A Boy Named Pony - A Sequel to East West Sunset

Chapter Seventeen - Ponyboy

I saw that I'd clearly upset Betty Anne, so for the next two weeks I went to school consistently and tried to forget all about the Shepherd gang. It was easier since none of them attempted to call me again. I thought that would be the end of it, and went about my life, able to breathe again.

By the time the end of November rolled around, people stopped pretending to care about other things and openly discussed the draft. Talk of it was everywhere: in the halls, in classrooms, in the cafeteria at lunch. Everyone couldn't seem to move past that in the next few days, we'd find out which ones of our brothers, fathers, boyfriends, friends would be shipped off to war. I nervously avoided the issue whenever it was brought up. Betty Anne noticed and never mentioned it around me, which I appreciated. 

When the day finally came, December 1st, even the teachers were distracted. My US History teacher gave us a free period to do whatever we wanted with, since she said she was too strung up to teach. She told us that she had six brothers and a fiance, and she was sure at least one of them would end up serving. I felt bad for her; she looked exhausted, worried sick. She sat at her desk and wrote a letter for the whole period, telling us to get caught up on any work we needed to. Instead of working on my homework, though, I stared out the window, watching the dry, brown grass on the front lawn ripple like cloth in the wind.

In math, the teacher gave us a singular worksheet on polynomial expressions and spent the rest of the period explaining how the draft lottery worked. Most of us listened, but it was damn confusing - something to do with birthdates and being assigned a number from 1 to 366, and then numbers being drawn based on that. I didn't fully understand and neither did anyone else. 

One of the Soc girls raised her hand and asked the teacher what the likelihood of being chosen in the lottery was.

"They want to draft about 500,000 men across the country with this draft," the teacher said, "and from what I've heard, about 10 million men registered for the draft. Anyone care to do the math for those odds?"

That's a five percent chance, I realized, with a sick swooping sensation in my stomach. It was higher than I'd expected - five out of every hundred men would be drafted.

"Five percent," the Soc girl answered.

The teacher nodded. "Yes, about that. I don't want to freak y'all out, but it's likely more than a few people you know will be drafted."

It was the only time I'd heard the math room go completely silent. Even the boys who usually popped gum and guffawed in the back stopped what they were doing to listen.

"Yeah, well, if you've got the dough, you don't have to go," a Soc boy murmured nervously. "Ain't that how a lot of folks are getting out of it? You can just pay your way out."

"Yeah, that's if  you got the money," a Greaser input indignantly.

"Damn Soc." Bryon, who was sitting next to me, crossed his arms and set his jaw, muttering under his breath. "He wouldn't even consider not having that kind of money."

"That's a whole other conversation," the teacher warned. He turned back to the blackboard at the front of the room. "Anyway, back to polynomial expressions. Does anybody want to come up and solve number six?"

The rest of the periods passed much in the same way. The teachers recognized that all of us were worried plumb out of our minds and went easy on us. I had no homework, a phenomenon which hadn't occurred since middle school.

I walked Betty Anne out to her bus as soon as school let out. She didn't look too worried - both her dad and stepdad were too old to be drafted, after all - but before she boarded the bus she made me promise to call her later that night.