The Outsiders (14 page)

“Oh, lordy!” There was a catch in Two-Bit’s voice and he was closer to tears than I’d ever seen him. “He has to live with that.”

We hurried to the elevator to get to the next floor. I hoped the nurse would have enough sense not to let Johnny’s mother see him. It would kill him.

Dally was arguing with one of the nurses when we came in. He grinned at us. “Man, am I glad to see you! These—hospital people won’t let me smoke, and I want out!”

We sat down, grinning at each other. Dally was his usual mean, ornery self. He was okay.

“Shepard came by to see me a while ago.”

“That’s what Johnny said. What’d he want?”

“Said he saw my picture in the paper and couldn’t believe it didn’t have ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ under it. He mostly came to rub it in about the rumble. Man, I hate not bein’ in that.”

Only last week Tim Shepard had cracked three of Dally’s ribs. But Dally and Tim Shepard had always been buddies; no matter how they fought, they were two of a kind, and they knew it.

Dally was grinning at me. “Kid, you scared the devil outa me the other day. I thought I’d killed you.”

“Me?” I said, puzzled. “Why?”

“When you jumped out of the church. I meant to hit you just hard enough to knock you down and put out the fire, but when you dropped like a ton of lead I thought I’d aimed too high and broke your neck.” He thought for a minute. “I’m glad I didn’t, though.”

“I’ll bet,” I said with a grin. I’d never liked Dally—but then, for the first time, I felt like he was my buddy. And all because he was glad he hadn’t killed me.

Dally looked out the window. “Uh . . .”—he sounded very casual—“how’s the kid?”

“We just left him,” Two-Bit said, and I could tell that he was debating whether to tell Dally the truth or not. “I don’t know about stuff like this . . . but . . . well, he seemed pretty bad to me. He passed out cold before we left him.”

Dally’s jaw line went white as he swore between clenched teeth.

“Two-Bit, you still got that fancy black-handled switch?”

“Yeah.”

“Give it here.”

Two-Bit reached into his back pocket for his prize possession. It was a jet-handled switchblade, ten inches long, that would flash open at a mere breath. It was the reward of two hours of walking aimlessly around a hardware store to divert suspicion. He kept it razor sharp. As far as I knew, he had never pulled it on anyone; he used his plain pocketknife when he needed a blade. But it was his showpiece, his pride and joy—every time he ran into a new hood he pulled it out and showed off with it. Dally knew how much that knife meant to Two-Bit, and if he needed a blade bad enough to ask for it, well, he needed a blade. That was all there was to it. Two-Bit handed it over to Dally without a moment’s hesitation.

“We gotta win that fight tonight,” Dally said. His voice was hard. “We gotta get even with the Socs. For Johnny.”

He put the switch under his pillow and lay back, staring at the ceiling. We left. We knew better than to talk to Dally when his eyes were blazing and he was in a mood like that.

We decided to catch a bus home. I just didn’t feel much
like walking or trying to hitch a ride. Two-Bit left me sitting on the bench at the bus stop while he went to a gas station to buy some cigarettes. I was kind of sick to my stomach and sort of groggy. I was nearly asleep when I felt someone’s hand on my forehead. I almost jumped out of my skin. Two-Bit was looking down at me worriedly. “You feel okay? You’re awful hot.”

“I’m all right,” I said, and when he looked at me as if he didn’t believe me, I got a little panicky. “Don’t tell Darry, okay? Come on, Two-Bit, be a buddy. I’ll be well by tonight. I’ll take a bunch of aspirins.”

“All right,” Two-Bit said reluctantly. “But Darry’ll kill me if you’re really sick and go ahead and fight anyway.”

“I’m okay,” I said, getting a little angry. “And if you keep your mouth shut, Darry won’t know a thing.”

“You know somethin’?” Two-Bit said as we were riding home on the bus. “You’d think you could get away with murder, living with your big brother and all, but Darry’s stricter with you than your folks were, ain’t he?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but they’d raised two boys before me. Darry hasn’t.”

“You know, the only thing that keeps Darry from bein’ a Soc is us.”

“I know,” I said. I had known it for a long time. In spite of not having much money, the only reason Darry couldn’t be a Soc was us. The gang. Me and Soda. Darry was too smart to be a greaser. I don’t know how I knew, I just did. And I was kind of sorry.

I was silent most of the way home. I was thinking about the rumble. I had a sick feeling in my stomach and it wasn’t from being ill. It was the same kind of helplessness I’d felt
that night Darry yelled at me for going to sleep in the lot. I had the same deathly fear that something was going to happen that none of us could stop. As we got off the bus I finally said it. “Tonight—I don’t like it one bit.”

Two-Bit pretended not to understand. “I never knew you to play chicken in a rumble before. Not even when you was a little kid.”

I knew he was trying to make me mad, but I took the bait anyway. “I ain’t chicken, Two-Bit Mathews, and you know it,” I said angrily. “Ain’t I a Curtis, same as Soda and Darry?”

Two-Bit couldn’t deny this, so I went on: “I mean, I got an awful feeling something’s gonna happen.”

“Somethin’
is
gonna happen. We’re gonna stomp the Socs’ guts, that’s what.”

Two-Bit knew what I meant, but doggedly pretended not to. He seemed to feel that if you said something was all right, it immediately was, no matter what. He’s been that way all his life, and I don’t expect he’ll change. Sodapop would have understood, and we would have tried to figure it out together, but Two-Bit just ain’t Soda. Not by a long shot.

Cherry Valance was sitting in her Corvette by the vacant lot when we came by. Her long hair was pinned up, and in daylight she was even better looking. That Sting Ray was one tuff car. A bright red one. It was cool.

“Hi, Ponyboy,” she said. “Hi, Two-Bit.”

Two-Bit stopped. Apparently Cherry had shown up there before during the week Johnny and I had spent in Windrixville.

“What’s up with the big-times?”

She tightened the strings on her ski jacket. “They play your way. No weapons, fair deal. Your rules.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Randy told me. He knows for sure.”

Two-Bit turned and started home. “Thanks, Cherry.”

“Ponyboy, stay a minute,” Cherry said. I stopped and went back to her car. “Randy’s not going to show up at the rumble.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I know.”

“He’s not scared. He’s just sick of fighting. Bob . . .” She swallowed, then went on quietly. “Bob was his best buddy. Since grade school.”

I thought of Soda and Steve. What if one of them saw the other killed? Would that make them stop fighting? No, I thought, maybe it would make Soda stop, but not Steve. He’d go on hating and fighting. Maybe that was what Bob would have done if it had been Randy instead of him.

“How’s Johnny?”

“Not so good,” I said. “Will you go up to see him?”

She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” I demanded. It was the least she could do. It was her boyfriend who had caused it all . . . and then I stopped. Her boyfriend . . .

“I couldn’t,” she said in a quiet, desperate voice. “He killed Bob. Oh, maybe Bob asked for it. I know he did. But I couldn’t ever look at the person who killed him. You only knew his bad side. He could be sweet sometimes, and friendly. But when he got drunk . . . it was that part of him that beat up Johnny. I knew it was Bob when you told me the story. He was so proud of his rings. Why do people sell
liquor to boys? Why? I know there’s a law against it, but kids get it anyway. I can’t go see Johnny. I know I’m too young to be in love and all that, but Bob was something special. He wasn’t just any boy. He had something that made people follow him, something that marked him different, maybe a little better, than the crowd. Do you know what I mean?”

I did. Cherry saw the same things in Dallas. That was why she was afraid to see him, afraid of loving him. I knew what she meant all right. But she also meant she wouldn’t go see Johnny because he had killed Bob. “That’s okay,” I said sharply. It wasn’t Johnny’s fault Bob was a booze-hound and Cherry went for boys who were bound for trouble. “I wouldn’t want you to see him. You’re a traitor to your own kind and not loyal to us. Do you think your spying for us makes up for the fact that you’re sitting there in a Corvette while my brother drops out of school to get a job? Don’t you ever feel sorry for us. Don’t you ever try to give us handouts and then feel high and mighty about it.”

I started to turn and walk off, but something in Cherry’s face made me stop. I was ashamed—I can’t stand to see girls cry. She wasn’t crying, but she was close to it.

“I wasn’t trying to give you charity, Ponyboy. I only wanted to help. I liked you from the start . . . the way you talked. You’re a nice kid, Ponyboy. Do you realize how scarce nice kids are nowadays? Wouldn’t you try to help me if you could?”

I would. I’d help her and Randy both, if I could. “Hey,” I said suddenly, “can you see the sunset real good from the West Side?”

She blinked, startled, then smiled. “Real good.”

“You can see it good from the East Side, too,” I said quietly.

“Thanks, Ponyboy.” She smiled through her tears. “You dig okay.”

She had green eyes. I went on, walking home slowly.

I
T WAS ALMOST SIX-
thirty when I got home. The rumble was set for seven, so I was late for supper, as usual. I always come in late. I forget what time it is. Darry had cooked dinner: baked chicken and potatoes and corn—two chickens because all three of us eat like horses. Especially Darry. But although I love baked chicken, I could hardly swallow any. I swallowed five aspirins, though, when Darry and Soda weren’t looking. I do that all the time because I can’t sleep very well at night. Darry thinks I take just one, but I usually take four. I figured five would keep me going through the rumble and maybe get rid of my headache.

Then I hurried to take a shower and change clothes. Me and Soda and Darry always got spruced up before a rumble. And besides, we wanted to show those Socs we
weren’t trash, that we were just as good as they were.

“Soda,” I called from the bathroom, “when did you start shaving?”

“When I was fifteen,” he yelled back.

“When did Darry?”

“When he was thirteen. Why? You figgerin’ on growing a beard for the rumble?”

“You’re funny. We ought to send you in to the
Reader’s Digest
. I hear they pay a lot for funny things.”

Soda laughed and went right on playing poker with Steve in the living room. Darry had on a tight black T-shirt that showed every muscle on his chest and even the flat hard muscles of his stomach. I’d hate to be the Soc who takes a crack at him, I thought as I pulled on a clean T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. I wished my T-shirt was tighter—I have a pretty good build for my size, but I’d lost a lot of weight in Windrixville and it just didn’t fit right. It was a chilly night and T-shirts aren’t the warmest clothes in the world, but nobody ever gets cold in a rumble, and besides, jackets interfere with your swinging ability.

Soda and Steve and I had put on more hair oil than was necessary, but we wanted to show that we were greasers. Tonight we could be proud of it. Greasers may not have much, but they have a rep. That and long hair. (What kind of world is it where all I have to be proud of is a reputation for being a hood, and greasy hair? I don’t want to be a hood, but even if I don’t steal things and mug people and get boozed up, I’m marked lousy. Why should I be proud of it? Why should I even pretend to be proud of it?) Darry never went in for the long hair. His was short and clean all the time.

I sat in the armchair in the living room, waiting for the rest of the outfit to show up. But of course, tonight the only one coming would be Two-Bit; Johnny and Dallas wouldn’t show. Soda and Steve were playing cards and arguing as usual. Soda was keeping up a steady stream of wisecracks and clowning, and Steve had turned up the radio so loud that it almost broke my eardrums. Of course everybody listens to it loud like that, but it wasn’t just the best thing for a headache.

“You like fights, don’t you, Soda?” I asked suddenly.

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugged. “I like fights.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at me, puzzled. “It’s action. It’s a contest. Like a drag race or a dance or something.”

“Shoot,” said Steve, “I want to beat those Socs’ heads in. When I get in a fight I want to stomp the other guy good. I like it, too.”

“How come you like fights, Darry?” I asked, looking up at him as he stood behind me, leaning in the kitchen doorway. He gave me one of those looks that hide what he’s thinking, but Soda piped up: “He likes to show off his muscles.”

“I’m gonna show ’em off on you, little buddy, if you get any mouthier.”

I digested what Soda had said. It was the truth. Darry liked anything that took strength, like weight-lifting or playing football or roofing houses, even if he was proud of being smart too. Darry never said anything about it, but I knew he liked fights. I felt out of things. I’ll fight anyone anytime, but I don’t like to.

“I don’t know if you ought to be in this rumble, Pony,” Darry said slowly.

Oh, no, I thought in mortal fear, I’ve got to be in it. Right then the most important thing in my life was helping us whip the Socs. Don’t let him make me stay home now. I’ve got to be in it.

“How come? I’ve always come through before, ain’t I?”

“Yeah,” Darry said with a proud grin. “You fight real good for a kid your size. But you were in shape before. You’ve lost weight and you don’t look so great, kid. You’re tensed up too much.”

“Shoot,” said Soda, trying to get the ace out of his shoe without Steve’s seeing him, “we all get tensed up before a rumble. Let him fight tonight. Skin never hurt anyone—no weapons, no danger.”

“I’ll be okay,” I pleaded. “I’ll get hold of a little one, okay?”