Dark Alleys and Somewhere Special - Part 4

When Ponyboy's eyes opened, it took him a moment to realize where he was. He was stuck to the steering wheel, his head propped up on the top of it, his chin resting on the outer rim. His thoughts were slow and jumbled, and his eyelashes were kind of thick, shading the edges of his vision. It wasn't dark out anymore, like he vaguely remembered from the night before. He rubbed his face, sighing heavily. His chin hurt from leaning on the rough grooves of the wheel's rim. He licked his dry lips and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

He looked around and caught sight of himself in the spotty rear view mirror. His skin was kind of pale in the weak daylight, his cheekbones prominent against his tired expression. His eyes were kind of red-rimmed and dark, sunken in. The look on his face reminded him vaguely of the doped up hippie girl. He squinted at the bright sunlight filtering in through the car window and shivered at the cold temperature of the air around him. The car hadn't been idling and the freezing temperatures outside had permeated through the doors.

He moved to get his jacket that was thrown carelessly over the backseat, but stopped when he saw Mark dead asleep in the passenger seat. He jumped at the sudden sight, thinking he was in the car alone. He didn't really have much of a reference for what he was doing in that car. He couldn't remember too much about last night.

"Mark? Mark, wake up." Ponyboy rubbed at his eyes again and reached for his jacket. Mark twitched and then sat up, a half-burnt joint rolling from his fingers.

"What?" Mark asked, sitting up and rubbing his head, looking just as confused as he had. The joint fell to the car floor by his shoe. It took Ponyboy a moment to piece together the murky memories of the night before.

"Oh." he mumbled to himself, the memories coming to him, and then with a start, remembered his brothers. He didn't call. He didn't call them at all. They had no clue where he was, and he was grounded this time. "Oh, shit! I had to go home!" He started fishing around frantically for a quarter in his jeans pocket. "I told you I didn't want to get stoned!"

Mark, who was wide awake and glancing around now, stretched out one arm. He didn't look bothered by the fact that it was 11 o'clock on a Friday, and they were both supposed to be in school. "No sweat. We'll just skip school, and you can call them."

Ponyboy got the quarter he was hunting for and glared accusingly at Mark. "Skip school? You wish." The tone in his voice was biting. "Maybe you've got no direction in your dopey life, but I'm trying to get a scholarship."

Mark gave him a sidelong glance and smirked, looking mock-hurt. "I didn't know you could be so harsh, Curtis." he said, picking up the small joint off of the floor and lighting it with his silver lighter. He leaned back and watched Pony try and find all of his belongings from his jacket that were scattered around the backseat.

Ponyboy hastily put on his jacket and struggled with the handle to open the car door. He shot Mark a swift glare as the door opened. "Just where do you get off, Jennings?"

"I don't get off," Mark called after him as he hopped out of the car. "I keep going."

Pony could hardly believe him. He takes him on a joy-ride illegally selling drugs, gets him stoned, makes him miss school, makes him forget to go home. He couldn't believe the nerve the guy had. Once he was out of the car, he watched Mark jump start the car again and then peel out of the empty parking lot, probably doing about sixty when thirty-five was the speed limit. He really couldn't understand why he hung around with a delinquent like Mark. Mark didn't have any sense of what was wrong and right, and Pony did.

Quarter in hand, he walked about half a mile down toward a random gas station, found a payphone, and punched in his phone number. He really hoped Darry thought he was sensible enough and didn't put the cops out after him. He still smelled of grass, and getting the cops suspicious of what Mark was selling was the last thing that he wanted to do. Just the day before, his only worry was getting home on time. Now he had to worry about cops, his brothers, Mark, and the .22 pistol that was still hidden under his jacket.

The pistol. He'd forgotten about the pistol. He pulled back his jacket and saw the familiar black handle of the gun. He was walking around with a loaded gun. All of his nerves jumped on end. He remembered Dallas suddenly, how even holding that unloaded gun got him shot and killed. The difference between Ponyboy and Dallas was that Dally wanted to get shot, and his gun wasn't loaded, while Ponyboy didn't want to get shot, and he was pretty sure the pistol on his hip had a lead bullet inside of it.

Pushing that thought away, he focused on the ringing noise that was coming through the telephone. What was Darry going to say? Did they put the cops out for him? It rang for a moment, and then, to his slight relief, his brother Soda's voice answered. "Hello?"

He bit the inside of his lip, hard. "Hey, Soda. It's me—Ponyboy. I got a little caught up in something."

Sodapop mumbled something incoherently to somebody else and then his voice came through the phone again. "Yeah? Where'd you go? Where are you? Darry was waitin' up for you but you never showed. He was thinkin' putting out the cops for you."

Ponyboy was relieved that they hadn't called the cops. If the cops had found him and Mark in that car, high off their asses, with Mark probably having more dope in his jacket… he didn't want to think about the jail time. Bryon was right about not wanting five years in the pen for something as stupid as smoking grass. But he didn't have a clean slate yet, because that goddamned pistol was still holstered to his pants, and he had no clue how to get rid of it.

"I'm downtown, closer to the Southeast side. By that gas station with the big black star logo." Ponyboy said, squinting at the street signs. He couldn't quite make out the white lettering from the distance he was at, so the gas station would have to do as a location reference.

"You mean you're not at school?" Now it was Darry speaking, probably having stolen the phone from Soda. Ponyboy winced at his tone and then slowly answered, "No."

"And I grounded you. Again."

"Yeah." Ponyboy didn't want to stick this out with him again, he didn't want to argue with him again. So, he told it to him straight.

"Darry," Ponyboy said calmly to the receiver, "Don't flip your lid. I'll be home after school, I'll go in late—I won't have missed more than my second period."

"It's a Friday, for god sakes! And you're still grounded! What in the world were you thinking staying out-"

Ponyboy sighed irritably and cut him off. "I know it's a Friday, Darry! Yeah, I know I'm grounded, but I've already stayed out this long…"

Darry took a long breath and sighed into the receiver. "I didn't go into work today because you didn't show up. That's money down the drain that I could've earned. I already told you I shouldn't be waiting up for you anymore. You're goddamned seventeen."

"I'm sorry I made you miss work! I swear I ain't gonna get into any trouble! Bye, now."

He dropped the pay phone back onto its cradle before Darry could speak again and rubbed his face once more, looking around. He had to go to school, but with a gun holstered to his hip? If somebody saw it, they'd report him, and it would be straight in the pen for him. The police didn't think highly of the East side boys anyway, and if they found him with a gun, he could kiss that scholarship goodbye.

He was suddenly mad at Mark, but then got mad at himself. He buddied around with Mark every day for the past week, which means he got himself into this dilemma. He could've gone home after school yesterday, he could've left Mark to deliver his dope alone. He was grounded, anyway. He knew that he had to get home and he still skipped out. Twice. This was entirely his own fault.

But that was something to think about later. Now, he just had to get this gun off of his hands. He could throw it away, but then somebody might find it. He had touched the handle. It had his fingerprints on it. He decided that he had to get this gun back to Mark. He had to get rid of this thing before he got into even deeper water than he was already in. But first, he had to go to school.

Downtown Tulsa to Will Rogers High School was about an hour by foot. The only reason he knew that was, in his sophomore year when Two-Bit was still bumming around, he and Two had walked from the Main Street to the area their school was in. It took a long time, and it was just as freezing. And with Terry Jones' car taken by Mark, his next best option was the bus.

Zipping up his jacket to cover the black handle of the pistol, he started toward the closest bus station and waited. The sky was overcast, the gray clouds covering the bright blue that lay underneath. It smelled like rain, and it looked like rain.

He sat down on the wooden bench and waited for the blue and white city bus to appear. It was a lazy Friday, and little to nobody was out on the streets. He was glad nobody was on the streets, because that gun was getting him nervous. The more he felt the weight of it against his hip, the more anxious he got. By the time the bus pulled up, his leg was bouncing a mile a minute.

Ponyboy paid his bus fare, glad he had some extra change for the ride, and tried not to look anybody in the eye as he sat down in a seat. Only a few people were on it, anyway. Nobody was going to many places at eleven-thirty on a Friday. Everyone was either at work or school.

The bus ride took about twenty minutes plus stops, which meant it was about twelve when he got off at his stop. He had to walk a short distance to the school, and by then, it was drizzling. His jacket didn't have a hood, so he just had to tough out the rain. His hair was damp by the time he stepped into the main office of the school.

The administrator at the front desk looked up, her gaze hardening as soon as she laid eyes on him. For a second he thought she knew he had a gun under his jacket. But she didn't. Her steely gaze lingered on him for a minute, and then she went back to filing her papers. "Can I help you?"

Ponyboy pushed back his damp, sticky hair. "Yeah. I missed the first couple of hours of school. Could you write me a pass?"

It wasn't the rain that had made his hands wet. It was sweat, which his palms were streaked with. He was out of his mind to walk in this place with no textbooks and, not to mention, a pistol. Mark's drug pushing was practically putting his whole future on the line.

He chewed the inside of his lip as the administrator looked up at him through her wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes full of suspicion. She pulled out a pen, wrote something off on a pad of paper, ripped it out, and then gave it to him. He thanked her and beat it out of there, walking toward the hallways.

School hallways were always weird when they were empty. He was used to seeing them teeming with students, social groups, couples, and faculty. Now, they were just dim and desolate, the life of the high school sucked out of them as soon as the students went to their classrooms.

He found his second period class, which was biology, and opened the door. Every head in that room turned and stared at him. He ducked his head and gave the teacher his late pass, the gun feeling much heavier than it had a few moments ago. None of these students knew he had a loaded gun on his hip. He could take that gun and shoot it at any given moment. The amount of power that laid in a singular bullet scared him. A singular bullet could do damage that couldn't be undone.

He took his seat, which was right in the middle of the room. The gazes of his peers bored into him like lit cigarette butts against his skin. He could feel everyone staring at him, wondering why he was late and why he looked like a wet dog. His hair was stuck to his forehead and his whole back was wet from the rain. This wasn't how he expected his Friday to go.

He kept one hand planted on the pistol, to make sure it didn't fall out of the holster. If someone saw it… the consequences would be a mile long. He'd never carried around a heater before, but the one thing he knew about them was that you killed people with them.

Biology was almost over when he arrived, so he listened to his teacher drone on about plant compositions and tried not to look suspicious. It was hard for him not to steal a glance down at where that gun was. If you looked hard enough, you could make out the shape of the handle underneath his thin jacket. He did his best to cover it up, but he still felt like somebody would see it.

After his second period was lunch hour. He had to find Bryon. Maybe Mark had showed up to school and Bryon could tell him where he was. He would do almost anything to get the pistol off of his hands. The amount of stress it was putting on him made him want four aspirins.

He pushed his way through the halls and glanced around for Bryon. Bryon was kind of easy to miss, because his brown hair didn't stick out like Mark's golden hair did. He was tall, though, so that's what Ponyboy looked for. His eyes scanned the hallway thoroughly and he found Bryon sticking up like a tree, his leather jacket on, standing by the trophy case. He was talking to Angela Shepard.

"Bryon! Hey, Bryon!" Ponyboy called. Bryon's head snapped up, searching around for who said his name. Angela started looking around too, and when her eyes fell onto Pony, they lit up. Bryon did the same, although he didn't look too pleased to see him, based on how his girlfriend was looking at him.

"What do you want?" Bryon grumbled, looking less than thrilled as Ponyboy stopped in front of him. Angela was staring at him expectantly, but Ponyboy wasn't paying any attention to her. Right now, he just had to find Mark.

"Have you seen Mark around? I got something of his." Ponyboy asked, trying to sound calm and collected. Bryon's eyebrows twitched and he slightly raised one of them. He thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "I haven't seen him. Last I saw of him was yesterday morning at our house. Whatcha have of his? I could probably get it to him." Bryon offered.

"No," Ponyboy said curtly, "It's something of his… I'll find him myself. But thanks anyway." He didn't want to draw out this conversation any longer than he had to. Plus, Bryon was looking at him funnily and kind of suspiciously. The gun weighed on his hip like a bowling ball.

"Okay," Bryon said slowly, drawing out the 'o', "but tell me if you see him. We've still gotta pay Charlie back for all those Cokes."

Bryon stopped for a moment, thinking, and then looked suspicious of him again. "Terry told me you and Mark took his car yesterday and never returned it. You sure you don't know where he is? Seeing as you two are all buddy-buddy lately…" His tone was slightly accusing. Ponyboy shifted uncomfortably, trying not to think about the gun and Mark's drug pushing. Mark had specifically told him not to tell Bryon about it, but he couldn't help feeling guilty as Bryon's dark brown eyes stared daggers at him.

"He gave me a ride home. I didn't want to walk, 'cause it was so cold. I don't know why he didn't return Terry's car… that's his problem, not mine. Just tell me if you see him, alright?" Ponyboy lied, struggling to keep the uneasiness out of his voice. Bryon's dark gaze lingered on him for a moment more before he nodded.

"Yeah, okay. Same goes for you." Bryon turned back to Angela, who wasn't paying any attention to him anymore. With that, their conversation was over, and Ponyboy had no leads on how he could get rid of this gun by third period. He racked his brain for a solution. Could he just get rid of it in the dumpster behind the school? What if somebody traced it back to him? He couldn't risk his chances at college over a stupid gun that wasn't even his. He had to get out of Tulsa and a scholarship was the only way to do that. But this gun was jeopardizing all of his plans.

He still had half of lunch hour to get rid of it. He wondered where Mark hung out in his free time, and if he could hoof it to wherever that was and back before lunch hour ended. He looked up and checked the school clock. Thirty minutes until 1:15. He settled on an idea. He was going to take a chance and see if Mark went home.

He ran to the East side of town, because of his time limit and how the gun was putting all of his nerves on end. Mark and Bryon lived about a block from his house, so he just followed his normal route home and made a left instead of going straight.

When he reached their house, he knocked on the door in one of Mark's specific patterns. One knock, two quick ones, and then another. He'd never actually been to their house, but Mark had given him the directions once when they planned to throw a beer blast at their place, which Ponyboy didn't show up to. There were cat-food bowls on the porch and many dead flowers in a small garden. The outside walls were adorned with cracks, and the nails in the wooden porch were either bent or sticking out, poking him underneath the soles of his shoes. The house looked like it had once been kept up and polished, but now it was a ghost of itself, in disrepair.

There was a small shuffling noise inside, and hope blossomed in his chest that Mark was home, that he would really get rid of this thing before lunch ended. But that hope remained a hope, because instead of a golden-eyed, golden-haired boy at the door, it was a wrinkled middle aged woman. She was tying a robe around her waist and put one hand on her hip, her eyes looking him over. She wasn't judging him, though. She had a very sweet look on her face.

"Hi, sir. Can I help you?" she asked, pushing back one disheveled curl from her face. Ponyboy scratched the back of his neck nervously.

"Is Mark home?"

She smiled suddenly, but shook her head. "Not at the moment. So, you're a friend of Mark's?"

Ponyboy could tell she was in a talking mood, but he didn't have time to ramble about his life with this lady. He figured it was Bryon's mother, since everyone knew Mark's parents shot each other in a drunken fight when he was a kid, and that Mark moved in with Bryon at a young age.

He met her eyes and said casually, "Yeah, I'm a friend of his. I was just wondering where he was."

"He's not at school? Oh—that boy. Bryon's at school though, isn't he? Oh, I swear Mark's going to have to retake the semester, the poor thing, if he doesn't show up—I'm sorry, I'm talking to myself. Would you like to come in and have a sandwich?" She talked a mile a minute, asking him so many questions at once that he didn't know which to answer. While a sandwich sounded good, because he hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, he really had to get back to school. He would just have to tough it out for third and fourth period and try to be inconspicuous.

"Thanks for the offer, ma'am, but I've got to get back to school. My lunch hour's almost up, and I was just wondering where he was." Ponyboy told her, sounding as pleasant as a next-door neighbor. She smiled, the kind of smile that only motherly people have.

"Well, okay. I'll tell Mark you dropped by. Have a good one, now."

Ponyboy looked back over his shoulder and smiled at her. "Thanks, ma'am. Take it easy." He hopped down the steps, his smile wiping off his face as soon as she couldn't see him. He was stuck with this gun, with no way to get rid of it without attracting the fuzz. This was starting to become one hell of a dilemma. All he had to do was make it through his third and fourth period without anybody finding out about the gun, get it back to Mark, and go home. He walked back to school quickly, the rain starting to fall in fat droplets on his face. By the time he got back to the school, he was freezing and wet.

"Curtis, didja take a swim?" one of the Soc boys taunted as he passed him. Ponyboy grumbled and pushed his hair out of his face, slicking it back over his head. He was damp and frozen to the core, and still hadn't gotten rid of the gun. This was one of his worst Fridays in his book, but it couldn't get any worse, right?

The bell went off just as he entered the building. He hurried to his third period class, his nerves practically jumping on end at any sudden movement. He still had a weapon that could potentially kill somebody underneath his jacket, and nobody knew but him.

Somehow, he made it through the rest of his school day without tipping anything or anyone off, much to his surprise. The gun was so heavy by the end of the day that his hip hurt. He just wanted this to be over, he didn't want the responsibility of a heater weighing down on him. Plus, he was tired and still kind of wet, and he had to get home, for real this time. He didn't care if Darry locked the front doors. He just wanted this weapon off his hands.

When the last bell of the day rang, he hurried out to the front of the school and started looking for somebody to hitch a ride with. He planned on going downtown to those dopers' apartment, because that one doper that kept messing with the TV had said something or other about Mark having another delivery. So, he could expect him to be there.

"Curtis! Hey, Curtis, I'm talking to you!"

He whipped around at the sound of his name and saw Bryon walking toward him, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"What?" Ponyboy called back as Bryon crossed the parking lot over to him. Bryon stopped in front of him and kept his hands shoved in his pockets. "Have you found Mark yet?" he asked, narrowing his eyes and looking around. "He hasn't called me yet. I know he can take care of himself, sure, but this just ain't like him. He would've called or at least showed up."

Ponyboy shrugged. "I looked for him, but couldn't find him. Guess I'll just have to find him tomorrow," he lied once more. Bryon almost looked worried, a look Ponyboy hadn't even thought could come across his face. Bryon was tough. But he figured that Mark was Bryon's only other family other than his mother, so he had a right to be worried. They were like brothers.

"I guess so. Still, if you see him, have him call me, okay? Take it easy, Curtis."

Bryon lit a cigarette and started off in a different direction, leaving Ponyboy standing like an idiot in the middle of the parking lot. He started looking for a ride again. He had to hitch a ride downtown, but if push came to shove, he would take a bus. He really, really had to find Mark, because there was no way he was going home with a gun strapped to his belt.

He looked around for a familiar face, anybody he knew with a car. If it were a year ago, he could've just asked Steve or Two-Bit to drive him somewhere, but they'd graduated and it wasn't that easy anymore.

He finally found somebody who could give him a ride. He was leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette and talking to two greaser-looking girls, who looked like sophomores. Tim Shepard. He had no clue why Tim was hanging around the high school on a Friday, but he could've melted with relief at the sight of him. He didn't really want to take a city bus because they took twenty minutes or more to get anywhere. Tim would have to be his compromise.

"Shepard!" Ponyboy called, walking up to him. The freshmen greaser girls both looked back at him and started twirling their hair, chewing their gum, and smoking. Ponyboy looked them over, trying not to stare at the amount of makeup they had on. They had thick eyeliner underneath their eyes, wild hair, and heavy red lipstick.

"Whatd'ya want, Curtis?" Tim asked, snapping his gaze off of the two girls. He scratched the back of his neck nervously underneath their prying gazes, and once again failed at looking inconspicuous. He tried to steadily meet Tim's gaze, but it was hard not to look anywhere else but at him. Tim was about twenty, much older than he. Since he was only seventeen, he didn't really talk to the older guys often, and Tim was one of the tougher ones around. He'd been drafted, made it home, and was still keeping the greaser style alive, despite the fashion starting to die out like an old fad. He still ran around the same as he did when Dallas was around, slashing tires and making the paper every week or so. He'd just gotten out of jail for the fifth time. He was in the big leagues now, because instead of going to the reformatory, he made it into the jails. Tim Shepard wasn't going anywhere with his life. Ponyboy wondered how Tim hadn't gotten himself killed yet, because everyone knew that he would die a crazy hoodlum like Dally did. Somehow, Tim had made it out of Vietnam, so now he was just bumming around. That nasty scar he'd gotten over in the jungles made his face look ten times harder than it used to.

"I was wondering if you could give me a ride. You know, out downtown. It's about to rain again and I ain't got a car." Ponyboy questioned, stealing a glance at the girls next to him. They were looking slightly annoyed that he'd interrupted, rolling their eyes. Tim gave him a long look, so long that he started feeling uncomfortable, and then glanced over at the girls.

"I guess. I ain't got anything better to do with my time. Downtown, right?" Tim asked, taking another drag off of his cigarette. The girls rolled their eyes again and flounced off, leaving Ponyboy slightly confused. "Who were the girls?"

Tim opened his car door and stopped, narrowing his eyes at him. "Just a few friends of Angela's… what? Were you interested?"

"No, I wasn't. I was just wondering." Ponyboy answered quickly. Tim just sighed, looking less than happy to be carting some seventeen year old kid around in a car. Ponyboy got into the passenger's seat and wrinkled his nose at the musty smell of Tim's car. It was dustier than his attic, smelled like old cologne and hair oil, and the cushions were all ripped. The radio was ripped out, and the car had no air conditioning. Air conditioning was kind of a novelty to have in a car, so when Terry's car had it, he'd been kind of surprised. But Tim's car was as freezing as Antarctica, and all he could do was hope his thin jacket kept him warm enough.

Tim stuck the key into ignition, and after a few moments of him cursing and the car stalling, it shakily rumbled to life. The wheels slipped against the icy roads, because the rain was close to freezing, and he was pretty sure Tim had bald tires. They drove in complete silence the whole way there. Ponyboy didn't have much to ask Tim, and Tim didn't look like he was in a talking mood. After a while, they pulled up to the corner of the Ribbon, which was a good walking distance to where he had to go.

"Thanks, Tim," Ponyboy said, starting to get out of the car, but Tim stopped him. "Wait, Curtis. I gotta question to ask ya."

Ponyboy stopped, halfway out the door, and couldn't help the annoyed feeling that overcame him. He really had to get home and he really had to get rid of the gun. And he really had to find Mark. But, he still stopped, halfway out the car door. Tim looked like he was thinking hard, trying to formulate the right sentence. They stood in silence for a good thirty seconds before Ponyboy started to get antsy, waiting for his next sentence. "Well? Shoot." he said, gesturing for him to talk. Tim grumbled under his breath about something, and then spoke.

"Your brother, Sodapop, he was over there too, wasn't he?" Tim ventured slowly. Ponyboy was slightly surprised at Tim's question, but he nodded all the same.

"Yeah. 3rd Platoon, he told me. Charlie Company."

Tim bit his lip, looking a little conflicted. Ponyboy had never seen Tim with such a look on his face, such a look of confusion and uneasiness. Tim was supposed to be tough. Tim went to jail for kicks, and when he got too bored he ran around with a heater. Tim wasn't supposed to look like that. He wasn't supposed to look uneasy like he did then. But he did.

Finally, he sighed, long and hard, looking weary. "Tell him I'll drop by sometime and we can talk."

Ponyboy smiled suddenly. Tim wanted to help, or at least share the commonality of war with his brother. Maybe Sodapop would be able to get better…

"Stop smiling at me like that, Curtis. Go on, get. I'll see you around." Tim muttered. Ponyboy shut the door, waving him off. Tim peeled out onto the street, his tires screeching against the slick pavement. He watched his busted little car drive away, still half-smiling, and then remembered the task at hand. The smile fell right off of his lips and he turned on his heel, starting to walk toward the apartments. He hoped he could catch Mark there, selling his drugs or whatever. He just wanted this gun gone.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the hard handle of the gun against his hand. He was still kicking himself. How could he have forgotten that he had a gun with a lead bullet inside of it on his hip? Was it the grass? He could blame it on the grass. That stuff made you forgetful, anyhow.

He walked about half a block to the apartments where the dopers lived, freezing himself half to death. It was getting colder and colder, and the rain had stopped for now, but big dark clouds were billowing above him. He shivered and walked faster, hoping to get there before the rains came. Luckily, he did.

The first thing he did when he got to his destination was search for Mark. He couldn't see Terry Jones' car anywhere, so he figured either Mark had already come and delivered the dope or he hadn't. He decided to take a chance and sat down on the black bench in front of the apartments, waiting. He would wait for Mark to show up and then give him the gun. It seemed like a sensible plan to him, despite the fact that he was getting colder by the second.

A fat droplet of rain landed on his head, and he looked up. The rains came all at once, pouring down like an opening from the sky. Startled, he jumped up and ran to the overhang in front of the apartment doors, where he was safe from the ice-cold rain. He cursed Mark maybe ten times over in his head as he stood there, shivering, his teeth chattering. He should've never gone with him yesterday. He should've just done as he was supposed to yesterday and gone home. He wouldn't be in deep shit with Darry and he wouldn't be in this dilemma with Mark and the gun if he'd just gone home.

He loitered around for a good thirty minutes, and was just about to give up and go home. He planned to throw the gun out and hope nobody saw. He was planning to take the bullets out and throw out the empty gun, maybe he'd break it so nobody could put new bullets in it. But then that black paint job of Terry's car appeared out of nowhere, and he scrapped that idea. Mark was smart enough. He wouldn't shoot anybody with that gun, so he was just going to give it back.

Mark jumped out of the car, just like Pony thought he would. He crossed the street and hopped up the steps to the lobby of the apartments, and froze when he saw him standing under the overhang, glaring knives at him.

"Oh. Hey, Curtis, whaddya doing over here?" Mark asked, sounding like he hadn't seen him in days. Ponyboy glared at him for a moment longer and then lifted the gun out of the holster and held it out to him.

"Take your goddamn gun that you left me with." he grumbled icily, his green eyes hardened. Mark stared at him, a funny look crossing his face, and slowly took the gun.

"Sorry. I forgot you had it. You didn't use it, did you?"

Ponyboy half wanted to deck the guy. "No, I didn't use it! Do you think I'm crazy? I had to go to school with that thing on my hip!" he said, his voice struggling to stay at a normal level. Mark lifted a singular eyebrow and pulled back his jacket, revealing another twenty-two pistol. So the guy sold dope and had two guns. Great.

"I found another, 'cause I thought we lost this one. But I guess now I have two." Mark slipped the gun into the inner pocket of his jacket, and then eyed him carefully, as if he were sizing him up. "I've got to deliver this grass. There's a bit of a party happening up there, I think. The dopers ordered a crap ton of this stuff."

He pulled out a bag of hash and motioned past Pony, to the apartment building. "Curtis, you've got to help me deliver this one. D'you want to go somewhere special?"

"Somewhere special?" Ponyboy echoed, turning around to see what Mark was motioning to. There was nobody in the lobby except for a real estate lady who wasn't paying any mind to them. A bad feeling started growing in the pit of his stomach. He'd felt like this before, the evening before the rumble, the night Johnny and Dallas died.

"You mean the party up there?"

Mark tossed him back the pistol, which he barely caught. "If there's a party, we've got two times the chance of getting shot by a doped up idiot. We'd better hope your gun's still loaded."