AN: Well, hello again! Wow, how long has it been? Sorry to leave you guys hanging like that. Jeez, I feel terrible. Well, I won't talk much. I have to go get ready for work. Seven-hour shifts are nooo fun, Peeps. But please enjoy this next chapter!

Chapter Ten:

Johnny and I board the bus and show our tickets to the driver, rain water pooling around our feet. The driver takes a quick look then nods curtly, ushering us along. There's a long line outside, and I'm sure he just wants to get going. Bus drivers are like that, I think – impatient to get people to where they're supposed to be so that they can get themselves to where they're supposed to be.

We pick seats in the back, making ourselves as unnoticeable as possible.

"I still don't know about this, Ponyboy," Johnny whispers, looking around nervously and swallowing hard. "Are you sure we should be leaving without telling Darry and Soda?"

"Darry and Soda don't need to know," I say harshly, glaring at him. "Besides, they'll find out soon enough. Darry called me in sick to school, so they'll notice something's up when I'm not there when they get home."

"But they'll be awful worried."

"I left 'em a note. If they want to come after me, then let 'em. But I ain't gonna just sit here and let that lady take Steve away from me. No way, no how." I turn towards the bus window and settle into my seat further. "This is all my fault, Johnny. If I hadn't . . . Steve's life wouldn't be screwed up the way it is. I'm gonna fix this."

Johnny doesn't say anything else, only curls into the seat and wraps his arms around his legs.

0 o Several Hours Later o 0

"Johnny. Hey, Johnny! Wake up! We're here."

"Huh?" Johnny tiredly lifts his head off my shoulder and yawns. "Ah-rea-y?"

"Yea," I say, standing and nearly shoving him into the aisle. "C'mon, we're gonna miss our stop." We grab our bags from the overhead compartment and quickly make our way off the bus. As our feet hit the sidewalk outside, we both realize something:

Neither of us knows where Steve lives.

I sigh resignedly. "Let's go, Johnny. We gotta find a phonebook." Johnny says nothing, hefting his pack further onto his shoulder and digging into his jacket pocket for a cigarette and a lighter.

0 o 0 o 0

It takes us a while to find a payphone, which surprises me. This town is even smaller than ours. When we do finally find a phonebook, it's so torn up and faded we can barely read it. We doubt Steve and his dad will be in anything so old, seeing as they're pretty new to town.

"So now what?" Johnny asks, taking a long drag on the cigarette between his lips. It's his third since we stepped off the bus. God, I want one so bad, but every time I go to ask Johnny for one, the words stick to the back of my throat.

Track is probably the one thing I have going for me, and not being able to run because of one cigarette too many just makes me want a cigarette even more.

I shrug and lean against the side of the booth. "I don't know."

"Pony . . . we tried, right?" Johnny consoles, shuffling his feet some against the sidewalk. "I mean . . . I think it'd be best to head back before your brothers find out."

"We're already here," I argue, grinding my teeth and looking around almost desperately. "Someone's gotta know them." A man in a cowboy hat walks by, shooting us a strange look. Something tells me these people aren't too used to strangers. "'Scuse me!" I run to catch up with him. "Hi, um, sorry to bother you." He quickens his pace, but that doesn't shake me. "Listen, we're just trying to find someone who moved here recently. The Randles? Do you-"

He stops so suddenly I almost run right into him. I barely have time to apologize before he whips around, his red, puffy eyes centered on me with more than just a little malice.

"Ain't nobody 'round here with a name like that, so ya'll just pick up and go back to where ever it is you came from."

Johnny and I watch as he turns sharply again, continuing the way he had been going.

"What was that all about?" Johnny asks in bewilderment, his cigarette hanging limply between his lips. "Ponyboy, are you sure this is the right town?"

"Positive," I mumble through the haze clouding my mind. "Took me over a week to find them. They didn't change their names or anything."

"Then why-"

"I don't know, Johnny!" I snap, immediately regretting it. I sigh and string my fingers through my hair.

Steve once told me he'd like to see my hair without grease. I'd laughed, saying he was crazy. But I'd washed it out, and he'd liked it a lot. I haven't worn grease since then. It reminds me of Dally's hair, all wild and feathery.

"Sorry," I say sullenly, glancing around the small town again. I find a couple of kids staring at us from an alleyway. "Hey! You kids!" They start up, their eyes widening before they bolt off down the street. "Wait a minute! We just want to ask you something!"

Johnny and I start after them at a dead run. Johnny lags behind a bit, but I catch up to them no problem, glad I had decided not to smoke earlier. I grab the hood of one of the kid's jackets and pull him onto the pavement. The other one comes to a slow stop a few yards ahead of us, the look on his face saying he's wondering whether to keep running or go back for his friend.

"Listen," I say slowly, carefully, one hand still gripping the boy's jacket, the other raised towards the other boy, "we're just looking for somebody. We ain't gonna hurt you. Just . . . Can you help us out?"

"Please?" Johnny adds softly, wheezing slightly as his chest heaves from the exertion.

The boys exchange a wary look before nodding reluctantly. I help the boy up but don't let go of his jacket. I know how boys think.

"Ease up, mister," the kid in my grasp says angrily. He's shorter and a little fatter than his friend, and there is a red scratch on his cheek from where he must have hit the sidewalk.

"Either of you know where the Randles live?" I ask, ignoring him. Again, they give each other a look, and my stomach twists anxiously.

"Yea," the taller one admits quietly, sticking his hands in his pockets and starting towards us cautiously. "They're just near the edge of town."

"Take us," I demand.

0 o 0 o 0

I can't believe it. This isn't happening. This can't possibly be Steve's place.

It's . . . It's . . .

"Holy shit," Johnny breathes, his eyes wide as he stares in a dazed stupor at the home that looks like it belongs in Condemned Weekly.

The place is a wreck.

Broken bottles, beer cans, and trash litter the dead, brown lawn. All the windows are smashed and boarded up, and the screen door looks like it's just about to fall off its hinges. And nearly every inch of the house is covered in graffiti. Words like "faggot" and "child molester" stand out starkly, and my gut clenches painfully.

"'Child molester'?" Johnny voices softly, looking nauseous.

"Yea," one of the kids says matter-of-factly. "That guy, Steve? We heard all about him when him and his dad moved here. Some nerve, huh?"

"Yea, but we took care of that," the other laughs, looking back to us. The laugh dies in his throat as he catches sight of the glare I'm giving them.

"Who told you that? Who said that about him?" I practically yell, my hands balled into fists at my sides.

"Some lady," the fat one shrugs. "She came with 'em. Told the sheriff she was from social services and had them registered as, um . . ." He turns to the other one. "What was it again?"

"'Sexual offenders,'" his friend says, rolling his eyes at the other boy's stupidity. "Word got 'round that he raped some kid up in Tulsa."

"Steve had a job at the auto repair place for a while. Manager said he was the best thing to ever happen to that place . . . And then people started finding out about him, started wrecking up the place. Boss had to fire him just to keep his place in one piece."

"His dad ain't been able to get a job neither," the other chimes in again. "No one'll hire him. Steve don't even go to school anymore."

I swallow. "Wh-What lady? What lady from the social services?"

"Dunno her name," the taller of the two shrugs. "But she had the reddest hair I ever-"

I don't hear the rest of the sentence. My mind goes blank, and my blood runs cold. All I want to do is scream, but I can't. I'm paralyzed. Steve doesn't deserve this. That lady – that fucking social worker – is dead. I'll kill her for this.

No one messes with Steve Randle. Not if I have anything to say about it.

"Mister? You okay?"

"Get the fuck outta here," I mutter, clenching my jaw so tight my teeth groan in protest. The kids look at me funny, frowning.

"Hey, you can't just-"

"Go!" I yell, ignoring the fact that my voice cracks. They jump, eyeing me with wide, frightened eyes before running off down the street. I watch them till they disappear, then turn back to the house, anguish, once again, taking hold. My throat closes, and my eyes prickle with tears.

"Johnny, this . . . this ain't right," I whisper, my shaking hands gripping the hair on the back of my head.

"I know, man. I know."

"She had no right. She had no fuckin' right!"

Johnny can only nod. I sniff and start my way up the drive. The pick-up we pass is covered in spray paint with the same disgusting words as the house. The tires are slashed, and the windows are shattered, the glass laying in sparkling shards on the ground and inside on the seat. I swallow hard and look away.

How come this place is such a wreck? How come Steve and his dad don't try to clean it up? How come they don't move away?

How can one town be so hell-bent on making someone so miserable?

It just isn't fair.

The porch is even worse close up. More broken bottles and cans are piled so thick we have to shove some aside just to get to the door. The screen that I thought had been falling off its hinges isn't even on any hinges at all. It leans haphazardly against the door, looking about ready to crash to the ground. Johnny and I make our way through the mess as careful as possible, trying not to step on any pieces of broken glass.

"Pony," Johnny hisses at my shoulder as we finally reach the door and I raise my fist to knock. "Look, man, I know you really wanna see him, but . . . don't you think this might cause him more trouble, you showin' up here and all when he's got a restraining order against him?"

I shoot him a dirty look before knocking hard three times, holding my breath.

AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard for any or all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity.

Again, I'm really, really sorry guys! I already have a bit of the next chapter written, so it shouldn't take me so long to update this one anymore. Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.