The first thing Pony thinks when he hears gun shots is Not again, before everyone's ducking underneath their desks and the teacher locks the door frantically, stuffing a chair underneath for good measure.
He knows that won't do anything. He's seen what rage can do to a person.
"Everyone into the corner," the teacher says, his voice growing higher in his panic. The Soc's scramble closest to the wall, leaving Ponyboy and one or two greasers left almost in sight. He feels a swell of worry for a moment, just an old reminder of his panic attacks, before there's a figure in the doorway and they're slamming on the door.
"LET ME IN," the man outside yells.
No one moves, but some of the students burst into quiet tears, trying to muffle their sobs.
"I KNOW AT LEAST ONE OF YOU LITTLE BASTARDS IS IN THERE," the gunman yells. He sounds vaguely familiar. "I CAN SEE YOUR LEG!" Everyone jerks to look at whose leg is showing, at who was foolish enough to do something like that in a fucking school shooting.
It was a greaser kid, sitting next to him, one Pony remembers fighting in rumbles sometimes, all in good fun. His face was pale, and sweat beads at his brow as the others berate him. Ponyboy racks his brain, before he gently touches the guy's leg to get his attention, making him startle.
"COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT," the man yells, hitting the door again. He seems to go down the hallway for a bit, before more gunshots are heard. Everyone flinches.
"Michael," Ponyboy says, as calmly as possible. "Michael, right?"
"Ye-Yeah," Michael stutters, his voice high pitched. Greasers aren't afraid of guns, but they're usually used in situations where they're not trapped in a corner like rats.
"I need you to keep your leg there for a moment, alright? You savvy?"
"I'm... yeah," Michael says, but his leg jerks with the need to move it.
Pony nods, before addressing his teacher. "Mr. Syme, I need you to get everyone into the closet, can you do that?"
"Will we fit?" Mr. Syme asks, brow furrowing.
"You'll need to," the boy answers back grimly.
"Ponyboy, you aren't-?" Mr. Syme asks.
"Someone's got to. It's me, or it's all of us."
And slowly, as if everyone is collectively realizing what the greaser was implying, they look at him without saying anything. Pony's glad, honestly. "You'll need to be quiet," he says instead, "and stay in the shadows. Don't bump into any desks and don't let your shoes squeak."
"I KNOW YOU'RE FUCKING IN THERE!" the gunman yells, agitated. He's appeared outside again, probably tired from killing other students. The thought makes Pony's stomach turn.
"Kid, you cannot do this," One of the Socs say, grabbing his arm. His face is genuinely concerned. His other arm is wrapped around his girl.
"Yes, I can," Pony says. "I have to."
"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR," comes in from door's window. A face is peering inside, and with a sinking heart Pony realizes he recognizes it.
"Especially 'cause I know him," he hears himself say, but for now he only focuses on his sudden nerves and the urge to vomit is growing stronger.
"What?"
"Go to the closet," he hisses, his face turning ugly from rage. They comply, everyone in the room frightened of the ugly yelling. The gunman has almost busted the chair loose from the door. He grunts with determination, like knows Ponyboy is in there. Briefly, the appreciation he feels for Two-Bit's skipping habit floods him. He would hate to lose another dear friend to gun violence.
"I'm coming, Randy," he announces loudly, tiredly. The knocking stops, and the door suddenly being shoved against. Ponyboy is afraid to open it, is afraid to reopen this chapter of his life, where Bob ruined everything. But he does. Pony opens the door and immediately puts his hands up in the air to show nonviolent behavior when the man comes stumbling in.
The scent of liquor hits him instantly, and does nothing for his stomach.
"You were doing so well, Adderson," Pony says. Staring at the black hole of a gun was like staring into a void of death. "You gave drinking up and you made good with me."
Randy snarls, shoves the gun into Pony's temple and presses the trigger. Pony briefly closes his eyes.
Nothing happens.
"You only bought six bullets?"
"Shut up, Curtis. Shut up, you're the reason-" Randy's hands are trembling now, and he starts repeating 'oh, no,' to himself over and over again.
"The fuzz are coming, Randy."
"Shut-"
"Why'd you do it?" Pony asks, his sudden fury causing him to stand up straighter. The gun is still pointed at his head, the muzzle of it hot with recently fired shots. It burns. He doesn't care. "Why'd you shoot up the school for a guy who ruined everything for me?"
"You don't understand," Randy says weakly. The gun clatters to the floor, and Randy slumps down next to it. "Bob was a g-"
"I don't care!" Ponyboy yells. The thought had been circulating in his brain since his freshman year, and now he was a junior. "I don't care if you thought Bob was a swell guy, I don't care if everyone thought he was a swell guy! He's the reason two of my best friends are dead! He's the reason I can't swim anymore! Bob was a shitty guy with some redeeming qualities and I hate him!" The words burst from his mouth before he can stop himself, and he finishes the rant with heavy panting. Pony kicks the gun out of pure spite, frowning heavily. "He's the reason you're doing shit like this. This ain't like you, Randy."
Then the police come, and everything is blurry, and shit, he had to cry just now, didn't he?
Pony's escorted to the parking lot and the entire gang- what's left of them- is waiting impatiently with worry straining their features. They don't seem to care that everyone is watching, because they all pile up on him in affection and worry, even Steve, who jokes in a watery voice, "Christ, kid, you just attract trouble everywhere, don'tcha?"
Their picture is in the paper the next day.
No one died, that day. Just a few in the hospital from shock. Randy had only shot at windows, and Ponyboy was his real target.
He shivers every time he thinks about that.
Darry almost doesn't let him go to school the day it reopens, a week later, but Ponyboy insists. His classmates stare at him with either awed or frightened expressions, and Pony can guess why. His reddish hair is limp and somewhat greasy, he has bags under his eyes, and from what Soda worriedly clucks, he looks like a skeleton. But he's here, and he's alive. And that's a lot more than what some people had.