Why We're Playing With Fire
7. Too Close
I know I'm not welcome. It's not hard to tell with the angry stare Mr. Carter gives me, but I hesitate when I see his hand tremble around the top of his cane. I can't just leave, can I? What if he falls again and won't be able to get up on his own?
"What are you waiting for?" he barks at me, but he sounds weaker this time, almost afraid.
"I just-"
"Leave my house!" His free hand flies out at me and I flinch, his hostility making me wonder why I even bother trying to help.
"You, uh, want me to call someone?"
"Why? Who would that be?" He moves slowly forward, and I have to back away so he can get past me. "I don't need anyone. Just some water."
I follow him to his kitchen.
"Give me something to drink," he sneers, sitting down on the only chair not buried in trash, and I leave the doorway, open the cupboard over the sink to find a clean glass. As the water run from the tap I lick my dry lips, suddenly aware of my appearance, warm and sweaty, and how my t-shirt is stuck to my body.
I hand him the glass, and he takes it without saying anything. I lean my back against the counter as he sips it slowly, the frown on his forehead increasing. I can tell he doesn't want me here, and maybe he seems a little embarrassed, too, by the way his house looks like. It's weird, really, like he hasn't thrown anything out since he moved in. But everything seems neatly stacked, too, like it's sort of organized when looking closer to it.
"I guess you want your money." Mr. Carter finds a spot for the glass somewhere in the mess on the table top when he's finished, digging up his wallet from his pocket.
"I start school next week so I won't be comin' back," I tell him, taking the bills he hands me. "This is just a summer job."
He doesn't answer, just stands up, but sits again immediately. He mutters a curse, raising his gaze to look at me. "I need to lay down on my bed."
"Oh. Yeah." I help him back through the living room and into his bedroom, which looks as the rest of the house. At least he hasn't any stuff on his bed. He puts his cane next to it, lying down onto his back and closes his eyes.
I stand by the door, feeling stupid when he suddenly lifts an eyelid.
"Get out now," he says.
I go.
xXx
August 1968
"Curtis, you're bleeding, man."
I look down on my arm, just below the cuff of my short sleeved shirt.
"It ain't nothin'. Just a scratch."
Sammy rolls his eyes and grabs me, somehow finds a stool in the sorry mess of a sudden moved camp and forces me to sit. "It ain't nothing in this damn heat. It can be infected."
He goes down onto his knees and opens a water bottle. As he starts to clean my wound I remove my helmet, dropping it to the ground and raking my hand over my head. I'm still not used to the shave, but I'm kind of thankful for the buzz cut now, 'cause the heat in this damn country is crazy.
As I let my eyes wander over who are left of us, I realize I have more things to be thankful for. Sure, they told us we won, we drove the Vietcong's back this time, too, but I don't feel it. Not with how many faces I'm missing among those around us.
"Hey, no need for that," I protest when Sammy picks up a bandage roll from his bag. He gives me a hard stare, kind of Darry-like, and I give in with a shake of my head. "Fine, then."
He starts to wrap my upper arm. As his hand bumps into my chest I realize how close the wound is to my heart - had the bullet gone just a few inches to the right I wouldn't be sitting here. I didn't notice, didn't think about it when it grazed me, too caught up in the moment to even feel the pain. But fuck, this was a close call, way too fucking close, and I feel a rush to my head. Grabbing the stool's seat I try to blink away the black splotches threatening to take over my vision.
"Christ, you gonna pass out on me?" Sammy says and grabs my shoulder. With his other hand he quickly holds the water bottle to my mouth. "Drink!"
I take a big gulp of the lukewarm water.
More guys come into the camp, some walking on their own, some dragged along but at least up on their feet. I spot Morris in the crowd, and realize how worried I was when relief washes over me. I should really drop making friends here, each time finding one of them seriously hurt or dead just making it harder. So much fucking harder. If I think about it too much I'm going insane.
As Sammy is finished with my arm he sits down cross legged, fishes up two cigarette butts from the front pocket of his shirt and hands me one. I take the matches from him and light up, quickly take a few deep inhales before its finished, leaving my heart beating calmer but my mouth tasting like ash. Jesus christ. If I had died... I can't imagine how Darry and Pony would have taken the news. And Steve, and Two-Bit, too. My family managed to hold it together somehow, when Mom and Dad passed, but then with Johnny and Dally... it can't be me, too. I know that. And it ain't just them, ain't just them I need to stay alive for. It's for me, too, I don't want to die at eighteen. It's too early, I have still stuff I need to do.
"Hey," Sammy says, nudging my arm. "Don't go there."
He must have seen something in my face. I shrug, try to give him a quick smile, forcing the damn thoughts away.
"I'm all right," I say.
What a big, fucking lie.
xXx
August 1968
Standing in the shower I tilt my head up for a moment, opening my mouth to catch some of the spray. The water is warm and doesn't taste good, but I'm so thirsty I hardly think about it. All my limbs are hurting, especially my legs, and I prop a hand against the wall for support. Even if it's hot in here the surface is cold under my palm, and I dip my head again, feel the water beat down over the tense muscles in the back of my neck.
I could stay here forever. I probably would have, too, if I didn't hear the front door closing, and I almost jolt in surprise because it's too early for Darry to be home. Turning off the shower I reach for my towel and dry myself quickly, regretting not taking any clean clothes with me.
"Pony?" Darry calls, and I hear him drop his keys onto the coffee table.
"In here," I call back, wrapping the towel around my waist and open the door. "I've just taken a shower," I say unnecessarily as I step out into the hallway. Strange is it - I always wanted him to not work overtime, but now when he's home I almost wish I was alone again.
He gives me a too big smile. "Hey, kiddo. I brought pizza." He holds out the carton for me to see. "I thought we could catch up a little."
I eye the food. "Um..."
"It's extra cheese and pineapple," he tells me.
Soda's favorite. I wonder if he's aware of that, and I stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to say, when his eyes suddenly narrow and his smile disappears as he looks me over.
"Have you been losing weight?" he wonders.
"No." I wrap one arm around my stomach, the other holding the towel in place.
"You sure? You look a little thin."
"Yeah, I'm sure."
He doesn't seem to believe me, the doubt clearly visible in his eyes.
"Darry, I'm fine, okay? I have grown a little, that must be it. I'm goin' to get dressed now." With the heart beating in my chest I try to look casual as I walk into my room, picking out boxers and a pair of jeans and a long sleeve to wear. I do my best to dry my hair with the towel, dragging a comb though it a couple of times, then sit down onto my bed trying to breathe evenly. I don't know how long I sit here, but apparently long enough for Darry to get impatient, showing up in the doorway.
"Pony? What are you doing? The pizza is getting cold."
"I don't want pizza."
"You don't want pizza?" He sounds disappointed. And maybe a little hurt.
"I forgot to tell you I ate before. I ain't hungry right now."
The silence feels thick, almost palpable. I wish I hadn't said anything, just walked out with him to eat that damn pizza, to make things good between us again, but I can't take my words back.
Darry sighs. "I guess we could save it for later. I can heat it up in the oven."
"It's okay if you want to eat it now." I can't meet his eyes when he's looking at me like that. "You don't have to save it."
"What's wrong?" he wonders.
"Nothing's wrong." I rub my hands over my thighs. I just want him to leave.
"Cut that, kiddo. Did something happen today?"
"No."
He walks inside, sitting down on my bed next to me. "You know you can talk to me."
"Yeah, but it's nothing."
"Is it Soda?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. Darry places his arm around my shoulders, and I lean into him. My room suddenly feels too big, our house too quiet, the only sound a small hum from the pipes after my shower.
"It's gonna be okay," Darry says, but I know he doesn't believe it, either.
xXx
September 1968
"Curtis!"
I don't want to stop, but I do it anyway, clutching my math book against my chest as I turn around. I wish I could say I'm in a hurry, but actually, I'm not. It's my lunch period, and he knows it, too, still twenty minutes left to my next class.
"You weren't at try outs yesterday," Coach says as he has caught up with me. "You know I can't put you on the team if you don't show up."
"Um, yeah." My heart starts to drum in my chest as I see the disappointment in his eyes. I hate this. I wish I could do it, just do what he wants, what Darry wants, but I can't.
"I can make some time for you tomorrow if you like, before school starts." He says it like he still thinks it can happen. "You want to be on the team, don't you?"
"I..." I falter for words, to explain that my head is not with me anymore, than running is something else these days. Not something I enjoy anymore.
"I was counting on you this season."
"I can't... I can't do it right now."
"What can't you do? Run?"
I stare at the floor, not answering.
"When the team is set, I can't make room for you later if you change your mind."
"I won't change my mind," I mumble, and he drags his hand through his hair, like he always does when he's frustrated. My stomach growls and I push my fist into it to stop it.
"I know about your brother, Ponyboy," Coach says, strangely calm. "I understand that you have a hard time, given your... history. But would he want you to give up? You can have a full ride to college in the end of the year."
I press my lips together, hating that he drags Soda into this. Even if it is about Soda. Everything is.
I hold my books so hard my hands hurt, and I can't even hide the tone in my voice, cold and uncaring and a little rude.
"Yeah, but maybe I don't want to go to college either."
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