Layer C: Write Another Chapter With a Different Ending: 30 Points
(Rewrite starting at page 153)
We reached the vacant lot just as Dally burst through some bushes at the other end. He was looking behind him (the sirens in the background told us why), and running full-speed ahead, so he crashed right into Two-Bit, nearly knocking him over. Dally bounced off of him, and landed on the ground with an, "Oof."
Two-Bit pulled him up, and we started running before he could ask any questions. We ran all the way to my house, and Darry told Two-Bit to skedaddle, just in case the fuzz showed. He ushered Dally inside, and told him to hide out under the bed in the back room. His order was rightfully given, for just as Soda and I came back out of the room, after forcing a frantic Dally under the bed, the fuzz pounded on the door.
Darry got up from where he'd seated himself at the table, and went to open the door. By the time the officer was done questioning Darry, who had said he hadn't seen Dally since that evening, when we all had played a game of football, I was sweating. "What about you, kid? You seen your friend?"
"Yeah," I blurted out, before I could stop myself. Darry and Soda's eyes widened, and I scrambled to remedy what I'd said. "Just after we finished our game of football, Dally took me to the hospital. He said our friend, Johnny, wasn't doing to well. Said I had to go see him." I paused, feeling a burning behind my eyes, but forcing myself to keep the tears from spilling. "He was right. Johnny was real bad. He…He died. Just…died. And we were right there. Dally got real mad. He told Johnny he couldn't die, but it was no use. Then he bolted. He ran out so fast that I didn't even have a chance to call out to him. That was the last time I saw him." I looked up at the fuzz, vision still blurry from unshed tears.
"Humph. Well if you do see him, call us in. I'm sorry about your friend." I nearly shouted then. Shouted at the officer, who had just told us to turn in one of our buddies if he showed up; who had just told us he was sorry Johnny had died, even though he didn't know him, and obviously didn't mean it. To him, Johnny was just another Greaser, and it was fine by him that our best bud was dead. Luckily, the officer left before I could do anything stupid.
After that, we got Dally to sleep in the back room, with Darry sleeping on the chair by the door. Soda and I fell asleep on the couch.
The next morning, Darry and Soda had to go to work. I was still feeling really sick, so I stayed home from school. Dally stayed at our house too. Darry had threatened to beat him up if he tried to leave. He didn't want to be there; I could tell. I read most of the day; anything I could find lying around, but not Gone With the Wind. Dally moped, or at least that's what I thought he was doing. Something was odd though. Every time I glanced up at him, he was holding Two-Bit's knife, flipping the blade open and closed.
About an hour after lunch, he stood and walked out of the room. On some instinct, I followed him. It was a good thing I did, for when I walked in, Dally was standing there, with the knife open and poised in front of his chest. I didn't think. I leapt across the room, and tackled Dally to the floor. "Get off of me Pony! Get off of me and let me do this." Dally was struggling under the weight of my body, and I was grabbing at the knife in his hand. Finally, he threw me off, and jumped to his feet, but it was no use, as I'd already got the blade. "Pony, give me that knife right now." He was advancing slowly toward me, and I backed up, thoroughly spooked, but not about to give up the knife.
"No. No Dally. You're hurting, I get it, but this isn't the way. You'll get over it."
"No. No I won't, so give me that knife. Johnny was the only thing good in this hell of a world, and he's gone. He's gone and he ain't coming back, so give me the damn knife!"
"Dally, stop. You're not thinking straight. Dally, Johnny wouldn't want this. Think of how disappointed he'd be if you ended it; if you gave up. Dally you have to go on living. For Johnny."
He lunged forward, and started pounding his fists against my chest. They quickly turned into half-hearted punches, and finally he collapsed to the ground. His body was wracked with sobs, as he sat there, hunched over. He wasn't shedding tears, I was pretty sure Dally's tear ducts had dried up long ago, but I could still say this was a situation I never thought I'd end up in. I just stood there, like an idiot, as Dally's body convulsed. Finally, I sank to my knees beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. It felt insignificant. In all the movies, when someone was upset, the other person hugged them, or rubbed their back, but those people weren't Greasers, and with us, that sort of thing didn't fly.
After about a half an hour, Dally calmed down. He wrenched his shoulder out of my grasp, and stood up. He glared at me. You tell anyone about this, you die. I nodded my head, and his expression softened ever so slightly. With that, he walked out the back door. I didn't follow him. I knew he wouldn't do anything stupid.
Darry came back a little while later. He was furious that Dally had left, until I finally got him to understand that he'd cooled down, and wasn't gonna get himself killed or arrested.
A week passed, and, despite Dally still being alive, and safe, I got sicker. I started thinking more and more about Johnny. I thought about his eyes in those last few minutes. They seemed so bright, and at peace, and for a moment, I'd thought he'd get through it. He was Johnny; he could survive anything. He couldn't die. And then, they got dull. And his breathing got real slow, and the beeping coming from the machine got real fast, like his heart was trying to make up for all the times it wouldn't be able to beat, and then it stopped, and everything got quiet. It was so quiet.
Eventually, I was dragged into the juvenile court. It wasn't a big event; just a few Socs, and me and Darry and Sodapop. The Socs stuck to the truth: Bob was drunk, and out looking for a fight. He got carried away, and Johnny only did what he did to save me. When it got to me, they just asked me a bunch of questions about home life. "Did I play sports?" "Did I like living with Darry?" "Did I make good grades?" Things like that. Then, the trial was over. I was acquitted, and that was that.
After the trial, I got better. The doctor said that I had probably just been stressing my system worrying about the trial, and now I was fine. I didn't think that was it, though, since I had hardly thought about the trial since Johnny died. Anyway, I went back to school, but it wasn't like before. Socs gave me weird looks, some of them angry, and people avoided me. I didn't mind—or I guess it's more that I didn't notice. I was still too caught up remembering Johnny's death. My grades started falling, too. I wasn't trying as hard on homework, which caused a lot of fights with Darry. Eventually, Soda blew up at us, telling us that we needed to get past our differences, and didn't we ever think about what it put him through? After that, we fought a lot less, even though I still wasn't trying as hard on homework.
My English teacher took notice, apparently, as one day, he told me to stay after class. He told me that, given everything that had happened, if I did a good job on the theme, he'd pass me with a C. When I got home, I pulled out a sheet of lined paper, and ended up staring at it for an hour. I gave up finally, and went to bed, skipping dinner. In the middle of the night, I sat bolt upright in bed. I knew what to do the theme on. I flipped on my desk light, ignoring Soda when he groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.
I sat for a moment or two, remembering. Remembering a dark-haired boy, with the look of a kicked puppy, and dark, sad eyes. Remembering a white-blonde boy, smoking a cigarette, a scowl on his face, with a cold hatred of the world. I sat there, wondering how to begin the theme; begin telling people about something that meant so much to me. Finally, I began like this: When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home…