Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Jimi Hendrix Experience owns "The Wind Cries Mary."

A broom is drearily sweeping

Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life

June 12, 1969

Ella wasn't about to admit it out loud, but being around Mary felt like she was suffocating to death, or like she was stuck in a hole she couldn't dig herself out of. Vera DuPres's house, or Mary's house now, felt cold, dingy. Ella remembered the very first time she had ever shown up there, thinking that it was some kind of mansion out of a fictional story book. She'd thought that Mary had the life. Being in the house now felt weird, as if she wanted to turn on her heel and hightail it right out of there. There was just something off about the place that Ella couldn't quite grasp. For a moment, she really wished that she had asked Ponyboy to accompany her on this trip, but she figured that maybe Mary just needed some girl time, or something. Evie had suggested it, too, and honestly, it had taken Ella roughly two weeks, or better, to finally work up the nerve to visit her old friend.

It wasn't that she was afraid of dropping by to see Mary—they had spoken a few times on the phone—but only the other day had Ponyboy informed her about a strange incident that had occurred a few weeks back where Mary had showed up at the Curtis house to ask about Soda, before bolting out of there in the presence of both Darry and Dallas. Apparently, Ponyboy had only found out about it as well, only mentioning it to Ella because she had made a remark about visiting the younger girl.

So, here she was at Mary's house, unsure if she regretted her decision or not.

Really, it wasn't that Mary herself was making Ella feel strange, but there was just something about the house. Well, that and the fact that Mary really did seem like she was going through a hard time. Ella simply guessed that the loss of her aunt might have been adding to the devastation of learning about Soda's disappearance. For a moment, Ella considered the loss of Vera DuPres and the effect it might have on Mary herself. Really, she couldn't imagine it making her feel . . . so terrible, but then again, Ella took into consideration the fact that Mary, like her, was alone.

Perhaps that was it.

Like Evie had said, it wasn't as if Mary went around and socialized all that much. Since she was a little girl, her aunt had ruled her life and controlled her, raised her to be what she wanted her to be, and never really gave her the option to make her own choices. Ella truly felt bad for Mary, she did, and that was the very reason she had gone to her house in the first place—and she still considered her a good friend, even though they hadn't remained all that close in the past two years.

Still . . .

"You didn't have to check on me," Mary said, as if she were reading Ella's thoughts. When the older girl went to respond, Mary simply shook her head, one side of her lips curving upward. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere than here, and honestly, I don't blame you."

Ella was unable to help herself, and chuckled. "Well, I did want to see you, too, you know . . ." She offered her a small smile. "It's been a long time."

"Would you like a drink?" Mary asked. "There's fresh iced tea, water . . ." She looked as if she were weighing the next option. "I also have wine."

Ella's brows raised ever so slightly at that, not expecting the offer from Mary. "Wine?" she repeated, her gaze slithering to the clock on the wall above Mary's head; it wasn't even noon.

"Boone's Farm, if you like."

The brown-haired girl shook her head. "Iced tea sounds fine," she replied, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice. Now, it wasn't like Ella hadn't done her own fair share of . . . getting boozed up at different hours of the day, but the offer coming from Mary at only eleven in the morning was both awkward and slightly comical. Besides, Mary had always been more straight-edged. "Maybe another time for the Boone's Farm," she added, mostly to be polite.

If Mary thought anything of it, she didn't show it.

Ella followed her into the kitchen, taking a seat at the counter. Mary handed her a glass a moment later, before pouring one for herself. Ella's gaze traveled around the room almost carefully, taking everything in. She had never really seen the full interior of Mary's house, and honestly, she was in awe. Mary had kept everything tidy, clean, but the older girl hadn't missed the various empty bottles of wine that were stashed on the counter in the back room, either. She didn't want to interrogate Mary—she wasn't there for that—but she was concerned about her.

"So," Mary began, taking a sip of her drink, "how have you been?"

Ella shrugged easily. "Alright, I guess. I've been back here over two weeks now and feel the same as the day I arrived."

And that was truth enough. She had wandered around town, went and saw a movie, hung around with both Evie and Ponyboy—the latter more than the former because of work—and ran some light errands for Jan. The older woman had been more than good to her, and Ella wasn't sure how she could ever repay her for her generosity. She wouldn't accept any form of payment from Ella, didn't mind letting her use her car while she took her husband's to and from work, and told her not to worry about anything. However, that wasn't exactly Ella's style, so she had helped out in any way that she could, like going shopping, or picking things up for her, doing some weeding around the yard . . . whatever she could find to help Jan out, she did.

To her surprise, Mary laughed. "I feel as though this place hasn't changed."

Ella made a face. "Really?"

"Well, I suppose to you it would feel different," came to gentle response, and Mary's shoulders dropped as she leaned forward against the counter. "You've been in New York for over two years, whereas, I've been here." She tilted her head to one side. "I've heard things have really changed on the other side of town, though . . . but I don't really spend much time there." A sigh. "Actually, Ella, the first time I was there since Soda left was a few weeks ago."

A nod. "Ponyboy mentioned that you dropped by to see Darry."

Mary stiffened a little, and for a split second, Ella felt like she had intruded on something private, like she shouldn't have said that. She hadn't meant to cause friction, but, excluding what Ponyboy had told her, her own concern was settling in. The girl was acting a bit off, not like her old self. To be fair, as Ella had explained to Ponyboy, it had been a while since any of them had really seen Mary, and a lot of what they perceived to be "different" about her could have simply been growth. A lot could happen in two years, as Ella had come to learn. Everyone was different in their own way, even if they didn't feel it about themselves. Ella figured that she probably seemed different to everyone, too. It was the natural cycle of things, it was called growing up.

"Yes," she confirmed, lips pursing. "Evie suggested that I see him. I hadn't heard from . . . Soda in quite some time, and I was worried about him." She cleared her throat, voice beginning to tremble as her eyes became glassy. "And . . . now . . ."

Ella shook her head, reaching over to rest her hand on Mary's. "It's okay," she said sympathetically. "I understand. We don't have to talk about it."

Mary nodded slowly, giving Ella's hand a light squeeze. "I think I'll have a drink after all," she stated, turning on her heel as she wiped at her eyes. "Might do me some good."

Watching her grab the wine, Ella caught her own reflection in the glass clock on the far wall, the worry she felt over her friend mirroring back at her.

Dallas still couldn't believe that Steve had let Ponyboy drive his truck around while he was away. Well, he would admit that it was a good idea, and Ponyboy was an alright kid, but still. He never thought he would live to see the day where Steve Randle and Ponyboy Curtis were . . . friendly with each other, but Dallas had always known that Steve never really hated Ponyboy, no matter how much the kid thought he had. Dallas remembered reading that book of his, the descriptions he had used, recalled how he thought both Steve and Darry hated him, and well, it just wasn't so. He probably knew that by now, the blond assumed, but seeing him driving around in Steve's old truck was still taking some getting used to.

Ponyboy had come into the house, sweat dripping down his face and neck, the old sweatshirt he was wearing stained. Dallas figured he'd just went on a run around the high school track or something; he liked to do that kind of shit, a sheer reminder of ol' Darry back in the day.

"You run at college, too?"

The kid smirked. "Around the area . . . when time permits."

Of-fucking-course he did. "I don't know who you're more like these days, kid," Dallas said with a small shake of his head. "Darrel or Soda."

The mention of Soda's name caused Ponyboy to freeze, and for an instant, Dallas almost felt bad for bringing him up. Well, fuck, it wasn't like Soda was— He stopped himself before he could even finish that thought. Glory. But still, Dallas felt like he had to be careful whenever somebody spoke about the middle Curtis child, as if they couldn't bear to even think about him. But Dallas had hope, whatever in the fuck that even meant these days, and he was getting real tired of walking on eggshells with everyone. Fuck it.

But Ponyboy, ever the saint, changed the topic. "You hungry?"

"Depends."

He heard a deep sigh from the kitchen, the sound of the refrigerator closing. "There's leftovers, which I ain't eating, or . . . eggs, which I'm not cooking up right now."

Dallas chuckled, a strange sound. "Stuff your face with cereal then. Don't know what to tell you." He listened as the teen rummaged around the kitchen, before he heard cereal being dumped into a bowl. After all this time, Ponyboy was still almost predicable. "Nothing with a job yet?" Dallas decided to ask, mostly because he was bored. He wasn't sure if Ponyboy was still put off with his presence there, but if he was, he wasn't making it overly noticeable. "Darry said you've been lookin' around . . ."

Ponyboy rounded the corner, bowl in hand. "Yeah, I'm just trying to keep busy." He shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, and Dallas figured he must have been near starving. He (and Darrel) still ate like horses. "Can't seem to write much, either. Been trying with that, too."

At that news, the blond cocked an eyebrow. "You're still writing?"

Well, it wasn't exactly a surprise. Darry had told him that Ponyboy wanted to become an English teacher, which wasn't real shocking to learn. At first, he wanted to go for journalism, but Darry had encouraged him to go for teaching instead. According to Ponyboy himself, he had done a few articles for the newspaper, and had done some work with editing. It wasn't something he could really make a career out of, but it was good practice for him. His publisher, Dale Franklin, had also encouraged the kid to go for a teaching job after he had brought up the idea of possibly going for a publisher. None of these things really surprised Dallas in the long run; Ponyboy had always been one helluva smart kid, was always going to go places—it was just a matter of time.

"Sort of," came the low response. "I mean, I was . . . but now I can't seem to get out what I want to say, and whenever I try, I find myself staring at blank paper for lengths at a time."

Dallas snorted. "Ain't that called . . ." He made a face, trying to come up with the damn term. "Writer's block or some shit?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, find something else to do for a while, then."

Ponyboy merely stared at Dallas for a good minute. He wondered why he was even bothering to tell him any of this in the first place. In all honesty, they hadn't done much talking, not even in the past two weeks. Ponyboy wouldn't ever admit it, but there were times when he found himself trying to avoid Dallas Winston. It wasn't that he disliked him, or was irked with his presence, but sometimes, he felt as though he was being shoved back into a past that he had tried to forget about. Of course, he had made his amends with everything, had accepted it for what it was, which was part of the reason that he had published his book in the first place, but there was something strangely prevalent in Dallas being back in town that was bringing the past right into the present.

"That's why I've been looking for a job," he said, voice measured. "And why I cleaned up the yard."

Dallas leaned back against the couch, folding his arms behind his head. "Why don't you come and help me out at Buck's?" he offered. "It ain't much, but it's somethin'."

"Ain't you racing again?"

A nod. "Sure am." Despite his answer, he didn't sound all that thrilled. "But, if you want, I'll tell Buck that you're helping me out, you know, prepping and shit. Make yourself a few dollars."

Now, it wasn't a bad idea, Ponyboy thought, but he didn't really know how he felt spending all that time with Dallas. He wasn't about to throw away a few easily earned dollars, though. He knew Buck was paying Dallas good money, not that he would make what he was, but it would be something to keep him occupied for a few weeks before he went back to school, and it would get his mind off of writing for a while, among a few other things. Plus, he would have some extra cash in his pocket. Yeah, he figured tending to some ponies for a few weeks and helping Dallas prepare for his races for some under-the-table-cash wasn't a bad deal.

"Okay," he finally agreed. "Sounds like a plan."

"Tuff enough," Dallas smirked. He could start Monday. Buck would probably have something to say, but Dallas knew how to handle him—he wouldn't be a problem. Besides, it would be an extra hand to get things done quicker, and not that he needed it, but it would be nice to have someone to help him train the ponies and run practice races when ol' Buck wasn't around. The sound of the kid's crunching on the cereal was beginning to irritate him, and Dallas sat up, looking around the living room. "Is this what you do all day?"

The kid made a face, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "Mostly, unless Ella stops by. She ain't really doing all that much anyway." A shrug. "I think she's with Mary, or at least, she said she was going to visit her today."

Dallas wanted to roll his eyes. He hadn't seen Ella Mitchell since Memorial Day, and although he had entertained the idea of seeing her again, he wasn't about to go out of his way to make it happen. There were more important things on his list to do other than seek out his ex-girlfriend. She had certainly turned into a spitfire, though, and the blond would be lying if he said he hadn't enjoyed seeing her over two weeks ago.

"Mary DeVaney?" he decided to ask, although he already knew the answer. "Soda's girl?"

He didn't miss the flinch in the kid's face. "Yeah, she's taking things pretty hard . . ."

Albie Lars didn't look right in a wheelchair, Steve thought. There was a part of him that almost didn't want to stop in and see him, but he had to. Besides, even though he spoke to a few other guys, Albie didn't have many friends, and well, Steve felt bad for him. Albie was alright, though, really. Steve didn't mind him at all, not like Julius Hicks. Steve shook the memory of Hicks off, the image of the last time he had seen him still vividly preserved in his mind.

"When do you get out of here?" he inquired, looking the kid over.

Lars shrugged. "I'm done next week." There was an unevenness about his voice that caused Steve to nearly freeze. His eyes met Albie's, the truth of the matter clear in his own gaze. "I'm being honorably discharged, since . . ." He motioned to his legs, and Steve nodded in understanding.

"Well, at least you're out of here."

"That ain't the point," came the hard response, and Albie jerked the chair around in one fluid motion, a scowl on his face. "You don't get it," he bit out next, vexation laced in his words. "Doc is pretty sure that I'm never going to walk again, man, and hell—" He stopped short, his words cut off by a choke, his hand reaching up to cover his face. "Fuck."

Steve watched him, unsure of what to do. Hell, but there was still a part of him that blamed himself for what happened to Albie Lars. He kept telling himself that if he hadn't been so anxious to keep up with Julius Hicks that day, Albie might still be able to walk. Even though he knew that wasn't all partially true, there was a part of him that actually believed it. He could recall the events perfectly in his mind, as if he were reliving it every time he thought about it, and he could only wonder what would have occurred if maybe, just maybe, he had been a few seconds later. Steve wanted to punch something, he wanted to just knock his fist into someone's face. The logical part of his mind was telling him that it wasn't his fault, that if he had stayed put for even a second longer, he and Lars might have been dead, but it was impossible to stop his thoughts, impossible to quit wondering about the other possibilities.

It took Steve a minute to realize that Lars was actually crying, tears streaming down his face. Lordy, he didn't want to say anything—he knew that the kid was tormented and humiliated enough as it was, and now . . . the last thing he wanted was for everyone to think he was incapable of doing things on his own, as he had already come to find out.

"Lars, man," he went to say, his hand touching his shoulder.

But Lars jumped to the side, shoving Steve's hand away. "Don't," he said, and wiped at his bloodshot eyes. "Don't offer me pity."

Steve sighed. "I wasn't." And then his expression turned serious. "I don't pity you at all." He stood then, moving around so that he was in front of the kid's face. "Lars, you're a fucking hero, as far as I'm concerned, one of the toughest guys I know, and that ain't about to change, functioning legs or not." He took a breath, wishing more than anything that he had a damn cigarette. "Now, you can sit there and mope about your issue, and I'm sorry it happened, but I sure as shit ain't pitying you."

And that was truth enough. He wasn't going to pity him, although he still blamed himself and hated that Lars was in the position he was in. But the truth still remained that Albie Lars was a good kid, a brave kid, and Steve respected him. He might have been shy, a little odd, but . . . after everything they had gone through . . . well, Steve figured it took more fucking guts to stay the same than it did to change, like some of the other guys had, not that there was blame to be placed there, either.

Albie was staring at him, surprise evident on his face. He didn't say anything, merely reaching his hand out to Steve. No words were exchanged as the two men shook hands, both of their grips firm as they kept their expressions neutral.

Glory, but Steve sure hoped that Nixon was really going to bring home 25,000 troops, as he had so generously announced a few days back. He couldn't imagine where Soda was, where he had ended up, or what he was doing. He prayed in his mind every day and night for his friend, trying with all his might to keep his own faith alive. He had told Ponyboy back in Tulsa that he had to have hope, that no matter what, never to lose it, no matter how hard things became.

He just hoped for himself that his words would mean something.

Mary wasn't expecting to see Dallas Winston at her house, and truthfully, she wasn't exactly sure that he was expecting to be there, either. There was a certain look in his eyes, though, a look of innate and sure determination. Dallas had always made Mary feel nervous, as if he were a caged up animal just waiting to strike. She had avoided him when she first started seeing Soda, made sure to keep away in the background whenever he dropped by to see Ella while they were hanging out. She didn't dislike him, for Mary wasn't one to judge, but something about his disposition set her on edge. Right then, she could feel herself flooding with worry, as though he were there to deliver bad news. Either that, or it was the alcohol in her system.

Dallas was skimming her over, lips folded together, gaze hard. He could smell the liquor on her when she opened the door, and for a moment, he wasn't sure whether to be shocked, or if he found the entire situation amusing. He didn't like being there any more than she wanted him there—he could tell by the expression on her face. Other than that, Dallas plainly didn't like the side of town she lived on, even with how things had changed; it felt . . . too good for the likes of him, not that he minded. No, Dallas had too much pride for that kind of shit.

"Is something wrong?" Mary asked, voice delicate, as if she was awaiting the worst news. She raised her chin to look at him, but her eyes were skittish, and Dallas could clearly see the glassiness in them; she had been drinking for a while. "Is it . . ." She took a breath. "Is it Soda? Have you—"

"No," he said, cutting her off. "I came to talk to you."

The way he had responded let Mary know that he meant business. She didn't know what he could possibly want to talk about with her of all people—she really didn't know him all that well. Of course, her first thought would have been Soda, but Dallas sounded almost accusing, as though he was about to blatantly tell her off about something. Mary merely stared at him, her head feeling foggy; she suddenly wished she hadn't drank so much, or that she hadn't answered the door. Too late now, though.

She blinked, trying to steady herself. "What about?"

Dallas's nose scrunched up a bit, but he took a step forward, pushing the door open further. "How about we talk inside . . . if you don't mind." He really didn't give a shit if she minded or not. "Unless you want to discuss things out here for everyone to hear."

The girl swallowed the lump in her throat, shaking her head as she moved aside. "You can come in."

Not bothering to make himself feel at home, Dallas stood in the foyer, leaning back against the wall as he crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't have any plans of staying too long, not wanting to even be caught dead in Soc territory. Jesus, but he wasn't even sure if there was still such a thing as a fucking Soc, or greaser, or . . . anything. It seemed like everyone was simply doing their own thing nowadays, unless he was really that far on the outside of things. Still, he didn't want to be hanging around Mary DeVaney—broad was strange enough as it was. He just wanted answers, wanted to know what her deal was, and he wasn't stupid enough to believe all that nonsense about her dead aunt, either.

Mary moved toward the steps, taking a seat on the second stair, most likely to keep herself from falling over, Dallas thought. Glory, but this girl sure was a piece of work; it would have been amusing, but she was Soda's girl, and even though Dallas didn't give a rat's ass about Mary herself, not really at least, he knew that she was hiding something. His main concern was whether or not it would affect his friends, primarily Darry, because he didn't need to be dealing with that kind of shit.

He didn't wait for her to say anything. "I want answers, girl."

She glanced over at him, eyes wide. "About what?"

"You know what," he replied, trying to remain level. When she didn't say anything, he decided to get under her skin, hit her where it hurt. "You foolin' around on Soda?" The look on her face was enough to let him know that his plan had worked. He continued on almost breezily. "You've been acting strange, and I ain't the only who noticed, and I don't even know you that well." His hands casually moved to his pockets. "So's, instead of feeding me that horse shit about your aunt, which I know you're lying about, how about you tell me what's really goin' on . . ."

If she wasn't in a drunken stupor, Mary would have started bawling. But she was angry, miserable, and so tired. She was alone most of the time, and her thoughts were eating away at her. She had been hiding the truth about Soda, her aunt, Mr. Webberly, and her aunt's murder for weeks now, and it was really beginning to take its toll. She found herself turning to the bottle when the nightmares started, when she started to think that Soda wasn't writing to her anymore because he didn't love her . . . and then to learn that he was missing was practically the last straw. Mary had enough, and the only thing that seemed to calm her nerves and ease her heart was the consumption of alcohol. It had started out with a glass here and a glass there, and then Mary found herself drinking in the morning, or sporadically throughout the day, and before she knew it, there wasn't a time during the day that she wasn't drinking. If she wasn't drinking away her misery, she was sleeping off hangover after hangover, wishing more than anything that she wasn't feeling the way she was.

Mary wished more than anything that she could simply rewind her life, or just time in general, and go back to yesterday . . . when things felt simple. But that was impossible, and she knew that. Sulking wasn't going to get her anywhere, wasn't going to do anything for her and Soda. Her heart ached for the past, for the time when she and Soda were together, and now, there was a part of her that felt like she was ruining that, too.

And she hated herself for it.

She just wanted to get everything off of her chest, let it out once and for all.

And now that Dallas had outright accused her of cheating on Soda, she felt her heart shatter into a million pieces, her chest tightening as she gripped the railing. She was unable to cry, though, a strange sort of numbness taking over her entire being. Honestly, she didn't expect the next words to come out of her mouth, and apparently, neither had Dallas, because his entire face went blank, an uneasiness filling the room as she spoke for the first time since his accusation.

"I killed her."

Will the wind ever remember

The names it has blown in the past?

Thank you for reading! :3