AN: HEY GUYS WHAT'S UP? I didn't forget, I've just been superwaymondo busy. And you know what! I still am!

Also: I started and planned this story out post-You're Getting Old and pre-Ass Burgers, so Stan's parents are divorced and he and Kyle are still bros. Just an FYI.

Chapter Four

Luck was not on Wendy's side.

Tuesdays had always been her least favorite day of the week. It was like Monday dragged on for another twenty-four hours after it was supposed to be gone; Wednesdays were fine, because they were the middle day, which meant the week was halfway through. Thursdays were similar to Tuesdays, just getting in the way before Friday. Although, Wendy supposed, you couldn't really appreciate a Friday without all those Tuesdays and Thursdays in between.

But this Tuesday she could have gone without. Stan was determined to "talk" more about going to Virginia, and she was just as determined to let it drop. So she'd been short with him this morning, which meant he was going to sulk for the rest of the day. She tried not to think about it as she sat down in Bio, glad that Craig Tucker was not the nosey type.

In fact, he hadn't said a word to her since their short exchange the day before. He didn't look like he'd be willing to break that pattern even as Mr. Posley announced that they would be getting their semester project assignments that day.

"They'll be your Final Project at the end of the year," the bespectacled old man emphasized. "So don't put them off until a week before they're due. You'll be keeping track of them in your Journals…" There was an audible moan from the assembly of students. "…And I'll be checking them every week, starting next Tuesday."

It would be too much to hope that Posley would allow them to choose their partners, Wendy knew, and as she predicted, he grouped them by table. She would have no choice but to work with Craig up until the end of the year. Turning, she opened her mouth to tell him that she was not going to be doing the heavy lifting, then immediately closed it, seeing that he was actually paying attention. No, not particularly enraptured by Posley or excited at the prospect of science, but she couldn't exactly call him out for slacking. Or not working, when they hadn't even started yet. It would make her look like a huge jerk-when the jerk here was obviously Craig Tucker.

Posley had decided to leave their actual projects up to chance. Walking between the tables with a beaker full of numbers written on slips of paper, he instructed the students to choose one, and then handed over the corresponding projects. Sitting in the back left Wendy and Craig for last, so the girl reached in and pinched the only remaining number between her fingers.

"Ten," she read aloud, quite unnecessarily, and holding it up for Craig to see. He stared at her as though she'd grown an extra pair of eyes.

Before Wendy had enough time to get offended, Mr. Posley dropped their task on the table. The packet of paper seemed surprisingly thick, especially since he only printed on one side. Wendy made a mental note to suggest it when she skimmed the front page and felt her stomach plummet.

"What the fuck?" Craig said to Mr. Posley's retreating back.

"Language, Mr. Tucker," Posley responded. "If you have a question, please raise your hand."

Wendy grimaced as Craig's arm shot up into the air. The other paired students were reading over their projects with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and were probably glad that they hadn't wound up with hers. She read the title again, just to make sure she wasn't seeing things:

Feeding Earthworms: the Effects of Diet on Soil Enrichment and Reproduction.

Fantastic. For the next several months, Wendy Testaburger and Craig Tucker were going to be looking after worms.

Mr. Posley waited until he'd moved back to the front of the room before calling on Craig.

"Mr. Tucker?"

"Where the hell am I supposed to get worms for this crap?"

The other students snickered into their hands as Mr. Posley answered, "Watch your language, please, Mr. Tucker. Haven't you ever been outside when it rains?"

To Wendy's surprise, Craig's normally indifferent expression was now positively belligerent. He sounded incredulous. "What?"

Mr. Posley said smoothly, as if he had dealt with Craig's outbursts before. "Relax. Go to the sporting goods store, they'll have them with the fishing equipment."

"Oh." Craig settled back in his seat for an instant, but then his arm was up again.

"Yes, Mr. Tucker?"

"Where's the sporting goods store?"

Laughter ringed the room and Mr. Posley sighed. "Why don't you ask your partner, since you'll be working on this together. Ms. Testaburger, please? I have other students to help."

He shifted his attention to the other students with questions and Wendy picked at the staple holding the pages of her packet together. Quietly, she suggested, "We can go to Dick's."

"Excuse me?"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Dick's. Sporting goods. There's one on Main. Honestly, grow up…"

Craig was snorting and sniggering, much to her disgust. They were far too old to be laughing at penis jokes. Scowling at him, Wendy was getting ready to tell him off when she noticed the redness in his eyes.

"Oh my God. You're high!"

Craig flinched. "Don't shout, Jesus. Yeah, so?"

"Ugh," Wendy turned away from him. "I can't believe you."

He only smirked, leaning back in his seat and staring out of the window, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Wendy, however, was trying to decide what she should be thinking. She'd never smoked, and didn't know anyone who did. It wasn't something she was compelled to do, either, unlike some people who seemed to go out of their way to try and taunt authority.

But Craig didn't seem to be doing that. In fact, he seemed different; he certainly talked more when he was high. Was it the drugs? Or something else? It was only their second day of class together, and Wendy still didn't know him at all.

"We should pick them up together," she said suddenly. "The worms, I mean."

"Yeah, whatever," Craig replied.

"Are you free today after school?"

"No," he said, still talking to the window. "I'm working."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Cool. You drive, right?"

He finally looked at her again, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Yeah."

"I've got a meeting after school, but we can go to Dick's. Want to swap numbers, or..?" Wendy hesitated, not sure if she really wanted Craig Tucker's phone number, and fairly certain that he wouldn't want hers.

He surprised her again, reaching into the pocket of his faded blue hoodie and pulling out a small, nondescript cellphone. He chuckled quietly.

"You said dicks."

Craig didn't say much else for the rest of the class, and Wendy wasted no time in getting out and into the hall. Her next class wasn't far, but required passing through corridors that were almost horrifyingly crowded at the peak of their four-minute passing period. And since she and Bebe always passed each other en route to their classes, they had to set aside at least a minute of conversation.

To Wendy's delight, Bebe seemed almost like herself again. She wore her varsity softball jacket, and had even done her hair in a different way than usual. When they talked, they didn't say anything terribly important. That would all have to be saved for lunch, after all, which would be in an hour. It would give Wendy time to sort through the dilemma of Craig Tucker, and just how they were going to handle their Final Project.

She sat down in her pre-calculus class, still unsure of how much she could trust him. She still wasn't sure about how she felt about the whole "coming to class stoned" business, but it hadn't done any harm. Yet.

This was not going to be easy. Wendy Testaburger prided herself on her ability to gauge people, but Craig Tucker was proving to be rather unguagable so far. As the bell rang, their teacher, Mrs. Kiels, called for them to pass up their homework.

Wendy flipped through her binder, considering the boy in front of her. His frazzled blonde hair had recently been cut, which didn't do any favors for his ears, which stuck out on either side of his head.

"Hey, Tweek," she asked, handing over her paper, which he obligingly took. "Do you know Craig Tucker?"

Tweek Tweak angled his body around, his face betraying that he was obviously surprised by her question.

"Yeah," he answered. "We're friends."

"Oh. Cool." Wendy hadn't really thought of what to ask next. "Does he… does he usually do his homework?"

Tweek frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know. We don't usually talk about homework."

Wendy chewed her lower lip. "Uh. What do you usually talk about?"

"I dunno," Tweek said, facing forward again. "Stuff, I guess."

"Stuff," Wendy repeated to herself. If she was going to be working with Craig, she would need to figure out just what 'stuff' made him tick. It was the only way they'd both be able to pass this final project and survive.

Clyde looked over the spindly, pimply crew that had come to try out for wrestling with mixed feelings. His most prominent feeling was, of course, hunger. He had missed out on lunch because he was too busy making out with Lola Stewart, a decision he didn't entirely regret because he'd gotten to feel her up while they were at it. Usually, he'd be able to assuage his hunger immediately after school, but today called upon Captain Clyde Donovan to fulfill his duties.

Though it didn't look very promising so far. The wrestling team's coach, Reggie, was significantly more optimistic than Clyde was, bellowing orders at the try-outs, demanding push-ups and crunches and laps around the gym. It was his rather effective method of weeding out the weak, with those who didn't survive the trials getting tossed out until only a handful remained. Clyde remembered having to do the same, but thankfully his position exempted him from having to do it again. Still, it was kind of fun to watch, like a show on Animal Planet.

Most of the boys who had come to try out were ones he didn't recognize, and their names on the sign-up sheet were almost all impossible to read. Several were far too scrawny to have any promise. Like antelopes. They would be the antelopes on Animal Planet, skinny and flighty and not good for much besides being fed to alligators. Not like hippos, which were huge and strong and completely alligator proof.

About an hour of Reggie's grueling regiment had passed when the overweight coach approached him. Clyde was sitting on the bottom of the home team bleachers, trying to see how fast he could tie and untie his shoes when he heard Reggie clear his throat.

"What's up?" Clyde asked, his head turned awkwardly, his face squished uncomfortably against his knee.

The coach pointed across the room. Sitting on the visitor's side of the room was one of the scrawny hopefuls, looking very uncomfortable in his too-large gym uniform. His black hair was short, but stuck up haphazardly; he kept patting it down as he met Clyde's eye. Immediately, he looked away, as if he was ashamed to be caught looking. His leg started jumping, like it had a mind of its own.

"I kicked him out of here, like, half an hour ago," Reggie said. His voice was hoarse from decades of smoking, even though he'd quit. "Can't even do a set of crunches. But he won't leave. Go over there and see what he wants."

Clyde grumbled and groaned, but stood obediently as Reggie returned to humiliating underclassmen. Shuffling across the gym, Clyde thought he knew the other boy, though it took a lot of concentration to recall a name.

"Stoley, right?"

The young man jumped when Clyde spoke. He'd been trying very hard to look like he wasn't paying attention while Clyde made his journey, and now that Clyde was here, he didn't know what to do.

"Yeah. Hi," he gibbered. "My name's Kevin."

Clyde didn't bother introducing himself, everyone knew him already. "What're you doing here, Kevin?"

"Trying out."

Clyde rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to hide it. "Coach says he threw you out. Try-out is over, man, go home."

Kevin stood. "I can't!" He burst out. Then, quieter, "I can't go home. I have to join the wrestling team."

Clyde shifted his weight from foot to foot. "You look more like a chess club guy."

"I am a chess club guy," Kevin replied. "But I need to join a sports team. For a scholarship."

Clyde frowned. "Then go for track. They could use another javelin."

Kevin cringed, his mouth working up into something that almost resembled a smile. He'd get better at it if he practiced. "Ha. No, they're full. I mean, I want to join wrestling."

"No you don't," Clyde said plainly. He knew what it took to be on the wrestling team. He was Varsity Captain, he had the jacket and everything. He could feel the wrestling in himself, and his teammates. The camaraderie, the loyalty, the mutual appreciation of rolling someone else's ass on the mat. He didn't feel it in this Kevin guy, who was standing between him and the door and a quick trip through Shakey's drive-thru on the way home.

Kevin's face was exasperated. "I do. I have to!"

"Why do you have to?"

"It's for a scholarship," Kevin mumbled. "I need athletic credits."

"Oh." Clyde was already bored of this conversation. "You'll figure it out. But you can't join wrestling. You'll only get hurt. You're an antelope."

That last bit just slipped out. Kevin's desperation turned into confusion. "What?"

"Nothing," Clyde shook his head quickly, and began to walk around the other boy. "Join some other team, okay? Sorry. See you later."

He was halfway across the gym to retrieve his gym bag when he heard Kevin call out after him:

"I know you need to raise your geometry grade!"

Clyde's sneakers squeaked as he came to a sudden stop. They squeaked again as he turned and speedily made his way back to Kevin, eyes wide. He felt angry, though he wasn't sure why. Everyone knew he was bad at math. It was just that no one ever brought it up.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He snapped. Kevin flinched, though Clyde had made no move to hit him.

"I'm a TA for Mrs. Kiels. I grade the papers, sometimes. You need to raise your grade, or you'll fail. If you fail, you'll get kicked off the team."

Clyde's nostrils flared, like a hippo about to charge. "That's none of your fuckin' business, Stoley. Get out of here."

"I can help you," Kevin said quickly, but confidently. He had something to say, and with that purpose, his nervousness had fled. "If you get me on this team, I can help you with your geometry grade."

Clyde pursed his lips. "What, like, rig the tests?"

"No," Kevin said. "Like, tutor you."

"I don't need a tutor."

"Because you're doing so great without one," Kevin said dryly. "Come on. I've tutored lots of people."

Clyde considered. He really considered. It was true that he would lose his captaincy and his spot on the varsity team if he had anything less than a seventy percent when the quarter grades came out. And so far, it wasn't looking good for Clyde Donovan's GPA.

"Yeah, but it's not like I can make Coach put you on the team," Clyde pointed out. "I mean, like, I can strongly suggest it, but no guarantees."

"Well, okay. You suggest it. And if I make it on the team, I'll be your tutor."

Clyde knew better, but he couldn't help but think that this was some sort of blackmail. Only no one was getting hurt-except for the wrestling team. Well, Kevin certainly wasn't getting on varsity, and he was sure he could find a way to make sure he was on the team but didn't have to get in any matches. First and foremost, Clyde would have to talk to Reggie. Which would mean waiting until try-outs were over and putting off his after-school Shakey's trip for just a little longer.

"Yeah, cool, okay," he said. "I'll let you know how it works out."

"Thanks," Kevin replied, reaching out a hand. After a moment, Clyde realized he wanted to shake. Kevin's hand was a little limp, like a fish, but it wasn't the most awkward handshake Clyde had ever had.

"See you around." Kevin picked up his backpack, and pointed at Clyde's feet. "By the way, your shoe's untied."

Butters Stotch didn't have a whole lot of places to go, but while the car was in the shop, he'd become more familiar with South Park's bus system than he'd ever wanted to. Though it wasn't much of a system at all-there were only two routes, on that went north to south, and the other that ran east to west. The buses themselves were well kept and clean and even eco-friendly, but the people on board made him nervous. They were strange, some smelled, and others talked to themselves. Butters knew better than to judge his fellow man, but it was not without relief that he hopped out onto the sidewalk and inhaled the crisp afternoon air.

The north end of South Park didn't have a lot going for it. It was dirty and industrial, with lots of garages and warehouses and a bowling alley. Fortunately for Butters, his destination wasn't far from the bus stop, and it would be his last trip through the neighborhood for a while. He hoped.

Speedy's Garage was small, and you almost wouldn't notice it. It was wedged behind the bowling alley, next to a gas station, but out of the way of the main highway, so you could pass right by and never know it was there. Butters walked up the drive and through the main garage doors, calling out for the mechanic.

"Kenny? You around?"

Butters tried not to breathe too deep. The smell of oil fumes and who knew what else was almost overwhelming, and his mother had warned him about the dangers of inhaling chemicals. He could even asphyxiate!

So he was reasonably horrified when he saw Kenny-his tell-tale orange jacket smeared over with all manner of dark stains-roll out from beneath the white minivan parked inside the garage. He was holding some kind of tool that looked more suited to bludgeoning people than auto repair, and grinned at Butters' shocked expression.

"Kenny! What're you doing down there?"

Standing and brushing himself off (but actually making himself dirtier) Kenny answered, "My job. 'Sup, Butternut?"

Butters liked Kenny, even if his parents didn't. They called him a degenerate delinquent, even though the only bad thing he'd done was drop out of school. But he had a job, and he was good at it. And he was always friendly, even if he was a little strange.

"I'm just here to pick up the car, Speedy called and said it was done."

"Aw, yeah. It was easy." Kenny dropped his tools onto a rack of similarly sinister devices and wiped his hands on a cloth he kept shoved in his pocket. "Around back. You payin' today, or…?"

"Yeah, today. How much was it?"

The pair made their way behind the garage, where other cars were parked, varying in age and disrepair. The Stotch's green sedan was among them, the large dent that had occupied the front right fender now completely disappeared.

"Three hundred," Kenny replied. "But I'm adding an extra twenty because you had some weird green shit smelling in the back seat. I threw it out, I didn't think it was important."

Butters was momentarily confused, but the memory came back to him. "Oh. That was some deviled eggs. I took them to a party. I must've forgot them in there."

"Didn't look like they were much of a hit."

"Clyde Donovan fell on them."

Kenny doubled over, laughing. "He did? That's hilarious. Wish I could see." He straightened as Butters handed over the money owed, and laughed again. "I was joking about the extra twenty, man. You keep it."

Butters smiled hesitantly. He still didn't quite get Kenny's humor, but then, he didn't see much of him anyway. "Oh. Okay. Thanks again, Kenny. Sorry about the mess."

Kenny waved at him dismissively. "Whatever, man! I'll see you around."

It felt good to be behind the wheel again, but Butters was cautious. He still didn't know who had hit him that night after the New Years party, and sometimes, he expected them to come careening around a corner and knock him around again. He hadn't been hurt at all, but his parents had not been happy.

It was only because he had newspaper club after school that he managed to convince them not to ground him again. He was still on thin ice for the time being, as well as late for the newspaper club. As he pulled out onto the road, he risked a glance at his cellphone, and saw that Eric Cartman had texted him no less than four times in the last ten minutes.

Butters sighed. He liked feeling important, being the paper's lone photographer, but some days he wondered if he would be able to keep up with the demands of his position. He did enjoy making Eric's donut runs, at least, and reassured the paper's chief editor that he would be on his way soon.

The Dunkin Donuts he usually stopped at was halfway between Speedy's and the high school, and relatively quiet as he stepped inside. He waited patiently in line, giving the young man behind the counter a wide smile.

"Hey, Craig. I'll get the usual dozen."