The True-to-Life Tall Tales of Mister Jonathan Cade
Summary: For Johnny's sixteenth birthday, all he wanted was a notebook and some cheap black-ink pens. But for what? Steve was curious…
You know, I've been wondering for a while now: why hasn't anybody written a good slash fic without gratuitous sex scenes and/or make out moments? It's really unappealing; it's like filler material rather than actual story content.
Possible slash (either DallyJohnny or SteveJohnny). I'm not quite sure yet. Some language, and some eventual violence.
No sir, I don't own The Outsiders.
Johnny Cade always liked fiction. He wished he lived in it, so maybe his parents wouldn't fight and scream and cuss at each other, and he wouldn't always get belted by his dad, and the Curtis brothers wouldn't have had to lose their parents. Maybe then, and only then, things wouldn't be rough all over Tulsa's East Side.
Nothing could hurt him or the gang in a surreal Tulsa. Nobody could throw beer blasts and break windows and be snobbish in madras ski jackets. In fiction, Dallas Winston and the rest of the gang would be more proud of him than they'd ever be of anything else, because there'd be nothing about Johnny to be sad, or sympathetic, or disappointed with.
In fiction, Johnny would have no bruises. In fiction, his parents would love him and they wouldn't fight about anything. In fiction, there wouldn't be any greasers or Socs, just plain people. People who didn't need to kill out of self defense, or steal, just for kicks, or live on the wild side of New York for three years just to survive.
But fiction was all in his head.
Johnny looked at everyone (well, only four members of their little gaggle of friends were there…) and waved in greeting as he walked ever closer to the DX gasoline station. It was somewhere in between the late morning and early afternoon, he guessed, and his parents were fighting again; he was glad he'd been spending his nights sleeping in the vacant lot rather than at home; he was starting to get used to seeing some of his bruises and cuts from his dad's treasured two-by-four heal.
"Hey, Johnnykid," Two-Bit Mathews (lesser known by his real given name, Keith) greeted the black-haired fellow greaser with a grin. "How're ya doin'? I reckon today's one of your better days at home? It's kind of hard to get used to seeing you without so many bruises."
Johnny smiled timidly. "I haven't been home in a couple days," was his reply.
Sodapop Curtis, a youth that Johnny thought was some incarnation of the world's most beautiful and giddy movie star, grinned and piped up cheerfully, "Hey, Johhnycake, ain't ya gonna be sixteen in a couple days? Any idea of what you want? Mind ya, whatever you ask for ain't gonna be the only thing you're gonna get." The dirty blond sounded so maternal as he said this; at least, that's how Johnny saw the tone in his voice. It made him grin a little bit. Now, if his mom would be as caring as his friends…
"Well…a notebook and a couple pens'd be kinda nice." Two-Bit, Soda, and Steve (who had remained silent throughout the conversation) each took turns giving Johnny weird looks.
"That's all? Man, you sure don't ask for much, Johnnycake," Steve shook his head and sighed, eyeing the tan skinned boy before him. The soon-to-be sixteen-year-old fidgeted a little under his gaze; did Steve think he was going to write love letters or something? He'd already gotten that lecture about girls from the older greaser, and he sure wasn't going to pull a stunt like that. I'd honestly be too scared to, come to think of it, Johnny thought miserably. That Steve Randle sure knows how to scare ya into not doin' things…
In fact, Johnny was very sure why he wanted a notebook and some stuff to write with; he wanted to vent his feelings. It'd be nice to get the weight off his shoulders and not have to tell anyone. Heaven knows that Johnny Cade was never one for speaking. Besides, he wanted to write down some short stories about the gang; he'd had the ideas floating in his head for a couple months. He wanted to write about Two-Bit's annoyingly long sideburns and incessant wisecracking while getting rip-roaring drunk; he wanted to put Sodapop's beauty in words, and savor his motherly affection on paper; he wanted to remember overworked, tired Darry, dreamy, sunset-watching Ponyboy, and heroic, cunning, gallant Dally…and…
What about Steve? Wasn't there anything to write about him?
Honestly, Johnny had never known Steve that well, even if their neighborhood was pretty tightly knit. The venomous hate dripping from his soft-spoken tone was eerie, and the way he'd sometimes seem to admire Johnny from a distance, as if thinking, 'Why can't I just be sweet and innocent, like him?'…Well, it was odd. He couldn't really write anything about Steve. It was all so…muddled up, he supposed. Maybe one of these days, he'd have a really long chat with the slightly older, hate-consumed boy, and find out if there's anything under the hate and admiration from afar…
"Johnny, you okay?" Soda was waving a hand in front of the younger boy's big, black eyes.
He only gave a curt nod and left the DX, not sure what to do.
For now, he'd make sure to play it by ear and not go home, because he couldn't stand hearing his parents fight, even as he could hear them as he passed the street he lived on, on the way to the vacant lot.
---And time goes by…---
Ahhh, another morning. Johnny yawned and stretched, stopping in the middle of doing so to clutch his stomach. He hadn't eaten much in the past two or three days, and it was taking its toll now. Maybe he could hoof it over to the Curtis house for some breakfast? He'd always like their chocolate cake, especially when Soda made it. He may always put too much sugar in the icing, but maybe that was what made Johnny feel so much better when he left the house.
Besides that, he kind of wanted to sack out at their place tonight anyway; the lot was getting chilly in late September, and outside was not a good place for a greaser to be alone at night. He didn't want to get jumped by the West-Side Socials…
He had a feeling today would be a good day, but he thought he'd forgotten something…
Johnny remembered when he reached the Curtis household; today was his birthday, wasn't it? He wondered why the residence was empty—
"Happy birthday, Johnnycake!" He could feel a couple of hands resting on his shoulders, but out of reflex, he shut his eyes tight, and he could practically feel the color draining from his face as if someone was pouring it out and into who-knows-where. Really, he's not sure where the color goes, but his tanned hands and ears turn awfully reddish when he's scared or nervous.
"Damn it, Two-Bit!" Dally's voice was that same rough, irritated tone as he continued cussing out the wisecracker of the gang. "This was your idea, and you know that Johnny's jumpier than the jugs on some of your blondes…"And the long string of swearwords and insults continued, making Johnny blush—Dally had once again beaten his own record of stringing swear words together in one sentence. That's pretty amazin', Johnny thought. How does he get the time and the breath to string all that together? That's gotta be some natural talent right there. Dally's too tuff for himself sometimes…
Someone turned Johnny around, even though his eyes were still shut tight and he still hadn't quite regained his color. Two-Bit sighed when Dally finished cussing him out, watching the towheaded boy end his foul-worded rant with a glare that clearly stated, "You do that again, and I'll beat the tar outta you."
"Sorry, Johnny, I kinda forgot…you okay, man? I wasn't expectin' to give ya a scare for your birthday!" Two-Bit was scratching the back of his head when Johnny opened his eyes. The rest of the gang, except Darry, was behind him, holding armfuls of grocery bags and wrapping paper and the like.
Sodapop grinned and said, "Willin' to let us in, Mister Cade?"
The black-eyed youth jumped a little and nodded, moving out of the doorway to let the five other boys in the house. "Golly, what'd y'all get?"
"Stuff, o' course. Now, how about you go wait in mine and Ponyboy's room until we're done out here? Uhh…Johnny, you want anyone to keep ya company?" Soda piped up again in that maternal voice that Johnny cherished. He wished his mom were that nice.
The boy paused for a moment before uttering a single name. "Steve?"
The violent-tempered boy grinned and nodded, following Johnny silently to the room of the two younger Curtis brothers. Johnny sat on the bed, not sure of what to do to pass the time. Steve took a seat across from him in a stray wooden chair, after pushing the books off of it. "So, how've ya been, Johnnykid? Those cuts from that two-by-four splinterin' are lookin' a lot better. I thought those were gonna stay for a while, kid. You sure do amaze me sometimes," the dark-haired boy began, beaming a little. "You're not gonna sleep at the lot tonight, are ya? It's gonna be pretty cold, birthday boy."
Johnny shook his head. "Nah. I was thinkin' of sleepin' here."
Steve's eyes widened for a second, as if something just came to mind. Johnny looked at him quizzically for a moment while the older greaser was rummaging through his leather jacket for something. When Steve was finished rummaging in his pockets and such, he pulled out a good-sized, square package wrapped in newspaper comics. "It was on kinda short notice, because Two-Bit and Soda kept arguin' over who was gonna buy what you said you wanted for your birthday, so I just went over to the nearest drugstore and got the stuff. Go ahead and open it now if you want."
The ever-esteemed Johnny Cade opened his newspaper wrapped tidings, only to stare face-to-face at a shiny, brand-new notebook with a yellow cover, and a package of black pens on top of it. "Golly, thanks, Steve!"
"Anytime, kid," was the youth's only reply, followed by a few minutes of silence. Then, he spoke up again. "Hey, I've been wondering…what did you just want that for, anyway? You gonna be penpals with some kid in Greece or somethin', Johnny?" Steve smiled, chuckling a little at his own bad jab at humor.
"I just kinda wanted a journal. Y'know, to write down stuff about the gang." It was honest, at least. Steve'd probably think he was hiding something now…
A sigh passed Steve's lips before he spoke again. "Well, whatcha gonna write, then? Some, ah…what'd Ponyboy call 'em… 'true-to-life tall tales'? He was talkin' 'bout the stories Curly Shepard tells about bein' an asset to society or somethin' like that, but yeah."
Johnny nodded in reply, smiling timidly. "I guess so. Y'all are so great, I might publish a book about you guys and make enough money off it to move outta my place or somethin'. I can't stand hearin' my folks fight, and I can't stand gettin' beat any longer, like it's my fault or somethin'…maybe it is…" The tan-skinned greaser barely was barely able to hold in the urge to cry. Really, his family was just tearing him up. Between his mom berating him and his dad getting sauced and beating the tar out of him, he didn't know which was worse.
Steve looked at Johnny with a frown on his face; it was obvious he was a little surprised because the short boy never spoke that much, and this was practically a speech for him. "Johnnykid…just 'cause they're awful don't mean it's your fault…they're the ones who don't realize how great you are." Steve paused to grin amusedly at the newfound streak of red spreading from the bridge of Johnny's nose to his cheeks. "We couldn't get on without ya, kiddo…" the hate-filled boy trailed off as he was rummaging through his jacket for a pack of cigarettes; the elusive item was found a moment later. Steve offered Johnny one, but he declined. He didn't really need one right then. Steve just shrugged and lit his own cigarette, taking a long drag before finishing his statement. "…But hell, I'll help ya publish that book if you get crackin' on writin'."
Johnny looked up at the older youth, and his jaw really must've been touching the floor, because Steve started cracking up. "You're serious, Steve?"
"Yeah, sure am." The boy nodded as he said this, taking another drag on his cigarette and breathed out slowly. He put out the cancer stick in a nearby ashtray.
"You ain't buzzed or nothin'?" Johnny honestly half-expected him to be.
"Nope," was the curt reply he received.
The black-haired boy stared down at his clasped-together hands, uttering softly, "Gee, I dunno how to repay ya—"
But Steve cut him off. "Then don't, Johnny. We're all friends here; so don't even worry about it, okay? Besides, I got somethin' I wanna say…I've been thinkin' this over for a long while, and—"
Soda barged in, killing whatever suspense there might've been, hollering as he stood in the doorway, "You ready for your birthday bash, Johnnykid?"
Johnny grinned and nodded, but Steve looked a little sour.
"Then head on down already, you two! We might as well be holding Two-Bit's birthday party, the way he's enjoyin' himself makin' the cake and everything. We got done wrappin' the presents too, so if you don't get your butts over to the livin' room, Two-Bit's shopliftin' habits will extend to stuff even he's bought!" Soda ran out hurriedly; was Two-Bit really that giddy? Figures… Johnny smiled sheepishly at the thought, not noticing Steve staring at him with a disappointed expression.
When Johnny reached the living room of the Curtis house, he felt like a spoiled child whose birthday was being blown out of proportion. There were lopsided streamers hanging all over the place (Johnny quietly noted to himself that it looked like Soda's handiwork), and balloons (some of them already popped) hanging about, with a breathless, red-faced Dally next to the bulk of the oxygen-filled convivial decorations. Ponyboy was amidst a mess of Styrofoam peanuts and shiny green wrapping paper with Mickey Mouse on it (Johnny knew Two-Bit picked that out for sure), looking about as exhausted as Dallas. On the kitchen table sat a giant (Johnny counted six layers), somewhat lumpy-looking, messily iced chocolate cake with sixteen lopsided and half-melted candles brightly aflame. Soda and Two-Bit both looked quite proud of their chocolate monstrosity.
To any other person, the whole setup would've looked rushed and cheap. But Johnny didn't care; to him, this was one of the fanciest parties anyone had ever thrown.
And it was just for him.
Soda motioned for Johnny to come over to the kitchen table. "Alright, blow out the candles, and if you can't, we'll have Dally help ya!"
Dally looked indignant and looked a little redder now (probably because he was so irate), and replied, "You shut your damn trap, little Pepsi-Cola! I've been blowing these balloons for twenty minutes straight, and if I wasn't so outta air, I'd beat the shit outta you, ya lousy son of a—"
"Anyway, c'mon, Johnny! Hurry up! Those candles ain't gonna stay lit forever, y'know," Soda continued a little louder, hoping to drown out Dally's cussing.
Johnny finally blew the candles out. Honestly, he wasn't doing too good of a job; he blew out about four or five of the candles.
"Alright Dally, get over here," Two-Bit grinned. "Johnnycake may need ya after all!"
The black-haired greaser flushed embarrassedly; Dally wasn't gonna be happy.
To his surprise, however, Dallas quickly got up and strode over to the table, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he blew out the rest of the candles with ease. "Good to see I had enough air for that. Maybe I'll have enough for a cigarette on the porch; I'll be back inside in a couple minutes, man." As if it were routine, he grinned and patted Johnny on the head; this almost seemed like an affectionate gesture, and coming from Dallas Winston, it said a lot about how much he cared for the gang's pet. At least, that's how things looked to Johnny.
Thinking about it that way made Johnny flush even more.
"Hey, Johnny, ya look like you've got a candy-cane stripe goin' across your face," Two-Bit chuckled. "Hey, Ponyboy! Mind gettin' all that extra stuff off ya and gettin' over here for some good ol' Curtis-Mathews chocolate cake?"
"Two-Bit, you know better than anyone that it wasn't my idea to get all those Styrofoam peanuts," the sunset-watching greaser still looked as breathless (and as indignant) as Dally did. However, he dusted himself off anyway, missing a few Styrofoam bits in his hair (no one said anything, though; Two-Bit was tempted to make a joke about bad dandruff). Ponyboy shuffled to the kitchen tiredly, grabbing a chair and sitting to Johnny's left.
Sodapop decided now was a good time to cut up the cake. "Alright, if any of you so much as touch the icing while I'm cuttin' this up, me and Two-Bit here'll skin ya," he warned threateningly.
And so, the party continued without much interruption and too much merriment. If Johnny's jaw didn't already hurt from speaking and grinning more than he usually does, he would've smiled the whole time.
Dallas came back in from his little smoking break on the back porch just in time for Soda to cut up his slice. "Ya better take it quick, Dally; Steve's pretty damn hungry, and he'll take your slice before I even get it on the plate," the dirty-blond muttered cautiously.
After everyone had basically fought over seconds as far as the cake went (Johnny and Ponyboy only wanted one slice; Sodapop usually made very heavy, filling chocolate cakes), some extra festivities came.
Well, if chasing around junior high school kids and sparring with Tim Shepard and his outfit count as festivities, that is.
A few hours later, in the late afternoon, the six greasers came back to the Curtis house, exhausted and satisfied. Steve and Soda had both accumulated some tough-looking bruises, and Two-Bit was walking with a slight limp. His ankle got pretty twisted up, as Johnny later found out. Dally was almost unscathed, save for his knuckles splitting open from hitting one of Tim's boys too hard. Ponyboy got a couple cracked ribs from Curly, who got a little worse than cracked ribs from Soda in return. Johnny…well, he got some bruises and scratches, but it wasn't anything like the beatings his dad could give him, he'd say that much.
Then came opening up hastily wrapped presents. The denim jacket-donning greaser eyed Ponyboy's almost obsessive-compulsively neat handiwork with an expression of surprise. He was a mess, though…
"Okay, uh…" Dally picked up the nearest box and shook it a little. "Alright, I think this one's mine. Go ahead and open it, Johnnycake."
Johnny did as such and tore open the wrapping paper and threw off the lid to the box. He could've sworn he heard Ponyboy making a muffled choking sort of sound. He hated to ruin the thirteen-year-old's neat handiwork, but he wanted to see what Dally got him.
...A six-inch, black-handled switchblade. Johnny held in the urge to cringe a little, even if it was from his idol. "Gee, thanks, Dal," he uttered in an awed voice. He hoped he didn't sound too phony…
"You never know when you're gonna get jumped, kid," was Dallas's only reply, before sneaking off to the kitchen to get another slice of chocolate cake while the others weren't paying attention.
Two-Bit picked up a few boxes and shoved them into Johnny's arms. "Open these, open these! Well…after you put that switchblade up. That's a real tuff blade Dal picked out, though."
The black-haired boy nodded awkwardly before putting down the boxes and stuffing the blade in his back pocket. He picked up the smallest box—it was on top of the pile—and tore open the wrapping paper. Thankfully, Ponyboy didn't make that gagging noise again. After opening the box lid, Johnny dumped out the Styrofoam peanuts; with the little bits of packaging material fell a couple of books. Johnny checked out the covers; Black Beauty and The Collections of Robert Frost.
"Aww, that one wasn't ours, Soda; it was Pony and Darry's!" Two-Bit whined childishly, stamping his feet a couple times and cursing under his breath.
Johnny tuned around to look at Ponyboy, a grin on his face. Pony beamed back at him, not uttering a word. After all, they were buddies in silence; they didn't need to talk to know what the other person was saying.
Johnny unwrapped the box underneath Ponyboy's present, only to find a nice pair of leather boots in it. "You oughta come to the rodeo again sometime, Johnnykid," Sodapop smiled. "The drag races are too much fun!"
Johnny nodded. I'll have to get around to that sometime.
The largest box at the bottom of the pile was the last present. "Oh, that must be Steve's. Johnny, did he already give you the stuff you wanted?" Soda asked.
Johnny nodded before tearing this last box open. Inside was a couple of envelopes, a few extra notebooks, and a small pie wrapped in plastic that had a note taped onto it that said, 'Made it myself' in the older greaser's messy, scribbled handwriting.
Steve grinned proudly. "It's cherry-flavored."
Johnny looked at Steve with a bit of surprise. "Didn't know you could cook."
Dally, who had come back from the kitchen with chocolate smeared around his mouth, Two-Bit, Soda, and Ponyboy replied, "Neither did we."
"Well, now y'all know, so shut your traps!" Steve shouted, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. "Anyway, like I said earlier, you better get crackin' on writing. That's what the other notebooks are for. Open those envelopes when the party's done, Alrighty?"
Johnny nodded and placed the books on top of the box containing his new boots and stood up, picking up the wrapping paper as he did so.
Dally grinned. "Hey, Johnny, you like your stuff?" His usually cold-steel blue eyes brightened when Johnny nodded and grinned before he threw away the wrapping paper. "Good," the blond mumbled to himself. He shot a quick look at Steve before heading towards the front door. "Well, I'm headin' to Buck's. He wants me to do some more races for 'im. Stupid bucktoothed, Hank Williams-lovin'—"
Soda rolled his eyes and waved goodbye with the others before turned toward Johnny, saying, "Hope you're stayin' here—it's gonna get pretty cold tonight."
"Steve already asked about this," Johnny replied as he watched Dallas walk out the door (he was still cussing), chuckling a little. Steve just shot him a resentful look that made the tan-skinned youth think of Dally on one of his worse days.
Two-Bit turned on the television, flipping through the channels, most likely with some hope that Mickey Mouse was on that late in the day. An uttered, "Damn, no luck," confirmed Johnny's suspicions and made him grin. "Why're beamin' at my misfortune, Johnny Cade?" Two-Bit said with an expression of mock sadness. This succeeded in making Johnny smile even more and start to crack up.
Ponyboy muttered that he was heading to bed. "My ribs're killin' me…" and with that, he shuffled off to the cozy haven that was sleep.
Johnny shrugged and watched the television for while with Soda, Two-Bit, and Steve. He wasn't really paying attention, though. After about an hour (he was pretty relaxed in his seat on the floor—Two-Bit, Soda, and Steve were settled on the couch, shouting obscenities at the currently-playing football game), Johnny grabbed the envelopes he got from Steve and the copy of Robert Frost's poems he got from Ponyboy and headed out to the front porch. Taking a seat on the steps, Johnny tore open one of the envelopes, which had a check written in Steve's handwriting for…fifty dollars, did it say? Johnny couldn't decipher the messy scribbles on the small slip of paper, but he put it back and opened the other envelope.
"A letter?" Johnny unfolded the piece of notebook paper and skimmed it through a couple times (mainly because he couldn't make out a few words; he knew this was Steve's writing, but it was a lot neater). It was an odd note, Johnny thought. It looked more like a journal entry. He was honestly too nervous to read it aloud, though. It was dated about three months ago, and the topic itself was a little discomforting.
"June 9—
I really adore that kid. You know who I'm talking about. I don't want to say his name, because then it would emfasize the fact that it's true. And I really don't want to believe that. I don't swing that way! I mean, I've got Evie, and I'm fine the way I am. What would the gang say if they found out I had a thing for that kid? I'm no queer, anyway! Maybe it's just a phase or something…
I told Soda. I'm lucky he's such an understanding guy. He says to just keep it to myself and maybe it'll go away. Just kind of avoid the kid.
Steve Randle
P.S -----------
The first thing Johnny thought about this was that his spelling could use some work. When he looked it over a second time, he started to get real curious about why the message after the postscript had been erased and crossed out. Who was Steve talking about, anyway? He doesn't like Ponyboy at all, and he wasn't on good terms with Curly Shepard, and—
Then it clicked.
It was him. He was talking about Johnny.
At first, Johnny just kind of sat there, shaking from more than just the chilly air around him. What should he do? He didn't even know where to start.
Maybe he'd just go back inside and forget the whole thing, and Steve just wouldn't notice or care. Either way, he had a feeling something would go wrong if he chose to accept it or ignore it.