There seems like there isn't much more to say, and the voice falls short, no one is buying it anymore. You can't talk in the guises anymore. Are things being stripped away? Is it time to be truthful? But you've been dealing in the lies for so long now that you can barely remember what the truth is.

So send this whirling into space, who will read it, who will care? You can see so many of them, the hoods and greasers just falling under the streetlights, getting sucked up in their terrible and empty lives. Can one kid change all that? Change people's views of it, of the package that seems to let people know what to expect?

I balled up this version of my essay and started another one, more concrete this time, start from a real place, like the movie theater or something. Talk in my voice, or a voice that was similar to mine. I don't know how it happened but I screwed up and was going to fail English. I'd been going out too much, hanging out at the drive-ins and the pool halls and getting into fights with the socs, the rich socialites from the west side. I've been falling asleep in the vacant lot with Johnny because we were talking and I'd just drift off and then Darry would be pissed. And on school nights, too. Johnny never had to be home. His parents didn't care too much about him. But the end result was I'd missed one assignment too many and had to write an essay to make up the grade. Some kind of personal experience thing. It didn't have to be exactly true, Mr. Syms had said, it could be embellished. I liked embellishment. But I still didn't know what the hell to write.

I heard the slam of our screen door and then Johnny was in my doorway. I looked up at him, noticed his jet black hair and jean jacket. He always wore that.

"Look at this," he said, slamming a switchblade down on my desk. It was all rusted out and looked like it was twenty years old.

"Where'd you get that thing?" I said, and then I noticed his black eye. His eyes were dark, but this one looked like someone had punched him.

"Found it," He sat on the bed and stared at me from his black eye.

"What happened to you?" I said, peering at that black eye and some other injuries, scratches on his face and a tear in his jeans right at the knee.

"Fight," he said, and grinned. Johnny would fight with people, usually socs, but sometimes greasers, too, sometimes even me, but I was bigger despite being younger and could usually take him. His old man was kind of rough on him, and that made Johnny kind of violent.

"Oh, yeah, with who?" I said, looking at my essay again, getting a bit of an idea.

"Some soc," he said, picking up the rusted knife and twirling it around.

"Don't play with that thing, you'll get tetanus," I said, and he just looked at me like he didn't know what the hell I was talking about. He didn't go to school too much, he was lacking a lot of basic information. I'd always noticed that about Johnny.

There was this incident awhile ago where Johnny had gotten into a fight at the lot and it didn't go too well for him. He lost. He was fine, I mean he had some busted ribs and his nose might have been broke but he was basically fine, he swore about that fight and those socs for weeks, and this soc he just fought with was probably there, who knew? But what if Johnny was a different kind of kid, more innocent and quiet and nice despite being roughed up at home and all? And then if he'd gotten beat up real bad at the lot by a bunch of evil socs, and then he'd started carrying that switchblade around for protection…

I could change everything. I could say my parents were dead and that my oldest brother had to quit college to work two jobs to take care of me and my middle brother, Soda. My oldest brother was off at college, and he was like six years older than me and I'd really hardly knew him. But if my parents were killed in a car wreck and he'd had to stay here and take care of us then that would lead to all kinds of dramatic situations. I could change everyone I knew to fit into this neat little story I was thinking of. I could make Johnny like this scared, abused little saint of a kid. Johnny was really nothing like that. I could make my brother Soda as handsome as a movie star and someone who really understood me and everything. He basically ignored me most of the time. I mean he was an okay brother and all but he certainly didn't look like a movie star and he didn't understand everything, like I wished someone would.

I looked over at Johnny, who was messing with that switchblade despite the fact that I told him not to. Johnny was kind of crazy and violent, but he could be sort of nice, too, sometimes. I mean, sometimes if his old man was too rough on him for something he would be all upset, and I'd feel kind of bad for him until he went and beat the shit out of someone else. That was how he dealt with that. In my little story I could make Johnny be like this super quiet, haunted little kid who's old man beat the shit out of him all the time, which that was actually true. But in the story Johnny could still be this great kid, like someone who really listened to your problems and all of that. I don't think I'd ever told Johnny any of my problems. I wondered what would happen if I did?

"Hey, Johnny, I'm kind of failing my English class," I said, looking at him to see how he'd respond. The Johnny that I was making up would be real sympathetic and would listen real hard and everything.

"Yeah, so what? So am I," he said, flipping the switch on that blade and watching it pop out.

"So, don't you care?" I said.

"What do you want me to do about it? Do your homework or something or do extra credit, or just fail it, it ain't the end of the world,"

"Thanks, Johnny,"

This side of him, this violent, not giving a shit side, I could make that into a whole other character altogether. Someone with a tough sounding name and white blond hair, so I wouldn't confuse them in my head. This would be the best damn essay Mr. Syms had ever read. I just had to work more of it out.