Chapter Text
“We can’t keep him anymore,” Karen growled at Diane. “He’s just so… annoying!” Dallas bit his lip, chewed on it under the mask. “All that hand sanitizer, those gloves, and those damn masks! I said, ‘Honey, let me see your handsome face!’ and do you know what this bastard-”
Dallas tuned it out after that. He’d figured out how to block out words long ago. Behavior was tricky. Emotions were almost impossible. Maybe that was what caused the dull ache in his chest. The feeling of that glimmer of hope he’d had for Karen going out. The disappointment mixing with the relief of going back with Diane. “Should I pack my bag?” he asked.
There was a brief moment of silence from Karen as she turned to look at him. “...Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, go pack your bag.”
So Dallas went to “his” room and grabbed the suitcase his last foster parent had gifted him, saying, “I’m sorry this didn’t work out, bud. You’re a good kid. I’m just not in a good position to take care of you.” That probably hurt the most out of all the times he’d been moved. Chris had actually cared.
He settled into the passenger seat of Diane’s car, sat there silently while she made all the necessary phone calls. Trying to contact a placement, and/or whatever else she did on the phone. Dallas stared out the window.
“Alright, kiddo. Looks like we’re going back to the group home.” Diane’s voice broke him from the incoherent mess of thoughts he was trapped in. Dallas barely nodded.
He’d sat in that same car seat about a million times. He remembered hopping into that seat, wondering what home he’d be going to next. He remembered exhaustedly slumping into it and dozing off almost as soon as he was buckled in, or rather that’s what he was told had happened later on. He remembered that same heartache that was repeated every now and again when people like Karen gave up or people like Chris just couldn’t.
If he got into another home, it couldn’t be any different.
It had been three years. Why was Soda still so upset? Mom was gone. Dad was too. Time to move on. He wanted to go back to Bixby, wanted to say one last goodbye, but Bixby was almost two hours away and Thomas would never let him go that far; wouldn’t take him either. So he just curled up in that bed he had come to view as protection, in that house he desperately wanted out of, with that man he hated, and let his thoughts run wild as all he could do was scrunch his hands under his chin, curl up, and rub his feet together.
“You’re my sunshine, my sweet baby boy,” Momma had whispered. “If you can’t see or feel me… I’m right here,” she cooed, gently touching his chest. “I will always love you. No matter what.”
He remembered how gentle she was, even sick, how she had held him, even as her own cells were killing her. And she just focused on him. Made sure he was alright. Hugged him whenever she could.
He didn’t ask any questions. He buried the feelings deep inside. “Grieve Mommy if she dies, but stay strong for her now,” he’d told himself. “Get your homework done, then go give Mommy some hugs. You might not get to hug her tomorrow.”
He had hugged her the following day. And the day after that. Never again though.
His dad had followed soon after. Grief. His heart couldn’t take it. It was so sudden. After that, there was no mourning, no processing of feelings. Just “new parents” and added trauma.
The thoughts were too loud. He had homework. Get up. Do something. Distract yourself from the big, loud thoughts. But he couldn’t.
Ponyboy sat on the nearly-bare mattress in the corner while a social worker who had introduced herself as Diane explained the situation to him.
“We really can’t let you stay here. It’s… dangerous… unhealthy… sweetheart, I know you’re scared. This isn’t an ideal situation, but…”
“I get it,” Ponyboy said calmly. “I get to go on an adventure until my parents decide they miss me.”
“Well-”
“Just give the little shit his trash bags and get out,” Michelle ordered.
Silence hung in the air for a minute before Ponyboy heard himself saying, “Mom?” Do you not care?
Diane stifled a wince at the harsh language, then turned back to Ponyboy. “Well… yeah. We should probably go.”
The two sat in the car quietly as Oklahoma City streets were driven down. Rush hour traffic drew on the uncomfortable feeling Ponyboy could’ve sworn permeated the air. Did Diane feel it too? Did he do the right thing when he confided in Mr. Estevez about what went on after school? His thoughts were interrupted as they turned and pulled into the place he would stay in until someone chose him.
Darrel Curtis walked through the entrance to the group home, turning right, down a hallway, and into an office labeled, “Mr. Lewis”. The office had a modern fashion about it, gray and white furnishings. Minimalistic chairs and a desk were placed evenly, and a single fake plant rested on top of a shelf, next to a clock.
“Ah, Mr. Curtis! Pleasure to have you with us, we really appreciate it. Please have a seat.” Mr. Lewis grinned, gesturing to one of the chairs.
Darry sat down on the stiff cushion, returning the smile. “Good morning,” he said.
“Once again, sorry you had to drive all the way over here, my partner had an urgent meeting come up, and she had to pass this appointment onto me. Of course, this was late notice, so…” Mr. Lewis trailed off and raised an eyebrow at Darry.
“No apologies needed,” Darry reassured him, shifting in his seat.
“Lovely, lovely. Glad to hear it wasn’t an inconvenience. Anyways, shall we get on with it?” The caseworker clapped his hands together, grinning at Darry again. Darry nodded and Mr. Lewis took out three files from his gray desk, opening them up and spreading them neatly in front of himself. “So, Dallas Winston, Sodapop Smithson, and Ponyboy Davis. Who shall we start with first?”
“Well, you said Dallas first, so… let’s start there.”
“Ah, yes, Dallas, hm…” Mr. Lewis said thoughtfully, shuffling through the binder with the kid’s name neatly typed on the front. “Um, Dallas is sixteen years old, born November 9, 2007, he’s been in the foster care system since he was a day old. His mom was a teenager who planned to take care of him and, therefore, didn’t find an adoptive family for him, but unfortunately died in childbirth and her parents refused to take care of him because he was born out of wedlock, poor kid, and dad panicked upon finding out mom was pregnant, so… anyway, at the age of thirteen, Dallas got severe COVID-19, odd because he doesn’t have any immunocompromising conditions, nor is he on medication that suppresses the immune system, but he now has germaphobia as that is how his PTSD presents. He’s been bounced around quite a few times, and… he’s a flight risk, so, be aware of that.”
“So abandonment issues, germaphobia, and risk of running away.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I think I can handle that. How about Sodapop?”
“Alright, well,” Mr. Lewis said, pulling out Sodapop’s file. “For starters, yes, that is his real name. Um, he’s fifteen, born October 8, 2008, he has ADHD. He actually came from a loving home, but when he was thirteen, his mom died of cancer, and his dad followed shortly after from broken heart syndrome. He has been in four foster homes, and sexually abused and/or assaulted in all of them. Don’t touch him, but he’ll probably just hide in his room most of the time, so.” Mr. Lewis looked back up at Darry for confirmation that he was ready to move on, and upon receiving said confirmation, pulled out Ponyboy’s file. “Ponyboy, once again, real legal name, thirteen years old, born July 22, 2009, looking for his first foster home. Very touch starved, in the system for neglect, the little guy has opted to take it for himself by play fighting. This doesn’t work very well and he has gotten into a fight in the past twenty-four hours.”
Darry nodded. “So when can I meet them?”
Mr. Lewis looked up in surprise. “All three of them?”
“Three traumatized teenage boys? That’s basically my last run. Yeah, I’ll meet ‘em.”