People'll stop saying nice things to you if you always get so mopey when they say 'em."

Yeah, but people never said nice things about me; they never noticed me. So what one of my paintings had won an award in the seventh grade? Nobody but probably Janie remembered, and my mother. I kept the ribbon pinned to my corkboard, blue with gold lettering. I had been real proud of myself at the time, but…I don't know. Art was still fun, but I had always thought there was probably someone else who deserved to win more.

"Well," Janie went on with a sigh, "we can get together this weekend and work on it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And you know that homecoming is coming up, too. We should go dress shopping! Wouldn't I look good in navy?"

Oh, gosh. There was already homecoming week to worry about now, too, apparently. I liked school dances, but they were always something that we got out of class early to do and be home by the end of the day, and everybody would end up dancing with everybody else so nobody felt left out. I got the feeling that wouldn't be quite the case at a Will Rogers homecoming dance.

xXx

Mrs. Girdlé's classroom had a view of the courtyard, and sunlight streamed through the studio windows. It smelled like clay, wet paint, and chalk. Her walls were covered in student artwork and posters explaining color theory, the rules of composition, and the elements and principles of art. She had plants on the windowsill alongside models of hands and the human form. Her bookshelves were full of books about specific artists and artistic periods and styles. Instead of regular desks and chairs, she had studio tables and stools. I relaxed into it instantly.

There were people already milling about when I walked in after the last bell, and I scanned the faces for anyone I knew, but the only person I knew was Betty, who waved at me to come sit next to her. I set my books down and hopped up onto the high stool, and she smiled at me.

"Glad you came!" She said.

"Glad I decided to come," I smiled back.

"Who's this, Betty?"

I followed the sound of the new voice, and this was how I met Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was a senior, tall with pin-straight brunette hair and an upturned nose. She looked at the two of us with a blank, unreadable expression. I noted that she was wearing a matching set of earrings, necklace, and a bracelet, all gold and expensive-looking. I hadn't seen her around school before, but I generally tried to avoid areas that the seniors liked to hang out in.

"Nancy, this is Sadie Mathews. Sadie, this is Nancy Wheeler, club president."

I raised my eyebrows. "Did you guys already hold officer elections?"

Nancy gave me a small smile. "We had them last week. You weren't there, so you wouldn't know." Oh. Okay, then. Just seemed awfully fast to me to have already elected officers. Honestly, I was sort of astounded that the art club needed officers. "Mathews – that sounds familiar."

I gave her a weak smile. "Well, it's a common last name." However, I think I could see the unfortunate direction in which this conversation was going.

"One T?" She asked, and I nodded slowly. "I think I know your brother. Two-Bit?" She said the name as politely as she could, I could tell, but it was difficult for her.

I nodded again. "Yeah, that'd be him."

She scrunched up her nose, but kept smiling. "He dated my sister for a little while when they were in school together."

I narrowed my eyes, thinking. Out of all of his past girlfriends, I couldn't think of a Wheeler. Besides – if this sister looked anything like Nancy, she wasn't exactly my brother's type. He had always gone for blondes, for the most part. But maybe Nancy's sister dyed her hair – fake blondes worked for him, too. "What's her name?" I asked.

"Susanna, but most people call her Susie."

Susie Wheeler…didn't ring a bell. "I'm sorry, I don't remember her. But my brother's dated a lot of girls, so…"

As soon as that slipped out of my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to say. Behind me, I heard Betty gasp. Nancy's eyes narrowed into slits, and I really did feel bad, I did, but it's true – my brother's had a lot of girlfriends ("girlfriends"), most of them not exactly steady. He must have dated Susie during one of his off periods with Kathy. Something told me telling Nancy that would make the situation worse, though. To tell you the truth, though, I couldn't see why everybody was getting so bent out of shape about a couple of older siblings who couldn't have gone on more than a couple of dates.

"Huh," Nancy finally said. "Well, Susie told me all about him. Said he was tall, handsome, and absolute white trash."

And with that, Nancy flipped her hair and walked to the front of the room so that she could start the meeting. Betty looked over at me and quietly asked what the heck that was all about, but all I could focus on was that white trash comment. Mrs. Girdlé finally bustled into the classroom, an older woman who seemed to think cat-eyes were fashionable. She clapped her wrinkled hands together, which seemed to get everyone settled – except me, because I was still reeling. If Nancy thought, Keith was white trash, then she probably thought I was white trash.

"Alright, everybody, nice to see you all again. Good to see a few new faces as well," she added, her eyes passing over me and a few others. "This week we're focusing on planning out what we'll be doing the rest of the semester. Of course, there are a few things we do every year – we'll be working on homecoming decorations and the winter dance – but otherwise we're free to work on whatever projects and with whatever media we'd like. I'd like to open up the floor to suggestions now."

Over the next half an hour, Nancy and Mrs. Girdlé approved watercolor, pastels, oil, and clay workshops. I was glad that most of it was going to be painting and drawing because I was no good with clay – art award or not. I wanted desperately to be at those workshops, but there was a part of me that was nervous, too, what with Nancy Wheeler there, staring me down every time she turned around. I had no idea what I had done – my brothers actions were not my own. But Nancy was just one person. If I could do my best to ignore her, maybe even try to smooth things over with the mistakenly snide comment I had made, and the not-so-mistaken one she had told. So I would stay.

Even with what happened next.

As the classroom door banged open, I could hear someone calling my brother's name – not his real one, of course – from down the hall, and then there he was, just as Mrs. Girdlé was writing out the final schedule for the semester.

The sight of my brother bursting into that classroom made me freeze. Everything and everyone in the room went still. He looked upset, his sunglasses pushed up on his head to hold his hair back and his hands planted on his hips. Nancy shot me a look and raised a brow, almost as if this was somehow proving her sister's point. Looking at him just then, I could somehow see what she was getting at. It wasn't so much what he was wearing or anything, but the way he talked and acted.

And I was his sister.

"Oh – hello, Mr. Mathews. Can I help you…?"

Mrs. Girdlé, though she seemed to know him, was obviously confused, and I was – to put it simply – mortified. Beth Martin came in a couple seconds behind him, her heels clacking against the tile, and I guessed she had pulled an afternoon shift at the front desk. She looked incredibly annoyed. "Mrs. Girdlé, I tried to stop him."

"Bethy, hush. You know what's going on," he said, and started scanning the room before his eyes lighted on me. "You. We need to go."

xXx

I vividly remember the day after my brother got his draft notice. Everyone in our house was tense. All of Keith's friends were tense – especially Steve, who found out soon after that he would be going with him. The day after we found out was worth than the day of; I cried the day of, and so did our mother, while Keith stood stoically, for once not knowing what to say. The next day, though, was awkward. I felt like I had to tiptoe around my family, and I could tell that Keith felt the same way. To this day I get the feeling that Keith thinks he brought something horrible down upon our family, that it was his fault that all of this was happening. At the time, I didn't really know much more about the war in Vietnam besides the fact that they showed footage of it on TV every night, and that Sodapop had gone and come back. Other boys in town had gone and come back; others hadn't. But even just a couple years ago, all I really cared about was that it was taking my brother from me, and not so much about how it affected everyone else. Just how it affected me.

I learned that my mother was thinking that way, too.

It's not something I expected from her. When Keith was gone, she would tell everybody how proud she was of him, how nice it was to receive his letters, how we prayed for him. We put on brave smiles because it was either that or let how completely we missed him show on our faces. But the day after his draft notice came, I eavesdropped on Mom and Keith after I had gone to bed, sitting at the top of the stairs as they talked in the kitchen. My mother was crying, alternating between English and Italian as she let her sorrow spill over.

"There's nothin' I can do, Mama." It was never a good sign when Keith started calling her Mama again. It either meant he was trying to get himself out of trouble or soothe her – usually from the anger she was feeling about whatever trouble he had gotten himself into. And he had certainly gotten himself into trouble this time; it's just that this, for once, wasn't his fault. "There's no gettin' outta this."

I expected Mom to resign herself to this fact, to tell him that she knew, that she understood that this was the way things were supposed to be. But instead of that, she said – in the weakest, most strained, most desperate tone of voice that I haven't heard her use before or since –

"My sisters and I left our home, our parents, everything we had ever known to escape war. We came here thinking everything would be so easy. And now I could lose you to a war I do not understand."

I had heard the stories time and again from Mom and my aunts, her sisters, about how the six of them – yes, six – had fled their war-torn country, sent away by my grandparents, and how said grandparents had refused to come with them. Italy was their homeland; if it died, they would die with it. My grandparents didn't die in the war, and Italy is obviously still there, but they died before I was born. But my mother and her sisters were here, spread across this country, separate from each other now, but so close in the beginning. Time had spread them apart physically. But they understood back then what they had to do; they had a choice to make: they could either stay and risk death, or run and find their own paths. My mother and her sisters crossed the ocean to Ellis Island, where they settled in Brooklyn. My mother could understand that war, knew concretely in her mind that it was flee or die. But Vietnam was confusing, day in and day out, and she could once again lose someone important to her. Mom had her sisters to get her through; Keith wasn't going to have anybody.

That's the thought that kept me up most nights. Yes, I worried every day that he was going to die, but mostly, I was sad for my brother. We knew from their letters that he and Steve were not together, not after basic training. Now, Keith can make friends with just about anybody, even the people he doesn't like, but I know that even though he doesn't admit to loving us because it would hurt his reputation or something, I know he needs to be around people he actually cares about so he can drop the façade for a while.

I worried about him getting lonely.

And now, sitting outside of the Tastee Freeze, watching him forego his Coke for cigarette after cigarette as I worked on my milkshake, I worried again.

"What happened, exactly?" I asked quietly.

Two-Bit stubbed out his third cigarette. He wasn't even finishing them. That was very unlike him. "Guess it all started when he got laid off. Shop he's been workin' at is downsizin', and since he was the newest guy, they let him go. That's probably what triggered it. When Evie got back from the salon last night, she found him in the bathroom, passed out cold. She called the ambulance, and then she called his dad. He seemed to be doin' okay when I saw 'im, or better, at least. But I guess Evie sorta gave him an ultimatum – either he cleans himself up, or she's done."

Wow. I didn't really know what to say at first; what do you say after hearing something like that? One of my brother's best friends had gotten seriously strung-out, and one misstep, and his whole life could be over. Steve and Evie had been together since they were fourteen years old – if that's not love, I don't know what is. Steve must have seriously screwed up for her to be talking like that. "Wow," was all I could say. "So…what, then? Rehab, or something?"

Two-Bit sighed long and hard. "No," he finally said.

My eyes widened. "No?" I repeated. "Then…what?"

"John" – that's Steve's dad, John Randle. He was my eighth grade math teacher. – "he says that he wants to try one more thing before he sends him off on a, uh, retreat."

"What's that?"

Two-Bit grimaced. "He's sending him to Kansas."

Kansas? Kansas! The Randles had family there, I think, an aunt and uncle of some sorts, maybe some cousins. Sounds like Mr. Randle was sending Steve off to the family farm to shuck corn and milk cows. I couldn't imagine having to wake up so early to do all those chores. Our Aunt Gianna lives on a farm in Idaho, and the last time we went to visit her, Keith looked like he wanted to kill himself the whole time. He said it was the most boring place he had ever visited in his life. It didn't help that Aunt Gianna has nine kids. Yeah. Nine. Can you imagine? Keith and I have twenty-three cousins.

"For how long?"

Keith rested his head in his hand and stared at some far-off point over my shoulder. There was practically no one here – people went to the Dairy Queen these days. Keith liked Tastee Freeze, though, even though all he ever got was Cokes. I liked to mix it up. "Can't say," he finally answered. "Until he's clean, I guess. But who knows how long that'll take, or how long his aunt and uncle'll put up with 'im. He's got a coupl'a cousins there, but from what I remember, they're kinda dull. So."

I was really struggling to picture this. Steve? On a farm? I tried to imagine him on a tractor, in a field, milking a cow, chasing chickens. Mr. Randle thought this was going to help his son somehow. I couldn't imagine how milking a cow would get Steve to stop doing drugs. There was probably more to this plan than I was seeing, but I was still confused. I decided not to push it for the time being, though.

"They're shippin' him out tomorrow," Keith said, recovering. I knew, then, what he would be doing tonight, and where he would be. Not like he'd be at home with us, anyway.

I played with my straw, picked at my nails, sat in the heavy silence with my brother. He had scared me something awful, storming in like that. I thought someone had died. Part of me wanted to chew him out for it, for embarrassing me in front of Nancy Wheeler, who apparently knew of him and thought he was white trash. I could already tell she hated me, and now this incident would probably just make her hate me more. But I couldn't bring myself to do it; Keith just looked so miserable about it all.

"Why're you tellin' me all this?" I asked softly. "You never tell me this sorta thing."

"I don't know," Keith sighed. He sounded tired, more tired than any man his age should. "You were gonna find out eventually. Maybe I just…"

He trailed off, that blank expression back on his face. Maybe – what? "Keith…?"

"For fuck's sake, Sadie! Why does it matter? You're a person – I talk to you. Why you gotta attach meanin' to everything?" He snapped, and I recoiled from him. "You've known Steve your whole life, I thought you'd wanna know."

I squinted at him over my milkshake. "Well, he's not my friend, so I don't see why you think I'd care."

My big brother had taken harder hits, so he didn't rear back like I had. Over the years, I had seen him with black eyes, nose bloodied and broken, lips split, mottled with bruises, and with hastily-done stitches. But something in his eyes changed. A split-second flash of white-hot anger that I had never once seen directed at me. Keith could get annoyed, irritated, absolutely one-hundred percent fed up with me, but he never got angry with me. I had thought the way he snapped at me was anger, but I could see now that I was wrong: it was that look in his eyes that was gone as soon as it appeared. That was anger.

I instantly felt a pit forming in my stomach; my brother now saw me as nothing more than the guys he liked to beat up. "Keith, I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Fine, it's fine," He said. "Just thought you should know. You prolly have homework or somethin', right? C'mon, let's get you home."

Keith stood up and stubbed out his cigarette in his Coke bottle, and I followed him back to the Impala, a little confused. I thought for sure he would be chewing him out for saying something like that, but this is what I was getting instead. I slid into the passenger seat, and he didn't even turn on the radio, which he always does. Everything in his body language screamed that he wanted to explode, and yet the entire car ride back to the house, we were silent. When he pulled up beside the house, I went to open the car door, and that's when he decided to start talking again.

"Sade-o, look, this kinda has us rocked, okay? I just needed to talk, and you deserved to know. Steve's family, kiddo."

I realized that this was an olive branch. Keith didn't really like staying angry for long. But the thing is, I wasn't done feeling angry yet. I was sorry for what I had said, but he hadn't cared. Not only that, he had embarrassed me in front of not only the entire art club, but Nancy Wheeler, too, who thought he was white trash. So I got out of the car, slammed the door behind me, and leaned in the window.

"Oh, yeah? Steve's your family? The Curtises are your brothers? If you need to talk about it so bad, why don't'cha go talk to your white trash friends, Two-Bit?"

"Excuse me?"

"Hey – that was Susie Wheeler who said that, not me. Don't kill the messenger." I kicked his tire. "That's for embarrassing me in front of Nancy Wheeler, jackass."

And then I stomped up the front walk, my brother shouting after me, but I ignored him, and a few moments later, I could hear the screech of his tires as he drove off.

XXXXX

AN: A lot happening in this chapter.

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