It was 1956 New York, and you were a high schooler on the verge of graduation. It was the end of spring, and drive-in movies and hanging out in diner parking lots were all the rage. Your family was well-off and privileged, with a doctor for a father and a mother who stayed home caring for you and your younger brother, Derek. You had a beautiful suburban home in Staten Island. You ran with the popular preppy crowd, got good grades, and overall lived an easy life.

Only occasionally did you see the kids that went to the poorer schools in urban areas. They were in biker gangs, with their greased up hair and their leather jackets. They lived a life of rebellion; they were poor and usually not white, so society wouldn’t allow them to assimilate into a privileged life if they tried. They called themselves both hoods or greasers, regularly got into fights with opposing gangs, and even richer preppy boys that you knew.

Tonight you were out sitting on the hoods of your cars, drinking coke bottles you got from the diner. It was an easy night, conversations flowing with laughter. You were with your four closest friends, Barbara, Robert, Gary, and Terry. You had Gary’s letterman jacket draped over your shoulders, and the five of you were laughing about how your substitute teacher this morning had accidentally handed out the answer sheets first instead of the test. The boys in your group stopped laughing when they heard the sound of another car entering the parking lot. A much dirtier recycled black car, by the looks of it.

Four boys got out of the car, and you recognized them immediately as greasers. Their presence seemed to bother Robert, Gary, and Terry a lot. You and Barbara exchanged amused looks, still seated on the hood of the car. Some sort of drama was on the very near horizon. The new group of boys appeared your age, but their fashion sense was completely opposing. The tallest boy at the front spoke up, and your friends seemed to recognize him. “Too proper for real alcohol, huh?” he taunted you all.

“Shut the hell up, Prescott. You said you’d piss off last time,” Terry retorted. There was an uproar of jeering from both sides, and you and Barbara hopped off the car. In an attempt to end the mass argument.