Chapter Text
Natalie Scatorccio was not going to start a fight today. Well, that’s what she thought when she dragged herself out of bed that morning, teeth-chattering as she trudged across the freezing plywood floor of her mom’s trailer. But that was before someone sent her sprawling across the turf hard enough to break bones in a scrimmage. And now here she is in the locker room, in the middle of about six pairs of flailing arms and fists, each one determined to hit a head or a jaw or grasp onto some unlucky soul’s hair and never let go until she’s been dragged to the ground or she has a fistful of hairspray-coated strands.
“Fuck you,” Nat spits, shoving Taissa Turner back so hard she clatters back into whoever’s being dwarfed behind her.
Taissa could come back swinging, and Nat half expects her to. But she just laughs and sneers down at her with those eyes so dark they’re almost red and Nat can’t decide which one she’d rather have to deal with. Probably the punch, if she’s being honest.
“Oh, so there’s the fight coach was talking about. Where was that on the field today? I was starting to think he was just making it up because he felt sorry for you.”
The memory of that day echoes in Nat’s mind like a gunshot reverberating through the air of a shitty trailer park in July. Taissa Turner wouldn’t know adversity if it hit her in the face.
Nat’s nails dig into her palms as she scowls up at her. She won’t cry. She won’t cry. Not in front of all these people she’s supposed to call her teammates. Supposed to, because the moment the dirt-caked studs on the bottom of Nat’s shitty cleats (torn up and patched with two different colors of duct tape) cross the white line on the school field, any sense of a team is sent crumpling to the ground like the red and white blur of a Maplewood High player when Shauna Shipman’s boots make contact with her shins.
“What did you just–”
“Come on, Nat, let's just go,” someone says behind her, grasping the navy cuff of Nat’s gray gym shirt. But before she can start to tug her away Nat’s whirling around quicker than Mr. DeRario’s rottweiler two trailers down when he hears Nat open the door in the mornings.
“You can get lost, too, Van, I don’t need your help.”
Nat’s sure her voice wavered halfway through the sentence but she’s going to decide it didn’t.
By now the scuffle’s dead and buried and Nat knows everyone’s staring at her like she’s some kind of freak. Van’s nose scrunches like she’s embarrassed, and she probably is. Fuck. There are two types of people in this world. Or at least, in Wiskayok, New Jersey. There’s the jet set rich kids like Taissa Turner and Jackie Taylor, who have perfect houses and perfect parents and perfect little lives. Non-caring and non-feeling. They could vandalize ten buildings on the south side of town at 3am and jump whoever’s dumb enough to drunkenly walk home alone then get praised halfway to heaven in the school paper for their grades and behavior. Truly a public menace one day and an asset to society the next. Socs, they’re called, the abbreviation for Socials. The other type is what they call Greasers. The poor kids, the trailer trash, the kids who’d steal the hubcaps off of a Soc’s Mustang or Corvair then throw them like frisbees from the back of their souped-up shitty old cars just for fun. The name comes from the boys who slick their hair back with more pomade than they can justify spending their last few cents on, but even the girls from the trailer park and the run-down houses on the south side of town share it. And how lucky they are. Nat grits her teeth. She’s exposed her belly to the lion by snapping at Van like that and she knows Taissa’s about to unsheath her claws.
“There it is. Greasers can’t even count on each other anymore. And Coach expects us to be a team,” she scoffs from behind her, and Nat can hear the smug victory in her voice even through the sound of Soc-girl snickers.
By now Van’s a blur of orange and Nat can’t tell if it’s her hair or the stupid jersey Coach Martinez presented to her this season when he decided she was good enough to replace Antonia Yates between the sticks.
She knows she’s good enough to be on the team. Taissa’s probably the best, as much as she hates to admit it, and Shauna has to be the runner-up. But Nat’s integral to the team and everyone knows it. Though, apparently not.
“You could’ve broken my leg,” she growls in a low voice as she slowly turns back around. “You’ve wanted me off the team the second I stepped foot into the locker room. Why’s that, huh? ‘Cause I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like you were? ‘Cause I don’t hop in a Corvair and cruise to Jackie Taylor’s private little parties in the hills where you all jerk each other off and-”
“What’d you say?” Shauna Shipman growls, stepping forward as if she’s not usually the quietest girl in English class. She’s usually always in the back of the soc crowd, or so tied to Jackie Taylor’s hip Nat thinks they might’ve actually taken a trip to the auto shop and gotten welded together.
“Christ, what’s gotten into you? Finally found your bark? I didn’t even know you could–”
“What’s going on here?” Someone interrupts, and the crowd parts like bees in a hive moving aside for their queen.
“Nothing,” Shauna mutters, immediately looking like a kicked puppy as if she weren’t raring to bite at Nat’s ankles a second ago.
“Nat?”
Nat scowls. As if Jackie Taylor gives a shit about how she feels. Her eyes flick between the pieces making up the wall in front of her - Jackie’s perfectly styled blowout and Shauna’s pristine letterman jacket and the glint of a golden necklace that spells out Taissa.
“Your little lap dog was right. Nothing,” Nat says bitterly, pushing past Shauna’s shoulder to grab her leather jacket out of her locker. “I was just leaving.”
She flings the locker door shut hard enough to rattle the entire unit and storms towards the door, pulling the jacket on as she goes. The grass-stained practice kit will have to stay. It’ll be the last time she’ll wear it, anyway. Might as well make the most of it.
Van pauses like she wants to say something but thinks better of it and hurries after her, slinging her gym bag over her shoulder.
“Why’d you start it?” she says breathlessly, brows furrowing in irritation at her bag strap being twisted until she fixes it with a huff. Nat fumes, ignoring Van and continuing her trudge away from the school building. She couldn’t get out of there quicker. Less chance of people hurling insults at her on an already shit-caked day.
“Nat.”
“I didn’t start it,” she says, whirling around to finally address her. “You know that. You saw her tackle me.”
Van puffs out another breath, shoving her hands deep in her pockets as she walks.
“Yeah. I know. But I also know if a soc-y girl started something, we started it. That’s just how it works.”
“It’s bullshit,” Nat growls, fishing in the pocket of her beat-up jacket for her pack of cigarettes. Only, her fingers grasp at nothing. Not even a stray forgotten about and left to collect lint. The other pocket is just as fruitless, though thankfully she feels the cold metal of her Zippo against her fingertips. “We’re lucky enough to even have a girls’ team. You’d think they’d be less picky about who kicks a ball around. We get all the tough breaks. It’s not fair.”
Van bites at her fingernail as she walks, brows furrowed like they always are when she’s deep in thought. “There’s gotta be somewhere out there. Y’know, with no Socs and no Greasers. Where kids are just… kids.”
“There probably is. Out in the country, or something. Or in the city. Somewhere big enough that shit like this gets forgotten.”
Nat kicks at a rock, shoulders slumping. It’s no use. No matter what happens, she’ll still be a washed-up Greaser. She’s never getting out of Wiskayok, anyway. She’s doing lousy in school and even lousier at being a half decent person. She’ll probably end up one of those night shift waitresses at the twenty-four hour diner, too drunk to even write down an order properly. Or sweeping the floor at the mart, or selling adult magazines to those creepy old men Van told her about who sit on their own at the drive-in after dark showings. Worse yet, she’d still be at the DX Gas Station her dad used to work at. Maybe she’d turn out just like him, after all. She kicks at another rock as she walks, scuffing her shoe even more against the sidewalk. Though this time she hears the clang of rock meeting hubcap, and Nat looks up to see a familiar navy blue Corvair.
“Shit, is that–” Van starts, but Nat’s already spitting on the ground next to the front tire.
“I should key it,” she cuts in, circling around the front like she’s squaring up for a fight. “If I had a key, that is. Or if I still had that switch.”
Bobby Farleigh - some old-school greaser - gave Nat his switchblade before he split town, but the cops confiscated it last time she got caught. It wasn’t even for anything bad, she swears. She thinks it was for vandalism, though she was so wasted it’s hard to remember. When she got out the next morning and trudged her way home, her mom hadn’t even realized she’d ever left. Nat sure remembers that.
She wishes she had that switch now, not that she’d ever use it to cut someone. Though it’s good to know you have something on you just in case you get jumped. Some kid from the next block over got jumped a couple weeks ago - the blonde one with a bunch of grease brothers. Melissa, that was her name. A car full of socs followed her home, hurling insults like they were rocks until she made the mistake of pitching one back at them. They all piled out to tackle her harder than a yellowjacket defender and kicked her while she was down. Poor girl. Maybe she’d have been okay if she’d had a switch on her, Nat thinks.
She’d better get a new one sometime soon.
Van follows behind and dumps her gym bag on the dusty sidewalk with a thunk, rolling her shoulder with a grimace as if she had half her life’s possessions in there. She probably does, now that Nat thinks about it.
“I don’t know, Nat,” Van murmurs, giving her a reluctant look. “Taissa’s not stupid. She’d definitely chalk it up to you, especially after that stunt back there.”
Nat scrunches her nose. She knows Van’s right, but her pride’s saying otherwise. If she’s gonna be forced off the soccer team by a wall of stuck-up Socs who think she’s a good-for-nothing vandal, that’s what she’s gonna be. Nat’s face flushes at the memory and her fists clench and unclench before she crouches down to grab the sharpest rock she can find. She feels its cold, jagged edge against her palm, bringing it up to the pristine paintwork of the Corvair. She ghosts it across the hood and around the side like she’s painting the perfect image in her mind, then cuts through the quietude of a serene soc neighborhood with the screech of stone against metal. The sound of Taissa bringing up that fateful summer day in front of everybody echoes in her mind and her jaw tightens as she grinds the rock harder into the car door, little pieces of navy paint gathering up around it and flaking off like metallic snowflakes.
She takes a step back to admire her handiwork, only to see the little scratch she thought she was making has somehow taken upon itself to extend almost the entire length of the door. Shit, she hadn’t meant to go so far. It was supposed to be something easy to play off - maybe the perp could’ve been a stray branch or gravel kicked up on an open-top drive to a country club. Nat chews on her lip anxiously, but plays it off when she glances over at Van.
“Let’s split,” she says simply, walking with just a little more haste than she usually would. Whatever. She could’ve done a lot worse. Many a time had a Soc gotten out of class to find the tires of their precious auto slashed out or the windows in shards on the ground. Nat hurls away her rock like she’s Babe Ruth throwing a fastball, watching it sail through the air then bounce across the asphalt. Van gives the car one last look before she trudges up beside her with a sigh.
“You really think you’re off the team?” she asks, carefully eyeing an older couple sitting out on their porch, but thankfully they’re too absorbed with their crosswords or newspaper cartoons to have noticed them.
“Oh, I’m sure Coach had at least one of them march up to his door busting at the seams to tell him Natalie Scatorccio started a brawl in the locker room. Hell, he’d probably hear that I hurt Shipman’s feelings and kick me off the roster without a thought. There’s no chance I’m getting on that field again, Van.”
Van’s chewing on her thumbnail again, though this time she’s quiet enough for Nat’s eyebrows to raise. If there’s one thing Van Palmer isn’t, it’s quiet.
“...Then I’m off the team too.”
If Nat’s mouth wasn’t already open with the intention to ask if she was alright, it is now.
“What?”
“I’m off the team. I’m not doing it without you.”
Nat splutters, looking at her like she’s suddenly sprouted two heads. “Don’t be a moron. You’re the best keeper they have by far and you’ve worked so hard. I’m not gonna let you ruin all of that for yourself just ‘cause… some Soc pissed me off enough to get me to swing back.”
But Van’s shaking her head, eyes still ahead of them as they walk. “It’s both of us or neither.”
“Come on–”
“And you know that I’ll be the next target on their hit list. I’m the only one of us left. If I don’t do it myself, they’ll find a way to get me off the team.”
“So that’s it?” Nat asks, voice strained. She’s pissed. “This is exactly what they want. You’re letting them win.”
“They always win!” Van cries, and it shocks Nat enough for her to stop dead in her tracks.
“It doesn’t matter if I quit or not. It doesn’t matter if we’re the best players or get the best grades. It doesn’t matter if we beat the Socs at a rumble. We could beat ‘em all we want and they’d still end up on top. All we’ll ever be to them is dirt on their shoes. And don’t try to push me away because we’re nothing if we don’t have each other.”
Nat feels a pit in her stomach the size of the Grand Canyon and suddenly feels like the biggest piece of shit to ever grace Wiskayok, New Jersey. Suddenly greasers versus socs means nothing if she’s hurting the one person who’s ever given a shit about her. She swallows thickly, her throat so dry that it actually hurts.
“I’m sorry,” Nat mutters after a moment, face burning. “For what I said. Earlier, in the locker room. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”
She pauses, eyebrows knitted together.
“I don’t know why I lash out like that sometimes.”
Van shoves her hands in her pockets and glances at her awkwardly as if she kind of wishes she never said anything, but there’s still a glint of gratitude in her eyes. Thank God. At least Nat did something right today, even if she caused the whole thing in the first place.
“It’s okay,” Van says with a small smile, giving Nat a soft punch on the shoulder - practically sign language for forgiveness in their own little world. “I know you have my back when I really need you.”
Nat’s heart aches even more and she vows in her head to never be awful to her friends again. Let’s see how long that lasts before she fucks it up again, she thinks.
“But…”
Here we go. Van’s about to lay in on her like she deserves. She might love to joke around, but if she really wants to she can lay home truths on you like a ton of bricks.
“If you really wanna make it up to me you can buy me a Coke at the double tonight.”
Nat lets out a sharp breath she didn’t even know she was holding and shoves Van’s shoulder hard enough to make her stumble when she cackles. Nat grins back; smiles a genuine smile for the first time all day.
She thinks she could spare the ten cents.
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It takes them approximately twenty-four minutes to walk from the school to the trailer park, though four of them were spent by Nat appreciating that beautiful blue Corvair.
“I just have to change. I’ll be two minutes,” Nat says as they walk up to the entrance. Van stops, hesitating at the fence line as if it’d burn her if she stepped any further.
Nat stops and turns, raising a brow. You coming?
“I think I’m gonna hang back,” Van mutters, eyeing the sea of beat-up motorhomes. “Actually, I might just head home now. It won’t take me long to change either. Meet me outside?”
Nat nods and turns to walk up the path to her trailer. Up past the Hendersons’ trailer with the planters hanging from the awning, though Nat thinks they’ve seen better days. Past the Fazzio’s’ trailer and the Merrill’s. Up to where the Palmers’ used to be. Van moved here in fifth grade after her dad left, and quickly found her exploration interrupted by a stray Scatorccio.
“Get down!”
Van’s eyes widened and someone pushed on her head as they hurriedly moved to crouch next to her, ducking beneath a fallen trailer park sign. Van stared at her - the dark-haired girl cautiously peeking over the top before slumping back down, sitting on the dusty path with her back to the wood.
“What’re we doing?” Van whispered, resisting the urge to peek over the top too.
“They’re looking for me. The law.”
Van’s eyes widened again and this time she really did peek over the top. Her sleeve was grasped in a surprisingly firm grip and suddenly she was back on her ass, heart beating fast in her chest.
“Don’t. They’ll see you.”
She was looking at Van now, taking in every flaming red hair and freckle on her face. Van stared back. She couldn’t quite work out if her eyes were green, blue, or gray. But then she was smiling.
“I’m Natalie. What’s your name?”
“Vanessa. Palmer. I’m new here. I just moved in today.”
“Palmer?” Natalie grinned, and Van couldn’t help but grin back.
“I know,” she said, eyeing the sign that read Palmer Meadows Trailer Park.
“Well, it sure is good to have another girl around here. We have to stick together, y’know? Want to be my partner in crime?”
Van eyed her nervously, trying to work out if that’s seriously what she meant or if it was just a saying. But before she could work it out, they’re descended on.
“Over here! I got that little punk now!”
Natalie made to bolt, but as soon as she started to stand she was sent sprawling to the ground again in a tangle of limbs.
“Ow! Cool it, Kevyn! Have you lost your mind?”
‘Kevyn’ groaned, attempting to pry himself off of Natalie and laying out on his back on the path beside her. He was scrawny. Just a kid, like them. Van breathed a sigh of relief, almost laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing seemed now. A red-headed boy followed soon after, running up then stopping to breathe hard with his hands on his thighs as he assessed the scene.
“I didn’t mean to fall on you like that,” Kevyn said. “Sorry. I tripped. You see that, Rich?”
The redhead nodded, finally taking notice of Van and offering her an awkward wave.
“Who’s this, Nat?”
Nat.
“Van,” Van replied, watching Nat’s smile grow bigger.
“My new friend. And my new recruit. It’s our turn. Get ‘em, Palmer!”
Nat stares at the vacant lot, from the dusty strip of land to the patchy brown grass around its edges. She snaps out of the memory, wondering how long she’d been standing there. Every time she walks past it there’s a deep sense of unease in her stomach - no wonder Van can’t bear to even step foot past the front gate. She tries to picture the trailer in her mind - rectangular white with a rusty red strip along the sides. Or maybe it was brown, she can’t quite remember. She pictures a fifteen year old Van and Nat sitting outside with their backs to the metal, faces buried in some trashy magazine they swiped from the convenience store until Van’s mom opened the door and they flung it underneath the trailer. The two of them taking turns knocking on trailer doors then sprinting back to Van’s and throwing themselves inside. Passing a soccer ball between each other and chasing after neighbors who called them unladylike. Nat almost smiles at the memories, only for her stomach to ache when she remembers the heat of the trailer engulfed in flames as she hugged Van tightly to her chest, watching it burn.
Nat’s jaw tightens and she walks away with purpose. As if each step were taking her further and further away from a memory she wishes she could forget. It’s a miracle Van’s mom was able to get their apartment, as shitty as it might be. Still, Van was never the same after the fire. Her mom started drinking even more than she did after her dad left and it was turning Van away. Making her act out even more. And once Van started acting out the wheels on a quickly out of control vehicle just wouldn’t stop turning. It sent their little gang right off the deep end. It’s not like she turned totally psycho or anything - she was just the last piece of the dam to be dislodged. You’d be more likely to see Van throwing insults and backhanded jokes than an actual backhand, though she could hold her own in a tussle if it came to it. She’s strong and could tackle just about anybody. That was her biggest asset - her fearlessness. Nat figures it came from years of putting herself on the line all to stop a stupid ball from finding the back of a net. Goalkeepers are crazy.
Nat hurries past the last couple trailers but she still jumps about ten feet in the air when Mr. DeRario’s dog barks. It snarls, baring its yellow teeth and pulling hard at its chain. It takes Nat back about thirty minutes to a growling Shauna Shipman in a choke-chain collar, her tag reading property of Jacqueline Taylor.
She eyes the post the dog’s tied to warily, then scurries past.
She can hear her mom and her new boyfriend arguing before she even gets to the door and she has half a mind to turn back and just go to the damn movie in her grass-stained practice kit. But no, she opts for the second option. She heads next door and slinks around the side of the Lindstroms’ trailer, deciding her target is a blue and white striped lawn chair that looks right at home next to a bed of forget-me-nots. Nat’s surprised they’re holding up so well – she’d expect them to be as withered as the Hendersons’ planters by now. She grabs the chair and scuttles back, placing it down right below the bedroom window she’d so tactically left open this morning in the name of ‘ventilation’. She plants her sneaker tentatively on the webbing of the chair, testing to see if it’ll hold her weight. Satisfied, she hooks her fingertips over the lip of her window and pulls herself up. The chair creaks and Nat sucks in a breath, but nothing gives way.
“Christ,” she breathes, hoisting herself up and through her window, landing on the floor with a thud. But by the sound of it her mom and her boyfriend - whatever his name is - are still too occupied by their loving conversation to notice. Nat rolls her eyes and tugs the curtains closed sharply before shrugging off her jacket and pulling her shirt over her head.
She rummages in her drawer until she’s selected her armful of clothes for the day - black shirt with a white collar, red and black plaid skirt, fishnets and scuffed black boots that look like they’ve seen better days. All topped off with her black leather jacket, greaser staple. Her drawer slides out easily, little metallic bands clinking together as they get thrown around their wooden prison. Nat selects a few at random - all her rings are either cheap gifts from friends or swiped from malls before a great escape, beat-up sneakers slapping against polished terrazzo. She gets dressed in record time, her grass-stained shorts and t-shirt finding themselves thrown in a heap in the corner of the room, and Nat’s ready to make her grand exit back through the window. She pauses, deciding to grab her necklace. It hangs over her chest and glints in the setting sun as she clambers out of the window and drops to the ground with a gracefulness only owed to many nights knowing there’d be hell to pay if she were ever caught sneaking out.
But graceful as she is, she isn’t perfect.
“God damn it,” she murmurs, noticing the tear in her fishnets over her knee. The material must’ve caught on something when she was climbing out. She dumps Mrs Lindstrom’s lawn chair back in its rightful place with a huff, knowing she’d be suspect number one if she ever noticed it was missing.
The sky’s a mix of orange and white as she trudges her way back up to the front gate, that pre-sunset glow illuminating the trailers in diffused daylight. It reminds Nat of the dreamsicles Laura Lee used to sell to the kids at the boardwalk, orange and white melting into each other under the summer sun.
She almost walks right into Van when she eventually turns the corner onto her street, and Van greets her kindly by putting her in a headlock. Nat struggles against her grip, then elbows Van in the stomach causing her to let out a soft oof.
“You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” Nat grumbles, dusting herself off.
“Just preparing you for a Soc-sneak attack,” Van grins.
“C’mon,” Nat says, shoving her hands in her pockets with attitude and setting off. “I wanna go to Muriel’s on the way. I’ve been dying for a smoke all day.”
She starts heading towards town idly. They’ve got time before the nightly double starts and the sun’s only just starting to set. But it seems like Van’s got other ideas - her shoes meet asphalt with confidence, and Nat finds herself getting left behind.
“You got a Thriftpower hiding in those sneakers or something?” Nat jokes, eyeing Van as she tries to match her stride. “I know I said I wanted a smoke but I didn’t think we’d sprint for one.”
“Sorry,” Van grins. The fading sunlight glints off her silver oval-shaped belt buckle.
“Trying to race there for the best seats? And what’s gotten you all dressed up, anyway?”
“What, I can’t look my best for the nightly double?”
“Your best is Adidas and denim?” Nat jabs, laughing when Van reaches over to smack her arm. “Kidding. Seriously, you look cool. What’s the deal?”
“Nothing,” Van murmurs, shoving her hands in the pockets of her blue denim jacket.
Nat looks at her suspiciously until a glint of realization shines in her eyes. “No way,” she says, grinning so big her cheeks start to hurt. “You got the hots for someone.”
Van’s eyebrows shoot up so far they could fly right off her head as she scrambles to cover Nat’s mouth with her hand. But Nat squirms away, giggling like a little kid. “Wait until the others hear this. They’re gonna flip. Who is it?”
“No one.”
“It has to be someone who hangs out at the drive-in,” Nat says. Not that it narrows anything down. Van spends half her life at the drive-in, whether she’s working or off the clock. Pretty much anyone who’s ever stepped foot (or wheel) in that place knows Van. Nat’s eyes raise to the sky as she racks her brain, trying to remember which of the Greasers have claimed it as their spot.
“Rachel.” Nat says, wagging her finger at her as if she’s absolutely sure. “Goldman. Remember when you gave her the last of your popcorn that time they were showing that cowboy flick? The one with John Wayne and, uh…”
“James Stewart.”
“Whatever. That was a dead giveaway.”
“Buttered popcorn is your definition of a proclamation of love?”
“I’m more of a salted girl myself, but–”
“Oh, give me a break,” Van says, tilting her head back in anguish. Nat shoots an irritating grin her way before returning her gaze to the street ahead of them. Not too far to Muriel’s. They steer clear of the bar a few doors down, a rowdy group of men lurking outside repelling them across the street.
“Okay. Is it Kevyn?”
“Isn’t he more your thing?” Van replies with a shit-eating grin.
“I think I’d rather get caught necking Mr. Jenkins,” Nat says dryly, and Van offers up a scoff as a laugh. “Melissa?”
“Nat.”
“It is?”
“No!”
“Oh,” Nat breathes, almost a sigh of relief. “Did you hear how she–”
“Got jumped, yeah,” Van replies. “Tough break.”
“Her brothers’ll hit back at them,” Nat says.
“Hey,” Van says after a moment of quiet. Her brows are furrowed when Nat looks over, and she mirrors her expression in response. “Don’t you think things are ramping up lately?”
“With the Socs?”
“With all of us.”
Nat considers it. Images of the past few weeks flash up in her mind like a kaleidoscope – Beatings, muggings, disorder, vandalism. Even more than usual. Maybe Van’s right. The socs are stepping up, and it could affect Nat more than she’d like to admit. Maybe getting her kicked off the soccer team was the first brick to pull out of Nat’s wall. If they keep chipping away at it, the whole thing’ll crumble.
Nat chews on her lip anxiously. When things between Greasers and Socs build up like this, get really bad, it never ends well. Nat’s heard stories from Bobby Farleigh and Jamie Hoffman about the gang fights back when they were big-time Greasers. If things were really bad, individual gangs from each side would all come together in a full-scale brawl called a rumble. Nat was too young last time one went down - too new to the scene, but she remembers seeing Bobby with two black eyes, a broken arm, and more missing teeth than he’d care to admit. He skipped town not long after.
“Think there’ll be a rumble?”
“No,” Van shakes her head slightly, though she doesn’t seem all that convinced. “Not yet, at least. But there’s something coming, I’d bet.” She pauses. “We need a leader.”
“Yeah? You gonna step up?” Nat asks, half joking. But when she looks over Van doesn’t look like she’s feeling funny for once.
“I’m serious, Nat. We need someone who brings us all together. Y’know, like a captain. I mean, look at the Socs.”
Nat scoffs. “Like I’m threatened by Jackie Taylor. Toss a Seventeen Magazine at her during a rumble and she’d probably forget all about the damn fight.”
“She has influence, Nat,” Van says, her voice low. “Without her they wouldn’t even be at the rumble.”
“She wouldn’t even be there,” Nat says dismissively. “Too scared of breaking a nail, or something.”
Speaking of nails, Van’s biting hers again. Nat sighs and pulls Van’s hand away from her mouth. Just in time, too, because she keeps pulling and the bell over the door of Muriel’s signals their grand arrival.
“Just forget about it,” Nat says, letting go of Van’s wrist and keeping her voice down as they walk up to the counter of the drugstore. “I wanna have a good night. We deserve it, after that stunt they pulled at school today.”
Van offers up a grunt in response and Nat decides that’s the best she’s gonna get. She heads over to the counter, eyes scanning the array of tobacco products while Van slinks off to look at the magazines or the candy or whatever. Her gaze flicks between the cigarettes – Pall Mall, Marlboro, Lucky Strike, Winston. Somehow this is the hardest decision she’s made all day – forget how she walked right out of the locker room this afternoon. The cashier seems more interested in what Van’s doing in the back though, his beady eyes focusing on her over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses. Nat considers reaching over the counter to grab a pack and run while he’s distracted, but decides against it. She’s not exactly the definition of nondescript. There aren’t too many bleach-blonde Greasers with a very red-headed friend in town. Plus, she’d miss the hot fudge sundaes from here.
“Marlboro Red,” she decides, parting reluctantly with her thirty cents. She finds Van hovering near the candy, but when she gets close she isn’t studying the confectionery like Nat first thought.
“Look,” she murmurs, nodding discreetly towards the soda fountain bar. Nat’s gaze follows and ends up on a couple sitting on the barstools, the girl giggling so loud the elderly shoppers collecting their prescriptions grumble irritably to each other under their breath. Allie Stevens - the freshman who could probably be a Soc if it weren’t for her absolutely horrible attitude. Well, that and the fact that she hangs around the greasiest boys in Wiskayok.
Nat rolls her eyes so hard they probably could’ve fallen out of her head, and she wishes they did because then she wouldn’t have to see Danny Mears sticking his tongue down Allie’s throat.
“Isn’t he a junior in college, or something?” Van asks, her nose scrunching when he offers to feed Allie a spoonful of ice cream.
“Don’t ask me. He’s pushing it, though.”
“Hey, Grease! Didn’t you see the sign?” Van calls out, and Danny whirls around with a scowl. His expression morphs into confusion when he sees it’s Van, his gaze flicking over her quickly like he’s trying to remember where he knows her from.
“Says no necking, especially if you’re old enough to be her grandpa,” Nat finishes.
Van splutters out a laugh, then suddenly decides she’s very interested in the display of banana split candy chews when she sees the look on Danny’s face.
“What’d you say?” he says, getting up from his barstool slowly and starting to walk over, squaring his shoulders to look bigger as he approaches. But the cashier’s on them in a flash, getting in the middle to break up a fight that never even started. Huh. Nat didn’t think he had it in him.
“Out. All of you.”
“You heard me,” Nat says, ignoring the cashier completely.
“Hey, if you’re not gonna finish your sundae, would you pass it over?” Van shoots her most irritating grin at Danny from where he’s acting all tough over the cashier’s shoulder, like he’d be beating on them if he weren’t being held back. Nat almost scoffs – the cashier’s about sixty-five years old and isn’t holding back shit.
Danny acts like he’s gonna lunge again and Van gives him her most sickeningly sweet wave before turning to leave. Nat trails behind, giving Danny one last look. She’s kind of disappointed, to be honest. It would've been fun to throw a punch at someone twice her size. As she does, though, her gaze catches on Allie standing awkwardly by the barstools. She can’t tell if she looks scared or embarrassed, but either way it gives Nat pause. She sighs heavily and nods towards the door before turning to follow Van herself. Whether Allie takes her up on it is a different matter.
“Catch,” she hears a voice say as she steps out into the cool air. Before she knows it there’s a little paper candy packet in her arms.
“No way,” she says, turning it over in her hands. Pink and red bubble letters assault her eyes and she grins at Van, already tearing the corner open. “When’d you snag these? When he was distracted by Danny?”
“Nah. That’s amateur work,” Van replies, opening the corner on her own pack. “Like, two seconds after we walked in. He didn’t notice.”
“How? He was looking at you the whole time.”
“Magic hands,” Van grins.
Nat rolls her eyes and scans the back of the packet. Van throws a piece of candy up in the air to catch it in her mouth, raising her eyebrows at Nat in victory.
“You’re gonna regret that one of these days when you choke on one of those things,” Nat says, not mimicking her as she puts a piece into her own mouth.
She sucks. Raspberry.
“Hey,” they hear from behind them. For a second Nat thinks it might actually be Danny coming after them, though the voice was way too feminine. Maybe Allie just got wise and kicked him in the nuts for being such a sleazebag. Nat and Van spin around, and there stands Allie looking like she’s stepped right out of a bad rockabilly girl group.
“Hey,” Van replies, not caring that she has a mouth full of hard candy.
“Thanks for sticking up for me back there. I mean, Danny’s not a bad guy, but… well, you know.”
Van eyes her slowly, then turns back around to keep walking.
“It’s okay,” Nat says, walking backwards slowly with Allie in tow. “He’s only… twenty years older than you.”
“It’s five, but–”
“Danny’s twenty one?” Van says, still walking ahead. “Heavy.”
Nat hands Allie her pack of Razzles, deciding to substitute the candy in her mouth for a cigarette. She turns around, scuffed black boots kicking up dust as they cut from the sidewalk to a path. “You don’t wanna hang out with guys like him, okay?”
She spits, raspberry-flavored candy hitting the ground with a faint dull thud. Her hand searches in her leather jacket for her pack of Marlboro. She plucks out a cigarette and lets it hang between her lips, then feels for the cool metal of her lighter. She flicks it open with a clink, holding it up to the cigarette and inhaling as it lights.
“God, I needed this,” Nat sighs, taking another drag before letting out a steady stream of smoke, already feeling the rush of nicotine. Nat sighs and scuffs at the dusty trail she’s trudging on as if her boots weren’t already dirty enough. The end of the cigarette lights her fingertips in the dim light of the evening, little pieces of ash fluttering to the ground and burning out just like her own perceived potential. Her mind reels as she finally lets herself reflect on the day’s events. She isn’t doing enough, that’s for sure. The Greasers need to hit back. The Socs have been ruling the town for far too long and she won’t let them rule her life, too.
“What pictures are they showing tonight, anyway?” Allie asks, her voice cutting through Nat’s thoughts like Bobby Farleigh’s switch.
“I don't know,” Van replies, chewing on her newly-formed piece of gum. “Probably some unfunny beach flick or a screwball or something. Kiffy’s choosing. I suggested a double-feature of Cleopatra and Gone With The Wind but my boss didn’t find it funny.”
“What gives? Are they bad?”
“No, they’re just–” Van sputters out with a sigh, spitting her own gum out into the grass as she approaches the drive-in fence and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “Never mind. C’mon, before someone sees us.”
She crouches beside the hole in the chain-link fence and pulls the edge of it back, the sound of the metal clinking softly like it’s welcoming Allie through.
“Don’t you work here, Van? Couldn’t you just… get us in?”
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that,” Nat says with a grin, following Allie through the gap in the fence with ease. Even in a skirt, she’s still got it.
Van follows soon after and dusts herself off as she stands. The drive-in’s jumping tonight – cars are pulling in left and right, and there are no spaces left toward the front of the lot as the three of them pass by.
“Huh,” Van says as she surveys the area, eyes drifting from car to car. “Guess Kiffy chose good, after all.”
Nat grunts in response. She’s more interested in specifics. The drive-in’s a hangout for both Socs and Greasers, and anyone could be here tonight like an assortment of candy from Muriel’s. Grab a handful and spill them all out – that’s the crowd at the nightly double. Her gaze slides overtop of the slick hood of a Soc’s Chevrolet convertible to a Greaser’s beat-up Mercury Eight. The bulky frame of a run-down C/K catches her eye next and she recognizes it almost instantly.
“Travis,” she breathes, stepping around the left side of the truck and letting her fingertips run lightly over its door. The shine’s all gone, leaving it matte to the touch. But her eyes aren’t on the truck. Travis straightens up from where he’s leaning on the inside of the door and runs his hand through his hair like he’s trying too hard to look like he doesn’t care.
“Hey,” he says casually, eyeing Van and Allie who are lingering awkwardly behind Nat.
“Hey,” Nat mirrors, and suddenly she doesn’t know what to say. Her gaze moves slowly over him, taking in his dusty brown flannel shirt with little holes at the hem and his comb sticking out of his pocket. “Look, Travis–”
“It’s fine.”
Nat closes her mouth. Fuck. He’s mad. They haven’t really spoken much since they broke up. It’s not like Nat didn’t want to. Just everything with her mom, the Socs, the soccer team…
“I didn’t expect us to be all buddy-buddy,” he murmurs. He glances at her and sighs, his face softening slightly as he looks at her. “It doesn’t matter. My dad made me wait for him after school today, and I overheard the girls from the soccer team while they were leaving. I think they’re planning something tonight.”
Nat blinks. This is all she ever hears from anyone. The Socs are always planning something.
“Seriously? We can’t catch a break,” Allie whines in the background, and Nat’s shoulders tense as she lets out a slow breath. Travis meets her eyes, his lips twitching up just slightly.
“Allie Stevens?” he asks, keeping his voice low.
“Don’t ask. Did you hear anything else?”
“I couldn’t get any details. My old man was chewing me out about my Trig grade again.”
“You always hated Ms. DeWine,” Nat grins.
“I think she’s doing it on purpose,” he replies, finally giving her a real smile. It feels familiar.
But their moment of comfortable silence is broken by the jeers of a group of Greasers heading towards them. Nat follows Travis’s gaze as he rolls his eyes and sinks down into his truck. She recognizes some of them from the DX.
“Just be careful, okay?” Travis says. “Maybe you should just blow tonight off.”
“No way,” she murmurs, keeping an eye on the Greasers. There’s a smaller group heading her way - Charlie, Rich, Kevyn. One of the Greasers she doesn’t recognize smacks Rich on the back just a little too hard, a taunt disguised as a friendly gesture. She flinches, and turns back to Travis. “I came here to see a movie, and I’m gonna see a movie.”
Travis looks at her for a moment, then smiles.
“We’re cool?”
“Yeah, Travis. We’re cool.”
He gives her a small nod, and closes the door of his truck. As soon as Nat’s friends are on her, Travis has his window rolled all the way up.
“Natty!” Kevyn yells, slinging an arm around her the moment he gets close enough. Before she can mutter a don’t call me that, Charlie’s handing her a suspiciously bottle-shaped paper bag and all’s forgotten. Nat takes a swig, trying not to grimace at the strong taste but she’s pretty sure if that was a paper Ms. Dewine would give her a failing grade. A quick glance around gives her a sense of relief, at least - the place is too crowded with teens for anyone half responsible to notice.
“What’s up, anyway? You look like you’ve got your own personal storm cloud following you around,” Rich says as they start to move through the crowd, trying their best to stay in their little group. All Nat offers up is a noncommittal grunt as she takes another swig of her mysterious bag bottle, the brown paper darkening from a few stray droplets when a Soc bumps into her as she passes through. Luckily Van offers her some solace from having to recount her whole day’s sad events as she fills the boys in, soccer and corvair and Muriel’s and all.
“Hell of a day, huh,” Kevyn says, rubbing his chin. “Where is Allie, anyway?”
“She was just h–” Van starts, but when she looks back Allie’s nowhere to be seen. It doesn’t take all that long to find her, though, one closer look around at the nearest group of Greasers and Allie’s already hanging off the arm of the tall one who smacked Rich on the way.
“C’mon,” Nat sighs, as she locates a break in the crowd to lead the group through. “I promised Van a Coke and we’re already late.”
She shoves her bottle back into Charlie’s arms, the paper crinkling softly before she turns and stalks off toward the concession stand.
She can smell the popcorn before she even sees it. Pushing past a small group of kids irritatingly standing right in the doorway, Nat heads straight in and makes a beeline for the attendant at the soda fountain. They’re in luck - the place is pretty empty save for a few kids Nat doesn’t recognize on the far side hovering near a display full of butterfingers and M&Ms. Though maybe they’re not lucky at all. It’s only empty because the movie’s about to start, Nat realizes, when she hears the speakers start up playing some advertisement for the snacks on offer.
“This place needs a refresh,” Nat murmurs as Van catches up. She’s humming along to the muffled advertisement jingle as she eyes a cutout of some ‘50s actress advertising a candy brand.
“I like it,” Van replies coolly, throwing an arm around the woman’s cardboard shoulder. “It’s nostalgic.”
“It’s old fashioned.”
“Yeah, well, one day we’re gonna be old fashioned and you’ll be looking back on this moment feeling all nostalgic too.”
Nat doesn’t count on it.
Van’s startled out of her Hollywood daze by the cashier clearing his throat and she gives the cutout a hesitant pat as an apology. Whether it’s for the cutout or the cashier, Nat’s not too sure. He looks Van over with a flicker of recognition which she returns with an awkward tight-lipped smile.
Nat’s eyes scan the boards and orders Van’s Coke with a side order of grim resignation. The sad amount of coins in her pocket wasn’t exactly weighing her down to begin with, and that was before she spent thirty cents on those Marlboros. But no amount of staring at the hot dog sign will fix the growling in her stomach. She tosses the ten cents onto the counter and heads out with Van in tow who hurls a ‘thanks’ over her shoulder like it were one of her mom’s empty beer cans.
“Head up on the right side,” Van says as Nat pushes through the door, nodding towards the steps on the right of the bleachers. “Pretty lucky you ran into Travis earlier. The place isn’t exactly empty tonight.”
Nat grunts. “He usually parks around there. I didn’t even mean to look, I guess it was just… muscle memory.”
They walk around the back row of cars towards the steps. Blue Mustang, black El Camino, white Polara. Halfway up, an old maroon Ford wagon, and… a brand new Corvette Sting Ray. Cherry red and sleek as anything. Nat stares as she trudges past, half surprised it’s not sparkling like a cartoon under the lights on top of the bleachers. Her brows furrow slightly as she eyes its smooth exterior.
“Dunno why he comes here so often if he’s not gonna hang with the rest of us,” Van grumbles between sips of her Coke, snapping Nat out of the thoughts she didn’t even have time to have. Van locates the gang about halfway up on the right side of the seats, and they both start the trudge upwards to their row. Nat climbs over Charlie and Rich unceremoniously and pushes Kevyn’s shoulder. He moves down two seats on autopilot, making space for the two girls in the middle. Nat grimaces as she sits down - the cold evening breeze isn’t doing wonders to make the hard plastic seats any more comfortable. Maybe she should’ve worn pants instead of the skirt after all.
“We should’ve all piled into your car, Kevyn,” she says bitterly, shivering and pulling her jacket tighter around her.
“My mom has it,” he mutters, keeping his eyes ahead on the screen. The movie’s already playing, some beach comedy with cartoon sound effects and musical numbers. Not exactly the peak of cinema, Nat thinks, but it could be worse. Kevyn finally spares her a glance. “Hey, you didn’t think to grab the rest of us a Coke, too?”
“Get your own damn Coke,” Nat scowls. She knows damn well he could afford it. He just frowns like Nat actually hurt his feelings and fishes his pocket mirror out to fix his hair before stalking off toward the concessions stand.
“What’s gotten into him,” Van asks with a mouth full of hard candy for the second time that day.
“Who knows. He’s been a drag ever since we got here,” Charlie replies on Nat’s other shoulder. “He was fine earlier. We skipped last period to listen to some of his records at his place.”
“Nah, he got all cranky after you shut off that Elvis song,” Rich replies. “Treat me mean and cruel.”
“Love Me,” Nat murmurs disinterestedly, accepting a sip of Van’s Coke.
“That’s it.”
“Didn’t know you were an Elvis aficionado, Nat.”
“Kevyn used to play him for me.”
“Huh. Maybe that’s why he’s in a mood.”
Nat starts to turn to look at Rich and Charlie, some snarky comment loaded up like it were a round in one of Bobby Farleigh’s heaters, but it never makes its way out of her mouth. Melissa’s lingering in the aisle awkwardly like she’s trying to figure out how to ask for permission to sit down. Nat fumbles for a way to greet her without sounding patronizing - she doesn’t know her all that well - but Van (being Van) is already moving into Kevyn’s empty chair to give her a space to sit.
Melissa’s brothers are part of another gang from the Southwest side of town, but Nat sees them whenever the Greasers get together if the Socs decide they wanna be a bigger problem than usual. She remembers hearing the oldest brother got some real good hits in at the last rumble a couple years ago. He was seventeen then. Their gang tends to be more aggressive; but they can afford to be, not like Nat’s little motley crew. And even if Melissa isn’t strong, she’s agile. Nat’s seen her practice even if she’s not on the team yet. She’s fast. Though she guesses that didn’t help her much when she got jumped. She still has a faint abrasion on the bridge of her nose - barely there, but Nat sees it when the lights above the bleachers flicker.
“Some movie,” Melissa says as she sinks down into her seat between Nat and Van. “Want some Milk Duds?”
Nat opens her mouth to decline but her stomach growls just as the tough guy in the movie gets punched in the jaw and tumbles to the ground with a cartoonish sound effect.
“Thanks,” Nat murmurs, letting Melissa pour some out from the little yellow box into her hand. She puts a couple into her mouth and chews on them slowly. She turns her attention back to the screen hoping to actually catch some of the movie only to spot Kevyn coming back with an armful of Cokes out of the corner of her eye.
“Here,” he says slightly bitterly once he arrives, but then he’s pressing a cup into Nat’s hand.
She glances at him incredulously, gaze flicking between him and the movie screen. “I don’t need your–”
“Just take it,” he mutters back, passing the other two cups beside his own down the line to Rich and Charlie. “Sorry,” he says to Melissa as he sits back down on Van’s other side. “If I knew you were coming I’d’ve–”
His words die in his throat as Melissa waves dismissively and he gives her a curt nod in response. Nat doesn’t think Mel would want much - maybe just the company is enough. Her own gang seems to brush her off as the kid sister and doesn’t spare her much of a glance. Maybe having her around more often wouldn’t be too bad, anyway. If they’re gonna ramp things up with the Socs, really have a fighting chance… they’re going to need numbers.
Nat’s jaw tightens as she feels a twinge of guilt - Kevyn still bought her a drink even though she snapped at him before. So much for swearing off being an asshole to her own friends. But she eventually takes a grateful sip of her soda, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the teens on screen in scandalously skimpy clothing prancing around the beach.
“What’d I miss?” Kevyn asks.
“Nothing much. Some guy got punched and everyone else burst into song,” Van replies with a smirk.
“Hey Kev,” Charlie says from the opposite end, followed by someone shushing him from the row behind. He ignores them and keeps on talking. “How much would you pay to see that happen at the next rumble. Someone throws the first punch and we all break out in a musical number.”
“Yeah, right,” Van grins. “You’re tone deaf, Charlie, and Rich’d be tripping over his own two feet before it even started.”
“I am not tone deaf,” Charlie scoffs. “I’m musically gifted.”
“Three different guitar tutors quit on you.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I didn’t wanna play their boring classical crap. I’m the next Scotty Moore, not some squeaky-clean pop-star wannabe.”
“Guess we’d better get practicing for the rumble then,” Rich smirks.
“Like you’d even be at the rumble,” Nat mutters.
Suddenly the others are quiet and when she looks up, they're all looking at her. She pauses. She hadn’t really meant to say that out loud.
“What?” she says, finally straightening up from where she was slumped low in her seat chewing on her straw. “Come on. Have any of you other than Van and I ever actually been in a fight?”
Charlie sinks back in his seat, avoiding Nat’s gaze.
“Well. Van and I and Melissa. But we all know how that ended. No offense.”
“I almost had ‘em,” Melissa replies, still chewing on her milk duds.
“You don’t get it, Nat,” Rich sighs. “A ton of the soc-y guys are jocks. They’d knock us on our asses in a second.”
“You just have to pick your battles,” Nat says exasperatedly.
“Surely there’ll be some little preppy guys at the rumble,” Van grins wryly. “Like… a guy Jackie Taylor. I can just imagine the transatlantic accent.”
Nat leans forward in her seat. “At least with the guys it’s cut and dry. With the girls… it’s dirty. Scratching, hair pulling, y’know.”
“Cat fight,” Charlie grins.
“Yeah, well, they’re pretty feral. I’m sure Turner would like to sink her claws into one of us,” Nat mutters bitterly.
Van chews on her lip thoughtfully, then slouches in her seat.
“If you guys are serious about this, you need a leader,” Melissa says.
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Van says pointedly, staring straight ahead.
Nat stays silent. She knows where this is going.
“It works,” Melissa continues. “My oldest brother, Bryan, he’s the leader of our– their– gang. It gives them someone to look to. But it’s not like he calls all the shots, you know, he listens to all of us. It’s a group thing. It just makes things more organized.”
“It’d just give the Socs a target,” Nat sighs. “Van, you know they’ve been targeting me.”
“Maybe you just need to step up.”
Nat blinks.
“I’m serious,” Van says. “Remember when that left-back from Maplewood wouldn’t stop marking you the entire game last time we played them?”
Nat frowns. She does. She was a tall player, physical too. She’d gotten up close and personal any time Nat had possession, fist wrapped tightly in the back of her navy blue jersey. A leg shoved between Nat’s, hard studs meeting bone as she drove them right into the side of her ankle. The heel of a hand planted right between her shoulder blades, sending her face-first into the turf.
“You could’ve let her get the better of you. But I remember even I could see the fire in your eyes from the other side of the field when you got back up.”
Nat almost smiles when she recalls the look on that left-back’s face when she got the perfect cross off in the next play. The ball soared through the air to find Jackie’s foot as if Nat had conjured a spell to place it there. It was the winning goal of the game. She still has the plastic trophy the school board gave her after the match.
Still… there’s something she can’t quite shake. Like she could look through a mirror and see her father sneering back at her. A fingerprint-stained reflection of him staggering through the hallway of the trailer, beer can in hand, gray collar shirt smeared with motor oil. Her mom in the bedroom doorway, oil streaks on her body blending with a fresh set of bruises.
“I’d just take it too far,” Nat mutters.
Suddenly she can’t quite stomach her Coke. She hands it off to Melissa and tugs her jacket tighter around herself - shaking hands disguised by the sharp sting of the evening breeze.
“I think Van has a point,” Kevyn says. “You’d be a good leader, Nat.”
“Whatever,” she just mumbles, sinking lower into her seat with her arms wrapped around herself like a blanket. She’s missed half the damn movie; not that it was any good in the first place, but she still feels irritation spike when the credits start to roll. The light above the bleachers flickers on and off. Someone’s car horn beeps in the distance. She doesn’t feel like sticking around much longer.
“What time is it, Kevyn?” she asks, shifting slightly in the hard plastic seat.
He checks the watch on his wrist, the glass face glinting beneath the floodlight.
“Nine-thirty.”
Nat grunts. Prime time for her mom and her boyfriend to be falling over each other drunk out of their minds. She’d better trudge home to Palmer Meadows extra slow tonight. Maybe she’ll cut through the park on Jasper Street, sit out on the swings a while to clear her mind.
Still, the next title card fades in on the big screen, and Nat can almost hear the drone of a car on a flickering black-and-white screen over the disapproving mutters of the elderly couple sitting on the row behind them.
“Christ,” Van mutters, as huge lettering reads THE HORROR OF PARTY BEACH. “I think Kiffy’s doing it on purpose to clear the place out so they can clean up quicker.”
“Well, it’s working,” Kevyn says with a smirk, the sound of Rich and Charlie doing their best rubber-suit-monster attacking dumb-blonde-movie-chick impressions distracting him momentarily from watching the small streams of people make their way down the bleachers.
Nat’s eyes follow his. Her gaze flicks between a few older couples all dressed up, to kids their age in leather and denim, or madras and sports jackets. Some blond kid decked out in Wiskayok blue catches her eye - letterman jacket shining blindingly like a future peaked in high school beacon. He walks in strides as if he owns the whole damn drive-in, making his way over to that maroon Ford.
“Hey, isn’t that…” Melissa starts, but Nat’s eyes are already on none other than Shauna goddamn Shipman swinging the driver’s side door closed.
Van sits up straight in her seat. “We should get out of here,” she says, and Nat nods tensely. Jackie Taylor walks around the side of the wagon, blond boy immediately wrapping an arm around her waist like a dog pissing on a street light to mark its territory. Nat’s eyes dart around the nearby cars – it can’t just be the three of them. Socs travel in packs, same as Greasers. And Nat’s hackles are already raised.
“Nat.” Van says, voice firmer this time. Nat stands jerkily, Melissa following suit soon after. But before she can even take a step there’s a whole group of Socs surrounding Jackie as if they were a swarm of bees. Taissa Turner stands beside a navy Mustang one car ahead – of course she wouldn’t be in her Corvair; she wouldn’t be caught dead in something with a single scratch on its paintwork. She locks eyes with Nat as if she could sniff out the smell of whatever-the-fuck liquor was in that paper bag Charlie handed her earlier and Nat’s whole body locks up. But then she’s bolting – Van trailing loosely behind as they descend the steps of the bleachers. They can’t go upwards, of course, so they have to move toward the Socs before they can get away from them.
Nat hops over a row of seats, ankle hitting one of them hard and almost making her stumble but she catches her balance as she reaches the level surface of the pathway.
“Hey!” someone yells from behind her. She heads for cover - the crowds of people heading home, hoping to lose the Socs tailing her. If she could just make it over to the far side of the parking spaces…
She pushes through a small group of people, head whipping left and right before she takes off again. Her calves ache like they do whenever the midfielders are on a break; Nat shadowing their movements on the right side ready to receive a pass. Only this time it isn’t a soccer game, and Taissa’s on the opposing team. Her lungs scream as she finally makes it back to the fenceline, eyes searching desperately for Travis’s C/K. But it’s nowhere to be found – most of the parking spots in his usual area are empty. Nat whirls back around, halfway through cursing Kiffy Schumacher for picking a joke movie for the night, and halfway through searching for Van in the crowd with wide eyes, when suddenly she’s sent sprawling into the dirt by the bushes.
Nat wheezes, ribs instantly aching from whoever tackled her like a wannabe linebacker for the Wiskayok football team. Probably harder. The boys’ teams at school were never any good. She drags herself up as quickly as she can, but she’s had the wind knocked out of her and can’t take off running again like she wants to.
“Mother–” she groans, doubled over, but then she’s hitting the deck again. She can smell Taissa’s shampoo before she even sees her, courtesy of many a tense scrub-down beside each other in the locker room showers.
“Wow, Natalie, with all that running from the cops you do I thought you’d be harder to catch,” she sneers, climbing on top to straddle her and pin her wrists to her sides. Nat bucks like a mare at the Saturday afternoon saddle bronc but Tai has a good grip on her wrists and pushes them further down into the dirt. Nat grimaces. This is her good jacket. “No, seriously, I’m surprised you haven’t been repeating grades. You really keyed my car and then decided to hang out in the most obvious place?”
“I didn’t key it,” Nat grits out. Technically, she didn’t.
“Bullshit.”
She kicks again, but it’s no use. There are shouts and pounding of feet, and something tells her it isn’t Rich and Charlie coming to her rescue. Her vision’s a blur of Taissa’s patterned tank top and someone else’s sleeve as they pin her by the shoulder, letting Taissa get a good hit in. Nat’s almost shocked she actually had it in her to hit so hard. How did they get here from making crosses to each other on a soccer field? It’s then she realizes just how far everyone’s gone. Like there are two sides to each and every one of them. Nat thrashes hard, heart pounding, desperate to get away.
“Hold her down, Mari,” Taissa orders as she slugs her once more, and Nat can’t see for the white-hot sparklers in her eyes that send her back to being ten years old at the state fair. One more punch and she’s fifteen in her dad’s trailer. She gasps for air and thrashes again, getting loose for a second to try to get up, but Taissa’s fist is already coming back for more. Nat’s arm shoots up to block the punch and she twists quickly - able to squirm out of Mari’s grip a little more. She grasps the brown patterned material of Taissa’s scarf in her fist, disrupting it from where it’s tied perfectly into her hair so she can tug her head forward and throw her off balance. But then somebody’s kicking her in the ribs hard and she’s curling up into herself, sharp sound gritted out through her teeth. Her head spins and she can hazily see Taissa’s lips moving as she rolls Nat onto her back, but she can barely hear through the buzzing in her ears as if she’d knocked a wasps’ nest right down on top of herself.
“...see if you cut just as well as my car,” she hears as the ringing decreases, followed by the distinctive snap of a switchblade. It occurs to her that they actually could kill her. Is this really all she’s worth? Losing her life all to a locker-room disagreement and a stupid scratched car. Panic bubbles over and she feels pressure in her chest as she tries to call out for Van, Travis, anyone. Her head throbs and she looks up dizzily, feeling the fight slowly starting to drain out of her. Maybe this is what she deserves after all.
But just as she almost lets herself lay limp against the dirt, she feels the weight on her hips suddenly lift as Taissa slams forward into Mari. Hands grasp at Nat’s jacket lapels, tugging on them hard and hauling her to her feet.
“Come on!” Van yells, practically dragging Nat along behind her. It’s barely registering with her that her legs are even moving, but eventually she regains her senses enough to understand what happened.
“You’ve still got some power in you,” Nat gasps out, half-grimace, half-smirk on her lips. Van really had shoved Taissa hard.
She doesn’t respond until the bleachers are back in sight, and only then does it occur to Nat which direction they’d been running. Alarm bells ring in her head - or maybe it’s just the lingering effect of Taissa’s fists.
“Van,” Nat pants, gripping her side where she’d been kicked hard. She doesn’t want to risk it if Jackie and Shauna are still around. Her stride falters, legs feeling weak.
Van simply shushes her. She’s clearly looking out for the Socs who had been hanging out around the lot earlier. There are significantly less cars still taking up the parking spaces, so she dips behind a couple and brings Nat down with her to rest a moment.
“She found out about her car,” Nat says, trying to catch her breath.
“Yeah, no shit.”
Van turns to her irritably, looking like she could almost hit Nat herself.
“I knew it was a bad idea.”
But her harsh gaze softens with a sigh once she really looks at her. She tilts Nat’s head up so she can see her better under the dim lighting above the parking lot, eyes working over her with a grimace.
“She really did a number on you, huh?”
Nat pulls away with a roll of her eyes and lets her head fall back against the side of the car with a soft thud.
“I can’t believe I let her catch me,” she murmurs, tugging at the sleeve of her jacket to inspect the damage. She’s even muddier than she usually is after a full ninety minutes in the rain.
“Let her?” Van grins. Taissa always was the quickest on the team. Well – maybe. She could fight rock-paper-scissors with Shauna for the title.
Nat almost smiles.
“I’m blaming Charlie’s liquor. It threw me off my game.”
Van’s arm comes up to smack her over the head playfully, and Nat dodges it, finally allowing herself to laugh even if her head’s still ringing. For a moment she can feel it – the adrenaline, the exhilaration of getting away. But it only takes a moment for her to feel that familiar pit in her stomach - she feels it every time she knows she’s getting in over her own head.
“She was gonna cut me.”
“What?”
“She was gonna cut me. She had a switch.”
Van stares. Her eyebrows pull down deep, and she doesn’t take her eyes off Nat’s even as she thinks.
“She couldn’t have,” Van breathes. Her voice is quiet in the harsh breeze of the evening. “She wouldn’t do it.”
Nat stares back. Suddenly she feels sick. There’s a thick kind of tension in the air, something confusing that almost makes her head spin like it did feeling Taissa’s fist come down on it.
“How would you know,” Nat mutters.
Van hesitates.
Nat ignores it.
“Could you?” Van asks finally, gaze flicking to meet Nat’s. The intensity in her eyes is almost enough to make Nat’s breath catch in her throat.
She couldn’t.
“Come on,” she says simply, dragging herself up from the ground. Little pieces of gravel and dust cling to her fishnets as stands. She winces, feeling her ribs throb one more time.
Van follows after her, swiping dust from her jeans, keeping low. The two of them make their way slowly between cars and aim for the fenceline on the far side of the lot. As risky as it seems, it makes sense for Van to lead them back this way. Taissa and Mari would never expect them to run right back towards the Socs’ cars. If anything, they’re probably heading to the projector building thinking Van’s letting her hide out there. Nat keeps watch for anybody she knows - maybe if she spots some Greasers still hanging around they can hop in their car and get out of here. But she doesn’t see any cars she recognizes, and can’t risk looking in any windows.
A couple cars down, though, she hears the soft murmur of two voices. Nat stops suddenly, crouching using the car as cover. Van clearly hadn’t heard them because she walks right into Nat as she follows behind her. “Sorry,” she mutters, but Nat reaches back to grip the material of her sleeve to silently warn her.
Shauna Shipman paces like a caged animal in front of her wagon. The hood’s popped, and Nat can see the rust on its underside even under the dull light of the stars.
“It’s fine, Jax,” she mutters. “I probably just need to try it again. It usually starts after a couple times.”
“It doesn’t look fine,” Jackie replies from where she’s leaning casually against the bumper. Nat almost scoffs from where she’s crouched a few cars opposite. What would Jackie Taylor know about cars. She’d bumped the brand new convertible she got for her sixteenth birthday into a tree in her driveway within a week of having it and there it’d stayed ever since.
Jackie stands up with a sigh and lifts her hand as if to touch Shauna’s arm, but she thinks better of it and lets it drop back down to her side. Shauna stops in her tracks anyway. “There’s a payphone out on the street. I could call my dad. He’d come out here, it’s not a problem.”
“It’s almost ten. He’ll be in bed.”
Jackie shifts.
“Jeff and Randy will know what to do,” she says assuredly, backing up and glancing over at the bleachers where a small group of Socs are loitering.
“I’d rather let this thing rust into a scrap out here than let Randy Walsh lay a finger on my car,” Shauna scoffs, and she slams the hood shut hard.
Jackie doesn’t falter - instead, she just smiles.
“You’re probably right. They probably both just talk a big game. Jeff never lets me see his auto mechanics grade, so take that as you will.”
Shauna’s gaze lingers over Jackie’s face, expression unreadable - until eventually the corners of her mouth quirk up in a smile. She opens her mouth to say something, but Jackie’s quicker.
“Come on. I’ll just ask him to drop us both off.”
“That’s not–”
“It’s fine,” Jackie says with that sickeningly sweet smile. “He can drop me on the way to yours, no sweat. We’ll come back tomorrow for your car, figure something out.”
Shauna’s eyebrows pull down, mouth a tight-lipped line. Jackie’s already called Jeff over before she can protest any further.
Nat shifts where she’s crouching, legs aching. The gravel crunches beneath her boots and she gets ready to move at a prime time. If they can move a few more cars over, they’d be out of the light of the bleachers and probably in the clear to make it to the exit along the fenceline. Nat keeps her eye trained on the small group of Socs then moves along the side of the car with Van in tow. But once she makes it to the other side, she freezes just as quickly as before. The other side of the car hadn’t given her an eyeline to whatever lay beyond Shauna’s wagon, so she hadn’t expected anybody else to still be around.
The brand-new Corvette Sting Ray sparkles in the moonlight, its perfect red paint job putting even Taissa’s borrowed Mustang to shame. But for once, it isn’t the car that keeps Nat’s attention. There’s a girl standing there leaning against the window frame, brown hair perfectly curled, cigarette in hand. A Soc. Nat stares. She’s never seen this girl before - not even when she and Van stake out Mari’s house parties. Even Socs from the next town over wouldn’t dare pass on those. The girl lifts her arm to take a drag, rectangular glass face of her golden wristwatch glinting as it catches the light. Tiny glowing embers fall when she flicks the ash and flutters down past her fluffy pink sweater - some material that looks like it’d cost more than Nat’s entire wardrobe combined. She should look ridiculous, like a woollen stuffed sheep Misty Quigley would keep at the foot of her bed. But she doesn’t. She looks like she stepped right out of one of Jackie Taylor’s fashion magazines.
She leans down to brush at her calf, legs long and tan like a model, and when she straightens back up she meets Nat’s eye in a heart stopping moment. Nat ducks back behind the car with a violent curse under her breath. Just perfect. She’d already gotten a prime beating tonight, and now it’s time for some Super-Soc she’d never laid eyes upon to get all up in her pathetic business. That, or she’s about to meet the boot on the end of one of Shauna's powerful legs. The new girl doesn’t look the type to fight. She’d risk getting a speck of dirt on her pristine pink plaid skirt.
Footsteps thunder, closing the distance, and Nat can hear Taissa asking if the gathered group of Socs have seen either of them. She peeks out from her vehicular hiding spot to track over each of them, gaze calculating as if they were Maplewood players on the defense. More colorful language spews from Taissa’s mouth as she describes Nat and Van to Jeff’s jock friends - not that they really need it, since Nat’s pretty sure they spend more time at the girls’ practices to watch Jackie than they do practicing their own damn sports. Her heart sinks once she realizes now that brunette Soc has a perfect description of her. As if her face was plastered all over town with a wanted status and cash reward to boot. Her muscles coil ready to bolt again if she needs to, but she meets the new Soc’s eyes once more and Taissa is met with silence.
Nat stares again, eyes wide.
Then she’s moving with Van in tow - legs stiff but able to carry her as she crosses behind her parked car shields, the two of them darting for the reprieve of the darkened fenceline. There are no shouts or the sharp slap of expensive sports shoes running after them, so Nat risks a look over her shoulder to see the group of Socs dispersing in little groups and pairs. It’s a long walk along the fenceline until they find a gap to climb through, and they almost miss it with how hidden it is in the dark shade of the trees above. But what they could never miss is the roar of that perfect, pristine Sting Ray as it drives off into the night.