A/N: Once again, the seldom-seen update for Noreen's story! I'm so, so sorry again for being on such a long hiatus, but now that summer's here I'm going to try to pump out at least one or two more chapters for you all, and I'll try to make them as long as possible. So, without further ado, Chapter 7…

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the plot, Noreen, and Leroy (I'm pretty sure).

"But Riff," A-Rab complained. "We've gotta keep going to Doc's! Where else can I find that soda pop I like?"

"Yeah! And Noreen's the only person who's ever let me buy girlie magazines before! How else am I gonna get 'em if we stop goin' to Doc's?" Snowboy moaned, shaking his stack of Playboys.

"She's an awful nice lady, Riff," Baby John said quietly. "She never treats me like a little kid. Maybe you should say you're sorry for callin' her a –"

"Sorry!?" Leroy cried out, a vein in his forehead pulsing. "I ain't sayin' sorry to no immigrant leprechaun chick! She oughta say sorry to me! And until she does, we ain't goin' back to Doc's. Ever!" Leroy was yelling now, as loud as he could, lunging first towards A-Rab, then Baby John, and finally at poor Graziela, who was curled up in the corner with Velma's arm around her shoulders. Leroy looked down at her, disgusted. "Women. They're all the same. A buncha overdramatic, easily offended dumb animals who're only good for cookin' and neckin'." He faked a punch just to see Graziela wince.

Every Jet was silent. Over the past few months, since Leroy's takeover of the Jets, they had all been much too afraid to overthrow him. They had seen how devastating violence actually was. Now that Action was helping out at Doc's so much, they barely saw him, and there was nobody to talk sense into Leroy when he got a crazy idea. Even Iceman, Riff's and now Leroy's right-hand man, who had always been there to say a word or two in favor of common sense, was quieter than usual, and didn't even neck with Velma anymore like he used to. Leroy had free rein. He could command as he wished. He could fight, love, think, or even kill if he wanted to, and nobody would stop him. They didn't want another of their number to die in a fight prompted by passion and hate.

"You guys aren't goin' back to Doc's till I say so, you hear?" Nobody moved, their eyes locked on Leroy. "Good. Thought you'd see it my way." He shrugged, satisfied with himself.

Ice, who had been looking away the whole time, cleared his throat and stretched, his long limbs filling the dark space around him. "Well, cats," he said as he walked towards the garage door. "I'm off to get a pop. Who's taggin' along?"

"Where are you gonna go to get that pop, Ice?" A-Rab asked. "We can't go to Doc's anymore…" His eyes darted over to Leroy, who was looking down at Graziela, his tongue pushing into his cheek, a slight smile upon his face.

"Really? Hm. I thought this here was a free country…" Ice opened the garage door. "But, y'know, if you guys don't wanna come with me, that's just fine." He stepped outside confidently. "I'll say hello to Noreen for you all."

Leroy did a double-take. "What? Whaddya think you're doing?" He ran over and pushed Ice back inside. "I already told ya, y'can't go back to Doc's!"

Ice swatted Leroy away like a zebra's tail swats a fly. "Who are you, the President? Nobody orders me around anymore, not even my mother. I'm my own master now."

Leroy started breathing heavily. Nobody would cross him. He was Riff now, he was the leader. They had to do what he said. They had to. He didn't want to be the annoying kid brother. He had the power now… didn't he? His eyes darted around, looking for help from someone, anyone… Then he looked back at Ice, who was coolly backing out the door, as if he had the right to go anywhere he wanted. Then Leroy got mad.

SLAM! went Ice's body up against the wall outside. WHUMP! as Leroy threw him onto the ground. Then grunts from Leroy as he smack, smack, smacked his fist into Ice's face. Then quiet. Leroy got up, still looking down at Ice's unconscious form. He wiped the sweat from off his forehead, then wiped his bloody, sweaty hands on his Levi's. He looked back at the faces of his Jets and their girls. His still-shaking hand extended towards Ice, pointing at his prone body. "That," he said, as matter-of-factly as if he was showing the neighbors his new Frigidaire, "My friends, is what happens when you cross Riff. And don't you ever forget it."