Chapter 9
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," l 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 Tshirts 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?"
"Well, Johnny won't be there this time..."
---Johnny and I sometimes ganged up
on one big guy--- "but then, Curly Shepard
won't be there either, or Dally, and we'll
need
every man we can get."
"What happened to Shepard?"
I asked, remembering Tim Shepard's kid brother.
Curly, who was a tough, cool, hard-as-nails
Tim in miniature, and I had once played
chicken by holding our cigarette ends against
each other's fingers.
We had stood there,
clenching our teeth and grimacing, with sweat
pouring down our faces and the smell of
burning flesh making us sick, each refusing
to holler, until Tim happened to stroll by.
When he saw that we were really burning holes
in each other he cracked our heads
together, swearing to kill us both if we ever
pulled a stunt like that again.
I still have the scar on my forefinger.
Curly was an average downtown hood, tough
and not real bright,
but I liked him.
He could take anything.
"He's in the cooler," Steve said, kicking
the ace out of Soda's shoe.
"In the
reformatory."
Again?
I thought, and said, "Let me fight, Darry.
If it was blades or chains or
something it'd be different.
Nobody ever gets really hurt in a skin rumble."
"Well"--- Darry gave in--- "I guess you can.
But be careful, and if you get in a
jam, holler and I'll get you out."
"I'll be okay," I said wearily.
"How come you never worry about Sodapop as
much?
I don't see you lecturin' him."
"Man"--- Darry grinned and put his arm across
Soda's shoulders--- "this is one kid
brother I don't have to worry about"
Soda punched him in the ribs affectionately.
"This kiddo can use his head."
Sodapop looked down at me with mock superiority,
but Darry went on: "You can
see he uses it for one thing--- to grow hair
on."
He ducked Soda's swing and took off for
the door.
Two-Bit stuck his head in the door just as
Darry went flying out of it.
Leaping as
he went off the steps, Darry turned a somersault
in mid-air, hit the ground, and bounced
up before Soda could catch him.
"Welup," Two-Bit said cheerfully, cocking
an eyebrow, "I see we are in prime
condition for a rumble.
Is everybody happy?"
"Yeah!" screamed Soda as he too did a flying
somersault off the steps.
He flipped
up to walk on his hands and then did a no-hands
cartwheel across the yard to beat Darry's
performance.
The excitement was catching.
Screeching like an Indian, Steve went
running across the lawn in flying leaps, stopped
suddenly, and flipped backward.
We
could all do acrobatics because Darry had
taken a course at the Y and then spent a whole
summer teaching us everything he'd learned
on the grounds that it might come in handy
in a fight.
It did, but it also got Two-Bit and Soda jailed
once.
They were doing mid-air
flips down a downtown sidewalk, walking on
their hands and otherwise disturbing the
public and the police.
Leave it to those two to pull something like
that.
With a happy whoop I did a no-hands cartwheel
off the porch steps, hit the
ground, and rolled to my feet.
Two-Bit followed me in a similar manner.
"I am a greaser," Sodapop chanted.
"I am a JD and a hood.
I blacken the name of
our fair city.
I beat up people.
I rob gas stations.
I am a menace to society.
Man, do I have
fun!"
"Greaser... greaser... greaser..."
Steve singsonged.
"O victim of environment,
underprivileged, rotten, no-count hood!"
"Juvenile delinquent, you're no good!"
Darry shouted.
"Get thee hence, white trash," Two-Bit said
in a snobbish voice.
"I am a Soc.
I am
the privileged and the well-dressed.
I throw beer blasts, drive fancy cars, break
windows
at fancy parties."
"And what do you do for fun?"
I inquired in a serious, awed voice.
"I jump greasers!"
Two-Bit screamed, and did a cartwheel.
We settled down as we walked to the lot.
Two-Bit was the only one wearing a
jacket; he had a couple of cans of beer stuffed
in it.
He always gets high before a rumble.
Before anything else, too, come to think of
it.
I shook my head.
I'd hate to see the day
when I had to get my nerve from a can.
I'd tried drinking once before.
The stuff tasted
awful, I got sick, had a headache, and when
Darry found out, he grounded me for two
weeks.
But that was the last time Id ever drink.
Id seen too much of what drinking did for
you at Johnny's house.
"Hey, Two-Bit," I said, deciding to complete
my survey, "how come you like to
fight?"
He looked at me as if I was off my nut.
"Shoot, everybody fights."
If everybody jumped in the Arkansas River,
ol' Two-Bit would be right on their
heels.
I had it then.
Soda fought for fun, Steve for hatred, Darry
for pride, and Two-Bit
for conformity.
Why do I fight?
I thought, and couldn't think of any real
good reason.
There isn't any real good reason for fighting
except self-defense.
"Listen, Soda, you and Ponyboy," Darry said
as we strode down the street, "if the
fuzz show, you two beat it out of there.
The rest of us can only get jailed.
You two can
get sent to a boys' home."
"Nobody in this neighborhood's going to call
the fuzz," Steve said grimly.
'They
know what'd happen if they did."
"All the same, you two blow at the first sign
of trouble.
You hear me?"
"You sure don't need an amplifier," Soda said,
and stuck out his tongue at the
back of Darry's head.
I stifled a giggle.
If you want to see something funny, it's a
tough
hood sticking his tongue out at his big brother.
TIM SHEPARD AND company were already waiting
when we arrived at the
vacant lot, along with a gang from Brumly,
one of the suburbs.
Tim was a lean, catlike
eighteen-year-old who looked like the model
JD you see in movies and magazines.
He
had the right curly black hair, smoldering
dark eyes, and a long scar from temple to
chin
where a tramp had belted him with a broken
pop bottle.
He had a tough, hard look to him,
and his nose had been broken twice.
Like Dally's, his smile was grim and bitter.
He was
one of those who enjoy being a hood.
The rest of his bunch were the same way.
The boys
from Brumly, too.
Young hoods--- who would grow up to be old
hoods.
I'd never thought
about it before, but they'd just get worse
as they got older, not better.
I looked at Darry.
He wasn't going to be any hood when he got
old.
He was going to get somewhere.
Living
the way we do would only make him more determined
to get somewhere.
That's why he's
better than the rest of us, I thought.
He's going somewhere.
And I was going to be like
him.
I wasn't going to live in a lousy neighborhood
all my life.
Tim had the tense, hungry look of an alley
cat--- that's what he's always reminded
me of, an alley cat--- and he was constantly
restless.
His boys ranged from fifteen to
nineteen, hard-looking characters who were
used to the strict discipline Tim gave out.
That was the difference between his gang and
ours--- they had a leader and were
organized; we were just buddies who stuck
together--- each man was his own leader.
Maybe that was why we could whip them.
Tim and the leader of the Brumly outfit moved
forward to shake hands with each
of us--- proving that our gangs were on the
same side in this fight, although most of
the
guys in those two outfits weren't exactly
what Id like to call my friends.
When Tim got to
me he studied me, maybe remembering how his
kid brother and I had played chicken.
"You and the quiet black-headed kid were the
ones who killed that Soc?"
"Yeah," I said, pretending to be proud of
it; then I thought of Cherry and Randy
and got a sick feeling in my stomach.
"Good goin', kid.
Curly always said you were a good kid.
Curly's in the
reformatory for the next six months."
Tim grinned ruefully, probably thinking of
his
roughneck, hard-headed brother.
"He got caught breakin' into a liquor store,
the little..."
He went on to call Curly every unprintable
name under the sun--- in Tim's way of
thinking, terms of affection.
I surveyed the scene with pride.
I was the youngest one there.
Even Curly, if he
had been there, had turned fifteen, so he
was older than me.
I could tell Darry realized
this too, and although he was proud, I also
knew he was worried.
Shoot, I thought, I'll
fight so good this time he won't ever worry
about me again.
I'll show him that someone
besides Sodapop can use his head.
One of the Brumly guys waved me over.
We mostly stuck with our own outfits,
so I was a little leery of going over to him,
but I shrugged.
He asked to borrow a weed,
then lit up.
"That big guy with y'all, you know him pretty
well?"
"I ought to, he's my brother," I said.
I couldn't honestly say "Yes."
I knew Darry
as well as he knew me, and that isn't saying
a whole lot.
"No kiddin'?
I got a feelin' he's gonna be asked to start
the fireworks around here.
He a pretty good bopper?"
He meant rumbler.
Those Brumly boys have weird vocabularies.
l doubt if half of
them can read a newspaper or spell much more
than their names, and it comes out in their
speech.
I mean, you take a guy that calls a rumble
"bop-action," and you can tell he isn't
real educated.
"Yep," I said.
"But why him?"
He shrugged.
"Why anybody else?"
I looked our outfits over.
Most greasers don't have real tuff builds
or anything.
They're mostly lean and kind of panther-looking
in a slouchy way.
This is partly because
they don't eat much and partly because they're
slouchy.
Darry looked like he could whip
anyone there.
I think most of the guys were nervous because
of the 'no weapons' rule.
I
didn't know about the Brumly boys, but I knew
Shepard's gang were used to fighting with
anything they could get their hands on---
bicycle chains, blades, pop bottles, pieces
of
pipe, pool sticks, or sometimes even heaters.
I mean guns.
I have a kind of lousy
vocabulary, too, even if I am educated.
Our gang never went in for weapons.
We're just
not that rough.
The only weapons we ever used were knives,
and shoot, we carried them
mostly just for looks.
Like Two-Bit with his black-handled switch.
None of us had ever
really hurt anybody, or wanted to.
Just Johnny.
And he hadn't wanted to.
"Hey, Curtis!"
Tim yelled.
I jumped.
"Which one?"
I heard Soda yell back.
"The big one.
Come on over here."
The guy from Brumly looked at me.
"What did I tell ya?"
I watched Darry going toward Tim and the leader
of the Brumly boys.
He
shouldn't be here, I thought suddenly.
I shouldn't be here and Steve shouldn't be
here and
Soda shouldn't be here and Two-Bit shouldn't
be here.
We're greasers, but not hoods, and
we don't belong with this bunch of future
convicts.
We could end up like them, I thought.
We could.
And the thought didn't help my headache.
I went back to stand with Soda and Steve and
Two-Bit then, because the Socs
were arriving.
Right on time.
They came in four carloads, and filed out
silently.
I counted
twenty-two of them.
There were twenty of us, so I figured the
odds were as even as we
could get them.
Darry always liked to take on two at a time
anyway.
They looked like
they were all cut from the same piece of cloth:
clean shaven with semi-Beatle haircuts,
wearing striped or checkered shirts with light
red or tan-colored jackets or madras ski
jackets.
They could just as easily have been going
to the movies as to a rumble.
That's
why people don't ever think to blame the Socs
and are always ready to jump on us.
We
look hoody and they look decent.
It could be just the other way around--- half
of the
hoods I know are pretty decent guys underneath
all that grease, and from what I've heard,
a lot of Socs are just cold-blooded mean---
but people usually go by looks.
They lined up silently, facing us, and we
lined up facing them.
I looked for Randy
but didn't see him.
I hoped he wasn't there.
A guy with a madras shirt stepped up.
"Let's
get the rules straight--- nothing but our
fists, and the first to run lose.
Right?"
Tim flipped away his beer can.
"You savvy real good."
There was an uneasy silence: Who was going
to start it?
Darry solved the
problem.
He stepped forward under the circle of light
made by the street lamp.
For a
minute, everything looked unreal, like a scene
out of a JD movie or something.
Then
Darry said, "I'll take on anyone."
He stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, his
muscles taut under his T-shirt and his
eyes glittering like ice.
For a second it looked like there wasn't anyone
brave enough to
take him on.
Then there was a slight stir in the faceless
mob of Socs, and a husky blond
guy stepped forward.
He looked at Darry and said quietly, "Hello,
Darrel."
Something flickered behind Darry's eyes and
then they were ice again.
"Hello,
Paul."
I heard Soda give a kind of squeak and I realized
that the blond was Paul Holden.
He had been the best halfback on Darry's football
team at high school and he and Darry
used to buddy it around all the time.
He must be a junior in college by now, I thought.
He
was looking at Darry with an expression I
couldn't quite place, but disliked.
Contempt?
Pity?
Hate?
All three?
Why?
Because Darry was standing there representing
all of us, and
maybe Paul felt only contempt and pity and
hate for greasers?
Darry hadn't moved a
muscle or changed expression, but you could
see he hated Paul now.
It wasn't only
jealousy--- Darry had aright to be jealous;
he was ashamed to be on our side, ashamed
to
be seen with the Brumly boys, Shepard's gang,
maybe even us.
Nobody realized it but me
and Soda.
It didn't matter to anyone but me and Soda.
That's stupid, I thought swiftly, they've
both come here to fight and they're both
supposed to be smarter than that.
What difference does the side make?
Then Paul said, "I'll take you," and something
like a smile crossed Darry's face.
I
knew Darry had thought he could take Paul
any time.
But that was two or three years ago.
What if Paul was better now?
I swallowed.
Neither one of my brothers had ever been
beaten in a fight, but I wasn't exactly itching
for someone to break the record.
They moved in a circle under the light, counterclockwise,
eyeing each other,
sizing each other up, maybe remembering old
faults and wondering if they were still
there.
The rest of us waited with mounting tension.
I was reminded of Jack London's
books--- you know, where the wolf pack waits
in silence for one of two members to go
down in a fight.
But it was different here.
The moment either one swung a punch, the
rumble would be on.
The silence grew heavier, and I could hear
the harsh heavy breathing of the boys
around me.
Still Darry and the Soc walked slowly in a
circle.
Even I could feel their
hatred.
They used to be buddies, I thought, they used
to be friends, and now they hate
each other because one has to work for a living
and the other comes from the West Side.
They shouldn't hate each other...
I don't hate the Socs any more... they shouldn't
hate...
"Hold up!" a familiar voice yelled.
"Hold it!"
Darry turned to see who it was, and
Paul swung--- a hard right to the jaw that
would have felled anyone but Darry.
The
rumble was on.
Dallas Winston ran to join us.
I couldn't find a Soc my size, so I took the
next-best size and jumped on him.
Dallas was right beside me, already on top
of someone.
"I thought you were in the hospital," I yelled
as the Soc knocked me to the ground
and I rolled to avoid getting kicked.
"I was."
Dally was having a hard time because his left
arm was still in bad shape.
"I ain't now."
"How?"
I managed to ask as the Soc I was fighting
leaped on me and we rolled
near Dally.
"Talked the nurse into it with Two-Bit's switch.
Don't you know a rumble ain't a
rumble unless I'm in it?"
I couldn't answer because the Soc, who was
heavier than I took him for, had me
pinned and was slugging the sense out of me.
I thought dizzily that he was going to knock
some of my teeth loose or break my nose or
something, and I knew I didn't have a
chance.
But Darry was keeping an eye out for me; he
caught that guy by the shoulder and
half lifted him up before knocking him three
feet with a sledge-hammer blow.
I decided it
would be fair for me to help Dally since he
could use only one arm.
They were slugging it out, but Dallas was
getting the worst of it, so I jumped on
his Soc's back, pulling his hair and pounding
him.
He reached back and caught me by the neck
and threw me over his head to the ground.
Tim Shepard, who was fighting two at
once, accidentally stepped on me, knocking
my breath out.
I was up again as soon as I got
my wind, and jumped right back on the Soc,
trying my best to strangle him.
While he was
prying my fingers loose, Dally knocked him
backward, so that all three of us rolled on
the
ground, gasping, cussing, and punching.
Somebody kicked me hard in the ribs and I
yelped in spite of myself.
Some Soc
had knocked out one of our bunch and was kicking
me as hard as he could.
But I had both
arms wrapped around the other Soc's neck and
refused to let go.
Dally was slugging him,
and I hung on desperately, although that other
Soc was kicking me and you'd better
believe it hurt.
Finally he kicked me in the head so hard it
stunned me, and I lay limp,
trying to clear my mind and keep from blacking
out.
I could hear the racket, but only
dimly through the buzzing in my ears.
Numerous bruises along my back and on my face
were throbbing, but I felt detached from the
pain, as if it wasn't really me feeling it.
"They're running!"
I heard a voice yell joyfully.
"Look at the dirty--- run!"
It seemed to me that the voice belonged to
Two-Bit, but I couldn't be sure.
I tried
to sit up, and saw that the Socs were getting
into their cars and leaving.
Tim Shepard was
swearing blue and green because his nose was
broken again, and the leader of the Brumly
boys was working over one of his own men because
he had broken the rules and used a
piece of pipe in the fighting.
Steve lay doubled up and groaning about ten
feet from me.
We found out later he had three broken ribs.
Sodapop was beside him, talking in a low
steady voice.
I did a double take when I saw Two-Bit---
blood was streaming down one
side of his face and one hand was busted wide
open; but he was grinning happily because
the Socs were running.
"We won," Darry announced in a tired voice.
He was going to have a black eye
and there was a cut across his forehead.
"We beat the Socs."
Dally stood beside me quietly for a minute,
trying to grasp the fact that we had
really beaten the Socs.
Then, grabbing my shirt, he hauled me to my
feet.
"Come on!"
He
half dragged me down the street.
"We're goin' to see Johnny."
I tried to run but stumbled, and Dally impatiently
shoved me along.
"Hurry!
He
was gettin' worse when I left.
He wants to see you."
I don't know how Dallas could travel so fast
and hard after being knocked around
and having his sore arm hurt some more, but
I tried to keep up with him.
Track wasn't
ever like the running I did that night.
I was still dizzy and had only a dim realization
of
where I was going and why.
Dally had Buck Merril's T-bird parked in front
of our house, and we hopped into
it.
I sat tight as Dally roared the car down the
street.
We were on Tenth when a siren
came on behind us and I saw the reflection
of the red light flashing in the windshield.
"Look sick," Dally commanded.
"I'll say I'm taking you to the hospital,
which'll
be truth enough."
I leaned against the cold glass of the window
and tried to look sick, which wasn't
too hard, feeling the way I did right then.
The policeman looked disgusted.
"All right, buddy, where's the fire?"
"The kid"--- Dally jerked a thumb toward me---
"he fell over on his motorcycle
and I'm takin' him to the hospital."
I groaned, and it wasn't all fake-out.
I guess I looked pretty bad, too, being cut
and
bruised like I was.
The fuzz changed his tone.
"Is he real bad?
Do you need an escort?"
"How would I know if he's bad or not?
I ain't no doc.
Yeah, we could use an
escort."
And as the policeman got back into his car
I heard Dally hiss, "Sucker!"
With the siren ahead of us, we made record
time getting to the hospital.
All the
way there Dally kept talking and talking about
something, but I was too dizzy to make
most of it out.
"I was crazy, you know that, kid?
Crazy for wantin' Johnny to stay outa trouble,
for not wantin' him to get hard.
If he'd been like me he'd never have been
in this mess.
If
he'd got smart like me he'd never have run
into that church.
That's what you get for
helpin' people.
Editorials in the paper and a lot of trouble....
You'd better wise up, Pony...
you get tough like me and you don't get hurt.
You look out for yourself and nothin' can
touch you..."
He said a lot more stuff, but I didn't get
it all.
I had a stupid feeling that Dally was
out of his mind, the way he kept raving on
and on, because Dallas never talked like that,
but I think now I would have understood if
I hadn't been sick at the time.
The cop left us at the hospital as Dally pretended
to help me out of the car.
The
minute the cop was gone; Dally let go of me
so quick I almost fell.
"Hurry!"
We ran through the lobby and crowded past
people into the elevator.
Several
people yelled at us, I think because we were
pretty racked-up looking, but Dally had
nothing on his mind except Johnny, and I was
too mixed up to know anything but that I
had to follow Dally.
When we finally got to Johnny's room, the
doctor stopped us.
"I'm
sorry, boys, but he's dying."
"We gotta see him," Dally said, and flicked
out Two-Bit's switchblade.
His voice
was shaking.
"We're gonna see him and if you give me any
static you'll end up on your
own operatin' table."
The doctor didn't bat an eye.
"You can see him, but it's because you're
his friends,
not because of that knife."
Dally looked at him for a second, then put
the knife back in his pocket.
We both
went into Johnny's room, standing there for
a second, getting our breath back in heavy
gulps.
It was awful quiet.
It was scary quiet.
I looked at Johnny.
He was very still, and for
a moment I thought in agony: He's dead already.
We're too late.
Dally swallowed, wiping the sweat off his
upper lip.
"Johnnycake?" he said in a
hoarse voice.
"Johnny?"
Johnny stirred weakly, then opened his eyes.
"Hey," he managed softly.
"We won," Dally panted.
"We beat the Socs.
We stomped them--- chased them
outa our territory."
Johnny didn't even try to grin at him.
"Useless... fighting's no good...."
He was
awful white.
Dally licked his lips nervously.
"They're still writing editorials about you
in the
paper.
For being a hero and all."
He was talking too fast and too calmly.
"Yeah, they're
calling you a hero now and heroizin' all the
greasers.
We're all proud of you, buddy."
Johnny's eyes glowed.
Dally was proud of him.
That was all Johnny had ever
wanted.
"Ponyboy."
I barely heard him.
I came closer and leaned over to hear what
he was going to
say.
"Stay gold, Ponyboy.
Stay gold..."
The pillow seemed to sink a little, and Johnny
died.
You read about people looking peacefully asleep
when they're dead, but they
don't.
Johnny just looked dead.
Like a candle with the flame gone.
I tried to say
something, but I couldn't make a sound.
Dally swallowed and reached over to push Johnny's
hair back.
"Never could keep
that hair back... that's what you get for
tryin' to help people, you little punk, that's
what
you get..."
Whirling suddenly, he slammed back against
the wall.
His face contracted in
agony, and sweat streamed down his face.
"Damnit, Johnny..." he begged, slamming one
fist against the wall, hammering it
to make it obey his will.
"Oh, damnit, Johnny, don't die, please don't
die..."
He suddenly bolted through the door and down
the hall.
