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Dally called Steve’s house an hour ago, mouthing off about being bored. So Steve had said “Where ya at?” and the answer had been Buck’s, and now Steve is in Dally’s room, drinking a beer and throwing darts at the wall.
“Your St. Christopher’s back, ain’t it?” Steve says as he tosses his dart. It misses John Lennon’s face by just an inch, sinking into the cork board Dally’s using as a target.
“Damn, almost got him,” Soda grins, aiming and hitting Lennon right in the nose. Steve scowls.
“Yeah,” Dally says, picking his pale yellow teeth with a rusted dart. “Syl’ an’ I are over. For good this time.”
Steve doesn’t roll his eyes at that, though it isn’t because he doesn’t want to. It’s more that he doesn’t want to end up with that tooth-pickin’ dart in his forehead.
“What a bitch. We should kill her,” Soda says solemnly, shaking his head.
Dally chews his lip and hits the puppy dog-looking Beatle in the chest. (Paul? Probably?) “Aw, lay off, Curtis,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet. Soda raises his eyebrows, glancing at Steve as if Steve’s got some kind of answer. Steve shrugs, just as lost.
Dally ignores their exchange and throws another dart. (This one hits the ‘A’ in BEATLES.) “I mean, she’s…she’s not…I mean…” he sighs. “Look, I told her to screw off, an’ I ended things, an’ I made her mad, and…look, man, she ain’t…she ain’t a bitch really. This time.” Dally pauses, looking almost shocked by his own words. He frowns and takes another swig of booze, and doesn’t say anything else for a while.
Steve tosses his dart, squinting hard, aiming for Ringo. He misses the board entirely, and his dart lodges into the drywall. He hisses in frustration, and kicks Soda’s calf.
“Hey!” Soda shrieks, spinning around to glare-grin at Steve. “It ain’t my fault you need glasses!”
“Aw, shut your trap, pretty-boy,” Steve spits.
Soda smirks. “Oh, ya think so?”
“Fuck you, Curtis.”
“Nah man, I don’t want ya to,” Soda says, slugging Steve in the arm.
Steve grins and punches him back. “Yeah ya do- it’s me or Playboy! Madeline’s over you, buddy boy!”
“Hey, maybe I’m tryin’a listen to my old man for once, save the foolin’ ‘round till I’m ready for marriage, you dig me?” Soda says, head butting Steve’s shoulder.
“I think you’re a bozo, you dig that?” Steve laughs.
“Yeah, c’mon, Curtis,” Dally says, glancing up. He’s developed a funny glint in his pale blue eyes, something sorta hooded. He grabs Soda’s waist. “What’s a bit of fun amongst buddies?”
“Yeah, it ain’t queer if no one catches ya,” Steve teases, shoving his hand in Soda’s back pocket. Soda shoves him, a smile curling on his lips.
“Yeah, yeah, y’all are cute,” Soda says, waving them off. “Yer distractin’ me, c’mon,” he says, aiming his dart. This time it hits the word ‘meet’ in the square at the top of the magazine that says ‘meet the BEATLES’.
“Wow, that was lousy,” Steve says.
“Least it hit the board this time,” Dally drawls.
“Fuck you too, Winston.”
“Homo,” Dallas says, which would normally piss Steve the fuck off. But tonight he’s drunk and happy.
“Only for Soda,” Steve says, making kissy sounds at his best friend.
Soda nods sagely, blowing a very serious kiss back. “It don’t count if you’re just playin’ with yer boys.”
“Or if yer boozed up,” Steve winks.
“Glory, y’all are desperate,” Dally chuckles, running a hand through his choppy hair.
“Ain’t my fault Madeline said I lied ‘bout us fuckin’,” Soda says, pouting. “I didn’t lie. We just have uh…different concepts of it.”
“I don’t think it counts if her clothes were on, smartass,” Dally points out.
“Ah, but see, sir, mine were off. So it sorta counts,” Soda argues, taking a drink of coke. “Not that she says so, but I reckon I’ve said all I can ‘bout that and I digress. But it don’t even matter whatcha call it, ‘cos now none of the gals at school wanna go out with me,” he sighs.
“Welcome to the club,” Steve grunts. “Took ya long enough.”
“Aw, Stevie, this club blows!” Soda groans. “Besides, you could get girls, you just don’t want ‘em.”
“Don’t want the ones who want me,” Steve hastily corrects. “And can ya blame me? The ones who want me are trashier than Dallas, dumber than Two-bit, and uglier than…uglier than you, I guess, Pepsi-brains.”
Soda snort-laughs, falling back onto the bed. “What, did I ruin women for ya?”
“Naw. You just ruined Betsy Davis, that’s all.” And it isn’t like she’s a girl to write home about anyway- Steve would take Soda’s bright blonde hair and laughing eyes over Betsy’s obvious dye job and watery green any day. It isn’t like she’s ugly, just…a bit too round around the edges, a bit too soft in mouth and mind. Soda’s…sharper. Prettier. Less…plain. He’s the type of guy who oughta be in movies. The most attractive feature Betsy has is…well, honestly just the fact that she likes Steve. And even that became a turnoff when he realized she was kind of ugly and that he doesn’t want her to like him.
“Yikes,” Dally says, hitting a Beatle (Gregory? Jonathan? …Gerry? Yeah, Gerry). (Later Steve will realize it is actually George Harrison, and he will be grateful even twenty years down the line that he never verbally said the thought passing through his head: nice job hitting Gerry Harry!) (In the meantime he just continues to squint.)
“You know who I’d kill to go out with?” Soda says, chewing on the end of his dart.
“Who?” Dally says.
“Evelyn Peterson,” Soda says with a shit eating grin. Steve’s been a little in love with her since sophomore year, and Soda knows it.
“Asshole!” Steve says, face flushing red.
“Oooh,” says Dally, flopping onto the bed next to Soda. “I’d give yours a shot, Randle.”
Steve feels himself get redder. “What?!”
“You heard me,” Dally says, lighting his smoke.
“Jesus Winston, you’re such a- such a goddamn queer,” Steve all but squeaks.
“Well are ya even a gang if you don’t do a little experimentin’?” Soda laughs, groping Steve’s chest.
“Guess you ain’t,” Steve grins, because he’d be a liar if he tried to claim he’d never thought about doing things with Soda. Or Soda doing things to him. ‘Course, it grossed him out when he thought about it too hard, but sometimes…
“It ain’t queer, really,” Dally says, blowing a cloud of smoke. “I sure don’t think like that…man, I think I just need a goddamn fuck.”
“Shit, man, me too,” Steve groans, looking at the ceiling. It ain’t like he can’t bed a girl, it’s just that…every time he comes close to it, something feels wrong inside. Like when he took Kathy to her junior prom last year, and she wanted him to come home with her at the end of the night…suddenly she just seemed too big or something, too old for him. And suddenly Steve didn’t really care all that much for a good rack, not when it was so in his face. Not when he had permission to look. It just was too much. He didn’t want to screw her, except maybe to get that notch on his belt.
“Y’know,” Steve says, smoothing his t-shirt over his chest, “I still ain’t never done it.”
He isn’t really sure why he admits this. It’s not something he’s proud of. And he certainly doesn’t advertise it.
Sure enough, Dally’s jaw drops and his cancer stick drops with it. “Jesus, you ain’t popped your cherry? You?!”
“I know, I reckon I talk like I have, don’t I?” Steve chuckles, looking at Dally’s bright blue eyes. “You’d never guess I ain’t done it, I sure can talk like I have.”
“But you said you’d- but- no way!” Dally sputters. Soda snorts and shakes his head.
“Jeez, Stevie, I’ll be damned,” he says.
“I mean, I coulda, a couple times, but I dunno the words that getcha there, y’know? And uh…I guess I never really wanna do it for real either. I mean I do, but then I’m there and she’s not so pretty no more and the whole thing seems like a total drag.”
“Shit, Randle, maybe you are a goddamn queer,” Dally says, brows disappearing under his white bangs.
“Dallas, I’ll be anything that gets me off decent,” Steve grins. He’s tired and tipsy and all too honest, which would be totally mortifying except that Soda is too.
Soda wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Hey, if I’m bored enough I reckon it don’t matter what a person looks like, gal…or otherwise…”
“Ah, yeah, I dig ya,” Dally cackles. “Christ, I’m pent up, boys… But if it’s there it’s fuckable.”
“We’re here,” Steve says, feeling like his mouth is moving on its own accord. He makes no move to be closer to either of his friends. If he looks at either of them too closely he knows he’ll remember himself and feel ill again.
Dallas sucks his teeth. Steve can’t tell what he’s thinking, because he has suddenly grown very interested in the folds of his t-shirt. He doesn’t look at Dally, but he pictures him.
Dally isn’t honestly very attractive. Steve isn’t trying to be mean by thinking that, and he knows Dally’s not bad looking either, but- well, he’s never thought hard about whether or not his buddy is good looking. He’s never had to. Dally’s Dally.
But now he is thinking about what it would be like to kiss Dally.
Steve doesn’t really want to. He’d rather kiss Soda, even if he’s not sure about that one either. Given the choice he’d rather kiss Soda.
Soda’s good looking, tall and slender but not scrawny, with laughing eyes and a sensitive, well-proportioned face.
Dally is small, but not really. He’s tall, actually, but his features are small, almost. Pointed. Like a rat. Or an elf. He’s not bad looking, Steve rationalizes, but he just doesn’t feel the urge to…stare at him, maybe. He doesn’t notice things about Dally’s face on purpose, they just happen to be picked up…
“You are here,” Dally says, voice low.
There’s a pause. Steve glances at Soda, who is fiddling with his dad’s dog tags and picking at his fingernails. Soda catches his eye.
“I think,” Soda says, a little too nonchalant, “that I’m doin’ fine now with or without a girlfriend.”
“Yeah?” says Steve.
“I mean, it’d be nice to have a good lay and all, and it’d be nice to be…” he breathes in and exhales, “It’d be nice to be…loved…but I’m not…all that bored without it, y’all dig me?”
“That’s healthy,” Steve says, only slightly bitter. Of course Soda’s got a balanced enough mind not to be desperate for some type of love, romantic or even just bodies.
Dally throws his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Guess you and me are the pathetic ones, eh?”
“Guess so,” says Steve, wishing that he wasn’t. He’d felt hot and fluttery when Evie put her arm around his shoulders the other day. He doesn’t feel that now.
“HEY!” Yells a voice from downstairs, and Dallas wrenches away from Steve in an instant. He heads to the door and throws it open.
“It’s Buck,” he grumbles to them, and hollers “WHAT?”
“CURTIS’S OLD MAN’S HERE, SEND HIM DOWN!”
Soda scowls and rolls his eyes. “Dammit, Dad…” and Steve silently agrees. Dammit, Mr. Curtis…
“Well, see ya later, y’all,” Soda sighs, hauling himself off the bed. And he gathers his things, heads out the door, and is gone.
Steve rarely spends much time alone with Dally, and for a second, he’s scared they’ll have nothing to talk about.
But Dally offers him a cigarette, and within a minute, they’re talking just as much as when Soda was here to balance things out.
“It’s just, all the fine broads at school are bitchy, y’know?” Steve is saying, watching his smoke curl in the air.
“Amen, brother,” Dally agrees.
“I mean, some aren’t,” Steve amends, feeling like an asshole for lumping them all together. “And hey, who knows, maybe I’m bitchy too and don’t mean to be, and they’re just actin’ accordin’ly…”
“Nah, they’re bitches,” Dally says, all firm-like. “And they get on their high horses like you’re some type of scum-”
“-Which you are, Dal,” Steve points out. Dallas makes a face. “…But I mean, yeah. They ain’t nice. Sure don’t make a guy feel too hot sometimes.”
“Damn feminists,” Dally says with a scoff. “Makin’ it impossible to fuck anyone without a giant price tag.”
“Damn ‘em,” Steve agrees, even though he’s not sure he means it. Evie’s kinda into the feminism thing, and it’s something he’s always thought made her even tuffer. He likes a girl who can speak for herself. And honestly, he thinks it’s just generally pretty respectable for anyone to try to change things for their situations. Pursuit of happiness or whatever that founding father said in history class…but you don’t say stuff like that to guys like Dally if you don’t wanna get called a pussy. Or a hippie, which Steve thinks sounds just as bad.
“But man, even bitchy girls are a better time than no girls,” Dally says wistfully.
“God, yeah,” Steve says with a sigh. He considers telling Dally that sometimes he falls asleep hugging his pillow and pretending it’s a girl, one who he really really loves. But that sounds a little bit too pathetic even for him, drunk or not. Instead, he says “Hey, Dal?”
“What?”
“You remember that time when my folks went up to Kansas for a week, and I had the house to myself?”
“Yeah, that was…what, February?”
“Yeah.”
“You shoulda thrown a party.”
“I wanted to,” Steve admits. “But um…that week, I went riflin’ through all those advertisements in the paper…y’know the ones for uh…call girls?”
“Sure.”
“Um…yeah, I dug through all of ‘em, tryin’ to find one that sounded good. I mean, it ain’t like I found much. I don’t think the paper likes to print all that stuff in it. And to tell ya the truth, I don’t think I meant to go through with it or anything. I don’t think I could’ve. But…I wanted to, real badly.” He’d made it as far as the phone before he’d stopped and thought about it, and then his brain had come before his Rodney and talked him outta it. (What if she’s ugly? What if she’s old? What if call girls check your ID before they bang you and don’t bang you if you’re a minor? What if she’s only doing this because she needs to provide for a family and you’re just adding to her misery by using her? And most of all- how the hell do you intend to PAY her, smartass?!)
Dally fixes him with his ice blue eyes, and breaks into loud, high laughter. Steve flushes.
“Aw, shuddup, Winston, forget it. I shouldn’t’ve said nothin’,” he groans.
“No, I- naw, Randle-” Dally says between giggles, “Trust me, you ain’t missin’ much. And anyway, half those chicks are men and the other half are Sylvias.”
“Oh,” Steve says, feeling his face get hotter. “Well, I thought you didn’t mind fuckin’ men, Dallas,” he says, just to regain his dignity.
“Maybe not, if I’m desperate, but you do, huh?”
“Glory, I dunno. I’m prolly desperate enough to, these days,” Steve murmurs.
“Oh yeah. You’re a virgin,” Dally grins, looking like a wolf.
“Fuck, don’t remind me.”
“How do you even survive, buddy?”
“Jackin’ off. A lot,” Steve says sheepishly.
“Ooh, so you watch a lotta late show channels, don’tcha?” Dally teases.
“Nah…that don’t do it for me,” Steve says, squinting. “Pictures are okay. Words are better…sometimes I just use what’s in my head, and get real handsy, and that works fine too.”
“Aw yeah, magazines are great,” Dally nods. “I’ve ruined tons of ‘em in the shower.”
“Eugh, you do it in the shower?” Steve says, wrinkling his nose. “But the shower’s…the shower’s for bein’ clean, ain’t it?”
“The shower’s for bein’ wet, Stevie,” Dally says, clicking his tongue.
“Naw, your bed’s for bein’…dirty…the shower’s where you, like, wash it all away, and get…pure again, y’know?” Says Steve. “Like…so it don’t taint you or…whatever…” Even as he speaks, he knows what he’s saying reeks of the Catholic guilt that still hasn’t been bred outta him yet even though his family has been Protestant since his grandparents left Italy.
“Oh-kay, Randle, and you say you don’t go for church,” Dally snorts.
Steve shrugs. “I dunno, it keeps me from feeling shitty after…y’know.”
Dally shakes his head. “Sure. I guess.”
“And that’s why I needa get a girlfriend,” Steve says, half-joking. “I mean, c’mon, I can only take care of myself for so long before I start gettin’ even more religiously inclined, huh?”
“Hey, I meant what I said earlier, man,” Dally says, voice quiet again. “And I’ll kill ya for sayin’ so to anyone, so it best not leave this room, but…I’d fuck you, Randle.”
Steve’s breath hitches. “I…”
“Just to practice,” Dally breathes, “for girls.”
…Steve doesn’t wanna be bad at it when it counts…he can learn not to be bad at it from Dally, can’t he?
“I…” Steve says, considering it, “sure,” he says finally. “Sure. To practice. No big deal.”
“It ain’t like I like you, kid,” Dally adds, as if Steve would ever imagine anything different. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m just…here. Is all I’m sayin’.”
“I’ll…yeah. Okay…yeah,” Steve says, more casual than he feels. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah.”
“Not tonight, though, Dal’,” Steve says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m too drunk and too tired.” And that could well be why I don’t think this idea is the worst thing I’ve ever heard, he doesn’t add.
“Me too,” Dally nods, not making eye contact.
“Okay,” Steve says again, feeling like his head is spinning.
Their conversation outwardly goes back to normal after that, and they watch shit on Dally’s lousy television. But Steve doesn’t miss how Dally lets his shoulders bump Steve’s as they sit on the bed. He doesn’t like him. Honest to God, Steve doesn’t love Dallas Winston. Not even a little. But he’s almost seventeen, and he’s sick of being a virgin. He’s meant to be attractive, at least according to the girls he’s talked to, so why hasn’t he done it yet?
He could do it with Dally here and now, and finally he could be a man instead of a lonely no-count kid. But does he even want to, really? Or does he just wanna say he’s experienced?
Maybe Steve would kiss Dally if Soda were here. But maybe Steve just kinda wants to kiss Soda. Mostly he wants Evie, but she probably doesn’t like him like that, and anyway, she is taller than him so it isn’t like they’d ever work out.
So nothing happens, and Steve goes home in the morning like everything’s normal.
But he’s got a lot more swirling in his head.