Chapter Text
SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1964
Evie’s only three weeks deep into her own personal hell – otherwise recognized as Sophomore year - and she’s already got a bone to pick with Steve fucking Randall.
“He’s such an asshole,” she complains, at lunch, to Kathy and Joanie – and at least Elaine ought to fucking see it, right there in second period Auto Repair Shop Class with her and Sodapop and Steve and Mattie and Chance.
“Another sexist boy,” Elaine snarks, cracking her knuckles. “Should we call the papers?”
“No, you’ve seen him!” Evie snaps, voice pitching up to an indignant yelp. “‘Cause I know, it’d sound insane, otherwise. But you saw him steal the 5/8 wrench, yeah? Right out of my bag?”
“What?” Kathy is eyeballing her, like she might be insane, one dark eyebrow arched.
“Oh, forget it,” Evie spits back, rolling her eyes back over at Elaine. “So he doesn’t bother YOU. He’s got it out for me, or somethin’.”
“Hey, maybe he likes you,” Kathy offers, leaning in over her sandwich.
“Oh, screw OFF,” Evie gags, flipping open her compact mirror and whipping out her lipstick, sneering. “No, it’s war.”
“With Slippin’ Stevie?” Joan snorts. “Yeah, I’d say ya stand a fightin’ chance.”
And Evie does know – somewhere, deep down – just how stupid it may have been to march into shop class, dominated by the boys she grew up with - and not expect to catch some flack. She’s used to it, by now, from the girls who whisper about her short hair and temper; ever since that great divide opened up between boys and girls. Evie never wanted to fucking choose a side; but it’s clear she’s been shoved into some sort of no-man’s-land, now, where it doesn’t matter how sharply she lines her lips, or how well she knows the inside of a car – because Evie fits in exactly nowhere.
Evie Zamora is fifteen and a half and still best friends with Katherine Estivez, like they haven’t been attached at the hip since second grade. It doesn’t matter that Kath turned out all type-A and whip-smart, taking honors classes filled up with Socials, while Evie skips out of school regularly to bum smokes from greasy ragamuffins like Mattie Kravitz.
Eves and Kathy will always be best friends, even as she makes nice with the jetset pack, and Evie flits among that group of bold, loud, tomboyish girls like Elaine Donehan and Joanie Marcus, who never bought into the old gender divide. They still run wild with the boys in the streets; rolling through hotwired engines and petty scraps, now, instead of games of stickball.
And Evie’s known Steve Randall since, like, fucking fifth grade – ‘cause she remembers that January, clear as day, when he slid out on the black ice coating West Coates Ave. She’d trudged through knee-deep snow to get to The Toboggan - a steep expanse of road, past the DX, where any thrill-seeking kid from their side of the tracks could sling a sled, before the ploughs made it out that far. She’d been standing with Kathy when Steve stood up on a piece of scrap metal, or whatever the hell he’d claimed as his sled - and flew down the hill, sliding from zero to 60 in three seconds flat and crashing out in the gutter. It would be remembered as the first – and definitely not only – time that Steve Randall broke his nose in half, and the day he became Slippin’ Stevie for the rest of middle school.
Steve ran with a strange crew, and always had, even before the addition of the infamous Dallas Winston. He was best friends with Sodapop Curtis, who’d been famous in his own rite since grade school, just for being so handsome and popular, and something about Steve’s mean, hard little glare made Soda’s pretty grin shine even brighter when they stood side by side. The two of them used to trail around behind Soda’s big brother Darry, who hiked himself straight to college last year on a football scholarship – and now, in turn, Soda’s littler brother Ponyboy tagged along behind them, thirteen and sporty and smart-mouthed. Then there was that quiet boy, Johnny, from their neighborhood, who moved like a shadow and had a reputation for being decent despite the fact that he came from dirt; and Two-Bit Mathews, who still acted like an overgrown schoolboy at almost-eighteen, with equally overgrown sideburns and a rowdy, untamed sense of humor to match.
Dallas only joined up last year, freshly run out of New York City - over some big turf war and a murder, or so he claimed, until old Tim Shepard let it slip that it was only Dally’s dad, out for his own blood kin. And nobody really knew what to do with Dallas, once he landed in East Tulsa last March, with his stories: all larger than life, and bloodier, too. Everyone waited to see who that dangerous, blonde boy with the rough-rolling accent and the rap sheet would fall in with – and somehow, Evie didn’t expect it to be with those boys she’d known forever; who used to aim kickballs at her and Kathy when they’d walk past that empty lot by the Curtis place.
Steve can’t really be outright awful to Evie in Shop Class; not when they have buddies in common who take up for her, too. At least Mattie has her back – and sometimes, Chance too. But they don’t even see half the shit he does; the sneers and the comments under his breath and the petty fucking thievery. She’s simply got to get him back.
And it’s fine, ‘cause Evie’s no amateur at retaliation. God knows, she’s defended herself and Kath from worse antagonists than Steve fucking Randall, since they were just kids…with two big brothers who taught her to be tough, and smart. The temper is Evie’s alone, though, and something about Steve’s nasty stares and cocky little comments sets it off. She’s gonna turn second period right back on him and make him wish he’d never fucked with her.
***
“Hey, don’t bother, ladies.” He’s smirking over at Evie and Elaine the second they breeze into the classroom, panting with red noses from sneaking a smoke out in the cold by the dumpsters.
“Excuse me?” Elaine narrows her eyes, throwing her bookbag down on the workbench.
“We’re firin’ up the Torch, finally,” Steve grins, shooting over a withering look. “So why don’t ya just head back to Drafting, and let us handle it?”
And in that moment, Evie really does hate him – like she wasn’t the one who fixed the crankshaft on that tuff, red-orange ‘57 Ford that they’ve all been dying to turn on, before Steve convinced Mr. McNeal that he knew something about the air flow. It didn’t matter, then, that old McNeal liked Evie enough in Mechanical Drawing and Drafting last year to let a girl into his Auto Repair Shop Class; the only one aside from Elaine. She’s still bitter about passing the Torch on to Steve and Soda, when it should be her firing that banged-together engine to life.
“You think it’ll work?” Evie glares him down, sarcastic and seething. “Good luck.”
“Won’t need it,” Steve retorts. “But hey, thanks.”
Everyone’s already congregating around the car in the center of the room – the one Tim Watts’ dad gave him for scrap metal money, before he dragged it over to the high school and Mr. McNeal declared it worth saving. Every one of them has had some hand in fixing it up, by now, even as Soda and Steve did the final engine work - and they’re all holding their breath as they open up the garage door and roll that dented Ford into the parking lot. Evie sort of hopes it explodes.
“Alright, Randall.” Mr. McNeal nods, squinting in the sun, handing over the keys. “Let’s see what she’s got.”
Evie squints in the sun as Steve climbs into the driver’s seat – all tacky, and swaggering, like anyone’s actually impressed that he turned sixteen already and got his license. Something tightens in her belly as he turns the key in the ignition, and the Torch sputters and shakes.
“Aw, somethin’s wrong,” Mattie groans, and Evie hushes him, trying to listen to that irregular, jerking hum of the engine cranking over the whispers – but it doesn’t quite start.
“Ease off!” McNeal calls, waving at Steve to kill it, and he climbs bitterly out of the car, shaking his head and radiating pure rage, all bottled up in his tense jaw and mean glare.
“You know what could be wrong?”
“No!” Steve insists. “No, I don’t…”
“Curtis? Any ideas?”
“Uh, shoot.” Sodapop shoves his hands in his pockets, refusing to make eye contact with Evie or Steve or McNeal. “No, sir. Unless…”
“The spark plugs.” Evie’s not like Sodapop – speaking up, loud and clear; she’s not going to play dumb for the sake of saving Steve any face.
“What’s that?” Mr. McNeal turns to face her, suddenly interested, but Evie’s only speaking to Steve now.
“Did ya replace the spark plugs?”
“I told ya,” Steve spits, shooting her a dirty scowl. “It doesn’t need –”
“It’s rough idlin’,” Evie goes on, eyebrows raised, staring right at him. “Loud as hell, too.”
“Language, Zamora,” McNeal mutters, turning back to Steve. “Well, did you? Replace ‘em?”
“No!” Steve snaps. “They’re practically new! And I cleaned ‘em out, good, Mr. McNeal. I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Sounds like they need to be replaced.”
And Evie crosses her arms, triumphant, while Mattie elbows her and cracks up, but she keeps a cool, even expression on her face - like it was too easy, actually, to catch Steve slipping and sloppy. She didn’t even have to sabotage his toolbag, or anything.
“Yes, sir,” Steve growls, ducking his head and heading around to push the car back inside.
“I’ll see if we’ve got ‘em,” Mr. McNeal nods. “And I want ya to bring in Evie, on the install. Okay?”
The look on Steve’s face is worth every minute she’s sure she’ll have to suffer through beside him, covered in grease – but Evie nods at Mr. McNeal, unable to contain her evil little grin. She got exactly what she wanted - hitting him exactly where she knows it hurts, and she can see him simmering over with quiet rage as she joins him, shoulder to shoulder, to push the Torch.
“Cleaned ‘em out good, huh?” Evie mutters, low, just to him, and she shoves the car with a force and doesn’t bother to look back and see him glare her down.
***
“I’m telling ya, it was fuckin’ perfect.” Evie’s sitting on the edge of Kathy’s bed, talking with her hands and still smiling ear to ear.
“I mean, in front of everyone. ‘Cause he’s always been such an asshole, about me and Elaine being there, like we don’t know what we’re doing or something, and…yeah, God. I sorta destroyed him.”
“She did,” Elaine confirms, crawling over the carpet to grab Evie’s tiny little flask.
“Good on you,” Kathy snickers, spinning around from her closet, which she’s been tearing up and selling off and cutting up, lately, like all those fashion magazines she stacks up on her vanity are really going to her head, or something.
“He did deserve it,” Elaine shrugs, wincing as the liquor goes down.
“I’m sure,” Kathy rolls her eyes, throwing a skirt on top of the laundry pile.
“Ya don’t sound like you’re on my side,” Evie snaps - vaguely annoyed, that Kathy doesn’t seem to understand that the scales have tipped, now, finally in her favor.
“It’s Steve Randall,” Kathy sighs. “He’s always been an asshole. Why’re you so hung up on him, anyways?”
“Hung up,” Evie mocks, scoffing. “He’s been –”
“What, do you actually like him or something?” Kathy’s looking at her sort of funny, with those warm, dark-brown eyes narrowed – like she’s missed the point entirely. “Is that why you’re goin’ out to this booze-up?”
“Kath, NO!” Evie snaps. “That’s, like, the exact opposite of what’s goin’ on. Christ.”
“I guess he’s cute,” Kathy concedes, scrunching up her nose. “Tall, anyways. But – ugh!”
“Are ya comin’ with us or not?” Elaine cuts in, dragging herself up to her feet and grabbing her sherpa-lined jean jacket.
“No,” Kathy groans. “I’m on babysitting duty. But you two have fun.”
“Thanks,” Evie smiles, humorlessly, standing up too and grudgingly hugging Kathy goodbye as her littlest sister, Camilla, barrels through the bedroom door. “I won’t.”
It’s Friday night, and Evie and Elaine are trudging to Beatrice Campbell’s house, in the next neighborhood over. And Bea is Joanie’s friend, who’s dating Ken Cordon, who’s buddies with Chance and Mattie – so, Evie knows she’s bound to run into Sodapop, and Steve, too, at this party…and she swears, to herself, that she’s not trying to start up any more standoffs. Evie just wants to drink, like, a dozen beers and forget about Kathy’s maddening lack of sympathy for her situation.
And Evie knows she looks fucking tuff in her smart black slacks and Chuck Taylors, thick James Dean sort of cabled sweater with red lipstick and her short, dark curls bouncing. She stomps right into Bea’s little house like she’d run right through anyone who tried to stop her from raiding the makeshift bar, immediately.
Whenever someone from Evie’s social circle throws a rager, it always sort of resembles an overstuffed clown car: tiny bungalow-style houses, crammed full of teenagers, with greasy boys and tough, laughing girls spilling out onto the porch and backyard. And the pounding rock ‘n roll music and gossipy drama and stupid hijinks always go right to Evie’s head, feeling loose and sweaty and alive – feeling like she’s part of something, for one night, and maybe the whole world isn’t out to get her, after all.
“EVES!” Mattie’s slinging one arm around her, knocking Evie sideways and rambling about a beer pong match – ‘cause it’s true, that she’s sort of undefeated.
“Sure,” Evie shrugs, gesturing for Elaine to follow suit. “What the hell.”
And she puts up one hell of a game, finishing out against Mick Scheier and only missing at the last second - but all the girls, plus Mattie and Chance, are cheering for her, and Evie feels victorious all the same. And, mercifully, already drunk.
“Loser gets more beer,” Mick announces, pointing right at her.
“There’s an icebox in the basement,” Bea pipes up. “I sent Steve down there a while ago. Think he might have gotten lost.”
“I’ll go,” Evie snorts disdainfully, steadying herself and pivoting for the hall. “Hang tight.”
She takes care not to trip down those steep concrete steps, even though Bea’s dimly lit basement is sort of spinning, and it occurs to Evie that maybe she ought to slow her roll and stop drinking to rival delinquent boys. It’s too late, now, though – and Evie doesn’t even see Steve sulking around, down there, until he turns around and she jumps.
“Oh, great,” he snaps, nastily. “You.”
And Evie doesn’t know why the hell she’s thinking of Kathy’s comment from earlier – about how Steve is impressively tall, towering over her now, like he thinks he’s intimidating, or something. She does feel her cheeks flushing, as he stares her down with those mean, dark eyes. Evie isn’t sure if he’s cute; she’s literally never even stopped to consider that Slippin’ Steve Randall could possess any desirable qualities at all.
“You’re really gonna hate me over spark plugs?” Evie rolls her eyes, glaring right back, wavering off-balance. “When I’m about to find us more beer?”
“Go on, then,” Steve snarks back, huffing out hot air and sitting down heavily on the threadbare couch in the middle of the dark room, gesturing impatiently. “I’m waitin’.”
“You know you’re a totally sexist asshole, right?” Evie asks, offhand, marching over to the icebox in the corner. She’s already nearly wasted – that’s for sure – and feeling sort of emboldened to rile Steve right up and find out if he’s willing to fight her, after all.
“Sure,” Steve counters back, behind her, but Evie’s busy rummaging around in the dark, hands grasping onto cold cans buried in ice, still sweating. She sets all the pilfered beer on top of the icebox and yanks her thick sweater off over her head.
Evie isn’t sure what to expect, when she turns back around and searches Steve’s face for signs of murderous rage – like she wants him to square up, and render their stupid little rivalry real. And he does have a funny look in his eyes - looking her up and down, and Evie realizes too late that he can definitely see her bright red bra right through her camisole.
“Come ‘ere,” Steve nods, dark eyes locked on her from across the room. And Evie shuffles across the concrete floor, as if she’s being pulled over to that couch by some invisible force, cold cans clutched to her chest.
She’s standing in front of him – over him, almost, extending one arm to hand him a beer, but Steve doesn’t make a move for it. Instead, Evie feels his hands grabbing, suddenly, at her upper thighs, knocking her perilously off balance, and she pitches forward, directly into his lap.
“Hey, what the fuck –” Evie yelps, dropping all the beer cans, bending her knees instinctively to soften the landing and falling right on top of him, straddling his legs and grabbing his shoulders to brace herself.
“Let me kiss you,” Steve growls, voice all deep and low, and Evie isn’t sure if he’s lost his mind – but her skin is buzzing, all hot and electric where his hands are tightening around her waist, and she doesn’t actually want him to stop touching her, so she grinds her hips down and leans in first.
He tastes sort of like licking something sweet off an ashtray, but he kisses her hard, tangling one hand through Evie’s hair and knocking the wind right out of her chest, trembling in his tight grasp. And when he bites down on her bottom lip, just for half a second, she actually moans – and doesn’t have a second to feel embarrassed about him snickering in her ear; not with his mouth on her neck like that.
“Steve,” Evie gasps, all breathless and sort of half-laughing, in utter fucking shock. Her heart’s banging around in her chest, and her red lipstick is smeared across his face.
“You want me to stop?” He breathes back, sliding one hand up under her shirt - under the band of her bra, reaching for the clasps like he might actually know what the hell he’s doing.
And Evie really doesn’t want him to stop – house party upstairs be damned – but she kind of can’t believe this is happening at all. Mostly, she can’t believe how much she likes it, the way he puts his hands on her. Her brain is reeling through realizations, clicking into place, and Evie’s fucking wet already and half afraid of what she might let him do.
“Someone could come down,” Evie whispers. “Any minute…”
“Mmm,” Steve murmurs. “Wanna risk it?”
“Risk WHAT?!” Evie hisses back, indignantly. She doesn’t really have time to contemplate her own complete lack of experience with anything past second base, or how she just realized thirty seconds ago that she may, in fact, be extremely attracted to Steve fucking Randall.
“I can’t believe it wasn’t obvious,” he mutters, laughing under his breath as he bucks his hips, grinding up into her, and Evie feels like she’s burning up in his hands, shaking with adrenaline and trying to stifle a moan.
“Eves,” Steve mumbles, all hot breath hitting her neck. “I want ya.”
“Clearly,” Evie slurs back, shaking her head in disbelief – but she’ll buy in, for the night, if he’ll grab her hips like that again and keep kissing her. “Alright. All yours.”
***
Evie knows she’s been acting recklessly already this year, falling in with the Shop boys’ crew and trawling the house party circuit like cheap beer is suddenly going out of style. God knows, Kathy’s started looking at her, sort of just like Evie’s own mother does, when she confesses all her petty scraps, or how she got detention. But this – this is way beyond her usual antics, and Evie’s sort of too shocked with herself, still, to even say the words out loud.
“Oh, spill it, already,” Kathy demands, impatiently, from her spot at the vanity where she’s color-coding her fucking blush compacts, or something. Evie takes a deep breath.
“I hooked up with Steve Randall.”
“You WHAT?!” Kathy spins around, eyes flying open, screwing up her face.
“You heard me.”
“Wait,” Kathy narrows her eyes, like Evie can see her trying to connect dots in her brain, demanding to know more. “What the HELL? Last night?”
“Yeah, obviously.”
“Steve Randall!” Kathy yelps, repeating it over, slowly, in shock. “Steve…Randall.”
“I know,” Evie groans, raking her fingers through her hair and rolling her eyes.
“I thought you two hated each other.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too,” Evie mutters. “Maybe that’s what made it good?”
“What was IT?” Kathy leaps up, eyebrows raised suspiciously. “Eves! Ya didn’t let him…?”
“NO!” Evie yelps, face burning. “We just made out, okay? In Bea’s fuckin’ basement, on a beer run, alright, so we couldn’t exactly –”
“But you would?” Kathy’s eyeing her in disbelief, like she’s staring right down into Evie’s soul, and lying wouldn’t even work. “And, wait. So it was…nice?”
“It was…somethin’,” Evie murmurs, with a sort of pained expression on her face - ‘cause she really, really didn’t want to admit it, either, at first. “I mean, he got pretty handsy.”
“Jesus Christ, Eves,” Kathy sits back, blinking slowly, like she’s plotting something. “So what now?”
“What do ya mean?”
“I mean, are you guys going out?” Kathy looks at her, curiously, like she ought to know.
“No,” Evie snaps. “We didn’t exactly talk terms and conditions.”
“Well, do you WANT to go out with him?”
“Not sure yet,” Evie mumbles, sort of regretting spilling the beans in the first damn place – because she really doesn’t know exactly what she’s started up, here, or even how she wants it to shake out.
“But you KISSED him!”
“No,” Evie snarks. “HE kissed ME.”
“Yeah, right,” Kathy smirks, knowingly – ‘cause she really does know Evie Zamora inside and out, and knows she isn’t in the habit of waiting around for her rivals to make the first move.
“Aw, screw off,” Evie shoves her, groaning and falling back onto Kath’s quilted bedspread, staring intently at a crack in the ceiling.
“No, this is insane,” Kathy muses, and Evie can hear her slamming vanity drawers shut and crawling over to join her at the bottom of the bed. “Steve Randall. I can’t even…I mean, what if ya start goin’ steady?”
“Just calm down,” Evie snaps, trying to remember that metaphor, about the cart and the horse, or whatever. “Jesus.”
“He’s got a car,” Kathy goes on, poking her excitedly. “You’re gonna get rides to school. And you’re gonna have to stop wearin’ red lipstick. And switch from bubblegum, to mint…”
“Didn’t know sucking face was an Olympic fuckin’ sport,” Evie grumbles, rolling her eyes. “What, do I need goggles, too? Knee pads? Wait, how would you even know?”
“You’ll see,” Kathy giggles. “Has he called ya?”
“No? He doesn’t even have my number.”
“You didn’t give it to him?”
“I was fuckin’ sauced, Kath!”
“That’s okay,” Kathy grins, sounding so very sure of herself – and titillated, too. “He’ll get it from Mattie. Just wait.”
“For WHAT?”
“God, Eves,” Kathy crawls over, up to where she’s lying on the bed, shoving her face into Evie’s view. “For him to ask you out, obviously.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” Evie spits, like she doesn’t care one way or the other if Steve Randall rings her up this weekend or not. But of course she fuckin’ wants him to – even if she can’t really make sense of any of these insane consequences Kathy’s talking about; even though she hated his guts three days ago.
Evie won’t admit exactly how she feels when she remembers back, to how he grabbed her, all hot and quick and desperate – how it set her off and drove her sort of insane. How she’s suddenly thinking that maybe she and him aren’t so different; how maybe they clashed just because they both possess the same exact sort of stubborn, spiteful spirit. Evie’s sort of terrified that she’s finally met her match – even though he was there all along. She’s more scared of just how much she might actually like him; of the very idea of letting her guard down for a boy.
“Evie!” Kathy smacks her, lightly, voice all high-pitched. “C’mon, this is major.”
“THIS isn’t anything, yet,” Evie says, indignantly, like she’s trying to shove the whole idea of it becoming something away from herself, and not have to face it head-on.
“Yeah, okay,” Kathy’s got a wiley, crooked grin on her face; completely invested and already along for the ride. “Call me when he calls ya, okay?”
***
Steve doesn’t call Evie on Saturday, or Sunday – even as she hovers near the telephone, feeling slightly pathetic, after a while. Even her mother noticed her, camped out by the bottom of the stairs, in the way of her vacuuming - and her big brother Dominic almost runs her right over, barreling around the corner.
“Watch it!” Evie barks, aiming a kick at his shins.
“Ya expectin’ a call, or somethin’?” Dom smirks down at her. “Hey, wanna put in some work on the Rambler? Could take a look at that time belt.”
“Yeah, okay.” Evie drags herself up, grateful for the distraction – and for Dom, who sort of reminds her of Steve, all tall and dark and greasy; so obsessed with engine work that he’s been spending his weekends helping her fix up a beater of her own to drive around, as soon as she turns sixteen. Evie already knows how to drive, obviously – she just needs the paperwork. And probably a new time belt. And to somehow reverse this hijacking of her normally-rational brain by a certain Steve Randall, ‘cause God, this is actually getting embarrassing.
Evie feels most at home on the floor of her dad’s garage, under an engine with grease dripping down on her, wrench in hand – ever since she was a little kid, she’s never been shut out of the family auto business for being a girl. She learned right alongside Dom and Anton, and Evie knows her shit inside and out. She always has.
“What’s got you all weird?” Dominic asks, casually, digging through the toolbox.
“Nothin’.”
“Huh.”
“Okay, so, like, hypothetically,” Evie ventures, gritting her teeth. “If a guy likes a girl – like, enough to tell her so – he’d probably call her, right?”
“Uh, hypothetically?” Dom eyes her sharply. “Depends. Who’re we talkin’ about?”
“Nevermind,” Evie snaps. “And why the hell would it depend?”
“‘Cause men are bums, Eves,” Dominic grins, ruefully. “Better not be some cat takin’ ya for a ride.”
“Thanks,” Evie mutters. “And no. It’s cool. It’s nothin’.”
And Evie acts all cool and unbothered, too, when she walks into Shop Class on Monday – like nothing ever happened, even if her heart is racing and she’s looking out for Steve. She wonders, suddenly, if he told anyone…if she can detect any hint of knowledge, in Sodapop’s grin, but he looks just as carefree and cool as usual – and Steve doesn’t even look up.
“Hey,” Evie says, finally, hanging up her bag and walking over to their crew.
“Hey,” Steve grunts back – catching her eye, just for a second, before he glances away and turns back to Soda. And Evie inhales sharply, swallowing down her confusion and pretending like it doesn’t hurt, that he won’t even look at her.
Elaine doesn’t know a thing, so Evie spends the whole first half of class in girlworld, gossiping about nothing while they clean out cylinders, just waiting for Mr. McNeal to put her in on the Torch. She isn’t sure if she’s looking forward to it, now – to being forced under the hood with a boy who kissed her and said he wanted her; who’s totally snubbing her, now that he’s tricked her into wanting him back. And it dawns on Evie, slowly and horribly and all at once, that maybe it was all an elaborate prank against her – and maybe she’s the world’s biggest sucker, for falling for it.
“Alright, Little Miss Spark Plugs,” McNeal calls from the middle of the classroom. “Get in here with Randall.”
Evie feels slightly ill, stomach turning like a tornado of butterflies, as she walks over to the Torch, with its hood flung open and Steve Randall standing there over the engine, looking at her just like he always does – sort of like a threat that needs to be squashed out of existence.
“You got this?” Steve flicks his dark eyebrows up at her, dubiously, like a dare.
“Obviously,” Evie rolls her eyes, searching his face for some answer, as to why he’s still acting like such a fucking asshole.
“Great,” Steve grins back coldly. “Don’t let me stop ya.”
And he stands there, breathing down her neck and handing her wrenches, offering up commentary on everything she’s doing wrong, and Evie can feel his eyes boring through the back of her head as she installs the new wire plugs. She takes her time, tightening everything up intentionally, sweating and sort of shaking with a strange anxiety.
“Looks like good work,” McNeal says, appraisingly. “Want to find out?”
Evie holds her breath as they go through the old routine, pushing the Torch out into the lot, and as Steve climbs back into the driver’s seat. She actually squeezes her eyes shut for a second, waiting for that engine to roar to life – and it does, humming loud and clear, and Evie whispers, “Thank Christ.”
She doesn’t even feel triumphant – just fucking relieved, as everyone else whoops and shouts. Evie gets to work cleaning up the benches, throwing tools into bags, letting the boys rally around the Ford as Steve backs it in.
She can still hear them yapping raucously, high-fiving each other and doing fucking somersaults out in the lot, as Evie packs up her stuff wordlessly, straining to listen over the rest of the chatter – for anyone to give her a shred of credit, or for anything out of Steve. All she overhears are snippets of an argument about catching a pool game tonight.
“Nah, let’s hit The Alamo,” Chance groans. “There’s never any girls at Artie’s.”
“Girls,” Evie hears Steve spit – like he’s talking about some loathsome subgroup of the human population, and she winces. “Ya ever think about anythin’ other than chasin’ tail?”
“No,” Chance shoots back. “You should try it, buddy. Loosen ya up a little.”
“Hey, him and Evie looked pretty friendly back there.” She hears Mattie’s voice, teasing, and Evie’s stomach drops out, staring down at the floor and listening intently.
“Zamora?” Steve asks, mockingly; meanly. “She’s barely even a girl.”
She knows Elaine hears him say it – leaping into action from across the room, she stalks over to Steve Randall and spits out something lethal about Evie being a better mechanic, and Steve being a jealous little weasel and a sexist loser, and even Mattie’s shaking his head, but Evie can’t even feel grateful for her tough, loyal friends. Her face is burning and she’s struggling, hard, to force it into a neutral, dead-eyed stare.
Evie hates Steve Randall all over again – so much worse, now, than ever before. She doesn’t even want to fight him anymore. No, Evie wants Steve’s very existence scrubbed from the earth, and especially from her own brain. The one saving grace, maybe, is that only Kathy will ever have to know she kissed him like a totally braindead idiot.
She tries to tell herself it’s okay, in the bathroom mirror between Shop Class and History – that it was just a minor lapse, in her usually self-protective judgement, and Evie can crawl back from it, now that all the butterflies are dead. She can shut off her feelings, again, just like shutting off the faucet – and she can strike Steve Randall from her heart and mind, and kill whatever crazy ideas she had about being his girlfriend, too.
Evie’s aware that she might have gone insane for one weekend – but it’s not going to happen again; not on her fucking watch. She’s climbing right back into the driver’s seat, already plotting her revenge; Evie’s gonna set everything right in her world again.
***
“It’s a shit plan,” Mattie announces, crushing a cigarette butt under his boot and kicking the nearby chain-link fence. “They’d catch on so fast, it’d make your head spin. And I’m not headed back to the reformatory.”
Evie’s not even sure what the hell she’s doing outside the Dingo, shivering in her denim jacket in the late October wind, milling around with Elaine and Mattie and Chance and Sodapop and their friend Two-Bit because nobody had the cash to get in. And, yeah, Steve is there, too – though she’s been ignoring him hard, taking extra time to tease out her curls and then acting as rude to him as humanly fucking possible, for weeks now. She’s pretty sure people have started noticing that nasty tension hanging between them – but Evie’s not trudging back to the girls’ table in defeat. She’ll keep her friends, even if Steve sticks to them like glue, too - even as they’re pulling together this ill-advised plan to “borrow” parts from the Shop closet, to get old Two-Bit Mathews’ car running again.
“Yeah, what about McNeal?” Sodapop says. “What if the school blames him?”
“What if they never find out it’s missin’?” Chance argues. “I mean, who checks?”
“They’ve got, like, inventory lists,” Elaine rolls her eyes. “They’d catch us.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” Steve interjects, slick and serious. “Not if we only took the pistons and the rings. I’ll replace ‘em by next week, with whatever we can skim from the DX. Who’s in?”
“Why don’t you just steal ‘em from the DX in the first place, then?” Evie drones.
“‘Cause I’d rather get expelled than fired,” Steve snaps, shooting her hateful glare.
“That’s your problem,” Evie rolls her eyes.
“I’m out,” Sodapop announces, throwing up his hands. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Yeah, me too,” Elaine crosses her arms. “You’re not really gonna –”
“Mattie?” Steve asks, sharply questioningly. “Chance?”
“Yeah, I’m in,” Mattie mutters.
“Evie?” He’s mocking her, for sure – smirking, like he thinks she’s not tough enough to dare. And Evie knows she’s sworn up and down, exasperatedly to Kathy, about how she doesn’t care one way or the other what Steve thinks of her - just like she knows that breaking into the school to steal spare car parts has got to be the worst idea since Joanie’s attempt to bleach her own hair. But Evie feels herself shifting into rare, reckless form, lately – like she wasn’t born full of bad ideas, growing up with something desperate to prove.
“Yeah, sure,” she announces, looking Steve right in the eyes and grinning when he looks at her like that – surprised.
“I’m workin’ on a Rambler,” Evie shrugs. “Gonna check out the time belts.”
And she feels pretty tough, cutting across empty lots in the dark with Chance and Mattie and Steve and Two-Bit, their loud laughter echoing through quiet streets. It’s only when they approach Will Rogers High School, all shuttered and silent, that Evie starts to think that maybe she’s gotten in way over her head – again. But she can’t exactly back out now and live to let Steve Randall tell the tale, about how she’s a coward.
Chance’s clever plan seems to be working, as they roll the garage door outside the Shop classroom right up, a few feet, and duck under it like spies. The Auto Shop classroom is full of fucking obstacles to trip over in the dark, but Steve leads the way back to the storage closet, commanding complete silence.
There’s just one second, where Chance knocks into the shelves before they turn the light on – and Evie claps her hands over her mouth, jumping as metal parts crash to the floor, louder than bombs – and she thinks they’re well and truly caught. But Steve pulls the pistons off a top shelf, cradling the parts in his arms and nodding for them to head out.
She can’t take the time belt – not ‘cause she didn’t find one, but because Sodapop Curtis is right. She can’t do Mr. McNeal like that; not after he took a chance on her. Evie’s really just praying she makes it home tonight unscathed and innocent – and it’s looking good, as they gather up the loot and prepare to sneak back through the darkened classroom. She’s already preparing to exhale a sigh of relief when a light cracks on in the hallway, outside, and they all freeze.
“Police, come outta there!”
Evie’s heart sinks, down to her fucking toes, and it’s like something explodes there in the still air and they all run, helter skelter – Chance skidding out towards the garage door behind Two-Bit, and she sees Steve and Mattie pivot back towards the closet, and she doesn’t have time to think twice about following them.
“STOP!” Evie hears voices – and bodies – filling up the classroom as she barricades the closet door, and Mattie and Steve scramble up onto the counter – under the big window that opens over the back dumpsters. She was convinced that it was rusted shut, but they’re cranking open the top left pane, and Mattie hoists himself up and shoves his way through that little dark hole like an acrobat, disappearing in space.
Steve leaps up behind him, lean and lithe, climbing through the window, and Evie swears he takes one last, bitter look back at her, before he jumps out. And there’s nowhere to go, then, but right after him – even though Evie has a harder time reaching up to that high sill, sweaty hands ruining every grip. Steve must be, like, six feet tall, and Evie’s reminded all over again, as she reaches up and slips, that she’s a girl – smaller and weaker, but apparently, just as fucking stupid as him.
The cops are banging on the door and a panic is settling into Evie’s bones, and she takes a deep breath, crosses herself, and makes one desperate jump, reaching out for the top sill to grab onto. If she can just get a good hold and hoist herself up, then Evie figures she can make it out - not like she has a choice, as the lock cracks and the door swings open.
And she’s so, so fucking close - thinking, in midair, that she’s gonna clear it, clinging white-knuckled to that windowsill, until her foot slips and she comes crashing down, tumbling sideways off the counter. Evie’s vaguely aware of the hot, stinging pain in her shoulder - and all down the side of her face - where her skin scraped over some sharp, awful piece of unknown metal, but she doesn’t have time to assess the damage, now, as one of those cops flicks on the light again. And they look almost-surprised when they stare down at her, red-faced and panting on the floor, on the edge of tears.
“Well, well,” one of them mutters. “What have you got yourself into, here, honey?”
“Figured we were lookin’ for Kravitz,” the other smirks, shaking his head. “Or Winston.”
“She’s bleedin’.” The first officer squints down at Evie, half-concerned. “You okay, kid?”
“Yeah,” Evie chokes out, through clenched teeth, feeling more pathetic than she has all month. “Could you guys just shoot me, or somethin’?”
***
“Evangelina!”
She’s bracing herself, waiting in the lobby; shaking, all over again, worse than in that icebox of a holding cell – locked up, like she robbed a fuckin’ liquor store, guns blazing, or something.
Evie sort of can’t actually believe that they dragged her down to the reformatory. But she’s been dreading the very moment her parents came to bail her out; far more scared of her mother’s cries and dad’s disappointment than she is of being stuck in such a place, like this.
It’s been two fucking nights, now – sleeping on a thin palette mattress and listening to clanks and grunts and shouts, and Evie’s got a sick feeling that her father could have strong-armed someone into releasing her already, if he wasn’t trying to teach her a lesson.
“Your FACE!”
Her mother’s nearly shrieking, reaching out towards that nasty scrape on her cheekbone, all bruised yellow and angry, and Evie winces and dodges her.
“It’s fine.” Evie grits her teeth, mumbling. “They put some antibiotic ointment on me, or somethin’.”
“Evie,” her mother signs – and it sort of sounds like her voice is breaking, right under the weight of all the disappointment. “I don’t know why you’d do this to yourself. I mean, your face…doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
And Evie flicks her eyes up, sort of in disbelief – as if her fucking looks would matter, now – before casting her gaze right back down to the floor.
“I know,” Evie murmurs, hopelessly. “I’m sorry. I mean, really. I don’t know why I…”
“God help anyone who knows WHY you’d do something like this!”
And Evie’s dad doesn’t say much of anything – because he doesn’t have to; her mom’s more than capable of dressing her down and making her regret every single choice Evie’s made since she was born, probably.
She keeps her mouth shut, tight, on the drive home, embarrassed and weary and still sort of unable to believe that she’s got a real juvenile record now, just like Winston and Mattie and the rest of those famous hooligans.
“Well, you’re grounded,” Evie’s mother announces, as they pull into the driveway. “For the month. You’ve got five minutes to call Kathy, or whoever’s been ringin’ us up and worryin’ about ya.”
“Thanks,” Evie mumbles, miserably, nearly sprinting to the phone, crouched over the pad of paper with the day’s messages on it – ‘cause she’s more curious about who else, other than Kath, might have dared to call and spill the beans…but she recognizes Sodapop Curtis’ number, and the words “call back - Evie - urgent(?)” scrawled in Dominic’s messy writing. Evie picks up the phone and dials.
“Hello?” It’s his mother, who sounds kind, and warm, and Evie quickly tempers her voice down into something girlish and polite, rather than demanding. “For Soda? ‘Course it is. Who is it, honey?”
“Evie Zamora,” she whispers. “Thanks.”
And then there’s a shuffling, and muffled shouts, before Soda starts babbling in her ear.
“Evie!” He exclaims, talking in a rush. “Are you okay? Heard they took ya all the way to – well, we tried to track ya down. But they said your parents were pickin’ ya up.”
“Yeah, they did,” Evie groans. “You were right, Soda. Not to go. You’re always…well, always one of the good ones. And I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”
“It was Steve’s fault,” Soda cuts in, sort of muttering. “Dragging you in, and then leavin’ ya there. But then he told me somethin’, yesterday…”
“What?” Evie asks, belligerently.
“Eves,” Sodapop whispers. “He really likes ya.”
“Ha! Sure seems like it.”
“No, Eves. I’m tellin’ ya, we drove ‘round the police station. And the school. Then he’s talkin’ to the people at juvie hall, trying to find out where they stuck ya…”
“Yeah?” Evie asks, suspicious and strangely elated.
“So, after about half a day, I asked him what was goin’ on,” Soda continues, sort of gleefully, “And – well, ‘course he ought to feel bad about letting you take the fall. But I didn’t know you guys had a thing.”
“A THING?” Evie protests. “Yeah, we don’t have any –”
“I think he wants you to.” She can practically see him smirking through the phone, a little too delighted to have figured it out. “Mercy, Evie, he’s like…I don’t know. I’d say he’s down bad, but maybe you’d be good for him. Like, perfect, actually.”
“Don’t you dare,” Evie snaps. “When he’s been ruining my fuckin’ life.”
“I know, I know,” Soda’s saying, but he sounds like he’s sort of bouncing around, animated. “He’s got some plan, to make it up to ya. Just – give him a chance, will ya, Eves?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Take it from me,” Sodapop says, seriously, but he’s sort of laughing, too, like he can’t help himself. “I’ve never seen him like this. I think you drive him sorta crazy, or somethin’. Like he wouldn’t even admit.”
“I’m hanging up, now,” Evie announces, stifling a wicked little grin as her mother rounds the corner. “Thanks, Curtis.”
***
Evie has plenty of time to think while she’s chained to her parent’s property, smoking about a million cigarettes on the front porch and staring, dead-eyed, down her street. It’s half to piss off her own mother, who discovered her loathsome nicotine habit when she was about twelve – and now, she just shoves a thick wool sweater out into Evie’s arms, muttering something about catching her death in the cold.
She’s certainly never going to forgive Steve Randall for ditching her, alone, to take the fall for his own evil little plan – but then, it’s also true that she hasn’t been able to get him out of her head for a solid hour, all week. And all her rage is sort of mixed up with those memories, of kissing him…and Steve grabbing her, hard, and confessing that he wanted her.
She’s thinking about what Sodapop Curtis said, about Steve driving around looking for her – about making it up to her. Evie’s got her fucking doubts. She definitely doesn’t actually expect to see his car prowling down her street – that red Chevy Bel Air, banged back together with nothing but elbow grease. Her heart starts pounding, and she glances back to see if anyone’s watching from the windows as he parks on their curb.
He’s walking across Evie’s lawn - all long strides, mouth set in a hard line, hands in his pockets, heading straight for her. Evie straightens her back and puts on a mean glare as he stops, standing right in front of her - almost eye-to-eye, she’s got the high ground, perched on the top porch step.
“Hey,” Steve says, simply. He’s got a funny look in his eyes - sharp and serious as always, but there’s something antsy darting around underneath. “Ya stuck here?”
“Yes,” Evie snaps, bitingly caustic and nasty. “For the month. Thanks, for that, by the way.”
“Shoot, Evie.” He’s shifting his weight around, all nervous and repentant. “I’m sorry.”
“And for everything else.”
“I’m SORRY!” Steve looks sort of horribly exasperated, raking his hand through his hair and messing up his fancy greased swirls. “For bein’ an asshole. For everything I ever did to ya, Eves, I’d take it back –”
“Everything?” Evie raises one eyebrow, smirking sideways, staring right at him.
“Not that,” Steve grins back, eyes flashing. “Everythin’ but that.”
“I’m gonna need ya to explain what the hell that means,” Evie demands, crossing her arms. “‘Cause if this is how ya treat girls you like, I think I’d rather you just hated me.”
“I don’t hate you,” Steve groans, turning red. “I mean, it’s okay, if you hate me.”
“I’m still deciding.”
“I really fuckin’ like ya, Evie.” He’s staring at her, intently, unwavering. “I always did. I just didn’t know what to do with it. I never felt – well, I’m just sorry. I shouldn’t have ever done ya like that, any of it.”
“You got me caught by the fuzz,” Evie laughs, under her breath, at the ridiculousness of it all; of Steve – even though he’s got her blushing, now.
“Mercy, I’m sorry,” Steve chuckles. “Yeah, you’ve got a tuffer rap sheet than me, now.”
“They didn’t even haul me to grown-up jail!” Evie snaps. “Thanks.”
“Eh, it counts,” Steve grins. “Bet nobody will bother ya, anymore.”
“You’re bothering me right now,” Evie mutters - but she’s cracking a smile, and her skin sort of feels like it’s buzzing again.
“What happened to your face?” He’s staring at that nasty scrape down her cheekbone, bruising yellow by now. “Did they rough you up?”
“No,” she groans, sighing in exasperation. “I fell. Tryin’ to climb out that fuckin’ window, after ya.”
“Don’t hate me, Eves,” Steve says – sort of like begging, but he doesn’t look desperate, only determined. “I never should have left ya, like that. C’mon, lemme make it up to you.”
“How?” Evie rolls her eyes. “Gonna scrub my record?”
“No,” Steve smirks. “Pulled ya a mostly-new time belt. Lemme put it in for ya?”
“Oh,” Evie startles, and she can’t help grinning back at him. “It’s the blue Rambler, in the garage. But I’m pretty sure my Dad’s in there now.”
“Great,” he nods, unbothered. “Two birds, one stone, or somethin’.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Steve stands up, slapping his knees and winking at her. “Hang tight, kid.”
***
Evie’s been dreading her family dinner table lately – ‘cause it’s always her on the chopping block, but tonight, she’s dying to hear whatever her Dad has to say.
She watched from the window, earlier, as Steve walked across the lot to the garage. And Evie’s eyes flew open when she saw her dad emerging, first, and approaching Steve, talking to him in the driveway for a while. She ducked way down below the window, peeking over the sill with her heart pounding, and watched her dad shake Steve’s hand and let him into their garage.
“Who was that, earlier?” Of course, her mother won’t even let them say grace without giving her the third degree, regarding Evie suspiciously across the table.
“Steve Randall,” Evie chokes, ears turning red as Dom starts chuckling.
“He’s not one of those boys you got into trouble with?”
“Um, yeah,” Evie nods coolly. “The main boy, actually.”
“Your father figured,” Evie’s mom remarks tightly. “And what was he doing, out in our garage?”
Dominic is reveling, with all the subtlety of a fucking atom bomb, kicking Evie under the table - and their oldest brother, Anton, just looks confused, but everyone’s looking to their dad, waiting on his word about a certain tall, sleazy boy sniffing around their property.
“Steve explained to me whose idea that stunt at the school was,” her Dad says, slowly, eyeing Evie across the table. “And he personally apologized, for letting Evie take the fall.”
“Told you it wasn’t my fault,” Evie mumbles, face hot and eyes downcast.
“Well, then he offered to make some honorable amends, to our little scapegoat.”
“What?” Evie asks, almost scared to know what Steve offered up – for her.
“He asked to take her to a Halloween party tomorrow night.” A knowing little smile plays over Evie’s dad’s face, like he’s just as amused as Dom. “Sounded like an important event. I said yes.”
Her mother is raising her eyebrows, lips drawn into a tight, disapproving line, but Evie can’t hide her face, cracking into a triumphant grin. She’s thinking of how to tell Kathy that she was right; that Steve Randall finally asked her out, even if it was in the most roundabout and ridiculous way possible.
“Didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Eves,” Dom winks at her.
“Yeah,” Evie breezes, blushing and smirking. “I didn’t either.”
***
Evie’s in the passenger seat of Steve’s Chevy, flying through the chilly residential streets of East Tulsa on the way to Mattie’s annual Halloween party – and she’s sort of hot as those annoying butterflies she thought she murdered flutter around in her belly. Evie’s all too aware of her own proximity to Steve’s body, and of the fact that she’s about to walk into the biggest social event of the month on his arm. She’s kind of looking forward to seeing whose heads will roll; sticking it to all those evil, awful girls who liked to call her a freak.
And mostly, Evie’s glad she actually took Kathy’s advice about forgoing her usual lipstick, even if she doesn’t feel quite like herself without Revlon Certainly Red. She just wants Steve to kiss her, again, here in the quiet dark or in the middle of Mattie’s crowded backyard; Evie doesn’t care about the details. She just keeps sneaking little looks over at him as he turns onto North Wheeling Ave, and she can hear the noise already.
“So, what are we gonna tell everyone?” Steve grins over at her – coyly; casually, like they’re co-conspirators in a wicked little plot.
“Um, to mind their business?”
“Yeah, that’ll work.” Evie sort of loves how he speaks her language, all slimy and sarcastic and smart. “I’d rather tell ‘em you’re my girl.”
“Yeah?” Her heart skips a beat, flying over the moon and back into Evie’s chest with a crash while she tries to act all cool and steady and not elated.
“Yeah,” Steve grins, nodding firmly and swinging his arm around her seat while he inches into a parallel spot on the curb strewn with beat-up cars. “I don’t have a ring to give ya, or anythin’, but…yeah, they’ll know.”
And the craziest thing Evie’s ever learned about cars doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the engine parts; she only realized it a few years ago. It’s the way a teenage girl can climb into a sleek machine on a Friday night and come out with an entire boyfriend, or without their virginity. Evie’s working on that next part. Right now, she’s perfectly content to emerge from the Chevy, hand in hand with Steve Randall, and stomp right across Mattie’s lawn, a new woman.
His hand is warm, with a firm grasp that sort of makes Evie lightheaded, and she’s half afraid she’s gonna trip or pass out, or something, straining her ears as they make their way up to the front door, which is propped open, buddies and rivals spilling out of Mattie’s house, onto the grass.
And she hears the whispers, already – Pete, talking to Bea’s friend Goldie, pausing for a second from trying to liquor her up and dive into those bushes.
“Is that Evie?”
She has to squash down a giant, tooth-baring smirk, amused by their total disbelief…and it’s dawning on her, slowly, that maybe she’s not going to be the same old Evie Zamora ever again. At least, tonight, she’s not just that scrappy little Tulsa tomboy, picking fights and not fitting in anywhere – and maybe Evie’s better than she thought at being a girl. A girlfriend. Maybe it could even be fun.
“Are they, like, together?”
It’s Mattie himself, standing like a shadow in the doorway, obviously perplexed and exchanging glances with Sodapop, who appears behind him, as if out of thin air.
“Ask ‘em, yourself,” Soda shrugs, but he’s grinning ear-to-ear, all pleased with himself.
“What do ya think, Mattie?” Steve asks, sarcastically, dragging Evie’s fist up into the sky in a triumphant salute that could punch holes in the midnight blue sky. “Yeah, I fuckin’ got her.”