The Outsiders

Screeching like an Indian,

I looked at Johnny imploringly.

And I finally began like this: When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home . . .

and this time it didn’t hurt

Tell Dally it’s worth it.

Dally didn’t die a hero. He died violent and young and desperate, just like we all knew he’d die someday.

Nobody would write editorials praising Dally. Two friends of mine had died that night: one a hero, the other a hoodlum.

He was dead before he hit the ground. But I knew that was what he wanted, even as the lot echoed with the cracks of shots, even as I begged silently—Please, not him . . . not him and Johnny both—I knew he would be dead, because Dally Winston wanted to be dead and he always got what he wanted.

“Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold . . .” The pillow seemed to sink a little, and Johnny died.

“I am a greaser,” Sodapop chanted. “I am a JD and a hood. I blacken the name of our fair city. I beat up people. I rob gas stations. I am a menace to society. Man, do I have fun!”