A Serious Case of Cooties
Chapter 7: Wicked
written by SqueakGirl - illustrated by Neavvs and SynnesaiThe Marsh household exuded an intense and brittle tension that evening. With Sharon gone for the night, chaos stirred at every corner of the home. Shelley remained locked in her room, shouting at her father when he tried to get her to emerge for dinner. Stan shared Shelley's anger, although for completely different reasons. When the two had arrived home, Randy commanded Stan to his room. Taking no chance to argue with his father, Stan had gladly disappeared up the stairs. He met Shelley in the hallway, her face red and splotchy. She snapped an insult at her younger brother for staring before quickly vanishing into her room. Stan shrugged, not caring what had upset his older sister. All Stan cared about now was the green bottle resting beneath his bed.
Shelley woke at around midnight, her throat dry and her tears all run out. She had fallen asleep in her clothes and her stomach rumbled a horrible protest at her choice to skip dinner. Pushing herself out of bed, the girl shuffled to the bathroom she shared with her brother. Finding her glass sitting on the sink, she filled it with water and downed it in one long gulp. She refilled the glass once more and took slower sips. Glancing in the mirror, Shelley rubbed at her eyes. They were still bloodshot. She tugged at her sleeves, covering the bruises on her arms where the boys had clung so hard. She hugged herself, blinking angrily at her reflection. A sound out in the hall caused her to start. Peeking out onto the landing, Shelley caught sight of her little brother descending the stairs delicately, avoiding any chance at sound. He was fully dressed although haphazardly. His brown coat had been buttoned askew, and his hat didn't sit straight atop his head. As he reached the final step of the stairs, he stumbled forward, catching himself with the wall opposite. Shelley waited at the top of the stairs until her little brother had opened the front door and exited the house before dashing back to her room and throwing on her own winter coat and boots.
Once outside, Shelley found Stan wandering down the sidewalk. A light snow fell and the ground lay covered with a thin film of powder. Stan walked down the path, scattering the snow. At times he tripped over his own feet, tumbling either into the snowy lawns to his right or into the street to his left. Shelley could see an empty bottle clutched tightly in his fist.
The girl followed her little brother until he reached the Broflovskis' house. Stan chucked away the bottle; it shattered in the street, raining emerald glass into the gutter. He floundered his way to the backyard. Shelley watched as her little brother paused, searching the ground for something. She saw him stoop to pick up some tiny pebbles from the flower bed. He stepped back and tossed the rock at a window on the second floor. Shelley guessed it was Kyle's room.
Unfortunately with Stan's inebriated state, his pebble fell short of its mark. He tried again only to have the rock hurtle back down towards his head. He stumbled out of the way just in time. He threw two more rocks at Kyle's window, failing both times. Shuffling back to the flower bed, Stan paused. Shelley waited, watching her little brother crane his neck towards the bushes that lined the Broflovskis' neighbor's fence. Silently, Stan forced his way through the prickly bushes. He ducked down and reappeared, dragging with him a skinny wooden ladder. Shelley raised an eyebrow at her little brother's discovery. She wondered if Stan had known about the ladder, but guessing from his own puzzled look, the ladder's appearance was just as novel to him as to her.
Peeking out from behind a tree at the farthest corner of the Broflovskis' backyard, Shelley watched Stan prop the ladder up against the side of the house. It reached Kyle's window. Stan began to climb, and Shelley hesitated where she stood. Several times, Stan lost his footing, barely hanging onto the rungs, and Shelley considered racing forward and berating her younger brother's stupidity.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Shelley decided to leave her hiding spot. Carefully she picked her way across the Broflovski backyard, ducking behind bushes and lawn ornaments until she stood beneath the ladder, but remained obscured by the shadows of the house.
Glancing above her head, she could just make out the silhouette of her little brother. He banged with his fist against the glass of the window he now faced. When no one answered his first volley of knocks, Stan intensified his drumming. Shelley gritted her teeth, wanting to hiss to her idiot brother that he'd wake the whole goddamn house in that manner. Luckily for Stan, Kyle threw open his window at that moment. Unfortunately, it startled Stan, and with his mind already clouded with alcohol, the boy lost his balance. From above, Shelley heard cursing and then saw Kyle reach out with both hands to catch hold of Stan's jacket front. The boys froze with Stan leaning too far out over the yard for Shelley's liking. She was about to reveal herself when Kyle gave a mighty tug and both boys toppled back through the window.
Swearing drifted down to Shelley.
"Shit, Dude," Stan moaned without attempting to keep his voice down. "My hand got all fucked up. There are splinters. Fuck!"
"Be quiet! What the fuck were you thinking?" hissed Kyle. Shelley had thought something similar.
"My hand's bleeding," Stan complained lamely. Kyle instructed his friend to follow him to the bathroom.
Meanwhile down below, Shelley emerged from her hiding spot. Not sure why she hadn't yet revealed herself to her brother and his friend, Shelley ascended the ladder. When she reached the top she noticed a broken rung with blood smeared on the jagged bits of wood. She cringed at the sight, lifting herself bodily through the window. She landed with a soft thud on Kyle's bedroom floor. She waited, listening to the water running down the hall. Neither Stan nor Kyle said a word.
Picking herself up, Shelley tiptoed towards the closet. She paused with her hand on the door handle. The water shut off, and she heard footsteps coming back towards the room. Closing the closet door, Shelley watched through a small sliver of light as the boys reentered.
"Shit, Dude," Stan moaned, staring at his hand. Kyle had wrapped a heavy bandage around his palm to stop the bleeding. Stan found it difficult to move his fingers; they were stuffed too close together. His eyes a little unfocused, he picked at the gauze. Kyle batted him in the head.
"Leave it alone," Kyle warned. He went to the window and shut it, bolting the top. Crossing the room, he opened his top dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of pajamas. Kyle chucked them in Stan's direction. "Here."
Stan blinked at the clothing. It took him a moment to understand what Kyle was implying.
"We can't sleep now," Stan said, getting to his feet and wobbling off balance. Kyle grabbed a hold of his wrist and pushed him back towards the bed.
"Stan, you're drunk. Why? I have no fucking clue, but you can just put those on and get in bed. It's fucking midnight," Kyle growled the last part under his breath. Stan stared glumly down at the pajamas. He glanced up at Kyle.
"Are you mad at me?" Stan whispered. Kyle rolled his eyes.
"Dude, what do you think?"
Stan stood up and threw his arms around the other boy's neck. The two nearly toppled into Kyle's desk. Kyle cursed, but didn't move to extricate himself from his friend's hold.
"I don't want you to be mad at me," Stan sniffed. Kyle sighed and pushed Stan away from him.
"I won't be mad if you hurry up and get ready for bed," Kyle grabbed a book from his desk and crawled under his bedcovers. He opened the book to the middle and began skimming the page, waiting for Stan to join him. Stan watched his friend, frowning.
"We can't sleep now, Dude," Stan said in an urgent hiss. He stumbled to the bed and fell to a kneeling position beside it. Kyle raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Dude, we got to run away!"
Kyle gave Stan a searching look. He closed the book he held.
"Why?" Kyle said slowly, indulging in Stan's drunken antics.
""Cause we have to get away from this shitty place, Dude. It's going to only get worse when we're older!" Stan was on his feet with his fists clenched. Kyle leaned away from him.
"Dude, what's going to get worse?" Kyle sat up in bed, reaching out for Stan's good hand.
Stan swayed on his feet.
"Everything…," he sniffed, ducking his head as he teetered back and forth on his feet. "I'll grow up and hate you. But if we leave South Park, maybe we can keep that from happening."
Kyle stood up and took hold of both of Stan's arms.
"Dude, you aren't going to hate me. Why would you think that?" Kyle asked, tilting his head to the side, trying to peer into Stan's hidden face.
"My dad…he's an idiot," Stan began, "b-but what if it's true?" Stan's head snapped up and his eyes still unfocused. "What if I grow up and start seeing more shitty things? What if we stop being friends? I don't know if I can do that again. Life seems so much shittier without you in it, Dude."
Kyle stared at Stan, searching his face.
"Stan...."
"I don't want to grow up," Stan murmured, resting his head on Kyle's shoulder. "Can't we stay like this forever?"
"No," Kyle said calmly. Stan frowned.
"I want to," Stan insisted. "I want to get away from South Park. And my dad. And cooties. And everything."
Kyle moved to sit on the bed. Stan followed him; he slipped his hand into Kyle's and the two sat staring at the opposite wall.
"You can't," Kyle sighed.
"Why are you arguing with me?" Stan challenged, his words slurring.
Kyle narrowed his eyes. "I'm not arguing, I'm telling your drunken ass that you're being stupid and self-pitying. You need to stop it, Stan. Moaning over things that haven't happened yet is a very pointless thing to do."
Stan let go of Kyle's hand.
"This is important!"
"No, it's not! If you would just put on your pajamas and get to bed, you'll sleep off this funk and feel better in the morning!" Kyle shuffled his way back up to his pillow and lay down. Stan glared at him. Kyle turned to face the wall.
For a moment neither boy spoke, then Stan mumbled, "My dad took me hunting this morning. Out of nowhere, he just woke me up and dragged me to the mountains. Uncle Jimbo and Ned came too."
Kyle rolled over. His brow furrowed in puzzlement.
"What?"
Stan rubbed at his eyes.
"He knows about us," Stan stated. Kyle sat up.
"What?"
Stan flopped over on his side, resting his head upon Kyle's pillow. The redhead propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at Stan.
"Dude, you're joking, right?" Kyle pressed. He suddenly seemed wide awake.
"He kept saying…kept saying I didn't understand anything. That…if I liked you now, I probably won't when I'm older. I can't know now if I like you…more than a friend," Stan mumbled into the pillow, his voice faltering. "Except…I can know if I like Wendy."
Kyle listened, glaring at the book in his lap. He shook his head. Stan sighed and curled into a ball.
"That's so stupid," Kyle finally said in a level tone.
"But…it feels sort of true," Stan said, his voice shaking. "I don't know what it is I feel for you. I don't understand. Maybe…maybe it's wrong?"
Kyle rubbed at his forehead.
"Stan, you're drunk, and I'm tired. I don't want to deal with this now," he snapped.
Stan pressed his eyes closed. "Maybe what I feel for you isn't really real. Like maybe…maybe because of this whole cootie thing, I only thought I liked you…."
Kyle's book came down hard on Stan's shoulder. The black haired boy gave a strangled yelp and leapt away from his friend. Kyle raised the book again, preparing for another swing. Stan raised his arms to protect himself.
"Dude, what the fuck?"
Kyle got out of bed.
"Listen to me, Stan," Kyle began slowly. "Don't start this bullshit. You know and I know you really don't believe any of what you're saying."
Stan backed away from Kyle. "What?"
"Stan, the other day you said you wanted to just be with me…and only me. We said we'd live in a big house together when we're older. You don't want to grow up and do that now?" Kyle asked, peering closely at Stan's face. Stan shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course I do," he whispered, looking to the side. "I want to do that. It would be great."
Kyle returned to the bed and leaned back against his headboard. "Then why are you questioning yourself? Don't you know how you feel?"
Stan blinked, trying to sort out Kyle's question. Kyle sighed and tried to elaborate.
"Stan, how do you really feel? How do feel about me, right now? Forget everything else and just answer me that," Kyle instructed. Stan gnawed at his lower lip, thinking hard. He felt dizzy and his stomach gurgled in protest to all the alcohol.
"Well, like yesterday," Stan started slowly, "It felt good to be with you."
"Okay."
"And…and I don't feel as…," Stan paused, rubbing at his chest. "I don't feel so achy. I felt achy when I wasn't around you. But now that I'm here, I feel like something heavy has been taken off my chest. I feel that every time I'm with you."
Kyle rubbed the back of his neck, blushing.
"Er — so — do you like-like me?" Kyle pressed, trying to look anywhere but his friend. Stan stared at his bandaged hand.
"I think so," he mumbled.
"That's not an answer, Stan," Kyle retorted. Stan looked up; Kyle was glaring at him again. He had his arms crossed against his chest. Even in his Terrance and Phillip pajamas, the redheaded boy looked intimidating. Stan took a step back.
"Tell me what you really feel," Kyle urged again.
Stan opened his mouth and closed it. He couldn't think straight with the alcohol buzzing through his brain. He wasn't sure what Kyle wanted to hear. Stan tried to rack his brain for the right answer. Then he stopped. Trying to find an answer Kyle wanted to hear wasn't the same as just answering the question, was it? Stan took a step towards his friend, opening his mouth to speak once more. He grappled with his silence, not sure where we wanted to start his answer. Kyle looked at him pityingly, sighing as he traced his fingers over the spine of the book he held in his lap.
Then as if struck by a sudden idea, Kyle threw the book away and stood. He faced Stan, who continued to teeter on his feet. Kyle placed himself inches from Stan's body. Slipping out his hand, Kyle placed it in Stan's own. Tightening his grip, Kyle stared at their clasped hands. Stan felt Kyle's fingers shake within his own.
"How about I tell you what I feel?" Kyle asked quietly.
"Okay."
Kyle took a deep breath and let it out. Stan could smell the scent of mint and fluoride.
"Right now, I feel angry…at you," Kyle explained. Stan jerked back instinctively, but Kyle held on to his hand. He continued, "I feel angry because you're confusing me. See, yesterday, I was quite happy to think that we might like each other and only each other more than anyone else. I don't understand if…if that means something more, but why should I care? If it makes me happy to do this…." Kyle lifted the hand holding Stan's. "Then why should I complain about it?"
"What if that changes though?" Stan pressed, his voice cracking. Kyle took hold of Stan's injured hand too.
"Then it changes," Kyle stated.
Stan shook his head. "I don't want it to."
"Neither do I, Stan!" Kyle snapped, his brows narrowed. "By why the hell are we making a big deal out of what's to happen in the future! If right fucking now I want to hold your goddamn hand, then no one's going to fucking stop me!"
Dropping Stan's hands, Kyle grabbed a hold of the boy's brown jacket front.
"Look, Stan, I feel what I feel, okay? And you feel what you feel. No one is going to tell me I feel differently about my best friend. Only I know how I feel about you. So right now I'm pissed off. But I can feel happier. I can feel sad too. I can fucking cry my eyes out over something careless you said or did. I can laugh at the moronic, gross shit you show me. And I can feel proud of a secret you tell only me. That's how I'll feel."
Kyle's fingernails dug into the fabric of Stan's coat. His breath came out quickly and his eyes stayed locked on a spot some inches below Stan's neck line. He seemed suddenly far away in thought, but then his face relaxed.
"I'm angry at you, Stan. That' how I feel in this moment. But in the future, that's going to change, and I'm fine with it. I'll feel what I feel."
Stan found his voice.
"I know how I feel…." He stepped forward and kissed the other boy. Kyle's eyes grew round, and he drew back quickly, but a smile lingered on his lips.
"That's good."
Stan closed his eyes. "Yeah."
"And that's how you feel, Dude?"
"Totally."
"Then don't let anyone say you can feel differently. Not now or ever. And if it changes when we're old and boring and stupid, it changes. Okay?"
Stan leaned forward and pecked another kiss on Kyle's lips. His stomach did a pleasant flip-flop. Kyle smiled, distracting himself by fiddling with the hem of his pajama top. He cleared his throat several times as if wanting to speak. Stan took another step closer.
"Yeah," Stan agreed. Kyle blushed and turned to scramble back in bed. Stan watched him drowsily, smiling like an idiot. Eventually, Kyle snapped at him to get on his own pajamas. Stan obliged, struggling into the pair that were slightly too small. His ankles and wrists poked out awkwardly a couple of inches.
Once he had settled in next to Kyle, Stan turned on his side and found Kyle's hand.
"I'm sorry I made you angry," Stan whispered. Kyle had his eyes closed.
"It's okay," Kyle replied. He then opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. "Hey, Stan, can I ask you something?"
Stan was starting to drift off to sleep with his face pressed into Kyle's shoulder.
"Hmm?" he mumbled.
"Why were you drinking?"
Stan gritted his teeth. His heart raced as he felt Kyle's eyes upon him.
"What?"
"Sorry, that's not what I meant," Kyle corrected. "Why did you just start drinking all of a sudden? How did you even get the alcohol?"
Stan rubbed at his eyes.
"I don't know…. I just sort of started doing it."
"Dude."
Stan bit his lip and turned away from Kyle. The redhead punched his friend in the shoulder. The two boys stared at one another; Stan nervously twiddling his fingers and Kyle furrowing his brow in dissatisfaction.
"Er…it sort of helped me feel better," Stan confessed. He felt dizzy again even though he was lying down. "Everything was starting to get too shitty, so I just…had a drink. It makes me feel better."
Kyle lay on his back, glaring at the ceiling.
"This isn't the first time you've done this," Kyle stated, his voice sounding strained. He wasn't asking Stan a question.
Stan cast his eyes to the side. "No, it isn't. I keep a bottle under my bed…when I need it."
Kyle picked at a loose string in his bed sheet.
"Do you need it when you talk to me? I mean, even before this moment?"
Stan's eyes stung.
"Sometimes…."
Kyle nodded to himself. "I see."
"I'm sorry…Kyle…sometimes…things seem so shitty —"
"And rather than dealing with these shitty things, you try to make it all go away with booze?" Kyle breathed, his voice forced calm. Stan covered his face with both hands.
"Yes."
"Don't do that!" Kyle hissed, turning to glare at Stan.
Sitting up, Stan snapped, "It's not that easy! Dude, you - you don't know what it's like to have to deal with my dad and his bullshit! You weren't there with me this morning! You don't know what it's like to have Shelley beating the shit out of you just 'cause you looked at her funny. Tearing up anything you like just to see you c-cry. You don't know what it's like to want the world to work one way, but then it fucks you over. And it's not just my family. Everything's so dull and stupid. It's hard to like anything." He paused, breathing heavily out of his nose. "Plus, your movies are stupid, and I hate your music. And I hate that you get sick all the goddamn time…and…and…."
Stan was shaking his fists towards the ceiling, but losing steam, he dropped them to his sides. He fell back onto his pillow, hating himself for the outburst. He rarely ever yelled at his friend in such a bitter way. Kyle lay quietly beside him, his face an impassive mask; his eyes bloodshot.
"So…you drink when you can't handle things. Wonderful, Stan," Kyle whispered.
"Fuck you," Stan retorted.
"No, fuck you!" Kyle sat up on his knees. He crawled to the end of the bed and pointed at the window. Stan could see the wooden ladder, leaning outside.
"I nearly watched you fall, asshole! For a minute, I thought I had a heart attack. The thought of you dead, your head busted on the ground, scared me shitless. You're my best friend. To lose you…I…I…like losing…well…losing something really fucking important, okay?"
Kyle stumbled off the bed and stomped to Stan's end, standing over him. He pointed a warning finger at his friend.
"And why did you almost fall? You were drunk! The only reason you're over here is because you're drunk and couldn't handle the shit your dad is saying to you!" Kyle roared.
Stan tried to get to his feet too, but the room spun, and he had to sit down again.
"Shut up," he murmured.
"No." Kyle raised his fists as if ready to punch.
Stan blinked wearily up at Kyle. For a moment he wanted to chew Kyle out. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. He wanted to smash Kyle's stupid face into the carpet. He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
"Well, aren't you going to yell at me some more?" Stan sighed. Kyle lowered his arms.
"I can't really think of anything else," Kyle confessed. "I'm really tired, Dude." Kyle's voice sounded flat, nothing near the temper he'd been showing a few seconds earlier. Stan didn't know how to respond.
"Sometimes…I just want to hit you," Kyle finally said.
"Same here," Stan sighed.
Kyle sniffed. He pulled himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at Stan.
"But I don't want to hit you. That wouldn't solve anything. It'd only make me feel better for the moment, but you'd have a black eye, and I'd have a sore hand. In the end, we'd still be arguing with each other," Kyle explained. Stan shrugged in agreement.
"What's your point?" Stan slurred, squinting up at Kyle.
"My point is, Stan, I might think hitting you would make this situation better, but it only masks the bigger problem temporarily. Though believe me, I really think hitting you would be very worthwhile. However, just like your drinking, it's only a small fix. Dude, you can't hide from everything that makes you unhappy or is shitty. How is that even living? Life sucks a lot of the time, Dude! Hell, this town sucks ass all the time! Are you drunk all the time then?"
Stan didn't answer. He tried to count the times he'd taken a drink in the last couple of days. He'd already gone through a whole bottle. The cootie fiasco had really taken it out of him. Putting his head in his hands, Stan stared at the ground. He saw Kyle's feet out of the corner of his eye. He felt the bed sink beside him as Kyle sat down.
"If things are really upsetting you, Dude," Kyle said softly. "You can tell me. I thought we were those kinds of friends. We're going to be with only each other for as long as possible, right? That's what we said we'd try. So, we can tell each other anything, Dude."
"You don't understand," Stan moaned. He rested his head against Kyle's shoulder. "I try to explain how it is, but you can't see."
"I might not understand, but you can still tell me anything. I'll try to help when you ask…but if you just want to vent, I'll just listen," Kyle offered, taking Stan's injured hand in his own.
Stan chuckled, closing his eyes. "You can't just hear a problem and not do anything. That's not the Kyle Broflovski I know."
Kyle frowned. "I'll try. I want to try."
Stan rubbed at his nose. He pressed himself closer to his friend.
"You make me want to be a better person, Kyle," Stan confessed. He blinked back tears. "But sometimes I'm afraid to do the kind of things you do. Talk up and face things…. What if I fail and you hate me?"
Kyle let out a slow breath. "I could never really hate you, Stan."
"I'm afraid to change."
"Everyone's afraid of change. I am too. I don't like the idea of becoming a stupid adult who doesn't care about anything," Kyle whispered, petting Stan's hair and smoothing it down. "But I know with you by my side, I'll never give up. If I care about something or want to change something in the world, I'll have you there to help me. 'Cause you make me a better person too."
Stan's eyes blurred. He sat up and smiled at Kyle.
"Really?"
"Yeah, Dude, totally."
Stan hugged him. Kyle fell backwards onto the bed, his hat falling off. He laughed, patting Stan's head.
"I love you, Kyle," Stan hiccupped, rubbing his wet eyes across Kyle's pajama sleeve. Kyle snorted and pushed the other boy off of him.
"Dude, tell me that tomorrow, when you're sober."
"Okay."
Kyle lay back down and covered himself with blankets. Stan snuggled down beside him.
"I promise I'll be better," Stan proclaimed, he threw an arm around Kyle, pulling him closer. Kyle blinked sleepily.
"We'll both try to be better friends to each other," he said, closing his eyes.
"Yeah." Stan buried his face in Kyle's unruly red hair.
"And, Stan?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you too, okay?"
Stan smiled against Kyle's curls, his blush rivaling their shade.
Not more than five minutes later, the two were fast asleep.
The clock read 1:45 by the time Shelley made it home. She had waited for her brother and his little friend to fall asleep, arm in arm. Slowly she'd snuck from her hiding spot and out of the room. She tiptoed her way through the second landing, pausing to hold her breath as she watched Kyle's little brother Ike walk to the bathroom. When the boy had shut the door, she scampered down the stairs and through the front door, locking it behind her. She bolted for her house, tearing through backyards and over snowy hedges.
Once back in her own room, she shut the door and stripped off her winter coat. She stood in the middle of the room, staring at her bed. Slowly, she approached it and slipped her hand beneath the soft, cool fabric of her pillow. Pulling out a slightly battered, purple notebook, she took it in her arms and scurried to sit tucked in a corner on the other side of her bed. She pressed her back against the wall, keeping her head low as if worried one of her parents would walk through the door and see her hiding behind her bed. She reached under her comforter and took out a small flashlight. She flicked it on and pointed the beam of light at her purple notebook.
Taking in an unsteady breath, Shelly brushed her fingertips over the spine of the book. She traced the cover made of velvet. An image of a rose lay etched upon its surface. Slowly, Shelley opened the notebook to reveal a blank page. In fact all the pages were blank except for the first one. Tucked beside the first page was a playbill to a musical titled Wicked. Pressed beneath the playbill rested a single white daisy. Its petals browned at the edges, wrinkling and dangling from its stem. Shelley touched a petal, feeling the cracked and brittle texture flake beneath her finger. It had once been so vibrant.
She remembered that the night had been warm. Standing in line for the musical had been tiresome; her feet ached in the heels her mother had bought her for the special occasion. She had pulled her right foot out of its shoe, leaning back to rub it. She rotated her ankle, trying to remove the stiffness. She then replaced her foot in its shoe and repeated the same act only with the left foot. As she slipped that shoe back onto her foot, the line began to move forward. The chubby, short boy in front of her nervously glanced over his shoulder. He held out a hesitant hand, and she took it. They moved up in line.
When they finally came to a halt, Shelley dropped the boy's hand and turned to the glass front of a costume shop. She self-consciously straightened the barrettes in her mousey brown hair. She tugged at her headgear, sneering at her own reflection. She smoothed down her pink sweater and once more pulled at the wiry frame sticking out of her mouth.
"You look pretty, Shelley," said the cubby boy. Despite the warmth of the night, the boy's cheeks looked rosy as if pinched by cold. Shelley cast her eyes over him and huffed.
"Whatever," she mumbled.
"I like your hair," he added. Smiling, he nervously checked that his purple, clip-on bowtie remained in place. Shelley rolled her eyes once more. She turned back to the glass.
"You're too nice, Larry," she said, staring at both their reflections.
Larry yanked down his suit jacket, trying to cover his wide stomach. He frowned down at his small feet.
"But that's what I think," he insisted. "I think you're the prettiest girl I've ever met."
Shelley forced a laugh, but her face still flushed scarlet. No boys her own age had ever called her pretty.
Larry fidgeted with his hands. The line began to move again, and the boy reached out to take Shelley's hand. The girl smiled, placing her hand in his.
"You're such a dork, Larry," she teased, as he led her to the ticket kiosk.
Once they'd received their tickets, the two scurried into the lobby, buffeted back and forth by the adults in the crowd. Finding a space to stand next to the wall, the two waited for the doors to the theater to open.
Larry fiddled with his program, rolling it up and then unfurling it. He creased the edges and dog-eared the corners. Shelley raised an eyebrow.
"What's wrong, Larry?"
He shuffled his feet and began to fold his program in two. Shelley patted Larry on the shoulder. He smiled at her.
"I really like you a lot, Shelley," he confessed. The two stepped back to let a group of adults through. When they'd move back, Larry added, "No one's ever been so nice to me."
"You just need to learn not to take people's bullshit, Larry," Shelley advised, "That way people will show you respect."
Larry nodded, hanging on her every word. He offered her his hand again, and she took it.
"I will, Shelley," he promised. "I'll be strong and not let anyone push me around. You'll see. I'll be just like you."
Shelley frowned. "You don't want to be like me, Larry."
"Why not? You're so cool. You won't let anyone boss you," he said in awe. An usher appeared at a set of wide, wooden doors. He pushed them open, locking each door in place against a stopper on the floor. The crowd started forming a slow line into the theater.
"Come on, Larry," Shelley commanded, tugging at the boy's hand and leading him along with the crowd. Larry followed obediently.
When they had found their seats, Larry began searching inside his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small purple notebook covered in velvet. He handed it to the girl.
"What's this?" Shelley asked, flipping through the empty pages.
"A notebook for you," Larry said, pointing out the obvious.
Shelley snorted with laughter. "I can see that, but why did you get me a notebook?"
"So you have a place to keep all the songs I write you," he stated simply. "I'm going to write you lots and lots more."
Shelley looked up at Larry. His chubby face split into a smile. He took out a pen from his jacket pocket and leaned over Shelley's armrest. Printing in quick, messy letters, the boy wrote the lines of a short song that had already grown familiar to Shelley. When he'd finished, Larry sat back and smiled sheepishly, waiting for her response.
Shelley read the words as Larry half sung them out loud.
"You make me come out of my shell, Shelley."
Shelley blinked, her eyes blurring for a moment. Larry didn't notice her quickly wipe away a tear. Instead, he babbled on about the types of songs he wanted to write for her. One for her silly headgear that made her so unique, he explained. And one for her pretty hair and one for her brown eyes and one for the crinkles that appeared around her cheeks when she smiled. He told her how he wanted to write a song about her fighting dragons and beating up zombies for him. She laughed at that one, but still found it difficult to keep her eyes dry. She made a great show of searching in her little golden purse for chapstick to avoid looking Larry in the eye.
"I want to write so many songs, Shelley. Maybe I'll be a song writer when I'm older!" Larry said, his face beaming with delight. Shelley nodded, her throat too tight for words.
"You know, Shelley," Larry whispered from the side of his mouth, just as the lights in the theater dimmed. "I'll dedicate all the songs to you."
"Why would you do that?" Shelley managed to gasp out. Larry paused and turned to look at the girl, but she kept her face hidden, still scrounging through her tiny purse.
"Well," Larry murmured, his face growing rosier as he blushed, "you make me…you make me want to be better. I've never thought I could do much, until you believed that I could. No one's stood up for me before…and, well…yeah…um, I just want to prove to you that I can be better."
Shelley drew in a deep breath.
"You don't have to do that for me, Larry."
"I want to," Larry confessed, taking her hand. "You make me want to be a better person."
Shelley lay upon the floor sobbing. She tucked the purple notebook closer to her chest, hugging it until the corners dug into her palms. Beside her a scrap of newspaper she'd taken from inside her purple notebook lay open to an obituary. Printed next to it appeared a black and white photograph of a round-faced, rosy-cheeked young boy grinning sheepishly up at the reader.
Staring up at the ceiling, Shelley allowed her tears to roll down the sides of her temples. They pooled in her hair, dampening the strands and the carpet beneath her. She cried, her breaths coming out in racking sobs. She covered her mouth, hoping her parents wouldn't hear, but the more she tried to force the boy's smiling face from her mind, the harder the tears came. Eventually, her body succumbed to sleep.
As she slept, Shelley dreamt first of the chubby, rosy-cheeked boy. He walked before her, a ukulele in one hand and in his other, her hand. He tugged her along a bright, snowy path, so bright that Shelley couldn't make out the world around her. Swinging the ukulele at intervals, the boy hummed to himself a tune Shelley recognized. She tried to sing along, but her mouth seemed too heavy to open. Instead, she contented herself to smiling at the back of the boy's head and his silly bowl-cut hairstyle. As she tried to increase her speed to see the boy's face, he only walked faster. Several times she tried to drag her heels into the ground, to bring the boy to a halt, but every time he gave a mighty tug, and she continued forward. The snowy path continued to remain light and cheerful.
Suddenly, a new figure, small in the distance, appeared before Shelley and the blond boy. Like a shot, the new figure darted off, racing down the illuminated path. The boy beside Shelley dropped her hand and sprinted after the stranger. He lost his ukulele. Shelley panicked and bolted after the boy. They ran for what seemed like ages with nothing of the scenery around them changing. Neither Shelley nor the boy appeared to have enough speed to catch the new figure. Yet, as Shelley watched the stranger in the distance turn a corner, she caught a glimpse of a vibrant green hat.
Shelley and the boy eventually turned the corner themselves, only to see the figure several yards ahead of them turn a new corner. Shelley took off with a renewed burst of energy, keeping up with her companion now. They turned the new corner together. However, they did not find the figure rushing on ahead of them. Instead, they found a dead end.
The boy beside Shelley slumped to his knees, covering his face with his hands. Shelley dropped to his side, throwing her arms around him. The boy seemed so much smaller now that Shelley was at his own level.
He began to cry, and Shelley made shushing noises, although in the strange world and its bright light, no sounds were heard. The boy buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed into her neck. She petted his hair and told him everything would be fine. They would find the stranger who'd run away from them. They'd find them. Soon.
Shelley froze. The hair she'd been petting was no longer blond or cut neatly around the boy's face. It had grown dark and shaggy. The boy was thinner too.
Crawling backwards, Shelley's eyes widened to see she no longer held the boy she had thought was Larry.
Instead her little brother gazed with red-rimmed eyes back at her. He hugged himself and continued to sniffle. Shelley panicked. Where had Larry gone?
On her feet, she glanced to her left and then to her right. Nothing but the clear, snowy path presented itself to her. She took off at a jog away from the dead end, leaving her little brother behind. Yet, when she turned the corner to leave the dead end, all she found was Stan kneeling before her. She double backed and tried again. But once more she only found Stan sitting hunched upon the ground, his arms still tightly wound around his chest.
She approached him. He looked up at her, his blue eyes still filled with tears.
"I can't find him," Stan whispered. He struggled to his feet and threw his arms around Shelley's waist. "I can't find him."
Shelley nodded. "I can't find him either."
"I don't know what to do," Stan cried. Shelley petted his head once again. She hushed him.
"He'll show up eventually," she reassured, not even knowing if she were speaking the truth.
"You think so?"
"Yes."
Just then there was a knock, a loud and clear rapping of small knuckles upon a wooden surface. Shelley pulled away from Stan, who gave a small moan, but remained where he stood.
Shelley walked towards the white wall that she had mistaken for a snowy dead end. She reached forward and found a doorknob. With a small tug, she pulled open a wooden door that looked not unlike her front door back at home. On the other side stood another boy with bright green eyes, red curly hair, and a silly lime colored hat. He stared warily up at the girl. Shelley sighed and took a step back from the door.
"Stan," she said in a soft voice, "Kyle's here to play with you."
Shelley woke early in the morning still lying on the ground beside her bed. Her tears had dried, and the sun shone warm and yellow in her room. She got to her feet and tucked the purple notebook beneath her pillow. She stood, staring out the window, watching little flakes of snow try in vain to accumulate on her windowsill. She walked about her room grabbing clothes, robe, and brush. As she opened her door and stepped out into the hall, she glanced over her shoulder at her pillow. She sniffed and rubbed her face, trying to wake herself up.
Drawing the door closed behind her, Shelley headed for the bathroom to get ready for the day.