Why We're Playing with Fire

2. Coffee, Water, Soda

Ponyboy

I promised to write so here is the first letter. Basic is okay and I have made some friends. It's still a few weeks left until we're leavin but don't ya worry, okay? I will be okay. You and Darry take care of each other and say hi to the guys from me.

Sodapop Curtis

xXx

April, 1968

The red running track lies ahead of me, stretching out around the football field located behind school. The guys in my team talk and laugh beside me, about how hot it is today, maybe too hot for the 5000 meters run, if Coach are crazy making us do this, who they think might win if we'll make it at all because of the heat. I hear my name being mentioned, but instead of protesting, I concentrate and try to block them out, along with everything else that disturbs me- the blazing April sun, the sound of traffic in the distance, my brother. Especially the thoughts of my brother.

Coach places the whistle in his mouth, raising his hand while holding the stopwatch ready in the other. On your marks.

Everyone goes silent. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my arm, then quickly drop it to my side again, leaning a little forward. It's only practice, but Coach always expects us to take it serious and do our best - missing his start signal is something he won't accept, even if about twelve laps give more than enough time to catch up, if needed.

Ready. I dig my toes down, rise up on my heels a little.

Go. The whistle blows and we're off.

I don't hold back. I push myself to run as fast as I can from the beginning, knowing it will make this a lot more harder to complete, that my stamina will leave me long before the race is over. But I need to pressure myself so hard my legs will ache all evening, need to pressure myself until my lungs are burning, until I almost can't breathe and all I can do after passing the goal is to lie sweaty and exhausted in the grass, gasping for air, my head blank of everything.

It's not about track anymore. It's all about forgetting, if only for a second.

xXx

"Curtis, have a talk?"

I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder while turning around, my legs still burning from lactic acid.

"Yeah, Coach?" I say, not really wanting to speak with him. But if I don't want him to throw me out of the team, I know I have to. He has kicked out guys before, for even less serious matters than a bad attitude.

He waits until the other guys are out of earshot and disappear into the locker room.

"What the hell was that?" he asks then, but he doesn't sound as pissed as I thought he would. I grip the strap of my backpack with one hand, flicker my gaze down at the grass.

"You gonna tell me what happened there?" He points over his shoulder at the tracks. "You used to be my best runner."

"Sorry," I mumble.

"Sorry don't cut it. You know it ain't all about running fast, especially on a hot day like this. If you want that, you go back to run the shorter distances."

I shake my head mutely, and he continues, "Tactics, Curtis. When college scouts come around, who do you think they will look at? The kid who runs fastest at the start, but don't last to the end of the race? They won't even remember your name if you do like that when they're watching."

"I know. Sorry."

He eyes me critically for a moment, then says, "You still smoke?"

There is no point lying, he has seen me doing it. "Yeah."

"You still want this? Then start to listen to me, and cut down the crap, too, smoking and goddamn fast food. I know boys your age wants hamburgers and Coke every day, but think about chewing down some vegetables from time to time. You need to be in shape, you only have a year left to impress me."

He raises his eyebrows a little, and I think of the pack of Kools in my backpack, that Two-Bit told me he would pick me up after practice, drive us to the DQ for dinner since Darry is working late.

"Yeah, sure."

xXx

I sit on the porch, smoke my second cigarette and pick up the letter from Soda again. It's been in my pocket since I got it three days ago, and I don't know how many times I've read it or just been holding it in my hands.

I smooth it out over my knees, a white paper with his sloppy scrawled words running over it. It's so short it almost says nothing, but I think I can read between the lines. He's unhappy, but he doesn't want me to know it.

Darry wouldn't let me read his letter, making me think Soda is more honest with him. Or maybe he wrote something about me.

Like everything is about me. I will myself to roll my eyes as I stick my hand out to knock off the ash from the tip of the cigarette. At least he's still in the US, not that many miles from here. Still will be for a few weeks. Still will be safe for a while. I know I don't have to worry yet, according to Soda not at all, but shit... he's going to war, and that is all I can think about.

I hear the rumble from an engine, and I fold the letter again, put it back in the back pocket of my jeans as Darry parks the truck on our driveway. I hear him sigh when climbing out and closing the door, approaching me with heavy steps.

"You still up?" he asks, but since I obviously am, I don't think he expects me to answer.

He sits down beside me on the step, and I can feel the smell of beer on him. I want to ask him my own question, what Soda didn't say - a few weeks, but when? - but do I really want to know? If I feel like this now, I don't even dare to imagine how I will feel when he's on the other side of the world.

So instead I say, "Coach wants me to cut down smokin'."

"I've been telling you that for years." Darry chuckles a little, before eyeing me and the cigarette in my hand. "Are you thinking about it?"

"Maybe." I look at the cigarette, too, almost finished by now. "You think I should?"

He smiles, tapping my shoulder with his fist. "At least it would be one less thing for me to worry about."

I try to keep it together, I really do. But then I have to drop the cigarette butt and put the heels of my hands into my eyes. "He's only eighteen," I say, and Darry places his warm hand on the back of my neck.

xXx

June 1968

It's so hot in my room I sleep in just my underwear, no cover, the window next to my bed wide open.

No. That's a lie. I don't sleep, I just toss and turn, telling myself it's the summer heat that makes me so restless. But I know that's a lie, too.

Giving up at 4 am, I rise and go to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me. I open the tap carefully since I don't want to wake up Darry, but maybe he's already awake - I can hear him most of the nights and early mornings, moving around in his room or padding past my door when he thinks I'm asleep. Sometimes I hear him hesitate just outside of it, and then I hold my breath, almost wishing he would come inside and sit on my bedside for a while, to fill some of the empty space in my room. I haven't shared it with Soda for a year, not counting his last night at home when we sat up talking all night, but somehow him being gone is even more present in there.

But I never say anything, and Darry never comes inside.

After drinking some water I go back to my room and dress, tugging on my worn running shoes. Darry promised me new ones, but I told him I didn't want any - these are the ones I need to have. Maybe 'cause it was Soda who gave me the money for them, when I decided to start running the longer distances in the beginning of my junior year.

Soda. I sit down on my chair and rub my eyes. I can't think of him. I'm so scared that he will die, I can't even imagine life without him. I can't imagine losing him so far away from home that he'll never come back. That the last thing he might see is something foreign, that someone who never knew him might take his life for no reason. He didn't even want to go there.

And I asked him not to go, begged him, even when knowing he had no choice.

When the memory of the look in his eyes just then overwhelms me, I get up and walk out to our porch, breathing inside my hands. I need something to calm me down, and find my pack of Kools where I left it on the windowsill yesterday. I glance up at the sky while lighting a cigarette, feeling a pang of guilt toward Darry. But quitting can't be an option, not now, when I have so much else to think about and be afraid of.

It's too early to go out running, but I can't stay here. The house looms behind my back, too quiet and empty - once we used to be five, but it's only two of us left. The thought of losing another one, losing him, makes me choke on the smoke, and I drop the cigarette, let it fall to the floor, the ember flashing red in the semi-dark.

Then I run.

xXx

Darry doesn't say anything about how early I went out when I come home again. I've been running for hours, and I drag myself into the house, plopping down on a kitchen chair while trying to catch my breath. The sweat is dripping down my face and back and armpits, soaking my t-shirt, and Darry puts down his coffee cup to bring me a glass of water.

He places it on the table next to my hand. I reach for it reluctantly, feel the cold surface against my fingertips. Drinking what's in it would feel so good, but it also would mean my head will stop spinning, all the bad thoughts coming back much clearer.

"You shouldn't run when it's this hot," Darry says to me as he sits down again. "It's summer break. I'm sure your coach-"

"You played football in the summer," I interrupt him between my puffs, stretching up from my slouched position, and he gives me a tired smile.

"That was different. I never came home that exhausted."

"I ain't exhausted." I lift the glass and take a sip. Putting it down again, I look at him through the wet bangs falling over my eyes. "I'm okay, Darry."

He doesn't call out on my lie. To say we're not okay is to bring up a topic we don't want to talk about, making it all too real. So he drinks his coffee in silence, and I drink my water, but I know we both think of Soda.


I wasn't satisfied with this story, so I decided to rewrite it. I have changed details (so if you have read this story before, I suggest you to reread it) and made the chapters longer. I'm not sure yet when chapter 3 will be up, and I still have my Curly-story, work and school, but hopefully, hopefully I will manage to update at least every second week.