Johnny is sitting on Curtis porch, smoking a cancer stick and poking the corner of the damaged screen with his foot, killing time. Ponyboy is sitting at his side and he's in one of his dreamy moods. He's telling Johnny about a novel he just finished involving friends who hitchhike across the country and spend their time writing poetry, doing drugs, and being 'promiscuous.' (Pony's wording.) It's easy to forget how young Ponyboy is because he's so smart. But Johnny thinks he sounds youngest when Ponyboy thinks he sounds oldest.

"I mean, there's kids out of wedlock and everything, and it's not even presented as this sin or tragedy like it is in classic literature," he goes on, impressed himself for reading something so controversial. "If Darry knew what was in the books I read, I swear he would never have let me become a bookworm," Pony concludes with a proud blow of smoke. That's when a blue Mustang comes into view from up the road, driving slowly.

Just before the Mustang reaches the Curtis house, it pulls over abruptly, screeching as it makes an awkward, illegal stop. Randy doesn't bother to shut off the car; he slams the driver's door behind himself and gets out, engine still going. Ponyboy's stare moves from the car to Johnny to Randy in complete shock.

Randy nods to Pony, "Hey Pony."

For the first time, Ponyboy doesn't say hello back. He spits.

To Johnny, Randy says, "We need to talk."

#

"It was you, wasn't it?"

Johnny kicks at the dirt. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"About six months ago. In the lot not far from here. Bob, Greg, Dan, and I. We. Well, we... beat some kid up. Real bad."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Johnny repeats. But his voice sounds cracky and weak, even to his own ears.

"I was drunk, we all were, and it was dark. I don't remember much about that night. I didn't want to remember. God, I wish..." What Randy wishes is left unfinished, but it's easy enough to guess. There's anger in his confession. The bitter, hateful anger of a person who holds himself in contempt.

Johnny doesn't care if he's sorry.

"The first time in the library, you looked familiar. I just didn't put the two together. But now I know. It was you. That kid we hurt. That's where I recognize you from." Randy fingers his crisp, pressed collar.

Johnny checks behind his back and sees Ponyboy leaning forward eagerly on the porch in hopes of overhearing. Pony can see them, but he's too far away for eavesdropping.

"Shut up, okay? You want my friends to know you did it?" Johnny mutters. But that's just an excuse. He's trying to hush Randy not to protect Randy, but to protect himself. He doesn't want to talk about it. Or think about it. He relives the memory enough, against his will, in the dark when he's alone. He doesn't need Randy to bring it up and add salt to his wounds.

For some reason, as long as they never spoke about it, a part of Johnny could pretend it never happened. A part of him could ignore those memories, push them aside and focus on how Randy was helping him in the moment. But if he has to hear Randy talk about that night, he doesn't think they can go back from that. Don't acknowledge it, he mentally begs. Don't acknowledge it. It didn't happen.

"Johnny, you gotta listen," Randy continues, ignoring him, "I thought we killed that boy, I was reading the obituaries for days. It was a nightmare. I swear to God I felt awful. I was going to turn myself in, but then nothing showed up in the papers, and I thought of my career. I want to go into politics, and I can't have a record. So I didn't do the right thing. And I tried to forget. And I promised myself I wouldn't do something like that again.

"I thought about what you said yesterday for hours, and somehow I knew where I saw your face. I just kept telling myself, that's not possible, that's not possible. I swear to God I didn't sleep all night. But it was you. All this time it was you. Johnny, listen," Randy pleads.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Johnny hitches his thumbs in his belt loops and arches his neck back, giving Randy a cool, indifferent scowl. "Look...let's just forget it ever happened. It wasn't a big deal."

But it was. They both know it was.

He remembers, all of it, although it feels more like a nightmare than a memory. Illogical and fragmented, absurd and impossible. Soda picking him up in the lot, half-conscious. Dally carrying him up the steps of the hospital. The judgmental stares of the patients in the waiting room. The voice of the doctor. The hands of the nurses. Days and nights sleeping on the Curtis sofa, his buddies' voices hushed as they walked by, the only time the t.v. was ever off in that house. Steve spoon-feeding him some God-awful broth. Two-Bit relating the plot of every Mickey Mouse episode he could remember even though Johnny's head hurt too badly to follow. Darry staying home from work, picking him up and carrying him to the bathroom because he couldn't walk. Ponyboy, sitting on the edge of the bed, reading to him from a book of poetry. 'Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though...'

"It was just supposed to be a normal jumping. It got out of control." Randy is protesting as if Johnny had accused him, rather than shrugged the crime aside.

"I said I didn't wanna talk about it."

"But Johnny, you've got to understand. We didn't mean to take it that far. We were drunk." Randy steps closer to him and Johnny steps away.

He remembers falling to his face, too weak to pick himself up, a boy pinning him down.

"You know what I hate? Greasers. Always stealing our cars, robbing our houses, flirting with our women, taking our hard-earned money for their damn welfare checks. You're nothing but a white trash, worthless hoodlum. And I'm sick of being fucked over by hoodlums." The guy slaps him in the face.

"So how about we fuck you over, grease? How'd you like that? Little shits like you are a pain in our ass, so we should be a pain in yours. Sounds fair, doesn't it?"

The laughter that follows–the pleasure they take in terrorizing him–is worse than the threats. The boy taunting him slaps him in the face again. The wind has been knocked out of Johnny from being kicked in the gut too many times; his face is cut up, there's blood dripping across his jawline onto the grass and into his gasping mouth and he's choking on it. He can't even say no.

"We won't even need lube. All we gotta do is wipe some of that grease off your hair."

And please, please, please, someone help. Someone stop this. Sometime hear them and intervene and-

More laughter, and,"Shoot, is he crying? Man, you really had him convinced." The boy gets off him and kicks him in the ribs.

Johnny wants to die.

Every time a loud sounds startles him so bad he nearly has a heart attack, every time an object in his peripheral vision causes him to shrink in fear, every time a car drives by too closely and his breathing picks up so bad it sounds like he's got asthma, every time he catches the glint of platinum, jeweled rings in the sunlight, every time he smells vodka on some guy's breath, the brand of Randy's damn cologne...

"I didn't know you, then," Randy says. "But if I had know you like I do now, I swear I would never have-"

"Screw that," Johnny interrupts. "You knew it was somebody. That should have been enough. But I guess I wasn't somebody to you. I wasn't even a person. Just a loser greaser nobody cared about-"

"Please, Johnny. I'm sorry." Randy reaches for him, but Johnny pulls away.

"I don't care if you're sorry. It ain't enough. I told you I didn't wanna talk about it, but you couldn't leave it alone, could you? Just go. Get out of here."

"Johnny," Randy reaches to him again, and this time Johnny punches him. Hard.

Randy grabs his face and cusses in his hands. When he move his hands away, a thin strand of blood is dripping from his nose to his chin. But Randy doesn't retaliate. Instead, he looks directly in Johnny's eyes. His voice is muffled from the altercation when he asserts, "I'm not going. Not until we work this out."

"What the hell do you want from me?"

"I want your forgiveness."

Randy is standing before him in helpless remorse. And now that Johnny finally has the power for the first time in his life, he doesn't feel particularly merciful. He swallows, gathering gumption.

"You want a hell of lot more than that from me than that, faggot. If you try to talk to me again, I'll tell everybody what you are."

#

Johnny joins Ponyboy back on the porch. "Randy's not my friend anymore," he says simply.

"Good." Ponyboy's voice is hard.

"Why good?" Johnny asks. He crosses his arms. "You said we made sense."

"You told me the boys who beat you up were in a blue Mustang."

They stare at each other for a couple seconds. Ponyboy doesn't try to hide the disappointment on his face. Johnny guesses he is pretty pathetic, being judged and found wanting by a thirteen-year-old kid, knowing full well that that thirteen year old kid's judgment is spot on. It was stupid to ever get involved with somebody who had done that to him. He should have known better.

Johnny lights up a cigarette. Ponyboy lights up a cigarette.

"Don't tell Dally," Johnny says.

TBC