2. Dallas

I awaken to someone pounding on the door of my room at Buck's.

I sit up and rub my eyes, trying to sort out my memories of the previous night. My ribs hurt, which means I must have fought someone, but what else is new? I feel half-drunk, which must mean that it's still early in the morning. Way too early in the morning for someone to be pounding on the door to my room, unless it's the fuzz.

"I'm packing heat," I yell. "Come back with a warrant!"

The intruder rudely ignores my warning, twisting the door handle expertly so as to unlock it. Only people who have been around Buck Merril's before know that trick. I glare at Darry Curtis as he swings the door wide open, dragging his kid brother behind him. Ponyboy looks a bit worse for wear, covered in scratches and bruises.

"If you're looking for me to play football with you at—" I glance out the window at the sky, "—half past six on a Sunday, you better have brought the preacher along to give you last rites."

Darry rolls his eyes. "It's 8:30; get out of bed. You and my brother need to have a little discussion."

I can't deny that I'm slightly intrigued by this turn of events. The youngest Curtis brother mostly seems scared of me—as he should be. And Darry doesn't trust me much, either. He's never willingly let Ponyboy spend time alone with me before.

"Well, little grease, what do ya have to say to your Uncle Dally?"

Pony grimaces. "Nothing," he mutters sullenly.

Darry lays a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder. "Tell him, Pony," he commands.

Pony shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "Got brought home in a cop car last night."

I let out a delighted whistle. "Hoo-wee! Congrats, kid! First time?"

Darry glares at me. "He was caught brawling with a bunch of kids from school in the park."

"You make it sound worse than it was," Pony complains. "We were just messing around. It wasn't a brawl or a rumble. It was nothing."

"Well, the cops didn't seem to agree with that assessment."

"What are you bringin' him to me for?" I ask. I take a sip from the cup of water next to my bedside, pleased to find that it's actually gin. I take another, longer sip, enjoying the burn as it goes down.

"I want you to tell him what prison is like. Scare him straight," Darry says.

I laugh. "I don't give a shit if your kid brother ends up in prison or not, Curtis. Leave me alone and let me sleep." I flick my blade open, enjoying the way that Ponyboy's eyes widen.

But Darry doesn't take the bait. "Come on, Winston. We both know you don't want to be cellmates with this kid down at the county jail."

Which…is kind of true, now that I come to think of it. First of all, Pony's got that innocent air about him that makes people want to mess with him. I would constantly be beating the thugs and creeps away with a stick, and I'd never have any peace and quiet.

And jeez, the kid would probably watch someone get shanked in the next cell over and recite a poem about it or something.

I take another swig of gin to brace myself.

"Fine," I grunt. "Five minutes."

Darry nods, satisfied. "I'll be waiting outside, Pony."

Pony doesn't respond, other than to glare dolefully at his brother's retreating back.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Dally," Pony says once we're alone. "Darry's just being overbearing, as usual. I'm not fixing to go to jail."

"Then just shut up for five minutes and we can call it a day. Got it?"

Ponyboy nods obediently and lapses into silence. I pull out a handkerchief and begin polishing my blade.

I get to enjoy the quiet for all of thirty seconds before Ponyboy starts talking again.

"Say, Dally…"

"No, don't say, Ponyboy. Shut up."

Pony ignores me. "How do you get people to be so scared of you all the time?"

I smirk at that. "Carry a blade and use it. Steal stuff, set stuff on fire. Say horrible things to women. Vandalize cop cars and schools."

Ponyboy's shoulders droop, and he looks defeated. "Shoot. I was hoping it'd involve a bit less crime."

Personally, I think it's about time that the kid faces reality and hardens himself against the world. Still, Pony has always been resistant to crime and fighting, and it's odd that he should suddenly be getting mixed up with the fuzz, especially when we all know Child Protective Services are keeping an eye on him.

"Look, kid. You know I think you should've toughened up years ago. Just try not to do it in a way that gets you taken away from your brothers, you dig?"

Not that I care.

(I'd been an older brother once, but I don't think about that anymore.)

Ponyboy shrugs, trying to seem unconcerned and hard but failing miserably. "Darry's sick of me. He's probably going to send me off to a boys' home soon, anyway."

I roll my eyes, annoyed. What bullshit. If Darry Curtis was sick of his little brother, then why would he go to the trouble of dragging him all the way over here to have me scare him straight?

"Okay. I think it's been five minutes." I wave dismissively. "See you around, kid."

Ponyboy stands. Instead of looking relieved that his time is up, he seems oddly reluctant to leave.

I physically turn my back on Ponyboy to convey that I'm done with the conversation, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it.

"There's this guy at school," Pony says hesitantly. "I think he's the same one who…you know, the Soc with the rings."

I freeze, and then slowly turn around.

Pony is hovering by the door, looking uncertain, as though he's not sure whether telling me had been a misjudgement.

"Talk," I demand. I don't care about the Curtis brothers squabbling, but I sure as hell care about murdering the Soc that hurt Johnny Cade.

Pony hesitantly sits on the edge of the bed.

"It started a few weeks ago. His girlfriend sat next to me at a school assembly, and he didn't like that she talked to me. But she started it! And it wasn't anything romantic! Just talking."

I gesture impatiently for him to continue.

"Anyway, he cornered me after school one day and tried to beat me up, but I ran away before he could get me. Ever since then, I've seen him watching me. He's waiting for another opportunity to try again."

"Which is why you're brawling in the park?"

Ponyboy nods.

"There are some greasers who fight in Cherry Hill Park on Saturday nights. It's just to blow off some steam and to practice for rumbles. Darry and Soda always warned me to stay away from there, but I figure that I need all the training I can get."

"Right," I say, making up my mind in a split second. I've been to Cherry Hill Park plenty of times, and those fuckers wouldn't know their heads from their asses in a fight. "Congratulations; I'm your trainer now. Bring Johnny and meet me in the lot tonight at 7, got it? And if you say a single word to your brothers—"

"I won't," Ponyboy vows hastily. "They're the last people I want knowing about this."

"Now get out," I snarl through gritted teeth, at my limit. Thinking about finding Johnny in that condition riles me up—makes me want to go out and fight the whole world.

Ponyboy quickly stumbles to his feet and hightails it out of the room, appropriately intimidated.

I grab my blade and flick it open, going to stand by the window to finish my cigarette. I survey the town in the distance, trying to decide what I want to do to get back at the universe today. Rob a convenience store at knifepoint? Go bother some girls at the movies until they cry? Find a gang of Socs and pick a fight?

I'm envisioning how satisfying it will be to smash my knuckles into the nose of some smug, madras-clad jock when I notice Darry and Ponyboy walking over to Mr. Curtis's old pick-up truck, parked next to Buck's car.

Their body language is stiff and stilted—they're both mad at each other.

But when Ponyboy trips—probably over his old tennis shoes, which are several sizes too small and riddled with holes—I see Darry's arm automatically shoot out to catch him and prevent him from faceplanting.

They both pause for a second, and then Ponyboy tentatively says something—probably a thank-you—and Darry ruffles his little brother's hair, and for a moment the tension seems to fade out of both of them, and the way they grin at each other abruptly reminds me of things that I never want to think about again—of someone whose hair I'd once messed up like that—

Suddenly enraged, I aim a sharp kick at the wooden dresser, satisfied when my whole foot throbs in protest. I rifle through all the drawers, not caring about the mess I'm making, until I find my lighter. Fighting and stealing isn't good enough, I decide, allowing the anger to flow through me.

I'm going to go find an old house and burn it down. And as the flames grow around me and my skin feels like it might just melt off, I'll be as hard and tough as they come.

Anger is good. Anger is easy.

Anger means I don't have to remember.