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October 31st, 1956
Tulsa, Oklahoma
The sky is a sleet gray blue that doesn't feel exactly right in his eye sight — something about the grayness, the stillness is at odds with everything else. It's like it's frozen, without any cloud to cut through it. The cold that is seeping into him at every angle, keeping him fused to the ground beneath him that isn't helping nor is the fact that every time he takes a breath, he can scent something that's like a dirty mixture of blood and oil and snow.
Every second makes those smells stronger in his senses, makes him aware that if he doesn't get up right now, he is going to freeze to death in the snow. He blinks, long and slow, trying to tell his limbs to get up, to keep moving, to get away from it all. Telling him that if he doesn't do this, he's not going to survive — all while a different part of him knows that survival is slim, that being right here in the snow is fine.
Move. Move.
He tries to tell himself that, and it's hard to finally find his neck moving at his behest. His fingers cling to the snow beneath – cold, wet, immaterial – with sweat dripping down his brow as he does it. When he finally does turn his head, he can see his mother's face feet aside him, her broken body on the snow. The blonde hair of hers, always so sunny and bright, is splayed out, stained by red viscera from her broken skull. The Sunday best clothes she wore with them out are torn up, mired by blood oil, and her mouth is half open, in shock or surprise.
Tears well up in his eyes, his cheeks flushing. He tries his best to reach over to her, to grasp her hand. Tries to call out for her, and yet his voice is stuck in his throat.
Someone's foot crunches in the snow. His eyes rove fruitlessly in his head, trying to see who it is. Only a long shadow falls over him, from an angle he can't see. Not that it would help him; the stench of rotting, uncooked meat hit his nose and he gags around it, trying to get away, trying to move from the thickening scent.
The man says something, the words garbled and harsh.
The shadow of man's enormous hand reaches for him, his fingers
calloused, cool as he rocks his shoulder. "Ponyboy? You need to get up. You gotta get to school."
The scent of snow and oil and blood and rotting meat is replaced by that of aged leather, wood chips, and coffee. Terror flees his limbs, replaced by the recognition that he's home, in his bedroom.
Ponyboy cracks open his eyes, hating that he can feel sweat dripping down his face, the stick of his hair against his cheek as he sits up. The light's already on, bringing up a hand to wipe at his face, trying to stop himself from shaking, "I – I'll be up. I just need a shower."
It's getting harder and harder to not have his voice shake in moments like this.
"Sure," If Darry notices the tremors in his hand, there's nothing on his face that suggest it as he looks at him with those cold eyes of his, pulling away. It's just like him to come in, rock Ponyboy awake and already be halfway out. Almost two years on and the way their family has shifted has been something none of them have truly adjusted to.
Ponyboy can't quite blame him as he takes a breath, trying to quit trembling. By that time, Darry is already shutting the door behind him. Every day, he gets quicker about that and Ponyboy knows that if he doesn't get to moving, he'll barge right back in.
This is not a morning for that. The snow, the rotting meat –
Ponyboy needs the time to himself for just a moment. Just to tell himself that he's not back there, he's not lying in the snow next to his mother like he had been. That he doesn't have to crawl away, beg for someone to notice him by the street.
He's sixteen now, not thirteen. He's here, in his bedroom and safe.
Or at least, safe enough.
His fingers twitch in temptation of the cigarettes he has hidden in his drawer. For all the rules that Darry makes him abide by, the not smoking around him or in the house is the worst. A scowl crosses his face, thinking of having it in defiance –
– but that's about the time when his alarm clock goes off, shrieking. Swearing, Ponyboy goes to silence it, and then grab his clothes and his towels. It takes longer than he likes to get showered, the hot water pushing away the sweat from his nightmares, making him feel better as he hastily washes his hair. The strands are a little thicker in his fingers, more red coming up in the light when he dries it.
It's so close to fully being auburn now. Ponyboy almost mourns it, as he dries it, with the comb he has.
Last are his clothes, and he grimaces looking at them before throwing on his shirt, his jeans, and the sneakers he has. Ever since things had started changing, wearing the old clothes around the house hadn't been the same – and he knows that if he starts dressing differently, Darry will start asking questions.
So instead of letting that bother him, he grabs in the extra clothes for later. The shoes are the real problem, in a practical sense: there's a growing hole in it that needs to be taken care of. There's tape somewhere in the house, and he knows he'll have to repair it later as he grabs his books. The pack of cigarettes he hides in his pocket once he comes barrelling out of the bathroom, through his room and to the kitchen.
Darry is standing there, scraping out eggs onto a plate for Ponyboy, voice gruff. "You're cutting it close."
"I know, I know!" Ponyboy looks around, sucking at his teeth. "Shit, I need some money for the bus —"
"No you don't. Soda's got his car runnin' last night, so you should be good to go whenever you find your keys," He turns, running a critical eye over Ponyboy. No doubt he wants to say something about Ponyboy not slicking his hair anymore or the obvious shift in his hair color over the past year. "You have any plans tonight for Halloween?"
"I might," Ponyboy replies, coming to the toaster right as it spits out slices of bread. 'I had a shift I was gonna work —"
"I told you, I don't want you working on that side of town," there's no room for argument in Darry's voice, and no will in Ponyboy to argue with him as he grabs for the butter. "If you got any plans, you need to get back before midnight. No ifs, ands, or buts."
The urge to fight him rises up in Ponyboy at the last part. No matter how many times he's said it, it bothers Ponyboy. He's the only omega in the house, the youngest, and Darry is no better than the way Sandy is treated by her own folks. Ponyboy throws him a mutinous look as he gets his bread together.
Darry returns his look, his mouth in a downturn at him.
I don't want my brother running the streets like those other greasers. Even though Ponyboy doesn't see his lips move, his thoughts are loud and clear in his mind. "My Mama told me to take care of you, and no cousin of mine–"
"I get it," Ponyboy cuts him off before he can finish, not wanting to stay a moment in the house anymore. Not wanting to have to stay in the midst of this secret that only he and Darry are aware of, a secret that he knows will break them if he ever tells Darry that he knows it. "I'll get home."
"Good," the plate of food is pressed towards him. Ponyboy picks up his fork and knife, taking the time to eat.
All the while, he pretends not to hear Darry think to himself, Everyday, he gets to lookin' more like Mama and nothin' at all like Dad. How in the hell didn't we see that?
It stings, the words, the thoughts. That Darry knows when Soda doesn't, when he thinks Ponyboy doesn't know. All Ponyboy can do is eat his food, find his keys, and get outside to the car before the secret bursts out of him the way it's been longing to for months.
That's been the hardest thing of it all, for Ponyboy as he opens the door to Soda's car and gets in. Ever since that car accident, things have not been the same at all. He looks up at the house, looking at Soda's room. They were connected via the Jack and Jill bathroom, and in his rush, Ponyboy hadn't gone to it, knocked to see if Soda was there, awake.
He should've moved out by now. He'd turned nineteen a few days ago, well above the age to move out and have his own life. Ponyboy could mostly take care of himself, and yet…
Ponyboy knows the life he wanted. Knows he wanted it with Sandy, and Sandy wasn't here anymore.
He turns over the car engine, pulls out into the street, and gets moving. He can't be late to school.
The Buick holds up well enough to get Ponyboy to school, even though he's forgotten his jacket. All that need to get himself his keys and away from Darry's prying eyes, and he hadn't gotten the thing that would keep him best armored against the looks that his schoolmates give him, against the clear times the alphas here would scent him.
The softer he looks, the more like his birth family he resembles, the more the looks come to him: the shifting of his hair from an inky black to a redder auburn, his eyes looking less and less like Darry and Soda's by the day, shifting towards a more hazel look, the clear development of his omega body all makes them pay attention to him in ways that makes him uncomfortable more and more.
If it were just looks it would be one thing. That their thoughts assail him too is almost too much to bear as Ponyboy tries to get up to class, his hair loose around him.
Dammit, I forgot to bring my lunch! I don't have money for nothin' today!
I can't believe I missed the Ed Sullivan Show. How am I gonna see Elvis now? Lord knows I don't got money for a concert.
Roger's on the prowl again. Guess he got stood up at Homecoming.
Wonder if my heat's comin' up soon… It had better..
The last thought, Ponyboy knows exactly who it comes from as he finally ducks into the main bathroom on the first floor. It's the bathroom that's been broken most days this year, and it's the one no one will come looking for him in as he opens the brown bag he'd gotten with him from the car.
It takes some time to shed the shirt, the stiffly ironed jeans Darry had left out for him in exchange for the softer dark green-blue sweater that he'd stolen a few weeks before, the overalls that had more room for him and able to cover some of the soft of his still a little too prominent breasts and the sneakers for the pair of boots he'd been saving up money for for weeks and had only been able to afford.
The rest of him comes together quicker, from the winding snake ring on his left pinky that he'd taken from his mother's drawer to the forest green headband he uses to put on his hair. The Ponyboy that peers at him form the mirror is closer to the one he thinks of himself as, less Curtis and more…
He wishes he could say his last name, the old one. Wishes he could say it and not feel as if he's betraying Darry or Soda. Wishes he could say it and not feel immeasurably sad and alone, knowing that he's not their cousin, but their half-brother. Knowing that if he opens his mouth and shares it, he'll shatter them more than what they had been when the cop had told them over a year ago, I'm sorry for your loss. The only survivor is at the hospital, Ponyboy.
He knows sometimes, that they look at him and think of their supposed parents, that they sometimes think about how he survived. It's always been soft, tender, concerned — Soda always thinking about him having a scar, Darry always wondering how he'd made it, both of them wondering in turn about how he'd feel like, without any parents in the world anymore.
At least, Soda still did. Darry has stopped wondering that himself. It's only Soda who thinks that he's the son of one of their mother's unnamed sisters, who'd never stepped up to claim him.
Darry knows by now, that there are people out there in a valley miles and miles away who are related to Ponyboy. He's read the article that Mama had kept tucked in her drawer that contained all the gory details of Atreus Pelopides, the reclusive preacher who'd gone mad and had mutilated his nephew and served him to his children. Sometimes he catches his stray thoughts of concern over Ponyboy eating meat too aggressively, over Ponyboy losing his temper at Steve sometimes, over Ponyboy acting in any way he thought was strange.
It was all Ponyboy could do to pretend as if he doesn't know at home. To make sure he doesn't mention the snakes that he's finding more and more around the house, to not eat too much meat around Darry so he doesn't linger looking at him, to wear the sort of clothes a good omega boy was expected to wear and to not reach for the softer dresses he'd gotten accustomed to as a child, to at least pretend he could blend in better with the few omegas around Tulsa.
Only at school, at his job he'd had, could he get away from Darry's careful, exacting eye. Only there could he be the person he wants, can try to be.
He gathers up his things, steps out of the bathroom and makes his way to class, taking in the way they've decorated the school: there are pumpkin cut outs, fake spider webs, invitations out, and dozens of other places for candy in the school.
It looks like a lot of fun — fun that Darry didn't want him participating in, good reason or not. Good Socs got invited to those things, while greasers were always expected to stick to their side of town or were expected to crash. To actually enjoy it, over the age of twelve, was different.
And yet, as Ponyboy gets to his first class of the morning, ducking in right when the bell rings, he still thinks it could be worth it to go to one. The Soc girls in the class don't spare him a second glance; he's aware of what he looks like to them, and being left alone is more of his goal in classes like this.
Except when it comes to one person: Angela Shepard, who's waiting for him in the back with a slightly annoyed look on her face. Her tiger-like eyes are on him the moment she catches his scent, the only other omega he's ever had in his classes who was from the neighborhood, and the one friend he's always kept close. She gives him a confident smile as he comes to sit beside her, her red nails flashing, "I thought you were gonna leave me here by lonesome all morning."
"Sorry, I had to change," Ponyboy apologizes, even though he's sure she's teasing him in her own Angela way. She glances over at the Soc girls who are clearly doing their best to ignore him, while their teacher seems late for once. "Didn't have real good dreams this morning."
Her eyes light up, her voice dropping, "Did you have one of those scary ones again? Or something full of spooks?"
"Neither," Ponyboy glances over to their stations, "Are you gonna help me finish up today? I wanted to get the last few touches done."
"I'm not coming back to lunch to do it," is her terse reply, a frown on her face. "I wanted to go to The Dingo already — I ain't wanna be back here with those paper shakers." She says the last words loud enough that it gets the attention of one of the older girls, who glares over her head at Angela.
That means that as soon as Mrs. Goodwin steps inside, he and Angela have to get up and get to work. Ponyboy hardly hears her give out instructions, just fishing out the small book that he's been using for months to consult over his Mama's old instructions for sewing.
He and Angela talk little after that — Ponyboy working as quickly as he can to fix the hemline, Angela helping him with the last few measurements. About the only good thing about presenting was that the omega classes he'd been placed in meant he'd been able to be put into Home Ec for full half days while the others were dedicated to other studies.
And in home economics, as much as Ponyboy would hate to confess, he's good. Some of that is because of the old memories that he has, of his father teaching him how to cook on his own, and some of that is more recent memories of his Mama showing him how to sew, how to fix a hemline.
A part of him would rather be in the alpha track classes — running in track, learning shop, being able to do something without the hawkish voices of other omegas around him always nitpicking at his looks — while another part of him likes that he can do one of the few things that still ties him to his Mama.
Sewing had been more than just her way to make money; it had been something that his Mama had loved to do in her spare time. She'd taught him the basics of sewing a button first, and more had come after.
It just hurts him sometimes, remembering how she'd had him call him Aunt Jennifer and Mrs. Jennifer and never Mama.
But…
Ponyboy knows he'd had no choice. None at all.
Here, he has a choice to work on the costume he's been focused on for weeks. He has a choice to work with Angela as he hears the Soccy classmates talk about the Halloween Sock Hop they have planned, as he listens to their teacher reprimand them.
So he takes his choices where he can make them.
Baby, if I made you mad / For something I might have said / Please, let's forget my past / The future looks bright ahead / Don't be cruel / To a heart that's true!
Angela turns the volume up in the car as they make their way to The Dingo, groaning as she does with the latest update Ponyboy's given her. "Your brother is such an asshole for not letting you keep workin'. Last time Curly told me what I could and couldn't do, I kicked him right in the shin. You should try it sometime."
A laugh comes from Ponyboy as he keeps driving towards the Dingo. His fingers are smarting, he's a little sore and yet they got to leave a few minutes early to beat the crowd. "Curly's a fucking ankle-biter who couldn't think his way out of a paper bag. Darry's smarter than him and bigger too – I try and kick him in the shin and I'm the one who's showing up with a shiner later." He still laughs a little bit, trying to imagine it. "I ain't wanna stop working over at Castle's —"
"So why'd you let him tell you no?"
"—but if I didn't do it, you know he'd read me the riot act about boys' homes," Ponyboy continues, sighing out as they go past a light. "He already hounds me about my homework — I get B's, he wants As. I get As, he wants an A plus." It's a familiar grouse, Ponyboy chewing the inside of his cheek. "I'll find a job at The Dingo instead, sometime."
"If he thinks too many alphas are sniffin' around on the Soc side of town, how's working at The Dingo gonna help?" Angela points out, a fanged scowl on her face. It makes the red lipstick she's wearing stick out more – never mind that it's cooler on her than any Soc girl Ponyboy has met. Or himself, when he'd tried it out. "He just don't want you havin' money before he's ready for you to leave."
The words fall down harshly in his lap, Ponyboy not liking it at all. "He just doesn't want me in trouble. That's all. I know I don't always use my head with stuff."
"Bullshit, you use your head fine when you're around me," Angela boasts in her scratchy voice, "I know it ain't count for much, seein' as you've never been the type to get in my pants —"
"Gee, thanks —"
"— I know who you are. You're smarter than what you give yourself credit for. More than Darry too. Shit, if I had my brother's thoughts in my head, I'd go crazy with how stupid he is."
Ponyboy grins at her as he keeps driving, passing packs of greasers who whistle at them or wave. "I was going crazy before it. I always knew something was off, that I felt things weren't exactly right."
That always catches Angela's attention, talking about The Before. She always leans in closer, keeps her mouth shut while he talks about it. It's one of the many reasons why they're friends, Ponyboy chewing at his bottom lip as they wait at a light as she asks, voice low, "What do you mean?"
"I… I remember sometimes I'd just know things. I'd always knew who was calling on the phone. I always knew if Dad was pointing his gun in the right direction when we was huntin', and I always could tell who made the cake at home without them sayin'," he leans on the wheel, conjuring up the old memories. "It felt like almost – like I was a compass sometimes. I always could pick out true North."
He licks his lips, remembering the times Dad would have him pick out numbers on the scratch off for fun or when Mama had sometimes asked him certain things and he'd know what she was talking about without anything beforehand. "And Mama always made me wear this necklace with a green stone in it. I knew I couldn't never take it off. She'd be upset with me if I did."
"I remember it. You always wore it at school and you punched Frankie Mathews when he tried to take it off," Angela points out, and Ponyboy gives a nod. "I thought you were crazy."
"Yeah, well… what's crazier, that it was actually working to protect me or that it made me forget everything from before I was six years old?" Ponyboy sighs out, nudging the car up past the street. "I think the last thing it ever did was make sure my head didn't get demolished in the car crash."
Silence descends on them, only interrupted by the slight static coming from the radio. Every time he's made to remember it, a hole opens up in his stomach. That the only thing keeping him from being right there in a coffin beside his parents was that necklace, and it was smashed to pieces elsewhere.
"…you think that's why Darry's so mad? He thinks the accident wasn't no accident?"
Ponyboy flicks his eyes over to her, looking at the serious expression on her face. It's not an expression he's used to on her in their private moments since they were little kids who'd found each other on the playground. Not that she was always laughing and smiling — no greaser kid could really be like that, carefree. It's just her expression reminds him of what she's been through, of who's hurt her.
And it's clear to her she thinks he's been hurt a lot more than what he says he has. That she might know about the eyes following him from the shadows more than he thinks.
"I don't think it was an accident, no," the static gets louder, insistent on the radio as he speaks. "But I don't think it's about that – I think he's scared that if I remember, if I have money, I'm gonna run back. Or that… that, I dunno, I might do something like Pappo did, working there."
It's an ugly, twisting feeling in his stomach. Angela reaches over to grasp his hand, and Ponyboy doesn't let go until he finally parks over at The Dingo. It's not as crowded as it could be, and he opens the door, cutting off the radio.
The Dingo is fairly new; it'd been built about three years ago, and it quickly became a greaser joint. Even though sometimes Socs still came by: something Ponyboy spots instantly by the door, his stomach dropping.
Beside him, Angela hesitates too, her voice dropping. "We can go around back."
Ponyboy gets her meaning well. Going around back though meant running into some hoods that spell worse trouble than a Soc with a familiar face and a scent that puts Ponyboy on edge. He also doesn't want to be afraid in front of someone like him, the kind of Soc who was used to jumping kids smaller than him, getting his way, and never taking no for an answer.
Instead, he shakes his head, his mouth in a defiant line. "No. We're goin' around the front. I ain't come here to let Roger Sheldon scare me from going to my own lunch."
As an answer, Angela straightens up her shoulder, putting on that shark like mean face she gets around Soccy girls who've pissed her off too much. That's Ponyboy's cue to slouch a little bit but keep his head up as he makes his way past his car and the throng of other greasers and hoods who've either taken notice of them or who have scented them. Having two omegas show up at this time is always a little bit of a spectacle, Ponyboy wishing he had a blade on him as he makes his way towards the front.
Standing there, with his piercing gray eyes, is Roger Sheldon, with his perfectly done Soccy hair, his good looking face that emanates nothing but cold, and the expensive shirt he wears in a bright offensive yellow as he nudges his friend beside him, Jimmie Adderson.
At one point, Roger had been good looking a real way, that softened his features. Ponyboy has learned better from others how he is, and he keeps close to Angela as Roger drawls out, "I didn't think you two would be here. You seem a little too classy for this greasy joint."
"Could say the same about you, Roger," Ponyboy says, his voice cold and menacing as he can make it despite Roger being several inches taller. "It's greaser territory here. You ain't real welcome."
"Where else was I gonna keep up cheap broads for the sock hop tonight?" Roger fires back, clearly looking at Angela and Ponyboy's chest, his scent obvious in what he wants. Telepathy isn't needed for Ponyboy to know what he's thinking, yet he gets flashes of it anyway: wanting to shove Angela into a corner to look for her bra, wanting to grope Ponyboy's ass when he passes, the hunger he has for all of the greasers he's been known to go to behind his girlfriend.
Ponyboy feels sorry for her, truth be told; of all of the Soccy girls, Betty Bakersfield is one of the nicer Soc girls out there. She's never been mean to him before, and yet she never seems ready to admit her boyfriend has a taste for girls that he thinks are beneath him in public.
Betty and Roger, though are the kinds of kids that the papers love: the clean kids who never listen to rock and roll, who are an alpha guy and an omega girl, with bright smiles and a clean cut assumption of their character. No one would look at them and think that Betty has sweet talked one of the other girls into giving her her Mama's pills or that Roger has a penchant for peeping into locker rooms.
Ponyboy knows, though, as he fires back out, "I ain't lookin' to go to a sock hop with someone who's taken. I already got a date, thank you."
It's a lie, even though Angela backs him up with, "And he's bigger than you, Roger. Might want to back off and go back to your square broad."
Roger's face lights up with a smile, and Ponyboy can hear his thoughts ringing in his head — that he wants to force Ponyboy to say yes, that he wants to call his bluff.
And if someone will make good on that, it's Roger Sheldon. Ponyboy can see him take a step forward, and right as he's about to come closer, there's the sound of revving bikes. Everyone knows what that means: the motorcycle gangs are coming to the Dingo for a takeover.
In all honesty, the idea that pops up into his head is dangerous and stupid as the bikers swarm in. But Ponyboy decides, as they all swarm up, that getting inside as fast as possible isn't on the menu. Not if he wants to make it clear to Roger Sheldon that he's off-limits.
Angela seems to catch on a moment before he makes up his mind – there's a warning in her face that what he's about to do isn't smart, that he's going to get himself in trouble. For once in his life though, Ponyboy ignores her, letting his powers stretch, twist out. Letting it sweep over the minds of the bikers pulling in, trying to find one that seems friendly enough. One who wouldn't care about a high schooler coming to him, and he's surprised when there's a strange answer.
It's a mind that's not quite human – a mind that seems to curiously respond to him, aware that what they're feeling is magic or something like it. A mind that Ponyboy connects to a tall guy with dark brown hair and a bit of red around his otherwise brown irises, parked at the very end. He has to be the youngest of them all, maybe two or three years older than Ponyboy, and tallest with how he towers over his bike.
To everyone else, he probably seems normal. To Ponyboy's eyes, he can see that there's something about him that's not entirely human – there's a shimmer above his head, as if there's a mirage there that forces other people's eyes away yet Ponyboy can see has the vague shape of a crown; his fangs are shifted a little, less human and much more canine than most; his scent has an undertone of ash to it, mixing with oil; and when he straightens up, Ponyboy thinks he can see a slight stub beneath his brown hair.
There's a danger about him; he's about as alpha as they come, and the leather jacket he has is adorned with patches, and his name sewn in: Dallas W.
If anyone could take Roger in a fight, it'd be him.
And, as he looks at Ponyboy with thick, dark eyebrows, he can tell he's handsome. Much, much more handsome than Roger ever has been, his lips curling up in a sneer, his mind wondering, What the hell is goin' on with that cute broad?
"Hey, Dally," Ponyboy calls out as if they've always known each other, as if they've not just met. Telepathically, he shoots back, It's Ponyboy, actually. You up for going to a Halloween sock hop with the cute broad? Tonight, at seven?
Dallas looks surprised for a moment, and he recovers with, "Hey, Pony! Get over here!"
Depends. You some kinda witch? Dallas returns, Ponyboy leaving Angela's side to come striding right towards him. She seems shocked, frozen in place as Ponyboy comes closer to Dallas, able to scent him better, able to tell that Dallas really won't strike him.
So he decides to answer the question by going up on his toes, wrapping his arms around Dallas' waist like they've always known each other. That's all it takes for Dallas to dip his head down and catch Ponyboy's lips with his own, kissing him in front of everyone assembled at The Dingo. Kissing him without tongue, yet firm enough that Ponyboy can feel the kiss right to his bones.
Not a witch. I don't think. What's that make you? He tastes like a Kool, like a little bit of menthol, and something that Ponyboy can only think is wild. He tastes better than any kiss he could have with Roger Sheldon, and hell, who can blame him for grinning into the kiss.
Dallas' fingers are warm against his cheek, his voice deep when they part. "Your date, if you keep kissin' me like that, Kid."
His arm wraps around Ponyboy's waist, and Ponyboy whispers back, "You wanna have lunch with me and my friend, Angela? That guy ain't gonna take no for an answer unless you come in with me."
"Hell, I'll pay for her lunch too," Dallas chuckles, and Ponyboy decides to kiss him again.
Just to seal the deal.
It's just a bit of a happy bonus that when Dallas slings his arm across his shoulders and walks past Roger, he can hear Roger cussing up a storm in his head. And that Angela looks like the cat that got the canary, too.