+1 Ponyboy

When I step out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I have only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and the fact that Darry is probably going to kill me.

It's early winter, and I keep forgetting how early the sun sets nowadays. The golden twilight air is still warm on my face when I push open the back door of the theater, but the rest of my body is instantly chilled, indicating that night is falling fast.

I slip out of the building, take one look at the sky, and break into a jog. If I miss my new curfew, it'll be a long time before I'll get to see another movie again.

Stupid new curfew.

I'm still not sure why Darry had suddenly decided that I'm so incompetent that I can't be trusted out alone after dark, but that had been his most recent edict as head of the house.

But I'm trying not to fight with him because I know it bugs Soda. So I push down my simmering irritation as I duck into a side alley. Months of vigilance about Bob Sheldon have taught me to avoid the main roads, and I make it to my neighborhood without encountering any Socs.

Although…maybe my days of constantly looking over my shoulder and flinching at my own shadow are over, because Bob Sheldon has left me alone for the past week and a half. Like…completely alone, as though I've suddenly become invisible. He doesn't corner me in the halls anymore, or rip up my assignments, or shove me against the lockers in the locker room to add another bruise to my growing collection. He doesn't even look at me.

I tell myself that it's because he's gotten tired of bugging me, like I'd told Johnny. He's realized that I'm not going to break down and give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's getting to me, and he's moved on to the next thing.

That has to be it. It's the only explanation.

It feels a little odd, though. A little anticlimactic. Not that I want some dramatic rumble or showdown by any means. But a little part of me can't help but worry that this might just be the calm before the storm, and that I shouldn't get too relaxed or comfortable.

Ha! And Darry always complains that I'm not using my head. Well, here I am thinking plenty about ways to avoid Bob Sheldon.

I'm in such a rush to get home that I don't notice the unfamiliar car parked in front of our house at first. Hurrying up the front walk, I glance at the sky again and figure that I've probably made it back in enough time to avoid getting grounded. Which is good, because Dally and Two-Bit had been talking about going to the drive-in to see a movie tonight. Even though I've already seen one film today, I'll never turn down the chance to see another. Johnny will probably come too, and he's a great person to discuss movies with. He always has interesting ideas about the cinematography and the colors and the lighting in movies. He's a visual thinker in a way that I can't quite comprehend.

I'm halfway up the porch steps, half-thinking about the Paul Newman movie and half-wondering about what they'll play tonight at the drive-in, when it hits me that I can hear an unfamiliar male voice emanating from our front room.

My daydreams instantly fade and I freeze in place, my blood running cold.

An unfamiliar adult at our house can only mean one thing nowadays: a social worker is here.

Memories of that terrible night last year automatically flood back.

The doorbell had chimed at 10 PM, oddly late for company to be calling. Soda had been the one to answer it, and I had known something was really wrong from the serious look on his face when he burst into the kitchen and told Darry that the police were here.

Darry had gone out to talk to them, and a young woman had walked into the kitchen, where Soda and I sat huddled together at the table.

"Hi, boys," the woman had said, speaking to us softly, like we were injured wild animals that might lash out at any second. "My name is Susan Langley. I'm with Child Protective Services."

And that had been the moment I knew that life would never, ever be the same again.

Ever since then, the social workers have been a near-constant presence in our lives, a swirling vortex periodically sweeping through our household. Some of them are nice, some of them seem like self-righteous do-gooders, and some don't care at all. Some of them look at our threadbare couch and sparse cupboards with pity; others look with judgment and disdain. It doesn't matter to me. I mistrust them all on principle, no matter their temperament, because they have the ability to take me away from my brothers and my home.

I creep up the porch steps, crouching beneath the window so that I can eavesdrop on the conversation, frantically wracking my mind to try and recall the state of the house. We'd done a decent job of tidying up on Sunday, but it's Friday now, and it's been a busy week. I'm pretty sure I hadn't remembered to put away the clean laundry, and Soda always procrastinates on taking out the garbage. Steve's been staying over again, so some of his stuff might be strewn around the living room.

"...when does the school year end?" The unfamiliar voice asks.

"I believe it's the first week of June, Dr. Martin," Darry says, using the same polite, careful tone he always employs on adults who come around asking about me and Soda.

I can tell from the orientation of the voices that Darry is sitting close to me on the couch, and the visitor is sitting in the recliner. I decide to risk taking a quick peek, trusting that Darry will have his back to me and won't notice me.

The man on our chair is unfamiliar, as I'd expected. He's older than most of the other social workers, in his mid-forties or maybe even early fifties. He's dressed nicely, too, in a tweed jacket with a bow-tie. And what had Darry said about the guy being a doctor?

I observe him for a few seconds and then drop back down, not wanting to risk being seen. I chew on my lower lip, a horrible suspicion forming in my mind.

If they're talking about the end of the school year, then they're discussing me, specifically. Soda doesn't go to school anymore, after all.

"Excellent," Dr. Martin says. "We could take your brother on June 15. You'd have to put him on the bus to Dallas, of course, but we'd send someone to pick him up at the depot."

"And—and the whole thing would really be paid for by a scholarship?" Darry asks, his inflection hopeful.

"Yes, with Ponyboy's record, he's sure to be accepted into the program. He'll fit in well. The children live in dormitories, and they get a nice balance of instruction and socialization—"

The words begin to fade in and out as realization dawns on me. My body is somehow hot and cold at the same time, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get a deep breath to fill my lungs. The world seems to go thick and blurry around me, like I'm at the bottom of a deep pool, paddling frantically for the surface but making no progress.

He's sending me away.

Darry is sending me away.

He doesn't want me anymore.

I stagger to my feet. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but I'm sure as hell not going to stick around here while people casually discuss me like I'm a nuisance that needs to be shipped away to an orphanage.

I backpedal across the porch, awkward and shaky as a newborn foal. Unfortunately, in my haste to get away, I'm careless. I put all my weight on a loose floorboard, and it lets out an obnoxious creak.

"Ponyboy!" Darry calls. "Is that you?"

I remain frozen in place, as though my feet have been glued to the porch. Darry comes to the doorway. I'm expecting him to be angry, or perhaps alarmed that I might've overheard his conversation, but his expression is oddly relaxed.

"Good, you're here. Come inside; there's someone I want you to meet."

Dr. Martin stands and comes to the door, waving and opening his mouth as though he's going to cheerfully greet me, and I—

I vault off the porch steps and take off as fast as I can, ignoring Darry's bewildered shout behind me.

"Ponyboy, what the—get back here!"

I glance over my shoulder a minute later and see him in the distance, trying to chase me down, so I duck into an alleyway and keep running. Darry is fast, but he's more muscular and built for sprinting, not long-distance running like me. I'm confident I can lose him if I keep moving for long enough, so that's what I do, switching directions every now and then, weaving through alleys, grateful for the now-complete darkness that's fallen around me.

I begin to slow down as I near a park that's about two miles away from our house.

But the second I stop running, my mind kicks into overdrive.

I imagine myself locked up at some dark, grimy institution in Dallas, far away from Soda and Johnny and this park and all the familiar streets of Tulsa. My eyes burn with traitorous tears, and I try to pretend that I'm panting from exertion, but my ragged breaths are coming from such a deep place in my chest that I know they're actually sobs.

I duck inside one of the tubes that connect the different areas of the playground equipment, feeling another wave of shame wash over me as I contemplate the fact that I'm basically acting like a five-year-old.

But god, it hurts, and I don't know what to do besides curl up and hide away and bawl my eyes out.

It hurts almost as badly as losing Mom and Dad, but in a different way.

At least their deaths had been a random stroke of bad luck—wrong place, wrong time. Stormy weather, an old car, and a slippery road. They hadn't wanted to leave us behind. They'd been wrenched away in the blink of an eye. I know—I've always known—that they loved me and wanted to look after me.

But for someone—for my brother—to get rid of me—

To talk in that excited tone about sending me off and not having to pay for my care—

It feels like a knife to the chest.

But the worst thing is, I shouldn't even be surprised. Isn't this what I've been afraid of this whole time? That Darry would realize having custody of me was too much work? That he'd decide that he had to give up too much of his own life and his own dreams to be my guardian for the next four years?

And, in my fear—in my desperation to know what his limits were—hadn't I pushed him to this point?

I'd argued with him at every turn. When he'd lectured me about coming home on time and doing my homework, I'd rolled my eyes and given him an attitude. Soda had pleaded with me to stop needling him, but I hadn't.

And in the end, it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'd worried about Darry resenting me, so I'd made him resent me.

I roll onto my side in the tube, miserably noting how my nose is all stuffed up from bawling. I wish Soda was here. God, I wish Darry was here. Soda has always been good at making me laugh and cheering me up, but there's something about Darry's quiet solidness that has always comforted me.

I suddenly remember being five or six and crawling into bed with Darry during a thunderstorm. He'd held his hands over my ears for nearly an hour without complaint, shielding me from the booming claps of thunder.

How had things gone so wrong between us?

Is there any way I can fix it? From Darry and Dr. Martin's conversation, it sounds like I won't leave for the boys' home until June—seven months away from now. That's practically an eternity. Maybe if I'm on my best behavior—if I never talk back, if I get straight As, if I come home straight after school every day and start doing more chores—

But…aren't we already past the point of no return?

Can there really be any solution to the gaping chasm between us, at this point? Now that Darry has articulated his desire to send me away, is there really anything left to say?

Maybe Johnny and I can run away together. Dally has lots of hideouts in the backcountry. Maybe he'll hook us up with some cash and supplies, and the two of us can escape and start a new life. We're both young, sure, but we're strong enough to find jobs. I abhor the idea of dropping out of school, but maybe if we work for a few years, I can study at night and keep up with the school curriculum.

As I drift off to sleep, cold and miserable, I imagine Johnny and I sitting in a freight train car together, watching golden fields flash by.

The next time I wake up, it's late and I'm freezing.

I can tell by the night sky that it's at least midnight, if not later. My teeth are chattering, and my toes have long gone numb. I don't think I'll die or anything if I stay out here, but I figure I might as well at least try to find Johnny and see where he's staying. I know he sleeps outside sometimes, so maybe he's got a nice warm hideaway somewhere.

Besides, he's not as invested in this stuff as Soda is. Maybe I can vent to him and get his opinion.

I begin the long walk across the park, zipping my jacket up as high as it can go and burrowing into it. The night is quiet, besides the distant hum of traffic and the sound of drunk teenagers laughing nearby. My breath comes out as bright puffs of fog in the chilly air.

Perhaps that's what gives my position away.

All of a sudden, I realize that the teenagers are a lot closer than I'd originally thought. My heart drops when I hear one of them shout, "Greaser at 12 o'clock!"

A greaser would never be hollering something like that. These are Soc kids.

And I have a bad feeling that I know which particular Soc kids had decided to come to our side of town to pick a fight at midnight on a Friday.

I break into a run, but so do they. I'm faster than all of them, especially since they're drunk and I'm sober, but there's—I quickly take a mental tally as I sprint towards Two-Bit's street—five of them, and only one of me.

These guys must be on the football team, because they approach me like they're running a play. Bob is the quarterback, of course, hollering for his friends to grab me. They come at me from all sides, and I have to slow down in order to duck and dodge and switch direction.

"Let's finish this now, Greaser!" Bob roars. Whatever strange force had been holding him back from bothering me this past week seems to have disappeared now that he's drunk.

I ignore him and keep sprinting for my life. I get pretty near the edge of the park, right by the fountain, when one of them snags the sleeve of my jacket and holds on tight. I try to wrench my arm away, but the two of us go down in a tangle of limbs. I buck and start throwing punches, but another Soc jumps into the fray and manages to punch the side of my head. It doesn't hurt much yet, probably because of the adrenaline, but I freeze for a few seconds, reeling with shock, and they manage to pin me. They hold my limbs in place, and I watch with mounting trepidation as Bob strolls close, his eyes gleaming.

All I can think about is how Johnny had looked when we found him last year—how his nose had been bloody and slightly misaligned, and how he'd favored his ribs for weeks afterwards. How his eyes had never quite lost that scared, panicked look.

"Well, well, well," Bob drawls. "Look what we caught ourselves, boys. What do you think we should do with him?"

"Go fuck yourself, Bob," I spit out, proud that my voice barely shakes.

"Such a filthy mouth," Bob chuckles. He abruptly smashes the bottom of his beer bottle, advancing towards me with the jagged edges of glass pointed in my direction. "It'd be a shame if something happened to it, wouldn't it, Ponyboy?"

I know I shouldn't show my fear, since that seems to be what fuels Bob's perverse desire to beat me up. But pure human instinct has me frantically shifting and trying to pull away as Bob comes closer.

"You know," he says, and the way his eyes rake over me makes me want to puke. "I think this little greaser could use a bath first, before we start with the fun. What do you think, boys? Should we wash that grease out of his hair?"

I turn to Bob's right-hand man, a junior named Randy. He'd done a science project with Sodapop once, and I'd sat with the two of them in the school library for hours while they researched the life cycle of frogs.

"You don't have to do this," I say. "Why the hell are you listening to him? I didn't do anything to bother Cherry, and you know it!"

For a second, I see a flash of uncertainty in Randy's eyes. But my words clearly aren't enough to make him turn on his friends. In fact, he's the one who grabs me by the scruff of my neck and unceremoniously dunks me in the fountain.

While they drown me in the fountain, I find myself thinking about Soda's horse, Mickey Mouse, and how Soda still sometimes gets a sad, broken look on his face when he sees a pony. I wonder if Mickey Mouse is still alive, and if he's having a good life.

I wonder if Soda will ever recover if I die here.

My heart pounds furiously in my chest, fighting a losing battle to keep me alive. Just as dark spots begin blooming across my vision, I feel a strong hand grab me by the collar and yank me upwards.

The cold air hits my face like a punch, and I hear someone letting out a horrible choking noise. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that it's me gasping and coughing for breath.

It takes a few more seconds before my eyes start working again, and I find myself sprawled in front of the fountain in the park. A tall, dark figure is standing in front of me, fighting several Socs at once and preventing any of them from getting close to me.

For a second, I think I'm hallucinating or that I've actually died, because the figure looks a lot like my dad.

But then the figure glances over his shoulder at me. "Alright, Pony?" Darry shouts, before immediately whipping around to punch David, one of Bob's cronies, in the nose. David drops like a sack of potatoes, out cold.

I try to say something, but a strangled noise is all that comes out. Darry doesn't have time to talk right now, anyway, since it's currently four on one.

I see Bob's broken bottle from earlier on the ground near my foot, and I grab it and unsteadily climb to my feet, launching myself at Randy. I'm pretty shaky and weak, but I have the element of surprise on my behalf. Randy topples over, and I land on top of him. We tussle momentarily, but I manage to smack him with the blunt end of the bottle. I feel a little bad for knocking him out, but he'd almost just killed me, so I don't waste too much time worrying about it.

I launch myself at another one—I'm not sure what his name is, and I don't particularly care. He manages to elbow me in the cheek, but I bring my knee up between his legs as hard as I can, and he promptly topples over, moaning and curling up into a ball.

By this point, Darry has already taken down the other nameless Soc. It's just him and

Bob left standing, and I watch as Darry ducks a punch and then lands a right hook on Bob's jaw.

"I warned you, Sheldon!" He roars, punching Bob again. "I told you what would happen if you came near him, didn't I?"

Bob staggers and falls backwards, and I frown in confusion. As far as I know, Bob and Darry have never met before.

I've never seen Darry quite this angry before, either. He's always so cool and collected during rumbles. By this point, Bob is laid out flat, and Darry just keeps whaling on him.

"Darry," I say, my voice shaking. "Stop it. You're gonna kill him!"

"He deserves it, Pony," Darry snarls, but he lets Bob drop. We both know that if anyone gets seriously hurt, the Greasers will always be blamed over the Socs, even though we're clearly outnumbered and acting in self-defense.

"You okay?" Darry asks.

I don't even know what to say after everything that's transpired tonight, so I just settle for nodding mutely. We turn and hurry away, leaving a trail of downed Socs in our wake.

We walk home in silence.

My mind is buzzing with a million different thoughts, but I'm so exhausted and overwhelmed that none of them go very far. And no matter how many times I add up the events of the evening, I can't get them to make sense.

Darry is going to send me away.

But Darry had saved my life and nearly killed Bob Sheldon for hurting me.

In the present, Darry guides me up the porch steps with a hand on my back. Uncharacteristically, the house is empty. Everyone else must still be out looking for me, I realize with a flash of guilt.

"Alright, little buddy, let's get you cleaned up, okay?" Darry says, his voice unusually gentle.

He's never called me "little buddy" before. That's always been his nickname for Soda.

It's all too much. I flinch violently away from his hand and hurry up the stairs. I burst into my room, ignoring the way my bruised limbs scream at me with pain. I grab my backpack and start shoving clothes and books inside of it.

"Pony?" Darry says. He's leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, frowning at me as though I'm a particularly difficult word in a crossword puzzle. "You know, this whole running away thing is getting a little old."

His tone is light, like he's trying very hard not to provoke me into taking off again.

"Is it really running away if you're not wanted?" I mutter under my breath, grabbing a framed picture of me and Soda that sits on the bookshelf, ignoring how my chest twists with emotion as I shove it into my bag.

Darry stares at me. "Ponyboy Michael Curtis. What did you just say?"

"Nothing," I say curtly. "I'll just be getting out of your hair now. Please move."

Darry's eyebrows look like they're about to jump off his forehead and join his hairline. He's blocking the doorway.

"No," he says. "Absolutely not. You're changing into dry clothes and then going straight to bed."

"You don't get to do that!" I shout, startling even myself with how my voice rises in volume. I start feeling panicked and trapped. "You don't get to just—order me around like that! Not after—" I cut myself off before I can say anything I regret.

But Darry knows me too well. "Not after what, Ponyboy? What's going on with you? You gotta help me out here." He rakes a hand through his hair, something he only does when he's feeling anxious.

I turn away, wondering if I can escape out the bedroom window, only to freeze in place when Darry's hand lands on my shoulder.

"Please, Pony," he says softly, his expression pleading. "Just talk to me. Whatever it is, I'll help you."

"No, you won't!" I yell before I can stop myself. "You won't help me with anything, because you're kicking me out!"

Darry frowns, looking genuinely confused. "What?"

I cringe. I hadn't meant to say any of this. But…in for a penny, in for a pound, as Mom used to always say—

"I know, okay? I heard you talking to that—that doctor guy about sending me away!" I snap, embarrassed to hear a hint of tears in my voice.

There's a beat of silence, and then Darry lets out an incredulous laugh. "Oh, Pony. Pony. That's what this is all about?"

"What—like it's not a big deal? Easy for you to say."

"No," Darry says firmly. "No. You're misunderstanding me. Sit." He pushes me towards the bed, and I know that I should get up and leave before my resolve weakens, but I don't have the strength to remain standing.

I expect him to sit next to me, but he surprises me by crouching in front of me, which makes me feel even more like a whiny little kid being lectured by a grown-up.

"That man from earlier," Darry says, every word slow and measured, as though he's a lawyer trying to make his case to me, "is one of Mom and Dad's old friends. Walter Martin. He grew up in the neighborhood and moved to Dallas ages ago, when you were really little. He's an English professor at the University of Dallas."

"Okay," I mutter, feeling embarrassed by Darry's scrutiny. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Because, Ponyboy. He's a professor, not the administrator of some boys' home. The university runs a summer camp for gifted high school students, and he was telling me that you should apply for it."

"He—what? Really?"

Darry nods. "That's all, Pony. I was excited to introduce you to him so that he could tell you about it."

I wonder for a second if this is all just some lie to make me feel better—but why would Darry bother to lie to spare my feelings if he'd really decided to send me away for good?

"Oh," I mumble, picking at a thread on my damp shirt.

"Yeah. Oh," Darry snorts.

We fall quiet for a few minutes. To give myself something to do, I grab a dry set of clothes and duck behind the closet door to change. I've chosen one of Soda's old flannel shirts and a soft pair of pants. It's not pajamas, in case I need to make a quick getaway, but it's comfortable enough to sleep in.

I ponder Darry's words, wondering if it could all really just be a big misunderstanding.

When I emerge from behind the closet door, Darry is standing and looking out the window, a lost expression on his face.

I quickly pad across the room and slide into my half of the bed, rolling over so I don't have to meet my brother's eyes. Half of me prays that he'll just leave and we can forget that any of this ever happened. The other half of me is praying that Darry will say something—anything—to shatter the silence.

My eyes eventually drift shut, and I can feel how exhausted my body is, but sleep seems far away. I jerk when a weight suddenly settles on the edge of the bed.

"Ponyboy," Darry says softly, and I'm startled by how raw his voice sounds. "Honey. Tell me the truth. You really thought I was going to send you away?"

I guess my silence speaks for itself, because Darry pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a long moment, his tired profile silhouetted by the light from the hallway.

"Lordy, Pony," he sighs. "I know I'm awful at this, but I didn't know I was so awful that you thought I'd get rid of you."

"You're not awful," I insist immediately, surprised to find that I actually mean it. "We both know that I'm the problem here, not you."

Darry frowns, shaking his head. "What the hell are you talking about, Pony? You're not making any sense. You're not a problem."

In the darkness, he looks so much like Dad again that it almost steals my breath away. The words suddenly pour out of me like a dam has been broken—the dark, awful truth that has been hiding inside of me for ten months now.

"You're going to end up hating me," I hear myself say quietly. "If you don't already hate me now."

Darry flinches like I've slapped him.

"Hate you? Ponyboy, how could I ever—"

"I'm stealing your life away from you! You could be out, going to college and living a normal life and enjoying being twenty, but instead you're slaving away like a 40-year-old, saddled with a kid who's not your responsibility!"

"Not my responsibility?!" Darry exclaims. "You're my baby brother, Ponyboy. I held you on the day you were born. Don't you see—you and Soda are the only thing I have left! If it weren't for you two—"

He shakes his head, either unable or unwilling to finish the thought.

"I know it's hard for you to understand, because you're the youngest. You'll see when Soda or I have a kid, or when you have one yourself someday. It's not—it's not some awful burden, to look after you, Pony. Not at all. It's—the thought has never once, in a million years, crossed my mind to be angry that I have custody of you. Hell, I would tear the world apart to find you if they tried to take you away from me. I just—I get angry because I'm scared, Ponyboy. Because I want to do right by you, but I don't know what I'm doing. I'm angry with myself, not with you."

The earnestness in his words is unmistakable. A tear spills from his eyes, followed by another, and all I can do is stare dumbly. I haven't seen Darry cry for years, not even at our parents' funeral.

Now here he is, sitting next to me and crying like our troubled relationship hurts him just as much as it hurts me. All of a sudden, a thousand memories crash over me from the past year—Darry, sitting next to me at the funeral, his strong hand on my shoulder the only thing holding me together.

Darry, hiding packs of cigarettes from me, claiming that I wasn't allowed to waste my athletic prowess by giving myself emphysema.

Darry, helping me with algebra at midnight, even though he had to be up in a few hours for a long day of work.

Darry, fearlessly fighting off five Socs to keep me safe.

Darry, trying to figure out a way to send me to a summer camp for gifted kids.

Darry, spooning another helping of vegetables onto my plate at dinner.

Darry, shouting at me for coming home late, his expression pinched and tense, his hands clenched at his sides to hide how they shake—not with anger, perhaps, but with fear.

I suddenly have the feeling that we're standing at a precipice—that if I get up and run away now, I might spend the rest of my lifetime running. Or…I could take a leap of faith, and trust that my brother is telling the truth. That what I've been reading as annoyance and irritation is actually just worry and care. That maybe he doesn't really resent me or think I'm a burden.

Maybe I don't have to keep pushing him to see what his limits are. Maybe he'll still keep me, no matter how awful I am.

It seems impossible, but god, I want it to be true.

I dart forward, hugging Darry so hard and desperately that I practically tackle him. There's a horrible instant where nothing happens, but then his arms wrap around me and tighten, and suddenly we're both crying.

"When I got to the park and saw them drowning you…I thought we lost you, Ponyboy," Darry mutters, his voice choked. "Like we lost Mom and Dad."

"I'm sorry, Darry," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I don't want to fight anymore, honest."

"Me either, little buddy," Darry says. "Me either."

The next thing I know, there are heavy footsteps hurrying up the stairs.

"Pony? Darry?" Soda's voice is calling hopefully. Then the door opens with a bang. I sit up, disoriented, my ribs protesting sharply.

"Oh, thank god!" Soda exclaims from the doorway. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am and what's happening. The sky outside is just beginning to lighten, indicating that it's almost morning. Next to me, Darry sits up too. He'd passed out on Soda's side of the bed a few hours ago.

"Aw, hell," Steve grumbles. "Of course they're here. They've probably been here the whole time, and we wasted all those hours searching for nothing."

Soda just grins and sags against the doorframe, looking beyond relieved.

"Guess I'll go tell everyone else that we're calling off the search party," Steve mutters, turning and stomping down the stairs.

"Are you guys okay?" Soda asks breathlessly. "What on earth happened?"

Darry and I exchange a glance. I expect to feel shy or awkward after everything I'd admitted last night, but it kind of feels like the two of us are sharing an inside joke or something.

"Nothing much," I shrug casually.

"Pony got attacked by some Socs in the park, and I helped him out, is all."

"What?" Soda looks horrified. "Are you okay? Aw, shoot, Pony—looks like they got you on the cheek."

I put a hand up to my left cheek where I'd been elbowed. Sure enough, I can feel that the area is tender and swelling a bit.

"It's okay. It doesn't really hurt."

"Where the hell are those Socs? What are we gonna do about it? Are we gonna have a rumble? And Pony, why'd you run off like that in the first place?" Soda demands, beginning to pace in front of the bed.

"Calm down, little buddy," Darry yawns. "It's a long story, and it's too late to be worrying. Save it for the morning."

Soda blinks at Darry. "Too late for worrying? Who are you, and what have you done with Darry?"

I let out a snort of laughter, and Soda turns his gaze on me. "And you—why are you so…happy?"

I shrug, feeling a little embarrassed.

Soda looks between the two of us, and a hopeful grin suddenly splits his face. "Did the two of you finally have a heart-to-heart, then?" He asks knowingly, kicking off his shoes and tossing his jacket on the floor, something that would normally make Darry sigh and launch into a lecture.

"Yeah," Darry says gruffly. "We talked about how you're more annoying than either of us, so we decided we should stop bickering with each other and start bickering with you instead."

Soda just beams, flinging himself onto the bed next to me. I end up getting shoved into the middle, squished between my two brothers.

"Soda!" I squawk. "This bed is hardly big enough for two of us, let alone three!"

"Deal with it, Pony," Soda says dramatically, flinging an arm over me. It reminds me of when we were kids, and the three of us would squeeze into one tent on our family camping trips. In the end, I can't really find it in myself to be annoyed.

We're quiet for a minute.

"Y'all aren't going to fight anymore?" Soda asks tentatively. I wince. I know it hurts him when Darry and I fight. I don't want to do that to him anymore. Hell, I don't want to do that to Darry and I anymore, either.

Darry and I look at each other, and I see the same determination in his eyes.

"No," we both say in unison.

"Good," Soda sighs. "Because we're all we have left, y'know? We have to stick together."

It's a profound moment, lying in the early dawn with my two brothers and thinking that for the first time since Mom and Dad's death, everything might really be okay.

Of course, Soda promptly ruins the gravity of the situation by rolling over and lapsing into noisy snores.

I admire how quickly he can fall asleep. A million thoughts swirl around my head. We still have to figure out what to do about Bob. Had Darry finally taught him a lesson, or will he continue to bother me? What had Darry meant when he'd said that he'd already warned Bob to stay away from me? Had I ruined my chances of going to summer camp by running away from Dr. Martin? And what will happen the next time Darry and I inevitably disagree about something?

"Pony," Darry mumbles tiredly. "I can hear you worrying from over here. Stop it, okay? We'll figure everything out in the morning."

He reaches over and ruffles my hair, and I feel my eyes close in spite of myself, and to my surprise, I can actually feel my concerns begin to slip away.

We'll figure everything out, Darry had said.

We. Us. Together.

I smile as I drift off to sleep, knowing that my brothers will still be there in the morning.