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you come with me to get some popcorn?” Cherry asked.
    I jumped up. “Sure. Y’all want some?”
    “I do,” said Marcia. She was finishing the Coke Dally had given her. I realized then that Marcia and Cherry weren’t alike. Cherry had said she wouldn’t drink Dally’s Coke if she was starving, and she meant it. It was the principle of the thing. But Marcia saw no reason to throw away a perfectly good, free Coke.
    “Me too,” said Two-Bit. He flipped me a fifty-cent piece. “Get Johnny some, too. I’m buyin’,” he added as Johnny started to reach into his jeans pocket.
    We went to the concession stand and, as usual, there was a line a mile long, so we had to wait. Quite a few kids turned to look at us—you didn’t see a kid grease and a Socy cheerleader together often. Cherry didn’t seem to notice.
    “Your friend—the one with the sideburns—he’s okay?”
    “He ain’t dangerous like Dallas if that’s what you mean. He’s okay.”
    She smiled and her eyes showed that her mind was on something else. “Johnny . . . he’s been hurt bad sometime, hasn’t he?” It was more of a statement than a question. “Hurt and scared.”
    “It was the Socs,” I said nervously, because there were plenty of Socs milling around and some of them were giving me funny looks, as if I shouldn’t be with Cherry or something. And I don’t like to talk about it either—Johnny getting beat up, I mean. But I started in, talking a little faster than I usually do because I don’t like to think about it either.
    It was almost four months ago. I had walked down to the DX station to get a bottle of pop and to see Steve and Soda, because they’ll always buy me a couple of bottles and let me help work on the cars. I don’t like to go on weekends because then there is usually a bunch of girls down there flirting with Soda—all kinds of girls, Socs too. I don’t care too much for girls yet. Soda says I’ll grow out of it. He did.
    It was a warmish spring day with the sun shining bright, but it was getting chilly and dark by the time we started for home. We were walking because we had left Steve’s car at the station. At the corner of our block there’s a wide, open field where we play football and hang out, and it’s often a site for rumbles and fist fights. We were passing it, kicking rocks down the street and finishing our last bottle of Pepsi, when Steve noticed something lying on the ground. Hepicked it up. It was Johnny’s blue-jeans jacket—the only jacket he had.
    “Looks like Johnny forgot his jacket,” Steve said, slinging it over his shoulder to take it by Johnny’s house. Suddenly he stopped and examined it more carefully. There was a stain the color of rust across the collar. He looked at the ground. There were some more stains on the grass. He looked up and across the field with a stricken expression on his face. I think we all heard the low moan and saw the dark motionless hump on the other side of the lot at the same time. Soda reached him first. Johnny was lying face down on the ground. Soda turned him over gently, and I nearly got sick. Someone had beaten him badly.
    We were used to seeing Johnny banged up—his father clobbered him around a lot, and although it made us madder than heck, we couldn’t do anything about it. But those beatings had been nothing like this. Johnny’s face was cut up and bruised and swollen, and there was a wide gash from his temple to his cheekbone. He would carry that scar all his life. His white T-shirt was splattered with blood. I just stood there, trembling with sudden cold. I thought he might be dead; surely nobody could be beaten like that and live. Steve closed his eyes for a second and muffled a groan as he dropped on his knees beside Soda.
    Somehow the gang sensed what had happened. Two-Bit was suddenly there beside me, and for once his comical grin was gone and his dancing gray eyes were stormy. Darry had seen us from our porch and ran toward us, suddenly