Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

Note: I'll be picking up this story again soon. My apologies for the millions of typos in these chapters—I promise I'm going to edit and polish them before posting more. Thank you for your supportive reviews!

AN: This story is more of a character development story than plot specific. My number one goal is to explore Darry's transition from brother to parent, so expect lots of everyday Curtis bro interaction. Nothing too fluffy, though, I promise! Criticism is more than welcome throughout the piece, and I sincerely hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing it. :)


Three weeks since the funeral… Has it really been three? If I hadn't counted the days I wouldn't know. Time accelerates and slows at the same time.

It skyrockets when I sleep. The second I hit the pillow, my eyes bolt back open, ready to begin the next exhausting day. I can't rest enough these days. Whether it's three or nine hours, I'm sleep deprived, and work becomes a slow, tedious monotony.

My coworkers ain't much for company. Most have been here too damn long; they either talk to each other or mind their own business, and I spend my time focused on my task. It's a simple process. Pick up a nail, align it, hammer it in, grab a new one. Repeat. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound of metal against metal and splitting creak of wood assaults your ears after a while, especially when the dull task allows too much time to think. Thinking always was my downfall. When I was little, Mom always said she spent all her time trying to get me to worry less and Soda to worry more.

I wish I had Soda's attitude about life. These days, I worry more. I spend my work hours stewing over how I'm going to parent my brothers. Being a brother is easy. Being bossy is easy too. But putting two and two together? What makes being a being a bossy, older brother different from being a parent? I wish I knew. I don't even know where to begin.

The uncertainty overwhelms me. If I tell them they're grounded, will they take me seriously? If I raise my voice, will they listen? Or will they just tease me for being bossy like they always have?

So far I haven't had to get mean, but it's only been three weeks. The inevitable slip up will happen, and bam, I become the bad guy.

"Shit," I cuss under my breath. A heartbeat bulges in my thumb, and I toss the hammer down for a second, pulling my hand away from the shingle. Third missed nail this week, and my thumb will transform into a throbbing shade of purple if I don't pull it together soon.

"You alright there, Junior?" Jerry asks, a small cackle escaping his lips.

Jerry's called me Junior since the day I showed up on shift with my old man. I still remember that awkward day. It was only a few months ago, and no matter how hard I've worked to prove my worth as a roofer since, the veteran employees mutually agree my dad sweet-talked the boss into giving me a job.

"I'm fine," I tell Jerry before I forget to reply. Can't say much for the others, but Jerry's alright, I guess. Gritty personality, rough around the edges, but he respects me more than the rest. Whether to honor my late father or because he truly is that kind of person, I don't know, but I appreciate it.

I take a deep breath. Focus, damn it, focus.

I align another nail, hammer it in without hitting my thumb, and pause to wipe the sweat off my brow. Before I can pick up a new nail, time is called for the day, and the boss barks at everyone to go home. Four o'clock is an early time to quit, but I can thank my lucky stars for the looming, gray storm clouds. It hardly rains in Oklahoma, but when it does, we cover the current work with tarp and split.

I welcome early dismissal with open arms, bolting off site faster than anybody else.

xxxx

When I get home, mess greets me.

Ever since the night of the accident, the house has gone from messy to a goddamned catastrophe in record time. I never thought I'd say it, but it's as bad as Two-Bit's place, and it sets me off more than usual.

A small wave of anger surges through me, demanding I do something about the chaos now, while the house is still standing.

I run a hand through my hair and shake my head, wondering endlessly how Mom kept it clean. How? 'Cause I sure as heck don't know. Keeping my half of the room I share with Soda organized ain't a problem. His half is well… revolting, but I learned to ignore it years ago, just like I've applied the same philosophy to the entire house. For these three weeks I've come home from work disgruntled as hell to see every last inch of our home in disarray, but I ignored it. I don't know how to remedy it. I don't. Not even with my frustration at a tipping point.

We're three teenage boys for Christ's sakes. I'll be twenty in less than a month, but the point is clean is not in our general nature. And that's just the three of us who live here full time. Don't get me started on Two-Bit, Steve, Dally, and Johnny. They contribute their fair share. Maybe even more.

I sigh and remember how I once thought Mom complained too much. Man, am I an idiot for thinking that now. In my defense, it sounded like a legitimate thing to whine about at the time. We did as she told us, Dad included; we even learned to do it when she wasn't delegating tasks, but I guess that attitude didn't stick with us. Everything looks different now. It was immaculate with her around, and now… I try not to think about it.

I understand why she called us slobs now.

Here goes nothing, I think, taking a few steps forward. The turmoil glares back at me as I survey the damage in the living room. Food wrappers and crumbs everywhere, clutter everywhere. Social Services'll think I'm a lousy guardian if we don't act soon.

Soda claps hand against my back. "Shoot, Darry, you look deep in thought…"

"Astounded," I correct him. "Appalled … disgusted … D, all of the above."

He gives me a baffled look. "Why?"

I point to one of the room's corners and glide my finger through the air to the other. "This," I say, stabbing my finger at the mess once again. "This is … holy shit, how did we let it get this bad?"

Soda shrugs. "It ain't that bad…"

I give him a light knock upside the head, and he starts laughing. "Hey, I'm just kiddin'," he says. "I'll help ya clean it."

"You better," I imitate in my best "Mom" tone. Boy, did she ever know how to make us listen with one simple shift in her voice. Something tells imitation will prove useful to me. If I intend to get their attention, I might have to resort to it. "And go grab Pony," I add. "He helped make the mess too."

Soda salutes me and rushes to find Pony, and when he returns, the three of us piece through the disaster.

xxxx

After what feels like hours, the place is finally clean. Almost too clean, except for one room.

Mom and Dad's.

We don't dare set foot in there. At least I don't. I ain't sure about my brothers, but I assume not.

Every time I brave walking near it, the wooden floorboards creak like something out of a horror film, and with each passing step, the ground seems to crumble beneath my feet.

But today, everything must be clean, including that room.

Feet locked firmly in place, I reach for the knob. The door is slammed shut, screaming out a plea for privacy, but it makes no difference. They're not here. They're not home. No one is in that room.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. If anyone can feign keeping it together, it's me. I'm skilled at it—didn't shed a single tear at the funeral, but every time I see this door, it's a challenge.

Get ahold of yourself, Darrel, I tell myself and cringe at the thought of my name. Darrel… Goddamned that name. When I was thirteen, I demanded people quit calling me Darry because it sounded immature, but now I wish everyone would flip back to my nickname.

Darry is the only name I can stomach hearing. Darrel, Darrel Jr., anything junior; they sound wrong now, but it's only a name.

Keep it together, damn it, don't freak out over a stupid name.

Hand still on the knob, I push a foot forward and cringe at the long, drawn out creak. Braving the thirteen steps down the hallway sucks the life right out of me. Who'd have thought the football star, boy of the year, would struggle with the simple task of walking? Don't tell my brothers about that… Don't anybody tell my brothers that. They need to think I'm A-Okay, 110% in control, no operator error in this endeavor. No room for operator error; the one thing I can't screw up is them.

I can screw up endless times as long as they make it to eighteen alive and well, and so far, I'm doing alright. No one seems to know I'm screaming myself hoarse on the inside trying to be a parent. My internal commentary always tells me I'm doing it wrong. Say this. Say that. Do as your mother says… Well, goddamn it, she's dead.

I can only regurgitate her infamous sayings now. Boy, did she have a lot of them and an endless supply of tricks up her sleeves to keep us boys in line, but her words, they ain't enough. My voice never carries the way hers could… It's always a scream when I try to put my foot down no matter how many times I insist I'll keep my cool, and the worst part is, I haven't had to put my foot down yet.

Being near this room makes me feel like a nutcase. Each time I about lose it, each time I fight the dread and inch closer and closer to that knob, but without fail, I shy away. It's too much. The whole house may be mine now, but that room is still theirs. Everything untouched, I haven't opened the door since the day I shut it the night of the funeral… The mental image flashes. The bed unmade. Dad's dirty work clothes lying on the ground, something Mom'd surely reprimand him for. Pictures, countless pictures. Mom always like pictures, and they hang everywhere, on the walls, on her dresser, on the back of the door…

Just do it, Darry. Do it.

My hand turns the cold metal until the door swings upon, and the mental image reappears before my eyes. Same, same, same, like they still live here, like that accident never happened. I lurch forward and swoop down to pick up Dad's work clothes. I'll clean everything as fast as I can and hightail it out of there, but as I fold Dad's clothes atop the dresser, I can't help but notice this is abnormal. Mom normally wouldn't be caught dead leaving the bed unmade even on the busiest of mornings, but there the sheets lie tangled. Perhaps it was a sign something bad would happen that day.

Biting down on my lip, I pull the sheets up and straighten them until they're even, and when I finish, I exit as quickly as I came, not bothering to look back.

This is ridiculous, being afraid of a goddamned room like this, but I am. I'm petrified of that room. Thank God my brother's haven't suggested I sleep in there yet. That'd be asking too much. Logically it makes sense to give myself my own room, but not their room, not this soon.

I jiggle the knob to ensure the door is shut and walk away, praying my brothers didn't witness my mental breakdown.

Sometimes I think I should've cried at the funeral. I should've let everything go, because now I don't know how. The frustration just builds and builds, and some day it'll explode, but not today. Today I've conquered my emotions.

As I scurry towards the kitchen, I silently vow to worry only about my stomach, and not what I saw in their room.

"I'll make dinner!" Soda volunteers, as though he read my mind.

I exchange glances with Pony. Does Soda know how to cook? Pony shakes his head, as if to say "tell him no before he blows the entire house up", but Soda's grinning like an idiot, like he already has a plan.

The look in his eye scares me, but I ain't the best cook myself. The kitchen was Mom's baby. She let Dad grill steaks sometimes and taught us boys how to make cake, but she didn't give up her meal-making prowess easily.

"Soo?" Soda prompts me when I'm silent too long.

"I guess," I resign, hoping it ain't a mistake.

"So that's a yes?" he asks.

"Yeah, but be careful," I tell him. "We just cleaned." It's not a suggestion, it's an order, but the second I give that okay he bolts to the cupboards and pulls out all sorts of ingredients.

Pony turns to me, staring apprehensively and fiddling with his pockets.

I give him a few moments to start talking, but the silence gets to me. "What's goin' on?"

He glances up briefly, pulls a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me. "You're supposed to sign it," he says, shifting his eyes back to the floor.

I give him a funny look and unfold it. "Detention?" I ask him. "You got detention?"

My first instinct is to tease him for getting his first detention, but then I groan, remembering I can't be his brother anymore. I actually have to get pissed about this? He's a good kid… It was probably one of the dumb teacher's faults, not his.

"You angry?" he asks me, and I hate the nervous look on his face. He looks as though he's truly afraid of what I might do, and I can't stand that.

"No, but I'd like you to explain a little." I cross my arms and lift an eyebrow. "This ain't like you, is it?" I say a silent prayer that sounds like a decent enough lecture.

He shakes his head. "I'll try not to be late for his class again," he says.

"So that's all this is about?" I question. "He gave you detention for being late?" I can't say I was late for class myself, but it seems like a stupid reason to give a detention. Unless it's happening every day, I guess, but I expected something much worse.

I pick a pen off the counter, sign it quickly, and hand it back to him. "Don't be late again," I tell him. "If you get another detention, I'll ground you." I debate whether or not threatening to ground him was too much, but I have to stay stern or they'll both walk all over me.

He nods, and I heave an internal sigh of relief.

I just dodged the first bullet of reprimanding my kid brother. Only thousands more to go.