Work Text:
August 1966
“Will you pass me my comb?” Ponyboy asked, making eye contact with Darry in the mirror.
After rinsing his razor in the sink, Darry grabbed the comb from the other side of the counter and handed it over.
“Thanks.” He scooped up a glob of hair grease and got to work while Darry continued shaving, humming to himself.
Pony couldn’t help but smile. These quiet, everyday moments were nice — he enjoyed simply existing in the same space as his brother as they got ready for work side-by-side.
His contentment didn’t last long, though. A moment later, Darry nudged him with an elbow, giving him a pointed look. “Your boss still good with you cuttin’ back once school starts next week?”
He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “For the hundredth time, yes.”
“You can’t blame him for askin’!” Soda chimed in from the direction of the kitchen. “That Mr. Lawrence sure is a character.”
“You can say that again.” Pony raised his voice for Soda’s sake.
What an understatement that was. Mr. Lawrence was exactly the type of guy Ponyboy expected to own a used bookstore on the east side of Tulsa, which was to say that he was… eccentric.
He was extremely old — old enough to have fought in both World Wars, and possibly the Civil War, too. From the way he talked about the Lincoln administration, it was honestly hard to tell whether he’d lived through it or just had a very active imagination.
Most of the time, he couldn’t tell you what day it was, but he could rattle off everything there was to know about the mating habits of the yellow-crested warbler. He saw and heard things no one else did but was constantly misplacing his glasses. His clothes were expensive, but ill-fitting and rarely matched.
All that to say, he was either very confused or lived on a higher plane of existence than everyone else. Ponyboy couldn’t definitively rule out LSD.
Anyway, Mr. Lawrence must have been lucid enough to realize that he needed someone younger and spry-er to do things like pick up heavy boxes and rearrange shelves, because he’d posted a Help Wanted sign in the window last May.
After begging Darry for permission, Ponyboy had become the one and only applicant. He figured not too many guys from the east side wanted to spend their summer cooped up in a dusty old bookstore, but Pony didn’t mind it. In fact, he preferred it to laying around at home all day, which is what he told Mr. Lawrence when he turned in his application. Whether he had recognized Ponyboy as a frequent customer or was just desperate was anyone’s guess, but Mr. Lawrence hired him on the spot.
So Ponyboy officially had a job. Darry only allowed him to work fifteen hours a week, though — he wanted Pony to still have plenty of time to do normal kid things with his summer vacation, like pal around with Two-Bit and sleep in ‘til noon. And when school was in session, his limit went down to ten hours. Darry had eased up on the pressure recently, but he still made it very clear that his schoolwork came first. Luckily, Mr. Lawrence, despite his eccentricities, seemed to agree.
To Darry, Ponyboy continued, “But yeah, I promise he’s okay with it. I’m only scheduled for ten hours next week.”
Darry nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Alright. You runnin’ to work? Or do you want a ride?”
“Runnin’, of course,” he replied.
The bookstore was almost exactly a mile from their house, which meant it was perfect for Pony to get some running practice in over the summer. Since he’d started smoking less back at the start of the spring track season, he was steadily getting closer to the speeds he’d reached before the fire. The withdrawals sucked big-time, but he’d shaved nearly thirty seconds off his mile since school let out, so he figured it was worth it.
Patting his face dry with a towel, Darry told him, “You keep this up, you’re gonna be the fastest kid on the team.”
Pony grinned at him, giving his hair one last floof in the mirror. “That’s the goal.”
And with that, he was off, letting the front door slam closed behind him.
He ran the familiar path to the bookstore, the rhythm of his feet on the sidewalk as natural as breathing. He was pretty sure he could make it there with his eyes closed at that point, but decided not to, if only for Darry’s sake. That would definitely count as not using his head, he mused.
Before long, he arrived at his destination: a crumbling brick building that, according to Mr. Lawrence, had been home to a dentist’s office, a butcher shop, and a Prohibition-era speakeasy over the decades. But ever since Ponyboy could remember, it had been home to East Tulsa’s largest collection of used books.
Pony had loved coming here as a kid, saving up his nickels and dimes to buy dog-eared copies of The Bobbsey Twins and The Hardy Boys. Even when his pockets were empty, he’d liked to go inside and just browse, letting the scent of musty old paper wash over him and getting lost in the endless stacks.
That familiar scent greeted him as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, and he took a deep inhale, savoring it. The morning light streamed in through the windows, catching the dust as it danced through the air.
After allowing himself a minute to catch his breath, he busied himself with his usual tasks: turning on the truly excessive number of lamps in every corner, counting the cash in the register, choosing a record from Mr. Lawrence’s collection of smooth jazz albums, and flipping the sign from “closed” to “open”.
How the store had remained in business this long was anyone’s guess. They sure didn’t get very many customers. But that was fine by Pony; it gave him the chance to write, read, draw, and stare off into space. Once school started, he’d have plenty of quiet moments to get his homework done, too, which Darry would surely be thrilled about.
Overall, Ponyboy liked working at the bookstore. It could be boring sometimes, but the free time was a bonus. The unlimited access to thousands of books wasn’t bad, either — it was like a library without due dates or late fees.
But the best part about his job was that Mr. Lawrence didn’t trust banks, which meant he was paid in cash, which meant it was easy to sneak a dollar or two into Darry’s wallet every week.
—
The workday went by without a hitch — with only a couple of customers that day, he was able to finish going through a box of new inventory and even sweep the floor, leaving plenty of time to spare for doodling in his notebook.
“Have I paid you yet this week?” Mr. Lawrence asked that afternoon.
“No, sir,” was Pony’s reply. “Today’s Friday, remember?”
“Ah, yes.” He patted the pockets of his expensive-looking suit pants, which were somehow too big and too short at once and clashed with his magenta turtleneck. At long last, he pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill that looked like it had been through the washer more than once. “Here you go. Don’t spend it all in one place. Unless that place is here, of course. Ha! That reminds me… have I ever told you about that idiot who came in here asking for a first edition of Homer’s Iliad? I said, well, it depends on how much money you’re willing to spend, just to humor him, of course, and he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill…”
Ponyboy had heard this story before. Several times, actually. But he nodded politely, pretending it was the first time, while he let his mind wander to his next scheme.
He’d need to break the twenty, of course. Maybe he could stop by the DX on his way home and buy a chocolate bar. That should give him a couple of one-dollar bills. Plus, he always liked the opportunity to harass Steve at work when he couldn’t retaliate. And he’d take any excuse to eat some chocolate.
But how was he going to pull it off? He’d been slipping the money into Darry’s jacket recently, but Pony didn’t want him to start noticing a pattern, so it was probably time for a new technique. Maybe he could sneak it into the pocket of Darry’s toolbelt after he went to bed. Yeah, that was it.
He imagined Darry putting on his toolbelt tomorrow at work and getting a nice little surprise. It was like all those times when Pony forgot his change in his pocket, only to discover it the next time he wore that pair of pants. He seemed to do that a lot, actually, now that he thought about it. But no matter how many times it happened, it never failed to delight him. He hoped the same was true for Darry. He deserved it.
Focus, Ponyboy told himself, then made a mental list of everything he needed to remember. DX, chocolate bar, make fun of Steve’s hair, wait ‘til bedtime, toolbelt. It was foolproof.
Plan in place, there was nothing left to do but wait.
—
Ponyboy was certainly a better liar than Sodapop, but most of the time, Darry could still tell when his baby brother was hiding something. Like the fact that he kept slipping him money when he thought Darry wasn’t paying attention.
It didn’t take long for Darry to notice the extra dollar that appeared in his wallet every time he complained about the water bill or the way he’d find loose change on the seat of his truck whenever he mentioned he was craving a nice, juicy steak. He kept records of every penny that passed through his hands, for cryin’ out loud — did Pony know nothing about budgeting?
Anyway, Darry appreciated the gesture, but he didn’t need his little brother’s hard-earned cash. And even if he did need it, there was no world in which he’d accept it. It wasn’t Ponyboy’s job to provide for the family.
In truth, they were doing okay financially. They were definitely still poor, but they weren’t in immediate danger of becoming homeless or anything. He’d worked himself to the bone for several months to pay off Pony’s hospital bills before they collected too much interest, so that was one less monthly expense. Plus, Soda had recently been promoted to shift lead at the DX, and Ponyboy didn’t need an allowance anymore now that he was making his own spending money.
So Darry made it his mission to pay Pony back in whatever way he could. He bought extras of his favorites at the grocery store or added a couple bucks to his college fund or surprised him with a candy bar.
And sometimes, he even took a page out of his brother’s book and slipped him the dough when he least expected it.
It was Friday, which meant it was payday for Ponyboy, which meant Darry should be seeing a dollar or two magically appear somewhere that night. Pony thought he was slick, but his head was so lost in the clouds that he didn’t realize Darry was doing the exact same thing to him as he was doing to Darry.
As he nailed yet another line of shingles to the roof, Darry thought back to an evening earlier that summer. He’d snuck a dollar into the pocket of Pony’s favorite jeans after he’d gone to bed the previous night and wanted to know whether he’d gotten away with it.
“You need cash for the movie?” he’d asked, trying his hardest to sound casual.
“Nah. I found a buck in my pocket this mornin’.” Pony had pulled it out to show him, beaming. “Lucky me, right? I musta forgotten I’d put it there.”
Oh, Ponyboy. “You must be the luckiest boy on the planet,” Darry had told him.
“I sure am, with a brother like you.”
“Thanks, bud.” Darry had ruffled his hair before Pony batted his hand away. “But your curfew’s still midnight. You’ve got work tomorrow, remember?”
Ponyboy had rolled his eyes like he always did, but Darry had been able to tell he was biting back a grin.
Despite the summer heat beating down on him, Darry found himself smiling, too, as he remembered the moment. He had been sure Pony had been about to call him out on it, but the kid had been none the wiser. He would worry about how dang spacey his brother was if it weren’t working in his favor.
But now, with Pony starting school next week and cutting back on his work hours, he was definitely gonna need every dollar he earned. Which meant it was time for Darry to come up with a plan to pay him back.
—
Ponyboy lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. From the sound of it, Darry had stayed up to jostle some silverware around in the sink, stomp around the house, and clear his throat a bunch of times. He was truly doing everything but going to bed.
It took a while, but when he hadn’t heard Darry moving around in several minutes, he figured it was finally safe to act. Very carefully, he maneuvered himself out from underneath Soda’s arm, grabbed a couple of one-dollar bills from the desk, and crept out the door.
He felt like James Bond or something. All he needed was a fancy suit and a British accent. A blonde bombshell on his arm wouldn’t hurt, either.
“The name’s Curtis. Ponyboy Curtis,” he muttered to himself in his best impression of Sean Connery. Shaking his head, he started toward the front door, where Darry’s toolbelt was hanging on a nearby hook.
But to get to his destination, he had to pass through the living room, where his plan hit a major snag: Darry hadn’t actually gone to bed like Ponyboy thought. Instead, he was sitting on the couch, rooting around in a basket of clean laundry.
Darry looked up at the sound of his footsteps. Pony stopped short and hurriedly folded his arms, hiding the money in his fist.
“What’re you doin’ up?” Darry asked. He didn’t seem suspicious, which was good.
Think fast. “Bathroom.” The excuse slipped easily off his tongue. “What’re you doin’ up?”
“What does it look like I’m doin’?” Darry gestured toward the basket in front of him. Pony noticed his favorite pair of jeans on top and made a mental note so he could find them tomorrow.
“Go to bed, Dar. The laundry can wait ‘til tomorrow.”
Darry looked between him and the pile of unfolded clothes, working a muscle in his jaw. “Fine,” he sighed before standing up.
“‘Night,” Pony tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom.
He figured he might as well take care of business while he was in there. As he peed, he kept an ear out for Darry. It sounded like he’d gone to his room and shut the door, which meant the coast was clear.
After waiting an extra minute just to be safe, he tiptoed out of the bathroom and to the entryway, where he tucked the cash into the pocket of Darry’s toolbelt, just like he’d planned. It always gave him a thrill, sneaking around like this — it was like a heist, except the opposite.
Satisfaction turning up the corners of his mouth, he padded quietly back to his bedroom and slipped back under the covers. Despite a minor hiccup, he’d completed his mission.
And the best part was, Darry had no idea.