Hello! Thank you for not giving up on this. I'm so sorry this has taken forever to update, but there's some good news, too: This story is super close to being finished.
In the meantime, please enjoy this installment.
Kyle thanked Wendy for the ride and got out of the car. His car was where it always seemed to be — parked in the street, barely a shadow of its formerly gleaming-white self. He had to admit that his father was right about this; the car was filthy. It wasn't like he gave a shit, but there it was.
He knew his mother would be waiting for him, and as he meandered up to the front door, marveling at how quickly the snow was melting away into springtime's mushy sod, he internally debated whether to attempt a getaway up to his room, or to try and face her. Perhaps he delayed for too long, though, because the front door flew open, and there she was, hands on her significant hips, looking pretty cross.
"There you are!" Sheila shouted at her son. "Get your behind in the house now."
Kyle opened his mouth to answer, but he decided he didn't feel like it, and did what she said. He looked around nervously as she shut the door behind him. She wasn't saying too much of anything, which made him feel that maybe now that he was home he was off the hook, so he tried to get up the stairs, and she said, "Just where do you think you're going?"
"Um." Kyle kicked the wall behind him with the heel of his shoe. "Upstairs."
"No, you're not. Your father's waiting in the kitchen. We're all going to have a nice talk."
Remembering their last talk, Kyle shook his head reluctantly. "I have a lot of homework." He tried to be clear, but it was just coming out as a mumble. "Some projects and things."
"What homework?" she asked. "You don't even have your backpack." He threw his hands up. What did she want from him? Luckily, Sheila elucidated this: "Kitchen, Kyle. Now."
In the kitchen, Ike and Gerald were working on a sheet of fifth-grade math problems together. Kyle remembered being in advanced math in fifth grade. They did probabilities. He'd hated it. His father said hello, and Kyle just shrugged back at him. Ike looked up, and grinned, and said, "You are in so much trouble."
"Okay," Gerald said with a pronounced sigh. "Why don't you go finish this in your room and I'll check on you later?"
"I'd rather stay and watch," Ike said cheerily.
"Go," Sheila commanded.
"Oooh, okay." Ike got up and made sure to grab his worksheet. On the way out of the room, he made a point of shoving against his brother. Normally Kyle would have taken this as a cue to smack him, but the way things were going, this seemed like a pretty poor idea, so instead he just sat down at the table.
"All right, Kyle," his father began. "We're not really mad at you."
"Speak for yourself," his mother countered.
"Well, okay." Gerald corrected himself: "What I mean, is, we understand that your life is very stressful right now, and that some things haven't gone the way you wanted them to lately."
"Wow." Kyle gave a sarcastic clap. "Yes. That's true. Well done."
"That's inappropriate!" his mother snapped at him.
"Like you have any idea what's inappropriate," Kyle replied.
"Okay, here's what we are not understanding of," Gerald pressed. "It's one thing to be upset, Kyle, but it's another thing to be acting like an erratic bi—" Sheila shot his a look. "…jerk," he concluded.
"You wouldn't be calling me a bitch if you had a little sympathy."
"We have sympathy!" Sheila exclaimed. "You think I want my son to get dumped and feel bad about it? No! Of course not! We feel very bad for you. I think if you become a parent you will know how difficult it is to resist going up to the children who give your son a hard time and just smacking them."
Kyle crossed his arms. "I'll never have children."
"Well, that's a conversation for another day," Sheila said.
Gerald clasped his hands on the table. "You see, son, this is kind of getting off-topic. What you did last night, running out and not coming home and not telling us where you were, is unacceptable. And that on its own might just be upsetting, but it's part of a pattern of very erratic behavior, behavior which we think is … well, it's not the best you can be, Kyle. Do you know what we mean?"
"No."
Becoming impatient, Sheila broke in. "We're going to send you to a psychotherapist," she announced. "I don't know any other way to get you sorted out."
"What?" Kyle nearly jumped up from the table. "I'm not crazy! There's nothing wrong with me! If anyone at this table needs therapy, it's you." Kyle pointed at Sheila.
To Kyle's great surprise, neither his mother nor his father reprimanded him, or reacted, really. Very calmly, Sheila smirked, and said, "What kind of therapy I may need is irrelevant. You're still a minor, Kyle, and I'm your mother. Your father and I, we … well, we are worried about you. You've gone beyond misbehaving into … something's not right. What do you think we should do with you?"
"Me?" Kyle was completely unprepared for this question. "I … I don't really know."
"I think we can wait and see," his father said cautiously, "about the therapy. If you keep being erratic it might be best to find you someone to talk to. In the meantime, we think a suitable punishment would be taking away your car."
"My car?" Kyle gasped. "But, that's mine!"
"Not anymore," Sheila said sternly. "After we're done here, you bring us your keys."
"How am I going to get to school?"
"I'll drive you," Sheila offered.
"How is Ike going to get to school?"
"The same way he got to school today when his older brother disappeared," Sheila said. "I drove him."
"I thought you weren't going to punish me!"
"We never said that," Gerald reminded him. "We said we understood that the situation is more complex than just you being…" He paused for a moment and thought about the right word: "…naughty."
"So go on, get us your keys, and then do your homework, if you have any." Kyle didn't budge. "Now."
With an intensely bitter look, and feelings of confusion and unfairness filling his mind, Kyle got up to go do what they told him to.
XXX
When Wednesday's lunch break arrived, Stan slipped out back instead of getting in line in the cafeteria. He might have been unobservant, but he knew one thing: Addicts had a low tolerance for denial. Maybe he'd have to linger out behind the school building, below the windows of the chemistry classrooms, until the end of the period — or maybe Christophe would be there already, unable to stall until after he'd eaten. Either way, he knew the guy was going to have to come out for a fix at some point. He'd been chain-smoking seemingly unremittingly since the first time Stan had met him eight — or was it nine? — years ago. He'd be here, eventually. Stan knew he would.
Unfortunately, Stan hadn't packed a lunch for himself, so he stood against the building thinking about how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, which had only been five hours ago, but it felt like years. For a moment he considered forgetting this whole idea. Who needed confrontation, anyway? What good would it do him if he keeled over from starvation? But then he shook it off, and rationalized the situation: Quitting would be the wrong thing to do. Giving up was what had gotten him into all of these various messes.
By the time Christophe arrived, Stan had slouched down to sit with his back against the building, trying not to think about what was for lunch today. Was it taco fiesta again? Maybe he was confusing the school menu with what his mother had told him she was making for dinner. He hoped he wasn't missing breakfast day, because that was his favorite. He was pondering the potential of slipping into the tail end of the lunch line to get a few packets of pancake syrup and a banana after this conversation when he looked up to find Christophe standing there, looking at him, already sucking on the end of a cigarette.
"Hello, you American breeder faggot."
"Hey … Christo—Chris. May I call you Chris?" Stan stumbled to his feet, using the structure behind him for support. Christophe did not blink. "What about Mole? Do you like to go by that?"
Christophe was stony as he took a drag on his Gauloise and then, ever so pointedly, exhaled in Stan's face. "You may call me your god," he huffed, stabbing the butt of the cigarette out violently on his thick boot. Then he spit on the ground.
"Okay, God." Stan rolled his eyes. "You know, you're the first person to call me a 'breeder' and a 'faggot' in the same sentence."
"I should think it happens all the time, no?" He sighed deeply, and looked heavenward. "After all, we are all faggots."
Stan cleared his throat.
"All right," Christophe grumbled. "Out with it. You come here for a reason, yes? You stupid pussy breeder faggots do not usually approach me sans fists. Or cash, of course. You wish to hire my services? I'm sorry to say I won't give you a family discount. I don't care what Kenneth says, my services are not gratis for anyone."
"Um, no." Stan shifted uncomfortably. "I am, um … not really in need of your services. But it's funny you mention Kenneth, because I'm here to talk to you about him."
"Oh?" This piqued Christophe's interest. "Well, you hardly need my permission to fuck him. Although I must say, it is too unexpectedly gentlemanly of you to ask."
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "No," Stan spat out, feeling a bit queasy now.
"Are you quite sure? Because, I recommend it. He arches his back like a reed, and screeches like a feral little bitch. He's an insatiable faggot, that one. I think I am right in assuming he would be delighted to suck your cock, he's well-practiced—"
"See," Stan managed to get out. "This is what I'm talking about."
Christophe arched an eyebrow. "You've … already had him?"
"What? No." Stan pinched his nose again. "He's … my friend. And I'm concerned … that you … don't treat him … like you should."
When Stan opened his eyes again, he was not surprised to see that Christophe had retrieved another cigarette but was nowhere close to lighting it. It just dangled from his mouth.
"Oh?" he asked, the cigarette bobbling. "And what authority are you to judge, hmmm?"
"Well, you know. He's my … you know, he's my friend."
"Oh?" Christophe quirked his eyebrows. "What is this word, friend? Who is a friend? You love him?"
"Well." Stan didn't really know what to say. "I mean, I guess so, in an abstract way. He's my friend, after all."
"I think…" Christophe paused to get a lighter out of … it seemed to Stan like it had been in his back pocket, or maybe tucked into his belt loop. "I think you are not sure what this word means."
"Well, sure I do." Stan shook his head, embarrassed that now he was beginning to sound like Butters. "I've got lots of friends, Christ—I mean, Mole. So I have to know what it means, right?" The Mole looked unconvinced. "Maybe a little?"
Smiling wryly, Christophe lit his cigarette, and Stan noticed his sunken cheeks, and how much more concave they became as he inhaled. He deftly handled the lighter and the cigarette in gloves with chopped fingertips, but even he could discern the dirty visible strips of flesh, and how they were scabby and blistered. It made Stan shudder once, and then he shuddered a second time with the realization that he thought so little of this boy, he'd never even spoken to him until it came to light that Kenny was sleeping with him. Dating him, Stan tried to correct himself. It made him feel a little sicker, but everything was making him feel sick these days.
"So," Christophe continued, smoke letting out of his mouth like a corrupted steam room vent — or something out of a romantic old movie? It was ridiculous. Stan hated thinking in metaphors. He wished he could kill them. "So, you come to lecture me about your 'friend.' It's a little adorable, you know, some pussy faggot thinking he can tell me what-for with my bien-aime. I just don't even want to have this conversation, you know? It's ridiculous to me."
"Dude." Stan swallowed. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Christophe chuckled, and he spit when he laughed, although Stan was not sure this was unintentional. "With me?"
"Yeah, with you! I'm trying to talk to you about someone we both care about, I think, and you're just … you're just talking in freaky French clichés!"
"Says the football-playing breeder everyman."
"Stop that!" Stan cried. "You don't know anything about me! Stop calling me a breeder! You don't know who I am, what I like, I—" He paused, lips trembling in frustration. "I'm worried about my friend," he concluded lamely, at a loss for another place to go about it. "But you already knew that," he added.
"I think you are annoyed that you cannot charm me," Christophe said. "You think I don't watch the people here? Kenneth is the one with the messiah complex, not you. He is the one who saves the world after you absent-mindedly destroy it. He doesn't need saving; he needs someone who won't save him, who won't interfere with things like death and rebirth and isn't afraid to watch it unfold before his eyes as he's seen it before — I've seen it before, yes. You're the great romantic hero, maybe, with your garcon roux, and you fall into line with it and you don't question. Kenneth, he questions. You wonder why I call you 'breeder'? You play the role like it was made for you." Violently and without warning, he drew the shrunken stub of a cigarette from mouth, and threw it toward Stan, where it landed at his feet, unextinguished.
"What is a garsun roo?" Stan asked.
"Just because it is a cliché does not make it not true," Christophe answered, shoulders hunched. "I have math," he rasped, backing away. Stan wondered if that was some skill you learned in assassin school, not to walk away from an enemy with your back exposed.
Left with no more answers than he had before, and feeling supremely unhelpful, Stan reached into his back pocket and pulled out the thin plastic cassette he'd been keeping there all morning. "Whatever," he muttered, shaking his head. He'd never liked Christophe. Somehow, he felt validated.
XXX
Stan had wanted to catch Kyle on the way out of school. He planted himself outside the doors, backpack in arms, deciding to skip a second day of football. He'd already received a text from Cartman: i need a ride to practice? don't tell me u stopped drivin to save gas like a hippie. Which perfectly illustrated his problems with Cartman's half-assed texting. Why abbreviate 'you' and not 'to'? Why drop the 'g' from 'driving' but maintain proper punctuation? Why bother? Why anything? Stan sighed, hoping Kyle would show. Instead, he just found himself face-to-face with a visibly annoyed Kenny.
"Stan." Kenny paused after the name, taking time out of his speech to smoke. Stan, watching him lick the filter of the cigarette and his chapped bottom lip, wondered if it had ever not been a pain to talk to Kenny. "Hello?" Kenny asked, smoke drying his lips further. "Stan?"
"What?" Stan snapped.
"I hear you've been talking to my boyfriend."
"Oh." Stan fidgeted. "Yes." The stream of students exiting the school had almost trickled to a complete halt.
Another drag. Another exhale. "Well, why the fuck did you do that?"
Stan shrugged. "What's it to you who I talk to?"
"You barely knew he existed last week!"
"Okay." Stan looked at Kenny. Kenny kept smoking. "I thought you'd be happy," Stan confessed, lamely. He felt awkward, and put his hands in his jeans pockets. They were too small, though, so it was more like he was grasping his hips with his fingers sheathed.
"Why would I be happy? Who the fuck do you think you are, my older brother? I have fucking news for you, dude, that position has been filled, and you hardly want to follow in his footsteps."
Stan rolled his eyes. "I don't get you. First you're pissed I don't know who you're dating. Now you're pissed I care. Make up your mind."
"I'm not pissed that you care! I'm pissed that however you act toward me is always filtered through this weird Stan-centric, like, screening process. I'm basically self-mutilating, but it's only a problem if it's uncomfortable for you. I'm involved with what is approaching a seriously long-term relationship, but you're not friends with the guy so why bother noticing? I tell you about these things and you just think, 'My god, that sounds wrong to me, it must be wrong.' " Kenny tossed his cigarette butt behind his shoulder, and took a deep breath before continuing. "I should tell you this before someone hurts you, dude. You might be the most normal guy I know, but no one else in this town is. If you keep stumbling around trying to get everyone else to fit your description, you are going to be very, very disappointed."
Kenny looked to his friend for a reaction, but Stan just pursed his lips.
"I see," he said eventually.
"Dude." Kenny sighed. "Maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. Let's just … let's just stay out of each other's business from now on."
"But that's what you were annoyed about in the first place! That I wasn't in your business!"
Kenny shifted his weight from his fight foot to his left, and tugged on one of the drawstrings on his sweatshirt. "Maybe my standards are just too high. I don't know what I wanted, okay? I'm sorry. You just keep on doing, Stanley. Keep on doing, and please don't think about the psychosexual thrill I get from killing myself, okay? Let's stop this bullshit."
Stan cringed. "I didn't know it was sexual! That just makes it worse! Do you know, he told me you 'screech like a feral bitch' — that's not verbatim, I'm trying to forget — when he fucks you? What the fuck, dude. Just, what the fuck."
Kenny raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's ironic, considering I'm the one giving it to him about 80 percent of the time."
Stan was beginning to look green. "Come on! How much talk about anal sex am I going to be subjected to today?"
"Well, that depends. What's happening with your project?"
"I … I don't know. I put it in—"
"Well, keep me updated." Kenny glanced at his naked wrist. "Oh, my. Look at the time."
Stan rolled his eyes. "You're not wearing a watch."
"Yet somehow I've still come to the conclusion that this conversation has rolled into overtime, and I have plans to make, not to mention English homework to do. Laters?"
Stan waved, backing away, and said, "See you soon?"
"Not tonight, you won't." Kenny raised his left hand, and ran his right index finger down his forearm.
With a shudder, Stan departed. Kyle had not shown, so he would go to practice after all.
XXX
Wendy sat at her kitchen table, attempting to concentrate on homework. She had a French exam looming, and she had a general feeling of discomfort with foreign words lacking an English counterpart. For some things, there was only weak approximation. It unsettled her.
She was also making poor study progress because her fill-in-the-blank worksheet was only meant to distract her while she waited for Kyle to show up. "I don't know when I'll get there," he'd told her on the phone. "I have to sneak out of the house. I'm totally grounded."
"Why don't you just tell your mother you're planning radical political action?"
"Look, you don't understand." Kyle sighed. "That bitch is angry at me, and the only appeasement is to make it look like I've cracked. She can't know I'm leaving the house. She'll think I still have a will of my own."
"Your family is very strange," Wendy commented. Kyle told her to go fuck herself, and she hung up the phone. A half-hour hour later and she was still trying to get her declensions straight. Finally someone banged on the plate glass of the sliding kitchen door — Kyle had arrived, out-of-breath and clad in all black. She let him in, and he pulled off a hat.
"What's with the hat?" Wendy asked. She surreptitiously reached behind herself to shut her French dictionary.
"Reconnaissance!" Kyle declared. "This is so no one can tell it's me."
"Why, because you wouldn't be caught dead otherwise in a black skullcap?"
"No, because it hides my fucking hair."
"I have news for you, Kyle. Even if you shaved your head, people would still know it was you from your ass."
"Hey!"
"Hey what? A girl would kill for an ass like that. Do you know how badly I've always wanted to fill out a pair of jeans?"
Kyle groaned, and put his hands over his ears. "I'm not hearing this."
"Don't be such a baby. That thing back there is an asset. At least try to appreciate it."
"I don't want to talk about my ass!" Kyle crossed his arms.
"Okay, let's talk about that hat. It is really unbecoming. "
"Shut up, Wendy!"
"I'm just trying to help."
"Well, you're not!"
"Don't you think we could at least talk about your hair?"
"No."
"I mean, I've seen it look really nice. Like that time Craig did it? Craig is really good."
"I don't want to talk about Craig!" Kyle snapped.
"Okay." Wendy looked around the kitchen table; hidden amongst her books, highlighters, and legal pads with notes scrawled in ballpoint pen was her cell phone. She grabbed it, and waved it in Kyle's face. "Eric's at football practice. He texted me. What? Why are you making that face at me? He's good. … At football."
"Like it takes any skill to fucking tackle someone," Kyle scoffed.
"Oh, well, why don't you tell me? You're the one who's been on the receiving end." Wendy reached out to touch his bottom lip, still marred by a lingering sliver of scab.
He shoved her away. "Don't bring it up. Look, okay. Just, listen. Everywhere I go, someone is constantly making fun of my appearance: I have a huge ass. I can't put together an outfit. Braces weren't good enough, I should have had all of my teeth capped. I should cut all of my hair off, except it's so fugly not even cancer patients would want to wear it. Okay, I get it. I'm a big gay failure. I'm not here because I need a girlfriend to straighten me out, no pun intended. I'm not fucking Cinderella. I just want to get my meager revenge, and then I'll crawl back to the sad reality from whence I came. Makeovers aren't on the agenda."
"Okay." Wendy sniffed. "I'll stop trying to get along with you. This is just kind of what, you know, girls do."
Kyle softened. "But I'm not a girl, Wendy. I just don't like being fawned over. Unless it ends in a blow job. And not one from you."
"Noted." She grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter, and slipped her phone into it. "Come on, we can take my car."
Frowning, he followed her out to the garage.
XXX
"Frank."
The beleaguered academic looked up to find someone he truly didn't expect: Kyle Broflovski, standing above him in that old pea coat, holding a paper cup of coffee in one hand, scowling.
"Kyle." Frank snapped his notebook shut and recapped his pen with harried vigor. "Weird running into you."
"Um, not really." Kyle took off his coat and pulled up a chair. Two chairs. "I came to talk to you, actually. Hope you don't mind. … Well, actually, I don't really care either way."
"Okay. How have you been?"
"Really bad," Kyle admitted. "I feel like my life is sort of a sinkhole right now."
"That's a shame. What gives?"
"Oh, you know." Kyle sighed, heaving his shoulders and gesturing with his palms up. "Boy drama, family drama, everyone hates me. Well, maybe not everyone. Just the people who matter."
"That's too bad," Frank said. His lukewarm smile conveyed some kind of sincerity. "Have you given any thought to coming back to help me complete my research?"
Kyle grinned. "Actually, I've given a lot of thought to your research lately."
"Oh. That's … flattering."
"How's it going with Cartman?"
"Who, Eric? Eric's fine, he's a … weird kid. Helpful. But weird." Frank lowered his voice, and leaned in. "Just between you and me, I think he's got something of a racist streak."
"Oh, you don't say." Kyle took a sip of his coffee. "So did you ever at any time think to yourself that maybe, just maybe, working with Cartman was, well, not the best idea? Because I've known the guy for something like 15 years, and I promise you, if you wanted to get this thing done in the most dignified way possible, reprehensible as it is, bringing in Cartman was not the way to do it."
Frank rolled his eyes. "I'm not retarded. I know that guy's not totally on-the-level. I deeply suspect his mother is some kind of … negligent sex worker. Still…" Frank sighed. "If he wants to help, he wants to help. What does it matter what his motives are?"
"Frank, I have to ask you something: Just why the fuck do you think Eric Cartman would ever help you?"
"Clearly he hates you," Frank explained. "And helping me pisses you off. His willingness to piss you off encourages him to help me. Sorry about that, but, well, it works."
"Yeah, you're right about that," Kyle conceded. "If Cartman walked by someone anally raping me, he'd be about 30 times more likely to stand there watching and beating off than chase them away. I'd say your use of Cartman is definitely problematic in some regards. But outside of that, you're a fucking dumb ass if you think you can just roll into this town and bribe the high school principal and sweet talk me and know everything about all of us here."
"I know enough. I know who's willing to help me."
"Cartman's not gay, you complete fucking retard!" Kyle screamed. A few customers turned to look at him, and then shrugged it off. "You're right, he hates me. And you're right, he'd do anything to piss me off. But you're a fucking idiot if you assume he has any loyalty to anyone but himself! He never has and he never will!"
"But," Frank began. Kyle smiled slightly at what he could have sworn was a little concern or fear in the man's voice. "But that kid says they're dating!"
"Who? You mean Butters?"
Frank rolled his eyes.
"Well, why would you listen to Butters of all people! Butters is retarded. Socially if not actually. Surely if you've met him you know that."
"He seemed … exuberant."
"Yeah, because he's too dumb to know he's being led on like a blind mule."
"Well, the blindness would explain some of his outfits."
Kyle snorted. "Yeah, possible." Kyle took another sip of coffee and swished it around his mouth while Frank stared at him. "So what I'm getting at is, so far you're getting your information from a straight guy lying about his sexual orientation to get back at me because he's hated me since before either of us could talk, and a delusional kid who's so obsessed with Cartman he'd tell you anything Cartman asked him to say. Tell me if I'm wrong so far. I don't want to be wrong."
Frank just gaped at him.
"Anyway," Kyle continued. "There's someone here I want you to meet."
"Who?" Frank asked, annoyed.
Kyle grinned, and gestured to the girl in the purple dress who'd been hanging out by the door for the duration of the conversation. He motioned to her, and she walked over. "Frank Granger, meet Miss Wendy Tesataburger."
"Mr. Granger," Wendy said congenially. "Charmed." She extended a hand. Frank did not take it.
"Just who the fuck are you?"
"I was hoping you'd ask that!" Kyle cheered.
"It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Granger," Wendy said sweetly, taking a seat. "Eric talks about you all the time."
"I don't have time for this bullshit!"
Wendy's expression turned sour. "We're lovers," she said flatly. Frank opened his mouth again to speak, but Wendy raised a finger in front of his face, and he clamped his lips together. She held up a finger and peeked into her purse, digging around for something. "I know I have it somewhere," she mumbled to herself. Frank glanced at Kyle, who continued to grin like maniac. "Here we go!" Wendy cried, pulling a few pieces of paper from her bag.
"What the fuck is this?" Frank moaned, grasping at the scraps in front of his face.
"STI test results," Wendy said brightly. "They're dated to nine months ago. As you can see, Mr. Granger, we had the same strain of Chlamydia. Eric and I did, I mean."
"Well, that's not very recent."
"Fine, it's not very recent." Wendy sighed. "But it's a hell of a lot better than just listening to that stupid little fag!"
"She means Butters," Kyle clarified, barely able to contain his glee.
"He gave you Chlamydia," Frank said, not asking.
"Actually no." Wendy lowered her voice. "I got Chlamydia from Stan Marsh, which I then gave to Eric." Realization dawned on her. "Oh shit," she said aloud.
An odd moment of silence settled over the threesome, until Frank Granger snorted. He turned to Kyle, whose mouth was pursed as he stared down at his hands. "Isn't that your little boyfriend?" Frank asked.
"He's not my boyfriend," Kyle answered.
"Sorry," Wendy mouthed. Kyle gave her a shrug, and then he looked back down at his hands.
"So let me get this straight," Frank said. He snorted again. "No pun intended. You—" He pointed at Wendy. "And his little crush—" He pointed at Kyle. "—had a sexual relationship."
"Well, 'relationship' would be a stretch," Wendy said defensively. "We just fuck every now and then."
"I don't have a little crush," Kyle murmured, and although Wendy gave him another sympathetic smile, no one answered.
"Listen, girlie, as much as I enjoy sniffing around adolescent sex lives, I'd hardly call this—" He gestured to the test results. "—proof that Eric Cartman isn't gay. For one thing, being gay wouldn't necessarily stop him from having sex with a female. For another, how do I know both of you didn't just have sex with Stan Marsh, and never slept with each other? Andwhy should I discount Butters Stotch's testimony?" Pause. "And why should I discount yours?"
"Mine?" Kyle asked, raising his head.
"The first time we met, you told me yourself that Eric Cartman is gay."
"I did?"
"You bet you did. See here." Frank flipped open his notebook and pulled out a typed transcript. "Why me?" Frank read, emotionlessly and mechanically, like a robot. "I'm not that gay. You know who you should talk to? This kid named Eric Cartman. Now he's flaming."
Wendy rolled her eyes. "Oh, Kyle."
"What?" Kyle's cheeks began to redden. "You're taking my words out of context!" he shouted, pointing at Frank, whose lips were pressed together in smug satisfaction. "I wasn't being literal!"
"You called a boy 'flaming,' " Frank replied. "In relation to the fact that you apparently aren't. The entire reason I was speaking with you is based on the premise that you would help me identify resources to determine the nature of one's sexuality. So really, either you were wrong, or you were lying."
"I was joking."
"How is that a joke?" Frank asked. "It's not very funny."
"No one said a joke had to be funny," Kyle reasoned. "Being funny isn't essential to joking."
"No, that is in fact what makes a thing a joke. Let's take a topical example. If I made a joke about your religion, and it was very funny, no harm, no foul. If it were not funny, that would make me a bigot."
"You're a bigot anyway with your stupid project!"
"Arguing about my research gets us nowhere. You can't stop me, either of you." Frank nodded compulsively at Wendy, if only to acknowledge she was still in his presence. "And I hardly think what I'm pursuing here is wrong. At the risk of sounding cliché, I have gay friends. I'm not a homophobe. I'm just an academic looking to prove something big. How the information I use is handled by those who have access to it is none of my concern."
"It is your concern!" Kyle cried.
Wendy nodded. "There is such a thing as personal responsibility, Mr. Granger."
"Tell it to my backers. Or — or, let me give you a relevant comparison. The German ethnologists of the Second Reich are often blamed for the genocide of the Third, but their scientific purpose was in no way anti-Semitic, merely enlightened, contextually sanctioned imperialism. Should we put the responsibility on them?"
"Yes," Kyle answered without hesitancy.
"Why are you doing this, Broflovski?"
"I want you to realize that you're wrong," Kyle simply stated.
"Well, good luck with that, kid."
"Look, dude, you have a lot to learn about little mountain towns. No, scratch that. You will never understand South Park. Anyone in this town will tell you that Cartman's a fucking manipulative asswipe self-serving liar. Anyone can tell you that Butters is a delusional freak who just believes whatever. I just admitted that I lied to you. Your conclusions are going to be totally, totally fucked up. So think of it this way: I'm doing you a favor by saving you this humiliation."
"But why?" Frank pressed.
"That's what I'd like to know," Wendy agreed.
"Because I don't want you publishing a study suggesting that it's possible to end homosexuality, r-tard! And if you go ahead and publish it anyway, I will personally forward your department these materials." Kyle pointed to Wendy's STD test results. "So, yeah. Either you back down, or we humiliate you."
"How do you think you could possibly humiliate me? This one little STD test isn't going to convince anyone." Frank pulled off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, look. Kyle. I know you're only 16—"
"I'll be 17 next month, jackass."
"—you're only 16 right now, but you're a pretty smart kid, so I'll make you a deal: When I publish my paper, I'll invite you to write a section cautioning against the misuse of the data, and I'll credit you as my research assistant. Both of you. Sound good?"
"Sort of."
"Wendy!"
"Sorry."
"Look." Kyle crossed his arms. "Wendy, help me out here."
"Mr. Granger, it's imperative that I get Eric to stop fooling around with this. Do you know how embarrassing it is for an entire school, let alone town, to see my boyfriend … ish … being trailed around by a flamboyantly gay boy in neon-colored pants? It's ridiculous!"
"Well, I'm sorry, but I really don't have any reason to take your word over his. … Even if he is a questionable source. No one else knows that."
Wendy groaned. "Ugh, I was really hoping not to need this…" She stuck a hand into her bag. "Where the hell did I put this thing?"
"What's she looking for?" Frank asked Kyle.
"No idea."
"Found it!" Wendy pulled out a CD-ROM in a thin jewel case. "Here you go," she said, handing it to Frank. "That might be convincing."
Frank looked up at her. "What is it?"
"That, Mr. Granger, is a video Eric and I made. Of ourselves. … Having sex." She coughed. "I may or may not be wearing a nurse's uniform," she added under her breath.
Kyle's eyes bulged out. "Wendy!" he cried. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
"Well, he's not going to listen to logic!"
"So what, you just pull out a video of you and Cartman fucking? … Oh my god, I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for how much I've discussed his sex life today, Jesus Christ."
Frank was staring at the CD in his hands. "You're … serious?" he asked.
"Dead serious." She nodded. "Feel free to keep that one. Jerk off to it, for all I care. I've got back-ups and encryption and whatever. And despite the fact that it is utterly humiliating, and will probably ruin my chance at any kind of public service career, I'd be willing to forward that to whoever is backing your project. But, then, I suppose I wouldn't show you that unless I was convinced it would get you to stop things."
Frank moaned. "Kid, I don't think you understand. You cannot just end a project with this much funding because it turns out your entire hypothesis was based on a town full of lunatics. You're both lunatics, do you know that? It's just not done in that academic community."
"Well, done or not, Frank, you have three days to decide whether or not to incur our wrath," Kyle said.
"Your wrath? You mean sending a sex tape to Duke University?"
Wendy smirked. "Three days, Mr. Granger." She flipped some hair out of her eyes, and leaned in, putting her arms on Frank's shoulders. "I'd think carefully if I were you. You do not want to fuck with Wendy Testaburger." She withdrew, and straightened out her skirt. "Well, okay. I think you're got a bit to think about. It was a pleasure meeting you. Come on, Kyle."
She turned to walk out.
"Bye, Frank!" Kyle gave a sarcastic wave before following Wendy out the door.
XXX
The heat in Wendy's old beater hissed as it seethed from the vents, her veinless, hairless hands spread in front of them, gathering heat. "Come on, come on," she panted, legs trembling under her skirt. "I'm sorry, this thing is a piece of crap."
"Why do you have the heat on anyway?" Kyle loosened the buttons of his peacoat, and made a feeble attempt to push the bulky sleeves up his forearms.
"It's freezing."
"It's spring. Christ, Wendy, it's almost May."
"It's climate change," she scoffed, banging on the dashboard over a sputtering grill choking out warm air. "Bitches like me driving cars like this are fucking up the planet."
"It's Colorado." Kyle crossed his arms, knees clenched in her confining bucket seat. "How long have you lived here?"
"Too long, by any account."
"Agreed." Kyle wanted to roll down the window, to get some of the late-afternoon air into the cramped space he and Wendy shared, as he felt the skin under his right-handed grip moisten and the fingers of his left hand, tucked into his right armpit, cramped between the heaviness of his coat. But he shook his head and reconsidered it, fully aware that Wendy was cold. How could she be cold? She was too slim, too dainty, to have good circulation. Girl's hearts probably pumped slowly, weakly, powering through very little. If Kyle was sure of nothing else, he was certain that no one's heart beat as fiercely as his did. Under his weight he felt a plastic case in his back pocket groan, trapped underneath his assets. He shifted.
"What do you think of my last-minute improvisation?"
"You mean, that wasn't a real movie?"
"No, it was." She twisted the heating dial.
"Why didn't you tell me you were going to do that?"
"Because what if he'd folded?" she asked. "I didn't know where our conversation could have gone. That was my ace, you see. You don't play the ace on the first hand."
"You might if you want to end the game," Kyle suggested.
"I think we both agree that playing the game is all of the fun."
Kyle sighed. "A fucking film of you and Cartman fucking. I feel dirty just saying it." He shuddered. "Fuck me, man. Fucking fuck it. … You don't think he'll actually watch it, do you?"
"No." Wendy turned the heat down again incrementally. "I wouldn't have done it if I thought he'd look at it. A man like that isn't sexual enough to care. Academics rarely are. It's all so … well, I think he'd be rather disturbed by two people who are clearly into each other having sex, like for real. For guys like that it's all talk and no doing."
"You think he's asexual?"
"Maybe."
"I never even thought about Frank Granger like that. I never even considered he might have his own … you know, feelings."
"Exactly," Wendy agreed. "That's who he is. That's how people like him are. He's not, like, bad-looking, though. Do you think he's a virgin?"
"So what if he is?" Kyle dropped his arms. "I'm a virgin!"
"Much to many a boy's great annoyance."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means almost any boy in our class would die happy being the one to alleviate that little problem for you."
"Problem?" Kyle's cheeks reddened. Suddenly the car felt much more overheated than it had when Wendy had the heat cranked up full-blast. "Who says it's a problem?"
"I didn't say it was a problem; you did."
"No I didn't! In fact I said it should matter whether or not someone is, because for your information, Wendy, I could have had sex if I wanted to, and I didn't!"
"All boys want to have sex," Wendy said. "For that matter, so do all girls — it's just that we have more to lose from it. Everyone likes sex, Kyle, unless they're asexual, and I really don't think you're asexual."
"I'm not, I'm just—"
"I just don't know what you're waiting for, is that I'm saying."
"Who says I'm waiting for anything? By most people's definition I've had plenty of sex, just not — just not in the Biblical sense, I guess."
"What does the Bible have to do with it?" Wendy snapped the dial to the left, shutting it off completely.
"I don't know." Kyle shrugged. "All my life I've been raised in a family that does things by the book — you know, the book. My father practices law — I think I decided when I was bar mitzvah-ed that I didn't want to be a lawyer. I have a fundamental problem with the law. Specifically, honoring my mother and father. They mean well, I know they do, but…" Kyle pressed his cheek against the damp window, his breaths clouding the glass. "But how can I honor the people whose decisions have made me so fucking unhappy? I don't know what my mother thought was out there in the rest of the world, but I hate this fucking town, Wendy. I fucking hate it."
"I think we all do."
"You don't hate it. You're just sick of it. I fucking hate South Park. If I could take a syringe and draw it from my veins, I would. I can't stand it here, I can't stand the people here, I can't bear thinking that I'm part of the problem."
"You're not." She reached for his arm; for once he did not shove her away. "It's only another year, Kyle. You'll make it."
"But that's the problem —I haven't even thought about where I'm going to college. I always assumed I would go somewhere, but the thought of having to beg my parents for money to let me run away from them is traumatizing. It's all her fault, you know. I've let that woman get away with telling me who I am for years now."
"I'm pretty sure your parents want you to go to college."
"I'm sure at, like, Brandeis."
"That's a good school. I might apply to Brandeis."
"It's pointless." Kyle shook Wendy from his arm, and tugged down his sleeves. "I don't even know what I'm upset about. Things actually seem like they might go my way for once. But if I've learned anything about living here it's that when things seem like they might go your way, that's the time to worry."
Wendy smiled at him; it was the sort of indulgent smile a person gives to someone he pities. Kyle looked at her in the low, late-afternoon light; the aggressive curve of her painted lips bothered him. Kyle didn't know why he was sharing things with Wendy, especially self-indulgent under-developed musings on his future, which was as unclear to him as why he was sitting in a girl's car right now. He resented her, but respected her. She seemed so perfect, as if all of her decisions were golden, her promising fate sealed. Everything about her was calculated — even the pink grease smeared across her mouth was carefully applied with care and assurance. She left nothing to chance. Kyle thought about the guys in his life he called friends; they were never put-together, except for Craig, and even Craig carried as air of uncaring detachment, like the functions of the world meant nothing to him.
"I'm sorry about Stan," Wendy said, perhaps out of nowhere. "I know it's tough. I guess if you and I can be friends I won't hook up with him anymore — I mean, I really don't anymore. I think I've learned my lesson."
Kyle shook his head. He didn't want to chastise her, because he didn't want to think about it, but he was also reluctant to take her bait. He sighed.
"I have to go," he said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"You don't have a cassette player in this car, right?" Kyle asked, even though he could see that she didn't.
"My parents had the stereo replaced with a CD-player when they gave it to me."
"Well, I have to get somewhere." He pulled up the lock on the passenger-side door. "It's been great, Wendy." Then he shook his head: "Well, no, it hasn't. But thank you."
"For what?" she asked.
"I'm so not really sure."
She watched him crawl out of the front seat, and set off into South Park, alone and unguarded.
XXX
"What?" was the first thing Craig asked after answering the door. He had abandoned his hat. He was leaning against the doorframe, bare arms folded, eyebrows raised. Kyle tried to read Craig's eyebrows: Were they defensive, inquisitive, resigned? He realized that he just couldn't tell.
So he just cleared his throat, and croaked out a hoarse, "Hey."
"What?" Craig asked again. He was very conspicuously not inviting Kyle in. Why wasn't he wearing a hat? What was that all about? Like always, it was beautifully styled, loose pieces of jet-black hair glued in place with products, stapled with heat. Kyle remembered edging his nose under Craig's hat just enough to smell a mixture of coconut and chemical. He missed that. He sighed.
"Hey." He realized he was repeating himself, but it didn't bother him. He shuffled his feet. "I, uh." He coughed. Kyle looked up at Craig, and their eyes locked. "I sort of need your help with something."
"My help?" Craig asked. Carefully, he took a step back, and the door moved with him. "What could you possibly need my help for?"
"Because." Kyle reached into his pocket, and drew out the cassette. He held it up, hoping that Craig would see it in all its glory.
Craig's eyes widened. "Who uses tapes anymore?" he asked.
"I don't know." Kyle shrugged. Then he said, "Well, Stan does. It's from Stan. I mean, the tape is. I mean, I don't know where he got the tape, I don't think I've ever known him to be into tapes, or listening to tapes, or making tapes, but he made it. I know he made it 'cause he put it in my locker, for one thing, and I know that was him because no one else knows the combination to my locker. And he wrote his initials, see?" Kyle tapped the cassette box with his free hand, unsure of whether Craig could see, but whatever.
"Kyle," Craig said. "You're rambling."
Kyle blushed. "Sorry."
"Well." Craig stepped away from the door, crooking a finger. "Why don't you step inside?" When Kyle was in, he whispered his thanks, and Craig crossed his arms again. "So, you have a little tape from your crush," he said. Kyle could hear the acid in his voice, but for some reason, it wasn't all spite — Craig sounded a little sad, too. "What do you think it means?"
"Well, that's why I came to you," Kyle explained. "You have a tape deck, don't you?"
Craig nodded. "But every asshole I know has a tape deck. I mean, you have one in your car. For that matter, Kenny has one. Why didn't you go ask Kenny?"
Kyle looked down. "I don't think me and Kenny are talking these days."
"I know."
Kyle looked back up at Craig. For a moment, Craig smiled. Then he shook his head and said, "Well, come on. Your stupid tape's not gonna listen to itself."
As they walked up the stairs, Craig asked, "Why didn't you listen in your car?"
"Oh." Kyle waited until they were in front of the door to Craig's bedroom to answer. He blushed again, which he felt somewhat self-conscious about, as it seemed to him he'd been doing it a lot lately. "My parents took my keys," he confessed.
Craig snorted. "What'd you do?"
"I don't fucking know."
"Well, how'd you get here?"
Kyle rolled his eyes. "I walked, dude. It's like, a five-minute walk. I was at Harbucks with Wendy and Frank Granger."
"Yeah, she told me you were back to plotting."
"About that." Kyle cleared his throat. "I had no idea you and Wendy, like, talked."
"We watch Degrassi together and get crunk and bitch about guys," Craig explained.
"I never remember you guys doing that."
"I never did it while we were dating because there was nothing to bitch about." Craig grasped the tape from Kyle's hands. "Okay, let's see here." The plastic casing slid right into Craig's cassette player. "Anything could be on this tape, you know."
Kyle shrugged. "I know. It's just … I'd like to have anything right now, you know? I feel like I haven't had anything for a while."
"I understand."
Kyle held his breath, and Craig hit play.
XXX
They stood holding hands as the tape looped through its recording, raspy and crackling, more distorted than a well-mastered CD track but less static than a badly ripped digital file. Craig fidgeted, wanting to sit down, but Kyle was frozen — enrapt. He didn't move. Even as the tape rolled over onto its second side, Kyle was tense and sweating. As it coasted to a buzzing finish two songs into side B, he shivered and let go of Craig's hand.
"Well?" Kyle asked.
"I think it's over." Craig stroked his tape deck, and hit stop/eject twice. He handed Kyle back his tape.
"Well?" Kyle asked.
"Well what?"
"Well, what does that mean?"
"What do you mean, what does that mean? Didn't you listen to it?"
Kyle just shrugged.
"Kyle, I love you." Craig sighed. "But you're hopelessly retarded. No guy makes you a fucking mixtape with a heart on it with all these songs by Marvin Gaye and I want to fuck you like an animal and whatever just for the hell of it."
"Well, okay, so what does I want to fuck you like animal mean?"
"It means he wants to fuck you. Probably like an animal. But I'm no rocket scientist. Don't quote me there."
"No. No way." Kyle shook his head. His cheeks felt hot. "Stan wouldn't … he doesn't, um … Stan is straight, Craig."
"Oh yeah?" Craig uncrossed his arms, shifted his weight. "Why are you so sure?"
"Because he has sex with women."
"I've had sex with women."
"No way. … Unless you mean Butters," Kyle added quickly. "Stan definitely is not interested in men. He's interested in girls. I would know, he's my best friend, and I'm completely in love with him. I think it's kind of cruel that he'd so pointedly try to upset me with this, but we've been fighting lately, so I guess I deserve. On some level. I'm sure. Or, or — or this could be some sick joke of Cartman's. He probably hassled Stan for the combination to my locker, made Stan label a mixtape for me so Stan's shitty handwriting would be all over it— "
"You're overcomplicating this. That" — Craig pointed at the tape clutched in Kyle's sweaty hands — "is a come-on. Either you can stand here trying to talk me into going along with your dumb reasoning, pretending that the guy you'd rather have sex with than me didn't just make you a total old-school crush tape, or you can accept it, and go do whatever you want about it. Knowing you, he'll have to club you over the head with a mallet and drag you back to his cave before you get that far, but whichever. We broke up, so it's none of my business."
"He's straight."
"Sure, the kind of straight man who wants to bone another man."
"Stop arguing with me! I know him, and you don't! He doesn't like me the way I like him and I have to get over it!"
"Kyle!" Craig grabbed him by the shoulders. "We're going downstairs. You need to leave now."
The Tucker household always seemed abandoned. Kyle hated it. He felt like he wasn't allowed to say anything in their carpeted hallways, or stumbling down their walnut stairs. If Craig ever mentioned that his family would be around, Kyle made a point to avoid them. The father was a fat loudmouth, the mother had never said anything he could recall, and he'd never even seen the sister. Kyle wondered if Craig had similar feelings about his family. Now obviously wasn't the time to discuss it.
The door swung open to reveal the desolate front yard in twilight. "Well?" Craig asked. "Aren't you going to get going?"
Standing still, Kyle asked, "But what if you're wrong? If I risk everything and go tell him how I feel, and it turns out he doesn't want me — or worse yet, what if it turns out he does want me? What if even if he's someone I could be with, he's not the person I should be with?" Kyle lowered his voice, and approached Craig, laying a hand on the other boy's hip. "If I just threw this stupid tape away, and told you I wanted to go upstairs with you and — and pretend like nothing since that stupid dance ever happened…"
"What sort of man would I be if I stood between my ex-boyfriend and his best friend getting together?" Craig asked. He shut his eyes tightly.
Kyle threw his hands up. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. "I'm giving you a chance here! I don't know—"
Craig grabbed Kyle by the lapels of his pea coat. "A fucking bad one," Craig informed Kyle in his sultriest tone. Then, predictably — or perhaps not, considering Kyle hadn't seen it coming — he drew their mouths together, and was not stingy with the tongue. Not sure what to do, Kyle closed his eyes. He opened his mouth wider, and began to get into it. In a way, kissing Craig was like riding a bicycle — you never really forgot how to do it. Or you always secretly sort of wished you were still doing it. Or you liked it more when you hadn't done it for a while. Or you got hard while you were doing it. Or all of those. Or none of those. Kyle didn't know, and he didn't care. He wasn't thinking about pulling away; he was just enjoying himself. Of course, that was when Craig decided to stop, letting go of Kyle's lapels and pushing him backward by the chest.
"I'm a horrible, terrible man," Craig said with a smirk. "Go get that boy. You want him, and he's apparently hot for you." Craig wiped his lips with his wrist.
"But—"
"Run, Kyle! Run like the wind!" He slammed the door shut.
"What the fuck!" Kyle exclaimed. He stuck the tape back in his pocket, and did just what Craig had told him to do.
While running, Kyle internalized a couple of things. One, he was still out of shape. Not fat, of course, but he deeply felt that running should not be this unpleasant. Two, it was time to stop wearing his winter coat. Three, he should not run with things in his pockets. Four, a couple is two, and he was now cognizant of four things, total. It didn't matter. The streets were wet with the melting chunks of leftover snow, all of which was gray and flecked with bits of dead grass. Every so often, he had to jump over an obstacle — a pile of snow on the sidewalk or a something. It didn't matter; his mind was focused. He knew where the boys scrimmaged, a vacant lot behind the liquor store that Kenny's older brother worked at. It didn't matter how small this town was; he felt like he'd been running forever.
He didn't know why he was running. Was it the sense of urgency he felt? The idea that running toward your true love was romantic? Did all people who ran have questions like this? He had to dodge an old lady with a cart of groceries on Main Street, and then he very nearly ran into a dumpster as he rounded the corner of the liquor store. With a final breathless pant, he halted when he got to the lot, and hunched, and put his hands on his knees. He looked up at the boys playing football. Some of these guys were familiar from games he'd watched, but in general, the only ones he really knew were Stan, who was holding the ball, and Cartman, who was sitting flat on his ass in the mud talking in agitation to some guy standing over him. Who knew Cartman argued with everyone, that it wasn't just him?
It was now or never, Kyle figured. So he straightened up, took a deep breath, and charged.
Tackling Stan only came easily because Kyle had done it from behind, unexpected, and Kyle knew this. He couldn't put any faith in his own strength. He just knew that Stan was under him, and perhaps other high school boys, including Cartman were looking at them, but in the heat of the moment he didn't have any other ideas. He wished he's asked Craig what to do once he tracked down Stan. With his thoughts scrambled and his heart in his throat, he pressed a kiss to Stan's mouth.
Stan responded, and for an all-too-brief moment things were okay. Then Stan's lips stilled, the screech of traffic in downtown South Park came back in focus from a distance, and Eric Cartman, without a hint of irony, shouted out, "Are you actually kissing a Jew, Stan? That is so sick!"
Kyle looked up to Cartman to glare at him.
"Eric, bro, that's not cool," some boy with a scraggly beard said.
"Sorry," Cartman scoffed. "Didn't know you guys ran around just kissing each other all willy-nilly in Middle Park. What is it, like a big gay party up there? Seriously."
"Only on special occasions," the Middle Parker joked.
"Fags."
Stan pinched his nose and shut his eyes, shaking his head, but he didn't push Kyle off, which made everything in the world seem right by Kyle.
"Do you need a minute, Marsh?" the bearded boy from Middle Park asked. Kyle didn't know who he was, maybe he was the team captain. Kyle didn't care.
Stan helped Kyle to his feet after pushing himself up; mud painted Stan's jeans from the back pockets to the cuffs, halting only where his knees hadn't actually hit the ground. "Yeah," Stan said deliberately, brushing his sleeves, which weren't dirty at all. "We'll just be a few."
"Okay," said Bearded North Parker, before he yelled for a needless timeout to the group, making a perpendicular hand gesture.
Stan and Kyle did not go behind the liquor store, exactly, as they were already behind it on the makeshift scrimmage field. But Stan led Kyle around to the side of the building — not before tossing the football to the ground — glancing around a bit to ensure no one was looking in on them. Other than Cartman, Kyle did not much mind if anyone did; in fact, he might have preferred that Cartman did look on, if only to see the look on his old frenemy's face when Stan had to admit that he'd made Kyle a pretty gay mixtape. Still, Kyle's heart was beating furiously, elevating him beyond the reality of the situation. He hated how collected Stan seemed through this, unruffled as always, less embarrassed than just barely annoyed.
"Stanley…"
"I don't know what to say." Stan coughed into his fist. He still seemed pretty level. "I was wondering if you got my tape. I guess you did?"
Kyle grinned at the way Stan's voice kicked up at the end of the sentence.
"Yeah, I did. I listened to it."
"Okay."
Stan was leaning on the side of the liquor store, a painted-brick structure (with the yellow paint peeling away to reveal the previous color, turquoise) with a stream of dirty snow melting off the gutters of the building, dribbling down the yellow bricks. His arms were crossed, he looked aloof, but his voice gave more away than Kyle had previously thought. He knew Stan, and he had to remind himself of it.
"Why did the second side stop two songs in?"
"Oh." Stan scratched the back of his neck. "I ran out of songs."
"You've known me since you were months old and you can't fill two entire sides of a cassette tape with songs about me?"
"Who said that tape was about you?"
Counting this as a setback, Kyle asked, "Where'd you find all those dopey songs, anyway?"
"My dad. He, like, has a bunch of old records. He showed me how to dub things. And I got the Nine Inch Nails off the radio."
"Since when do you listen to the radio?"
"I never listen to the radio. I just called them and asked them to play that song, and when I came on I recorded it. It wasn't hard; it wasn't like a lot of effort."
Somehow, this made it seem to Kyle like a lot of effort. "This all sounds so sweetly antiquated. I just, um." He shrugged. "Help me out, Stanley. What do you want me to say to you?"
"Me?"
Kyle nodded.
"Well, I don't know, I sort of have to get back to football practice…"
"Dude, I—"
"Look." Stan shut his eyes. "Ugh, sorry, I'm bad at planning this shit out. I'm sorry, I'm taking Kenny's advice, and he's got a preponderance of ideas on big sweeping romantic gestures culminating in multiple climaxes, and how it might be beneficial if I videotaped it, but to be honestly, I'm not … really sure … I don't know what I want."
"Well, I don't fucking know what you want!" Kyle yelled. Now he had half a mind to slap Stan across the face. Ugh, no, that was way too girly. He had half a mind to slug Stan in the gut. "I'm not a fucking mind-reader, Stanley! You have to tell me what you want from me because you just led me to humiliate myself in front of like a dozen straight guys I don't know not to mention Cartman, too!"
"Sorry." Stan clasped his hands. "It's not like they're chasing after you with torches. Besides, I'm the one who got kissed. I never told you to sack me in the middle of a scrimmage."
"When was I supposed to do it?" Kyle was shaking. "Fucking do something, Stanley! I can't take this anymore!"
"Take what?"
"Ask me out or something, dickbag!"
"Oh." Stan grabbed one of Kyle's wrists, fist unclenching, and Stan slid their hands together. Kyle could feel mud and calluses on Stan's fingers. "Kyle, do you want to go out to dinner tomorrow night? Maybe we can talk, or something."
"Okay," Kyle agreed. "But I don't want pizza. I just don't put out for any old crap."
"Yes, that's right, I have to get you drunk first."
Their hands unlinked, and for a moment they said nothing — Kyle scowled, and Stan pecked him on the cheek before returning to practice.
"Tomorrow," Stan repeated to Kyle as he walked away. "I'll pick you up at 7."
"I'm grounded," Kyle replied.
"So—"
"So I guess I'll just have to sneak out. Again."
"Whatever you have to do."
Soon Kyle heard the shouting of the football practice resume from the other side of the liquor store. He felt numb, but he also believed that he had the strength to weather his parents — well, really his mother — when he got back to the house. He was sure she had left dozens of messages on the phone that was sitting on his nightstand — that is, if she'd realized at all that he'd left. Perhaps she hadn't. At long last, Kyle dared to hope.
Next time: the exciting conclusion. Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to leave some critique. I can't wait to change the status of this story to "complete." Hopefully it won't take so long this time.
