Susan Hinton - The Outsiders

We all left the house at a dead run, even Steve, and I wondered vaguely why no one was doing somersaults off the steps this time. Things were sliding in and out of focus, and it seemed funny to me that I couldn’t run in a straight line.

We reached the vacant lot just as Dally came in, running as hard as he could, from the opposite direction. The wail of a siren grew louder and then a police car pulled up across the street from the lot. Doors slammed as the policemen leaped out. Dally had reached the circle of light under the street lamp, and skidding to a halt, he turned and jerked a black object from his waistband. I remembered his voice: I been carryin’ a heater. It ain’t loaded, but it sure does help a bluff.

It was only yesterday that Dally had told Johnny and me that. But yesterday was years ago. A lifetime ago.

Dally raised the gun, and I thought: You blasted fool. They don’t know you’re only bluffing. And even as the policemen’s guns spit fire into the night I knew that was what Dally wanted. He was jerked half around by the impact of the bullets, then slowly crumpled with a look of grim triumph on his face. He was dead before he hit the ground. But I knew that was what he wanted, even as the lot echoed with the cracks of shots, even as I begged silently — Please, not him… not him and Johnny both — I knew he would be dead, because Dally Winston wanted to be dead and he always got what he wanted.

Nobody would write editorials praising Dally. Two friends of mine had died that night: one a hero, the other a hoodlum. But I remembered Dally pulling Johnny through the window of the burning church; Dally giving us his gun, although it could mean jail for him; Dally risking his life for us, trying to keep Johnny out of trouble. And now he was a dead juvenile delinquent and there wouldn’t be any editorials in his favor. Dally didn’t die a hero. He died violent and young and desperate, just like we all knew he’d die someday. Just like Tim Shepard and Curly Shepard and the Brumly boys and the other guys we knew would die someday. But Johnny was right. He died gallant.

Steve stumbled forward with a sob, but Soda caught him by the shoulders.

“Easy, buddy, easy,” I heard him say softly, “there’s nothing we can do now.”

Nothing we can do… not for Dally or Johnny or Tim Shepard or any of us… My stomach gave a violent start and turned into a hunk of ice. The world was spinning around me, and blobs of faces and visions of things past were dancing in the red mist that covered the lot. It swirled into a mass of colors and I felt myself swaying on my feet. Someone cried, “Glory, look at the kid!”

And the ground rushed up to meet me very suddenly.

When I woke up it was light. It was awfully quiet. Too quiet. I mean, our house just isn’t naturally quiet. The radio’s usually going full blast and the TV is turned up loud and people are wrestling and knocking over lamps and tripping over the coffee table and yelling at each other. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite figure it out. Something had happened… I couldn’t remember what. I blinked at Soda bewilderedly. He was sitting on the edge of the bed watching me.

“Soda…”—my voice sounded weak and hoarse—“is somebody sick?”

“Yeah.” His voice was oddly gentle. “Go back to sleep now.”

An idea was slowly dawning on me. “Am I sick?”

He stroked my hair. “Yeah, you’re sick. Now be quiet.”

I had one more question. I was still kind of mixed up. “Is Darry sorry I’m sick?” I had a funny feeling that Darry was sad because I was sick. Everything seemed vague and hazy.

Soda gave me a funny look. He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, he’s sorry you’re sick. Now please shut up, will ya, honey? Go back to sleep.”

I closed my eyes. I was awful tired.

When I woke up next, it was daylight and I was hot under all the blankets on me. I was thirsty and hungry, but my stomach was so uneasy I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold anything down. Darry had pulled the armchair into the bedroom and was asleep in it. He should be at work, I thought. Why is he asleep in the armchair?

“Hey, Darry,” I said softly, shaking his knee. “Hey, Darry, wake up.”

He opened his eyes. “Ponyboy, you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I think so.”

Something had happened… but I still couldn’t remember it, although I was thinking a lot clearer than I was the last time I’d waked up.

He sighed in relief and pushed my hair back. “Gosh, kid, you had us scared to death.”

“What was the matter with me?”

He shook his head. “I told you you were in no condition for a rumble. Exhaustion, shock, minor concussion — and Two-Bit came blubberin’ over here with some tale about how you were running a fever before the rumble and how it was all his fault you were sick. He was pretty torn up that night,” Darry said. He was quiet for a minute. “We all were.”

And then I remembered. Dallas and Johnny were dead. Don’t think of them, I thought. (Don’t remember how Johnny was your buddy, don’t remember that he didn’t want to die. Don’t think of Dally breaking up in the hospital, crumpling under the street light. Try to think that Johnny is better off now, try to remember that Dally would have ended up like that sooner or later. Best of all, don’t think. Blank your mind. Don’t remember. Don’t remember.)

“Where’d I get a concussion?” I said. My head itched, but I couldn’t scratch it for the bandage. “How long have I been asleep?”

“You got a concussion from getting kicked in the head — Soda saw it. He landed all over that Soc. I’ve never seen him so mad. I think he could have whipped anyone, in the state he was in. Today’s Tuesday, and you’ve been asleep and delirious since Saturday night. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” I said slowly. “Darry, I’m not ever going to be able to make up the school I’ve missed. And I’ve still got to go to court and talk to the police about Bob’s getting killed. And now… with Dally…”—I took a deep breath—“Darry, do you think they’ll split us up? Put me in a home or something?”

He was silent. “I don’t know, baby. I just don’t know.”

I stared at the ceiling. What would it be like, I wondered, staring at a different ceiling? What would it be like in a different bed, in a different room? There was a hard painful lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow.

“Don’t you even remember being in the hospital?” Darry asked. He was trying to change the subject.

I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”

“You kept asking for me and Soda. Sometimes for Mom and Dad, too. But mostly for Soda.”

Something in his tone of voice made me look at him. Mostly for Soda. Did I ask for Darry at all, or was he just saying that?

“Darry…” I didn’t know quite what I wanted to say. But I had a sick feeling that maybe I hadn’t called for him while I was delirious, maybe I had only wanted Sodapop to be with me. What all had I said while I was sick? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember.

“Johnny left you his copy of Gone with the Wind . Told the nurse he wanted you to have it.”

I looked at the paperback lying on the table. I didn’t want to finish it. I’d never get past the part where the Southern gentlemen go riding into sure death because they are gallant. Southern gentlemen with big black eyes in blue jeans and T-shirts, Southern gentlemen crumpling under street lights. Don’t remember. Don’t try to decide which one died gallant. Don’t remember.

“Where’s Soda?” I asked, and then I could have kicked myself. Why can’t you talk to Darry, you idiot? I said to myself. Why do you feel uncomfortable talking to Darry?