A/N: Huh, okay so basically, I have a lot of time on my hands lately, and I had this idea to pick one day, one hour of one day, to write from everyone's point of view. Different perspectives and such. I started with Clyde, because to be honest there needs to be more Clyde on here. Clyde is underrated entirely. Anyway, this doesn't really have any plot for now, but I'm hoping that one sprouts and grows as I write from the perspective of different people. So yeah, I guess that's it! Read and Review (and criticize PLEASE AND THANKS)

Clyde should have been to school 10 minutes ago. He would have been on time today, really he would have, but he had to spend almost 20 minutes finding his left shoe. That, and there was no way he was missing breakfast on Pancake Wednesday. Now, as he's spilling through the doors of South Park High School and skidding around the corner to room 134, Clyde promises himself that he'll make it in here early tomorrow. He would promise the rest of the week too, but if there's one thing Clyde knows, it's his own limits. Opening the door to room 134, he shoves his late pass on his math teacher's desk and finally slumps into his usual chair. Clyde knows that everyone is staring at him, and he knows what they're all thinking. Why does he even bother showing up?

That's the thing. Clyde knows why he bothers to show up. Clyde shows up just so he can see her. Clyde shows up just so he can try counting the millions of golden ringlets that drown her shoulders. He tries even though it's impossible. Clyde shows up just so he can watch her long, bony fingers tap the side of her thigh impatiently when there's five minutes left of class. Tap tap tap. Clyde shows up just so he can smell her perfume. He doesn't know what she uses, he only knows that it smells like strawberries and cream. He's memorized what she looks like from behind. He can trace the curve of her shoulder blades, and the arch of her spine, and even the twist in the backs of her knees when she sits with her legs crossed. That's why.

And you know what? Clyde isn't dumb. He's slow, but that doesn't mean that he's stupid. Clyde knows it, but why can't everyone else realize it too? It just takes him a little longer. Craig always tells him to stop caring about what the others think. Craig always tells him that he's fine just the way he is, and Craig wouldn't be his friend if he wasn't smart. Besides, once Clyde gets it, he gets it forever. Doesn't that count for something? Like when everyone learned about the platypus in second grade. Clyde still remembers that male platypuses can shoot venom from their ankles. Which is way cooler than the trig identities he doesn't understand. Maybe someday, he'll know what to do with them. Clyde even remembers that you call it platypuses and not platypi, like everyone thinks. Craig is good at math.

She is good at math too. Not as good as Craig, but close. Close enough, Clyde figures, to think that he's a waste of brains. He isn't, but she doesn't know that. Clyde wishes that he had could show her what he's good at, but she'll never give him that chance again. He remembers when they dated in fourth grade, and it makes him feel so old just thinking back that far. He thinks about how they still talk sometimes, at parties or when they bump into each other at the dentist. Sometimes, he wishes that she never even talked to him, but then other times, he feels like she could talk and talk and talk, and he'd drop everything just to catch her words. Clyde wants to catch them, and weed out the lies he knows that she tells to protect herself. Clyde thinks he could help her to say what she means all the time if she would let him. That's why Clyde memorized the back of her; it tells him what's real. He sees the slumped shoulders, and knows it's something she can't hide with a smile. He sees the nervous swinging of her leg when she's put on the spot. He sees the hand reach back and rub her neck when she's really fucking stressed out. Because that's what Clyde's good at. He just sees.

He sees the teacher call Craig to the whiteboard. He looks over at Craig's desk, he sees the blank notebook page, he sees Craig pick his face off the desk and study the problem at the front of the room. He sees the quick flare of calculation in his friend's eyes, even though it only flashes by for a second before Craig has solved the problem in his head. Clyde sees him take long, slow strides to the board and scribble down the work. He sees the answer to the equation, but he doesn't understand it. Craig gets back to his seat and lets his head hit the desk the second he sits down. Clyde decides to write down the solution in his notebook, and maybe he can figure it out later. He knows his mom will help him solve it when he gets home today. She'll help him even if it takes all night. He knows it won't, but he's feeling shitty, and that's when he starts to exaggerate the things he isn't good at. Clyde knows their teacher never calls on him anymore to save both of them the embarrassment, but it doesn't stop it from hurting.

Sometimes, she wears her hair in a pony tail. Clyde loves that. He doesn't know why, but he does. He thinks her neck is the prettiest thing about her, prettier than her eyes even. And those are perfect too. He also knows that she only started putting it up recently. When they were kids, her hair was wild wild wild, and she didn't care. Clyde always loved her hair. He loves how, even when she ties it up, she's hair is still wild wild wild. He knows now, that every morning, she tries to tame it. That every morning, she kind of fails. He knows that bothers her from the way she's always trying to smooth it down and get the tangles out. He half-wishes she would just let it go like when she didn't care, but not if it meant she would stop playing with it.

Suddenly, something hits Clyde's arm. It's a paper airplane, neatly folded, and it's maker even put a paper clip on the nose to help it fly. Clyde knows that it's from Token, because he recognises the handwriting. All caps. So incredibly straightforward. Kind of like Token the person. Clyde realizes that Token's probably written something on the inside, and that he should open it. As he begins to unfold the paper, Clyde realizes that this is why people think he's so stupid. Can't they see that he's just slow, which, Clyde decides, is the exact opposite of stupid. He gets it open, reads the message written on the paper, and picks up his pencil to respond. He uses the creases to fold it back into the shape Token had it in, and he puts the paper clip back on the nose. Clyde passes the airplane to Jimmy, who passes it to Stan, who passes it to Kyle, who passes it to Lola, who passes it to Token. Clyde would have flown it over to him, but he's learned from past experiences that it won't work when he's the one throwing. He sees Token read his words, and flash his brilliant smile at him. Token is good at math.

Sometimes, Clyde wishes that she would turn around, just for a second. He doesn't know what he would do if she did, but he desperately wants her to see him. See him like he sees her. He looks down at his notebook, the answer to that one problem circled, right there in front of him, but the path confusing. He looks over at Craig, and thinks about getting his attention, thinks about asking him for help. But his friend is still face down. Not sleeping, Clyde knows, just ignoring. He starts to feel really fucking shitty.

She turns around.

She runs her hands through that wild hair.

She says "Hey Clyde, do you get any of this shit?"

Wild wild wild.

Clyde just looks at her. He doesn't know what to do. Somehow, he manages to shrug his shoulders and give her a sheepish grin. The smell of strawberries and cream washes over him.

"No."

"Oh God, me either."

"Hey Bebe, did you know that male platypuses can shoot venom out of their ankles?"

"Didn't we learn about that in second grade?"