What Separates You From Me

Author's Note:

I don't own anything. Warnings for: Possible sexual references, language, and political issues.

Chapter II

Motion

"You should watch that mouth of yours, kid. That way you might not make a fool out of yourself."

He gets a phone call from school informing him that he got into another violent display at school. He knows you're a good kid, at least you think he does, but you see the way he acts in front of the principal.

"I-I'm, so s-sorry," he stutters with an unprecedented level of anxiety blanketing his face. 'That my son cause you so much trouble, Mr. Rogers." Something odd happens when he says the word son - there was an unfamiliar whine about it.

"Just calm down, Mr. Benton." He scrutinizes you and your ambiguously miserable expression for a half second before looking back. "I know your song's a good kid, he just needs to learn how to control himself, sometimes. It's a common issue with many kids around here," he adds with a particularly unconvincing tone. It takes a while to realize this and in an attempt to disregard his last words and assert his position as Principal, he says, "But make no mistake. I assure you that immediate disciplinary action will be taken..."

That's when you stop listening. You just see how your father nervously holds his hands together while simply nodding off to whatever it is Mr. Rogers has to say.

Perhaps their definition of immediate disciplinary action was suspension - or how some of the greasy kids around here called "legal hooky" - but Lord knows how much help this "disciplinary action" would actually help you.

It wouldn't.

"What's the matter with you?" he asks. Usually the question is used rhetorically, but judging by his hysterical expression, he really is urging you to fish for an answer.

You give him a blank stare.

Ever more infuriated, he, once again, goes along with his routine. He'll cross his arms over his chest to express his disapproval. Or he'll walk away from you, placing a hand over the side of his head to let it be known how much of a headache you've become to him.

"How many times have I told you, think before you do anything."

I was.

"Why the hell would you punch the kid, especially if you knew you were going to get in trouble."

Because I didn't care.

"Does a thought even come across that big head of yours?"

Oh, that was a new one. Though, I can't say I'd agree that with him that I have a big head...

"Jess, what in the world am I going to do with you?

You tell me. That's not my job, or my problem.

Then comes an affronting tirade that'd annoy you to warrant a departure from the house and wander around the streets. It doesn't matter where I'd be going. As long as it was somewhere: anywhere but here.

Still reeling from the lack of adequate sleep, he asks you, "What would ya like, Jess?"

Your back and arms ache as you emerge from a painfully decrepit couch. You rub your eyes in exhaustion and distinct set of scents waft in the house. You walk towards the kitchen with your eyes still half open and your hand rubbing the back of your neck.

*Yawns* "C'mon, Pone, you know the deal, right?"

He was there wearing the same set of track shorts and a worn and greasy tank top. He's cooking something, probably eggs and bacon. "Well, Jess, you ain't exactly been here for, I dunno, two years." He looks at you with his big and keen eyes. "Ain't that right?"

You give him a mildly perplexed face. "Ya know how you're talking to, right? Pone, I wouldn't know what time it was if I had a watch on my wrist."

"Ain't that the truth?" he happily agrees. "If it was Wednesday, you'd probably think it was Sunday or something."

You think about that for a moment. "Well, I never did do so good in school," you admit.

"Don't you mean 'well'?" he remarks.

You bleak smile fades. "You're such a fucker, you know that?" And then comes another one, more gingerly one.

"Oh, believe me when I say, I've heard that one before."

"Can't say I'm not surprised."

"Shut the hell up, Jess. Now c'mon, what do want for breakfast?" He smirks, receding back into the kitchen to continue cooking.

It's comforting to know that at least somebody's changed. Ponyboy's so different, you think to yourself. You remember the last time you stayed here. You were in similar circumstances, that's for sure. But that was also right after the whole thing happened with Pony. You recall finding him asleep on his desk, drool partially soaking up his homework, and his big brother eventually carrying him to his room.

But he's not the same kid from back then. His eyes were blazing with a greenish hue and he held a much more assuring grin then ever before. He's grown a lot, he's probably still in varsity track or something.

"I guess I'll have...whatever," you say to him.

"Alright," he simply responds.

He gives you another glancing look. "Coffee?"

"No thanks, man. I like hot chocolate better."

"With milk and marshmallows?"

You grin. "You know it."

He brings you food your food and food for himself.

"So Pone," you start after finishing the eggs. "I want to say thanks for letting me stay for the night," you say with a dejected tone.

He frowns. "It's alright, man. Ain't your dad awful sore that you left again?"

"Let him deal with it," you suggest sardonically. "Besides, the old man ought to be used to it by now."

"Alright...But I gotta wonder what your were doin' out there."

"I don't even know, Pone. Just...don't even worry about it all, m'kay?" you say to try and dismiss the subject. Soon, a thought came about, pricking the back of your head.

"Hey, Pony."

"Hm?"

You were never one to impinge on certain vices the way your friends frequently did, so you try mull over your words but they still came out slowly and with refrained temerity. "You know...Emily, that girl from Chemistry class, years ago?"

He stroked his chin for a second or two until his head bobbed up. It was clearly he ascertained an answer but he wasn't too interested. "You mean the girl you fucked?"

You almost choked on your hot chocolate as you do a double take. That certainly caught you by surprise. But then again, considering his circle of friends, it ought to be your own fault to think he'd respond in any other way.

He really has changed. But is that good thing? You wonder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Well anyways, I met up with her a few days ago..."

He took another sip of his coffee, his expression changed. "And?"

"Well, she was acting alright, I guess. She was pretty nice and all, but she..."

You looked back at him. He was grinning. Not just a normal grin, but it was also an incredulous smirk. Coupled with the slow head shaking screamed out the words, 'You poor fool.'

"What?"

"That girl's insane, man. She went nuts when you dumped her ass."

"You serious?"

"It's pretty bad, man. She lies like hell, and well, she's a wreck."

"Still? Damn."

"So you knew already?"

"You'd have to be blind not to know...Sorta hoping she'd get over all that shit by now."

"She's probably nice because she's been waiting for ya all this time. But she'll probably blow a gasket once she finds you with another girl."

"Ya know what? That's a great idea, Pone." It seems that Ponyboy's become exuberantly acquainted with issues dealing with the opposite sex. Not to insult his pick up techniques, but you were sure that it's got something to do with his older brother, more so than anything else. However, he does seem much more independent than you remember.

"So, how's Sodapop? He hit it off with anyone since..." You swear underneath your breath as you just now realize that you were treading over stormy seas. "Well you know..."

Almost instantaneously, the air with then garbed in a morose tenseness. The fire in his eyes - same kind his brother withheld - now waned into a somber and dull gaze with a paled look on his face. "I guess you could say that, he never really did get over Sandy..."

From the look in his eyes and the way he motioned his mouth, there was something else he had to say. "A lot of...shit happened since then and well, now he got drafted to Vietnam."

With the slight mention of that word, you unwillingly accompany him in wearing sullen fixture. "You don't say. That must be tough," you admit, undertaking an apathetic tone.

"It is," he responds, almost bitterly.

"I'll bet." Pause. "It's a damn waste, though..."

"Are trying to say that my brother is over there, sacrificing his life for nothing?" scorn enveloped his words and you feel a knot being tied in your stomach.

You make no perceptible response: just a hollow expression.

"At least when he's there, he's getting paid, and he gets a chance to fight for his country and something more than just being confined and forgotten in Tulsa."

You can see his fist balled up and trembling erratically. "What? He can't get a job here? Pone, it ain't like living to murder for the government is like a noble cause. I don't know whatever it is Sodapop told you before he left, but remember that he didn't have a fuckin' choice. They forced him to go, before he got chosen, did he ever seen to take an interest in the army or military or whatever?"

"Oh what does it matter to you? It's not like anybody that's important to you is over there."

You do a double take at the sting in his voice, but not because you didn't expect or deserve it. "No... I guess," you admit, having no intention to extend the conversation. Why bother? After all, he is correct.

Unfortunately, all of the buzz happening eventually reminds you of a searing pain on your side. You look away. "Hey, Pone," you start in hopes of drastically changing the already stale topic. "Got an extra shirt I could use?"

"What's wrong with yours?" he asked, never suspecting that your shirt was anything other than a plain red tank top. He apparently never took notice the discoloring on it. You lift up your shirt, revealing a gash your left side.

"How the hell did you get that?"

"I told you not to worry 'bout it, man," you say, with a slight grin that faded quickly. "But can you have this one washed? I don't need the folks to uh, worry about nothing, ya know?"

He gives you a bitter look. "Well, what am I going to tell Darry when he finds a blood-soaked shirt?"

"Just tell him it was mine. He'll believe ya, I'm sure. And besides, it ain't like he's never seen a bloody shirt," you say, relegating the severity of the situation.

He gives you an expectant look. He eventually agrees and with a sigh, he stalks off to his room and comes out with an ebony T-shirt. You notice that he stares intently as you take of your shirt. Dangling over your chest was a steely, silver necklace entwined with a ball chain, one you always tucked underneath your shirts. He knew exactly what it was.

"What?"

"Nothing."

With that being said, you leave the house without discharging another, single word - unsure of exactly why you didn't tell him. But you suppose it didn't matter so much, at least not to him. Inscribed on the necklace you wore were the words:

David Benton 1948 - 1967

"Sometimes, change isn't always for the best."

Author's Note:

So this chapter was perhaps a bit more boring, but it does show a different, more aggressive side of Jesse and having Ponyboy around is always a plus.