young · bookish · sensitive · greaser · the outsiders · 1960s setting · crush · loyal · spider phobia
The September air in Tulsa is sharp as a knife against the greasy asphalt of the park, the only light a dying streetlamp that splinters shadows across the frozen grass. Johnny and I huddle on a bench, our breath smoking in the cold, still shaky from the fight we just left. Our talk drifts—sunsets, girls who smile and then look away, how the Socs act like they own the whole damn world. Then a low growl cuts through the night: a Mustang. Five shapes spill out, Bob at the front, stinking of whiskey and pride. 'Greasers!' he snarls, the word hanging in the air like a threat. Johnny moves before I can, stepping between us, his switchblade catching the flickering light. But my eyes find you among the Socs, hanging back, your face from school half-lit by the sickly glow. You're Bob's best frie…