A/n: This fic is being posted as part of "Good Fic Day," an effort to raise the quality of writing here.We hope to encourage more writers to improve the quality of their own fan fiction - spell check, grammar, keeping in character, outline, plot, and no Mary Sues. Good fan fiction requires effort, and we would like to encourage other writers to rise to the challenge of producing better fan fiction, not only for our readers, but fro S.E. Hinton, who created the wonderful book we are trying to honor.
I do not own The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton, nor do I own I Am a Child, written by Neil Young and performed by Buffalo Springfield. Enjoy. :)
I am a child, I'll last a while.
You can't conceive,
Of the pleasure in my smile.
"Let's get drunk, man."
"What?"
"Let's get drunk tonight. Pick some chicks up or somethin'."
Steve glanced at his buddy, but only saw his legs sticking out from under the car.
"Sure thing, Sodapop. Any reason?"
Soda slid out from under the car and grabbed a rag from the table. Wiping his hands, he shrugged. "Nah, not really." He didn't make eye contact.
In all of his years of being friends with Sodapop Curtis, there'd always been a reason. What was Soda's reason this time?
As Steve was finishing up on the Charger that had just come into the shop, the clock struck six o'clock. Time to clock out.
Soda was already standing by the door, waiting for Steve and talking to their manager.
"Curtis, you're crazy! The '64 Corvette Coupe is much cooler 'n the Jaguar."
"You're shitting me, right, Crosley? You looked at the Roadster?"
"Nah, he ain't looked at much 'cause his head's too far up his ass," Steve said. Honestly, he had to side with Soda. A Roadster over a Coupe won, hands down.
"Can it, Randle. You two get the hell outta here. I'm sick of seeing your ugly faces."
Soda grinned at Steve and walked out. Steve turned to Crosley, gave him the bird, and stepped out, too. The summer air felt good to them as they made their way home. Days like these not even Steve liked to drive his old junker. Walking was just fine with him. His hand rose lazily and slapped away a mosquito as it bit into his flesh. That was one thing he did hate; those damn mosquitoes could all go to hell.
"So, what do you wanna do, Stevie?"
"I dunno. Thought you wanted to get drunk, though."
"I did. I do. I just don't know where the hell I want to go."
"Well, shoot, Soda, I don't, either. We could drive to the Island. I know a guy who has some weed. We could do that."
Steve looked over at Soda. Honestly, he didn't really feel like getting stoned, but it was something to do. He didn't like getting drunk, just that pleasantly buzzed feeling. And being stoned wasn't too fun, either. The smell was the worst. That sickly-sweet grassy smell made him sick.
"Nah, not tonight. Maybe later." Steve nodded, secretly grateful.
They passed a small park, and Soda paused and turned toward it. Steve followed his buddy to the swings, where they idly sat. He could tell something really was bothering Soda.
"What's been up, man?"
Soda took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply. "I guess that damn war's been getting to me."
Steve raised his eyebrow, knowing this was serious. "What about it?"
"Well, you know, we're gonna be eighteen soon. I mean I've only got a few more months to go … I get drafted and … I'm fucking screwed. And you know what?" Soda glanced over towards Steve, who looked at him curiously. "In ten years it'll be 1977. Think about that. I could be fucking dead."
"Hey, man …" Steve didn't you know else to say. "Hey man" was always a good start. "… don't say that, Soda, man. You ain't gonna get drafted and you ain't gonna die. And if you get drafted 'n I'm going, too."
Soda's eyes were unfocused, and Steve didn't like it one bit.
"C'mon, buddy. Let's get drunk."
They stumbled into the dark house, and Steve really didn't know who was more drunk. He was pretty sure it was Soda, but it could have been either of them. Steve thought Soda had had more to drink than him, because he was leaning on him, and Steve only had that pleasant buzzed feeling.
"Shhh!" Soda shushed Steve loudly. "I think Ponyboy's sleeping!"
"Pony's out on a date."
Steve turned to hear a phantom voice from the kitchen.
"Darry?"
"In here with Two-Bit. We're playing Scrabble. Bonus points for dirty words."
Steve grinned and made his way to the kitchen, limping under Soda's weight.
Darry was handing out small wooden pieces, his face bordering between worry and amusement from his brother's drunkenness. "What's the occasion?"
Steve shrugged and pulled out a chair for Soda, then took his own. "Not too sure. We were in the mood?"
Darry raised his eyebrow and handed Steve some pieces, face down.
Soda reached for a bottle of Budweiser sitting by his brother. "Don't you think you've had enough for tonight, buddy?"
Soda grinned that movie star smile at his older brother. "Don't you think you've had enough, Darrel?" He slurred each word as he said it, a giggle escaping his lips.
Steve shook his head and glanced at his pieces. Damn it. He had a C, L, U, M, P, U, and an S. He slid his tray slowly to Soda and quickly swapped. Glancing down, he was much happier to find Soda's letters.
"D-I-C-K," he said proudly. "That's sixteen points, according to the tiles."
"That's fourteen points," Two-Bit cried.
"It ain't! I can fuckin' count, Two-Shit. It's sixteen."
"You're too damn drunk to count! It's fourteen!"
Darry took a swig of his beer and rolled his eyes. "I'm about to bust both of your heads in a minute if y'all don't shut up. Make it fifteen points and sit down."
Steve sat down and rolled his eyes, taking some more tiles from the bag.
"There! T 'n' A," Two-Bit said, laying down his own tiles. "Ten points."
"What the hell isss T ann A?" Soda slurred.
"Tits and ass, of course!" Two-Bit grinned proudly.
Steve glanced at Darry and burst out laughing. Darry only shook his head and half-heartedly pointed out that they weren't supposed to use abbreviations.
"Live a little, Darrel! Break the rules!"
Darry only shook his head again and laid out his tiles. "B-L-O-W-J-O" next to a B tile. "That's twenty points."
"You know, I think we should get the kid in on this game, too. It'd be a boys' night out!"
Darry shook his head and laughed quietly, still managing to scowl at his new letter tiles. "Not a damn thing."
Steve looked over toward Soda and noticed he was starting to fall asleep.
"Hey, man. You going to bed?"
"Steve?"
"Yeah, Soda?"
"I'm really tired."
"I know, man."
Soda got up and began to stumble toward his bedroom. They watched him go off, unsure of whether or not to help him.
"Think he'll be okay?" Two-Bit looked slightly troubled by Soda, and Darry looked pensive.
Steve shrugged. He had no idea what would happen. Where there hell was his old friend? This wasn't like him at all. He sighed and buried his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. He should have never gotten Sodapop drunk.
Darry pushed his chair back suddenly and yawned. "I'm gonna pack up for the night. Steve, you gonna crash on the couch?"
He glanced at the clock and nodded. It was already midnight.
"Alright. Pony should be home in an hour or so. Mark's giving him a ride." Darry began to walk out of the kitchen before turning to Steve and Two-Bit. "He don't need to know about Soda bein' drunk, right?" It was more of a command than a question. They both nodded.
Pony didn't need to know. He was just a kid. Soda didn't need to be getting drunk like he had been … He was still naïve … Jesus, Steve hoped Soda didn't get drafted.
Steve plopped down on the couch, pulling a blanket closer to him to get comfortable as Two-Bit walked out the door. He felt horrible, knowing his happy-go-lucky friend felt so damn miserable. God, he hated feeling this way.
Steve Randle dropped the letter and shook his head, mouthing the word "no."
"I've gotta go, Stevie. I figured I'd get to them 'fore they got to me."
Steve wheeled around and punched the wall behind him. He remembered the promise he'd made months before.
And if you get drafted 'n I'm going, too.
Steve swore at his best friend and walked off. He felt like getting drunk. So drunk he'd never know what hit him.