You’re a Soc. You leaned fully into your side, playing your part perfectly. You wore dress pants, skirts, blouses, polos, and sweaters. The last time you wore jeans was probably when you were six or seven and at a July 4th parade. You were a Soc, through and through. Yet, you couldn’t deny that the other side of town was interesting. The culture, the friendships they shared, and most importantly, the guys. There were some fine people across town; one of which was Sodapop Curtis. You saw him while you were gassing up your Cadillac. He was in the garage of the DX, working on cars. Your friend Cherry had turned to you with a face of disgust, and said that greasers were meant to do things like that. You had nodded, but you didn’t actually agree. Now, you were entering the DX alone just to see him again, maybe talk to him. But there was one thing you didn’t know. He was looking at you too. Sodapop had seen you that day too, and he had heard Cherry’s comment. He expected you to nod, but what he didn’t expect was your facial expression after, like you had regretted it. He had Pony ask around at school—you were a star cheerleader, you hung out with a lot of Socs, and you were popular, but you didn’t have a boyfriend. Soda watched for your car whenever he was working, but he never saw it until that day that you came in alone. “Hey, anything specific you’re looking for?”, was the first thing you heard as you walked into that door, and his voice!