I don't know what it is about being drunk that makes everything so much more. If you're sad, you get real sad. If you find something funny, it's real funny. And if you think you're being quiet, you almost certainly are not. Guess we've all been there.

I could hear the exaggerated hushing noises even before I heard the gate click. I flicked off the table lamp, tucking my bookmark in place, as I waited in the dark. Their voices were clear enough in the night air.

"I think we should..." Ah, Two-Bit, a young man of many plans and ideas.

"SHHHH!" Everyone else.

Another voice. "Lemme just..."

"Shut your goddamn trap, Randle, I got him.." Well, that angry New York response announced its owner clearly enough.

There was a heavy thump, somebody obviously misjudged the bottom porch step. Laughter bubbled up that instantly provoked another 'Shhh' from several directions. A lone voice said "Ow!", some seconds after the bump had occurred.

I sat quietly in the dark, as they stumbled up the steps.

"Stand up, lightweight!" Dally hissed. Then he whispered something I didn't catch. But I heard Two-Bit reply, urgently.

"You can't just leave 'em here!"

"Steve ain't leavin'," Soda said, in an aggrieved tone. "He's my buddy."

"SHH! Christ alive, Curtis, stand up, you fucker!"

"I'm standin'!"

"Don't tell him whadda do," Steve piped up.

By this point, I couldn't keep still any longer. I stood up, quietly, moving over to the wall, flicking on the porch light.

"Shit! Book it!" Dally was gone, Two-Bit hard on his heels, the gate swinging behind them.

I opened the door and stood there, arms folded.

"Hi, Mom." Soda beamed, as if it were four o'clock in the afternoon and he'd just got in from school. He was standing with one arm on the house wall at a right angle, although the rest of him was tilting sideways as I watched. But, he'd been told to stand, so that's what he was doing. Steve was managing a little better, leaning on the porch rail. He attempted to stifle a hiccup.

Soda giggled, then rearranged his face into an attempt at a serious expression.

"Sodapop Patrick Curtis. Have you been drinking?" I asked. It was taking everything I had to keep a straight face.

"Yup." He grinned. Got to love the honesty of the boy.

I turned my stern expression to the other side of the porch. "Steven, have you been drinking too?"

"Yes, ma'am." He blinked at me. Hiccupped again.

"Inside. Both of you." I pointed at the open door.

Soda swayed dangerously as he let go of the wall. Steve grabbed his arm and they both walked very carefully into the house.

They squinted at me, standing next to one another, as I put on the light. I looked them over.

"Well, at least it don't look as if you've been fighting," I said, locking the front door and turning off the porch light.

"Nah," Soda replied, in what sounded like a suspiciously disappointed voice.

"And what was this celebration in aid of?" They looked at me blankly. "So, pure coincidence that you got drunk on the only weekend your father is out of town with your brothers?" I raised my eyebrows at Soda. He shrugged guiltily, which made him wobble. I noticed Steve twist his fist in the back of Soda's shirt to try and provide some support.

"What do you think your father would have to say?" I demanded. Stupid, really.

Soda looked thoughtful. "Poss'bly...'Atta boy'?" he asked, with a smile that about made me want to hug the breath right out of him. I turned aside to pick up my book, so they wouldn't see me break into a grin. Pretty much what Darrel would say, I reckon. Don't know why I brought him into it.

I herded them into the kitchen and made them drink a glass of water each.

"Steve, you can sleep in Darry's bed tonight," I told him. He looked so grateful, it was like a weight had been lifted from him.

In the middle of the kitchen, Soda pulled off his shirt and tugged his t shirt up over his head.

"What in the world are you doing?" I asked him, shaking my head in disbelief.

He peered at me, hazily. "Ain't we goin' to bed?" I nodded, picking up his clothes and steering them towards the bedroom. Half way there, Soda stopped suddenly.

"Mom? I don't think water's very good for me..." he said, his eyes going wide.

I turned him to face the bathroom and he lurched inside.

"You okay, Steve?" I checked. He nodded vigorously and made for the bedroom.

Well, when the boys were little I had the whole 'wet face cloth, brushing teeth afterwards' routine down to a fine art, every time they got sick. Guess some things never change.

He looked at me as he sat on the edge of the tub, face white. "Sorry, Mom."

"You'll be sorrier in the morning," I warned, thinking of the hangover to come.

"Why?" He gazed at me in bleary horror. "What'cha gonna do to me?"

I chuckled. "Son, you've done it to yourself. But we are gonna to have a long talk about the kind of example I expect you to set for your little brother."

He shuddered. "I ain't never drinkin' again."

I nodded as if I believed him. "That's good, honey." Like I said, we've all been there.

"Only, Dally said..."

I held up my hand. "Oh, I'll be speaking to Mr Dallas Winston, don't you worry," I told him. His eyes were closing as I spoke. "Think you're okay now?"

He nodded. I pulled him up by the arm and delivered him to the bedroom, where he collapsed onto his bed. I pulled off his sneakers and threw the top blanket over him. In the other bed, Steve was already under the covers.

I made a quick trip to the kitchen, returning with a plastic bowl that I left within reach of Soda and two more glasses of water, for the night stand between the beds.

As I flicked off the light and pulled the door closed, I saw dark eyes follow me, but I don't know if I was supposed to hear the whispered, "Thanks, Mom."

Soda was already asleep.