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“I’m sorry. It isn’t your fault.”
The night Dallas Winston tries to kill himself, he stops to make a phone call.
He walks over to a payphone, the one right outside the train station. Punches in those ten numbers he’d memorized years ago. When he sat at a breakfast table and realized there may be an adult in the world who wouldn’t fail him. When he realized that sometimes mothers love their sons in ways that matter. That sometimes fathers don’t love in ways that hurt. He can’t stop breathing, hard, quick, shallow. He just needs somebody to know where he is. Where he will be. Has this unbearable need to tell someone, an urge that takes over until his feet take over the rest of his body. So, he makes a phone call.
The first time he tries the phone, it goes unanswered. For a moment, he thinks he dialed wrong, just for a moment. He knows the numbers by heart, he dials again. And again. He needs them to know where he is. He needs them to know where to look in the morning, when the rest of the gang realizes he’s gone missing. Can’t let them think he just skipped town again, not this time. He can’t leave them behind this time. They need to know, they deserve that at the very least. He owes it to them. There’s a small part of him that wishes they would just figure it out themselves, so he wouldn’t need to make this call. There’s an even smaller part of him that wishes they would try to stop it, to stop him. Maybe that part isn’t as small as he wishes it was. He calls again. Two times, three times, maybe four more before it finally gets picked up. He should have thought about it before he called, Ponyboy is sick. Ponyboy just got back, and he’s sick. Passed out the other day by Johnny’s bed, he’s probably laying in bed right now resting it off. Dally can practically see Soda there at Pony’s side, taking care of him in the way that only Soda can. That way Soda learned from his mother. Darrel is probably folding laundry in the living room, in such a deep trance thinking about his life that the phone is drowned out by his thoughts. Or maybe he’s in the kitchen cleaning up after making dinner, water absorbing any other sound in the house. Really, Darrel could be doing any one of those household chores he normally does when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t falling apart. Dallas figures, because of this, that it will be Darrel who finally answers the phone.
It is not.
Instead, a small tired voice sounds on the other end of the line. It has a slight rasp to it, breaking in odd places. It mutters nonsense, so quiet and unsure. Dallas has to strain his ears to figure out what it was that was being said. A confused greeting that, at this point, must have been second nature. Sodapop Curtis. Oblivious, speaking like he had just been woken up and hadn’t been expecting a phone call.
Which makes perfect sense, really. Dallas wasn’t supposed to call tonight, he wasn’t supposed to call ever. He wants to hang up. He wants to scream Help me. He wants to say, Nevermind, Soda, I’ll call again later.
His heart beats loud in his chest, louder and louder until it is loud enough to take over that voice in his head. He hasn’t started crying yet, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s going to. It wasn’t supposed to be Soda, Soda doesn’t answer the phone ever. He wasn’t supposed to know now. Not now, not until after it happened. Not until after he was found and put away, cleaned up after, gone and unable to hurt anyone else. Dally wasn’t supposed to say goodbye. Not after everything. He’s never said goodbye, not ever. Not to his parents, not to Mrs. Curtis, not to Johnny. He doesn’t say goodbye, he leaves. That’s how it’s always been, how he’s always been. He can’t say goodbye. Darrel was supposed to be the one who answered the phone. Darrel was always the one to answer, he always answered the phone. Always. It was supposed to be Darrel. It was never supposed to be Soda.
“Hello?” Soda’s voice breaks through Dallas’ spiral. Smooth and quiet, rough from sleep. Or crying. Given all that has happened to him recently, it was probably from both. Soda must be especially confused, because he doesn’t wait very long for an answer before he repeats himself, “Hello? Who is this?”
Dallas’ breath hitches. Words get trapped deep in his throat. He coughs a few times, struggling even then to get them out. It feels almost like those moments before you throw up, stomach and throat and chest each moving on their own time. He can’t breathe through the block in his throat. A combination of everything that’s happened in his life recently, he guesses. He tries to cough again and nothing comes out. It wasn’t supposed to be Sodapop.
“I’m at the tracks,” He manages, somehow, “I’m sorry.”
”Dally?” It isn’t supposed to be Soda. He sounds so confused, “What are you talking about?”
”Tell Pony it isn’t his fault, alright? He’ll be okay, it isn’t his fault.”
Soda’s words get cut off, unheard, as Dallas hangs the phone up. Hangs isn’t the right words, really, he drops the payphone as if only touching it pained him. Like it burned his hand and sent a sharp pain along his arm and into his heart. He can’t feel anything other than that burn and pain. Other than shame and guilt and the color red. He heads to the tracks, stands there in the middle of them, and waits patiently for that hum. He waits for his eyes to burn with the bright light of a train and the shake that comes from the world beneath him. His eyes are wide open, but he can’t see anything.
Ten minutes later, about five minutes before the next train was scheduled to come through, the sound of a car running over rocks and grass shocks Dallas out of his trance. He looks over just in time to see the doors swing open after Darrel and Soda rush out. Soda, with puffy eyes and a face that’s red in some places and pale in the others, runs towards Dally. Darrel rushes over, staring at the tracks in fear.
Soda begs Dallas not to do anything stupid. Says so many things, so may pleading things, begging and begging. Crying. Dallas can’t hear them, or he ignores them, he doesn’t know which. It isn’t until Soda brings up Ponyboy, how the kid wouldn’t be able to take this on top of everything else that’s happened, that Dallas actually responds. He blinks for what feels like the first time ever. He takes in the way Soda’s face moves, and takes in how Darrel is right there next to them. He throws up a little bit, some on himself, a lot gets on the ground and Soda’s feet. He apologizes over and over and over. He cries as he apologizes to Soda. It sounds pathetic and weak and young. He sounds like a kid.
Darrel moves him away from the tracks and guides him to the backseat of the car. Sodapop crawls into the seat next to Dallas. Spends the whole ride soothing him, words of affirmation spilling out as he repeats empty promises over and over about how everything is going to be alright. In that way that only Soda can.
Dallas Winston does not crash on the couch that night.
It isn’t like all the other times he’s ended up there. This time is different. This time, Sodapop walks Dallas into the kitchen and pours him a glass of water. Sets it down in front of Dallas and smiles with such ease, like nothing had even happened. Like Dallas was just over to be over. He walks over to the fridge and grabs himself a slice of chocolate cake. Offers some to Dallas before jumping up to sit himself on the counter in front of him.
“Darry’s setting up the room.” Soda says through a mouthful of cake, “He doesn’t think you should be on the couch tonight.”
Dallas takes a sip of his water and nods.
”It’ll at least be better than Buck’s. Darry doesn’t think you should be there anytime soon, either.”
There’s a slight pause in the room as Soda looks at Dallas. He hesitates before speaking.
“You scared us, y’know.”
”I’m sorry.”
Soda just shakes his head a bit and shrugs. Takes another bite of cake, looks at the plate, and finishes eating it before he talks again.
”Don’t run away this time.”
Dallas looks at him for a minute, in a sort of stunned silence. Tears spilling over his eyes again.
“Okay.” He whispers.
When he goes to bed, he thinks about those ten numbers he memorized. He thinks about a mother who wasn’t his, who loved him more than any adult ever had. He thinks about a boy, eating cake on the counter and begging him to stay alive, in a way nobody ever had before.
When Sodapop Curtis closes his eyes, he sees the bright light of a train. He feels the heat of fire. On the days that he doesn’t get enough sleep, he hears the hum of the earth in his ears reverberating. When he can’t get out of bed, he sees Dallas WInston on the tracks. His leather jacket folded neatly at the side of the tracks, his soul splayed across the front of the train. He can never feel okay until he sees Dally alive. There, in the room, okay and alive and breathing.
When Sodapop Curtis sleeps, he sees his baby brother drowning. A fountain in Pershing Park, and a missing dried blood stain. The person who holds his brother down changes from time to time. Sometimes it’s Bob, or Paul, occasionally it’s one of the other Socs who hangs around those two, like Trip or Brill. One time it was one of the girls.
Sometimes, the one holding him down is Darry. Ponyboy shows up at home past his curfew alone, no sign of Johnny, and Darry starts yelling. He’ll hit Pony and then the dream will shift to the fountain. Darry will hold Pony down under the water as Soda stands still in fear, frozen even in his dream. Unable to do anything. He sees lights flash, blue and red with an attached sound. Then, bright lights. Quick and long at the same time. Loud noises, then crying. Losing both of his brothers over and over again in his dreams. When he wakes up from these ones, he has to see Ponyboy. Make sure he’s breathing.
More often than all of these, however, the one holding Pony down is Soda. These ones are the worst. It’s like Soda’s outside of himself. He can’t see past his own hands, but he knows there’s a boy there. Knows it’s Ponyboy from the screams for help that are broken up by the water. Nobody is watching and nobody comes to help. When Soda is done, he walks home calmly. Darrel is stuck in place on the floor. Sometimes he’s bleeding, sometimes he’s just there. Stuck. Soda feels the water filling his own lungs and he wakes up crying. He doesn’t feel okay until he goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror. Looks down at his hands and sees there’s no scratches around them. Coughs a bit and doesn’t feel any water coming out. Then, he can let himself look at his brothers. The moment he knows he can’t hurt them in any way.
It takes three months of these dreams for Soda to reach his breaking point.
The night Sodapop Curtis tries to kill himself, he stops to write a note.
He shoots up in a cold sweat, struggles to catch his breath. He runs into the bathroom, puts his hands on the counter in front of the sink, hunched over. He can’t breathe. He can’t do this. Not anymore. He throws up in the sink, it’s all clear. Like water. His dreams are catching up to him. He can’t do it anymore.
Soda walks slowly from the bathroom to the kitchen. Dally is passed out on the couch, it’s a good thing Soda won’t have to tell Darry about this. He tries his best to be quiet about it, rummaging about in the drawers. There’s water in his lungs, he can’t breathe. He’s drowning.
He finds what he’s looking for and writes a note. Writes where he’ll be. Asks them to just send the cops there, they shouldn’t have to see anything.
He walks to Pershing Park and just looks at the fountain. He isn’t in any real rush, doesn’t have any reason to be. Darry has work off, Pony doesn’t have school, and Dally probably won’t wake up until the afternoon. He looks at the fountain. Takes in the blood stains the Socs couldn’t seem to wash out. If Soda had just moved that day, helped Darry with the laundry and the cleaning, gone after Pony, if Soda had just done anything, maybe nobody would have died. If he had just helped, maybe Johnny would be here, Pony wouldn’t be so sick all the time. He should have done something.
Soda can’t breathe. He doesn’t want anything to be too messy, but there’s already blood stains here. They won’t think anything of it, he knows. He doesn’t know how he wants to do it, he just sees a boy past his hands. Water in his lugs, he can’t tell if he’s bleeding or drowning or laying in bed next to his brother. He can’t tell if this is all just a dream. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning and be fine. He’ll look over at Pony and breathe again, and he’ll help make breakfast and help clean up, and he’ll go to work, and he’ll pick up Pony from school and he’ll be okay. He’ll be fine. He just needs this to end so he can wake up.
He gets tackled to the ground before he can wake up.
He screams out and water sprays from his lungs. Hitting his back over and over again is Dallas Winston, awake from his nap on the couch.
”What the fuck Soda?”
”Hi, Dal.”
Dally looks at Soda for a second. Baffled. Asks, “What were you thinking?”
”Darry doesn’t want you sleeping on the couch.”
”Soda.”
”He says you should have the room if you’re staying with us, but you were on the couch. He doesn’t want you on the couch.”
“Soda. You were holding yourself under the water.”
Soda looks at Dally like he doesn’t understand what he’s saying. Or he doesn’t want to acknowledge it, it really could be either one.
“Don’t tell Darry. Please.” Soda pleads.
”What were you trying to do?”
Soda puts his hands over his ears, “I just wanted it to stop.”
Dally’s face goes flat. Understanding taking over his eyes. He takes in Soda’s state, there in a ball on the ground by the fountain in Pershing Park.
”I won’t tell Darry.” Dally says. Pauses. “You made me promise to stay. So you can’t be leaving neither, okay?”
Soda nods, hands still over his ears. He whispers, “I don’t want to go back yet.”
Dally leans against the fountain, right next to Soda.
“You don’t have to, we can just stay here.”
A few months later, they’re sitting on the couch watching cartoons. Pony’s off on some school trip, and Darry’s working late. Dally’s drinking a beer and smiling at the TV.
”Do you still think about it?” Soda asks, voice a little higher than a whisper. They’re laying together, maybe a little closer than they should be. Neither of them care, though. He doesn’t think it’d be any different if anyone was home. In the back of his mind, far back, he sees the lights of a train and the outline of a fountain. His parents frowning down at him, if he concentrates on the thought too much. He pushes it down.
He doesn’t specify what he’s asking about, because he knows he doesn’t have to. Dally just knows. Understands. He probably knew that question would come from the moment they laid down on the couch. Probably knew the question would come from the moment he woke up and saw the note Soda left behind.
”Sometimes.” Dally answers, easily. “It goes away, Soda. Not entirely, but it does.”
Soda nods. He might move in closer, but he pretends he doesn’t realize. Right up, as close as he can without fully shifting himself. Dally might move in closer. Lean right into him. He doesn’t acknowledge it, so Soda doesn’t either.
“You?” Dally asks after taking a sip of his beef, “D’you think about it?”
Soda lets out a little frightened laugh. Bitter and quick. Raw. Afraid.
”I think about it every day.” Soda says. Then, quieter, quieter than he has been this whole time, possibly quieter than he has ever been in his life, in what may be less than a whisper, he says, “It’s all I can think about sometimes.”
Dally looks at Soda. Really looks at him. Takes every little bit of him in. The sunken in eyes, red and puffy from crying. The way his once perfect, movie star hair sticks to itself and falls in his face, on his forehead. Soda is still so beautiful, Dally thinks, he’s always been beautiful. But it seems hollow now. Faded, almost. Like a ghost of the person he once was. Like maybe he did die that night. A peak into a world where Dally didn’t sleep on the couch, didn’t wake up to the sound of the door slamming, didn’t find the note Soda left behind. His hand moves slowly, hovers over Soda’s for a minute. He puts it down at his side.
”You’ve never talked about it.” He pauses. “You never told me why. You don’t have to, but it might help.”
Soda starts breathing heavily. Startled and maybe even ashamed. Tired and sick.
“I don’t know.” He sobs. “I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”
Soda laces his fingers with Dally’s. He’s quiet for a good amount of time, before he talks again.
”You called me, remember?”
Dally nods. “I wanted Darrel to pick up.”
”Is that why you apologized?”
Dally shakes his head, “I didn’t want to say goodbye to you. You were too good for that.”
Soda smiles at Dally. “Yeah?”
”Yeah. Yeah, Soda. You’re good.”
Soda goes quiet for a minute. Refuses to look at Dally.
”I was having nightmares.” He confesses, for the first time. “Where Pony died.”
”Shit.”
”Sometimes it was the Socs.” He whispers again. “Sometimes it was Darry.”
He closes his eyes like it would keep the memory away, fights the urge to cover his ears. “Sometimes—“
He chokes before he can finish his thought. Takes in a deep shaky breath. Feels water in his lungs.
”Sometimes it was me.”
Dally squeezes his hand.
“You didn’t tell anyone.”
Soda shakes his head. “Pony was sick. Everyone was already so worried, I didn’t want to add onto it.”
”Do you still have them?”
”No. No, I haven’t since the night in the park.”
Dally nods, and they go back to watching the cartoons. They may be closer than they were before, but they don’t care. Dally goes back to drinking and smiling at the TV. Soda thinks about his nightmares. Decides that he’ll tell Darry everything soon. It helped.
When Darry gets home, Dally and Soda don’t move. If he thinks anything of it, he keeps it to himself. He gets in his room and he looks at a note written in Soda’s handwriting. He thinks of how his mother made the gang memorize their phone number, in case they ever got in trouble. Which they always did. He thinks of how that’s one of the best things she ever did. He thinks about his little brothers and how, one day, they may be able to talk about everything. The ten numbers, the note, the book, the Soc boy. The things that saved them. How one day, everything will just be a story to tell.