Kyle was getting awfully sick of being led around town by Craig. It seemed like all they did was sludge around South Park, running into swarthy Cockney assholes who were boning his friends. Never mind that this was the first time Kyle had actually seen Kenny with Christophe, which honestly was probably due to the fact that he just hadn't been paying any attention to his highly mortal friend's social life. The whole walk back to Craig's house, Kyle kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road. He wasn't drunk at all, and this was no good. He was feeling quite apprehensive about things, or maybe just pensive. He wondered what Stan was doing. He knew Stan didn't care what he was doing. The wind was cold and fierce and incredibly dry, whipping his hair into a frenzy. At least it was finally tame. Tame for Craig. Kyle stumbled over some logs in someone's driveway. They kept walking, Craig squeezing the blood out of his hand.
At Craig's, the black-haired boy led Kyle up to his room and, once there, made his move swiftly and aggressively. Without removing his jacket — or giving Kyle the chance to take off his coat — Craig was upon him, making quick work of slobbering on his stinging lips like a puppy. Kyle felt his ass press into Craig's door, while Craig repeatedly tried to burrow his erection into Kyle's hip, and his nose into Kyle's cheek.
"You're so cold," he breathed, taking a pause as he let his jacket fall off of his shoulders. Not knowing what else to do, Kyle took this opportunity to remove his pea coat and flung it onto the floor. Craig's room was cold, the air unmoving. His windows were a little fogged, and Kyle could hear the wet rags of his breath. Craig gave him a crazy look, like a wolf or a fox, and then he threw Kyle onto the bed where they continued to kiss, Craig burying his face every so often in Kyle's stiff, fragile hair. He ran his fingers through it, and gave a little tug. And, feeling his digits slip a bit, he gave a sigh and said, "I much prefer it curly," at which Kyle sat up and brushed off the front of his shirt.
"I don't believe that," he said.
"Believe it or not but it's true. If I could just lose my hands in your hair for eternity I'd be just so pleased."
"That's weird, Craig," Kyle replied.
"Well, shit, I guess I must be weird then." Craig unbuttoned his pants and flung himself back at Kyle, whose own bottoms he struggled to get off. If he'd been in a better mood, a drunker mood, he'd have gladly just taken them off for Craig, and let the other boy have his way, or have several of his ways. Right now though, he just felt weird. Maybe the right word was gross. He felt gross, and not particularly right. It wasn't that he didn't want this — Craig had been astoundingly good up to this point, the confidence he had in his own abilities having been truly earned by a few years of practice. Another boy, for example, would have tried to avoid disturbing his busted lip, handling Kyle like a bone china teacup, attempting to work around his fading bruises. Craig liked to work through these injuries. In combination with Kyle's metabolic disorder, which generally made him slower-to-heal than most, he had been subtly damaged for the better part of the last several weeks. Maybe now it was closing in on two months. Kyle didn't know. Craig could keep track of this shit all he liked, but the only things Kyle had set on his calendar were the end of school, and his coming birthday.
So as Craig ran his teeth over the hardened scab on his lower lip, Kyle pushed back unenthusiastically with his tongue, and tried to comprehend how he felt about this. Craig was wonderful, really. He was good-looking, and he carried himself with such proud gait that it was nearly impossible for Kyle not to be drawn to his shimmering charisma and self-satisfied demeanor. These things were attractive, but it was Craig's insatiable need for Kyle that the red-haired boy really found compelling. Cartman had teased him about it before, albeit with Stan as the subject of the ridicule, but he was ultimately correct: Kyle wanted to be wanted. He liked that Craig wanted him. It somehow transcended the ordinary drunken blow jobs he'd grown accustomed to administering to anyone who didn't leap off a bed and run away: Craig's entirely sober interest in Kyle as a person was enough reason to like him. That Craig was a masterful lover was important and fantastic, sure, but an honest relationship, Kyle repeated in his mind as Craig finally succeeded in discarding Kyle's pants (and, along with it, his underwear) was that the person he was with made a connection to him that existed outside of the realm of the carnal.
Although, speaking of the realm of the carnal, Craig was now unbuttoning his own shirt, and muttering some of what Kyle knew would be sexy come-ons if he could hear them, which he couldn't over the pounding of blood in his ears, and the twin needs that were beginning to pull him in opposite directions like he was being drawn and quartered: There was his erection, which was beginning to strain against Craig's hairy thighs. And then there was his mind, which was screaming at him to stop this, right now. And beyond that, he was trying to figure out why, why should he stop this. God, he was miserable trying to determine why he felt so on edge about this. What would Stan do in this situation? That was ridiculous. Stan would never make out with Craig, would never let Craig tug his shirt off like he was a limp rag doll just waiting to be exposed for devious and demonic reasons. Which was what Kyle felt like with Craig; he was a little rag doll to be played with, swung around and bashed against things. And yet he was loved, adored, taken everywhere and shown off as a prized possession. He was the most valued thing Craig had.
This was all becoming very confusing when he felt some foreign objects pressing on his lips. Craig's right middle and index fingers were trying to wedge their way into Kyle's mouth, and Kyle without thinking opened his mouth and allowed Craig to practically gouge his gums before he got the idea and tightened his lips, giving the digits a good and thorough sucking. He moaned around the fingers, humming a little tune to himself. Craig was grinning with a kind of feral lust that one usually only saw in large felines.
As Craig used his right hand to finger-fuck Kyle's mouth, he reached behind himself with the left, fumbling around the pants he'd already thrown off. Kyle tried to ask him what he was doing, but Craig was now using all of his fingers (but not his thumb), so this question only came out flattened-sounding — although given the context, Craig could have made it out if he had really wanted. But no, he was busy grasping at something.
"Aha!" Craig cried, whipping a condom out from behind him. He waved it above Kyle's eyes, and Kyle glanced up at it, sticky little patches of drool at the corners of his mouth and under his bottom lip.
Without another word, Craig slipped his fingers out of Kyle's mouth and, as quickly as he'd withdrawn them, he replaced them with his tongue. Out of the corner of his left eye, Kyle could see the other boy's rushed condom application, and he could swear he felt and heard Craig sighing around his tongue as he succeeded in this goal. It wasn't much, but he got the sensory picture. He wanted to see more, but it was hard to see Craig's dick with his face in the way.
They continued kissing, and Craig was groping his ass. Then, suddenly, Craig was no longer groping Kyle's ass; he was doing a mediocre job of lubing up his fingers. Craig never stopped making out with Kyle while he did this. He just reached over to his nightstand and procured a little thing of K-Y.
Sweating, Kyle felt Craig's wet fingers begin to probe around his ass. He began to clench his ass together, although it wasn't happening voluntarily — it was just a reaction.
"What's wrong?" Craig asked, his generally nasal voice a little breathier now.
"Hmm?"
"You need to push out," Craig said wisely. "Push onto my fingers."
"Fuck," Kyle said, lifting his head and wiping some damp, limp hair out of his eyes. Generally the weight of his variously sized curls was significant, but this was a different feeling — his hair felt lighter, less substantial. Kyle blinked at Craig, and Craig continued to thumb Kyle's right nipple with his left hand while he used the other one in an attempt to gain entrance. "Craig." Kyle swallowed. Then he frowned. "You've been fingering me for like two months."
Craig rolled his eyes. "Uh huh."
"So, I know what to do."
"Okay."
"So don't treat me like a baby."
"Then why aren't you letting me in?" Craig asked, his thumb stilling. Kyle shrugged. "Do you not want this?"
"No," Kyle said slowly. "I do."
Not knowing what else to do, Craig grabbed his dick and squeezed it. "Well, I really do, so can you just let me lube you already?"
"I don't know. I'm, um." Pause. "I'm not really very … ready." Kyle saw Craig's lips instantly tighten, and his eyebrows rise.
Craig and Kyle were facing each other, kneeling, on Craig's bed. Craig had a condom on, and he was holding Kyle's right side while his slippery right hand cupped Kyle's left butt cheek, the middle finger of that hand resting inside of the cleft. Kyle had been holding onto Craig, but in the past two minutes, he'd let go. Now he was just holding himself.
"You don't want to do this," Craig said. He wasn't asking Kyle; he was speaking to himself.
"I want to," Kyle said. "But, it's just … do you know, when you want to do something, and you think you can, and you know you should, but … you just can't bring yourself to do it?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"This is sex," Craig scoffed. "You have to want to do it. Look at your cock, dude!"
"I know." Kyle sighed, shifting his thighs slightly. "But can't we just do what we usually do?"
"I guess."
"It's just—"
"Do you want me to bottom?"
"No, Craig, I … I don't think I could do that to you."
"It's okay, I'm game."
"No, I mean … I couldn't do that to you."
"I don't care if you fuck me in the ass, I don't have a problem with it. But I'm a really good top. You should let me top."
"Craig," Kyle said directly, putting his hands on Craig's shoulders. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. "I cannot have sex with you."
"Well, why not?" Craig's voice was climbing back up to an unnecessary pitch.
Kyle opened his eyes and looked back up at Craig. "Well … Jesus. Craig, I'm, well … I think maybe I'm scared."
"Oh," Craig said. "Is that all? C'mere, baby." Craig finally moved his hands from where they'd been for the past several minutes, and wrapped Kyle in his arms. "It's okay. We can go really slow, or we can do it another time. I know my cock is huge. I'd be scared too."
"No, you don't understand," Kyle said. His neck was resting on Craig's shoulder, and he honestly felt he was being slightly strangled. "I'm not scared of things in my ass, Craig."
"Well, what are you scared of?" Now Craig's voice was audibly annoyed, and Kyle silently wished that this tone didn't make his chest constrict so.
"I'm just getting a feeling. I'm afraid of what it means, and … I'm sorry, but I just. Well." Kyle hugged Craig a little tighter. "I need to be with someone who makes me feel safe."
"You mean, someone in general?" Craig asked this pointedly. "Or someone specific?"
"Specific," Kyle sighed. "Craig, I—"
Craig let go, and fell back onto his ass. No longer kneeling, he shook his head.
"Kyle." Craig shut his eyes. "I can't fucking believe I'm saying this." Craig opened his eyes, and then he closed them again. He covered his closed eyes with his hand. "I love you," he said very quickly, as if it were one word.
"I know." Craig could swear he heard Kyle choking a little.
"I said I love you!" Craig grabbed Kyle by his upper arms. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"I love you too. But this love, it's—"
"It's not Stan," Craig said snidely, eyes narrowing.
Kyle swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"You can't have sex with me," Craig breathed. "Because I'm not Stan Marsh."
"Please don't say it like that," Kyle moaned. "It doesn't matter. It's just what it is."
"No, this is what it is." Craig raised both middle fingers. "Get out of my house now," he concluded.
Kyle's face went red. "What? I don't want to leave you!" he protested.
"Well, um, actually, Kyle? I'm leaving you."
"Excuse me?"
"I can't do this." Craig slipped off his bed and picked up his shirt from the floor where it had fallen when he'd taken it off. He slipped it on and said, "Not wanting to bottom during sex with my enormous member, that I can live with. But I refuse under any circumstances to be your Stan Marsh substitute. So you know what, I think this relationship has reached its end."
"I don't want to break up!" Kyle gripped the bedspread. "I like dating you! I like you!"
"But you don't love me."
"Why do I have to love you?"
"Because," Craig said bitterly.
"Please don't do this to me. Craig, I've never — I've never been loved like this by anyone. Please, don't do this to me."
"Fuck!" Craig kicked his nightstand, pretending not to hear Kyle's pleadings. "Why am I still so fucking hard?" He looked down at his dick, condom still included. "Ugh, gah, I can't deal with this. I'll jack it after you go. Just please, please go quickly."
"I don't want to go!" Kyle said frantically.
"Well, I'm asking you to leave, please."
"I don't want to!"
"I know that!" Craig snapped. "God fucking dammit!" Craig grabbed Kyle again and shook him, although not particularly fast or hard. "I fucking love you, you dick, and you don't even have the presence of mind to lie about why we can't fuck! Jesus!"
"I love you too," Kyle whimpered.
"No, you love Stan and his complete lack of acknowledgment of the fact that you've been fucking pining away for him for fucking ever. You don't even love me enough to lie to me to spare my feelings!"
"You're yelling at me."
"Of course I am!" Craig smacked his own forehead.
"I don't want to break up," Kyle repeated, slipping off the bed and onto his knees.
"It's not about you!"
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"What if Stan told you he loved you, but he didn't mean it, he was just lonely because he was in love with some chick who didn't like him back because she was a dyke, and you were dying to have sex with him but he told you he couldn't because you weren't that girl, how would you feel about that?"
"Excuse me?"
"If Stan led you on! How would you feel if he told you he loved you and you knew he didn't because he made it perfectly clear that he was just using you?"
"I," Kyle sniffed. "I would feel horrible."
"Would you be angry? Would you ever really want to see him again?"
"But I'd still love him," Kyle rationalized.
"And I fucking love you, but I can't be a pathetic waste of life. So please, Kyle, please." Craig paused and pulled the condom off of his gradually softening member. "Get the fuck out of my house!"
XXX
At half past 4 a.m., it was quiet in the Broflovski house. Kyle sighed heavily as he turned the key in the door, glad to be done with his freezing trek home. For some reason, without Craig at his side, it felt longer than the several short blocks it truly was. It was not until Kyle was hanging up his coat on the rack by the door that he realized how much he missed Craig's stupid nattering about dumb crap. In fact, maybe it wasn't dumb crap. Kyle had been whimpering a little when Craig kicked him out, but the wind on his face and his general shock has kept him from full-out starting to cry. Which was fine with him — he wasn't sure what he was feeling. Betrayal, maybe? A little stupid, too — he knew Craig was right, saving it wasn't doing him any good, he didn't know when to take a good opportunity and go with it. Maybe after he slept he could figure out how he felt, other than stupid. This had all happened in the past hour, after all.
He removed his shoes so he could pat up the stairs without making a racket, and without waking up his family. Kyle told himself he should be determined to get to bed without any additional drama, so he slipped into the quiet of the bathroom to brush his teeth and get to sleep. This plan was going fine, just fine, until he snapped on the bathroom lights and saw his mother's straightening iron on the counter, cord hanging languidly, plug barely brushing the floor. To the right of the iron was the bouquet of lilies he'd just left there, sitting there with a sleek black ribbon around the stems.
Kyle burst into tears.
He backed away from the counter, but he apparently forgot the dimensions of the bathroom he'd been using for 15 years, because he felt his head hit the wall. With one hand on his mouth and one hand bracing himself against the warped plaster, Kyle tried to get himself to stop crying. He felt like he could barely breathe, as if for the first time in his life the pathetic air of South Park's absurd altitude was finally too thin, and he couldn't get enough oxygen in his lungs. He felt like he needed all of it, like nobody else was entitled to any. He touched his upper lip to the bottom of his nose. It felt slick with mucus, and sure enough he tasted salt again.
What the fuck was wrong with Craig? Kyle wished Craig were there with him, in the bathroom, like he had been before, watching this pathetic display. Then he would see just what kind of damage he was doing, what a fucking prick he was. Even though he was apparently entirely hard-up with common sense, Craig had some residual compassion; surely if he saw how awful Kyle felt he'd change his mind, reverse this fucking train wreck. Kyle shut his eyes and thought about what it would be like if Craig decided to go after him, got the key out from under the welcome mat, ran up the stairs to the bathroom, found this scene — playing these visuals in his head made Kyle cry harder. He could barely open his eyes.
But open them he did, and he saw himself in the mirror. Looking back at him was a boy with impeccably styled red hair, drawn to the side with a dramatic sweep. But his face was red, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and his lips were swollen to twice their normal size. Worse, down his bottom lip was the fading indentation of that horrible fucking laceration from last month. After watching himself cry until he could no longer bear to see how fucking terrible he looked, he turned away. Thank god Craig couldn't see this — he was hideous.
Kyle's eye caught those calla lilies again. There they were, mocking him, so large and full at the peak of their bloom. With an instinctual jolt, Kyle snapped them up from the counter and, grasping them with both hands, he began to smash the flowers against the surface of the counter. He kicked the cabinet and screamed in agony, watching small pieces of waxy white flower begin to bruise and smear against the rim of the sink.
Kyle didn't know if this was therapeutic or not. It felt kind of good. He groaned, and it was kind of releasing. The kicked the cabinet door again, and this time it hurt a bit. But even that felt kind of good.
"Kyle?"
Kyle stopped, swallowed, and gasped a little. He saw his younger brother's black eyes focused on him through a crack in the door.
"Are you okay? You woke me up." Ike pushed the door open, and he wasn't smiling. That was weird. Ike was almost always smiling. Kyle didn't say anything. He just sniffled.
Ike widened the door and stepped inside the bathroom, which was about the right size for two people. "It's almost 5," Ike said seriously, rubbing an eye. "Why aren't you in bed?" Ike looked up at him again. "Are you sure you're okay?" he repeated.
Without any idea why, Kyle smacked his brother across the face. "I didn't say I was okay you fucking retard!"
"Shit, dude, don't hit me," Ike growled back.
"Don't hit you?" Kyle would have laughed at this normally, but he wasn't in much of a laughing mood, even ironically. "Don't fucking invade my privacy, you little piece of crap!"
"You woke me up," Ike squeaked. Ike felt the damaged bouquet hit him in the face. "Did something happen?" he asked, bending over to pick up the flowers.
Kyle whimpered again, not really sure what the fuck he was doing. He just saw this tiny little Canadian kid with black shaggy hair holding a bundle of thick green stems with a half-undone black ribbon, and he couldn't stop himself from pounding said kid in the face.
"Jesus Christ!" Ike shrieked, dropped what was left of the flowers, and tried to shield himself with his hands. "What the fuck!"
"Leave me the fuck alone!"
"I didn't so anything to you, stop!"
"Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"Kyle, stop!" Kyle didn't stop. Ike was not especially big, but he was clever, and he knew his brother. He didn't see any of that well-meaning rationalism in the older boy's eyes. All he saw was a crazy person freaking out. So he hopped backward and assumed some kind of stance. Kyle tilted his head and looked at this display, but he didn't say anything. "I am a blue belt," Ike breathed, although the fear in his voice did betray him a little. "If you keep hurting me, I will tell Mom."
Kyle shook his head. "Are you going to fight me? Or are you going to tell on me?"
"I don't know," Ike said honestly. "Which are you more afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid of anything," Kyle said. Then he pressed his lips together and shut his eyes tightly. Ike could see he was trying not to cry again.
"What happened?" the little boy asked.
The question made Kyle angry again, apparently, because he did resume crying, and he also went back to the sloppy business of punching Ike. With a sigh, Ike solidified his defensive block and screamed, "Mom!"
Kyle got in maybe another two hits before both of his parents appeared on the scene, his mother clad in a ridiculous pink robe. "What what what?" she screeched.
"Jesus, Kyle!" his father screamed, grabbing one of his wrists. "What the hell are you doing?"
Kyle looked up at his mother, who had her arms locked around Ike's chest protectively. She was staring at him, her lips parted, disbelieving the scene she'd just witnessed. Kyle tried to jerk his arm away from his father, but he couldn't.
"What in the world is wrong with you?" the man asked, dropping his son's wrist.
He looked up at his father, and then at his mother. They were both giving him death stares, and beginning to panic he spouted out, "Craig dumped me!"
"So you take it out on your brother?" Sheila asked.
"Why can't he just leave me alone?"
"I was only asking if you were okay."
"It's none of your business!"
"You woke me up!"
"You're just making it worse!" Kyle shouted.
"Nothing gives you the right to hit your brother!" Gerald reprimanded.
"Why do you always take his side?" Kyle asked, bottom lip quivering pathetically. "Can't you see I'm in pain?" He began crying again, and put his face in his hands.
"Gerald," Sheila said softly. "Why don't you get Ike a drink?"
"I'm not thirsty," Ike said.
"Don't smart off," his mother warned him. "Off you go, bubbe. Go with your father, he'll get you some nice juice."
Ike turned to go, grumbling, and Sheila swatted him on the butt. Gerald began to follow him, but paused on his way out to ask his wife, "What are you going to do with him?"
"I'll figure it out," Sheila shrugged. There was a pause of silence between them, and Kyle's sobbing filled the small room.
"Well, okay," Gerald conceded, following his younger son downstairs.
"What is the matter with you?" Sheila asked, hands on her hips.
Sniffing, Kyle wiped his eyes. "I feel so awful," he managed. "Why doesn't he want me anymore?"
"Oh, bubbelah," Sheila sighed. "Come here." Kyle tentatively stepped forward, and his mother wrapped him in her arms, smashing his wet cheeks again her ample chest. "Any boy who doesn't want you is a fool, Kyle."
"He's not a fool, he's—"
"Shhh, don't talk over me."
"But I—"
"No, shhh, listen." She began to pet his hair. "You are the smartest, cleverest, handsomest boy in this little redneck town. Anyone who doesn't see that isn't worth a minute of your time."
"You don't understand," Kyle sniffed, lifting his head. "He knows all that. That's not why."
"Then why?"
"This is so embarrassing," Kyle moaned. "I haven't cried like this since—"
"Let's not talk about it," Sheila suggested. She paused. "I think I hear your father and Ike coming back up. Do you want to talk in the kitchen? I can make you something nice, hmm?"
"I don't know…"
"Yes, come downstairs. Don't be shy, come on."
"I feel really stupid now," Kyle said. He wiped at some sticky tear residue on his cheek. "I think I should go to bed."
"I changed your diapers, Kyle. Trust me, I've seen you at your stupidest." And without waiting for answer, she turned and left the bathroom, leaving him standing there. Although she hadn't said anything, the implication was clear: He would follow her to the kitchen, or … well, in this case there was no 'or.' He would follow her to the kitchen.
She made him a cup of tea and set the mug down in front of him at the table, nodding at it. "Drink," she said sweetly. Kyle wasn't thirsty, wasn't cold, didn't want a cup of tea. But he looked at it and looked at her, flinching momentarily before lifting the mug to his lips with both hands.
"That's it," Sheila said sweetly. "Good boy."
Kyle hated the way his mother calmly instructed him. It was so false — a kind of self assurance that only comes from being absolutely certain all of one's own orders are going to be strictly followed. It was something like a religious code of laws in that sense.
As thirsty as he wasn't, there was something about drinking this tea that made Kyle feel a little better, and his heart beat a little slower. So he continued drinking, and listened to his mother while she spoke.
"There is no excuse for this behavior," she said. "What have I always told you?"
"Don't make a scene?"
"Exactly. Don't make a scene. And don't attack your brother!"
"But he was—"
"Oh, knock it off with this 'he was' and 'he wasn't' stuff. He's a little boy! And he looks up to you."
"I don't know why," Kyle sniffed. "I fucking suck."
"Language!"
"Well, I do," Kyle continued. "I can barely keep a boyfriend for two months."
Sheila sighed, and slumped in her seat. Because of her size and shape, it might have been difficult to discern a difference between this and sitting up straight. But she was his mother, so Kyle could. He also knew that her relaxed posture was not necessarily defeat; it was pensive. He watched her intently, and she rubbed her hands together.
"What happened?" she asked slowly.
Kyle grimaced, not really wanting to tell her. But he knew he had no choice. It was just something he would have to do. "We were, um, fooling around, you know…"
She raised her eyebrows. Kyle stopped talking. "Go on," she urged him. "I'm not going to punish you." She crossed her arms.
Kyle exhaled. "Well, I didn't want to, and, uh … are you really going to make me say it?"
"No, I understand. Keep going."
"Well, basically, I told him I couldn't, uh, the thing, because, well … I just didn't want to with him." Kyle swallowed. "In retrospect I think I should have."
"Oh, no, I think you made the right choice." She took his hand across the table, and gave him a warm smile. It was creepy. Why was he telling his mother these things? "It's important not to rush."
"Yeah, I know," Kyle agreed, desperately hoping his mother didn't know the extent to which he'd actually gone with Craig, or with several others at that.
"Besides," Sheila continued. "It's like I said, you're such a special boy. I wouldn't want you with some shmuck who just wants you for a lay."
At this, Kyle tensed up, and let go of her hand. "Don't hate Craig."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Well, he really didn't just want to do it, he wanted … well, he wanted me to love him basically, and—"
"You love Stanley," Sheila said.
Kyle's face went pink, and he nearly choked. "Excuse me?"
"I get it now," she said knowingly. "You didn't want to be with Craig like that because you're saving it for Stanley."
"Oh, fuck."
"I think it's very sweet."
"Sweet? Sweet? That's like my biggest secret!"
"Not really."
"Well, how the fuck do you know that?" Kyle spit out. He got up from the chair and began to pace. "Jesus Christ, Mom! I'd ask if you were reading my diary, except you can't be getting this from there because I don't have one!"
"I know," she said wistfully.
"You checked?"
"All mothers check around their son's rooms," she said calmly.
"Oh, this is just great!"
"Kyle, please, I do your laundry. I vacuum. Who do you think dusts under the bed?"
Kyle moaned. "This fucking sucks! Why the fuck do you know everything about me?"
"I'm your mother," she said simply.
"That's not good enough!" Kyle sat back down, and put his hands back in his head, and then he was back to where he'd started: crying. "Why can't I have my own life? Why do you do this to me?"
She got up from her seat and moved over to him, rubbing her son's shoulders as he cried. "It's not all bad," she said. "I can help you, Kyle. I don't want to see you upset."
"You know about Stan?" he asked back.
"Well, it is relatively obvious."
"How obvious?"
She sighed, mournfully. "Eh, I don't know, when you bring him over for Shabbat dinner and you ask him if he wants green beans, whenever he says yes you're so happy, you serve him the whole dish. That's how I know."
"That's how you know?"
"Oh, shhh." She stroked his hair. "We'll fix this."
"Fix this?" Kyle asked, lifting his head and shoving her off of him. "Fix it how? Craig at least liked me a lot, but he's gone now!"
"Well, maybe you shouldn't have told him you like Stanley."
He paused to wonder how exactly she knew this, but then he shook his head and replied, "Well, no shit! I wouldn't be down here at 5 a.m. crying about this crap with my mother if I hadn't! I'd be getting nice and fucked up my ass and probably pretty fucking happy about it, instead of crying in your tits like a pussy little girl!"
"Language," she reminded him.
"Language? Are you insane? Your son is sitting here crying like a baby because he got dumped by the second biggest whore in school and you're worried about language? It's a little fucking late for that now, Mom, don't you think?"
She didn't flinch at this. "Who is the first biggest whore?" she inquired. Kyle just crossed his arms and lowered his head. "I see," she said knowingly. She sat back down. "It seems to me," she began, taking a sip of her lukewarm tea, "that we need to get you involved in something that will take your mind off of Stanley. Maybe you should spend some time with some other friends for a while?"
"Oh, and which friend would that be?" Kyle asked. "The fat piece of shit who beat me to a bloody pulp, the little faggot retard 'dating' him—" Kyle made air quotes "—or the trailer trash whore balling that fucking British turd?"
"Good point," Sheila agreed. "What about that study?"
"What study?" he wiped his eyes again.
"The one, with the man, from North Carolina? You know, Mr. Granger?"
"Granger? Yeah, he's a complete douche, what about him?"
"Well, what have you done about that lately?"
"Huh." Kyle sniffed. "Um, well, I guess I haven't done anything."
"Well, come on, bubbe. You can't expect this to just go away on its own."
"I don't know," Kyle said tentatively. "I was kinda working on it with Craig, and then…"
"Well, forget Craig. What's that little shaygitz got that you need so badly anyway?"
"A really great cock," Kyle sighed.
"What what what?" Sheila put her chin in her palm and sighed. "Kyle, please, language."
"Sorry."
"That's a good boy." She turned to look at the clock over the oven. "Oh, look at the time," she said with fake awe. "Who knew how late it was! We should talk about this tomorrow. Maybe you should get a little sleep?"
"You think so?" Kyle asked, standing up. He tried to get out of the kitchen, but she grabbed him but the shoulders and spun him around.
"Kyle, listen to me. Everyone gets dumped. Everyone has unrequited love. Stanley isn't gay, is he?"
"No," Kyle sighed. "No, I really don't think so."
"Then the longer you wait for him, the worse it'll get."
"I can't help who I love," Kyle said pathetically, slumping.
"No, that's what quitters say. We'll work on this Mr. Granger, take your mind off of Craig, and Stan, all these worthless little goyim. You're too good for them all anyway, bubbe."
"If I'm too good for them," Kyle said to no one as he dragged himself upstairs, "why did you make me grow up in this fucking retard town with them?"
XXX
Kyle did feel tired, but it took him 39 minutes to fall asleep. He knew this because he lay there on his side, facing the red numbers of his clock, which taunted him from 4:56 to 5:35 a.m. When he was jolted awake at 11 a.m., he realized that in the previous night's fog of exhaustion and misery, he'd forgotten to turn off his alarm. He tried to get back to sleep for another 10 minutes or so, but while staring at the ceiling wide awake, the wide-open window rattling away, he realized that he was up, still exhausted, and single. So he got out of bed.
Breakfast sucked, as did coming into the kitchen to find his parents sitting at the table, newspapers strewn around in front of them. Gerald and Sheila stopped talking to each other, both looked up at him, and said nothing. Kyle paused in the doorway, sort of considering turning around, running upstairs, smashing his head against the wall for a couple of hours, and then maybe feeling further miserable in some sort of as-yet-undecided fashion for the remainder of the weekend. But before he could enact this plan, Gerald spoke to him.
"Good morning, Kyle," his father said pleasantly. His mother's eyes widened and she flashed her husband a sign of warning. Kyle still said nothing. Gerald proceeded with caution: "Sleep okay?"
"No."
Gerald looked to Sheila for help, and she cleared her throat. "Do you want me to make you something?" she asked hopefully.
"No."
"Really, Kyle," she said sternly. He shrugged and started making himself a bowl of cereal. "You could at least be pleasant." He continued to ignore her. "I know you're in a foul mood, but honestly." She sighed. "Nobody likes a jerk."
Kyle put away the box of cereal and slammed the cabinet door. He picked up his bowl of cereal and rolled his eyes. "Okay, Mom, here's what going to happen. I'm going to go eat this in the living room. You're both going to leave me alone because I feel like fucking crap. Understood?"
"Kyle!" his father exclaimed, coupled with his mother's standard interjection. But he just walked out of the kitchen, fell down on the living room couch, and turned to see his brother watching television quietly.
"Hi," he said sweetly.
"Oh, don't you 'hi' me!"
"What?" Ike asked. "Are you still in a bad mood?"
Kyle just groaned.
"Are you eating breakfast?"
"Obviously." Kyle looked at the TV. "What the fuck are we watching?" he asked.
"SportsCenter," Ike said.
"Well, turn that crap off." Kyle took a bite of some cereal. "I want to watch something else," he said through a full mouth.
"I was here first."
"I don't give a shit."
"Why are you so mean?"
Kyle rolled his eyes. "I am not mean. I am in pain."
"Be in all the pain you want," Ike said. "But don't be a bitch!"
"Give me that!" Kyle grabbed for the remote, which Ike was clutching in both hands.
"No!" Ike tugged on the device, which they were now struggling over. Kyle was still holding his bowl of cereal in one hand, so he reached over to set it down sloppily on the table next to the couch. A bit splashed out, but he didn't care. Fighting with Ike over the remote was far too interesting to him in this moment to worry about making a mess.
"Why can't you be cool?" Ike asked rhetorically, his dirty fingers slipping.
"Why don't you ever just let me be?" Kyle asked, although he was hoping for a response.
"I was here first!"
"Fucking just give me the remote, you little fucker!"
"You always take shit out on me!" Ike cried. "I am so fucking sick of it! You're such a damn fag!" Kyle was momentarily distracted; he'd never heard his brother say that word before. Bristling with anger, Kyle grunted and yanked the remote as hard as he could. With a smile, Ike gracefully let go, and Kyle tumbled backward, his head hitting the back of the sofa. The bowl of cereal wobbled a little, but only a bit sloshed over the sides. Now there were a few marshmallows sitting in a pool of dull white liquid on the table, and Kyle was half-on, half-off the couch, holding a remote control. Ike stood up and crossed his arms.
"I always wondered if I should try that," he said with some pleasantness in his voice. Clearly he was happy with himself. Kyle looked up at him, not sure if he wanted to attack verbally or physically, or just curl up into a ball and feel sorry for himself.
"You," he breathed.
"Have fun watching TV by yourself, shithead," Ike said cheerily. He then turned and ran upstairs, as if he were more terrified of retribution than he let on.
Picking himself up, Kyle left the cereal mess on the table and stomped into the kitchen. His parents were still sitting at the table; obviously they'd been listening.
"What are you going to do about it?" he asked them, not bothering to explain.
"Nothing," his mother answered.
"You should really be nicer to your brother," Gerald added.
"Nicer?" Kyle asked, cheeks pinking.
"Kyle, bubbe," his mother said, indicating the chair next to her. "Come, sit."
"I'm not a fucking dog!" Kyle replied. "Don't tell me to sit!"
"Have a seat," his father sighed wearily. "We're not going to punish you."
"Punish me? That kid calls me a fag and you think I should be punished?"
"Just sit down, Kyle." His father's voice was devoid of energy or amusement, and Kyle felt this was slightly serious, so he sat. "You think we don't know what goes on between you boys? I know younger brothers can be annoying, but you're six years older. There's something to be said for maturity."
"And patience," Sheila added.
"Patience? He goes in my room! I have no privacy!"
"You know, you could lock the door," Gerald suggested.
"Oh, really?" Kyle asked. "You really think he doesn't know how to pick a lock?"
"That's besides the point," Kyle's father amended. "Beating up your brother is never ever okay. Ever."
"But—"
"Never," Sheila clarified.
"This is so typical," Kyle moaned. "You." He turned to his mother and pointed at her. "You fucking think you're going to help me, and then you just set me up to get fucked over. You did it to me when I was 8, you did it to me when I was 11, and you fucking do it to me now."
Sheila made an unimpressed face and said, "I just want what's best for you."
"You have no fucking idea what the fuck is best for me!"
"Stop yelling at your mother."
"Why?" Kyle replied. "Every time she opens her fat bitch mouth I get fucked over!"
"This is ridiculous." Kyle's mother crossed her arms over her breasts. He had been expecting her to get up and slap him, but she didn't, and it caught him off-guard.
"Fuck both of you," Kyle concluded. "Just fucking fuck everyone." As he stormed out of the room, he heard his father call after him, but he knew neither of them would follow him upstairs.
He picked up his pants from the night before and got his cell phone out. He didn't know who to talk to, where to go … the phone began to ring and when he answered, his voice hitched before he croaked out a miserable, "I need help."
"What's wrong?" Stan asked. He was obviously trying to sound alert, but his voice betrayed him; he sounded preoccupied, or at least occupied, and drowsy.
"Craig dumped me."
"Oh," Stan said unenthusiastically. "I'm so sorry."
"You don't even know!" Kyle cried. "I gotta get out of here. Meet me in half an hour? I need some coffee or … something."
"I'm … not really out of bed yet," Stan said lamely.
"Well, get up!"
"Kyle, I'm—"
"You're what, you're…" Kyle trailed off when he heard a voice in the background. "Stanley," he said sweetly. "Who is that?"
"Oh." Stan sounded plenty unhappy. "That would be Bebe."
"Oh, it's just Bebe. Tell me, Stanley, why is Bebe at your house?"
"She's not. I'm at Bebe's house." Kyle felt the phone become incredibly slippery in his grasp, and he felt an incredibly unpleasant full feeling in his chest. His heart was beating fast, very fast, and with the hand that wasn't holding the phone he gripped his chest.
"Stanley," he panted. "Why … why are you at Bebe's house?" Stan didn't answer. Kyle thought, in the silence, he could hear Stan's tense breathing. He considered that maybe this was Bebe, but he didn't want to believe he was hearing her exhale over the phone. It was impossible. "Well, I'm terribly sorry to do this to you," he continued, "but please get up. I need you right now."
Stan's voice tightened into a harsh whisper, and he replied, "I can't just get up and leave her."
"You'd fucking better."
"No."
Another 30 seconds of short breathing, and Kyle felt his chest continue to tighten. He heard a stern, high voice in the background, but all he made out was the word "ridiculous" and a couple of select curses.
"I'm sorry," Stan said plainly. "I can come over later, maybe."
"Forget it!" Kyle screamed. "I just don't fucking care anymore!" He whipped the phone across the room, where it hit the wall, leaving a navy blue mark against the plaster. Still, the thing fell onto his desk largely intact, although he would never be able to control the volume again.
The impact had been strong enough to end the call, though, and Stan did not get in touch about later.
XXX
Monday was wet like a dishrag, gray and dirty, sad and lonely. Kyle felt like that, too — used, unclean, overloaded with metaphors of uselessness and irrelevance. Ike did not speak to him on the drive to school, and although he felt that some of the kids whose names he didn't know might have been leering at him in the hall, no one spoke to him. He stood in front of his locker shifting books around before stowing his hat. It was really too warm for a hat anymore, and Kyle only briefly considered wearing it anyway. But it was thickly humid, or thickly humid for South Park, and he wanted to feel himself sweat all day long even less than he wanted to be seen by anyone.
With a few minutes before first period, Kyle was approached by the person he least wanted to speak to. It was only as Craig was clearing his throat, paper grocery bag in hands, curled up neatly like an overgrown lunch sack, that Kyle really firmed up his decision not to wear a hat all day, because then he would be that much more like Craig.
"Hey," Craig said in that obtuse voice of his. "How are you?"
Kyle scowled and rolled his eyes and put on his most beleaguered expression. "I fucking suck; how are you?"
"Not so great," Craig confessed. He cleared his throat. "This is really hard to say, but I am sorry," he continued.
Kyle's eyebrows lifted, and his bottom lip trembled, although he did try to still it. "Oh?"
"Yeah, well … yeah. I don't want you to suck. I want you to be happy." Craig gave a weird little smile. It felt very un-Craiglike.
"So." Kyle swallowed. "We don't have to break up?"
Then Craig frowned, and sniffed. "No," he clarified. "We have to break up. Trust me."
"But, you said—"
"—I just don't necessarily want you to be unhappy," Craig repeated. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"Well, that's great, because you really did."
"And I feel pretty bad. But look." Craig sighed, and offered Kyle the bag. "It's your stuff back."
"How much stuff did I give you?" Kyle asked.
"I don't know. There are some underwear you left at my place. The left over ribbon, from the flowers on Saturday."
"Flowers," Kyle repeated stupidly.
"Yeah, they make you buy a whole fucking yard. Fuck that store, man. I wish there were another place to get ribbon in town."
"What else?" Kyle asked blankly.
"Not a lot," Craig confessed. "Pair of gloves you lent me … um, that Dana International CD."
Kyle felt his chest constrict, which was happening a lot lately. There was nearly no one in the hall now; class had started. His first instinct was to drop the bag and run, get to class, leave Craig behind. But he didn't. "I gave you that CD," Kyle moaned. "It … it was for you."
"I know. I just can't keep it."
"Come on, dude," Kyle whined. He shuffled his feet. "Don't do this to me."
"I gotta."
"But I like you," Kyle said. "So much."
"I know," Craig signed. "I'm awesome. I give great hand jobs. I know you like me. But I don't like you, I love you, and it's just not going to work."
"All the seduction, all the preparation…"
"…I know." Craig crossed his arms. "But look. Sometimes, you work really hard to get something, and you know it's just not going to be the way you wanted it to be, and … oh, fuck me. I thought I could make you love me, or something, but … fuck. Life is so short. I wanted it, we tried it, you're kind of a good cocksucker, but—"
Kyle's face turned bright pink, and he dropped the bag. "Kind of?" he cried. "Kind of?" This was the first thing Craig had ever said to him that he really found insulting.
"Whoa. Calm down."
"I am calm!" Kyle began to kick his locker.
"This would be cute if it weren't so cliché." Craig sighed and grabbed Kyle's shoulders to wrench him away from the locker. "Or maybe the cliché makes it cute?"
"I hate everything!"
"No you don't. You like Stan, for instance."
"I'm pissed at Stan!"
"You'll get over it."
Kyle straightened out his posture, and crossed his arms. He looked at the ground and gave the paper bag with the Dana International CD inside of it a little kick. "This sucks fucking balls, Craig." He looked down in shame and mumbled, "Please don't leave me."
Craig tried to put on a reassuring expression, but in his mind he could see himself looking like an escapee from an asylum, so he just frowned, and held Kyle by the shoulders again. "I'd be a fucking retard to tell you that that fucking loser breeder is ever going to be into you—"
"Oh, that just makes it so much better!"
"—but I do think you will love someone eventually who isn't straight, and isn't just looking for a blowjob. But it's not going to be me." Craig leaned into Kyle, and carefully applied what was perhaps their briefest, driest kiss on the mouth yet. "Because you don't love me."
"No," Kyle admitted. "But why does it matter?"
"It matters to me." Craig dropped his arms, and shrugged. "You should go to class now."
"Where are you going to go?"
"I'm going to go sit in the library and be miserable for a while."
"Can I come with you?" Kyle asked, wiping his eyes.
"No. No, that would defeat the point."
"Why did you even like me at all?"
Craig shrugged. "You're just such a crazy bitch," he said hesitantly. "And your ass reminds me of one of those pincushions that's shaped like a tomato." Kyle put a hand to his mouth, and Craig said, "This is just dragging on forever. Talk to you later?"
"Sure," Kyle said. His hand was still over his mouth, so the word sounded garbled, which was fine, because he didn't really mean it. He watched Craig leave, narrowly missing the garbage can because he was looking at the floor as he departed. Now Kyle was alone in the hallway, and he was late for class. Silently, he picked up the paper bag and cradled it in the crook of his arm while he fiddled with his combination lock. He stashed the bag on the floor of the locker, and clicked the lock shut. He turned and slammed the locker closed with his behind, and went to class. His teacher asked him where he'd been, but he just shrugged and took a tardy, his first of the year.
XXX
For the first time in a long time, Kyle stood by himself in the lunch line. Some senior girls behind him were discussing Wendy's party of the previous weekend, and he understood them to be saying unfortunately disturbing things:
"I mean, I'd do him."
"Seriously? I heard he was dating that little fag from the social committee."
"I know, but that somehow makes it hotter."
"Who am I kidding? I'd do anyone from the football team."
"Tell me about it! Especially the quarterback! What's his name again?"
"I don't know, Sam or something…"
Kyle put his tray back down on top of the stack of trays, wiped the dampness off of his hands, and headed for his table. But even across the cafeteria he could see Craig's blue hat, and that Craig was sitting next to Thomas, probably complaining about his broken heart.
Well, it wasn't his fault if Craig was miserable. Frankly, he was making Kyle just as if not more miserable. So didn't he deserve to feel like shit? Kyle took some small solace in the fact that Craig would receive very little consoling out of Thomas, in between all the cursing and flinching. Bolstering himself, Kyle turned in the opposite direction and decided to go sit at the other table. It occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't spend lunch in the cafeteria anyway, since he wasn't eating and was trying to avoid pretty much anyone. He still felt like he was being watched as he dodged those same senior chicks who apparently had a thing for football players. But he felt like being around people was healthy, and as long as he didn't run into Craig, he didn't care how many people stared at him.
Kyle approached the table in trepidation, twisting the hem of his shirt in with his fingers. "Hey guys," he said softly. "Can I, um … can I sit here?"
Tweek looked up at him and opened his mouth, probably about to respond with a dramatic denial, but Kenny clasped a hand over his mouth and said, "Of course."
"Yeah," Clyde agreed. Kyle waited for another objection as Kenny uncovered Tweek's mouth, but the boy just shuddered and wrapped his arms around his own torso, shaking.
"Where's Stan?" Kyle asked Kenny as he took a seat.
"Stan?" Kenny asked. "I haven't seen him since Wendy's. I don't think he came to school today."
"Oh," was all Kyle said.
"Honestly I figured you'd have spoken to him."
"No," Kyle said glumly.
"Well, you look pretty miserable. What's up?"
Kyle looked around, and his lips quivered as he tried to decide if he wanted to talk to Kenny (and by default, Clyde and Tweek if they were paying any attention) about his problems. It was better than nothing, Kyle decided, so he announced, "Craig dumped me."
"Yeah, we know," Clyde said. Clearly he had been listening, even if he was eating a grilled cheese sandwich at the time.
"How do you know?" Kyle asked.
"Craig."
"Oh yeah."
Kyle gave a belabored sigh and scratched his head.
"What happened?" Kenny asked.
"I don't really know," Kyle mumbled.
"Craig said you were cheating on him or something," Clyde said casually.
"What?" All the color drained from Kyle's face. "He said that? I was not!"
"I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention," Clyde said dismissively. "He just said something about you and some other guy, and then I went to trig."
"Was Stan in trig?" Kyle asked.
"No," Clyde answered. "Sorry." He got up to go throw away his trash, taking his tray with him. Tweek, who had been sitting there for the duration of this exchange, popped out of his seat and gave Kyle a weird, evil look before rushing off after Clyde, hands in his pockets. It took Kyle a moment to realize that this was first time he'd spoken to Clyde directly in a long time, and he stared after him wistfully for a moment, appreciating the way his ass bounced as he walked, especially in comparison to Tweek's, which was barely existent.
"Well," Kenny said suddenly, yanking Kyle's attention away from the straight kids. "I'd say I'm sorry, but I don't think I am. I wasn't exactly rooting for you and Craig or anything."
"Oh, good," Kyle moaned sarcastically. "Well, I don't think Stan liked him much either. So it's good to know my friends had my back on this one."
"Kyle, please. We want you to be happy."
"Oh, so does everyone." This remark was also basically sarcastic. "And look at how fucking happy I am now."
"You really are a bitch," Kenny said, but there was no anger in his voice, and he was smiling a little. Kyle tried to return the smile, but it just turned to mush on his face, and he went back to blatantly suffering. "Come on, dude. It could be a lot worse. You could be dating Cartman or something." Kenny kind of chuckled at this, and he genuinely laughed when he saw upset this comment made Kyle.
"Please don't even go there," he gagged. "I heard some chicks in the lunch line talking about how they'd do him. Him! With that, and Butters, and Wendy, it's just … my god, can you imagine?"
"I don't know," Kenny confessed. "I'd tap it if I got the chance."
"Dude!"
"Well, but I'd tap anything," Kenny clarified. "And besides, there's this thing with football players." He narrowed his eyes and said this very directly to Kyle. "If you know what I mean."
"I do not know what you mean."
"Whatever you say," Kenny sniffed. He picked up a banana and began to unpeel it. "This reminds me," he said brightly before taking a substantial bite. Then he spoke through a full mouth: "I wonder if Chris remembered to buy lube when he went to the drugstore last night."
"Kenny, please," Kyle moaned. "Why do you have to talk about that fucking loser while I'm sitting here?"
"Kyle." Kenny's voice was suddenly full of hurt. "I love him."
"I just got dumped is all." Kyle squeezed his eyes tightly. "Can't you be a little sensitive?"
"Oh." Kenny set down his banana, and finished swallowing a bite. "Poor thing. Do you want to come over after school and talk about it?"
"You mean that? I mean, I was just going to talk to Stan, but…" Kyle looked around. "I don't know where he is." He said this with perhaps the most pathetic, broken voice Kenny had ever heard him use.
"Yeah, sure." Kenny paused. "Maybe this is something you shouldn't talk to Stan about." He paused again. "Yeah, come over after school."
"You mean it?"
"Yeah, but come over directly after school. I have something I need to do later."
"You're such a good friend, dude," Kyle said sadly, clearly not focused on Kenny's instructions. "I don't deserve it."
"I know you don't," was all Kenny said in reply.
XXX
Cartman was not in Latin after lunch, and as Kyle shuffled his flashcards by himself, he breathed a sigh of relief that for once that day, something was going less than horribly for him. It was only before the period actually began when a crackling noise came over the loudspeaker that he realized Carman's absence was only a sick joke.
"Hey, you guys," the voice whined over the intercom.
"Oh, no," Kyle said aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose. The girl next to him gave him a weird look, but he averted his look and gave her the finger.
"I'd like to dedicate this song to my friends Kyle and Craig," Cartman continued. "Love is just so fragile, you guys, my God. It's like, all about, feelings and stuff? And one day, you're dating the person who you think you love, and the next day, it turns out they're all in love with the quarterback of the football team, and stuff, and you just wanna be all, 'Ey! I did your hair for you, get on your fucking knees and blow me while I'm eating a sandwich!' But being gay is a bitch, you guys, I'm seriously."
"Eric, it's not very nice to rub their noses in it," a softer, smaller voice said faintly in the background.
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Butters," Cartman hissed. "Enjoy!" he concluded quickly. There was a clicking noise, and Kyle felt every pair of eyes in the room zero in on him as "…Baby, One More Time" began to play over the intercom system.
Without saying anything, Kyle gracelessly gathered up his things and ran out. He didn't know if Cartman was planning on coming to class or what, but he didn't want to be there when or if it happened.
XXX
It was only during dinner that Kyle remembered his date with Kenny. His family was eating early, and it was only 6:30 or so, and Kyle was not eating with them. His mother had tried to talk to him when he came home, so he knew they were having pierogi and sauerkraut, with a huge lumpy, chalky potion of Sheila's dry-ass mashed potatoes on the side. Kyle didn't know why his mother persisted in thinking that he liked her cooking, or liked her, or wanted to have anything to do with her or her cooking or anything like that. He gracelessly told her where she could go and what she could do with herself, but she followed him upstairs anyway, lecturing or maybe pleading about his behavior. And after he slammed the door in her face and secured it with a chair under the knob, he rolled over and fell asleep. He hadn't slept well on Saturday or Sunday night, and he hadn't been eating, either.
Truthfully, he did feel a little bad about being late to meet Kenny, but he was sure his impoverished friend wouldn't mind. Kenny didn't do homework, didn't take ballet lessons, didn't volunteer at any soup kitchens. (Probably because he was more likely to be a patron of a soup kitchen, Kyle figured.) He might be a little peeved, but he'd get over it; Kenny had nothing more important to do than wait for Kyle to show up.
Mrs. McCormick's acid-red hair was cartoonish, and Kyle had always seen some faint violet in there. It never really occurred to him that the shade of this wiry, graceless woman's hair was inexplicably similar to that of his stately, if intolerable, mother. This woman had a misplaced Southern twang, which always bothered Kyle, because this was Colorado, not Texas, and he liked to think that Colorado was at least far enough north for that to be misplaced. So he shuddered a little as he stood in the doorway freezing, and Mrs. McCormick screamed out her son's name, trying to get him to come to the door.
"He should be here," she said apologetically. "His little French friend was over earlier, and I saw him leave and Kenny wasn't with him." Kyle just gave her a shrug; Kenny had better be there, and yet he didn't know why this woman didn't keep better track of her own son. "You can go on and just try and find him for yourself," she said finally, shutting the door behind Kyle.
Kenny's house was a pit, of course, a single-storey hovel on the wrong side of the tracks, literally. Cartman might call this the ghetto, but to Kyle's mind, you had to be at least close enough to the ghetto yourself to be able to recognize it as such. To him, it was just Kenny's house, a place he stayed away from. Right now, however, it felt so much better than his own house, which harbored his shit-sucking family which didn't give a damn about him.
A poster of a scantily-clad woman in a cowboy hat hung on Kenny's door, and Kyle sighed on seeing that someone had singed her eyes out, perhaps with a cigarette, although the holes were large enough to suggest that perhaps this had been done repeatedly, or perhaps only once, with a cigar. He banged on the door once, and then twice, and he sighed. "Kenny?" he called out. There was silence; no one answered. The McCormick house had at least one person in it, and it still felt deserted and uninhabited. "I'm sorry I'm late," Kyle lied through the door. "Just let me in already."
Sighing, he shrugged and gave up, twisting the knob. Perhaps it wasn't locked — and it wasn't. Kyle stepped inside the room, took a look at the chair lying flat on the ground, and then up at Kenny McCormick's dangling feet. He wasn't wearing any pants, not even underwear, and as Kyle's gaze trailed up the body, over the partially developed erection and faint tracings of seminal fluid on the thighs, he noticed horrible things — scars, burn marks, little wounds matching the size and shape of the ones in the poster on the door.
Kyle could not even bear to look at Kenny's face. He took this all in and after a second, maybe two, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he fainted.
