Darry POV

My life was turned upside down when my parents died. It was an auto wreck near the heart of Tulsa that took them. I hated the rain after that—they had been driving home from one of my father's favorite hunting expos during the first big storm of nineteen-sixty-five, and the car had hydroplaned near the railroad tracks after the worn tires had given up—at least, that's what the police said happened. I guess I'd never given it much of a thought. I couldn't let grief hinder me, especially when I had been left with so much responsibility.

That auto wreck left me the legal guardian of my three younger siblings. Sodapop is four years younger than I, and at sixteen, had dropped out of school and was working at a gasoline station in town. I thought it was ironic, since a car was the reason our parents were dead. Then again, maybe that was what could have driven him to work there, him and his buddy Steve. They could prevent that from happening to someone else. That seems like something Soda would do—he's usually wild and reckless, but he can be awfully compassionate when he wants to. He gets it from Mom. Anyway, my other brother, Ponyboy, is two years younger than Soda. He's a real smart kid, he just doesn't use his head. I never told him, but he reminded me of our parents the most. I couldn't say why—he doesn't act like either one of them, and he looks less like either of them than me and Soda do. The baby of the family was Angel, only six years old. She was the only daughter our parents ever had and was bubbly and fun and girly. There was a reason she was named Angel, and our parents could see it from the moment she was born.

I was in the kitchen one morning, cooking breakfast—two breakfast casseroles because my brothers and I eat like horses, and we never knew when we'd have one of the boys camping out on the couch—when I heard the front door slam in the other room. That wasn't unusual either. It was inevitable that one of the gang would show up in the morning. On weekends and during the summer, all of them would end up at our house by noon, but often earlier.

"Dally!" I heard Angel shout excitedly. Her tiny footsteps, barely audible against the floor, echoed softly through the house as she ran from her bedroom to the front door. She knew who'd come.

Dallas Winston was a tough-as-nails hood, but he had a soft spot for my sister. Nothing made him smile more than seeing that small child run up to him like she did. He always said he hated little kids, which was true, but not for Angel. No one could hate Angel. For her, Dallas was like another big brother. For him, Angel was the sweet little sister he never had. Despite the eleven-year age difference, the two of them had stuck it out together, ever since Angel was two. For years, Dallas had stolen things for her, taken her to the park, and let her sit on his lap while they watched Mickey Mouse on TV. He had been the one to babysit her during the day, since both me and Soda had to work, and Pony had to go to school. You couldn't trust Dallas to keep a fish alive, but he always went out of his way for Angel. She was in school now, though, but Dallas still had a few hours afterward to spend time with her.

I poked my head into the room for a moment. I loved to see how happy Dallas made Angel. The last several months since our parents died had been hard on everyone, but it had been especially difficult for Angel, a sweet child who couldn't fully grasp what had happened until she was living without her mother and father. Me, Soda, and Pony couldn't always be there for her, but Dallas could. He wasn't in school, and he didn't have a day job. Even when he was working for Buck, he'd drop anything for Angel, a luxury I wish I had.

"Heya, kid," Dallas grinned. You know, it was real great to see Angel smile, but seeing Dallas smile was a miracle in and of itself. There were usually only two times Dallas grinned: when he was with Angel, and when he was about to do something illegal. That alone said a lot about him. But no one smiled as much as they used to. Things had been going just fine for years. Sure, we'd spent our lives in a poor neighborhood, surrounded by poor hoods and poor schools, but life was good. It could've been the end of the world, and as long as we had each other, no one would care how bad it was outside. It was when my parents died that things started to fall apart. Suddenly, the world was real, and it was full of grief, misery, and hardship. We were struggling to get by, but I'd never let Ponyboy, or Angel, or even Sodapop know that. They were burdened enough as it was. No kid should ever have to go through what we had to go through. Sodapop hadn't been passing school when he dropped out, but no sixteen-year-old should have to work full-time to pay the bills. It just wasn't fair, but then again, life in general wasn't fair. And Ponyboy, he wanted to help. It was hard for him to go to school every day, knowing that one of his older brothers had dropped out to work, while the other picked up a second job, while all he could do was his math homework. And Angel, she was only six. For any other kid her age, life was a dream. There were only happy endings, no worries or problems. For her, she often felt that her happy ending was impossible. She had it harder than most kids her age. Then there was Dallas. He had no blood-related family to support him, or help him, or guide him. He had the gang, but it just ain't the same as your own folks caring about you. He spent a lot of time in jail, and though he was seventeen and should have been in school, he spent his days wandering the streets to find something to do. No matter where he went, the only place he could fit in was around the gang, and around Angel. Even down at the city jail, he was different. And Johnny, he was sixteen and struggling in school. He'd been held back a grade because his teachers thought he was stupid, but he was actually pretty smart. It just took him longer to grasp certain things, and he liked to explore them once he understood. But a lot of his peers looked down upon him because of it. He was fortunate enough to have parents around, but they were abusive ones. He cared about them and convinced himself they cared about him. He was scared of his own shadow, and scarcely talked. Even Steve wasn't without his own troubles, though. Like Soda, Steve had a steady job and a girlfriend, but unlike Soda, he was still in school. He sure hated having to go, while his best friend worked all day. No one knew, not even Soda knew, what had happened to Steve's mother. His father, though, had quite the temper, along with a heavy drinking problem. That kept Steve bitter, having to live with someone like that. And then there was Two-Bit. He was the wisecracker of us all, keeping us on our toes, but despite how much he tried to pretend he didn't care about his own problems, he couldn't fool us. His mother was a barmaid, so she could support Two-Bit and his siter. He rarely saw his mother, or his sister, for that matter. But that's why we had each other—because if we didn't have each other, we didn't have anything.

I couldn't tell you why Angel and Dallas were such good friends. I mean, Angel was the sweetest six-year-old I'd ever met, and she would never do anything she knew was wrong. She loved to play with dolls, and probably switched dresses multiple times a day. She was extremely imaginative, very girly, and was probably one of the most innocent kids out there. Then there was Dallas. He was a tough-as-nails hood who spent three years on the streets of New York. He stole things and robbed grocery stores and got into gang fights. He couldn't stay out of trouble, and frankly, he enjoyed it. The two of them were polar opposites. But somehow, there was some sort of friendship between the two that they couldn't find with anyone else. Sure, we loved Angel, and she loved us, but with Dallas, it was entirely different. Maybe it was because I was her brother. No matter what had happened, I would still always be her brother, but Dallas could become a father figure. No, he was already a father figure in her life before our dad was killed.

Angel looked so happy when Dallas came over. She ran as fast as her little legs could take her to her room. She returned only a minute later with a few wrinkled papers clutched in her fist. "Dally! Look what I did at… uh… kinder garden yesterday!" Her ear-to-ear grin showed how proud she was of herself. That smile was the sweetest I'd seen all day and was enough to melt even the coldest of hearts.

Dallas traced the sloppily written letters on the paper with his finger, then, laughing, grabbed Angel and swung her around in a tight embrace. "Look at what you can do! You're gettin' so old!" Nothing compared to the glow in Angel's eyes whenever Dallas said he was proud of her.

Once Dallas put her down, she ran back to her room. This time, she returned with her whole backpack, the zipped pocket hanging wide open. She started to pull more papers out—number lines and art projects and assignments that she'd poured so much effort into. Dallas was always the first to see them. Angel would always show them to him before she'd even show her own brothers. I never could figure out why she'd do that. It was okay, though. I knew that when I put her to bed at night, she'd sit up suddenly and say something like "I forgot to show you my papers!" or "I can't go to bed until you see all my school stuff!" Seeing her work made me awfully proud, but her attitude toward school was more important than her grades for the time being. She'd need motivation and enthusiasm to get through schoolwork when she got older, and she was already ahead in school.

I stepped back into the kitchen to check on breakfast. I laughed as I realized that if I had lingered in the other room any longer, I probably would've burned something. I couldn't have that happen—I had a reputation of making good, normal food to keep up. I mean, Ponyboy couldn't cook a single meal without ruining something, and Sodapop, even though he could cook, did things wrong on purpose. He'd make something like green pancakes or blue mashed potatoes. If there was ever any normal food in the house, it was probably because I made it. I pulled the casseroles out of the oven, setting them on the counter to cool. I decided they'd cool off faster, though, if I moved them next to the open window. It was starting to get just a big cooler outside, a relief after a blistering, humid summer.

I suddenly heard tiny footsteps running toward the kitchen, and I knew exactly who it was. Those footsteps wouldn't have been so quiet if Angel hadn't been running around in her stocking-feet. She was just like Soda in that she hated wearing shoes around the house, and always left them neatly by the door. Well, she was mostly like Soda. Sodapop usually just threw his shoes in the corner, and I'd have to kick them out of the way when I opened the door. Unlike her brother, Angel would take her shoes off and set them down and together neatly and tucked out of the way. They were always in the same place, too, so she wasn't always trying to find them like Soda was.

Angel suddenly appeared in the kitchen, her soft curls bouncing above her shoulders. She looked at the breakfast casserole and wrinkled her nose. "No, thank you. I don't feel like it this morning," she said in the politest voice she could muster. Like nearly any six-year-old, there were certain foods I just couldn't get her to eat. But at least she was nice about it. She'd learned that partially from Mom, but mostly on her own. I knew that kid was going places. Anyway, Angel was often unpredictable, like any other kid her age, and occasionally a bit stubborn. Most days, she dug right into whatever I made, but other times, she wouldn't take even one bite. I couldn't complain, though—she ate more types of food than most six-year-old kids. So, I quickly made her a PBJ sandwich, waiting for Ponyboy, Sodapop, and maybe Dallas to wander in.

I was just finishing spreading the grape jelly—the same grape jelly Sodapop puts on his eggs—onto the bread when I heard the screech of chairs against the floor, and I knew they were sitting down to eat. "Hey, Winston, you staying for breakfast?" I asked without turning around.

There was a pause, and I turned around to face him. Angel was looking at him pleadingly. "Sure, man. Why not."

We only had four seats at our small table—we used to have five, but Two-Bit accidentally broke one when he was drunk once—so Dallas took Angel's seat and held her on his lap. She giggled happily when Dallas started bouncing his leg. That was something I missed about being young: the littlest things could make you laugh or smile. Now that I'd grown up, things had changed—not for the worse, but it was still different. Anyway, after my mother died, the only one that could trigger Dallas' soft side was Angel. My mother was always telling Dallas to stay out of trouble, and usually after she said that, he'd go a couple of weeks without the cops having to tell him off. At times, my mother could get through to Dallas that there was some good left in the world. Now she was gone, and Angel had started to tell him. Not with words—no, she was a little too young to really understand that—but with the way she lived and laughed and loved.

"Darry, this is good," Soda suddenly said, his mouth full.

"Yeah," Ponyboy agreed, also in the middle of a bite. I was grateful the boys on the East side of town still had some manners. But then, maybe the didn't. Maybe we were just different, because our parents had raised us to be.

My "thanks" was drowned out by the sound of the door slamming again. I was surprised the hinges were still attached to the doorframe, the way the door was slammed and yanked a dozen times a day. Less than a minute after the door had collided harshly with the wall, the animated laugh of a cartoon mouse could be heard from the small television set. We all knew Two-Bit had arrived—it was almost a daily routine at this point. Every morning, Two-Bit would arrive at exactly seven o'clock, the time Mickey Mouse played on television, and late enough that he knew he wouldn't be another mouth to feed—with breakfast, at least. He'd watch and wait until I brought out or made the chocolate cake, another daily occurrence at the Curtis home. You know, my mother never let us have chocolate cake with breakfast, but we all liked it, and it didn't hurt anything. We all loved chocolate, especially Ponyboy and Sodapop. Man, if they had their way, there'd be a lot more chocolate-flavored things in the world. Maybe that's how they'd become famous someday—inventing new chocolate items to sell. Golly, if I ever told Ponyboy that crazy idea, he'd dream it into reality. My kid brother would be a real life Willy Wonka.

Dallas bounced his knee again, setting his hands on Angel's shoulder and turning her to face him. "Hey, Angel, if ya eat quickly, we can go watch Mickey Mouse before ya have to get ready for school."

Angel's eyes glowed as she nodded vigorously. Her little hands grabbed the sandwich, and she started taking the biggest bites her little mouth could fit. I laughed to myself for a moment, before reaching my hand over to stop her. "Slow down, kiddo." I laughed. "You're gonna get sick if you eat that fast."

Angel ignored me, like I suspected she would. She started to eat faster, if that was even possible. Within a minute, she was finished with the sandwich, and she licked her fingers clean. Dallas picked her up and carefully placed her on his shoulders, making sure she wasn't gonna fall off, and walked off into the other room, Angel happily giggling the whole way.

I called Ponyboy and Soda back into the room to do the dishes. That was a rule in our house—first one up had to cook; the others had to do the dishes. Well, not Angel. She always wanted to help, and she tried—she really did—but she often ended up breaking a dish or getting water everywhere. She was only six, though. I started picking up plates and cleaning up other messes while I waited for the boys to come in, because no one had remembered to check the icebox the night before for cake, and I had to whip one up real quick. It was just a little too messy to do anything, for the time being, so I helped with the cleaning. Mom would never let us have cake with breakfast, but we did it once and it kinda stuck. We couldn't not do it now, and it was a part of the morning routine. I used to have Sodapop bake the cake while I made breakfast. It was more of a time thing, so we could have two things made in the time of one, but he always put too much sugar in the frosting. So, I started baking a chocolate cake the night before, so he wouldn't have to make the cake in the morning, and I could control the sugar. Besides, I couldn't stand too much sugar, which is why I drink my coffee black. Honestly, I couldn't even trust Soda to make pancakes—he often made them green—but if he was the first up, he had to cook.

"Ponyboy, did you do your homework?" I suddenly asked over my shoulder. I knew he often got distracted and didn't do it, even if the fault was, in part, the other boys'. They could be pretty rowdy sometimes.

"No," he mumbled, bracing himself for what was to come.

I just sighed, not wanting to, or having the time to deal with it. "You gotta stop procrastinating, Pony," I started. "If you keep up your grades, you can get a scholarship and go to college. You know that."

Ponyboy sounded frustrated. "I'm trying, okay?"

I turned around. "'Trying' isn't gonna be good enough. You're gonna have to—"

Sodapop suddenly cut in. "Lay off him, Darry. He ain't you, ya know." Soda always stood up for his brother. It drove me crazy, but if he wanted me to lay off, I'd do it. Everybody listens to Soda.

I shut my mouth and turned around, finishing wiping off the counter. I stayed silent for the next few minutes. I don't know how my parents did it—raising teenage boys, I mean. I really wished Ponyboy would try harder. I wanted him to have the opportunity I couldn't have myself. Pony would do well in college, and he could get a good job. I mean, I could've put him and Soda in a boys' home and worked by way through college, but, although I didn't regret it, I wished I could've gone to college. I just wanted Pony to have a fair shot at life, so he could have a better future than I probably would. He just didn't take anything as seriously as he needed to.