Behind Blue Eyes

Sodapop handed me a room-temperature glass of water and sat down opposite to me, on our old tattered sofa. He looked like hell, with bloodshot eyes and a tight jaw, his golden hair disheveled and dark lines defining his face. I bet I looked the same. His troubled brown eyes drifted across the room. He wouldn't look at me, and I couldn't blame him. If I were him, I wouldn't look at me either. I knew he couldn't believe me, and honestly, I couldn't believe myself either.

"What now, Darry?" he asked, not looking up at me, training his eyes on the ground. I knew he was looking for a shred of reassurance, but for the first time, that was something I couldn't give him. I remained quiet, staring at my hands, which were callused from days of hammering nails into wooden boards. And I used those hands to hit my brother. I could feel my brow furrowing at the thought, and I quickly averted my gaze from my hands to the pale white walls, staring at the cracks that lined them from years of our living here.

Soda didn't try to talk to me again after I didn't answer his question, and we both sat in tension filled silence, our forearms resting on our knees. I could tell by the look on his face that he was recounting the night before and the morning's events. This caused me to begin wondering where I went wrong, though I knew exactly where I did.

The night before, after Ponyboy ran out of the house, Soda kept telling me he would go after him, and he kept asking me what I was thinking. Fact was, I didn't think I was thinking at all. My vision clouded red when Pony snapped at me to stop yelling at Soda, and before I could think twice, I'd spun on my heel and hit him square in the jaw. I remembered how my hand had stung and how my palm was reddening, and that bewildered, stricken look on Pony's face. His cheek was pink, with the imprint of my hand painfully visible against his pale white skin. He stared at me as if I'd just morphed into a stranger, as if I weren't his brother. I told him I didn't mean to. I really, really, didn't mean to.

He turned and ran before I could say anything else. Soda and I both darted for the door, but he was on the track team, and he was fast. He was halfway down the street by the time we made it to the door. I called his name more than once, but it was no use, because he was already gone, my yell echoing off the dark houses of the street. The only thing that filled the silence that followed was mine and Soda's heavy breathing and the incessant barks of the dog two doors down. I called his name one last time, but there was no answer except for our neighbor, a cantankerous old lady, yelling out her window for us to shut up. My skin prickled and goosebumps had shot up on my forearms, and it wasn't from the cold. He was gone and I didn't know where he went. I slowly turned around, with the intent of going for the phone, but Soda's eyes met mine, and he fixed me with such a look of hatred and shock at the same time that it hurts even now to think about it.

"What did you do? What did you do, Darry?" he'd whispered to me, his brown eyes full of flames and sadness at the same time. I had no answer for him. I had stood there with my arms hanging at my sides, standing on the newspaper I had thrown down to the ground at Pony's arrival. Soda ran his hand over his face, looking as tired as a forty year old man. "I'm going after him." He started to reach for his coat, but I clamped my hand over his arm, stopping him. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing like a fighting cat's would, just about ready to snap at me.

"Ponyboy will come back. I don't need both of you out this late at night," I told him. Soda's eyes grew so narrow that they were only slits, and he gave me an incredulous look, staring at me as if I were dumber than a box of rocks.

"He wouldn't be out this late at night if you hadn't just slapped the hell out of him!" he snapped at me, forcefully yanking his arm out of my grip and continuing to reach for his coat. "What were you thinking, Darry? You're always gettin' on him, but to hit him? I didn't think you'd ever go that far!" His voice was dripping with accusation. He turned away from me and started to put on his coat, struggling with the sleeves as it was too small.

"I wasn't thinking, Soda! It just happened!" I said, an ounce of desperation leaking into my voice. "But it wouldn't do any good to go after him right now. He has to cool off." I tried to reason with him, hoping I could keep him off the streets. I was confident Pony would come back after his nerves settled.

Soda paused and looked at me, suddenly looking conflicted, as if he didn't know whether to listen to me or not. It was obvious I had just shattered a fragment of both his and Pony's trust in me. For the first time since our parents died, he looked like he was questioning my authority.

He dropped his arms, letting out a tired sigh, suddenly looking older than his sixteen years. He pressed his palms to his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. Slowly, he reluctantly pulled off his small jacket. "I guess you've got a point," he conceded, "but... Darry, what if he doesn't come back?"

"He will," I assured him, half believing it, not knowing what the coming hours would hold. "He's a teenage boy. He just needs to relax and he'll come back. They all do this." My words were lighter than air, but they didn't reflect the storm raging in my head. I was kicking myself for hitting him. What was I thinking? He was bound to stay out past curfew, seeing as he was only fourteen and all. It was a rite of passage for boys that age to stay out late. Hell, I'd done it when I was fourteen. I'd just gotten so mad… madder than I thought I could've. I didn't even have the chance to control myself. Fact was, I was fully aware I was about to hit him as I whirled around, but I couldn't stop myself. My hand had been on a crash course for his cheek and there was nothing I could have done about it.

We sat on the sofa, waiting. I watched the clock that we'd hung on the wall as the small hand went from the two to the three, and then proceeded to go on to four. We went to sleep at five o'clock, in the living room. He hadn't come home. Despite the baseball in my throat and the uneasy feeling I was beginning to get, I assured myself that he would come back. Frankly, it scared me how my conscience didn't quite believe it.

My conscience was right.

That morning, a somebody had shown up at our door, waking me up with three loud knocks. I sat up quickly, wiping the sleep out of my eyes, thinking it was Ponyboy who had come. But as I got up, that hopeful thought was dampened as soon as I remembered that we always kept the door unlocked. He knew it was unlocked. If he was coming back, he would have let himself in, avoiding me. I was sure that I was the last person he wanted to talk to.

I rubbed at my eyes and made my way to the door, swallowing the guilt in my throat as last night's events came back to me, hitting me like a tidal wave. It all seemed like a terrible dream, even in my waking hours. It was partly denial, but a shred of me knew I wouldn't be able to deny it much longer. I had responsibilities. It was at stressful times like these that I wished desperately to be a kid again. Soda stirred on the sofa, sitting up and yawning, having heard the knocks as well. "Is that him?" he asked, but I didn't answer him, since I was opening the door.

What I expected to be a fourteen year old boy turned out to be a thirty-something police officer. I stiffened instantly, the sight of a police officer at the door bringing back the bitter memories of our parent's deaths, painful memories I had buried a long time ago. It had happened just like this too, what with an officer at the door, looking like he gave a damn about us. I remembered that the police officer had his cap off as he was telling us the news. I immediately thought the worst, my mind going places I dared to think about. Ponyboy was dead. Ponyboy was injured. He couldn't be dead, I thought. It's not possible. He couldn't be dead. A baseball formed in my throat again.

I swallowed a few times, and then cleared my throat. "Officer," I greeted coldly, despite myself. I heard Soda standing up behind me and creeping forward, toward the door. I didn't shoot a glance back at him, but by the squeaky noise he made, I knew he was thinking the same thing I was.

The officer didn't look like he would rather be someplace else, which is how they usually look when they inform you that your family member is dead, so I took that as a good sign. He stared at me defensively, like we were juvenile delinquents, about to rob him or something. I crossed my arms over my chest and he straightened up. "Are you the family of Ponyboy Curtis?" he asked with a voice as even as a ruler. I nodded slowly, preparing myself for the worst. He didn't take off his cap. I silently prayed that Pony wasn't dead.

The officer's eyes were steely, two unforgiving chips of ice. "I have to ask you boys a few precautionary questions. It seems that this Ponyboy here found himself in a bit of a dilemma."

Soda let out a gusty sigh behind me, sounding relieved that Pony wasn't dead. I was relieved too, but now there was yet another problem. Something had obviously happened, enough to involve the police. "What happened?" I asked the officer, holding the door open so he could enter.

He stepped into the house, sizing it up with watchful eyes, and then turned to me. He had a folder under his arm and opened it up, revealing a file. He read from the page. "A boy of the name Robert Sheldon was found dead in Crutchfield Park late last night. The main witness was the Robert Sheldon's friend, a kid by the name of Randy Adderson. He claims that Ponyboy Curtis was an accessory to the murder. He also claims that a boy under the description of 'black hair, dark skin, and jean jacket' murdered him." His face was solemn and his jaw was set tight, as if we were the criminals.

My blood went cold, and my shoulders tightened. Soda went visibly pale. Black hair and jean jacket… that was undoubtedly Johnny. We all knew that Johnny had been jumped a while ago and now carried a six-inch blade in his back pocket, but little old Johnny would never kill anyone without good reason to. Hell, I couldn't even believe the fact that he would kill somebody with a good reason to. He didn't look like he could say 'boo' to a mouse.

"Do you know who the boy who murdered Robert Sheldon is?" the police officer asked, narrowing his eyes at us, looking like he wouldn't believe a word we said.

"That's Johnny. Johnny Cade." Soda answered before I could, his voice sounding strangled, like somebody's hands were around his throat. I knew he was on the verge of tears, by the way his eyes were getting red around the edges.

The police officer squinted at him, and then turned to me, his gaze accusing. He pointed to the information on his file. "And you. You're Darrel Curtis, Ponyboy's caretaker, am I correct?"

I nodded, my throat a little too dry to speak.

He continued. "It seems, from the files we have received, that your parents have passed and you have custody of these two minors. And you are nineteen…?"

"Twenty," I corrected, my voice hoarse against the ball of guilt that sat in my throat like a stone. The police officer pulled out a pen, wrote something down on a little notepad, and then he began the interrogation. He sat down on one of the wooden chairs in our dining room, while Soda and I sat opposite from him. It was strange, having a police officer sitting in our house, at our dining table. He folded the pages of the notepad over and held the pen to a blank page at the ready.

"Was there any reason for Ponyboy to be out late last night?"

Soda shot me a glance, so fleeting that I barely caught it. I swallowed, willing the guilt to go away, but to no avail. "We got into an argument last night," I started tentatively, cutting my eyes to Soda. He was looking away from me, so I could only see the back of his head. "I… well, it got a little heated, and I hit him. It was not on purpose. I was just mad. Sodapop can justify that. It was the first time I have ever hit him."

The police officer's gaze lingered on me for a while, as if trying to figure out if I was lying or not, but then he abruptly turned to Soda. "Is what he claims true?"

Soda nodded mutely, staring at the officer, portraying no more emotion than the misty look in his eyes. I knew him better than that. He was probably feeling a lot more than what he was letting on.

The officer noted my claim down and then looked up. "And then what?"

I proceeded to tell him all of the happenings from the night before, how he had run off, how we thought he would have come back. We told him as much as we knew, and he'd noted it all down, his unwelcoming, hard gaze making the process all the more difficult. Once he was done, he got up and shook my hand, though he looked reluctant to. I knew he was probably a Soc when he was younger. He had the general look of disdain toward us the whole time we were being interrogated.

He stepped outside, putting his notepad in his belt. I couldn't help but notice the black handle of his pistol in his holster. "We'll ring if there are any updates. For now, our best bet is that they have run off somewhere in hopes of evading the police. I assure you, we will find them."

The way he said 'we will find them' chilled me to the bone. It wasn't reassuring. He said it with a menacing undertone, like there would be hell to pay as soon as they were in custody of the police. I formed a tight-lipped smile and shut the door in his face. As soon as he left, I had leaned against the door and stared out into the living room, not really believing this was happening but knowing it was.

"I can't believe Johnny would kill somebody," Soda said, breaking the suffocating silence. I shot him a glance and closed my eyes for a moment. Then I sighed tiredly and sat down on my recliner, resting my chin on my hand and staring out at nothing. Isn't it funny how you want somebody more when they're not around anymore? I suddenly, savagely, missed my mother and father, knowing they'd know what to do. I didn't know what to do. I was floundering and the water was coming up all around me, threatening to drown me. My shoulders ached as if I were carrying ten-ton bricks on them. My temples pulsated with the amount of stress that was bearing down on me, like a tornado during a monsoon. It can't get any worse, I reasoned to myself. It just can't.

I hoped I wasn't wrong.

Soda tried his best to cook a little something, because we hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, but neither of us could stomach more than a few bites. The leftover chicken he had heated up tasted like dust in my mouth.

Not too long after the officer left, Steve and Two-Bit dropped by with a copy of today's local paper, and that only confirmed what the officer told us. For some reason, I was refusing to believe the fact that my brother was caught in a murder rap, but the big bold letters on the newspaper headline shattered all of my false hope that this wasn't real. I just stared at it. Soda took the paper from my hands and started reading the story, his face looking more and more horrified as he moved through the story.

"They hauled Dally down to the station for questioning," Two-Bit told us, his laughing personality now suppressed with the weight of the dilemma at hand. His gray eyes weren't shining like they usually were, but instead they were stormy and dark, like a threatening rain cloud. Steve just looked floored, like he couldn't believe that Pony and Johnny could pull such a stunt. I knew they never got along, he and Pony, but now he looked worried about him.

Soda's head snapped up suddenly, his eyes lighting up with interest. "Dally! What did he do? He would know something, wouldn't he?"

Two-Bit shrugged, folding the paper under his arm. "Dallas always knows what the word on the street is. They probably brought him in 'cause he's a class-A JD and he ought to know a thing or two."

Soda thought for a moment, and then declared, "I'm gonna talk to him. Have you guys seen him at all?" He still looked shell-shocked, but there was an ounce of determination behind his eyes. I knew him better than anyone, and I knew all he wanted was to know Pony was okay. He was seeking reassurance, more than anything.

Steve crossed his arms, chewing on a toothpick, furrowing his thick eyebrows. "Probably hangin' at Buck's or somethin'. You know him."

Soda sat, deep in thought. I could tell the gears were turning in his brain, that he was plotting something, but I was too tired to care. I sighed again and pressed my palms to my eyes. This was just one huge, fucked up mess. I shouldn't have hit him. If I hadn't hit him, none of this would be happening. He would be hanging around town, or reading a book, or doing whatever the hell he does on the weekends. He would be a ring away and he wouldn't be missing. I'd know where he was, the cops wouldn't be on our tail, and I wouldn't feel so guilty. I shouldn't have hit him.

Silence filled the house, and it was obvious that Two and Steve were uneasy at our unnaturally quiet demeanor. They lingered, just to be nice, but then cut themselves loose. They were going downtown, telling us that they would ask around and try to get more information. They left us to ourselves, and I wished desperately that they hadn't. The silence only represented the growing rift between me and Soda, and even though he only sat five feet away from me, it seemed more like a world away. He refused to look in my direction, let alone at me. The water was up to my neck now. It was about to rise above my head and swallow me whole. It was a losing battle to try and swim to shore, because the more I fought against the water, the further the shore got from me.

"What now?" Soda asked me again. We both broke out of our daze and I was ripped back to the present. I looked up from the ground and realized he was finally looking at me. I met his gaze and knew the hopeless look in his bloodshot brown eyes was reflected in my blue ones. I didn't know the answer to 'what now'. It seemed I didn't know the answer to anything anymore.

I moved our phone line closer to me and leaned back in my recliner, trying to relax but failing to. I broke away from Soda's desperate expression and trained my eyes onto the black phone cradle. The only sufficient answer I could come up with was, "We wait."

There was nothing left to do but wait.

A/N: I know I haven't finished Dark Alleys yet but I think I might rewrite parts of it. Title taken from "Behind Blue Eyes" by the Who.