"Are you sure you don't want to go skating?" Bebe asked for the fourth time in a row.

"I'm sure," Kyle answered bluntly. "This isn't a date. You can skate by yourself."

"You know that's a lie," Bebe harrumphed. "I don't want to skate by myself. It would look weird."

"Who's gonna know?"

"Wendy and Stan." Her eyes lingered longingly toward the rink where Stan and Wendy were skating nearby each other.

"So what?"

"You're no fun."

"Yeah."

"You're going to end up a thirty year old virgin living in his mother's basement," Bebe retorted.

"Uh-huh."

"There was a reason I put you at the bottom of the list."

"You sabotaged it so you could hook up with Clyde."

"Your ass isn't even that cute anymore."

"Then quit looking at it."

Kyle's focus was too scattered. He had forgotten how many people packed themselves in the rink on weekends. He had already caught glimpses of too many strangers' inner thoughts, from the worn mother looking forward to drinking her nightly glass of wine once she got home to the girl behind the ticket counter worrying if the makeup covered the large bruise her boyfriend left on her cheek. Kyle had left her a card for a women's shelter in Denver. He had started carrying around a stack of cards for instances like those, because he was tired of all the times he couldn't do something about the things he saw.

"Want to go on the bumper cars?"

"Not really."

"Want to get nachos?"

"No."

Bebe paused there, though really she never stopped talking. Even when she was outwardly quiet, her inner monologue clattered on with reels of images that she habitually thumbed through when deciding what next to talk about. Bebe, like a lot of nonstop talkers, was uncomfortable with silence; it made her feel inadequate. Kyle could probably open up with his own questions, like whatever happened between her and Clyde, but he didn't really care that much.

"Do you even eat nachos? Or is that like a forbidden topic?"

"Why would it be forbidden?"

"Wendy said I shouldn't ask you about your weird food thing."

Thanks, Wendy. "Sounds like something she'd say."

Bebe gave a fake shudder. "She can be scary."

"I know."

Bebe chattered on about other people in her life who were scary. At least five minutes progressed and Bebe only paused a couple of times to ask "Are you listening?" before launching into another breathless tirade. Kyle gave up any attempt to keep up with any of it, particularly because the mental images she conjured did not keep pace with what she was saying.

Somehow her chatter landed on her mother's latest scummy boyfriend and how when she was at the refrigerator, he just pushed her out of the way to get what he wanted. "Didn't even say anything to me. He just pushed me. Can you believe that? And this other time he ran into me in the hallway and again he pushed me against the wall . . ."

The accompanying image showed that the push was more of a slam and the asshole pinning her there and feeling up her chest.

"Wait, what?" Kyle said. "He pushed you?"

"Oh, it figures that that is the part you listen to," Bebe huffed again.

"You should tell someone about that."

"I told you."

"I mean someone who can do something about it. Like your mom."

"Like she'd believe me." That required no more explanation. Neglectful parents were popping up frequently in people's innermost thoughts.

Kyle tried to think of another acceptable confidante. "Does Wendy know?"

"No. She'll think I'm just making it up for attention."

"She's your best friend," Kyle pointed out. "Why wouldn't your best friend believe you?"

"Do you tell Stan everything?" Bebe counterposed.

She had to pick up on that, didn't she? "No," Kyle answered, flustered.

"Why not?"

"It's not important. You need to tell someone. He's going to keep doing it if someone doesn't stop him."

"You know what? Never mind. I'm making this a forbidden topic. You get to have yours and I get to have mine." Bebe nodded decisively. "And you can't tell Wendy or anyone else about this. If you do, I'll deny it."

"Wendy, I don't know what happened," Stan tried to explain on the phone. "Kyle barely said two words to me on the ride home."

"I plan to," Wendy said resolutely. Stan felt a twinge of sympathy for his friend. He should have known the risk if he was going to be friends with Wendy. Wendy was a chronic meddler: if she saw a problem, she took it upon herself to butt in and fix it.

He made a valiant stab of persuading her from doing what she usually did. "Maybe we should just leave it alone."

"What?"

"Look, if they don't like each other, then there's no reason to force them to get together."

"It's not just that. There's something going on with Bebe, and I can't figure out what it is. She's been awfully clingy lately."

Stan reran his fleeting memories of Bebe at the rink. "She seemed fine to me."

"Don't you ever notice anything?"

"Apparently not," Stan replied dryly. "What do you mean by clingy?"

"I don't know. Like she always has to have people around her."

"Isn't that how she usually is?"

"No, Stan, it's not. I mean, yeah she enjoys being the center of attention, but lately it seems more desperate."

"Did you ask her?" In case that option eluded Wendy somehow, and, to be frank, it sometimes did when it came to more delicate or backstabbing issues.

"She says she's fine."

Stan pinched at his nose for a second. "Well, unless she's doing drugs or something reckless, maybe you should just wait for her to tell you when she's ready."

"I don't know, Stan."

"If she's not telling you about it, there must be a reason, right? Like maybe she'd prefer to handle it herself."

"That didn't work out so well with Kyle or Kenny" Wendy snipped.

"Yeah, well, they're stubborn idiots." Stan crossed the room, and pulled out an unopened bottle of beer from his dresser drawer.

"So's Bebe. I mean, she's stubborn."

Stan could only take Wendy's word for it. He didn't know Bebe that well. But then, there were a few times when Bebe's stubbornness stood out, like with the list fiasco.

"That's all I can tell you," Stan said, slightly distracted as unscrewed the bottle and took a sip. He tipped it too far, and a few droplets landed on his bed. "Shit."

"Stan, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just spilled some soda."

If they were still dating, Wendy would have launched into a tirade about how he must think she's so boring if he was opening sodas instead of hanging onto her every word. As just friends, Wendy grumbled but let it go. "Fine. But I'm going to get to the bottom of this. With or without your help."

"Good luck."

After they hung up, Stan stole another sip before grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom and scrubbing at the stain. He hoped Febreze would cover the smell.