Dealing—Part 3

Sodapop's Point of View

I didn't have anything better to do, so I followed Ponyboy inside after a few minutes. Darry said he was gonna go for a walk before he came in, so I decided to see what my little brother was up to. I found him sprawled on the couch reading a book like he said. So I jumped onto it beside him and asked, "Whatcha reading, Pony?"

Ponyboy tore his eyes away from the page and grinned. "Why do you care, Soda? You ain't never cracked a book in your life!"

"Hey, that may be, but I still like to know what's out there," I defended myself.

"It's called David Copperfield by Charles Dickens," Ponyboy finally told me, "I have to read it for English class. Hey Soda?"

"Hmmm?" I was absent-mindedly picking at a loose thread from my jeans.

"You doing anything?"

Something in his voice made me look up. "Right now? Nah. How come?"

Ponyboy shrugged. "Just wondered if you were looking for something to do."

"Sure. What do you feel like doin'?" I asked, straightening a bit.

"Nothing. I've gotta finish this book, but if you want you can read my English theme. It's from last year, right after…uh, right after the rumble," Ponyboy told me. We, especially him, didn't like to say "right after Johnny and Dallas died."

I could tell he really wanted me to read the theme, so I shrugged. "Sure, I'll read it. Where'd ya put it?"

Pony smiled, but he looked apprehensive, like he was afraid someone would laugh at what he'd written or something. "It's on the desk over there."

I got up and went to the desk. There was the theme. It looked big enough to be a novel or something. "Hey Pony, did you write this whole thing?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Go ahead, you can read it."

I read the title he'd given it. The Outsiders, by Ponyboy Curtis. Nice title, I thought vaguely, and I turned to the first page. When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman—he looks tough and I don't—but I guess my own looks aren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. And then I stopped reading abruptly. 'Cause it was then I realized that this wasn't just any old English theme, this was about us. Our gang. We were the outsiders, and this was the story about how we lost two of our friends in our fight against the Socs. I swallowed hard. Suddenly I wasn't sure if I could read this. These were my brother's thoughts on what we'd gone through. Every detail, every painful moment would be relived in this story. I thought I'd moved on, but now reading this first paragraph I knew I was still dealing with everything.

Ponyboy must have noticed how I'd stopped reading. I think my face was a little pale too, because he said softly, "It's okay. You don't have to read it, you know."

"No, I want to," I said hastily, and it was true. I just wasn't sure if I could handle it all over again. "Say, Pony, who besides me has read this?"

"Just me and my English teacher."

"Really? How come?" I asked him, surprised. Ponyboy hesitated. "Well, I just don't want the whole world to know about our gang and what we went through. Ya dig?"

"Yeah. Might take me a while to get through this," I told him. "I'm a slow reader."

Pony smiled. "That's okay. It ain't going anywhere. Oh, and Soda? I hope you don't mind the way I described you later on."

I grinned. Wonder if it's good stuff or bad stuff, I thought as I headed to our bedroom to read. I flopped down onto the bed and continued.

I wish they were more gray, because I hate most guys with green eyes, but I have to be content with what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front and sides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighbourhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better with long hair.

I had to grin at this. When he'd come home from Windrixville with his hair all short and bleached blonde by peroxide, it had shocked me more than I let on. He just didn't look the same with his hair that short and light. Yeah, I'd say he looked better now that his hair had grown back and was back to its natural colour.

As I read about how he was walking home and the Socs got out of their car and jumped him, it made my blood boil again, just like it had that day almost a year ago. He wasn't nearly as beat up as Johnny had been, but still, it scared both of us. And I didn't like to see my little brother get hurt by anybody.

Then I got to the part he'd warned me about—the descriptions of me and the gang. I felt my face redden as I read, Soda is handsomer than anyone else I know. Not like Darry—Soda's movie-star kind of handsome, the kind that people stop on the street to watch go by. He's not as tall as Darry, and he's a little slimmer, but he has a finely drawn, sensitive face that somehow manages to be reckless and thoughtful at the same time. He's got dark-gold hair that he combs back—long and silky and straight—and in the summer the sun bleaches it to a shining wheat-gold. His eyes are dark brown—lively, dancing, recklessly laughing eyes that can be gentle and sympathetic one minute and blazing with anger the next. He has Dad's eyes, but Soda is one of a kind. He can get drunk in a drag race or dancing without ever getting near alcohol. In our neighbourhood it's rare to find a kid who doesn't drink once in a while. But Soda never touches a drop--he doesn't need to. He gets drunk on just plain living. And he understands everybody.

Wow. It was a lot to live up to, such high praise. I was glad to know he looked up to me so much, but it also scared me a little bit, because I knew I wasn't the same person he'd been thinking of when he wrote this. We were all different.

My head was starting to hurt—it does that when I read too much—but I wanted to see what Ponyboy had to say about the rest of the guys. I winced when I read about how he only liked Steve because he was my best friend, and how sometimes he really hated him. I knew it already, but they didn't think I did, and reading it on paper just made it worse. And when I came to the description of Johnny…

Johnny Cade was last and least…if it hadn't been for the gang, Johnny would never have known what love and affection are…

Tears were welling up in my eyes, and I brushed them away quickly. That's me--Sodapop Curtis, resident bawl-baby at your service! After I read about Johnny, I knew I couldn't read any more that night. I was tired, and so was my brain. And it was more painful than I'd thought it was gonna be.

I heard Darry come in and say, "Hey, y'all hungry?" I sprung up off the bed and ran out to the kitchen. "You bet your life I am!" I responded eagerly.

Ponyboy looked at me curiously, as if to ask what I thought of the theme so far. I grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. I could tell him what I really thought later. But for now it was time to live in the present—and I really was starving.

"Did ya finish your book?" I asked Ponyboy as we both got ready for bed. He pulled off his shoes and nodded. "Good, 'cause I wanna talk to you," I continued.

He lay down on the bed beside me and turned to face me. "Bout what?" he asked.

"Your story."

Ponyboy didn't answer for a few seconds. "Yeah? What do you think of it so far?"

I stared at the ceiling. "It's real good work, Pony."

He brightened. "Really? Ya like it?"

"Yeah, I like it," I said, giving him a grin. "It's just hard to read, is all."

"I know." He was silent for a while. "It was hard to write. But I had to let my feelings out somewhere. Maybe if you wrote it down it would help you too, Soda."

I appreciated his concern, but I shook my head. "Nah, I'm not good at putting my thoughts down on paper. I never was a writer like you. Not enough action."

Ponyboy shrugged. "Thought you'd say that. But I had to try, right?"

"Sure. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll sit down and let it all out onto a piece of paper," I said lightly, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah, maybe," Pony mused. "But Soda…"

"Yeah?" I asked through a yawn. I was tired and had work in the morning.

"When you do decide to write about it, make sure you have lots of paper. 'Cause once you start, everything floods through you like a whirlwind, and you won't be able to stop."

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