Come Down From Your Fences

Chapter 28

"Ponyboy, I need to talk to you for a minute." Teachers really have no idea the hold they have over their students. How ten simple words, said with the wrong inflection or lack of emotion, can cause seconds, even minutes of panic. Talk to me? What did I do? Am I still failing? Did I screw up the test so badly that Mr. Syme thinks I need to be pulled from his class immediately, even though there are only a few weeks left of school, so what should it matter anyway? Darry's gonna kill me.

Okay, maybe I'm getting a little melodramatic here, Pony admitted to himself as he stood in front of Mr. Syme's desk - waiting for the last of his classmates to exit the room. It took them forever; one girl had to double back and grab the purse she'd left dangling from her chair. Ponyboy almost let out a groan when she hurried back into the room - he felt like he was being executed by a firing squad that kept restarting their countdown.

As soon as the door closed, Mr. Syme opened his desk drawer and pulled out a black and white composition book. He laid his hand over the cover, obscuring the name written on it from Ponyboy's view. Ponyboy had a feeling he knew what it was though - it was his theme. He recognized the creases down the spine, how the edges of some of the pages were tinged a faint brown from the Pepsi he'd accidentally spilled, and how the one corner had been folded over by accident while he'd been bent over his desk, writing furiously. He'd tried to repair the damage - straighten out the corner, blot away the soda - so it didn't look like he was handing in something old and battered. It hadn't worked.

"Ponyboy," Mr. Syme said as he looked up at the nervous teenager, "this is some of the best writing any student has ever presented to me."

Pony didn't answer him at first; it was taking the words a few moments to work their way from his ears to his brain. He knew he was standing there with a stupid look on his face - eyes wide and glassy, mouth hanging open like he was trying to catch flies - but he couldn't help it. He was tempted to ask his teacher to repeat what he said, just to make sure he wasn't going crazy.

"R-really?" he managed to stutter in response. Mr. Syme smiled warmly as he picked up the book and handed it to him. The notebook felt heavy in his hands - the weight of all those words bearing down on him.

"I was truly honored that you wanted to share this story with me." Pony carefully opened the cover; a grade and comments were scrawled across the title page in red ink. The grade was an A and he felt his chest swell with pride. Darry - he couldn't wait to tell Darry. He imagined coming home, walking up to his big brother, presenting him with the composition book, waiting in anticipation for him to open it and see the grade and read the comments. He knew he wouldn't though - showing Darry his paper would mean he would want to read it. Pony didn't think either one of them was ready for that yet.

He and Darry were getting along a lot better now, certainly better than a year ago. But their relationship seemed tenuous, like the littlest thing could break it and there would be no way to put it back together this time. Some of the things he'd written, some of the stuff he'd felt at the time ...well, he didn't want to give Darry a reason to hate him again. How screwed up was it that he found it easier to share this stuff with his teacher - a guy he barely knew - than with his own brother?

"I know we discussed your grade, and that I told you I would give you a C." Ponyboy nodded mutely in agreement. "Well, I think that I could be convinced to up that to a B, as long as you don't spread around the rumor that I've gone soft in my old age."

Pony slowly smiled. "I think I can handle that." He gathered up the rest of his books and prepared to head for the door when Mr. Syme stopped him again.

"Wait, Ponyboy. There's one more thing ..."

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The lady was staring at him. Well, maybe not staring, but Johnny could feel her eyes on him. She'd look up from her desk, glance quickly at him, then slide her eyes to his chair, and then return her attention to the papers she was shuffling around. She kept doing it, over and over again, and all Johnny could think of were the "Lather, Rinse, Repeat" instructions on shampoo bottles. It was all getting to be very uncomfortable and he forced himself to keep his eyes down, trained on his sneakers, as he silently wished that he could become invisible.