Chapter 1: Escape

"Mr. Marsh," Charles Harkin, the 11th grade history teacher, shouted from the front of the room, "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, take off that hat." The man marched over to the boy, whose head lay on the desk, covered by his arms, and ripped the hat off of his head. The aging man stood in disbelief as he looked down at his student, fast asleep on his notes, which, as far as the teacher could tell, consisted of a blank piece of paper.

The teacher closed his eyes, rubbed the area of his long since receded hairline, and let out a long sigh. He opened his eyes and walked casually up to his desk, depositing the hat on top and pulling out from below a short wooden baseball bat that the class had dubbed "The Club."

The other students watched in anticipation of an event they had all at one time or another been a victim of as the teacher strolled down the aisle of desks, "The Club" held limply at his side, and stopped just before Stan's desk. The teacher held the bat just below the desk, his arm fully outstretched, and lowered it a good two feet before quickly driving it upward into the underside of the desk.

The class burst into laughter as the sleeping student awoke with a start, a bit of drool still hanging from his mouth. He looked around, slightly dazed from just being woken up, before looking his teacher apathetically in the eye in a manner that showed he knew what was coming next.

"Asleep again, Mr. Marsh," the teacher gripped the bat with two hands and held it up against his shoulder, "how many times is it now?"

Stan sluggishly reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it up and removed an index card. He quickly counted the tallies on the card, "Seventeen," he replied with a yawn.

The teacher removed a hand from his bat and ripped the card from Stan's hand. "And this makes eighteen, Mr. Marsh," he said as he counted the tallies, "And Tell me, how many days of class have we had?"

"Relax, Chuck," Stan said as he held his arms above his head and stretched, "it's not a big deal."

"That's Mr. Harkin to you," the teacher said angrily as he tossed the card back to Stan who simply ignored it and let it fall to the ground, "Well, you know the drill," Mr. Harkin pointed toward the door with his bat. Stan slowly gathered his belongings and stood up.

As he headed for the door, Carter Allen, a fellow sophomore known for causing more trouble in the school than half the class combined, winked and gave Stan a thumbs up as he passed by. But, as he did with everyone else, Stan paid little attention to Carter and simply walked out the door, making sure to leave it open on his way out.

Once outside, Stan dropped his messenger bag by his side and leaned up against the wall. He stood there, staring blankly at the wall of lockers opposite him until the bell rang, signifying the end of class. He watched his classmates file out of the room from the corner of his eye until the stream of students ended. He then picked up his bag and walked back into the room.

"Hey, Harkin," he addressed his teacher, "can I get my hat back?"

"Of course you can," the teacher started, "at the end of term." He lifted the hat off the table and dropped it into a drawer in his desk, which he promptly locked.

"What?" Stan said in a tired, bitter voice, "Come on, man, just give it back."

"Look, you disrespectful brat," Mr. Harkin wheeled around and faced his student who was looking at his teacher with a tired, uncaring stare, "I don't care how good your grades are. Until you start treating me with some respect, and that includes not falling asleep in class, you're not getting your hat back. You got that? " The two stared at each other like bitter rivals until Stan turned around and headed for the door.

"Fine," he snarled back at the teacher, "What do I care?" and slammed the door on his way out.

Mr. Harkin collapsed in his chair and tossed "The Club" on his desk, "What am I going to do with you?" he sighed.

Xxxxxxx

Bitter about what had just happened, Stan grumbled to himself as he picked up his tray of food at the lunch line and made his way to his usual seat at the back of the cafeteria. "Yo, Marsh, wait up." Carter flagged him down and walked toward Stan who, as before, simply ignored him and kept on his way. "Hey, hold up, what's wrong with you? Don't tell me you're pissed at that old fart for taking that stupid hat."

Stan sat down at his usual seat and started eating. Carter put his tray down, but stayed standing, as if to intimidate or impress Stan, "I mean, you've had that piece of shit hat since you came here in, what, sixth grade?"

Stan started growing impatient toward Carter, but continued eating silently nonetheless, figuring that back to back arguments with two jackasses wasn't worth it. "I mean, if you weren't such a pussy maybe I'd let you hang with us." Carter looked down at Stan out of the corner of his eye with a smirk on his face, expecting Stan to finally show some reaction. But the boy just took another bite of his suspiciously chewy lunchmeat as if Carter weren't even there.

When Carter realized that Stan wasn't going to acknowledge him he picked up his tray and snarled, "Whatever, faggot," before angrily storming away.

Stan sighed before taking another bite of lunch.

"You really hate this place, don't you?"

Stan looked slightly to his left to see a girl with long black hair tied up into a ponytail leaning over slightly with her hands behind her back. Despite the warm springtime New York weather, she was wearing a bright blue hoodie that seemed a couple sizes too large for such a small girl to wear, and she wore baggy jeans that seemed like they'd fall off her waist at any moment.

Having lost his appetite, he put his fork down, rested his head in his right hand, and let out another sigh in the hopes that this girl would get the message and leave. However, she just kept standing there, smiling, and continued talking.

"You know, we've been classmates since the sixth grade and I don't think I've ever seen you talking outside of class. Why is that?" The girl stared at Stan, her eyes held in a stare of curiosity.

Uncomfortable with the hovering girl, Stan rotated his head so as to look to the right, away from the girl, in the hopes that she would get the message and leave.

'That's okay," she said with no sign of disappointment or rejection in her voice, "If you don't want to talk yet, that's fine." She patted him on the shoulder before leaving the boy to his solitude. But as she walked away, Stan looked back at the girl, intrigued. Most people were put off by his attitude; after all, he spent that past five years doing everything he could to push people away. But, choosing not to dwell on it, Stan stood up and tossed what remained of his lunch into the trash before walking out of the cafeteria.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Stan slept through most of his classes, and the short time he spent conscious, his mind kept going back to that girl in the sweatshirt. Stan figured that he must have had a class with her before, but, most likely due to his rather avoidant nature, he couldn't remember her. Every person who had ever approached him since he and his dad had moved to New York after his parents' divorce had been greeted with the same annoyed attitude. He generally succeeded in pushing people away, so he couldn't think of a reason why this girl would want to try and talk with him now.

When the last bell rang to signify the end of the day, Stan picked up his bag and darted out of the room. Making sure no one was paying attention to him, he snuck into the janitor's closet and locked the door from the inside.

Stan pulled the chain on the one hanging light bulb in the closet, which filled the area with a dim yellow glow. He walked over to a wall and moved some cleaning supplies out of the way before sitting on the ground against the wall. He opened his backpack and dug through his books and papers until he found his flask, hidden in a small compartment in the bottom of the bag. He unscrewed the top and held the flask at eye level. He stared at the black and silver object coldly for a moment before raising it a little higher in the air, "Cheers," he said tiredly, "for all the happy fucking times," he knocked his head back and took a swig of the strong drink. Stan stifled a cough as the alcohol ran down his throat, and then he quietly laughed to himself, "And to Stan Marsh, the happiest fucking kid alive."

xxxxxXXXXXXxxxxxxxXXxxxXXX

After emptying the flask, Stan had resorted to staring at the opposite wall blankly for the past few hours, waiting for the time when the school was sure to be empty. He looked at his watch, which read 9:37, and took a deep breath to prepare himself. A bit hazy from the drink and from sitting in a closet, Stan had a hard time maintaining his balance once he stood up, but after taking a few deep breaths, he managed to right himself, so he unlocked the door and exited the closet.

Stan had never liked schools at night. He hated school in general, and seeing the empty halls, for some reason, reminded him of all the shit he got into when he lived in South Park. Stan quietly walked past rows of lockers and turned the corner to come face to face with Charles Harkin's classroom. Stan tried to open the door, but, unsurprisingly, it was locked, so Stan pulled out a thin, crooked piece of metal and his pocketknife. He stuck the thin piece into the lower part of the lock and opened the knife, inserting it into the upper part of the lock. Then, using the same technique that he'd learned from his sister—in face, the only thing she really ever taught him—before they were separated by the divorce, the door unlocked with a soft click.

Leaving the door ajar, Stan walked into the room and headed straight for this teacher's desk. He knelt down behind it and repeated the lock-picking technique on the drawer. In no time, he had it opened and pulled the hat out and pulled it over his wild black hair. He then closed the door and pocketed his lock-picking tools. But just as he was about to head out, the lights came on and, standing right there in the doorway, was Charles Harkin.

"Mr. Marsh," the teacher said in a tone that seemed to express that he had expected the boy's actions, "I think it's time you and I had a chat with the principal."

Charles beckoned Stan to follow him out the door and, seeing no way out of it, the boy reluctantly agreed. The teacher quickly called the principal with his cellphone, telling him he had to come by the school. He hung up the phone and looked at his student out of the corner of his eye, "Mr. Marsh," Charles said as the two walked down the hall, "why do you think I give my students a hard time?" Stan didn't respond, he just kept his eyes downcast as he followed slightly behind his teacher, "Stan," his teacher actually using his first name caught the boy off guard; "I want your honest opinion. Why do you think I give you kids such a hard time?"

"Probably to make yourself feel better after your failed attempts in pursuing your career."

They took a few steps in silence before the teacher smiled and said, "Well, that's not entirely false."

Stan stopped, shocked at his teacher's response, "What?" he said, too surprised to say anything else.

The two stopped and then Charles turned to face his student, "Stan, when I was in college, I wanted nothing more than to be a lawyer. I spent four years taking classes in American History and Politics, but once I got into law school, I just didn't have what it took. I was smart, and I did well. But I spent so much time memorizing the material and only studied what I had to that I failed to pick up on those tiny details in my studies that would have set me apart from everyone else. Eventually I just burned out. I took a year of classes elsewhere to get my teaching degree, and lo and behold, here I am." He started walking again, and Stan followed.

"And this translates into you being a hard-ass because?"

"Because in each and every one of you I see potential. I see someone who has what it takes to do whatever they want. Especially you. I know you haven't exactly had the easiest of childhoods, and I know that you've gotten into some trouble both here and in your old town. But I also know that, despite your rather average grades, you aced your SAT scores."

"So what, you're a prick because you think I'm wasting my potential?" Stan said this sarcastically, intending for the comment to piss off his teacher, but Charles simply smiled.

"Yes," his teacher said as they reached the principal's office, "Principal Lift will be here soon," he pulled out a key and unlocked the door.

"You know," Stan said as the two walked inside, "after this, there's not much hope for me staying here."

"Honestly, Stan, I'm counting on it." Stan stared at his teacher in misbelief as Principal Lift, a tall, lean, forty-something year old man walked in and slammed the door behind him.

XXXxxxxXXXXxxx

Stan didn't walk into his dad's apartment until eleven o'clock, and by now he was exhausted. Having spent twenty minutes of the last hour being yelled at wasn't exactly how he planned for his night to end.

He turned the key in the lock and walked in to find, to no surprise, his dad passed out on the couch, surrounded by empty bottles of beer. Angry, but not in the mood to deal with his drunk dad, Stan tossed the letter the principal had told him to give to his dad on the man's lap before heading to his small bedroom and collapsing on top of his sheets. He lay there for a few moments in silence as he let the events of the past few hours really sink in before he quickly punched his bedframe, causing a dull crack to break the silence.

He turned over on his side and, fully dressed, fell asleep.

XXXXxxxxxXXXXXxxxxxx

The next morning, Stan sat across from Principal Lift in the man's office as the Principal impatiently stared at his watch, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Look," Stan said, fully knowing the risks, "he'll be here, I promise. He just had…..a long day."

The principal stared at Stan, not believing a word the boy had said, "Look," he said in a stern voice, "I don't want to come down hard on you. You have great test scores and your grades, while not as high as we would like, are nothing to be ashamed of. But trespassing, breaking and entering; these are serious crimes, and we can't excuse such behavior."

"I know, but he'll be here. I gave him the note last night."

"Stan, is everything okay at home?"

"What?" Stan said nervously, "Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be, Principal Lift?"

"Because normally you either ignore me or treat me with disrespect, but the moment I say that you won't be expelled as long as we discuss your behavior with your father, you start acting completely different."

"Different? I'm not acting different. How am I acting different, Principal Lift?"

"Well, for one, I know that your teachers have been having a hard time getting you to address them with their proper titles, yet ever since you've come into my office you've addressed me as 'Principal Life.'"

Stan clenched his hands, knowing that things were not looking good for him.

"So Stan, would you please tell me. Is life at home going well?"

"Of course," Stan said; he could feel sweat starting to form, "everything's fine."

And then Stan felt as if his heart had skipped a beat as the door to the office slammed open and Randy Marsh, wearing the same filthy clothes from last night and a pair of sunglasses, staggered in.

Stan could smell alcohol from where he was sitting, so he knew that his father had started drinking once he woke up—probably in response to the letter Stan had left him from the principal.

"Mr. Marsh," Principal Lift said with a hint of confusion in his voice, "thank you for coming in today. I apologize if you've been inconvenienced."

"No," Randy said, "It's all good," he had a slight slur to his words that both Stan and the Principal noticed.

"Then you are aware of the kind of trouble your son is in?"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard," Randy said, his tone suggesting that he hadn't thought much about the incident, "A real disappointment."

"Well, you see, Mr. Marsh. We believe that your son is very gifted. He's shown rather high intelligence in many areas, but we have a lot of trouble with his motivation. His scores just don't seem to match what we think he is capable of, you see, and we fear that some factors at home may be involved."

"So what," Randy slurred angrily, "Are you suggesting I'm a bad parent?"

"No, no that's not what I'm saying."

"Cause maybe if you people didn't spend so much…..so much time on pointing and blaming the parents, maybe you'd…..you'd provide better education."

"Sir, we are just trying to do what is best for Stan in regards to his scores. And we are worried that he is unable to fully understand his abilities given his current environment."

"Look," Randy said as he walked up to the Principal, who stood up and took a step back, "I know how to raise my son," he held his finger right in the principal's face, "And I'm not going to stand for someone…for someone like you to tell me otherwise," he shoved the principal, who barely managed to keep his balance.

"Sir, I am sorry, but after today I don't think I can allow Stan to continue his education here."

"Wait," Stan said as he shot up from his seat, "so you are expelling me?"

"Not quite," the principal said, "I've already been in contact with your mother the high school in that area. Given the circumstances high school has agreed to allow you to finish your junior year at their campus."

"And my mom?"

The principal sighed and looked at Randy, "She said that if Stan stays with his father, she is going to sue for full custody."

The air suddenly felt thick, and Stan felt a cold chill run up his spine. Now he had no choice. Either he'd go back to South Park willingly, or he'd be forced to return once the courts deemed Randy an unsuitable guardian.

Randy stepped back and leaned against the wall and collapsed to the floor and began crying.

"Stan, it is your decision," the principal said.

And Stan, with a short breath, reluctantly said, "I'll go."

"Very well. I'll call your mother and the high school. Why don't you go clear out your locker?"

Stan nodded before turning to walk out of the office. But just before he walked through the door, he looked back and saw his dad crying his eyes out on the floor.

xxXXxXXXxxxXxxxXXXXxxxxXxxXXX

With a blank look on his face, Stan had begun emptying out his locker, which, considering his lack of note taking, was not a very demanding task. He had just finished cleaning everything into his bag when the girl with the ponytail and the blue sweatshirt walked up to him with that same cheery smile on her face, "Spring cleaning?" she said cheerfully, to which Stan replied with a cold glare.

"Bad day, I take it?" the girl said, refusing to drop the smile or leave him alone.

"No," Stan said bitterly, "Everything's as happy and cheery as Big Gay Al's birthday party." He slammed his locker shut and started walking away.

"You know, Stan, things are always going to look bad if you expect them to."

"So what, I'm just supposed put on a big fucking smile and pretend like everything's okay?"

"Why not?" the girl somehow found a way to widen her smile, "After all, we all have our low moments. But what would be the point of the good times without the bad ones to compare them to?" With that the girl briskly walked away, but before she was out of sight she turned and faced Stan, "I'll be seeing you around," and then she disappeared around the corner, leaving Stan in a state of anger, irritation, and, most profoundly, confusion.

He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulders, "South Park," he said with a hint of anger in his voice, "you just won't leave me the fuck alone, will you?"

He walked a few feet and turned the corner where he saw his dad stumbling out of the principal's office in front of a group of Stan's classmates. Stan picked up his pace and darted past his father, not even bothering to glance at him. And as he made his way out of the school he said to himself, "I came with you so I could get out of that fucked up town. And now your sending me straight back." Stan never wanted to live with his dad, but he wanted to get away from all the weird shit that surrounded South Park. So as he looked back at the school one last time, he knew what he had to do.

Stan had run home as fast as he could and started throwing his things into a duffel bag as quickly as he could. He had just as he finished packing, he heard a knock at the door. "Damn," he said to himself, "I wanted to get out of here before Dad showed up." Stan had run away once before—when his parents had gotten divorced again—but he had returned soon enough. This time, however, he had no intention of going back to either his Mom or his Dad. And Shelly, being in college, was out of the picture.

Duffel bag in hand, he headed out of his room when he heard the knock again, but this time, a female voice followed that caught Stan's attention, "Stan…are you in there?"

"It couldn't be," Stan said, "there's no way she knows where I live." Stan looked through the peephole on the apartment door and, much to his surprise, he saw the girl standing in the hallway.

He opened the door and shouted, "Did you follow me here?"

"So it's true," the girl said as she motioned to the duffel bag in Stan's hand. He noticed that she wasn't wearing her usual smile, "You really are leaving."

"Yep," Stan said coldly as he walked out the door and locked it behind him.

"No wonder you were so upset earlier. So you're going back to Colorado then?"

"How did you…." Stan started, but he stopped himself, "look. You didn't see me. You didn't know I was leaving, and, most importantly, you weren't here. You got that?"

"I couldn't tell anyone, Stan."

Stan was about to say something else, but just shook his head and headed to the stairs. The girl quickly caught up with him and followed him out of the building.

She walked at his side for quite some time before Stan finally said something as they entered the park, "Why are you doing this? You don't even know me."

"I know that you're troubled, and that you're lonely."

"And that justifies you following me to my apartment?"

"If you're about to do something stupid, then yes."

Stan burst into laughter, causing several people around him to stare, "Something stupid? Ha. Trust me, going back to South Park would be far more stupid than running away. You have no idea what it's like there."

"But what about your mom, won't she be worried when you aren't on the plane?"

"Maybe."

"Then tell me, Stan. What is it about South Park that you want to avoid so much?"

"You wouldn't understand if you didn't live there. Weird shit goes on in that town every day. And I'm just sick of it. I'm sick of not being able to live a normal life."

"So you think living here is a normal life?"

Stan wondered where she was going with this, "Well, yeah. I do."

"And are you happy?" Stan didn't answer, "Okay. So maybe South Park is a strange town. And maybe you weren't very happy with living there. But what do you do here that makes life so much better? Can you really say that your experiences in South Park weren't at least exciting?"

Stan thought back to his times with Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny, and had to force back a smile, "Maybe. But I don't want to have exciting. I want normal."

"Well it's been a few years. Maybe things have changed."

"I guess," Stan said, still unsure.

"Well what've you got to lose? If I'm right, then there you go. You get the normal life you wanted away from your boring empty life here. And if I'm wrong, you can always run away later."

Stan thought for a moment, "True. But is it really worth it?"

"Okay then," the girl said, her patience refusing to wear thin, "Isn't there someone you really want to see? Someone who's maybe more than a friend?"

Stan's mind instantly jumped to Wendy. He had cut all ties with South Park once he moved out to New York, and he hadn't spoken to anyone since then. He had considered calling the girl on occasion, but never followed through. "Okay, fine. I'll go," the girl smiled at his response, "But at the first sight of something weird, I'm gone."

"Perfect," the two shook hands.

"By the way," Stan asked, "What's your name?"

"Sarah Creeek," she said.

"Sarah," Stan said, still shaking her hand, "you're not going to follow me out to Colorado are you?"

Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but was cut off by a young girl who walked up to Stan and pulled on his sleeve, "Hey, Mister," she said, "who are you talking to?"

"Oh," Stan said, "Umm, Sarah…Sarah Creek."

The girl looked toward Sarah with a confused look on her face before turning back to Stan, "But….there's no one there."

"What are you talking about?" Stan said as he forced back a laugh, "She's right…." But then it all made sense—the reason why Stan couldn't seem to remember this girl from anywhere suddenly came to him.

He slowly turned to face Sarah who stared at him with a nervous smile on her face, "Umm," she said, "surprise."