When Monday rolls around and Johnny heads to school, he stops short when he sees Randy in the halls, joking around with Bob, Marcia curled under his arm. Johnny takes a few seconds to gather his wits and passes them. Randy doesn't stop him. He doesn't call to him. He doesn't trip him. Nothing happens. Later, he walks by Randy in the cafeteria, he's hunching down, shoulders pulled in, and speeding up just in case, but still nothing happens. And finally, right before the bell rings at the end of the day, Johnny's stuck sitting two seats over from Randy in the office. (Randy was there to grab a permission slip for something sports-related, Johnny had been called in to explain another lateness.) And still, nothing happens. They don't even look at each other.
On Wednesday, all the school can talk about the public displays of affection between Randy and Marcia during Tuesday's football game with their rival school. During half-time, after the cheerleaders' dance, Randy ran up the stands, still wearing in his uniform, and dipped Marcia, dressed in her pleated cheerleading skirt, in a kiss. Onlookers whistled and cheered them, and their mascot, the Redskin Brave, pretended to swoon. (Or so Johnny heard; he stopped going to football games when Darry graduated.) It was like a scene from some dumb teenybopper movie. And even though Prom isn't until June, in the hallways Johnny overheard two Socy girls discussing whether or not they thought Randy and Marcia or Bob and some redhead whose name Johnny forgets are going to be crowned king and queen.
Johnny wishes he could close his eyes and erase Randy from his life. Even if it means he never experienced what it was like to feel smart, to feel like he could learn something, even if it means those moments when Randy made him feel wanted and special are gone forever. But he can't do that. There are vestiges of Randy everywhere, from hearing his name mentioned over the loudspeaker for winning the game, to his English teacher passing out Xerox copies of Randy's essay as a sample.
Randy and Johnny haven't locked eyes once.
#
On Wednesday night, Johnny and Dally are bumming around together when they run into Tim Shepard at the five-and-dime. Dally's handing over fifty cents for two cherry-flavored pops. He passes a glass over to Johnny, and the ring on his finger (off Sylvia's neck yet again, the one he rolled a drunk to acquire) latches onto the frayed seam of Shepard's leather jacket as Shepard approaches from the side. Johnny bites his lips as he watches the two hoods awkwardly untangle themselves. It doesn't exactly look tuff.
"Cherry?" Shepard asks mockingly.
Dally slurps loudly though his straw, unabashed. Then he lets out a thunderous burp, opening his mouth wider than necessary. Johnny smothers an embarrassed laugh.
"I haven't seen in you in about five days, Winston. Thought you might'a been hauled in or something."
"I ain't attached at your hip," Dally says.
"Didn't say you were. Him, on the other hand…" Tim rebuts, eying Johnny with disdain. Johnny is suddenly aware of how stupid he must look, caught with a straw in his mouth, sipping a pop. He stops drinking and fingers the moisture on the outside of the glass uncomfortably. It's a normal enough activity, but the scornful way Tim is looking at him makes him feel like he's somehow doing it wrong, or that drinking a soda is the most childish thing on the planet. He wishes it were a beer in his hand instead.
"I gotta favor to ask you, a job tonight you'd be good for, but maybe…"
"But maybe what?" Dally asks, sharp and accusatory. He slams his pop down on the counter. "Don't beat around the bush."
"Maybe you're too busy babysitting is all." Tim lifts up his hands, palms out, feigning innocence.
Johnny's face burns red and he's about to defend himself when Dallas cuts in. "Johnny's sixteen. I ain't babysitting!" Dally's sudden outburst (and the hardening of his jaw after he realizes he's just shouted) lets Johnny know that Tim's insult has embarrassed Dally at least much as it has embarrassed Johnny. Probably more: it ain't exactly tough for Dal to spend all his time hanging around a relatively unknown, law-abiding greaser.
"I got a kid brother and a kid sister, so Lord knows I know what babysitting looks like. 'Course, Curly and Angela are younger than him, but they sure act old enough to take care of themselves." Tim gives Johnny a pointed look.
"What do you want me for, Shepard?" Dally's arms are crossed. So are Tim's.
"Alley by the train tracks. You know the one. One-fifteen tonight. Bring a weapon. We're gonna smash up Charlie's place something good. Figured that's right up your alley. But you know, if you're too busy with the kid…"
"I'll come too," Johnny volunteers. He can't let Dally back out of this for his sake. He can't let Dally's reputation suffer by association. He gives Tim his best tuff scowl. "No sweat."
Tim bites back a feline smile. "No sweat?"
Johnny shrugs. Dally's glowering at Johnny like he's furious with him. He probably is: he's caught between forbidding Johnny to go (thereby publicly humiliating both of them) and allowing him to come along (when he knows Johnny'd be getting in over his head).
"What's the matter, Winston?" Tim starts laughing.
"Nothing," Dally bites. Dally and Tim are always on each other's backs. Dally's slashed Tim's tires more times than Johnny can count. Tim's socked his jaw and put him in the hospital. But through it all, there's always been something of a begrudging bond, something like respect between them. Friendship, even. And for the first time, Johnny sees genuine anger in Dally's eyes aimed in Tim's direction.
"Think he's good for it? Junior ain't gonna back out on us?" Tim asks.
Dally gives Johnny a cold, analytical stare. "Nah. He's good."
Sure, Dally'll lift a pack of cigarettes from a store, or mouth off to a beat cop, or slash a few tires when Johnny's around, but he's never brutalized someone just for kicks, or mugged somebody at knifepoint, or hot-wired a car in Johnny's presence, though Johnny knows he's done all of those things. Normally, Dally keeps his worst crimes separate from the life he leads with the gang.
That's about to change.
"Enjoy your cherry Coke," Tim says as he leaves the store, pocketing a Mars Bar.
#
Tim Shepard is giving Johnny the look that Steve gives Ponyboy when Soda asks him along. Johnny doesn't blame him. Dally, Tim, Johnny, and two of the thugs from Tim's outfit are skulking around a back alley by the train tracks: he doesn't belong with this crowd.
Tim, Dally, and another boy are carrying baseball bats, and the third guy has a pool stick. No one offers Johnny an introduction, so he mentally dubs the other two boys Pool Stick and Bat. Earlier in the night, Dally had casually handed Johnny a busted-up pipe; it's sitting in his hands now, weighty and unwanted. They're waiting. Tim wants revenge on a shopkeep who caught him lifting a girly magazine and humiliated him in front of all these middle-class customers. The shop's a few blocks over, and another boy is acting as a lookout, timing the patrolman who works this beat so they know when the coast is clear. His signal is a whistle that's not too different from Johnny's own gang's whistle. They're going to smash in the shop windows and knock over the merchandise.
Johnny's watches as Dallas casually pats the wide end of the bat against his palm, perhaps not even aware he's doing it. His tow-colored hair is messier than usual, sticking out in natural, ungreased tufts, framing his hard, bitter face like a misplaced halo. Dally catches Johnny's stare. He winks and grins, a mouthful of teeth. The other two boys look alert and anxious, but Shepard's wearing the same feral, excited look as Dal. They're in their element. And that's when Johnny realizes he really shouldn't be there. He's trying to come up with an excuse to get out of this, when the look-out boy gives them the signal.
#
It's dark except for a street lamp the next block over, and the street is derelict. The five of them stand in front of the store, waiting in heightened anticipation for whoever will be brave (and stupid) enough to start the mayhem. Johnny feels like he might have a heart attack. He's broken the law plenty of times, but never anything this serious before.
"Wait!" Johnny hisses.
"What?" Tim asks, hyper-alert. "You see the cop?" The boys grow tense. Dallas looks over his shoulder.
"No. I'm just...do you really think we should be doing this?" Johnny whispers.
Johnny cringes as he catches the look on Dally's face. There's no question: he's just embarrassed him real bad.
"Told you the kid would bail," Tim mutters to Dally under his breath.
Dally shakes his head and lets out a controlled sigh. He doesn't say anything in Johnny's defense, but he doesn't openly agree with Tim, either.
"What, are you scared?" Pool Stick asks Johnny, pounding the pool stick menacingly against his palm. "What a little baby."
"I ain't scared," Johnny protests. "I just don't fancy getting hauled in is all." Johnny looks at the carefully painted letters on the window of the shop, reading Charlie's. He is scared of getting caught, but that's not the only reason Johnny doesn't want to go through with this. Unlike most boys he knows–angry, bitter boys who invite destruction because it gives them attention, because it proves something–Johnny has no desire to wreck Charlie's stuff, whoever Charlie may be. It's not right.
"Aw, looks like the little girl's afraid," Pool Stick mocks. "You a girl?" He pushes Johnny's chest. "You a faggot?"
Dallas smashes the bat against the long window of the store door. He does this over and over until the only remaining glass clings to the inner edge of the window frame in small, stubborn pieces; then he grabs the guy harassing Johnny and shoves him straight through the opening. He lands with a thud on the floor of the shop entrance, on top of thousands of minuscule glass shards.
"Dallas, what the hell man! Are you crazy?" Tim shouts.
Pool Stick picks himself up. He can't be seriously injured because he's cursing up a storm and threatening to kill Dally in a number of horrifying ways. Johnny finds himself reaching instinctually for Dally's arm, but Dally pushes him aside in irritation.
Now that the destruction has started, Tim and the other guy start beating in the windows, and then Dally jumps in through one once enough glass is cleared. Tim's at his heels and then the other boy follow suit. Johnny stands outside on the side walk, his heel hitting a fire hydrant as he backs up. He's stuck there, immobile, until Dally's voice brings him back to the present.
"Come on, kid, what are you waiting for? Get in here before somebody sees you!" Johnny bounds through the window, nicking his palm with glass.
Dallas and the thug with the pool stick duke it out while Tim and the other boy loot the place, taking what they want, destroying everything else. Johnny watches as magazine racks, displays of candy, and shelves of canned goods go tumbling all around him. He drops the pipe, backs up into the corner of the store, and crosses his arms over his stomach, watching the events unfold as if it is no more real than a scene in a movie. Dally's fight must be over, because when Johnny's eyes shift to the back of the store, he catches him leisurely pouring a pop for himself behind the counter, perfectly comfortable in the mayhem around him, like he's hell's official soda jerk or something.
And then, there's the sound of police sirens, and everybody runs.
#
Johnny's out of breath; he's backed up against a chain-link fence, barbed wire at the top. He had another one of his coughing fits, and he's not a fast runner, anyway. It's just him and the cop, face-to-face, three feet between them. Everybody else got away.
The cop's heater is pointed directly at his chest, and Johnny's eyes are wide in fear, his heart pounding. His hands are hidden behind his back, and his fingers pull at the chains of the fence in anxiety.
"Put your hands where I can see them," the cop commands.
Even though Johnny hears the cop and is trying to obey, he finds doesn't know how to make his brain tell his body what to do. It's impossible to move.
"Put your hands where I can see them, or I'll shoot."
"Don't shoot." It's Dallas. He sounds so deliberately calm that Johnny knows he's actually panicked. "Don't shoot."
The cop, his gun still trained on Johnny, turns his head to see Dally jogging up behind them. Dally puts his hands in the air. "I'm not here to start trouble." He jogs up further so that the cop can see the two of them at the same time, trying to prove his point.
"Somehow, Winston, I don't believe you."
"I mean it!" Dally insists.
"Stop where you are, put your face to the ground, and interlock your fingers above your head."
Dally folds his hands behind his head. He makes it look casual, in the way people hold their head back when they lounge. Dally kneels down so he's on his knees.
"Johnny," Dally warns, "put your hands above your head. Show the cop you ain't carrying. That's all he wants to know."
Johnny has been so focused on Dally he had already forgotten about the cop's orders. He holds out his trembling hands for the officer to see.
"I said put your face to the ground, Winston."
Dally rolls his eyes; he lies down on his stomach in the filth of the alley.
"Okay, kid. You too. Interlock your hands above your head and put your face to the ground."
Johnny gulps. "Okay." His voice is trembling, maybe even worse than his hands.
"Don't tell me okay," the cop commands. "Just do it."
And then the officer's pressing his face roughly into the pavement, and Johnny feels the cold, sharp snap of handcuffs trapping in his wrists. They're on so tightly that in seconds he starts to feel the numbness of his circulation cutting off.
The cop glides his hands up and down Johnny's body, and Johnny recoils. Suddenly, he's back at the lot, the Socs surrounding him. But this time, his hands are locked in a steel jaw trap, and he can't defend himself. "No," Johnny gasps. He's instinctually squirming away from the cop's touch, and while he knows he should lie still and comply or he could get killed, he's too scared to do so.
"Calm down, kid." For a second, the cop's voice softens. "I'm just checking for contraband."
The cop's hand is on his ass, and Johnny tries to shift away as he reaches in his pocket. "Stop," Johnny whimpers. And then he realizes why the policeman is doing it when the assuring weight of his switchblade is suddenly gone.
"Of course," he snaps, "why I am not surprised? Goddamn hoodlums keep getting younger and younger."
Johnny stares at the gravel, trying to focus on how it looks and how it feels against his face, so he doesn't have to experience what's going on. He hears the flick of his blade being opened. "What is this? Six inches? Christ. You got anything else on you?"
"Na-no," Johnny says. He feels the cop's hands back on him again, twisting his ankles to check under his high-tops, jerking at his jeans jacket and prodding his chest and his sides. He doesn't want to be touched anymore. He wants it to end. Finally, it does. He doesn't understand how Dallas can handle getting arrested so often. It's making him a nervous wreck.
When the cop makes his way over to Dally, he asks, "Am I'm gonna need to call back-up?"
From the odd angle on the cement, Johnny catches Dally grinning at the man like he's having the time of his life. "Scared of me, Officer Dipshit?"
"I don't want trouble."
Dally catches Johnny staring at him. "You won't get it. I got nothing on me and I ain't gonna put up a fight tonight."
"That's a first," the cop mutters.
He frisks Dally with twice the roughness he had used on Johnny, but he comes back with nothing. Johnny guesses Dally had a chance to get rid of anything he'd been carrying before he backtracked to find him.
He hauls Johnny up by the cuffs, Johnny can feel the abrasions forming on his wrists from the force, and as he's jerked up he feels a hot pain shoot up under his arm: his muscle's just been pulled. "Stay put." He makes his way over to Dally, but Dally's already standing by the time he's ready to get him up. The cop frowns.
"You two come with me." He grabs Dally in one arm, and Johnny in the other, and they walk together like that, like they're in some twisted version of The Wizard of Oz.
Dally leans over the beer gut of the cop to get a good look at Johnny. "Don't worry kid, he's a nice one."
"Keep your fucking mouth shut, Winston," the cop says.
#
Johnny's cheek is lying against the cool metal of the cop car as the officer bags his knife as evidence. He's making a note of it in a ringed binder, when he asks, "What's your name, kid?"
Johnny looks to Dally for reassurance and Dally nods. "Johnny Cade."
"Age?"
"Thirteen," Dallas answers for him before he can say a word. Johnny glares at Dally. He knows he looks it, and he knows it might buy him some sympathy, but he really hates that Dally said that. It's even worse that the cop doesn't question it. He just nods and tuts and finishes writing his sentence.
The cop opens the passenger door and tosses the bag of evidence and the binder on the seat. He turns to Johnny. "What's a sweet-faced baby like you carrying around a switchblade and hanging around a criminal like Dallas Winston for? You playing gangster or something? This ain't a game of cops and robbers, son. I thought you had a gun hidden behind your back. I almost killed you tonight."
"Dally's my friend."
"Your friend, huh? Would you like me to read you his record? That might change your mind. He's done some pretty bad things." He turns to Dally. "What is this, Winston? The fourth time I've personally arrested you?"
"Fifth," Dally answers with a smirk.
"And that is exactly the path you're on, sonny, if you keep spending time with delinquents like him. I think a long night in jail and a little introduction to the system is going to do you good. Steer you in the right direction."
"I'm sorry," Johnny says. "I know it was wrong to mess that place up."
Dallas starts cussing under his breath, and Johnny hears the word idiot thrown in there.
Then the cop stares at Johnny for a second. "You're sorry?" he asks, incredulous. "Never thought I'd see the day when a street thug apologized."
"That's cause he ain't a street thug," Dally interjects.
"This your first time getting picked up?" the cop asks, ignoring Dally.
Johnny nods.
"Let me give you hint, okay? Don't admit to the crime." He says it kinda annoyed, like he's explaining something Johnny should already know. "I haven't even started questioning you yet and I already have a confession. I like to earn my paycheck," he adds sarcastically.
"I didn't think about it that way," Johnny says to the gutter he's standing over. "I just felt bad for what I did."
The policeman opens the back passenger door of the cop car. "Get in." He pushes Johnny inside–though not very hard this time–and Johnny scoots to the other end. "You too, Winston. You know the drill."
"You didn't read me my Miranda Rights," Dally says as the cop pushes his head down and forces him inside.
"Screw your Miranda Rights. And what the fuck were you thinking, dragging a little kid like this into your world of trouble? Jesus, Winston, don't you ever think?" He slams the door.
"I ain't a little kid!" Johnny shouts.
When the cop gets behind the wheel, Dallas kicks the back of his seat. "Come on, man. You said it yourself. Johnny didn't do nothing, okay? He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tagging along with us. He didn't know what we were gonna mess that place up." Dally pauses. "Shit."
"Is that your official statement?" the cop snickers.
"Fuck you," Dally says.
"That language isn't going to do you any favors."
"Hypocrite," Dally mutters. And then, "Look, just listen, okay? Johnny's a good kid. The cooler ain't a place for good kids. We both know that."
The cop angles the rearview mirror so he can get a good look at Dallas. "I would never have believed it." He actually sounds shocked. "Even the notorious Dallas Winston has a soft spot." He starts laughing. A real, deep laugh, like it's the best joke he ever heard. "Next time I turn around I'm gonna find out you like sunsets and rainbows and long walks on the beach!"
"Laugh all you want," Dally mutters. "You know I'm talking sense. Just leave the damn kid alone."
"I'll be fine," Johnny whispers to Dally.
"What's your address, boy?" the cop asks.
"What?" Johnny asks.
The cop sighs. "I asked for your address. I'm going to let you go. But not before I have a little talk with your parents. See if a little parental guidance and discipline can put a curb to this behavior."
Johnny's face goes white. "No."
"Don't you tell me no," the police officer says, suddenly infuriated. "I'm being the nice guy here, doing you a favor and letting you off with a warning. Don't you dare try to tell me how to do my job."
"Please, just send me to jail." Johnny's eyes are watering up. As scared as he is of law enforcement and getting locked up, at least if he spends the night in jail, Dally will be there. And when they go to court to be sentenced, they'll be put in the same detention center. Later, Johnny will figure out a way to keep the news from his folks. But if he gets sent home tonight and the cop speaks with them, he doesn't know what they'll do to him. He doesn't want to know.
The officer looks in the rearview mirror again, this time at Johnny, and frowns. He bangs on the steering wheel. "Let me guess. Trouble at home?"
Johnny shakes his head no, his bangs spilling over his eyes, which for some reason only confirms the officer's suspicions. "God, if I have to intervene with one more broken family I swear..." he grumbles. "Kids like you are a dime a dozen. Your pop beat you, is that it? Should've guessed by your face." He's referring the bruises Randy left him, which are green and yellow and only half-swollen by now.
"Naw," Johnny mumbles. "Nobody hits me."
"Yeah, he does." Dally's voice is hard. "He beats him to the curb at least once a week. And no, we don't want your goddamn pity-party. But what you can do is drop Johnny off about a block from his place so his folks don't know he was picked up, and then circle around to make sure he gets in okay. You got it?"
"Winston, I do not like your attitude."
"What's new?" Dally kicks at the police officer's seat again. The cop shakes his head, more annoyed than angry. "Do you want me to add assaulting a police officer to your offenses of the night?"
"That wasn't no assault!" Dally protests.
"Kid, I asked for your address. We'll leave your parents out of it."
And Dally got his way as usual, even with the police, who hate him.
#
The policeman stops the car on the side of the road, about three blocks away from Johnny's house. As he's taking the cuff keys off his belt, Johnny mumbles, "Do you think maybe..."
But he bites his lip and decides against asking.
"Well, speak up," he answer gruffly; he turns the key, and the cuffs are off.
Johnny rubs his wrists, one after the other. "Can I have my knife back?"
"You are aware a knife of that type is illegal to possess in the state of Oklahoma, are you not?"
"These streets ain't exactly safe," Johnny mumbles. "And I ain't exactly a big guy. I swear I keep it just for show. Please."
"And it looks I ain't gonna be around to defend him for a while!" Dallas calls from inside the car.
The policeman glares at Dally and then sighs at Johnny. "I'm getting way too old for this shit." He doesn't look that old to Johnny. Just tired.
The policeman reaches over the still open driver's door to the plastic bag of evidence sitting on the shotgun seat. He opens the bag and hands Johnny his knife. When he feels the comforting weight of the blade in his palm, he looks up at the policeman, eyes catching the name tag pinned to his chest.
"Be careful with that." There's something familiar about his tone Johnny can't quit pinpoint, until suddenly he knows exactly who he sounds like. Mr. Curtis. "It's a weapon, not a toy."
"Thanks, Officer Thompson." He pockets the knife, hoping that name didn't sound as awkward as it felt in his mouth. He's looking at the ground when he says, "You don't think...I mean... are you gonna let Dal go, too?"
Officer Thompson throws his head back and laughs again. "God, I needed a good laugh." He pats Johnny on the back, hard and manly. Almost approvingly. "You take care of yourself, kid. No drugs, no drinking, no stealing, you hear?" Johnny nods. "And do me a favor and stop hanging around thugs like Dallas Winston."
Johnny doesn't even register that last bit of the cop's advice. He's so concerned for Dally in the back of the car, headed off to the slammer yet again, that he peeks his face over the officer's shoulder to get one last look at him. Dally flips the cop and Johnny off, smiling and laughing while he does it.
"Be careful, Dally," Johnny warns, his words slow and cautious to keep from revealing how upset he is.
"Be careful yourself," Dally says, nodding in his direction. "Hey, pig, I'm getting bored in here! Come on and lock me up before I die of old age," Dally shouts. He kicks the driver's seat over and over.
Officer Thompson shakes his head. "I don't know why I even bother."
TBC