A/N: No, I didn't forget about Bad Habits. Yes, I am having terrible writer's block for that story. Yes, I'm working on it. GOD GIVE ME A BREAK WOMAN. ALL YOU EVER DO IS NAG NAG NAG (i haven't actually received any nagging messages so disregard this plox)
I pretty much wrote this because I wanted to see how well I could do Cartman and Kyle's interactions. I think it's really hard to write. Tell me whatchu think, this one'll get updated a lot in the summer if I can get in the hang of writing their arguments.
Set Foot on Soft Grass Chapter One: I Hate Doors
The stories in a lot of movies and books start in the fall, when school starts. The way it goes is that there's a new student or new teachers or new love interests or something new. People seem to regard early September or late August as a period of teenage rebirth offering up opportunities to change who you are or who you were.
Any real student can tell you that the true pinnacle of teenage life is the summer. In June, you break free from your restrictions and SAT shackles and this is where the real rebirth starts. It's warm, and sometimes muggy, and it's fresh, and the air smells like cut grass, and it's summer and it stretches on forever. When summer begins, it doesn't have an end, and what reason would you have to go looking for one? So you take the time to marinate in the heat and chlorine, and when you come out, that's when you're different. The change happens over a little less than two and a half months.
I'm desperately looking forward to this.
Exams dragged me down into the lion's den and threw me back up with a missing femur. I spent ten months at the beck and call of Lewis dot structures, The Invisible Man, and ironically, the Third Reich. Junior year hit me hard, and it used an aluminum bat.
Luckily, there has always been the one thing I was certain about; It Will End. It has. The end brought with it a six o'clock Wendy's run in Stan's leaky Chevy and while my mother would turn up her nose at this development, she has demonstrated that she has no clear understanding of the needs of the teenaged male body. I dare say she picked up the bat once or twice.
I can feel myself salivating. Stan parks in the handicapped spot, which I think is fully warranted.
"French fries, fuck yeah! Up top, Kenny!" Cartman and Kenny enthusiastically share a high-five, with Kenny nearly wriggling in excitement. I promised to pay for his meal, after all. We all clamor out of the car, rushing for the front door.
Wendy's already has the air conditioning on although it's hardly more than seventy degrees. I don't mind. Air conditioning provokes a Pavlovian reaction out of me, and my mindset drifts even closer to late nights, long sleeps, and good smokes.
"Oh man, I'm gonna eat, like, five burgers—" Kenny counts on his fingers as if we were nine again.
"Six!" Cartman yells, and turns to me. I catch his smirk; I just don't respond. In between Jewish slurs, he has recently taken in interest in managing my finances, and he's very aware that I'm spotting Kenny tonight. By late May, I realized my wallet was much lighter than it used to be. He has subtly been depleting my savings since April, and I honestly don't know how to stop it.
I reminded him once that his older brother has a history of conning people out of their hard-earned cash. Upon holding out my hand and demanding pubes as compensation, I was silenced by a swift punch to the stomach. Eric Cartman does not use an aluminum bat. Fists are much more personal, and Cartman is an intimate person.
"Six burgers, and three shakes—"
"Four shakes!"
"Oh fuck yes, four shakes!" Kenny leans onto me in complete gratitude and clings to my lapels. "Kyle, I swear to the good lord in heaven, when I finally win the lottery, I will give you half!" Kenny is very optimistic. He's certainly flunked at least two of his final exams, but he still uses 'when' instead of 'if'. This is why I buy Kenny six burgers and four shakes on celebratory Wendy's runs.
"I look forward to that day, Ken. Why don't you buy me a yacht this summer, in advance?" I laugh.
"Get some cute chicks, too," Stan adds.
"I could totally go for some boats 'n hoes," Kenny says, nodding sagely. He grins mischievously at Cartman and nudges him in the shoulder. "How 'bout you, dude? You in?"
Neither Stan nor Kenny looks at me for support. Oh, thank god. They're finally remembering the little heart-to-heart we had last January.
They're both nice about it. But they've also got a thing about forgetting what they'd rather not think about, even when I sat them down specifically to discuss it. Stan had opted for an encouraging pat on the shoulder while Kenny's only question had been whether or not I had ever fantasized about him. I lied and told him no. I didn't invite Cartman to the coming-out party; I let it simmer in the high school rumor mill before he finally heard it through the grapevine.
"There are some theories that say Hitler, uh, allegedly had a gay relationship with SS leader Ernst Rohm," he had informed me once he got wind of it. His stance had been awkward, with a little pink coloring his face.
"What?" I had asked, baffled.
"Yeah," he had nodded, but quickly added, "but then he had him killed during the Night of the Long Knives so like, whatever." He then pushed me aside with his football muscles and strode firmly to his next class. I decided that Cartman is a lot more complex than people give him credit for.
"No way in hell am I spending more than a week on a yacht with you motherfuckers," Cartman growls. "I'd rather spend the time with Butters than watch you guys mack on prostitutes." In my head, I thank him for putting an end to the girl talk. I would never thank Cartman out loud.
Stan orders his burger and fries and stands off next to the registers to wait for the rest of us. Kenny holds his hand out solemnly and I place a twenty in his open palm.
"Go wild," I tell him. He grins and pulls the hood on his sweatshirt up over his head before facing the cashier. He does it when he gets excited. I don't know, it's most likely a comfort thing.
"Hey," Cartman grunts. Another hand appears in front of my face. "Pay up. You owe me for buying your movie ticket the other month."
"Jesus, Cartman," I sigh, rolling my eyes. "I paid you back for that at least three times. You know, even though you said you were paying for it as my birthday gift?"
He furrows his brows and jabs me in the forehead with an index finger. I'm only five feet six inches, and I only come up to his shoulder blades, so it's easy for him, and I hardly flinch. He's been doing it ever since he got taller than me. Likes to remind me I'm smaller than him.
"Goddamnit Kyle," he grumbles. "Stop twisting the truth to suit your greedy Jewish ways. Gimme the money." I cross my arms and I'm sure we're about to have a massive stare-down, but the cashier clears his throat and drums on the cash register impatiently. I jerk my thumb in his direction.
"I'm not paying for your food, fatass. Order your shit already." I fix him with an agitated glare. Then his shoulders slouch and he mumbles something under his breath. He isn't looking at me anymore.
"What?" I demand. His shoulders slouch lower.
"I said I didn't bring any money."
"Ugh," I groan, dragging my hands down my face. I'm way too fucking moralistic for my own good. "I'll buy you one thing of fries. That's all. Have fun choking on them when you don't have a soda to wash it down."
"Yes!" he fist pumps triumphantly, evoking another eye-roll out of me. I order both of our food before I realize that this is exactly the kind of shit he pulls to get rid of the money that's apparently burning a hole in my wallet. It's these types of little things that he does all the time now. Instead of ravaging synagogues he sticks gum in my hair, which is actually the reason I keep it flat on my head instead of in a Jewfro. Obviously, I can get away with styling my hair because I'm gay, or so Kenny tells me.
I pay for the meal and the fries, which Cartman snaps up without a thank you. I'll let it slide, for now. It's the first day of summer, and he's better than he used to be. I don't feel like I'm betraying the entire Jewish community when I do him a favor anymore.
The four of us grab our trays of food and find a half-booth table near the back of the restaurant. I grab one of the chairs and Stan sits next to me, while Kenny and Cartman slide into the booth. Cartman starts to pick up a fry but Kenny admonishes him and slaps his hand out of the way. I smirk, and turn to Stan.
"Stan? A toast?" We have to. It's tradition. When we go out to eat on the last day of school, we gotta make a toast. Stan breaks out in a grin and holds his drink aloft.
"Thank god it's over," he announces dramatically.
Kenny and I follow suit, hold up our sodas and bump them together while Cartman raises a soggy French fry.
"Hear, hear!" Kenny shouts, laughing.
"Fucking godsend," Cartman sighs with relief, and starts stuffing his face.
"One more year," I remind them, and with their mouths full of food, they all nod agreeably.
"Don't know if I'll be here for Wendy's next year, guys," Stan says. "Might hafta jump on the first bus out of here as soon as exams are over."
"No one would blame you." Kenny begins his second burger. He's a goddamn vacuum, a bottomless one at that.
"I doubt Denver University would give you free room and board just for early arrival," I tease, and get a piece of ice thrown at me in response. "Ugh, did you fish that out of your drink with your hands? You just got burger grease and shit all in your soda, dude." Stan laughs and waggles his drink tellingly. Gross. That's a pet peeve, right there.
"Germaphobe," Cartman sneers. I pick up the ice, which ended up on my tray, and chuck it towards his face. He cries out when it hits him in the eye. Nice aim, Broflovski. "Fuck, that's cold!" He glares and throws a fry at me. Hey, I paid for those!
"Don't waste my hard-earned money, asshole," I snarl.
"Exactly; your fucking money. I don't give shit." He throws another on the ground for emphasis.
"Now that's just being rude," Kenny frowns. "Somebody has to clean that up."
"You're already sympathizing with the janitors in fast-food joints," Cartman smirks. "It's good to have a realistic outlook on your future, Kenny."
Kenny mutters something rebellious under his breath but only moves to insert more burger into his mouth. To compensate for the lack of cloth obscuring his face, he mumbles a lot more than he used to. But he's never been confrontational. Even now he has his eyes downcast, staring at his food.
"Oh, come on, Cartman," Stan huffs. "Like you'll be doing any better in ten years."
"For your information, Stan, I have a very well thought out future ahead of me."
I burst out laughing while taking a sip from my ginger ale, spitting soda across the table and earning a glare from Cartman.
"Oh, please," I scoff at him. "What, are you gonna sit in your basement with a bag of cheesy poofs and call it a job?" More like he'll just con me out of all my cash so we'll be in the same boat. He just loves dragging other people down to his level.
"Why, Kyle, I for one am shocked that you have such a low opinion of me. Right, Kenny?" Cartman says innocently, eager to get his only possible ally in on the conversation.
Kenny looks up from his food to see all of us staring at him, and he widens his eyes and holds his hands up defensively.
"Whoah, don't look at me, Kyle bought me all this shit." He gestures to the food as if it were Thanksgiving dinner. "No chance I'm throwing him under the bus." He grins and holds out his hand for a fist-bump. I happily comply and glance back at Cartman challengingly, resting my chin in my hands. The fatass narrows his eyes in frustration.
"So what is this master plan of yours anyway?" Stan asks. He talks with his mouth full, and I break my gaze at Cartman to wrinkle my nose at him. I know we're only at Wendy's, but he's always terrible with table manners. He shoots me an innocent 'what?' look and I shake my head, turning back to Cartman.
"Why, I'll be going into the arts, of course," the brunet announces. He pops a French fry into his mouth with as much sophistication as somebody can while we all stare at him, mystified. The image of Cartman slapping a paint brush across a blank canvas does not compute.
"What, like… Sculptures and shit?" Kenny says, obviously confused.
"You can't be serious," I tell him point blank.
"Au contraire, Kyle," Cartman says condescendingly. "I am quite seriously. And no, Kenny, not sculptures." Cartman wraps his arm around his blond friend and gazes off dreamily. "The glamorous life… of a famed musician." Kenny gingerly removes Cartman's arm from his shoulders and does not look convinced. Well, neither do the rest of us.
Who is he kidding? I haven't seen him pick up an instrument in years. Sure, he went through that whole guitar phase in middle school but nothing ever came from it. It's probably sitting in the back of his closet as we speak. And he hardly talks about music either. I continue staring at him skeptically.
"Ha, I can see it now: you, dressed up in a meat suit, singing Bad Romance to a crowd of about five people," Stan snorts. "Real great fuckin' plan ya got there, dude."
"Ay! Show some respect! Lady Gaga is a renowned artiste!"
"Renowned in your bedroom, maybe," Kenny smirks.
"Her music is totally overrated, dude," says Stan. He and Kenny roll their eyes at each other as if to say 'can you believe this guy?'.
"I don't know," I shrug and take a bite out of my burger. "I kind of like her stuff."
Kenny lifts an eyebrow before shrugging as well. I'm sure he would have liked to question my musical tastes, but then he probably figured I was totally on board with Gaga's 'come as you are' message what with my homosexuality and all. Or I'm just being a little bitter. Probably both.
Stan, meanwhile, points a finger at me accusingly.
"Whaaat? You're kidding, right? I lent you all my Arcade Fire CDs and you still listen to Lady Gaga?" He shakes his head disapprovingly. "I'm disappointed, dude." He smiles at me to make sure I know he's kidding, so I give him a playful shove. Stan is, surprisingly, somewhat of an elitist when it comes to music. Pop just doesn't do it for him.
"I don't believe you," Cartman says suddenly. Suspiciously.
"Um, what?"
He stands up hurriedly and slaps his hands down on the table, fixing me with an intense glare. God, what a drama queen; I look at him disinterestedly.
"Quick!" he demands. "What was Lady Gaga's name before she got a huge record deal?"
I hadn't realized knowing assorted trivia facts was necessary to appreciate someone's music.
"Stefani," I snap. "And it's spelt weird, too. Not like the Irish Stephanie."
Cartman slowly lowers himself back into his seat, but he doesn't take his eyes off me. Out of the corner of my eye I see Stan and Kenny exchanging weary glances. They've seen it all before, the routine bickering, and while I have as well, I never got as tired of it. It's a little bit of a bitch, sure, but it's comfortable as well. Really familiar. And because he's cooled down so much, I don't have to fear for my life anymore. It hasn't escalated to an all-out brawl since eighth grade. The mind games still abound, of course, but the majority are instinctual. Frankly, they're the defining characteristic of our relationship.
When we got to high school, everything calmed down. Sure, me and Stan are still super best friends. Kenny doesn't talk much outside of our circle. Me and Cartman don't like each other. But the other side of the coin is that Kenny talks maybe a little bit more than he used to, even if he mumbles all the time. Me and Stan don't stick to each others' sides as often, we do our own thing. Cartman doesn't sneak into my room and infect me with HIV anymore. That I know of.
I probably wouldn't even hate him if he didn't still call me 'kike' and 'Jew'. It kinda reminds me about all the shit he's done.
"Blasphemy," Cartman attests. "Jews don't like good music."
He's also still a total asshole. So there's that.
"Let me guess," I sigh and pick up my tray, walking over to the trash station. "You also like Kesha and Taio Cruz. A shit ton." Stan makes a face like the elitist that he is and Kenny shrugs noncommittally. Cartman's face visually brightens.
"Yeah!" He grins widely.
"Right, well, so do I," I say smugly, and walk to the table to sit back down in my seat diagonal from him.
Kenny and Stan pick up their trash and follow my lead while Cartman stares blankly down at the table. Kenny takes one last sip on his soda before tossing it in the waste bin and waving a hand in front of Cartman's eyes.
"You okay, dude?"
"Everything I know is a lie," Cartman states bluntly.
"Cool, let's go then." Kenny hoists him up by grabbing his upper arm, and Stan and I watch in amusement. We make our way out of Wendy's and through the front door. But Stan has to do that one thing that I hate the most out of everything he's ever done.
He holds the fucking door open for me.
He's been doing it since I came out to him, like I count as a chick now. It pisses me off so fucking much and it gets my blood boiling. It's a nice little fireworks display reminding me that, hey, yeah, he does totally think of you differently now. That's fucking awesome, Stan. Real chivalrous to your best guy friend. I don't say thank you.
We make the short walk to the car, where nobody's given Stan a ticket for his illegal parking. The sudden burst of anger linger and lingers and I know it's going to linger until he drops me back off at my house.
It's just that I always forget he's going to do it. It never crosses my mind until he stands aside and lets me walk through first. It puts me in one hell of a bad mood, and honestly it kind of makes me feel like shit. I tell myself to calm down. It really isn't that big of a deal, and I'm not even sure if he knows he's doing it.
The car ride back is quiet. Cartman, sitting in the front, stares thoughtfully out the window while Kenny doesn't try to initiate conversation. And I'm sure as hell not in the mood anymore.
I take a deep breath and watch the trees go by in the window. We weren't out for that long, and the sun is nearly setting. The air is still fresh and warm, and it's still summer. I shouldn't give a fuck about doors.
I let myself smile, which is nice. The lingering is the worst part. I have a tendency to over think things.
We stop at my house first. I say and wave good-bye to the guys, and hop out of the backseat.
"Later, dude," Stan says.
"Yeah, later," I say back, and slide the door closed all on my own.
I walk to my garage and hear the Chevy pull away and roll down the street. I guess as long as he still calls me 'dude', I'll be okay.
I shake off my shoes lazily, and because no one else is home right now – I think Ike has a lacrosse game or chess tournament today. Something… advanced – I get to my room undisturbed. I flop down in front of my computer and switch the monitor on. From there, I navigate to youtube and start a long night of self-indulgence, mainly revolving around Lady Gaga music videos.
Oh, that Lady Gaga. There's crazy shit wherever she sets foot.
FORESHADOWING oh shit