Chapter Text
“Hawk! Come help me out here!”
My dads voice boomed through the house, up the stairs and through my open bedroom door. I suppressed an eye roll though a smile slipped onto my face. Him and that rusty, broken car. I set down my borrowed chemistry textbook, the battered edges worn not only from the previous owner's use but my own. With how much I pay for college class, I’m decently getting my money's worth in homework. Whatever my dad needs help with I’m sure it will be a welcomed break from thermodynamics.
“Comin’!” I yelled down, hoping he’ll hear me though it’s doubtful given his love for watching drag races and the loud bar scene. Those poor ear drums.
I was in the midst of tugging on a proper shirt and pants to replace the meager clothes that were my excuse for pajamas when another voice boomed from downstairs, “Mia Hawk Matthews! You better not be yellin’ in my house! When your daddy asks you somethin you come down to talk like a lady!” My mother always had a talent for being ironic. I laughed to myself, tucking in a TULSA HIGH SCHOOL TRACK collared shirt into baggy jeans that used to be my little brothers. It was a tough look, in my opinion; my mother and high school me would disagree.
I bounded down the stairs, snagging my tennis shoes from the front door before hanging the corner into the kitchen. For being on the East side of Tulsa, our house was pretty nice. Nice but still cramped and I was happy to be out. My youngest sibling, Susan, a never stopping bundle of energy and joy sat peacefully at the tiny kitchen table, a crayon fisted in hand and legs swinging aggressively while she attempted to draw in the coloring book I had brought home on this rare free weekend. My mom was holed at her usual spot by the sink scrubbing the endless amount of dishes that seemed to appear from nowhere. Her bouncy dark curls that were usually piled on her head, hung loosely around her shoulders and moved with her as she scrubbed a tough stain out of one of the nice plates. When I passed behind her, I plucked at one of the curls, watching it stretch and compress back to a slightly frizzy spiral. She batted at my hand with her wet ones, water flicking into my face, drawing a small laugh from me. I remember a time when I was so jealous of her and my brother's absurdly curly hair, trying everything under the sun to make it look like theirs. Eventually, I had to find contentment with my own dark locks with their slight wave and their refusal to stay curled for more than a few hours.
“I am very ladylike mama. I have no idea what you are takin’ about,” I said with as much earnestness I could muster. I pulled out a chair from the table, swinging it around to face my mom as I tugged on the shoes. “I'm goin’ out to help daddy with that piece of junk taking up space in the garage and you are callin’ me unladylike” —I shook my head with false disbelief sending my kid sister into a nine year old type giggling fit— “it’s positively absurd.”
My mom just rolled her eyes, over my antics and probably praying for Sunday to come faster to have her eldest gone again and have one less mouth to fill. The last part has never been said but after the surprise of my sister, money had always been tighter than necessary. Paying for my own school by working throughout high school and plenty of scholarships lessen the load significantly, and being out of the house only added to it.
“Do you have any work for class?” she asks, drying a plate thoroughly.
I ruffled my sister's hair, a grunt of frustration echoed. “Just a little. Chemistry’s is hell” —mom shot me a disappointed glare— “oops, but it is. So much more math than science. It’s dragging me in the mud.”
My mom handed me the dried plate. “But you’ve always been good at that kinda thing, baby. I’m sure it's nothing you can’t handle.” Her tone was so loving and hopeful that I almost didn’t realize that I had been roped into putting away dishes until the drying rack was emptied.
“Hawk! Where you at?” my dads voice called from the garage door. I winced. It’s been a little over 10 minutes since he first called.
“Sorry mama,” I said, not very sorry, “I have to help him or he’ll break something.” Quickly, I stashed away the stack of cups that had accumulated in my arms into their respective cabinets before making a mad dash to the door.
“Don’t forget about dinner with Gama tonight! You need to visit her more or you’ll never get that house when she dies! Hopefully soon.” she added under her breath but I still heard as I stuck my head back in for a moment, the smell of motor oil lingering just behind me.
“You make it sound like the only reason you love that woman is for that damn house and not because she is your husband's mom,” I laughed.
“Mia! Language! Oh, really!” she sighed, sparing a look at my kid sister who grinned at us happily.
I was already past the threshold, however, not staying to hear anymore mutter about Susan’s precious, saint–like ears. My laughter carried me over to where my father laid on his creeper, his legs the only thing visible under the beaten up, red mustang that he swears will start one day.
His voice was muffled as he said, “Mama’s praying on Gama’s downfall again? Hand me the impact socket, will ya’ baby?” I complied, laying the tool in his outstretched hand.
“Not sure about the downfall. More like praying she’ll kick it before I graduate so I don't have to find somewhere cheap on the West side to live.”
“Not sure if I’ve ever heard ‘cheap’ and ‘West Side’ in the same sentence–,” he huffed, the last of his words interrupted by the sound of a strained grunt. From above you can see his arm working to free whatever socket was there with little progress.
I looked around the garage. The mustang took up the brunt of the space, but around it stacks and stacks of miscellaneous treasures piled up. Tents from mama's camping phase that she hasn’t brought herself to sell, tools box after tool box filled to the brim, two of the three worn and well used bikes that belong to each child, the list was endless. The missing bike was what piqued my interest the most.
“Where's Two-Bit? Why isn’t he helping you with this? Isn’t this going to be his car one day?”
My dad pulled out from under the car revealing his tired, wrinkled, dirt cover face. “If I ever get it going, which I will— don’t give me that look, Hawk. It will run! —then yes. It will be Two-Bit’s. He ran out with Steve some time ago. Didn’t tell me nothing,” he sighed heavily, raking a blackened hand over his forehead, smearing some car discharge all over it. He acts like his son's dismissal doesn’t hurt, but every time he talks about him, there’s sad wrinkles that appear by his lips. “Took the bike because Steve’s folks took his car. You know how they are.” My dad shakes his head ruefully, a frown on his lips. Of course I knew how they are. Everyone in town knew how the Randles are. Mom was gone most days, ran out by her screaming husband. Their yelling matches can be heard two blocks away. Sounds familiar. I frowned at the thought.
I huffed out an exaggerated sigh, trying to lighten the damp mood. “So much for a fun family weekend together.” I rolled my eyes, kicking a paint chipped red tool box by my feet half heartedly. I said it like I was joking but part of me meant it. Four months at school minus Christmas has made me long for my family more than I thought possible. I found myself in my dorm room missing even my brother.
My dad chuckled, grasping in one of his tool boxes blindly until he found something too small for me to see and went back under the car. “With Gama’s house tonight and Darry's 20th tomorrow, you’ll be so sick of us you'll be begging to leave.” I scoffed with an unseen eye roll. “Speaking of Darry,” my dad continued, sliding from under the car for a moment to meet my eye and grab another tool, “have you talked with him about college? Want to know how he's likin’ it.”
“Oh…no, not really. We're both pretty busy at school so I don't see ‘em.” I examined my nails, trying to act unbothered. I do that a lot lately. “I swung by the house when I got in yesterday. Had a chat with his parents and Pony. He and Soda were out.”
The most constant thing in my childhood were the Curtis’. Being across the street from each other and both sets of parents growing up in Tulsa gave us built in friends from birth. Their open door policy, literally as their three rambunctious boys were always trotting in and out, stray friends in tow, made it the perfect place to escape to on those days. The days when my dad used to walk out, vowing he wouldn’t come back or when my mom was drunk on not just wine but grief and couldn't stand the sight of her own two children. The Curtis’ were always there. I was close with all of them at one point or another. Sodapop, yes that’s his government name (as a quizzical five year old I had plenty of questions for Mr. and Mrs. Curtis), is the outgoing, heart on his sleeve guy that you couldn't help but like, but our five year age difference made it hard to be his real friend and not just another older sister. Two-bit latched on to him hard when they were younger. The youngest, Ponyboy, real name again, is smart and funny but also 13. He was the one we punked on since he was significantly younger than anyone in our makeshift gang. Darry, however, was my friend. He was younger than me by a year, behind me in school by two because of his early winter birthday, but it didn’t feel like it. Growing up, we were always together: playing in mud together at 4 and 5, the park at 9 and 10, running in the same Socs group in junior high and high school. That was another thing, he never hated me for turning to the Socs when I got older like the rest of the gang did. He understood why I didn’t want to get stuck on the East side of Tulsa being spit on in the street for my address and the type of car I drove.
My dad met me with raised eyebrows and a glint in his eyes that I couldn’t name. I responded with raised brows of my own, adding to my statement when no clear response came, “Besides, in the last two years, I’ve given that boy enough advice and tips to last him this lifetime and the next. And” —I picked up a pocket knife from the tool box, flipping it open to admire the sharp edge— “Darrel Curtis Jr. is the most resourceful man you will ever meet. I doubt he needs my help anymore.” Ruefully, I flicked the blade back into place, tossing it in the box again with a loud clunk of metals colliding that made me wince.
“Humph,” was my dads only reply, disappearing under the car.
“Do you need me to help with the car?” I asked, remember that he was the one that called me out here in the first place.
There was a pause before he spoke that made me wonder if he actually had a reason for calling me. “Oh,” he perked up, his voice full of clarity. Again he slid out from under the car, looking up at where I towered over him, “I need you to run to the store. Three cans of peaches and some flowers. Nice ones. Roses— well no…maybe? —No. Roses are good.” He grinned up at me, happy with his decision. At that moment I saw a rare glimpse of my brother in his expression. My carefree brother, full of grins and jokes always took after our mother: a head of dark curls when they aren't greased to hell, wide gray eyes, and full cheeks that always seemed to be pushing his eyes into slits from his smiling. Rarely do I see the resemblance between that and my father, the dirty auburn hair, though it was now thin and disappearing; sad brown eyes; and a face and body that was all sharp angles even in his older age. The only time I saw it was when my father smiled. It was like looking at a double. Everything melted together. You would've thought they were brothers in these rare moments.
“Here,” my dad said, a smile lingering in the corner of his lips as he pulled his wallet from where it was wedged in his back pocket. He whipped his hand on a dirty rag hanging from a belt loop and pressed a crumpled twenty into my hand.
“Oh gosh! No, daddy,” I startled, pushing it back towards him. He was less than deterred. With a stern look from him, I was forced to take the money, the bill feeling heavy in my palm. “Dad. This is too much,” I pleaded, but he was already under the car again, all that was left was the ratty jeans he's had for all of my life, refusing to get a new pair until the legs were so hole ridden it was indecent. They haven’t gotten that bad yet so no money spent on new ones. That was how my dad, my family really, worked. So the fact that he was willingly giving up a twenty was mind blowing.
I sighed dramatically, giving in far too quickly for my liking. Instead of arguing I grabbed one of my dads many bomber jackets and my car keys from a hook by the door. I slipped the jacket on, the worn brown leather of the bomber was soft and scratched. Once it was so oversize that I seemed to be swimming in it, now it fit like a tailored glove.
“Be back in fifteen,” I called to him as I slinked my way through piles of junk to the garage door.
“Careful out there. The roads are icy. I love you bunches, honey!’ My dad called back, basically yelling the last line before I was out the door.
“I love you tons!” I shouted back, sticking my head in the door one more time before it shut.
The cold air hit me like a knife to the throat, sucking all the air out of my lungs. The first month of 1965 was a brisk one. Not even a week into the new year and I was near freezing to death when I stepped out of the house. If that's not a sign, I’m not sure what is.
I quickened my step to my car, sliding past the family's oversize pickup that was older than me, to my newer but still old maroon Ford Thunderbird. It was dented and scratched and accelerated a little slowly, but it was my first real purchase after saving for two years in high school. The day I saw the beat up thing at a used car lot as a freshman I knew I had to have it. I remember the day after I bought it, pulling up to school, feeling like the toughest girl in town. When my Socs friends dug it even if their type of car is mustangs and convertibles.
In the cold I barely looked up, my neck buried in the collar of the bomber, trying to retain any warmth from the house. I fumbled with my car key, my hands already burning with the cold. I was about to slide into the driver's seat when a similar shaped car drew my attention to the street.
The Tulsa Police Department had very distinct cars and living on the East and being even slightly affiliated with any of the outfits on this side made recognizing them a sixth sense. They looked like an unfortunate spaceship with their tiny cabin framed by a long nose and trunk, a single light on top that would illuminate gangs hanging peacefully in an empty lot but not Socs breaking into the liquor store. The yellow badge of the TPD stuck out like a sore thumb against the clean white stripe it was plastered on. Two officers stepped out of the car, the model of calm and in control even with their noses crinkled as they surveyed the neighborhood. Their gazes found my lingering eyes like a moth to a flame. Like they could smell my disdain.
The taller of the two, and clearly older, gave me a tight smile and a curt nod, which I forced myself to return. The other watched for a moment too long before he smiled, a real smile, taking off his hat to tip towards me and southern “ma’am” falling from his lips in a way that would have, admittedly, made me swoon if my brain hadn’t registered what house they were parked in front of and the older officer was stalking towards.
The Curtis’.
I smiled politely to him, but fear curled my insides. There was never a good reason for the police to just show up, not at noon on a quiet Monday. I tried to force myself into my car but it was like watching a car wreck: you just can’t look away.
I stared, not subtle, as they approached the front door, rapping against the wood so hard it seemed to echo throughout the silent neighborhood. It was like every tree, every rock, every blade of dead grass held its breath waiting to see what would survive the collision.
It took a minute before the door swung inwards revealing a surly looking 6’3 college quarterback that 100% looked the part. Darry greeted the pair in what I assumed was a civilized manner, as was the Darrel Curtis way, folding his muscular arms over his chest, his red Henley shirt stretching against the hard muscles underneath. His hair, shorn shorter than most greasers, swayed in the chilled January breeze that made me pull my bomber closer around me.
The respectful part of me, told me to get in my soon to be warm car and drive away. What the police wanted with the Curtis’ was none of my business. The most plausible explanation was that Dallas got himself hauled in for something petty and needed someone to bale him out. It’s happened before, so why is there an awful sinking feeling building in my stomach? Why couldn’t I get in the car and get the stupid peaches and roses? I caved to the point of sitting behind the wheel with the door shut, content that while the car defrosted I could watch. It wasn’t invasive or strange. I was simply waiting to run an errand.
Being in the car didn’t stop me from feeling the palpable tension between the exchange ahead of me, and it didn’t stop me from feeling the shift. In a breath, Darry's shoulders, once taught with tall confidence that you had to have around the police, fell, rounding him out, making him look younger. His face changed too, his clenched jaw relaxing before his lips parted and his brows softened. My heart clenched and I forced myself to put the car in drive. If he saw me, I wouldn't know. The last glimpse of Darry that I got was him glancing into the house suddenly, eyes wide and concerned.
I drive in silence, my mind wandering further from the road.
Darry always looked much older than he was. At fourteen, a freshman at Tulsa high school, he could have easily passed for a junior if not a senior at 5 '11 and built like a train. Years of roughing with the gang on top of football in junior high that he took as seriously as a heart attack, built up his physical frame and the added responsibilities as an older brother and captain of his team made him act older. I couldn’t get over how young he looked standing on his porch. It was haunting.
With a grocery bag of canned peaches and a bouquet of flowers in my passenger seat, I drove home, following the similar route, my anxieties no less eased by the brief distraction. I hummed quietly along to a Beatles song playing softly on my old radio as I took a turn into the neighborhood. Ponyboy would scoff in his newly made teenage way, muttering about how Socs the Beatles were and that Elvis Presley was way more tuff. The thought of the youngest Curtis set a small smile to my lips. He was like a kid brother to me and I loved him like it. Though he didn’t approve of the crowd I would hang with in high school and who I routinely ditched the gang for, he still tolerated me, seeming to forget all about Grease vs Socs the moment a topic of interest was brought up. He was a smart kid, enjoying school infinitely more than Sodapop ever did and Darry despite his own love of it. A good kid too. His brothers at his age were tearing up this side of Tulsa every chance they got. Ponyboy would rather read about going out than do the damn thing.
Reminiscing on the past and my friends only delayed the inevitable. When I turned the last corner to my street, reality hit me like a train. The police car was still at the curb of the Curtis’ residence though the car was on, the parking lights illuminating the cloudy day, as if they just came back. I prepared myself for something worse. Maybe one of the boys got hulled in or jumped and they were being brought back home. But, no, Soda, reckless and wild, is always careful with the law or is at least fast enough to outrun the law. And it’s almost laughable to imagine Pony getting in trouble with the cops, and the police don’t care that much when a grease gets jumped. I pulled into our small driveway almost nauseous with nerves. In my rearview I could see the older officer step out of the car and open the backseat. I braced, ready for the scenario to unfold and one for the boys set
top out in cuffs.
It was Darry that came out of the car, his head held lower and his cheeks flushed which I didn’t believe was just because of the wind. A rush of relief washed over me, just to be replaced with a new wave of anxiety. Why had they taken Darry?
I turned the key of my car, the engine growling off, but my eyes stayed glued to the mirror. The officer said something to Darry, his hand hovering over the boy's shoulder before he thought better of it, letting his hand fall to his side. The exchange didn’t last long, the officer stepping back into the car and speeding away.
Their exit jogged me back to the present where I was still sitting in my car in the freezing cold. I scooped my belongings from the seat next to me and got out, turning to look across the road before I had the conscious thought to do so. Darry stood right where the officer had left him looking dejected and almost…angry. He was glaring at his feet as if they had personally wronged him, his shoulder hunched forwards. He wasn’t in anything but the red Henley and jeans so he must have been even more cold than I was, but if he was, he didn’t show it.
I’ll admit that since leaving for college I’ve grown further apart from Darry and the rest of my friends, but the protective feeling I’ve always had for them surged up into my chest. Something has happened, something bad. He hadn’t moved inside to tell anyone. His brothers were home, I saw both of them get in while doing homework earlier right before watching his parents take their mothers car to go off somewhere. If he wasn’t going inside to tell his brothers or ring his folks, and whatever this is involved the police…
I was crossing the street before I knew it, my goods abandoned by my car. Darry saw me coming before I was in the street. He regarded me with little more than a blank face, a slight pinch of his eyebrows was the only indication that he felt anything.
The closer I got, the worse he looked. His hair that looked wind tossed from a far now looked manic, like he's pulled at it in frustration. His eyes were droopy and ringed in red like he hadn't slept in days or that he’d been crying. His cheeks were redder than I thought, a stark contrast to his almost sickly pale skin. Pity welled up in my chest, weighing me down as I got closer to him. He must have seen this in my eyes because with a heavy sigh, he turned away to face the house. Darry was never one to take pity from anyone.
A step towards his house had me speaking, “Darry—” I reached him, my hand resting on his arm. I could feel the hard muscle under my palm tense. He stopped, his gaze moving to where I touched him before he turned to me, suddenly towering over me, those tired eyes regarding me with something like indifference. A flare of annoyance broke through my pity for a moment. Sure we haven’t talked or seen each other properly in a few months but we were still good friends.
His steely gaze froze my blood. Instead of his icy blue eyes staring at me, it was a similar sad brown pair, the steel turning to anger. Without thinking I took a step back, my hand dropping to my side. I blinked, startled, but when I focused back on Darry, his eyes weren't angry nor were they brown.
“I’m sorry,” I said instinctively, red coating my cheeks as I silently chided myself as my brain came back to me. This was Darrel and this moment is not about me.
I kept my own eyes glued to his, watching for a reaction. When it came it was of his face softening slightly, some tension melting away. I wasn’t sure if I’d been the cause of the tension but I was glad it was gone because that made his eyes softer too. “Are you okay?” I asked tenderly, not exactly sure what to say. “I saw the police and I got worried.”
He watched me for a moment, a soft sigh falling from his tight lips. His mouth opened to say something but closed again as his eyes trailed down my face, resting blankly on a spot on my cheek. Darry didn’t say anything but I could see his jaw clenched and unclenched, the muscle bulging out and collapsing over and over.
Without thinking, I brought my hand back to his arm, hoping he’d see this as encouragement to continue, but it didn’t seem like he felt a thing. He just kept looking at my cheek, blank far away eyes. A gust of freezing wind swept upon us, chilling me to my bone, making me pull my coat closer. Darry was shivering now, but he didn’t seem keen to go inside.
“Is it Dallas? Again?” I asked with a soft chuckle, dripping my head slightly so my eyes replaced where he had been looking. His gaze shot back to mine, his blinking back clarity.
It took a second before my words reached him, but when they did he chuckled, a sound with the little mirth he seemed to muster. A small, almost pained, smile crossed his lips before he spoke, “No. No, not this time.” He shook his head, his messy brown hair settling a little before his hand ran through it, a slight tug on the ends before his arm fell to his side again. He didn’t offer anything else, but he didn’t leave, didn’t pull away. A good sign, but his eyes gravitated to the spot on my cheek again. I felt like he was trying to burn a hole through my face with the focus he used.
I tried for a gentle smile, my thumb sweeping across the worn fabric of his Henley. I think it used to be his dad’s shirt, my brain supplied unhelpfully.
Darry wasn’t an emotional person. That just wasn't who he was. Of course he had emotions and outbursts, but more often than not he was the calm older brother, the peacemaker, the leader. You won't catch Darry crying in public or lashing out in front of everyone. So why did he have tears in his eyes now? Why did my chest clench right before one fell?
“Darry?”
He hummed an acknowledgement, but didn't move. I could see his sharp jaw tense again and again and resisted the urge to touch his face, making him stop. A tear fell down his cheek slowly, dripping off his face and onto the cracked concrete of his driveway. I don’t think he noticed. His sad eyes only got sadder as they filled with water. His heavy shoulders pulled him forward more and more. Not drawn to his full height, he looked so vulnerable and helpless.
“Is it one of your brothers?” My voice was soft and low. I felt like I was talking to a scared animal, not a teenage boy. This is the way I’d talk to his youngest brother or Ponyboy’s best friend Johnny Cade, not Darrel. Not Superman.
His hand was slowly moving up to my face, touching it before I even registered the fact that he had moved. His touch was light, the rough pad of his thumb brushing against my cheek. Barely a whisper of skin touching skin but it lit my nerves on fire. Just as fast as it came, it went. When he pulled back, his hand was left lingering in front of our faces. A single dark eyelash was resting on his thumb. We both watched the lash flit away in the breeze as I repeated, my voice strained, “Is it one of your brothers, Darry?”
“No.”
The crack in his voice brought my gaze to his face. His sad, haunted face. He was hunched so far word, his head dipped so low that the puffs of breath we could see in the cold mingled. Tracks of wet trailed down his cheeks, a never ending flow. I couldn’t help my own tears welling up at the sight.
No. No, Darry needs me. Needs someone strong right now, not a ditzy girl that is crying too. I’m not even sure why he's crying.
I took a deep breath, my hand moving to the side of his face. I could feel his clenched jaw relax under my touch, feel how he leaned into my palm. His eyes closed gingerly as if he was trying to block out the world and for a moment it felt like it had worked. It was just me and him and the sadness caused by this unknown force. Just as gently as he had, I whipped at his cheek, collecting salty tears on my thumb. I wish I could brush away this pain as easily as I could the tears. I tried anyway. But the stream was endless.
My free hand grabbed his between us, the eyelash lost to the winter air. Foolishly, I wondered if I should have wished on it. His hand was cold in mine, the years old calluses from years of sports scraping at my fingers.
“What happened, Clark?” I asked, soft and low, barely even a whisper, using the nickname to soften the question.
To my surprise, his answer came fast, like the dam had finally broken.
“My parents…”
My stomach dropped.
No.
No…no no no no no no.
I watched him, trying to guess what he was going to say. His pinched expression didn’t bode well. I felt nauseous.
“Are they okay?” I questioned without thinking, my brain trying to find a reasonable answer and only coming up with horrible ones. “Did something happen? Are they at the hospital?” Words were spilling out of me fast, each sentence a silent plea, a prayer, trying to speak them into existence.
Darry’s big hand wrapped around my wrist, gently pulling my hand away from his face. He looked at me with wet blue eyes, the pity I had for him when he got out of the police car transferred from me to him. I was going to be sick.
“Where are your parents, Darrel?”
“...They're dead, Mia.”
The world seemed to slow. I couldn't feel the cold wind or hear how it swayed the trees. My ears were filled with a high pitch ringing as my eyes frantically searched Darry's face for any inclination that he was wrong. My chest tightened when they found nothing. His expression said it all. How he acted told me everything I needed to know.
His parents were dead.
With sickening clarity, the world bounced back. At that moment I was sure I was going to fall backwards, the sheer prospect of this reality hitting me with a physical force. I started to stumble back only to be pulled forwards by the tight grip on my hands.
“Mia,” Darry whispered, his eyes shutting for a second too long, a look of complete exhaustion washing over his face.
“No. No, I just saw them-” I tugged against his grip, desperately looking down the street “-they just left. It couldn’t be more than an hour…” My voice trailed off, the words becoming too watery to be understandable.
If I just watched the road, that old blue Ford Fairlane would come puttering down the street, Mrs. and Mr. Curtis would be laughing in the front with their love sick attitudes and bring a last minute gift for Darry’s birthday.
“I know. I know, Mia.”
“I don’t understand, Dar.”
We must've looked like a sorry pair. Two teenagers crying in the driveway, blubbering over words, not making any sense. Darry held me to his chest, giving me the little comfort he was able. Numbly, I thought that the roles should be reversed. I knew they should be and they will be, but for this small moment I let him hold me.
Selfish.
“It was an auto wreck,” he mumbled above me, his chin resting on my head. His thick muscular arms circled me around the middle, our bodies sharing what little heat we had left. “Something about a railroad barrier not coming down. Said they didn't feel a thing.” The pain in his voice was palpable, his words like a punch to the gut.
“No…” I whispered into his shoulder, my arms encircling him, my hold limp around his hips. Tears were flowing steadily, Darry’s Henley acting as a tissue, catching each and every one of them.
I thought we’d leave it at that, the hurt of the situation too much, choking any words we may have for each other. I was ready to resign, let him be with his brothers, grieve in peace on different sides of the street. I would tell my parents, they would hug like they used to when I was very little, the way Darrel and Josphine would, and my mom would cry. Two-bit would be angry, not at anything in particular, just angry. At 17, anger was his default most days. Angry and reckless. Susan, sweet little girl, would be confused having never experienced a death, and then she’d be inconsolable. She loved Jo.
“The police took me to the morgue.”
Darry’s words were so quiet I almost missed them, so deep in my thoughts and the slight smell of oranges that cling to him always. I pulled away, my arms dropping to my sides in shock, the only thing connecting us was his arms tight around my waist. He didn't look at me after he spoke, instead at a place right next to my head with as much hard focus as he looked at that eyelash.
His jaw clenched once, twice. I brought my hand back to his face, his cheeks now dry. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but my throat felt like it was coated with a thick sludge that I couldn’t swallow. All I could do was watch and shiver in the cold wind.
My eyes followed the tiny movement of his Adam’s Apple bobbing before he spoke, “Their bodies” —he closed his eyes and I could feel how hard his jaw was biting— “they were so…mangled.” The last word came out choked, so raw, I couldn’t help but gasp slightly. He needs to go inside. I needed to go inside. It was so cold and his words only made me feel colder.
“Darry,” I whispered, my other hand cupping his face, moving it to look down at me. He did but in the blue of his eyes there was nothing but pain. He was looking at me, but I wasn’t sure if he was seeing. “You need to be with your brothers, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he agreed softly, something like clarity bleeding into his gaze. He didn’t move. He needed to move. If he didn’t, we’d be stuck out here forever because I wasn’t moving until he did. At this rate we'd die of frostbite in the Curtis driveway, and heaven knows those boys don’t need anymore death today.
He didn’t move so I did. I pulled him into a bone crushing hug, my arms wrapped around his neck, my hand cradling his head in the crook of my neck. There was a moment where he was frozen, and I wondered if I had made the wrong move. That was before he hugged me with such force that it almost lifted me off the ground for a second. He bore most of his weight onto my shoulders, his body seeming to melt for a moment. My hand brushed through his hair gently, trying for a soothing gesture. His silky dark locks start to curl with their length. Just like his dad. He needs a haircut, I think; then again, I think that for about every Greaser I meet.
“I’ve got you, Clark,” I found myself whispering to the back of his head.
“I know.”
The loud creak of the front door broke the spell of the moment, whatever comfort that was built crumbling like a poorly made wall. I looked behind Darry to the door. Standing in the doorway was Sodapop, the middle child of the Curtis's. Soda looked nothing like Darry, taking after their mom in every way but gender. However, right now, he doesn't look like anyone, not even himself. His skin was an unsettling pale color, the under of his eyes so red that it almost looked burned, lips so dry and cracked that you can see it from the end of the drive, and his hair, the pride and joy of any Greaser, was messed up beyond recognition, so messy and ran though that, despite my hate towards it, I longed to lay it back with hair grease so at least he had his Soda–hair back. He was frowning something awful and the sight brought new tears to my eyes. Sodapop never frowns. If there was anyone you could count on to be smiling even in the worst case scenario, it was him.
Darry loosed his hold, pulling back from me to look over his shoulder. At the sight of his brother, he straightened up, dropping me from his arms. With a single nod from his big brother, Soda was sent back inside. As he went, I could see tears start falling from his beautiful brown eyes.
A heavy sigh left Darry’s pursed lips as he watched his brother go. We stood apart, and the loss of his tethering force made me want to run. Run to my mother and sob. Run from this house and all the memories in it. I wanted to run forever. Anything to escape this.
“Go,” I urged.
Darry glanced back once, his ocean eyes taking over me, but he didn’t need to be told twice. He was almost on the porch when he turned back. I hadn’t moved, waiting to see him go in because part of me didn’t trust this torn up version of the boy I knew to actually go in.
“Tell me everything is going to be alright, Hawk,” he commanded but there was no power to his words, only desperation. The familiar saying almost knocked me off my feet. So many memories of moments during football halftimes, before exams, after break ups, when you need to hear it from someone else. I felt sick.
My reply came automatically, the words like muscle memory, "Everything's going to be alright.”
He nodded to me, that damn jaw muscle flexing. When he walked into his house, in the brief second that the door was open, I could hear a wail coming from within, and my knees felt utterly weak. I wasn’t sure how I made it back to my house on those wobbly legs. I would have forgotten my groceries in the driveway if I hadn't almost tripped on them. A few of the roses were still crushed.
I didn’t matter anyways.
We didn’t go to Gama’s that night.