Susan Hinton - The Outsiders

“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.

IT 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.