Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I just like them.
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"What I'm trying to get through to you, young man are you listening?"
Johnny curls deeper into his chair. It's the sort of plastic chair-desk combination found in elementary schools and it's too small for him. "Yeah." He nods, not looking up. "Yeah. I'm listening."
"What I'm trying to get through to you is that you're in danger of failing the tenth grade yet again. Young man, look at me and show some respect!" Johnny won't look up. He can't. He turns his face even farther away.
"As principal of this school, I'd be retired if I had a dime for every brat who decided to throw away a good education-"
"You saying I should drop out?" His voice is a scratched mix of bitterness and relief.
"Jesus Christ," Principal McConaughey mutters. "No," he answers, sternly. "No." And under his breath, "God knows we don't need a higher dropout rate." Johnny's eye catches his principal's hands as the man fingers his tie, his forefinger grazing against the yellow gold tie pin and down striped navy silk. He's suddenly made aware of his own attire: worn, ripped jeans, a t-shirt that used to be white, and tennis shoes that have a hole where his left big toe sticks out just slightly. He shouldn't have bothered to show up today. How much more of this stupid scare speech is he going to be forced to hear? He's bound to drop out eventually, anyway.
"You need to wise up, young man. You need to get serious about your education. It's September 18th, and you're already failing history, you've got a D in English, and you're failing algebra as well. You still have yet to finish your incomplete for last year's Natural Science course because you attended class so infrequently your teacher doesn't even remember what you look like. Does a free education not interest you? Hmmm?"
Johnny bites his lip.
"I'm going to be blunt with you, boy. I could care less about whether or not you punk kids want to fail out of high school and ruin your lives. But I'm got pressure from the superintendent, pressure from the school board, and pressure from the PTA to improve the standing of this institution. Pressure a juvenile delinquent like yourself can't possibly understand. My job's at stake. Do you know what that means? Well, do you? Have you ever had a job?"
Johnny shakes his head.
"What that means is I'd like more than anything for problem kids like you to get the hell out of my school and not burden this administration any longer, but instead, I'm stuck with you. And if I'm stuck with you, I'm going to make damn sure you don't fail. I swear to God Mr., Mr.-" the principal looks down at the file on his desk, "-Mr. Cade," he booms, "if you don't get your ass in gear, you have a lot more to fear than detention. Stop slouching! Is this phone number still current?"
"Don't call home." Johnny blurts out. Damn it.
The principal's stern face changes to a wicked smile; his lips spread out so far his mouth looks like it belongs to a horse. "Don't call home?" He mimics Johnny's panicked tone. He stands up, his hands spread out over his desk, and he leans over, as if he's done this a hundred other times, to a hundred other hapless students.
Unconsciously, Johnny's hand grazes the bruise on his temple, a blue-green bump hiding beneath his greasy bangs. When he becomes aware of his reaction, he brushes back his hair with arrogant indifference, schools his breath, and shrugs. "Whatever. It don't matter. Call them. See if I care."
The principal sits down and leans back in his seat. He stretches out his stumpy legs and rests his shiny black oxfords on the waxed, cherrywood desk. "Let's make a deal. You start showing up to class. And try in class, mind you. Bring up your grades-"
"I am trying!" Johnny insists. He's never aimed an outburst at an authority figure before, but today he just can't help himself. Because it's unfair. Normally Johnny accepts unfair, or figures out a way to make unfair seem like fair in his head, so it doesn't bother him. But there's nothing more shameful than being stupid. Except maybe being poor. He tries. He does. He crosses his arms defiantly.
"I'm trying but I just ain't smart." He chokes on the smart, coughing down his humiliation. Greasers like Dally and Soda and Steve drop out because they're too cool for school. But Johnny knows if he ever dropped out, it would be because he's too dumb.
"I'm just dumb," he repeats, his voice low. For a long stretch of time, there's silence filled by dumb dumb dumb echoing back at him in his mind. When Johnny dares to look up, Principal McConaughey no longer looks smug. He looks puzzled.
"You're honestly trying," the principal says, monotone in his surprise.
"Yeah."
The principal looks back down at Johnny's file and flips through the pages. "Do you have a record, Mr. Cade?"
"I mean, I got detention for skipping a couple times..."
"I mean a criminal record."
"Not yet." It's another embarrassing admission, especially considering Dally's mile long, brag-worthy rap sheet. Johnny kicks back his chair, paralleling his principal's move of the foot on the desk. Age and money don't change the posturing of tuff. Except, Johnny's chair teeters and he nearly falls back before he rights it, all four legs on the ground.
"Your type usually has a record." The principal sighs. "What do you plan on doing for a living, Mr. Cade?"
Johnny shrugs. "Don't know." When the uneasy silence returns, Johnny knows his answer isn't good enough. "Guess I'll get drafted or something. Die for my country or something important like that."
"Don't get sarcastic with me. It would be an honor for a boy like you to die for this great nation."
Said by any of his peers, it would have been sarcastic, but Johnny actually meant it. He knows he's a loser. He's probably gonna end up a drunk living off Uncle Sam's dime just like his old man. But ever since he watched Gone With the Wind on Pony's insistence, Johnny has had a fantasy of dying gallantly, like them southern gentleman, riding into sure death for honor and the beauty of a lost cause. All the older greasers he knows in a peripheral way live in dread of getting the letter. Johnny's seen the way Shepard's gang have stopped talking about the boy who's been shipped off. And he's overheard Darry and Sodapop's heated whispers about what's gonna happen next year, when Soda turns eighteen. Everybody knows the government sends away delinquents first, and Soda's record is longer than Pony's aware of. He even knows of one boy in his neighborhood who got killed. And yet, Johnny dreams of getting that letter. He's never imagined life beyond the present.
"Your unsurprising lack of patriotism aside, I'm going to set you up with a tutor," Principal McConaughey says. He nods, approving of his decision. "Three days a week. Two hours a day. Right after school. That should fix these grades."
"I don't need a tutor," Johnny answers instinctually.
It's same response he gives to every offer of help. Seriously, Dal, I don't need ice. It'll heal just fine. Don't worry 'bout me, I'll sleep in the lot tonight, Darry. Thanks anyway, but I ain't hungry, Two-Bit. Pony, didn't I just tell you I don't need help with my homework? Because he doesn't need help. He's fine on his own. He can handle it. Whatever it is, he can handle it.
"If you don't show up tomorrow at the library immediately after that bell for your tutoring session, Mr. Cade, I will call home and personally give the worst report I have ever given a student in my history as both a teacher and a principal. I will keep calling until a parent is on that line, furious with you and ready to give hell. Is that understood? You will show up for tutoring if I have to drag you there."
Johnny looks down. He closes his eyes. He nods. "I'll be there."
Principal McConaughey closes his file with finality. "So we understand each other."