Chapter Text
Our story begins in Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1965.
The whys and hows of our heroine ending up in such a place at such a time are left appropriately vague. The reader is asked to suspend their disbelief for the time being, and for the enjoyment of our story. You need not question the whys or hows, only the poor decisions of our heroine, in how she chose to fall for such a man.
The drive-in is a staple in Tulsa. Everyone, greaser or soc, loves a good movie. Of course, Catherine knows nothing of greasers or socs. The poor and the rich. The ones who slick their hair back and the ones who wear madras.
By all intents and purposes, Catherine exists on the fine line. She's technically not quite rich enough to be a soc, but she only spends time with socs. Isabella and John drive fancy cars, live in big houses, and yet they seem to be so very interested in Catherine.
Perhaps they are mistaken about her identity. Or, perhaps, she's simply more charming than she believes herself to be.
In any case, she's here, with Isabella and John, watching some sort of beach movie. Well, they're watching the movie. Catherine is thoroughly engrossed in the newest novel Eleanor has lent her. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. It's far from the mystery novels Catherine is used to, but she still finds herself engrossed with the simple life the novel portrays.
Usually, she wouldn't notice if anyone came up to chat. Plenty of men come over to talk to Isabella. Only, this one catches her eye, simply because of how inexplicably strange he looks.
Skin as pale as paper, and hair as white as snow—long enough to brush his shoulders in a style so different from the other men Catherine has seen. Behind his too-white eyelashes are two bright blue eyes, shining with mischief. He grins, his teeth sharp like an animal's.
How fascinating this man looks, forcing everyone around to see him. The swagger in the way he walks shows how much he thrives under the attention, positive or otherwise.
Catherine looks to her right, only to see Isabella glaring at the man. But why? He hasn't done anything. If she were more aware of the time in which she exists, then Catherine would know exactly why Isabella, as a socialite, would vehemently reject a man who is so obviously lower on the social pyramid. As of now, she can only be captivated by his appearance and the confidence with which he holds himself.
He comes to sit directly next to Isabella, ignoring any protests from John, who has taken residence on Catherine's left.
"Hey, Isa," the man greets.
Catherine finds herself a bit taken aback. She did not know Isabella knew this man, and she's sure she would have introduced them by now if she did. Perhaps the man is mistaking her for someone else? But then how would he know her name?
"Nice day out, ain't it? You hear those cicadas chirpin'? They come out when it gets hot, y'know."
Catherine did not know. How fascinating! Perhaps the man has an interest in entomology. Would that not be utterly fascinating? She is sure Eleanor would be duly enraptured with such knowledge.
Isabella dutifully ignores his attempts at conversation, which Catherine finds to be quite rude. She opens her mouth to complain to her, but Isabella snaps.
"Don't speak to him, Catherine. He's no good."
Catherine can't help her pout, but she argues with herself that Isabella would never lead her astray. So, with a huff, she returns to her novel. Little Women is no romance, but she can't help but let her imagination roam.
The image of Theodore has been prominent in her mind since he was introduced, but at this moment, her mental view of him morphs. His brown eyes and dark hair lighten into pale blue and paler blonde. Those eyes strike right through her heart.
A finger, out of nowhere, hooks over the spine of her book to bring it down, and she's met with those piercing blue eyes. The man is suddenly sitting directly in front of her. He must have jumped over the row to claim the spot.
"It hurts my feelings when you ignore me, babe," he comments, his smirk ever-present despite his supposed hurt feelings.
Catherine opens her mouth, but she cannot produce more than a stutter. Those eyes paralyze her. They leave her body immobile and her brain nonfunctional.
"I asked what yer readin'. Glory, I thought Pony was the only person who could read through a movie."
Pony? Surely the man is not referring to a person named Pony, and he obviously also is not referring to an actual horse. At least, she hopes he is not comparing her reading level to that of a horse. It must be a nickname, she settles on, but what a strange nickname it is.
Catherine, still failing to find her voice under his gaze, simply turns the book so he can read the title. Upon seeing the cover, his grin softens into something giddy, making him look positively boyish.
"You like Alcott's stuff?" He asks.
"Um… well, this is my first time reading anything of hers," Catherine says quietly.
"How'd ya like it so far?"
"It's so different from the novels I've read before, but I can't stop myself. I never want to put it down," Catherine finds herself saying. "Such a simple life and concepts, and yet it is captivating nonetheless."
The man listens with rapt attention as she recounts the little of the novel that she's read. He nods along with every detail she mentions, familiarity sparking behind his eyes. She comes to a rather strange conclusion through their talk, one that simply cannot be true, because—according to John—men do not waste time on silly novels.
"Have you read any novels?"
The look on his face turns bashful. Catherine can see the pink spread from his ears obviously on his skin. His grin drops, for just a second, before he forces its return.
"So what if I have?" He asks harshly, like enjoying a novel is a great shame.
Men like John would say that it is. Other people like the man with the blue eyes, the ones who grease their hair and walk with the same swagger, would say reading of any sort is a waste. Unfit for people of their status and identity. (Then why, Catherine can't help but wonder, does he speak of this 'Pony's reading with subtle pride?)
"I didn't mean to offend," she insists. "It simply seemed as though you were familiar with Little Women."
The man hums, before nodding. He seems to struggle for a moment, his mouth opening and closing before he settles on a decision. "I am. I've read it about a million times. I could probably recite it from memory."
From memory? Surely an exaggeration. Yet, he speaks with such confidence, such conviction, that Catherine can't help but believe him. To read a book so many times you can recite it word for word—Catherine strives to be that committed to literature.
"Truly? What was your favorite part? Who's your favorite character? What happens after—oh no, don't tell me! Oh no, do tell me!"
The man's eyes sparkle with amusement at her excitement. For once, Catherine does not feel self-conscious about getting lost in a discussion about a silly novel. Something about this man is infectious. His confidence flows off of him in waves, inspiring her to stand as tall and walk with as much self-assurance, as if there isn't anything the world could do to him to make him bow.
It takes the man longer to lose himself in the conversation, but, just as his confidence infected her, Catherine's excitement infects him. Soon enough they are prattling on faster than anyone else can keep up with—except for them. Catherine learns bits and pieces about the rest of the story, but also bits of the sequels. The man has read every one, front to back. Although, it's clear none are more beloved than the first.
It's a lovely time. At least, until John's voice cuts through and causes the conversation to screech to a halt.
"If you are both very well done chatting about your silly novels, some of us are trying to enjoy the show."
The grin drops from the man's face completely, curling into a snarl. Catherine has never seen so much hatred packed into one look. Even she flinches, although the gaze is not directed towards her.
"You got a problem, soc?"
The way he says the word makes Catherine frown. He spits it, as if it's a slur. But, then, don't the West Siders spit the word "greaser" right back, in the same tone? No. In an even nastier tone?
"We will not, if you simply go on your way and leave us be," John says. "I guarantee Catherine has no interest in you."
"Oh yeah? So why's she talkin' to me then?" The man challenges.
John sputters at the sheer audacity of any greaser speaking back to him. Catherine covers her mouth to hide her smile. It's so rare for anyone to stand against him, she can't help her amusement. The man smiles, clearly noticing her reaction.
He turns away from John and leans towards her. For a second, his hand is reaching out to touch her. Catherine feels her entire body heat at the very thought. His eyes look so cold, but something tells her his touch would be warm.
Before his hand can come fully to hers, Isabella is on her feet.
"That's enough! Get away from her!" Isabella shouts.
Then, with utter violence, she dumps her drink onto the man's head. Coke stains his too-white hair, and leaves dark, sticky blotches on his delicate skin. Catherine can't help but gasp at the display. Only, the man is still grinning. That mischievous spark in his eye is still burning brightly, as if this is a common occurrence for him.
Right as Catherine opens her mouth to scold Isabella's rash decision, her arm is grabbed by her friend and she is dragged up, out of her seat, and down the aisle. John follows after them quickly. Catherine is not given a moment to even ask why they are leaving.
"My name is Dallas, by the way!" He calls after them, that sharp smirk remaining even as coke drips off him.
Dallas…
Catherine takes that name and holds it close to her chest. It's all she can do as she's tugged along, staring at the bright blue eyes watching them leave.
And thus, our heroine is dragged away from her one true love. Forbidden to be together, will Dallas and Catherine ever meet again? How will they close the divide between their worlds? And when is the author going to actually read Little Women?
We may never know.