Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.
"You've got quite a mom," Dally used to say. "She knows the score."
"Hello, Dallas." I smile, taking the last clothes peg out of my mouth and turning around from the line.
If I ever have a day without mountains of washing, I won't know what to do with myself – at least, that what I tell the boys, to tease them. They sure do get through a lot of clothes and I'm including Darrel in that count; between football, cars and roughhousing, nothing stays clean for long, round here!
"Shoot, Mrs C, how'd'ya do that?" Dallas asks, his mouth almost twisting into a smile.
"Well, who else would be creeping up on me, at this time in the morning?" I hand him the empty basket and he follows me into the house.
Would he carry it for me, if the other boys were here to see him? Probably not. He cultivates a harder image. He likes to be seen as tough. Or is it tuff? I'm still not sure I see the difference, despite Sodapop trying so earnestly to explain it to me. We'd have called Dallas 'hard-boiled' when I was at school, which is just as silly.
"Creepin'? I don't creep!" He protests, setting the basket down in the corner. He's done this before, he knows where I keep things. He leans against the counter, biting one of his nails.
I start in on the dishes. "So, no school today, Dally?" I ask, but not in a harsh way. He won't talk if he thinks I'm chewing him out. I know what the answer will be anyway.
"Nah. I'm done."
That wasn't what I expected. Usually he has some complicated excuse for a particular day of playing hooky. That sounded final. I look at him, his pretty blond hair falling forward as he studies the floor.
"Dallas? What do you mean 'you're done'?"
He shrugs. "I'm done. Finished. Dropped out before they kicked me out."
"Oh, honey, why? " I dry my hands off and turn around to face him properly.
"It ain't like I was gonna graduate. I was behind a grade even before they sent me to reform school, I missed a ton of time in New York. No way I was gonna catch up."
"But still..."
He interrupts me angrily. "I'm lousy, anyways! Hell, I get worse grades than... never mind."He trails off.
"Than who..?"
He shrugs evasively. "Just everyone."
"Would you like a drink?" I notice him glance at the coffee pot, but he takes the soda I hand him all the same. I see his other hand then. "Have you been fighting again?" His knuckles are covered in dried blood.
He shakes his head without explaining further. I fetch the antiseptic and some cotton wool and make him sit at the table. He lets me clean his hand and he doesn't say a thing, not even a mild curse, even though it must sting.
"Does your dad know you dropped out?" I ask gently. He twists his mouth and his tone is as bitter as it always is when he talks about his father.
"He won't even notice. Much less care."
I can't ask him what he'll do with his time now. I know what happens to boys like him, in this hang around on street corners, get arrested, bounce in and out of jail, until one day they're just not there any more.
His stomach growls loudly and he squints at me, embarrassed. I smile to myself and grab a mixing bowl from the cabinet.
"I'm just about to make a chocolate cake." I improvise. It's not like the boys won't appreciate it as well. "You want to stay until it's done?"
He nods.
"You could watch some TV," I suggest, looking towards the living room.
He hesitates. "Is it..?" He shrugs, like it doesn't bother him what my answer is. "Is it okay if I just sit here?"
"Whatever you prefer, honey," I reply, just as casually.
He grins in spite of himself.
There'll be one fewer boy on the street corner today, at least for as long as I can spin out making this cake.
I found this in a 1940s slang dictionary :
hard-boiled (adj)
tough and callous by virtue of experience [syn: hard-bitten, pugnacious]
Could have written especially for him, don'tcha think?!