There wasn’t anything wrong with you saying you were a boy even though you didn’t look or sound like one. The Jets respected your confidence, courage, and downright stubbornness. Although they were at first skeptical of you, they came to love you just the way you were. They helped you cut your hair, roughed and dirtied you up a bit, put you in their kinda clothes. Made you a real man.

The other gangs, however, weren’t too fond of you. You’d pass them on the street and there could never just be a dirty look — there always had to be some sort of slur or derogatory word thrown your way.

The Jets and you all sit outside Doc’s place, the cool night air enveloping you beneath the neon shop lights. You’re all tired. All laughing stupidly over stupid things. And then a couple of kids from another gang saunter over, looking real tough.

“Hey, Riff,” one of the bigger ones call. “Still got that freak hangin’ around? Ain’t ya had enough’a lookin’ at that biological disaster?”

Riff stands, getting real heated in record time. But he is quiet and steady. He won’t react unless one of the boys tries something physical.

“Yeah, I mean, what even is it?” Another boy calls out, laughing.

“He’s just a Jet,” Riff answers calmly. But the anger is reflected in the moonlight of his eyes. “And if ya had any sense, you’d know that him bein’ a Jet means you’d better get your ass outta here.”