Three brothers struggle to stay together after their parents' death, as they search for an identity among the conflicting values of their adolescent society in which they find themselves outsiders.

The Outsiders

By S. E. Hinton

Thorndike Press

Copyright © 2005 S. E. Hinton
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780786273621

Chapter One

                                       When I steppedout into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the moviehouse, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newmanand a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman?he looks tough and I don't?but I guess my own looksaren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair andgreenish-gray eyes. I wish they were more gray, because Ihate most guys that have green eyes, but I have to be contentwith what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boyswear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front andsides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighborhoodrarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better withlong hair.

    I had a long walk home and no company, but I usuallylone it anyway, for no reason except that I like to watchmovies undisturbed so I can get into them and live themwith the actors. When I see a movie with someone it's kindof uncomfortable, like having someone read your book overyour shoulder. I'm different that way. I mean, my second-oldestbrother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen,never cracks a book at all, and my oldest brother, Darrel,who we call Darry, works too long and hard to be interestedin a story or drawing a picture, so I'm not like them.And nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way Ido. For a while there, I thought I was the only person inthe world that did. So I loned it.

    Soda tries to understand, at least, which is more thanDarry does. But then, Soda is different from anybody; heunderstands everything, almost. Like he's never holleringat me all the time the way Darry is, or treating me as if Iwas six instead of fourteen. I love Soda more than I've everloved anyone, even Mom and Dad. He's always happy-go-luckyand grinning, while Darry's hard and firm and rarelygrins at all But then, Darry's gone through a lot in histwenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow upat all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one ofthese days.

    Anyway, I went on walking home, thinking about themovie, and then suddenly wishing I had some company.Greasers can't walk alone too much or they'll get jumped,or someone will come by and scream "Greaser!" at them,which doesn't make you feel too hot, if you know what Imean. We get jumped by the Socs. I'm not sure how youspell it, but it's the abbreviation for the Socials, the jet set,the West-side rich kids. It's like the term "greaser," which isused to class all us boys on the East Side.

    We're poorer than the Socs and the middle class. Ireckon we're wilder, too. Not like the Socs, who jumpgreasers and wreck houses and throw beer blasts for kicks,and get editorials in the paper for being a public disgraceone day and an asset to society the next. Greasers arealmost like hoods; we steal things and drive old souped-upcars and hold up gas stations and have a gang fight once ina while, I don't mean I do things like that. Darry would killme if I got into trouble with the police. Since Mom andDad were killed in an auto wreck, the three of us get tostay together only as long as we behave. So Soda and I stayout of trouble as much as we can, and we're careful not toget caught when we can't. I only mean that most greasersdo things like that, just like we wear our hair long anddress in blue jeans and T-shirts, or leave our shirttails outand wear leather jackets and tennis shoes or boots. I'm notsaying that either Socs or greasers are better; that's just theway things are.

    I could have waited to go to the movies until Darry orSodapop got off work. They would have gone with me, ordriven me there, or walked along, although Soda just can'tsit still long enough to enjoy a movie and they bore Darryto death. Darry thinks his life is enough without inspectingother people's. Or I could have gotten one of the gang tocome along, one of the four boys Darry and Soda and Ihave grown up with and consider family. We're almost asclose as brothers; when you grow up in a tight-knit neighborhoodlike ours you get to know each other real well. If Ihad thought about it, I could have called Darry and hewould have come by on his way home and picked me up,or Two-Bit Mathews?one of our gang?would have cometo get me in his car if I had asked him, but sometimes I justdon't use my head. It drives my brother Darry nuts when Ido stuff like that, 'cause I'm supposed to be smart; I makegood grades and have a high IQ and everything, but I don'tuse my head. Besides, I like walking.

    I about decided I didn't like it so much, though, when Ispotted that red Corvair trailing me. I was almost two blocksfrom home then, so I started walking a little faster. I hadnever been jumped, but I had seen Johnny after four Socsgot hold of him, and it wasn't pretty. Johnny was scared ofhis own shadow after that. Johnny was sixteen then.

    I knew it wasn't any use though?the fast walking, Imean?even before the Corvair pulled up beside me andfive Socs got out. I got pretty scared?I'm kind of small forfourteen even though I have a good build, and those guyswere bigger than me. I automatically hitched my thumbsin my jeans and slouched, wondering if I could get away ifI made a break for it. I remembered Johnny?his face allcut up and bruised, and I remembered how he had criedwhen we found him, half-conscious, in the corner lot.Johnny had it awful rough at home?it took a lot to makehim cry.

    I was sweating something fierce, although I was cold. Icould feel my palms getting clammy and the perspirationrunning down my back. I get like that when I'm realscared. I glanced around for a pop bottle or a stick or something?SteveRandle, Soda's best buddy, had once heldoff four guys with a busted pop bottle?but there was nothing.So I stood there like a bump on a log while they surroundedme. I don't use my head. They walked aroundslowly, silently, smiling.

    "Hey, grease," one said in an over-friendly voice. "We'regonna do you a favor, greaser. We're gonna cut all thatlong greasy hair off."

    He had on a madras shirt. I can still see it. Blue madras.One of them laughed, then cussed me out in a low voice. Icouldn't think of anything to say. There just isn't a wholelot you can say while waiting to get mugged, so I kept mymouth shut.

    "Need a haircut, greaser?" The medium-sized blondpulled a knife out of his back pocket and flipped the bladeopen.

    I finally thought of something to say. "No." I was backingup, away from that knife. Of course I backed right intoone of them. They had me down in a second. They hadmy arms and legs pinned down and one of them was sittingon my chest with his knees on my elbows, and if youdon't think that hurts, you're crazy. I could smell EnglishLeather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wonderedfoolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything. Iwas scared so bad I was wishing I would. I fought to getloose, and almost did for a second; then they tightened upon me and the one on my chest slugged me a couple oftimes. So I lay still, swearing at them between gasps. Ablade was held against my throat.

    "How'd you like that haircut to begin just...