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The DX smelled like pungent gasoline, hot asphalt, and the slight artificial tinge of packaged goods stocked upon the metal shelves. Carmen had whiffed a hint of that chemical mix for as long as Sodapop had been working there.
Too bad Tulsa didn’t show any mercy today, though per usual; it was sunny and stifling hot, the kind of heavy heat that made the sun shine over the pavement. Customers came and went, flustered and sweaty, to escape the hell that was outside.
“Have a nice day, miss." Sodapop flashed his signature, twinkling smile, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
The Soc, who seemed to be way older than Soda and Carmen, giggled as she sashayed towards the door, her hips swaying behind a stiff, expensive skirt. The little bell attached to the frame had a cheerful ding! on her way out.
A moment of silence passed. The quiet humming of the pop machine filled the air.
“Glory, what was she wearing?” Carmen asked, breaking the quiet from where she was perched by the comics stand.
“Carmen, don’t start now,” Soda chuckled, shaking his head as he wiped down the sticky countertop with a damp rag.
“I mean—look at her!” Carmen gestured with an annoyed flick of her wrist at the woman pulling out of the gas station in the fancy Lincoln Continental. Her hideous off-white blouse dug deep at the seams of her armpits, and the mismatched blue and yellow bangles on her forearms sat like a cheap pair of Halloween handcuffs. “And she has the audacity to wear it with an A-line. Jus’ happy to look a mess.”
“I could say the same about you,” Steve said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he walked by, a greasy rag slung over his shoulder.
Carmen whipped her head around in pure disbelief, the black wool beret resting on her hair nearly falling off. Soda broke out into a loud cackle, sounding like a hyena over the register.
“Boy, you’re lucky Gerald is in the back, or I would’ve whooped yer behind,” Carmen exclaimed, projecting her voice loud enough for him to hear her behind the door he shut.
Gerald was Soda's and Steve’s notoriously lazy boss, a man that could never bring himself to the front, always letting his teenage workers handle most of the work for him. Customers rarely knew he existed. That included Carmen, but that was before she had visited Soda on his shifts every day.
“I got on stuff that chick can’t even imagine wearing,” she scoffed, tugging at the knitted collar of her snug black turtleneck and the hem of her cream-white mini miniskirt.
Sodapop exhaled gleefully, the last of his high dying down, and placed a warm, gentle hand on her shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough now. We oughta be headin’ home anyway; it’s time to close up.”
The noise of metal chair legs rustling and scooting across linoleum could be heard from the break room, presumably Steve gathering his stuff together to leave, too. Carmen hummed, sending a lingering look toward the backdoor, and tucked a strand of her brown hair behind her ear.
“Can you take me with y’all? Scottie’s helping his dad at the grocery store again, so I’m free all day,” Carmen asked.
Soda dug around in his denim pocket. “Yeah, of course! Just gimme a second.” He scurries off into the back, his heavy leather boots thudding against the floorboards, muttering to himself about the dang keys.
By the time Soda had finally found Steve’s car keys (it was in the office under a stack of invoices), the Chevy’s interior became a blast furnace. In the blistering air of the cab, Soda drove the three of them back to the Curtis house, the tires bumping their way on the melting tar of the roads.
When they entered the house, Two-Bit and Dally already situated themselves on the sofa. The old boob tube was playing The Beverly Hillbillies, but Carmen couldn’t guess who in the gang was actually watching it.
“Don’t slam the door!” A youthful voice bellowed from the kitchen.
Right on cue, Steve slammed the door with a careless hand, shaking the glass pane within its wooden frame. A tiny, amused sigh left Carmen’s lips, while Soda and Steve ran up the stairs to the bedrooms.
“There’s that Caramel." Two-bit put his hand up leisurely toward the Beat-styled girl, tilting his head back over the cushions. “I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“More like three hours." She smiled and rested an elbow on top of the worn couch. “And stop callin’ me that. I told you to quit it, Mathews."
Dally, who was mindlessly playing with a loose thread on Two’s shirt, patted the back of his hand on Two-bit’s bare, sleeveless arm. “Yeah, man, y’know ‘jackass’ is better.”
“Oh, shut up, Dallas, ain’t nothing good ever come out of yer mouth!” Carmen snapped, exhausted at the guy’s immaturity. Her grayish-blue eyes narrowed into slits, and she could feel herself straightening upright.
“Yeah?” A smug smirk spread across Dally’s face. “How ‘bout you come do something ‘bout it then, little girl?"
Without thinking, Carmen pushed past the anchored armrest next to her and took a massive step over Two-Bit’s brown leather boots, towering over the shitfaced thug with a scowl. Dally continued to egg her on, making nonsensical statements about how her smaller stature blocked the TV set. A rush of heat boiled in Carmen’s head, and the two proceeded to squabble like two street cats preparing for a fist fight.
“Alright, ladies, enough of this,” Two-bit exclaimed, spreading his arms out between the two like a referee. He gave Dally a pleading, wide-eyed look all too similar to a little puppy upset at its owner.
“Tell it to this guy,” Carmen muttered.
She scoffed as her arms crossed tightly over her chest and the heels of her go-go boots clicked beneath her. Dally did the same, leaning into the plush backing of the couch with a proud, satisfied grin.
Suddenly, Darry emerges from the kitchen, his hands thrown out in utter confusion. A baby pink ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron was wrapped absurdly tight around his waist.
“What’s with the racket?”
Carmen and Dally looked at each other with a blank face and then back at Darry.
Having been tired of their nonstop bickering, Darry gritted through his teeth, “You two, cut it out. Now.” He turns his gaze fully to Carmen, his tone lowering to a soft edge, like how it does with Johnny. “There’s some booze left in the fridge, ‘kay? Come cool down with me and Pony.”
Carmen nodded, her heart slowing down into its usual pace, and trailed behind him—but not without sending a nasty sneer at Dally over her shoulder. As they passed through the doorways, she could hear Two-Bit complaining about the lack of beers left for the rest of them.
In the kitchen, a faint burning of a starch-like smell hit Carmen’s nose. She saw Ponyboy standing rigid by a boiling pot on the stove with Johnny standing idly next to him, murmuring soft bits of advice. When Darry and Carmen walked in, Pony gave an awkward jerk of a head nod, and Johnny flashed a small, polite greeting. She smiled back warmly at the smaller boy, the lingering irritation from Dally fading away.
Moving past him, Darry yanked open the humming refrigerator and handed Carmen a bottle of Dixie that was beaded with condensation. “It’s our last one. Two-bit keeps drinking ‘em like water, I swear.”
“Thanks, Darry,” Carmen replied, stepping back against the wall to give him room as he rummaged through the spice cabinet.
She hooked the bottle cap onto the hard edge of the Formica countertop and gave it a practiced smack with the heel of her palm, popping it off with a satisfying clink. She learned that party trick from Two-Bit and Steve one time at a dingy party. With a long, grateful chug of the bitter liquid, Carmen leaned against the doorway, watching the two boys.
“So, what’s supposed to be happening here?” She pointed the neck of her bottle at the pot that was trembling with energy.
Ponyboy’s cheeks and ears blushed a brilliant red. “Uh, well… I’m supposed to be cooking rice for dinner.” His hands trembled slightly as he dialed the heat to high and topped the cast iron with a lid. It was painfully clear he had no prior experience making the rice; though, as Carmen recalled, it was no shocker, as it wasn’t a staple in the Curtis house anyway.
Almost instantly, a loud, rapid bubbling began to stir from within, which caused the pot to clatter on the hot burner, the heavy glass lid rattling with it. Carmen watched amusedly as Johnny gave his friend a shifty look.
“I don’t know if you should boil it on high, Pony…” Johnny said, his shoulders caving in a bit as if waiting for an explosion.
Immediately, Darry placed his attention from the seasoning cabinet to the active stove, his brows furrowing as he looked past Ponyboy’s head to stare down at the lively scene. He adjusted the knob in one swift motion, lowering the heat to a nice medium with ease.
The starch-like water slowed down to a calm, manageable simmer.
“Careful, Colt,” he said, grabbing a wooden spoon nearby. “Let me handle this before you burn the whole house down.”
Johnny and Carmen snickered in unison as Pony ducked his head in embarrassment, though a sigh of relief passed his lips. The brunette girl took another swig of her beer and casually hobbled herself a room over into a dining room chair.
The seat clung to the back of her thighs—a reminder that she wasn’t safe from the stubborn humidity even indoors. From the living room, the tinny laugh track from The Beverly Hillbillies mixed in with the rest of the loud home. Through the doorway, she could see Keith laughing boisterously as Dal flicks his steel lighter open and closed, an ear peeking out of his white-blonde hair for Steve’s account of his day.
Pony walks into the dining room with a stack of white and turquoise plastic plates and neatly sets them in the corresponding seats. He set a plate down in front of Carmen with a sorry smile, likely for the chaotic state of the kitchen earlier.
“Dinner’s ready!” Darry’s voice boomed from the kitchen, interrupting the soothing afternoon haze.
In an instant, a thundering thud of heavy boots and sneakers echoed through the house as the rest of the gang piled into the small dining space. Darry marched in, his pink apron still hugging his broad figure, carrying a large platter of steak, while Johnny trailed close behind with the pot of fluffy, successfully rescued rice.
The boys wasted no time digging in. Before the platter even touched the center of the table, a flurry of hands got a hold of it. Steve snagged two of the biggest cuts, while Soda reached clean over Johnny’s head to shove a mountain of rice onto his plate, almost knocking the spoon right out of the boy’s hand.
"Hey! Watch it!" Darry barked, though there wasn’t a bite to it as he swatted his brother’s wrist with a dish towel.
Carmen tutted to herself, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, and shook her head. The chaos that arose from the house was nothing out of the ordinary. She leaned forward to scoop a modest portion of rice and steak onto her own white plate. Despite the frantic scene, she noticed Johnny made sure she got a decent cut of meat before the plate was picked entirely clean.
She smiled at the kid and took a bite. The steak was seasoned perfectly, and even Pony's rice—thanks to Darry—was tender.
As the boys bickered over who got the last piece of meat, Carmen took her final sip of Dixie, the cool glass comforting against her warm palm. Her eyes scanned the noisy, crowded table. The room was suffocatingly hot, the air smelling of fried grease and cheap cologne, but it was exactly what she needed.
It was quite a contrast to the heavy silence that usually waited for her at home. Not that her family didn’t emit the same supportive, cheerful energy in the house, but Carmen learned there were tons of hard truths to swallow in life; the fact that her Papà may never live his life comfortably was one of them.
Ever since he’d come back, a part of him had stayed locked away in the muddy, blood-soaked trenches of Europe. Everyone told Carmen he was like a ghost of himself, completely out of it, but he wasn’t like that. While it’s difficult for her to make that call, considering she wasn’t there to understand him before the draft, she could feel his compassion from a mile away. In how he played house with her as a kid, when he promised to give her and her brother Giuseppe all the gifts they'd ever wanted, and the soft, lingering looks he gave her mother, holding onto the present just to feel safe.
In the end, he was still the man that would flinch at the sun and the crackling of a lively saucepan. Sometimes, to Carmen, the grief of losing him—someone so affectionate, true, and human—while he was still sitting in front of her felt too heavy to carry.
At the Curtis house, however, she doesn’t have to think of it, not in the moment at least. The relentless cacophony of the gang drowned out the dread that crept up on her every day. She didn’t need to hold her breath or walk on eggshells. When she was around, the only thing they’d asked of her was to be herself.
"Hey, Caramel," Two-Bit called with a mouthful of food, pointing his fork at her. "You gonna finish that rice, or can this growing boy have it?"
"I told you to stop calling me that, Two-Bit," Carmen chuckled, completely out of her element to snark at him. She slid her plate a few inches toward him and rolled her eyes. "Take it before I throw it at you."
Two-Bit grinned, scooping it up instantly, as a chorus of groans and laughter erupted around the table. Carmen leaned back in her chair, the heat of the room finally feeling less like a burden and more like a warm blanket, letting the beautiful, noisy distraction of the gang wash over her.