A/N: babai'ma sheep or whatever your name is, thanks so much for the
amazing review. I wish you'd give me your e-mail so I could thank you. Oh
well. Thanks EVERYONE for the reviews! I can't BELIEVE I hit 300!!! Thanks
sooooooo much!
(Steve)
Work was awful lonely without Sodapop.
I watched the shop alone, working on the few cars that Soda had left unfinished. I smoked nearly a whole pack in four hours; but it was awfully hard to relax. I wanted so badly to tell my best friend that I was sorry, and to see and talk to Ponyboy; I owed him apologies to.
What the hell's wrong with me? I thought, as I wandered home, walking slower than usual. Why can't I think before I act? Why do I have to be so bitter when something happens to people I care about? Soda's always so calm and together, so supportive. He's been by his brother's side through all of this. And all I've done is drive him away.
I'll call when I get home, I thought, lighting a cigarette. Maybe if I tell him I'm sorry he'll think about forgiving me. Two-bit said he was upset too, just too proud to admit anything. And he has so much to worry about with Ponyboy. It'll be all right.
I blew smoke to the sky and wondered how long the youngest Curtis really had. I hoped long enough for me to talk to him one last time.
I'll be there for Soda, I told myself as my house came in to view. I'll help him through this, and then he'll know I care, even if I'm not that good at showing it.
I tossed my cigarette butt away as I climbed the stairs to my house. My father was out; that was good. He wouldn't be there to holler and throw me out, although he probably would later, because no car usually meant he was out getting drunk. I heard banging around in the kitchen and I thought back to Two-bit and I making pizza in the Curtis kitchen, months ago now, showing support as much as we could.
"Did anyone call?" I shouted to toward the kitchen, disgusted at myself for being hopeful.
"Two-Bit," my mother called back. I threw my coat down and stalked in to the kitchen; she was standing over the stove stirring something and drinking wine straight from the bottle. "How was work?"
"Fine. What'd Two-bit say?"
She frowned, as if trying to remember. "Something about somewhere you oughta be.....oh, that's right. He says you oughta head to the hospital."
I jumped. "What? Why?"
Not yet not yet please God not yet.....
"Ponyboy Curtis is dying."
(Steve)
Work was awful lonely without Sodapop.
I watched the shop alone, working on the few cars that Soda had left unfinished. I smoked nearly a whole pack in four hours; but it was awfully hard to relax. I wanted so badly to tell my best friend that I was sorry, and to see and talk to Ponyboy; I owed him apologies to.
What the hell's wrong with me? I thought, as I wandered home, walking slower than usual. Why can't I think before I act? Why do I have to be so bitter when something happens to people I care about? Soda's always so calm and together, so supportive. He's been by his brother's side through all of this. And all I've done is drive him away.
I'll call when I get home, I thought, lighting a cigarette. Maybe if I tell him I'm sorry he'll think about forgiving me. Two-bit said he was upset too, just too proud to admit anything. And he has so much to worry about with Ponyboy. It'll be all right.
I blew smoke to the sky and wondered how long the youngest Curtis really had. I hoped long enough for me to talk to him one last time.
I'll be there for Soda, I told myself as my house came in to view. I'll help him through this, and then he'll know I care, even if I'm not that good at showing it.
I tossed my cigarette butt away as I climbed the stairs to my house. My father was out; that was good. He wouldn't be there to holler and throw me out, although he probably would later, because no car usually meant he was out getting drunk. I heard banging around in the kitchen and I thought back to Two-bit and I making pizza in the Curtis kitchen, months ago now, showing support as much as we could.
"Did anyone call?" I shouted to toward the kitchen, disgusted at myself for being hopeful.
"Two-Bit," my mother called back. I threw my coat down and stalked in to the kitchen; she was standing over the stove stirring something and drinking wine straight from the bottle. "How was work?"
"Fine. What'd Two-bit say?"
She frowned, as if trying to remember. "Something about somewhere you oughta be.....oh, that's right. He says you oughta head to the hospital."
I jumped. "What? Why?"
Not yet not yet please God not yet.....
"Ponyboy Curtis is dying."