Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Joe South owns "Games People Play."

Whoa, we make one another cry

Break a heart then we say goodbye

Cross our hearts and we hope to die

That the other was to blame

July 17, 1969

Mary barely slept the night before, but she was hardly able to feel the effects of sleep deprivation at this particular moment, her mind consumed with thoughts of herself, Soda, and their relationship. She had prepared herself for seeing him, thought that she would be able to handle any oddities, but apparently, she hadn't been as ready as she'd initially thought—and neither had he. Mary knew from the moment she saw him that something was off about him. It was in the way he stood, the way he spoke, and the way he looked at her. He never looked directly into her eyes anymore, or he would instantly glance in another direction if their eyes caught, as a guilty person might do. Mary didn't understand all of it, and she didn't know what Soda could possibly be guilty of. She had asked him if he had gotten her letters, asked him if he still wanted to be with her, if they were okay, and he had answered her, but he looked and sounded so unsure of himself . . . and them.

Soda had merely told her that he hadn't received her letters, but Mary had an underlying feeling that he wasn't being truthful with her. As far as she knew, Soda had never lied to her; they had always been honest with each other, so getting that feeling caused her to not only question him, but herself, too. No matter how much she had attempted to find a silver lining, or even entertain the idea that they were good and okay with each other, Mary knew the truth—and she was unable to deny it this time. Seeing Soda in person had only proved to her the thought that had been buried inside of her, the one she was honestly afraid to acknowledge.

There was a part of her that truly and wholeheartedly believed that Soda Curtis still loved her—she was able to see it in his eyes, decipher his feelings that he was so desperately trying to mask. It was there, his love for her, just barely clinging to the surface. But in his eyes were other emotions, something much darker that went much deeper than Mary was willing to dive. It frightened her to see Soda in such a way . . . one which she didn't know, or couldn't understand.

When she had asked him if he wanted to be with her still, he had merely stated that he thought he did, but his actions proved otherwise. They had spoken for quite some time, and then they had gone on a walk around the backyard where Aunt Vera's gardens were now in full bloom. They hadn't said much to one another, and even though there was so much that Mary did want to talk about, she had been unable to speak. Inside the house, they had spoken, little things here and there, and for the most part, if Mary had to describe it, everything was awkward, as though they were two strangers who hadn't been in a two and a half year relationship, as if they didn't know each other at all. Other than that, he would hardly let her touch him, and when she had reached for his hand outside, he wouldn't hold hers back, or wouldn't give it a gentle squeeze like he used to, and Mary wanted to yell at him, ask him what was wrong, or what had happened . . . but she didn't. She wouldn't.

Part of her was afraid to, because she wasn't sure that she really wanted to know the truth. But it was driving her crazy. Those thoughts alone, coated with the fact that Soda was a former POW, didn't seem to help and instead made her feel more distant from him than anything.

And Mary was lost altogether.

She found herself sitting by her lonesome, absorbed in her thoughts for the remainder of the night, and for a good moment, she really wished for a good bottle of wine. Thank the Lord that she had emptied the ones she had stocked in the house, getting rid of whatever alcohol she previously had, in order to prevent another drunken stupor. It had taken a bit of time, but Mary decided that Ella Mitchell was right, she really did need help, so she had worked up enough courage to go and see someone, and by golly was she more than happy that she had.

The only thing that was getting her down now was the fact that she had to face herself and her feelings all over again—and that terrified her.

She had to face everything sober. And alone.

Mary could only imagine what Soda was facing in his own mind, and she wondered if he, too, felt the same way that she did—alone and scared. If he did, he was doing a great job of concealing it, but there were other things, expressions and actions, that were able to alert the girl to something being wrong, and Mary was certain that it went far beyond what anyone assumed. Well, she wasn't sure about Darry or Ponyboy . . . and she really didn't want to intrude on them, especially where it concerned Soda like that, but would it be so wrong to mention her feelings? Darry and Ponyboy both had enough on their plates already, and Mary didn't want to add her side of worries to the dish.

So she decided to give it some time, and see where things went.

Still, it didn't stop those feelings from nagging at her, and for a good portion of the night into the early hours of the next morning, when the sun was just barely kissing the horizon, Mary sat up, a picture of her and Soda taken by Evie Martin clutched in her hands and pressed against her chest.

"Why are you so set on racing him anyway?"

Ella shrugged, easing Shar into a walk. "Just to get over on him." She glanced down at Soda, whose brow seemed to quirk in curiosity. He glanced quickly over his shoulder toward the stables where both Dallas and Ponyboy were cleaning up. Ella subconsciously followed his gaze. "Maybe get a rise out of him, too."

Soda's attention turned back to her. Ponyboy was right, he thought, Ella Mitchell really was different than what he recalled. The two of them had never been all that close, but Ponyboy and Ella were really great friends, and even though he kept it to himself, Soda was glad that his kid brother had a good and decent friend like Ella. She was okay. Ponyboy had told him just last night about Ella's wild plan of entering the Slash J just to compete against Dallas Winston. Apparently, she really wasn't considering the other jockeys, her mind only set on bumping Dallas down a peg. Ponyboy had gone on to say a few other things, but Soda was only half paying attention. Still, he had gotten the gist of it, and honestly, he found the entire idea amusing—the first real emotion he'd felt in a good while.

"You should go for it," he blatantly stated, and smirked a bit. "Blow his socks off."

Ella chuckled lightly. "Yeah, the only thing is . . ." She made a face. "I don't have anyone to teach me. I can ride a horse, but jockeying is a whole new ballgame."

"Reckon so," he replied, eyeing her. She had good balance, he could tell, and she maintained decent control of the pony she was riding. But she was right . . . jockeying wasn't basic horse riding. He would have suggested Ponyboy, but he was already helping Dally, which left Ella on her own. "Guess you're in a pickle, huh?"

Another shrug. "Only until I can find a teacher." And then she laughed. "Hell, I would have considered Buck's cousin, Joe, but . . . he's all for the Buck and Dallas team."

"What race are ya even lookin' to enter?"

Ella sighed at the question, as it was one she had been thinking about. She was eager, real eager, and she was confident in her ability to learn. Call her crazy, but Ella was actually considering on entering in one of the nearer races, only because she didn't know when Dallas was going to up and leave, and she wanted to make sure she could win against him. It sounded pretty out there in her own thoughts, but at that particular moment, she didn't really care.

"Maybe the one in three weeks or so, roughly," she finally answered. "That'll give me some time to learn a thing or two."

Soda whistled low. "Gotta find yourself a pony, too," he said, and jerked his chin toward Shar. "That there is Buck's horse, and I can almost bet he ain't gonna let you ride him, especially against Dallas."

Okay, the young woman thought, that was something she hadn't thought about. Damn Ponyboy for not cluing her in on that detail. Ella didn't really know too much about horses anyway—all she knew was that she handled Shar real good, and that she needed someone to give her a few pointers, maybe teach her a few tricks, and then she was good to go. Well, in her mind she was. Glory, why hadn't she even thought about getting herself her own horse? How would she even go about getting one? And from who?

She made a sound like a groan. "You got me there," she admitted, annoyance clearly evident in her voice. "Where do I get myself a pony?"

"Damn, girly, but ain't you just a mess," he drawled, amused like. "Wants to race, doesn't have a horse, a trainer . . . nothin'." He cracked a grin up at her. "What do you have?"

And with that, Ella motioned to herself. "Me and my learning capabilities, I suppose."

Just as she finished those words, Buck Merril pulled up in his T-Bird, causing both Ella and Soda to look in his direction. What Ella didn't know was that Soda was conjuring up his own plan of action, and whether any of it was out of boredom or some type of thrill, he wasn't sure. What he did know was that talking with Ella and being out on the ranch was making him relax some, and he realized that he was grinning and making small talk for the first time in a long time, that he was feeling almost at ease—not quite, he was aware, but something about being there felt . . . comforting. Other than that, Ella was the only one who hadn't brought up Mary, hadn't mentioned her name to him, and quite honestly, he was more than thankful for it. It made it easier to focus on other things, take his mind off of his past and the events that had occurred prior to his leave.

More than that, being around Ella actually felt different in some refreshing way. He hadn't spoken to her all that much; they hadn't corresponded between letters or anything—the most he could remember being Ella sending him and Steve holiday and birthday cards. But he had never directly written to her, or talked to her all that much, so she felt like someone on the outside, someone he wasn't close to. She was close to Ponyboy, his kid brother, and Evie, his best buddy's girlfriend, so in a way, they were connected, but not directly to one another, and something about that made it easier to relax his mind.

Plus, they were discussing something he had a very keen interest in, and Soda had an idea of his own, but he would need ol' Buck Merril to cooperate with him first and foremost.

"Hey, Buck!" he called, and when the cowboy turned to face him, he waved him over. He could tell that the man was stunned to see him there, having not seen him in over two years. They shook hands as he nodded toward Ella, who was rubbing the side of Shar's face. "How much you want for this here pony?" He glanced up at Ella. "Shar, right?"

The expression that adorned the brown-haired girl's face would have been comical, if Soda's inquiry wasn't actually serious. Her jaw practically dropped, eyes broadening as she glanced back and forth between Soda and Buck. Ella herself wasn't even sure if she had heard Soda correctly, but for a split second, she saw something flash in his eyes, something akin to wry amusement and seriousness, and it was a look she hadn't seen on his face the entire time he had been there. Well, Ponyboy had said that he was still adjusting, getting used to things, and that was clear as day. But Ella could see it in that moment, see that Soda was feeling some form of positivity. On the other hand, Buck Merril looked as though somebody had just slapped him in the face, unsure if the younger man was pulling his leg or what, the question surprising him.

"You want that pony?" he asked, brows furrowing.

But Soda was ever so casual. "Depends on what your price is."

"What do ya want him for?"

Soda's eyes drifted up toward Ella, and he sent her a small smile. "Ella here wants to race, and she'll be needing a pony and someone to help her out."

Buck wanted to crack up at that. Ella Mitchell wanted to race? That would be the fucking day. Oh, this had just made his day, and he couldn't wait to tell Dallas about it—he knew exactly what was going on here. Now, usually Buck Merril was an easy guy to get over on, especially if you pushed him good enough—he was more talk than anything, liked to talk big, but he wasn't always smart about it. He couldn't honestly imagine a gal like Ella Mitchell racing, though, not because she was a girl, but because—from what he remembered and heard from Dallas—she was . . . out there, ditzy. The fact that Soda Curtis wanted to purchase a horse of his for the broad only made everything about the situation that much more ridiculous.

"Ella wants to race, huh," he repeated, chewing on a toothpick. He eyed Shar. "I take that personally, Curtis, 'specially since that's my pony there, and my partner races for the Slash."

Soda merely shrugged, and leaned back against the fence. "What's a little competition? Never hurt no one before." And then a lopsided grin formed on his lips, and he found himself easing all the more. "I mean, unless you're scared Ella actually stands a chance against Dally."

Buck snorted, shaking his head. "Tell you what," he said to Soda, "Ella wants to race so bad, I'll lend y'all the damn horse." And then his eyes met hers. "You win against Dallas, you can keep him, but if you lose, which you will, you take his place workin' here when he bails . . . for full price of the pony, no payment."

Ella shot him a dark look. "Any other alternatives?"

"Sure," he grinned spitefully, "I want three seventy-five for the horse up front. Cash." He leisurely lit a cigarette, spitting his toothpick on the ground beside Soda. "Shar's a trained pony, I paid good money for him."

She exhaled hard, nose wrinkling a bit. "But if I win, I can keep him fair and square."

"That's what I said."

It took a minute, but she nodded, sharing a smirk with Soda. "Deal."

Darry took a good swig of his Pepsi, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he leaned back against the exterior of the house. It was a mighty hot one out, and sweat beads were dripping down his face and neck, his dark hair glistening in the sun. There was only one shaded area at this house to sit under, since Mike, the boss, specifically said that they weren't allowed to eat inside. It was a newly renovated home on the upper class side of town, so not even Mike wanted to leave a crumb behind. Darry understood that, he did, but it was so fucking hot out, not to mention, buggy. They had been working at this house for the past few days now, because the owners wanted every room painted, and Darry figured that if it were just him and Mike, they would be going much slower. But now that Two-Bit was working with them, they were going quicker, usually finishing places up in half the time.

The good thing was that Two-Bit had picked up on painting rather fast, and he was actually able to get in and do smaller cuts better than Darry, which the older man was silently thankful for. He honestly hated doing cut-ins and trim work, but Two-Bit had some mastered skill of perfecting those jobs, so both Darry and Mike let him handle that end of things. He also seemed to enjoy it, and Darry was glad for him . . . plus things were good and easygoing when it was just the three of them.

Speaking of Two-Bit . . .

"Hey, Superman," he called, giddy like, and took a seat beside him as he pulled out a sandwich. "Man, you look like a wet cat."

Darry raised an eyebrow, his expression worn. "You don't look much better, Mathews."

"Reckon I don't," he said, and then made a face as he eyed his food. "Hell, I really ought to hire a maid or something, maybe a cook, to prepare my food." He held the squished sandwich up for him to see, the oozing contents of peanut butter and jelly stuck to the foil. "I don't even know what the hell that is."

And at that, Darry chuckled. "What'd you do? Make it in your sleep?"

A laugh. "Probably." He took a bite anyway, deciding that he used way too much jelly. Oh well, he thought to himself, better luck next time. "How's Sodapop doing?" he asked, face turning serious. That was a topic he had otherwise been leery about approaching, but he cared about his younger friend, and it was very obvious that Darry was still worried. "He okay?"

Darry's face seemed to drop a little. "He's . . . he's okay," he answered after a good minute. And then he sighed, before taking another sip of his drink. "Really, Two-Bit, I don't know."

"What's going on?"

Usually, Two-Bit wasn't one to pry, but he could see the concern in his friend's eyes, see the distant expression on his face. It had been there since Soda was drafted, but it had progressively gotten worse over the years, and when Steve came home with news of Soda's disappearance, Darry had grown much more quiet and reserved, holding his feelings in. Two-Bit understood, though, as he always had, even when no one thought he did. He was more observant and tuned in to what was going on around him than most gave him credit for, and right then, he knew that something was up. But still, he knew never to push anyone for answers, and he figured supporting his oldest friend and having his back would mean more than trying to breathe down his neck.

"That's just it," he responded. "I don't know." His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle. "I see my brother, but . . . I don't, and I feel like I got to tiptoe around him, or else he'll explode."

Two-Bit nodded thoughtfully. "You try talkin' to him . . . about anything?"

Darry shook his head. "No, not yet. I wanted to give him time to feel himself out again, be around us and home for a while to get used to it . . . civilian life, I mean. He has a few weeks here, before he has to go back, so I don't want to jump the gun and bombard him like that." His lips pursed. "If I know one thing about my brother in situations like this, he'll come around on his own . . . he just needs some space to get his head together."

"Well, I understand that an' all," Two-Bit remarked, voice even and low, "but honestly, Darry, he ain't never been in a situation like this before . . . and neither have you, other side of things or not." The foil crumbled in his hand, before he tossed it into the brown paper bag. "He see Mary yet?"

A nod. "Yeah, Ponyboy mentioned that yesterday, but Soda never brought it up."

The younger man remembered Evie saying something about Mary being worried and all upset because she wasn't getting responses to her letters. Two-Bit could recall a time when Soda and Mary were all about each other, desperately in love to the point where it almost made him sick. Okay, well, he could understand that, he supposed—he knew the feeling, but that was neither here or there. It was obvious that something was wrong, but like Darry, Two-Bit didn't want to jump the gun on anything, assuming that Soda just needed to work things out for himself and readjust.

Still, neither he or Darry were able to remove the innate feeling of worry pooling in their guts.

To say that Dallas was livid would be an understatement.

He watched Ella lead Shar back to the stables, glaring at the back of her brown head the entire way, the cigarette pinched between his lips. She thought she was something big, thought that she would be able to win against him in jockeying. Well, she had another fucking thing coming. Usually, Dallas Winston wouldn't give two shits who he was competing against, as there were only five other jockeys, but Ella fucking Mitchell? No way. He had a few things to say to her, and she was going to hear him. It wasn't even so much that it was getting to him, or at least that's what he kept trying to tell himself, but . . . Oh Lord . . . Ella Mitchell had a lot of brass ones, more than what Dallas had been giving her credit for, but he was gonna have words with her.

Not only was he irked about her joining the Slash J, but the fact that she had somehow roped Soda Curtis into being her trainer was another factor that was contributing to his anger. When Ponyboy had heard the news, he shot Soda a look and merely shrugged it off. Buck thought the entire thing was a fucking joke, which it was, but he thought that he had it made, too, having worked out some kind of deal with Dipshit Ella. Why in the hell Soda would ever agree to something like this was beyond any form of normal rationalization, and Dallas simply couldn't fathom it. He was only home on leave for a few measly weeks, so why he would involve himself in something that he wouldn't even be around to witness just seemed . . . stupid.

And what about Mary DeVaney? Wasn't she Soda's girl? Wasn't he going to spend any fucking time with her while he was home? What the fuck was going on around this place?

Dallas stubbed his cigarette out as Ella exited the stables, a small smile on her face . . . one which he was about to wipe right the hell off. He had been aimlessly waiting for her since he had finished up with his own shit, waiting to just about knock her block off. He didn't even know why something like this was so important to her. His only guess was because she was really going overboard to get his attention or something. Yeah, that sounded about right.

"Think you're real funny, huh," he bit out, walking over to her.

Ella's brows raised, and she wiped her hands on her jean clad legs. "I'm not laughing at anything." She let her gaze trail over his form, and from what she was able to see, Dallas was pissed . . . and she knew why, which just made it all the more funny to her. At least Ponyboy had been more graceful, but then again, he basically knew what she was up to. Adding Soda to the mix hadn't been her idea at all, and she was still surprised that he had offered to help her out with training. "What's your beef?" she pressed on, and crossed her arms below her chest.

The blond was scowling. "You know damn well what the fuck I'm talking about, girl." His teeth were grinding together. "So what? You think you're gonna prove something to someone?" He took a step closer to her, glaring down the bridge of his nose at her. His tone turned condescending. "Exactly whose attention are you trying to get?"

It was Ella's turn to scowl, and scowl she most certainly did. "Is that supposed to be some kind of implication, Dallas?" A snort. "Please, I have my own reasons for wanting to race, none of which are any concern of yours, so back off." Her own voice was icy by then. "If you're talking about Soda, he offered to help me train, so if you have a problem with that, you can go right ahead and let him know that you feel so strongly about it." And then she had the gall to smile up at him, only it wasn't friendly. "So what? Are you just afraid that I have, or might have, the skill to take you on and win?"

And there it was, he noted with dry amusement, the wick was lit. She was a firecracker when she really wanted to be, and he knew just the right buttons to push to get her going. But he was still pissed off with the whole thing, and her words were only flooring him all the more.

"Right," he responded, giving her a dangerous look. "In your dreams."

For all her worth, Ella busted out laughing, before shaking her head as she spoke next. "Dallas, if you appeared in anyone's dream, it would be a fucking nightmare."

And then she walked away, chin up with a grin blanketing her full lips. Dallas didn't know whether or not to snap back at her, or . . . what. Oh, he'd had worse, plenty worse, but something about the way Ella came out with her quips really made his emotions come to the surface. He watched her get into the car and drive off as he lit up another cigarette, the nicotine not doing much to help his nerves. Fucking Ella, that dopey broad. Well, if she wanted to compete against him (and four others now), he hoped that she did some praying, because he was going to make sure that she didn't stand a chance. He would get her, and he would get her good . . . where it fucking hurt. She wanted competition? He was going to give it to her, show her exactly how ridiculous she would look at the end of it all, and then she would think twice about messing with him, and what a damn shame it all would be.

Reasons that were not of his concern, his ass.

His eyes glinted as he inhaled, the smoke billowing out of his mouth a moment later.

But neither one will ever give in

So we gaze at an eight by ten

Thinkin' 'bout the things that might have been

And it's a dirty rotten shame

Ella and Dallas certainly enjoy toying with each other, don't they?

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