Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.


Meals were important to Mom. If we went and played with the other neighborhood kids, she gave strict orders to be back by dinnertime. She insisted we eat as a family every night, no matter who whined about it, even Dad, and though it annoyed me as a teenager, I missed it now … all of us eating together and talking about how our days went. I had to admit it was nice.

You weren't allowed to leave the table until you said something about your day. That was Dad's rule. He hated silence as much as Soda does maybe even more, but it was good for us. Unlike some of my friends, I liked my parents.

Lately dinner is quiet. We never talk to each other. For the first week, we barely touched our food either. Now we may clean our plates, but it's in silence, and when we're finished, we dismiss ourselves without a word. Even Soda is quiet, and that's eerie. Maybe we all remember what supper used to be like and can't get used to the new normal...

I don't know about my brothers, but I feel bad for every time I wanted to hang out with my friends instead of come home on time. As a kid, family dinners seemed boring and unnecessary, but I drug myself home when Mom called whether I wanted to or not; listening was easier than sitting through one of her lectures. She never had to lay a hand on us. All she had to do was say she was disappointed, and I can guarantee any rebellion in you died at that moment. I don't know how she did it, but it worked on Dally too. With one look, she could level him faster than anyone else I knew.

"Food's ready." Soda carries three plates of food over to the table, balancing two plates on one arm.

"Be careful," I tell him, eying the wobbling plate. "Maybe you should carry one at a time."

"I'm fine." In an effort to annoy me, he jogs the rest of the way. My blood pressure jumps, sensing disaster, but by some miracle, he doesn't spill anything.

"Jesus, Soda, that was lucky."

He flashes a smug grin and pushes a plate in front of me and Pony. "I knew what I was doin'."

I stare at whatever he set in front of us. It smells like spaghetti, but all I see are globs of blue noodles. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he only smirks and starts devouring every morsel on his plate.

Pony and I remain still. It may smell edible, but it sure as heck doesn't look it… I pick up my fork and piece through it, wondering what in the world would've possessed Soda to make it blue. Soda has an affinity for doing strange things, but this is a little weird even for him. Pony must agree with me; he squints at the food suspiciously, twirling a small ball of noodles on his fork to examine it. "Umm, Soda… what is it?"

"Yeah, little buddy," I agree. "Pony took the words right out of my mouth."

Soda glances up from his plate and gives us both a funny look. "Spaghetti… " He shakes his head, as though the answer was supposed to be obvious, and goes back to his food.

Blue spaghetti? I give him a puzzled look, but he's too busy eating to notice.

"Why blue?" Pony asks.

Soda shrugs. "Why not?"

"Because … spaghetti ain't blue," I add. Glory, it can't taste good blue.

Soda shakes his head at us again. "It is when I make it."

Pony sighs, and I watch on as he braves his first bite. Soda loves it, but Soda also put syrup on his eggs once and can never be trusted on how something tastes again. He and Steve were always trying to one up each other in food contests to see who could eat the most bizarre combination. Ketchup on cereal… Chocolate syrup on French fries… I'd seen them eat countless crazy things, so needless to say, I wouldn't touch blue spaghetti until Pony gave it a thumb's up.

"Tastes good," Pony tells me after a few bites.

"Alright then." I shove a small amount in my mouth, expecting something sweet. Soda's known for sneaking sugar into everything, but it tastes like spaghetti. If I close my eyes and pretend it's a normal color, I might be able to handle this. "Wow," I say, surprised I find myself liking it a few moments later. "That actually tastes pretty good, Soda."

"See?" Soda grins. "It tastes better blue!"

"Hate to tell ya, Soda," Pony says, "but I don't think food coloring changes the flavor."

"Yeah, if anything it'd make it taste worse," I add.

Soda points to our plates. "Well, you're both eating it."

"Yeah, well, next time, keep it its normal color," I grumble. Dying everything a weird color seems like it could wind up expensive. He had to use a lot of blue coloring to make it this blue, and that just seems unnecessary. "Besides," I continue, "we're all gonna have blue lips and tongues after this… People'll think we're short on oxygen if they see us…"

Soda sticks his blue tongue out at me. His mouth is already blue, and if we got into a food fight, surely we'd look like smurfs.

"You know, Darry, you sound just like Mom right now," Soda says, shoveling more food into his mouth.

"Yeah?" I lift an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You sure do," Soda insists. "Mom always shooed me outa the kitchen 'cause she didn't like it when I tried to drop food coloring in whatever she was makin'… I drove her crazy!"

"I remember that." Pony sets his fork down for a second. "I remember one Thanksgiving you put a drop of red food coloring in her gravy when she wasn't lookin', and she threw it out 'cause she thought she ruined it."

They both laugh, and I feel stupid because I have no clue what they're talking about. If it was Thanksgiving, I was probably too busy talking about the upcoming football game with Dad, but the smiles across their lips tell me it was a good memory for both of them. And even though I don't remember the story, it's nice to hear them laugh and talk about Mom. In fact, I think it marks the first time any of us have mentioned our folks in a conversation since the accident. There were a few times I thought about it, but I held back, afraid it might stir up our emotions. Now it seems like a silly worry. We can't go the rest of our lives never talking about them, especially when we think about them all the time.

I shift my eyes back to the blue noodles and take another bite, suddenly glad it's blue. Crazy idea or not, it was Soda's blue spaghetti that made us talk, and even better that it could be about our parents.

I try to remember that when the blue doesn't wash off the plates nicely.

xxxx

When the dishes are done and put away, Soda and Pony settle themselves in front of the TV. I join them, watching the first few minutes of a Lassie rerun.

"You guys get your homework done?" I know I sound like a broken record, but I'm damn certain Soda lies when he says he's done it.

"No homework tonight." That's a new, but not unheard excuse. Every time I ask, it's always done or there isn't any.

Soda kicks his feet up on the coffee table, and my ears wait for Mom's reprimand that never comes. I sigh. I could reprimand him myself, but I never liked that rule either.

"You sure, little buddy?" I press. Feet on the table ain't a big deal, but if our social worker looks at his grades … well, that could be problematic. "Pony's done all kinds of homework, but I ain't seen you pick up a pencil in weeks."

He shrugs. "I get it all done at school."

"Hey, that ain't fair," Pony whines. "You're in high school. You should have more than me…"

"Yeah, Soda," I agree. "I always had at least an hour a night when I was in your grade…"

"You callin' me a liar, Darry?" he asks curtly. "'Cause I ain't got any."

"Soda," I warn.

"What?"

"Don't get mouthy."

"I ain't gettin' mouthy," he says, but it's in one hell of a mouthy tone. "That's the honest to God truth."

"You can tell the truth and still be mouthy about it," I inform him. "I don't appreciate it."

"Well, I don't appreciate you not trusting me."

I hate to resort to threats, but damn it, he's asking for it. "Then I guess you'll have no problems with me callin' your teachers, huh?"

"Go ahead, I ain't a liar," he grumbles, but his voice falters, confirming my suspicions.

"Okay then." I glare at him, frustrated I'll actually have to carry out my threat now. I should be more irritated with him, and I am, but there's something screwed up about calling the teachers who taught you not even three years ago about your little brother's grades.

Those grades better be C's. I know he's not as book smart as me and Pony, but he ain't stupid. Like Mom always said, he'd be amazed at the results if he applied himself.

"Darry, I did all my homework," Pony says, looking at me like he expects me to jump on his case next. "You can even go look if you don't believe me."

"I believe you," I tell him, but he doesn't seem to believe me. "Honest, Pony, I do," I repeat once more, wondering where and how I'd freaked him out since our folks died. He's been walking on eggshells ever since, and the only thing I can think of was snapping at him for bouncing his feet obnoxiously on the drive home from the funeral. I didn't mean to get short with him, but my nerves were shot that day.

Shit, we were all upset, and I thought he'd have forgotten about it by now.

I get up and wander back to the kitchen, prepared to make a phone call.

As soon as I'm out of eyeshot, they start talking to each other, and when I hear my name, I inch close to the wall to eavesdrop.

I hear Pony's voice first. "Do you think Darry would really ground me?"

"Probably," Soda replies. "I'll bet he's gonna call my teachers now, so I'd say he would…"

"But … he's our brother." I groan at how confused Pony sounds. Yeah, I may be their brother, but I'm their guardian too now, and how'm I supposed to discipline them if I can't ground them? I ain't about to hit him, so he better get used to hearing the words "You're grounded" every so often.

"Don't worry about it," Soda tells him. "It'll be no different than when Mom and Dad grounded you… You know, no going anywhere 'cept school. Maybe if you're real bad, no TV."

"Yeah, I guess so."

They fall silent, and I shake my head, half tempted to run out there and tell them they better believe I'd ground either of them, but then they'd know I was listening to their conversation, so I hold back. I guess they'll find out I mean it when it happens for the first time…

Running a hand through my hair, I make my way towards the phone again and pick up the receiver, but when my finger goes to dial a number, I realize I don't know any of his teachers' phone numbers. "Goddamn it," I mumble under my breath and smack my fist against the wall, lightly so they can't hear me.

I probably looked silly walking into the kitchen now. Hopefully Soda doesn't think I won't make that phone call… First thing tomorrow, I'll call the school. Better yet, maybe I should just show up at the school. That oughta freak Soda into listening to me.

"Darry?"

I turn and Soda's standing right in front of me, looking towards his feet. "Yeah?" I ask.

"Sorry I got mouthy." He looks up for a second. "It's just …" he trails off and shakes his head.

"It's just what, Soda?" I ask, taking a step closer to him.

"It's just weird," he finishes. "I dunno. I ain't used to you getting on my case like that."

I put a hand on his shoulder and sigh. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I ain't used to it either…"

"Didn't seem like it," he tells me. "Seems like you're good at it."

I take my hand off his shoulder and rub my forehead. "Honest, I don't know if that's supposed to be a compliment or an insult, little buddy."

He smirks. "Compliment, for sure."

He claps a hand against my back and walks away, leaving me to wonder about what he said.