Chapter Text
Bob Sheldon has been missing for a month. Everyone says he’s probably dead. After all, that’s what happened to the other boys who have vanished from Tulsa without a trace – or so it’s widely assumed.
No one can say for sure where Bob’s gone. There hasn’t been a body, or a phone call, or even a note. It’s like the sixteen-year-old football captain has simply disappeared, like he’d never even been born at all. But that’s not surprising anymore. They’ve all learned not to expect anything.
The only difference between Bob Sheldon and the rest of the missing persons cases in their town over the last few years is that the police haven’t given up yet. They still think they’re going to find him.
Ponyboy knows they won’t. Not how they want to.
Exactly six days after Bob Sheldon never came home from practice, Ponyboy woke up in the middle of the night with sweat pouring down his face and a searing pain in his ribs. He’d felt it, just like he’d felt it each time before. Bob is dead.
He hasn’t dreamt about Bob as much as the others, but Pony reckons it’s because he never really knew the guy. A big-time Soc like that wouldn’t willingly cross paths with a greaser unless it was to wail on them. Just like he and his friends had done to Johnny Cade.
Maybe that’s why Ponyboy didn’t cry this time.
He feels bad about it. Bob was just a kid, like him. He was a jerk, and a bully, and heaven knows the scars from his class rings on Johnny’s face aren’t ever going to go away. But Bob still didn’t deserve what happened to him.
Ponyboy tells himself that he hadn’t cried when Bob died because he’s still mad at him for beating up his best friend. He has to tell himself that, because the alternative is that he’s used to death now, and that can’t be it. It just can’t be.
Although maybe six years of dreaming about all the boys he’s known who have been killed can do that to a person.
He’d had the first dream when he was seven. His parents had come into his room one night and told him that he wasn’t allowed to go outside alone anymore, not even to their own backyard. Darry or Soda had to be with him or he’d get in big trouble. Pony remembers asking why, and his mom and dad had exchanged a look full of sadness he’d never seen before.
“We just want you to be safe, honey,” his mama replied as she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “We want you to be safe here with us.”
Ponyboy hadn’t understood what she meant until he was screaming his throat raw hours later. There had been a boy in his dream, and the boy had died. He looked like Dallas Winston, a kid from the neighborhood who came by every so often for dinner.
Dallas Winston never came over for dinner again after the first night. But he kept showing up in Ponyboy’s dreams. Pony never really saw him die, but he felt it. Every single time. He could feel the older boy’s anger, and panic, and fear – until it all stopped. Somehow, Pony knew what it meant when he couldn’t feel Dallas anymore. It scared him something awful.
When they were still alive, Ponyboy’s parents always listened when he crawled into their bed night after night and cried himself hoarse. They let him say everything he needed to say. Pony knew they didn’t truly believe him when he told them it was real.
And the dreams only got worse when Two-Bit went missing.
To this day, Ponyboy’s memories of Keith “Two-Bit” Mathews are hazy. He’d only just turned eight when his big brother’s best friend disappeared, but he can picture curly hair and overalls, and he can hear echoes of bright laughter in his mind if he thinks hard enough. Two-Bit always made him laugh.
When the phone rang to tell the Curtises the news, Darry wept like there was no tomorrow. It’s the only time Ponyboy can ever recall seeing him cry.
The police had searched for Two-Bit for at least a week, which is more than Pony knows they’d done for Dallas. The latter was almost immediately classified as a runaway. He had no family to speak of in Tulsa, no one looking for him, no one who cared enough to keep the case alive. But Two-Bit’s mother practically lived at the station and used every spare second she had putting up flyers and asking anyone who would listen if they’d seen her son.
That’s what Darry says, anyway. Ponyboy only remembers that he’d given up his bed to Katie Mathews for a while.
His dreams about Two-Bit are more vivid than the ones about Dallas. He sees grey stone walls, and a mattress, and…and a terrifying smile. When Pony was younger, he’d thought the smile looked like a monster. Now he knows better. It’s the devil.
Two-Bit screams when he dies, always. Ponyboy won’t ever forget it. Especially because none of the others make a sound when the devil kills them.
Steve Randle, for instance, dies with little more than a whimper. But the dreams Pony has about him are the most painful ones. Which makes sense, because he knew Steve.
It only happened last year. Just before Halloween. Soda and Steve had been working a late shift together at the DX; Soda left a few minutes ahead of his best buddy. Ponyboy’s brother made it home, and no one ever saw Steve again.
“It should have been me,” Soda sobbed into Darry’s shirt later, once they’d realized. “Why wasn’t it me?”
Privately, Ponyboy thanks all the stars above that it hadn’t been Soda. Seeing Steve’s blood staining a concrete floor every night is bad enough. The two of them never got on as well as they could have – Steve thought Ponyboy was a pesky tagalong, and Pony resented how much of Soda’s time Steve seemed to take away from him. But there was still always an undercurrent of understanding between them, something that maybe even bordered on fondness. So when Steve became a recurring character in Ponyboy’s nightmares, it broke his heart. He’d never wanted this.
But if it had been Soda? Ponyboy doesn’t think he’d survive the things he would be forced to see. Not to his golden, perfect brother.
Soda is the one who holds Pony now that their parents are gone. He rocks him back and forth slowly, all gentle touches and soft words. He asks what Ponyboy saw, and Pony tells him despite how much it hurts to say out loud. Even when he dreams about Steve. Those nights leave Soda without as much to say, but he never backs down. The sun rises and finds Ponyboy wrapped in his brother’s arms no matter what.
He’s not sure if Soda believes in his dreams. Listening isn’t the same thing as believing. Honestly, Ponyboy thinks Soda believes in his belief. But he probably doesn’t want to put faith in the dreams themselves, and no one can blame him. If Pony’s right, it means Steve is dead. It means all of them are dead.
They are. Ponyboy knows that. His brothers don’t need it rubbed in their faces, though.
And neither does Cherry Valance.
Her boyfriend’s disappearance is all anyone’s been talking about at school. It’s a new development; the missing boys from the East Side rarely get discussed, if ever. Sometimes the Socs will pass Ponyboy and Johnny in the hallway and ask if they’re ready to “meet The Grabber” next as they shove them against the wall, but that’s the extent most people acknowledge what’s happened.
Now, though, Bob Sheldon’s name floats above them all like a curse. Like a real tragedy. A nice boy from the West Side, gone in a flash. Now there’s cause for concern.
Ponyboy’s only a grade below Cherry since he’d been moved up a year in school, so he sees her around plenty. Lately she’s had her head down more often than not. And though she still looks as prim and proper and put-together as ever, as any Soc does, Pony can see the weariness of grief she carries with her clear as day. Once you know what it feels like, it’s impossible to miss on anyone else. He feels terrible.
Ponyboy knows what happened, and he’s keeping it from her. He ought to say something. Just to give her some closure and make her feel a little bit better. Not the whole truth, of course. But shouldn’t he give her something to hold on to? Maybe it’s about time his dreams do some good.
The next time Pony spots Cherry at her locker, a small frown on her face while she leans her forehead against the metal when she thinks no one’s looking, he steels his nerves and soon finds himself standing in front of her. She’s taller than him, not to mention pretty as hell. Ponyboy wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans.
“Hi. You’re Cherry Valance, ain’t it?” he starts cautiously. Cherry’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice.
“Oh! Sorry, I —“ She cuts herself off as her eyebrows furrow in confusion. Clearly she doesn’t recognize Ponyboy, but why would she? He’s nothing but a dirty greaser kid.
“It’s okay, I know you don’t know me,” Pony offers a small smile. “I’m Ponyboy. Ponyboy Curtis.”
“Curtis…” Cherry tilts her head, taking him in with her brown eyes.
“Sodapop’s my brother. You mighta known him before he, um…” Pony pretends not to wince. “Before he dropped out.”
(It still hurts to think about the night Soda sat him and Darry down at the table, ten months after Mom and Dad and one month after Steve, to tell them he flat-out refused to go to school anymore.
“I can’t do it. Not without them,” he’d choked out. “Not without Steve.”)
But Cherry just mirrors Pony’s own tentative grin.
“Sure, I remember Soda,” she nods. “You look like him, you know.”
Ponyboy knows for a fact he looks nothing like his movie star brother, but he rubs the back of his neck modestly. “Thanks.”
His next words want nothing more than to dry up on his tongue, unspoken, because it’s easier that way. But Pony forces himself to continue. He owes Cherry Valance the comfort he alone can give.
“I just…um…I wanted to say I’m — I’m sorry. About Bob.”
Glory, he sounds pathetic. Even worse, he sounds cliche.
Cherry pales, and Ponyboy immediately feels regret clawing up his throat. This was a bad idea, a terrible idea, she’s going to hate him —
“Thank you.”
Pony blinks and there’s a tear slowly rolling down Cherry’s cheek. But she doesn’t exactly look sad.
“No one’s actually said that to me yet,” Cherry sniffs.
“Really?” Ponyboy blurts out before he can stop himself. Are people so unkind? He can’t be the first one to offer condolences. “Not even your friends?”
“They just tell me how great he was. How upset they are. How upset they think I should be,” the older girl rolls her eyes and scoffs. “As if I don’t already know.”
She shuts her locker and holds her books closer to her chest. Ponyboy doesn’t just see a girl who lost her boyfriend when he looks at Cherry Valance. He sees a soul as lost as his own.
A sudden urge to tell her everything washes over him, and Pony bites his tongue to keep from spilling his guts. Somehow – and he has absolutely no way of knowing this for certain, this is completely insane – he thinks Cherry might understand.
“Well, then I’m sorry for that, too.” Ponyboy says. He takes a breath. What he’s about to do is going to be either incomprehensibly stupid or the best thing he’s ever done. “This is gonna sound crazy, but –”
“Hey, greaser!”
A gruff shout rings down the hall, and Ponyboy flinches instinctively. Hearing that word is never a good sign.
He turns around to see a group of Socs striding towards them, a pack of letterman jackets and close-cropped haircuts and an abundance of confidence. There’s four of them, but Ponyboy thinks he can only name one. Socs mostly blend together in his mind anyway.
The one who reaches them first grabs Ponyboy by the collar of his denim jacket and pulls him close.
“You got any idea who you’re talking to, kid?” The guy growls. Pony’s pretty sure this is Trip. “That’s Bob Sheldon’s girl. Forget about him already?”
“No,” Pony replies as steadily as he can. Usually Socs don’t put the scare on him like this; but then, he’s usually not being manhandled by one. And now Johnny’s cut up face is flashing through his mind, and so is the image of Bob Sheldon lying on the ground, bleeding out, and oh glory why did they have to say his name?
“Trip! Stop it!” Cherry cries out, but the other boys line up to block her from the altercation. Whether they think they’re protecting her or isolating Ponyboy, he can’t say. It’s probably both.
“What were you saying to her, grease?” Trip shakes him, and Pony tugs at his wrist in a feeble attempt to free himself. He gets a series of mocking chuckles for his efforts.
“Nothing,” he insists at the same time Cherry says, “He just wanted to say sorry about Bob!”
Well, shit. She’s gone and doomed him without any idea. Just Pony’s luck.
A cheshire smile spreads across Trip’s face. Ponyboy feels his heart drop down to his feet. This isn’t going to be pretty.
“You’re sorry about Bob, huh?” the older, taller, intimidating boy sneers. “That’s pretty ironic coming from you, Curtis.”
One of the other Socs leans in. “What, did you get tired of making your own hood friends disappear? You had to come for one of ours, too?”
Red embarrassment sets every one of Ponyboy’s nerves on fire, but he knows better than to try and fight these odds. It’ll be best to just bear whatever’s coming next.
“What are you talking about?” Cherry asks as she attempts to push past the boys in her way. They stand firm, and Trip takes a tight hold of Ponyboy’s chin.
“Rumor has it that Horsey here’s been having dreams about all the kids that’ve gone missing over the years. Every. Single. One.” Trip tilts Pony’s head from side to side, and he resists the urge to shut his eyes. “Even Bob.”
“What?” Cherry gasps. And there it is.
Any chance Ponyboy could have had to explain himself, to give Cherry the closure he’d meant to give…it’s gone. Of course these guys have heard about him.
Most of the school has at this point; Pony’d been naive to think the Socs hadn’t caught wind of it, too. He’s not exactly sure how the rumors started, but it doesn’t matter. Being a greaser means people are inclined to believe any ugly thing said about you whether it’s true or not.
Part of the rumors are true. The other part…
“He probably made a deal with the devil so he could pick who to get rid of next.” Another one of the Socs chimes in. Trip laughs, but there’s no mirth in it.
“So what is it then, Ponyboy? You got a crush on Cherry, huh?” He squeezes Pony’s chin roughly. “Had to get Bob out of the way to make your move?”
Somewhere along the way in the rumor mill, people started getting the idea that Ponyboy was the one choosing which boys were taken. The idea makes him sick, but there’s nothing he can do to refute it. No one’s been willing to listen.
“No—“ Pony stammers, hating the flush he feels in his cheeks. Crying in front of Socs is probably the most shameful thing a greaser can do. But between the pain of Trip’s grasp and the horror of what he’s suggesting, it’s hard to fight the tears.
“Let him go, Trip.” Cherry says again. Ponyboy spares her a glance; there’s less fire in her eyes than there was before.
“I will. Once he tells the truth,” Trip says, his voice low and threatening. He hasn’t looked away from Pony’s face.
“I didn’t do anything to Bob — to any of them!”
They aren’t really asking him. They don’t really care what he has to say.
“Oh, we know you didn’t kill them.” Trip lets his words hang in the air. “That was your big brother.”
Ponyboy’s blood freezes.
There’s no way. It doesn’t make sense. Trip can’t be saying that Darry — that he’s —
No. That’s exactly what he means. These Socs think Darry is The Grabber.
Rage floods through him, swiftly replacing the selfish fear. No one gets to say that about his brother. No one gets to take the death of Darry’s best friend, of Soda’s best friend, of Dallas Winston, of even Bob Sheldon, and imply that Ponyboy’s oldest brother has anything to do with it. He simply won’t allow it.
People can believe whatever they want about him. But not Darry.
Before Ponyboy has a chance to comprehend what he’s doing, before he gives himself the opportunity to talk himself out of it, before he considers just how reckless this is:
He spits right in Trip’s face.