The cop leaves, and neither one of us is sad to see him go. My mouth is dry, I feel all nervous. I start biting my nails. Pony sits there trying not to cry. I know he's thinking about Darry and Soda all worried about him and everything. Too bad ain't no one worried about me.
"Johnny Cade?" The guy says, and I look up and kind of nod. He doesn't smile or nothing but he doesn't look too mean. He looks kind of like he'll be all strict if he has to, and I was thinking of how Curly Shepard and Dally have been here, and how you'd have to get strict with them or they wouldn't do nothing. But lately Dally's figured out how to have good behavior. He kept getting out all early and shit because of that.
"This way," he said, and I followed him into a room, and glanced back at Pony still sitting there. I thought I was going first cause I was the one in more trouble. I killed the kid. Pony didn't really do nothing. He'd be out in no time. I figured that. Probably after the first court hearing the judge would let him go home, but not me. I'd probably never go home again.
This room had two other people, older guys, and I could tell they worked here. They looked sort of bored. Well, not exactly bored but like they'd seen kids come and go and it didn't effect them.
"Alright, Johnny, I'm Mr. Johnson," the guy said, the one who had called my name before, the one the cop talked to. I nodded and looked down. He knew my name already.
"We have to search you," he said, and I stood up and let them frisk me. I didn't have nothing anymore. The cops had the switchblade, it was evidence. I didn't have nothing else, just some coins in my pockets that they took and put in this metal bin.
"Here. Put these on and bring all your clothes out when you're done," he said, handing me a kind of jumpsuit thing and underwear and socks and sneakers. He pointed toward another room which turned out to be a bathroom, but kind of big. There wasn't no window in it or nothing, cause I bet more than one kid would try to jump out of it. I might, too. I wanted to not be here so bad. But I took the clothes and went into the bathroom and changed into them, looking at all my dirty clothes. God, they were filthy. The jeans were all torn and ripped at the knees from when the socs shoved me down. My black T-shirt was all dusty and smudged with dirt and I could see the blood on it if I looked close enough.
I came out all dressed in what they gave me, and it felt weird. I was always dressed the same, jeans and T-shirts and my old ratty converse sneakers, my jean jacket. Now I looked like a prisoner instead of a greaser. I handed him my clothes and sneakers and he gave them to one of the other guys, who put it into the same metal bin as the change from my pockets.
"Okay, good, now come with me," he said, leading me down a short hall to an office. Maybe it was his office. There was paneling on the walls and framed degrees and shit. I looked around, blinking at everything. I was starting to feel dizzy, turned around.
"Who do you live with?" he said, tugging on his tie.
"Huh?"
"Who do you live with?" he repeated, and I looked at the way the sunlight was reflecting off the framed degrees of his.
"Um, my parents," I told him, thinking about how I hardly stayed there if I could help it.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"No,"
I was sitting on one side of his desk and he was behind the desk, all dressed up in his casual suit and tie, and I was in this stupid juvenile detention outfit. I rubbed at the material, not liking the way it felt, not liking the smell of the industrial detergent they must use. I wanted to be in my clothes, hunched down in my jean jacket. This was lousy.