Sunrise, Sunset

by illiterate1246

Summary:

Bob Sheldon didn't laugh. Instead he turned to him, expression suddenly grave. "Fuck 'em, let's make a deal, fair between us, yeah? You don't touch one of my gang, and I'll stay clear of one of yours."

Dallas spat on his hand and stuck it out, in the usual Greaser fashion, but Bob shook his head. Instead, the Social boy pulled off one of the four rings on his left hand. "Here," said Bob, holding it out. "That's a promise to you as long as that ring stays gold."
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A murder, four gold rings, and a deal that could change the story of the Outsiders forever. But the kids of Tulsa all have secrets of their own...

Chapter 1: Prologue

You can see the sunset real good from the East Side.

I'm watching it right now, while I'm scribbling this down in the back of my English book. My older brother hates it when I use my books for my own writing, but Darry seems to hate 'most everything I do, so I don't listen to him if it's not something he'll notice. I sometimes sorta wish Darry would stop treating me like I'm six and start treating me as my actual age, thirteen and nine months. So, instead of doing my Literature homework, I'm writing this instead.

The sun is melting slowly downwards, kind of like a stick of butter dripping down the hot sky. It's the good thing about living over on this side of the city, on the Greaser side: I bet the jet set kids on the West Side can't see the sky when it's like this. I wonder if it bugs them. Cotton candy clouds drift across the pastel sky; underneath it, the sidewalk blisters and burns. They'll never see this city the way we Greasers can see it right now.

It makes me kinda sad, watching the sun go down to his resting place - feels a little like watching a funeral, somehow. There isn't anyone around to feel the same sadness, either: it's not like a movie, where a whole cinema of people feel the same pain, all united by the struggles of the hero on screen. I don't think anyone else feels the same way I feel about the sun, but that's okay. I'm loning it.

I never feel like it lasts as long as it should, this golden, beautiful sight; the sun slips down under cover of the horizon and then it's all dark, the sort of dark which I was scared of as a kid: all hidden corners harbouring monsters. 'Course, I don't believe in that stuff now. Mostly. Still, feels like a real waste, all that beauty... the sun sets, and that's it: no new chapter, it's all final. Dusk goes down to night-time, the heroes run off into the sunset. That's just how the story ends.

But hey, what do I know? I'm already thirteen years and nine months old, and I still don't know what I want out of life. I don't know how to get rid of this city: seems like if you cracked my bones open, you'd see Tulsa engraved in the marrow; my veins making a map of the streets. I'm just scared, sometimes. What if the sun sets on my life, and I'll have done nothing worthwhile with it? Seems to me like the sun can't go down just yet. Not now, maybe not ever.

But now the sun is setting, the end credits are rolling, and you know what? It may be brief, but it sure is beautiful.

Chapter 2: Sandy

Nothing gold can stay.

Was that a Robert Frost poem, or John Milton? Sandy wasn't sure. But, looking at the setting sun's gold seeping into the cracks in the sidewalk, she almost didn't believe that it was temporary. She sighed, and kicked a stone on the sidewalk with a scuffed shoe.

The thing about Tulsa was that there just wasn't that much to do. Summer had rolled on and on, and Sandy felt herself caught up in the endless wheel of time, feet hitting the blistered sidewalk over and over again while the earth turned lazily beneath her. She'd walked past house after run-down house, an empty lot, a decrepit gas station, and the air seemed heavy with the heat; it weighed down on her lungs and settled on her shoulders.

Her stomach growled. Suddenly, the gas station didn't seem like such a bad place. At least it has food, she thought. Candy. Soda-pop.

The air in the gas station hit her like a block of ice. Spluttering, she rubbed her newly erupted goose pimples and made a beeline to the candy aisle. A bright yellow packet caught Sandy's eye. Ooh, Mallo Cups.

She snatched it up and hobbled awkwardly to the counter, suddenly aware of how much cold air blew through her skirt. It wasn't a nice skirt: too long, bright yellow, and clashed horribly with her strawberry blonde hair; but her mother bought her whole outfit for her a week ago, stiff white blouse and all. The matching yellow headband pinched behind her ears. New town, new start. But she still privately wished for her usual high ponytail. At least it isn't denim. She shuddered.

Sandy reached the counter. Hitching the skirt up a little and tugging at the collar of the blouse, she used her free hand to flip the packet of Mallo Cups onto the counter and began to fumble for the change.

"That'll be a nickel for ya," came a friendly voice from across the counter. Sandy was still hunting for change: the pocket in her skirt was awkwardly tiny and she had to reach up almost to her underwear to reach it. Red-faced but triumphant, she placed the coin on the counter and looked up.

Oh my days. The cashier is gorgeous. This thought was swiftly followed by a second one: Why did I have to dig around in my underwear?!

She trained her eyes on his face. Long-ish, dirty blonde hair was slicked back from his face, Elvis style. He had a kind, open face, sharp, slightly freckled nose, and sort of devilish brown eyes. It isn't as if he's the sort of boy an old lady would ask to help cross the road, she pondered. But all the same, his eyes had that effervescent quality to them, moving and shifting like a rocky mountain spring was bubbling just under the surface of his expression; mischief quirked the edges of his lips upward.

A quick downward flick of her eyes - oh no. He's wearing denim. She looked up again to meet his eyes.

The boy tossed the packet of Mallo Cups up and caught it with his other hand. He grinned. "I used to love these things in middle school." He spoke with a lazy Oklahoma drawl; his lips parted to show mischievous white fangs. A dimple on one side of his face made him look endearingly lopsided.

If there was one thing Sandy knew, it was boys. Back in Florida, she'd been... well, perhaps not a flirt, but she sure knew how to get what she wanted.

She leaned on the counter, pretending to consider. "Hmm... well," she drew out the syllables of her words, "You can have some, if you want..." She cast her eyes briefly downwards, then flicked her lashes up once more. Usually she could tell when she'd caught a boy's interest, but this time she didn't dare scrutinise him. She put one finger in her mouth and focused on his name tag instead. Her eyes made out an O, maybe an A... "What's your name? I at least deserve to know who I'm giving my candy to..."

"Sodapop," he replied. Sandy bit down on her finger and choked in surprise. Sodapop watched her laugh, looking slightly amused. "What, you don't think my name is tuff enough for you, hmm?"

Gottem. Sandy heard the playful note in his voice. But she'd already been caught off guard, and answered honestly. "Well, can't say it's the worst I've heard at least. My aunt named her kid Zebediah, and honestly I feel like that's a fate worse than death."

"My brother got named Ponyboy," Sodapop offered, "which is weird, seein' as I'm the one who's crazy about horses. But I think our names are tuff - our dad had good taste in names. At any rate, I'm glad I'm not my older brother - he just got named Darrell, same as Dad."

"I would rather be called Sodapop than Darrell," Sandy agreed. "At least Soda's something sweet. Besides the sentimental meaning, the name Darrell seems kinda out of place now, for a family like yours."

"You seem mighty out of place yourself, walking round here dressed all Soc-y like that. Are ya not from here?"

"Sow-shee...?"

"Social, like. You know, round here we have the Socs, them with their big houses and cars and tennis courts. Their parents probably set the moon on the side of their crib when they were born. And then you have the Greasers like me, called that cos we always use hair grease." He laughed. "When I was born my parents probably couldn't even set up any sides on my crib, on account of them having to take it off the side of the road and use it for Darry first."

Sandy thought about this. She had no big house, certainly not now that they lived in a little farmhouse. Nor did she have a car. Back home in Florida, most girls just called her a skank. "I'm not a Soc, then. Only looking like one today. My mom bought me this, for the whole New Town New Start thing, when I moved here at the start of summer." She smiled at him. "But now I'm not sure I wanna start over here. Back in Florida I was as Greaser as they come."

She saw Sodapop's eyebrows raise in approval. He jumped over the counter to stand beside her, and then took off his denim jacket, wrapping it around her and buttoning it under her chin. "There." He stood back. "You were Greaser back then, you're Greaser now still. It's getting dark now anyway, gonna be colder... 'sides, there's nobody here anyhow. I'll walk ya home, and maybe take you up on the offer of those Mallo Cups...?"

She laughed and let him lead her out the door into the tepid outside air. Their words floated into the darkening sky, resonating through the leaves of the trees and ringing around the chimneys of the houses; she directed him and he led her as the light became scarce. Eventually, they turned the corner leading up to her farmhouse.

"Well, this is it. Thank you kindly for your escort, Soda." She waved at him coyly.

"Oh, but- I never got your name..."

Sandy felt a firefly glow spread through her chest. "Oh- Sandy. Short for Sandra, but I hated when people pronounced it like Sander-a."

"Soda and Sandy... I like it." He waved back at her. "See ya round, maybe?" He'd loped briskly back into the darkness of the night before she could reply. She wondered if she'd see him again at the gas station...

With a start, Sandy remembered she was still wearing his denim jacket. Putting her hand in the left pocket, she drew out a small slip of paper. It had the name Sodapop Curtis scribbled in a hasty scrawl, along with a number and an address beneath it. Sandy felt the firefly light in her chest glow hotter and brighter. I ought to return the jacket tomorrow.

Then again, she thought, she wouldn't mind keeping the jacket. Denim was her favourite material.

Chapter 3: Darry

The first time Sandy came to the house, Darry thought little of it. How many times had Soda brought a girl back, entertained a love that burned as bright and fizzled as fast as one of his cigarettes? She'd come round just after breakfast - something about a jacket - and Soda had answered the door, sticky with chocolate cake. Darry watched them talking by the fence from the window. "I've not seen that girl round here before," he remarked.

I can't tell if she's a bad sort, he thought to himself. She had her slightly coppery blonde hair swept up in a high ponytail, flyaways clustered at the nape of her neck. The slight wind rustled at her rather short skirt, which contrasted with her tanned, bruised legs and scuffed sneakers. The girl - Sandy, she'd called herself - had something flirtatious in the tilt of her head, and she was chattering with his younger brother with wild animated gestures. Soda's gestures were no less animated, but that was just his way: the kid seemed to be allergic to staying still. Darry watched him throw his head back in laughter.

"You know," piped up Ponyboy from the couch, "Soda's real serious about her."

"That one?" Darry would admit she was pretty, but Soda had taken up with prettier, and then dropped them when the fun stopped. "How can you tell, then?"

Pony shrugged. "'Cos he ain't kissed her yet."

Darry scoffed. "Don't be naive, Pony - I bet he has. Just because he isn't doing it right now, in front of our eyes..."

"No," argued Pony, "he went out with his mouth all over chocolate cake. He wouldn't kiss a girl like that all sticky with frosting."

Refraining from a kissing a girl immediately after meeting her was unlike Soda. All the Greaser girls in the area thought Soda was gorgeous, and half of the Soc girls too, likely. And Darry's younger brother knew this all too well, and used it to his advantage. Darry sighed, and turned away from the window. Pony solemnly stuck a cigarette into his mouth, waving the pack at him cheerfully. "Don't s'pose you want one?"

"What? No, do you know how bad they are for your health? And- hey, you're too young for those!" Darry snatched away the pack, heading to the kitchen with his youngest brother complaining in the background.

"That ain't fair! Soda smoked well before my age 'n you didn't stop him!" Darry ignored him and placed the packet on top of the fridge, where Pony couldn't reach.

It was a couple nights later, after Ponyboy had gone up to bed, when Darry found himself in the small living room with Soda and Sandy. He reached for one of Ponyboy's books. He didn't know why he did it: Darry usually thought reading to be a waste of time. Just to have something to do, I suppose. The story wasn't bad - he remembered most of it from Literature class.

Soda was darning one of Pony's socks. He turned to Sandy, grinning. "You know, Mom used to do this at least 4 times a week for all of us - we always ripped our clothes doing somethin' or other... Back when Pony was a kid, she'd sew lace round the hem of his shirts 'cos he could never keep 'em tucked in..."

Sandy laughed, probably picturing a younger Ponyboy stuffing a lacy mass into his waistband. Darry could see her watching the way Soda's quick fingers threaded the needle in and out of the fabric, observing the solid stitches. She asked, "And your father, what does he do?"

Darry put down his book and answered stiffly. "He died with our Mom in an auto wreck six months ago."

Her china blue eyes widened. Quietly, she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I hadn't any idea."

Soda tilted his head gently. He was tapping one foot on the floor, a way of releasing energy even when sitting down. "Darry looks just like Dad, though. He's got the same name, same eyes, same-" here he gestured with both hands at his brother's head- "same hair that kicks out front and cowlick in the back." His brown eyes danced faster. "'Course, most people say Dad's more handsome..."

Darry rolled his eyes and picked up the book again. He hadn't been offended: actually Soda was the only one he'd take teasing from; but he wasn't sure he liked being compared to Dad. He liked that they looked similar - chip off the old block, everyone called him - but sometimes, now, Darry looked in the mirror in the morning and sort of wished it would shatter. Am I doing what they would have wanted of me?

Her voice interrupted him. "Oh, The Great Gatsby. I like that one."

He folded the book over his lap and looked at her. "You've read it?"

"Well, I went through Literature class, didn't I? But I guess I do read a lot, for fun."

"It's an awfully boring book for me... I mean, some Soc-y guy runs round after this girl with no regard for his actions, and then he dies in his own fancy pool. As usual, just shows the rich, out of touch people livin' in their own isolated murdery bubble. Doing whatever they want, while the normal people have to clean up the mess." Books like this really are a waste.

Sandy leaned back a little. "I dunno... I always thought that it showed... well, misery - it affects everyone. You know, everyone's chasing after that dream, that illusion, that ghostly green light... everyone wants to be something more. No matter how rich you are, there's always the expectation to be something else."

To be something more...?

Soda groaned, spreading himself out further on the couch. "Sandy, don't start talking about books and academics 'n all that - I can't keep up. Darr-y..." he whined, "You know I find it all so bori- SHIT!" He dropped the needle and the sock; a large pearl of blood formed at his thumb. He quickly stuck it in his mouth.

Before Darry could react, Sandy had jumped up. "Jeez, Soda- No don't put it in your mouth, that's the worst thing... here, look just wash it, it's tiny..." She led him over to the sink.

While the two of them fought, laughing, over the iodine, Darry looked back down at the book. Then back up at the sink, at the two of them jostling each other. He saw the flash of Soda's grin, of Sandy's blonde hair catching the light. Soda didn't look back at him.

Darry sighed and stood up, feeling oddly empty. But as he climbed the stairs to bed, he allowed himself one private smile.

Maybe Sandy wasn't a bad sort after all.

Chapter 4: Dally

Dallas Winston wasn't above a night at the bar. Sodapop and Darry never drank, and Steve only sometimes; Dallas and Two-bit alone shared a love for the thrill of the alcohol. Dallas reckoned Two-bit liked it for the liquid courage it poured into his veins, the dance-like sway of the floor beneath his feet as his vision swam. For Dallas, it was less about the experience than the aftermath. He enjoyed feeling the fire burn at his throat when he took a shot, sure, but he revelled in gambling with the black-out patches it left in his memory. Sometimes he'd wake up in the gutter, sometimes in a stranger's bed. A couple times it was a holding cell. Dallas Winston was fairly used to those by now; he'd mock-salute the Tulsa cops when they let him out. They knew him by name. That was what Dallas had been aiming for.

He reached the bar, turning the corner on two screeching wheels. Dallas enjoyed driving fast, and if a lamppost decided to wear his car as a jacket with him inside, so be it. The Alibi was one of the best bars in town: cheap; in neutral territory; and never ID'd anyone, owing to the time Curly Shepard and friends pulled switchblades on the bartender after asking for their age.

There wasn't much space anywhere but at the bar, and Dallas found himself sitting next to a handsome, heavy-set Social boy. Dallas ordered two shots and downed them fast. The Soc caught his eye.

"Hey, what do we have here then? Greaser's night out, is it?"

Dallas looked him coolly in the eye. "I'm surprised a Soc shows his face round here. No silver spoons to suck on at Mommy's house, eh?"

The Soc boy had a dangerous glint in his eye now. "You looking for a fight, Grease?"

"You get your fists out, rich boy," said Dallas evenly, "'n I'll get you flat on the table cryin'." Any other night, he thought. I'd fight him. But not tonight. Not in the mood.

But even as he thought this he saw the clumsy fist coming at his face. Socs were slow, painfully so, compared to the kids in New York - Dallas ducked smartly, and threw out a sharp left hook, which hit its target with a delicious crack. Blood began to drip onto the bar.

"Not bad." The Social boy wiped his bloody nose and sat down. "Hey," he said, beckoning the bartender, "Two shots each, for me and my friend here." He slid two glasses over to Dallas, not bothering to swipe at the blood on the table. Dallas raised one eyebrow.

The other boy laughed harshly. "Hit me like that again, if you want. Hell, rip open my insides with your switchblade - I probably deserve it." He caught Dallas' eye and winked. "Didn't cry, though."

Dallas let his mouth curve into a smirk, like someone had wickedly sliced at his face with a blade. "Not bad, trust fund boy. Can't say it was my best, though. When you've been in prison, ya learn how to throw a good punch real quick. Not that you've ever been, 'course."

The boy paused. "Almost did."

"But what? Daddy's money got ya outta it, I s'pose?"

Instead of denying it, the boy just shrugged. "Yeah, pretty much. With my father it's all cover-up. Don't reckon he cares much what I do at this point... where I am, what I do, if I'm dead or alive." Dallas imagined he heard a little bitterness creep into his voice. But that was impossible. Socs were ice cold, cool to the point of not feeling. But he found himself staring at the warm, red blood droplets on the counter.

Unexpectedly, he opened his mouth. "I get ya. My old man don't seem to care whether I wake up in the gutter or the dumpster these days. Shit, I don't think he knows if I'm dead or alive right now. Don't think he minds, neither." Dallas held out his glass, and they clinked and drank. "So what did ya in, then?"

"Blew up the high school." Dallas snorted a little and he felt his lips quirk slightly. "Yeah, turns out if you flush certain elements down the toilet, the whole place goes up in purple flame. Beautiful." Dallas could imagine. It was beautiful. "They blamed it on an electrical fire in the end, though... I swear to God, I could carve my name into a man's chest and they'd blame it on a freak accident..." He tipped his head back. "Sometimes I wanna see how far I can go, you know? Burn the name Bob Sheldon across the sky and watch it come crashing down."

Bob Sheldon. The name rang a bell in Dallas' mind. "Hey, you used to play football with Darry Curtis?"

"Darrell Curtis Junior? Shit, yeah, haven't seen him in months since graduation, though. Hell of a quarterback - I think I still have bruises on the back of my head from that fucker." A pause. "I respected him."

Dallas grinned genuinely at him. Then he wondered what the hell he was doing, grinning at a Soc. "Sure, he's a hell of a player, but I can't get him to drink or smoke with me 'cos of his fitness obsession." He raised the pitch of his voice slightly. "'No, Dallas, what if it gets in the way of my football!'" He laughed.

Bob Sheldon didn't laugh. Instead he turned to him, expression suddenly grave. Even on his stool he was swaying slightly, eyes rolling in his head: he'd ordered several more shots while they'd been talking. "Hey man, I've realised..." he slurred, "I respect you, too. So you know what..." Dallas waited. Bob swayed more turbulently. "Fuck 'em, let's make a deal, fair between us, yeah? You don't touch one of my gang, and I'll stay clear of one of yours."

Dallas felt slightly taken aback, but he rearranged his features into a bored expression. Bob was clearly a lot drunker than he thought. Stay clear of one of my gang? But Dallas knew that meant revealing his weakness in the process. Besides, said a very small part of him, could he play favourites?

A decidedly larger part of him said: Hell, I'm Dallas Winston. Life isn't fair, and neither am I.

He glanced at Bob's solemn expression again, and he made a decision in a flash of understanding. "There's this kid - Johnny Cade. Small, brown hair, brown eyes... sorta like a puppy?" Bob showed no recognition. "Well, you don't touch him, and I'll honour my side of the bargain."

"What do you want to have a little kid like that around for?"

Because he's like a brother to me. Because he gets enough of those beatings at home. Because he's never had anybody looking out for him but me. "Because he's mine to do as I please with, yeah?"

Bob shrugged at him. "Sure thing."

"Who's yours, then?"

"Well - you seen a pretty redhead girl round here? She sometimes hangs round the empty lot... no? She's called Sherri Valance. You don't talk to her, or go anywhere near her, alright?"

Dallas raised an eyebrow. "She your gal, then?"

Bob had ordered another shot. Raising the glass up to the light, he downed it in a single gulp, slamming the cup back down on the table. "I wish she was."

Dallas spat on his hand and stuck it out, in the usual Greaser fashion, but Bob shook his head. Instead, the Social boy pulled off one of the four rings on his left hand. Dallas hadn't noticed them before: he'd kept the hand under the shadow of the table; but now the remaining three hefty rings gleamed in the dim light of the bar. "Here," said Bob, holding it out. "That's a promise to you as long as that ring stays gold. Don't go pawning it or anything, hoodrat."

Dallas pulled at the last button on his brown leather jacket; it came away easily. He handed it over to Bob, slipping the ring into his pocket while the other boy mirrored him. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that, rich boy." But there was a good-natured note in his voice. An understanding.

Bob laughed. It sounded like a bark. "Just making sure, Dally, just making sure." Unsteadily, he stood up. "Hope I don't see you anywhere but here, yeah?" He staggered out into the night.

Dallas Winston sat at the bar with his empty shot glasses. Only the gang could call him Dally - the word sounded foreign in anyone else's mouth.

But Bob Sheldon had called him Dally, and the strangest thing was... he didn't mind. No, he didn't mind at all.

Chapter 5: Sandy

Sandy sat alone in the Curtis kitchen. It was already quite late, but she'd told her parents she was staying at a friend's house, and at any rate Soda had asked her to stay over. But still... she felt a little weird sleeping in Sodapop's room, and there weren't any covers on the couch. So she found herself in the kitchen long after the Curtis brothers had retreated to their beds. The short hand on the clock pointed at 2. Sandy yawned.

Suddenly, she heard a creak from the doorway. Turning her head, she met eyes with Ponyboy, reddish hair tousled and clumped together, dragging a blanket behind him. He looks younger without the hair grease, she thought. Not that he hadn't looked young before.

He rubbed his gray eyes, and finally seemed to see her. "Oh... I wasn't expecting anyone to be up..."

Sandy looked at him. Then she let the tension out of her shoulders, and shook her head. "No I just..."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"You too?" Sandy noticed the kid had both bare feet planted firmly on the ground, as if he were scared of falling over, and he was breathing hard: not like he'd just run a race, but more like he was trying to gulp down as much air as he could in as little time as possible. "Hey... you alright?"

She was surprised to see open panic in his eyes. The shields he usually put up in his eyes when he was around her were gone; either he was too tired or desperate for any sort of human comfort. It changed him - for some reason made him seem a little more like Soda. I see how they're related now. Stepping slowly, Sandy went round him and steered him gently to a chair in the kitchen. He was shaking. "So," she asked, "what's the matter?"

He shrugged bravely. "Nothin' much, really," he said. "Just sometimes I get these... these dreams? I can never remember them properly - all I know is they get me all riled up and sometimes Soda has to come in to stop me screaming." He paused. "I felt like if I wasn't feeling so hot, I'd just come down here for water..."

With a pang, Sandy remembered her own childhood. She'd been a seemingly fearless child, but there was the odd instance... She remembered seeing the monsters in the shadows curled around the door, feeling the cold sweat on her pillow, the tang of fear on her tongue.

Sandy rested her head in her cupped palm for a second. Then she jumped up. "You know what? I can do better than water." She began to busy herself around the kitchen, clattering some measuring cups into a large bowl. Feeling Pony's eyes on her, she turned to meet his confused gaze. "You usually have chocolate cake for breakfast, right? Soda and Darry didn't make any tonight, they were too tired - so I figure we could give it a pretty good shot. Where do you keep your flour?" With a wink, she added, "I hear chocolate does a better job than salt at keeping demons away."

Ponyboy gave her a small grin. "What, you expect me to believe that? I got done with believin' in demons 'fore I was done with grade school, 'cos one time I tried summoning some to flap round Darry to give him a real good scare, but they never came."

Having procured the flour, Sandy was trying to scoop it into the bowl, but at Ponyboy's story she let out an involuntary giggle, and her hand shook. Flour was thrown violently out of the measuring cup and thoroughly dusted her front in white. It was Pony's turn to giggle.

"You look like you're the ghost now," he teased.

"Well, I'd like to see you do a better job!" Sandy protested.

"Alright, let me show ya how it's done." Pony commandeered the bowl and measuring cup, and waved her off for more ingredients. Together, they carried on like this, spilling milk and sugar and pinching some chocolate chips to snack on while they worked. Finally, when they'd put the cake in the oven to bake, Ponyboy turned to Sandy. "You're really serious about my brother, aren't ya?"

Sandy answered openly. "I am. I mean," she admitted, "at first I did think Soda was gorgeous, but now... I just really like talking to him, you know? He's just so..." Sandy thought about it. "He's just so smart."

A flicker of something crossed Ponyboy's face, but Sandy couldn't work out what emotion it was. Slowly, he replied, "Well... if you're serious bout him, you should take him riding. You have a farm, yeah?" She nodded. "Good. He'll love ya for sure."

Sandy looked away for a split second, and opened her mouth. "I like Soda's family too," she said, pointedly not looking his way. "Although, I'm not sure how they feel about me. People either like me right away or hate me," she admitted.

Pony grinned at her reassuringly. "You're a little headstrong 'n flirty, but I like ya. And... don't mind Darry too much, OK? He likes ya, but... look, when Mom and Dad died, he had to give up on his dreams of a sports scholarship at college. Dropped outta school completely, set up house with me and Soda. He's real mean to me sometimes," he sighed, "but I reckon he means well. Guess he's just used to family bein' first."

Sandy put her head to one side. "Guess that makes sense." A ringing sound filled the kitchen, and she leapt up to quieten the timer. "Right," she announced, "its frosting time. Pony, get the cream."

"Hey, who says ya can boss me round?"

"If I'm to be your future sister-in-law, I had better get a feel for doing the bossing, hadn't I?"

"Ooh, you're really gettin' serious about Soda..." Pony sang. He paused. "Hey, could ya do me a favour, future sister-in-law?"

"What?"

"Could ya get the cigarettes down from the top of the fridge for me?"

"No."

"Darn it."

Chapter 6: Sodapop

"Damn, Soda," said Steve, whistling, "I can't believe you're gonna score this year before I do." He playfully nudged Soda with his shoulder.

Soda laughed and jostled him back. He'd been best friends with Steve since grade school, and was used to the teasing and friendly competitive spirit. "I dunno... maybe if ya didn't whistle at 'em so much, they might actually like ya."

Steve looked mock-offended. "They like me plenty, thanks very much. I can get a broad whenever I like." He changed the subject. "So where ya going then?"

"She asked me to go to her house, so... I know the way, anyway." They both knew their way around town, but it was only Soda who was intimate with every alley, backstreet and shortcut there was.

"Oh yeah, great master of Hide and Seek." One time Soda recalled being found by Steve under a manhole cover. "Well, I guess it works to your favour if you need someplace... private... to go?" There was a suggestive ring to Steve's voice.

Eyes wide, Soda flushed red. He stammered. "Nah, I'm not gonna... she's not like..."

Steve raised an eyebrow and waved him off. "Sure, sure thing. I'm really convinced. Go on now, go have fun with Sandy."

It truly did come in handy to know the streets of Tulsa like the lines on the palm of his hand. Soda was at Sandy's house in five minutes, and he soon found himself in a field. He didn't see her.

Suddenly he heard a familiar rhythmic thudding sound. Turning around, he met Sandy's eyes, and another pair.

Soda stared. "I didn't know you kept horses." He was a beautiful horse, too. Soda admired the silky grey of his flank, and the thin diamond of white on his nose. The horse snorted. "What's he called?"

Sandy slid off the horse. The stripes on her top were red and yellow; her hair, even in its ponytail, came down to the third stripe. Her eyes in the sunlight looked really blue. "Dusty." She stepped towards him. "He's nice, isn't he? Do you like horses?"

Did he like horses? Soda looked down to the side. "Sort of," he lied. Sandy laughed.

"Get on him then - look, he likes you, anyhow." It was true: the horse had stuck its nose into Soda's hair. He laughed and pushed him away.

Just the feel of the horse's muzzle brought back a wave of memories. Almost without thinking, Soda had swung himself up onto the horse's back smoothly. He knew exactly how to hold himself: feeling his core engage, his legs found the familiar crease between the barrell and the shoulder. Legs tensed slightly, he shifted his heels, and Dusty broke into a trot. Soda let out a surprised laugh. "Woah... Nice one, boy!" He wasn't sure whether he was talking to the horse or himself.

It was like riding a bicycle except easier, Soda thought. He let Dusty speed up into a canter, shifting his heel to steer him round the edge of the field. The wind on his face and the rhythmic jolting through his spine spread a wide grin on his face: he felt truly and properly alive. As they reached the third corner of the field they wheeled around to face Sandy, slowing to a halt in front of her.

Clap. Clap. Clap. Sandy had her hands together after the third clap, her mouth slightly open. "You... he usually doesn't let anyone but me go that fast."

Feeling a champagne rush in his chest, Soda smiled. "Well, what can I say? Maybe he can tell we're made for each other."

By each other, he'd meant himself and Sandy, but she raised her eyebrows and replied, "Hmm... should I be worried about being upstaged by my own horse?"

"I like horses better 'n everyone," Soda joked. "Don't take it personal."

"No, really though - were you a farrier or something? You've really got a knack..."

Sodapop grinned sheepishly. "Ah, well... I've always seen them in the fields round here..." She looked skeptical. "But yeah, when I was twelve I worked in a stable for round about a summer..."

He could remember it well. Hands on the rake, which had green paint peeling off the handle that stained his palms; the sweet, rich smell of the hay. He continued: "I had a horse. Well, strictly speaking, he wasn't actually my horse - he got bought by another guy - but... Mickey Mouse would only come to me when I called. He knew he was my horse, all right. That's another thing I like about 'em - they don't care bout who has the most money, 'cos they don't understand those things.

"Well, Mickey Mouse was a real mean horse, or so most people thought, 'cos he always kicked the other horses 'n wouldn't let anyone ride him. But he liked me. I'd sneak back after everyone was gone just to keep him company, even if he was locked in... and I'd ride him, every chance I got." He laughed, remembering. "I learnt to roll after the first couple times he threw me off... 'sides, he learnt that it was useless tryin' to get me to stop climbing him." He was really beautiful, Soda wanted to add, coloured all dark reddish gold. Just like Sandy's hair. He used to lean over the stable door and look at me, first down, then flicking his lashes up, like he understood every word I was saying.

"What happened to Mickey Mouse in the end?" asked Sandy, in barely more than a whisper. Soda shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant.

"Got sold off. Never saw him again." He paused, then added hurriedly, "I was fine, though. Wasn't that sad - didn't cry one bit." Liar.

Sandy was looking at him with those clear blue eyes, like she knew he was lying. Soda cleared his throat. "Well... horses are the only thing I'm good at. I mean, I work at a gas station - dropped outta school 'cos I was too dumb. I couldn't stand it nohow, all that sitting round in a little box. Ponyboy loves it, though."

"I don't think you're dumb," burst out Sandy forcefully. Soda knew she was just being kind, as always. "No, really I don't. I've always thought you were real smart... I never know what's gonna come out your mouth next."

That's... different. Soda couldn't remember ever being called smart before. The champagne bubbles fizzed faster in his chest. He swallowed. "Hey, what about you then? Plannin' on going to college, or have ya accepted grand old Tulsa" - he gestured with sweeping arms - "as your final resting place?"

Sandy laughed. "Well, who could resist this fine place? No, I do want to go to college..." She hesitated.

"But?"

Her coppery hair bounced as she shook her head. "No 'but's. I just want to go. See, my mother wanted to go to Stanford, but then... she met my dad, one thing led to another... in the end, she couldn't go to college and take care of me at the same time." Soda thought he saw a little sadness in her smile. "I don't want to end up like that." She raised her voice, tilting her head to the sky. "Hear that? I'm gonna be an educated woman!" She whooped loudly.

Soda joined in. "I'm gonna be a gas station attendant! No, wait..." Sandy dug her elbow into his side playfully. He turned and grabbed her wrist, lifting her arm up. Their eyes met.

Those china-blue eyes looked at him; the sun behind them shone through Sandy's hair, tinting it both gold and copper at once. Soda could count each individual freckle on her nose. Slowly, oh so slowly, he leaned in.

She smelled like hay, and horse, and vanilla perfume. When he kissed her, it felt like the champagne bubbles dissipated all over his body, tingling in his fingers and lips and chest; the gold sunlight soaked through their clothes and hair. He'd never been so aware of a girl before, but now he noticed everything: the rhythm of her breathing; the way her hair tumbled out of its high ponytail from his fingers; the fact that he barely had to bend down to kiss her. Time seemed to stop between each of his heartbeats. He wondered vaguely if her heart was beating at the same time. After what seemed like an eternity, they broke apart.

Sandy touched her mouth. "Wow. That was..."

"Different?" Soda supplied.

She let out a surprised laugh. "That was better than different, Sodapop Curtis!" Reaching out her hand - Soda swore he could feel the bubbles fizzing where she touched him - she pulled him behind the shed.

As Soda walked home, road lit by the dying sun, he still felt the champagne bubbles dancing under his skin. What was it Pony always said? Drunk on plain living. Soda felt it, the light-headed high. Sugar rush. He spun round a lamp-post, tapping his feet out to an imaginary rhythm when he-

"S... Soda...?"

Everything went cold. Johnny Cade sat on the curb, black hair falling into his eyes. With horror, Soda realised he was clutching his side, and there was a gash on one of his cheeks. He croaked out again, "Can... you..."

Without a word, Soda hefted him up onto one shoulder and carried on home.

Notes:

What a nice couple... I sure do hope nothing bad happens in the future...

Chapter 7: Darry

Darry had been expecting Sodapop back, so when he heard the familiar creak of the old porch, he came to the door to meet him. What he hadn't been expecting was the sight of Soda, half-carrying and half-dragging a limp, bruised Johnny Cade. Opening the door wider, he helped Soda get him inside.

Soda set the kid down on the couch with a grimace. "Sandy sends her love," he said, as if this was a perfectly normal time for a conversation about Sandy. Darry frowned at him slightly, then turned to Johnny. "You want me to get the Tylenol?"

Johnny looked fairly battered: Darry could see the mottled red and purple on his arms and around the neck of his shirt. There were a couple grazes on his cheeks and elbows, and the blood didn't drip, only formed small beads at the edges of the scrapes. One eye was turning black, but the other was wide open, bright and alert. And dry. Darry had never known Johnny to cry after one of his father's beatings; usually he just shrugged and let them give him some Tylenol and time on the sofa.

Dally emerged from where he had been in the kitchen, holding a slice of chocolate cake. He stopped short when he saw Johnny. "Jeez, Johnnycake, you're looking a little banged up right now." He came over and stretched out on a chair beside the couch, putting his feet up on the living room table. If you didn't know Dally, you'd think he looked completely at ease; but Darry wasn't fooled by his couldn't-care-less attitude. The fingers wrapped around the chocolate cake were white at the knuckles, and frosting was being squeezed out of the slice. "I like the cheek scar though - makes ya look real tuff." Johnny's face seemed to light up a little bit more.

The three older boys exchanged looks. Usually the gang held it together for Johnny: he was their pet, and they all knew how much he hated having to be rescued and pitied. But it didn't stop them from worrying for weeks afterwards; didn't stop them from looking out the Curtis window in a quiet lull, wondering when Johnny would stumble back up the porch steps, bruised and bleeding. Wondering how it'd all end. "He'll kill Johnny, one day," Soda had said, his voice tight. "He'll do it. And we'll have nothing 'cept the pieces that we'll have to pick up."

Ponyboy had also clattered down the stairs by then, weighed down by a large stack of school books and loose sheets of paper. "Oh," he said. "Hey Johnny." He paused, shifted the books from one arm to the other. "Can you help me with my book report? I'll just read to you, 'n you can tell me what ya think of it." The chair opposite Dally groaned as he set the books onto it, and then settled cross-legged on the floor. "It's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn." He cleared his throat and began to read:

"And after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of..."

Darry quietly retreated into the kitchen for Tylenol. Sodapop and Dally followed him in.

Dally looked at them. "What's the old fucker done to him now?"

Soda lowered his gaze and answered quietly. "He used a... a 2 by 4. One he was building with... I dunno the details. You saw the kid, hasn't spoken a word to any of us." He turned and looked his older brother square in the eye. Darry noticed his younger brother's usually impish eyes no longer danced, but were instead clouded over with anger. "He's gone too far now, Darry... I could just-" Soda went on, looking wildly round to Dally - "why don't we just... just go up there and DO something?"

Looking at Dally's cold piercing blue eyes and Soda's clouded still ones, Darry could believe that they'd do something serious. It wasn't that old Cade didn't deserve it, but... He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms tightly. "You haven't thought about this properly."

Dally snarled. "Maybe your problem is that you do too much thinkin-"

"Okay, so you go to Cade's house - then what? Whatever you do to him, he'll repay Johnny with tenfold." Darry's voice boomed as loud as he could talk without Johnny hearing him. "You can't stop him - not unless you kill him."

Soda looked like he'd been doused with cold water. Dally, on the other hand,  seethed more.

Darry hadn't meant for that outburst to happen. More gently, he said, "And I don't want any of my boys involved in a murder trial, you hear?"

"Fuck this shit." Dally turned and stormed out the back. Darry and Soda were left in the silence after the back door slammed.

Ponyboy's voice floated through the kitchen door. He was still reading:

"The judge he felt kind of sore.  He said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way."

Chapter 8: Johnny

"Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities..." Ponyboy raised an eyebrow. "There's too much insanity round this town altogether, I reckon."

Johnny filled his lungs with dry summer air. It was a nice street, for Tulsa: white houses stood reflecting the sunlight off of their red roofs, and the grass on the lawns was all freshly clipped. The cicadas' music throbbed through the air, and he could see the heat coming off the sidewalk, making the surroundings waver like a fever. "It doesn't feel so crazy right now," he said.

Pony glanced at him. "No? We're in Soc territory right now - you don't think it's crazy that we can't walk round here for long, 'fore people start gettin' in our faces and screaming 'Greaser!'?" The younger boy stretched out his arms, open palms facing the sky. Johnny heard him sigh blissfully. "But today, we ain't Greaser." Pony raised his voice. "We're Ponyboy and Johnny! Y'all hear that? Remember our names - we're gonna be great someday!" He sighed again. "Someday... when the houses, capsized, will slide obliquely into the clay seas..."

Johnny didn't recognise what Pony was quoting. He usually didn't, though. "What's that from?"

"It's kinda new - Margaret Atwood. I read it in a magazine a few days ago. I like it... I'm not sure I completely get it though. Starts talking about the city planners, with these insane faces of political conspirators, sketching frantic lines in their own private white hazes."

Privately, Johnny also liked the sound of it. He liked when Pony read to him, or quoted new poetry that he'd read, or summarised movies to him. Pony was kinda like Soda, he'd found - you could get him to talk about almost anything, and he'd let out a steady stream of thoughts and questions. It was nice, actually; Johnny liked to listen to all the weird things Ponyboy thought up in his head.

If he was being honest, Johnny sometimes wished he could think like that, talk like that. If he didn't know exactly what to say, Johnny usually said nothing at all.

Ponyboy: "You seen Soda's girlfriend yet?"

Johnny answered that he had, only briefly. Pony nodded. "She's real nice, actually... not the Soc-y sorta nice girl, 'course, but I like her. Sandy's kind, even if she's a little used to gettin' her way."

Sandy. So that was her name, Johnny thought. He remembered the way her beautiful hair had shone sort of coppery in the sun, complementing the gold in Soda's. Sandy's hair kind of reminded him of Pony's, Johnny realised - the strawberry tint to the blonde, the way it curled in wisps at the back of their necks, and how soft it always looked, even with Pony's hair grease.

Now, he parted his own hair in the middle to keep it out of his eyes. Johnny always had his hair greased, but the front had a way of slipping forward to cover his eyes. He hated his own hair colour: jet black, and turned a strange sort of grey when the light hit it. Even dark-haired Darry Curtis had a rich brown undertone to his hair. But Johnny preferred the way Dally wore his hair, and tried often to imitate it, although his hair often ended up far too heavy with grease.

The two boys had reached the lot, heading towards the wire fence at the back, next to the concrete steps. It was oddly quiet, Johnny noticed, quiet in the way that there wasn't anybody nearby at all. He knew the difference between the sound of people trying to keep quiet and the sound of there being no people around to keep quiet. Still, he fell back behind Ponyboy a couple paces, looking around for any other signs of people, either Socs or Greasers. But there was nobody.

Ponyboy looked back. Johnny heard him.

Ponyboy: "Johnny?" A pause. "Oh... you walk so quiet I couldn't tell if ya were there or not."

"Sorry, just... checking..." He knew he walked almost silently. Even Two-bit had commented on it: "Could ya walk a little louder? Creeps me out when ya just appear behind me like that."

Having looked around, Johnny ran up to join Ponyboy by the steps. He stretched himself out cat-like, lying on the top step, enjoying the feeling of the heat of the concrete seeping into his jacket and onto his back. He closed his eyes so that he only saw red and the veiny map on his eyelids.

Johnny: "Do you remember the whole poem?" He felt Ponyboy shift slightly. "Can you say it to me?"

He heard Ponyboy draw in a deep breath and begin.

Pony: "Cruising these residential Sunday
streets in dry August sunlight:
what offends us is
the sanities..." The words flowed over one another, building the picture of a quiet, neat neighbourhood. For a reason Johnny couldn't figure out, the poet seemed to hate the sterilized trees, the fixed, empty stare of the windows in the houses. He liked the sound of the peace: no shouting, no unexpected shatter of broken bottle. And he couldn't help feeling a little sad over the way the neighbourhood would crumble and slide away to subside to white blizzard, only to be redrawn by the mad sketches of the planners.

It was as if Johnny could see the rows of houses with their precisely slanted roofs burned on the insides of his eyelids. I don't belong there, he thought. The Greaser streets were lopsided and crowded, twisting and turning sharply at each corner: they were messy and panicked. Johnny hated it: the fights, the blades, the way even the roads swerved and turned on themselves maniacally; he knew he'd never truly get used to it all. Thinking of the neat Soc streets, Johnny felt a little pang of something like jealousy. He thought about the little slides he'd seen in the front gardens, about the strollers left outside, heaped with blankets and toys. The baseball bats by the door were used for playing baseball, not self defence. It had all seemed so...

Johnny: "You're right - I don't get the poem either. Who'd hate livin' in a place like that?"

Opening one of his eyes just a crack, he raised himself up onto his elbows. He heard the Socs before he saw them.

Soc: "No! Well, I mean, I'd rather be in a house with someone I hate than with no-one at all... you know?"

Other Soc: "I guess you can have a little fun with someone you hate..." He turned his head towards the lot. Johnny met his eyes for a split second.

They looked at each other. The Soc was fairly good-looking, and looked to be around seventeen. He had a stocky build and a nose that looked like it'd been recently broken; he wore three heavy gold rings on his hand. His eyes went up to Johnny's hair, down to his jacket, then back up to his face. Johnny's insides went ice cold, and he didn't dare look at Ponyboy.

The other Soc spoke. "You want to go to the lot for a bit?" Johnny could feel Ponyboy tensing to run behind him. He shifted his feet so he could get up fast.

The good-looking boy looked away. "No," he said finally. "I'm hungry now. Let's find something to eat." They carried on past the entrance to the lot.

Ponyboy let out a shaky breath. "I coulda sworn they saw us just then." He swung his legs off the step. "I'm sorta hungry now, come to think of it... you wanna come over for dinner?"

Johnny looked back at the entrance. He answered slowly. "Yeah... sounds good."

It was getting darker by then, and the sunset blazed red and yellow from the horizon. Ponyboy stopped and looked at it. "The thing I like about the sunset is that it looks just the same everywhere, but every night when the sun sets it sends out different colours each time." He gestured to Johnny. "Look at it. Looks just like someone cracked an egg onto the horizon 'n the yolk broke all over the sky."

Johnny looked at the sky, but the sun just looked like the sun, just a little lower in the sky. Not for the first time, he wished that he saw things the way Ponyboy did. But then the wish dissipated, and he tore his eyes away from the horizon. He let a long breath out. Johnny figured he'd leave the sunsets to the dreamers like Pony. "So, Pony," he asked, "can I sleep at yours, then?"

"Yeah sure. Darry won't mind."

Johnny laughed suddenly, and did a backflip on the sidewalk, giving Pony a mock bow. The younger boy whooped and whistled, clapping. Then he grinned at Johnny. "Hey, race ya home."

Home. But Pony was already gone, heels kicking up chalk from the sidewalk. Johnny screamed and sprinted after him, laughing. He left the sun sinking slowly into the horizon behind him.

Chapter 9: Dally

Dally Winston smirked at Sodapop. "Oh my my... you're gettin' to be a regular family man now, aren't ya?"

Soda only laughed and went over to join Sandy on the sofa. They'd been seeing each other for round about two months now, Dally reckoned, and were getting to be pretty comfortable round each other too. He watched Sandy smile and lean into Soda slightly. "Eugh." Dally rolled his eyes. "Stop it, y'all - I'm gettin' toothache just looking at ya." He got up and stretched his back. "Right, that's it... I'm going for a drink."

Soda raised an eyebrow at him playfully. "Gosh, Dally," he said, "the clock ain't even struck four yet."

Dally grinned at him, flashing his teeth. He knew his grin made him look wolfish, but he didn't care - it was better, actually, to be the Big Bad Wolf. "It's always four o'clock somewhere in the world, pal." He winked.

Minutes later, he was at the Alibi. Bob Sheldon greeted him from the bar, which wasn't unexpected: in the past few months Dally and Bob had met up often, spending long evenings together drinking and joking at the bar. Dallas didn't like to admit it, but he knew it was a good time for the both of them - at least, it prevented either of them from getting blackout drunk.

"It's a little early for drinks, isn't it?" Bob teased.

"Could say the same for you." Dally sat down heavily onto the hard bar stool, which creaked and groaned quietly. Bob had been the only one at the bar: even the bartender seemed to have evaporated. He looked at Bob suddenly. "Hey, how come you're never here with your Soc-y friends?"

"Ah." The other boy looked a little... Dally couldn't place his expression. "They don't really drink much."

"So, what, if ya get rich enough, ya suddenly don't crave alcohol?" Dally grinned wickedly. "Nah, don't fancy that sorta life, then."

"No- I mean, they do drink, just not in places like this. It's mostly just their parents' gin, or port, that they've taken from the kitchen or wherever. And the girls hate it." Bob shrugged. "So it's just me, that comes here."

At the mention of girls, Dallas pricked up his ears. "How's that gal of yours doin' then?" He always felt a perverse sense of joy when others got uncomfortable, and he could feel Bob's irritation at the mention of his girl.

"She gave me a proper lecture the other day - something about how drink changed me... it was straight out of Prohibition, honestly." He shook his head. "Boy, but she's good-looking. Too bad she doesn't like me much."

Dally laughed. "See, that's why ya oughtta go after Greaser broads. Some of 'em would take ya quicker than a flash... others would take a pig that quick, too. 'Course, I moved here when I was eleven, so... I guess I've got a headstart when it comes to gettin' to know them, if y'know what I mean."

Bob Sheldon put his hand to his chin in mock contemplation. "Hmm, you moved here at eleven... was that after your twenty sixth or twenty seventh stint in jail?"

"My goodness, the boy can count!" Rolling his eyes but smirking, Dallas shifted on his bar stool. Though Bob wasn't looking at him, he hesitated. Not even the gang knew how many times he'd been in jail, or even what for: he'd told them stories that made Darry turn away, frowning, and made Soda go green. Of course Johnny had listened closely, though his face went white and he bit his bottom lip until it bled; Johnny was no chicken and a loyal fighter in a rumble, and Dally knew the kid hero-worshipped him. Not that he deserved it.

Why so bitter? You're Dallas Winston. But Dallas knew it was true. He didn't pretend to be a good role model for anyone, and yet Johnny...

There was a reason why he never wanted the gang to know what he'd done in the past.

But still. He spoke. "It was my third time, matter of fact."

Dally found himself telling Bob about New York. All the things he'd done in the three years he'd been there, every street fight and mugging and worse. The things he'd done because he'd had to, they were the easier things to talk about. It wasn't like people in the city had hearts - at least, not in Dallas' experience of them. Oddly enough it wasn't the crimes he'd committed that stood out to him: he remembered the air vents, and six or seven of them huddled on them in the winter; even now, when it rained, he couldn't help but see it as a death sentence.

But worst of all were the things he'd done simply because he was bored. Because he'd had nothing to do, and was angry - even now he was still always a little bit angry - and most of all because nobody had ever bothered to tell him no. He had never told anyone about those things before, and he wondered what he was doing, telling them to a Soc. But it ain't a Soc, is it? Just Bob Sheldon. And even more, he wondered why it felt so different telling them to Bob Sheldon. When Dallas talked, he watched Bob's face, but he didn't go white, or green, or any other color. His brow quirked in the same arrogant way it always had.

Finally, when Dallas had finished, Bob sat back. At last he said, "For someone named Dallas, it's weird that you lived in New York. I thought you were from Texas."

Dally blinked. He stared at Bob for a few seconds, and then the hilarity of it began to set in. A genuine laugh tore its way out of him; it was rough, slightly bitter, but a true laugh all the same, and soon he was laughing wildly, leaning onto the counter. Dally couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed because he'd found something genuinely funny. He choked out, "What, is that the only thing in your mind after all that?"

"It's not an illogical thing to think!" Bob protested, but he began laughing too. The two of them couldn't stop howling with laughter, pounding on the table. At some
point the bartender, having appeared behind the counter, eventually had enough of the boys. "Out," he ordered, "now." Dally, between snorts of laughter, answered something pretty close to his record for saying dirty things about the bartender's wife. Bob burst out laughing even harder. The bartender broke an empty bottle over the counter and jabbed it into Dally's face. "Out!" He bellowed.

Dally and Bob stumbled out into the outside air, still cracking up. The light was getting low, their shadows cast long across the sidewalk like monsters. Bob looked up at the sky. "Sunset's nice looking today."

Turning his eyes to the red sky, Dally looked at the sun. The air was golden, and getting colder. Dallas preferred night. "Eh, you've seen one sunset, you've seen 'em all. Same every day, right?"

Bob only smiled. He turned to face down the street. "See ya, Dal."

The little brown button winked at Dally from where it had been sewn onto Bob's jersey as he turned around. Turning the gold ring over in his pocket, Dally smiled back, though Bob couldn't see him. "Night, Bob."

Chapter 10: Pony

Ponyboy didn't really feel any different today. Aren't you supposed to feel different on your birthday? Soda had said that turning fourteen was a big year, but looking into the bathroom mirror Ponyboy didn't suppose he saw much difference. Just looked like the same old Pony.

"Soda," he called, "when did you start shaving?"

He could hear Soda laugh from the kitchen. "Fifteen. Why? Ya figgering on growing a beard, kid brother?"

Pony went into the kitchen. He hadn't bothered to get dressed properly, so he was still just wearing an old tank and jeans - usually during vacation none of them bothered to dress before ten, not unless they had something to do. His bare feet made a funny sort of slapping noise as he walked, and then it was a push of the creaky door to get to the kitchen.

"Happy birthday Pony!" Soda screamed and did a somersault off the kitchen counter. Pony was surprised he didn't hit his head on the ceiling, seeing as the kitchen was pretty small, but it was Soda, after all. Soda was like a five cent bouncy ball from the mall: he never seemed to get hurt, just bounded right back up and did it all over again. It took Pony a couple seconds to notice Darry, leaning up against the sink with a half amused, half exasperated expression.

"Why ain't ya gone to work today?" He knew Soda didn't have to go to the DX until maybe twelve and besides Steve would cover him anyway, but Darry was usually up on a roof by seven, or else he was sleeping because he'd been pencilled in for the night shift at his other job. Soda grinned at him.

"Why would we? We can't be missin' out on our kid brother's fourteenth birthday, can we?" Soda was always a little mischievous looking, but now his eyes had a specially wicked gleam to them. "Darry called in a favour today, 'n as for me and Steve... well, let's just say the gas station's got bigger things to worry 'bout right now." He winked at Pony. "We've got all day while they get the cameras back working and unplug all that gum from the gas nozzles."

Pony was about to laugh, but just then there was a shout from outside, and a noise that sounded like something heavy being set on the ground with a thud. Darry's eyes suddenly went wide and he rushed out the back door real fast, with Soda whooping behind him. Pony stuck his face round the back doorframe.

"Heya, Pony." Twobit was standing outside in his usual jeans and denim jacket. He was awful proud of that denim jacket - said he'd won it in a bet against Tim Shepard, but Pony suspected he'd stolen it from the mall. Still didn't make it any less impressive, though, because it looked expensive enough that it'd be awful hard work to steal.

Sandy stood behind him, breathing sort of hard. Still, she put her hand up and waved at Pony, and her hair shone brassy in the morning sun. "How do you like what we've brought you?"

"Only for today, mind ya," added Twobit. "My Ma and the girls had a hard enough time lettin' me carry it over here as it is." He moved over a little to the side, and then Pony saw it. The record player was bright blue, brighter than the sky, brighter than Twobit's beloved jacket even, and he looked at all the little arms and levers inside the box.

"Gosh, Twobit..." He was speechless. Darry folded his arms and looked amused again for a second.

"Gotta say, I was at least expecting ya to use a wagon. It's a miracle y'all didn't drop it." But he looked pretty pleased with them. Twobit flexed his muscles and smiled, Sandy gave a mock curtsey. Twobit and Sandy got on well, actually - maybe it was his way of finding normal things funny, or the fact that, like Soda, he was always looking for a good time. "Right. Let's get it inside, boys."

Twobit hefted the record player up on one shoulder, stepped through the door into the house, and it was a slow settle onto the living room table. As Pony watched him dust off his hands, Johnny, Dally and Steve showed up behind him. Steve clapped Pony on the back, making him jump. "Ya know, fourteen was when I got with a gal first. Mary Roberts... 'Course, I did it on a dare, 'cos she had a face like she was always sucking on a lemon... but boy" - he whistled - "when she took off her clothes, I could almost forgive that face." Pony could feel himself going a little red in the ears - he wasn't really all that interested in girls, yet. Steve caught sight of Soda suddenly. "Hey, Soda! You know they think it's a problem with the oil tank up at the DX? They're diggin' round underground as I speak..." He crossed the room, laughing. Pony looked round at Johnny.

"Heya Johnny." The black eye was looking better, he thought, at least compared to three weeks ago. He still couldn't help himself watching the faint scar on Johnny's cheek get lifted up when he smiled, just like he was doing now.

"Hey, I got ya something." Johnny had his hands behind his back and now he fumbled round for a couple seconds. Pony waited and after a time Johnny produced a large disk, upside down. Pony yelped in surprise.

"Johnny! Where'd ya manage to get an Elvis album?" Johnny smiled sheepishly, and his eyes went to his feet.

"Turns out it's not so hard to trade a couple little pieces of scrap wood for stuff in the market." He was underestimating himself, though - Pony sometimes saw Johnny whittling away at scrap timber with his blunt whittling knife or Dally's rusty switch, and sometimes he just did it with any old stick lying on the ground - it was just a thing he did compulsively, without needing to think. Pony really liked watching the little animals get carved out from the wood, like they'd been trapped in there and Johnny was just helping them free themselves with his patient, precise hand. Johnny continued cautiously, "So ya like it, then?"

"Do I like it! Johnny, it's just perfect!" All the boys thought Elvis was tuff, and Pony admired the way his blue eyes looked at him from the cover of the album, traced his hand over the words 'Blue Hawaii'. Soda appeared behind him and yelped also.

"Glory, wouldja look at what Pony's got now!" Pony couldn't stop himself smiling as he held it up. "Say, if we're doin' the presents now..." Soda bounced upstairs.

Twobit tossed a bent copy of a book towards Ponyboy. "Stole it from school myself. Figured you hadn't read it, seein' as it was in the teacher's desk."

Pony turned it over to read the title: 'Peyton Place'. "Never heard of it... thanks, Twobit."

Dally thrust a packet of cigarettes and a Playboy magazine at him. "Me and Steve got 'em for ya." Pony didn't even ask whether they'd paid - he knew they hadn't. Both Dally and Steve never liked to do things the legal way, even if they did have the money and the means to do it.

Sandy also handed him a book, though it looked a lot less beat up. Pony hadn't heard of 'The Feminine Mystique', either, but when he asked, she just laughed. "It's my copy, but I reckon I can get another one easy." Pony still felt confused but he nodded thoughtfully, thanked her as well and went to lay the books down carefully on the table in the kitchen (he hid the cigarettes and magazine at the back of a cupboard. What Darry didn't know couldn't hurt him). When he came back, Soda and Darry came up to him, smiling.

When they approached him Pony froze immediately, wondering what on earth they were gonna give him. They weren't dirt poor, but most of what Soda and Darry earned went to the power bill, and food, and all the other things that they needed to keep their house going - it was why Darry worked two jobs, so they could keep the house where they'd always lived, ever since Darry was born. So when Darry and Soda lifted up his gift, Pony stared at them wide-eyed. "A typewriter? But... where on earth did you get the money...?"

Soda winked. "Lucky bet at the Slash J." Darry snorted with laughter. "And a little... convincing folks there to part with their money and add to the fund, 'course," Soda added brightly. "What?" He turned to Steve, who was also laughing. "Well, were ya expecting me to set up a lemonade stand?"

Pony realised he was just standing there collecting dust, so quickly he ran up to Darry and Soda and gave each of them a hug. "Gosh, thanks, guys..."

Darry patted him awkwardly. "Well, now you don't have to bother us with all your scribbling in the backs of your schoolbooks." He cleared his throat. "Say, why don't you put on your new record, so we can all hear it?"

"Yes, let's dance!" Soda yelled jubilantly. "I'll get the cake!" He rushed off to the kitchen. Pony heard Sandy whisper in Twobit's ear with a tone that was mixed horror and awe: "How much sugar has he got in him today?"

And so with their beloved Elvis crooning from the turntable, they all danced in the living room around the slab of chocolate cake Sodapop had managed to get from the kitchen. At some point, someone - must have been Twobit, Pony thought - produced a few cans of beer, and soon they were giggling as their feet clumsily collided. Soda, who probably hadn't even had a drop of alcohol, got up onto the table just as 'Can't Help Falling In Love' began. Pony saw him lock eyes with Sandy, and having picked up a stray can to use as a microphone, began to sing:

"Wise men say
Only fools rush in..."

Soda always did have a pretty nice voice, though he mostly just used it for hollering out 'Cotton Eye Joe' in the shower. Sandy's eyes seemed to glow when she looked at him.

"Take my hand
Take my whole life too..."

Pony couldn't help watching Sandy dance. She was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, same as Twobit, except the jeans had a lighter wash and the denim jacket had a little Mickey Mouse patch on the shoulder. In Ponyboy's living room, dancing to the music, she looked surprisingly like...

Mom.

Chapter 11: Pony

I remember my childhood like a movie in my head. Sometimes before bed, if I can't sleep, I just lay back and let the little figures in my mind move around in their own little bubble of memory, in a place where Soda is always thirteen, and Darry still plays football, and Mom and Dad live forever. I let them play in my head because I'm worried, one day when I'm old, I'll forget.

Darry looks like Dad, sure, but by way of personality it's definitely Soda who takes after Dad most. They both have that restless energy to them, like they're always running on five cups of coffee - I remember Dad tackling Darry out in the garden and singing loudly with Soda, just to make Mom a little annoyed.

Mom was always the one who got things done round here - the house was never two seconds without her hollering at us to brush our teeth, or remember to feed the dog, or for someone to take out the trash, for the love of God... her constant calls were like the beating of the house's heart, or the steady chug of a steam train engine. Mom was just like that - steady. She was the only one Dally listened to back then: he always said she was a real smart woman, and she could dig stuff just as well as Johnny or Soda can, I think. You'd just sit with her for a while and tell her stuff, and then you'd figure things out together. She liked puzzles a whole lot, so I guess her mind just worked different. There was always something interesting coming out her mouth. I think I remember Dad keeping a notepad of all of her weird thoughts for a couple months one time.

All the gang really had a liking for her, and I reckon she was part of the reason our house became the unofficial sort of meeting place for all of us. It was her that started our rule of always keeping the back door unlocked, just in case... the neighbourhood was about the same amount of dangerous as it is now, of course, but Dad was a good shot and kept his hunting rifle locked in the kitchen cupboard, so we didn't worry much.

Come to think of it, Johnny and Dally were always at our house even in the beginning. I think Mom probably noticed the small, circular burns round Johnny's arms and the bruises in places he couldn't reach, and the way that Dally always wolfed his food down like someone was waiting by his shoulder to snatch it off him. She'd always say, at the end of the day, "Steve, Keith" - Twobit would only ever stand for her calling him 'Keith', and knocked down anyone else that tried it - "Steve, Keith," she'd say, "go say hi to your Ma and sisters for me." And then, looking round to the others, she'd always say that anyone who wanted to stay for dinner was welcome, too.

Even though Mom said she loved all of us the same, I reckon she had to love each of us a little differently - and anyway, we could all see who needed it most. Johnny liked Dad, the way that he made us all crack up over the dinner table with crazy stories from his youth, but I knew the loud way Dad walked and the boom of his voice still made Johnny get edgy sometimes - one time I actually saw him flinch at the sudden pop and hiss of Dad opening his can of beer. But Johnny loved Mom, at least a whole lot more than his own mother, though he's never admitted that... still, everyone could see the way he looked to Mom for small, everyday problems, and her serious way of loving was just right for him, I think. She never so much as saw either of his parents - none of us ever did, or wanted to - but Mom was the sort of person who knew things just by looking between the paving stones of conversation. She always said it was surprising what you found, when you bothered to look. It was around when we were nine that Johnny started sleeping round our house often. Mom was always direct with her asking of questions, but she only asked when it was really important for her to know.

So when I saw Sandy, dancing round the living room in our house, she really reminded me of Mom. I didn't really know why, because she didn't actually resemble Mom at all. Sandy asks questions all the time, and regularly puts her foot in it, so to speak, just to hurriedly make more of a mess getting it back out again, and she speaks real loud and opinionated. But all of a sudden I started feeling really homesick, even though that should've been impossible seeing as I was in my own home. I see why people call it homesickness, though - I had that tugging feeling in my stomach like I was gonna throw up.

One of my favourite movies to play in my head is Mom and Dad's tenth wedding anniversary. We had a little cake on the table that Soda baked up, and Darry and I pooled our money to buy balloons, and a big hand-drawn banner that read 'Happy Aniversrey!!!" with three exclamation marks. I wasn't such a strong speller back then, I guess. And we got out the ancient old gramophone, and Soda and Dad sang with a lot of reckless abandon and not much regard for the health of our neighbours' ears, until Ella Fitzgerald came on. And Mom laughed at Dad, and told him to get down from the table and dance with her, or she'd do it all by herself. So then me, Darry and Soda watched them dance, because we hadn't before... we couldn't really imagine Mom in dance halls. But as we watched her spin and kick up her legs, I at least suddenly saw her at seventeen in a short dress and long stockings and bobbed hair, pearls round her neck, just dancing. And, boy, she was beautiful.

I realised I was sort of sniffling, back in the living room at my fourteenth birthday party. The tears came on their own, so I hadn't noticed until I realised my eyelashes had clumped together out of dampness. Johnny was standing next to me, and I couldn't help myself making a little whimpery sound. He came round to the other side and just stood nearer to me, and then reached for my hand. His fingers were hot and rough.

Johnny said to me quietly, "It's your first birthday without them." Not like a question, like a statement. I don't know how he knew I was thinking about Mom and Dad, but I just nodded, blinking back the tears.

"I miss them."  The words just sort of fell out without me thinking about it. Johnny nodded like I had just a second ago. He nods just like Mom, I realised, like he also can reach down and pick up the words that fell through the cracks.

"Yeah. Me too, Pony." His eyes were dry, and dark. Really, really dark. I couldn't even see a trace of colour in them now. I realised then that Johnny really did dig, maybe felt it even more than I did. At least I still have Darry and Soda, and Johnny has... well. I kept on focusing on his eyes.They were round and big in the same kicked puppy way they always had been. "But we're doing alright, huh? It ain't the same, I know," he added, still looking at me, "but we're doing alright."

I took a deep breath and looked around at the party. At Soda, attempting to fit a whole slice of cake into his mouth at once while Sandy and Steve watched and egged him on, clearly having made a bet with each other moments before. At Darry, tapping his foot to the beat, smiling slightly. At Dally, who'd sprawled out on the sofa with god knows how much beer in his system. I couldn't keep my voice from wavering when I said, "When does it stop feeling so... huge?"

Johnny shrugged in his modest way. "I'll tell you when it does for me," he said. "But right now, we're just gonna focus on gettin' by. One day at a time."

I liked the sound of that. Taking things slow. "Yeah. One day at a time."

Now, when everyone's gone from the party, I can hear Johnny's regular breathing from the spare bed in my room. Everyone's asleep, but I have to keep typing this on my typewriter. So I don't forget. I let the movie play in my head over and over again. My breathing goes in and out at the same time as Johnny, and I feel a little homesick again, but this time it's for a home in the future. A promise.

I'm not gonna forget.

Chapter 12: Dally

Dallas Winston was rip-roaring drunk. The night air felt too cold, even through his brown jacket and jeans; it was a New York night. Raindrops splashed onto the cracked sidewalk, forming dark rivers in the gutters as Dallas pulled his jacket tighter around himself. The water was so dark it looked like blood.

Rain was a death sentence. He knew that from New York, in the winter when the rain would come down like bullets on his skin. The kids on his side of the city were tough, sure, but they scattered when even the mildest drizzle came down in the winter: everyone had seen the old men, the young children, frozen to death on the streets after the rain came.

Dallas gulped down more beer from the can he was holding, then crumpled the can and threw it into the gutter. He needed this, to forget, to make it all go quiet. But he couldn't stop himself thinking about Mrs Curtis, darning Pony's socks in the living room; Mrs Curtis, watching Darry teach them all how to do acrobatics on the lawn; Mrs Curtis, with her firm voice and steady hand. He remembered the deep gray-blue of her eyes, cast over with seriousness. "What I like about your Mom," he remembered telling Pony, "is that she doesn't talk to me like I'm a kid. She's a real smart lady, knows the score."

Being in the Curtis living room had brought it all back in bright technicolour. Now he thought of the car, that beautiful metal crumpled and twisted like the old beer can; the beeping of the hospital machines; Mrs Curtis, her eyes now fixed and faded to an awful sea-glass green....

Dally ran. Jacket sticking to his back, the rain pelted him from all angles like shrapnel, and his legs wouldn't obey him somehow. Left, right, left, right: the Tulsa streets lurched and swelled according to his footsteps. Left, right, left, right, right- Dallas stumbled, and fell into the gutter by the side of the road. The wine-dark rainwater gushed over his hands. He didn't bother trying to get up.

"Hey, I thought sleeping in the gutter was reserved for Tuesdays." Eyes blurred by rain, Dallas looked up: a fuzzy image of a stocky boy looked down at him. Gold glinted at his left knuckles. "Guess you don't mind the weather, then."

Don't mind the weather? Dallas had told him what he felt about the rain. He tried to furrow his brow, but Bob clearly didn't remember.

A very small part of Dallas felt... let down.

A much larger part of him scoffed. Dallas Winston assumed the worst of everyone: that way he'd never be let down.

Bob Sheldon stayed standing up. "So, what is it this time round? Girl trouble?" Bob joked. He bent down and leaned in close; Dallas could smell the metallic scent of his breath when Bob laughed. "This is why you should go after Social ladies - there aren't any smart Greaser gals out there."

Dallas tried to reply, but couldn't lift his head. His mouth was too dry to speak. But he could feel the anger boiling up like an inferno in his ribcage. If he concentrated on the fire, he couldn't feel the rain. Bob laughed and continued, "Well, there aren't any good Greaser women at all, if you're asking me. You know what I think of them?"

A raindrop fell on Dallas' head; he could feel it dripping down his nose. He couldn't see Bob. If he tried to look up, he'd vomit. Bob answered his own question nonchalantly. "I think they're all white trash sluts."

The inferno rushed through Dallas, surging like a wildfire in his veins. He pushed the thoughts of Mrs Curtis's sea-glass green eyes to the back of his mind: not now, not ever.

A very large part of Dallas said, "You can't play any other part now. You're always gonna be the big, bad wolf."

The very small part of him was completely silent. The large part continued, "And you know what wolves do?

"They bite."

Dallas looked Bob straight in the eyes. "Get outta my face, filthy Soc."

"What did you just say?" His small eyes glinted shallowly, like the gold rings on his left hand.

"Maybe you should clean up after yourself a little more, instead of getting your little whore to hide the bottles from ya." Dallas laughed, though the sound tore at his throat. He knew his teeth flashed white and pointy in the moonlight. "Oh wait, she ain't your whore anymore... I'm guessing she saw somethin' else she liked, huh? Probably out fucking another one of your boys right now... go on, picture it, all of them usin' her as a perfect little dumpster for their-"

THWACK!

Bob's punch hit with a resounding noise. There was something dripping down Dallas' face, but he couldn't tell if it was blood or rain. He couldn't remember if there was a difference. Bob was yelling now, but Dallas could only focus on the sound of the rain and the ringing in his ears. Something about a deal... buttons...

Breathing hard, Bob looked at him for one last time. "I could do anything to him, you know."

Dallas didn't know who they were talking about anymore. Mrs Curtis wasn't a him, and Bob couldn't do anything to her. She was already dead. He bared his teeth. "Do whatever ya want, Soc."

He didn't remember Bob leaving him in the gutter, or the sound of his retreating footsteps on the wet sidewalk. He remembered only the gold ring, lying on the ground next to the pocket of his jacket. The gold had chipped off of a portion of it, leaving an ugly exposed metal underneath, the dull grey contrasting with the lustre of the gold. It was only gold-plated, after all.

Chapter 13: Sodapop

Soda stretched out blissfully on the couch in the Curtis living room. He watched Sandy come down the stairs, wearing one of his old sweatshirts - she hadn't brought a night-dress or anything to stay the night in, and her daytime clothes were already covered in mud from being outdoors all day with Dusty. Soda thought privately that he liked the sweatshirt on her: the length fit her pretty well, since she was so tall; and the fabric wasn't too loose on her either. When she sat down and laid her head on his shoulder, she smelled like a mixture of her vanilla perfume and his cologne.

Darry was busy washing up in the kitchen. It had been a long, slow day; Pony had walked down to meet Steve at the gas station and get some pop. Soda could barely hear Darry speaking over the clank of the glasses in the metal sink, the swish of the water. Finally Soda raised his voice. "Say what now, Dare?"

Darry switched the water off. "I said, is Sandy sleeping over tonight?"

Sandy shrugged. "My parents won't notice."

Sodapop saw Darry raise an eyebrow at him. Darry asked him, "She's not gonna be sleeping in your room, is she?"

Soda could feel himself turn bright red. "Uh... well..." he stammered, "We- I- it's not..."

Much to his embarrassment, Sandy started to laugh. "Darry! We're seventeen! Are you really gonna be all strict with us?"

Darry folded the tea towel, trying to hide a grin - Soda could see a little sparkle in his brother's usually serious eyes. Good, he thought to himself. God knows Darry needs a little cheering - I haven't seen him lighten up in months, not since Mom...

Soda forced himself to stop thinking.

His older brother continued sternly, addressing Sandy. "Well, I certainly know you're a corrupting influence... I mean, I've never seen Soda close his bedroom door so fast."

"Hey! Well, it's on you for always yelling out to us to always keep both feet on the floor! How old are you anyway, sixty?"

Soda laughed at his girlfriend. "Sandy, you did give Pony a book called 'The Feminine Mystique'..."

She elbowed him lightly. "I'll have you know, that's a feminist revolutionary work, not a... a comprehensive guide on sex! And besides, Dally already-" She stopped suddenly, and shut her mouth. Soda saw Darry notice the guilty look on her face.

"Hold on now, what'd Dally do?" asked Darry suspiciously.

"Dally... has already read the book. Actually." Sandy's china blue eyes were wide and darting from side to side.

Soda couldn't contain his laughter. "Dally?! Dally'd never read a book like that... anyway," he continued, waggling his eyebrows at Sandy, "I heard he's already taken the mystique out of a fair few females, if y'know what I'm saying..."

His older brother also looked skeptical. "You're a terrible liar," he informed her.

Sandy burst out laughing. Muffled by her hands covering her embarrassed face, she admitted, "Alright, alright, you got me. I swear I'm not always such a bad liar! I just tripped myself up..."

Soda leaned forward, mock-intrigued. "So, what was it about Dally?"

"Well... he gave Ponyboy a Playboy back on his fourteenth birthday - I think he stashed it in that cupboard there." In response to Darry's slightly horrified expression, she hastily added, "He hasn't actually looked at it yet! He's not all that interested in girls right now, I don't think..."

"Glory be, it's still in here, alright..." Darry was now busy sifting through the cupboard. "Can't believe Dally saw fit to give that to my kid brother, that rascal... I'll have to throw that in the trash-"

"Hey, hey, don't be so hasty now," Soda interjected. "He's growin' up now, might get interested later... 'Sides, fourteen is the right age for these things - I mean, fourteen was when I first lost-" Soda shut his mouth quickly. Darry looked round at him incredulously.

"Fourteen was when you first did what?!"

"...nothing." He didn't think Darry could look much more horrified. It wasn't exactly like Soda wanted his big brother knowing about his sex-capades either, but honestly, the way that Darry was staring at him... Soda felt deeply awkward. He opened his mouth sheepishly-

BANG!

The door slammed wide open, rattling the house and nearly swinging off its old hinges. Steve and Twobit stood in the doorway, breathing hard - Twobit's dancing eyes had gone stormy, and Steve was deadly calm, calm in the way of someone in the eye of a hurricane. Soda's insides went cold: it was dark by now, and both Steve and Twobit should've gotten home long ago. He knew Twobit's mother worried when he was gone for too long after dark, and Steve tended to hurry on home early because if he didn't, his father would sometimes lock him out of the house. Neither of them said a word. Normally Darry would've yelled at them for almost breaking the door, but now it was obvious to everyone that something was very, very wrong.

After what seemed like years, Steve spoke. "It's Johnny. He's... he's in the lot... looks banged up pretty bad..."

Soda heard Sandy draw in a sharp breath as she stood up. "What happened?" She demanded. "Was it his father again?"

Steve shook his head. "No, not this time... says shit went down with the Socs- look, y'all had better get over there yourselves 'n help out. He's in no shape for talking, let alone movin'." He caught Soda's eye, and held his gaze. His voice broke slightly when he said, "I... He wouldn't have anywhere else to go..."

In a flash of memory, Soda remembered the days after Steve's mom split. Mrs Randle had been a whirlwind, larger than life, who'd been able to make anyone laugh until their stomach hurt, and when she came into a room, it was like all the colours got bright and came into focus... on the good days. On the bad days, Soda remembered the dark shape on the bed, under the covers, staying perfectly still like her muscles were made of lead and she was slowly sinking into the quicksand of her mattress. And when she finally snapped and split, and when Steve's dad couldn't stand having Steve in the house anymore - Steve, who had the bright vivacious eyes and wavy hair of his mother - well, the Curtis back door had been unlocked as always, and the couch had blankets on it for weeks on end. Soda knew Steve remembered the couch, and the blankets, and the food on the counter. His best friend saw stability whenever he had looked into Mom's serious gray eyes - the same ones that looked out of Darry's face.

In one stride, Sandy crossed the room to the door. "Right, Soda, you come with us and help carry him - sounds like he's gonna need it. Darry, stay behind and get the Tylenol, and also the iodine, a needle and thread and a candle. And some ice, in a bag." Soda was grateful that she'd taken charge: he'd been floundering, unsure what to do. He glanced at Darry, who at first looked floored, and then slightly impressed; the older boy nodded.

Everyone moved fast through the night, although it was dark and none of them had torches. When they reached the lot, Soda couldn't stop himself sprinting over to the back fence. He saw a black shape on the ground, and Ponyboy - thank God Pony was alright - kneeling on the ground. Soda got down on the ground and shook Johnny's shoulder gently. "Johnny?"

He turned Johnny over, gently, gently... then stiffened. Deep gashes cut into the side of Johnny's face, purple and blue mottled his skin. Both eyes had been swollen shut, and his bottom lip and nose were bleeding. His first wild thought was that Johnny was dead, the kid looked that bad; then he shook himself out of it sharply. Johnny needed comfort, not horror. Soda was dimly aware of someone at his elbow - Dally? Must have been - retching. Fighting to keep his voice level, Soda said, "Hey, Johnnycake." He lifted the kid up against his shoulder. "Don't talk, alright? You're gonna be okay..." He wasn't sure he believed it.

"There was a whole bunch of them..." Johnny gasped out anyway. "A blue Mustang full... I got so scared... fuck-" he started sobbing violently, and swearing all the more because he couldn't stop. Soda felt shell-shocked. Johnny never cried. The kid continued: "It was the rings... if it hadn't been for the rings, I'd have been fine... but now..."

The kid was nonsensical. Gently, Soda pushed the hair out of Johnny's eyes and lifted him up. Through the corner of his eye he could see Sandy helping Ponyboy up as well, Steve standing guard with locked knees and a straight spine at the edge of the lot. He appreciated Steve's effort - though Steve acted callous and wound people up for the fun of it, he was considered the guard dog of the group: once you had his loyalty, you kept it for life. Dally was gone, nowhere to be seen. This wasn't surprising, though - if anything threatened to hurt Dally, he ran and he fought, fought like a cornered wild animal.

"Right," Sandy ordered, snapping Soda out of his thoughts, "Steve, Twobit, go on home." They began to protest loudly, but she cut them off. "No, what he needs now is peace and quiet... we'll do the practicalities first and tomorrow we can talk, yeah? Y'all get some rest, and save all that being riled up for tomorrow." Her tone of voice left no room for questions.

Pony was walking next to Soda, looking pale and breathing hard. Between the two of them, they coaxed the story out of Johnny: four Socs had jumped him in the lot. One of them had been wearing three heavy gold rings - these had made the deep gashes that cut down the side of his face. Soda could hear his kid brother muttering under his breath, but he couldn't make out the words. Soda spoke aloud. "It's not your fault." He didn't know which of the kids he was talking to anymore. Maybe both.

Pony didn't act like he'd heard Soda's words. He just kept on muttering; Soda leaned in slightly to hear what he was saying. Pony's breath sliced jagged through the sentences.

"Nobody was ever gonna beat him like that again. Not over his dead body..."

Chapter 14: Darry

The first time Johnny screamed in the night, Darry was already there. He was used to being woken in the night - there was a period of time when Pony couldn't go two nights without having a nightmare and screaming the house down. Sodapop could sleep through anything, pretty much, but Darry was a light sleeper, so he'd go in and wake Soda up to get Pony calmed down.

He didn't know why he never went over and comfort Pony himself. It's because I'm no good at that sort of thing, he told himself. But he'd have been lying if he said it didn't hurt a little bit to be rejected.

Tonight, Soda and Sandy were asleep together in Soda's room, and he didn't have the heart to wake them.

Instead, he knelt down by the side of the couch. Johnny was sat bolt upright, and breathing like one of the school football players was sitting on his chest. When he saw Darry, the kid said shakily, "Sorry, I... didn't mean to wake ya..."

Darry sighed gently. He needed to be up by seven to go work on a roof, but... suddenly he thought of Pony. Finally he sat down, back against the couch, and the coarse words fell out onto the coffee table of their own accord. "Don't worry, I couldn't sleep anyway." Might as well stay awake now, he conceded, so at least the kid can get some sleep. He reached for yesterday's newspaper on the living room table, unfurling it with a rustle.

Johnny caught sight of the newspaper page. "Someone got shot on Tiber Street?" His face took on a new sort of fear.

"Seems to me like someone gets shot dead every other week in this neighbourhood," remarked Darry. "The fuzz don't like us Greasers much." I know what you're thinking, he thought, looking at Johnny biting his lip. Dally had been gone for five days now, and nobody had seen hide nor hair of him since they'd found Johnny. Darry knew Johnny worried about Dally - wild, untameable Dally; knew that when it came to fight or flight, Dally had been doing both since the day he was born. Sometimes, the look in Dally's eyes... Darry knew he couldn't change anything, could only try and keep the kid around for as long as possible. Keep an eye out for him.

Johnny spoke haltingly. "You don't think Dally...?"

"Naw," scoffed Darry, "He's smart enough to not get killed just yet. Besides," he looked round and smirked, "I reckon the police have come to see him as some kind of pet, with the number of times they've had to keep him round the station in a cage." He'd hoped to make Johnny smile, but the boy just sank back into the sofa cushions a little more. Darry's heart sank, just a little. "You not gonna sleep?"

Johnny said nothing. Darry didn't know what to say, so he went back to reading the newspaper. The kid who'd got shot was one of the Tiber Street Tigers, who hadn't heard the warning shots ring out as he robbed the jewelery store cash register. Fourteen years old, and bleeding out on the street in the cold, dark night.

"What if it hadn't been me?" The words dispersed like dandelion seeds, barely a whisper; but Darry's head whipped back around to look at Johnny on the couch. The kid was still sitting up, dark brown eyes looking black in the dim light, hands balled into fists in his lap. He continued, "What if it was Soda? Or Pony?"

Oh God. What if it had been Pony? Was it awful that Darry was kind of glad, deep down, that it had been Johnny? Johnny was used to hard knocks at home, where he had it awfully rough, but Pony... Pony would have died after that beating, he just knew it. Darry fought to keep his breathing even. Fourteen years old, and bleeding out in the empty lot in the cold, dark night. Not Pony, never Pony. I have always kept my family safe.

But a week later, it would be Pony, jumped out in front of the movie-house by a gang of Socs in a Corvair. Darry would hear his kid brother screaming, for Soda, Darry, Twobit, anyone, to help him. Darry would see a switchblade being held to his kid brother's throat. And he would haul Pony up, grabbing him too hard, too late, and see the blood form at the cut on his neck, and he'd have to jam his hands hard into his pockets to stop them shaking, because what good would he be as man of the house if he got spooked by a little tiny cut like that? Darry would feel sorry. And then he'd wonder, how the hell did it end up like this?

On the night that Johnny had first screamed, Darry had answered shortly, and the words came out more rough than he wanted them to. "I would never let that happen."

"Oh, but that's what I was asking," came the soft whisper from behind him. Darry couldn't see Johnny's face anymore. The next sentence was quiet; so, so quiet that Darry could almost believe he'd only imagined it. Mom would have known what to say to those words, but he wasn't Mom; instead, Darry pretended he really had imagined it. He would pretend he had imagined it for months to come. "Do you think," whispered Johnny, "they went after me because they knew nobody would care?"

Chapter 15: Johnny

Notes:

shoot i forgot
tw depictions of self harm
sorry its already been up for like a week

The Curtis house was never quiet. It seemed to Johnny like there was always a hum of energy running through the house, a steady heartbeat echoing through the walls; he liked to sit on the couch and just listen to the sounds of the boys constantly resounding through the rooms. Even now, he could hear the clatter of pots and pans being wielded by Soda, the family's cook; the hearty laugh of Twobit; the exclamations of Sandy, perched on the counter. He heard the phone by the back door ring, and Darry answered it.

Darry: "Hello, Curtis household- oh. Good morning, officer. How..." The fuzz? Johnny found himself holding his breath. The gang could all handle themselves, he knew, but he'd thought he could handle himself until the Socs came...

Johnny closed his eyes, blinking away the thoughts of the glinting gold rings. He carried a wickedly sharp switchblade in his back pocket now, but he still couldn't face looking at himself in the mirror: the scar ran down his cheek like a tear track, standing out an alarming white against his skin, a horrible reminder of that night. Darry hung up the phone in the other room. "Dally's in the slammer."

He's not dead. The realisation slammed into Johnny like a wave.

Soda was the first to respond, his voice nonchalant and light.

Soda: "Oh yeah? Careless old Dally... so, what's he done this time?"

Darry: "Went on a bender... drove around, still drunk- did I mention he stole the car? The chief of police's car?!"

Johnny could picture Sandy's jaw dropping. She protested: "But he already has a car!"

"Shit, Darry's got a fine pair-a lips on him," replied Twobit, "and I ain't never seen him use 'em for anything more romantic than kissing his momma. I mean, the pussy he's missed out on..." Presumably on catching sight of Darry's expression - Johnny could almost hear the thunder rumbling - Twobit hurriedly added, "What I meant was, sometimes it ain't about what you've got and more about what ya wanna do at the time. And Dally never does shit legally, if he can."

Sandy again: "I know that much alright..." She paused. "I was wondering how he was holding up though... what with Johnny and all."

Soda whistled. "Man, that shit was fucked up alright. I mean Johnnycake is obviously just a little kid" - I'm already sixteen, Johnny thought - "but them Socs are fucked enough in the head as it is, clearly." Soda cleared his throat, an uncharacteristic amount of venom in his voice. "Dare, ya reckon we should get a rumble on or somethin'? Can't have 'em Soc bitches running round hurting the kids, not on our watch..."

Darry sighed. "You read too many comic books." But he seemed to be considering. "Look, I ain't sayin' it's right, okay?" Johnny noticed Darry had let his Greaser accent slip through a little: something that only happened when he was stressed. Usually Darry spoke with an immaculate transatlantic accent, curated after years of playing football and keeping up with the Socs in high school. "'Specially after what happened to Pony outside the movie-house. But we can't get the fuzz involved, and the Socs are whiny little- We could all get split up into different boys' homes if we're not careful."

The good thing about the Curtis house was that it was so solid - the wooden floor didn't make a sound as Johnny slid off the couch and moved towards the door of the kitchen, keeping out of sight of the older boys and Sandy. Moving silently, catlike, meant that nobody could ever hear where he was. He leaned his head against the wall.

Of course it was Pony they were worried about. Pony was the youngest of them all, and even though Pony seemed to think people generally respected him for being a Curtis, it still helped that he had the whole gang at his back. Nobody messed with Ponyboy, not unless they were ready to face Darry's strength, Soda's energy and Steve's stubborn wrath all at once. As for Johnny... well. It was how he'd gotten into that situation in the lot, wasn't it? An easy target: small, scrawny kid; sixteen but he sure didn't look like it; cigarette burns on his arms and cuts across his fingers. He may as well have had the word STRAY written across his chest in black permanent marker. Unwanted.

Johnny didn't really blame people for not wanting him around. He figured he wouldn't have wanted a weak-looking kid hanging round his house for weeks on end if he were anyone else.

He stepped into the kitchen. Everyone in the room stared at him in surprise, probably wondering how much he'd heard. When Johnny spoke, his voice didn't really sound like his voice: it was like he was hearing a recording of himself play from far away.

Johnny: "I'm gonna go on back to my place now... reckon it's time I got going." I've been a burden for long enough.

Unexpectedly, Sandy followed him to the front door. As he undid the latch and stepped out onto the front porch, she called after him.

Sandy: "Johnny?"

Johnny turned to look at her. She had an odd expression on her face, eyebrows drawn together in a determined sort of way. Her china blue eyes were deep as lakes when she spoke again. "You don't have to walk there alone, you know."

The mundanity of what she'd said out loud didn't match her facial expression at all. Johnny knew she was trying to say something else, but he didn't really know what - Pony would have understood what Sandy was trying to tell him, but he wasn't Pony. So Johnny said nothing. And when he started off to his house again, she didn't try to follow him any further.

The bad thing about the Cade house was that it was sometimes so quiet. Johnny hated the quiet times, maybe hated them even more than when his folks were fighting. It was like there was a constant red-hot undercurrent beneath the house, bubbling discontent and anger. He remembered playing 'The Floor is Lava' with Ponyboy as a kid. Those imaginary games had always seemed so much more real when Ponyboy was around: Pony had a way of making even the most unrealistic scenarios feel real, so real that Johnny could've sworn he saw the fiery lava licking at the legs of the Curtis couch.

Had it only ever been words? Johnny wondered. Maybe. But Pony's words are a kind of magic on their own.

Living in Johnny's folks' house was like always being balanced on the very edge of the coffee table, inches away from being burnt. Don't play with fire, they said. But some people ain't got a choice.

A voice broke the silence.

His mother: "John?"

John. That's who he really was: not Johnny, the boy who listened to Pony's poetry and helped Dally steal from the mall and baked green waffles with Soda. No, John was the boy who knew how to lock and barricade a door silently, knew which of the floorboards creaked when you stepped on them, knew to stay down when hit. Nobody came to help, not here - he could even believe he deserved it, somehow. Stay down, play dead, take the pain without fighting back. It makes things easier.

Johnny didn't answer his mother. Like he said, taking the coward's route makes things easier.

Instead he moved silently up the stairs; his shoes were on, and yet he could still feel the glass shards underfoot. Good thing that Pop was passed out on the couch, but Johnny knew his Pop was a light sleeper. Luckily, moving silently, catlike, meant that nobody could ever hear where he was. When he got upstairs, sinking to the floor with his back against the wall, there was nothing to do but light a cigarette. Johnny had been smoking since he was nine.

He knew he could never explain any of this to Darry, or Soda, or even Pony, who Johnny thought could dig almost anything. But how could he explain the constant screaming, the countless nights he'd huddled in his room, hearing the smash of glass and trying not to flinch at the sound of the slaps and pretending he didn't see his mother's black eye in the morning?

But perhaps the worst part of all of it was the way that everyone just seemed to look through him. At home, when his parents fought over every tiny stupid thing and never so much as looked at him; at school, where teachers ignored him because he wasn't smart, and most kids other than Pony and Twobit ignored him because he didn't talk. Sometimes Johnny had to check the dirty mirrors in the school bathrooms to make sure he hadn't really become invisible to everyone else. Sometimes... was it bad that sometimes Johnny thought he preferred it when Pop was belting him? At least it meant someone could see him. Nobody ever thought about how lonely it was to be John Cade.

Is that what this feeling is? And then another thought following that one: I am so, so, desperately alone.

With a pang, he thought of Pony, and Soda, and Mrs Curtis; he remembered how it had felt so natural to call her Mom.

The Curtis brothers had always been wanted.

In one breath Johnny sucked the cigarette almost down to the filter. Then, lifting it from his lips slowly, deliberately, he pressed the glowing end down onto his arm, relishing the red-hot pain; the sizzle of his skin; the uniform shape of the burn and, most of all, the delightful, beautiful control of it all.

There was another thing he couldn't explain, those burns. The gang never commented on them, but he could tell they usually thought his injuries were caused by his parents. But Johnny had been smoking since he was nine. He was the only one in his family who had ever touched a cigarette.

Don't play with fire, they said. But some of us have never known how to live with anything else.

Chapter 16: Sandy

Notes:

Tw sexual assault

"Do you think my eyeliner is even?" Sandy asked Evie from the Curtis bathroom mirror. It was getting dark, but the girls were making do with the golden light seeping in from the window: Darry complained when they switched the lights on before it was completely dark. Evie looked up, bright blonde hair falling over her shoulder and down the front of her short dress.

"Looks great to me." She dropped her eyelash curler and swore. "When I get enough money to buy a less shitty curler... oh, I will put this son of a bitch six feet under..."

Laughing at her, Sandy picked up the eyelash curler and handed it back to her friend. Evie didn't speak much if she didn't like someone, and Sandy knew Pony hated her frequent swearing, but nevertheless she liked Evie: when she did speak, her speech was quick, witty, and everything she said was hilarious. Sandy could tell why Steve liked her - their humor complemented each other. Actually, at that moment Steve was watching TV loudly in the living room - the two girls could hear it blaring from the bathroom.

Sandy yelled out to him. "Steve! Turn it down, for goodness' sake - that's the third time I've heard about the Berkeley Free Speech protests this week!"

"Hey! You sure ya don't wanna come to Buck Merrill's party with us?" Evie added loudly to him, liberally applying mascara. Sandy heard the sounds from the TV stop, and soon enough Steve had walked over to the bathroom, leaning on the doorframe.

"Sorry gals," he said, smirking, "but Soda 'n me are babysitting the little squirt this evening: Darry's stuck on night shift. I'd love to join ya, but... I feel like keepin' my teeth tonight, even if it means spending my free evening with Ponyboy." There wasn't any resentment in his voice, though - Sandy knew Steve considered Pony his little brother as much as Soda did. "Go on and enjoy yourselves without us, ladies."

Evie raised an immaculate eyebrow and rolled her eyes, leaving the makeup at the sink. "God, kids... they're so damned annoying. Catch me having any, honestly..."

Walking up to Steve, she placed both palms on his chest and smiled up at him suggestively. "Well... I'm sure we can enjoy ourselves later tonight..." Evie wasn't Steve's official girlfriend, but Sandy knew they were going to get there eventually. "I like a traditional cowboy," Evie had told her, winking, "But if he happens to know his way round a Mustang instead of a horse, I reckon he'd be a good enough rider for me..."

Steve winked down at Evie, licked his finger, and wiped a smudge of mascara off her eyelid; she laughed. "Hell, I'm gonna look like a raccoon by the end of tonight."

"Touchin' up the trash... sounds like you alright, babe."

"Does that make you the trash then?"

Buck Merrill's house was hot, dark and loud. The throbbing of the loud music could've been heard from two blocks away, Sandy was sure; inside the party itself, it was far too loud to hear any thoughts at all. It was the primal nature of these parties that she loved: the hot bodies pressing in on each other, twisting and intertwining like snakes; the rhythm of the music lining up with her heartbeat; everyone and everything swaying and blurring together like an ancient, wild hydra. The Merrill house was Greaser territory, with members of almost every gang populating its rooms. You didn't have fights here though - Buck was pretty adamant about people taking fights outside, and most of them had learnt (by experience or otherwise) not to mess with the man who supplies the alcohol.

Sandy gulped down her fourth drink. God, it had been a while since she'd gotten properly drunk; the whirl of the floor underneath her feet matched up perfectly with her dance steps. She was surprised to feel giddy. Back in Florida, she'd been able to drink sailors under the table.

Evie was gone, nowhere to be found - she was probably with some boy in the pantry. "What?" Evie had asked Sandy in the past. "What has kissing cats at parties got to do with Steve? He shouldn't let that come between us." Sandy wasn't quite sure she agreed, but then again, it worked for Steve and Evie...

"Oh, sorry!" She'd crashed hard into a boy who'd been standing behind her. The remains of her drink were now dripping down his face.

He smiled. " 'S alright."

"No, really, I'll- I'll get some tissues... or something..."

"Beats bein' covered in blood, like most Greasers are by this time of night." Caught off guard by the joke, a laugh burst out of Sandy. The boy grinned. "I'll get ya another drink." When he moved over to the kegs, she followed him, and they got to talking.

He spoke with a thick Greaser accent; his humor took Sandy by surprise. It was dry, cutting, nothing like Soda's quick, lighthearted jokes, cracked in the Curtis kitchen rush or during a quiet lull. She found herself talking politics with him, about the Berkeley Free Speech movement, Malcolm X, a new civil rights bill... the boy agreed with her on some points, and debated with her on others.

The room was spinning faster by now, but Sandy had only had five drinks. Have I become this much of a lightweight? She wondered. It was getting hard to concentrate on what the boy was saying; her ears felt like they were both stuffed with cotton wool and underwater at the same time.

The boy was a worthy debate partner. His words were rough, typical East Side, but the understanding was there: his mind was as sharp as the switchblade in his pocket. This sort of conversation was the sort of thing Sandy privately yearned for. It wasn't that the Curtis gang were uneducated, just that they had no interest in current affairs - the only one who was interested was Darry, and he never talked politics in front of the kids. She found herself leaning in to listen to everything the boy said.

But the more she listened, the more she thought about his jokes. They were biting, venomous, underhand; the humor was wicked as gleaming razors... what was it her grandmother used to say? You're so sharp you'll cut yourself someday.

A razor can split your skin like butter and you won't even feel it, until you look down and see the blood, Sandy thought. Suddenly her mind filled with thoughts of Soda: his scuffed knuckles and blunt switchblade; the heart laid bare and red on his sleeve.  Soda was nothing if not a fair fighter.

The boy at the party was still rambling about the MFDP, and Sandy couldn't concentrate. The room was too dark, and she couldn't see; everything was now whirling fast around her head in a horrible, uncontrollable manner. How had she gotten here? Somehow he'd led her into a secluded room about the size of a broom closet. Nobody else was around.

"Say," the boy said suddenly. It was too dark in the broom closet to see his face properly - Sandy's eyes could only pick up the flash of white teeth. His voice was suddenly low, with a dangerous edge to it. Sandy was reminded suddenly of the fairy tales: Little Red Riding Hood lured closer to the Big Bad Wolf. All the better to bite you, dear...

The boy continued in that strange tone. "You're not like all those other girls, ya know? You're different."

Sandy opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, or tell him to shut up, but then the boy leaned over and...

Roughly, he pressed his lips to hers, tongue shooting sloppily into her mouth. He tasted like bitter alcohol.

Sandy twisted sharply away from him, though it felt like her brain was spinning in her skull. Why can't I move my arms? "I have a boyfriend-" she spluttered. Her limbs wouldn't obey her. Suddenly, she wished for Evie, or Steve, or...

She wished for Soda, but nobody was there.

The boy grinned again. This time it looked too wide, showing too many teeth. "Don't worry, I won't tell him... besides, I know you were into me, a smart gal like you... you were hanging onto everything I said."

I didn't... Sandy couldn't think straight anymore. The loud music burrowed into her ears like worms, and the rhythm of the music pounded through her skull, rattling her brain.

The boy spoke again. "It's your fault for makin' it look like you were interested... shouldn't have flirted with me like that if you didn't want me..."

Flirted? She hadn't been flirting, had she? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't move properly - it was like there was a disconnect between her mind and her body, so that her arm hung like clubs at her sides and her legs gave way. Sandy fell to the ground, feeling terror fully erupt throughout her chest. I can't... move... I have to... get away... But her limbs still would not obey her.

One thought emerged from the cloudiness. No. "I don't want to..."

But he was already kissing her again. The world spun faster and faster, her limbs feeling like they were coated in lead. Trying to use her heavy arms to push him away, she mumbled, "I said no..." She could feel hands everywhere on her body, touching every part of her, like a many-armed monster was groping clumsily at her in the dark. Many arms, many mouths: a hydra. "No... stop..."

The world twisted sharply sideways, and everything went black.

Notes:

Remember when I said I hoped nothing bad happened....

Chapter 17: Bob

Notes:

That's a new pov...

"Say, Bob, would you rather have feet for hands or hands for feet?"

Not bewildered in the slightest, Bob raised his eyes to meet Randy's in the rearview mirror of the blue Mustang. It was normal for Randy to ask these sorts of questions, he'd been doing it since kindergarten - it was second nature now, when there was a lull in conversation, to start a sentence with 'Would you rather...?'. Bob answered, "That's a no-brainer: hands for feet. I could play piano upside down."

Marcia piped up from next to Cherry in the backseat. "But if you had feet for hands you'd be great at soccer." At Cherry's quizzical glance, she added, "I mean, you could pick up the ball and run with it. With your feet-hands."

The look on Cherry's face implied that she could've lived a perfectly un-cursed existence without ever picturing 'feet-hands'. Marcia continued brightly, "And anyway, I reckon I could play piano upside down with my normal feet: my toes are plenty long enough... Wait, let me check-" She reached down and began to pull her shoe off. Randy yelped an admonishment unintelligibly, and there was a brief grapple for the shoe as he reached over Cherry, who had pressed herself, giggling, further into the back of the seat.

Bob laughed at them too, and raised his voice over the bickering. "I don't doubt it... you could do anything you put your mind to, Marcia."

Marcia didn't reply to him. Instead, shoe thankfully still on her foot, she tapped her hand on the glass, and said absentmindedly,  "Say, do y'all see that on the street? What is it?"

Cherry leaned towards the window too, and then bent forward and tugged urgently at Bob's sleeve. "Wait, pull over - it looks like a girl. She may need our help." Without even waiting for the car to stop fully, she had already slipped out the door and had run across to the sidewalk, Randy and Marcia following the flash of her patent mary-jane shoes in the dim streetlight. Bob put on the hand brake and went over to join them.

It was a girl alright, lying on the street in a short dress. Broken puppet limbs at odd angles on the ground: Bob almost caught himself looking for the cut strings, as if they'd trail, silvery and frayed, from the tips of her fingers. Her heavy eye makeup was smudged, and she looked pretty out of it: her breath sounded jagged and she was shaking. Cherry shooed the other three backwards; Bob admitted to himself that the four of them must've looked pretty imposing, standing over her like that. Bending down so that she wouldn't get her dress dirty on the street, Cherry asked the girl, "Are you hurt? What's your name?"

The girl groaned, and Cherry repeated her questions. This time, the girl on the ground mumbled something. Andy, Mandy? Bob couldn't hear properly.

"Um..." Marcia was fumbling in her pockets, "I have a... three day old mint, if that helps? It might be a bit fluffy, but-"

"Marcia." Cherry interrupted gently. Marcia shut her mouth and put the mint back in her pocket. "Right, well," Cherry straightened and dusted off her hands, "It's clear that she's not alright out here. We ought to help her," she added, looking round at the group.

Randy protested. "But... Cherry, she's a Greaser! And we don't..." He looked round to Marcia.

She agreed with him. "Maybe the Greasers are gonna think we did it."

Bob was still watching the girl. Lying there on the street, next to the gutter - another memory flashed across Bob's mind. Rain, blood, brown jacket...

Dally Winston. Greaser? Friend? Both?

Half of her hair had fallen out of her high ponytail, so that it tumbled down in coppery locks over her face. Her hair and Cherry's hair gleamed the same copper shade underneath the harsh street light.

Suddenly he spoke. "Right now, she isn't a Greaser. She's just a girl. One who needs help." He looked at Cherry; she had that cool, no-nonsense James Dean expression on her face which she usually wore when she took control.

"We ought to help her - it's the proper thing to do." When Cherry gave her verdict on things, the group always did as she told them to. Bob admired the way his girlfriend took charge, guiding them on how to slot the girl (they'd decided her name was Mandy) into the backseat of the car.

It wasn't long before they were driving back. "You sure you don't want me to drive right up to your house?" Bob asked Marcia.

She shook her head and said, a little too quickly, "Oh, no - you wouldn't be able to fit the car through the front gate."

"Alrighty then." He didn't question it. With Randy and Marcia having been dropped off, he took Cherry and Mandy back to his house.

Cherry and Bob supported Mandy through his front door. There was no need to be quiet: his mother was usually upstairs at this time of night, after drinking too many glasses of sherry; his father was away on a supposed 'business trip'. He suspected the sherry and the business trip were linked.

It's disappointing, really, the way that adults behave. All his life, Bob had been told to treat adults with respect: he'd carried teachers' books down hallways, held doors open for mothers with strollers, helped old ladies across roads - do this, he'd been told, because they're wiser, they're older, they know better. And yet... sometimes he hated them for their hypocrisy. His father, a spider, playing meaningless sweet melodies on his silvery web of lies like a harp. His mother, choosing to become soggy as tearsoaked tissues, losing all shape and substance as soon as his father wasn't there to define her. Keeping all the sorrow, all the pain, waterlogged with bottle upon bottle of sherry. Drowning herself, rather than letting everything she had burn down in beautiful purple flame.

Cherry set Mandy down on a chair at the breakfast bar, and waved Bob off for a shower. When he protested, she insisted. "No, you can't go to bed without washing... it's not proper. Go on, I'll make us some tea."

Bob couldn't help smiling a little as he went upstairs to the bathroom. That was the peculiarity about his girlfriend: everything had to be done 'properly', whatever that meant. From what he could tell, it meant letting her cook for him every time she came round, and not kissing in public, and no drinking either - she said it was never proper for men to be drunk. Bob thought about this all the way through his shower. It was sweet that she cared...

But Bob didn't think there was anything wrong with him when he was drunk. Maybe he got into a couple more fights, a rumble here and there. Whatever. He couldn't remember most of the occasions when he'd gotten drunk, but surely that was normal? Plenty of the football team had blacked out on their parents' whiskey, and nobody batted an eye: their parents would pretend they hadn't noticed the missing liquor in the morning to save face, and it was just something kids at school did so they could brag about it the next say. Just another good story to tell.

However, this didn't change the annoying way his girlfriend would nag him about his drinking - Bob figured it was some soft-hearted girls' thing, and tried to ignore her. It wasn't like he was ever going to murder someone because he was drunk, or anything. He sighed, switched the water off, and went back downstairs in some dry clothes.

He could hear Cherry talking. Bob decided to wait just out of sight of the door and listen to her. She was a good-looking thing, and interesting when she talked too. He knew the boys at school envied his relationship with a bombshell like her.

Cherry sighed wistfully and spoke to Mandy. "I really do adore your hair - it's so long, and beautiful." Cherry's own hair was a mid-length cut: not too long, not too short, perfectly curled at the ends. It was just how Bob liked it. "I suppose I'd have to tie it up for cheer though."

Mandy, who had evidently sobered up a little now, suddenly mustered a croak. "Why don't you grow it out?" She had a Florida accent, which took Bob by surprise. Sounded like summer in Pensacola.

He didn't hear Cherry speak for a few seconds. Then she said, all too quickly, "Well... oh, I don't really know. It's awfully red, isn't it? And it'd take a frightfully long time for it to grow, anyway - I don't know if I'd have the patience..." She paused. "And... well, my father likes it this length."

"You keep it that way... because your father likes it like that?" Mandy sounded confused.

"I..." It was clear that Cherry didn't have an answer. She sounded a bit more agitated when she changed the subject. "What happened to you tonight?"

Mandy didn't answer. She wasn't proving to be very talkative, although Bob reckoned that that was fair, given the circumstances. He did wonder what had happened to the girl, though. Finally Mandy spoke. "Is it better to not be different? Have the right haircut, right attitude, so you can fit in?"

"What? That's..." Bob could picture Cherry turning to face Mandy. "That's not really the point." Her voice was much more strained underneath her refined accent, copied and perfected from her parents and favourite movie stars.

"What is the point, then?" Mandy's voice was cold and flat as steel.

Suddenly, Cherry's voice came out in a loud, low tone that Bob had never heard before. Now that he thought about it, he had never heard her speak so harshly before - she usually took a high, plaintive tone when she was pressed. But now her voice stretched thin and low over the air. "Look. I have worked my whole life so that I can be perfect. I am a cheerleader. I work hard to get A grades in every subject, so I can get into a good college. I always eat with a knife and fork, and I floss after every meal. I will get into a good college, and I will graduate at twenty one with a degree in journalism and shorthand."

"So, you like life to be like that? Neat, with everything in their proper places?"

Cherry didn't answer her, but continued talking, her words spilling out faster and faster. "But my A grades and my degree will be wasted, because I will date a rich linebacker from the school football team, and I will marry him as soon as I graduate college, and I will have as many of his children as he wants. I will never get a job. My life will be confined to four white walls, a cradle, and the Sears mail order catalogue. I will wear a pastel coloured dress every day; I will never touch a pair of jeans, and my hair will never be allowed to grow past my shoulder blades; and when my father comes over, he will say to me proudly, 'What a perfect, dutiful wife I have brought up.' And that's" - for once, her usual refrain had a metallic, ironic tinge to it - " that's the proper way for things to go."

Was it really Cherry in the kitchen, this unravelling girl with the low, strained voice and passionate speeches? The Cherry he usually saw was immovable, stubbornly calm and demure even when the world seemed to be falling down around her ears. She was as cold and impersonal as a piece of sheet metal, reflecting the image of whoever stood in front of it. Bending under pressure instead of breaking, even if it meant her world twisted and distorted in the reflection.

Mandy was quiet. And then she said, "What will your mother say?"

The retort came back swift and sharp as shards of ice. "What will yours, when she sees the state of you tonight?" There was a pause. "Sorry, I didn't mean that." Cherry kept talking, this time in a softer voice. "To answer your question... my mother will say nothing at all. Same as she always does."

He heard the swish of Mandy's hair as she nodded. "You want that life?"

Why not? Bob thought that life sounded just fine. Stable, just right for a girl like Cherry. But Cherry didn't say yes. "It's not about what I want, though, is it? It's about what's proper for a girl like me to do. It's expected of me, and I will do my duty."

She must have caught sight of the clock. "I ought to be getting home now - the neighbours will talk if I stay the night." Bob heard her get up, heard Mandy follow her. He called out to them, pretending he'd only just come downstairs.

"Ladies, leaving so soon?"

"I can't have any rumors around," said Cherry.

Mandy also looked at him with dull eyes. Again, he wondered what had happened to her to have extinguished the light in her eyes so thoroughly. "I can get home fine, now." Bob hadn't realised before, but her eyes were a light shade of china-blue.

"I... alright." Bob extended his hand. "My name is Bob Sheldon. That's Cherry Valance. In case you ever need help again."

Mandy seemed to look through him. "Well. I hope I don't remember your names tomorrow morning."

Bob let the two girls walk in opposite directions away from his house, into the pitch-black night.

Notes:

Hm... might have an early/late update next week

Chapter 18: Sodapop

Notes:

Late chapter update sorry

"The stars were shining beyond the mist, and the moon was coming, and the evening was not yet dark-"

"Pone!" Soda groaned at his kid brother, turning over in bed. "You've been muttering sentences from that goddamn book for three hours now - can ya please turn off the light 'n go to sleep?!" Soda knew Darry would've gone crazy over the time - he never let Pony stay up this late on a school night - but the kid seemed so distracted tonight, eyes roving over each line over and over without understanding a word. If Soda put his mind to it, he could probably recite a couple chapters of Great Expectations off by heart now, thanks to Pony's half hearted chanting. He reckoned Charles Dickens wasn't much of a writer, though - Soda didn't understand half the words Pony was saying.

Flicking the page over tiredly, Pony murmured, "Just gotta finish this chapter..." It was no surprise that the kid couldn't concentrate, after that attack from the Socs. Soda could feel the heat rising through his skin at the memory of it, the familiar energy of a rumble humming through his veins. He was angry, alright: angry that the Socs could jump his kid brother, on his home turf; needed the feeling of skin on skin, electricity sparking in his knuckles after each punch, head empty and heart full, hot red blood dripping from his lip.

Sometimes, Soda felt like rumbles were the only time he felt truly grounded. That, and when Sandy was around.

But now Pony switched off the light and crawled into the bed behind him, facing the wall. Summer heat soaked through the blankets, and yet Soda could feel Ponyboy shivering next to him. "You cold, Ponyboy?"

"A little." Clearly, this was a lie. The boy was practically a stuttering car motor. Pony was the sort of kid to be easily spooked by fighting - Soda didn't let his brother watch him scrapping with the other gangs much, in case he got worried...

Besides, there'd been an awful lot of fighting going on between them all recently. Darry wouldn't quit yelling at Soda and Pony around the house, probably because Soda had aired him out about shaking Pony too hard that day. He knew how hard Dare was trying to fill the space left by Mom and Dad, trying to bring them up the way their parents would've done, but sometimes... well, Soda just thought it'd be better to ease up on the kid.

He threw his arm around Pony sleepily. "Listen, kiddo, when Darry hollers at you... he don't mean nothin'. He just got more worries than somebody his age ought to. Don't take him serious... you dig, Pony?" Pony didn't seem convinced. Soda didn't think Pony saw how hard Darry was fighting every day, treading water without Mom and Dad as an anchor. Darry tried. But sometimes Soda wondered if his trying was enough. He continued, "Don't let him bug you. He's really proud of you 'cause you're so brainy. It's just because you're the baby - I mean, he loves you a lot." He paused. Pony said nothing. "Savvy?"

"...sure."

Man, the kid was hard to please. Suddenly, Pony's voice replayed in Soda's head, a quote from the book:

In the little world in which children have their existence, whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely felt as injustice.

Maybe there was truth in that. It ain't easy to say sorry to a kid. They might forgive you, sure, but I'll be damned if they ever forget it.

Pony's voice tentatively tiptoed through the dense night air. "Soda?"

"Yeah?"

"How come you dropped out?" Goddammit. What did I say about kids never forgetting? He knew Pony was real upset about him dropping out, and his kid brother hated when anyone brought it up. But Pony loved school - he was one of the kids that dug it; Soda had never seen the point of sitting in a white box, learning to spell words he never used. Some things were better said straight, just as they were. " 'Cause I'm dumb. The only things I was passing anyway were automechanics and gym."

"You're not dumb."

That was the second time he'd heard that. The words made him think of Sandy, the warmth exploding in his chest, heart so full it was bubbling over. Even when Soda replied, he could picture Sandy's reaction. "Yeah I am."

Sandy had been acting weird lately, come to think of it. She kept her hair down, for one thing; Soda liked her hair however she chose to wear it, of course, but she'd already told him so many times how much she hated having hair in her face. She hadn't spent the night for a while, neither. The last time had been before Buck Merrill's party. But now whenever he asked her to stay over, something in her china blue eyes would close off, like the shutters of a window being drawn, and she'd reply coldly, voice sounding like the harsh ring of metal.

It kind of hurt, seeing her like that... which was also weird, actually. Soda couldn't remember caring that much about a girl's feelings before: he figured whether or not they cooled off wasn't down to him. But with Sandy, it felt like ice in his lungs when she acted cold towards him. Sandy was... everything. Another quote floated into his mind just then.

You are part of my existence, part of myself.

Maybe old Dickens did know a thing or two about being in love. Soda spoke again, addressing the darkness more than Pony. "Shut up and I'll tell you something. Don't tell Darry, though."

"Okay."

You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then.

"I think I'm gonna marry Sandy. After she gets out of school and I get a better job and everything. I might wait till you get out of school, though. So I can still help Darry with the bills and stuff."

You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since – on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets.

Pony sounded impressed. "Tuff enough. Wait till I get out though, so you can keep Darry off my back." A tinge of resentment crept into his voice, sticky with the complaints of childhood. The world don't play by our rules, kiddo, thought Soda sadly. You and Darry... Mom and Dad... things are rough all over.

Pony opened his mouth again. "You in love with Sandy? What's it like?"

What's it like? Like the sun warming the shimmering water of a lake, or heating up the sidewalk so that kids run barefoot down the road. Like the blue of the sky, the red-gold of her hair, the colours that bloom vibrant and vivid when she was near, blurring into a cacophony of light. What did love feel like? The same way childhood felt like the brand of a hot metal slide on the back of his thighs - her smile had branded itself like a stamp on his bare heart.

But Soda was never good with words. In the end, he said it like it was. "It's real nice."

And the refrain ran through his head, even while Pony lay still next to him, as if another phantom Ponyboy was sat at the desk, muttering to himself again.

Love her, love her, love her...

Notes:

And now the book begins...

Chapter 19: Johnny

"Come on, kid," Dally hissed at Ponyboy's rear end. "We ain't got all day for you to squeeze your ass through this thing."

"I'm trying," Pony protested, wheezing, "But why's it me who's gotta go first?"

Although it was too dark for anybody working at the Nightly Double drive-in theater to see them, Johnny flicked his gaze from side to side, eyes already adjusted to the dark. He heard Pony squeak as Dally nudged him with a hard boot, and the rattle of the fence as Pony managed to wriggle through. "There ya go. Let's hope your fat ass widened the gap for me and Johnnycake."

Johnny managed to claw his way through the gap under the wire fence easily - he was roughly the same size as Pony, even though he was two years older. He silently cursed Dally: they all had the money to pay to see the movie, but Dal never did anything the legal way, not if he could help it. Dally had just gotten out of jail, and here he was breaking the law all over again. The scuffle of jeans against ground told Johnny that Dally had made it too. He heard Dally stand up, brush off his hands.

Dally: "Right, kiddos... let's go watch a movie."

The rows of seats in front of the concession stands were empty, except two girls who were sitting down front. From the back, even in the dark, Johnny could see that they weren't greasy girls: both were dressed stylishly, sitting up straight instead of in the usual relaxed Greaser manner. There was a redhead, the white swan-like curve of her neck highlighted by the light from the screen, and a brunette with short hair coiled into ringlets that bounced jauntily on her shoulders as she tilted her head, watching. They looked mighty fine, sitting there like that - so fine it made Johnny feel shy and shabby, standing there mute as a bunny-rabbit with holes in his shirt and stains on his jeans.

Johnny glanced to the side, and saw Dally's face. There was a horrible cool gleam in his eyes as he looked the girls up and down; Johnny got the feeling that Dal was planning something. As they sat directly behind the girls - Dally putting his feet up on the chair next to them, bold as brass - Johnny bit his lip. The usual hard glint in Dally's cold blue eyes had taken on a new edge when he looked at the redhead, and Johnny was reminded suddenly of a wolf licking its chops. That edge in his gaze looked uncomfortably like... vengeance.

Dal always had a real dirty mouth. It didn't matter around the cats, of course: everyone ribbed each other equally and had their minds and mouths in the gutter, and nobody cared one jot - you'd get called a candyass if you got mad. It would've even been normal around some nice cousinly Greaser girls: Evie, who'd join in the banter every so often, and swore just as strongly as any sailor; even Sandy could laugh at a good joke, though she'd elbow whoever told it sharpish. But around these girls... Johnny could feel his face heating up as the things Dally said got filthier and filthier.

Why was he saying that to nice girls? And these two girls were real nice-looking, he had to admit. He could see Pony looking at the redhead one with wide, awestruck eyes; she sat up straighter, cracking her gum between her white teeth and pretending as best she could that she couldn't hear Dally. Seeing Pony looking at that Soc girl like that, with that glow behind his eyes, it made something acid green flare in Johnny's chest.

Johnny got up to get a Coke.

Truth be told, he didn't really know why the gang tried to embarrass girls like they did. Twobit, Steve, even Darry, back in the old days, had talked their fair share of dirty talk, hollering after girls on the streets to make them go crimson and walk faster, pulling their skirts further down their thighs. Dal was a real tuff guy, but sometimes Johnny didn't understand why he did what he did all the time. Seemed to Johnny like if Dally stopped trying to cause trouble, he'd have a whole lot less of a hard time. But even at the Coke stand Johnny could hear Dally's lazy drawl faintly from far away.

Dally: "Oh, my, my - you've got me scared to death. You ought to see my record sometime, baby."
Johnny could picture the sly grin on his face, the knife-like edge of revenge in his eyes. He wondered vaguely who Dally was getting revenge on.
Dally: "Guess what I've been in for?"
Then, he heard Dally get up with a rustle, and heard his heavy footsteps headed to the Coke stand.

Johnny didn't really want to see Dally just then.

Coke in hand, he went back to his seat next to Pony, murmuring a greeting to the girls without making eye contact. Gosh, they were good-looking. It was scary.

Dally came back a few minutes later, three Cokes in each hand. The redhead Soc plucked her drink out of his fingers, and threw it clean in his face. "That might cool you off, Greaser. After you wash your mouth and learn to act decent, I might cool off too."

Slowly, Dally raised an arm and wiped the Coke off his face with his sleeve. Johnny had seen the familiar motion thousands of times before: Dally in the middle of a rumble, wiping the smears of blood off his face with a horrible, wicked grin on his face, mouth so bloody it looked like someone had slashed that smile into it with a blade. The vengeful glint in Dally's eyes got hard and cold as ice. Oh, shoot...

"Fiery, huh? Well" - and Johnny could feel the bite of a razor's edge in Dally's voice - "that's the way I like 'em." Dally lurched forwards, leering at the redhead girl; he was moving disjointedly, like he was drunk, and suddenly Johnny was back in his house, watching Pop lurch towards him with a smile on his face and a raised hand-

"Leave her alone, Dally." The words rushed out fast, like the stampeding horses in his chest had erupted through his mouth. Dally swung those terrible, terrible eyes on him; he swallowed. It's just Dal. He wouldn't hurt you. "You heard me. Leave her alone." You're scaring me, Dal.

A beat. Johnny wondered if everyone else could also hear his heart racing. A muscle in Dally's jaw tightened; his lip turned up in a scowl, and Johnny instinctively felt his muscles seize up, ready for a beating.

But Dally just got up and walked off. As he left, he glanced back over his shoulder at Johnny. His eyes seemed... disappointed? Hurt, somehow? I was doing it for you, Johnnycake.

Johnny didn't understand.

The redhead girl sighed. "Thanks. He had me scared to death."

Me too. Johnny managed to grin at her, heart still pounding. "You sure didn't show it. Nobody talks to Dally like that."

She flashed a smile at him. In the light of the movie, her teeth were dazzling white. "From what I saw, you do."

"Y'all sit up here with us. You can protect us," suggested the brunette, turning her head so her curls flew about her face wildly. Johnny looked at Ponyboy. The kid was still staring wide-eyed at the redhead, and then he glanced hopefully at Johnny. There it is again: acid green.

Johnny swallowed and grinned at Pony. What are ya waiting for? Moving eagerly, Pony sat between them, and Johnny took the seat next to the redhead.

They soon learnt why the girls were there alone without a car. They'd come with their boyfriends, but the redhead - her name was Sherri Valance, but they were to call her Cherry, she said - had walked out on them when she found out they'd brought booze along, bringing Marcia - the brunette - with her. As they chattered, Johnny watched Pony's expression change rapidly: his hair glowed bright gold in the light from the screen, and it was dark enough that his eyes looked clear grey, just like Darry's, and sparkled like Soda's. Conversation flowed as Pony laughed at Marcia's jokes and talked earnestly to Cherry; Johnny simply watched, dumbstruck, and grinned like an idiot every once in a while. Not for the first time, he wished he could talk half as well as Pony.

Pony: "Sure, we're young and innocent."
This was addressed to Cherry, somewhat sarcastically; Johnny knew Pony hated being seen as a little kid just as much as he did.

Cherry looked straight at Johnny. He knew she was taking in his too-long hair; the horrible scar that ran down his face; the ratty jacket, stained across the collar. Stray. Her eyes were very, very green. "No..." she answered doubtfully. "Not innocent. You've seen too much to be innocent. Just not... dirty."

Dirty, dirty, dirty. The word rang in Johnny's head. What did she mean? And suddenly, a memory began spooling out like a movie in Johnny's head.

Twelve year old Dally, leaning on the brick wall by the empty lot, breathing hard, eyes turned up to the sky. Johnny was eleven, old and experienced enough to recognise a belting when he saw one: Dally's hands were blistered with straight red stripes. It's none of my business.

But Johnny had sat down next to him. Valuable advice had fallen from his eleven year old tongue. " 'S easier if you get out of the way sharpish."

"It was me or the dog," came the answer. Surprised, Johnny looked up and studied Dally closely for the first time. White-blonde hair, upturned nose, eyes like thin ice; his teeth were pointed when he smiled. Dally jumped up. "Man, if only I were Superman, I would-a beat the shit outta him. Wham! Bam! Kapow!" He punched the air vigorously, demonstrating.

In spite of himself, a laugh bubbled out of Johnny. Dally had looked at him. "What, ya want me to teach ya? I learned to throw a mean punch back in New York. Get up" - he had hauled Johnny to his feet - "just stick your arm out like that, real neat... glory, you're just like a jellyfish. What do ya use your bones for?"

"Don't bother with me. I ain't no good - I'll just go all floppy."

Dal had just grinned, his sharp teeth making him look like a big dog. "Hey, we got nobody but each other to bother with us. All the rest of 'em, they can call us what they like: hoods, greasers, dirty street rats. That's why we gotta look out for ourselves, see - ain't nobody gonna help us but us. They can call me broken all they want, ain't gonna give 'em any less splinters if they try layin' their paws on me." He had winced, and wiped a spot of blood off his lip. "Say, you can be like my little brother. Ain't gonna promise ya no protection, but we stick together, yeah?" He spat on his hand, and they shook. "We stick together forever now, kiddo."

Now Johnny looked back at Cherry, her perfect features and green, green eyes. "Dally's okay," he said, the words getting all stuck in his throat. Trying clumsily to make her see the twelve year old kid who'd taken a belting for a poor dumb dog; the kid who'd looked up, body racked with pain, and seen nothing but empty, grey skies. Splintered, bloody, but not broken. A buddy, a protector, a brother. "He's tough, but he's a cool old guy."

"He'd leave you alone if he knew you," Ponyboy said, looking at Johnny strangely.

"Well," said Marcia stubbornly, "I'm glad he doesn't know us."

Johnny's ears caught the last words murmured by Cherry, dissipating like steam into the night air. With her green eyes turned away from them, her hair gleaming auburn like waves of copper, the light from the screen blurring all her edges, she looked like an illusion.

"I kind of admire him," said Cherry softly. And Johnny knew, for a second, that she saw the twelve year old kid standing bold as brass in front of the cowering dog, too.

Chapter 20: Two-Bit

"Pony always says mighty weird things about the sunset," Two-Bit remarked, resting his hands on the back of his head and tilting his eyes upwards. He mimicked Ponyboy's voice - Two was good at mimicking, even if he did say so himself. "Look, Two - it looks like the sun is ripping a hole in the sky and all the coloured ink is pouring out."

Sandy didn't even glance up at the sunset. "Hurry up, Two... at this rate, we'll never find Dally, and Angela Shepard will have his guts for garters." It was a little strange, Two-Bit thought, that Sandy didn't admire the sky. She usually took the time to look up.

Maybe she just needed to lighten up a little. For the past few weeks, even Two-Bit could tell Sandy was more distant than usual; but he'd said nothing. It's boring to think about things that aren't funny. "Hey Sands," Two said, winking at her, "I heard Buck Merrill's got a party on. What d'ya say we leave old Dally to fend for himself, and go get us some drinks? I reckon" - he grinned lazily - "a smart girl like you can milk a few free beers from the other boys there."

At these words, Sandy froze. When she whipped her head around, Two-Bit saw her china-blue eyes were cold as steel. "You-" Sandy seemed outraged. "No... no. No. I don't want to. And you... you can go look for Dally yourself, if you're going to say things like that about me!" And with a flash of the soles of her shoes, she turned on her heel and left.

Woah. That was... unexpected. Two-Bit shrugged, and carried on walking, letting the ink bleed dark across the sky.

The Nightly Double drive-in theater sure was bright at night: the neon lights just about drowned out the moon and stars. All that fire, raging far out in space, and yet these little pink lights are what we focus on.

Two wasn't a quiet walker, especially since he'd already had a few drinks; he was nothing like Johnny, who could walk quiet as a velvet-pawed cat. It was creepy. Footsteps masked by the movie, Two-Bit crept behind the chairs, laid a hand on Pony's shoulder, and boomed, "Okay, greasers, you've had it."

Ponyboy just about jumped out of his skin. "Glory, Two-Bit, scare us to death!" But he was already giggling. Two-Bit, still laughing, looked over at Johnny; the kid was even paler than he usually was, and had his eyes shut tight.

Shit. I forgot. Two-Bit couldn't think about that run-in with the Socs: the look of Johnny's blood all over his face; the way his hair still fell into his eyes; the scratches running through those burns on his arms.

It wasn't really his place to be fussing over the kiddos. That was Darry's job, or Soda's. But still, Two knew the real reason he didn't like to think about it was because... well...

Because that shit wasn't funny. It was easier to play the clown, to be honest. Everybody likes a guy who's funny, right? And Two-Bit had to be liked by everybody - he saw the way that wise-cracking Soda earned a good rep with the other Greaser outfits, and how his own Ma would laugh and ruffle his hair after a joke, momentarily erasing the lines on her forehead and the frown after a bad day at her barmaid job. He remembered the way a good joke made his sisters laugh instead of cry about how there was no food in the house, or no electricity.

Sometimes, Two wondered whether they'd get bored of him if he stopped cracking jokes.

He clambered over the chair and turned his head to meet the eyes of two wide-eyed Soc girls. "Who's this, your great-aunts?"

"Great-grandmothers, twice removed," shot back the redhead one. She was dressed sharp, and had the face to match. Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow.

"Shoot, you're ninety-six if you're a day."

"I'm a night," said the brunette one brightly. Two-Bit stared at her. Glory, she was pretty: round doe eyes and a pink mouth that looked too large for her face. In the light from the movie screen, she was dazzling - she shone brighter than the stars in any night sky. That's how a person down here can drown out all that roaring fire out there. You're not a day - you're the sun itself.

Gathering his wits, Two-Bit mustered an admiring reply. "Brother, you're a sharp one. Where'd you two ever get to be picked up by a couple of greasy hoods like Pony and Johnny?"

"We really picked them up," she answered, quite earnestly. There was some mischief lurking in the dents of her dimples when she smiled; all the constellations lived in her brown eyes. "We're really Arabian slave traders and we're thinking about shanghaiing them. They're worth ten camels apiece at least."

"Five," Two disagreed. "They don't talk Arabian, I don't think. Say somethin' in Arabian, Johnnycake-"

"Aw, cut it out!" But Johnny was laughing a little bit, which was better than before. "Dally was bothering them, and when he left they wanted us to sit with them to protect them. Against wise-cracking Greasers like you, probably."

It was difficult not to grin at that. Johnnycake didn't usually get sassy around broads - just shut his trap like a clam. Suddenly Two-Bit remembered why he was there. "Hey, where is ol' Dally, anyway?"

Curly Shepard had cornered Two-Bit as he'd stepped out of the Dingo, pressing him up against a wall with a rather sharp switch. Two-Bit had admired the blade. For a kid Ponyboy's age, Curly sure was tough. "Hey, Two," the kid had growled, "if ya see Dallas Winston, tell him our gang is lookin' for whoever slashed our tires, and I saw him do it." It'd come to no harm if Dally didn't have a blade: Tim Shepard fought fair, and there wasn't much honour in pulling out a blade on a fellow who had nothing but a piece of pipe.

The redhead's shocked green eyes met his. Two-Bit explained, "A fair fight isn't rough; blades are rough. So are chains and heaters and pool sticks and rumbles." So are gold rings, he added to himself, glancing at Johnny's face. "Skin fighting isn't rough. It blows off steam better than anything. There's nothing wrong with throwing a few punches."

Hell, he remembered fighting Soda at least once a week, back when they were thirteen and had nothing else to do. Meeting up in the lot after school and beating the pulp out of one another, nails full of warm earth, then throwing his arm round Soda's shoulders and walking home together, laughing and checking that they still had all their teeth. Blood never tasted so good as the summer when they were thirteen.

See, that was the thing about greasers. They bled for each other.

He was still explaining about Dally. "Our one rule, besides Stick Together, is Don't Get Caught. He might get beat up, he might not. Either way there's not gonna be any blood feud between our outfit and Shepard's. If we needed them tomorrow they'd show."

"Sure," said the little brunette, unconcerned. "If he gets killed or something, you just bury him. No sweat."

"You dig okay, baby." It wasn't often girls came round to his way of thinking - Two was rather impressed. "Can I have your name, then...?"

Her brow creased seriously. If there is a God, that's where he writes his scriptures. "Well, I can't give you my name, or you mightn't ever give it back... but I can tell you that my name is Marcia."

Marcia. Real pretty name. "I'm Two-Bit. Y'know, if I wanted to steal your name, I'd have just picked it outta your pockets. Real light-fingered, I am." Stop yammering, Two. At least act a little more casual.

"Oh, don't worry - I don't keep my name in any old pocket. It's very safe." Slurping on a Coke happily, Marcia caught Two-Bit's eye, and blushed rather red. "I really shouldn't be drinking this - Mother's put me on a diet. I'm not even supposed to eat" - she lowered her voice conspiratorially - "condiments."

"Aw, that's just too bad," Two-Bit replied, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "Many a dinner I've had, where I just poked holes in thirty ketchup packets and sucked out all the sauce for the main course. Gotta say, I understand ol' Dracula a whole lot more now."

Suddenly, Marcia burst out laughing, and then covered her mouth quickly. "Sorry! Randy told me I sound like a stuck pig when I laugh... he said it like it was a bad thing. But," she wrinkled her nose in contemplation, "I think pigs are quite cute, actually. They're the same colour inside and out, you know." Lifting her nose into the air, she produced a very good imitation of a snuffling pig.

Pigs just got a whole lot cuter. Two-Bit joined in with a loud whinny, and they both collapsed with laughter. Johnny eyed them both with an expression of both mild amusement and embarrassment.

While they walked home, weaving patterns between the cars under the neon lights, Marcia asked about his family.

"It's just Ma and me and my kid sisters Brenda and Kate. Ma's a barmaid - makes getting a drink in these parts a whole lot harder, I can tell ya."

"What about your father?"

"My dad? Haven't seen him in years... Guess one day he realised he wasn't much cop at bein' a dad, and then he got up and left. So," he flashed her a grin, "I'm the man of the house now."

Marcia only smiled - a starburst - and slipped a piece of paper between Two-Bit's fingers, pressing it in with her hot little palm. It unfurled easily under his touch. Two raised an eyebrow and hoped she couldn't hear his heart thumping. "So, you ain't afraid of me not giving your number back, then?"

"No - who ever heard of fairies stealing someone's phone number? That would be silly..." As she spoke, her brown curls flew wildly around her face. Two-Bit reached out to brush a stray curl from her forehead, her huge eyes widened even more, and then-

"Darry's not like Sodapop at all and he sure ain't like me!" Ponyboy burst out vehemently behind him. He'd been talking to Cherry, but now he seemed enraged. "He's hard as a rock and about as human. He's got eyes like frozen ice. He thinks I'm a pain in the neck. He likes Soda - everyone likes Soda - but he can't stand me. I bet he wishes he could stick me in a home somewhere, and he'd do it, too, if Soda'd let him!"

Frozen ice? Two-Bit shook his head hard. "No..." Ponyboy hadn't seen it: Darry, on that day, watching a police officer with horrified gray eyes. Darry, holding a bawling Soda and looking like the world was crumbling into ashes around him. Darry, screaming at Social Services and tying Soda's tie for his first job interview and signing the papers for legal guardianship and going to Ponyboy's science fair and almost fistfighting a jockey at the Slash J for the money for a new typewriter for his kid brother. "No, Ponyboy, that ain't right... you got it wrong..." But Pony was still going.

"An' you can shut your trap, Johnny Cade, 'cause we all know you ain't wanted at home either. And you can't blame them-"

SLAP!

Skin on skin echoed into the night. There was only Pony's breath caught in his throat, the five fingered shame of Two's hand on his cheek, and the awful look on Johnny's face. Pain, betrayal... and triumph: Johnny looked like he had been proven right. Marcia was watching Johnny with an odd flash of something in her eyes. Understanding.

"It ain't fair!" wailed Ponyboy, distraught and cupping one cheek in his hand. "It ain't fair we have all the rough breaks!"

Fair? This ain't got nothing to do with bein' fair.

Cherry was looking at them with pity. But all Two-Bit could think about was Darry, who he had never seen laugh, or cry, since the accident. Stop thinking. Soda, who raced cars on the wrong side of the road and laughed, and said that if death was coming for him anyway, he may as well go out on his own terms. Stop thinking. Ma being a barmaid to keep the lights on at home; and Steve, who was a living reminder of what his father had lost; and Dally, running and running, never to sit down; and little Johnnycake, broken glass cuts laced up his fingers, who always sat facing the nearest exit. Stop it, stop... And Cherry was sitting there, pity in her eyes, with so much spare time and money that her friends thought nothing of jumping a little kid like Johnny for kicks.

Stop fucking thinking, goddammit! Sooner you realise life ain't fair, sooner you can learn to joke about it and carry on goin'.

In the end, it was always a grin that occupied his lips. "I know the chips are always down when it's our turn, but that's the way things are. Like it or lump it."

A blue Mustang purred to a stop beside them. "Well," Cherry said in a resigned tone, "they've spotted us." Was it relief washing over him? The empty bottle was broken and pressed into Pony's fingers before he knew it; the weight of the switch balanced his hand. Fairness? He'd never known anything like that, but fighting was something he'd been doing since day one.

And yet long after the girls had left in the car with their boyfriends - "We'd better go with them," Cherry had murmured to Pony, "I can't stand fights..." - Two was thinking about Marcia. Her skin mellow as candlelight; the ring of light on her hair. With the curb pressed hard against his back, he reached into his pocket for her number. Cherry's words swirled behind his eyes. "We couldn't let our parents see us with you all."

The paper ripped easily between his fingers and fluttered to the floor, light as a mirage.

Ponyboy was looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together. Getting to his feet, Two-Bit remarked, "I don't know why I handed you that busted bottle. You'd never use it."

"Maybe I would have."

Two only grinned, and looked back at Ponyboy. Nah, you couldn't, he thought.You're one of the good ones, kid - they're rare round these parts. Stay that way for as long as possible, yeah?

Because if you can't stay shining, how can you expect the rest of us to?

Chapter 21: Johnny

Pony: "A man would die to-night of lying out on the marshes."

Johnny stretched out, catlike, on the top step of the empty lot, feeling the cold of the concrete harden the back of his jacket. Sure didn't feel like summer now. "What?"

"It's from Great Expectations. You know, I'm readin' it for Literature class." He paused, shifted a little besides Johnny. The weight of Pony's body pressed against his side; he was warm, but shivering. "Ain't the stars pretty? I reckon God poked holes in the sky with a pin so we could breathe at night."

Cold night air filled Johnny's lungs and swished around his arm as he raised it towards the sky, cigarette in hand. So we could breathe at night, huh?

Maybe it was easier to breathe at night. Night washed over Tulsa like cold water: never completely quiet, just calmed down the hot current always bubbling through Johnny's veins. Fire lives in my blood, I think.

Turning his eyes back up to the sky, it was like the stars winked at him; they flickered ever so slightly, just like Soda's eyes. God was passing his thumb over the holes.

Pony: "And I looked at the stars, and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in the glittering multitude."

They were so white they almost looked bleached. Clean constellations: Johnny could picture the way they would move and shift over one another, like a baby mobile. His outstretched hand was no closer to the stars than it had been before. Looking up at the cigarette, he could almost believe the ember was another star, if he squinted hard enough: a little orange spark, born not from beautiful space, but fire and ash.

Cherry's skin, pale in the light of the movie. Her hands had been white and smooth and had never held a whittling knife in their life.

Who am I kidding? Cigarettes can't match stars. The voice that came out was not his own.

Johnny: "It was because we're greasers. We could've hurt her reputation."

"I reckon," came the reply from Ponyboy. A little hesitation lingered in the gaps between the words. Is their reputation really all that good? Doubtful thoughts crowded noisily in Johnny's mind.

Had Pony seen it too? When Marcia had laughed and chattered to Two-Bit, letting her sleeve slip carelessly from her wrist. It was only a flash before she pulled it up, but it was unmistakable: bruises round her arm in the shape of five fingers, like someone had crushed her arm hard. Suddenly, Johnny remembered a line from Pony's poem about the Soc neighbourhood, all those weeks ago:

'A splash of paint on brick surprising as a bruise, a plastic hose poised in a vicious coil...'

He felt as though he understood why the poet hated that neighbourhood, now. Maybe things were just as bad for Marcia, in her high-class house, under 'the too-fixed stare of the wide windows', as they were for Johnny. Her look of understanding and Pony's words came flooding back.

"An' you can shut your trap, Johnny Cade, 'cause we all know you ain't wanted at home either."

Well I ain't wanted anywhere, plain and simple. Maybe none of us are.

Except for one person. Now he thought of the way that Dally had looked back at him. Everyone knew him as a ruthless fighter: the same boy who'd steal anything that wasn't bolted down, the same boy who'd jumped people in New York, who said he didn't care about anyone but himself, and acted like it, too. But Johnny always remembered the dog. I was doing it for you, Johnnycake. When he looked into those blue eyes that day, he knew it fully in his heart: Dally would die on the street someday. He would keep running and running until the day he dropped down dead. Would the dogs devour his body, he wondered. Dallas Winston. Wolf, or rabbit?

Reputation, reputation. Seemed to Johnny like there wasn't any point in it all. There were boys all over the wrong side of the city, boys with ice-thin eyes and pointed teeth, stripes on their hands, seeing no help or pity in the glittering multitude above them. Boys who watched sunsets and read and wrote and dreamed of lives better than the cities etched into their bones. Girls with their china-blue eyes deep as lakes, the meanings of their words lost in translation. Scatterbrained girls who joked and hid the purple blooming on their skin. Stray boys with fire and ash for blood.

He was his parents' child. Fire would run its course in his veins, of course it would. No matter how much he wished he could rip it out; to tear out exactly how shit the place where he grew up was. How the roof leaked, or how the windows didn't shut properly, or the fact that the doorbell was fucking broken and had been for seven years, and everybody was too busy yelling at each other to fix it.

Oh, I just want it all to stop...

Johnny: "I can't take much more. I'll... I'll kill myself, or something."

Pony scrambled up so fast. "Don't... You can't kill yourself, Johnny."

What if there's no other way to make it all stop? But the note of desperation in Pony's voice shattered Johnny. "Well, I won't. But I gotta do something." He didn't feel the itch to go someplace, like Dally, or do something like Soda. Some days, he just wanted to curl up and let time roll over him like a great bulldozer. And he hated himself for it. "It seems like there's gotta be someplace without Greasers or Socs, with just people. Plain ordinary people." He didn't know what he meant anymore. I'm not sure there are any ordinary folk...

"Out of the big towns," Pony agreed dreamily. "In the country..."

"The country." He could see it now. Pony always made him see it. "We could run to the neighbours' fields and steal things for breakfast. All sorts... apples, lemons, pears..."

"And when they try to catch us, we'll just stay up there in the trees and throw sticks at them till they leave us alone."

"We'd live in a treehouse all by our lonesome, just like squirrels."

"And... and we could have a huge bonfire! And roast nuts and marshmallows, and sleep under the stars by a huge tree..."

Johnny just laid back and let Pony's words wash over him, and run off in little streams onto the cold concrete of the empty lot. Could he lie there too, out in the country, under a tree with a whittling knife and some little pieces of scrap wood? Just chipping away at some little wooden bird, helping it to fly?

Memories began spooling out in his head. The Curtis house; Mom's gray, serious eyes; home-made chocolate cake and store-bought lemonade - "I can't be juicing lemons all day," Mom always laughed, "y'all drink like you've never seen water in your lives," - coloring the wooden fence with chalk on a hot day, just to give them something to do. And a young Ponyboy, golden hair curled around his head, offering a fistful of crushed dandelions up with a gap-toothed smile. "Mom told me they're weeds, but I think they're beautiful." And in a flash, Johnny could see that all the gold in the world was beautiful, too.

He knew, even out in the country, he would still hear the crunch of broken glass in the leaves underfoot, the screaming in the wind at night. The fire would follow him, no matter how far he ran. Dally had shown him that.

But then he caught the red-gold flash of Pony's hair in the moonlight, and he could believe anything again. A new story began spooling in his mind's eye. Johnny would still use a switchblade to carve his initials into a tree, but underneath them would lie another line of writing, carved in Pony's illegible scrawl.

JC
&
PMC

Chapter 22: Darry

Ten thirty-two. The clock on the Curtis mantelpiece was never wrong. Darry turned to Soda. "He's thirty-two minutes past curfew."

Sodapop only laughed in that bubbling spring way, and put his feet up on the coffee table. His bitten fingernails went tap tap tap on the couch arm to a melody Darry couldn't hear. "Cool it, Darry - he's fine, wherever he is. Hell, maybe he's managed to get himself a few broads... him and Johnnycake are probably out having the time of their lives."

Darry could feel worry like a weight pulling on his eyebrows. "But I told him to be back by ten..."

"Don't ya think," Soda turned his dancing brown eyes onto him, "You're bein' a bit too harsh on the kid? Don't be telling me ya ain't never stayed out past curfew with a broad before, 'cause I know I did." The sixteen year old grinned good-naturedly at his older brother. "Mom and Dad weren't this strict on us, ya know."

Every muscle in Darry's body stiffened. It was that question that had echoed in his bones for the past eight months: is this what Mom and Dad would've wanted?

A chip off the old block. The spitting image of his father. Every time he stared into the mirror, Mom's grey eyes stared back at him; now clouded over with fear, and frustration, and confusion. There was certainly something about being a child of prophecy - Darrell Curtis Jr bore the name of his father like Atlas shouldering the sky.

Smash the mirror, those scared grey eyes seemed to tell him. Cover yourself in the shards. They'll cut you to ribbons, sure, but you'll be invulnerable.

Go on, it's not like you can ever let anyone come close, anyway.

It was like fire ants in his veins. And yet Darry's voice came out cold. "Mom and Dad aren't here anymore. And I don't need my kid brother telling me what to do about my other kid brother."

Soda's eyes widened. Tapping his fingers faster on the couch, he lowered his gaze to his feet. "Right." Tap tap tap.

Usually, Soda never shut up. This silence made Darry feel worse. Look what you've done now. You're fucking it all up.

I'm sorry, Soda. But Darry didn't say it.

Instead, he picked up the newspaper, feeling the edges crumple under his grip. The words swarmed like ants over the page, and the living room shimmered and blurred like a mirage.

This living room, where they'd always grown up. Where was Dad, leaning back in the old armchair with the newspaper and a jovial grin? Darry looked down, and saw with alarm that he himself was sitting in the armchair; it was too big. Tap tap tap. Suddenly he couldn't breathe.

"Pepsi-Cola..." he began. But Soda didn't answer: he'd fallen asleep on the couch, fingers still dancing out an unheard rhythm. Tap tap tap.

It's just like that night. He couldn't tamp down the fear rising in his chest anymore. Fuck it.

"You don't remember, Soda," and the words were too small, too quiet for the room, "the night Mom and Dad died."

Sodapop was asleep. These words weren't even addressed to him, to be honest; something just had to be said out loud, to stop everything. "You don't remember how quiet it was, after waiting up for them for so long. I told you and Ponyboy to go to bed.

"You don't remember the police cars, bathing the street in their red-blue lights, because you were asleep. You don't remember seeing the shining, twisted wreck of the auto. You don't remember having to identify the bodies - I did that, because someone had to, and because I would rather carve my eyes out than let you see that."

Mom and Dad, lying in the sterile hospital. In Ponyboy's movies, the dead had their eyes closed; peace smoothed the lines from their faces. But movies weren't real life. "All I saw for the next few months, when I tried to sleep, was Dad, mouth open and twisted like he was gasping for air. Mom's grey eyes glazed over with sea glass green. I took up more night shifts."

Tap tap tap. Now his mind brought forward more images: Ponyboy, lying in an alley, blood thick and red all around him; Pony, strung up with tubes and wires and beeping machines; Pony, with his grey-green eyes fixed and faded, never to see another sunset-

Not Pony, never Pony. That wasn't true. I have never been able to keep my family safe.

Everything was a yellow sandstorm, choking him, whirling dizzyingly about his face. The silence was too loud (tap tap tap); either everything was moving at double speed or Darry was moving in slow motion (tap tap tap); he could feel every cell in his body and he hated it. I am not real, everything else is real, too real. Make it stop, make it slow down...

Darry hadn't cried at the funeral. Don't ask him why. He didn't know why.

Time passed like grains of sand cutting across his cheeks - stop, please, not right now - but when was a better time than now? Nobody was here to witness the breakdown of Darrell Curtis, no longer a Junior. I can't breathe, I have to breathe, I don't want to breathe, it's all too real... Why was his heart beating? He reached out for Soda's hand, but his brother was too far away - did you think he could make it stop? Idiot. Why was the world acid colored? The snakes around his neck were bright yellow. Why was he so fucking useless, so fucking scared, so fucking heartless, so-

Ponyboy stood in the door, chewing his fingernail. Darry was on his feet in a second. He could feel all the blood in his veins, all the air rushing between his fingers, and it was all too much. His voice came out colder than ever. "Where the heck have you been? Do you know what time it was?"

He wasn't even relieved to see Pony - the images in his mind stayed crisp and hard. I can't lose you, Pony. But the images made his voice hard too. "Well, it's two in the morning, kiddo. Another hour and I would have had the police out after you." What if... what if... "Where were you, Ponyboy?" - and he could feel his voice rising thin and high, like a child - "Where in the almighty universe were you?"

"I... I went to sleep in the lot..." It didn't even matter where he was. Darry could see the sea glass green in Ponyboy's eyes, and it scared him.

He was shouting now. "You what?"

Now Soda had woken up, and rubbed his eyes from the couch. Why am I shouting? Why can't I stop? Darry's voice shook, and he yelled louder to cover it up. "I reckon it never occurred to you that your brothers might be worrying their heads off and afraid to call the police because..." Because what if it turns out like Mom and Dad?  "...because something like that could get you two thrown in a boys' home so quick it'd make your head spin. And you were asleep in the lot?!" Soda's expression pleaded with him not to go further. He did. "Ponyboy, what on earth is the matter with you? Can't you use your head? You haven't even got a coat on."

The tears welled in Pony's grey-green eyes. They looked so much like Mom's, in that casket, that Darry could see her face flashing across his vision. "I said I didn't mean to-"

"I didn't mean to!" Darry screamed. Ponyboy snapped back, so much fear in those eyes. Was it Pony, or Mom? Who was he even yelling at, anyway? "I didn't think! I forgot! That's all I hear out of you!" Maybe if you hadn't been so stupid, you wouldn't be dead now, Mom. "Can't you think of anything?"

"Darry..." Sodapop's words faltered in front of Darry, a balloon. It burst on the mirror shards all over Darry. Soda's eyes were so brown, just like Dad's. You're fucking dead too, Dad.

His Greaser accent slipped loose. "You keep your trap shut! I'm sick and tired of hearin' you stick up for him-"

"You don't yell at him!" roared Pony. Darry wheeled round, looked straight into those defiant grey-green eyes, and-

SLAP!

The Curtis house was dead silent.

What have I done? Pony's eyes were unbearable. Darry looked down at his hand, caught red handed. Shame is bright red. He felt sick. "Ponyboy..."

Soda was looking at Darry like he'd never seen him before. The door slammed, and Ponyboy sprinted out into the cold, black night, heels thudding onto the pavement like a lost heartbeat. "Pony, I didn't mean to!" I didn't think. I forgot. That's all I hear out of you. Can't you think of anything?

Idiot. You can never make it stop.

Soda didn't say I told you so. Instead, both of Darry's brothers left him standing alone in the middle of the living room without a word, standing there like the world had crumbled and dropped out from beneath his feet and the sky had come crashing down onto him. Standing in a sandstorm where nothing was clear anymore.

Notes:

If I had a nickel for every time Pony gets slapped... I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice

Chapter 23: Johnny

Johnny laid back down on the concrete in the empty lot, turning his face away from the stars. It was quiet now. It would be a calm, peaceful night...

Pony: "Johnny? Come on, Johnny, we're running away."

Never mind.

Quickly, Johnny scrambled up from the concrete and chased after Ponyboy, cursing his track-star best friend. Gosh, he was fast. It was all Johnny could do to try and follow the white flash of Pony's heels in the dark.

After a couple blocks, Pony dropped to his knees on the curb and burst into tears. Johnny awkwardly crouched down and put one hand on his shoulder, wincing: seeing his best friend in tears was like a punch to the gut. "Easy, Ponyboy. We'll be okay." He tried to sound like he knew what was going on.

"Gotta cigarette?" Pony looked up at him tearfully, lip quivering. The little orange flame wavered as Johnny handed him one, and Pony inhaled gratefully. Maybe it was the smoke, or his shaky breath, but the kid sounded very young when he next spoke. "Johnny, I'm scared."

He still didn't understand a word Pony was saying. "Well don't be. You're scarin' me." Then, tentatively, "What happened? I never seen you bawl like that."

"I don't very often... it was Darry. He hit me. I don't know what happened, but I couldn't take him hollering at me and hitting me too. I don't know..."

Whatever Pony said next wasn't registered by Johnny: he was too busy trying to imagine Darry ever laying a hand on one of his brothers. It proved almost impossible - Johnny reckoned that if Darry could, he would've wrapped Pony in cotton wool like a mummy and never let him out of his sight. Darry noticed when something was up with Pony, and worried when he stayed out even five minutes past curfew, and was always nagging at him to wear a coat. Pony hated it, but to Johnny it seemed... really nice.

A deep breath in, a long breath out. "I think" - he hadn't meant to speak, but the words spilled out anyway - "I think I like it better when the old man's hittin' me. At least then he knows who I am. I walk in the house, and nobody says anything. I walk out, and nobody says anything. I stay away all night, and nobody notices. At least you got Soda. I ain't got nobody."

I never told anyone that before. It... doesn't feel as bad as I thought it would.

Pony's eyes went wide; he furrowed his brow. There were still tear tracks on his face, but at least his breathing was even now. "Shoot, you got the whole gang. Dally didn't slug you tonight 'cause you're the pet. I mean, golly, Johnny, you got the whole gang."

But none of them would remind me to wear my coat. "It ain't the same as having your own folks care about you," said Johnny simply. "It just ain't the same."

In the end, they decided to walk to the park, so that Pony could cool off before going home. Water was still pouring down the fountain, silvered by the moonlight; crystals of ice studded its rim. It really was unusually cold for Oklahoma - Johnny reckoned Pony couldn't cool off much more, or he'd become an ice cube. "Ain't you about to freeze to death, Pony?"

"You ain't a'woofin'," replied Pony, shivering. He looked like he was about to say something else, but-

The blast of a car horn. The blue Mustang turned lazily in a circle around the park. A hawk circling field mice.

Johnny swore under his breath. Why didn't I hear it coming? Something in Ponyboy's back stiffened as he muttered, "What do they want? This is our territory. What are Socs doing this far east?"

"I don't know. But I bet they're looking for us. We picked up their girls."

Pony ground his cigarette butt under his heel. "Want to run for it?"

"It's too late now. Here they come."

It was way past sunset now. There were five of them against the two boys. Johnny knew the way they were walking in an instant: the Socs were staggering drunk. The fire in his veins surged madly forward.

Without thinking, his hand found the switch in his back pocket. Dally and the others could've handled these cats easily, but here, outnumbered two to five... well, Johnny hoped Pony found himself a weapon fast.

Now the Socs were reeling closer, and the smell of whiskey and English Leather hit his nostrils like a solid wall. There was Marcia's boyfriend Randy and three others, but Johnny wasn't looking at them. The fire rose quick and hot into Johnny's throat as he locked eyes with the fifth one: Bob.

"Hey, whatta ya know? Here's the little Greasers that picked up our girls. Hey, Greasers." Bob's speech was slurred, but the soft edges of his consonants did nothing to hid the razor sharp danger in his voice. The moonlight painted his gold rings a wicked silver, and Johnny couldn't take his eyes off them. The rings. The rings. The rings. Dangerdangerdanger-

"You're outta your territory," Johnny warned. He stepped back, lowering his core, trying to put some distance between his face and those rings. Hopefully he sounded tougher than he felt. "You better watch it."

Was it just Johnny, or was Bob looking at him with something more than just recognition? Suddenly, their eyes met, and in a flash Johnny recognised the glint in the Social boy's eyes - it was hard and cold as ice; the same glint in Dally's eyes at the Nightly Double. Revenge.

Randy swore loudly, and the gaggle of Socs closed in a ring around him. They were cornered like rats. "You know what a Greaser is?" Bob asked, casting his gaze idly around the circle. "White trash with long hair."

Whitetrashwhitetrashwhitetrash... he could feel the word resounding in him with every heartbeat. Wasn't this what all the neighbours called him? What all the kids at school whispered behind his back? There's no point helping him, they said. There's no fixing white trash. Bob staggered forward, and Johnny was back in the Cade house again, backed up against a wall facing a raised fist-

Pony: "You know what a Soc is?"
His voice was shaking, not with fear, but with rage. The fire had risen up behind Johnny's eyes, so hot it made his eyes water, and he almost choked on it. No, Pony, just lie down and take it, don't- But Pony answered his own question. "White trash with Mustangs and madras."

Oh, shoot. Bob shook his head, smile not reaching his eyes. Pop's face flashed across Johnny's vision as he heard Bob speak again.

Bob: "Give the kid a bath, David."

The fire tore the air apart.

Bob wheeled round and went straight for Johnny with surprising speed. A fist came flying towards his face; Johnny ducked, and Bob's uppercut cracked him straight in the jaw, snapping his head upwards. A metallic taste filled Johnny's mouth as he fell to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ponyboy, head forced into the fountain, kicking and struggling under two Socs. Randy's weight pinned Johnny's own feet to the cold ground, another Soc held his arms above his head; every part of his body was on fire, and Johnny could have sworn the fire was enveloping everything around him, too, obscuring his vision with bright flashes as Bob struck him again and again, until everything was sparking and crackling with raw, untamed power...

This is how you're going to die, John Cade. He knew it now. Blows rained down on him, but all he could think of was Pony, trapped and drowning in that fountain, only three meters away, but too far for Johnny to help him. Dreamy, fiery Pony... who cried when Darry hit him, who could never have used that broken pop bottle... Johnny didn't care about himself, but Pony didn't deserve to die. Not now, not ever.

This is where lying down and taking it gets you. You're too weak to help your best friend. Coward.

The roaring of the fire in his ears grew louder. He forced his eyes open, almost blinded by the burning flashes of light sparking across his vision, and locked his gaze onto Bob's fist, those three gold rings, thundering down towards his face. Time seemed to slow.

I'm sorry, Pony. I really am... Johnny felt the now-burning ground against his back. It felt no different to the bubbling lava floor of the Cade house. That's right - the fire would follow him, no matter how far he ran. Johnny would never leave that house. I really am a coward.

Bob's fist connected with his face with a sickening crunch. A flash of ice blue, a streak of white across his vision, the feeling of a weight being lifted from him, and...

Everything went black.

Notes:

Rip Johnny Cade - you would have loved twenty one pilots hahaaaa

Chapter 24: Dally

Notes:

Why did the title delete oops

Feet pounded the concrete to the same rhythm of his wild heartbeat; breath tore at his throat. Dallas Winston was running.

Half an hour earlier, he'd been going fist to fist with Tim Shepard in the parking lot of the Dingo. Without a blade, Tim was a weak opponent: Dally had him on the cracked concrete with a black eye after ten minutes. Tim spat out a mouthful of blood, and grimaced up at him. "Shit, think I bit my tongue clear in half... Alright, Winston, ya win this time. Don't go slashin' no more of our tyres, though, or next time I'm gonna pull a blade on ya, savvy?"

Reluctantly, Dally removed his foot from Tim's face, and tucked the piece of lead pipe back into his pocket. "Them tyres were asking for it - no Greaser keeps their car lookin' that flashy. Dirty 'em up a little next time." A scuffle by the wall caught his keen ears, and Curly Shepard, dressed in a dark jacket, jumped down into the parking lot; Dally started slightly. He hadn't seen the kid. "Out of reformatory already, kid?"

"Eh, ya know me," shrugged Curly, smirking. "In one day, out the other. I'm the model of state-reformed good behavior." Then, laughing at his brother, "Man, but you got your ass handed to ya! Wait till I tell Angie..."

"Shut up," Tim grumbled. "I only brought ya to keep watch for the fuzz."

"Fuzz never come round here, not if they can help it. Although, I'd still watch out tonight," Curly said, turning to Dallas. "I never thought I'd see Socs this far east, and I just seen a whole Mustang swarming with 'em. They were headed towards the park. Probably on the hunt for some wasted greasers."

Dally froze. A Mustang? If this is who I think it is...

Sharply, he turned to Curly. "What colour was the Mustang?"

"What? Uh... blue?"

"Gimme that switch."

"Why do- wait, where ya going?!"

And now he was running in the direction of the park, feet flying over the cracks in the sidewalk, eyes roving desperately from side to side in the darkness. Shit.

A left turn to the park; the soles of his shoes ground as hard as they could into the road as Dally sprinted through the park gates.

They were right in his line of sight - two Socs leaning over the fountain. Dallas was on them immediately, wrenching them away from the fountain, hauling Pony out by the scruff of his neck. No Bob.

Then he saw him. How could he have missed him? Dally's eyes widened as he saw that left fist with the three gold rings come thundering down towards Johnny's face. There was that familiar, all consuming rage, a flash of lightning as he lunged, pure blue and white power.

He was a wolf tearing at its prey. One swift tackle, and he had Bob pinned beneath him, hands above head, digging his nails hard into his wrists; this voice that growled from his throat was his real voice, he knew it. "The fuck are you doing, rich boy?"

Bob spat at him. Claws pressed further into his wrists until the Soc hissed in pain;  until he made Bob snarl, "Giving you a taste of your own medicine."

"Like hell you are." Dallas Winston had no sympathy. "We both know you were the first to break our deal... not that it meant anything. Just goes to show how you backstabbing Socs can turn on each other like starving bitches."

There was bitter rage churning in his stomach, and Dallas needed it. Think of Johnny. The blood all over the kid's face, Bob's weight and fists all over him.  The tears, weeks of Tylenol and the Curtis couch; Dally's fingernails gouged at Bob's wrists. I never promised anyone protection, but I'll be damned if I let anyone put their filthy paws on what is mine. He was pretty sure there was saliva dripping from his lips, and he didn't bother licking it off, revelling in the primal nature of it all. Dallas needed to be an animal, needed this anger and savageness to survive. He needed this to keep what he had left.

With brutal force, Bob swore and wrenched his torso to the side, but Dallas gripped harder with his knees: he wasn't the best jockey at the Slash J for no reason. The shadow of Dallas' body obscured Bob's eyes as he said, "You're the one who turned on me for no reason, Dally."

Dallas had his hands around Bob's neck now, weight shifted forward onto his windpipe. He could feel the hot blood pulsing beneath his fingertips and he fucking hated it. Yes, I need to hate him. He hated this boy for knowing all of Dallas' secrets. He hated this boy for not knowing how to stop taking revenge. He fucking hated this boy for being alive and being angry and being so human and being so, so much like him-

Oh.

The little brown button winked at Dally from where it had been sewn on Bob's jersey. Ever so slightly, Dally's grip slackened.

Bob roared and flung Dally onto his back, locking their legs together as he held him to the ground with an explosion of "I'll kill you!" Two sets of crazed pupils locked together; eight limbs tangled together, ripping and clawing indiscriminately, one many taloned monster; snapping teeth and metal and nail and metal again, metal flashing in the moonlight, then a jet of wine-dark blood everywhere, and then... silence.

Dallas Winston lay panting in a pool of blood, next to Curly's switch and a body wearing a Madras jersey.

The brown button remained on the jersey, although the collar was stained dark with blood from the gaping wound in Bob's - it wasn't Bob anymore, Dallas corrected himself - neck. Dallas could see his own face in the shiny surface of the button.

"See ya, Dal." "Night Bob." The memory of the exchange was like a jab to the ribs. Suddenly, all he could think of was Bob - Bob, with warm red blood dripping down his face; smacking his lips after a shot and grinning at Dally in a satisfied manner; head tilted back as if lost in the memory of beautiful purple flame. Beautiful. Dallas could imagine it now. It was so beautiful. And then the feeling of the blood on his fingers hit him; the stain spreading over his hands; the... the thing next to him that wasn't Bob anymore...

Johnny. The thought hit him like lightning. It would all be worth it for Johnny. Before he knew it, he'd turned, blood dripping down his wrists, arms out to find-

A dark shape lay unmoving on the ground.

Oh, no. No. Not Johnny. Suddenly the blood on his hands felt like lead. His arms dropped to his sides as he stared down at Johnny's small body on the cold ground. Eyes rolled back, palms facing the sky. Broken. But Dally wasn't looking at that. Johnny's hair was in his eyes. He had to brush it away, knew Johnny hated it when his vision was blocked by his hair. But Johnny's empty eyes had no vision anymore, the blood weighed heavy on his hands, and he found that he couldn't move. He couldn't move, couldn't help Johnny Cade anymore.

"D... Dally?" Deer in the headlights - Dally swung his head towards Pony, who was coughing out the words by the fountain. "What... the..."

One step back. Two. Hands on Johnny now, grabbing him, as if that would somehow bring him back. Bodies in New York had been bodies, not friends. And yet here were two of them: bodies, friends, maybe the only two friends he'd ever truly had. Bodies, friends. Bodies.

"He's dead." Which boy was Dally even talking about? Even as he said it, he couldn't believe it. No. No. It's not true. He couldn't deal with how huge Pony's eyes were on him. It was dark now; the streetlamp cast his shadow long and low like a monster on the ground. Blood dripped from one long, dark claw.

In the end, there was only one thing he knew how to do. Feet pounded the concrete to the same rhythm of his wild heartbeat; breath tore at his throat. Dallas Winston was running.

Chapter 25: Pony

Notes:

Dear guest user stay_gold... I am very sorry

It's surreal when someone you know dies. All the emotions come crashing over you at once like a tidal wave, and it's the most you can do to anchor yourself and try not to drown. I was never good at it; Soda told me all that reading I do has made my face an open book.

But when Dally grabbed Johnny's limp body, I could read his face too, clear as day. His eyes matched the game that Dad used to hunt with Soda, wild and panicked, as he swung his gaze wildly from Johnny to Bob to Johnny again; his hands and face were slick with blood.

You wanna know what his face said? I'll tell you. It said:

There's nothing left.

I don't even remember what he said after that. Maybe we were screaming back and forth, maybe we were silent; I really don't know. I just remember that for once, he didn't look like the big bad wolf anymore: he looked like a cornered rabbit.

Rabbits will kick coyotes in the face to save their warren, did you know that?

And then Dally took off. He left me shaking in the dark with not a living soul near me, soaking wet - I figured the other Socs booked it when they saw the blood. Speaking of blood, I could suddenly smell it and feel it all over the ground, all over my hands; and my stomach turned over. I was quietly sick on the stones by the fountain.

Then, I scrambled over to Johnny, feeling my breath come out in short gasps as I looked at him. Maybe it was because of the dunk in the fountain, but my heart was racing like it did after one of my nightmares, and I felt like the world was whirling about my head; this wasn't what dead people looked like in the movies. I tried to move the hair that had been plastered over his eyes. "No, Johnny," I heard myself pleading desperately, over and over, "You can't be dead. Please... we had so much to do... and now you're dead..." I was almost sobbing.

Johnny sat up, and made a noise that sounded like "hrrrrgngh". I almost jumped clean out of my skin. "Who said anything about bein' dead?" Johnny croaked out.

"Johnny?!"  He'd shocked me out of crying, and I felt kinda embarrassed now. That was the second time he'd caught me in tears tonight. I made a sort of squeak noise that was half sob, half laugh. "Glory, but you gave me a scare! I thought you'd kicked it!"

"Man, the way I'm feeling right now, I sorta wish I had. Reckon I broke about ten bones I didn't know I owned." He checked himself, only just now seeming to register the blood congealing all over the both of us, and the terrible dark heap next to us. His eyes widened as he recognised the Madras shirt with its odd brown button. "What the hell happened while I was out?"

"I dunno," I admitted. "My head was underwater. I just remember the Socs yelling, and getting dragged outta the water, an' then I just coughed for a while on the floor. When I came to, Bob was... there was blood everywhere." I didn't want to think about it - blood all over the switch, on Dally's hands, running down his wrists like his veins had somehow flipped inside out. "It was like a wolf jumping a moose. For a second they were wild animals..."

"You're not making any sense, Pone." A pause. "Ya really thought I was dead?"

I couldn't speak. Thinking about it now, it was dumb of us to not have checked any vital signs. There was just so much blood, and I figured Dally'd know what he was talking about, 'cause he had seen plenty of dead bodies in New York...

"Dally!" I yelped, grabbing Johnny by the shoulders.

"What?"

I realised I hadn't mentioned him at all. "It was Dally who killed Bob! Showed up outta nowhere and slashed him clear through the neck, and then told me you were dead. You should've seen him... those eyes..." I shivered, remembering it all. "But he tore off into town, covered in blood that wasn't his! Quick, we've gotta find him, or the fuzz will!"

Johnny had gone very pale. In a strange, calm voice, he said, "Which way did he go?"

"Towards... oh no, he went towards the police station... Johnny, this is murder! They put people in the electric chair for murder-"

"Right," said Johnny, stopping me short. I had my hands in my hair and was pulling at it hard. "We gotta go now, 'fore something really bad happens."

For once Johnny was faster than me as we sprinted out of the park gates and down into town. It was so dark that I could barely see, and I wondered how Johnny seemed so sure footed, leading us through the back alleys of town and leaping over drainpipes. I thought only Soda knew Tulsa this well. Ragged breaths tore their way through Johnny's throat as he ran, and his footsteps began to sound more like stumbling, but he didn't stop and neither did I. I didn't know where we were until we hit the chicken-wire fence on the hill behind the police station. We tangled our fingers in the metal and shook it.

"Should we jump it?" I asked, turning to the black shape next to me that I knew was Johnny. It was just our luck to have hit the only fence on the east side with no gaps. I barely made out the shake of Johnny's head.

"No," he said tightly, "We can't climb this. Let's scout him from up here."

We were higher than I'd thought. Although it was dark where we were, streetlamps and the lights of buildings made it pretty easy to see everything on the streets in town. The view would have been beautiful on any other day - yellow lights blinking slowly beneath us like fireflies lying hidden in the grass.

"There!" Johnny grabbed hold of my face and yanked it round to the left. Then he swore loudly. "The cops!"

There Dally was, standing under the streetlight at the corner of Pickett and Sutton, white blond hair slicked down to the shape of his skull. With horror, I realised his hair wasn't stuck down with grease, but wine coloured blood. Body poised to run, bloodied head whipping from side to side, snarl twisting his face - he looked... crazy. For a second I saw him how everyone else must have seen him, must have seen us. Dangerous. Hood. Animal. I wanted to look away so badly, and found that I couldn't.

Four or five policemen had surrounded Dally, barking orders at him, and he seemed to be screaming at them with his entire body. The force of each shout carried him forward. I caught the flash of metal illuminated by the streetlight and realised with a jolt that he was waving the switch at them. "No, no..." I heard Johnny whisper beside me. "What are you doing, Dal?"

BANG! A warning shot. The cop had yelled something, but we were too far away to hear it. I saw, down under the streetlight at the corner of Pickett and Sutton, Dally reaching out his arms. Dark leather sleeves fell down his wrists to reveal darker, slicker hands, though he was lit from behind by the streetlight so that we could only really see the rays of light stretching between his fingers. It should have been impossible, and I know we were too far away, but I could have sworn I caught the flash of a grin on Dally's face. And I realised this too late: he wants this.

And Dallas Winston always gets what he wants.

A shot. Not a warning this time. It seemed like for a second Dally hung there, standing up straight, and everything slowed down. Seconds passed between each of my heartbeats as I watched Dally stay standing, arms held out, face turned up to the black, empty sky. For one wild second I believed he would stand there suspended forever in liquid time. I felt like I had when I was underwater in the fountain. And then Dally - solid, fierce, wild old Dally - crumpled under the light and didn't get up.

Someone was screaming. Was it me or Johnny? I couldn't tell. The screams rang in my ears. "He's just a kid! He's just a kid! He's just-"

I was now aware of Johnny, who had twisted his fingers so tightly in the chicken-wire that I could see the blood in little pearls around where the wire met his skin. He screamed once - the sound ripped itself from his throat - and rattled the fence so hard it felt like the ground shook. I grabbed him around the chest as he tried to climb the fence, keeping him from running. "Johnny, no! You can't help him now!"

Johnny twisted away from me sharply, and we both fell in a knot on the ground. He was the first to get up, but either I'd knocked the breath out of him or he had long ago lost it as he said wildly, "I can't- I have to- I didn't mean it like this-"

"Johnny, please!" I don't know what I was pleading for him to do. I didn't want to think about that dark heap on the ground that used to be one of us.

"I have to get out of here,"  and it wasn't a complete sentence when Johnny said it, it felt like a continuation, as if this thought had been the trapped bird beating its wings in his ribcage from the moment he was born. "I'm running away."

"What? You can't do that! Why-"

"I've got nothing!" He screamed, and it felt like a shock wave ran through my chest. "There ain't nothing holdin' me in this town anymore, Ponyboy!"

I didn't know what to think anymore. I still don't. If I think, I might actually go crazy.

"I'm coming with you," I blurted. And I did mean it: I wasn't about to lose another one of our outfit to the cold night. Johnny gave me an inscrutable look.

"There's a train at three fifteen," he said finally, looking away. "A freight to Windrixville - that's what we'll take. Dally told me about it once." He then shut his mouth up tight and very deliberately did not look towards town. I didn't know how he knew this. Why had Dally told him? Had they made plans together before, plans to run away just like we were gonna do now? Had Johnny ever been ready to leave me behind?

Like I said, it's surreal when someone you know dies. I didn't want to think about Dally - I don't even know how we got to this train. I couldn't see the pathways in the dark, but also I think I just switched off. I think Johnny did too, because he had that blank look in his eyes that usually only happens when he talks about his folks.

The rare times he talks about his folks, that is. I remember one time, a few years ago, I went looking for Johnny early in the morning. He hadn't slept in the lot or at Dally's or Two's, so in the end I went hunting for him at his folks'. All of us knew the way to the once-nice townhouses that had fallen into disrepair; I went round the back (I wasn't about to face his Pop head-on) and called for Johnny. He climbed out of the window next to me, and hopped down. I started: I hadn't heard him. Then, he said, not looking me in the eyes, "Don't come round here, Pony."

"Why?" I asked, bewildered.

"Because it's shit," he answered. Just like that. Because it's shit.

Now, he's fallen asleep on me, and I can't feel my legs, but I wouldn't wake him in a million years. When he's asleep, his face loses that scared look. I can see him better now: the sky is getting lighter, but I don't think I'll be awake to see sunrise, scribbling this in a scrappy notebook from my pocket with a stubby pencil. I trace my finger lightly down Johnny's spine and wonder who my best friend could have been if he didn't need to be scared. Who this boy without the kicked hurt in his puppy-dog eyes could have been. I wonder if I know him as well as I think I do.

Notes:

Curly was sulking by the train tracks. "Damn it, why'd Winston have to take my good blade..." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two shapes in the dark, climbing into one of the freight train box cars. Copper hair flashed in the moonlight. "Curtis? What the fu-"

The train horn blared.

Chapter 26: Darry

Notes:

Okay I know I SAID I was going to make updates less frequent and then kept precisely the same schedule... but! Tomorrow is gcse results day (for everybody not in england, its sort of like SATs for 16 year olds) and honestly I'm gonna spend too much time crying to put out a chapter next week haha so there'll be a little tiny hiatus for next Wednesday

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Everything was yellow, a rush of colour swirling like snow in the air, and dissipating just as quickly into jet black. A football went spinning into the distance, the blast of a whistle and the flash of Paul Holden's grin as he caught it; Darry reached for the ball, fingers outstretched, but a huge luminous pair of green eyes opened over his head, pinning him to the floor with their gaze. Now it wasn't Paul in front of him, but Sandy, back-lit by the mysterious green light, strawberry blonde hair rippling. Her voice was everywhere. "Do you want to be something more?" Somewhere, the phone was ringing.

Hang on, what? Darry peeled his face off the living room floor, groaning. Sure enough, the Curtis phone was still ringing loudly from the kitchen. His head was pounding like the world's worst hangover, and for a second he was brought back to the days of house parties at Paul's house, stealing liquor from the Holdens' wine cabinets until the whole football team was passed out all over the house. For one blissful second, Darry let himself relax. Maybe soon Dad would come in to tickle him awake, and they'd play football in the garden and let Pony score all the goals.

Then he remembered where he was. The memory of last night rang in his head as loudly as the trills coming from the phone.

As he walked through the kitchen to answer the phone, Soda was smearing jelly over his fried eggs. He didn't look at his older brother, only said, "Ponyboy didn't come home last night."

Darry felt a spike of worry, and shoved his fists in his pockets. It was unlike Pony to stay out all night - usually he would cool off after an hour and return through the back door to be comforted by Soda. But Darry gritted his teeth and didn't answer, moving quickly past the reflective pans hanging on the wall. I don't think I could look myself in the eyes right now. He certainly didn't think he could look at Soda.

Leaning against the doorframe, Two-Bit watched them lazily as he crammed a jelly sandwich into his mouth. He seemed fairly unbothered by the tense atmosphere, but at least he was wise enough to keep quiet for once. His eyes seemed to follow Darry around the kitchen.

Soda finished smearing (why he insisted on putting so much sugar in everything, Darry could never understand) and silently began eating at the kitchen table, never once looking up. Two jerked his thumb over to the phone. "Better answer that."

Darry picked up the phone. "Hello, Curtis household here."

"Darrell Curtis?"

He never could get used to not being called a 'Junior'. "Yes, that's me."

"This is the police. As I understand, you've been listed as primary emergency contact..." His heart leapt into his throat. Police? Primary contact? Emergency? His mind immediately jumped to all the ways Pony could have gotten into a dangerous situation. "...for Dallas Winston."

What? The police officer kept talking, and that was still the only thought that stuck in his mind.

What.

Darry dropped the receiver. The words clattered onto the kitchen counter before he even knew what they meant. "Dally's dead."

The fork slipped out of Soda's hand; it rang out once like a gunshot as it hit the table. His younger brother looked up to meet his eyes for the first time that day, completely disarmed. "Wh- I don't... how...?"

There was a huge tangled ball of silence stuck in his throat. He barely managed to squeeze the next few words around it. "He slit a kid's throat... got shot this morning."

"Got shot?"

Darry closed his eyes, remembering every news article he'd ever read about shootings in this neighbourhood. What was it he'd said to Johnny, weeks ago? "Seems to me like someone gets shot dead every other week in this neighbourhood," he repeated flatly. "The fuzz don't like us Greasers much." So why, Darry found himself asking, why do I feel like everything is wrong now? All three boys were silent.

As always, it was Soda who said things like they were. "But it was never supposed to be one of us."

Suddenly, Two-Bit threw his head back and laughed. The sound filled the kitchen, but there was no humor tied to the action; Two didn't seem to notice Darry and Soda's stares. "Goddammit, Dally," his voice was full, like a water balloon about to burst, "You did it. You finally did it, you crazy bastard." Another shriek of laughter, laughter so violent it felt like an earthquake; then Two-Bit threw open the back door so hard it almost fell off its hinges. He smiled, breathing hard as he shook his head at Darry. "I can't... I gotta go." They could still hear him screaming with laughter down the road. It felt more like screaming than laughter.

Soda still had his hand raised halfway to his mouth, though the fork lay motionless on the table. "Was it the cops?" he asked quietly. "Was it the cops who murdered him?"

Darry had to nod. "It was the cops, but he was shot becau-"

"Murdered," interjected Soda angrily. "He was murdered." Darry saw a storm raging in his younger brother's eyes.

"If he hadn't killed-" Darry began, but Sodapop scraped his chair across the floor and slammed his hands down onto the table.

"Dally was murdered!" cried Soda. "There's no 'if'! He was murdered for bein' a Greaser, plain and simple! Whose side are you on, Darry?!" He strode across the room in one bound to come face to face with his brother, eyes like a hurricane.

They stared at each other, brown eyes into grey. Soda was almost as tall as Darry was. When did that happen?

All the fight went out of Soda's eyes suddenly. "I can't argue with you," he muttered.

Neither can I, Soda. Instead Darry murmured, "You're right. It was murder." It was quiet for a second. Darry looked at Soda, at his brother, at the person who he'd fought against and fought for, when they'd sworn they were knights and made Pony be the princess in the tower, slashing their swords at anybody who wasn't one of them. Brothers, sworn protectors, a united front from birth. And he said, "I'm only ever on your side, Soda."

His brother nodded, understanding. "We have to find him." They both knew they were talking about Ponyboy.

Darry swallowed. "Dally... he killed that kid in the park. If Pony was there..."

"I'll ask around," said Soda immediately. "I'll go tell Steve and the others, and then we can go searchin'. We can't have our kid brother mixed up in a murder rap."

Darry nodded. Soda caught hold of the door handle, and then stopped. "Dare?" There was no sign of mischief in his face, only pure honesty. "You're doing enough." The door closed for the second time that day.

Silence pressed itself into Darry's ears as he leaned against the kitchen counter, head whirling. Too much was happening too fast: Soda with his cryptic parting words, Pony missing, Dally gone forever and another kid dead. Bob Sheldon. The name of the dead boy brought it all back...

Three years ago, he'd been hosting football team tryouts on the school field, watching the boys run for the ball, hoping to be picked for the team. "Damn, Junior," said Paul, leaning against Darry, "these kids are making me feel old."

He snorted. "You turned sixteen two months ago - clearly you're ancient. I reckon you've only got a few days before the old Reaper comes looking for you."

Paul laughed. "Admit it! These kids are so terrible I can feel my hair going grey when I think about next season." He nudged his best friend. "How about we try training up a few cheerleaders? I honestly think they'd do a better jo-"

WHACK! The football smacked him in the face mid-sentence, sending him flying backwards. Darry doubled over, shaking with laughter, as Paul spluttered from the floor. A group of freshmen whooped, "Nice one, Sheldon!"

The cheeks of the kid who'd thrown it were bright red. So were Darry's, but that was mainly because he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. "Hey!" yelled Paul, still squirming on the ground, "Do you want to die, kid? What's your name, huh? Huh?! I swear, when I get up, I'll..." He continued yelling obscenities.

"Bob Sheldon," said the freshman sheepishly. He was pretty tall and heavy-set, Darry noted, looking him up and down.

Darry looked at Paul. Paul stared at Darry. "Oh, you're not thinking... you wouldn't dare..."

"Congratulations, Bob," Darry announced, clapping him on the shoulder. "For that knockout throw, you're on the team." Bob beamed at him. And for the next few years, the kid was good as gold - even Paul couldn't deny he was a good linebacker and a valuable team player to boot. Darry prided himself on having a close-knit team, and as time went on, he found that he actually really liked the kid. He had been honest, quick to anger and quick to cool off, loyal - perhaps they hadn't been friends, but they had been teammates. Darry remembered the way Bob's cheeks would flush at the sight of a certain redheaded cheerleader.

Oh my god. Back in the kitchen, the question echoed in his mind, and Darry had a feeling he wasn't going to like the answer. Whose side am I on, really?

But there was no time to think about that. He had a missing kid brother to find.

Notes:

Paul was still yelling, rolling around on the grass. "Junior! Aren't you going to help your best buddy out here?"

"You've still got two legs, last time I checked. Why don't you use them yourself?"

"My face, Junior, my beautiful face! Ruined!"]

Chapter 27: Sodapop

The park gates were all but mummified by hazard tape. The hot metal felt like it was searing his skin, but Soda didn't let go, only tightened his grip around the bars of the fence as he watched the cops scurry around the park like flies drawn to the bloodbath. Summer was a hot mantle over his shoulders.

He didn't know why he came to the park. His feet had just kept going and he'd tried his best to concentrate on walking somewhere, anywhere, cutting through construction sites and using any shortcut or back alley available, until he wound up here, gripping the bars of the park fence and trying not to look inside. Maybe, Soda thought, if I come here, it'll seem more real. Police lights flashed red, blue, red, and blue again until Soda's head ached and spun, and he raised his gaze upwards to the hawkeye sun.

Red and blue. Even looking directly into the sun couldn't stop the colours from flashing across his vision. Soda felt all his muscles tensing, rage boiling in his stomach. Red and blue. It's not fair. Why do the cops get to trample over everything?

Suddenly, head tilted towards the sky, he remembered a game he'd played last week with Pony, Johnny and Dally: the Cloud Game. Pony was the best at it, finding clouds shaped like Mickey Mouse, the Michelin Man, and even one that looked exactly like the back of Darry's head, cowlick and all. Dally had made it his duty to point out only the filthiest clouds until Pony's ears had gone bright red and Soda felt like his sides were about to split with laughter; and Johnny had been truly hopeless, insisting that clouds just looked like clouds. It was as if Soda could see Dally describing exactly what he'd like to do to a Minnie Mouse-shaped cloud, laughing as Pony fought to put a hand over his mouth, while Johnny shouted in frustration that the cloud couldn't possibly be Minnie because "Minnie wears polka dots, Dally! What part of that cloud looks dotty to ya?!"

The memory left a sour taste on his tongue. He didn't know why he remembered it now, of all times. Today, the sky was a violent, cloudless blue.

Come to think of it, Soda hadn't seen Johnnycake all morning: not at Two's, nor at his folks', nor in the lot. He gritted his teeth, wondering how the kid would take the news. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could see that the kid hero-worshipped Dally, and... well, Dally never tried to be a good influence, but it wasn't like Johnny had many role models to look up to. His Pop was pretty comfortable with using his fists, thought Soda bitterly, and both of his parents seemed to have a real familiarity with a bottle. Still, it had all worked out, sort of: Dally was the only one Johnny looked up to, and Johnny was the only one Dally had a soft spot for. Except now...

Why do the cops get to decide who's bad enough to die?

A cry escaped from his throat, strangled and bitter, and he kicked the concrete of the curb hard. Pain spread through his toes; sinking down to crouch on the curb, with his fingers still gripping the fence, he whispered to nobody in particular, "Why do the cops get to ruin our lives?"

"Soda?" With a jolt, he looked up towards the familiar voice, feeling the angry tears track their way down his face. Steve's eyes met his.

Their gazes were a conversation without words. They did this often; so often that when they were younger, people used to call them twins - even though they didn't share a blood bond, Soda could always read Steve's expression perfectly, and Steve always knew what impulse Soda was going to act on before he even tried to do it. Steve's eyes told him all he needed to know. Soda drew in a breath. "So you know what happened."

"So it's true," Steve said quietly. Soda didn't need to ask who had told him; Steve kept talking. "Two-Bit told me, but I didn't... I had to see for myself."

Now you've seen it, thought Soda. Does it feel real? It still doesn't, for me. Steve continued, "Is it true that the squirt is missing, too?"

"Yeah," said Soda. "It was Darry... he started yelling about curfew, and then he slapped him, and..." He stopped, remembering the look on Pony's face. Electricity surged in his chest. "What if... Steve, what if he never comes back? What if that's the last thing he remembers about us?"

I only ever wanted us to stay together, he thought. It was why he asked Pony about school every day, and why he baked chocolate cake with Darry every night. It was why he didn't care about leaving Tulsa, or becoming a gas station attendant - it didn't matter so long as they were all together. I just wanted us to get along as a family.

"He'll come back." Steve said it with absolute certainty, but Soda wasn't sure he believed it.

Instead he said, "Where'd Two go?"

"Dunno," came the answer. Soda felt the rage churn faster; a metallic taste filled his mouth. He hadn't realised he'd been biting his lip. Truth be told, he wasn't feeling so hot about Two-Bit either, who had disappeared after that morning's hysterics: while he knew Two could make a joke out of any situation, he had a feeling this time was different. The last time he'd heard the ring of laughter leave Two's voice had been when his dad ran off and saddled his family with all the debt. Steve seemed to be thinking about this too, but said, "He won't go far."

This was also true. Two couldn't run off - with his Ma and two sisters at home, how could he? No, Two didn't run when things got tough. He wasn't like Dally-

"Kids, you're not supposed to be here." One of the police officers had come up to the fence. A hand on Steve's shoulder, another hand prying his fingers away from the gate; the cop was pushing them away. "Go on, scram."

Soda looked up at the cop, framed against the empty sky, feeling the electricity sparking hot in his veins. Hands curled into fists, muscles like loaded springs; thunder pounded in his ears. He looked at the cop and saw that the gun in its holster reflected the lights of the police cars. Little sparks of red and blue.

Summer was a mantle he did not want to wear anymore.

"Fucking murderer!" Soda screamed, even louder than the thunder roaring in his ears. "Get your bloody hands off me! Go away! I said get off! Murderers!" He couldn't hear what he was screaming, just knew that he couldn't stand it, couldn't stand here and let these fucking bastards anywhere near his skin, couldn't let them get away with it. It's not fair. His eyes were fixed on the gun at the cop's hip. "Fucking murderers!"

Steve had taken hold of him by the shoulders and was trying to drag him away from the fence; Soda lashed out with his feet. "Fuck, man," Steve hissed, "Are ya tryin' to get yourself killed?" Soda didn't care.

"You fucking murderers!" He shrieked as Steve managed to pull him behind the police barriers at the end of the road. Steve had him by the wrists now, grasping them tightly together in front of him with so much force that he couldn't do much more than twist himself from side to side. His best friend was in front of him now, lips pressed together; one look at his face, and Soda fell silent.

Of course Steve felt the same way. He could see it in his expression: all the ways that he remembered Dally. The memories flooded in. At eleven years old, racing their bikes down the hill and grazing their knees trying to do wheelies; at thirteen, all awkward long limbs and burning emotion and features he hadn't grown into yet; at sixteen, trying to work out math homework with Johnny. For days afterwards, the walls of the Curtis house rang with confused shouts of "I dunno, kid, I think Farmer Giles is a fucking idiot if he doesn't know how many chickens he has! No, I never learnt to pronounce algebra! So what?"

Steve and Soda and Dally at fifteen and sixteen, swiping gum and smokes and dog food from the store down the road, giggling as the shopkeeper chased them out with a broom. Dally feeding the strays on his street with the dog food; Steve jokingly sticking a cigarette in the dog's mouth. Dally taking the fall for Two-Bit when another raid on the store went wrong, winking at the lady cop and saying something obscene about the way he'd like her to handcuff him before being loaded in the back of the car. Dally in the backyard teaching Pony how to do a backflip on the trampoline that they sold when Soda turned fourteen.

It's not fair. Soda remembered what he'd thought the other night about Ponyboy.The world don't play by our rules, kiddo. And he thought about telling that to Dally, the lazy flash of his smile and the white hot fire in his eyes in the shotgun seat of the car. Telling that to the eleven year old kid on the bike with skinned knees and hot red blood staining his palms, laughing and trying to balance on his back wheel as the sun sank lower in the sky.

Why do the cops get to decide which kids get to grow up?

"I know," said Steve softly. His hatred always came out softly, velvet poison.

Soda felt the hot prick of angry tears at his eyes as he looked up at his best friend. One curl had fallen out of Steve's meticulously styled swirls and lay across  his forehead. The electricity ravaged through his veins, lightning searing at his eyes and singing his throat. Soda managed to choke out, "I tried to keep us together... all I wanted was for us to stay together..."

"I know," was the only thing Steve could say. Soda let it fall on his ears, again and again; let his head rest on Steve's shoulder like they were five again, crouched behind the Curtis sofa, telling each other secret jokes and making plans. Maybe, if I stay here like this, it'll feel less real. He put his head on Steve's shoulder and remembered a time when this simple comfort could fix anything. And still the refrain repeated, over and over, onto his eardrums like the steady rhythm of rain. "I know, I know..."

It was kind of funny: in the park, the blood had dyed the water of the fountain red. The red of the fountain against the violent blue sky.

Notes:

woooow a couple days into the ib and already i have work piled on me left right and center... hopefully it'll get better, but i can tell this is gonna be a LONG two years. i hope you liked the chapter, even if it was all doom and angst. i PROMISE PROMISE PROMISE it'll get better for them soon; they've been in the trenches for far too long now haha

Chapter 28: Pony

I began the day by jumping out of a moving train.

The first thing I remember was the pain. All the air was knocked out of my lungs when I hit the ground; my elbows took most of the impact as I rolled into the dewy grass of a meadow nearby.

We lay winded in the grass for a few minutes, until I felt around for Johnny and managed to grasp his arm. "Where do we go from here?" I asked.

"Gotta ask for directions to Jay Mountain," he managed to gasp out. My legs were still dead, but I got up unsteadily and stuck out a hand towards him, looking around for a road.

"Need a hand getting up?"

Johnny groaned a little. "You go ask without me - make like a farm boy taking a walk. I don't think I... just gimme a few minutes, and then I'll get up." Alarmed by the pain in his voice, I looked at him properly for the first time since back in the park.

He was looking pretty rough, but thankfully it didn't look as bad as the last beating: purple bruises were beginning to bloom on his face, and there were a couple cuts under his eye; he had one hand on his ribs and I could tell from his face that they were hurting him worse than he let on. We had left our bloodsoaked jackets by the train tracks back in Tulsa, but I still found myself looking at the rips in Johnny's jeans and the way his too-long hair fell into his eyes. Gosh, that scar on his face sure made him look scary. We really do look like hoods, I thought. For the first time, the thought sat wrong in my stomach.

I straightened my shoulders and did my best to stop slouching. "Quit hooking your thumbs into your belt loops - you look like a thug," Johnny told me. I brushed my hair away from my face.

"Better?"

He was still looking at me funny. "You know, you look an awful lot like Sodapop right now."

I blinked. Cherry had said the same thing. "I look about as much like Sodapop as you do - he's good-looking."

Something flashed across Johnny's face. "Shoot, you are too."

Was it just me, or had it suddenly gotten really hot? I looked away quickly and climbed out of the meadow up to the road, patting my flushed face and hoping it returned to its original colour before I met someone. Pretty soon I came across a red-faced farmer on his tractor, and asked him how to get to Jay Mountain. At least I didn't have to worry about sounding like a hood: I used the polite voice I always used around teachers.

"Jay Mountain?" His eyes twinkled out of his portly face. "Follow this road to that big hill over there - that's it. Taking a walk?"

I couldn't hide my embarrassed facial expression, but I knew how to work with it. "Yessir," I lied. "We're playing army and I'm supposed to report to headquarters there." Soda says I'm freakishly good at lying. It's another thing that he attributes to my reading.

The farmer only grinned and took a bite out of his sandwich. "Boys will be boys." I thanked him and headed back to Johnny.

So, I thought as I walked down the road with Johnny, we're really in the country. Had it only been last night that he and I had dreamed about living out here in a treehouse, living off nuts and stolen fruit? Seemed like a lifetime had passed since then. Johnny was silent. It shouldn't have bothered me, seeing as he was usually quiet, but this time I could tell it was a different sort of silence: it was like he just wasn't there. His eyes were completely blank and it scared me. But I didn't know what to say, so I just started talking about anything that came into my head.

I began to wonder aloud about what was happening back home. What were Darry and Soda doing? I bet Darry was sorry that he hit me now. But I still couldn't help feeling a little twinge in my stomach when I thought of home: the comfy couch and all my books and Darry bringing me lemonade in the evenings. I wished I had a book. Suddenly, I felt something in my pocket. "Oh," I said, remembering. "I wish I had some tape, too." Johnny said nothing.

At the top of the hill was an abandoned church, all wooden beams and splintered pews and red stained glass windows. We pushed our way through the rusted double doors and collapsed on the floor by the pulpit, not bothering to brush away the dust. The sunlight filtered through the stained glass and painted patterns of fire across the floor, making it look for all the world like it was burning.

"The Floor Is Lava," said Johnny suddenly. I stared at him. I was relieved that he was finally talking, even if he did sound like a madman.

"That old game we used to play as kids?" I remembered leaping from couch to coffee table, sliding down banisters and hopping from coaster to coaster like lilypads.

Johnny shook his head like he was trying to shake thoughts out of his ears. "No," he said. "It was real."

I concluded that he'd completely lost it, and gave up talking. The air in the church was warm, but I couldn't stop shaking. I closed my eyes, head against the wooden floor, and breathed out a long breath...

I woke up screaming.

Panicked, I felt for Johnny next to me, but my hands only met the hard floor. I hadn't had one of those nightmares for months, but I could feel it now: my heart was banging in my chest like it was trying to escape. I sat up, and looked about wildly; Johnny was nowhere to be seen.

Then came the whistle: low and long, ending in a high note. I felt all my muscles relax on instinct after hearing the whistle that we and the Shepard gang used, and quickly returned it. That whistle... it meant "Who's there?", but I knew what we really meant when we used it: "I'm here, I'm okay, we're sticking together". My heart slowed to a normal pace.

Johnny came back in through the doors, arms laden with carrier bags. He dumped them heavily onto one of the pews and began unpacking; I stood up and walked over to see what he'd bought. He didn't even look at me, but I still felt sorry that I'd fallen asleep and left him to buy our supplies for the next few weeks. My foot caught suddenly on the edge of a loose floorboard, and I went sprawling across the floor at his feet. I propped my hands under my chin and grinned up at him sunnily, hoping to make him smile back. "Hiya Johnny. Fancy seein' you here."

He managed a little smile, and I quietly rejoiced. Then I turned my attention to his hands, unloading the contents of the bags. Two loaves of bread, cigarettes, what seemed like a never-ending supply of baloney... I grabbed something out of the bag. "A paperback copy of Gone With The Wind! How'd you know I wanted one?"

"You said you wanted a book earlier, an' remember the time you and me went to that movie?" He'd gone kind of pink.

I grinned happily and went back to the bags. Candy bars, peroxide, a deck of cards, matches... hang on, peroxide? Johnny put the box on the pew, and I guess he caught sight of my face. "Don't worry, it's for me."

"What?" I gaped at him. "Ain't ya a little too dark to go blonde?"

He got the switch out of his back pocket just then, and held it out to me. "Cut it off."

"I can't do that," I protested. I liked his hair. There isn't an awful lot we Greasers can have, see: we may not have Corvettes or tennis courts, but we can have hair. Without thinking, I'd taken a step forwared and reached out. Johnny's hair was silky soft between my fingers.

His eyes were like dark holes. "Cut it off, Pony. Please."

So I stood behind him, and the hair fell away from my fingers as I sawed with the blade. It wasn't an even job, but at least I didn't cut him anywhere. I shuddered watching the little black scraps float like feahers onto the ground, and I couldn't stop the tears from spilling out. I guess I sniffled a little too loudly; Johnny turned round. "Why are you crying?" he asked dully. "It's my hair."

The tears only spilled over my cheeks faster; something in Johnny's face changed as he looked at me. He suddenly looked miserable.

"It's my fault," and his voice came out small. "For bringing a little thirteen year old kid along."

"No! I'm fourteen!" I yelled suddenly. "I've been fourteen for a month!" I was sick and tired of people telling me I was too young to do things; least of all Johnny, who everyone thought was my age when he was a whole two years older. But then I saw that kicked-puppy look on his face, and I just couldn't do it. Somewhat more quietly, I said, "I'm in it just as much as you are. I'll stop crying soon. I don't know why I'm doing it."

The bleach went on without much more hysteria, and then we waited in the sun for it to dry. I dug out an old cracked mirror from a closet somewhere and brought it to Johnny. "You sure you wanna look?"

He nodded, so I turned the mirror around. I'd kept his hair long in the front for fear of cutting his eyes, and it tumbled down into his face like it always had, but it was almost military short in the back. I thought about telling the farmer about playing army, and almost felt like laughing.

"Boy howdy," I said. I'd started sarcastically, but all the playfulness had ebbed out of my voice by the end of the sentence. "This makes you look..."

His hair was really light - the sun and peroxide had bleached it almost to a white-blonde colour. Without any grease to hold it back, it fell into his eyes like a bone-white waterfall. Johnny's eyes were still as dark brown as ever, but he closed them as he blinked, and for that split second I felt a sudden jolt of realisation. With his blonde, ungreased hair his eyes like that, he looked so much like Dally.

I watched Johnny's eyes flick back and forth over his face, like he was searching for something in it. Whatever it was, he didn't seem to find it.

"Johnny..." I said slowly, "I don't like it. It's... it's creepy. You look too much like D-"

His head whipped around suddenly, and the name died in my throat. His eyes were paper-blank and completely devoid of light, like black holes. At school, they told us black holes would suck you in and turn you into nothing, and I guess they weren't kidding. I couldn't see any of Johnny in his eyes at all. In a flat, empty voice, he said, "You wouldn't get it. You're just a little kid." There was no emotion anywhere in his face. But he continued talking, almost like he was talking to himself: "I should've listened to Dally. I should have run away by myself a long time ago-"

"Dally's dead!" I shouted in frustration. I was sick of it all: that awful blank look in his eyes; how miserable we were all the time; how neither of us could bear to think about last night. Why had we stayed out last night? I wished to all hell that I'd never gotten into that argument with Darry. I wanted the old Johnny back.

And then Johnny burst into tears.

I just stood there and stared at him, aghast. Johnny never cried, not even when his Pop used the side of the belt with the buckle.

"He killed a kid!" Johnny wailed. "That boy couldn't have been more than seventeen, and he killed him! Dally was a hood, an' then he was a murderer, an' then the police shot him dead and he wasn't anything anymore! So why" - it was like he was curling in on himself - "why do I miss him so much?"

He looked up at me, and his eyes were full - the blankness had gone, and in its place was everything I felt. How had I been so stupid? I had been so scared of losing Johnny that I hadn't noticed that he felt the same way about losing Dally. I want the old Johnny back.

I sat down next to him on the church floor, turning over the long-forgotten mirror so that it faced the floor. "Do you remember," I asked, "the time we camped out the police station?"

I was about ten, I think. Young enough to still be scared of the flashing lights of the police cars; old enough to know not to trust the officers' offerings of candy and chocolate. Johnny and I refused to leave until they let Dally out.

"I was mighty scared," Johnny admitted. "I thought they were gonna take him away and never let him out again. So," he smiled a little at the memory, "I was prepared to trade places with Dally."

I laughed. "We somehow managed to sneak into the holding cell. Man, I never saw Dally look so spooked."

I'll never forget the way Dally's face looked when we walked into that holding cell. Dally never made any pretence of caring about anybody but himself: he didn't care about any other living thing, and he was cold and hard and mean and made sure we all knew it. But all the same, I realised he never talked about his past properly - especially not the details about jail. In a strange high, pleading voice I had never heard him use, he said, "No, Johnny, I can't let you. I ain't mad at you, I promise I ain't... I just don't want you to get hurt. You don't know what a few months in jail can do to you. Oh, blast it, Johnny" - Dally never sounded like that, never -"You get hardened in jail. I don't want that to happen to you. Like it happened to me..."

And then I thought of Dally, alone on the streets... in jail at the age of ten...

The ground blurred. I blinked away the tears - I didn't know why I was crying for Dallas Winston now. I realised that maybe, I missed him too.

For some reason, it was at that moment when I remembered my fourteenth birthday party. Johnny's hand felt the same in mine as it had back then.

"We're just gonna focus on gettin' by," I said slowly. "One day at a time. Just one day at a time."

He leant against me, and I just held him like Soda had in the lot all those weeks ago. My shoulder came away wet, and I couldn't tell if it was from Johnny's tears or mine. It was late at night when we both woke up; the air was quiet. It was true - we really could breathe better at night. "I'm all cried out," said Johnny quietly, lifting his head. "I ain't gonna cry no more."

I smiled a little against his shoulder. "You're talkin' jive." I didn't mind if he cried. I'd rather that than the blankness, and I told him so.

"Mm," said Johnny, lying back down. After a minute, he said, "Let's just stay like this. Tell me something."

So I talked to him about the constellations, and how Zeus agreed to put Castor and Pollux together forever in the night sky. And when his breathing evened out, I picked up this notebook and began to write.

Notes:

Ooh I'm so annoyed... I tried to sync my notes app with my ipad and accidentally permanently deleted like 11 pages of work. Uh anyway I'm gonna have to try and remember as much of the original phrasing as I can...

Chapter 29: Sandy

Notes:

Sorry its so late... I think I've forgotten the concept of free time

Sandy taped up the last of the cardboard boxes, and sat back on her heels, surveying the empty room. Her bedroom looked like it had when she'd first moved in a few months ago: ugly green paint peeking through the badly whitewashed walls, bare wooden floor and the curtain-less gap of window; the stark skeleton of the bedframe was all that remained of the past two months. Her life had seemed so solid. How had she managed to pack it all up into six cardboard boxes?

Well, Sandy thought bitterly, she'd known the truth since her period was first three days late. All the same, she'd tried desperately to pretend that everything was fine, hiding it from her friends, family, and especially Sodapop - how could she have told them? Sandy knew she couldn't have faced her boyfriend, or the shame, or the disappointment. And maybe, just maybe, if she didn't put the events of that awful party into words, it might have never happened. She stopped talking to Evie and Sylvia, she made sure to wear large sweaters even in the Tulsa heatwaves. She tried her best not to flinch if Soda's hands came anywhere near her.

But the earth kept turning and turning under her like a ride that she couldn't get off of; and hours rolled around into days, days rolled on into weeks, until two months, three months had passed and eventually her parents had found out. It was everything Sandy had expected it to be. Of course, her father had blamed it on Soda, and she hadn't corrected him, not if it meant reliving that terrible party, not if it meant dealing with everyone's disgust.

And they would have been disgusted - she didn't even know his name. Why had she flirted with him that night? It was her fault.

There were arguments. Fights and screaming and crying and for the first time in her life she didn't do any of it, just stood there dully while her parents alternately pleaded and shouted and ignored her. For the first time in her life, Sandy hadn't wanted to feel anything at all. One night, in the dead silence of the dark, she thought she heard the thumping of Buck Merrill's music in the singing of the cicadas, the heat pulling at her hair like damp hands. That boy had loved her hair, her passionate conversation; she suddenly remembered Cherry Valance in Bob Sheldon's kitchen. The scissors were an arm's reach away, her hair hadn't even flashed in the dark... and then what was left of it hung just above her shoulder blades and the floor was covered in strawberry blonde strands. The screaming and pleading continued. The music didn't stop.

In the end, they'd all decided it was best for her to move back to her grandmother's house in Pensacola. "A fresh start," said her mother. Sandy remembered the last time she'd tried to have a fresh start, and somehow found the decency not to laugh.

Alright, she thought, hefting the first box onto her hip. No time to think. It's time to load these into the car.

It was one of those sunny, restless days: the sort of heat that gathers together in the charged air until it forms a lightning strike. Sandy kept her head down in the shade of the car trunk, shifting and stacking one box on top of the other. Her hand caught on a snag of fabric hanging out of the box - she drew it out slowly, and held it out in front of her. Red and yellow stripes unrolled from her fingers. It was that top she'd worn on her first date with Soda, all those lifetimes ago.

She balled it up, drew her arm back, and watched the knotted fabric arc through the charged and dusty air, letting it fall on the steps of the front porch.

"Sandy? I've been looking all over for you."

For one crazy second, she thought that just thinking about him had made him materialise behind the bumper of the car, like a ghost. But there Soda was, real and vivid and solid, hands pressed to the car bonnet like a lifeline. Disappointment was a clenched fist wrapped around her stomach as she looked at him, his dancing eyes clouded over. Oh God. He knows.

He didn't speak. Sandy didn't think she could look him in the face, so she focused on his hands: rough, oil stained, fidgeting restlessly even now on the hot metal of the car. She noticed that his fingernails were bitten right down to the quick - the red slivers of nail bed stood out, astonishing splashes of paint on his skin. Please just say something, she willed. Just say something, and this will all be over. Then, you can hate me.

"Your hair." Of all the things he chose to talk about now, it was her godforsaken hair. "It's... different," he continued uncertainly. Of course he hated it. She reached up and combed the strands through her fingers - it never stopped being a shock when her fingers dropped off into empty air.

Oh, fuck it. I'll say it myself, and then leave forever. "Soda." The name hung there in the dense air. She looked up and stared him squarely in the face. "I'm pregnant."

For a minute, there was only the deafening white noise of cicadas around them. She saw the wide-eyed surprise register first on his face, then bewilderment, then his face crumpled in disappointment. Sandy couldn't stand it. She saw the oil smears standing out on his sleeve and couldn't help but see them as blood, the heart he wore there ripped in two. She was sorry that he wore his heart on his sleeve still; sorry that he hadn't yet figured out why you shouldn't.

"But you... but we..." He looked so helpless. Was it just Sandy, or was his lip wobbling slightly? She couldn't stand to watch it. His fingers went taptaptap on the car bonnet. Oh, she felt so sorry. It was all her fault.

If only she hadn't flirted with that boy at the party. If only she hadn't gone to the party, hadn't held the opinions that she did, hadn't ever learnt to be the sort of girl who goes to parties and drinks and learns how to say "fuck" and where to put her tongue and how to argue and how to flirt. She wished she could've been that sort of girl, she really did. If only she'd stayed a little girl for longer, before she'd lived long enough to grow out her hair and outgrow her parents.

"Well..." Soda spluttered determinedly. She almost felt sorry for him. "We... we can work through that... Look, Sandy, we can make this work for us. I'll... I'll pick up more shifts at the DX! It's just as much my responsibility as yours... Sandy, look here" - he burst out - "I love you! We can just get married, and-"

One look at Sandy, and he fell silent. Ice cold dread had shot through her chest as surely as a lightning strike when she'd heard the word "marry".

Because this was exactly what she'd never wanted, wasn't it? She saw the way her mother talked about going to Yale wistfully, saw the banality of her life now; and she knew in her heart that it was her fault that mer mother had never been able to go to college. She could've kicked herself. All this time she'd sworn she'd be educated; sworn that she'd never marry a man because circumstance forced her to, before she established a career; sworn that she'd never let what happened to her mother happen to her. Stupid, stupid girl. You're so sharp you'll cut yourself someday. Sandy had cut herself pretty badly this time, she thought.

Suddenly, looking at Soda's earnest expression, all she felt was angry, and an awful panicked feeling. This isn't what I wanted. Why don't you understand that?

She didn't even mean to yell, but she did. "Oh, why don't you grow up, Soda? You've got to grow up and stop being so stupid!" He just looked at her, breathing hard as if she was actually punching him. The look on his face made everything so much worse. "You can't support me, and I can't marry you. I can't - I won't! You're just a dumb sixteen year old kid!"

"Seventeen," he mumbled. "I'll be seventeen in a month."

"It's not even your baby!" Sandy yelled in frustration. "Grow up! Sixteen, seventeen, it doesn't matter!" She breathed out, trying to muster finality. "I'm going back to my grandmother's in Florida. Don't call me again."

At these words, Soda went stock still. His eyes were so huge; Sandy imagined she could see his pupils quivering. Quietly, he said, "Dally got shot dead by police. Thought you should know that."

Sandy's hand went to her mouth. Her other fingers took hold of a lock of her hair, and found that it ended far too early, so that all she felt in her grip was empty space. Oh.

But then she gritted her teeth and squared her shoulders. No time to think. No time to cry for Dally. "Soda. Go." A beat. "Please."

She didn't even remember watching him leave. One minute he was there, hot-blooded and living and breathing, and then the next minute there was only the summer air rushing in to take his place. His absence made the heat feel cold, somehow. Sandy blinked away the pressure building behind her eyes as her father called out to her coldly from the house. "What do I do with this shirt?" The shirt that she'd thrown earlier unfolded under his fingers, held at arms length as if it had a contagious disease.

Sandy looked at the stripes. A single piece of hay fell from the sleeve. "Pack it up," she said finally. "I don't need it."

Chapter 30: Two-Bit

Notes:

Hey guys... I'm so sorry its been so long since I've updated. Turns out the workload at school this year is no joke: the IB is really kicking my ass at the moment :(
Anyway, I'm currently on Christmas break, so I'll try my best to put out a couple more chapters in this time. Thanks so much for all the love, and enjoy this chapter!

An outsider walks into a bar.

Two-Bit had been turning the beginning line of that joke over in his head for the past hour. He didn't remember who'd told it to him, or what the punchline was. Maybe there wasn't a punchline. An outsider walks into a bar...

He hadn't seen the rest of the gang for a few days - not properly, anyway. There was still work to do around the house, kid sisters to take to school and pool games to be won down at the Dingo; Two hadn't been avoiding the gang, but he'd only heard about the events of the past few days. Pony and Johnny missing... Sandy moving back to Florida... Darry going crazy trying to find his kid brother. Soda hadn't shown his face at the DX for several days now.

Two sighed, and rested his pool stick by the side of the pool table, taking a swig of his drink. A pretty blonde winked at him from the other side of the room. Smirking, Two breathed a mock sigh of relief to himself. At least one thing hasn't changed: my killer sex appeal. Goddamn, chicks sure love tragedy - I swear they can smell it on a guy. This must've been why Hamlet was so popular.

Running his hands through his hair and then sticking his thumbs through his belt loops, Two-Bit sauntered over to the blonde girl, making sure to keep one eyebrow raised in a nonchalant manner. It didn't do to look too desperate in front of broads, especially not Greaser girls - they were like bloody hound dogs, sniffing out fear. Her friends were all clustered around her; he counted maybe three or four other girls. Loudly, he cleared his throat: "Hey, baby." She glanced at him, then held the gaze, sizing him up. He continued, "Might wanna step away from the bar. You're gonna melt all that ice."

She smirked and tossed her head while her friends giggled amongst each other; her hair swung over her shoulder, bright blonde and dead straight. Mascara weighted her lashes and emphasised the corners of her eyes, so that she had the languid gaze of a cat. There was a hint of appreciation in that gaze. "Hmm. I'd move, if you'd only buy me a drink for the trouble."

That broad is a cat alright, Two-Bit thought, not even botherin' to hide her claws. With a pang, he thought suddenly of a deer-eyed girl with no calculation in her bones, short curls whirling around her face. The cat-like girl was unlike Marcia in every way... but Two-Bit shelved the thought of Marcia away for another day. Tonight, it was all about having fun. And these girls, they'd give it to him.

He pulled a couple coins out of his pocket. "Shots or Coca Cola?"

The blonde pulled a face, lashes framed momentarily against her high cheekbones. "I can't stand Coke." Two-Bit thought of a shared Coke under the dim light of the drive-in movie theatre, and for a second wished... for something. He didn't know what.

"Shots it is then." And pretty soon all the girls were laughing and leaning over the counter of the bar, pouring themselves drinks from the tap behind the bartender's back, glasses tipped precariously in their fingers. The whole bar looked sort of fuzzy, the edges filed off; Two found himself laughing louder and louder, trying to steady himself against the wall as the floor beneath him rolled and tipped like a vast ocean. Everything felt like it was slightly to the left of where it should've been. He didn't care. He reached over: fingers found straight blonde hair, one pair of lips found another, and it was hard to tell whose tongue was whose. Eventually, the cat-like girl pulled away, wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth, and walked off to the bathroom, re-hooking the buckle of her bra.

Well, that was that. Two watched her heels click on the floor with the finality of a ticking clock, and felt absolutely nothing. Except maybe for appreciation of that ass. Two could always appreciate a good ass, he thought as he watched her retreat.

The other girls had also disappeared to God knows where, and he saw no point in staying in the bar any longer than he had to. Besides, some kid was beating the old regulars at pool, and Two didn't feel like being around to watch the brawl that would ensue later. The last thing his eyes caught was the belligerent flash of that kid's golden eyes; the door swung shut. Then the humidity hit.

Stars winked down at him, bright specks in the dark sky. The air was diffused with neon green, then pink, then green again - the sign in the window of the bar was flashing. Almost out of habit, Two lit up a cigarette, adding a spark of orange light into the night before it was snuffed out again. He inhaled - the end of the cigarette glowed, and he let his mind wander over to chestnut brown curls...

A door opened. Chatter from inside the bar reached his ears, and the dragging click of someone staggering in high heels; before he knew it, someone was rounding the corner from the back door of the Dingo. Short, slight build, feet clumsy in tall heels; she turned left and Two caught it - the flash of wild, dark curls in the light of the neon sign. He felt his eyes widen, that rush of want tight in his chest. His feet moved of their own accord; his hand caught hold of her wrist and she turned to say-

"Get the fuck off me, perve- Two-Bit?" Angela Shepard's dark blue, heavily lined eyes met his. Her dark red lips arranged themselves into a perfect, quizzical frown. "What... are ya doing?"

It's not her.

Two quickly let go of her wrist. "Angie," and he didn't stammer, Two-Bit never stammered, but he couldn't help a little disappointment leaching into his voice, "Well, can't a fella say hi to a friendly face?"

"Not at 3 in the morning, he can't," retorted Angie. "Way to give me the fright of my life, Two... thought I'd have to actually use the heater Tim gave me." She was pretty in the way that his pearl-handled switch was pretty, Two-Bit decided. He knew a lot of guys who would keep on loving her, right up until she was twisted between their punctured ribs. Maybe even afterwards. Continuing, Angela said, " 'Sides, it's murder season now... or did ya forget what just happened to Dally-" She broke off, and bit her lip - hard, but not quite hard enough to smear her lipstick. "And did ya hear that..."

Dally. Suddenly, a flash of an idea crossed Two's mind. "Hey Angel," he interrupted, "wasn't it Tim and Curly out lookin' for Dally that night?"

Her wide eyes narrowed for a split second, before Angela pulled them open again and pursed her lips innocently. "Maybe so," she hazarded, "But I'm not sure if they found him or-"

"They did, I'm sure of it," Two broke in again, "And ain't Curly always talking about how he could track down any poor fucker this side of town?"

"He is," Angie agreed reluctantly, "But-"

"So," pressed Two-Bit, "If he was out late that night, do ya know if he found Pony and Johnny out too? Or," he stepped closer to her, noticing the flash of something cross her doll-like face, "anything telling us where they might have gone?"

Those dark blue eyes darted to the right, then to the left. Two-Bit leaned in, and said, "Ya know, 'cos Darry's been worried sick about them two bein' gone... I mean there's no telling what could happen out there, especially Ponyboy..."

The name seemed to do something: Angela's thick eyebrows drew together - and it was there, even if it was nearly imperceptible - and after a second, she finally spoke. "Well... you didn't hear this from me, ya hear? But," leaning in conspiratorially, "Curly was down at the train tracks, that night... and he catches sight of something under the rail line. Pony's shirt and Johnny's jacket, just drenched in blood... and then," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "there's a freight train that leaves, and Curly swears he saw Ponyboy in one of the cars." Straightening, and with a harried look, she added, "But it ain't enough to tell the fuzz, and Curly wouldn't talk if they came knocking at our door. Tim would probably come after y'all with that heater, so don't even think about..."

Two-Bit was almost too distracted by his own thoughts to look at her. All the pieces of the puzzle were there - no, not all of them, but enough to work out what happened; the information clicked together and began to form a picture, a picture of two desperate, terrified boys...

He knew the direction of the Curtis house like a magnet knows the north pole. Two turned tail and ran.

Chapter 31: Pony

"Royal flush." Johnny looked at me triumphantly. "Pay up, loser."

I swore and threw down my cards in frustration. They splayed over the floor, joining the mosaic of cigarette butts, pop bottles and baloney wrappers already littering the area around us: we'd been playing cards for hours now, and it was starting to show. "There's no way you're this lucky," I groaned.

"Have you seen my life? I wouldn't call it lucky..."

I threw the seven of diamonds at him. Or at least, I tried to: infuriatingly, the card swerved in the air and clipped the pew beside Johnny, sliding in a depressing way down to the ground. "Cheater."

"I ain't a cheeter, aren't those the spotty cat things?"

"That's a cheetah, dumbass!"

"Whatever." Johnny flashed me a sudden grin. "I'm hungry. Wanna eat lunch?"

"If it's another baloney sandwich, I will take out the baloney and slap you in the face with it, Johnny Cade." We'd been living off of baloney sandwiches, cigarettes and soda-pop for the past week. I was beginning to taste baloney in my sleep.

"Suit yourself," Johnny replied. "But I'm gonna make myself a delicious sandwich, and you're gonna watch me and wish you had one too." I highly doubted that. It was hard to tell if it was the floor or Johnny's knees creaking as he stood up and walked stiffly over to our bags of supplies, but it was probably both - there wasn't much exercise that we could do in a tiny church like this one. We'd been sitting down for hours, sort of rolling around periodically to change where we were sitting.

Yellow slabs of midday sun sloped against the church walls like they'd been propped up there. The yellow light only accentuated Johnny's blonde hair - it was blinding. I squinted at him. "Mind turning off that lightbulb on your head, Johnnycake?"

He scowled at me good-naturedly, turning his head so his hair framed his face. Dust particles hung in the light around him, so that it looked for all the world like he had a sparkly halo. I was beginning to get used to the blonde. Although, sometimes when Johnny leaned against a wall... or sprawled out on the floor with his chin resting on one propped up knee... or even if he slumped his shoulders just right, he still made me think of...

But I knew he wasn't Dally, not really. Even in the middle of the night, when I woke up next to him, his hair was still soft as feathers, and his eyes were still round in that kicked-puppy way.

His clothes made a swish noise as he sat down next to me, sandwich in hand. He lit up a cigarette, and offered me it. We sat in silence for a little while.

"What do you think," I found myself saying, for probably the fifth time this week, "the others are doing back home right now?"

I had it all mapped out in my brain. Two-Bit was probably off playing pool in the Dingo, and Soda would be with either Steve or Sandy, whoever was free at the time, driving too fast around town in a borrowed car while munching donuts or some other sweet snack. I pretended to myself for a second (though I didn't narrate this part to Johnny) that Dally was still alive; that he was smoking with Sylvia next to the dumpsters by the old diner, or mouthing off to the cops, or riding some old bull at the Slash J. Then, just for fun, I pretended that Mom and Dad were still alive too: I imagined Mom striding round the house picking up Soda's clothes and my books and Darry's socks; Dad fixing the gap we'd had in our fence for the past three months. My mind made it feel so real, like I had cameras all over Tulsa that I could use to spy on people - which wouldn't surprise me, to be honest. Tulsa feels just like an extension of me sometimes: I know that no matter how far I go, some part of me will stay in that city, like maybe a part of my soul lodged itself into one of the cracks in the pavement when I was young.

I decided that Darry was probably at work, like he always was. He didn't really care about me - none of them did. I guessed that maybe Soda would worry about me being gone, but Darry would soon snap him out of that. "We don't need Pony here," I imagined him telling Soda. "I was going to send him to a boys' home anyway. We'll be just fine without him."

"No!" burst out Johnny from beside me in a shocked tone. "That's not what Darry thinks about you at all!"

He seemed pretty adamant about it - dark eyes wide and eyebrows drawn together. There are some people, like teachers maybe, who would rather say the 'right thing' than tell you the truth, but with Johnny Cade I could tell he was always being completely honest. First old Two had slapped me for complaining about Darry, and now Johnny was against me... I scowled. "Come on Johnny, he won't quit whining and yelling at me. He's just mad because... because he doesn't like who I am now. He hates me 'cos I'm not a little kid like I used to be."

To my surprise, Johnny shook his head. "He doesn't hate you."

"How do you explain him yelling and throwing me out the house, then?" I demanded. Seemed to me like everyone was on Darry's side nowadays.

"First of all, he didn't throw ya out, you ran out by yourself." I pouted at him, not caring if I looked childish, but Johnny kept going. "And Darry doesn't know how to tell ya he loves ya. You hug him and thank him and he doesn't know how to respond, so he says something grumpy to throw you off. You get into trouble with the Socs and he's scared for ya, so he yells. He's trying to keep you all together and he hasn't got parents to tell him how to do it, but he can't let you and Soda know how hard it is, so he acts all cold. The thing about Darry," said Johnny slowly, "Is that he thinks the way to love someone is to worry for them."

Suddenly, I remembered a conversation with Sandy in our kitchen, waiting for our chocolate cake to bake. "He's just used to family being first," I repeated.

I thought about the times Darry and I had fought before. He never said sorry, but... I'd wake up to extra frosting on my slice of chocolate cake, or a couple dimes for Pepsi. Darry says I'm a Pepsi fiend. He'd tickle me out of bed and call me a Pepsi fiend and cut me a slice of chocolate cake before going out to work all day.

"Well, Johnny, if the way Darry shows someone he loves them is by worrying, he loves you too," I told him.

"He worries about all our outfit," countered Johnny defensively.

"Yeah, but he worries about you a lot more. Only difference is that he thinks if he yells at ya, you'll snap like a twig."

"There's a lot more to worry about, with me."

I snorted gently and nudged him with my shoulder. "Why are you arguing with me? Come on, man, just accept that you're part of our family now." He looked at me with that trademark Johnny Cade grateful puppy look, and I couldn't help but smile. "Love ya, Johnnycake." I said it in a joking tone, but I sort of realised I meant it.

We lapsed into comfortable silence again. I got the feeling Johnny was thinking real hard, because he started staring at the ceiling like he could see right through it.

Then, conversationally, he said, "Did you know I'm meant to be Catholic?" I looked at him, but he was busy gazing at the ceiling. Thinking. "I always liked looking at the Saints and counting rosary beads and all that. I reckon you'd have liked the Saints for all their stories... me, I think I liked knowing some people had it worse than me," he joked.

I laughed. "At least you ain't been nailed to a cross yet."

"Or flayed alive," Johnny agreed. "Nah, but my favourite was always Mary. She looks real nice." Was it just me, or did he let out a little sigh? "She seems like... like a real mom."

I said nothing. I already had a Mom, and I wasn't about to replace her, ever. And I had liked church, back when we used to go, but I've never had much love for a God who'd let his believers die on crosses and get flayed for him, and I told Johnny this. He shrugged in his modest way. "Maybe not. But I think Mary and the other Saints were different. They were just people, you know? People who tried to do good things even though they got dealt bad hands."

I digested this for a little while. There were some people, like Tim Shepard, who got dealt a bad hand and decided that they may as well go the full mile and deal everyone else bad hands too. But the more I thought about it, even those sorts of people tried to do some good. Tim was forever buying Angie little pretty trinkets and hair clips and lipsticks; when I was in elementary school I'd see him going round the Soc neighbourhoods for odd jobs just so he could buy Curly a Christmas present from Santa Claus. Curly would tell me about the presents from Santa to prove to me that he couldn't be as bad as all the teachers thought he was.

And there were others, too: Two-Bit's hands were always rough and chapped from washing dishes and laundry at home, things he wouldn't let his Ma do because, in his words, "she does enough cleaning at the bar". Steve hated kids, but he spoiled Evie's younger sister rotten. And Dally... how many times had we seen him hauling bags of dog food through the streets? I remembered him talking to Johnny for hours and hours on our couch, staying up through the night with him in case he woke up screaming again.

Johnny was looking at me now, and I knew he knew what I was thinking. Somehow, he always did. "You get it now?" he whispered.

"Yeah," I said, quieter still. "I do." Dally with blood running rivers down his arms; even then, the first thing he'd looked for was Johnny. I wondered if the line between black and white was just a trick of the light.

"I said I wasn't gonna cry anymore," and the words sounded fragile as fine china.

"And I told you that you're full of crap," I said gently. Johnny's dark eyes were trained on my face now. A stray blonde strand of hair fell into his eyes; I couldn't help but hold his gaze. "Johnny," I burst out suddenly, "Do you think your hair..." I couldn't finish.

"I wanted to remember him," he said, voice steadier now. "I don't have anything of his. But if I can have this... if I can control this..." His eyes flicked over to the cigarette I was still holding, and then - had I imagined it? - back down to his left arm.

"We're on shaky ground," I found myself agreeing him, without quite knowing why. "Neither of us have much, right now." I realised that for Johnny, he'd been on shaky ground his whole life. And I didn't know how to fix that.

But I did know what he liked. "Hey," I said, "I thought we were taking it one day at a time. Things are gonna stop shaking some day. But for now," I reached up to grab the book from the pew next to me, "I'll just read to ya, and the time will pass."

"We could have less to worry about right now, though," complained Johnny. I laughed at the whiny little-kid tone that had crept into his voice, and how much he sounded like I had a few minutes ago, whining about my brother.

"I think the people in the Civil War would agree with ya," was all I said, brandishing Gone With The Wind.

We read until the sun went down, and then we must have fallen into a soft, content sleep.

"Pony? Breakfast's ready, wake up." That voice... I rolled over in bed and sat up. I knew where I was immediately. My house was warm and smelled like half-baked chocolate cake, and standing next to my bed with crossed arms and a little smile was Mom. This was one of my favourite memories to play in my head: a sleepy Saturday in July. She felt warm and real when she hugged me, and I hugged her back, wanting to stay in this dream forever. Her soft Mom scent enveloped me - chocolate cake and fresh laundry.

"I love you, Mom," I whispered into her ear. And I meant it, so so much. Every one of my muscles relaxed into her.

"Oh, Pony," she sighed. Mom was smart, and practical, and strong, but I loved her most when she was soft like this. I snuggled into her arms as she said, "I love you too." Then she drew back and looked into my eyes with her clear grey-blue ones. "I'll never stop loving you." In that moment, I realised just how much her eyes and Darry's looked alike.

She stood up to go, but I grabbed hold of her wrist, quick as a flash. "Mom," the note of desperation rang in my voice, "Mom, please don't go." I don't know why I did that. All I knew was that I was about to lose her a second time.

Mom smiled at me, rather sadly. But she said, "I'll stay just like this, until you're ready for me to let go." And she knelt back down and put her arms around me, and in the dream we stayed like this for what felt like hours and hours, and I felt as though I'd never get sick of it.

But somehow, there came a time when my muscles itched to get up again; when my nostrils had catalogued and memorised her exact blend of chocolate-washing-powder scent so I'd never ever forget it; when my limbs began to feel too long and heavy for her embrace. "Okay," I said, and I felt sad, but it also felt right. "Mom, you can let go now."

Mom, my beautiful, golden Mom, unwrapped her arms from around me and took a little step back. I looked her up and down, trying to remember every single detail about her. "You've grown," she said.

I only wanted to tell her one thing. "I love you, Mom."

My Mom answered me, an echo. "I love you, my Ponyboy."

I woke up. I could still feel Mom's arms around me, and I felt safe and warm. It was well into midday, and Johnny was sat next to me, carving something with his switch. He saw me open my eyes, and grinned at me. "Morning." He looked... different. I couldn't pinpoint it, but maybe it was happier? More peaceful. Johnny dug out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and slid them over to me; as I snatched them up, he laughed and said, "Keep 'em. I'm giving them up."

I just gave him another look. I didn't really understand, but the way he said "I'm giving them up" made it sound like a really important thing, like he'd announced he was building a hospital. "Alright..." I said, puzzled. "You're being weird."

"I had a dream," he said, as if that explained it. "About Dally. We were in Buck Merrill's T-bird... you had short blonde hair, instead of me, and we were driving down the red twisty road away from Jay Mountain down to a Dairy Queen..." Johnny shook his head. "When he started talking, I realised... Dal wouldn't want me to end up like him. Bitter and angry and hurting myself because I got dealt a shit hand."

"He wouldn't," I agreed. That was the only part of his dream that made sense to me, though. "Say Johnny, I had a dream too. About Mom. She... told me I'd grown?"

Johnny just laughed again, and with that blonde hair, I was instantly reminded of Dally laughing. "You've grown, I can say that much."

"What's that s'posed to mean?" But he was too busy laughing to give me an answer. I thought about punching him, but realised it would be easier to vent my feelings in a different way. I grabbed my journal and started scribbling.

Notes:

There is a much much weirder version of this chapter where Pony and Johnny both have the same dream, which is the scene in the book when Dally comes to pick them up. But then I figured this wasn't the sort of story that'd be improved by anything supernatural... so I changed it. In this version, Johnny is the only one who dreams of Dally, and he dreams of the full Dairy Queen scene in the book.

Chapter 32: Sodapop

Notes:

Half term!! All of my coursework is due next term, and I'll have uni applications to think about, but we'll see how it goes. Enjoy the chapter xx

"Get your ass up, greaser." A creak of the door threw a thin slice of light across Soda's eyes. He groaned and turned away.

Sodapop Curtis had been in bed for three days, four hours and thirty-seven minutes. Not that he'd been counting. For the first twelve hours, most of his time had been spent with his face in the pillow. Over the next few days, Darry had tried to entice him out with promises of chocolate cake, jelly sandwiches, and, in a last ditch attempt, cigarettes; but it was as if Soda's limbs had turned to lead. It was weird: the thought of sugar didn't appeal to him at all anymore. All he wanted to do was lie in bed, in the dark, pretending that he didn't exist. He only wished that everyone else would pretend along with him.

Clearly, Steve was not willing to go along with it. Soda heard the heavy thud of his best friend's footsteps approaching the bed. "C'mon, get up now and I won't have to beat you later for makin' me cover all your shifts."

Soda made no move to answer; partly because he didn't want to, and partly because he wasn't entirely sure if his body would obey him if he tried. A sigh came from behind him, followed by the squeal of the bed springs as Steve's weight settled on the bed. Steve's voice came again. "You've missed a lot."

Soda wasn't sure what he meant by that. Steve continued, "The Socs are gettin' real bloodthirsty, apparently. Tim Shepard got jumped... although, knowing Tim, I think the Socs that jumped him were the ones worse off by the end of it. Dunno why, but all three Shepards are avoiding us right now. I heard all this from Charlie. I ain't seen Two for a while, either - Lord only knows what he's doing. Probably hiding from the fuzz, seein' as the whole place is crawling with 'em now. Oh, and" - Steve seemed to remember - "We still have no news from the squirt and Johnnycake. Word is that they've gone to Texas, though I don't got a clue why they'd wanna do that..."

At the news - or, rather, lack of news - about Pony and Johnny, Soda could feel his heart sink a little more into the mattress. He knew Darry was worrying himself into madness about Pony being missing. Soda wished for a second that Pony would just send him a letter or something, just so they'd know he was okay...

And, of course, there was no news of Sandy. Her name hung in the gaps between Steve's sentences, loudly unmentioned. It was hard to believe that she really was... gone.

"So..." Steve spoke again. "You wanna come and get burgers with me, or are you just gonna stay in here?"

Soda said nothing. He remembered a conversation he'd had with Pony in this very bedroom. "What's it like, being in love?" "It feels real nice..."

Steve had resorted to Darry's methods. "I'll buy you a milkshake." I don't feel like eating, countered Soda mentally.

"There's a new Mustang in the garage. we can take it for a spin if you get up." It wouldn't be fun, thought Soda.

"I... We could go to the Dingo, try and find some cute girls..." Steve sounded like he was running out of ideas. And anyway, Soda didn't want any other girls. He only wanted Sandy, but she-

"Oh, why dont you grow up, Soda? You've got to grow up and stop being so stupid..."

"Soda." There was an odd quality to Steve's voice now, snapping Soda out of the memory. "Just get up."

Something new had definitely entered Steve's voice. It lost that joking quality, and now sounded sort of...

"Soda." Was it... fear? "Please get up. You're... you're really scaring me now."

Amd suddenly Sodapop remembered, like some sort of out of body experience, watching Steve sit on the edge of another bed. Standing at the line where darkness met the hallway light, and just seeing a motionless lump under the covers, instead of bright, lively Mrs Randle. Imagining she'd turned to stone under the covers, because why else would someone choose to spend two weeks in bed, refusing food and company? Hearing Steve plead with her to get up, they could go to the fair, or the cinema, or even just the kitchen, please just get up, please just say something-

Damn it, thought Soda, I really am being childish, thinking I can shut myself away to avoid my problems. It's stupid, making Steve worry about me so much.

I'm done being stupid.

In one quick motion, Soda swept his feet upwards, kicking off the covers, while snapping himself bolt upright, arms outstretched. "Man," he announced loudly to the room at large, yawning exaggeratedly, "I was gonna keep sleeping, but I can't resist the idea of eating a few burgers!" He met Steve's astonished stare. "Shut your mouth, greaser, unless you're putting a burger into it. What?" Soda winked reassuringly. "You thought I was gonna stay in bed forever?"

A few minutes later, the waitress was setting a couple cheeseburgers down in front of both Steve and Soda. She smiled at Soda sweetly; he saw that her name tag read "Cathy". Her shirt had ridden up from where it had been tucked into her apron, showing a strip of tanned skin. Soda could practically see Steve's eyes gleaming as he looked at it.

Hang on, Steve's eye. "Did you get jumped too?" asked Soda, taking in the ring of purple around Steve's left eye for the first time.

Steve grinned. "Eh, you should see the other guy." But he volunteered no other information. Usually Steve was quick to recount any fight to him, but Soda knew what Steve's silence meant: his father. He made sure to concentrate on the burger.

Mouth full of his first bite, Soda blurted, "So, what were you sayin' about Texas?"

Steve had his eyes on the waitress' retreating backside as he answered. "Rumor is that that's where Johnny and Pony have escaped to... dunno who said that though. Damn, she has a good ass."

"Pretty sure that chick is in Pony's grade, Stevie. Why Texas?"

"Dunno. Could've been the Shepards who came up with it... like I said, I ain't talked to any of the three for ages. As for that broad, what's the harm in an age gap of a couple years, anyway?"

"Jail," Soda reminded him. "Weird that the Shepards would avoid us, though. Usually they want our gang's help with handling Socs."

"Mm. Probably don't want any trouble with the fuzz." Steve paused for a second, awkwardly. "So... how you holding up after Sandy?"

Soda groaned, spraying the table with crumbs. "Do I gotta talk about it?"

Steve shrugged. "Probably. You always gotta talk about everything. What have ya got to say?"

This gave Soda pause for thought. "Uh... well..." What did he think? "It was kind of a shock.

"I mean, I thought I was gonna marry her, you know? When I got a better job, or when she'd finished school, and when Pony and Darry could get along without me... I was planning out the ring, even how I'd ask her. And I guess... I guess I thought she felt the same way..."

"But she didn't?" asked Steve.

"She says she... got into a bit of trouble... if ya know what I mean."

"Oh. But you're usually careful..."

"That's just the thing. We never..."

"Oh." Only Steve could make silence so loud.

Soda shrugged, like it was no big deal. "I said I'd marry her anyway, but she just told me to go away. So."

Steve was silent for a bit. Then he said, "I'm just saying, I didn't like her anyway."

That was definitely a lie. Steve had been a bit standoffish with Sandy at the beginning, probably out of possessiveness, but he'd definitely come round once he'd challenged her to a drinking contest. Besides, Steve wasn't a bad type, really: the whole gang always tried to be nice to girls they knew would stick around.

"Yeah, right. I can see your flaming pants from here. I'd better" - Soda brandished his cup of Pepsi menacingly - "put 'em out..."

"Oh, is that what we're doin' now? Watch out, or I'm gonna ketchup your face- no, Soda, I will actually do it... I'm gonna do it... OK I'M GONNA-"

"Wait, is that... HEY!" Soda stood up and waved both arms in the air. "Glory be, it's old Two-Bit!"

He'd noticed Two's tall frame enter the diner, but as he drew closer, he saw another shape: Curly Shepard, being dragged by the scruff of his neck towards their table.

The two of them reached Soda and Steve. "Ooh," jeered Steve, "Would ya look at what the cat dragged in?"

"Stow it, Randle," grumbled Curly. "I ain't here 'cause I wanna be, alright?"

"Sure you are," said Two brightly. "Everyone wants to help out their pal Two-Bit. Especially," a hint of warning crept into his voice, "especially if their pal Two-Bit might turn them in to the fuzz if they don't talk now..."

Curly squirmed and scowled in his grip. "Fine, I never said I wouldn't talk! Lemme go!" Two dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor.

"He has information about Pony," Two informed them - Soda pricked up his ears at the name. "I heard it off Angie Shepard... you wouldn't believe the hassle it took to find the kid. Hey," Two-Bit addressed Curly, "You gonna get up and tell 'em what you saw?"

Curly scowled at them from the floor, stood up, and began.

"So, I was hanging round the train tracks, you know the ones sort of round the back, a little way away from the station... I like it. It's quiet, and nobody's around to mind if I yell. See, I was mad 'cause Winston had taken my good blade..."

"Cut to the chase, Shepard," warned Two.

"Alright, alright... So I was there, hanging round the tracks, 'n I saw something wedged under them, so I go to take a look, right, and turns out it's Curtis- sorry, Ponyboy's shirt, absolutely soaked through with blood. And the train whistle sounded and spooked the everlovin' life outta me, and I swear to God I caught the flash of Ponyboy's hair, redder in the moonlight, inside one of the carriages headed east."

Steve looked at Soda, but of course he already knew what he was thinking. "Where do those trains go?" Soda demanded.

A grin spread across Curly's face. "I said I'd tell ya what I saw. I've told ya." Steve stepped forward, fist raised, and Curly quickly added, "Maybe they're hiding 'cause they don't wanna be found."

"What does that matter? We wanna find them," said Two.

"Just sayin', if one of my outfit was dead and a murderer, I wouldn't wanna be around you lot either. Y'all look miserable- OW!"

Steve had him by the earlobe, and yanked hard. "Do you know where they've gone, or not?"

"Quit it!" yelped Curly. "Here's a deal: you let me go after 'em for a bit, and I'll find 'em for ya. Yeah?" In response to their puzzled looks, he explained, "The fuzz are all over this side of town, and I... may have left reformatory a little earlier than advised... I need to get out for a bit. And anyway, the sooner Curtis comes back, the sooner the police are gone."

Soda sighed. "You have a deal. Steve, quit givin' the kid a wedgie."

"But his underwear-"

"So," Two interrupted, "You do know where they've gone."

"It's more of a guess," admitted Curly, "But I ain't telling you where, in case you send the fuzz after me. You have my word" - he spat on his hand and stuck it out - "I'll bring Curtis back."

Soda spat on his own hand, and they shook solemnly. Out of the corner of his eye, Soda could see Steve scowling in the background. It almost made him laugh.

"I'm gonna have to borrow Buck Merrill's T-bird," complained Curly. "Owing to Dallas Winston slashing our tyres last week." He made as if to stomp off, but Soda caught him by the arm.

"Wait - you gotta take this, too." Soda couldn't believe what he was about to do. He swore he'd never do anything like it ever since he dropped out of school. But, if it was the only way to reach Pony... He grabbed a napkin off the table. "Anyone got a pen?" Cathy the waitress, who he hadn't realised had been listening the whole time, passed him hers. "Thanks."

And Soda sat down, and began to write a letter.

Notes:

"We're really gonna let the fourteen year old drive off into nowhere?" asked Two-Bit, amused.

"You kidding? I drag race that kid every other weekend!" said Steve. "Sometimes," he added very seriously, "He even wins."