HIT THE ROAD, JACK, AND DON'T YOU COME BACK." - Ray Charles (Hit The Road Jack)

I smelt my brother before I could see him. A flood of steam came from the bathroom as Darry finally pushed open the bathroom door, wrestling his belt through the loops of his jeans as he came towards the kitchen. It was a big day for him, or so I'd been told. Despite having no idea who she was, or what she looked like, Darry and Donna decided they had reached the kind of official-ness where he was required to meet her parents.

"Y'know, if you don't bring 'er around soon, I'm gonna guess Donna is your left hand," Dally scoffed from across the table. He looked at me with a sly grin while my brother moved around the kitchen anxiously. "Comments like that is the reason I haven't brought her 'round yet," Darry snapped back. "She's real nice, I don't wanna blow it." Dally's cracked lips split again, revealing sharp and crooked teeth as he prepared for the next dirty joke. I have to stretch a bit, but I manage to kick him in the shin before he can do it. Darry's been standing in front of the mirror for an hour now, preening himself worse than the girls in the school bathrooms. The last thing he needs is to stain the front of his shirt with some JD's blood. "Where are you guys goin' again?" I ask as he starts to wipe down the water splattered over the counters. Sodapop ain't book smart, but he knows that if he does the dishes bad enough, we'll never ask him to again. Joke's on him, though, he'd bend over backwards if Darry told him to. "The Dingo, Donna picked it. Wanted something nice and neutral."

The Dingo isn't nice or neutral. The booths are covered in red leather because bloodstains are too visible on the old blue ones, there's a fight going on every three minutes. That's because even if it's on greaser territory, Socs feel entitled to everything within Tulsa's limits. It's been open ever since I can remember, but the ratio to Socs and greasers have always been two to one. At least they're smart enough not to go alone. "-She hasn't heard a damn word you just said."

My lips twist into a scowl automatically as the chair drags on the floor. Darry's sigh is heavy, his hand on my shoulder carrying the same weight. Dallas doesn't bother apologizing for the hot water he threw me in - doesn't even look back at me while he flings the door open and lights a cig. He and the rest of the guys are heading over to Brumley for the afternoon. Word got around Friday after school of some guy slashing another's tires. Said the fight was gonna be one on one and skin-on-skin, but we all knew that was a lie. Darry and I just reminded the boys to get outta dodge the second things got hairy. Steve and Sodapop weren't going though, they were heading to the gas station a few blocks down and washing cars for pocket change. The owners like them, I guess.

Darry smells like Daddy's aftershave. His hand is warm against my shoulder and the thin fabric of my t-shirt, just like Daddy's was the morning they went out hunting. I've tried not to think about him. Tried not thinking about Two-Bit, when he told us about his daddy taking off, tried not to think of the whispers that followed us like a bad smell in the halls. I tried not to think about how much Darry looked like him. I tried not to think of where he might be, if he ever planned on coming back, or if this was the opportunity he'd been waiting on for years.

"I gotta go if I wanna make it there on time," Darry explained hurriedly. My tongue pushes against the roof of my mouth as I turn to face my brother. His eyes are colder than Daddy's - always have been - but now they're alive with anxious, childlike, excitement. He worried about Momma, we all are, but he's worried about Donna and her parents, too. I can't blame him for that. "Go have fun, I can take care of Momma. Miz Mathews is supposed to come by soon, take her shopping." Dary plants his lips against my head quickly and light enough I barely register they're there. His chin is still stubbly and the smell of aftershave is strong enough to make my throat close up, but I smile at him anyway. Before Darry can pull away though, I drag my thumb across his jaw, over the scar he managed to give himself - even after shaving for four years. "You're a mess," I chuckle, "go on now, Romeo, she's waiting!"

"You're my favourite sister, Marlene," he calls as he wrestles his jacket over his broad shoulders in the living room. "I better be!" I yell back, but it's no use. The door has already squealed shut and Darry only has one girl on his mind.

Momma was awake when I went into her room, better than this morning when Darry tried to get her up for breakfast. The curtains are still closed, but a few cold rays of light managed to sneak past, tracing shapes in the floor as I cross it. "Momma? How ya' feelin'?"

The neck of a bottle is clenched in her fist and swaying. Sherry had always been her liquor of choice, not hard enough to drown out the world completely, but enough to numb the ache. It threatens to drop the short distance from her fingers to the floor, I don't know if it will shatter if it does. Her hair is a mess of untamed locks, wrapping around her bloodshot eyes like a lion's mane. The nightgown hangs limply around her legs. I've never seen her look so young. Her half of the bed is a mess of blankets and mascara-stained pillowcases. Daddy's is untouched, his cologne and aftershave still hung in the air like his flannel shirt resting on Momma's vanity.

"The boys went out," I say gently and cross the floor. It's cold under my toes and I sit on the foot of the bed quickly so I can pull my feet up. "Miz Mathews said you two were gonna go shopping, remember? They got some pretty bracelets over at-"

The bottle rattles against the floor with a hollow thunk. I nudge the bottle with my toes and send it rolling back towards the door, I'll take it with me when I leave. Momma's fingers are intertwined with her hair, I can see her knuckles turning white against the gold of her hair. "Come on, Momma," I try as I reach for her arm. "Why don't you get dressed an' I can make coffee or somethin'?" She keeps running her fingers through her hair repetitively. I used to do it when I was little, something to soothe my nerves when the thunder was too loud or the branches scraping against my bedroom window looked too much like witch hands reaching for me. I look over to her bedside table. A glass is resting on top of her books, one last gulp of sherry glistening in the dusty sun. I get up and keep one hand on her shoulders before I grab the glass. "Come on now," I try again, "it's the last sip."

Momma wipes away her tears and raises the glass to her lips. Tears still swim in her eyes, but she pushes herself to stand nonetheless. Her steps are slow and stiff, I keep my hand on her shoulder until we reach the closet tucked in the corner. The doors creak open slowly and she carefully thumbs through her dresses. In the end, I know she'll throw Daddy's flannel on over top so I don't worry much about what she'll pick. "You've always been so good to me, Ellie," Momma mutters. "S-so good...

I don't bother correcting her. As much as I love her, it's like talking to an infant at this point. Her eyes are wide and glossy, still with her mascara smeared across the lids. She drops her clothes onto the bed before sitting down at her vanity and wraps her fingers around her hairbrush. We've done this before when I was young. Back when Momma's episodes were new. Whenever she's in one of her moods, I'm Ellie, and she wants me to brush her hair. I do it without question, careful to comb through the knots without hurting her too bad. Momma fiddles with her fingers in front of me, sometimes picking at her nails or biting them. She used to bite them real bad before she went on pills - bad enough they'd bleed.

I talk to her as I brush her hair, sometimes humming. The only radio we have is in the kitchen, so I hum to her instead. She really likes The Browns - Daddy used to sing them when she was in one of her moods.

And the chapel bells were ringing; in the little valley town
Was a great day in his life,
'Cause the song that they were singing; was for Jimmy and his wife.

She calms down a bit, her shoulders aren't heaving as much and each breath doesn't sound like a muffled sob. Momma hums along as I sing quietly and lets her fingers drop to her lap, cuticles stained red. "There we go," I say with as much cheeriness I can muster, "we're all done." I did the best I could. Her curls twist around her face gently, but they're still real frizzy. I turn my eyes back to her bedside table expectantly. Just like always, a small gold clip is glittering atop her books. "Lemme grab you a clip."

Momma nods numbly and I swallow the copper taste in my mouth. Every time she's been like this, Daddy's always been there to pull her out. Like a lifeguard dragging her from the current before she drowns. The fact that he isn't here anymore - that it's my job now - doesn't set in until my fingers wrap around the clip and my eyes catch on the bright orange bottle.

It's laying on its side, the cap barely pushed into place. Dread tied itself into a bow in my stomach as I bring to my face. One week in, and too many pills are missing.

I was poking around the kitchen, rifling through the drawers and as many broken pencils I could get my hands on. I don't know why I did it, just something to keep my hands busy, I guess. I was kinda like Momma that way - jittery when I was nervous. Lord, it was like I had downed a cup of coffee with one of Buck's special uppers in it, pacing around the empty house without anywhere to go, sometimes staring out the window and looking at nothing at all.

I can't really say it's nothing though. The trees lining the streets bend and twist in the wind, their long and unkept branches loom over the road and threaten to snap any day now. The occasional group of loose kids wander by our front yard. sometimes pushing each other as they walk or chasing after some stray animal. The last group was three boys armed with sticks and chasing after a yellow lab who broke loose from his yard. You can tell because he's still dragging the chain with him.

The door slams against the wall and I almost slip on the floor as I whip my head around. It doesn't help much - my hair flies straight to my mouth and across my eyes instead of falling over my shoulder. Spitting and dragging my hand across my face, I peer through the doorway and the front door across the living room. Tim's looking around the living room - the couch and the quilt thrown over it in particular. His hair is a usual mess, but I doubt the wind didn't play a role in that. "Y'all need to start locking your damn door," he scoffs, "'specially in a place like this."

"Didn't think you'd be showin' up this early," I say instead. The doorway creaks as I lean against it and pick at my nails, my own way of trying to look busy. All it does is remind me of Momma and her nearly empty bottle of lithium I sat on the counter. Taking it felt weird - a foreign responsibility, one a child shouldn't have. But if having her pills hidden meant not finding her tomorrow morning wide-eyed and foaming at the mouth, I'd do it. "Mr. R wasn't bluffing when he said he told my parents. Dad had me up at the ass-crack of dawn tryna make me more presentable." Tim throws air quotes around the last word with his right hand, the left is holding his textbook against his side. "He call your folks?"

"If he did, Momma didn't say anything," I answer stiffly. I wanna say something when Tim's eyes widen, but he looks away quick enough that I decide I just imagined it. The silence hangs between us like thick smoke, waiting for one of us to brush it aside. The greaser standing three feet away from me makes the first move. "Are we gonna do this or not?"

Relief blooms in my chest slowly as I straighten my spine and jerk my head to the table beside me. "Yeah, go ahead," I start. "You want something to eat?"

"Whatchya got?"

I grab the first edible thing I see on the counter - two apples - and sink into my seat across from Tim before rolling the apple to him. Our books are old and tattered, but at least there here. I don't know what else to do besides open to my notes stuffed between the pages and try to explain everything we'd learned that week. "We're talkin' 'bout atoms now," I explain, "they ain't that hard once you figure out the parts and the theories..."

Science has always been one of my favourite subjects. Darry's great at math, he can read the numbers and the most complicated equations like the alphabet, whereas Sodapop does great in gym and shop class. Even at twelve years old, Ponyboy can write an essay that could put most senior students to shame in under an hour. But for me? Hell, I could probably bore the gang to sleep going on about how the iron in your blood is the same located millions of miles away, staring right back at us from the face of the moon. The labs weren't really my favourite part - no one was lining up to be partners with the greaser girl, even if I was near the top of the class. "-And the nuetrons have no charge because they're neutral."

I have to pause for a breath and rake my eyes over my notes, searching for anything I could have left out. I don't how I would've though, I had just gone on a rant longer than the ones Momma gave us when we forgot to do the dishes. "Christ almighty," Tim whistles, "how do you remember all that?"

"I find it interesting." Apple juice dribbles over my lips and I raise the back of my hand to wipe it away. The apple in my mouth distracts my tongue before I can go off on another tangent about something clearly boring him to sleep. Tim rolls his eyes before flicking a piece of hair off his forehead. One of his eyebrows is arched, I can barely see the small, smug, grin identical to Dally's pulling at his lips. "You don't get out much, do you, Curtis?" He finally asks. I scoff and lean back - not before a grin of my own crosses my face. "I'm the firstborn girl surrounded by boys, Tim. Between school and cleaning up after 'em, I don't have much time to go out."

My arms are crossed over my chest, my feet at my ankles. Tim rolls his dark eyes again before doing the same thing. "Spare me the fucking lecture," he spits sarcastically. "You sound like Angela, always goin' on 'bout Feminism every time I tell 'er to do the dishes. She's convinced I'm gonna marry her off to the highest bidder soon as she turns sixteen... as if any guy's gonna want her. I'd be the one paying them."

I end up laughing. It's short and quiet, but it's there and the first time I've done so since Wednesday night. As soon as it happens, heat rises to my cheeks and the back of my neck, painting my skin pink. I turn my face down in a pitiful attempt to hide it and jerk my foot back when Tim nudges it with his own. "You still manage to hang 'round Buck's, though. What're you doin' there, anyhow?"

"That's for me to know, and you to wonder about."

There's a knock at the front door before Tim can open his mouth. I make my way to the door quickly, listening to the screen rattle as the fist continues to hammer away. My first thought is about Momma and Miz Mathews, that something happened. Then, I'm thinking about my brothers and the stupid Brumley boys, the kind to drag innocent bystanders into their grudges. The final face to flash in my mind is Darry's, but it wouldn't make sense for him to just knock. When I swing the door open, my heart freezes in my chest and dread winds down my spine like cold rain. It's Darry's face, alright, just not him.

"Momma told you not come 'round here," I mumble. Daddy just hangs his head solemnly, he doesn't even have it in him to fake a smile - or an excuse, for that matter. I tried to sound angry. I wanted him to know how furious I was, how much it hurt to hear him walk out the very door we were standing at now, without a goodbye. I tried to sound bitter and cold, but I just sounded like I was trying not to cry. I was, obviously, but no one wants to admit that when one of the tuffest hoods in Tulsa is sitting at your kitchen table. Daddy sighs low and deep, dragging a hand across his stubbly chin as he does so. For the first time in a while, I smell booze on his breath. "I know, honey," he mutters softly. "I'm just gonna grab some things an' I'll be gone, okay?"

He has a lotta nerve showing up here after what he did. Leaving us after the funeral, letting Momma fall apart like an old doll and leaving me to clean up the pieces and glue her back together. I wanna scream when I think back a few hours before, when Darry still managed to nick himself with his razor. He had a lotta nerve showing up here after what he's putting us through, but I figure I'm just as to blame for letting him in.

"Where're you going?"

"Pawnee," he admits. "Drivin' a truck out there for a friend, figure I'll hang around there for a few days."

This is how it started with Two-Bit. His daddy decided to take a job a few towns over, promised to send money and write. Three years later, Miz Mathews is balancing a little girl on her hip and walking 'round town with Momma, looking too proud to visit the church donation box.

My words are strangled and breathy, but all I can force out. "You're gonna come back, right?"

His scarred fingers run over the back of the quilt, his shoulders sag tiredly. "That's for your mother to decide."

The second his eyes cross the hall and land on the boy leaning against the refrigerator, Daddy's entire body goes rigid. "An' what in God's name are you doin' in my house?"

Tim's grim smile is enough to send goosebumps up my arms as he crossed his over his chest. "Unlike you, I was invited."

Daddy turns so quickly, his hand almost catches my cheek as I stumble backwards. I can see every vein bubbling against his tanned skin, eyes narrowed with disdain and something else I can't quite name. "Marlene Elizabeth," he scolds viciously, "you mean to tell me you invited him over here when you are home alone?" Every word is followed by a step forward - by my father, and Tim.

My tongue is trapped between my teeth - like I am between my dad and the door. The doorknob starts to dig into my back, but I have bigger things on my mind. Like trying to keep my tears at bay, trying not to scream, and silently pleading Tim doesn't do what I think he's about to.

I've seen it too many times before. The slick and casual flick of a switchblade opening, shiny, silver steel gleaming menacingly seconds before it's coated in blood.

"Your daughter's top of her class in science," Tim drawls out slowly. "If I wanna stay outta reform, I need to get my grade up. She volunteered to tutor me."

Daddy's expression softens - eyes wide and filled with shame before he stumbles backwards violently. I can breathe a little easier now that the brass doorknob isn't digging into my waist, but I still can't shake the terrified chill running down my arms and legs. "I'm sorry, honeybee, really." His jacket is dirty and stained, same with his jeans. I don't know who's clothes he's wearing, but they aren't the ones he wore to the funeral. His eyes look more like Darry's now - void of colour and life. "I never wanted you to see me like this." When his hand brushes mine, it takes all the strength I have to pull away. I wanna melt into his arms and pretend nothing happened, I wanna tell him about Darry and joke about how excited he was. I wanna tell him 'bout Momma and finally gather the courage to ask who the hell Ellie is, and why she keeps calling me that. But I don't. He doesn't want me to see him like this, and I don't want to cry to a man who won't face his wife for the sake of his children.

Tim slips his blade back into his pocket before Daddy can turn to face him. They pass each other in the living room, both glaring daggers. Once Tim is in earshot and Daddy disappears down the hall I say, "I think you should leave."

"Not a fuckin' chance," Tim hisses, "not while he's still here."

I nod once. I woulda smiled at him if I could, but everything felt cold and paralyzed - like the times me and the boys used to race the streets in the rain, only to come back home soaking wet and sniffling. I start picking at my hands again, but I don't notice until something crashes against my shoulder. "They're gonna start bleedin' if you keep picking," Tim huffs quietly. It's like Daddy was summoned by his voice. He came back from his bedroom, shirt sleeves sticking out from between the clasps of his brown suitcase. His troubled gaze darts between us as his knuckles turn white around the handle. Finally, he clears his throat and we move to the right - leaving a clear path to the door and the filthy blue Chevy parked out front. He wipes a hand across his jaw again and shakes his head as he passes us. "You're not a bad kid," he says suddenly. I can hear Tim scoff and feel the muscles in his arm and shoulder tense, but he stays silent. "But whatever your daddy's got you roped up in, you keep Marley out of it, ya hear me?"

"Get out." I've finally found my voice. Sure, it took longer than I wanted, but I found it and by God, is he gonna hear it.

"You've got a lotta nerve showin' up here like this. Did you wait until you thought no one was home? Thought you could just come in an' out as you pleased an' we'd be none the wiser?" I don't give him a chance to explain - I don't wanna hear it. The words are stumbling out of my control and falling over my lips like venom. For a minute, I'm sure they'll singe the floorboards. "An' now you're just gonna leave? Really? Are you gonna wait until this all blows over, or are you gonna keep driving 'til you're outta gas? What am I supposed to tell Momma then, huh? What about your boys, you remember them, don't you, your sons? What am I supposed to say to Sodapop and Ponyboy? What about Darry?"

By the time his name passes my lips, I'm gasping for breath. I can feel pin-pricks stinging my eyes - the sure sign of tears threatening to fall. My lip wobbles while I prepare my next range of questions, but Daddy jumps down my throat instead.

"Tell 'em I love 'em, okay? I love you, Marlene."

"I'm m-mad at you," I manage to whisper. "I'm so mad at you-"

"I know, darlin'," he admits. "I deserve it, too."

The world falls away as the screen door rattles shut. I hear the chainlink fence and its latch bang together, but I can't force my eyes to focus. Next is the low rumble of a ten-year-old truck and the sound of tires crushing gravel. There's a flash of blue and then- nothing. We stand there in the living room for what feels like centuries. Textbooks and apple cores forgotten on the table, our tongues heavy and stuck to the rooves of our mouths. I feel awful. Worse than when I was sick with the flu, worse than all the times I bandaged up Johnny after he got in the way of another one of his folks' fights. I feel numb.

Well, not completely.

Being completely numb would mean I didn't feel Tim's calloused hand brush against mine.

Being completely numb would mean I didn't feel the gratitude blooming in my chest, or his hand graze mine for a second time.

Or the third, for that matter.