Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I am making no profit from this story.

To Be Somebody

I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas.

Every time Darry circled past one of the department store's three main entrances and saw the rain pelting against the windows, dark against the night, the same words rolled through his head.

At least it's not snowing, though. A couple guys at work had actually lamented the fact that only rain was predicted for the next several days.

He forgot to shift his gaze this time around, and the young woman behind the perfume counter once again gave him a friendly smile. She must think I'm a complete idiot, he thought. The store will be closing in less than an hour, and I'm still wandering in circles.

It's Ponyboy's fault. He was just too hard to figure out. No, Darry amended, it's actually Soda's fault. "Don't ask him what he wants this year," he'd said. "It makes him feel like all you're doing is filling an order or somethin'."

Thanks a lot, Sodapop. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, I'm just off a twelve-hour shift, and I'm wandering around Dillard's looking like a lost dog.

Nothing seemed practical, though. Or rather, everything seemed too practical. What Ponyboy really needed were some new shoes, but that hardly gave the impression of a heartfelt gift. He'd do better just switching off one of the tags from the gifts Soda was giving to Ponyboy. The thought of the look on Soda's face if he did something like that made him smile, because he knew Soda wouldn't say anything. He'd just look surprised for a second, recover before Ponyboy noticed, and then shoot Darry a look like he was mad, but he'd be trying not to laugh.

He slowed down at the tool department and strolled up and down a couple of the aisles. Would Ponyboy like a screwdriver? Some drill bits? The bow saw sure could use a new blade. Darry let out a deep, frustrated sigh.

One of the problems was that so many of the things he could get him, like watches (his was fine) and wallets (just gave him one for his birthday) seemed pointless. After nearly two years of holding tight to the reins of their budget, there weren't too many things Darry could consider buying without first checking off a mental list of what they already had at home, how much use the thing would get, and what was cheaper that would make a good substitution. It went against every financial instinct he'd developed to buy his brothers gifts just because the calendar said he should.

As he passed the candy counter for the third time, something about the combination of the slim Christmas trees set up on the top of the glass display case, and the man who peered into the case with two young children, one on either side of him, shook loose a memory with the force of an earthquake.

It used to happen all the time back in the beginning, during that first year, when every little thing evoked yet another memory; but now, they'd arrived at The Second Christmas Without Them, which felt like a smaller subset of the actual holiday. It was debatable whether or not time lessened the hurt, but it had at least proven to make the scars less apparent. Still, the memories sometimes hit without warning, and the pain and nostalgia were fresh again for a little while.

It was me and Soda on either side of Dad, who smelled like work because we'd left home right after he ran in and wolfed down his dinner. Each of us was holding one of his hands, and we circled these same aisles looking at these same decorations as we shopped for Mom's Christmas present. Ponyboy must have stayed home to be put to bed, Darry figured. He himself couldn't have been more than seven years old.

He smiled, because even though the pain always came with the memories, time had shown him that focusing on what his brain was trying to replay for him actually did make it feel better. They had bought her a box of chocolates, six or nine of the special ones hand-picked from the case by him and Soda. He remembered liking the look of the ones that had been drizzled with white chocolate. They looked higher-end. Classy.

He remembered getting slippers for her, too, but couldn't recall if it was the same year. It all sort of blended together, and he was hazy on which events connected to each other sequentially.

He let himself drift into the memory until he was once again walking with Dad between himself and Sodapop. The voice of Gene Autry, from the same album Mom had played over and over again at home, rang through the speakers above as he sang that red-nosed reindeer song . . .

It was only recently that Darry could pull up these memories without simultaneously fighting down the anger and bitterness that even he himself wouldn't admit to for well over a year. What kind of a person feels angry with their father for dying? he would ask himself. But as much as he'd hated it, it was always there for a long time.

He remembered his dad telling him, "You'll be somebody someday, Darry; you're going to make something of yourself."

And then, just when Darry was preparing to move forward with his life and make some money and move up in the world, Dad had gone and destroyed his own prophesy.

What had Dad meant, anyway? Darry couldn't figure it out, and that right there was another reason for the bitterness – he couldn't ask his dad. He couldn't call him up and say, "Hey Dad, what exactly were you talking about? What does something mean? Who on earth is the somebody I'm supposed to become? Because I swear to God, the only thing I've ever wanted to do in this life is make you proud of me, but stuck here in this hole working my ass off for beans, I'll be damned if I have any clue how to do it."

This is not my life. This is not who I'm supposed to be. This is not the way things should have happened. Darry gave his head a slight shake to rid himself of the words that pushed though almost every day. Watching his buddies moving on, chasing their dreams, even getting married and having kids, wrecked enough havoc on Darry's psyche during the rest of the year; it seemed that Christmas only left him feeling even more left behind. It would take years, he figured, to get back on track, especially since he wasn't even sure which direction he was supposed to be going. Not to mention, at this point, there was a good chance somebody else had already made off with the star he'd been shooting for two years earlier.

He still looked backwards sometimes just so he could peer up the path that he'd never been able to follow – the one that might have gotten him closer to being the man his dad wanted to see in him: He went to college, he played football, he met a girl, he made some good money, he found a good job, he started a family, he knew what the hell to get his little brother for Christmas because there weren't constantly fifty other things getting in the way . . .

The man with the two young children – a girl and a boy – walked past Darry toward the entrance. The man squatted down to button up their coats, and as they stepped out into the weather with their packages, Darry imagined a mom back at home waiting for her boys, rocking a baby to sleep in the light of a Christmas tree as the clicking and popping Gene Autry record serenaded from the turntable.

"Is there something I can help you find?"

The young woman at the perfume counter was giving him a smile that was half-amused, half-pitying.

He strolled over and leaned against the counter. At the sight of all those glistening bottles in every conceivable shape and all colors of the rainbow, another memory surfaced, and he could almost picture the bottle. "Do you have something in a . . . rectangular bottle? The cologne is sort of . . . gold." He bit his lip and tried to dig something more from his memory bank.

The woman – Peggy, according to her name tag – considered for a second before pulling out a rectangular bottle. "Is this the one?"

He liked the way she smelled as much as he liked the way she smiled. And he thought it was cute, the way she didn't even have to ask why he could only give her the shape of the bottle and the color of the contents to go by. She'd probably dealt with a lot of confused, bumbling, gift-seeking men in her time.

Was there one at home waiting for her?

Darry leaned forward to sniff the cologne when she twisted off the lid. "No, that's not it." He gave an apologetic grin. "Sorry." And then, "It has a squareish lid – clear glass, I think."

Peggy snapped her fingers and turned around to produce a small bottle full of amber liquid from the shelf behind her. He recognized it even before she twisted off the lid, even before he took one sniff and felt his chest compress at the perfectly clear image of his Mom – her hair, her clothes, her smile, her scent – standing right next to him.

He swallowed once, took a breath, and nodded. "That's the one."

"Can I wrap it for you?" She was petite and well-dressed, the kind of girl who liked to smile and probably loved to talk.

"You absolutely can wrap it for me," he said, and then told her that it was okay to go ahead and pick out which paper.

She tore off a sheet covered with red and white poinsettias on a dark blue background. "This one's my favorite." She chatted away at him as her fingers, nails neatly trimmed and painted light pink, worked the scissors through the wrapping paper and then folded it around the small box.

"You look familiar," she told him, so they exchanged information – where they lived, where he worked, and where they'd gone to school. That was it, they finally figured out – school. She had graduated the year after he had.

"That's a good memory you have," he told her.

She grinned. "Better than yours, right?" she said, and held up the wrapped box of Chanel No. 5. "For your girlfriend?"

"No." He liked the way she seemed to realize after she'd spoken that she sounded like she was trying to figure out if he was single or not, and the way she didn't apologize, even as she reddened.

She really wanted to know.

"I'm not with anybody," he said.

She nodded slowly and raised her eyebrows. "Ah. So it's for your mom? I'm sure she'll love it. It's one of my favorites."

He didn't embarrass her by telling her that, no, it wasn't for his mom, because she was dead. "Something like that," he said. Truthfully, he had no idea what he was going to do with the cologne. He just needed to buy it, one more time. Something not practical, not needed, but so deeply connected to his soul.

"Anything else you need help with?" Peggy asked, and tapped her watch. "Not to rush you, but we're closing in twenty minutes."

Ponyboy.

Darry sighed. Did he tell her that he had no idea what to buy for his youngest brother? It was one thing to think it to himself; but saying it out loud made him know it was true – he just didn't know Ponyboy well enough to have any idea what he could give him that would mean something.

"I need to get something for my brother," he said.

Peggy came through the swinging door of the jewelry counter, calling back, "Alice, I'll be back soon. I'm just helping a customer." She walked with him toward the main aisle. "The big rush was earlier; she doesn't need me there right now. So how old is your brother?"

"Fifteen." He was suddenly wishing he'd gone home and taken a shower before hitting the department stores on this blasted pointless mission. High school had been a while ago, but there was still nothing like a pretty girl to make you feel smelly and awkward.

"What does he like?" she asked. "Hobbies? Interests?"

Darry looked toward the ceiling, hoping there would be a great big banner up there with everything written out – get X for Ponyboy, do Y with that ridiculous bottle of cologne you paid good money for, and use this amazing pickup line to get a date with the cute friendly salesgirl. "I have no idea," he admitted.

She smiled. "I've got a brother and two sisters, so I know how you feel. My oldest sister is impossible to shop for." She put her hand against her mouth as they strolled along. "Is there something he does all the time? Does he like to fix things? Or how about gloves? That's always a fool-proof gift."

Darry slowed. "He likes to read."

Peggy sped up. "Well, there you go. We've got a couple of aisles of books over past the shoes."

He wondered if he should tell her he thought it was a crappy idea to buy a book Ponyboy might not even be interested in when they could just go get any book out of the library for free, but she was so excited that they'd hit on an idea, he didn't want to crush her spirit.

"Mystery? Thrillers? Non-fiction?"

Darry shook his head again. "I don't know. He's just always reading." He shrugged. "I just . . . I never paid much attention to what he was reading." For some reason it embarrassed him, telling this girl he'd just met that he didn't know what his brother liked to read.

Looking a bit deflated, Peggy scanned the shelves with less purpose. "Hmm. We have calendars."

Darry picked a brown, vinyl-covered, title-free book off the shelf. "What's this?" He opened it up and flipped through the pages – all lined and blank.

"Looks like a journal," Peggy said, leaning over his arm.

He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her hand, which he noted was devoid of a wedding band.

"Does he like to write?" she asked.

And that was it.

He bought the book, and then Peggy showed him the pens at the jewelry counter that he could have engraved – was he serious, wanting them to put Ponyboy Michael Curtis on it? – and they had ten minutes to wait until the pen was finished and the store was closed.

"You can wait with me while I tidy up my station," she offered, sounding more eager than she probably had meant to.

And so he did, and they talked again about family and holidays and unusual names and how hard it can be to find special things for the people you love, but don't really know.

As he talked to Peggy, Darry could almost hear his dad - you'll be somebody someday, Darry; you're going to make something of yourself. With the scent of his mom in the air and the memory of his dad all around him, Darry abruptly realized that it had nothing to do with money or jobs or where you lived. It was about coming to the place where you didn't just know what you wanted; you were happy with who you were. You took what you were given and made it your own. You didn't just live your life. You embraced your life.

Dad had been a father, a husband, and a son, and he put his heart into everything he was. He was somebody. Despite his income and his prospects, he had made something of himself. And that's what he'd wanted for Darry.

By the time Darry had picked up Ponyboy's boxed-up pen and was walking Peggy to the parking lot, he'd made a decision – I'm ready to be the person I was forced to become on that night almost two years ago.

I'm exactly where I should be. I'm exactly who I should be. And I'm ready to stop trying to get back to the place I was supposed to be. I finally get it, Dad.

The rain had stopped, so they waited on the sidewalk right out front, where the red lights from a giant wreath on the side of the store reflected in the damp parking lot. Peggy stood in front of him, arms wrapped around her sides, making small talk. "My dad should be here soon," she said, glancing at her watch. "Probably got stuck in traffic."

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Then they both shifted, and she commented on how pretty the reflected lights were. He agreed, and then it was quiet for a moment, until the wind gusted for a few seconds; instinctively, they moved toward each other. Straightening her skirt, she gave a little laugh and said thanks, because when he'd stepped between her and the wind, he'd saved her "from giving the whole town a free show." Another silence, but different this time; she was giddily embarrassed at what she'd just said; he was hoping she didn't look down and notice the effect her mental image had had on him.

There was chemistry there, he realized, and he was sure he wasn't the only one feeling it. And he hadn't been on a date in ages. A serious date, anyway. She was funny. She was cute. She was interested. Just ask her, you idiot.

"Here he comes," she said, giving Darry a last lingering gaze and an awkward smile. "Well, it was nice meeting you, uh . . ."

"Darry," he said, and held out his hand to wrap it around hers. "Darry Curtis."

The car was halfway through the parking lot.

On a whim, with the handles of the bag draped over his wrist, he let go of her hand to pull the pen out of its box and lifted out the wrapped bottle of cologne. The pen left a smooth flow of black ink in its wake as he wrote his phone number in one of the white poinsettias that covered the wrapping paper.

The car pulled up just as Darry handed her the box. "Merry Christmas, Peggy."

It was the first time in almost two years that he finally felt like he was creating his own destiny.