Like everything, this story is tied into the 'Arrogance and Aggression' universe. It's tied to a direct line in that original story (from Sadie) about a greaser not being able to turn a girl into Cinderella. After stumbling across the album for Rodgers + Hammerstein's Cinderella on Spotify, which I had long forgotten about since, like, the 2013 Tony Awards, I wondered what might have prompted my little Sadie to say that. I think I've figured it out.
Lots of allusions to the sister OCs, each of who are clearly established in the original 'Arrogance and Aggression' story. So, if you haven't read that, and you're like, "What's up with all the sisters?" Well … there's a precedent. :) Just know that Sadie is Soda's twin in my canon here.
Sexual innuendo in the middle, by the way – all rather implicit, but nonetheless, it's there.
March 31, 1957
When Sadie Curtis was eight years old, she saw Cinderella for the first time.
It wasn't the cartoon with the princess in the blue dress and bright-yellow hair, though she had to admit, she liked that one. She liked the way Cinderella could talk to the mice, and she hummed "Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo" each time she swept the kitchen floor. This Cinderella was different. She had dark brown hair and a pretty white dress, like the kind Mama said Sadie could wear when she got married one day. Most importantly, she wasn't a cartoon. She was real. And if she was real, then maybe Sadie really could wear a dress like that someday.
For now, of course, she was stuck in a green-and-yellow striped sweater that might have been Darry's before and a skirt that was always itchy around her waist. She sat in between her Sodapop and Ponyboy on the couch that night Cinderella was on, and though Pony, at six, seemed interested enough, Soda was at the age where he thought it was real cool to make fun of fairytales.
"This is silly," he said.
"If it's so silly, why are you still sittin' out here?" Sadie asked.
"'Cause I ain't got nothin' better to do. Cinderella rides in a pumpkin on her way to the ball. That's gross."
"'S not a pumpkin when she takes it to the ball," Ponyboy said. "It's a carriage."
Sadie nodded in vigorous support. At least one brother was on her side that night.
"It was a pumpkin 'fore it was anything else," Soda said. "You know how gross pumpkins smell when we cut 'em open at Halloween. You wanna ride in one of those?"
"I like the way the pumpkins smell," Ponyboy said. "'Cause then it means it's Halloween."
The twins looked at each other, silently acknowledging the grossness of the pumpkin smell (and the idea that their little brother could like it). They were quiet for a little while as the Fairy Godmother sang with Cinderella about her transformation. Suddenly, Sadie's eyes widened.
"Did they just say 'The world is full of Sadies and fools?'" she asked.
"Zanies and fools," Darry corrected her as he walked into the living room from the kitchen. He'd been hanging out in there, trying not to care about what the little kids were watching on the television. At twelve, he was too old to even sit there and make fun of the fairy tales.
"I thought I heard Sadie."
"You say that liked you're bummed. Did ya wanna be a fool?"
"Sadies and fools. It's like … you know, it's like one or the other. You can be a Sadie, or you can be a fool."
"That ain't the song."
"But it could be."
"But it's not."
She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. Leave it to Darry to remind her that she was getting the words wrong. She'd tried to memorize one of the cheers at a high-school football game, and he corrected her even then. At twelve, he saw it as his one job in life to be right about everything all the time.
But as Sadie watched Cinderella meet, dance, and fall in love with Prince Charming, she decided, at eight, that it was her goal, too. After all, it looked so beautiful and so fun to fall in love. Maybe she'd fall in love with a guy like a prince, too. Not a real prince, of course, since at eight years old, she was fairly certain princes weren't real. Darry tried to correct her on that one, too, but she had a good point, she thought: If princes were real, why didn't they have any of them in America? He tried to protest again, but Mama reminded him that she was only eight.
Only eight. By eight years old, Sadie knew what she wanted to be. She wanted to grow up to be beautiful—so beautiful that no man could resist her. He would be a handsome man himself, hopefully with a nice house to offer her. As much as she loved that she lived at home with her folks and her brothers, she knew she didn't like waking up to find another rough-and-tumble boy seeking shelter on her family's couch most mornings. She didn't like hearing about how Dallas Winston was already stealing from kids at school. Nine was awful young to steal. She didn't like that while the girls in her class could wear cute, high-waisted skirts that were brand new from the store, Mama had to repurpose Darry's old clothes to fit a girl when they were really in a pinch. Sadie loved her home, but even at eight, she felt the air leave the room whenever Mama and Daddy said words like the bank and cash.
One day, she'd be beautiful enough to get them all out of there. Maybe they'd buy a whole neighborhood somewhere. Maybe they'd all have their own houses on the same block – their own nice houses with their own nice families that they always deserved but never quite had. She knew it. At eight years old, she knew it.
February 14, 1962
When Sadie Curtis was twelve years old, she was invited to a dance for the first time.
It had been three years since that boy leaned forward in his seat and called her the ugly twin, and now that she was thirteen years old—a sophisticated junior-high woman, she called herself—that same boy asked her to the Valentine's Day dance.
Though she never would have said anything out loud (for fear her brothers would have teased her), she was thrilled to be going to the dance, and she was thrilled to be going with the boy who had clearly seen the error of his ways. After all, it made sense. She and Soda were twins, and all the girls in school fawned all over him. Why shouldn't the boys like Sadie, too?
While Mom helped Sadie get ready for the dance, Darry told her that he was a little worried about her going with this boy. He knew his older brother from school, and he was a bit of a jackass. He had a string of girlfriends in the past year, and each one of them said that he went too fast. Maybe it was hereditary, and maybe the brother had the same problem. Mom pointed at him and told him to go make himself busy somewhere else. She turned back to Sadie, whose face looked whiter than a ghost. Mom gave her a sympathetic smile and threw her arms around her only girl.
"You don't worry about a thing like that," she said. "You're a tough girl. If somebody gets fresh with you, whaddya do, Sadie Lou?"
"I deck 'em," Sadie said. "I know that."
"Well, then, how come you look so scared?"
Sadie shrugged, but it was a lie. She knew exactly why she was scared. Even though this boy must not have thought she was ugly after all, it gave her a bit of pause to know that a middle-class boy wanted her to be his date for a Valentine's Day dance. Already, in junior high, kids were dating based on how much money their folks made. Soc girls blushed when Soc boys made them offers for the dance in the hallway. Middle-class boys and girls came into class just knowing they were going together. And greaser kids … well … Steve Randle grabbed this girl from the neighborhood, Evie, around the waist during gym class and asked her to go with him, and though all the girls would have liked to date Soda, he was made to go with Steve's kid sister Jane because it wouldn't raise any suspicions. Sadie was going to raise suspicion. She wasn't sure she was ready for that.
Of course, she didn't want to take away from this dressed-up, pretty moment with her mother. She twirled around in her white dress, and though she knew it was just simple cloth, she pretended it was the same glittery tulle that Cinderella wore on the big musical stage when she was a little girl. It made her feel beautiful – almost like it was possible for someone to love her and want to make her a princess, too.
"I ain't scared," Sadie said. "I just never been to a dance before. That's all."
"Oh, sweetheart," Mom almost laughed. "You've got nothing to worry about. You'll have fun! And if your date doesn't wanna dance, you can always dance with your brother."
"Mom! Gross!"
"What? Me and your dad always used to make you dance together. You were good!"
"I don't think that matters to the kids in our school. I think they'd think it's gross."
"Trust me, Sadie Lou. One day, you'll be sad you didn't dance with your brother more."
She gave Sadie one of her lipsticks to try on, and in a minute or two, she was ready. Soda, Steve, Evie, and Jane all gathered around in the living room, and Sadie posed for a few pictures with the four of them … sans her own date. She looked around outside and at the clock, wondering if he had the time wrong (or if she did). Hadn't she told him after the last bell that day that they would meet at her house? She asked Jane that same question three times.
"Yes, Sadie," Jane finally said, annoyed that she was taking away from her very rare moments with Sodapop. "I was right there. You told him."
"But then how come he ain't here?"
"I don't know. Maybe he got lost. Maybe he got jumped."
"You don't think he really did get jumped, did you?" Sadie hadn't said it out loud, but it was her biggest fear about her date coming to meet her at her house. She had a feeling that the minute a middle-class boy stepped onto her side of the neighborhood, he would get beat up, and she'd somehow be the one responsible for it.
"Probably not," Jane said. "But he ain't here, so I don't know."
"We better go," Soda said. Jane angled her body to take his hand, but he didn't notice. He was more worried about Sadie.
"You comin', Sadie Lou?"
Sadie shook her head, trying not to cry in front of all these people.
"But what if he got mixed up, and he's waitin' for you at the dance?"
"He ain't. He just ain't comin'."
"How do ya…?"
"I just do, Soda. And you do, too."
Soda didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Sadie was right – the kid wasn't coming, and he never planned on it, either. He only asked her to see if she'd cry when he stood her up. Neither of them knew it for sure, but it felt pretty clear. Darry was right. Being a jackass must have been hereditary. And to think, Sadie would have thought being beautiful was hereditary instead. Looked like she had 'em reversed.
"I'll stay with you," Soda said.
Jane's jaw nearly hit the floor with shock and offense, so Sadie shook her head. She was denied her one night of feeling like a pretty girl with prospects, but that didn't mean she'd let the same thing happen to Jane. Except for her brothers, Jane was her only real friend.
"No," Sadie said. "You go. I'll stay."
That's the way it's supposed to be, she thought. That's the way it'll always be. He'll go, and I'll stay.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, of course."
They all left (Soda left), and Sadie was left on the couch in her white dress, which was slowly starting to look more and more like the simple cloth it really was. Mom had teased her for wanting to wear a white dress to the dance when Sadie knew she was notorious for spilling things and staining all of her clothes. Nevertheless, Sadie insisted. She wanted to be beautiful, but this was another reminder that she wasn't. No matter what she did, she was always going to be the ugly twin – the twin who was made to stay home and who would never marry because no one wanted to marry an ugly girl.
For one week, she thought it was possible to be loved. For one week, she thought it was possible for a girl like her to be beautiful to a boy like that (or any boy). But now she knew. She was no Cinderella. It was as impossible as they said it would be.
May 21, 1963
When Sadie Curtis was fourteen years old, she knew two things about her new best friend, Lucy Bennet: She was madly in love with Dallas Winston, and Dally was into her right back. The thing was that neither of them knew it. But Sadie did. She knew it before anybody else even started to guess.
And who wouldn't be in love with Lucy, she thought. At fifteen, Lucy was already real pretty. She had these big blue eyes that sparkled when she had a good idea and turned into flames when she wanted to stomp somebody (which happened a lot). Lucy's claim to fame, even in her first year of high school, was her bright red lipstick. She wore this shade called "Certainly Red," and it wasn't cheap. Her folks would buy her a tube of it every year on her birthday with the condition she had to make it last the whole year. Of course, she ran out by May, and one afternoon after school, she found a new tube of "Certainly Red" in her locker. Someone swiped it for her. Lucy said she couldn't think of who it was; Sadie knew it was Dally. He was always talking about Lucy's mouth. It was dirty, but it was far from the dirtiest Dally had ever been to a girl, even at fifteen (especially at fifteen). Lucy interpreted it as piggish and vile. Sadie, as the only girl who had really grown up with Dally apart from maybe his own kid sister, thought differently. Around Lucy, his dirtiness was the tamest it had ever been. Besides, at least someone thought Lucy was pretty.
At fourteen, Sadie thought it was strange that she'd never been kissed. She attended a high-school class for one hour per day, and still, no one seemed interested. It might have had something to do with the fact that she was technically still in junior high, she was Darry Curtis's only sister (and he was nothing short of terrifying), and any time she had a free second in class or in the hallway, she was with Lucy. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Sadie knew it could have been any combination of reasons. That didn't change the fact that every time she thought about it, she was sure it was because that boy from fourth grade had been right. She was the ugly twin.
On the same afternoon Lucy had found the tube of lipstick in her locker (undoubtedly courtesy of Dally, which she refused to believe), she wrapped her arm around Sadie and pulled her close. For a moment, Sadie wondered if this was what it was like to have a sister.
"I don't know why I insist on wearing this stuff, anyway," Lucy said. "Nobody's ever gonna kiss me."
Sadie's eyes just about popped out of her head.
"You mean to tell me you haven't been kissed?"
"Of course not. My dad says it's because I have a clear intellectual focus, which scares the living daylights out of boys."
"No kiddin'."
"My mom says it's because I look ladylike, but I stop looking it once you get to talk to me. I like my dad's reasoning better."
"Again, I say, no kiddin'."
Lucy laughed. She had such a deep and pretty laugh, which Sadie always (sort of) envied. There were plenty of other girls in the neighborhood, but Lucy was the first one Sadie ever met who talked like a grown-up. She had a grown-up's voice and could quote whole passages from some guy called Goethe. It probably had something to do with the fact that her father was an English professor at the local university – that, and she never seemed to go anywhere without at least one book. Sometimes, if she was going to the Curtis house and knew that Dally was going to be there, she'd bring two or three.
That explained why Lucy had never been kissed. She was too busy reading to look up and see that anyone else in the world had lips. But what was Sadie's problem? She read books, too, but she didn't bury herself in them like Lucy did. She made an effort to talk to the people around her, especially the boys. Yet, no one ever seemed interested. She never did know why, so it had to be that she was ugly. It had to be that she wasn't from the best or even the most mediocre part of town. There was something wrong with her that she didn't know if she could ever fix. She'd never have that moment of possibility. At fourteen, she was sure she would die an old maid.
"What about you?" Lucy asked. "Are the boys lining up around the block?"
Sadie laughed, trying to sound more amused than disheartened. She failed, of course. She knew it.
"They line up around the block for the Shepards," Sadie said. "Either to try to kick Tim's ass or to see what they can do about Angela's. Nobody lines up around the block for me."
"I don't buy it."
"Hope you're not planning to steal it, then."
"You know what I mean. Pretty girl like you grows up in a neighborhood with all boys? Boys who spend all their waking time with your brothers in your house? Seems like somebody's bound to get attached."
Sadie shrugged. In truth, none of the boys had ever expressed any interest in her. It was almost like they treated her like one of them. The only boy who was ever soft with her and seemed to realize that she was a girl was Johnny Cade, and that was only because he was soft-spoken. He didn't think of Sadie in any way except … Sadie. It was a shame, too. Over the summer, they'd had a nice talk about how pretty the trees look when they're at their most green, and she realized she kind of liked him. Nothing would ever happen between them, of course – not even when they weren't fourteen anymore. Johnny was Pony's best friend, and when he was older, he'd be handsome even if he weren't tall. Handsome guys didn't go for plain girls, no matter how well they knew each other … no matter how beautifully they talked about the green on the trees.
"Guess they're afraid of what Darry would do to 'em," Sadie said, and Lucy laughed. Good. She was hoping to go for funny. She didn't want to be real in front of Lucy. About a year earlier, she'd tried to share her insecurities with Jane. First, Jane contradicted everything Sadie tried to say; then, she wondered if it was abnormal for her never to have been kissed, especially since she and Soda had been to that Valentine's Day dance together. Conveniently, she seemed to have forgotten that Sadie had been stood up for that dance. Jane hadn't been very sensitive then.
"Guess so," Lucy said.
It wasn't that Sadie was jealous or resentful of Lucy. She didn't really feel things like that, especially not toward the people she loved. She didn't even feel jealous or resentful of Soda, and he was her attention-getting twin. But there was a tiny part of her that couldn't help but feel a little bummed out when she looked at Lucy. Even if she hadn't been kissed at fifteen, she was pretty enough already to grow into someone beautiful – someone boys tripped over themselves trying to get to. When it came to love, Lucy wasn't going to be wanting. The worst part was that it didn't even particularly matter to her. She preferred her schoolwork. She preferred politics. Lucy Bennet would never want for love, but Sadie Curtis always would. She already did.
They walked through the Curtises' front door to find none of Sadie's brothers, but Dallas Winston on the couch. As soon as he saw Lucy, he stood up with a glint in his eye. Sadie's heart dropped. She didn't want Dally to look at her that way – she was worried for any girl who Dally looked at in that way – but she'd never had anyone look at her like she was something to see. She was simply Sadie, an extension of Sodapop, one of the boys. And you didn't kiss one of the boys or call them beautiful. As tuff as it was to be on par with them, there were more days that it bugged her the older she became. They looked at Jane like she was pretty. What was so different about Sadie? What kept her from being Cinderella, just for a night?
"Hey, Bennet," Dally said. "Nice lips."
"The better to scream at you with, my dear."
"Just you wait. 'Fore you're done with school, you'll be screamin' 'cause of me, not at me."
"Dream on."
Without either of them noticing, Sadie slipped away from the living room and into her bedroom. She closed the door quietly behind her, pressed her back up against it, and cried. After a few minutes, Lucy and Dally were distracted enough so that she could cry a little louder. They were too busy pretending to hate each other to pay any attention to her. Sadie sunk to the ground, crying without shame now. It was happening for Lucy, and she didn't want or need it to happen for her. Nothing was happening for Sadie. She was the girl you treated like a sister – worse, treated like a brother – and the girl you stood up on the night of the Valentine's Day dance. If she were Cinderella, then she was the Cinderella who never found her way out of the ashes.
February 22, 1965
When Sadie Curtis was sixteen years old, there was another version of the Cinderella musical for television. Despite her better judgment, Sadie was eager to see it. She figured it might, at least for a few hours, take her mind off the gaping hole that got bigger everyday she remembered that her parents weren't coming home anymore.
Lucy and Jane were both game to watch the musical with Sadie. Admittedly, Jane was more game when she thought Soda was going to be there, but she was a good sport about it when she realized of course he would be out with Sandy. Lucy hated anything that had to do with fairytales (She said.), but any reason to be with Sadie was a good enough reason. In the two months since Sadie's folks had died, Lucy had spent many a night on Sadie's bedroom floor. She had her brothers, of course, but there was something about having a sister, too.
"I always liked Cinderella," Jane said.
"Me, too," Sadie said.
"Somethin' about a pretty girl all dressed in rags who gets to go to the ball and marry a prince. Somethin' appealing about that, don't ya think?"
"Yeah, somethin' appealing, alright."
Lucy shook her head. She was always doing stuff like that. Sadie tried not to be upset about it since having Lucy around was more fun than having nobody, but it was a little hurtful. She just really didn't get it, nor did she understand why Cinderella would matter to anyone. It wasn't her fault. She'd just grown up differently – had different role models.
"I don't know," Lucy said. "Cinderella's a hard worker, I guess, but what's she working toward? Marrying a prince? That doesn't seem like much of a goal."
"Well, maybe not for you," Jane said. "You never been locked up in a tiny room with only animals to talk to."
"And you have?"
Jane didn't say anything, and Sadie's heart went out for her. While Jane had never been exactly locked up in a tiny room with only animals to talk to, she spent a lot of time locked up in her room hiding from her folks while they fought. She was usually with Steve, who wasn't much different than a talking horse, when Sadie thought on it. Maybe Jane was more like Cinderella than Sadie ever could be. After all, between the two of them, Jane had always been the pretty one. She thought about it, and then she felt sick to her stomach. It wasn't right to envy Jane for having a pretty face and a high laugh. Sadie had the family, even now.
"Well, I can't forgive Cinderella for getting married because she had one fun date she wasn't even supposed to be on," Lucy said. "Seems ridiculous to me. If I ever get married, it'll be because I'm so impossibly in love that I can barely walk upright."
"If callin' it love works for ya, I'm still in."
The girls turned their heads toward the door. Ponyboy, Johnny, and Dally were coming into the house, merely (Sadie thought) to ruin any and all fun she would have had. She folded her arms across her chest and prayed that they would go away.
"What are you doing here?" Lucy asked, but only to Dally (and she still wasn't aware that she liked him, which amused and bothered the hell out of Sadie). "It's after nine. Shouldn't you be out … destroying something?"
"Ya know what I like?" Dally asked. "I like how you don't even know the names of the shit you think I should be out there doin'. It's cute."
"I wasn't feelin' too good," Ponyboy said and took a seat on the floor (the logical place for Ponyboy, who had no logic to speak of, to sit). "Dally made sure I got here. I told Johnny he could spend the night. Ya think Darry'll be mad at me for that?"
Sadie looked at Johnny, who seemed to be more interested in his sneakers than in anyone in the house, and then she looked back to her brother. She was more than OK with Johnny staying the night at their house – not because she still harbored some sort of crush on him like she did in the eighth grade, but because she hated to think of him trapped in his own house. His kid sister Lilly spent most nights with the Mathews family without feeling too bad about it. Johnny didn't stay at the Curtis place as often as Mom and Dad (and now, Darry) probably would have let him, and when Sadie asked him about it one time, he said it was about not wanting to impose. Sadie tried to tell him that he could never be an imposition, but she didn't want him to get the wrong idea. She didn't want him to think that she was into him. That would have only made things worse, as it would have been a cold day in hell before one of the boys thought about Sadie that way. It was nothing short of impossible, and she'd always known it, even on the days she pretended like she didn't.
"Naw," Sadie said. "Naw, I think he can stay."
Johnny looked up from the floor and gave Sadie one of those shy, sad smiles he always gave. She mirrored the same smile because she was excellent at being somebody's mirror. He shuffled his way over to the couch and stood in between where Lucy and Sadie sat, awkwardly looking at Lucy but being too afraid to ask her to move. After a few seconds, she got the hint and popped up like someone had lit a fire underneath her (and as she'd discover some time later, someone had been trying). She ended up standing next to Dally, who made some remark or another about her not be able to walk upright.
"I'd rather lick my own elbow," Lucy said.
"I'd kill to see that."
"You'd kill for less."
"Naw, I'm pretty sure a flexible girl is the only thing really worth killin' for."
Out of the corner of her eye, Sadie saw Lucy blush, as though some part of her was surely enjoying this. Sadie's own heart was sinking farther and farther down into her body. Lucy didn't even try, and she got a boy to fall in love with her (as much as Dallas Winston could be in love with anybody, of course). Sadie could bat her lashes a thousand times – a thousand times, and none of it mattered. She would never be cute enough to spot.
Johnny leaned in a little to speak to Sadie without Dally hearing. He didn't want him to think that he was some sort of sissy for wanting to know about Cinderella; Sadie wanted to tell him that it didn't matter because Dally was too caught up with his newest toy to hear anything except the sound of his own voice. She didn't. She didn't want to make Lucy look as bad as she felt.
"What's the deal with Cinderella, huh?" Johnny asked.
"What do you mean?" Lucy asked. "She's a pretty girl, and when her dad dies, her stepmother treats her like garbage. She meets a fairy godmother, she gets to go to the ball and dance with the prince, and they get married. I thought everybody knew the story of Cinderella."
Johnny shook his head.
"I know the story," he said. "I just don't get it."
"Which part?"
"Well, she's awful pretty. How come nobody noticed it 'fore she went to the ball?"
Immediately, Sadie felt the blush fill her cheeks, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from giggling. It seemed far-fetched that Johnny would be comparing her to Cinderella in that moment. He wasn't big on fairytales, so it was likely that he was only referring to the beautiful actress on the tiny television set. And if he was keen enough to liken any girl in that room to Cinderella, it wasn't going to be Sadie. It was never going to be Sadie. It had to be Jane – the prettiest girl on the ugliest side of the neighborhood. Sadie only hoped that if Johnny was into Jane, then he knew that she would never give him the time of day. She'd been committed to the fantasy of Sodapop Curtis since primary school, and she ignored any and all potential prospects apart from him. Just as the thought of any boy wanting to make a beautiful princess out of Sadie, the idea of Jane ever giving up on Soda for an available boy seemed, frankly, impossible.
"I don't know," Sadie said. "Maybe she was hiding."
Johnny nodded. That, he could understand.
If Sadie hadn't been so focused on herself, she probably would have realized that she and Johnny had that in common. Where Johnny was hiding from everybody else, Sadie was hiding from herself. Occasionally, they'd come out of hiding and recognize each other, but it didn't happen often. When it did, it also never lasted very long. If Sadie hadn't been so focused on herself, she might have realized it was considerably easier to worry that no one would ever fall in love with you than it was to worry that no one would ever love you at all. But, as she watched Cinderella recognize that magic and romance were impossible, she wasn't thinking very much about anyone else at all.
"Hey, Sadie?" Johnny asked.
"Yeah?"
"Don't you got a dress that looks like that?"
Sadie looked at the Cinderella on the screen and quietly laughed to herself. In three years' time, she had already forgotten that white cotton dress she begged Mom and Dad to buy for her so that she could be like Cinderella. She looked at the champagne-colored tulle and fur collar that this Cinderella wore and was grateful she'd had more taste than that.
"I had a white dress before," Sadie said. "I was gonna wear it to the Valentine's Day dance when I was in the seventh grade."
"Oh. What happened? Why didn't you wear it?"
"You don't really wear a dress to the dance if you get stood up. At least, that's what I've heard."
"You got stood up?"
"Yeah. It was years ago. Didn't you know that?"
"Guess not."
They were quiet for a long time. Sadie thought about what Cinderella said in the song: "Impossible for a plain country bumpkin and a prince to join in marriage." As a little girl, she thought that was a load, and any girl could marry any boy if she really wanted to. Now that she was sixteen and more on her own than ever (or so it felt – Soda was almost never home anymore), she knew that her chances of being a princess didn't exist. She was Sadie Curtis from the wrong side of the tracks, who wiped her hands on her pants and skirts and could beat the tar out of you if she wanted to. The only girls who could become princesses were the rich ones with their pretty faces and pretty hair because they were the only ones that a prince would look twice at. Cheerleaders dated football players, and that was their kingdom, especially once the prom rolled around, and everyone gave them big old crowns to prove it. And everyone would look at them and love them, if only for a few hours, because they were beautiful and special and worthwhile. Sadie would never be part of that. She had no chance of getting out because she had no chance of finding somebody from out of their neighborhood … and none of them would look twice at her, anyway, because she was just Sadie Curtis. She wanted to sob, but she knew Lucy would lecture her for it. She always did – something about being independent women in this, our modern epoch of women's rights to do things other than marry and pump out a few cute kids. Lucy thought she was doing right by her friends, and in her head, she really was. She had no idea what it was like to be Sadie or Jane – the kinds of girls who needed husbands in order to have a roof over their heads and food on their tables after they turned eighteen. Sadie softly sighed. At least Jane knew what it was like to be beautiful.
"Hey, Sadie?"
"Yeah?"
Johnny was quiet before he answered her, which Sadie took to mean he was about to tell her something she didn't want to hear. Whenever boys got quiet with her, it always meant she was about to hear something she didn't want to hear.
"I hope you still have that dress," he said so quietly that Sadie almost couldn't even hear him over Lucy and Dally's bickering on the other side of the room. "I kinda remember it now. Ya looked real pretty in it."
Sadie bowed her head and turned a deeper shade of red than she'd ever been, she assumed. She'd grown a lot since that dress, and she didn't have it anymore. But to know that somebody, for a second, saw her as something like that Cinderella … that was enough to keep her going. Maybe impossible was too strong of a word.
November 20, 1966
When Sadie Curtis was eighteen years old, she and Johnny Cade had been going steady for about a year. Her brothers were happy for her. Soda had seen it coming for years, which confused the hell out of Sadie. Soda asked her how she hadn't noticed that Johnny was always asking after her, even when he thought he had a crush on Lucy. Sadie shrugged and said it was easy to miss signals when Johnny was the one giving them. Of course, that wasn't all. She hadn't noticed Johnny asking after her because she never believed that anyone would. Even at eighteen, Sadie was the ugly twin. She was the girl you went after because you knew she couldn't afford to turn you down. After all, she never had a better offer. She was the girl you went after because you found out Jane and Lucy were spoken for. Everyday, that last part began to sting a little more.
About two weeks into their (at-long-last) decision to make the beast with two backs, Lucy and Dally got married down at city hall. Granted, it was on their strange interpretation of Sadie's dare, but she never figured they would go through with it. For the first few months, any time Lucy and Sadie sat down together, it was the only thing Lucy could manage to talk about: how years ago, Dally had been right, and she was screaming because of him, how he did her better than she could ever do herself, and more that Sadie was too embarrassed to divulge, even in her own thoughts. As happy as she was that Lucy was happy and had finally realized she didn't hate the piss out of Dally, after all, Sadie couldn't help but feel even more ineffectual. It was even worse now that Lucy was pregnant and had permanent proof that, at some point in her young adulthood, someone had wanted her. She'd wanted him right back and just as badly. Sadie didn't know the feeling, exactly. She may have had a guy now, but what did it mean if she didn't feel … so impossibly in love with him that she couldn't walk upright?
After about a year of going with Johnny, Sadie was more drawn to him than the first time he asked her out. Yet, it had nothing on the way Lucy claimed to feel about Dally or the way Jane claimed to feel about Soda. She just … liked Johnny. Loved him, even. He was a great guy. She liked hanging out with him after school and on the weekends. She liked that, surprisingly, he was more inclined to stay the night at the Curtis house now that he was Sadie's steady. Even Darry was too afraid to stare daggers at him if Sadie was still out on the couch with him past midnight. He'd just walk out there, clear his throat a little bit, and Sadie would make her way back to her own room. Was that why there wasn't much more between them than good conversation and handholding? Because of Darry's throat clearing, or because she wasn't pretty enough?
She and Johnny would meet back up again in the morning and at school to talk – they were always talking, sometimes kissing, but mostly talking – and that was it. They were trapped in a cycle of innocence and pleasantries. Though it was probably what both of them needed, Sadie still felt insecure when she saw Lucy-and-Dally, Soda-and-Jane. Not even a year of being somebody's one and only girl was enough to make Sadie stop feeling like the ugly twin.
She decided to mention something to Johnny at Jay's one night when they were out (and alone together). Of course, she didn't want to phrase it like that, for fear Johnny wouldn't take it well. Instead of being as blunt as she wished she could be, she tightened her grip around her glass, leaned forward in her seat, and tried to beat around the bush – the very thing her brothers and best friend always tried to teach her not to do.
"This might sound kinda creepy," she said.
Great. That was a great place to start. She could tell by the way Johnny winced across from her in the booth.
"Yeah?"
"You ever feel like Dally knocked up Lucy just so they could prove they've had sex?"
Johnny choked on his own drink, and Sadie wanted to sink into the floor – with shame, none of that pleasure garbage that Lucy was always going on about. Sadie turned bright red and tightened her grip on her glass even more. She was worried she might shatter it.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Bad joke."
"Naw, you got a point. Trust me. You don't gotta listen to Dally talk about Lucy."
"And you don't gotta listen to Lucy talk about Dally."
Johnny laughed a little bit and started to ease back into the comfortable silence between himself and Sadie. She was sure pretty – not a pinup or anything, but a far cry from the kind of plain she was always making herself out to be. He would have loved to do more than just take her hand in the school hallways or chastely kiss her when her brothers weren't looking … only he was waiting for Sadie to wake up and realize that she was a Curtis, and Curtises were too good looking for their own good. She could have any boy she wanted if she started looking at herself the right way, and he suspected she wouldn't have ever gone for him. What did he have that was good enough for Sadie Lou Curtis? He was more in love with her than he let on (though not a madman about it like Dally seemed to be now that he had a girl who gave a damn about him), but he was sure that one day, Sadie would wake up and be the first girl to really break his heart.
He couldn't have been more wrong about that if he wanted to be, of course, because Sadie kept asking him questions.
"How come we ain't like that?"
Johnny choked on his drink again. He figured Sadie wouldn't want anything to do with him in a few months' time. He never thought that she thought about him as more than just Johnny, the guy she was going with because he happened to be nearby. That was, from his point of view, the only reason a girl like Sadie Curtis would go for him. What he didn't know was that Sadie Curtis thought about him in the same way.
"How come we ain't…?"
"Pawin' all over each other, like Lucy and Dally."
Johnny didn't answer. Sure, he was sensitive, but he wasn't a talker. Pony could go on for hours about how sad he was that he'd forgotten his book outside in the rain or how angry he was that Darry made him do the dishes again or something. That wasn't Johnny. He knew better than to open his mouth around most folks … but did that have to include Sadie?
"I didn't think you were …"
"That kinda girl?"
Again, Johnny didn't say anything. He knew better than that, and if he wanted to be with Sadie Curtis (and he did), it was better not to upset her. She was like Soda in that way. She could play tough, but she knew how to cry, too. Johnny didn't think he could handle being the guy who made Sadie cry. He loved her too much – always had, even before he knew she was a girl.
"Sometimes I'd like to be," she said. "That kinda girl. The girl who boys look at and think, 'Wow. There she goes.'"
"Boys look at you like that."
"No, they look at Lucy like that. Between us, she's always been the pretty one."
"That ain't true. Not all the guys like Lucy. Just Dally."
"And you."
Johnny looked down at the table. It had been over a year, and he had been hoping that Sadie would have long forgotten about his brief crush on her best friend. When he thought about it, it really wasn't a crush on Lucy as it was … some sort of knowledge that Dally liked Lucy, and since Johnny wanted to be like Dally, then he had himself all convinced that he was into Lucy, too. But that wasn't true. He'd always felt much more drawn to Sadie. She smelled nice, and she read Emily Dickinson. That was only the beginning.
"Sadie …"
"It's OK. We don't have to talk about it. I'm just … I'm not the prettiest broad you or anybody could be dating, Johnny, so why bother?"
"Bother?"
"Yeah. Bother. I'm nobody's dreamboat. I'm just Sadie. I happen to live around here. I happen to be the only girl in the Curtis house. I happen to be of a certain age. I'm just … convenient. You're a good-lookin' guy. You could be out there gettin' to know plenty of girls. You shouldn't need to bother with me."
Johnny shook his head. He couldn't believe someone as wonderful as Sadie Curtis could ever see herself as a bother. She especially didn't bother him. To him, she was lovely.
"You ain't a bother," he said. "You're …"
Beautiful, he thought.
"I love you, Sadie."
Sadie smiled, but she knew there was a hint of sadness on her face. Somehow, it was easier for Johnny to tell her that he loved her than to tell her she was beautiful. It made sense, she thought. Johnny was a nice guy, and nice guys didn't lie about stuff like that to their girls. It also made sense for her to take what she could get. After all, she did love him, too. She always had – both before and after she figured out he was a boy.
"I love you, too," she said.
It was the first time they'd said it, though they'd always known they meant it. Without thinking very much, Sadie got up from her side of the booth and moved over to Johnny's side. He was going to ask her what she was doing, and then he realized. Neither of them figured this would happen tonight (or maybe even at all), but that didn't matter. The more Sadie kept kissing him, the more right it became.
"Ya really love me?" she asked him, nose still pressed against his as though she was afraid of moving backward.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, of course I do."
"Good. So do I. And I …"
"So … so … so do I."
Sadie sighed. So, it was time now. She was prepared. She'd been prepared for over a year – since Lucy came to her and asked if she could tell her something private and important. Sadie was ready. She'd been gearing up for it for so long, it was starting to already feel smooth; like she planned it from the minute she woke up that morning.
It wasn't clear how much time passed between getting up from that booth and finding their way back to the house and back to Sadie's room. It was one of those convenient nights – Darry was working late, Soda was out with Jane, and Pony was talking about some book or another with his not-girlfriend, Carrie. Perhaps, Sadie thought, she'd had it planned from the minute she woke up that morning after all. Perhaps she knew exactly what she wanted. She was much smarter than people liked to give her credit.
She lay there and kept waiting to feel different – to feel impossibly in love, like Lucy described, or to at least feel beautiful, for the first time in her life. Nothing happened. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't that transparent eyeball stuff Lucy made it out to be, either. It was worth it to say that she'd done it, and she was sure there were a million ways it could have been worse. She could have not loved him at all. But it wasn't what she needed to feel beautiful. It wasn't what she needed to finally feel like a princess. By the time it was all said and done (but not for Sadie, who hadn't gotten everything Lucy and Jane said she was supposed to get), she was still Sadie. She was still plain, freckly, and poor. She didn't feel like a princess on her wedding night, which was (albeit stupidly) what she had expected before. Instead, she just felt like the scullery maid who screwed around with the footman downstairs while the real Cinderella was becoming real royalty.
She rolled over onto her side and let out a dejected sigh. That might have been a little harsh. Johnny was no prince, but he was no servant, either. He was just Johnny, and maybe that was all he needed to be. She bit her thumbnail and smiled, though she was trying to play it cool.
"Hey, Sadie?"
"Yeah?"
"You look real pretty."
Sadie smiled, trying not to think about the first thing that popped into her head. She hadn't just used Johnny to get even with Lucy and Jane. In her way, she did love him, but it wasn't the same kind of mad love that her friends seemed to have. She loved him, and this would have happened sooner or later. Both of them knew that. But what they'd have to know now and into the future (which they would almost undoubtedly share) was that Sadie's suspicion had been right all along. She'd been right since she was thirteen years old, wearing a white dress and waiting for some middle-class boy whose name she no longer even remembered. No greaser was going to turn her into Cinderella – at least, he wouldn't turn her into Cinderella at the ball. He could love her with all of his heart, and she could love him right back. That didn't mean he was a prince, and that didn't mean she could ever feel like a princess, like she'd wanted to since she was eight years old. It really was impossible. It broke part of heart to know that, but not all of it. There was enough of it left over to give to the boy who'd quoted "Wild Night" to her before watching her take off all her clothes. It wasn't Cinderella, and maybe it didn't need to be.
"I love you," she said. She meant it.
It was all that there was, and it would have to be enough.
March 29, 1968
When Sadie Curtis was nineteen years old – almost exactly eleven years to the day after she'd first discovered that Cinderella musical – she swapped her last name for someone else's.
"At least you're keeping the same initials," Lucy said as she tucked a strand of Sadie's hair behind her ear. They were getting ready in Lucy and Dally's apartment above the bookstore. "Gives me some sort of consistency in my life."
"I'm gettin' married, and you're worried about how my new name affects you?"
"Well, yeah. I'm working on the whole arrogance thing, but I have my setbacks."
She wandered over to the crib in the corner of the room and grabbed baby Elenore, who was almost a year old. She had on the most perfect little pink dress that Jane had swiped for her (which Lucy didn't actually know the truth about). If Sadie squinted, she saw how Elenore, despite being born on the wrong side of the tracks to a delinquent and his angry wife, could grow up to be some kind of princess. Maybe she wouldn't be a fairytale princess, but she'd be a princess nevertheless. She had the right eyes for it. It didn't make a lot of sense. That didn't mean it wasn't true.
"Are you sure this is all you want?" Lucy asked as the three of them made their way to city hall. They were going to meet the others – both the guys and their sisters. Soda had wanted to tag along with the girls, but they insisted on having their moment to themselves. Sadie and Soda might have been twins, but there were some things a girl needed to do with her best friend.
"Of course," Sadie said. "It's all I can afford."
"Yeah, but is it all that you want?"
Sadie didn't say anything because Lucy already knew the answer. They'd known each long enough not to have to bother with that sort of thing. Of course this wasn't all that Sadie wanted out of her wedding. It wasn't even close. For one thing, she wanted her folks to be there. For another, she wanted the big party with the music and the food. And for a third, she wanted to wear that pretty white dress and feel like Cinderella at the ball and on the wedding night, all at once. But it wasn't what she could get. This was the best she could do. It was all there was, and it had to be enough.
"I love Johnny, you know," Sadie said. She wasn't trying to convince herself – not really, anyway. She wanted Lucy to know that she was OK. Lucy was always worried that Sadie wouldn't be OK.
"I know," Lucy said. They were walking up the steps now. "I just want to make sure you're happy."
"I am."
She meant it. It wasn't the kind of happy she dreamt about when she was eight years old (and still had schoolgirl fantasies about when Johnny wasn't paying attention). But it was a new kind of happy. That old kind of happy was simply impossible.
When they found everybody in the middle of city hall, Lucy put her hand on Sadie's shoulder and told her that before she signed as a witness, she had to go be impossibly in love somewhere else. She and Elenore walked right over to Dally, and Sadie's eyes and ears followed.
"Well, of all the city halls in all the world," Lucy said. "Kind of a homecoming."
"I ain't gonna kiss you right here out in the open if that's what ya want."
"Didn't stop you in '65."
Sadie saw Dally smirk a little before he leaned forward and kissed Lucy, which made Sadie's heart grow and clench all the same. When she looked at them, she realized there were two kinds of impossible love. There was the kind of impossible love that Lucy and Dally had for each other – unable to keep their hands off each other, thinking about each other all the time, would-rather-die-than-live-a-day without the other kind of impossible love. And then there was the kind of impossible love where pumpkins turned into carriages, white mice turned into white horses, and greasers could turn their girls into princesses – the really impossible love. Sadie didn't have either.
Johnny came up beside her, smiled that Johnny smile she'd loved since she was a kid, and asked her if this was too soon to see the bride before a wedding. Sadie laughed a little. It wasn't really a wedding. It was only a marriage. It was only a marriage, but that didn't mean it wasn't good enough. It was Johnny – the kid who liked to talk about the trees and read Dickinson with her. She'd be content. He'd be free. They'd be together in the way they knew how. That was good enough.
Before they made their vows and signed their papers like they'd planned to do for what felt like a long time, Johnny looked her up and down, trying to figure out what was familiar about the way she looked that day. Sadie noticed and wrinkled her nose, confused.
"Is there somethin' wrong with the way I look?" she asked.
Johnny just shook his head. There was nothing wrong with the way Sadie Curtis looked. There was never anything wrong with the way Sadie Curtis looked.
"Your dress," he said. "Looks kinda like that Cinderella one you used to have when we was kids, jus' more grown-up. You look …"
Sadie was going to tell him that he didn't have to say it. He wasn't the kind of guy who just blew smoke, and he didn't need to pretend, even if they were getting married that day. But she didn't have to. He spoke all on his own.
"You look beautiful."
And for the first time that day, Sadie smiled with teeth. It wasn't that she needed to be beautiful to be loved. She knew that now. It was just … it was just that it was nice to hear it from somebody who wasn't in her own family, even if it did take nineteen years.
No greaser was ever going to turn her into Cinderella. It was impossible. She'd be stuck with pumpkins and mice in sickness and in health and as long as she should live. But if the pumpkins and mice treated you well and thought you were lovely, maybe you'd stick around and marry them, too.
So, there's plenty more of Johnny and Sadie's relationship in the expanded universe … it just hasn't been written yet (apart from notes). This is my little preview of the kind of relationship they have in the 'A&A' universe. Evidently, it's quite contrasted from the others. Their relationship is much calmer and much more pragmatic. I hope, as it begins to take shape, it turns out all right.
Hinton owns The Outsiders. Rodgers and Hammerstein own this version of Cinderella (or at least, you know, the music and lyrics). The "transparent eyeball" reference is to Ralph Waldo Emerson and American Transcendentalism, which is NOT my thing, but Lucy was probably forced to read it when she made her comment about it. And I … well, I seem to always be wearing the same Millennium Falcon socks when I write these one shots, so I do own those. I realize it's not a clever disclaimer, but it's mine.