Author's Note: Okay, so obviously this story was begun a while ago, and going back and reading over the first eight or so chapters, I really feel that they no longer represent the best of my writing ability, so I decided to rewrite them. These rewrites will not affect the plot in any major way, just hopefully reflect an improvement in my writing. I hope any new readers will be patient as I try to work out some new issues with continuity.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never was mine, never will be mine.

Chapter One: Biology Labs and Infatuation

When I first saw Ponyboy Curtis, I thought he had to be the best-looking hood I had seen yet at school. I'm not exactly proud of it, but then, I'm not proud of a lot of things I did, said, or thought when I was going-on-fifteen.

It was my first day of high school when I first met him, in biology class right before lunch. My best friend, Melanie, was in that class with me, so we walked in together. When we were informed that we wouldn't be allowed to sit next to each other, it seemed like the end of the world. We had been best friends since grade school and were pretty much inseparable, and biology was the first class we had together to catch up.

I still remember the way Mel led the way into the classroom and announced our names to Mr. Wells with her customary confidence. "Melanie Walker and Christine Collins." She came first because … well, because she always came first.

Mr. Wells glanced up briefly from the clipboard he clutched in his frail hands to smile at us. "Ms. Walker, the last seat on your right, if you will."

Melanie's wide green eyes moved from the single empty chair in the back to the available seats side-by-side at the front, then back to me. She gripped my arm tightly, and I grimaced in spite of myself.

"Ms. Walker?" Mr. Wells didn't even look up this time.

"Sir—" That was when I realized that Mel was prepared to argue with him. She wasn't usually all that clingy, but she wasn't too fond of change.

My face burned at the thought of Melanie making a scene in front of our new classmates, all of whom were now staring at us.

I gently pried her fingers from my arm. "It's okay, Mel," I told her quietly enough that no one else would hear me, and nudged her in the direction of her new seat. Sometimes, if I acted confident enough in what I said, she believed me.

Melanie took her seat, pouting, and hardly glanced at the boy next to her as he tried to introduce himself.

"Ms. Collins, the seat on your left."

I'd sat down, obediently, waiting. And just when I became convinced I would be sitting alone the whole year, the bell rang and he came loping into the classroom. And golly, he was handsome, even better-looking than Billy Samuels, my very first boyfriend back in seventh grade.

I wasn't the only one staring—he had the whole class's attention, and I was fairly sure it wasn't just because of his pretty green eyes.

"Curtis?" Mr. Wells didn't sound so friendly any more.

I think that even got Melanie interested because every girl in school knew about Sodapop Curtis, the dreamy greaser who worked at the DX gas station, and the resemblance between this boy and Sodapop was too strong for the name to be a coincidence.

I wondered why I hadn't noticed him in homeroom.

The boy looked like he'd rather be anywhere but in this classroom, but he nodded. "Yessir."

He was one of them. He was a greaser, with pomade-slicked hair and a worn blue sweatshirt (something in the back of my mind noted that it was a good color on him) and scuffed sneakers. Melanie's sister, Lynn, had warned us about them, and I remembered wondering what the big deal was. All I knew was that it wasn't right, he was bad, and I shouldn't like him. He was a … hoodlum. A hoodlum in advanced biology.

"Next to Ms. Collins. Unless you'd rather delay this class further." I hated it when grown-ups did that. Firstly, I knew the only reason Mr. Wells was giving this boy a hard time was because of how he looked and dressed. And secondly, it was pretty clear where he was supposed to sit.

The boy ducked his head like he was ashamed or something, and I noticed for the first time that his ears were pink. I guess that was when I realized that he was different from the greasers who whistled at nice girls on street corners. He had a sweet face, and I was sorry for him.

I tried to offer up a smile when he looked at me—cautiously, almost like he waiting for me to give permission—but it probably came out strained.

A girl I recognized from my homeroom gave a sympathetic little smile, and Melanie shot me a scandalized look from across the room. I shrugged in a what can I do? kind of way.

The greaser sat down beside me, and I couldn't help noticing that he smelled clean, like soap, even though his clothes weren't the best.

I twirled a pencil between my fingers, trying not to look at him, but he looked so miserable that I couldn't help myself. "Christine Collins," I whispered, and watched him stiffen in surprise.

"Ponyboy Curtis." His voice was soft, his expression carefully guarded.

Ponyboy? I was tempted to giggle at the name, which really was awfully ridiculous, but I'd been raised better. And besides, I wanted him to stop looking at me with that almost defensive expression. "That's a nice name. It's nice to meet you, Ponyboy."

He frowned at first, like my reaction was one he wasn't used to, but then a small grin lit up his face. It was a little lopsided.

I was enamored.

xxxx

It took no more than a day for me to realize that I couldn't have asked for a better lab partner. Ponyboy actually paid attention in class and took notes (while I passed notes with the girl behind me) and let me copy them when I asked. He offered to do my dissection for me the instant he saw the way I looked at our first dead animal, and he explained parts of the lessons that Mr. Wells didn't.

And he never said a thing when I saw him in the halls and pretended I wasn't watching him, even though he must have known.

It was only about a week or so before Melanie started talking about Ponyboy. And when she talked, people heard. By the end of the first week of school, she and my other friends were bugging me about asking Mr. Wells to switch me to another seat. And I'd always say, "He's a nice boy," and secretly wonder if Mel would have been so upset if Soda Curtis' brother was sitting beside her.

I'd known, of course, that she would never understand how I felt, and I hadn't expected any better of our new friends on the cheerleading squad. So, for the first two weeks, I was content to admire Ponyboy in class and let myself believe that maybe he liked me a little bit.

But during our second dissection, nobody could get their razor to cut. Everyone was grumbling about it among themselves. Ponyboy had at least actually managed to get his blade through the worm's skin, but he wasn't making much more progress and I could tell he was getting frustrated.

I looked down at the razor I was holding. We'd just barely progressed from cautious smiles to playful jabs, and I was about to offer him my razor with a quip when he reached into his back pocket instead.

My words caught in my throat as he flicked open a shiny, black-handled switchblade. It must have been six inches long.

I let out a strangled gasp, and the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. "They are right. You are a hood."

Golly, did he look embarrassed when I said that, and I realized I'd spoken pretty loudly. I heard Melanie giggle from across the room even as I watched Ponyboy's face carefully close itself off. He didn't look at me for the rest of class, and somehow I felt like I'd failed him.

Except he'd failed me in a way. He, with his sweet smile and ingenuous honesty, wasn't different from the rest of the hoods running around on the East Side of town. He carried a blade. A blade. You … killed people with blades.

Maybe, I'd realized, all of them were alike. Maybe Ponyboy wasn't just a nice boy with a few bad breaks.

Maybe he was just like those friends he ran around with—the curly-haired one who always looked angry, the one with the sideburns who looked too old to be in high school, and the quiet dark-eyed one with the scars of a fighter. And maybe my friends were right about him.

Needless to say, we didn't really talk much after that day in class. Pony was moved to another seat, and for the most part he avoided looking me in the eye. And I was glad because when he did, I'd turn into a stuttering fool and Melanie could never figure out what was wrong with me.

It took me a few weeks to realize that I'd made a mistake and another week to accept it. But I was okay with it. Really.

And okay, so maybe I still watched him sometimes in biology and maybe seeing him smile did put my heart in my mouth. So what? It wasn't as though it meant anything. Not until junior year.

xxxx

"Who does he think he's kidding?" Melanie tossed her long blond hair, which she wore straight now because of the latest fad. "If he wants to get anywhere in his presidency, he'd better start rethinking a few of his policies."

Being up on current events was very in this year, and Mel had taken to it enthusiastically, poring over the latest issues of Time and Life so that she could discuss the happenings of the war in a very loud, carrying voice in case anyone didn't think she was politically aware. I was on the verge of suggesting that she just join in the protests in Washington and leave me be. One, two three, four! We don't want your fucking—

I realized Melanie was looking at me expectantly. "Absolutely," I agreed.

It was terrible to think the way I was—I loved her, I did—but Melanie drove me absolutely crazy sometimes. Like now, when I wasn't even sure whether she heard what I was saying at all.

"Do you know how low Johnson's approval rates are? Do you?" We reached her locker, and she twirled the lock right, left, and right again.

I didn't. I'd just turned sixteen, and I knew about as much about politics as most just-turned-sixteen-year-olds: nothing except a vague notion that LBJ's policies weren't really getting him anywhere with a lot of the country.

"What are you doing this weekend, Mel?"

That got her mind off of world events pretty quickly. "You know, I don't know yet. Val and Laurie were talking about going down to Rusty's, but I think they have dates. It's just like them to rub it in my face. Maybe I shouldn't have broken up with Michael."

She paused to consider this possibility. I was tempted to offer up my opinion—that Michael was a jerk, just like most of the boys she dated—but somehow I didn't think she'd appreciate it much. And Melanie continued before I could speak:

"No, Michael was a bore." She paused, looking thoughtful. "Maybe I should try to get that boy from math class to ask me. What's his name again—the one who sits in front of me? He plays basketball, doesn't he?"

His name was Peter, he did play basketball, and as far as I knew he was perfectly nice, which worried me considering Melanie was involved. He must have noticed her before—he'd have to be blind not to; Melanie was a petite blonde cheerleader and one of the prettiest girls in our class—and if she set her sights on him, she'd get him for sure. And she would dump him within weeks for sure.

"What about Andy Johnson?" I suggested instead; Melanie had been gone over Andy for months during sophomore year.

Melanie scowled. "What about him?" She didn't take kindly to being ignored, and Andy was the only boy I knew of who ever had.

I chewed nervously on my lower lip as the Peter in question passed us with a grin over his shoulder. Mel smiled back in that way of hers that lit up her whole face and deepened the dimple in her cheek. Watching her, I was reminded of why she could have almost any boy she wanted.

"Well …" I remembered how I used to admire Peter's brown eyes back in junior high and wondered if I was being selfish.

Mel had already lost interest in our conversation. She slammed her locker door. "I have to go or I'll be late, Christine."

"Okay," I said vacantly to the floor. Talking to her for just a few minutes could give me a headache sometimes.

"See you in math," she added with that impish smile that assured me I hadn't done anything to irritate her; she merely had more important things on her mind, as she often seemed to when she went into those vague moods of hers.

I watched with a sigh as her golden head bobbed down the hall and disappeared into a sea of darker hair.

xxxx

Homeroom was the same mess as always, crammed full of kids sitting in the wrong seats with a teacher too bored to notice. Our teacher, in fact, was so inattentive that Mel could usually get away with sneaking into my room and sitting on my desk for announcements.

Laurie, whom I knew from the cheerleading squad, came over to sit next to me. She was nice enough—she came from a middle-class family with a mother who actually cooked and a father who was home for dinner every night—but a terrible gossip.

She got to complaining about her family before long, and I struggled to pay attention. The worst of her problems seemed to consist of a nosy little brother, an even nosier little sister, and a mother who had embarrassed her in front of her most recent date. It made me wonder if anyone felt the same way about me, if I bothered people with petty problems. I usually kept my problems to myself, though, however petty, and concentrated on coming off sweet even when I didn't feel like it. It was something my mother taught me, and it had gotten me plenty of friends.

So I clucked with sympathy while Laurie lamented her lack of privacy and laughed politely when appropriate.

"You should come over tonight," she said as I glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. "My mother just loves you, you know."

"Hmmm." I smiled, spotted familiar green eyes from across the room, and promptly knocked my notebook onto the floor.

Seeing Ponyboy wasn't a surprise; with his last name Curtis and mine Collins, we'd been in the same homeroom all year. But what was surprising was the crooked half-smile he had just given me—the first time he'd looked at me since the first day of school.

I had been attracted to other boys before, sure, but never a boy who managed to shut off my brain and make me hopelessly clumsy just by looking at me. And even though I didn't like the feeling at all, it was hard to feel annoyed when you couldn't think straight.

As soon as Ponyboy sat down, my mind was reeling with questions. I hastily bent over to retrieve my notebook, and when I straightened up in my seat again, Laurie was looking at me strangely. I guess I looked as confused as I felt. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine," I managed, keeping my gaze steadfastly on my desk in case it was tempted to wander.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her shake her head, probably in annoyance. She and most of the other cheerleaders didn't even attempt to understand why I went into strange, quiet moods sometimes or why I was so fond of books and plays and word games and magazines besides Seventeen or Tiger Beat and other things the rest of them didn't even bother with. Sometimes I wondered about it too, but for the most part I just accepted it.

It was a relief when our teacher finally called the class to order. But as soon as announcements began, I turned back to Ponyboy even though I shouldn't have. He was lounging in his chair with his feet resting on the book rack underneath the chair in front of him. He spun a pencil between two fingers (the way I did sometimes) as he chatted idly with boy in a letter jacket whom I vaguely recognized as a football player.

They both laughed, and I couldn't help it; I was riveted. One stupid smile from across the room and I was fourteen years old again, watching him and fixated with his profile—the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the sweep of his bangs. Glory, I might as well have been back in junior high.

Ponyboy turned in my direction, and I looked down, pretending to chip at my nail polish, before he spotted me looking.

What I wanted to do was apologize. I wanted that more than anything because if I still remembered how I'd embarrassed him that one day, he certainly remembered too. But I'd never had the chance—he'd hardly even looked at me in more than a year.

If I could just get that apology out, I told myself, then I'd be able to stop thinking about him, and maybe whatever infatuation I'd felt for him last year would go away and I'd be able to look at him without freezing in place, stammering, or knocking things over. In fact, I was certain of it. Just two words and I'd be free.

Suddenly relieved, and with this realization fresh in my mind, it was hard to get through announcements. But I sat still and refrained from biting my nails, pulling at my hair, wringing my hands, or doing anything else that might give away how nervous I was.

When the bell rang ten minutes later, our teacher, who was still plodding through the announcements, glanced up, looking confused.

"Coming, Chrissy?" Laurie linked arms with Sharon Cox, another cheerleader, and both of them looked at me expectantly.

I was watching Ponyboy, who made no move to get up. "No, go ahead. I'll catch up with y'all later."

Laurie shrugged and she and Sharon left. I heard her mutter something about "… awful strange sometimes," but I focused on gathering my belongings as slowly as I could, stuffing a magazine and my math notebook into my book bag. I should have known it would be useless to try to do homework.

Ponyboy's friends had gone ahead, so I caught up with him at the door of the classroom.

"Ponyboy?" My voice sounded breathy, and I hated myself. The sooner I got this over with, the better.

He turned, surprised. He probably hadn't even realized I was still there. I watched his brow furrow a little before his expression cleared and he smiled that same lopsided half-grin. It was beautiful enough to set my mind reeling again. Still, I searched his face and detected a hint of caution even as he said politely, "How are you, Christine?"

Things could change in a year. His voice was deeper than I remembered, and not as quiet. He was taller, stronger, his shoulders broader, his hair longer, his features not as soft. All things I should have noticed as they were happening, but that didn't seem obvious until the changes were done. He'd grown up.

"I'm fine," I managed, even though I felt anything but. My heart was thudding in my ears, my legs felt like they might buckle, and it took effort to remember how to walk properly. "Listen, I know it's been a while since we've talked"—he raised one eyebrow at this, but said nothing—"but I sort of realized I wanted to tell you something."

He paused, looking puzzled. "Yeah?"

Before I could even gather the nerve to speak, I spotted Melanie down the hall. She had seen me; she waved, then noticed Ponyboy. Her eyebrows went up, and my stomach sank. Melanie knowing how I felt about Ponyboy was the last thing I needed to happen. She would never leave me alone about it, ever.

"Um." I looked back at Ponyboy, away from Mel's frown. I couldn't let her catch up with me. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I-I have to go."

Ponyboy looked more confused than ever, and I couldn't blame him. Gosh, if only things were simpler. "I guess I'll see you in English, then," he said.

I nodded and hurried off without a goodbye, a million questions turning themselves over in my head. How much did he remember? Was he angry? Did he even care? Did he think of me as another silly, stuck-up cheerleader? Why did I even care what he thought?

That was when I knew for sure—this stupid infatuation of mine had never gone away … and maybe it never would.