When high school started, I refused to let myself look for Pony. It was tough enough, navigating the corridors and the hidden corners.
It was like being parachuted into enemy territory, there were so many Socs. Or at least, it seemed that way, because the kids in the middle looked more like 'them' than us—there were way more sweater/ kilt combos than pushing-the-rulebook minis, and lots of the guys walked around in letter jackets. No greaser ever bothered to make a high school team. I didn't count Darry Curtis; in that respect he'd never thought of himself as a greaser, I was damn sure. I remembered some of the dicks he used to hang out with, the football players who had swanky wheels the minute they got their license. The ones who thought it was fucking hilarious to taunt a twelve year old girl with her mother's rep.
Well, I'd made sure Socs and greasers alike had my own rep to chew on, now, hadn't I?
I wasn't stupid, as far as the authorities at school went. For the first few days I'd toned down my makeup and I wore a skirt that was as near to regulation length as dammit. But it made no difference. Every single kid there might as well have been toting a sign.
The scariest thing was, the older Socs were just as happy to start something as the greasers. In middle school, an attitudey twelve or thirteen year old can easily put down a Socy kid in the grade above; greasers mature earlier. In high school, they were all jostling for position and not afraid to fight for it.
"Hey, doll, you new? Wanna get acquainted under the bleachers?" was the most polite greeting I got, walking the hallways.
Even the bathrooms were marked out, as I discovered, by going into one to be met with a cloud of Lasting Hold and several snobby sneers from the Country Club set. On the next floor, the 'Girls' room' sign was crooked and inside there were two girls smoking and one dabbing Pan-Cake on her neck—to disguise a hickey, I assumed—while a pretty blonde chick was rolling over her waistband to make her skirt shorter.
She twisted around, to try and see if it was crooked.
"Who's gonna care?" replied her friend, when she was asked for her opinion. "You ain't gonna see Soda 'til after school." Evie stubbed out her weed on the window sill and fluffed her hair a little in the mirror.
I booked it. I didn't know if Sylvia, or anyone, had the same information that Pony had come by and I didn't want to run into her or her friends until I was sure. On the one hand, I figured if she was after my blood she'd have tracked me down over the summer. But possibly, whoever was spreading the rumor—although could I call it that, when it was true?—was waiting for school to start, to get the biggest audience.
The whole damn place felt like a maze, dotted with land mines.
And I shared not a single class with Ponyboy.
I saw him, once or twice, across the parking lot, lunchtimes, mostly with kids I didn't know, although a couple of times Curly was with him, or one of the older guys. And then I heard his name mentioned. Unfortunately, somewhere with witnesses.
Two weeks into the semester.
I stared at the patch of peeling paint just to the left of the principal's ear and wondered if that really was a record for a girl to be suspended for fighting, or if he was trying to scare me, since sitting opposite him in his crappy little office wasn't working. 'Fighting' didn't even come into it. One slap didn't count as a fight. Although it was enough to send the little bitch in the yellow sweater and her friend into hysterics. Still, I bet she thought twice about calling certain people a hood from then on. Stupid little cow, wouldn't know a real live hood if one up and spat in her face.
As the lecture droned on, I considered whether I could get some guy who really deserved the J.D. title to give her a fright. That would be a blast. The principal told me to stop smirking.
I walked home the long way, putting off having to face Stella, who had answered the phone in such a pissed mood that I'd been able to hear her tone right across the desk, even before she heard about the 'fight'. Mr Setterfield had even looked a little guilty that he was dismissing me to her tender care. I figured he'd be over it, by the time my suspension was up and even if he wasn't, the bruises would be gone by then, so what would be the point in worrying?
Down by the railway bridge, I recognized the silhouetted figure slouching towards me, hands deep in his jacket pockets.
Johnny frowned as he came closer and saw it was me. "Am I late?"
"For what? Didn't know we had a date." I bit back a smile as he gulped and studied his toes real careful-like.
"No! I didn't mean...I meant, uh, I was gonna meet Pony after school."
Ah. I told him school wasn't out yet.
"You ditching too?" he asked.
To tell the truth, I couldn't remember seeing him around one time, since I'd been at Will Rogers. Even though I'd been avoiding Pony, I'd still caught glimpses of him after all, and Two-Bit and Steve Randle were loud in the hallways, a person'd have to be deaf and blind not to know they went there. I guessed Johnny had ditching down to a fine art.
"Nah," I told him, playing it cool. "Got me the rest of the week as a personal vacation...I'm suspended," I elaborated, when he looked blank.
He fumbled in his pocket and offered me a weed, which I declined. "Jeez."
"'S'okay," I told him. "Ain't like my record wasn't already looking like Swiss cheese. I'll see ya 'round, yeah?" As I set off walking, a pickup crawled past, the driver whistling at me as he hung out the window.
"Lainey?"
I span around, surprised by Johnny's call.
"You want me to walk you home?" He was bouncing a closed switch in his palm. I never even knew he packed a blade.
I told him no thanks. "I might go get a Coke or something." Something that would last several hours, so I could sneak in once Stella was busy.
"You sure?" His hand went to his jeans, tucking the knife away, but he hesitated. "You oughta watch where you're walking."
I smiled. "Don't sweat it. Anyhow, didn't you just say you had somewhere to be?"
xxXxx
So, the Tastee Freez was out of the question, until I knew if Sylvia was after me or not. Most of the girls in her crowd hung out there, some of them even waitressed after school, so the boss probably knew what time the last class finished and I didn't want any nosy questions.
Buck Merrill's was always an option, but at this time of day, I might be the only person under thirty awake in the place. And I didn't want to hang with any sweaty horse traders, or Buck's number-running friends.
What I needed was somewhere to chill where no one would care whether I oughta be in school or not, plus a good likelihood of someone standing me a Coke and maybe even something to eat.
The Dingo it was, then.
Mid-afternoon was a 'cat nap in the car' kind of time—before all the strutting and squaring up of the evening kicked in—and there were a couple of guys doing just that, doors propped open for the breeze, feet up on dashboards. Some younger guys were draped on one of the picnic tables.
As I approached the front door, a couple of girls in pedal pushers came out. I didn't recognize them and they didn't acknowledge me. Someone, however, called me by name and said hi.
Curly Shepard was sitting on the picnic table, nursing a Pepsi and interfering in the card game that the guys next to him were trying to play. One of the girls draped herself over the kid on the far side of the table, distracting him fairly effectively, and his opponent threw his cards down in disgust, climbed to his feet and made for one of the nearby cars, following the other chick.
A couple of other engines had roared up on the other side of the lot. The place was starting to fill up.
I remembered Curly's question, from the evening Pony had gotten blitzed, when I'd met them here, how he'd assumed I'd been fighting in the girls' locker room. I made myself a promise not to tell him why I was wandering around in the middle of a weekday afternoon.
As it turned out, it wasn't a problem, because he was only interested in talking about himself. Boasting, more like.
"I know a liquor store that's gonna be easy as shit to knock over."
"That right?" I was already bored by the whole idea. I wanted a drink and he was conspicuously not offering. Curly was too dumb to actually pull off anything like a hold up. In fact he was incredibly dumb, to the point—
I narrowed my eyes at him. "You been spreading bull about me?" The girl behind the table pricked up her ears, I noticed.
Curly blinked in surprise. "Like what?"
"Like stuff that'll get your ass kicked."
"By who?"
"By whoever you were running your mouth about."
"What? That don't make no sense. You said it was about you." He wasn't getting anywhere with the puzzle. Maybe he really didn't know what I was talking about.
"Yeah, me an' someone else, dumb ass. Did you spread anything about me and someone else?"
Curly scratched under his armpit. "How am I supposed to keep track? Ain't like you don't put it about plenty." He smirked, like something had just occurred to him. "Maybe I oughta get in line, huh?"
I could feel my fist clench, all on its own, as the rage started to rise. I sneered, "You got no chance, Baby Shepard. I'd bang your brother right here in this lot, before I'd let you touch me."
"Works for me," said a low and lazy voice behind me. Curly sniggered in delight. The girl and the guy behind him were both staring now.
As I turned around, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole, I took in not much more than the rolled sleeves of his T shirt and the scar on his face.
Tim Shepard smiled widely but not nicely. "I mean, you might wanna buy me a drink first, doll. Wouldn't want ya to think I was easy, or nothin'."
I clamped my lip between my teeth and backed up, away from them all. Tim reached out and took a swig of Curly's drink, belching theatrically in appreciation. I suddenly remembered when I'd been thinking about pissing Darry off, practically daring myself to hunt down the leader of the Shepard gang. It didn't seem so funny now. I turned, heading for the street.
"What's the rush, baby?" A hand closed on my arm before I made the sidewalk. One of the Brumly crew. The one who liked what he liked. I tried to pull away, without success. It hadn't done me any good the time he drove me out to the lake, either. He laughed at me when I told him to let go.
"How about we go for a drive." It wasn't a question.
"Whoa, now." This time the voice was still low, but not so lazy. "We got a problem?" Tim Shepard rolled his neck, like it was stiff. "Only she don't look like she wants to go for a drive."
The Brumly guy dropped his grip on me, shooting his eyes from one side of the lot to the other. "No problem, man. Her an' me, we're old friends."
"Well, that might make sense, only—" Tim motioned with his finger for me to step aside "—she don't live in Brumly." Curly and the other guys had moved up behind him, and the chicks too, which surprised me until one grabbed my elbow and they steered me back to the table.
"What the fuck?" I hissed at the one holding onto me.
She grinned and cracked her gum. "Don't get your panties in a twist. Tim's just cleaning house. That prick keeps parking up in our spot."
I watched as the Brumly car reversed, tires spitting gravel. The other guys—the Shepard gang—didn't move until it was gunning away down the street. Then they laughed and did a little back slapping and shoving and all that usual idiotic guy shit.
As he walked up to me, Tim almost smiled. I tensed, but he went right on past and slung an arm around the taller girl, the one who'd spoken to me, then shoved a couple of bills in Curly's hand and told him to fetch some sodas.
The other couple sat back down at the table, as the guy who'd abandoned the card game earlier scooped up the scattered cards. He shuffled them from one hand to the other and grinned at me.
"You wanna play with us, babe?"
xxXxx
As Stella's stare wore me down, I frantically tried to do the Math. Exactly how long was it since I'd spoken with Ponyboy?
When the knock had come at the front door, it had made me jump. Nobody knocked on our front door in the morning. Nights were different. I was real little when I learned that visitors at night meant keep out of the way. But in the day, Stella was usually either sleeping or not home, and no one ever called for me.
For once though Stella was up for breakfast. Not dressed, that would have been a frigging miracle, but she made it to the door before me.
"Well, well...Hello, darlin'." I heard her purr. "What can I do for you?"
"Is Lainey here?" I jumped out of my skin for the second time, hearing Sodapop's voice. Stella was obviously equally surprised. She stared from him to me. I about died at the sight of her, in a flimsy robe that wasn't pulled all the way across her front. He was looking right past her though and, for a wonder, she retreated.
"Lainey?" Soda looked awful, like he hadn't slept. "Lainey, have you seen Pony?"
Hardly. Between being out of school and spending all my time with Wes and the rest of the gang, I'd barely been on home turf at all. Plus, had Pony not told him that we'd fallen out? It didn't seem like the time to try and explain it all. So I just said, "No."
His face fell."He and Johnny took off...something real bad happened last night."
Of course I asked what and he babbled about 'fights' and 'Socs' and a 'kid, dead in the park', but his attention was already gone, he was trying to decide where to go next. I blinked. Hard.
"Yeah, but...Pony? And Johnny wouldn't—" my objection melted into nothing on my tongue as the picture of him bouncing the switchblade filled my mind.
Jumped.
Knifed.
Stabbed.
Dead.
"I could ask Curly," I said, hearing my tone as flat, weird.
Soda grimaced. "Tried him already. We just gotta find Pony and Johnny before the cops do." He started backing down to the street. "I gotta keep looking. Tell us if you see him, huh? Tell him he can come home, tell him Darry's sorry and he ain't mad." He was already running, as I called out to ask what exactly Darry was sorry for.
I shut the door. Turning, I faced Stella leaning on the kitchen doorpost with a glass in her hand. It could have been water, but I knew it wasn't. She narrowed her eyes at me.
"The hell kind of little punks you been hanging out with?"
