Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: See prologue.

Summary: Stanley returns to school following his habit development.

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At School III

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Have you ever had the feeling that you were untouchable? That nothing bad could ever possibly happen to you, and that you wouldn't end up like Achilles? That you could just walk through life as if you'd been coated in Teflon? That you were like Tony Blair without the douchebaggery?

That's how I feel now. I feel…cool, I think. Not cool as in chilly, cool as in popular. Like I'm walking through school in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses. At least, until I actually get INTO the school, and am met with the age old insults. My imaginary sunglasses go with the first "HEY POVERY-CASE!!" My mental leather jacket is ripped from me when a group of Freshman rabbit-punch me in the spine and shout in my ear "WELFARE QUEEN!"

The Teflon, though, steps up to replace this. When they call me a fag for the ponytail I've bundled my hair into, I scowl and move along. None of the rest of the insults even reach my ears. I get to my locker and pull out the books for my first two classes. Today's schedule's rather strange, requiring me to collect two classes worth of books at a time, because we only get enough of a break to visit our lockers after every other period on early release days. Period One, three minute break, Period Two, six minute break. Repeat this for Periods Three and Four, break for Lunch, repeat for Five and Six, and Seven and Eight, and then leave.

The best thing is, I'm going to get through it. Just rush through my lunch and go have a smoke. Today's just a hamburger anyway. Hell, I could grab it and an apple and wander out even sooner. I think I just may do that. Eat the burger and the apple on my way outside, and that way I'll have spare time to light up and get all the way through the cigarette.

"Fag," Cartman greets me on my way into History.

"Go to Hell, Lardass, I'm not in the mood," I bite out, stalking into class past a flabbergasted Cartman.

After class, he pins me to the wall.

"What the hell was that about, Marsh? You think you can talk to me?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," I reply, squirming out of his grip. "Now get the fuck out of my way, I already told you I'm not in the mood for your bullshit." I brush past him, knocking him out of my way.

"THIS ISN'T OVER, HIPPIE!" he shouts after me. "I'LL GET YOU!"

I ever so calmly extend my middle finger and hold my hand up so that he can see the signal. I don't even turn around. I told him, I'm not in the mood. I'm not, I won't be, and everyone knows I can beat the shit out of him whenever I so choose.

His sputtering follows me all the way to Math, where I grin through the entire lesson on polynomial functions. I've won. For the first time in three years, not only did I stand up to Cartman, I bested him. Oh, he's gonna be PISSED!

"Marsh!" my teacher snaps.

"Yes sir?"

"Stop daydreaming with that goofy grin on your face and give me the answer to the problem on the board!" To emphasize his point and to indicate which problem, he smacks a meterstick on the board. OK…f(x) x3 8x – 13, solve for x. y x3 8x – 13…y 13 x3 8x…take the cube root of both sides…3x the cube root of y 13…

"X equals the cube root of y plus thirteen, divided by three," I answer. The teacher scowls and moves on, without even bothering to tell me if I'm right or wrong. Then again, I'm not really listening to him anyway, so he might have without me knowing it.

Art passes by without anything of real consequence happening. We never do anything in Art on shortened days. We walk into the room to find drawing paper laid out at our tables, with charcoal and coloured pencils next to them. Our teacher is reading a shitty romance novel at her desk and tells us to "let our creativity roam free." I'm not kidding, she seriously says that.

And the guys call ME a hippie.

Whatever. I pick up a red coloured pencil and start doodling. Scribbles and squiggles, pick up the green pencil, repeat. I'm not even paying attention to what I'm drawing. Randomly, I discard the green pencil and pick up an orange one. This one turns into a rectangle…and two smaller rectangles are attached to it. This shape is followed by the discarding of the orange pencil and picking up a darker green. This darker green becomes two rectangles attached to the bottom of the orange shape, and I get a peach color next and shade in a circular shape between the red mess and the orange shape. Then I reach for the charcoal, sharpen the edges of everything, draw an angle on the circle, an oval beneath it, and two circles adjacent to it. Small rectangles on the orange shape, along with a single line bisecting it vertically, and coloring in the shoes. I pick up a white pencil and color in the circles on the peach shape, followed by grabbing the lighter green pencil again and drawing smaller circles in the white circles in the peach circle.

Pausing, I survey what I've drawn. It looks like a person. A very familiar-looking person.

The bell rings, and I head off to English, wondering why the Hell I drew Kyle as he was when he was eight years old. That could potentially mean … I don't even know. One thing's for sure, I'm not going to let anyone see it. I crumple it up and put it in my pocket. I'll burn it when I go for my smoke at Lunch. I've got more important things to concentrate on.

"Quiz!" Mr. Quinn announces as soon as the bell rings. "It's on your desks; you have until the end of the period to get it done."

Things like that. A thirty question quiz about The Hobbit. Five of the questions are short answer, so I decide I'll knock them out first. And I'm glad, because the first asks me why Gandalf keeps appearing and disappearing. Which is a toughie, and has plenty of space allotted accordingly. I ponder for a moment before writing: "Because he wants to. Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." I'm betting I get points for cleverness and originality. The others'll come up with stupid-ass reasoning using plenty of in-text citations and not have any time to answer the rest of the questions. I can't be bothered to do that. Besides, mine'll be closer to the truth, and will – most importantly – amuse Mr. Quinn.

The fill-in-the-blank section is incredibly easy. Mostly just names and places, with one situational. I grin as I hear muffled curses from my classmates, who are both struggling with the names and places, and realize that they're running out of time. I make sure my information is correct and that I have answered all the questions, and lay the quiz face-down on my desk, waiting for the bell.

When it rings, I walk with my head held high towards the lunchroom, mouth set and ears stopped. I need to just grab my food and go outside. I need to get outside and light up. I need to light up and set that fucking picture on fire, disintegrate it. It'll smell terrible because of the burning colours, but Goddamnit, I need to the get the fuck rid of it. If I don't, someone'll find it and give it to Cartman, who'll call it proof of my desire for Kyle to fuck me senseless.

That's the last thing I need. More Goddamned whispers. About me again, but instead, about how I "take my cock." Do I like it cut, uncut? Long, short, fat, thin? NONE of the above!! I don't "take cock"! My interest in male anatomy begins and ends with my interest in my own!

"What can I get you?"

Huh? Oh, right, lunch.

"Just a burger and an apple," I say. They put it on a tray and hand it to me. I grab a carton of milk and stalk out. I leave the lunchroom with the same glare I wore entering it, food in hand, much to the confusion of everyone in the room. I step through mostly empty hallways, earning the occasional strange look from a teacher as I cram my burger into my mouth, washing it down with the milk and pocketing the apple for later. I get outside and I lean against the back wall of the school, fishing in my pocket for my cigarettes and my lighter. Finding both, I take out one, stick it between my lips, and light it up, taking a relaxing drag.

While I have my lighter out, I dig out the crumpled drawing of Kyle from my pocket and unfold it. I want to watch him burn, since he can't go to Hell, being a Jew. I want to watch him burn. From his shoes up to the top of that stupid-ass hat. I want him to pay in effigy.

I flick the lighter, grinning as the flame catches the bottom of the paper. I'm glad I left enough room at the top of the sheet to drop it after it Kyle's image is completely burned. I smile as the flame passes his feet, and scowl at the grin on his colored face. Taking my cigarette in my spare hand, I tap the ash off, and press the flaming end to Kyle's face. The color burns away, followed by the paper itself. I return the cigarette to my mouth and watch the picture burn. It goes quickly, and I discard the remnants along with my cigarette butt and head back inside.

I walk to the Commons area, eating my apple. When the bell rings, I discard the core in the nearest trashcan and stop by my locker to spray myself down with Axe. After I do that, I grab my book for sixth period and head down to P.E. Since it's a short day, we're just playing Dodgeball again, and I'm relieved to see that Coach has removed from inventory the old balls that broke my nose. Cartman, upon noticing the same, voices his disappointment. I grin. Fatass is mine.

I tell the girls this (I still haven't gotten a haircut. It's on my to-do list as soon as I get some spare cash) and they look at me uncertainly.

"It'll be fine! You just worry about the rest of them; I'll take care of Lardass."

"Well, if you say so, Stan…" Rebecca says, still uncertain.

"Don't worry about me," I say, and several of them giggle. Oh great, Hero Worship…

Coach blows the whistle and, as a class, we rush the line of balls in the center of the gym. I manage to grab two and immediately knock Clyde out of the game before retreating back to my line. We managed to take out half the guys, leaving Fatass, Kike, Ghettoboy, and Craig. They got Wendy and Bebe, much to the chagrin of the latter, but aside from them, we're intact.

"Come and get it, Fatass," I mutter, grabbing a stray ball and getting into a defensive position as Cartman and Jew send Kenny and Craig at us, both dual-wielding. They charge forward, and the other girls squeal and cower, allowing Kenny and Craig to pick them off. I fire off my two as they release, nailing them both and sending them to the sidelines. There's an abundance of balls on my side, and I pick up two while I listen to Cartman and Kyle argue about which one gets the "honour" of taking me out.

"Jew, I'm so seriously pissed off at him. I want him!"

"Fatass, Stan's MINE."

"No he's not, you assrammer!"

Grinning, I sneak across my lines and creep towards them on the opposite sideline. Just like the old days, they're completely engrossed in their argument, and don't even notice my approach. I take all the time in the world to line up my shot. I let it fly, and nail Kyle right between the shoulder blades, interrupting his argument as Coach blows his whistle.

"Broflovski! Out!" Kyle looks at me in shock. I smirk and give him a little wave goodbye as he fumes and walks over to the sideline. Now it's just me and Cartman.

"Hello, hippie," he says.

"Hello, lard-o," I reply, picking up the ball I nailed Kyle with as it rolls back to me. "Are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to try to take me out?"

"You're just lucky I don't have my good balls today."

"You're just lucky to have balls period, let alone good ones, with all those steroids you took when you were younger."

"FUCK YOU!" Cartman shouts, flinging one of his balls at me. I easily deflect it towards the guy's sideline.

"Oh, a little touchy are we? Maybe because you can't get anyone to touchy you because your cock's the size of my little finger and your balls are the size of peanuts?"

"SHUT UP, FAG!" Cartman growls, throwing another ball that I easily deflect. I'm going to wait to throw my first until he bends down to re-arm.

"Brilliant, moron. You're defenseless. Short pudgy arms like you've got, you have no hope of catching my throw. You know I'm accurate too, because I'm a pitcher."

"Catcher," Cartman sneers.

"No, Pitcher. Get your fat head out of your fag gutter."

"You can't get me out, hippie."

"Watch me, Lardo," I smirk, and aim, winding up and releasing my ball that strikes him right in mid-thigh, just out of his reach. Coach blows his whistle again.

"Cartman, Out! Girls win!" I turn around to address my team as they sit on the sidelines.

"I told you so." They all jump up and give me little hugs as Coach dismisses us back to the locker rooms. Cartman's glaring daggers at me, but I'm not at all concerned. I've gotten him TWICE today.

I'm BACK, baby. I'm back. Just not…well, back. But I'm not a push-over, anymore. I can dish out just as good as I can take. Today's proved that, and tomorrow will continue to prove it, and all the tomorrows until I get the hell out of here in May.

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Notes: Well. I sincerely apologize for not having this out sooner. It took for-fucking-ever to write this. My only real excuse for this is that my head is radically ahead of my actual progress in this story. I'm worrying about exactly how Stan and Kyle are going to get together, when I need to be focusing on getting them to talk to each other first.

Oh well. New Year, new semester, unknown time available for writing. I will resolve to have a new chapter posted before Valentine's Day. That gives me about a month.

In the meantime, reviews are decreasing again. I would absolutely love to be able to claim at least a five review/chapter ratio. It would make me feel…I dunno, deserving of all the hits and faves this story has.

Thanks.

Phoenix II