Chapter 12
THE HEARING WASN'T anything like I thought
it would be. Besides Darry and
Soda and me, nobody was there except Randy
and his parents and Cherry Valance and
her parents and a couple of the other guys
that had jumped Johnny and me that night.
I
don't know what I expected the whole thing
to be like--- I guess I've been watching too
many Perry Mason shows. Oh, yeah, the doctor
was there and he had a long talk with the
judge before the hearing. I didn't know what
he had to do with it then, but I do now.
First Randy was questioned. He looked a little
nervous, and I wished they'd let
him have a cigarette. I wished they'd let
me have a cigarette; I was more than a little
shaky myself. Darry had told me to keep my
mouth shut no matter what Randy and
everybody said, that I'd get my turn. All
the Socs told the same story and stuck mainly
to
the truth, except they said Johnny had killed
Bob; but I figured I could straighten that
point out when I got my turn. Cherry told
them what had happened before and after
Johnny and I had been jumped--- I think I
saw a couple of tears slide down her cheeks,
but I'm not sure. Her voice was sure steady
even if she was crying. The judge questioned
everyone carefully, but nothing real emotional
or exciting happened like it does on TV.
He asked Darry and Soda a little bit about
Dally, I think to check our background and
find out what kind of guys we hung out with.
Was he a real good buddy of ours? Darry
said, "Yes, sir;' looking straight at the
judge, not flinching; but Soda looked at me
like he
was sentencing me to the electric chair before
he gave the same answer. I was real proud
of both of them. Dally had been one of our
gang and we wouldn't desert him. I thought
the judge would never get around to questioning
me. Man, I was scared almost stiff by
the time he did. And you know what? They didn't
ask me a thing about Bob's getting
killed. All the judge did was ask me if I
liked living with Darry, if I liked school,
what
kind of grades I made, and stuff like that.
I couldn't figure it out then, but later I
found out
what the doctor had been talking to the judge
about. I guess I looked as scared as I really
was, because the judge grinned at me and told
me to quit chewing my fingernails. That's
a habit I have. Then he said I was acquitted
and the whole case was closed. Just like that.
Didn't even give me a chance to talk much.
But that didn't bother me a lot. I didn't
feel
like talking anyway. I wish I could say that
everything went back to normal, but it didn't.
Especially
me. I started running into things, like the
door, and kept tripping over the coffee table
and
losing things. I always have been kind of
absent-minded, but man, then, I was lucky
if I
got home from school with the right notebook
and with both shoes on. I walked all the
way home once in my stocking feet and didn't
even notice it until Steve made some
bright remark about it. I guess I'd left my
shoes in the locker room at school, but I
never
did find them. And another thing, I quit eating.
I used to eat like a horse, but all of a
sudden I wasn't hungry. Everything tasted
like baloney. I was lousing up my schoolwork,
too. I didn't do too badly in math, because
Darry checked over my homework in that and
usually caught all my mistakes and made me
do it again, but in English I really washed
out. I used to make A's in English, mostly
because my teacher made us do compositions
all the time. I mean, I know I don't talk
good English (Have you ever seen a hood that
did?), but I can write it good when I try.
At least, I could before. Now I was lucky
to get a
D on a composition.
It bothered my English teacher, the way I
was goofing up, I mean. He's a real
good guy, who makes us think, and you can
tell he's interested in you as a person, too.
One day he told me to stay in after the rest
of the class left.
"Ponyboy, I'd like to talk to you about your
grades."
Man, I wished I could beat it out of there.
I knew I was flunking out in that class,
but golly, I couldn't help it.
"There's not much to talk about, judging from
your scores. Pony, I'll give it to you
straight. You're failing this class right
now, but taking into consideration the
circumstances, if you come up with a good
semester theme, I'll pass you with a C grade."
"Taking into consideration the circumstances"
---brother, was that ever a way to
tell me he knew I was goofing up because I'd
been in a lot of trouble. At least that was
a
roundabout way of putting it. The first week
of school after the hearing had been awful.
People I knew wouldn't talk to me, and people
I didn't know would come right up and ask
about the whole mess. Sometimes even teachers.
And my history teacher--- she acted as
if she was scared of me, even though I'd never
caused any trouble in her class. You can
bet that made me feel real tuff.
"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 get-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 school work'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.
"You should have gone out for football instead
of track."
"Where did you think you were going?" I lay
flat on my back and looked at him.
Darry came up and dropped down beside us.
Soda shrugged. "I don't know. It's just...
I can't stand to hear y'all fight.
Sometimes... I just have to get out or...
it's like I'm the middleman in a tug o' war
and I'm
being split in half. You dig?"
Darry gave me a startled look. Neither of
us had realized what it was doing to
Soda to hear us fight. I was sick and cold
with shame. What he said was the truth. Darry
and I did play tug of war with him, with never
a thought to how much it was hurting him.
Soda was fiddling with some dead grass. "I
mean, I can't take sides. It'd be a lot
easier if I could, but I see both sides. Darry
yells too much and tries too hard and takes
everything too serious, and Ponyboy, you don't
think enough, you don't realize all Darry's
giving up just to give you a chance he missed
out on. He could have stuck you in a home
somewhere and worked his way through college.
Ponyboy, I'm telling you the truth. I
dropped out because I'm dumb. I really did
try in school, but you saw my grades. Look,
I'm happy working in a gas station with cars.
You'd never be happy doing something like
that. And Darry, you ought to try to understand
him more, and quit bugging him about
every little mistake he makes. He feels things
differently than you do." He gave us a
pleading look. "Golly, you two, it's bad enough
having to listen to it, but when you start
trying to get me to take sides..." Tears welled
up in his eyes. "We're all we've got left.
We
ought to be able to stick together against
everything. If we don't have each other, we
don't
have anything. If you don't have anything,
you end up like Dallas... and I don't mean
dead, either. I mean like he was before. And
that's worse than dead. Please"--- he wiped
his eyes on his arm--- "don't fight anymore."
Darry looked real worried. I suddenly realized
that Darry was only twenty, that he
wasn't so much older that he couldn't feel
scared or hurt and as lost as the rest of
us. I saw
that I had expected Darry to do all the understanding
without even trying to understand
him. And he had given up a lot for Soda and
me.
"Sure, little buddy," Darry said softly. "We're
not going to fight anymore."
"Hey, Ponyboy"--- Soda gave me a tearful grin---
"don't you start crying, too. One
bawl-baby in the family's enough."
"I'm not crying," I said. Maybe I was. I don't
remember. Soda gave me a playful
punch on the shoulder.
"No more fights. Okay, Ponyboy?" Darry said.
"Okay," I said. And I meant it. Darry and
I would probably still have
misunderstandings--- we were too different
not to--- but no more fights. We couldn't
do
anything to hurt Soda. Sodapop would always
be the middleman, but that didn't mean he
had to keep getting pulled apart. Instead
of Darry and me pulling me apart, he'd be
pulling us together.
"Well," Soda said, "I'm cold. How about going
home?"
"Race you," I challenged, leaping up. It was
a real nice night for a race. The air
was clear and cold and so clean it almost
sparkled. The moon wasn't out but the stars
lit
up everything. It was quiet except for the
sound of our feet on the cement and the dry,
scraping sound of leaves blowing across the
street. It was a real nice night. I guess
I was
still out of shape, because we all three tied.
No. I guess we all just wanted to stay
together.
I still didn't want to do my homework that
night, though. I hunted around for a
book to read, but I'd read everything in the
house about fifty million times, even Darry's
copy of The Carpetbaggers, though he'd told
me I wasn't old enough to read it. I thought
so too after I finished it. Finally I picked
up Gone with the Wind and looked at it for
a
long time. I knew Johnny was dead. I had known
it all the time, even while I was sick and
pretending he wasn't. It was Johnny, not me,
who had killed Bob ---I knew that too. I had
just thought that maybe if I played like Johnny
wasn't dead it wouldn't hurt so much. The
way Two-Bit, after the police had taken Dally's
body away, had griped because he had
lost his switchblade when they searched Dallas,
"Is that all that's bothering you, that switchblade?"
a red-eyed Steve had snapped
at him.
"No," Two-Bit had said with a quivering sigh,
"but that's what I'm wishing was all
that's bothering me."
But it still hurt anyway. You know a guy a
long time, and I mean really know
him, you don't get used to the idea that he's
dead just overnight. Johnny was something
more than a buddy to all of us. I guess he
had listened to more beefs and more problems
from more people than any of us. A guy that'll
really listen to you, listen and care about
what you're saying, is something rare. And
I couldn't forget him telling me that he hadn't
done enough, hadn't been out of our neighborhood
all his life--- and then it was too late.
I
took a deep breath and opened the book. A
slip of paper fell out on the floor and I
picked
it up.
Ponyboy, I asked the nurse to give you this
book so you could finish it. It was
Johnny's handwriting. I went on reading, almost
hearing Johnny's quiet voice. The doctor
came in a while ago but I knew anyway. I keep
getting tireder and tireder. Listen, I don't
mind dying now. It's worth it. It's worth
saving those kids. Their lives are worth more
than mine, they have more to live for. Some
of their parents came by to thank me and I
know it was worth it. Tell Dally it's worth
it. I'm just going to miss you guys. I've
been
thinking about it, and that poem, that guy
that wrote it, he meant you're gold when you're
a kid, like green. When you're a kid everything's
new, dawn. It's just when you get used
to everything that it's day. Like the way
you dig sunsets, Pony. That's gold. Keep that
way, it's a good way to be. I want you to
tell Dally to look at one. He'll probably
think
you're crazy, but ask for me. I don't think
he's ever really seen a sunset. And don't
be so
bugged over being a greaser. You still have
a lot o f time to make yourself be what you
want. There's still lots of good in the world.
Tell Dally. I don't think he knows. Your
buddy, Johnny.
Tell Dally. It was too late to tell Dally.
Would he have listened? I doubted it.
Suddenly it wasn't only a personal thing to
me. I could picture hundreds and hundreds
of
boys living on the wrong sides of cities,
boys with black eyes who jumped at their own
shadows. Hundreds of boys who maybe watched
sunsets and looked at stars and ached
for something better. I could see boys going
down under street lights because they were
mean and tough and hated the world, and it
was too late to tell them that there was still
good in it, and they wouldn't believe you
if you did. It was too vast a problem to be
just a
personal thing. There should be some help,
someone should tell them before it was too
late. Someone should tell their side of the
story, and maybe people would understand then
and wouldn't be so quick to judge a boy by
the amount of hair oil he wore. It was
important to me. I picked up the phone book
and called my English teacher.
"Mr. Syme, this is Ponyboy. That theme---
how long can it be?"
"Why, uh, not less than five pages." He sounded
a little surprised. I'd forgotten it
was late at night.
"Can it be longer?"
"Certainly, Ponyboy, as long as you want it."
"Thanks," I said and hung up.
I sat down and picked up my pen and thought
for a minute. Remembering.
Remembering a handsome, dark boy with a reckless
grin and a hot temper. A tough, towheaded
boy with a cigarette in his mouth and a bitter
grin on his hard face. Remembering-
-- and this time it didn't hurt--- a quiet,
defeated-looking sixteen-year-old whose hair
needed cutting badly and who had black eyes
with a frightened expression to them. One
week had taken all three of them. And I decided
I could tell people, beginning with my
English teacher. I wondered for a long time
how to start that theme, how to start writing
about something that was important to me.
And I finally began like this: When I stepped
out into the bright sunlight from the darkness
of the movie house, I had only two things
on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home...The
End.
