Rumble Fish by S. E. Hinton

the city, on the strip, where there were lots of people and noise and lights and you could feel energy coming off things, even buildings. I was damned if Steve was going to mess it up for me.
    â€œMan, this is gonna be a good night,” I said, to change the subject. “I love it over here. I wish we lived over here.”
    I swung myself around a light pole and almost knocked Steve into the street.
    â€œCalm down,” he muttered. He took another swallow from the bottle. I figured that would cheer him up some.
    â€œHey,” he said to the Motorcycle Boy, “you want a drink?”
    â€œYou know he don’t drink,” I said. “Just sometimes.”
    â€œThat makes a hell of a lot of sense. Why don’t you?” Steve asked.
    The Motorcycle Boy said, “I like control.”
    Steve never talked to the Motorcycle Boy. That wine had really made him brave.
    â€œEverything over here is so cool,” I went on. “The lights, I mean. I hate it on our block. There ain’t any colors. Hey,” I said to the Motorcycle Boy, “you can’t see the colors, can ya? What’s it look like to you?”
    He looked at me with an effort, like he was trying to remember who I was. “Black-and-white TV , I guess,” he said finally. “That’s it.”
    I remembered the glare the TV gave off, at Patty’s house. Then I tried to get rid of the thought of Patty.
    â€œThat’s too bad.”
    â€œI thought color-blind people just couldn’t see red or green. I read somewhere where they couldn’t see red or green or brown or something,” Steve said. “I read that.”
    â€œSo did I,” the Motorcycle Boy answered. “But we can’t be everything we read.”
    â€œIt don’t bother him none,” I told Steve. “‘Cept when he’s cycle-ridin’ he tends to go through red lights.”
    â€œSometimes,” said the Motorcycle Boy, surprising me since he didn’t usually start conversations, “it seems to me like I can remember colors, ’way back when I was a little kid. That was a long time ago. I stopped bein’ a little kid when I was five.”
    â€œYeah?” I thought this was interesting. “I wonder when I’m gonna stop being a little kid.”
    He looked at me with that look he gave to almost everybody else. “Not ever.”
    I really thought that was funny, and I laughed, but Steve glared at him—a rabbit scowling at a panther. “What’s that supposed to be, a prophecy or a curse?”
    The Motorcycle Boy didn’t hear him, and I was glad. I didn’t want Steve to get his teeth knocked out.
    â€œHey,” I said. “Let’s go to a movie.”
    There were some good ones right there on the strip. We were passing the advertising posters.
    â€œThat sounds like a great idea,” Steve said. “Let me have the bottle.”
    I handed it to him. He was getting happier every time he took a drink.
    â€œToo bad,” he said. “You have to be eighteen to get into this movie. That is too bad, since it really looks interesting.” He was studying some of the scenes they had on the advertising posters.
    The Motorcycle Boy went to the ticket seller and bought three tickets, came back and handed us each one. Steve stared at him, openmouthed.
    â€œWell,” said the Motorcycle Boy. “Let’s go.”
    We walked right in.
    â€œWas that guy blind or something?” Steve said loudly. In the movie-house dark I could hear people turn around to look at us.
    â€œShut up,” I told him. I had to wait so my eyes could get used to the dark. It didn’t take long. The Motorcycle Boy had already found us seats right in the middle.
    â€œI got in here before,” I told Steve, “and the place was raided. That was a blast. You shoulda seen the movie they were playing that night. It was somethin’ else.”
    I was going on to