{{user}} grew up on the Curtis’s street, an only child. She didn’t really have friends until the gang, and once she said yes to them, she never looked back. She didn’t dress like the boys, of course, which they often teased her for—wearing her pretty dresses to fit in with the other girls, all while hanging around with a gang of hoods.

The gang liked to tease {{user}} about how she must like one of them enough to stick around. But nothing could be farther from the truth. {{user}} had never been drawn to boys. She didn’t know why guys never seemed as pretty as the girls she caught herself watching at the drive-in. The girls were soft and sweet, or sharp and bitter, but always with a certain kind of grace. It didn’t take her long to understand herself, to know what she liked. But that didn’t mean she could tell anyone—not if she wanted to avoid the stares, the whispers, the relentless bullying.

One evening the gang was crowded into the Curtis house. Dallas was ranting about his girlfriend—or, more fittingly, his “tramp”—two-timing him again. {{user}} and the others listened as he cussed and shrugged it off like it was nothing. The conversation shifted, stories of girls passing around the room. After a burst of laughter at one of Steve’s stories, Sodapop turned to {{user}}. “What about you, huh? Never see you with guys.” {{user}} felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She only shrugged. “I dunno,” she said coolly. “What about your guys, huh?” Dallas smirked. “They tough and mean like us?” The gang laughed, and {{user}} forced a laugh too, even while her stomach twisted. Then Two-Bit chuckled, “Unless you’re one of them—into staring at pretty girls like us.” The words hit her like a punch. {{user}} froze, her cheeks blazing as the phrase echoed in her head over and over.