A Boy Named Pony - A Sequel to East West Sunset

Chapter Two - Betty

Betty Anne from no man's land, that's what they used to call me.

I lived with my mom during the summer on a little farm about an hour from Tulsa. I loved it there- I loved waking up early to milk the cows and spending my afternoons drawing in the meadows and riding the old horse across the plains. The Oklahoma summer  breeze would flutter the pages of my sketchbook, making it impossible to draw, but I didn't mind. I thought I'd have centuries to sit there, to try to get that sketch of a sweet summer blossom just perfect, and never have to worry about anything else. 

But the autumn chill soon crept into our lives, and I was sent back to Tulsa to live with my father for the school year. I hated the city. I hated how cramped and tight it was, how thick the air felt in my lungs, how the sounds of  cars squealing and people yelling grated against my eardrums. Most of all, I hated living with my father. 

I didn't know where I belonged: the country or the city? To my father or to my mother? I didn't know. 

It was senior year that I finally found out.

"Your sketches from over the summer are very strong," Mrs. Lane said to me, shuffling through the folder of drawings I had given her.

The window of the art classroom was open, letting in an acrid-smelling draft, but otherwise, the air hung heavy in the little room. It was so hot I could swear I saw the long-dried globs of paint on the tables melting down the slanted tabletops. 

"Thank you," I replied with a polite smile.

"Especially this one." Mrs. Lane pulled out a piece of paper from the sheaf. "What kind of flower is this?"

"It's a dandelion."

"Really? Why, you've managed to capture beauty even in such an ordinary plant. It's quite lovely."

Internally, I beamed. Even though I strongly disliked many aspects of school, art class was where I excelled. It required no talking, and best of all, no wrong answers. I loved it.

Mrs. Lane smiled at me fondly and replaced the drawing back in the folder. "Have you considered entering your work in the city arts festival? I'm sure you could take home a prize."

"I haven't."

"You should. Some folks from the University of Tulsa come down to judge it. It would be a great way to get your name out there."

I decided not to tell her that I didn't see art as my career; in fact, I didn't think I would be able to go to college at all. My mother and my stepfather couldn't afford it, and my dad just didn't care enough to send me, even if he did have the money. I didn't have the heart to tell Mrs. Lane that, though.

"Maybe I will," I lied, fully intending to stow the sketch as far back in my dresser as I could when I got home. I had no desire to share my art with anyone, besides my mother and my stepfather. 

"Consider it." She handed me the folder and gave me another eager smile. "You've got some talent here, and if you keep on practicing, you could be really great someday."

I thought of the homely little sketch, stowed deep within layers and layers of other mediocre drawings. I wondered how many other art teachers told their students the same thing, and how many of those students just ended up at some drab office job or in their husband's kitchen, instead of becoming great. 

"You don't believe me," Mrs. Lane said, picking up on my dismal attitude.

"I don't," I admitted.

She sighed and sat back down behind her desk. "With that attitude you'll never get far, dear."

I didn't quite know how to respond, so I fiddled with the straps on my backpack in order to avoid her gaze.

"You're dismissed for the day. At least consider what I said - enter the city arts festival. I promise you won't regret it."

~~~~~

My little chat with Mrs. Lane caused me to miss the bus. I watched the yellow beast puff out of the parking lot just as I ran outside, panting and cursing under my breath. Drat, I thought to myself in frustration. Just my luck!

"Need a ride?" somebody called out.

I glanced around and spotted a junker of a car parked up by the curb. A boy perhaps my age hung halfway out of the passenger side, his short dark hair blowing a bit in the breeze. His arms were thick with muscle, and his orange shirt blazed against the black pavement.

"I-It's okay, I can walk!" I replied nervously, noticing the other man lounging behind the driver's wheel, who had scars on the back of his knuckles and a large one on his forehead. He didn't look the least bit friendly.

"Naw, if you take the bus you're probably too far to walk," the boy said. "Hop in."

I glanced uncertainly at the wheezing car.

"Don't worry, Darry don't bite."

"If you're sure it won't be no trouble..." I trailed off.

"If you're coming, get on in," the man in the driver's seat said suddenly. "If you're not, we'll get going." 

"All right," I squeaked and hopped into the backseat before I could convince myself to argue some more.

"So, where do you live, kid?" the scarred greaser asked, wrenching the steering wheel around as he reversed out of the parking space.

"Just south of U.S. 66. Across from the University."

"What a coincidence. I was gonna head over that way to pick up Diana after I dropped off Pony here."

"I'm Pony, by the way," the boy in the orange shirt said. "Ponyboy Curtis. You've probably heard of me."

"Can't say I have," I replied, though the name rang a small bell.

His older brother squinted at me through the rearview mirror and chuckled. "What?! Pony's been telling me that there's not a girl in town who don't know his name."

I blushed. "I'm sorry. Should I know you, Ponyboy?" I asked, a little nervously.

"Sure, I'm the baddest greaser in town," Pony chirped, flashing me a wide smile. "Well, besides the Shepherd boys."

"Shut up, Ponyboy."

"You shut up, Darry! Ever since you met Diana you've gone soft."

"Tell that to the Soc I chucked in the clink!"

"Aww, Diana was responsible for most of that!"

I quickly lost track of their conversation and stared out the window instead. The whole scene felt a little unreal, like I was trapped in some bizarre dream - two greasers arguing in the front seat of a rusty old wagon I never thought I'd be caught dead riding in, mentioning names I felt I should know but couldn't remember for some reason. Ponyboy Curtis.... try as I might, I couldn't recall where, if ever, I had heard it before. I flashed back to earlier that year, in January maybe, when everyone at school was talking about... about something.... I couldn't remember.

"Anyway, kid, what's your name?" Pony's older brother, Darry, glanced back at me, obviously sick of their circular argument.

"Oh!" I started at being spoken to. "It's Betty Anne Kay."

"Betty Anne."

"You can just call me Betty," I said hurriedly, cursing myself for giving him my whole legal name like some sort of babbling nerd.

"Nope. It's Betty Anne now, that's all I'm going to call you."

"Alright," I replied. It doesn't matter, really, what this boy calls me, I told myself. It's not like I'll make an effort to run into him again, or ever have to hear him say my name again, or ever....

"I think we're gonna be good friends, Betty Anne," Pony said brightly. 

"Alright," I repeated.