Riff held his sleeve to his face, trying to mop up the blood flowing freely from his nose, which was difficult to do when running at breakneck speed through the dark alleyways. He clattered on top of a row of trashcans and vaulted over a chain link fence, swearing vehemently when he hit the pavement on the other side. He spat blood and kept running. His jaw and ribs and knuckles hurt and he was winded from sprinting, but more than that, he was angry. The night shouldn't have ended up the way it had.

He turned up West Ninth Street and slowed down, his heart jumping out of his chest. He crossed the road, dodging an aggressive taxi as his feet pounded over the giant white JETS scrawled on the pavement. The reminder of his only identity made him angrier. He reached the alley on the opposite side of the street and swung onto the fire escape of a dingy brick six-story.

The clanging and scraping of the rickety metal stairs betrayed his arrival. Not that he cared. He thought maybe this would give Tony a chance to panic and come up with an excuse.

Or a plea for mercy.

Riff shoved the eternally unlatched window up with one hand, his other arm occupied with his mangled nose. He straddled the window ledge and dropped into the room.

Tony was not panicking. Rather, he was lying on his stomach on his bed, a notebook and heavy textbook propped open in front of him and a pencil in his mouth. He flipped a page in his notebook before finally glancing up.

"Damn," he said. "You're a sight."

Riff stood there, his arm still across his face, blood, sweat, and grime soaking down his yellow jacket. His eyes flitted from the notebook to the pencil and back to Tony's blank face.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Trigonometry."

"Trigo-whathahell?" Riff spat again.

"Don't you get blood on Ma's carpet."

"Where were you, man?" Riff nearly shouted. "Where the hell were you?"

"Don't yell." Tony suddenly sounded irritated. "Ma's asleep."

Riff stared at Tony, transfixed by a dozen different emotions. Confusion. Anger. Betrayal, almost.

Tony must have sensed this, because he sat up and closed his notebook. "Look. Get a towel or something. You're bleeding all over the place. And then you can slam me. It's just hard to take you seriously when you're talking through your sleeve."

Riff turned on his heel and kicked the bathroom door open, swearing. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like something from one of the B-rated slasher movies that he and the Jets often snuck into. Blood everywhere. A pretty greenish bruise slowly coming to life around his left eye. He took his arm away from his face. His nose, already small, seemed lost in red. He hoped it wasn't broken.

After running the tap and clamping a towel over his face for a few minutes, his nosebleed subsided. He tossed the bloody towel in the bin by the tub and went back into his and Tony's room, taking off his jacket and throwing it on his bed. He pulled off his shirt and dug out a semi-clean one from somewhere under his mattress, being careful to favor his nose when he pulled it over his head.

Tony was wrestling with the math problems again, avoiding Riff's eyes. Riff regarded him for a minute, then stepped closer and kicked his textbook closed. Tony's eyebrows snapped together, but he closed his notebook and set his pencil down. Then he shifted back into a sitting position and looked up at Riff.

"Where were you?" Riff finally repeated.

"I was right here," Tony answered, irritated. "Where were you?"

Riff clenched his hands into fists before realizing how much this hurt. "I was at the playground."

"Playing," Tony said. Salt on the wound. Acid, really.

Riff exploded. He was nearly half a head shorter than Tony, but could often work himself into a frenzy that more than made up for his challenged verticality.

"What is wrong with you?" he yelled. "We had a rumble tonight, man, a rumble! We needed you! I needed you! Nobody had my back!"

"Not Ice?"

"Ice had Action's back," Riff snarled. "That's how it works. Ice and Action, A-Rab and Snowboy, Tiger and Baby John, Joyboy and Big Deal, and Mouthpiece and Gee-tar. That's how it works."

"Was anybody else hurt?" Tony asked, still sitting. Still cool.

Riff rolled his eyes. "No, we had a picnic. Of course. Joyboy lost a tooth. Action sprained his wrist. Bloody knuckles everywhere. Baby John got a hot-shot split lip for being an idiot, basically."

"And you?"

"I needed you."

Tony leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. "Riff, I told you this afternoon. You're going to have to stop depending on me."

"I thought you were joking. You're a Jet, for Chrissake."

"Was."

"Was what?"

Tony regarded him. "I was a Jet."

Riff blinked. "You don't stop being a Jet. You're a Jet till you die. Till your last dying day, man."

"Games," Tony said, suddenly sounding angry. "Riff, have you considered what you've gotten yourself into? You're twenty, Riff, and you're still brawling on the streets."

"Listen to you talk!" his compatriot responded, his voice rising. "This from you, who a week ago demolished half the ranks of the Emeralds single-handedly!"

"Not quite," Tony replied. He touched his shoulder, where his buttoned shirt hid the bandages there. "If you hadn't come running, I'd be gone." He looked away from Riff. "And before last week, you know I'd have come running for you." He rubbed his face. "But I'm tired, Riff. I'm tired of fighting. I want to do something with my life."

Riff kicked Tony's bedframe, making him jump. "Why the hell have you suddenly been converted? God, man, you sound like your mother."

"She went nuts," he replied. "I was stabbed, Riff. That's not like a punch or a kick or getting hit with a rock. You don't know what that feels like." He looked back up at Riff. "And I hope you don't ever find out. This life will take you nowhere. Riff, look. It's April. Get a job. Work for a living. Earn some money. Go to school."

"Who the hell are you to tell me to get a job?"

"You know Doc? I start working at his candy store as soon as my shoulder gets better. So I can go to school up on the East Side."

Riff stared at him. "God, man."

"I'm sorry that I let you down, Riff, but I'm afraid that's the only thing I'm sorry for."

"If I hadn't just been whaled, I'd destroy you."

Tony half-grinned. "I don't doubt that. Who was it who jumped you, anyway? The Emeralds again? The Hawks?"

Riff shook his head and dropped onto his own bed on the opposite wall. "The PRs."

"The who?"

"The Puerto Ricans. Same bunch we jumped last week, after the Emeralds. When you were still in bed. Not that you've gotten out of bed."

"They fight hard?"

"Yeah," Riff answered, examining his knuckles. "Damn tough brawlers. But they don't have a leader."

"You think they'll let you alone?"

"In time. They need a leader. They're just a mess of chaos right now. We'll snuff 'em out soon. And stop trying to steer clear. You can't just drop the Jets."

Tony shook his head. "I would have died, Riff, died if you hadn't come running. Over what? Over a piece of street? Over a scratch of pavement and graffiti that nobody'll know about in two years? Over nothing? I felt worthless, man. Felt like my life was worthless. I don't want to die. I want to go somewhere, do things."

Riff couldn't work his head around it. It didn't help that he had a headache like an earthquake. He ran his hand through his curly hair. "You'd be… like… I don't know… like an orphan. You won't belong anywhere."

Tony eyed him from across the space between their two beds. "You know my mother cried for nearly three days straight while I was laying here? She only did it when she thought I was sleeping. My dad took off work early four evenings in a row to come and make sure I was okay. I felt terrible. Like I had let them down. I never understood how much they cared for me. I spent so much energy on feeling tough and angry and mean, and I never saw how much it was hurting them." His eyes went glassy, and he shrugged, causing him to miss the antagonized look that Riff had on his face. "Riff, man, the Jets aren't a family. They're not. They won't fill the hole I've got. I didn't realize that until I saw how much my parents actually—"

He never got to finish his thought. Riff leapt from his bed, towering over Tony.

"God, man, at least you've got parents!" He kicked the bedframe again so hard it clattered against the wall. "At least you've got something to fill that hole you've got, though I'm about to give you another hole right through your thick head!"

Tony looked shocked. "Riff, settle down!"

Riff kicked the bedframe again. "Don't tell me about your damn family! God, Tony, you've got a home! You've got choices. You can go to school, you can get a job!"

"Tony!" a muffled voice yelled through the wall.

Riff kicked the bed again, this time denting the leg.

The door to the room flew open and Tony's father stood dark and imposing in the frame. "What the hell… Ralph!"

"Don't call me that!" Riff yelled. He grabbed his jacket, thrust the window back open, and leapt onto the rickety fire escape.

"Riff!" Tony called after him, scrambling off his mattress.

But Riff had already swung over the railing and dropped like an acrobat to the stairs below. He jumped down the steps, hit the street, and ran off down West Ninth.

Tony's father crossed the room, shoved the window back down to the sill, and turned to his son with a sharp look in his eyes.

"Don't worry, Dad," Tony said dully. "I'm not going out."

"He's not such a bad kid," his father answered, "if only he could stay off the streets." He went back to the door. "Put those books away and go to sleep. And try to get Ralph to use the door instead of the window." He left the room.

Four years, Riff thought as he jogged painfully through the streets. Four years now he had lived with Tony and his parents. And for four years, it had been great. Perfect. They had started the Jets, the two of them. They owned the streets. Riff finally had a semblance of a family; forget depending on his alcoholic uncle. After the man had gotten out of jail the second time, Riff swore he'd do everything in his power to stay away from him. He had been sick of having to explain to his primary schoolmates where his bruises were coming from. They had begun to doubt how many staircases he was capable of falling down in any given period.

He had gone to school less and less during those days, until he met up with Tony in detention. Tony had had bruises, too, and when the teacher had left the room momentarily, Riff had leaned over and rolled up his sleeve.

"Me too," he said, flashing a grin.

Tony had looked at him oddly. "What?"

"I got bruises too, like yours. Your old man drink too much last night?"

Tony had laughed a careless laugh. "Ah no, my dad doesn't drink. I got into a fight yesterday. That's why I'm here. Scuffled with one a the micks."

Riff had been scrawny then, short and skinny. He was still short, but had worked up a tight, compact build from fighting. He could thank Tony for that, as well as his street moniker.

"What's your name?" Tony had asked after detention that day.

"Ralph."

Tony had laughed.

"No wonder you get beat on."

Riff had shrugged. He didn't care for his name, but he didn't see anything he could do about it. So Tony had caught him completely by surprise when they parted ways that day. "Watch yourself, Riff!"

And so they began. They had started to hang out together after school, and Riff began to spend more and more time at Tony's apartment. His parents had liked him then; they probably thought that he would be a good influence on Tony, whose father worked long hours to take care of his mother, who suffered badly from asthma on account of the city smog. Tony and Riff were frequently left alone. It was during this time that Riff learned how to fight and Tony learned the network of the alleyways of the lower West Side.

When Riff's uncle was busted the second time for drunken assault (on Riff, who this time was able to fight back long and loud enough for neighboring tenants to call the police), Tony's parents had stepped in and allowed him to live with them. Riff and Tony became inseparable, and they began to have a reputation. Kids at their inner-city high school began to look up to them. Riff had liked this extremely. Then, Tony had taken it a step further. That February, they had come across two boys, one tall and wiry, the other a short, explosive Italian, who were brawling with a couple of surly Swedes. The Italian was right in the action, kicking and punching, and the other was picking up chunks of ice from the grimy puddles and hurling them into the melee.

"Ha," Tony had said, heading towards the fray. "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a Swede beating up an Italian."

The four of them had gotten detention after the Swedes had run off, and they sat in the cold classroom together, comparing their bruises.

"Thanks for jumping in," the tall one had said.

"We could have taken them," the Italian put in curtly.

Tony had leaned back with a shrug and a grin. "Alright then. I'm sure you'll do just fine when they come to retaliate tomorrow afternoon. We'll let you alone this time. I don't jump in to help a buddy out just to get detention."

They other two had been silent. Riff had wondered what Tony was up to.

"Of course, if you wanted some insurance, you could join our gang."

"Which gang?" asked the taller one. Riff was wondering the same thing.

"The Jets," Tony replied. "Me'n Riff here are the leaders."

"Haven't heard of them," the Italian said scornfully.

Tony had grinned a wide, unreadable grin. "Oh, you will."

And so Ice and Action had become their first members.

Following them that summer was A-Rab, a funny looking kid with a mouth that frequently started many of the Jets' brawls, and Snowboy, so called for his affinity to snow anyone and everyone authoritative. Tiger had joined halfway through their second year, and Joyboy followed him the summer after. Big Deal came in November of their junior year, and Mouthpiece and Gee-tar joined in May. Baby John was the most recent addition, joining (most likely to stop getting whaled by just about everyone that looked at him) last December.

By that time, the Jets had driven off a number of rival gangs, most notably the Hawks, and then the Emeralds only a week ago. That was really something. The Emeralds! This train of thought brought Riff out of his reminiscing and back to the present. The Jets were really becoming number one.

How could Tony possibly leave? How could he possibly forfeit four years of leading the Jets around the city, scrawling their names on streets and buildings? Riff jogged through the dark alleys aimlessly, his anger flaring back up in him. Nearly six years Riff had known him now, and suddenly here he was, a converted saint studying Trigonometry. It just didn't make sense. The Jets were their brothers. Family.

If there was one thing Tony didn't understand, it was family. Or maybe he understood it too well. Or maybe he had just had the oddball, textbook example of good parents; not great parents, but good, decent ones at least. Maybe that's what had always made Tony so different from the other Jets. He at least had a decent home he could return to after a night of brawling.

Riff knew he owed Tony's parents a lot, and it probably wasn't their idea of a decent payback by roaming the streets after dark. He felt like a burden to them. Knew he was a burden to them. They already were short on money because of Tony's mother's medicine.

And how would it be now that Tony was going to start working? Riff would be the only one in the house! As if things weren't awkward enough for him already. He kicked a tin can in his path, sending it echoing down the alleyway. He'd have to leave. Move out. But where the hell could he go?

He went back to being angry at Tony. Tony had always had his back. Riff clambered aimlessly onto the fire escape of a building squeezed together with a row of others. He sat down and swung his feet over the metal, musing. Sitting down and being still reminded him of his injuries. God, his nose hurt. He touched it gingerly. It was swollen, but he didn't think it was broken. Christ, but his shoulders ached, and his ribs. His headache had subsided slightly, but his knuckles still stung and burned when he clenched his hands.

He never would have thought twice about Tony showing up to watch his back, until last week. That was a bad stab. Riff had been on the far side of town, pinching a wallet to grab lunch and a pack of cigarettes. He had, by luck, wandered near the Emerald's turf, which was beginning to back up right against their own, when he heard the unmistakable cry through the streets.

"Jets! Jets!"

Riff had dropped his cigarette and began to run. There was no mistaking Tony's voice. He had barreled through the alleys, over a roof, and down to the sidewalk bordering the playground. There Tony was, surrounded by six Emeralds. Three were knocked unconscious nearby, and one was rolling around and wheezing in pain. Tony's fists were raised, but Riff saw even as he got nearer that the kid closest to him was holding a knife behind his back as the others distracted Tony.

Almost too late, Riff had called out. "Tony!"

The kid had lunged, but Tony feinted to his left just quick enough to take the knife in his shoulder as opposed to clean through his chest. He had cried out. Riff had leapt through the air and taken the kid down. Landed on top of him and began punching every available body part he could find. Knocked his knife away. The other Jets began to materialize. The Emeralds were quickly reduced to nothing. Sirens had sounded down the streets. The newly-appointed idiot Schrank and his lackey had rushed in to break up the brawl. Tony was in pretty bad shape by that point. He was rushed home, and a doctor was sent for. Yeah, it had been a right bad stab.

But to drop the Jets!

Riff was suddenly brought back to the present world at the sound of voices below him. He frowned at the accent, and then nearly jumped out of his skin. He was one story above the street, and in the shadows, but for the first time, he looked around at his surroundings.

"Damn," he said aloud.

He was deep in the Puerto Rican neighborhood. Bad news. He must have crossed through the Jewish ghetto without even realizing it. He heard a flurry of Spanish from the street below. He tucked up his feet and began to make ready to climb the fire escape to the roof, but something made him look down instead. An old, battered car had pulled into the alley, and several tenants from the apartment were waiting in a pool of light for the newcomer. The passenger side opened. A tall, slim figure climbed out.

"'Nardo!" cried a voice from the door. Suddenly the small crowd pressed in around him. They all spoke rapid Spanish that Riff didn't understand, but he could tell they were ecstatic for the guy to be there. He frowned. The group below hustled the newcomer and the driver into the tenement, laughing. The door closed. The alley was once again dark and silent.

Riff lay on his stomach on the grille of the fire escape, wondering what his best bet was. The car was still in the street. Someone might come out to move it. The roof was probably the safest choice. He swung himself up onto the steps, wincing in pain, and began to climb as softly as he could, trying not to rattle the rickety metal. This took considerable effort, and between being quiet and favoring his aching body, it took him a solid five or six minutes to reach the roof. Once there, he began to cross to the far side.

Suddenly, he heard voices again. A door opened. Riff swore and rolled behind a small utility shed, tears springing to his eyes as he landed on his newly-formed bruises.

The voices spoke in halting English.

"…and Anita? She will be coming next week?"

"Sí, she is on the next ship."

"And Maria?"

"Oh, not for a while yet. August, maybe."

"We are very glad you are here, 'Nardo. We've been having trouble."

"Trouble with what?"

"Some of the street gangs here. One in particular."

"¿Quién?"

"They call themselves the Jets. They attacked us last week. We weren't doing anything."

"You were on our turf, spic," Riff muttered as he wedged himself down further behind the shed.

"Americans?"

"They say they are. Mostly sons of immigrants. An Italian, a Polack, a handful of Germans. Their leader is a mick."

Riff's fists clenched.

The newcomer sighed. "I did not count on having to focus on fighting. I came to find a job."

"And to marry Anita," the other said with a laugh.

"Later. After Maria gets here, perhaps. I'll have Maria settled down with Chino before I do anything myself."

"A good little hermano."

"Do you think the… who? The Jets? Do you think they'll let us alone?"

"Not on your life," Riff muttered.

"Yo no sé, Bernardo, I do not know. But we've been waiting for your arrival so we can begin to fight back."

"And if we do not fight back?"

"I doubt that is an option, 'Nardo."

Bernardo sighed. "Very well. We'll run them off. I want it done quickly, though, so I can bring Maria here."

God, did that grind Riff's nerves. Run the Jets off quickly! So more PRs could move in!

"Hell no," he murmured vehemently.

"I should go move the car," the one said. "You must be tired after your trip. You should go to sleep."

"I will stay up a little longer, Indio."

"Alright then. Buenas noches, Bernardo."

"Adiós. Y gracias."

Riff heard the roof access door close. His legs were beginning to cramp in the tight space behind the shed. He very quietly stretched himself out and peeked around the side. Bernardo was standing in the middle of the roof, leaning on a scaffolding, and staring off into space.

Riff looked around, considering his options. He didn't know how much longer the spic was going to hang around, and he wanted to get out of there, quick. There might be a ladder on the wall in front of him. He raised himself up and peered over the lip of the building.

There was no ladder. He swore and began to shift back around, when his foot slipped and he kicked the side of the metal utility shed, sending a resounding echo bouncing across the rooftop. He saw Bernardo jump and swivel to the shadows.

"¿Quién hay?" he called sharply.

Riff made up his mind very quickly. He normally would have waited for someone to back him up—Tony usually, but thinking of Tony made him angry, and the spics had trashed the Jets and called him a mick. He jumped out from behind the shed.

Bernardo paused when he saw him emerge. "Buenas noches."

Riff clenched his fists and leapt forward, crashing into the taller kid, who yelled something in Spanish as they fell to the ground. Riff was on top, and he took a swing, colliding his sore knuckles into the other's dark face. Bernardo swore—in English—and then rolled angrily. Riff was thrown off and sucked in his breath sharply as he landed on his bruised ribs. Bernardo jumped lightly to his feet and made ready to kick him, but Riff lunged forward and yanked his leg out from under him, sending him back to the ground. Riff scrambled upright and gave him a solid hit in the ribcage. Bernardo swore again and made a grab for Riff's sneaker, but he jumped out of reach and tore across the roof to the fire escape.

"You watch yourself, spic!" he called over his shoulder. "You watch out for the Jets!" He hurdled over the lip of the wall and landed on shaky ankles on the stairs—and nearly tumbled the eight stories to the ground. By the time he reached the cement below, there was a ruckus in the building, everyone yelling something in Spanish that he didn't understand.

"Sharks! Sharks!" he heard Bernardo calling.

Riff hit the pavement with a jolt.

And ran.