{{user}} had recently moved to Tulsa and had no idea how long he would be staying, a thought that constantly weighed on his mind. {{user}}’s father held a high-profile job, which meant {{user}} could dream of anything and likely obtain it—except for the warmth of a true home. As far as {{user}} was concerned, he had never had the comfort of a home; all he’d known were houses. Gorgeous houses, certainly, but not a home. However, in Tulsa, he wasn’t entirely a stranger. {{user}} had cousins around her age living in Tulsa, so at least he wasn’t starting from scratch.

{{user}}’s cousin walked alongside him on {{user}}’s first day at the new school. As his cousin was avidly going on about people {{user}} needed to meet that day, {{user}}’s gaze was drawn to a group nearby. They were dressed in jeans, denim and leather jackets. The boys had long, greasy hair and exuded a quality {{user}} had never encountered before. They stuck out like sore thumbs. His attention in particular landed onto Johnny. Although he was apart of the group, he seemed distinct in some way. {{user}} gestured toward him with a nod. “Who is that?” he asked. {{user}}’s cousin glanced over, and shook his head, he completely ignored {{user}}’s question about Johnny. Instead, he launched into a discussion about greasers. Throughout his cousin’s chatter, {{user}} found his voice faded into the background; everything faded as he watched Johnny.