Chapter Text
It's late November when Ponyboy takes Randy up on his offer. Two weeks after the trial, Randy approaches Ponyboy at his locker and asks him if he wants to hang out after school.
Ponyboy just stares, dumbfounded. Randy, the senior - the guy who tried to drown him two months prior - the Soc - wants to hang out.
“Um,” he says, trying not to stare at the guy’s weirdly straight teeth, “I can’t, sorry.”
“Oh.” Randy blinks, rocking back on his heels, “Alright, yeah, no problem.”
Ponyboy figures that’s the end of it, until the following Friday when he asks again.
“Sorry,” Pony says, “I have an appointment.” It’s not a lie, exactly, he does have the doctor coming by, but those visits only take him ten minutes, tops. Still, he feels obscurely guilty, especially when Randy hesitates.
“Right,” he says slowly, “‘Course.” He slaps his pockets and wanders off.
Ponyboy watches him go.
It’s not that he doesn’t like Randy; If he’s being honest, he’s kinda curious about him. But Ponyboy’s just so damn tired these days, any extra energy he has goes into homework, or fighting with Darry, or trying to remember how to tie his shoes. Besides, he has no idea how he’d explain himself to Darry anyway.
After school, Two-Bit drives him home. He pulls into the driveway and they can hear the Cades fighting clear through the windows. It’s the same shrill screaming as it always was, only now it’s interspersed with the occasional round of weeping. Man, if he thought he hated it when girls cried, he hates a grown woman crying even more.
But like every week, Ponyboy shakes his head and moves on inside. Two heads out as soon as Pony’s in the door; he’s got a date or something and can't stay long. Ponyboy sighs. The house is quiet; Soda is working and Darry is sleeping, or Darry is working and Soda is out goofing off with Steve, one of those. Come to think of it, Soda might be down at the rodeo where he’s taken up his evenings helping Buck muck out stables. Curly’s in the reformatory until March. He ain’t desperate enough to hang out with Steve, neither.
Either way, he’s home alone. He sighs and reheats his leftovers for dinner before curling up with a book and a few too many cigarettes. By the third time he catches himself nearly burning a hole in the page because he nodded off again, he decided, fuck it, even an evening with Soc-y Adderson would be better than this. He ought to at least try.
"Really?!" Randy asks on Monday, his face lighting up.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.
Randy’s grin grows wider, somehow, and he slaps Ponyboy on the arm.
"You won't regret this!" He says, nodding rapidly, then rushing off down the hall as if he’s afraid the greaser will change his mind if he lingers too long.
Ponyboy is left watching him leave, his books heavy in his arms, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into. But he admits privately that he’s kind of excited, too. He’s never been friends with a Soc before, and Randy seems… Intriguing, might be the word for it. Ponyboy’s curious; when he looks at Randy, he wants to know what he’s thinking.
Friday rolls around again and Ponyboy meets Randy out front of the school.
“Hey,” he says, nodding.
“Hey,” Randy says, nearly bouncing on his toes in anticipation. It makes Pony crack a smile; there’s just somethin’ funny about a senior Soc bein’ so excited to hang with an underclass grease. They get a couple looks, standing there in the entryway. “Uh, I parked over here.” He gestures with his chin to the senior parking lot. It’s all Soc cars.
His car is boxy and light blue, newer than anything in Pony’s neighborhood by a good five years. It has air conditioning and heat, he discovers when Randy flips it on and hot air blasts Pony's frozen toes.
“Did you, uh, how was your day?” Randy asks, fiddling with the knobs.
“Good, how was yours?”
“Fine. I, uh, I dunno what you had in mind, but I figure we could keep it low-key,” he says, starting the car, “See if there’s a movie on or somethin’.”
“Sure,” he says easily, “Whatever you wanna do.”
They lapse into silence. It’s awkward. Ponyboy looks around for something to talk about.
“Mind if I smoke?” Pony asks, fishing a carton of Marlboros out of his jeans pocket.
“Sure,” Randy says, “Can I have one?”
“Sure.”
They smoke in silence as Randy fights with every other senior in the parking lot to get the hell out of there.
“Come on, Ed, you just got your license back,” he mutters as a red Buick cuts in front of him.
“He lost it?” Pony asks, curious.
Randy grimaces.
“He got it suspended. Reckless driving, from what I heard.”
Pony watches the car in front of him as the driver tries to nudge two other cars out of the way, then winds up tailgating a third.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
Randy snorts.
But they get out onto the road eventually, and it’s a short drive from there. Pony forgets how close a lot of the Socs live to the high school; they could walk if they really wanted to. Pony’s lucky Two has his license, ‘cause before that the bus ride was over an hour, and that was after they started sending buses out to their neighborhood.
Randy's not a good driver, per se, glancing over at Pony every time he comes to a jerky stops at every stop sign, but he goes more-or-less the speed limit and Pony doesn't want to throw up by the time they get to his house, which is way better than how Soda or Mark drive.
"So, uh, here we are," he announces, pulling up to a huge, two-story white house with a carefully-manicured lawn.
"Looks tuff," he says neutrally, even though theres an actual stone pathway leading up from the driveway. He half-expects a statue of the Virgin Mary, or an angel, like some other houses have, but there’s just a garden, all the bushes lightly dusted with snow.
There’s a small ornament by the front door, and at first Pony thinks it’s a doorbell but it doesn’t make a sound when Randy touches it.
“Oh, uh, no shoes in the hall,” he says, toeing off his own.
Pony feels kinda like a space alien who's crash-landed on another planet, leaving his duct-taped Converse next to Randy's thick hiking boots that have never seen anything dirtier than a mall parking lot.
He doesn’t have long to think about it, because a woman comes bustling down the hall. She’s short and dark-skinned, her curly hair going grey at the temples. She’s in a generic grey maid’s uniform.
“Have a good night, Mary,” Randy says as the woman gets her jacket out of the closet.
“You, too, Mister Add-” she says, then cuts herself off, “Horsey boy!” she says when she spots him.
Pony’s eyes go wide.
“Oh, um, hi, Mrs. Shepard,” he says. He’s been over Curly’s place enough to recognize her, even if they don’t interact much. He’s mostly used to hearing her yell at one of them to clean up after themselves.
“Horsey boy,” she says again, nodding like they’re old friends, “I didn’t know you two knew each other.” Before he can answer, she leans in conspiratorially, “You can tell them how hard I work, yeah? You get the boss man to give me a raise?”
He glances to Randy and grimaces.
“Um, sure,” he agrees, wishing the ground would swallow him up, “I’ll talk to ‘em.”
She grins and pinches his cheek.
“Oh, I knew I liked you,” she says, “Much nicer than his other friends. He gets out in April, you’ll come see him, won’t you?”
“April?” he blurts out, “I thought he was getting out in March.”
“He got himself more time for fighting,” she says, shaking her head fondly, “You know my Curly, he’s a troublemaker.” She fishes out a crumpled carton from her jacket, “Anyway, good night, boys, you two have fun.” She closes the door with a loud click.
Ponyboy stares after her, his face as hot as a sunburn. He knew she worked around here, but he didn’t think she worked here. He also knows she steals jewelry from her employers sometimes when money gets tight. Christ, should he tell Randy about that? No, Curly’d never talk to him again if he got his mom fired. But he -
“Uh, Pony?” Randy asks.
Pony blinks, startled. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Ya- yeah?” he asks, swallowing thickly.
“You, uh, know her? Mary?”
“It’s Maria,” he corrects quietly.
“Huh?”
“Maria,” he says, staring down at his feet, “Mrs. Shepard’s name is Maria, not Mary.”
“Oh,” he says, “I, uh, I didn’t realize.”
Ponyboy looks away. Of course he only knows her name because that’s what the Shepard kids call her when they’re mad at her, which is most of the time. He studies a picture on the wall, a baby photo of a chubby-cheeked pre-school-age Randy in a bright red sweater. It looks professionally done, not like the 15-minute Sears photos the Curtises have hanging crooked on their walls.
Their lives are so different. They’re so different, maybe he should just - get out of here while he still can. Maybe it’s not worth it.
“She, uh, she - works hard,” Randy says. When Pony looks up, he’s chewing his lip, “Mar- Maria. She’s good at what she does.” He huffs a laugh, “A real mentsh.”
Pony shifts on his feet, then slowly lowers his arms.
“Thanks,” he says, looking away.
“‘Course,” he says. A beat, “So do you, uh, you want a tour?”
“... Sure.”
***
The house is enormous, he feels like he’s walking through a museum. There's a library off of the kitchen with shelves that go all the way up to the ceiling. In the library is a fireplace and some cozy-looking armchairs, and even one of those old-timey spinning globes that looks like it's right outta Revolutionary France or something.
"Wow," Pony says, finding himself awe-struck, staring up at the shelves with open-mouthed wonder, “You got even more books than the library.”
"These are mostly my dad’s," Randy explains, his hands jammed into his pockets, "Mine are upstairs."
The greaser turns and grabs his arm, then says very seriously, “You need to show me your bookshelf, Randy.”
The Soc lets out a surprised laugh, “Alright.” A pause, “Lemme pick up my room first, though.”
His bookshelf is admittedly less impressive than the one downstairs, but it feels more personal: the books are double-stacked and dog-eared and there are way more paperbacks. Several of them have writing in the margins. He has a good collection of genres, everything from history to sci-fi to something called the Marcy Rhodes series, which Randy abruptly tries to wave away when Pony picks up A Man for Marcy.
“They’re a joke,” he says quickly, taking the book from him and shoving it onto a random high shelf.
Pony very smartly chooses not to mention that he has a lot of books by that author for a “joke”. But he picks another book at random and leafs through it, half-leaning back on the bed.
Randy watches him a moment, then busies himself with cleaning, throwing loose clothes in the clothes hamper, making room for random floor books on the bookshelf, and even hands Pony a fragile glass vase that, upon closer inspection, appears to be a bong. He almost didn’t recognize it; It's way nicer than any Pony's seen before, and cleaner, too; the one on Two-Bit's coffeetable is basically growing its own ecosystem. This one is a little worn, blackened at the little knobby point where the matches go, but otherwise it’s clean. It’s a nice color, too, made of swirled blue and green glass.
"Sorry about the mess," Randy mutters, taking the bong back and displaying it on his desk, where a slit of sunlight refracts through the looping glass, "Mary-uh, Maria hasn't been - I mean, I have this agreement with my dad, to make up for what-” he glances at him, “what happened with Bob.”
He hesitates. “What’s the deal?”
“Oh, just,” he rubs the back of his neck, “She doesn’t clean in here any more.”
"Our room’s a mess, too,” he says a couple moments later, “I try to keep it clean, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.”
“Our?”
“Uh, yeah, I -” he looks away, “I share with my brother.”
“Oh. That’s, uh, cool. Do you guys get along?”
He nods, “Yeah, he’s one of my best friends.”
“Bob was like my…” His face falls, then he turns to straighten the jar of pens on his desk. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You have a favorite book?”
"Hm." He thinks about it. He wants to say Gone With The Wind but it makes him feel kinda queasy, so instead he settles on, "I dunno, I like Great Expectations, we read it in English last month."
"Oh yeah, Mr. Syme, right?"
"Yeah," he says with a grin. Mr. Syme is awesome, probably one of the best teachers Pony's ever had, “He’s tuff.”
Randy raises an eyebrow.
“He wears sweater-vests.”
“So? You can be tuff in a sweatervest.”
He scoffs, “Yeah, right.”
“He’s a good teacher.”
“Yeah,” Randy concedes, “He is.”
“I think we’re doing Romeo and Juliet next, did you ever read that one?”
His eyes dart away. “Read it? I liked it so much I - I stole it.” He searches his shelf for a moment and pulls down a book, which, sure enough, is the cheap cardboard copy the schools give out. He hands it to Pony. It’s almost unreadable, every page underlined and scribbled over.
Pony raises an eyebrow.
"Wh- what?” He stutters, crossing his arms, “It's - it’s good!"
He hesitates, then smiles, looking down at his feet, where his sock is wearing thin at the toes.
“What’s your favorite part?” he asks, holding the book out.
Randy softens and takes it back.
"Well, I won’t spoil it for you, but, um, you like Shakespeare?" He asks. Ponyboy nods. Randy scans his shelf, picking out another book. Pony studies the cover: Hamlet. He flips to a page seemingly at random and reads a passage. At the end of the monologue, Ponyboy takes the book from him. He scans the page and finds where he left off, then reads the next bit.
They do that for a while, handing the book back and forth. After a few minutes, Randy shuffles over and leans on his bed balancing the book on his stomach so when they put their heads together they can both see it. Randy’s hair is curly, and out of the corner of his eye Pony can tell his eyes are dark brown.
They wind up using different voices for each character, and some of them are so ridiculous they wind up choking on their laughter before even getting a word out. They read for so long they only notice the sun has set when Randy’s stomach growls.
"Are you hungry?" He asks.
"I could eat," he admits, “But, uh, I gotta call my brother, let him know I’ll be home late.”
"Cool," Randy says, getting up and stretching; and his spine pops. He shakes himself loose. There's a gangly sort of grace he moves with. "What're you in the mood for?"
He shrugs. "Whatever you've got."
Randy pulls on his earlobe, thinking. "The cook is, uh, well he doesn't work on Fridays, but we could get Harry's? Or there's a steakhouse a few blocks away."
Pony looks away, his face getting hot.
"I don't have steakhouse money," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s only been to one once, anyway, when he was nine.
“I can get it,” he says, fishing a loose weed out of his shirt pock
et.
Pony frowns. "No, you don’t have to -”
“Pony,” Randy sighs, “It’s - it’s just dinner, it’s not a big deal.”
He stares at Randy a moment, watching the smoke twist up into the air in front of his face.
“I'll pay you back,” he grumbles.
Randy huffs.
"Okay,” he says, taking a drag and blowing it towards the open window, “Sure.”
Pony hesitates. He stands up, rocking back and forth on his feet a couple times.
"Come on," Randy says, nodding his head towards the door, "We'll order the food and finish the tour."
The steakhouse is more middle class than Soc, but it feels Soc-y as hell as Pony reads through the menu. He knows what Cream of Tomato soup is, but what the hell is Escalope Viennoise garni? He’s in Spanish, not French. He looks it over a couple times and opts for some grilled Halibut.
“You want dessert?” Randy asks, writing down his order.
“Uh,” he says, “Nah.”
“You sure? Seriously, man, it's no problem. I’ll cover it.”
He rocks back on his feet.
“Um, could we get an apple tart?” he thinks for a moment, “Two?” Soda’s gonna be pissed if he don't bring him back anything.
Randy laughs and picks up the phone.
“Sure.”
Pony has only been to a steakhouse once, Christmas Eve after his dad's canning job won the union. They'd all gotten dressed up in their Sunday best and walked the two miles down the road to the restaurant, since their car didn't drive well in the cold. By the time they'd gotten there they were freezing their faces off, but the restaurant itself was cozy and warm. They’d eaten until they were sick and still made sure to bring home leftovers. It was one of the best meals Pony’s ever had.
“Pony?”
“Hm?” He blinks, wiping his eyes.
“You, uh, wanna finish the tour?”
“Oh, um, yeah.”
The basement is probably as big as Ponyboy's whole house, with a pool table and a pinball machine in one corner and a big TV in the other. He doesn't have to turn it on to know it's a color TV, too. In the middle is a worn old loveseat and a record player. He flips through the records.
"What, no Beatles? What kinda Soc are you?" he teases.
Randy is quiet for a moment and when Pony looks over, he’s tugging on the edge of his madras shirt.
"I don't, uh, I don't actually like the Beatles," he says. It comes out small, like a confession.
Ponyboy raises his eyebrows. "Ain't that against the Soc law?" He asks sarcastically.
"Yeah, it is, so don't go spreadin' that around," he retorts, eyes crinkling.
Ponyboy pauses, leaning back on his heels. Despite the lightness in Randy's tone, he’s looking away and there's a tightness in his eyes. Ponyboy frowns; it strikes him that maybe it isn't totally a joke, like maybe Randy's trying to tell Ponyboy something real.
Well, Pony can try that, too.
"To be honest,” he starts, taking a step closer, “I don't really like football.”
Randy's eyebrows disappear beneath his shaggy bangs. "Really? Isn’t your brother, I mean wasn't he team captain or something?"
"Yeah," he admits, "I mean, I'd watch his games and stuff, and me and the gang will play sometimes in the backyard, but I never really - I dunno," he makes a face, "It's too rough for me."
Randy nods slowly. "I could never do sports," he admits, "I tried all of 'em when I was little - football, basketball, hell, even track, and I quit 'em all in under a month."
"Why?"
Randy takes a seat on the worn-out couch, crossing his legs. Ponyboy sits next to him, tucking one leg under him.
"It made me feel - I dunno. I guess it was too rough for me, too.”
Ponyboy chews on this.
"I write poetry sometimes. Or, uh, I try to, anyway."
A slow smile spreads across Randy's face.
"I'm scared of dogs."
"The first time I smoked a cigarette, I coughed so hard I threw up."
"Mrs. Cole brings a pot roast to the gala every year and it's so bad I can't even swallow it."
Ponyboy's grin grows wider.
"I broke my Mom's switch when I was seven and I felt so guilty about it I flushed the pieces down the toilet."
"I still sleep with a teddy bear," Randy confesses, his cheeks going pink, "His name is Mr. Bear."
Pony nods rapidly. "I wish I could still sleep with Baby Bear, but Soda would never let me live it down."
"Soda?"
“My big brother, Sodapop, the one I share a room with. And yeah,” he adds when Randy opens his mouth, “that’s his real name.”
Randy nods slowly. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking.
“I'm Jewish."
"Oh, um, congratulations?" he says, a little unsure. He's never met a Jew before.
Randy huffs a laugh, ducking his head. "Thanks."
A pause, then Pony whispers, "Sometimes-” he swallows, and Randy leans in a little to hear, "Sometimes I feel different from other guys and I don't know why."
Randy nods rapidly, like he gets it.
"Me, too," he says, "I feel that way, too."
They look at each other for a moment and Ponyboy feels something in him go slack, relaxed.
A beat, and Randy confesses, "I fucking hate David."
It startles a laugh from Ponyboy. Randy laughs, too, his voice going a little high.
"You're alright, Randy," Pony says after the laughter dies down, "You're alright."
Randy looks over at him, his eyes crinkled at the corners. "You ain't so bad, yourself, Pone.”
***
They watch an episode of the Flinstones on the color TV and then head out to the restaurant to pick up their food. Randy drives even though it's only a mile, but Ponyboy doesn't complain because it's cold out. As they leave the neighborhood, Pony asks him what kind of bands he does like if not the Beatles, and Randy rattles off a list of names Pony's never even heard of.
"The who?" he asks, befuddled.
"Nah, I haven't gotten into them yet. Do you like 'em?"
Ponyboy blinks. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Randy chuckles and fishes a cigarette out from his pocket, lighting it on the car lighter. "The Who, they're a rock band."
"Oh.” His ears get red.
"Nah, it's alright,” Randy shrugs, “I made that mistake the first time, too.”
Ponyboy flushes and looks out the window. The air gets dingy with smoke.
Randy pulls up to the curb out front of the restaurant and goes to get their order. Pony gets a couple odd looks as he sits there waiting. Most of the people rushing to get inside are middle-class, he can tell by their loose hair and how they’re all wearing the same Sears jacket, but some of them are true-blue Socs, their hair perfectly pinned up, dressed to the nines and carrying themselves weightlessly, like they were born bathed in gold rather than blood and amniotic fluid. (He's quite proud of that one, amniotic, it was a word in last year's spelling bee and it won him third place).
Randy’s eyes linger on some other Socs passing by when he comes back to the car with the food. He hands Pony the bag with a tight smile.
“You want to swing by the record store?” He asks, starting the car.
It takes Pony a second to realize what’s different; his voice is deeper.
“Uh, nah,” he says, watching him curiously, “I’m starving.”
Randy clears his throat and when he speaks again, his voice is in its usual register, a little higher.
“Let’s eat, then.”
***
They eat in the basement, the food on trays in front of them, with a Credence Clearwater Revival record on in the background. Pony likes it, surprisingly enough; it's a little twangy but it's no Hank Williams. It's got a good beat, so he can't really complain.
They talk about school; Randy's a senior and he always assumed he'd go to college next year, but he put off applying for so long and now his options are limited.
"I mean, community college isn’t a bad choice, no matter what my dad thinks," Randy says, curling up cross-legged in his half of the couch, "But I don’t have a clue what I want to go for.”
"What would you do instead, not go? Work for a while?" Pony asks, curious. It’s kinda funny, picturing him bagging groceries and wearing that dorky yellow vest.
"I don't know. I guess I could figure out what I wanna study while I’m there. I wouldn’t have to go into business if I don't want to.”
“That’s so weird to me,” Pony admits.
“What’s weird?”
He shifts a little in his seat. "That you could choose not to go, I guess. Or, or going at all, really. My oldest brother, Darry, he always wanted to go to college, got a football scholarship and everything, but..." he sighs, "We couldn't afford it, and that was before the accident."
"Oh, uh, I'm sorry."
"Thanks," he says. He bites his thumbnail, "We’ve been trying to save up. I might be able to go, so long as I keep my grades up. I wouldn't be able to do English or nothin' though."
He frowns. "Why not?"
He makes a face. "'Cause I'd go to college to get a better job. What does an English degree get me? We can't pay bills on a teacher's salary."
"Oh," Randy says, biting his lip, "Yeah, right. I hadn’t considered that.”
“Lucky you.” He sighs and sinks back into his seat. They listen to the music for a minute.
"What are you taking this year?" Randy asks abruptly.
"For class?"
"Yeah."
“Uh, English, ‘course, Algebra II, Bio, uh, Home - Home Ec…”
Randy sits up straighter. "Well, I only got to Algebra 1, but I probably still have my Bio notes somewhere," he says, "I could, like, help you study, if you want."
Pony blinks, looking at him. "What? Really?"
"Yeah, I mean, my grades aren’t, like, spectacular or anything, but I do alright. You said you gotta keep yours up, so…"
Ponyboy's eyebrows shoot up. "Uh, yeah, that’d, uh, that’d really help.” He cracks a grin, "Darry tries to check my answers, but I don't think he knows how to do it any more’n I do."
Randy laughs. Pony smiles then looks away, suddenly shy. The record comes to an end and Randy gets up to flip it to the other side.
“Um, thanks, Randy,” Pony says quietly.
“Oh, yeah, no problem.”
***
Randy drives him home a little while later.
“I guess I'll, um, see you Monday?" Randy asks, leaning out the driver’s side window.
Pony smiles.
"Yeah," he promises, ducking his head, "See you Monday."
Darry's working and Sodapop is out, so Ponyboy leaves the spare apple tart in the fridge, fully expecting it to be gone before he wakes up tomorrow. Then he goes to his room and flops on his bed. He lights a cigarette 'cause Darry ain't here to tell him not to.
Normally he hates being home alone so late, but tonight he's grateful for it. He keeps smiling to himself, thinking about the afternoon. It went, like, really well, all things considered. He thinks they’re, like, actual friends, now.
He’s kinda excited for Monday. He wonders vaguely if this is how Darry felt the first time he hung out with Paul outside of practice, realizing the other guy was just another person, a guy just like you. He grins to himself all evening.
When Sodapop climbs into bed that night, he glances at Pony a couple times before winding his arms around him.
“You’re sure in a good mood,” he observes.
Ponyboy hides his face in his book; Randy’s copy of On The Road.
“Just a good book,” he says quickly, “How, uh, how are you?” He’s trying to be better about asking.
Sodapop huffs a laugh.
“I’m fine,” he says, “Tired as hell, though, so you’d better be fixin’ to turn out that lamp.”
He smiles and dog-ears the page, puts the book on his nightstand, then clicks the light off.