"He kept trying to make someone say 'No' and they never did. They never did. That was what he wanted. For somebody to tell him 'No'."

Chapter 2

For many days after Bob's death, she had cried and felt an empty, churning sensation in the pit of her stomach. Grief was blind to reason. She didn't care who was asking for it. She didn't care that she had seen the boy who had killed him, and he wasn't a ruthless murderer. She didn't care that he seemed like one of the nice ones.

But later, she started thinking about things, and nothing would add up. People weren't who they seemed, and simple things changed like a kaleidoscope into multi-faceted complex problems.

For one thing, she knew why Bob had died. There was a reason, and a little voice inside of her said maybe, just maybe, it was Bob's own fault.

No one seemed to remember that the very night Bob died, Cherry was talking to a kid named Ponyboy, and he was telling her about his friend. His friend named Johnny. And she had known then why Johnny was so afraid of being jumped, and she had known what would happen if anyone ever tried it again. She just never realized that someone might be Bob.

And another thing was bothering Cherry, even more than that. She had always known that Bob was, well, spoiled, for lack of a better word. Most of Bob's close friends knew that Bob would keep going with his drinking and bullying until someone laid down the line. They all knew that someone had to tell him 'No', and they all assumed that at some point or another, his parents finally would. Maybe they would have, but not soon enough. What Cherry worried about, though, was that maybe it didn't have to be his parents. It could have been his girlfriend.

Why hadn't she told him 'No'? Why didn't she ever stop him, take away the liquor, make him listen? Sure, she'd bugged him a little, she'd left when he took out the bottle, but that helped about as much as 40 slaps with a wet noodle.

Meaning, not at all.

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I woke up that morning with sun in my eyes and a question burning in my mind. How is Dally? Where is everyone else? And mostly, what in the world happened?

I needed to find out, but I had a feeling that the answer was already the one I dreaded. Who could I ask? Of course, Ponyboy and the rest of his gang would know...but that would mean another trip to the other side of town, and that would almost definitely mean trouble for someone. And besides, I hate Dally. Why should I make a trip out there for him? If he's dead, then I'm sure they don't want me, who threw soda at him and told him to go--somewhere unpleasant, around.

I pondered what to do as I got dressed and brushed my long red hair out of my face. I finally decided to go to the hospital--there was only one nearby, so if Dally was somewhere, that would be it. That or buried, already gone and lost to the world. No, don't think that. Why do you even care?, I thought, but I answered before the thought even left my mind. Because Ponyboy cares, and Sodapop, and Darry.They are why I care. A small part of me said there might be more, but I immediately told it to shut up. There was nothing more.

The toast I was making burned, but I ate it anyway and then left in my Corvette. Another stab of guilt hit me, then, thinking about Ponyboy's accusation about the car, when he said that it wasn't fair for me to have it when Greasers barely had enough money to live on. Still, I drove on to the hospital, determinedly thinking about anything but Greasers. Needless to say, that attempt was useless, because before I even finished the resolution, I started remembering that night at the drive-in movie.

But after a few minutes, I pulled up at the hospital, got out of the car, and walked into the large, sterile looking building. It seemed impossible to me just then that Dally should be in here, a white, clean, restraining hospital.

The lady at the front asked what I wanted, so in a calm voice, though my inside was shaking, I said, "I would like to know if my friend is here? (I didn't say Dallas, since sure as anything no one knew his name unless he told them) Blonde boy, g-gunshot wounds". The lady took out a file, looked at it for some time, and said, "We have someone who came in last night, fits that description".

"Well...er...can I visit him?", I said, unsure of what I was doing. "No. He's in a critical time now, no visitors. I'm sorry".

I waited of a moment, and then asked, "Do you have anyone by the name of Ponyboy Curtis?" I'm not quite sure why I asked, since I didn't expect him to be here.

To my surprise and horror, she answered, "yes".