Chapter Text
Dallas gets called out of his name. Whatever, but who the fuck decided he was blonde?! He's clearly Towheaded! Fuck blonde!
When I stepped out into the bright lights from the darkness of the subway train, I had only two things on my mind, Tulsa, Oklahoma and a foster family. Tulsa was the city I was in, I had spend my entire life in New York and was only commin' here 'cause my dad died and my mom had left three years ago before my dad died, when I was eight. I was thinkin' of a foster family, because I would most likely be meetin' the foster family I was assigned in this crappy city. I wasn't here to stay in Oklahoma though, just until I can get my hands on a foster family that was in a big city. New Jersey or California are the ideal states, not Oklahoma.
I wasn't doin' anythin' wrong, just lookin' for a fight. Back in New York, in Brooklyn, you didn't ever have to worry about never havin' nobody to fight. There was organized gangs, hatred and always a new opponent, weather or not you were in the mood for a fight. But this trash wasn't Brooklyn. It was the bottomless pit of the gutters. Welcome to Tulsa, Oklahoma. 1959. I was ten, this was after my first arrest (which was in New York) and I was notably different. I was smarter, more reserved. I knew what I wanted and how to get what I want. Some might have said that jail made me a jerk. But then I guess bein' a jerk is the only way I can survive. Enough about jail, this isn't about jail.
I was walkin' 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 the subway, the third one I'd taken to get to this shady town, this current subway had the most flickerin' lights and sketchy homeless people who eyed you, tryin' to decide if you were worth muggin'. The foster family that had adopted me had a confusin' address and I was told that the wife would be pickin' me up even though I'd much rather walk. 𝘐 𝘥on't 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘛𝘶𝘭𝘴𝘢, I thought.
There was a boy, no older than 11 with dark curly hair, a slouched posture and dark blue eyes that told a whole ass story. This piece of shit kept eyein' me. Maybe I was near somethin' he was lookin' at, maybe this random boy was starin' at somethin' that 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘦. I'd felt a bit uncomfortable as he looked me dead in the eyes. I didn't look away, if you did that back in Brooklyn, you were a sissy and would probably get jumped before you made it home.
Jumpin' in Brooklyn wasn't cute either. You'd walk away with a broken limb if you were lucky. If not, then you were unlucky and would spend the rest of your life in and out of the emergency room. Mass suicides weren't rare either. The Brooklyn bridge was a gorgeous sight, if you could ignore watchin' your best friend jumpin' off it. Anyone who was there at the wrong time was about to see some awful shit go down. I watched my cousin jump when she was 14 because she was bein' blackmailed by her own father and there was nothin' I could do 'bout it. What's done is done.
I didn't look away from that boy and he didn't look away either. I'd litterly just moved here and was down for a fight unless this boy happened to be the ring leader of the circus called Tulsa. He looked away eventually and I copied, I didn't have time for this, I was tryin' to find my way out of this nasty subway station. I saw the bright, neon and red ᴇxɪᴛ sign , I followed it through the large crowd of people, dodgin' and duckin' when I saw random poles or people who were three times my height. I got to the sign and almost got to followin' the hallway that the sign lay above. I stepped a bit closer and was stopped by a boy, the same clown from an hour ago. The one with dark curly hair and a cat-like posture, he had these deep blue Pacific ocean like eyes. I tilted my head, what does he want?
He took a step closer to me and I freaked out a bit and swung. It landed on his cheek and he smiled like a fuckin' demon. He punched me in the stomach and I forgot how to breathe for a few seconds before I got a left hook on his jaw. He spit out blood, a dark crimson shade of red hit the floor, the fluorescent lights only addin' to my increasin' adrenaline. He smirked at me and the exit sign light above him flickered. This fucker really looked like Frankenstein with the lightin'. I was tryin' to catch my breath and I leaned against the wall for a bit of support. Mr. Pacific-Ocean-eyes pinned me against the wall, I didn't really care, I just needed some air. He could beat me senseless, break a rib or three and I'd be alright. Nothin' my parents haven't done to my before.
"You ain't from 'around here, are ya, Blondie?" He asked with that stupid smirk that made me want to gouge his deep blue eyes out.
"Fuck off." I choked out, still tryin' to catch up with my breath. I had to keep up a tough look. I was nothin' without my reputation and I had no rep here.
Mr. Pacific smirked confidently. "Dont be feisty, you're the one against the wall, ain't ya?"
"What do ya want?" I asked between gasps.
"Hell you mean? Ya swung first, Blondie."
"You were followin' me."
"You're new here, I wanted to talk. Why ya so paranoid?"
"I grew up in New York, you're either paranoid or dead by dawn. No in between."
"Interestin'. See this is how ya have a conversation, not tryin' to kill someone you've never met." He giggled and I noted how he looked younger when he wasn't givin' me a glare or bein' punched. "What's ya name, kid?"
"We're the same age. Don't call me kid." I said, he punched my in the stomach and I let out a stupid, involuntary whimper. I grimaced at the stupid sound I was forced to make. He smiled at me, not a cute or friendly smile, like a predator lookin' at it's prey. They boy was gon' kill me, I'd survived ten years in New York only to die from an 11 year old? No thanks.
"Fine, be difficult. I'm Timothy Shepard. Call me Tim, I'm eleven."
"I ain't callin' ya shit. I don't plan on stayin' in this shitty town anyway. I'll be gone my end of the month, mark my words."
"We'll see about that, Blondie. How about a hint for your name." He said, holdin' up a fist in a pathetic attempt at a threat.
I frowned. Why cant he just best me up? This is so frustratin' "It rhymes with stay-the-fuck-away-from-me-you-jerk."
"How about a last name?" He persisted and I wanted to shoot myself in the head.
I decided to play along. I'd bought many Winston cigarettes before, so he shouldn't have no problems figurin' it out. "My last name is the same as a famous cigarette brand."
He perked up and answered immediately. "Kools?"
"You ain't the brightest, no?" I laughed lightly. He punched me in the shoulder, but I could have sworn it was playful.
"How 'bout ya just give me ya name before I best it out of ya."
I tried to sound tuffer than I'd felt, actively pinned to the wall. "I've been beat by a Louisville slugger once when I forgot to do the dishes and my old man flipped. I was 7. You can't phase me with those petty punches and sloppy kicks."
"Thats cute. How 'bout we out that myth to the test? Hm, Asshole?"
I coughed out a bit of blood. "Dallas."
"The city? You've been to Texas? Do they wear cowboy hats and 'em boots?"
"No, my name's Dallas. Dallas Winston, I'm ten. And nobody wears Cowboy hats besides in 'em moviez. I've been to Texas, there ain't no boots either." I said with an eye roll and hoped he'd shut his little trap.
"You're cowboy material!" He exclaimed.
"Whatever. Let me go. Now." I said he didn't made the very slightest attempt to let me go, so I brought my knee up and kick him in the torso repeatedly. I delivered a jab to the spot where I had kicked him to keep the pain commin'. I had been taught to punch or kick in the same places for optimal dysfunction in said places. Guess who taught me? My old man when he demonstrated on me and never realized that I'd picked it up. I grabbed Tim's right wrist and pinned it against the wall, then did the same with my other hand before he could react to it.
"Did I not tell you to fuck off, like ten minutes ago, yet here you are. What'd you want, maniac?" I said, still out of breath, but glad I'd gotten the upper hand.
"Just want to say hi, asshole." He said with a chronic smirk. There was a playful bite in his tone when he called me an asshole. It was confusin' and I hate confusion.
"'Asshole'? Ah, whatever. It's better than Blondie. And for the record, it's my hair color's natural. I'm albino."
"Oh... That explains ya eyes too." He said with a giggle that made me want to yank my own hair out.
"Shut the fuck up." I was about to deliver the last blow, the winnin' blow. But I knew I'd already won and I got nothin' out of assaultin' this random boy. So I dropped my fist and let go of his wrists. I turned to leave and got stopped by this oceanic-eyed dumbass.
"Where ya goin'? He asked, genuine curiosity in his deep eyes.
"I'm gon' walk home."
"Correction: we're gon' walk home." He said, imitatin' my voice when he repeated what I'd said.
"Don't tell me you're aboutta try an' follow me home. Y'know, don't matter, I ain't stayin' in Oklahoma for long anyways."
We walked to the foster home I was bein' forced to stay in. The term "Asshole" kept playin' itself in my head. It wasn't hateful, No, it was affectionate and playful and I had no idea how somethin' that would usually remind me of my dad could make me feel...yay? Yea, it make me feel 'Yay' even my thoughts sound soft and pathetic. Boy, I was real confused. Why couldn't Tim just say it rudely, like I was a piece of shit on the side of the road? Of course, my life had to be confusing and now I had no clue what he meant. Was the tone more important than the words? Or were the words more important than the tone? What the hell did he mean? Why am I thinkin' so much about this? It's stupid.
I sighed as I stared at the house that matched the address I was told had my new 'family'. "This'z my place."
"I'll see ya 'round, yeah?"
"Sure, whatever. I just hopes I ain't gon' get tossed in the cooler again. Shitz borin' as hell."
"You said ya from New York? I hear the accent now. You sound like a real city boy."
"Screw you." I said as I walked up to the porch.
"Wanna get drunk? I stole a wine from my mother." He offered.
"I've never had alcohol before." I said, a bit slowly
The Shepard boy smirked. "No better time than with your new best friend, right?"
"We met an hour ago. I punched you. You have a black eye. I have permanent pains in my side. What part about 𝘶𝘴 screams best friend?"
"Shut the fuck up, you think too much, let's just get hammered." He said.
"Let me get a drink, I'm sure this foster family I'm stuck with should have a few." I said, steppin' inside and headin' straight to the kitchen. I searched a few cabinets 'cause the parents weren't home. At the third cabinet, I saw a thin, tall bottle and grabbed it by the neck. It was a vodka, labeled 'Tito's'.
"Do ya like Tito? Is they good?" I screamed, hopin' he would hear me through the screen door.
"Yeah, whatever. Just get your blonde ass out here already, it's gettin' late!"
"Calm down." I said, slammin' the front door as I walked out with the Tito in my hand.
"Are you nuts? You'd get arrested." I didn't realize he was talkin' about me openly holdin' the bottle until he titled his big ass head towards the bottle, sittin' in my right hand.
"What? No I wouldn't! Don't the fuzz got anything better to do? Like a drug bust or somethin'? Do that actually go 'round lockin' up ten-year-old kids?"
"Drug bust? Uh oh, did I hit your head too hard on the wall? Count backwards from ten."
"No, dumbass! In New York, watchin' the fuzz chase someone over a bit of cocaine wasn't really a rare site... Y'know?"
"No, the fuck? I don't know!"
"I knew you were a bit of a dumb one. Just shut up and let's get plastered." I said, as he started walkin' down the street. He took the Tito and hid it under his jacket. I followed him down the street as the sun started to set. After about twenty minutes of walkin' and occasionally tryin' each other's drinks, he stopped walkin' at a house that was blastin' loud Hank Williams music and I immediately thought of a damn cowboy. Some real southern Texas shit.
We made it over to someone's house, the owner was a Mr. Buck Merrill and that was when I met my partially-parental-figure, when I was ten and tryin' to get hammered with a kid I'd befriended by throwin' the first punch. Tim walked over to the owner, who was behind the bar and said somethin' I didn't catch to the older guy, Buck and he was about 16 or 17. Buck smirked, brushin' his golden blonde hair out of his face. Buck had a cowboy-like appearance, the boy had the boots and a hat, except the hat was on display. Buck glanced in my direction said somethin' back to Tim, while Buck smiled and started pourin' some drinks, likely for Tim, even though he was litterly eleven. I wondered over to the Shepard boy who continued to keep me on my toes.
"The hell did'ja say to that washed-up cowboy? And why the hell's he gettin' ya a drink? You ain't even 14, for God's sake."
"Relax, Merrill don't give a shit who he serves as long as he gets paid in cold, crisp dollar bills." Tim said with a grin that some how felt contagious. I giggled against my will and Tim looked at me with unreadable eyes. I hate to admit it, but I admired the kid, I'd seen how easily he could put his guard up 'round someone he wasn't familiar with or slowly loose the edge with someone he trusted, or when he was alone.
"Man, I ain't lookin' to get in any trouble with the fuzz." I admitted.
"Relax, nobody calls the cops on this side of town. The East side has greasers, like this party, and the West side has those snobby rich kids, the Socs. They think their shit don't stink, they wear the expansive clothes, Madras and drive covairs while most greasers wear leather jackets and jeans." He explained. Isn't the term greaser a racist slur? Whatever.
"So, we're greasers and we're apparently allergic to the fuzz?" I asked with a scoff. Tim laughed and answered.
He tapped the end if his cigarette, flickin' ember onto the stone tile flooring. "Thoughtcha said you isn't gon' stay in Oklahoma?"
"If I'm gonna stay here, even for less than a month, I might as we figure out how shit works around here. What decides if someone's a Soc or Grease?" I asked, a bit curious now.
"Socs got all the cash, we're just victims of the circumstances that kinda get into a buncha trouble, especially if you're bad at runnin' from fuzz."
I sized Tim up for a second, takin' a shot. "You got any siblings?" I asked. Don't ask me why I asked. It just slipped out, and I don't usually give a damn about people's family trees.
"Yeah, my sister, Angie, is almost ten—your age—and my brother, Curly, is eight." I kept my mouth shut, but a part of me wished I had a family like that. Mine didn't give a damn if I was dead or alive and I ain't got any siblings (not that I know of, but knowin' my mother for the eight years I knew her, I probably have half-siblings I've never met).
Then I caught somethin' out of the corner of my eye. Some guy in a black beanie was lurkin' around a table where a young girl, no older than 13 was sittin' by herself. He was acting real suspicious, leanin' in too close. I know trouble when I see it; I've caused enough of it. "Hey. You see that guy in the beanie next to that pretty broad? He’s up to somethin', with that girl's drink..."
Before I could even finish warnin' him, Tim started waltzin' right over there like he owned the whole damn neighborhood. 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵, I thought, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥. I couldn't just sit there and let him get murdered. I've got to have his back, I had to. I took a shot and moved in fast, catchin' up to Tim just as he reached the Beanie dude and spoke up.
"My buddy over here saw ya puttin' somethin' in her drink." Tim barked, confident and puttin' his guard up. I did really admire the way Tim could appear tough, like he could be a real threat if he wanted too. And I guess he wanted to, right now at least.
The girl looked up at us, lookin' real relieved that someone had stepped in. She turned a sharp, angry glare back at the creepy Beanie boy.
"Thank you, both. I'm Sylvia." She said, findin' her footin'. She had some backbone, I'll give her that. Most girls would be bawlin' or screamin', but she just stood her ground. I liked that. Maybe I liked her too.
There was a silence that lasted about half a second before I filled it in. "I'm D-dallas, and this is Tim." I hated how my voice sounded a little shaky. Tim caught it too, flashin' me a smirk because I was stumblin' over my words around a pretty girl.
Tim shifted his weight on either leg. "Dallas was the one who spotted him. I wouldn't have noticed anythin' wrong without him." Tim told her, swingin' an arm around my shoulder and givin' me the credit. I felt my face get hot. Tim leaned over and whispered some joke about me bendin' over for some broad and I shoved him a little, both of us laughin' like mental hospital patients.
"Well, thank y—" Sylvia started, but she didn't get to finish. The guy in the beanie suddenly rammed himself forward, shoving Tim hard.
Oh, Hell no! Ain't nobody gets to touch my friends, even if I just met the idiot less than 10 hours ago. I stepped right into the guy's face, pushin' Sylvia gently back out of the way before the fists started flyin'. I tried to plant one on him, but the guy was quick—he swung a wild punch that caught me square in the shoulder. Tim lunged in, creatin' enough room for him to kick the guy where the sun don't really shine. Beanie Boy groaned in pain and doubled over. I guess that could be counted as a win until the bouncer finally made his way over and kicked all three of us out.
Tim and I laughed and walked down the street. This kid's an interestin' one, that's for sure I glanced at him. He brushed a dark brown curl out of his face and smiled. I smiled back and we both walked home while talkin' about the events of the night and laughin' at how it started versus how it ended. We started it with a fight and ended it with a fight, except we were both on the same side in the end.