Chapter Text
Johnny doesn’t feel much like playing freeze tag tonight.
He’s sitting on the bottom step of the Curtis family’s porch, his knees tucked up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, watching the other boys race around the yard. They’re all shrieking and laughing, leaping over overturned bicycles and tree roots and making dives for the old tire they always designate as home base. Normally Johnny would be out there right alongside them, but he’s been feeling kind of strange all day—tired and sort of achy, everything taking more energy than usual—and running around is just about the last thing he wants to do at the moment.
It’s mid-September and the sun is just starting to set behind the trees, its golden rays falling across the scorched grass of the front lawn. According to the weather thermometer they've got nailed to the porch rafter, it’s still over 80 degrees out here, and yet for some reason Johnny’s got goosebumps. He rubs up and down his bare arms, wishing idly that he’d brought his jacket.
The screen door creaks open behind him. Johnny whips his head around, his muscles tensing instinctively, but it’s only Mrs. Curtis. She’s drying her hands on a dishtowel as she steps through the doorway, her lips pressed together into that too-tight smile adults give him sometimes.
“Hey, Johnny," she greets.
Johnny ducks his head, blushing. “Hi.”
"What's up?" Crossing the porch, she takes a seat beside him on the steps. “Taking a little break?”
He shrugs. “I guess so.”
She hums quietly. Reaching into the front pocket of her apron, she pulls out something wrapped up in a napkin and slips it subtly into his hand. Johnny unwraps the cloth to reveal a bread roll, still warm from the oven.
“I couldn’t help but notice you hardly touched your dinner,” she explains when he gives her a perplexed look. “Not in a meatloaf mood tonight?”
His cheeks grow even hotter. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He usually likes Mrs. Curtis’ cooking real well, but something about the smell of the food this evening was making his stomach feel funny. He’d picked at the potatoes some, but hadn’t managed to get much down. “I wasn’t tryin’ to be rude or nothin’...”
“Oh, I know you weren’t,” she assures him kindly. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get hungry later. You're a growing boy, after all.”
“Thanks.” Johnny gives her a shy smile as he slips the roll down into the front pocket of his jeans. She reaches her hand up to ruffle his hair just like she does to her own boys.
They watch the others play for a while. Keith—who Mr. Curtis has recently christened ‘Two-Bit’ on account of him always having to get his two bits in—is chasing the new kid up an apple tree. The new kid’s only ten, but he just moved to their neighborhood all the way from New York City, and he sure knows how to cuss good.
“Language, Dallas!” Mrs. Curtis calls, almost cheerily. The new kid scowls, but at least he has the sense to lower the volume when Keith tags his ankle.
Turning her attention back to Johnny, Mrs Curtis says, “So tell me, how’s the third grade been treating you?”
“It’s fine,” Johnny says with a shrug, because what else is there to say? It's school. He doesn’t get why grown-ups always want to talk about school.
“You’ve got Mrs. Ellington this year, don’t you?" she goes on. "She’s real sweet. Darry loved her.”
Yeah, I’ll bet, Johnny thinks with just a touch of bitterness. It’s gotta be easy to love your teachers when you’re as good at school as Darry’s always been. The year’s barely started and he’s already made student of the month over at the junior high.
Out loud he says, “I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“No?” Mrs. Curtis tilts her head to the side, looking genuinely interested. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugs again. “She’s always keepin’ me inside at recess and stuff, making me finish my worksheets.”
His second grade teacher hadn’t seemed to mind that he could only complete half a page in the time it'd take the other kids to do two; she’d just sigh and tell him to make sure he got it done at home. But it hadn't taken long for Mrs. Ellington to catch on to the fact that his parents weren't exactly the homework-enforcing type. Now she insists that he finish everything in class—"in case you have any questions," she tells him.
“Dunno why she even bothers,” Johnny admits, scuffing the toe of his shoe in the dirt. “Everybody knows I’m too dumb for school anyway…”
Mrs. Curtis frowns. “You are not dumb, Johnny Cade,” she says firmly. “You are a wonderful, thoughtful, intelligent young man. You just learn things at your own pace, that’s all. No shame in that.”
Johnny can’t say he agrees, but he knows it would be rude to argue so he just shrugs again. Mrs. Curtis gives his shoulder a little squeeze.
For a few minutes they just sit there, watching the others race around the yard. Ponyboy’s little red wagon is parked on the grass, and both Soda and Steve make running leaps over it. Pony tries to make the same jump, but his legs are too short and he trips over the metal handle, falling flat on his face in a way that makes Mrs. Curtis wince and suck a breath in through her teeth.
Other little kids might’ve started bawling after something like that, but Ponyboy gets right back up again, wiping the dirt off his palms on the fronts of his jeans. He’s pretty tough for a seven-year-old.
A breeze blows through the yard, rustling the tree leaves and making Johnny shiver. He wraps his arms around himself, drawing his knees up a little closer.
Mrs. Curtis frowns. “You getting chilly?”
“A little,” Johnny admits. “Just when the wind blows.”
Wordlessly, she wraps an arm around him, pulling him closer against her side until his head rests against her shoulder. Johnny lets his eyes slip closed.
Time goes a little funny after that. He's not sleeping exactly—he can still hear the laughter and shouts of the boys as they race around the yard—but it’s in a muffled, background sort of way, no more pressing than the hum of the cicadas. Eventually he becomes aware of a hand resting on his forehead, then whispered voices and the weightless feeling of being lifted up into strong, muscular arms.
“You sure you got him, Darrel? Don’t go throwing your back out again.”
“Shoot, no need to worry about that, hon. This kid can’t weigh more than sixty pounds, soaking wet."
I should go home, Johnny thinks as he's carried into the house, but he can't seem to pry his eyes open. They’re so heavy.
"Put him in Pony's bed. Pony can sleep with us tonight."
"Did you let his folks know what's going on?”
“Not yet. I’ll give his mama a call in an hour or two.”
A heavy sigh. “Karen…”
“What? We both know she's more likely to agree after ten p.m. I’m not taking any chances she'll kick up a fuss when the poor boy's already feeling lousy...”
Johnny feels himself being lowered down onto a mattress. Someone tugs off his shoes and pulls a blanket up over him, jeans and all.
"'M sorry…" he mumbles. He’s being such a bother.
"It's okay, little Johnnycake," Mrs. Curtis whispers, using her own special nickname for him. He always did love her flapjacks. "You just rest now, you hear? We've got you."
That's all it takes for him to drift back to sleep.
Four hours later, Johnny sits shivering on the floor of the Curtis family's bathroom in only his underwear, a big bath towel wrapped around his shoulders. The t-shirt and jeans he'd fallen asleep wearing are now balled up on the floor of the tub, along with the bedding he barfed all over.
"M' really sorry," he whimpers for about the dozenth time. "I- I knew I was sick, but I didn't think I was g-gonna be sick, sick..."
It'd happened so fast that he barely even had time to sit up, much less make it out of bed and down the hall. Even worse, in trying to strip the dirtied sheets off the bed, he'd managed to knock a stack of books off the end table and woke pretty much the entire house.
Perched on the edge of the bathtub, Mr. Curtis gives him a wry smile. "Honestly, this is on me and Karen more than you. We've raised three boys—we oughta know to park a bucket by the bed when y'all are feeling lousy by now."
Another wave of nausea sends Johnny scrambling to get back over the bowl. He flinches, hard, when something touches his back.
"Just me, buddy," Mr. Curtis murmurs, resting his hand atop Johnny’s shoulder blades. "It’s okay.”
Tears start to well up in Johnny's eyes, partly from the misery of how sick he feels and partly from shame. Mr. Curtis has never so much as raised his voice at Johnny, much less raised a hand, and yet he still finds himself coiled as tight as a guitar string around him. None of the other guys act like this way around grown-ups—even Steve and Dally, who don’t exactly have it easy at home either. It makes Johnny feel like a freak.
As Johnny starts to gag, Mr. Curtis begins rubbing small, comforting circles across his upper back. "You’re okay, kiddo,” he whispers. “I’m right here, you’re okay. Just get it all up…"
Johnny doesn't have much choice in the matter. He throws up twice more in as many minutes, his muscles clenching painfully with each gag, but that’s not what’s making the tears run down his cheeks. It’s that hand on his back—heavy and calloused, but somehow also the gentlest thing he's ever felt. That's what's making the nine-year-old bawl like a baby.
For Mr. Curtis' part, he doesn't mention the tears. He just sits there, his hand a steady weight on Johnny's back, and keeps murmuring reassurances—that everything's okay, that this will all be over soon, that he’s doing so well. When Johnny’s finally done, he wets a washrag in the sink and crouches back down to wipe the boy's messy face, making him feel about three years old.
From the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, Mr. Curtis retrieves a thermometer. "What do you say we get a read on that temp of yours, huh kiddo?"
Obediently, Johnny lets him slip it under his tongue. Two minutes later Mr. Curtis pulls it back out and holds it up to the light, squinting at the little red line. He lets out a low whistle.
"Is it real bad?" Johnny frets, anxious at the idea of causing his parents another hospital bill. They still haven't let him hear the end of how much he cost them last year when he broke his wrist.
"I'll say." Mr. Curtis holds the thermometer out to show him. "Just over 102."
"Oh." He relaxes a little. "That's not so bad."
Mr. Curtis gives him a look of faux surprise. "Goodness, I didn't realize you'd been to medical school, Dr. Cade!"
Too tired to play along, Johnny just shrugs. Eyes softening, Mr. Curtis gives his shoulder a squeeze.
The bathroom door creaks open and Mrs. Curtis pokes her head in. "Hey, boys," she says softly. "I've got the bed all made up again. How's it going in here?"
"Oh we're doing just fine," her husband replies with more cheerfulness than anyone assisting a puking kid at one a.m. ought to have. Turning to Johnny, he asks, "What do you say, kiddo? Ready to blow this joint?"
Johnny hesitates. Exhausted and achy as he is, the prospect of lying down again on a soft bed wrapped up in blankets is incredibly tempting. Still, he feels pretty gross and the last thing he wants to do is make more work for anyone. "Maybe I better just stay here," he mumbles.
“On the bathroom floor?” Mr. Curtis’ eyebrows raise to his hairline. "That ain't no place to spend the night, son."
Johnny lowers his gaze. “I dunno if I'm done being sick…"
"It's okay, honey." Mrs. Curtis steps closer, crouching down beside Johnny to brush his hair back with her fingertips. "We'll put a trash can by the bed, just in case."
"But—" Johnny starts, then cuts himself off with a shuddery breath. "But what if I miss? And– and you just changed all the covers, so…"
“Then we'll change them again,” she says simply, as if messing up your bed twice in one night were just a normal part of childhood and not something parents generally screamed at you about. "It's okay, Johnny, really. We've got extras."
“Sure wouldn’t be the first time," Mr. Curtis adds. "Glory, a couple years ago Sodapop caught a bug and we burned through three sets of sheets and two sleeping bags! Now that was an eventful weekend, lemme tell ya.”
He says it with a chuckle, like this is some kind of fond family memory for the Curtises. It makes Johnny remember how once when he was real little and wet the bed, he'd pulled the covers off and hidden them in his closet, preferring to lie shivering on a bare mattress for the rest of the week than let his mama know what happened.
"Really, Johnny," Mrs. Curtis insists. "You'll be so much more comfortable there."
Eventually he relents, allowing Mr. Curtis to hoist him shakily to his feet. Meanwhile, Mrs. Curtis gathers up all the laundry from the tub and heads down to the basement to start a load.
“Which one’s yours?” the man asks, gesturing to the impressive collection of toothbrushes filling the two holders screwed into the wall. The whole gang keeps an extra here—Mrs. Curtis insisted after Steve’s last dentist visit revealed five cavities. If they’re going to spend the night here, then at the very least she was going to ensure they had clean teeth for it.
“The green one,” he mumbles, and Mr. Curtis takes it from the rack, adding a squeeze of toothpaste. Johnny’s never been more grateful for Mrs. Curtis’ insistence on hygiene than when he brushes the awful taste from his mouth.
By the time he's finished getting cleaned up and is dressed in fresh pajamas, he’s barely keeping his eyes open. Mr. Curtis lifts him up into his arms and carries him back to the bedroom, tucking him back into Ponyboy’s bed.
“Just rest now, son,” he says as Johnny feels himself dropping off. “We’ve got you.”
“...Mama? Why’s Johnny sleeping so late?”
“Shhh, he’s sick, baby. His body needs the rest.”
“But we were gonna go down to the creek today and catch frogs! And he was gonna help me find a snake, ‘cus Soda an’ Darry don’t like snakes so they never wanna help me find any, but Johnny likes snakes real good, just like me.”
“You'll have to do that another day. Johnny needs to stay in bed.”
“All day?” The seven-year-old sounds appalled.
“Do you remember last winter, when you got the flu?”
“Uh huh. I threw up on the bus home and the kid next to me thought it was so gross he threw up too!”
“That’s right. And do you remember how tired and yucky you felt, and how you just wanted to lay in bed all day with me holding you?”
“Yeah…”
“Well that’s how Johnny’s feeling right now.”
“Oh.” The little boy goes quiet for a moment. “…But then, don’t he want his mama to hold him?”
She hesitates. "Johnny’s mama’s not feeling too good either.”
“Does she have the flu too?”
“…Something like that, baby.”
Johnny's aware, vaguely, of fingers smoothing his hair back off his forehead, then a cool cloth resting on top of his aching brow. Beneath it a single tear slips silently down his cheek, landing against the pillow.
“Why don’t we find something nice and quiet to do while he rests?”
“Like what?"
“Well, maybe you could draw him a picture.”
“I know! I’ll draw him a snake!”
“That’s a good idea, honey. I’m sure he’ll love that."
"And when he wakes up, we can make him soup an' snuggle in bed together and read Hardy Boys!"
"Sounds like a plan."