Addict
A/N: You should know a few things. First off, I had to retype this entire chapter. Word for word. It's on my laptop but my laptop has no internet. And I could have waited a week or so to get this chapter to you. But I retyped it. All because I wanted to get this chapter out. So, you know, a review might be nice in return. Secondly, read the author's note at the end of this chapter, it's important. Third, this chapter takes up almost directly after the end of the last chapter, so you might want to read the end of that and connect the two since this update is late. Late, late, for a very important date. I've had too much coffee this morning, sorry.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?
Warnings: Talking about death and suicide. Remember kids, suicide is never the answer and neither is talking to Craig about it, apparently.
Chapter Seven: Like A Moth To The Flame
It's not often that I sneak back into my house, but on the rare occasion that I do, I really don't. Because the second I walk in the door my mom throws me back out and, by now, I've learned not to fight back. I just let her see I'm alive and then let her kick me out like she doesn't give a fuck if I'm breathing or not. I'm not one of those kids who had fallen into an everlasting pool of angst because his mom doesn't care enough. In fact, it's not that she doesn't care enough. She just doesn't care. Not enough, she just doesn't. And I could care less.
My friends are envious of this and I can't blame them. I would probably feel the same way. Things are a lot easier when I don't have to explain myself. When punishment consists of spending a night somewhere other than home, I have no right to complain. Most people my age would get in trouble for doing that. At the same time though, it's really not as great as it seems, at least I know it won't be right now. I'd much rather spend a night at home, in bed, thinking things over, than outside in the lowest temperatures our town has seen in months.
Sneaking back in is foolish really, and a waste of time, I might add, but I do it anyway. And for a few minutes I think I've done it. I even risk a little 'fuck yeah' when I get to my room and collapse on my bed. But my short-lived triumph is destroyed when my door creaks open and I'm left to peer towards the opening and see the dark outline of my mother, the lit end of her cigarette creating the illusion of a tiny sun glowing in the dark of my house.
"Out," she says, sharply, gesturing with the hand that holds the cigarette, a few sparks of glowing orange embers falling as she does so. I don't respond. This is standard; it's the exact thing that's happened every time I've snuck back in. I'm following tradition, for lack of a better word, so I try to grab a sweatshirt or a sweater, something to change into, because I won't be let back into the house before school stars and I don't really plan on wearing the same clothes two days in a row. "I said out," she says vehemently. "You can borrow clothes from whoever you were with."
As far as my mother is concerned I've been out all night at a party or at some girls house. She's angrier than usual tonight, but I guess I can understand why. It's almost two in the morning, a lot later than I've ever come home before. The only thing strict in my life is my curfew, eleven at night, earlier than most of my friend's. Wasted, really, since my punishment usually ends up sending me back to wherever I was before I came home. "I wasn't with anyone," I mutter to her as I make my way towards the kitchen. I figure I can grab something to eat. I haven't had anything since six in the evening yesterday when Mrs. Tweak, a relatively normal mother compared to my own, brought us something.
"No, no, no," my mom says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me towards the door. "You put on shoes and a jacket; I'll give you some money. You get your own food and you deal with it. Out of the house now." She barely gives me enough time to put on my jacket before she thrusts a crumpled ten dollar bill into my hand and opens the front door for me. The I'm back out into the cold, flipping my mother off before she slams the door, with only the faint memory of the warmth in my house, which only emanates from the heating system, and not from a family that doesn't really exist.
It's only natural that I find myself at Stark's Pond. Actually, it's debatable as to whether it's natural or just twisted. Because I'll give you three guesses as to why I'm there and if it takes you more than that you haven't been paying attention. I don't know if I'm expecting him to just show up or appear out of nowhere. I don't know how things like death and resurrection are handled. Kenny has been coming back from the dead for years and never says anything about how it really happens, though we've probably all ventured a private guess.
I'm not going to find out tonight, unless he really does just pop up out of nowhere, because that's almost what it seems like he does, just shows up with no good explanation as to how or why. He does, though, have an almost ethereal look about him, glowing, sort of, his blond hair bright as a halo when I look up to see him standing there from where I'm sitting on the edge of the frozen pond. For a minute I suspect he's going to sit next to me, but he just looks down and grins.
"Got some macabre obsession with my death, Craig?" he asks, with a wink.
"You would think that," I say, returning my gaze to the lake. It's glowing, like him, I realize, an effect the moonlight has on the ice. "So you're back then?"
"Sadly enough..." The way he says that, slowing and deliberately, is not very much like I would have expected him to reply. A few moments pass as we just stay there, stagnant, and I'm left wondering if I shouldn't just say something about it. I mean, if he really did kill himself then that's a problem right? He might do it again and again and again and who knows when he'll stop, because he can come back after doing it. I'm not like him, I don't have the need to intervene when it isn't my problem, so I keep my mouth shut and we stair like that, silent, until he speaks up again, cheerfully this time.
"I'm hungry!" he proclaims. I look at him and he shrugs. "Well, I am. And I don't really feel like Poptarts."
As luck would have it, he reminded me that I, too, am hungry and we make our way to the nearest fast food restaurant. Nowhere else is open at this time of night and neither one of us is worried about our figures at this moment, or ever, really, so we wordlessly agree that the shit they call food is good enough to be considered as such at this time of night. Or morning, depending on how you want to look at it. Either way, the face behind the counter is familiar. Our favorite high school dropout, or GED-acquirer as she likes to see it, Porsche Saturn, who should be slapped in the face for having the worst name ever and for being a complete ditz.
She was my first girlfriend, by the way.
"What do you want?" she says, bored, tapping manicured fingernails against the countertop. Here she isn't bubbly and sweet, whereas at her old job at Raisins she was supposed to make everyone feel welcome so they would come back again and people would give her tips. But here she isn't required to do anything other than take out order, press a few buttons, collect our money and then give us back our change. A smile isn't in the deal even if it is part of this place's slogan.
"Oh, God," Kenny says, rubbing his hands together, "it's more like what don't I want..." And he spends the better part of the next five minutes pouring over every possibility on the menu until he decides on the most utterly boring thing he can - a hamburger, fries and a shake. Jesus, you would think with all that time he would have at least come up with something original. "Can you do that thing where you make the shake, like, worse for me?" he asks, excitedly.
"Uh," Porsche replies, looking down at the register. "There isn't a button for that."
"That's fine," the blond gives in, with a small, almost weak smile, "just put a lot of salt on my fries."
Porsche stares at him for a long moment before tapping a few more buttons. "Four dollars and thirty-seven cents." Kenny looks at me. I look back at him. Porsche redirects the price at me. "Four dollars and - "
"Thirty-seven cents," I finish, not looking away from Kenny. "I'm not paying."
"Okay," he says, amicably, "then I'm not helping you out."
"Fucking...Kenny," I whine. He just shrugs and smiles at Porsche who's watching us with interest now. "Fine. Fine, I'll pay," I concede, fishing the ten dollar bill out of my pocket and slamming it down on the counter. "Give me the same thing he ordered. To go." Porsche takes her sweet time, canceling the original order so she can add my part to it, telling me the new price - eight dollars and seventy-four cents - and then smoothing out the money I gave to her before she puts it in the cash register.
"So," she says as our order is being prepared, "you guys on, like, a date or something?" She unwraps a piece of gum from its foil and pops it in her mouth, blinking at us innocently.
I'm about ready to punch her in the face, but Kenny just leans over the counter and grins at her. "What do you think, babe?" he asks, implying a lot more than needs to be implied. It's strange; he's acting as if he knows Porsche rather well, not just in a friendly way either. I wouldn't put it past him to know her very well, but there's something off about the way he acts towards her. Nicer than I would expect him to, I guess, less sarcastic than usual. It's like how he acts around Butters, less admiring towards her than he is to the other blond boy, but still gentle at the same time. Like he owes her an apology for something and he's trying to win her favor back. But that's absurd, utterly stupid, really.
Porsche's eyes light up from underneath all that makeup she still insists on wearing and she nods, snapping the gum before shifting her gaze between the two of us. "Always kind of knew," she says, completely serious.
"Jesus - just give us out food," I snap at her. She blows a bubble and hands me the bag, waving at us with a gloating smile as we leave. "I can't," I begin as we walk out into the cold air, "believe," I continue, handing Kenny his shake, "I used to date that." Kenny takes a sip of his shake and raises his eyebrows. Oh, right, I doubt he even knows about Porsche and I. "Seventh grade," I tell him with a short laugh. "Six months of my life wasted, toting that thing around everywhere I went."
He just kind of smirks at me and takes the bag, rummaging around until he finds a handful of fries to eat and then looks at me and gives a simple remark. "I take it you two didn't get along very well?" A few pieces of the fries he's eating land on the sleeve of my jacket. "Sorry about that." He smiles at me and wipes it off before stuffing his face when even more food.
"Yeah," I say, in response to both statements, staring down at the shake in my hands that, admittedly, I don't want very much. All of a sudden I'm not very hungry. "Well, we got along fine when we didn't have to talk." Kenny raises his eyebrows yet again. "Dude, we were, like, eleven or twelve or something, we barely even passed making out," I tell him pointedly. Kenny shrugs and finds his hamburger as we reach Stark's Pond again. Although we never decided to come back here, here we are.
"Sounds like me and Bebe," he says with a grimace.
"Oh?" I ask.
"Oh," he confirms with a nod, easily dropping down to sit at the edge of the pond. I sit next to him and he puts one of his gloves back on for the sole purpose of reaching out to touch the crack in the ice. He sighs and I look at him and he looks at me and he sees the question that's hiding behind my eyes. "Did Butters get upset?" he asks, quietly, tracing the crack in the ice.
"He was crying," I say with a shrug. Kenny stops moving but keeps his eyes on the ice. "I don't really...we don't really know what happened," I admit. "He went to Stan and Kyle and Cartman and they tried to figure out exactly what happened, but they only have the basic idea that you - did it on purpose and that Butters saw you do it. Beyond that it's guesswork. I wasn't there to hear all of it, but from what I understand, yeah, Kenny, he got really upset."
The blond inhales sharply and keeps his eyes down as he speaks. "It isn't what you think. I didn't mean for him to see me."
"But you meant to kill yourself," I accuse, although I know it's a pretty bitchy thing to say, "so you knew he would find out. Whether he knew it was on purpose or not, you knew it would hurt him and you did it regardless of that."
"That's exactly why I did it," he says, angrily, looking up at me now. "None of you - no, all of you act like it's not a big deal. I die all the time, sure it's the first time in a couple years, but that's not weird. It's back to normal for me, isn't it? What was weird was me staying alive all that time. And don't act like that's not true, because whether anyone said it out loud or not, you were all thinking it. That is was going to happen sometime, that is was just a matter of time before it happened again."
"I - yeah," I agree. It's my turn to look at the ice, to not meet his eyes as I speak. "But you never talk to anyone about it Kenny. Shit, every time someone mentions it you get all introverted and put your hood up and ignore all of us. I hate to be cliché, but, dude, we can't talk to you about something when you're not willing to talk to us. We can't force you to talk."
Kenny lets out a frustrated groan and drags his gloved hand through his hair. "Craig," he says, pleading with me, "every time anyone mentioned it - me dying - they made a joke about it. Like it's...like it's funny or something. Like I'm some indispensable person and me dying, regardless of whether it's permanent or not, is something to laugh about. I don't mind people talking about how I'm poor or how I'm not all that smart, but about me dying...?" He leaves the sentence unfinished, but shakes his head, making the meaning clear.
"Then why don't you talk to anyone about it?" I ask, watching as he begins to eat again, staring at the ground between us. "I mean, just pull someone aside and talk about it, we all care about you, as gay as that sounds."
"Right," he says, rolling his eyes. "I deal with everyone's problems. Do you know how many people thank me for it?" Our eyes meet and I bite my lip and he nods. Wordless communication. Zero. "So I do all that, and believe me you guys have fuckloads upon fuckloads or faggy little problems. And I watch all of you people all the time and worry about all of you and notice your problems before most of you do. But no one," he takes a deep breath and looks at me, narrowing his eyes, "no one notices mine.
"I'm noticing," I tell him. It's a little half-lie. I am noticing, obviously, how could I not, but in the sense of the word, I don't know. I think I'm more listening than anything, but maybe that's what needs to be done.
"Ah," he says. "It's...you know, it's weird, but it makes sense that you would notice. Cartman's too busy making jabs at how poor I am. I'm not close enough to Clyde or Token. Butters is so extremely naive that there's not even a chance he would catch it and even if he did he would never know what to say. I have a class with Tweek and we're friends, but he's too busy worrying about, well, everything else in the world, to worry about me. But then, I guess I always thought Stan or Kyle might..."
"Well, Stan and Kyle, they're...they're, you know," I stress the last word, even though I'm not completely sure what he knows or I know or we know.
"Busy with their own shit and so completely absorbed in it that they're to the point that they don't even notice when one of their so-called best friends is practically suicidal?" he asks, grinning at me, morbidly. I nod, though reluctantly. "I don't mean to be so harsh," he explains, "but that is the way it is. I'm not stupid. At the same time, I'm no psychologist. But I know what I'm doing. I got to all of you to help you out with this idea, that even I don't realize half the time, that maybe one time someone will turn to me and say, 'Don't you have a problem? Don't you want to talk about it?' But no one ever does and I can't complain because I don't ask for the help, but I sort of figured by now someone would realize it."
"To be completely honest," I say, looking up at the sky, "I didn't notice. I just needed advice from you."
"I know." Kenny shifts next to me and sighs. "I mean, no offence, Craig, but even beyond the fact that we're not exactly close or anything, you also happen to be completely unaware of how people are feeling. You see base emotions and don't go any deeper than that. I'm sure you can and have, but for you, that takes effort. It would almost be completely hilarious if it wasn't ruining your life." I'm staring at him in slight awe, but he just shrugs. "But that's not what we're here to talk about. You want advice and I need to talk to someone who doesn't care."
"Let me guess," I say with a small smile, "I listen to you talk, I don't react with any significant emotions, then you tell me what to do?"
"Sounds like a deal to me" the blond replies. "And we're talking about this right now."
"Right now?" I ask, hardly sure that three in the morning is a good time to discuss this. But then I remember I'm not allowed back in my house any time soon. The thing is, I'm not all that excited to listen to Kenny talk. If his reputation precedes him, he never shut up. "Yeah, right now," I finally say with a sigh. Kenny isn't really listening to me; he seems to be in deep thought.
"Where to start," he mutters, eyes on the sky. The sky isn't especially beautiful or starlit like most people make it out to be. At least, it isn't to me. It's just kind of there and I take it for granted. Really, it's just the sky and, as far as I know, it's always going to be there. You can't cut it down or set it on fire. Sure you can pollute it and cover it with smog, but it's still there and everyone knows it's there. The sky isn't nice because it's fun to look at, it's because it's always there and you know it's never going to leave.
"At the beginning?" I ask, rather sarcastically, if I do say so myself.
"That's not a bad idea," Kenny says, either not hearing the tone of my voice or just ignoring it. "But I'd rather not go back that far. I think eighth grade will suffice. Or after eighth grade. Somewhere in-between there, I think, it when it kind of occurred to me. You know, the idea of: what's going to happen when I really do...when I die. Because it has to happen eventually."
I make a small noise that might be construed as disbelief.
"Oh shut up, it will happen," he says, waving a hand in the air. "Point is. One day I'm sitting there with Butters, hanging out in the bad part of town - the only part worth hanging out in - and it just hits me. When I really die, no one's going to know. I won't have a funeral or an obituary. No one will make a eulogy for me. You'll all expect me to be back the next day. And when I'm not - when day and months and years go by, one day, years from then, someone will realize I'm really gone."
Kenny stops, just to breath, because he hasn't been doing that. Words are just spilling out of his mouth in a torrential flood of pure thought. No break between thought and speech, I can tell. "The worst part of it all is when they do realize that, will it matter? By then it will have been years, and even then they'll have doubts." He smiles, but it's bitter, very unlike the Kenny I've come to know, however distant I am from him, I know that smile isn't his real one. "No one will care," he says, finally.
"Yes they will," I tell him. It's not hard to keep my voice void of any emotion. Truthfully I wouldn't care. Not much. And it's not even that it's Kenny we're talking about, it's death in general. I don't understand why it's so upsetting to anyone. Well, I suppose I do understand, but it just doesn't register in my mind. Death is death and it fucking sucks, but sitting around and mourning something that was bound to happen anyway seems seriously pointless to me.
"Don't lie to me," Kenny says, shortly. I sigh and hold up my hands in defense. "We both know that's a lie. And it's not that I'm so sad because no one likes me. It's that after all of that time - it's just that...why? Why do I have to...out of everyone...? It makes everyone not care. It's like you flipping people off, it doesn't bother anyone, only worse, because you can still evoke emotions doing that. My death will never affect anyone because everyone will be expecting it to happen but no one will expect it to last."
"Maybe - " I cut in, my voice a little bit too loud, surprising myself at the time I'm using. I'm clearly upset when I shouldn't be at all. But I'm not sad, I'm angry, like always, but there's no reason to be. Not that having a reason has ever been pertinent to my anger before.
"Maybe what, Craig?" Kenny asks, equally as angry but, of course, he has a reason to be unlike my unfounded fury. "I'm right and I know I'm right. I did it - I killed myself because I thought maybe I could at least decide that. I could take my life and throw it away and all I needed was a way to do it. So I left school early, of course no one really thought that was weird, I came out here and I waited, because I needed to get used to the idea that I might not come back...and then..."
His hands drop to his sides and he whispers the next words, somehow managing to make them more powerful than anything else he's said so far. "I saw Butters." He leans forward and draws his knees up to his chest, arms circling around his legs. He almost reminds me of Tweek right now. Scared and vulnerable and terribly worried. "And I knew I had to do it. I had been doubting myself and I thought maybe I could go home and really think and not do it. But when I saw Butters I felt the way I always do when I'm with him."
We're silent for a few long minutes, only the sounds of wilderness around us and our quiet breathing. I hear a car in the distance; the sun will be rising soon. It seems surreal that there are other things going on right now. I'm still angry, I still don't know why exactly, but I do know that I'm angry at myself and not at Kenny. Finally I speak. Someone has to, this silence is deafening.
"How?" I ask.
"I don't deserve him," Kenny tells me.
I know I'm seeing the real Kenny right now. Broken.
The sun rises without much ado, we sit in silence, mostly, for the remaining hours before school starts. We go to his house and I borrow a shirt from him. It's worn and threadbare and usually I would make a joke about it, but now really isn't the time for that. Kenny gives me advice as we walk to the bus stop. Wendy Testaburger, a girl I've hated ever since eighth grade, I have to talk to her. I don't want to, but Kenny says to ask her about last Friday, British Literature class and allegories.
I don't know how that's supposed to help me, but I don't have the heart to argue with him right now.
When the bus pulls up to the stop Kenny's back to his normal self and he gives me a wink and pushes me into the seat next to Tweek as he sits next to Cartman. It's odd. I don't dislike Kenny anymore and I'm really starting to doubt I ever did. There isn't some huge revelation where I realize Kenny and I are the best of friends and we should hang out together all the time, just the two of us. It's this subtle shift in the cosmic workings of South Park that means things are going to change.
Tweek is looking at me, almost expectantly, but he doesn't say anything. I smile at him, tired, exhausted really, but he doesn't smile back. He doesn't do anything, just reaches out and takes my hand. I notice, suddenly, that none of them are talking. Kyle, Stan, Kenny and Cartman on one side of the aisle and Clyde and Token behind us. I don't know if they're watching us, but I know it's because of Tweek and I.
"Did you sleep alright?" I ask him, quietly, still smiling.
"After you left," he says in his own brand of whisper, which is just at normal talking level for the rest of us, "I woke up and then I couldn't sleep any more."
"I didn't sleep at all last night," I say. His eyes widen, golden and alive for a startling moment. I hold his hand tighter, reassuring his worries as I shake my head. "Nothing bad, I just had some thing to take care of. What I'm saying is, you're not alone Tweek, we can be tired together." And Tweek smiles at those words, a distant one, but a smile nonetheless. The floodgates open all around us and, slowly, they all start talking again. But it doesn't matter because everything is alright now.
Not for Tweek, no, it's going to take some time for him to get better, I know. But for me, I have my balance back.
The rest of my day revolves around Tweek. I meet him at all of his classes, sit with him at lunch and walk with him through the halls. The entire time I'm talking, he offers a few words in-between mine. I hold his hand the entire time, ignore everyone's eyes on us and don't listen to whatever they have to say. As far as I'm concerned no one else is of importance right now.
Except Wendy. She's not on my mind until we get to lunch. Kenny's fallen asleep on Kyle's Human Bio book and Cartman has no one else to talk to, so he's just left to glare at me. Which reminds me of yesterday and what I accused him of. I want to yell at him, tell him I was only saying what everyone else was thinking, but I just flip him off and return all of my attention to Tweek.
All my attention - except there's this nagging thought in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. Wendy, who I think all of us had a crush on at some point, is not cut out for a real, functioning relationship. I, luckily, do not know this first hand, but plenty of my friends do. Wendy turns into a bitch after you date her for a while. Oh, I'm sorry. Allegedly, she turns into a bitch after you date her for a while. Allegedly. Regardless, she's never once been mean to me, not directly; she's always been nice, if a bit remote, neutral on how to feel about me for the most part. I have no reason to her knowledge as to why I loathe her so much.
But in my own mind, I have every reason to and, like Kenny's own story, mine begins in eighth grade, or after, or maybe, somewhere in-between.
Middle school was nothing but hell to me. I hung out with Christophe, mainly, but we didn't even go to the same school. Our own middle school, that is to say, the public middle school, was right next to the private school. The private school had a smaller number of students than even went to our middle school - a feat so great I would have thought it impossible before - but went from kindergarten all the way until twelfth grade.
I hung out with the foreign kids, who consisted of, well, Pip. At the time Gregory had moved away and we all thought he was gone for good and no one had seen Damien since third grade, so Pip, with no crazily evil Son of Satan to follow around, chose me as a replacement. I don't see the resemblance. We were joined by Christophe at lunch almost every day. Our schools had, essentially, the same schedule, except on Wednesdays when Christophe had to go to church and his lunch was an hour later because of it. Naturally, according to him, this was all God's - and God's subsequent status as a faggot's - fault. But none of that really matters. By eighth grade that was all standard and the reason for everything, really, was brand new.
His name was Thomas and I never really liked him. Yet there he was, shaking when I touched him and making outbursts due to his Tourette's rather than irrational paranoia. It was all just an act for me and I was the only one fully aware of it. The only reason I did it - the only reason I did anything in eighth grade - was because I knew Tweek was watching.
When we all drifted apart after the incident before sixth grade began we all had our own little niches to fit into. I was with the Foreign Kids. Kyle dispersed into the company of 'intellectuals,' as he liked to call them. Nerds, really. Kenny and Butters had their own little, odd partnership. Stan had football and Clyde and Token had that and every other sport on the face of the planet. However flimsy middle school sport teams are, the groups they create aren't. Carman had...well, Cartman was Cartman and the best way to describe what he had done was to say he had, completely and fully, become a loner.
Out of all of us Tweek's group seemed to fit him the least. No, it did fit him the least. I still cringe when I though about the Goth Kids, drawing him in somehow, probably hoping that his part in their group would be Free Coffee All The Time. Never mind that Tweek was completely conformist, according to them at least, the prospect of coffee was enough for them to take the twitchy blond who had nowhere else to go.
We hung out at lunch, in-between the two schools and so did the Goth Kids and Tweek who looked horribly of place with them. And everything was alright for nearly three years in the equation of me plus the Foreign Kids divided from Tweek plus the Goth Kids equaling all of us who hung out there during lunch. Until we factored in Christophe's newest, and only, friend at his school. How Thomas managed in a Catholic school with his disability, I have no idea.
All I know is, Christophe found it amusing that his teachers couldn't do anything about it.
Thomas was introduced to me, but it wasn't for the first time. We knew each other, for however short a time, back in elementary school. And he was perfect. A perfect replacement, at least. Someone to make Tweek jealous and so identical to Tweek in mannerisms that he was the only one who came close to being like my old best friend. That was all it was at that age, pretending Thomas was my new best friend and, for whatever reason, getting sick satisfaction out of the fact that it bothered Tweek.
And then Wendy ruined everything.
"My muzzer does not like you, Nommel," Christophe told me for the millionth time as he leaned against the side of our school. Ironically he was leaning against a sign telling him it was illegal to smoke the cigarette he was lighting.
I flipped him off. "Fine, we'll go to Thomas' house, then," I said, grinning at the blond who had an involuntary twitch under my gaze.
"I have group today," he cried. "Shit!" The latter expletive was ignored by all of us who had gotten used to it over the last few months. Pip, of course, still jumped and said something British that we all ignored. Thomas flushed while Christophe just smiled and took a drag of his cigarette. Thomas was embarrassed of his Tourette's, at least it seemed that way to me. But he had long since abandoned muttering apologies to us all, because Christophe and I weren't bothered by it and none of us cared if it bothered Pip.
"Well, zere you go," Christophe said, with a shrug. "As always, no plans for any of us. You know zat if you could even consider inviting any of us over you 'ouse all of zis might be avoided, non?"
"Yes, yes, 'Tophe, I realize that, thanks," I said, holding out my hand to him. The French boy rolled his eyes but handed me a cigarette and then lit it with one of his cheap, plastic lighters, but barely flinched when I blew the smoke in his face. "You also know that, since he's at home it would inevitably end in me and my dad fighting. Chances are my mom would join in as well. And, hate to break it to you, but that's kind of family time."
"I'm sorry zat your family is so dysfunctional," Christophe offered, sarcastically, returning the favor of my earlier actions as he blew smoke into my face. I coughed though, unlike his unwavering response to me doing the same to him. "But," he continued, tapping his cigarette against his finger so some of the ashes fall down to the ground, "zat iz not our fault, nor iz et reason to leave us all bored. My family iz just as bad, non? Why can we not try it once?"
"Because I don't care enough to fight with my dad just to have you three over!" I yelled, irritated.
Thomas' spontaneous yell of 'Cock, shit!' was enough to drag Christophe and I out of the heated staring match we found ourselves in as well as the only reason that I took time to put my arm around his shoulders and take a quick glance towards the Goth Kids and saw Tweek watching us. The caffeine-addicted blond quickly looked away and back to his 'friends' who were, no doubt, discussing how conforming the rest of us were and then planning to all smoke the same cigarettes and get the same coffee when they went to Harbucks later.
"What iz she doing?" Christophe asked, drawing out attention to the girl who was walking towards us from the other end of the school. It wouldn't have been odd, you know, if Wendy had ever really talked to any of us before. Generally I was ignored by everyone except Pip, who revered me as some sort of anti-establishment god, and God knows no one had ever paid any attention to Pip. Since Christophe and Thomas didn't even go to school with us barely anyone knew them at the time. So, really, none of them had any reason to think Wendy wanted anything to do with us.
The thing was, though, Wendy had made what could have only been considered a come on to me a few days before. Ever since she and Stan broke up permanently - keep in mind, in the vocabulary of really fucked up couples permanently means 'for a few days or weeks, perhaps a month at most' - at the beginning of the year she had dated most everyone and was not above making passes at the people like us at the bottom of the middle school popularity chart.
"Oh, God," I had moaned, using Thomas as a sort of human shield. I'll admit, in fifth grade I had the hugest crush on Wendy, but by eighth grade she was the personification of annoying to me. Her voice, still high-pitched as ever, got on my nerves and I couldn't stand how opinionated she was. Well, not so much how opinionated she was, but how much she had to fight with everyone about their opinions.
But she didn't so much as look at me. Or maybe she was trying to, but she saw Thomas first. I still find it funny that she ignored Christophe, as he really is a charmer until you hear his angry voice. No, she said a few words to Thomas that I can't remember but that he probably can. Then she dragged him away, past the Goth Kids and Tweek who I know saw the devastated look on my face, because it was that day, because of Wendy, that, for the first time in almost three years, I had met his golden eyes and had seen the hurt in them.
I haven't talked to Wendy since then and now I'm being forced to. To say the least, I'm not excited about it. It's like how people talk about their 'worlds' you know? Like when they tell someone: "Baby, you rock my world," or: "Wow, autoerotic asphyxiation changed my world forever." Yeah, well, Wendy changed my world back than when she stole Thomas and now she's messing up my world again.
My own little world revolves around it's own little sun. And, contrary to what anyone might think, my sun is not cigarettes or lies or flipping people off. It's not even Tweek. It's not anything you would expect my world to revolve around and it's completely secret. My world revolves around a sun of opinions. What people think about me. Even I don't like to think about it or admit it to myself.
But everything I do is concentrated on the idea of what other people think about me. My little world gravitates towards that sun of opinion, it's pulled in by it and it used to stay there, close to the opinions, letting them rule my world. There have always been things that could detract from the opinions, my friends and my obsessions. But nothing can quite pull me away from the opinions, nothing can compare to the distraction of, nothing even comes close to the calming power of being around Tweek.
So it doesn't happen right away. I have plenty of chances to talk to Wendy. During Shakespeare class for example, since Kyle and I are working with her and Gregory for our project on Othello, would be a good time to talk to her. I have plenty of chances to talk to Wendy, but I don't take any of them, not yet, because I don't feel like throwing things off balance by changing her neutral opinion of me. After we talk she'll have to take a stance on me, like I took one on her.
Instead I spend all my time with Tweek. When I'm not with Tweek, I'm thinking about him. And when I'm not thinking about Tweek, I'm probably sleeping. See, even though Tweek gets better as the day goes on, he's worse the next morning. Like being without me for a night is really all that bad. I had gotten him to talk by the end of the day, he was even freaking out about killer bees. Tweek is absolutely sure that a swarm of killer bees is going to attack us one day. He says that since the bus is the same color as the bees they'll be attracted to it or something. It really makes no sense, but I figure, what the hell, him worrying about stuff like that only means he's getting back to normal.
Then Friday morning comes along and it's the same as the day before. Tweek is quiet, he doesn't smile and takes my hand the instant he sees me. It's as if yesterday never even happened as he reverts back to the day before. Once again he's worried about killer bees by the time we get to the bus later in the afternoon. I found out in Physical Education that he is, thankfully, drinking coffee again, although it's decaf. I promise him I'll see him on Saturday when I get off the bus and he gives me a weak smile.
Come Saturday afternoon it's the same, maybe even worse, because he just wants to sit around and watch movies all day. I suggest we take a walk, maybe to Token's house or to the mall in North Park, but he just wants to watch Julia Roberts and Richard Gere fawn over each other in Pretty Woman. It's a total Tweek movie. Nothing like reality. I mean, as much as you'd like the enigmatic, outgoing prostitute to get the suave, introverted businessman, it's just not going to happen. And even it did, they wouldn't all be that witty.
Naturally, though, Tweek loves it for all the reasons I hate it. He likes it because it convinces him that something like that is possible, while I hate it because it makes me want think something like that is possible. Neither one of us talks through the whole movie, which is uncharacteristic of both of us. Mrs. Tweak makes us coffee and Tweek drinks both his and mine, as I'm not really a fan of the drink.
When it's time for me to leave Tweek doesn't want me to so I don't and I stay over at his house alone with him for the first time in years. It's not really that awkward since Tweek doesn't sleep and I stay up until dawn, finally falling asleep when Hugh Grant starts singing Killing Me Softly in some stupid British movie that Tweek is enamored by. When I finally wake up, some time in the late afternoon, I'm faced with a few choices.
It's like a multiple choice test. Do I A) Stay with Tweek for fear he'll revert again? B) Talk to Wendy because she'll apparently help me with things? C) Avoid both of my problems by facing another one, calling Christophe who I haven't talked to since Wednesday? Or D) None of the above? I'd really love to choose D, and I usually do on tests, because it's the easy answer.
But I can't do nothing, so I have three choices. Now, on tests they always tell you that one of the answers is impossible; you should get that one out of the way immediately and then focus on the others. Christophe is, here, the impossible answer, because he's been pissed off with everyone since Wednesday and even if I wasn't preoccupied with Tweek I wouldn't want to be anywhere near him.
I'm left with two choices now, Tweek and Wendy. As much as I'd be content with just sitting here with Tweek for the rest of the day, I know it's not the best choice. It's not wrong, but that doesn't mean it's right either. On multiple choice tests, it never says to choose the right answer, it says to choose the best one, and right now talking to Wendy is the best I can do. It might change things in my little world, but I'm willing to risk that.
I leave Tweek and he doesn't ask me why. He doesn't say anything, really, when I tell him I have to go but that I'll be back to hang out later, maybe. It's a bit disconcerting that he looks dead again when I leave. I thought maybe after a whole weekend he would manage to get better somehow. But even after that he can relapse so quickly and I still don't understand why. I left him alone for a little over a week and it's not that I anticipate him to be better all of a sudden.
It's just, fuck, it's taking a lot longer than I thought it would.
Outside of Tweek's house I find Kyle waiting for me. He's actually sitting on the porch and jumps up as soon as I walk by. I'm walking pretty fast, but he sprints after me. I'm really not in the mood to deal with Kyle Broflovski's , literally, gay problems right now. "Craig, hey, Craig," he calls. Like I didn't see him and I'm going to turn around and be all excited to see his stupid red hair. I just keep walking as fast as I can, which must not be all that fast because the Jew catches up to me within a minute.
"Craig," he says, breathlessly, "I need to talk to you."
"About what?" I ask, not turning to look at him as we come to a crossroad.
"What you said on Wednesday." He grabs my arm as I try to cross the road and, exasperated, I look at him, knowing he won't leave me alone until he says what he wants to say to me. "Christophe and I...he didn't talk to me, he left right after you did," he tells me, looking down and letting go of my arm, running a hand through his hair. Then he looks up and smiles a bit. "Stan, though, he talked to me."
"Oh, good, problem solved," I say, patting his shoulder and walking away.
Kyle follows me though. "No, not 'problem solved,' Craig," I hear him say.
"Then, what, Kyle, what?" I cry, turning around to face him. Kyle jumps slightly; he was right behind me and nearly ran into me.
"I don't..." He falters and flushes and wrings his hands together for a few utterly faggot-esque minutes that seem to go on forever. "I love Stan and everyone knows that. Everyone thinks that we're - that we'd be good together. Even Stan thinks so. But I don't really know what to do. Christophe won't talk to me now and Stan's right there so it seems so obvious what I should do, but it's not, at all, not to me. I've talked to pretty much everyone about it and they all gave me the same answer, but I don't know. I need an honest answer, not anything biased, and you're the only one who's really friends with Stan and Christophe, so, what do you think?"
"Where's your hat?" I ask him, some stray thought in my mind causing me to think that this seemingly stupid question might possibly lead somewhere.
"What?" he says, pulling on a red curl and raising an eyebrow. "I left it at...Christophe's."
"There's your answer," I say with a shrug. "You need to stop asking everyone else what to do and just do what you know you have to." This time when I walk away Kyle doesn't follow me. Maybe because he's thinking about what I said or maybe because I give him the middle finger. I have to go ask Wendy Testaburger what to do instead of doing what I know I have to. The day I start following my own advice will be the day I don't flip anyone off.
A/N: I have this story finished. I think. I'm not going to post the whole thing at once or a chapter every week or something, I'll do it based on reviews. Especially since, for the time being, I have to retype every chapter in order to post it, which takes a lot of time. The less reviews I get, the slower updates will come. It's not all that complicated really.
So, review, let me know what you think.
Woo, just went through and edited that whole thing. If you're reading this post-edit, you are fucking lucky, there were so many mistakes in that chapter. Thanks to you all for putting up with that.
Until next time, tweekers