If I could pick one part of the day to live my life in forever, I would have to pick that brief period after you wake up and before you get your full state of mind.

-TW

Six

My eyes fluttered open, and for a split second, something weird happened. I saw—but faintly—holes that dotted the darkness. It's kind of hard to explain, since I've never seen anything before except these weird tears in the emptiness. They vanished soon, though, and once again, I was back to being blind. I managed to speak, but my voice came out coarse and distant. I asked, "Am I dead?"

No response came. I figured I was alone. I took notice to the cold, thin, foreign sheets splayed across my body and the too-soft mattress beneath me. I could hear birds chirping from outdoors.

And then, the blurry period that was wedged between waking up and falling back asleep faded, and realization hit me. I had been hit by a car. And what's worse is that right before it happened, an old, faded scent rested upon me. That scent was Johnny's. Overwhelmed by everything, I cried silently for a minute before regaining my calm posture. I still wasn't even sure if I was alive or dead.

I slid out of bed, but the minute my feet hit wooden floor, I felt like I was surfing on the world. I was very dizzy. I sat down and breathed slowly. Maybe I was in heaven? I've always had a theory that heaven was whatever someone wanted it to be. I'd always wanted to die and land in a field of tall flowers, not a house.

I felt my way down the walls, feeling the foreign texture and glossy posters. This wasn't my room. Suddenly, by fingers reached a crease in the wall. I ran my hands down the crease and found something cold and twisted. A doorknob.

I turned the doorknob and opened the door wide. Almost instantly, thousands of scents and sounds and feeling punched through my body. Blueberry waffles and men's cologne floated under my nose. Sound of muddled laughter and conversation swept into my ears. It sounded as if I had cotton stuck around my head, however, as the sounds weren't too clear. All the littlest of hairs on my body tingled and stood up on edge, the way they always do when one too many people stare at me.

Then someone spoke. The voice was male and different. I'd never met this person before, but then must've known me, because they said, "Good morning, Felt."

"Who—where am I?" I stuttered. My words were slurred, as if I was drunk.

"Your friend Beatrix dropped by a few minutes ago," said the person, ignoring my question. "Dally had gotten hold of her minutes after you blacked out. She's real angry with you for getting hurt."

"Where am I?" I asked again.

"You're at the Curtis house," spoke another male voice I didn't recognize.

I took the liberty to act blank, because I really was. "What's a Curtis house?" It sounded like some kind of asylum. Was this heaven?

Lots of laughter followed this comment. I felt my face simmer with embarrassment. I must've sounded uneducated. "It's a house," explained yet another foreign male voice, "where the Curtis brothers live."

"And who are the Curtis brothers?"

No one bothered to answer me now; they were all too busy laughing at me. Finally, a firmer, older voice said, "Soda, take her back in the room and give her back her clothes."

Upon hearing this, my jaw dropped. "I'm—I'm not wearing clothes?" As soon as I said it, I felt something light was hanging over my shoulders. So I was wearing clothes—but not my clothes. Apparently, from the impact of the car, my mind was still running in slow motion.

Someone gently grabbed my arm (this person was apparently Soda—what kind of name was that? It was the name of my dog. I'll admit that for a split second, I believed Soda was my dog, but when the person grabbed my arm, I knew better) and led me back into the muggy room. They tossed me something cottony, and much softer than what I was wearing. I rubbed the fabric between my fingers. It wasn't anything like the skirt or top I'd worn before getting hit by the car.

"These aren't mine," I pointed out.

"Your clothes aren't dry," Soda replied gently, as if he was talking to a fragile, delicate bird.

"Why wouldn't they be dry?"

"We had to hand-wash them because they were splattered with blood from your nose."

Soda said this so cheerfully and casually. I, on the other hand, reached up and touched my nose. I felt it, which had a thick bandage on its crook, but my nose couldn't feel my fingers.

The man left the room and I fumbled to take of the scratchy fabric that was on my skin. It was a singed t-shirt—I could smell the burn. I didn't even wonder what someone would do to singe their t-shirt. I slipped into what felt like a huge cotton button down. Then I sat down on the bed and held my head in my hands and let out a big sigh. I was so confused, and I was in a house which was filled with men I didn't know. Why wasn't I in a hospital?

Two sharp knocks came from the door. "Come in," I said weakly. Soda shifted onto the bed and placed a cool glass and a tiny tablet in my palms.

"It's aspirin," he said. "Take it."

I hesitated. From what I'd been taught, you never take anything so much as candy from a stranger. So taking the pill didn't seem like a wise idea. I shook my head.

"I won't take it."

"Why not?"

I ignored this question with another one. "Who are you, exactly?"

A little soft laugh. "I'm Sodapop Curtis. I'm friends with Dallas Winston." He must've decided that this wasn't a friendship that would give him a great reputation, so he quickly added, "And I used to be real good friends with Johnnycake."

"Johnnycake?"

"That's our nickname for Johnny Cade. Two-Bit invented it."

I didn't bother asking who Two-Bit was. I took the aspirin slowly. Anyone who was friends with Johnny Cade had to have been good. Except Dally, of course. Looking back at it today, I wonder why I didn't question whether Soda was lying. But I just had one of those unexplainable feelings, the ones you can't ignore; the ones that are always saving you from making bad choices.

Sodapop was real nice, and I decided him to be my favorite of the entire gang. He was funny and made me laugh. He thought it was neat how I had a dog named Soda, and how the two of them shared the same loyal, friendly, happy personalities. It was a strange coincidence. He combed and braided my hair in one braid for me, which was something I didn't know any guy could do. He told me that Dallas had a certain disliking for hospitals, which is why he dropped me off at the Curtis house. Then he introduced me to the rest of the gang. I think the thing I was most amazed by were their unusual names and nicknames. I had a small request for each one of them. I wanted to touch their faces—just so that I could feel how they look like. Most of them were okay with this.

Soda, of course, had what I called a very strong face, with a nice jaw and a thoughtful nose. I would bet a million bucks that if I could see, he would be very cute. Darry, who the oldest Curtis brother, was a lot wiser and stricter and had the kind of cheekbones that rarely raise to make a smile. Ponyboy Curtis, the one who Johnny had been real close with, was quiet and had soft facial features. Two-Bit was kind of the exact opposite of Darry; he was funny (I should've guessed by the name) and had a face that wouldn't stop smiling, along with smile-creases near his eyes. Steve didn't let me touch his face, but he did speak with me. Of course, he was slightly cocky, and I couldn't believe it when Soda told me that was his best friend.

I didn't want to go home, since my mom wouldn't be back until the weekend, and Beatrix wwas already in a pissy mood so I spent another peaceful hour at the Curtis eating slightly burnt waffles and getting to know each of gang in depth. Like I said, I liked Soda the best. Something about him reminded me of my cousin. But in general, I liked all of the gang. Well, except Steve. I didn't like Steve.

I found out the reason why Dallas didn't take me to the hospital. As Darry put it, ever since Johnny died, Dally had a certain dislike for hospitals. I thought this was pretty stupid but nonetheless, everyone thought it was sensible. I guess there are some things I'll never understand.

Talking with everyone was hesitant, as I expected. They all seemed to catch themselves at saying words that had to do with seeing. Like when a bird had flown in through the window, Ponyboy started to say, "Look, there's a bird!" but stopped halfway because he knew I couldn't look. Even when I almost spilled maple on Steve, he stopped in the middle of saying, "Watch it!"

I was used to people acting this way around me. They think blindness is a curse, and maybe it is. I wouldn't know, because I was born blind. There is a shade of difference between being unnaturally blind and naturally blind. People unnaturally blind have "the Stifle", which is like of like the feeling of being suppressed or stifled. They know what it's like to see, so when they turn blind, the go through a panic period. It's kind of like when you're standing in a brightly lit, foreign room, admiring the things and then suddenly, the lights go out. You'll feel suppressed and stifled. But I, on the other hand, was born blind, therefore, I was born seeing the lights out, getting used to the darkness. I live in a completely different world. I can't feel stifled or blinded because I don't have memory of ever seeing to make the comparison and choose which one is worse. That's why often, I'm grateful to be naturally blind. Of course, none of the gang could understand this, so I didn't bother explaining. I didn't want their sympathy or their sorrow, but it was bound to come, anyways. So I sucked it up.

But my peaceful hour ended soon when I heard the front door bang open and slam shut.

"Hey, Dally," Pony said from next to me. I frowned immediately, as if the strings holding up my smile were cut.

"The kid's awake," was Dallas's rough response. It took me a while to realize the "kid" was me. I don't like people underestimating me, so I managed to say smoothly:

"Real smart, Dallas. Thanks to you, I can't feel my nose."

"Thanks to me, you didn't get hit by a car," he shot back. I wrinkled my nose in confusion.

"I was hit by the car. That's how my nose was broken."

"Fool," Dally taunted. "If you'd been hit by the car, you would've been dead. I was what pushed you out of the way of the car."

I mulled over this, thinking of something snappy to say. But my mind was a million miles away. It couldn't be Dallas that saved me. It had to have been the spirit of Johnny or something. I smelled his lovely scent. I wasn't hallucinating. He had been there.

"Dallas," I began, aware that everyone was listening but not really caring, "it couldn't have been you that pushed me from the car."

I could feel the confusion in the room. Dally seemed angry about this. "What—what do you mean it couldn't be me? The bruises on my elbows should be enough proof. Who else could've done it?"

I frowned, thinking of how to say it. I settled on beginning with the explanation and ending with the answer. "Right when I was pushed down, I smelled…well…denim and sunshine."

Everyone suddenly laughed. I felt my face grow hot. "What?"

"No one can smell sunshine," said Steve. Stupid Steve.

"I can," I said in a quiet voice. The laughter died down, and everyone must've realized that I was serious. I can't explain how I can smell things that people claim are unscented. Neither can I explain the scents of those unscented things. Sunshine smells like…well, sunshine. It's a real good scent. Perhaps if you blindfolded yourself once or twice and stood in warm sunshine, you'd smell it.

"Well, you smelled denim and sunshine," Dally said in a bored voice. "Your nose was broken so you couldn't be accurate."

I could've pointed out that even though the nose breaks, most of the scent-nerves stay intact, but instead I said real quiet, in hopes that only Dally could hear, "Johnny smelled like denim and sunshine."

The room got very, very quiet and very, very warm, like a sticky warm breath stuck in a box. Then—

"She should get some rest, Soda," Darry said, breaking the warm silence. "Maybe you should sleep, Felt."

"I don't want to sleep," I said firmly. "I just want to go home."

"I'll take her," said Dally with a sigh, which surprised me, since Dally seemed like the kind of guy who would rather swim in his own sick than give me a ride home.

"No, its okay, I'll call Beatrix, she'll get me," I started to ask where the phone was, when Dallas growled and said, "She told us to drop you off when you woke up. She trusts us, why don't you?"

I wanted to tell him that it was nothing of a matter of trust, and that he was just trying to play the victim in the story, but then I thought, If Dallas Winston wants to drop me home, then he has to tell me something very important. So I shrugged and sulked and thanked everyone, and then went on my way.

Dallas drove his convertible exactly the opposite of the law. He went so fast that my head felt like it would burst. I finally had to scream over the roar of the engine and the roar of the wind, "STOP!" And the car clattered to a violent halt. I tried to breathe calmly, but instead I was breathing in jagged breaths. "You're going to kill me."

"It isn't my car," he said, as if this cleared everything up.

"I—don't—care—if—this—isn't—your—car!" I said firmly between breaths. "Take me home nicely."

"Alright, alright," he said, sounding amused with my fear. I folded my arms and sat back as the engine gently rolled along.

And awkward silence enveloped us for the entire ride. I felt as if Dallas was holding his breath, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't. Before I could ask him what it was, the car abruptly stopped, and I heard the familiar barking of a dog in a house.

"Get out," Dallas muttered.

"Rude," I whispered, but I got out of the car, my legs feeling like jell-o and my heart soaring. I was finally home.

Beatrix greeted me before I could take half a step. Soda licked my legs energetically. Then Beatrix muttered a "thanks" to Dallas before ushering me inside the door. I was going to follow her, but then I told her to wait a second. I carefully made my way down the driveway. I leaned on the car door.

"Dallas, did you want to tell me something?"

I took him by surprise. "What—no?"

"Anything at all?" I pressed. "About Johnny? Or how I smelled his scent?"

He made a sound as if to open his mouth to say something, and for a millisecond there was hope. But then he grunted carelessly and said. "Nope. Nothing at all."

And without warning, the car roared and I stepped back, listening to it sing down the gravel road. It sang a broken tune, diverted from the rest of the world, and I wondered in curiosity about the meaning behind it.