Randy never gave him the chance to pay him back. Johnny tried to return it, that same bill which he was too proud to use, but Randy acted like he had no idea what Johnny was talking about.

"What money? I don't remember that."

"You lent it to me. I'm returning it."

"I think I might recall giving you money, but even that doesn't exactly ring a bell." The conversation went on like this for five minutes before Johnny gave up.

It's been three lessons since they first sat next to each other. Randy hasn't mentioned his bruises again. But he consistently sits next to Johnny now. It's stopped being weird.

"So. The Civil War," Randy begins. He flips open a copy of Johnny's American History textbook, the page he's looking for already dogeared, highlighted, and filled with his neat script in the margins.

"What about it?"

"Your unit test is coming up," Randy answers. "Have you started studying?"

Johnny groans. "It's so boring."

"I'll take that answer as a no."

"Look, I know the Civil War was important. But I wish we didn't have to memorize dates and stuff. I mean, who cares about exactly when a battle was fought, and exactly where it was? I wanna know about the real story. The real people. I wish, you know, we could read Gone With the Wind instead."

"That movie was bullshit," says Randy. "Historically inaccurate bullshit."

Johnny straightens his posture. "What are you talking about? That movie was brilliant." He's repeating Pony's words, but he agrees with them, even if they aren't his own. "And I've been meaning to start the book."

"Brilliant? Brilliant! The whole thing was a just big justification of slavery and racism with a backdrop of pretty sunsets. Don't tell me you buy that crap. You're smarter than that. There's a cultural revolution happening now, Johnny, and-"

Jesus. Randy's gonna go on another hippie speech. He's done that to him twice already, assuming Johnny would feel the same. It's weird, because he's so well dressed and rich, but he talks exactly like those crazy people Johnny's seen in the news. The sort of people that the new minister had warned were taking over the country. Once Randy passionately rambled on about "being the catalyst of changing social mores and opening this country to the idea of sexual freedom and unconventional sexual expression" and he looked to Johnny as if that had some special meaning for him, and another time he droned on about "abandoning the oppressive structures endowed to us by our parents' generation and living in true autonomy and peace." Johnny thinks some of those words are made up, or else Randy's just showing off.

"Cut the lecture, Randy. I liked it. I liked the movie and I'll like the book when I read it and I don't fancy hearing you tear it apart. It's a nice story about real heroes."

"Real heroes?" Randy rolls his eyes.

Johnny bites his lip when he hears the contempt in Randy's voice. Gone With the Wind, as corny as it might sound, means something to him. Sitting in the back of the darkened theater next to Pony, looking out at the pink and golden sunsets on the screen, at the fallen heroes, and the crumbled plantations, at the brave women with gumption enough to pick up their lives after everything was lost...he remembers feeling like he could be somebody. Like a small life like his actually mattered in the grand scheme of things, or at least had a place. Melly, Ashley, Scarlett, Rhett–Rhett, who was Dally, sarcastic and dashing and a crook but the bravest gentleman beneath it all–he had fallen for them all. And this Soc wasn't gonna take those feelings away from him because the movie fell short of his politics.

"You heard me," Johnny says. "Real heroes who ride into sure death 'cause they're gallant. Real heroes who fight for a cause greater than themselves. Real gentlemen who die with honor. But maybe that don't appeal to the sort of cowards who hide behind college so they don't have to get drafted."

There is no disguising Johnny's contempt. It's the same contempt every greaser feels for the rich kids who don't have to watch their loved ones shipped away. Who don't have to watch them return with missing limbs, or not return at all. Who don't have to dread the letter.

"Is that remark aimed at me?" Randy asks, affronted.

"I don't know. You're supposed to be the smart one here. What do you think?"

"I think the war is stupid and there shouldn't be a draft at all. If I weren't going to college, I'd go to prison before I'd go to war."

"Coward," Johnny mutters.

Randy shuts the textbook, any plans to study now abandoned in the heat of the argument. "I supposed you'd make a fine soldier, hmmm Johnny Cade? What do you weigh, a hundred pounds soaking wet? You can't even carry a conversation without coughing because you've destroyed your lungs from smoking so many of those damn cigarettes. You know you have to be physically fit to serve, don't you? Have you ever even tried out for a sports team? I'd love to see it. The army wouldn't even take you if you got drafted."

Johnny's blood is boiling. All the more because what Randy says may well be true. "It would take me and I'd be proud to serve!"

"Proud to die, more like it."

They've both seen it, broadcast on the television. And even Johnny can acknowledge...it doesn't exactly look beautiful. He wish he could forget the images he saw over the summer, just before school started, when his dad was watching the war report. American troops were using their zippos to light the thatched roofs some poor village on fire. Every house, one by one. He could see the old people crying and begging, he could hear screams of children in the background. It made Johnny sick, thinking about what it would be like to be stuck in a burning building like that. And in the Gone With the Wind, it was Sherman's army, the bad guys, who did all the burning of the towns, who destroyed Twelve Oaks and the old ways. And now Randy's saying the movie got it wrong about who the bad guys were. Johnny wishes things made more sense. But he doesn't think war is like math, a problem to be figured out by reason alone.

"I would be proud to die," Johnny insists, but his voice has gone quiet, uncertain.

"You want to...die," Randy clarifies. "In war. The war that people are starting to protest, and trust me, if it doesn't end soon it will only get worse. Am I hearing you right? Why the hell would you want to do that?" Randy's anger is gone. It is a serious question.

"I don't know if I want to die exactly," says Johnny, looking away. His anger is gone now, too. He shrugs his shoulders. "But maybe I wouldn't mind it. I guess I don't really got anything to live for," he mumbles. "Maybe if I can't have a good life, I can have a good death, ya know? Maybe that's what I can contribute to the world, dying like a man should, protecting something or someone better than me. I've been thinking about enlisting."

Johnny shudders as he hears the thud of Randy's fist on the table. "Screw this." Randy opens the textbook again, perhaps to forget the conversation and start the lesson, but he can't. He pulls at open page in front of him in frustration, wrinkling it. "It's just so pointless. So pointless. I hate everything. I hate everyone. Why..." he chokes, his voice cut off. "Don't do a stupid thing like that, Johnny. Promise me. Wars, violence...it's all so pointless."

"That's rich, coming from you."

Randy had been pressing his hand against the page, trying to flatten it down. He looks up at Johnny, startled. "And what's that's supposed to mean?"

For the first time, Johnny is one hundred percent certain that Randy doesn't know what he did, or at least, who he did it to. And Johnny won't admit to being jumped. But that doesn't mean he won't tell him off. "Everybody knows you and your buddies jump people," Johnny spits. "And shoot, we all had a rumble only a year ago. So don't act like some damn pacifist."

"Just because I do it doesn't mean I like it. I doubt you like it either," Randy answers softly. He puts his hand Johnny's arm, but removes it reluctantly when Johnny shoulders it away. "Besides, war is a different matter. A skin fight doesn't compare to bombs and rifles. War is serious. And I'm serious. Don't throw away your life and enlist."

Johnny crosses his arms. "Well, Mr. Ivy League, what else am I gonna do with my life? Huh?"

"You could, you could go to college," Randy answers weakly. "Locally or something. Commute."

Johnny raises his eyebrows. "With what money? And what brains?"

"You have brains!" Randy insists. "But okay, I can see your point about the money. So maybe not college. But you could still get a good job. What do you like to do?"

Johnny shrugs. He doesn't like to do much. He spends most of his time trying to avoid getting in trouble with his folks to leave room for recreation. "I like spending time with my buddies, I guess," Johnny begins. "Going to the movies, you know. And um, I guess watching drag races too. And watching Dal at the rodeo. And watching Pony at his track meets."

"So you like watching other people do things?" Randy says, suppressing a laugh. Johnny bites his lip. He has to admit, that doesn't leave him a lot of career options. "I give up," Randy jokes. "You're hopeless."

While that comment would normally put Johnny on the defense, especially after the exchange they just had, Randy says it with a gentle smile. And a rueful laugh that seems more friendly than taunting. Then Randy's face gets serious again. "I meant what I said, Johnny. Don't enlist. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

He does mean it, Johnny knows. He actually means it. It can't be possible, but it sounds like the Soc cares about him. Johnny wishes...he wishes to God they were still throwing insults at each other. Johnny doesn't want to start caring back.

Johnny thinks about Dally pressing him for months now to tell him who beat him. He thinks about the pain of holding his secret inside himself, every time he passes those boys in the hall, facing them day after day with no retaliation, no vengeance, no justice, all to protect Dally. And there Randy is, sitting next to him at the table and giving him a smile. Like they're friends or something. Shoot.

He's keeping the secret to protect two people now. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

Johnny jumps as he feels something brush against his hand. And then fingers are grasping his, wrapping around his palm to offer him...assurance, comfort, companionship, secrets. All of that. None of that. Johnny doesn't know. He notices the nail beds on Randy's hand are clean, and the curve of his nails are carefully filed, while his own cuticles are ripped with dried blood and dirt is caked under his nails. He bites his nails when he's anxious, which is often, and this morning he wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible so he didn't shower. And he spent the night before at the lot. So he's pretty dirty. But Randy doesn't seem to mind. Their hands are clasped under the table, hidden from the view of the other library patrons. Randy gives his hand a squeeze, gives him a significant look that Johnny can't quite decipher, like they're exchanging a secret handshake. Johnny heart jumps, and he tells himself: NO. Randy's just being nice.

Johnny guesses, if they're gonna be nice to each other, they do have to keep it secret, because Socs and greasers ain't allowed to be friends in this town. Not that they're friends. Oh, God. How did he let this happen?