Disclaimer: I do not own the Outsiders

I was walking fast with the collar of my leather jacket turned up. The only real and directing thought in my mind was to get to the DX, where Sodapop would be. The light drizzle decorating the cracked sidewalk under my feet suddenly turned into a violent downpour. I cursed under my breath. I was gonna look like crap when I got to the DX, and when I got home, Darry was gonna have a fit. At first, I tried huddling under my jacket but the rain was too incessant, so I finally ended up lifting my face into it, hoping it would wash away some of the blood and bruises.

I shouldn't have gotten into that fight. But as sure as I knew that, I knew nothing would have stopped me in that moment of white hot rage. That spoiled, white-trash kid had no right to talk about Johnny and Dally. It'd been more than a year since that terrible night when we lost them, but people still brought it up occasionally. I guess it was just one of those things that took a long time for people to forget. In a way, things had gotten better. After the whole deal, fighting between the classes started to fade away, just like a fad slowly losing popularity. It was only sad when you thought about the price we had to pay for this part-peace. It was sad to think that it took three deaths to get it through people's heads that maybe, just maybe, the fighting was no good.

And there were always exceptions.

The kid did it to provoke me. And it had worked. Better than he thought it would apparently, judging from the surprised and slightly frightened look on his face when I'd rushed at him. I'd leveled him easily with a swing at his jaw. It wasn't for nothing that I was known around as a pretty good fighter; I, with my history, was a natural target for meddling, infuriating Socs that didn't know how to stop fighting. And with that, I'd made myself that reputation without ever once trying. Dally would of been proud.

After knocking down the offending kid, I was in trouble. His friends set on me and I was quickly on the losing side. When one of them started swinging around a broken Pepsi bottle I backed out with a few choice insults. They let me go so I guess I was acting so wild they didn't want to deal with me.

As I turned the corner and saw the DX, I started to jog, my school books bouncing against my side.

School.

I was lucky I wasn't going to get busted for that fight. The guys had been smart enough to start it in the parking lot furthest from the school, where there were no teachers patrolling around. Darry would have killed me for going to the principal's office again. I went too many times as it was. I wasn't the kind of guy looking for trouble but between my grades dropping so drastically after Johnny and Dally's deaths and getting mouthy with my history teacher, I got enough. I never meant to tell off my teacher. It'd just happened. Sometimes I don't use my head.

I pushed the squeaky gas station door open with one arm and cautiously looked around. I wasn't feeling too sharp about meeting some lousy teenager who'd tell the whole school I'd got into a fight. Strategically avoiding a middle aged lady with three children, I made my way to the back room. I pulled open its door just as Steve Randle, Soda's best friend and partner at the DX, opened it. We almost collided as Steve fell back onto the door jam when I rushed through.

I'd never really liked Steve. He always looked at me like I was the annoying, little brother, even though I was now almost 16. As he stepped back to avoid me, I saw his face twisting into that automatic sneer he always seemed to reserve for me.

"Dammit kid, can you watch…" He suddenly froze and his face expression changed as drastically as his tone when he said, "Ponyboy, what happened? You okay? Who did that to you? Those bastards! You okay, Pony?"

I could almost say he sounded concerned but Steve Randle wasn't mentally able to be concerned about me. That firmly planted philosophy on Steve was one of many I'd conceived during a boring detention in which Steve refused to acknowledge me, despite the fact that we were going to be stuck in the same room for three hours. I started to question myself though, as he grabbed my wrist and started directing me toward the bathroom in the back of the building. He pushed me in front of the sink and started pulling bottles down from the shelves.

"Here's peroxide ... rubbing alcohol ... band aids … hm, what's this?" Steve rambled as he placed supplies at the edge of the sink.

I caught a small white bottle as it tipped off the narrow counter. Each item Steve set down had distinct black marks. Oil stains, I reasoned, and probably other things I didn't want to know. The corner of the band aid box was a suspiciously dark red.

I was drawn out of my thoughts by Steve's voice, "Hey, don't space out on me here, kid. Always got your head in a cloud. And now look where it got you." I started to think Steve was back to normal when he continued, "Lemme see your face. Are you gonna need stitches?"

He pushed me under the light and I lifted my chin. As he studied my bruises I began to get over my Steve-might-care shock and said, "Uh, Steve. What are you doing?"

For a few very silent moments he just stared at me like I was nutcase or something, and then he said, his voice clear and low, "You're Soda's kid brother. That makes you practically my kid brother. I'm not gonna let you bleed to death."

I let out a constrained laugh, "I'm no where near bleeding to death."

Steve just looked at me like I was a really unbelievably dumb twerp. Of course, I was used to that, so I just ignored him. Finally, he turned around and started messing in the shelves again.

"Where are the fuckin cotton balls? There were here last week. How can ..." Steve muttered on and I watched the complicated curls on the back of his head, feeling weird.

"Um, Steve?" I said slowly. "Could you just get Soda?"

Steve turned around and I saw something that looked almost like hurt pass behind his naturally accusing eyes.

"Yeah," He said shortly. Something about his tone made me rethink what had just happened.

"Hey ... Steve, its okay. You can ..."

He cut me off as he walked away, "Might take a little while to find him."

"No problem." I said lamely as I watched his retreating back.

I wondered what had just happened. Steve hated me. He didn't care that I got beat up. He'd rather spend three dead-boring hours in detention than speak to me! He was happy I'd let him off having to nurse me by asking for Sodapop. Right? Somehow I wasn't so sure but before I had time to conjure a new philosophy on Steve, I saw Soda half-walking, half-skipping down the chips aisle toward me. His face was creased with worry.

"Hey Pony. You okay?"

He immediately started helping me clean myself up. We put peroxide on a couple cuts on my hand and Soda dug out a piece of glass I'd somehow gotten in the back of my arm. Once I'd washed my face I actually didn't look too bad. I fantasized with the possibility of Darry not realizing I'd been in a fight. But with the bruise on my forehead, my fat lip and that red welt under my eye, I concluded that unless Darry lost his eyesight before I got home, it was a hopeless idea. I sighed.

"What?" Soda immediately reacted to it. I'd of course already poured the whole story out to him. I could never keep anything from Soda and to tell the truth, besides the time I'd met Sandy's sister at the movies, I'd never wanted to.

"I'm just thinking about what Darry's gonna say," I had found a comb and grease among the many objects on the bathroom shelves and I was carefully restyling my rain washed hair.

"Don't worry about Darry," Sodapop said lazily, "You know, he's overworked and he gets all upset with you just cause he's worried something worse will happen next. You can't blame him really."

"Yeah, I know," I said with a sigh. I knew that Sodapop's little assurance was really a pep talk for me not to get into a big argument with our older brother. I wouldn't. After putting out a big effort into not fighting with Darry for a few months, I'd gotten to actually know him and realized I'd really missed out when all I did was fight and avoid him. Still, though. When things like this happened, Darry had to play dad and I was not happy about confronting him.

As I used a stained yellow towel to rub dry the hair on my neck, I heard a yell from somewhere outside the DX building. Sodapop jumped off the doorframe he'd been leaning on, looking like the model for a poster of some new movie.

"Gotta go. It's the boss." He turned around but then yelled back over his shoulder, "Wait around, Pony. We'll give you a ride home."

After checking my hair out critically in the mirror, which seemed generally clean as opposed to the rest of the place, I walked slowly to the front of the DX, picking up a candy bar on my way. The guy working there let me have it on account of me being Sodapop's brother. I gave him my thanks with a grin.

He smiled back and shook his head, saying, "Yeah, see, you got the Sodapop smile, kid. Don't know why you two are still here in this ole town. All's you need to do is pick up and go to Hollywood and you'd all be rich!"

As he laughed at his own joke, I watched the rain outside. I didn't know why people were always saying I looked like Sodapop. When I once said I was no where near as good lookin' as him, Two-Bit had told me all the girls following me around like puppies was proof I was. 'What girls?', I'd responded. That comment caused everyone to have a huge laugh and gave Steve the opportunity to make some wisecrack about me always having my head in the clouds. Two-Bit left for Buck's place that night telling me to join the Beach Boys and boost their popularity.

I opened my candy bar and squinted as the cut on my cheek began to throb. Slowly chewing the chocolate, I contemplated how best to present my sorry case to Darry.

I'd really appreciate reviews. I'm especially grateful for constructive critism. One big 'iffy' of mine is Did I do the characters correctly? As in their personalities/actions, etc.