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Ponyboy still remembers the first day he and Johnny met.
He was outside playing in the neighborhood with Soda. From a few houses down, there was the casual yelling that usually came, but this time, it seemed to be angrier. Violent, even. Soda didn’t pay it much attention, but Ponyboy felt like something was off. The yelling was never tainted with such hatred. Moments later, some middle aged woman pushed a boy out the door and slammed it moments later.
“Mom!” the boy shouted, but she paid him no attention.
Ponyboy’s attention shifted towards the boy, who was now sobbing on the ground. He dropped the ball he was holding and walked over to him.
“Hey,” he said quietly, “are you okay?”
The boy wiped his eyes and turned towards Ponyboy.
“My mom… threw me out…” he wailed, words cut off by sobs. “…said I wasn’t enough… for her…”
“Why? Why would she say that?”
“I don’t know… I didn’t… I didn’t do anything… this time…”
“This time?” Ponyboy became a lot sharper. What the hell did that mean?
“She always… yells at me… but… she yelled at me… for nothing…”
Sodapop had noticed what had happened and came up behind Ponyboy.
“What happened?” Sodapop asked.
“His mom threw him out for no reason. Kid’s sobbing like crazy,” Ponyboy sighed, before looking back at the boy and wrapping him slowly in a hug.
The boy looked fearful, but didn’t pull away from the hug, letting Ponyboy comfort him. He fiddled with the younger’s hair as he tried his best to calm down. It took him a bit, but he finally did.
“Thanks,” he said softly, now fiddling with the drawstring of his jacket.
The three of them stood awkwardly in a circle, Ponyboy still trying to figure out what to say.
“What’s your name?” he inquired, kicking his feet against the concrete.
“Johnny,” the boy replied quietly, “what’s yours?”
Ponyboy felt himself go slightly red. He hated having to tell people about his name.
“I’m… Ponyboy,” he answered sheepishly, rubbing the nape of his neck.
Johnny felt the urge to giggle, but refrained from doing so, seeing how Ponyboy seemed to be a bit embarrassed about it.
“And his?” he asked again, pointing to Sodapop.
“Ah, um… Sodapop. Our parents named us kinda weird…”
Johnny now seemed very interested in their names, as he got up from the ground and started to circle Ponyboy.
“I swear I’ve seen you at school before,” he chirped, walking around him. “Are we in the same class?”
“No,” Ponyboy replied casually, “but I think I’m across the hall from you.”
Johnny nodded, going back to fiddling with his jacket again. The two heard his stomach growl, and had to hold themselves back from giggling.
“Hungry, huh?” Sodapop teased, seeing Johnny go a bit red.
“Yeah… I don’t usually eat a lot when I’m at home. Do you guys have anything on you…?”
Ponyboy turned to his bag and started digging through it. After a bit, he looked back at them, a paper bag in hand.
“I have a PB&J sandwich, if you can eat that.”
He watched as Johnny’s eyes practically lit up. Seeing his reaction, Ponyboy handed it over without a second thought. Johnny was close to ripping open the bag and devouring it, but held back. He didn’t want to make a weird impression on the two.
“You like that?” Sodapop taunted again, tousling Johnny’s hair.
“Yeah. I loved these when I was a kid, though my mom would never let me have them… said they were too sweet.”
“Darry tells us that, too, but we always beg him and he eventually gives in.”
“Yeah. Just give him puppy eyes and he’ll just give it to you.”
Ponyboy attempted to lean against the nearby street lamp, but missed it completely and fell flat on his back onto the sidewalk. Johnny moved away in surprise, still awkwardly biting into the sandwich. Usually, it was Darry who made the sandwiches for the two boys, but since they were close to finishing the jar, he just decided to use the rest of the remaining peanut butter, so Ponyboy’s ended up being filled to the brim with peanut butter.
“Oh, wait, your initials go together so well!” Sodapop suddenly exclaimed, repeatedly mime-helping Ponyboy up.
“They do?” Johnny responded, wiping the peanut butter off of his lip.
“Yeah! Ponyboy’s PB, and you’re J! PB&J!”
“Oh?” Johnny and Ponyboy said at almost the same time.
“I mean, you two have similar interests, too!”
Johnny awkwardly looked away while Ponyboy buried his face in his sweatshirt. Maybe Sodapop was right. Maybe they’d be friends.
And they were.
Whenever Johnny was hungry, Ponyboy always had a spare peanut butter and jelly sandwich on him.
⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹
Now Ponyboy sat on the edge of the porch, watching the sun set down under the horizon. He looked to his bag, which still had a full paper bag in it.
Out of habit, he made a spare sandwich for Johnny, forgetting that he had died in that hospital almost a month ago. He’d been making them for so long. He can’t stop making them, even if Johnny is dead.
He watched the sun go down, reminiscing about the time they had in the church. Watching the sun set, reciting poetry, and living like runaway teenagers do.
But that time was so long ago.
And Johnny’s never going to come back.
Ponyboy sighed, staring down hazily into his bag. It felt so empty without Johnny. It felt weird to not hear the yelling of his mother. It felt awful seeing that sandwich in his bag. After Johnny died, he had lost a taste for Darry’s sandwiches. He’d even tried to add things he liked, but he just couldn’t bring himself to eat it. It was like he knew those were reserved for Johnny.
Every day, he kept hoping that Johnny’s death was just a dream, and that he’d be sitting on the curb, waiting for Ponyboy to give him a sandwich.
But it isn’t.
Johnny is gone, and he knows it.
He just wishes that he wasn’t.
Just thinking about him makes a wave of sadness overwhelm his chest, the thought of providing a safe place for him being a twist of the knife. It’s like some part of him got forcefully ripped away that night. After all, it can’t be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich if you’re missing the jelly.
He let out a soft, shaky whimper, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. They stung, but he was determined not to cry. Not now. Not here.
“Hey, kid, you doing alright?” a voice behind him asked.
Ponyboy turned around to see Darry coming outside with him, sitting down on the old wooden steps.
“I’m fine,” he choked out, still rubbing his eyes.
“You’re thinking about him again, huh?”
Darry tilted his head, noticing how the younger boy rubbed his eyes like this. He always knew when Ponyboy was on the verge of crying. He always tries to frantically wipe away the welling tears.
“No,” Ponyboy lied simply, averting his gaze from Darry.
He didn’t buy it.
He put a hand on Ponyboy’s shoulder, rubbing it as if he was treating a sore muscle.
“I know it’s hard for you to forget, but you can’t just keep going like this. You need to let him go.”
Darry felt Ponyboy’s breathing turn erratic as he fought to keep from breaking into hysterics right then and there. He knew how much Johnny’s death affected him. Sure, Dally’s death was horrible too, but he knew how close Ponyboy and Johnny had been.
“It’ll be a long process, I know, but you need to let it go. Leave that piece of him behind and continue on. Find a new piece.”
Ponyboy had failed to stop his crying.
“I can’t just leave him!” he cried out, burying his face into his hands. “You can’t just expect me to forget about him!”
Darry faltered slightly, his grip on Ponyboy’s shoulder loosening. He sighed, looking at his brother sorrowfully.
“Then try. You don’t need to let go completely, but as long as you forget enough about him to the point where it doesn’t make you bawl at the thought of him, then that’s good enough.” He looked down at his lap, then back at Ponyboy. “You hear me, Pony?”
Ponyboy nodded, wiping his eyes again.
“I know what you mean, it’s just… it’ll be a while before I forget… we were friends for a while, Darry… you just don’t forget one of your friends overnight…”
“I know, baby. Healing doesn’t happen overnight. It goes through a course of transformations. It’s like that poem you recited to him in the church. When you get used to it, it’ll be day.”
Just the mention of the poem made Ponyboy bawl even harder.
“Stop!” he yelled out between horrendous, pained gasps. “Don’t make me remember!”
Darry pulled back.
“If you keep mentioning him, it’ll be harder for me to forget!”
The sound of Ponyboy’s wretched cries throughout the night made Darry feel as if he was being stabbed and having the knife twisted.
“Listen to me, kid,” Darry said quietly, prompting Ponyboy to look at him. “You have to learn how to forget his name. Forget his name, face, personality. Forget everything you ever knew about him. Blank your mind. Don’t think. Don’t remember.”
Don’t think. Don’t remember. That’s what he first told himself when Johnny died.
“…I’ll try my best to help.”
And from that day on, Ponyboy’s sandwiches only contained peanut butter.