As I walked out of the library, I tried to make myself small and discreet. I was all I appeared to be; a small, weak, vulnerable hippie girl who didn't know how to fight back or have anything to fight back with, for that matter; if some soc or greaser saw me, they'd probably decide to jump me, and I was pretty far away from hippie territory.

My headband made my forehead sweat, but I didn't want to take it off; without it, my forehead looks big enough to land an airplane on. And before you ask, no I would never ask for bangs; most hippies don't ever cut their hair; we like it to grow naturally. The only time I've ever cut my hair was when I was seven and got a huge wad of gum stuck in it; when Mom cut it out, my hair was lopsided and generally looked terrible, so Mom cut it to shoulder-length; even though she felt like cutting it was unnatural, she had absolutely refused to send me out with my hair all jacked-up. Now, at age fourteen, it's down to mid-thigh. My hair is golden blonde and falls in subtle waves, and my eyes are sky blue; a lot of people have said that I look like a Barbie doll. I hate that; if you ask any hippie off the street, including me of course, their opinion on Barbie dolls, you'll always get the same answer: "Barbie dolls give boys and girls alike unrealistic expectations and ideas of what women are supposed to be". This is why I want to dye my hair brown, like my sister Jean's. Living on the east side, my sister and I don't generally have enough money to spare for stuff like that, but it will happen someday, I promise you.

My older sister Jean would definitely be a pitiful soul if she had a different personality; she's nineteen and has been my legal guardian since our parents died in a plane crash last year, and she has to put college on the back burner until I'm an adult just so I don't get thrown into a girls' home. Her eyes are hazel and unable to see the negative side of things; she keeps the spirits of everyone around her sky high and dances and hums even when she's exhausted from a long day of working at the country club, carrying patrons' golf clubs around the course for not much over minimum wage- not enough to keep the lights on by a long shot, but we get by thanks to Jean getting a second job as a night janitor at a diner, our friends helping us out by each giving us some of their money, and myself taking whatever babysitting job I can get. There's enough money in our parents' bank account to keep me in school and some other things, but we'd have been kicked out on the streets a long time ago if it weren't for our friends.

Debbie Horton has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We're the same age, but she's a few months older. I live for books, and Debbie's the only hippie I know who comes close to that; she doesn't read as much as I do, but when I'm done with a book and she thinks she might like it, she reads it. She puts her knee-length brown hair in a braid down her back and puts flowers in everyone's hair; she'll just go up to people with her basket and tuck a flower behind their ear or something. You'd think this gets her punched all the time, but no; Debbie has a smile that could diffuse a bomb; it's literally impossible to stay mad at anything when she smiles at you. I wish I had her eyes; they're silvery gray and might as well be made of glitter.

Anna Sue Watson is Jean's best friend. She volunteers like her life depends on it; constantly, everywhere, she's helping everyone and anyone with almost anything. But don't get me wrong; she's not a pushover; when someone challenges the way she thinks or believes, she debates them so hard and fast she makes anyone who isn't a genius dizzy and confused. She was born on a Native American reservation, but moved here when she was five. She has the most beautiful hair I've ever seen; sleek, shiny, smooth, soft, straight black hair falling to her calves.

Jamie and Margo Turner are identical twins in every sense of the word; both have tiny braids in their coppery hair, which goes down a little past their waists, and both have the exact same mischievous twinkle in their dark green eyes. They don't do anything illegal, of course, but they love playing harmless pranks on people. Their seventeen-and-a-half, but act like they're five; always giggling and watching cartoons and stuff like that; they can't handle anything seriously or maturely. They're the town's newspaper delivery girls; every morning they ride their bikes around town, tossing the paper on each porch, then when they're done, they collapse on the couch in my living room.

Brett Tyler is the only boy in our group. He has brown curls that hug his broad shoulders and dark inky blue eyes. He grew up on the rough side of Chicago, and is the only hippie I've ever known who's ever spent time in jail. By the time he moved here five years ago, he was tough and kinda mean. The only reason he fell in with the hippies and not the greasers was because he didn't want to be tough; he hated it. He doesn't like fighting, but will do it if necessary, like if he or any other hippie was being attacked. He's the only nice guy I know with muscles. I used to have a crush on him, as many girls do- sometimes there'll be a crowd of girls watching him over the fence at the lumber yard where he works- but now he's like a big brother to me.

I hugged the book I'd gotten from the library against my brown fringe vest, as if I were afraid it'd get cold- I wasn't, just to be clear. The book was "To Kill A Mockingbird"; it was my favorite; I think I've read it five times at least.

Suddenly, somebody ran right into my shoulder and I stopped. A greaser boy, who looked about my age, spun around, still running, said "sorry!" then turned around and kept running in a panic. I figured he must be running from the cops, but I looked back anyway; greasers and hippies have a common enemy: the socs. I saw what the boy must've been running from: a blue mustang: socs. I turned around and ran as fast as I could in the direction the boy had run. The mustang was trailing me now that the boy was further away than me. I didn't stop even though my legs were throbbing. I caught up to the boy and was determined to pass him, when my sandal broke and I tumbled to the ground.

The socs got out of the car. They cornered both of us.

"A greaser AND a hippie? Jackpot!" Exclaimed a large guy with tons of rings on his fingers.

Another boy punched the greaser boy in the face with so much force he lost his balance.

"Stop!" I screamed. "Violence is not the answer!" Someone shoved a rag in my mouth and punched me in the eye. I fell over and he held me down, poking a switchblade at my neck.

"You've got nice hair, hippie." He snarled. "It's gotta go." The edge of the blade dug into my skin.

I heard the greaser boy yell something, but I was too busy struggling to understand what he said.

The soc kneeled right on my chest so I couldn't breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut and let my cheeks become damp.

Suddenly, my lungs refilled with air as the soc got off me. I heard shouting. I opened my eyes and sat up. Looking around, I saw a bunch of greaser boys chasing the socs away- seven, to be exact, including the boy who's run into me earlier. My heart stopped; hippies never mix well with greasers; we're polar opposites.

A boy with brick-red hair pulled me up by the arm. "You okay?" He asked.

I wasn't, but I wasn't about to tell him that. Adrenaline coursed through my veins and I took off running.

I'm glad E-Z Peace was right around the corner; there's no way I could've run all the way to hippie territory with a broken sandal and probably a few broken ribs which made it difficult to breathe. I stopped and panted once I got inside E-Z Peace; E-Z Peace was a hippie hangout, and no greaser who valued his reputation would ever set foot in a place like that.

In our town, there were tons of places for socs, and tons of places for greasers. But E-Z Peace was just for hippies. There's lots of happy fun-time music and dancing and joyful laughter. If a hippie couple wants to break up, they do it here so that if there's a broken heart, it's fixed right away. You're never alone here; you're surrounded by your people, who have your best interests in mind.

I went along the bar, briefly catching up with the other hippies; Caroline Buster just got a groovy new car and was having a party to paint it this weekend, Mary Rachel Meyers was pregnant again and her boyfriend Jack Doyle proposed to her, Mack and Jason Teller were still on their cross-country road trip and if they weren't back within two weeks their Mama'll call the police. The bartender, Alice, smiled at me and tossed me a strawberry mint, which I unwrapped and plopped in my mouth as I sat down at a booth next to Jamie and Margo, who were busy making a French-fry tower and didn't notice me until they reached for the ketchup.

"Good glory!" Margo gasped.

"Who was it, Mona?" Jamie demanded. "Socs? Greasers?"

"Both." I replied. "But I'm fine now." I was lying; if Jean found out that I'd gotten as hurt as I had, she'd freak.

"Mona!" Debbie came out of the bathroom, dashed over to me and embraced me in a tight warm hug.

"Debbie!" I hugged her back.

"How was the library? What'd you get?" She released me and slid in across from me.

My stomach did a flop; I'd dropped the book when I was jumped; I'd lost a library book. I started panicking for a second, then started humming along to the song that was playing and I felt much better. "I got 'To Kill A Mockingbird', but I left it at the library."

"You've got a black eye starting there; what happened."

I told her what happened.

Debbie snagged a fry off the top of Jamie and Margo's tower. "Don't you think you were being a little bit rude? I mean, it sounds like that boy who helped you up was just trying to, well, help."

I shook my head. "No. He's a greaser; they don't help nobody but themselves."

Debbie shrugged. "Yeah but still; he asked you a question about your well-being, and you just ran off. Kinda rude if you ask me; even if he WAS a greaser."

Then Alice skipped over and beamed at us, bouncing as she took my order; a veggie burger with no onions and a Coke. Most hippies don't eat meat; including me and Jean and the rest of our group. E-Z Peace doesn't serve anything with meat in it for this reason and this reason alone.

Then something happened that shocked everybody. The moment the bell dinged signaling the door was open, everybody stopped making any kind of sound and turned their heads and stared at who was coming through the door.

A greaser. The same one who the socs had jumped at the same time they were jumping me. His hair was auburn and he clutched the collar of his unzipped leather jacket with one hand as if it were strangling him. His eyes dashed around the room and his mouth attempted a friendly smile. He laid his eyes on me and started walking over. This sent a frenzy of panic through my body and I sank low in my seat. My eyes were wide and unblinking as he stood above me and reached for something inside his jacket. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Hey, um, I think you dropped this."

I opened my eyes and saw that he had placed a book on the table in front of me. 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. I touched the glossy cover with shaking fingertips. "Th-thank you." I said without even looking at him.

"You're welcome." He replied. "That's a good one."

I brought myself to meet his green eyes. "I know. It's my favorite."

"Yeah. She's read it like a thousand times!" Debbie exclaimed.

"Wow, you really like to read, don't you?" I realized that his voice sounded oddly... normal. He didn't sound like a bad kid at all.

"Heck yeah." I said, giving him a smile.

"Then how is it we've never met before?"

Debbie scooted in so the boy could sit down. "Thanks." He told her.

I didn't understand; a NICE greaser? That's practically unheard of in my neighborhood. "I-I'm Mona."

"Ponyboy." He said.

"Groovy." I felt my cheeks heat up a teeny bit and hoped Jamie and Margo didn't see. Unfortunately, they started snickering and whispering to each other.

"Tuff." He replied. A part of me had hoped he'd grow a little pink in the cheeks as well; no such luck. "So is it, like, Mona like the Mona Lisa? The painting?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "My Mom liked art." That was an understatement; lets just leave it at that.

"Ponyboy!" A loud voice boomed from the entrance; no one had noticed that a tall blond greaser had come in. "C'mon lets get outta this joint!" He strode to the table we were at.

Ponyboy got up. "Sorry, I gotta go."

The blond boy reached over and plucked some fries from the bottom of the twins' fry tower, causing it to topple over.

"How rude!" Debbie stood on the seat, hands on her hips.

The blond boy grabbed her milkshake and had to stand on his toes to pour it on her head.

Debbie screamed.

"Hey you apologize!" Ordered an authoritative voice behind the blond greaser- Brett Tyler.

"Or what?" The blond shouted in his face.

Then Brett punched him right square in the nose; you could practically hear every hippie in the room wince at that moment.

What happened next happened too fast to process, but the next thing I knew, Brett was holding the blond down on a table, punching him repeatedly. Then the blond managed to kick Brett off him and into a waitress, whose tray of food was launched right at the blond, covering him with coffee, soda, juice, milk, syrup, honey, gravy, and all sorts of other liquids that aren't at all groovy in the slightest when they're all over you.

They both went at each other, and there was a loud CRACK! as their heads crashed together so hard, you could practically SEE the cartoon birds flying around their heads. They stumbled back, hands on the sides of their heads.

"Ooh, they'll be feeling THAT tomorrow morning!" Margo exclaimed. 

Then the cops showed up.

Four of five of them rushed in and restrained the two boys, putting them both in handcuffs.

"Well THAT was a first." I exclaimed.

"So there ain't usually any fights in here?" Ponyboy asked.

"No." I shook my head. "Us hippies are STRONGLY against violence."

"What about that guy who was just fighting? He sure looked like a hippie."

Part of me wanted to take that as an insult, but I didn't want to be rude. "Yeah, but he's different; he grew up on the rough side of Chicago; HAD to learn to fight. He doesn't like it, but he does it when necessary." I explained.

"That's interesting; in my experience, when you grow up on the rough side of a rough town, you love fighting."

I creased my forehead. "You?"

He laughed. "No. No of course not. That other guy who was fighting, though, he grew up in New York."

"Well I guess fighting is in some people's blood, but not in others." I shrugged.

"Guess so."

"And, also, I'm sorry I ran off like that earlier; that wasn't so groovy of me." I was full-on blushing by then.

"It's alright; it ain't your fault you hippies have an outside-in view of us greasers."

"Thanks for giving me my book. You're really not as bad as my sister makes all greasers out to be."

"Well I'm just one person; there's some greasers who ARE as bad as we're made out to be, and some who aren't." He looked at the clock on the wall by the menu. "Sorry I gotta go. Nice meeting y'all, see ya around." He got up and left.

I picked up the book and held it to my heart.

"Ooh" Jamie squealed.

"I think little Mona just met the man of her dreams!" Margo added and they both fell in a fit of giggles.

"What!? Him!?" I exclaimed, not red anymore but kinda mad. "No. If I EVER go after a greaser it'll be to soon!"

"You sure?" Jamie asked. "You two could be like Jean and... what was that boy's name? Scary?" She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"DARRY, you idiot. And no; I have no desire to be like them." I crossed my arms. A few years ago, Jean started dating a greaser boy named Darry Curtis; it was the biggest scandal our generation of this town had ever seen; you could not go anywhere without hearing all sorts of rumors about Jean and Darry; a huge one that almost everyone believed, except the people who knew either of them, that they had gotten very drunk one night and he'd gotten her pregnant and they were together because he wanted to support her and the child; it wasn't true, of course, but I know they lost their virginity to each other at some point. I never actually met Darry, though, as Jean NEVER brings a guy she's dating around me. I don't know why, but I'm sure as heck not complaining; I mean, she only really dates good guys, but I always feel like if I meet one of them, I won't like him.

"C'mon! You don't even like him a LITTLE bit?" Margo asked.

"Don't act like you weren't blushing back there." That was Jamie.

Debbie wiped the last few smears of milkshake and jumped in, "I'd just like to put it out there; you and Ponyboy would be perfect for each other!"

"Could we just stop talking about this?" I asked.

"Savvy, but we won't stop THINKING about it." Jamie said.

Margo stifled a laugh and I just knew she was already planing mine and Ponyboy's wedding.

__________________________

So there we go.

Love ya!

CC