"JUST ANOTHER THING I'D LEARNED FROM MOMMA."

"Don't look at it," Momma hisses. In truth, I can't see what's she's talking about, thanks to the tears threatening to spill over. The gravel's rubbed the skin clean off my elbow and has left Momma with the responsibility of cleaning and dressing it. I know it ain't serious enough for a hospital visit - definitely not bad enough to take us over to the Mathews for a second opinion - but it hurts worse than when Syl dared me to jump off the slide, and my knee was bruised for two whole weeks after that. Ponyboy's sitting on Momma's lap, tenderly tracing his fingers around my bloody skin and tearing up every time I wince. I can hear Daddy chewing Darry out on the front step. Saying that it's his responsibility to keep an eye on his baby sister. Darry just says none of it woulda happened if the Socs learned to leave us alone. And Sodapop, like always, is the flag in our game of tug-o-war. He rushes between squeezing my hand when Momma pours on the antiseptic to dropping to his knees and listening to Daddy through the gap in the door. "It'll hurt less if you don't look at it," Momma reminds me once Sodapop vanishes for the third time. She wraps my wound in a dishcloth and leaves me at the table before passing my youngest brother into my arms. "It doesn't hurt anymore," I mumble into his hair. "Not now that you're here."

My hands are as dark as the sky bleeding in through the open blinds of Dally's window when I pull back from the sink and reach blindly for the towel I'd hooked onto the doorknob minutes before. I can hear Dally chuckle - probably out of pride - and let my hand follow the sound. "Just gimme the towel, would you? I ain't in the mood for this," I spit. My fingers scrape against the fabric and latch on before he can pull it away again. If I were alone, Lord only knows how loud I'd scream into the cloth muffling my voice.

Momma had always told us that if we didn't look at it, it wouldn't hurt as much. For years I'd just grit my teeth and suffer through it when she poked and prodded at my scrapes, bruises, and slivers. But now I knew it wasn't just the fibres of the towel scathing against my eyes or making my heart contract worse than the day at the hospital. At least there, I knew my parents were dead. That they were gone, and I could talk about them freely. That there was nothing in this world that could bring them back.

But Tim Shepard wasn't dead. He was alive and well, walking right back in here and crushing me all over again.

I'd done so well not poking at old wounds, letting the past turn to ashes in my memory, but I can't do that when everything I've tried to bury is staring me in the eye. Apologizing, reaching for my hand. I toss the towel behind me and into the bathroom once I've cleaned the makeup from my face and Dally's bedroom has come into view. It really isn't anything special, just a bed with a cupboard, a lamp, and a dresser. But Buck's empty room has been home to Dally whenever ours wasn't available. He was leaning against the wall now, with a cig clenched between his teeth, and leather-clad arms crossed over his chest. He's wearing that cold, fixed, glare in his pale eyes tonight, but I don't have the energy for any sarcastic banter. I barely have enough time to pull on my own jacket before Dally breaks the silence.

"It's been a few days since I've had a good fight," he mutters nonchalantly. I know what he's hinting at, and he knows I know what he's hinting at, that's why he hasn't come right out and said it. It was already as obvious as the outline of a pill bottle tucked in my pocket. "You don't need to jump him," I say tiredly as my words slur together. I swear, with some Socs, you'd never know they were from the South. But it seems that for us grease, every other word is weighed down with a drawl in some way or another. The puff of cheap tobacco makes my nose wrinkle as Dally shrugs his shoulders and allows for a few ashes to plunge to the floor below. We've never really been that close - not like the rest of the gang - but we had mutual respect and understanding, I guess you could say. If he needed someone to bail him out tonight, he knew we'd be there. If I changed my mind tomorrow and decided I hated Tim Shepard and wanted him dead, Dally would try his damnedest to make it happen.

My backpack isn't that heavy when I swing it around onto my shoulder. It hasn't been weighed down with school work for a couple of weeks now, the only thing inside is Momma's old makeup and that blouse Darry would burn if he ever even saw it hanging in my closet. It ain't the most modest piece of clothing I own, but it helps me look a little bit older. No one wants to give a three-dollar tip to a fifteen-year-old, after all. "I'm gonna head home," I tell Dally as I cross the floor and rest my hand on the doorknob. I should've known better than to turn my back on Dallas.

"Darry ain't making you do anything you don't wanna, right?" His voice is gruff enough that it almost manages to smother the sentiment behind his words, but I get the idea. Dally's eyes are locked onto my pocket when I glance over my shoulder at him, the cigarette between his fingers still smouldering and close to burning his fingertips. "It doesn't matter how good that money looks in a wallet when you could be using it to pay for a funeral in the morning."

Dally will talk about New York if you ask. He'll tell you about all the homeless junkies he scrapped with, the guys he fought, and the gore he'd seen. He'd show off his rings and St. Christopher with pride, same with the battle scars he'd earned along the way. But Dally never spoke of his parents. He never spoke of his family - if he had any - and we never mentioned the dime-sized scars that littered his flesh. Red and deep, they stuck out as obviously against his light skin like Momma's lipstick smeared across my cheek. I'd seen them before, after all the times he'd wandered into my living room, eyes wild and drenched in something other than bloodlust.

But what happened to Dallas Winston before Tulsa isn't my story to tell. It's been swept under the rug a million times before when the house was still rocking along with Daddy's snores and the sun had barely begun to peek over the horizon. I don't know who died back in New York, or why he had to leave, but I know Dally died with them, just a little bit.

I sweep it under the rug again. I'd always been good at that and dropped my hand against my pocket, just to make sure. "Bye, Dally, I'll see you tomorrow."

The bar is pretty quiet for a Tuesday evening, but I don't mind at all. The steps creak and groan with Hank's guitar and the clinking of glasses, all merging together to form its own kind of music. Buck is right where I'd left him when I left for upstairs ten minutes prior, behind the bar, rolling his own cigarette. His brows are furrowed in concentration, though they're hidden by greasy, blonde bangs. The floorboards groan again as I come to a halt in front of the bar and wait for his eyes to dart up. I don't have to wait that long, as it turns out. It had been just under a minute when he rolls the paper together proudly and tucks his homemade joint behind his ear. "You going home now, kid? Need a ride?"

I knew the question was inevitable. Sure, I could lie and say Darry was already waiting for me down the block, but where would that lead if I ended up getting jumped or something? It was already obvious the Socs weren't exactly on my side, and I doubt any greasers would be willing to let me go unbothered, either. I ended up playing with the end of my sweatshirt as I racked my brain for any clever excuse I could use. Darry at the end of the block seemed like my best bet, but then I'd have to worry about Dally seeing right through me, and I swear that kid could see through walls. Suddenly, something rattles against the counter. It's a handful of loose change and the keys to Buck's t-bird. He leans against the bar and crosses his arms on its splintering surface. Buck sends me a sly smile before slowly running his thumb over the smooth edge of his key. "I know ya'll don't have a car right now, Marley-" The bar is almost empty. The only patrons are leaning against each other, eyes drooping closed, with drunken smiles plastered on their faces. "-And you should know I ain't about to let you walk home alone. What am I supposed to say if something happens to you?"

I really just want to go home. I want to go home and drop these pills in Darry's hand and go to bed. I just wanna fall asleep for a while and let life pass me by. I think I've been caught up enough to last a few centuries. Buck doesn't even wait for an answer before hopping up on the bar and swinging his legs around. he has one hand clamped around his car key while the other is busy spooning the loose change from his pocket into my hands. I follow him to the door numbly, barely remembering to breathe as reality finally sets in. "I'm taking Marley home," he calls to Dallas. "Come watch the bar!"

It isn't even ten yet, but darkness wraps around the city like a quilt, thick and heavy. For a young guy, Buck's car isn't littered with garbage like I thought it would be. The engine roars to life once he slides into the driver's seat and takes a quick look in the rearview mirror. I know it's stupid. That I'm worried over nothing, but I can't stop my heart from jumping to my throat when he looks at me. "Seatbelt."

"Sorry," I mutter before reaching over my shoulder for the black strap. Buck only begins to turn the wheel when he hears the familiar click. "Don't mention it," he says casually. "Just don't want you going through the windshield."

It really isn't a long drive, barely even ten minutes now that all the traffic's disappeared for the night. I try to convince myself I didn't need his help, that I didn't want his help, that Buck had decided to help me out of the goodness of his own heart. Still, as hard as I try, it's pointless to stop the cold fear running up my spine as we pull to a stop in front of the house. Yeah, the lights are on, but I don't see any shadows staring back at me through the curtains. Coins and pills jingle around in my pockets as I frantically work to undo my seatbelt and grab my backpack. The air feels so much colder now against my cheek as I push the door open, like the freezing edge of a steel blade. "Hey," Buck calls suddenly before I can get both my feet on the ground, "are you okay?"

"You don't want anything for this, right? I-I don't owe you-"

He chuckles and slaps one hand against the wheel, his eyes close for a brief moment as if I'd just told the joke of a century. I'm not laughing, though. Try as I might, the fear running through my veins and cradling my heart makes a break for my throat, catching my breath in a closed fist. Buck's eyes open and his face settles into a grim line instantaneously. Suddenly, his voice seems just as hoarse as I imagine my own. He turns to face me, his entire body pointed in my direction while I force myself as far back as I can go. "T-this isn't like that," he says quietly. "You don't owe me anything, kid. I just wanted to get you home safe-"

I should've just lied and walked home. At least then, I could've saved myself the embarrassment of tearing up in front of Buck Merril. I really did have a great rack record with crying in front of hoods I barely know, don't I? I risk another quick glance over my shoulder before sliding my other foot out of the car and onto the gravel. "I'm sorry 'bout this," I manage. "Thank you for everythin'-"

Buck leans forward across the passenger seat and looks up at me before pulling the joint from behind his ear and tucking it between his teeth. Behind me, his eyes linger on our kitchen window. "You don't have to like me, okay? Just know that you can call me if you need to get outta that house. I'll drive you over to Sylvia's or somethin', if you lay enough blankets and shit down, the floor in Dal's room ain't that bad, either." I've had Momma's lithium tucked in my pocket for less than a day, but the unconscious habit of resting my hand over it was already forming. As if that wasn't obvious enough, the bar had the thinnest walls known to man. If Buck didn't know what was going on already, he sure does now.

Things were supposed to be getting easier. We'd braved the first month without our parents, but we'd come out of it alive and together. Mid-January was nearing and things were starting to look up. We had food in the fridge, neither of my brothers had gotten into any fights at school, Darry was still looking for a real job. My brothers' shoes are tossed around our door hazardously, mine only add to the fray when I kick them off and move towards the living room. Ponyboy and Sodapop are together on the couch, their tired eyes darting back and forth between the cards in their hands and the figures on the television screen. I push my lips to the top of Pony's greasy head and squeeze Soda's shoulder when I move past them. "Where's Darry?" I call.

"Bedroom," Ponyboy answers. "Soup's on the stove if you want some."

Tomato soup was the one thing Momma could never cook. She either seasoned it too much or not enough. Daddy says it was his own secret recipe, one that just he and my brothers would have to master if they wanted to earn their keep around here. I give it a few slow stirs with the wooden spoon resting off to the side. It simmers slowly, steam bubbling up and greeting the surface after a second or two. "Where've you been, Marls?" Sodapop asks this time. "It's kinda late, don't you think?" I give him a dull response. That I was out with Sylvia and we lost track of time. I tell myself I'll eat later as I drift down the hall, feeling like I could fall through the floor at any moment.

I don't think it would be a bad thing if I did.

Darry's room is a mess of paper. Some are official-looking documents, others are tests and exams from school. There's still the occasional newspaper, still flipped to the "We're Hiring!" side. He's sitting on his bed, thumbing through one of the papers, his head leaning back against the cool glass of his window. I sand there in his doorway, casting long shadows against his walls as the hand wrapped around Momma's pills trembles. "Hey, I was starting to worry about you," Darry finally says when my breath becomes audible. I want to say something. Anything. But my brain won't work. So instead, I follow his instructions like a little kid again.

The mattress sags and the bed frame creaks, threatening to snap, when I sit down next to my brother, careful to avoid all the failed opportunities that lurk in every corner. His hand is warm, but I can't fight the shiver running down my arms when he brushes the hair back from my face and tucks it behind my ear. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No," I admit softly. "Just wanted to give you this."

It feels so much heavier than thirty-one pills. I'm waiting for the weight to leave my chest, for breathing to feel like second nature instead of a tedious chore, but that never comes. To think all of this is just because of thirty-one little pills-

Darry doesn't ask where I'd gotten them. I think he's finally starting to catch on that some things are just better left unsaid. But my silence doesn't stop his arm from snaking across my shoulder and pulling me against him until my head collapses against his shoulder. "Thank you," he mumbles into my hair. "You know how much this is gonna help us?" I don't, but I nod against his shoulder anyway. It's been a while since we've been this close. Since we'd been able to be this close without it turning into an argument. I know what I'm about to say will start one, but a person can only keep so much to herself for so long, y'know?

"Darry?"

"Hm?"

"I gotta tell you something. J-just promise you won't get mad, yeah?"

I was the first person Darry told about Donna, so it seemed fitting he was the first to know about my fallout with Tim. Sure, my brother wasn't happy about it, but he managed to keep himself composed. In our own weird, messy, and ultimately dysfunctional life, I guess it was our way of bonding again. Here, in the Curtis house, sibling bonding means Soda and Pony threatening each other over a game of Go Fish while Darry and I sit in the bathroom, crushing our Momma's pills with metal spoons and stuffing them into little baggies.

Life was supposed to be getting better. It was, for the most part. We had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and food in our cupboards. There was money in the bank, and we were all together. Still, I couldn't move past the fresh ache in the center of my chest, replacing the one that died with my parents. This ache belonged to a name and a face, to fresh memories still running rampant through my mind. But I'd always been good at sweeping things under the rug, just another thing I'd learned from my Momma.