Chapter Two

"It's Bad Luck To Say Good Luck"

Kyle walked into the cafeteria, which was doubling as a dressing room and green room tonight. The cast was collecting their costumes from a rack, going and changing in the bathrooms, and coming back to put on makeup. It looked as though almost everybody was here, but he checked the sign-in sheet to make sure, and ran into Tweek, who was doing the same thing. Tweek was carrying a clipboard and wearing a stopwatch and looking even more wound up than usual, and that was saying something.

"Hey, Tweek," Kyle said in an exaggeratedly laid-back manner. "How's it going?"

"AAAAAK!" squealed Tweek. "Too much pressure! Too many things to go wrong! Oh, my God!"

"Look, Tweek," Kyle said calmly. "We went over this before. Being a stage manager is all about lists and timing. You've got all your lists, right?"

Tweek nervously waved his clipboard.

"That's right. You've got the cast list, the prop list, the costume list, the list of set changes and light cues. And it's 7:30—half an hour till show time. Now, have you got everything done that's supposed to be done by 7:30? Let's go over it one by one."

Tweek took a deep, shaky breath.

"All the props on the prop table—check. All the costumes placed on the rack—check." In fact, most of them were already on the actors. "Everybody in the cast checked in—check."

Tweek looked nervous again. "Except for Butters! Butters isn't here! Oh, my God!"

"Relax, Tweek," Kyle said soothingly. "You know Butters has a late call. He doesn't even go on until really late in the show."

As if summoned by magic, Butters ran in through the cafeteria doors.

"Huh-hi, Kyle. Hi, Tweek. I-I'm not late, a-am I?" Butters stammered, knocking his fists together.

Kyle sighed. Butters was going to be a loose cannon. Based on past history, anything and everything could happen to Butters and that went double onstage. He might be brilliant. He might freeze up and wet his pants. His shoe might fly off and kill several people, although Kyle had tried to prevent this by giving him a non-dancing role. You simply couldn't tell with Butters, and Kyle was just hoping for the best.

"Boy howdy, fellas, my parents are all excited about the show," Butters said happily. "I told them I had an important part---guess that was kind of braggy, I oughta be a-ashamed a myself—but they're comin' all right, and they said if I do good they'll take me to dinner at Bennigan's tomorra. Course," he said in a more worried tone, "I didn't tell 'em anything about what the show was about or the guns or the electric chair or nothin'."

Kyle turned to Tweek abruptly. "Safety check, Tweek! The most important list! You did the safety check, right?"

"SAFETY CHECK! Oh, JESUS! AKKK! TOO MUCH PRESSURE! Too many things that can—" Tweek didn't even finish before speeding down the hall.

Butters looked a bit wistful. "Did I say somethin' wrong, Kyle? I hope I didn't say nothin' wrong."

Kyle patted him on the shoulder. "No, Butters," he said. "In fact, you might have been a real help. It doesn't hurt to do an extra safety check, and it sounds like you reminded Tweek just in time."

Butters looked happier again. "Oh. Well, OK. A-all right, Kyle, guess I better go get ready." He moved off towards the costume rack.

Kyle walked down the line of makeup tables. There wasn't too much in the way of makeup. They had two ancient kits of stage makeup, one for girls, and one for boys, and the Star Trek geeks who had once made balls for Butters' chin had generously donated some spirit gum and some crepe hair for the few actors who needed it, one of whom was sitting directly in front of Kyle.

Eric Cartman was sitting in front of a mirror and carefully applying a black mustache that curled up at the ends. He had dyed his hair black for the role of Booth. With the mustache and the flashy nineteenth century actor's costume, he looked a bit like Snidely Whiplash, if Snidely Whiplash had found a giant cache of Cheesy Poofs and Snacky Smores and really let himself go. It was clear, however, that Cartman liked what he saw. He smirked at himself in the mirror, and then saw Kyle behind him.

"Hey, Kyle," he said smoothly. "You'll be happy to know that your show is going to be a success. Or," he added, after a pause, "if it isn't, it won't be my fault." He reached into a bag of Double-Stuffed Oreos and made himself a Quadruple Stuff. Kyle smacked his hand.

"Hey, no eating in costume, ass-master!" Kyle snapped. "That thing is rented."

Cartman shrugged. "Kyle, you have to lighten up. I know your cheap little Jewish soul is counting the nickels on the production—"

"CARTMAN! It's a fucking huge FINE!"

"—But you have to remember that artists have needs. I'm going to save your show, and in order to do that, my soul needs to be fed."

"It's not your soul, it's your face, fat-ass," Kyle retorted, "and it doesn't need feeding. You quit it, or I'll break your fingers." He leaned forward menacingly, but was brushed aside by a girl with long black hair.

"OOooo, Cartman!" Wendy squealed. "You look wonderful." Cartman smirked again and handed her a Quadruple-Stuffed Oreo—exactly one.

"Cartman," Kyle said warningly, but Wendy ignored him. She didn't even seem especially interested in food. Her arms were wrapped around Cartman's enormous shoulders.

"You're going to be terrific," she whispered in Cartman's ear. "Break a leg."

"Whoa!" said Cartman, "hope not—serioushlay." Wendy leaned forward and gave Cartman a big wet kiss. Kyle hoped there weren't tongues involved, but he was afraid there probably were. In any case, there was certainly a rude squelchy kind of sound.

"Gross, dude!" Kyle protested, when he heard a swallowing noise right behind him. He wheeled around to see his best friend Stan looking as though his gay dog Sparky had just died. He was already in his costume as John Hinckley but his face said Hamlet, Act I. The suicidal despair, the disgust with women; all he needed was a black costume and a baby spot and he would be good to go.

"Uh, hi Stan," Kyle said casually, stepping in front of Wendy and Cartman and trying to block them from Stan's view. As though that would help.

"Hi, Stan," Stan echoed blankly. Blank face, blank voice, just nothing. Wendy and Cartman hadn't even heard him. At least Wendy hadn't. Kyle darkly suspected Cartman of rubbing it in.

"You're going to be great, Stan," Kyle continued, trying to pull him away. Wendy surfaced with a final SMEEEEERP and a POP!

"Oh, hi Stan," she said brightly. "Break a leg." Kyle shook his head. She was so darned perky about it. He was almost ten years old, and he did not get women, and he wondered if he ever would.

"Hi, Stan," Stan said dully.

"EY!" Cartman cut in. "You're wearing half my mustache, you hippy ho!" And indeed half of Cartman's mustache was now glued to Wendy's upper lip. Kyle took advantage of the distraction to pull Stan away, thinking as he did so that Cartman's description of "hippy" fitted Wendy better than usual tonight. She was going to perform the role of Squeaky Fromme, and she was dressed as one of Charlie Manson's former girlfriends, back before he'd watched a lot of Christmas specials and become a much nicer person. She was wearing hippy clothes because that's what she was supposed to be.

He got Stan away, next to the boy's bathroom. "Jesus, dude, I'm sorry," he said, genuinely worried for his friend. "Are you going to be ok?"

"Yeah," Stan said. At least he was making sense now, but he still sounded really depressed. "I just wish . . . "

"That Wendy hadn't gotten together with Cartman?" Kyle finished his sentence, but Stan shook his head.

"No, dude, I can't help what she does or who she likes. I just wish I didn't have to sing a love duet with her in front of the whole town."

Kyle thought about a lot of things at once. He wished that he hadn't cast Wendy and Stan to sing that duet together, which was kind of a love duet, and yet kind of wasn't. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time—their voices blended well and they looked so darned cute together and they were perfect for the roles. He wished that he'd known how weird people got during rehearsals of a show. How could he know that Wendy would quarrel with Stan during their rehearsals together, or that she would watch Cartman turn on the charisma and fall for him like a ton of bricks? There had been a lot of short-lived relationships during the rehearsal period. He'd been too busy as the director, of course, but he could have sworn, looking back, that some of the girls had made passes at him. Only Butters seemed to have missed out on all the social opportunities the show provided, and on a few occasions, his Mom had even forgotten to pick him up and he had had to walk home alone and very late. Kyle had had to beg Mr. and Mrs. Stotch not to ground Butters during rehearsal time, explaining that it was really schoolwork.

But mostly he thought about his show—HIS show—and the fact that he did not want it to be ruined.

"Stan," he said, "I know this sucks, but you know what they say."

"Life's a bitch and then you die?" offered Stan.

"No. The show must go on. C'mon, please, I'm begging you: ignore Wendy and Cartman. Fuck 'em. You've got a show to do. You get out there and sing that song, there will be tons of girls all over you."

"I don't want tons of girls," Stan said bleakly, "I just—" but Kyle cut him off.

"Save it, dude. I know. It's three minutes till curtain. Just promise me you'll do your best and I'll—I don't know—I'll have Cartman killed for you. After the show. "

"OK," Stan said, and tried to smile. "OK."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'll be OK."

"Good. Break a leg, man. I've got to go out front with my parents."

Kyle ran around to the auditorium entrance. They said that once a show opened, it belonged to the cast and the director just had to let it go. It wasn't though he had much of a choice. But Tweek was right.

There were an awful lot of things that could go wrong.