It's late afternoon on a Sunday, and I'm standing in front of the mirror in my room, running a comb through my hair. It takes me a few tries to get it right; ever since me'n Johnny cut and bleached it, it hasn't been the same. I hate the harsh blond color against my skin, it washes me out and makes me look even paler than I already am. But I'll deal with it today. I grab the black dress jacket hangin' off the back of my desk chair as I walk into the kitchen where Soda, Steve and Darry are waiting for Two-Bit.
Darry's cleaning the dishes we've neglected to do all week, his white sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looks up when I pass him heading for the table where Soda and Steve are playin' cards, and makes a noise under his breath. "Christ, Ponyboy," he mumbles, grabbin' me by the back of my collar to turn me around to face him. "You'd think they'd think to teach a kid how to tie a tie in school." The grimace on my face from bein' yanked around fades when I realize he's only trying to help. He jerks lightly on the fabric, pulling it into place. Dad taught him'n Soda how to do it, but I never learned. A fourteen year-old don't really need to know, not yet. At least, not usually. Guess it's just one of those things Darry'll hafta step in for.
For once, Steve don't seem pissed to have me around 'cause he deals the deck for three when I pull out the chair next to Soda and sit down. My brother reaches over and pats me on the back, smiling lightly. He's wearin' the same black suit and tie he did for mom and dad's funeral. The sick swoop of deja vu makes the room spin for a second.
"You okay, Pony?"
"Yeah," I nod, trying to keep down my breakfast. "Yeah, I'm good." Steve glances at me over his hand and decides not to say anything. Soda gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before picking up his cards.
The screen door swings open and crashes shut, and pretty soon Two-Bit's standing in the kitchen with the rest of us, just as black and white as we are.
"Hey." No doubt he borrowed his suit from his old man 'cause it's sagging at the waist and shoulders. The sleeves and pant legs are only just too long for him; he's got them both rolled up at the cuffs. When I look a little closer I can see that under the black jacket he's got on his Mickey Mouse shirt; the ears are poking out at the opening between the top buttons. Something about the fact that he's wearin' the old thing comforts me on some weird level, like things really aren't so bad that Two-Bit can't still be Two-Bit. Whether Darry doesn't notice or just chooses not to say anything, I can't tell; he's got an extra white button-up in his closet, but maybe he's lookin' at it the same way I am 'cause he grabs his own jacket and slides into it one arm at a time.
"Ready?" He motions to the three of us at the table, and we nod, getting up and buttoning our jackets in silence.
The cemetery's only a couple blocks from our house, so no one's really surprised when Darry leaves the keys to the truck on the counter. Down the porch steps and out across the front lawn, we stay close instead of how we do it on the way to a rumble. No one's doin' back flips or cartwheels, no one's jeerin'. We decided to meet the rest of the group at the cemetery instead of driving with the procession. It just seemed like the right thing to do. No one argued when Darry suggested it a few days ago. In fact, most of us were relieved not to have to draw the whole ordeal out. I don't think any of us would've felt welcome at the actual funeral, anyway. None of Johnny's family really knows or cares who we are; and as his best friends, we wouldn'tve felt comfortable being there. It's gorgeous outside, now, though. The sun's shining in an open sky free of clouds. It'd be too warm to wear these jackets if it were summer, but since it's early in the fall, there's a crisp breeze floating through, and people are all outside, walkin' dogs, mowin' lawns, workin' on their cars and rakin' leaves. Our shoes clack against the concrete sidewalk as we reach the end of the block and start down the main street. No one says much.
Someone's got a car stereo cranked. Tim Shepard's leaning against the brick wall of a dry cleaner's, smokin' a cigarette and shoutin' to one of his buddies perched on the back of the car they're gathered around. When he catches sight of the five of us dressed the way we are, though, hands in our pockets and heads ducked, he shuts up, the fingers holding his cigarette stopping halfway to his mouth. Any other time he would've called us out, givin' us a hard time just to get a reaction, but for the first time in my life, Tim nods at me, his expression completely serious. He heard about Johnny, about Dallas. Everyone heard. Curly, Tim's younger, dumber brother elbows the kid standing next to him and points right at us, sayin' something I can't hear. I turn my head away, preferring the back of Soda's head to being openly stared at.
The cemetery's surrounded by a painted black iron fence that's freezing to the touch, even in the heat of our summers. Most of the headstones aren't in one piece; a lot of them've been busted up over the years, from kids hopping the fence and wrecking the only things the dead have left to their names. There's a group of people gathering around a single headstone, and we walk almost single file to meet them. I wedge my way into the crowd, slipping between people till I get to the front. Johnny's casket is a deep mahogany brown; smooth, shiny. It's closed, somethin' I'm grateful for. A bouquet of lilies are sitting atop it, blowing slightly in the wind. We're late, but not too late to hear the priest's short speech; the words he's sayin' about Johnny are nothing special, nothin' particular. He's said 'em a million times before about dozens of other people. But when he says somethin' about how Johnny's "in a better place now," I have to bite my lip to keep from heavin'.
There are more people here than I thought would be. I don't recognize a lot of them, which seems off to me. Kids even younger than me are standing in the crowd amidst the adults. I'm trying to place them, figure out who they are because they're too young to go to our high school, but then I figure it out: they're the kids from the church fire. A little girl's holdin' her mom's hand, her other thumb in her mouth, her wide eyes fixed on me. I try to smile, try to wave so no one else can see, but she hides her face in her mother's skirt, too shy to smile back. When I study the rest of crowd a little closer, I recognize the kids' teacher, Jerry Wood. He doesn't seem to notice me; his hands hang at his sides and his head is bent. I don't try to get his attention. Cherry Valence isn't here either, I'd've spotted her red hair by now. Part of me blames her, part of me doesn't. I can't feel much except Soda's arm against mine.
There's no funeral comin' for Dally, at least, not one we're goin' to. The cops said his family wanted his body shipped back to New York. I shudder at the thought of the word "body." Dally and Johnny aren't Dally and Johnny anymore, they're just... gone. I wonder if Cherry'd show up if Dal's funeral was in Tulsa. I honestly don't know what she'd do. Watchin' Dal freak out the way he did after Johnny died is gonna stick with me for longer than I'd like. Someone so much tougher than me just crackin' like that? It's scary. Maybe it's a sick thought, but if both of 'em had to die again, I'd want it to happen in the same order. Somethin' about the way Johnny'd react to losin' Dally makes my stomach feel like it's gonna fall through me to the floor. You don't realize how much two people can mean to each other until you take one away from the other. No one ever wants to be truly alone, not even Dally.
Among all the somber faces, Mrs. Cade's stands out the most. It occurs to me then that I've never seen her without a glare on her hardened face till now. She's at the head of the grave looking almost confused, like she's not sure she's supposed to be here. I wanna tell her yeah, you're right. Maybe you're not supposed to be here. Maybe you should've been the one to protect him, to be easier on him than the rest of the world so there could've been someplace for him to go that wasn't so bad. I wanna tell her yeah, you're not supposed to be here because anyone who makes Dallas Winston seem more loving and protecting than them doesn't deserve to be a mother. I keep thinkin' back to how Johnny wouldn't even let her in his hospital room. Strange how a family can sometimes be anything but that. I watch as the man standing next to her rests a hand on her shoulder, and my eyes widen as I realize who he is.
I've never met the guy before, but I know it's him, can tell by the eyes. Johnny's are--were--the same dark brown, almost black, huge. No wonder the kid wouldn't look anyone in the face. Lookin' at his old man must've been like starin' in a mirror to him. Wonder where he looked while he brushed his teeth. I can't picture not've bein' able to look at my dad without flinching. He's thin, like Johnny, but harsher, more tired. He didn't even bother to shave, and his five o'clock shadow makes him look older than he really is. The fact that they're both standing there, less than twenty feet from me, makes me feel nauseous. There they are, actin' like losin' their son's the worst thing that could possibly ever happen. I'm tryin' so hard to believe that somewhere deep down they really did love Johnny, that once upon a really fucked up time, the three of them were happy. I can't convince myself of it.
The speech ends, and after a couple minutes of drawn out, almost painful silence, they lower the casket down. When we hear the soft thud from beneath our feet, I let go of the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Some of the little kids are getting antsy, a few start to whine till their parents pick them up. People start to leave, but not before giving Mr. and Mrs. Cade their apologies, their support. People are passing us with their heads bowed, their completely black and white outfits looking so unnatural against the brightly colored leaves and cheery blue sky. Hands are shaking left and right, pats on the back, the shoulder, even a hug or two come and go before any of us greasers've made up our minds on whether or not we should say something. It's not whether or not we want to; none of us want to shake hands with the man who calls himself Johnny's father.
I can feel the anger start in my cheeks as I go red, my hands fisting without me realizing it. I don't owe them anything, and neither did Johnny. All those condolences belong to anyone but them, anyone. If anyone should be saying sorry to someone, it should be Johnny. It should be Dallas. Hell, say it to Bob, the fucking Soc who beat the life out've Johnny, a kid who took it from everyone without fighting back, who, through the bruises and broken bones and stares he got for lookin' so beat up all the time, got away bein' more of a hero than anyone standing around here now. Say it to Bob for starting a chain reaction of killing and dying just because he couldn't see a person for who they were instead of what was in their wallet. Say it to anyone but the two people who, above everyone else, made Johnny feel like less than a real person.
I chance a glance at Darry. He's lookin' real hard towards Mr. and Mrs. Cade, his eyes narrowed. It ain't dislike on his face, though--he's tryin' to decide whether or not he should say somethin', anything.
"Forget it, man." Two-Bit shakes his head. "Fuck 'em. They don't wanna hear from us anyway."
Darry shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I dunno. It's just," he heaves a sigh, sounding exhausted and disappointed as we watch Johnny's parents silently head back towards the line of parked cars, making the decision for us. "He was so... young."
"He was older'n me, Dar." I mumble, feelin' sorry for sayin' it as soon as the words are out. Selfish.
"Yeah, but, didja ever really think of him like that? He was so small. I never got to know the guy that well, and I mean, Christ, I saw him every day."
Darry knew Johnny better'n he was letting on. All those times Johnny'd stumbled into our living room, bruised'n bleeding, looking for help; Darry'd been the one to clean him up most times, if not all. There was a reason Johnny never went to Dallas looking for medical attention. Not just because he couldn't always find Dal, but because Darry was the only one responsible enough to bandage him up and take him to the hospital if Johnny'd been in too bad'a shape not to go.
"It ain't fair." Soda agrees, sighing himself. His blue eyes follow the cars as they drive away one by one down the street, his face full of thought. Then he suddenly grins, chuckling. Me'n the others look at him, surprised at the noise. You don't really consider laughing in a graveyard all to often. "You guys remember that time at the drive-in when that girl thought he was Steve's kid?"
Two-Bit laughs now, too, elbowing Steve. "Oh man, I forgot about that."
Randle glares good naturedly, rolling his eyes. "I dunno how old she thought I was, but damn, even Superman here don't look old enough to have kids Johnny's age, the dumb broad."
"What about when that mutt that used to hang out around the vacant lot started followin' him around a couple years ago?" Darry smirks at the thought.
"Yeah, and he was allergic to the thing?" Two-Bit says, more laughter following his own. "So every time it came near him he started sneezin' and his eyes got all red? That dog would sit out on your porch all day just waitin' for you guys to come back out, Pony. It'd find you even if you snuck out the back."
"Yeah," I grin back, remembering the shaggy brown dog and the way it used to follow at a distance. "I think we named it--"
"Boomerang." The five of us say it together, which only makes us laugh harder.
"And the time Curly 'taught' 'im how to play poker?" A few years back, Curly'd convinced Johnny that only one person got to deal throughout a game of poker, which made it real easy for him to slide Johnny some pretty awful hands. Round after round later, Johnny'd found himself thirty bucks in the hole.
"Oh shit," Matthews covers his mouth with a fist, his face reddening as he cracks up. "Winston chased the little punk halfway 'cross town before he got that money back. Took all the good in 'im not to beat the hell out've the kid."
"He used to call you Keith, remember? Like when he first knew you?" I think back to the looks Two-Bit used to give Johnny at the sound of his real name.
"Ugh, my folks don't even call me that nowadays." He makes a face, wiping tears of laughter on his too-big-for-him sleeve. "Dunno where the hell he got it in the first place."
Steve grins. "Soda told 'im to use it."
"You serious?" Two-Bit turns to Soda, who's got his hands up in protest. "What the fuck, Curtis?" Matthews takes a step forward, sliding his dad's jacket off and tossin' it aside, both of them chokin' back more laughter.
"Steve wanted to get you back for always hittin' on Evie whenever you came 'round the DX," Soda ducks and tries to get away as Two-Bit struggles to get him into a headlock. "Knew Johnny'd believe it without thinkin' twice--shit!" He ducks again and runs to hide behind Steve, who steps out of the way of the mock-fight.
"He wouldn't call me anything else for weeks! That's how that asshole Shepard got wind of it and he still won't let me live it down!" Matthews finally catches Soda round the waist, tackling him to the ground. They wrestle for a few seconds, Two-Bit gettin' Soda in an impressive headlock, messin' his hair, before Darry reaches over and, with one swift movement, pulls Two-Bit off our brother by the back of his jacket. He thumps Soda on the back as he stands, knockin' off the grass and leaves. We're all still laughing half heartedly, but it eventually dies out and all that's left are Soda and Two-Bit's heavy breathing from their horse-playing.
"He was a good kid." Pickin' his jacket up and slingin' it over his shoulder, Mathews tips his chin. "A real good kid."
"Yeah."
"We should get goin' already. They've gotta finish up here." Darry announces, pattin' me on the back. I look up at him again, and he nods. "It's gettin' late and I'm starvin'."
Two-Bit and Steve cheer at the idea of food, and the four of them start for the gate. "You gonna make us some burgers, Superman?"
"Who said you're eatin'? I just said I was hungry."
Soda turns to look back at me, mid-grin. He stops short, wavin' me over. "Pony, you comin'?"
"I'll catch up with you later," I shrug, and before he can answer, Steve gets his attention again. They troupe towards the sidewalk, but this time, anyone watching them can tell they're in good spirits.
"You've got homework to do, little buddy," Darry calls, ruining the moment the only way he knows how. "Don't stay too long." I can't say anything back because he called me "little buddy," somethin' he rarely does. They hop the fence and head back down the sidewalk towards our house, and it ain't long before they're out of sight and earshot altogether.
I rub the back of my head, feelin' stupid for bein' so awkward when it's just me standing here. Takin' a deep breath, I sit down in the grass next to Johnny's headstone, leaning with my back against it. I bring my legs up close to my chest and rest my hands on my thighs.
"I'm guessin' you don't need me to say sorry." My fingers play with the frayed edge of my coat pocket. "Not again, I mean." For some reason I don't feel weird talking to myself. A car drives past, it's engine purring loudly as it passes through the intersection. There's an old woman watering the plants on her front porch across the street. Birds are up in the branches of the trees nearby; I can hear them singing through the rustling of the leaves. My back's cold against the headstone. I don't know what it is about cemeteries, but they freak me out.
"I'm sorry."
I dig into my pockets, looking for what I know I stuffed in there before we left the house. It's the poem Robert Frost wrote, the one Johnny kept quoting over and over in the hospital, and in the note he left me. I'd gone looking for it in the library yesterday, finding it in a huge book of famous poems, and didn't feel bad when I tore it out and slid it into my backpack. Unfolding it now, I smooth the wrinkled paper against my pant leg, trying to decide whether or not I should read it out loud. Nothing gold can stay. Ain't it the truth.
"I'm sorry, Johnny. Sorry I couldn't help you, sorry I couldn't help Dally. But I don't think anyone could've helped him, y'know? I think it's what he wanted. It's probably better this way, ain't it? I mean... I miss you. I dunno if Dally could've missed you like I'm gonna have to." My shoes are scuffed and my pants are a little too short, but I'm here. "I think we'll be okay, though, me'n the others. I think we'll stick together for you and Dal, 'cause I got a feeling no one else'll remember you the way we do, the right way." I'm not crying. All day long I've been wondering when it'd start, when I'd turn into some sorta human fountain, but I haven't shed a single tear. I almost feel ashamed; Johnny was my best friend and he meant the better part of everything to me, so why shouldn't I be able to cry? All I can feel is a sense of stillness.
"Anyway." I stand up with a grunt, brushing off my pants and straightening my jacket. "I better go." I fold the poem back up, figuring it'd just be too cheesy to read it. Tossing it down into the dirt, I watch as it lands against the smooth wood of the casket. I don't think anyone else'll see it when they come to put the rest of the dirt into place.
I turn without another word, ready to head home and hopin' that Darry really will make burgers for everyone. I feel like I could eat a horse.