Ponyboy was 8 when his parents died. The cops had shown up at his elementary school along with a social worker whose hair was twisted tight and who had sharp features and heels that clicked as she moved. She told him that his parents were gone and he’d be placed with a new family quickly.
Well, one family turned into two, which turned into three, and before he knew it, he was one family number seven. He ever lasted too long in each house. There was something about the way most of them were, too organized, too alone, not really ever home.
He felt like he was always a stranger. Like a shadow who lurked around each new family he stayed with. And honestly, none of the families made him feel too welcome.
Some tried. Tried to open their arms and welcome him in, but he learned fast it was always too good to be true. Soon enough each one would give up, decide they couldn’t deal with a kid who woke up screaming from nightmares. A kid who couldn’t control his tongue. A kid who constantly daydreamed and ached for a better life than what he got.
So here he was, 13 and a half, and on the front porch of family number eight. The social worker, Amy, still with the same tight twist in her hair and sharp nose with her thin glasses, had warned him that this one would be much different. The guy taking him this time was young and had just been approved.
Ponyboy wasn’t sure what he expected, but it sure wasn’t the sight of a man who couldn’t have been older than 22, with messy curls and big eye bags and grease stains on his cheek.
The man stuck his hand out and shook the social worker’s before turning to Pony and giving him a tired smile.
“You must be Ponyboy. I’m Darrel, but feel free to call me Darry, it’s what my kid brother and his friends do”
Ponyboy braced himself for the laugh that always followed when someone said his name. He understood, I mean, what kinda name was Ponyboy? And maybe it’s because he got defensive fast in the system, but something about the lack of a laugh made Pony stiffen even more before muttering out,
“Ain’t you gonna laugh”
At that, Darrel did chuckle,
“Ponyboy, I got a kid brother named Sodapop. I ain’t gonna laugh at your name”
And with that, Ponyboy finally stepped into the small house and breathed in the air, smelling chocolate cake, oil, cigarettes, and something he would later become oh so familiar with, but still only able to describe as a smell that was so distinctly Curtis that it made him feel safe in a way he hadn’t in years.
