As promised, this one shot is dedicated to those faithful and exhausted readers who've been surviving the Trip right along with Soda Curtis. We all deserve a break. Back to a more innocent time…

FORGOTTEN

"Damnit, c'mon c'mon." I honk as soon as the light turns green, not even giving this little old lady the chance to be slow. Surprisingly, she's quick on the draw, but I pass her anyway, my patience lost ten blocks back. I can't believe I've let this slip my mind. My head is pounding, my hands grip the wheel. Why does it feel like I'm the only one in a hurry? Everyone else seems to just float along, all spaced out enjoying their afternoon, getting in the way of my truck and on my nerves.

I enter the parking lot on two wheels, thinking if Soda did that, I'd be lecturing his ass, but I'm in a hurry and this is important damnit. I circle to find a space and decide to make my own on the patch of grass beside the lot. I frantically race for the building, tear open the double doors and I'm blasted with the familiar smells of cleaning supplies, chalk dust and those strange aromas from the cafeteria.

I know exactly where the auditorium is. I don't even need the faraway echoes of the choir to guide me there. The trophy cases blur right by, and as I round the corner my destination awaits at the end of the freshly waxed hall of lockers and bulletin boards tacked with reports and art work. "No running in the halls Darrel Curtis," Mrs. Jenkins says teasing, with a wink, handing me a program.

"Sorry Mrs. Jenkins," I say winded, but smile a thanks and appreciate the deja vu moment with my old English teacher.

The choir has just finished, pounding down from their risers, a perfect time to enter and look for a seat. God forbid anybody move down the row for me. I have to climb over about a dozen assholes to make it to the lone seat in the middle. Unfortunately it's now deathly quiet as the principal takes the podium and I feel every eye on me as I struggle not to step on toes and purses, fall on laps, whispering "Sorry", "Excuse me", and "Oops" the entire awkward way.

I slump gratefully into the chair just as Mr. Harold starts some Awards Day speech, droning on about all the distinguished students, the pride in the school, and a bunch of other nonsense.

My racing heart is finally contained and I try subtly to wipe some sweat off my brow with two bandaged fingers. I'm searching to find Ponyboy. I assume he's among the gathering of kids who grace the stage in the half circle of folding chairs, since he's receiving an award and giving a little speech about his project. I spot him, and think he looks pretty good sitting up there. He's wearing a button down Soda must've ironed for him, his hair is greased, and I can tell he took a lot of time combing it into the style he prefers for dressier affairs.

I meet his eyes and smile, to show my approval, but no smile is returned. Instead, he just stares dead at me, and I unroll my program. My finger slides down the ordered list, finding the choir performance of the school's alma mater I'd just heard, and then I scan above it, at all that went before. All that I've missed. And my stomach sinks when I see Ponyboy M. Curtis, Outstanding Artist Award, 8th Grade is third in the listing. I breathe a heavy sigh and slowly look back up at him. He's leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out, tangled together at his feet, arms crossed, his head ever so slightly cocked to the side, his eyes glaring, his mouth set in a straight line. He doesn't seem to listen to all the other awards given out, and I break from his cold stare and pretend to care about who has perfect attendance, who won the physical fitness ribbon, all while Pony's giving it to me good with them eyes.

The silver lining to being late is this boring ceremony is over, for me, before it really began. Ms. Shaw, the guidance counselor, invites everyone to the cafeteria for refreshments and the crowd of parents, the people who showed up on time, start mingling and shaking hands, discussing their children while I stand with my hands in my pockets, waiting for my brother, feeling very out of place. I see Pony heading off with some other students, for the cafeteria I guess, so I break from the crowd I don't belong in, and go the back way, passing my old locker, and the very water fountain I pushed Charlie Cooper's face down in while he leaned over to get a drink one day. I smirk at the memory.

The cafeteria is much smaller than I remember. All the lunch tables have been pushed back into the walls, leaving a long table in the center for punch and cookies. I eye Pony at the opposite end, in the middle of two teachers who seem to be singing his praises and patting him on the back. As I make my way over, I'm stopped by a buxom blonde whose buttons are practically busting apart, and I'm doing everything I can to will my eyes not to look down at her cleavage. She looks too much like a showgirl to be a teacher or a mother. In a high, sweet Southern voice she asks, "Are you Ponyboy's big brother?"

Her hair is as big as her boobs and I stumble over my "Yes, yes ma'am I'm Darry Curtis." I clear my throat, wipe my sweaty hand on my jeans and hold out my hand, wishing my taped up fingers didn't look like I'd just been in a fistfight.

Her smile is bright white against her frosty lipstick, and she almost squeals as she takes my hand and says, "Darry, I've just been dying to meet you. I'm Loretta Walker, Ponyboy's art teacher. I was hoping you'd show up today." I try to ignore the guilt that I barely made it, and that I missed the best part. "Your little brother has blown me away this year. There was no question at all on who I was gonna give that award to."

"Thank you, Miss Walker. That's very kind of you." Miss Walker launches into Pony's creative expression and starts getting awfully close, and I can't say I don't like it. But when she finally takes a breath and before she can start up on something else, I politely excuse myself to make it over to a miserable Pony talking to those two teachers, who now seem even more drab after meeting the fine Miss Walker

"There he is," I say proudly, not caring to interrupt their conversation, "The outstanding artist." They make room so I can join their huddle and I slap my hand on Pony's shoulder. "Congratulations, Pony. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks," he mumbles, nibbling at his cookie, and I know full well he wants to yell at me, but he's too polite to do it here.

After Pony's science and music teachers walk off to stop a group of boys from tearing off the streamers and throwing them at each other, I attempt an apology. "So, um, Pony," I say as he sips on his red drink, his eyes glancing around the lunchroom, everywhere but at me. "I'm really, really sorry I missed it."

He calmly puts down the dixie cup and says flatly, "It's ok. Let's just go." This is going to be worse than I thought.

"Is school already let out?" I ask. "Don't you have to stay until the bell?" Just then the bell rings, Pony aims his finger up like there it is, then starts to walk away. I see he's left his plaque on the table, so I grab it for him and follow. Try and get myself psyched up for the punishing ride home.

He's already stripped down to his t-shirt, his nice shirt thrown over his shoulder, as we make our way to the truck, dodging hordes of middle school maniacs, and I match his hurried pace and try to lighten the mood. "So that's Miss Walker, huh? Wow." I chuckle a little, shaking my head.

"She's a good teacher," he says defensively and I know to change my tune.

"She sure is," I agree. "Obviously. Look how great you did in art this year. I just meant she's super friendly."

We get in the truck and as expected, he fires it up. "Do you know how embarrassing that was Darry?" he yells out as I turn the ignition. And I may have screwed up today, but after all the hell I went through to get here, I ain't really in the mood. I'll give him the few minutes he deserves to let it out. But that's all.

"Everybody's parents were there, on time." His words are fast, as if he'd already said them in his head a hundred times. "And Miss Walker and I waited for you. She wanted to meet you before it started and finally we just had to give up. I made that speech with, count'em, zero people there for me." His fingers shaped in a circle come up to the side of my face. "Then you roll in like some crazy person at the very end. I wish you hadn't come at all." God, he punches hard.

We don't speak the rest of the way home.

I wonder why I do anything. What's the point? Does an award mean anything at all if I don't have parents to be proud of me? I know I'm being a baby about it all, locked up in my room for hours. Sometimes it feels better to wallow in your misery than to pretend everything's okay. I sink into the mattress while the sky gets darker and the street lights flicker on. I hear Soda come home, and by my brothers' voices I can tell they're discussing me in the living room. I feel vindicated a little bit when Soda gets loud enough for me to make out his words, "It was on the calendar Darry." But after a few minutes, they go back to their usual everyday conversations, everyday tones, and I'm forgotten again.

I listen to the sounds of the kitchen, the drawers, refrigerator and cabinet doors opening and closing, and try and imagine it's my mother busy making her pot roast. The television comes to life and I pretend Dad's out there watching it, settling into his chair with a beer, his shirt off after work before he heads for a shower. But the dream breaks into a million floating pieces when I hear Darry call out, "Soda, did you pay the electric today?" I throw my pillow over my face and squeeze my eyes shut. I don't want to be here. But I definitely don't want to be anywhere else.

I'd planned on staying in this bedroom all night, never emerging, just to spite him, but Darry's call for supper sounds harsher than usual. I want him to hurt. I want him to feel guilty. But it sounds like he's more annoyed than anything. And Darry's annoyance can lead to his anger, and you definitely need to be well prepared to mess with that, so I slowly make my way down the hall, give a nod to Soda's "Hey Ponyboy," and pull out my chair. Before I can even sit, Darry asks if I've washed up. My teeth clench and I shake my head the whole way to the sink.

One to never shy away from any weighted subject, Soda sits at the table, slaps a hand down on it and opens with, "We're really proud of you Ponyboy. Darry showed me that plaque. It's real cool. Got your name on it and everything." He waits patiently for a response, a thank you, not uncomfortable at all in the silence. He'll have to wait a lot longer. He glances at Darry then adds, "Darry didn't forget you Pony. He just forgot to remember." Even Darry has to join me in looking at our brother like he's talking out of his mind. Soda doesn't care. He's slurping an ice cube out of his sweet tea and starts cracking it with his teeth. Finally he speaks around the shattering ice in his cheek and says, "What? There's a big difference."

"For Christ's sake Pony, I said I'm sorry. Now drop it." I watch Darry cutting his meat, and notice how his face is always set on angry. Can't someone else in this family lay claim to angry? Does Darry Curtis own angry? Maybe other people in this family would like to borrow it every now and then.

I spend the rest of the meal listening to the two of them discuss next week's work schedules, while I protest with silence and untouched food. And when they finish cleaning their plates, Darry carefully covers my pork chop with tin foil and puts it in the fridge. I guess he wins. He always wins.

As I'm walking back to my room, Darry calls out, "Pony, I got a whole sink of dishes in here with your name on 'em." I stop halfway down the hall, whip back around on sock feet, then remain motionless, focus on my breathing.

I hear Soda immediately say, "I'll do 'em Darry, let him.." and before he can finish that sentence, I yell out, "Darry, you can't boss me. You ain't no parent to me. A parent doesn't forget their kid. You ain't Dad!" And I'm shocked to hear myself screaming by the time I get to Dad.

A thundering of footsteps are headed my way and once Darry rounds that corner, he spits out words like a machine gun, more breath than voice, barely heard, but oh so loud. "Don't you think I know that? I'm dyin' out here. I'm doing my best. And no, I assure you Ponyboy, I am not Dad." He screams the Dad part like I did.

Soda comes between us, pushing me back towards my door, with his face up to Darry's the whole time, "Let it go Darry. You're both hurt. Everybody's hurtin'." And I've never heard truer words.

I leave them in the hallway and realize the night just got worse, when I never thought that was possible. And I throw myself on my bed, exhausted from all the fighting, exhausted from this weight on my chest, exhausted from the grief. I leave on my clothes and get in the blankets, and pray silently for my parents to intervene, to save us from each other. Or really, to salvage what's left of Darry and me. I hear Darry close his bedroom door. To get away from all of us.

I'm starting to drift off, to sleep's saving grace, but a pounding hammer in the hallway jerks me wide awake, and I know exactly what Soda's doing. I hear him out there sliding my plaque up on the wall. And I fall back to sleep with a tiny fraction of peace. I don't know what I'd do without Soda, the brother who comforts, who builds me up.

I hammer the nail, the most important nail I've hammered today, slide Pony's plaque on the wall, right beside all his school pictures. Make sure it's straight. Then I notice Soda watching, his arms tucked in on himself. I roll my eyes at him, realizing I'm a sucker, Pony got to me, I surrender, but he beams back a smile, nodding his approval, gives me a thumbs up. I look back at the plaque, then look at the artist in his second grade picture, grinning wide without his two front teeth. I sigh and mutter, "This kid's gonna be the death of me."

I put my hammer back in my hanging tool belt, Soda slapping and squeezing my shoulder as I walk by him, then I sit in Dad's chair. And for the first time, it feels like I fit.

A/N: The Outsiders by SE Hinton

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