Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I am making no profit from this story. Quoted passage is from Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain.

When Darry Found Out

I clutch the cool, no-longer-white porcelain, trying to ignore the stains and the stench, when my stomach folds into itself once again. I lean forward and don't even bother fighting it. Bitter fluid rushes from my mouth and drips out of my nose. God, this is horrible. What was I thinking?

Darry will kill me.

"So why'd you bring him here?" comes Tim's voice from right outside the door.

"I ain't taking him home like this," Curly says. "His brother'll beat the shit out of me."

"Curtis ain't gonna touch you."

I close my eyes. Curly . . . Tim . . . Darry . . . I can't remember where I am. Curly's house? My stomach gives a rumble, and I groan.

What's wrong, Ponyboy? Do you feel sick?

I wrapped my hand around my stomach and swallowed. "Yeah. My stomach hurts."

Mom set a cool hand on my forehead. "You have a fever. Probably the same thing Soda had the other day. You want some of the soup Dad made yesterday?"

I shook my head. "I don't think I can eat anything."

"Alright. You look pale, honey. I'll get the bucket from the bathroom in case you need to -"

Let's go, Curtis.

My head gives a throb.

"Come on, man, snap out of it." Curly's hand wraps around my arm. "Work with me. We need to get you out of here. Tim's got some people coming over." He half drags me down the steps.

I'm having trouble standing up straight. God, I feel sick. The cool, damp night air whips against my skin.

Here's a cool washcloth.

"Thanks, Mom. I think I need the bucket." I leaned over and spilled the contents of my stomach into the emptied bathroom trash bin that Mom handed to me.

Is that it? Are you finished?

I nod and let out a grunt that, to me, sounds kind of like yeah. "I'm done with the bucket," I slur.

"The what? Come on, Curtis, let's keep moving. You need to walk this off some. How much did you drink?"

We're moving again. Am I floating? It's like getting off the escalator at Dillard's and feeling like you're still going up. I close my eyes and let Curly lead me forward.

"Is that your brother? Crap, is that Darry?"

Darry's home.

"Did he bring my homework?" I asked.

"Yes, he brought your homework." Mom sat on the edge of my bed, and I loved the scent of her cologne – not the cheap stuff we got her for Mother's Day, but the good kind that Dad had bought her years ago, the kind she only used a couple of drops of each day. It mingled with the scent of beef stew and flour and the warmth of the house and, as sick as I was, I felt like I was in the safest place in the world. She smiled down at me. "You look a little better than this morning. Darry said he'll come in and read to you before dinner."

Okay.

"What? Pony, what did you say?" Darry's voice is pounding through my head, and his tone is edged with anger.

I blink at him. "What?"

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. "You will not do this, Ponyboy. I will not let you do this."

His hand is wrapped around my jacket sleeve – where did Darry come from? – and it's like being attached to a rocket shooting through the night. A light spray of rain lands on my face, but it doesn't do much to quell the uproar in my stomach. "Wait. I need to -"

Every muscle in my chest tightened up when I leaned forward and threw up again.

Darry had pulled me to sitting and got the bucket under my face just in time. He was still holding me up. "You done?"

I took a few tentative breaths and wiped my mouth with the tissue he handed me. "I think so. Where's Mom?"

"She's making the biscuits. You want me to get Dad?"

"Yeah."

Dad brought the sound of clomping boots and the outside smell of late winter and work into the room with him. "Hey, buddy. Feeling pretty bad, huh?"

"Yeah." I lay against the pillows and could almost feel the heat rising from me. "Everything hurts."

"I know." He set the back of his hand against my head. "You know what I saw today?"

"What?"

"A herd of deer, Pony. A whole herd of them. Must have been at least forty."

"Really?"

"Yep, never saw so many deer in my whole life. Up in the south field. They were scrounging for whatever was left of last year's hay crop. Mr. Jordan was with me. So you know what we did?"

"What?" I ran my hand along the soft hairs on Dad's arm, right up to his Navy tattoo.

"We drove the pickup out there and dumped off a load of hay for them."

"Did they eat it?"

Dad smiled. "Well, they all run off at first. You should have seen them, Ponyboy, leaping into the woods, just like in the Walt Disney movie. But by the time we passed by again, they were all back, having a good ol' feast." Dad reached across the bed for my book. "This what Darry was reading to you?"

I leaned my body into Dad's big leg and wondered when I would ever get to be grown-up. "Yes, sir."

Dad opened the book with his great work-weathered hands, and it amazed me once again that hands so rough-looking could be so gentle. He cleared his throat and picked up where Darry had left off – "Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try not to do it anymore."

Not to what? Ponyboy, what on earth are you talking about?

I squint my eyes at my oldest brother and realize that in the dim light of the porch, when he's just ahead of me and barely glancing down at me, he almost looks like Dad. I squint my eyes a little more, trying to get him to look exactly like Dad, and it just about works.

"I'm telling you this now, and I'll say it again after you sleep this off – you will not leave this house for anything but school for the next two weeks. Do you understand? I will not have you turn yourself into a common hood. Life goes on, Ponyboy, and I will not let you do this to yourself."

His sharp tone cuts away my fantasy, and my brain grasps for the tattered scraps of it before they float away. Just stop talking, Darry, stop talking so I can get them back. Just for a little while more.

"Come on into the bathroom to get cleaned up."

I followed Mom to the sink, where she had me strip to my underwear so she could wipe me down with a warm soapy washcloth. I shivered from the air against my wet skin, but it felt good to be getting clean. The scent of Ivory soap was familiar and calming, even as my stomach protested my movements.

Do you need to throw up again?

I shake my head, as much to get Darry's voice out of it as to give my answer.

He wraps an unfriendly hand around my arm and yanks me toward the bedroom. "I hope you're sure, because I ain't coming in there to clean things up if you're wrong."

I close my eyes and let him lead me forward. The whole way there, I work to stop my teeth from chattering.

Now lay down, and I'll get the covers pulled back over you.

I climbed into the bed and settled against the pillows. "Can you lay down with me?"

It was late, but it seemed like Mom was never too tired to stay a little longer. "Sure, baby. Slide over a bit." When I rolled onto my side, she settled herself in behind me, warm against my back, and wrapped her arm around me to hold my hand.

I watched her fingers entwine with mine, and her golden wedding band glinted in the light from the hallway. "You'll feel better by tomorrow," she whispered in my ear.

"Thanks," I say.

What?

No, no, not you. I want Mom. Mom.

Did I say that out loud?

I don't care. I just want her back, close enough so I can feel her and smell her and hear her. Mom. It hurts. Please come back and take care of me.

The sound of a quiet sigh filters through the spinning fog that surrounds me.

The warmth curls against me, real this time, and settles around my hand, and winds between my fingers, and I can lay there and pretend – she's here, she's here, she really came back, she –

"So did it bring them back?" His warm moist words sink into me with the harshness of reality, and I hate him. I hate him for asking the question that I know he knows the answer to, I hate him for stopping my pretending, and I hate him for driving them away from my grasp, but mostly – or only? – I hate him for not being them.

Bring them back, bring them back – I scramble through my soul for them until the words echo again in my head . . . did it bring them back? When my voice finally emerges, I cringe because it isn't a tough greaser drawl, but a childish sob. "Yeah."

It brought them back too well, too familiar, too painful. They were there, but when the pretending was ripped away like a band-aid the hurt was back even worse. It's over. It's over. They're gone, and I'll never find them again in anything but me.

My stomach clenches. I take a slow breath, hold tight to my brother's hand, and let them slip away. I love you Mom and Dad, but as thirsty as I am for you, you're only a mirage, and I'm just drinking sand.