Some of Tim's Stories by S. E. Hinton

ago.”
    Mike was out of breath when he finished that sentence. Now it really hurt to breathe. It felt like there was an elephant standing on his chest.
    â€œHang in there, Michael.”
    â€œThought my name was Dumbass Kid.”
    â€œSometimes you act like it’s your job description.”
    â€œMy dad called me Michael.”
    â€œI know.”
    Mike was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You think that bozo’s crawling around the parking lot like a half-squashed bug?”
    â€œWe can hope. You want me to go check?”
    â€œNo! … no.” Mike shifted around, trying to escape the pain. “Shit! Fuck this, man! It hurts.”
    â€œI know,” Ed said.
    God, Mike thought. God … He remembered the last time he had been in a church. He must have been nine. In the middle of whatever the preacher was saying, Mike’s dad got up, took Mike by the hand, and left the church.
    He was going to write that story sometime, he’d thought, the way his dad had smoked one cigarette after another, pacing, while they waited for church to be over, for Mom to come out. How upset he had been.
    â€œThat’s not God,” Mike’s dad said finally. “What that preacher was saying. God is not fire insurance. God would like to help people, Michael. It upsets Him to see how bad we screw ourselves up. People make their own hell. God doesn’t send them there.”
    â€œOkay,” Mike had answered, ashamed to admit he hadn’t really been paying attention, just waiting for church to be over, thinking about getting home, playing ball.
    His parents had had a fight about it, one of their rare ones, but his dad never went back to that church. And wouldn’t let Mike go either.
    He meant to write that story, except he couldn’t think of an end. But now it helped, picturing God the way his dad had told him.
    â€œHe’d been in a war, maybe he found out something…” Mike said aloud. “You find out things in a war, don’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    Mike tried to sit up, but Ed gently shoved him back down. They could hear a siren now, in the distance.
    â€œDamn,” Mike said, “this is going to be one mother of a hospital bill.”
    â€œWork-related. You’re covered.”
    Mike couldn’t see Ed too well now, his vision was blurry. But he heard him ask, “Anything else you’re scared of?”
    â€œHell, yeah,” Mike gasped. “Lots of stuff.”
    He was terrified, things to be scared of lining up in his mind, waiting their turn…
    â€œI’ll tell you something I learned. Pick one.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Ed said, “Pick one thing to be scared of. But one thing you can handle if you concentrate.”
    Mike thought. The siren was closer now.
    â€œI’m scared I’m going to yell, make some kind of noise when they come to move me. I don’t want to.”
    â€œAll right,” Ed said. “You concentrate on that.”

INTERVIEWS WITH S.E. HINTON
    Conducted by Teresa Miller
    â€œIt was cliché, he knew. But he meant it classic.”—Tim

The Outsiders

    My father’s typewriter, which I learned to type on
.—S.E.H.
    JULY 13, 2006—TULSA, OKLAHOMA
    I have visited with Susie Hinton in her home before, but this time is different. Susie is going on record about her career as one of America’s most popular writers. It is an especially warm day, and before we formalize our conversation, we take a moment to admire the caladiums lining her front walk, some red and some white, their deep green veins accentuating the contrast. Inside, Susie’s fifteen-year-old Australian shepherd, Aleasha, is asleep on the kitchen floor and doesn’t budge as we make our way to the refrigerator. I’d noticed once before that Susie has the same Franciscan apple dishes my grandmother had left to me, and this afternoon she explains that they had belonged to her mother. The