Chapter Text
The front door had barely creaked open when Ponyboy Curtis was greeted by the unmistakable sound of Steve Randle yelling over someone else’s voice.
“I’m tellin’ you, if he can’t handle the clutch, he shouldn’t be on the road!”
“Oh sure,” came Two-Bit’s drawl, “next thing you’ll say is if he can’t do a handbrake turn, he ain’t a real man.”
Ponyboy stepped inside, eyebrows lifting at the noise. The living room looked like it had exploded into some kind of Greaser debate arena. Steve was perched on the arm of the couch, gesturing wildly like a coach explaining a play. Two-Bit was sprawled horizontally across the cushions, boots on the coffee table, a half-empty bag of chips balancing on his stomach.
Sodapop leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, sandwich in one hand, laughing like he was watching a comedy show. Darry stood dead center in the room, arms crossed, looking like he was one sarcastic comment away from throwing everyone out. His jaw was tight, eyes flicking back and forth like he was mentally assigning chores as punishment.
And in the recliner, shrinking like he wanted the cushions to swallow him whole, was Johnny Cade – small, quiet, and visibly regretting whatever decision had landed him in the middle of it all.
Ponyboy shut the door with a soft click and stepped further inside.
“Uh… did I miss something?” he asked cautiously.
Steve twisted around to grin at him, “not much. Just planning Johnny’s eventual death.”
“By milk car,” Two-Bit added helpfully, tossing a chip in the air and missing his mouth by a good foot, “it’ll be tragic. Headlines’ll say, ‘Tulsa Teen Taken Too Soon by Terrible Turn Signal Timing.’”
Johnny blinked, unsure whether to laugh or run.
Sodapop took a bite of his sandwich and spoke around it, “we’re teachin’ him to drive.”
Ponyboy glanced from the peanut butter on Sodapop’s cheek to the sheer chaos in front of him, “is that what this is?”
“It’s a discussion,” Darry said, teeth clenched. A poorly timed one at that, he should’ve waited to bring up the subject until later, when the less ‘excitable’ of the gang were out.
“It’s a travesty,” Steve corrected, “Johnny deserves better than Darry’s Death by Rulebook plan.”
Two-Bit chimed in, “or Soda’s ‘just feel the road, man’ theory.”
Johnny let out a nervous laugh that came out more like a wheeze.
Ponyboy sighed and dropped his schoolbag by the door, “you guys do know there are actual driving instructors, right? Like, licensed ones?”
Steve shrugged, “where’s the fun in that?”
Johnny met Ponyboy’s eyes and gave a tiny shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching like maybe – just maybe – he was in on the joke.
Ponyboy wasn’t sure what he’d just walked into.
But he had a bad feeling he wasn’t walking out of it anytime soon.
The shouting had eventually died down to grumbles and overlapping complaints. Darry stood like a referee between Steve and Soda, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he could massage patience into existence.
Johnny stayed quiet.
He sat curled into the recliner like it would protect him, hands fiddling with a loose thread on his jeans. His eyes darted from face to face as the debate roared over his head, like he wasn’t even there.
“Come on, Johnnycake,” Steve said, tossing an arm over the back of the couch, “you can’t keep bumming rides off people forever.”
“Yeah,” Soda added, grinning, “what if you gotta make a quick getaway from a bad date?”
Two-Bit wiggled his eyebrows, “or a really good one.”
That got a weak chuckle from Johnny, but it didn’t completely reach his eyes.
“I dunno,” he said finally, voice barely loud enough to be heard, “I guess… it’d be good to know how. Just in case.”
Ponyboy, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, caught the way Johnny’s fingers clenched slightly. The room didn’t seem to notice, but Ponyboy did. He noticed the way Johnny looked down when he spoke. The way he swallowed hard, like the words tasted strange coming out.
Just in case.
Ponyboy knew what that meant.
It wasn’t about joyrides or showing off. It was about control. About having a way out if he ever needed one. About feeling like he wasn’t stuck – like he could move, leave, drive himself away from something bad if it ever came too close again.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Ponyboy said quietly.
Johnny glanced over at him, surprised.
“You should know how to drive,” Ponyboy continued, “everybody should.”
For a moment, Johnny looked like he might back out. But then he gave a small nod. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll do it.”
That single sentence lit a firestorm of opinions.
Steve whooped, clapping Johnny on the shoulder. Sodapop declared he was taking the first teaching shift. Darry immediately overruled him. Two-Bit offered up his car with a sweeping bow like a game show host. Dally offered to win him a car at the races.
The room might as well have been a racetrack – everyone revving their engines, eager to prove their way was the only way. Ponyboy took a seat on the arm of the recliner, half to be near Johnny, half to keep out of the verbal crossfire.
Darry, predictably, was the first to cut through the noise. “If Johnny’s going to learn, he’s going to learn the right way,” he said firmly. His arms were crossed, and his jaw set in a way that made Ponyboy wonder how he hadn’t yet worn down all his teeth, “that means rules. Diagrams. Lesson plans.”
Sodapop groaned, “Darry, you make it sound like he’s going to driver’s ed.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Darry shot back, “you don’t just toss someone the keys and hope for the best. You start with the basics. Ten and two. Checking mirrors. Understanding right of way. No distractions.”
Steve let out a bark of laughter, “ten and two? What is he, a mannequin? Nobody actually drives like that.”
“They should,” Darry said, his tone making it clear the argument was not up for debate.
Sodapop slouched against the kitchen doorway, grinning, “see, Johnny, that’s one way to do it. But me? Driving’s about feel. It’s about listening to the car, being one with the road.” He spread his arms wide like he was describing a love affair, “you gotta feel it.”
Johnny blinked, “feel… the car?”
“Exactly!” Sodapop beamed, “when I was learning, I didn’t bother with lessons. I just took Dad’s car out into the field and went. No streets, no traffic – just me, the steering wheel, and a couple fences that didn’t survive.”
“Couple?” Darry repeated, glaring.
Sodapop waved him off, “point is, Johnnycake, it’s instinct. You’ll get the hang of it once you stop thinking so hard.”
Johnny didn’t look convinced.
Steve snorted, leaning forward on the couch arm, “instinct doesn’t mean squat if you can’t work a clutch. Real drivers learn on stick. Automatic’s for little kids and people too scared to stall.”
“Oh, here we go,” Two-Bit muttered, grabbing the chip bag.
Steve ignored him, eyes locked on Johnny, “you gotta know the gears. What you gotta feel the clutch under your foot, the engine humming when you shift just right. That’s what separates drivers from passengers. Rolling starts, uphill stalls, double-clutching – you master those, you’re golden.”
“Or,” Two-Bit cut in, crumbs spraying as he talked, “you could just drive my car.”
Everyone groaned in unison.
Two-Bit grinned, completely unfazed, “don’t knock it! She’s a beauty. Sure, she’s got character, but that’s part of the charm. You talk sweet to her, she purrs like a kitten. You get rough, she screams like a banshee. Either way, she’s teaching you something.”
“Teaching you how to call a tow car,” Steve muttered.
“Or walk home,” Darry added.
“Hey, hey,” Two-Bit said, holding up his hands, “she’s reliable. I mean, as long as you don’t shift into third too fast, or brake too hard, or take left turns on a Thursday.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching, “on a Thursday?”
“It’s a long story,” Two-Bit leaned back, looking pleased with himself, “point is, no better car for breaking in a new driver. She’ll toughen you up.”
Sodapop chuckled, “or break down before he even starts.”
The room filled with overlapping chatter again – Darry rattling off rules, Sodapop waxing poetic about freedom, Steve swearing by clutches, Two-Bit swearing by his junker and Dally highlighting the rush given by winning a drag race.
Ponyboy sat back, watching Johnny’s head swivel from one voice to the next. Poor guy looked like he’d been dropped in the middle of a storm without an umbrella. Still, there was a flicker in his eyes – a mix of nerves and excitement, like maybe he wanted to believe them all at once.
Ponyboy hid a smile. This was going to be chaos. Absolute chaos.
And somehow, that made it better.
By the time the arguing slowed down, the living room looked like a storm had blown through it – chips scattered, soda bottles sweating rings onto the coffee table, and five sets of eyes on Johnny like he was the crown jewel of some prize fight.
“Well,” Darry said, his voice firm enough to cut through the chatter, “if this is really happening, then we’re doing it the right way. As I said – I’m going first.”
Steve groaned from his perch on the couch arm, “of course you are.”
“Of course I am,” Darry repeated, unfazed, “Johnny needs a foundation. You don’t build a house without laying the beams first, and you don’t learn to drive without rules. If he doesn’t get the basics drilled in, all he’s going to remember are your bad habits.”
“That’s rude,” Sodapop said, though he was smiling, “I’ve got great habits.”
“You’ve got instincts,” Darry corrected, “which is not the same as habits.”
Sodapop leaned back against the doorframe, smirking, “fine, then I’m second. I’ll balance out your boring textbook talk with some real experience.”
“Real experience,” Darry muttered, “like knocking down fence posts.”
Sodapop only grinned wider.
“I call third,” Steve cut in quickly, like he was afraid someone else would swipe the spot from him. “By then, Johnny’ll be ready to level up. No more kiddie wheels – time for the clutch,” he clapped his hands like it was already settled, “I’ll make a real driver out of him.”
Two-Bit stretched out on the couch like a king claiming his throne, “well, that makes me number four. Perfect. Four’s lucky. Besides, I want him to get a taste of my car after he’s got the basics down. Bonus round, you know? The grand finale.”
“Your car’s more like a punishment than a prize,” Steve muttered.
“She’s got character,” Two-Bit fired back with a sniff, as if that ended the argument.
Nobody noticed at first that Dally, who’d been sprawled in the recliner like he owned the place, hadn’t said a word. Finally, he smirked, “guess that makes me last.”
“Last?” Johnny asked softly.
“Yeah. By then you’ll know enough not to kill us both. You’ll get the crash course – literally, if you mess up,” Dally grinned wickedly, “besides, save the best for last, right?”
Johnny shook his head, torn between amusement and nerves.
That was when Pony realized every set of eyes had landed on him. He froze, “what?”
“You’re coming, too,” Sodapop announced cheerfully.
“Why me?” Ponyboy protested.
“Because we need a witness,” Two-Bit said, as if it were obvious, “somebody’s gotta keep score of who teaches best.”
“And someone to make sure nobody cheats,” Steve added.
“And,” Sodapop said, ruffling Pony’s hair, “you’ll learn a thing or two just by watching. Might come in handy someday. And besides, you gotta be prepared for your turn behind the wheel.”
Ponyboy crossed his arms, “so I’m the peanut gallery?”
“Exactly,” Two-Bit said, pointing at him like he’d just nailed the right answer on a quiz show.
Ponyboy sighed but didn’t argue further. Truth was, he didn’t mind. Watching Johnny stumble through all their shenanigans might actually teach him something. And maybe, just maybe, when it came time for him to slide behind the wheel, he wouldn’t feel as clueless.
He glanced at Johnny, who looked pale but determined. If Johnny could say yes to all this chaos, Ponyboy figured he could survive being the witness.
Still, as Darry folded his arms with finality, Ponyboy couldn’t help thinking one thing:
If Darry’s first, how bad could it be?
The noise slowly drained out of the Curtis house as the gang scattered. Steve mumbled something about heading home for supper, Two-Bit announced a candy run, and Sodapop disappeared into the kitchen to raid the fridge. Even Dally eventually wandered out, muttering that he had “things to do,” though Pony figured that just meant leaning against a lamppost somewhere brooding.
For the first time that evening, the living room was quiet.
Johnny stayed put, hunched in the corner of the couch with his hands twisting up the fringe of a throw blanket. He looked smaller than he had during the chaos, as if all the bravado of agreeing to the plan had drained out of him now that the spotlight had shifted.
“You okay?” Ponyboy asked, dropping into the armchair across from him.
Johnny gave a little shrug, “yeah. I just… I don’t know if I made a mistake sayin’ yes. What if I mess it up?” His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the hush of the room.
Ponyboy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “you ain’t messin’ anything up. Everyone starts somewhere. Darry didn’t come out of the womb knowing how to drive.”
Johnny gave him a side look, like he wasn’t convinced.
“You wanna know the truth?” Ponyboy went on, “I think it’s cool you said yes. You’re just tryin’ to grow up, you know? Learn something new. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
Johnny’s hands stilled on the blanket, “guess I just wanna… not always have to rely on somebody else. Be able to get where I need to go. Might make me feel safer, if I could drive myself.”
Ponyboy felt that hit deeper than Johnny probably meant it to. He nodded, “makes sense.” After a pause, he added, “and hey, you’ve got all of us backing you up. Even if that means five different ways of teaching.”
That earned the faintest smile from Johnny, “yeah. Five different headaches.”
Ponyboy grinned, “careful, Darry might give you pop quizzes after every lesson. ‘Name all the rules of the road, and if you miss one, no dinner.’”
Johnny chuckled under his breath, “if that happens, I’ll just cheat off Soda. He don’t follow rules anyway.”
They both broke into laughter then, and Ponyboy glanced at Johnny again, saw the way his shoulders had eased, and thought: Yeah. This might actually be good for him.
And for himself, too.
That night, Ponyboy tried to focus on his English homework, but the words on the page blurred into shapes that looked suspiciously like steering wheels and road signs. He leaned back in his chair, pencil balanced behind his ear and let his mind wander.
He could see it already – Johnny gripping the wheel like it might bite him, Darry barking instructions from the passenger seat, Sodapop hollering encouragement from the back, Steve shouting about the clutch, and Two-Bit cackling like a madman. Dally – he’d be cool like he always was. The whole gang crammed into some poor car, louder than the engine itself.
Ponyboy smirked at the thought. No way this will end quietly.
With a sigh, he shoved his textbook aside and pulled a spiral notebook closer. Across the top of the page, he scrawled:
HOW TO DRIVE: THE OFFICIAL GUIDE FOR GREASERS
Underneath, he wrote the first entry:
- Darry – Hands at 10 and 2. No exceptions.
He tapped his pencil against the paper, imagining what other “rules” would follow once everyone had their turn. Sodapop’s would probably be something like “Feel the road, man.” Steve’s would involve a lecture about stick shifts. Two-Bit’s? Something about sweet-talking the car.
Ponyboy shook his head, grinning despite himself. Johnny didn’t know what he’d signed up for.
Then again, maybe none of them did.
He shut the notebook with a quiet snap and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
“How bad could it be?” he muttered.
Famous last words.