Note: Get ready for long meta-annotations at the end!
12. On Sores and Boils Alley
It's Sunday morning, and Veronica can't wait to go home.
She doesn't like Tulsa. There are a few people in this town that she loves, and a few people there who love her, too, but she doesn't like Tulsa. There's nothing romantic about a crap town with one movie theater, an ex-bookstore, and memories of the people who would have killed her grandfather had he not decided he loved Lucy Bennet too much. Her mother seems to feel differently, as she gets weepy around the old neighborhood, which was hardly ever her neighborhood to begin with. But Veronica knows better. Elenore treats this place like it's Stars Hollow; Veronica knows it's only colonial Stars Hollow on Sores and Boils Alley.
Their flight is in the evening, though by now, it's clear Elenore wishes she'd scored an earlier time. Originally, she'd gotten the later flight on purpose so that she could spend more time with the people they were going to leave behind. Things have changed, of course. She won't tell Veronica about them (what a shock), but she figures Elenore must have fought with Sadie or Soda or both. The thought seems absurd. Sadie and Soda are the sweetest people in the world, so it seems like they'd also be the most patient and the most forgiving. And they are.
That's why the thought only seems absurd. Nobody puts up a better fight than a sweetie.
Veronica packs her bag back up, and when it gets time to pack up her new old copy of Frankenstein, she pauses and stares. It's a beautiful thing – to be this connected to your loved one and to be able to see into their heads before they knew their notes would become their history. But as she loves the book, she also fears it. What if she gets lost in the margins and longs to stretch back into a world where she wasn't even a glimmer? Veronica has seen how much it hurts to reach back into a past you were never part of. She doesn't want it to happen to her. She does not want to weep as her mother weeps.
She tucks the book into her bag, anyway.
There's too much she has to learn, and she's convinced, somehow, that the notes in this book are going to teach her.
Veronica walks into the living room where she finds Elenore practically leaning on the bookshelf. She's not looking at the books. Instead, she holds a picture frame and stares into the photograph much like Veronica just stared into Frankenstein. Over Elenore's shoulder, Veronica sees what the photo is: her grandparents with Elenore, age three, in between them. Lucy's smile is barely there, and Dally doesn't look like he knows there was a camera in his face. But it doesn't matter. It's her mother's radiant grin in the middle of them that makes the picture a photograph.
Elenore is brilliant, even at the age of three.
Softly, Veronica clears her throat, and Elenore turns around to flash her a sad smile. Veronica delicately waves.
"Hey," she says. "I'm pretty much packed up."
Elenore nods.
"Good," she says. "I'm glad. Can I help you with something? Anything?"
Veronica lets out one, long, slow exhale. She's worried about bringing it up, but she's not sure she has another choice. She shuts her eyes tightly and spits it out.
"I talked to Grandma and Grandpa on the phone yesterday while you were out being sad," she says.
When she opens her eyes, Elenore doesn't look angry. She just looks confused. Maybe she even looks tired.
"OK," she says. "I'm not going to be mad at you, if that's what you're afraid of. They're your grandparents, and you love them. Just because I'm fighting with them right now doesn't mean you have to be fighting with them, too."
"Oh, I know that, Mom. That's not why you're going to be mad."
Elenore laughs.
"Oh?" she asks. "Then tell me. Why am I going to be mad?"
Veronica tenses up again. Then, she lets it all go in one awkward breath.
"Because Grandma told me not to let you get on a plane back to New York until you walked through Tuesday's shop."
Veronica watches as her mother's eyes roll so far back in her head, she wonders if she'll survive it. When Elenore shoots daggers at her a second later, Veronica has to admit she's relieved.
"Are you kidding me?" Elenore asks.
"Sorry," Veronica says. "But Grandma sounded a lot more Hamlet than The Taming of the Shrew."
"Not the best comedy you could've gone with, babe."
"Sorry."
"Tell me something. Did my mother say, 'a plane back to New York' or did she just say 'a plane?'"
"I don't think it matters, Mom."
"Oh, it matters, and my mother knows it. She's a literature professor. I'm a lawyer. You know what both literature professors and lawyers deal in? Language. If she just said 'a plane to New York,' then we're getting on a plane to Orlando, Florida without ever stepping near Tuesday's."
Veronica frowns.
"Why Orlando?" she asks. "It's gross there. I mean, to start, the food alone. The pizza tastes like what I imagine the inside of a garbage disposal tastes like."
"Exactly," Elenore says. "That's why it's the last place my mom and dad will ever look."
Elenore throws her hands in the air and paces the floor like there's a camera in the room. Veronica doesn't understand why her family is like this. They were like this before reality television flooded the airwaves, and she suspects they'll be like this long after, if she ever decides to have children.
If she ever decides to have children, they'll know exactly where they come from.
"I don't understand why they're insisting on this," Elenore says. "What is it going to accomplish? Huh? What am I going to learn by walking into Tuesday's cutesy little shop? Am I going to learn that she just painted over where I used to live? Where Violet and Anna used to live? That's what Curtises do, isn't it? They open their door to you, breed with you, and mow over your bloodline until you're not even sure of your own last name anymore!"
Veronica looks at her mother quizzically. She's not so sure she's confused, but she'd like to be.
"Except us, right?" Veronica asks. "They don't breed with us."
Elenore sadly smiles and cups one side of Veronica's face. Veronica can't help but look into her mother's eyes. They're so blue.
"It was more of a metaphor," Elenore says. "Metaphors will get you every time."
Veronica nods. It sounds pretty much true to her, only she doesn't really know. Every time she tries to write a metaphor, she just ends up explaining it. She figures explaining literature is in her blood, but writing it … that's something her family has always resisted.
She's never told Elenore, but a few years back, she found one of her short stories. According to the date, she was a senior in high school when she wrote it. It's about love, and it's good.
(It's about loving John Webber, which is why it's good.)
"Mom?" Veronica asks.
"Yeah, babe?"
Veronica pauses. She's not sure what she wants to say. There are a few contenders, and now, all of them are running together and refusing to come out in a coherent sentence. Finally, she finds one that might not be the right one, but it's the only one that comes out in some sort of agreeable syntax. Veronica will take agreeable syntax over a jumbled mess any day.
"Why did you become a lawyer?"
Elenore lets out a confused chuckle. She sits down on the bed like this is going to take longer than Veronica realized.
"That's kind of a weird question," she says. "Isn't it?"
Veronica shrugs.
"I don't know," she says. "I'm going into tenth grade this fall. That's generally when you start thinking about college."
"You've been thinking about college since I was pregnant."
(By whom, Mom?)
(Don't think about that. Don't care about that. You're a Bennet, and Bennet women don't need men – husbands and fathers alike.)
(If Bennet women don't need men, why do they always seem to end up with them?)
"I know," Veronica finally says. "But I should think more seriously about a major. And I should think more seriously about what I actually intend to do with it."
"Honey, it's 2010," Elenore says. "Major in whatever you want. I'm not so sure it matters much anymore."
Veronica lets a few headlines dance around in her memory for a moment, but she doesn't dwell on them. She's not really one to ensconce herself in current events. They only make her anxious, and that's the last thing she needs: to be anxious. Jenny always says Veronica is anxious about things that aren't real, so maybe she should give real life a try. Veronica hasn't quite decided how she feels about that.
It's probably why she wants to major in English, too.
"Well, I'm still curious," Veronica says. "Was it what you always wanted to do?"
She's surprised at how readily Elenore shakes her head.
"No," she says. "I can't think of many kids who dream about being lawyers. Doctors, sure. They get all the credit. They save lives. They make bank. They get a fun title. Do you know a single doctor who doesn't get a little bit of a buzz every time someone calls them doctor?"
"Grandma," Veronica says. "She never goes by Dr. Bennet."
Elenore mutters something, and Veronica chooses to think of it as a new curse word. If anyone could invent a brand new curse word, it's Dallas Winston's daughter.
"Real doctors," Elenore says, even though Veronica is pretty sure she doesn't mean it like that. "And anyway – my point still stands. Kids dream of being doctors, astronauts, and movie stars, but they don't dream about being lawyers. It doesn't take them particularly long to realize that lawyers are painted as the bad guys."
"Someone tried to tell me you were one of the bad guys once, when I was little," Veronica says. "He said you were a bad person because you're a defense attorney."
Elenore smirks. Veronica's heard all her life that Elenore looks just like Lucy, except for when she frowns and looks just like Dally. But that smirk – that's all Dally, too. Veronica finds herself briefly jealous. It's not like Dallas Winston is the most handsome guy in the world or the kind of guy a girl would want to look like. He's a far cry from it. Veronica is glad she looks like Lucy. But when she looks in the mirror, she just can't replicate any of her grandfather's expressions.
He has the best expressions.
Elenore can make them, too, because she's his daughter. She's his daughter, and she's always known that.
"Yeah," Elenore says. "I've heard that before. I usually hear it every other day, even now that I've been at it for years."
"Why did you become a defense attorney, then?"
Elenore lets out a soft exhale like she's deflating. Veronica wishes she wouldn't.
"Hmm," she says. "Let's see. When I was in college, I decided to go to law school for two reasons: One was that I thought it was the best way to make money from being really good at writing and analyzing language, and the other was that when I mentioned this to my mother, she was thrilled. She wanted me to be a professional, like she is. And in my early twenties, I would have done anything to impress my mom."
Veronica's chest catches fire. She knows the feeling, but she doesn't want to show it. It will just make her look vulnerable, and she doesn't want to be vulnerable. Vulnerability is for some other family.
"But then, I got to thinking," Elenore says. "It was actually when I was rereading Ponyboy's first book, actually – the one that's mostly about Johnny and my dad. And I thought … there's got to be somebody out there who cares about them. There has to be someone out there who looks at them like people, not characters in a Roger Corman film. But then, I knew there wasn't. I mean, sure, in the end, Dad had Mom, and Johnny had Sadie. But I knew that getting married wasn't the same as having an advocate. Not when you're seconds away from stabbing a guy to death, anyway. So, that's why I'm a defense attorney."
Veronica nods solemnly.
"So, you're a defense attorney," she says, "because you love Grandpa."
Elenore laughs, but it's not sarcastic. Veronica can tell she wishes it could be. That doesn't make it so. Even though Elenore is a lot like Dally, she'll always be a lot less cynical and a lot more … the only word, Veronica thinks, is hopeful.
It makes her happy, if only for a second.
"Yeah," Elenore says. "When I was twenty-two, I liked the idea that I could maybe help a guy like Dallas Winston become a guy like my dad."
"And now?" Veronica asks.
Elenore looks at her like she's too smart for her own good. It's a terrible phrase, and it's been levied at Veronica her whole life. She doesn't really know why. Most of the time she hears it when she's about to stumble into something she's not ready for. She's not sure what that means, either. When do you become ready for certain pieces of knowledge and not others? When is being smart ever going to hurt you? She gulps, and with it, there go the questions she cannot ask.
"Now, I'm not so sure there's a difference between a guy like Dallas Winston and a guy like my dad," Elenore says. "And I guess I'm sorry I used to think there was."
Veronica nods and sits beside her mother on the bed. She takes her hand and looks her in the eye for a little while. Elenore looks like she wants to say something, but she never does. When Veronica feels for her mother's engagement ring, she's surprised when it's not there.
"I know," Elenore says, surely off Veronica's look. "I'm not supposed to take it off before I can give it back to him. It's just … it was too big, anyway, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," Veronica says. "You complained about that for months, and Pete never took you to fix it."
"He said it wasn't his fault I have little-ass baby hands," Elenore says. She stares off into the distance like it's a crystal ball in retrograde. "And then he laughed like it was a private joke."
"I remember," Veronica says. "I was there."
"Pete and I don't have private jokes."
Veronica doesn't know what that means, but she can tell it's important. She squeezes Elenore's hand harder. This isn't the way it should be. A daughter shouldn't have to be the one lifting her mother up when her mother's the one who dug the hole and filled it up with cinema scholars and their digs disguised as zingers. This isn't the way it should be.
It's a good thing it isn't this way all the time.
Veronica has to remember that or else she'll start to resent Elenore, and she can't afford that. Elenore is all she's got. They have to take care of each other.
"Mom?"
Elenore sniffs once before she answers.
"Yes?"
"I think that's why Grandma and Grandpa want you to go to Tuesday's shop."
"Because Pete and I don't have private jokes?"
Veronica grits her teeth together. She's a fine speaker and a good writer, but she's not always great at keeping up with the flow. She's always in her head.
"No, not that," she says. "I think … I think they want you to really know for a fact that there's no difference between Dallas Winston and your dad."
Elenore chuckles a little, but it's sad. It's always sad. They've been in Tulsa for too long, and Tulsa is a shit town. Worse – it's a shit town that does not belong to them (and never really has).
"And how does visiting a clothing store firm that up for me?" Elenore asks.
Veronica shrugs, but she doesn't really know why. She knows exactly what she needs to say.
"Because that's the first place where he got to be both," Veronica says. "And even now that it's kind of gone … that doesn't change anything, Mom. I think you know that."
Elenore tips her head toward the ceiling and closes her eyes. Veronica does not let go of her hand. It feels like a million years before she opens her eyes and locks them with Veronica's again.
"Well, OK, then," Elenore says. "I guess we're going to Tuesday's."
The thought fills Veronica's heart with unparalleled relief, though she doesn't know if it's her relief to feel. After all, this shop and this apartment – this town – mean nothing to her. A place just isn't blood, no matter who was born there.
Maybe Veronica will be a decent writer, when she thinks about it.
Veronica tries to ignore her mother's fingernails in her arm. She really doesn't understand what the big idea is. Ostensibly, she knows. This is the place where her mother was born. In fifteen years, Veronica has heard the stories: how Soda came over with an old 45 of "Goodnight Irene" when Elenore wouldn't stop crying and get to sleep, how Elenore practically wore out her copy of The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands, and how Lucy used to sit on the couch and read until all the midnight oil was burned out. It sounds nice, but Veronica doesn't understand why her mother can miss it. She doesn't remember it.
She turns to Elenore with clear eyes.
"You ready?" she asks.
Elenore nods, but she's shaking a little.
"Yeah," she says. "Well, I'm ready as I'll ever be."
Veronica frowns a little and hopes Elenore doesn't notice. When they walk into the store, it's not busy – probably on account of it being a late Sunday morning. Tuesday is behind the counter, and when she hears the door open and the bell ring, she practically jumps with excitement.
"Girls!" she says. "Oh, I thought you'd gone back already!"
Elenore slowly tears herself away from Veronica's side, which Veronica is glad about. Her mother is strong and capable when she's not thinking about it.
"Um, not yet," Elenore says. "Apparently, I'm not allowed to leave Tulsa until I visit your shop."
"Says who?"
"My parents. I may be forty-three, but there's just something about my parents, in particular, that makes them impossible not to listen to."
"Well, your mom does inspire authority."
"And my dad inspires fear."
Veronica sighs and wanders off to look at a few of the dresses hanging on the clearance rack.
He's never wanted you to fear him, Mom, she thinks. He's only ever loved and trusted you.
"Well, I'm just really glad you stopped by," Tuesday says. "When Lucy and Dally came by last week – well, really Lucy, since your dad's a little too cool for a place like this – it was like I finally felt right using this place. But I knew it wouldn't feel all the way right until you saw it again, too."
Veronica combs through the dresses, all of which are too small for her, and pretends not to listen to her mother and Tuesday talk at the counter. She wonders if Elenore knows she's listening, anyway. She probably does. Her mother is nothing if not intuitive.
Was her father intuitive, too?
It would explain the way that Veronica can sense someone upstairs without knowing anyone is there.
"It looks great, Tuesday, really," Elenore says. "How … how long has it been, again?"
"Since you were last here?" Tuesday asks. "I think it's been seven or eight years – right after I first opened."
"No, I mean …"
"Oh. Well, when Eddie died … there was nobody … Great Books hasn't been here since '95."
And though Veronica didn't know it for a fact, she's certain now that she would have been able to guess. This place hasn't belonged to her family since 1995. This place hasn't belonged to her family since she was born. It feels like she always should have known.
"'95," Elenore says. "I was … kind of out of commission in '95."
Veronica feels Tuesday's eyes on her.
"Yeah," Tuesday says. "I can imagine. But it's good to have you back, Elenore. Really. It's like I can let go of that one last breath I was still holding onto."
"Ah, c'mon, Tuesday. Don't die on me now."
"Don't pretend like you're not every bit as dramatic as I am, Ms. Winston."
And Veronica wants to hear what her mother is going to say, but then, she hears something upstairs. It's music – a song she knows.
"You spurn my natural emotions ..."
Before she can ID the song completely, she hears footsteps coming downstairs – coming from the apartment where her grandparents and her toddler mother used to live, which still means very little to her (and still only inspires a small amount of guilt within her). When she looks up from the too-small dresses, she's not surprised to see Troy standing beside her. She knew he was upstairs the whole time.
"Veronica," Troy says.
"Troy."
"I knew you were down here."
"Your ears work. Congratulations."
Troy rolls his eyes as though he and this fifteen-year-old child are peers. Maybe they are. Veronica has always felt older than her birth certificate, anyway. Besides, she's starting to think that maybe Troy isn't the villain in this town – in this story. In the end, they're both named after the same man, and that means more than this shop ever will. Deeds shift. Grandfathers don't.
"I knew you were down here before I heard my sister say anything," Troy says. "I think I've got a sixth sense for you."
Veronica can't shake the feeling that he's right. She also can't shake the feeling that she knows him from somewhere other than just this, their makeshift shit town family.
Maybe that's all it is.
"The sixth sense doesn't always turn out too well," she says. "I mean … look at M. Night Shyamalan. Everybody told him they were all in for the twist, and what did we get from there? The Happening."
Troy laughs, but it's not a laugh that suggests Veronica has said anything funny. It's the way her grandparents laugh at her when they think she's too clever – when they think she knows something she shouldn't. She doesn't know why Troy, who is only twenty-five, thinks he's entitled to look at her like Lucy and Dally do, but that's Troy: always trying to prove exactly where he belongs in this chimeric family.
Veronica is glad she doesn't have to worry about that.
"Something's botherin' you, isn't it?" Troy asks.
Veronica tips her head and looks at him like. There he is. When he notices the strange resolve on her face, he laughs one more time.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing. You just reminded me of somebody else. That's all."
Troy raises his eyebrows like he's tired (but like he gets it, too – Troy really does get her in a way that nobody else in Tulsa seems to, which scares the hell out of her.). He rests his hand on the rack of dresses like he's posing for a camera, too.
"Elenore came here lookin' for something," Troy continues. "Did she find it?"
Veronica nods.
"I think so," she says. "But she won't tell me what it is."
"Just like a parent," Troy says. "They love to keep secrets from their kids. They think they're protecting us."
"Are you admitting to being a kid?"
Troy snorts, exasperated. Veronica conceals a giggle. She doesn't hate Troy as much as she did when they landed in this shit town over a week ago, but she's still wary of him. There's still something too intense about his eyes.
They're too blue.
"According to my mom, I'll always be her kid," he says.
"That's kind of sweet, isn't it?" Veronica asks.
"It would be – if I did sweet."
Veronica can't believe she's actually about to say what she's thinking.
"Well, with a dad named Sodapop, you'd have to find a way," she says. "I think it has to be in your blood or something. Like a genetic law."
Troy lets out another exasperated snort and looks Veronica up and down. He's looking for something, but Veronica thinks he might as well give up. She never has what people are looking for. She always comes close but stops short – for the number-one spot on the debate team, for the sixth-grade play, for a date to the homecoming dance … all of it. But Troy keeps looking at her like there's more to be said. It almost feels nice. When people at school aren't picking her apart, her mother and grandmother are busy trying to assure her of how perfect she is. Troy doesn't look at her that way – not now and not ever. When Troy Dallas Curtis looks at Veronica Dallas Winston, it's like he's looking at a whole person.
It's now that Veronica fears he may be the only one in the world who can see her like that.
"You'd think," he says. "But what about you? Do you have any genetic laws?"
Veronica shrugs. She feels something like a tear begin to sting one of her eyes, but she ignores it. She can't be the kind of girl who cries in front of a guy. Her mother didn't raise her that way.
(Her mother also didn't raise her to tolerate unkind men and consider marrying them even after they stood in her room and talked shit about her body, but that's where they've been since the spring of '09.)
"I'm not sure," she says. "I mean … I guess I'd have to, but I'm not very much like my mom's side of the family. I'm not one for assault and petty crime."
Troy shakes his head.
"There's more to your mom's family than assault and petty crime," he says. "Besides, that's just your mom's family. Maybe you've got genetic laws from your old man, too."
This time, Veronica snorts.
"Right," she says. "That's really funny, Troy. Do you want me to start crying now, or should I save it for later? I'm really just trying to gauge it so you can reap maximum entertainment."
Troy's expression softens, and for a brief second, he looks just like Soda. Veronica doesn't worship Sodapop Curtis in the same way Elenore does, but the kindness he wears on his face … it's always welcome for her. That Troy can replicate it and chooses not to … it hurts, and Veronica's not sure how well she can explain why.
"That's not what I was after," he says. "I didn't want to hurt your feelings. Really. You gotta believe me. I just meant … you really don't know who your old man is, do you?"
Veronica shakes her head. She tries so hard to be numb. Why isn't she numb? This is a question she's been asking and answering since she was old enough to know all the right words. It was supposed to stop stinging a long time ago.
"No," she says.
Her voice is hoarse.
"Do you?"
"Do I know who my old man is?" Troy asks. "Unfortunately, I do."
"Not yours, and don't call Soda unfortunate."
"Speak for yourself. You're not his only son."
Veronica sighs. She doesn't know what that means, and she doesn't really want to. She's curious, but the curiosity is not worth feeling tied to Tulsa, Oklahoma. She is bigger and better than this place, and she can't wait to go back to New York.
So, why doesn't she even back up and away from Troy Curtis? Why does she find herself standing closer to him, like he's family?
(Troy seems like he knows everything.)
"I don't know who my father is," Veronica says. "But I guess I wanted to know … do you know who my father is?"
Troy makes a face, and it's clear to Veronica that he doesn't quite know … but he wishes he did.
"I don't know for sure," he says, and for half a breath, Veronica is hope.
"But?" she asks.
It comes out more like a gasp than a question.
"But … I could probably figure it out."
This is it. Why is this the moment she's been waiting for? She and Elenore are fine. She doesn't need a father to be whole. She knows this. She's a feminist, and she knows this. This is not Stella Dallas. She doesn't need a father, but she does love to have the answers.
"How?" she asks.
Troy shrugs like it's nothing (and to him, maybe it is. To Veronica, maybe it should be.).
"Trust me," he says. "I just could."
Veronica feels herself begin to shake a little at the knee. Maybe this is the one answer she really can live without. For all these years, she's wanted to know just so she could say she knew. She's always hated unsolved puzzles and mysteries. But this … does it have to be King Lear? Does it have to be "truth will out?" Is it better if this stays quiet?
She wishes she didn't know the answer.
"And you're saying you don't know now?" she asks. She has to be sure she can walk away.
"I don't," Troy says, and Veronica is surprised by how much she believes him. "But if I tried, I could figure it out."
"If my grandfather can't figure it out, why should I believe that you could?"
Her own bluntness scares her, but she kind of likes it. It makes her feel like she's learned something from her grandfather, after all – like she was worth his staying alive for, in the end.
"He could figure it out," Troy says, and he's not wrong. "He's just not trying. If I tried, Veronica, I know I could get what you need."
Veronica doesn't say anything. She just bites her lip and remembers this terribly old story about Katie Mathews. When Katie was nineteen or twenty, she paid Dally as much cash as she had on her one day to go check out her father – the one who left her and Two-Bit when they were just little kids. It didn't take Dally very long to find him, but when he did, nobody liked the information he came back with: Two-Bit and Katie's dad had married another woman and had another daughter, whom they named Katie Mathews. They always said their Katie was never quite OK after she found out about that. Veronica doesn't want to be never quite OK again. She already feels like she's teetering all the time.
"But I want you to know," Troy says. "I'd never look into anything or ask anybody unless I heard from you that it was what you really wanted. And I'd never tell you anything, even if I found out, unless you told me again that you wanted to hear it."
Veronica furrows her brow at Troy. This is not the guy she pictures when she hears stories about him over the phone when she's in New York. He has the right face, the right voice, and the right name. But this isn't the Troy who disrespects his parents and laments that no one understands him because he's book smart. Then again, maybe he is. The older Veronica gets, the more she realizes that people aren't sometimes Jekyll and sometimes Hyde. They're Jekyll and Hyde all the time, and you can't tear them apart them or fix them.
"Are you sure?" she asks.
It's a stupid question, but it feels appropriate.
Troy chuckles. He almost seems nice.
He is nice.
"Yes," he says. "This isn't the kind of thing you just spring on somebody without their permission. I'd never do that."
Veronica blinks a few times. In the middle of the blinks, she thinks she recognizes Troy Curtis outside of himself. She recognizes herself, too, within herself. She knows exactly what to say.
"I don't think I want to know yet."
Maybe it's not the best answer. It's just the only answer she has.
Troy nods. He looks so much like his mom.
"OK," he says. "Then I won't look into it. Are you sure?"
No.
But Veronica nods anyway.
"What are you doing here?" she asks. "I can't imagine this is the first place you want to be late on a Sunday morning."
"Well, where did you think you could find me late on a Sunday morning?" Troy asks. "Better not say the basement of a church."
"Oh, I know they don't let vampires in a church – not even the basements of them. But why here?"
"It's my big sister's store."
"So, you see why I'm curious."
Troy laughs again. This time, he sounds so much like his dad. It's comfortable.
"Look, just because I got beef with my folks doesn't mean I got beef with my sisters," he says. "They're cool."
Veronica nods. She wonders what it's like to have a sister sometimes, but then she remembers she has Jenny. That has to be better. It has to be. It's all she has.
(You don't need to be a Cleaver to be complete, Veronica. Shut up.)
"Will I ever get to know why?" she asks.
Troy wrinkles his nose like he's confused.
"Why what?"
"Why you've got beef with your parents. It's like I said last week. I know them. They're nice people, and I know they love you."
Troy shrugs.
"It's more complicated than that," he says. "I love them, too."
"So, then, why do you treat them like crap? Why do you walk around acting all evil when I know you can't be pure evil and their son at the same time?"
Troy laughs again, and it's uncanny.
"I'm not evil," he says. "I like to think of myself as a provocateur."
"And we both know that's French for asshole."
Troy stops himself before he can laugh all the way at that one. Instead, he points at her, and when he does, he looks familiar. But Veronica can't quite place this one.
"I'm here because Tuesday wanted to borrow some records for the vintage section," he says with a twinkle in his eye.
"Vintage section?" Veronica asks.
"Uh-huh."
"Where?"
Troy smirks and looks past Veronica – toward Elenore.
"Hey, Elenore!" he calls, and Elenore turns around.
"What?" she asks.
"You ready to see the old apartment?"
Veronica watches as her mother sucks in her gut and straightens her spine. She looks so sure of herself and so terrified at the same time. Maybe that's what it means to grow up and into a woman.
"I guess it's now or never," she says.
She swiftly hurries over to the stairs and grabs onto Veronica's hand again. Veronica lets her take it but not before she has the last word.
"You'll be OK, Mom," Veronica says. "They're just walls."
As soon as they walk upstairs to the old apartment, Veronica thinks she understands what it's like to long for something you never knew … and why you have to leave it as soon as you can.
She's never been up here before. The last people in her family to live in this place were Violet and Anna, and they moved to New York thirty years ago. Every time they've been to Tulsa (not back to Tulsa – that doesn't mean anything), Elenore has avoided the shop. She's avoided upstairs in particular. But now, Veronica sees that there was never any need. Her family has never left this spot.
Troy says that about a year and a half ago, Tuesday turned the old apartment into a vintage section. People donate their clothes from as far back as the forties, he says, but they mostly get stuff from the sixties and seventies. Even a few of Sadie's old pieces are for sale. But Veronica's family has never left this spot.
It's still an apartment.
The bed and the couch that used to hang out in the living room are gone now, but that's about the only change, according to Troy, their unofficial tour guide. There are extra shelves and racks with dresses, blouses, jackets, and shoes. But this is still an apartment. There's still a kitchen, and it still works. Troy proves it when he pulls a cold Coke out of the fridge and hands it to Veronica. When she gets her hand around the can, she swears she can remember something, but she's not sure of what it is.
Elenore hasn't said a word. She hasn't even made a face. She could win a poker tournament. It scares the hell out of Veronica. Her mother is brilliant at so many things, but stoicism has never been one of them.
They're in for a volcano tonight, she assumes.
"Lucy and Dally were out of here before Tuesday was even born," Troy says. "And even though Violet and Anna lived up here for a little while, I don't think Mom and Violet were too close back then. So she was never up here when this was your family's place."
Elenore mutters something, and Veronica looks around. She feels something in here that she doesn't feel at the Curtis house or at Jay's. This feels like part of her.
The feeling would be nice if it weren't so fucking scary. In the end, Veronica just wants to claw it out from under her. Nostalgia is no one's friend. It doesn't know how to be.
"This place meant a lot to my mom and dad," Troy says, and it sounds like he's almost sentimental, too. "They wouldn't let Tuesday convert this place without reminding everybody that this used to be somebody's home."
Elenore fiddles with a dress on one of the racks.
"That's nice," she says. Her voice is flatter than it's ever been.
"If you think this is nice," Troy says, "wait until you walk on over here."
Elenore and Veronica tear their eyes away from the clothes they've been idly playing with and look up at Troy. He's standing in front of a closed door. Out of the corner of her eye, Veronica sees her mother let out one little gasp.
"Mom?" Veronica asks. "What's the matter?"
Elenore sniffs, and Veronica can't help but notice the blue of her eyes all over again.
"Nothing," she says. "That's my room."
Troy smiles (without a hint of a smirk) and steps aside. When he does, even Veronica feels a little bit shocked.
On the door, in loopy silver stenciling, is Elenore. When Troy opens the door, and the girls walk inside, he trails in behind them.
"Tuesday wanted to make sure you were always part of this place," he says. "After she talked to Jane and Soda, they made her remember that this isn't just space. This is where you were born."
Veronica looks around the room and tries to avoid looking at her mother, whose head is surely swimming in contradictory circles. It's not a bedroom anymore, but there's no doubt about it: Tuesday designed this room with Elenore in mind. There's old Star Wars stuff that people have brought in – some t-shirts from when Elenore was a kid and some action figures and trinkets from when Veronica was very small. There's a wall of album covers, each one more important to Elenore than the one before it: The Velvet Underground, Blue, The Beatles, In Dreams, and finally, The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands.
"Mom," Veronica finally says. "This place is more you than you are."
But Elenore still doesn't say anything. She still doesn't even make a face. She just slowly walks up and down the room, looking at everything like it's the last time she'll ever see it. And in a way, it is. It's the last time she'll ever see it for the first time.
Veronica wonders if that's a decent line. She'll try to remember it for her notes later on.
"Wait until you see what's next," Troy says. He runs into the corner where there's a record player and a milk crate filled with even more records – likely the ones he just dropped off upstairs. He takes the Buzzcocks off the turntable and puts on a new record. Veronica listens as the vinyl begins to spin and the needle clicks. The opening beats are unmistakable.
"You've got a thing about you…"
But even as Veronica stares at her, Elenore doesn't move a muscle. It's clear she's listening. It may be that this has finally broken her. Veronica doesn't know what that means. She just knows that it's terrifying.
"It's kind of like if a tree falls in the forest when no one's around," Troy says as the song plays on. "If Elenore Winston visits what became of her very first bedroom without hearing her song, was she ever really there at all?"
Normally, that would get a reaction out of someone as quippy and quirky as Elenore Winston. But there's just nothing. She's stoic and still. Veronica wonders if this is what things will be like from now on … and then decides they won't be if she has anything to say about it.
(And if there's one thing she's learned, growing up in this family, it's that she always has something to say about it. It's just a matter of whether she takes the opportunity.)
"Mom?" Veronica asks. "You should probably say something or at least move your face. You look like a rubber doll, and it's kind of freaking me out."
That's when Elenore meets Veronica's eye. A small smile turns up in the corners of her mother's mouth, and Veronica can't help but wear a smile to match. Her mother's grins are contagious.
Her tears, which begin to form and fall within seconds, are not.
"I love it," she says. "I almost don't want to go. But I have to. Don't I?"
Veronica still smiles even though she feels like crying now, too. She knew her mother would love this room as soon as they stepped foot into it. Hell, even Veronica loves it, and to her, these are just walls. Even after she tries to picture her mother sleeping in her crib, listening to "Goodnight Irene" on the record player while Grandma and Grandpa take turns reading to her, she realizes this place isn't theirs. It might still belong to a part of them, but it's only that part – the part of yourself you leave behind in any place where you lived and grew. Veronica has never moved a day in her life, but she knows she'll feel that same tug toward home when she goes away to college. But this is what we do, she thinks. We're never meant to stay in one place. We're meant to move around – share ourselves with the walls that haven't gotten a chance to meet us yet.
It's lovely that Tuesday worked with Jane and Soda to make this apartment – this room – a tribute to the Winstons. But it's a damn good thing this tribute to the Winstons (and who they were) is in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
This way, Elenore has no choice but to grow up and leave it behind. This way, Elenore has no choice but to let it be a memory.
"Yeah," Veronica says. "You do."
"You will try to visit more than once a year, won't you?" Lynnie asks.
Elenore and Veronica are standing at the front door, trying to get a move on. Their flight is in two and a half hours, and even though Lynnie is the one driving them to the airport, she's dragging her feet with nostalgia.
"We'll try," Elenore says and gives Lynnie another hug. "You could make it a point to visit New York, too, you know."
"Mmm, we could. But somebody hates big cities."
She jerks her thumb toward Darry on the couch, and he promptly stands to defend himself. He points his finger in Lynnie's direction. When he does, Veronica freezes – not because the gesture is surprising or harsh, but because she finally places why Troy looked so familiar when he pointed at her in the store earlier today.
Damn family resemblances will get you every time.
"Manhattan is awful," he says. "It smells terrible, and on every street corner, you could get mugged."
"OK," Elenore says. "Do you realize you just described here? The place where you live? It's very important to me that you realize this."
Darry rolls his eyes.
"Better the devil ya know," he mutters.
Elenore laughs a little and turns back to Lynnie. She wraps her arms around her, and for a moment, Veronica can see the family resemblance between them, too. It feels like it means something, though Veronica isn't sure what. When they're in Tulsa, she's never sure of anything.
"We'll be back again before you know it," Elenore says. "Lord knows it's hard to stay away from Lynnie."
Lynnie grins, but it doesn't take long for her to look concerned.
"Elenore, are you sure you don't want to stop by and see the twins before you go?" she asks. "I mean … since I think we're all about to cancel what would have been a trip to the city … it might be a little while before you see them again."
Veronica hopes her mother will say yes. This is the trip where she's finally felt really close to Sadie and Soda as herself – not as Lucy's granddaughter or Elenore's baby. But she's not surprised when Elenore shakes her head. She's as stubborn as the people who made her.
"No, it's OK, Lynn," she says, though her tone of voice suggests otherwise. "After yesterday … I think they're going to be just fine not seeing me for quite a while."
"It can't have been that bad," Veronica says, and she's surprised by her own directness.
Elenore, however, looks proud of it. She puts her hand on Veronica's shoulders and looks at her with a gleam in her eye. It's so blue.
"Trust me, kid," she says. "I grew up with bad. I know it when I see it."
Veronica sighs. She feels a tap on her shoulder and doesn't know why she's surprised to see Darry standing there. Except it's really more like looming. He doesn't smile, but it almost looks like he wants to. There's something like awkwardness in his eyes. Like always, Veronica can't help but notice his eyes are just green enough.
"Didn't wanna let ya go without saying goodbye," he says.
Veronica smiles, but it feels like a stumble. She tucks her hair behind her ear and bops up and down like she's cold. She knows that it's been a long time since Ponyboy was afraid of Darry, but she can't help it. She must have learned it from him somewhere.
"Oh," she says. "It's … um … it's good to see you. Good to have seen you, since I'm … I'm leaving now. I …"
"Yeah, it's good," Darry says, but it looks like he wants to say more. He just doesn't. Veronica sucks air in through her two front teeth, and she's about to turn on her heels … before Darry sticks out his hand and (gently … gently?) pulls her back toward him.
"Hey," he says. "I know we're … different kinds of people, me and you. But I just want you to know … I think you're real smart and real … real cool. And I'm proud of you, kid. Just, uh … just thought I'd let ya know before you go."
And maybe it's a hangover from the fabricated sentimentality at Tuesday's, but Veronica is overcome. She's filled with love for Darry that she didn't even know she had when she propels herself toward him and hugs him. It takes him by surprise, too.
Veronica has never hugged her grandfather, but she guesses it would feel a lot like this – stoic, sturdy, but … not cold.
"Hey," Darry says again. "I'll see ya."
"I know," Veronica says.
"And you'll talk to me next time?"
Veronica grins – really grins.
"Count on it," she says.
Darry grins right back at her. It's rare to see, which is what makes it special – almost like maybe Veronica is supposed to have a place in this town and this house after all. She feels Elenore's hand on her shoulder now.
"We should go," Elenore says.
Veronica turns around and nods. She looks back at Darry one last time, and he looks at her. Both of them have sentences between their teeth, it seems, but neither one says another word. They just wave.
As the girls climb into the car, Veronica pulls her mother aside.
"Mom?" she asks.
"What's up, doc?"
"I just … did you figure it out?"
Elenore smiles at Veronica, bemused.
Beautiful.
"Did I figure what out?" Elenore asks. She's not annoyed. She's just … bemused.
Veronica stuffs her hands in her back pockets and feels herself turn an uncomfortable shade of rose.
"I don't know," she says, even though it's clearly a lie. "Whatever we came here looking for."
Elenore flashes her a 10,000-watt grin. She looks just like herself. She looks just like herself, and her eyes are so blue.
"Yeah," she says. "I think – I know – I did."
The relief is indescribably cliché.
"And when we get home?" Veronica asks. "Everything will be OK?"
Elenore leans forward and kisses Veronica right on the forehead like she's a little girl. Even though she's not one, Veronica enjoys the attention, anyway.
"Oh, yeah," Elenore says. "From now on, it's all about you and me, babe."
Veronica can't help it. She's smiling like she's the Cheshire Cat. Everything's mad, and none of it hurts. She hopes it still feels that way when they're at the gate.
And then, they're in the car. Lynnie puts The Stranger in the CD player, and Veronica looks out the window as she listens to the story of Anthony working in the grocery store, saving his pennies for someday. She thinks about her grandfather and how she can't wait to see him (and her grandmother) when they finally get back home. This is not home. This is a crap town filled with a few people she loves, and that's all it will ever be. She leans her head against the window and watches Tulsa disappear behind her, loving that it doesn't remind her of anything.
Pony and Carrie are on the same flight back to New York. They got to the gate almost a full hour before Elenore and Veronica did. Airports have always made Carrie terribly anxious, and she likes to get there as early as she can to prove that it's just an airport, and it has no power over her.
"It's silly," she says as they're all sitting together (Pony, Carrie, and Veronica, that is – Elenore is in another corner on the phone with somebody).
"It ain't silly," Ponyboy says. "It's like a talisman."
"You're crazy," Veronica says.
"I am not," Pony insists. "Darry got me checked out by a doctor when I was thirteen."
"Well, be that as it may, I have to correct you on this one."
"Oh, yeah? Go ahead, Lucy."
It's a compliment, but Veronica tries not to show it on her face. She wants to be cool. It's what Lucy would be.
"A talisman is, by definition, an object," Veronica says. "It's a tangible thing imbued with the powers of the intangible concept it represents. So, going to the airport early isn't a talisman. It's a ritual."
She sees Carrie smile out of the corner of her eye. It makes her proud. Veronica doesn't say it enough – or even think it enough – but she really loves Carrie. She's not sure why she's thinking about it now. It just crashes over her like something she should have always known.
"Gee, Veronica," Ponyboy says. "You ever heard of a metaphor?"
Veronica turns red, both from anger and embarrassment. Ponyboy chuckles at her dismay, and Carrie suddenly stands.
"I'm going to go to the bathroom," she announces. "Airplane toilets really freak me out. Veronica, honey, you wanna come with me?"
Veronica's eyes float over to Elenore, who's still on the phone in the corner. She's smiling now, which can only mean one thing: Her mother is talking to John.
(A small, childish part of her hopes that John and Riley will be at the apartment waiting for them when they get back home tonight. But she knows that it's too much to wish for all at once. Dreams don't really come true, she thinks. If they did…)
Pony nudges her in the arm.
"Hey," he says. "I ain't tryin' to make you feel bad or nothin'. You know that, don't ya?"
Veronica nods a little too emphatically. She'd like to say she knew that, and in a way, maybe she does. But what reason does Ponyboy really have to pad the truth with her? If not for his age-old friendship with her grandparents, he'd just be a novelist and therefore qualified to tease Veronica about her literalness. He has no reason to pad the truth. She's a kid, and he's a novelist who happens to love her.
"That's somethin' we ain't talked about in a little while," Pony continues. "You been writin' very much lately?"
Veronica shrugs and feels her hands start to creep under her thighs.
"Oh, I don't know," she says. "Nothing serious. I've kept a journal."
"Shoot!" Pony says "I kept a bunch-a journals too when I was your age – maybe a little younger, too. 'F it weren't for them, I wouldn't have written a book at all."
"Do you really mean that, though?" Veronica asks. "Or is just something you say because it makes you look approachable in an interview?"
Pony laughs like it's much funnier than Veronica intended it to be. People are always doing that to her. She's not stupid. She knows why they do it. They think she's cute. Maybe she is cute. But that doesn't matter. For once in her life, she'd like people to look at her like she's a whole person. When they treat her like she's cute, it makes it acceptable for them to keep her in the dark.
And there's nothing she hates more than ignorance.
"I really mean it," he says. "It sounds like bull, I know, but it's true: You gotta write what you know."
Veronica sighs.
"And what do I know?"
She gasps a little when she realizes the question didn't just stay inside her head.
Pony sighs now, too, and wraps his arm around Carrie's empty chair. The gesture feels like it wants to be romantic but can't be because Carrie is gone.
"You know lots of things," he says. "You're the smartest kid I've ever known – even when I was a kid, I wasn't half as smart as you."
"That's not what I meant," Veronica says. "I meant … I can memorize a bunch of things from Medieval history books and books about Greek mythology and books about anything, really, but it's just … bullshit."
"It ain't bullshit."
"It is. I memorize bullshit to take tests and write papers."
"I thought ya liked takin' tests and writin' papers."
"I'd like to like it! And sometimes I do! It's just … every time I sit down to study for a test or to draft an outline for an essay, I think, 'How are you going to make this as perfect as the last one, Veronica?' And then I drive myself crazy thinking about how I'll disappoint Mom, I'll disappoint all of my teachers who decided I was smart enough for a scholarship, I'll disappoint Princeton when they sit down to review my application in 2012, and I'll just end up working at 7-Eleven because no one cares whether or not the person ringing up their Slurpee wrote a good paper about A Separate Peace."
She takes a deep breath and looks at Pony, who seems at a loss for words. For a writer, he's always kind of at a loss for words. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but it's true. Veronica inhales again and looks down at her shoes. She speaks to them because she can't disappoint them.
"Sometimes, it feels like the stuff I'm smart at is just bullshit," she says. "When it comes to real stuff … love and family and tying my shoes … I'm a fucking idiot."
She feels Pony's hand on her shoulder and looks up at him. For half a second, she thinks maybe she sees something different in him than usual, but the second passes as quickly as it comes. She doesn't get a chance to ponder, which is probably a good thing. Pondering turns her into a prune.
"Veronica, listen to what I'm gonna say, 'cause I mean it more than I've meant anything I've said all day," he says.
She leans forward with her ears perked.
"You'd never make it workin' at a 7-Eleven in New York City," he says.
Veronica rolls her eyes and tries not to laugh, even though it's kind of funny. Pony can be kind of funny sometimes – when he's in the right mood.
It's been a while since anybody's been in the right mood.
"It's true!" he says. "Look, only reason I got half a clue is 'cause I'm an old man, but I still only got half. I know you, Veronica. You miss stuff that's right underneath your nose. 'F you were workin' the checkout at 7-Eleven in New York, you'd let about a thousand younger versions of your grandpa walk outta the store with free jerky."
Veronica rolls her eyes only somewhat playfully. This is what she's talking about, after all. She knows exactly how to be erudite, but she doesn't know how to get dirty. She doesn't know how to navigate the streets by herself, which doesn't make sense because she's a Winston. Even if Carrie says that doesn't mean anything, Veronica can't help but wonder if she's a little bit wrong. Maybe it should mean a little something. It would make Veronica feel like less of a freak in her own home.
"It's good to know you support me," she says.
"Aww, c'mon," Pony says. "That ain't fair. You know I think you're smart. I just think you're …"
"Like you?"
Pony turns stark white, and Veronica feels her stomach start to churn. It's not the reaction she expected, and yet, she saw it coming with perfect clarity.
"Sure," he says. "Uh, no. Yeah."
Veronica nods and slowly peels her hands out from under her thighs. She examines them just like she did at LaGuardia a week ago. Sure enough, there are the impressions in her pale skin – the skin that reminds her she belongs to someone other than the Bennets and the Winstons. Before she can catch herself, she turns to Ponyboy and changes the subject – at least, that's how it feels.
"Troy told me he could probably find out who my father is," she says.
Ponyboy's eyebrows go higher than his skull.
"What?" he asks.
Veronica nods.
"It sounded like bullshit to me at first, too," she says. "But the more he talked about it … I don't know, the more convinced I was that he really could figure it out."
"He could figure it out?" Pony asks. He sounds worried, which Veronica chooses to dismiss because it doesn't make a damn bit of sense. "Like … he doesn't know right now, but if he wanted to … he thinks he could?"
"That's what he said, anyway."
Now, Ponyboy exhales. Veronica knows that look in his eye. He's wishing for a cigarette.
Why?
"Troy's a smart kid," Pony says. "I'm sure he could figure out lots of stuff."
"Yeah. Hey, Pony?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you know who my father is?"
Pony looks at her kindly, and his green eyes are obfuscating. He's obfuscating. When she learned the word in seventh-grade English class, she used him as her example in her notebook. She does that a lot – uses Ponyboy as an example to remember things. She figures it's because she loves him in the same way Elenore loves Soda. That makes sense.
"No," he says. "Why … why do ya think I'd know?"
Veronica shrugs.
"I don't know," she says. "You were living in New York at the time. You're close to my grandparents."
"They don't know, do they?"
"Well, no."
"So, then, why would I?"
Veronica sighs. She doesn't even pay attention to the fact that he sounds angry. Maybe she's imagining that. She does have a wild imagination, after all. When she was five years old, she vividly hallucinated the Grinch in her closet. Ten years later, English is her best and favorite subject in school. To be good at English, you have to see things the way you want to see them. That's what she's doing now. She's hearing things the way she wants to hear them.
(She wants this?)
"You're right," she says. "I guess … I was just trying to make sense of things."
"What things?" Ponyboy asks.
"Where I come from. You know. It's pretty easy to figure out where lots of things come from. You and Carrie are from Tulsa. My grandma was born in New Haven. The Beatles were from Liverpool, and a Mustang comes from Michigan."
"Yeah, and you were born in New York City. Same as Cal and a bunch of other babies that day."
"But it's not just … half of me is a mystery. And I know that's not how it works – that I can be a whole person without knowing who my father is, and nobody's genes can tell me who I am or who I'm not. It would just be nice to know. It would be nice to have a name. That way, I could stop making up stories and just … feel like I had some power over it."
That's it.
It's that she has no power over where she came from. That's why it scares her so much … why it gnaws at her more and more with age.
The fear feels familiar. It feels like Lucy. And even though it gnaws at her, Veronica likes that she can give it a name.
Pony sighs gently and claps his hand down on her shoulder one time. It's not comfort, but it feels that way for a second.
"Hey," he says. "I think … when it's time for you to figure it out, you'll be ready to hear it."
Veronica looks at him with a crease in her brow. He's obfuscating. She wants to ask him something about it, but then, Carrie comes out of the bathroom.
"Sorry that took so long," she says. "Lines."
Veronica sighs.
Lines.
She wants to ask Pony another question, but then, the flight begins to board. In the meantime, she remembers to forget.
Chapter title is a quote from Gilmore Girls because, again, I decided to lean into my influences.
As for the more obscure references: Well, there's Stars Hollow, which is the name of the town on Gilmore Girls, and Sores and Boils Alley, which is the street name for poor Lorelai's inn. Roger Corman was a producer of "teen-sploitation" films in the fifties and the sixties (and a little bit after that, too). The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands is the name of the album featuring the song "Elenore," which our Elenore wasn't named after in-universe (but out-of-universe, this is definitely how I decided to spell her name). The first song Troy plays in the apartment at Tuesday's is "Ever Fallen in Love" by The Buzzcocks. The Happening is one of the worst M. Night Shyamalan movies, starring Mark Wahlberg. Stella Dallas is a maternal melodrama from the thirties. Blue is an album by Joni Mitchell. The Beatles is also just The White Album. In Dreams is an album by Roy Orbison. Each album in the vintage section has a song about the color blue on it (save for The Turtles) in honor of Elenore's blue eyes (and her biggest difference from Veronica). The Stranger is an album by Billy Joel, and the song the girls listen to in the car is "Movin' Out."
Hinton owns The Outsiders. I own a protracted sigh of relief that my first Ph.D. milestone is done. I mean, I have a bunch more, but the first one is over!