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Quiet.
The word was so simple- it wasn’t even mean. It had been said with care and honesty, and that honesty was what hit him the hardest.
Briefly, Ponyboy remembered the time he’d dissected a worm with a switchblade in class. The looks he’d gotten had left him flushing red and avoiding eye contact with everyone in the hallways for weeks. Today, though, he’d love it if those were the only kinds of looks he got, because now people were afraid of him. Especially with whatever newfound injuries he managed to pick up from somewhere he couldn't even remember. He knew they looked at him wrong because he was a Greaser, but honestly, he was pretty sure even if he was the richest Soc on the West Side he’d still get looked at funny.
Something was wrong with him, something always had been wrong with him, and it had only gotten worse since Windrixville. If his classmates and teachers weren’t walking on eggshells around him, they were giving him looks and words of pride that left him feeling sicker than a punch to the gut. Sure, kids thought they could kill a guy if they had to, but the reality of it was so much worse than the mindless daydreaming of a ten year old playing army with his brothers. Ponyboy wondered if he should be glad he’d never be ten again.
Pony had always felt like an outcast, even within the Curtis gang, but Johnny had made it bearable. No one understood him the way he needed to be understood, but Johnny at least came close. Now there was no one left to even try.
It wasn’t like Ponyboy was stupid- his grades alone threw that theory away. He just . . . didn’t get people. Not like Soda did. In a way, he found a kinship with Darry through that. Neither of them had ever known the right things to say or do in order to make people like them. The difference was that Darry had some things going for him: he was athletic, hardworking, and pretty handsome to top it all off. All Pony had were his stupid books and a newfound reputation for trouble.
So yeah, maybe the one person who had always tolerated him finally tiring of his nonsense was a little painful for him.
One day, he’d gotten so excited rambling about something or other (likely Jane Austen, one of his favorite authors at the time this occurred) that he’d been directly told to shut up by a fellow Greaser. That was an awful feeling. Ponyboy didn’t know how not to talk about what he loved, so he ended up just shutting down and not saying anything for days until Soda and Darry managed to wriggle the truth out of him. Before that, though, he’d spent his days tucked away in Austen's books, wishing he they didn’t make him feel the way they did, even though he was the happiest he’d ever been reading like that. When he finally managed to spit it out, Soda nearly started crying, and Darry had gotten this look on his face like he just got cut from the football team. A few days later someone had cornered the guy who scolded him and Pony didn’t get bothered by Greasers anymore.
That feeling was nothing compared to someone important telling him to be quiet. Someone who maybe didn’t know any better, but said the word, and the word hurt him. Take, for example, one of his teachers.
He was in fourth grade, and they’d been going over a literary unit in class. Ponyboy had never read the book before, but when he got through the first chapter he didn’t put it down, instead reading the whole thing in one sitting. He’d been so excited to talk about it. He’d even worked ahead on his assignments, only stopping when his mom told him to go to bed. The next morning, when the time came, he barely even had thirty seconds to talk before the snickering started. After that came the dirty looks. But this was a discussion, right? He was supposed to talk.
Only when the teacher interrupted him to tell him off did he realize maybe that rule didn’t apply to him.
There was another incident he remembered a little better. He’d just finished reading Their Eyes Were Watching God, and he’d gone to return the book to the library. The disease had been so interesting to him- he ended up carrying a whole bag of medicine books slung over his shoulder the whole way home. Even though he couldn’t understand a word of them, he would get so excited reading the books that he’d have to stop and run laps around the house. His ma had always laughed it off in that way only she could.
Except when he had to discuss the book during a seminar a year later and went on a tangent about rabies, he got those same looks again. This time, he knew it meant he needed to shut up.
He didn’t talk much in class after that.
But literature was his safe place. Whenever something went wrong in a book, he could just put it down- or even better, read ahead and discover the conclusion firsthand. And with a book like 1984, who wouldn’t get excited at the prospect of a class discussion? Hell, Mr. Syme had seemed real psyched about it too, and he even shared a name with one of the characters!
. . . he should’ve known he’d never be safe to act like the person he was in a place like school. After Mr. Syme had told him to be quiet, among snickering from his peers that no one bothered to shush or hide, Ponyboy hung his head down and didn’t talk for the rest of the period. He’d fail the seminar for sure, but he couldn’t even bring himself to open his mouth. It didn’t seem to stop at English class, though, as he remained uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the school day. Not even Two-Bit could get a word out of him on the walk home, but Pony knew he was working under the false assumption that he was just missing Johnny again.
Oh, he was missing Johnny, and he was missing so much more.
He didn’t even try to talk to Soda that evening. Darry wouldn’t get back til around nine, so Steve dropped by and helped them cook. It was supposed to be Ponyboy’s turn. One look at his little brother’s face and Sodapop nipped that idea right in the bud. He’d seen him in these moods before; it was like his body was shutting down on him. It wasn’t safe for him to be around cutlery and hot stoves in that state.
By the time Darry got home, their bellies were full, Steve had left, and Soda was silently cradling Ponyboy on the couch just the same as he had been two hours ago. His legs had long since fallen asleep, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Pony was awake- or, at least, his eyes were open. He didn’t seem much more conscious than that. It took Darry all of four seconds to figure out what was going on. When he did, he just sighed heavily, shucked off his boots, and made his way over to them.
“D’ya know who it was?” he asked. Soda just shook his head, looking at Pony solemnly. He wasn’t even sure if the kid had registered Darry’s appearance.
Two-Bit assumed he was upset over Johnny, but his brothers knew him far better than that. His grief was raw and loud; his shutdowns were nothing like that. Darry remembered all those times he’d felt the same way Ponyboy felt now. For him, those moments came out as a rage so powerful he was forced to isolate himself from anything and anyone he cared about. Ever so gently, he put his hand on Pony’s, rubbing his thumb over the top of it. The sound seemed to bother him, but as he moved to pull his hand away, his brother’s smaller one shot out and yanked it back into place. So, no movement then. Darry could handle that.
“Hey, Pone. Yes or No?”
Yes or No was a game they’d come up with a long time ago for when Ponyboy lost the ability to speak. Darry would just ask him yes or no questions, and he’d nod or shake his head. He nodded his head, signifying his readiness to start.
“You sad?”
Head shake.
“Upset?”
Nod.
“Did somethin’ happen at school?”
Nod.
“Was it Socs?”
A pause, then a head shake.
“Teacher?”
Nod. There was only one teacher Pony had that he cared this much about.
“Mr. Syme?”
A tearful nod.
“Oh, I’m sorry, baby. Was it that seminar today? Did something happen there?”
Nod. Darry lifted his other hand to wipe away the tears that were now streaking down his little brother’s face.
“Have y’all eaten?”
Nod.
“How ‘bout you go get some shut-eye, then, and we talk about it tomorrow?”
Pony closed his eyes and nodded, clearly exhausted. Darry lifted him up and carried him to his room, thinking about all the times his dad had done the same thing with him, although he had been kicking and screaming the whole time. He tucked the covers over his youngest gently, pausing only to make sure he was comfortable.
“Goodnight, Ponyboy. I love ya. Don’t worry about sayin’ it back, I know you love me too.”
Pony nodded and Darry shut the door behind him with a soft click.
Sodapop had found his way to the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, likely trying to keep his hands busy and mind occupied. As he heard his brother’s footsteps approaching, he shut the water off and turned around. He was clearly upset, but Darry didn’t know how to even start breaching the topic; he was awful at feelings, and he always had been. He didn’t think he’d ever manage to change it, no matter how hard he tried. Luckily, Sodapop knew him just as well as he knew Ponyboy.
“I don’t know how you do it, Dar,” he admitted, leaning back against the counter and shaking the water off his hands, “I never know how to fix it when he’s like this.”
“You have to live it to understand it,” Darry said, “And believe me when I say I’m glad you ain’t never lived it. But . . . it’s good to let him know that his thoughts matter. You don’t have to live it to do that.”
Sodapop nodded, then padded into his and Pony’s room, glancing at the titles of the assignments on the dresser.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” Ponyboy responded, lifting his head off the pillow.
“I heard you were readin’ somethin’ cool in class. Wanna tell me a little more?”
For the first time that day, Soda saw his kid brother smile.