A Serious Case of Cooties
Chapter 6: Be a Man
written by SqueakGirl - illustrated by Neavvs and SynnesaiStan didn't sleep as soundly as he would have hoped. Yesterday evening, Randy had appeared at the threshold to Stan's room and asked Kyle to leave early. Not receiving a straightforward response from his father as to why Kyle needed to head home, Stan had resigned himself to sulking in his room until dinner time. As the night wore on and Stan was still not allowed contact with his best friend, Stan began to worry he'd done something wrong and his parents were preparing to ground him. However, evening came, and Stan readied for bed with no further comment. Once in under the covers, Stan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He touched the space beside him and frowned. His bed felt a lot colder when only one person slept in it. Tossing and turning for several hours, Stan finally drifted into a fitful sleep around three in the morning.
His father woke him at five.
"Stan! Stan, get up, son!" Randy whispered with a huge grin plastered to his face. Stan blinked blearily at his alarm clock.
"Dad, what the fuck? It's too early." He crammed his head under the pillows and turned his back to his father. Randy shook him again.
"Stanley, you will get up right now. We have a big day planned ahead!" Randy moved to the door. He flicked on the overhead light, and Stan flinched at the brightness.
"What's going on?"
"You're Uncle Jimbo's here. We're going hunting! It's going to be great."
His father left the room in a hurry, stomping down the hall in heavy boots. Stan sat up in bed, gaping at the empty doorway his father had vacated. Hunting? Had he said hunting?
Stan made a sad little noise in his throat.
Downstairs he found Uncle Jimbo and his Vietnam veteran buddy Ned sitting on the couch, taking a count of their supplies. Jimbo was a large man with a wide head. Ned, on the other hand, was skinnier than a tree branch and probably just as easy to snap. Both men wore camouflage patterned pants and jackets. Ned's empty sleeve flapped up and down as he polished with one hand a rifle lying across his lap. Jimbo held a clipboard, ticking off camping items as he pointed to them. To see the two sitting together would have been quite amusing had Stan not been half asleep when he entered the living room. He stared at the cluttered mess of hunting supplies. Three large backpacks leaned against the coffee table. Boxes of bullets, neon orange vests, three uncomfortably large guns, and a huge cooler of beer lay scattered around the couch and table. Stan rubbed at his eyes, hoping that when he looked up again everything would be gone.
"Hey there, Stanley," called Uncle Jimbo from the couch. He waved one of his guns in greeting. Ned acknowledged Stan with a nod.
Randy entered the room wearing one of the neon orange vests over a pair of worn out overalls. He frowned at Stan.
"Stan, why are you still in you pajamas? We need to get going early," his father informed, pushing him back towards the stairs.
Stan shrugged him off.
"I'm too tired. I don't want to go hunting, Dad. It's too fucking early."
"Stanley, watch your language!"
"Now, Randy, let the boy curse. It's good for him. Heck, a boy of his age needs to know them words that can turn hair gray. Isn't that right, Ned?" Jimbo thumped his skinny friend on the back so hard he nearly rammed his head into the coffee table. When Ned righted himself again, he nodded, pulling out the little gizmo that helped him talk.
"Nnnn-at'z right."
Stan looked up at his father.
"Dad, I really don't want to go," he pleaded.
Randy grabbed a beer from his cooler and popped the top. He gave Stan a pathetic grimace sighing.
"Alright, Stan, but I just thought we should spend some father and son time together. We hardly ever do that nowadays," Randy bemoaned. Stan rolled his eyes.
"Dad, we don't do stuff together because Mom's afraid you're going to get me killed," Stan countered, crossing his arms over his chest.
Randy took a gulp of beer. He burped and said.
"What does your mother know?"
"Not to wake her son at the crack of dawn on a fucking Sunday morning," Stan mumbled into his chest. Randy ignored him.
"Stan, go to your room and get dressed. An old pair of jeans or something," Randy said dismissively. He turned to Jimbo and pointed with his beer at the guns. "You got permits for all these, right?"
"Of course I do," Jimbo snorted. He placed his gun on the table, and then dug in his front shirt pocket for a small ID card. He tossed it to Randy.
"Uh…Jimbo, this expired last week," Randy pointed out, flipping the card around to show the expiration date. Jimbo squinted at the card for a moment. He frowned then plucked the card from Randy's hand and stuffed it back into his pocket.
"Ain't no one going to care if it's one week expired, Randy," Jimbo laughed.
Stan still stood next to the stairs. "I'm going back to bed."
"No, you are not, Stan. You get dressed or I'm dragging you out in nothing but your underwear," warned Randy. Stan made a grunt of protest, but turned to climb the stairs anyway. Fifteen minutes later he was in his brown coat and boots, standing at the door and watching his uncle and father try to shoulder all heir supplies. Randy shuffled up to Stan and slapped the boy on the shoulder.
"This is going to be great, Stan, you'll see."
Stan rolled his eyes.
Stan had lost track of where they were situated on the mountains located outside of South Park. All he knew was that it was six in the fucking morning, he was cold, his feet hurt, and his father hadn't shut up since they'd left the house. After downing two more beers during the drive up the mountain, Randy had begun reminiscing about memories he had of Stan. He recalled the first time he gave his son a football, the picture he took of Stan and Wendy for their little elementary school charity dance, and the family reunion where Stan helped build a boat with a few of his older male cousins. Stan had listened to all these stories in annoyed and embarrassed silence. Jimbo and Ned made very little commentary about Randy's reminiscing. When they did speak, it was to mention something about the terrain they traveled or to ponder at what large animal they'd end up mounting to the wall back at their tiny gun shop.
Leaning back against a snow covered rock, Randy took another swig of beer. Stan sat next to him, his legs pulled up to his chest and a permanent frown arching his lips. He stared at the cold hard ground before him as he listened to Randy remind him of the time they built a pinewood racecar together and royally screwed over their planet. Jimbo stood a few feet back from them, readying the rifles. Ned tried in vain to hold both his gun and his beer at the same time.
"Dad, I want to go home," Stan moaned, kicking out at the snow and dirt. Randy frowned.
"Stanley, we are sharing a father and son moment, and you will like it!"
Stan threw back his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "This is stupid!"
Randy tossed his empty beer can over his shoulder and rummaged in the cooler for a new one. He popped the top and let the foam fizzle out over the rim. Stan tried not to stare. He really wanted a drink, and he hated himself for it. He pushed his thoughts towards Kyle. Maybe if he complained long enough, his father would cut the hunting excursion short. Then Stan would be back home and with Kyle.
As if his father had read his mind, Randy asked, "So, Stan, how's Kyle?"
Stan blushed and coughed into his hand, making a show of warming his fingers with his breath.
"He's okay. Why?"
Randy sipped his beer.
"No reason. You two were hanging out yesterday in your room."
Stan narrowed his eyes. "Yeah…so? Dad, we do that every day."
"What do you boys like to play? Were you playing video games?" Randy inquired, studying the tab of his beer can. He twisted it between his fingers.
Stan shrugged. "Not really. Kyle was just reading."
"What were you doing?"
"Lying down; I had a stomachache," Stan explained, feeling his tummy give a pleasant jolt when he thought about lying so close to Kyle.
"Weren't your little friends Eric and Kenny around?" Randy pulled at his beer can tab, adding a bit more force as he tried to tug it off.
"Nah. Cartman's selling cootie shots, and I don't know what Kenny was up to." Stan rested his chin in his hands and sighed. "I like hanging out with Kyle best."
Randy gave a chuckle. "Did you say cootie shots, Stanley?"
"Yeah." He frowned up at his father. "They're real bad. I got a mild case a few days ago, but Shelley gave me the shot, so I'm okay."
Stan pulled back his sleeve to show his father. Randy blinked at the designs on his son's arm, trying to focus. When he'd finally examined the shot, he leaned back and gave a short laugh.
"That's cute, Stan," Randy said, he took another chug of beer, and then went back to twisting off the tab.
After a moment of tugging, Randy shook his head and tried to set his face in a more serious expression, failing miserably. Stan rolled his eyes once more and went back to staring at the ground. Behind Stan and his father, Ned and Jimbo made strange mating calls for animals Stan didn't recognize. He thought they sounded like cows trying to gargle.
"Back to what I was saying, Stanley," Randy drawled. "You and Kyle hang out quite a lot. Just the two of you."
"Dude, he's my best friend."
Randy nodded; he rubbed at his neck, looking suddenly embarrassed. "But I've told you before, Stan, you can't just hang out with Kyle all the time. People will think you're…you know…funny."
"What's wrong with being funny?" Stan shot back. "What if I want to be funny?" Sitting on the cold hard ground was starting to make him cranky, that and he really needed sleep.
"Nothing's wrong with being funny, Stanley," Randy began hesitantly, "It's just something you won't — er — shouldn't deal with until you're older."
Stan frowned.
"I don't understand."
Randy threw an arm around Stan's shoulder. "You see, son, it's okay to be funny…just not now. See you're a kid; you're not old enough to know any better. This…um…you wanting to hang out with your little friend Kyle could just be phase."
Stan shook his head. "Our friendship isn't a phase, Dad."
Randy shook his head. "No, no, Stan, that's not what I meant. You see…um…. Look, it's okay to be funny, to try some things, but in the end you're just ten, Stan. You don't know what you're doing. You'll grow out of it."
Stan frowned. He knew his father was talking about more than just his friendship with Kyle. He stared at his father as the man continued to fiddle with the tab of his beer can. He gave a mighty tug, and the tab finally fell away. Randy stared at it for a few moments and then chucked it down the side of the rocky slope beneath them. Stan lost sight of it quickly in the faded light of dawn.
"Dad," Stan said slowly, "how did you know that you really liked Mom?"
Randy started. He gave Stan a sideways glance and then took a sip of beer.
"I don't know, Stan. I just thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen," Randy slurred wistfully. He gave a lopsided grin. "She used to be annoyed with me all the time. I was always embarrassing her, but I guess she found my boyish attitude charming."
Stan doubted that. He made a mental note to get his mother's side of the story later.
"Uh, well, like did you feel a certain way? Like did your stomach do flip-flops or something?" Stan continued, feeling his face redden. Randy thought for a moment.
"Not that I can recall," Randy mused. "We dated for a few years and then I proposed."
"Did you ever…um…feel achy?" Stan asked in a small voice. "Like did your chest hurt?" Stan placed a hand on his chest right under his neck. "Did you feel like you couldn't really feel good…until she was with you?"
Randy turned to look at Stan more closely. He narrowed his eyes, the drunkenness vanishing for a moment. He placed a hand on Stan's shoulder and tugged the boy closer.
"Now, listen, Stan, you don't have to worry about that. You're too young," Randy gave a false chuckle. He wet his lips looking thoughtful and then continued, "Now, you might think you like this someone, but you must understand that you won't understand it until you're older. So, just relax and act like a normal boy, Stan. Don't get your head wrapped up in…er…romance…and girls." Randy tacked on the last bit with a great force. He gave another strange laugh and turned to see what Jimbo and Ned were doing.
Stan blinked, feeling his chest constrict. He decided to try a new strategy.
"Wendy kissed me on the cheek the other day," Stan stated simply. Randy's eyes grew wide, and, then, a genuine smile broke out upon his face. He nudged Stan in the side.
"How was that?"
"Alright, I guess," Stan replied. He chose to leave out the cootie symptoms that appeared after the kiss. "But I shouldn't think about that, right?"
Stan watched his father carefully. Finishing the beer in his hand, the man reached into the cooler for another. He popped the top and yanked off the tab with such gusto that Stan feared his father might topple over and down the side of the slope upon which they sat.
"That's perfectly fine to think about, Stan," Randy laughed. "I'm sure Wendy is a nice kisser, isn't she?"
Stan shrugged. "I guess, but you said I shouldn't think about romance stuff. I'm too young, right?"
Randy shook his head. "Well, Stan, what I meant was that some things about romance you won't understand now. Yeah, that's it. See you can understand things like kissing, but leave the other stuff until you're older."
"So, kissing someone means I like them, right?" Stan pressed further. Randy took a gulp from his beer can. The man nodded.
"Sure does. So, go right ahead and kiss Wendy all you want, Stan." Randy gave his son another confidential nudge and chortled at what he thought was his son's general naïveté.
"So," Stan began slowly, "if I kiss someone, by your definition, I like them. A lot. And I understand that I like them. Right?"
Randy narrowed his brow as if trying to sort out Stan's question like he was trying to solve a difficult calculus problem. Finally, the man appeared to give up and just nodded once more.
"Yes, Stan, if you kiss a girl it means you like them." Randy snorted. "Duh, Stan, that's so obvious."
"So, what does it mean when you kiss a boy?"
The silence that followed that statement could have cut Stan like a knife. Even Jimbo and Ned, who had been preoccupied with animal calls and guns until that moment, stopped dead, their breath the only sound in the snowy quiet. A bird whistled in the distance and something rustled in a cluster of bushes several feet down the rocky slope.
Stan felt his hands shake as he clasped them tighter about his knees.
Randy coughed into his sleeve, taking a long time to wipe his mouth before turning to look at Stan. He set down his beer and hesitantly patted Stan on the shoulder.
"See…uh…well that's very different. Kissing a boy — I mean — a boy kissing a boy. 'Cause that's what you meant, right?" Randy's voice faltered. Stan stared at the ground.
"Isn't a kiss a kiss, Dad?" Stan mumbled into his knees. "You put your lips together and kiss. Boys or girls, right?"
Randy's eyes grew wide for a moment and he formed the word 'lips' silently. Stan buried his head in his arms.
"Stan, kissing a boy is different. It's something you won't really understand until you're older. See you can't really know if you like that or not until you're…um…past you teen years. At least that or longer. College, perhaps…that's the best time to try anything really."
"Didn't you meet Mom in high school?" Stan said pointedly.
Randy frowned. "Stanley, now, that's different."
"So, I won't know what I like until after high school?" Stan said, his voice rising in pitch.
"Yes, Stan," Randy stated, forcing calm. "You're too young to know if — if kissing a boy is something you like. People change, Stan. They grow up and realize that what they once liked, they don't like anymore. So," Randy grabbed Stan's shoulder, and the boy jerked his head up, "so that means you won't really know if you truly like someone until you're older."
Stan stared his father, not really seeing the man. All he could hear were the words:
People change, Stan. They grow up and realize that what they once liked, they don't like anymore.
Was this true? After turning ten, Stan had found himself hating everything he once enjoyed, what he had once loved. He still hadn't recovered. The green bottle under his bed often kept the worst of the cynicism at bay, but would one day come when he awoke to find Kyle shitty once more? What if he turned eleven and not only hated the kiss he'd given his best friend, but his best friend too?
Stan clutched at his arms, folding in upon himself, and once more pressing his face into his knees. Randy tried to shake his son out of his funk, but Stan refused to move. Heavy footsteps crunching through dead twigs and snow alerted them to Jimbo's sudden presence.
"Stan, are you okay?" asked his uncle. Stan wiped at his face and looked up.
"I'm fine."
"Your dad's right," Jimbo tried to say in a nonchalant way. "You don't need to worry about who you like or don't like now. You're just a kid, and kids don't know any better. Trust us. Why when I was your age I had a crush on this little girl with the longest pigtails you'd ever seen. Got her flowers and tried to get her to go to the dance with me. But we didn't last too long; I ended up dumping her after the dance. We were only thirteen."
Randy was nodding encouragingly. Stan sighed.
"I'm fine," he repeated.
Another bout of silence followed. Several feet down the slope, the cluster of bushes moved again.
Jimbo jabbed Randy in the side and pointed towards the shrubbery. "Look, there's something crawlin' in the bushes over there."
Stan froze. The previous conversation now forgotten, Stan remembered why his father dragged him out in the middle of nowhere at six in the morning. Stan turned his head slowly towards the small collection of thin bushes. They were located at a steep angle upon the rocky mountainside, more than ten feet down from where they'd stopped to camp. The thin, dried leaves rattled with the wind, but a strange shaking at the plant's base alerted the men that something lurked beneath. Jimbo lifted the gun to his eye level and waited.
"Now, remember what you have to say," Jimbo whispered.
Randy nudged Stan, giving the boy a stern look.
"Go on, Stan."
Sighing, Stan mumbled, "Look out. It's coming right for us."
At that moment a small rabbit with its winter coat still intact hopped out from behind the bush. Ned in his excitement dropped his voice box, but Jimbo beat him to it.
"LOOK OUT! IT'S COMIN' RIGHT FOR US!"
A thunderous crack rent the air and the rabbit flopped onto its side as if it had fallen into slumber. Stan felt his eyes water, and he turned his face away from the growing red spot, inching its way across the white covered ground.
Jimbo let out a low whistle. "That was a beauty. Right, Randy?"
Randy tipped his beer in Jimbo's direction to toast him. He gave a slow, drunken nod.
"That was beautiful, Jimbo." He took a sip from his now empty can of beer, and then patted Stan on the shoulder. "Now, go get it, Stanley."
"WHAT?" Stan's eyes were wide with fear. He clutched at his jacket as if to pull it closer around him and hide his body. He shook his head, staring at his knees.
"Stan, it's all the way down there," Randy pointed out, noting the dangerous tilt of the land. "You're fast enough to get it."
"No."
"Now, Stan —"
"I don't want to, Dad."
"Stanley, you listen to me —"
"You're dad's right, Stan, you can get down there quicker than us. Unless we force old Ned to do it."
"Nnnn-ooo, zz-ankz."
Randy thumped Stan on the back, trying to propel him to stand. Stan stayed rooted in the spot. Hunching his shoulders, he inched away from his father. Randy frowned and stood up. He pointed at his son.
"Now, Stan, be a good sport and just get the damn rabbit. It's not going to kill you. It's dead," Randy laughed at his tasteless joke. Stan cringed. He wished he could steal one of his father's beers. It suddenly seemed like a very important thing to have in this kind of situation. Especially, after the awkward talk they'd just had.
Randy sighed.
"Stan, please go get the rabbit. It's not going to hurt you."
"I don't think that."
Randy blinked. "Then what's wrong?"
"I don't like hunting," Stan rushed through gritted teeth. He had wanted to say something along the lines of 'I hate seeing animals hurt' or 'you're such an asshole, dad' and 'you've only confused me more'. He also thought it ridiculous that his father thought him afraid of a dead thing. No, Stan wasn't afraid. He was terrified…terrified that the next step after picking up the rabbit was skinning it and cooking it. He also knew that it wouldn't be long before Jimbo thrust that gun into Stan's arms, telling him to take aim too.
"Ah, give it up, Randy. I'll just get it myself," Jimbo rose to his feet, grunting and gasping as he heaved his great bulk off the ground. Randy shook his head.
"No, Jim, you'll end up blowing out your knee again." Randy grabbed Stan by the collar and hoisted him up. Trying to keep a grin on his face as if this were a game, Randy once more told Stan to get the dead rabbit.
"Why don't you get it?" Stan countered, dropping to the ground again and huddling into the same cramped sitting position as before. Randy was pissed.
"Now, Stan, I'm your father, you need to do what I say."
"Not when you're drunk off your ass."
Randy blanched. Stan smirked at his victory, but the comment didn't deter his father.
"Stan, only girls are scared of touching dead rabbits. You're not a girl, so get down there and pick it up."
"Well, then I'm a girl then. And if being a girl means I don't have to touch a poor murdered baby rabbit then I'll fucking be a pussy too!"
Ned and Jimbo gave Randy helpless glances. Stan's father rubbed at his eyes in a wistful manner. He seemed suddenly very old.
"Stan…." Randy began once more.
Stan was on his feet again. His whole body shook and wet streaks dirtied his cheeks. Without a word, he bolted from the slope. Randy and Jimbo shouted in alarm, but Stan was pelting too fast through the woods to catch the words. He skidded over a rocky outcropping and jumped down onto a snowy path he and the others had taken earlier.
Hurried footsteps and snapping branches alerted Stan that he was being followed. Taking up his sprint once more, the boy zigzagged through the woods. He ducked under low limbs and jumped through muddy puddles. He threw his hands up over his face as he dashed straight through a cluster of thorny bushes.
As he leapt out from behind the last bit of foliage, Stan found himself staring at his father's pickup truck. His breath coming out in gasps and a stitch in his side, Stan limped towards the vehicle. Behind him he could hear his father and Uncle Jimbo shouting at each other through the woods. Ned's nasally artificial voice echoed among the noise.
Stopping in front of the driver's side door, Stan pressed his forehead against the cold steel of the truck door. He panted, watching his breath create small tufts of steamy clouds. He sniffed hard, running his sleeve under his nose. Stepping back, Stan examined the truck. Reaching out a hand he took the handle and yanked it open. He clambered up into the seat and slammed the door closed behind him. Noting that his father had left the keys inside, Stan locked both doors.
He sat there for several minutes, waiting for his heartbeat to slow and his breath to even out. When he felt calmer, Stan knelt in the seat and turned to face the tiny window in the back of the truck's cab. He unlatched it and pushed the two panes of glass apart. Below, in the bed of the pickup, rested one of the many ice coolers his father and Uncle Jimbo had brought up to the mountains. Leaning out of the tiny window, Stan stretched his arm down until he'd pulled off the cooler's lid. He set the lid aside and then reached inside the cold icebox. There were ten cans of beer mingling with the slushy, dirty ice his father had taken from the freezer back home.
Stan grabbed the first one his fingers touched. He drew back his arm and set the can on the passenger seat. Returning to the window, Stan replaced the cooler's lid and then closed and latched the panes of glass back together.
Flopping down into the driver's seat, Stan leaned over and grabbed his can of beer. He held it between his hands, feeling the dampening cold seep through his red woolen gloves. He stared at the can for several seconds. His thumb traced the tab. He flicked it a couple of times, listening to the 'thunk' of the metal snap back against the tin lid.
He rolled the can once between his hands as if truly debating upon what to do next with the beer. Then letting out a slow sigh, Stan popped the can open. It fizzed for a moment, but settled almost instantly. Stan brought the can to his lips and sipped.
Ten minutes later his father, Uncle Jimbo, and Ned emerged from the forest. They were carrying everything they had used to make camp. Stan watched as they tossed the bags into the back of the pickup. Uncle Jimbo moved to the driver's side and started when he saw Stan sitting inside. He beckoned to Randy who stumbled to his side. Jimbo tried to open the door, but Stan had it locked. He searched his pockets, but Stan lifted the keys and shook them for his uncle to see. Randy narrowed his brows. He raised his fist and pounded on the driver's side window.
"Stan, you open this door right now!"
"No," Stan called back.
"Stanley!"
"Fuck off, Dad."
Randy kicked at the truck. He whirled around to face Jimbo.
"You got something we can open the door with?" he asked, his words slurring and his eyes red. Jimbo produced a Swiss army knife. Randy volunteered to pick the lock, but after he cut himself three times in a row, Ned took over.
Stan watched them patiently from the other side of the glass. He leaned forward and grabbed hold of the beer he'd set in the truck's cup holder. He sat up straight and took a sip. His father noticed and gaped in horror. Stan ignored him, taking another long draught.
His father continued to pound on the glass. Stan stuck the keys in the ignition and turned on the power. He flipped through the channels of the radio, listening for something that didn't sound like shit to him. When he'd spun the dial almost all the way to the end of the line, he discovered a static station with the faint sound of violins piping through the speakers. He sighed and leaned back into the seat. He took another drink and closed his eyes.
As his father pounded harder on the glass and Ned cursed as his Swiss army knife slipped from the lock, Stan reached over and turned up the volume. He didn't know the name of the music he listened too. No words were sung; just the faint sigh of strings and the loud thunder of drums and horns filled the cab. Stan recognized the sound. It was something classical he'd heard before, perhaps even on an old cartoon. He knew Kyle would have known the name of the music. He was good at understanding boring, nerdy things like that.
Stan downed the rest of his beer and chucked the now empty can into the passenger's seat. He wished his father wasn't outside. There was no way he'd attempt to get another can now.
At that moment, Ned got the door open. He flung it back, and all three men stared at Stan. The boy made no attempt to move.
"Stan, what the hell has gotten into you?" Randy stormed, grabbing a hold of Stan's arm and dragging the boy out of the pickup. Stan stumbled to his father's side, staring at the ground.
Stan didn't respond. His father shook his arm.
"Stan, you answer me when I'm talking to you!" he roared. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Shrugging, Stan continued to stare at the ground. His mouth tasted bad, and he wanted to throw up.
Uncle Jimbo stepped into the truck and turned it off. When he reemerged, he said, "It looks like he only drank the one beer, Randy. I don't think we should be too hard on him. Why I had my first sip of beer when I was about his age."
Randy rubbed his hands over his eyes.
"Sharon's going to kill me, Jimbo."
"I won't tell, Mom," Stan mumbled. He really had no desire to go bragging about his drinking anyway.
Randy nodded. "Good. Don't let me ever catch you doing that again! You hear me?"
"Yes," Stan mumbled. "I won't let you catch me drinking ever again."
Clapping his hands together, Randy allowed himself a smile of relief. He turned towards Jimbo and Ned.
"I think we've had enough of hunting for one day, don't you think?"
When they finally returned home, Randy grounded Stan for his little stunt. Stan didn't protest. Conveniently, Stan's punishment entailed that the boy remain in his room all of next week after returning home from school.
And during this entire punishment, Kyle wasn't allowed to be seen.
Shelley snuck out of the house around noon. Her mother had left to visit Mrs. Broflovski. Without her mother around to check to see that she remain secluded in her room, Shelley had taken the opportunity to find Eric Cartman. She discovered the fat boy sitting in the middle of the elementary school's playground. He had his makeshift cootie stand all set up. His briefcase lay open revealing a fresh jar of black paint, three thick brushes, and several handkerchiefs. Some sixth graders hung around behind him, passing out flyers to some of the younger kids who used the playground equipment even on Sundays. Shelley inspected one of the flyers as she walked past a second grader. Cartman's illegible handwriting announced a buy three get one free coupon for his cootie shots. Shelley rolled her eyes.
Looking up, Shelly watched a rat-faced sixth grader force a red flyer down a third grader's shirt front when he refused to take the leaflet. Scanning the rest of the small cluster of kids, she spotted Kenny and Butters shuffling up to Cartman's stand. Strangely Kenny had his hood down. Two barrettes were fastened in his hair, making the blond tufts stick up like dog ears. Butters wore a helmet and carried a small plastic hammer. As they approached, Cartman raised an eyebrow at their outfits, but didn't comment. When the two blonds reached the stand, Kenny stuck out his arm, and Butters dug in his pockets for two ten dollar bills.
"We need to reapply the shot, Eric," Butters explained. Cartman glanced down at the money.
"What is this?" he asked, brushing the tens towards Butters.
"Money for the shots? The regular ones?" Butters asked confusedly, tilting his head to the side.
Cartman leaned out and tapped the sign above his head.
"Read, Butters. The cootie shot price has gone up. Twenty-five bucks just for one regular shot," Cartman said, flipping open a leather-bound notebook and making a few notes under a long list of transactions.
Kenny dropped his mouth open. "Twenty-five each? That's fucking ridiculous!"
"Not my fault you're poor, Kenny. Also what's with the faggy hair clips?"
"Karen," Kenny replied as explanation.
"He's the princess today," Butters piped up. He held out his hammer, pointing to his helmet. "I get to be the knight."
Cartman snorted. "Whatever, fags. Still need twenty-five from both of you."
Kenny glared. Without his hood, his grimace actually appeared quiet threatening. The fat boy, however, didn't seem to care. A sixth grader with a long nose and greasy hair leaned over Eric's shoulder, asking him if he needed to 'escort' Kenny from the cootie stand. Cartman puffed out his chest importantly, waving his hand.
"No, no."
Kenny rolled his eyes. Butters hid behind him, eyeing the sixth grade boy with apprehension. When the sixth grader left, Kenny stepped forward again.
"I need that cootie shot."
Cartman clasped his hands together, resting them over his ledger. "I can offer you a shot that you can pay in installments. Five bucks over a five day period."
Kenny shook his head. "This shot wears off every couple of days, maybe even sooner. I won't have even paid you fifteen bucks before I needed a new one!"
Cartman shrugged, pulling his ledger towards him and snapping it closed. Butters flinched at the sound. The small boy looked sadly down at his arm where under his sleeve the cootie shot had begun to fade. Kenny stood with his fits curled.
"Fatass, you better give me that shot! My sister is having two of her friends over for a slumber party tonight. I can't risk getting the cooties now," Kenny warned. Cartman made a show of yawning.
"Not my problem, Ken."
Butters sniffed. "I'm sorry I don't have enough cash, Kenny. If you'd like, you can come stay at my house for the night. I'm sure my mom and dad won't mind."
At that moment Shelley decided to make her presence known. Butters panicked at the sight of a girl and hid under Cartman's table. Kenny backed up slowly to hide himself behind Cartman's massive bulk. The sixth graders stopped passing out flyers and stared at Shelley. A whispered conversation erupted between the rat-faced boy and his tall lanky friend with braces.
Shelley pulled out a five dollar bill. She laid it upon Butters' two tens.
"Here. At least one of you can get the shot," she explained. Butters glanced at Kenny, who made a gesture with his hands, indicating Butters should go ahead and take the shot. Scampering out from beneath the table, Butters rolled up his sleeve and waved it in front of Cartman. The fat boy frowned as he traced a fresh cootie shot on Butters. When he'd finished, Cartman tossed his brush into a jar of water and then turned his attention to Shelley.
Cartman threw out his arms warmly, forcing a grin. "Ah, if it isn't my wonderful benefactor!"
"Shut it, Turd, I'm pissed."
Eric placed a hand over his wide chest mockingly. "Whatever for?" Suddenly he frowned. "You don't want a cut of the money, do you?"
"No," Shelley stated flatly. Eric sighed in relief. Butters shuffled away from under the table and crept to Kenny's side. Shelley glared at them both. Kenny took the hint and dragged Butters towards the sandbox where the two sat quietly waiting for the girl to disappear.
Cartman snapped his briefcase closed. He went to tuck the two tens Butters had left on the stand and Shelley's five into his tin box of cash, but Shelley was too quick. She took the money and stuffed it in the front of her coat pocket. She continued to glare at Cartman.
"What? What do you want, skank?" Eric challenged, walking around the stand to Shelley's side. "See you want money, bitch. I don't know what you could want other than money. Isn't Stan hating Wendy like you wanted?"
Shelley watched Butters and Kenny in the sandbox. Butters whispered something excitedly into Kenny's ear. The taller boy nodded, smiling. They shared a laugh and turned to play with the cold, snow-covered sand. Butters made a great show of preparing a mound of sand for Kenny to sit upon; when Butters had finished his task, Kenny rested upon the lump. Butters then constructed low hills of sand as makeshift walls around his friend. Shelley frowned at their antics.
Cartman cleared his throat. "So, what is it that you want, Shelley?"
The girl turned back to the fat boy.
"Stan kissed Kyle the other night," she stated simply. Cartman's eyes grew round and then narrowed in delight. He threw back his head and howled with laughter. Shelley waited for him to control himself, before continuing.
"I don't know what he thinks he's doing," she snapped. "He must imagine Kyle a good replacement for Wendy."
Cartman wiped at his eyes, trying to catch his breath.
"Oh God, so beautiful. I knew it! I knew they were a couple of fags," Cartman gloated. Shelley rolled her eyes.
"It wasn't that hard to notice, Turd. My stupid brother is obsessed with Kyle," Shelley noted. Eric nodded sympathetically.
"It's unhealthy to be that interested in a Jew. Wait 'til the whole school hears that they're a couple of homos!"
Shelley smacked Cartman in the head.
"OW! BITCH!"
The girl stalked closer to Cartman, pressing the fat boy up against his wooden stand. She jabbed her finger into his wide chest and leaned in close.
"Listen, Turd," she whispered, "you aren't going to tell anyone. Yet. See that wouldn't fix my problem."
Cartman tried to push the girl back, but Shelley stood her ground.
"Hey, get off, skank!"
Shelley boxed Cartman's ears, silencing him. The fat boy whimpered rubbing at the side of his head.
"Look, Eric, I don't need you to blab to everyone that they're kissing. Yeah, it would cause a stir. People would laugh and make jokes — but that would be temporary. Knowing my brother and his friend, the two would come out on top," Shelley explained. She scowled, adding, "In fact I'm sure they'll 'learn something today' about it and then everything goes back to being happy. Even if people still continue to make fun of them, Stan will still have Kyle."
Cartman shrugged.
"What's your point?"
"If you really want to mess with Stan and Kyle, you have to tear them apart," Shelley stated simply. She stood back, allowing Cartman to regain his footing. The boy straightened his red jacket and smoothed down his hair. Shelley glanced behind him towards the sandbox. Butters had built a lopsided little city for Kenny. As the girl watched them, she saw Butters pluck a weedy flower from the ground and stick it on one of Kenny's barrettes. The flower lay limp across the taller boy's forehead, its ugly brown petals brushing Kenny's eyelashes.
Shelly turned back to Eric, hating the ache she felt in her stomach at the sight of that flower. For a moment, Eric's face scrunched up as he pondered Shelley's words, then a slow steady smirk spread upon his face. He puffed out his wide chest knowingly and walked back around his cootie shot stand to pack up the rest of his belongings.
"So, what you're saying is we need to break up Stan and Kyle's gay little relationship?" Eric asked, his smile widening.
"Not just break up," Shelley whispered confidentially. She tried to burn away the image of all flowers from her mind. "We need to get them to a point where they can't trust one another."
"How do you plan on doing that? The last time I checked the 'super best friends' are glued to each others' asses. There's no way you could get them to hate each other," Cartman challenged. Shelley crossed her arms over her chest.
"That's where you come in," Shelley said crossly. "I got my dad to panic over Stan not being 'man enough' or some other bullshit, but I know he can't keep Stan away from Kyle forever. No one in my family takes my father seriously for long. That and he's easily distracted. He'll find something else to occupy his time before long and completely forget about Stan's gay little kiss."
Cartman snorted with laughter. "Still can't believe it happened. No, scratch that, I can believe it happened with those fags, just didn't think it'd happen 'til middle school."
Shelley rolled her eyes.
"You are going to help me trick Stan," Shelley whispered hurriedly.
"Why should I?"
Shelley nodded to the sixth graders over by the swing set. Both boys continued to stare in Shelley's direction, but neither seemed to have plucked up enough courage to approach. When she caught their eye, they quickly hid their faces. Cartman gave the boys a glance and then turned back to the girl.
Shelley pointed at them.
"I'll tell them that you've been making up this cootie stuff the whole time."
Eric's eyes grew round, and he snuck another quick look at the sixth graders. They were both rather big for their age.
"Fine, bitch! What do you want?" Cartman snapped. Shelley smiled.
At that moment, the rat-faced sixth grader and his friend sauntered over to Cartman's side. Both boys stared at Shelley as if seeing her for the first time. The boy with the rat-face pointed at her.
"You're a girl," he noted lamely. Shelley gave him a deadpanned look before turning her attention back to Eric, who had snuck away from both sixth graders without notice.
"Hey," said the rat-face. "I'm talking to you!"
The boy marched around to the opposite side of the stand to Shelley's side. She gave him a scathing look and once more addressed Cartman.
"How about I meet you later at your house to discuss —"
Shelley gave a yelp as the sixth grade boy caught hold of her arm. He twisted her around to face him. She was older than him by two grades, but the boy stood two inches taller than her. He gave her arm another squeeze, and she let out a gasp of pain. Cartman stared on with a mixture of fear and confusion.
"Let go of me, Turd!" Shelley roared trying to shake the boy. He held on tighter, now gripping her arm with both hands. She tried to hit him, but his tall friend caught her other arm. Cartman backed away from the older kids, hiding behind his wooden stand. Shelley gave a growl of protest and tried to kick out, but the boys just kicked her back.
"Stay still! We want to see if this cootie shot thing is legit!" said the boy with the rat-face. Shelley shot a look at Cartman, who continued to cower behind his briefcase. She raised an eyebrow at him, and the younger boy cleared his throat.
"Er…see…it — uh — clearly works. See you're touching her and no cooties! Voila!" Eric cried, his voice cracking. He threw up his hands for emphasis. "Now if you gentleman would kindly let go of my assistant."
"Shut up, fourthie!" snarled the rat-faced sixth grader. Cartman snapped his mouth closed. The tall boy wheeled Shelley around to face him.
"I think it is working," he commented. "I don't feel itchy."
"So, we can touch her and nothing bad will happen to us?" Rat-face pondered. "I wonder if we can touch her anywhere."
Shelley spun around and spat in the boy's face.
"Let me go!" she screamed.
From the sandbox, Kenny and Butters had ceased playing. They stumbled out of the sandy enclosure and hastily approached. Kenny took the lead with Butters holding onto his plastic hammer for dear life. However, before they reached the cootie shot stand, the sixth grader with greasy hair stepped forward to intercede them. The younger boys gave Shelley concerned looks, but backed away from the older kids.
Gritting her teeth, Shelley squirmed harder.
"Hey, if we can touch her without getting cooties," began the rat-faced boy, "then I bet we can touch her boobs too!"
"You touch me, and I'll bite your hand off!" Shelley roared, kicking out with a new intensity. The boy dodged around her attack and stuck out a hand, inching it towards the girl's chest.
A considerably sized rock hurtled through the air and struck the boy right in the eye. He dropped Shelley's arm and reeled backwards, knocking into the cootie stand and toppling it over. Cartman barked out a string of curses in dismay, and Kenny and Butters took the opportunity to rush around the greasy haired sixth grader. They were speeding towards the tall boy still clutching Shelley's arm, but stopped when Bebe chucked another rock.
The tall sixth grader ducked, but the rock grazed his backside, and he yelped in pain. He stumbled away from the two approaching girls. Wendy stood with her arm cocked back, her fist wrapped tightly around a jagged piece of concrete. Bebe clutched a bunch of rocks to her chest. She picked out another large one and hefted it in her hand, aiming towards the sixth graders.
"Fuck off, assholes," Wendy snarled, tossing her rock at the rat-faced boy once more. Dodging the projectile, he scurried off towards the other side of the school yard. His friends followed closely behind.
Wendy and Bebe waited for the three boys to disappear, before turning back to the others.
The girls dumped their arms free of rocks, and Butters let out a small sigh of relief. Kenny took his hand. Shelley had fallen to the ground. She sat in the snow, feeling her heart pound in her throat. She glanced up at Wendy who approached.
"Are you okay, Shelley?" Wendy placed a hand on the older girl's shoulder.
Shelley managed a nod. She stared at Wendy's little purple boots. Then her mind jogging itself back awake, Shelley shivered, thinking back to the sixth grade boys' vice-like grip.
"I'm okay," she finally managed to croak.
Wendy smiled. "Oh good."
She stood up and glared at Cartman. "See what your stupid 'cootie shots' are doing, asshole?"
"Yeah, you've got the boys all weird now!" Bebe added. "They're either acting like Butters and Kenny or like those bastards who just left!"
Kenny frowned.
"Don't lump us in with those fuckers," he shot.
Bebe sighed.
"Sorry, you're right." She turned back to Cartman. "Still doesn't change the fact that he's got the boys doing weird stuff. I just talked to Clyde and apparently he's giving Cartman discounts at his father's shoe store just so he can keep up with his cootie shot payment."
"Craig and Jimmy cornered me the other day," Wendy began. Shelley looked at her. "They kept following me around in the mall, trying to touch my hands. They said they'd figured out that the cootie shots work against some girls, but they wanted to try it on me too."
"Well, nothing wrong with that," Cartman mumbled, tucking his briefcase under his arm and trying to back away from the group. Kenny stood behind him.
"Dude, I think some of the guys feel like…like…now that girls can't harm them or something, they can do whatever they want to them," Kenny explained. "I mean, well, I sort of had the thought too. I…er...asked Tammy Warner if I could touch her boobs" He looked up at the girls. He cleared his throat. "When she said no…I almost just did it anyway. But then I thought I wouldn't want some douche doing that to my sister, so it probably wouldn't be cool doing it to any girl."
Butters piped up. "It's like you keep gettin' told girls are icky, it's hard not to stop thinkin' that all the time."
Wendy crossed her arms over her chest and stared Cartman down.
"Do you see what you've done?"
"Ain't my fault you skanks are a bunch of sluts with guys wantin' to grab you," Cartman laughed. Shelley jumped to her feet and knocked the boy to the ground. She knelt over him, pinning him beneath her knees. She had one fist raised. It shook, but she didn't move or punch.
Wendy stepped forward. "Shelley?"
The older girl pushed herself off of Cartman. She clenched and unclenched her fists, staring down at the boy. She snapped her head up and glanced first at Kenny and Butters, then Bebe, and finally Wendy. The dark haired girl made an involuntary move forward, holding out her hand. Shelley backed off, and then without a word, she turned on her heel and ran away.