It gets lonely sometimes. Being me. You'd think otherwise, being a whore and all, but I am. I'm lonely.
I guess that's why I started taking care of stray cats. Well, okay, just one stray. I couldn't afford anymore than that—fuck, I couldn't afford the one I had.
Named 'er Pussy. Cute, right? I thought so—Stan laughed at it, so did Cartman, but Kyle just seemed irritated by it. Still, though, annoyed or not, I caught him scratching her behind the ears, making soft cooing noises to calm her down.
That's something most people don't know about Kyle: He's always wanted a pet. He never told us that, of course, I just found it out by watching him.
Once, we visited a pound for a school trip. I was pretty excited about it—hell, we were getting out of class—but Cartman skipped it, saying he didn't have time for wimpy-assed animals or whatever. Stan wanted to go the most, said he might even adopted a new dog (kid had a soft spot for animals that no one else could understand). Kyle, like always, just seemed annoyed that we weren't going to do anything 'enlightening', meaning no tests, grades, studying and all that school shit. But he went. In part 'cause the teachers told him too and, probably the true reason, because Stan was so psyched about it.
So there we were, us three, walking down the line of cages, looking at the abandoned animals quivering, barking, pissing behind the bars. It made me feel sad, seeing all those dogs and cats without someone to love them—it, really, when you boiled it down to the quick, reminded me of. . .myself.
I am unloved, unwanted, unneeded. . .South Park is pretty much as shittiest of a cage as anyone could be shoved in. . .
It struck home.
I remember how pissed and upset I was 'cause I didn't have enough to even cover the donation fee to adopt one of them. Apparently, I couldn't conceal that too well. Kyle, who'd been quiet the entire trip (opposed to Stan, who bitched the entire time), reached into his pocket and pulled out a five.
"Here."
If there's something I hate more than being poor, it's when people start dishing out the charity money.
I declined it and scowled into the cage, at the cats nestled back in the far corner, away from the passerby, away from the glance at freedom. They looked miserable. I almost regretted my decision to not take Kyle's money.
"They kill them, you know."
I turned my blue-eyed scowl to Kyle, who was tucking the bill back into his pocket, ending the offer.
He took one eye-full of my expression. Then looked into the cage as I had. "The animals. If someone doesn't adopt them in a week, they kill them to make room."
Well. If that didn't just make me feel damn peachy.
I folded my arms across my chest, frowning, and said nothing. What could I say? 'Hey, Kyle, on second thought, can I have that five bucks so I can save one of these poor fucking things?'
Pfft. No.
I don't take charity money. Even if it's for a good cause.
Anyway, that's how I found out he liked animals and wanted his own pet. I know, you don't see it 'cause I left out a lot of the story, like how he almost adopted a puppy and took it home. I didn't tell you that he gave up the five dollars to Stan, like, twenty minutes after he was going to give it to me, in order to help him pay for his own new puppy. I didn't tell you that he let Kyle name it something like Bombay or some stupid third-world country name-I can't fucking remember shit like that.
So, whatever. Just know that Kyle, secretly, really, really wanted to bring home something that he could name and keep and love himself.
Things die.
Plants die. Animals die. People die.
Hopes die.
Dreams die.
Wishes, too.
Sometimes, they die more than once. Like me.
I die all the time.
It hasn't happened in a while, though. Which is pretty fucking spectacular.
Go figure it won't happen when I really want it too.
I had a bad week at school. Even stealing a few of Pop's beers couldn't make it any better. Weed might. But I ain't got the money for it. Or, trust me, I'd be fucking baked right now.
I don't like sharing stories. Not really. But I know you're probably really fucking curious right now, right? Guess I could tell you. Since, you know, you've stuck along so far.
Okay. So. Math class.
Boring as watching a dog shit but as excruciating as hammering nails into your fingertips. I-and get this goddamn straight-have no talent for numbers and really don't give a shit if I can't add, subtract or long divide. But my teacher is yaking about something ten-times (ha!) worse than long division-isoso-whatever triangles-and it's blowing right past me.
Not that I'm paying attention.
I'm too busy staring at the sweet curve of Kyle's ass. His jeans were too tight that day and I'm taking each moment for granted. Gotta burn it into my memory. It's not often Kyle slips up and wears his size-too-small pants to school.
Not so bad, right? Where's the goddamn drama? It's coming, give it a fucking second.
See, Kyle catches me looking. He twists in his desk and stares at me, his green eyes glinting with bottled-up anger. "The fuck are you doing," he snaps in a hush, not wanting dear 'ole Miss Math Teacher to overhear.
"Wondering how the hell you noticed," I mutter, voice already muffled 'cause of my drawn up hood. Kyle's had practice, though, plenty of it, and he hears every word. Never have I seen him blush like that. Least, not when Stan's attention wasn't directed at him.
He doesn't say anything and just turns back around, ignoring me, like he would do the rest of the day. And tomorrow. And the days following that.
Trust me, I tried to apologize, but Kyle would just walk away.
Let's see. . .that happened on Monday . . . Stan came up to me a couple days later, Wednesday maybe, and asked me about it.
"Why's Kyle so pissed," he asks after managing to catch me at my locker. I was kneeling on the ground, trying to cram the books I never use back in there after they had spilled out. I only opened it 'cause I thought my pack of cigs was in there. No luck. But we already knew that.
I look up at him, saying nothing.
"Well?" Stan raises an eyebrow, studying me. I take a moment to respond.
I shake my head and shrug. "No idea, dude. . ."
I'm a fucking liar. I know why Kyle's pissed. So do you. So shut the fuck up about me bein' a bad friend for not telling him.
You're to blame, too.
Stan frowns and unhitches himself from the lockers he so casually leaned against. "Huh." He doesn't mean it as really anything but I take it as a dismissal. I stand up, slam my locker door shut, and walk down the hall with my hands shoved real deep in my pockets.
My fingers brush against the pack of cigarettes I stashed there earlier.
