ECHOES OF SUNDAY

It's only nine, but I interrupt their heated conversation with a brief tap on the kitchen doorframe, telling Darry and Pony I'm gonna turn in. They look up from the project scattered across the table with questioning faces.

I immediately grin in an attempt to assure them I am fine. "Just a little run down is all. I'm gonna go lie down," I manage to say in a carefree manner.

I ignore Darry's raised eyebrow and turn down the dark hallway, slowly allowing my smile to fade with each step. I just don't know what's got into me.

Relief comes when I shut the bedroom door. But my guilt rises up to fight it when I admit to myself that I just can't do it. It's just not in me to help parent Pony tonight. I run my hand over my face. I just need a break from all the worrying. I long to be a brother again. Just that.

I note how my jeans hang lower on my hips now as I take off my t-shirt. I flip on the radio and throw my hat onto my pile of magazines across the bedroom. But, it lands on Pony's desk instead. All of his pens and pencils are neatly arranged, like tin soldiers waiting to be used again.

I never expected the Sunday blues to last after my school nights have long left me. I swallow hard, not sure if I'm fighting back grief or heartburn from Darry's meatloaf. I pop in a stick of peppermint gum and sink back onto my pillow, its case worn from Pony's childhood habit of rubbing the material between two fingers as he sucked his thumb. He's always been a creature of habit, I think, as I see his pack of cigarettes and lighter on our windowsill. Is it just me or have the curtains turned yellowish from all the nicotine? He sits there most evenings letting his smoke drift out the window into the stagnant air, staring at something only he can see.

I rub my chest and the music is calming me now and I wonder how long it's been since Pony has even sung a song. Or sat at the piano. He and Mom used to know every song on the radio and could harmonize effortlessly, their voices matched in tone and pitch. All of the arts come naturally to Ponyboy. It is as if the piano plays him, not the other way around. Since when has our piano become just a designated spot for stacks of folded laundry?

I close my eyes and let the music drift over me. I am taken back to a typical Sunday night.

I can smell my mother's pot roast, hear the crackle of the fire that Dad and Darry are working to build.

"Darry, grab that newspaper and crumple it, would ya?"

Darry obeys Dad and I see his eyes roll once Mom and Pony gear up to sing yet another song in the kitchen.

"No honey, you put it under the kindling…that's it Dar," my dad instructs.

As much as Darry is Dad's, Pony is Mom's.

I can't help but slide with slippery socks into the kitchen and belt out the best line of the song and I have destroyed Pony's favorite part with my loud, atonal, overly dramatic singing. "Mom!" Pony shouts, but my mother has started laughing and once she starts she can't stop.

"Soda, you ruin every one of our songs on purpose. You can't sing." Pony huffs and returns to his latest drawing, furious. But I keep singing triumphantly while Mom laughs. She was always my best audience.

That was a time before Pony cared what tuff meant. And when our roles as brothers required nothing more than loving and looking out for him, of course. But, also razzing him. And it was so fun and easy to get under Ponyboy's skin!

My lips tug at their corners as our shouts and laughter and song from that night become echoes through time, making their way to my ears. But they are interrupted by a conversation in the hallway.

"Darry!" Pony shouts as he barrels out of the bathroom door.

"Pony, quit shouting," Darry hushes. "I can hear you. So can the whole dang neighborhood."

Pony returns to his inside voice. "I didn't have any soap for my shower. Guess we're out."

"Then how the heck did you get cleaned?" asks Darry.

"I just used the shampoo," Pony answers. "Here. Smell me."

I guess Darry sniffed him because I can hear him say. "Hm. Pretty good." And, tiredly he adds, "I'll put soap on the list."

And with that I shake my head, angry that Darry even has to have a grocery list. That he has a checkbook to balance. Darry as guardian is not allowed the luxury of retreating behind a closed door. He is an always present force, tackling each day, as hard as he tackled on the field, ever the football player. I don't want what we've become. I press my fingers to my eyelids, and try to block out our reality with memories. I just want to go back.

It's a typical Sunday morning. My mother is at the stove in her bare feet and a lone curler wrapped in her hair just at the peak of her forehead. It's just about breakfast time and Pony has arrived at the table shirtless, baring his scrawny chest and spindly arms.

"Ponyboy Curtis! March right back and put on a shirt. You don't come to the table half dressed. You know better," Mom chides as she is pointing her spoon at the door.

Darry breezes into the kitchen with all his high school swagger and he's dipping his finger in the red-eye gravy hoping Mom won't notice.

I chuckle from where I'm perched on top of the counter, my legs dangling, when Darry says, "Yeah, Pony. Put on a shirt. Your skin is blinding us." He is squinting and shielding his eyes.

"Shut up Darry!" Pony is rising from the table to swat Darry but Darry wastes no time strong-arming him into some kind of headlock.

As Pony struggles, Mom is already off and running with her typical speech. "Pony, your skin is beautiful. You have my grandmother's Irish complexion. And those green Irish eyes." She crosses the kitchen and calmly unwraps Pony's head out of Darry's tanned arm. She gently lifts his chin up and says, "Not to mention the cutest little freckles on your nose. Now, go get a shirt."

As Pony exits the room I call out "It's alright Pony. There's gotta be a girl out there who's into leprechauns!" Darry and I are laughing.

Mom playfully swats us both with her towel but very firmly says, "Cut it out. He's 12 and self conscious."

The door swings open and Pony now enters, smelling like a walking bottle of Prell. "You mind if I keep the light on a little longer?" he asks as he wrangles on a clean t-shirt.

"Nope," I answer as I sit up against the headboard and aimlessly pick at a hangnail.

Pony sits at his desk underlining various things in some book. Knowing him it probably isn't even homework. He's told me he likes to mark his favorite lines after he has finished a novel.

I am staring at him. His freckles have faded with his childhood, and he has filled out. He is definitely the best looking Curtis, I'll give him that. His looks are far more intriguing than mine or Darry's. And when his eyes lock into yours, you simply can't look away.

"Quit popping your knuckles, Pony," I say annoyed.

He immediately faces me. "Quit smacking that gum, Soda," and goes back to his book.

Yes. This is what I miss. I smile as I gather my spit and chew my gum grossly, popping it between tongue and teeth, blowing a bubble and loudly inhaling as I sloppily draw it back in. Pony is ignoring me so I stop and discard my gum in some tissue. Once I throw it in the trash, making the basket from where I sit, Pony gives one last ear splitting knuckle pop. Inside I laugh. He is so like Darry. Neither would ever let you win an argument. Even one this juvenile.

Darry pokes his head in. "Hey, lights out Pony. Remember your track practice is before school tomorrow. Bright and early." He leaves. I'm sure to go look over some bills. Pony is left shaking his head and getting his desk in order. I hope Pony realizes the lengths Darry would go to, and does, to save us. Thank God he was born first. Could I be that strong as the oldest? Or does being the oldest make you that strong? I wonder.

Jeans are shed and we climb under covers. Pony has flipped the light switch but leaves the radio on. So we have only its faint amber glow in the corner and soft music lulling us.

Mom would have loved this song, I think as California Dreamin' starts up. My chest aches a little. But something is pulling me to sing. I start off as almost a whisper but it grows to a melody. This time it's not my obnoxious voice. I am just following along to the Mamas and Papas as best I can.

At "I'd be safe and warm" Pony's voice joins, wrapping mine as backup, actually carrying it with his harmony and blending. He makes me far better than I am. I can tell he is smiling in the dark and so am I. By the time we get to "Stopped into a church" Darry yells out, "Knock it off dorks!" from the other side of the wall, which prompts me to sit up in bed and throw my hands up dramatically. I belt out "Well, I got down on my knees. And I pretend to pray" with gusto and passion.

Pony takes the next part now, louder even than I am. Yet smoothly and ever so cooly, still laying down with his arms behind his head, he sings "You know the preacher like the cold. He knows I'm gonna stay." My eyebrows lift in amazement. He sounds better than the radio.

And the more Darry bangs on the wall, the louder we sing and the harder we laugh, two heaps in the blankets.

And I can almost picture our voices and laughter and song rising like smoke, out of the window and above our little house. They snake high above Oklahoma, their echoes making their way, I feel sure, to my mother's ears.

A/N: The Mamas and Papas wrote California Dreamin' and S.E. Hinton wrote Outsiders.-I am more than happy just reading everyone's wonderful, inspiring stories on this site. I never in a million years thought I'd upload my own. But thank you to my good friend CarolynneRuth, who gave me the nudge to look deep inside, where all the real stories are lurking in everyone. Thank you for reading!

HappierThanMost