Brace Yourself

Chapter Eleven: 'Cause The Daylight Seems To Want You

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: By the way, I forgot to celebrate last chapter- Brace Yourself is the first story since YCNGB to go into double digits! Yay! I sort of forgot that somewhere in between wallowing in self-pity at my lack of chosen-ness by the writing gods. By the way, I hate when people say 'the thing you have to get about blah blah blah'; one of my friends always starts stuff like that, and he's very goth-y, so the fact that Stan starts this paragraph with this line is sort of a stupid joke with myself.


The thing you have to get about my mom is that when I was born, she wasn't sure how to be a mother. She didn't understand the concept of playgroups and birthday parties, and that the way she would act would affect my invitations to said events. The other mothers saw her as some kind of tarted up slut; and that reflected badly on my young social life. Until Kyle, that is.

I think she's always felt kind of bad about that, when it comes to both me and my older sister.

So when Shelley comes home to visit from college late Sunday night, not only does my mom welcome her with open arms and no suspicions at all, but she makes sure to cater to her every whim.

My sister's a total bitch, and so of course her whims include removing all the guy shampoo and conditioner from the bathroom and replacing them all with her shit. This would be fine, except when I'm showering Monday morning, the only bottles I can find are marked Grapefruit Passion. On top of that, the soap is something like Pomegranate Martini (with sparkles). So not only do I get to drive to school smelling like some kind of tropical fruit, but I'm pretty sure I'm shimmery.

Fucking sisters. Can't live with them, and can't murder them without raising too many questions. Although I'd bet my pitiful GPA that in this town I could get away with it.

Actually, that's probably not true. Cartman, of all people, shares some sort of twisted kinship with Shelley that I don't even begin to want to understand. He'd probably ruthlessly hunt for her murderer out of some sick show of solitude.

When I get to school, the first thing I do is track down the perpetrators of this whole homecoming king fiasco.

I find them exactly where I knew they'd be. Detention. Again.

I stalk in, ignoring the teacher inside, and smack them both upside the head. Hard.

"You assholes!"

"Ow! Fuck, Marsh. Nice to see you too," Craig mutters, glaring balefully up at me. If looks could kill, his dark eyes might have fried me nine times over by now.

"W-what was that for?" Clyde pouts, not sure whether to deck me or to cry. He is such a baby sometimes.

Craig doesn't even wait for an explanation. He just buries his head in a book and chooses to ignore me. On the other hand, Clyde's still gazing at me with big, watery doe eyes, waiting for an explanation.

I grit my teeth, "Why exactly am I the only nominee for homecoming king?"

Clyde's eyes widen, "Oops. You found out?"

"Wendy told me," I confirm.

Craig, despite staring at his book like it's the most interesting thing in the world, which I seriously doubt since it looks like some kind of chemistry text book, runs a hand through his thick dark hair and says, "Don't get your panties in a bunch, man."

"We fixed the vote so you'd become king," Clyde informs me, apparently deciding I didn't hit him that hard and pasting on a smile, "We got rid of all the real ballots and replaced them with your name."

"How'd you work that out?"

"Craig charmed Patty, the girl in charge of the box," Clyde tugs at a piece of Craig's hair, but he just huffs and swats him away.

"It was hi-larious," Clyde cheers, "We were wondering how long it would take for you to catch on."

"Yeah. Goddamned Testa-bitch ruined all our fun," Craig mutters, paging through his text book in search of some sort of chemical equation.

"I don't think they give you bomb recipes in there," I tell him.

He waves me off, "Fuck what you think. I've already figured out how to make ketamine and stink bombs from this book."

"I thought you learned how to do that from third grade," I shoot back. He gives me a dark look and returns to his text. He's been in a sour mood ever since the dance. I know this because I made the mistake of attempting to call him last night after hanging out with Kyle. I guess Clyde got a little hook up action, and it's made talking to Craig crap until his favorite brunet decides to stop bragging about it. I have to wonder if Clyde knows he's torturing our friend, or if it's completely innocent. I mean, it's Clyde, so you never know.

"Whatever," Craig snorts, flashing me the finger.

"So are you going to tell me why you two dickholes decided I'd look good with a crown?"

"You needed to loosen up," Clyde replies at the same time as Craig says, "We're fucking with the system. It's what we do."

"O-kay," I nod, acting like I understand their mixed answers. Honestly, they pull a fucking prank every single day. I should have expected I'd be at the receiving end sometime.

Craig finally looks up and sniffs the air, "Why do you smell like a fucking Piña Colada?"

I shrug, "Shelley's back. Why are you in detention?"

"Burned the Vice's toupee."

"Nice."


A week passes. I get to spend time with Kyle twice outside of school; once at Coffee Blue, for real this time, and once at the park where we play a vigorous game of basketball. I get my ass kicked.

I don't go out of my way to see him, though, because I'm trying to do that thing where I'm understanding and considerate.

It's killing me.

I do make the effort to sit closer to his table at lunch. Craig and Clyde question the move from our usual comfortable corner, but mostly they just call me a fag and get over it.

I haven't asked Kyle what happened with Kenny, but I'm guessing it hasn't gone well. The blond's been conspicuously absent during Kyle's cigarette breaks, which I crash from time to time. He still sits with the group in the cafeteria, but he's been moping like crazy.

For instance, on Thursday I watch as Cartman insults him ruthlessly, poking and prodding him all the while.

First this: "What happened, Kenneh? Did your mom run out of pop tarts?"

Punch in the ribs.

And then: "Kenneh, Kenneh, what's it like having sex with your brother?"

Kick in the shin.

And finally: "God, Kenneh. I know you're a horny slut, but I just found out your mom is one crazy bitch in bed."

"Cum waffle," is Kenny's only reply, and it might've been funny if his tone wasn't so morose. I remember back when we were all friends Kenny used to be cheerful. Vibrant. Alive.

As time's gone by he only seems to get angrier. I've always thought that maybe it's because my view of him has gotten slowly darker with every passing day, during which he treats me like a total asshole. Now I'm starting to think maybe my hatred hasn't colored my vision. Maybe he really has become…well, an emo pussy fag. If he treats everyone the way he treats me, like he's pissed off at the entire world, then he deserves the title of 'Raven' more than I ever have. Well, excusing that whole elementary school incident.

I'm being kind of harsh, though. If Kyle hasn't talked to him yet, which I'm positive he hasn't, he must be going through a hard time.

"Po'boy, you're pathetic," Cartman sneers in typical Cartman-esque fashion. It's sad. Cartman's got half a brain and is a master of manipulation, but he was really much more frightening back when we were nine. At least then his whiney-bitch ass voice was acceptable. Now that he's nearly eighteen, walking around sounding like someone's punched him in the 'nads is considerably less intimidating.

In response, Kenny gives him a feeble middle finger and sinks his head down into his arms. He's pining over Kyle. It's pathetic.

It's also the one thing I understand completely.


I'm on my way out of school Friday afternoon to meet Kyle for that game of basketball that I'm about to get my ass royally kicked in when I see Derek. His hair's getting long, and he's tied it back into this nub of a ponytail that looks better than all those stupid styled spikes he likes to wear. I never noticed before, but hey, he's kind of attractive for a guy. Not that I'm noticing, or anything. That would be ridiculous.

"Raven, Henrietta wants to talk to you," he sidles up to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. It's warm and damp, and the touch makes me want to draw away.

"So I've heard," I snap.

"Come on now. You're going to give yourself an ulcer with all that rage," he purrs, his hand moving down my shoulder to my elbow. His skin's a pale contrast to my fading summer tan. He guides me towards a classroom, and I reluctantly follow.

Henrietta's there, of course. She's seated on top of a teacher's desk like it's a throne. Her other minion, Georgie, is artfully sketching a skeleton on the chalkboard. It's gruesome leer reminds me of who these people are. What they think life is about.

Misery loves company, and with Henrietta, it's never been truer. She preys on peoples' insecurities. She blows things massively out of proportion, turning small hurts into gaping wounds. It's like she can't be happy unless you're ready to cut your eyes out with razor blades.

"Raven," she hums, "Come to grovel?"

"Your lackey dragged me here," I mutter back. Derek chuckles behind me because he knows I wasn't exactly kicking and screaming as I came.

All I want is for him to release my elbow. I breathe a sigh of relief when he does.

"I'm sick of this cat and mouse game, Raven. Your running from me was quaint at first, but-"

"I wasn't running."

"Excuse me?"

"I wasn't running. I was ignoring you."

"That's running," Henrietta protests, shifting so that her glossy vinyl corset catching some of the dim light streaming through the windows. She fancies herself some kind of princess of darkness, but really, she's just a diva.

I roll my eyes, "Not really. Running implies I'm scared of you."

"You're not?" Henrietta raises one perfect black eyebrow. She takes forever to stencil those things on, but trust me; you never want to see her go without.

"No," I scoff, "What's there to be scared of?"

"I'm plenty scary!"

"Um. Right. Could we get on with it now?"

Henrietta's lips purse. She's wearing the same lipstick that Georgie and Derek have on, and it makes her teeth look yellow when she finally decides to talk, "I'm certain you've been wondering what I've been tracking you down for. Your lack of cooperation has been frustrating. There's no need to pussy foot around just because we used to partake in each other's bodies."

I cringe, "Please, please, please don't ever remind me."

She scowls, offended, but continues, "Raven, what I'm offering you is a chance to assist in a life-changing event. We're going to upset the entire flock of sheep that this hellhole consists of. We're going to revolutionize non-conformism."

"I'm not following," I yawn. God, she likes to hear herself talk.

"I'm saying, Raven, that you are going to elect me Queen of Homecoming," she announces with grandeur, flourishing her hands for emphasis.

Well. That's certainly not what I expected.

"You're shitting me," I stare at her in complete shock. Her face turns red with rage.

"No, Raven," she gripes, "Seriously. I want to be homecoming queen."

"But…why?" I ask, unable to comprehend what the hell's going on.

Henrietta. As some kind of prom queen. I don't think so.

"It's so…conformist."

"No!" she declares passionately, "It's the opposite. It's going to fuck up their whole Justin-and-Britney worldview!"

This is oddly reminiscent of Craig's fight the man speech.

"Um. Are you sure you don't just want a tiara?"

"No! The only crown I want is the blissful shroud of death."

"Um. Kay," I roll my eyes, used to her dramatics and habit of quoting crappy poetry at me. I swear, if she didn't have a nice rack, I'd have no idea how I put up with her for all that time, "But you've been trying to talk to me for weeks. They only announced the homecoming thing recently."

"You thought I was trying to get back together with you, didn't you? Pitiful," she laughs scornfully, and I hide a blush, because yeah. That's exactly what I thought. And maybe I'd done a little running because of it.

"I heard your conformist friends talking about rigging the ballots a few weeks back. I realized what it meant and knew I had to get you in on it. Since I couldn't, I fixed the ballot so I'd be a nominee for queen, and I knew once I talked to you, everything would work out nicely," she finishes with a satisfied smirk.

Lucky for her, she didn't talk to me. I would have squashed all of Craig and Clyde's fun right then and there.

"How nice for you," I drawl, bored with this conversation already, "What does it mean?"

"It means that you'll choose me, and then I'm going to be Snow Queen. Can you imagine the dismay, the looks of utter hopelessness of all those blonde Abercrombie poseurs? I live to wreak havoc in the unjust system that chains me down. Together you and I will weed out the rot and corrupt social slaughterhouse they've penned us in!"

I think I can translate that.

"So basically, you want to get back together."

"How else will my rise to the top be believable enough to trick their disillusioned minds, Raven? Get with the program."

"So," I think about it, "You want to get back together."

"God! Yes. Obviously," Henrietta jumps off the desk and runs her claws up my arm, her tongue ring glinting as she licks her lips seductively.

"Um. Let me think about it," I pull my arm away, "No."

"Raven!"

"No," I turn around and walk away.

It's a useful tactic; one I learned from my good friend Craig a long, long time ago in Peru.

Long story.

"You have to help me disrupt the social hierarchy in this nest of Britney-worshipping vipers!"

"No," I call over my shoulder. Derek's still guarding the door, but he catches my eye and winks, letting me pass.

"Smooth move, Raven," he says, and I swear to god his hand grazes my ass.

I have no idea what that's about.

Better not to think about it.


A/N: God, I hope this begins to go somewhere soon. This filler crap is killing me. It's probably why I'm lacking inspiration. Okay, but next chapter is full of Kyle and hopefully Kenny, so we'll see how that goes. Reviews are muchly appreciated.