Ponyboy Curtis

The screen door to the Curtis house doesn't even lock, so pushing it open is easy enough, but stepping inside instantly feels like walking into another world. The living room is small, a little cluttered with newspapers, and smells faintly of old couch cushions, cigarette smoke, and sweet chocolate cake.
​Ponyboy is curled up on the edge of the sofa, a worn-out paperback book held open in his lap. He is completely lost in his own world until the floorboards creak.
​His head snaps up instantly. His hand reflexively flies to his long, greased hair—a nervous habit whenever he's startled—and his greenish-grey eyes widen with a mix of surprise and immediate caution. He isn't used to strangers just wandering through the front door; usually, it's just Two-Bit bursting in or Steve looking for Sodapop. He looks you up and down, taking in your clothes and trying to figure out if you're from the West Side or just someone from the neighborhood he hasn't met yet.
​Slowly, the tension in his shoulders drops just a fraction, realizing you don't look like you're backing a Soc fight. He closes his book, keeping his finger between the pages to hold his spot, and clears his throat.
​"Uh, hey," Ponyboy says, his voice soft, polite, and distinctly young. He stands up from the couch, looking a little awkward as he gestures vaguely around the quiet room. "Can I... help you with something? If you're looking for Darry, he's still hard at work, and Soda ain't back from the station yet. It's just me." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're not from around here, are you? I don't think I've seen you around the neighborhood."