Disclaimers: SE Hinton owns The Outsiders.

XxX

Prologue:

It all starts with a story.

I was a story in print. The clippings about me, Johnny and Dal, almost always unfair, were fascinating. But I wrote a story too; the other side.

I want to do more. I want to be the one to tell. To give a voice, to help, to do…something. So I go to school, hours away at the University of Oklahoma.

I think I'll be some hot shot writer. Well, I'm not. I've written one good piece in my life and it's back in Tulsa, buried in an old shoe box. Instead I'm a freshman kissing ass on the school newspaper with some nasty habits.

Life slaps you in the face that way.

XxX

"Look at this, kid. Hey, your name's Curtis ain't it?"

I swivel to look at him, turning away from my notepad. A rusty colored guy with black eyes and an antsy smile. He's haggard and smells like pot. I like Colin though; he's a good writer and fair, having given me two assignments I figured were over my head.

"What's up, man?"

Colin taps a Tulsa World paper. "We put out better stuff in the Oklahoma Daily." On the front page is a story about a local fashion show, Jessica Murphy getting crowned Miss Tulsa. "Hell, even you can write better than this Curtis."

"Thanks," I tell him, arching a brow. "I think." I lean back in my chair, managing to light a smoke. It's one of the first time's Colin's ever addressed me by name and the need to look cool rears its head.

He chuckles and leans over to see what I'm writing. He sniffs. "Professor Byron's termination?"

I shrug, tapping my pencil against the table. "Yeah, but it's still a sto—"

"Tell you what; write an op-ed piece for me. Scrap that shit."

The tapping stops. I bite my lip. "But I could—"

"Scrap it, Curtis. Rip it up, toss the ball."

I trash all my notes, rolling the papers up into a tight wad; I dunk them into the nearest trash.

XxX

Colin takes me under his wing at the school paper – The Oklahoma Daily. Shows me the ropes. Journalists to aspire to. How to beat the competition.

It's all I want to do. Find a story. Put it on paper. As weird as it seems, Johnny and Dal got me into it. I always liked to doodle and draw but writing that piece for Mr. Syme put it all in perspective.

Words got it out for me.

Three months into college, I declare my major: Journalism.

XxX

"What do you like to write?"

"I don't know."

"Don't say that Curtis. You know. What moves you?"

"People."

"People?"

"As in…?" Colin gestures grandly, smacking his ashtray off of the table. He barely gives it a second glance. I stare at the scattered ash on the floor, feeling lame. He slams a hand on the table. "C'mon, give me an answer."

"Solving stuff. Issues," I hastily snap and then bury my face in my hands, moaning. "Ugh, I sound like a damn martyr."

He barks out a laugh. "Maybe so but at least you're honest."

XxX

I start hanging around with some guys from the newspaper. They're not the same as Two-Bit and Steve, don't even come close but they're good enough for college. Besides, I miss my friends and family more than I care to think about. It makes it easy to distance.

College is hard but I'm doing ok. A friend gives me something to make it easier to cram. He tells me they're pep pills, legal and safe.

Whatever they are they sure as hell work.

I'm wired.

I write.

XxX

Colin publishes my op-ed piece. I send it home to Darry and Sodapop. I secretly hide a copy under my mattress. It's too cool. I'm published; if even in the university newspaper.

It's just me out here at college and surprisingly, I'm finding myself.

Unfortunately, I'm also forgetting some things.

XxX

The pills are as good as gold. I take two a day instead of one. I like the rush. The sheer adrenaline they give me to write. It's freeing – I don't think, just write. Just smoke cigarettes and scribble, hunting stories. And instead of having 15 hours in the day to do school work and write and hang out and run I have 20.

The little things like forgetting that my English Lit class is in room 200 of the Fine Arts Building and not in room 5 of the Science and Anatomy building don't matter. I'm told the jitters are normal. Close spaces make me nervous and I always feel like laughing or crying at the wrong time. But it's exciting to me. I've never felt this free before.

If that's what you want to call it.

XxX

"Ponyboy," Darry barks on the other line. "Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?" I sit on the edge of my bed, my right leg jumping, my mouth so dry it tastes like cotton. I don't say anything, holding the phone to my ear and letting Darry rant. "Elizabeth is trying to get a count," he prattles and I feel so goddamn disconnected I stare at the wall, wondering why a crack is crooked.

"I don't think so," I tell him, finally getting nerve. "Tell Liz, zero on my end."

There's a long pause. Darry's not expecting my response and I feel almost smug for making him speechless for once. Then I feel bad and mutter, "Schoolwork, Dar. Tons and tons of papers."

"I uh, I know you wanna do well, Pony, but don't overdo it, kiddo," Darry says, voice strained.

"I know. I won't, Darry."

"Hey, hold on, Pony…" There's a door slamming, a rustling noise, hushed whispers and then Darry's back. "Soda wants to talk to you."

"I know. I can't. I gotta go. I love you, Darry," I tell him before hanging up. And even though I'm high, I mean it more than I ever have.

XxX

That Thanksgiving, when everyone else has gone home, I stay up for 24-hours straight, writing. I like the high I get, the buzz from staying up and disconnecting with my emotions. I don't even have time to feel guilty about it. I've been good for a long time and Darry don't have nothing on me.

I'm five hours away and he's got a life. A girl.

I smoke a pack of cigarettes and when I'm done my throat hurts.

XxX

"I'm not publishing this."

The paper I'm holding out to Colin goes untouched. A story I've been working on for the past week. "What?" I ask. "It's not good?"

"Good? It's great," he tells me. He swipes a hand through his rusty hair. "But you, my young friend, are on something. And while I deem it fine to be high, you are not fine. And thusly, I'm not publishing anything you write."

I roll my eyes. "Screw you." Shakily, I light a smoke. The first puff that passes my lips has me coughing. In fact, I've been coughing for a while.

Colin gets serious, a scary thing when he's about as bouncy as Sodapop and Two-Bit combined. He puts his hands out and grips my shoulders. "Curtis, just…just sort yourself. Until then I don't want to see you around here."

I go back to my dorm and cry.

XxX

Bored yet?

I will admit – this story has similar themes as some of my other stories but be patient. It will turn out differently, I promise you. I wanted to toy around with a different writing style (shorter snippets to tell more, less backstory) and get inside some themes. Eh, we shall see.

And yes, it's another Ponyboy story. I honestly can't get away from him. I have issues.

This story came and I had to write it. Totally understandable if you're sick of him as a topic.

BUT if you're not…please read and review. I will do my best to update ASAP.

XO.

Feisty