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Oh, when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever
And if I had the choice
Yeah, I'd always wanna be there
Those were the best days of my life
(Bryan Adams/Jim Vallance)
Stan quietly opened the front door of his house and looked inside. He heard his mother's voice coming from the kitchen as she hummed some half-remembered melody, but there was no one in sight.
"Mommm!" Another voice called stridently. "We have to leave now!" Stan rolled his eyes and thought: Shelly. She had never learned to be patient, even after she became an adult. Stan stepped the rest of the way into the house and carefully closed the door behind him. The one he really wanted to avoid right now was Randy, and he probably wouldn't be around today. He'd been pretty scarce about the time Stan was twelve.
He looked toward the kitchen as his mom passed by the doorway without noticing him. He knew he should say something, so he put one foot on the stairs and wrapped a hand around the bannister. "Mom!" he called. His high voice once again surprised him. "I'm home."
His mother stepped back to look at him, holding a cup of coffee. She looked incredibly young (not much older than I used to be), a pale blue bathrobe accentuating the effect. Stan had a sudden urge to walk over and give her a hug, but he decided now wasn't the right time for that.
"Hi honey. Did you boys have fun?"
"Yeah, we did!" His fingers tightened around the bannister, happy with how this was going. He thought he sounded natural, and didn't think his mom was going to drag him into a long and challenging conversation, especially with Shelly trying to rush her. "I'm going back over to Kyle's in a couple hours." He suddenly felt foolish again; of course he was going back to Kyle's.
His mother didn't seem to notice though. "I know dear. Have you had breakfast?"
"Uh huh. Kyle's mom made pancakes."
"Oh, good. Well, just be home tonight in time for dinner." Stan remembered that his mom had taken Shelly to perform with the high school band this afternoon.
"Okay, mom." Stan looked away and started up the steps, feeling more at ease when he realized that nothing more was required of him at the moment. The rest of the day was his, at least until dinner, and chances are he'd be able to eat that in front of the television.
He hurried down the hall into his room. The first stop was in front of the mirror over his dresser, and he stared at the reflection of the 12 year old boy in it for a full minute. His raven-black hair hung in limp strands over his forehead, badly needing to be washed after camping out last night; best of all it wasn't thinning in the slightest. His skin was remarkably clear. I won't have to shave again for another four or five years.
"Have a good day, Stanley!" he heard his mother call from the bottom of the stairs.
"Thanks mom!" he called back, hearing the front door slam a few moments later. He smiled, relieved to have the house to himself for a while.
He knew he normally wouldn't shower now but he couldn't stand seeing his hair the way it was, so he grabbed clean clothes from his dresser and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. He quickly stripped and stared at his reflection again. The boyish face, smooth and undefined chest, and small hairless genitals were an amazing sight. He stepped over the edge of the tub and turned on the shower, putting his head under the hot water and letting it run down his body before reaching for the bar of soap on the wire rack under the showerhead. He smiled, thinking I'm a few years away yet from Axe body wash.
He took a very long shower and finally climbed out, dried off and dressed, wishing his twelve year old self had invested in hair products. He paced around his room, knowing he still had almost an hour to kill before Kyle would be home again, running over and over in his mind what he was going to say to Kyle. He knew he would have a hard time convincing him of what had happened, although he would be able to prove it beyond all doubt in two days. But he needed Kyle to believe him now; he had very little memory of what his normal routine was like, or where any of his classrooms were, and would need help getting through the next few days until he settled back into this life. But what to say? Yeah, I just arrived back here from the future, so when we go to school tomorrow, can you show me where my homeroom is? didn't seem like it would cut it.
He spotted his guitar, leaning against the wall in the corner, next to a pile of dirty laundry. Of course! He gathered up the laundry and put it into the hamper next to the closet, then sat down cross-legged on the floor, holding the guitar in his lap. The frets felt a little big for his left hand, but he confidently strummed a few chords and quickly relearned the fret board.
It was a nice guitar; his grandpa Marvin had given it to him about the same time he had given him a bolo tie. Of all the things his grandfather had left him before he died when Stan was eleven, this guitar was his favorite. Stan remembered how happy the old man had been when Stan had given him the picture he had found of Marvin, taken when Randy Marsh was just a gleam in his eye, alongside his old Border Collie. Long after Marvin had died, Stan had cherished this guitar and often played it, sometimes imagining that his grandfather was listening to him, and hoping the old man had enjoyed the picture nearly as much.
He spent the next hour practicing and reaccustoming his left hand to fingering chords again. It came back quickly; after all, he had learned to play on this guitar in the first place. By the time the hall clock chimed noon downstairs he felt confident in his ability to play well enough to impress Kyle. He made his way down the stairs and out the front door, carrying his guitar under his right arm.
He felt self-conscious, his stomach twisting itself into knots as he walked up his street carrying the guitar, but no one challenged him about it; he really hoped to avoid Cartman today, as trying to have a private conversation with him seemed nearly impossible at the moment. He finally reached Kyle's front door, not sure if he should just walk in or knock. He decided to knock on the door instead of just walking in, and reached up, curling his fingers into a fist.