Johnny's P.O.V.
I didn't know if Pony was alive or what. He was just laying there all still. The soc wasn't alive, not anymore.
All the others had run off. I didn't know if they were the same ones that beat me up that time, only this one with the rings. He was the only one I was sure about.
Maybe the cops were on their way. I bet those socs went straight to 'em. It made me feel cold. Jail. Electric chair. But what the hell, I deserved it. Deserved all that and worse.
Pony was so still. Soaking wet, laying on the cement. I couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. Couldn't tell if I was.
I couldn't let go of the switchblade. It was covered with blood, and it had dripped onto my hand. I knew when I bought it I'd use it. I knew it. Cause that's what it's for, ya know? Its purpose, like destiny.
And it was like if I kept holding it, stayed real still, it might be possible to go back, to undo it. Now I was crazy. I felt crazy, sort of.
Pony started coughing up the water, gasping. I flinched at first, at the sudden movement. He lay there, gasping air in and out like a fish suddenly on land, his teeth chattering. I sighed in relief. He was alive.
He pushed himself up and leaned back against the fountain next to me. Water ran down his face, his hair was dripping wet. He turned and looked at me.
"I killed him," I said, "I killed that boy."
x….x……x
Dallas' P.O.V.
I guess I never really thought about it but I used to think I could handle anything.
It didn't matter what it was. My old man giving up on me, getting sent to juvey, getting hauled into the police station. Girls, fights, stealing, drinking, any fucking thing, and I was fine.
The first time this was shaken was four months ago when we found Johnny beaten so badly. I mean, I'd seen worse. I'd seen worse in New York, even a couple of times in Tulsa. But it was different when it was Johnny. Fucking Johnny, man. I wanted to kill those socs. If they had been there I would have torn them apart.
But he was fine. Hurt, shook up, sure. But he was still okay. He'd live. And so I went right back to thinking it, just knowing it, that I could handle anything. Cause life, to me, was sort of a game. For fun. To see what you could get away with, what pleasure you could find. And fuck money. Stealing was easy.
Then I'm at Buck's, laying up after my fight with Shepard and who shows up at three in the morning? Ponyboy and Johnny, and Ponyboy is soaking wet and Johnny just looks spooked.
I don't want to think it's anything too bad, cause for some reason I can't stand it if Johnny's in trouble. So maybe Ponyboy got in a fight with Darry for staying out late bacause Darry is always nagging at that kid, and Johnny's just still with him because he didn't want to go home. Maybe. But it doesn't explain the spooked look.
"Okay, kids, whatta ya need me for?" I say.
"Johnny killed a soc," Ponyboy said, and damn he looked like a scared kid. They both did. Johnny looked down at his sneakers. Ponyboy looked at me with a sort of pleading, like 'please help us'.
And it shook again. Johnny killed someone? Johnny, who never did nothing wrong, ever, who never stole, never did nothing and he does this? Murder? Murder ain't just a few weeks in juvey, murder is a life sentence or the electric chair.
So I get them a hideout up in Windrixville and then I start lying to myself. I tell myself they'll be fine, that the cops won't get 'em, won't find 'em. But also I go along like life's still a game.
x………x…………x
Randy's P.O.V.
I didn't know if Bob recognized that kid, the one with the black hair. Few months ago we'd ganged up on him, beat him up pretty bad. But Bob was shit faced, as usual, and probably didn't remember.
It was freezing, the wind blowing, and Cherry and Marcia were walking on the north side with a bunch of greasers. Unbelievable. But the kid with the black hair was staring at Bob, or more specifically, at his rings. And Bob laughed, drank some whiskey from his nice silver flask.
I thought we'd killed that kid, I really did. He was a bloody mess, barely even conscious when we left, when I finally had to drag Bob off of him. Jumping greasers is fun, it's kicks, but Bob was going to kill him. And the things he was saying, it just went beyond some sort of boundary. I knew it. I felt guilty about that kid.
And here he was with Cherry and Marcia, big fearful eyes, black greasy hair, same old jean jacket he wore before. And I could see him trembling, staring at the heavy gold rings Bob wore. And I saw it completely, one of those little flashes of memory like you're reliving the damn thing. David was holding that kid and Bob was just punching him over and over, in the stomach, in the face. His nose was bleeding, just pouring blood, a gash up on his cheek was bleeding, and he kind of moaned a bit and whimpered and still Bob wouldn't let up.
"Bob!" I had said, grabbing his arm mid swing, "you're going to fucking kill this kid!"