A Boy Named Pony - A Sequel to East West Sunset

Chapter Five - Ponyboy

There was that simmering itch beneath my skin again - no matter how far or how fast I ran I never left it behind me. 

Something needed to happen or I would go insane. Things had changed so much in the past year or so that I got addicted to the evolution, like being hooked on cocaine. I loved the adrenaline, the uncertainty, of never knowing what was going to happen next - the thrill of the kill or the burn of my fist against someone's cheekbone - the rumble of violence or the spark of meeting a new person. Yeah, that was addicting. I couldn't get enough. I needed it like some guys need to puff on a cigarette or swig a couple beers.

Darry and Soda were softening, or so I thought at the time. I saw their content grins and peaceful gaits and read complacency within them. I sneered at it because I thought I was better than them. I would never be so stuck in a rut, even if that rut was blooming with flowers and flowing with perfection. I had to keep moving forward, moving on. 

Somehow that idea got all tied up with the idea of Betty Anne in my mind. She would help meet that need for me - that need for something to happen.

At school on Monday morning, I opened my locker to find that someone had tucked a little note in through the vents. It fluttered to my feet as I opened the door, as weightless as a feather, and my heart jumped a bit. Who on earth had left me a note?

My heart pounded out the hope that perhaps it was Betty Anne, but then I remembered her shy aversion to my gaze and her quick release of my hand. No, she wasn't that type of girl. It was probably a note from one of my admirers - Cynthia, maybe. I wouldn't even read it.

I scooped up the thin piece of paper and shoved it into my backpack without a second look. It was soft brown paper, the kind that comes in the sketchbooks the school gives out for art class, and whoever had written on it had folded it neatly in half. Little smudges of pencil lead darkened the paper around the fold, almost as if someone had run their graphite-dusted fingertips across it. In spite of myself, I remembered how Betty Anne's fingers had glimmered with the same type of stuff - like a fairy. She was an artist. Maybe she had written the note!

Encouraged again, I dug the letter back out of my bag and unfolded it. Sure enough, when my eyes snapped straight to the signature, it bore her name - Betty Anne Kay. The "Anne" was shaky, unsure, as if she weren't used to writing it out; my ego swelled as I guessed she had written it out because that's what I called her. My ego, and something else - I felt warmth tighten around my chest as I imagined her, smiling a bit to herself, carefully tracing out her name. My name for her.

Dear Ponyboy,

She remembered my name - !

I wanted to drop a line to thank you and your brother for giving me a ride last Friday. It was real nice of you to go out of your way for me. I thought maybe I could treat you to a pop to thank you more properly. If you're free after school?

See you around.

- Betty Anne Kay.

A pop! Betty Anne went and asked me for a pop! While I couldn't deny that I was excited, a part of me pouted that I hadn't been the one to ask her out first. I searched through the letter again. Was it a date? She hadn't really said, but I decided to interpret it as such, at least until she expressly said otherwise. I guessed I had misjudged her. She had a lot more gumption than I'd given her credit for - maybe she wasn't so shy after all!

I glanced around the crowded hallway, searching for her round face and soft ponytail. Where was she right now? She couldn't be too far away, if she had just put the letter in my locker that morning. I couldn't wait to find her, look right into her eyes, and say, "Hey, how's it going, Betty Anne? About that pop..."