Thought that I would give this relic an update, too... Looking back on the prior chapters is so cringeworthy for me - I definitely hope you can see the improvement in my writing in the past three years. I was fifteen when I wrote this and am eighteen now! Crazy. Anyway, enjoy.

Twenty-four hours. Barely twenty-four hours had passed and I had become so unsure of everything in my life that I did not recognize myself. I am almost positive that I am in love with a boy that I do not want to be caught dead with in public. Love is a fickle thing though. Point blank, he's attractive, and I can be petty. The word "love" may be my idealistic interpretation of infatuation. I'm pretty sure that same boy had something to do with my brother being practically bludgeoned hours after I basically told him that I hated him. I want this boy to want everything to do with me, to want to be as much as a fixture in my life as I want to be in his, but insist on vehemently pushing him to the farthest recesses of my attention in the rudest way possible. I am disgusted with myself, but completely secure in who I am and was raised to be. More than anything, I want out. I don't want to be Avery Calvin, the Soc, the people-pleaser. I don't want to be Avery Calvin, the girl who hangs around greasers and potentially gets her brother beat up, either. I am sick of it. So utterly sick of it. But I need answers. I cannot tread water in the same place. So I resolve to find some.

My dad and I arrive home after a painfully awkward drive back from the Curtis household. One-word answers are so rare from me, especially with my father, that he stops asking me questions. I sit there in self-pity and defiant reluctance. Was I right to shun Soda in the way I did the night before? I was so lost, so split in my convictions. Could he really have done anything to my brother? I wished I had gotten a better look at Soda's knuckles, just for clarification. Wouldn't he have had any distinguishable injuries if he had been apart of it? That granted me some peace of mind, pushing me closer to believing what I wanted to believe. If he did have a hand in beating him up, I clearly didn't know him as well as I thought I did. But I only spent a few hours with him. Could I say I knew him at all?

Enough to become completely and embarrassingly lovesick, I reminded myself.

We stop in the driveway and my dad gets out. He shuts the door behind him and pauses at the hood of the car. As I make my way around the vehicle, he puts his hand up and stops me. "I don't know what happened last night, Avery. And, by God, I don't know why you're acting like this. But if something happened that you need to talk about, I would hope that you would trust me enough to tell me."

"Dad, noth-"

"I'm not assuming anything. I'm just letting you know," he said calmly. I nodded my head, at a complete loss for an explanation. I couldn't be completely sure what he had a lead on, but I decided that I would only turn to his better judgement only when I was convinced that I couldn't handle things for myself. And I needed to sort some things out before I could consult anyone else for help.

I quietly slinked upstairs, hoping to avoid my mother. As expected, she was waiting on my brother hand and foot, much to his protest. Physically, he was fine. His face and ego had taken the brunt of the damage, but he would survive. He was a little shaken up, a little angry, and a little confused, but no permanent damage. We should have been grateful for that. Greasers can fight rough and whoever had hurt him wasn't trying to kill him, but leave an impression. No matter how many times Charlie relayed this to my mother, she was still frantic. She was hellbent on getting every police officer in Tulsa to create a search party for whatever "juvenile delinquent" had harmed her son. I rolled my eyes at this. It was a coward's way out for sure and would never solve anything. Charlie would still come out on top of whomever did this. He was a Soc, he automatically had the upper hand. Why couldn't she leave it at that?

I went into my room and laid on my bed. I stared at the ceiling. I really stared. I wanted to search for the truth, for the concrete details of what I believed. I was tired of fighting hypocritical, juxtaposing thoughts that bounced in my head like a game of table tennis. So, I started with the facts. My name is Avery Calvin. I am fifteen years old. I have two brothers. Charlie just jumped last night. I don't know why. I don't know where he was. Sam is not here anymore. I am a Soc. I do not want to be a Soc. I enjoy the privilege. I do not enjoy being hateful. I can do both. I like Sodapop. I do not mind hanging out with greasers. Because I enjoy spending time with Sodapop does not make me a bad person. He is a good person. Saying hurtful things that I do not feel makes me a bad person. I should apologize to him. I should not burn that bridge. I shouldn't have told him that I would never forgive him. I want to be his friend. Being with him makes me happy. I should do what makes me happy. I should apologize. I repeated this mantra to myself again and again, for what seemed like hours. I sunk in every word, trying to realize what I wanted. All of a sudden, I heard a knock on the door that tore me from my concentrated stupor. It was my dad.

"Hey, kiddo," he said. He was in a suit and was gathering his briefcase. "I have to stop at the firm quick and your mother stepped out to the market for supper. Promise me you'll keep an eye on Charlie." His mind was elsewhere and I could tell that he was preoccupied was another matter, far from what was happening at home.

"No problem, dad." Charlie probably didn't need my supervision, but I knew it brought my father solace to know that he was safe.

"He's in his room now. He's awake, if you'd like to go entertain him. Says he's bored," he said with a smile. Although he knew that the situation shouldn't be taken lightly, he couldn't help but try to relieve our worry. He carried our fear for us, which is something I appreciated. I didn't know how much more I could deal with.

I got out of bed, still repeating my speech to myself. I should do what makes me happy.

I walked across the hall and into his room. The shades were pulled down tightly, the room fairly dark. Charlie sat on his bed like a blob under a mountain of blankets. He was in his pajamas. His bloodied and battered clothing sat on the floor, far from his mind and my mother's attention. The collared shirt he had been wearing looked like an artist's canvas - pale yellow with red splotches here, there, and everywhere. His tan pants were dirty and bloodied, as well. Humorlessly humorous, I thought about the field day my mother would have cleaning the stains out. She consistently reminded us of the turmoil we caused when our clothes needed extra care to clean.

"Hey, Ave," Charlie said in a tired voice. I walked up close to him, to study him intently. I had so many questions burning in my periphery. I wanted to know everything and wanted to know it now. The unknown didn't just scare me, it irritated me. His face had cuts and bruises on it like I never could've imagined. His dark brown hair was matted with filth and gravel. No area on his face lacked a purple, blue, or yellowish hue. His eyes, cheeks, and mouth was swollen, and probably ached something fierce. As the injuries resonated, they only looked worse. Dried blood was on his neck, and I could vaguely make out the popped blood vessels in his right eye. One thing was for sure, Charlie wasn't a fighter - and not a good one when he had to be.

"How are you doing?" I asked quietly, as if any higher volume would exaggerate his pain. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Charlie tried to sit up, but barely fidgeted before deciding to stay where he was. "The face is the worst, if that's what you're asking," he said with a slight trace of lightheartedness lingering somewhere in there. "Everything else is fine."

I nodded. That was good. Charlie was okay. Now I could intrude. "You've looked better. What happened?"

He ran his tongue over his busted lip. Maybe he rolled his eyes, too, but I couldn't tell. "Avery, don't worry about it. I don't need you getting involved in anything that you don't understand yet."

I bristled at the words. I took a step back defensively. "'Don't understand yet'? Don't be cryptic. I'm not a child, Charlie," I said stubbornly. Whiny, too, probably.

"I didn't say you were. You're my kid sister, is all. I try to protect you from these sort of things. I want you to stay out of it." I caught onto something in his last sentence that I couldn't quiet discern. It sounded almost malicious - like something that directly involved me that made the whole situation ironic to him. I chalked it up to a misunderstanding in the moment, but promised myself to file away for later.

"What? Stay out of you being jumped by a greaser?" I asked. He stopped talking, noting how obvious the situation was to me and how futile it would be to try and argue at this point. "You're my brother, Charlie. I care about you," I pleaded, hoping that my desperate pleas would make him more forthcoming with information.

"You're not going to like what you hear. I'm serious, Avery. Back off," he said again, an annoyed tone in his voice that was so typical when he talked to me. "There are some things that you're better off not knowing. Just take it for what it is. Yeah, I got beat bad. But there ain't nothin' else to it. Now stop poking around in other people's business, alright? Just do it."

I shook my head. "You know that I'm not going to drop it, Charlie," I said. He pursed his cartoonish-ly huge lips in annoyance. "There's more than what you have to tell me."

He slapped his hands on the comforter in exasperation. "Well, shit, Avery. Maybe there is. I'm trying to protect you. Now get out of my room and listen to what I said, okay?"

"I can't believe you," I stated simply, hoping it hit as hard as I hoped it would. Sure, Charlie and I didn't always get along, but we never really hid things from each other. And we got along pretty well, all things considered. For him to so vehemently deny me information that seemed pertinent to the both of us was not only annoying, but suspicious.

"Believe it, Avery. Things aren't always as simple as you think. Some things need to be kept the way they are. Leave it at that," he said, finishing his argument and closing the opportunity for the conversation to continue.

I squinted my eyes in skepticism, watching Charlie for any other information he may let on. Hoping he would give me something, anything, to work from here. But he was relentless, and I knew that I wasn't getting anywhere. I turned around and walked out of his room, leaving with more questions and loose ends than clarification.

"Don't be mad, Ave," Charlie shouted after me. I kept walking and slammed the door behind me. The vague possibility that I wouldn't be mad was almost laughable. Of course I was mad. Not only because I now realized that I actually knew nothing about anything in my own life, but that my imagination, when left to roam, painted an unpleasant scenario that I wasn't sure I wanted to believe.

I just wanted to know who hurt my brother. That's all I wanted. To have the closure that it wasn't the friendly boy I sat and chatted with last night, to be able to push the whole memory far out of my mind, and to be able to resume life as normal. Why the hell was that so difficult? Why was it so much to ask?

Charlie's words reverberated in the defiant silence of our home. I try to protect you from these sort of things. I want you to stay out of it. I couldn't disregard the ominous quality of the words. But what did it mean?

The door opened, and my mother stepped inside. She was carrying a few paper bags full of groceries. She was put-together and composed, as always. She wore a white suit and pearls, emulating Jackie Kennedy even when she only planned to stay home for the day. I wondered why she had to try so hard, who she was trying so desperately to impress. She worked so hard to keep our family looking so pristine, so perfect. It was exhausting and I didn't know why anyone would put themselves through the trouble.

I walked down the stairs and into the kitchen as she placed each parcel of food in its designated place. I wondered if I should apologize or attempt to explain my behavior from the night before to her. More than anything, I wanted to tell her about the boy I met. But that was never easy with her. Especially in this case. She was too judgmental. Undoubtedly, she wouldn't even listen to me. Instead, I asked her a question that I knew she knew the answer to. One that she couldn't squirm her way out of answering. One that would give me some sort of information to help piece the puzzle together. It was a loaded question.

I plastered a wildly innocent look on my face and mustered up the courage to spit out the words.

"What do you have against the Curtis family?"

If you're confused, more will be revealed next chapter... Hope you enjoyed!