Let me just say, when Red said high speeds, she wasn't exaggerating. It reminded me of a time I was riding with someone down a red dirt road—but I don't remember who—they just seemed to have no regard for speed limits, same as Red. We were home in a couple minutes, the engine roaring as we pulled into the driveway. Must have made quite a ruckus too, because the curtains were pulled up and I saw the guys peering through the window.

Red pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them to me. "If they don't come looking for the car, you have it. You deserve a car like this, you look good in it. Not that you don't look good all the time," she did what I perceived to be a very un-Red-ish thing, then—she giggled. I laughed nervously too, not sure how to respond. Maybe that giggle was sarcastic. Maybe she was giggling at something else. Maybe it was because she knew it would make my head get mixed up, and she wanted to antagonize me.

There goes my over-active imagination again.

They must have decided that some Socs pulled into their driveway, because Soda came out the door holding the ax we used to chop wood. The other guys streamed and fanned out behind him, with switchblades, and Steve even had a pipe.

Red honked at them, waving and flashing a good-natured grin. She rolled down the window. "Just us! Don't untidy this car!"

Soda lowered the ax, and just stared at us in disbelief. Red popped the door open, I got out too, gripping the door tightly. Soda looked as if someone had told him that Two-Bit had gotten A's in school.

"What...?" he asked, his mouth open while he stood there limply.

"We got jumped," I said helpfully, entering the house. My nose began to gush blood, and I hastily pinched it.

"We see that," Two-Bit chided, raising an eyebrow.

He came in to help Red and I, while Steve practically laid on the car, his eyes glazed over.

"So, who's car is it?" Steve asked in an awed voice.

"Now?" Red asked absently, leaning on the counter, pressing a wet washcloth to her face. "Ponyboy's. I think he looks good in it."

"You think he looks good in anything," Two-Bit muttered, dabbing at a a cut on my temple.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," he replied quickly, grinning at me. I started to roll my eyes, but it didn't help my unsteadiness.

"Leave us be, Two-Bit. I've had enough beating this week for half a lifetime."

"Only half? That's hastily said, Pony, you're gunnin' to get another three halves tacked on."

"Let up, will you?" I groaned.

Two-Bit chuckled, but said nothing as he put a Band-Aid on my face.

Suddenly I remembered our cargo. "Ricky..."

Red glanced up in realization. "Oh yeah, I forgot! Idiot!" she muttered to herself. I didn't know if she was talking about me or Ricky or herself.

I stood up to go get him, but as the living room began to whirl around me, Two-Bit clamped a hand over my shoulder, easing me back down onto the couch. "Hey, steady kid, you ain't goin' anywhere."

"But—"

"I'll go help her with the kid. Just...don't move." I didn't feel like protesting, because my head hurt and I felt a little motion-sick, with the room dancing around me, so I just stayed there.

Two-Bit pushed open the screen door, and his usually comical face looked uneasy. "This kid got beat bad. Judist priest. Almost worse than..." he cut short, but my mind filled in the blank—Johnny. It seemed like my brain was going to sear.

Stop, I commanded myself. Just stop it. There...there is no Johnny. You never knew a Johnny. You're being stupid. There is a Sodapop, there is a Darry, there is a Steve, there is a Two-Bit, there is a Dal—stop it! There is no Dallas Winston.

This ends, now. And I wiped my mind, like the doctor told me to do when I was stressed, a couple months ago. That was when I had a bad concussion. I still haven't been right since then. I run into things a lot, and forget things sometimes. But it's not so bad lately.

Red followed Two-Bit in, with her two shopping bags and the shoebox. She dropped them unceremoniously on the floor, and helped Two-Bit take Ricky into Soda's old room. Red would have to have the couch tonight, and Soda would sleep with me. Unless he slept with Darry, and Red could share with me...

I was ready to feel my face get hot at that, but it seemed like I didn't have the energy to blush.

After that, I was kinda pooped, so I sprawled out on the couch, and Red sat next to me. The air between us seemed tense.

Two-Bit got some chocolate cake and a bottle of liquor, and turned on the TV. There wasn't much good on. Reruns of The Honeymooners, The Rifleman, Mickey Mouse, and I Love Lucy.

Soda came in and sat down on the other side of Red, and he and Two-Bit bickered between The Rifleman and Mickey Mouse. Sodapop was sure grumpy, and didn't let up. Eventually, after he smacked Two-Bit upside the head, we ended up watching The Rifleman.

I liked that show. I liked seeing Lucas and Mark McCain live in the country, and go to town, associate with people. There, there seemed to just be people.

Wait, no there didn't. Everyone was against everyone else. Everyone was a Soc, and a greaser. They all seemed to have two sides, and they'd take the side that seemed to get the most cash. Except for Mark and Lucas—the best word for them was glue. They stuck to their beliefs, stuck together, and stuck up for each other.

The way my dad and I had been, sticking up for each other—except I had to share him with three other people. But I hadn't minded that. He was there for me when I needed him...except when I needed him most—to mourn his and Mom's deaths. It wasn't fair. But like Red said, If it's escaped your notice, life isn't fair. That hurt—fairness was a sphere out of my control—that's why my parents died, because there's too much out of my control.

My father, strong but gentle, firm, true, smiling and laughing. He was an old hickory tree, tall, strong and immobile. He should have been untouchable, rooted for forever.

My mother, golden and beautiful, polished and perfect, should have lasted forever. But now I knew better.

Nothing gold could stay.

Stay gold, Ponyboy.

No. Nothing gold can stay.

Stay gold, Ponyboy.

But then I have to go. My mother was gold—and she died. I don't want to die.

Stay gold—

I woke abruptly, as a snicker ripped through the air. My arm tensed, and I felt something soft. My eyes flew open, and I immediately stiffened, but my sore body protested.

Steve towered over me, menacing, and he looked like a prison guard. He was silent for a moment, his face grave, and then I guess his self-control failed him, because he busted out laughing. I was confused for a moment, before I saw a permanent marker in his hand.

"Steve..." I muttered warningly, my hand flying to my face, even though the damage was already done. "You didn't!" I bolted upright, and Red, who was draped over my lap, her head on the couch arm, tumbled to the floor, gasping. I was already halfway to the bathroom though. I looked in the mirror at myself, and I didn't know if I was ready to laugh or kill. A great big handlebar mustache decorated my upper lip, curling out over my cheeks. "Steve!"

I heard his laughter ring from the living room, and I stomped back out. "You stupid—" I stopped, remembering there was a girl in our midst. But boy, was I mad. I had a reputation for being quite, even around the gang, but now I was ready to use a lot of specific words at once. Soda plodded in, his face somber, and that's what made me do a second take.

"Can't you guys give it a rest?" he asked tiredly.

"What's wrong, Sodapop?" I asked in reply. Something was on his mind, and he wasn't bothering to try and hide it.

"When the guys leave and Darry gets home, I'll tell you. But go get some ice from the fridge, you look like you're hurtin'."

I stood there for a moment, confused, then did as he said.

I ventured back to the couch, where Red was curled up in a nest of blankets, her eyes closed. Sitting down on the couch, I sighed as I pressed the ice to my face, right under my left cheekbone. That's where it hurt the most.

Red's one eye opened a crack, and she glared at me in contempt through her lashes, but said nothing. The way she laid there in the blankets made me think of a huffy cat.

"Sorry I rolled you onto the floor."

She shook her head, smiling softly. "I know you didn't mean to, Pony," she replied sleepily. "What's wrong with Soda? I can feel the tips of his edginess all the way over here."

"I don't know."

"Oh. Want me to talk to him?"

"No!" I snapped. Her eyes widened, and she flinched. "I meant no," I apologized softly. "Sorry. It's just that he's not usually like this, and it worries me."

Red relaxed. "I get what you mean, sort of. I don't really spend enough time around one person to tell," she laughed bitterly to herself. "Can you be my escort tomorrow? I have to find new living quarters, and a job. And I need to start looking for my brother again, now that I'm better."

"Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you—Darry insists you stay. Really."

She bit her lip. "I really don't know, Ponyboy..."

"We have chocolate cake." As if on cue, Two-Bit came out of the kitchen with his all-time favorite meal: chocolate cake, a cigarette, and a bottle of beer. He plopped down on the floor in front of the television.

"Alright, I'll stay. But I still need to go looking for a job. And my brother."

I debated telling her that I knew about her nicking cash, then just went for it. No harm could be done if I worded it right, and I was pretty good with words. "I don't think you need to go out and get a job. It seems you have a bit of cash already."

Her face was guarded, careful, as if she was debating what to say, and for a minute I thought I'd earned myself a good backhand to the face. But then she said, "I suppose you know about my little thieving habit? Yeah, well, I didn't really have much choice. And I only stole money from people who looked like they didn't need it. Like those Socs we bashed earlier."

I held up a hand. "You don't need to justify yourself to me. I've nicked a few things in my day. And Two-Bit here," Two-Bit turned and waved, chocolate on his face. "Pockets anything that isn't nailed down. I'm pretty sure the cigarette in his hand is a child of thievery. Savvy? "

Red looked pensive. "Interesting terminology. You must read a lot, huh?"

"Uh...yeah, actually, I do. How could you tell?"

"Your mustache, obviously."

I remembered Steve's little piece of artwork, and felt my face, as if I could feel the marker there. If he wasn't Soda's buddy, I'd give him a good working over.

Red and I exchanged glances, and she laughed lightly. Not that I blamed her. We sure lived with a funny bunch.

Darry came home soon after that, and Soda pulled him to one side, muttering quickly and glancing around with shifty eyes. Darry's face went pale and grave.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Red raised her head and regarded us quizzically.

Darry just shook his head at her, beckoning me over. "Soda found something in the lot today."

"So? What did he find?"

"This," Darry said, extending his arm, gripping it in his hand. My blood seemed to run cold.