Author's Notes:
Please note that a few lines of dialogue in this chapter are taken directly from The Outsiders, which, as we've already established, I do not own.
This story is getting closer and closer to the end, and I want to use this space to extend another thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. I appreciate the feedback, and I appreciate the sense of community this fandom has given me.
Some of my reviews are obviously coming from people who have had personal experience with issues of abuse. I don't know you, but I'm so sorry you went through that. No abuse is ever excusable. It is an injustice that a lot of cases, child abuse committed by the mother is ignored, rationalized, or excused, because women are supposed to be "naturally maternal." This is such a destructive assumption, and it is so unfair to the survivors of abuse. When first reading The Outsiders as a pre-teen, I too had a strong reaction to Johnny's refusing to see his mom in the hospital; the pain of his realization was so heartbreaking. But as I've grown older, as gut-wrenching as that scene still is to read, I see that he showed such a strength of character. Before his death, he was finally able to say 'no' to the people who hurt him and surround himself with the people who truly love him. That is what I've been trying to build towards in this story. I hope you're doing well, and that you have found the people who truly love you.
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The day Dally gets back from the cooler is the day Ponyboy gets jumped for the first time.
Johnny is sitting in fourth-period shop class, sketching out a design for a cabinet. He taps his pencil against the paper and stares out the window overlooking the football field, forcing his gaze away from the bleachers. Shop is one of his few electives, and he doesn't mind it nearly as much as he minds the classes that are supposed to be important. It's the one class he's doing well in.
He's trying to decide whether or not he should place the shelves equal distance from each other when a knock comes at the door, and the office lady asks for him, the one with the short hair, who dresses younger than she is–he's familiar enough with all three of them. He's seen plenty of the boys try to flirt with her, and if they're the right sort (that is, the rich jock type), she gets fake-bashful and asks them to stop flattering her and gives them excuse slips for their tardiness. The lady's eyes go immediately to him, because she's seen him enough to connect the name and face: swinging his legs under the chair in the office, waiting to be herded in behind a closed door so he can be scolded and disciplined by the lower-ranking administrators who deal with the moderately bad kids. Johnny's not a problem student, but he always finds himself in trouble for things he doesn't do. Like show up for class. Or have a parent sign his failure notices.
"Johnny Cade?"
The office lady usually gives him a dirty look. Probably because he doesn't flirt, and he's not the handsome sort even if he did. But she's not giving him a dirty look now, and a sick feeling of dread fills up Johnny's gut. He gulps. When he gets called to the office, it's always over the loudspeaker. No one has ever had to come get him personally. That happened once, to a boy named Matthew Bowers. It was third-period gym class last year with Johnny, and that's when it happened. The office lady came onto the field, even. And she sounded real nice when she called his name. The next day at school, everybody was talking about how Mrs. Bowers had a miscarriage and died.
"Johnny, you have to come with me."
They're walking in silence side-by-side. He can tell the lady is making an honest attempt not to look at him, but she keeps giving in and shooting him this pinched face of pity when she thinks he's not looking.
"Are my parents okay?" Johnny doesn't know when his eyes started watering up. Alls he knows is, he wants to go home. He wants to run home and see them there, and make everything right for his family. Because he knows that's not possible anymore. He knows something has gone terribly wrong.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but your father called, and your mother's in the hospital. He said it was important for you come quickly."
The only thing he gleans from that statement is: she's not dead. She's not dead. She's not dead.
"So, she's gonna be okay?" Johnny asks, tentatively.
"A family member is here to pick you up," she answers evasively. She leaves him at the door of the school, touching his arm one last time.
Johnny's biting his lip to keep back tears, wondering who the hell in his family his dad's on good enough terms with the call in a favor like this, when he spies the family member in question.
Dallas is leaning against the school sign, which used to read "Will Rogers High School, Tulsa's Redskin Braves." Most of the letters are scattered on the grass, however, and the only words remaining are "Tulsa" and "High," which Dally is hastily rearranging. Johnny wipes at his face and jogs down the steps, watching as the two words change to "Hail Thugs."
"Hey, Dal," Johnny says, when he's close enough to speak without having to raise his voice.
Dally turns around, grinning broad and proud. "Hey, Johnnycake! You miss me, or what?" Then his grin drops when he sees Johnny's face. "Shoot kid, what's the matter?"
"My mom's in the hospital?"
Dally at least as the grace to wince. "Sorry, kid. I didn't think you'd take it that bad. That woman ain't exactly motherly."
"Don't trick me like that again."
Dally nods.
"I'm glad you're back, though," Johnny says, stating the obvious to fill in the awkward gap of silence. It's only been three weeks. He was supposed to get three months. "You get out early for good behavior?"
Dally laughs. "Who me? You kidding? They got overcrowded. Threw out the shits with minor offenses. Although, you know what? I'll tell Darry your version. Maybe it will get me on his good side. I heard he's pretty pissed I got in trouble with the law again."
Johnny puts his hands in his pockets and slumps his body, mirroring Dally's easy slouch. "You seen any of the boys since you got out?"
"You're the first." Johnny's cheeks go warm. "You wanna go find them?" Dally asks.
"Yup."
Dally throws his arm around Johnny's shoulder, and the two of them walk away together.
#
Steve and Soda have just finished their shift at the DX (Thursdays are their half-days), and the four of them are battling it out in a game of two-on-two pool while a twangy, irritating duet country song is playing in the background. Johnny heard the radio jockey announce the name of the artist as "Ernest Tubbs." He doesn't think he could have made up a better name for a musician he'd expect to hear at Buck's.
It's Johnny's turn, and he's leaning over, inspecting the table closely. The game is almost finished, and Johnny and Steve are neck-and-neck with Dallas and Soda. Johnny chalks up the end of the pool stick and leans forward again. He reaches far over the table, twisting his body to get the right angle, and hits the white ball with practiced gentleness. Through a serious of planned maneuvers involving four balls, the thirteen and the nine glide easily into separate pockets.
"Ha!" He looks up pridefully, ready to gloat at Dally, and then his face drops. Sylvia's on Dallas's arm.
She looks good, like she dressed up (or, more accurately, down) for the occasion. Her makeup is smokey and heavily applied, and her pin-straight, waist-length black hair and the blunt-cut bangs across her forehead look a little greasy, a little dirty, like she didn't bother to fix it up. That works for her.
She always comes around eventually. This time, it didn't even take an afternoon. Johnny's wasted two years of his life hoping that each one of Dally and Sylvia's breakups would be the last. But he knows now that the fights and infidelities and nastiness only strengthens their bond; they get off on the hell they give each other. He wonders whether someone tipped her off where Dallas was, or if she simply assumed when she heard he was out.
"Missed you," Sylvia says, kissing Dally's neck.
Soda forcefully turns his laugh into a cough. Steve openly snickers. Dally scowls at them both.
You know exactly what you're getting with Sylvia. She's the type of person you love or hate immediately. Most guys love her. Most girls hate her. Johnny has always hated her. But right now, and he can't explain it, while he ain't as amused by the situation as his buddies are...he's not jealous, either.
"Get off me," Dally says, pushing her away.
"Oh, come on, baby." She puts her hand on his hip and he snatches it and shoves it away.
"I said get off me. I oughta slug you, you two-timing bitch."
Johnny swallows, but Sylvia grins, as if Dally's contempt were somehow more desirable than his forgiveness. "Oh, is that all you're upset about?" she asks in a baby voice. "If I made a fuss over every time you spent the night with an easy little slut, I-"
"Then you'd be making a fuss over every night I spent with you," Dally shoots.
"Why, Dallas Winston," Sylvia starts in with an exaggerated southern drawl, like she's some old-fashioned belle, "I never thought you'd pay me a compliment." She leans up to kiss him, but Dallas grabs her face and pinches her lips. Sylvia wrinkles her nose and spits at him. It lands at the corner of his mouth and he grins wickedly and licks it off. Dally crosses his arms over his chest. Johnny doesn't know if he's standing like that to look threatening or appealing to her. There's probably not a difference.
"Come on, Dally, stop pretending to be angry and admit you missed me."
"I ain't talking to you, Sylvia. We're done for good." Dallas pulls at the ring hanging around Sylvia's chest and the chain snaps off the back of her neck. He gives her the middle finger and glides the ring slowly, slowly up and down until it settles at his knuckle, a flash of sapphire sending off the expletive.
Sylvia smirks, amused at the whole ordeal. "That ring's gonna be the only thing sliding up and down on you for a while if you don't wise up," she says. She turns around on her heel, presenting herself to her best advantage. Dally slaps her ass as he shoves her on her way.
To Johnny, they've always seemed more together when they're broken up.
"See you around when you come around," Sylvia says over her shoulder. Her chin is held high and her shoulders are pinned back in confidence as she struts out.
All the old hicks sitting lonesome at the bar for their 'happy' hour turn their necks and stare as she goes. Sometimes, when Johnny sees old people, he wonders what he's gonna be like when he gets to that age. That's part of the reason he doesn't like going to Bucks. It makes him sad to think of them old men loitering around in the middle of the afternoon, remembering the good ol' days but knowing they're over, staring at the young people with contempt and admiration, drinking beer after beer, occasionally getting buzzed enough to shout out an unreturned catcall. Sometimes, he thinks about going over and talking to them, but he's always been too shy. He knows one of them, the oldest, is a veteran of the Second World War, and whenever that guy gets drunk, he goes off about Normandy until the other guys around him tell him to shut up. Johnny wonders if he'll be like that, seeking companionship and comfort in strangers who won't ever return it. Probably not. He's more of the neighborhood recluse, porch-sitting type.
Steve whistles. "That's a mighty woman you've got there. Most guys don't even dare to mess with you." He laughs and Soda joins in.
"Yeah, well, most guys don't like being punished," Dally quips with a raised eyebrow. He gestures slapping back and forth with his hand, making high-pitched, mocking gasps of pleasure with each swat.
All three of them are laughing now, and then Dally notices Johnny from the corner of his eye and stops laughing abruptly. But then Johnny's lips form into a half-smile. A real smile. And Dally...Dally smiles back. A real smile. Like they understand each other. It's funny, because Johnny didn't understand himself until now.
"Aw, why ain't you laughing, Johnny? What's the matter?" Soda teases. "Us no-count hoods embarrassing you with our dirty talk?"
Johnny realizes he is blushing. Sex talk, even the normal bragging the guys always pull, has always embarrassed him. He thinks it would even if he weren't queer. "Yeah, maybe a little."
"I don't believe it for a second! Johnny may not talk dirty, but with how quiet he is, you know he thinks dirty," Steve says.
"You know what?" Soda says. "I bet you're right! I bet our Johnnycake here is the biggest ladies' man of us all, only he knows how to keep his mouth shut!" Soda doesn't give Johnny a chance to be ashamed of himself for deceiving them. It's hard to feel bad when Soda's around. He grabs Johnny in a playful chokehold and messes up his hair with his knuckles. The two of them roughhouse, Johnny using the pool stick as a pretend sword, swishing it around like in the pirates in those swashbuckling flicks Pony was into for a while, until Soda cries 'Uncle!' and the game is over.
"I'm gonna get a round of beers," Dally says. "We gotta celebrate my return to civilization."
"Get me a Miller," Johnny requests.
"Sure thing, Johnnycake," Dally says as he walks away.
Johnny sits on the edge of the pool table and swings his legs. He's already feeling a thousand times better now that Dal's back, and now it's a thousand to the second power, now that Sylvia stopped by. Whatever it is the two of them have together, whatever it is she gets from Dallas–the crazy back and forth of love and hate, the drama, the fighting, the chemistry, the cheating, even the sex–that's not what Johnny's after.
He doesn't know how to define what he wants from Dal. Alls he knows is, he's got it.
"I think it's my turn," Soda says. Johnny tosses him the pool stick. Soda whistles. "That sure is a tough shot to follow, Johnny. You oughta get into hustling. You could make a pretty quick buck."
"Hey, wait. I never got my next shot!" Johnny shouts.
Soda grins at him and corner pockets the two.
#
No. No. No.
All other thoughts are drowned by that protest, swallowed beneath his anger, his attempt to force his will on the universe and stop this from having happened.
No.
Not him. Anybody but Pony.
Johnny's legs are throbbing and he's gasping and sucking in air so deeply he thinks he might keel over and die of asphyxiation. Each step becomes more weighted until he finds himself crumbling to his knees. He pushes his palms against the cement to force himself up when he feels a hand on his shoulder pushing him back down. He sees stars. Actual stars. It's crazy how the cartoons get things right sometimes.
"They're gone. Those fuckers are pissing themselves all the way to the west side. Think I cracked their window shield with that last rock." Dally sounds winded, but at least he can still speak. He's kneeling at his side now, hands on Johnny's upper back. "Just breathe, kid. Deep breaths."
"Pony," Johnny manages to speak. It feels like his chest in on fire.
"Don't talk," Dally barks. "Ponyboy's fine. Kid was barely scratched. Darry and Soda're already with him. And the rest of the boys are headed back there now."
Johnny stops trying to force himself back up the moment he hears Ponyboy is safe. He settles cross-legged on the sidewalk, trying to slow down his choking gasps into something that resembles normal breathing.
"Shoot, kid. I've never seen you take off so fast. You'd've chased those Socs straight out of Tulsa if you could've kept it up. Looked like you were looking for blood. You ain't gonna faint on me, are ya?"
Johnny shakes his head–although, at the moment, it's a strong possibility.
"Sounds like you need an inhaler or something. Anybody ever get you checked for asthma?"
Johnny shakes his head.
"'Course not," Dally mutters.
When Johnny can speak again, all he can say is, "Pony."
"He's fine," Dally repeats, his voice hard. "Can you get up?" Johnny nods, and Dally pulls him to his feet, rough-like, as if he weren't doing it to help him. "Let's go check up on him, okay?"
When they get there, all Johnny wants to do is rush to Ponyboy's side and check every inch of his body, reassure himself that there is nothing wrong with him, that he's fine, that he can't ever get hurt. He can't do that, though, even if there were nobody around to judge him for being sentimental. Pony's real brothers are crowding him, and the rest of the gang have got there first. They're all taller and they're standing closer, and Johnny's not going to budge his way in. He stands in the back, trying to get as good a look as is possible, trying to swallow and hide his concern, in case Ponyboy notices and it adds to his own fears. From what he can see, Pony's got a nick to his face, his eyes are watering up, and he's gonna have a bruise, but otherwise, he looks okay. Well, as okay as his best friend, the most innocent kid in the world, can look with a bruise on his face. So, not okay at all.
After the initial God-thanking gratitude that Ponyboy is going to be all right has passed, a quiet anger–an anger Johnny has never allowed himself to feel, not for himself at least–begins to eat at him. His body coils up into one angry muscle in reaction to it. He's about ready to scream in rage at the injustice of it all, but he can't let himself lose control and make Pony feel worse. He starts tasting something copper in his mouth, and Dally's staring at him hard, and he realizes he's clenching his jaw and biting down on his lower lip so hard he's made himself bleed.
Johnny calms himself. He licks his lip. He ain't hurt too bad. He tries to push aside the fury, and he can smother it just a bit as he listens to the voices of his buddies.
"I didn't know you were out of the cooler, yet, Dally," Ponyboy says. Johnny can hear him deliberately trying to even out the terrified shaking of his voice. He's still young enough that cracks half the time from puberty, anyway.
"Good behavior. Got off early." Dally lights a cigarette and hands it to Johnny, winking at him as he does so. Johnny ain't gonna expose his lie, and they both know it. Johnny follows Dally's lead and sits down on the cement. The rest of the gang follows suit.
#
When they all have parted ways, and Dally is walking Johnny home, he says, "You gonna tell me what that was about?"
"What?"
"You know what."
Johnny shrugs. He looks down. Kicks at a piece of litter–some candy bar wrapper.
"I don't..." he hesitates. "I don't want Pony to end up like me."
"There's nothing wrong with you," Dallas says, without an ounce of sympathy. Like he's annoyed with him.
But there is something wrong with him, and they both know it. It's not normal for a teenage boy to be scared of his own shadow, to jump when he hears a loud noise, to huddle in the shadows when he walks home alone, to wake up from a nightmare sweating and sick to his stomach and find he's pissed his bed at sixteen years old. That only happened once, his first night he spent alone after the jumping, and no one knows, but it still happened. Fear is the one constant in Johnny's life, the one thing he can be sure will always be there waiting for him.
"You don't think..." Johnny lets his voice trail off as he gathers his thoughts. "How long do you think they had him for?" He closes his eyes. Even if they'd managed to chase away the Socs who had got ahold of Ponyboy, Johnny knows they never go away, not really. He doesn't want that for Pony.
"Look, Johnny. You saw him. He was fine. He got one lousy bruise and a scratch that a bandage will fix right up."
"The threats are worse than the bruises, though," Johnny says.
They're standing on his front yard right now, across from each other, like a standoff.
"Yeah," Dallas admits. "I know."
Johnny's never seen Dallas vulnerable, but he guesses Dally does know. He lived on the streets of New York. He has to.
"You better come with me to the Nighty Double tomorrow. Don't back out," Dally says, just to say something, something light, something meaningless. Anything to cop out of this conversation.
"I ain't never backed out on you," Johnny says.
"No you haven't, kid. You haven't." Dallas swallows. "If your folks give you trouble, Buck's letting me stay in one of his rooms again. Come find me. Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay."
#
When he enters his house, his mom doesn't return his hello. That's well enough. At least she ain't hollering at him.
He makes his way up to his bedroom and throws himself onto his mattress, which is lying on the floor. He's burnt so many holes into it, sneaking a smoke and ashing his cigarettes there since the age of nine, that he can't bother to count them. Ponyboy's been up to his room before. The first time he gave him this kind of pitying look because he had a mattress without a bed frame, a blanket but no sheets, and an unmatched, faded sofa pillow instead of a head pillow, but Johnny actually prefers it that way. It feels safer somehow, like nothing can come out from under and grab him, or tangled him up and make it impossible for him to make a quick escape.
He pushes his face into the pillow, coils the blanket around his hands, and resists the urge to scream.
Not Pony. It's not fair.
And a part of him is disgusted with himself, because now that he's had time to cool down, the injustice of Pony's suffering is not the only thought that's rushing through his brain. There's a sick feeling lingering in the back of his mind. A sick feeling of relief. A sick feeling of gratitude. Because he got a good look at all the boys as he was chasing them down. And it matters to him. It still matters to him, even though it shouldn't.
Randy wasn't one of them.
TBC