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I didn’t really know what I expected after graduation.
Mom and Dad told me we didn’t have enough money for college, and I don’t really know why I thought we did. I got a huge scholarship from football, but going to school anywhere wouldn’t leave anyone else in the family well off. Who am I kidding? We were never well off to begin with.
Dad could probably tell I was zoning off on the ride back home from work, because he spoke up then. “You know, son, you’re honestly a good worker. I think football helped with your strength a lot…” His voice trailed off, but it didn’t matter. I knew what he was going to say. I had a lot of speeches like that. Football helped with this, football helped with that, but nothing helped with the fact that I wasn’t going to play professionally.
I did roofing now, like my dad. I was almost as strong as him at just 18, and I knew how to follow instructions and not get myself hurt (something Soda could definitely learn from). We had just finished a house, which I should’ve been proud of. But I just couldn’t. I knew where I was supposed to be, and it made me mad that I wasn’t there. I was thinking of blowing off some steam in the gym when the car slid into the driveway.
Sodapop, my younger brother by 4 years, just hit the end of middle school. Of course, that means that Socs visits were getting more frequent. They didn’t really pick on younger kids, but I saw Soda with a bruise on his cheek and bleeding when Dad and I walked inside, his best friend Steve sitting right next to him.
“Pony and Mom are asleep if you’re looking for them,” he said causally, as if he wasn’t bleeding.
“Soda,” I whispered.
“Darry.”
Then I hit him with the millions of questions. I always did that when someone first got jumped. The “Who”, “What”, “Where”, “When” of it all.
“Socs,” Soda answered, even though I knew that. How could it not have been Socs? “There were a couple. Bob, someone from my class, and a blonde one.”
I tensed when he mentioned a blonde one. Dad raised an eyebrow. “Darrel,” he muttered. “I don’t want you going out now. I can tell you’re tired.”
“This is personal.” I walked out, not even bothering to grab a jacket.
Soda mentioned that he got stopped in an alley over by the drive-in. I saw a small light in said alley, and I thought it was Dallas at first. But then I saw a brightly colored sweater. “Paul.”
Paul looked up at me with an overly fake smile. “Darrel!”
My eyes narrowed. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you did.”
“To your brother?” God, that innocent look in his eyes made me want to punch him. “He was in West Side territory. He had to have known he was gonna get hurt.”
“He’s 14.” I tried not to raise my voice. Sure, if he did start a fight I could overpower him physically, but more trouble always comes with a fight. “You don’t hurt middle school boys on either side. We both agreed to that.”
“That rule doesn’t apply to the traitor’s family,” Paul muttered, leaning closer to me.
“Even if I’m a traitor or not, my brothers aren’t me.” I looked down at him.
“‘If’.” Paul laughed. “You are a traitor, Darrel. You saw where you were meant to be.”
“If I was meant to be, I would be there.” I lightly pushed his head away.
“You know what you are,” he challenged, but didn’t move. Paul adjusted his letterman, almost rubbing it in my face. I couldn’t get one. He knew that.
I stepped back, burying my feelings in a smile. “I do.” And then I punched him in the face.
Paul’s cheek was red now, but I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the punch. He sputtered, not even forming words. Minus one. “You-!”
“Don’t hurt my family again,” I muttered. “Or your neck’ll be tied up in a leather jacket.”
As I walked away, Paul yelled out “You’re a dirty greaser and that’s all you’ll ever be!”
I stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Better greasy than an unfeeling socialite.”