Chapter One
When I steppedout into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the moviehouse, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newmanand a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman—he looks tough and I don't—but I guess my own looksaren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair andgreenish-gray eyes. I wish they were more gray, because Ihate most guys that have green eyes, but I have to be contentwith what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boyswear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front andsides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighborhoodrarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better withlong hair.
I had a long walk home and no company, but I usuallylone it anyway, for no reason except that I like to watchmovies undisturbed so I can get into them and live themwith the actors. When I see a movie with someone it's kindof uncomfortable, like having someone read your book overyour shoulder. I'm different that way. I mean, my second-oldestbrother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen,never cracks a book at all, and my oldest brother, Darrel,who we call Darry, works too long and hard to be interestedin a story or drawing a picture, so I'm not like them.And nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way Ido. For a while there, I thought I was the only person inthe world that did. So I loned it.
Soda tries to understand, at least, which is more thanDarry does. But then, Soda is different from anybody; heunderstands everything, almost. Like he's never holleringat me all the time the way Darry is, or treating me as if Iwas six instead of fourteen. I love Soda more than I've everloved anyone, even Mom and Dad. He's always happy-go-luckyand grinning, while Darry's hard and firm and rarelygrins at all But then, Darry's gone through a lot in histwenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow upat all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one ofthese days.
Anyway, I went on walking home, thinking about themovie, and then suddenly wishing I had some company.Greasers can't walk alone too much or they'll get jumped,or someone will come by and scream "Greaser!" at them,which doesn't make you feel too hot, if you know what Imean. We get jumped by the Socs. I'm not sure how youspell it, but it's the abbreviation for the Socials, the jet set,the West-side rich kids. It's like the term "greaser," which isused to class all us boys on the East Side.
We're poorer than the Socs and the middle class. Ireckon we're wilder, too. Not like the Socs, who jumpgreasers and wreck houses and throw beer blasts for kicks,and get editorials in the paper for being a public disgraceone day and an asset to society the next. Greasers arealmost like hoods; we steal things and drive old souped-upcars and hold up gas stations and have a gang fight once ina while, I don't mean I do things like that. Darry would killme if I got into trouble with the police. Since Mom andDad were killed in an auto wreck, the three of us get tostay together only as long as we behave. So Soda and I stayout of trouble as much as we can, and we're careful not toget caught when we can't. I only mean that most greasersdo things like that, just like we wear our hair long anddress in blue jeans and T-shirts, or leave our shirttails outand wear leather jackets and tennis shoes or boots. I'm notsaying that either Socs or greasers are better; that's just theway things are.
I could have waited to go to the movies until Darry orSodapop got off work. They would have gone with me, ordriven me there, or walked along, although Soda just can'tsit still long enough to enjoy a movie and they bore Darryto death. Darry thinks his life is enough without inspectingother people's. Or I could have gotten one of the gang tocome along, one of the four boys Darry and Soda and Ihave grown up with and consider family. We're almost asclose as brothers; when you grow up in a tight-knit neighborhoodlike ours you get to know each other real well. If Ihad thought about it, I could have called Darry and hewould have come by on his way home and picked me up,or Two-Bit Mathews—one of our gang—would have cometo get me in his car if I had asked him, but sometimes I justdon't use my head. It drives my brother Darry nuts when Ido stuff like that, 'cause I'm supposed to be smart; I makegood grades and have a high IQ and everything, but I don'tuse my head. Besides, I like walking.
I about decided I didn't like it so much, though, when Ispotted that red Corvair trailing me. I was almost two blocksfrom home then, so I started walking a little faster. I hadnever been jumped, but I had seen Johnny after four Socsgot hold of him, and it wasn't pretty. Johnny was scared ofhis own shadow after that. Johnny was sixteen then.
I knew it wasn't any use though—the fast walking, Imean—even before the Corvair pulled up beside me andfive Socs got out. I got pretty scared—I'm kind of small forfourteen even though I have a good build, and those guyswere bigger than me. I automatically hitched my thumbsin my jeans and slouched, wondering if I could get away ifI made a break for it. I remembered Johnny—his face allcut up and bruised, and I remembered how he had criedwhen we found him, half-conscious, in the corner lot.Johnny had it awful rough at home—it took a lot to makehim cry.
I was sweating something fierce, although I was cold. Icould feel my palms getting clammy and the perspirationrunning down my back. I get like that when I'm realscared. I glanced around for a pop bottle or a stick or something—SteveRandle, Soda's best buddy, had once heldoff four guys with a busted pop bottle—but there was nothing.So I stood there like a bump on a log while they surroundedme. I don't use my head. They walked aroundslowly, silently, smiling.
"Hey, grease," one said in an over-friendly voice. "We'regonna do you a favor, greaser. We're gonna cut all thatlong greasy hair off."
He had on a madras shirt. I can still see it. Blue madras.One of them laughed, then cussed me out in a low voice. Icouldn't think of anything to say. There just isn't a wholelot you can say while waiting to get mugged, so I kept mymouth shut.
"Need a haircut, greaser?" The medium-sized blondpulled a knife out of his back pocket and flipped the bladeopen.
I finally thought of something to say. "No." I was backingup, away from that knife. Of course I backed right intoone of them. They had me down in a second. They hadmy arms and legs pinned down and one of them was sittingon my chest with his knees on my elbows, and if youdon't think that hurts, you're crazy. I could smell EnglishLeather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wonderedfoolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything. Iwas scared so bad I was wishing I would. I fought to getloose, and almost did for a second; then they tightened upon me and the one on my chest slugged me a couple oftimes. So I lay still, swearing at them between gasps. Ablade was held against my throat.
"How'd you like that haircut to begin just below thechin?"
It occurred to me then that they could kill me. I wentwild. I started screaming for Soda, Darry, anyone. Someoneput his hand over my mouth, and I bit it as hard as Icould, tasting the blood running through my teeth. I hearda muttered curse and got slugged again, and they werestuffing a handkerchief in my mouth. One of them keptsaying, "Shut him up, for Pete's sake, shut him up!"
Then there were shouts and the pounding of feet, andthe Socs jumped up and left me lying there, gasping. I laythere and wondered what in the world was happening—peoplewere jumping over me and running by me and Iwas too dazed to figure it out. Then someone had meunder the armpits and was hauling me to my feet. It wasDarry.
"Are you all right, Ponyboy?"
He was shaking me and I wished he'd stop. I was dizzyenough anyway. I could tell it was Darry though—partlybecause of the voice and partly because Darry's alwaysrough with me without meaning to be.
"I'm okay. Quit shaking me, Darry, I'm okay."
He stopped instantly. "I'm sorry."
He wasn't really. Darry isn't ever sorry for anything hedoes. It seems funny to me that he should look just exactlylike my father and act exactly the opposite from him. Myfather was only forty when he died and he looked twenty-fiveand a lot of people thought Darry and Dad were brothersinstead of father and son. But they only looked alike—myfather was never rough with anyone without meaningto be.
Darry is six-feet-two, and broad-shouldered and muscular.He has dark-brown hair that kicks out in front and aslight cowlick in the back—just like Dad's—but Darry'seyes are his own. He's got eyes that are like two pieces ofpale blue-green ice. They've got a determined set to them,like the rest of him. He looks older than twenty—tough,cool, and smart. He would be real handsome if his eyesweren't so cold. He doesn't understand anything that is notplain hard fact. But he uses his head.
I sat down again, rubbing my cheek where I'd beenslugged the most.
Darry jammed his fists in his pockets. "They didn't hurtyou too bad, did they?"
They did. I was smarting and aching and my chest wassore and I was so nervous my hands were shaking and Iwanted to start bawling, but you just don't say that toDarry.
"I'm okay."
Sodapop came loping back. By then I had figured thatall the noise I had heard was the gang coming to rescueme. He dropped down beside me, examining my head.
"You got cut up a little, huh, Ponyboy?"
I only looked at him blankly. "I did?"
He pulled out a handkerchief, wet the end of it with histongue, and pressed it gently against the side of my head."You're bleedin' like a stuck pig."
"I am?"
"Look!" He showed me the handkerchief, reddened asif by magic. "Did they pull a blade on you?"
I remembered the voice: "Need a haircut, greaser?"The blade must have slipped while he was trying to shutme up. "Yeah."
Soda is handsomer than anyone else I know. Not likeDarry—Soda's movie-star kind of handsome, the kind thatpeople stop on the street to watch go by. He's not as tall asDarry, and he's a little slimmer, but he has a finely drawn,sensitive face that somehow manages to be reckless andthoughtful at the same time. He's got dark-gold hair thathe combs back—long and silky and straight—and in thesummer the sun bleaches it to a shining wheat-gold. Hiseyes are dark brown—lively, dancing, recklessly laughingeyes that can be gentle and sympathetic one moment andblazing with anger the next. He has Dad's eyes, but Soda isone of a kind. He can get drunk in a drag race or dancingwithout ever getting near alcohol. In our neighborhood it'srare to find a kid who doesn't drink once in a while. ButSoda never touches a drop—he doesn't need to. He getsdrunk on just plain living. And he understands everybody.
He looked at me more closely. I looked away hurriedly,because, if you want to know the truth, I was starting tobawl. I knew I was as white as I felt and I was shaking like aleaf.
Soda just put his hand on my shoulder. "Easy, Ponyboy.They ain't gonna hurt you no more."
"I know," I said, but the ground began to blur and I felthot tears running down my cheeks. I brushed them awayimpatiently. "I'm just a little spooked, that's all." I drew aquivering breath and quit crying. You just don't cry in frontof Darry. Not unless you're hurt like Johnny had been thatday we found him in the vacant lot. Compared to Johnny Iwasn't hurt at all.
Soda rubbed my hair. "You're an okay kid, Pony."
I had to grin at him—Soda can make you grin no matterwhat. I guess it's because he's always grinning so muchhimself. "You're crazy, Soda, out of your mind."
Darry looked as if he'd like to knock our heads together."You're both nuts."
Soda merely cocked one eyebrow, a trick he'd pickedup from Two-Bit. "It seems to run in this family."
Darry stared at him for a second, then cracked a grin.Sodapop isn't afraid of him like everyone else and enjoysteasing him. I'd just as soon tease a full-grown grizzly; butfor some reason, Darry seems to like being teased by Soda.
Our gang had chased the Socs to their car and heavedrocks at them. They came running toward us now—fourlean, hard guys. They were all as tough as nails and lookedit. I had grown up with them, and they accepted me, eventhough I was younger, because I was Darry and Soda's kidbrother and I kept my mouth shut good.
Steve Randle was seventeen, tall and lean, with thickgreasy hair he kept combed in complicated swirls. He wascocky, smart, and Soda's best buddy since grade school.Steve's specialty was cars. He could lift a hubcap quickerand more quietly than anyone in the neighborhood, buthe also knew cars upside-down and backward, and hecould drive anything on wheels. He and Soda worked atthe same gas station—Steve part time and Soda fulltime—and their station got more customers than any otherin town. Whether that was because Steve was so good withcars or because Soda attracted girls like honey draws flies, Icouldn't tell you. I liked Steve only because he was Soda'sbest friend. He didn't like me—he thought I was a tagalongand a kid; Soda always took me with them when theywent places if they weren't taking girls, and that buggedSteve. It wasn't my fault; Soda always asked me, I didn't askhim. Soda doesn't think I'm a kid.
Two-Bit Mathews was the oldest of the gang and thewisecracker of the bunch. He was about six feet tall, stockyin build, and very proud of his long rusty-colored sideburns.He had gray eyes and a wide grin, and he couldn'tstop making funny remarks to save his life. You couldn'tshut up that guy; he always had to get his two-bits worth in.Hence his name. Even his teachers forgot his real namewas Keith, and we hardly remembered he had one. Lifewas one big joke to Two-Bit. He was famous for shopliftingand his black-handled switchblade (which he couldn'thave acquired without his first talent), and he was alwayssmarting off to the cops. He really couldn't help it. Everythinghe said was so irresistibly funny that he just had to letthe police in on it to brighten up their dull lives. (That'sthe way he explained it to me.) He liked fights, blondes,and for some unfathomable reason, school. He was still ajunior at eighteen and a half and he never learned anything.He just went for kicks. I liked him real well becausehe kept us laughing at ourselves as well as at other things.He reminded me of Will Rogers—maybe it was the grin.
If I had to pick the real character of the gang, it wouldbe Dallas Winston—Dally. I used to like to draw his picturewhen he was in a dangerous mood, for then I couldget his personality down in a few lines. He had an elfishface, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, small,sharp animal teeth, and ears like a lynx. His hair wasalmost white it was so blond, and he didn't like haircuts, orhair oil either, so it fell over his forehead in wisps andkicked out in the back in tufts and curled behind his earsand along the nape of his neck. His eyes were blue, blazingice, cold with a hatred of the whole world. Dally hadspent three years on the wild side of New York and hadbeen arrested at the age of ten. He was tougher than therest of us—tougher, colder, meaner. The shade of differencethat separates a greaser from a hood wasn't present inDally. He was as wild as the boys in the downtown outfits,like Tim Shepard's gang.
In New York, Dally blew off steam in gang fights, buthere, organized gangs are rarities—there are just smallbunches of friends who stick together, and the warfare isbetween the social classes. A rumble, when it's called, isusually born of a grudge fight, and the opponents just happento bring their friends along. Oh, there are a fewnamed gangs around, like the River Kings and the TiberStreet Tigers, but here in the Southwest there's no gangrivalry. So Dally, even though he could get into a goodfight sometimes, had no specific thing to hate. No rivalgang. Only Socs. And you can't win against them no matterhow hard you try, because they've got all the breaks andeven whipping them isn't going to change that fact. Maybethat was why Dallas was so bitter.
He had quite a reputation. They have a file on him downat the police station. He had been arrested, he got drunk, herode in rodeos, lied, cheated, stole, rolled drunks, jumpedsmall kids—he did everything. I didn't like him, but he wassmart and you had to respect him.
Johnny Cade was last and least. If you can picture a littledark puppy that has been kicked too many times and is lostin a crowd of strangers, you'll have Johnny. He was theyoungest, next to me, smaller than the rest, with a slightbuild. He had big black eyes in a dark tanned face; his hairwas jet-black and heavily greased and combed to the side,but it was so long that it fell in shaggy bangs across his forehead.He had a nervous, suspicious look in his eyes, andthat beating he got from the Socs didn't help matters. Hewas the gang's pet, everyone's kid brother. His father wasalways beating him up, and his mother ignored him,except when she was hacked off at something, and thenyou could hear her yelling at him clear down at our house.I think he hated that worse than getting whipped. Hewould have run away a million times if we hadn't beenthere. If it hadn't been for the gang, Johnny would neverhave known what love and affection are.
I wiped my eyes hurriedly. "Didya catch 'em?"
"Nup. They got away this time, the dirty ..." Two-Bitwent on cheerfully, calling the Socs every name he couldthink of or make up.
"The kid's okay?"
"I'm okay." I tried to think of something to say. I'm usuallypretty quiet around people, even the gang. I changedthe subject. "I didn't know you were out of the cooler yet,Dally."
"Good behavior Got off early." Dallas lit a cigarette andhanded it to Johnny. Everyone sat down to have a smokeand relax. A smoke always lessens the tension I had quittrembling and my color was back. The cigarette was calmingme down. Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow. "Nice-lookin'bruise you got there, kid."
I touched my cheek gingerly. "Really?"
Two-Bit nodded sagely. "Nice cut, too. Makes you looktough."
Tough and tuff are two different words. Tough is thesame as rough; tuff means cool, sharp—like a tuff-lookingMustang or a tuff record. In our neighborhood both arecompliments.
Steve flicked his ashes at me. "What were you doin',walkin' by your lonesome?" Leave it to good old Steve tobring up something like that.
"I was comin' home from the movies. I didn't think ..."
"You don't ever think," Darry broke in, "not at home oranywhere when it counts. You must think at school, withall those good grades you bring home, and you've alwaysgot your nose in a book, but do you ever use your head forcommon sense? No sirree, bub. And if you did have to goby yourself, you should have carried a blade."
I just stared at the hole in the toe of my tennis shoe. Meand Darry just didn't dig each other. I never could pleasehim. He would have hollered at me for carrying a blade ifI had carried one. If I brought home B's, he wanted A's,and if I got A's, he wanted to make sure they stayed A's. If Iwas playing football, I should be in studying, and if I wasreading, I should be out playing football. He neverhollered at Sodapop—not even when Soda dropped out ofschool or got tickets for speeding. He just hollered at me.
Soda was glaring at him. "Leave my kid brother alone,you hear? It ain't his fault he likes to go to the movies, andit ain't his fault the Socs like to jump us, and if he hadbeen carrying a blade it would have been a good excuse tocut him to ribbons."
Soda always takes up for me.
Darry said impatiently, "When I want my kid brother totell me what to do with my other kid brother, I'll ask you—kidbrother." But he laid off me. He always does whenSodapop tells him to. Most of the time.
"Next time get one of us to go with you, Ponyboy," Two-Bitsaid. "Any of us will."
"Speakin' of movies"—Dally yawned, flipping away hiscigarette butt—"I'm walkin' over to the Nightly Doubletomorrow night. Anybody want to come and hunt someaction?"
Steve shook his head. "Me and Soda are pickin' up Evieand Sandy for the game."
He didn't need to look at me the way he did right then.I wasn't going to ask if I could come. I'd never tell Soda,because he really likes Steve a lot, but sometimes I can'tstand Steve Randle. I mean it. Sometimes I hate him.
Darry sighed, just like I knew he would. Darry neverhad time to do anything anymore. "I'm working tomorrownight."
Dally looked at the rest of us. "How about y'all? Two-Bit?Johnnycake, you and Pony wanta come?"
"Me and Johnny'll come," I said. I knew Johnny wouldn'topen his mouth unless he was forced to. "Okay, Darry?"
"Yeah, since it ain't a school night." Darry was real goodabout letting me go places on the weekends. On schoolnights I could hardly leave the house.
"I was plannin' on getting boozed up tomorrow night,"Two-Bit said. "If I don't, I'll walk over and find y'all."
Steve was looking at Dally's hand. His ring, which hehad rolled a drunk senior to get, was back on his finger."You break up with Sylvia again?"
"Yeah, and this time it's for good. That little broad wastwo-timin' me again while I was in jail."
I thought of Sylvia and Evie and Sandy and Two-Bit'smany blondes. They were the only kind of girls that wouldlook at us, I thought. Tough, loud girls who wore too mucheye makeup and giggled and swore too much. I likedSoda's girl Sandy just fine, though. Her hair was naturalblond and her laugh was soft, like her china-blue eyes. Shedidn't have a real good home or anything and was ourkind—greaser—but she was a real nice girl. Still, lots oftimes I wondered what other girls were like. The girls whowere bright-eyed, and had their dresses a decent length andacted as if they'd like to spit on us if given a chance. Somewere afraid of us, and remembering Dallas Winston, I didn'tblame them. But most looked at us like we were dirt—gaveus the same kind of look that the Socs did when they cameby in their Mustangs and Corvairs and yelled "Grease!" atus. I wondered about them. The girls, I mean ... Did theycry when their boys were arrested, like Evie did whenSteve got hauled in, or did they run out on them the waySylvia did Dallas? But maybe their boys didn't get arrestedor beaten up or busted up in rodeos.
I was still thinking about it while I was doing my homeworkthat night. I had to read Great Expectations forEnglish, and that kid Pip, he reminded me of us—the wayhe felt marked lousy because he wasn't a gentleman oranything, and the way that girl kept looking down on him.That happened to me once. One time in biology I had todissect a worm, and the razor wouldn't cut, so I used myswitchblade. The minute I flicked it out—I forgot what Iwas doing or I would never have done it—this girl rightbeside me kind of gasped, and said, "They are right. Youare a hood." That didn't make me feel so hot. There werea lot of Socs in that class—I get put into A classes becauseI'm supposed to be smart—and most of them thought itwas pretty funny. I didn't, though. She was a cute girl. Shelooked real good in yellow.
We deserve a lot of our trouble, I thought. Dallasdeserves everything he gets, and should get worse, if youwant the truth. And Two-Bit—he doesn't really want orneed half the things he swipes from stores. He just thinksit's fun to swipe everything that isn't nailed down. I canunderstand why Sodapop and Steve get into drag racesand fights so much, though—both of them have too muchenergy, too much feeling, with no way to blow it off.
"Rub harder, Soda," I heard Darry mumbling. "You'regonna put me to sleep."
I looked through the door. Sodapop was giving Darry aback-rub. Darry is always pulling muscles; he roofs housesand he's always trying to carry two bundles of roofing upthe ladder. I knew Soda would put him to sleep, becauseSoda can put about anyone out when he sets his head to it.He thought Darry worked too hard anyway. I did, too.
Darry didn't deserve to work like an old man when hewas only twenty. He had been a real popular guy in school;he was captain of the football team and he had been votedBoy of the Year. But we just didn't have the money for himto go to college, even with the athletic scholarship he won.And now he didn't have time between jobs to even thinkabout college. So he never went anywhere and never didanything anymore, except work out at gyms and go skiingwith some old friends of his sometimes.
I rubbed my cheek where it had turned purple. I hadlooked in the mirror, and it did make me look tough. ButDarry had made me put a Band-Aid on the cut.
I remembered how awful Johnny had looked when hegot beaten up. I had just as much right to use the streets asthe Socs did, and Johnny had never hurt them. Why didthe Socs hate us so much? We left them alone. I nearlywent to sleep over my homework trying to figure it out.
Sodapop, who had jumped into bed by this time, yelledsleepily for me to turn off the light and get to bed. When Ifinished the chapter I was on, I did.
Lying beside Soda, staring at the wall, I kept rememberingthe faces of the Socs as they surrounded me, thatblue madras shirt the blond was wearing, and I could stillhear a thick voice: "Need a haircut, greaser?" I shivered.
"You cold, Ponyboy?"
"A little," I lied. Soda threw one arm across my neck.He mumbled something drowsily. "Listen, kiddo, whenDarry hollers at you ... he don't mean nothin'. He's justgot more worries than somebody his age ought to. Don'ttake him serious ... you dig, Pony? Don't let him bug you.He's really proud of you 'cause you're so brainy. It's justbecause you're the baby—I mean, he loves you a lot.Savvy?"
"Sure," I said, trying for Soda's sake to keep the sarcasmout of my voice.
"Soda?"
"Yeah?"
"How come you dropped out?" I never have gotten overthat. I could hardly stand it when he left school.
"'Cause I'm dumb. The only things I was passing anywaywere auto mechanics and gym."
"You're not dumb."
"Yeah, I am. Shut up and I'll tell you something. Don'ttell Darry, though."
"Okay."
"I think I'm gonna marry Sandy. After she gets out ofschool and I get a better job and everything. I might waittill you get out of school, though. So I can still help Darrywith the bills and stuff."
"Tuff enough. Wait till I get out, though, so you cankeep Darry off my back."
"Don't be like that, kid. I told you he don't mean half ofwhat he says ..."
"You in love with Sandy? What's it like?"
"Hhhmmm." He sighed happily. "It's real nice."
In a moment his breathing was light and regular. Iturned my head to look at him and in the moonlight helooked like some Greek god come to earth. I wonderedhow he could stand being so handsome. Then I sighed. Ididn't quite get what he meant about Darry. Darry thoughtI was just another mouth to feed and somebody to hollerat. Darry love me? I thought of those hard, pale eyes. Sodawas wrong for once, I thought. Darry doesn't love anyoneor anything, except maybe Soda. I didn't hardly think ofhim as being human. I don't care, I lied to myself, I don'tcare about him either. Soda's enough, and I'd have himuntil I got out of school. I don't care about Darry. But I wasstill lying and I knew it. I lie to myself all the time. But Inever believe me.
Continues...
Excerpted from The Outsidersby S. E. Hinton Copyright © 2005 by S. E. Hinton. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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