Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Well, it’s certainly an original idea for a novel, but I wonder, are you actually calling me for writing advice or is this–”

“It’s for the paper! Swear!” Pony cut Mr. Syme off in a rush, heart thumping to a tune of regret. He hadn’t even meant to get so specific, not really, but he was cleaning his room and his English teacher’s phone number was tucked away in a jean pocket and he thought, if there’s ever a time I need the advice of an adult….

He was just going to call Mr. Syme and apologize for missing his class two days in a row and then subtly ask about a creative writing idea he had been struck with. The idea being a moral dilemma, one experienced by a character who had witnessed a murder– but certainly not a real person, let alone Pony himself. He wondered if he had given too many details paralleling a well-known police report.

“But y’see– this guy, let’s call him, uh, Paul Newman– no! We’ll call him Paul Omino. Right, he knows what happened because, as I said, he saw it, and the guy who did it R– Ronald , he won’t come forward. But he’s not a bad person, but he is now, ‘cause that other guy who’s sitting in lock-up for it, uh, Guy East, is innocent. And somethin’ real bad will happen to Guy if no one comes forward.”

A beat of silence. “Right.”

“Right! So in this story, Paul wants to help Guy. A lot. An’ I’m just strugglin’ with making him do the right thing. What’s the most right thing he could do?”

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone, and as Pony held his breath, he could hear a sizzling underneath the static, like Mr. Syme was talking to him while cooking his breakfast.

“Has Paul thought of going to the police and explaining what happened? He’s an eyewitness, afterall.”

“Paul definitely thought of it, but Paul has these… sisters, who are, they’re– Darla and Samantha– and they told Paul that it may not be the best idea, see, ‘cause cops don’t think he’s trustworthy an’ it’s been so long that they may just write ‘im off, askin’ why he didn’t come forward sooner. Plus, other than his memory, he ain’t got any evidence.”

“Hm, that’s quite the predicament. I imagine you’ve thought through some other options for Paul, you want to talk me through those?” 

“Sure, yeah. In one scenario, Paul busts him out of prison.”

“Interesting, and definitely a way to test your skills as an action writer, but it doesn’t seem to be in line with your theme, Ponyboy, if you want Paul to do the most right thing. Prison break sounds like it would get a lot of people hurt, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. It was just a thought experiment,” Ponyboy laughed nervously, and he drew his pen across that bullet point in his notebook. The gang would never have let him try it, anyway. “The other one– well, Paul was considering going to Ronald directly, asking if he would turn himself over.”

“Certainly a choice. What do you think would happen, given what you’ve established about Paul and Ronald’s characters?”

“Uh, I’m not sure, really. I tried to write it that way and I got stuck on what Paul would even say.” Ponyboy looped his finger around the phone cord, twisting it around his knuckles. He was glad he thought to bring a stool over to the wall– he’d been on the line much longer than he had anticipated. He had been prepared for Mr. Syme to dismiss him outright, but he kept entertaining his ‘writing project.’

“You’re the writer here, I promise you know these characters best. Try talking it out with me, if that would help?”

“Uh, sure– I guess Ronald holds all the cards, technically, ‘cause he has no reason to care about Guy, and who would want to confess to a murder they were gettin’ away with?”

“Hard to imagine a lot of people would let the opportunity pass. But you said Ronald isn’t a bad person?”

“Right, he’s not. I think– I’ve written him to be more complex than a lot of other people in the book, ‘cause he’s not like his friends, and I– Paul has seen him be good. He wouldn’t have saved Paul if he didn’t have goodness.” Ponyboy closed his eyes, remembering Randy’s face as he told Pony to run. That wasn’t the behavior of a coward. He tried to believe Randy had the bravery to be honest.

“Maybe Paul needs to appeal to that goodness. Focus on the consequence for Guy should he take the fall, as opposed to what might happen to Ronald instead.” The underlying sizzling ceased, and the sound of a plate clinking came through the line. Mr. Syme was getting ready to eat but he kept letting Ponyboy word vomit. He was grateful, but even if his teacher wouldn’t cut him off, he didn’t want to keep him much longer.

“So you think Paul should talk to Ronald then?”

“I think you were always going to write it that way. You don’t need my approval. My advice? Try it, and if you write yourself into a corner, you can give me another call,” Mr. Syme paused, a slurp crackling through the line, “Paul has friends he can bring, in case there’s trouble?”

“Yeah, I’ll have him bring his sisters,” Pony started to doodle absently on his page, not thinking too hard on Mr. Syme’s weighted tone.

“Darla and Samantha strong enough to support him in a fight?” Mr. Syme asked, sounding a little surprised. Pony dropped his pen.

“Uh– Darla’s really strong. She lifts weights. And stuff. I gotta go, Mr. Syme, thanks for the help!”

“Anytime, Ponyboy, that’s why I gave you my number. I look forward to reading this piece.”

“Of course! Bye!” Ponyboy squeaked before slamming the phone back on the receiver like it was burning him. He didn’t consider how he’d have to actually write something to show his teacher. He shelved that problem, thinking instead of Randy Anderson. Mr. Syme confirmed what he already knew– he had to somehow convince Randy to come forward.

He glanced at the clock. Darry was at work, and Soda had taken one more day off to make sure Ponyboy was healing alright before he had to return to school. Pony thought Soda really was just making sure he wasn’t going to run off again, and as much as it bugged him to be surveilled, he knew he deserved to have the extra set of eyes on him. He used to focus on being ‘better’ for his brothers, even if he had to pretend or guess at what better really was. Now, he was trying to focus on being honest with them, good or bad. 

It had only been a few days, and already it felt as unnatural as pulling his own teeth out.

The first shower he’d been cleared to take, the stitches proving sturdy after 48 monitored hours, caused a flashback. Pony was doubly frustrated because he was moving slow, and he was being careful, and still as soon as his face got wet, he slammed into the wall with a viscous flinch.

Soda had knocked on the door and asked if everything was okay, reminding Ponyboy of every single instance in recent months where he’d tried to check on Pony and he would dismiss him with a yell that he’d just dropped the soap. In the spirit of this honesty business, he turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and met Soda at the door. He explained what happened.

He didn’t want to regret telling him about the flashback, but Soda looked so sad, and his sadness made Pony feel a rush of guilt. He had to bite his tongue to keep from minimizing the situation. Yeah, he thought woefully, being truthful is going to kill me. 

Soda hadn’t listened to his phone call because he was passed out asleep on the couch, and Pony resolved to tell him about it after he woke up. His brother was running himself ragged worrying about Pony (even though he kept telling Pony himself to not worry about a thing), and the least he could was let Soda snooze the day away. Besides, if he waited until Darry got home, he’d only have to explain the situation once.

They had taken the news that Bob Sheldon was killed by Randy Anderson much calmer than expected, and Pony had an inkling that maybe Dallas had taken it upon himself to spill the details before he got the chance to. He wouldn’t say anything to confirm, but he was grateful nonetheless. 

Trouble only erupted after the story was laid out on the table. Ponyboy insisted he do something, whether that meant going to the cops himself or convincing Randy to come forward, and while Soda sat there in quiet confliction, Darry dug his heels in.

“No! No– it was wrong place, wrong time, it was nothing you gotta punish yourself for. His PD oughta be able to clear him if he’s worth a damn, and that ain’t on you.”

“When’s a PD ever taken good care of someone from our side of the tracks, Dar?” Ponyboy was lost. Darry was his beacon of integrity, and he didn’t want him to speak up? “It’s up to me to–”

“It ain’t!” Darry cut him off, hand coming down fast but stopping just shy of the table. He clenched it, letting it drop with a soft thunk. His voice pitched. “It ain’t on you. It should be–” A sound like a growl came from low in his throat. “I should be the one to…”

“You won’t lose me,” Pony whispered, and Darry whipped his head up to lock eyes with him. “I promise, you won’t.”

“Pone– you don’t get it. You get tangled up in this, it ain’t just the cops lookin’ at you sideways, it’s the State, and after the last time– glory, they already come by so much more, they’re just lookin’ for one good reason and this is– this is the reason.”

Ponyboy felt sick, pushing his plate away from him, but he stayed in his chair. He was done running.

“If I get sent to a boy’s home, but a guy gets to live? Dar, I…” He screwed his face up, a rush of fear sweeping through him. It was the same fear that was making Darry turn away from his own morality. He wanted to stay together, wanted it more than anything in the world, but he didn’t know what to make of the cost. “At least– at least let me try to talk to Randy. Please?”

Darry covered his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger, looking like he was fighting off quite the headache. He relented, a single word which sounded as if he had to pry it out of his chest.

“Okay.”

His call to Mr. Syme reaffirmed his decision. All Ponyboy had left to do was convince Randy to do the right thing. 

The line rang twice, plenty of time for Ponyboy to get worked up enough to slam the phone down on the receiver. But he took a steadying breath, letting it ring again, and again, and then–

“Anderson residence, you’ve reached Arthur.”

Ponyboy startled, so focused on what he’d say to Randy that he forgot he might not be the one to answer.

“Oh, uh, hello– Mr. Anderson, sir– I’m looking to speak with Randy?”

“Randolph? He’s just in the front room– may I ask who’s calling? Are you one of his football friends?” Randolph? Pony had to choke back a snort upon learning Randy’s full name. Mr. Anderson spoke formally, and Pony could tell he was by no means a native to Oklahoma. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more proper.

“I run track, sir, but my brother used to be on the varsity team. Darrel Curtis?”

“Oh, Curtis! There’s a name I recognize– he was a fine captain, I think he made it into our newspaper once or twice. How’s he doing now? Imagine he was well-scouted for college teams.”

“He definitely was, sir, but he, uh,” Pony cleared his throat again, “he works to take care of my brother and me–I, my brother and I– now. Still could beat anyone on that field, though!”

“I’m sure that’s true. Crying shame, but I respect a man who puts family first– I’ll get Randolph on the line for you, son.”

“Thanks!” Pony managed, pressing a hand to his cheek. He felt warm, slightly unsteady, and he wondered if it had to do with Mr. Anderson casually throwing out the word son. He missed his dad. I feel like maybe they would have gotten along, Pony thought, his chest aching. 

“Hello?” Randy’s voice crackled through the line, and Ponyboy was reminded of why he had called. 

“Randy, it’s Ponyboy. Curtis. The guy from–”

“Yeah, I know who you are, Ponyboy. Why’re you calling?” Randy didn’t come across harsh even as he cut him off, which made Pony feel comfortable enough to proceed.

“Listen, man, we… I need to talk to you. In person. Um, it’s really important,” Pony stuttered out, certainty waning. He was scared Randy would say no, and then how was he supposed to proceed?

“Talk about…” Randy prompted, but he sounded resigned, like he knew the shoe was about to drop.

“You know what,” Pony said softly, “Randy– I remember now. We gotta talk.”

There was a long period of silence, and if the cord had been any longer and his leg any stronger, Pony would have started to pace. But he stayed planted on the stool, sore foot bouncing rapidly against one of the crossbars. He was getting ready to beg when a sigh broke through.

“Okay. Should I come over tonight?” Randy’s question was laced with tiredness. Pony could picture the eyebags he’d been sporting the past few weeks, wondered how much worse they’d gotten in the days he hadn’t seen the other boy.

“Yeah– or another location, if that’s too far,” Pony tacked on. He wanted Randy to feel safe, hoping it would make him more likely to listen to what he had to say.

“It’s fine. Keeps it neat. ‘Sides, I’m sure your brothers would want to chaperone if we took it anywhere else.”

Pony huffed a laugh, ears turning red. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

“I know,” Randy sighed, even heavier than before, like breathing was rapidly becoming a chore. “I– okay.”

“9 o’clock work?” Pony asked, thinking about what time Darry would be home from the diner. He wasn’t sure of his brother’s real schedule, still stuck on the fact he even had the stupid second job. But Darry was usually back by then, wasn’t he? Pony found he couldn’t quite remember. 

“9’s fine. I’ll be there.”

“You need my address?” Pony questioned, brows furrowing. He threw a glance over his shoulder to see Soda watching him, chewing on his fingernails. 

“Dallas Winston isn’t the only one who knows their way around Tulsa. See you tonight, Ponyboy.”

“See y–” Pony started, but the line clicked, the dial tone blowing out his ear.

He put the phone back on the wall and swiveled around on the stool to face Soda. His brother pushed off the doorframe leading into the kitchen, waving his hand in demand.

“Well?”

“Well, he’s gonna come by, and I got,” Ponyboy checked the clock, “four more hours to freak out about it.”

“Hey, no freaking. Randy ain’t gonna do anythin’ to you, not in our house.” Soda pulled his DX cap tighter on his head, looking serious. Pony frowned, shrugging his shoulders as he stood up. He didn’t bother covering his wince.

“That’s what I’m worried about, Soda. That he ain’t gonna do anything. That he’s gonna sit here and listen to me talk and still do nothin’ and then I don’t know what I’ll do. ‘Cause it is on me. As much as Darry seems to think it’s on the State, it’s on me.” Pony limped his way over to the couch, eager to swing his leg up on the cushions. 

“C’mon, Pone. Whatever happens tonight… we’ll figure it out.” Soda had enough faith for the whole family, his seemingly unflappable confidence that even the worst case scenario could end halfway decent carrying them all through Ponyboy’s recovery. 

Ponyboy latched onto Soda’s belief, tied it to him with rope. Peter Foley was going to be free from jail and somehow Ponyboy Curtis would remain right where he was.

Oh, lordy. 

Soda ended up having to call Darry at the diner to make sure he could get off in time, and Ponyboy tried to keep his grumblings about Darry working too hard to himself. He knew Soda would just tell a Soda-truth, a perception dressed as reality with not enough evidence to prove it one way or the other.

“Is Johnny gonna stop by?” Pony wondered aloud, an hour and a half shy of the agreed upon meeting time. He hadn’t seen much of Johnny in the past few days, or rather, not much had been said between the pair of them. Johnny had brought over his schoolwork Monday and Tuesday night and sat quietly at the table while they both slogged through their assignments, but Pony kept waiting for Johnny to speak first. He had said sorry– no member of the gang had escaped his remorse– and Johnny said all was forgiven. But if it was forgiven, then why won’t he talk to me?

Soda was sprawled out on the rug in front of him, and he briefly looked up from the TV– some program was on about cowboys and their evolving use of horses that had him enthralled– as he let out a long vocal fry.

“Uhhhhh, not sure. I ain’t heard from him since last night. He may, he may not.”

“Gee, thanks.” Pony rolled his eyes at the non-answer, turning his gaze to the ceiling. He worried that had he ruined his friendship with Johnny, that he had finally asked for too much and maybe they’d drift into being friends instead of best friends, then friends into two people who just shared friends– and then what if one day they became strangers? And Johnny never spoke to him again, told him anything from his head, let alone his heart, didn’t dream of that apartment with the flower box, didn’t believe in Ponyboy?

“Ponyboy, hate to ask, but could you stop kicking my back? Kinda was nice at first but now it’s like ow, ow, ow.” Soda broke through his thoughts, and he realized that he was sitting ramrod straight on the couch, swinging his leg like a hammer at his brother.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Soda. Didn’t even realize.” He drew all his limbs back over the cushions, pulling his shins close to his body, as much as the tightness of his stitches would allow. 

Soda rolled over, reaching out to grab Pony’s foot and give it a shake.

“Get the hell outta your head man, before I gotta get in there and bust you out myself.” Soda pinched his big toe, golden blond hair mussed up around his ears from laying on the floor funny. Ponyboy snapped his ankle, jerking Soda’s hand along with it.

“How’d you even do it? Gonna take a pickaxe to my skull, split it like a geode?”

“A ge- what ? Glory, none of that, they’re gonna shrink me down and I’m just gonna crawl in your ear and fuss with the wires a little,” Soda rose up on a forearm, wiggling his fingers out at Pony like he was preparing to reach into his ear, “gonna be like an episode of Star Trek.” Ponyboy yanked his foot away, leaning as far as he could from Soda.

“Who is “they,” Soda? Last I checked they ain’t invented the shrink ray yet. They just figured out how to put music into discs, they ain’t ready to go playin’ with the size of people.”

Soda tilted his head, humming in consideration. “Really? So you’re just that short on purpose then, huh?”

Ponyboy gasped. He was still growing, and Soda knew that, having been only a little bit taller than Pony at age 14 himself. “That’s it! You asked for this!” He lunged off the couch, landing fully on top of Soda, ignoring the burning in his leg as he rolled him into the rug.

They grappled, Soda doing his best to keep it focused on the upper-body, more conscious of Pony’s leg than the injured boy himself, and Pony didn’t even get the chance to realize how effective his brother had been at distracting him because suddenly it was 8:45, and Darry was walking in with a bag full of something that smelled good. 

“Soda!” He cursed immediately, kicking the door shut with his boot heel. “Get offa him!”

Sodapop had him caged beneath his locked elbows, knees on either side of his torso keeping Pony in place– his arms were trembling with the effort it took to not put his weight on top of his brother, but from Darry’s perspective, it must have looked more careless.

“I’m fine, Dar!” Pony called, staying flat on his back as Soda flung himself off to the side, thumping onto the carpet. “I started it.”

“Hm. Maybe we just save it for after the stitches come out?” Darry didn’t stoop to untie his boots like he normally did. He worked them off with his toes as he moved into the house, slapping the greasy paper bag on top of the coffee table. “Remind me again how many you got? One-oh-seven?”

“Only fifty-two, Dar,” Pony grumbled, easing himself up so he was braced against the couch. 

“Only fifty-two he says!” Darry exclaimed, and he sat heavily onto the cushion next to Pony’s head, his hand landing on his brother’s hair and shaking it out. Pony inhaled. Darry reeked of beef tallow and fryer grease. Shaggy bangs blocked out his eyes by the time Darry pulled his hand away, but the smell lingered in his nose. “Glory, you need a haircut, kid.”

“No I don’t,” Pony craned his neck, frowning up at his brother, “I want my hair long, like Soda’s.”

“Shoot, it’s hot, but it ain’t like a runner’s cut– not very pharaodynamic,” Soda chimed in from where he was peeling himself off the floor, popping his spine as he stood up tall.

“Aerodynamic,” Pony corrected him, and Soda paused stretching with two hands pressed into his lower back, fixing Pony with a look.

“What arrows got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I guess– point is, that don’t matter at all! I’ll just tie it back when I run, how’s that?”

Soda snorted, twisting this way and that with his hips squared over his feet. “Boy, you’re lucky Two-Bit ain’t here to talk about that.”

“Why?” Ponyboy asked, not following.

Soda stared at him from the corner of his eye. “Ponyboy with a…ponytail?”

“What’s that go– oh.” Pony cut himself off, ears growing warm. Yeah, that’s a fast way to get teased, Pony hummed to himself. He flexed his toes as he considered getting up and hiding away for the few remaining minutes they had until Randy arrived. 

“Whatever! I’m gonna keep growing it out! It all gets greased back, anyway,” 

“Fine, long, but not shaggy- Mama would shear off all these messed up ends. You wanna be a greaser, or a hippie?” Darry pinched at some of his hair, the bottom of the strands fraying and slick with pomade. Pony yanked his head forward, pushing himself up onto the cushion next to Darry so he couldn’t keep petting him like he was the family dog.

“Ah Dar, worry about givin’ him a haircut later, we got company comin’ over, remember?” Soda had migrated toward the paperbag on the table, pulling out a wrapped burger and holding it under his nose. “If only ya cooked like this every night.”

“Sure, the State would love that,” Darry sighed, snatching the offered bag and grabbing a burger for himself. He didn’t address Soda’s reminder about the company they were expecting.

“They would if you brought fries! Potatoes’ a vegetable. An’ ketchup’s from a tomato. Real balanced. Cheese’s dairy, milk, y’know so one day Pony here can grow taller than four feet.”

“Hey!” Pony glared at him, but he couldn’t retaliate before Darry stuck a burger in front of his face, looking at him expectantly. “Oh, I’m not hungry. Soda can have it.”

“Ponyboy Michael Curtis.” Darry kept the burger held aloft, arm unwavering. He thrust it closer, making Pony cross his eyes to focus on the food. “You are going to eat this whole thing and I am gonna watch you do it.”

Pony knocked it aside with the flat of his hand. “I ain’t hungry, Dar, I’m serious.” 

Darry stared him down. “What he eat today, Soda?”

“Uh, the breakfast scramble with the ham, half’a sandwich with that soup from Two-Bit’s ma…”

“That ain’t enough. Pony, you used to pack down three times that by 2 o’clock– eat the burger.”

Ponyboy felt it as suddenly as he did his nausea, the familiar upset rush of heat through his body he always got when Darry pushed him. He didn’t want the burger, and he really wasn’t hungry– his stomach had teeth, but they were turned inwards, biting at him, making him queasy. He was waiting for Randy Anderson to knock on the door, and he knew if he started talking to that soc with a bunch of greasy meat in his stomach, he’d get sick. 

“My stomach hurts,” Pony told Darry, turning away from the burger. “Can’t I eat later?”

“You’re gonna weasel your way out of ‘later’, don’t think I’m not starting to understand your tricks,” Darry’s calloused fingers set upon the foil, unwrapping the burger for him, “and your stomach hurts ‘cause you’re hungry.”

“You don’t know why my stomach hurts,” Pony spat, wrapping his arms around his torso. He got to his feet, ignoring the ache in his stitches, because he was getting worked up and he didn’t want to be. He wanted to say okay, Darry and eat the stupid burger. But in the moment, stronger than his fresh resolve, he didn’t want to be sick, and he didn’t want to be wrong. “I’m going to my room.”

“Honey, wait–” Soda beat Darry to the next word, but before anyone could go further, a knock on the door cracked through the house. Once, twice– a pause, a hesitant third. Only cops and social workers knocked.

Or socs.

Darry slapped his hands on his knees like he was going to stand. Pony didn’t let him get the chance, hopping over awkwardly and getting to the front door first only because he had been closer. 

He yanked the door open, and there was Randy Anderson, fist raised as if to knock a final time– for a moment, framed in the doorway, it looked like Randy was going to hit Pony. He dropped it quickly, hands pulling at the long sleeves of his red sweater.

Pony recognized the sweater as the one he’d worn in the bathroom the day they’d talked, and he could only recall that detail because he’d seen Randy wear it so many times since.

It took Ponyboy a minute to realize he hadn’t moved, and no one had said a blessed word. He blinked himself back into the moment– his house, his brothers behind him, Bob’s killer at the door– and he stepped to the right, silently inviting Randy to come inside.

Randy nodded at him, his soft brown curls bouncing with the tilt of his head. Pony thought if Randy used grease in his hair, he wouldn’t even need a football helmet. The pomade would turn the curls into concrete.

“This is my house,” Pony said, wincing as he said it. He added, “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Randy said thinly. The first word he spoke, and it was one of grateful acknowledgement. Pony’s stomach did a few laps around his esophagus.

Darry took over, the cursed burger out of his grip as he put a hand on Pony’s shoulder, looking for all the world like a protective father.

“Sir,” Randy said to Darry, his eyes clearly fighting to stay on the taller man’s, which made it worse. Randy cleared his throat. “I suppose you know, too.”

“We know a lot of things,” Soda piped up from where he had decided to lean against the wall. Pony almost rolled his eyes at the stance his brother had adopted, crossed arms and a mean mug set with a squint. He looked a little bit too much like Steve. “It ain’t the first time my brother been in trouble ‘round you.”

Pony knew Soda, for all his ability to smile through things, had never forgotten the faces of the boys who had jumped him and Johnny at the fountain. He made Johnny point out each boy as they left school one day, the ones he could remember from the dark and the fear that had been clouding his vision, and while he’d never told Pony about it, he and Steve had come home with more ‘garage bruises’ in the following week than ever before. Randy may have already felt the split of Soda’s knuckles against his cheek.

Judging by Randy’s avoidant expression, staring at a point over Soda’s shoulder into the kitchen rather than Soda himself, Pony thought it wasn’t too wild of an assumption.

“This trouble I didn’t go looking for,” Randy defended himself weakly, his voice lacking conviction, “but that’s never mattered before.” His eyes drifted back to Pony, and they seemed to find something to latch onto there. Pony realized he wanted to talk to Randy alone. 

“We’re gonna talk in the spare room,” Pony announced to the group, and he plowed through his brothers’ starting protests, “I’ll leave the door cracked. Randy ain’t gonna try anythin’.”

Randy nodded like his affirmation would matter to either Soda or Darry, but they only cared to gauge Ponyboy, assessing him, deciding him fit enough to handle this Hail Mary on his own. Darry relented, and Pony led Randy down the hall, leaving the door cracked as small as he could manage.

“Uh, you could sit, if you wanted.” Pony gestured to the desk chair and the bed, perfectly made how Johnny Cade had last left it. 

“I’ll stand,” Randy said, and Pony rolled his shoulders in response. He walked over to the desk lamp and hopped up next to it, trying to get his thoughts together.

He hadn’t been exaggerating to Mr. Syme when he had told him how many times he’d tried and failed to anticipate this conversation. There were only a handful of ways to say hey, I think you should turn yourself in for homicide, and Pony had mentally covered begging, threatening, bargaining, demanding, and in a more exotic attempt, reciting a poem. His journal pages were full of crossed out lines and devoid of circles.

Ponyboy couldn’t describe the silence as unnatural, because the bedroom was usually abandoned anyways, and he and Randy had never been buddies. Randy shifted from left to right in front of him, still wearing his loafers, pulling on that damn red sweater. His eyes were up, but lost somewhere else, and Pony took a moment to study the dry skin around his mouth, cracked lips one lick away from bleeding. Shaking fingers, brown eyes half-lidded. If he had been anyone else, Pony would have asked if he was okay.

It struck Pony that while he had been able to talk about what had happened, Randy probably hadn’t told a soul. He remembered talking to Cherry, how she said Randy wouldn’t talk to her about Bob, about anything, really. 

Randy cleared his throat, a light flickering in his gaze as his head jerked to look at Pony. He spoke first.

“You’re going to ask me to turn myself in, aren’t you?”

Ponyboy kicked his heel into the desk, startled into movement. He fought not to pick at his fingernails, the phantom sensation of dried blood stuck in the grooves of his cuticles curling through his hands.

“I remembered what happened,” Pony echoed his own words from earlier, “I– I just didn’t want to for a while, I think.”

“Mhm,” Randy agreed absently. A loose thread on his sweater was getting more attention from him than Pony.

“You know I have to ask,” Pony started, then changed directions, “but before, I gotta know something, about that day in the bathroom. What were you actually gonna say to me?”

Randy sharpened slightly, and he leaned against the door. It clicked shut behind him, but it didn’t seem like he noticed, more focused on getting support.

“Guess it doesn’t matter now…” 

“No– it does. Man, it all matters. Bob is dead,” Pony kept going even though Randy flinched, “and we both played a part in it, and I gotta know what you thought was gonna come out of cornerin’ me in school.”

Randy glanced back at the door, and Pony could feel his hesitancy as a prickling in his own brain. He sighed.

“Randy. I didn’t bring you here to force you into anything. I ain’t got a wire, I ain’t got evidence to turn over to the cops, I only got my shoddy memory and no one wants my second-hand truth. If you wanna talk, y’know… I’ll let you talk.”

Randy finally looked at him like they were both in the present, and Pony wondered if he would take the opportunity to come clean, share the burden of his self-destruction. Randy took a step toward the bed, then collapsed on top of the mattress, and a barrage of squeaking filled the room while he dragged his hands down his face.

“Who was I gonna tell?” Randy asked, though it seemed more for himself, a weary reflection Pony knew well. Another deep sigh, and then Randy snapped back together, “Y’know, I told you to run and I’m still not sure why.”

“Beats me,” Pony shrugged. Randy let out a snort of air at the other boy’s nonchalance, and it seemed to help him unwind, building up a little more steam. He shook his fingers through his curls.

“Yeah, well, I ran pretty soon after. I didn’t know what else to do except clean up and drive home. It was like, I don’t know, I was on autopilot or something. A bad dream. I thought maybe I had drank and just didn’t remember. The world was just weird like that.” Randy spoke shortly, like he had to recall his words line by line on a broken teleprompter. 

“I thought about throwing you under the bus. You were just there and you tried to save him when I didn’t, and I woke up and his dad was calling and I thought I could push it off some more and say it was you.” 

Pony stiffened. He gripped the wooden desk, his palms seeking a splinter to dig into, something to ground him. Then he thought that Darry would be none too happy to sit there with tweezers and pick through his ruined hands, and he eased up slightly.

Randy continued, consumed by memory, “But I also thought about running away. Or killing myself. Or just laying there until I could wake up, or a thousand other stupid things. I was just thinking about how much I wanted to stop thinking about it. Him. What I did.” Randy rubbed his hands over his chinos, his eyes playing a constant game of tag with Pony’s. 

“Really, I was going to ask you what you would have done if it had been you. With the blade, I mean. If you had been the one to… both times– at the fountain first, then with… y’know, and I was going to ask because both times you had done something, you tried to help, and that was more than what I could do. I ran when he fell that night. I ran after you did–” Randy pulled at the collared shirt peeking out from under his sweater. He sucked in a breath.

“I was just going to ask what you would have done. But then you didn’t remember. You had no idea what I was talking about beyond the fact Bob was dead. And damn it, kid, that kind of was my answer.” Randy laughed, a bitter, clenched sound, and he went to cover his mouth like Cherry had when they had spoken. “I thought, maybe I can just forget like you. Avoid it, bury it, whatever, pretend Bob was visiting colleges. Or he was out of town, at some kind of retreat, getting help. He ran away from home– any old lie. I just wanted to forget.”

Pony ached as Randy’s shoulders hunched in on him, rising up like gilded shields– he knew exactly what it was like to be that desperate. He was in a position to break out of that cycle after so many months of running from his own mind, but Randy was looking up at the mountain still, wondering how he could ever see past it. He didn’t know how to climb.

“But you can’t forget,” Randy’s voice cracked, and his eyes widened like he was startled by his own display of weakness. He straightened quickly. “It’s impossible. His father’s always over, and man– he didn’t care about Bob, he just cares about having lost something. He’d be the same way if his car was stolen.” Randy spit out the details, and Pony wondered what else he knew about Robert Sheldon and the way he’d ‘raised’ his son.

“And my father’s got the paper, he’s going through the layouts in the morning, and it’s all Bob, and his picture– our picture, in one– and what a loss. It’s a total loss. A big fucking loss when I–” his breath hitched again, and he grabbed at his chest, yanking on the sweater, “I killed him. Oh god, when I killed my best friend.”

Randy got lost again, breathing ragged and eyes misted over, and Pony left him to his panic for a moment to try and sort himself out. Randy and Bob were best friends, Bob a year older and by all measures rougher around the edges. Pony thought of Johnny, and all the years they’d known each other, all the trouble they had gotten into together. But they’d always done it on the same side, a united front. There was a time when Ponyboy had dreamed of running away with Johnny just to get away from it all.

He tried to imagine trading places with Bob and Randy, if Johnny had been about to cut up some poor kid, and Pony had no choice but to strike against his best friend. But for his life, he couldn’t ever imagine Johnny getting mean like that. 

“He wasn’t your best friend,” Ponyboy said, and Randy’s attention was returned to him.

“What?” He choked out, his face pinched and blotchy. The tears hadn’t spilled yet.

“It’s like I said it, he wasn’t your best friend,” Pony asserted, shaking his head, “if he had been, he would have never put you in that position.” Pony didn’t care if Randy believed him because he knew it was true, and he felt sorry that Randy didn’t have that kind of certainty in his life. Months and months ago, Cherry had told him socs had problems all their own– that had to be one of them, he decided, because he knew the gang would have his back. Randy couldn’t say the same. Bob certainly couldn’t, either.

Randy was quiet, but he relented eventually, “I guess you’d see it that way.”

Ponyboy didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to change Randy’s life. He only wanted him to save someone else’s.

“The whole team, Cherry, we thought he’d dry out. Eventually. I mean, it’s Bob. He’s a prince. Was. Fuck,” Randy groaned, and he reached out to twist the comforter beneath him, “Was, was, was. Just doesn’t get easier. Everyone’s always trying to talk to me about him. Comfort me. There was a moment I thought I’d just say everything, get them to stop looking at me like that… ”

“Then why didn’t you come clean?” Pony asked, scratching into the desk to keep his hands busy.

“Why does anyone do anything? I was afraid.” Randy closed his eyes. “I still am afraid.” He let go of the mattress with one hand to dig into his pocket, and as he started to pull something out he addressed Ponyboy again.

“You mind if I smoke in here?”

“Uhhh,” Pony minded a little only because Darry minded a lot, but he considered that Randy was working through levels of stress that warranted a smoke break, “Sure, I guess.”

Randy pulled out a tin, not a carton, and snapped it open to reveal a few small pre-rolls. 

“Oh you meant like…” Pony trailed off, jaw working side to side as he realized Randy had brought weed into his house. Randy hesitated with the lighter by his mouth, the dope between his lips.

“I don’t have to,” Randy chewed around it, “it just helps me.”

Ponyboy knew a thing or two about the kind of help weed provided, but he kept his trap shut and nodded. I hope Darry doesn’t think I’m the one smoking, Pony bemoaned, I’m sorry about the smoke, Darry!

Randy lit up and Pony did his best not to breathe in the smoke as it clouded the room. After his second hit, he got up to open the window and stayed there, inhaling the fresh air.

He looked out into the scraggly lot they called their backyard, and it was an ugly view, but it was perfect, and Darry and Soda worked hard to make sure they could have an ugly lot view to call their own. He thought about Peter Foley and how his view for the past few weeks had been concrete and steel bars. The paper said his wife was going to give birth in the summer. What if I never had a dad or a Darry? Who would I have been?

Without meaning to, Pony thought of his distorted thesis from his Lord of the Flies essay. The consequences of boys playing god: it was always going to be someone else’s life.

Ponyboy didn’t turn around. “Look, man, it’s time to face it.”

Randy didn’t speak, but he heard another exhale. Pony gripped the windowsill. “We both have to. This stupid war was already bad enough when it was just guys like you and me getting hurt, but it’s bigger now. A man’s gonna pay for this and he ain’t even know what happened.” 

Pony turned around, bracing his body against the sill so his back was exposed to the cool air. It helped keep him calm enough to continue, “You come forward, and yeah, it’s gonna suck. But you’re gonna have a life to fight for at least. You gotta understand, Randy,” Pony wanted the boy to look at him, and he did, eyes bloodshot and searching, “that guy, his name’s Peter. He’s gonna be a dad to some kid, and folks like you would call him East side trash. But they called my dad that. They already call me that. It ain’t true.”

“He’s gonna breathe wrong at the jury n’ he’s gonna look mean no matter what, and he’s gonna get the death penalty ‘cause they think he killed a rich boy. Randy, he may have been rich, but he ain’t worth more. You ain’t either.”

Randy ducked his head, and Pony walked over and sat next to him. He couldn’t run away from this one, and Randy couldn’t either. 

“Man, I was going to turn myself in,” Pony confessed with a hopeless glance to the ceiling, “because I thought I’d done it. I dream of it all happenin’, or how I think it happened, and it just– it got messy up there.”

“I know what you mean,” Randy whispered, an acknowledgement of nothing more than his own echoing fears. 

“I was gonna do it. Had a whole plan of waltzin’ down to the station and confessing. Then I had to go and almost drown. Somewhere between bad decisions and the hospital, it all came back to me.” He patted his stitches, “Guess I’m glad I wasn’t the one holding the knife,” he turned toward Randy, drawing his good leg up onto the bed to face him, “but if I had been, we wouldn’t even be here.”

Randy looked wrecked, grey and hollowed out. Pony didn’t think he could relent, not when he meant every word.

“It’s gonna suck.” Pony awkwardly bumped his knuckles against Randy’s shoulder, and the older boy met his gaze. He ashed his preroll on the lid of the tin. “It’s the right thing.”

“I never cared about the right thing before,” Randy told him, “not really.”

“You have,” Pony refuted, “Randy, you testified at Johnny’s hearing. You didn’t fight in the rumble. That means something.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Randy chuffed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Pony watched him continue to cycle, unraveling and then reknitting himself into a person who could have this conversation, and he let him do it, but part of him wanted to shake him and damn his fear. Ponyboy was fourteen, and he had been ready to face death. Randy didn’t have the right to hide like this.

Pony tried to remember who Bob was to Randy. He thought again of Johnny, who he could see himself becoming in his absence, and it cooled him down.

“You’re right, though,” Randy said after another length of silence, “I can’t run away from this anymore. Can’t sleep, or eat, and everyone knows something’s wrong, and my dad’s on me about college– I can’t see myself anywhere. I guess jail, now.”

“Quit the pity,” Pony scolded, and Randy blinked at him dumbly. “You ain’t confessin’ to stone cold murder. You saved my life. I’m comin’ forward, too.”

Randy choked on something, and he doubled over coughing, the hacks made worse by all the smoke he’d put into his lungs. Pony sat back on his hands. Does that make me brave?

Am I like Paul Newman?

Pony tried to focus on being a hero instead of being an orphan in constant threat of being stolen from his brothers.

“You’d come forward?”

“Yeah, Randy, I’m a witness . I know exactly why you did what you did.”

Randy slid him a sideways look. “Weren’t you high?”

Pony stiffened. “No…”

The other boy nodded, accepting the exclusion of fact. “Okay, sure. What about that other boy?”

Jerry flashed through his mind. He was going to get out of Oklahoma. He was going to do something braver than Pony could ever think to do, and he wasn’t going to stop him.

“There was no other boy.”

“Yes, there was– are you serious? The guy with the afro and the–”

“There was no other boy. It was just me. Bob came after me.”

Randy looked like he wanted to argue the point once more, but he must have read between the lines of Pony’s expression because he nodded again, dropping it.

“I guess JR could mean junior,” Randy said, fumbling for something in his pocket.

“What?” Pony inched back on the mattress, getting more space from the other boy as he pulled out–

“Glory, is that the switch?”

Pony thought he might faint: the handle of a knife rested on the flat of Randy’s palm with two letters burned into the wood. JR. 

Jerold Reed, he’d learned was his friend’s full name, or Robert Sheldon, Junior. 

If Randy flicked out the blade, Pony had a feeling he’d see rust-colored splotches, uncleaned and crusted, all over the steel.

“I didn’t know what to do with it. Or this,” he added, and Pony had the stray thought of how big are this guy’s pockets before he saw the item clenched in his hand.

A white shirt soiled in blood. Pony snatched it away from him, digging for the tag he already knew would read Curtis. Speechless, he shook the shirt at Randy for an explanation.

“Guess we cleaned up at the same creek ‘cause that was just lying there. Remember how I said I flirted with the idea of uh, throwing you under the bus?” Randy scratched at the back of his neck. “I suppose that was the bus.”

Pony’s fingers twisted into the soiled fabric, Bob’s blood and his own blood equal in color and stain upon the shirt. He’d burn it. He needed to burn it.

“Thanks for,” Pony swallowed, his head swimming, “bringing this back.”

“Well, if we’re doing this like you say we’re doing this, I don’t need it anymore,” Randy pocketed the blade, “I like to think I wouldn’t have done it. But I don’t know.”

You and me both, Randy.

Pony’s leg ached, ready for his next dose of aspirin. He was tired, and he couldn’t believe Randy had agreed to come forward even if it meant he’d have to testify, and he wanted to hurry up and get him out of the house so he could sleep through one final school day. Unless he wants to… right now?

“I just need,” Randy interrupted his thoughts before they could devolve further, “a night. Loose ends, and…” He gestured around the room, and Pony accepted his delay without any judgement. He’d been the same way.

Pony didn’t know how to end the conversation. For all the times he’d practiced starting, he’d never had a chance to envision the last words, the push out the door. It was decidedly awkward. He stood up, hissing through his teeth from the pain in his leg, which did not go unnoticed by Randy. 

“Dock nail,” Pony told him before he could think not to, “fifty-two stitches.”

Randy stared at his leg like it was going to start bleeding. Pony took a step away from the bed, wondering when Randy was going to follow suit. He didn’t have to wait long.

Sullenly, the older boy rose and led the way to the door, opening it up and ghosting through the hallways of the Curtis house. Darry was just around the corner, and he didn’t look at them as they passed, which made Pony suspect that he’d been eavesdropping and trying not to make it obvious. Soda was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms still crossed. Either he hadn’t left that position, or he had hustled over there once he heard the door creak open, and either option had Pony biting his lip to stop a smile.

It really wasn’t the time for his brother to be funny.

He walked Randy to the door, said a goodbye that felt like ash on his tongue, equal parts promise and threat and uncertainty, and then Randy was getting into his car and leaving. He could change his mind. He could still decide to stay silent, or throw me under the bus, or– Pony cut himself off. Randy had given him the shirt, a pretty damning piece of evidence even if they couldn’t tell whose blood it was. He decided that the shirt meant something, as much as it did when Randy gave Dallas his rings. He had kept that promise.

Pony believed he’d keep this one, too.

With the door closed, Pony turned around to face both of his brothers. Immediately, he put his hands up. “I swear to you I was not the one smoking dope in the spare bedroom, but I definitely let Randy do whatever he wanted ‘cause I know how I’d feel if– oof.”

Darry’s arms were around him, squeezing, holding him fast against the brick wall of his brother’s chest. It was warm, and the pressure made him feel he was stuck inside a juicer, nothing more than an orange within Darry’s grip. But he melted, legs going boneless as Darry took on all his weight, and then Soda was there, and it was perfect, they were a family and dammit he was going to stay with them. He was always going to stay with them.

“I’m proud of you,” Darry murmured into his hair. “Dad would be, too.”

Pony’s ears warmed. So Darry had heard them talking.

Fixing what you ruined is nothing to be proud of, a voice whispered inside of him, not quite ready to let go.

Shut up, he told the voice, and he huffed a breath as much as he could with his nose pressed into Darry’s shirt. 

“You gotta eat dinner now, kiddo.”

“Shut up,” Pony hummed, silencing all unwanted commentary. Unfortunately, his brother was not as easily conquered as his own fitful mind.

“What did you just say to me?” Darry asked, an edge creeping into his words as he pulled back with two hands on Pony’s shoulders.

“I said sure! I said sure!” Pony yelped, but it was too late, the hug turned into a loose chokehold, Darry’s biceps flexing performatively as they wrapped up around his face. Soda was gone, and then he was standing in front of him seconds later with a burger in his hands, and despite his lingering nausea, Pony laughed, and he was grateful he didn’t find it impossible to keep the food his brother had made him down as he went to bed that night.

Curly Shepard stopped by the next day, skipping class a choice for him in a way it was currently a necessity for Pony. Both Soda and Darry had returned to work, secure in their belief Pony wasn’t about to cut and run anywhere, and though Curly had certainly never been inside the house before, he acted like any member of the gang, sauntering in the front door as if he had been there a thousand times.

“Anycurtis home?” He yelled, jovial and undeterred by his role as intruder.

Pony had been dozing on the couch watching a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show, and the bang-slam of the screen door made him jump up.

“Hell, Curly, I wasn’t expecting any company.” He put a hand over his chest, heart rattling like a bird trapped in a box. “Why do you have flowers?”

Curly held a bouquet of sunflowers in his hands, ditch daisies small and struggling to make themselves apparent between their stems, and he was gripping the newspaper wrap so tightly that petals were already fluttering down to the floor.

“These are for you,” Curly stated matter-of-factly, thrusting the bouquet forward.

Pony sputtered. “What– what in the what? Why the hell did you–”

He cut himself off, his face glowing with heat and he knew it was redder than a cherry. Curly laughed at him, doubling over to grab at his stomach, and Pony felt like the victim of a joke he hadn’t been told yet.

“Relax, Curtis, these aren’t from me. They’re from Meredith and June. They woulda brought ‘em to you in the hospital but your brothers were, uh, rather against visitors. Or just me. Geez, you smoke weed with someone’s kid brother one, two, five or so times…”

“June?” Pony leaned over to the edge of the couch. “She’s okay?”

He remembered Christina and her daunting indifference as she spoke of June recovering in the hospital from a bad trip, and he felt guilt climbing up from his stomach into his throat that he hadn’t gone to see her for himself.

“Why wouldn’t she be okay?” Curly frowned, and after a quick glance around the room, started for the kitchen. “Nice place! Y’know, everyone was askin’ me about you.”

“Askin’ what?” Pony called after him, projecting his voice. Curly said something, but the faucet was running, so he didn’t catch it. “I said, askin’ what !”

Curly came back, the flowers sloppily deposited into the plastic cup they kept on the counter which was supposed to be full of pencils and spare stationary. Ponyboy groaned, flopping against the cushions. “You better not have left a mess I gotta clean up.”

“You don’t have to do anything, I think,” Curly quipped, and he set the makeshift vase on the coffee table. Pony begrudgingly admitted they brightened up the room a fair amount, the beige walls popping from the yellow addition. It wouldn’t be a bad time for a visit from the State– it had to be any day now, since they sent someone the last time Pony had wound up in the hospital.

“Who was askin’ what about me?” Pony directed his attention back to Curly, the older boy now working his way through a stack of magazines clustered by the TV.

“Well, you got carried away from a beach where quite the party was ragin’. Lotta eyebrows were raised, lotta greasers wonderin’ what kinda trouble you got into now,” he whistled as he flipped through a copy of Sports Illustrated with a bombshell blonde on the cover,   “and Jerry came back ravin’, so I hadda do a lot of work to explain that no, y’all didn’t have it out at the old docks and yeah, the guy is just that accident prone!”

Pony furrowed his brow, trying to picture Curly, in front of a crowd of confused gang members, telling them that Ponyboy Curtis wasn’t tough, but accident prone.

“Thought you were all about growing my rep– sounds like you just put a bullet through it.”

“You’ll just hafta earn it back. I have a few ideas.” Curly grinned at him from where he was hunched over the magazines.

Pony considered telling him he was going to earn it back faster than he thought, with Randy preparing to turn himself in and Pony getting ready to come forward when he did. He held the information close to his chest. Curly’ll find out soon enough.

“How did June and Meredith know? I didn’t see them at the lake.”

Curly fixed him with a blank stare. “You really wanna waste time askin’ about how fast news spreads in this town?”

“Yeah, fair point,” Pony chuckled, thinking about how Bob Sheldon was the only name on everyone’s lips not even twelve hours after he was dead.

“They said they better see you soon, ‘or else’. I don’t know what ‘else’ could mean, but I once saw June set a boy’s hair on fire, so make sure you choose soon. ¿ Comprendes ?”

“Sí.” Pony agreed easily. Meredith had let him continue his lie, and June had talked to him like a peer instead of a kid or a killer, and so for that he owed both of them a few conversations. He’d just have to have them sober, which would be a new experience for all of them. “You mentioned Jerry– how’s he doing?” 

“Oh, Jerry’s aces. Him and Tom hauled off for the ol’ Golden State a few days back, don’t know if we’ll be seein’ them anytime soon.” Curly hopped up from his crouch and went for the recliner, immediately settling into it with a pull of the lever. “We gotta hang at yours more. Tim don’t have furniture with gears ‘n bars.”

“Good, that’s good to hear,” Pony hummed about Jerry, ignoring Curly’s request to come over more. He suspected Darry might get the shotgun out of hiding if he caught the Shepard boy stirring up trouble under their roof. 

“Yeah, he– y’know he said to tell you somethin’, actually.” Curly had gotten cozy in Darry’s chair, but he cracked an eye, looking at Pony with a raised brow.

“What did he say?” Pony asked, not expecting the best answer. The first time he’d met Jerry, he was unbelievably high and had gotten him involved, however good intentioned, with a murder rap. The second time, he’d freaked the guy out before almost drowning in front of him. Their history wasn’t exactly the basis for a solid friendship, and even so, Pony could only be grateful to the other boy for trying to help even in the worst of circumstances.

“He said, tell him to keep his head out of the bushes. Then he kinda laughed like,” Curly imitated Jerry’s deeper, smooth chuckle, “and then that was that. Adios, Tom and Jerry.”

Pony’s lip tugged up against his will, the faint memory of Jerry pulling him out of a bush that fateful night dredged up to the forefront of his mind. It wasn’t bad advice, considering Pony now had a tried and true history of falling in front of Jerry.

Ironic, Darry telling him to keep his head out of the clouds, Jerry telling him to keep his head out of the bushes– it was the same advice looked at from two different perspectives, and they evened out to one sentiment: be present. Ponyboy was alive, and he owed that in part to his brothers, to Johnny, and now to both Randy and Jerry. 

“I will,” Pony promised, but Curly was focused on picking up where Pony had left off with Andy Griffith.

“No need to tell me that,” Curly said absently, “I’m the kind of person who’ll shove you into one.”

“I’d tackle you right back. Probably beat you with a stick, too.”

“Then I’d set your hair on fire, probably. Dunno.”

“I’m starting to think you were the one that got your hair set on fire by June.”

Curly got quiet, but the glower he put on spoke for itself. Pony wished he could have been there to see it.

He thought his friendship with Curly would have felt more reckless, thought it maybe would have ended once the drugs ended, or once Pony proved himself too ‘boring’ to be a part of his life. Pony didn’t street race. He didn’t deal, he’d never set foot inside the reformatory and he had no plans to, wouldn’t wear a record like a badge of honor if he had one. He once considered Curly as different to him as a soc, living a life he couldn’t fathom with a set of stakes he couldn’t gamble with.

But Curly Shepard fell asleep in his living room watching The Andy Griffith Show. Really, they weren’t so different after all.

Johnny came by in the afternoon, beating Soda home, and he must have walked because neither Steve nor Two-Bit came traipsing up to the house after him. Ponyboy was on the porch, flicking a cigarette around in his hands and debating if it was worth it to smoke when he was already low and his brothers wouldn’t buy anymore packs for him, and Johnny was headed straight for him off the sidewalk.

Pony perked up, tucking the cigarette behind his ear like Dallas always did, and he stood, rising slow on his bad leg.

What would I do without you? Pony thought, waving at Johnny as he swung open the gate. Anxiety and longing warred within him– Johnny hadn’t talked to him much this week, and even though talking wasn’t usually an important activity for them, the silence had felt stifling. But he wanted to talk, or get back to the way it was, communication in looks and smiles and eyerolls, being a two-headed creature in the gang instead of just friends.

Johnny was his best friend. Oh, how he didn’t want to lose him.

“Hey, Johnnycakes,” he greeted as Johnny saddled up the porch next to him. 

“Hey, Pony,” Johnny said, voice soft as he leaned against the railing. Pony remembered the last time they’d been out on the porch together, the dull confession he’d delivered so numbly. Johnny had talked about having a place together, said Pony had a great future ahead of him.

Does he still believe that?

What was next for Ponyboy Curtis? He’d go forward with Randy, and even if he was no longer risking jail, it was the second time he had been in serious trouble under Darry’s guardianship, and he knew that meant there was a chance he’d be taken away. He didn’t know where that would land him. In a boy’s home, surely, but where? Would they keep him in Tulsa– would they even keep him in Oklahoma? Would the State let him see his brothers, or would they be kept apart for what they determined to be ‘for his own good’? He wouldn’t graduate, he wouldn’t go anywhere, he’d spend four years sitting around trying to get home, get stuck, be joyless, be better off dead.

Or.

Or, Pony considered, he’d go forward and save Peter Foley from the chair. The State would let him stay with Darry and Soda. He’d finish school, he’d go see the stupid shrink Darry wanted him to see, and he’d go to college. And then…

And then he wanted to get an apartment with Johnny Cade, or a house, any place they could grow flowers– window box or a yard, he’d take either– because that fantasy of escaping somewhere with his best friend and building a new home was going to grow with him, change shape and settle between his ribs as an inoperable truth. Johnny was his family as much as Darry or Soda, and he wanted Johnny to think of him as family, too.

God, he was so worried Johnny wouldn’t want that with him after all the wrong he’d done. He should have been better in the first place, to deserve a friend like him, and he should have–

“Pony,” Johnny broke into his thoughts, “Glory, I been working up the nerve to say this for two days, but I’m mad at you.”

The train tracks bent, the steel crooked, defying gravity to raise off the dirt and dig into the oncoming locomotive that was Pony’s brain. All that he was came to a halting stop.

“You are?” He asked, hating that he sounded meek. Of course Johnny was mad! He had lied for weeks, and he made Johnny lie, and–

“Yeah,” Johnny clasped his hands, arms out in front of him. It was a casual stance, one Pony had assumed a thousand times before, but as Johnny leaned over the railing it looked more like he was praying. “I don’t want to be, but I am.”

“I’m sorry,” Pony said, not for the first time. Johnny shook his head.

“What do you think you’re sorry for?”

Pony thought it was obvious, but he indulged, “For lying, making you lie. For doing drugs. For making you have to save me, again. For–”

Johnny cupped a palm over Pony’s mouth, silencing him. “Man, you really don’t get it.”

Pony removed his hand slowly, like the fact that he was touching Johnny might scare him away again. “Get what? I’ll say it a thousand times over, and still mean it everytime.”

Johnny turned to him, positioned so his elbows were hanging over the railing. A soft breeze ruffled his growing hair, fluffy and uncombed. The scar on his cheek had faded into a glossy white patch of tissue, a starburst permanence of Bob Sheldon. Johnny was still here. Bob wasn’t.

“You’re sorry for all the things you did do, and I forgave you for all that– anythin’ that’s worth forgivin’ that is,” Johnny sighed. “I’m mad because I thought you were gonna die. Again.”

“I’m… sorry?” Pony threw out like a question. He didn’t think that was necessarily his fault. Hell, he’d been trying to get to shore before Jerry had accidentally thrown him in!

Johnny brought a hand up to cover his eyes. He groaned, his teeth flashing as he did.

“All the sorry’s in the world wouldn’t have brought back my best friend, Pone.”

Pony sucked in a breath, more focused on the best friend than anything else. Johnny tilted his head back.

“I’m not as scared as I used to be, y’know. And I can handle anything you throw at me, I can. But I’m still terrified of you stuck floating in the water.” Johnny chewed on his lips. “I know you see Bob when you close your eyes, and the drowning, and I used to see that too, a little bit. The knife and the– I see it. But now I just see you. And I can’t get to you in time, and you die, and glory, Pony, I’m so, so mad at you for that.”

Ponyboy didn’t think another sorry would help. He kept quiet.

“I was lucky enough to be brave once. Then I was lucky enough to be on the dock when you fell. Lucky to have Dal’s car. Lucky, lucky, all luck, that’s not enough. ”

“It was an awful lot more than luck, Johnny,” Pony whispered, wishing Johnny could see himself as he did. “Took skill to swim us to shore, at least.”

“An’ I only have that ‘cause you taught me how to do it!” Johnny exclaimed, and Pony recalled the summer before his parents died, finding out Johnny didn’t know how to swim because his folks hadn’t bothered to care about their son on land, let alone in the water. Darry was busy with his football friends, and Soda had just discovered his charms could affect girls even better when he didn’t have acne, and so Pony took Johnny up to the lake and taught him the front stroke. 

He did it to help Johnny, at the time. Who knew it would end up saving Ponyboy instead?

Johnny cleared his throat. “I’m mad at you and I don’t want to be. But you gotta stop going in the water, Pone.”

“I promise to try and stay dry, and I promise not to make you fish me out the next time I fall in.” Pony slapped a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, giving it a shake. Johnny straightened, grabbing Pony’s hand with his own.

“No, don’t promise that,” Johnny said, his voice frustrated, “I’ll always fish you out. Just don’t you dare make me, y’hear?”

Pony couldn’t argue with the intensity in Johnny’s brown eyes, so he accepted the sentiment with a nod. Johnny was mad at him, but he was still his best friend. The rest was rain, and it had to stop eventually.

They were quiet for a minute, and Pony was sure Soda would be home soon, but it was back to being comfortable between them. Quiet with the intention of quiet. Pony felt muscles he didn’t even know he had been tensing relax in his shoulders and neck.

“I will say,” Johnny started again, “I think I understand a little more of what I wanna do, thanks to… alla that.”

Pony smacked his lips, resisting his cigarette. “How’s that? You gonna open the pizza shop?” 

“No! I thought about that, uh, probably too much– but it wouldn’t work. I’d have to get a loan, an’ learn how to run a business and, yeah, no.”

“And learn how to make pizzas.”

“Yeah, that too, I guess.”

“Fake Italian,” Pony deemed him, and Johnny pointed at him with a stern finger. 

“Hey now, watch your tone. Don’t forget I can still boil spaghetti better than you.”

“Hm. Half-Italian.” Pony amended, and Johnny let out a snort of air.

“Well. You ain’t wrong.” He popped a few of his knuckles before shaking out his hands. “But I’m serious. I know what I wanna do– or what I’m gonna try to do, at least. It’s more of a loose–”

“Don’t be shy, Johnnycakes, spit it out,” Pony encouraged his friend, and Johnny shot him a small grin.

“Right. I want to help people. And,” Johnny put his palms up, “I don’t know just how yet, and I don’t know where, but I feel like ‘cause I can, I have to.” He fiddled with his earlobe, where for a single week there held a diamond stud Dally had stuck through him. The stud was gone, but the hole was taking its sweet time to heal and close over. “I couldn’t even help myself, not too long ago. I was relying on the guys for everythin’, all my battles. I’m more than that, now, I think. I wanna be someone else’s Dally, or Darry. I wanna help.”

Pony didn’t reckon Dallas fit into the category of people who helped other people, but he knew Johnny saw the older boy in a light he couldn’t quite register. 

“Help, like in fights?” Pony asked nervously. A uniting trait between Pony and Johnny was that they didn’t like the casual violence of their neighborhood as much as their buddies indulged it– or so he thought. “You wanna be ah, a soldier?”

“Oh, hell no, Ponyboy!” Johnny gasped, and Pony let out a breath. “Opposite, actually. Like, I don’t know, a firefighter, or something.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Pony frowned. The thought of Johnny running into fires turned his insides cold. 

“Or something, I said. You think… you think maybe boys can be nurses?” 

“You wanna wear the dress ‘n the hat?” Pony’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. Johnny gave him a gentle push, his eyes quick as lightning as they darted to his leg and back up again.

“Whatever. Whatever! I got time, I’ll figure it out.” Johnny waved Pony off, cutting off another round of teasing from taking voice.

“Y’know, I think I got it.” Pony said instead. Johnny plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, lighter already in his hand. He waited to light it until Pony nodded.

“Tell me,” Johnny asked, puffing out his first breath and passing it straight over.

“Well, you already help me so much,” he said, savoring the smoke even if his brothers wouldn’t approve, “you can be my best friend for a job.”

Johnny blinked at him like he was taken aback. “That’s not a job at all, Pone. That’s an honor.”

He was too earnest compared to Pony’s joking tone, and for a moment none of it mattered, not tomorrow’s challenges, not the shifting landscape of his future, because his heart was full. Ponyboy threw an arm around Johnny’s neck, dragging him into a side hug. 

“For the best,” he said instead of crying, “I heard it’s a job that doesn’t pay.”

“I think it does,” Johnny smiled from under his hold, just two boys looking at the waxwings returning to nest in the yard’s crooked oak, “more than you’d think.”

One Month Later…

“Figures you do horses– is that an appaloosa over there? Say, why don’t you add Mickey– watch the paint, watch the paint!”

The stool beneath Pony’s feet wobbled dangerously as Soda pointed to the streak of brown dripping down the wall, slashing through a half-finished flank on Pony’s latest subject. 

“Soda, hold it tight! Darry’ll skin ya if I bust this leg up again!” Pony hollered as his brother resumed his given job of stabilizer. “It’s no big deal. Whole thing’s still wet– Two-Bit, can ya get me a rag?”

“On it, boss!” Two-Bit shouted from somewhere behind him. The diner wasn’t too busy, so he didn’t have any qualms about ordering his friend around. Besides, he was getting paid to work. Pony absolutely was not.

He regretted it even less when the rag hit him in the side of the head a few moments later. Ponyboy muttered a curse under his breath as he dabbed at the fresh streaks threatening his work.

“How many more days ya think it’ll take you?” Soda asked, watching with wide eyes as he tracked the up-down strokes of Pony’s paintbrush. Pony paused, chewing on the wooden handle of the brush as he considered his progress.

“Shucks, I ain’t sure. I’ve never painted a mural before! An’ some of these horses look a little, uh, special , so I may hafta scrape a few off and go again. I just don’t know.” Pony leaned forward, one hand pressing into a dry patch of the wall while the other dappled on the last of the most recent horse’s mane.

“Well, I think the whole thing looks perfect. Couldn’t be more impressed,” Soda crowed, and he patted the back of Pony’s knees– gentle, this time, having learned his lesson about the sturdiness of Jo Anne’s spare stools.

“I certainly love it!” Jo Anne came up from the left, and when Pony glanced down at her, she was sporting a blue-ribbon smile. “I think you’re right, really adds something to the place.”

“An’ you’re sure it’s okay that it’s horses?” Pony confirmed, fishing for approval on his completely unrestricted choice for the tenth time since he started.

“It’s more than okay, Ponyboy. ‘Sides, wall was just blank before you came in here.” She leaned across one of the booths, squinting at some of the details. Pony fidgeted, nervous to have his work under the scrutiny of the diner’s owner.

He still didn’t know quite how it happened. Pony had been grounded for two weeks when the boredom truly struck him dumb, and while he had spent the last few months moping and indulging the life of a homebody, he found he couldn’t just sit around anymore. No, he didn’t want to do that anymore. But Darry had grounded him for the foreseeable future (or ‘forever’, in his own words) and that meant the gang had to listen to Pony’s constant vies for attention. 

(“Are you sure you wanna go to the rodeo, Dal? Are you really sure? What about when I got this pack of cards in my hands? Does that change anything?”)

(“Soda, Steve– why don’t you ever just bring the girls over here? Place is cleaner than it’ll ever be– I’ll cook. I said I’d cook!”)

(“Darry, I think your boss called. Yeah, Jo Anne. She said don’t come in. Yes, she did say that, she said ‘oh, you better stay home an’ hang out with the tough guy that came in here once’ and I think she meant me. Darry. Don’t walk out that door!”)

Johnny was the only one who didn’t mind shirking a night out in favor of lounging around the den or having Pony read aloud from a book. It helped that they were now reading The Great Gatsby in Mr. Syme’s class, and Johnny always laughed when Pony tried out a ‘soc accent’ to read as Jay Gatsby.

Johnny Cade alone could not tame his restlessness. So when Pony almost burnt the kitchen down ‘experimenting with the power of their stove’, Darry finally cracked and changed the terms of his probation. Now, Pony could go with him to work at the diner. 

The first few shifts, Pony would chew on his straw, slurp on his Pepsi, and stare at the large, white sidewall and think what a canvas. Jo Anne caught him daydreaming, sketching away in his journal at what he’d like to put there, and she said she was impressed by his work and would love to have him put something on the wall.

He was scared to ruin it. Jo Anne said, “Don’t you worry, we can always paint it white again!”

Without that barrier, he conquered his bashfulness to show Jo Anne the sketch ideas, and then Jo Anne was buying the paints and borrowing the brushes from a friend and telling him to get to it!

He wondered if Jo Anne actually thought he was worthy of the task, if she liked the wild horses running across a sunset as much as she said she liked it, or if she was just indulging him, giving him a job so he wouldn’t pick holes into the vinyl seats of her booths.

Ponyboy tried not to overthink it. He painted in strokes of orange and soft pink, and he thought of his mother, teaching him how to hold the brush, sitting on the back patio and watching the sky burn gold. He liked to believe she would have loved it, or at least loved that he had tried, and that was enough for him.

Jo Anne squeezed out of the booth next to him and patted down her apron. “Now, you been workin’ so hard, maybe you wanna take a break for lunch?”

Pony glanced down at Soda, and as soon as they locked gazes, his brother’s face broke into a grin. 

“Could two chocolate shakes be in our future, Ms. Jo Anne?”

“Two chocolate shakes, comin’ right up!”

Jo Anne walked toward the kitchen, and Pony decided to use the rag in his hands to blend the colors across the mare he was finishing. His technique was ever changing, and he worried it made the product look sloppy– he’d get better, he decided, and he’d come back and do it again if she wanted him to.

“Why not sit down for a turn, Pone? Doc said to be careful ‘bout standing for too long, didn’t he?”

“He meant that for less extraordinary people. I’m the exception,” Pony announced, but even as he spoke he was taking Soda’s outstretched hand and easing off the stool.

Ponyboy and Soda scooted into the booth Jo Anne had abandoned. Soda kept looking at the door, having told Penny to come in if she had time. For both of their sakes, Pony hoped she’d come in any second because Soda’s foot swung incessantly, shaking the whole table, and he didn’t even notice.

“I got a chocolate shake and a dirt shake! Who wants to guess which is which?” Two-Bit cackled as he set the identical glasses down, tossing two straws on the table alongside them. He wore a frankly ridiculous striped shirt with a little red bowtie up by his chin, and a soda-jerk hat sat crooked on his red hair. Since he started two weeks ago, he had cracked two glasses and three hundred jokes. Other than that, Jo Anne had reported to Darry that he’d been ‘alright’ and a categorical hit with the customers.

“Har, har, Two.” Pony grabbed for the straw first, blowing the paper at his friend’s face. He pulled the shake closer, inspecting the whip cream. “Hey, where’s my cherry?”

“And mine!” Soda blew his wrapper at Two-Bit with too much force, some spittle following the paper off the straw.

“Oh, you mean these cherries?” Two-Bit stuck his tongue out to reveal two cherry stems knotted up, and Pony swatted him on the arm.

“That’s comin’ outta your tip!” Pony sighed, plunging his straw into the shake and sucking in angrily. He couldn’t stay mad long when the Hershey's chocolate hit the inside of his mouth, and he was three gulps in when a brain freeze forced him to slow down.

“You won’t pay me, anyway,” Two-Bit tutted, wiggling his hat so much it just ended up back in the same off-center position, this time with his front hairs sticking out awkwardly. “Maybe Pony’s mystery benefactor will pick up the bill and tip real good, how ‘bout that?”

“Hmm.” Pony grunted, setting upon his shake again. The reminder that someone not in their family had paid off Pony’s medical expenses from the hospital made him uncomfortable. He’d woken up one morning to Darry standing with the phone in his hand, dial tone loud enough he could hear it buzzing from across the room. When Pony asked what was wrong, assuming the worst, assuming the State had called and said they were coming for him, Darry just shook his head, not facing him yet.

“That was the hospital,” Darry had said, “they told me my last payment wouldn’t go through.”

“What?” Pony asked, crossing the room with a few unsteady steps. His leg was healing, stitches finally out, but it was sore enough to hinder quick movement. “Did they not get the check in time? Do we gotta go down there?”

Darry put the phone back on the wall slowly, the receiver clicking into place. He turned, a hand pressing into his forehead, “No, Pone, they said– they said it didn’t go through because it’s already been paid off. In full.”

“What?” Pony questioned again, not trusting his ears.

“Someone paid it off. They wouldn’t tell me who. Someone just…” Darry trailed off, and Pony wondered what was going through his brother’s mind. If it was overwhelming relief, or if there was a stain of ruined pride, or if he was scared about how this could go wrong. No matter the score, it was one less thing to worry about, at least financially. 

In the back of his mind, Pony couldn’t help but think it might have been Randy Anderson.

Oh, Randy.

Randy Anderson and Ponyboy had gone down to the police station the Saturday after their talk and told the cops everything. Randy was placed under arrest while Pony was simply held in scrutiny, and when Officer Shepard had asked if he could call his guardian, Pony told him not to bother, Darry was already outside.

It had been quieter since then. Robert Sheldon suddenly stopped screaming to any network that would listen. His words were no longer on the front page, nor the second page. It didn’t seem like he was making any statements at all, now that the killer was a nice boy from a nice family– a friend of his son’s, at that. Peter Foley was released, and Pony hoped he was doing well, and that he’d be a good father, if he could.

Randy’s arrest didn’t make the waves Pony had been expecting. Arthur Anderson owned one of Tulsa’s largest publications, and so for at least one of the most sought after newspapers in the city, Randy’s face was kept out of the reveal that the world had been wrong about Peter Foley. 

The stage shifted to the West. Pony was no longer an actor– he was waiting in the wings for his next cue, waiting to know if he’d need to testify, to know what they wanted to do with Randy. He was waiting for the next call from the State, for Ms. Shirley to knock on their door and either tell him the house looks nice or that he needs to go pack his bag.

He didn’t know what would happen. But he knew Jo Anne made a damn good chocolate milkshake, and he knew he wasn’t going to look for any more trouble while living in his family’s house.

“Scram, you lousy server. You got three tables waiting on a check!” Darry appeared behind Two-Bit, whacking the shorter boy with his apron before flinging it over his shoulder.

“Aye aye, Superman!” Two-Bit saluted before scurrying off to take care of his customers. Darry rolled his eyes, but Pony knew he was proud of Two-Bit for stepping up like he was. Jury’s still out on whether he’ll ever graduate, though.

“Mm, Dar, what’d you bring over for us?” Soda licked his lips as he eyed the red tray in Darry’s hand. 

“Did you go blind? It’s burgers. This whole place is burgers,” Pony snarked as he reached for one of the plates, setting in on the food without having to be nudged or encouraged. His appetite had resisted him for so long, and then without warning it had roared to life with such intensity it now had Darry complaining (joyfully) about their grocery expenses.

“Ain’t so! I had a grilled cheese last week,” Soda scoffed, taking a plate for himself.

“That’s just ‘cause Darry forgot to put the patty on the bun,” Pony told him with his mouth full, ketchup smearing over his face. Darry shoved a napkin at him, scowling.

“Well, it was good!” Soda shrugged and practically unhinged his jaw for his next bite.

“Speaking of good,” Darry segued, “that mural is lookin’ mighty swell, Ponyboy.”

“Sure is!” Soda agreed. “My kid brother’s an artist, a runner, and a JD!”

“Soda, don’t call him that,” Darry shushed him, looking around like a worker from the State was going to be in the next booth over. “He’s a good student, and such,” he said with a raised voice. Pony snorted, even if he could relate to the paranoia.

“Just an artist right now,” Pony sighed. He sucked up the last of his shake, and then once he had tried and failed to get the chocolate syrup stuck at the bottom, he jammed his straw in Soda’s and stole as much as he could before Soda yanked the glass away. “Running will hafta be next season.”

“You’ll still be varsity,” Darry promised, then clicked his tongue, “long as you lay off the cancer sticks.” He slapped a few napkins on the table, making Soda clean up the shake that had spilled from his glass. 

Pony had told Coach he had to sit on the bench for the rest of the season, in part because of his leg, and in part because between being grounded and going to Darry’s fancy new shrink, he didn’t have enough time to devote to practice. Coach understood, and told him he was counting on his return next season. 

“Yeah, he called me ‘a real asset.’ Whatever that means.”

“More like a real ass!” 

“Shut it, Two-Bit!” Soda sent a spitball into the middle of the restaurant, and Darry smacked him upside the head without turning away from Pony.

“Means you’re fast! Coach Layman used to say he thought I had wings. Boy, there was that one game– Soda, you were there– where–”

Once Darry got on about football, he wouldn’t stop. Pony tuned him out, thinking about track and how it felt like he was getting left behind even though he wasn’t. Ryan had approached him in the hallways between classes and told him he was still invited to all the team events, and Pony thanked him, doing a poor job of covering his surprise.

He had friends, and he was going to work hard to deserve them, the gang included. That meant going to the stupid doctor with the cat-eye glasses and the pencil skirt and telling her about his nightmares and his fears and the whisper in his head which kept preying on him. That meant being grounded with a life sentence even if he begged and pleaded to go out with Curly one time, just one time! He was missing movies, he was missing track, but he was alive, he was with his brothers, and for the first time in his whole life, he believed his friends when they told him he had a future worth sticking around to experience.

“You okay, Pone?” Darry was looking at him with that face, the one he wore when he was worried he was losing Pony to something no one else could see.

Pony smiled, eyes closing with the force of his joy.

“Yeah, Dar,” Pony said, “I’m okay.”

It’s all going to be okay.