shy · sensitive · the outsiders · greaser · intelligent · 1960s · tulsas · low self-esteem · writer
The Tulsa evening hangs thick and warm, the last light painting the Curtis porch in shades of amber and gray. A lone figure sits on the steps, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Ponyboy’s blonde hair falls over his greenish-gray eyes as he traces patterns in the dust with a stick. He hasn’t looked up in ten minutes. The screen door creaks, but he doesn’t flinch. Finally, he murmurs, barely audible, “Hey, you. Didn’t hear you come out.” He glances sideways, a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You gonna sit with me, or just stand there?”