I should really be writing that paper right now ....

A/N: This oneshot somewhat ties into chapter fifteen of Sinkers and Suds (which, hopefully, I'll be updating soon), when Sandy mentions that Darry is lost in his own little thoughts. It really does stand on it's own, though.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders

Milk. Eggs. Bread. Hit the nail.

Milk. Eggs. Bread. Line the tile.

Milk. Eggs. Bread … and dinner! "Shit!" The hammer missed the nail. Well, the metal nail, anyway. It landed perfectly on my thumbnail, and it did jack shit help me. It didn't exactly secure the tile into the wood; it just made my thumb hurt like hell and made me look like an idiot.

I had to resist the urge to bring my thumb to my mouth and suck it; I was already baby Curtis to half of these men thanks to my dad, and even if I hadn't heard the crack in months, I wasn't going to give them reason to bring it up again. I wasn't going to be remembered as that. Dad was dead, and I was the man of the house now.

I swallowed hard and itched my brow, frustrated. Shaking the pain out of my finger, I went back to work, trying to concentrate. It'd been three months to the day—three whole fucking months since they'd died, and it hurt like hell. It hurt emotionally, financially, and now, physically.

I shook my thumb again. "Dammit," I muttered and sighed. It was turning out to be a long day, and even though I was almost done with work, I had this feeling that the day would continue to drag on rather than fly by like it usually did. Today was one of the few days I wished would just end already. Sure there were bills to be looked at, and we needed some food for the weekend, and I had to make sure my brothers were cared for, but tonight was going to one of those nights I had time to think; I just knew it.

I lined another tile up and nailed it into place. This job was only supposed to help support me through college. I was only going to take a year off to save, but when it came time for fall semester to start up again, I still didn't have enough money. So it got pushed back another year. And I was … somewhat okay with that. I kept thinking to myself that it'd happen, that I'd eventually get to college, even if it took me years to get there. But then the accident happened and everything I thought I knew crashed around me, like the protective glass had shattered, and the world was zeroing in on me. There were nights I couldn't breathe. There were nights I shook almost as bad as Ponyboy did when he had nightmares.

He didn't know that though. Soda may have an idea 'cause he's just so damn good at reading people, but he's never said anything about it. I don't think he really gets it all though. I don't think he knows how alone I feel sometimes, how I constantly question everything. I mean, was I doing anything right? How'd Mom and Dad handle all these bills? How did they deal with the three of us boys not listening to them? How'd they just resist the urge to yell and scream at us? How'd they figure out what to cook for dinner every night? Did they scrape by like I was now?

Where the hell was the instruction book that gave me the answers? Life wasn't some No-Assembly-Required gadget bought at the store.

Sometimes I wished it were, though.

"Curtis! Hey, Curtis!"

I looked at the ground carefully, leaning one hand on the unfinished roof and using the other to keep balance. My boss was looking up at me, hand attempting to shield his eyes from the evening sun.

I waited a moment before responding with a loud, "Yeah?"

"I ain't paying you overtime, so you can either work for free or get off the roof and go home already," he yelled, and then walked away, shaking his head.

I sighed and hooked my hammer back in my tool belt, ready to make the descent down the ladder. My relationship with my boss was never that great. He understood about family problems, I think, but he never liked it when I had to take off. I think the only reason I hadn't been fired yet was because he held a lot of respect for my dad, and I was a pretty good worker. I hated the pity that came with it, but I wasn't going to argue it. The pay I got from him paid for a lot of things in the house, and I had learned to swallow my pride like a candy-ass to deal with it.

I finished climbing down the ladder and adjusted my tool belt as I walked towards my truck. It seemed warmer now that I wasn't doing anything; it was like the heat was just radiating off my body in waves. It kind of felt like I'd been running rather than just working on a roof in the luke-warm spring sun, and I knew any moment I'd get a chill that would make me pull at the sleeves of my shirt. Pony was always pulling at his shirtsleeves. It was no wonder though, the kid was so skinny.

I never really cared to notice until everything was suddenly my responsibility.

It wasn't like he didn't eat—because I made sure he ate, but it wasn't like I had to because trust me, the kid could eat—but I never thought he was as thin as he was until I had to notice. And then I started questioning it. Was I that skinny when I was his age? I'm pretty sure Soda was, and he turned out fine, but was Pony different? He was already really different from Soda and I. Was he healthy?

I was in my car now, and the radio was blasting, like I was trying to drown out my own thoughts. This would have worked if my thoughts hadn't been drowning out the radio. I barely even noticed I'd started in the direction of the grocery store.

At least my sub-conscience knows what to do, I thought wryly.

I ran a hand through my hair and tried to collect myself, adjusting my position in my seat. My hair was longer than I usually kept it, but I just hadn't had the time or money to get a haircut. One of these days I'd go to the barber. Hopefully it was before the other security guards at the warehouse started giving me static for my ragged looks.

I shook my head, trying to recollect myself, forget my own worries and focus on what the three of us needed. Milk, eggs, bread, and dinner—that's what we needed. I kept repeating it, vaguely thinking about what I could pick up for dinner that night until my mind had so many thoughts going through it at once, I wasn't even really thinking. I was barely aware of what I was doing, everything had become so routine these last couple of months, that I didn't even realize I'd made it to the grocery store.

Turning off the engine, I slid out of my truck and shoved my keys into my pocket. "Milk, eggs, bread, and something for dinner," I muttered and took a deep breath before I started walking behind a few girls. Man, they looked good from behind. So good I walked right into the backend one of those fancy cars I'll never be able to afford.

I grimaced, walking it off, and avoided the eyes of those girls as they turned around and giggled at me. I felt like I was twelve all over again, walking into things at the sight of curves. I used to be the fucking boy of the year and now I was reduced to being so lost I couldn't even avoid the most obvious objects.

"Stupid," I muttered, and slapped my pockets, heading inside finally.

Milk, eggs, and bread. That's what I need. And dinner. I needed dinner, too. I sighed, stopping to look around. What did I need? Right.

Some old lady pushed past me. "'Xcuse me," she drawled, and I moved to the side, almost knocking down a display. I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling at it a little, feeling the dry sweat and being disgusted by it.

An employee came up to me with a fake smile plastered on his face. "Can I help you with something?" He looked at me like he was disgusted, like I was a no good hood ready to rob the place.

I sneered at him. "No thanks," I said and walked past him. I didn't need the looks, not today. I just didn't have it together today. There were too many thoughts; everything I'd just learned to not think about was racing through my mind all at once.

Was I breaking, or was I always like this? Had I just been content to be in pieces until there was no one to put me together anymore? And why'd I have to fix everything now? Why'd I have to do the punishing? Why was I even yelling at them? Pony couldn't help half the trouble he was getting himself into, and the other half that was his fault I'm sure at least one of the gang—myself included—had done before. I didn't mean to yell; I was just frustrated. He was taking it the wrong way, though; he wasn't even registering that Soda and I fought some, too. All those times I grumbled at how unfair my parents were being I wished I could take back. I hated being the bad guy in this. I didn't want to have to be the bad guy in this.

What I really wanted was for my parents to fix it. I wanted them back. I didn't want to have to do the assembling anymore; I didn't want to fix anything; I wanted to be the oldest kid in the family, working with his dad so he could save for college. No assembly was required for that. I did what I was supposed to, like a fine-tuned machine, and I did it well. This … I didn't do so well. This … wasn't right.

"That'll be three dollars and forty-seven cents."

I snapped out of my daze, not even realizing that I'd made it to the cash register it was all so routine. "Sorry, what?"

"That'll be three dollars and forty-seven cents," the clerk repeated slowly, like I was dumb or something, making the sack boy smirk.

I didn't even care at that point. I just pulled out my wallet and opened the fold. Two dollars. I squeezed my eyes shut. I could have sworn I had more than that.

"There a problem?"

I looked at the clerk and raised my eyebrow, giving him a blank stare. I didn't appreciate the tone of his voice, the way it belittled me as it rang out loudly in the store. I swallowed hard. If I started something, that'd be the end of him and the end of me. This punk kid was just working for some extra cash, not to keep his family together, and I was really fuckin' tired of being looked down on because I couldn't afford the same luxuries as a lot of other people.

It wasn't always like this.

"No," I said, "no problem." I dug through my pockets for change, praying to God for some miracle abundance of quarters. Instead, a lone nail jabbed my already sore thumb. Great, I though, let's add insult to injury. Perfect.

I gritted my teeth, and said goodbye to what little dignity I held at the moment. "I'll just take the milk, eggs, and bread." We'll just have omelets tonight, I guess.

It was awkwardly silent as he called the manager over and explained. I don't think he actually thought that I wouldn't have enough money. Hell, even I didn't think I'd never have enough money for groceries. This was getting out of hand. I wasn't supposed to be short on cash; I was supposed to be able to handle this. Soda and Ponyboy were both supposed to be in school, working hard on homework. Soda wasn't supposed to be quitting, and I wasn't supposed to be torn between adamantly wanting him in school and thanking him for helping out, because he had a hell of a point. We were drowning in bills.

"Um, your new total is one dollar and sixty-nine cents."

I handed the two dollars over, hating that I was only left with thirty-one cents, and grabbed the bag, no longer full of groceries, from the sack boy. The clerk handed me my change and I walked out, head up, trying to regain some pride, some dignity if there was any.

I don't think there was.

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