“Hey, grease,” one said in an over-friendly voice. “We're gonna do you a favor, greaser. We’re gonna cut all that long greasy hair off.”
It occurred to me then that they could kill me. I went wild. I started screaming for Soda, Darry, anyone. Someone put his hand over my mouth, and I bit it as hard as I could, tasting the blood running through my teeth.
I winced inside. I’ve told you I can’t stand it that Soda dropped out. ‘He’s a dropout,’ I said roughly. ‘Dropout’ made me think of some poor dumb-looking hoodlum wandering the streets breaking out street lights—it didn’t fit my happy-go-lucky brother at all. It fitted Dally perfectly, but you could hardly say it about Soda.