"That's not fair!" Ponyboy shouts. Steve groans and Pony shoots him a baleful glare. Even though only minutes ago the gang collectively finished two doubled-layered chocolate cakes (compliments of Soda, who wasn't even there) all the boys are heading out for chocolate malts. Or at least, all of them but Ponyboy.
"If you finished your homework before dinner like I told you to, you could come with everybody. What have you been doing for the past three hours?" Darry crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. He got home from work less than ten minutes ago, and he hasn't had time to change from his thin, sweat-stained roofing shirt. Johnny's eyes move from the muscles of his forearms to his stern, taut jawline. Ponyboy sure has guts to talk back to a big brother like that.
"I've been working on it, but it's hard, Darry," Pony whines.
"Your paper's due tomorrow, Pony. So if you don't get your butt in that bedroom and hunker down, I'll-"
"You'll what?"
"Quit talking back."
"It was just a question."
"I'll stay with ya, Pone." Johnny's quiet voice silences the increasing volume of the Curtis brothers' argument. "I don't mind. 'Sides, I have some schoolwork to catch up on, too."
Darry turns to Johnny and mouths a silent thank you. Johnny shrugs at him when he's sure Pony's not looking. In truth, Johnny is lucky to have an out. He hates going out with the boys when he doesn't have any cash on him. Even if he knows somebody will spot him without a second thought, Johnny doesn't want to go somewhere expecting that. It feels sleazy.
Ponyboy slings an arm around Johnny in thanks, but he's still sulking when everybody leaves. The two head to the small bedroom shared by Pony and Soda.
Johnny loves that room. It's nothing special, just a boy's mess of dirty socks, scattered childhood plastic horses (Soda), and miscellaneous dime paperbacks (Ponyboy). But for Johnny, everything about it-from the worn bedsheets to the Elvis and Fats Domino 45s piled in the corner-is comforting and safe. They spread out on the floor: Pony, lying on his stomach, absently twirling a pen, glowering at an opened composition book, Johnny, sitting cross-legged on the worn rug, twiddling with his shoelace and clicking his nails on top of the Algebra textbook that's plopped unopened in front of him. He still had his schoolbag with him when he came to the Curtises' place, and now there's no getting out of doing his homework.
After a few minutes, procrastination becomes too boring to continue with, so Johnny flips through the pages of the textbook and starts reading excerpts from the section his class is currently studying. He mouths the words, but that doesn't help. It's like reading a foreign language, because besides "an" and "the" and other simple words, all of it seems to be vocabulary he hasn't learned, arranged in a grammar that is unfamiliar to him. He briefly considers telling Pony about being forced to take after school lessons, but the humiliation of being particularly stupid is fresh in his mind as he tries to interpret at the strange symbols in the textbook. It's especially embarrassing, considering how Pony's so book smart.
For his part, Pony sighs in frustration next to Johnny. Johnny peeks over to see what he's written. In the margin and sneaking onto the body of the page are several horses sketched in various detail. One has a anatomically perfect face, with each hair of the mane penciled out, the rest of its body forgotten and fading off, where a new horse, smaller in scale and running, is drawn over it. Only one paragraph is scrawled out on the page, in dark, angry handwriting, and it's been mostly crossed out.
"What do you got so far?" Johnny asks. Usually, Pony only needs to get started talking, and a brilliant idea occurs to him in mid-sentence.
"Nothing," Pony grumbles.
"Looks like you got a paragraph there. Why don't you read it to me?"
Ponyboy rolls onto his back and sits up. He snatches his notebook and starts reading off the page without warning. "The Indian Removal Act was a cruel, mean thing that happened in 1830." He shoots Johnny a defiant look from over his notebook, as if daring him to disagree, and continues, "when lame excuse for a President Andrew Jackson, the cowardly Congress, and the rest of the other horrible people living in the United States decided they were going to get rid of the people they didn't like 'cause they were different. So they forced the Indians west across the country and a lot of people died of starvation. This was called the Trail of Tears and we should be ashamed."
After a couple seconds of silence, Pony slams down his notebook and crosses his arms. "Well?"
Johnny bites his lip. "I ain't sure the teacher's gonna like that, Pone. I mean, no offense, but it's not up to your usual standards. Maybe you could cross out that bit about being ashamed. It's kind of, um, strongly worded."
"We should be ashamed," Ponyboy says with conviction. But Johnny's not sure about that.
In the history classes Johnny's taken, he's learned about the great things the great leaders in America have done, and all those men seem pretty impressive to him. What with Abe Lincoln freeing the slaves, and George Washington never telling a lie, and Ben Franklin discovering electricity, there's plenty to be proud of. Johnny's never heard the Indian Removal Act until now, but it doesn't sound like something the America he's learned about would do. What Johnny knows about Indians he picked up from two Clint Eastwood pictures and the half a dozen Spaghetti Westerns he and Pony saw last summer. He likes their headdresses and tomahawks and the way they're always saying clever things while smoking pipes. He thinks they must've been pretty tuff old guys.
"It's just...how come people think it's okay to do that kinda stuff, you know?" Ponyboy continues. "Hurt people like that, I mean. And I'm not just talking about one person being mean. I'm talking about lots of people. Everybody. How can everybody think they're right about something, when later, when kids read about it in history class, we can all see how wrong they were? It just doesn't make sense."
"I don't know, Pony." Johnny scoots over and puts his hand on Ponyboy's shoulder. "You shouldn't worry about it, though. Those things happened a long time ago."
"But what if they're happening now?"
Johnny gives him a confused look. "What do you mean? Nobody's killing Indians anymore."
"No. Not that. I mean like, what if, as a country, we all believe in something wrong, and do really bad things to perfectly good people right now, only we don't know it?"
"Like what?"
"That's the thing," says Pony, "we don't know it."
"Pony, is it just the Indians you're upset about?" Johnny asks.
Pony gives him a sad smile. "It is and it isn't. I can't get anything by you, can I?"
Johnny shrugs knowingly.
"I mean, if you're gonna force me to tell you, I can't say I didn't try to keep it private..." The two boys grin at each other before Ponyboy's face drops again, as if remembering the topic of conversation.
"It's something that happened at school today." He let's out a huff, perhaps hoping for Johnny to ask him to continue, but Johnny only waits patiently in silence.
"You know Gene Goldman, in my year? I mean, I don't know if you do. But he's pretty well known because he's...I don't know how to put it...he's kind of effeminate. I mean, I think Paul Newman's tuff and all, but I don't keep a picture of him taped up in my locker. You get what I mean?"
Johnny pulls his hand off Ponyboy's shoulder, as if suddenly guilty. He stares intently at the bent, cardboard-y corner of his Algebra textbook. "I get it." His voice is stiff. Because he gets it. He gets it more than Ponyboy will ever know.
"Anyway, so even though he denies being a, um," Pony lowers his voice as if Mrs. Curtis were still alive and he were trying to get away with cussing one room over, "homosexual," he pronounces each syllable carefully, like he's sounding it out, "everybody suspects he is and gives him a hard time about it."
On the inside of the back cover is a list of names of the previous owners of the textbook. There are fourteen names, which means the book has survived fourteen years of high school. Johnny wonders which boy damaged the book's corner. He tries to force himself to wonder this. Tries to force himself not to think about anything else, not to reveal too much.
"He's in my gym class," Pony goes on, oblivious, "and in the locker room today, I mean, it was more than just a hard time. A couple boys were really letting him have it Johnny, right there in school. And they were being real mean about it, too. Calling him names and stuff. And I just, I mean, I thought, even if it were true, maybe I should go and help him. You know, I felt real bad for him. But there were five guys, and five against two ain't exactly good odds, and I don't know Gene all that well anyway. And then Mr. Wheaton came in, and he saw it. He's the teacher and he didn't even stop them. He just sort of chuckled and said, 'Don't get too carried away' and went back to his office."
Don't think about it, Johnny scolds himself. But that never works. Whenever he tells himself not to think about a particular thing, his mind latches onto it in direct stubbornness. He shoots a quick, guilty glance at Ponyboy, wondering why he's telling him this. Wondering if he suspects. Wondering if he's trying to ease a confession out of him. But Ponyboy doesn't look scheming. He looks distressed. For now, Johnny's secret is safe.
He started having feelings around the same time other boys do, but the problem was, he was having feelings for other boys. It's not something he's ever told anybody. He knows what people think of boys like him: it's real bad because it's something nobody talks about it, except using the words "queer" or "fag" as a slur to start a fight. And a couple months ago in Little Rock a man wearing a dress in public was beat to death. Only last week, at Buck's place, Johnny heard an older guy bragging about being involved.
If he could change himself, he would. And he's tried. First, he tried to convince himself he didn't feel that way. And when denial stopped working, he tried to convince himself he could force himself to change. But he hasn't changed. It's not a problem he can fix. Deep down, he's a pervert, even if he's promises himself he'll never act on it.
"I guess I feel guilty I didn't help him," Ponyboy says reluctantly, waiting for Johnny's assurance.
Johnny swallows. "It wasn't your fight."
"Yeah. But." Ponyboy taps his fingers against the notebook. "But it got me thinking. Why is it bad?"
"To jump somebody?"
"No. To be...like Gene. That's the reason I haven't been able to write this paper. I can't think about anything else. Because I couldn't come up with a reason why it's bad, except that it makes me uncomfortable. And that's not a good reason to beat somebody up, or to send them to a mental institution to get fixed, is it? I mean, what if we're all wrong, the entire country, or the entire world, and we're hurting guys like Gene for no good reason? And maybe our grandkids are going to look back on us, and ask, how could you do that, just like I ask when I think about the how the Indians were treated."
"Ponyboy," Johnny says sternly. He stares at Pony, straight on. "I want you to listen to me."
Pony nods, trusting him completely. Ponyboy's the only one in the gang who looks up to him for guidance and protection instead of the other way around. Johnny has to do his duty by him, as his older friend. Ponyboy has a big heart; he's barely older than thirteen and he doesn't know any better. It's Johnny's job to steer him right, especially now that he doesn't have parents to guide him.
"Being like that is wrong," Johnny's voice leaves no room for argument. "It's unnatural, and it's wrong."
Pony nods, but he doesn't look convinced. Then, Johnny can see his face swiftly change from troubled confusion to panic. "Shoot! You don't think... Look. Just because I was wondering whether or not it was wrong doesn't mean I'm like that, Johnny. You have to know I'm not. Because I'm not. I would never want you to think of me like that. Gross." He makes a disgusted face. It's genuine.
Sometimes, Johnny suspects that's why he lets his old man beat on him. Why he never fights back. Deep down, he knows he's disgusting and different and wrong, and he takes whatever punishment his dad sees fit to give him because he deserves it.
"You don't think that, do you?" Pony bites his lip, his eyes wide. They're both aware that this moment could be the end of Pony's reputation, depending on Johnny's response.
Johnny pulls his knees up to his chest. "Trust me, you got nothing to worry about Pone. I know you ain't like that. Now don't worry about it again. Worry about finishing your paper before Darry has a conniption."
"Thanks for listening, Johnnycake." Ponyboy reaches out and pulls him into a hug, they're huddled there together, Johnny holding his knees, Pony holding Johnny.
"I knew you'd understand. I can tell you and Soda anything in whole world, even private stuff like this. I don't think I'll ever keep a secret from either of you." Ponyboy squeezes him extra tight. "I couldn't get along without you. You're my best friend."
But Johnny will always have a secret. That final declaration of gross is assurance enough.
The boys are always getting on his back about sticking up for himself when his old man lets in on him. But they would think he deserves it too, if only they knew the truth.