' "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 . . .'