Hi friends! Thanks, as always for you reviews and views. It's been really interesting to hear how people feel about the different dynamics and characters.

This still takes place the night of Thanksgiving.

This story has so many moving parts that I don't reference enough (sorry), so here's some reminders that in my universe, Soda buys the DX following his return from the war; Grace tried to sleep with another man back in chapter 5; Darry's partner is good ol' officer Dave; and Darry made a deal with our drug dealing Curly that he would protect him from the law so long as Curly notified Darry any time Soda tried to buy drugs off of him.

Chapter 13: The Purge

Tulsa 1963

I can feel the kid's eyes on me from across the hood of Tim's car while the other two eye the new hubcaps. I glance over and see his green eyes, narrowed in on me, looking like he's trying hard to look mean, trying to copy whatever look I got going on at the moment. He sees I've caught him and quickly aims those daggers to the ground, kicking the dirt around his feet.

Can't help but smile because Tim's caught me mimicking him once or twice, but I ain't about to smack Ponyboy Curtis upside the head like my older brother would do, not when Soda's sitting right across the way and sure ain't a force to be reckoned with when his baby brother is involved. That and I know it's a compliment, not a challenge, to have the younger ones trying to copy you.

All he's trying is to figure how to look tuff so people don't want to mess with him. Every Greaser's got to learn it, the sooner the better, and I imagine a kid like him's got to learn it even more so, what with his head all caught up in those books and poems.

I twiddle the cigarette around in my fingers a bit and flick some of the ash over my shoulder, figuring I still got a couple minutes before Tim comes back out with our groceries.

"Y'know how to play chicken, Pony?" I ask, and he frowns a bit at me, still trying to look mean and mysterious like I ain't somebody to trust.

He shakes his head, and Soda looks up from his wrestling match with that Steve kid who's always too angry for his own good at nothing in particular. Soda pipes up, "Naw, Curly, if I bring him home with burn marks, my mama's gonna slap me up this street and all the way to your house."

I ignore him because his mama would never do such a thing, and he shouldn't joke about it because mine would, so would the mothers of most boys out here.

"I know how to play." Pony says, giving his brother a look like he can handle himself. Soda's quick to let it go and shrug, eyes firing missiles back at Steve who keeps poking him in the chest and calling him a pretty boy. It ain't too long before they're both in a cloud of dust on the ground, playfully hard hits smacking each other around.

"You take a challenge?" I ask, locking back in with Pony as we both ignore the two wrestlers. He looks a bit uneasy, but he's surely one of those kids who will surprise you, and I kind of want him to see that in himself for when he gets to high school where balled fists become switchblades and nobody cares if you're a straight A student if you live on the wrong side of the tracks. I want him to like our side of the tracks, like I do.

Without a word, he pushes his flannel sleeve up and over his hand and gives it to me. "I ain't afraid of no challenge." He says, but his hand might be shaking a little bit.

I toss him my pack and lighter to ready his own weapon, at the same time flicking the ash off of mine so that it's just the red flame. He takes a puff from his to get it ignited, keeping his eyes on me as he does. I grab his hand and pull him in close, like Tim does when he's about to teach me a lesson I don't want to learn.

"Ready?"

"Y-yep."

"On three." I say.

We count together, then press the lit sticks directly onto the skin right next to each other's thumbs. I clench my teeth, stone wall my abs because I know how best to force the pain to roll off your mind as much as it can. Maybe I am a little glad that Tim's used me as a punching bag all these years. It's easy to forget that it's just in my house that I'm the soft one, but to everyone else, I'm tough as nails. The kid looks like maybe he hasn't quite figured it out yet as he winces. Still, he doesn't budge.

I've got Soda's attention all over again now, and he pushes Steve a good foot away from him so he can address me without distraction.

"Cut it out, Curly, he ain't but just barely twelve." I don't acknowledge his presence, now right beside me, and instead look to Pony to call it for himself if he's had enough.

"It's cool." Pony says with a tremble in his voice, teeth barred at our game and eyes glued backed to mine like he ain't about the be the one to give in first. He's got a determined looking in them too, the youngest has always got to prove his strength, trying to show he's tuff when everyone around him's got years and experiences on him. I know what that's like.

"Leave it, Soda, the kid could use to toughen up." Steve says somewhere in the background.

I can tell by Pony's brows that he smells the burning flesh too, now.

I could keep going, no problem. There comes a point when you've been pushed enough that you just can't be bothered to care about much, and maybe that's where I'm at now. Whether it's beating or getting beat, there's no line that can't be crossed anymore for me. It isn't my favorite thing about me. But the kid's got some fight to him I can tell, and his brother's watching and so is Steve, and I have a feeling Steve wouldn't never let him live this down.

So I do something I used to beg Tim to do for me.

I pull away, add in a wince for good measure, and rub my hand as best as I can muster submission, knowing my reputation's safe with these guys, but hoping to give Ponyboy some street cred of his own.

"Shit, kid, looks like you got one on me." I don't need to watch to see his face light up, and I hear Soda whoop and clap, lassoing his brother in with the lock of his elbow.

"What I been tellin' y'all? My kid brother's got stones." He says, and Steve rolls his eyes.

Pony's still looking at me, studying me all over again because I think maybe he's caught my act right away. I just nod to him, so he knows to take it, own it, because next time he won't be getting that kind of a break. He nods back, then checks in with Soda who's examining that burned skin on his brother's hand, talking about how cool of a scar it'll be.

Tim ain't never been known for pleasantries. Our crew is a tough one, a mean one, a ruthless one. And I wouldn't have it any other way on streets like ours. But maybe Darrel Curtis ain't got it so wrong keeping his crew as buds, cause sometimes, things are just a little easier when you got genuine friends watching you back. Maybe that's what I been missing.

Tulsa, November 1976

Val's voice still rings in my ear.

"the truth tends to scavenge its way to the light, one way or another"

Though it's not her opinion of me that I'm trying to right, the hushed manner that I keep surviving in around my husband, my best friend, has become an evident path towards self-destruction.

I can't keep this from him any longer.

For a distraction, I work to organize the chaos of destination fridge magnets, the ones Steve sends us every stop he makes, that are scattered across the refrigerator door. I pick up the sunglassed cactus from Tucson from off of the floor and stick it back under the yellow and brown bucking bronco from Cheyenne, but the restoration of the refrigerator aesthetic does little to ease the chaos inside.

He comes in from the porch, tossing his jacket onto the arm of the couch, Ring of Fire whistling from off of his lips.

"I wonder where he'll be off to next." He says of Steve, taking notice of my newly organized board. I wonder if Steve could've been the secret solution to this year of hell. Had he chosen to stay in Tulsa instead of find himself on the highways, maybe he could've kept Soda on land.

I turn to face him, watch his face transform into attentive worry as I feel those hot tears bubble over and cascade down my cheeks like tattle tales.

"Woah, Gracie, what's wrong?" He reaches for me, and I for him in one swift motion, grabbing the collar of his shirt and tugging him closer to me like that alone could keep him from running.

Before it comes out on its own, I need to be the one who tells him.

"I have to tell you something." But the words come out, tripping all over each other. I hate not being able to control my tears in a moment like this where clarity is of the essence. It makes me feel weak to my own self. I'm not looking for sympathy, I'm looking to quit hiding.

I can only reveal this secret once, so it has to be done right but damnit it's going to be said tonight. "I have to tell you something, and it's going to hurt."

He hasn't looked himself in a long time now. I can hardly remember the vibrancy in him at our wedding just over a year ago when it felt nothing could tear us down. I can see my own reflection in his brown eyes, and I look pathetic, exhausted, like I've aged twenty years in one. Everybody said the first year of marriage would be the hardest, nobody could've possibly anticipated this year.

"You can tell me anything." He reaches for my cheek and brushes away the tears, before giving a nervous laugh, "Ain't gonna lie, though, you're scaring me a little."

I grab his face with both of my hands, all desperate like you see in those movies I used to roll my eyes at as a little girl. Now, it feels like the only thing I know how to do, because like those girls in the movies, I bet all of my cards on my man and didn't even realize it. And no matter how this year has twisted and morphed the two of us into the sorry people we are now, there's no one else I'd willingly, gladly be in hell with.

It's so very right and so very wrong for the heart of love to be fear.

"Before I say any of this, baby, just remember that I love you, I've always loved you, and I'll never stop loving you." I squeeze his collar tighter in my fingers, trying to force away the memory of when I thought I'd lost him for good in that station wagon. How I begged to be taken too, because my world isn't worth it without him... and oh God my heart starts racing and my breaths sputter in a panic remembering it all. I try to remind myself that won't happen again, it can't happen again, not here, still I hold him tighter since there's so little I trust anymore.

He grabs my wrists now, gently squeezing them and gives me an off-beat smile, "You didn't go off and commit murder again, did you?"

"Itriedtocheatonyou." I blurt out, and my lungs immediately suck in all the oxygen they can after that, finally free of the heavy weight secrecy has had on them. But now, the air around us is poisoned as the secret floats about, maybe even making it harder to breathe than it was before.

His grip on my wrists loosens to where his fingers sort of just cling to bone, but he doesn't stop looking at me, even so. His eyes transform from Goofy's to Eeyore's in the span of a second, a cartoon that's anything but fun to watch.

"...you?" He starts, but doesn't finish, or maybe that was all he'd meant to say. It comes out in a whisper that reaches my ears as a scream. I beg him to ask me a sea of questions, to drown me in all he's thinking so we can get this past us tonight, so we can focus on the bigger things that plague us. But he doesn't, he's completely silent, looking back at me with a look of isolation and betrayal. I was his final sturdy wall, and now I've let it crumble down. Was there any way for it not to?

Please let him see it was always going to be too heavy and unfair for just me alone to keep steady.

"It was just a little thing, we didn't... do anything." I can hardly say it, I don't even remember what Roger DuPonte looks like anymore. That, and I know to Soda it would never matter how far we went, the damage was done when the thought of someone else was born. "I know you were hurting baby, I know it. But it was killing me too, and I got so mad at you for choosing your pills over us. I wanted to get back at you, but not because I for one second stopped loving you."

He still doesn't say anything, knowing the truth isn't as important to Soda as the rest of us, but you can't live a fantasy forever and leave me to tend to the harsh realities that bang on that glass door.

Marley starts to coo from her crib.

I launch off again, "And I would've told you sooner, baby, I've wanted to tell you this whole time, but there's been so much going on with Marley's labor and then the parade... Baby, you were practically dead... I just wanted you to trust me while you were healing. But baby, we're not getting any better." No matter how many words I'm spewing a minute, I feel further and further from contentment in his quiet.

I'm exhausted for our sins.

"Ask me anything, Soda, and I'll tell you. Please." I pull at his cheeks to bring his face closer to mine so he'll at least see in my eyes and my probably hell-bent look that screams we can get past this hiccup. Because if he'll just look at me, he might believe me that we'll be okay. Like he's always made me say, it'll all be okay.

Instead, he turns away from me and makes his way into our bedroom towards the crib to lift Marley out, her coos now having turned to little snivels. She sounds hungry, like her mama, she's always hungry in the late hours. He keeps his back towards me in the kind of silence that reminds you how empty you can feel.

"Soda..." I start again, when Marley's clearly getting upset.

Silence. He still doesn't look at me. He keeps trying to soothe her but she just gets more and more agitated, just as uneasy around him as she was when he first came home from the hospital. "Soda..." I try again to no avail. Now that he's gotten the baby involved I'm getting protective. This is between us two, and though I know he's grasping for love he doesn't think he can get from me right now, Marley can't be expected to provide it when she doesn't understand the stakes. So she refuses him. She reaches out towards me to take her away from him, just like she did at tonight's dinner in front of everyone.

"She's just hungry, it's not you." I reassure him when I see his world might be officially tumbling down now, though it's definitely him that she's become afraid of. "Look at me, Soda."

He hands her right over when I reach for her, doesn't look at either of us, and walks out of the bedroom without a word. I reach for his hand, but Marley squirms in my arms as she starts to cry, and I miss the chance to pull him back. The clap of the screen door follows right after. I call after him but get nothing, and when the car engine doesn't start like I was expecting, I race out to the living room, his jacket still draped against the couch.

Marley's crying louder as we run out the door to follow, the screen slapping closed again, but he's already disappeared into the dark distance that's been made hazy by the falling snow that peppers Marley and I as we stand in the middle of the lawn, my whole body trembling.

He's gone on foot, to where I don't know.

I should've held him tighter.

"He didn't tell you any of this?" James Crawford's voice drops like the descent of an ill-maintained roller coaster.

I'm still trying to steady the trembling pen in my hands, "No. No, I didn't even know about Parson until a couple weeks ago. He's been trying to keep everything from us." I don't even try to explain Soda's amnesia in all of this.

His sigh speaks for itself, "Listen. After all that happened that day with the little girl and Parson, your brother sort of went off the deep end. He was always a hell of a fighter, but he started putting himself in dangerous situations on the battlefield like he was trying not to make it off... hell, even on our nights out in Saigon, nobody could take the needle like your brother, and back then, everybody was on the stuff. He didn't want to come home, and if it weren't for that minor shrapnel injury, I'm not sure he would've."

I've never listened more intently to anyone before, but I feel at the same time like it's all gone in one ear and out the other as I try to juggle everything I've been given. This information I've been digging for all this time, and now that I've struck gold my reaction is to bury it back up again. I look down at my pad I'd taken out for note taking, all that's there is a little dot from the point of my pen. Can a writer be speechless?

All the self-sabotaging behavior I couldn't understand before suddenly makes sense because I've seen people act like this...

He thinks he deserves to be dead.

So did Dallas.

And Dallas got what he wanted in the end.

"Ponyboy? Are you still there?" James' voice is like a warm blanket, calling me back from the longest of winters.

"Sorry... it's just, it's a lot of information to digest."

"I should've called years ago, but once you leave a place like that you just try to forget it best you can and move on."

There's a sudden pounding at my front door that sends me flying to my feet in surprise. When then hell did I become so popular this early in the morning? Could it be Valerie, eager to share the passionate edits that won't be made to tomorrow's column?

"Mr. Crawford, I'm so sorry, I have to go."

"Yes, I'm sorry to have called so late, but I just couldn't shake this feeling that it couldn't wait."

"No, I'm... I'm so glad that you did. I've been looking for answers for a long time. Thank you."

He's quiet and I'm quiet, but the banging on the door continues, growing more hostile with each crack, but nothing's quite as scary as trying to see things through Soda's eyes all these years.

I find my voice again, "Do you mind if I hang on to your number just in case-"

"Please, Ponyboy, call me anytime. If there's anything I can do to help your brother... well... I've wanted that for years."

He gives me his number and after I hang up I have to retrace my handwriting three times over to smooth out the bumpy writing so it's legible, my hand is still shaking so furiously. The knock echoes again through the house like thunder, getting more agitated.

"I'm coming!" I shout, grabbing my baseball bat from under my bed just in case.

I pull the curtains aside ever so slightly so that I can see out the window next to the front door, but that damn porch light has been out for a couple of months now, and so all I see is a hazy silhouette and a determined, muscular arm reach up to pound the door again.

"Who is it?" I yell, voice low like a dog's growl purely for intimidation.

"Just open the fucking door, Ponyboy Curtis!" The nasal-y, southern drawl that spits off of angry, chipped teeth and right past my deadbolted door instantly seals the identity in my mind. I toss the bat to the floor, swing the door open, and there stands exactly who I was expecting.

"What in the hell are you doing here, Curly?"

"Damn, I thought we'd get another week or so before the snow started coming down." Dave says, snacking on his bag of Red Vines as we scan the empty streets. He goes off again, even though I haven't responded to him all night, too caught up in dissecting everything that went down at dinner tonight. What could possibly be the missing link in my brother's recovery, and what steps I should be taking to resolve it.

"They shouldn't even have a night shift on Thanksgiving, everybody's too stuffed and ends up passed out on the couch, too fat to break any laws..." Dave continues on, offering me his bag of goodies that I thank him for but refuse. "I bet you we won't get a single call all night."

The radio chimes in to mock him for such a ridiculous statement, and he smile back up at me to laugh, "Shoulda put some money on that bet quicker, Curtis."

"We've got a potential 10-14, reported off of Laporte and Washington at the DX Gas Station." The dispatcher calls out, and shake my head, thinking about all those kids who hang around there looking for trouble and a chance at hot wiring one of cars my brother keeps in the DX garage.

Dave rolls his eyes, too, raising the walkie talkie to respond.

"Copy that, we're just a block away from that location, we'll take a peek." He says as I throw the car into drive. "Damn kids. This oughta be good."

The wipers can't go fast enough to clear the snow that's falling over the windshield. I'm running every stop sign hoping that either every cop is occupied with something better to do than see my race across town, or that Darry be the one to pull me over so I don't have too go it alone.

"How long you and Darry had this deal?" I ask, trying to connect all of the dots of the scattered information I've been given tonight.

"Turn left, the back roads are faster." Is all Curly says, but I'm far from satisfied, even as I know he won't answer if he doesn't want to.

"He could lose his badge, Curly..." I begin, not so sure where I'm going with this considering that's further down on the list of our worries right now.

"Just shut up and drive! I left him there a good twenty minutes ago, who knows what he's gotten himself into..." He's leaned forward in the passenger seat, squinting to see out the windshield that's starting to fog up from the dropping temperature outside.

I make a skidding turn off of the windy back road that empties out directly in front of the DX, just about colliding into the curb from the slush that's quickly hardening into ice. But before I can spot that red and blue high rise sign of the DX, I see the flashes of lights, also red and blue, and a cop car parked with its front wheels over the curb like speed and not accuracy was the goal.

"Shit..." I say aloud even as I'm grateful there's no ambulance too, though if I think too hard on that fact, it doesn't seem so good either.

I throw myself in through the front door of the DX, the welcome chime singing its tune that's far too cheerful for the occasion.

"Ponyboy?" I turn abruptly to my right and see Dave's familiar face, an expression of confusion plastered across it. I've never been so relieved to see the police in my life, only because if Dave's here then so is Darry, and Darry's presence alone offers some much needed comradery and securty. I glance down and Dave's got his hand on top of the gun in his unclipped holster. We look back at one another, tense.

"Pony?" Darry's gruff voice echoes from down the hallway of the dark shop room, I can't see him behind the rows of candy and car amenities at first, but then he steps into view from under the emergency light overhead, his eyebrows stitched together in worry. "How did you know..."

"Curly came to my house after he couldn't get ahold of you. Said Soda tried to buy heroine of off him..." I huff out, walking towards my oldest brother, "What the hell, Darry? How come you been making deals with..." But I catch myself, remembering Dave's not too far off. I glance over my shoulder and Curly's found his way in the store too. Curly and Dave eye each other, but I'm quickly back on to Darry before I can see how that works itself out.

"He's locked himself in his office." I appreciate the matter-of-fact tone he's got going, because I can't hardly make sense of a damn thing right now as I stand here with sleet dripping off of my hair and into my vision.

"Soda's in there?" I ask and he confirms. "How did you know to come here?"

"Station radioed a disturbance call for a prowler and Dave and I were the closest squad car." Darry shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips because he doesn't know what to do, "I was just getting ready to call you. He won't let me in, Pone, sounds like he's ripping the place apart in there."

I take a step towards the office door, but Darry grabs the lock of my elbow. "Did Curly sell it to him?" his voice is low, cautious, maybe it makes more sense why Dave's still got his hand on his gun.

I swallow hard before trying to answer, "No. He said the last time he'd ever sold to someone so distraught, they died from an overdose just an hour later. Said he wasn't about to let that happen to Soda." It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, considering how much heroine Curly's most likely sold my brother in the past, but something about the look in Curly's eyes said this must've been different and not to be tested. And believe it or not, I have my reasons and proof to trust Curly Shepard more than I trust most.

Darry nods, relieved at least that we're not about to face the version of our brother who's tripping. But whatever is happening in that office couldn't possibly be a product of something good. I look on that door, the sign nailed neatly into the middle that reads 'office' in block letters, and then Soda's hand drawn sign on lined paper that reads 'Dungeon' in messy Sharpie writing below.

I find Darry again in the chaos, realizing then that it's always been my oldest brother I've needed by my side in all this.

"Let's go." Darry prepares me with a look, and guides me the rest of the way down the dark, eerie hallways towards the sound of destruction that lies behind the door.

As we get closer, I hear Soda's barbaric yawping, it isn't until we're right outside his office that I hear what he's chanting to nobody in particular.

"Greaser, greaser, greaser!" He sings, sounding like he could be elated, but I'm not fooled for a second. He continues on despite the weight in my stomach, his call buried underneath the sounds of breaking glass and smashing. "O victim of environment, underprivileged, rotten no-count hood! Juvenile delinquent, you're no good!"

My skin crawls. I haven't heard it or said the chant in years, but I remember all the words, nonetheless. And hearing him scream it at the top of his lungs now completely tarnishes the blood racing, energized memories that come with it for being a youthful Greaser kid, born in a gang that refused to be beaten down. It used to be a chant to take back our existence against the Socs, against the world, but here, it's Soda surrendering his.

I give Darry another look, and we nod simultaneously at each other as he raises his hand to knock on the door.

Author's Note:

S.E. Hinton owns it all and Soda's chant at the end was taken directly from the book as the boys are about to rumble. Curly and Pony playing chicken is also directly from the book, but I tweaked it a little.

'Ring of Fire' by Johnny Cash came out in 1967

I had 'Losing My Religion' by R.E.M on the brain when writing this chapter

I don't know a thing about police radio etiquette or script, but I did learn a 10-14 is the code for a prowler!

Thank you for continuing to read, I know this isn't the most cheerful story and these aren't the most cheerful times, but love exists through it all.

Sending love to everyone!

Sarah