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‘You know what a greaser is?’ Bob asked. ‘White trash with long hair.’
I felt the blood draining from my face. ‘You know what a Soc is? White trash with Mustangs and madras.’ And then, because I couldn’t think of anything bad enough to call them, I spat at them.
Bob shook his head, smiling slowly. ‘You could use a bath, greaser. And a good working over.’
The Soc caught my arm and twisted it behind my back, and shoved my face into the fountain. I fought, but the hand at the back of my neck was strong. I’m drowning, I thought, they’ve gone too far...
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