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Chapter Text

The front door had barely creaked open when Ponyboy Curtis was greeted by the unmistakable sound of Steve Randle yelling over someone else’s voice.

“I’m tellin’ you, if he can’t handle the clutch, he shouldn’t be on the road!”

“Oh sure,” came Two-Bit’s drawl, “next thing you’ll say is if he can’t do a handbrake turn, he ain’t a real man.”

Ponyboy stepped inside, eyebrows lifting at the noise. The living room looked like it had exploded into some kind of Greaser debate arena. Steve was perched on the arm of the couch, gesturing wildly like a coach explaining a play. Two-Bit was sprawled horizontally across the cushions, boots on the coffee table, a half-empty bag of chips balancing on his stomach.

Sodapop leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, sandwich in one hand, laughing like he was watching a comedy show. Darry stood dead center in the room, arms crossed, looking like he was one sarcastic comment away from throwing everyone out. His jaw was tight, eyes flicking back and forth like he was mentally assigning chores as punishment.

And in the recliner, shrinking like he wanted the cushions to swallow him whole, was Johnny Cade – small, quiet, and visibly regretting whatever decision had landed him in the middle of it all.

Ponyboy shut the door with a soft click and stepped further inside.

“Uh… did I miss something?” he asked cautiously.

Steve twisted around to grin at him, “not much. Just planning Johnny’s eventual death.”

“By milk car,” Two-Bit added helpfully, tossing a chip in the air and missing his mouth by a good foot, “it’ll be tragic. Headlines’ll say, ‘Tulsa Teen Taken Too Soon by Terrible Turn Signal Timing.’”

Johnny blinked, unsure whether to laugh or run.

Sodapop took a bite of his sandwich and spoke around it, “we’re teachin’ him to drive.”

Ponyboy glanced from the peanut butter on Sodapop’s cheek to the sheer chaos in front of him, “is that what this is?”

“It’s a discussion,” Darry said, teeth clenched. A poorly timed one at that, he should’ve waited to bring up the subject until later, when the less ‘excitable’ of the gang were out.

“It’s a travesty,” Steve corrected, “Johnny deserves better than Darry’s Death by Rulebook plan.”

Two-Bit chimed in, “or Soda’s ‘just feel the road, man’ theory.”

Johnny let out a nervous laugh that came out more like a wheeze.

Ponyboy sighed and dropped his schoolbag by the door, “you guys do know there are actual driving instructors, right? Like, licensed ones?”

Steve shrugged, “where’s the fun in that?”

Johnny met Ponyboy’s eyes and gave a tiny shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching like maybe – just maybe – he was in on the joke.

Ponyboy wasn’t sure what he’d just walked into.

But he had a bad feeling he wasn’t walking out of it anytime soon.

The shouting had eventually died down to grumbles and overlapping complaints. Darry stood like a referee between Steve and Soda, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he could massage patience into existence.

Johnny stayed quiet.

He sat curled into the recliner like it would protect him, hands fiddling with a loose thread on his jeans. His eyes darted from face to face as the debate roared over his head, like he wasn’t even there.

“Come on, Johnnycake,” Steve said, tossing an arm over the back of the couch, “you can’t keep bumming rides off people forever.”

“Yeah,” Soda added, grinning, “what if you gotta make a quick getaway from a bad date?”

Two-Bit wiggled his eyebrows, “or a really good one.”

That got a weak chuckle from Johnny, but it didn’t completely reach his eyes.

“I dunno,” he said finally, voice barely loud enough to be heard, “I guess… it’d be good to know how. Just in case.”

Ponyboy, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, caught the way Johnny’s fingers clenched slightly. The room didn’t seem to notice, but Ponyboy did. He noticed the way Johnny looked down when he spoke. The way he swallowed hard, like the words tasted strange coming out.

Just in case.

Ponyboy knew what that meant.

It wasn’t about joyrides or showing off. It was about control. About having a way out if he ever needed one. About feeling like he wasn’t stuck – like he could move, leave, drive himself away from something bad if it ever came too close again.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Ponyboy said quietly.

Johnny glanced over at him, surprised.

“You should know how to drive,” Ponyboy continued, “everybody should.”

For a moment, Johnny looked like he might back out. But then he gave a small nod. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

That single sentence lit a firestorm of opinions.

Steve whooped, clapping Johnny on the shoulder. Sodapop declared he was taking the first teaching shift. Darry immediately overruled him. Two-Bit offered up his car with a sweeping bow like a game show host. Dally offered to win him a car at the races.

The room might as well have been a racetrack – everyone revving their engines, eager to prove their way was the only way. Ponyboy took a seat on the arm of the recliner, half to be near Johnny, half to keep out of the verbal crossfire.

Darry, predictably, was the first to cut through the noise. “If Johnny’s going to learn, he’s going to learn the right way,” he said firmly. His arms were crossed, and his jaw set in a way that made Ponyboy wonder how he hadn’t yet worn down all his teeth, “that means rules. Diagrams. Lesson plans.”

Sodapop groaned, “Darry, you make it sound like he’s going to driver’s ed.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Darry shot back, “you don’t just toss someone the keys and hope for the best. You start with the basics. Ten and two. Checking mirrors. Understanding right of way. No distractions.”

Steve let out a bark of laughter, “ten and two? What is he, a mannequin? Nobody actually drives like that.”

“They should,” Darry said, his tone making it clear the argument was not up for debate.

Sodapop slouched against the kitchen doorway, grinning, “see, Johnny, that’s one way to do it. But me? Driving’s about feel. It’s about listening to the car, being one with the road.” He spread his arms wide like he was describing a love affair, “you gotta feel it.”

Johnny blinked, “feel… the car?”

“Exactly!” Sodapop beamed, “when I was learning, I didn’t bother with lessons. I just took Dad’s car out into the field and went. No streets, no traffic – just me, the steering wheel, and a couple fences that didn’t survive.”

“Couple?” Darry repeated, glaring.

Sodapop waved him off, “point is, Johnnycake, it’s instinct. You’ll get the hang of it once you stop thinking so hard.”

Johnny didn’t look convinced.

Steve snorted, leaning forward on the couch arm, “instinct doesn’t mean squat if you can’t work a clutch. Real drivers learn on stick. Automatic’s for little kids and people too scared to stall.”

“Oh, here we go,” Two-Bit muttered, grabbing the chip bag.

Steve ignored him, eyes locked on Johnny, “you gotta know the gears. What you gotta feel the clutch under your foot, the engine humming when you shift just right. That’s what separates drivers from passengers. Rolling starts, uphill stalls, double-clutching – you master those, you’re golden.”

“Or,” Two-Bit cut in, crumbs spraying as he talked, “you could just drive my car.”

Everyone groaned in unison.

Two-Bit grinned, completely unfazed, “don’t knock it! She’s a beauty. Sure, she’s got character, but that’s part of the charm. You talk sweet to her, she purrs like a kitten. You get rough, she screams like a banshee. Either way, she’s teaching you something.”

“Teaching you how to call a tow car,” Steve muttered.

“Or walk home,” Darry added.

“Hey, hey,” Two-Bit said, holding up his hands, “she’s reliable. I mean, as long as you don’t shift into third too fast, or brake too hard, or take left turns on a Thursday.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching, “on a Thursday?”

“It’s a long story,” Two-Bit leaned back, looking pleased with himself, “point is, no better car for breaking in a new driver. She’ll toughen you up.”

Sodapop chuckled, “or break down before he even starts.”

The room filled with overlapping chatter again – Darry rattling off rules, Sodapop waxing poetic about freedom, Steve swearing by clutches, Two-Bit swearing by his junker and Dally highlighting the rush given by winning a drag race.

Ponyboy sat back, watching Johnny’s head swivel from one voice to the next. Poor guy looked like he’d been dropped in the middle of a storm without an umbrella. Still, there was a flicker in his eyes – a mix of nerves and excitement, like maybe he wanted to believe them all at once.

Ponyboy hid a smile. This was going to be chaos. Absolute chaos.

And somehow, that made it better.

By the time the arguing slowed down, the living room looked like a storm had blown through it – chips scattered, soda bottles sweating rings onto the coffee table, and five sets of eyes on Johnny like he was the crown jewel of some prize fight.

“Well,” Darry said, his voice firm enough to cut through the chatter, “if this is really happening, then we’re doing it the right way. As I said – I’m going first.”

Steve groaned from his perch on the couch arm, “of course you are.”

“Of course I am,” Darry repeated, unfazed, “Johnny needs a foundation. You don’t build a house without laying the beams first, and you don’t learn to drive without rules. If he doesn’t get the basics drilled in, all he’s going to remember are your bad habits.”

“That’s rude,” Sodapop said, though he was smiling, “I’ve got great habits.”

“You’ve got instincts,” Darry corrected, “which is not the same as habits.”

Sodapop leaned back against the doorframe, smirking, “fine, then I’m second. I’ll balance out your boring textbook talk with some real experience.”

“Real experience,” Darry muttered, “like knocking down fence posts.”

Sodapop only grinned wider.

“I call third,” Steve cut in quickly, like he was afraid someone else would swipe the spot from him. “By then, Johnny’ll be ready to level up. No more kiddie wheels – time for the clutch,” he clapped his hands like it was already settled, “I’ll make a real driver out of him.”

Two-Bit stretched out on the couch like a king claiming his throne, “well, that makes me number four. Perfect. Four’s lucky. Besides, I want him to get a taste of my car after he’s got the basics down. Bonus round, you know? The grand finale.”

“Your car’s more like a punishment than a prize,” Steve muttered.

“She’s got character,” Two-Bit fired back with a sniff, as if that ended the argument.

Nobody noticed at first that Dally, who’d been sprawled in the recliner like he owned the place, hadn’t said a word. Finally, he smirked, “guess that makes me last.”

“Last?” Johnny asked softly.

“Yeah. By then you’ll know enough not to kill us both. You’ll get the crash course – literally, if you mess up,” Dally grinned wickedly, “besides, save the best for last, right?”

Johnny shook his head, torn between amusement and nerves.

That was when Pony realized every set of eyes had landed on him. He froze, “what?”

“You’re coming, too,” Sodapop announced cheerfully.

“Why me?” Ponyboy protested.

“Because we need a witness,” Two-Bit said, as if it were obvious, “somebody’s gotta keep score of who teaches best.”

“And someone to make sure nobody cheats,” Steve added.

“And,” Sodapop said, ruffling Pony’s hair, “you’ll learn a thing or two just by watching. Might come in handy someday. And besides, you gotta be prepared for your turn behind the wheel.”

Ponyboy crossed his arms, “so I’m the peanut gallery?”

“Exactly,” Two-Bit said, pointing at him like he’d just nailed the right answer on a quiz show.

Ponyboy sighed but didn’t argue further. Truth was, he didn’t mind. Watching Johnny stumble through all their shenanigans might actually teach him something. And maybe, just maybe, when it came time for him to slide behind the wheel, he wouldn’t feel as clueless.

He glanced at Johnny, who looked pale but determined. If Johnny could say yes to all this chaos, Ponyboy figured he could survive being the witness.

Still, as Darry folded his arms with finality, Ponyboy couldn’t help thinking one thing:

If Darry’s first, how bad could it be?

The noise slowly drained out of the Curtis house as the gang scattered. Steve mumbled something about heading home for supper, Two-Bit announced a candy run, and Sodapop disappeared into the kitchen to raid the fridge. Even Dally eventually wandered out, muttering that he had “things to do,” though Pony figured that just meant leaning against a lamppost somewhere brooding.

For the first time that evening, the living room was quiet.

Johnny stayed put, hunched in the corner of the couch with his hands twisting up the fringe of a throw blanket. He looked smaller than he had during the chaos, as if all the bravado of agreeing to the plan had drained out of him now that the spotlight had shifted.

“You okay?” Ponyboy asked, dropping into the armchair across from him.

Johnny gave a little shrug, “yeah. I just… I don’t know if I made a mistake sayin’ yes. What if I mess it up?” His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the hush of the room.

Ponyboy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “you ain’t messin’ anything up. Everyone starts somewhere. Darry didn’t come out of the womb knowing how to drive.”

Johnny gave him a side look, like he wasn’t convinced.

“You wanna know the truth?” Ponyboy went on, “I think it’s cool you said yes. You’re just tryin’ to grow up, you know? Learn something new. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

Johnny’s hands stilled on the blanket, “guess I just wanna… not always have to rely on somebody else. Be able to get where I need to go. Might make me feel safer, if I could drive myself.”

Ponyboy felt that hit deeper than Johnny probably meant it to. He nodded, “makes sense.” After a pause, he added, “and hey, you’ve got all of us backing you up. Even if that means five different ways of teaching.”

That earned the faintest smile from Johnny, “yeah. Five different headaches.”

Ponyboy grinned, “careful, Darry might give you pop quizzes after every lesson. ‘Name all the rules of the road, and if you miss one, no dinner.’”

Johnny chuckled under his breath, “if that happens, I’ll just cheat off Soda. He don’t follow rules anyway.”

They both broke into laughter then, and Ponyboy glanced at Johnny again, saw the way his shoulders had eased, and thought: Yeah. This might actually be good for him.

And for himself, too.

That night, Ponyboy tried to focus on his English homework, but the words on the page blurred into shapes that looked suspiciously like steering wheels and road signs. He leaned back in his chair, pencil balanced behind his ear and let his mind wander.

He could see it already – Johnny gripping the wheel like it might bite him, Darry barking instructions from the passenger seat, Sodapop hollering encouragement from the back, Steve shouting about the clutch, and Two-Bit cackling like a madman. Dally – he’d be cool like he always was. The whole gang crammed into some poor car, louder than the engine itself.

Ponyboy smirked at the thought. No way this will end quietly.

With a sigh, he shoved his textbook aside and pulled a spiral notebook closer. Across the top of the page, he scrawled:

HOW TO DRIVE: THE OFFICIAL GUIDE FOR GREASERS

Underneath, he wrote the first entry:

1. Darry – Hands at 10 and 2. No exceptions.

He tapped his pencil against the paper, imagining what other “rules” would follow once everyone had their turn. Sodapop’s would probably be something like “Feel the road, man.” Steve’s would involve a lecture about stick shifts. Two-Bit’s? Something about sweet-talking the car.

Ponyboy shook his head, grinning despite himself. Johnny didn’t know what he’d signed up for.

Then again, maybe none of them did.

He shut the notebook with a quiet snap and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“How bad could it be?” he muttered.

Famous last words.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning in the Curtis driveway felt like it was supposed to be an ordinary one, the kind where Sodapop washed the car (with the hose turned half on himself or Steve) and Two-Bit would be raiding the fridge before noon. But not today. Today had a mission stamped all over it, courtesy of Darry Curtis.

He came striding out of the house like a man on his way to a board meeting, not the front yard and driveway. Under one arm was a fat folder, in his hand a dog-eared driving manual, and behind his ear sat a freshly sharpened pencil. Nobody said a word about the stack of neatly printed rules he carried, the kind of thing you had to hunt down at the library or know someone at the DMV to get your hands on. No one dared to ask either – it was Darry, and Darry had a way of looking like he’d wrung order out of the air itself.

Sodapop leaned against the car, grinning wide enough to split his face, “what’s this, Driver’s Ed with Professor Curtis? Do we get recess and lunch breaks too?”

Steve groaned loud enough for the neighbours to hear, “man, if this is school, I quit.”

Two-Bit, stretched across the hood like a cat in the sun which earned a look from Sodapop who had just cleaned said hood before the middle Curtis brother cracked a smile, yawned obnoxiously. “Wake me up when we’re doin’ donuts,” he even faked a snore, arms folded across his chest, which only made Sodapop crack up harder.

Johnny stood off to the side, pale and fiddling with the frayed hem of his jacket sleeve. He didn’t say anything, just waited until Darry gave the word. He knew what was coming. The car door creaked when he pulled it open, and he slid into the driver’s seat like it might bite.

Ponyboy followed, climbing into the back with a notebook tucked under his arm. Not that Darry had asked him to take notes, but Pony figured someone ought to keep track of the chaos. Besides, he’d need to learn one day too, and who better to study than Johnny and the gang stumbling through it first? Thus, his guide to driving.

Darry clapped his folder down on the roof of the car, the sound sharp enough to shut everyone else up. He levelled a look at the lot of them – Sodapop with his grin, Steve with his scowl, Two-Bit halfway to a nap, and Johnny frozen in the driver’s seat.

“This ain’t a game,” Darry announced. His tone carried all the weight of a courtroom gavel, “this is serious business. If Johnny’s gonna learn, he’s gonna learn the right way.”

Two-Bit peeked one eye open, “does the right way involve snacks?”

“Shut it,” Darry shot back, sliding into the passenger seat with his manual at the ready.

Johnny gripped the wheel like it might vanish if he let go. Ponyboy flipped open his notebook, the first page blank and waiting.

Lesson one was about to begin.

Darry wasted no time once he had settled himself in the passenger seat. He set the folder across his lap, manual balanced on top, pencil poised like he was ready to grade papers. With a firm wave of his hand, he shooed Soda, Steve, and Two-Bit back from the car like they were a pack of nosy kids hanging around the teacher’s desk. Which, technically they were.

“Back it up. This isn’t a circus,” Darry said.

Two-Bit saluted lazily, backing away all of two steps before lounging against the hood again. Sodapop followed with a grin plastered on his face, and Steve muttered something about how he’d rather be chewing glass than watching this lecture.

Inside the car, Darry cleared his throat and angled himself toward Johnny, who sat stiff in the driver’s seat. Ponyboy hunched in the back with his notebook, already scribbling:

Lesson 1 – Darry Curtis Style: No Nonsense.

“All right,” Darry began, tone sharp enough to cut steel, “first thing’s first – seat position. You don’t just flop in and go. You gotta set yourself up right and make sure you can reach the pedals properly, otherwise you’re askin’ for an accident before you even move an inch.”

Johnny nodded, hands tightening on the wheel.

“Sit up straight,” Darry instructed. He reached over and tugged lightly at Johnny’s shoulder until his back pressed against the seat, “good posture keeps you alert. None of this slouching business.”

From outside, Two-Bit called, “hey, teach, do we get demerits for bad posture?”

“Shut it, Mathews,” Darry shot back without missing a beat, “now – seat adjustment. Feet should reach the pedals easy, but you don’t wanna be cramped. Go ahead, adjust it.”

Johnny fumbled with the lever, the seat sliding forward with a squeal. His knees jammed the steering column.

“Too close,” Darry said, exhaling like his patience had limits but he wasn’t ready to show them yet, “back it off an inch. No, another inch.”

Johnny scooted back, then forward again, then back once more. Darry made him repeat the whole thing until he declared it acceptable.

Ponyboy pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh as he wrote the second rule:

Rule 1: Adjust seat no fewer than three times before allowed to breathe.

And, he made note on how far back the seat was just for Johnny’s sake.

“Next up: mirrors,” Darry tapped the rearview, “that mirror’s your best friend. Adjust it so you see the whole rear window. No excuses.”

Johnny reached up with trembling fingers and tilted the mirror, only for Darry to frown, “not quite. Again.”

By the third adjustment, Johnny’s ears had gone red. And Ponyboy could understand why –the passenger doesn’t use the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t see why it has to be perfectly straight as long as you could still see out the back.

“Side mirrors, too,” Darry continued, pointing, “passenger side, driver’s side. You want the road, not the clouds.”

Johnny obeyed, mumbling a soft, “Yeah,” each time. Darry was nice and adjusted the side mirror on the passenger side so Johnny didn’t have to reach over him.

“Hands on the wheel,” Darry ordered next. He guided Johnny’s fingers into place, “ten and two. Always. Never forget it.”

Johnny’s knuckles whitened around the wheel.

“Looks like he’s stranglin’ the thing,” Steve called from outside, arms crossed, “ease up, man, it’s not a chicken bone.”

“This ain’t a test, it’s a torture chamber,” Sodapop added, grinning through the open window.

“When does recess start?” Two-Bit chimed, yawning like he’d never been more bored.

Johnny ducked his head, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Darry’s jaw tightened, but he pressed on. He flipped open his manual and held up a sheet of paper covered in road signs, “all right, quiz time. What’s this one?”

Johnny squinted at the diamond-shaped yellow sign. “…curve ahead?”

“Correct. And this?” Darry held up a red octagon.

Johnny mumbled, “stop.”

“Good. And this?”

Johnny hesitated at the squiggly arrow, “uh… snakes on the road?”

Ponyboy snorted so hard he had to slap a hand over his mouth. Darry turned a glare on him that could’ve peeled paint, but Pony ducked behind his notebook.

“It means winding road,” Darry said, crisp as a dictionary. He flipped to another, “and this?”

Johnny stumbled through the answers, mumbling “yield,” “merging traffic,” and “railroad crossing,” each time quieter than before.

From the hood, Two-Bit whispered, loud enough to carry, “bet he fails the pop quiz.”

Darry ignored him, though his pencil tapped sharply against the folder. He nodded at Johnny, finally satisfied.

“All right,” Darry said after a surprisingly brief lecture on using the clutch and gears, “seat adjusted. Mirrors set. Road signs reviewed. Clutch and gears explained. Now we can think about turning on the ignition.”

Johnny exhaled shakily, like he’d just run a marathon - and they hadn't even gone anywhere yet. Pony scratched down in his notebook:

Stage One complete. Johnny still alive. Barely.

The engine sputtered to life with a cough and a groan, like even the car wasn’t too sure about this arrangement. Johnny’s hands clamped so tightly to the wheel that his knuckles went bone white. He stared straight ahead, shoulders stiff, as though sheer focus might keep the car from exploding under him.

“Slow,” Darry said firmly, “controlled. Steady. You’re in charge of this machine, not the other way around.”

Johnny nodded once. He shifted carefully into gear, the car shuddering as he eased his foot onto the gas. The result was less ‘steady progress’ and more ‘mechanical hiccup’ – the vehicle lurched forward in a fit, then crawled along at what had to be five miles per hour, tops.

From the backseat, Ponyboy gripped his notebook and fought to keep a straight face. It was like watching a chicken try to drive – wobbly, twitchy, and determined all at once.

“Easy, easy,” Darry barked, his arm twitching like he was resisting the urge to grab the wheel outright. His foot pressed hard into the floorboards, stomping on an imaginary brake pedal, “not so heavy on the gas. Ease into it.”

Johnny swallowed hard, the car wobbling down the street as they left the house.

“Brake!” Darry shouted suddenly, startling them all.

Johnny slammed his foot down, and the car lurched to a bone-jarring halt. Ponyboy nearly kissed the back of Darry’s seat.

“What – what did I do?” Johnny stammered.

“Nothing,” Darry said briskly, straightening his folder on his lap, “just making sure you’re alert.”

Ponyboy rubbed his forehead, muttering under his breath, “he’s alert all right…”

Johnny restarted their crawl, the car creeping forward with all the urgency of a turtle. Darry leaned over every few seconds to nudge the wheel into alignment, muttering corrections nonstop.

“Little more to the left. No, too much – straighten out. Eyes on the road, not your feet. Keep it smooth. Brake!”

Johnny flinched again, though there was nothing in front of them but empty asphalt. He stomped the brake out of pure panic, throwing them all forward a second time.

From the sidewalk where Steve, Sodapop and Two-Bit had been walking along and matching the slow pace of the car, Two-Bit’s laughter carried across the road, “looks like ol’ Johnnycake’s tryin’ to wrangle a mule, not a motor!”

“Shut your trap!” Darry snapped out the window before turning back to his nervous student, “you’re fine. Just… slower next time.”

Steve’s voice chimed in from where the sidewalk, “slower? If he goes any slower, he’s gonna start goin’ backwards!”

Sodapop whooped, clutching his sides, but Johnny didn’t look up, didn’t even blink. His focus was glued to the road in front of him, as though he were walking a tightrope instead of driving a beat-up car.

Ponyboy pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, scribbling in his notebook:

Observation: Darry has already invented a phantom brake pedal.

Eventually they made it around the block, and it felt that the trip round it was just never ending, Johnny’s jerky rhythm making the car rock like a boat at sea. Every turn of the wheel looked agonizing, every press of the gas accompanied by Darry’s sharp “steady” or “not too much.” By the halfway point, Ponyboy was convinced Johnny’s shoulders would be locked in place for life.

When they finally rounded the last corner and crept back toward the starting point, Darry exhaled like he’d just survived a natural disaster. Johnny eased on the brake, this time without slamming, and the car shuddered to a halt.

Darry sat back, nodding with the solemnity of a judge delivering a verdict, “good. Good progress for a first attempt.”

Johnny let go of the wheel and flexed his hands, fingers trembling from the death grip he’d kept. He looked like he’d run a marathon instead of circling a block once.

From outside, Two-Bit cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “yay, Johnnycake passed kindergarten!” The trio had abandoned their trailing of the car in favour of waiting in the front yard for them.

But Darry wasn’t about to end the lesson after just one shaky lap. “We’ll go again,” he said, voice clipped like a drill sergeant, “practice makes progress. This time smoother, steadier. Got it?”

Johnny nodded quickly, swallowing hard. His grip found the wheel again, and the car sputtered back into motion.

From the passenger seat, Darry leaned in close, practically hovering over Johnny’s shoulder. He pointed to the mirrors, to the dash, to the empty stretch of pavement ahead. “Eyes up. Mirror check every few seconds. Keep it steady. You’re hugging the right side too much – there, see? Adjust. No, not that much. Ease it. Good. Now breathe.”

It was like watching an overprotective mom at a science fair, Ponyboy thought. The way Darry loomed, correcting every twitch of Johnny’s hands, every dip of the wheel, it was as though he expected disaster with every turn. Ponyboy half-expected him to pull out a helmet and buckle it under Johnny’s chin.

Johnny, for his part, looked like he was under interrogation. Beads of sweat stood out along his hairline, his shoulders tight as if the steering wheel might snap under his grip. The nervousness from earlier nowhere near easing. Still, he nodded at every instruction, following each one diligently, almost mechanically. He didn’t want to disappoint.

“Check your mirrors,” Darry reminded him for the fourth time in as many minutes.

Johnny flicked his eyes up, then back to the road.

“Ease on the gas. Not too much. Keep it steady. Now brake-”

The car jerked to a slower crawl, Ponyboy jolting forward in the backseat – though no feeling of whiplash this time around.

“Good. That’s better.” Darry’s voice softened a little, just a fraction.

Outside the car, Sodapop cupped his hands around his mouth, “loosen up, Johnnycake! You look like you’re takin’ your driver’s test in front of the President!”

Two-Bit chimed in, but from where they were in the car they couldn’t hear what it was exactly that he said.

Johnny didn’t answer, didn’t so much as glance at them. His jaw was set, his lips pressed in a line so thin it looked like it might vanish. Ponyboy noticed the tension in his friend’s face and scribbled in his notebook:

Observation: Johnny looks terrified – but he’s still going.

The car rounded the corner again, a slow, stuttering circuit that seemed to last hours. Darry’s hand hovered inches from the wheel, ready to snatch control at any second. His foot pressed that phantom brake pedal so often Ponyboy thought he might wear a hole through the floorboard.

Yet Johnny didn’t quit. He stayed steady, jerky but steady, obeying every instruction Darry barked.

“Better,” Darry said finally, nodding as the car eased back into their starting position. His voice held a rare note of approval, the kind that didn’t come easy, “that was a solid second lap.”

Johnny slumped back, letting out a breath he’d been holding the whole time. His shirt clung damp to his shoulders, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a boxing match.

Darry sat back in his seat, still tense, but his expression softened for a beat as he studied Johnny.

“You’ll get it,” he said, quieter this time, “you just gotta put in the work. One step at a time.”

Johnny nodded, exhausted but trying to look like he believed it.

Ponyboy, notebook balanced on his knee, jotted one last line:

Darry: Nervous mum mode engaged. Johnny: Terrified, but trying.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was something.

By the time Johnny crept the car back toward their starting point for the second time, the poor engine sounded like it was begging for mercy. He eased it into place, knuckles white on the wheel, and sat frozen, waiting for the final verdict.

Darry gave a single, approving nod. “Good progress,” he declared.

A chorus of groans erupted from outside the car.

“That’s it?” Steve demanded, throwing up his hands, “two laps at turtle speed? I’ve seen old ladies push grocery carts faster than that.”

Sodapop leaned against the hood with a dramatic sigh, “man, I thought we’d at least hit second gear.”

Two-Bit slapped his palms together, “boys, I have officially witnessed the most boring rollercoaster I ever saw.”

Johnny’s face burned red, but before he could shrink into the seat, Darry shut them all down with a glare sharp enough to slice, “better to be safe than sorry. He’s learning, and nobody wrecked the car. That’s a win.”

Ponyboy bit his lip to keep from smiling. Only Darry could look at five miles an hour like it was some kind of Olympic victory.

Johnny sagged with relief as Darry finally said the magic words: “go ahead and park it.”

It took him a few shaky manoeuvres, but the car rolled to a halt, more or less straight. Johnny slumped back in the seat like a soldier returning from battle.

“Not bad, Johnnycake,” Sodapop said as he yanked the door open. He ruffled Johnny’s hair, ignoring his weak attempt to duck away, “next time, we’ll let ya drive like a real person.”

Steve muttered, “assumin’ he survives the next round.”

Johnny’s shoulders stiffened, but his eyes darted toward Ponyboy in the backseat, searching for reassurance.

Ponyboy leaned forward with a crooked grin. “One down,” he whispered, “four to go.”

Johnny let out a long, shaky breath, like he’d just survived a war he hadn’t signed up for.

Two-Bit poked his head in through the open window, “cheer up, Johnnycake. You lived through Defensive Driving Bootcamp. That’s more than most people can say.”

Johnny shot him a flat look, but Two-Bit only grinned wider.

Darry, already gathering his papers and snapping his folder shut, looked satisfied, like he’d just taught a masterclass, “that’s enough for today. He’s got the basics. Next lesson, we build from here.”

“Basics?” Steve echoed with a snort. “The only thing he learned was how to crawl.”

Sodapop hooked an arm around Johnny’s shoulders as he guided him out of the car. “Crawl before you walk, walk before you run,” he said cheerfully, “that’s how it works.”

Johnny gave a weary half-smile but didn’t answer. His hands still shook faintly as he stuffed them in his jacket pockets.

From the backseat, Pony flipped his notebook shut. He had a feeling the real entertainment hadn’t even started yet.

Chapter Text

Sunday afternoon came bright and restless, and so did Sodapop Curtis.

The original plan was for lessons to take place on Saturdays – a week apart as to not overwhelm Johhny – but Sodapop was far too excited for that and wanted his turn in showing Johnny how to really drive a car.

Johnny, and Ponyboy, didn’t know quite how to react as the middle Curtis brother appeared as they made their way home from the lot.

He pulled up to the house like he was announcing a parade, radio blasting some rock ’n’ roll station, his elbow slung out the window, hair flying every which way in the wind. The car screeched a little when he braked – on purpose, Ponyboy was sure – and Sodapop leaned across the seat with a grin that could’ve powered the engine without gasoline.

“Hop in, fellas!” he hollered, like they were about to hit the fairgrounds instead of a driving lesson.

Johnny glanced at Ponyboy, uncertainty flickering across his face. Yesterday had been Darry’s turn, and Johnny had survived it – barely. He looked pale afterward, like he’d run ten miles with a backpack of bricks. Ponyboy had thought it’d take a week before Johnny was ready to touch a steering wheel again. But Sodapop’s enthusiasm was infectious, and within a minute they were both climbing into the back.

The music rattled the car doors as Sodapop tore them out of the neighbourhood and onto the long, dusty stretch of road leading to the quieter edges of Tulsa. Fields and fences blurred past, and Pony gripped the seatback, notebook already balanced on his knee, ready to scribble. With Sodapop at the wheel, he had a feeling he’d need the notes.

After about ten minutes of Sodapop’s showboating – singing along at the top of his lungs, slapping the dashboard in rhythm, and swerving dramatically to dodge a pothole – he finally coasted to a stop on a dirt pull-off. Dust rose in a cloud around them.

“Alright, Johnnycake,” Sodapop said, grinning as he slapped the steering wheel like it was a trusty old horse, “your turn.”

Johnny blinked at him, “here? Just… now?”

Sodapop hopped out, motioning for him to switch places, “of course. What’d you think, I was gonna read you a bunch of rules first? This ain’t Darry’s school lecture. C’mon, the car’s just a big ol’ horse – you gotta feel it, not fight it.”

Johnny hesitated, but something in Sodapop’s easy tone cut through the nerves. He slid into the driver’s seat, his hands tentative on the wheel. Sodapop lounged in the passenger seat like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Ponyboy double checked his seatbelt was on properly and held his notebook a little tighter. He braced himself against the door, silently praying the car would stay in one piece.

Johnny let out a shaky laugh, glancing over at Sodapop, “I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit,” Soda said, pointing forward with all the confidence in the world, “now let’s ride.”

Johnny gripped the wheel tighter – but Ponyboy noticed something different this time. He wasn’t as pale, and his shoulders weren’t hunched with dread. Nervous, sure. But under Sodapop’s grin and the roar of the radio, Johnny almost looked like he believed he could do this.

The Curtis car bounced along the country backroads, dust curling up behind the wheels like a tail. Once Johnny had a better grasp on the gears, Sodapop cranked the radio so loud Ponyboy could barely hear his own thoughts. He shouted encouragement over the music like a coach at a rodeo.

“Loosen up, Johnnycake! You’re holdin’ the reins too tight. Let the horse run!”

Johnny’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his shoulders stiff as a fencepost. The car gave a violent wobble as he tried to ‘let the horse run’, and Pony, thrown sideways in the back seat despite the seatbelt, braced himself with both arms.

Soda slapped the dash in rhythm to the song, “see? You just gotta feel it! Don’t fight the car – work with it. Like you’re ridin’ a bronco!”

“You’re the only one here who has ridden a bronco Soda,” Johnny said, though he wasn’t sure the older boy heard him over the music.

Johnny bit his lip, eyes glued to the dirt road stretching ahead. The car swerved again, narrowly avoiding a mailbox that had been leaning crooked even before Johnny’s attempt at driving. Sodapop waved at it casually.

“Don’t worry about that. Ninety-five percent sure it was already like that.”

“Rule number three,” Pony muttered to himself, scribbling in his notebook between bumps.

3. Soda thinks stop signs are optional. Mailboxes too, apparently.

A tractor rattled down the opposite side of the road, its driver giving them a suspicious glare. Johnny panicked, trying to straighten the car out. In the process, his elbow somehow hit the horn, which gave a long, pitiful honk that startled the birds out of a nearby tree.

The tractor driver lifted a hand in confused salute. Johnny’s face turned crimson.

“Good one!” Sodapop laughed, like Johnny had just pulled off some stunt, “gave him fair warning. That’s what horns are for – let ‘em know you’re comin’!”

“Pretty sure that’s not how horns are supposed to work,” Ponyboy said from the back, gripping the seat as the car jerked again.

“Relax, Pony,” Sodapop called, his grin never fading, “he’s doin’ great! Look at him go.”

Johnny swallowed hard, trying not to flinch every time the car swayed. Still, a tiny grin tugged at his mouth. It wasn’t that Sodapop’s instructions made much sense – they didn’t – but the energy around him was a whole lot lighter than Darry’s rule-heavy bootcamp. Johnny liked Darry a lot, and thought of him as a big brother – as he did with Sodapop and Ponyboy (being the little brother that is) – but his personality could be a bit difficult in high pressure feeling situations.

The car hit a bump, and it felt like the car flew for a few seconds before crashing back down again.

“Aw, see? The horse kicked!” Sodapop said, scooping the comb off the floor and tossing it onto the dash, “means she’s still got spirit.”

“Spirit’s one word for it,” Ponyboy muttered, pulling the map off his head. He was already scribbling again in his notebook:

4. Soda encourages chaos. Don’t sit near glove box.

Johnny gave a shaky laugh, his foot easing on the gas just a little. The car responded with a lurch that almost threw Pony sideways again. Sodapop whooped like they’d just cleared a hurdle.

“That’s it! That’s the stride! Feel the rhythm, Johnny, you got it!”

The music blasted louder as Sodapop leaned over to crank the dial. Johnny looked half-terrified, half-thrilled, like someone who wasn’t sure if they were enjoying the rollercoaster or about to throw up.

The backroads stretched on, sun shining down, dust swirling up behind them. Johnny’s grip on the wheel was still tight, but he was grinning now, too – a grin that hadn’t been there under Darry’s watch.

“See?” Sodapop said, giving Johnny a quick slap on the shoulder, “ain’t so bad. Told ya it’s just like ridin’ a horse. Except, you know, with wheels. And an engine. And brakes if you remember to use ‘em.”

Johnny let out a short laugh, shaky but genuine. Ponyboy, clinging to the seatbelt strap with one hand and his notebook with the other, wasn’t sure whether to laugh or pray.

All he knew was that if Darry could see this lesson, he’d probably keel over on the spot.

The car bounced over yet another rut in the road, rattling so hard the glove box popped open like it had finally given up. A storm of Soda’s junk came spilling out: faded gas receipts, a crumpled diner napkin with a phone number scrawled on it, an empty candy wrapper, and – most lethal of all – a folded road map that shot straight into the backseat like a boomerang from the momentum of the car and the air that coming into the car at high speed with the windows being down..

Ponyboy didn’t even have time to duck.

“Gah!” he yelped as the paper smacked square across his face, blinding him. A plastic comb flew out right behind it, bouncing off his forehead and landing in his lap.

Johnny jumped in his seat, “shoot – Pony, I’m sorry, should I-”

“Don’t you dare take your hands off that wheel!” Sodapop barked, though his voice cracked with laughter. He slapped the dash, practically wheezing, “oh man, that was perfect. Kid, the car likes you already – throwin’ you gifts from the glove box. Real friendly-like.”

Ponyboy peeled the map off his nose and shoved it onto the seat beside him, “yeah, thanks. Real thoughtful.”

Johnny’s shoulders crept up to his ears again, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The road stretched out dusty and uneven ahead, lined by sagging fences and the occasional tree leaning into the breeze.

Sodapop reached over and gave Johnny’s arm a pat, “relax, Johnnycake. You’re doin’ fine. Nothin’ but open road and fresh air.”

Johnny nodded mutely, eyes locked forward.

Sodapop’s grin turned mischievous, “’course… now that you got the hang of keepin’ her steady, it’s time to learn somethin’ important. The art of the drift.”

Johnny blinked, “the what?”

Ponyboy groaned from the back, “Soda…”

But Sodapop was already leaning into the lesson, hands off the dash and in the air like he was conducting music, “see, drivin’ ain’t just about rules and signs and all that Darry junk. It’s about feelin’ the car. Like dancin’. You gotta let it slide a little, let her find her rhythm.”

Johnny’s voice was strangled, “slide?”

“Yeah! There’s a curve comin’ up. All you gotta do is ease her into it, give her a little freedom. Trust me – you’ll love it.”

Ponyboy slammed his notebook shut and braced against the seat, “this is a bad idea.”

Sodapop shot him a look over his shoulder, grinning, “since when did you turn into Darry, huh? Don’t worry, Pony, we’re in control.”

Johnny didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either. His jaw was tight, his eyes wide, but his hands stayed firm on the wheel as the curve loomed closer.

“Okay, now!” Sodapop hollered, excitement sparking in his voice, “ease her left, not too much – yeah, that’s it – now give her a nudge of gas!”

Johnny obeyed. The tires shrieked against the dirt, the back end of the car fishtailing out in a plume of dust. The world tilted as the car slid, the horizon wobbling in the windshield.

“Mailbox!” Ponyboy shouted.

Johnny jerked the wheel too far in the opposite direction, and the car straightened violently, swerving back onto the road with a wobble. The wooden post of a mailbox loomed inches from the passenger side. They missed it – barely. The mailbox quivered on its crooked hinge, tilting like it had just survived a tornado.

The car rattled on, dust still swirling behind them. For a long second, nobody breathed.

Then Sodapop let out a wild whoop that echoed down the road. He slapped Johnny on the shoulder, laughing so hard he nearly doubled over, “beautiful! Kid, that was perfect. You got the soul of a racer in you!”

Johnny’s chest was heaving, his eyes round as saucers, “we – we almost hit that mailbox.”

“Almost,” Sodapop said, still grinning like a maniac, “and I’m ninety-five percent sure it was already crooked.”

“It wasn’t,” Pony muttered from the back, clutching his notebook like a life preserver.

Johnny’s hands trembled on the wheel. His shoulders were locked tight, but slowly –hesitantly – a grin cracked through his panic. His lips curled, his eyes bright despite the fear still lingering there.

“See?” Sodapop said, triumphant, “that’s drivin’, Johnnycake. That right there – that feelin’ in your chest, the rush in your hands – that’s the good stuff.”

Johnny ducked his head, smiling despite himself, “yeah. Kinda feels… pretty cool.”

“Feels alive, don’t it?” Sodapop leaned back in his seat, proud as could be, “knew you had it in ya.”

Ponyboy shook his head, muttering under his breath as he scribbled in his notebook:

5. If Darry’s driving is a lecture, Soda’s is a circus act. Be prepared.

By the time Sodapop told Johnny to pull over, the car looked like it had been through a dust storm. Dirt streaked across the hood, and the air inside smelled faintly of hot rubber and road grit. Johnny eased the wheel toward the side of the road, every muscle in his arms trembling like he’d been wrestling a bear instead of steering.

The engine sputtered down to a rumble. When the car finally came to a stop, Johnny’s hands slid off the steering wheel, and he dropped back against the seat with a breathless laugh.

“Oh, man,” he wheezed, “I can’t believe we’re still alive – and I only stalled twice!”

Ponyboy leaned forward between the front seats, his hair mussed from the ride, “me either.” He shut his notebook with a firm snap like he was sealing evidence for a court case.

Sodapop, on the other hand, looked like Christmas morning had come early. He whooped and clapped Johnny so hard on the back that Johnny jolted forward against the seat belt. “Kid, you did it! That was beautiful!” He ruffled Johnny’s already wild hair until it stuck up in a dozen different directions, “first drift, first near-death mailbox experience – practically a professional now!”

Johnny couldn’t help laughing again, weak but real. His grin was sheepish, stretched wide across his face in disbelief, “I don’t know if I’d call that professional.”

“Sure it was!” Sodapop lifted his hand high, palm out, “c’mon. You earned it.”

Johnny stared at the offered hand like it was a trick, then slowly raised his own. Their palms smacked together with a satisfying crack, Sodapop pumping the high-five like Johnny had just won the Indy 500.

“Victory!” Sodapop crowed, throwing both arms up like they’d crossed a finish line.

Ponyboy rolled his eyes, flipping open his notebook again. In bold, underlined letters, he scribbled:

6. Soda’s lesson is a rollercoaster – consider a helmet and some padding

He tore the pencil across the page so hard the tip nearly broke.

Johnny leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still catching his breath. He shook his head, but that smile wasn’t fading, “that was the most fun I’ve ever had being terrified.”

Sodapop slung an arm around his shoulders, practically glowing, “that’s the spirit! You’re a natural driver, Johnnycake. Keep this up, and you’ll be cruisin’ down Main Street with everyone starin’, thinkin’, ‘There goes the coolest guy in Tulsa.’”

Johnny ducked his head, his cheeks flushing in the late afternoon light, “I don’t know about that.”

“Believe it,” Sodapop gave him another squeeze before finally letting go, turning to fiddle with the radio like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Ponyboy leaned back in the seat, letting the hum of the idling engine settle over them.

Sodapop might’ve been reckless, but Ponyboy had to admit – Johnny looked a whole lot lighter than he had earlier in the day.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the DX station, heat radiating off the blacktop and the faint smell of gasoline clinging to the air. Steve leaned against his car like it was a trophy, arms crossed, chin tilted up just enough to look smug. His grin widened when Johnny and Ponyboy came walking across the lot.

“There he is,” Steve announced, clapping Johnny on the shoulder like he’d just won a contest, “the man of the hour. You ready to learn how to drive for real?”

Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the weight in Steve’s tone, “I’ve already had lessons-”

“Nah,” Steve cut him off, waving a hand, “what you did with Darry and Soda don’t count. Baby stuff. That ain’t drivin’. That’s lettin’ the car do all the thinkin’ for ya. You don’t really know nothin’ till you’ve stalled a car at least a dozen times. That’s how you earn your stripes.”

Ponyboy groaned, “great. Can’t wait to get whiplash.”

“Quit your bellyachin’,” Steve shot back. He swung open the passenger-side door and jerked a thumb toward the back, “you’re ridin’ back there. Observer’s seat. Or, you know, crash dummy, whichever.”

Before Ponyboy could argue, Steve gave him a nudge that left him sprawling into the backseat, his notebook bouncing onto the cushion beside him. He sat up, scowling through his hair that had fallen over his eyes – which was also a reminder that he needed a haircut.

Steve didn’t notice – he was too busy circling to the driver’s side like a ringmaster presenting the main act. He slapped the hood affectionately, “this, Johnnycake, is where it all happens. Stick shift. Clutch, gas, gears – you control everything. Cars weren’t meant to baby you. They were meant to make you work for it. That’s drivin’.”

Ponyboy really didn’t know what he was so excited about driving a ‘stick’, manuals were all that they had anyway when it came to cars.

Johnny swallowed hard and his fingers twitched at his sides, but he opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. The driver’s seat seemed to swallow him whole.

Steve hopped in beside him, rolling his shoulders like a coach gearing up before a big game, “don’t look so spooked. She won’t bite – unless you treat her wrong. Then she’ll buck you like a wild horse. But hey, that’s half the fun.”

Steve had obviously taken some quotes from Sodapop.

Ponyboy leaned forward from the backseat, already bracing himself against the door, “somehow, I don’t think your definition of fun and mine are the same.”

Steve just grinned, throwing an arm across the back of Johnny’s seat, “buckle up, boys. This is where the real lesson starts.”

Steve leaned over Johnny like a coach about to bark out the winning play, one hand on the dashboard, the other pointing at the pedals.

“Alright, listen close. This is simple. Clutch in. Gear shift down into first. Now keep the clutch in, give it a little gas, and – while you’re lettin’ off the clutch – you ease into the gas. Easy as pie.”

Ponyboy did have to give Steve some credit though, as he was much better at coaching gear changes compared to Sodapop’s rambling.

Johnny nodded, eyes wide, but Ponyboy could already tell the words were flying over his head like a baseball he’d never even seen coming.

Steve smacked the dash, “go on. Clutch in.”

Johnny obeyed, pressing the pedal to the floor.

“Good. Now shift. No, other way – down, not up. First gear’s to the left. Yeah, there. Okay. Now give her gas. Little more – no, not that much – ease off the clutch at the same time. Ready? Go!”

The car gave a violent jerk forward, then shuddered like it was choking before collapsing into silence. The engine cut off with a pitiful wheeze.

Johnny froze, his foot still twitching on the clutch.

Perhaps Steve’s instructions were a little too much.

Steve sighed so loud it rattled the windows. He leaned back in his seat, shaking his head with theatrical disappointment, “congratulations, Johnnycake. You killed her. First try, too. New record.”

7. You don’t really know how to drive until you’ve stalled a dozen times. (By that logic, Johnny’s already an expert.)

Johnny’s face went red, his shoulders curling in, “sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Try again,” Steve stretched over Johnny and twisted the key, turning off the engine before bringing it sputtering back to life, “you’re supposed to stall. That’s the whole point.”

Ponyboy muttered from the back, “pretty sure the whole point is to drive.”

“Pipe down, Ponyboy,” Steve shot over his shoulder, “you’ll thank me when it’s your turn. Stalling’s part of the process. Builds character.”

Observation: Stalling apparently builds character. Feels more like building a headache.

Johnny licked his lips nervously and tried again. Clutch in. Shift. Gas.

The car jerked forward – died again.

Now Johnny was disappointed – he didn’t stall with Darry, and his only two stalls with Sodapop weren’t back to back (or at the very start of the lesson).

Steve slapped the dash like he was calling plays on the field, “that’s two! You’re on a roll.”

Another attempt. Another stall.

“Three! You’re gonna hit a dozen before we even leave the lot.”

By the seventh time, Ponyboy’s head had snapped forward so hard he thought he might need a neck brace. He gripped the seat cushion, groaning, “feels like I’m sittin’ in a dryer with a load of bricks.”

Steve barked a laugh, unfazed by the way Johnny’s hands were shaking on the wheel, “that’s the beauty of it! You can’t call yourself a driver until you’ve rattled your passengers’ teeth out. C’mon, Johnnycake, one more. You’re gettin’ closer.”

Johnny shot him a doubtful look, but his jaw set. He pressed the clutch, shifted carefully, and eased into the gas again. The car jolted forward – it didn’t die this time, but it lurched like a stubborn mule before stalling two seconds later.

8. Always clutch all the way in before shifting. Half-assing it = gears screaming like a dying animal.

Steve whooped, “progress! That was practically a whole second of movement.”

Ponyboy groaned again.

Johnny wiped his palms against his jeans, determined but pale, “it’s… harder than it looks.”

 “’Course it is. That’s what makes it worth learnin’. Anybody can flop behind the wheel of an automatic. This? This makes you a driver.”

Then, with a grin, he shoved Johnny’s shoulder, “now stop babyin’ her. You gotta show her who’s boss.”

Johnny gave a shaky laugh, lifted his foot to the clutch again, and braced for round eight.

By the ninth or tenth stall, Johnny’s shoulders sagged like he wanted the seat to swallow him whole. His knuckles were bone-white around the steering wheel, and his lip was caught between his teeth like he was hanging on for dear life.

Steve, though, wasn’t letting up. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice sharp but weirdly patient, “alright, listen. You’re thinkin’ too hard. You can’t just follow steps like a recipe – cars talk. You gotta feel it.”

Johnny gave him a baffled look, “feel it?”

“Yeah. The bite point. That little spot where the clutch grabs hold, when she’s ready to move. You’ll know it if you listen. Car’ll tell you what she wants,” Steve tapped the dash affectionately like it was alive.

Ponyboy snorted from the backseat, “I didn’t know we were talkin’ to cars now.”

Steve shot him a glare, “don’t knock it, kid. That’s why I’m the mechanic and you’re the peanut gallery.”

Ponyboy just tsked and added another observation to his book.

Observation: Might’ve been the first time anyone treated stalling like a compliment.

Johnny, though, actually nodded like it made sense. He pressed the clutch in again, shifted carefully into first, and eased his foot up like he was handling dynamite. The engine grumbled, shivered  – then cut out with a cough.

“Almost,” Steve said, and for once, there wasn’t any bite in it. He reached over, gave the key a twist, and brought the engine roaring back to life, “try again. But this time, listen.”

Johnny leaned forward, brows furrowed, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. He gave the clutch the tiniest lift, fed in some gas, then froze, waiting. The car shuddered, nose dipping like it might stall again.

“Don’t panic,” Steve coached, “little more gas. Ease off slow. That’s it – that’s it!”

The car wobbled, jerked once, then rolled forward in a lopsided crawl. For the first time all afternoon, it didn’t die instantly.

Johnny blinked, like he didn’t quite believe it, “I-I’m movin’.”

Steve grinned wide, pride sparking through his usual sarcasm, “damn straight you are. Not bad for your first fifty tries.”

From the back, Ponyboy leaned to the side, watching Steve closely. He’d seen that grin plenty of times when Steve was cracking jokes or puffing himself up, but this one was different. Genuine. He almost looked proud. Not a look he often had.

Johnny clung to the wheel like he was holding onto the last lifeboat off a sinking ship. The car bumped forward, uneven but steady, gravel crunching under the tires. His face lit up, pale but glowing, and he whispered like it might jinx him, “I’m really drivin’.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head, “don’t go gettin’ cocky. You still sound like you’re grindin’ rocks every time you shift.”

“Sorry,” Johnny muttered, fumbling with the stick. The car gave a horrible groan as the gears clashed, rattling the frame like a rusty tin can. Ponyboy winced and clapped his hands over his ears.

“Stop apologizin’,” Steve snapped, but there was no heat, “grindin’ gears is part of it. Means you’re tryin’. Next time, clutch all the way in before you shift. Don’t half-ass it.”

Johnny nodded fiercely, concentrating again. He tried another shift – still rough, but less screechy this time. The car lurched but didn’t stall.

Steve sat back with a satisfied hum, “see? She’s forgiving when you treat her right.”

Ponyboy groaned dramatically, “if you start romancin’ that car, I’m walkin’ home.”

“Shut it, Pony,” Steve and Johnny said in unison. That earned a laugh out of Johnny.

They rolled forward a little smoother, Johnny’s motions clumsy but more confident with each attempt. His shoulders, still tense, weren’t climbing up to his ears anymore. For once, he didn’t look like he was waiting for disaster every second.

Steve crossed his arms, smirking, “told you. Just had to feel it.”

Johnny glanced at him, eyes wide but proud, “guess so.”

The car coughed its way out of the DX alley, shuddering like it wasn’t entirely sure it wanted to cooperate. Johnny gripped the wheel so hard his fingers looked welded there, eyes darting between the cracked pavement ahead and the stubborn stick shift.

They lurched onto a narrow backstreet, the car hopping forward in uneven bursts. Each time it jolted, Ponyboy bounced against the seat, his notebook flying off his lap and into the floorboards. “I’m gonna have whiplash before this lesson’s over,” he muttered, ducking to scoop it up.

Johnny’s laugh burst out, “sorry! I’m – tryin’!”

“You’re doin’ fine,” Steve said, smug as a cat in cream. He leaned back in the passenger seat, arms folded across his chest like his job was already done, “see? I told you I’m the best teacher. She’s movin’, ain’t she?”

“She’s movin’ like a drunk mule,” Ponyboy shot back, holding onto the headrest as the car jerked through another stall-and-recover motion.

Johnny didn’t answer. He was too busy biting down a grin, eyes shining in a way Ponyboy hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Alright, shift into second,” Steve said, casual as anything.

Johnny obeyed, foot twitchy on the clutch. The gears groaned, the whole car shivered ‒ and then, to everyone’s shock, it smoothed into something resembling a steady roll.

Johnny’s grin split wider, “I did it!”

Steve clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly make him swerve, “atta boy! Look at you, drivin’ like you own the street already.”

“More like the street owns us,” Ponyboy grumbled from the back, bracing himself against the door as they wobbled around a turn. His notebook slid again, pages crumpling.

But Johnny only laughed harder, a sound caught between disbelief and exhilaration. The car rattled, squealed, and jerked, but somehow it kept moving. And with every block they covered, his shoulders eased just a little.

Back in the DX lot, Johnny fumbled the gearshift into neutral and twisted the key. The engine coughed one last time before dying, leaving a ringing silence in its place. And Ponyboy had one last observation to add:

Observation: Steve’s a washing machine set on a violent spin cycle.

He leaned back against the seat with a groan, “let’s never do that again.”

Steve smirked, utterly unbothered by the bumpy disaster of the last half hour. “Tomorrow?” he asked, casual as anything.

Johnny turned his head, giving him a look like he wasn’t sure if Steve was joking or deadly serious. His face was still flushed, still pale around the edges ‒ but the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He didn’t say no.

Ponyboy dragged himself out of the backseat, rubbing his neck dramatically. “If you two keep this up, I’m gonna need a chiropractor before I’m sixteen,” he tucked his battered notebook under his arm, shaking his head with mock despair.

Steve snorted and gave Johnny a light punch to the arm, “see? That’s progress. First day and you only stalled, what ‒ twenty times?”

Johnny ducked his head, but he was smiling anyway.

Ponyboy watched the two of them, a little exasperated but also… relieved. Johnny looked proud. Alive. Like even with the bumps and stalls, he’d managed to take the wheel of something in his life. And Steve – he looked more like a big brother than a know-it-all mechanic.

Chapter Text

Sunday afternoon found Two-Bit Matthews pulling into the Curtis driveway with a grin big enough to rival his own hubcaps. He jingled his car keys like they were the crown jewels, holding them up for Johnny to see.

“Today’s your lucky day, kid,” he declared. “you’re about to get the deluxe, all-inclusive Two-Bit Matthews driving experience. Normally, I charge for this sort of thing, but since you’re family…” He winked.

Johnny glanced at the car and almost reconsidered. The thing rattled like it was held together by duct tape and prayers, coughing with every idle like it had a smoker’s cough worse than Dally’s. Ponyboy, leaning against the porch rail, muttered under his breath, “that thing shouldn’t even be legal.”

They hadn’t even started, and Ponyboy was already scribbling in his notebook.

Observation: You probably shouldn’t drive with Two-Bit. You should probably avoid any car that looks like it’s trying to fall apart while parked.

Still, Johnny squared his shoulders, more confident than he’d been in the last lessons. He slid into the driver’s seat without shaking this time, though his knuckles were pale against the wheel. Ponyboy climbed into the back with a dramatic sigh, clutching his notebook like it might save him when the engine exploded.

Two-Bit flopped into the passenger seat with all the seriousness of a circus clown, “now, listen here, Johnnycake. I ain’t Darry with his homework assignments, and I sure ain’t Soda with his jazz hands. I’m the fun teacher. No rules, no manuals, no stress. Driving’s easy, kid. Just point her straight and don’t hit anything alive.”

Johnny swallowed, half-grinning, “that’s it?”

“That’s it. Rule number one: always look cool behind the wheel. Rule number two: if you can’t look cool, at least don’t cry in public,” Two-Bit drummed his fingers against the dashboard like a drummer starting a beat.

Pony snorted from the back, “great, real helpful.” He scribbled in his notebook anyway:

9. Style matters more than survival.

Unbothered, Two-Bit leaned back in his seat, gesturing broadly like a game show host. “Johnnycake, this is your stage. This hunk of metal? Your spotlight. Those potholes? Your adoring fans,” he jabbed his thumb toward Ponyboy without looking, “and that grumpy mug back there? Your critic.”

Johnny laughed, some of the tension breaking, “you’re crazy, Two-Bit.”

“Crazy good!” Two-Bit shot back, grinning ear to ear, “now go on, fire her up. Let’s see what this jalopy ‒ and you ‒ are made of.”

Ponyboy tightened his grip on the seat. He had a feeling he was about to find out the hard way.

The engine sputtered to life with a shudder that rattled the rearview mirror, but Johnny’s hands on the wheel didn’t shake this time. He pressed the clutch in, shifted carefully, and let the car roll forward with only the tiniest of jerks. Ponyboy felt the seat shiver under him, compared to Steve’s lesson, it was an improvement.

“Would ya look at that!” Two-Bit whooped, slapping the dashboard like Johnny had just won the state fair, “smooth as butter! You’re a natural, Johnnycake. Forget practice, forget books – you were born for this.”

The car rattled down the side street, lopsided but steady.

“Next week, we’re enterin’ you in the Indy 500,” Two-Bit declared, “we’ll get you one of those shiny jumpsuits, helmet with flames on it, the whole shebang. I’ll be your pit crew. Pony can hold the water bottle.”

Ponyboy groaned, bracing against the door as the car wobbled over a pothole, “more like I’ll be the one in the ambulance.” He scribbled furiously in his notebook:

Observation: Two-Bit thinks driving is 40% steering, 60% comedy routine.

Johnny risked a glance at him in the mirror, smiling despite himself.

They rolled onto a quieter street, and Two-Bit sat up like a game-show host unveiling the next round. He pointed dramatically through the windshield, “see that stop sign?”

Johnny nodded warily.

“Optional,” Two-Bit said, deadly serious for all of half a second before grinning wide.

Johnny laughed nervously but slowed anyway, easing to a proper stop before shifting into gear again. It was jerky, but the car didn’t die.

Two-Bit clapped once like a coach, “perfect form! Nailed it! Olympic judges give you a nine-point-eight!”

Ponyboy slapped a hand to his face, “he’s impossible.”

“See that dog?” Two-Bit cut in, jabbing a finger toward a mutt trotting along the sidewalk.

Johnny’s eyes widened.

“Don’t hit it,” Two-Bit said solemnly.

Johnny’s laugh cracked through his nerves, “I wasn’t plannin’ on it!”

Two-Bit leaned back, satisfied, “good man. Already acin’ the course.”

The car wobbled into the next block, tires squealing faintly. Two-Bit pointed again, “see that old lady crossin’ the street?”

Johnny stiffened, “yeah?”

“Wave politely,” Two-Bit said, lifting his own hand in demonstration.

Johnny, still gripping the wheel like it might buck him off, gave the smallest little wave. The lady frowned at them, muttering something none of them could hear. Two-Bit leaned back, roaring with laughter, “that’s the spirit! Charm the public, Johnnycake!”

Johnny was laughing too now, shoulders finally dropping a little, “you’re crazy, Two-Bit.”

“Crazy fun,” Two-Bit corrected once more, “rule number three of drivin’: if you’re not smilin’, you’re doin’ it wrong.”

Ponyboy scribbled another line in his notebook:

Observation: Two-Bit mistakes reckless comedy for confidence-building. Somehow, it works.

The car swerved slightly as Johnny overcorrected a turn, but he didn’t look rattled by it – instead, he looked amused by it.

Two-Bit stuck both hands behind his head, smug as ever, “look at you go Johnnycake!”

Johnny chuckled, shifting gears carefully, the grind only half as awful as before, “I’m gettin’ the hang of it.”

“That’s an understatement,” Two-Bit said proudly, puffing out his chest, “kid’s practically John Surtees.”

Ponyboy leaned forward between the seats, his hair falling into his eyes, “I’m pretty sure Surtees knew which gear he was in.”

Johnny laughed at that.

Two-Bit pointed at the horizon like a general leading his troops into battle, “onward, my student driver! Adventure awaits!”

Ponyboy groaned. Johnny laughed. And somehow, the old car kept on rolling.

The farther they drove, the louder Two-Bit’s car rattled. It wasn’t just the usual cough-and-sputter – it was a full-on orchestra of clanks, squeaks, and groans. The rearview mirror buzzed like a hornet and the floor vibrated under Ponyboy’s sneakers.

Johnny frowned, leaning toward the dash like listening harder might help, “uh… Two-Bit? Is it supposed to sound like that?”

Two-Bit grinned from the passenger seat, unfazed. “Course it is. She’s just singin’. Every car’s got its own tune,” he tapped the dashboard proudly, “this one’s just a little more… rocking and a rolling.”

Ponyboy rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.

10. If a car is ‘singing,’ it probably needs a funeral, not a driver.

Before Johnny could answer, the front tire slammed into a pothole with a bone-rattling thud. The whole car jolted like it was trying to buck them out onto the street.

 Johnny ducked his head, laughing nervously, but his eyes flicked back to the gear shift like it was waiting to betray him. He pressed the clutch and tried for third. The car answered with a grinding shriek that set Ponyboy’s teeth on edge.

Johnny winced, “did I do it wrong?”

“Nope,” Two-Bit said easily, patting the dash, “she’s just dramatic. Third’s her least favorite, but you’ll get used to it.”

Johnny tried again, shifting as gently as possible. The grinding dulled, but it was still there, like sandpaper chewing through steel. He muttered, “guess she don’t like me.”

“She loves you,” Two-Bit insisted, stretching his arms wide like a preacher, “you just gotta show her a good time.”

Johnny’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile.

That was when Two-Bit launched into what he called his ‘signature trick’. He leaned lazily against the passenger seat, tossing one hand toward Johnny’s shoulder, “okay, listen close. Any chump can hold the wheel with two hands. Real pros? They steer with one – smooth, confident. Other hand’s for running through his hair – chicks love that kind of stuff.”

Johnny blinked at him like he wasn’t sure if he was joking, “running your fingers through your hair?”

“Of course! I can’t even tell you how many girls I’ve pulled doing that move? C’mon, Johnnycake. Give it a shot. One hand on the wheel, other hand in your hair.”

Ponyboy groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“This is a disaster waiting to happen.” He muttered and he jotted down his latest observation without looking up:

Observation: one hand on the wheel + one hand going through hair = chick magnet according to Two-Bit.

Johnny swallowed, glanced between the wheel and Two-Bit, then – hesitantly – lifted one hand and ran it through his hair (less gracefully than Two-Bit’s demonstration). The car wobbled instantly, swerving closer to the curb. Johnny panicked, jerking the wheel too far the other way.

The car lurched, tires squealing, the car jumped the curb and narrowly missing a mailbox before another wobble dropped them back down on the road. Across the road two older women watched them varying looks.

Ponyboy yelped, gripping the headrest in front of him like it might keep him alive, “you’re gonna kill us!”

Two-Bit hollered with laughter, smacking the dash in delight, “perfect! Just perfect!”

Johnny’s eyes were huge, horrified, but there was laughter bubbling out of him too, “I almost killed a mailbox!”

Now – a mailbox on a country road they could probably get away with hitting, but a suburban one? Not so much – at least when they had witnesses to this mishap anyway.

“Exactly,” Two-Bit said, wheezing from laughing so hard, “and you didn’t! That’s what makes it perfect.”

The car rattled louder, the engine hiccupping with every shift, but the tension had cracked. Johnny was laughing with the slightest tone of terror at the near accident. And somehow, that seemed to be exactly what Two-Bit wanted.

They drove around for another half hour; Johnny had since lost his nerves and resisted any ‘tricks’ that Two-Bit insisted were good for bring in chicks – and Ponyboy had lost the slight twinges of motion sickness brought on by all the wobbling.

But just when Johnny was feeling quite confident in himself, things changed.

The car gave a cough. Not the usual rattle or groan – it was a deep, wet sounding noise that rattled the entire chassis. And Johnny’s grin faltered.

“…What was that?” he asked.

Two-Bit waved a dismissive hand, “she does that sometimes. Just clearin’ her throat. Keep drivin’.”

But the car didn’t just clear its throat. It sputtered again, shuddering like an old man in winter. A faint thread of smoke curled out from under the hood.

Johnny’s knuckles went white around the wheel, “uh, Two-Bit…”

“Relax,” Two-Bit said, still grinning, “that’s just steam. Means she’s workin’ hard.”

Ponyboy coughed, batting the smoke that was now seeping through the vents, “smells like she’s dyin’.”

“Aw, Ponyboy, don’t be dramatic,” Two-Bit said. But even as he spoke, the car lurched. The speedometer needle dipped, the whole engine hiccupping like it was choking on its own breath.

Johnny’s eyes were huge, frozen on the road, “I really don’t think she’s supposed to sound like that.”

Another jolt rattled through them, harder this time, and then came the final wheeze. The car shuddered once, twice, and went still. The engine died with a pitiful clunk, leaving them rolling silently to the side of the road.

Johnny held the wheel like it might explode if he let go. His chest rose and fell quick, wide eyes glued to the dash. Ponyboy hacked in the back seat, waving smoke away with his notebook.

Two-Bit sat up straight, then slapped the dashboard with exaggerated solemnity. “Well, boys,” he said, voice dripping with mock gravity, “lesson’s over. She gave her life for your education.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Johnny made a strangled sound – half a laugh, half a sigh of relief. He dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel, shoulders shaking.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, muffled, “the car actually died on me.”

“Don’t take it personal,” Two-Bit said with a grin, “she’s been on her last legs since Christmas. I just figured she had a few more miles in her.”

Johnny lifted his head, laughing now for real, though his cheeks were still pale, “you’re truly are insane, y’know that?”

“And yet you still let me teach ya,” Two-Bit shot back, waggling his brows.

Ponyboy leaned back against the seat, notebook balanced again, smirking as he wrote:

11: If Two-Bit says the car’s singing, start walking. Immediately. Forget about funeral planning.

The three of them sat in the silence of the dead car, the engine finally still – none of them moving, though they probably should get out of the smoking vehicle. The air inside was thick with the faint stink of smoke and overheated metal, but with the windows cranked down, a late-afternoon breeze started to push it away.

 “That was actually… kinda fun, even if the car died.”

Ponyboy groaned from the backseat and made a move to get out, yet the door didn’t budge when he tugged at the handle.

Two-Bit threw an arm around Johnny’s shoulders and slapped his back hard enough to make him jump, “fun? That was greatness, kid! You broke her! That means you’re officially a driver.”

Johnny shook his head, still laughing under his breath, “I didn’t break nothin’ – your car was already busted.”

Another forceful tug of the handle finally resulted in the door popping open, and Ponyboy was enjoying the fresh air within moments and Johnny soon followed.

Ponyboy stretched his arms as he stepped out into the road, the evening sun hitting his face. He glanced back at the smoke curling lazily from under the hood and then at Two-Bit still planted proudly in the passenger’s seat.

“Two-Bit, your car’s dead. You planning on holding a funeral in here, or are we walking?”