A stranger's hand slams down on Johnny's shoulder, and the drive-in screen shakes. "Okay, greasers, you've had it."
Johnny clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. It's a cool, disaffected voice–Bob's, maybe. Definitely not Randy's; he'd recognize that. But there's no question: the Socs have come looking for their girls, and now they've all been caught. Cherry (Bob's girl has a name now), Cherry said they'd been drinking, too. That's why the girls left the date, that's why they're sitting in the cheap twenty-five cent seats instead lounging in a blue Mustang. The Socs are liquored up and Dallas left and now Pony and me are gonna get killed–stop panicking!
He's gasping back his need to vomit, but Pony's with him. He can't let himself freak out, not when he's responsible for Pony. He has to calm down. Johnny wills himself to take deep breaths, wills his body to relax. He commands himself: open your eyes and face this, just as he hears Pony's cheerful voice.
"Glory, Two-Bit, scare us to death why don't ya!"
Still shaking, Johnny opens his eyes and arches his neck back just to make sure. "Hey, Two-Bit." His greeting sounds scratched and pathetic, even to his own ears. In the corner of his vision is Cherry, sitting next to him, pursing her lips in concern at his reaction. She fiddles with her hair, curling a strand behind her ear, and smiles at him, pretending she hadn't noticed.
Somehow, he'd gotten roped into sitting with them. It wasn't an invitation he could reject without Pony suspecting something was up. At least he's farthest away from Marcia. It's weird to think they've kissed the same guy, they share the same germs. When Marcia jokingly asked for their 'protection' and it was obvious there was absolutely no talking Pony out of it, Johnny jumped immediately for the seat next to Cherry, no matter that she's Bob's girl and poses a greater threat if he gets caught: at least doesn't have to sit so close to Marcia they'd have to compromise elbow room, so close that he could note in detail every possible way he's inadequate by comparison.
Still on edge, he cringes when he feels Two-Bit rough up his hair. The grease leaves it sticking in odd angles when he removes his hand. "Sorry, kid. I forgot."
Two-Bit hurdles over the seats and settles in on the opposite side of Marcia, bouncing in his chair three times before relaxing. Johnny thinks, Christ. This is not going to end well, just as they start exchanging flirtatious retorts.
#
They're walking to Two-Bit's house so they can pick up his car and give the girls a ride home, and Johnny's eagerly anticipating the moment he can relax. So far tonight, they got away scott-free, and it only needs to last about thirty more minutes, and then everything should be okay. He keeps counting the seconds in his head, and even though that stretches out the time, he can't help it. He just wants the night to be over.
Two-Bit and Marcia are hitting it off real good. They have the same witty sense of humor and they're shooting half insulting, half complimentary sex-laden quips at each other, and exchanging crazy stories that follow a train of thought and speech too fast for Johnny to keep up with. Johnny doesn't want to like Marcia, but from where he's standing, and what he can overhear, he can see that she's a nice enough girl. He wonders if Randy makes her happy. Probably not, the way she's carrying on with Two-Bit.
Pony and Cherry are another story. They're two of a kind. He's never heard Pony speak like this to anybody but him and Soda, sharing stories in that soft dreamy voice of his, describing clouds and early mornings and nice things that Johnny would never even notice if Pony wasn't constantly mentioning them. Johnny gets so wrapped up in his worries that it's like the world outside his head doesn't exist unless it's interrupting those worries to harass and hurt him. But Pony points out the nice things in the world–the things that never interrupt, but are always there if you look for them. The sunsets and autumn leaves and shapes you can imagine in the stars.
Johnny only ever listens when Pony gets like this. He likes to listen. But Cherry can talk the same way. Cherry can contribute. Johnny watches them, walking closely, speaking softly. Ponyboy's basically forgotten Johnny's even walking with them. He swallows, realizing that he is, irrationally, a little jealous. They've only known each other for a couple hours, and already Johnny can tell Cherry'd make a better friend for Pony. She's someone who can give back as much as she takes. Unlike him, who sits in silence, having nothing smart enough to add to the conversation.
When Cherry asks about Darry, however, Ponyboy's gentle demeanor shifts suddenly. He crosses his arms, opens his mouth to say something, and then decides against it. "What's there to say?" he asks. "He's big and handsome and likes to play football," he concludes dismissively, blithely.
Johnny knows the two of them don't exactly see eye-to-eye all the time, but he thinks his description's unfair even still. It's not that it ain't accurate, Darry is those three things, but he's a thousand times more. He's a brother who gave up an easy life for a difficult one to care for his family. He's the leader of a tightly knit gang, the main cog that keeps them all going. He's the Boy of the Year who doesn't bat an eye when he has to clean the house like a woman, or work hard labor in eight-hour shifts. He's the closest thing any of them will get, ever again, to Mr. Curtis.
Cherry presses Pony, wanting to understand Darry better. And Pony's anger wells up and floods out in a tirade unlike anything Johnny's ever heard from him. He's going on and on about how mean Darry is, how cold he is, how much Darry hates him, until he concludes, "...I'll bet he wishes he could stick me in a home somewhere, and he'd do it, too, if Soda'd let him."
Two-Bit says a few words of protest, but Pony just scowls, obviously not listening. Johnny needs to make him understand. Make him understand how much Darry loves him. He gulps, realizing quite suddenly the way he's neglected his pals these past few months. He hasn't been paying proper attention, or else he could have fixed this rift between them before it ever got to the point Pony would think that. What had Pony said to him, a while ago now? Darry's driving me up a wall and Soda isn't always around to stop him. I need you here, Johnny. I swear to God I do. But he had been too invested in his own problems to pay much heed to those words. And Darry, too. Darry had tried to reach out to him. I had no idea how hard this was gonna be. And I'm damn clueless when it comes to raising him right... But again, Johnny had been too wrapped up in his own shame to take in what Darry had been sharing with him. He could curse himself, deserting his friends like this in their time of need, too selfishly concerned with his own issues to think about anyone else. He needs to make this right between them. He needs to think of the right words. He never has the right words.
"Gee," Johnny whispers, "I thought you and Darry and Soda got along real well..."
"Yeah, well, we don't. And you can shut your trap, Johnny Cade, 'cause we all know you're not wanted at home, either. And you can't blame them," Pony snaps.
Johnny stops in his tracks, feeling the blood drain from his face and his fingertips, the words like a physical blow to the gut.
Occasionally, Pony lashes out in the mornings when he's grumpy. He's made nasty remarks to Johnny when he's irritated with something or someone else in the past. Most people do. But Pony has never, ever said something that deliberately hurtful. Johnny's mind tries to grasp at what he could have possibly done or said to make Pony so angry with him. It's probably because he hasn't been there for him in the way he should have been, because he hasn't been a good friend. Johnny's mentally trying to form an apology that will cover all his bases, when Two-Bit slaps Pony over the head. He threatens to beat him, voice hard and serious.
Johnny has to forcefully stop himself from yelling at Two-Bit for hitting Pony. He knows Two-Bit's only sticking up for him, and he'd never carry through with the threat. Two-Bit's voice softens when he turns to Johnny. "He didn't mean it, Johnny."
"I'm sorry," Pony says. He's shame-faced, looking down. "I was just mad." He is sorry. Johnny can tell that he genuinely is, and he forgives him immediately. He knows he's done plenty he should ask forgiveness for.
"It's the truth," Johnny concedes, trying to make Pony feel less guilty. "I don't care." But he does care. He cares it's the truth, and he cares that Pony said it. He never thought Pony'd be able to get mean like that. Cutting him exactly where it hurts. He has to look out for him better, before he gets hard like everybody else.
Two-Bit and Pony go off on some the-world's-not-fair despairing conversation. Johnny listens, but he has no interest in participating in it, especially with two Soc girls in their presence, listening in on their troubles. All greasers know full well they've got the hard knocks, but Johnny's never seen a point in getting all vocal and upset about it. It doesn't help. If anything, it hurts. Two-Bit's trying to make light of it when the blue Mustang starts driving up the street, slowing down as it gets closer to them, circling again, and then finally pulling over.
He fucking hates that car.
#
Bob and Randy exit the car, slamming the doors behind themselves almost simultaneously. There's an odd symmetry to them: they're equal heights, but Randy's light coloring and white oxford shirt comes contrasts with Bob's dark hair and wine-colored sweater. There's a hardness to Bob's face that Randy's never had. Johnny finds himself wide-eyed, his gaze pulled in the direction of the car, trying to figure how many other boys are in there, analyzing their odds of getting seriously hurt.
He catches Pony eyeing him knowingly, making the connection between the girls and Randy and the night he got jumped as he moves his gaze from Johnny, to the Mustang, to the boys who have just ambled out of it. Pony steps a little closer to him, but whether he's seeking comfort or offering it, Johnny doesn't know. Two-Bit leans an elbow on Johnny's shoulder.
There's the usual tuff posturing, a script they're all too familiar with: the Socs yelling at their girlfriends, threatening to start something. Two-Bit giving lip right back, Ponyboy following along, but Johnny ain't never been a man of many words. He gives his best tough scowl, but even he doesn't think he's doing a good job at disguising the wild anxiety teeming inside him. He wishes his back were pressed up against a wall. Partially so no one could get at him from behind that way, partially because it would push his switchblade against his body so he could feel its shape; knowing he's got a weapon always brings him a small sense of security.
Cherry's reaming Bob out about his drinking, and all Johnny can think is, You have no idea. And Bob says, "Even if you're mad at us, there's no reason to go walking the streets with these bums." A small, hysterical part of Johnny half expects Ponyboy to snicker, 'I come to tell you these beach bums is beach bums!' But the rational side of him knows it's all over. Any shred of hope he had that they'd somehow avoid a fight is gone.
No respectable greaser can take an insult like that and keep his reputation without fighting for it. Everything Johnny's been dreading is about to begin, but at least they have Two-Bit; maybe the three of them can take them.
"Who you calling bums?" Two-Bit asks.
"Listen, greasers, we got four more of us in the backseat," Bob warns.
Johnny can't look them in the face. If he could only force himself to look, maybe he could read something in Randy's expression. Maybe he could search for signs that he hates him. Or doesn't. That he misses him. Or doesn't. But he can't. It's safer to look down. He stares at the rings on Bob's hands with dread and reflectively fingers the scar across his temple; he stares at the pavement, and then his eyes catch Randy's shoes. Johnny steps backwards in something like shock, nearly tripping.
Brass-colored leather penny loafers. He swallows. He remembers seeing them close up, when he was lying on the floor of his porch, pain coursing through his center. They're the same shoes he was wearing when he stood between Johnny and his father and forced his old man to back away and stop hitting him. The same shoes he was wearing when he cried because he couldn't bear to see Johnny take a beating. And now he's going to give him one.
"Well, pity the backseat," Two-Bit quips, snapping Johnny out of his memory. He takes a pop bottle, shatters the edge against a nearby fence, and hands it over to Pony. Pony looks down at the broken bottle in his hand as if he doesn't know how it got there. Two-Bit's already flipped out his black-handled switchblade when Johnny reaches towards his back pocket for his own.
"No!" Cherry cries. "Stop it!" There's a struggle of wills as Two-Bit tries to defend their reputations by insisting on fighting, and Cherry is set on going back with Bob–no matter how drunk–to keep the peace. And still, Johnny is determinedly not looking at Randy. Cherry's willpower wins.
The girls go back to the Socs, the car so thoroughly crowded that Marcia hops in on top of Randy in the driver's seat (How can he even see the road? He could get into an accident...) and Cherry on top of Bob, who's sitting shotgun. The Mustang zooms away with a screech.
#
Two-Bit leaves them at the curb of the vacant lot to search for party somewhere and get properly sauced. Johnny about to suggest they both head home for the night, when Pony offers, "Wanna hang out here for a while?" Not mentioning why. Johnny's grateful for that. Three blocks over, they'd heard the sound of his folks hollering at each other.
They walk over to Johnny's usual spot and Pony helps him grab a few sticks for kindling, and the two of them work in silence as they arrange the branches in a teepee shape, shoving dry fallen leaves underneath. Once the campfire's got going, they lie down on their backs, side-by-side, like they've done together on other nights, looking up at the stars. They're faintly visible now, even with the light pollution. Pony sure knows an awful lot about the cosmos. Some nights, he points to different clusters and tells Johnny stories about them. Johnny can't look at the night sky without seeing those sisters running from that creepy guy. Other nights, Pony talks about them like he ought to be wearing a lab coat, going on and on about the Big Bang (which is now a sure thing because of radios or something) and solar systems and shit like that. Other nights, they confess things to each other they've never confessed to anybody before. Once, Johnny told Pony he was thinking about to killing himself, but that upset Pony so much that he realized suicide wasn't something he could ever do, no matter how bad it got, so long as Pony was around.
"You got a cigarette?" Pony asks.
Johnny checks, but there's only one left. Without hesitating, he hands it over to Pony.
Pony lights up, but after a few puffs, he passes the smoke back to Johnny. He noticed. Pony always notices.
"Ponyboy?" Johnny asks, reluctantly, pausing to take a long inhale and gather his thoughts.
"Yeah, Johnny?"
"Don't tell, okay?" Pony's quiet, and Johnny's not sure if he understands. Or maybe he's just mad at him still. "Not Dal, not nobody. Not ever."
Ponyboy rolls onto his stomach. He plucks at a blade of grass. "You mean about Randy?" he asks quietly, gently. "About Randy being one of the guys who...beat you up." The last three words come out kind of choked; it's something they never talk about. It's almost like they pretend it didn't happen.
Johnny nods. He closes his eyes. "I just..." he lets his voice trail off. "I guess I'm ashamed."
"Johnny," Ponyboy interrupts. But he doesn't have any words of encouragement to offer, so he reaches out for Johnny's hand and curls up close to him. Johnny knows Pony agrees that Johnny should be ashamed, but Pony's kind enough to offer comfort anyway. The heat of Pony's body's acting like a furnace, and he's glad; his jeans jacket's too thin for this weather. Johnny passes Pony the cancer stick, and watches Pony try to make smoke circles, but the wind's too strong tonight and they won't form probably.
"It was a stupid move to make friends with a guy who did that to me, ya know? Classic stupid Johnny Cade." Johnny shakes his head in frustration.
"Don't be too hard on yourself, Johnnycake. Soda says-" and then Ponyboy cuts his words off abruptly. "Never mind." He quickly passes back the cigarette, probably in hopes it will shut up Johnny's inquiries.
Johnny sits up and flicks the ash off the tip of the cancer stick. "What does Soda say?"
"Nothing," Ponyboy answers, suddenly not looking at him.
"Tell me."
"It ain't a big deal, Johnny. Let's just drop it."
"Come on, Pone!" Johnny exclaims, hurt and irritated. "You can't just start telling me something and then stop. That's not fair. I got a right to hear it if Soda's talking trash about me."
"He ain't talking trash about you," Ponyboy answers defensively. "It's just something that I don't think he'd want me to share."
But Johnny waits patiently. Moving the cigarette to his lips and inhaling, pulling the cigarette and exhaling, staring Pony in the eye the whole while.
"Fine," Pony huffs. He scowls at Johnny, annoyed at himself for giving in. "Remember that day Dally got sentenced, and you got upset and went back home, even though we both heard that crash and knew something bad was going on there?"
Johnny lets out a deep breath. Whatever Pony's gonna say, he's not gonna like it. "Yeah."
"Well, when Darry and I got home, we had a huge fight. It was just the two of us, so you don't gotta be embarrassed, okay? I don't know why, but I just couldn't take it anymore. I mean, I was pissed. I was pissed at your folks for always mistreating you, and to be honest Johnny, I was pretty pissed at you for going back there." Pony shoots him a quick, apologetic look.
"Anyway, I told Darry that they were gonna hit you, and we had to go do something to stop it. And he said no. So I started screaming at him, saying he didn't care about you, that he didn't care about anyone, calling him all sorts of names. I was bawling and he was real angry with me, shouting at me to shut up and threatening to ground me for weeks.
"Luckily Soda got home from his date and separated us, and then Soda and me went up to our bedroom and had a talk. He told me that we can't make decisions for you. He said that sometimes, kids who get hit when they're real little don't learn that families can be any different. That they accept being hit, 'cause that's all they know. And it wasn't our place to try to force you away from your folks if that's where you wanted to be.
"He said as rough of a break as it was, there wasn't much we could do, except stick by your side. And that if the gang showed you enough love and affection, maybe eventually you'd come around."
Johnny winces, wishing he hadn't coerced Ponyboy into telling him. He's never heard a more accurate or mortifying assessment in his life. As lighthearted and spirited as he is, Sodapop's always been wise, always had depth nobody ever gives him credit for because they don't see past his Hollywood looks and impish grins.
"Anyway," Pony continues, "I thought about that a lot. And I remembered how mad I was at you for making friends with Randy when he was one of the boys who jumped you. But after Soda talked to me, I figured the whole Randy thing was something like that. Like you were making friends with someone who beat you, because you were used to it or something."
"Did you tell Soda?" Johnny swallows. "About Randy?" He stubs out the cigarette. He'd forgotten he was supposed to be sharing it, and now he'd smoked more than his fair share.
Ponyboy shakes his head. "I told you I'd keep your secret, didn't I? I ain't a snitch."
And then Johnny sits up, panicked at a horrifying thought that only just occurred to him. "You don't keep a diary, do you?"
Pony laughs and shakes his head. "Jesus, Johnnycake. No. What do you think I am, a twelve-year-old girl?"
"I just didn't want Darry reading about it, that's all. It getting out to all the boys, ya know."
"I said I wasn't going to tell, and I won't. Okay? I promise. Do you want us to do a blood brother promise?"
Johnny can't tell whether or not Ponyboy is being serious. He tends to take things dead-serious and straight-faced, and it's just like him to offer to do something so juvenile and yet maturely loyal at the same time.
"Nah," Johnny says, lightening his tone a little in case it was a joke. "I believe you." He does. Pony will take his secret to the grave.
For a second, Johnny's tempted to tell him everything. Dallas finding out was pure accident, and the last thing he's ever been prepared to do is tell. But he knows now he can trust Pony with his secrets. He thinks he can even trust him not to hate him.
That gross comment aside, it was Ponyboy who had come to Johnny and asked why it was wrong. It was Ponyboy who had told him he didn't like seeing somebody bullied for it. And it's always Ponyboy to stick up for somebody to different. Like that time he started crying once when he was ten, because Two-Bit was teasing a fat girl. Or that time last year when he helped some mentally retarded kid count out his nickels and get his candy at the dime store when everybody else just laughed. Pony would have his back. But Johnny doesn't want to put the burden of that secret on Pony's shoulders, so he stays silent.
He thinks about Randy, and Bob, and Dally, and his folks, and everything that's happened these past few months. He's grateful that it didn't end in a fight, but to Johnny, sometimes it feels like it's never going to end. Sometimes it feels entirely hopeless.
"It seems like there's gotta be some places without greasers or Socs," Johnny says, because he knows Pony will understand. "With just people. Plain, ordinary people."
"It is that way," Pony starts. "Out of the big towns, in the country..."
And Pony's dreaming out loud again, and it's such a perfect fantasy, his parents are there, and the boys are there, and there are no troubles, and he starts drifting off to sleep...
TBC