The Outsiders Imagines, Preferences and One Shots

Ponyboy's Family- A One Shot

I didn't know what to call this one...

Mom always wanted to draw with me. She was an artist who could sit at the kitchen table for hours, one piece of paper and some crayons, and not get up once until it's perfect. Darry would be out playing sports. Dad would love to go to movies with me. He was into pop culture, trying to stay cool and in the loop with today's things. Soda would rather hang out with Steve, his best friend, who really just thinks of me as a tag along kid. Mom would sit and read with me too. She'd sit next to me on the couch, getting through entire books, longer than mine in under an hour. She was smart. Sodapop could barely read, and Darry just didn't have the interest for it.

I'm sure Soda would have tried, at least for a little while if I had asked, but Darry never cared enough too, even when he was a kid. He was always with friends, or doing homework, or at football practice or something, just so he didn't have to spend time with me. But it was okay, because I had the rest of the gang, Johnny and Two-Bit and Dally -who I didn't really like as much as the others- and Mom and Dad were my best friends. They did everything for me, everything with me. And I was happy.

And then Mom and Dad died. I'll never forget the smell of Mom's reddish brown hair as I leaned on it while we read our books, like lilacs and honey. Like happiness and love. I'll never forget the way Dad would smile at me after a movie and ask what I thought of it. The way we just discussed. We forgot about the world around us for a little while. It was just us.

I craved those two things more than anything. More than anyone could ever imagine, especially at the funeral. I bawled like a baby, and Darry just stood there, face cold as stone. Like he didn't notice it all happening around him. Like he didn't care.

Sodapop had a hard time holding it together, but he did for the most part. I think he was having a hard time believing it was happening. He cried that whole night, I could hear him. I don't think Darry shed one tear.

Darry wasn't Dad. As hard as he tried to be, he never would be. He hated me. Or so I always thought.

Soda tried to be like my mom, sitting with me when I drew, just hanging out with me. He took care of me like Mom used to, while Dad provided for us and hung out when he could. Like Darry, I guess. Except he never had time to hang out with us.

I remember Darry's voice cracking at the funeral, like he was about to get choked up. He closed his eyes, stopped talking for a second. He took a long, deep breath, and then went on with what he had prepared like it was nothing. I couldn't get up there myself, I just couldn't bring myself to. Soda said no one blamed me, but I was a really good writer, and always thought I should have said something great about then.