Aaand now we have Butters' point of view. I hope I did it right.

Oh, hamburgers!

Kenny's off smoking. Again. Doesn't he know that smoking's bad for him? I mean, I know it's none of my business, it is his body, but it's such a nasty habit. At least I think so. I've tried smoking. Bummed a cig from Wesley. Wesley's my friend. Actually, he's everyone's friend. He's the cool Asian kid, athletic, wealthy, wise, he's almost as cool as Token. But no one's as cool as Token.

Anyway, Wesley's always so optimistic, which is weird, since he has lung cancer. It's not 'cuz of his smoking, it's because he got trapped in his burning house back in Urayasu. It was a mostly wood house, so there was a whole lot of smoke. The doctors told him that he's okay for now, but lately he's been clutching his chest and wobbling everywhere.

"Staring at the longhair again, loverboy?" This sudden sting of words brings me to leap from my seat in the freezing snow. I wheel around to see that it's just Wesley. I sigh and scratch my head, saying, "Sorry. I zoned out."

You might be wondering about the "longhair" bit. Kenny can't afford to get haircuts often. Now his hair falls down to his shoulders. It's usually dirty and matted and sometimes covers his eyes. I like it like that.

Wesley plops himself down next to me. With a pointed digit, he prods me in my side, to which I react with a squirm.

"So come on. Out with it. What's on your mind? Tell your Uncle Wesley."

I raise my eyebrows. "I'm a month older than you."

"Semantics."

"I think you're using that wrong."

"Oh, I don't think I am."

"Well, if you say so."

"So? Out with it."

"What?"

"What's on your mind. Although I'm guessing it's Hello Kitty, Kenny and 'ah-tahs'." He taunts.

"Two out'a three ain't bad." I snort.

Wesley scoffs with a satisfied smirk and turns to his brown briefcase, from which he unveils a thick brown book. The thing looks ancient; it's made of a shriveled leather, and its pages are chipped and yellowed. There's a golden engraving on the front. It's in kanji. I can recognize it from what he's taught me. It translates to something like "Wisteria Flame and the Thousand Embers." I tilt my head in confusion.

"What's that?" I ask.

"It's a gift," he replies, shoving the book into my arms, "it was found by construction workers on the lot where my house was and they shipped it to my parents, who gave it to me. You see, before the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, I think it was about a day before, my great-grandfather, Kento Takenaka, had just finished writing a 1,001 page long composition consisting of nearly every instrument he knew. This man was the musical pride of Hiroshima; the greatest composer around. Luckily, when he decided to submit his creation, he had to visit various companies outside of town. His car broke down as it usually did, so he had to stay at a local inn. During the whole ordeal, he kept that book at his side all the time, even when he was sleeping. The next morning brought the warning siren, so he and the inn owners had to retreat to the basement. They survived, but nearly everyone he knew and loved was dead. He was so traumatized, he didn't even orchestrate the piece until thirty years later, and it was only performed once. I've heard that it's one of the best musical compositions ever written. Every instrument and every musician is positioned in such a way that there is not a part of the room filled with its melody. But it brought up so many painful memories that Kento decided to give it to my grandfather to store away somewhere safe. And now, I'm giving it to you."

Listening to the whole thing, no blinking, only occasional breaths, I almost fall over.

"Why're you giving me such a treasure?" I gasp.

"Well, the main instrument's a harp, for one."

Normally, this answer is enough. I've been practicing the harp since I was eleven. It calms me down when my world's turned upside-down. I think I'm pretty good at it. People tell me they feel like they just stepped through the pearly gates of Heaven or that a wizard must have crafted the immaculate instruments that are my hands. You don't know how often I get that second one. Heck, my music even soothes Dad when I make him angry.

After a moment of silence, I finally say, "That doesn't answer why…"

Wesley sighs. "Alright, you want the truth? I'm dying."

I chuckle nervously and dismissively. "No you're not, Wes, the doctor said you're gonna make it."

"What does he know? I literally feel my life slipping away. Only willpower lets me even stick around." He gets up and starts to slowly and weakly pace around me. "And now, in the last days of my life, I want to hear the fruit of my great-granddad's labor."

"Wesley, you're not dying. I know you're not. Joudan janai wa yo!" I say with loose Japanese,

"Butters…"

"Wesley, just stop it! You'll be fine. Look, there's no need for this. I mean, you can live a long time for this."

"Please, just, if you can, try to find as many musicians as you can, because my family and I return to Tokyo in two weeks, and I don't think I'm coming back. We're rich, I could probably get 10,000 people to Tokyo, damn 1,000."

I stand from where I sat, trembling from head to toe, clenching my fists. I say, "Wesley… will you look me in the eye and tell me that you're—"

"You heard me the first time, bro."

Wesley stumbles away from our grim conversation. I clasp my hands over my mouth, wishing to unheard what I've just heard.

After spending the rest of the lunch period in the fetal position, trying to deny it all, trying to make it go away, I lumber back into the building with everyone else. Wesley can't be dying, I mumble repeatedly as I jostle against the crowd groggily. He's not. He's just not.

Clyde tries to stop me on the way to ask me what's wrong. I already don't like him, but that's not my reason for shoving him away. The river of students around me is a blur. I feel depressed. I feel nauseous. I feel angry. I feel feelings I can't explain. But I have to get to Advanced Orchestra on time, otherwise Maestro'll have to call my father. I make it inside the band hall before the bell, don't ask me how. Inside is Maestro, our balding, thin, hook-nosed, kind-spirited band teacher, awaiting my arrival by my gold cherrywood harp, circa 1798. It's an antique I found due to a misprice in a pawn shop.

Maestro immediately rushes over to me with a worried look on his face and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Butters, honey," he calls everyone "Honey", "Clyde told me you were violated by a pole! It doesn't appear so, but are you alright?"

I shoot a glare over to Craig, who sticks his tongue out at me. Stupid Clyde with his stupid acoustic.

I shake my head and reply, "I'm fine, Maestro, I just need to do a warm-up."
He nods and strides off to Tweek, our star choir boy, who was supposed to rehearse "I Dreamed A Dream" for both this class and Advanced Theater. (Yes, he will be playing Fantine.)

I lumber over to my harp, whose every groove and resistance is imprinted in my mind. I sit myself down on my stool, one with a nice, cushiony, cool gray seat. I need something that'll take my mind off Wesley.

Wait, I know. It was the first time I went to a sleepover at Kyle's house. We played a Legend of Zelda game on his GameCube. It was such a serene moment, to be surrounded by friends who're full of life and happiness and with that, my fingers start to dance along the strings. As "Great Fairy Fountain" ascends, II close my eyes and escape to another world. It's not that different from this one, mind you. It's the school hallway, but the floors are covered in a thick fog. Itty bitty fairies dance in the air, little balls of light and glitter. When I look closer, I can see that they're my friends. Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Token, Tweek; they're all fluttering about to the gentle tune of the harp.

And then comes the pinnacle. Out of the fog at the end of the hall, I can see a human figure. It still has fairy wings, transparent and glowing as ever, but the rest is human. I look closer. It's Kenny. And he's naked.

The fog covers his lower half, which is a darn shame, although it would probably give me wood in real life, and that would be embarrassing. I lean into my harp, letting my fingers prance along the strings. I listen closely to the skin of Kenny's bare feet pitter-pattering with an echo that dances alongside every note of every fragile string. His naked form halts itself inches away from me. A smile that was once on my face quickly falls when he says, "Leopold." and places his fingers on the strings. They turn black and cold. I'm smacked by a sensation of fear, a world of darkness and cold. The fog turns red, the once lively fairies fall to their deaths. Kenny plucks a string, and with its release, the harp becomes a question mark that tears open my chest, which becomes a black hole and-

"Butters!"

I'm jostled from my twisted reverie when Tweek shakes me with a trembling hand. You know, I'm glad he did that. I'm pretty sure that I was gonna end up in Hell somehow.

I'm not sure if you would have guessed, but Tweek is my buddy. Cuddle buddy, that is. The both of us need cuddles to function, and with him, it's amazing. He's so warm and jittery and mousy and radiant, it's like he's a pet. Cuddling him keeps my mind away from wanting to be the object of Kenny's affection. It's a platonic relationship. Tweek has a thing for Craig. He kind of defected from Craig's Gang by the time we hit Freshman year, but his feelings for Craig seem to cause him turmoil. And Tweek doesn't need any more turmoil, he already kinda jumps at anything that moves.

"What's the matter?" I groan.

His mouth drops. "What's the—You were playing that song for fifteen minutes straight, man! We called you, like, a hundred times! Oh Jesus, what if that music put you to sleep and you didn't wake up!?" he cries while grabbing his hair frantically.

This is the downside to his company. I have to keep him calm whenever something happens or he'll panic and go off like a bundle of C4. One time, he had such a crazy nervous breakdown at the hardware store, he ended up dismantling every single piece of machinery in the aisle to prevent the doomsday scenarios in his head. I was grounded for a week just for being there. Stan and Kyle kinda became iffy about bringing Tweek anywhere anymore.

I swiftly grasp him and pull him towards me. He presses his chest against mine as I cradle his head on my shoulder. I can feel his rabbit heart slowing down with the comforting embrace.

"It's okay. I'm fine. Everyone's fine." I say in a hushing voice. "So… did you need something?"

I can kind of feel him falling asleep, so I shake him a bit and let him go.

"Right, sorry." He mumbles apologetically. "Maestro needs you to assist the violins. I finished my vocal warm-ups. You know your cue, right?"

"Yeah, six seconds after 'Then it all went wrong.'"

Tweek bites his lower lip and nods his head vigorously. He strides over to the center of the room.

The school's been big on Les Miserables for years. Most people were able to relate to Eponine and Javert, since they were the most human characters. The school's running the stage musical production next week. That's why some students have to work on their singing and acting at once, like Tweek.

It's kinda weird that Advanced Orchestra, Art, and Theater have never been allowed to meat as groups. In fact, there are some Theater students Tweek hasn't met because they've had private acting training sessions since day one, including the leading actor, whoever's playing Jean Valjean.

The other required musicians position themselves on either side of me. On the violins, viola, and mandolin are Erica, Samantha, Jimmy, Danny and Clyde, respectively. The other students watch attentively. I place my fingers on the harp as Maestro signals Tweek in. He begins in a magnificent and superhuman falsetto.

"There was a time when men were kind

And their voices were soft

And their words inviting

There was a time when love was blind

And the world was a song

And the song was exciting

There was a time…"

He draws a deep breath and his twitching and jittering stop.

"Then it all went wrong."

Singing is just about the only thing that'll get the little spaz to stop twitching. I guess he was born to sing. Anyway, now's our cue. The violins, the viola, and finally, Clyde and me.

"I dreamed a dream in time gone by

When hope was high, and life worth living

I dreamed that love would never die

I dreamed that God would be forgiving"

I think he's singing from his heart. Actually, I'm sure of that in this verse, because it's like he's letting something out, something that would blow the crowd away on opening night.

"As they turn your dream, to sha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ame!"

Tweek's singing is always beautiful, but this isn't normal. I wonder what's happened.

"And still I dream he'll come to me

That we will live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather."

Tweek's crying. He's a bit too into this, I think.

"I had a dream my life would be

So different from this hell I'm living

So different now from what it seemed

Now… life has killed the dream… I dreamed…"

Our average-sized audience applauds with voices ringing. Tweek sniffles and quickly wipes away his tears. Suddenly it's all just closed eyes and a toothy grin..

Wait, what?

What just happened? This is not the boy who, just seconds ago, was bawling like the innocent prostitute, Fantine. While everyone else claps for him, I wince at his sudden mood swing. No matter how good an actor and singer he is, those tears were definitely real. Or maybe I'm just bad at determining this kinda thing.

"Tweek, honey, that was sensational!" Maestro titters. "You remembered to learn your parts for 'Come To Me', 'At the End of the Day' and 'Fantine's Arrest', right?"

Tweek's eyes illuminate at the sound of this. "Does this mean that I'm finally gonna meet our Valjean?" He starts looking around and nervously chewing away at his fingernails. "Oh God, wait, what if he hates me? What if he's a bad actor, what if he's too good to act with me!? It's too much pressure, man!" he squeaks.

Maestro places a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be fine, honey, just be yourself. You wouldn't have gotten into this program without doing so."

Tweek quickly nods and begins to fix the barrette on his outermost lock of hair. I have no idea why he wears those things. Maybe they give some order to his otherwise messy appearance. Maybe they're conduits to let out most feminine urges he gets.

I can see him struggling to stand still, a few of his normal "Ah's" and "Oh God's" get the better of him.

"Chelsea, send in Tucker." Maestro says to his assistant, who bounds out of the band hall to the Bud Springley Auditorium across the hall.

Hm, that's weird. The only Tuck in this school graduated last year.

Wait a minute-

And, of course, reality brings the train into the station when Craig walks into the room, dressed in Valjean's vest and collared shirt.

Craig Tucker, the one we all know as a talentless hack. Craig Tucker, he kid who couldn't give a crap about another human being, is playing Jean Valjean, who devoted his life to raising a stranger's child. Craig Tucker, whose face is drained of color and nearly turns white when he spots Tweek and me.

I don't even say a word. I'm speechless. I turn to Tweek, who, for once, is completely motionless. Craig opens his mouth to say something, but retreats to a silent embarrassment. Tweek, in return, squeaks loudly and flees the room.

Oh hamburgers, now Craig scared him off. He could have told Tweek about this! I can kinda understand that Craig has a tight social circle and he would want to keep it between him and his gang, but he could have at least told Tweek. He knew Tweek is in theater. I know this whole situation may seem weird to you, but it's better to not question it.

I start to run down after him, but I stop mid-run and say to Craig, "How much more do you plan on screwing up?"

He flips me off, which could mean anything from Craig, but I think this time, it means "What are you even talking about?" I think the middle finger is his second language. Or first, since he seems to have a hard time knowing how to interact with people. He flips the bird to anyone and everyone. I don't see why he even has a mouth.

I jog out after Tweek. Sadly, he didn't get very far. He tripped by the water fountain, so now he's hugging his hurting knee in the corner. I need to make him feel comfortable so we can get things back on track.

"Papa, Papa, I do not understand. Are you alright; why did you go away?"

Tweek looks up and smiles just a bit. But when he opens his mouth, just when we think he's gonna get his reverie back, another voice sings in its place.

"Oh, Cosette, am I forgiven now? Thank God, Thank God, I've lived to see this day!"

The voice isn't all that great. It doesn't flow like Tweek's, and it's nasal and posh, but there's an operatic emotion to it that gives me shivers. It should be easy to tell who it is, but my mind's blank of identity. All I can imagine is a person drawing his last breaths after a life of suffering and hardship.

I turn around, and there's Craig, standing in the doorway with his arms folded. Anything else that can surprise me today is nothing but gravy. Tweek looks up at Craig with wide eyes.

"Mind telling me what the hell that was all about?" Craig buzzes.

Tweek looks back down at his feet. "You didn't tell me you were in Advanced Theater. I didn't even see you on orientation day."

Craig shrugs. "I was immediately sent to another room for private rehearsal. I came in late. And did you really expect me to?"

I think I can hear Tweek's heart drop. "Wh—what?" he stutters.

"Well, yeah, when's the last time we freaking hung out? You kinda just drifted away from us. Clyde and Token miss you. I don't care, really."

Oh boy. I think Tweek's gonna have a mental breakdown. Craig really did it this time, although it would seem like he's not really doing anything. Best-case scenario, Tweek cries for a week and then goes back to dating girls. I mean, I think he still does like girls. We all know how everyone acted when Bebe's boobs came in.

I guess my intuition's weaker than I thought. Either that, or Tweek's just straight-up crazy. He's just sitting there with a grin on his face and his normal twitch.

"Really? They miss me?"

What.

Tweek is now officially the strangest boy I know. Maybe all that coffee just wiped out his ability to have the same emotion for more than a minute.

"Yeah, they're always looking at that empty fourth seat and frowning. Why don't you hang out with us anymore? Was it something Clyde said?" Craig asks curiously.

"Hey!" Clyde cries out from the room, which leaves me wondering how the heck he heard Craig mention his name from fifty feet away.

Craig, without a single care to this phenomenon, rolls his eyes.

"No, it's…" Tweek trails off. I know he can't confess to Craig now, but what can he say?

"It's… what?" Craig asks, squinting a bit.

Tweek starts to frantically run his hands through his hair. His face seizes up. "It'… It's… Gah! It's too much pressure, man!"

There's the Tweek I know.

An enlightened expression spreads across Craig's face, like he just discovered why M. Night Shymalan keeps making movies.

"Tweek, are you… gay?"

Tweek removes his hands from his hair slowly.

"Pass."

"There are only two questions, it's one or the other.

Tweek sighs. "The answer's no. Or maybe it's yes. Or maybe it's nothing. I don't know. There are just things I'm wary of and things I'm less wary of, I guess."

"That answered sucked." Craig boos.

"But it's an answer."

Craig flips him off.

"So that's why you left. You had homosexual feelings and you didn't feel comfortable surrounded by guys all the time. No, that can't be it, because you still hang out with bottoms."

And then comes another enlightened look.

"Wait… did you leave because you have a crush on—"

We both look at him in anticipation.

"—Clyde?"

Despite Tweek's mortified expression, I can't help put fall over on my side and laugh. Where do you get these guys!? Tweek whacks me in the gut, so I stop for his sake and for mine.

"What? Am I wrong? Is it Token?"

I burst out laughing again, even when Tweek shakes me by the neck.

"…Jason?"

"I'm gonna pee my pants!" I wail. Tweek shoves me into the fountain, which, due to the impact of my head to metal, is my cue to shut up.

"Just forget it, man." The blonde sighs.

I have no idea how Craig can be so stupid.

"No argument here. Anyway, why don't you meet up with us at Clementino's afterschool Monday?"

"Why Monday?" I chime in.

Craig squints at me. "Because today's Friday, dick-munch." He snaps.

I'd normally give him the business, since he's just as big a queer as anyone else, but I feel too stupid to do so.

"…Sure, I'll meet you." Tweek says.

The brunette looks away and scoffs. "Yeah, great, now can we go back inside? We've wasted half a period thanks to your little episode."

Tweek nods and props himself up against the fountain. By impulse, I sing, "And remember the truth that that once was spoken…"

The two spontaneously help me bring it on home.

"To love another person is to see the face of God."

The three of us chuckle at our fit of nerdiness.

Sixth period rolls around. Our last twenty minutes of fifth period were filled with Craig dictating Tweek's heavenly singing to the point where the poor blonde broke down in tears. Is Craig deaf or just stupid? Or maybe he's just a dick. I'll go with all of the above. I swear, I've never heard "Come To Me" so butchered in my life. Craig's just gonna keep hurting Tweek, isn't he? Is he trying to do it?

Thankfully, both Tweek and I have a free sixth period, so we usually use it to cuddle in the corner of the library, concealed behind a row of bookshelves, so we can talk about our problems. Hardly anyone goes back there; it's the Religion section.

Tweek nuzzles his face into my baby blue sweater. He stopped crying a few minutes ago, but he's still sniffling against my chest. Other than those sounds, we sit in silence until,

"Butters, am I attractive?"

Whoa. I don't really know how to answer this, it's a really surprising question, but I'm just forced to ask, "What?"

"Am I attractive, man?"

Silence. It's not like Tweek isn't attractive. Heck, he's downright sexy. But he's sexy in his own way.

He's skinny, but also a bit broad-shouldered, so his shirts don't usually snap to his torso shape, which just adds to the mess that he already looks like. He wears straight pants that are one length to long, and his sneakers are a size too big, so They're disproportionate to his body. He's too jittery to properly button his shirt, and he always has at least one shoe untied. He's mane is messy, but they form almost perfect bangs over his forehead. His eyes are beady, but they widen like a puppy's when he's really happy or sad. He's got baggy eyelids and slightly plump cheeks. His nails are short and often-chewed nails, and his arms are thin.

So my answer is: "In a mousy sort of way, yes."

Why the heck did I say that?

Tweek actually isn't mad, though. He's panicking.

"Mousy? Oh God, what if he thinks I'm ugly!? What if he thinks I'm creepy, what if he thinks I'm crazy!?" He starts grabbing his hair again, so I grab his arms and try to hush him. Before I can answer him, though, Kenny swings around the corner of the bookshelf with a nudie mag in hand. He would have noticed us anyway, but my little yip at his sudden appearance just speeds up the process. He smirks his sly smirk, the one that I love, and drops onto his bum next to us. Tweek doesn't notice him until he's given a smack on the butt, which causes him to jump and knee my crotch. I mutter random curses under my breath and clutch my manhood. Kenny pulls a Pop-Tart out of his pocket.

"What's up, assbutts?" He says while stuffing a quarter of the treat into his mouth.

"Tweek thinks he isn't attractive." I say.

"What? Why?"

"Because Craig's being a real dick."

Kenny scowls. "Ugh, Craig. The only reason I ever fucked him was because his libido was making him go through a hell of a mood swing." He ruffles Tweek's hair. "Don't worry, dude. You're pretty fucking hot. Craig's just an asshat."

Tweek rubs his eyes and nods at Kenny, who smacks his ass again, and again, the jump and the knee.

"Stop doing that!" We both shriek, followed by being shushed by random people in the library and Kenny throwing his hands up.

"How would you like it if I did that to you, man?" Tweek whispers loudly.

"You saying you wanna give me a spanking?" Kenny suggests with a seductive tone while tilting his rear to him.

I almost take him up on this offer out of pure impulse when Tweek rolls his eyes and says, "Way to pervert the perverted act of slapping an ass."

Kenny chuckles. "I'm here to please. Bebe's into that kind of thing, y'know."

I'm not exactly surprised, but I'll bite. "Really?" I ask. "How'd you find that out?" Bebe's pretty adamant about physical relationships, I didn't think she's reveal a kink to just anyone.

"I gave her a pat too hard one time and she moaned. She ended up telling me that she likes being spanked."

"She never told me anything like that." Says Tweek.

"You banged Bebe before?" I ask.

"Yeah. We were at a party at Cartman's. She was drunk. I think she was. I don't know, I was drunk."

Kenny and I outrageously laugh at the confused Tweek, and again, we're shushed by the folks of the library. Kenny picks off a piece of his Pop-Tart and offers it to Tweek.

"No way, man! I don't want anything that was in your pants! You might have STDs!" He squeaks.

"Dude, if I have STDs, you have STDs." Kenny replies, and, for no apparent reason, makes fish lips. Tweek follows and does the same with his lips.

They simultaneously pull open their pants to inspect their manhood.

"Clean?"

"Clean."

"Butters, you clean?"

I hadn't thought about myself. I go down on Kenny every other night. I unbutton my jeans and pull open my boxers. Clean, I nod.

I glance down at Kenny's magazine. There's a frizzy-afroed woman on the front. She's wearing a buffalo-skin toga and pumps made of bones. I'm not even gonna ask what that's all about. Of course, Tweek does.

"Freaky Fuzz Monthly? Didn't that get discontinued this year after a huge lawsuit from some hippie group?"

Okay, not at all what I was expecting him to say.

"Yeah, this is from December last year…" The conversation just kind of trails off in my ears, because my train of though takes off somewhere else. Doesn't Kenny have Calculus right now? Oh, that's right, Mr. Marx is out today. Kenny just came here to look at hot chicks, I guess. Which reminds me, we're having sex tonight. It's not a big deal anymore, though. I'm in, we do it, I'm out just as fast. Not much talking after, no cuddling, he just has me put on my clothes and bolt. Why is Kenny so cold? What does he have against affection? Why can't he like me the way I like him? The big jerk. I know I shouldn't think that of him, but I can't help it. I wanna tell him how I feel, but I don't wanna ruin what we already have.

Aw, shucks, maybe I should keep it all to myself.

"…and that's why Joan Rivers would make a great Ursula." Is what tunes in when I start paying attention again.

I don't know what the fuck's going on.

Kenny stands up and pats me on the head, saying, "Well, period seven starts in a few minutes, I've gotta go to P.E."

How long did I zone out for?

"Don't let that support beam fall on you again, dude." Tweek squawks. Kenny smirks and trots off, saying, "Butters, remember the shoe store!"

Oh right, I forgot. The days when Kenny and I bang are the days when he has to work, so I stick around during his shift. He works at a local shoe shop. It's usually dusty and dark and musky. It's also awful quiet, and the main customers are old folks and kids. The floor's covered with an old maroon carpet that needs a good vacuuming. Dad lets me go there afterschool as long as I get my homework done during. Kenny really likes the place. I can understand that. Better to work there than busy, noisy McDonald's. Dad almost got me to work there, but luckily Mom got me a weekend job at the local vegan supermarket, High-n-Mighty.

Oh, shoot. I have to get to Studio Art. I leap up, wave Tweek goodbye, and stride out of the library into the hallway.

Ms. McGrover isn't here yet. There's an awful lot of whispering. In fact, the only ones who aren't whispering are Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Wendy. Cartman's arguing with Wendy about girls' rights in Vietnam, while Kyle's reminiscing with Stan about his childhood dream of being a famous basketball player.

Token, who's sitting next to me and was just whipering with Red, leans in towards me and whispers, "Hey, did you hear about Style?"

Yeah, we call Stan and Kyle "Style" as a couple, like Brangelina or GoreBearPig.

I shake my head. "Did something happen?"

"Yeah, man! Something good. They bought a house and they're moving in together."

If eyes can sparkle, I'm sure mine are diamonds right now.

"What? Where are they going? They're not leaving South Park, are they?"

"They're not going far. They both got scholarships for University of Denver, so they're moving to the city. They're moving in next Saturday. They'll finish their year here and graduate, and then it's DU for them."

I scratch my chin.

"How did they afford it?"

"Early scolarships, Kyle's royalties for his bestseller, "On the Mind of a Bigot", their salary, investments, saved up birthday money, and the 10k Stan got from taking down a guy who conveniently happened to be a state-wide known cutpurse."

Wow, they make a lot more money than I thought.

"Just don't let Wendy find out. I mean, she'll find out eventually, but let her find out on her own. She'll probably flip the fuck out, probably in a fit of jealousy or over-protection for her old flame and try to take control of the whole operation. Soon they'd end up living in a pink apartment with Wonder Woman and 'We Can Do It!' posters." He snickers.

I nod and glance over at the girl in question, who glances back at the mention of her name. Seriously, why does everyone have acute hearing today?

"Is anyone throwing them a going away party?" I ask.

"I am," Jimmy, who I didn't even notice is across the table, interrupts, "Because we all kn-kn-kn-kn-kn-kn-know what happened the last time Cartman did it."

That's right, Cartman threw Kyle a going away party and didn't even invite him.

"It's on F-F-F-F-Friday. Next week." He adds.

"I'll bring 'em the best gift that I can." I reply.

I shriek when something tugs my hair and jerks my head back. Token points and snickers at whoever's behind me.

"Moo." A voice groans from behind me. I know that voice. No matter how weak and pained it's getting, I always know that monotone, mature voice. It's Wesley. He's nibbling on my hair like a cow. I lean my head back and can almost look him in the eyes.

"'Sup." He says.

I purse my lips. "You'd best move onto greener pastures." He spits my hair out and brushes it against the rest. Token and Jimmy fist bump him. Wendy pulls away from her argument and gives him a shy wave.

"Hey, dude." Cartman calls out with his awkward drawl.

"Hey." "Yo." Kyle and Stan greet him, respectively.

Soon, the entire classroom becomes a cacophony of greetings to everyone's favorite Asian kid. Wesley sits opposite Token at my side. He hacks a bit into his sleeve.

"Ms. McGrover still isn't here?" He asks.

"Not yet." I sigh. She should have been here by now. She has a different classroom for sixth period, and it's across the school, but it's seven minutes past the late bell.

He leans over to view Token. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you: did you get over your man-boner for Clyde yet?"

Token rolls his eyes. "Piss off."

"Love you too." Wesley coos. He blows a smooch to Token, who catches it in his hand and sarcastically presses it to his heart.

Token's confused crush on Clyde is a touchy subject. It subsided pretty quickly. Clyde took his advances too seriously and started avoiding him like the plague. Which is weird, because if they both screwed Kenny at once, you'd think that either of them would be so resistant to homosexuality. Anyway, Token ended up telling him that it was just a weird crush; he's not gay, the two just hang out a bit too much, and Clyde just needed to calm the fuck down.

Wesley turns back to me. "So… about earlier…"

Why do I keep forgetting everything today?

I cock my head in the other direction. "What about it?" I mumble.

"I left something out. The grandchildren of the musicians who played in the original concert, about 90% of them became musicians themselves. Crazy right? Now, how many people are in the Music program?"

I look up while counting on my fingers for a few minutes.

"Ninety-three." I finally submit.

"Our family has the musicians' families' contact info. My parents were thinking that if I found a musician, they and the rest of Takenaka Inc. could get a hold of thme. Them plus the students makes almost 1,000.

"Give it a rest, Wesley. You're not dying. It's not your time yet."

Wesley stirs in his seat. "What?"

"And even if you were dying, do you think I'm gonna just play you to your death? What kind of bullshit is that? How can you ever ask anyone to do something like that?"

Token perks up at the sound of the word "death".

"What are you talking about?" He asks skeptically.

I roll my eyes. "Wesley thinks he's dying. The doctor said he'll be fine, so he'll be fine, right?"

Token squints at me. I raise an eyebrow. He sighs and shakes his head. He gets off of his stool and walks over to Wesley. I'm confused, but he proves his implied point when he raises and reveals Wesley's blood-stained sleeve.

"Told you." Wesley says.

I shake my head. "No! No no no! You're not! Just because you two think so doesn't mean-"

"I kn-n-n-n-now." Says Jimmy.

"I do too." Chimes in Wendy.

"It's kinda obvious." Adds Cartman.

Kyle looks down and Stan averts his gaze. Why are they all acting like this? Why?

"Literally everyone knows, dude. It's just that we've come to terms with death in this crazy town. We're sad, but there's no point in moping about something that hasn't happened yet." Token says. He turns back to Wesley. "What's all this about music?"

And Wesley explains the situation to him. Ms. McGrover still isn't here. Token turns back to me.

"And you didn't accept."

I shake my head. He sighs.

"Look, man, I can't force you to do something like this, but at least think it over," he pleads, "before Monday comes. Do it for Wesley."

I nod lightly.

A whole period and the teacher didn't even show up. I sit outside on the steps until Kenny comes. He can't afford a car, so I normally sit on the back of his bike when he rides. It's a bit embarrassing sometimes. Some of the jocks from North Park throw trash at me from their cars. One even rear-ended us once. I could've told Kenny it was coming if it wasn't for my left eye. It throws off my depth perception since he hit me with that ninja star.

Still, though, I like the bike rides. It's the closest I get to cuddling him.

I try to greet Kenny with a hug, but he refuses so I shove my hands into my pockets.

"How was P.E.?" I ask, trying to drown the awkwardness of the situation.

"Ariel puked when she found a possum under the bleachers, so we got to leave early, which gave Bebe enough time to give me a tuggy in the locker room." He replies.

I shrug. "What do you think Mrs. Santiago made us today?"

"Mmm… I hope she made her peach cobbler again." He moans, slurping back his drool.

Mrs. Santiago, by the way, is Kenny's boss's wife. Mr. Santiago is really nice, but the missus herself is a saint. She runs a bakery next door, and she always has something waiting for us. She's a plump old lady, sometimes frail, but otherwise lively. She always has her hair in a bun, and jowls that jiggle when she speaks. She has thick, circular spectacles on her eyes, but in the middle of it all, there's a button nose. She usually wears red cat-themed sweater, probably because she loves her tabby cat, Correa. When we're with her, we call her Abuela. Her grandchildren passed away in a mass shooting a few years ago, so it comforts her.

Mr. Santiago is a bit more stoic, but he has a soft heart. He has a thick, whitish, bushy moustache under a hook nose and a crown of silver hair. He's always wearing an apron and bed slippers. The man, I can tell, was built like a colossus in his younger days, and you'd swear that on the inside, he's a tiger wearing human skin.

Picture it. April 13th, 6:00 P.M. A strip of stores on the outskirts of town. Closing time in half-an-hour.

"Kenny, a customer needs a pair of size 6 men's Carrion sneakers for her boy. It is too high up, I cannot reach with my back." Said Mr. Santiago to Kenny.

"Got it, jefe." He replied.

I overheard this conversation from across the room. I sat on the counter, swinging my legs while I did my Mandarin homework. Believe it or not, Wing's my teacher, and a darn good one at that.

I started to vocalize my answers to see if they made sense. "Ni xi bu xi huan da bang qiu? Ni xi huan shen me yun dong? Ni xi huan zhong guo cai ma?"

"Xi huan, wo xi huan zhong go cai." Abuela replied. I spun around to see her fiddling with something behind the counter.

"Ni hui shuo hanyu ma?" I asked.

She nodded. "I learned back in Chihuahua. Many, many Chinamen visiting from America that winter. I learned what I needed to know."

Abuela always tells us tales from her early life. They're pretty interesting. Changed my whole views on Mehee—excuse me—Mexicans.

I heard the bell above the door ring. I looked over. It was a tall man in a black beanie, black jacket, and pants. There was something tucked into his boot, but I couldn't tell what it was.

The boss eyed the man and said, "Kenny, I'm going to use the head, okay?"

Kenny nodded and walked into the aisles in search of his customer. The man began to tail him. I rushed off of the counter into the aisle. Kenny could have been in trouble. Kenny turned the corner. So did the man. With my heart racing and in my throat, so did I. I can't tell you how relieved I was to see him asking where the dress shoes are.

I slinked back over to the counter. I sat there for a few minutes watching Abuela knitting her cat a sweater. The man materialized in front of me with a shoebox in hand.

"I'll take these. How much?"

"$89.99."

"I'll take it all." He chuckled, removing whatever was in his boot.

"Pardo-" I froze when all I could see in front of me was the barrel of his gun.

Only small peeps escaped my mouth. Abuela started a shriek that was interrupted when the man turned his gun to her. The both of us threw our hands up. He gestured towards the register and repeated, "I'll take it all."

Abuela frantically opened the register and shoved the tray at the man. The robber winced at the few 20s, 10s, and 5s.

"Where's the rest?"

"That is all!" Abuela cries.

"Where's the safe?"

"There is none!"

He glanced at me.

"I'll take the boy."

I look around to see if he's talking about someone else, some other boy that I've missed. Abuela was silent for a moment.

"Oh, no, no, señor, please! He is just a boy, let him be! Take me! The boy has never done anyone any harm!"

The robber shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"There are some real perverts out there, ma'am. Boys like this one are sold in a flash, and one so pretty will fetch quite a pretty penny. He's young and fit. I'll take him."

My heart beat out of my chest. I looked over to Abuela, who was sobbing and mouthing, "No, no, no…"

The man grabbed my arm and yanked me off the counter. He pulled my hands behind my back and tied them with shoelaces he had ripped from a pack.

"Walk." He said.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Please don't do this, sir." I whimpered.

"Walk." He commanded.

I slowly pushed my way out the door into the parking lot. I thought the thing was completely empty until I heard an engine turn over. There waited an old SUV with a burly woman behind the wheel. Normally, this isn't the first choice of a getaway vehicle, but with Officer Barbrady's uselessness, they could get halfway across the country and he would still be in South Park. The man pushed me into the back of the car.

"On the floor."

I looked in the other direction to see if there was anyone who could call for help.

"On the floor."

"My parents will find out, you know. And then you'll be in trouble, the both of ya'!"

The man smirked. "Look at this little cocksucker, he thinks he's fucking tough."
He shoved my head against the window and put the barrel of his pistol to my temple. "How would you like it if I blew your brains out right now? Hell, I could probably fetch a high price for your brains on a canvas. Call it, 'Boy Who Tried Wolf'. Yeah, I'll be a world-class artist. Oh boy, you'd better have a fucking reason for me not to pull this trigger right now." He grunted.

I panicked and whined and sobbed. Fuck, what did I say that for!?

"Hey!" A voice cried out. It was Kenny. He sprinted out of the shop with murderous intent. Maybe he cares for me more than I know. No, he would have done this for anyone else.

The robber fired on him three times. The first two missed. The third lodged itself in his shoulder. He toppled over, clutching his wound and crying out an assortment of curses.

"Kenny!" I screamed.

"Grab him too," the woman mumbled in a southern drawl, "the more hostages, the better. And some perv'll be lookin' for a longhair."

The man bound Kenny's hands and dragged him towards the car. Kenny kicked and thrashed and screamed in pain. He threw the both of us onto the floor of the back of the car.

I sobbed as he screamed. His blood ran onto my chest. The man slammed the door shut and entered the car moments later, and off we went.

Kenny had stopped screaming about an hour ago. That's because a half-hour into the drive, he woman stopped the car to remove the bullet and put some cotton on the wound. He passed out on me. Poor fella' was tuckered out. I was too scared to fall asleep.

The car pulled to a halt.

"That station wagon's been behind us fer a while now." She slurred.

"Make a turn through this corn field. Get back on the road in a mile, and if they're still there, I'll kill 'em." The man replied.

I felt the swerve, meaning she followed without question. Not a second after we hit the road again, another vehicle collided with the side of ours.

Luckily, our position let the seats and door cushion us, but Kenny and I were still pelted with glass.

Someone belligerently yanked the door open and dragged the robber out. The driver hopped out to confront the assailant.

Kenny was jostled awake when bodies and fists slammed against the car, which was weird, since the collision would've woken up a sleeping whale. There were two gunshots, but the struggle continued. Eventually, all was quiet. I looked up at the hole where the window once was. Mr. Santiago's slumped face peeked in.

"Oh, niños, you are all good!" He laughs.

Kenny and I were unbelievably elated. We learned later that Mr. Santiago had gone into the back to get his rifle when he spotted the gun. He also called up his sons who work a few blocks away, just in case he needed backup. And he did. The three of them beat the living crap out of those thugs!

The old man really pulled through for us. Mr. Santiago took Kenny to the hospital, and he even helped my folks sue the criminals. Gee, I owe my life to Mr. Santiago. He and the missus are like family to the both of us.

Considering that I just told you everything about that day, I guess I don't need to tell you much about today at the shop. It was pretty mundane. Abuela brought us apple pie. Craig came in. Kenny followed him around the store in a successful attempt to annoy him. Mr. Santiago had a cramp in his ankle and had to lie down. Kenny got paid for the week.

Now we're at his house. He's taking a shower. I already took one, so now I'm just sitting on his bed in nothing but my socks. I stare out the window. I hope we can finish before 8:30. Dad'll be cross with me if I'm home late again.

Kenny trots out of the bathroom, ruffling his hair with his towel.

"You ready?" He asks with his same old seductive ferocity.

"Yeah." I mumble.

"Turn around then." He says, obviously not noticing my tone.

It would be nice if he would at least look me in the eye when I give up my dignity.

I'm used to the pain after. It's a good pain, honestly. I jump into my pants and pull on my sweater while he lights a cig.

"Who'll you have to entertain you this weekend?" I ask flatly, not even looking in his direction.

"Probably Red. She's been pretty thirsty lately." He chuckles. "I'll see you on Monday, right?"

"Yeah." I answer through my clenched teeth. "Monday."

I grab my backpack, shove my way out of his bedroom, and stomp into his living room. I've gotten used to the stench.

"Did he look you in the eye this time?"

I turn to the direction of the voice. It's Mr. McCormick. He's sitting on his couch, sipping his beer and watching some stupid reality show. I shake my head and bite my lip with a tear rolling down my cheek. He shakes his head and says, "Better luck next time."

And, the moment I walk out the door, an unimaginably painful, yet all too familiar stinging lashes across the scar on my eyelids.