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“Randle! Take care of the lost-and-found before you go.”
His boss closed the door and disappeared before he could ask questions about what that meant.
Take care of it? What was he supposed to do, take it home?
Steve looked at the box in the corner of the garage. How did they end up with a lost-and-found in the first place? It’s not like that many people actually came into the DX.
Whatever.
As long as it was gone before his boss got back tomorrow, it would be fine. He picked up the box right as Soda stepped back into the garage, wiping sweat from his brow.
“What’cha got there?” he asked, peering into the box.
Steve held it out with a frown. “The lost-and-found—just got told to ‘take care of it’ before the end of the day.” He emphasized with air quotes.
Soda’s face lit up. “That doesn’t seem so bad. Looks like there’s some neat stuff in there.”
He reached into the box and pulled out a lighter. He tossed it aside. “Okay, maybe not all of it.”
“Hey, the guy who left that here three months ago probably thinks it’s pretty cool,” Steve suggested. “Probably was pissed when he found out he left it here.”
He scrambled to pick the lighter up off the ground.
“You think he remembers it?”
Steve set the box down and shifted on his feet, tossing the lighter back to Soda. “He probably did for a while. Bet he’s forgotten about it by now.”
Soda hopped onto the counter. “Bet’cha he smokes as much as Pony. He probably spent days bumming lighters off of other people until he bought a new one.”
He flicked it open, eyes fixated on the small flame that glowed in front of him.
“I wonder what he did when he first lost it,” Steve continued. “When he reached into his pocket and realized it was empty.”
“You think he knows he left it here?” Soda asked. He flicked it closed, snuffing out the flame as quickly as it had appeared.
“Nah.” Steve took it out of Soda’s hand. “He would have come back for it. Anyone hanging out around this place would come get it back before forking over $3.50 for a new one.”
Soda tilted his head. “Maybe he thinks someone stole it.”
Steve’s face crinkled. “Who would steal a lighter?”
“Oh, come on, you say that like you’ve never needed one that bad.”
“I wouldn’t steal this one,” Steve said as he spun it back and forth between his fingers. “It’s ugly as hell.”
“Maybe it’s sentimental,” Soda suggested, legs swinging off the edge of the counter. “It belonged to his dad or his girlfriend gave it to him before she left town or—“
“Or some guy dropped his lighter when he got out of his car and he hasn’t thought about it since. If it mattered that much, he would have come back.”
“He doesn’t know where he dropped it.” Soda looked out the window like the owner might walk into the shop at that exact moment.
Ponyboy Curtis only searched for that lighter for about three days.
After the third day, he just snatched another one out of the kitchen junk drawer. He hoped no one would notice it was missing—at least for a couple days. He’d return it as soon as he found his own.
Darry had needed it on Sunday. He wanted to light candles.
“We’re going to have a nice dinner,” he insisted. “I made a roast. We’re using Mom’s china. We need the candles to be lit.”
“We must have another one somewhere, right?” Soda asked as he set the last fork down. “Hey, Pony,” he began, looking toward where Ponyboy stood in the corner of the kitchen. “You have yours?”
Ponyboy’s eyes grew wide as he reached into his pocket. He left his somewhere three weeks ago. His was nowhere to be found.
Lost.
“I, uh,” he stammered as he felt the one from the junk drawer—the one he wasn’t supposed to have in the first place—in his pocket. “I lent it to Johnny. I don’t have it.”
“That’s a shame,” Darry said.
Ponyboy was almost certain Darry could see through his fib.
“It’s okay, Dar,” Soda said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “They look nice even if they aren’t lit.”
“Soda, it’s Dad’s birthday,” Darry said. Ponyboy could hear the edge in his voice. “We have to light the candles. It needs to be per—“ he paused. “It needs to be nice, like how Mom used to do it.”
Ponyboy looked down at his feet. Suddenly, the holes in his socks were real interesting.
“You check the back of the drawer for matches?” Soda asked, running a hand across Darry’s back.
Darry shook his head.
“You check the drawer then. I’ll go see if there are any in the basement.” He bounded off.
Ponyboy knew he shouldn’t have lied. He knew he shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. He knew he should have kept track of the one he had.
When Darry lit the candles with a dusty box of matches from the basement, no one mentioned the lighter again.
When he went to bed, Ponyboy double checked that it was still sitting in his pocket. He’d have to put it back soon.
“Poor guy,” Soda muttered as he tossed the lighter back in the box.
Steve tried to grab it before it landed in a pile with the other junk. “Hey, don’t put it back. We’re supposed to be getting rid of this stuff.”
“Yeah, but what if he comes back for it?”
“You’re way too sentimental about someone else’s junk,” Steve told him as he took the lighter back out of the box.
Soda held out his hand. “Give it to me. I’ll give it to Pony—he could always use another one.”
“If you say so.” Steve passed him the lighter and peered back into the lost-and-found.
Soda’s hands reached directly to the bottom of the bin, not bothering with the rags and hats on top. He pulled out a small gold object—an earring, Steve realized when he got a closer look.
“I should’ve known you’d find something shiny in there,” he deadpanned.
Soda just shrugged and kept peering through the small loop. He moved it just slightly so it caught the light and cast a glare on the wall.
“I bet she feels real pretty when she has these on,” he said softly, smiling off into the distance.
“You don’t even know her.”
“Yeah, but look at it. Come on, Steve, anyone would love to wear these. They’re solid gold.”
Steve leaned against the counter. “Maybe she left it here on purpose.”
“Why would she do that?”
“‘Cause they were a gift from her fling,” Steve replied. “‘Cause she can’t let her real boyfriend see them ‘cause he’ll be real upset if he ever finds out.”
Soda leaned forward, elbow resting on the counter. “Now you’re getting it,” he said with a smile.
“It broke her heart to leave ‘em here,” Steve continued, “‘cause she knows her real boyfriend would never get her something so nice. He doesn’t take the time to buy her gifts that make her feel special.”
“Why doesn’t she leave him?” Soda asked.
“Because,” Steve said, taking the earring from his hand, “he’s just an east side boy and she’s the pride of the west side.”
“Mhm.” Soda nodded slowly. “Star-crossed.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Star what?”
“That’s what Pony would call it,” Soda said with a shrug.
Steve huffed out a laugh. “Of course he would. Damn poet.”
“Do you think she knows it’s missing?” Soda asked.
Steve let out a small laugh. “Of course she knows her gold earring is gone. No one misplaces a thing like that.”
“Unless she’s got three more sets just like it at home,” Soda countered. “I’m telling you, Stevie, she’s loaded.”
Cherry Valance didn’t notice that the earring was missing.
Well, she didn’t notice at first.
It wasn’t until Bob Sheldon noticed the earring was missing that she knew.
“Come on, Cherry,” he said, frustrated, “you must know where they are. I spent all day picking those out.”
Cherry responded calmly. This was nothing new. She knew the score. “I’m sure they’re around somewhere, baby. I just need a minute to find them.”
She nudged him gently toward the door. “Go wait downstairs. I’ll meet you in the living room in just a minute.”
“Be down in five minutes,” Bob negotiated.
It wasn’t optional.
“Of course.” Cherry flashed him a small smile.
He closed the door harder than he had to. His footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Cherry reached into her vanity drawer and pulled out a small box. Another set of earrings she’d owned since Christmas. Marcia chose them.
Bob never needed to know that she owned two identical pairs.
Cherry Valance slipped the older pair of earrings from a friend who seemed to know her better than Bob ever would into her ears and followed the sound of overly-polite and superficial conversation down the stairs.
Bob saw her the second her foot hit the first step. She plastered on a polite smile. Of course he hadn’t waited in the living room like she’d asked.
Who was she to ask Bob Sheldon to do anything?
Yet his face lit up like she’d hung the stars when he saw her. Like he’d already forgotten how upset he’d been about the earrings.
“There you are,” he said. Relief seemed to flood his face as he saw the shimmering bits of gold hanging from her ears. “And breathtaking as ever.”
Cherry pushed her hair back and smiled, making sure both hoops were in display.
“Come on,” Bob said, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close enough to wrinkle her dress. “You’re gonna make us late. Everyone’s waiting in the living room.”
Cherry nodded and let herself be pulled toward the living room—where Bob had refused to wait. Where everyone else didn’t seem worried about the extra minute it took her to finish getting ready.
“Awww,” Bev cooed as they stepped into the room. “You two are adorable.”
They must not have heard the way Bob slammed her bedroom door.
Across the room, Marcia’s eyes caught hers for just a second. Cherry looked away first.
Bob had already started wisecracking with the boys, arm still wrapped around her waist like she’d disappear if he let go.
Maybe she would.
“I don’t think we need to keep it,” Steve said. “She’s not coming back for it—not for one earring.”
Soda twirled it between his fingers one more time. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Steve placed a trash bin right in front of him so he couldn’t possibly miss when he tried to throw it in.
The earring clinked off the rim of the trashcan before disappearing into its depths.
Steve grabbed the next thing right off the top of the box before Soda had a chance to dive to the bottom.
A baseball cap.
Plain. Ordinary. Slightly worn along the rim.
“Obviously he plays baseball,” Steve said confidently.
Soda raised an eyebrow as he handed the hat to Steve. “Do you own one of these?”
“Used to.”
A smirk crept across Soda’s face. “And you’ve never played baseball.”
“Not fair,” Steve began, “I played one game until Two-Bit threw the ball at my face.”
Soda leaned against the wall, trying to resist laughter. “Man, you played half a game—refused to go back out there even after they gave you ice.”
“It wasn’t my scene. And I was eight.” Steve threw his hands up in defense.
“And,” Steve continued quickly as the memories came back to him, desperate to relive the moment before Soda remembered the ending. “Last I checked, you were sitting in the grass at third base pulling weeds out of the ground.”
Soda’s face turned bright red. He adjusted the collar of his shirt like it might help, but Steve was already rolling with laughter.
“Making flower crowns, actually,” Soda corrected.
“Do you think—“ Steve wiped away a tear and drew a quick breath as his laughter subsided. “Do you think we won the game?”
“I think we,” Soda began, gesturing to the two of them, “didn’t do shit. Pretty sure the team won though.”
“Coach took us out for ice cream,” Steve remembered. “I had chocolate, you got strawberry. You found out you don’t like strawberry, so we both had chocolate.”
“Hey, I stand by that choice,” Soda said. “Strawberry should not taste like that.”
“And now you’ve evolved,” Steve said with a sly grin. “Now you don’t even order your own ‘cause you’re already planning to eat mine.”
Soda shrugged. “You always order too much.”
Steve smiled and shook his head. “I wonder why,” he said softly, looking back at the hat in his hands.
“This guy definitely doesn’t play baseball,” Soda said, turning back to the hat. “It’s too clean. It wouldn’t look like that if he’d ever played in it.”
“I bet he thinks it makes him look cool.”
“Or he wore it for a couple weeks trying to cover up the worst haircut of his life.”
Steve tossed the cap at Soda. “Look who’s talking.”
Soda gave him a mock-offended look. “Hey, I think the cut’s fine.”
“Your roots are showing.”
Soda put the cap over the top of his hair. “We’ll fix it tomorrow.”
Steve looked at him for a second before snatching the cap back off his head.
“Yeah,” he decided, tossing it back and forth in his hands, “this guy definitely uses hats to avoid his problems.”
Soda laughed.
“I’m serious,” Steve continued. “This is the kinda fella who wants everybody to think he’s got it all together.”
Soda tilted his head, prompting him to continue. “But?”
“But I bet he’s faking it.”
Paul Holden had never played baseball either.
Football had been enough.
His trophies still sat untouched in his old bedroom. His mother insisted it stayed exactly how it had been when he left, like one day he might choose to move back in. And he’d want it to look the same way it did when he was eighteen years old and the world was his oyster.
He thought about it once in a while.
But he never would.
Today, he was only there to borrow a wrench from his father.
Yet he found himself standing before the trophies on his dresser anyway. Those trophies weren’t what caught his eye. No, beside them, the photo of his team from the championship game drew him in like a moth to a flame.
Darrel Curtis stood right beside him. They both grinned like the future belonged to them.
Paul looked away before he could remember the things he’d done. Or worse, the things he hadn’t.
He fled the room quickly, grabbing the wrench and a different baseball cap from the garage on the way out.
His hat usually stayed in the glove box of his car. He threw it on when he didn’t want people to know that his hair was a mess.
When he couldn’t be seen as anything less than perfect.
He must have had it on when he stopped for gas.
He must have dropped it without noticing.
Maybe he had noticed. Maybe he didn’t bother going back.
Paul Holden had become a master of leaving things behind and never going back.
“See? that’s what I’m talking about!” Soda exclaimed. “That’s an interesting story.”
Steve threw the hat at his chest. “You think he’s really that dramatic?”
“The best part is that he doesn’t look dramatic when you see him,” Soda said. “He’s just a guy.”
“Keep it or toss it?” Steve asked.
“You gonna butcher my hair tomorrow?”
Steve tossed it to the side. “We’ll keep it.”
Soda pulled the box closer. “Man, that can’t be everything,” he complained. “This was just getting good.”
Steve peered in. There really wasn’t much left. Only one more thing.
“Guess folks are better at keeping track of their junk than we thought,” he said.
Soda pulled the last thing from the box, nose crinkling in disgust immediately.
“Geez,” Soda scoffed as he got a good look at the shirt. “Who leaves their shirt here? I mean, the only people who even take their clothes off in here are us.”
Steve’s mouth hung open for just a second. He hoped Soda hadn’t noticed. But he knew that shirt looked familiar.
“It was probably a mistake,” Steve offered. “Coulda fell out of their car.”
Soda laughed. “Yeah, and then he just forgot he wasn’t wearing a shirt and went on his way?”
Steve just shrugged. “Maybe he had another one. This was a backup.”
“That’s worse,” Soda informed him. “Means he planned to mess up the first one.”
“Maybe you’re right then,” Steve said sharply. He paused as soon as he recognized that tone—there was no need to be so harsh. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “he knew he’d have more fun with his bunched up shirt tucked in the back of his waistband than if he bothered to keep it on.”
Soda held the shirt up by the collar, as if examining it again would give him a clearer picture of who this guy was.
Steve knew this guy better than he knew himself.
He recognized the faded stitching near the sleeve where it had been ripped on the fence behind Buck’s last summer. He recognized the hastily stitched edge—repaired in the back of Two-Bit’s car before his mother saw it. Before he got caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.
He recognized the stain on the hem from the first shift they’d worked at the DX together. He could picture the way the owner’s face sparkled when he found out they’d be there at the same time.
Soda seemed to notice the same features as he squinted at it critically. “This guy’s a mess,” he said, running his hand over the sleeve.
Steve’s eyebrows wove together. “The guy who owns that?”
“The guy who lost it,” Soda corrected.
“What makes you say that?”
Steve didn’t know why he asked. It didn’t occur to him that this was an invitation for Soda to drag this poor guy’s name through the mud until he already got started.
“I mean, look at it.” Soda shook the shirt. “It’s falling apart.”
“That just means he wears it a lot.”
“Or he can’t afford a new one.”
Steve leaned back against the counter. “Could be his favorite.”
Soda rolled his eyes. “Nobody’s favorite shirt has holes under the sleeve.”
Steve didn’t say anything. He definitely didn’t mention that the shirt had been that guy’s favorite. That they’d torn apart the closet looking for it eight months ago. That he had been so upset that he accused Ponyboy of taking it and lying when he said he hadn’t seen it.
Eight months.
Damn, maybe they needed to clean out the lost-and-found more often.
“You’re brutal,” Steve finally said quietly, eyes locked on the shirt. “You were nicer to every other fellow who accidentally dropped something here.”
Soda huffed. “I’m being realistic.”
“Nah,” Steve said again, “you’re making stuff up again.”
“Okay, fine.” Soda tossed the shirt at him. “You tell me about him then.”
Steve fumbled to catch it. The fabric in his hand felt exactly how he remembered. It felt like sitting on the couch and watching cartoons or hopping in the car and driving nowhere in particular.
He ran his thumb across the stained hem. “He probably works too hard,” Steve began quietly.
Soda laughed. “Based on what?”
“The stains. He probably wipes his hands on the front of his shirt without thinking about it because he’s got a lot of other things swirling in his brain.”
“And,” Steve continued, “he probably doesn’t think anything of it, because he probably doesn’t think he deserves nice things. And any time he has something nice, he probably doesn’t keep it for very long.”
“‘Cause he loses it?” Soda asked, leaning forward.
“No,” Steve corrected. “Because he gives it away to someone else—because he’d do anything to see someone else be happy instead. Because he puts everyone else before himself even when, sometimes, he probably shouldn’t.”
“Nah,” Soda said, hopping back onto the counter. “See, I think this guy’s one of those people who makes everybody clean up after him.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You know,” Soda said casually. “Always forgetting stuff places. Never knows where his wallet is. Leaves jackets laying around. Makes everybody else keep track of things for him.”
Steve wanted to laugh. He couldn’t tell Soda that he wasn’t wrong.
“His friends probably find it endearing,” Steve decided.
“Why would they?”
“Because that means there’s something they can do for him once in a while—you know, since he spends so much time worrying about everyone else. It’s no surprise that he’s not too worried about hanging his jacket up when he’s got bigger fish to fry.”
Soda handed the shirt back to him. “Well, if you like him so much, maybe you should keep the shirt.”
Steve looked down at it in his hands. Maybe he would. Maybe he’d slip it back into the drawer it belonged in next time he was home.
“Besides,” Soda continued, nudging the empty box with his foot, “if the guy hasn’t come back for it, he probably doesn’t even miss it.”
Steve wanted to argue. Because that wasn’t true either. He knew somebody loved that shirt.
He’d checked under the couch cushions, the back of the car, and in every room of the stables looking for it. And Steve remembered the way he laughed it off when he finally accepted that it was gone forever, like he wasn’t allowed to miss it. Like his heartbreak didn’t matter anyway.
Steve folded it neatly and set it down beside him.
Somebody ought to keep track of it.