by S. E. Hinton
Cathy's father opened the door. He said, "Hi, Bryon" friendly enough--I guess as friendly as any father ever greets the kid who's taking out his daughter--so I figured I was safe. M&M was lying on his stomach on the floor reading a book with a little sister sitting on his back pulling his hair. I stepped over him. When M&M was reading you could blow up the house around him and he'd never notice. I'm that way myself.
Cathy's mother came from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron, and in the kitchen some more little kids were fighting over who was going to rinse and who was going to dry.
"Cathy will be ready in a minute," Mrs. Carlson said. "Please sit down, Bryon. We haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been out looking for a job," I said, sitting down on a rubber duck. "Mark and I run into M&M every now and then."
"How can you tell him and Cathy apart?" Mr. Carlson said dryly. "I can't any more."
"Now, Jim . . ." Mrs. Carlson began nervously. "We agreed not to say any more about M&M's hair."
Even his own family called him M&M. I tried to remember for a second what his real name was, but I couldn't think of it. In the silence Cathy screeched, "You give me that brush, you brat!" I stifled a laugh.
"How have you been doing in school, Bryon?" Mrs. Carlson asked. She was pretending she hadn't heard Cathy.
This was the usual routine questioning you go through when you have to talk to your date's parents, but I didn't mind. At Angela's house her mother and her stepfather were always fighting and screaming and throwing things, and sometimes her brothers Tim and Curly would get in on it, and I'd sort of duck flying objects until Angela came out of her room, cussing and throwing things along with the rest of them. So you can see why sitting in the Carlson's front room answering questions wasn't really bothering me.
"I'm doing pretty well in school," I answered. "Mostly A's and B's." I decided I wouldn't say anything about flunking chemistry. The teacher and I had a personality conflict--and when I want to cause a teacher trouble, you'd better believe I can do it.
"M&M is flunking math and gym," Mr. Carlson said in the same tone he had used when talking about M&M's hair. "How anyone can flunk gym is beyond me."
I could tell that M&M was listening to the conversation but was staring at his book, pretending he wasn't. I understood what he was doing. I have stared at a book pretending I couldn't hear what was going on around me, too. If people think you can't hear them, they talk as if you couldn't. You can hear some pretty neat stuff that way.
"It's not as if M&M was an invalid," Mr. Carlson was saying when Cathy came out of her room.
"I'm ready," she said. She had on a yellow pants outfit that looked real cute on her.
I got up. "O.K., let's go." On the way out she gave M&M a friendly kick.
When we were in the car she said, "I wish Daddy would leave M&M alone. He's so sensitive, it hurts him for Dad to tease him about his hair or bawl him out for his grades. It seems to me they should be glad about his other grades--his English teacher says M&M has the most brilliant mind she's come across in five years of teaching--and be glad he's never gotten into any kind of trouble, instead of picking at him because of his hair." She sighed. "I guess since M&M and I are the oldest, we're the closest. I guess you know about that though. I forgot you have a brother too."
"Yeah, I know about that," I said. Of course, I never heard Mom gripe about anything Mark did--he could get away with things I wouldn't dare try. I never resented Mark for this. I took it as a matter of fact that Mark was different from other people and was therefore treated differently.
Cathy sighed, "Well, I'm not going to worry about it now. I want to have a good time tonight." She gave me a quick, shy smile. She was sitting close enough for me to put my arm around her, which I did. I was intending to have a good time too.
*
We could hear the music even before we got there. The band was supposed to be a good one--it was loud enough, which with a dance is at least half the way to being good. I was really proud of having such a cute date, and I was hoping Angela would be there. I wanted to show her up. I'd gone with Angela for months, longer than I'd ever gone with anyone. I wanted to show her that I had no intentions of going back to her. She had been telling everybody that I would. This was after she had made her big play for this Curtis kid and he had acted like he didn't know she was alive. Then she decided she wanted me back. You can imagine how that grabbed me.
The dance was going pretty good when we got there. I liked to arrive a little late, when things were swinging. I saw a bunch of people I knew. Cathy knew a lot of people, too, but not very well. She hadn't dated before she left for school, and I don't think anyone remembered her. She had been a shy, plain kid. Everybody was staring at us, wondering who she was. I was really feeling great. I liked being the center of attention. Cathy winked at me. She dug it, too.
I really liked her. I liked her a lot.
"Hey, Bryon!" It was Mark. I could tell even before I spotted him across the room, waving at us.
"Come on," I said. "Let's go see Mark."
We weaved in and out of the crowd, sometimes stopping to talk. I wasn't too happy when I saw that Mark and Curtis were standing together. Having had one girl ditch me to try for him, I wasn't thrilled with the possibility that it might happen again.
"Hi, Cathy," Mark greeted her. He had been drinking, but I doubt that anyone but me could tell. "I haven't seen you in a long time."
"I haven't been here to see," Cathy answered sensibly.
"I don't think you know Ponyboy Curtis--this is Cathy Carlson."
"Hi," Curtis said. He didn't look too happy. I think he had heard I wasn't crazy about him. He was a little guy, about the same size as Mark only with a better build. I think he thought I was going to pick a fight with him. I didn't want to. I guess he couldn't help what Angela Shepard did, and besides, I'd heard he was a pretty good fighter even though he didn't have the rep of a tough guy.
I watched Cathy. She didn't seem interested in him. The first time Angela saw him her eyes lit up like a tiger's. So I relaxed. "Where'd you get the booze?" I asked Mark, when Cathy couldn't hear.
He grinned. "Out in the car--Terry's car. He's got six six-packs, and only the four of us to drink them. Go out and help yourself. Terry won't mind, he's already passed out in the front seat."
Terry had always been a drinker. I decided I'd go out later and have a couple of cans. Maybe I'd get a couple for Cathy. I hoped she wasn't a very heavy drinker--Angela had got pretty expensive with her constant boozing.
Cathy and I watched Mark and Curtis as they started toward a group of girls. "Mark is a good kid," I said.
"I'd forgotten how beautiful he is," Cathy said. "I know girls who would give their eye teeth for hair that color."
I stopped breathing for a second. Cathy was looking at Mark, and I suddenly felt like I'd swallowed a spoonful of red pepper. I felt cold and hot and sick and mad all at once. I only felt it for a second, only for a second and then it was gone--but sometimes now I wonder how it would be to feel like that all your life. You know what the crummiest feeling you can have is? To hate the person you love best in the world.
"Hi, Bryon." The voice was familiar and I turned around. It was Angela. I just looked at her. She was smiling with that sassy smirk, and I wondered why on earth I'd ever given a damn about her. She was beautiful, little and dark, and, even when suddenly all the girls had long straight hair, hers hung to the middle of her waist in ringlets and curls. It was blue-black and shiny. Maybe all that heavy mass wouldn't look good on just anyone, but Angela had the kind of face that would probably be strikingly beautiful even if she shaved her head. But since I knew her so well, I could ignore the way she looked. "Hi, Angel," I said carelessly. "You here with Curtis?"
I meant to rub it in; I think he was the first guy she ever went after and didn't get. Her face contorted for a second, and she called me a few names and flounced off. She wasn't famous for an even temper.
"Who was t
hat?" Cathy asked. I wondered if she was jealous. I hoped so anyway. "This chick I used to go with," I answered. Cathy glanced indifferently after Angela. "Certainly uses nice language," she remarked. "A real lady."
It hit me that Cathy wasn't jealous of Angela at all--not for her beauty or for having gone with me. She was the first girl I'd dated who wasn't scared some other chick would show her up. I didn't know what to make of it.
In the end, I decided it showed that Cathy had more sense than most girls. I wasn't worried about her liking Mark any more. I can tell when a girl is interested in a guy--like the minute I saw Angela looking at Curtis, I knew--and I could tell Cathy liked Mark just as a friend, as the brother of the guy she was interested in. Cathy liked me. I could tell that already.
She was a good dancer. We danced almost every dance. We were having so much fun I forgot all about going out to Terry's car for some beer. They had a cop there at the dance--they always did--but he was ignoring the kids who were staggering around obviously drunk. He was there just to prevent people from killing each other.
Apparently he wasn't even doing that much, because, suddenly above the music, we heard a scream from the back parking lot. Immediately everyone started running out there to see what was happening. I didn't. I hate people who stand around at an accident and pry and push and peer. I won't even stop to watch a fight if I don't know either guy who's fighting.
"Let's don't go," I said.
Cathy nodded. "O.K."
Just then Curtis pushed his way through the crowd. He had been one of the fighters, because his face was bruised and his lip was cut. "Bryon!" he yelled when he saw me. "Bryon, come quick! Mark's hurt!"
I went cold. Mark was hurt. I shoved my way through the crowd--I'm a pretty good size and when I shove I get through. There was a circle of people on the parking lot. I shoved through them too. Mark was lying on the ground, unconscious. One side of his face was covered with blood. I knelt beside him.
"Mark?" I said, but he didn't move. He was out cold. I took the end of my shirttail and wiped some of the blood off his face. He was bleeding from a bad gash on the side of his head, but that was the only injury I could see.
Curtis knelt down on the other side of Mark. "Is he all right?"
I shook my head. "Did anyone call an ambulance?"
He nodded. "I think the cop radioed for one."
I remembered the cop. I looked around for him; he had some kid in handcuffs a few feet away and was informing him of his rights.
"Is that the guy who did this?" I asked, and the kid in handcuffs looked over at me. He had heard me.
"Yeah," Curtis said.
I looked straight at that kid and said, "Buddy boy, you are dead. You had just better make up your mind to that. When I get through with you, you are going to be dead." I meant it. I was mad. The kid just looked away, like he was indifferent. But he was shook, I could tell.
"He meant to get me," Curtis said. "If that makes any difference."
"If he'd gotten you, he'd be doing me a favor," I said. I didn't really mean it, but I was upset. Curtis gave me a wry grin, like he understood. For the first time I felt I could like the guy. "What happened?"
Curtis shook his head. "I don't know. Mark and me were out here sitting on the car, not doing a thing, when this guy shows up and starts in on me. I don't know why, I ain't never seen the guy before. Finally he takes a swing at me, so I have to swing back, and pretty soon we're going at it. Then this character picks up a beer bottle Mark had thrown over there in the grass and comes at me with it. About that time Mark steps in between us and says, 'Hey, come on, man, fight fair.' The kid just looks at him and, for no reason, cracks him across the side of the head with it. Then the cop shows up. Right in the nick of time," he added sarcastically.
When I took another look at the kid in handcuffs, Angela was talking to him. I got the picture. She had got this guy to pick a fight with Curtis--she was mad at him for ignoring her. I changed my mind. It would be her I'd get even with, not that poor dope she had used.
"Do you know Angela Shepard?" I asked Curtis. He shook his head. "No. I know her brothers pretty well, but I've never been around her much."
He was telling the truth. Curtis really didn't know that Angela had been after him. He probably thought I had it in for him for no reason at all.
"What does Angela have to do with this?" he asked.
"I'll tell you later."
Mark moved a little and groaned.
"Mark," I said softly, "listen! Don't move, just lie still. We're going to get you to the hospital."
He opened his eyes. The pupils were so large that I could see only a faint ring of gold around them. I picked up one of his hands. It was ice-cold. He was staring straight ahead and didn't seem to hear or see me. I was worried. "What's wrong with him?"
"Shock," Curtis said. He took off his jacket and put it over Mark. I didn't have one, or I would have too. Mark was still bleeding. I couldn't stop it. It seemed that the ambulance would never get there.
When it finally did, I rode in the back with Mark. At last he seemed to recognize me. "Bryon?" he said, then he sort of laughed and groaned at the same time. "Man, am I hurtin'."
"Keep quiet," I said. I was almost crying, something I hadn't done in years. I was pretty worried.
"Listen, Bryon," Mark went on in a weak voice, "when we get there, at the hospital, stay with me, O.K.?"
"I'm not taking this trip for the ride," I said.
He closed his eyes. "O.K., just stay with me."
At the hospital they put ten stitches in his head. The X ray didn't show a fracture or anything, so they said we could go home. I didn't know how in the world we were going to get home--I'd left Charlie's car at the dance, and come to think of it, I'd left Cathy there too. I was a little worried about that, but mostly I was worried about getting Mark home.
He was sitting up, but he was still groggy and the painkiller shots he'd been given made him sleepy and high. He was probably still feeling all that beer he'd drunk at the dance too. He was in bad shape.
I thought about calling a taxi, but as it was I didn't know how I was going to pay for the ambulance. I was rescued unexpectedly by Cathy and Curtis. Any other time I would have been hacked off by the two of them showing up together, but right then I was glad to see them.
"I brought your car," Curtis said. "I figured you wouldn't have a way to get home. Is Mark going home?"
"Yeah, they said for him to stay in bed for a couple of days and to come back in a couple of weeks or so to get the stitches out. Help me get him in the car."
"Hey, hey, hey, Ponyboy!" Mark greeted him. "What are you doin' here?" Curtis and I pulled him to his feet and we each slung an arm across our shoulders.
"Come on, buddy boy," I said. "Time to go home."
Mark tried to walk, but almost fell, and we half-dragged, half-carried him out to the car. We got him stretched out in the back seat and climbed in.
"Hey," I said suddenly, "how'd you start the car without any keys?"
Cathy turned to him too. "Yeah, how did you?"
He was getting red. "I hot-wired it," he said finally. "Mark showed me how to weeks ago."
I almost laughed. That was just like Mark. "Don't make that a habit," I said.
Curtis shook his head. "I never done it before." I finally understood that Mark was right about that Curtis kid--he wasn't stuck up, he was shy.
I dropped him off near his house. I hated to just take Cathy home, but there wasn't much else I could do. Mark was singing to himself in the back seat. He had a good voice, but he had picked a lulu of a song. Cathy pretended not to hear it.
I walked her to the door. "I'm really sorry about the way things turned out," I said.
She grinned. "So am I--but thank goodness Mark isn't hurt any worse than he is. I had a good time, I really did--especially driving to the hospital with Ponyboy."
I looked at her quickly. She was teasing me to make me mad.
"Not really," she
continued. "He's not my type--too quiet."
"That's one thing I'm not," I said. I wanted to kiss her, but I never know, some girls will kiss on a first date, some won't. I decided to play it safe and not kiss her. Besides, the porch light was on and there were four or five little faces peering out from behind the front-room curtains.
"I'll call you," I said finally.
*
By the time I got Mark home the shots had worn off. Sweat was running down his face and I think tears were too. But he gave me his typical grin. "I ain't feelin' so good, Bryon" was the most he'd say. I helped him into the house and got him to bed.
"You going to be able to sleep?" I asked when I turned out the lights.
"I don't think so. Man, have I got a headache. You tired, Bryon?"
"Nope," I said. I was sitting on the bed, leaning back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. The light of the moon was coming in the window and I could see Mark clearly. He had one arm folded under his head and was staring up at the moon.
"Well, if you ain't goin' to sleep, and I ain't, why don't we talk for a while?"
"That's fine by me," I said.
"Y'know, when I first came around tonight, after that kid cracked me, I was scared stiff. I thought I was dyin', I was so scared. I really felt weird. But after I got to thinkin' you were there with me, I calmed down. Bryon, you're the only family I got, you know that? I mean, your mom's been great to me and everything, but I don't feel like she's really my old lady. But I feel like you're my brother. A real one."
Mark had never had a real family. I remember once when we were very young I had remarked that he didn't look much like his father. And he had said, "He ain't my real father. My real father was a cowboy, here for the rodeo. The old lady said he had gold hair and gold eyes just like mine and that he won all kinds of prizes at the rodeo."
At the time I just thought, Gee, that's great, his real father is a cowboy. When I got older I realized what that meant, that Mark was illegitimate. It had never seemed to bother him. But then, nothing did. Maybe it had, and I just never knew it.
