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At school, Johnny had to be content with watching Marcia like she was the star of a movie. She thought she looked like one, too. Though nobody had been heard to say she was not pretty, Marcia was not the coveted prize that some of her friends were. In spite of a vote of comparative plainness, she carried herself like a real lady. Strong legged from her cheerleading, straight backed with a head held high and proud. Her style was neat and modestly glamorous. She had a delicately painted face, a bob of clean, dark hair, backcombed to smooth, shining perfection. Droplets of pearl dotted her fuzzy shrug and the glitter of them evoked the Hollywood queens who had comforted and confused Johnny in her younger years.
Looking like that, any boy would have been proud to say she was his girl. But for Johnny, it was how she looked after school. How she looked out of her pearls and in her brushed cotton nightie, with the silly bow on the collar. With her sculpted bouffant ruffled out of shape, and her face scrubbed bare and blushing. She never looked more like a star than then. It was then that Johnny was proudest, and only then that she could show it.
She was worth the stomach churning walk through miles of flat lawns and low fences, with nowhere to hide if trouble came along. Worth the hours spent curled up in the scant shadows of the little apple tree that Johnny thanked God Marcia’s old man had been too stubborn to cut down, waiting for the lights to go out. The minute she rolled through her bedroom window onto the floor, Marcia would join her on the fluffy, white rug and cuddle her close. She stroked her greasy hair and grubby throat as if they were the lushest sable, and kissed her long on her dry, scabby lips. It was never until she had a few good kisses that she would offer Johnny some balm for her lips, or worry at a mark on her cheek, and that was what really made Johnny feel all hot.
At school, Johnny had to keep those memories at bay, or Marcia’s friends might notice her looking. Johnny knew that Marcia watched out for her, because she always caught her eye at just the right moment. Her full mouth would flush even pinker beneath her lipstick, tugging into a knowing smile that would vanish at a glance from her companion. Then her hand would go to her necklace, and Johnny would watch the pearls trickle through her fingertips, and wonder if Marcia was trying to steady her heart and she was her own.
It was a routine that Johnny, with all her learned paranoia, prayed would go undiscovered and unbroken. Marcia would wait for her friends to start chattering amongst themselves, ensuring she was comfortably out of the conversation before silently excusing herself to the bathroom. Johnny would give Ponyboy a signal that he took with a nonchalance that showed greater ease than Johnny thought she would ever feel. She would amble off after Marcia, taking stock of every face that flitted between them, seeing if their eyes had caught them. She would follow Marcia to the C-Block bathroom. It was furthest from the football field, and it was rare that you would find twos, or threes of girls there, fixing their faces up in the mirrors, or teachers chasing them out. Still, it was not without it’s patrons, and just as dangerous for the types who did come to hang out there.
It was a quick enough diversion to make. If Marcia found they had company in there she would either duck into a stall, or make like she was looking for something and dash past Johnny and back out the door. More often than not, to their joy and relief, they found themselves alone.
Marcia was cool as a coke on ice. She did not even look at Johnny when she came in, but leaned, leisurely over the sink and examined her bangs in the rust spotted mirror. In the beam of sunlight poking in through the high, foggy window, her eyes shone brighter than her pearls. Johnny drew up beside her and began the pretence of washing her hands.
“My folks are going away tonight, Johnny Cade.” Marcia muttered, almost absently, as if she were noting a chip in her nail polish. She always addressed Johnny by her full name in school, when she addressed her at all. For safety’s sake. It should have bothered Johnny, but something about it sent a flutter of affection right through her.
“Uh-huh.” Johnny grunted, barely audible over the choke of the old faucet. Marcia dipped into her purse and took out a little tortoiseshell comb, much nicer than the flimsy, plastic thing tucked in Johnny’s jacket, logged with borrowed brylcreem and knots of old hair. She started to flick her nice, clean comb through her tidy bangs.
“They’ll be gone by seven, I expect.”
Johnny would not arrive at her house at seven. She probably would not turn up until at least nine. That would give Marcia’s folks ample time to pop back home for a forgotten purse, or a vital pot of acid reflux pills.
“They’ll be gone all night.” Marcia dropped the comb back into her purse and gave her bangs a finishing shake.
“Sure thing.” Johnny’s blood buzzed in her ears, as she slid behind Marcia to reach the towel. It was half the fear of getting caught together in the bathroom, half the anticipation of the coming evening. The roar was drowned by the flow of warm breath into her ear. Johnny held her’s and trapped a lick of Marcia’s perfume in her throat. Marcia smelled like orange blossom, a popular scent she had smelled on a lot of soc girls who passed her in the corridors. Johnny thought of how she would smell tonight when she could hold her. Like soap and clean skin, and just her. Her mouth would taste like toothpaste and want. Johnny, despite her best efforts, would still be filthy as she was now, and she would still be allowed to kiss Marcia, and touch her. She could hardly believe it. Marcia’s lips brushed her as she whispered;
“See you later, Johnny Cade.”
Johnny surrendered her fears to the promising kiss Marcia pressed onto her neck. Though it weakened her body, it gave her the courage to find her voice and answer.
“See ya then, Marcy.”