"HONESTLY, IT'S A SHITSHOW, MY GOD."- Peter Mcpoland (Shitshow)
The sky is pink and orange when I push open the door. After years of use, it swings towards the wall without any resistance. There are no shoes littering the ground, our blankets and quilts that usually cluttered the couch have been folded and laid across the back. Most of all, it's silent.
Silence is a rare occurrence here, and it would be a lie to say I didn't enjoy it. Warm light slowly tricked in through our windows, painting designs over the mid-morning dew. It's only nine - or at least it had been when Tim and I snuck out of his bedroom - which means I have the house to myself for most of the day, now that Mr. Syme's put me on leave. I kick off my shoes and tuck them in the corner before I step away from the door and further into the living room. For the first time since Miss Johnson's visit, it's spotless. The streamers have been pulled off the walls, not a piece of garbage to be seen. Part of it is refreshing, but the other is so out of place it's enough to make my thumbnail end up between my teeth.
Ponyboy and Johny are in school together, same with Sodapop, Steve, and Two-bit. I don't know what Dally's up to today, since school is more or less optional for him, but I can't put it past him to stop by today. It's unlikely, but Dally's always been a bit unpredictable. And I'm here. I can't stop myself from walking through my home like a stranger, repeating the events that led to me running out over and over again. Celebrations used to last for days with Momma and Daddy, Birthdays and Christmas and Easter were three-day deals, at a minimum. Darry turned eighteen last night and to anyone walking past, they'd never know. Christmas and New Year's day were just tiny scribbles on our calendar this year as if we ignored them, we could leave everything behind in sixty-three. We could leave Momma and Daddy to rest, give Donna the peace she deserved, sweep all our wrongdoings under the rug.
But it's really hard to do that when it's staring you in the face.
Thin twirls of steam move from his coffee to his bloodshot eyes. His face is being supported by his hands and even from here, I can see every vein bubbling beneath his skin. I can't remember the last time I saw my brother this sick. I'm frozen in the middle of the living room, debating if I have it in me to turn around and walk out again. I'm mad at him. I'm furious at him. My tongue turns to lead in my mouth, heavy and metallic tasting when Darry finally turns his exhausted gaze to me. I hate him. I really do mean it, even if my mouth refuses to say it. He should've believed me. He should've been on my side. He never should've run around with guys like Paul in the first place. I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate him.
Darry abandons his coffee on the table and staggers towards me. At least, I think he's supposed to be coming towards me. He pauses in the doorway and leers over the threshold, nearly doubled over like's he about to be sick. I take one quick step forward with my arms out and reaching, ready to push his hair back or run small circles on his back like I'd done for our brothers a million times. It's a struggle to keep my feet on the floor and my lips in one firm line, but I manage. I manage to think about how disappointed my parents must be in me, too.
I've fought with my brothers before. I've fought with my parents before, too. But I've never thrown any of them under the bus like I did last night. I've never taken off in the middle of the night like I did last night. I've never spent the night at a boy's house, confess my feelings, sleep with him all because I couldn't gather the courage to face my family. I want to leave really bad as Darry straightens his spine and looks at me. He still looks sick, and I can't help but wonder if I'm the cause.
Of course, I'm the cause.
Darry leans all his weight against the doorframe separating the kitchen from the living room. The wood cracks under the pressure, thin splinters dig into his shoulder. I hate myself for thinking he deserves it. At this moment in time, Darry looks worse than Ponyboy. Maybe his skin isn't tinged with green, but his bangs are still pressed flat against his forehead, hiding the worry lines I never realized he had. "Marley," he begins weakly, "I'm so sorry, honey.
Good. I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for any of it. I didn't ask for him to abandon us - his family - all for the approval for some rich kids who used to sneer at him like something they'd scrape off the bottom of their shoes. I didn't ask for him to steal from Momma, all for an extra buck at the end of the day. While he was there, attending the parties and driving the cars we'd only seen in passing, we were here. Daddy was running himself ragged, working day after day so we'd have shoes to wear to school the next day. And Momma was keeping us fed. Sure, I ended up spending most of my time behind a bar, scrubbing glasses and tables until my hands were raw, but I did it because we needed it. But where was Darry?
Where was Darry when Paul - his friend - hurt me?
"What did you do when I left?" I ask thickly. I really don't wanna cry here. Not in front of Darry, not after everything he's done. Darry sighs, his voice is raspy and dry like he'd either been drinking all night or yelling. For my sake, I really hope it's yelling. I hope he yelled at Paul until the entire neighbourhood knew his name and what he'd done to me. But judging from his bloodshot gaze and clumsily footing, the answer may as well be obvious. "Where'd you go?" He asks quickly - as if my words never made it off my tongue. "I was so worried, I thought something happened-"
"Did you even try looking for me? Y'know, since you were so concerned?" My legs move on their own accord, dragging me closer to my brother while my hands move through the air, like I'm the conductor of an orchestra instead of losing my mind. "Do you even care about what I said? What he did?"
"Of course, I care," Darry says hoarsely. He keeps one large hand against the doorframe, his fingers wrap around the splintered wood as he struggles to keep his balance. "I kicked him out, okay? I told him to stay away from you and that I was the only Curtis he was allowed to talk to-" he stumbles forwards as I jump back half a step. He still reeks of beer and cologne, but all I can focus on is the betrayal. "I know you're scared, honey, but we gotta be smart about this."
"What is there to be smart about?" My voice is so shrill and obnoxious, it's a miracle Darry's chipped coffee mug doesn't shatter into a million pieces. I want to scream and throw everything within arms-reach at him, I want to throw the biggest tantrum he's ever seen - like I was five again and he'd hid under my bed pretending to be a monster. I want to keep the hot, angry tears at bay, but I can only do so much at once. Especially when my rational thought comes back in waves strong enough to knock me off my feet. My voice is a bit more than a whisper, it wobbles on every syllable. "Y-you didn't," I plead as if my words could change the past. "You said you'd stop, Darry, you promised me-"
"The bills are piling up, Marley, I can't afford this shit on less than a high school diploma," Darry tells me. He's kneeling in front of me, hands resting on top of mine. They're warm to the touch, but I'm cold. So, so cold. "I hate him, Marley, I'd kill him if I could. But people trust him, an' people are gonna buy pills from people they trust."
"So that's why he was here last night, ain't it? You were gonna give him Momma's pills, and he'd give you the money back?" Darry nods, his thumbs moving back and forth over my knuckles. "So what're you gonna do now, huh? There were only three pills left, I checked 'em." His eyes, a cold mix of blue and green, dance across red veins as they travel over my face. "That's where I was last night," he says. I hate to admit it, but a smile almost graces my lips when I hear the guilt in his voice. "We were tryna make a deal with Bobby. See if he'd give us another bottle for a couple bucks. I even said it was for Ponyboy, t-to help him sleep."
He apologizes softly when I don't respond. His words were getting increasingly desperate, and I was getting increasingly tired of hearing about his bullshit. I was tired, cold, angry, hurt, scared, and at that moment in time, I wanted nothing to do with him. Darry doesn't say anything when I push his hands off my lap and head towards my bedroom. he doesn't ask where I'd been, if I'd eaten, if Paul ever did anything like that before. He doesn't ask why I'm not in school, not even about the hickey under my right ear.
"Are you sure I can't just cut it?" I ask for the millionth time. The steam rising from the sink clouds my vision as I use one hand to keep Ponyboy's head in the sink and the other to scrub through his hair. He mumbles into the dishcloth I've given him to keep the soap out of his eye, but judging by the way he starts to squirm, I'm positive it's a "no." I don't even know when lice decided to pop up in January, but now here I am, trying to see if we need to spend any more of our money on some stupid product that kills nits. Behind me, the floorboards creak as my brother tries to escape. I turn, showering the floor with near-boiling water, but that's a problem for the future Marley. "Don't you even think about it, Sodapop Patrick," I scold. His nose is swollen, as is his left eye, painted with purple and yellow bruises. The worst part is the tooth he'd shown me. It's quite a ways back, so it's barely noticeable when he's smiles or speaks, but it's there and it'll be another damn bill if we aren't careful.
Sodapop whines worse than a baby with a rash - especially when he's sick. "C'mon, Marley, I just wanna lay on the couch and watch t.v." I turn back to Ponyboy and pour another dollop of the stuff we were supposed to use on the nape of his neck and work it into his hair. I'm sure I've rubbed his scalp raw by now, but I'm not stopping until I'm sure whatever might be in his hair has no chance of survival. "I know all your tricks, kid," I tease, "I'll say go ahead, and you'll barricade your bedroom door and hide there 'til your birthday." I may or may not have been the one to teach him the skill, but that's not important. At least I know his plan. I know I'm right when he grumbles into the frozen bag of peas pressed against his face and takes off for the kitchen table.
Both my brothers had come home ten minutes previous at quarter after three. I guess Bob Sheldon and his goons decided going after me wasn't enough, and decided to see how much fight they could get out of the gang. When it comes to fights like that, Socs tend to have the upper hand when adults are around. But the second the bell went, and there were too many kids to keep track of, the gang had 'em beat in an instant. The rest of the gang went their separate ways after that - and after hearing Pony might have lice.
They'd been giving us a lot of space lately. We still saw them every day on the way to and from school, and Miz Mathews came by about once a week with a new dish for us, but it had been a while since anyone stuck around like they used to. I guess it's because our house was always the safe spot. The place any kid in the neighbourhood could walk into and be met with a meal and a spot on the couch. Where the music was always blaring and people were always laughing. I guess I should've realized it sooner, but they lost Momma and Daddy, too.
Water dribbles down his neck and nose, staining his shirt before dropping to the floor. I wrap the dishtowel tight around his shoulders and carefully brush the hair back from his eyes. "How you feel?" He stares out the window for a second to two, gaze seemingly transfixed on something just out of sight. The days are getting longer now, and not a moment too soon. I miss being able to sit out on the front step after dinner without being in complete darkness. "Feel fine," he finally answers with a shrug. "Tim's coming up the walk, by the way."
The door opening provides Ponyboy with the perfect distraction as he slips away, the dishtowel wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. "Why didn't you tell me you broke Bob's nose?" Tim shouts across the house. At that moment, Sodapop's brown and swollen eyes widen as he pushes himself out of his chair. "That was you?" He asks excitedly. I've never really been one to enjoy being the center of attention, but if that's what needs to happen to keep my brother attacking Tim, so be it. I cross my arms over my chest and ignore the water coating the floor while Tim makes his way through the living room. "You never asked."
I always thought his eyes were cold. Intense, spiteful, and blank. He was a lot like Dally in that way - being able to tune out the world in an instant. And maybe I was just being ridiculous and overvaluing my position in a guy's life, paying more attention to all the intricate details rather than the big picture, but I hoped the way he looked at me wasn't just a trick of the light. His eyes were brighter now, against his tawny skin, like something was fighting against the cool facade he'd spent years developing. The thought of it crumbling terrified me, let all the worst fears and doubts travel back to the forefront of my mind, but I couldn't help but feel... something.
"What're you doing in my house again?" His voice is thick and disrupted by the bag of peas freezing to the side of his face, but Tim gets the message. He pauses at the doorway and leans against the splintered wood - just like Darry had hours before. That in itself is enough to leave a sour taste in my mouth. Sodapop rises to his feet and stares at him, as if some monstrosity with seven eyes had walked into our kitchen rather than just Tim. He stares right back, with such calmness that I end up backing away before the fight can start. Yup, sister of the year, that's me. Tim and Sodapop can fight all they want, but I'll be busying myself with cleaning the countertops and scrubbing the nits from Ponyboy's scalp. "Bob fucked up your mouth, huh? What'd he say to you this time?"
Soda goes as red as the rag I'm using to soak up the water on the floor. He's always tried to be one of the tougher kids in town, but you'd show him a picture of a stray kitten and he'd break down sobbing. He and Ponyboy are pretty similar that way, only Pony already knows he doesn't have it in him to fight. He looks for approval through good grades and the promise of scholarships, all while Soda thinks bruises and bloody knuckles will make Darry see him as anything but a little brother. "-You gotta do something about that tooth," Tim scoffs, interrupting Sodapop's mumbling. I peer around the corner of the counter as I scrub the floor on my knees in time to see Soda clamp his lips shut and drop the peas onto the table. "Are you tryna pull out his tooth?" I ask before turning my face back to the ground.
My reflection looks back at me. She looks tired, with bags under her eyes she'd never noticed, her hair's much thinner than the last time she'd cared to pay attention. Still, she smiles. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as the water ripples, Sodapop's chair scratches the floor, and Tim assures him it won't hurt. "-Christ, you have any idea how many teeth I've pulled?" Her jaw is more defined. The scar across her chin has faded some, but the rigid pink flesh still sticks out across her tanned skin. "I can't really remember, 'cause none of them were mine, but it doesn't hurt. C'mon, stop being a pussy an' open your fucking mouth-"
"Just do it, Soda," I say. It's easier to pretend the girl wearing my face and saying my words is little more than a stranger. That I'm still the same person I was before the accident. Before I could look at Darry and not feel the urge to cry. Before Donna. Before Tim. "If you won't let me do it, just let Tim. It'll be better than Darry, won't it?" In a single second, the girl staring back at me vanishes, and I'm left with a sopping wet rag. My knees ache something awful when I stand up and drag the back of my hand across my forehead, but I'm more focused on Soda leaning so far back in his chair, it's a miracle he hasn't tumbled out of it. "That's because the last time you pulled out one of my teeth, you attacked me in my sleep-"
"You were seven, Sodapop. Maybe Darry would stop treating you like a baby if you stopped acting like one." He twists his face into an ugly scowl, but I don't have time to reciprocate. Tim sends me a sly smile from across the room as I ring out the towel over the sink and leave it to dry. Down the hall, harsh yellow light leaks out of the bathroom while Ponyboy runs the towel back and forth over his head in the mirror. "If that tooth isn't out by dinner, I'll knock it out." He's got enough sense to keep his mouth shut as I walk away, flipping my hair back and off my shoulders before I meet Pony in the bathroom.
It doesn't register that he's grown up until I begin to comb through his hair and don't have to bend down. I can barely see myself in the filthy mirror across from us, Ponyboy's eyes almost exactly where mine would be. I swallow the lump in my throat like vinegar; it burns all the way down. He drops the towel into the sink and leaves me to run through his hair with our comb and my fingers, searching for anything leftover from the last time I'd practically water-boarded him. Tim and Sodapop are nothing more than murmurs at this time, as I stand there under the light, filling the role our Momma left behind.
That never registered until right now, either.
His hair is slick and shiny, but dare I say it, clean. I pull on his cowlick at the nape of his neck ever so slightly before dropping the comb onto the counter, listening to it rattle. "I think you're in the clear, Pone." I can't help but cross my fingers behind my back. "Just lemme know if your scalp gets itchy, yeah?" He nods lazily and rakes his fingers through his hair like I was Steve who'd waited until the last minute to ruin his hair. He turns to face me once it's back to his liking and I manage the best smile I can muster. "You went to Tim's after that fight with Darry, didn't you?"
It comes back up, burning like acid in my chest. I should've known better than to throw a hissy-fit when my brothers were in earshot, especially when it was Pony and Soda. It wasn't about them. It would never be about them because they were younger. They were the ones who needed to be protected, who didn't need to fall asleep at night wondering if Darry or I were ever coming home. They were the ones who needed protection. Darry and I were supposed to be the ones to give it. It was just another responsibility passed down to us. That seemed to increase ten-fold now that we're the only ones left.
Ponyboy looks so much younger in Sodapop's shirt. It's been through three boys and more rounds in the wash than a boxer in a ring. The colour's fading and the sleeves are held together with different coloured sting, but Ponyboy wears it with pride. Like a life jacket, tethering him to shore. To us. I want to reach out and brush my hand across his face like I'd done a million times before when he was a baby, but the vindictive edge in his voice stops me cold. "That's why you gotta hickey?"
Something about the whole scene felt painfully familiar, but I didn't have time to place it as I chased him down the hall, cursing worse than the truckers that stopped by Buck's.
"Marley has a hickey!" He screeches gleefully. We end up in the kitchen, where my brother is stuck in his chair, and Tim's hand is keeping him pinned. Sodapop has his lips pressed into a thin line, while I can only imagine how many threats had left his. "Marley has a hick-" I don't feel bad for tackling him to the floor. The number of things I've kept hidden for this kid, the lunches I've made and the homework I've looked over, after all of that you'd think he woulda learned what loyalty meant. But here he was, shouting my secrets to the wind like some reporter from Tiger Beat. We hit the ground with a heavy thud and he immediately cries out. Thankfully, neither Tim nor Soda seems to be in the mood to help him. So, with my arms clamped tightly around his body, I snarl into his ear, "you say a word of this to anyone else, an' I'll drown you like the little rat you are."
"Why?" He challenges, "is that 'cause Tim gave it to you?"
Dropping an atomic bomb would've done less damage.
I don't even have time to scramble to my feet before chaos erupts. "You gave my sister a hickey?" Sodapop yells, his vow of silence momentarily forgotten. Unfortunately for my pride - and brother - Tim seizes the opportunity and yanks the tooth that started all of this clean out of his head. There's a moment of stunned silence as Tim stumbles back, his hand bloody and mouth contorted into a proud smile. Below me, Pony hasn't bothered climbing to his feet, even now that I'm not keeping him pinned. Worst of all is Sodapop. His eyes are opened as wide as his mouth, I can't tell if he's shocked, hurt, or disgusted. After what feels like a millennium, the silence finally shatters. "You gave my sister a hickey?" Sodapop asks calmly.
Tim Shepard scares the hell out of me. Here I was, thinking I knew little more than his name and his siblings. He scared me because even if I didn't want to admit it, I knew so much more than I was letting on. He scared the hell out of me when his eyes locked with mine, bright, blue, and full of amusement. He scare me because I knew I'd pay for what he was about to do one way or another, but I really couldn't care. I know I shake my head, a half-hearted warning, but I know it's already too late. Sodapop is on the edge of his seat, and Tim smiles. "I had sex with her last night, too."
Soda lunges, Tim dodges, Ponyboy finally stands. They dance around each other like rabid dogs, never taking the chance to knock the other down and claim victory, At this point, I can't tell if there's any tension from the day at the school, or if it's just boys being boys. It's disastrous and messy, loud, with electric energy hanging in the air. "Really, Marley?" Ponyboy asks again, "you slept with him?"
Life is tumbling out of my control faster than I wanted to admit. My parents were dead, bills were piling up, I may be a high school dropout. But Sodapop collapsed on the floor, clutching his stomach in an attempt to suppress the first genuine laughter I'd heard from him in months. "Sorry 'bout what I said, w-with your parents," he manages to spit out, "I-I shoulda known better-" Tim shakes his head as Ponyboy and I break into laughter, too.
None of it is funny. There's nothing for us to laugh about, but we do it anyway. The truth will work its way out into the world one way or another, so there's no use in trying to avoid it. Maybe my brothers will try and kill him tomorrow, but for now, Tim's laughing along with the rest of us in the kitchen. It'll be a while before I admit it to anyone else, but I do really really like Tim Shepard.
But hey, progress is progress, even in baby steps.