3. 92 and 3. 68= 3. 71 cumulative GPA 3. 85 +3. 7 85% on math test if 78. 0% in class. 90% on test if 77% in class. No lower than 74. 9% in class Two ounces = 3/4 cup cocoa 12/28 A/N: Long time no see guys! I’m so excited to be back. This story is going to have pretty quick updates because it’s all written out, and I’m so excited to bring it to you guys. After taking time to mature and work on my writing, I hope this will be my best story yet. Enough rambling. Enjoy! Ponyboy’s POV There was a reason Darry hated cigarettes.
A star on the football team since he was young, people thought he was just a health fanatic, against risking what he had going, but it wasn’t. Not really. It was about what it did to people. What the smell of smoke did to Sodapop and I. About why someone would wreck their health on purpose, make it hard for them to breathe. “Why would anyone with two brain cells inflict that kind of pain on themselves,” he would ask. Even as the each member of the gang one by one picked up smoking, he refused. He didn’t see a need to.
But to me it was just another thing he gave up for me, another thing that made him older and wiser beyond his years, especially now that worrying about me and all of my bagging was his problem now since we lost mom and dad. Darry’s POV Watching one of my kid brothers having an asthma attack was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen and probably will continue to be #1 on the list. We had known about Ponyboy and Soda’s asthma since they were six and eight respectively. Our house was a chorus of coughs for at least a month, mom and dad thought they had been passing bronchitis back and forth, since their coughing wasn’t constant.
That was until Pony ran out of the house to play football with us, after mom specifically told him not to, and caught a whiff of the neighbors smoking. The sound of his wheezing coughs was terrifying coming out of such a young kid. He sounded like a ninety year old with pneumonia. Mom came running out of the house just as he collapses onto the grass. She scooped him up easily and, panicked, ushered us into the car while dad hopped in the drivers seat. Ponyboy’s lips were a sickly blue and his skin was so grey he looked dead. Dad carried him into the hospital with me running after him, always a step behind him.
Thad never been so terrified. The doctors huddled around him, taking him gently out of dad’s arms before quickly disappearing with my little brother. After who-knows-how-many agonizing hours passed, a doctor came out and told us Ponyboy was asthmatic, and had suffered a severe asthma attack. “He’ll be just fine,” the doctor assures us, “but your son will have to be on medication to try to prevent any more of these incidents. ” My parents continued to talk to the doctor in concerned vices, but I don’t remember what was all said. All I wanted to do was see my little brother.
That seemed to be Soda’s thought too, because he was next to me, his foot was tapping wildly with impatience. I found out we could see Ponyboy for a little bit, but after that they wanted to test Sodapop for asthma since he had been experiencing the same symptoms as Ponyboy. I got tested too, seeming as it ran in the family. When mom was growing up, she had asthma, so did her sister, and their father, so they all knew it ran in the family, but mom outgrew it by time she was eleven. It had never been severe, either. When the results finally came back, it was found that I was a no go for asthma, as I had figured.
I never had any trouble breathing around anyone smoking or when I was playing football, luckily. Soda however, was a resounding positive. They put both my kid brothers on medicine and our parents bought three rescue inhalers for around the house. One for Sodapop, one for Ponyboy, and one for mom and dad to share between them. As time passed, we learned how this whole asthma thing worked. First, no one living in the house could smoke. For both Ponyboy and Sodapop, a simple inhale of some cigarette smoke, even just lingering on someone’s clothes, had sent them to the hospital on more than one occasion.
Whenever I got sick, which luckily wasn’t very often, I would have to try my absolute best to stay away from my little brothers. Colds made everything worse. It seemed that whenever Pony or Soda got sick, the other followed suit, twice as bad. Ponyboy and Sodapop carried inhalers on them at all times, as did Steve and I. And even though it had been years growing up with their illness, I had a lot to learn about taking caring of them, and juggling being their guardian and older brother. Ponyboy’s POV (November, 1966) Thated rain. The humidity made it hard to breathe, and the constant gloom was disgusting.
That’s what I was thinking about as I walked home from school. The rain, gloom, and ever growing pain in my chest as I tried to calm the ever-present coughs building in my weak lungs. I was so caught up in my thinking about my geometry homework (that I didn’t understand) that I didn’t even hear the low rumble of a mustang engine creeping behind me. At least, not until it was too late to run. “Where do you think your goin’, grease? ” A husky voice threatened, sounding so cold a chill ran through me. I was suddenly surrounded by four malicious looking Socs. Not good, not good, not good, not good,” my mind repeated in a panicked loop. “Get lost, Soc. Go back to wasting daddy’s money,” the hateful words flew out of my mouth before I could process them. “Oh, I see. Boys, I think we need to teach this piece of greaser trash a lesson,” another Soc growled, so close to my face I could smell the suffocating stench of chew tobacco on his breath. Not. Good. The blow to my jaw came out of nowhere. The fight was on. Taimed for the smallest Soc’s nose, and when I made contact blood poured out in a steady stream of red as he cursed.
He looked to be about fourteen, while the rest were at least seniors, so that got him distracted for a minute. Before I could throw another punch I felt a knee in my stomach and I thought | might puke. When I leaned forward with my hand on my stomach, I felt hits all over the back of my head and my head face. I tried to block, but I was getting real dizzy. “Hey! ” A familiar gruff voice yelled. When the Socs began to scatter, I let out a sigh of relief. When my vision cleared I saw a partially blurry image of Curly tucking a knife away. Thank the stars above for Curly and his ever reliable, threatening switchblade. What’s up, Curtis? ” Curly’s words weren’t slurring yet, but he had obviously had a few already, despite the early time. I laughed, feeling nothing but elation and relief. “Hey, Curly,” I greeted. “I was ’bout to hit Bucks but then I heard the sound of an inflated ego and daddy’s money. I followed it ’till I found you, you sorry grease.
Wanna come with me? ” Everything screamed in me to say no. But the word “yes” left my mouth without a thought. I need to work on the connection between my head and my mouth, because it was seeming to have a mind of its own lately. Alright. Let’s go. ” CHAPTER 2 Bucks was loud. That was for sure. I took a puff of my inhaler before I went in, but there air was still constricting. However, it was early, so almost no one was in there. Plus, those that were there weren’t smoking and there were windows open, letting in the warm, fresh air. Beers were coming left and right. I drank, because it took like six to get real drunk, right? Not when your fourteen and barely a hundred pounds. I wasn’t sure what happened after the first three. Maybe two. Or was it four? I lost track.
Somewhere, deep in my brain, as drunk as I was, I knew needed to call Darry. Bad decision. He heard my slurred “Hey, D’rry” and knew exactly where I was and that’s when I started to sober up. A mad Darry is a sobering thought. “I’ll see you in five minutes and you better sober up by then. ” Feeling shaken and having a sudden need to empty my guts, went outside and left curly inside. My mouth tasted like acid and the effects from the air inside meant that I alternated between coughing and puking. When Darry pulled up every part of my body went cold. I had messed up bad.
Before I could even say anything Darry just growled, “Get in the car, Ponyboy. No words. ” The whole ride home was silent. I think I would have preferred yelling. It was less scary. When we got home Soda was sitting on the couch. I tried to talk to him, but he didn’t say anything either. He said goodnight to no one in particular and headed to our bedroom. “Are you aware of how stupid you were tonight? I told you specifically to not go to Bucks. And what do you do? Go to Bucks and get wasted. This is completely unacceptable. You’re grounded. For how long I don’t know.
Don’t ask. I’ll tell you when it’s over. Ponyboy, what were you even thinking? ” “I wasn’t,” I confessed honestly. “Obviously. Take a shower. You real of smoke. You go in that bedroom both you and Soda are gonna have an attack and I don’t feel like dealing with that. ” With that, Darry stomped to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. 0000000 “Soda? ” I whispered, hoping he was awake. “Pony? ” He called out groggily. “Oh, Soda,” I breathed out. “I’m so sorry. ” “Come here,” Soda offered suddenly, pulling the blankets back for me. “Are you mad? Or disappointed? “