Chapter Text
November 22, 1965
Darry had been holding the diary in his hands for the last 20 minutes, unable to decide whether to read it or not. After the funeral the police had given him a box of Ponyboy’s belongings. Just in case there was anything he and Soda wanted to keep. That was 3 weeks ago, and neither Darry nor Soda had the courage to look inside. Burying their baby brother was already too much to bear.
Darry couldn’t pinpoint what possessed him to finally open it, but a little voice inside his head told him it was important, and he had to do it for Pony. Now middle in the night, while Soda was tucked away in bed, Darry was sitting in the recliner holding the diary.
Darry hadn’t known Pony kept a diary. Sure he knew Pony liked to write stories and draw, but Darry never knew Pony would write about his life. Maybe this would help him understand what his little brother went through.
Darry’s heart pounded. A part of him was terrified to read what his little brother had to endure while in the system. Darry didn’t know if he had the strength if Pony went into the details of what happened to him. Most importantly, Darry didn’t know if he would be able to contain his rage if he read Pony’s entries. Darry made a promise to himself he wouldn’t go after the Emersons. He couldn’t let Soda lose another brother. It wouldn’t be fair.
Soda didn’t know about the diary. Hell, he didn’t even know Darry finally decided to open the box. And Darry planned to keep it that way, depending on what Pony wrote. Darry couldn’t put Soda through any more pain. This was Darry’s burden to bear. At an early age Mr. Curtis made Darry promise to always look after his younger brothers, and Darry intended to keep that promise. He already failed Pony, he wouldn’t fail Soda, too.
Darry slumped back into the chair and squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, glory, can I really do this?”
“You have to,” he whispered to himself.
Darry flipped open the diary and forced himself to read his brother's last days. “Okay, I'm listening Ponyboy.”
March 15, 1965
It’s been two months since I’ve arrived at the boys’ home, and so far it’s been pretty lousy. I have two roommates who are 7 and 9. Naturally I have nothing in common with them, and even if I did, it’s not like it would do much good. The staff says the 9-year- old is a mute, but truth be told, I think he’s scared stiff. The 7- year- old is a slow kid. He has trouble remembering simple instructions, and is often punished for it. He also gets picked on by most of the boys. I try to watch out for him, but I don’t think he likes my presence very much. He kinda reminds me of Johnny in how he just takes it without a fight.
I guess what I'm getting at is that I have no one to talk to. Sometimes at night I pretend I'm in the lot with Johnny watching the stars, talking until sunrise. That’s the only thing that helps me fall asleep. But it doesn’t keep the bad dreams away. I just don’t scream anymore.
I wish I had Sodapop with me at night. Without him the nightmares won’t stay away. And here, the staff isn’t understanding like my brother. The head of this place actually made me sleep in an extra bedroom in the basement so I wouldn't disturb the other boys. Not only did it smell like mildew, but glory, it was freezing down there. When I asked for an extra blanket, the staff told me to suck it up. It was the worst 3 weeks of my life. I think I cried harder than I did at Momma and Daddy’s funerals. But I have no choice but to keep going.
Every day is the same. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to school, come back and do chores, and homework, eat dinner, and have a few hours of free time. I usually read or do this. In the past writing has always been something I loved to do. Most would say I'm a creative person at heart, and that was true. But now, the only reason I write is to cope.
I miss home more than anything. I think I've lost 10 pounds since I've been at the boys’ home. I never had much of an appetite, but being here makes me sick to my stomach. The food, no matter what, is lukewarm. I’m starting to believe the cooks are doing it intentionally. Never would I have thought one day I'd be craving school cafeteria food.
I know I must sound whiny. I can already hear Darry scolding me for feeling sorry for myself. I don’t have it bad as half of the boys here. One boy, by the name of Joey, his father shot his mother right in front of him, and is spending the rest of his life in prison. Another boy, Timothy, has been in and out of the foster home since he was a baby. I still have a family at home who loves me. I just have to wait until Darry can prove to the judge he can take care of me and Soda.
I hope Darry isn’t losing faith that the court will grant him legal guardianship over me. Each time I talk to him on the phone he sounds less sure of himself. A part of me wonders if I'm fooling myself. Would a judge really allow a 20- year-old struggling to pay the bills, gain custody of a 13- year-old? For my sake I hope so. I can’t imagine waiting until I'm 18 to see my brothers again.
Anyway, the bell just rang, and that means one thing- you have 10 minutes to get to bed. I’ll try this time to go to sleep tonight with a more hopeful attitude. Tomorrow Soda and Darry are visiting me. It feels like ages since I've last seen them.
Until next time,
Ponyboy M. Curtis.