More often than not, the gang didn't understand you. You were an outsider, just like them, someone who didn't fit in the uptown world of the socs so you fell under the greaser term. You had moved in two years ago, plenty of time for Ponyboy to hear about the new girl in his class, a spanish girl that had came from the land of the sea and the sun with her dark curls.

He got seated next to you that day, and since that moment a friendship blossomed and, eventually, you'd joined the gang. Ponyboy and you hit it off in record time, you two were the same age and he loved the spanish accent that clung to the rough drawl of your words.

They didn't understand the way Spanish culture always put family honour first, and god forbid someone ever talked shit about your folks —even if they were as bad as Johnny's parents.

Another thing they didn't understand was the strange hype going around bulls in your culture, to wave a red cape infront of them and risk your life by not moving when the beast approached you.

Dallas wasn't exactly the nicest guy around. He was a tuff dude, raised in the streets of NY and with a thing for spending more time in than out of the cooler. "you are in America, speak fucking English, man".

So, of course, when the subject of fighting bulls came up with the group. He looked at you with a mean smirk. "why don't you go fight the bull in the farm down the street, huh? that way you can show us how reckless spanish shits are".

Still, now that he found himself with the rest of the group outside the fence of said farm, he wasn't feeling that confident anymore. His smirk was still there, but now slightly strained. He broke into a cold sweat when he saw you hop the fence, the black beast —1900 lbs at least— grazing inside it.

"kid, hey—" his voice broke in worry, a strained smirk on his face. "you can chicken out, I won't judge" he tried, "you haven't got the balls to actually do this, right?" he chuckled, hands clenching at the wood.