Sorry for the wait. I had brain drain and couldn't write. Here's a long chapter to make up for it. After this, only one more to go.

Pardon any typos.

Please review. Reading + reviewing = updating. Haha. Just kidding. No seriously.

Also, special thanks to Calla Lilly Rose for the sudden inspiration…she'll recognize it in this chapter.

Warnings: Foul language as only Steve can do, yelling from Darry and random jokes a la Two-Bit. Plus, Soda makes an appearance or two.

Disclaimers: SE Hinton owns this wonderful book and characters. I own a cop, a kidnapper and a boy with a sweet automobile.

Enjoy!

XXXXXX

6:20 pm

September 29, 1967

Stan drops me off a block away from my house. He drove his father's cherry red Porsche to the diner. If my brother's see it parked in front of the house, they'll definitely know what I've been to the wrong side of the tracks.

Before I go, Stan pulls the sketch out of his pocket. "Hold on a minute." He draws a dialogue bubble above Blonde's mouth and within it scribbles: Come and get me, Ponyboy.

I give him a wry look as he hands me the sketch. "Keep it," he says.

I take it. For incentive.

Climbing out of the car, I jam the paper in the pocket of my jeans. "Don't do anything stupid…" Stan says, and I slam the passenger side door shut on his, "…without me."

Even before I see Darry's truck in the driveway and the house lit up like the fourth of July, I know I'm going to catch hell. I climb the porch in one step and swing the door open.

Darry's waiting for me. He stops mid-pace. "Pony, you have some explaining to do."

He sniffs the air. "My god, you smell like a chimney." I bite my lip, thinking of the empty cigarette pack left on the table at Jim's Diner.

Behind him, Two-Bit sits in the recliner, arms crossed. The faint aroma of chicken and potatoes lingers in the room. Soda pokes his head out of the kitchen, waving a spatula at me. "What's with the disappearing act, kiddo?"

"I'm sorry." I take a step inside, wiggling around the boulder that is Darry. I back myself up against the wall, rubbing my knee. "I had to go out for a second. I'm sorry," I say again looking at Two-Bit.

"You wasted a perfectly good beer, Pony," Two-Bit admonishes. But a glimmer of a smile lurks beneath his stern demeanor.

"So, where were you?" Darry takes a step toward me, his back facing Two-Bit. I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans, feeling the faded sketch of Blonde that Stan had given back to me.

"Out."

"Where?"

"Jim's Diner."

"You were gone a while."

"Sure was."

"With who?"

I hesitate. My eyes flicker to Two-Bit who is dragging a hand across his throat in a chopping motion. Cut it it says. Darry knows. Which is why he's home early and why I'd better give it up. I choose my words carefully. And truthfully.

"Stan Ezra."

Darry smiles, a bit smug that I've caved this easily.

Then, curiosity gets the best of me and I ask, "How'd you find out anyways?"

"Jessup called me at work. He put a tail on Stan and thought he'd let me know you two were meeting up." I frown and Darry lets out something that's a mixture of sigh and a laugh. "Well, can you blame him? Pony, you snuck out without telling anyone."

"Caught you red handed," Two-Bit chuckles, lounging back in the recliner.

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm glad I spilled your beer." Two-Bit grips his heart in mock agony and makes a choking noise.

Soda, forgetting about dinner, joins us in the living room, wiping his hands on a dishrag. A few clumps of mashed potatoes linger in his hair. Distracted, Darry gestures at Sodapop's disheveled hair. "What happened? You get into a fight in there?"

Soda gives Darry a crooked grin and then turns to me. "Why're you hanging around with that kid?"

"No real reason." I shrug, uncomfortable. There's only one thing we have in common and it doesn't sit well for all parties involved. "We were just talking."

Darry searches my face. "I don't want you hanging around with him. You're just gonna get more involved than you should."

"Is that what Jessup said?"

Darry's blue eyes narrow. "It's what I say. You got that?"

"Sure, Darry. No problem."

Darry speaks up again, his voice a warning. "Ponyboy, you listen to me. Stay away from that kid. I mean it."

Soda, quiet for most of the conversation, flicks the dishrag at me. It snaps my arm. "Go wash up for dinner, kiddo."

XXXXX

3:16 pm

September 30, 1967

"If that goddamned son-of-a-bitch doesn't pay up this time…" Steve's complaint reverberates through the gas station. "…I swear to God, I'm personally gonna rip this antenna off, ram it up his ass and then make him eat all that damn blow he's been selling to those whores—"

Soda's eyes widen as Two-Bit and I enter the DX. Judging from my brother's face the discussion isn't about to get any better. "Oh hey!" he says, his voice loud and exaggerated. "Steve, will you look who's here? Ponyboy and Two-Bit." Soda has a streak of car grease smeared down his neck, his nails black.

Steve's on his back, slid underneath a Corvette on a low dolly. He grumbles once and then slides out. Annoyed that his verbal tirade can't continue, Steve shoots me a dirty look. He raises an eyebrow, lays his wrench down and tells me, "And you were about to hear the good part."

"Lucky me."

"Nice, Steve," Two-Bit says, clapping me on the back. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Steve sits up, tugging off his protection goggles. They leave red rings around his eyes. "No, but I'm happy to say I kiss your mother with this mouth."

Two-Bit swaggers up, sticking his foot on the dolly Steve's sitting on. He gives it a nudge and Steve wobbles. "Better yet," Two-Bit drawls, "you can kiss my ass."

A smile snakes its way across Steve's mouth. "How about you kiss my hairy—"

Soda jumps in again. "I hate to break up this love fest but I really don't feel like I need to be on a need to know basis with who's kissing who." Soda scowls at Steve. "Or who's kissing what."

He turns to me. "How was class, kiddo?"

I shrug. "Still failing."

Soda smiles sympathetically. "You'll go to summer school, like Darry said. Don't worry."

Out of the corner of my eye Two-Bit makes a move. Before I can duck out of the way, he has me in a headlock, rubbing my hair. "Taking after old Two-Bit are you? Bound to be a repeat offender?"

Wriggling out of his grasp, I stumble back into the front counter. "Not if I can help it, Greaser." Two-Bit laughs.

My hands twitch to my pockets. Soda juts his chin at me. "You missin' your smokes?"

Steve snorts. "Darry finally confiscate them weeds of yours?"

I roll my eyes but nod. Earlier this morning Darry had taken all the smokes he could find and pretty much told me "no more" until I was feeling better. I must look pretty pathetic because Steve hands me a dollar. I blink at the gesture and eye him with distrust. "What's this for?"

"There's a vending machine out back," he says. "Smoke your heart out."

Soda's arguing with Steve as I book it out of there. "Now why'd you go and do that?" he snaps. Two-Bit's laughter follows me outside. There's a vending machine out back, sandwiched between a trashcan and a pile of spare tires. I feed the dollar in the machine and get my change. A pack of Lucky's is in my hands before I know it. I rip them open and light one up.

I take a hard drag. This gets me coughing and I'm doubled over trying to muffle the noise so Soda doesn't hear. I straighten up and glance down the alleyway. The smell of gasoline and rubber wafts on the light breeze the wind carries.

That's when I see him. Blonde.

The Chevy rounds the corner, comes down the alleyway and the driver shoots me a knowing grin. Then he's gone, taking a hard right on Michigan Street.

Stunned, I freeze. The license plate number. I roll the numbers I've seen around in my head, memorizing them. Tulsa Plates, 123LKO. "One-two-three, l-k-oh," I mumble. "One-two-three, l-k-oh."

He's following me. He's waiting. And instead of being afraid, I'm angry. Hell, I'm ready. My hands begin to tremble. I drop my cigarette. Damn it, damn it, damn it…

"Shit," I hiss, knowing my plan's going down the drain. I was an idiot to think Blonde would ever show his face with the cops hanging around. And here I am, out in an alleyway alone, just giving Blonde his chance.

Currents of anger and frustration fill my body. I take off down the street, hollering: "Sodapop!" I run to the corner, stop in the middle of the road and stare. There's nothing, only a few leaves blowing across the road. But I know I wasn't dreaming.

Soda's voice carries on the wind. Spinning around, the three of them are standing outside the DX. Soda shouts something again and I jog back to them. "What happened?" Soda's shaking me. "Pony, what's goin' on?"

"I saw him." I point at the road and try to turn around at the same time. This causes me to trip over my own feet; I wince as my knee throbs. Soda grabs my elbow.

"Who?"

"He was just here. He drove by."

They give me dumbfounded looks. "Sodapop, he drove by. Right there." I point again.

Frustration creases Soda's face. "Ponyboy, for God's sake, who?"

I feel my face turn red; that information might be useful. Otherwise, I'm sure I look half-crazed right now. "Blonde."

Soda doesn't doubt me or ask any more questions. He shoves me back into Two-Bit, his brown eyes sweeping the street. "Take him inside, Two-Bit. Call the cops."

XXXXX

3:45 pm

September 30, 1967

The boy's quiet. He's told me what he saw in a mumbled voice and then shut up. But it's not like all the times before, when he's been afraid and in shock. The last time I saw him was after the interrogation, huddled on the floor.

Now, there's something different about Ponyboy Curtis. This time, he's not resigned. He may have figured it out a bit late, but the boy's ready to fight.

This gives me pause to look up from my notes. We're done with the questioning but I throw this out there to see what bites. "You're hanging around with Stan Ezra."

Pony's sitting on the counter, his face red and clammy, his brother Sodapop next to him. "Yeah, I heard you called Darry." His leg is bouncing up and down like a pogo stick. "You put a tail on Stan. You gonna put one on me?"

I cock my head at his change in tone. A 15-year old smartass. "You know, I was thinking about it. Do you want one?"

His eyes challenge me. "Might make it interesting." His soft voice is strong, making its way through the gas station.

At this, the two other friends look up from their quiet conversation in the opposite corner. The darker haired one, Steve, smirks at me. Apparently, I'm still not forgiven for dragging their asses into interrogation. I can't blame him though; I'd hate my guts too.

Soda nudges him. "Knock it off."

Ponyboy smirks, something he's clearly picked up from Steve.

My radio erupts in a burst of static and I flip the volume off. "We're doin' all we can, son."

"Just butt out. You ain't doing much anyways." Ponyboy slides off the counter. "Soda can we go now?"

"Sure, kiddo," his brother murmurs. "Let's get you some lunch." Pony throws Soda a disgusted look as if he'd rather eat dirt but keeps his mouth shut.

Benji comes back from running the plate check. "Well?" I ask, turning to Benji. "Whose car is it?"

Clearing his throat, Benji drops his voice to a whisper. But it's still loud enough for the remaining people in the garage to hear. "A, um, George Morrison's."

"Is it our guy?"

"No. Um…" Benji moves closer. "Sir, Morrison's dead. The guy shot him and took the car."

XXXXX

3:18 pm

September 31, 1967

"Shit. Are you sure it was him?" Stan asks.

"Positive. He drove by and practically waved at me."

"And they cops think he killed that guy?"

"Yup."

The car fills with silence. Stan's giving me a ride home where I'm catching him up on what's happened in the last 24 hours since we've talked.

"It's not gonna work," I tell him, straightening up in my seat. "Blonde's too smart. He won't show up when the cops are around."

"You gotta be shitting me." Stan flicks his cigarette out the window and glances over at me. "I was actually looking forward to it."

"Yeah, well, plans change," I mutter.

Stan grins. "Like Dylan says, 'the times they are a-changin'."

"They sure are." I watch the trees fly by as Stan takes a sharp curve. "It was a stupid idea anyways," I mumble, feeling useless. Blonde's reappearance a few days ago has made me realize he isn't going to walk blindly into a trap. I'd have to wait and so would he.

"So what's your plan now Sherlock? Wait for him to get the drop on you?" Stan turns on Henzi Street, now driving slow, taking in our neighborhood.

"I don't know. Maybe."

I try to sound noncommittal when in fact, that's exactly what I'm hoping for. Blonde's stuck around all this time. Sooner or later he's going to show up, and when he does it's better for me to surprise him than let him surprise me.

"He comes back, we'll rumble."

Stan frowns; the kind of frown that's debating between agreement and argument. "I don't know Curtis. It feels wrong. It's like burying you before you're even dead." He slows to a stop, a block away from my house.

I put my hand on the door handle. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"That's not what I mean." Stan bites his lip. His eyes go to my knee. "You can't even run."

"I'm not planning on it," I tell him.

XXXXX

6:49 pm

September 31, 1967

It's a full house tonight. Steve and Two-Bit have been over ever since Blonde showed up again. They're on watch, waiting, guarding. It feels like a movie and I'd laugh if it weren't my life.

Soda's outside, digging around in the garage for a football to get a game going and Two-Bit's taken it upon himself to cook dinner. He figures if he cooks, then by his contribution, he's guaranteed to eat.

Two-Bit sing-songs, "Mayonnaise, oh delicious mayonnaise, where can you be?"

"Top cabinet," I holler, barely looking up. I scribble down a math equation.

"Thanks, kid!"

There's a crash in the kitchen. I grimace, keeping my eyes on my homework. Steve reclining on the floor reaches over and turns the volume up on the TV, drowning out Two-Bit. He's watching The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Clint shoots someone and Steve snorts. "And the body count rises."

I'm on my fourth algebra problem, cursing whoever invented math, when there's a loud slam from the laundry room. Darry enters the living room. "What the hell is this?" He holds out a white piece of paper in one hand, the other hand holds my dirty jeans, the pockets turned inside out.

Steve and I glance at each other, unsure as to which one of us his anger is directed at. "What'd you do now?" Steve asks.

"Shut up." I turn my befuddled glance to Darry. "What is what?"

"This," Darry says, smacking the paper down in front of me. My eyes shoot open. It's the sketch of Blonde; the dialogue bubble has never looked so unfortunate. Come and get me, Ponyboy, Blonde screams.

Damn you, Stan.

I bite my lip, thinking fast. "I drew it, after he came to the house."

Darry jabs a finger. "Who wrote that?"

It comes immediately: "I did."

"Bull." Darry's face is about to turn purple. "Stan wrote it, didn't he?" I shift awkwardly on the couch, my algebra book sliding off my lap. It hits the carpet with a dull thud, the math problems staring up, mocking me.

My face pales; I feel the blood slide from it. I nod. Two-Bit's mutterings about mayonnaise and ketchup halt.

I reach out and take the sketch back.

It's quiet for a moment and then Darry explodes. "God damn it, Ponyboy!" Darry snatches the paper back from my hand before I've even had a chance to retract it. "Didn't I tell you to leave it alone? Didn't I?"

I still have my hand out, the paper lingering like a ghost in my palm.

It's awe-inspiring how one minute Darry's the one to comfort me and the next minute ready to bite my head off. I had nearly forgotten how much I could still piss my oldest brother off; my talent hasn't left me after all.

"What does this mean?" He jabs again at the dialogue bubble.

My hands ball up into fists. "Nothing. It's just a joke."

"I'm not laughing, Ponyboy."

"Yeah," I say. "I can see that."

Darry stares at me, suspicious. "Whatever you're cooking up in that head of yours get rid of it. Now." His blue eyes flash. "Stay the hell away from Stan. I'm not arguing with you anymore." He makes a move to go.

"Darry," I protest. "I'm not—"

Frustrated, he wheels around. "What is it with you? You don't listen to me. You don't listen to Soda. You worry us to death. You think you'd want to stay out of trouble. You think you would after all this hap—"

I wince.

Darry freezes, realizing his mistake.

Steve sits up, his eyes on me. "Darry…"

It shouldn't hurt because Darry doesn't mean it. Regret crosses his face as quickly as the anger leaves it. He's irritated and upset and it makes sense he'd go off.

But still, his words sting. Because I really don't see how taking the short cut through Lake Elmo was my fault.

The back door slams. "The big one's yelling," Two-Bit says to Sodapop before he can ask what's going in.

Darry closes his eyes for a moment, putting a hand to his head. He takes a breath. "Pony, I shouldn't have said that." He has more to say but can't find the words; his mouth flaps open like a fish.

"It's ok, Dar."

Mute, he nods, handing me back the sketch. I crumple it into a ball and toss it. It sails through the air, landing in the middle of the floor.

XXXXX

Review please!!