Chapter Track: Junkyard – Page France
Winter break comes to a pleasant but too-soon close, and before we know it, we're being herded back into South Park High School, flitting from class to class by the command of the bell. Craig and I seem to have developed some sense of normalcy between us (normal for us, I mean) within our day-to-day lives. Since cross country season has ended and swimming hasn't started yet, Craig has more time to spend with me. We therefore spend as much time as we can stomach hanging out together. Some weeks, it's more time than others – we're both so incurably anti-social and introverted and generally pissed off that being with each other for too long lands us in pissy arguments over incredibly stupid things. Like, who had the remote last, or why one of us is looking at the other funny.
This past week has proven to be one of those weeks. On Thursday, we got into some stupid disagreement about a movie. I don't even remember what it was about, I just know that I said something that rubbed him the wrong way. And I guess Craig doesn't forget arguments involving movies, because we haven't spoken since, except for a couple of texts.
This particular feud is pretty unfortunately times – Valentine's Day is on Tuesday. We're still not technically "dating," I suppose, at least in the traditional sense. We don't hold hands when we walk down the hallways together (I wish we did), and we don't go out to spaghetti dinners when we're feeling romantic (we mostly sit in Craig's bed and fool around, unless his parents are home. He seriously does not want to risk them finding out that he likes guys), or whatever normal couples do.
I can't help but be a little excited for Valentine's Day. I've never had anybody to give anything to, and nobody has ever given anything to me – except last year, technically. Bebe gave me a Hello Kitty valentine, the kind that you get at the grocery store. She gave them to just about everybody, but the one she gave to me was one of the bigger valentines that you're supposed to give to teachers. So I did feel a little special.
Mostly, though, Valentine's Day has always left a sour taste in my mouth. I hate seeing the heart-shaped balloons and the bright-eyed teddy bears. More than that, I hate when dressed-up couples come to Harbucks to get a romantic cup of coffee together, or whatever the fuck they think that they're doing. They always sit across from each other and give each other the eyes and speak about soft, cutesy things.
It makes me want to fucking vomit.
But this year feels different. I know that Craig and I won't be making eyes at each other and we definitely won't be participating in any sappy conversation. Craig has very vocally expressed his distaste for sweet words – "Makes me sick to my stomach" or "They just sound so fake," he says. When I point out that his favorite movie is Moulin Rouge, he says that movies are different. Movies are a made up world, Craig tells me. It's okay for them to be dramatic and romantic and explosive, because they're just dreams. People should stop trying to force their lives to be like impossible dreams, he says.
I think that this is maybe a little bit cynical, but it sort of makes sense. It's like how seeing Token and Rec making out is utterly disgusting to me, despite that they're attractive people and they're well-suited to each other. But I can watch an equally as attractive couple as Token and Red on a television screen, and I'm not grossed out at all. Instead, I'm moved.
It shouldn't make sense to me, but it does.
I don't want to get Craig anything too sappy for Valentine's Day, just something enough to express that I think he's fucking fantastic, even if he can sometimes be a total prick. Maybe I should write that in the card that I'm going to give him. You're a complete douchebag a lot of the time, but that's part of what makes you the guy I like. That's not too sappy at all, and it's just fucking true.
But that would probably piss him off.
Oh well.
It's what I write anyway.
I made his card myself to make up for not making his actual present. It's kind of stupid, as my presents tend to be – a gift card to Best Buy. There isn't actually a Best Buy anywhere fucking near here. I made my mom drive me (my parents are back to not letting me drive again, I think because they finally got the notice about how much my speeding tickets raised the cost of our insurance) the two hours it takes to get to Littleton to go to the Best Buy there.
I realize while we're in Littleton that I glad the town we live in is so small. Everybody may know each other in South Park, but at least I go to a high school that houses a mere couple hundred students, instead of a couple thousand. I get overwhelmed where I already am. The simply idea of a high school as large as the ones we see stirs up panic in my gut.
So Valentine's Day comes around at last.
I have the things for Craig tucked safely into the confines of my messenger bag. I wonder if he got anything for me, and decide that I wouldn't mind if he hadn't, because I know that he doesn't like Valentine's Day. I kind of tuned him out when he was going on about it a couple weeks ago – something about corporate reed and the gullibility of the masses and blah, blah, blah. Whatever it was, he'd started to sound like the goth kids.
I try to think of a time during school that I can get Craig alone and give the presents to him. During the school day, associating with each other is strictly off-limits, outside of sitting together at lunch or walking to our classes side by side. He says that being with me at school makes him paranoid, but I don't think he knows the meaning of the word.
When people even glance our way, I start to panic. Once, in the cafeteria, I caught Stan looking at us. I internally freaked the fuck out, because I know he knows about us, and I don't know much about Stan. I don't know if he's a nice guy or not. I think he is – I mean, he hasn't told anybody about seeing Craig and me yet except for Wendy, and he's friends with Kyle. I know that Kyle is nice.
I didn't want Craig to see that Stan was staring, either. Craig hates Stan almost as much as he hates Kenny. Plus, Craig has repeated more than a few times to me his fear of Stan letting slip what he saw in the bathroom a few months ago. To like, Cartman, or somebody else that's a bigoted asshole. So I turned my meanest glare on, despite dread, and Stan looked away.
I sit down in my English class just as the bell rings. Everybody is already present and seated except for Craig and Clyde – and Clyde darts in about thirty seconds after the bell has gone silent.
Craig is sometimes pretty late. Occasionally, he goes out to smoke right before class, and comes in about fifteen minutes past the bell with his headphones in. But if that's the case, I wonder why he didn't ask me to go with him. He told me that he's tired of me going out to smoke with Kenny, because Kenny is, I quote, "a dick."
Since Token's New Year's Eve party, Craig has been especially touchy about me spending time with Kenny. I think (and I can't help but smirk a little as I do. Okay. I smirk a lot) that if Craig was to be honest with himself, he would admit that he's the teeniest bit jealous. He has no reason to be, of course. Kenny and I have always just been friends, except for that one time. And that one time, I called him Craig by mistake. But…I have to say, I kind of like envious Craig. Perhaps that's vindictive of me, but it amuses me that Craig has gotten so territorial.
And admittedly, I'd probably act similarly if a guy whose sexuality has come into question on many occasions decided to hang around Craig.
Still.
Fifteen minutes into English class, I start to worry. Why isn't he here?
What if his dad found out that he's gay?
What if Craig is dead someplace in a ditch?
Jesus Christ.
I start to pick at the skin around my Band-Aids. My eyes dart around the room and I get this anxious feeling the builds up and up until it explodes like thunder in my stomach. I realize that I'm waiting for somebody to tell me to stop fucking with my hands. But nobody in this classroom gives a shit about me or the fact that I'm destroying my hands. The only person that ever tells me to stop it is Craig.
My hands were actually starting to improve a little. It wasn't much, but I'd let them heal enough to be able to take off two whole Band-Aids. Granted, the reason Craig was helping was because now when I hang out with, my hands usually get involved in some sort of debauchery. But nevertheless, my hands hadn't looked as nice as they did five minutes ago since I was like, twelve.
Craig doesn't show, not even by the time class ends.
I've completely ripped up my hands. They're a disgusting, bleeding mess.
The fluffy decorations and students toting around corny gifts doesn't help one bit. Every time I see a heart-shaped balloon, I start peeling and picking harder, wringing my hands. They keep slipping, though, because of the blood. I keep wondering if I did something wrong. I wonder if I underestimated how mad I made Craig when I made fun of his movie. At my locker, I send a panicked text to Craig saying that I'm sorry. The grammar and punctuation that I pride myself on go to absolute hell, because my fingers slip and I don't care enough to go back and correct my mistakes. I just want him to know that I'm sorry.
I need to smoke. At least nicotine will give me some semblance of calm.
"Tweek!" I hear behind me, as I stalk down the hallway, "Tweek, dude, wait up!"
Clyde skids to a stop beside me, but I keep walking. He trudges forward, picking up his pace, and says, "Shit, dude. You walk fast." Normally I would say something about how I have grasshopper legs, and Clyde's legs are actually kind of stubby, but I refrain. Mostly because I think I might have a panic attack if I open my mouth.
"What do you want?" I end up snapping at him. I am really, really fucking seriously not in the mood for Clyde.
Clyde continues to follow me despite my hostility, even though we're outside now. It isn't snowing, but it's cold, and Clyde's only wearing a light zip hoodie with the superman logo on it, over a flimsy t-shirt. He says, "I just wanted to tell you that Craig says he's sorry he's not at school today. Token and I went to go pick him up and he's like, super sick. Looks like death, and he could barely talk, man."
I cross the street. Henrietta is the only one outside smoking. I fumble in my pockets for my American Spirits, knowing I'm staining my jeans with my bloody hands, and really not giving two shits.
Craig is sick? He never gets sick.
So I say, "Craig is never sick."
"I know, right?" Clyde replies, "The last time I remember him being sick was like, when we were ten. But he's stressed right now, like, super stressed. He's focused on shit other than being healthy, I guess. But Tweek, dude, he looked like balls. He wouldn't even move."
I stick a cigarette in my mouth and offer one to Clyde. He holds up a hand and says, "Nah bro, that shit is bad for you." From where she's sitting, Henrietta snorts. Clyde sticks his tongue out at her and she flips him off.
"Ngh – I guess that's my fault, then," I say. I mean, what else has Craig been doing, other than screwing around with me and feeling guilty about it later? I light my cigarette and inhale, relieved that Craig isn't upset with me, but concerned that he's so in over his head that his immune system gave him the old 'fuck you.'
Clyde sees the Chinpokomon stickers on my lighter and says, "Sweet, dude. You like Chinpokomon? I have like every game. When we were little I had all the stuffed animals, too, but I gave most of them to my little cousins. That's so cool, though." I smile half-heartedly and pocket it again, saying nothing. Clyde goes on, "But yeah, he gets really hyper about his folks finding out. But really? I think that they'd be chill with it, at least eventually. It might take his old man some time, but if you ask me, his mom would be cool about it right off the bat. And Ruby, dude, she ships you guys so hard."
"Uh, 'ships'?" I say.
Clyde blushes a little and rubs the back of his neck, "It's a fan sort of thing. Basically it means – "
"I know what it means. How the fuck do you know?" I ask. Is everybody weirder than I thought?
Clyde laughs nervously, "I, um, read Teen Titans fanfiction sometimes, and Red Racer, too, I guess. I tried writing it, you know, but I'm no good at that. Got my ass flamed on the internet," he shrugs his shoulders and adds, "I kinda started when Craig and you…you know. We just don't hang out as much. It's funny, I sort of had this idea that Craig and I would be forever alone bros, you know, forever. But it turns out that the reason he didn't ever have a girlfriend is cause he's into dudes. I can't date girls cause they all think I'm stupid or whatever."
See what I mean about Valentine's Day? It makes everybody sentimental.
And to be honest, I would really rather not talk to Clyde about his emotions, but now I feel bad for him. He's so social, but he's not really doing much now, because his two best friends are involved in relationship-type-things. I mean, I love sitting alone and reading fanfiction, but Clyde? Clyde loves people. He loves everybody. He loves Craig even though Craig's a big dick a lot of the time. He even makes and effort with me, even though I've been a total asshat to him this entire time.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I sigh, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke, "Sorry. I'm sorry that I'm taking up all Craig's time."
"What? Oh, no, dude, it's not your fault. Craig should fucking remember his bros. I'd tell him, but he's so weirdly happy with you, dude. I can't do it."
"Ngh – then I'll tell him," I say.
Clyde exclaims, "No! He'll just tell me that I'm being a whiny little bitch."
"But, you're not?" I saying questioningly, eyeing him.
Clyde looks up sharply, "You think so?"
"The whiniest bitch that I know is me," I say, "Just talk to him, man. Jesus – I mean, he'll probably think that you're kidding at first or whatever, but when he realizes that you're serious, he'll cut the shit."
Clyde laughs lightly. He remarks, "Sounds about right. Hey – um, I'm gonna go to class, but Tweek? Thanks."
I'm not sure what I did, but whatever just happened, I'm glad that it did. Clyde is still annoying as fuck, I think, but he's cooler than I gave him credit for. I'll tell Craig that he's lucky to have a friend like Clyde. Craig probably knows that already, but it doesn't hurt to remind him.
o.o.o.o
I make a quick pit stop at my house after school to clean up my hands properly, before heading out to see Craig. I grabbed his homework from his classes, not because I'm actually helpful, but because I want to be able to make sure that he's okay. I figure that if his parents are home, I'll at least have an official-sounding excuse with homework in my hands. Shit, I hope that'll work. His parents seem a little strict, and his dad is definitely why he's wound up so tight.
But when I knock on the Tuckers' door, Ruby is the one that answers. She smiles when she sees me and says mockingly, "Here to see you boooyfriend?" she takes a sip of the Capri Sun in her hand and says, "He's indisposed at the moment. You might wanna back off, since he's under quarantine and all."
"Jesus Christ, what does he have? The black plague?" I narrow my eyes at her. I'm guessing that their parents aren't currently in residence – Ruby is too cautious to even jokingly refer to Craig as my boyfriend, even though that isn't really what he is, anyway. I figure I'll just keep referring to us as having a thing until I get further clarification.
I push past Ruby and into the house.
Ruby protests, "Seriously, Tweek, he's like really gross right now."
I think that this should be off-putting. It should be, right? I hate germs. I sanitize my hands after pretty much anything – my hand brushing the bathroom counter or a table in the cafeteria, and don't even get me started on drinking fountains. I don't do those things whatso-fucking-ever, because that shit is a giant petri dish of disgusting.
Point is, I get sick so easily that sick people should be gross and terrifying to me.
Like, I can't express enough how my least favorite places on the planet are hospitals and doctors' offices. Sure, they're clean, in a weird, cheap lemon cleaner and sharp-smelling disinfectant sort of way. Those smells should reassure me, right? Make me feel safer? But they don't. It makes me think of old people hooked up to oxygen tanks, people sneezing into drippy tissues, and baby vomit. Really fucking icky things, if you ask me.
But Craig being sick seems to fall into a different category in my mind.
All I can think of his how he must feel like shit, and that makes me feel like shit.
So I say, "Ngh – I don't give a flying fuck. I'll make him feel better, or something."
Ruby follows me as I make my way toward the basement. She asks, "Aren't you like, a total germaphobe?"
I shrug my shoulders and reply, "Not now, apparently."
I head down to the basement. At Craig's door, I consider knocking. I don't know, he might be indecent. But then, why would he be indecent right now? And if he was, I guess it's nothing that I haven't seen before. Still, I turn the knob quietly, in case he's asleep (that's what normal people do when they're sick, right? I usually just pace around my room until the carpet goes bald).
At first I can't tell if he's awake or sleeping. The TV at the foot of his bed is on. It's playing Spirited Away, and I can't help but feel a little giddy that's he's watching the first movie we watched together – alone, that is, without Token and Clyde. His bed looks like a massive pile of blankets and crumpled tissues. There's a bag of cough drops sliding toward the edge of his mattress. Some have already fallen out onto the carpet. The pile shifts as Craig rolls over.
Said pile addresses me hoarsely, "Ruby, get me more Kleenex."
"Not Ruby," I say.
Craig emerges from the pile, tugging his down comforter off of his face. Jesus Christ. He does look like death. His olive skin is paler than mine. His eyes look sunken in, his nose is red and raw, and there's an unhealthy flush to his cheeks.
"Tweek," he says, like he doesn't believe that I'm actually standing there. He's losing his voice. It's barely above a rough whisper.
"I brought you some stuff," I say, unloading the things that I have packed in my bag. I give him his homework first, arranging it neatly on his desk, so he can work on it when he feels better.
"I am sick on Valentine's Day, and you bring me homework," he states, "fucking asshole."
So he does care that it's Valentine's Day. Corporate greed, my ass. I can't help but smirk a little. I say, "Ngh – the homework was a backup plan to get in your house, in case your parents wouldn't let me see you. So, um, sorry. I bought you an actual Valentine's gift, though." I pull out the card and giftcard, placing them on top of his comforter, someplace around his abdomen.
Craig picks the card up first.
It's definitely corny…but I have a feeling that Craig enjoys puns more than he's willing to let on. This is why, in Crayola markers, I drew Yoda (poorly) and scrawled across the top "Yoda one for me."
Craig chuckles. Or tries to chuckle, rather. He ends up having a coughing fit, hacking into his hands. He picks up one of the crumpled tissues on his bed to wipe at his mouth.
"Fuck," he mutters, when the coughing subsides. He tosses to his other side, and then tosses back again, facing me, "It hurts to fucking breathe," he says, and then repeats, "Fuck."
I probably shouldn't stay too long, even though I feel this incessant need to take care of Craig. I know that it would annoy him if I did that, though. He doesn't like to coddled, and I imagine he likes it even less when he has a temperature. I know what a fever looks like. His dark eyes are glazed over, and a thin film of sweat slicks his forehead.
I expect his next words to be kicking me out of his bedroom so that he can get some much-needed rest, but instead, Craig says, "I got something for you, too. S'on my dresser."
It isn't hard to identify. Craig cleared a space among the chaotic rubble of wires, change and action figures, and set it there. A square of plastic. I pick it up. It's a CD. The cover is hand-drawn.
"Too poor to buy shit," Craig explains wearily, "So I made you a mix."
I'm so flattered that I don't know what. I mean, I thought that I was the arts and crafts guy, but it turns out that Craig has even more weirdness hidden up his sleeve. The mix CD is not very originally named, just "Happy Valentine's." The awesome part is what Craig drew. He's not half-bad at art. He's obviously unpracticed, but I guess it's one of those thing in which he had to choose what was more important to him, and Craig chose cross country and swimming over honing his skill in drawing.
He drew me Chinpokomon.
"Ngh, Craig, this is so –"
He looks like he's sleeping.
I pad softly over to his bedside and hover. Maybe I should like, kiss him goodnight or something. Do people that are kinda-sorta-maybe dating do stuff like that? Even if they don't, I want to. It's just that he looks different when he's sleeping. His brow is relaxed and he's not scowling. He doesn't exactly look peaceful or reverent – those words are too pretty to describe how Craig looks. He looks…sacked out. He's breathing through his mouth, I suppose probably because his nose is stuffed up.
I lean down.
Craig speaks without opening his eyes, "Don't kiss me. I don't wanna give you this shit."
Jesus, he's like, psychic or something.
"And I'm not psychic, you just breathe loudly," he mumbles on, "gonna sleep now, kay."
"Okay," I say back. I run a hand through his damp hair, combing down a piece that's sticking up funny. Then I tell him, "Get better soon."
"Mmph," is about all Craig can articulate in his state.
I close the door behind me as quietly as I can, and succeed. This is huge accomplishment for me, until I trip over my own feet and fall, face-planting into the leftmost ugly sofa.
"Jesus," I say, rubbing the tender spot on my head as I traverse up the stairs.
Upstairs, Ruby is cuddled up on the couch with her legs crossed. Perched on her knees is a laptop – a laptop that is distinctly not hers. The giveaway (if not for the Luke Skywalker decal) is in faded and redrawn sharpie bubble letters: The name "Craig."
"What?" she says, when I lift an accusing brow.
I reply, "Ngh – I thought you were a hacker, not a thief."
"I am, but if is he just leaves it out on the kitchen table, his shit it fair game," she shrugs, "Besides, he has like, everything password protected and crap, so I'm still hacking, technically. It's just easier than usual. You wanna see something totally adorable?"
I wander over to her side, thinking that maybe she has a Youtube video of a puppy or something, but it isn't. It is a video, but it isn't on Youtube, and it is definitely not a puppy. It's Craig. A Craig from like ten million years ago, but without a doubt, Craig.
His video diary.
Ruby snickers and comments, "He's so beautifully awkward."
The original Stripe is in Craig's hands. He looks around twelve or thirteen. He's more baby faced, with rounder cheeks and a hesitant smile. His braces are blue and yellow like his hat. Hs nose is speckled in zits. I guess since then, he's discovered face wash. I think the best part, though, is the dark fuzz on his upper lip. I can't help but chuckle at bit at pre-shaving Craig.
It's funny. When we were this age, I didn't notice at all how awkward he looked. I thought of Craig as one of the "cool guys," that walked with a swagger in his step, and knew how to talk to people without panicking. But looking at this thirteen-year-old Craig now, and thinking back, he was just as anti-social and youthfully unattractive as I had been – except that I'd had opposite issues. When I was thirteen, my eyes were too big for my face, and I had absolutely no body hair, making me look about nine. And sure, I still have huge eyes and Craig is still hairy as hell, but we've grown into it.
"Isn't it awesome?" Ruby cries delightedly, "He's so ugly, it's great."
I open my mouth to retort, but Ruby presses the play button.
"Say hi to the camera, Stripe," Craig says. Stripe's nose twitches, but other than that, the guinea pig doesn't really react.
Craig talks for awhile about Token and Clyde – "Token has a girlfriend already. Can you believe that? We're too young for that shit. And Clyde's all up in arms about it. He wants a girlfriend too." Craig pauses. He gets up off of his bed and puts Stripe back in his cage. When he returns to sit in front of the camera again, he looks far more serious, a lot more like the Craig he is now.
"Clyde thinks I want a girlfriend, too. He tried to get Sally to kiss me at lunch yesterday. It was fucking embarrassing."
Craig sighs.
"I don't want a girlfriend."
He's quiet for a few long seconds.
I don't think that I should be watching this. I feel like maybe I've gone too far. This is Craig's private business. I sure as hell wouldn't want anybody watching thirteen-year-old me telling a camera my thoughts and feelings.
"Ruby –" I start.
"Shh!" she hushes me, "He's about to talk about you."
"Ngh – what? Jesus Christ, how many times have you watched this video?" I demand. I send a silent thanks to the universe for making me an only child. God forbid I be forever attached to a sibling like the demon spawn beside me.
"Like a hundred times," Ruby answers eagerly, "especially after you two kissed and shit – oh, here it comes. Quiet."
"Dad said yesterday that Richard Tweak says his son is gay. He said he doesn't mind if other people have gay kids, but he's glad that I like girls. I didn't know that Tweek likes guys. It makes sense, I guess. And nobody really gives a shit except asshole Cartman. But…"
Craig's voice hitches.
Oh, Christ. Has he been struggling like this all the way since then? Fuck. I wish that I had known. I wish I'd been around to tell him that it was okay and that I thought we was the coolest kid in our class, because I did.
"What if I don't like girls."
Another pause.
"I don't think I do."
Craig runs his hands through his badly cut hair and heaves a sigh. He says, "I mean, maybe I like girls. I haven't ever liked one before, but you never know," his voice drops to a whisper, "Dad can't find out, but I was sooo happy when I found out that Tweek likes guys. Clyde thinks he's weird, but I think he's cool. He doesn't talk to me, but I caught him looking at me this one time. And he has a Star Wars binder. He's like, really twitchy, but –"
Behind him, Craig's bedroom door opens. It's ten-year-old Ruby. She crows, "Will you shut up and stop talking to yourself, you freak? Karen and I are trying to watch Mulan, asshole."
Craig flips her off and mutters, "Go to hell," before the camera shakes, and the video goes black.
What did I just see?
o.o.o.o
Big, big thank yous to my superb reviewers: glow vomit, MariePierre, Alex0821, Amberr-chan, blobblab, Reverse Psychology, TheAwesome15, KirstenTheDestroyer, PWN3D, NightmareMyLove, Wendlekins, ObanesHarvest, Mallory, Cynical B. Itch, and makayla diana schmidt.
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