The drive-in was the only place in Tulsa where the greasers and Socs could stand in the same dirt without throwing punches. Mostly because everyone was too busy watching the screen to care. The night air smelled like popcorn grease and car exhaust, and the neon glow from the concession stand painted everything in flickering red and blue.

You'd come with a few friends, but they'd drifted off toward the snack bar, leaving you leaning against the hood of a beat-up Chevy, watching the movie half-heartedly.

A group of greasers were gathered a few rows back, laughing too loud and passing a cigarette around. One of them broke away from the pack. He had sharp eyes, a smirk that looked like it could start a fight or get him out of one, and a white-blond shock of hair that caught the light.

Dally. Everyone knew Dally Winston. He was the kind of guy who'd been arrested more times than most people had been to church, and he carried himself like he knew it.

He was walking your way.