A.N: S.E Hinton owns The Outsiders.
Like Brothers
You're like brothers, everybody says. And you don't know why, but that sentence pisses you off.
You don't got any blood brothers but Soda does. He's got two.
When you're a kid, you're real jealous of that fact. Of the fact that Darry bloodies Ray Eagle's nose for pushing Soda off the swing set, and the fact that Ponyboy always saves his last lunch cookie for Soda to gobble down on the way home. But as time goes on, you start to realise that blood doesn't mean a damn thing on it's own. You know brothers like Curly and Tim who ain't got half of what you and Soda got, and your own parents- well, your relationship with them doesn't even come close.
You kind of like to think what you have is better than brothers. 'Cause he never chose Darry or Ponyboy, but he damn well chose you. You didn't even get a choice in that there decision.
You don't think very much of Sodapop Curtis when you first lay eyes on him. Golden blond hair and big brown eyes, he kinda looks like a girl. He clings to his Mom's hand for much too long for your liking, and later he smiles at all the geeky kids and asks them if they want to play soccer with the cooler guys.
Then half way through the year, everything changes.
Your Mom leaves. Bitch doesn't even say goodbye. One morning she's there, then she's gone. And your Dad starts drinking. Not like he used to, not like a couple of beers in front of the box. He disappears for hours and comes home so wasted he can hardly stand. And Glory, he hates the sight of you. Reckons you're her reincarnated.
Three weeks after your Mom disappears, your Dad hits you for the first time. Sure, you've been whacked before; a sharp slap on the behind for giving cheek or ruining your good school shoes, but not a closed fist in the face and an impact so hard you can scarcely breathe after.
Your old man drops you to school late the next day. He's hung over, late for work himself and bellowing like an asshole. You don't want to get out of the car but he threatens to haul you out and march you inside if you don't. So you slide out self consciously, trying your best to gulp back the tears and refusing to look at the windows of the car where you know the glaringly obvious black eye will be staring back at you.
Everybody stares when you walk into class. Some kid gasps. Miss Middleton asks you to come outside to talk and like the stubborn little shit you already are, you look her square in the eye and tell her a bigger kid did it down at the playground.
"My Dad already went round there," you tell her. "Straightened his Dad out, made the kid apologize."
She smiles an uncertain smile at you and tells you to take your seat inside. You don't know if she's buying it but she can't prove otherwise. Inside, everybody stares as you take your seat. They either look at you like they're scared or like they're disgusted. But not the pretty boy two desks in front. He smiles at you until you snort and look the other way.
Recess is the hardest part. Everybody's asking you what happened and every time you tell the story your lies get bigger and more elaborate. The guy you fought with grows or gets more friends. Until a kid who lives across the street from you says:
"You didn't get in no fight. Your old man did that. My Mom saw him come home last night and she said he was drunk as a skunk."
The kid has a bad haircut and a big mouth. You want to kick the living shit out of him but instead you shake your head and deny it loudly, like the louder you say it, the more it won't be true. In the end, you walk off and hide in the play tunnel. You threaten to pummel any kid that comes near.
"Get out of here."
Your tone leaves no room for argument but the smiley face kid with the stupid name ignores you and climbs in anyway. When you look back on it, the move is so Soda, fearlessly kind, in a sappy way only he can get away with.
"You want a cookie?"
They're oatmeal, home made, and they smell real good. You didn't get any breakfast and the jelly sandwich you made yourself is all you'll be getting for lunch. You snatch the cookie he's offering and let him stay for a minute, the two of you leaned back against the curve in the tunnel, your legs turned up on the other side.
"Ain't you got someone else to bug?" You ask him when the cookie's gone.
"Nope." He gives you an impish smile and starts singing some soap commerical theme tune. You shake your head and look the other way. Finally, he stops singing.
"Stevie-" He starts, but you cut him off immediately.
"It's Steve."
"Steve-"
"And don't you ask me. Don't you ask about my eye or I swear to God I'll clock you one."
He looks amused at the threat, not in the least bit scared.
"I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come over to my place later. Me and my brothers usually get a game going before supper."
You've seen his brothers. One's older than you, well built, looks like he can take care of himself. The other's an annoying little squirt.
You don't get why this kid's being nice to you. He doesn't owe you nothing. He's got friends of his own. It's not like anyone's forcing him to be here, not like when your Mom made you be nice to your cousin Randy, even though he spits when he talks, and can't catch a ball to save his life.
"A football game?" You ask.
"Yeah," he says. And then he offers you another cookie.
You sit there together until recess ends. He ain't good at sitting still. He whistles, fidgets, drums his hands on the roof of the tunnel, and Glory, does he talk. But by the time you go back into class you barely remember your eye at all.
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