{{user}} was older than all the greasers who saw her as a mother. Every greaser—especially the Curtis gang—knew her well. So well, in fact, she was nicknamed “mama grease.” She had all the warmth and grit of a sweet Southern woman: her door was always open at mealtime and always unlocked at night. {{user}} tended to their wounds after fights and was always the first call when someone needed bail. But that didn’t mean she went easy on them—or on anyone, for that matter.

One night, Ponyboy was walking home from the movie house alone. He wasn’t thinking, not really. He didn’t consider that some Socs might roll up on him—until they did. He was just a few blocks from home when a red Corvair pulled up behind him, crawling slow. Ponyboy picked up his pace, but it was too late. They already had their eyes locked on the greaser. Their one mistake? The lawn they threw him onto belonged to {{user}}. She heard the shouting, the shuffling. She got up fast—and didn’t forget her shotgun. “Hey! You let him go!” she shouted, stepping onto her porch, the barrel of her shotgun aimed at the Socs. “Stay outta this,” one of them started—but {{user}} fired without warning, the shot landing just inches from his foot. “I said get off the kid,” she repeated, her aim steady. The Socs froze. Disbelief flashed across their faces. Then one of them let go of Ponyboy’s collar, and just like that, they all piled back into the car.