A/N: Quick little thing, this is, but we're heading towards the big, big plots soon enough. Hope you all enjoy this little update. I appreciate all of your reviews and continued support!
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CHAPTER 3
February 18, 1966
The car door slams shut behind me.
"I called the school and told 'em you were gonna be out sick today." I nod, following Darry up the creaky steps leading to our porch.
"Now, we'll see how you're feelin' come Monday. But until then, I want you to take it easy this weekend, Pone."
My brother holds the front door open as we enter the house, closing it behind him as quietly as the old, rickety thing will allow.
"Two-Bit said he'd stop by later- give you some company. He's goin' around and getting your assignments from your teachers. That way, you can stay caught up in your classes." I nod again, relief washing through me.
If there's anything I hate more than missing school, it's returning after an absence and getting stuck with piles of homework. Last September, after missing nearly two weeks, I'd been up to my eyes in essays and make-up quizzes. It'd nearly killed me trying to keep my grades up.
Darry pauses in the middle of the living room, glancing down at his watch.
I take a moment to admire the stainless, durable steel adorning my brother's wrist. Despite how old the watch must be, it remarkably still functions. Throughout the several years that he's worn the timepiece, I've scarcely seen Darry without it, save for when we go swimming down at the lake or when he takes it off before bed.
On Darry's 18th birthday, our father, Darrel Curtis Sr., had given it to my brother as a gift. Our father himself had received the watch as a present from our grandfather back when he was younger.
My family sits at the kitchen table, watching as my father passes over his watch to Darry. He takes it carefully from Dad, like he's afraid he'll drop it. He swallows audibly, examining the ticking hands on the tiny clock with reverence.
My father claps his oldest child on the shoulder, smiling handsomely.
"Gosh, look at you, Darrel. My first little boy's an adult. It seems like just yesterday I was tossin' you in the air and givin' you baths in the sink." He chuckles warmly.
Darry rubs the back of his neck as faint splotches of redness appear on his cheeks. Soda reaches over to pinch Darry's face, puckering his chocolate-coated lips.
"Aww, lil' baby Dare. How cute." He teases.
Darry swats his hand away, rolling his eyes. My mother pats him on the knee sympathetically while gently hushing Sodapop.
I continue licking the icing off of my fork, before going in for another bite of cake.
My father continues, his electric blue eyes crinkling.
People always say that I'm the spitting image of Sodapop, with our long hair and similar faces. But if that's the case, then Darry could be a younger version of my father. They're nearly even the same height.
"But you're all grown up now, kid. Soon enough, you'll be gettin' your diploma, and golly, you have to know that we're real proud of you, son." Sodapop lets out a loud whoop, banging on the table with his utensils. I quickly follow his lead, grinning toothily when Soda looks over at me and beams.
Mom reprimands us but her crooked grin, on top of Darry's tiny smirk, only eggs us on.
Soda's contagious laughter carries throughout the room. Dad's eyes are dancing as he looks around the table, shaking his head.
What Soda and I didn't know at the time was that weeks before, our parents had broken the news to Darry- that even with the athletic scholarship he'd earned, they wouldn't be able to cover the rest of his tuition.
Which meant my big brother wouldn't be going to college anytime soon.
It was only when I questioned why Darry got a job at a roofing company during the following summer, when he should've left for school, did my parents finally tell us the hard truth. Darry's noticeably dimmed mood in those past couple months suddenly made a lot of sense after that talk.
Darry made peace with it, as much as he could. Nevertheless, my brother still wanted to pursue his academic career, which my parents wholly supported.
So, for the next one-and-a-half years after graduating high school, Darry worked tirelessly, putting of all his hard-earned money in the bank. Just so one day, he'd eventually be able to afford enrolling at the local community college.
And I think he'd actually saved up enough to get himself through a year's worth of classes.
But then our parents got in a car crash.
Our collective giggles eventually subside.
"But bein' an adult also comes with a lot of responsibilities that weren't there before. And every once in a while, when you start gettin' a taste of the real world, things might start to get overwhelming. Lord knows your Ma and I both know that." Mom reaches over and like magnets, my parents' hands link together.
They smile at one another.
"But I want you to remember something, Darrel. No matter how fast life goes by or how many things change- spend your time livin' right." Dad lets out a deep sigh, looking off with a fond gaze.
I follow his line of sight. He's staring at a picture of the five of us that's pinned on the fridge.
Well- technically, only Mom, Dad, Soda, and Darry can be seen smiling in the polaroid. A large bump protrudes from my mother's midriff, where both her and my fathers' hands rest. She'd been six or seven months pregnant with me at the time the photo was taken.
Everyone looks happy.
"I can't tell you how to do that- you're a man now, you gotta make your own choices. And you ain't gonna make all the same decisions that I did. But you got all the time in the world to be who you wanna be, and do what you want to do. And we'll be right here for you whenever you need us."
I wonder how often Darry thinks about Dad's speech, about how that night feels like forever ago.
I wonder how often he looks down at that watch- not for the time, but to find the strength to keep playing a role he'd never been prepared for, never expected, or wanted.
"Ponyboy?" I glance up, blinking rapidly.
My brother's staring at me, a furrow between his brows.
"Sorry, Dare. What'd you say?" He doesn't speak for a moment, his icy eyes tracking me as I amble towards the couch before easing myself down with a wince.
He clears his throat, minutely shaking his head.
"Break's gonna be over soon. Want me to cook you somethin' up?" He shifts his weight on his feet.
"No thanks, I'm good. Sorry you didn't get a chance to eat lunch." He waves me off before settling into his armchair.
"Don't be, kiddo. Had myself a big breakfast this morning. Speaking of," Darry lifts the bottle of pills he's been fiddling with, fixing me with a stern look.
"The doctor said to take these around every four hours." He reaches over and sets the painkillers on the coffee table.
"Now, I don't want you downing these like candies, Pone. Only two at a time, got it?"
I rest my head back against the cushion as a wave of fatigue sweeps through me, closing my eyes.
"Yeah, Darry. I hear you."
The last time I was sick, my brother had nearly flipped his lid when he'd caught me taking five aspirins in the bathroom.
A hand shoots forward and grips my wrist, almost too tightly. I jolt in surprise, dropping the tablets I'd been about to swallow.
They clatter loudly into the sink as Darry stares me down. I wither under his gaze, blazing with anger.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? You're already sick as it is, Ponyboy Michael. Are you tryin' to make yourself worse?" He's spitting mad as his nostrils flare.
Seemingly with effort, he releases his hold on me to run his hands through his hair.
His voice grows increasingly louder as he rants, barging past where I'm standing stock-still.
"You shouldn't even be out of bed, Ponyboy. You ain't gonna get any better doin' stuff like this."
I watch as he takes the aspirin bottle and dumps its entire contents into the toilet.
Sodapop appears then, bracing a hand on the doorframe.
His eyes dart from my hunched posture, to the discarded pills still in the sink, before locking his gaze on Darry.
His mouth thins.
"Pony, you need to be laying down, hon." Soda's scorching glare never leaves Darry's rigid form, who's staring back with an equally thunderous expression.
But his voice softens as he wraps a steady arm around my shoulders and guides me back to our room, supporting my weight as I stumble along, half-delirious.
He helps tuck me in, feeling my forehead before gently closing the door, with a promise of returning soon.
I hear footsteps barrel down the hall.
Furious whispering. Some grappling. More stamping around.
A minute later, I hear raised voices coming from the kitchen.
I've since kicked the habit.
"Think I'll be able to get this thing off before track starts?" I ask, shifting my wrapped arm into a more comfortable position against my chest.
"Don't see why not, kiddo. Tryouts start on March 21st, right?" I nod, opening my eyes.
Given that he'd circled the date himself on our calendar, I'm not surprised he remembers.
"Well, your doctor said- at the most, it'll take about six weeks before the sling can come off." His lips quirk upwards.
"But if you take it easy like you're s'pose to, and let your shoulder heal properly, it might only take four." I nod.
That would be the ideal scenario. If not, I think I'll be the first ever kid to show up to track tryouts with a sling.
Darry heaves himself out of his chair, looking down as his wrist once again.
He sighs.
"I gotta head back to the site." He stays in place, clearing his throat.
He seems hesitant to leave me alone.
"You need anything? Anything at all before I go?" I shake my head. He exhales through his nose, absentmindedly gazing around the room before heading towards the door.
"Alright, you rest up today, Ponyboy. I mean it. Two'll be here soon, and Soda gets home around five." Huffing amusedly, I raise an eyebrow at him. The motion stretches my taut, bruised skin, but I ignore the sensation.
"Dare, I'll be fine. I'm probably just gonna go lay down after you leave anyways."
Darry nods once. Then twice.
"Okay, Pone. You call me if you need me. I'll see you later."
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The rumbling of Darry's truck grows faint the further he gets down the street.
Shakily, I maneuver my aching body upwards, using the arm of the couch for leverage.
God, everything hurts.
I eye the bottle on the coffee table longingly, but I only grit my teeth and begin my trek down the hall.
I'd taken some pills before leaving the hospital, so I have a few more hours to wait before my next dose. Darry is putting his trust in me, and I don't intend to break it.
Passing old family photos hanging on the walls, I push open my door. Strewn clothes cover Soda's side of the room, evidence of him rushing home this morning to change before heading to work. My lips twitch.
My hurricane of a brother.
A slight chill encompasses the air. I shiver, shuffling towards the bed. Kicking off my shoes, I lift the thick comforter and burrow myself under the sheets.
Yawning, I gradually feel a warmth spread throughout my body. My drooping eyes aimlessly travel across the room, becoming heavier and heavier as sleep beckons me. I pull the covers higher around my shoulders as best as I can with my good arm.
As my breathing slows, my tired gaze falls on my unkempt desk.
I shoot up, heart beating rapidly as my eyes widen. My throat tightens so abruptly that I feel as if I'm choking.
My chest moves erratically with my quick breaths. Lurching out of bed, I nearly collapse on unsteady legs.
Gulping, I trudge forward, swiping a harsh hand over my swollen eyes, unsure of if what I'm seeing can possibly be real.
What is it doing here?
How did it get here?
Reaching a trembling hand out, my fingers warily close around the object, its water-damaged pages curling inward, rippling like waves. Dirt stains mark the once laminated back cover, its scratched plastic peeling.
Quivering, I flip the book over and read the title.
A Wrinkle In Time.
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July 23, 1955
Ponyboy Curtis feels like a big boy today.
Just yesterday was his fifth birthday, which means that he's practically a grown-up. His brother, Sodapop, even said so.
It made Ponyboy feel real happy.
And now, the young boy is cruising down the block on his brand-new tricycle. Soon after unveiling the gift, his father had helped him learn all the basics, where to put his feet and how to turn.
It's like he has his very own car. He can even fit his stuff into the basket that's hooked onto the back of the tricycle.
His tiny finger flicks the bell attached to the handle, its rings tinkling through the air as he goes. His giggles intertwine with the sound.
Before he began riding today, his parents had reiterated an already pre-existing rule, since he has a tricycle now.
Ponyboy isn't allowed to go past the stop sign at the end of the street- no exceptions. They don't want him getting near any cars or for him to be out of their sight.
But as he laps his street for the tenth time, Ponyboy can't help but imagine a certain house, only a couple neighborhoods away.
Johnny Cade is his bestest friend in the whole world. Other than Sodapop, of course.
They'd met last summer at the park, when the playground was practically bursting with kids. Ponyboy had never seen the boy before that particular day, but he'd noticed that Johnny had looked real lonely sitting by himself in the sand pit. Not a single other kid approached him.
After looking in the boy's direction a few times, Pony had decided to go over to him, where he shyly introduced himself.
The dark-haired boy had looked up quickly, seemingly wary of Ponyboy' sudden appearance. But he'd given the younger boy a hesitant smile, nevertheless, which Pony returned.
He didn't even laugh at Ponyboy's name, like some of the kids and teachers at school did.
Right then and there, he decided to become friends with Johnny Cade.
Minutes later, the two were running around, giggling as they chased each other.
Jean Curtis had looked on with a fond smile.
But Ponyboy didn't get to see his friend all that much. At least, not as often as he wishes he could.
Since Mrs. Cade doesn't like giving her son rides to the Curtis house, Johnny would usually have to walk the whole way if they wanted to play.
Meanwhile, Ponyboy had to take someone with him if he wants to see Johnny. Plus, he isn't allowed to play in Johnny's house.
His mom told him it didn't have anything to do with Johnny, but more so his parents.
From what Ponyboy has seen of Mr. and Mrs. Cade, one constantly drunk and one always yelling, he can't help but agree.
Grinning down at the big wheel on his tricycle, he makes up his mind. Looking over his shoulder, he can see that his father is still busying himself in their front lawn, working on the underside of his truck as the radio blares tunes next to him.
Pedaling his feet quickly, Ponyboy zooms past the stop sign without hesitation, and turns down the sidewalk.
Heart-pounding, he grins unabashedly. Johnny will sure be surprised to see him.
However, as he ventures further than he's ever dared to go by his lonesome, sporadic breaks in the pavement begin appearing more frequently. Widening gaps are lodged into the eroded cement, each slab leveling at varying heights.
Ponyboy has to push extra hard with his legs against the pedals, gritting his teeth as his tricycle rattles over the uneven surfaces. The sun's heat glares down on the boy as he scuttles along, loosening his grip on the handlebars.
The path narrows, ever so slightly. Weeds sprout wildly from the cracks, slashing at his uncovered ankles. His wheels start catching on the grass patches surrounding both sides of the trail.
"Whoa!" Ponyboy gasps as his tricycle abruptly veers to the side, after he tumbles over a dip in the concrete.
Desperately, his sweaty palms firmly grasp the handles. He yanks them in the other direction as he dangerously begins tipping over.
Unfortunately, this jerking motion brings both Ponyboy and his tricycle crashing onto the sidewalk.
He cries out as it partially lands on top of him, leaving his left leg trapped awkwardly underneath the hot metal. One of the wheels is still spinning as the boy gingerly wriggles out from underneath the tricycle, staining his clothes as he slides against the turf.
Finally free, tears spring to Ponyboy's eyes as he studies the dirty, red marks now accompanying his left knee, which had taken the brunt of his fall.
Lip wobbling, the boy shakily stands up, whimpering as his wet scrapes sting against the breeze. Looking down at his birthday gift, he's stricken with a bout guilt and panic.
One of the back wheels, as well as a handle, is lodged into a deposit of mud, coating the once-pristine white in brown speckled sludge. Even the silver bell is now spackled with dirt.
Sniffling, the five-year-old goes to pull his tricycle from the mud, but it hardly budges. A wash of lethargy threatens to overcome him as he strains his muscles against the immovable object, trails of wetness now freely flowing from his scrunched eyes.
Giving up, Ponyboy looks around, but no one is there to help him.
Even if he could lift the thing, a deep weariness is washing over him, hindering his energy levels. He doubts he'd be able to push his tricycle back home anyhow.
He gazes in the direction of Johnny's house before looking behind him.
Wiping a hand under his snot-filled nose, the boy sighs, resigned.
He'll have to get his dad to help him carry his tricycle, which means he's about to get in big trouble once his parents realize where he went,
With his head tucked to his chest, Ponyboy solemnly treks home.
By the time he reaches his street's stop sign a few minutes later, his eyes have nearly dried, but his face is splotchy, and his nose is stuffed.
Miraculously, his father is still under the truck, tapping his foot as "Mr. Sandman" plays from the radio's speakers.
Darrel Sr. loves working on cars in his spare time, always has. It's something he'd learnt from his own father as a little boy.
Now that he has three sons of his own, he'd been pleasantly surprised to find that his at least one of them, his second oldest, shares in his passion for cars.
Of course, all of his children enjoy different strokes of life- Darry with sports and Ponyboy with books. As a result, he'll often spend one-on-one time with his kids, to share in each of his boys' interests.
And with Sodapop, that means fixing up engines with his little buddy, just the two of them.
Darrel Sr. hadn't always been the smartest academically, but stuff like this, he understands.
Everything in a vehicle has its place- all he has to do is put the pieces together, simple as that. It's relaxing, in a way- his hands stay busy, and he doesn't have to think.
Which is why today is no different, when time gets away from Darrel Sr. as he patches the cracked exhaust underneath his truck.
Which is also why, it's only seems like five minutes since he'd last checked on Ponyboy- when in reality, it's been fifteen.
As Darrel hears tiny footfalls walking towards him, he begins shimmying out from underneath the suspended pickup. He absentmindedly wipes a clean rag across his sweating face, not looking up as he balances on an elbow.
"Hey, bub. Already tired of ridin' around? You wanna go inside and get something to drink?" No response is given in reply. Darrel's brows furrow and he finally glances at his youngest.
Glistening eyes meet his own.
He bolts up from his position on the ground, quickly closing the space between him and his son. Kneeling down, he firmly, but gently places a hand under Ponyboy's chin.
"Son, what happened? Are you alright?" His mind races with the possibilities before Ponyboy speaks in a quiet, shaky voice
"I-I fell off m-my bike. I-I hurted my leg." The boy's bottom lip trembles as he stares at the ground.
Suddenly, he is encompassed by strong arms, their warmth encircling his trembling form. Ponyboy throws his little arms around his father, hiding his face away in the crook of Darrel's neck. A hand rubs Ponyboy's back in soothing motions as Ponyboy shakes.
"Aw, bub. You're okay, you're okay. I've gotcha." He gently pulls the sniffling boy away, but keeps him close. He glances down at Ponyboy's scrapes, which for the most part are dry.
In one easy motion, Darrel swoops down and picks Ponyboy up, making sure to avoid touching the boy's injuries. He stands, holding his son in his comforting embrace.
"Poor baby. You got some scrapes, huh? Don't worry, we'll get you cleaned up." Ponyboy rubs a fist against his eye, snuffling quietly.
Darrel turns towards the house before he pauses.
"Hey, bub? Where's your bike? I'll go get it while your mama fixes you up." He feels his son marginally tense in his arms.
Guiltily, Ponyboy points over his shoulder in the general direction of where he tricycle should be, unable to make eye contact with his father.
"I'm sorry, daddy."
Frowning slightly, Darrel looks to where Ponyboy is pointing.
"It's alright, kiddo. Ain't even that far." Darrel smooths a hand through Ponyboy's hair, not noticing the sudden pinched expression making an appearance on his son's face. "If anything, I should be sorry, Should've been keepin' a better eye on you."
Ponyboy is confused.
His father isn't mad, isn't reprimanding him for leaving their street?
He doesn't care that he'll have to walk a long way to get to his tricycle?
As Darrel begins carrying him towards the house, Ponyboy looks up and is shocked by what he sees.
His tricycle, standing perfectly upright, is next to the stop sign.
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A/N: Le gasp, it is THE BOOK. But who returned the book to Pony? And why? And who returned the tricycle before Pony could get in trouble? Is it the same person, or is it two entirely separate entities? AND WHAT DO THEY WANT? AND WHO ARE THEY?
BTW, as you'll notice, the flashbacks with specifics dates are more 3rd person omniscient, but whenever a certain character is being focused on, the dialogue tends to reflect their age, what someone of that age would be thinking. So that's why the writing is more "simple" in terms of thoughts when it's focused on Ponyboy as a 5 year old. When the story is in the present, it'll be 1st POV with Ponyboy as the narrator.
Thanks so much for reading, excited for what's to come!