Okay so here is my really improved and really edited story. I like it a lot better.
When I walked into our small bathroom, I looked long and hard at the mirror. I didn’t much like what I saw. All I saw was an average 5’10” height boy supported by an average build. Not muscular like Mitchell or big and solid like Gordy, just---average. But I guess I’ve got to learn to be content with what I’ve got, and my looks aren’t so bad. I have hair the colour of a Hershey bar, and dark green eyes. I really like my eyes; they remind me of an evergreen forest. I keep my hair a lot longer than most boys would, but I guess that’s just because no one in my neighbourhood really bothers to get a haircut. You see, I’m from the north side of town, where the rough and tumble greasers live. Greaser, greaser…oh man I hate that name. But I guess it’s just as bad as Soc. The Soc’s are the filthy rich kids from the south side of town. ‘Soc’ is short for the Socials, and the greasers and Soc’s have been fighting for as long as I can remember. All the 16 years I’ve been alive, I’ve had to watch my back or I might get jumped. No one really knows how it all started, and no one really cares much either. To everyone, it’s just a big ol’ game of revenge. They beat up a few kids from our side, we beat up a few kids from their side. It’s a whole matter of getting even or getting beat. I myself can’t stand fights, and only want to when absolutely necessary. Lots of kids just like to fights for the thrill of it.
I spent a few minutes searching for the slightest hint of beard on my face. My brother Shaynne had to start shaving when he was 14, and my older brother Marcus shaved when he was only 13. I guess I’m just a really late bloomer, but it bugs me something awful.
Just when I was about to brush my teeth, Shaynne came barging in. He’s 18 years old and really smart, with the same dark green eyes as me, and heavily greased dark brown hair. He’s about 6’5” and kind of lanky, but still really strong.
“Hey little guy!” he exclaimed, and gave me a noogy with his bony fingers.
“Cut it out, Shaynne!” I snapped. I can’t stand it when he treats me like some little kid, but you’ve got to love him anyways.
“Sorry, buddy,” he replied, then went over to the cupboard and took out his hair oil. He slopped it all over his head, and combed back his hair. “Man I keep forgetting you ain’t so little anymore.” Then he left the bathroom, whistling to his Elvis tape.
“Hey Keith, you almost done in there?” called Marcus from the kitchen.
“Yup,” I responded, eager to get out of his way. He’s 24 and REALLY tall, almost 6’10”. He’s a lot buffer than Shaynne, but nowhere near as smart. He dropped out of school when mom and dad left, to help support Shaynne and I. He must have been only 14 when that happened, and I was around 6. Shaynne, who was 8 at the time, let Marcus take his job at the newspaper-stuffing fliers. I of course thought mom and dad were coming back, but after a month, my hopes were shot. They really meant it, I remember thinking.
“Marcus came striding into the bathroom. His dirty blonde hair matched his strange gold eyes perfectly. They were too light to be a shade of brown, and too dark to be yellow. His eyes freaked me out.
“What are you doin’ up so early on a weekend, bud?” he asked, reaching for the shaving cream.
“Meh, thought I’d go to the movies with Mitch and Ryan. ‘Of Mice and Men’ only plays at 10:00 am.
“Okay, but just make sure y’all are back by lunch.
“Yuppers,” I said, and left the bathroom. I put on a coat and grabbed 3 bucks off the counter. Then I stepped out into the bright early sunlight and walked by Mitch’s house. Him and Ryan were waiting on the steps, smoking a cigarette. Ryan’s grey eyes looked troubled as usual, Mitch’s looked fierce and determined. Mitch was 17 and violent, and he had kind of weird coloured eyes fro his hair. His hair was a bleach blonde, but his eyes were a copper brown. You don’t see that too often.
“Hey, whatsup man?” asked Ryan, scratching at his strawberry blonde head. He was 16 like me, about 5’8” with a slight build, and a look on his face that made him look like he was always lost in a crowd of strangers. Also, he never greased his hair, which I found weird, seeing as he’s a greaser and all, and hair is our trademark.
“Nuthin’ too much. Just waitin’ to get going. Hey Mitch, what time is it?”
“Bout quarter past nine. We still got ourselves a half hour till we should go.”
“Y’guys wanna mess around in the empty house again?” I chuckled. It took Gordy 4 days to get all the splinters out of his rear.
“Nup, we can’t,” replied Mitch. “Someone bought it a couple days ago and they’re moving in today.”
I looked over at the old house that was right beside Gordy’s. There was a real run down Ford in the driveway. A man who looked even bigger than Marcus was carrying a few boxes out of the car to the house. Then, a girl who looked about my age got out of the back seat with a few more boxes. She was wearing a patchy jeans jacket and jeans full of tears. Her shaggy black hair was about up to her shoulders, and her bangs fell in front of her face, somewhat to the side. Her eyes looked like a light black, and were really big and round. Man, she looked real tough. She glanced over at us and gave us a somewhat friendly look.
“Wanna go over to DeSodo’s bar and grad a few ‘root’beers?” Mitch’s voice broke into my thoughts. He was always eager to break the law.
“Shoot, you know we ain’t allowed in there. Remember what happened last time?” said Ryan, irritation in his voice.
“Yeah, well, at least the fuzz didn’t show,” I inquired. “I sway we head over to Casey’s for a bit.”
“Fine by me,” Mitch agreed, and we started to walk down the street.
Casey’s is one of the greaser hangouts. It’s a run down restaurant that lots of people go to. Folks can go there to find out just about anything; whose fighting who, which guy going with which girl, whose in jail, whose not, and all that. DeSodo’s bar, Ruben’s, and MJ’s Movie House are all the other greaser hangouts. We can sometimes be a little bold, and decide to go to the mid-class’ movie house, Harsden’s Movies. Soc’s hang out there a lot, so we don’t go too often.
We got ourselves a couple of cokes and sat around a table, whistling at waitresses and blowing straws at them. At least Mitch and I did; Ryan’s too shy and quiet. Then when no one was looking, Ryan and I took a few tips from tables, and headed out just as the waitresses noticed they were missing. It was time to get going anyways. When we started heading out, the police were coming. Looked like that hitchhiker got out a switchblade. That was just one more reason for us to get going; there ain’t no one who wants to be around when the fuzz shows up.
By the time we got there, almost all the seats were taken. We had to sit by a really smelly farmer who stunk like cattle manure. And on top of that, there were a bunch of Soc’s sitting behind us a couple rows up, and all they did was throw popcorn at us and call us real nice names. Mitch got really fed up. I guess the Soc’s couldn’t really see how big Mitch was, or they would have backed off. So he just stood up in his seat and pointed at them.
“After this show, you’re MINE, punk!” he threatened. Bunches of people were yelling at him to cool off and sit down. I can’t stand it when greasers are made the centre of a conflict. Mitch finally listened to their pestering cries, and sat back down.
The movie wasn’t too exciting, however I tried to focus on it anyways. But the stinky farmer kept belching and scratching his tangled beard. It was awful annoying.
When the movie was finally over, Ryan, Mitch and I were really eager to get out. Mitch had a meeting with Mr. Super Soc, and I had to hurry home for lunch.
“Aw man, them Socs skeedadled pretty darn fast. They must have been real intimidated,” said Mitch, flexing his muscles. All he was wearing was a vest and some jeans, so he looked kind of scary with his muscles all taut like that.
“Look, I’ve gotta get home. Marcus’ll kill me if I skip out on lunch again,” I eagerly said.
“Yeah, and I promised Angie I’d take her out for lunch,” Mitch chimed in. Angie is his long time girlfriend and she’s real pretty. She has light blonde hair and china blue eyes, the kind that always sparkle. On top of that, she’s the nicest girl any of the gang has gone with. Shaynne always manages to find the mean ones, and Marcus finds the unattractive ones.
We started walking home when we noticed that a big green Corvair kept following us. The guys in the back seat were throwing used soda cans at us, and the guy driving the car called us real nasty things. We were finally able to lose then when we went through an alley.
“Man, those idiots are really askin’ for it,” panted Mitch, under his breath. “I just don’t get why they gotta be that way.”
No one really understood why anyone had to ‘be that way.’ It’s just the way things are. Like I said before: No one knows why, and no one cares either. This kind of thing happens to greasers a lot, getting bugged by Socs and all, but no one does anything about it. Nobody thinks about it much either.
“Hey greaser!” shouted one of the Socs, who had somehow found us again.
“Keith, look out!!” shouted Ryan. A busted coke bottle nicked me right below my left temple. Any higher and I might have been dead… man just thinking about it gives me the shivers. My face didn’t hurt, but I felt really weird, like I was dreaming. Apparently I blacked out for a couple minutes, because I couldn’t feel Mitch and Ryan carrying me into a safer place.
“Glory Hallelujah Keith! You’re bleeding like a stuck pig!” exclaimed Ryan, looking at my face with a sick look once I woke up. Mitch cussed out the Socs, partly in English and partly in sign language. Then Ryan ripped off a good chunk of the bottom of his shirt and dabbed at my face with it. Finally, the Socs decided to leave, and drove off quickly. Then, the pain came. It was a searing, stinging, and aching twinge that ran from one side of my head all the way to the other. I could barely move, or the pain would get worse. After a few minutes, I was finally able to stand and walk. With the help of Mitch and Ryan, we walked past Casey’s bar again, but there was nothing worth checking out and we had used up all our money at the movies.
Then I remembered I had to be home by lunch.
“What time is it?” I weakly asked.
“About 20 after 1,” retorted Mitch.
“Aw man, Marcus’ll think I skipped out again,” I groaned, so swollen and sore I could have died.
When I finally got home, I sat down at the table and rested my bloody head in my hands. Then I heard Marcus come sauntering into the kitchen.
“Where the heck have you been, Ke---” He stopped and saw the dried up wound on the left side of my head.
“Glory, what happened to you?” Marcus asked, then sat down beside me and examined my head further.
“A couple Socs thought it’d be funny to throw things at us. A busted coke bottle got me,” was my feeble reply.
“Well, you look like you’ll be okay. You feel alright?” he inquired, then started shaking me. I wished he’d stop. My head hurt enough already. I must have started dosing of, because Marcus only shook me harder.
“I’m okay. Quit shaking me, Marcus, I’m okay,” I pleaded.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, and stopped instantly. I groaned and held my head. Oh man, it hurt somethin’ fierce. The aching wasn’t subsiding in the slightest.
After I ate as much lunch as I could, Marcus thought it’d be best if I saw a doctor. I hate going to doctors, but I felt lousy enough not to care.
Marcus drove me out to the St. Margaret Charity Hospital, and we sat in the waiting room for about a half hour. The pain was as strong as ever.
When it was finally my turn, we were escorted to a white room that stunk like medicine. There was a big mirror that you’d see as soon as you’d walk in, and this was the first time I’d seen myself after my injury. Not only was the left side of my head covered in blood and bruises, but the shards of glass had also shredded the other side of my face. I looked terrible!
As luck would have it, I got the same doctor Shaynne did when he broke his nose. Of course the doctor remembered Shaynne, most people did, and he remembered me as well. I had come into the room and accidentally knocked over a bunch of equipment.
When the doctor saw me, he gave me a disgusted look and said, “Don’t you punks ever do anything besides fight?”
Marcus growled something real cute, but I couldn’t get mad. I felt too sick, ashamed of myself, even though I didn’t do anything.
I had to get 27 stitches in my head, and after they ran a few X-rays, the doctor said I had a concussion. He gave me a bunch of orange pills and told me to take one every 2 hours. Then he gave me a bottle of Tylenol to keep the twinges of pain away.
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So what do you think? I will add in the first version of the story later on.
