Oh, minimum wage jobs. How do I love thee? Let me count the fucking ways. Except, in all honesty, it's not so bad. There's faggot customers and grease spills and fat ass coworkers, but Kyle and I almost always get the same shifts because of school. Which is nice. Was nice. I'm not sure if the whole my penis in his anus thing will change that.

I go home in the hour between the beginning of my shift and the end of school. I left my phone at home. Again. Not really much of a cell phone person. I probably won't have one out of high school. Can't justify paying so much for something I rarely use. Anyway.

Anyway, Cartman spammed my phone with demands for help on a test, and then the subsequent rage when I didn't answer. Dick. I'm planning on mass deleting them when I accidentally scroll up instead of down. First text of the day was from Kyle. Asking me to call him. Not sure if it's really worth it, now, considering I'll be seeing him in 30 minutes. So I change into my uniform, throw my phone on my bed, and drive to work.

Driving. Always nice. The radio, or any shit, blasting from the speakers. A cool breeze from the window. Assholes cutting in front of you and then slamming on their brakes. The strong possibility of getting killed or of killing at any second. Good times. But my truck offered the only freedom a teenager can have, so I jumped on that shit the moment I turned 15. And small town roads aren't as bad as, say, New York. Is anything as bad as New York?

Kyle's in the oddly empty parking lot, freezing his ass off. Arms crossed over his chest, puffy in his ridiculous orange jacket. I'll never understand why he keeps buying those damn things as fast as he grows out of them. "Hey," I say as I walk closer. Stuff my hands into my pockets and wonder why I'm still not adjusted to this cold. "Get out of my way."

"Can't," he said. "Well, I can but there's no reason to go inside. We failed the health inspection and the place is getting shut down."

"Fuck! Dude, what am I supposed to do for money?"

"Well you've saved up enough that you have a few months to look, right?" he asks but he's smiling like the little dick he is because he knows I haven't.

"Fuck off, Broflovski," I say but don't mean. He grins. Coughs into his gloved hand.

"You wanna hang out? That's why I asked you to call me." If a girl said that to me, it would be her annoying ass way of reprimanding me for not calling. As is, it was just Kyle. Being Kyle. Chillin'. Except Kyle does not chill. I don't either but that's a whole different story.

"Sure. You driving?" I ask. Kyle shifts on his feet and smiles sheepishly.

"Uh, no. I don't have my car," he says and won't look at me because that means he walked all the way here instead of asking me for a ride. Under ordinary circumstances, I would bug him about it. Under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn't have avoided me.

"Well then, just get your pussy ass in the car and pay me for gas later," I say, sliding into the driver's seat. He moves slowly and I'm in the process of backing out when he throws the passenger door open and leaps in. I expect him to call me a name, insult me for not waiting, tease me. He just buckles up and looks out the window. Hm. Not hm. I know why there's weirdness. I just didn't think he would be so obvious about it. "Where do you wanna go?"

"I don't know. Just drive." So I do and several miles go by silently. I turn on the radio at the first red light and Kyle promptly turns it off. "So, you and Wendy?" Jesus Christ. I don't want to talk about this.

"Not really. I have no one else to go with so I figured, what the hell?" That sounds really callous. I don't try to soften it. Kyle doesn't say anything. Just reaches for the volume dial. Turns it up, too high, and then shuts it off.

"Stan. I can't do this," he says. I glance to the left, out my window. We're passing fast food joint after fast food joint. I turn and pull into the parking lot of a McDonalds. My parking job is sloppy. I don't give a fuck.

"Get out," I say, not looking at Kyle but very aware that he's looking at me.

"What?" he asks. Angry. More than that. Hurt. I'm not going to be emotional about this.

"If you can't do this, then don't. Get out," I say. He doesn't move. I want to punch something. Or someone. Or at least be able to breathe easily because suddenly it feels like something has taken up residence in my chest and is clawing its way through my lungs. I can't and don't want to talk about what happened and the faggy feelings I've been having. "Get the fuck out, Kyle."

The passenger door slams and I jerk the car into reverse. I don't look at Kyle. I know he's watching me and if I look, I'll fucking run him over.