A Boy Named Pony - A Sequel to East West Sunset

Chapter Ten - Betty

"You got something on your mind, girl? You're being even more silent than usual."

I glanced over my plate of mashed potatoes at my father. He didn't sound remotely interested in a possible response, as he was busy picking at his roast beef and separating the cooked carrots from the strings of meat. It was only a formality.

"Um - " I cleared my throat. "I'm - there's nothing."

In truth, I was having quite a lot of difficulty focusing on the meal in front of me, even though I'd spent a good hour or so making it. All I could think of was my own daring, pressing my lips ever so briefly against Ponyboy's. Quivering next to his warm presence in the dreamy darkness of the theater. Feeling the firm angles of his arm every time I found the excuse to grab it. But it's not like he would have understood any of that, or even cared enough to listen.

"You're not having boy troubles or something?" he chuckled dryly.

"Nothing like that."

Perhaps I said it a bit too quickly, because he glanced up at me, fully seeing me this time. His grin was malicious, beyond the realm of simple teasing.

"Really? Then who was that fellow that called 'round here the other night?" he asked. 

I took a deep breath before responding. "Nobody. Just some guy from my algebra class."

"Right, right." He took another large bite of roast beef and spoke again before swallowing. "Well, I'm no farmer like Roy, but I still got a sawn-off shotgun and I know how to use it."

It took everything in me not to roll my eyes, an impudence I surely would be flayed alive for. Since when did he have a shotgun? Roy - my stepfather - didn't even have one. For some reason my dad was trying to threaten me away from Ponyboy by pretending to be such a protective father. Well, that nonsense wouldn't work on me.

"You ain't got a shotgun," I muttered, loud enough so he'd hear me.

"First off, don't use 'ain't' up here. This is the civilized world - we use 'don't,' " he said, his voice silkily poisonous. "Second, you ain't know what I have or haven't got. And I'm warning you, Betty, if you start seeing some good-for-nothing hood and he gets you in trouble, I'll make sure that boy sees hell for maybe the first time in his lowdown little life. Get me?"

I scraped the tines of my fork through my little hill of mashed potatoes and bobbed my head once.

"Now, I don't want to make you feel like you can't date any boys your age. It's natural to want to see what's up. But you just be real careful," he went on, "real careful. I don't need people saying my daughter's running around with some hood and can't keep her skirt where it's supposed to be."

I flushed angrily at what he was implying. "Nobody would say that, Dad."

"Make sure you don't give them a reason to."

Yeah, this conversation was turning out to be much more uncomfortable and awkward than I possibly could have imagined. I stood up from the table and scooped my uneaten mashed potatoes back into their serving bowl without another word, desperate to get out of that kitchen. My father watched me, amused. 

"You're really upset with me," he noted with some surprise. "Well, can you at least tell me the fellow's name? Come on, now."

"No."

"Come on, Betty, there's no reason to get so angry. Tell me his name."

Again, I ignored his falsely placating tone, squirting a bit of dish soap onto my dirty plate and wiping it clean with a dishrag. My ears began to ring.