OK. Not the last chapter. I couldn't wrap it up in one. One more to go.
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5:13 am
October 1, 1967
"Why didn't you meet me?" she says.
"You were followed," Blonde barks. "Use your head once in a while." He presses a hand against his swollen but healing lip. The right side of his face is still a mess. Walking to the window, Blonde peers through the closed blinds. The night is dark and windy.
"I'm sorry."
Blonde shrugs in the darkness of his motel room. "It's cool. I got a game cooked up anyways." He chuckles.
"You can't hurt him," Hannah moans. "You promised me." Suddenly, she flares up. "It was supposed to be easy, damn it. And you screwed it all up!"
Rage courses through Blonde. "Relax. I wasn't planning on hurting your kid. And I ain't gonna hurt him now either. But you better watch that fucking mouth of yours."
When she speaks again, it's in that same penitent tone he remembers. "Don left me. They're going to figure it out. It's only a matter of time," she prophesies.
"Shut up about that," Blonde snaps. "You let me handle this. Just shut up."
Hannah's voice is small over the telephone line. "Can't you drop it? Just go away and we'll forget this. Please Roger."
Blonde – better known as Roger – sighs. He wishes he could drop this. He knows the cops are sniffing at his heels. But the boy's seen his face and Roger finds himself having fun. He grabs a pair of keys from his pocket, rolling them around in his hand.
"Please don't mean a thing to me."
XXXXX
10:56 am
October 1, 1967
Stan jogs up to me. His face is flushed and he's breathing heavily. "Curtis," he says above the ring of the bell, herding students to their classes. He looks nauseous.
I take in his sweaty, breathless appearance. "You running a race today, Stan?" I grab my history book and slam my locker. I look down at his loafers. "You ain't gonna get too far in those."
He doesn't laugh.
My grin fades at his serious expression. His eyes are solemn. "What's going on?"
"His name is Roger."
"Who?"
"Blonde." Then Stan holds up a photo. Hannah Ezra is twenty years younger, smiling and clinging to a guy. It's Blonde – now known as Roger - with those same cold eyes and smile. He's laughing and has his arm around Hannah. But his stare is distant, angry.
I don't take the photo only stare at it. I take a step back. "Where'd you get that?" My voice is a whisper.
"You know how I said I knew the face but didn't know it."
I manage a nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. The kidnapping rushes back to meet me but I shove it away and try to focus.
"Well, my mom was on the phone this morning. Early. She was talking to him again and I didn't hear much but I heard her call him Roger. Then, I remembered she has a brother named Roger." I raise an eyebrow.
Stan hurries on. "I've never met him. I don't know the details but from what I heard he was in trouble with the law and my dad didn't want her to have contact. They didn't talk about it." Stan snorts. "Which would explain a lot."
"But she has this up on the fireplace." He shows me the photo again. "I've been passing it by for 10 years," he smacks the photo against the locker, "and that's where I've seen Blonde."
"We have to tell Jessup."
Stan nods. "I know. I was on my way."
"I'm going with y—"
Whap. I'm slammed back against the locker, the back of my head hitting the metal. The history book falls out of my arms and slaps the ground.
"God damn you, Travis," Stan says. "We're talking here!"
Collecting my bearings, I see Stan face-to-face with Travis Jensen, a member of Stan's pack of Socs. He has a case of bad acne and clearly an anger management problem.
Travis sneers at him. "Hanging out with Greasers these days, Stan my man?" He gives Stan a small shove.
Stan knocks Travis's hands away, his face still red, but now it's not from his jog. "Screw you." He's anxious to get away and call Jessup. He tucks the photo in his back pocket.
"At least he finally stopped slumming," I say to Travis, taking a step forward.
Travis's hand comes out. Whap. The locker strikes me square in the back again, knocking the air out of me. Coughing, I double over, my hands on my knees.
Travis's voice floats above me. "You still haven't learned that the last Soc to mess with this dirty Grease ended up knifed?"
"What's your goddamned problem?" Stan says. His fists are clenched at his side. A door cracks down the hall and a 12th grader sticks her head out from the class. Seeing us, her eyes widen and she darts back in. Fights aren't that uncommon and I'm wondering how long she'll let it go before telling a teacher.
Travis's eyes flash. "My problem, Stan the man, is that you act like you owe this piece of shit something."
I straighten up and Travis looks at me and then back to Stan. "So he took one for you. Big deal. He ain't your buddy. In fact, he did you a fuckin' favor."
"I got your favor," Stan says, launching himself at Travis. He shoves Travis into the opposite wall of lockers. They rattle like thunder. Disentangling, Travis elbows Stan in the nose, a sharp crack that makes me wince.
"Aw, shit!" Stan screams, clutching his nose. Bright red begins to stream from it. The photo is knocked out of his pocket and flutters to the floor.
Travis comes at me again. I dodge his punch, going under his arm and I seize the photo. Travis is quick and he catches me across the back with his fist. I hit the floor, my knee getting jarred in the process. I suck in air, feeling my hand tighten around the photo.
A shout fills the hall and the voice stands out: Two-Bit.
Travis laughs and I'm up. I eye my target and as if I'm scooping up one of Darry's football passes, I grab my fallen history textbook and twist around in time to connect the book with Travis's incoming face.
Whap.
Travis falls against the lockers, cursing a stream of obscenities.
"Damn," Stan says. His voice is nasally. "You really like hitting people in the face."
He glares down at a moaning Travis. "Asshole," he says, kicking him in the side.
I hold up the book, a smile on my face. "You really should study more, Stan the man." I pass him the photo where he puts it in his back pocket once more.
Sneakers clop the ground and Two-Bit skids to a stop. "Pone? You ok? You hurt, bleeding anywhere, knife wound, gunshot?" He gives me a quick spin, checking me over.
"I'm dizzy enough, Two-Bit. Knock it off."
Two-Bit's eyes dart around the soon-to-be-littered-with-teachers hall. He exhales. "Good, great, grand. You're in one piece." He grabs my hand and gives me a tug. "Let's get the hell out of here. The last thing you need is to be expelled."
Two-Bit looks at me. "Hell, that's the last thing I need."
XXXXXX
11:05 am
October 1, 1967
Stan follows us outside into the parking lot. "How's your nose?" I ask. Two-Bit lingers by his truck, watching us. He pulls out his switchblade and begins trimming his nails.
"I'll live." Stan touches it gingerly. "Jesus, talk about getting sidetracked."
He takes a closer step, raising his eyebrows. "At least you got some practice with that right hook of yours, Curtis. Just in case."
A light goes off in my head. "Yeah," I say. "Remind me to thank Travis later."
"Ponyboy," Two-Bit calls out. "Let's go. Now." A door slams and the truck rumbles to life. Two-Bit honks. I look at Stan. I had wanted to go with him but now it looks like Two-Bit's going to have his way.
Stan chuckles. "Looks like our friends are on the same page."
"At least mine fight fair." I rub the back of my neck.
He exhales a loud gust of air and runs both hands through his slicked back hair. "Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this."
"Stan, if your mom is involved, Jessup will try and help her."
"I hope so. I'll let you know what happens." Stan shoots me a last glance and walks away toward his dad's Porsche, patting the back of his pocket to make sure the photo is still there.
XXXXX
11:11 am
October 1, 1967
Two-Bit shifts gears. Hard. They grind together. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. "You're lucky you don't have a scratch on you. That Jensen prick could have beaten the snot out of you."
"He didn't, did he?"
"That doesn't matter." A smile plays on his lips as Two-Bit struggles to be responsible and not go through the play-by-play of the fight.
Two-Bit sighs, smoothing his thumb down a long sideburn. "Pony, do you know how much hell Darry would have raised if you came home with a black eye?" He chuckles. "The next county would have heard it. Dogs would have howled. Your roof would have collapsed."
I give a small laugh and rest my head against the cool windowpane. "Good thing Darry has experience in that field."
"And what's all that with you and Stan? Darry told you—"
"Yeah, I know what he said," I snap. Two-Bit's quiet and I try again. I stare at my sneakers, finally having a chance to take in the news Stan has told me. I announce it as much as to myself as to Two-Bit. "It's Stan's uncle."
"What is?"
"The guy who…kidnapped me. Stan found out today. He's going to the cops right now."
His head jerks over. Two-Bit looks as if I've told him beer's been banned and that blondes don't exist. "I don't believe it." He slows at a stop sign, flicking his blinker on to take a right.
"I sure hope they catch the bastard. Catch him and fry him." His knuckles are white around the steering wheel.
"This whole thing is sure messed up," I say with frustration. "Stan has to rat out his mom, who knows if she'll talk and I still don't even know why this happened."
I look down at my hands, my face hot. "Glory, Two-Bit. I sure wish I would've taken that ride when you offered it." There's a hitch in my chest I haven't felt in a while.
"Hey," Two-Bit says, turning onto my street. "It's not your fault. Don't go back to thinkin' like that."
"Yeah, I know. I just can't help replaying the 'what-ifs'…"
"Should, woulda, coulda," he says. "That ain't gonna help you, Ponyboy." Two-Bit smiles and breaks into a low chuckle. "What you need is a nice—"
"Ho-ly crap." I sit up straight, straining against the seatbelt. "Two-Bit. Stop the car." He keeps driving. I pound the dash. "Two-Bit, stop it!"
He punches the breaks and we jolt forward. Slowly, he turns his head. "Kid. You're gonna give me a heart attack before I'm 25."
I point out towards the street, his eyes following my finger. The stolen Chevy, the late George Morrison's, is parked in the driveway of our house. It's right outside the garage, waiting patiently. The license plate has been removed.
"Blonde's here."
Two-Bit pales. "That's the car?"
I put my hand on the door handle.
"Oh no, you don't." Two-Bit's hand shoots out, latching onto my sleeve.
"But if he's here…if Darry and Soda…" I gape at my house.
Two-Bit thinks a moment and then decides. "I'll go. Stay here."
My hand doesn't move from the door handle. He gives me a look and doesn't release my sleeve. "I ain't foolin' kid. You sit. Your. Ass. Here."
"But—"
"Ponyboy," Two-Bit hisses, "your mother never spanked you enough as a child. Now shut up and listen to me."
"Ok," I agree. I lick my dry lips. He drops my sleeve.
Two-Bit unbuckles his seat belt and slides out of the cab. His stocky frame leans in the doorframe, his arms spread across the top of his truck. "Pone," he says, "If I holler, you drive off. Just get goin'." His breath is steamy in the chilly air.
I shake my head. "I ain't leaving. What're you gonna do?"
"Aw, I'll think of something."
"Cracking jokes don't count, Two-Bit."
"Don't knock the jokes, kid," he says and I hear his switchblade flick open. "They've saved many a life." Then, he's gone.
I slide behind the driver's seat, clutching the steering wheel and watching Two-Bit cross the street. The car looms before Two-Bit, black and beckoning. For being nervous, he sure doesn't show it. I think I've seen him more uncomfortable in a suit. He strolls up like it's a chick at a bar.
My heart drums. I hear it pumping in my ears; I taste it in my teeth. I hold my breath, resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut. I'm also resisting the urge to run after my friend. I feel like the lowest form of life on the planet; I'm a Greaser and I'm letting my friend walk into something for me. I keep expecting Blonde to leap from the shadows or run out of the house.
Ten feet away from the car, Two-Bit stops. Then, he darts over to the Chevy, leaning inside its open window. He grabs something and wiggles out. He looks down at the thing in his hands.
This time I open the door and tumble out. My feet crunch the gravel as I run towards Two-Bit.
Two-Bit glances up, his eyes wide with surprise. His face is the color of ash. He sticks an arm out, motioning me to stop. "Pony, I told you to stay in the truck."
"What's that?"
"Pony…"
It's a piece of paper. My arm darts out and I grab the paper. Two-Bit's fast too; he grips my wrist in a stranglehold. "Don't, kid."
It's Pandora's Box. Ignoring him, I flip it over. I take it all in and then drop the paper as if I've been stung. The paper glides to the gravel road. It lands face up.
It's the drawing; the one I had tossed away in the house. Printed beneath the dialogue bubble Come and get me, Ponyboy is another. You're close. But I'm closer.
That's it. The car's empty.
"C'mon." Two-Bit tries to push me away. Burning inside, I stand there letting dizziness and anger and disbelief consume my thoughts. My brain is moving in slow motion, black and white.
"C'mon," Two-Bit says again. He pulls me up on our lawn, away from the car. He gently slaps my face. "Wake the hell up." His voice is worried, strained.
The world comes back into focus; colors and sounds now at full throttle. I bite the inside of my mouth and taste blood. "I'm awake."
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Review please! Pardon typos.