Chapter 5

No. That ain't right. Where's Mom?

I tried to snuggle down. I was freezing.

Don't – don't – Dad?

Why don't he shut up? Why's the bed so hard?

Sodapop!

I wish Pony would stop shut up. I'm trying to sleep. Why is he so loud?

Ponyboy.

I sat up abruptly. I was on a hard, wooden, dusty floor in an old abandoned church on top of some hill the locals thought was a mountain. Ponyboy was a few feet to my left, thrashing around and moaning. As I reached out to him, he drew a deep breath and let out a blood-curdling scream. Johnny was startled out of the pew he was sleeping in and he hit the floor with a thump.

I scooted over the few feet and pulled my little brother into my arms. I gave him a gentle shake. "Pony! Ponyboy, wake up, you're dreaming."

He opened his eyes, shivering, and looked at me, then ducked his head into the crook of my arm. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "I dreamed Johnny killed a Soc."

I hugged him tightly. "No dream, honey," I said in a choked voice.

He looked around then, taking in the dimly-lit room and me in Darry's ripped sweater, with Johnny looking wide-eyed at him. I could see the memory flooding back into him. He took a deep, shuddering breath and I think if Johnny hadn't been sitting there, he'd have burst into tears. His grip on my arm tightened.

"Darry hit me," he moaned.

"Shh," I soothed. "I know. It's all right."

I rocked him. I didn't know what else to do; this was Soda's job, and when the dreams were bad, Soda was usually the only one who could calm him. I rocked him quietly, stroking his hair, until his grip on me relaxed and his breathing deepened.

I eased him out of my lap. "He's asleep," I mouthed to Johnny.

He jerked a thumb toward the door. I got up and followed him, wishing I had something to cover my brother with.

Johnny was leaning against a tree, smoking. "He always do that?"

"Not so much anymore," I said. "But every night when our parents died. Now just when he's really upset."

The night of Mom and Dad's funeral, Pony had woken the whole house screaming his head off, not words, just a long, terrified shriek. We asked what the dream was about and he wailed, "I don't know! I don't know!" and cried on Soda's shoulder like his heart was broken. Of course, it was broken – all our hearts were. We all cried a lot that first couple of weeks, except for Darry. The dream came back, night after night, and he could never remember what it was about. Soda started sleeping with him, and that seemed to help, but Soda also said Pony still sometimes trembled so bad it woke him up. Darry even took him to the doctor, who said something about Pony's overactive imagination. I had a feeling whatever he was dreaming about was all too real.

Johnny stubbed out his cancer stick. "That's some loud shit, Cinny."

"It's scary," I agreed. "But don't tell him. He'll be embarrassed to death." Pony already hated being the youngest member of the gang.

Johnny cocked his head at me. "Wanna come for a walk with me? Dally said there's a store down the road, and we should get some supplies now, before the story's in the paper."

"Sure," I said. "But Pony'll worry."

"Wait here." Johnny crept back into the church, left a note in the dust by Pony's nose, and we were off.

It was a beautiful morning. We walked along in silence for a little bit and then I felt Johnny looking at me. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Something."

He took a deep breath. "You sure are pretty, Cinnamon."

I stopped and stared at him. I was dusty and unshowered and in my brothers' and Dally's old clothes.

"What?" he teased. "Ain't I allowed to say my girl's pretty?"

"Your girl?" I echoed.

He smiled gently. "Sure, Cinny. Ain't you always been?"

And he was right. Johnny held out his hand. I took it, and we walked along in silence. For a few moments my heart was singing, dead Socs and electric chairs and fugitives be damned. Johnny's girl.

Johnny really was the nicest boy I knew. Sometimes, when your parents are mean to you, the sweet gets smacked out of you. It'd happened to Dally, and to a lesser extent, to Steve. But Johnny was just looking for someone to love him, and I had loved him for as long as I could remember. I just didn't know it was the in-love kind of love until the last couple of months.

The Windrixville General Store was right where Dally said it would be. They had everything you could imagine. Johnny headed off to get food – bread, baloney, sodas, apples, cheese – and I came back with toilet paper, matches, a bar of soap, a comb, a bottle of shampoo and a deck of cards. We each added little trinkets to the cart as we made our way to the cashier. I found a blanket, half-off because it was frayed on the ends, and at the last minute, Johnny grabbed a copy of Gone with the Wind.

I cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Pony always wanted to read it," he said.

"I know."

"Maybe we could take turns, pass the time." He tossed into the cart where it came to rest next to a bottle of peroxide. I stared at it, then added a baseball cap and some bobby pins to the cart.

We'd started back down the road when I said suddenly, "Johnny, wait, I forgot something." I sprinted back into the store and bought a razor, using the crumpled dollar left over from last night. I wasn't all that sure I'd actually shave my legs at that old rusty pump in back of church, but that was what the money was for. I missed Sodapop already. I bet he was worried. I wish I could tell him we were all right.

Pony was up when we got back to the church. We unpacked the bags and I was making us a breakfast of apples and baloney sandwiches when Pony saw the peroxide.

Johnny pulled out his knife. "We're gonna cut our hair, and bleach yours and Cinny's."

"You're not bleaching my hair," I said. "I'll look like one of those cheap girls down at the Dingo."

"Our descriptions will be in the paper and we can't fit 'em," he said.

I figured this out as soon as I'd seen the bottle of peroxide. I took the baseball cap and the bobby pins and fixed my shoulder-length hair up under the hat. I ran my finger through the soot in the bottom of an old woodstove and painted my bangs with it, and then I tore up one of the paper sacks and stuffed it down the front of my jeans.

"Ta-da!" I said. "It's a boy!"

Pony was howling. It was good to see him laugh, but he quit right quick when he saw Johnny still holding the bottle of peroxide.

I headed for the door. They could fight amongst themselves. "I'm going to find some firewood. Maybe we can get that stove going so we don't freeze to death tonight."

I stayed gone as long as I could, taking my time. I didn't want to watch the great hair massacre. I'm not sure why. It's only hair, but it was one of the few things we had that didn't cost money. When I got back, I had to look twice at my little brother.

"I know," he mumbled.

"No, it's not so bad," I began, but he cut me off.

"No, it sucks," he said fiercely, taking the wood away from me and stacking it by the old stove. "It's like being in a Halloween costume you can't get out of."

Tears were running down his face. I put my hand on his shoulder but he shook me off. "Quit it, Cinny, I ain't a baby. I'll be all right."

I went back outside. Johnny was sitting by the pump, shivering because of his wet hair. His hair was short and ragged. "How's the kid?" he asked.

"He'll be all right," I answered, not at all sure it was true.

"I bet your brothers are worried."

"I bet Soda is."

Johnny gave me a sharp look. I leaned against him, sniffling, and we sat that way for a long time.