A/N: Again we start right where we left off. It's still Monday.

Meh, fluff and angst. A lot of Ren thinking to herself. And then probably the last Kenny/Ren fluff for quite a while. I still have a love/hate relationship with this story.

I don't own South Park, or else Kenny would show his face a lot more often and Tweek would be in every episode. I also don't own any of the songs I mention.

Random fact: On my desk, I have a Kyle bobblehead that says, "Sick, dude, I'm not kissing a girl. It's just wrong, that's all!"

"Hey, Ginger!" A familiar whiny voice calls out the familiar unwanted nickname in my direction. For the last time, loser, I don't have freckles, and my red hair is fake. I don't know why I even care. All I know is, Eric Cartman is just about the last person I want to talk to right now. I force myself to keep staring straight ahead and quicken my pace as I take the giant headphones that have been resting around the back of my neck and place them over my ears. Jimmy Urine is screaming obscenities to me when I feel the hand on my shoulder. I spin around.

"Damn it, Cartman. Just fuck off." The boy's shoulders slump as he cocks his head and tries on an almost-apologetic pout. I reluctantly move my headphones back off my ears and flick the volume down. "What you did to Tweek was one of the shittiest things I have ever…" I put my hands up and wave them in a "stay away" gesture. "Just…I have class. Go bother someone el-"

"Jeez, Ginger, I just wanted to say hi. You didn't notice me behind you in line at the Registrar's Office back there, so I followed you out to say hello." His voice is oozing with saccharine; Cartman has positively mastered the art of being fake-nice.

I narrow my eyes at him as I absorb his implication. "You know what's sad? You're funny and fun to be around a lot of the time. But there's something…misfiring in that brain of yours that makes you about this close-" I gesture with my two fingers "-to being a-a sociopath. People might actually like you more if you spent half as much time being genuine as you do being manipulative and sneaky. If I were you, I'd take a good look at myself before it's too late." I realize that it sounds as if I actually care about him. Maybe I do. Or maybe I just care about everyone who has to deal with him.

A nearly imperceptible emotion flickers in his eyes for an instant, but it is gone before I can name it. His face twists into a nasty sneer. "And why should I listen to a trailer-trash-chasing sheep fucker?"

Cartman calling Kenny "trailer trash" pisses me off more than his moronic attempt at an ethnic slur. Without thinking, I rear back and throw a punch right at his squishy gut. When I connect, I can feel that he is solid underneath the layer of pudge. He doubles over for a second, clutching at his stomach, then lifts his head to look up at me. Cartman looks pathetic bent over like this; he has the audacity to look emotionally, if not physically, hurt. I'm shocked at myself and am unsure what to do. I turn and run, and I don't stop until I'm back in my room with my door locked.

-XXX-

"He called you a what?" Kyle and Stan are sitting on my giant bed, sharing a container of "shitty" sweet'n'sour shrimp from City Wok. Stan is in stitches while Kyle quizzes me about my run-in with Cartman.

"He called me a 'trailer-trash-chasing sheep fucker.' 'Sheep fucker' was his attempt at an ethnic slur—really creative, right? But he kind of got it wrong, because as far as I know my ethnicity is actually Irish—I was only born in Scotland. But I guess it works either way…" I trail off and pick up my shitty veggie roll from City Sushi and join the boys on the bed. A long sigh escapes me. "I've never just…punched someone before. It felt like a reflex. Like, he insulted both me and Kenny in one sentence, and I was thinking about Tweek, and it was like the doctor hitting my knee with that little hammer. Like, BAM, there goes my fist." I sigh and scrape my bangs back from my forehead with a somewhat unsteady hand. Whether it is shaky due to anger or anticipation, I'm not sure. I get up again and sit the sushi back on the desk. "I probably deserved the insult this time. I think I called him a sociopath."

Kyle's face reddens and his eyes get bigger as he jumps up. "But he is a fucking sociopath! He is insecure and manipulative and he doesn't give a shit about anyone else unless he decides he feels like it. And the worst part is, in a few days, everyone will just forgive him as if nothing ever happened. He'll be hanging around again in no time, just you wait!" The redhead punctuates this by periodically stabbing his chopsticks in the air. In his vehemence, he doesn't notice that his ushanka has fallen off. Stan takes it and hides it behind the desk while I try not to snicker. Kyle notices my eyes straying and stops his rant. "What? What is it, you g-"He reaches up and pats his unruly curls. "Oh, God damn it!" Kyle's angry flush deepens as he turns toward Stan, who holds up both hands.

"I'm innocent." Stan fails at keeping a straight face. I look at my shoes and study a spot near my left big toe until I hear Kyle start to laugh.

"Fuck it. I'll get you later, dude." Kyle points at Stan with the word "you" and then turns back to face me. "But, God, Ren, I can't believe you actually slugged him in the gut."

"Yeah, me neither, really. I feel…kinda bad about it. I mean, his face…"

"Nah, don't. He probably liked it," Stan says around a mouthful of shitty shrimp. Kyle rolls his eyes and nods in agreement. I say nothing; I'm suddenly feeling impatient to escape this room and this conversation.

I look at my phone and see that it is almost eleven o'clock. "Shit, you guys. I gotta go. You can stay here and play the PS3 if you want. I can leave the spare key if you promise to lock up." I cross the room and rummage through the desk drawer for the key. "Oh, and I never ate my sushi, so help yourselves," I add as an afterthought.

Stan looks at his watch. "Where are you…? Ohhhh…you're going to see Kenny." He says this with raised eyebrows and what I'm sure he thinks is a "knowing" smile.

"Maybe." I can't even keep a straight face while thinking about it, so I give up trying. I grab my bag. "So are you staying, or going back next door?"

Kyle looks at Stan, then at me, and back at Stan again. He flashes a conspiratorial smile. "Actually," he says, "why don't we go rearrange our room so that we have a big bed like this one? This is such a cool idea."

Stan looks at me in surprise and I have to stifle the "I told you so" that threatens to come out of my mouth.

-XXX-

The tree outside Kenny's window is unruly and overgrown, but the perfect height to serve my purpose. I'm surprised he hasn't ever trimmed it back; some of the branches probably scrape the pane on windy nights. I'm sure there's some sort of poetry in the bare fingers of trees tapping at the glass, but any lyrical beauty in this thought is lost on me-it would only scare the hell out of me. I lean against the tree trunk and briefly wish that I were a smoker, as if somehow it would validate my hesitation, explain my pause as I let my thoughts finally play tag with each other in the absence of any other human being's influence.

At times, I feel like climbing isn't a choice. An utter need for freedom and a different perspective possesses me, and I can only find the answers high in the branches of a tree. Tonight, the knot of emotions I'm trying to untangle carried me to the tree outside Kenny's window in lieu of the front door. Now that I'm here, I feel the need to postpone my visit just a few minutes longer. I sink down and sit, resting against the base of the tree. The stillness of my body gives my mind permission to accelerate.

I cannot allow myself to even think the word that lurking on the outskirts of my mind, cannot open the gates and free the feeling that that word connotes. Weeks, Ren. It's been weeks…surely that isn't conventional. I brush the word "conventional" from my mind; it is increasingly clear that no such thing exists, anywhere, especially not here in South Park. If everyone's definition of a word is the same, but their interpretation of it is different…then their actual rendition of it will differ greatly. Does that then mean that the entire concept is obsolete? I apply this exploration to the other word, the one that I can't extinguish even with the loudest music blasting in my ears, and decide that while the first part may be true, the answer to the last question is no.

Or maybe I'm just hopeful and misguided. Either way, it's just a word—a word that pathetically attempts to give a name to a feeling. That word and that feeling don't have to contain anything other than themselves. We all seem to attach to emotions some implication about a past, or a future; some expectation that only ever serves to brutally murder the very passion that inspired it. You're doing it anyway, I tell myself. You are overthinking it. The sound of my phone liberates me from further exploration of the inner workings of my mind, effectively saving me from further overthinking. I quickly silence it. The text from Wendy is only two words long:

-my hero

I snicker and put the phone back in my bag. No doubt she's gotten word about my momentary loss of temper. I'm glad everyone else is amused; I still feel guilty about my outburst, but it's something I'll deal with later. I try to take the others' reactions to heart. They have all known Cartman a lot longer than I have. I really can't justify my actions to myself, but everyone else seems convinced that the whole ordeal will pass as if nothing ever even occurred. I have some sort of inexplicable weak spot for the boy. I briefly wonder what it means about me that I am concerned about my almost-friendship with a sneaky, Machiavellian opportunist like Cartman, but I file the train of thought away for another time. Tonight is about Kenny.

I'm a little apprehensive in respect to the main reason for my surprise visit. My impromptu founding of the "Malcolm Kinloch Scholarship" (the silly name I've given to my act of paying Kenny's tuition with a tiny portion of my inheritance) was far from well-thought-out. I realize I'm going to have to explain to him how it really isn't a big deal, and I'm not sure how to even do that without coming off like a desperate, maladjusted interloper, or worse, alienating him. I sigh. The words will come to me when I need them. I hope. I run through the logic once more. Kenny has unexplored depths of academic potential, but lacks the funds for college. I have a large sum of my brother's money, but…well, lack a decent purpose for it, I guess. This is where the logic is flawed, I realize. What do I stand to gain from my—dare I say it—act of charity? I try to replace the word that Butters once uttered. In my mind, he spat it like a curse, even though I'm pretty sure I'm exaggerating; Butters is nearly incapable of such inflection. Forget charity; it was an act of friendship, plain and simple, no matter how impromptu or inconceivable. To me, money is nothing. I grew up under the impression that we were barely scraping by, only to find after Malcolm's death that he was some sort of stock market genius. Friends, on the other hand, were conspicuously absent from my life, their importance downplayed in my brother's periodic "you and me against the world" speeches. Here in South Park, I feel surrounded by friends, and have quickly developed a feeling of protectiveness for every one of them. It's an emotion that should feel foreign to me, but doesn't. I may not have had real, close friends, but I did have to be fiercely protective of myself. It dawns on me that I have probably not been a good friend to myself or anyone else; it's possible that if I think about it long enough, I could compare my sneakiness to one of Cartman's antics. My stunt probably crosses all sorts of lines, and my only explanation is that I didn't grow up with the same sorts of customs and mores as just about every other American kid.

A stray cat mewls in the distance, startling me out of my pensive state. My heart gives a silly little leap. Just the thought of being wrapped in Kenny's arms makes me forget all my melancholy musings. I'm suddenly impatient to see him; a phantom jolt of adrenaline inspires me to move.

I stand, shaking the pins and needles from my left leg. After placing the strap of my bag across my body, I jump, securing my hands around a low-ish branch. With one swing of my legs up and over the bark, I make my way up to a sturdy limb that affords me a perfect view into Kenny's window. I can see about half of his room; from the door, past a dresser, to the corner where he moved his bed a few nights ago after I shyly explained that I needed to sleep with my back to a wall. I'm literally three-and-a-half feet away from the windowsill. From here, it looks like the window is half-open. After settling in with my back against the trunk, I rummage in my bag for a few pennies to flick at the window. When I look up, I see that Kenny, dressed in cut-off cargo pants and a black t-shirt, is now sitting on the edge of his bed. He is picking at the strings of an old acoustic guitar. I don't want to spy on him, but neither do I want to interrupt; his expression is one of intense concentration mixed with something else I can't quite define. Something about his posture, his…aura, freezes me in place. I put the pennies in my hoodie pocket and make myself more comfortable in the crook between the trunk and the branch.

I begin to vaguely recognize the song as my eyes follow Kenny's long-fingered hands. He fondles the instrument like a pro, gracefully sweeping through each note. He picks up speed, and the ups and downs finally become more than familiar: it's Jeff Buckley's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Kenny pulls this off almost effortlessly; playing is completely natural for him. I know he said in the treehouse that he could play guitar, but I had no idea he could…play. A transient thought interrupts the moment—Why didn't he play for me when I was here the other night?—but there are so many obvious answers that I toss it away. I'm beginning to wonder how he hasn't yet noticed me, out here staring, when he starts to sing.

His voice nearly knocked me senseless the first time I heard him speak, but now I have to brace myself so that I don't literally fall from the tree. I notice that I've been slowly creeping forward on the branch, closing the distance between my ears and blonde boy just through the window. He sounds at once innocent and experienced, sexy and chaste, shy and confident. He sings with a slight accent that isn't there when he speaks, something picked up from growing up on this side of South Park perhaps, that breaks my heart and thrills me. Like this, Kenny looks out of context with the dimly-lit room and the dingy walls and the devastated hardwood floor. He exudes pure confidence, but it's a humble confidence that isn't the product of coddling and flattery; he's earned it.

I spend the next six minutes hypnotized by the song—no, by Kenny performing the song. I feel almost as if I am seeing something rare and intimate, something I was not yet supposed to see. Watching this uncensored and somber side of Kenny is like overhearing a secret. I subconsciously knew that his exuberance and charisma and flirtatiousness were balanced out by something, but witnessing this something hits a place inside me that I thought I had securely locked away. I would call it absolute trust but that isn't quite the right term, and beyond that, the idea is crazy. I think back to the one time I told a would-be friend the brief version of my life story. She told her parents, who reneged their permission for her to sleep over at my place after hearing that my still-young brother served as my guardian. I was inconsolable. "You can't just tell all your secrets up front, Renny," Malcolm said. "If you go in without walls, you just end up building them as time goes on, and that's backwards. I know all about you, though, and I won't abandon you in that way." A few days and several giant oatmeal cookies later, I forgot about it and moved on. But this. This is different. I suddenly want to tell him all my secrets and relish any pain that may result from such immodesty. To hell with conventions. Something inside me is screaming you love this boy, and I'm saving my energy for a greater fight than one with my own thoughts.

I can't bring myself to toss pennies at his window after what I've seen and heard. I have a better idea. I find my phone and hold it in a death grip as Kenny sings my favorite line of the song:

"…all i've ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you…'

As he plays the last few notes, I type out a text.

-don't freak out, but come look outside your window

When Kenny transitions from "Hallelujah" to simple chords and starts messing around and tuning the guitar, I hit "send" and hope his phone is charged. Seconds later, his phone, which is on the dresser, lights up. I watch as his face takes on a "huh?" expression, as he leans his guitar against the wall and gets up to check the message. After a moment, I hear him laugh. Thank God. A smile takes over his face as he walks to the window, lifts it a few more inches, and sticks his head out.

"How long have you been hanging in my tree?"

"Well, I was just going to toss some pennies at the window to get your attention, but then you walked into the room and started playing 'Hallelujah,' so I just…watched. Not too long."

He smirks. "Darn, you missed it…about half an hour ago I was walking around naked and dripping wet because I couldn't find a damn towel." I roll my eyes. "But…" I can't be positive, but I think Kenny is blushing. He gestures weakly toward the guitar, and then moves his hand to the back of his head. "…I didn't know I had an audience, I mean, I just mess around, but-"

"Shut up, you were amazing. Now are you going to come downstairs and let me in, or do you want me to sit in your tree and spy on you all night?"

-XXX-

When Kenny comes to the door, he is wearing a black hoodie, and it looks as if he has brushed his hair. I immediately reach out and mess it up again, and he pulls me into a hug. He hasn't even asked why I'm here so late, which makes me happier than it should. He breaks the embrace but takes my hand.

"Come on," he says as he gestures toward the kitchen with his head. "Do you want coffee or something? I'm sure my mom will want to see you, too."

"She's awake? It's like…tomorrow already."

"Of course. She takes night school and doesn't let out until ten. She's playing with her severed head in there."

I make a face but follow Kenny into the kitchen. Carol is standing at the table, painting highlights into the hair of a mannequin head. She finishes one with a flourish and looks up, gesturing at the creepy thing.

"This is Miss Amanda. No matter how many times I mess up, she never complains. She doesn't tip, though, either." I laugh; Kenny rolls his eyes as if he's heard this one before. "What are you two up to? No, wait, don't tell me. I'll just be jealous; I'm stuck here with a plastic head full of real human hair and a tub of bleach. I have to pass a test next week."

I laugh and sit down at the table as Kenny messes around in the cabinets. "Wow, it really does say 'Miss Amanda' on the back of her neck," I muse. "Where does the hair come from? It's not…" I shudder, wondering if the hair was cut from Jane Does in some morgue.

"Eastern Europe, mostly. Women there grow their hair out and sell it. At least that's what they tell us at school." Carol shrugs, and opens her mouth to say something, but Kenny's phone beeps loudly, and for some reason we both turn to him with expectant expressions. As he reads the text, his eyes widen and he lets out a laugh that conveys delight and disbelief.

"You…punched…Cartman…in the gut?"

I throw my head back and sigh in exasperation. "Ugh, is that going to be the hot gossip for the week? Who even texted you? Does the whole town know? Come on, he pissed me off, it was a reflex." Carol snickers. I turn to look at her, still peeved.

"Whaaat?" I ask.

"Someone needed to put that little prick in his place. I wish I could have seen it." I smile. I forgot that Cartman and Kenny grew up together, so Carol likely saw or otherwise dealt with many of his asinine acts. Kenny comes up behind me and tugs on my arm.

"He's probably in love with you now, you know. Now I'll have to fight him off." As ridiculous as this is, it makes me smile. He tugs on my arm again. "Come on, let's go upstairs." I shoot Carol an apologetic look and let Kenny lead me to his room.

-XXX-

"Can you play 'Yellow Ledbetter'?" I ask. I'm sitting on the floor, watching Kenny play as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"Pearl Jam fan?"

"Not really, I just remember one of my brother's friends coming over with a guitar, and he was bitching about how it was such a difficult song. Maybe he was just an idiot; I know nothing about music."

"Neither do I."

I pick up something that looks suspiciously like a dirty, balled-up sock, and chuck it at Kenny's head. "Come on. Worst lie ever. "

"No, really. I can't read or write music. I just…play by ear. I pick at the notes until I get it right, and string it all together-"

"Are you serious? That's like, even more amazing. You obviously have a talent. What are you doing in philosophy classes? You need to be in music classes!" I clap my hand over my mouth. I still haven't decided how to tell Kenny that I paid his tuition for the semester. "Hey, I need to tell you something," I blurt out without thinking.

"Not before I ask you something first," he says with a smile as he leans the guitar against the wall again. For a boy who supposedly doesn't talk much, he sure interrupts me a lot. I wait. "How do you feel about camping?" I take a breath, but of course he doesn't let me answer. "I kind of owe you a road trip, and school's closed the whole week after midterms…I know it's kind of far off, but I've always wanted to see Zion National Park, and-"

It's my turn to interrupt. "As in Utah? Oh wow, I'd love that, but…can you handle being in a car with me for ten hours?"

"I'd enjoy it. Or I could just drop some sleeping pills into your drink when you aren' t looking." He flashes an evil smile and I jump up from the floor and tackle him. Once I am straddling him with both wrists pinned to the bed, I smile.

"I'll go only if you promise me you'll keep any and all sedatives away from my beverages."

"Are you going to hit me, too?" Kenny asks through a smile.

"Don't push it." I move to his side and grab his arm, trying to pull him up. "Here, sit up. And lose the hoodie." He gives me a questioning look, but obeys. I slide behind him and sit up on my knees. "I promised you a backrub, remember? You're just getting the basic version for now, though." Just the sight of the back of his neck makes my pulse go haywire. I close my eyes and begin to gently knead the spot, melting a little when I hear his little sigh. "You know, it's weird."

"What…is?" he asks.

"My..career path, I guess you'd call it. I mean, I'll have to…touch people all day long."

"Yeah, that's kind of central to chiropractic, right? I mean, why is that weird?"

I take a breath. "Well…I learned some…" I sigh and start over. "I didn't exactly have a 'normal' childhood. I'm pretty sure I grew up thinking that 'other people' were the enemy. I didn't have real friends. I mean, I wasn't socially inept; I had friends from sports, and hung out and all, but I never got close to anyone." I let out a bitter laugh. "I'm pretty sure it's my brother's fault I was kind of a slut in high school." Kenny reaches up and takes my hands in his, so I'm leaning against his back with my arms around him. He doesn't say a word, though, so I continue. "He had this…speech he would always give me. 'You don't want to touch other people unless absolutely necessary. People are repulsive and carry germs and other things that can hurt you.' I think back now and it sounds…insane. But I looked up to him, so for a while…it was law. I believed it. And then, when I was 14, I discovered that touching people could be a good thing, and I did it whenever I could: in the janitor's closet, under the bleachers, on someone's sofa at a party…" I stop, wondering what Kenny is thinking. "He told me that I shouldn't care about friends, about forming close relationships. All I needed was him and I. I guess I'm glad I realized that was…odd…when I did." I shut up, fearing the worst, worried that I have said too much. Part of me wonders if I am just spilling this to defy everything Mac once told me, but I push away that thought. Maybe I'm being reckless, but I honestly want to share everything with Kenny. Everything. He turns and looks me in the eye.

"Did he…touch you?" His voice is thick with insinuation; I know what he is asking.

"No, God no. Not like that. He was…strange. He looked at me, like…like the fact that I was his half-sister didn't matter, but the fact that I was a child did. So he was…creepy, in a way, now that I think of it. I just always assumed it was affection, but the older I got, the more I suspected something was…off. I think a lot of secrets died with him. Stuff I'll never know. I came o South Park thinking any oddities in my personality would fit in with the eccentric small-town thing you guys have going here. It's like…I don't know a thing about boundaries, I'm pretty sure I have no idea what is appropriate in most social situations, and I think to myself so much that I'm convinced I've said things aloud…when I haven't." I shake my head and try to change the subject. I'm more scared to tell him what I did earlier than I was to tell him more about my childhood, but I press on. "You know, I was trying to tell you earlier…my brother was some stock market genius, but he never told me. I found out after he died, when I inherited his estate. We lived in an RV for four years, and the goddamn lawyer told me we could have been living anywhere we pleased." I'm stumbling over words and probably not making sense, but Kenny is still listening intently. "So…" I search for a way to express "I have this big inheritance and no sense of what is appropriate when it comes to friends and money, so, yeah, I paid for your classes" without sounding completely batty. I laugh to myself, decide to blurt it out, and squeeze my eyes shut as I inhale. When I open my mouth again to speak, everything goes black.

"What the hell?" I ask. I hear Carol yell "God damn it!" from downstairs. Kenny heaves a sigh and jumps from the bed, presumably to feel around for his phone. When he finds it, he uses the light from the screen to locate a flashlight in a drawer. He sits it upright on the dresser so it shines upwards like a lamp.

"Apparently, the landlady didn't pay the electric bill again." I must look confused, because he continues. "Utilities are included with rent, which is great, but she 'forgets' to pay about three times a year. Everything gets shut off until someone pays." He looks down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"It's okay. Lived in an RV, remember? In small-town Alaska. Electricity was…sporadic at best." I can't help but feel a little relieved; I can put off telling him for at least a few more minutes. I decide to share something else instead. "You know, I'm actually pretty scared of the dark. I deal with it, but every moment feels like a year. It just terrifies me. What lurks in the darkness, what uses the shadows as cover?"

"You do."

"What?"

"You do. Don't think about 'what lurks in the darkness', because you do. Whatever it is you're scared of, don't think about it using the darkness as a cloak. Don't think it is stalking you or lying in wait. Think of yourself as the one hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack whatever it is. I promise you, if you start thinking that way, you'll learn to appreciate the dark."

"I never thought of it that way. Of course, right now, you're here. I'm not alone, so it doesn't matter. I wouldn't feel so brave if I were in my room, or lost in the woods or something." I reach out my hand, inviting Kenny to come back to the bed. When he does, I reach over to the flashlight and click it off. I'm too busy getting close to him to notice the utter blackness that fills the room.

-XXX-

I awake to the sound of a garbage truck chugging down the block. My phone is lying near my head, so I press the button on the side to check the time. It's 5:22am. To my right, Kenny is sleeping on his side, his back to me. I run a finger down his bare skin, wishing I could stay right here forever. He stirs and rolls over onto his back. I lay my head on his chest and gaze out the window at the still-visible stars. His steady breathing tells me he is still asleep. "It's crazy, isn't it, that I'm falling in love with you?" I whisper. Kenny's breath quickens almost imperceptibly, and for a second, I panic. Closing my eyes again, I freeze in place. Shit, shit, shit. Oh well. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. I repeat this mantra for about five minutes before realizing that if he did hear me, he didn't freak out, and he most likely didn't hear me anyway. I push myself up and crawl over him, reluctant to leave but somehow feeling that I should.

I find an old receipt and a pen in my bag and scribble out a note:

I really wasn't sure how else to tell you. I did this without thinking, but I'm glad

I did. Consider it a testament to how much I believe in you. Come find me after

class tomorrow (today?).

-Ren

I lay this on top of the "paid in full" printout I got from the registrar's office and leave it on his dresser. As I tiptoe down the stairs and let myself out the front door, I can't help but feel like I need to shake off some awkwardness that has reclaimed me. I feel like I'm mentally viewing an unfamiliar yet misspelled word; something is wrong but I can't put my finger on it. I chalk it up to three hours' sleep and the eerie morning air, and make my way home. Everything is okay, I tell myself. Everything is just as it should be.

A/N: If you are tempted to go download Jeff Buckley's version of "Hallelujah," do it. And then listen to it about eighty times in a row and become Jeff-obsessed like me, haha. It just seemed like something my version of Kenny would play. So, yeah.

I feel blah about this one, but it's necessary to get to the rest of the story, which is going to be like a roller coaster. I'll get the next one up faster. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers—and thanks for being patient—I got really sick last week.

Random fact: I probably like Kenny so much because my first "boyfriend" was named Kenny. We were eight years old. He passed me love notes in class, and our moms would take us to meet at places like the public pool. Oddly enough, one of our favorite things to play was "save Kenny from dying." I remember spending one entire day "saving" him from "drowning" in the pool. Once, he gave me a really pretty ring with a blue stone in it. I took it home and showed my mother, who noticed some engraving on the inside. It was his mother's name. Yep, he swiped a ring from his mother and gave it to me. I hate to think what happened to him after my mom called his mom.

Oh, and he really did live in the trailer park.