「my boy」 | Johnnyboy

Fall.

( Ponyboy's POV. )

A chilly breeze slapped me across the face as I stepped out of my house, and at the moment I was thankful I'd gotten a haircut before we moved. Back in Arizona, it'd almost been down to my shoulders. I distinctly remember hating my mother for talking me into chopping most of it off, but a few short weeks later and I'd gotten used to it. It helped that it wasn't constantly getting in my mouth now, too.

Johnny had agreed to meet me in front of the bleachers, the same place we'd met up the last three times, which was a relief. I still didn't know where I'd get the money to pay him, but that was to be figured out later. I just had to cross my fingers and pray to whatever holy entity might be listening that neither of my brothers found out I was paying a kid to date me. My family had never been judgemental, but I didn't imagine they'd fancy the idea of me having a fake boyfriend anymore than my friends in Arizona had when I called and spilled the whole embarrassing story. But, being so far away, none of them could really leak the news to anyone that knew me here—which was definitely on the plus side for me.

I called out a farewell to my mom before I let the door shut on its own. She was overly opinionated about goodbyes and how they were necessary upon every exit, especially since dad died in that car wreck a year ago. My brothers and I missed him, but to her the loss seemed to be something different. Stronger, in some ways. She'd been driving that night and—not that she'd ever come out and say it, but—a big chunk of her blamed herself. Now, it was like everything terrified her. She was terrified to let any of us go out, she was terrified of spending a single day sober, she was terrified of relationships, she was terrified of therapy, she was terrified of being terrified.

To an extent, I understood, but beyond that extent, it started to seem like she was a little crazy. A little too passionate and a little too determined not to lose anyone else. Obsessive, almost. Though I'm only sixteen and a Sophmore in high school, so what do I really know about life?

Not a single thing about the real world, it seemed, as life liked to remind me pretty damn consistently.

( Johnny's POV. )

My solid black combat boots padded against the grass softly, the mud making a messy attempt to take my shoes captive. It was chilly, but the denim jacket that was draped over my body blocked most of it out. Coal colored strands of hair blew into my eyes and blocked my view, but I'd already realized there was no use in trying to keep them from doing so. I hadn't told my parents I was leaving, and that's how they liked it. Half of the time, they barely noticed whether I was home or not anyway. When they did notice me, it was usually to complain about one another or to rage.

I couldn't quite remember when their frustration turned physical, but I recalled how in a surprisingly clear light. Little details about the day failed to add up in my memory, but the big ones remained. They didn't give two shits about me or where I went, and I tried to convince myself that it was how it should be. I preferred it this way, right? Parents who cared were just suffocating. Everyone I knew who had functional families were bland or just as miserable as me, or so I liked to recite to myself every time the doubt crept in.

"Best to keep your distance," I always told myself. On a loop, that sentence was the one thing that had kept me alive for so long. I'd spent years trying to toughen myself up, and for the most part it worked. Being on the verge of eighteen, they rarely hit me anymore. It'd been bad when I was a kid, though now that I was gone a lot more, they didn't have much of a chance. Usually I hung out around the park, smoking cigarettes until I was sure my throat would bleed, and then I walked around downtown. It sounds cynical and insensitive now that I look back, but at the time, I couldn't wait until the cancer crawled up on me. Every time I thought of that outcome, I had to stop and ask myself; will it hurt? Occasionally I'd sneak past the school cameras and into the football grounds. I'd slept on the bleachers a few times, and I'd gotten caught more than I'd like to admit. They never thought much of it. Kids did stupid things all of the time, and almost everyone stayed out all night or snuck out of their bedroom windows at some point. To adults, and even many kids my age, I was just some low life douchebag who liked worrying his parents.