"I'LL SLIT YOUR THROAT AND FEED YOU TO THE ALLEY CATS."
The silence was finally starting to get to me as I raked my eyes up and down the pages for the ninth time. My ears had stopped ringing a while after I walked in, but I'd take that obnoxious reminder of what happened last night over whatever we were doing here any day of the fucking week. She's sitting across from me at the table, biting down on her thumbnail and her eyebrows furrowed. I guess it could've been called progress - what we managed to accomplish over the past few weeks - but it fell apart like a cheap vase that night behind the gym. Even with the house to ourselves, my heart can't accept the fact that I'm not in any danger. It's still hammering against my ribs, legs aching to run, eyes trained on the door just over her shoulder.
"How's it coming?"
The only writing on the paper in front of me was Marley's. Clean, neat letters formed carefully constructed questions, the kind I should've been able to answer weeks ago. Across the table and tucked under her elbow, Marley's paper is a mess of scribbles and numbers, dark streaks of erased words covering most of its surface. When she noticed what I'm looking at, she tucks the paper closer to her. Tries to, anyway. The paper ends up slipping out of her grasp altogether, landing on the floor just beneath my chair. Her chair scrapes across the floor as she rushes to her feet, but I've already reached down and scooped her homework off the floor. Marley's smart - nothing you could say to change my mind - but dear Lord, someone go over this poor girl's work. I raise the back of my hand to my face and brush back my hair as I drop her paper on the table and go over it in my head. It's like I'm thirteen again, sitting at the kitchen table with Curly tryna teach him division all over again. "Alright, dipshit, you and Pony take some Soc's lunch money and he's got a dollar. How many cents are you and pony each gettin', huh?"
Algebra was one of the easiest things to cover in math. All you've gotta do is cancel shit out and write down your values. Judging by all the numbers and symbols, Marley seems to feel the same way. Still, she's tried the same equation three different times and still hasn't reached the right answer. I could be a real dick if I wanted to, but I think I've pissed her off enough to last a couple hundred lifetimes. "You're forgetting to multiply by four," I say casually as I slide the paper back to her. Marley's standing when my eyes finally land on her. Fingers curled around the back of her chair, knuckles turning white and her green eyes wide. I'm half expecting her cheeks to go red - like they had at the dance - and drown out her freckles, but her face is about three shades paler, her freckles sticking out as obviously as the scar on her chin. That's when I realize her eyes aren't even focused on mine. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Her voice isn't nearly as shrill as I expected it to be. Concern is laced through her words as she runs her eyes over the rest of me and searches for anything else that could've been broken or bruised. "That's from Darry, ain't it," she says thickly. That's all I need to hear before I rise to my feet, eyes fixated on the door behind her, calculating how fast I'd need to be to escape. Without another word, Marley turns on her heel and storms into the kitchen. I hear drawers and cupboards being thrown open and slammed, it's all enough to drown out her mumbles. Finally, after what must have been decades, my mind and mouth finally start to catch up as to what happened. "It ain't a big deal, Marls, I've lived through worse. You've seen my face after Dally caught me and Syl-"
She reappears in an instant with one hand on her jean-clad hip, and the other wrapped around something. "Sit down," she orders as she storms around the table. All it takes is one touch before I find myself sinking back into the chair, and a cold sting covering the wound. "Sonuva-"
Marley yanks on my hair to clear the path to the cut, her movements are quick and calculated, her eyes too close to being glossed over for me to relax. "Seriously," I try again, "it's just a scrape, Marley. Quit makin' such a big deal out of it."
"If it was just a scrape, it woulda healed up by now. Or at least scabbed, or done something."
In all honesty, I haven't bothered checking on the bruise since Friday night. Sure, I've at least tried to keep my injuries clean and maintained - I swear, we're still paying for Curly's broken arm when he tried to climb a telephone pole, in June. But Darry is a lot stronger than I think any of us grease have ever given him credit for. The second he had Andy on the ground, I was the only thing separating him from his little sister. And I was holding a knife. So I guess, in a way, I kinda deserved getting my shit rocked. Maybe knocking my head against a brick wall hard enough to scrape off some of my skin and leave three dark bruises across my temple was a little overkill, but I can't imagine I'd act much different.
Not if it was Angela stuck in the shadows with some wanna-be hood. Not if he had a rep he tried to uphold. Not if the only people around were a bunch of Socs who'd jump her - or worse - if they caught her alone. Hell, I have done worse than pushing some kid against a wall. I paid nine months in juvie for it, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
The rag falls to the table as the peroxide soaks into my skin, purifying the cut and whatever else has settled in it. Just as I lean back in the seat, Marley whips around with enough force for her hair to tangle itself around her shoulder. She doesn't seem to care - or even notice - as she hesitantly begins pacing around her side of the table, the smallest tremor in her hands. "Tim, I-I gotta ask you a question, alright? An'... and I really need an answer this time."
Don't do this, Marley. I know what you wanna ask, and we both know you ain't gonna get the answer you want. Your brother's making some real bad decisions, and you know it, but he's kept you out of it the best he can. Don't go poking around where you don't belong, Marley. Just bite your tongue and turn a blind eye to the blood coating his knuckles, the late-night rendezvous with guys who barely remember your name. Be a good sister, like your parents taught you, and take care of your little brothers. Take care of Sodapop and Ponyboy, and let Darry take care of you. Bite your tongue and turn a blind eye to the rumours following your family name. Don't pay for your brother's mistake.
"What's Andy Keep got against my brother?"
"You are in so much trouble."
This isn't the first time I've been caught at a girl's house when I wasn't supposed to be. This was, however, the first time the girl happened to Marley. Ponyboy stood next to one of his buddies - a real quiet kid with greasy bangs that I barely remember ever meeting - with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Darry's gonna be so mad at you, Daddy said you ain't allowed boys in the house 'til your thirty-"
What's it matter anymore, kid? He's dead.
Just like the last time, I watch idly by as Marley storms into her living room to face whatever family member is on the receiving end of her wrath. "I swear to Jesus, God, and sweet Mother Mary, you mention one word of this to Darry an' I'll-"
It's like an unspoken rule, okay? Grease team up to fight Socs, guys talk up their buddies around the chick he likes, and older siblings gotta gang up on the younger ones every now again. Just the way the world works, I don't make the rules. The floorboards creak as I cross the threshold into the living room and take a stance next to her, all while staring down at Ponyboy. "Any chance Darry knows 'bout the time you took his playboy, brought it to school, and charged the kids a nickel for a peek at the girls' tits?"
Judging by the way Ponyboy turned the same sick shade of green Curly does every time influenza rolls around, and Marley's horrified gasp, that was another thing I wasn't supposed to know. "Y-you wouldn't," Pony stammers uneasily. I'm sure that if he wasn't tightening his grip on the back of his couch, he woulda sank straight to the floor. He's been runnin' around with my little brother for years now, and still can barely hold a conversation with me. And this was coming from a kid who hung around with Dally Winston. Beside me, Marley tilts her weight to the balls of her feet and crosses her arms under her chest with a devilish grin painted on her lips. "Oh, I would. An' I would really enjoy doin' it."
They bicker back and forth, dragging me and Johnny Cade along for the ride with their newfound blackmail. I know that by this time tomorrow - or even tonight if Pony can get his hands on the telephone - Curly will have a million and one questions about this. And there won't be a single one I'll want to answer. "-What are you two even doin' here? Thought y'all were headin' to Mass," Marley says skeptically.
Jesus fucking Christ. This kid gets weirder, every. Single. Day.
"-It's finished, genius. Mass ended at twelve, it's quarter after."
Marley's off like a shot. Moving through the house at a rapid pace as she throws her belongings together and manages to twist her hair into some shape at the nape of her neck. "Goddamnit," she hisses, "I'm gonna be late-"
"Yeah, guess Syl's been missin' you," I cut in casually. Marley's lips have already been bleeding enough that it's a miracle she hasn't bled to death, and I doubt admitting she's been working at a bar would help her case. She flashes me an appreciative smile as she gently pushes my textbook back into my hands and moves towards her door. Without a second thought, I follow her.
"Darry's gonna be back from job-huntin' real soon, stick around 'til he gets back. If he asks, tell him I'm with Syl!" Marley yells back to her brother as she wrestles her shoes onto her feet.
"How 'bout I just tell 'im you're with Tim Shep-"
"You say anything about this to Darry, an' I'll slit your throat and feed you to the alley cats," I threaten. I don't mean a fucking word of it, but Pony doesn't need to know that. His mouth falls open as his eyes go wide, the only thing he had in common with his sister. I'm hit with a gust of cold air as the door swings open and Marley ushers me outside, finally out of earshot and able to speak freely. As freely as you can around a hood, I guess.
"Thanks for that," she says quickly, "Darry would tan my hide if he hears about this, but Pony's too scared of you to say anything."
I end up walking along with her for a little bit, the silence between us as light and easy as the wind rocking through the tree branches. It doesn't take long for us to reach Buck's, and I can't help but wonder if there's any real reason I need to be getting home soon. Sure, I ain't in any mood to head home and deal with my parents and siblings, but I'm no better prepared to answer the question Marley had become too distracted to remember. Smoke swirls out from under the door, thick, dark, and disgusting, but my hand curls around the doorknob anyways as I yank it open. "Lemme know if I need to give him a reason to be scared."
She smiles at me again before stepping into the bar and calling out to her boss, and I'm frozen in time for what feels like a goddamn eternity.
How's it go again? "Hate to see her go, love to watch her leave," or some shit like that?
Christ almighty, I sound like a douchebag.
"Okay, lemme try this again," Pat says through a puff of smoke. We're upstairs in my bedroom now that Curly's taken off with some of his buddies. The blinds are open, silver light slowly trickling in through the thick veil of clouds. Sunday means most of Tulsa's held up in church, Mrs. Macrorie and her granddaughter being two of them. Pat's leaning against the wall and sitting on my bed. It's a mess of flat pillows and wrinkled sheets, but I'd just be pissed if I got another cigarette burn through my pillowcase. "So you head to a school dance on Friday night," he continues slowly. I nod back to him from across the room. I'm stuck on Curly's bed, trying to tame the bits of my hair that wouldn't lay flat, occasionally brushing against the side of my head and the bruises left behind. "Way to go, Macrorie, I only had to say it four fucking times-"
"Shut the fuck up," he snaps as the pillow he threw at me flops to the floor. "You're just bein' a little bitch 'cause Darry beat the shit outta you." I open my mouth to tell him off, but he's already jumped down my throat again before I can think of what to say. "And for good reason, too! You pulled Marley outta the gym, like a creep, and got pissed when Darry treated you like one!"
Leave it to Pat - the same guy to knock a girl up when we were fourteen - to give me girl advice. I didn't even need it, especially not when it came to Marley. But, as usual, he skips right over the big idea to focus on my flaws. "What's with you and Marley, huh? This ain't got nothin' to do with her." He just laughs, red hair falling in front of his eyes before he tilts his face towards the ceiling. "I just wanna know what Andy was doin' over there, pickin' a fight with Darry, of all people," I continue. The question hangs heavy in the air, thick like the smoke curling from Pat's lips. My eyes wander to the window and the tops of houses just barely visible from my viewpoint. Up on the windowsill, a silver band catches in the sunlight. It was nothing special, just a trophy I took off some guy back in reform. I dunno why I still have it, I don't even like rings that much. Bragging rights, I guess? Makes for a good story, too.
"I think she's kinda hot, that's all."
My feet slam against the floor loud enough to shake the window panes. Across from me, Pat is still leaning against the wall with his smoke tucked between his teeth and the edge of a smile creeping up on him. For once, I can't tell if it's satire or not. "Just a shame she's always wearin' Darry's sweatshirts... Kinda wanna see what she's got underneath 'em."
I can feel the electricity running through my bloodstream before I can even decipher his words - or convince myself I don't care. "Shut your trap, Macrorie," I manage, "don't talk about her like that." I've fucked up the second the words register. Pat sits up before leaning his weight on his elbows as they dig into his thighs, the cigarette now hanging carelessly between his middle and index finger. "Give me a fuckin' break, Tim, you act like you ain't sittin' on your brother's porno stash. You've thought about it, I'm just pointing it out."
I mean, if a guy has to spend an hour across from her every weekend, of course his mind is gonna fucking wander. If she's sitting right there, and can't see me looking, why would I pay more attention to the stupid shit I can't understand on my paper? So what if I've thought about her like that before? I know I'm not the only one, but there's something real different between thinking it and saying it.
"You're fixin' to get your shit rocked," I mutter as I stand and stretch. My fists clench on instinct when Pat laughs again, like I'm the butt of the joke instead of Marley. "Hate it break it to you, bud, but I think you've got it bad."
Y'know what, Patrick? Fuck you. Marley's been pretty since the second grade. Tanned skin and half a thousand freckles, bright eyes and the kind of smile you'd see in a movie poster. All the Curtis kids are decent heights, her included. She's pretty slim, but I don't know a ton of kids on this side of town who weren't. Sure, maybe she kept her blouses buttoned up a little higher, didn't roll her skirt up as much, but you could still tell she was a girl, and you could tell I wasn't the only guy to notice. She was still a girl, pretty quiet and shy most of the time. Even for a greaser, she was the kinda girl you wouldn't really talk dirty about.
But Marley was still a greaser, and the highlight of eighth grade was watching her backhand Dallas after he tried to cop a feel.
"You like her, don't you?" Pat asks. The cig nearly tumbles out from between his fingers when I pick up the pillow at his feet and swing it at his face. "It's gonna be a real fucking shame when Katie has to grow up an orphan 'cuz you can't keep your mouth shut." The pillow is tossed aside again when Pat clears his head and borrows his eyes. "Holy shit. You're in love-"
"Hey dipshit," Angela calls suddenly from the hall. She's standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. "Dad wants you downstairs, that guy you keep bitchin' about is here, too." I'm expecting her to roll her eyes - a new pastime of hers, apparently - but they move over to Patrick, instead. I've seen a lotta shit, okay? And I don't get sick easy, but that's all I wanted to do when she fucking smiled and waved at him. At least Pat's got enough sense to keep his eyes where I can see them. We leave the room as Ang steps aside and Pat moves to the stairs. "He's too old for you," I tell her as I pop the collar of my jacket. Angela just smiles, parting her red lips to expose that damned tongue of hers. "An' Marley Curtis is too good for you."
I'll admit, Andy's gotta be pretty fucking dedicated to show up after the stunt he pulled Friday night. He looks a lot worse off than me though, his left eye is completely bruised and damn near swollen shut, his nose is pointing too far to the right for anyone to pass of as normal. The best part of all, is the nice, long scar on the side of his jaw, just like the one he gave Marley. He's standing in front of the door, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket and a cig tucked behind his ear. Dad and I storm forwards as Pat makes himself scarce in the background, just standing there and eyeing whatever Dad had been watching on the t.v.
"You were right." The words fall over Andy's scarred lips the second Dad's in earshot. He's got the same grim look in his eye, the same one he had when he found Marley by the gym. It ain't freaking me out much, but I sure as shit ain't relaxed about it. "You've got some competition, Shepard, if you can even call 'em that."
All rumours got to start somewhere, right? It just happened to be that this rumour was true. I don't even know how it started, or who started it, but word got around about some Socs selling powder at some party way back in August. After a couple weeks in school, they started popping up again. Said they would sell to anyone willing to pay up, it happened at all the beer blasts or football afterparties. Didn't take long for kids to single out the players when they walked around in their letterman jackets, Lord only knows what kinda powder stuffed in their pockets.
"So you got some then?" Dad asks eagerly. Andy nods and fishes out a small bag from his pocket. I don't know my drug paraphernalia well enough to identify it off the hop, but I know that shit isn't legal. "Couldn't get it myself since they were the same guys from the dance, but the kid I sent said they gave him lithium."
You slimy motherfucker. Scoping out the dance was my job.
Dad breaks the seal and pours a minuscule pile into the palm of his hand. He chuckles as he rubs the grains between his fingers as if reminiscing on an old memory. "Can do a lotta things with lithium," he says simply. "Ain't as dangerous as hash, get's you nice and mellow. Where they sellin'?"
"Still out by the diner. Got the same car an' everything, the red mustang."
The world falls away as all the pieces finally a line, falling into place like some sadistic puzzle. I know what question Dad's gonna ask next, he already knows the answer as well as I do. It ain't often high school drama queens manage to nail a rumour, but who am I to say they can't go two for two? Who am I to say the dance was a one-time thing, something that could be swept under the rug as just teenage politics rather than the start of a fucking war? Who am I to assume we're the only guys are our wrapped up in it?
"Y'know the guy selling?"
Andy nods slowly, and it takes all I have in me not to spit the copper taste of blood onto the floor.
"By the looks of it, Darry Curtis is their main dealer."