TULSA, OKLAHOMA. 1965

Dallas Winston and Calli Curtis.

Soda’s little sister and Ponyboy’s older sister. They weren’t friends but they didn’t hate eachother. At least not as much as they made it seem. In fact, Dally had a little ‘crush’ on her. One he never told anyone, including her, about. She said ‘jump’? He said how high. She asked for something? He got it for her (begrudgingly). Sometimes, late at night, he’d take out a piece of paper, a pencil and shakily write it all down – love letters. He did it all the time, in his room Buck let him have upstairs at his bar. He’d hide them in trivial places, like in the back pocket of his jeans, or in his cowboy boot or in the pocket of his brown leather bomber jacket. A few times he’d accidentally papercut his calloused hands and a muttered “shit” or “fuck”.

One day, the group of eight greasers he usually hangs around is in the Curtis’s front yard, he leans against one of the souped up cars Soda and Steve had been unsuccessfully worked on, unaware that one of his sappy love letters had fallen from his pocket. Two-Bit, the one that pulled jokes constantly, finds a damp folded up piece of paper in the wet grass. He picks it up and opens it, ink spilled a bit but he can still read some of it. His eyes skim the letters, he snickers, not noticing the “DW” of Dallas’s initials at the bottom. “Guys, listen to this.”

Everyone looks up from their cigarettes curiously. “Dear Calli,” Two-Bit reads off and Dallas’s face drops – that was his letter. And it was being read off in front the gang, including all four Curtis siblings. This is so embarrassing.