Cross-posting this story from ao3, where you can find me under my other username, bluesweatshirt.
1. Steve
I respect Darry Curtis, love Soda Curtis, and dislike Ponyboy Curtis.
I never have liked him, and I probably never will, either. It's not a secret or anything; it's just a simple fact.
In fact, probably the only person who doesn't know that I'm not a fan of Ponyboy is Sodapop. And that's just because Soda can only see the good in people. Where I look at the youngest Curtis brother and see a spoiled, pretentious twerp, Soda sees a sweet little angel who needs to be protected.
I don't get why Soda always lets Ponyboy tag along. He's not a real part of the gang—he hasn't earned his place. He's not tough; he's a liability. A thirteen-year-old kid who constantly monopolizes everyone's time and attention. Especially Darry and Soda's attention. They're always going crazy over Ponyboy—from Darry giving up his dreams of going to college to Soda dropping out of school to work full-time at the DX. Soda insists that he hadn't wanted to finish school, anyway, but still. If Ponyboy was my little brother, I'd probably have sent him off to a boys' home by now.
And they're always worrying about him, too. On this particular night, for example, I'm excited to finally have a chance to hang out with Darry and his friends, until Ponyboy has to go and ruin it.
I look up to Darry a lot, although I wouldn't be caught dead saying that out loud. Darry is tough and reliable. He doesn't let anything or anyone get to him. I want to be like that.
It's a Thursday night, and Soda is taking Sandy out on a date. Ponyboy had mentioned hanging out with Johnny at the park, and Two-Bit and Dally are attending a party at Tim Shepherd's place.
I figure I'll tag along with Two-Bit and Dally, even though I don't feel too interested in a big party. My dad had kicked me out last night, and I hadn't slept well on the Curtises' couch.
So when Darry turns to me and says, "Hey, Randle. You want to hit the gym with me and my buddies tonight?", I have to keep a grin from breaking out on my face.
"Sure," I shrug, casual and tuff.
Everything goes great. I hold my own while lifting weights and jogging with Darry's friends, all of whom are at least nineteen or twenty. Darry doesn't say anything about me still being in high school when he introduces me, so I don't bring it up, making it sound like I've already graduated and work at the DX full time.
"You ever play basketball, Randle?" One of the guys, a blond named Mark, asks me in the locker room. "You seem fast on your feet. We have pick-up games on Wednesday nights in the park. Darry can never make it with his work schedule, but you can join us if you want."
I nod, finding myself standing a little taller. Mark is a middle-class guy, enrolled in the local community college and studying to become a dental hygienist. He pulls on a madras shirt after we shower, but his gym bag is a little beat up and his shoes are scuffed. He's the kind of guy that I secretly want to be—a person who others will respect and view as a normal person. Not as a hood or a JD, and not as a Soc. Just a guy.
"Y'all want to come over to my place for a few beers?" Mark asks, lighting up a cigarette as we step into the cool evening air.
I glance over at Darry, trying not to look hopeful.
Darry is midway through a nod when Soda comes skittering into the parking lot, sprinting so fast that he almost falls over when he tries to stop.
"Soda?" Darry asks, his brow immediately furrowing, his eyes skimming over his brother to check for injuries. "What's wrong?"
Soda lets out a winded gasp, doubling over and struggling to catch his breath.
"P—Pony," he manages to get out. "It's about Pony."
Darry turns to his friends. "Sorry, guys," he says, his voice coming out surprisingly light and casual. "Can't make it tonight. You go on ahead."
"You sure, Darry?" Mark asks, a concerned expression on his face as he looks at Soda. "We're happy to help, if you need it."
Darry just shakes his head. I get it. Darry doesn't want to mix his nice, normal friends up in his business as a greaser with custody of two teenage brothers. He doesn't want them scouring the east side for Ponyboy or coming by the Curtises' rundown house.
"Thanks, but we're just fine," Darry says confidently, giving his friends a nod and watching as they file towards their cars, talking about the night ahead of them.
As soon as they're out of earshot, he turns back to Soda, urgently grasping his brother by the shoulders. "What is it? What's wrong with Pony?"
His earlier calm must have been an act, because I can see his fingers go white as they clutch the fabric of Soda's jacket.
Soda has more or less caught his breath by now, and he's able to speak. "I was downtown with Sandy, and I saw a Soc walk by wearing Ponyboy's jacket! I pulled my blade on him and asked him where he got it, and he just laughed at me and said I'd have to go find my brother myself and ask him if I wanted to know where he got it—"
"Okay," Darry interjects. "Okay. Who was the guy?"
Soda throws his arms up in the air helplessly. "He wouldn't answer any of my questions! Just laughed at me. I used to see him at school—I think he's a year older than me."
"Right," Darry says grimly. "We're gonna split up and look for Pony. Steve, you go north. Soda, you go south. I'll—I'll go check the lot and look around here."
None of us acknowledge that the lot is where we'd found Johnny last year after the Socs had jumped him. We don't need to mention it—none of us will ever forget that night.
So I spend an hour walking around the north part of the east side. I stop by the library—one of Pony's favorite hang-out spots—the cinema, and the park. I don't run into anyone except gangs of fellow greasers. When I see people I know, like Curly Shepherd, I ask if any of them have seen Ponyboy and Johnny. No one has.
As more and more time passes, my annoyance at not getting able to hang out at Mark's place begins to change into—not worry, exactly, but concern. Sure, Ponyboy needs to be taken down a peg or two. Needs a little common sense knocked into his head. But I wouldn't wish what had happened to Johnny on anyone, let alone my best friend's kid brother.
After a solid hour of looking, I figure I might as well head back to the Curtises' house to check in. Soda and Darry must have had a similar idea, because I find them walking together two blocks away from their house. They both look up, identical hopeful expressions on their faces when I approach.
"Nothing," I say, shaking my head. "It's like he and Johnny have turned into ghosts. Nobody's seen 'em."
Darry curses under his breath and walks faster. Soda's gone quiet and pale, and I throw one arm around his shoulders.
"We'll find them," I say bracingly. "I mean, it's Ponyboy. He's always being careless, right? Maybe he just forgot his jacket at the park and a Soc grabbed it."
But there's no real reason why a Soc would wear a greaser's jacket unless it's a victory trophy, and we all know it. I can picture the jacket in question—one of Soda's old leather ones that Pony wears now, beaten and worn down from years of use, with a tear on the left sleeve near the elbow. I'm sure that the Soc in question has a nice new letterman jacket he could be wearing instead.
"I'm going to call Shepherd," Darry says as we climb the steps to the front porch. "We'll get him to send Dally and Two-Bit over. We'll start our search all over again, but with more of us looking, we can be more thorough—"
Darry freezes in the doorway, staring at something that I can't see. Soda immediately puts his face near Darry's shoulder to look beyond him and into the Curtises' living room.
"Pony!" Soda shouts, mingled joy and relief in his voice. He shoves past Darry and takes off at a run. He's got Pony pulled into a tight hug by the time I make it up the stairs and into the house.
"Hey, Soda. Jeez, why are you hugging me so tight? And where's Sandy?" Pony asks, looking bewildered. He and Johnny are sitting on the living room floor, a checkerboard between the two of them. Neither of them look injured in the slightest.
"I thought the Socs had gotten ahold of you!" Soda exclaims, so exuberant that he knocks the checkerboard askew. "I saw some big Soc downtown with your jacket, and Darry and Steve and I have been all over town looking for you—"
Pony looks puzzled for a few seconds until a look of comprehension dawns on his face.
"Aw, heck," he sighs. "I'm sorry, Soda. I didn't mean to scare you. That's just a guy from school. He gave me a little trouble after dismissal today, but I ran off before he could do anything to me. I guess I left my jacket on the bleachers, though, and he must've grabbed it."
"That's alright, Pony," Soda tells him lovingly. "I'm just glad you're okay."
"It's not alright," Darry snaps suddenly. "Don't tell him that, Soda."
The ice in his voice makes me take a reflexive step back. Across the room, Johnny flinches and Pony stiffens.
"What the hell were you thinking, Ponyboy?" Darry continues, his voice rising to near a shout as he steps forward.
"Me? How is this my fault?" Pony asks, his shoulders hunched defensively. "The guy at school wasn't a big deal; I handled it. And then I came home ages before my curfew, because Johnny's dad was outside hollering and looking for him. We've been here the whole time! I didn't do anything wrong!"
"You didn't tell Soda and I that some Soc took your jacket. If you had, we wouldn't have been worried that you were half-dead in a ditch somewhere—"
"I didn't know he took my jacket!" Ponyboy protests, jumping to his feet. He and Darry are standing toe-to-toe, Soda looking between the two of them with a stricken expression.
"That's because you don't use your head! You don't pay attention and you don't think, and then Soda and I have to go around having a heart attack because we don't know where you are or what's wrong with you!"
I suppose I have to amend my earlier assessment of Darry's character. Darry doesn't let anything or anyone get to him—except Pony, apparently.
Stupid Ponyboy. Always the exception to the rule. Always making everyone crazy over him.
And now Pony has the nerve to go mouthing off to his older brothers after they'd spent all that time worrying about him!
"I can never do anything right, can I?" Pony snaps indignantly. "No matter what; you're always going to get mad and blame me—"
"Go to your room. Now," Darry says coldly, pointing up the stairs. "And don't make any plans for this weekend. You aren't leaving this house except for school."
Pony looks like he's about to start yelling, but Soda puts a hand on his arm and looks at him with a pleading expression.
Pony storms off mutely, stomping up the stairs, the lines of his body taut with fury. After a beat, Soda follows him.
Darry turns around and stalks off in the opposite direction, heading out to the porch to brood. When the front door slams behind him, I'm suddenly reminded of my own older brother, George, who'd taken off after a bad fight with our dad one night five years ago and never returned.
George would be around Darry's age, and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself to think about what my brother might be doing now. I wonder if George is still alive somewhere, or if he'd died young in an accident or a fight. I wonder if George ever thinks about me and worries about how I'm coping with Dad's rages and Mom's death.
Most of all, I wonder if George ever regrets not bringing me with him when he left, or if he just hadn't cared all that much about his kid brother.
If Pony or Soda ever went missing, I find myself thinking bitterly, Darry would travel from here to Siberia and back to find them.
Meanwhile, it's been nearly six years since I've last seen or heard from George.
Upstairs, Ponyboy slams his bedroom door shut, no doubt as a method to communicate his annoyance with his brother.
I suddenly find myself itching to hit something—to scream and shout until my throat feels raw. I settle for flopping onto the couch next to Johnny and lighting a cigarette.
Stupid kid, I think, puffing sharply on a Kool and glaring in the direction of Ponyboy's bedroom. He doesn't know how good he has it.