A Serious Case of Cooties
Chapter 2: Fever
written by SqueakGirl - illustrated by Neavvs and SynnesaiStan awoke groggy, but relatively healthy the next morning. He sat up in bed yawning and feeling blindly around for his red-poof ball hat. He snatched it from his bed post and yanked it over his messy black hair. Stretching, he reached his arms over his head and scratched his right hand. Slipping out from under the covers, Stan dropped to his knees. Shuffling under his bed, he tugged up the loose floorboard and dug around for his green bottle. He twisted off the top when he found it and took a quick sip. Then giving his head a good shake, he scrambled back out from under the bed and dusted himself off. He tiptoed to his dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer to find a clean Terrance & Phillip t-shirt. Finding a nice blue one he pulled it over his head. When he'd settled the fabric over his chest, Stan scratched at his hand again. Searching now for a clean pair of jeans, Stan rummaged through his closet and found a semi-decent pair crumpled in the corner. He hopped into them and then went to examine himself in the mirror. Padding his way across the hall, he entered the bathroom and stepped up onto a small stool to check his reflection.
Examining his black eye, Stan was pleased to see the swelling had gone down. Some of the other bruises were starting to dissipate too. Strangely a red spot had appeared on his cheek, and the boy scratched at it. Then he dug his nails into the back of his hand once more. Glancing down at his right hand, Stan could see the fingernail marks he'd left behind. And yet his hand still itched. The irritation was actually starting to increase.
Now scratching both his cheek and hand alternately, Stan frowned at himself in the mirror. He leaned forward trying to get a better look at the redness that had spread over his left cheek. He tried to think how exactly he'd lain on that side during the night. Had he rubbed up against something? Was there something different to the laundry detergent his mother used in the sheets?
A heavy knock at the door caused Stan to stumble down off his stool. Shelley pushed her way into the bathroom with a thick brush in one hand and a hair ribbon wrapped around her wrist.
"Get out, Turd, I'm fixing my hair."
Stan scratched at the back of his hand. Shelley narrowed her eyes.
"What's wrong with your hand?"
Stan shook his head. "It itches. I don't know why."
Shelley stepped forward and grabbed Stan's wrist. He flinched and tried to step back from his sister, but she held him tight. Shelley brought her face close to the red scratch marks and then her eyes traveled up to Stan's face. She glanced between the two for a moment. Then shaking her head, she stepped backwards as if in shock.
"What?" Stan gasped, holding out his hand to the light. "What's wrong?"
"Did you let Wendy touch you?" Shelley asked without hesitation. Stan started. He took a step back from his sister.
"Wait, what? Wendy…?" Stan stammered, looking at his hand. Suddenly yesterday flashed through his mind. She had touched his hand and kissed his cheek before saying goodbye at recess. But it was impossible….
"Did she hold your hand or something?" Shelley insisted, grabbing Stan's hand once more and giving it another look. Her eyes pierced Stan as she waited for an answer.
Fiddling with the hem of his shirt with his free hand, Stan answered, "S-she might have held my hand yesterday…and she kissed me here." Stan pointed to his cheek.
"Unprotected?" Shelley pressed. Stan's eyes grew round. This was too much of a coincidence.
Stan raised an eyebrow. "Have you been talking to Cartman?"
"That fat turd?" Shelley scoffed, dropping Stan's wrist. She shoved Stan's little stool out of the way and stood before the mirror. She ran her brush once through her hair.
Stan rubbed at his cheek. He didn't know if Shelley was messing with him or not. But he highly doubted she'd ever have anything to do with Cartman.
"Shelley, do I have cooties?" Stan asked, staring up at his sister. Shelley paused, mid-brush.
She sighed and turned gravely towards her brother.
"I'm not sure…it looks like it."
Stan's jaw dropped.
"But cooties don't exist!"
Shelley leaned up and pulled open the medicine cabinet. She took down a small vial of ointment and offered to rub it on the back of Stan's hand. As she applied the cream, she said, "It's a fairly new breakout, Turd. But if you get a cootie shot now, I'm sure it can stop the spread of it."
"You think so?" Stan asked, glad that his hand had stopped itching with the application of the cream. Shelley moved her fingers to Stan's cheek and rubbed in the cooling solution.
"Yeah."
"You aren't tricking me, are you?" Stan asked nervously. Shelley pulled her hand away and glared at her little brother. "It's just," he added. "I didn't think cooties existed. But I'm all itchy, and I haven't touched anything weird today!"
Shelley set down the ointment and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Listen, Turd, cooties are serious business. If you get touched unprotected you get all itchy, like now. It's a good thing she didn't kiss you on the lips or else it would have spread all into your body and made you sick."
Stan touched his cheek.
"You're making this up, right?"
Shelley made a fist and held it under Stan's nose. "I just helped you out, and you're going to doubt me, Turd?"
Stan shook his head. "N-no, of course not, Shelley!"
"Good."
Stan sighed. He still didn't want to think that Cartman had been right about cooties, but he couldn't figure out what he'd touched the previous day that would warrant such intense itching. He had no allergies that he could think of, and his mother bought only gentle, non-fragrant soaps. The scented ones tended to make Stan nauseous.
Stan rarely trusted his sister, and after the other day's beating, he was still wary to be totally convinced she wasn't lying to him. Yet, at the same time, Stan couldn't help but wonder if she spoke the truth. Shelley was a more action-orientated individual. If Stan had done something to offend her, he would know about it instantly because Shelley would be pounding his face into the ground.
She had been nice enough to put the medicine on his hand. Shelley didn't often help her little brother, but when she did, Stan took it as a sign of good faith.
"Did you know Cartman's selling cootie shots at school?" Stan ventured to ask. Shelley raised an eyebrow. Stan added. "He paints circles and dots on people's arms and that supposedly makes the cooties go away."
"That's true," Shelley agreed. "It's an old natural method."
"Wendy and Bebe say it's just a game, though," Stan informed.
Shelley shrugged. "It used to be, yeah. When cooties weren't dangerous, but now with the new breakout it's the best defense."
"I don't see how it can help. There's nothing medical behind it, right?"
"Don't ask me how it works!" Shelley snapped, throwing her hands into the air. "Do I look like a doctor?"
"Well, Cartman's not a doctor, so I doubt his doodles work!" Stan pressed.
"Any idiot can do a cootie shot. That's why for so many years no one got sick," Shelley said, taking up her brush again and pulling out her tangles. Stan gaped at her.
"It still doesn't make any sense," Stan said quietly. He examined his hand. Shelley dropped her brush in the sink and grabbed Stan's shoulder. The boy flinched.
"Look, Turd, I may hate you, but do you think I want you sick? Just get the stupid shot and be done with it. What can it hurt?"
"Does a doctor perform the shot?" Stan asked. "I don't trust Cartman."
Shelley took hold of Stan's hand and said, "A doctor can give you a different shot than the one the fat turd is giving out. One that seems more normal. The ones that hurt. But the one with the circles and dots is cheaper. You know how doctors can be. They make you buy the expensive stuff 'cause they're in cahoots with the pharmacies."
Stan bit his lip. Shelley let out an exasperated sigh.
"How much is Cartman selling his shots for?" Shelley asked in a monotone.
"Ten for the just the circles and dots, and fifteen for squares included."
Shelley shook her head and beckoned her little brother to follow. Crossing the hallway to the girl's bedroom, Stan stood awkwardly at the door, watching Shelley rifle through her top dresser drawer.
Taking out a pink wallet, Shelley flipped it open and took out three five dollar bills. She held them out to Stan who stared in disbelief.
"What's that?" he asked in a small voice.
"Fifteen dollars. Ask the fat turd to give you the complete shot," instructed Shelley. She took Stan's hand and stuffed the wad of cash into it.
"You're just giving me this money? What's the catch?"
Shelley leaned against the doorframe, staring down at her little brother. He made a quick shuffle away from her.
"I'm already grounded for beating the shit out of you. I don't want Mom and Dad thinking this whole cootie thing is my fault. You get that stupid shot, and get better so I don't get the blame for not looking after you. Got that, Turd?"
Stan gulped and nodded.
"Yes, Shelley."
With that said he pelted out of the room and scampered down the stairs. Shelley closed her bedroom door and locked it. Heading to her window, the girl gave her blinds a few twists, opening and shutting them with a certain rhythmic fashion. After she'd finished, she peered outside. Across the street, she saw the bushes tremble and Eric Cartman step out from behind them. He gave her the thumbs up and then disappeared down the street.
Returning to her room, Shelley finished readying for school. She wrapped the ribbon in her hair, brushed her teeth, fixed her headgear, and packed her school bag. Before she left her room, she made sure to collect the contents of her tiny trashcan sitting next to her desk. The trash only held one item, a brightly packaged box the size and shape of a deck of cards. Shelley had purchased the box yesterday from South Park's local joke shop.
Making sure not to let any of the leftover powder touch her hands, Shelley descended the stairs and deposited the box into one of the garbage cans sitting out on the curb.
Stan waited at the bus stop, lightly touching his cheek. It didn't itch at all now. He checked his hand and was relieved to see the redness had ebbed away. Still not sure he should completely believe his sister, Stan reached into his pocket and touched the money she had so readily given him. It was strange. Shelley never gave Stan anything. For her to so easily open her wallet and drop fifteen dollars was an immense change in her personality. Maybe their mother had finally gotten through to her? Maybe Shelley really did care about Stan?
Kenny and Butters arrived at the bus stop next. Cartman waddled up behind them. Stan gave them a short wave. Shivering against the cold and still groggy from sleep, Kenny and Butters stood dazedly watching the snowflakes flutter to the ground. Butters murmured something to Kenny about wanting to wear a Hello Kitty barrette, but his parents threatened to ground him if he even contemplated purchasing the item. Kenny with his orange hood drawn up tight about his face, nodded in what seemed to be a sympathetic manner.
Stan turned his attention back to the street, craning his neck to see if the bus was turning the corner. Cartman stepped up to Stan and held up a sleek new briefcase.
"Look what my mom got me to keep my doctor supplies in," the fat boy boasted. When Kyle wasn't present, Cartman was several times friendlier to Stan.
"Doctor supplies?" Stan questioned. A part of him wanted to roll his eyes at Cartman's insistence that his brush and paints were medical tools, but touching the wad of cash in his pocket, Stan thought he'd best get Shelley's request over with.
Pulling out the money, Stan waved it in Cartman's face. The fat boy's eyes lit up.
"Well, well, look who's decided to come crawling back. I'm very proud of you Stan, wanting to protect yourself against Wendy's STC's." Cartman set down his briefcase and unsnapped the lid. Inside, Stan could see several containers of black paint, brushes, and a couple of strange medical bottles with their labels smudged out. Cartman knelt before the briefcase and took out a long, thin brush and the paint. Stirring up the jar's contents he grinned up at Stan.
Stan sighed. "I still don't fully believe you, but what can it hurt? I can just wash the stuff off at the end of the day."
"It's a shame Kahl refuses to get one," Cartman noted as if he hadn't heard his friend speak. Stan didn't say anything more, but just went about rolling up his sleeve, exposing his lower arm to the cold. He shivered when snowflakes began to collect in the crook of his elbow.
"Speaking of Kyle," Stan murmured watching Cartman draw a neat little circle next to his wrist. Despite his chubby fingers, Cartman drew the symbols with a methodical, steady hand. "He'd better get his ass here soon or he'll miss the bus," Stan mused.
Kenny pulled down his hood.
"Kyle's sick, dude."
Stan glanced over his shoulder at Kenny.
"Dude, really? That sucks, now I'm going to be bored all day. What's he got this time?"
Butters rubbed his knuckles together.
"I don't know, Stan. His mom just said he was real sick. Throwin' up and havin' trouble breathing, she said," Butters explained. "Kenny and I stopped by his house on the way here."
Stan blinked.
"Did his mom say what she thought he had?" Stan asked.
Kenny and Butters shook their heads. Stan found himself staring off into the distance in the direction of his best friend's home.
Cartman snapped his briefcase closed, causing his three friends to jump.
Stan spun around and watched Cartman pocket his fifteen dollars. Looking down at his arm, Stan examined the circles, dots, and squares now decorating his skin. He touched his pinkie to the drying paint.
"I told you, Stan," Cartman was saying, "Kahl should have gotten a cootie shot too. Now, he's dying from cooties 'cause Bebe spit in his mouth."
Stan's head whipped up, and he glared Cartman down.
"That's stupid."
"Says the guy who just paid me fifteen bucks to give him a cootie shot," Cartman retorted, crossing his arms over his wide chest.
"Look, Dude, Kyle gets sick all the time. I'm sure he'll get better by tomorrow. He always does," Stan said, jerkily pulling down the cuff of his jacket's sleeve.
Cartman nodded.
"You're right, Stan. Kahl gets sick all the time." The heavier boy leaned in close, causing Stan to take a step back.
"But don't you think that could only make it easier for Kahl to catch cooties?" Cartman added confidentially, his face set in a concerned frown. "He's all weak and shit from his Jew germs anyway, what makes you think he'd be able to fight off some serious girl germs? Especially when he pretty much swallowed them whole."
Stan shook his head, forcing a smile.
"I'm sure he's fine."
The bus rolled to a stop in front of the boys. Cartman lifted up his briefcase and swaggered over to the bus's steps. He shoved Butters out of the way and climbed up into the vehicle. Butters looked nervously at Kenny as if expecting the boy to push him away too, but Kenny just patted the other boy's head and offered to let Butters go on ahead. Kenny was at the top most steps before he turned around and glanced at Stan, who was still staring in the direction of Kyle's house.
"Dude, you coming?"
Stan started.
"Um…."
"I'm sure he's okay, Stan," Kenny mumbled through his hood now that he'd put it back on. Stan glanced down at his hand, noting that he could still see his scratch marks from this morning.
"Kenny, tell Garrison I'm going to be late."
"What?"
"I'm just going to check if he's okay, that's all. See you later."
Stan took off down the sidewalk, skidding through the slush and snow as he bolted around a corner. He heard the bus hiss and its engine ground up as it continued on down the street without him. Cutting through a yard or two, Stan emerged on the opposite side of the road. Kyle's house stood several doors down. Pausing for breath, Stan eyed the driveway; the Broflovski's car was missing.
Stan wasn't sure if this was a good or bad thing. If Mrs. Broflovski was out then it would make sneaking into the house a lot easier. At the same time, however, Stan began to worry that the car's absence might be a sign of how ill Kyle could be. What if his mother had to take him to the doctor? Or the hospital?
Walking around to the back of the house, Stan craned his neck to examine Kyle's bedroom window. The curtains were drawn and no light shone within. Hunching down, Stan dug a small pebble out of Mrs. Broflovski's garden bed. Hopping a few paces backwards, Stan flung the stone as hard as he could at the glass. It struck the pane with a loud 'thunk' before dropping back to the earth.
Stan waited.
A few seconds later, the curtains rustled and a small head with a familiar green hat perched atop frizzy red hair peered out into the yard. Stan heard Kyle give a yelp of joy and disappear behind the screen of curtains. Stan waited on the patio and not more than two minutes later, Kyle was throwing open the back door. He stood dressed in his house slippers and cotton pajamas. Stan gave him a wave.
"Dude, what the hell are you doing here? Aren't you going to miss the bus?" Kyle asked, despite stepping aside to let Stan indoors. Taking a quick glance at his friend, Stan noted the dark circles under Kyle's green eyes and the washed out pallor of his skin.
Stan peered closer into Kyle's face, making the other boy lean away.
"What?"
"How are you feeling?"
Kyle shrugged.
"Like shit."
"Butters said you were real sick. That you threw up," Stan said. Kyle nodded, shutting the back door. He beckoned for Stan to follow him and the two walked to the living room.
"I don't know what's wrong with me. I just sort of woke up at like six puking my guts out. I've been trying to sleep since then."
Kyle took the stairs slowly, clinging to the railing. Stan hovered a step behind him, watching his lethargic progress.
"Are you feeling any better?" Stan asked when they reached the landing.
"No."
"Then why did you get out of bed?"
"'Cause you fucking threw a rock at my window," Kyle countered groggily. When they reached Kyle's bedroom, the boy flopped down upon the covers of his bed and curled into a ball. He kept his eyes shut.
"Dude?" Stan poked Kyle in the head.
"I'm dizzy," Kyle mumbled into his pillow. Stan sat down on the edge of the bed. He glanced around the room, noting the plastic medical-looking tub sitting next to Kyle's bed and the numerous bottles of liquid medicine on his bedside table. Kyle shuffled under his blankets, pushing his feet up against Stan's thigh.
"Why aren't you at school?" Kyle asked, not opening his eyes.
"I wanted to see if you were okay."
"Dude, I always get sick. You've never skipped school 'cause of it," Kyle pointed out. Stan tossed his backpack to the floor and shrugged off his coat.
"You want me to leave?"
"Not really. I'm all alone here. Mom went to stock up on more meds, Ike's at school, and Dad's working. Mom said she wouldn't be gone long though."
Stan hopped off of the bed and knelt beside Kyle's head. He tried to see if Kyle had any strange rashes. Reaching under the blankets, Stan took Kyle's hand.
"Can I help you?" Kyle murmured, opening one eye.
"What is it that you have, Dude?"
"Don't know. I thought it had to do with my diabetes, but Mom keeps such a good record on everything I eat and do, that she ruled that out," Kyle explained, allowing Stan to peek under the pajama sleeve of his right hand.
"Do you itch at all?"
Kyle shook his head.
"You don't have any weird red marks or rashes?" Stan pressed.
"No, Dude, why?"
Stan scratched the back of his right hand. He leaned in closer to Kyle's face. "Dude, I caught the cooties."
Kyle blinked.
"What?"
"I got them, Dude. Look!" Stan held out his hand. Kyle squinted, trying to discern the red marks etched over Stan's skin.
"What am I looking at?" Kyle propped himself up on his elbows.
"Kyle, I was all itchy this morning. And Shelley said I had cooties. She said an epidemic had started and that Cartman's drawings are actually some kind of home remedy for getting rid of them," Stan whispered. Kyle rolled onto his back and started laughing. Stan frowned.
"You believed her?" Kyle gasped. Stan nodded. "Why? Dude, she fucking beat the shit out of you the other day. What makes you think she was telling the truth?"
"'Cause she gave me her money to get a shot from Cartman." He rolled up his sleeve and showed Kyle the fresh cootie shot.
Kyle sat up slowly.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah."
Kyle furrowed his brows. He looked in deep thought, his hands clasped neatly in his lap. He seemed to murmur under his breath for a moment and then finally he shook his head.
"There can't be such things as cooties. She must be messing with you." Kyle frowned. "And why the fuck would you give Cartman any money?"
Stan pulled off his hat and scratched his head.
"It's better to be safe than sorry, right?" Stan said carefully. Rubbing at his eyes, Kyle sighed.
"Cooties don't exist," the redhead mumbled into his hands.
"Then how do you explain my cheek and hand itching for no reason? I never touched anything weird yesterday. Wendy kissed me here!" Stan jabbed his finger into his cheek. Kyle narrowed his eyes.
"It doesn't make sense…."
"How does it not make sense? She touched me unprotected. I hadn't gotten a shot or anything," Stan urged. He pointed at Kyle. "And now you're really sick! You have to have them too!"
"Stan, Jesus, calm down," Kyle snapped. "There is no such thing as cooties. I get sick all the fucking time. This is nothing new."
"Except Bebe totally spit in your mouth," Stan countered. Kyle glared at him.
"I swear to God, Stan, if you're telling me you actually believe that Fatass was right — I'll — I'll hit you!"
Stan jumped back from the bed. He tried to make the movement nonchalant, but Kyle continued to stare him down.
Fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, Stan murmured, "But what if it's true? Why would Shelley be nice to me?"
Kyle slumped back against his pillows. "Maybe because she beat the shit out of you and got in trouble for it. Now, she's seeking revenge."
Stan stuck his fists in his jean pockets. He turned on his heel and began pacing the floor.
"Maybe."
"No 'maybe' that's probably what it is," Kyle shot. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.
"How long are you staying here?" Kyle added.
Stan glanced out Kyle's bedroom window. Turning towards his friend, he said, "What if Shelley isn't lying, though? I mean I already feel loads better. And the itching has stopped completely."
"What's that on your cheek? Cream?" Kyle asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Er, Shelley put it on me. It was in the medicine cabinet," Stan explained.
"And you don't think that has anything to do with your itching stopping?"
Stan bit his lip.
"Well, yeah, but…."
Kyle let out a disgruntled groan and buried his head in his pillows.
"Listen to me, Kyle. You told me your mom couldn't figure out what was wrong with you, right? And what about my hand and cheek itching for no reason! I honestly hadn't touched anything weird. I don't think Shelley would lie about something that affected my health," Stan pushed. Kyle gave him a deadpan look. Stan added hastily, "And she gave me fifteen dollars."
Kyle's eyes went wide for a moment.
"I can't believe you're telling me this. Stan, this is your sister and Cartman we're talking about. She doesn't give two shits about you unless it's pounding your face into the pavement. And as for Cartman," Kyle rubbed his forehead, "I can't believe you fucking got that shot."
Groaning, Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Listen to me, Dude, I know Cartman can't be trusted most of the time, but why would Shelley just willingly give me money? She's never done that. I — I want to believe her…."
Kyle leaned back against his pillows.
"Okay, believe her. You got your shot," Kyle shrugged. "That doesn't mean I have cooties. I'm not paying Cartman a fucking dime."
Stan wrung his hands.
"I guess it could just be a coincidence," he begrudged. "You being sick is pretty common. So, you probably caught some bug. Sorry I bothered you about the cootie thing."
"It's okay, Stan," Kyle said, giving him a genuine smile.
Stan laughed.
Taking a running jump, Stan catapulted himself onto Kyle's bed. He flopped himself over Kyle's legs and lay down at his friend's side. Kyle smacked him in the head.
"Oww! Fuck, Dude, that hurt!"
"I'm sick! Get out of my bed."
Stan rolled his eyes and scooted up to rest against the headboard. He smiled at Kyle.
"I'm not going to get sick. I've hung out with you before like this and never got sick."
Kyle kicked him in the shin.
"Yeah, well I don't want you jumping around on top of me."
Stan nudged Kyle back with his own foot. He didn't kick him back, giving him a break because of his illness. Any other day and the two would have started a wrestling match. Kyle rested his head on Stan's shoulder.
"I wish the room would stop spinning."
Stan frowned.
"You feel that bad? Can I get you something to make you feel better?"
Kyle shook his head. Stan tugged up his sleeve and examined the cootie shot. He traced a finger over the square. Kyle watched him wordlessly, frowning. Stan felt a bit stupid to have so readily gotten the shot, but at the same time a sense of relief had settled over him. Casting his eyes over Kyle, who lay curled against his side, Stan worried. He couldn't make up his mind whether or not cooties were real. Shelley's insistence had been so unlike her that Stan couldn't help wonder if Kyle's illness wasn't a direct result of Bebe's game of Ookie Mouth.
"What did Bebe's spit taste like?" Stan asked, tapping Kyle on the ear.
Pulling the covers up to his ears, Kyle shrugged. His breath came out rather quickly. Stan touched his friend's forehead. It was hot.
"Can you get me some water?" Kyle rasped. Stan nodded and tumbled out of the bed. He grabbed the empty glass on Kyle's bedside table and rushed to the bathroom. He hopped up to the sink and filled the glass to the top. Carefully, Stan shuffled back into the room and offered the glass to his friend. Kyle took it and downed half of it. He sat up, staring at the glass. Stan touched his shoulder.
"You going to be okay?"
"I feel like I'm going to throw up…."
Stan skipped backwards as his friend leaned over the side of his bed and dry heaved into his plastic container. The glass of water tumbled to the floor, splashing Stan's shoes. Stan knelt to mop up the liquid with the hem of his shirt. He dabbed at the carpet and up righted the glass. Kyle continued to cough over the side of the bed. Stan straightened up and glanced down at his arm. The cootie shot had smudged a little with the liquid.
"You know, Kyle…," Stan whispered, keeping his eyes down.
Spitting into the plastic tub, Kyle rolled up onto his bed and looked down at Stan. His face was tinged with sweat and his chest rose and fell swiftly.
"What?" Kyle managed to croak out.
"It might not hurt…you know…to maybe…get a cootie shot. I mean, it would be a way to see if it's real or not," Stan rushed out the last bit. Kyle clearly didn't have enough strength to even glare Stan down.
"Cooties don't exist."
Stan held up his hands.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, but, like say, what if they do — or — like something similar. We could just try the cootie shot on you, and if you don't get better then we know it's something Cartman made up."
"It is something the fatass made up," Kyle moaned. He turned to face the wall.
Stan clambered up onto the bed. He didn't even need to touch Kyle's forehead to feel the heat radiate from his friend's skin.
"I could just draw the circles and dots myself. I'll find a paint brush and some paints. And we can wait to see if anything happens," Stan suggested. Although he didn't want to believe in cooties, Stan would try anything to get Kyle to stop shivering.
"No."
"But, Kyle —"
"NO!"
Stan sighed and noticed the Broflovski's house phone sat atop Kyle's dresser.
"I could call your mom for you. Tell her you seem to be getting worse."
Kyle peeked over his shoulder.
"You could get in trouble."
Stan had already picked up the phone. "Don't really care. I'm not cleaning up your stomach when you manage to cough it up."
Kyle chuckled.
"Gross, Dude." Kyle rolled over to face Stan. "You mean to tell me, you don't want to take care of me, even though I'm sick?"
"I'm not your mother. Now, what's her cell number?"
"You know you'll just make her worry more if you call her now."
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Get me another glass of water."
Stan obliged. He slid off the bed and grabbing the glass once again, bolted for the bathroom. Once again he watched the tap fill up the glass. As he tiptoed back to Kyle's room, Stan paused and turned to glance across the hall. Ike's bedroom door stood ajar. On a whim, Stan pushed his way inside and studied the four-year-old's room. A stack of board games stood in the corner of the room, stuffed toys spilled from a wooden chest, and several colorful paper decorations on strings dangled from the ceiling. Stan examined the hanging pieces of paper and noted that they were painted. Setting down the glass, Stan searched in Ike's closet, and then moved towards a small white desk. He knelt down and pulled open the drawers. Inside he found a small bottle of green paint. A thick brush splattered with an array of colors lay next to it. Stan pocketed them both and returned to Kyle's room
Watching Kyle drink the water a bit more slowly this time around, Stan suggested the cootie shot one more time and showed his best friend the paint and brush. Kyle glared at him over the rim of the glass.
"No."
"Dude, would you really let yourself be sick just so you don't have to admit Cartman's right?" Stan sighed.
"He's not right!" Kyle growled. He turned to rest on his side, his back to Stan.
"Would you let me draw the shot on you…just to make me feel better?"
Kyle peeked over his shoulder.
"Make you feel better?" Kyle scoffed. He snorted with laughter, but turned over and extended his arm.
"I swear to God, Stan," Kyle whispered through gritted teeth, "if you tell Fatass, I'll kill you."
"Understood."
Stan unscrewed the cap of the green paint. He dipped the brush inside and swirled it around a bit. Kyle glared at him the entire time. Stan took a deep breath and took Kyle's hand. He was inches away from touching the bristles to his friend's skin when the Broflovskis' phone rang, clattering against the wood of Kyle's dresser. Stan started and smeared the paint against Kyle's forearm. Rolling his eyes, Kyle snatched a tissue from his bedside table and rubbed it off.
"Get that, it's probably my mom checking up on me."
Stan picked up the phone and handed it to Kyle. Pressing the phone to his ear, Kyle lay down again and listened to his mother's nasally voice drift through the earpiece.
"Hey, Ma," Kyle mumbled when there was a pause. Giving Stan a quick glance, he added, "Are you coming home soon? My tummy hurts."
Stan pretended not to hear as he fiddled with the end of the paint brush. He waited for Kyle to reassure his mother that he wasn't dying and that he just needed her to hurry home with medicine to make his 'tummy' feel better. Shutting off the phone, Kyle tossed it to the end of the bed.
"She's stuck behind an accident and won't be home for awhile," Kyle explained to Stan. He held out his arm once more, and this time Stan managed to poke two dots on his pale skin. He added the circles and then fitted a small square around the whole thing. It was a bit sloppy, but Stan felt he'd copied the way Cartman had administered the strokes the best he could. He wondered if it would work. Was there a certain type of paint that Cartman had that was supposed to be used? Or would Ike's paint prove just as good?
Stan put the paint up, returning it to Ike's drawer. When he arrived back in Kyle's room, his friend gave him another deadpanned look.
"I don't feel any better, Dude."
"Maybe it takes a minute to kick in?"
"Or it's stupid and doesn't work at all," Kyle said with a false cheery voice. He shuffled further down under the covers and closed his eyes.
"Do you want me to leave?" Stan asked, eyeing his friend.
"I'm going to try and nap. Let me sleep for awhile. You can play GameSphere downstairs if you want to," Kyle murmured. "Warn me when Ma gets home though."
Stan nodded and left his friend to sleep.
When Mrs. Broflovski arrived home almost forty-five minutes later, Stan stashed the GameSphere back into the case under the television. He then bolted up the stairs and hid in Kyle's room. He woke his friend and then shuffled under the bed. Kyle played the part of the pathetic sick kid, complete with allowing his mother to fret over his temperature and make him breakfast in bed. When Mrs. Broflovski had settled downstairs with the morning paper, Stan reemerged from under the bed. He crawled up beside Kyle and watched his friend dig into the waffles his mother had brought him.
"You can eat now?" Stan pointed out.
Kyle paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He looked down at his food and then at the markings on his arm.
Shaking his head, Kyle whispered, "It's just a coincidence. There's a perfectly logical reason. The bug must have passed or something."
"Or the cootie shot worked," Stan said, not looking at Kyle.
"No, that's stupid. My fever must have just broken, that's all," Kyle said matter-of-factly. He swatted Stan's hand away when his friend tried to steal a piece of toast.
"I'm hungry."
"That's too bad."
Stan gave Kyle a look. Kyle pushed his plate of buttered toast towards Stan, who took the invitation with a smile. He munched on the bread, staring out the window. Snow had begun to flutter down at an alarming speed. Stan noted smudged fingerprints covering one of the panes of glass. He guessed Kyle had forgotten to wipe them away when he came to the window earlier. Glancing back at his friend, Stan smiled. The color had returned to Kyle's cheeks. No longer did Stan feel the heat radiate from his friend's skin.
Kyle ate vigorously, scarfing down the small stack of waffles his mother had brought him. The paint on Kyle's arm could be seen as the boy's pajama sleeve bunched up around his elbow. Stan wondered if it had really worked, or like Kyle had suggested, his fever had just broken and run its course.
Deciding not to argue with Kyle as he recovered, Stan spent the rest of the day lounging around in his friend's room. He would shuffle under Kyle's bed if Shelia appeared to check on her son. At around two thirty in the afternoon, Stan snuck home. He cut through several backyards and took the long way around the neighborhood to get home. He knew his mother wouldn't be home until five, so he had plenty of time to call Kenny and ask him what he'd missed at school. He hoped Mr. Garrison had been as neglectful of a teacher as he normally proved and had not noticed that any students were missing from his classroom. More than likely even if Garrison noticed or Kenny had told him Stan would be late, the man would have forgotten by lunch time.
When he reached his front yard, Stan found someone sitting on his doorstep. Recognizing the familiar purple beret, Stan froze. Wendy was not someone who needed to know about him playing hooky. Unfortunately, the girl spotted Stan before he managed to sneak around the side of the house.
"Stan!" the girl jumped to her feet. Her overstuffed backpack swinging from her shoulder, she ran up to the boy. "Why weren't you in school? Where were you? Are you okay?"
Wendy threw her arms around Stan's neck, and the boy sighed in relief knowing his cootie shot was firmly traced upon his skin. Pulling back, Wendy gave him a searching look.
"Well, why weren't you in school?" Wendy pressed. "Were you sick?"
She noticed Stan's school bag slung over the boy's shoulder. She raised an eyebrow.
Stan rubbed the back of his neck. He guessed telling her the truth wouldn't hurt.
"Kyle was sick, so I visited him. I lost track of time." Stan pulled the girl around to the backyard. He leaned in close to her ear.
"I think Kyle caught the cooties. I caught them this morning, but Cartman gave me a shot, so I'm okay now," Stan explained. He cast his eyes over his shoulder and moved closer to the girl confidentially. "Kyle was really sick, but after I gave him the shot too, he got better."
Wendy's brow furrowed and a deep frown curved her lips down.
"Stan, are you serious?"
The boy nodded.
Wendy rubbed her temples.
"You skipped school because of that? Really? That's…so stupid. Cartman was lying!"
"No he wasn't! Shelley said it was true!"
Wendy shook her head. "Then she was lying too! I can't believe you'd believe something so stupid. Bebe and I told you that it was just a game that girls play."
Stan shook his head.
"You didn't see how bad Kyle got because of what Bebe did…."
"Did what? It was gross, yeah. But she just spit in his mouth, Stan. Bebe doesn't have cooties. I don't either," Wendy challenged. Stan shuffled his feet.
"I got this rash on my hand where you touched me…and kissed me," Stan whispered stubbornly. Wendy shook her head.
"You're being stupid."
"No, you're stupid!" Stan countered stupidly. "Y-you didn't see how s-sick Kyle was."
Wendy rolled her eyes.
"Stan, he gets sick all the time. It must have been some coincidence."
"You're wrong," Stan said bluntly. He turned away from the girl. A pained expression passed over Wendy's eyes. It didn't last long. The girl straightened up to her full height and glanced down the end of her nose at the boy.
"Fine! Believe he had cooties. I don't care."
She marched away through the snow. White flakes swirled around her and settled in her black hair. Stan watched her retreat around the house. However, before he could take a step towards his backdoor, Wendy peered around the corner. Her eyes looked red. She hurled a small package wrapped in pink and red paper at his feet. She then chucked what looked like a frilly picnic basket. Red velvet cupcakes with white icing tumbled out upon the snow.
"Oh by the way, Stan," the girl sniffed, "Happy Valentine's Day."