A Boy Named Pony - A Sequel to East West Sunset

Chapter Eight - Betty

Friday morning, I woke up fifteen minutes late and had to scramble out the door. My father, surprisingly, didn't comment on my tardiness, but he gave me a cold stare over the rim of his coffee mug. I knew I couldn't depend on him for a ride - I'd have to make the bus, or else I'd have to walk the forty blocks to school.

I raked a brush through my weak blonde hair and fluffed my bangs with my fingers. It was pretty much a lost cause, but I didn't have time to curl them. I buttoned my blouse, smoothed my corduroy miniskirt, and stepped into a pair of boxy black pumps. Luckily, my bag was waiting, already packed, next to the door, and I swept out the front door without a minute to spare.

"You can do the breakfast dishes after school, then!" my father hollered after me. I ground my teeth. I hadn't had a bite to eat that morning, even, but for some reason I was still expected to clean up after his meal. I didn't respond; I just booked it for the corner of our street, where the bus was due to pull up in - I glanced at my watch - less than two minutes. By some miracle, I was going to make it! Thank god. I couldn't afford to walk to school, and be late for first period. First period was art, and if I lost any of that time ... the rest of the day would simply not be survivable.

I sank into the first slightly smelly, mysteriously stained faux leather seat that was open as soon as the bus puffed up to the curb. The spotted glass window had been opened a crack, and the cool, late September air whooshed across my sadly disheveled bangs as the bus roared away again. 

We arrived at the high school ten minutes later. The parking lot swarmed with kids hopping out of cars and buses and making their way to the front doors. I shivered a bit as I stepped off of the bus; I'd been in such a rush, I'd forgotten to grab a sweater on my way out the door. 

"Hey, Betty Anne!"

Immediately, I was warmed from the inside out by the sound of a familiar voice. I spun around to see Ponyboy Curtis waving at me from the midst of the crush.

I smiled and raised my hand to wave back, embarrassed to call out to him with so many other people milling about.

He maneuvered through the other students until he found his way to my side. His grin - characteristically lopsided like a panting puppy's - strengthened the warmth spreading through the bottom of my stomach. "You look cold, Betty Anne. Don't you have a sweater or something?" He shrugged off his letterman's jacket and extended it to me. "Here, take mine."

"Oh, no, that's okay. I'm right comfortable. We're only outside for just a minute," I assured him. I imagined being wrapped in his large, heavy jacket, which probably smelled just like him (like a metal slide at a playground that was wet with rain, mixed with the soft aroma of violets), and blushed furiously.

"If you're sure, Betty Anne," he said. I ignored his self-satisfied grin at my burning cheeks and crossed my arms over my chest. "What?" he chuckled. "Grab my arm and I'll walk you inside."

"Don't get too cocky, Ponyboy Curtis. We ain't going steady yet," I reminded him, but I took his arm anyway. This was going to drive all those girls nuts - I could hear their jealous, hissing whispers already.

"Dammit, you're right! Well, we might as well go steady then, right?" Pony suggested, his lack of subtlety hidden behind a charming front of pride.

"Give me a little more time to think it over," I told him.

Pony frowned, obviously crestfallen. "All right. If you think you need to."

"Don't worry, it's not 'cause ... I just need some time," I attempted to explain, without succeeding. 

What was holding me back? I was so happy when I was around Ponyboy - happier than I'd ever been in Tulsa before, that was for sure. He gave me the same tender, fuzzy feeling inside that spending the summer in the country did. When I was with him, I felt like I could breathe clean good air again, and the clamor of the city faded to inconsequential background noise whenever I was at his side. What was keeping me from taking the next step? My parents' failed marriage, perhaps; I'd grown up caught in the battlefield that ensued after honeymoon love turned from sweet to sour. But I'd seen positive relationships, too, like my mother's marriage to my stepfather. So that couldn't be it.