((Re-uploaded due to formatting issue))
South Park has long since been confounded with strangeness. I highly doubt a single resident, even one, is completely sane. That's myself included. Little things here get blown out of proportion. Big things get blown out of proportion and turn into catastrophic calamities. But I wouldn't even say that's really the strange part.
The weirdness is in the way it settles back down again, every time. The residents don't forget. Most of us here are even pretty traumatized by all we might have gone through. But the town, somehow, still picks up and moves on as if nothing strange ever happened.
And while I've never been able to prove it, I don't think time works the same here as it does in the rest of the world. Sometimes, growing up, there would be long stretches of time where it didn't feel like I was actually growing at all. Especially fourth grade... my mind gets fuzzy when I try to count it, but after lots of effort, I convinced myself it had lasted for many more than a single year.
In fact, I'd say it's remarkable that we managed to make it to high school at all. Here, Status quo is god. I think South Park might be some kind of purgatory.
I'm thinking about this again right now because looking around, I can't spot a single new face in the classroom. Or even a single student sitting in a desk they don't usually sit in. It's the first day of a new school year. I've never thought of South Park as being that small a town. But there's no transfer students. No new families moved here over the summer.
Mr. Garrison is still our homeroom. Stan is on my left. Cartman, then Kenny on my right. We sit in the front, even though we make the most trouble.
Despite all the crazy shit that goes down in this 'quiet little mountain town'... nothing ever changes. We're juniors now... but I have this weird feeling we've been juniors before. So no one is celebrating.
I'm seventeen or so. Who really knows?
"You thinking about weird shit again?" Stan hisses at me, prodding me in the side.
His expression is accusatory. I slap his hand away from me.
"Shut up," I whisper, though I'm not really annoyed.
Stan isn't too keen on my theory. It's not so much that he disagrees. He just doesn't want to think about it.
I can't blame him. I think about it way too much and it's fucking with my head.
"Stop thinking about that shit!" Cartman hisses on the other side of me, spraying spit through the air.
Eavesdropping, as usual for Cartman. I have long since come to terms with the fact I cannot ever be rid of him. Cartman being part of our groups is as unchangeable a reality as everything else in this town.
Neither Stan nor Cartman like thinking about my supernatural theories, but for very different reasons.
Cartman is of the opinion that acknowledging it causes its fade. He holds me personally responsible for freeing us all from the never ending hell of grade school. He's convinced if I 'just stop thinking about it' we'll all be immortal forever, but not having to die like Kenny does.
I can never directly remember Kenny dying, but I believe it.
I can't prove or disprove shit. But I don't why anyone would want to be in high school forever.
Kenny doesn't give a fuck about our brief conversation. He's drawing lewd pictures in his sketchbook while Mr. Garrison rants about something or another.
After class, Cartman punches me in the arm to stop me walking out the door. He towers over me, glaring.
"Seventeen is pretty much the perfect time to stop aging, you fucking dumb-ass! If you don't stop thinking about that shit, before you know it we're all going to be forty-five, in failing marriages, buried in student loan debt, normal debt, and bad backs! And it'll be all your fault Kahl!"
Aging, just this little bit, has done Cartman some major good. He's sprouted upwards like a tree. All that extra height gives his mass a place to go. He's still huge, but at least you can see the shape of his face now.
I glower up at him. You see, I, on the other hand, have hardly grown at all since childhood. Upwards or outwards. 'Midget' has almost replaced 'Jew' in Cartman's insults.
"I thought you loved being tall, Cartman," I said, "Don't you want to be even taller? Another seven feet and you won't even look fat anymore."
He is enraged and I duck out of the classroom before he can steal my hat and hold it above his head again.
Being as short as I am has made bullying a far easier game. I beat the shit out of Cartman more than once back in grade school, but I think if we got in a real fight now, he'd snap me in half.
Stan, my best friend, is tall too, and built like a tank from the football practice he puts in. And Kenny is skinny, but lanky. I feel like I've gotten cheated in the genetic lottery. Stan's dad is pretty short, but my dad is tall. I've got my mother's looks. More than I even like to admit. Very short, with bright red hair in horrid tangled curls. My face looks like a girls'.
Stan has Wendy, on and off. Kenny's got just about every other girl. Even Cartman keeps convincing Heidi to give him another chance from time to time or he manipulates some freshman into being sweet on him, somehow.
If we don't get out of South Park, I doubt I'll ever get laid.
I can't just leave. I've tried. I only end up back here where I started, like the time my family actually moved away and just found ourselves on the bus back home. Of course, that particular incident did save us from a deathly storm of Smug, but it still makes the point.
If I want to leave, I need to make time pass. So it's worth thinking just like this every now and then. Thinking hard about what has changed in my group of friends, in my quiet mountain town.
"Ka-hl!" Cartman shouts, "You're making that dumb face again! Stop thinking about it! I fucking swear, Kahl, if I get one wrinkle on this perfect face, I'm gonna drop kick your midget ass into next week myself!"
The middle of the hallway is a rather public place to blab about our group's little theory – most of the school isn't in it. I don't want people to think I'm crazy. But no one pays attention to Cartman anyway. Every word out of his mouth is tinged with some kind of crazy anyway.
I start to insult him on the basis of his ego, to think he has a 'perfect face', but stop myself. Difficult as it is to remember, there's something I've finally internalized recently. .
Cartman wants me to fight with him. Took a long time to figure that out, but Kenny helped me see the light. Cartman does this exclusively to get a rise out of me. And nothing gets a rise out of him faster than blatantly ignoring him.
So I turn up my nose at him and head into second period.
The day progresses in the same way it always does. Even if we have learned this material before (I think we have), it somehow still feels fresh to the mind. At least we won't go crazy in our purgatory for that reason.
Kenny is flirting with Red again, sending her notes. He's gone through nearly every woman in the school and a handful of guys, too, so he has to start over. I think Kenny would like to get out of South Park, if only to meet someone new. But Kenny feels you can't fight fate.
I wonder how long this year it's going to take Stan to get back together with Wendy. They broke up at the end of last year... whatever year that was... so it's been an unusually long time. They're still friends, pretty close even, but every now and then, the two of them talking gets a little awkward. Stan, usually, says something weird and Wendy gets embarrassed. And then Kenny hears it from Bebe, if he's with her that week, and tells the rest of us.
And then Stan gets pissed with him all week.
"You should join the football team," Stan says to me suddenly, zapping me out of my thoughts and making me jump a little.
I'd gone through classes and up to my locker on autopilot.
"What?" I raise an eyebrow, "Why?"
Stan seems strangely defensive, his expression turning a little bothered.
"Well, I think it would be really good for you. You need to work out more. You're so skinny because you never exercise."
I'm too suspicious to be offended by such blatant taunts.
"Right," I say, "Be that as it may, I don't think football would be a good way to work out. I thought you liked the rest of your team?"
"What?" Stan asks as I shut my locker, "Of course I do."
We're like brothers in arms, is the kind of thing he'd say if he was feeling especially passionate that morning.
"Then why would you want to drag them into the dirt by putting me on your team?" I laugh, elbowing him, "I wouldn't even get through tryouts!"
"I could help you train!" Stan protested, pushing me away, "We're still got half a month until tryouts!"
The idea is so comical I can't stop laughing. It would be some Rocky montage to take me from 100lbs soaking wet to passing tryouts in just two weeks.
Stan gives up on the idea. My best friend is probably the nicest guy I know, but sometimes, he doesn't think things through. I guess I've got the same problem.
"Something funny happen?" Kenny asked, joining us as we enter the cafeteria.
"I'm gonna buy lunch," Stan says as way of answer, splitting off towards the lunch line.
I bring my food now, like Kenny always has, so we go sit down while I tell him about Stan's idea.
"Would be hilarious to see, though," Kenny says, "Kyle Broflovski in a lineup with all the biggest guys in school. Your little chicken legs sticking out from under the equipment."
I push him with my shoulder while we both laugh.
"Hmm..." Kenny hums, looking up at the ceiling for a moment.
"What's up?" I ask, following his gaze to find a lot of nothing.
"Are you going to do extracurricular this year?" Kenny asks.
"I wasn't planning on it," I said, "I like my studying time."
"Yeah, yeah, we all know you're a nerd," Kenny says, rolling his eyes, "But you can't spend all your time studying. You should try something new. Maybe something that isn't productive?"
I raise an eyebrow, "You clearly have something in mind."
Kenny nods, "Join me in Art Club. It's not like we have a cap on members."
"So I can draw lewd pictures all day, just like you?" I tease.
I know Kenny doesn't actually just draw porn.
"So you can draw whatever you want," He says, "It's not a restrictive club at all. The teacher just lets us do whatever we want. Funding isn't as good as football, but it's not that bad, so we don't have to pay for supplies."
A shadow falls over us, blocking out the sun. I don't need to look up to know Cartman is looming over me.
"A very important matter for you, Kenny, being so poor," Cartman says, "Doubt you'd have paper at all if it wasn't for that dumb club."
Kenny merely shrugs – he isn't bothered by this line of teasing.
Stan arrives just as Cartman is sitting down. They must have been close in line.
"You can come with me after school," Kenny goes on, "It doesn't need an application – or a tryout or anything like that. It's really casual, totally chill."
"What are you guys talking about?" Stan asks.
"Kenny wants Kyle to join his gay Art Club so they can fuck on the sly," Cartman says.
Stan is as experienced as the rest of us at decoding Cartman speak.
"Art Club, huh?" Stan says.
His shoulders are a little slumped and he seems disappointed. I think he's probably feeling down football seems upstaged. I might not like or understand sports, but I know Stan is passionate about team sports.
I can't think of anything to say to cheer him up, so I just smile at him across the table. He shrugs, saying silently he isn't bothered.
"Well?" Kenny asks.
I'd forgotten he'd been waiting for a reply.
"Oh, right," I say, nudging my salad with my fork, "I don't know, Ken, I'm shit at art. I don't think I even remember the color wheel."
"It's not about skill," Kenny says, "It's just fun – and I could show you, too-"
Cartman interrupts him, "Excuse you, Kenny, art is a noble course reliant on skill and passion – something I'm sure our friend Kyle lacks for the subject in both areas."
My eyes narrow involuntarily. It's something about the way he says these things that pisses me off so much. I'd just called myself shit at art, but Cartman saying that is so enraging.
"No, no," Cartman goes on – talking in that self-inflating way he always does, "If Kyle was to join a club this year, the only and most obvious choice would be debate club."
Cartman is the debate club star.
"Debate club?" I exclaim, shocked.
As usual, he ignores my tone completely and acted as if I'd asked for clarification.
"Oh yes," He goes on, "Unlike our school's meager Arts department, our Debate club is well known. A record of attendance there on your college application would go a long way. Much as he pretends otherwise, elite colleges are highly important to Jews like Kyle."
Oh, I'm angry now.
"Fuck off!" I snap, "Like I'd give up even a moment of my precious free time to spend arguing with you!"
There's a round of snickers. Stan and Kenny are traitors. I guess that wasn't a very good point to try to make.
Kenny catches my eye after he stops laughing. Oh, right. I was trying to ignore Cartman instead of getting riled up. God damn it.
"Well," I say, "I think that proves a point anyway – I'm shit at debate."
"No, no," Cartman starts.
"You're shit at everything that isn't school," Stan interjects.
"Um," I say.
That's a little rude.
Stan shakes his head – he didn't mean it like that. I'd never imagine Stan to insult me directly, I was just a little confused at to his point.
"You're not going be good at any of it – you're not good at sports, you're not good at art, you're not good at debate. What would you enjoy?"
All three of them are looking at me. I'm not sure why anyone cares, so it's a little surprising.
"I don't know," I say, "I never said I was going to join a club, anyway."
"Debate club requires an application," Kenny says quietly.
Is this some kind of competition? They're all staring at me so weirdly. I feel really awkward. Do I have to say something?
"I guess... Art Club, then?" I say.
It's not like I'm picking a person. Of course for someone like me, art would be the most fun. But Kenny seems inordinately pleased, Cartman scowls, and Stan looks disappointed again.
I feel like asking Stan if he's all right, but now isn't much of a time for it. It would be awkward. He knows I'd never be interested in football, right? Just gym class is torture.
But god, I wish he didn't look so disappointed.
The afternoon classes pass without incident.
As I was kind of forced to promise, I stick around after final period to tag along to Art Club with Kenny.
"You'll enjoy it, I'm sure of it," Kenny says, "Honestly, Kyle, I think you work way too much. You need an outlet or you'll just be stressed out all the time."
The Art classroom is really, really messy. None of the tables are in rows, there's half-finished projects scattered everywhere, and every available surface is splattered in colorful paint. But there's a little electric fountain and a tiny potted bamboo plant in the corner. A bunch of students already working on something are scattered around the room. Something about it is, in fact, very peaceful. It's quiet in here, but it doesn't feel like speaking would disturb anyone.
"Teacher usually arrives fifteen minutes after," Kenny tell me.
"Cool," I say, having a look around.
Kenny shows me where to get supplies and we sit down at a small table together in a back corner. Kenny sits a little close to me. Too close, I think, his knee is touching mine.
"Like I said, I'm going to teach you how to draw," He says.
His voice is quiet.
"Kay," I say.
For the next ten minutes or so, Kenny instructs me on the basics of drawing human faces. My model: the girl sitting in front of us, working on some kind of modernist clay sculpture.
We snicker at the progress of my unintentionally not-very-flattering depiction of her.
I have a lot of trouble drawing smooth lines. Her eyes are wonky, not symmetrical.
"Here," Says Kenny, taking my hand in his own and fixing a line.
"How long did it take you to get good at art?" I ask.
Kenny huffs, "I'm not good," He says.
"Yeah, right," I reply, huffing myself, "I've seen your drawings. And when they're not completely perverted and disturbing, they're really good. I think it's super cool that you can do this."
Kenny smiles sheepishly, but isn't able to reply before the teacher finally arrives. He's an older man, with long, gray hair tied back. The man handles the club in a very casual way. No attention is paid to me as a newcomer. He briefly demonstrates a new technique (far beyond my current capabilities), then starts around the classroom, talking to each student about the project they're working on and giving advice and feedback.
By the time he gets to us, I've nearly finished my drawing.
"Good to meet you," The teacher says, "I'm Mr. Carter, I head this club."
I shake his outstretched hand. His handshake is very limp, not at all assertive. He smiles though and looks quite friendly.
"Kyle Broflovski," I say.
The man nods, as if he already knew that.
"Kenny's friend," He says, matter of point.
His eyes lift up to Kenny's, fixing him with an odd look. Kenny blushes.
I don't get it.
"May I see?" The teacher asks, pointing at my drawing.
I'm a little embarrassed, but I hand it over.
"Kenny's told me you don't draw. This is a very good for a beginner, Kyle," He says.
"Ah, Kenny was helping me," I say honestly.
So I guess Kenny has been talking about me with his teacher. Kenny's that friendly, open sort of person, so it's not actually very surprising.
"What you need to work on here is simply your technique," Mr. Carter says, "Your lines are very uneven in places and the face isn't symmetrical – nor true to life, I think."
He looks over at the girl I had been drawing, assessing her face with my drawing. I think I'd better make sure she doesn't see that, it would be painful.
"Still," Mr. Carter says, "A very good start. I hope to see you in our club again."
He hands me back my drawing. I nod as I take it. I'm trying to hide it, but secretly I'm glowing from the praise. It feels incredible to be complimented by the teacher.
"Kenny, do you have your most recent drawing?" Mr. Carter asks, moving on.
Kenny scratches the back of his head, "I thought today I'd just spend working with Kyle. I can do mine some other time."
"I'd still like to see your progress, if it's all right with you," The teacher says.
He's so reasonable, I think it would be hard to say no. A kind of paradox.
Kenny shrugs and gets his notebook out of his backpack. He flips to a certain page in it, then hands it to the teacher. But I notice him carefully pointing the notebook away from me, so I can't see it. That only makes me curious, Kenny.
The teacher stares at the notebook for a moment, nodding. Then, for whatever reason, he looks up at me and stares for a moment. I quirk an eyebrow. He looks back at the drawing and nods again.
"Very good, Kenny," Mr. Carter says, "You are one of my best students. You've definitely progressed since your last attempt. The line work is soft and sharp in the right places and your shading gives off the impression of very warm light. The hair especially I can see you've paid careful attention to. Much improvement there.
"As always, good work with the expression."
He's silent for a moment, then nods again, "It's good, but still lacks finesse. I'd say this time you might have gone too far in the other direction – this is too detailed and tight in places. But I'm glad I can finally see – well."
He cuts himself off for some reason.
"It's very true to life," He says, then finally hands Kenny back the notebook.
It's quickly closed and stashed away in his bag again. The teacher wanders off.
"Can I see?" I ask immediately.
I'm dying to know what it looks like. Hearing all that about it without being able to see it is driving me nuts.
"Maybe some other time," Kenny says shyly.
He doesn't want to show me something he's worked hard on. I get that. It's different for just a casual sketch, but he's worried about being judged on something he put effort into.
Still, I hope he does actually show me sometime.
We spend the rest of club time drawing a new picture. I try to draw Kenny, but it's too difficult while he's leaning over and helping me, so I draw the teacher instead.
Art Club is far more pleasant than I imagined it being. I guess I've got something new to do on Monday afternoons.
–
Tuesday passes without incident. The next day, Friday is also normal, but only up until third period, right before lunch time.
The history teacher, Mr. Wright (who is incidentally also the Debate teacher), is handing back graded essays and going over them with the students who didn't do so well. I spend the time working on the homework we just got assigned in second period. Stan and Cartman don't share this class with me, but Kenny is doodling a few desks behind me – we're seated alphabetically in history.
Mr. Wright places my essay on the edge of my desk. I nod to acknowledge him, but don't look up.
"Oh, Broflovski," He says, getting my attention, "I wanted to let you know your rush application was approved. Do you know where the club is held? Though I'm sure Cartman can show you."
"I'm sorry?" I ask.
"Show you where the club is held," Says Mr. Wright.
"...What club?" I ask.
"Well, Debate, of course," He says.
For a short moment, I am confused. Mr. Wright is certainly confused. But then, I get it and start turning an angry red.
"I didn't put in any application, sir," I say, trying my best to keep my tone respectful with the teacher, "I think Cartman must have done that for me."
"Ah, I see," Said Mr. Wright, "Yes, I received the application from your friend, but he told me quite clearly it was for you, so I assumed you were aware of it. Well, all the same, do you need instruction on the place or time?"
I shake my head, "No offense, sir, but I'm not interested in debate. Cartman... must have misunderstood. Just because he's applied for me doesn't mean I'll go."
Mr. Wright's shoulders slump. He looks highly put out.
"I see – well, I suppose I can understand," He says, "Debate is just not popular among young people anymore. Though, I would expect an intellectual like yourself to hold at least some fondness for civilized debate?"
I hold up my hands. I'm a little confused.
"I... don't think of myself as an intellectual, sir," I say.
I mean to go on and say a little more, but Mr. Wright doesn't notice. He leans on the empty desk behind me while he talks, looking wistfully over my shoulder in a way that makes me want to turn around and see what he's staring at.
"Of all the misguided humility," He says, "Broflovski, you are second in grades in all of Junior year – only behind Wendy Testaburger, and not by much. And the two of you are heads and shoulders above the others. Why, just look at your essay, here."
Mr. Wright is making me distinctly uncomfortable. His praise is over the top and awkward. But mostly, the other essays are still waiting to be handed out and the other students are watching me. Anyone else in the class who wanted feedback has to wait for our conversation to finish. And they're listening to him praising my grades. And reading bits of my essay out loud.
I hate it. Oh, god, I hate it.
"S-sir," I say quietly, trying to get his attention.
He didn't hear me, "And here, your tone is incredibly academic, 'Americans in the eighteenth century-'"
"Sir," I say, getting his attention.
I can hear Kenny giggling at my distress.
"That – thank you, but -" I start.
Mr. Wright interrupts me again.
"You sell yourself so short, Broflovski," He says, "Haven't you ever heard? It is just as reckless for a man to severely underestimate his abilities as to overestimate his abilities. You are set on the college path, aren't you?"
Mr. Wright had advised the class to pursue further education after high school last year and I'd expressed my intention to apply to a number of colleges out of state my senior year.
"Which extracurricular are you taking?" He asked.
It wasn't exactly accusatory, but I felt the need to defend myself anyway, like I needed to prove I was serious back them.
"...Art club," I say.
He looked decidedly unimpressed. I only felt more defensive. But I didn't really want to say I didn't want to join the club because Cartman was in it and Cartman wanted me to join. That would make me sound childish and petty.
Why do I care so much? I don't have to prove anything to him.
"Anything that would appeal to potential colleges or employers?" He asked.
'I like art,' would have been my reply. But that sounded stupid.
"Cartman clearly cares a lot about you -" Mr. Wright said.
"Not really," I reply.
I didn't mean to interrupt, it just slipped out. The teacher raised an eyebrow and inclined his head at me. I wish I knew how to keep my mouth shut. The girls sitting nearby were staring.
"Cartman and I aren't close or anything," I say, "We just sit together at lunch."
"Exactly," Mr. Wright said.
That, I didn't understand at all.
"Broflovski, I strongly feel that you would benefit from this club. As your teacher, I'd like to encourage you to at least give debate a try. The first meeting of the year is this afternoon, starting fifteen minutes after school in room 3-F. Can I trust that you'll be there?"
'Encourage'? More like demand. But Mr. Wright was still my history teacher. I couldn't just drop a core subject.
"I..."
Couldn't think of anything to say to get out of it
"That's the spirit, Broflovski," Mr. Wright said, clapping me on the shoulder, "I know I can always rely on hard-working students like you. We'll see you this afternoon."
I didn't agree!
"I -!" I started to protect, but Mr. Wright must have been some kind of ninja – he was already on the other side of the room, lecturing Clyde about his use of personal pronouns in profession essay.
I skulked into the cafeteria in silent fury.
In the end, I'd even been held up after class. Mr. Wright was pretty intent I don't skip it.
"Cartman," I say, breathing fire.
He pretends not to notice.
"Good afternoon, Kahl, so good to see you. We were all worried you'd been held up."
Acting as if everything is hunky-dory and chummy between us pisses me off faster than almost anything else he does, so I can't help getting more riled up.
"You sicked your weirdo teacher on me," I say directly, placing my hands on the table in front of him and leaning down to give him my most evil look.
Cartman smiles, ignoring my posture and expression.
"Whatever do you mean, Kahl?" He asks.
"Something happen?" Stan asks me.
"Cartman signed me up for Debate Club and his psycho teacher wouldn't let me out of it." I say, but I don't stop glaring at Cartman.
"Now, Kahl, you take that back," Cartman says – but he clearly is still joking, not actually bothered, "Mr. Wright is an amazing professor. Far more than we should expect in this tiny mountain town."
"You said something to him," I say, "Why the hell does he want me to join so badly? Are you blackmailing him?"
Next to us, I can hear Kenny giving Stan the rundown of what he witnessed in history.
"The very opposite," Cartman say, grinning.
"So – he's blackmailing you?" I ask, "What the fuck do you mean."
"No, no," Cartman says, "I mean the intentions – I am, after all, Mr. Wright's star pupil. He wants me to shine as bright as I can."
"So you mean you've got another professor wrapped around your finger," I say.
I lift my hands and sit down. I'm done interrogating him. My stomach is growling because I'm late to lunch.
"I'd be happy to show -" Cartman starts.
"I can find the room myself," I snap back at him.
He lifts his hands up, as if in surrender and leans back. But not only is he smiling, I know for a fact Cartman never gives up on anything he decides to start.
After school, I don't have a moment to spend feeling bad for myself. Cartman is in Physics class with me and I don't want him showing me to the club room. I don't need some well thought reason why: I don't want Cartman to ever think he's helped me with anything.
I pack quickly and hurry off, but after a minute, I can feel his presence behind me. His legs are so much longer than mine.
"You're so excited!" He laughs when it's clear I've noticed him, "Like a little chihuahua!"
I bite my tongue to keep myself from snapping at him. I'm ignoring him now, I need to remember that. We're almost at the club room anyway. There's a bunch of students gathered around a door.
I can hear him huff behind me. He hates being ignored.
I can pick out a couple of faces from my circle of friends in the crowd. Wendy and Token are both here. The three of us have the best grades in our year. I don't recognize most of the other students intimately, but I know some of them from indirect sources. These students are all nerds and elites. Either with fantastic grades or simply wealthy – or both, like Token.
I'm closer with Wendy, since she's together with Stan so often. I even think of her like a sister, sometimes. Her own best friend, Bebe, is no where to be seen. Bebe is the opposite of Wendy in a lot of ways. I can't see someone like her in this group.
If Wendy is alone, maybe I use her to shake Cartman. As we approach everyone, Cartman tries to put his arm over my shoulder, but I push him off.
At least for now, that's sent him off without too much trouble. I hear his voice greeting a few upperclassmen. It's easy to tune out when I have someone to talk to myself.
"Kyle!" Wendy exclaims when she sees me, giving me a half hug and a warm smile, "I didn't know you were joining debate this year."
"I'm not," I say, "I've been tricked into attending the first meeting, though."
She rolls her eyes at me, "Debate is really fun, Kyle. I think you'll have a good time."
I'm not so sure, but I don't voice that. We spend the next fifteen minutes catching up before the teacher arrives.
There aren't that many students in debate club and the atmosphere is very quiet. Inside the room, all the desks have been set on one side of the room or the other, facing inwards to an open space.
Everyone quickly finds a seat. I stick by Wendy. We sit a few chairs away from everyone else and right up against the wall. It's tight around the edges of the room, even a little claustrophobic, because the desks aren't usually laid out like this. Only one student – an upperclassman, I think – sits in a desk right next to us.
Mr. Wright gets into business mode quickly. After a brief introduction speech, he tells us what the club will be doing for that meeting and most meetings from here on out. We're all going to split into pairs to practice debate for thirty minutes. Debate topics will be passed around in a hat, given to us by Mr. Wright, or just decided by ourselves. At the end, a timer will go off and we'll have to decide a winner by ourselves. Mr. Wright will float around the room observing and giving advice, but won't be able to pay enough attention to any particular debate to pick a winner.
For most meetings, a pair of students will volunteer to participate in a debate in front of the class for everyone to watch and then vote on.
At the end, Mr. Wright will give a very brief lesson or tip and tell us what we'll be doing next week and if we should prepare any material.
The whole thing sounds like a lot of work, a lot of embarrassment, and not any fun.
Why would anyone enjoy a terrible club like this?
I learn quickly.
Mr. Wright reminds us that betting on the outcome of a debate is discouraged. If he needs to say that, people are obviously doing it.
When it's time to split into pairs, I look to Wendy immediately. She smiles and opens her mouth to speak. But a dark shadow falls over us, making her look up in annoyance.
Wendy doesn't like Cartman any more than I do.
"I'll be your partner in group debates, Cartman, but I've had plenty enough of your pathetic whining last year," She says.
"Why so cruel, Windy?" Cartman asks, "You wound me, you really do. But I'm not here to work with you this time. Kahl, won't you be my partner? Since we're such good friends."
"Like hell -" I start to say.
Don't fall to his level.
"I'm partnering with Wendy, actually," I say, "You'll have to find someone else."
"Wendy," A fourth voice enters our conversation.
It's the upperclassman who was sitting next to us.
"I was hoping to ask you to work with me," He says, "I wanted to challenge you again after you beat me in the public debate last year."
Wendy is no traitor. She just gives the kid a look.
"I wanted to know if I've gotten any better. Or at least if you have gotten any worse."
Something flashes in Wendy's eyes. I think there might be a history here I'm not seeing. And this student sat next to us very specifically. Couldn't he have sat anywhere else? With his friends? The pieces click together in my mind. I'm pretty sure this was one of the upperclassmen Cartman was talking with.
"Cartman, you asshole," I hiss at him.
He looks impressed. Not really impressed, more like... this dog remembered which cup I hid a treat under, how intelligent.
I want to scratch his stupid smirks off with my fingernails.
It turns out Wendy is a traitor. By the time this has gone down, though, the rest of the class has split into pairs.
I am left with the sole choice of Cartman.
He is already turning a desk around so the fronts face each other.
A hat full of pieces of paper is passed around the room. I snatch it before Cartman can get his greedy mitts on it and put something weird in there, even though I have to stand a little and lean over my desk to outreach him.
"Chill out, Kahl," Cartman says, "You're suspicious of everything."
"I don't know what you're planning, Cartman. I can admit that. Why you want me here, I have no fucking idea. I just want to get this over with the least amount of pain possible."
"Not a masochist then?" He asks, "Well, we can't have everything, can we."
"College education," I read out loud from the topic I picked at random, "Is a college education worth it?"
"Boring!" Cartman cries out, loudly enough to disturb the other students and make me jump.
"What a dumb topic," He says, "Especially something we both have the same opinion on – I don't know about you, Kahl, but I like debating about actual, real life arguments."
"What do you have in mind, Cartman?" I ask with a sigh, putting my hand over my eyes, "I'm sure you have something insulting planned. About Jews or height or red hair."
"Too easy," Cartman says, "There's no benefit to being Jewish, tiny, or ginger."
I crumple the paper in my hand and open my mouth to tell him he's full of himself, but Cartman suddenly leans forward over the desk, right into my personal space. I back up instinctively to avoid letting him bump into me and the back of my head touches the wall. He doesn't stop leaning forward, so I'm caught there leaning back.
"What's your idea?" He asks.
I can't think right now. No words come out of my mouth. This is, for certain, according to Cartman's intentions. He smirks at me and leans back again.
"Well, if you can't think of anything, we have to go with my idea, don't we?" He says, "You know, Mr. Wright will actually praise you a lot for going with your own topics."
I'd rather not be praised by that man again in my life.
"Art Club," He says, waving his open palm at me, "Or Debate Club."
He indicates himself. He looks so goddamn cocky.
It's a lot tamer than I thought.
"No good?" He asks, "Maybe... should underweight midgets try out for football?"
My ears turn red.
We spend the next half hour arguing over the merits of either club. Cartman, as expected, is very good at this. I never hoped to win against him. That would be absurd. I just want to keep my temper in check so I don't make a fool of myself.
The way he makes points is frustrating – I don't like to lose, like anyone – but it's not the worst part. Cartman is very actively trying to push my buttons. It's his body language more than anything. He sits normally, then suddenly looms over me, getting too close over and over again when I'm in the middle of trying to say something. I started to make a good point about the value of expression when he suddenly touched my knees with his shoe and made me jump. The point got lost.
Art is just a fun waste of time. Debate Club can only be useful to your future! He insulted art club directly. Unwashed hippies, but Debate Club is full of your peers!
"But people in Art Club are actually nice!" I snap.
"You like Art Club because it's nice," Cartman simpered, "Because people are nice to you. I know Mr. Carter. I bet he showered you with praise just for showing up."
I could feel my face heating up in anger.
"What students need is to actually be challenged. Debate clubs like this one are bettering people, not just in one very specific talent, but intellectually. Kyle, don't you think you could benefit from intellectual study? Why, I think debate club could function as real training in anger management, too!"
So much for not turning into a tomato. My heart felt like it was beating out of my chest.
"Human pleasure is important, too! We don't live our lives just to be rich but unhappy! Kenny is much better company than you!"
Mr. Wright, who had arrived to observe for a few minutes, felt the need to comment.
"Ad hominem, Broflovski, but that started as a very good point."
As if Cartman insulting my intelligence and temper wasn't ad hominem.
"Well..." Said Cartman, who actually appeared for once briefly taken aback, "Not in this case, I don't think."
"No?" Said Mr. Wright, looking intrigued.
"It's relevant to our topic," Cartman said.
"What would that be?" Mr. Wright asked.
"If Kahl – uh, Kyle - should join art club or debate club." Cartman said.
I managed to loosen my fists. My hands were really starting to hurt. Meanwhile, Mr. Wright was positively beaming at Cartman. It didn't take a genius to figure out why.
"So I see! " Mr. Wright said, "Cartman, can you argue any reason why you are, in fact, better company than Broflovski's peers in Art Club?"
"I highly doubt that!" I couldn't help bursting out.
Mr. Wright, apparently satisfied with having given that advice, stood to move on to another pair. I felt that he should have been giving me advice, not Cartman, since I was new at this and Cartman was a seasoned pro.
"You know, I do wonder why you would say something like that. Is Kenny really better company than me?" Cartman asked.
"Obviously," I spat, still quaking.
Cartman smiled, again looking so annoyingly fond of me, "You can't just say 'obviously' Kahl, this is debate."
"Everyone hates you, Cartman," I say, "And it's the same for me."
Cartman seemed to turn this over in his head.
"But why do you hate me, Kahl? Simply saying 'everyone does' is no different than saying 'obviously'. That's Appeal To The Masses. In proper debate, that's poor form."
"You're lack of argument is poor form, too," I say, "Shooting down points is no good if you can't make them yourself. 'Burden of proof,' right? And I'm happy to go over the details of why I hate- "
"Kenny is poor. When we go to college, he'll have nothing in common with us anymore," Cartman said, leaning over me again, "He's perverted – and an absolute man-whore. His reputation can only drag you down. He's an idiot, just like Stan. I know you tutor both of them – Debate, at least, would be a far better use of your time than enabling their mediocrity. I think you might be what's wrong with your friends, Kenny especially. "
I was ready for his personal space attack and didn't back away this time, but his words pissed me anyway. His huge shadow cast me into darkness. I stared right into his eyes, which seemed to be gleaming.
"Who cares, who care, and who cares," I said, "None of that bothers me about Kenny because none of that affects how nice it is to spend time around him. Maybe stop going on about what makes Kenny bad and tell me what makes you good?"
Cartman smiled silently for a moment, as if building for effect.
"I'm perfect," He said with gleaming eyes.
That was the last straw.
"Fuck you!" I cried out.
A bell announced the end of the thirty minutes. Cartman leaned back in his chair, smirking.
My whole body shook in rage and I have to close my eyes.
Mr. Wright clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.
"It sounds like you all had very interesting debates. Now, we'll go through the pairs and announce today's winners."
Wendy had won her argument. I expected that – it was a sham from the start.
"Cartman, Broflovski?"
There's no shame in losing to the Debate Club star, but I feel petulant anyway.
"Cartman won, of-," I start to spit out.
But Cartman interrupts me before I can say 'of course'.
"Kyle won, sir."
The room turns to look at us. Cartman's reputation precedes him, I think.
"Really?" Says Mr. Wright, looking both surprised and pleased – his eyes are on me and I hate them.
"Yes, sir. It was at the end that Kyle made some very good points," Cartman went on.
Of course, his tone is teasing, so I'm seeing red again.
"But you think you lost, Broflovski?" Mr. Wright said.
That asshole gets to be doubly pleased here.
I open my mouth, but Cartman talks over me again.
"You lost your temper," He says, right in front of everyone, "But that doesn't really matter in debate. What matters is making effective points. And I can't blame you for losing your temper on a subject you're so passionate on."
"Cartman," I start to say, but stop myself.
Everyone in the club is watching me. Now is not the time to lose my temper again.
"I've never known you to admit to losing so easily like that," Another student says to Cartman, "Usually, we have to have another mini debate over it."
"What were you guys debating?" A girl asks.
"If Kyle likes me or -" Cartman starts.
"Art Club or Debate Club," I interrupt him.
The class is silent. I think at this point they can all see the pent up rage emanating out of me.
"Who was who?" Another girl asks.
Cartman ignores her and looks at me.
"And to think," Cartman says, "You thought you wouldn't enjoy debate club."
I nod. Stand up. Grab my bag. And I walk across the room and out the door.
"Broflovski!" Calls Mr. Wright.
"I'll get him, sir," Says another student.
I can hear footsteps after me as I hurry down the hall.
"Fuck off," I say, not bothering to see who it is.
It turns out to be Token. Even when I'm moving at my top speed, all it takes is a pair of normal sized legs to catch up to me. And Token, like everyone else it seems I'm friends with, is stupid tall. He grabs my arm. I hate it when people manhandle me. I can't actually make someone let go like the other guys can.
"Listen," He says, "Everyone knows that Cartman is an ass. He's made three girls cry so far and Turner actually threw a book at him once. No one is going to think any less of you for storming out like that."
I'm still shaking. Token can certainly feel that through my arm.
"Right," I say, though my voice is a little strained.
I'd look even worse if I actually disappeared like that. Or would it be worse to come back, tail between my legs?
"Come one, man. You gotta find out if I won mine." Token flashes me a charming smile.
Well, I guess. The club looks at us when we slink back inside, but Mr. Wright has moved on to the other students.
Right now, I'm just exhausted. Getting this angry has taken it out of me. I'm not even going to be able to study tonight.
"You'll come again, won't you?" A pretty sophomore girl asks me as everyone gets ready to leave.
I shake my head.
"When we finally have an even number of members?" A boy whines, "It's so annoying when you always have to worry about being that leftover person."
"Mr. Wright thinks you can fix Cartman," Another girl says quietly.
I don't know what that means.
"I don't want to argue with Cartman," I say.
"You can partner with me next time," Token says.
I'm too tired to argue. It would look good on college applications. My Mom is going to start getting on my ass about that soon enough. She already bugs me about going up just a few points to be better than Wendy.
"Sure," I say.
So, art on Monday, debate on Wednesday. If Stan wants to do something with me tomorrow, he's going to have to drag me.
–
"Fuck off," I whine, dragging out the words.
It is so cold in the morning without the blankets on. I stayed up late last night studying – I don't care what Stan is about, I'm not getting up this early. I sneeze.
"Just wake up, man," Stan says, shaking my shoulders.
I am awake, dumb-ass. I just don't want to engage right now. But all the same, I sit up in bed and give him the stink eye. He laughs at me, which makes it hard to stay so annoyed. Bed sheets in his other hand, he ruffles my hair. When Stan does that, it's kind of nice, so I just roll my eyes and smile.
"Why am I awake at six AM on a Saturday?" I ask him.
"So we can go running!" Stan exclaims excitedly, "I just thought of it!"
Recreational running? No way. Not for anyone, not even you Stan.
"What made you think of that?" I ask as I stand up to get dressed – it's too cold in my pajamas without any blankets over me.
"Well, I got up to go running this morning," He says.
Hmm, normal for Stan. I pull a warmer shirt over my head.
"And then I thought – Kyle should come with me!" Stan finishes.
"I don't follow," I tell him.
"You need to exercise," Stan says, following me around the room while I find something to wear, "And I know... something like football is not going work. That was stupid. Even if you were in shape, you hate that kind of thing.
"So maybe we could exercise just the two of us. It'd be more fun anyway."
My hat is missing. What did I do with it last night?
"I can't see exercise as being fun," I tell him, "Did you hide my hat?"
"What?" Stan asks, "No. Not this time."
He's done this before. I don't like people to see my hair, apart from Stan, so if he wants something, ransoming my hat is a good way to get it. He's done that kind of thing before.
I narrow my eyes at him.
"I didn't!" He protests.
Well, lying about it wouldn't do much good for ransoming. He helps me look. I find it between the mattress and the wall – I forgot to take it off last night and must have lost it down there in my sleep. It's a little squished, but my hat has gone through a lot. It'll bounce back.
I whine and complain a bunch, but now that I'm awake and dressed, I am willing to go exercise with Stan. Not because I like exercise, but because I like Stan. Even if he is an idiot.
Mom and Dad aren't awake yet and I doubt they'll be before I get back, but Ike is sneaking a bowl of sugary cereal in the kitchen.
"Morning, Ike," I call while I put on a pair of running shoes – almost went and grabbed my boots out of habit.
"Where are you going?" He asks.
"We're going running!" Stan exclaims cheerfully.
Ike smirks at us.
"Good luck with that," He says, "I predict my little brother making it halfway to the pond and giving up."
My nose wrinkles in annoyance. I hate it when he tries to call me 'little brother', just because he's taller than me now. Ike is just beginning middle school. Somehow, he's grown taller than I am already. After all, he isn't related to me by blood, so I can't say we really look alike. But Ike is oddly skinny like I am. I think he has my eating habits – with the exception of a deep love of the sugary cereal our Mom tries to ration to us as rewards.
I stick my tongue out at him and leave the house.
I know Stan runs down to the pond every Saturday. If I'm up early enough, I can even see him run past my window. Honestly, I think it might be a pretty far run. If Ike gets proven right, I'll never hear the end of it.
"We're going to jog," Stan says, "Really, really slow pace, I promise."
Sure. But I nod at him and together, we start off.
I'm not completely out of shape. After all, I still attend phys ed like everyone else. I'm just miserable in it. Stan keeps glancing over at me as we run. I know I'm already breathing hard and the flaps on my hat are bouncing. Stan's legs are longer than mine. I know he isn't running as fast as he likes to because of that.
As we pass one block at a time, the mild discomfort turns into a deep burning feeling in my lungs. My thighs are starting to feel tight, but Christ, it's nothing compared to how my lungs are feeling. I'm no longer paying attention to Stan or our pace. I'm just trying to keep running.
It can't be much longer than a mile to Stark's Pond, can it? I can run a mile. Barely.
I need to catch my breath, at least for a moment. I slow to a stop and lean down over my knees. Now that I'm not moving, my legs are shaking.
"Go on," I say to Stan, who's hovering over me.
My voice is very rough. It feels like I've got a lot of phlegm in my throat.
"It's fine," Says Stan.
He doesn't sound like he's dying.
While I wait for my legs to stop shaking, Stan stretches.
"How long -" I start to say, but I cough a little bit.
"About halfway," Stan replies.
I wave him off.
"Until I can run without dying," I say.
"Oh," Says Stan.
He stares down at me, looking up at him, where I'm catching my breath with my hands on my knees. But after another moment, I'm able to stand properly now and rise up. I'm not sure it really makes a difference. Stan is so much taller than me whether I'm at my full height is kind of negligible.
"Two months," He replies, punctuating his statement with a sharp nod.
"Fuck off," I say, "I'm going home."
"Kyle!" Stan cries out, "You can't just give up like that."
"This was fun, Stan," I reply, turning away from him towards the way we came, "I'm glad I know how you spend your Saturday mornings now. Thank you. I'm going home."
"Kyle!" Stan says again.
Ha, good luck stopping me with admonishments like that. I give him a quick wave and start heading back. I really was expecting him to roll his eyes and get back to running. But instead, he's walking beside me with one of his hands on my shoulder.
"If you're really as out of shape as this, it's even more important for you to exercise," He says.
"Right you are," I reply, "Still going home."
He purses his lips in a thin line.
"You're being a little bitch, I think," He says.
I shrug. He stops for a moment, watching me walk away, but then he's by side again.
"Don't you care about your GPA, like, a lot, Kyle?" He asks.
I raise an eyebrow at him. What's that got to do with anything.
"You're only a few points behind Wendy, aren't you?" He says, "Are you gonna those points just studying more? There's a law of diminishing returns with that stuff."
"What are you on about?" I ask him.
"Just with running once a week, I bet your grade in phys ed would go way up. That's your worst class and it would count for a ton."
It's a reasonable argument.
"Wendy's only ahead of you because she doesn't have a bad class like that driving down her average."
That's actually pretty convincing. I pretend not to be bothered, but something is really attractive to me about possibly being the best student in our year. That's a lot of prestige.
But that's also a lot of running.
"Guess Ike was right," Stan say, crossing his arms.
Ugh. Fine.
At least I didn't make it very far towards home. Stan and I set off running again. I go through the same process of feeling kind of good, then out of breath, then really out of breath, then burning. When we finally reach the pond, I collapse onto the bench and go limp.
"See?" Stan says, "Not so bad."
He's a little out of breath too, finally, but not nearly in the same state that I am. He sits next to me.
"And you run back, too?" I ask when I'm able to speak.
"Yeah," Stan says, "But I always rest here first."
I nod. We're silent for a little bit, catching our breath.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Stan says.
I turn to see where he's staring and follow his gaze out over the water. The sun rose a while ago, but there's still some pink and orange left in the sky near the horizon. The warm colors bounce into the water a little bit.
I don't think about this kind of stuff very often, but I guess it is pretty. I nod.
We sit for a quite a while. Longer than we should need to catch our breath. But since I'm drenched in sweat, it starts to get really cold on the bench.
When I stand up, everything hurts. The soreness has started to set in.
I whine.
"It hurts!" I say, trying to stretch tight muscles.
"Well, yeah," Says Stan, "We probably should have stretched first. I forgot to make you do that."
"I'm not running back," I tell him.
"I figured," He says, "I think what we did was about on your level. I'll walk back with you."
I yawn.
"It's fine," I say, "You always run back, don't you? I won't make you walk me home."
Stan shrugs. He'll do what he wants and I'm fine with that.
It's very cold out, now that we're not running. Brr! I shiver and sneeze.
We walk in silence. Stan keeps looking at me and starts to fidget, making temples with his fingers. He's got something on his mind, starts to shrug out of his jacket. I roll my eyes and open my mouth to ask what's up.
He roughly places his jacket over my shoulders, shoving me slightly.
"Here," He says.
"What?" I ask, "Na, I'm fine."
"You're clearly cold," He says.
Something about his tone seems really defensive.
I raise an eyebrow at him and grab the jacket off my shoulders to hand him back.
"But then you'll just be doubly -" I say.
"I'm going to run," He interrupts, "Carry that back for me."
He takes off, leaving me in the dust. I'm way to tired to try to follow him. Fine, I'll carry your jacket. In my hands, it's pretty warm from his heat. I guess Stan wasn't so cold after all. He's bigger, so he probably just makes a lot more body heat.
But I'm freezing and if I'm going to be carrying it, I might as well wear it.
His jacket is much too big for me and comes down over my hands and hips. But it's really warm. I hug my arms around myself while I walk. Ugh, he was kind of sweaty though. Stan's jacket smells decidedly of Stan. But it's cold, so I bury my nose in the collar.
There are people who could smell worse than Stan.
When I get home, Ike's watching TV and asks if I ran the whole way.
"All the way to the pond," I tell him, "But I walked back."
He looks over at me and raises an eyebrow.
"Boyfriend lend you his jacket?" He teases.
I stick out my tongue at him and head into my room. That afternoon, Stan comes over to work on homework and takes his jacket when he goes home.
"Oh, thanks," I call when you leaves the room.
Stan is red in the face suddenly, but I don't know why.
I'm going to be busy this year, I think. Art Club Monday, Debate Wednesday, exercise Saturday.
But I'm going to kick Wendy's ass in GPA.