5. Johnny
I have kind of mixed feelings about school.
As a kid, I'd been hopeful that everything would change when I started kindergarten. I'd imagined a kind teacher smiling at me and other kids becoming my friends, just like in the television shows.
In reality, teachers tended to overlook me, and I quickly learned that kids could be almost as cruel as my parents. I was small for my age, underfed, poorly dressed, and littered with odd scrapes and bruises. I didn't always have clean clothes to wear, and kids would scrunch up their noses when I sat close to them. Teachers didn't like that I sometimes dozed off in the middle of lessons.
And worst of all, I couldn't do the work very well. For some reason, the letters would swim in front of my eyes and move around and change. It took me ages to read anything, and my written work was littered with errors. Sometimes teachers would take pity on me and try to give me extra help, but when I never stopped mixing up "b" with "d" and "m" with "n," they all got tired and eventually gave up on me.
I've always wondered why the letters move like that—like animations on the television—and if they do that for other people, too, or if they just do that for me because I'm dumb, like my parents always say. Either way, I've never admitted it to anyone, and I've remained generally disliked by most of my teachers and fellow students over the years.
Still, there have been some upsides to school. Because I live on the poor side of town and my dad is usually unemployed, I can get free lunches—and sometimes free breakfast—in the cafeteria. I like art class, and I'm not too bad at math, either. And school is where I'd met Sodapop Curtis. He'd sat next to me in 4th grade because our last names are close in the alphabet, and I'd quickly realized that he was bad at schoolwork, too, just like me. But unlike me, people actually liked him. He was popular.
And for some reason, he'd decided I was his friend and taken me under his wing.
So school isn't all bad. I don't attend much nowadays—just enough to keep the truancy officer off my back and away from my parents. It's a good place to sneak a quick shower and grab a meal. It's warm in the wintertime. And I'm old enough and tough enough now that most people leave me alone.
But it isn't the same for me as it is for Ponyboy. He lives and breathes for school. Not math and science so much, although he does well enough in those subjects. But Ponyboy is always devouring books and learning as much as he can about everything and anything. Hell, when we'd all played together as kids, he was always spouting off weird facts that he'd learned from a book. We'd be pretending to be Roman soldiers, and Ponyboy would start shouting something about "crossing the Rubicon." Steve would roll his eyes, Soda would ruffle Ponyboy's hair and grin, and I would quietly ask Ponyboy what he meant. And Ponyboy would always explain it to me, and he'd never act like I was dumb for not knowing things.
That's why he's my best friend.
I like to think that I know him better than anyone—maybe even better than Sodapop. Ponyboy tries to put up a brave front for Soda, especially since their parents died. But he's honest and open with me, just like I am with him. We can practically have whole conversations just from sharing a look or a grin across the room.
So when Ponyboy starts disliking school and acting evasive, I know that something serious is wrong.
It starts when Ponyboy brings me to the lot one evening and tells me that Dallas has agreed to give the two of us some fighting lessons. This strikes me as odd, since Ponyboy always has his head in the clouds and can't be bothered to keep up with the arguments and drama brewing between different gangs in the area. He can hold his own in a fight, but he'd never instigate a brawl or go looking for a rumble.
When I ask him later why Dally had agreed to teach us, Pony mutters something vague about being on the smaller side now that he's in high school, and wanting to know self-defense in case someone messes with him. I remember the night that the Soc stole his jacket and Darry and Soda panicked that Pony had been jumped, and I get suspicious.
I start noticing that when Two-Bit gives us a ride to school in the mornings, Ponyboy is awfully quiet, fidgeting with his backpack strap and staring up at the school building as though preparing himself to go off to battle.
And then Ponyboy gets grounded for a week because he's failing history. He tells us that he'd lost his essay before he could turn it in, but that doesn't seem right, because he'd worked real hard on it, and I'd seen him reading over the final draft during the car ride to school, looking it over for errors. How had he managed to lose it between the beginning of the day and second period history?
Maybe I already knew what was happening on some level, and I just didn't want to admit it to myself.
Because I know that there are a lot of Socs who like to pick on greaser kids. But I also know from personal experience that there's one Soc in particular who really likes to pick on greaser kids—specifically younger, smaller, quieter greaser kids.
So although I gasp when I round a corner and spot Bob Sheldon slamming Ponyboy up against a row of lockers in a deserted hallway, I'm not really surprised.
And I hate myself for this, but I freeze up.
It's like I'm right back to that night all of a sudden—the feeling of fists and heavy feet slamming into me over and over again—tasting blood in my mouth—hoarsely screaming for my friends but knowing they would never hear me—thinking that I was probably about to die, and realizing that maybe I wasn't as prepared as I'd always thought I would be—
By the time I unfreeze and run forward, pulling my blade out of my pocket, Bob is already turning and leaving.
Ponyboy gingerly touches the back of his head, which is probably tender from where he'd hit the lockers. He stares after Bob with a worried expression, and I suddenly hate Bob Sheldon more than I've ever hated anyone—maybe even more than I hate my parents—for putting that look on Pony's face.
When he sees me, his eyes widen with alarm and he searches my features, obviously trying to figure out if I'd witnessed his encounter with Bob.
"Are you okay?" I gasp. My heart is slamming against my ribcage as though I've just run a half-marathon, rather than a hundred feet.
"Fine," Pony says calmly. "I'm fine, Johnny." He gives himself a little shake, as though trying to convince himself that his words are true.
"Pony, we gotta tell Darry and Soda—"
"No!" Pony shouts. I flinch back. Pony has never raised his voice at me before.
"I'm not telling them," Ponyboy adds, lowering his voice and looking apologetic for scaring me.
I sympathize with the fact that Ponyboy and Darry don't get along too well nowadays, but another part of me is bothered by it. Ponyboy is convinced that Darry hates him—well, meanwhile, I've lived with people who actually do hate me my entire life. I know what it looks like, and it's not how Darrel Curtis treats Ponyboy.
I sigh. "We at least should tell Two-Bit and Steve. Then they can keep an eye out for you during the school day."
Ponyboy shakes his head. "Steve will just tell Soda right away. Or Two-Bit will let something slip."
"Then what's your plan? Just let him keep going until he beats you up? Or worse?" I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
Ponyboy shrugs dismissively. "It's not so bad, Johnny. He can't do anything serious on the school grounds, and I'm rarely alone outside of school nowadays. He'll get bored eventually."
I shake my head. People like Bob don't get bored. They keep on going and going and going, waiting until they do something so serious that they finally get caught and someone makes them stop.
My dad is like that. He'd been careful a few times in my childhood when teachers had gotten suspicious about my bruises or neighbors had commented on hearing raised voices. He'd be on good behavior for a week or two, waiting to find out if someone would actually do anything.
But they never did, so he just kept escalating.
That's what Bob is like. My old man won't stop until he kills me, and Bob won't stop until he seriously hurts or even kills Ponyboy.
After all, he'd busted me up real bad, and it seems like it hadn't been enough.
"I gotta go—late for track practice," Ponyboy says, turning and running off before I can say anything more on the matter. And—well, he's a track star, so I can't exactly go catch him.
It doesn't matter, anyway. He's not the person I need to talk to about this situation.
I draw in a deep breath, wiping my clammy hands on my jeans.
I'm nervous for several reasons.
Number one, I'm not very comfortable around Darry. I don't think he'll hit me or anything, but he's much bigger than me, and I don't trust people like that anymore. And he and I never talk to each other much, so it makes me anxious to think of having to communicate something important to him on my own.
Number two, I'm worried about betraying Ponyboy's trust. I know he'll be furious if he ever finds out that I'm going to tell his big brother about Bob.
Number three, I'm nervous about showing up at Darry's work unannounced. I'm not sure if I'll get in trouble, or if he might, or if he'll be annoyed with me for coming here and interrupting him.
Bracing myself, I clear my throat and knock on the door of the roofing company's office. Darry spends most of his work days traveling around to different houses in Tulsa, but I know from hearing him talk that he starts and ends his days at the office, where they keep all their supplies.
I manage not to flinch when the door swings open, but it's a near thing. A gruff-looking man in his fifties peers out at me, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my scruffy appearance.
"Yeah?" He grunts.
"Uh—sorry, sir, is Darry Curtis here?" I manage to get out.
The man continues to stare at me, his expression inscrutable. (That's a word I learned from Ponyboy.)
"You one of his kid brothers?" The guy asks.
I shake my head. "No, sir. Just a friend. You can tell him Johnny's asking for him, if you don't mind."
I hold my breath for a second, but the man's expression seems to soften a hair. I'm never sure what to think of adults—they either hate me on sight or pity me. If I survive to adulthood, I wonder if anyone will just treat me like a normal person.
"Curtis!" The man yells over his shoulder, and I do flinch this time. "Got a kid here to see you. Says his name is Johnny."
Darry appears on the porch in half a heartbeat, his eyes wide.
"Johnny?" He asks, stepping outside. "You okay? Is Ponyboy okay?"
"I'm fine. Pony's fine. For now, I mean."
Darry's eyes narrow. "What in the hell is that supposed to mean?" He puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me away from the office so that we can talk in peace.
I open my mouth and then pause, torn.
"Johnny?" Darry asks, urgent and expectant. "Hey, whatever it is, you can tell me."
I remember the cold look in Bob's eyes as he'd pummeled his fist into my cheek. It's the same look I'd seen on his face today as he towered over Pony.
My doubts and fears fade away. Ponyboy's life might be at stake, and I have to do this.
"That Soc who beat me up," I say, my heart hammering so hard that I can barely hear my own voice. "Bob Sheldon. He's bothering Pony. First, he stole his jacket. Then Pony's history essay went missing. And today, I saw him shoving Pony into the lockers. I think there's more, but that's all I've seen. Pony acts all anxious whenever we're about to walk into school, and I think Bob's going to really hurt him someday soon."
This is probably the longest speech I've ever said directly to Darry Curtis. I keep my eyes on the ground the entire time, only chancing a glance upwards when I'm done.
Darry's blue eyes are like chips of ice, hard and cold like Dallas's. Normally, I'd be terrified to see a gaze like that directed at me. But not this time. After a lifetime with my parents, I know the difference between real anger and protective anger. It's a distinction that Ponyboy always misses when Darry yells at him.
"That son of a bitch," he breathes, a muscle in his jaw jumping and his fists clenching at his sides. He looks as if he'd like nothing more than to hunt Bob Sheldon down right now and make him pay until Sheldon can't bother anyone anymore.
But Darry isn't impulsive like that. He can't be, now that he has custody of his younger brothers. He takes a few deep breaths—a habit of his that I've noticed a few times this past year, particularly when he's upset with Ponyboy.
"I think I'm long overdue for having a word with Sheldon," Darry says, spitting out the name 'Sheldon' like it's a dirty curse word. "Can you sneak out of school before dismissal tomorrow and point him out to me?"
I nod, twisting my hands together nervously. "But…can we not tell Ponyboy about this? He'll never forgive me."
Darry appears to consider this for a minute. "Don't suppose Pony would want to know I was involved, anyway," he shrugs, and it's not hard to see the hurt in his eyes.
"He didn't want to tell anyone at all," I say quickly. "I just happened to see Bob shove him today. I never would've known otherwise."
Darry scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking very tired and frightened. It scares me a little—I know Darry is still young, just four years older than me, but I've gotten used to him being completely strong and unfazed, especially this last year. He's been as solid as a rock—albeit a grumpy and angry rock at times.
But I've never seen him look scared like this before. Like he's going to lose his little brother, whether because Bob Sheldon does something or because Ponyboy just grows too far apart from him.
Then I blink, and just like that, Darry is back to his normal self, responsible and composed.
"Come on, Johnny, give me five minutes to finish up in there, and then I'll give you a ride home. It's not safe to walk in this neighborhood after dark."
I'm still intimidated by Darry, but I don't flinch this time when he puts his hand on my shoulder.
I find Darry sitting in Mr. Curtis's old truck at the back of the school parking lot the next day, ten minutes before dismissal time. He's parked so that he's as far as possible away from the track in order to minimize any chance of Ponyboy noticing him here when he heads to running practice after school.
He seems surprised to see me approach from the street. "Hey, Johnnycake. Did you ditch school today?"
I nod. I had ditched school today. This whole thing with Bob has stirred up a lot of bad memories, and I just couldn't bear the thought of sitting through my classes or being swept into the throng of people milling through the hallways between classes.
Darry frowns. "You shouldn't ditch, kid. Ponyboy tells me that you're real good at math. And you'll get higher-paying jobs if you graduate high school."
I blink at him, at a loss for words. Nobody has ever cared if I attend school or not. Nobody has ever said anything about my future, like wondering what kind of job I might get or how much I might be paid.
"Sure," I mumble, uncomfortable but oddly warm inside, like the first time I'd ever heard Ponyboy refer to me as his best friend.
We sit in silence until the bell rings, then watch as students begin spilling out of the school. I worry for a minute that I won't be able to locate Bob among the hundreds of teenagers swarming the parking lot, but that's a ridiculous fear. I'm as attuned to Bob's presence as I am to my dad's presence. I'd learned from birth that when you're the prey and there's a predator in the vicinity, you've got to be vigilant.
"He's over there. With the red jacket," I say, pointing out a tall figure across the parking lot. He's walking with his arm around his pretty red-haired girlfriend, laughing and saying something to one of his friends.
Darry lets out a disgusted noise, opening the door to the truck and slamming it shut behind him. He takes off in Bob's direction without a second of hesitation, and I wonder what it's like to be so strong and confident.
I follow after him at a much slower pace. Darry had already warned me not to get too close or to interfere, given my history with Bob, and I'd been all too eager to agree. I crouch behind one of the teacher's cars, close enough to observe the situation, but far enough to go unnoticed.
Bob and his girl have split away from their friends and are approaching the blue Mustang, which is fortunately sitting in an isolated area of the lot. Darry marches right up to them and slams Bob up against the side of the car in one smooth motion, shoving him so hard that I half-expect to hear the sound of the window shattering. The girl lets out a little scream, whirling around and jumping forward as if to punch Darry.
Darry expertly side-steps the blow. "Pardon me, ma'am," I hear him say. "But I don't want any trouble with you. I just need to have a word with your man here."
The girl—I think she's named Cherry or Sherry or something—snarls at Darry. "Like hell you will! Give me one reason why I shouldn't scream my head off until someone calls the cops on you!"
Bob tries to fight his way out of Darry's grip, but Darry's got him firmly pinned, one hand pressing him up against the car and the other putting pressure on his windpipe.
"Because," he tells Cherry. "Your boyfriend likes to beat on kids. Did you know that?"
Cherry pauses, glancing uncertainly at Bob. On some level, maybe she knows the truth about him, even if she doesn't want to admit it to herself. "You're making that up," she says coldly, her chin held high.
Darry shakes his head. "He nearly killed my friend Johnny Cade last year. And now he's messing with my kid brother, who's barely fourteen. Ponyboy—"
Cherry stiffens suddenly. "Ponyboy Curtis?" She repeats. "He's your brother?"
Darry nods, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at her. "You know him?"
"Yeah," Bob says, finally catching his breath enough to speak up. "She knows him, alright. He was bothering her at a pep rally."
Cherry frowns. "He was not! He's a real sweet kid."
"Listen to me," Darry says, turning back to Bob, his voice getting so low and intense that I have to lean forward to pick up on it. "And listen good, because I'm only going to say this once. If you ever even so much as look at my little brother again, there won't be enough of your body left for the cops to ID you, you hear me?"
Bob tries to sneer, but I can see that he's nervous. He's been struggling against Darry's unyielding grip this entire time, but he hasn't managed to budge an inch.
"Is that a threat, greaser?" He spits out.
"No," Darry says, digging his elbow into Bob's throat until it seems like he might pass out, looking like an action movie hero. "It's a promise."
Then he roughly releases Bob, turns, and walks away. I know that one of the first rules of a fight is not to turn your back on your enemy, but Darry turns his back on Bob without a second thought. He knows that Bob won't fight back, and that alone sends a message.
I don't stick around to hear what Bob's next move will be, quickly darting back to the Curtises' truck.
Darry reaches the truck at the same time as me. His mouth is pressed into a flat line, and he doesn't say anything, turning the key in the ignition and peeling out of the parking lot.
He'd been smart about this whole thing, I reflect. He hadn't broken any of Bob's bones or left any visible marks. His threat had been vague enough to not be taken seriously by any authorities. And he'd shown Bob exactly what he could expect in retribution if he tried to hurt Ponyboy.
I'm shaking all over, from some strange mixture of fear and exhilaration.
Maybe this is why I think about something very stupid and strange when I glance over at Darry.
I recall how fierce and fearless Darry had been, going toe-to-toe with Bob like that. And for a split second, I wonder what it would be like if Darry did that for me—standing in between me and my dad with that same protective, defiant fury on his face.
It's a dumb idea—Darry could never do that, and it's no fault of his own. He's got to focus on keeping custody of Pony and Soda. He can't go fighting my dad for me—my dad's a real asshole, and he wouldn't hesitate to press charges. One hint of an assault and battery conviction, and Pony and Soda would get shipped off to a boys' home.
I get it. And Darry does plenty for me already, letting me crash at their house, feeding me, and giving me rides so I don't have to walk alone at night.
But for one fleeting second, I allow myself to imagine it.
"You okay, Johnny?" Darry asks, cutting into my thoughts.
I realize that I'm staring at him, and I blink and turn away. I suddenly notice that we're parked in the Curtises' driveway, and that Darry's probably been calling my name for a minute or two.
Darry still looks mad, but I can tell that he's being careful about his tone, not wanting to upset me.
"Fine," I say automatically. Darry gives me a look like he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. I know he isn't okay either. He's already so worried about Ponyboy and Soda and keeping up with the bills and his job, and now this.
We head into the house, and Darry sinks into his recliner as though he's ninety years old. He closes his eyes, but I doubt that he's sleeping.
I sit on the couch opposite him. Normally, I might grab a deck of cards and play solitaire while waiting for more of the gang to show up, or pull out my stash of scrap paper that I'd stolen from the art classroom and work on sketching something.
Today, I reach into my backpack and dig out my math homework. I hadn't planned on doing it—I never do, I just rely on my good test grades to get me a B or a C in the class.
But for some reason, I feel inspired to work on my problems and actually turn them in on time tomorrow.
I guess I won't ditch school tomorrow, either. Maybe I do have some kind of future in front of me that I have to consider.
