Forsooth, Part 1: February
written by Shannanananana - illustrated by outofmypie and shiftly
Notes
Time kind of snuck up on me (and I've been battling some major writer's block on and off for the past few months) so I've decided this this going to be part one of a three part story plus an epilogue. THANK YOU SO MUCH to my AWESOME beta Sifl, who helped me steer this thing in the best direction possible; to my artists Erica and Mayron, who are so talented and amazing; to my Tumblr followers, who put up with me talking about my fic for ages; and to Miaou, who has been nothing but supportive and has encouraged me to keep going even when I was seriously contemplating dropping out. And to whoever's reading this, I guess. You might be okay. You might not. It depends. (Seriously, though, thank you.)
Chapter 2: Civil Blood Makes Civil Hands Unclean: Kenny
Chapter 3: Both Alike In Dignity: Wendy
Chapter 4: Remember Thy Swashing Blow: Bebe
Chapter 5: Do You Quarrel, Sir?: Craig
Chapter 6: The Law of Our Sides: Kenny
-shiftly-
Chapter 1: Where We Lay Our Scene: Craig
My name is Craig
Tucker, and I've lived my entire
eighteen years of existence in a tiny
Now, we may be backwater people, but we still value our education. We learn all kinds of fascinating tidbits for real-life applications, like "don't piss in the pool," "never listen when people come asking you for money," or more importantly, "don't fuck with kids' heads or they might end up putting a nine-ton sea creature on the moon." That one's a killer whale of a lesson, let me tell you.
But you know what?
Here in
Yeah. Today I learned the all-important "there's only so much light a dead iPhone can give off in the dark."
-outofmypie-
I can't help but congratulate myself on my absolutely amazing discovery. Clearly, it's the smartest thing I've done in my entire life.
Just seconds ago I was on the other side of this curtain addressing a rather large (well, I thought it was large) group of my peers, but they were (and still are) too busy texting or playing Angry Birds or whatever the hell they always do to pay any attention to what I had to say. I suddenly felt a tiny smidge of empathy for all the assistant principals and assembly speakers who have had to put up with this shit all their life until I remembered that those same higher-ups were the ones who practically forced us into this situation. Then the empathy lessened. And then, after re-remembering all the details of leading up to this "situation," it dawned on me that it was impossible to feel for those assholes because they are fucking assholes and blamed my passing change of heart on indigestion. Salisbury Steak just hasn't been the same since Chef.
Let me back up a little bit here to give you the context of today's lesson and my apparent confusion between emotions and bowel movements. So I'm currently backstage and of course the government-mandated emergency light in the corner burned out between now and the last time the Drama Club was permitted to use the stage, and of course those Glee Club douchebags — who rehearse here in the auditorium at least three times a week and have access to the lighting booth — would conveniently consider the burned out light to be the janitor's problem, so... here I am. Standing in the middle of the dark and too afraid to start walking in any direction because I might trip over one of their garish set pieces and die. Or worse, I might have to pay those bozos in the office (and that supreme asshole Choir teacher) because I got blood all over their precious stage.
Ha. Their stage.
I guess in order to fully explain why I'm back here learning the invaluable lesson of the iPhone, I'll have to let you in on a little secret.
Feel special. There aren't that many things I genuinely like enough to be so passionate to keep and share secrets about like some little prissy fourth grader. To say I hate absolutely everything in the world would be a lie. At least, I don't hate it in the Kyle Broflovski "Channel Your Misanthropy Into Studying And Occasionally Getting In Fights With The Fatass Who Called You An Anti-Semetic Slur" sense. Or the Goth Kids' "Everyone Is A Nazi Conformist Barbie Doll So Let's Just Sit In Coffee Shops All The Time And Perform Stupid Time-Consuming Monologues In Drama Class About How Our Hearts Bleed Black" way, either.
I'm pragmatic, not a raging Kosher firecrotch or a hypocritical wrist-cutting dipshit. Totally not the same thing. And for the record I am this way 'cause of yet another lesson I've learned in South Park: When your immediate family is as fucked in the collective head as mine is, you tend to either disown them (like my Uncle Skeeter did to us a couple of years back; I still hang out with my cousin Red from time to time but we can't let our parents know or they'd blow a gasket) or find a way to cope.
Ever since I can remember, my parents have hated each other. One my first memories is of my sister and I playing with my Red Racer action figures while my parents had a massive shouting match downstairs. I think I was... four? Maybe? Yeah, 'cause Ruby was still in diapers and chewed Red Racer's head off. I was pissed. Anyway, the shouting matches were to me like Barney to other kids — it played all the time until the folks got sick of it. And they did get sick of it — over the course of about a year or so, the constant arguing turned into this silent war of obscene hand gestures, which is where it's stayed ever since.
I'm sure to everyone else we seemed like a typical (albeit slightly taller) household. But unbeknownst to the rest of podunk South Park, my dad started drinking. And drinking. And drinking.
He never beat us or
touched us inappropriately. He
never even raised his voice. He just didn't give a shit about anything
other
than chugging that six-pack of Coors and watching the
Sometimes I think she raised three children.
The only indicator to the outside world of our "trouble at home" (Mackey's words, not mine) was that Ruby and I, having no concept of what the middle finger actually meant at the time, flipped everyone off constantly. I still did it for a while even after one of the teachers finally sat down with me and explained why I kept getting in trouble, which was, besides the fact that I had a near-constant middle-finger erection, mainly because I thought swearing was sooo cool and I felt sooo rebellious and if I could yell "tampon dick shit" in the classroom I would be sooo happy... I was a weird kid. I probably still am.
Fuck that, I know I still am because all of those things are definitely still sooo cool.
But enough with the Lifetime Movie of the Week.
Hmm. Tampon Dick Shit would be a good band name.
The lesson was about coping, right? Well, as I was saying, the way my sister and I manage to cope with our situation is sarcasm. Sarcasm at everything. I'll be the first person to admit it isn't the best defense mechanism in the world, but hey, it beats shooting up heroin in an alley while anonymous politicians snort lines of coke off our asscracks. Not that we've tried it. (Well, I can't actually speak for Ruby, so I'm kind of just assuming here that that's not her scene.)
So, as we slowly get closer to the reason I'm telling this story, that's why most people at school think I'm a dick and don't pay attention to me the one time I'm trying to be genuine about something. That, and, according to Bebe, I have a "fucked up since of humor." (Okay, so I made Clyde watch Human Centipede 2 with me so I could record his reactions and put it on Youtube. Why is that so strange? It's what bros do.)
Seeing as you're going to be reading this, you should know I get a little sidetracked now and then. Just a warning.
My English teacher hates all of my papers. "Not properly structured" or "incoherent" my ass. If you don't like what I turn in, don't give me a piece of shit book to write a paper on and expect a wad of fucking gold to spew out, you old hag.
See? I'm doing it again.
Let's cut the bullshit.
I'm president of the Park County High School Drama Club. How people considered me the best member for the job, I have no idea, but deep down it's one of the few things in life I do care about. (Also marijuana, but that's a story for a later date.)
Whatever, so I care about theatre. Secret's out, sue me. Except don't really.
Unfortunately,
those in charge of molding young minds
do not share my feelings. For the past three and a half years, our
Drama
teacher/advisor was Mr. Slave. I mean, who knew, our fourth grade
teacher's
assistant/ex-gay lover only took that job to help pay for his Masters
in
Theatre Education? (Insert painfully obvious BDSM joke here.) At first,
everything was going okay. I'd write the plays and everyone else would
perform
them. So people didn't really show up in droves to see it. Big whoop.
Like I
said, it's
But last year, this
guy from the Post came and wrote an article about us.
You'd think that would get some of the hoity-toity
Oh, right, the Mr. Slave thing. When we came back from Christmas Break a few weeks ago, we were informed that Mr. Slave quit and we would be stuck with a substitute "until further notice." Nobody'll tell us why, but Bebe thinks it has something to do with Queermo and the Gleek Squad. And honestly, if it does, I'd be just as surprised as I would if I found out these set pieces threatening to trip me back here were giant rainbow-colored cocks that jizzed out glitter every five minutes. Which is to say, you know, that I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest.
But soft, what light through yonder curtain breaks? (Translation for those of you who can't read Shakespeare: someone just opened the curtain.)
I spin around and spot the top of Bebe's altitude-enhanced frizz a split second before the curtain closes and everything goes pitch black again.
"You can't do this every time the crowd sucks. You just can't." She holds her phone up to (literally) cast some light on the situation.
Bebe's always been one of the tallest girls in school, but having to look down to talk to her still takes some getting used to. I'm not exactly sure why, though. I mean, we've been friends since the ninth grade (we knew each other beforehand, though; I've known Clyde since we were 2 and she's dated him on and off pretty much since then) and I have to do it all the time for everyone else, not just her. I'm kind of tall. Like my house.
I frown even deeper than usual. I'm going to get wrinkles prematurely, I know. "Then what else am I supposed to do? Just keep on keeping on and hope that someone out there is listening?" Seriously. She was the one who convinced all these people to show up. They came here expecting her, not me.
"That is exactly what you're supposed to do." A wrinkle to answer the ones on the corners of my mouth forms in her forehead as she scowls. "How was this not an issue all those times we put on your plays?"
"'Cause I wasn't the one up here being ignored." Oh, and, let's see, um, we weren't considered budgetary excess then. Because the arts totally don't enhance reading and writing and cultural awareness. Yeah, like I said at the beginning, we fucking value education here.
She sighs. "I know being onstage kind of... irks you."
Understatement of the fucking century. I hate it. I hate how hot the lights can get. I hate having to cake on layer upon layer of makeup and talk loudly and remember cues (let's just say I make Ben Stein sound like Pee-wee Herman) and all that shit, but Goddamn if I don't love seeing other people do it.
"But...?" I say, hoping whichever religious deity in charge of fallen Catholics is listening and decides to intervene.
"We made a deal. I got them to come to this thing, so..." She holds the curtain open a sliver just in time for me to see two members of the basketball team try to make their way towards the left aisle.
"And there they go," I mutter.
"Just get out there," she scoffs, shoving me into the lion's den.
I freeze up. It looks like around half the people realized there were better things to do than sit around waiting for some asshole to overcome his stage fright, so they made like a kid trying weed for the first time and blew this joint. I spot Clyde off around the third or fourth row grinning like a goon at his phone. Probably texting that chick he was talking about at lunch who gives head, according to him, "like a fuckin' Dirt Devil." To his right is Token, already knee-deep in AP Whatever homework with Testaburger to his right. Clyde's theory is they have some sort of secret fuck buddy thing going on, but I know better. Token's what you'd call a "serious relationship" kind of guy, and Testabitch (I know the nickname was Cartman's invention, but I gotta say, Lardass hit the nail on the pink beret. Not that I would ever admit that outside of my head) is leaving this town two nanoseconds after we toss our hats in June. I don't think either are them are up for a long-distance relationship. Also, Bebe would have said something.
Speaking of whom, I hear her clear her throat from behind the curtain in a "start-talking-or-I-will-inflict-violence-upon-thee" kind of way.
"Uh... hey, guys," I say to the crowd.
Nobody looks up. No one. Not even that douche with the dreadlock ponytail sitting front and center.
"Volume," Bebe whispers loud enough for me to hear her.
"GUYS!"
Whoops. That came out more menacing than I intended it to be. Now everyone has the same deer-in-headlights expression on their face and I'm trying hard not to crack up. Craig Tucker Fun Fact Number 786: I have a tendency to giggle uncontrollably when I'm nervous. I guess that's kind of why I don't do it that often. That and my laugh sounds like a... somewhere between "mad scientist" and "porpoise on helium" is the most accurate description.
"So, uh... now that I've gotten your attention..." Barely. They all have that same glazed-over look in their eyes they get when listening to Mr. Garrison prattle on about Remington Steele instead of the French Revolution like he's supposed to be doing. (Yet another amazing employment decision brought to you by the Park County Board of Education.) "Let me cut to the chase. The superintendent's thinking of cutting Theatre Arts completely, and I'm pretty sure the school board's going to slash funds from the other art electives as well. Why, you ask?"
I pause to see if anyone would. And... nope.
"For one, we can't find another Mr. Slave. And two..." I really wish I had made a PowerPoint presentation. "...I'm not a hundred percent certain, but something tells me the Gleeks are playing a major part in this."
I look around. Only two or three people are acting like they're not listening, but they're dicks who probably came here to see Bebe's tits, so who gives a fuck? Well, except Bebe herself. And Testaburger. Maybe.
"You're doing great," Bebe whispers.
I turn around just in time to see her head disappear from the curtain. "Why are you still back there?"
She pops back up again. "So I don't detract from your speech."
"And this isn't detracting?" I turn back to the audience.
Bebe mutters a "sorry" and I hear a rustle as she removes her head from the curtain a second time.
"Anyway... the only way we can prove to the School Board that we are actually worthy of being a program just as much as those douchecanoes is to do something people are willing to pay a couple of bucks to see. So that's why we're doing... uh, drumroll, I guess?"
"Wait, hold on, there's an app for that." Bebe says.
"I was making a joke."
"But it's a big deal!"
Someone clears their throat. "Hey, Craig? Uh..."
I turn around and immediately spot Broflovski in the far right section with his hand sticking up in the air.
"What?"
"Not trying to sound like a dick or anything, but..." Of course you don't have to try when you are one. "...can you hurry this up? Some of us have Jazz Band in, like, five minutes."
I let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Fine. Okay." I pause to collect my thoughts. "We're doing Romeo and Juliet."
Bebe says something like, "I had just found it, too," but it's hard to hear her over the sound of everyone's groans.
"Conformist," I hear the girl Goth at the tail end of the first row grumble loud enough for me to hear.
"What are we, freshmen?" Marsh asks rather loudly.
"Oh, go eat a bag of dicks!" I hear Ruby holler from one of the back rows. I squint my eyes and barely make out her and her best friend Karen up in the back right section next to the lighting booth stairs. Needless to say, I've never been more proud of my own sister than I am now.
"But seriously, Craig, what are we, middle schoolers?"
I take that back.
"I'm out," Guy In The Front Row Who Looks Like The Guy From The Counting Crows Only More Of A Douche (Like That's Even Humanly Possible) says as he slings his Bob Marley messenger bag over his shoulder and leaves.
"Like you would have gotten a part," I murmur in response.
"Will everyone just shut the fuck up?!" I hear my partner-in-crime intervene, and she takes over the entire scene with her wrath.
Why the fuck wasn't Bebe willing to do this three minutes ago? She steps out of the curtain and carefully sits on the edge of the stage while the crowd dies down. Apparently tits tend to have that effect on people. Not that I'd know.
"Look..." she says while flinging her legs. "I don't think you guys understand. We're already pretty low on funding as it is, so we can't exactly perform something like, say, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf without having to pay their publishing companies."
"Uh, Bebe..." I sit criss-cross to her right. "That isn't a play our generation knows about."
"Okay. Um. Our Town? Anyone heard of Our Town?"
Apparently not.
"Death of a Salesman?"
"Ohhhh..." I see
"Okay, so when people think of plays, the first ones that usually come to mind are the things we've been forced to read in English class. And, actually, most of those plays are Shakespeare's, like Hamlet or A Midsummer Night's Dream. Or, obviously, Romeo and Juliet. And since his works are public domain, we can perform them as many times as we want without having to obtain the rights beforehand. But, you know, enough about that." I think Bebe tries to get me to talk first because every single time we do stuff like this, be it Drama Club meetings or end-of-the-year banquets, she goes into Rambling Impromptu Monologue Danger Zone. "The point of this meeting is to let you guys know that auditions are next Tuesday and Wednesday with callbacks being posted Thursday morning and happening that afternoon. Hopefully we'll have an advisor by then—"
"Wait..." Testaburger looks up from her textbook and says, "You guys don't have an advisor yet?"
"Uh, yeah, that's kind of what she just said," I reply.
Bebe punches me in the arm.
"Ow?"
"Thank you," Testabitch smirks.
"But really, don't worry about the advisor thing. We're working on it."
There's an uneasy silence for a couple of seconds until Broflovski starts.
"So, uh..."
"Yes, you guys can go now," I say begrudgingly. He and his girlfriend Cotswolds manage to get their things, leave their seats and make their way out of their row hand in hand. If it weren't so sickeningly cheesy, I'd be impressed.
"Wait!"
They turn around in the middle of the aisle.
"What, Bebe?" Broflovski says, slightly annoyed.
"You guys can't tell anyone in Showchoir or Glee Club, alright?"
"Sure. Okay."
"Or Cartman," I add. There's no fucking way I'm letting that fatass ruin this production. I'll go to Peru and get a fucking army of guinea pigs to stop him if I have to.
Broflovski looks at me like I'm stupid. "Why the fuck would I tell Cartman?"
Bebe turns to me and shrugs. "He's got a point, Craig."
"It's a small school," I reason. "Just... please don't talk loudly or... internet about it until auditions are over."
"I wasn't aware ‘internet' was a verb."
"I wasn't aware your face was a—"
"Craig!" Bebe says.
"I'm making it one. No Facebooking, no Tweeting, no emails about Lizzy Thompson's asscrack—"
"Hey!"
I didn't know she was even in here.
"Oh, come on," Marsh says, "that was one time—"
"Shit!" Broflovski glances at his watch and he and Cotswolds resume their sprint towards the door. "Later, guys!"
Marsh turns around and shouts, "Wait! Kyle! I need help with my—"
"Text me later!"
Exeunt lovebirds.
Actually, no, I shouldn't say "lovebirds."
I'll admit, I don't have much of a reason to hate Cotswolds. She's pretty quiet and tends to keep to herself, which is totally fine by me. The less annoying people there are in the world, the better.
If anything, I feel a little bad for her, 'cause one of these days her boyfriend's gonna run off and have gaybys with Mr. Overly Sensitive Quarterback. And, you know, the only people on the face of the earth completely oblivious to this fact are her and, well, Broflovski.
Marsh, on the other hand... word on the street is he's the mayor-elect of Closetville. By "word on the street" I mean, "he totally hit on me at Token's birthday party." Or something.
Okay, so he was partaking in his weekly tradition of getting completely sloshed and making an ass of himself, meaning I might not have been the only victim, but I don't exactly make it a habit of mine to ask Token or Clyde if any of their teammates just so happened to mumble something to them about butt fucking right before he ralphed all over the limited edition Red Racer Vans their grandma bought them for Christmas (which I would have sent Marsh the receipt for if I were sure Granny could ever find it. I love her and all, don't get me wrong, but I swear to God that lady would lose her head if it were detachable).
My train of thought is derailed by the sound of Bebe obnoxiously tapping her fingers on the stage. I've found out she does this a lot when her patience is waning. "Anything else you wanna go over?"
"I, um, yeah." I unsuccessfully try to clear my throat without sounding like a pretentious dickhole. "Lucky for you guys, you don't have to actually be a member of the Drama Club to be in this thing. And, y'know, if acting isn't really your thing, or if you have a billion things to do after school and you can't be here every day and even if you get a lead, you won't be here every day we're always accepting volunteers. We'll have a bunch of different crew positions availab—"
Someone's phone begins to ring somewhere in the audience.
Goddamn it.
This is going to be a long fucking meeting.
Chapter 2: Civil Blood Makes Civil Hands Unclean: Kenny
Remember that one asshole you knew growing up who always seemed to hang out with you or your group of friends but you could rarely ever tell him to fuck off because in some weird way, you pitied him? That was — is — Eric Cartman. (That and his mom is the best cook. Goddamn, I would put up with ten Cartmans if it meant I had Liane's food every day. Actually no, I'm probably just saying that 'cause my last few meals came out of a vending machine.) Anyway, you hate him, but after you get to know him and his poison seeps into your mind, you feel some kind of sick, masochistic, habitual compulsion to put yourself in his line of verbal fire.
So here I was, mindlessly listening to his drivel until the noises coming out of his mouth suddenly solidified into a coherent message hell bent on smashing my body into the asphalt. If I had seen it coming, I could have gracefully dodged it. But I hadn't and so his words hit me like a tanker truck.
"You gotta be fucking with me."
Cartman looks away from the TV screen long enough to flash me his trademark shit-eating grin. "Nope. Seriously as a heart attack."
No.
No no no no no no no.
I pause the game and throw the controller down in disgust. "Not cool, dude. Not fucking cool."
"What?" he asks in his most innocent voice, which I, having at least some insight into the inner workings of his mind, don't buy for a second.
I don't say anything in response. I just cross my arms and give him the most disapproving death glare I can muster and try to keep the veins in my neck from bulging to the bursting point.
He only frowns. "You're acting very un-Kinny right now."
Cartman may not be a great friend or confidant, but he knows me about as well as I know him. And he's absolutely right — I'm being very unlike myself.
Now, I am not an angry person. Really, I'm not. Yes, sometimes God goes right out of His way to heap massive piles of diarrhea on me and I get pissed and moody and Man-PMS about it, but to tell you the truth, if someone's got to get God-shat upon, I'm glad that unlucky bastard is me.
I'm not what I'd call selfless, though, it's just that seeing people I care about in pain is a fate worse than death. And when a continual memento mori makes up your life philosophy and day-to-day actions, you kind of mellow the fuck out about pretty much everything else.
But with that being said, when I get mad, I get mad.
And I am MAD.
"You're goddamn fucking straight I'm acting ‘un-Kinny' right now! Seriously, dude, what in the name of Jesus Tapdancing Christ were you thinking?!"
"That I could tell you this without you getting sand in your vagina?"
"Fuck you."
"No, thanks." He shifts his focus back to the game. "I'm good."
I stare at him for a moment, considering whether or not it would be worth it to slug that smirk off of his face. Can I risk pissing him off today, the one day I've had off from both my jobs and Glee Club practice since I went to Provo last month? No, Kenny. You can't. You have to read the last few chapters of Wuthering Heights and study for that Trig test tomorrow, so losing your head is not an option.
I exhale loudly and feel a little more under control. The urge to beat him senseless fades away.
As I lay back against his sofa, I think to myself, Jesus, when the fuck did I become so boring?
Okay, that was a rhetorical question. I know when.
Once upon a time, there was a horny little eighth grade boy who overheard a smoking hot little eighth grade girl (which sounds totally creepy now that I put it that way) talk about how she planned to go to the freshman Showchoir tryouts the next day after school. Thinking maybe he could score with this chick (or at least get a blowjob out of it), the horny little eighth grade boy went, even though that very same horny little eighth grade boy had not sung since he was a horny little third grade boy. The good news: he got in, started thinking "hey, maybe I could do this for a living," pulled up his grades all through high school, checked out every book pertaining to opera and choral performing from the library, landed a job as a pizza-wielding prospector, started working weekends at the bowling alley, and is now in the running to win a full-tuition scholarship to BYU. (If he gets accepted, that is.) The bad news: he's never been more exhausted in his life, he barely spends time with his friends or sister anymore, and the smoking hot little eighth grade girl is now dating Bradley motherfucking Biggle.
Fuck.
How do I even explain that dick?
Annoying, first and foremost. He's always so fucking upbeat. But, you know, I guess I would be too, if Gueermo gave me the all the good solos.
And if I were dating Heidi.
Dammit.
I snap out of my daze when I realize Cartman just shot me.
"Heh heh heh heh heh heh! I just killed my teammate! Heh heh heh heh heh heh!"
In between the time it takes for Cartman to pause, get up off the sofa and do a victory dance to accompany his boast, a strange epiphany pops up in my head:
He's the one acting weird. Not me.
As a staunch defender of the Bro Code, I have every right to freak out about what he just told me. And while it's being contained, I am exercising said right. But Cartman, a pompous dick who would normally be shouting something like this stupid team-slaughter accomplishment from the mountaintops every chance he could, is acting, well, kind of humble. (Humble by Cartman standards, that is.)
Which means... something must have happened.
Something bad enough to crush his ego, but not so horrible it would keep him from mentioning what he did to anyone. Or maybe it was something absolutely mortifying, like all the dark secrets his "Tourettes" shenanigans uncovered. What with he and his cousins touching dicks and whatnot. Or that whole issue he has with emotions about his lack of a father — if the fatass actually has emotions.
Yeah, something even that heartless bastard flounders with, like... like what I laughingly refer to as The Kiss.
I should explain. When we were in third grade, my friends and I were involved in this stupid debate over our town flag. I, uh, wasn't personally at said debate, but according to Kyle, this is what went down: Wendy — Stan's girlfriend at the time and to this day one of Cartman's most bitter rivals — kissed Cartman in front of everyone before giving her "big political speech." After she finished speaking, he predictably started doing all kinds of silent gloating like the egomaniacal fatass he is while Stan sat at the other table staring in utter shock. I assume, since Wendy and Stan continued to date after the incident, that she talked things over with Cartman and they went back to the whole "hating each other like nature intended" thing after a while. But whatever happened, he was eerily secretive about it and never mentioned Wendy's "sexual tension" again, not even to rub in Stan's face.
In fact, Cartman was so hush-hush that I wouldn't have known any of this if Kyle hadn't told me that day Wendy beat the shit out of Cartman for making fun of breast cancer way back when. And that's another mystery I couldn't ever figure out — I don't understand why he didn't just up and run away from that fight. I personally wouldn't have, because pride dictates you show up no matter if you're the ass kicker or kickee, but it's not like such a stunt was below him. In fact, it would've been standard protocol for Cartman to "screw [us] guys, [he's] going home" and bail with the courage only the truly shameless and destitute possess.
Instead, he just kind of stood there and... took it.
Either way, that's another thing he won't talk about. And trying to make him talk about things he doesn't want to gets you a kick squah in the nuts. Or worse.
Like I said, I've pretty much taken Cartman 101. Something fishy's going on, and I intend to find out what.
"So..." I try to act like I'm not utterly disgusted as he plops back down to my right, "Alright, I gotta ask. How was it?"
"What, me killing you, or the—"
"Um, uh, that thing," I interject before he can finish the sentence.
He shrugs, then says after flipping through the game menu, "She wanted to cuddle or talk about our feelings or something, so I was like, ‘'AY! Bitch! Go make me some pie!'"
I snort. "I'm sure that turned out wonderful."
"Damn straight it did! Second best pie of my life!"
"What?"
No. Nuh-uh. This has reached a level of unbelievability I never thought possible. Even by South Park standards.
My mind is reeling, but my mouth recovers first and defaults to instant insult. "She must have put one of her turds in it, or something."
"What gives you that idea, dumbass? How the hell can a pie taste good with shit in it?"
I just go with it. The banter is lowering his guard. "Haven't you ever read The Help?"
"The fuck does a story about a buncha slave women being put in their place have to do with anything? Besides that they both have women in the kitchen where they belong?"
Ignoring the sexist and racist slander, I fiddle with my controller. "Well, Fatass, if you could get your head out of your bun oven — which apparently makes fantastic burgers using your shit, mind you — you'd know that the stuckup, bitchy, egotistical, two-faced, racist, bigoted, spoiled brat drama queen — sound familiar? — is given the most delicious chocolate pie ever and it's made out of the poor oppressed maid's magical pie-altering shit. Get with it. They even made a movie so illiterate pigheads like you could understand it."
"So, because I stay true to my social and personal values, you immediately assume that everyone after my awesomeness all those people who bend over backwards and do what I fuckin' tell them to do when I tell ‘em to do it, eff-why-eye is really just trying to feed me shit? Well... I think you're shit," he leers at me. "And the pie wasn't."
"Like you'd know. Your mom's fed you shit your whole life."
"Ay!" He barks as he pops me upside the head. "Don't talk shit about my mehm!"
I swallow the rising bile in my throat and spit out at him what this is really about. "Don't fuck your friend's sisters then, you fucking piece of shit!"
"O-oh, oh, what's this I hear on the wind with my totally awesome super hearing?" God-fucking-damn it, not the fucking Coon and Friends shit again. "My Coon sense appears to be telling me that you're just jealous!"
It takes a moment for that sentence to sink in.
"I'm sorry, what?"
His fat, smug face twists into a sneer. "You heard me, trailer trash. Or are you poor AND stupid?"
Yes, Cartman, I'm too dumb to understand how, according to your fucked logic in your fucked up little head, I'm fucking jealous when I can pretty much get anybody I want (I'm not exaggerating; I've tried it a couple times in the past and come to the conclusion that chicks dig me. Well, dug me. Some completely bogus rumor went around last year that I gave Stacy Anderson herpes, so I've kind of been off the dating circuit for a while. But that's not important to my point) while the only chick who's ever been to Cartmanland has the self-esteem of a Judy Blume protagonist.
I don't actually say any of that as he's all too willing to keep flapping his lips and share his brilliant thought process with me while drowning mine out. "You haven't gotten laid since Token's Sweet Sixteenth, which was, like, over a year ago, so obviously your balls are green with envy. Or should I say blue?"
That's it.
I know it's his thing to piss everyone off and all, and I'm usually pretty good at not letting him bother me, unlike some people I know (I'm talking to you, Kyle), but I seriously can't deal with this shit anymore.
So I let him have it.
"Okay, Fat Boy, you try working seven days a week, learning dance moves 'til you can barely walk and coming home every night to a pile of homework! This is the first day I've had off in a month, so if you haven't already deduced, Sherlock, I've been a little too busy to get my mack on!" He says nothing in return, so I continue my rant. "You know, I was gonna go to Hooters this afternoon and see if one of the girls wanted to buy this bag Kevin gave me, but you were like," I scrunch my chin to my neck and grunt, "‘noo, Kinneh! Hang out with me 'cause I have the Mass Effect 3 demo and I have to tell you how I totally banged that chick who used to babysit me! I'm so seriousleh!'"
As soon as Cartman opens his mouth to deliver some stupid retort, Liane's pleasant, singsongy voice rings out from the kitchen. "Is everything okay in there, Poopsiekins?"
After he incoherently grumbles for a second, he turns around and yells back, "Everything's fiiine, Meehmm!"
While he deals with his doting mother, my eyes travel to the couch in search of the phone his phone nestled there between two of the cushions. And before I know it, my body follows suit and suddenly the phone's in my hand and I'm making my way towards the bathroom.
"'AY!"
I gotta admit, Cartman's pretty spry for a fat guy. Maybe it's his dad's Bronco genes or something, I dunno. But anyway, he's fast enough to stop me in my tracks and yell, "The fuck're you doing with my phone?"
I figure there's no use in lying to him. "Calling Stan. Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"Wait, wait, hold on a minute, why are you being all Jew-y about this? I mean, it's not like I banged your sister or anything—"
Oh, he did NOT just go there.
"If you so much as even think about—"
He scrunches up his face in disgust. "Ew, I don't want poor people disease! And isn't Katie—"
"—Karen—"
"Isn't Katie, like, twelve or something?"
"She's fourteen! And, you know, I wouldn't put it past you. Especially not now."
We stare at each other in silence for what feels like an eternity.
Then, finally, he sighs. "I didn't want it to come down to this, Kinny, but... I don't think I have a choice."
I hear the smallest of clicks as he pulls a Swiss Army Knife from his letterman jacket.
Sunuvabitch.
It's been about three months since I died last, and I'm not really prepared to hang out with Damien today. I only have some of the shit my brother grows (which, like I just told Cartman a minute ago, I had every intention to sell at Hooters), while Damien smokes Platinum Ghost and only Platinum Ghost. And now he's going to get pissed and turn me into a platypus for the umpteenth time. Truly, the cherry on top of a fantastic fucking Wednesday.
...I gotta talk him out of this.
"Okay, dude, look, you might not think you have a choice, but you do—"
"Here we go with the choosing shit again—"
"No, no, listen. You can either kill me, which would cause a horrible bloody mess all over the floor that your mom's going to have to take time out of cooking your dinner to clean and dispose of my body in the proper fashion—"
"I have Chipotlaway," he says with a shrug. "And trashbags. I'll do it myself."
I choose to ignore him. "Or, you could put the knife away and we can discuss this in a preferably weapon-free location."
Not budging an inch, he continues in a slightly more businesslike tone. "You know, Kinny, we've known each other a long time. Long before you ditched that old parka and joined the dancing fag parade—"
"You were in it too, you know."
"For all of ten seconds! And besides," he puffs out his chest, "I'm a man now." It's like he wants me to laugh at him. "I was a child then, and you of all people should know that everyone does stupid shit when we're children."
"Such as..."
"You did Tammy Warner, I did Glee Club—"
"It just so happens that Tammy Warner is one of the nicest—"
"Oh, please. Since when does being nice protect against syphilis?"
My rage is suddenly completely redirected and amplified by the power of some absurdly large number and then jacked up on cat piss. "How do you — how do you remember that?"
"Jeez, Kinny, I'm your best friend. Why wouldn't I remember every time you kick the bucket—"
The next thirty seconds or so is a blur to me, and this is coming from the guy who remembers all four hundred and forty seven times he's died. I vaguely recall throwing him a right hook to the face, but the next thing in my memory is blood and locking the door to Cartman's bathroom as he tries his damnedest to yell the door off the hinges.
"KINNY YOU SON OF A BITCH GIMME BACK MY FUCKIN' PHONE GODDAMN IT —"
I find myself wincing before it registers that, although Cartman hit an artery when he presumably shanked me, I can still call Stan. I just have to make it quick before I bleed out. And judging from the three other times I've been stabbed in the gut, I have five, maybe ten minutes before that happens.
-outofmypie-
Finding someone in Cartman's contacts is tricky business, seeing as he never uses names, just whatever he's happened to brand you between the moment you meet him and the moment he saves your number for potential blackmailing purposes. "Black Asshole" (Token), "Covetous Jew Rat" (Kyle, on my life), and "Dick With Douchey Moustache" (probably Jason; he did Manuary last month and it wasn't pretty) are just three of the people I glance while frantically trying to find anything that sounds remotely like Stan. My number's probably under "Poor Fucking Choir Pussy" or something, but I'm kind of pressed for time right now so I don't bother looking.
Then, right between "Hippie Ho-bag Slut" (Wendy) and "Hipster Bitch Queen" (definitely Lola) are two possible candidates: "Hippie Fag Bitch" and "Hippie Pussy Sploogemaster."
Shit, it could be either of those.
"I'm gonna give you to the count of five," Cartman growls, "for you to get the FUDGE OUTTA my bathroom and gimme back my phone before I come in there and get it myself!"
Panicked, I finally decide on "Hippie Fag Bitch" and pray a thousand times that it's the correct number.
"One..."
"Two..."
The first couple of seconds between dialing and waiting for sound to come out of the phone is always the worst.
"THREE..."
"Please enjoy the music while your party is reached."
Even if this is his number, how am I even going to tell him? Oh hey, it's Kenny. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but you'll never guess who slept with—
"A punctured bicycle..."
The Smiths! Oh God, I've never been so happy to hear The Smiths!
"FOUR..."
But should I just come right out and say it? I mean, he can only puke so much until he starts dry heaving and it's all over.
"FOUR AND A HALF..."
This whole Cartman yelling thing's getting annoying as fuck. "I'm not coming out!"
And whaddaya know, it stops. For a couple of seconds, at least.
Wait...
What is he doing?
"AssHOOOOOOOOOO—"
I... I think he's trying to run through the door.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOLE!"
Something definitely hits the other side, but it doesn't give way and I assume it knocks Cartman off his feet 'cause of the loud thump I feel immediately afterwards and the fact that he's currently wailing like a cranky toddler who wants his mommy.
"KIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNYYYYYYYYYY..."
"This chaaaaarming maaaan..."
I begin to chuckle at the phone's sense of irony, but the pain sends me back into the seriousness of the situation at hand. And then it hits me that I don't even know what I'd do if it went to voicemail. You can't tell someone something like what I have to tell him in a message.
"What do you want, Fatass?"
It takes a second for me to remember I'm not on my own phone.
"...Is that how you answer all of Cartman's calls?"
"Um... yeah, pretty much. Is-is this Kenny?"
"No, it's Angelina Jolie." I don't want to alarm him any more than I have to, so I decide to go the smartass route. "I dunno if Randy told you, but... I'm your new mother now."
"Oh, ha ha ha..." Stan's totally rolling his eyes at that right now, I can tell. "So, I really hate to do this, but Craig just bitched at me for not having my phone on vibrate. Can you make it quick? And why are you on Cartman's phone? And... why is he crying?"
"Since when do you hang out with Craig?"
No, seriously, they fucking hate each other. It sucks, too, 'cause I'm friends with both of them and I have to put up with their bullshit every time the other guy comes up in conversation.
"Don't change the subject. Why are you on Cartman's phone?"
I'm totally stalling before I have to break the news. I've got a few minutes to spare. "I'm not answering that 'til you answer me."
"I asked first, dude."
"Fine. Okay. I'm on his phone 'cause mine fell in the toilet this morning—"
"Aw, man. Again?"
"Yeah." I swear to God that thing is as cursed as I am. But I need to get to the point because my lightheadedness is letting me know I don't have as much time as I thought and sooner or later Cartman's gonna find a way in here. "You might wanna be sitting down right now."
"Why?"
Cartman's indecipherable wailing suddenly increases by several decibels. "Okay, no time to explain. Cartman... may have fucked Shelly."
Silence on the other end.
Total utter silence.
No puking, no screaming, no—
"YOU BETTER BE THANKING YOUR LUCKY STREET RAT STARS I CAN'T GET THROUGH THIS DOOR—"
Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Stan's gonna come over here and he and Cartman are going to kill each other off and then every time I go to Hell after this I'm going to have to deal with both of them bickering—
"H-Hello? Dude? You there?"
I didn't know I was holding my breath until I let it out in a sigh of relief. "Yeah, man, I'm still here."
"You were breaking up on that last part, dude. Say it again?"
"Uh..." Maybe it's the blood loss, but the dizziness is beginning to become unbearable and I lose all my resolve to muddle into this shitstream any further. Fuck you, Cartman. You win this one. "Nevermind, I'll tell you tomorrow. So, why are you hanging out with Craig?"
"I told you, I'm not. There's this thing in the auditorium and—"
Stan doesn't finish the rest of his sentence because it sounds like there's some kind of a scuffle going on on his end. I dunno.
But... why would he be in the auditorium? With... Craig?
Are they fucking?
Psh, no. Craig and I have had many a stoned conversation on the topic of human sexuality and the guy is so adamant on staying out of the melodramatic high school romance it's ridiculous. I mean, I know it's his choice and everything, but the girls would be all over him if he ever decided to change his mind between now and graduation.
Shit, I would be all over that.
Yes homo.
"Hey, um..." Well, that's a voice I immediately recognize. "Cartman..."
"Kenny," I correct.
"Kenny..." Bebe says as if I had just told her I was Gregor Samsa. She has a good reason for that, though. But more on that later. "Stan can't talk right now."
Click.
Well.
I technically did tell him, right?
"He didn't believe you, did he?" Cartman bellows. "Ha!"
While Fatty Boom Balatty celebrates his latest victory, I slide down the back of the door and try to spend my last couple of minutes alive figuring out why Stan, Craig and Bebe would be in the auditorium together.
Shit...
Is he—
Is he in—
When he realizes I haven't tried to argue with him, Cartman knocks on the door and asks, "You dead yet, man?"
"No," I croak. "'S just a flesh wound."
"Well, I mean, if you want, you could unlock the door or something so I can, like, put you out of your misery."
"Ugh. Fine."
I somehow manage to swing my arm up and twist the doorknob until the button in the middle comes out. Everything's starting to get a blurry edge around it, but when Cartman swings open the door, I notice his piggy face is about as red as his jacket.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," he says, attempting to sidestep the puddle of blood. "Seriously, Kinny, could you do me a favor the next time I stab you and not bleed over everyth—"
"Cartman?"
I must sound especially gruesome 'cause he drops the sarcastic act mid-sentence. "Yeah, dude?"
"How come... how come you never told me you remembered?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. 'Cause it was funny?"
I should have expected that answer. "Funny how?"
"Uh, I guess seeing you try to explain it to Stan and Kahl all those times was just..." he chuckles. "It was hilarious."
"Fuck you, dude."
"Don't make me sue your ass." He looks dead serious. "And, for the record, I am quite satisfied in that department, thank you very much."
I don't even bother to hide how disgusting I think that last part is, but curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, "So are you gonna see her again?"
"No," He snorts. "She fuckin' called me ‘Larry' the second time around—"
"Aw-aww..." I definitely could have done without knowing that, but I guess it's good that Stan won't have to put up with Cartman coming to his house for dinner every time Shelly's home from school.
"The fuck did Drunkey McAsswipe say when you told him, anyway?"
I guess now's as good a time as ever to quit answering his questions.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, Kinny! ...Kinny?!" Cartman kneels down and starts shaking me by the shoulders. "Don't you die on me, you bastard, I asked you a question!"
"I..." Two can play the overdramatic near-death game. "I..."
"Come on, now! Speak!" I feel him smack me across the face, but I'm already in too much pain for my face to hurt.
"Drama... Club..." I whisper.
"‘Rosebud'?"
"I said," I collect my last ounce of strength, "I think Stan's in... Drama... Club."
And with that, I pretend to pass out.
It's a wonder I'm still conscious, considering I'm due to give up the ghost any moment now.
"NOOOOOOO-OOO-OOO-OOO!"
Oh, come on, Cartman, you're not really crying. You can't be.
...Can he?
"I'll avenge you," he says between histrionic sobs. "I-I'll do it. I'll join those fucking fags and stop them from brainwashing him."
Oh my God. I'm not even sure if I'm near-death-dreaming or just delirious because this is absolutely absurd. Even for Cartman.
I'm halfway tempted to stop him right there and tell him not to fuck with the Drama Club on my behalf (mainly because Craig's one of my go-to buyers), but I think I'm on the verge of passing out for real, so I just think, "fuck it" and don't. Also, I know that whatever Cartman's just schemed up in the last couple of seconds probably pushed him off the slippery slope and convinced him to instigate shit more that any illusion of vengeance ever could alone.
Everything's starting to get a little brighter.
I wonder if I can find Emily Bronte and ask her some questions before I find myself awake in bed tomorrow morning. Seriously, what the fuck is up with that Heathcliff guy?
Chapter 3: Both Alike In Dignity: Wendy
I should not have carpooled this morning.
As much as I love getting some fresh air and having an incredible view of the mountains and the oncoming sunset, the weather's becoming a little too cold for my taste. The conclusion that I should have rode my bike or driven myself becomes more obvious when my messenger bag starts to feel as if I had filled it to the top with bricks and the wind begins to blow so hard it presses up against me as if it were the one trying to keep warm.
I am most likely just going to have to suck it up and deal with this exercise in discomfort for another twenty minutes, although my mind only wants to add to my souring mood; it keeps thinking of all the things I could get done in that amount of time had I only realized walking was a bad idea sooner. I could check my email, go on Facebook, do the rest of the Calculus homework I didn't finish while I was at the Drama Club thing Bebe made me go to... the possibilities are endless.
As to why I cannot simply just call anyone to come and pick me up, Kyle and Becca (who I normally carpool with) had Jazz Band until four, Stan disappeared as soon as the meeting was over, and Token lives on the opposite side of town so I couldn't ask anyone but Bebe, who told me she was riding home with Craig, who didn't have enough room in his car for six people (I think he was taking his sister's friend and Clyde home as well, but I'm not entirely sure; Craig and I don't particularly care for each other so he could have been lying just to keep me out of his hair). And then Mother texted me right after the meeting ended saying she and Father "were going to see Joe Biden speak in Denver and would be back around ten or eleven tonight, depending on if they go out for drinks with some of their friends." And then I remembered I had to work on signs for the Environmental Club's Eco-Friendly Bake Sale happening next week which kept me there until one of the evening janitors shooed me off.
I attempt to mentally salvage the situation. The meeting wasn't a total waste of time, considering Token helped me go over the Weierstrauss substitution, but I could have been working on it in the comfort of my own home (with a nice steaming mug of Earl Grey to boot) and not distracted by twenty or thirty people having conversations around me.
Well, that strategy of looking for the silver lining just went to shit.
Okay, Testaburger, time to focus. You can finish everything and hopefully get in a few hours of sleep if you just manage your time right.
Here's what's on the to-do list for when I get home:
1.) See if any of my scholarship information has come in;
2.) Finish that Calculus worksheet;
3.) Reread the last three chapters of Wuthering Heights and make notes on what might be discussed in class tomorrow;
4.) Find something for dinner;
5.) Do Latin homework (text Kyle or Token or Becca if I need any help);
6.) Type up what has to be addressed at the Student Council meeting tomorrow afternoon; and
7.) Everything else I've forgotten to put on this list.
I don't remember the last time I didn't have a bazillion irons in the fire since entering high school. This was a huge change, considering all I did in middle school was help out with the Yearbook and campaign for breast cancer awareness and softball and violin lessons and sell the fifth-most amount of Girl Scout cookies in the state. And Battle of the Books. And I was Junior Beta Club president. But that was only because for some weird reason we didn't have a Student Council. Which doesn't exactly make sense, seeing as we had one in elementary school.
A sudden gust of wind interrupts my thoughts and blasts my beret off of my head. So, after checking to see that nothing is coming on either side of the road, I sprint across the asphalt after the damned thing. The wind snatches it away when I'm less than five inches from it. The weather is really not to my liking, as it starts some strange game of Monkey in the Middle with me and my hat and the other cold front coming in. I'm the Monkey and I get so frustrated that I stop paying attention to the possibility of traffic and just focus on my hat.
No matter how close I come to it, it blows even further away. This is such an unnecessary distraction and I'm completely incensed that the weather has the outright gall to hold me up longer than it already has.
During my sixth rampage across the road, I almost collide head on with a blue minivan.
"'AY! Get outta the goddamn road!"
God, it's him.
My day could not possibly get any worse.
HOOOOOOOOONK.
I'm too stunned to move. I'm simply frozen in front of those headlights like a frightened animal.
But why am I so shocked, though? I mean, this is a town with a population of less than a thousand people and it's not like I don't see him on a regular basis at school. We even have the same Distance Learning period together, so I'm stuck in the Computer Lab with him almost daily, assuming he doesn't cut class like the lazy slime he is.
He rolls down the passenger side window and attempts to stick his head out. Before I can manage to say something about the massive shiner on his face, he takes one look at me and shouts, "Move!"
"You almost killed me!" I unfreeze to spit out a retort.
"So? Be fuckin' grateful you get to spend another day eating granola or smoking grass or walking into oncoming traffic or whatever the fuck you hippies do nowadays"
"I didn't do it on purpose, you oleaginous imbecile!"
"Someone's been reading their SAT book —"
"For your information," I add, stomping over to the window, "my hat just up and decided to fly off into the wind, so, if you please, I have a plethora of better things to do besides stand here and listen to you insinuate that I smoke marijuana!"
"No way!" He yells, even though I'm about a foot away from him. "My brakes are probably all fucked up from stopping so suddenly to avoid your fuckin' bitch ass, and you're paying for 'em!"
"Like hell I am!"
"Sorry you're gonna have to spend your allowance on something other than grass this week, but..." he puts his emergency brake on and steps out of the vehicle.
"For the last time, Eric, I do not smoke pot and you know it!"
"Yeah, well," he snorts and changes tactics, "only 'cause you're chicken."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're a chicken! You won't smoke 'cause you're afraid it'll ruin your reputation!"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. I-won't-smoke-because-only-hippies-and-burnouts-like-my-own-best-friend-do-it, but I'm not a fucking chicken! You, on the other hand..." As I fling my index finger at him in anger I arbitrarily realize he and I are the exact same height. "Seen the Jewpacabra lately?"
He gives a little nervous laugh, but bounces right back into his unpleasant demeanor. "I dare you."
"Dare me to what?"
"You know..." He leans in a little and the corners of his mouth twist upward. "Smoke."
I scoff. "I have better things to do, Cartman. Goodbye."
I get about ten steps away before he mutters, "You're such a fuckin' chicken. I bet you won't even, like, steal a car!"
Not even pausing to stop, I make a U-turn and whisper "watch me" in his ear before I get into the driver's seat, lock the door, put on the seatbelt, undo the emergency brake and floor the gas pedal.
You have to understand — I have known this asshole since elementary school and he has always been such a complete piece of shit to me that I can't even bring myself to categorize him with normal people. All it takes is one jibe, one little jeer and suddenly I just have this need to punch him in the face or show him how much of a piece of trash he is. Eric Cartman makes my blood boil like no other and, regrettably, my impulse control is cut in half whenever he is entered into the equation. Honestly, I am normally not so reckless.
Cartman yells what I can only assume is some choice profanity, but I roll the window back up so I don't have to hear it. After checking the rearview mirror (and sticking up my middle finger as he attempts to catch up with me), I switch on the radio. Of course he has his iPod set on some hideously obnoxious '80s arena rock, so I unplug it, throw the iPod in the backseat, turn the station to NPR and pump up the volume.
I pass the abandoned BP station before it dawns on me that I left all my stuff behind.
There's a grey Oldsmobile creeping up in the opposite lane, so I can't just turn around to go get it. I find the nearest half-empty parking lot, park in the most secluded area and listen to All Things Considered until he comes huffing and puffing around the corner of the Photo Dojo.
"You... Gimme back my..." He stops to catch his breath, then points and screeches, "You fucking bitch!" He slowly trudges over to me with my stuff, sweaty, enraged and ready to kill.
I return nothing but a smug smile of victory.
"First I had my phone taken from me, and now some Goddamn fuckin' hippie stole my car and... turned it to fuckin' liberal talk radio!"
And, without warning, he bursts into tears.
"I just want my caaaar baa-a-a-a-ack!"
I'm more disgusted than anything, so I simply reply with a "Nope."
"But-but Wiiinnnndddyyyyy..." he starts to whine.
"No means no, Fatass!"
That only makes him blubber more intensely. "I-I'll do anything! I'll leave you alone! I'll" He pauses. "I'll give you a ride!"
Okay, I'll admit a ride would be nice, but I'm halfway tempted to decline strictly on principle.
"Let me get this straight. By a ride, you mean an actual ride to my house and not the Peppermint Hippo?"
"Yes, okay? Now quit giving me ideas and get out of the driver's seat before I change my mind!"
I fold my arms. "How do I know you're not going to just drive away once I get out?"
"Well, for one thing, it's dropped about five degrees in the past ten minutes, and it's probably going to get colder. I mean, it tends to do that at night," he adds dryly.
I quirk an eyebrow at him to show that I do not see where he is going with this.
"Seriously, I wouldn't even wish freezing to death on Kahl. And secondly, I'm not you."
That prick! "I took your car to prove a point, not to be a selfish asshole!"
"Well, you proved it, alright? Now get out!"
"How polite," I snort as I open the door and hop out of the seat. "You're a real gentleman."
"I know," he says without a hint of irony in his voice.
While I'm on my way to the other side, that motherfucker has the fucking nerve to move his foot off the brake pedal. I whirl on him with a face that surely resembles that of ManBearPig.
"I was kidding! It was a joke! I wouldn't actually—"
"Give me my stuff!" I shout as I snatch my bag from between the driver and passenger seat.
"Windy —"
"I don't wanna hear it!" I shriek. I can feel a migraine coming on, I just know it. "I just wanna go home and all you want to do is scare me half to death—"
"Look, I'm sorry, okay?"
"SHUT UP!"
"If I'd known you were going to act like this, I wouldn't have done it."
"Oh, bull-fucking-shit!"
"Well, okay, yeah, I probably still would have done it, but..." he sighs and lowers his voice. "I feel really bad about it, alright?"
Neither of us say anything for a couple of seconds until it hits me that Cartman of all people is trying to apologize and I begin to laugh.
Hard.
"Oh, God," he says, which only makes me giggle harder for some unapparent reason. "I've done it. She's finally cracked."
"You don't have feelings!" I blurt out, then cover my mouth as if I were a second grader who had just swore in front of a school official.
There's another uncomfortable silence as Cartman and I stare at each other. He doesn't get angry, for once. He merely sighs and says, "Get in the car, Windy. It's—" He checks the digital thermometer embedded above the rearview mirror, "it's fuckin' 31 degrees out there and you lost your hat, so..."
I'm done being tenacious for the night. The sooner I'm able to get home, the better. Even if I have to spend the next five minutes of my life in the vehicle of someone I'd like to see hanging off the edge of a cliff seconds away from falling into an ocean of piranhas with lasers attached to their heads.
So I get in.
I sincerely hope I do not regret this decision.
"Where's my phone?" He mutters.
"It's it's somewhere back there in the seat, but can we please just not listen to anything right now?" I place my bag in my lap and bury my face in my arms. "My head hurts."
"Fine, whatever..."
~
The noisy crackle of a speaker of some sort awakens me a little groggy and disoriented from my impromptu nap. I'm not exactly sure where I am, but all I know is I'm too tired to look up and I swear I just had the weirdest dream that Cartman gave me a ride home...
"Thank you for choosing Burger King, how may I help you?"
Burger King? This must be one of those lucid dreams. There isn't a Burger King around for miles...
"Uh, yes, I'd like three Double Whoppers, all with cheese and no pickles or mayo, an order of onion rings, a large Dr. Pepper, and..." Cartman reaches over, shakes my shoulder and whispers, "Psst, d'you want anything?"
Oh. This is a lucid nightmare. It has to be. I cannot be here.
But I am. And this is real.
Fine. I'd better just go along with it I'm too tired to fight anymore.
"Um... a cherry Icee, I guess," I mumble.
"Two cherry Icees," Cartman shouts to the drive-thru speaker.
As the employee on the other end gives the absurdly high amount and tells him to drive up to the second window, I futilely attempt to get a signal on my phone.
"I am only going to ask this once, Eric. Where the fuck are we?"
"Windy, relax, I'm gonna take you home. I was just getting hungry."
"So you drove an hour to some Burger King in the middle of nowhere?"
"It was more like thirty minutes, 'cause the speed limit's for pussies, but yeah. This is the closest one."
"Which is in...?" I ask.
"Silverthorne."
"Silverthorne?!"
"It's the closest one—"
"Yeah, you already said that!" I snap.
"What else am I supposed to say? Sorry I wanted Burger King?"
"You could have waited!" Before I can stop it, I'm gritting my teeth and I feel angry tears start to well up in my eyes. "You could have waited five more minutes until you dropped me off to come here!"
"Well, excuse me for trying to be considerate!"
"Um... sir?"
The two of us are startled by the clerk at the window.
"So do you wanna just give me the money for your Icee and I can pay all of it with my card?" Cartman asks.
"Yeah. Okay." I'm a little taken aback that he doesn't automatically assume I'm willing to let him pay for me outright, but... honestly? It's kind of nice that he didn't. Most of the guys I hang out with try to pay for me when we go out to eat and I get rightfully mad because men are basically conditioned to do that by society.
It doesn't mean I forgive him for this shitty fucking situation. I shouldn't have tempted fate by complaining about wanting a ride home.
I reach into my bag, find a five dollar bill inside my wallet and hand it to Cartman.
"If you think I'm giving you change back..."
"I know you're not."
"Okay. Good. You're not stupid like Kahl, who keeps a fuckin' tab on every goddamn cent I owe him." The clerk hands him the Icees, which he uses to knock off two of the empty fast food cups occupying the cup holders and subsequently replaces their spot with them. I immediately grab my own. "According to him, I owe him three thousand, nine hundred and fifty four bucks."
"Seriously?"
"And eighty three cents." He puts the bag holding his meal in his lap and places his Dr. Pepper where my Icee was. "But what can I say? We all had some crazy shit going on when we were kids."
We're silent most of the ride back. Cartman finds some country station to listen to, which I don't usually mind, but it's the fact that he starts singing along that gets me annoyed as all get out.
He sees the expression on my face and asks, "Aren't we the mood killer?"
"Ugh, I have a billion different things I ought to be doing right now and... and I'm stuck with you. Of course I'm going to be a mood killer."
"You don't have to be who your parents want you to be, you know."
"Are you just saying that so I don't contend with your plans for world domination?"
"No, I'm being seriously. Pushy parents are the fucking worst!"
"Like your mom's ever been pushy," I scoff. "And actually, my parents wanted me to go to CSU for a couple of years and transfer, but I told them no."
"Why?"
"Because," I say through gritted teeth, "It's been my dream to go to an Ivy League school since I was four!"
He doesn't speak again until after we pass the old familiar South Park sign. "I've always kind of... okay, don't fuckin' tell anyone I said this, but... I've always kind of admired how outspoken you are."
I snort. "What? You're, like, fifty billion times more outspoken than I am."
"Well, I mean, I just..." He gets a pink tinge to his cheeks. "I mean, of course I am... but, y'know, most of that is just me saying what's on my mind at all times because I'm awesome like that, but you..." he shrugs. "You're better at it than me."
This is fishy. Too fishy. "What do you want?"
"What do you mean, what do I want?" He says defensively. "Can't I just compliment someone without trying to get anything out of it?"
"No."
"Yes, I can!"
"No you can't!"
"Bitch, you don't know me!"
"Don't call me a bitch, Fatass!"
"Don't call me Fatass, you fuckin'—"
"Oh, lemme guess, the next word in that sentence was going to be "hippie" or "bitch" or some variation thereof, am I right?"
"Wrong!" The tires squeal as Cartman pulls over to the side of the road. "Okay, I was going to ask if you knew when tryouts for that dumb play is, but that was the only thing I was trying to do, I swear!"
"I think this is close enough for me, thank you," I say as I unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door and practically leap out of my seat.
The wind isn't as bad as it was, but there has been a definite decrease in temperature between the last time I was out here and now. I march down the sidewalk, anticipating Cartman to come driving up begging me to get my ass in here before I freeze to death like he did before, but he doesn't. I think he decided to drive the other way.
That asshole.
I should probably let Mother know I'm just now getting to our street — I DID IT AGAIN.
MY PHONE WAS IN MY BAG AND I LEFT MY BAG IN CARTMAN'S VAN.
SHIT.
Thankfully Cartman only dropped me off about three blocks away. I dash down the sidewalk in the direction of my house and before I know it I'm searching for the extra key underneath the flowerpot on our porch.
As soon as I find the cordless phone on its base in Father's office, I hear an extremely loud HOOOOOOOONK coming from the street outside.
"'AY! I'm not hauling around your shit in my van for the next month waiting for you to come and get it, so get out here!"
Ever the mannerly fellow, is he not?
"Um... thanks for the Icee, I guess," I mumble when I put my arm and head through the strap on my bag.
"You never did tell me when those auditions are," he says.
"Ugh, fine, since you're probably going to torture somebody else..." I rack my brains trying to remember what Bebe had said previously. The only thing I remember from that time is focusing on my Calculus and her saying they were looking for an advisor. "I want to say... Tuesday? But you can't hold me to that."
"Ah. Alright. Well..." He gives me a little salute. "see you in German."
"I'm not taking German."
"Well, I am, so—"
"I'm taking Women's Studies—"
"Of course you are," Cartman says, rolling his eyes. "Well..."
I give a slightly nervous chuckle and say, "Yeah. Bye."
God, what a fucking night. Maybe I can do everything on that to-do list before three in the morning this time.
Chapter 4: Remember Thy Swashing Blow: Bebe
Of course she only lets me know she's going to be gone the very day she's leaving. The exact moment, more like. Even worse, I get the text in the middle of 8th period while Craig and I are elbow-deep in the faculty section of the yearbook, trying to find some worthy adult to help us out of the cesspool we've found ourselves in.
Goin out w/friends bb sun nite left $50 on counter ilu
If this message came from any other mom from any other family, I'd shrug it off as some futile last attempt of a middle-aged sad sack to reclaim her youth before her biological clock stops completely. But this is my mom we're talking about. She's acted like a teenage girl my entire life. And I assume all my sisters' lives as well.
I stare at the text long enough for Craig to take notice and say, "Dude. Come on."
He's right, though. Now isn't the time to stew over my mommy issues. "Okay, um... what about Mrs. Cummings?" I ask.
"Never had her."
"You wouldn't have, she teaches Gov. But she's really nice—"
"We're not looking for nice. We're looking for someone who can either get shit done or stay out of our way while we get shit done."
"Well, when you put it like that, maybe we should consider a few previously unexplored options." I motion towards our substitute, asleep at his desk and reeking of booze. Actually, it's a wonder the office hasn't caught wind and fired the guy yet. Yes, there's always that one day a week where he swears off drinking, but he uses it to give us tests on stuff we were supposed to be covering but didn't because he fell asleep after putting on the Mel Gibson version of Hamlet for the thousandth time. And then he gets pissed when we fail the tests because we didn't study. I mean, it would be an entirely different thing if he told us which chapters in the textbook we needed to do/read/study/look over/cover on our own so he doesn't look like a failure of a human being and we didn't look like a completely mindless teenage wasteland, but he doesn't. So nobody's happy and we all look incompetent.
Craig's facial expression doesn't change at my proposal, but one of his overly bushy eyebrows rises slightly higher than the other. "No. It's already too much of a hassle to ask him to stay after for Drama Club meetings."
Blackmailing him is the only way we're able to make him do anything, and getting him to cooperate's a pain in the ass to begin with. If it weren't for the fact that they'd probably cut the program as soon as they found out about his fondness of the drink, I'd go to the office myself and tell them why we need a new teacher. So, sadly, that isn't an option.
"Yeah, I guess you're right." I purse my lips. "Hey, there's always Mr. Meryl!"
"He tried to cut off my balls once, so I'm gonna have to veto," Craig deadpans.
"Oh."
"Hey, guys, what's up?"
We both look up to see Jenny sit down in the desk next to Craig.
He narrows his eyes and the accusation begins. "I thought you were coming yesterday."
She stares downward and mumbles something like, "I had an appointment."
"Another one?"
I flick Craig behind the ear.
"What is it with you and violence this decade?" He whines, nursing his ear.
"And Lola texted me wanting to hang out after, too, and I know how you guys feel about her..."
It's not that we hate her.
Okay, it's not that I hate her.
Lola is... how do I put it? The kind of person who strings coat hangers together and calls it "art." She won't talk to you unless you use words like bourgeois and ennui, and her and her little group are pretty much the Goth kids but with a better fashion sense and a "vegan lifestyle." In my opinion she's annoying and totally full of herself, but I can tolerate her in very small doses. Craig can't stand her.
With that being said, though, that doesn't mean we don't like Jenny. Jenny's cool. We just don't like her friends.
"Oh." Craig nods slightly. "Good call."
"You are coming Tuesday, though, right?" I ask.
"Yes. Definitely." She takes her iPod out of her pocketbook and asks, "How did yesterday go?"
"Good turnout. Really good turnout. Maybe... twenty people?" I turn to Craig. "That sound about right to you?"
"I dunno."
"Wow."
"And Dougie's been out sick, so the only members who showed up were us, Ruby and Karen."
"And the Doom and Gloom Twins," Craig adds with a side-eye towards the two Goth kids hanging out near the board. "Like they helped at all..."
"And Kip. Kip was there, too," Kip Drordy added from the back corner.
The three of us exchange weirded-out glances. When the hell he sneaked in here, I'll never know. None of us will. He's that creepy.
"Sooo..." Jenny says, breaking the awkward silence. "What are you guys up to?"
"Trying to pick teachers to ask to direct."
"Ah. Well, why don't you just ask Mr. Tenorman?"
"Because food or drunk isn't allowed in the auditorium."
"I was trying to tell Craig, like, a minute ago, that we should at least put him at the bottom of the list in case absolutely no one's willing to help us," I explain to Jenny.
Craig scoffs. "I will personally find Mr. Slave and drag his chapless ass back here before I ask that dick."
"Don't you think that's a little unreasonable?"
"Oh, that's fucking rich," he raises his voice. "All he does is sleep and yell at us to shut up, and I'm the unreasonable one. That makes perfect sense."
Oh, goody, he's in one of those moods. "That's not what I meant."
"Well, you know, by all means, explain, 'cause I'm not exactly sure what you meant."
"Um, Jenny," I try to say as nicely as possible because I don't want her to feel threatened in any way, "Can you excuse us for a moment?"
I don't even wait for an answer before I hop up and drag Craig over to the Asian-style room divider (a remnant of the Mr. Slave era) set up in the opposite corner.
"Look," I hiss, "if you don't lower your voice, Tenorman is gonna wake up and start screaming at us again. Do you want that?"
"No!" Craig yells.
"Shh!"
"Sorry," he mutters. "Well, can you see why I don't want him at rehearsals now? He's just gonna act like he acts now if — God help us — we have to use him."
"Well..." I try to think. "We can set him up in the guys' dressing room with a sleeping bag and earmuffs."
"Do you know how goddamn ridiculous that sounds?"
"I'm just saying, if, not when. There has to be at least one teacher around here who's had some theatre experience..."
"Hey, can we go back over there? Jenny might think we're talking about her."
"Oh... yeah. Okay."
The thing about Jenny is she's been in and out of mental institutions since we were ten. She's gotten a lot better over the years, but she still has the occasional paranoid episode. Craig once jokingly told me that one of his major life goals is get her and Tweek so high they try to out-conspiracy one another, but, then again, his idea of a "laugh-out-loud comedy" is Two Girls, One Cup, so it's completely plausible that he isn't joking about that goal in the slightest.
"Are you guys done making out now?" Jenny asks as we sit back down in our desks.
"Are you done insinuating that Bebe and I have feelings for each other?" Craig retorts.
"Never."
To be honest, I didn't know Opposite-Gaydar was a thing before I got to know Jenny. I just thought people either had it or they didn't, but hers is just... wrong. So wrong.
In the three years that Craig and I have considered each other friends (being the third-wheel on all my "dates" with Clyde during middle school doesn't count; there's a difference between snarking at and snarking with), he doesn't really talk about girls other than to comment on their questionable choices in fashion. And only on the off-occasion where I hang out with him, Clyde, and Token together (mainly at Tweak Bros or Wingstreet), the topic will sooner or later be brought up. Token's... well, he's pretty much the upper class African-American Ted Mosby. Sure, he'll listen to Clyde brag about that chick from Middle Park he had sex with over the weekend, but he won't hesitate to put in his own two cents about how he just wants to find his soulmate and settle down. Clyde, on the other hand, is Marshall Eriksen with Barney Stinson's libido and Neville Longbottom's knack for getting made fun of. Mostly by Craig or Cartman, who both pretty much make fun of everyone equally. The only real difference is Cartman's a borderline sociopath and Craig has this problem where he sounds completely dull and serious about everything all the time but really isn't. I mean, sometimes it's even tough for Jimmy to tell whether Craig's being sarcastic or not, and he gets, like, every single joke ever.
Wait, what was I talking about?
Oh, yeah. I'm like 90 percent sure Craig's gay.
And not in the "man, this English homework is so fucking gay" way, either. I'm talking total closeted homosexual. Like Tom Cruise, but taller. And not as obvious. And, like, completely different from Craig in every single way possible. Okay. Bad analogy. Shit.
So he hasn't actually said, "I like hot throbbing cocks in and around my mouth," but, I mean, he dresses well, and one of our favorite things to do together is to get Cinnabon at the mall and laugh our asses off at the twelve year olds who run around thinking they're hot shit. And then we usually go look at shoes. So, like, I'm not totally out of line for coming to this conclusion, am I?
Either way, I don't like him "like that." And I doubt he likes me "like that."
"What about Mr. Garris—?"
"No," Craig and I interrupt at the same time.
"God, no."
"He'd turn it into..." I wrinkle my nose trying to think of something accurate to finish the sentence with.
Craig does it for me."...Romeo and His Super Sexy Gardner Julio."
Jenny and I have to cover our mouths to stop from cracking up so loud.
"Oh my God," I manage to say in between gasps of air, "can you imagine all the giant wooden penises we'd have to build during tech?"
Craig's having a hard time keeping a straight face himself. "We'll just borrow some from the Gleeks. I'm sure they won't mind."
Jenny slaps her desk in a momentary lapse of judgment, which causes our lovely substitute to rear his ugly head.
"Shut... up..."
The entire classroom goes silent and the look on Jenny's face screams "bring me my brown pants."
(I can't believe I just made that joke. Wow. I really need to quit hanging out with Craig all the time.)
Tenorman gives a little cough before he starts up again. "If I have to tell you guys to pipe down again, so help me, I will write up every last one of you little shits! I mean it!"
It's so quiet I hear the heater begin to run in the vent twenty feet away from where I'm sitting.
Satisfied that he's instilled the right amount of fear in our hearts, he calms down a little. "Now, go do whatever," Tenorman slurs with a wave of his hand. "Just be quiet about it."
Craig's face is as expressionless as always, but he pops up and starts to walk over to the teacher's desk. He's planning something.
"What are you doing?" I mouth to him.
"Um, Mr. Tenorman?" Craig says in a low voice.
"What do you want, Tucker?"
He flips him the bird.
"Was that quiet enough for you?"
~
Craig doesn't come back from Mr. Mackey's office, so after the bell rings for us to go home, Jenny and I go out in search of him. That is, we search until we run into Lola in the Commons Area and she will not shut up about Art Club. She just chatters incessantly about how "some of the people in it have no talent at all" and "they don't really get it" and "how they eat meat and have no respect for the real creative aura in the world around us" and something else that I can't identify as English. I try to get a convenient excuse to leave wedged into the conversation edgewise before I lose my mind, but it's not until I spot Wendy coming down the main staircase that I'm rescued. Jenny says she'll catch up with me later.
"Why were you talking to Lola?" Wendy asks, more confused than anything. "I thought you hated her."
"Hate's too strong a word. It's more of a cross between ‘actively dislike' and ‘don‘t give a fuck.'"
"Oh. Right." Wendy looks at her watch. "Well, I have Student Council. I'll talk to you on Facebook or something when I get home."
Before she disappears, I shout, "Do you wanna do something this weekend?"
She turns back. "Maybe. I mean, semifinals are Saturday, so maybe tomorrow night or Sunday—"
"Oh. I... forgot." Honestly, I don't know which semifinals she's talking about. It could be anything, really. Sports? Debate? Hot dog eating competition? Who knows with Wendy. She's always doing something but nobody can definitively say what all she involves herself in.
"Yeah, well, see ya!" She runs off towards the History hallway.
Wendy and I have been best friends since we were in pre-school, and this chaotic whirlwind called high school is the second time in my life where we've started to grow apart. The first time was in fourth grade, when I started to... develop earlier than most of the other girls. It was a combination of her jealousy and the fact that my boobs started conspiring and telling me what to do that tore us apart.
No, really, that wasn't a metaphor. My boobs actually talk. They still do on occasion. Mostly in the middle of the night when they think I can't hear them. They want me to go the way of my mom and my sisters, which is the way I've been trying to avoid: excessive partying, breaking boys' hearts simply because they can, and just making incredibly stupid and shitty decisions with their lives. But somehow they've all come out smelling like a rose on the other end simply because of their looks.
For example: My mom, who cheats on my dad constantly and tells me that I can't multiply 6 times 8 because "they're two different numbers," teaches middle school. Middle school math. My eldest sister Amanda, who legitimately believes homosexuality is a terminal disease, married her high school sweetheart and is currently pregnant with her fourth child and no way to afford it. And my other sister Ashley, who did pretty well in high school but partied her way through college, does photography for this advertising firm in Tokyo. And yet she doesn't even know what the aperture is. Like, that's SLR 101 right there. Ugh.
Such is the curse of the women of my clan. And back when my boobs first started to grow, I didn't know I needed to fight them. It wasn't until I almost tried to kill Wendy over some dumb list we made to get free shoes that I realized that a bitchy bimbo wasn't who I am or who I wanted to be. I was able to make amends with Wendy after that, but even then, due to my busty advisors and familial examples, I decided to keep on acting the part of a "stupid spoiled whore" for four years. I was cheerleading captain, even though I secretly hated it. I dated and used Clyde, who was (and still is) a total sweetheart and definitely not as stupid as everyone seems to think.
And I partied.
Middle school parties aren't the horribly laughable excuses of a get-together usually shown on afterschool specials and ABC Family melodramas. There was some crazy shit going on then. It was kind of like the movie Thirteen only we were all twelve and our lives didn't totally spiral out of control as a result of our actions. Well, mine didn't. Annie's parents grounded her for coming home from my house high as a kite on cough syrup one night, and before we knew it she was shipped off to some weird religious boot camp in Wyoming for three months. When she came back it was like she was an entirely different person. A Stepford Annie, if you will.
But anyway, Wendy, Red, and Annie and I were what you'd call the middle school "popular clique." We were all planning on joining the Choir before I came down with mono and missed that entire month of school where high school registration took place. And Choir members have to take a certain class. When I could finally interact with the outside world again, I found out Mr. Mackey had carelessly put me in all the electives that weren't already filled: Computer Science (which apparently consists of properly turning a computer on and off, as if we didn't already know how), first period Gym/Health, and Theatre Arts. I pleaded and pleaded with him to give me another chance, but neither he nor Gueermo would let me switch classes or audition. This was when Annie, the only one of us four who did get in (Red got rejected and Wendy didn't have time for it on her schedule) started hanging out with the other girls who were accepted: Heidi Turner, her stepsister Sally, Millie Neal, that whole crowd. I became depressed. I quit cheerleading. I broke up with Clyde. All I did was sit in my room and watch Terrance and Phillip reruns.
Then, one night, I heard them again.
"You must destroy them," the left one said. "You must be the alpha female!"
"No!"
"DESSSSTTTRRROOOOYYYY..."
It was then that I realized I don't have to be the person my boobs want me to be, nor do I have to be anything anyone expects me to be, other than myself. That sounds kind of lame, I know, but it was a significant turning point in my life.
I started jogging to the library every day and I quit going to the tanning bed. I still cared about my appearance to an extent, but if I woke up late I wasn't going to spend half an hour picking out an outfit and doing my hair and makeup like I did in middle school. And Clyde and I dated on and off for another two years, but we ended up calling it quits for good last summer.
It turns out Mr. Mackey putting me in Theatre Arts was a blessing in disguise. Acting was, and still is, a perfect outlet to vent all my frustrations with my life. And if I had joined the Choir, I would still be secretly hating my life, and I wouldn't have gotten to know Craig and Jenny and Mr. Slave.
But Wendy... Wendy has always been there for me even if I didn't do all those "great things" my "friends" and family expected me to do. And now that we're drifting apart... I mean, Craig is awesome, but he definitely isn't Wendy.
(And he has a low tolerance for listening to me gripe about my period. It doesn't mean I don't still do it just to gross him out.)
I decide now is a perfect time to text my mom back while I make my way over to the office.
Okay. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. (:
I am so busy feigning nonchalance that I accidentally run into—
"Oh!" My initial reaction is shock, which quickly turns into anger because Kenny "I have herpes but whoops I forgot to mention that fact before I ate you out last summer" McCormick is gawking back at me. "Um, my bad—"
"I wasn't looking—" he explains.
"—Hey, I wasn't either—"
"—If I were I would've moved—"
"I'm sure you would have," I mumble.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Um, I dunno..." I say, shrugging. "I think it means whatever the hell you want it to mean."
"Look, Bebe, I'm..." Kenny pauses and lets out a deep breath. "I thought we said no hard feelings—"
"You said no hard feelings—"
"And then you threw a shoe at me. Yeah, I remember that, but—"
"But what?"
"It's been..." he looks at his fingers and counts a little under his breath. "Six months. And I just—" he stammers a little, then whispers, "I don't want you to be mad at me anymore."
"Kenny, I'm not mad, I'm..." I try to think of the word that best describes my feelings about this ball of confusion Kenny knitted in the pit of my stomach, but I get nothing. "Okay, I guess I'm still a little mad —"
"A little? Jesus, you should have seen the look on your face when you realized who I was—"
"I was surprised! Like... what are you even doing here? Don't you have little kids to deny pizza to unless they whistle?"
"Um..." he tilts his head in the direction of the auditorium. "Choir practice."
"Oh." Time to leave. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but... go fuck yourself." I give a sarcastic smile, turn around, and head off towards the office.
"Bebe, wait—"
"There you are!" I ignore Kenny completely once I spy Craig opening the door to the Office hallway.
As I approach him, he immediately says, "Can you do me a favor and please spare me the lecture I feel a-brewin'—"
"C-Monaaay!" I hear Kenny greet him from thirty feet away.
"I'd tell you to never call me that again, but it wouldn't help," Craig shouts back.
"I've been looking all over for you—" I start.
"Well, I just got out of Mackey's office, so..."
"...And?" The last thing we need is for him to get suspended because standing up to our asshole substitute was apparently more important than saving the Drama Club.
"I asked him to do the play, and he said yes."
My mouth drops open. "Really?"
"...Was that a bad thing?"
"No! Not at all! I'm—" I let out an excited squeal and jump up and down. "I'd hug you, but I know you don't like that."
"Uh... okay. Thanks."
"Can we go get Cinnabon? To celebrate?"
"Yeah, fine. Whose car are we taking?"
Chapter 5: Do You Quarrel, Sir?: Craig
"So. Donovan." Ruby's Toad avatar dodges a banana peel in the middle of the track. "How was your date?"
Clyde frowns, but I'm not sure if it's in reaction to her question or because Karen's Bowser just knocked his Mario into the lake. "...Fine. How was yours?"
At that, both Ruby and Clyde immediately glance in my direction. Probably to gauge my reaction to the news that my own sister is going on dates and has a "love life" or whatever they call it.
And, after they see that I have nothing to say about either matter (and ascertaining that I'm not going to turn into a fire-breathing dragon out of rage over this topic), they venture forth to discuss their own respective outings in detail. Chickenshits.
"Ours was okay, I guess." Ruby hurls a green shell in the direction of my Luigi. "We saw that new Ghibli movie."
"Oh, really?" Clyde uses the same tone he does when he tries to be sarcastic but it just makes him sound suspiciously like Nicolas Cage, which is never a good thing. "So did we!" Acting is for the stage, douchenozzle. And you're not good at it so stop being a complete five-assed imbecile.
I take my stupid friend's sarcasm failure as my cue to step in and act the part of Concerned Older Brother before I actually do transform into a more disgusting beast than what Clyde is acting like. "Hey, look, Ruby, if you're serious about dating this doucheface," I point at Clyde (I assume it's him since they're trying to take steps to prevent me from finding out who both of them are dating), "I'm gonna have to put my foot down and give you guys my... whatever it is that's the opposite of blessing. My... gnisselb."
"Or Cartman," Karen adds.
"Or Cartman," I repeat without missing a beat. "If you ever bring him home, I'm disowning you on the spot. You can go raise his Neo-Nazi spawn with his crack whore of a mother for all I care, but I will never consider him or anything related or associated with him as family."
"Well, I guess that's good, then, 'cause I wouldn't touch him or Donovan with a ten foot pole," Ruby sneers.
"Hey!" It sounds like she cut Clyde a deep one. "I'm right here!"
"Lack of blessings aside," I continue, "Just so long as whoever it is you're dating doesn't slap you around, I don't really give enough of a shit for a blessing or gnisselb or Cartman to actually matter. I'm not Father Maxi." I snort and narrow my eyes. "Or so long as he doesn't knock you up. Like we need half a dozen little Rubys running around the place," I mutter.
"Well," Clyde swerves out of the way of the NPC Peach and says in what is hands down the most condescending voice I've ever heard him use, "at least I know my brother's friends are off-limits."
Before I can remind him that technically he doesn't have a brother anymore (his sister just got divorced not too long ago), Ruby tosses her Wii Wheel a good five feet away, stands up and shouts at him, "You wanna fight or something, dickbreath?"
"N-no..."
As the last remnants of Clyde's backbone break before our very eyes, Karen and I exchange puzzled looks. Ruby has always been the more outwardly emotional of us two, but this is, for lack of a better word, weird.
Ding dong.
Blessed be our savior from this awkward scene we've landed ourselves in.
"Hey. You." I say to Karen as I get up from the couch to answer the door. "Go get your shit, it's probably your brother."
"Aww, man," she pouts. "And I was about to win..."
"Maybe next time, champ," Ruby says, returning to her normal sardonic self as if it were nothing.
I open the door to find the absolute last person I wanted to see at ten o'clock on a Sunday night. And that's after taking into account any government organization with guns, aliens, religious officials, rednecks, teachers and Mormons:
Eric Theodore Cartman.
Consider my gnisselb granted in the most literal of ways maybe I am Father Maxi. But why can't my powers work when I actually want them to?
"Why, hello, Craig," he sweetly hisses with a slimy salesman smile. "Fancy seeing you here."
"It's my house," I say flatly.
"Uh-huh..." He claps his hands together and gets right to the real reason for his visit. "Well, um, I've come across some very interesting news, if I do say so myself."
No. I am not letting him use me this time.
"According to my information," he continues, "You've quit writing faggy avant-garde pieces of shit and decided to go the Shakespeare route."
"I don't have time for this," I mumble as I attempt to shut the door. But, of course, he gets a foot (and a word) in edgewise.
"Not so fast, Johnny Drama," says the only person I know besides myself who even knows what Entourage is. "I want in."
"What?" I wonder if those guinea pigs in Peru are still susceptible to my telepathy. By the power of Greyskull... Attack!
And... nope.
Damn it.
"I want in," Cartman repeats.
"Why?"
"Does it matter?"
"Um, yeah, it kind of does, considering your tendency to try and sabotage everything we've ever done—"
"Oh, I mean, come on, man, those were all just jokes!"
"You put Scott Malkinson in the hospital." And it was a wonder his parents didn't sue us for everything in our pockets.
"Goddamn it," he mutters. "Can't I just be seriously about something, for once?" He sighs and his eyes get dewy and I know he's about to start spewing out a monologue. God, first Clyde decides to spontaneously act like a tool and now Cartman is about to pull character development out of his ass. On-the-spot improvisation is the lowest form of theatre. It's hardly art and I HATE it, so why the fuck is it going on en masse in my house?
"All those times I tried to fuck up you guys' plays, I was jealous. I mean, I wanted to join, but I was too scared I was going to be labeled a gaywad for the rest of my life." His voice grows quiet and less abrasive and for a minute I swear I thought I was looking at a real person with real feelings and complexities and redeeming qualities. "So can you please just give me a chance?"
Convincing he may be, but I gotta go with my instincts on calling this bullshit. "No."
"Hey," I hear Clyde's voice from somewhere near the coat rack. "It's getting kinda late, so I think I'm gonna bounce—"
He stops yapping when he notices who I'm talking to.
Cartman breaks character. "Hello, Clyde," he smiles smugly again. "Sucking Craig's dick, I presume?"
Clyde freezes.
"Can you please get out of my yard?" I growl.
"Oh," Cartman says, stroking his chin and considering my friend behind me, "okay, so you're the girl in the relationship—"
"I-I'll see you in Trig, man," Clyde stammers as he walks past me and breaks into a run until he gets back to his house across the street.
Let's wrap this up right now before it gets any worse.
"What do you have?" I ask.
"Huh?"
"What are you gonna blackmail me with?" I clarify. "Drugs? Money laundering? Some crack baby up in North Park that doesn't have a dad?"
"Oh, no, I'm not gonna blackmail you." Cartman rolls his eyes. "I'm just gonna show up to auditions and blow everyone away."
Too late. It just got worse.
"Oh, no, you won't." I feel the color start to rise in my face.
"Oh, yes, I will."
"I'll barricade the doors!"
"I'll tell the office you're discriminating against me!"
Panicked, I treat this like a real script and allude to the backstory. "I-I will sumo wrestle you! Right here, right now!"
Cartman hocks a loogie onto my shoes. "You'd like to "wrestle" me. You'd like that a little too much, wouldn't you? Since," the malicious light in his eyes wasn't as cardboard-cartoon gleeful as I had expected, "I'm sure Clyde isn't very hard to handle, so you want a challenge. But you can't make me swing that way in your sick, scripted fantasy. Save that prewritten shit for the stage."
What?
He keeps steamrolling on, leaving me flat-dead clueless. "You keep playing the part of this stoic asshole with no feelings, but I know you've got some. You probably even feel bad about this trite little love-triangle you've set yourself up for. You know this little hope you have in your heart about having A Midsummer Night's Dream-esque adventure is disgusting—"
"I have no fucking idea what you are talking about, but I do know that A Midsummer Night's Dream involves four lovers, not three. Dumbass."
"Okay, you want a Tartuffe clusterfuck, fine."
"Tartuffe was written by Moliere, fatass."
"Whatever, I'm not into the homosexual side of theatre, so how should I know? Remember what I said about not wanting to be called a gaywad?"
"There is almost nothing homosexual about Tartuffe!"
"Okay, fine, you want An Inconvenient Truth-style love story. Is that it?"
"Cartman, that was Al Gore's documentary about—"
He throws his hands up into the air. "Look, I don't care about the history of the aftermath of the shooting of Harvey Milk's matador high school by the Mormons in 1826 so I didn't waste my time and watch a whole film about it, okay? Jesus, you're worse than Kenny and his obsession with chick novels like The Help and that fucking Hungry Gay shit."
I will never know how he managed to make a historically inaccurate mashup of that caliber sound serious, but the fact that he could combine Al Gore, the Columbine tragedy, the founding of Mormonism, gay rights movements, and Spanish toreadors and create dramatic tension made me seriously quake in my boots and I mean that literally If he tried out for anything, there was no way we could not cast him, even if he just — God forbid — improvised even more in the audition.
Cartman would ruin everything and find gleeful satisfaction as he tore down everything Bebe and I had worked for. He would make my life a living hell. That's what he has done for the past eighteen years of our lives.
And for the record I don't usually style my life like a script, at least, not seriously. I only rely on that ploy in extremely stressful and special situations, like dealing with Cartman. And I especially hate doing it then because only a few of the quips are prewritten and the rest of the plot is obliterated and changed by Cartman's big fat ass as he barrels through like Ricky Bobby on a racecourse. And he's almost as backwater, closed-minded, and retarded as that movie, too.
"Look, I just came by to try and tell you that I was gonna audition tomorrow because I know I've done shit in the past and you don't trust me. I was trying to appeal to your humanity because I refuse to believe that you are this fucking much of a cutout monotone asshole. But apparently not."
He's one to talk about being a two-dimensional character.
"But I'm still auditioning and I am getting a part. I've tried to be square with you but apparently that's too straight for your liking."
At that exact moment, Kenny's rickety old Pinto comes barreling down the street, music that takes me a couple of seconds to identify as dubstep blaring from the broken passenger side window.
"Ah, so it really is A Midsummer Night's Dream here, now, is it?"
"Cartman..." It's taking everything in me not to punch this fucker right in the jaw. "Just leave."
"I was about to, jeez..."
I watch him stomp over to his mom's old minivan as Kenny comes up and asks, "The fuck is that dick doing here?"
"Dude..." I throw my hands up in exasperation. "I have no fucking idea. You got the stuff?"
"Yep."
As he and I head inside, I try to forget that no amount of weed on this planet is going to make this underlying feeling of dread go away.
Chapter 6: The Law of Our Sides: Kenny
"It has come to my attention that some of your friends over in the Drama department are performing a play."
I turn to face Gueermo, my mind already trying to narrow down the list of motives he has for bringing the obvious to my attention when I was supposed to be auditioning for a solo. I'm the one who should be making noise, not him. "Um... yes, I hear they do that a lot."
"Why they aren't performing a musical is beyond me, but, alas, it isn't my decision." His tone grows dramatic and his eyes wander far into the distance.
Time to reel this gay fish back in. "...I thought this was about a solo?"
"In a way, it is. Are you planning to audition for this play?"
Oh yeah, he wants something. But I know playing dumb is the best move right now. "Um... I've thought about it and all, but, I mean, I have work and practice and homework—"
"What if I let you... shall I say... skip practice whenever you need to go to their rehearsal — that is, granted, if you get the part." He has his fingers neatly knitted together and his voice adopts that tone Cartman's gets whenever he feels the need to work persuasive magic to get what he wants. Gueermo's almost as good as Fatass, too. The word "skip" has me totally enchanted.
"Uh... wow. Um..."
"But, you have to do me the smallest of favors when you do."
"Uh...?" And here's the catch.
"Check to see if they're not tampering with our set pieces. Or our costumes. And if they aren't tampering... well... you people already have an inherent desire to vandalize public property, do you not?"
"...You people?"
"Poor people. White trash. Violent alcoholic ruffians."
The spell is breaking faster than my parents' condoms. "What if I say no?"
"Well... I'll simply have to let the Admissions Board at Brigham Young know about your other extracurricular activities..."
"Like...?" He can't possibly know about my side business. He hasn't got shit on me.
"Particular illegal substances you may or may not have on your person at this very moment?"
What the hell. This man is a necromancer and I'm a fucking cursed newborn offering to his twisted God.
But I can still make this worth my while I won't go down without a fight. It's time to counter his black bribery with my black market street smarts. "And what if I do accept? Will I get a solo? And not the extra high notes in the middle of ‘Kiss The Girl?' 'Cause I swear to God, if it's one of those again, I'm not doing shit for you."
"What about... ‘You've Got a Friend in Me?'"
"No, please, anything but Randy Newman."
"Fine..." He looks at his list of potential Disney songs to perform this year. (Of course this year's theme is Disney; that mouse has inadvertently killed me once and he's gotten a taste for causing me misery now, I'll bet) "‘God Help the Outcasts?'"
"Is that supposed to be a joke? Everyone knows the only good song from Hunchback is ‘Hellfire' and that's, like, an octave lower than my range." Admittedly, Damien may have slanted my opinion on the matter, but it sounded legit.
"Damn..." He goes back to his list until he points at a song and says, "Ah! ‘I'll Make a Man Out of You,' and that's my final offer."
Resisting the urge to make a joke out of that song title, I stick my hand out for him to shake and reply, "Okay. Deal." How can I say no to Donny Osmond? Mormons may be against most of the things I hold dear in this world (drugs, pre-marital sex, caffeine) but they're so damn nice about it I don't really mind I'm about to live an entire state of Osmonds. Maybe.
He turns to go and leads me with an amicable pat on my shoulder. "Good." As we head towards the door, I feel him slip something small into my hoodie pocket. "I'm glad we've come to an understanding, McCormick." So maybe Gueermo is a little more street savvy than I thought. He can do more than pull a devil rabbit out of a hat.
The puzzled look on my face is only met with a quiet "Shh."
I wait until Gueermo's out of sight before reaching inside my hoodie and feeling what exactly it was he put in there, even though I already have a strong suspicion as to what it was.
And my suspicion is right.
It's money.
Still, I don't know what kind of bill it is. And pulling it out in the middle of the hallway especially if it happens to be a big bill is a giant rookie mistake.
So I find the nearest bathroom, lock myself in the Handicapped stall, promptly pull the cash out of my pocket, and hold it up to the light above me.
Benjamin Franklin triumphantly stares down at me, as does his watermark.
Dude.
~
"You can't possibly think of actually doing this."
"Okay, then how the fuck am I going to get out of this shithole otherwise?" I take a sip of my water. "He's gonna fucking narc on me if I flake out. One word from him and it's goodbye, college." Then I say what's really bothering me. "And, like, what if he does something to Karen?"
"Report him!" Kyle gives his nearly frozen peaches an extra vicious stab. "Go to the office! No, fuck that, go to the cops, dude!"
"Since when the fuck have they done anything?" I pause to take a bite out of my chicken sandwich. "I mean, it's a wonder they don't all come into work every day with their underwear on their heads screaming, ‘Help! The sun's gone out! We're all gonna die!'"
Stan snorts at the last bit, which prompts Kyle to turn from his lunch and face him. "What do you think about this?"
"Uh..." He stirs his peas around for a moment while Kyle waits for him to spit out whatever he's going to say. And knowing Stan, he's going to say something stupid like his honest opinion. "I mean, it sucks and stuff, but... it's not really our problem, dude."
Hoo, boy. Way to shove some sand up that vagina — Stan's in the doghouse now.
"What do you mean, ‘it's not our problem?!'" Kyle shouts. "Of course it is! Why do you think he went to us? We're, like, his moral compass!"
"You're his moral compass." Stan looks the other way before he starts to mutter, "You're everyone's moral compass—"
"Well, somebody has to be! If I wasn't here, you'd still be drunk off your ass and—"
"Um, guys?" I interrupt their couples' squabble. "Not helping."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Um..." Stan tries to come up with something to get himself back into Kyle's good graces. "What about you lie to him?"
"What?"
Stan's eyes light up and I know he's actually got a really solid idea. "Tell him there's no amount of screwing up you can do because they already suck so bad," he points his fork at me. "Tell him the drama kids can't act worth a shit and that fact alone is going to drive everyone away from seeing their show."
"Hmm..." I wonder. "Maybe. Are you guys even going to this thing tomorrow?"
"Sure, I guess," Stan shrugs. "It's not like I have anything better to do."
"Um, homework?" Kyle condescendingly suggests before turning back to me. "Becca really wants to go on Wednesday since Jazz Band got cancelled, but I dunno. I think I might just try out for one of the extras or something." He pauses. "My parents are already worried I have too many distractions as it is."
"But admissions boards eat that shit up, you know. The more extracurriculars, the better. It's not like they're going to suddenly change their mind and say ‘you can't go to our school' if you're Villager Number One in some little play." If Stan and Kyle are in it with me, it'll give me more time to hang out with them and maybe Craig can find out firsthand they're not the giant assholes he thinks they are. He hasn't really hung out with them since sixth grade, when he decided they (and Cartman) were the singular cause of unnecessary bullshit in his life and quit inviting them to all his sleepovers and whatnot. (I still think he's only halfway decent to me 'cause a.) I'm his dealer and b.) Karen spends more time at his house than our own.) "So drama's not really a big distraction. And if Becca's there with you, even better. Tell ‘em it's three birds, one stone."
"I think they were talking about Becca."
Oh. "Dude."
"I know. And, like, her parents already sent Chicago a check and everything."
So Kyle's been obsessed with getting into Northwestern ever since he and his parents visited his uncle in Illinois last summer. And now that he's gotten an early admission he's been trying to push Stan into sending a tape to Notre Dame so they'd at least be within 150 miles of each other if he were accepted. Stan, on the other hand, has absolutely no idea what he wants to do with his life, and the fact that everyone he knows is so fixated on graduating and going off to college isn't really helping.
Kyle pushes his tray forward a little and puts his chin in his hands. "They can't expect me to just break up with her. I mean, we've been going out for, like, two and a half years. That's like fifty in high school time."
"I dunno what to say, man."
"Yeah, I know you
don't. I'm just venting, I
guess." Kyle looks down at his watch. "Hey, I'm gonna go to the
library. I'll... I'll see you guys in class." He takes his tray over to
the
trashcan near the door and shows his
I notice that Stan's looking a little down, so I attempt to change the subject. "So, like..." I look around trying to find something to talk about, and somehow the aforementioned Algebra teacher makes me think of something I haven't mentioned to anyone since it happened. "I ran into Bebe a couple days ago."
"Oh..." his eyes get a little wide. "Jeez."
"Yeaaah..."
"Was this before or after she hung up on you?" he asks.
"It was... I think it was Thursday when it happened, so after?"
"Ah," he nods. "I bet that was interesting."
"Oh, definitely." I finish the rest of my water. "The best part was when she told me to go fuck myself."
"As if you don't already do that enough," Stan says with a chuckle.
The End
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