Teasing Fate |The Outsiders|

26. Better Than Nothing

"HONESTLY, IT'S A SHITSHOW, MY GOD." - Peter Mcpoland (Shitshow)

***

The sky is pink and orange when I push open the door. After years of use, it swings towards the wall without any resistance. There are no shoes littering the ground, our blankets and quilts that usually cluttered the couch have been folded and laid across the back. Most of all, it's silent.

Silence is a rare occurrence here, and it would be a lie to say I didn't enjoy it. Warm light slowly tricked in through our windows, painting designs over the mid-morning dew. It's only nine -- or at least it had been when Tim and I snuck out of his bedroom -- which means I have the house to myself for most of the day, now that Mr. Syme's put me on leave. I kick off my shoes and tuck them in the corner before I step away from the door and further into the living room. For the first time since Miss Johnson's visit, it's spotless. The streamers have been pulled off the walls, not a piece of garbage to be seen. Part of it is refreshing, but the other is so out of place it's enough to make my thumbnail end up between my teeth.

Ponyboy and Johny are in school together, same with Sodapop, Steve, and Two-bit. I don't know what Dally's up to today, since school is more or less optional for him, but I can't put it past him to stop by today. It's unlikely, but Dally's always been a bit unpredictable. And I'm here. I can't stop myself from walking through my home like a stranger, repeating the events that led to me running out over and over again. Celebrations used to last for days with Momma and Daddy, Birthdays and Christmas and Easter were three-day deals, at a minimum. Darry turned eighteen last night and to anyone walking past, they'd never know. Christmas and New Year's day were just tiny scribbles on our calendar this year as if we ignored them, we could leave everything behind in sixty-three. We could leave Momma and Daddy to rest, give Donna the peace she deserved, sweep all our wrongdoings under the rug.

But it's really hard to do that when it's staring you in the face.

Thin twirls of steam move from his coffee to his bloodshot eyes. His face is being supported by his hands and even from here, I can see every vein bubbling beneath his skin. I can't remember the last time I saw my brother this sick. I'm frozen in the middle of the living room, debating if I have it in me to turn around and walk out again. I'm mad at him. I'm furious at him. My tongue turns to lead in my mouth, heavy and metallic tasting when Darry finally turns his exhausted gaze to me. I hate him. I really do mean it, even if my mouth refuses to say it. He should've believed me. He should've been on my side. He never should've run around with guys like Paul in the first place. I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate him.

Darry abandons his coffee on the table and staggers towards me. At least, I think he's supposed to be coming towards me. He pauses in the doorway and leers over the threshold, nearly doubled over like's he about to be sick. I take one quick step forward with my arms out and reaching, ready to push his hair back or run small circles on his back like I'd done for our brothers a million times. It's a struggle to keep my feet on the floor and my lips in one firm line, but I manage. I manage to think about how disappointed my parents must be in me, too.

I've fought with my brothers before. I've fought with my parents before, too. But I've never thrown any of them under the bus like I did last night. I've never taken off in the middle of the night like I did last night. I've never spent the night at a boy's house, confess my feelings, sleep with him all because I couldn't gather the courage to face my family. I want to leave really bad as Darry straightens his spine and looks at me. He still looks sick, and I can't help but wonder if I'm the cause.

Of course, I'm the cause.

Darry leans all his weight against the doorframe separating the kitchen from the living room. The wood cracks under the pressure, thin splinters dig into his shoulder. I hate myself for thinking he deserves it. At this moment in time, Darry looks worse than Ponyboy. Maybe his skin isn't tinged with green, but his bangs are still pressed flat against his forehead, hiding the worry lines I never realized he had. "Marley," he begins weakly, "I'm so sorry, honey.