Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The worst kind of lonely is the kind where you can still hear people laughing without you. Pony always knew he was different. The way he saw things, how people feel. He knew he was rather sensitive than most people. What made it even more strange was that he loves things that were unique. He will give anything just to see if anybody who was like him out in the world.

It started that morning when Darry and Soda were pulling on their sneakers, already full of energy and loud plans. They were still just kids themselves—skinny, scraped-up knees—but they were older than Ponyboy, just enough to make him feel small.

“Can I come?” Ponyboy asked, hope swelling up in his chest like a balloon.

Soda looked at him, all soft-eyed and a little guilty. “Not today, Pony. We’re doin’ big kid stuff. We’ll be right back though, I promise. We’ll play later.”

Pony’s face fell. “But I can—”

“No, Pony, we'll be back” Darry cut in, more bluntly. But then he felt bad how harsh he said it “Sorry Pone. We’ll bring you next time.”

“You’ll just get in the way. If you're comin’. We don’t need any trouble with a tag-along.” Steve shouting outside rudely.

That stung. Worse when Soda didn’t say anything after that, just turned away like maybe it was easier not to look at him.

“C’mon,” Darry said, already heading for the door.

“Leave him. He’s bein’ a baby. Be a good boy, yeah Pony.” Two-bit remarked.

Ponyboy’s stomach twisted. He hated when all the gang talked like that. Like he wasn’t anything but a little kid who didn’t matter.

Soda hesitated—just a second—and looked back at Pony with that same sorry smile. “We’ll be back before lunch, okay?”

Then the door swung shut behind them.

Ponyboy stood there in the hallway, the echo of the door slamming still bouncing off the walls. He ran to the window and pressed his face, pouting, to the glass,standing on his tippy toes while watching them walk down the sidewalk, talking and laughing like he wasn’t even real. Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, he saw Dally and Johnny across the street, heading off with the older boys. Johnny gave a tiny wave when he spotted Ponyboy in the window, Pony thought they said no little kids allowed? Johnny was just a year older than him so why could he go? And Dally just stuffed his hands in his jacket and barked out a laugh, tossing something over his shoulder to Steve.

Pony didn’t wave back. He just stared. He stayed at that window for a long while, even after they were all gone. Then he walked to the front door and sat down beside it, hugging his knees. He didn’t cry—he was too used to being left out to cry over it anymore. But he waited. Waited for the promise Soda made. Waited like maybe they’d come back sooner if he just stayed right there.
Now Ponyboy sat cross-legged right by the front door, his little chin resting in his hands. The late afternoon light slanted across the floor, making stripes that moved every time someone passed outside. He perked up at the sound of distant footsteps—but they faded away again. Not Darry. Not Soda. It was past lunch. Soda lied to him.

Mrs Curtis stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She paused at the sight of him and let out a long, patient sigh. Guess the boys left Pony out again. “Oh colt, come help me with these cookies, would you?”

He didn’t move right away—his eyes were still fixed on the front door, hoping. But he gave a small nod and pushed himself up. “Okay, Mama.”

In the kitchen, the smell of vanilla and warm butter filled the air. She handed him a spoon and pointed at the big mixing bowl. “You stir. I’ll handle the tray.”

Ponyboy stirred, slowly at first, then more confidently. After a moment, he looked up at her. “Can we put on some music?”

She smiled. “Sure, baby.” She walked over to the little radio on the counter and turned the dial until soft Motown and oldies filled the room. The beat was gentle, playful. Almost without thinking, Ponyboy started swaying side to side, his arms wiggling as he moved with the music. His mom turned to see him dancing, and her heart just melted. Lately she noticed how much the pony was getting into music and dancing. He was into anything that was on the radio.

“You’re gettin’ real good at that,” she said with a chuckle.

He smiled shyly, then gave an extra spin before going back to the cookie dough. “Don’t tell anyone,”

“I won’t,” she said, still smiling. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

They worked together quietly for a bit. Pony helped shape the dough, and his mom began laying it out on the tray. Just as she reached for another scoop, Pony stopped and asked, “Mama… am I weird?”

She froze, spoon halfway to the tray. “Weird?” she repeated, turning to look at him. “Why would you think that?”

“Kids at school they talk..,” he said, keeping his eyes on the bowl. “’I like books, music and dancing. And I think too much. That’s what one boy said.”

She set the spoon down and walked over to kneel beside him. She gently lifted his chin so he’d look at her. “Yes, Pony. You are weird.”

His eyes got wide, like maybe she’d just kicked him in the chest.

“But,” she added quickly, brushing a bit of flour off his cheek, “that’s a good thing. The world’s already full of kids tryin’ to be the same. You being different? That’s special. That’s you. And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Pony didn’t answer right away. He twisted his fingers in his apron and looked down. “Is that why Darry and Soda don’t hang out with me that much anymore?”

Her heart ached at that. She pulled him into a soft hug, resting her cheek on his hair.

“No, honey,” she said gently. “They’re just growin’ up. That’s all. Doesn’t mean they love you any less. They’re just… figuring out who they are too.”

“Oh” Pony said unsurely.

Mrs Curtis just smiles at Pony and sighs once more. “Listen my little colt. You are not like your brothers. And that’s not a bad thing — it’s just true. You wear your heart right out where everyone can see it. You feel things deeply, even when it hurts, and you don’t hide it like most people do. That takes a kind of quiet courage. You care — sometimes too much, I know — and when the world gets heavy, you cry. But that’s not a weakness. That’s a sign you have a heart still open to the world, and that’s rare. You see people. You feel for them. That’s empathy, and not everyone has it, though they should. You’re unique, and I know that makes you feel different, maybe even wrong sometimes — but being different isn’t a flaw. It’s a light. And one day, maybe not today, you’ll see just how much the world needs that light. You're perfect, just the way you are.”

Ponyboy was too quiet as he spooned the cookie dough onto the trays. He didn’t hum. He didn’t sway to the music. His little shoulders were stiff, and he pressed each lump of dough down with a kind of careful frustration, like maybe he was trying not to feel anything at all.

Karen watched him for a moment longer, her heart tugging in that quiet way only mothers know. She didn’t say anything about the silence, didn’t ask him what was wrong. She just brushed the flour off her hands and said gently, “Let’s get these cookies in the oven, Colt.”

Ponyboy gave a small nod and helped her slide the tray onto the rack. She closed the oven door with a soft thud and wiped her hands again just as the front door opened.

Then a voice rang out—deep and familiar: “I’m home!”

Pony’s head snapped up. A grin cracked across his face, and he bolted out of the kitchen like a shot. “Daddy!”

Mr Curtis barely had time to take off his jacket before Pony slammed into him with a hug. Chuckling, he scooped Ponyboy up off the floor and lifted him into the air with ease.

“Hey there, Little Colt,” his dad said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You been helpin’ your mama again?”

Pony nodded eagerly, wrapping his arms around his dad’s neck. “Yeah! We made cookies!”

“Mm, I thought I smelled somethin’ good.”

“Where’s Mama?”

Pony pointed back toward the kitchen, and his dad carried him in, ducking under the doorway with a smile.

“Hey honey,” he said, walking up to Karen and planting a quick kiss on her lips.

Pony groaned, scrunching up his face. “Ewwww.”

Mrs Curtis just laughed. “You’re home early, Darrel.”

“They let me off early,” Darrel said, setting Pony down on the counter for a moment as he stretched his back. “Figured I’d surprise you all, Karen.”

“Well,” she said, glancing at the clock, “it’s a good time to show up. We’ve got fresh cookies almost done.”

“Where’re the other two?” he asked, looking around. “Soda and Darry not home yet? It's a little too quiet here.”

“They’re out playing still,” she said, her voice light, but her eyes flicking to Ponyboy.

Pony’s smile dimmed immediately. He swung his legs off the counter and looked down at the floor. “They left without me,” he mumbled. “Again. And Soda said they’d be back at lunch, to play with me. It’s past lunch now.”

His dad’s brow furrowed. He looked over at his wife, confused and quietly concerned. She just smiled softly and leaned in close, whispering into his ear while she rubbed Pony’s back with one hand.

“You gotta do something with him,” she murmured. “He’s feeling pushed aside lately. It’s hurtin’ him more than he knows how to say.”

His dad nodded slowly, eyes still on Ponyboy, understanding dawning in his face. “Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Yeah, I got it.”

Then he turned to Pony and clapped his hands together. “Alright, partner,” he said, voice warm and full of cheer, “how about just you and me do something around while those cookies bake? Maybe even sneak a bite of cookie dough when your mama’s not lookin’.” Making Karen roll her eyes and laugh.

Pony looked up, surprised. “Really? Just us?”

“Just us,” his dad said, reaching out his hand. “Whaddaya say?”

Pony’s eyes lit up again, and he grabbed his dad’s hand without hesitation.

Mrs Curtis watched them go, the smile never leaving her face—though a little sadness lingered in her eyes, too. She was going to have a talk with his brothers about leaving Pony out of everything.

Mr Curtis holding Pony hand walking towards the garage. It smelled like old wood, motor oil, and dust—but to Ponyboy, it always smelled a little like magic too. They were never allowed in the garage without their dad, arrel pushed the creaky door open and let the light spill in before gently guiding Pony inside.

“Alright, bud,” his dad said, ruffling his hair, “have a seat.”

Pony plopped down legs out on the cool concrete floor without asking why. Darrel stepped over to one of the shelves stacked high with boxes and tools, muttering something about “been meanin’ to dig this out.” He pulled down a big, dusty cardboard box, the sides bowed a little from years of sitting still.

He set it right between them and sat down with a soft grunt. The box made a scraping sound against the floor. Then, carefully, he peeled back the top flaps.

Pony leaned in, and his eyes grew wide.

Inside were stacks of old vinyl records, some still in their sleeves with faded cover art. Tucked between them was a sleek little record player, wires neatly wrapped and coiled.

And resting along the side, worn but beautiful, was a acoustic guitar—its strings still intact, its surface full of tiny nicks and stories.

Ponyboy’s whole face lit up. “Whoa! Ha! Look daddy!”

Darrel chuckled, pulling out a record and showing him the cover. “Back in the day, this was all I did after school. Play music. Listen to it. Write dumb songs I never finished.”

“You played guitar?” Pony asked, tilting his head still staring in awe.

“I sure did. That’s actually how I met your mama.” He smiled, a bit distant now. “She was singin’ with her sister at some little school dance in Tulsa. I played backup guitar for the band. First time I saw her, I forgot what song I was playin’.”

Ponyboy grinned and reached for the guitar, his little hands trying to get a grip on the neck. It was heavier than he thought, and it slipped awkwardly in his grip.

Darrel laughed. “Whoa there, cowboy. Lemme help you.”
He gently took the guitar and showed Pony how to hold it right—how the body should rest against his chest, how his hand should curl over the neck.

“Now,” he said, taking Pony’s fingers, “let me show you your first chord.”

He pressed Pony’s fingers down along the frets, firm but gentle, guiding them into place. “This here’s a G chord. Might hurt your fingers at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

Ponyboy strummed gently, and the sound that came out was uneven, but real. He gasped, like he couldn’t believe he had made that sound.

“Whoa,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” his dad said softly, smiling at the look on his face.

“That’s what I said the first time, too.”

They sat there on the garage floor, the light filtering through the dusty windows, For a little while, the world outside didn’t matter. No brothers leaving. No promises broken. Just music, and the hands that helped him play it.

“Ponyboy. Don't worry about you and brothers. You guys will be closer than you realize. Listen baby,” picking up Pony face to look at him gently. “Everytime you feel something. I want you to use music and your dancing to be an outlet. This is a special thing between us, don't tell your brothers ok? Savvy?” he said to Pony, winking at him.

This made Pony giggle clearly excited having a secret between them. “Ok Savvy!”

From the kitchen, they heard her voice calling, cheerful and sweet:

“Cookies are done!”

Ponyboy looked up, eyes wide. His dad grinned. “Perfect timing,” he said, then scooped Pony up into his arms with a playful groan. “Let’s go, Colt. I’m starvin’.”

As they stepped out of the garage and back into the house, the front door banged open. Laughter and the thud of sneakers filled the hallway. The gang had returned—Darry, Soda, Two-Bit, Steve, Johnny, and even Dally, all talking over each other as they tumbled into the living room like a mini tornado.

Pony’s heart gave a quick flutter. He still didn't forgive them. His dad set him down gently as the others peeled off their jackets and dropped onto the couches.

“Go on, kiddo,” his dad said. “Go hang out with your brothers.”

Pony nodded, pouting a little. “Okay.”

But just as he turned, his mom poked her head out of the kitchen, holding a plate piled high with golden cookies. “Take these to them, honey. Make sure to tell them that you made them too.”

Pony carefully took the plate with both hands, the sweet warmth of the cookies rising up to his face like a hug. He walked into the living room slowly, the sound of the TV buzzing in the background.

The gang was all spread out—Soda on the floor, Darry leaning against the arm of the couch, Steve elbowing Two-Bit who was already reaching for a cookie. Johnny gave Pony a soft smile, and even Dally nodded at him in that cool, quiet way of his.

“Hey, Pone,” Darry said, taking a cookie. “You make these?”

Ponyboy nodded. “With Mama.”

“Shoot,” Two-Bit said, already chewing. “You better make ’em every day, kid. These are amazing.”

Pony gave a shy smile, then turned his attention to the television. Ok maybe he forgives them a little.

On the screen, a black-and-white music video played. A young man stood under the spotlight, guitar slung across his hip, hair slicked back, hips moving in a way that made the whole audience scream. Elvis Presley.

The gang hooted and made jokes about the way Elvis danced, but Pony didn’t laugh. He was staring.
It wasn’t just the music. It was how he moved. How everybody looked at him like he was made of lightning. Like he mattered.

Ponyboy stood still in the middle of the room, cookie plate now resting on the coffee table, and for the first time, he felt something new buzz in his chest—like excitement, like purpose, like he was waking up inside.

He leaned a little closer toward the screen, eyes shining.
I wanna be like that, he thought. I wanna make people feel something.

-“And one day, maybe not today, you’ll see just how much the world needs that light.”

And just like that, something small and bright lit up inside him—a spark he didn’t have a name for yet, but one day, maybe, he’d chase it all the way to the end of a page, a stage, a life worth remembering.

Chapter Text

The bass popped. The horns hit. Drums tapped with a bounce in their rhythm, and the whole world seemed to move a little lighter under the afternoon sun. Ponyboy Curtis, age seven, stood nose-to-glass against a massive fish tank outside Mr. Walsh’s Pet Store. Inside the clear blue world, neon tetras darted between silk plants, goldfish with flowing tails circled lazily, and a bubble stream rose like a tiny waterfall. Pony stares into the shimmering world inside the fish tank. All around him, the city feels dull and gray, but in here—in that glass box—it’s alive. The fish are like floating jewels, flashing purples, oranges, and electric blue as they dart in and out of fake coral. Pony’s nose nearly presses against the glass, following one long, ribbon-finned fish that fans its tail like it knows it’s onstage.

He giggles softly. Every movement of the fish seems to sway to a rhythm he can almost hear. “He he he fishy fishy.”

He tilted his head, pretending the fish were dancing to the jazzy beat playing from a street speaker nearby—shoulders bouncing just a little to the rhythm.

But then something shifted.

A new sound swept through the air. Not from the speaker. Not from the cars. Something more alive.

His ears perked. He turned his head—and there it was.

Just across the street was Lenny’s Music Room, its neon sign buzzing gently in the shop window. And right in the center of that window display: a gleaming, candy-red electric guitar, shining like a ruby under the store lights.

He spins toward the door, racing outside with the bell on the shop door jingling of a guy walking in. As he was about to walk in. Some older guy stops him, blocking the door. “Hey. Sorry kid, you ain't allowed here. Unless you got parental vision. No younger than 10 is allowed. Now move along.”

“But-” before Pony could ever get a word out the old man shut the door in front of him. Making Pony upset and pouted.

Pony then went towards the window and climbed up to the window, struggling as he went up staring at the display of all the different instruments. Ponyboy’s mouth dropped open just a little. His feet moved before he told them to, crossing the street with small skips timed to the beat. He reached the sidewalk and placed his palms on the glass, eyes full of wonder.

Inside, a group of older teens were jamming—guitars, drums, keyboard, even a saxophone. Their music didn’t just sound good—it looked like magic to him. Each note that rang out shot through Pony’s imagination as bright streaks of light—purple from the snare, gold from the keys, blue and green from each pluck of a guitar string.

He inches in, silent and awed. The walls are filled with instruments—guitars lined up like soldiers, keyboards glowing, saxophones gleaming in golden lines.

At the back, a group of musicians are gathered in a loose circle, jamming. A woman with curly hair blows a sweet solo on the sax, and a tall man beside her slaps a bass in rhythm. A kid not much older than Soda claps out a beat with drumsticks on the edge of a table.

Pony’s jaw slowly falls open.

And then the magic happens even bigger.

As the beat drops again—colors burst. Not real ones.

Ponyboy ones but it seems real to Pony tho.

Each strum of a guitar flashes teal in his mind.

Each tap of a drum splashes hot yellow on the walls.

The saxophone—oh man, the saxophone—sends up curls of violet mist, swirling like smoke around the players’ heads.

He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

Just stood there—memorized, enchanted—as the music made colors dance across his mind. “Woah ha! Is this what Daddy was talking about? This is so cool!”

There was a display with black velvet lining and glittery stars hanging from threads. At the center of it, like it was waiting for him, stands the electric guitar.

It’s cherry red with a white pickguard and a black strap. The way the sunlight catches on it—it doesn’t just shine, it sings. It's as if it was calling out to him. Like it was meant for him and him only.

Pony leans close, hands and face pressed to the glass, eyes wide as nickels. And then he sees the price tag, written in loopy marker:

$189.99

His shoulders drop.
“That’s like…a billion dollars,” he mutters, pouting once more.

But he doesn’t turn away. Pony just stands there, barely breathing, watching with the wide-eyed wonder of a kid who’s never felt more alive. His hand moves with the beat, fingers twitching like they want to grab a rhythm and never let it go.

FLASH SCENE — BACK AT HOME

“Where’s Pony?” Karen asked suddenly, standing in the doorway with a half-worried, half-weary look. As she wiped her hands on her apron from washing the dishes.
Darry is laid out on the couch, flipping through a textbook for his homework. Soda’s lying on the floor upside down, his head hanging off the couch and legs on the wall watching the TV.

Soda shrugged. “Dunno.”

Darry looked over his shoulder and away from his book. “He was just here.”

Karen gave them both that look. The kind that made them straighten up. “Oh God… Your little brother. He went out without telling anyone again..” she sigh putting her hands on her hips. The kind of sigh that says these boys will be the death of me, but there’s love wrapped all around it.
“Go find him. Now.”

Soda groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Aw, Mom…”

“He’s probably just chasin’ butterflies again,” Darry muttered, grabbing his jacket, going to get him.

“Do we gotta?” Soda was doing a tiny flip still on the couch landing on the ground moving with Darry to go.

“Go,” she said firmly, already reaching for her car keys. “And take the side streets.”

With two big teenage sighs, they headed for the door.

BACK TO PONY

The music has finished, and the band inside the shop laughs and starts chatting. Pony lingers for a second longer, then lets out a dreamy sigh.

Ponyboy finally pulled himself away from the glass.
As he walks away, his hands start to move again. He danced lightly down the sidewalk, tapping his hands on windowsills and newspaper stands like they were drums. Every tap made a color burst in his mind—yellow, red, purple, each one a firework on a different beat.

He drags his fingers along the cold metal of a parking meter—ding—a tiny spark of green. He taps a hollow street sign post—tok tok tok—deep purple rings radiating from the sound in his head.

He slapped the edge of a mailbox—pop!—orange.

Patted the side of a bench—boom!—teal.

Kicked a pebble to the rhythm—tink!—white sparkles.

He laughed to himself and turned his eyes up to the sky. The clouds moved slow and dreamy. He stuck his arms out like wings, spinning once with the tune. Everywhere he walks, he finds rhythm. A stack of crates. A paint can. The slap of his sneaker soles on the sidewalk.

He starts to skip a little. Then he twirls. Then he spins. dancing down the block like the whole world is a concert made just for him. He wonders if anyone else sees what he sees.

He claps out a beat, smacks a fence, taps a bottle cap with his foot. Every sound turns to color—pink, gold, ocean blue—and the sky above shimmers with it. Cars honk like trombones, birds chirp like piano keys, even the rustling leaves keep time with him.

The city may be full of broken things, but right now? Right now, it’s a symphony. As if everything was one big tune it was different but Pony didn't mind it. It was like witnessing music, bouncing off walls.

Ponyboy was mid-tap, slapping a wooden railing like a drum when a sharp voice cut through the afternoon air.

“Ponyboy!” Darry’s tall frame stepped out from behind the corner of the shop, arms crossed tight over his chest.
Startled, Ponyboy froze—fingers still hovering over the next beat.

Soda was right behind, grinning and out of breath. “There he is!”

Darry walked up first, voice low and firm. “You can’t just take off like that. Mom was worried sick.”

Pony lowered his head. “I just wanted to walk around…”

Soda stood beside him, gently tugging at his sleeve. “You should’ve said something, Pony. Next time, lemme come with you.”

Pony looked up, still seeing traces of light dancing from the sounds around them. “Okay… Sorry Soda.”

He reached out and took Darry’s hand without a word, and the three of them walked home. Pony’s small fingers curled around Darry’s strong hand, safe but still buzzing with energy.

Every step echoed with quiet rhythm.

A birdcall flickered orange. A car honked in the distance—blue. Soda’s laugh sparked green and gold in the corner of Pony’s mind. It's as if everything was this beautiful hues of light cascading.

When they got home, the front door barely shut before their mom came rushing from the kitchen, her face tired but kind.

“Pony, Colt—where were you?” she asked, crouching in front of him.

He blinked, then said softly, “I saw some fishy.”

She gave a long sigh, then brushed some hair from his forehead. “You need to ask one of your brothers to go with you next time. Deal?”

“Okay, sorry mama.” he nodded.

“It's alright Colt. Now go on—go sit in the living room, alright?”

Pony shuffled into the living room. Soda and Darry flopped onto the couch, already reaching for the remote. The TV flicked on. Pony sat at the edge of the rug, legs crossed, but after a few minutes, their voices faded into the background.

They were laughing at something, arguing about nothing. He felt distant again.

His eyes drifted toward the hallway… toward the garage door. It's been a while since his dad last allowed him in.
He slipped away.

The garage creaked as he opened it carefully. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight slipping through the window.

He knew they weren’t supposed to be in there without Dad. But something tugged at him.

He tiptoed past the boxes and lawn tools and made his way to the box.

The one with the old records. The one his dad showed him last time.

His fingers brushed against cardboard sleeves—Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, King Oliver, even some early Eddie Lang. He smiled and gently slid one from its sleeve.
The record player clicked. A soft crackle filled the air.

Then the music played—warm, grainy, alive.

Colors began to swirl in his head again. Deep reds, soft yellows, blues like the ocean from the fish tank earlier. It's as if he was memorized by it.

Three songs in, the garage door creaked open behind him.
Pony froze.

A familiar chuckle rolled in. “Thought I might find you here.”

It was Darrel.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here alone,” he said, but there was no bite in his voice.

Pony looked down, sheepish. “I’m sorry daddy… I didn't mean to.”

Darrel walked over, ruffling his hair. “Ah, I’ll let it slide this time.”

He sat down beside Pony on the dusty floor, both of them facing the turntable as the last notes of the record wound down. The room was quiet for a moment except for the soft spin of the vinyl.

Then Darrel looked at him. “You sure do like music, huh?”
Pony smiled big and nodded.

“I did too. Maybe later on I did when I was thirteenth. Not as young as you now but who's counting the years now.”

“Can you teach me?” he asked, pointing toward the old guitar resting in the corner.

His dad blinked, then grinned wider. “Teach you guitar, huh?”

Pony nodded again, eyes shining with hope.

“Well,” his dad said, standing up and cracking his knuckles, “guess it’s about time I passed a few things down, huh?”

He reached for the guitar and brought it over, setting it gently in Pony’s lap.

“First things first,” he said, kneeling beside him. “Let’s talk chords. You already know the G chord from last time so…”
And right there, in the golden glow of a dusty garage, a

song began—not from the record player, but between father and son. A quiet beginning, in the hands of a boy full of sounds.

Chapter Text

Ponyboy sat on the living room floor, his eyes locked on the old radio perched on the windowsill. The early morning sun filtered through the curtains, painting gold streaks across the floor. Static gave way to a clear beat, the warm hum of a soulful tune drifting through the room.

With every bass thump—red.

Each piano key—blue.

A smooth voice sang about love and loss—lavender and gold.

Pony leaned in closer, not blinking. The world faded around him. He waited for the next song to start, fingers twitching with anticipation. Then—pop—a new beat kicked in.

Green.

The colors changed again, swirling in his head like a kaleidoscope only he could see. Ever since the music store and his dad teaching him music. Everything just seems to come to that.

He flipped the dial.

New song. New rhythm. New color. Orange.

Again. Indigo.

Again. Crimson and white.

He was lost in it, deep in his world, until—

Click.

The radio shut off.

Pony blinked and turned his head.

Karen stood behind him, arms crossed but wearing a soft smile. Crooked one brow up.

“Mom!” Pony complained.

“You do your homework, Ponyboy?”

He slouched back, groaning a little. “Yes, ma’am…”

“Did Darry check it?”

“Yes! He did.”

She raised an eyebrow again, but his tone told her he really had. She nodded. “Good. Now come on—breakfast’s on the table. Don’t make me call you twice.”

Pony sighed, dragging himself up like the weight of the whole world was on his ten-year-old shoulders. “Okay…”
She ruffled his hair as he passed her, and together they walked toward the dining room.

Darry and Sodapop were already seated, their plates half-empty. Darry was hunched over a newspaper, occasionally reaching for toast. Soda was mid-laugh about something, fork dancing in his hand like a baton.

Darrel sat at the head of the table, sipping coffee, talking about a busted machine at the shop. “Whole thing blew out halfway through the job. Sparks everywhere—Smitty thought it was fireworks. Nearly tripped over himself trying to shut it off.”

Everyone chuckled.

Pony slid into his seat, reaching for the butter while glancing at his brothers. He still had music bouncing around in his head, like a secret beat only he could hear.
Karen brought over a bowl of eggs and smiled as she sat down. “Eat up, boys. Long day ahead.”

As they all dug in, the room filled with soft chatter and the clink of silverware.

Even though the music was gone from the radio, it still played quietly in Pony’s mind—notes trailing behind every sentence, every sip, every laugh.

He was still watching the colors.

He just didn’t say anything.

After breakfast, everyone started to get up from the table, chairs scooting back and footsteps padding toward different corners of the house.

Karen clapped her hands once. “Alright, dishes don’t clean themselves. Darry, Soda—go get ready. Pony, bring the
dishes over here and help me wash.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pony said, his voice soft but clear.
He stacked the plates carefully—balancing them like they were made of glass—and carried them to the sink, one slow step at a time. His mom was already turning the faucet on, the water warming as steam curled up toward the ceiling.

He handed her the plates, then reached for a dish towel without even being asked.

They worked quietly for a bit, the only sound being the splash of water and the quiet clink of forks in the sink.
Then, as Pony handed her a dripping cup, she glanced at him and said gently, “You know, you could do anything you wanna do.”

Pony looked up at her, blinking. “Yeah?”

She nodded, scrubbing a pan. “I mean it. People accomplish things because they work hard at what they love. Not ’cause someone gave it to them. Not ’cause they were the loudest in the room. But because they stuck with it.”

Pony stood a little straighter, towel hanging loosely in his hands.

Karen turned to him, smiling. “Anything you want to do later on in life.I'm sure it'll make me and your father proud.”

He smiled back. A small one, but it was real.
They finished the dishes like that—quiet, but not silent. Warm, not loud. Ponyboy watching the soap bubbles catch the light, turning into faint rainbows. This made Pony giggle.

A sudden crash of the front door bursting open cut through the peaceful rhythm of dishwashing.

“Anybody home?” Two-Bit’s voice rang out, full of mischief as usual.

“Speak of the devils,” Karen murmured with a smirk, drying her hands.

The gang was back—loud, full of energy, and already talking over each other. Soda’s laugh echoed down the hall as Steve tossed a balled-up napkin at him. Dally trailed behind them all, his usual don’t-care swagger written all over his walk. Johnny was with him, his head slightly down but his eyes bright.

“We’re headin’ to the shopping center,” Darry said as he leaned around the corner. After the talk about leaving Pony out of everything. Darry has been asking Pony to come along now. “You mind if Pony comes? Right mom?”

Pony looked up from the sink, dish towel still in his hand.
Karen glanced at him. “You want to go, sweetheart?”

He nodded. “Kinda.”

She smiled gently, a little tired but never too tired for him. “Go ahead. I’ll finish up in here.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said, nudging him toward the door with a flick of the towel.

Pony handed her the last dish and quickly dried off his hands. He ran to the front, grabbing his jacket and catching up with his brothers and the rest of the gang as they spilled out the door.

They walked in a loose pack along the cracked sidewalk, shoes scuffing and voices bouncing around like a shared secret. The air smelled like sun-warmed pavement and someone’s backyard barbecue. As they walk towards the shopping center. They pointed out the massive house they would like to have one day and dream.

Ponyboy found himself next to Johnny, as usual.

“Y’everthink we'll have a house like that one day?” Johnny asked with a grin.

Pony shrugged. “hm.. I don't know but it'll be tuff. Just imagine it! A big house with a nice car.”

Johnny nodded. “I get that. I want a mustang."

Dally was on Johnny’s other side, hands shoved deep in his pockets, half-listening, half-scanning the streets like he always did. He wasn’t talking much—but he didn’t walk away, either. That was how Dally showed he cared.

Up ahead, Two-Bit was already talking Soda into a ridiculous idea about stealing free samples from the candy shop. Steve was snorting, egging them both on.
The shopping center buzzed with life—people going in and out of stores, kids chasing each other, music spilling from open doors. The Curtis brothers and the gang blended right in, just a bunch of boys with nowhere to be and everything to laugh about.

Two-Bit was the first to start it—grabbing a lollipop from a candy stand when the clerk turned her back. Steve followed with a pack of gum he palmed like it was a magic trick. Dally didn’t bother being sneaky; he just grabbed a can of soda from a vending machine he somehow popped open and walked away like he owned it.
Pony half-scandalized.

“Don’t try it,” Darry muttered to him, catching his look. “You’re too slow to get away with it.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Pony said, raising his hands with a grin.

Soda nudged his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go find something you can win at.”

They ducked into a small arcade tucked between a pizza place and a bookstore. Darry led Pony over to a blinking Pac-Man machine, dropped a coin in, and said, “Watch and learn.”

“This game seems like only old people play,” Pony said, squinting at the screen.

Soda chuckled. “Guess that's why Darry plays it so much.”

“Ha-ha funny little buddy.”

Pony watched intently, then gave it a try. He wasn’t great, but it made him laugh. It was one of those moments that didn’t have to be perfect to matter.

After a while, they headed out again, wandering in no real direction. Ponyboy slowed down when he passed a magazine spinner outside a bookstore. Something on the cover caught his eye—bright blues and oranges, palm trees and murals, open skies and neon signs.

Los Angeles.

He reached for it and flipped through slowly. Each page felt like a door to somewhere new. Art splashed on walls, music festivals under the sun, roller skaters in painted parks. Sculptures, graffiti, clothes that didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen in Oklahoma. And people playing music. Different types of music.

It wasn’t just a city—it looked like freedom… Open minded.

Darry glanced over. “You want it, Pone?”

Pony nodded, Darry was already digging into his pocket knowing that Pony wanted it. “Yeah.”

As they walked, he kept reading, his mind stretching wider with each page.

“Hey, is New York like this?” he asked, showing a picture of a street performer with spray paint and a saxophone.

Dally, walking a few steps behind them, looked up.
“Nah,” he said, shrugging. “New York’s not like that. Well most of it.”

Pony looked back at him. “What’s it like, then?”

Dally’s jaw tightened a little. “It’s noise. Trouble. Fast. You gotta watch your back. That kinda art—” he motioned vaguely at the magazine, “—don’t mean nothin’ if you don’t got money or a name.”

Pony went quiet for a second. He looked back down at the photo. A kid was painting a dragon on a brick wall, smiling like he didn’t care who saw.

Maybe Dally was right. Maybe New York was rough. But he wanted to see just to see a place like LA or New York… A place where people's dreams come true. He needed to. A congregating place for anybody who was a creative. The best artist, musicians made it there, who made a name. At the time Pony didn't think about being an artist. He just knew he loved doing music.

A few days later. The room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the wall clock and the rustle of papers. Pony sat between his parents, legs swinging a little under the too-tall chair, trying to look everywhere but at the teacher’s eyes.

Karen had dressed him up nice—buttoned shirt, combed hair, a reminder to sit up straight and speak clearly. Darrel had one arm resting behind Pony’s chair, his other hand gently drumming on his leg like a quiet rhythm.

Across from them sat Mrs. Halley, Pony’s homeroom teacher. She smiled gently, but her eyes were sharp, like she saw things most people missed.

“Well,” she began, folding her hands. “First, let me just say—your son is bright. Very bright. He’s reading two grade levels ahead of his class. He’s thoughtful, creative, and his essays are some of the most expressive I’ve read from someone his age. especially for a ten year old. I think skipping a grade will be good for him.”

Pony looked down at his shoes, cheeks pinking.

Karen gave his knee a small, proud squeeze. “We’re glad to hear that.”

Mrs. Halley nodded. “He’s got a natural curiosity. And when he’s tuned in, he absorbs information like a sponge.”

“But?” his dad asked, gently.

She exhaled, her smile faltering just a bit. “The only thing we’ve been noticing is… he tends to drift off.”

Pony’s head tilted up a little.

“He stares out the window a lot. He doodles, writes in his notebook, hums under his breath, sometimes taps his pencil to a beat I don’t think the rest of us can hear.” She smiled, kindly now. “It’s like he’s… somewhere else.”

“In his own head?” his mom asked knowingly.

“Yes. Dreamland, I’d call it. Not in a bad way. But we do wish he’d stay a little more grounded. Just so he doesn’t miss out on what’s happening in the room with the other kids.”

Darrel raised an eyebrow. “Is it affecting his grades?”

“No,” she admitted. “Not yet. But socially…”

She paused again, folding her hands.

“He’s quiet. Kind. But we notice that he tends to sit alone. At lunch, in group projects… sometimes even on the playground. It’s not that the other children don’t like him, he just doesn’t reach out. He’s… different.”

“Different how?” his mom asked gently. Pony has always been a quiet kid but different. He was different but she never thought it was a bad thing.

Mrs. Halley smiled, eyes flicking toward Pony. “He sees the world differently. It’s beautiful, in a way. But we just want him to feel comfortable being part of things too. Not just an observer. It's kinda odd.”

Pony shifted in his seat. He didn’t know what to say. He did like being in his head. It was safer there. And brighter. And made more sense than some of the noise around him. But still… he knew she wasn’t wrong. He was odd.

Karen reached over and tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear.

“Thank you,” she said to the teacher. “We’ll talk to him about it. Try to help him find that balance.”

Pony felt his dad’s hand lightly ruffle his hair.

“You hear all that, kiddo?” he said quietly.

Pony nodded. “Yeah.”

“You got a good head on your shoulders,” his mom added, smiling down at him. “We just want you to let people see it sometimes. Don’t be afraid to share your world, baby. Some folks might surprise you.”

Ponyboy looked up at her—at the soft worry in her eyes, the way her words tried to reach the part of him that stayed hidden. He nodded again.

“I’ll try.” but deep inside. He knew they wouldn't get the things he saw inside. They wouldn't get it. His head was something he wanted to escape from the world. A place where his imagination can go run wild. Seeing other ways of creation from people on TV or magazines was just amazing to him. But it felt like people thought he was an odd child. And that crushed his spirit.

Pony didn't know what to do. Or what was he? He felt like an alien that was sent here on earth by mistake.

Chapter Text

The morning started like a song with too many instruments playing at once—offbeat, loud, and somehow still full of love.

Ponyboy sat on the couch, legs swinging, eyes locked on the little radio perched beside him, once again. Darry and Soda started to notice how much Pony loved that dam ratio. But sadly getting a little annoyed by it, They both wonder how their kid brother can stay in front of it for so long.

Each beat that came through the speakers pulsed with color only he could see—gold, blue, and flickers of red blooming like sparks in midair. He tilted his head, trying to make sense of it again, even though he’d seen it a hundred times by now. The music made the world feel softer, slower… even when the house around him was everything but. Ever since the conference with his teacher made him feel less connected with anybody. Was he really that weird? Is that different? Pony continued messing with the radio changing the channels.

“Sit still, Soda!” Karen called sharply, combing back Sodapop’s hair with a firm hand and patience. “Now, if this goes quickly, then we get out quickly.”

“I am still,” Soda protested, flinching as the comb caught a knot. “Ow—Mom, you’re gonna yank my scalp off!”

She gave him a look in the mirror. “If you don’t hold still, you’re gonna go to church lookin’ like a porcupine.”

Meanwhile, Darrell stood in front of Darry, helping him tug the knot in his tie just right. “You’re gonna have to start doin’ this yourself soon,” he said, voice low but warm. “Can’t always wait for your old man to get the collar straight.”

“I know,” Darry mumbled, fidgeting. “Just want it to look right.”

Behind them, Pony sat still and quiet, caught in the space between the music and the colors, until their mom shouted again from across the room, “Soda, where are your shoes?! We are not going barefoot into God’s house!”

“Maybe he likes toes,” Soda mumbled, dashing off to his room before she could swat him.

“This boy-” Karen turned to Pony, her tone instantly softening. “Let’s go, baby. In the car. Pony? Come on baby, you can use the radio when we come back.” she noticed how off Pony was… ever since the conference with his teacher. He has been… Saddened.

Pony looked up from the radio, hesitating only a second before he smiled and reached for her hand. Her palm was warm and steady. He gave one last glance to the little radio, then stood up and walked with her to the front door.

Darrell was already holding it open, standing tall and surveying them like a general doing a headcount before marching into battle. “Alright, that’s one, two, three—where’s Soda?”

“Here!” Soda called, hopping out the hallway on one foot as he pulled on his shoe.

Darrell shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Alright then. Let’s go give thanks.”

They all piled into the car, the boys shuffling into the backseat like it was a game of musical chairs. Pony ended up in the middle, squished between Soda’s bouncing leg and Darry’s sharp elbow. The windows were rolled down halfway, letting in the late morning breeze that smelled like sunlight and pavement.

Soda was poking Darry in the ribs, snickering about something dumb, while Darry pretended not to care—even though he was smiling and elbowed him back a second later. Pony tried to lean forward to see out the window, chin almost resting on the back of the front seat, but kept getting jostled every time one of them moved. He didn’t say anything—just scrunched his nose and kept blinking toward the sky.

Darrell was already chuckling up front, one hand on the wheel and the other casually draped across the back of their mom’s seat. “Boys,” he said through a grin, “Quit wrestling in church clothes. “

“He started it,” Darry muttered.

“No I didn't,” Soda said, smirking.

“You're such a liar Pepsi-Cola.” Darry smiles back.

Karen twisted around, eyebrows raised like they were knives. “You’re gonna wrinkle everything before we even get there.”

Then she turned to Darrell and gave him one of those looks—the kind that said you better do something before I do.

He let out a soft, dramatic sigh like the weight of parenting was just too heavy. “Alright, alright. Let’s try something else.” He reached forward, flicked the radio on with a soft click, and adjusted the dial. Then he glanced up at the rearview mirror—straight at Pony.

“Hey, Colt,” he said, giving him that smile. The kind that wrapped around the edges like it belonged to a man who still remembered every one of Pony’s baby laughs. “Let’s see what kinda music today’s drivin’ us toward, huh?”

Pony didn’t say anything at first—just smiled back. But that was enough. Because the moment the music poured out through the speakers, soft and soulful with a low thumping rhythm, the world got a little quieter inside him.
The colors started to rise again, floating gently behind his eyes like paint in water.

He leaned back into the seat, while Soda leaned on Pony's shoulder lightly, talking to Darry about unnecessary things but getting a kick out of it anyways. His gaze stayed locked on the radio, chest warm, head full of melody.

The truck rolled to a stop on the gravel lot, the morning sun bouncing off the church windows. Darrell shut the engine off and turned to count heads before anyone had even opened a door.

“All right—everybody out,” he said, giving Karen a quick smile before climbing out himself.

Soda and Darry were the first ones down, shoving at each other like it was a race to the church steps. Pony slid off the seat slower, going over where his mom is and focusing on opening the truck door for her. His small fingers slipping into his mom’s hand as she stepped down beside him.

As they all started heading to the church Darrell was already there, swinging the door open for his wife like it was second nature. Karen gave him a quick peck on the cheek and said thank you. Pulling Pony in. Darrell then bent low, his voice warm but firm: “You two—cut the horseplay. Inside now.”

Darry rolled his eyes, Soda smirked, but they went. Karen just shook her head and made her way down the aisle, choosing a pew about halfway up. Everyone settled, the wooden bench groaning under shifting weight. Soda bounced his knee. Darry folded his arms, still pretending he wasn’t trying to keep Soda in line.

Pony sat quiet, his gaze drifting between the pastor and the tall windows where light streamed in.

The sermon went on in the steady rhythm of church talk, until a certain line cut through the haze of Pony’s daydreams. Pony really couldn’t care less. He just couldn’t wait until he got back home to mess around with the radio some more. Then something caught his little ears.

“…you are alive, well, and not forgotten. This world may tell you it’s only black and white, but that’s for those who close their minds. Some of you carry gifts—strange things others may never understand. It may feel heavy, like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders. But trust me—God gave each of us the ability to create, to pursue. To see beyond. Clear your mind, and you’ll find freedom in expression. Tell me… what can you see?”

The words lingered. Pony’s heart gave a thump, his breath slowing. He looked past the pastor, out the sunlit windows.

And there they were.

Colors. Not just red or blue, but rivers of them. Gold bursting into violet, emerald streaming into fire-orange, all swirling together in a quiet, endless dance. They moved with a rhythm no one else seemed to hear.

He blinked, half-afraid the spell would break. But it didn’t. The colors stayed, folding into one another, painting the sky with a secret only he could see.

By the time the sermon wound down, everyone stood to sing, pray, and greet neighbors. Pony’s chest still buzzed with the pastor’s question.

What can you see?

Soon enough, the smell of fried chicken and biscuits drew the congregation toward the kitchen, the Curtis family among them. Soda was already whispering about pie, Darry pretending not to care but following anyway.

Pony trailed behind, his stomach growling—but his mind still far off, chasing colors that no hymn or prayer could explain.

The smell of fried chicken and cornbread filled the hall as families lined up for food. Pony’s parents steered him gently forward.

“Go on and eat first,” his Karen, smoothing his hair back. “Afterward you boys can play.”

Soda didn’t need to be told twice—he shot off toward the serving tables, already piling a plate high with whatever he could reach.

She sighed. “Darry, keep an eye on your brothers, would you?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Darry said, catching Pony’s hand before he could wander. He tugged him along toward the table, reaching for two plates. “C’mon, Pone. Let’s load up.”

Pony went with him, still half lost in the kaleidoscope of colors he’d seen in church, his mind replaying it over and over like music that wouldn’t end.

Their parents stood back, watching the three boys. Soda already cracking jokes with a couple of kids, Darry acting like a second father, and Pony quiet—eyes always somewhere else.

Darrell's smile softened, then faded as he leaned closer to his wife. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he murmured.

She glanced at him sharply. “What’s wrong Darrell?”

“Nothing bad,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just… a dream I had.” His voice lowered, reverent almost. “Pony was lifted up. Suspended in the air—way up, among the stars. Like the world had chosen him. Like he’d been given something special.”

His wife’s expression softened, though her brows knit. He went on, a rough edge of awe in his voice:

“That boy’s got a gift. More than me at his age, even when I played guitar. But you know what they say—‘to whom much is given, much is required.’” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think… maybe he needs to be pushed. A grade above. More challenge. Something to stretch him.”

She looked down at the floor, her hands clasped, then back up at their son—small and quiet beside Darry, his plate only half full compared to Soda’s mountain.
Finally, she nodded. “You’re right. He’s different. Always has been.”

For a long moment, they both just stood watching the boys—Soda laughing with food in his mouth, Darry steady and responsible, and Pony with that faraway look in his eyes, as if he was hearing something no one else could.

“How,” she whispered, almost to herself, “did we raise such an interesting boy?”

Their dad just smiled faintly, eyes lingering on Pony. “Maybe he’s raising us, too… I think I know what to do Karen.”

Karen then looked back up at her husband with an eyebrow raised up “This better not be what I think it is…you know how much I dislike loud noise.”

Darrell just smiled.

***

The garage smelled faintly of oil and sawdust, the afternoon sun slipping through the cracked window. Pony sat cross-legged on the workbench, swinging his legs while Darrell leaned against the counter with that mischievous grin that always meant something good was coming.

“Alright, colt,” Darrell said, clapping his hands together. “Cover your eyes. No peeking.”

Ponyboy laughed, already grinning wide, and threw his small hands over his face. “I won’t peek, promise!”

“You better not,” he chuckled at Pony being cute, carefully lifting something from under a tarp. He set it gently across Pony’s lap, the weight of it settling there with a soft metallic clink.

“Okay,” Darrell said, lowering his voice dramatically, “count of three. One… two… three!”

Pony ripped his hands away and his jaw dropped. Resting across his knees was a shiny snare drum, its chrome rims catching the sunlight. His eyes went wide as saucers, sparkling with excitement.

“Whoa…” he breathed. His fingers hovered, then tapped the surface gently, almost afraid it might vanish. He looked up at his dad, grinning ear to ear. “Thank you!”

Darrell ruffled his hair, the pride in his eyes shining just as bright as the drum. “Hey, listen, colt. Me and your mom talked things over. We’ve decided to put you a grade up. Middle school now—right there with your brothers. Well actually your brothers are about to go to high school… Well at least you're in middle school.”

Pony blinked, still half-dazed by the drum. “Middle school?”

“That’s right.” His dad leaned closer, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “And when you go back to school… I think you ought to take music.”

Pony tilted his head, still confused. “Music? Like… real class music?”

His dad smiled, gentle and sure. “Music, Ponyboy. You’ve already got the ear for it. Time you started learning the rest.”

Pony glanced down at the drum again, then back up, his chest tight with excitement he didn’t have words for. Music.

Darrell was the one who started this path for Pony. If only he could've seen him later on. He would've been so proud.

Chapter Text

The morning air was cool and sharp when Ponyboy stepped off the bus, the strap of his snare drum pressing into his shoulder. His mom had combed his hair that morning, slicking it down with just enough water to keep it from sticking up, but by now it had already started to curl again over his forehead. The school loomed ahead—taller than the one he was used to, with big glass windows that caught the sun and reflected it like a sea of light.

His shoes squeaked as he walked across the hall floors, holding his drum like it was made of gold. Every sound echoed—the chatter of other kids, the hum of lockers shutting, sneakers squealing on the waxed tiles. Pony felt smaller than he’d ever felt before. The other kids were taller, louder, laughing with that easy confidence that comes when you already belong somewhere. Pony didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere just yet.

He adjusted his grip on the drum and followed the signs down the hallway, his heart thumping harder with every step. Somewhere ahead, past the line of classrooms and the noise of early morning chatter, he heard something faint and strange—music.

It started soft, a rhythm pulsing through the wall like a heartbeat. Then came the warm blend of horns, the shimmer of cymbals, the deep hum of bass notes that made his chest tremble. Pony stopped walking and just listened. There was something in it—something alive.

He turned toward the sound and followed it like a moth to light, his small shoes tapping quietly against the tile. The music got louder the closer he got until he was standing in front of a door marked Band Room. He hesitated, gripping the drum tighter.

The music on the other side wasn’t just sound—it was color. He could see it. Gold notes rising and spiraling like smoke, violet rhythms pulsing through the cracks of the door, deep blues rolling low and heavy beneath it all. It called to him.

Without thinking, he reached out and pushed the door open.

The explosion of sound hit him like sunlight through a storm. Pony flinched, then stood frozen in the doorway. Inside, thirty or so kids played their instruments in a swell of brass, woodwinds, and percussion. The band director, a tall man with kind eyes and a few silver streaks in his hair, waved his baton in graceful arcs, drawing the sound higher, fuller.

The room felt alive. Trumpets blazed gold, flutes shimmered like silver mist, and the drums pounded red and orange. Pony’s eyes widened as he watched, the colors flooding the air around him. It wasn’t just music—it was magic.

He took a few steps inside, slow, like he might scare it away if he moved too fast. His drum still dangled from his hand, forgotten. He could see the energy from every note swirling together, painting the air with life. His heart was racing, but he wasn’t afraid. He felt like he was watching something he was meant to see.

Then the band stopped. The silence was almost shocking.

“All right, that’s enough—hold it there!” said the band director, lowering his baton. He turned to the door, eyes landing on Ponyboy. “Well now—who do we have here?”

A few students turned to look. Pony’s face went red. He swallowed hard.

“I—uh—my name’s Ponyboy. Ponyboy Curtis,” he managed, his voice small.

Recognition crossed the teacher’s face, and his tone softened. “Ah, the new student. We’ve been waiting for you. You skipped a grade didn't you?”

He turned back to the class with a small smile. “Everyone, this is Ponyboy Curtis. He’ll be joining us this semester, so I expect all of you to show him the ropes.”

A few kids gave him polite waves, others nodded. Ponyboy gave a shy smile in return, clutching his drum like a lifeline.

“Tell you what,” said the director, stepping closer. “Why don’t you just sit in today? Watch how things work. Tomorrow, we’ll get you playing.”

“Yes, sir,” Ponyboy said quietly.

He made his way to an empty chair near the back beside two boys around his age—one playing the trumpet, the other the snare. They scooted over to make room. Pony sat, setting his own drum down beside him, and took in the room again.

When the director raised his baton, the world seemed to wake up.

The music started again, soft at first, then building—layer after layer of sound blending into something bigger than all of them. The trumpets flared like morning sunlight. The clarinets rippled silver. The drums thudded deep and sure, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.

Pony’s eyes widened. The colors were back—stronger this time, dancing through the air in waves. He could see the rhythm, feel it in his fingertips, his chest, his very bones. Every note carried light, every beat painted something new in the air.

He leaned forward without realizing it, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the musicians. The world outside the music room, the halls, the school, even Tulsa itself–felt far away.

The band director glanced at him once, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He could tell Pony wasn’t just listening–he was feeling it.

As the final note hung in the air, fading into a soft hush, Ponyboy sat back slowly, his heart still thumping to the rhythm that lingered in his head. The kids began to chatter again, packing up their instruments, but Pony just sat there–eyes bright, smile soft, his world quietly changed.

He didn’t know what to call it, this thing that made him see colors in sound, or why music seemed to speak a language only he understood. But he knew one thing for sure:

He didn’t want this class to end.

He didn’t want this feeling to end.

But sadly the bell rang softly over the intercom, signaling the end of class. The room erupted into the usual shuffle of laughter, chatter, and clattering instrument cases. Trumpets were tucked into velvet boxes, reeds were wiped and stored, and drumsticks rolled across the tables as students packed up to head home.

Ponyboy lingered near his chair, still caught in the afterglow of sound. The echoes of the last song hung in his head, faint but alive, the colors still drifting behind his eyes. He held his snare drum close to his chest like something sacred.

“Curtis,” said a voice. Pony looked up to see his band teacher standing near the conductor’s stand, waving him over. “You got a minute?”

The other kids filed out, tossing friendly goodbyes over their shoulders. Pony nodded, his curls bouncing a little as he walked up to the front. He tried not to fidget, but he couldn’t help tapping the rim of his drum with his finger—just a light, restless rhythm.

The teacher smiled at that small, unconscious beat. “So,” he said, leaning back against the piano. “How’d your first day feel?”

Pony’s whole face lit up. His eyes sparkled the way they always did when something deep inside him came alive. “It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said breathlessly. “And heard. It was like…” He hesitated, his hands fluttering for the right words. “Like the music was painting something in the air. It’s everywhere, sir. It’s like—colors.”

The teacher blinked, a bit taken aback, but smiled. “Colors, huh? That’s an interesting way to put it.”

Pony shifted his drum under his arm, then looked down for a second before glancing up again, voice smaller now. “Sir, do you—do you think you could teach me? Not just drums. I mean… all of it. Every instrument you know. I want to understand how they talk—how they sound, how they feel. I want to know what makes them say things.”

The room went still.

For a long moment, the teacher just looked at him—this small boy with wide, stormy gray-green-colored eyes and a heart that clearly beat in rhythm with something bigger than the world around him. He’d seen kids excited about music before, but never like this. Never someone who saw it. This kid lived in it… What a strange kid… 

Finally, the teacher’s expression softened. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Pony nodded, earnest and trembling with quiet excitement. “Yes, sir. I want to learn everything.”

A slow, warm smile spread across the teacher’s face. “You’ve got something special, kid,” he said gently. “And I’ll tell you what—I’ll teach you everything I know. Every last bit of it.”

Pony’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “You will?”

“Of course,” the teacher said, chuckling. 

For a second, Pony couldn’t even breathe. His eyes went wide, shimmering like sunlight on water. Then he grinned—so big, so unguarded—that it almost made the teacher laugh.

“Really? You’ll teach me?” Pony asked, almost whispering.

The teacher nodded. “Really. But it’s going to take patience and practice. Think you can handle that?”

Pony’s head bobbed up and down so fast it made his curls bounce again. “Yes, sir! I’ll do it—I’ll practice every day! I promise!”

The teacher chuckled softly, watching the boy practically glow with excitement. “Something tells me you will.”

Ponyboy’s smile lingered even as he turned to leave, his drum still cradled in his arms. He walked out of the band room that day lighter than air, every step humming with rhythm, every heartbeat echoing the promise of something new.

Ponyboy had never been this excited to go to school. Every morning, he’d wake up before anyone else, the sunrise barely breaking through his curtains, and already he’d be humming a tune under his breath. He used to drag his feet out the door, half-asleep and wishing the day would go faster—but now, he was the first one ready, the one telling Soda and Darry to hurry up.

Band class had become his favorite part of the day—his world. Every time he stepped into that room, the sounds, the colors, the rhythm—it all came rushing back like a secret language only he could hear. His teacher noticed it, his classmates noticed it, and soon enough, his family did too.

At home, the change was impossible to miss. Pony was lighter, brighter. He smiled more, laughed more. Karen often found him in the garage after school, the door open to let in the warm breeze, his head bent over an instrument—the trumpet his teacher loaned him, or sometimes the old guitar his dad used to play. Notes drifted through the air, soft and shaky at first, then stronger, more confident.

His parents loved watching him. Sometimes Karen would lean against the doorway, a towel in her hands from drying dishes, just smiling quietly while Pony tried to master a new song. Darrel would come in later, tapping the beat against his leg, pride written all over his face.

It didn’t take long for the garage to start filling up with music sheets, pencil-marked notebooks, and a pile of borrowed records from Pony’s teacher. He spent hours reading through library books about music theory and composers, tracing his fingers along the notes like they were stories instead of sounds.

Before long, the living room was just as cluttered—pages everywhere, sketches of chords and lyrics scribbled in messy handwriting, his snare drum sitting beside the couch, and an open violin case on the floor.

The gang noticed, too.

When they came over, they’d trip over stacks of sheet music or find Pony sitting cross-legged on the floor, tapping out rhythms on the coffee table. Steve and Dally groaned about it the most—

“Man, can’t you not pick up your crap for five minutes?” Steve complained once, tossing himself onto the couch.

Pony just rolled his eyes pouting. “Hmph.”

None of them really knew what Pony was working toward—not yet. They just figured it was another one of his daydreams, something weird and creative that only Ponyboy would come up with.

But his parents knew. They saw the fire in him.

Every time he came home from band class, he’d have something new to show—some rhythm he’d learned, a page of music he was proud of, a new word he’d picked up from his teacher. He’d run up to Darrel, trumpet in hand, and say, “Listen, listen! I can play this one now!”

Darrel always listened. Always smiled. Always said, “Play it again, colt.”

Then one afternoon, during band class, his teacher looked at Pony thoughtfully and asked, “You ever tried singing?”

Pony blinked. “Singing?”

“Yeah,” the teacher said. “You’ve got a musical ear. Sometimes it’s good to know your own voice.”

Pony fidgeted, unsure. “I—I don’t think I can sing.”

His teacher smiled gently. “Maybe not yet. But you never really know until you try.”

Pony hesitated, opened his mouth—and froze. Nothing came out. He flushed and looked down, gripping his violin bow tight.

“It’s all right,” the teacher said kindly. “You’ve got time. Sometimes it takes a while to find your sound.”

Pony nodded, quiet but thoughtful.

Over the next few weeks, he tried to learn everything he could—watching his classmates play, asking questions, trying out new instruments whenever someone let him. A few of the kids showed him tricks on the piano, others let him pluck a few strings on their violin. His hands were always busy; his mind was always buzzing with melody. He finally knew where he belonged. 

Inside, though, his heart was pounding—half from fear, half from the kind of excitement that made his whole world light up in color.

Every day after school, Pony disappeared into the garage. That place had become his own little world—a space filled with scattered sheet music, old instruments, pencils worn to nubs, and a notebook overflowing with half-finished songs. He’d sit there for hours, tapping his pencil against the edge of his drum or plucking at a guitar string, chasing something new.

He didn’t just want to play music—he wanted to create it.

Every sound that came out of him was an experiment.

He’d mix rhythms that didn’t belong together, play with strange chords, hum tunes that sounded half-familiar and half like something futuristic. Sometimes it was a mess—offbeat and clumsy—but when it worked… It felt like magic.

“It’s like the guy who first mixed peanut butter and jelly,” Pony once said to himself, grinning. “Weird idea… but it worked.”

And when it did, when the notes finally clicked together into something that sounded right, he’d laugh out loud, hit replay, and listen again and again, like he couldn’t believe he made that sound.

Pony liked that.

The freedom of it. The discovery. The way it made the world look softer and more colorful, like music bled into everything he saw.

***

Years passed, and before he knew it, 13 years old, Pony was walking through the halls of high school—older now, quieter, but still with that same flicker inside him. His love for music hadn’t faded; it had only grown. The songs in his head were more complicated now, filled with rhythm and color and movement.

But no one knew.

He kept it hidden—every melody, every lyric, every late-night session with his guitar in the garage. To everyone else, he was just Ponyboy Curtis: the youngest Curtis brother, the quiet one, the dreamer who read too much.

He’d pass by the band room sometimes, hearing the familiar hum of instruments and laughter spilling out into the hallway. The sound tugged at him, made him stop every time. Through the small window in the door, he could see kids tuning their trumpet, flutes gleaming under the fluorescent lights, the teacher waving his hands in rhythm.

For a second, Pony would almost open the door.

Almost.

But then he’d remember who he was outside of that room.

Darry was a football star, strong, confident, the kind of guy everyone looked up to. Soda was charming, funny, the kid everybody liked even when he messed up. Pony? He was the small one, the quiet one, the one who never quite fit anywhere. He envies his brothers… Why couldn’t he be bigger like them? Why did he have to be the loser of the brothers?

It already stung enough being compared to them all the time.

He didn’t need another reason for people to look at him funny.

“Band kid” wasn’t something he thought the gang would understand. Dally would probably laugh. Steve would make jokes. Two-Bit might tease him for a week straight. Even Johnny, kind as he was, might not get it.

Not to mention having to perform during the half show while his brother plays football. He didn’t need to give Darry a reason to be embarrassed by his kid brother. So he'll just stay away even if it means giving up something he loved. 

So Pony kept walking.

He didn’t join the band. He didn’t talk about his songs or show anyone the stacks of sheet music under his bed. He didn’t tell anyone about the melodies that came to him in dreams or the way he could see sound—how every note shimmered in his head like light. His dad try once in a while but Pony always rejected him. Saying he was just busy studying. And he got into reading again instead. But they both know he was lying. Darrel saw Pony always going into the garage when he thought he was alone. This made him feel sad. 

Pony deep down, he still wanted more.

More than just blending in.

More than playing it safe.

More than being another Curtis boy following the same script.

He wanted something bigger—something he could show others… The beauty of this world and what it can be. It was very normalville, USA. No music industry, no artist industry. Just people working 9 to 5. Or kids enjoying having booze or rumbles or just fighting in general. Pony couldn't relate to it. 

Summer was only a couple months away, and everything felt light for once. Darry had just graduated early—top of his class, full scholarship to college—and their parents couldn’t have been prouder. The house buzzed with excitement and noise, with Soda sneaking icing from the cake bowl and Pony trying to keep Darry from seeing the banner they made for his birthday. It was supposed to be one of those perfect Curtis days—full of laughter, teasing, and plans for the future.

That afternoon, Pony had gone to the library to return some music books. As he was leaving, his mom called out from the porch,

“Pony, honey, can you grab some candles for the cake on your way back? I forgot to get them!”

He waved a hand without looking back, “Sure thing, Mom!”

But the day was beautiful—sky glowing gold, air thick with heat—and by the time he walked home, his head was full of melodies and daydreams, not candles.

The second he opened the front door, chaos swallowed him whole. Soda was taping up decorations that kept falling down. Two-Bit was tossing streamers at the ceiling. Steve was joking about eating the cake early. Pony forgot everything as he laughed and tried to help.

Hours passed before he remembered. “Oh—Mom, the candles—”

But Karen only smiled, brushing the flour from her apron. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Me and your father will just run out and get them real quick. We’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“Promise?” he teased lightly.

She kissed the top of his head. “Promise. Where is that smile I love?”

Pony smiled gently. They left together—Karen humming, Darrel jingling the truck keys. The sound of the door closing behind them was so ordinary.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then forty-five.

The laughter in the living room dulled. Soda leaned against the wall, chewing his lip, glancing toward the window every few minutes. “Maybe they stopped for gas or somethin’,” he said, voice tight but pretending.

“Yeah,” Darry muttered, but his jaw was locked. He kept looking at the clock, tapping his foot, trying to steady himself.

Pony couldn’t shake it. The unease. The strange, crawling silence that filled every space between their words. He tried reading, but the letters swam. Tried listening to the radio, but all the colors he used to see were gone. The music felt flat, lifeless. He didn't know why… Was something about to go wrong? 

When the knock came, it was quiet—soft, but final.

Darry answered. Pony’s stomach twisted just from the look on the man’s face—the police officer on the porch, hat in his hands, voice trembling like he didn’t want to speak.

“Are you the Curtis family?”

“Yes, sir,” Darry said carefully, though his voice cracked halfway.

The officer took a breath. “Son… I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident. Your parents were in an auto wreck. They… they are deceased.”

The words hung there like ash.

Darry didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Soda’s face went pale, then broke—he stumbled back against the wall, a sound tearing from him that didn’t sound human. He crumpled to the floor, gasping, his hands shaking.

Two-Bit stood frozen, hat in his hands. Steve stared at the ground, his face blank, lips pressed tight. Johnny’s eyes were glossy. Dally didn't look devastated but his eyes seemed sadder…disappointed. 

But Pony—Pony didn’t feel anything.

He just stood there, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. The room tilted. The light in the window flickered. He waited for someone to laugh, to say it was a mistake, that it was somebody else’s parents.

It couldn’t be them.

Not his parents. His parents were still alive. In fact they're coming right after this…. Right? 

Not the way his dad’s hand rested heavy on his shoulder whenever he played guitar. Them listening to the old recorder his dad has. 

Not the way his mom hummed while cooking, her voice carrying through the house like warmth itself.

Not their smiles, not their laughter, not the way they made everything—every single thing—feel okay.

But the look on the officer’s face told him it was true. He should've played for them one last time. He should’ve rejected his dad when he wanted Pony to play. What was this feeling… He was sad yes but he felt something else he just doesn't know what it is. 

Darry finally muttered, “Thank you… for telling us,” and shut the door with a trembling hand.

The silence afterward was unbearable.

Soda’s sobs filled it—broken, desperate sounds that made Pony’s throat ache. Darry just stood there, staring at nothing, eyes glassy but refusing to cry. He had to be strong. He had to.

Pony wanted to speak, to ask if maybe the officer was wrong, but his voice wouldn’t work. His chest burned, his hands shook, his breath hitched but no tears came. He just stared at the floor, the confetti scattered there, the half-decorated banner, the uneaten cake.

It all looked wrong.

His parents weren’t supposed to be gone. They were supposed to come back. They were supposed to light the candles—the candles he forgot.

And suddenly that was all he could think about.

He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten, and now they were dead.

If he’d just remembered—if he’d just done what his mom asked—maybe they’d still be alive. Maybe they’d still be laughing. Maybe his dad would still be teasing Soda for sneaking frosting. Maybe his mom would still be singing softly in the kitchen.

But instead, they were gone.

Because of him.

The guilt settled in his chest like a stone. Heavy. Cold. Permanent.

The music inside his head—the colors, the sounds, the beauty—was gone. Everything was gray now. Every beat was hollow. Every sound was just noise.

Darry sat down heavily, face buried in his hands. Soda clung to him, crying so hard his words came out as gasps. Pony just stood there, motionless no… He was numb, watching them, feeling like he didn’t belong in his own house anymore. Did he ever?... 

Outside, the summer air was still warm, still bright. But inside, everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

And in that silence, Pony realized for the first time how fragile everything was.

How quickly life could go from music to silence.

From color to gray.

From love… to loss.

And as he looked at the half-decorated banner that read “Happy Birthday, Darry,” Pony felt his heart break all over again. Oh God Pony wanted to puke. 

This was his fault. 

***

Pony didn’t talk much anymore. He didn’t cry either—not like Soda did, not like Darry tried not to. He just… went quiet. It was as if someone had turned the volume down on life. The house, once filled with warmth and laughter and the hum of his mom’s voice, felt hollow now. Every corner echoed. Every room smelled faintly like them, and that made it worse.

He went through the motions—waking up, eating when Soda begged him to, pretending to read—but he was somewhere else entirely. Inside, everything was gray. The music that used to fill his head had stopped. Even when the radio played, he couldn’t see the colors anymore. Just static.

School wasn’t much better. The halls were filled with voices and footsteps and the scrape of lockers, but it all sounded distant, muffled, like he was walking through a dream. The faces of teachers and classmates blurred together. They whispered sometimes—about the accident, about him—but Pony didn’t care. He couldn’t.

Soda cried more than anyone. He tried to hide it, tried to keep smiling for Pony’s sake, but Pony heard him some nights—muffled sobs from the next room, quiet enough to almost pretend they weren’t there. Darry didn’t cry at all. He couldn’t afford to. Between the paperwork, the court hearings, and the endless visits from social workers, he didn’t have time to fall apart.

When Darry finally won custody, there was relief—but it came with a heavy kind of silence. They’d done it. They could stay together. But everything felt different. The laughter at breakfast. The way Darry said goodnight. The way Soda tried so hard to keep things normal.

The gang did what they could. Two-Bit dropped by with stupid jokes and cold soda bottles. Steve kept the cars running so Darry wouldn’t have to worry about repairs. Johnny sat on the porch with Pony sometimes, not talking, just sitting. They didn’t need words. They were both good at quiet.

But Dally… Dally disappeared for a while.

He’d been thrown into the cooler not long after the funeral—too many fights, too much anger, nowhere to put it. Maybe that was his way of grieving. When he finally got out, he showed up at the Curtis house one night like nothing had happened, lighting a cigarette by the porch and kicking the railing.

He didn’t say much—just leaned there, watching Pony through the screen door.

“You look like hell, kid,” he muttered eventually.

Pony looked at Dally.“I do?”

Dally didn’t push it. But he hated how Pony eyes looked. He just jerked his head toward the street. “C’mon. You, me, and Johnny. We’re goin’ somewhere.”

That “somewhere” turned out to be a horse farm on the edge of town. The owner owed Dally a favor, let him muck stalls and mend fences for a bit so he wouldn’t land back in the cooler. Pony didn’t mind. The quiet helped. The smell of hay, the soft noises of the horses—it was peaceful in a way that didn’t make him feel trapped.

Johnny liked it too. He laughed more out there. And when Dally got too rough, too fast, Pony and Johnny just watched the sky together. Out there, for the first time in months, Pony felt something like calm. He still wasn’t happy—but at least he was breathing.

When they came back home, Dally started showing up more often. He’d hang around the house, teasing Soda, arguing with Darry, stealing cookies from the kitchen. Sometimes, late at night, he’d ask Pony if he still write those stupid diary notes. Pony would just shake his head. “Not anymore.” Dally never pushed it—but his eyes said he wished he would.

Things started to mend, slowly. Darry got used to being both a brother and a parent. Soda’s smile began to look real again. Pony even caught himself laughing once or twice. It wasn’t the same as before, but it was something.

Four months passed. Summer turned into the beginning of fall.

One cool night, Pony was walking home from the movies alone, his mind wandering as always. He’d seen some picture about city kids chasing dreams, and it stuck with him. For a little while. He passed the music shop, before he continued, he stopped at the window, he didn't need to climb up the window to see it. Everything was the same, people still trying out new instruments to buy people talking. But we caught him was, the cherry red guitar was still there. Even now he was amazed by it because he wanted so badly to play it. He could’ve went inside. In fact he was old enough now. but something stopped him. He could almost hear the colors again—soft blue notes in the air. But just continued walking, throwing his red ball onto the ground while bouncing back up and catching it. 

Pony could have waited for Darry or Sodapop to get off work before going to the movies. They would’ve gone with him, or at least driven him there, or walked beside him. But Soda could never sit still long enough to enjoy a movie, and Darry found them boring—said his own life was enough drama without watching someone else’s.

He could have asked one of the gang to come along, too. There were four boys he, Darry, and Soda had grown up with, boys who were closer than friends—family, almost. That’s how it went when you were raised in a tight-knit neighborhood like theirs; you learned everything about everyone.

If he’d thought about it, he could’ve called Darry, who would’ve swung by on his way home, or asked Two-Bit Mathews to pick him up in his car. But Ponyboy didn’t think of those things. He rarely did, and it drove Darry crazy. Ponyboy made good grades, had a high IQ and all, but he didn’t always use his head.

Besides, he liked walking. To be honest he just wanted to be alone. 

He wasn’t so sure anymore when he noticed the red Corvair trailing him. The street was quiet except for the low purr of its engine, and Ponyboy’s pulse started to race. He was only two blocks from home now. He tried to walk faster, though he knew it wouldn’t help.

He’d never jumped himself, but he’d seen Johnny after the Socs had gotten to him once—and he’d never forgotten it. Johnny had been sixteen then, and after that night he’d been afraid of his own shadow.

Ponyboy’s heart thudded in his chest. The car rolled closer. By the time it stopped, he was sweating, even though the air was cool. He shoved his thumbs into his jeans pockets and slouched the way the older boys did, pretending he wasn’t scared, wondering if he could make a run for it.

But before he could move, the car doors opened. Five Socs stepped out.

They were older, bigger, and dressed sharp—madras shirts, jeans without a tear or stain in sight, their hair clean and combed just so. They surrounded him, slow and smirking.

“Hey, grease,” one said, his voice mock-friendly.

Ponyboy didn’t answer. His throat was dry.

“We’re gonna do you a favor, greaser,” another one said. “We’re gonna cut that long greasy hair off.”

He could still see the blue madras shirt, clear as day. One of them laughed low and mean, muttering something under his breath. Ponyboy didn’t move. There wasn’t much you could say when you knew you were about to get jumped.

“Need a haircut, greaser?”

A medium-sized blond flipped a knife open, the blade catching the streetlight.

“No,” Ponyboy said, stepping back instinctively. His voice shook, and when he moved, he backed straight into another one of them.

They were on him in seconds—grabbing his arms, forcing him to the ground. One pinned his legs, another sat on his chest, his knees pressing painfully into Ponyboy’s elbows. He could smell shaving lotion, sweat, and stale tobacco. For a dizzy moment, he wondered if he’d suffocate before they even touched the knife to him.

He struggled, kicking and twisting, managing to get one arm free for a second before they pinned him harder. Someone slugged him in the face, once, twice. Stars burst behind his eyes.

A blade grazed his throat. “How’d you like that haircut to start just below the chin?” one of them sneered.

And suddenly, Ponyboy realized—they could kill him.

Something in him broke loose. He went wild, screaming for Darry, for Soda, for anybody. A hand clamped down over his mouth, and he bit it—hard enough to taste blood. Someone cursed and hit him again. Another shoved a handkerchief into his mouth to shut him up.

“Shut him up, for Pete’s sake!” one yelled.

Then came shouting—different voices, fast footsteps. The Socs jumped off him, bolting for the car. The red Corvair sped off down the street, its headlights flashing once before disappearing into the night.

Ponyboy lay there, gasping, the world spinning around him. He could barely think. Then, strong arms hauled him upright.

“Ponyboy! You all right?”

It was Darry. He was shaking him, rough and desperate.

“I’m okay,” Ponyboy muttered weakly. “Quit shaking me, I’m okay.”

Darry stopped immediately. “I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t, really. Darry never apologized for much. He looked almost exactly like their father—same strong build, same dark hair—but he acted nothing like him. Darry was six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, all edges and control. His eyes were sharp and cold—blue-green like ice.

Sodapop ran up next, sliding to his knees beside Ponyboy. “You got cut up a little, huh?” he said, dabbing at Ponyboy’s temple with a handkerchief.

“I did?” Ponyboy asked numbly.

Soda showed him the blood. “You’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

“Oh.” Ponyboy touched his head, wincing. “Did they pull a blade on me?”

“Guess so,” Soda said, frowning. “You’re lucky, kid.”

Sodapop was the kind of handsome that made people stare when he walked by. He wasn’t as tall as Darry, and not as serious either—his golden hair and warm brown eyes made him look like sunlight, and he could grin through just about anything. Ponyboy always thought his brother seemed to glow, somehow.

He looked at him now, and Soda put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Ponyboy. They ain’t gonna hurt you no more.”

“I know.” Ponyboy blinked fast, trying not to cry. The world blurred anyway. He felt the hot tears roll down his cheeks before he could stop them. “I’m just spooked, that’s all.”

Soda rubbed his hair. “You’re an okay kid, Pony.”

Despite everything, Ponyboy smiled. Soda could always make him grin, no matter what.

“You’re crazy,” Pony said, voice cracking.

Darry frowned. “You’re both nuts.”

Soda raised an eyebrow. “Seems to run in the family.”

For a second, even Darry smiled.

Two-Bit Mathews appeared next, followed by Steve and Johnny. “Did ya catch ‘em?” Pony asked.

“Nope,” Two-Bit said cheerfully. “They got away, the dirty…” He trailed off into every name he could think of. “The kid’s okay?”

“I’m okay,” Pony repeated automatically.

Dallas Winston leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette. “Good behavior,” he said, smirking when Pony noticed him. “Got out early.” He handed the cigarette to Johnny, and everyone sat down to smoke.

Two-Bit squinted at Pony. “Nice-lookin’ bruise you got there, kid.”

“Really?” Pony touched his cheek gingerly.

“Yeah. Makes you look tough.”

Ponyboy smiled faintly.

Steve flicked his ashes toward him. “What were you doin’ walkin’ by your lonesome?”

“I was comin’ home from the movies,” Pony said. “I didn’t think—”

“You don’t ever think,” Darry interrupted sharply. “You must think at school, with all those good grades, but you don’t use your head for common sense. You should’ve carried a blade.”

Ponyboy stared at his shoes. He and Darry never saw eye to eye. He could never do anything right—not in Darry’s eyes. He just wanted to be alone from everyone, for some odd reason, he felt exhausted. he felt less happier than ever fell in his life. And yet he couldn't do anything but accept. Accept being normal. It felt so wrong.

Soda glared at their brother. “Leave him alone, Darry. It ain’t his fault the Socs jumped him. If he’d been carryin’ a blade, it would’ve been a good excuse for them to cut him to ribbons.”

“When I want my kid brother to tell me how to raise my other kid brother, I’ll ask,” Darry said, but he backed off. He always did when Soda told him to—most of the time, anyway.

Two-Bit clapped Pony on the shoulder. “Next time, get one of us to go with ya, kid. Any of us will.”

Dally yawned and stretched. “Speakin’ of movies, I’m headin’ over to the Nightly Double tomorrow night. Anybody wanna come look for some action?”

Steve shook his head. “Me and Soda are pickin’ up Evie and Sandy for the game.”

Pony felt Steve’s eyes on him and looked away. He never liked Steve much, though he’d never tell Soda that.

“I’m workin’ tomorrow,” Darry said, sighing.

“How about you, Two-Bit? Johnnycake? Ponyboy?” Dally asked.

“Ah no sorry.” Pony said quickly. “I'm… Just going to my room I need to do homework.”

The gang looked at each other, surprised he said no.

Darry said, finally easing up. “Okay- just don't forget your math this time.” Pony nodded slowly. 

Two-Bit stretched out on the grass and said towards Steve. “If I don’t get too drunk, I’ll find y’all.”

Steve nodded toward Dally’s hand. “You break up with Sylvia again?”

“Yeah,” Dally said, smirking. “This time it’s for good. That little broad was two-timin’ me again while I was in jail.”

The group laughed quietly, the streetlight flickering above them, smoke curling into the cool night air. Ponyboy stayed quiet, touching his cheek again. It still hurt, Pony toward the garage door and thought about the music show, about the red guitar. Maybe it was time to try to be happy. 

He remembered what his mom said "Promise, where is that smile I love?” He should be happy. For the gang even if it is fake. It'll make them less worried. 

Ponyboy said he was heading inside. He tried to sound casual, like everything was fine. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he muttered, forcing a quick smile before turning toward the house.

The gang exchanged confused looks. He’d just been jumped, chewed out by Darry, and scared half to death—and now he was smiling?

Soda smiled back anyway, though his eyes said he didn’t buy it. Johnny tilted his head, quiet and worried. Even Dally, leaning against the porch railing, frowned a little as Pony disappeared through the front door.

Inside, the house was still. The kind of still that made you notice every small sound—the ticking clock, the hum of the fridge, the wind pressing against the windows. Pony didn’t go to his room. Instead, he wandered toward the garage.

He hadn’t been in there for months. It smelled faintly of dust and old oil, and a thin layer of sunlight slipped through the cracked window, landing on the boxes stacked along the wall. The place felt like time had stopped the day his parents died.

He crouched down near a stack of old boxes marked and stopped at one with a fading black marker: Pony and daddy's music.

Pony lifted the lid. Dust rose in a soft cloud, he hadn't touched since you know he died, and inside, there was an envelope and a small wooden box, on top of the record's. The envelope had his name written on it—Ponyboy Curtis—in a familiar, looping handwriting that made his chest tighten.

He stared at it for a long minute before he touched it, tracing the letters with a shaky thumb.

Then he opened it.

The paper was yellowed at the edges, but the ink hadn’t faded much. His dad’s words came to life like a voice from the past:

Happy 14th birthday, Ponyboy. knowing you, you probably already miss earlier than you should’ve probably found it right now. but yet again, it’s my fault for leaving it into the one place you look at regularly, but the recorder box.

I want to tell you I’m proud of you colt. You've something special in you. That spark that shows up when you talk about music. Don’t lose that. The world’ll try to make you grow up too fast, but hold on to what makes you feel alive. You’re gonna make something beautiful one day, I know it.

There’s a little gift in the box beside this letter. It’s not much, but I thought it might remind you that you’re never alone. It once belonged to me. Me, your mom, we’ll always be with you. You and your brothers are the best things that ever happened to us.

Love, Dad.

Ponyboy’s hands trembled as he set the letter down. He picked up the small wooden box and opened it slowly.

Inside was a silver cross necklace. It was simple but beautiful, shining faintly even in the dim light. It had belonged to him once. Pony had to take care of it… It was the gift only he'll ever receive from him. 

The longer he stared at it, the harder it got to breathe.

He didn’t even realize the tears had started until one dropped onto the wood. Then another. Then more. His whole body shook, quiet sobs breaking loose after months of trying to keep everything buried. He hadn’t cried like that since the funeral. This was his last gift from his dad… 

He pressed the cross against his palm, the metal cool against his skin, and slipped it over his head.

The necklace rested against his chest, light but grounding—like an anchor.

For the first time in a long while, he felt something shift inside him. The ache didn’t disappear, but it stopped feeling empty. He thought about his dad’s words–

”Don’t lose that spark.”

Music. That was the one thing that had ever made sense.

He wiped his face, sniffed, and walked back into the living room where Soda was rubbing Darry's shoulder. Tomorrow, he decided he was going to get the guitar from the music shop one way or another. 

He was getting back into music.

No matter what it took.