This is Today

Chapter One

Over the next couple of days, my thoughts kept drifting back to the littlest Curtis. I saw him at school a couple of times, but he was never somewhere where I could approach him. He was always either at his locker or reading or in a group of people. I saw him a few times with Curly Shepard, too, so there wasn't a possibility of going over to him then either.
That is, until I saw him walking down the sidewalk on a Saturday afternoon. The sun was still fairly high in the cloudless sky, warming the earth like a blanket. Birds were chirping and small children galloped around the streets –greaser and Soc kids alike– together, laughing and yelling and playing. Of course, like the strange creature he was, Ponyboy has his nose buried in a book with a weak binding and ripped cover.
Casually, I trotted over to him and fell into a steady walk beside him. He didn't even look up, let alone acknowledge my presence.
"Yo, Curtis," I greeter, "you alive over there? Or have you died and your body just keeps walking on it's own– like a chicken?"
He gently muttered something before turning the page in his book and scanning his eyes over it, reading quickly, as if searching for something. I can't imagine what he could've been looking for in some tattered old book. I mean, what could be in there that he wanted to read so bad? The meaning of life? The answers to all unsolvable questions? The secrets on how to magically turn into a bear? Hell if I know.
"Hey, Kid." I waved a hand in front of his face, becoming irritated with his ignoring me. "Ya know," I began, "it's rude to ignore people."
"Yeah, and it's rude to be botherin' someone who obviously wants nothing to do with you." He replied smartly, still not removing his eyes from his book.
I frowned at that. What did he mean he didn't want anything to do with me? I hadn't done anything wrong. At least, I didn't think I had. Knowing me though, I probably had and just didn't realize it. Like when I abandon Cathy, that was wrong, but at the time I didn't consider it like that in the slightest.
So, because I was slightly offended, I voiced my problem with his words. "I ain't botherin' you, Curtis."
"Oh? Then what exactly do you call this?" He quipped, raising his eyebrows.
I smirked and shrugged. "A good time with Bryon Douglas is what I'd call this, but you're bein' a little dork with your nose in a book and ain't letting yourself have a good time with me."
Finally, he slapped the book shut and let out an exasperated sigh. He turned his gaze to me, eyes narrowed in irritation in an expression that clearly said "What do you want?".
"Okay," he said. "You have my attention. What do you want, Douglas?"
The corners of my mouth twitched upward lazily until my lips were pulling into a smirk. Then, I shrugged. "Not much, Pony my boy."
He rolled his eyes dramatically. I swear, this kid could've had anyone fooled that he was full of nothing but conceitedness the way he talked and acted toward people like me. But, I can't say I blame him. I wasn't necessarily a good person, or even a decent person. I was probably the perfect example of someone he should stay away from; I drank (although most kids my age and social class did), I smoked like crazy, I got into fights constantly, I was a smart mouth. I had managed to get myself a whole bunch of enemies in my seventeen years of life, I hussled people in bars, gambled, and was quite the problem child. I'm surprised my mother didn't go insane raising me .
"What's your problem with me, Curtis? I ain't even done nothing bad to you before," I said, pulling out a cigarette. He just shrugged, tucking his book under his arm and pushing his hands into his hoodie pockets. I held a cancer-stick out to him and he shook his head.
"Tryin' to quit," he explained loosely.
I quirked a brow at that. "Quit?" I repeated, questioningly. "Why're you quitting? You're a greaser ain't ya?" He shrugged. "And greasers smoke, so, here," I shoved the cigarette toward him once again and he shook his head sternly.
"Can't. My brother says I need to quit. I started smoking over a pack a day and he says I'll get cancer if I keep going. Plus, it was getting hard to breathe sometimes when I run."
"Why do you listen to your brother?" I asked, setting the newly lit cigarette between my teeth. "If I had a brother and he told me what to do, I wouldn't listen."
"You do have a brother, Douglas. Mark? Remember? That skinny blond kid who hotwired cars and lived with you? Any of this ringing a bell?" He asked, a sarcastic undertone in his voice.
A low growl grew in my throat. "Mark isn't my brother, Curtis. He hates me. And to be honest, I think I hate him too."
Ponyboy rolled his eyes and scoffed lightly. "Ha," he laughed sarcastically. "You two don't hate each other. You've just convinced yourselves you do."
"Oh? And how would you know that, Curtis?" I spat, practically glaring at him. Glory, I wanted to punch him.
Our walking pace hadn't slowed or stopped, but the air was tainted with angry tension.
A smirked played at his lips and he shrugged once again. "'Cause I'm smart." As soon as he finished speaking, a rusty pickup truck pulled up next to us and a guy popped his head out. He yelled something loudly that I couldn't catch and a second later Ponyboy was climbing in the passenger side and another second and the truck was taking off down the road.
I scowled slightly and flicked my used-up cigarette to the cement, stomping it out under the sole of my shoe. Sighing, I turned around to walk back into town. The hopes of a good night on my mind.