Hi there!

Thank you to all of my returning readers, especially those of you who reviewed the first chapter. This installment ended up being a bit longer than I was expecting. I'm not sure if I'll stick to this length for future chapters, or if it will continue to fluctuate. We shall see! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this second chapter.

Happy readings!

TEPR

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod—shit!

Sorry. I'm freaking out a little bit right now. I have realized something very bad, and it is the worst possible time for this to be happening. Tomorrow is Rosh Hashanah, the first of the High Holy Days, and I can barely even remember what it is I'm supposed to be doing or feeling right now. Deep breaths, Kyle. Deep breaths.

Let's try this again. Tomorrow is Rosh Hashanah—or the Jewish New Year, to the goyim among you—a time of celebration and reflection and realizing that you like boys. Shit! I didn't mean to say that. But I guess the cat's out of the bag now. My name is Kyle Broflovski. I am a Jew and probably also gay.

Okay, more than probably. I have never liked girls and only like boys and—there, I said it. But maybe there's a chance I can like girls, right? I mean, there only has to be one. There are seven billion people on this planet, and like half of them are girls. Surely there's one of them I'll like. All I have to do is find her and then marry her and have babies with her, and everything will be normal and fine. Right?

Shit. This is bad.

"Shanah tovah, Kyle."

"Shanah tovah, Aunt Aviva."

"Oh, and mazel tov on your bar mitzvah. It was very lovely."

"Thanks." I flush red with embarrassment, though I know I would be an even deeper shade of crimson if my mind weren't preoccupied with… other things. Stan always used to poke fun at me when we were kids because it was really easy to tell when I was embarrassed. He'd never fail to point out that my cheeks matched my hair whenever it happened, and he found that hilarious for some reason.

At least right now I can attempt to focus on other things. Today is supposed to be a time for my people to reflect on the year that has passed and look forward to the new year to come. When I think of what's to come, I just want to vomit. I thought I was ready to become a man and that I knew what I wanted, but now I think I've never been so unsure in my life. I don't know who I am or what I am or what I'm supposed to be. Even as I sit here with my family—cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, from Denver, Phoenix, San Francisco, Portland—I'm surrounded by people, yet I have never felt so alone.

"Mazel tov, Kyle!" I feel a large hand slap me on my back. "Sorry we couldn't fly down for your bar mitzvah."

I retract a bit from the sting of his hand. "It's okay, Uncle Isaac. It's no big deal."

His eyes widen in mock horror. "No big deal?! Kyle, this is the most important time of your life. You're a man now. You know what that means, don't you?" He lowers his voice and leans in. "Jewish law says you can get married now. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Oh, Isaac, stop it!" My mother slaps her older brother on the back, laughing. My father trails behind her. "Don't go putting any crazy ideas in his head. Kyle's only thirteen. Girls are the last thing on his mind. Isn't that right, bubby?"

Mom, you have no idea.

I laugh. "I don't have time for girls right now. My studies are what's most important. I can worry about dating later."

I see my father's pride swell up. "Attaboy, Kyle. Then you can follow in your old man's footsteps."

I laugh hesitantly at that. Telling my father I don't want to be a lawyer is a bridge I'll have to cross another day. I think that one existential crisis is enough for right now. What I want to be when I grow up can wait until after I figure out this gay thing.

Well, I survived Rosh Hashanah. Now that the Jewish New Year is over, the Ten Days of Repentance have begun, and today is Day 1. I've never thought much about the idea of repentance before now. I don't think I'm a bad person or anything, but I definitely feel like there are things for which I should ask God for forgiveness.

My stomach sinks as I think about the thing that keeps hanging over my head, the thing that I can't shake. I feel sick when I dwell on it for too long: should I repent for liking boys? I mean, it's not like I chose to be this way. It doesn't seem fair, but then I guess we all have things we go through, things that tempt us. I just wonder why God would put me through something like this. All I want is to be normal and happy, and that seems impossible if I have to hide this part of who I am.

I try to shake the thought and think about happier things, like the party. Oh—I completely forgot to tell you about the party! I had been really nervous about asking my parents if I could go to this party since there will be no adult supervision—not to mention that it is the day after Rosh Hashanah—but they were surprisingly cool with it.

"Oh, bubby, it's fine. We trust Stanley. He's a perfectly responsible young man," my mother had casually replied, all but dismissing the clear nervousness in my voice.

My father had bit his bottom lip, not entirely sure, but nodded in affirmation after a moment of deliberation. "I know Randy and Sharon would kill him if he threw some kind of wild party. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, it's probably just gonna be a few of us hanging out, anyway. Nothing crazy."

"No girls, I hope?" my mother had asked, raising her voice.

"Well… I mean, there probably will be, but you have nothing to worry about. I swear."

At that, she and my father had exchanged a quick, cryptic glance but then smiled.

"Of course, bubby. We trust you."

And so here I am on my way to this party at Stan's. It's kind of crazy how cool and accepting my parents were. I guess they just really trust me. The funny part is that Stan's parents left his sister Shelly in charge when they had gone out of town this week for their anniversary. Shelly had slipped away to her boyfriend's in Denver the moment they were on the plane, though, not giving two shits what Stan did—or how he fended for himself—while she was away. She had been gracious enough to leave him half of the five hundred dollars their parents left behind "in case of emergency". Truthfully, Stan probably should have saved most of the money for food, but if I know Stan, he probably would blow it all on the party. I love my best friend, but he can be really irresponsible sometimes. I tell you, it's his hormones.

Speaking of which—ugh—I'm sure Wendy will be there tonight. I don't even know why I'm going to the party, honestly. I really just want to hang out with Stan like we used to, but he'll probably be preoccupied most of the night doing God-knows-what with his girlfriend. Double ugh.

At least some of my other friends will be there. Other than at school, I haven't seen Kenny or Fat Ass or any of those other guys in a while, either, come to think of it.

As I walk up the driveway to Stan's house, I take a deep breath. I admit I lied to my parents' earlier: I know Stan invited pretty much everyone we know to this party, and it will most certainly not just be "a few of us hanging out" like I told them. I feel like shit for a second but then disregard my guilt. After all, I have ten days of repentance to get through, so there will be plenty of time to ask God for forgiveness.

Okay, here I go. It's time to ring the doorbell. Before I do, I close my eyes and imagine everyone who will be there. My mind keeps returning to one face, in particular. I suppose I should have told you before I got to the party: I have a crush on someone, and it's making me crazy the more I think about it. Mazel tov.

The party is everything I expected and so much more. I am incredibly nervous and excited that there is alcohol. How could Stan not have told me that there would be booze?! A part of me knows that my parents would kill me if they found out I was at a party where people were drinking, but another part of me—the part that seems to be winning tonight—really likes it. It makes me feel more grown up, in a weird way.

The first person to greet me is Fat Ass. It's funny: we never stopped calling him that. Eric Cartman went through a transformation last year. I'm not sure what spurred him on, but overnight he went from unhealthy slob to health nut. He began to eat much better and started getting active. I remember when I had noticed a few days into his "routine" (as he now calls it) that something was different, and he had been surprisingly meek about sharing his new fitness goals. Honestly, I think admitting that he had a weight problem and trying to tackle it head-on, as smart a move as it turned out to be, had initially meant owning up to a weakness, something that we all know does not come very naturally for Eric Cartman. Of course, when he saw that we had his back, his confidence boosted, and he evolved from jogging to running to playing tennis for the middle school this year. As a result, he has really slimmed down and even packed on a bit of muscle. I hate to admit it, but he's almost kind of sexy. Despite that, I don't think I'll ever let go of my childhood nickname for him. It's just too much fun. Besides, I'm not the only one who refuses to let go of my past impulses.

"What's happening, Jew?" he asks casually as I enter. I can see that he's sipping something out of a red plastic cup.

"Not much, Fat Ass," I say, cautiously eyeing his drink. Obviously this is what he wanted.

"Ah yes, I see you are interested in what's in my cup. Let's see… should I give Kyle a sip of my drink or not?"

"Fuck you. I don't want to share your beverage."

"You're not even a little bit curious as to what it is?"

For some reason—maybe it's my frustration over all these identity issues I'm having—I am in even less of a mood than usual for Fat Ass' antics, so I grab the cup and take a swig. Talk about a mistake.

"Ah! What the fuck is it?!" I ask, almost spitting some up. "It's really bitter."

He grins and sips some. "It's hunch punch, dude. You gotta get some of your own."

"What the hell is in it?" I ask.

He shrugs and tosses back another gulp. I can see that his eyes are getting a little bit glazed over, and I realize that for the first time in my life, I am seeing a drunk person. I quash the urge to freak out and reassure myself that my parents won't be randomly dropping in to spy on us, though it's not something that's completely out of the question. I shake the thought away. Happy thoughts, Kyle. Happy thoughts.

I leave Cartman in the foyer and wander into the kitchen, curious about the hunch punch. All of my questions fade away when I see who's manning the island.

"Kyle, you're here!" It's an unusually excited Kenny.

"Are you the one who got Fat Ass wasted?"

"Yeah," he chuckles. "I found a bottle of Everclear in Stan's parents' liquor cabinet. This shit is 95% alcohol, Kyle! It's like heaven in a bottle."

"Jesus, dude," I say, not completely understanding the extent of what 95% alcohol means but also not wanting to look like a clueless dork. "So it's in this punch?" I ask, peering into a crystal bowl that's filled with a bright and murky red concoction.

"Yeah," he says casually. "It's 20% Everclear, 80% Hawaiian Punch."

"Oh," I say, nervous. "Do you have any that's weaker?" I don't want to get as drunk as Fat Ass."

Kenny laughs. "I gave him a doctored version. That asshole said that what I made was too weak. He doesn't know shit about what he's saying, so I gave him a taste of his own medicine. His is half and half. Try this," he says, handing me a cup.

I drink some cautiously. It's still kinda bitter but not nearly as bad as what Cartman was drinking.

Seeing that I haven't spit it out yet, Kenny grins. "Now, go have some fun," he says, shooing me out of the kitchen. As I begin to leave, he adds, "Oh, and if you see Red, send her my way. I have a little of that doctored stuff I want to give her, too," he says, winking.

I groan as I leave the kitchen. This is going to be one of those parties.

The evening wears on in a surprisingly normal manner, at least at first. I think everyone's acting a little weird because of the hunch punch, though. Or maybe they've just had more of it than I have. I'm on my second glass, and I feel fine—just a little funny.

After I left the kitchen earlier, I ran into Stan, who seemed really fucked up. As soon as he spoke, I knew he had already had a lot of the punch.

"Hey, man. Where's Wendy?" I had asked as casually as possible.

"She's going to be late," he replied, slightly slurring his words and clearly a bit annoyed. "I've been waiting for someone fun to show up, and now you're here, so everything's better!" He stumbled forward and grabbed me in a big bear hug. I couldn't help but notice how tightly his arms squeezed me. Stan has a surprisingly strong grip, and I could feel his taut and compact frame pressing into me. It was no doubt just the alcohol causing him to behave so clumsily, but I can't lie: it felt nice. Like, really nice. I very quickly realized that I was getting an erection and backed away quickly. Stan was too inebriated to notice, I think.

"Hey, why'd you move?" he asked, chuckling. Then, immediately switching gears: "We gotta find you a girl, Kyle. I know you always say you don't want to get involved, but I bet we could find someone you'd like. We could even lie and tell your mom she's Jewish!" At that he started laughing a bit too much, to the point that he fell backwards onto the couch and then just sort of sat there for a moment, staring ahead until he could steady himself to a standing position.

"I'm going to get some more to drink," I mumble, wandering back into the kitchen. As I do, I do a double-take passing Clyde on the way out. I try to be subtle, but it's not easy. He is just so damn hot. Funny enough, Clyde was actually the reason I realized I liked boys. He's captain of the middle school football team—in seventh grade!—and I know that's a cliché, but he is just so damn fine. Those muscles, that body. Sometimes it's too much. He can be a bit of a distraction in gym class, I admit…

Anyway, I can't glance too long at Clyde. First, I don't want to be caught staring, and second, I don't want that erection coming back. I haven't told anyone that I like boys yet, and I'd rather it not happen tonight. I don't think I'm ready yet.

As I top off my punch, I feel a hand rest gently on my shoulder.

"How's that punch working out for you?" It's Kenny, and I can tell he's had a bit much of his own concoction.

"Everything's cool," I say, shrugging.

"Oh, really now?" he asks, snaking a hand around my hip.

My eyes go wide, and I jump back. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Kenny rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Kyle. Follow me."

He steps through the kitchen door into the backyard. My feet carry me almost against my will: I follow him to the back of Stan's father's woodshed, far away from anyone else at the party. As we shuffle across the lawn, my mind is racing. What's about to happen? Is Kenny going to kill me? Or rape me? Did he seriously just put his hand around my waist?!

When we arrive, he stops moving and lights a cigarette.

"Since when do you smoke?!" I ask, horrified.

He shrugs. "Since recent." He blows a small cloud up into the night air.

There is silence for a moment. I am desperate to break it but have no idea what to say. Maybe it's not too late for me to run back into the party and pretend that I never followed my friend outside. As if reading my mind, Kenny speaks up.

"Let's talk about Clyde."

My stomach drops to the ground. "I—umm…"

Kenny howls with laughter. "I knew it!"

"W-what? Knew what?"

"You have a thing for Clyde!"

"No, I don't!" I shout-whisper at him. "And keep your voice down. Shit, Ken."

"Yeah, whatever. I saw the way you were looking at him. You nearly walked right into the island, you were rubbernecking so hard. Don't deny it."

My face flushes crimson. Stan would have been able to spot it from a mile away if he were outside, and also not drunk. I struggle to speak. Finally, words begin to form coherently.

"I—don't—just please don't tell anyone else, okay?" I stammer quickly.

Kenny smiles and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Dude, your secret is safe with me. What do I care? I'm practically bisexual."

I look at my friend, having difficulty comprehending the words that have just come out of his mouth. Kenny sees that I am not able to respond intelligibly and takes the opportunity to keep talking.

"Clyde's a fucking cutie. You have any idea how many times I've stared at that hot piece of ass walking down the hallway?" He then makes a growling noise that is equally frightening and hilarious.

Though I am still in shock, it is relaxing and encouraging hearing Kenny talk like this. For the first time in days, I don't feel crazy—or, for that matter, alone.

"You know," he adds, taking another drag, "you're pretty cute yourself." At that I blush so hard I can feel my face warm up the rest of my body. Kenny doesn't miss a beat. "I'm just putting it all out there," he continues, wiggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top seductive manner. I can't help but laugh at him.

We continue talking and laughing for what feels like hours but is probably only a matter of minutes. Kenny tells me about everyone in our class, girls and guys alike, who he'd like to sleep with—pretty much everybody in our class, come to think of it—and I am so comfortable and relaxed and happy that it's almost hard for me to believe that I was freaking out so much on the way to the party. Inevitably, though, he turns the conversation to me. He asks me how long I've known I like guys (only a couple of weeks, really, though I think I'd been suppressing it for a few months before then), whether I like girls (I don't think so, unfortunately), and who we know who I find attractive. I avoid the latter question, mostly, though I do slip up and mention I have a crush.

After beating around the bush for a while, he finally asks me directly, "So how long have you had a crush on Clyde?"

I pause, unsure how to respond. "Well—I—"

He sees through me immediately.

"Holy shit, it's not Clyde! You have a crush on someone else!"

Cue me blushing again.

"Dude, you have to tell me. Come on!"

I pause and think about it. I'm not sure if it's the hunch punch, or the fact that I am so comfortable in my skin around Kenny now, but I decide to tell him.

I take a deep breath. "You have to promise not to tell anyone…"

And then just like that, it's over.

Thanks for reading! Sorry about the cliffhanger. Well… if I was truly sorry, I probably wouldn't have left you with a cliffhanger. I guess you'll have to stay tuned to find out what happens next!

Please leave me a review if you are so inclined. I greatly appreciate any and all feedback!

Mazel tov,

TEPR