3. Two-Bit

Darry Curtis has $230.42 saved up in a cigar box under the loose floorboard in his bedroom.

I know because I'd tried to lift some of it a few years ago. Darry had caught me and popped me on the jaw so hard that I could barely chew for a week straight.

Fair enough, I'd shrugged genially to myself, rubbing my chin as I walked home after.

Darry had been eighteen at the time, about to graduate high school and frantically trying to scrape some money together so that he could enroll in college. That money had been his life savings, painstakingly accumulated through nearly a decade of paper routes, lawn-mowing, and working odd jobs.

And it still hadn't been enough.

The University of Missouri had offered Darry a decent scholarship to play football, but the school was a five-hour drive away, and Darry couldn't afford room and board on top of the tuition. And he would've needed to buy his own car, too, to make the long drive between Columbia and Tulsa.

He also applied to our local university, the University of Tulsa, but they didn't have a football team—so no scholarship. Darry's big plans were sunk.

He had decided to work for a year or two to save up, but midway through his second year of working and attending community college, Mr. and Mrs. Curtis died in that wreck and Darry abandoned school altogether.

It's been two years, but I haven't forgotten about that money. I don't have any active plans to steal it, but I make it a point to never forget where a stash is hidden. You never know when you'll need some quick cash, after all.

That money comes to the top of my mind one day when I wake up on the Curtises' couch. It's rare for me to stay here overnight—compared to the rest of the gang, my living situation isn't so bad. Sure, the house I share with my mom and my little sister is cramped and tiny, but at least we don't fight with each other.

Today is Soda's day off of work, and he and I had gotten a little carried away last night playing a version of rummy where the loser of the round had to chug a beer. Lucky Soda gets to sleep in, but I have to get up for school. I could ditch, of course, but I am actually aiming to graduate at some point, and besides, I'm a light sleeper. When Darry comes down the stairs at 6 A.M. to get ready for work, I wake up.

I climb to my feet and stretch, wincing at how sour my stomach feels from the beer.

Steve snores obliviously in the recliner across from me, and I'm sure Soda's upstairs blissfully cuddling Ponyboy in his sleep. I contemplate trying to fall back to sleep for another half-hour, but it's no use. Once I'm up, I'm up.

Besides, I can smell coffee brewing in the kitchen.

"Mornin'," I yawn to Darry, who looks up from the skillet where he's cooking eggs.

"Morning," Darry replies, significantly more awake than I feel. It's like Darry had turned twenty and suddenly became a full-grown adult or something. Just a few years ago, he'd gotten so drunk after a football game that he'd puked all over one of the teacher's cars, and I'd had to drag him into the bushes and shush him from giggling and giving himself away. Now he's slicing tomatoes at 6 A.M. and listening to the weather report on the radio.

Ponyboy appears a few minutes later.

"You're up early," Darry remarks.

I don't think he means anything by it, but I see Ponyboy's shoulders tense slightly, as though he's not sure if he should take Darry's comment as some sort of accusation.

He settles for shrugging lightly and helping himself to some of the eggs. "Soda was drooling on me."

"Careful," I grin. "I'm pretty sure he has fleas, too."

Ponyboy smiles and takes the seat next to mine. I finish eating and pass the time by telling a story about how I'd gotten detention for "accidentally" freeing the frogs we were supposed to dissect in biology class. Ponyboy eats and laughs in the appropriate places, and Darry is silent, sipping coffee and frowning as he flips through a stack of bills.

Steve wanders in after a while. "Can I finish this?" He asks, scratching his stomach and pointing at the skillet.

"Save some for Soda," Darry replies, not looking up from the water bill.

I frown at him. "But you didn't eat any."

Darry shrugs. "Not hungry."

I give him a skeptical look. Darry roofs houses for a living; he's always hungry. His job requires an immense amount of stamina and energy.

Darry stands. "I gotta go shave," he mutters, seeming eager to leave the room.

I frown, glancing between the bathroom door and the stack of bills on the table, a vague suspicion forming in my mind.

The next night, Darry doesn't eat dinner.

He goes about it in a smart way. He cooks chicken and mashed potatoes with a side of green beans for the gang and then announces that he's heading to the gym.

"Want us to save you a plate for later?" Soda asks.

"Nah, I already ate my portion while I was cooking," Darry says casually.

No one seems to think twice about this comment except for me, because I'm already suspicious. Why would someone eat a heavy meal of meat and potatoes right before going to work out? It doesn't make any sense.

I bide my time and wait until Darry has settled in the kitchen later that night with his newspaper and a cup of tea. Soda and Pony are upstairs working on some chores—Darry had mentioned that the bathroom needed cleaning and the laundry needed folding. Under Darry's watchful eye, they keep the place even cleaner now than they had when Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were still alive.

Then again, I suppose nobody had to worry about social workers showing up unannounced when Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were around.

"How come you ain't eating?" I ask with no preamble. Darry is a measured guy; he likes to take his time to think and plan things out. I want to surprise him into giving an honest answer.

"None of your business, Mathews."

I press a little further. "Is it about money? 'Cause I thought you had a lot saved up in that old cigar box."

There's a beat of silence before Darry speaks again.

"Funerals and headstones ain't cheap, Two-Bit," he says flatly, turning the page of his paper with more force than usual. "And feeding two growing teenage boys ain't cheap either."

I feel a rare stab of guilt, thinking about all the times that I've helped myself to chocolate cake and eggs and sandwiches at the Curtises' house this past year.

"So…is it pretty bad?" I ask. I've had part-time jobs before, but I've always gotten fired for being too lazy or for stealing. Still, if it means helping out the Curtises, I'd be willing to give it another try.

I half-expect Darry to tell me to mind my own business again, but he sighs and puts the paper down.

"It's normally manageable, between my income and Soda's. This is just a tight month. We've been having to turn the heat on at night, which runs up the gas bill. Plus, it's Pony's birthday next week, and he really needs some new shoes."

I nod, surprised that Darry is actually confiding in me. In fact, he seems a little relieved as the words pour out of his mouth. It must be a heavy burden for him to bear, trying to keep all of this to himself all the time.

"I found these really good shoes at the department store, but…they cost $20."

I let out a low whistle. $20 is how much Socs spend on their shoes; not greasers.

"Shoot, what, are they plated in solid gold or something?" I ask.

Darry rolls his eyes. "Ponyboy needs good shoes, Two-Bit. He has a real shot at getting a track scholarship someday, but he's not going to get very far if he injures himself or comes in last place because his shoes are falling off his feet."

I can see the pride and determination in Darry's eyes. He's going to get these shoes for Ponyboy, come hell or high water. I get it. My kid sister Lillian is real good at playing the piano, and there have been a few times when Mama and I have cut back in order to pay for her lessons and music books.

"Alrighty," I say. "I'll talk to the gang. See if they can chip in a little bit."

Darry doesn't look too enthused or optimistic about the idea, but he doesn't try to deter me. We both know that the gang isn't exactly flush with cash, but I have to try something. I contemplate just stealing the shoes, but I'd recently heard that the department store installed some sort of security camera.

So the next morning, I break into the activities closet at school and steal two of the school's official pinafores, which students wear for fundraising activities like car washes and food drives. Then I slip out a side door and drive over to the empty lot where Johnny likes to hang out.

"Come on, Johnnycake!" I shout, honking the horn. "Hop in!"

Johnny eyes me skeptically as he approaches the car. "What the hell are you wearing, man?"

"Here, I got one for you, too!" I say, cheerfully throwing the other apron at his face.

"Two-Bit—"

"Get in, kid. We gotta go do something to help Pony out."

As expected, Johnny doesn't need to hear any other information. He hops into the front seat, reluctantly pulling the pinafore on.

He starts to get nervous when I drive over to the wealthy side of town, though.

"What are we doing here?" He asks, his eyes darting around.

"Don't worry, Johnnycake," I assure him. "All the Socs are in school right now. We'll be fine."

"You know, you have a bad habit of not actually answering questions," Johnny points out.

I chortle and ruffle his hair. I like that Johnny's not afraid to give me a little lip sometimes. He normally walks around looking scared of the whole world, but he's not scared of me.

"Watch and learn, kid," I tell him, hopping out of the car and approaching an elderly lady.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I say, turning on the smile I use when I want something from my mom or a teacher. "Can you spare some change? We're from the high school, and we're having a fundraiser for a disadvantaged orphan boy in our class."

The lady squints at my greased back hair and torn jeans, but then her eyes linger on my pinafore. After hesitating for a few seconds, she digs around in her purse and hands me a dime.

"Thank you, ma'am!" I call after her.

Johnny gapes at me. "What on earth—"

"Money's tight and Darry wants to buy Ponyboy new shoes for his birthday," I shrug.

Johnny looks torn. "But—aw, heck, Two-Bit, you know that Ponyboy would hate it if he knew we were asking for charity for him. And Darry would probably hate it even worse."

"What they don't know won't hurt them," I shrug with a grin. "And, hey, at least we're not stealing anything."

Johnny starts off as a reluctant co-fundraiser, but as the coins start flowing in, he gets more comfortable. I know that I can be charming as hell, but there's something soft about Johnny's face that makes old ladies want to give him money.

By lunch time, we've raised $3.67. Johnny starts to get real nervous, though, as school dismissal time grows closer. I concede that it's probably a good idea to clear out before any Soc kids see us hanging around their side of town, so we drive to the gas station.

I explain the situation to Steve and Soda. Soda eagerly hands me $3, the entirety of his spending money for the next two weeks. Steve is more reluctant, but when Soda turns wide, beseeching eyes on him, he forks over 50 cents with minimal grumbling.

To make matters even better, Dally comes sprinting past the DX, on the run from an angry shop owner for doing god-knows-what.

"Hey, Dal!" I shout as he approaches us. "Can you spare a smoke?"

Dally grins, his eyes flashing dangerously. He looks like a predator pursuing its prey, even though he's the one being chased. He flips me a cigarette and keeps on running.

I take the cigarette to the park and trade it to a drunk for a penny. I add the penny to the money we've collected, satisfied with the day's work. Now every single member of our gang has contributed some money to Ponyboy's shoes, and we're almost halfway there.

Unfortunately, the rest is up to Darry.

As the week wears on, Darry picks up three extra shifts and skips at least one meal a day. By the time Ponyboy's birthday rolls around, he looks so exhausted that he almost nods off at the dinner table.

He jolts awake, however, when Soda clears away the dishes and shouts, "Present time!"

Everyone watches with bated breath as Pony unwraps the shoe box. He doesn't seem to suspect that it's a pair of shoes at first, which I suppose makes sense. He probably figures the box has some old comic books or novels or action figures in it—the usual kind of gift we greasers can afford to give each other. Hell, as the youngest of three boys, he's probably never received a brand-new pair of shoes before in his life.

Ponyboy opens the lid of the box and freezes, his eyes going comically wide. He picks one of the shoes up and reverently lifts it into the air, gaping at the crisp laces and clean white soles.

"But—but—how—" Ponyboy stammers, looking around at us in astonishment. "These are so nice; they must have cost a fortune—"

"They're a gift from the whole gang," Darry says smoothly. "Everyone chipped in."

I give Darry a sharp look, but Darry elbows me in the gut, warning me not to speak up. Warning me not to tell Ponyboy the truth—that we'd all thrown in a little bit, sure, but that Darry had paid for the lion's share of these shoes. That Darry had skipped meals and taken on extra shifts and stayed up late worrying over the bills to make sure his little brother had this gift.

And as a result, Ponyboy happily zooms around and gratefully hugs everyone in turn (except Dally, who pulls out a blade when Pony gets within arm's reach), instead of running straight to his oldest brother and giving him a long, tight embrace to thank him for his sacrifices.

In fact, of all the hugs Ponyboy gives out, the one he gives to Darry is the briefest and the stiffest.

Hell, he even hugs Steve Randle with more passion than he hugs Darry, and Steve makes a disgusted noise and glares at Pony like he's an annoying bug he wants to squish.

"Come on, man," I say later, standing out on the porch and smoking while Darry sips on a beer. "You should tell him that the shoes were really mostly from you."

I surprise myself by speaking up—I'm known for always adding my two bits in, of course, but I normally make it a point not to meddle in other people's serious business. Hell, I barely take responsibility for my own business, let alone other people's. It had been great to see Pony so excited and starry-eyed, especially after the tough year the kid has had. But something about Ponyboy and Darry's relationship just doesn't sit right with me. I'm smart in that way. I see the score for what it is, and I know it doesn't have to be like this between them.

As expected, Darry shakes his head. "Shut up, Mathews."

"I'm serious," I argue, and Darry knows that I'm very rarely serious. "You worked really hard to get them. He should know."

"He's a kid, Two-Bit. Barely fourteen. He doesn't need to be worrying about the money around here. So don't you go telling him that those shoes were hard to get, you hear me?" I can tell from the fierce tone of Darry's voice that he won't be swayed.

The sacrifices Darry is making for his brothers go beyond skipping meals and working extra shifts, I realize. He's also making the sacrifice to go it alone and not let on how hard he's working and how much he's struggling, just to save his brothers from having to worry.

"Okay, Superman," I say quietly, patting him on the shoulder. I'm the one who'd started calling Darry that a few years ago, mostly as a joke about his muscles.

I've never meant that nickname more than I mean it now.