What Does Two-bit Look Like In The Outsiders Novels & Stories

Lindsay asked. “I’m fine, but someone owes me a pair of pants. I just got these,” Little Bob said as he looked at the rip running from his knee to his ankle. “Are you scratched, cut, or bitten in any way?” Wren asked. “There’s not a mark. Only the torn uniform, which I will have to explain to my wife,” Little Bob told him. “Good. Tell her it was a barbed wire fence,” Wren told Little Bob as he watched the creature moving outside the car.

Bianca's Bitmoji still hadn't moved one bit. I was so fucked. “Hey kid, you lost?” I heard across from me. I didn't bother lifting my head, but I could tell it was the stranger who'd been staring crossing the road in weighted steps. A cold, dark night in Central New York wasn't exactly the type of setting to have a comfortable conversation with a guy that looked like he dealt weed, so with no option left to take, I turned and headed towards the small tuck shop a stone's throw away.

I rushed downstairs, only to find the crushed remains of the record on the road. While grooming Pico, Francesca poked her head out the window to look at me. "Valentina, what are you doing running into the middle of the road? It's dangerous! Oh? So that dirty box was your stuff? I thought it was garbage. Sorry about that." As I looked at her innocent smiling face, it suddenly dawned on me that to her, I was nothing more than garbage to be thrown out at any moment—just like the record. In comparison, Fabio seemed to treat me a little better.

They were as thin as reeds, their faces hollow, their gestures mechanical, like tightly wound puppets. Timothy’s stomach clenched when his eyes caught a scene that burned itself instantly into his memory. A boy about his own age, thin as a reed and with the same haunted look Timothy had seen in his own reflection, approached a table where three men lounged. One of them, a brute with a filthy beard and teeth the colour of old corn, grabbed the boy’s wrist mid-serve. With a laugh that rattled like broken glass, he yanked the boy’s hand toward his groin.

The fact that he stank of cigarettes only made him more off-putting. Unlike the rest of us who'd dressed up, Brian looked like he was going to spend the night working on his motorcycle -- he had on a dark, stained t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. I doubted he'd washed his hair in weeks. His look matched his 'dirtbag' personality to a tee.

Who knew a child would offer me smart decisions? I return the piece of bread inside my rucksack and make my way outside. With the sun shining brightly, I was able to view the whole town, at least what seems to be left of it. There were at most twenty small houses, most rotting and broken down. Some missing it’s windows and were only covered in straws and mats. There were some people lounging outside their own houses, staring out at the horizon. They all had one thing in common though. They were all filthy, their eyes dull almost lifeless, and everyone seemed like stick and bones. Kofi follows suit, behind me he mumbles a string of words again but then he says, “Sad.”

‎I spent every one of them tasting copper and picturing Nora’s bruises. ‎The Pit was an abandoned meat-processing plant on the edge of the industrial district: concrete, rusted hooks still hanging from the ceiling, drains in the floor for easy cleanup. ‎Diaz and Carl were already waiting. ‎Chained to steel chairs bolted to the floor. ‎Naked. ‎Bleeding. ‎But alive. ‎Dmitri had started without me. ‎Carl’s face was unrecognizable: both eyes swollen shut, lips split, teeth missing. ‎Diaz still had one good eye; it rolled toward me in terror when I walked in.

"Who… who are they?" Janey's eyes widened at the two boys shuffling in from the doorway. Their hair was matted, their clothes filthy, their appearance no better than beggars. A strange panic flickered in her chest. One boy's legs were shriveled, his body slumped in a wheelchair. The other's eyes were vacant, his expression slack, breaking into the occasional foolish giggle as drool slid down his chin. I let out a cold laugh.

I reached a two-way street where a covey of hawkers and people begging for alms milled on each side of the road. The Avalon slowed to a stop at a red light and a soft rap on the driver’s window called my attention. A little boy stood there. He wore no shirt under this terrible cold, exposing his swollen belly and protruding ribs. His arms and legs were only bones, no flesh, and his skin was dry and scaly. Through the glass, I looked straight at his pair of watery and empty eyes. They were devoid of life, and I had to avert my gaze when I saw someone else in him.

In the summer he bailed hay for local farmers and walked up and down Route 79 outside town, collecting cans and bottles and scrap metal. Jesse always looked dirty and ragged; his clothes rumpled and stained, as if he slept in them and never changed or washed them. Her classmates swore he smelled like sour milk and cow shit. She had no idea if that was true, but she didn’t want to find out, so she glanced down Allen to make sure no one was coming and crossed the street, leaving the pizza joint and the awful Jesse Kretch behind, thinking again about Bob and how Adam Stillman would never talk to her again.