The airport buzzed with voices and suitcase wheels, but all Ponyboy could think about was how big the planes were. He was only four and clutched tight to a stuffed lion as he stared out the window, his nose smudging the glass. Beside him, six-year-old Sodapop practically bounced out of his seat, pointing every time a jet rolled by. “That one’s ours, I bet!” he declared for the third time, his grin wide and wild.

Their mom chuckled as she handed over juice boxes, while their dad tried to calm the chaos of two overexcited little boys. Darry, ten and trying his best to act like flying wasn’t a big deal, sat with his arms crossed and his backpack on his lap. He’d flown once before with their dad for a football tournament and had decided that made him the expert.

This trip—one week in California, where their mom had always wanted to see the ocean—was the first time the whole Curtis family had taken a vacation together. It was also the first time the boys had ever left Tulsa, and the first time Ponyboy would ever see a beach that wasn’t just a picture in a book.

“Hold your brothers’ hands when we board,” their mom reminded Darry, brushing his bangs back. He gave a solemn nod, already slipping into the quiet responsibility that would one day define him.