Kyle detested Fridays. Oh, they generally began fine enough; nothing wrong with stumbling out of the house way too early to drive his brother to school. Sometimes the weekly school assemblies in the gym would be interesting, and more often they were completely ridiculous. If he was sitting next to Stan, however, assemblies were always awesome. Stan sat there with his arms crossed, legs splayed out in that absurdly manly fashion, eyes turned heavenward. "This shit is pretty fucked up," Stan would mutter, regardless of what was going on in front of the bleachers. "You'd think step one in preventing kids setting up personal meth labs would be, you know, not telling us how to set up meth labs."
"But how would we know how to avoid having a meth lab if we didn't know how to have a meth lab?"
"This school is horrible," Stan concluded, even though it wasn't too bad. South Park High School was an okay place. They offered three foreign languages. Unfortunately for its students, it just suffered from the inescapable condition of being in South Park.
So if Kyle was sitting next to Stan, he got to spend 40 minutes alternatively bantering with, and gazing longingly at, his best friend. Whoever sat on his other side, sometimes Kenny but usually Craig, didn't let this go by unnoticed. Kyle didn't care. Stan was adorable. Adorably clueless. And generally too absorbed in reveling in the absurdity of his life. Stan turned to Cartman, who was sitting on his other side. The heavy boy was scribbling down instructions, probably intended to be incorporated into some kind of nefarious plot. Probably, Stan figured, incorporating 12 Haitian refugees and $13,000, deposited directly into his Roth IRA, which, as Kyle had once pointed out to Cartman, he wouldn't be able to get into for years, and you couldn't put that much money in a Roth IRA at one time.
"Oh, you'll see," Cartman hissed, rubbing his hands together. "My ingenious plan will come together perfectly."
"Yeah, when pigs fly out of your ridiculous ass, fucker." Pause. "Which I guess is huge enough to actually fit a pig."
"At least I can eat pig."
"That makes two of us."
And so on.
"Tweek totally looks like he's having an orgasm," Kyle remarked, making eyes at Stan meant to indicate the disheveled boy as he rocked back and forth on the bleachers. "Do you think he's got a meth lab?"
"I think he probably gets it from the troll living under the bridge out of town."
"You mean that homeless guy who yells things?"
"No, I'm pretty sure they're two distinct entities."
"What a fucktard," Kyle remarked, even thought he had no issues with Tweek.
But Fridays got increasingly lamer as the day went on. For one thing, Kyle would spend all of lunch break sitting at his table, trying to think of what to do that night. Every once in a while someone decided to throw a party. Kyle didn't know too many kids outside of the junior class, but some of his friends made it their duty to know everything and, more importantly, everyone. Craig was like this — an inscrutable font of knowledge about which ninth grade girl's parents were staying overnight in Denver because it was their anniversary, and what time to show up with a keg. Kenny was everyone's hookup in that regard, because he knew where to get a keg without anyone questioning his age. Once, Stan's dad tried to throw Stan a party, which had nearly paralyzed Stan with embarrassment. The sole thing that had kept the affair from getting out-of-hand was the party's premature ending at 9 p.m., when Randy Marsh had thrown up on Bebe, half-succeeded in taking off his shirt, and passed out squarely blocking the front door. Stan and his mother graciously showed guests out through the back.
Sometimes all the 11th grade boys hung out together, and that was fun. Kyle was abnormally good at first-person shooters, and the guys had something of a long-standing competition going, with Token keeping the point tallies on a piece of paper he stashed in a drawer in his media room. Despite his skill, Kyle was second to Christophe, who was scary to play Halo with because you never knew when he would bring out a real gun and go after someone, and not infrequently it was Token's family dog. Hands-down, Tweek was the worst guy in the class at nearly any videogame. His inability to stand still and look at the screen was nearly laughable.
But as time went on — as more boys came out, filling the table on the other side of the lunchroom to near-capacity — the guys began to hang out less and less. Suddenly, Kyle found himself spending a lot of Friday nights at the movies, eating Craig's Jujubes and watching him pelt them at the screen. Often Butters would shirk away when this began happening, excusing himself because "It's just not nice to do that to the poor people who have to clean this theater." Kyle knew Butters was right about this, but it was too damn funny to watch Thomas slip ice cubes down someone's shirt, followed by a high-pitched shriek that itself was followed with a hearty exclamation of "cock!" And more laughing. And then, "Shit, fuck!"
After the movies Kyle generally found himself out in the woods, where Christophe and Mark would build a fire, and if Kenny was there he would pass out some beers or a bottle of horribly cheap champagne. If he couldn't manage to get out of the store unnoticed, he brought Everclear.
Hands down, however, Kyle's best nights were spent with Stan. Generally, it didn't matter what he did with Stan. Stan liked to get a burger, usually, and watch increasingly bad movies. Stan's house was generally a better time, assuming his parents weren't around. If they were, however, they were trapped at Kyle's. And despite the fact that Kyle's parents were less obnoxious overall than most would suspect, Friday nights at the Broflovski house generally incorporated too much Hebrew, and too many younger brothers. Still, Kyle knew that Stan liked Shabbat dinner, if only because he was a pig and the idea of eating chicken fat-covered green beans appealed to him. Kyle, who found this food disgusting, tried to find solace in watching Stan eat it. Then, ultimately, Stan would look on as Kyle and his younger brother fought over the TV. Ike would generally run out crying after having been punched in the gut, holding himself and moaning, "I'm telling!" Despite these threats, Ike never told, and then they were free to watch TV.
"Hey," Stan said casually, slipping behind Kyle in the lunch line. "Room for me?"
"Yes." Kyle took a look down at the pile of brown trays. "Do these look like they're still wet to you?"
"Always," said a chipper voice, and both Kyle and Stan turned around to see that Kenny had slipped behind them in line, and was busy ignoring the protests of the patron behind him.
"Holy fuck, dude!" Stan exclaimed, hugging Kenny tightly. "You're back!"
"I'm always back," Kenny said, rolling his eyes and attempting to shove Stan away from him.
"But we heard—"
"It's true," Kenny said proactively.
"Why, Kenny?" Stan asked, handing the blond boy a tray.
"Be careful," Kyle cautioned. "They're wet."
"Oh, fuck that," Stan said dismissively. "Who cares."
"Some of us care, Stanley."
"Screw you, dude! Kenny fucking killed him—"
"It's fine," Kenny said softly. "I'm here."
"But why did you do it, dude?" Stan pressed.
"He can do whatever he wants," Kyle said, tapping his foot in annoyance.
"Apparently," Kenny shrugged.
"But you must have a reason."
"Well, I—" Kenny began, but he was caught off guard
"Oh, look, guys," a whiny voice moaned from behind. "The little butt-muncher's back. Hey butt-muncher, how does it feel to wake up in your bed the morning after you stick your head in the oven? Are you sad? Do you need your fag friends to hold you?"
"Fuck yourself, fat ass," Kenny drawled, arms crossed. "Fuck yourself right in your fucking fat ass."
"Oooh, Kenny, that was downright elegant," Cartman continued, poking the smaller boy in the sternum. "My ears, they cannot behold such poetry."
"Go get in the back of the line, Cartman," Kyle said sternly.
"No, Kyle, I don't think I will. I think I like it up front here with my friends, even if two of them are fags, and one fag is a filthy little ass-ramming Jew."
"Dammit!"
"Oh, Kyle, I'm sorry. You probably take it up the ass. How could I make such a mistake? You don't have the fortitude to pleasure a man. You probably just lie there, crying — oh, you're starting to cry right now, aren't you? Oh, this is too easy! Really, Kyle, sometimes I wonder why I don't find a more evenly matched—"
"Jesus, you fat fuck." Stan suddenly reached out and grasped the collar on the large boy's regulation military jacket, a hand-me-down from some white trash relative. "Get the fuck out of here." Generally Cartman's weight was like an iron anchor, but caught off guard, he stumbled back when Stan pushed him.
"Screw you guys," Cartman scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. If Kyle could imagine him capable of such a thing, he would have sworn that Cartman looked embarrassed; it was known, however, that Eric Cartman had no scruples, and no sense of shame.
As he toddled off to the end of the line, muttering all the way, Stan put his arm around Kyle's shoulder. "It's cool, dude," he said as they awkwardly embraced. "He's a piece of crap, that's all."
"Then why do we hang out with him, again?" Kyle sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of hand.
"No idea."
"No hug for me?" Kenny asked.
"Oh, Kenny," Stan said fakely, tackling the boy in the black hoodie. "Oh, baby."
"Jesus, you're making hard." Stan stumbled back as Kenny gently shoved him off.
"Not me," Kyle mumbled, his attention seemingly diverted by the lunch counter.
"If you want to hold me like that," Kenny whispered, leaning into Stan, "I'll meet you behind the gym after lunch. There's a little corner I like to go to? It's really secluded."
"Um."
"Oh, relax, breeder, don't get your panties in a bunch. I just want to talk."
"You're half-breeder! And anyway, don't call me that. It's an insult."
"It's a cute one, though." Kenny reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a lighter. "Anyway, I just remembered I don't have money for lunch today. See you out back? In 20 minutes?"
"Uh—"
"Be there or be massively fucked by the wrath of god!" Kenny cheered as he walked away.
Stan found Kyle waiting for him at the end of the line, holding a tray of spaghetti. "What are you doing tonight?" Stan asked casually, balancing his tray with one hand and scratching the back of his head with the other.
"I don't know," Kyle admitted. "I guess I'll talk about it with the guys." Stan knew what this meant, and he didn't press any further.
"Cool. See you later, maybe."
"Maybe."
XXX
Stan sprinted out behind the gym. He'd nearly forgotten to meet Kenny, and now he was 10 minutes late. He spied the blond boy sitting by himself on a tree stump, smoking and staring at him expectantly.
"Fucker," Kenny spat, exhaling cigarette smoke. "You're late."
"You don't have a watch," Stan pointed out.
"I can see it in your eyes, you feel guilty."
"Sorry."
"I know how you can make it up to me…"
"That's cool." There was a slight pause as Kenny stood up and brushed off his pants, not that they were ever going to be anything other than tattered and filthy.
"It's true," he said directly, flicking the cigarette onto the ground. "I did indeed toast my brain two nights ago."
"You didn't, you know … the gas?"
"Yeah, whatever. The point is, Stan, it was an experiment."
"That is a pretty fucked up experiment thing right there, dude!"
"Yeah, well, I just wanted to tell you." Kenny pulled another cigarette from behind his ear; Stan had only just noticed it. He lit it with his silver lighter and tucked it back in his hoodie pocket. "It's not over," he said coolly, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.
"How do you mean?" Stan asked, looking around to see if he was being listened to, if anyone was there. Cartman or someone like that.
"I'll show you." Kenny held up a single finger and crouched down, lifting up the left leg of his jeans. He pulled out a handgun from a holster, and calmly returned the pant leg to its initial state.
"Holy shit, dude!" Stan cried, jumping nearly a foot back. "Get rid of that thing! What the fuck!"
"I'm not going to shoot you, Stan. You're too cute to die."
"But you're going to shoot someone or something!"
"Yeah, retard, I'm going to shoot me."
"You? Jesus, Kenny, what the fuck?"
"I just, you know." Kenny took another drag on his cigarette.
"Where the hell did you get that thing?"
"Ze Mole." This was pronounced with a heavily fake French accent.
"You mean that little fucker Christophe," Stan slurred.
"He doesn't like that name."
"I don't give a fuck what he likes, dude, that thing is horrible! Get it away from me."
"Down, boy. I had no idea you were such a tight-ass about firearms."
"Ah, yeah, well, see, the thing with that is, Kenny, you're the only person I know who's immune to bullets!"
"I'm not immune, I die, just like you would."
"Yeah, and then you miraculously get un-dead!"
"Is this going somewhere?"
"Uh." Stan felt a little queasy, but he tried to compose himself. "Please, please don't shoot yourself, dude."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"It's not okay!"
Kenny took another drag on his cigarette, which was rapidly coming to an end of its short life. Kenny had a habit of smoking them down to the filter, however, so it probably had another puff or two left in it. "Stan, I learned something today." He exhaled. "I am a fucking golden god, and I will never stay dead, no matter what I do. And I'm bored. So now I'm just going to kill myself all the time. Sounds fun, eh?"
"No, it sounds ludicrous! Why are you telling me?"
Kenny shrugged. "You seemed concerned for me," he said, finally killing off the end of his cigarette. "So I figured I'd let you in on my plan. And, um, nicely ask you not to stop me."
There was another moment of silence during which Stan wavered. Neglecting to halt his friend's suicide felt wrong. It felt, like, maybe one step above killing Kenny himself. If even. "You are intending to … come back, right?" Stan asked slowly.
"I have no intentions in this crazy world," Kenny replied solemnly, distractedly thinking about whether he had time before next period to smoke another cigarette. He decided that he didn't. "Thanks, Stan," he shrugged, beginning to slog away through the thawing mud.
"For what?" Stan asked.
Kenny turned back around. "I don't know. Giving a shit. Not interfering. I don't really know."
Stan didn't say anything else as Kenny slipped back behind the gym and vanished from sight. He had some class now, and so did Stan.
XXX
Another thing made Kyle miserable on Friday afternoons: He had Latin with fucking Cartman right after lunch. Perhaps he would have been cheerier if the weekend looked like it was going anywhere good, but Butters had decided that they were going to buy a bottle of pre-mixed mai tais and watch horrible movies. This was so far from Kyle's ideal Friday night it was almost laughable. Still, he couldn't say no to Butters ever, about anything. The little blond boy just had this disgusting sense of optimism about everything — it was nearly impossible to look him in the eyes and just say 'no, no we're not doing that.' Kyle guessed that it might be possible to convince Kenny to tag along for this, because Kenny was proven to show up to nearly any event that involved alcohol, and if it was gratis, all the better. But then Kenny hadn't even been at lunch, and now Kyle was sitting in Latin class, waiting for it to start.
He tapped his slight stack of vocabulary cards on his desk and hummed to himself, waiting for the teacher to show. He was considering pulling out a book and beginning to read to pass the time, but he heard a bag slam down on the floor next to him and when he looked up it was Cartman, grinning down in that perfectly shit-eating way he had.
"Hiiiii Kyle," he slurred, leaning against the desk. "How was lunch at the other table?"
"Fine."
"Did you miss me?"
"Of course I didn't miss you, you fat piece of crap."
"Now, Kyle, is this because of the unpleasantries we shared in the lunch line? I am sorry Kyle, I don't know what I was thinking."
"Just shut your goddamn mouth right now."
"No, I must apologize. I don't want my good friend to be angry at me—"
"What the hell are you planning, dude?"
"Who says I'm planning anything?" Cartman asked, batting his eyelashes ironically.
"You're doing that sweet, simpering thing again. Do you want me to do your homework for you? I mean what, what is it?"
"Can't a guy just talk with his friend?"
"I am not your friend, fat ass!" Kyle yelled, rising at his desk to face the larger boy. A few kids in the class began to stare at them.
"Temper, temper, Kyle." Cartman wagged his finger. "I don't see your boyfriend around to fight your battles for you right now."
"He is not my boyfriend." Kyle breathed this out through gritted teeth.
"I hit a nerve!" Cartman gasped, barely managing not to clap his hands in glee. "Oh, you do want him, don't you? Isn't lusting after your dear, straight best friend against the gay code?"
"I mean it, Cartman." A female senior sitting next to Kyle saw his fist clench together, and she gasped.
"Kyle, please, you're scaring the class."
"I do not like Stan!"
"Don't deny it, baby. Stan's quite a catch. He's the captain of the football team — but he's got the lamest haircut I have ever seen, if you can call that thing a haircut, of course. But then, let's face it, Kyle, you're just desperate for any kind of male attention that doesn't come from your little fag friends. Sadly, though, Stan's not interested in what you've got to offer. I think if he weren't so painfully straight he'd definitely want a real man, not some fire-crotched little ballerina Jew with a huge girl-ass and—"
Whatever Cartman was going to say next, he didn't get to say it, because Kyle's fist made contact with his jaw and he crumpled over in shock. He gasped for a moment, holding his jaw, and looked up at Kyle with a devilish smirk.
"Oh, Kyle! Easy, boy!" He was laughing at the other boy's frustration now. "You'll break a nail."
"I'll break your ass, you fat fuck!" Kyle screamed, literally throwing himself on top of Cartman and pounding at his face with balled up fists.
"Oh, my," Cartman continued to laugh. "The pain, the pain, my fragile little body cannot take more pounding from this faggy little Jew-boy."
Kyle very nearly shrieked and continued to beat down on the laughing Cartman ineffectually until he felt a man's arms grasp his waist and literally lift him off of Eric. He looked behind him to see his teacher holding him up, and then he noticed the nine or so pairs of eyes directed at him.
"Jesus, Broflovski!" the teacher shouted. "What are you doing?"
"He's fucking insulting me! He called me 'fag' and he—" Kyle stopped short.
"I what, Kyle?" Cartman asked, picking himself off of the floor.
"That's it!" the teacher cried. "Cartman, Broflovski — you can sort this out with the principal. Get the fuck out of here!"
Cartman grinned at Kyle with satisfaction as he picked up his bag. Kyle grabbed his notecards on the way out the door.
XXX
"I got you in trouble," Cartman sang, bouncing down the hall. "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha."
"Shut up," Kyle growled, clutching his backpack to his chest. "Seriously, seriously. Just shut your fat fucking face or I swear I will…"
"Hit me again?"
"Shut up!" Kyle screamed, coming to a halt in front of some lockers.
"Please, Kyle," Cartman scoffed. "Please, just stop. You're just embarrassing yourself here, Kyle. Your Jew mouth is only going to get you in trouble."
"What are you, 5?"
"I'm 16," Cartman said frankly. He continued walking to the principal's office.
"I fucking hate that bitch," Kyle seethed, exasperated. He then sprinted to catch up with his nemesis, who was bouncing toward their destination with untoward gaiety.
XXX
"Mr. Broflovski," the secretary said, not amused, barely glancing up from her computer screen. "Mr. Cartman."
"What up?" Cartman said casually. "Might I say, Miss Johansen, you are looking quite lovely today. Is that a new cardigan?"
"Actually, yes," Miss Johansen confirmed. "What can I do for you boys?"
"Well, my friend Kyle here took it upon himself to try and beat me up during Latin. I mean, he hardly succeeded, you can just look at him and see he doesn't have the arms for it."
"Shut up!" Kyle raged again. "He insulted me, he called me a fag, and he's just trying to get me pissed so he can taunt me into—"
"Miss Johansen, you can see that he's clearly upset. Far be it for me to tell you this but little Kyle's not having a good week, although for good measure you might want to talk to our friend Stan, he can fill you in on the details."
"Stanley Marsh? What's he got to do with it?"
"Nothing," Kyle growled. "Absolutely nothing."
"I shouldn't have to say this, boys, but fighting is unacceptable."
"Of course. That's why I didn't hit back."
"You hit me verbally, you shithead! You said I had a girl-ass, whatever that means!"
"It really becomes you, Kyle."
"It's not a girl-ass!"
Miss Johansen sighed, picking up her nail file. "Get back to class, Eric,"
"Aren't you going to discipline him?" Kyle asked expectantly.
"Thank you for handling this matter appropriately," Cartman said graciously before bowing to Miss Johansen and scurrying back to class.
"Well?" Kyle asked, tapping his foot in the usual manner.
"It just so happens, Kyle, that the principal wants to see you."
"Me?" Kyle gaped at the glorified authority figure sitting in front of him. "I told you, he verbally abused me, maybe I shouldn't have hit him but he deserved it, how much am I supposed to take?"
"I think this is an unrelated matter," Miss Johansen sighed, indicating to Kyle where the door to the principal's office was and that he should open it.
XXX
As it happened, it was not an entirely unrelated matter, as the focus of Cartman's taunts was, as usual, Kyle's sexuality, and this was tangentially related.
"You're from Duke," Kyle said blankly, staring at the researcher … man … guy.
"I am," the guy confirmed. "The name's Frank Granger."
"Yeah, you mentioned. I just … you want to talk to me."
"I do."
Kyle stared at Frank Granger blankly. Frank Granger stared back. Kyle blinked. Frank Granger blinked. Kyle spoke. "Why?" he asked, honestly curious.
"Kyle, have you noticed anything weird about the males in your class?"
Kyle blinked at this, too. "There's a lot weird in my grade, dude," he said directly, thinking of Kenny and his unmistakable inability to stay dead and buried, even after he was found drowned in a pool of his own vomit, that one time. The vomit was found to contain trace amounts of lighter fluid. It was anyone's guess as to what that was doing there. When Kenny came back, he shrugged it off — typical Kenny.
"I am referring to the fact that something like three-quarters of the males in your class are homosexual," Granger stated plainly.
"Or bisexual," Kyle added.
"Yes, or that. Have you noticed?"
"It would be hard not to."
"What do you make of it?"
"I don't know," Kyle shrugged. "Why do you care what I make of it?"
"Kyle, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I believe that isolating whatever causes so many of the boys in your class to be gay will lead to some interesting conclusions. I can look at the shared elements of your upbringings and experiences, and determine what, if anything, made so many of you to turn out how you did."
"Gay."
"Yes, gay."
"So you think it's a nurture thing."
"Well, that or something chemical. I have some lab guys I brought with me to look at some indigenous factors, like the town water supply."
"If the town water supply were contaminated with some kind of, I don't know, gay thing, don't you think the entire town would be gay?"
Frank Granger laughed, and to Kyle's great annoyance he also slapped his knees as he laughed. The entire thing came off as almost certainly fake, and Kyle wondered just why the hell he was sitting in front of the guy.
"My dear boy," Granger said, straightening himself in his seat. "I don't really think drinking contaminated water could make you gay. But, as they say, better safe than sorry, so we're going to try and determine if there was some kind of biological factor that made you all this way."
"Uh huh." Kyle sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "So what the hell am I doing here?"
"I'm glad you asked. See, I need to talk to the kids in your class. A large part of this research — and this is a sociological study, you see — is chatting with the locals. And you, dear boy, are a local I want to chat with."
"But why," Kyle pressed. "Why me? I'm not that gay. You know who you should talk to? This kid named Eric Cartman. Now he is flaming." Kyle kind of smirked in victory, satisfied with getting a jab in to someone who may or may not believe him, and probably wouldn't care. "Also, Butters is way gayer than I am. And this kid Christophe, he smokes Gauloises." Kyle pronounced this "Guhl-wah-ssssssay," and although he wasn't sure if that was the correct way to say it, he was almost certain that it was the gay way to say it, which would only serve to undermine his argument.
"No, Kyle," Frank Granger said sternly. "This is really a project I need your help on."
"I'm not getting involved," Kyle said suspiciously, "unless you tell me why the hell you want my help. I mean, I'm a busy guy here." It was only after he'd said this that Kyle realized all he had to do tonight was watch The Wedding Planner with Butters, and it had to be about the worst movie ever, so maybe this Frank Granger guy was his way out of that.
"Kyle, when did you decide you were gay?"
Kyle blinked. "Uh," he said stupidly, trying to comprehend the amount of levels the question was wrong on. "Well, not that it's your business, but that's not a thing I decided, r-tard."
"You didn't wake up one morning and decide you were gay?"
"No!"
"Of course not. That's not something you can just decide. What I mean is, when did you, you know, come to terms with it."
"Why should I tell you anything about me?"
Frank Granger sighed, and took off the idiotic horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like an unholy offspring of Rivers Cuomo and a falcon. "Kyle, have you ever wanted to help millions of people?"
"Well, yeah."
"And as your time as a high school student ends, aren't you wondering about where you can go and what you can do to make a difference in the world?"
Kyle blinked. This creepy man really knew who he was talking to. "Everyone feels that way," he said softly. "There's not a lot most of us can do."
"I'm afraid most people don't feel that way, Kyle. Think about the boys in your class. How many of them are concerned with helping others? What are their plans for college? Are they ambitious at all?"
Kyle felt that this was something of an unfair question to ask him, seeing as though he had no concrete plans for college and at the moment, his only ambition was to spend as much time with Stan as humanly possible without the other boy realizing that there was something utterly disgusting and unsettling about the way Kyle kept looking at him. Furthermore, Kyle thought about the most ambitious person he'd ever met in his life, who clearly had no interest in helping anyone unless it was part of some sick scheme to help himself. This person had also just insulted Kyle's ass, which was a touchy subject for him because honestly, it wasn't that big, it just looked big in these pants, and that wasn't his fault, if he wanted his pants to fit around the waist they were just going to be tight in the back but he'd accepted this, godammit. He squirmed in his seat, hoping this line of questioning wasn't going where he thought it might.
"Kyle," Frank Granger said softly, taking the boy's hand. Kyle really wanted to pull it away, but there was something curious happening in the dude's eyes — it was like they were alit with passion, or something. Scary passion. He wanted to get up and run away but he felt too unsettled. "Your principal told me about you. He told me there was a boy who could tell me all about your class, and the guys in it. He told me about you, and he said you were such a caring, passionate person. That you struggle to be your best in spite of so many challenges. He told me that you genuinely care about this world and the people in it, while the other kids in your class are wrapped up in themselves and their videogames. Does that sound like you?"
"I play videogames." Kyle drew his hand away.
"Well, so do I. But that doesn't matter. What matters is millions of people in this world feel like you do, every day. They want to know what made them who they are. Some of them have problems with their families. Some of them feel like they'll never have their own family. Some of them are hurt and degraded and it would give them just some comfort to know why, why am I this way?"
"That doucherocket told you this about me?"
"He did," Frank Granger confirmed. "So what do you say, Kyle? Can you help me? I can ask one of your friends, but … well, I'd like it to be you."
Kyle twitched, inherently uncomfortable with what he knew he was about to say. "I was 11," he uttered sadly. He made a gallant effort not to look Frank Granger in the eyes.
"So you'll help me?"
"Oh, fuck. This blows. Yeah, I guess I'll help you."
