IT WAS ALMOST six-thirty when I got home.
The rumble was set for seven, so I was late for supper, as usual.
I always come in late. I forget what time it is. Seeing that Johnny was gone.
Darry had cooked dinner: baked chicken and potatoes and corn--- two chickens because all three of us eat like horses. Especially Darry.
But although I love baked chicken, I could hardly swallow any. I swallowed five aspirins, though, when Darry and Soda weren't looking. I do that all the time because I can't sleep very well at night.
Darry thinks I take just one, but I usually take four. I figured five would keep me going through the rumble and maybe get rid of my headache.
Then I hurried to take a shower and change clothes. Me and Soda and Darry always got spruced up before a rumble. And besides, we wanted to show those Socs we weren't trash, that we were just as good as they were.
"Soda," l called from the bathroom, "when did you start shaving?"
"When I was fifteen," he yelled back.
"When did Darry?"
'When he was thirteen. Why? You figgerin' on growing a beard for the rumble?"
"You're funny. We ought to send you in to the Reader's Digest. I hear they pay a lot for funny things."
Soda laughed and went right on playing poker with Steve in the living room. Darry had on a tight black T- shirt that showed every muscle on his chest and even the flat hard muscles of his stomach.
I'd hate to be the Soc who takes a crack at him, I thought as I pulled on a clean T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans.
I wished my T-shirt was tighter--- I have a pretty good build for my size, but I'd lost a lot of weight in Windrixville and it just didn't fit right. It was a chilly night and Tshirts aren't the warmest clothes in the world, but nobody ever gets cold in a rumble, and besides, jackets interfere with your swinging ability.
Soda and Steve and I had put on more hair oil than was necessary, but we wanted to show that we were greasers. Tonight we could be proud of it.
Greasers may not have much, but they have a rep. That and long hair.
(What kind of world is it where all I have to be proud of is a reputation for being a hood, and greasy hair? I don't want to be a hood, but even if I don't steal things and mug people and get boozed up, I'm marked lousy. Why should I be proud of it? Why should I even pretend to be proud of it?)
Darry never went in for the long hair. His was short and clean all the time.
I sat in the armchair in the living room, waiting for the rest of the outfit to show up. But of course, tonight the only one coming would be Two-Bit; M/n, Johnny and Dallas wouldn't show.
Soda and Steve were playing cards and arguing as usual. Soda was keeping up a steady stream of wisecracks and clowning, and Steve had turned up the radio so loud that it almost broke my eardrums. Of course everybody listens to it loud like that, but it wasn't just the best thing for a headache.
"You like fights, don't you, Soda?" I asked suddenly.
"Yeah, sure." He shrugged. "I like fights."
"How come?"
"I don't know." He looked at me, puzzled. "It's action. It's a contest. Like a drag race or a dance or something."
"Shoot," said Steve, "I want to beat those Socs' heads in. When I get in a fight I want to stomp the other guy good. I like it, too."
"How come you like fights, Darry?" I asked, looking up at him as he stood behind me, leaning in the kitchen doorway. He gave me one of those looks that hide what he's thinking, but Soda piped up: "He likes to show off his muscles."
