Deceiver
Chapter Four - The principal
Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1966
I thought everything was too much for me to handle, but obviously, it is for my brothers too. It's morning, and we try to eat breakfast, but I doubt any of us can get anything down. At least, I can't. I nibble on my sandwich, trying to swallow the tiny pieces with chocolate milk, but the food stops in my throat, gagging me. I put my sandwich back on the table with a sigh. I'm not hungry anyway.
Darry sits opposite me, looking awfully tired. The only thing in front of him is a cup of strong coffee, and I know it's really strong. I saw him make it, how many extra spoons he put in the percolator.
He stayed in Soda's room for hours tonight, and I repeatedly told them everything, at least almost everything, until I couldn't keep my eyes open. But I kept hearing their voices, soft, concerned, angry, while I drifted off to sleep. Nightmares haunted me like they always do nowadays, but I guess I was lucky tonight; no waking up screaming, and I don't remember them either. Only that I woke up, shivering and sweaty, with Soda deep asleep beside me.
My fingers crumble the edges of my sandwich while I'm lost in my thoughts.
"I don't want you to go home by yourself from school," Darry suddenly says. Then, "I'll talk to Dally."
My head snaps up. "Dally?"
My oldest brother gives me a tired smile. "Yeah. I can't pick you up, Soda starts working next week and everyone else got school at the time. Soda can come today, but-"
I don't say I don't need a sitter, because honestly, I know I do need one, and I know I will feel safe with Soda and Dally. Safer, at least.
"What are we gonna do?" My voice is low. I pick up my glass, take a small sip. "Are you gonna talk to the fuzz?"
Darry sighs. "Yeah. I just hope they'll listen."
"But," I say, "if he was in prison, they must have his fingerprints, right? And then they can see that he's still alive."
Darry leans back in his chair. "I don't want you to worry about these things, Ponyboy. Leave it to me."
I almost snort at him. Leave it to him? How could that be even possible? It's my nightmares, my memories, it was me who met the guy. It was me he told everything to. I can't drop this like it's nothing.
But I nod, just to make him happy.
xXx
Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1941
Darrel shows up in his thin summer jacket despite the snow. His ears and nose are red, his arms curled tight around his body.
"Grandma needs a lot of medication," he says, before Henry has the time to say anything. But he wouldn't anyway, he knows the untold rules. They never speak about their home lives, he never tells about the beatings, Darrel never about how poor they are. But they both know. How could they not? They avoid each other's homes like the plague, Henry's because of his dad, Darrel's because of the small space. They moved some months ago, lives four people in two rooms and a kitchen.
"Anthony's place?" Henry asks instead, getting a nod for reply. So they turn on their heels, start walking.
When they show up in Tony's garage, Mike is there as well.
"Darrel," the fat boy says from his spot in the corner, "you still owe me, buddy." His voice is friendly, but they all can hear the undertone.
Darrel snorts anyway. "Soon. Promise. I already told you that."
Mike frowns a bit, rises, comes closer. The smile is gone."Yeah, you've told me that for weeks."
"Knock it off," Henry says, stepping up between them. Not that he's afraid they will start a fight - if they do, Darrel will win. But his friend shoves him aside.
"You tellin' me I'm lyin'?" he barks at Mike when he meets his face undisturbed.
Anthony lights a cigarette behind them. "Nobody's lyin'. Mike, com'here."
The fat boy scowls, but does as Tony says, takes a cigarette when he's offered one. Henry eyes Darrel, who stands stiff on the floor. He knows that the money issue, the lack of dollar bills in his pockets, are eating him.
He wishes he could help him, but all he got is enough for his own drinks and smokes. And damn, he needs them.
xXx
Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1966
Darry parks at the school's parking lot, takes out the keys and eyes me.
"Come on."
I loosen up my seatbelt, open up the passenger door and climb out. I don't want to enter the school again since yesterday, but I know I have no choice. I just hope Darry can fix this. He places a hand on my shoulder as we walk inside, but it doesn't feel comforting. His hand grips too hard, but I guess it's because he's nervous. He holds his jaw tight - that's how I can tell.
Other students turn their heads as we walk by, on our way to the principal's office. I pretend not to notice. I see James by his locker, and his slightly raised eyebrows, but I look away.
Outside Mr. Sanford's door, his secretary tells us to wait, and we sit down in a pair of plastic chairs. I wonder why there always has to be plastic chairs in waiting rooms, like we're not supposed being comfortable. I fiddle with the straps to my backpack. Now and then I glance up at my brother, but he stares straight forward, arms crossed.
"Hello, Mr. Curtis." The voice, and the choise of name, startles me. I know Darry is Mr. Curtis too, but it feels so weird to hear someone call him that. Mr. Sanford and my brother shakes hand before I've managed to get up on my feet, and then my principal shakes my hand too. He smiles at us, and we both follow him in to his office. He offers us to sit down in leather chairs in front of his desk. We do.
"What brings you here, Mr. Curtis? Ponyboy?" Mr. Sanford looks at us above his glasses. For some reason, authority has always make me nervous, so I look down to not meet his eyes. But Darry stands strong, as always.
"Call me Darrel, please." I guess Darry also feels uncomfortable by be called Dad's name. "And the reason, Mr. Sanford," he continues, "is that one of my brother's teachers threatened him yesterday."
I glance up at Darry, then to my principal, who now leans slightly forward, a frown appears on his forehead.
"Threatened?"
"Yes. I call it threatened when someone tells him she will report his brother for abuse, and take him away from his family. He was really upset yesterday."
I blush. Mr. Sanford throws a quick glance at me before he returns to look at Darry, and I shrink, feeling like a little kid. God, why am I always scared?
"I presume you're talking about Mrs. Thomas," Mr. Sanford says. "She came to me yesterday after school, worried about Ponyboy's home situation."
"There is nothing to be worried about, " Darry says sternly. "I didn't hit my brother." I can see how he clenches his fists in his lap. Luckily, Mr. Sanford doesn't. He just leans back again, making the armchair he sits in creak.
"I remember you as a good student, Darrel. But I have to admit, I called the principal at Will Rogers after the talk with Mrs. Thomas." He smiles. "He had only good words to say about you too. Of course, I can't be sure, but what we both remembers about you, I highly doubt you were the one hitting Ponyboy. And we're very much aware of the... situation between some social groups in this town."
I feel so relieved.
"So there will be no report to the social services?" Darry asks. "They already look us up regularly, you know."
"Not from the school, no," Mr. Sanford says. "But I'm sorry, I have no saying in what Mrs. Thomas does as a private person."
My world falls again, and I stare at my brother. My heart pounds hard in my chest, but all Darry does is drag a hand over his face, sighing. There is nothing more we can do here.
"Come on, Pone," he says, rises.
"Just a second." Mr. Sanford takes a small piece of paper, writes me a note. "Take this to your teacher, Ponyboy."
The hallways are empty now, with every student inside the classrooms. I don't want to go to class, to meet Mrs. Thomas and hand her the note that says why I'm late. She will know. And I realize, I don't want her to meet Darry. I can only guess how he looks like in other's eyes, big and scary, with lots of muscles, and even if he doesn't has grease in his hair, it shows he's from the east side. The bad side. I doubt my teacher would report us if we were Socs.
We stop outside my classroom, and I bite my lip, holding my note so hard I accidentally wrinkle it. Darry puts a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't worry, Pony," he says. "And remember, don't go home by yourself, okay? Soda will show up in time. I hope," he adds, with a smirk. "If he doesn't, wait inside."
"Okay."
I follow him with my gaze as he walks away, and not until he has rounded the corner I turn around, thinking about ditching even if I know it probably only will make things worse.
xXx
Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1956
There are all smiling faces, and he hands the flowers to Mrs. Curtis. Anne. They talked about dropping the formalities last time.
"Oh. How nice. Thank you," she says, and then turns around. "Boys, be a little more quiet, please." She disappears into the kitchen.
Darrel puts an arm around his shoulders for a moment, shows him inside for a second time. He's wary. Scans the room. Darry tells Soda to shut up, Soda sticks out his tongue. Ponyboy-
The little boy's eyes widen, and he takes a small step, hides behind his brother's back. Henry can see his lips move, making Soda bounce around.
"What did'ya say, Pony?"
He can hear the words now, the words coming out from Ponyboy's mouth. "He's mean. Bugman."
Henry stops short. God, the boy is telling them. Bugman. He remembers how he squeezed the little black insect in front of the boy's eyes. It could be something to laugh about, 'bugman', but he doesn't. This can destroy everything. Stepping closer to the boys, he can hear Soda giggle.
"Boogeyman? Yeah, let's play that!"
Anne comes out with the flowers in a vase, puts them on the coffee table. "They're beautiful," she says to him.
He clears his throat, nodding at the boy. "He can talk?" he asks.
Anne laughs. "Of course he can. He just prefers not to."
"It's kind of nice," Darrel smiles, "to get a quiet boy after those two." He gestures at his two oldest. "At least after we stopped worrying."
Someone grabs his hand, and he almost jerks. He hates being touched when not prepared. But it's only Soda.
"Uncle Henry? I've made up a game!" Soda says proudly. "It's called boogeyman!"
"Boogeyman?" he succeeds to hold his voice steady, 'bugman' still lingers in his mind. It's him. He's bugman. He's the little boy's boogeyman.
"Mhm!" Soda nods frantically. "Me and Pony are hidin' and you'll come and get us. Okay? You'll be boogeyman." He lets go of his hand, holds up his index finger. "Don't look!"
He forces himself to laugh. "Okay."
He closes his eyes.
The sound of small feet running can be heard over the voices of Darrel and Anne, over Soda's voice telling Pony to hurry up and hide. And then, "We're done, uncle Henry!"
The house isn't big. He finds them easily, even if he pretends not to. But sooner than later, he has to peek under the bed, and there they are, against the wall, and he sticks in his hand, dragging out a laughing Soda, sticks in his hand to drag out the other boy-
he lets go when he screams.
"I'm so sorry," he says when Anne rushes in, even if he's not.
"It's okay," Anne says, picking up her youngest. "Oh, Pony, it was just a game."
"It was funny," Soda grins. "Wasn't it? I wanna do it again!"
xXx
Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1966
I refuse to look at Mrs. Thomas when I hand her the note. She takes it, tells me to go to my seat. When I walk down between the benches, it feels like everyone is staring at me. I'm relieved when I finally can sit down, and my teacher continues the class.
But as always, I can't concentrate. I'm so, so disappointed. I really liked her once, I thought she was a good teacher, and she seemed to care, but now I don't know. I find myself glaring at her, and she seems to be determined to avoid my stare. Every time she looks out over the class, she's ignoring me. So I put my elbow down on the table, lean my chin in my hand and doodle in my notebook. Why should I care about school anyway?
When my school day is over, finally, I find Soda leaning against the brick wall just outside the door.
"Hey, Pony." He doesn't smile, just watches me closely. "So..?" he says.
"What?"
"I know you guys met up with the principal."
"He won't report it," I tell him. He relaxes so much it shows, but I have to continue. "She still does, though."
Soda stiffens again, mutters some curses before he takes my arm and starts to head for home. He acts a bit strange. Instead of walk causally, bouncing or curious like he uses to, he's wary, lets his head turn from side to side, like he's walking over a giant street and needs to look out for cars. And he walks fast - I have to trot to keep up.
"Soda," I complain. My backpack is heavy.
"Sorry," he offers, but he doesn't slow down a bit. At first I think he's afraid, but he can't be, he's never afraid, not like me. Then it hits me he's just worried.
I don't say anything more until we finally get home. I drop down in the couch, tired, close my eyes for a little while. The last days, the last months, has been tough. Sometimes I just want to sleep, for a long, long, time. Without nightmares.
Ten minutes later, the phone rings, wakes me up. Soda answers, and by his talk I can tell it's Darry.
"It's all right," I can hear Soda say. "No, no one." Then, "Okay, fine."
I yawn, rummage my bag for my homework, trying to close down all my feelings. But it's hopeless. Soda says goodbye and puts down the receiver.
I look at him. "You think - um, you think Mrs. Garcia will show up?"
Soda stares around the room. "Damnit," he says. He walks over to the coffee table, starts collecting all the dirty dishes which stands there. "Help me out," he snaps. "It's messy."
"Oh." I rise. "Okay."
We have to clean for more than an hour before he's satisfied.
xXx
Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1966
It's cold in the car. He wishes he could leave, to get a coffee, but he doesn't, he have to stay, to watch.
The house looks the same. A bit more rough, perhaps. The paint more peeled off, the fence a bit more rusty, a small crack in a window poorly fixed with a piece of duct tape. It seems quiet and empty, and he guesses they are in school.
If they still live there. He can't be sure, after all, they are just boys, orphaned, and what he remembers, they doesn't have any relative who could move in with them. How old is the oldest, Darrel junior? Ten years old ten years ago makes him twenty. Sodapop sixteen. The youngest, Ponyboy, will turn fourteen in the summer. Yeah. It's possible they don't live here anymore.
He suddenly straightens up before shrinking down in the seat again. Two boys walk down the street, in a hurry it seems. He recognizes the shortest, figures out who the other is. So they still stick around.
He waits until they have disappeared behind the door, closed it firmly behind their backs, before he lights up a cigarette. Ponyboy has told them. The way they both acted reveals it, and he grins for himself.
I hope you still enjoy. Thank you for reading!