A plate of quite peculiar
On a dish of my own
A tablespoon of feather
tickle me to the bone
Give me recipes for happy
with the chemicals gone
Drinking freedom from a bottle
to the tune of belong
―Blue October, X Amount of Words
Tweek's point of view:
I never saw anyone new come into the coffeehouse. They were always the same folks: some from the day prior, others from a few weeks before. Sometimes I memorized their order depending on whether or not the costumer stayed consistent or liked a variety. My favorite times to work were during particular seasons or holidays like winter or Halloween because my dad would concoct a new flavor and it always changed up the regular routine.
After sprinkling some cinnamon over a latte topped with whipped cream, I turned toward the counter and handed one of the folks from a few weeks before his beverage. He always seemed to have somewhere to go, and like always, he nodded his thanks and left the shop to walk briskly down the sidewalk.
"Mom?" The woman whose nose and eyes I'd inherited peeked her head out of the storage room in the back. "Can you t-take over? I need to talk to Thomas." My best friend had been sitting in a booth with a muffin and his phone since he'd arrived, unfortunately just as a few others had succumbed to the same idea. Now that everyone had been dealt with, I wanted to get over to him before anyone else showed up.
Stepping out of the backroom with an unopened collection of cup holders, my mom asked, "About your trip?" They didn't understand why I'd gone to see Craig, and instead of saying "to see that boy," they'd taken to calling it "the trip". It was probably better that way. I nodded my head. She smiled, but it wasn't quite there. She was never all quite there. "Go ahead."
Thomas's booth was the first one on the left. It was just a few steps away from the register, and when I sat down, the golden blonde removed his eyes from his phone and smiled. There was a giddy expectation in that expression of his and I was about to surpass it. He wasn't going to believe me when I told him Craig had kissed me five days ago. I still couldn't bring anything to my mouth without reminiscing his lips―food, a hand, my toothbrush.
One look at his face sent heat into mine and I found the abundance of it irregular as I buried my cheeks into the palms of my hands. "He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, Thomas." My voice was an octave higher, something that I couldn't control.
He quirked his brows at me. "Trust me, I remember."
And so did I. We'd both had a little thing for Craig, but where his had gradually faded, mine had not. Seventh grade had been quite the discovery period of my life.
"Oh, you have no idea." An image of Craig formed in my head. The strict lines of his torso, those slight curves in his legs, the handsome structure of his features. "Age has done marvelousthings to that man."
"You don't say," Thomas mused. "I highly doubt you snuck any pictures like I told you to." He gave me a stern look because he already knew the answer. I liked how I was able to laugh it off. Not much of that had been happening since I returned home.
"Kenny might have some. You n-never know with him. Maybe he has a Facebook." That had been the wrong thing to say. Thomas immediately brought his phone out, pulled up his Facebook application, and started to search Craig's name. "D-Don't add him or anything! He'll think I'm a creep, dude!"
"Don't worry. I won't add him unless his pictures are set to private." My stomach curled in on itself. Craig would know it was no coincidence if Thomas added him. Pressing down on the screen of his phone a few times, Thomas's face lit up and he said, "Well if this isn't a delectable young man then I don't know what is." Abruptly, I scrambled over to his side of the booth and pressed flush against his side so that I could see what he was looking at.
"That's not even his face!" I chastised, ashamed that my excitement had gotten the better of me. Thomas snickered condescendingly, peering down at Craig's profile picture. It was an inconspicuous photograph of him and Clyde from behind. The brunette had a hand in the back pocket of Craig's jeans and was winking over his shoulder at the camera. They looked like they were in a drugstore, somewhere between the chips and the candy. Had the shot been from the front, Craig would probably be debating on what to get based on what was in his hands.
"I don't need to see his face―shit―to know that he's one sexy motherfucker." With a pout, I mentally agreed. The picture, which I figured was taken by Token, showed how lengthy Craig's body was. I could even pick out that imperceptible curve in his legs that I liked so much. He was wearing burnt orange, straight legged jeans and a flannel. His hair looked disheveled. Maybe he'd just woken up, all sleepy eyed, his shirt unbuttoned.
The golden blonde slid his finger across the screen, sweeping the picture away until the next popped up. It was cute, different colors of paint splattered all over his face. Clyde was clearly in the background in much the same condition, scowling vehemently.
In another he was outside, the evening sky muted, casting a dusky glow. I don't think Craig had realized it was being taken, or maybe he was just a good model. He was sitting on the ground, smoke pilfering from his lips, a cigarette between his fingers. What really called to my attention were his shoes: they were classy, a powder blue color with leather wingtips.
None of his pictures were taken by him, each clearly done either by a tripod or Token or someone else entirely. At least until the last picture. He and Stripe were in it, and the guinea pig was held lovingly against Craig's bare chest. There was a toothy grin on his face, one that reached his eyes and lit them from within. His hair was longer, his features less defined. He might've been living in South Park during the time of this photograph.
My lungs tightened when I noticed the crooked nature of his teeth. They looked much the same as they had in person. It was his bottom more than his top and one of his bottom canines jut out at an odd angle. I could honestly admit that it was one of the most adorable things I've ever seen. Craig Tucker just continued to get better and better.
Dropping my head against Thomas's shoulder, I groaned in defeat and fell against his side as limp as I could get without slipping like a noodle onto the floor.
The golden blonde laughed, returning to Craig's profile to check any status updates. The only ones that showed up were rare and few and made by Clyde. The most recent was posted three days ago and said: This is Clyde updating for Craig. He's an angry artist at the moment ): Help me.
"Artist?" My best friend questioned. Thank God I wasn't the only one who had no clue.
"Yeah. That's why he left." Ouch. "But uh―when I went down there, h-he drew me." Thomas set his phone down and gave me a look that said Oh really? I couldn't help myself at that point. I went straight into a detailed account of my visit and highlighted all of the more unbelievable parts like: he said I looked weird and then told me it wasn't unattractive; he undressed in front of me, and his touching technique; the conversation about sex he and Kenny had taken part in; how honest I'd been with him; his comment on my blush; the way he'd slept on me; his and Clyde's near sex encounter―basically every part was unbelievable.
That was when I decided to lay it on him, all of my building excitement from recalling that entire visit leading me to this point. I sat up and looked right at him, my best friend who never failed to understand what this meant to me. "He kissed me." Thomas's look of pure, genuine shock caused me to quickly reassess my confession. "But not like that! I-I lied and said I've never had my first kiss from a guy and everyone felt bad so they had Craig―t-they had him do it."
"You said you saw him how many days out of that week and you already got him to kiss you? Three? You are downright―fuck―scandalous, Tweek!" His skinny arms wrapped around my shoulders and he rocked me back and forth inside the booth. "I'm so proud of you!" Pink in the cheeks, I rested my head against his chest and thought about how surreal it was to finally say it. Though I had told Kenny in the car that night, crying about it much to my embarrassment, it was nice to be able to admit the kiss in a calmer state of mind.
I closed my eyes as if it could cap my emotions, but there were too many to quell. All of them were contradictory. Delight and fear, comfort and worry. I couldn't keep track of them. Maybe I wasn't as calm as I thought I was.
"So when are you going back?" Thomas asked, sitting me upright before untangling his arms from around my neck. The notion that I might see Craig again made my chest swell.
"I'm not sure. Kenny and I have been tossing the idea around, but it's hard with s-school and work. It was actually pretty expensive." I still owed Kenny for one of those nights at the motel. "It wouldn't have been so bad if we'd stayed somewhere dingy, but I'm n-not good with anything that's not clean. Or my own."
Not that our motel had roaches crawling in it, but I'd brought my own sleeping bag and pillow and tarp to lay on the ground after disinfecting the area where I'd be sleeping―that's how "not good" I was when it came to public places. Especially when Kenny found someone to sleep with. I hadn't even liked walking by that bed.
My mom called my name and returned me to the present, pushing back thoughts of Kenny having no trouble sexing up some random Lakewooder while I awkwardly sat outside the door and texted Thomas to pass the time. I would've dutifully chose to sit in the motel lobby, except rapists and pedophiles were waiting for me down there, my imagination had told me. She called my name again.
"Yeah?" Before I could catch her behind-you hand motions, my dad passed by and dropped an envelope on the table with a short, "Here you go, son. Mail to make your day better." He disappeared, sifting through whatever else had been in the mailbox.
Five days ago I would have found this weird, a letter showing up with my name on it. Five days ago I wouldn't have recognized the capitalized block lettering, so uniform that it could've been printed straight from a computer. But the last few seconds of that night in Craig's apartment were plaguing my memory, and I knew that this was his handwriting because he'd provided dates and signatures to all of the papers littering the floor of his room.
"Hey." A sketchbook, randomly procured while I'd had my back turned, hit me and fell. A pencil was Craig's second weapon of choice. "Give me your address."
"What?" I inquired, because nobody asked that question anymore.
"I'm going to write you," he stated simply. "Give me your address." He was sitting on the couch, valiantly ignoring Kenny's attempts to hug him. When I asked him why, his answer was, "I want to write you a letter." And he seemed pretty adamant about it, so I picked up the paper and pencil and scribbled my address for what felt like the first time in my life.
"You could've at least asked for my e-mail," I teased, not that an e-mail was any better these days.
"I could've asked for your number, too." He shrugged and said, "Just call me classy."
That was when I booked it because I didn't want to have to say to him, "Why yes, you are a very classy man, you irresistible bastard you."
He actually wrote me. A girl's giddiness could not compete with me, with this―whatever I was feeling―this insatiable quivering in my body, my head, my emotions.
Everything was shaking and I loved it and it only got worse when I peeled open that beautiful white envelope with the same care my grandma used to give to her Christmas and birthday presents. We would reuse that very same wrapping paper the next year and I opened that letter so goddamn carefully that I could lick it shut again and it'd be like brand new. Sweet Jesus―what if Craig's tongue has touched this?
Thomas was wondering what the mail was supposed to be, but I wasn't listening to him. All of my attention was focused on this letter and I didn't have time for anything else. Using a precariously delicate hand, I removed the blank white sheet from its envelope and opened it up from the tri-fold Craig had bundled it into.
A smile ate away at my face, corroding my features until I was just one big grinning idiot.
It was... cute. Just a simple:
Come back soon, alright?
But I adored it. He'd even put the Dear and the Sincerely, called me Tweek Tweak and himself Craig Tucker, and―godfuckdickshit―this man was a perfect human being.
"What's this?" Kenny's voice came from over my shoulder. He was smiling against my ear, kissing the shell of it before finding himself a seat opposite Thomas and me. Stan was with him, raven haired and blue eyed just like Craig, though he was built more masculine and wanted to pursue law enforcement, not art. He just had something against cults, con artists, frauds, and the like. I guess he wanted to take them all down.
"I do believe," Stan began, obviously joking, "that he is holding a love letter."
"Why, perhaps you are right!" Kenny was humoring him. Fantastic. "By the color of his face I'd say―" he snatched the letter from my hands, at least being careful toward its fragility, and read it over "―that the young man of Tucker is asking for intercourse! And right away!" His old English accent was rubbing me the wrong way.
Stan gasped for a completely different reason than I did. His was sarcastic. Mine was utterly embarrassed. "Then we must hurry. The moon is waning and the young virgin of Tweak is to be stolen!" I looked around to make sure no one was listening. "Let us away! Kenny, man the sexmobile. Thomas, grab his arms. I'll take his legs. We need to get him to the apartment of Tucker and fast before the mood is lost!"
My mom was listening. A fear like gnashing claws with poisonous tips tore apart my stomach. Out of sheer paranoid terror, I snatched Craig's letter back and hid it inside of its envelope as though she could see the small letters from her distance and know who I was compulsively crazy for. The others quieted down at my disturbance and realized quite quickly what my problem was. Stan apologized for being so voracious; Thomas pinched my cheek in a comforting gesture.
Kenny responded differently, saying, "Stop trying to cover up your sexuality. You came out for a reason. She knows you're gay and she knew you were going to pick up some ass eventually. I'm sure she's subconsciously happy that you're happy."
"I-I'm not picking up anything." And then my brain registered the rest of his words. "And I'm not hiding anything. I just don't want to make her uncomfortable. Clearly the thought of her son taking it up the butt isn't popular," I hissed.
"Clearly," the blonde repeated. "Whether he knows it or not, Craig is definitely giving you the go-ahead."
"No, he's not!" My outburst ricocheted back to me. The impact of my voice drew some attention, and again that of my mother's. I quickly quieted down. "Stop making this out to be bigger than it is. Stop exaggerating. Please."
"He kissed you, Tweek―"
"And it doesn't matter that he kissed Clyde? He talked about having sex with Clyde. I'm sure he kisses Token and Clyde's girlfriend and I'm positive that you have kissed him."
When he didn't object, I figured that his silence was his answer. It was only when I settled down that he spoke up, and I knew then that he hadn't answered me at all. He was just waiting so he wouldn't have to fight with me. "I'm not saying that the kiss meant anything to him, because it didn't. That's the way Craig is. Things take a long time to make sense for him. I'm just trying to reinforce your confidence, not that you even have any."
"My confidence?" I scoffed. He was right. The only thing I had confidence in was South Park and that was because it was a reliable town―because it didn't have the ability to change. What a disappointing revelation. I was pathetic.
"You don't have to sound so negative," Thomas berated. He was often short-fused when it came to my negativity. After dealing with it for all of these years, I didn't blame him.
To make me feel better, Stan tried to play footsie with me underneath the table. I tried to smile to let him know that it was okay, that I was okay, but I felt it as much as they saw it and knew it looked too sad to pass their test. It couldn't even pass mine and all I was going for was an "okay".
Standing up, Kenny shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, ripped and tattered things that looked undeniably good on him, and said as he departed, "Then you better fix that. People think confidence is sexy. Including Craig."
Great.