Chapter Seven
Night had fallen on South Park, but the block around the high school was noisy and busy with energy. The bright lights of the football field illuminated crowded bleachers and cars that lined the street. Teenagers and their families, trussed up in their respective school colors, milled in front of the concession stand as they waited for the game to begin. On the field, two enormous soccer goals had been placed at each end, and between them, two teams warmed up, each excited yet resigned to this last game of the season.
Wendy had already found her customary seat on the unforgiving bleachers, the feeling already being leeched from her ass by the cold. On one side of her, Kyle kept blowing into his gloves and hugging himself, which was better than the awkward conversation than he had been making before. On Wendy's other side, conspicuously silent, was Bebe, who stared absently into the crowd below. The anxious sandwich did little to improve Wendy's own mood, which had been sour and sullen since that afternoon. Yet another argument with Stan had left her feeling drained and indifferent, though that was exactly what they'd been fighting about.
Stan, much like Craig, had been unimpressed with the idea of a Gay-Straight Alliance. He didn't have anything against it, he'd assured Wendy, but it really made no difference to him either. He was confused by how passionate Wendy had suddenly become about the issue, though Wendy knew it was only because she was avoiding the subject of college, and how no matter what Stan said, she would never join him in Virginia.
Wendy was startled when Kyle began waving his arm frantically, breaking out of her reverie to look for whoever he was gesturing at. She realized it could only be Stan, who was standing in the field, staring into the crowd and trying to spot them. Usually, she'd be easy to find with her bright pink beret, but she'd crumpled it in her hands without realizing what she was doing. Guiltily, she imitated Kyle (but with a good deal less enthusiasm) and Stan saluted them with a grin.
As the soccer star turned back to join his team at center field, Wendy switched her attention to Bebe, who hadn't said a word since they'd sat down. However, before she could, a messy-haired blonde boy shuffled by behind them, camera in hand.
"Hey, Butters," Kyle greeted the newcomer loudly, relieved to have someone to talk to. Butters answered with a smile, glancing at Wendy and Bebe shyly.
"Hey, guys." He jiggled the camera in his hands. "Picture for the paper?"
"Sure," Wendy said, plastering on an expression of excitement, even offering a thumbs-up. She didn't know Butters very well, but liked him-he was always at school events, but considering he was the only person besides Cartman who worked on the school paper, he didn't have much of a choice. The camera's flash left spots in her eyes, and she blinked them away as Kyle asked Butters to join them.
"Thanks, but I can't," Butters replied. "I'm on assignment."
Kyle stifled a snicker, covering it up with a half-hearted cough. "That's too bad. Okay. Good luck, buddy."
Butters nodded, stepping carefully down the bleacher steps as a loud honk sounded over the stadium's PA system. The two teams assembled on the field, one side dressed in green, the other in blue, both separated by a referee in black and white stripes. Wendy could barely hear the ref's whistle as the game began, the players quickly becoming fast-moving blurs against the green turf.
While Wendy was not the biggest sports fan, she was surprised at her own disinterest in the game. An icicle of panic shot through her chest as she wondered if it was because she was rapidly losing interest in Stan-something half of her had begun to already accept. But the other half was terrified of this change, and the inevitable hurt that would come with it. Bebe next to her was a reminder of that, though her best friend's melancholy couldn't really be because she had an asshole for an ex-boyfriend, could it? Bebe was stronger than that!
Wendy's eyes found Stan as he sprinted across the field, shouting to his teammates, throwing himself into the game that he loved. It was with that same passion that he kept trying to change her mind. Token had been right when he'd told Wendy that both she and Stan were stubborn, but tonight she felt too exhausted to go on. And the tiredness had transformed into a feeling that she was not at all familiar with-or, if she was being honest with herself, a lack of feeling. For the first time that she could remember, Wendy Testaburger just didn't care.
Was this what Craig felt like? She wondered, and then immediately became horrified with herself for thinking it. She was just having a bad week-she was nowhere near having Craig Tucker's chronic don't-give-a-shit-syndrome. Besides, as he had told her that afternoon, he didn't care because he didn't see the point. But Wendy Testaburger saw the point of what she was doing; she wanted to go to go to college, grow up, become something, and that was why she would not give in to Stan. Wendy cared about her future, even if it seemed so much easier not to.
Around her, a cheer went up as someone on their team scored. Worked up by her own inner monologue, Wendy joined in, jumping to her feet and yelling along fervently.
The outburst startled both of her companions, who looked at her as though she'd sprouted a new set of eyes. Sheepishly, she sat down again, but was relieved to feel the blood pumping through her limbs again, her sluggish depression from earlier now shaken off. She knew what she had to do, and even if it worried her, it wouldn't do her any good to procrastinate. Like tearing off a bandaid, she and Stan would have one last talk, and even if it hurt, they would both walk away from it and toward something better.
She hoped.
Far from the bright lights and epiphanies of the high school, Kenny McCormick eased shut the door to Speedy's office, keys jangling as he began to lock up for the night. The sound of heavy eighteen-wheelers passing by on their way to and from the surrounding warehouses had long since ceased, and he couldn't hear many cars on the main road. He didn't mind the quiet, though, and was startled by a loud crashing sound from somewhere behind the building. It came from the alleyway where they put out the garbage, and his brows came together in annoyance.
It could only be raccoons, and while they didn't usually get them down here so early in the evening, the critters always left a mess that Kenny hated cleaning up. Hoping to scare them off before they made too much of a wreck, he pulled his wrench from the hammer loop of his carpenter's pants and circled around the building. He hit it noisily against the wooden fence between the back lot and the alley, and listened for noise of the trespassers. When he was answered by silence, he opened up the gate and stepped into the narrow, gravel-strewn lane.
The tall, grey blocks of buildings prevented the light from the street from reaching where Kenny stood, and he squinted into the twilight, making out the irregular shadows that were the rows of garbage cans he was usually responsible for. As his sight adjusted, he saw that none of them had been knocked over, though the lid of one had ended up a few feet away. Still clutching his wrench, he trudged over to where it had fallen, next to a brand-new hole in the fence.
As Kenny crouched, he heard a low growl bubble up from the splintery blackness. His hand paused on its way to pick up the trash lid, and he stared into the hole, trying to discern just what was on the other side of it. A raccoon? They didn't normally attack people, unless they were sick or something. A dog, maybe? If it was a dog, he might be in trouble, but the hole didn't look like any sort of dog would fit through it.
Instinctively, he raised the wrench over his head, ready to bash whatever creature was certainly going to try and murder him while he was just doing his civic duty. He stayed there, frozen, for what felt like a long time. The growling faded, and he wondered if the creature had gone.
Kenny's hand clamped down around the lid, and something wriggled out of the hole, too quick for him to see. He felt its claws as it raced up his arm, and the sharp stab of its teeth as it bit into his throat. His cry of pain and surprise was drowned in the sound of gurgling blood and the crunch of gravel, the wrench clattering to the ground as he tried to fight it off. More shapes spilled out of the hole, leaping on him, knocking him on his back and sinking their jaws into whatever exposed flesh they could reach.
Kenny couldn't scream. He thrashed on the ground, his face contorted by emotions that would have been alien to any other person who might have seen him. After a long while, he became still, and the squirrels that had mauled him peeled off of his corpse, their fur matted with blood. They darted down the alley in a strange shambling formation, as if dazed or drunk, their little rodent eyes glinting in the moonlight.
The enormous scoreboard on one end of the field declared that the game was nearly over, with both sides tied. Kyle had long since wandered away to try and find better company, leaving Bebe and Wendy to sit in their own thoughts. As time had passed, Wendy had imagined and re-imagined how she would tell Stan that they were over, until she had become so familiar with the idea that she was almost looking forward to it.
She came back to earth when Bebe began stomping her feet on the concrete riser, trying to cajole feeling back into her toes. They'd talked a little once Kyle had gone, but nothing substantial had passed.
"You all right?" Wendy asked, clicking her own heels together.
"Cold," Bebe replied. "And tired."
"You wanna go home?"
Bebe looked surprised. "What about Stan?"
Wendy was already on her feet. "He came with his mom. It's whatever. We should probably beat the rush, anyway."
Sidling past their classmates, the girls made their way down the risers, to the concrete walk between the home bleachers and the field. The crowd was in an uproar as the final seconds ticked by, Wendy looking up to see what had happened. Though they were closer, she couldn't pick Stan out, but wondered if maybe she should stay to see who won.
They paused at the fence, where a few other people were waiting, ready to head to the parking lot as soon as the final buzzer went off. Wendy sighed, fingering the keys in her pocket, half-hearing as Bebe asked her something.
"Hmmm? What?"
Bebe's lips quirked in a strange smile as she repeated herself. "I asked if you were all right."
Wendy imitated her best friend's expression. "Oh. Yeah. I think so. A lot better now." She glanced back over the field again, then back at Bebe. "Are you?"
The question hung in the air heavily. Wendy was asking about the last week-about Clyde, about everything that they hadn't had a chance to talk about, even though they'd needed to. Bebe's hesitation was visible, but finally, she answered.
"Yeah. A lot better."
Wendy had no idea that Bebe was going to lean forward at that moment; it caught her off guard, but immediately she reckoned that she was going in for a hug. She raised her arms to comply-but something wasn't quite right. Bebe wasn't reaching out to hug her. She was leaning in, and quite suddenly, they were kissing.
Rather, Bebe's lips were on Wendy's, but only for a moment. Her rough, curly blonde hair brushed against Wendy's cheeks, tossed up by the breeze. Their perfumes mixed for an instant, and the air was cut by the grating sound of the buzzer. The game was over.
Stan Marsh howled victoriously, his two fists punching the air. His legs were sore, his lungs ached, and he felt ready to fall down and sleep right there on the turf. But he'd just kicked the winning goal, with zero seconds to spare, and he was going to be trampled by his teammates if he wasn't careful. They swarmed him, everyone soaked through with sweat and flush in the face. Flashes from cameras were going off as he looked up into the stands. First he saw the gleeful face of his mother, and beside her, Kyle, and gave them both a boisterous thumbs-up. His heart began to sink, however, as he realized that Wendy was nowhere in sight.
On the second row of the stands, Butters Stotch celebrated his own victory-the crowning achievement of his high school photography career. He'd managed to capture the moment of triumph on camera, a shot worthy of any sports magazine or big-town paper. Grinning at the camera's display, he couldn't see any of the details on the little screen, but he couldn't help but think that Cartman was going to be very pleased.
