Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

Red and blue flash behind me and a dreaded siren wails.

Shit.

I close my eyes for a split second, exhale deeply, and garner the courage to pull over. It's tempting to keep driving like I'm above the law, but I know that's stupid.

I pull the truck over and run my hands down my face. The officer's taking his sweet time to get out of his car, and in my current frustration, I decide it must be on purpose. Maybe this is how he gets his kicks, watching the people he pulls over squirm until he finally puts them out of their misery. It has to be boring paroling the streets all day. I can't say I blame him.

Ages later, he stands next to my truck, and I crank the window down to meet my fate, which'll be a speeding ticket. Pretty damn sure of it.

"You know how fast you were going back there, Sir?" he asks, his forehead crinkling as he speaks. An older gentleman, he probably thinks I'm part of America's problem youth. He has that look about him. He'll probably be a grumpy old man who whines his grandkids play their rock music too loud someday if he isn't already.

I curl my lip under my teeth and try to think; if I had to guess I'd say I was going five over. I stay under five over as a general rule. I always thought within five, you're safe; anything over five, expect a ticket. I live by that rule. It worked for Dad, so it works for me. If I tell him that, will I sound facetious?

Not answering ain't an option, so I spit something out, "Five over?"

"Looked a little faster than that, son." The officer shakes his head; according to him I'm one of the problem youth now. I grimace at being called "son"—hearing it makes me realize how young I truly am.

"License and registration please," he requests. I fish my license out of my pocket and dig for the registration certificate in the glove compartment. Please be there. That was always something Dad took care of. I have no idea if it's actually in there.

I breath a sigh of relief when I find it and hand it over along with my license. He glances over it once, and I watch as he walks back to his car, about to write me that damn ticket.

It's official. My first traffic violation ever, and it probably all could've been avoided if I'd woken up on time. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Awful tempting to blame Soda too, but it ain't his responsibility to get me up, ain't his fault I didn't hear my alarm clock sound. Still, he had to go and tell Pony he could stay home from school, and honest, I'm frustrated enough about that to blame him for the whole morning, even if I know it's unfair.

It ain't very guardian-like, more brother-like, but he is my damn brother, and he's annoying me like a pesky little brother does. Shouldn't this be a two-way street? I do my part, and he respects my authority? Something like that at least. Glory, I don't know.

I quit thinking about it. The more I do, the more frustrated I'll get with him, and he doesn't need me to explode no more than I want to. The only thing it'd accomplish is us butting heads more. We were next to best friends before the accident. Actually we got along famously until last night. Perhaps I'm overreacting 'cause I'm used to butting heads with Pony. Not that I fight with him often either, but if I'm going to be irritated with one of my brothers, it's usually not Soda.

The officer returns and hands me my license, vehicle registration and a beauty of a ticket notice. I grab all three at the same time and set them on the passenger side of the seat. I'll look at the damage later. "Thanks," I say. Seems silly to thank the man who just gave you a fine, but that's polite, right?

"Keep a closer eye on that speedometer," he instructs me, pointing to the car dashboard. "And try to have a better day."

I nod to that and grit my teeth as soon as he's out of eyesight. Try to have a better day. If that doesn't sound condescending, I don't know what the hell does.

Yeah, I'll try alright. Thanks for the encouragement and thanks for the goddamned ticket.

I sigh and tell myself to stay positive. Ups and downs. That's what this year is gonna be.

Today is a down. If I keep my chin up, tomorrow'll be an up. Maybe even the rest of today.

xxxx

When I reach home, Pony and Soda are gone. All prior optimism leaves me. I check every room in the house twice to be 100% sure, but they are nowhere to be found. I panic.

Despite knowing they couldn't have gone far—maybe to a gas station to get a coke or just out for a walk in general—my brain jumps to the worst possible conclusions. After all, they sounded dead certain about staying home today. I thought that meant they planned to have a "take it easy" day, a day that wouldn't entail any stupid, childish plans. I could get on board with that. We've been running forward at full speed. Perhaps it's time to slow down and catch our breaths. Like Soda said, Pony had a rough night, and I don't doubt that, but now he's dragging him around town somewhere. That's supposed to help?

I feel guilty, realizing they probably would still be here if I hadn't left. Probably wouldn't have that speeding ticket either...

I shove a hand through my hair. Soda probably assumed I wasn't coming back and thought he could pull another fast one on me. He scares me, that kid. He scares the goddamned crap out of me; how the hell am I supposed to parent somebody who doesn't refuses to be parented? I honest to God thought Pony would be the struggle, but I was wrong.

Three and a half years ain't much of an age difference between us. That's probably the problem. We were equals in the eyes of each other and before Mom and Dad. Pony looked up to both of us and admired both of us as his all-knowing older brothers, and Soda doesn't wanna give up sharing a place at the top of the totem pole. Hell, with Pony, he is the top. If we both had to get our little brother to do something, he'd win hands down any day, and I must admit I'm damn jealous. That skill could be useful to me.

I plop down on the couch, plant my elbows on my knees and shove my forehead into the palms of my hands. Do I stay here or do I look for them? That's the ultimate question. They probably ain't far. Maybe I could find them, but if I go, they might come back while I'm gone and flounce off to the next adventure before I seize an opportunity to stop them, so I wait.

xxxx

I wait damn near three hours, and I grow more and more frustrated. Me and Soda are gonna have one hell of a talk about things, even if we have to brawl it out, because if things continue the way they have the past twenty-four hours, this arrangement will go to shit.

When they finally get home, Soda looks surprised to see me. "I thought you were going to work."

"I thought you two were going to stay home," I tell him. "Thought you could get away with leavin' 'cause I wasn't gonna be here, huh?"

Soda grumbles something unintelligible, most likely a cuss word, and takes a step closer to me. "No, I thought fresh air might do Ponyboy good," he grumbles. "Jesus, Darry, what's with you?"

I refuse to answer that. I glare at him, and Pony shifts in the background nervously. "What's goin' on, guys?"

"Pony, go to your room," I say, more harshly than I intend.

"What'd I do?" he asks with the most perplexed look. "Why'm I in trouble?"

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. For God's sakes, he's not the one in trouble... "You're not in trouble," I tell him, conscious not to sound mean or mad. "I just … wanna talk to Soda alone. Give us some privacy."

Pony gives me a look, the same look he gave me when we were kids and he wasn't old enough to do something yet.

"Please," I add, and without wasting a second more, he scurries off.

Soda watches him and then turns back to me, a disgusted look written all over his face. "So are you gonna yell at me now? Pony's gone now, go ahead."

Though it's tempting to throw a couple punches and scream an earful, I grit my teeth and focus on staying in control. "No," I say relatively calm. "I just wanna talk."

Soda rolls his eyes. "So talk then."

I toss my hands in the air, and a moment later, I realize I've started pacing.

Soda watches me. I can see it out of the corner of my eye, and I can practically feel his eyeballs burning holes into the back of my chest. "Stop it," I hiss at him.

"Stop what?"

"You honestly need me to spell this out for you?" I ask, shaking my head. "You attitude blows. Think Mom or Dad would let you talk to them the way you been talkin' to me?"

I pause and stare at him.

He looks me straight in the eye and says, "You're not Mom, and you're especially not Dad."

"Well, no shit!" I clench and unclench my fist. "I ain't tryin' to be. Just … Shit, Soda, you're drivin' me up a wall here."

"Well, you're drivin' me up an even bigger one." He glares at me, so much frustration in his face and tone. "You're gonna kill yourself at the rate you're goin', and maybe just maybe, I ain't okay with that. I'm tryin' to help you."

"That's bullshit," I snap back. "Why the hell do you keep undermining me if you're tryin' to help me? How do you think that looks to Pony? How do you think that makes me look?"

"You wanna know what he thinks?"

His question halts me.

No, I don't want to know. I'm afraid to know. I'd rather keep yelling at Soda than face the truth, but curiosity gets the best of me. "What?"

"He thinks you're mad all the time," Soda says. "That's what he thinks, and honest, Darry, you look like it, so don't even think about arguing with me."

"I ain't mad at him," I insist. "So he's got nothing to worry about it."

"Don't matter if you are or not. Don't matter one bit. He thinks you are and that's all that matters."

"Well, that's … that's fuckin' stupid." I push a hand up to my hair and pull on the tiny strands slightly.

"Nope." Soda shakes his head. "C'mon, Darry, you know him. He thought he was in trouble too even if Mom was only chewing me out."

I sigh, at a lose for anything else to say. He's right, but I don't want to him to be.

"Let me help you out, alright?" Soda takes a few steps closer to me. "I'm sixteen. I ain't a little kid, so quit treating me like one."

"You'd help me more if you just listened," I say. "The way I see it you can help me out or make my life hell, and right now whatever you think is helping is doing the other."

"That's 'cause you won't let me help you."

"Bullshit, I let you help last night!"

"I'm not talkin' about that," he continues. "I'm talkin' about dropping out, getting a job, 'cause all you do is work and then you come home, and you're stressed, and I just think it would make all our lives easier if—"

"I already told you no," I cut him off before he can get another word in. "You are not droppin' out, and that is final."

"Darry..."

"No," I yell. "Hell no. I don't know what you think you're solvin' doin' that, but it won't solve a thing, so no!"

"It's only been three weeks, Darry," he says. "Three months, and you'll look thirty."

"And so what if I do." I grab ahold of his shoulders, my fingers digging into the sides of his arms. He has to see reason on this. He has to. If there was one thing Mom and Dad would not want, it's him dropping out. "Dropping out'll set a bad example to Pony. You're always so worried about him. Think of him."

"I am thinkin' of him." Soda jerks his shoulders out of hands and glares at me. "Think he likes to see you like this any more than I do, hmm?"

"I'm fine," I insist. "I'd be better if you quit arguing."

"Too bad," Soda says. "I love you, man, but you're wrong about a lot of things."

"Well, you are too!"

"Yeah, and the difference between me and you is I at least know when I'm wrong." He starts walking away.

"Soda, get back here," I call back to him. "Where the hell do you think you're goin'?"

"To talk to Pony," he says. "He probably just heard every damn word we said, and he's gonna have questions."

I yell his name one more time, but he keeps going, slamming Pony's door behind him.

Four weeks ago I could've duked things out with Soda, and that seems so much easier than whatever the hell this is. We liked our good-natured fights, but now, they're a nightmare.

xxxx

An hour later, I sit outside on the porch, fiddling with a pack of Pony's cigarettes. Thirteen and he's smoking this much? I stare at the label—Kool's-and the longer I stare, the more I want one. It's been two years since I smoked a cigarette. I never liked the taste much, but I guess it calms your nerves okay.

Still, Pony shouldn't be doing it. Why Mom and Dad let him, I don't know, but how the hell am I supposed to enforce that when they said he could? Yeah, not happening, but he's cutting back. I'll find a way to make him do that.

"Hey, Darry."

Soda sits beside me and pats my back, like the fight we'd just had never happened.

I grumble. Maybe he's over it, but I'm not yet. "What?"

"Jesus, I'm just tryin' to apologize."

"Well, you can't keep doin' this," I tell him angrily. "You can't just act like an annoying little shit and then apologize like it's supposed to make it all better."

"Well, you can't go holdin' stupid grudges," he retorts. "I'd say we're even."

I sigh and count to ten silently in my head. That's what Mom told me to do when I was mad. I guess that's how she kept herself from really hollering at us... "Sorry," I say quietly. "It's just … you're drivin' me crazy."

"Hey, I drive a lot of people crazy," he says with a smirk. "Ask Steve how much I piss him off sometimes."

"Don't count. Everybody pisses him off."

Soda shakes his head. "Not like I do," he says. "I know him, so I can piss him off the best. Just like I know you. Face it, I know all the buttons to push."

"Then quit pushin' them."

"Hard not to. I'm your little brother, remember?" He sticks his tongue out at me and I shove him.

He shoves me right back.

"You okay, Darry?" he asks a moment later.

I sigh. Didn't expect him to ask that in the middle of a stupid argument. "I dunno, Soda," I say. I could lie to him, but he'd know I was lying anyway. "I don't know what the hell I'm doin'. I mean, you have a baby when you're my age, so you can be in your thirties when they're a teenager." I have no idea why the hell I'm telling him this. I'm mad at him, damn it, but still I keep talking, and he keeps listening. "I just wish there were a set of rules or something... A manual, you know."

Soda puts a hand on my shoulder. "Well, we don't expect you to be perfect," he says. "Christ, Mom and Dad weren't even perfect..."

I know it's only been three week's and it's stupid to make unfair comparisons, but I can't help myself. They set the standard. They set the bar high. Regardless of what Soda says, deep down, they're both gonna want me to be like that. This would be so much easier if their father was Steve's dad or something.

"Okay, Darry, if you wanna be like Mom and Dad, try bein' more like Dad," Soda says.

I give him a funny look.

He keeps rambling. "Right now you're tryin' to be Mom, and you're not even a girl, so give it up."

I narrow my eyes. "I am not tryin' to be a mother if that's what you're tryin' to tell me."

"No, I mean, worryin' about everything," he corrects himself. "Glory, she was an amazing mom, but she worried way too damn much."

"Well, maybe you and Dad don't worry enough," I say. "I happen to know you both drove her crazy."

"We sure did." He smiles like he's proud of it.

"But we had a lot of fun." He elbows me and winks. "Don't worry so much, Darry. You're doin' fine."

Don't worry. Don't worry about anything. Yeah, that's Sodapop's mantra for life, and sometimes it doesn't work out so well for him, but maybe this time he has a point.

A small one if that, but I'll try.