Work Text:
Soda POV
On the first day that their brother was gone, the fuzz showed up just past six in the morning to question them. It was just as well. Neither he nor Darry had gone to bed after Ponyboy ran out a little after two that morning. Soda had wanted to go out and search for him, but Darry refused, saying he wasn't about to let another kid brother out of his sight, and they'd argued something fierce until Soda stomped toward his and Pony's room, figuring that's where Ponyboy would go when he eventually cooled down and returned to the house. Instead, he'd watched the hours crawl by until dawn, when he'd gone back out to the living room to find Darry wild-eyed and pacing.
"He still ain't back?" Soda asked, heart sinking. A part of him thought he'd come out here and find Pony crashed on the couch or something, still angry but safe and sound under their roof.
"I've told him," Darry murmured. "I've told him so many times—"
"He's probably just sleepin' in the lot with Johnny," Soda said, as much to reassure himself as Darry. "Or maybe he went to Two-Bit's."
Darry stopped pacing abruptly. He stared down at his hands, and Soda wondered if he'd replayed the night's events over and over in his head instead of sleeping the way Soda had. "I can't believe I did that."
"Well, you did," he snapped, harsher than he intended, and Darry flinched. He'd already given Darry a piece of his mind last night, but he couldn't help it. If Darry had kept his temper better, Ponyboy wouldn't have run out again. "You shouldn'ta gone after me like that. You know how Pony gets about that kinda stuff."
"I didn't mean—"
"That don't matter. And anyway, you should be telling him that, not me. Don't you think we ought to—"
The doorbell rang.
None of their friends—hell, or their acquaintances—rang the doorbell, they just walked on in. Which meant nobody good could be on the other side of the door. Darry swallowed, then headed for the entryway, Soda hot on his heels.
"Can I help you?" he asked the police officer who flashed his badge at them. He'd schooled his face into a carefully neutral expression.
"Darrel Curtis?" Darry nodded.
"You're the guardian of Ponyboy Curtis?"
"I am."
"May I come in? I'd like to ask you some questions about an incident that occurred last night."
Darry hesitated, just for a second, and Soda understood his confusion. He'd been close to calling the fuzz when Ponyboy didn't come home the first time, but hadn't done it. Talking to the cops led to the involvement of social workers, which would inevitably lead to Darry's guardianship being scrutinized from every angle. They couldn't risk being split up, which meant calling the police was a last resort. The cop was here now, though, and things being what they were, Darry couldn't really say no. He opened the door a little wider. "Of course."
They settled in the living room. The cop motioned for them to sit on the couch as though they were the guests, not him. He remained standing, pad of paper and pencil in hand. Soda didn't like it one bit; already it felt like he'd done something wrong.
"Is Ponyboy okay?" Soda blurted out before the cop could begin. Darry shot him a warning look, but the cop just leveled his gaze at Soda over the notepad.
"What's your name?"
"Sodapop Curtis. I'm Ponyboy's other brother." The cop raised an eyebrow before writing it down.
"Are you aware of your brother's current whereabouts?" Soda didn't miss the way the cop sidestepped his question. He glanced at Darry, suddenly nervous he would say the wrong thing.
"No," Darry replied, his voice even. "He hasn't been here since last night."
"And about what time would that have been?"
Darry stared down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Around two in the morning."
"I see." The cop made another note on his notepad, and Soda had failed enough classes to know they were flunking this test. "Why was he out so late?"
"I—"
"They got into a bit of an argument," Soda interrupted, putting a hand on Darry's arm. He didn't think Darry would admit he’d hit Ponyboy to a cop, but he couldn't risk it. It wasn't just Ponyboy who would get thrown in a boy's home if things went south.
The cop looked at Darry. "That so?"
Darry nodded. "He was out past curfew. I got on him about it when he came back and I…I yelled at him. That's when he ran out. We haven't seen him since."
"What is this about?" Soda asked again, a little desperate now. "Please, sir," he added, when the cop didn't budge. "Did somethin' happen, or—?"
Soda had always been good at wheedling information out of adults, even the ones who weren't naturally inclined to like him. His mom had said once that he was a natural born charmer, but he didn't feel charming now, just scared and confused. It must have shown somehow, because the cop stopped writing and said, "We have reason to believe Ponyboy and his friend Johnny Cade were involved in an altercation last night that resulted in Robert Sheldon's death."
Darry drew in a sharp breath.
Soda felt suddenly lightheaded. "He—wait, someone died? Last night?"
"Robert Sheldon." The cop was watching them both carefully. "Known as Bob to his friends. He was a senior at Will Rogers. Did either of you know him?"
"No," Soda said, shaking his head, a little frantic. "No, I—I guess we may have overlapped at school for a bit, but I didn't know—I mean we don't really hang out with—"
"What do you mean, 'involved in'?" Darry asked.
"It seems," the cop said slowly, still watching as if to catch them lying (it was useless, anyway; Ponyboy had always been the best liar in the family, not either of them), "that Ponyboy and Johnny were seen talking to Bob Sheldon and another boy's girlfriends at the drive-in last night. Did Ponyboy mention anything about that?" Soda shook his head mutely. On his other side, Darry looked just as stunned. "Bob and his friends confronted them at the park sometime between two and three this morning. Bob was stabbed with a switchblade, at which point the other boys ran away. Ponyboy and Johnny haven't been seen since."
Darry laughed a little, incredulous. "And you think one of them did it? That's ridiculous."
"We have four eyewitness accounts of the event from gentlemen who are quite certain what they saw."
"From Socs," Darry said, picking up what the cop wouldn't say outright. "From Bob's friends. You think they can be trusted to tell you what really happened?"
"Mr. Curtis—"
"No," Darry said, standing suddenly. "No, you don't get to come in here and tell us our fourteen-year-old brother killed someone, that's insane, that's—he reads poetry for fun, for God's sake."
Unperturbed, the cop flipped back in his notebook. "I have a statement from a—" he scanned the page until he found what he was looking for— "Randy Adderson saying it was Johnny Cade who pulled the switchblade on Bob," he said, which gave Darry pause. "But we're still investigating. We've yet to find the weapon, but the coroner has confirmed cause of death."
Darry sat down on the couch again abruptly, his face going white. Soda didn't feel much better himself. He didn't think Ponyboy had been carrying a blade the night before, but Johnny never went anywhere without one now, not after what the Socs had done to him several months back. And Johnny would never hurt someone unprovoked, but if the Socs had 'confronted' them, as the cop said…well, there were plenty of unspoken implications in that word, and none of them good.
The cop soldiered on, unphased by the emotional tailspin they were clearly going through. "Just to confirm, neither of you has any knowledge of the events in the park last night, or the drive-in earlier that evening? Ponyboy didn't say anything about it? To you, or anyone else you might have spoken to?"
"No," Darry said quietly.
"And you haven't seen or heard from Ponyboy since two this morning."
"That's correct."
"Alright. Mr. Curtis, I just have one more thing to discuss with you." Soda wished he'd stop saying that. Mr. Curtis was their dad, not Darry. Darry was too young to be dealing with this—any of it, really, but especially surprise interrogations from the fuzz about missing brothers and dead high school kids. "If you have a recent picture of Ponyboy we could use in our investigation—a school photo, maybe—that would be very helpful."
"What are you gonna do with it?" Darry said suspiciously, his patience finally wearing thin.
"Based on what you've told me, and what I've heard from others, this has become a missing persons case. We'll put his picture in the paper—Johnny's too—and if anyone sees them, they can call us. We will, of course, keep you informed."
"No."
The cop looked taken aback. "What?"
"You print his photo in the paper, every Soc in town is gonna be after him. They ain't gonna call you, they'll just—" Darry broke off, shuddering a little. "It ain't gonna be safe for him to come back, even if he wants to."
"Mr. Curtis, we've handled cases like this before—"
"Do you have any more questions for us?" Darry interrupted.
"That's all," the cop said after a brief pause. "But, if you would reconsider—"
"Then we're done here." When Darry stood, Soda did too. He couldn't quite believe this was the same person who'd drilled it into his and Ponyboy’s heads that they needed to be unfailingly polite to cops and social workers and any other authority figure who entered their house. Though he supposed no social worker had ever accused him of murder.
Darry and Soda walked the cop back to the front door. Just before he left, he handed Darry his card. "If you hear from your brother, or learn anything about where he might be, please call me."
Darry nodded once, jaw tight. He shut the door after the cop, then watched through the front window until he'd gotten into his car and driven away. When that was done, Darry retreated to the kitchen, where he dropped the card face down onto the kitchen table without a second thought, then sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "Pony, what in the hell did you get into now?"
…
On the second day that their brother was gone, Darry hauled Soda off to pay a visit to one Dallas Winston the second Soda got off work. He hadn't mentioned his plan to Soda beforehand, just pulled up outside of the DX in the truck a few minutes before Soda's shift was up, wearing an expression that made it clear he wasn't to be argued with. Normally, Soda would have been all for a field trip—especially if it got them closer to finding Ponyboy—but he was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and had been looking forward to heading home. He could feel Steve's concerned eyes on him as he got into the truck.
"Where're we goin'?" Soda asked as they drove. Darry had barely glanced at Soda when he got in, just waited until he was settled and gunned it out of the parking lot.
"To talk to Dally."
"The fuzz let him go, then?"
Darry nodded. "Buck told me." He didn't offer any further explanation. He was in what Soda recognized as survival mode, his mind occupied with the problem in front of him and nothing more. He'd been like this back when their parents first died, all hard and stoic and walled-off, and it had scared Soda something awful at the time. Now, though, Soda knew this was what he did to get through it. He turned his emotions into actions before they could be felt.
"I take it you didn't find out anything new this morning?"
"No," Darry said shortly. He'd insisted Soda go to work that day, but stayed home himself for the second day in a row, calling everyone he could think of to get any information out there about Ponyboy and Johnny. He'd been planning on calling in a couple favors from Tim Shepard if it came down to it, but Soda didn't ask about that. He didn't really want to know.
"You think Dal knows something?"
Darry's face hardened. "They didn't go to Steve or Two-Bit that night for help, and Ponyboy didn't come to us, either. That leaves one option. And Johnny practically hero worships the guy, at that."
"They could have left town without telling anyone," Soda pointed out. They were getting close to Buck's now, the rundown buildings of the East side giving way to ones so slumped and defeated-looking they might have been held up by willpower alone. It sent an uneasy shiver through him. Soda came out here sometimes, but always at night, when the uglier parts of town were smoothed out by the glare of streetlights and occasional full moon.
"Maybe," Darry said, not sounding convinced. When Soda glanced over, both hands were gripping the wheel. "But if what the fuzz are saying is true—"
"Big if," Soda muttered.
"If what they're saying is true," Darry continued, "then Johnny would have just…well—" He broke off, but the images flashed through Soda's head anyway. A switchblade, slick and efficient. A patch of blood-soaked grass in the park. That same blood dried into the creases of Johnny's hands, or Ponyboy's, or both. "What I mean is, they probably weren't thinking too clearly. They would have needed help making a plan."
And Dallas would have helped them; Soda had no doubt about that. Dally loved Johnny, and he had a soft spot for Ponyboy as well, even if he wasn't always real good at showin' it. He would have done anything to keep them safe.
They pulled up to Buck's. The sun was just starting to slip below the trees, sending an eerie orange glow through the otherwise darkened house. No doubt it would light up soon, as music and women and beer began to flow, but for now, it had the forlorn look of a washed-up old movie star.
"We're here to talk to Dally," Darry said the minute Buck opened the door. "And don't go tellin' me he ain't here, cuz I know he is. I don't care what bullshit excuse he gave you to pass along."
Buck stared up at Darry for just a second, taking in his broad frame and his tone and the look on his face that suggested the next person who disagreed with him would get some molars knocked loose. "Second bedroom on the left."
Darry slowed down long enough to knock before busting into Dally's room, which, given what went on behind closed doors at Buck's, wasn’t a bad idea. "Dal! Open the door, I know you're in there." A shuffling sound came from inside, but the door remained closed. Darry had just lifted a hand to go in anyway when it was yanked open, revealing Dally, who looked at them both with narrowed eyes.
"What?"
Darry barreled in without saying anything, and Soda hurried after him. "So this is where you stay over at Buck's, huh?" Soda asked, interested despite himself. The room was an odd shape, long and narrow, like a larger one had been cut in half down the middle. It didn't have much in the way of furniture, just a bed and an upside down milk crate with a carton of cigarettes and an ashtray on top, with everything else strewn at random across the floor.
"Nah," Dally said. "My usual place is upstairs, but I ain't climbin' those stairs with busted ribs." Soda hadn't known his ribs were busted, but now didn't seem like the time to ask. "So I'm stayin' down here for now. Buck ain't exactly got a shortage of beds, ya know." He caught Soda's eye and grinned.
Darry made an impatient noise. "We're not here on social hour," he said. "Where are Ponyboy and Johnny?"
Dally raised one eyebrow as Soda's gaze slid around the room again, catching on a dark blue bundle of fabric in the corner, wadded up like it had been tossed there in a hurry. It looked awfully familiar.
"I got no clue," Dally said. "I told you that yesterday, and the fuzz today. How many times do I have to say it?"
Darry shook his head, unconvinced. "Dal, you best start talking, or I swear I’ll—"
"You'll what?" Dally asked. "Give me the third degree? The fuzz already did. Crack another few ribs? Shepard took care of that already." Well, that answered that question. "You ain't doin' nothin' to me, Darry, because I don't know anything. The sooner you get that through your thick skull, the better."
"Quit screwin' around. There's only one person those boys would have gone to besides me and Soda, and we're all standin' around his room."
"What, they couldn'ta run off on their own? From what I hear, Ponyboy had already decided to do that before the Socs found 'em. And you know what Johnny's folks are like, it wouldn't take him half a second to go with Pony if he asked." Though this was exactly what Soda had suggested in the car, it sounded worse, somehow, coming out of Dally's mouth.
Darry's eyes hardened. "This ain't a game, Dallas. That's my brother we're talkin' about, and Johnny's as good as. They're kids, and they could be in real trouble. I don't see why you gotta be so stubborn about this."
"Me?" Dally laughed a low, dangerous laugh. Even Darry usually wouldn't push Dally when he was in a mood like this, but Darry didn't back down. Soda shrank back further, until he was pressed right up against the wall of the cramped room. "I've told you eight ways to Sunday I got nothin' to do with this. You're the one who won't take no for an answer. And Johnny at least ain't much of a kid no more, he's just a year younger than me."
"Then help us find them!" Darry yelled. "You don't know where they are? Fine. Then what're you doing holed up here while we scour every inch of town and stay up all night waiting for the phone to ring? Two-Bit's all but decided he's goin' to Texas to hunt them down, for Christ's sake. Why aren't you doing your part?"
As Darry grew louder, Dally quieted, and Soda was reminded of a rattlesnake giving its warning rattle before it struck. "In case you didn't notice, I was jammed up at the station all day. And Two-Bit ain't going nowhere, I only told the fuzz that to throw them off the trail. To protect your kid brother. Who, by the way, is the one that got 'em into this mess, not me."
"Damn it, Dallas. Quit screwin' around or I'm gonna run you out of town next!"
Dally squared his shoulders, chest puffed out as both hands curled into fists, and Soda knew that, cracked ribs or not, Dally was seconds away from throwing the first punch. It was never a good idea to turn your back on an angry Dallas Winston, but Soda did anyway, figuring that, between the two of them, Darry at least wouldn’t backhand him into a wall for interfering. He threw himself between them, shoving Darry back several inches so he and Dally were no longer nose to nose.
"Soda—" Darry said impatiently, trying to get around him.
"Stop it! Glory, just stop!" Soda cried. He jabbed a finger at Darry. "You're not runnin' anyone out of town. Ain't nobody else is leaving me if I have any say in the matter, not after Ponyboy and Johnny and—“ he snapped his mouth shut. "Nobody else is allowed to leave," he repeated, a little softer. Darry and Dally both stared at him, Darry looking concerned and Dal expressionless. Soda addressed Darry. "Can we go?"
"Dally—" Darry started.
"Is being an asshole," Soda said tiredly. "I'll give you that. But he said he don’t know anything. So let’s just go.”
Darry studied him a moment longer, then swung his gaze around to Dally. "This ain't over," he said. "Soda?" Soda's eyes had strayed once more to the bundle on the floor that caught his attention earlier. At the sound of his name, he followed his brother out the door, Dally watching them go with the same impassive look on his face.
"You wanna tell me what that was about?" Darry asked a couple minutes into the drive home. When they'd left, Buck's was just starting to pulse with music, men and women drawn from the shadowy streets toward the house like moths to a flame.
Soda chewed his thumb nail, turning to watch sagging telephone lines slip by out the window so he wouldn't have to look at his brother. "Look, Dal's obviously lying about somethin', but you can't force him to talk if he don't want to."
"Not that," Darry said. "I meant—what you said back there, about people leaving you…" Soda had hoped Darry missed the exact wording of his little outburst. He should have known better.
"Look, I know you're worried about Ponyboy." Soda let out a disbelieving little huff. That was the understatement of the year. "I am too, but we're gonna get him back, savvy? Him and Johnny both, this ain't like—"
"Sandy broke up with me," Soda blurted out before he lost his nerve. This wasn't exactly how he'd wanted to break the news to Darry. If he was being honest, he'd hoped he could keep it under wraps until they got Ponyboy back, but he couldn’t hold it in any longer.
"Wait, what?" Darry asked. "When did this happen?"
"Today. Out behind the DX." Soda laughed humorlessly. "Sometime in between her telling me she was pregnant and that she's moving to Florida."
"What?!" Darry slammed on the brake so hard Soda flew toward the dashboard, just barely throwing an arm out in time to stop himself.
"Jesus, Dar," he snapped. "You're the one who asked."
"Sorry. I—sorry." Darry eased off the brake and steered them onto the shoulder of the road, out of the way of passing cars. "But, Soda, what the hell—"
"It ain't mine," Soda added quickly. He pointedly avoided eye contact. "She was—well, she was real sure about that, at least. She told me she was sorry…"
"Glory, kid." Darry sighed, and Soda glanced over long enough to watch him scrub a hand through his hair, looking utterly lost, before turning a worried gaze on him. Soda looked away again. "She was absolutely positive it's not yours?"
"That's what she said," Soda said bitterly. "I didn't ask for all the details." Come to think of it, he probably should have asked for some details, but he'd had plenty on his mind already. Sandy didn't normally visit him at work, so when she'd shown up out of nowhere, he'd thought she heard about Ponyboy, even though he hadn't had a chance to tell her yet. It wouldn't have been hard. The news was all over town. Instead, he'd reached for her hand and she'd pulled away, blue eyes flashing with guilt and something else, something deeper, and his stomach sank, though he didn't know why yet. After that, it was all he could do to make it through the conversation without turning and running in the opposite direction.
"She couldn't have picked a different week to do this?" Darry muttered, and Soda felt bad, briefly, giving Darry yet another crisis to deal with, before he was enveloped in self-pity again.
"I said I would marry her. If she stayed. I told her I loved her, I didn't care if it wasn't mine—" Try as he might, he couldn't keep the tremor from his voice.
"Pepsi…"
Soda pushed on, knowing he would only be able to get the words out once. "It didn't matter what I said. She's leaving tomorrow to live with her grandmother, and I probably ain't ever gonna see her again. She just—she didn't love me enough, I guess." The tremor in his voice cracked right down the middle, and with it spilled a rush of hot tears.
Darry placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and all of Soda's remaining willpower crumbled. He lurched sideways across the middle seat, reaching blindly for Darry and throwing his arms around him. Darry stiffened at first, then readjusted, pulling Soda in closer so he wasn't at such an awkward angle, and Soda marveled that he could feel so old and so young at the same time. Hadn't he just a couple hours ago told a girl he would marry her? Raise a kid with her? And now he could be five years old again, wanting nothing more than the safety of his older brother's arms.
"I'm still mad at you," Soda murmured several minutes later, once he was all cried out.
"I know."
"I wish Pony were here."
"Me too."
"Wait a minute," Soda said. He sat back again, scrubbing at his damp cheeks impatiently. "If we're both here, who's watching the phone? What if someone calls? What if Pony—"
"Hey, easy." Darry held up a calming hand, like Soda was a spooked horse. "I left Two-Bit at the house, just in case." He snorted. "Although we should probably get back before he drinks all our beer."
Soda managed a watery laugh. "Probably."
Darry reached over and patted him on the shoulder one last time before flipping on his turn signal and pulling out onto the road again. "Come on. Let's go home."
…
On the third day that their brother was gone, Soda wrote a letter. He'd never liked writing. Couldn't remember the last time he'd written anything longer than a grocery list, really. His thoughts moved too fast and the pencil too slow for him to get them down on paper properly. He used to watch Ponyboy sit for an hour, sometimes longer, methodically filling a page with words, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. It didn't much matter what it was, either—it could have been a theme for English class, or a history report on something Soda had never heard of, or whatever it was he occasionally scribbled down in his personal notebooks. Nothing broke his concentration.
Soda sat at the kitchen table, trying to channel that focus now. The rest of the house was unnervingly quiet. Darry was at work—there was only so much time he could take off, even in the name of a family emergency, and the bills weren't gonna pay themselves. In any case, Dally wasn't talking and they had no other leads.
Soda switched on the radio, not liking the silence, then switched it off again a minute later, finding the music distracting as he tried to concentrate on the empty page in front of him. He wrote, Ponyboy, across the top of the paper. He stared at it for a while. He got up to sharpen his already sharp pencil. He sat down and stared at the page some more. Finally, he flopped back in his chair, blowing out a frustrated breath.
He didn't know how Ponyboy did this. Soda was most fluent in the language of things that couldn't be captured by his clumsy attempts at words on paper—he expressed himself by hugging his little brother and running a hand through his hair, by making him laugh and laughing in return. Soda wished, suddenly and nonsensically, that Pony was there to show him what to do, to tell him what to say. But that was the problem, wasn't it? The only person who could help him write a letter to Ponyboy was Ponyboy.
The thought made his head spin. Soda glanced at the clock. Darry wouldn't be home for another few hours, but Soda still had to get in and out of the house before he returned. He sighed again, picked up his pencil, and began to write in his neatest handwriting: Well, I guess you got into some trouble, huh? Darry and me nearly went nuts when you ran out like that…
He kept going, brow furrowed in concentration. It took longer than it should have to fill barely half a page of notebook paper, and he wouldn't be winning any awards anytime soon, but he'd said what he needed to say. He wasn't sure he'd spelled everything correctly, but Ponyboy was a smart kid. He'd figure it out just fine.
He folded the paper into careful thirds and set it aside just as the front door banged open and slammed shut again. Perfect timing.
"Hey," Steve said, appearing in the doorway. "Any news yet?"
Soda shook his head.
Steve dropped into the chair next to Soda. "He'll turn up," he said quietly. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. Him and Johnny both. They'll be okay." He reached into his pocket for his car keys and slid them across the table to Soda.
Soda smiled for the first time that day. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you missed him or somethin'."
Steve snorted. "The only thing I miss is you coming with me to poker games instead of sitting around here all night waiting for the phone to ring." But he gave Soda another onceover as Soda stood, keys in one hand and his letter in the other.
"I should be back before Darry. Stay in the living room in case someone calls."
"I know."
"There's cake if you want it."
Steve grinned. "I know. Now get outta here."
Soda felt a disquieting sense of déjà vu as he retraced his and Darry's route back to Buck's from the day before. He didn't knock, just pushed open the unlocked front door and found his way back to Dally's ground floor room. When he answered the door, Dally looked like he'd slept about as much as Soda had, and had the beginnings of pale stubble around his jaw, like he couldn't be bothered to shave. Maybe his ribs were bothering him more than he'd let on.
"You again." Dally didn't look thrilled to see him. Soda vaguely remembered calling him an asshole the day before, but he didn't think that was why. He'd probably been called worse that week alone. Dally glanced past Soda as he pushed his way inside. "Darry ain't with you?"
"I figured you didn't wanna deal with a broken jaw on top of everything else."
"So he don't know you're here."
"Nope. And he ain't gonna know, but it's time you tell me the truth."
Dally crossed his arms. "Do you and Darry both have brain damage, or what? How many times do I gotta tell you I don't have any idea where they are?"
Soda hadn't expected him to say any different, but this time, he was prepared. He strode over to the corner and snatched up the navy blue bundle he'd spotted the day before. He held it up for Dally to see. It was the sweatshirt Ponyboy had been wearing that night at the drive-in, crumpled and musty-smelling from lying on the floor for days. "You wanna try again?"
Recognition flickered in Dally's eyes, but he just stood there, mouth clamped shut, arms still crossed, letting the silence drag on.
"Fine." Soda shook out the sweatshirt, trying not to think about how long it'd likely been since someone swept the floor at Buck Merril's. "Fine, don't tell me. Just—whenever you see him—give him these for me, will you?" He reached for his pocket and pulled out a stack of bills first, then the letter. He'd counted out half of his last paycheck, which was, frankly, more than he could spare, but he had no idea what Ponyboy might need or how much money—if any—he and Johnny had brought with them. "And don't read it or nothin' on the way."
Dallas glanced down at the money and the letter Soda handed him, then shrugged and put them in his own pocket. "That it?" he asked.
"Unless you've decided you're ready to talk."
Dally didn't respond, so Soda folded the sweatshirt carefully, tucked it under one arm, and headed for the door.
"Soda."
Soda turned, raising an eyebrow, and Dally hesitated.
"Pony's gonna be fine," Dally said after a moment. "Johnny's with him, he'll keep the kid out of trouble." He patted his pocket, where he'd stashed Soda's bills and letter. "And I'll make sure he gets this."
Soda knew it was as much of an admission as he was going to get. "Thank you, Dal," he said, barely above a whisper. He left before he could do something stupid, like cry in front of Dallas Winston.
…
Back at the house, Steve stayed with Soda until Darry got home but left before dinner, saying he had homework to do. This was probably true, but both he and Two-Bit had made themselves scarce the past couple days, flitting in and out of the house like it was a waystation, rather than lingering for hours as they normally did. Soda figured they didn't want to intrude while he and Darry were distracted searching for Ponyboy, but most of the time, he wished they'd stay. It was lonely enough without Pony around. He and Darry ate dinner in near silence, and then Soda did the dishes and brought in Ponyboy's sweatshirt from where it was drying over the porch railing—he'd washed it that afternoon. He tucked it in the back of Ponyboy’s dresser drawer before Darry saw.
After it was put away, Soda stood in his and Ponyboy's room for a while, staring at all the stuff Ponyboy had left behind—completed math homework on his desk, a stack of library books on the bedside table, dirty socks flung in one corner. When he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore, he returned to the living room to find Darry posted up in the armchair by the phone, exactly where he'd been the past two nights. "What're you doin'?"
Darry turned weary eyes on him. "What does it look like?"
"Go to bed," Soda said. "I can stay up tonight. It's my turn, anyway."
Darry shook his head, and Soda pursed his lips, frustrated. He'd tried to swap places with Darry the night before, too, but Darry wouldn't have it, and Soda had been too heartsick and exhausted to argue. Instead he'd curled up, crying in a jagged, aimless sort of way, in his own bed, hoping Darry couldn't hear him, knowing he probably could. He'd been scared to close his eyes—scared that his dreams would be full of the awful things that filled his mind during the day: Pony, on the run somewhere, lost and scared; Pony, hurt real bad by the Socs before he could escape; Pony, so mad at his oldest brother that he refused to come home even if (when, he reminded himself. When.) they did find him—but when he'd finally drifted off, somewhere around four in the morning, his sleep had been thick, dreamless.
He wasn't sure Darry had slept at all. When Soda had finally stumbled out of bed a little after seven, he'd found Darry awake, newspaper forgotten in his lap as he stared at the phone that refused to ring with bloodshot eyes.
"Dar—" Soda tried now.
"Soda," Darry replied, mimicking his tone. "I can sleep out here."
"But you won't. You'll just watch that damn phone all night."
Darry didn't argue, which told Soda he'd correctly guessed his plan. "Please?" he asked once more, hating how meek his voice sounded. "Let me stay up tonight instead. I'll wake you the second I hear anything."
Darry just gave him a sad smile. "Get some sleep, Pepsi. You have work tomorrow."
"So do you," Soda muttered, wondering who he had wronged in a past life to get two of the most stubborn people on the planet as brothers in this one.
Well, two could play that game. He headed for his room, grabbing his pillow and the comforter off the bed and returning to the living room to bunk down on the couch. Darry didn't say anything, just watched as Soda switched on the TV to cartoons and turned the volume down low, figuring that if Darry was going to sit there all night long, he would at least have some company when Soda finally succumbed to sleep.
…
On the fourth day that their brother was gone, Soda found Darry hunched over on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. He'd seen this happen once before, about a month after their parents died, though it didn't make it any easier to witness the second time around. At least they were alone now. The first time, Ponyboy had been the one to find him, and gone running to Soda for help.
"Darry?" Soda asked, dropping to the floor beside him. "Dar!" He may as well have been a ghost for all the good it did. Darry continued to stare at nothing, chest rising and falling in short, panicked bursts. "C'mon, you gotta snap out of it." Soda shook Darry's shoulder, just a little bit, and Darry didn't quite look at him, but his head turned about a quarter inch in his direction.
"Soda—" he gasped out.
"Yeah, it's me," Soda said, trying to sound comforting rather than scared out of his mind. "Come on, Dar, you gotta breathe." A wave of helplessness washed over him. Glory, sometimes he wished Darry would just cry when he was upset about something like a normal person. Soda had plenty of practice dealing with that. What had worked last time? He thought back. He'd shooed a terrified Pony into their bedroom, and then…
Soda jumped up, reaching over where Darry was curled in on himself to grab a glass and fill it with water. Then he crouched down again, pressing it into one of Darry's hands. "Drink this," he said.
Darry stared at it, uncomprehending.
"Drink it," Soda repeated, a little more forcefully. Darry lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip, and for a moment, those horrible, strangled breaths paused.
"Good." He waited while Darry watched his own chest rising and falling for a few seconds, trying to match it, then took another sip. Little by little, he emptied the cup, his breathing growing a little steadier after each drink.
When he was most of the way to normal, Soda tried again. "Darry?"
"I'm okay now," Darry replied, and Soda sighed, rocking backward off the balls of his feet where he'd been crouched to sit against the counter next to Darry.
"I thought you had work 'til six."
"They sent me home," Darry said faintly.
"Wonder why." Soda sent a silent, mental thank you to Darry's boss. Darry managed to glare at him, which Soda took as a good sign that he was coming back to himself. "When's the last time you slept more than a couple hours?"
Darry squinted at him, despite the fact that they were maybe a foot apart. "What day is it again?"
"Jesus, Dar, we can't find him if you're too sleep deprived to function."
"Can't find him if I'm not awake, either," Darry countered, and Soda couldn't think of a single thing to say to that. He glanced around, trying to see if anything in particular had set this episode off, but the kitchen looked how it always did, other than a phonebook lying open on the table.
"What were you doin' with the phonebook?"
"Calling every hospital and county lock-up in a twenty mile radius."
Soda's blood ran cold. "Did you—"
Darry shook his head. "Nothing."
Soda couldn't decide if he was disappointed or relieved. A jail cell or a hospital bed were two of the last places he wanted to find Ponyboy, but all this nothing was getting old fast. Dally knows where he is, he reminded himself. He hesitated, wondering if he should mention his visit to Dally before Darry fell apart completely. He hadn't quite plucked up the nerve when Darry said suddenly, "It's my fault."
Soda blinked. "What is?"
"Pony. It's my fault he's gone." He took a shuddering breath. "It's my fault he hates me."
"He don't hate you," Soda said fiercely, though he remembered, somewhat uncomfortably, saying the exact same thing to Ponyboy about Darry not even a week ago. "You guys just don't…get each other."
Darry ignored this. "I hit him," he said. "And I yelled at him, he never would have left the house or been in the park that night if I hadn't—"
"Hey, you'll drive yourself crazy doin' that," Soda said. "And it won't do anyone any good besides."
"You should hate me, too."
"Dar," Soda said in a hushed voice. "Don't be stupid." As if he could ever hate Darry. He couldn't even stay mad at him for long, even when Darry and Ponyboy were getting on his last nerve with all their bickering. And yeah, Soda had been real pissed the night Ponyboy left, but he'd eventually realized it was pointless. There was nothing he could say that would make Darry regret what had happened more than he already did.
"You should," Darry said again, but the heat was starting to drain from his words.
"Well, I don't. And I ain't talkin' about this no more. You can feel sorry for yourself after we find Ponyboy." Maybe it was a little harsh, but it seemed to do the job. Darry didn't get up or anything, but he sucked in a breath and nodded, letting his head fall back against the cabinets as they sat there.
"I told Steve and Two-Bit to come by for dinner tonight," Soda said eventually. He studied Darry. He no longer looked like he was fighting for his life, but he didn't look good by any means. "Should I cancel, or…?"
"No, it's fine. We should probably—"
The front door banged open, and before either of them could move, Dally was standing in the kitchen entrance, peering down at them. “What’re you doin’ on the floor?”
Soda shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Sitting.”
Dally just snorted, looking unimpressed as they pulled themselves to their feet. He eyed Darry. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks, Dal,” Darry said archly. He wiped his palms on his work pants and crossed to the kitchen table, snapping the phonebook closed and placing it back on top of the cupboard where it usually lived. “What's goin' on?”
"We gotta meet Tim Shepard and his outfit at the lot. Steve and Two are already there."
"Why?" Soda asked, already rushing to get his shoes on. Darry followed suit.
Dally's smile was thin and pleased as he led the way out the front door and across the yard. "We need to lay out some ground rules before we talk to the Socs. It's time to make good on our promise to rumble."
…
"How's things with your dad?" Soda asked Steve later that night. He and Dally and Two-Bit had come over for dinner, and it was the first time they had all five been around the same table that week. Two-Bit had made exactly one reference to Ponyboy and Johnny's absence, received a warning look from Darry, and hastily changed the subject. He and Dally had split not long after, but Steve stuck around, settling in the living room with Soda. They were on their fifth round of blackjack.
"He's still an asshole, if that's what you mean. Why?"
Soda shrugged. Truthfully, he felt bad that Steve had been getting worried chatter nonstop from him all week—about Ponyboy and Johnny, about Darry, about the possibility of getting sent to a boy's home. Steve had been real patient, and Soda knew he was worried too, but he wasn't exactly Ponyboy's biggest fan. Soda realized he had no idea what—if anything—was going on with Steve, so singular had his focus been on getting Ponyboy back. "Just wonderin' if anything had changed, that’s all."
Steve snorted. "That would take a miracle from Mother Mary herself." He flipped a jack onto Soda's card pile, which already displayed a nine and a four. "Bust." It was a good thing Soda had no real money to bet, because he already owed Steve fifty bucks, and he was too tired to try and cheat his way back.
"Wanna stay over tonight?"
Steve nodded. They played several more rounds before calling it quits. Neither of their hearts were in it, anyway. "Where's Superman?"
"Still in the kitchen, I guess." Soda glanced at the clock. It was nearing nine, which was when he'd normally be starting his vigil by the phone.
"Is he…how's he doin'? He was real quiet at dinner tonight."
Soda chewed his lip for a moment. "I dunno how much longer he can take this," he admitted. "He don't have any idea where Pony could be, and it's drivin' him wild."
"What about you?"
Soda didn't bother to answer. It was best not to think about how he was these days. He'd woken that morning from a string of dreams populated with palm trees and long, empty highways, a girl with a blonde ponytail he couldn't quite catch no matter how fast he ran. His cheeks had been creased from being pressed up against couch cushions all night, his insides hot with guilt. "I'll be right back."
He left Steve to finish picking up the cards and made his way to the kitchen. He found the dishes half done, sink still full of soapy water, and Darry at the table, phone book open in front of him again as he stared into space. Soda approached carefully, but he didn't seem freaked out, just lost in thought. Still, he jumped a little when Soda put a hand on his shoulder.
"Oh. Hey," he said, relaxing a little when he saw it was Soda.
Soda indicated the open book. "Whatcha doin' now?"
"I dunno," he said. "I don't…I have no idea what to do." His voice was dull and empty, and for some reason, that scared Soda more than the scene he'd walked in on earlier that day, more than watching Darry and Dally nearly come to blows earlier that week.
"Alright, let’s go," Soda said. An idea had started pinging around his head while playing cards earlier, and this was the final push he needed.
Darry looked startled. "Where?"
"For a drive. Look, maybe Ponyboy and Johnny are laying low somewhere 'round here during the day, and moving around at night."
Darry gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Do you really think that?"
"No," Soda admitted. "But I ain't letting you sit around here another night or we'll both go crazy."
Darry considered. He glanced out toward the living room. "Someone's gotta—"
"Steve, we're goin' out! You're on phone duty!" Soda hollered.
Soda waited for Steve to yell back his consent, then went and snagged the car keys before Darry could.
"I'm driving," Soda said, clutching the keys tighter when Darry held out his hand for them.
"Why?"
"'Cuz I've slept more than you."
"Barely," Darry grumbled, but he slid into the passenger seat without further complaint as Soda dug the keys into the ignition.
Soda kept to the East side of town, winding down side streets and slowing down at the mouths of alleyways. There were plenty of guys—and some girls—their age out and about, slouched under street lights, smoking, or passing brown paper-wrapped bottles around in the park, but they didn't see a thing beyond that, nor did they expect to. This wasn't Ponyboy and Johnny's scene, and anyway, if Dally had any sense, he would have sent them far outside the city limits.
"Maybe—" Darry started to say once, then lapsed into silence. Soda glanced over at him, but he shook his head. Soda focused on the road again. It was oddly comforting being in the car this late, darkness pressing in at the windows and heat gently pumping out to ward off the rapidly cooling evening. Soda kept the radio off, and the only sounds that filled the truck were the rhythmic click of the turn signal and the soft clunk of the gear shift and eventually, Darry's deep, even breathing as he finally lost the battle against sleep he'd been waging all week.
Good. Soda could drive for hours like this if he had to, mind spinning out in all different directions while his body took over, crisscrossing their side of town a dozen times over as the night deepened and the stars winked into existence overhead, one by one. He hoped Steve would be okay manning the phone just a little longer.
…
On the fifth day that their brother was gone, the phone finally rang. It was a Friday, but neither of them had gone to work, opting instead to sit around the living room for lack of anything better to do. Soda considered suggesting they go on another drive, or walk around town, or something, but they hadn't gotten back the night before until after three am, and he was sick of pretending any of their search efforts in Tulsa were doing any good when it was clear Ponyboy and Johnny weren't there. So he lay on the couch, too tired to get up but too wired to go to sleep.
Soda scrambled upright as the phone shrilled. Darry snatched it up before it had finished its first ring. "Curtis residence."
Soda's nerves jangled as Darry listened to whoever was speaking on the other end. He didn't say much in response, but Soda wouldn't have been able to make it out over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears anyway. What was probably only a minute or so but felt like an eternity later, Darry hung up.
"Darry, was it—is he—" Glory, he was so scared. He could barely get the words out. He'd been desperate for the phone to ring all week, and now that it had, he was terrified of what had been on the other end. That is, until Darry turned around, the glow of relief on his face almost too much to bear, and it was like the sun had come out for the first time in a week.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go get our brother."