Brace Yourself

Chapter Two: Everybody's Looking for Something

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Wow, guys. The response on this has just been, wow. I just posted it cause I was playing with the idea, and I knew it was something I would like to see develop. Your reviews on both this and You Can Never Go Back at the same time have just been amazing. Because of that, you guys lucked out and get a quick update. Also because I spent the entirety of my classes today (Great Epics of India, Comparative Analysis of Western European Politics, and Terrorism—now you can see why I did this instead!) working on the second chapter. They're definitely going to be shorter than YCNGOB, but I hope you'll still enjoy them. I'm still just like, wow. I checked my email just now and I don't know if I've ever had so many reviews and alerts at the same time.

I got detention for beating the fatass into a bloody pulp, but I'm thinking it was worth it. Maybe it's because growing up, he barely ever fucked with me. Now that Kyle's his best butt buddy, he thinks that I'm suddenly free game. It kind of smarts to think that even back when I was something, Cartman must have seen me hiding behind my best friend. He must have seen me as weak.

I'm not weak anymore.

It's not like I have to explain the detention to my mom and dad, either. My parents gave up on me a long time ago.

Making my way into the lunch room, I keep a lookout for my friends. They're not here. Fuck. They probably got into trouble yet again. I see the Goths sitting in the far corner, drinking little cups of coffee; black, not that hoity-toity shit. I could sit with them, but that would really justify what everyone's been thinking for years. Even though they're interesting if you can get them off the coffee and the subject of Britney wannabes for a minute, I can't sit with them. The last thing I need is all those jeers of emo-pussy-loser vindicated by one poor lunchroom seating decision.

For a second I glimpse HIM, sitting at a table near the center of the cafeteria, cradling a hamburger in one hand while he talked about something or other with his pretty girlfriend.

Oh yeah. Let's discuss his girlfriend. Bebe Motherfucking Stevens. This is the same girl that asked me out three times in sixth grade, once in seventh, and four in eighth. All during the frequent hiatuses between Wendy and me, of course. I turned her down flat every time. The first time she went crawling to Kyle, he did too.

Bebe's all boobs and hips and a fairly nice ass, but she's got as much substance as a rock. She asked Kyle out again during our junior year. They've been dating for roughly six months. I don't get it, and I don't really want to get it. The last conversation I had with that bitch consisted of a few traded insults and her threatening to knee me in the nuts. Right now she's wearing a light blue top that is low cut enough that I can see the top of her breasts, and see through enough that the little polka dot print on her bra is visible halfway across the cafeteria. She doesn't usually sit with Kyle and my ex friends, but I think today she's playing hooky from cheerleading practice so she can slobber all over everyone's favorite Jew. They're shoving their tongues down each others' throats. It's sickening.

Against my better judgment, I find an empty table nearby. Close enough that I can listen in. Not to the making out part. That would be gross. Trust me; there'll be something to hear. There always is.

I eavesdrop. It might not be the most moral thing to do, but fuck morals. Know thy enemy, right? Even if Kyle's not actually my enemy, I might as well do some reconnaissance before trying to get back into his life.

You wanna know why having him as my best friend again is so important, don't you?

Too damned bad.

Cartman's walking up now, although waddling might be the operative term here. He may have become a bit more solid over the years, but there's still a distinctly detectable jiggle whenever he moves.

Kyle spots him, and I swear to God, he fucking lights up like a beacon. Before he can open his mouth though, Bebe beats him to the punch.

"What the hell happened to you, fatass?"

Cartman slides onto the bench opposite the couple, muttering, "Aye! Mind your mouth, ho."

"Dude," Kyle reaches across the table and places a placating hand on Cartman's arm. The fatboy's eyes it like he wants to say something about how gay it is, but Kyle cuts him off, "What happened?"

"Kaaaahl," Cartman drawls, and I swear to god he's positively beaming from all the attention Kosher Boy's laying on him, queer or not, "That hippie-fag Raven hit me."

I see Kyle frown, "Unprovoked?"

Cartman looks at him blankly. Sweet Jesus, he's a stupid fuck.

Kyle sighs and prompts, "For no reason, I mean?"

Like I ever needed a reason to hit that asshole before they became bestest best friends.

"How should I know?" Cartman snarls in reply, and I can feel him glaring lasers at me out of my peripheral vision, "I probably insulted his faggy little boyfriend."

"Dude, Stan's not gay," Kyle tells him bluntly. Now I'm the one beaming with pride.

Bebe asks, "He's not? Really?"

I could hit her. It would be so easy. I could just get up, and slam my lunch tray into her little pug face.

"No," Kyle chews on his lip, the way I used to when I still had my piercing. If we were still friends, I would claim he got the habit from me. We were always picking up on each other's bad habits back in the day.

I kinda miss that.

"How do you know?" Bebe presses, "He's always with Craig and Clyde, and they're definitely queer."

"So he's gay by association?" the redhead replies wryly. I'm just so happy listening to him defend me right now. Maybe there's really a chance for us to be friends again. Maybe.

"He's an emo-hippie-fag," Cartman interjects. Obviously his black eye and fat lip aren't enough to teach him a lesson. I shake my head in disgust, staring down at the food I bought that I have yet to touch. Their conversation is infinitely more interesting.

"Let's stop talking about him," Kyle suggests. So much for him defending me. I guess I could see how it's tiresome. The only contact we've really had in the last three years or so has consisted of brief wave's hello and the occasional awkward forced history assignment. The latter of which I always just let him do so we could have minimum contact.

"But Kahl, why do you care? I'm a better best friend than he was, right? Right Kahl?"

He doesn't say anything. I could kiss him. See, I'm not all about the violence and angst?

"Hey guys," Kenny interrupts, setting down his tray. They greet him, all mostly unenthusiastic. I used to feel bad for Kenny. If he ceased to exist, I think no one would notice. It's always been like that, even when we were kids.

He sees me looking. He's the only one who ever does. I've narrowed it down to him being both incredibly observant and a sick pervert. The explanation for that last part comes now.

"Po'Boy, you stink. Did you sleep in a dumpster again? Had to hide from the five oh?"

Kenny ignores Cartman's jibes and slides into the seat on Kyle's unoccupied side. He glances at me. He smiles, not so nicely. He slides an arm around Kyle's shoulders.

I look away, hearing Cartman whine, "Kenneh, I'm talking to you!"

See, here's the thing. Somewhere along the line last May, I think Kenny figured out that I wanted to be friends with Kyle again. Something about the way I would sneak into Kyle's basketball games to support him. Well, Kenny kind of misconstrued my attention.

Mostly because if anyone's a giant fag in this scenario, it's him. He outright confessed to me that he has a giant boner for my ex super best friend. Now he's sitting there, trying to look all snarky in his ripped jeans, grungy, unwashed shirt, and ancient trucker hat, just to put on a show for me. He thinks I'm after Kyle THAT way.

I'm not, by the way. I just want my best friend back.

"Actually, I spent the night with your crack whore mother," Kenny replies softly. Kyle snorts with laughter, and the blonde grins in delight. I feel a pang of jealousy. He made Kyle laugh. How long has it been since I made Kyle laugh? I could've come up with something better than a jab at Cartman's mom, too.

I'm still half heartedly listening when it hits me.

Shit. Lunch detention. As I gather my things to leave, I hear my name. Not Raven. My actual name.

"Stan! Bye!"

It's Kyle. He's offering me a tentative smile, waving ever so slightly. See? What'd I say? We're not mortal enemies. It's not like we ever ignore each other. He just doesn't care enough to do anything more than that. And for the longest time, neither have I. We just stopped being best friends. God, I miss him. I'm going to fix that. Soon. Right now it just gives me the slightest satisfaction that he's smiling while the fatass is turning red in the face yelling at him not to talk to me. I see Kenny's eyes narrow dangerously. So I smile and wave back. Days like these remind me why I'm putting my plan into action.

I find Craig and Clyde in detention. Let me list the ways in which I'm not surprised.

"You guys are assholes," I whisper, setting my stuff onto a desk in front of them.

Craig flips me off. I return the favor.

"Heard you socked Cartman one," Clyde hisses at me, grinning. We all have our eyes on the front of the room, where one of the freshman English teachers is exercising his daily power trip of authority by screaming at anyone who twitches the wrong way.

"Heard you graffiti'd the bathroom. Or wait, got sucking each other off in the janitor's closet. Which was it today?"

"Neither, fuckwit," Craig replies, nonplussed, "We released all the dissection frogs in the bio lab."

"Cliché," I answer, even though it doesn't surprise me. Ever since he made that stupid TV show about animals wearing hats in third or fourth grade, he's held a soft spot for all things living.

"Fuck that! It was classic," Clyde quietly crows, still enamored with the memory of their prank of the day.

"So why'd you hit Cartman? Did he make fun of your Goth poetry about slitting your wrists?"

"No. Actually he was trash talking how he could give it to Clyde better than you ever could. I just defended your gay asses."

Before Craig could see red and go hunt down the neo-Nazi himself, Clyde says, "Gee. We're touched by the gesture."

"Better than being touched by Cartman's shriveled dick," I mutter back.

Craig and Clyde both shudder, "Did not need that image, Marsh."

Neither of them will call me Raven, and I won't let them call me Stan. Calling me by my last name is their version of a compromise.

"You want to go to Coffee Blue tonight?" Clyde asks after five minutes of enforced silence, during which Craig drew a rather artistic rendering of male genitalia across the surface of his desk.

The black haired boy looks up from his newest drawing, which is to my best knowledge a female interpretation of his previous sketch and nudges Clyde, "Dude. Lame. You want to go watch those scene kids cry over their dead hamsters?"

"He has a crush on the new barista," I say and then add, "And the only one who cries over their dead hamster is you, Craig."

He flips me off once more. He's so predictable.

Let me explain. Meet Craig Tucker and Clyde Donovan. Craig's the one with the shaggy black hair and a badass sneer, and Clyde's the one wearing a varsity football jacket and has his light brown hair cut like a little boy.

I grew up with these kids. Up until eighth grade, I thought that Craig was an arrogant prick, which he is, and that Clyde was a dumb asshole, which he is. However, they also happen to be damned good football players, which is how we bonded. That summer that I skipped going to Kyle's Florida Dream Barbie Beach House, I ended up spending a month and a half with these jerkoffs.

They're actually pretty cool.

That first day of school, when they saw that I had no one to sit with; they sat with me in the cafeteria. It was a bonding thing. When I got kicked off the squad, they stayed friends with me. Part of it might have been that Craig also got kicked off the squad. He was caught smoking a joint behind the gym during practice, which wasn't one of his brighter moves. Clyde's actually on the varsity string now. He's Park County High's star quarterback, which doesn't mean that he can play for shit. You would think that because Clyde's good at football, he'd be popular. Sadly, he suffers from social anxiety disorder. Well, that's the theory. The other theory, the one that's most popular and that he actually has no inkling of, is that he and Craig spend each night ass-ramming each other. I haven't had the heart to tell them. Mostly because for the longest time I too thought it was true. When I found out both boys were straight as a pencil, I kind of went on cleanup duty, making sure neither heard too much of the rumor floating around about them. Clyde doesn't need to know why he has such a hard time getting pussy. I think Craig actually does know, but only because the last girl he tried to get with slapped him and told him not to cheat on his boyfriend. Anyway, they're good guys. Neither is…well, Kyle, but they've been good friends to me.

"I'll go," I tell Clyde approvingly. Craig agrees too. The jackass English teacher notices us, and spends the next five minutes before lunch ends reaming us all out. Jeez. Just what I needed to start the second half of the day.

A/N: Yes, the chapters are shorter than YCNGB. But I figured you'd all be in favor of the quick update. There will be angst, btw. It's just slow in coming. And this will end in Style- I think a reviewer asked that? It will, although there are going to be some Kyle/Kenny moments. Oh, and Kenny's not a dickhead- well, more than usual- I just need him to be an ass in Stan's perspective for a little while. Their relationship- all relationships, will get explained soon enough. Sit back and enjoy the show.

Oh, and review. Yeah, you there! I see you.