That Was Then, This Is Now Page 11

  Angela came into the store once wearing short shorts and a tight blouse. It was funny, but she looked even better with short hair. I guess I'll never see a girl as good-looking as she is. She came through my counter, staring at me coolly, daring me to say something. Poor little chick. I didn't hate her any more than I loved Cathy. I felt sorry for her.

  "How've you been, Angel?" I said, but not smartlike. I really wanted to know.

  "Well enough. I hear you dumped little what's-her-name on Curtis. Well, they deserve each other."

  I just shrugged and rang up her stuff. She was going to be bitter all her life, and all that beauty was wasted.

  "You know, I'd thought for a long time you were really low, Bryon," she was saying, "but what you did to Mark really proved it."

  "Angel, you look really good with short hair," I said, and I don't know whether or not it scared her, but she shut up.

  *

  One night when I was lying on the floor reading a book, Mom came in and sat down. "Bryon, you got even with Mark for Cathy, then you got even with Cathy for Mark. When are you going to stop getting even with yourself?"

  I rolled over and got up and went for a drive. I couldn't talk to Mom, especially when she was telling the truth.

  Finally, at the end of August, I got to see Mark. He couldn't leave the reformatory, so I had to go in. He had been in so much trouble that the authorities considered my visit a last-ditch effort to straighten him out. If it didn't work, they were going to send him to the state prison. They told me they hoped I could influence him.

  They didn't say how.

  I thought we'd have to talk through a wire dealie, like you see in prison movies, but instead we were left alone in a room which I remember as strangely empty.

  "Hi ya, buddy," Mark greeted me. "Slumming?"

  I couldn't speak. I had a real bad pain in my throat. Mark had changed. He had lost a lot of weight, but somehow it had stretched his skin over his bones and slanted his eyes. He hadn't lost his looks, but exchanged them. He looked dirty somehow, and hard, things I had never seen in him before. His strangely sinister innocence was gone, and in its place was a more sinister knowledge. He seemed to be pacing, like an impatient, dangerous, caged lion.

  "How goes it?" I managed finally. "What's the action like in here?"

  "If I told you how it was in here," he said, "you'd be sick." There was a silence. Then he continued, "I didn't have to see you. I wanted to, though. I had to make sure."

  "Make sure of what?"

  "Make sure I hated you."

  I suddenly remembered that time, so long ago, when Cathy had looked at Mark and for a moment I had hated him. I wondered what it felt like to experience that feeling all your life--to hate the person you loved best.

  "Mark . . ." I began miserably. "Mark, I didn't know what I was doing . . ."

  "Can it, buddy." He glanced around. "Groovy place, ain't it? Seems like home now."

  "I hear you've been causing trouble."

  "Yeah. I don't seem to be able to get away with things any more."

  I thought I would break down and cry then, but I didn't. "Listen," I said, "you straighten up and they'll let you out early on probation or parole or whatever it is, and you can come home. I'll get you a job at the store--"

  "Like hell you will," Mark said, in the same, easy, pleasant voice he had used all along. "I ain't never goin' back there again. When I get outa here, you ain't never going to see me again."

  "We were like brothers," I said, desperate. "You were my best friend--"

  He laughed then, and his eyes were the golden, hard, flat eyes of a jungle animal. "Like a friend once said to me, 'That was then, and this is now.'"

  I broke out in a sweat and was suddenly glad of the walls and the guards and the bars. I think if he could have, Mark would have killed me.

  *

  I haven't tried to see Mark since then. I heard in a roundabout way that he was sent to the state prison. I've just been sort of waiting around for school to start, not much caring whether it does or not. I don't seem to care about anything any more. It's like I am worn out with caring about people. I don't even care about Mark. The guy who was my best friend doesn't exist any longer, and I don't want to think about the person who has taken his place. I go over everything that happened last year, trying to figure out what I could have done different, what I would do different if I had the chance, but I don't know. Mostly I wonder "what if?" What if I had found out about Mark some other time, when I wasn't half out of my mind with worry about Cathy? What if I hadn't met her in the first place, would I still have grown away from Mark? What if M&M had had a good trip instead of a bad one? What if someone else had turned Mark in--would there still be hope for him?

  I am too mixed up to really care. And to think, I used to be sure of things. Me, once I had all the answers. I wish I was a kid again, when I had all the answers.

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  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I was eighteen years old in 1967 when my first novel, The Outsiders, was published.

  Needless to say, I was excited. I was invited to New York to do some publicity, was interviewed on radio and TV, and had a review in the New York Times.

  I was in my first year of college at the University of Oklahoma, and was madly in love with my boyfriend. And, of course, I had to study.

  Naturally, all of this took up time. Naturally, it would be a little while before I would get back to writing. But I had been writing ever since I learned how, since grade school. It was not only what I loved to do, it was, in a serious way, what I had to do.

  But when I got around to it again, I found out something pretty shocking.

  I couldn't write.

  I had been writing all my life and now I couldn't even use the typewriter to write a letter.

  Some people don't believe in writer's block. Believe me, it does exist. I have had times in my life when I didn't feel like writing. I have had times when I could force myself to write even if I didn't feel like it. I have had times in my life when there were things I would MUCH rather do, like raising my son.

  There even have been times when I had nothing to say. I realize that doesn't stop a lot of writers but it certainly puts a damper on me.

  But being blocked is different.

  For the first time in my life I was aware of my audience. I had always written for myself alone, and I still believe that is the best way for any artist to work.

  But after The Outsiders, I felt like there were people peering over my shoulder, whispering, "What is she going to do next?" The thought of it paralyzed me. It was very depressing.

  This went on for years. Finally, my boyfriend--who is now my husband--said to me, "You have to start writing again. I don't care if you get published or not, but you've got to start writing. Just do two pages a day. Nobody has ever dropped dead of two pages."

  Spoken like a true non-writer.

  So he would come over to take me out, and if I hadn't done my two pages, he'd just sit down and start reading the paper.

  And I would sit down and start writing two pages.

  That was why I wrote That Was Then, This Is Now. I wanted to go out.

  Years later that I realized I had been writing about a friendship I had had. And not until I read a quote from John Updike that said, "Growth is betrayal," did I know what it was about.

  The difference in the years between sixteen and twenty are almost as great as the difference in the years between eleven and sixteen. You learn things. Sometimes hard things. You learn that the so-called right thing is sometimes not the right thing. You learn there will be roads to choose, some you never believed you would travel.

  You learn that there will be change. You can fight it as much as you want, or learn to deal with it, but there will be change.

  What you thought will not be the same as what you will think.

  I have had readers write me saying, "After reading That Was Then, I threw it against
the wall."

  When I hear that, I say, "Good, you got it."

  The Outsiders made you feel. That Was Then, This Is Now will make you think.

  --S. E. Hinton, November 2007

  P. S. I got my contracts for The Outsiders on the day I graduated from high school. I spent the whole ceremony thinking, This is nothing, I sold my book.

  I received my contracts for That Was Then on my wedding day. I just looked at them thinking, That's nothing, I'm getting married!

  THAT WAS THEN, THIS IS NOW

  Discussion Guide

  1.Freedom is a big theme throughout the book. Many of the characters run around, seemingly without any parental supervision. Mark reminisces about the summer he and Bryon did not come home for weeks. M&M gets involved with a group of hippies who promote the idea of free love. What is your definition of freedom? Do you think that the characters in the book are truly free? What are the limitations and drawbacks to their freedom?

  2.Another theme of the book is young versus the old. In chapter 7, Mark asks Bryon, "Nothing bad happens to you when you're a kid. Or haven't you realized that?" Agree or disagree? Who do you think has the advantage, adults or kids?

  3.Mark and Bryon live in a tough world full of poverty, gang fights, war, and broken homes. Mark and Bryon represent two different ways of looking at the world and dealing with problems. How does each boy view things? Compare and contrast. Which way do you think is better?

  4.Discuss the split that happens between Bryon and Mark. Do you think it was inevitable? Do you think they will ever reconcile? Have you ever had a falling-out with a friend? What were the circumstances? Were you able to mend the rift in your relationship? Why or why not?

  5.Do you think Mark is a tragic character, doomed from the beginning? Think about his backstory and how all his life experiences have shaped him and his ideas. Do you think there is hope for him? What do you see happening to him after he is released from jail?

  6.Angela and Cathy are the two main female characters in this novel. Compare and contrast the two girls and their families. Do you think their family and home environment made a difference in the way these two girls turned out? How do you think your family has affected the way you are?

  7.Adults often say that kids go through "stages." Cathy retaliates to such a comment by saying: "It's not just a stage! You can't say, 'This is just a stage,' when it's important to people what they're feeling. Maybe he will outgrow it someday, but right now it's important." Cathy believes in the importance of the moment. Also, in an earlier part of the book, Mark says he gets impulses that he just has to act on. What is your opinion? Do you think it is important to feel and act in the heat of the moment? Or do you prefer to wait things out? Do you think acting impulsively is a sign of maturity or immaturity?

  8.Mark believes that the law isn't always right and so he lives according to his own rules: "Mark had absolutely no concept of what was right and what was wrong; he didn't obey any laws, because he couldn't see that there were any. Laws, right and wrong, they didn't matter to Mark, because they were just words." How does that work out for him? What do you think about laws? Are they necessary or not?

  9.That Was Then, This Is Now is essentially a coming-of-age story. How do you think Mark and Bryon mature? What were they like at the beginning and how do their characters change by the end?

  10.Think about change. The title of the book is "that was then, this is now." How appropriate is the title of the book? Think about your own life. How does change affect people? Do you think change is necessary in life? How do you react to change?

  Turn the page to read a selection from

  The Outsiders

  Chapter 1

  When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman--he looks tough and I don't--but I guess my own looks aren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. I wish they were more gray, because I hate most guys that have green eyes, but I have to be content with what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front and sides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighborhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better with long hair.

  I had a long walk home and no company, but I usually lone it anyway, for no reason except that I like to watch movies undisturbed so I can get into them and live them with the actors. When I see a movie with someone it's kind of uncomfortable, like having someone read your book over your shoulder. I'm different that way. I mean, my second-oldest brother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen, never cracks a book at all, and my oldest brother, Darrel, who we call Darry, works too long and hard to be interested in a story or drawing a picture, so I'm not like them. And nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way I do. For a while there, I thought I was the only person in the world that did. So I loned it.

  Soda tries to understand, at least, which is more than Darry does. But then, Soda is different from anybody; he understands everything, almost. Like he's never hollering at me all the time the way Darry is, or treating me as if I was six instead of fourteen. I love Soda more than I've ever loved anyone, even Mom and Dad. He's always happy-go-lucky and grinning, while Darry's hard and firm and rarely grins at all. But then, Darry's gone through a lot in his twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one of these days.

  Anyway, I went on walking home, thinking about the movie, and then suddenly wishing I had some company. Greasers can't walk alone too much or they'll get jumped, or someone will come by and scream "Greaser!" at them, which doesn't make you feel too hot, if you know what I mean. We get jumped by the Socs. I'm not sure how you spell it, but it's the abbreviation for the Socials, the jet set, the West-side rich kids. It's like the term "greaser," which is used to class all us boys on the East Side.

  We're poorer than the Socs and the middle class. I reckon we're wilder, too. Not like the Socs, who jump greasers and wreck houses and throw beer blasts for kicks, and get editorials in the paper for being a public disgrace one day and an asset to society the next. Greasers are almost like hoods; we steal things and drive old souped-up cars and hold up gas stations and have a gang fight once in a while. I don't mean I do things like that. Darry would kill me if I got into trouble with the police. Since Mom and Dad were killed in an auto wreck, the three of us get to stay together only as long as we behave. So Soda and I stay out of trouble as much as we can, and we're careful not to get caught when we can't. I only mean that most greasers do things like that, just like we wear our hair long and dress in blue jeans and T-shirts, or leave our shirttails out and wear leather jackets and tennis shoes or boots. I'm not saying that either Socs or greasers are better; that's just the way things are.

  I could have waited to go to the movies until Darry or Sodapop got off work. They would have gone with me, or driven me there, or walked along, although Soda just can't sit still long enough to enjoy a movie and they bore Darry to death. Darry thinks his life is enough without inspecting other people's. Or I could have gotten one of the gang to come along, one of the four boys Darry and Soda and I have grown up with and consider family. We're almost as close as brothers; when you grow up in a tight-knit neighborhood like ours you get to know each other real well. If I had thought about it, I could have called Darry and he would have come by on his way home and picked me up, or Two-Bit Mathews--one of our gang--would have come to get me in his car if I had asked him, but sometimes I just don't use my head. It drives my brother Darry nuts when I do stuff like that, 'cause I'm supposed to be smart; I make good grades and have a high IQ and everything, but I don't use my head. Besides, I like walking.

  I about decided I didn't like it so much, though, when I spotted that red Corvair trailing me. I was almost two blocks from home then, so I started walking a little faster. I had never been jumped, but I h
ad seen Johnny after four Socs got hold of him, and it wasn't pretty. Johnny was scared of his own shadow after that. Johnny was sixteen then.

  I knew it wasn't any use though--the fast walking, I mean--even before the Corvair pulled up beside me and five Socs got out. I got pretty scared--I'm kind of small for fourteen even though I have a good build, and those guys were bigger than me. I automatically hitched my thumbs in my jeans and slouched, wondering if I could get away if I made a break for it. I remembered Johnny--his face all cut up and bruised, and I remembered how he had cried when we found him, half-conscious, in the corner lot. Johnny had it awful rough at home--it took a lot to make him cry.

  I was sweating something fierce, although I was cold. I could feel my palms getting clammy and the perspiration running down my back. I get like that when I'm real scared. I glanced around for a pop bottle or a stick or something--Steve Randle, Soda's best buddy, had once held off four guys with a busted pop bottle--but there was nothing. So I stood there like a bump on a log while they surrounded me. I don't use my head. They walked around slowly, silently, smiling.

  "Hey, grease," one said in an over-friendly voice. "We're gonna do you a favor, greaser. We're gonna cut all that long greasy hair off."

  He had on a madras shirt. I can still see it. Blue madras. One of them laughed, then cussed me out in a low voice. I couldn't think of anything to say. There just isn't a whole lot you can say while waiting to get mugged, so I kept my mouth shut.

  "Need a haircut, greaser?" The medium-sized blond pulled a knife out of his back pocket and flipped the blade open.

  I finally thought of something to say. "No." I was backing up, away from that knife. Of course I backed right into one of them. They had me down in a second. They had my arms and legs pinned down and one of them was sitting on my chest with his knees on my elbows, and if you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. I could smell English Leather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wondered foolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything. I was scared so bad I was wishing I would. I fought to get loose, and almost did for a second; then they tightened up on me and the one on my chest slugged me a couple of times. So I lay still, swearing at them between gasps. A blade was held against my throat.