Chapter Text
‘I started to say something to him, but I went to sleep before I could get the words out of my mouth. But Johnny didn’t notice. He was asleep, too.’
Ponyboy woke up before the sun had risen. Beside him, Johnny was dead to the world, snoring lightly. Asleep was the only time he really ever looked at peace.
Glory, he was tired. They both were, but when Pony closed his eyes, all he saw was Bob, dead, eyes still open. Right next to Johnny’s head was the very weapon that had killed him. It was rinsed off now, but Ponyboy swore that he could still see hints of red if he squinted.
The thought settled heavily in his chest. It hadn’t even been a full day.
A boy. He’d asked for it, he really had. But he had been drunk and wasn’t even eighteen. Pony knew it had been his life or Bob’s, but he’d been Cherry’s boyfriend all the same. He would have gotten out of Tulsa and would have been a rich man with rich children, who would have raised them to be just as cold and unfeeling as he was. Now, he would be remembered as a kid who never got the chance.
Ponyboy wondered if graduating only to go to college and get a job straight away was living at all. Maybe his friends had to work their tails off to make ends meet, but he thought that they lived.
Then he thought of Darry, who’d wanted nothing more than to go to school and leave this town.
He glanced over at Johnny, curled in on himself even in sleep, one hand fisted in the blanket.
Ponyboy pictured Soda, who was going to marry Sandy and wouldn’t need him soon.
And then there was Dally, whose friends might say that he’d lived. Ponyboy disagreed—he had only seen the most. A lot of it was bad. Sodapop had once told him, “It’d be real sad to live the way Dally does,” and Pony figured he was right. Dallas didn’t care about anybody except Johnny. How did you live that way?
He was like the Socs in that way. The Greasers might’ve been dirt poor, but at least they had each other.
“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever really gotten through to,” Cherry had said that night. Her voice had sounded small.
Ponyboy reached for the knife, dragging it away from Johnny, his hand barely brushing his friend’s hair. Somehow it still felt soft.
He held it for a long time, staring at the metal. He could see his skin in it, just barely—it wasn’t like the switchblade was a mirror, and it was dark. The stars provided minimal light, shining through the window behind him.
When the knife made his stomach twist, he set it next to the fifty bucks Dally gave them. One of them would need to buy food in the morning. He figured he’d do it, let Johnny sleep. The sun was just beginning to rise. Pony decided to leave before anyone was awake. They were in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, but he wasn’t taking any chances of being spotted.
He ached to brush his teeth or shower—that train had done nothing to make him feel clean. Frowning, he realized that the last time he’d been in water, he was drowning.
He’d almost died last night, and it still didn’t feel real. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to.
Ponyboy stood up eventually, sparing Johnny one last look as he grabbed the money and walked out of the church.
As he shut the door behind him, he suddenly felt very overwhelmed with this whole thing. How was Ponyboy, a fourteen-year-old kid, supposed to get away with murder? He knew it wasn’t him who killed Bob, but surely running away wouldn’t help the fuzz’s opinion of him.
The Socs would get away with it, like they always did. All of Bob’s friends would lie and say that they were attacked. Who would the rich judges and police believe? The teenagers who lived in their neighborhoods, their friends’ sons, or the ones who fixed up their cars?
He pictured Bob laughing in the park. How was he supposed to pity the people who got to go home in their Mustangs and Corvairs, those tuff cars, when his friends would forever be the ones fixing them?
How was he supposed to pity the people who had jumped Johnny and cut up his face?
Johnny’d had no choice but to kill Bob. Without Ponyboy, though, he wouldn’t be at risk of the death penalty. None of this would’ve happened if he weren’t there.
Without him, Soda wouldn’t sit up waiting for the door to open. Darry wouldn’t stand in the doorway with that tight look on his face. There’d be one less plate at the table.
Soda would be torn up. Johnny might be, too, and he thought Two-Bit might be at least a little upset. Steve and Darry wouldn’t dare say it with Soda being so close, but they wouldn’t be sad. And Dally…well, he didn’t care about anybody except Johnny. He probably wouldn’t even notice Ponyboy was gone.
For one selfish moment, he thought about leaving then and there—just walking off and not coming back. He had money. But he’d never be able to do that—who knew how long it’d take Dally to get to the church? Johnny would be hungry. And lonely.
Oh, he would miss Johnny something awful if he left, but it’d be better that way.
While he walked, he watched the sunrise. A few months ago, before his parents died, he would have come up with some metaphor for how it symbolized hope. He would have abandoned these plans and gone back to Johnny to wait for Dally.
Now, the road just stretched out in front of him, empty and waiting.
The longer he thought about it, the more running seemed like a fine idea. He was furious with Darry, so he wouldn’t even miss him.
Dally had done it. He didn’t really talk about New York, at least not to Ponyboy, but he knew enough to make a small plan.
He pressed his lips together and tried not to feel anything at all. That was easier for Dally, who seemed never to care at all. Ponyboy cared too much, probably, but he tried to stop thinking about the people he loved. The only thing he thought about was buying Johnny what he needed.
After the sun had risen, Ponyboy made it to what seemed to be a very rundown gas station, which made him think of Soda and the DX. He looked at the cracked pavement instead.
There was a light on, though, so he very carefully walked in, trying not to bring notice to himself. Nobody was in the store except for the cashier, which he took as a good sign.
The shelves weren’t very stocked, but he grabbed what he needed. Two packs of cigarettes—one for him, bread, baloney, cards, and Gone With the Wind. Johnny didn’t really read that much, but there weren’t many other options. The two had seen the movie together.
It took some restraint not to buy a copy for himself, but Ponyboy did not know what his future held. He didn’t think there’d be much time for reading.
Because Johnny deserved it, he bought some candy bars, his stomach growling. He wouldn’t eat them. They were for Johnny.
Ponyboy grabbed a pen and stuck it in his pocket, thinking of Two-Bit. He ripped one sheet of paper out of a notebook as quietly as he could and shoved it next to the pen, uncaring if it wrinkled.
Johnny might be waking up soon, he thought, and made his way to the register.
“You’re up early,” the cashier said, one eyebrow cocked as he scanned the items. Ponyboy shrugged, trying to look tough so he didn’t have to talk to anybody. It didn’t seem to work. “Whatever do you need bread, baloney, and candy for, kid?”
Pony narrowed his eyes. “I like baloney sandwiches.”
“This’ll make a whole lot of sandwiches.”
Good, he thought, Johnny didn’t need to be hungry. “How much?” he asked, passing over a 10—it was the smallest bill he had.
The cashier man looked at it with wide, suspicious eyes. The man’s gaze flicked from Pony’s face to his worn sneakers and back to the bill.
Ponyboy would be long gone if he ever managed to figure out who he was. As soon as he was given his change, he turned around and left, beginning the trek back to the abandoned church. The pen and folded paper knocked against his thigh with every step.
While he walked, he thought of what to write. How did you say goodbye to the people you’ve known for fourteen years on one page?
Oh, Soda would never forgive him.
He tightened his grip on the bag until his fists were white.
The sun was higher now than it had been—soon, Johnny would wake up, and if Ponyboy saw his sad, scared eyes, he would never be able to leave.
Things would be better this way, he reminded himself again. It was best for everyone. This was what he deserved.
He tried not to picture Sodapop’s face as he thought the words over and over again.
He unfolded the paper and wrote as best as he could while walking. It wasn’t his best work, but by the end, he was tearing up.
Ponyboy pocketed the change he’d been given—Johnny still had forty dollars to do whatever he wanted with. Forty dollars was a lot. It had to be enough.
He dropped the letter into the bag of food just in front of the door. He could see Johnny was in a different position now, closer to where he’d written in the dust, but somehow still asleep.
Ponyboy couldn’t see his face. Johnny’s back was to him, shoulder rising and falling slowly and steadily. Pony didn’t move closer.
Running might be cowardly. But it was what Dally had done, and he was the bravest person Ponyboy knew. He didn’t feel very brave then, though.
He spoke ever so quietly. There wasn’t much to say that he hadn’t written in the letter. Still, he needed this. “Goodbye, Johnny Cade,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath, blending in with the autumn wind. “I hope you hate me after this. I would. It’ll make it easier for you.”
Ponyboy Curtis turned his back on his best friend and walked out of the church in Windrixville with no plan for the future. All he had was four dollars, a pack of cigarettes, and Dallas Winston’s leather jacket hanging heavily on his shoulders.
Somewhere back in Tulsa, two boys are frantically searching for their younger brother, not knowing that they've already seen him for what will be the last time in a year.