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dallas winston was eleven, fresh from new york with his old man—and the first thing he did was prowl the streets of the east side of tulsa, oklahoma.
they’d only moved recently. new york got expensive, and his dad somehow managed to find this dump of a place.
tulsa was quiet. much quieter than new york. it made dallas miss the bustling streets, but only for a little while.
oklahoma’s a pretty far drive from new york, dallas thought dumbly as he walked the streets. he doesn’t really know why they’re here.
briefly, he misses his mother. her soft, almost white hair—just like his, he thought proudly—brushing against him as he bent down to kiss his forehead.
he holds the st. christopher in his hand. he didn’t believe anymore—his mother had given him the chain when he was nine and still a believer.
he didn’t care much for god anymore. god wasn’t there when dallas winston needed him, so dallas winston gave up on needing him.
as dallas goes to turn a corner, he hears some cussing and threats. he didn’t fully understand how tulsa worked yet. but he knew one thing: rich kids hated people like him.
he turns the corner regardless. he finds three older boys, maybe thirteen or fourteen, picking on two kids.
the smallest has a messy mop of red-brown on his head, green eyes blazing as he stands in front of, what dallas assumes, is a boy older than him.
the other boy has a dark face and dark, curly hair, hiding most of his eyes.
“back off!” the youngest boy cried. “we’re just tryna buy somethin’, that’s all!”
“greasers like you ain’t deserve shit,” one of the rich kids said, smirking. dallas watches quietly, hanging back.
“hold him down, dylan,” the rich kid said. “that runt’s gotta learn his lesson.”
dallas watches in, what he thinks is, surprise as the other rich kid grabs hold of the smallest boy and throws him to the ground, quickly pinning him.
dallas frowns. is this what a jumping looks like in tulsa? it’s not too far off from new york, but still.
the kid barely looks above the age of five. even dallas’ buddies wouldn’t jump a kid that age.
“let him go!” the dark-haired boy cries. “stop it!”
one of the rich kids slugs the youngest straight in the nose, and dallas finally steps in.
“hey!” he yells, digging in his pocket for the switchblade he carries. the rich kids turn to him in surprise, then quickly back off at the sight of the blade.
dallas cusses them out angrily as they ran away. “cowards,” he finally says. he turns back to the boys.
the darker one is by the youngest’s side, holding him worriedly.
“did they break your nose?” the darker boy asks, voice full of worry and guilt. “i’m sorry i couldn’t stop them—“
“‘s okay, johnny,” the youngest says, fixing his red-brown hair as his nose practically gushes blood. his green eyes land on dallas. “thanks for savin’ us, mister.”
dallas doesn’t reply immediately. “tilt your head back, kid. your nose is bleedin’.”
“it is?”
how stupid was this fucking kid? no wonder he was getting jumped.
“yeah, you’re bleeding,” the other kid—johnny, if dallas remembers, confirms.
“oh.”
the youngest tilts his head back. “i didn’t even know.”
dallas fiddles with the switchblade. “y’all want me to walk y’all home?” he asks. his new york accent is heavy and thick. he sure hopes it’ll go away soon. it makes him stick out in a place like this.
(as if his almost white hair and icy blue eyes didn’t do that already, but he didn’t mind. he looks like his mom—he isn’t ashamed of that.)
“sure,” johnny says. he’s shakin’ real bad, dallas notes, but he still agrees. johnny helps the youngest boy up, who still has his head tilted back.
he follows these boys back all the way to some busted up house. there’s a whole lot of racket inside. dallas frowns.
the two boys don’t look too surprised. dallas goes inside with them.
quickly, he ducks to avoid being hit in the head with chocolate fucking cake. he stares at the dessert, utterly confused and baffled.
“hey, there they are!” a boy exclaimed loudly. dallas glanced over. his hair was a rusty color, his grey eyes sparkling. “mr. curtis! pony and johnny are back!”
pony? dallas wondered dumbly.
an older man stepped into the living room. all the ruckus died down immediately. a woman quickly followed.
“oh, ponyboy!” she cried, quickly going over to him. she cupped his cheek, bringing his head down. “sodapop, go find a rag.”
“okay, mama.”
a blond boy gets up, rushing down the hall. a black-haired boy follows, hot on his heels.
“where’s darry?” the youngest—ponyboy, apparently. do all kids in tulsa have stupid fucking names?—asked. the woman smiled.
“he’ll be home soon, honey. no worries. what happened to your face, baby?”
“some socs cornered me and johnny,” ponyboy said. johnny nodded. “but we got help.”
“oh?” the man looked away, eyes landing on dallas. the boy shifted uncomfortably. the man’s face was impassive before he grinned. “thanks for saving our boys.”
“‘s no trouble at all,” dallas says. he feels small under all these stares. he hasn’t felt small in a real long time.
“what’s your name?” the woman asked. the blond and black-haired boys returned, the blond handing the woman a rag. she dabbed away ponyboy’s blood.
“dallas winston,” he replies. golly, he thought, swooning, she sure reminded him of his own mama. all kind and gentle.
“you ain’t from around here,” the rusty-haired boy said, staring at him. “where you from?”
“i just moved from new york with my dad,” dallas says. he shifts uncomfortably.
ponyboy’s mother finally finishes cleaning up his blood. the boy smiles brightly. “thanks, mama!”
ponyboy turns to dallas. the blond shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “and thanks for saving me and johnny,” he says. “‘m ponyboy. i’m eight.”
oh. so he is older than five.
“‘m dallas,” he repeats. “i’m eleven.”
“johnny’s ten,” ponyboy grins brightly. it lights up the whole room. he turns away. “daddy!”
he whines loudly, and dallas relaxes a little. he’s acting like a child. that’s… good, in his books. he thinks.
“come here, little colt!” the man says excitedly, picking ponyboy up to toss him around.
the rusty-haired boy laughs excitedly, suddenly launching himself at the black-haired boy. “pick me up, steve!”
“lay off, two-bit!”
the blond boy launches himself on top of them. johnny is quick to follow.
the woman giggles, then gently pulls dallas into the kitchen. it’s only slightly quieter.
“thank you again for saving ponyboy and johnny,” she says softly, leaning down slightly. “would you like to stay for dinner? we’ve got quite a big crowd tonight, but they don’t mind.”
dallas doesn’t reply for a moment. “‘s no problem, ma’am.”
dallas ain’t stupid. he might be violent and knows how to fight good—especially in gang fights—but he’ll respect a woman like his mother.
“i’m theresa curtis,” she introduces, “that man in there is my husband, darrel. our youngest baby is ponyboy… our middle is sodapop, and our oldest is darrel.”
dallas’ face twists in confusion.
“he looks just like his father,” mrs. curtis says lovingly. “but we call him darry.”
oh. darry. he heard ponyboy ask about him. “he named after mr. curtis?”
“mhm. i named him. my darrel named the other two—he’s an original man, and he’s sure proud of it. dallas, do you want to stay for dinner? get to know our sons’ little group?” she asks again. right. he never answered it earlier.
mrs. curtis is kind and gentle and loving. she doesn’t know dallas, and dallas feels like he’s been here for years.
“i can stay,” he finally says. “my old man won’t… really care too much.”
he thinks he sees her smile go a little sad, but he doesn’t comment. the front door opens, and he hears excited cries of “darry!” from the living room.
dally winston is seventeen when buck comes knocking on his door. he lets out an annoyed cuss, slipping on his blue jeans without caring to zip them up.
he opens the door, pulling out a cigarette. “yeah, what?”
“i got two kids downstairs askin’ for ya,” buck says gruffly. dally pauses, glancing up at the older man. “seemed real shaken up. pretty sure it was the baby curtis and his friend. ponykid and johnny.”
dally does not need to be told twice.
so, when he pulls a wet, shaking ponyboy and a trembling, scared johnny into his room upstairs, when he hands johnny a gun and gives ponyboy his brown jacket—something he would never do—he knows he might be whipped.
maybe he has been since eleven.