Greasers don't cry.
It was a singular thought on the minds of all who were present. The small cluster of misfits and outcasts stared in a solemn daze at the memorials before them. A steady rain fell, and though the icy spray of water pierced even the most durable of
leatherjackets, the boys were all very grateful for it. The splatter of the droplets traced their cheeks, masking the difference between the ones that fell from the sky and those that leaked from the corners of their eyes.
The first gravestone bore the nameDarrel Curtis Sr.,the only other informationbeing far too few years, and a short statement about his job as a father and husband.
The other belonged to a woman by the name of Margaret, who had the same surname, and a year or two less.
It seemed cruel that two such kind people, who were cursed with far too short of a life, should have such a nondescript funeral. The service had been virtually non-existent, and due to the cause of their deaths -an automobile collision with a freight
train- it had been closed-casket. Sodapop Patrick Curtis wasn't sure how he felt about that. On one hand, he never got a chance to say goodbye, on the other, he had no interest in having to see the mangled corpses of two of the people he loved most
in the world. The 16 year old sniffed subtlety, wiping the back of his fist across his face.
His older brother, Darrel CurtisJr., or Darry for short, had drawn himself up to his full height. His face, one full of joy, was set in a grim line. Soda's heart fell in his chest as he studied hisbrother. Their parents' death meant a very difficult choice
for Darry: He could either attend college, giving himself the life he had always worked so hard for, effectively ridding himself of his greaser background, or he could raise his little brothers. The remaining members of the Curtis family had been
purposefully avoiding the discussion of this choice, but as it had been nearly three days after his parents death, Soda knew it couldn'tbe avoided for much longer.
At this thought, his blue-eyed gaze sidled over to his younger brother, the only other remaining Curtis besides himself and Darry. The almost fourteen year old was sniffling like crazy, rubbing his eyes forcefullywith his fists in a bid to remain looking
tough. He was wearing one of Soda's old suits, with the knees and elbows worn and the sleeves far past his hands. Soda himself only owned that one suit, the one he was currently wearing was a hand-me-down from Darry, though considering Darry's responsible
personality, it was in far better condition. Soda continued watching the baby of the family with a careful gaze. Ponyboy, as he had been so originally named, kept his eyes locked on the tombstone. As if he was the only one inthe entire cemetery.
With a gentleness that always came naturally when in reference to his little brother, Soda took a step in his direction, clapping a hand on Pony's shoulder. He'd be damned if he didn't remind the 13 year old that he wasn't the only one there.
They were here for him. The sixteen year old glanced up, finally eyeing the rest of the small group assembled there. They were all there for him. The thought was barely even in his mind before he shook his head, amending his internal statement. No, they were there for eachother.
The Curtis's had been the family that the rest of the hood looked up to. Darrel Curtis Sr. didn't get drunk, nor did he bring a belt or his fists to his three sons. He was no push over, and his boys knew better than to get into trouble, but he had been
a loving father, participating in football games on many a summer night out in the lot. Mrs. Margaret Curtis, while somewhat plain in the rest of her appearance, had hadthese sparkling blue eyes that were always full of laughter, and she had tended
to the needs of her boys as well as that of their friends. She was no stranger to a cigarette or a whiskey, while she was kind, she was still susceptible to the whims of her neighborhood, but she never once said a cruel word to her children, and was
always there to fix up their scrapes and cuts.
The Curtis home was the only one void of screaming arguments and breaking furniture. They kept their doors unlocked, even during the troubled times, so that all the neighborhood boys could have a place on their sofa should they find themselves in need
of it.
And so, while only a handful of people were there in the cemetery that day, and Darrel and Margaret Curtis had left the world without so much as a sliver of recognition for their goodness, it felt right. All the gang was there, Soda noticed as he smiled
faintly to himself. Two-Bit Mathews, who only had ever allowed Mrs. Curtis to refer to him as his given name, Keith, had his fists stuffed into his pockets, mouth set into a firm line. He hadn't bothered to dress up, but Soda couldn't remember a time
he hadn't been pissed-out drunk, and it was clear that Two-Bit was using his sobriety as his highest form of respect for the occasion.
Johnny Cade was there as well, of course. He had spent many a night in the Curtis home, when his father had beaten the living daylights out of him and his mother was passed out on the couch with a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a smoldering cigarette
in the other.
Steve Randle approached the graves slightly, and his eyes met Soda's, the two exchanging a look of comfort only found between two best friends. Steve had practically grown up in the Curtis household, becoming Sodapop's closest friend, despite his occasional
conflicts with Ponyboy.
Even Dallas Winston was there. His hair to longish to be greased back properly, instead hanging across his forehead. The usualcigarette hung loosely from his mouth, until every now and then he took a slow drag from it. The resident bad guy of their little
neighborhood wasn't one to frequent funerals, and rumor had it he could be shipped off to jail againany time now, but Soda supposed he'd made an acceptation, perhaps remembering the time Mrs. Curtis had helped bandage his wound after that
nasty fight he'd gotten into with a rival gang.
Soda turned away from the gang, walking closer to the gravestones even as he felt every other member's eyes on him. He slipped to his knees in front of his parents graves, ignoring the sensation of the freezing mud as it oozed through the cloth of his
only nice apparel. A singular thought remained in his mind, and that's what he repeated over and over again, putting all his energy into that one sentence.
Greasers don't cry.
Greasers don't cry.
Greasers don't cry.
And that's when the tears came, hot and heavy. Pouring down his face as his body heaved with silent sobs, one hand reaching forward to trace the roughly carved letters that bore his parents' legacies.
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