A Girl in New York (Pre/Sequel to The Outsiders: A Girl in the Gang)

Chapter 18- Letter

Note to Readers:  I'm sorry it took so long to update this story, but I've had writer's block and I was busy with, you know, life.  Anyways, hope you like it and please comment and vote!

 I wouldn't let myself miss my brother, and in order to do that I kept myself busy with a bunch of mostly illegal adventures.  For the most part it involved stealing food, or money when I could get my hands on it without getting caught, to sustain myself and, sort of, my parents. They could barely pay for rent with my mom skipping from job to job every couple months or so.

The key to not getting caught was to make sure no one noticed you.  They could see you, but they couldn't notice you.  If you were to steal something from, say, a gas station, all you have to do is grab it and walk out.  Casually holding it by your side or sticking it in your pocket worked, and then keep walking like you did nothing wrong.  If you acted suspiciously, they'd get suspicious.  But it's not like anyone suspected a fourth grader of stealing something in the first place.

About halfway through my fourth grade year, a little after I turned nine, there was a letter in the mail for me.  I got the mail from the P.O. Box on my way home from school about once a week, seeing as how I'd get screamed at for bringing home bills and stuff every day cause apparently we didn't have the money for it.  But if I never brought it home, it never got paid and we'd lose the apartment a lot sooner than my nine-year-old-self was willing to accept. 

I was flipping through some bills and the quite frequent notices that the electricity or natural gas or water was going to get shut off if my parents didn't pay it when I spotted an envelope different from the computer-addressed company notices.  It was handwritten on the front in black pen, and there was no return address.  The stamp was a US stamp, so I had no idea where it was aside from inside this country.

And it was addressed to me, not Mr. and Mrs. Dennis Winston.  I quickly stuffed it in my pocket and then continued on my way, surreptitiously placing the rest of the mail on the counter right next to my mother's gazillion pills in the hopes that she'd notice it and remember to put part of her small paycheck towards it.

Then I rushed to mine and Dally's room—well, actually my room now that my brother was gone and was most likely never coming back—I wasn't going to let myself think like that, I spent enough time trying to not think about it to entertain the idea now.  I pulled the now-crumpled envelope out of my pocket and tore it open, hoping against hope that it was from my brother.  He had been gone for almost a year now, and every day I knew I missed him but I just wouldn't admit it.

The letter was short, but it was definitely from him. It was dated May 13, 1963.  That was my birthday, which was two weeks ago. 'Happy birthday.  Don't worry about me and stay out of trouble. Dal.'

I stared at the letter in shock before turning it over and searching for an address other than my own before checking the envelope again.  I was actually disappointed now, having heard from him but not knowing where he was. 

Suddenly, I missed him too much.  I didn't just miss him. I was mad at him.  So mad at him, for leaving me to deal with the bastards that were supposed to serve as our parents.  For leaving me to come up with money to pay rent by myself.  For leaving me to steal food for myself, take care of myself on the streets, everything.  I could do it all just fine, but he had left.

He was my big brother, he was supposed to take care of me regardless if I needed him to or not, and he just left.  He had always been there for me, though most of the time I didn't want him to.  Dally had literally been the only person I could consider my friend while I was younger, even if he was gone half the time, because I had never gotten along with the kids in school.

The next day when I woke up to a cold house because the natural gas had been turned off, I blamed Dally.  When a cop yelled at me for jaywalking on the way to school, I blamed my brother.  When the principal yelled at me for 'accidentally' tripping a kid in the hallway cause he had been talking trash about me, I blamed Dally.

And then after school when the same fifth grader that I had tripped in the hallway picked a fight with me, I pretended he was Dally every time I hit him or kicked him, and occasionally knocked him to the ground and sat on his chest, pounding my hard little nine-year-old's fist into his chubby face. 

I didn't even care that my father might find out I had gotten in a fight again, but seeing as how it was after school I figured I was safe since a bunch of goody-two shoes middle school kids broke it up. 

That was the first time, but definitely not the last, I would get in a fight for something that was technically my fault and I'd blame my absent brother.