Susan Hinton - The Outsiders

“Yessir,” I said, “I’ll try. What’s the theme supposed to be on?”

“Anything you think is important enough to write about. And it isn’t a reference theme; I want your own ideas and your own experiences.”

My first trip to the zoo. Oh, boy, oh, boy. “Yessir,” I said, and got out of there as fast as I could.

At lunch hour I met Two-Bit and Steve out in the back parking lot and we drove over to a little neighborhood grocery store to buy cigarettes and Cokes and candy bars. The store was the grease hang-out and that was about all we ever had for lunch. The Socs were causing a lot of trouble in the school cafeteria — throwing silverware and stuff — and everybody tried to blame it on us greasers. We all got a big laugh out of that. Greasers rarely even eat in the cafeteria.

I was sitting on the fender of Steve’s car, smoking and drinking a Pepsi while he and Two-Bit were inside talking to some girls, when a car drove up and three Socs got out. I just sat there and looked at them and took another swallow of the Pepsi. I wasn’t scared. It was the oddest feeling in the world. I didn’t feel anything —scared, mad, or anything. Just zero.

“You’re the guy that killed Bob Sheldon,” one of them said. “And he was a friend of ours. We don’t like nobody killing our friends, especially greasers.”

Big deal. I busted the end off my bottle and held on to the neck and tossed away my cigarette. “You get back into your car or you’ll get split.”

They looked kind of surprised, and one of them backed up.

“I mean it.” I hopped off the car. “I’ve had about all I can take from you guys.” I started toward them, holding the bottle the way Tim Shepard holds a switch — out and away from myself, in a loose but firm hold. I guess they knew I meant business, because they got into their car and drove off.

“You really would have used that bottle, wouldn’t you?” Two-Bit had been watching from the store doorway. “Steve and me were backing you, but I guess we didn’t need to. You’d have really cut them up, huh?”

“I guess so,” I said with a sigh. I didn’t see what Two-Bit was sweating about — anyone else could have done the same thing and Two-Bit wouldn’t have thought about it twice.

“Ponyboy, listen, don’t get tough. You’re not like the rest of us and don’t try to be…”

What was the matter with Two-Bit? I knew as well as he did that if you got tough you didn’t get hurt. Get smart and nothing can touch you…

“What in the world are you doing?” Two-Bit’s voice broke into my thoughts.

I looked up at him. “Picking up the glass.”

He stared at me for a second, then grinned. “You little sonofagun,” he said in a relieved voice. I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I just went on picking up the glass from the bottle end and put it in a trash can. I didn’t want anyone to get a flat tire.

I tried to write that theme when I got home. I really did, mostly because Darry told me to or else. I thought about writing about Dad, but I couldn’t. It’s going to be a long time before I can even think about my parents. A long time. I tried writing about Soda’s horse, Mickey Mouse, but I couldn’t get it right; it always came out sounding corny. So I started writing names across the paper. Darrel Shaynne Curtis, Jr. Soda Patrick Curtis. Ponyboy Michael Curtis. Then I drew horses all over it. That was going to get a good grade like all git-out.

“Hey, did the mail come in yet?” Soda slammed the door and yelled for the mail, just the way he does every day when he comes home from work. I was in the bedroom, but I knew he would throw his jacket toward the sofa and miss it, take off his shoes, and go into the kitchen for a glass of chocolate milk, because that’s what he does every day of his life. He always runs around in his stocking feet — he doesn’t like shoes.

Then he did a funny thing. He came in and flopped down on the bed and started smoking a cigarette. He hardly ever smokes, except when something is really bugging him or when he wants to look tough. And he doesn’t have to impress us; we know he’s tough. So I figured something was bothering him. “How was work?”

“Okay.”

“Something wrong?”

He shook his head. I shrugged and went back to drawing horses.

Soda cooked dinner that night, and everything came out right. That was unusual, because he’s always trying something different. One time we had green pancakes. Green. I can tell you one thing: if you’ve got a brother like Sodapop, you’re never bored.

All through supper Soda was quiet, and he didn’t eat much. That was really unusual. Most of the time you can’t shut him up or fill him up. Darry didn’t seem to notice, so I didn’t say anything.

Then after supper me and Darry got into a fuss, about the fourth one we’d had that week. This one started because I hadn’t done anything on that theme, and I wanted to go for a ride. It used to be that I’d just stand there and let Darry yell at me, but lately I’d been yelling right back.

“What’s the sweat about my schoolwork?” I finally shouted. “I’ll have to get a job as soon as I get out of school anyway. Look at Soda. He’s doing okay, and he dropped out. You can just lay off!”

“You’re not going to drop out. Listen, with your brains and grades you could get a scholarship, and we could put you through college. But schoolwork’s not the point. You’re living in a vacuum, Pony, and you’re going to have to cut it out. Johnny and Dallas were our buddies, too, but you don’t just stop living because you lose someone. I thought you knew that by now. You don’t quit! And anytime you don’t like the way I’m running things you can get out.”

I went tight and cold. We never talked about Dallas or Johnny. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like me just to get out. Well, it’s not that easy, is it, Soda?” But when I looked at Soda I stopped. His face was white, and when he looked at me his eyes were wide with a pained expression. I suddenly remembered Curly Shepard’s face when he slipped off a telephone pole and broke his arm.

“Don’t… Oh, you guys, why can’t you…” He jumped up suddenly and bolted out the door. Darry and I were struck dumb. Darry picked up the envelope that Soda had dropped.

“It’s the letter he wrote Sandy,” Darry said without expression. “Returned unopened.”

So that was what had been bugging Soda all afternoon. And I hadn’t even bothered to find out. And while I was thinking about it, I realized that I never had paid much attention to Soda’s problems. Darry and I just took it for granted that he didn’t have any.

“When Sandy went to Florida… it wasn’t Soda, Ponyboy. He told me he loved her, but I guess she didn’t love him like he thought she did, because it wasn’t him.”

“You don’t have to draw me a picture,” I said.

“He wanted to marry her anyway, but she just left.” Darry was looking at me with a puzzled expression. “Why didn’t he tell you? I didn’t think he’d tell Steve or Two-Bit, but I thought he told you everything.”

“Maybe he tried,” I said. How many times had Soda started to tell me something, only to find I was daydreaming or stuck in a book? He would always listen to me, no matter what he was doing.

“He cried every night that week you were gone,” Darry said slowly. “Both you and Sandy in the same week.” He put the envelope down. “Come on, let’s go after him.”

We chased him clear to the park. We were gaining on him, but he had a block’s head start.

“Circle around and cut him off,” Darry ordered. Even out of condition I was the best runner. “I’ll stay right behind him.”

I headed through the trees and cut him off halfway across the park. He veered off to the right, but I caught him in a flying tackle before he’d gone more than a couple of steps. It knocked the wind out of both of us. We lay there gasping for a minute or two, and then Soda sat up and brushed the grass off his shirt.