A Serious Case of Cooties

written by SqueakGirl - illustrated by Neavvs and Synnesai

CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
EPILOGUE

Chapter One: Cooties

Stan Marsh sat at his dining room table one February morning shuffling through a stack of red, pink, and white construction paper. With a thick pair of child proof scissors, a large bottle of glue, and a jar of silver glitter, Stan set about making a Valentine's Day card for his girlfriend Wendy Testaburger. He cut carefully along the edge of a paper heart, trying to get the shape smooth and curved. Setting down the scissors, he grabbed the bottle of glue and, kneeling in his chair so that he could hold his hands up above his head, Stan drew swirly patterns around the perimeter of the paper heart. When he had finished, he sprinkled the silver glitter, taking care not to let any fall upon his mother's kitchen table. Shaking the heart free of excess sparkles, Stan held the heart up to the light. It shimmered with gloppy drops of glue and smeared glitter, but Stan felt proud anyway. Wendy would love it. She always liked the things Stan made for her.

Placing his Valentine's Day card back on the table, Stan went about collecting his art supplies and packing them away in his pencil bag. At that moment his older sister Shelley entered the dining room. Roughly four years older than her brother, Shelley stood several inches taller. With her mouth hitched up to uncomfortable wire headgear, the girl perpetually wore an angry scowl. She eyed Stan's mess on the table and stomped over to where he sat wrapping a rubber band around a cluster of pens and pencils.

"Hey, Turd, what are you doing?" she asked, her words slurring around the headgear to create a half lisp.

Stan jumped and shrunk away from the girl. "N-nothing."

"Don't look like nothing," she pointed out, nodding towards the glitter that had managed to slip over the edge of the newspapers Stan had so carefully lain out. "Does Mom know you're making a mess in here?"

Stan hastily wiped his hand over the sparkles and shoved them back into their little container.

"Yeah, Shelley," Stan said hastily, "she's the one who bought me the construction paper and glitter."

Letting out a disgruntled sigh that whistled through her headgear, Shelley moved to stand over Stan's shoulder. The little brother hunched his shoulders, moving out of the girl's reach. After he'd packed everything away, he reached out to grab Wendy's card, but Shelley beat him to it. She held the paper heart at arm's length and examined it with narrowed eyes.

Stan dropped down out of his seat and raised a hand.

"Shelley, give that back. It's Wendy's."

"Wendy?" Shelley said slowly, tilting the card one way and then the other to watch the glitter shimmer in the dining room light.

"Yeah," Stan replied nervously. "It's her Valentine's Day present."

Shelley didn't respond. She was lightly touching the sloppy letters Stan had written in glue. They were simple X's and O's, but for some reason Shelley stared at them with a strange intensity. Stan, confused about his big sister's sudden silence, ventured out a small hand to snatch the card back. Without warning, Shelley took the card in her fists and tore the paper heart in two.

"Stupid, Turd! What girl would want this for Valentine's Day? You're so stupid!"

And with that said, Shelley bolted out of the room, covering her face as she took the steps two at a time.

Back in the dining room, Stan stared down helplessly at his Valentine's card. He had worked all evening on the gift, and now in one swift movement his sister had destroyed it. Stan sniffed hard and knelt to the ground to try and pick up the pieces.

A few moments later and Stan heard the back door open and his mother's shoes click against the linoleum floor of the kitchen. He could hear her carrying plastic grocery bags and setting them heavily down upon the counters. For a brief instant, Stan wanted to run to her crying and tell her what Shelley had just done. But Stan felt too old to do something like that now. Instead, he just sighed and wondered how much of his whiskey he had left under his floorboard.

It was as he contemplated taking three sips instead of his usual one that his mother walked into the dining room with a little box of candy hearts.

"Here, Stan, I bought these so you can give them to Wen — Stan, what's wrong? What happened to your little paper heart?"

Stan stood up and placed the pieces on the table.

"Nothing."

"Why did you rip it up?" Mrs. Marsh asked, stepping forward and kneeling in front of her son to pick up a few stray red scraps he'd missed in the carpet.

"I didn't rip it up," Stan explained, trying to keep his voice from wavering. Mrs. Marsh swept her eyes over him once, and Stan broke. He started to cry. He hated himself for it, but he'd really worked hard on Wendy's gift. His mother's concerned gaze had sent him over the edge, and he suddenly let go all of his bravado.

Sharon pulled her son into a hug and patted the top of his little red poof-ball hat.

"Shh, Stan, just tell me what happened, okay, sweetie?" Sharon whispered, wiping at Stan's face with her sleeve. Stan sniffed and tried to reel in his tears.

"S-Shelley…s-she ripped it up for no reason," Stan murmured, hugging his arms around his mother's neck.

Mrs. Marsh's eyes grew round and then narrowed sharply.

"She did it?"

Stan nodded, now scared because he knew his mother was now going to go have a talk with his big sister.

"Don't tell her I said anything," Stan begged, rubbing at his running nose with his jacket sleeve. Sharon pursed her lips.

"Stan, I'm just going to have a talk with her. This isn't the first time she's broken something of yours. And I'm not going to allow it to become habit," Sharon said, standing up. Stan clung to her hand.

"I don't care about that anymore, Mom. Just don't tell her, okay? She'll be mad at me again," Stan wheedled. Sharon sighed.

"Stan, pick up the rest of your art supplies and later you and I can go buy Wendy a nice new card." She patted Stan on the head once more and bent down to kiss him on the cheek. She retreated to the kitchen, and Stan stooped to pick up the rest of his things.

Still sniffing and rubbing at his eyes, Stan ascended the stairs. He didn't know what it was about his mother that made him so emotional; perhaps it was because she was good at understanding him when no one else in the house did. Or maybe it was how alike they were at times. Both his father Randy and Shelley could be irrational to a point of dysfunction; on the other hand, Stan and Sharon tended to exude a sense of calm and often exasperation at their family members' overreactions.

Upstairs, Stan had to tiptoe past his sister's bedroom door. He paused for a second and listened. A strange noise between a hiccup and sob escaped the confines of Shelley's room. For a moment, Stan reached out a hand to take hold of the doorknob, but stopped himself.

She'd only kick my ass, Stan thought sadly to himself. He continued on down the hall to his own room. Safe in his bedroom, Stan tossed his destroyed Valentine's Day card into his trash bin. He stared at the crumpled pieces and sighed. Retreating to his bed, he dropped to the floor and shuffled his way under it, pulling himself by his elbows. Finding the loosened floorboard, Stan pried it up with his fingernails and grappled around in the splintered hole for his whiskey bottle. Grasping the cool glass, he brought the bottle out of its hiding place and unscrewed the lid.

It was rather difficult sipping whiskey while squished between his floor and the underside of his bed, but Stan managed to take three long gulps before stuffing the green bottle back into its hiding spot. Scooting backwards, Stan emerged from under his bed and sat down heavily on the floor.

He felt much better now. He smiled to himself, watching his room spin lazily. Now with his buzz, he found that he could care less about Shelley and her attitude. Let her rip up everything Stan owned, he could take it.

Yeah, he thought, smiling at his nightstand, she doesn't scare me.

Stan stood. He swayed on his feet, smiling at his reflection in the window glass.

"She doesn't scare me," he slurred. He turned on his heel and marched to his door, pulling it open and stomping his way back down the hallway. He stopped at Shelley's room and kicked open the door. Inside, Shelley started, snapping a purple-colored notebook closed and stuffing it under her pillow. When she saw who had entered, her face melted into a heavy frown.

"Go away, Turd!" she hissed, rubbing at her face. Stan stood his ground or as best he could with the alcohol seeping into his senses.

He pointed a wavering finger at his sister. "I'm not scared of you."

Shelley's brows narrowed dangerously.

"I said go away."

"No. I don't want to." Stan giggled and stuck his tongue out. Shelley slid off her bed.

"Get out, Turd, or I'll make you get out!"

Stan curled his hands into fists bringing them up to his chest. He grinned. "Make me."

Lunging forward, Shelley threw Stan to the ground, pinning him beneath her. At first Stan gave out a snort of laughter. He beamed up at the girl, until she boxed him in the ears. Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes, and he curled into a ball instinctively. Shelley continued to pelt away at any exposed skin she could find. Thumping her little brother soundly on the skull, she yanked off his poof-ball hat and tossed it away from her.

"Stupid. Turd. I. Said. Get. Out!" She emphasized each word with a swift knock to Stan's head. He tried to cover his face, but Shelley smacked him in the nose.

"STOP! STOP IT!"

Stan's cries came out in gasps, his drunken mind suddenly clearing.

A rush of footsteps echoed up the staircase. Seconds later Mrs. Marsh stood horrified in the entrance of her daughter's room. Sharon had Stan's hat clutched in her hand. Without a word she raced forward and grabbed Shelley around the waist, heaving her off her little brother. Shelley continued to fling her fists about as if hoping to catch a blow against her brother despite the interruption. Sharon shoved her daughter down onto the bed.

"What the hell is going on?" Sharon shrieked. Shelley straightened up and pointed at Stan, who still cowered on the floor.

"He wouldn't get out of my room!" she snapped. Sharon's jaw dropped.

"You do not hit your little brother! I don't care what he did. You do not hit your brother, ever!" Sharon hurried to Stan's side and helped him sit up.

Shelley glared at them, her fingers sliding under her pillow to touch the purple book. Mrs. Marsh handed Stan back his hat. She stood up, holding onto her son's hand.

"You apologize, Shelley," Sharon demanded. Stan sniffled, hiding behind his mother. Shelley looked away.

"No."

Sharon blinked, her hands limp at her side.

"I told you to tell Stan you're sorry. Do it now."

"What if I'm not sorry?" Shelley countered. "I thought you wouldn't want me to lie?"

Taken aback by her daughter's boldness, Sharon knelt down to Stan and told him to wait in the bathroom. She'd be in there in a few minutes to help clean up his face. Stan nodded, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. He sprinted from the room without a backwards glance.

Mrs. Marsh faced her daughter.

"What's gotten into you? This is the fourth time in the last two weeks that you've done something to Stan. Your father and I have told you over and over again not to hit him! Nothing, and I mean nothing, should provoke you enough to do that! You need to learn some self-control." Sharon's voice shook, but Shelley turned her face away and stared out the window. Her fingers traced the spine of her purple book.

"You should tell Dad to learn self-control," Shelley whispered. Sharon frowned.

"Don't avoid this, Shelley. This is between you and Stan right now. You should not lash out at your brother, no matter what the reason."

"He wouldn't get out of my room," Shelly hurled back lamely. Her fingers clutched at the book.

Sharon threw up her arms and let out a strangled noise.

"Do you honestly think that's good enough? Would Stan have hurt you if you refused to listen to him? No. He would never do that to you!"

Shelley sniffed. "He's too much of a baby."

Sharon shook her head.

"Alright, fine. If this is how it's going to work," Sharon folded her arms over her chest. "You're grounded for two months, Shelley. No Internet. No TV. You come straight home from school and go nowhere else. You will do Stan's chores. And you aren't going to see that new concert."

Shelley jumped up from her bed and crossed to her desk. She shoved everything off of it, letting her books, papers, pens, and toys cascade to the floor. Sharon opened her mouth, startled.

Shelley whipped around. "FINE! I didn't want to see that stupid concert anyway."

Sharon had one more stipulation.

"You will also babysit Eric for Liane this weekend. I'm not going to help you back out of it, and I'm going to tell Liane not to pay you."

Shelley gritted her teeth.

"I don't want to! I hate that fat turd!" She didn't really, but at the moment it seemed right to just hate everything her mother suggested.

Sharon turned on her heel and marched to the door. She pulled it closed behind her, pausing to warn Shelley once more not to leave her room and that her father would be up later to unplug her television and computer in order to lock them away.

Mrs. Marsh then slammed the door and hurried to the bathroom where little Stanley waited.

~

The Cartman house was just as Shelley remembered it: kitschy, with the rooms too hot and the smell of chocolate constantly wafting in the air. Mrs. Cartman greeted Shelley at the door with her usual kind smile and airy hello. She wore a long blue dress with her mousey brown hair done up in a tight bun. Following the woman inside, Shelly found herself standing in an all too familiar living room with the television blaring something idiotic, and Liane's overweight and only son Eric Cartman lounging on the couch, stuffing his face with processed, cheesy snacks. Shelley and Eric met gazes. No words passed between them as they shared a glance; the two simply gave one another the slightest of nods. Liane did not notice the exchanges, instead she asked sweetly for her son to turn down the volume, to which Eric replied that the oven timer was going off and that he did not want his mother burning his cookies.

In the kitchen Shelley watched Mrs. Cartman pull out two large baking sheets covered in chocolate chip cookies. She set them down to cool by the window. Shelley glanced around the spotless kitchen. Despite Eric's constant desire for baked goods, Mrs. Cartman always managed to keep the kitchen neat and tidy without a drop of batter, flour, or sugar to besmirch the homemaker magazine quality the whole house exuded.

"Now, Shelley, make sure Eric eats his supper. I left some lasagna in the fridge to heat up. And make sure he's in bed by sleepy-times which is nine o'clock. Feel free to help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen, dear. My cell number is taped to the freezer door should you need anything," Liane explained, pulling on her overcoat and slipping long black gloves onto each hand. She beamed at Shelley.

Trudging after the woman to the front door, Shelley waved goodbye to Mrs. Cartman. Returning to the living room once the mother had gone, Shelley stood in the middle of the room eyeing Cartman on the couch. He muted his television program.

"So, are we doing this the hard way or the easy way?" asked Cartman, crossing his pudgy arms over his wide chest. Shelley placed both hands on her hips.

"I don't want to be here either, Fat Turd, so let's just call a truce, and you obey me for the rest of the night," Shelley warned.

"What if I don't want to?" Eric countered. "I don't know why my mom called you. I don't need a sitter anymore."

"You're a stupid turd; you would set the house on fire or something without adult supervision," Shelley argued with a smirk.

"Hmm," Cartman tapped his chin, "Adult supervision, you say? Adult supervision. I'm sorry; Shelley, but I don't see any adults here. I just see a preteen skank. "

His round face broke out into a toothy grin. Shelley stood her ground.

"I'll beat the happy right off of your fat head."

"And I tell my mom on you, and she'll tell your mom."

Shelley cracked her knuckles. "I'd like to see you try, Turd, with your mouth swollen shut."

"I don't think Mrs. Marsh would like you beating up another little boy, Shelley." Cartman said, trembling his lip mockingly.

Shelley frowned.

"You know about that?"

Cartman snorted. "Stan's fucking black eye is a dead giveaway. Though he's such a pussy he didn't want to tell us who beat the shit out of him. Kahl of course had to be all faggy and try to talk about it with him. God, I swear those two need to just get a room. I can't believe Wendy still hangs out with Stan if he clearly already has a boyfriend."

Eric turned his attention back to his TV remote. He pumped up the volume as if Shelley and his conversation had conveniently ended on that note. Shelley rolled her eyes and placed herself in front of the TV.

"Shut up about my brother, Turd. And turn this stupid TV off. You're eating supper now."

Cartman raised an eyebrow.

"You beat the shit out of Stan, and you're concerned about some gay jokes? Bitch, you're crazy," Eric laughed. Shelley lunged for the couch and threw Cartman down upon the floor. She raised her fist preparing to strike.

"I said shut up about Stan, Fat Turd."

Cartman struggled underneath her.

"Get your girl-cootie hands off of me, skank!" He reached into his back pocket for his phone, but Shelley knocked it away.

"AY, BITCH, don't fucking do that to my phone! Now, your nasty ass cootie germs are all over it!"

Shelley rolled her eyes. "Oh shut up. There's no such thing as cooties. Now, get your ass to the kitchen so I can make you supper."

She heaved herself off of Eric and glared him down.

"I'll tell my mom you manhandled me with your disgusting girl fists and that you totally tried to rip my head off and —"

"Shut up!" Shelley screamed, stalking into the kitchen. "God, why are you so stupid?"

"There's nothing stupid about personal hygiene, Shelley," Cartman explained. "Everyone knows that girls' mouths are the most disgusting place ever. You can totally die if you're exposed to cooties for too long. I wonder how long until Stan drops dead. He lets Wendy kiss him all the fucking time," Cartman explained. He followed Shelley into the kitchen and sat down at the table watching the girl toss a plate of lasagna into the microwave to cook.

Shelley rubbed at her temples. Sometimes Eric could say the most idiotic things, and she had to repress the desire to choke the stupid right out of his fat head.

The microwave beeped and Shelley took out the food. She threw it down before Cartman and retreated to the fridge to get some milk. While she poured herself a glass too, Shelley thought of her little brother and his girlfriend. She had seen Stan and Wendy holding hands on numerous occasions. Shelley had even witnessed her little brother hurl his guts onto the marble floor of their church after little Wendy had given him a swift kiss goodbye after Easter service last year. At the time she had felt a little less annoyance towards him, an almost endearment towards Stan and his fumbling ways with his little girlfriend. However, now Shelley's mind wandered back to the little purple book she kept hidden beneath her pillow, and all signs of fondness vanished from her.

Turning back to Cartman, Shelley set down his glass of milk. Occupying the seat opposite the fat boy, Shelley sat in silence for a few moments as she watched Eric eat. He raised an eyebrow as he scanned her face.

"What's wrong now, bitch?"

"Where do you get all this bullshit about cooties anyway? Aren't you a little old to still think like that towards girls?" Shelley asked. Cartman froze at the words, but quickly melted, hiding any emotion behind his pudgy smirk.

"A sixth grader told me if you touch a girl unprotected you get cooties. And they can get all over your lips and wiener if you aren't careful," Cartman explained. Shelley bit her lip trying to stop her grin.

"I see, Turd," Shelley finally said as she regained her composure. "So, this is what you believe then? That if you don't protect against 'cooties' you'll get infected?"

"I could get deathly ill. Or worse my wiener could fall off."

Shelley was nodding her head sympathetically now. "I guess that is a concern."

"Hell yeah it is!" Cartman said, stuffing another mouthful of lasagna into his mouth.

"Would you like me to teach you a way to prevent cooties?" Shelley said her face now an impassable mask. Eric looked at her skeptically.

"There's a way to prevent cooties?"

"Isn't there a way to prevent most diseases? Didn't your grade get the flu shots last year?"

Cartman rubbed his many chins.

"Yeah, we did…."

"Well, there's also a way of preventing cooties. It's pretty expensive though," Shelley explained, pretending to show concern. Cartman had forgotten his food, now intrigued.

"Why's it so expensive?"

"They haven't worked out all the tests for it yet. But that's the mainstream preventative shot doctors are working on, but I can teach you a much cheaper, natural way to get rid of cooties."

Cartman eyed her carefully. "It ain't some kind of hippie thing is it?"

Shelley waved her hands back and forth.

"Oh no, it's more of a family recipe type thing — er — passed down from mother to daughter for generations."

"What is it?" Cartman pressed, dropping his fork and leaning closer towards Shelley. Relishing in her trick, the girl moved forward confidentially.

"I can show you, if you want?"

"…okay."

"Do you have any paint brushes? Or ink?"

Cartman sat back in his seat.

"How will that stop cooties?"

"Trust me, Turd and just go get what I asked for. Doesn't your mom paint calligraphy? Go get me one of her brushes and paints. I promise you'll thank me."

~

Stan and his best friend Kyle Broflovski sat side by side on the swing set in the large South Park Elementary schoolyard. Kyle, a thin faced boy with narrow green eyes, sported a mop of bushy red curls that he kept constantly covered by a lime green ushanka.

Kyle glanced sideways at his friend, who, for the past ten minutes, had been staring dejectedly at the snowy ground. Sitting to the left of Stan, Kyle had full view of the black haired boy's black eye. The swelling had gone down, but the shading around Stan's blue eye still consisted of a nasty mixture of blue and purple. Other bruises covered Stan's face, and Kyle frowned sadly, not sure what to say to comfort his friend. Having tried all morning recess to cheer up the other boy, Kyle had grown flustered with Stan's renewed apathy towards the world in general. No matter how Kyle tried to breach the conversation, reassuring his friend he was no less of a man for being beat up by a girl or that Wendy would still want him despite the lack of Valentine's Day card, Stan refused to lighten up. Finally, Kyle gave up and decided if he could not talk his friend out of his funk, he'd just sit and wait it out with him.

Rocking back and forth in the swing, Kyle watched their classmates participate in a schoolyard-wide football game. Clyde Donovan, a boy with a wide face and stocky body, had the football tucked under his arm and pelted towards the fence post for touchdown. Reaching almost the halfway mark, Clyde was tackled from behind by the poor kid Kenny McCormick, who took the ball and hurtled for the opposite goal. Unfortunately for Kenny, the rest of Clyde's team tackled him under a pile of bodies until not even his orange parka could be seen. Meanwhile on the sidelines, Bebe Stevens gathered a group of girls together to cheer. However, the girls appeared more concerned with their actual dance routine than actually cheering on any of the boys.

"Want to play football, Stan?" Kyle asked, nudging Stan in the side with his elbow. Stan shook his head. Kyle sighed.

"Why not?"

"I'm not stopping you from playing, dude," Stan murmured. "Go play if you want."

Kyle frowned.

"I don't want to play with just them. I want to play with you, Stan."

"I don't feel like playing anything today. "

Kyle opened his mouth to retort, but stopped when he caught sight of Eric Cartman dragging a large cardboard box to the opposite side of the playground. The fat boy paused, casting his eyes about, looking for apparently the right spot. Finding it, he dropped the box and opened the lid. He pulled out a large bottle of what appeared to be black paint and several paint brushes. Kyle narrowed his eyes, confused as he watched Cartman upturn the box and set out the paint and brushes atop it. Last, Cartman unfolded a small sign and taped it to the front of the box. From where he sat on the swing, Kyle couldn't make out any of the words.

Nudging Stan again, Kyle pointed to Cartman.

"Dude, what's he up to?"

Stan glanced up and squinted. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Who knows?"

"Let's check it out."

"You can do that, I want to stay here," Stan sighed, his eyes on his sneakers. Kyle frowned and turned his gaze back to Cartman. Several other children had ventured over to Eric's little stand.

"I bet he's up to something racist and illegal again," Kyle continued, giving Stan a sideways glance, hoping for reassurance. But when Stan kept his gaze firmly on the ground, Kyle threw himself out of his swing and grabbed a hold of Stan's arm.

"Stan, get the fuck up, we're going over there to investigate!"

Allowing himself to be yanked forward, Stan followed silently behind his friend. When the boys reached Cartman's little stand, he gave both of them a cordial wave. Kyle eyed him warily. Their friends Craig, Jimmy, Token, Tweek, and Timmy were already clustered around the box too, each one reading a small slip of paper that Cartman had handed out to them. A small stack of these leaflets rested at Eric's elbow.

"What are you up to, Fatass?" Kyle said as his form of greeting. Cartman mocked a look of shock.

"Oh my, Kahl, why so pissy? Is it that time of the month again?" the heavyset boy asked with a wide grin. Token and Craig sniggered.

"H-hey, E-Eric, is this all t-true?" Jimmy asked, holding up his little piece of paper.

"Of course it is, Jimmy! Why would I lie about something as serious as this?"

Kyle snatched up one of the papers and scanned the top. He rolled his eyes and slapped the leaflet down upon Cartman's cardboard box.

"Cartman, what is this?"

"An information sheet on the dangers of STC's, Kahl. It's a very serious issue for our generation," Cartman explained, opening the jar of paint he had and dipping a slender calligraphy brush into the black liquid.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "STC's?"

"Sexually Transmitted Cooties. It's very serious."

"What?"

"Sexually Transmitted Cooties, Kahl! If you have unprotected contact with a girl you get cooties," Eric explained, leaning forward confidentially.

The other boys began murmuring amongst themselves. Stan lifted his head. Kyle was already shaking with pent up rage.

"That's retarded!"

"No, Kahl, it's STC's and it's very contagious. I'm seriously. Didn't you see the pamphlet?" Cartman waved the paper in Kyle's face.

Snatching it away, Kyle pointed a finger at Eric's chest. "Yes, I saw it. And it's stupid. Your wiener cannot fall off if some girl kisses you! And you will not break out in hives or puke your guts out or die either, Fatass. You made all this bullshit up!"

Craig raised his hand. "I don't know. Girl's can be pretty germ ridden. I mean they are smelly."

"Yeah," chorused the other boys.

Kyle gave Craig a look and then turned back to Cartman.

"You're an idiot. You realize that, don't you?"

Eric just shook his head and dipped a paint brush into the black paint. He turned and addressed Craig and the others.

"Alright, it's ten bucks for just the shot, but fifteen if you want it 'everywhere'. Who's first?"

Clutching a Styrofoam cup and his left eye twitching, Tweek Tweak stepped forward and offered his arm. He rolled up his sleeve, his fingers shaking.

"Oh, Jesus, I don't want to die! GAH!" He fished in his pocket and dropped two fives on Cartman's box.

"Well, Tweek, I'm glad you're at least doing the right thing and getting yourself vaccinated. Now, just hold out you hand like here."

Still shaking, Tweek offered his forearm. Delicately Cartman touched the paintbrush to Tweek's arm. For a moment the jittery blond flinched as the cold paint met his flesh, but relaxed when Eric drew a small circle and then another. Next he turned back to his paint, dipped the brush in once more, and then added two dots right below the circles. He dropped the brush into a small bowl of water and then fanned his fat hand over Tweek's 'shot.'

"There you go! Though if you want it to protect you for a little longer it'll cost extra," Cartman noted conversationally, linking his fingers together and resting his hands upon his box in a professional looking manner. Kyle stood gaping first at Tweek and then at Cartman. Stan had finally brought his attention back to the world. He stared at Tweek's arm with polite puzzlement.

"Does that really work?" Stan asked, pointing at the paint.

Kyle whipped around to face him.

"Of course it doesn't work! This is so stupid. All he did was doodle on Tweek's arm. There's no medical element to it at all. It's a scam!"

Cartman gave Kyle a pitying look.

"I think you need to lie down, Kahl, if those period cramps are starting to act up."

The other boys chuckled. Craig stepped forward next and offered his arm while holding out fifteen dollars in his small fist.

"Do it all over, Cartman. I don't want to have to deal with this shit again for a long while."

Eric obliged. He picked up his paint brush and proceeded to draw a similar design on Craig's lower right arm. After finishing up both little dots, he drew a large square around the entire design. He connected the square with a flourish and flick of his wrist. Cartman smiled at the crowd.

"Who's next?" Eric's eyes landed on Stan. "What about you, Stan? Want to make sure Wendy doesn't give you any STC's?"

Stan shook his head and gave a forced laugh.

"Dude, you really don't expect me to believe cooties exist, do you?"

Kyle nodded in agreement, crossing his arms.

"There are no such things as cooties, Fatass. This is just another harebrained scam you invented to get idiots like Craig and Tweek to give you money," Kyle spat, jerking his thumb at the two aforementioned boys.

Craig blinked; realizing he'd been insulted, he flipped Kyle off. Tweek just buried his face in his cup of coffee. Jimmy and Token exchanged looks.

"I have to agree with Kyle," said Token. Jimmy nodded. "Where's your proof that cooties exist? I don't know anyone who's ever gotten them."

Cartman straightened his little leaflets.

"It's a fairly new discovery, Token. Not all the research is in yet."

"M-me and m-my girlfriend have done it l-loads of times, and I don't have any cooties," informed Jimmy proudly pulling himself up to his full height. He wobbled a little on his crutches, smiling lopsidedly. The other boys gave him odd looks, but didn't comment on the absurdity of his statement. Even Timmy, sitting in his wheelchair a few feet off from the group, managed to roll his eyes at his friend.

"Yeah, Cartman, Wendy and I have held hands and kissed, and I don't have any cooties," Stan added. Eric gave him a concerned look.

"Well, then you need the shot the most, Stan. Here, I'll even give you a discount since you're my friend." Cartman loaded the brush with black paint and held out his pudgy hand for Stan to give him his arm.

Stan shook his head taking a step back. Kyle glared at Cartman.

"Come off it, Fatass. This isn't going to work. Cooties don't exist!"

Cartman set down the paintbrush and stomped around his little box. He stood face to face with Kyle, staring him down. Neither boy said a word, just glared daggers at the other. Finally, Cartman smirked.

"You want proof, Kahl? Fine, I'll get you proof."

Cartman turned on his heel and marched over to Bebe and the other girls crowded around the football field. A brief conversation was held between the girls and Cartman. After a minute, Eric headed back to his cardboard box with Stan's girlfriend Wendy and her best friend Bebe trailing behind him.

At that moment Butters and Kenny appeared at Stan's elbow.

"Hey, fellas, what's goin' on?" Butters asked, peering at the paint jar and leaflets. Kenny gave everyone a silent wave.

"Cartman's trying to dupe people out of money again," Kyle stated without missing a beat. Stan nodded.

Craig huffed. "Better safe than sorry. I don't want no fucking cooties."

"GAH! He's right. They might exist! Like the Underpants Gnomes."

Butters looked between Kyle and Stan to Craig and Tweek; finally he glanced at Kenny to see his reaction. Kenny just giggled into his hood and mumbled something incoherent.

Stan blinked, confused at his friend's muffled words. "What does clapping have to do with touching girls, Kenny?"

Kenny made some odd gestures with his hands around his waist and added another round of mumbled sentences. Butters scratched his head, and Kyle looked disgusted.

"How can a bunch of crabs fit in a girl's underwear?" the redhead questioned the orange hooded boy. Kenny just continued to howl with laughter.

Cartman returned with Wendy and Bebe just then, and the girls glanced around the group of boys with polite confusion. Tweek let out a strangled sob and ducked behind the cardboard box. Even Token, Jimmy, and Timmy gave the girls a wary look, before discreetly stepping away from them. Kyle continued to fume, and Stan smiled sheepishly at his little girlfriend.

Wendy reached out a hand and touched Stan's cheek.

"Does it still hurt?"

Stan shook his head.

Kyle rolled his eyes and pointed at Cartman.

"Okay, they're here, now what?"

"What's this about, Eric?" Wendy asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She was a wiry young girl with straight black hair and a calculating look. She appeared to be the exact opposite to her bouncy, curly blonde friend beside her.

"It's very serious, Wendy. Stan and Kyle here aren't convinced cooties exist. They don't want my shot," Cartman explained, showing the girl's his marked up arm. For a moment Wendy and Bebe studied the circles, dots, and squares. Then without warning both threw back their heads and laughed.

Cartman started, taken aback.

"What the hell?"

Wendy wiped at her eyes and pointed at the mark.

"That's nothing, Cartman. That isn't any real shot. It's just something girls make up for fun," she explained. The boys looked at Cartman, who continued to hold his ground. Kyle smirked triumphantly.

"W-what do you mean, Wendy?" Jimmy asked. "Did you make up the cootie shot?"

Bebe and Wendy giggled.

"No, no," Bebe said, "it's like an old thing. Something girls have been doing for ages. Like jump rope rhymes or our fortune telling papers."

The boys gave each other nervous looks at the mention of the last item. Butters hid behind Kenny. Kyle cleared his throat.

"So it's like a game? The cootie shot?"

Bebe nodded.

"Pretty much."

Kyle spun around to face Cartman.

"AH HA! I knew you were up to something."

Cartman didn't seem the least bit upset. Instead, he just shook his head and retreated behind his little box. He wiped off his paint brush and placed the lid back on top of his jar of paint.

"Well, if you guys won't believe me then there's nothing I can do. And here I was, wanting to protect my friends from the horror of STC's," Eric said sadly. Kyle exchanged a look with Stan, who shrugged. Cartman continued, sniffing slightly. "I just wanted all my friends to be safe. I didn't want them to get sick."

"Bullshit," Kyle snapped.

Cartman gave him a pitying look.

"It's true, Kahl, and I can prove it, but I don't want to risk anyone's health…."

"There's no such thing as cooties," Wendy said, standing at Kyle's side. The two tended to share the same exasperation when it came to their fat friend.

Cartman extended his hands out, palms up in a pleading manner. "Then just let me ask you to participate in a little experiment to see who's right."

"We're right, Fatass," Kyle said. Wendy nodded in agreement.

"Okay, then you won't mind making out with Bebe to prove you can't get cooties from her," Cartman suggested without missing a beat.

"EWW!" both Kyle and Bebe shouted in unison. The two gave each other a sideways glance and then stepped further apart. Kyle stood closer to Stan while Bebe hid behind Wendy.

"I don't want to make out with her!" Kyle said, pointing to the blonde girl. He added hastily, "Not that you aren't, uh, nice, Bebe. I just don't want to kiss you."

"Same here," agreed the girl. "I don't care how fine your ass is."

An awkward pause followed that statement, but Cartman cleared his throat and regained attention.

"So, you're afraid of getting cooties, Kahl." Eric smirked. "I knew it."

"I am not! Cooties don't exist! I just…," he paused and gave Stan a pleading look to which Stan returned with a confused shrug. "I just don't want to kiss Bebe. I already kissed her before anyway. Like a year or two ago, and I didn't get cooties! So we proved you wrong."

Cartman shook his head, and twirled the paintbrush between his fat fingers. "This breakout of STC's is new. It wasn't around two years ago."

Wendy gave out a strangled sigh.

"You are so stupid!"

"Dude, just kiss her or something to get Fatass to shut up," Stan finally spoke up. Both Kyle and Bebe glared at him.

"I'm not kissing someone just because Cartman told me too," Kyle snapped.

"Yeah me too!" Bebe agreed.

"Then play Ookie Mouth," suggested Kenny, stepping amongst the group and drawing back his hood.

"Play what?" asked Stan.

Kyle paled. "Dude, gross"

"What's Ookie Mouth?" Bebe asked, looking between the boys.

"We try to say 'Ookie Mouth' while one of us spits in the other's mouth," Kyle explained. Bebe didn't seem disturbed by this; in fact she tapped her chin and looked off to the side with great thought. Wendy grimaced behind her back.

"Okay. I'll spit in your mouth. That way I don't have to kiss you," Bebe smiled, clapping her hands cheerfully. She turned to face Kyle and began sucking in her spit. Kyle freaked and darted behind Stan.

"Fuck no! You are not spitting in my mouth!"

Bebe pouted. She tried to speak around her spit. "But this way we don't kiss or even touch lips! I just spit in your mouth!"

"Yeah and that's gross."

Wendy stepped forward. "Just do it, Kyle."

"Or are you afraid to get cooties?" Cartman sneered.

"I am not!"

Kyle marched up to Bebe and stopped, his mouth clamped tightly shut. He sighed and then closed his eyes. Opening his mouth wide, he waited. Bebe grinned, reeled back her head, and spat quite gracefully into the boy's mouth. Kyle tripped backwards and sputtered. Bebe brushed off her mouth and turned to Wendy who just rolled her eyes.

Kenny frowned. "You forgot to say Ookie Mouth, Kyle."

Kyle snapped open his eyes and glared at his orange-coated friend. Cartman had fallen to the ground and was rolling in the snow laughing at the top of his lungs. He kicked out his legs and wiped at his eyes.

"So — great — so fucking — funny. Oh God. So beautiful!" He gasped between chuckles. Kyle fumed, still sitting on the cold ground. He clenched his hands into fists and shook. Stan knelt beside him, giving Cartman his own glare.

Stan rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing Kenny. "Dude, that wasn't really the point of this experiment."

"Are you happy now, Fatass?" Kyle said through gritted teeth.

Cartman managed to sit up.

"Oh yes."

Jimmy, Token, and Butters stepped forward to examine Kyle. Wendy and Bebe rolled their eyes at the boys' curiosity. Wendy stepped forward and touched Stan's hand.

"I'll see you later, okay?"

Stan nodded and allowed the girl to give him a swift peck on the cheek, before she grabbed hold of Bebe's hand and dragged the other girl away from the 'stupid' boys.

Kyle was still sitting on the ground, allowing Jimmy to kneel in front of him and stare down his throat.

"I d-don't see anything w-wrong with him, E-Eric."

"Well, it won't happen right away will it?" Cartman said, getting to his feet and straightening his cardboard box. "We have to wait and see how he feels tomorrow."

"I feel fine, Fatass," Kyle scoffed. Stan offered his friend a hand up. Craig seemed to have lost interest in the exchange and was walking off towards Clyde and the rest of the kids playing football. Tweek gave a nervous shutter and then scampered after him. Token and Jimmy swept their eyes over Kyle once more and then retreated to the football game with Timmy in tow. Butters and Kenny remained behind, still curiously staring at Kyle.

Stan discreetly checked Kyle for anything odd. Not that he believed Cartman's claims about cooties, but having someone spit in your mouth probably isn't the best thing that can happen to you. Especially given Kyle's aversion to any bodily fluids that weren't his own, Stan was concerned his friend might not seem too well.

Cartman packed away his paintbrush, leaflets, and jars into his box. The bell rang announcing the end of recess, and the fat boy gave his friends a smarmy wave as he jogged towards the school entrance. Butters and Kenny followed after him. Stan glanced sideways at Kyle who seemed to be sticking his tongue out a lot. Stan suppressed a chuckle and placed a hand on the other boy's shoulder.

"Don't worry, dude, we'll show everyone tomorrow what a big fat liar he is," Stan reassured.

Kyle gave him a weak smile.

"I know," he agreed. "But this is Cartman, Stan, when has the universe not given him his way just to fuck with me?"

The answer was: never.

Chapter Two: Fever

Stan awoke groggy, but relatively healthy the next morning. He sat up in bed yawning and feeling blindly around for his red-poof ball hat. He snatched it from his bed post and yanked it over his messy black hair. Stretching, he reached his arms over his head and scratched his right hand. Slipping out from under the covers, Stan dropped to his knees. Shuffling under his bed, he tugged up the loose floorboard and dug around for his green bottle. He twisted off the top when he found it and took a quick sip. Then giving his head a good shake, he scrambled back out from under the bed and dusted himself off. He tiptoed to his dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer to find a clean Terrance & Phillip t-shirt. Finding a nice blue one he pulled it over his head. When he'd settled the fabric over his chest, Stan scratched at his hand again. Searching now for a clean pair of jeans, Stan rummaged through his closet and found a semi-decent pair crumpled in the corner. He hopped into them and then went to examine himself in the mirror. Padding his way across the hall, he entered the bathroom and stepped up onto a small stool to check his reflection.

Examining his black eye, Stan was pleased to see the swelling had gone down. Some of the other bruises were starting to dissipate too. Strangely a red spot had appeared on his cheek, and the boy scratched at it. Then he dug his nails into the back of his hand once more. Glancing down at his right hand, Stan could see the fingernail marks he'd left behind. And yet his hand still itched. The irritation was actually starting to increase.

Now scratching both his cheek and hand alternately, Stan frowned at himself in the mirror. He leaned forward trying to get a better look at the redness that had spread over his left cheek. He tried to think how exactly he'd lain on that side during the night. Had he rubbed up against something? Was there something different to the laundry detergent his mother used in the sheets?

A heavy knock at the door caused Stan to stumble down off his stool. Shelley pushed her way into the bathroom with a thick brush in one hand and a hair ribbon wrapped around her wrist.

"Get out, Turd, I'm fixing my hair."

Stan scratched at the back of his hand. Shelley narrowed her eyes.

"What's wrong with your hand?"

Stan shook his head. "It itches. I don't know why."

Shelley stepped forward and grabbed Stan's wrist. He flinched and tried to step back from his sister, but she held him tight. Shelley brought her face close to the red scratch marks and then her eyes traveled up to Stan's face. She glanced between the two for a moment. Then shaking her head, she stepped backwards as if in shock.

"What?" Stan gasped, holding out his hand to the light. "What's wrong?"

"Did you let Wendy touch you?" Shelley asked without hesitation. Stan started. He took a step back from his sister.

"Wait, what? Wendy…?" Stan stammered, looking at his hand. Suddenly yesterday flashed through his mind. She had touched his hand and kissed his cheek before saying goodbye at recess. But it was impossible….

"Did she hold your hand or something?" Shelley insisted, grabbing Stan's hand once more and giving it another look. Her eyes pierced Stan as she waited for an answer.

Fiddling with the hem of his shirt with his free hand, Stan answered, "S-she might have held my hand yesterday…and she kissed me here." Stan pointed to his cheek.

"Unprotected?" Shelley pressed. Stan's eyes grew round. This was too much of a coincidence.

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Have you been talking to Cartman?"

"That fat turd?" Shelley scoffed, dropping Stan's wrist. She shoved Stan's little stool out of the way and stood before the mirror. She ran her brush once through her hair.

Stan rubbed at his cheek. He didn't know if Shelley was messing with him or not. But he highly doubted she'd ever have anything to do with Cartman.

"Shelley, do I have cooties?" Stan asked, staring up at his sister. Shelley paused, mid-brush.

She sighed and turned gravely towards her brother.

"I'm not sure…it looks like it."

Stan's jaw dropped.

"But cooties don't exist!"

Shelley leaned up and pulled open the medicine cabinet. She took down a small vial of ointment and offered to rub it on the back of Stan's hand. As she applied the cream, she said, "It's a fairly new breakout, Turd. But if you get a cootie shot now, I'm sure it can stop the spread of it."

"You think so?" Stan asked, glad that his hand had stopped itching with the application of the cream. Shelley moved her fingers to Stan's cheek and rubbed in the cooling solution.

"Yeah."

"You aren't tricking me, are you?" Stan asked nervously. Shelley pulled her hand away and glared at her little brother. "It's just," he added. "I didn't think cooties existed. But I'm all itchy, and I haven't touched anything weird today!"

Shelley set down the ointment and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Listen, Turd, cooties are serious business. If you get touched unprotected you get all itchy, like now. It's a good thing she didn't kiss you on the lips or else it would have spread all into your body and made you sick."

Stan touched his cheek.

"You're making this up, right?"

Shelley made a fist and held it under Stan's nose. "I just helped you out, and you're going to doubt me, Turd?"

Stan shook his head. "N-no, of course not, Shelley!"

"Good."

Stan sighed. He still didn't want to think that Cartman had been right about cooties, but he couldn't figure out what he'd touched the previous day that would warrant such intense itching. He had no allergies that he could think of, and his mother bought only gentle, non-fragrant soaps. The scented ones tended to make Stan nauseous.

Stan rarely trusted his sister, and after the other day's beating, he was still wary to be totally convinced she wasn't lying to him. Yet, at the same time, Stan couldn't help but wonder if she spoke the truth. Shelley was a more action-orientated individual. If Stan had done something to offend her, he would know about it instantly because Shelley would be pounding his face into the ground.

She had been nice enough to put the medicine on his hand. Shelley didn't often help her little brother, but when she did, Stan took it as a sign of good faith.

"Did you know Cartman's selling cootie shots at school?" Stan ventured to ask. Shelley raised an eyebrow. Stan added. "He paints circles and dots on people's arms and that supposedly makes the cooties go away."

"That's true," Shelley agreed. "It's an old natural method."

"Wendy and Bebe say it's just a game, though," Stan informed.

Shelley shrugged. "It used to be, yeah. When cooties weren't dangerous, but now with the new breakout it's the best defense."

"I don't see how it can help. There's nothing medical behind it, right?"

"Don't ask me how it works!" Shelley snapped, throwing her hands into the air. "Do I look like a doctor?"

"Well, Cartman's not a doctor, so I doubt his doodles work!" Stan pressed.

"Any idiot can do a cootie shot. That's why for so many years no one got sick," Shelley said, taking up her brush again and pulling out her tangles. Stan gaped at her.

"It still doesn't make any sense," Stan said quietly. He examined his hand. Shelley dropped her brush in the sink and grabbed Stan's shoulder. The boy flinched.

"Look, Turd, I may hate you, but do you think I want you sick? Just get the stupid shot and be done with it. What can it hurt?"

"Does a doctor perform the shot?" Stan asked. "I don't trust Cartman."

Shelley took hold of Stan's hand and said, "A doctor can give you a different shot than the one the fat turd is giving out. One that seems more normal. The ones that hurt. But the one with the circles and dots is cheaper. You know how doctors can be. They make you buy the expensive stuff 'cause they're in cahoots with the pharmacies."

Stan bit his lip. Shelley let out an exasperated sigh.

"How much is Cartman selling his shots for?" Shelley asked in a monotone.

"Ten for the just the circles and dots, and fifteen for squares included."

Shelley shook her head and beckoned her little brother to follow. Crossing the hallway to the girl's bedroom, Stan stood awkwardly at the door, watching Shelley rifle through her top dresser drawer.

Taking out a pink wallet, Shelley flipped it open and took out three five dollar bills. She held them out to Stan who stared in disbelief.

"What's that?" he asked in a small voice.

"Fifteen dollars. Ask the fat turd to give you the complete shot," instructed Shelley. She took Stan's hand and stuffed the wad of cash into it.

"You're just giving me this money? What's the catch?"

Shelley leaned against the doorframe, staring down at her little brother. He made a quick shuffle away from her.

"I'm already grounded for beating the shit out of you. I don't want Mom and Dad thinking this whole cootie thing is my fault. You get that stupid shot, and get better so I don't get the blame for not looking after you. Got that, Turd?"

Stan gulped and nodded.

"Yes, Shelley."

With that said he pelted out of the room and scampered down the stairs. Shelley closed her bedroom door and locked it. Heading to her window, the girl gave her blinds a few twists, opening and shutting them with a certain rhythmic fashion. After she'd finished, she peered outside. Across the street, she saw the bushes tremble and Eric Cartman step out from behind them. He gave her the thumbs up and then disappeared down the street.

Returning to her room, Shelley finished readying for school. She wrapped the ribbon in her hair, brushed her teeth, fixed her headgear, and packed her school bag. Before she left her room, she made sure to collect the contents of her tiny trashcan sitting next to her desk. The trash only held one item, a brightly packaged box the size and shape of a deck of cards. Shelley had purchased the box yesterday from South Park's local joke shop.

Making sure not to let any of the leftover powder touch her hands, Shelley descended the stairs and deposited the box into one of the garbage cans sitting out on the curb.

~

Stan waited at the bus stop, lightly touching his cheek. It didn't itch at all now. He checked his hand and was relieved to see the redness had ebbed away. Still not sure he should completely believe his sister, Stan reached into his pocket and touched the money she had so readily given him. It was strange. Shelley never gave Stan anything. For her to so easily open her wallet and drop fifteen dollars was an immense change in her personality. Maybe their mother had finally gotten through to her? Maybe Shelley really did care about Stan?

Kenny and Butters arrived at the bus stop next. Cartman waddled up behind them. Stan gave them a short wave. Shivering against the cold and still groggy from sleep, Kenny and Butters stood dazedly watching the snowflakes flutter to the ground. Butters murmured something to Kenny about wanting to wear a Hello Kitty barrette, but his parents threatened to ground him if he even contemplated purchasing the item. Kenny with his orange hood drawn up tight about his face, nodded in what seemed to be a sympathetic manner.

Stan turned his attention back to the street, craning his neck to see if the bus was turning the corner. Cartman stepped up to Stan and held up a sleek new briefcase.

"Look what my mom got me to keep my doctor supplies in," the fat boy boasted. When Kyle wasn't present, Cartman was several times friendlier to Stan.

"Doctor supplies?" Stan questioned. A part of him wanted to roll his eyes at Cartman's insistence that his brush and paints were medical tools, but touching the wad of cash in his pocket, Stan thought he'd best get Shelley's request over with.

Pulling out the money, Stan waved it in Cartman's face. The fat boy's eyes lit up.

"Well, well, look who's decided to come crawling back. I'm very proud of you Stan, wanting to protect yourself against Wendy's STC's." Cartman set down his briefcase and unsnapped the lid. Inside, Stan could see several containers of black paint, brushes, and a couple of strange medical bottles with their labels smudged out. Cartman knelt before the briefcase and took out a long, thin brush and the paint. Stirring up the jar's contents he grinned up at Stan.

Stan sighed. "I still don't fully believe you, but what can it hurt? I can just wash the stuff off at the end of the day."

"It's a shame Kahl refuses to get one," Cartman noted as if he hadn't heard his friend speak. Stan didn't say anything more, but just went about rolling up his sleeve, exposing his lower arm to the cold. He shivered when snowflakes began to collect in the crook of his elbow.

"Speaking of Kyle," Stan murmured watching Cartman draw a neat little circle next to his wrist. Despite his chubby fingers, Cartman drew the symbols with a methodical, steady hand. "He'd better get his ass here soon or he'll miss the bus," Stan mused.

Kenny pulled down his hood.

"Kyle's sick, dude."

Stan glanced over his shoulder at Kenny.

"Dude, really? That sucks, now I'm going to be bored all day. What's he got this time?"

Butters rubbed his knuckles together.

"I don't know, Stan. His mom just said he was real sick. Throwin' up and havin' trouble breathing, she said," Butters explained. "Kenny and I stopped by his house on the way here."

Stan blinked.

"Did his mom say what she thought he had?" Stan asked.

Kenny and Butters shook their heads. Stan found himself staring off into the distance in the direction of his best friend's home.

Cartman snapped his briefcase closed, causing his three friends to jump.

Stan spun around and watched Cartman pocket his fifteen dollars. Looking down at his arm, Stan examined the circles, dots, and squares now decorating his skin. He touched his pinkie to the drying paint.

"I told you, Stan," Cartman was saying, "Kahl should have gotten a cootie shot too. Now, he's dying from cooties 'cause Bebe spit in his mouth."

Stan's head whipped up, and he glared Cartman down.

"That's stupid."

"Says the guy who just paid me fifteen bucks to give him a cootie shot," Cartman retorted, crossing his arms over his wide chest.

"Look, Dude, Kyle gets sick all the time. I'm sure he'll get better by tomorrow. He always does," Stan said, jerkily pulling down the cuff of his jacket's sleeve.

Cartman nodded.

"You're right, Stan. Kahl gets sick all the time." The heavier boy leaned in close, causing Stan to take a step back.

"But don't you think that could only make it easier for Kahl to catch cooties?" Cartman added confidentially, his face set in a concerned frown. "He's all weak and shit from his Jew germs anyway, what makes you think he'd be able to fight off some serious girl germs? Especially when he pretty much swallowed them whole."

Stan shook his head, forcing a smile.

"I'm sure he's fine."

The bus rolled to a stop in front of the boys. Cartman lifted up his briefcase and swaggered over to the bus's steps. He shoved Butters out of the way and climbed up into the vehicle. Butters looked nervously at Kenny as if expecting the boy to push him away too, but Kenny just patted the other boy's head and offered to let Butters go on ahead. Kenny was at the top most steps before he turned around and glanced at Stan, who was still staring in the direction of Kyle's house.

"Dude, you coming?"

Stan started.

"Um…."

"I'm sure he's okay, Stan," Kenny mumbled through his hood now that he'd put it back on. Stan glanced down at his hand, noting that he could still see his scratch marks from this morning.

"Kenny, tell Garrison I'm going to be late."

"What?"

"I'm just going to check if he's okay, that's all. See you later."

Stan took off down the sidewalk, skidding through the slush and snow as he bolted around a corner. He heard the bus hiss and its engine ground up as it continued on down the street without him. Cutting through a yard or two, Stan emerged on the opposite side of the road. Kyle's house stood several doors down. Pausing for breath, Stan eyed the driveway; the Broflovski's car was missing.

Stan wasn't sure if this was a good or bad thing. If Mrs. Broflovski was out then it would make sneaking into the house a lot easier. At the same time, however, Stan began to worry that the car's absence might be a sign of how ill Kyle could be. What if his mother had to take him to the doctor? Or the hospital?

Walking around to the back of the house, Stan craned his neck to examine Kyle's bedroom window. The curtains were drawn and no light shone within. Hunching down, Stan dug a small pebble out of Mrs. Broflovski's garden bed. Hopping a few paces backwards, Stan flung the stone as hard as he could at the glass. It struck the pane with a loud 'thunk' before dropping back to the earth.

Stan waited.

A few seconds later, the curtains rustled and a small head with a familiar green hat perched atop frizzy red hair peered out into the yard. Stan heard Kyle give a yelp of joy and disappear behind the screen of curtains. Stan waited on the patio and not more than two minutes later, Kyle was throwing open the back door. He stood dressed in his house slippers and cotton pajamas. Stan gave him a wave.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing here? Aren't you going to miss the bus?" Kyle asked, despite stepping aside to let Stan indoors. Taking a quick glance at his friend, Stan noted the dark circles under Kyle's green eyes and the washed out pallor of his skin.

Stan peered closer into Kyle's face, making the other boy lean away.

"What?"

"How are you feeling?"

Kyle shrugged.

"Like shit."

"Butters said you were real sick. That you threw up," Stan said. Kyle nodded, shutting the back door. He beckoned for Stan to follow him and the two walked to the living room.

"I don't know what's wrong with me. I just sort of woke up at like six puking my guts out. I've been trying to sleep since then."

Kyle took the stairs slowly, clinging to the railing. Stan hovered a step behind him, watching his lethargic progress.

"Are you feeling any better?" Stan asked when they reached the landing.

"No."

"Then why did you get out of bed?"

"'Cause you fucking threw a rock at my window," Kyle countered groggily. When they reached Kyle's bedroom, the boy flopped down upon the covers of his bed and curled into a ball. He kept his eyes shut.

"Dude?" Stan poked Kyle in the head.

"I'm dizzy," Kyle mumbled into his pillow. Stan sat down on the edge of the bed. He glanced around the room, noting the plastic medical-looking tub sitting next to Kyle's bed and the numerous bottles of liquid medicine on his bedside table. Kyle shuffled under his blankets, pushing his feet up against Stan's thigh.

"Why aren't you at school?" Kyle asked, not opening his eyes.

"I wanted to see if you were okay."

"Dude, I always get sick. You've never skipped school 'cause of it," Kyle pointed out. Stan tossed his backpack to the floor and shrugged off his coat.

"You want me to leave?"

"Not really. I'm all alone here. Mom went to stock up on more meds, Ike's at school, and Dad's working. Mom said she wouldn't be gone long though."

Stan hopped off of the bed and knelt beside Kyle's head. He tried to see if Kyle had any strange rashes. Reaching under the blankets, Stan took Kyle's hand.

"Can I help you?" Kyle murmured, opening one eye.

"What is it that you have, Dude?"

"Don't know. I thought it had to do with my diabetes, but Mom keeps such a good record on everything I eat and do, that she ruled that out," Kyle explained, allowing Stan to peek under the pajama sleeve of his right hand.

"Do you itch at all?"

Kyle shook his head.

"You don't have any weird red marks or rashes?" Stan pressed.

"No, Dude, why?"

Stan scratched the back of his right hand. He leaned in closer to Kyle's face. "Dude, I caught the cooties."

Kyle blinked.

"What?"

"I got them, Dude. Look!" Stan held out his hand. Kyle squinted, trying to discern the red marks etched over Stan's skin.

"What am I looking at?" Kyle propped himself up on his elbows.

"Kyle, I was all itchy this morning. And Shelley said I had cooties. She said an epidemic had started and that Cartman's drawings are actually some kind of home remedy for getting rid of them," Stan whispered. Kyle rolled onto his back and started laughing. Stan frowned.

"You believed her?" Kyle gasped. Stan nodded. "Why? Dude, she fucking beat the shit out of you the other day. What makes you think she was telling the truth?"

"'Cause she gave me her money to get a shot from Cartman." He rolled up his sleeve and showed Kyle the fresh cootie shot.

Kyle sat up slowly.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Kyle furrowed his brows. He looked in deep thought, his hands clasped neatly in his lap. He seemed to murmur under his breath for a moment and then finally he shook his head.

"There can't be such things as cooties. She must be messing with you." Kyle frowned. "And why the fuck would you give Cartman any money?"

Stan pulled off his hat and scratched his head.

"It's better to be safe than sorry, right?" Stan said carefully. Rubbing at his eyes, Kyle sighed.

"Cooties don't exist," the redhead mumbled into his hands.

"Then how do you explain my cheek and hand itching for no reason? I never touched anything weird yesterday. Wendy kissed me here!" Stan jabbed his finger into his cheek. Kyle narrowed his eyes.

"It doesn't make sense…."

"How does it not make sense? She touched me unprotected. I hadn't gotten a shot or anything," Stan urged. He pointed at Kyle. "And now you're really sick! You have to have them too!"

"Stan, Jesus, calm down," Kyle snapped. "There is no such thing as cooties. I get sick all the fucking time. This is nothing new."

"Except Bebe totally spit in your mouth," Stan countered. Kyle glared at him.

"I swear to God, Stan, if you're telling me you actually believe that Fatass was right — I'll — I'll hit you!"

Stan jumped back from the bed. He tried to make the movement nonchalant, but Kyle continued to stare him down.

Fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, Stan murmured, "But what if it's true? Why would Shelley be nice to me?"

Kyle slumped back against his pillows. "Maybe because she beat the shit out of you and got in trouble for it. Now, she's seeking revenge."

Stan stuck his fists in his jean pockets. He turned on his heel and began pacing the floor.

"Maybe."

"No 'maybe' that's probably what it is," Kyle shot. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.

"How long are you staying here?" Kyle added.

Stan glanced out Kyle's bedroom window. Turning towards his friend, he said, "What if Shelley isn't lying, though? I mean I already feel loads better. And the itching has stopped completely."

"What's that on your cheek? Cream?" Kyle asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Er, Shelley put it on me. It was in the medicine cabinet," Stan explained.

"And you don't think that has anything to do with your itching stopping?"

Stan bit his lip.

"Well, yeah, but…."

Kyle let out a disgruntled groan and buried his head in his pillows.

"Listen to me, Kyle. You told me your mom couldn't figure out what was wrong with you, right? And what about my hand and cheek itching for no reason! I honestly hadn't touched anything weird. I don't think Shelley would lie about something that affected my health," Stan pushed. Kyle gave him a deadpan look. Stan added hastily, "And she gave me fifteen dollars."

Kyle's eyes went wide for a moment.

"I can't believe you're telling me this. Stan, this is your sister and Cartman we're talking about. She doesn't give two shits about you unless it's pounding your face into the pavement. And as for Cartman," Kyle rubbed his forehead, "I can't believe you fucking got that shot."

Groaning, Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Listen to me, Dude, I know Cartman can't be trusted most of the time, but why would Shelley just willingly give me money? She's never done that. I — I want to believe her…."

Kyle leaned back against his pillows.

"Okay, believe her. You got your shot," Kyle shrugged. "That doesn't mean I have cooties. I'm not paying Cartman a fucking dime."

Stan wrung his hands.

"I guess it could just be a coincidence," he begrudged. "You being sick is pretty common. So, you probably caught some bug. Sorry I bothered you about the cootie thing."

"It's okay, Stan," Kyle said, giving him a genuine smile.

Stan laughed.

Taking a running jump, Stan catapulted himself onto Kyle's bed. He flopped himself over Kyle's legs and lay down at his friend's side. Kyle smacked him in the head.

"Oww! Fuck, Dude, that hurt!"

"I'm sick! Get out of my bed."

Stan rolled his eyes and scooted up to rest against the headboard. He smiled at Kyle.

"I'm not going to get sick. I've hung out with you before like this and never got sick."

Kyle kicked him in the shin.

"Yeah, well I don't want you jumping around on top of me."

Stan nudged Kyle back with his own foot. He didn't kick him back, giving him a break because of his illness. Any other day and the two would have started a wrestling match. Kyle rested his head on Stan's shoulder.

"I wish the room would stop spinning."

Stan frowned.

"You feel that bad? Can I get you something to make you feel better?"

Kyle shook his head. Stan tugged up his sleeve and examined the cootie shot. He traced a finger over the square. Kyle watched him wordlessly, frowning. Stan felt a bit stupid to have so readily gotten the shot, but at the same time a sense of relief had settled over him. Casting his eyes over Kyle, who lay curled against his side, Stan worried. He couldn't make up his mind whether or not cooties were real. Shelley's insistence had been so unlike her that Stan couldn't help wonder if Kyle's illness wasn't a direct result of Bebe's game of Ookie Mouth.

"What did Bebe's spit taste like?" Stan asked, tapping Kyle on the ear.

Pulling the covers up to his ears, Kyle shrugged. His breath came out rather quickly. Stan touched his friend's forehead. It was hot.

"Can you get me some water?" Kyle rasped. Stan nodded and tumbled out of the bed. He grabbed the empty glass on Kyle's bedside table and rushed to the bathroom. He hopped up to the sink and filled the glass to the top. Carefully, Stan shuffled back into the room and offered the glass to his friend. Kyle took it and downed half of it. He sat up, staring at the glass. Stan touched his shoulder.

"You going to be okay?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up…."

Stan skipped backwards as his friend leaned over the side of his bed and dry heaved into his plastic container. The glass of water tumbled to the floor, splashing Stan's shoes. Stan knelt to mop up the liquid with the hem of his shirt. He dabbed at the carpet and up righted the glass. Kyle continued to cough over the side of the bed. Stan straightened up and glanced down at his arm. The cootie shot had smudged a little with the liquid.

"You know, Kyle…," Stan whispered, keeping his eyes down.

Spitting into the plastic tub, Kyle rolled up onto his bed and looked down at Stan. His face was tinged with sweat and his chest rose and fell swiftly.

"What?" Kyle managed to croak out.

"It might not hurt…you know…to maybe…get a cootie shot. I mean, it would be a way to see if it's real or not," Stan rushed out the last bit. Kyle clearly didn't have enough strength to even glare Stan down.

"Cooties don't exist."

Stan held up his hands.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but, like say, what if they do — or — like something similar. We could just try the cootie shot on you, and if you don't get better then we know it's something Cartman made up."

"It is something the fatass made up," Kyle moaned. He turned to face the wall.

Stan clambered up onto the bed. He didn't even need to touch Kyle's forehead to feel the heat radiate from his friend's skin.

"I could just draw the circles and dots myself. I'll find a paint brush and some paints. And we can wait to see if anything happens," Stan suggested. Although he didn't want to believe in cooties, Stan would try anything to get Kyle to stop shivering.

"No."

"But, Kyle —"

"NO!"

Stan sighed and noticed the Broflovski's house phone sat atop Kyle's dresser.

"I could call your mom for you. Tell her you seem to be getting worse."

Kyle peeked over his shoulder.

"You could get in trouble."

Stan had already picked up the phone. "Don't really care. I'm not cleaning up your stomach when you manage to cough it up."

Kyle chuckled.

"Gross, Dude." Kyle rolled over to face Stan. "You mean to tell me, you don't want to take care of me, even though I'm sick?"

"I'm not your mother. Now, what's her cell number?"

"You know you'll just make her worry more if you call her now."

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Get me another glass of water."

Stan obliged. He slid off the bed and grabbing the glass once again, bolted for the bathroom. Once again he watched the tap fill up the glass. As he tiptoed back to Kyle's room, Stan paused and turned to glance across the hall. Ike's bedroom door stood ajar. On a whim, Stan pushed his way inside and studied the four-year-old's room. A stack of board games stood in the corner of the room, stuffed toys spilled from a wooden chest, and several colorful paper decorations on strings dangled from the ceiling. Stan examined the hanging pieces of paper and noted that they were painted. Setting down the glass, Stan searched in Ike's closet, and then moved towards a small white desk. He knelt down and pulled open the drawers. Inside he found a small bottle of green paint. A thick brush splattered with an array of colors lay next to it. Stan pocketed them both and returned to Kyle's room

Watching Kyle drink the water a bit more slowly this time around, Stan suggested the cootie shot one more time and showed his best friend the paint and brush. Kyle glared at him over the rim of the glass.

"No."

"Dude, would you really let yourself be sick just so you don't have to admit Cartman's right?" Stan sighed.

"He's not right!" Kyle growled. He turned to rest on his side, his back to Stan.

"Would you let me draw the shot on you…just to make me feel better?"

Kyle peeked over his shoulder.

"Make you feel better?" Kyle scoffed. He snorted with laughter, but turned over and extended his arm.

"I swear to God, Stan," Kyle whispered through gritted teeth, "if you tell Fatass, I'll kill you."

"Understood."

Stan unscrewed the cap of the green paint. He dipped the brush inside and swirled it around a bit. Kyle glared at him the entire time. Stan took a deep breath and took Kyle's hand. He was inches away from touching the bristles to his friend's skin when the Broflovskis' phone rang, clattering against the wood of Kyle's dresser. Stan started and smeared the paint against Kyle's forearm. Rolling his eyes, Kyle snatched a tissue from his bedside table and rubbed it off.

"Get that, it's probably my mom checking up on me."

Stan picked up the phone and handed it to Kyle. Pressing the phone to his ear, Kyle lay down again and listened to his mother's nasally voice drift through the earpiece.

"Hey, Ma," Kyle mumbled when there was a pause. Giving Stan a quick glance, he added, "Are you coming home soon? My tummy hurts."

Stan pretended not to hear as he fiddled with the end of the paint brush. He waited for Kyle to reassure his mother that he wasn't dying and that he just needed her to hurry home with medicine to make his 'tummy' feel better. Shutting off the phone, Kyle tossed it to the end of the bed.

"She's stuck behind an accident and won't be home for awhile," Kyle explained to Stan. He held out his arm once more, and this time Stan managed to poke two dots on his pale skin. He added the circles and then fitted a small square around the whole thing. It was a bit sloppy, but Stan felt he'd copied the way Cartman had administered the strokes the best he could. He wondered if it would work. Was there a certain type of paint that Cartman had that was supposed to be used? Or would Ike's paint prove just as good?

Stan put the paint up, returning it to Ike's drawer. When he arrived back in Kyle's room, his friend gave him another deadpanned look.

"I don't feel any better, Dude."

"Maybe it takes a minute to kick in?"

"Or it's stupid and doesn't work at all," Kyle said with a false cheery voice. He shuffled further down under the covers and closed his eyes.

"Do you want me to leave?" Stan asked, eyeing his friend.

"I'm going to try and nap. Let me sleep for awhile. You can play GameSphere downstairs if you want to," Kyle murmured. "Warn me when Ma gets home though."

Stan nodded and left his friend to sleep.

When Mrs. Broflovski arrived home almost forty-five minutes later, Stan stashed the GameSphere back into the case under the television. He then bolted up the stairs and hid in Kyle's room. He woke his friend and then shuffled under the bed. Kyle played the part of the pathetic sick kid, complete with allowing his mother to fret over his temperature and make him breakfast in bed. When Mrs. Broflovski had settled downstairs with the morning paper, Stan reemerged from under the bed. He crawled up beside Kyle and watched his friend dig into the waffles his mother had brought him.

"You can eat now?" Stan pointed out.

Kyle paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He looked down at his food and then at the markings on his arm.

Shaking his head, Kyle whispered, "It's just a coincidence. There's a perfectly logical reason. The bug must have passed or something."

"Or the cootie shot worked," Stan said, not looking at Kyle.

"No, that's stupid. My fever must have just broken, that's all," Kyle said matter-of-factly. He swatted Stan's hand away when his friend tried to steal a piece of toast.

"I'm hungry."

"That's too bad."

Stan gave Kyle a look. Kyle pushed his plate of buttered toast towards Stan, who took the invitation with a smile. He munched on the bread, staring out the window. Snow had begun to flutter down at an alarming speed. Stan noted smudged fingerprints covering one of the panes of glass. He guessed Kyle had forgotten to wipe them away when he came to the window earlier. Glancing back at his friend, Stan smiled. The color had returned to Kyle's cheeks. No longer did Stan feel the heat radiate from his friend's skin.

Kyle ate vigorously, scarfing down the small stack of waffles his mother had brought him. The paint on Kyle's arm could be seen as the boy's pajama sleeve bunched up around his elbow. Stan wondered if it had really worked, or like Kyle had suggested, his fever had just broken and run its course.

Deciding not to argue with Kyle as he recovered, Stan spent the rest of the day lounging around in his friend's room. He would shuffle under Kyle's bed if Shelia appeared to check on her son. At around two thirty in the afternoon, Stan snuck home. He cut through several backyards and took the long way around the neighborhood to get home. He knew his mother wouldn't be home until five, so he had plenty of time to call Kenny and ask him what he'd missed at school. He hoped Mr. Garrison had been as neglectful of a teacher as he normally proved and had not noticed that any students were missing from his classroom. More than likely even if Garrison noticed or Kenny had told him Stan would be late, the man would have forgotten by lunch time.

When he reached his front yard, Stan found someone sitting on his doorstep. Recognizing the familiar purple beret, Stan froze. Wendy was not someone who needed to know about him playing hooky. Unfortunately, the girl spotted Stan before he managed to sneak around the side of the house.

"Stan!" the girl jumped to her feet. Her overstuffed backpack swinging from her shoulder, she ran up to the boy. "Why weren't you in school? Where were you? Are you okay?"

Wendy threw her arms around Stan's neck, and the boy sighed in relief knowing his cootie shot was firmly traced upon his skin. Pulling back, Wendy gave him a searching look.

"Well, why weren't you in school?" Wendy pressed. "Were you sick?"

She noticed Stan's school bag slung over the boy's shoulder. She raised an eyebrow.

Stan rubbed the back of his neck. He guessed telling her the truth wouldn't hurt.

"Kyle was sick, so I visited him. I lost track of time." Stan pulled the girl around to the backyard. He leaned in close to her ear.

"I think Kyle caught the cooties. I caught them this morning, but Cartman gave me a shot, so I'm okay now," Stan explained. He cast his eyes over his shoulder and moved closer to the girl confidentially. "Kyle was really sick, but after I gave him the shot too, he got better."

Wendy's brow furrowed and a deep frown curved her lips down.

"Stan, are you serious?"

The boy nodded.

Wendy rubbed her temples.

"You skipped school because of that? Really? That's…so stupid. Cartman was lying!"

"No he wasn't! Shelley said it was true!"

Wendy shook her head. "Then she was lying too! I can't believe you'd believe something so stupid. Bebe and I told you that it was just a game that girls play."

Stan shook his head.

"You didn't see how bad Kyle got because of what Bebe did…."

"Did what? It was gross, yeah. But she just spit in his mouth, Stan. Bebe doesn't have cooties. I don't either," Wendy challenged. Stan shuffled his feet.

"I got this rash on my hand where you touched me…and kissed me," Stan whispered stubbornly. Wendy shook her head.

"You're being stupid."

"No, you're stupid!" Stan countered stupidly. "Y-you didn't see how s-sick Kyle was."

Wendy rolled her eyes.

"Stan, he gets sick all the time. It must have been some coincidence."

"You're wrong," Stan said bluntly. He turned away from the girl. A pained expression passed over Wendy's eyes. It didn't last long. The girl straightened up to her full height and glanced down the end of her nose at the boy.

"Fine! Believe he had cooties. I don't care."

She marched away through the snow. White flakes swirled around her and settled in her black hair. Stan watched her retreat around the house. However, before he could take a step towards his backdoor, Wendy peered around the corner. Her eyes looked red. She hurled a small package wrapped in pink and red paper at his feet. She then chucked what looked like a frilly picnic basket. Red velvet cupcakes with white icing tumbled out upon the snow.

"Oh by the way, Stan," the girl sniffed, "Happy Valentine's Day."

Chapter Three: Proof

Recess the next day saw slightly clearer skies and less snow than the day before; yet it was still too cold.

Stan stood next to Kyle, who had made a full recovery, with their backs against the school building. The wall blocked the whipping wind, and the sun had baked the bricks making it warm to the touch. Rubbing his shoulders against the rough wall, Stan watched the long line of his fellow male classmates occupy the front of Cartman's cardboard box. His cootie shot business was booming. Cartman had spread the news quickly that Stan had succumbed to cooties the previous day. He also took the opportunity to pin Kyle's absence yesterday as a direct result of Bebe's Ookie Mouth game. Kyle had refused to comment on the situation, but after getting caught with his sleeves rolled up while washing his hands in the bathroom, it quickly spread through Garrison's class that Kyle Broflovski had a cootie shot too. Annoyed by Cartman's crowing and sudden success with the other fourth grade boys, Kyle had dragged Stan clear across the playground the minute recess started so that they could stand in judgment of Cartman's latest scheme in peace.

Stan watched as Timmy rolled his chair up to Cartman's 'desk' with Jimmy at his side. Jimmy offered the fat boy several dollar bills. Cartman made a show of fiddling with his paints and brushes. He flourished his tools with a smugness that made Stan's stomach crawl. As Cartman painted the cootie shot on Jimmy's and Timmy's arms, Butters, who had jumped at the chance to help Eric, sat counting the money earned while placing it in a small tin can. Kenny hovered behind him, a freshly painted cootie shot on his own left forearm.

"I hate you, you know," Kyle mumbled out of the corner of his mouth fifteen minutes into recess. Stan sighed.

"I know."

"I can't believe this. If you hadn't given me that stupid shot -"

"You'd still be sick," Stan countered angrily. Kyle snapped his mouth shut.

He shook his head.

"It's a goddamn coincidence. I'll prove that!" Kyle promised more to himself than to Stan.

"You know you could say thank you…to me…for helping you out the other day," Stan pressed, glaring at his friend. Kyle avoided his eye.

"I didn't ask you to skip school, jerk ass."

Stan pushed himself off the brick wall and marched over towards the swing set. Wendy perched in one of the swings with Bebe pushing her lightly every now and then. The girls chatted, giggling. Bebe played with Wendy's hair, twisting it into braids around her fingers. When the two girls spotted the approaching boy, Bebe stopped the swing and blocked Stan's path to her friend.

"She doesn't want to talk to you," Bebe informed Stan.

"I — er — wanted to apologize for yesterday," Stan mumbled, looking at his feet.

Wendy got up and stood at Bebe's side. She put her hands on her hips, eyeing Stan coldly. Her gaze darted to the long line of boys in front of Cartman and then back to Stan.

"Why are you helping Cartman?" Wendy began slowly. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose red from the cold. "Look at all those idiots wasting their money!"

"I think it works."

Bebe gave a harsh laugh. Wendy sniffed.

"Stan," Wendy began, her voice suddenly soft, "I told you that the cootie shot isn't real. It's something to joke around with. Girls do it all the time. Like our fortune teller game."

Stan looked uncomfortable. He glanced behind him to see Kyle now hunched against the brick wall and staring intently in Cartman's direction.

Turning back to Wendy, Stan held out his hands pleadingly.

"Wendy, you didn't see him. He was having trouble breathing, and he kept getting sick. His mom didn't know what was wrong with him," Stan explained.

Bebe exchanged a look with Wendy. Neither girl seemed convinced.

"What made you think it was cooties? It could be anything else," Bebe pointed out. "Doesn't Kyle get sick all the time? He's like the smartest kid in class, but misses the most days."

Stan clenched his fists. They hadn't seen how bad his friend had looked. All they cared about was Eric Cartman getting ahead. Wendy at times shared Kyle's obsession with Cartman. Both had fought against him and his intolerable, bigoted behavior; Wendy quite literally at times. Yet, should an old grudge keep them from noticing that Cartman had done some good? Stan wasn't sure if it was exactly cooties, but he knew the shot worked. Kyle had scared Stan. Stan never wanted to see his friend look like that again. So, if that meant he had to swallow his pride and acknowledge Cartman was right for once, Stan was willing as long as his friend was safe.

Plus, Shelley had been kind enough to offer her own money. Stan wanted to believe that his sister cared.

"I still think the cootie thing is real," Stan said through his teeth. "If you don't want to believe me, that's okay. I don't know why you're so pissed off at me."

Wendy's eyes grew round.

"You don't know why I'm mad?"

"Yeah!" Stan snapped. "You're the one being stupid!"

Bebe scoffed.

"Dumb boys," she murmured under her breath. Wendy and Stan ignored her.

Wendy blinked several times.

"I wanted to spend Valentine's Day with you, duh. And you weren't even at school! And here I was all worried you were sick, so I rushed to your house after school," she explained. "I skipped my debate team meeting for you. I wanted to see you."

Stan felt his stomach drop out.

"Oh…yeah…. I totally forgot that it was Valentine's Day. I had made you a card, but — er — Shelley ripped it up," Stan confessed pathetically. He touched the dark circle under his eye, wincing at the memory of his angry sister. He was really glad she was starting to act kinder towards him now.

"I know," Wendy said, frowning. "I wasn't expecting anything from you. I just wanted to hang out with you. But — "

Wendy caught herself and quickly shut her mouth.

"But what?"

Bebe drew forward, puffing out her chest.

"But you were with Kyle. You always hang out with him when you should be hanging out with Wendy!" the girl challenged. Stan frowned.

"Wait a minute," Stan began, glancing at Wendy, who continued to stare him down. "Dude, he's my best friend. And he was sick! I had to make sure he was okay." This seemed extremely obvious to Stan, who was totally oblivious as to why the girls didn't understand.

Wendy pushed Bebe away and stepped closer to Stan. The boy felt his back press up against the poles of the swing set.

"That's true," Wendy said in a level voice, her eyes continuing to bore into Stan's. "He's your best friend, and you care about him…more than you care about me. And…that's okay."

Stan's eyes grew wide.

"Wait! No! I didn't mean that…I mean. I like you a lot, Wendy. Honest I do," Stan stammered out, not sure why he needed to convince her of this. A small part in the back of Stan's mind felt like there was a hidden implication to Wendy's words. What that was, Stan couldn't say.

"But not as much as Kyle," Wendy stated. Bebe crossed her arms over her chest. Stan pointed to her.

"Well, you like Bebe more than me 'cause she's your best friend, right?" Stan argued. Bebe rolled her eyes. Wendy glanced over her shoulder at the blonde girl. She examined her as if she were seeing her for the first time.

"Maybe…," she admitted finally. She turned back to Stan. "I'll have to think about that."

Stan shut his mouth. He hadn't expected her to be so calm. Wendy at times acted like a female version of Kyle; angry and ill tempered, ready to prove her beliefs and opinions right should a challenge appear. Yet for some reason she seemed a bit defeated. Her voice was softer and her stance not as bold. For once she seemed unsure of herself. Bebe fidgeted behind her as if aware of the change. Stan felt his hands shake.

"I think we should break up…."

Stan closed his eyes.

"I don't see why you're so mad," Stan tried to challenge, but his own heart wasn't in it anymore. He whispered, "I do like you more than Kyle."

Wendy shook her head.

"Don't lie, Stan. You've never been good at it."

The girl turned to go, but Stan jumped forward and caught her hand. Tears leaked in the corner of his eyes.

"I'm sorry I forgot Valentine's Day. I'm sorry I didn't spend the day with you." He rushed out. Bebe made to pull the boy off her friend, but stopped when she saw Wendy kiss Stan's forehead. Both the boy and blonde girl stared.

With her eyes on the ground, Wendy said, "Over the summer, Stan, I had fallen into a muddy creek bed. I didn't think much of it at the time. I cleaned myself off and joined up with the rest of my Girl Scout troop. I spent the whole day hiking with damp clothes. The next day I came down with a fever."

Bebe stirred behind her friend.

"I remember that. You got an ear infection too!"

Wendy nodded.

"You came to visit me, Stan. You gave me a nice card and some flowers," the girl continued.

Stan's face brightened. "Yeah, I remember that. You were really sick. See I came to visit you!"

"And you brought Kyle."

Stan flinched.

"And he sat in the corner, reading as you talked with me. Every now and then I caught you glancing at him. It was a nice day out, and I knew you didn't want to spend it all cooped up with me. And eventually a half hour later you left."

Stan let go of the girl's hand.

Wendy sighed.

"It's not like I hate you for it…at first I think I did, but I'm just tired of you pretending you like me more, when you clearly don't."

Bebe suddenly started as a small group of their male classmates sidled up to the swings. Craig reached them first, but continued on past until he reached the swings. He took a seat in the swing Wendy had unoccupied. Tweek scurried up behind him with Token, Clyde, and Jimmy. The boys stared at the girls for a minute, waiting.

"Can we help you?"

"We want Bebe to spit in Tweek's mouth to see if the cootie shots actually work," Craig said in a dull voice. He seemed rather bored. Token and Clyde nodded encouragement.

"GAH!" Tweek shouted.

"We all got shots," Token informed, rolling up his sleeve to reveal his circles and dots. "But just to be safe, we're going to test it."

Stan pointed to himself.

"I already told you it worked."

"B-but S-Stan, you hang out with W-Wendy all the time," Jimmy said, "you m-might have built up an im-immunity."

"Yeah," agreed Clyde. "So, Bebe, spit in Tweek's mouth."

"GAH!" Tweek repeated.

Bebe scowled.

"I don't want to."

"Aw, come on! You did it for Kyle," Clyde whined. "Do it for Tweek."

"Why not you?" Bebe said, picking at her fingernails.

Clyde blushed.

"Er…cause Tweek volunteered."

"Jesus I didn't!"

"Shut up, Tweek. Yes you did," Craig said. He kicked off from the ground and swung a bit.

Bebe flipped her hair back.

"I'm not spitting in anyone's mouth. I did it for the hell of it yesterday. I don't have to do it today. And besides, you idiots believe Cartman was right."

Tweek pointed across the schoolyard at Kyle, who had approached Kenny and Butters. The two had left Cartman's cardboard box and were making their way towards the sandbox instead. Kenny plopped down in the sand and Kyle began pestering him. Butters pulled out a pail and shovel in order to dig.

"GAH, b-but Kyle — ngh — got sick. Yesterday he wasn't at school. Neither was S-Stan," Tweek said, gritting his teeth as his eye twitched.

"I wasn't sick," Stan said quietly, looking at Wendy.

"But Kyle was," noted Craig. "And it's because Bebe spit in his mouth and gave him cooties. He even has the shot. So he used it to get better?"

Stan hesitated to answer. He glanced at Wendy. The girl's long hair hid her eyes from view.

"…I gave it to him," Stan confessed. "It was strange. Not more than an hour later his fever broke and he could eat again."

When Stan looked back at Wendy, she was gone. She and Bebe were already heading towards the jungle gym halfway across the playground. Stan felt his stomach drop into a bottomless pit. Craig frowned.

"Lame. Oh well looks like no one's spitting in Tweek's mouth."

"Oh thank Jesus," Tweek exclaimed.

Not sure what to do with himself, Stan wandered back to the only person he knew he could during these unpleasant Wendy breakups. Stan found Kyle ranting to Kenny and Butters as the two played in the sandbox. Butters sat near the edge of the box constructing a small castle and moat around Kenny, who knelt in the middle of the whole structure.

-Synnesai-

Kyle was speaking as Stan settled down on the sandbox's rim.

"I assume one of my medications kicked in around the time Stan gave me the shot. I mean, I'd taken so many different things, to say it was some doodles on my arm is retarded."

"I don't know, Kyle," Butters said thoughtfully as he created a drawbridge with sticks. "I had these sniffles the other day, and Eric gave me the shot and I felt much better later."

"Did you take any cold medicine at all?" Kyle pressed.

"Oh, give it a rest, Dude," Stan sighed. Kyle glared at him.

"Stan, I'm not letting Cartman win!"

Butters rubbed his knuckles together. "I've learned to just let Eric run outta steam with his — er — business plans. See he gets bored with them eventually."

"Not if he keeps making money off it," Kyle countered.

"He can't get any more money," Kenny said quietly through his muffled hood.

Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"What? Why?"

"Doesn't have anyone else to sell to," Kenny explained. "He's given a shot to every boy in Garrison's class. No one else is left but the girls and they're all avoiding him like the plague."

Kyle pointed at Kenny's arm.

"Why did you get the shot?"

Kenny smirked.

"With my track record of dying from unusual things, I just thought why the hell not."

Kyle gave his friend an odd look, but Kenny only grinned wider. Butters added, "I helped him pay for the full coverage, didn't I?"

Kenny nodded, placing a little flag, made of a twig and leaf, atop one of the turrets of the sandcastle. Butters started carving designs into the walls. Kenny smoothed out a few of the towers. It was hard going keeping the sandcastle even. The wind kept trying to tumble down the walls and erode the towers.

"Ah, it sure looks nice, Kenny," Butters said, stepping back to take in the complete, yet lopsided castle, Kenny and all.

"It would be fuckin' sweet to live in a castle," Kenny mused. "The big ass walls would keep out all the shit that tried to kill me."

Stan laughed. "Would you really spend your days locked in a castle? Just to keep from dying?"

Kenny shrugged.

"Why not?"

"Only princesses wait around in a castle," Kyle quipped.

Butters raised his hand, and the other three boys gave him a weird look.

"I'd come rescue you," Butters announced, slowly lowering his hand. "Like a real prince."

Kenny smirked, rubbing at his chin. Leaning back on one hand, he said, "That doesn't sound like a bad idea. It'd be nice to be the one saved. Though you'd have a real hard job, Butters. I'd have loads of monsters and dragons trying to get at me."

Butters frowned.

"I wouldn't be scared. I'd rescue you."

Kyle kicked at some sand.

"You guys sound gay."

Butters glanced sideways at Kenny and began rubbing his fists together. Stan watched some silent conversation pass between their eyes. Finally, Butters spoke up again.

"Well, that might not be a bad idea, Kyle," he said haltingly. Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"See with this cootie epidemic, it might be smart to…like…not hang out with girls for a while," Butters explained. "Who knows how long the shots will last?"

Kenny nodded.

"Cooties don't exist," Kyle replied stubbornly. Stan smacked him in the arm.

"Would you just shut up already?"

Kyle stared, his mouth hanging open.

"You know what? Fuck you! I don't need to sit here and listen to you praise Cartman's fucking cootie shots!" He roared, shooting to his feet. Stan scrambled up too. Kenny and Butters gave each other a nervous glance.

"Fuck you, Kyle! You've been a douchebag all day long! Oh no, Cartman's doing something! That's all you care about nowadays!" Stan challenged. Kyle crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, lately you've been a real asshole. I can't get you to agree with anything I think!"

"What? That's stupid!" Stan snapped, clenching his fists. "I can think whatever I damn well please. Why would I ever think what you've got to say is cool anyway? All you do is bitch about Cartman!"

Kyle's face was red as he climbed out of the sandbox. He swung around to face Stan.

"I can't believe you aren't on my side!" Kyle hissed. He pointed in the direction that Cartman's little business had been set up. "When can he ever be trusted? He's clearly up to something."

"Why do you care?" Stan shot back.

Kyle dropped his arms to his side.

"Why don't you?" he said suddenly in a small voice. "You used to care."

Stan turned away.

"Whatever."

Kyle kicked the side of the sandbox. Kenny and Butters kept their heads down, their focus on decorating the makeshift castle.

"Stan, why don't you see we have to find out what he's up to?"

"'Cause I just don't care, okay? You're right! I don't care. I think it's stupid. And you're acting stupid for not admitting you were wrong and I was right about cooties!" Stan said, his voice rising.

Kyle opened his mouth, but said nothing.

"And don't you tell me there's some logical explanation for it," Stan continued. "You think I'm the one who hasn't been caring what you think? Ha! You're the one who thinks whatever I say is stupid! You didn't want to believe me about the cooties, you probably don't care that Wendy just broke up with me 'cause I hung out with your sick ass all day yesterday."

Stan marched forward and shoved Kyle to the ground.

"You don't even say thanks! You don't care!"

Kyle glared up at his friend and kicked out with his foot, catching Stan in the shin.

"It's your fault everyone went to Cartman! I can't believe I let you draw on my arm." Kyle jumped to his feet. "I'm going to wash the fucking thing off now!"

Without another word, he spun on his heel and sprinted towards the school. For a few seconds, Stan contemplated chasing after him; whether to shove him down again or to apologize, Stan couldn't say. Instead he chose to sit back down in the sandbox. Butters and Kenny watched Stan carefully; Butters looked terrified while Kenny seemed to have aged with weariness.

"Dude," Kenny said.

Stan threw his hands up. "What?"

"Dude?"

"Shut the fuck up, Kenny," Stan growled. "I don't need you to tell me I'm stupid too."

Kenny sighed. "I wasn't."

"Good."

Butters sniffed, blinking his eyes several times. Stan glared at him.

"What's your problem?"

"I don't like it when you and Kyle fight. It makes me sad," Butters confessed. Stan frowned.

"Well, I'm sorry, Butters, but I don't care what you think," Stan snapped. Kenny stood up.

"Hey, don't take it out on him," Kenny said levelly. Stan ignored him. Stepping carefully out of the sandcastle's grounds, Kenny kneeled next to Butters. They both looked accusingly at Stan. Butters took Kenny's hand, and Stan felt his anger ebb, replaced with confusion.

"You shouldn't fight," Butters said quietly. Kenny nodded.

"He started it, acting like an ass to me even though I helped him," Stan tried to argue, but he felt deflated, worry settling in; the same kind of worry that took hold when he and Kyle didn't quite see eye to eye.

"You acted like just as big an ass," Kenny pointed out.

"No, I didn't," Stan countered pathetically. He turned away from his friends. "It's his fault Wendy broke up with me. And he doesn't even care."

Kenny got to his feet and pulled Butters up with him. He stepped out of the sandbox as the bell rang calling recess to an end. With a swift kick, Kenny caught Stan in the back sending him sprawling into the sand. Butters covered his mouth with his hands.

"Let's go, Butters," Kenny said, grabbing the other boy's wrist and running towards the school. Stan lay stunned, watching his orange hooded friend merge into the crowd of students. Stan sat up and brushed sand off his brown coat.

He didn't move right away, choosing instead to wait for a majority of the students to enter the building. When only a few remained clustered around the door, Stan got to his feet and made the slow trek across the playground. His feet felt like they were trudging through mud; it seemed to take ages for him to finally reach the top of the stone steps to the school's entrance.

The rest of the school day Stan spent avoiding everyone; Butters, Kenny, Wendy, Cartman, and especially Kyle. Wendy kept her head down, looking at her desk or books, for the rest of the class. Bebe stayed at her side like glue no matter where or when; in the line for art class or outside the girls' restroom. Butters and Kenny alternately glanced in Stan's and Kyle's directions during class as if expecting the storm to start up once again. Kyle's eyes only stared straight ahead both in the hallways and in class. If he even glanced at Stan, Kyle averted his eyes instantly. Kyle only talked when Garrison asked him questions. And Stan cringed every time his friend chose to speak. Cartman was the only one unfazed. He leaned back in his desk chair as school neared its end, counting the money he'd earned during recess.

With the tension almost palpable in the air, Stan wondered if he could get away with pounding his head against the desk without Garrison sending him to Mr. Mackey. In the end, Stan decided to just stare at the board, unseeing. He stopped taking notes and barely listened to the readings. He found himself making a mental note to take a long drink from the green bottle under his bed when he finally escaped from this nightmare of a school day. Three o'clock could not come any faster.

~

Stan decided to skip the bus ride home. He didn't want to meet up with Kyle or anyone else. Grabbing his backpack and tossing in several notebooks and his textbooks, he slammed his locker shut and raced for the exit. He stayed focused on the double doors, pushing past Clyde and those other guys as he entered the school's courtyard. Once again the group had cornered Bebe, asking her to spit in one of the boy's mouths. Stan ignored them not wanting to think anymore about cooties for the rest of the day. He was halfway down the sidewalk when someone called his name.

"STAN! Dude, wait!"

Stan stopped and turned slowly to see Kyle rushing up behind him. The redhead came to a halt in front of his friend, panting for breath. His face was red.

"Go away," Stan sighed. Kyle glared at him.

"Look, Stan, just stop, okay? I wanted to talk to you," Kyle informed. Stan rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, you just want to yell at me some more." Stan began to turn around, and Kyle caught his arm.

"Hey, asshole, that's not what I want to do. Even though you're a complete idiot, I actually wanted —" He paused, and Stan turned back around to face him.

"You wanted to what?"

Kyle dropped Stan's arm.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry for being mean," he said quietly. Stan stared. Kyle continued, "You were right, I should have been a bit more grateful to you. You didn't have to spend your whole day with me. It was so boring, and I was all gross with throwing up and stuff." Kyle looked up. "And you stayed with me…so; I guess I should say thank you and…and apologize for not saying that sooner."

Stan felt embarrassed. He'd been all prepared for Kyle to start jumping down his throat, but his friend's apology had knocked the speech from his tongue.

"Er…I-I'm sorry too," Stan confessed. He bit his lip and glanced to the left, watching the bus pull away and rattle on down the street.

Kyle took a step closer.

"Let's just pretend it never happened, okay?" Kyle suggested. "We'll just say cooties exist…but Cartman is definitely up to something."

Stan thought about it for a moment. Whether or not the cootie shot worked, which Stan still wanted to believe (Kyle's quick recovery still baffled him), Cartman was not to be trusted for long. One way or another something would eventually surface to reveal the fat boy's true motives.

"Alright," Stan agreed. "Cartman's up to no good like always; what are we going to do?"

Kyle grabbed Stan's wrist and started pulling him down the sidewalk.

"Nothing now, 'cause Terrance and Phillip come on in twenty minutes," Kyle said in all seriousness.

Stan laughed.

"Plus, it's Friday," Kyle stated. "I'm sleeping over at your house tonight."

Stan's house was empty when they arrived there fifteen minutes later. A note on the fridge told Stan that his mother had taken his sister to a dentist appointment. His father wouldn't be home for another hour. Perched upon the living room sofa, Stan flicked through the channels. Kyle sat tearing open a package of potato chips, mumbling to Stan about his plans to catch Cartman in his lie.

"I'm going to head to the library this weekend. I'm going to fucking look up these cooties and prove they aren't real," Kyle explained.

Stan frowned.

"I thought you said to say they were real?"

Kyle waved his hands dismissively.

"I'm not saying you're wrong!" Kyle said hurriedly because Stan had made a disheartened frown. Kyle patted his arm jerkily. "I mean…it's just at this moment, cooties do exist. I was sick, you drew the shot, and now I'm better. Right now we're saying it works…but, well I want to see if there is anything medical to it. Understand?"

Stan turned back to the television.

"Still sounds like you don't believe me…."

"Dude."

"Well, it does," Stan pressed.

Kyle put down the bag of chips.

"Stan, I do believe you helped me when I was sick, I do. I'm glad you came to visit and gave me the shot…I did feel better right away. It was strange. I went to sleep and when I woke…it was like I'd never been sick."

"See!" Stan pointed at his friend, sitting on his knees. "It is real then!"

Kyle scooted closer to Stan, trying to keep his anger in check.

"At the moment I'm willing to think that…but I just…I want to know what the medical science is behind it, if there's any at all. And if there isn't…then that's even more troubling."

"Why's that?" Stan said coldly, slumping back down and scooting to the other side of the couch, keeping his eyes averted.

Kyle absentmindedly followed his friend, moving closer.

"I won't have an explanation for getting better…," Kyle confessed. "My mom had me take something before she left, but it wasn't more than five minutes later that I barfed that up. I hadn't anything in my stomach…if it was the shot, then I'll figure out what did it, but if it wasn't the shot —"

"You'll rub it in that you were right," Stan quipped.

Kyle punched him in the shoulder.

"No, ass, it means I can't explain at all how I got better. That's what freaks me out. Even if it was the cootie shot…at least that's something." Kyle bit his lip. "Stan, I just don't get better like that." He snapped his fingers. "I don't have any logical explanation for it."

Stan snorted with laughter. Kyle looked clearly annoyed and a bit confused.

"What if it was a miracle?" Stan said through his snickering. Kyle smacked him again.

"Stan, I'm serious."

"So am I."

The two boys stared each other down.

"No one just gets better."

"Apparently you do," Stan said, smiling. Kyle sat back, leaning his head against the back of the couch. Rubbing at his eyes, Kyle let out a disgruntled moan. Stan chuckled, propping his legs up on Kyle's lap. Kyle gave him a glare of protest, but said nothing.

"I hate when weird shit happens to me. Fuck this town."

Stan patted his friend's shoulder.

"I hate this town too, Dude. But don't worry so much. Let's watch Terrance and Phillip."

The boys turned their attention back to the TV. Several hours passed with multiple episodes of their crude program running in the background. Stan's father returned from work and made a half hearted attempt to tell the boys off for watching the offensive show. Randy gave up shortly and then grabbed a beer, retiring to his study. Sharon and Shelley arrived home not soon after. Shelley looked annoyed despite her newly changed colors of the tiny rubber bands that decorated her braces. Stan thought it was silly getting the decorative bands; Shelley never smiled.

Later that evening Stan sat on his comforter watching Kyle unroll his sleeping bag. Water could be heard running down the hall, and Stan guessed Shelley was brushing her new retainer. The boys had avoided the girl all night long, sneaking into the backyard despite the cold to hang out in the tree house. When Sharon called them to supper, Kyle and Stan made sure not to make eye contact with Shelley when passing her the butter. Eventually, they retreated to Stan's room to play Xbox.

Now Stan was normally apprehensive about his sister, but it was Kyle's idea to avoid the girl. Still set on proving what exactly cooties were, Kyle didn't want to have Shelley questioning them until he had prepared a proper counterargument. Stan had shown his sister his cootie shot the other day when he'd returned from Kyle's house. She had seemed pleased, but said nothing, returning to her room without a word.

"It's starting to peel," Stan complained, watching flakes of paint lift from his skin. He scratched at the shot.

"It'll eventually wash away," Kyle said as he pulled off his socks and rummaged in his backpack for his pajamas. Kyle always packed for their Super Best Friends' sleepover every Friday despite their squabbles and disagreements.

"It itches."

Kyle let out a snort of laughter.

"The shot that's supposed to stop itchy cooties makes you itchy. See when I find out what the hell cooties are I'll prove to Cartman —"

He stopped, seeing the annoyed expression cross his friend's face.

"Well…anyway, want to play some more Xbox?" Kyle amended hastily. He pulled off his t-shirt and replaced it with his cotton pajama top. He kicked off his jeans and scrambled to pull on his pajama bottoms. Stan stared at the ceiling, lying on his back.

"Do you think…if you prove that cooties aren't real…Wendy will go back out with me?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. After a moment, Stan turned on his side to face his friend.

Stan leaned over the side of his bed towards Kyle. "Do you think Kenny and Butters really mean what they say…that they aren't going to hang out with girls, but just each other?"

"Who knows?" Kyle said wistfully, moving to sit at Stan's desk and turning on the computer. The screen came up quickly, and the boy opened up a new tab. "Sounds kinda gay though," Kyle added. He began scrolling through a newsfeed.

"Are you getting on Facebook?" Stan said with as much disgust as he could muster. Kyle spun in the desk chair and glared.

"Don't judge me!" Kyle snapped then flicking his attention back to the screen all in a matter of seconds.

Stan laughed just as a knock sounded at the door. Both boys froze.

"Mom?" Stan asked hesitantly. The door pushed open and Shelley stepped inside. She shut the door quietly behind her.

"What do you want?" Kyle asked a little too boldly. He stood up and moved to stand next to Stan who still lay on the bed. Shelley held out her arm.

"Give me your hand," she said in a level tone. Stan and Kyle glanced at each other.

"Er…what?"

"Give me your hand, Kyle. I heard you two talking about cooties…if you don't believe they exist, then give me your hand," she explained. Kyle looked sideways at Stan as if expecting him to say something to his sister.

"I don't know whether or not they exist," Kyle began slowly, "but I'd just like to do a little research into them. For myself, is all."

Shelley shrugged. "That's all well and good, Turd, but I said give me your hand. Now!"

Kyle jumped and Stan sat up.

"Shelley, don't give Kyle cooties. He just got over a really bad case yesterday."

Kyle shook his head. Shelley shrugged, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her pajamas. She took a minute to examine the two and then turned on her heel, marching back to the door.

"Fine. I was just offering to help him prove his point," Shelley spoke over her shoulder. She tugged on the door's handle, her right hand still in her pocket. She added, "I mean if Kyle really wanted to test if cooties were real or not, he'd have to study more than just one isolated incident. But, whatever, Turds."

She had one foot in the hallway, when Kyle called her back. He rolled up his sleeves and marched towards the girl. Stan leapt off his bed and caught Kyle by the back of his shirt.

"Dude, don't do it!"

Kyle shook him off.

"I'm going to prove that yesterday was just a fluke," Kyle stated simply. He held out his bare arm, and Shelly lowered her right hand above the boy's right wrist.

"Are you sure, Turd?" she asked, glancing at Kyle's determined stance and Stan's worried expression. "You'll break out in cooties."

Kyle frowned, his hand still outstretched. He stared at the back of the girl's hand for a few seconds. Stan fidgeted nervously at his side. He tried tugging at his friend's cotton sleeve, but Kyle pushed him away. The two stared each other down. Stan bit his lip and held up his hands pleadingly. For a moment Kyle didn't move, but his eyes seemed to soften as if to say 'just let me do it, Dude.' Stan sighed. Finally, Kyle turned back to Shelley who had a slightly bemused look on her face.

Kyle made a fist and stared the girl straight in the eye. "Do it!"

It was rather anticlimactic…at first.

Shelley brought down her hand with a small 'smack.' Kyle flinched at the touch. For a moment Stan let out a short laugh, glad to see that his friend was still standing and keeping the contents of his stomach in check. Kyle smirked, but Shelley remained impassive, her eyes only on their connected hands. Her fingers were like a vice around Kyle's wrist.

Stan counted twenty of his own breaths before Kyle actually reacted.

As if suddenly stung, the redhead reeled backwards, nearly falling to the ground. He banged against the doorframe and slowly sunk to the ground. He tugged his arm, but Shelley refused to let go. Kyle made frantic attempts to scratch the skin beneath the girl's fingers, but she shoved his hand away. Stan panicked, freezing in place. When he finally managed to collect his thoughts, determined to knock his sister out of the room and away from his best friend, Shelley let go. Kyle slumped against the door, tearing at the back of his wrist, scratching the skin until red nail marks appeared.

Stan glanced between the girl and his best friend. Without a word Shelley left the room. Stan knelt next to Kyle.

"Oh, God…it won't stop itching!" Kyle panted, scratching harder. He rubbed the back of his hand against the floorboards and then on the edge of Stan's dresser. He stumbled to his feet and ran out into the hall in the direction of the bathroom. Stan pelted after him just in time to see his friend crash right into Shelley, who caught him and held him at arm's length. The girl made sure to touch only Kyle's clothing, avoiding any skin.

"Here, Turd," Shelley said holding up a small bottle of black paint with a brush sticking out of it. She opened up the palm of her hand which had held Kyle's wrist. A freshly painted cootie shot was painted upon it. Kyle pointed at it, backing himself into a corner. He shook his head. Still scratching his hand, Kyle managed to spit out the word 'no.' Stan grabbed his friend's shoulder and tried to reason that it wouldn't hurt anything.

"T-this is some kind of trick," Kyle hissed through gritted teeth. He began itching up the length of his arm, stopping at his elbow. Stan tried to tug him towards his sister.

"Please, Dude, just let her paint on the shot! Please! It'll stop the itching!" Stan felt like crying. He didn't want to see Kyle sick again. Shaking his head and grabbing a good chunk of Kyle's shirt, he tugged his friend forward.

"Just get the damn shot!" Stan ordered. Shelley dipped the brush into the paint several times. Kyle continued to shake his head.

"She's done something to me," Kyle said, twitching out of Stan's grasp and rubbing his knuckles against his infected arm. "It's some — ngh — some trick!"

Stan looked back at his sister.

"Does he want me to cure him or not?" Shelley said in a bored voice. She held the brush over the open end of the paint bottle. The black paint dripped over the girl's fingers.

"No!" Kyle snapped. He pointed a shaking finger at the girl. "How come you have a jar of black paint just l-lying around! You planned t-this!"

Stan narrowed his eyes at Shelley. He moved to Kyle's side and put an arm around his friend.

"Shelley, please tell me…is this a trick?" Stan felt Kyle fidget as he continued to scratch and twist in discomfort.

Shelley's face was a mask. She simply held out the brush and paint for Stan to take.

"If you don't want to believe me, don't believe me. I bought this off of that fat turd because I thought it would save you money when you needed to reapply the shot," Shelley explained softly. Stan blinked. His sister continued, "You turds are so stupid. You can't even see when someone's being genuinely nice to you."

The girl turned on her heel and walked back to her room. The slam of her door made the pictures hanging in the hallway rattle. Stan stood for a moment, staring down at the paint in his hand. Kyle squirmed out of his grip and tumbled into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and let the cool water run over his right arm. Stan watched him jerk as he tried to keep himself from scratching. Kyle wiggled his fingers, jumped in place, and even shook his now damp arm up and down as if hoping the air flow might stop the itching. Finally, Kyle turned to Stan. There were angry tears in the redhead's eyes.

"It won't stop," Kyle moaned. "It itches so bad!"

Stan took two long strides into the bathroom and pulled the door closed behind him. He had Kyle sit on the toilet seat. He took great care to draw the dots and circles with even, unwavering curves. Next, he added the square, laying on the paint thickly. Several more times, Stan traced the pattern on his best friend's arm. Slowly as the minutes ticked by, Kyle fidgeted less and less; first slowing body twitches to finally bouncing just one knee up and down. His fingers stopped their sporadic ticks. Stan set the bottle of paint on the counter and slumped to the ground, pressing his back against the tub. Kyle sniffled a few times, rubbing moisture from his eyes.

After the silence finally echoed too loudly for Stan to take, he spoke.

"What do you think now?"

Kyle turned his wrist back and forth examining the new shot. He touched the paint lightly with his fingers. He sniffed the paint.

"It smells weird."

Stan stood up.

"Of course it does, it's paint." He tugged at Kyle's arm. "Let's go to bed. I can't deal with any more fucking cootie shit tonight."

Kyle nodded slowly and got to his feet. He hesitated at the sink while Stan returned to his bedroom, flopping down onto his bed now completely exhausted. He kicked off his jeans and lay in his boxers and t-shirt. He hadn't the strength to look for proper pajamas. When he heard the water running, Stan feared Kyle was washing off the shot for a second time, but his friend called to ask where Stan had put Kyle's extra toothbrush. He kept one at the Marsh's just for sleepover purposes.

For a moment Stan stared at his door and then without thinking on his actions, he slid out of bed and crawled beneath it. Finding the loose floorboard, the boy pried it up as quickly and quietly as he could. Several sips from the green bottle later and Stan was scuttling back out into his room. Kyle entered just as Stan sat up.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asked, rolling down his sleeves. There was still some toothpaste at the corner of his mouth.

"Nothing," Stan lied. He pushed past Kyle and headed to the bathroom to brush his own teeth. His mother met him in the hallway, and Stan reassured her that he and Kyle would be heading to bed soon.

"I thought I heard shouting earlier…were you boys roughhousing?" Sharon pressed, watching her son load his toothbrush with glittery, blue paste.

"Yes," Stan answered automatically. "I won."

His mother rolled her eyes.

"Stan, you and Kyle can find other things to play other than wrestling."

"Yes, Mom."

Sharon bent down and kissed Stan's forehead.

"Sleep well."

"Yes, Mom," Stan repeated without looking at her. She left and Stan finished brushing his teeth. He made sure to scrub extra hard, removing any stench of alcohol. Throwing his toothbrush down and hurrying out of the bathroom, Stan retreated to his room. He closed the door and locked it. He stared at the handle and wondered why he had done so, but thinking further on it, he guessed it was just a security. Shelley couldn't get in to give Kyle anymore cooties.

Facing his bed Stan found it now occupied.

"I don't want to sleep on the floor tonight," Kyle stated simply, turning to face the wall and clutching the blankets up to his chest. Stan nodded, not caring that Kyle couldn't see. He shut off the light and climbed into bed beside his friend.

"How does your arm feel now?" Stan murmured, feeling the effects of the alcohol slowly kick in. He felt dizzy and a bit giddy. Nothing hurt.

Kyle shrugged one shoulder.

"Normal."

"Are you still going to go to the library?" Stan asked, closing his eyes. Kyle rolled over. Stan opened his eyes again. Frowning, Kyle glared at Stan, but slowly the boy's expression softened. He leaned closer to Stan.

"Stan…I'm scared," he said.

Stan blinked, not sure he had heard correctly.

"What?"

"I don't understand. None of it makes any logical sense!" Kyle hissed rapidly. "There's nothing medical about painting on your arms! And yet — and yet…."

Kyle clutched at his arm, his fingers pressing down upon the cootie shot. Stan watched him through half-lidded eyes.

"You're okay now," Stan said groggily, throwing an arm over Kyle and tugging him closer. "I still have the paint. We can add more shots when we need to."

"That's not why I'm scared, asshole," Kyle snapped half-heartedly. His own eyelids had begun to droop.

Stan didn't answer, but absentmindedly patted Kyle on the head. He met the soft fabric of Kyle's ushanka beneath his fingers.

"It's okay."

"Oh, shut up," Kyle yawned.

"You'll figure it out…," Stan curled into a ball, pressing closer to his friend.

Kyle's stared over Stan's head, watching the time change on his friend's alarm clock.

"That's why I'm scared," Kyle confessed.

"Hmm?"

"What if we can't figure this out?"

Chapter Four: And Now for Something Completely Different

Shelley awoke surprisingly early the next day. Sitting on the living room couch and flipping through her gaming magazines, she indulged in a satisfied grin. She knew her plan had succeeded. The terrified look on her little brother's face as his best friend squirmed in agony told Shelley she had won. Wendy had broken up with Stan, and Stan would be too frightened of cooties to try reconciling the situation. Sure, Shelley thought, one day they'd figure out it was all a stupid game, but the damage had been done. Shelley rested her feet on the coffee table, munching lightly on some cheerios. Today was going to be a good day.

The doorbell rang and Shelley turned confused in the direction of the door. Her parents weren't expecting anyone this early, and since Kyle was upstairs with Stan it couldn't be for her brother either. Setting her bowl down, Shelley crossed the room to the door. She peered out the window to catch a glimpse of the visitor and found herself looking at Bebe Stevens standing behind a girl with long black hair whom Shelley instantly recognized despite her hidden face. Stepping in front of the door, Shelley unbolted the lock.

Pulling it open, she set her face into a passive, politely confused frown.

"What do you want?" she asked the girls.

Wendy stepped forward. In her arms she carried a medium-sized brown box. In it Shelley recognized her little brother's scarf, a small stack of letters in Stan's handwriting, and a set of sparkly, cheap jewelry. Wendy shoved the box into the older girl's arms and then retreated to Bebe's side.

"I'm giving that all back to Stan," Wendy said in a small voice. Bebe patted the girl on the shoulder. "Tell him, I really appreciate all the nice things he's done for me, but I really mean it this time. I don't want to be boyfriend and girlfriend anymore."

Shelley opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. She closed it slowly and watched Wendy shake the hair from her face. Bebe averted her eyes, examining the snow beneath her pink boots.

"I'll tell him that, then," Shelley said, not sure why her voice caught in her throat. "Er…so, um…." She glanced at Bebe, who raised an eyebrow at her. The blonde girl seemed ready to leave, but Wendy appeared too caught up in her own head to notice. She kept her eyes on her feet. Shelley felt uncomfortable.

"I like you shoes," Shelley found herself blurting out. Wendy raised her head for a moment and then glanced back down at her feet.

"Thank you," she said in a small voice. "Bebe got them for me." Behind her, Bebe stood up a little straighter.

"I had a pair of boots that kind of purply color once," Shelley went on doggedly.

Bebe piped up. "Look at mine." She stuck out her foot and wiggled it. Shelley blanched at the obnoxiously pink color.

"Those are nice too," Shelley admitted. She turned back to Wendy. "It looks like you two match."

Wendy's head lifted. "You know, you don't have to be nice to me."

Shelley froze. She felt her anger bubble up, but she suppressed it.

"What?" she forced out.

Wendy ran her fingers through her hair. "It's very kind of you to try and distract me. But I'm okay really. I just…." Wendy closed her eyes. Shelley hesitated then reached out a hand towards Wendy's shoulder.

Snapping her eyes open, Wendy took in a long breath.

"I have to go," Wendy murmured before taking off down the front walk. Bebe bolted after her, calling her name. Shelley watched them cross the street. Wendy tripped once, but righted herself quickly. She hurried down the sidewalk with Bebe now at her side. Several houses down, Shelley watched Bebe take her friend's hand in her own.

Feeling the weight of the brown box grow heavier in her arms, Shelley backed into the house and slammed the door closed. She set the box down on the coffee table and picked up her cereal bowl. As she began to eat again, she paused with the spoon a few inches from her mouth and examined the box. Wendy had written the words 'Stan's Stuff' in shaky, wobbly letters on the side. Wendy's own name was etched in a corner at the bottom.

Shelley set her bowl down. She no longer felt hungry.

Picking up the box again, Shelley rifled through the letters her brother had sent Wendy. Most of them consisted of cheesy, generic words like 'I like you' or 'You smelled nice the other day'. The costume jewelry consisted of necklaces, clip-on earrings, and bracelets. Fake stones were set in the earrings, and one necklace had a broken chain. At the bottom of the junk, Shelley found a folder with the Bronco's logo plastered on the front. She opened the blue and orange folder and found several wildflowers pressed inside. Some of their petals fell back into the box or scattered upon the coffee table.

With a muffled slap, Shelley closed the folder and threw it back into the box. She snatched up the whole thing and hurtled towards the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, she bounded to the landing and hurried down the hall. Skidding to a halt in front of her little brother's bedroom door, she pounded out a few short knocks. Waiting a couple of minutes, the door slowly crept open, and Stan stared sleepily up at his older sister. The girl thrust out the box.

"Wendy just stopped by and wanted you to have it," Shelley said without emotion. Stan pulled the door open further to examine the contents of the box. Peering inside the boy's room, Shelley saw a large tuft of red hair peeking out from the tangled covers of Stan's bed. Shelley raised an eyebrow, but said nothing to her brother who had taken the box in his own arms. He stared down at the letters and the discarded petals. He didn't say a word as he turned back into his room and shut the door in his sister's face.

Back downstairs, Shelley's cereal had grown too soggy to eat. She poured the remains down the drain of the kitchen sink and searched in the fridge for an orange. Peeling the fruit, she tried to shake the unpleasant sensation that had bubbled into her stomach when she'd seen the blank look on her brother's face. Had he simply been sleepy or was there something lurking behind the frown? Wendy's face swam before her mind's eye too. Shelley paused, her fingers slipping on the fruit's peel. Shaking her head, Shelley forced her mind back to the petals, lost and discarded, drying out and dying.

Shelley could not shake the anger that flower stirred in her. Splitting the fruit into sections, she smirked. It was stupid to worry over her brother's feelings.

An hour later, Shelley sat reading one of the novels assigned to her for school. She was in a generally better mood, now dressed and thoughts of Wendy's misfortune stripped from her mind. She was eager to see her brother and his friend shirk her presence for the rest of the day, terrified of catching cooties. She smiled thinking about the new box of joke shop itching powder buried under her bed. She had had to endure the itching herself in order to rub it upon Kyle's wrist the night before, but she had dyed the itching powder antidote black in order to disguise it as paint. She was glad neither boy had noticed the difference in smell.

Loud footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Stan and Kyle stumbled into the living room. They scrambled to the hat rack and tugged down their coats. They were laughing and joking, and to Shelley looked as if nothing strange or horrible had ever happened. Stan didn't even show any signs of moodiness that often occurred as a result of a Wendy breakup.

Shelley got to her feet. "What are you turds doing?"

Stan and Kyle froze and glanced at the girl.

"We're going out," Stan said, glancing sideways at Kyle, who smiled.

"Where?" Shelley pressed. "Mom'll want to know where you're going."

Stan took Kyle's hand and pulled the boy to the door.

"Tell her I'm going to buy Kyle lunch and see a movie," Stan explained, yanking open the door. Shelley stood over him and pushed it closed.

"Wait, aren't you upset about Wendy?" Shelley asked, furrowing her brow.

Stan shrugged.

"Nah, I was a douche to her. She's right to dump me," Stan said matter-of-factly. Shelley stared. Kyle shuffled his feet behind Stan. The two boys continued to hold hands. Shelley stared at their entwined fingers

"What are you doing?" Shelley asked dumbly, pointing to their clasped hands.

Stan glanced over his shoulder and checked to see that they were alone with his sister. He leaned up and whispered in her ear.

"We don't want to catch the cooties, so we're not going to be with girls. We're going to be with each other," Stan said confidentially. Shelley glanced at Kyle who nodded, blushing.

Not sure how to react to that confession, Shelley just stared, confused at her brother's smiling face. When no further argument came from the girl, Stan, thinking his sister was done with the conversation, explained that they would be home for supper and to tell Mom not to worry. Shelley continued to stare. Not sure what else to do, the girl stood aside when Stan gave a gentle nudge past her. She watched the two boys exit the house and walk hand in hand down the sidewalk in the direction of the town.

Shelley blinked at the empty, snowy yard before her.

"What the fuck just happened?"

~

The local diner situated on South Park's Main Street was a small, cramped affair. Built to resemble a boxcar, the whole restaurant consisted of a long hall of about fifteen booths. The counter space had grown hazardous with teetering plates, numerous salt and pepper shakers, syrup bottles, ketchup, and napkin dispensers. Every seat had filled already for the lunch hour rush. The only booth available when Stan and Kyle arrived was located in the very back of the diner. Grape juice had been spilled on the seat and their waitress made a great show of wiping it off without really absorbing it properly. She tossed down their menus and hurried off before the boys could even ask for drinks. Stan sat in the booth seat closest to the kitchen door. Every time a waitress shuffled through, the door would swing wildly on its hinges, smacking into the booth seat. Stan, fearing a banged up elbow, sat pressed against the wall. Kyle, on the other hand, perused his sticky, plastic menu without comment.

Their waitress returned and set down two small glasses of water. Stan panicked for a moment when Kyle reached out to take his glass and briefly brushed the woman's fingers. But noting no strange rashes sprouting up upon his friend's hand, Stan settled back down in his seat.

"What can I get you boys?" drawled the woman. She was youngish looking, but the bags under her blue eyes warped any certainty of age. She probably would look ten times healthier if she had smiled.

Stan cleared his throat and requested a coke. Kyle ordered a Fresca. When the woman had left them alone again, Stan leaned across the table and grabbed Kyle's hand.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Kyle asked, annoyed as he felt his elbow land in one of the stickier spots of the table.

"I want to make sure you didn't catch any cooties," Stan said, his eyes focused on Kyle's thin fingers. Stan checked his friend's knuckles and the soft skin between each finger. When he could not detect any red spots, Stan let go of his friend. Kyle frowned, shrugging out of his orange coat and checking his left sleeve. Grape jelly was smeared on its underside. Stan smiled sheepishly.

"Oops." He held his hands out and hunched his shoulders. Kyle ignored his friend, tossing down his coat into the empty seat beside him. Straightening back up, Kyle folded his arms over a clean spot on the table and looked Stan square in the eye.

"So…is this like a date?" he asked in a level tone.

Stan, who had chosen at that moment to sip his ice water, choked.

"Er…what?"

"Well, like you told Shelley. We aren't going to see any girls — just each other," Kyle explained, flipping over a page in his plastic menu. "That sounds pretty gay, Dude."

"It's not gay!" Stan challenged. Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"It sounds like it though…at least the way you put it," Kyle pointed out. He pulled a few napkins out of its dispenser and rubbed at a sticky spot somewhere between the pages of lunch and dinner.

Stan forced a laugh. "Dude. Seriously…it's just…it's like, you know —"

Kyle looked up sharply.

"I swear to God if you say it's a Super Best Friend thing, I'll kick you in the nuts."

Stan shut his mouth.

However, after a short pause he said, "I wasn't going to say that, you know." Stan bent his head to study his own menu.

"Dude, you say it all the time…but whatever." Kyle closed his menu.

"Well…why the fuck did you agree to it then? To just hang out with me?" Stan pressed, leaning up on the table with his elbows.

Kyle sighed and leaned back in his seat. He kicked out his legs thoughtfully. Both he and Stan were too short for their feet to reach the ground while sitting at the booth.

"I guess…," Kyle began slowly. "I guess I agreed for the same reason you just yanked my hand across this table. I really don't want cooties…if they exist."

Stan brightened.

"But your plan is flawed," Kyle shot. Stan slumped his shoulders.

"What do you mean?"

Kyle pointed at their waitress who stood three booths down talking to an elderly couple.

"We can't just avoid girls, Dude. They're everywhere. Half the population is girls. We can't hide from half the population."

"What about monasteries?" Stan countered.

Kyle gave him a look. Stan grinned.

"Well, we'll just have to keep reapplying the shot and try to avoid them when possible. And like only get close to them when absolutely necessary," Stan said as if that settled their argument.

Kyle frowned.

"Stan, isn't your dentist a woman?"

Stan's eyes grew round.

"Shit."

"And my mother has your mom and their friends over once a month to watch a movie marathon. My house is filled with nothing but moms!" Kyle relayed. "It's hard to get anything out of the fridge on those days without three or four ladies trying to ask me about school or ruffling my hair or telling me how big I've gotten. It's like a swarm!"

Stan felt his stomach churn. He had a horrible vision of Kyle trapped in a corner with heavyset women with too much mascara and lipstick leering down at him. Shaking his head free of that thought, Stan got up from his seat and moved to sit next to Kyle.

"Look…I just don't want anything bad to happen to you," Stan confessed so low that Kyle had to lean into him to hear. Both boys stared down at the plastic menu as they talked.

"I was really scared last night," Kyle murmured.

"I know."

"But your plan is flawed."

"I know."

Kyle rubbed at his nose.

At that moment the waitress returned with their drinks. She didn't comment on the boys' new seating arrangement, just jotted down their orders silently. While she wrote in her little pamphlet, Stan self-consciously moved closer to Kyle, blocking him as much as possible from the woman. Kyle laughed in his ear.

The waitress left again, and the boys scooted apart.

"I guess it doesn't hurt anything…to be together without any girls," Kyle mused more to himself than to Stan. "But it's still pretty gay, Dude."

Stan threw up his hands.

"Then let's be gay, Dude."

Kyle thought for a moment and shrugged.

"Okay. I don't have anything better to do today."

After lunch Stan and Kyle headed to the Bijou Theater. Since it was a Saturday afternoon, a line had already begun to form outside the cinema. Only four movies were showing. Despite Stan's new apprehension towards all things pop culture he had agreed to see the latest comedy which Kyle had been dying to view.

The theater was nearly empty when they found their seats (apparently the other three movies showing were far more entertaining). Stan and Kyle loved sitting right up front. Despite the inconvenience of having to slide down low in their seats just to watch the screen without craning their necks, the boys enjoyed the front seats. No one else ever ventured to sit in the front with them other than Cartman and Kenny.

Propping the bag of popcorn the two had purchased together upon the arm rest between them, Stan prepared himself for the possible shitty movie. Kyle chatted away, talking about how much he'd been looking forward to the film. Stan only half listened. He wondered about his and Kyle's abrupt decision to be 'together' without any girls.

He thought back to this morning when he had first suggested it. He remembered standing in the middle of his room, staring at the box Shelley had brought him. He could see the scattered petals and the broken jewelry within the jumble of discarded letters and notes. Without thinking, Stan had returned to his bed and sat down with the box upon his lap. For a few moments he stared at the dregs of what had been his relationship with Wendy. He did care for her, he enjoyed her company….

But….

Stan glanced at Kyle who lay curled up underneath the blankets in Stan's bed. During the night Kyle had tossed and turned, several times smacking Stan in the face and waking him more than once. However, when Stan's room had grown colder during the night, Kyle's movements grew less energetic until finally both boys lay curled up together sharing warmth.

But, Stan thought, I enjoy hanging out with Kyle more.

He hadn't realized how hard that had been to admit. It seemed strange to hesitate on saying his best friend was the most important person to spend his free time with. Perhaps it had something to do with admitting Wendy had been right about Stan. That she had understood him too well, and that had been what caused her to dump him. Or maybe it was that she understood something he himself couldn't quite comprehend.

Stan rubbed at his eyes. He didn't like thinking about this. It confused him. He had just made a mistake with Wendy. He had done that multiple times. He had treated her poorly in the past, but she always forgave him. But now things were different. Now he held everything the two had ever shared inside one tiny box.

Once more Stan looked at Kyle. Did all that they shared together fill a box like Wendy's? Was it bigger? Smaller? Stan wanted to think bigger, but yesterday's argument had left him shaken. It was one of many that they so easily started nowadays and yet like the others it had ended just as quickly and abruptly. It was as if they were playing a game. A game to see who could push the other the farthest, to see who would crack and….

And what…leave? Stop being friends? Was that what they did with each other now? Try to force the other one to prove he was a good friend. That they were still good friends. Stan wondered if they had ever reached their breaking point.

Stan thought of the green bottle under his floorboards. Under the very bed Kyle now lay upon.

Standing once more, Stan dumped the box of trinkets onto his desk. The loud thump caused Kyle to stir from beneath his blankets. He peeked out from the warmth with half-lidded eyes. Stan turned to face him.

"What's that?" Kyle yawned. Stan shuffled back into bed beside him.

"Nothing," Stan said hastily, closing his eyes and feigning sleep. Kyle propped himself up on his elbows.

"It has Wendy's name on it," Kyle observed, now sitting up and rubbing at his eyes.

Stan rolled away from his friend. "It's not important."

Kyle was out of bed, shuffling towards Stan's desk. The redhead pulled back the flaps of the cardboard box and examined the contents. Stan glared at him.

"I told you it was nothing," Stan growled, jumping out of bed and shoving the box across the desk and away from Kyle's hands.

Kyle stepped back.

"Dude, what's your problem? I just wanted to see what Wendy gave you," Kyle snapped.

Stan retreated back to the bed.

"It's not something she gave me. It's the shit I gave her. She doesn't want it anymore…now that we're broke up," Stan rushed out as he clambered back under the covers. He really hated that Kyle was awake now; Stan really needed a drink.

Kyle frowned.

"Dude…I'm sorry."

"You should be," Stan replied pathetically. He kept his eyes focused on the wall and his back towards his friend. He braced himself for Kyle's snarky remarks, but none came. Instead Stan felt the bed sink next to him as his friend sat down.

"I am sorry, Stan," Kyle said in a small voice. "If I hadn't gotten sick…you wouldn't have skipped school for me. She wouldn't be angry at you."

Stan rolled over.

"The thing is," Stan began, "she's not angry at me or you. She says she's just tired of me and…." Stan looked away.

"Tired of what?" Kyle pressed.

"She thinks I like you more than her," Stan replied without looking at Kyle.

For a moment Kyle furrowed his brow in a thoughtful manner. He stared at his hands in his lap.

When a minute had passed, Kyle asked, "Well, do you?"

Stan blinked.

"Yes."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know. I'm not dating Wendy anymore, so it sort of is," Stan mumbled into his pillow. He cast his eyes towards the box on his desk.

Kyle glanced at it too.

"I wonder if all the shit you've left lying around at my house would fill a box too," Kyle mused. He pulled at his red curls, shifting his green hat back upon his head. Stan sat up.

"It would be bigger than Wendy's," Stan said, smiling. "I've left a lot of shit over at your house."

Kyle laughed. "See Wendy's too nice. If I'd broken up with you, I'd throw all your shit into the street."

Stan forced a laugh.

"Would you really do that?" he asked, scooting to sit next to Kyle on the edge of the bed.

Kyle paused, glancing at Stan from the corner of his eye. He opened his mouth, but didn't speak. He closed it and shook his head.

"No. I lied. I wouldn't do that to you, Stan. I'd bring it all back to you in a nice box. I'd even clean the stuff off and alphabetize it," Kyle smirked. "'Cause I'm that nice of a guy."

"More like 'cause you're borderline OCD about that shit," Stan joked, nudging his friend in the side.

Kyle huffed. Stan smiled.

"I wouldn't break up with you in the first place," Kyle retorted. "So, you wouldn't even have to worry about me moving your shit around."

"That's good," Stan said, still smiling. Kyle frowned.

"Dude, this conversation is gay. I'd never date you." Kyle got up and moved to his backpack near the foot of the bed. Stan's smile slipped.

"You mean you wouldn't like dating me? I mean come on, Dude, if you had to be gay for like one day, you wouldn't pick me?" Stan hopped down from the bed and playfully kicked Kyle in the side. Kyle batted him away.

"No, I wouldn't because I wouldn't be gay, Stan."

"But hypothetically speaking, if you were, you'd pick me, right?"

Kyle stopped searching for a pair of socks and looked up at his friend. Stan gave him a huge toothy grin. Kyle shook his head.

"I'd pick Kenny."

Stan's face fell so fast it looked like it hurt.

Kyle got to his feet, chuckling.

"I'm joking, stupid. Of course I'd pick you." Kyle snorted. "I can't believe you actually think anything different."

Stan shrugged.

"We get into a lot of fights…."

"So? Everybody fights, Stan."

Stan sat down in his desk chair. Kyle knelt in front of his backpack again, this time yanking out a pair of wrinkled jeans. He unfurled a green t-shirt and with his clothes bunched up under his arms, he exited Stan's room and headed to the bathroom. Stan rifled through Wendy's box half-heartedly, not really looking to find anything. He listened to the water run in the bathroom. Now alone, Stan snuck a drink from the green bottle under his bed. Kyle returned five minutes later dressed and his teeth properly brushed. Stan switched him places and threw on the clothes he'd worn yesterday. He took a good four minutes brushing the smell of alcohol off his teeth before returning to the bedroom. Kyle was flipping through one of Stan's comics when Stan arrived.

Kyle peered over the top of the comic. Stan watched him turn to a new page before sitting down next to Kyle to read over his shoulder.

"We fight differently," Stan finally mumbled after a long silence. Kyle closed the comic.

"What?"

"I said we fight differently. I know it, I can't explain how we fight differently, but it's like we're trying to make the other do something stupid," Stan explained. Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"We do?" Kyle said skeptically, but with a hint of concern. "Why do you say that?"

"'Cause that's how I feel…when we fight. Like yesterday. I wanted to make you feel really bad for what Wendy had done and for you not thanking me for hanging out with you when you were sick," Stan murmured, staring at his knees. He scratched at the wooden floorboards with his fingernails. Kyle continued to look confused.

"That's a fairly legitimate reason to be angry with me," Kyle confessed. "Not so much the Wendy thing, but the other thing."

Stan shook his head.

"That's not it. It's wanting to make you feel bad 'cause…."

"Because what Stan?" Kyle huffed.

"'Cause I want to see when you'll give up and leave."

Kyle tugged at his curls.

"Leave where?"

"No, leave me," Stan whispered, his chin resting atop his knees which he'd pulled to his chest.

"I get upset when you get sick. I'm scared it'll be as bad as the time you needed that kidney," Stan continued, not allowing Kyle to comment. "That's one way you'd leave me. It wouldn't be your fault…but you still wouldn't be here."

"Dude…." Kyle's mouth was set in a thin line.

"But with this fighting…it's like I want to see if you'll choose to leave me…to stop being my Super Best Friend. I got you to hate me before…when everything was shit." Stan rubbed at his face, turning to stare at the corner of his bed. Kyle sighed.

"I didn't hate you, Stan. I was just frustrated…and I didn't know what you wanted me to do. You wouldn't let me help you," Kyle said levelly. Stan sniffed.

"I don't like arguing with you," Stan confessed.

"Then stop it," Kyle snapped.

Stan sat up straight and frowned down at Kyle.

"Well sometimes you make that very hard."

"I make it hard?" Kyle countered. He gave a short laugh.

"Yes, you do." Stan argued feebly. He ran his fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath.

"I need to stop…here we are fighting again," Stan murmured.

"I wouldn't call this much of a fight," Kyle said tersely. Stan glared at him

"Just stop. Let's not say anything to each other for a few minutes, okay?" Stan suggested. Kyle shrugged and went back to scanning Stan's comic book. After a few seconds, Kyle scratched at his wrist, right above the cootie mark. Stan reached out and took his friend's hand.

"Is it okay?" he asked, examining the lines Kyle's fingernails had dug into the paint.

"Yeah, Dude, it's fine," Kyle assured. He pulled his hand back. Stan got up and moved to his desk where he kept the little jar of black paint. He returned to Kyle's side and unscrewed the lid.

"Let me repaint it," Stan suggested.

"Dude, it's fine."

"Please."

Kyle opened his mouth as if to snap a retort, but appeared to think better on it.

"Okay…."

Stan's hands were much steadier than the night before. He traced the cootie shot perfectly, leaving no bumps or crooked lines. When he had finished, Kyle took the paint from Stan and retraced Stan's cootie shot for him. Setting the paint aside when the shot appeared complete, Kyle leaned back against Stan's bookcase, staring down at his arm. Stan sat blowing at the paint on his own arm, waving it about to help it dry.

"I still have trouble believing this works," Kyle confessed. Stan nodded.

"It doesn't make sense, but I'm not going to complain if it makes you better."

Kyle sighed. "You don't have to worry about me so goddamn much."

"I can't help it, you're my Super Best Friend," Stan said pitifully. Kyle snorted. Stan continued, "I'd do anything to make sure you were okay, Kyle. Remember, I can get you kidneys like that!" Stan snapped his fingers. Kyle chuckled, replacing the comic book on its shelf.

"I'm not kidding," Stan added as Kyle stood up.

Stretching his arms over his head, Kyle yawned, "I know that."

Stan stood up too. He gave Kyle's cootie shot one more glance and then said, "You know what we should do? To keep from getting cooties?"

Kyle frowned. "Just keep reapplying the shot?"

"We should just be with each other," Stan rushed, his face flushing. He thought back to Kenny and Butters in their sandcastle, safe and hidden away from girls.

"What?" Kyle laughed.

"Like Kenny and Butters, Dude, let's not be with girls, but just each other. We'd never have to worry about cooties then," Stan suggested excitedly. Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"Er, not sure that really works, Dude."

Stan grinned, throwing an arm around Kyle.

"Sure it will. What could go wrong?"

Back in the theater, two young girls roughly Stan and Kyle's age sat in the front row only one seat down from Kyle. Stan eyed them warily, noting that they were taking a great deal of time to shrug off their winter coats. The girl closest to Kyle struggled to pull her sleeve out of her jacket. When she gave her hand a mighty yank, she nearly smacked Kyle's elbow in the process. Stan flinched. He did not like that at all.

"Dude, let me switch you places," Stan whispered as the previews started to roll. Kyle shook his head.

"No way, I'm right in the middle. I like the middle," Kyle hissed back his eyes only on the screen. Stan sighed and leaned back in his seat. He watched the two girls out of the corner of his eye, making sure they weren't going to try anything funny. When he had reassured himself that they too were engrossed with the opening credits of the movie, he turned his attention back onto Kyle.

The redhead had stuck his hand down the bag of popcorn. Grabbing a handful of kernels, he proceeded to munch on them one at a time, his eyes glued to the enormous screen. Stan watched the light dance in his eyes, the shifting colors on the screen casting Kyle in a wide array of hues. Stan smiled, turning back towards the screen. He reached for his own handful of popcorn only to knock his fist against Kyle's as the redhead ventured for more popcorn too.

"Sorry, Dude," Stan whispered, drawing back his arm. Kyle shrugged and continued to pull out the amount of popcorn he wanted. Stan occupied himself with slurping from his soda. He clenched and unclenched the hand that had touched Kyle's. Suddenly, Stan felt very hot.

Stan snuck another glance at Kyle. The light from the screen cast his friend first in blue, then red, then green. The speakers blared out the sounds of the film, screeching sirens and incoherent shouts. Stan suddenly wanted to be somewhere quiet so he could talk to Kyle, about what, he wasn't sure. Yet, the noise and the two girls and the itchy seat along with the flashing colors were giving Stan a headache. He rubbed at his temple, closing his eyes.

A loud boom echoed from the movie and the crowd gasped and then roared with laughter. Kyle stared at the screen's epic action sequence, a piece of popcorn held right before his lips as he reacted along with the crowd. Stan wanted to laugh. His friend appeared ridiculous, his mouth gaping open like a fish. After a few seconds passed, Kyle realized he had the popcorn and proceeded to munch it down. He turned to Stan and mouthed the words 'Dude, did you see that'. Stan nodded even though he hadn't paid attention to the movie since they'd arrived. Kyle turned back to the screen, his eyes wide with anticipation and a small grin flitting about his lips.

When Stan smiled again, he felt like he ached. Something in his chest hurt, but didn't. A strange tug he'd never felt before. For a moment he panicked, wondering if it was the cooties. Had Kyle not redrawn his shot properly? He glanced at the two girls several rows down. They had not moved. Stan looked at Kyle.

The ache returned.

Stan rubbed at his chest. He took a deep breath and tried to dissipate the feeling by chugging down more of his soda.

This did not work. Stan's ache persisted, now with his heart racing, drumming itself against his chest. Without warning he felt his stomach churn in protest. Frightened Stan jumped to his feet. Kyle turned to him.

"What's wrong?" Kyle whispered. Stan shook his head, murmuring something about needing to use the restroom. Kyle shrugged and turned back to the movie.

Out in the lobby, Stan sprinted across the carpeted floor towards the boy's bathroom. He pushed past several teenagers and bolted himself into a stall. The minute he turned around to face the toilet, Stan lost the contents of his stomach. He fell to his knees and emptied his body of the cheeseburger and fries he'd eaten for lunch. When the vomiting had passed, Stan knelt there shivering, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Struggling to his feet again, Stan flushed the toilet and backed up to lean against the stall door. He took several deep breaths.

He tried to clear his mind, but the thoughts of Kyle waiting for him back in the theater made his stomach gurgle unpleasantly. Stan closed his eyes; Kyle's face swam before his mind's eye: smiling with the flicker of the movie screen casting varying colors over his entire body.

Stan clutched his stomach. His heart pelted at his ribcage.

It wasn't the cooties. Stan knew that much. He tired to think about Kyle again, this time willing his stomach to behave. But this time Stan thought about Kyle curled up warm against him, sick in bed but still joking, his face angry as he ranted at Cartman, or simply passive as he thought long and hard about a difficult puzzle. Stan liked all these versions of Kyle, and he liked thinking about them even if his stomach did flip flops.

Shuffling out of the stall, Stan stood before the bathroom mirror, the harsh yellow light of the lamps casting his skin in an ugly glow. He washed his hands and splashed his face with water. Stan took a step back from the mirror, preparing to leave the bathroom and return to the theater. He paused and walked back to the mirror nervous, realizing he'd have to sit next to Kyle again. He screwed up his face and glared at his reflection. Why was that suddenly so scary? It was Kyle. He could never be afraid of Kyle. He could be afraid for Kyle.

Stan thought of the other day with his friend sick in bed, and the urge to return to him grew. Stan made it halfway towards the door before freezing and rushing back to the mirror. He washed his hands again and this time took the time to pull down a paper towel from the dispenser. He dried his fingers and turned once more to face the door.

He couldn't move.

And then the bathroom door opened and in walked Kyle, frowning and looking a bit cross. He spotted Stan standing rooted next to the sinks.

Stomping over to his friend, Kyle said, "Dude, what are you doing? You're missing the movie."

Stan didn't say anything. Kyle crossed his arms.

"Stan?"

"Kyle…I don't feel so good."

Dropping his arms to his side, Kyle took a step closer, his face softening.

"What is it?"

Stan clenched his fists at his side looking anywhere but at Kyle.

"I threw up," Stan confessed. Kyle backed away from him. Stan gave a lopsided grin. "Don't worry," he added, "I threw everything up. I don't think I have anything left."

Kyle glanced over his shoulder and then back at Stan.

"I — er — don't want to really suggest it, but do you think it's the cooties?" Kyle asked, reaching out to touch Stan's shoulder. Stan shook his head.

"No."

Kyle frowned.

"What is it then?"

"I don't know…." Stan reached out and took Kyle's hand. "I don't know."

But that was a lie. Stan did know.

Chapter Five: There's the Boy That I Like

Stan leaned against several cases of soda that had been stacked at the end of one of the pharmacy's long aisles. He watched Kyle stroll up and down the rows of shelves, searching for medicine that might help an upset stomach. Stan hadn't protested when his friend insisted they leave the movie theater early; Stan hadn't had much patience for the comedy film to begin with. The only thing Stan was interested in now was Kyle.

Pausing in the middle of the row, Kyle stood on tiptoe and reached for a pink bottle of syrupy medicine. He pulled it down and examined the bottle's ingredients. Stan sighed, rubbing at his stomach. He doubted any indigestive medicine could cure his recent bout of vomiting. Although the sickness had subsided and finally replaced with hunger, Stan still felt a bit ill. His head spun, and he had trouble concentrating on anything.

Anything, but Kyle.

Stan smiled as his friend walked down the aisle towards him. When the redhead was standing in front of him, he held up the pink bottle and shook it.

"I think this will help," Kyle stated simply.

"Dude, I'm feeling okay now…maybe just some Tums?" Stan suggested, feeling his chest constrict when Kyle moved to lean against the soda cases with him. Their elbows touched. Kyle flipped the bottle over and read the back. Stan dug his hands into the pockets of his brown coat. He suddenly realized that Kyle smelled very nice today.

Feeling his face grow red, Stan turned to look at a display of colorful sunglasses. He pushed himself off of the soda cases and began picking sunglasses off of their racks. He tried on a blue pair with zebra stripes along the sides. They were too big. He put them back and took down a red pair with lightning bolts. Meanwhile, Kyle had gotten up from the soda cases and mumbled something about looking for antacids. Stan nodded, feeling his stomach squirm as Kyle brushed past him.

Stan let out a long sigh and took off the red pair of sunglasses. He gazed at himself in the tiny strip of mirror on the sunglasses display. He could see the faint trace of a blush gathering on his cheeks and neck. He wondered how he appeared to Kyle. The redhead only understood that Stan might be catching a stomach bug or worse, the cooties. Either one, Kyle hadn't decided yet.

Now, Stan had gathered that this new found affection for Kyle was just a passing phase. A fluke perhaps brought on by Stan's concern for his friend's health and wellbeing. Yet, the more Stan tried to wipe his mind clean of the fantasies of handholding and other intimate gestures, the more he found himself thinking back on Wendy. Not out of a longing to hold her hand, but more a longing to talk to her about her perception of Stan and Kyle's relationship. Stan knew he wasn't the most observant of guys, so he had a sudden compelling wish to ask his ex-girlfriend what exactly she meant when she said 'you like him more than me.'

Stan wandered down a new aisle, now surrounded by leftover Valentine's Day candy. A shot of guilt rippled through his stomach as he thought back to Wendy's cupcakes and ruined love letter. The cardboard box sitting on his desk back home also lurched into his memories. Stan had an awful thought. What if I forgot to get Kyle a Valentine's Day gift? Would he dump me?

Stan had to shake his head. That would be impossible, he told himself, because for one he and Kyle were…not like that. Right? This whole staying away from girls was only temporary? Right?

Kyle turned the corner into the aisle and presented Stan with a bottle of antacids.

"Thanks, Dude," Stan murmured. He clutched the bottle to his chest, willing his heart to stop thumping so hard. Kyle smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder.

"I can pay for half of it, if you want?" he offered. Stan shook his head.

"It's cool."

"Nah, Stan, you bought me lunch. I'll buy it." Kyle took the bottle from Stan decisively and headed towards the checkout. He was halfway there when he was distracted by the book aisle and made a detour to the rack of paperbacks. Stan took the opportunity to hide in another row of merchandise, avoiding Kyle and trying to calm his churning stomach.

"Hello there, Stanley," said a familiar voice. Stan jumped and spun around to find his fourth grade teacher Mr. Garrison comparing the labels of two cans of shaving cream. The man still looked as cantankerous as he did during school hours; pants pressed crisply, his green shirt tucked in snuggly, and the light of the florescent lamps gleaming off his balding head with a pasty brilliance.

Stan gave his teacher a small wave, not really sure he should be happy to see the man.

"Hey, Mr. Garrison," Stan mumbled his response, stepping back slowly. He wondered if he'd be able to leave the aisle without the teacher noticing. Mr. Garrison seemed very much engrossed with his shaving cream.

"Having a nice Saturday?" asked the man, stooping down to replace one of the cans he held and pick up a new brand. He opened the lid and sniffed it.

"Yes," Stan replied automatically. Mr. Garrison gave him a sweeping look.

"You look ill, Stanley. Are you alright?"

Stan nodded so fast his neck cricked. Mr. Garrison frowned and replaced both shaving creams on the shelf. He leaned on his small shopping cart to get a better look at Stan.

"You are as white as fucking ghost, Stanley," Mr. Garrison pointed out bluntly. "You've never been as good a liar as the rest of those little bastards you call friends."

Stan nodded again. He was struck with the most absurd idea and couldn't stop his mouth from forming the question.

"Mr. Garrison you're gay, right?"

The teacher gave Stan a sideways glance and asked, "Does this new illness of yours also cause blindness and stupidity too?"

Stan gulped.

"Sorry, that's not — er, that's not exactly how I meant to say that," Stan stumbled out. Mr. Garrison raised an eyebrow.

"I…you see…um," Stan bit his lip. He thought for a moment and then his face brightened. "I have this friend —"

"Is it Kyle?" Mr. Garrison asked without looking up. He'd finally chosen a shaving cream and placed in his cart. He then moved onto the shampoo section. Stan sputtered for a moment before regaining his train of thought.

"N-no, it's not Kyle."

"But it's always Kyle," Mr. Garrison pointed out, staring at the shampoo bottles.

"No, it's not," Stan countered, a little annoyed. He didn't know why he was even talking to his old batshit crazy teacher.

"Usually is," the man mumbled. "I swear you two must bitch and whine about each other more than some old married couple."

Stan felt his face heat up; his heart hammered faster.

Mr. Garrison noticed Stan's discomfort. He sighed.

"What's wrong with 'your friend', Stanley?"

Stan shook his head and then clenching his fist tight, said, "It's nothing."

Mr. Garrison threw up his hands in exasperation and then turned back towards the shampoo. Stan hadn't moved. He hated himself right now. He felt so confused about what exactly he wanted to ask Mr. Garrison. He knew his insensitive and often bigoted teacher was probably the last one he should be spilling any personal feelings to, but Stan needed something to guide him. He needed to know if he was okay. That his stomach's flip flops and his heart's rattling was perfectly alright to experience, even around one's Super Best Friend. Stan knew he couldn't confide this feeling with his mother and father. Randy wouldn't understand, and Sharon would tell Randy which in the end would just leave Stan to deal with his father's overreactions and distorted, archaic ideals of masculinity. Shelley was completely out of the question.

Stan wished Chef were still alive. Chef always knew how to help.

Screwing up his courage, Stan asked the first thing that came to mind.

"Mr. Garrison, how do you get a guy to like you more than any other guy?"

Without missing a beat his teacher replied,

"Oh, that's simple, Stanley, you just have to find the prostate."

Stan frowned. He felt like he'd had this conversation before.

"What?"

Mr. Garrison's eyes grew round, realizing what he'd said. Stan tilted his head, puzzled. With his eyes still set wide and panicked, Garrison coughed into his hand and then made a shooing motion in Stan's direction.

"Why do you little bastards have to always bug me? Isn't the harassment I get at school enough? Leave me to enjoy my Saturday!" Mr. Garrison spun his cart around and briskly walked down the aisle, out of sight. Stan was left alone to stare at the empty space between the shampoo bottles and the shaving cream.

Heaving another great sigh, Stan left the aisle and found Kyle sitting on the floor reading from one of the novels he'd picked off the shelf. Stan clenched and unclenched his hands, counting to ten and willing his body not to do anything stupid. He approached Kyle and tapped the boy on top of his green ushanka.

"Are you ready to go?" Stan asked. Kyle peered up, blinking confusedly as if he'd just noticed Stan's existence.

"Oh, yeah! Let's go. Sorry, I got distracted."

Me too, thought Stan dully.

Kyle struggled to his feet. He tripped on his shoelaces and stumbled into Stan who caught him and righted him with a quick shove. Kyle adjusted his green hat.

"Sorry, Dude," Kyle laughed. He replaced his book and rattled the bottle of antacids playfully. "Let's go."

Stan stuck out his hand, palm up. Kyle paused; staring at the hand, he gave a small shrug and placed his own hand in Stan's. He then proceeded to tug Stan towards the checkout counter. They passed Mr. Garrison going the opposite direction. The teacher gave a tired, searching look over both boys and then shook his head.

And despite himself, Stan grinned.

~

When Stan and Kyle were no more than a half mile from Stan's home, the boys discovered Eric Cartman sitting at what appeared to be a lemonade stand. Upon closer inspection they found the stand's sign read 'STC Shots - $25.' Kyle fumed, debating about rushing across the street and kicking down Cartman's entire stand. He refrained, however. Stan still had a good hold on his hand. That and a large group of sixth graders clustered around the crooked stand looking aggressive. Not sure what Cartman was doing with the sixth graders, Stan and Kyle watched in awe and complete shock as one of the nastier and more brutish looking ones rolled up his sleeve for Cartman's paint brush. The older boy slapped several bills on the table, and Eric gave him a huge patronizing grin.

Kyle shivered with a mixture of rage and fear. Stan squeezed his fingers.

"I can't believe he's tricked them too!"

Stan scratched at his nose.

"Can't really say it's a trick if it works, can you?"

Kyle spun around to glare at Stan. Blanching, the black haired boy dropped Kyle's hand and took a step back. Kyle sighed.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He snatched Stan's hand again and tugged the boy away as fast as he could. "Let's just let Fatass have his stupid little 'cootie clinic'," Kyle growled more to himself than to Stan. "It'll all come back to bite him in the ass somehow."

"Yeah," Stan agreed feebly. He was more concerned with Kyle's fingers clasped tightly around his own to really give a damn about what Cartman could get up to.

~

Later, Kyle sat at the foot of Stan's bed, reading the same comic he'd been reading that morning. Stan lay on his side; the Tums bottle now open and its contents scattered upon the night stand. Stan held his stomach, folding his arms over it. He no longer felt like throwing up, but his head still spun. Kyle glanced at him from the corner of his eye every now and then, worried. Stan had convinced Kyle it wasn't the cooties. He claimed that the sandwich he'd eaten earlier must have not settled with him. With his face still set in a concerned frown, Kyle had gone back to reading. At intervals through the chapters of his comic, however, Kyle would offer to get Stan glasses of water or saltine crackers. Stan refused these offers, stating that he only felt a bit dizzy now.

Stan closed his eyes. He could hear the rustle of the comic book as Kyle turned the pages. The sink dripped from across the hall, and he made out the distinct sound of his father's television blaring from the floor below. Kyle readjusted his position on the bed, scooting back to lean against the wall. As he spread out his legs, his foot bumped against Stan's. Tensing, Stan pulled his limbs closer to his body.

"Dude, you sure you're okay?" Kyle asked for what felt the fiftieth time. Stan managed to mumble out a soft 'I'm fine' before shuffling his body away from Kyle's straying foot.

Thinking back to the drugstore, Stan wondered what Mr. Garrison meant by finding the prostate. Stan guessed the man might be messing with him or simply threw out a careless answer, probably both. Recalling a similar conversation with Chef, however, Stan wondered where he might begin his search for this elusive prostate if it really could make guys like you more than any other guy. Maybe it would appear to him magically like the clitoris had done that one time. Stan sat up. The clitoris had appeared after he'd hit his head pretty hard on the ground. Maybe if he ran into a wall, the prostate would show up too.

Getting to his feet, Stan braced himself for a sprint. Kyle looked up from his comic, raising one eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for the prostate," Stan replied as he took off with a burst of speed and thumped his head soundly against the opposite wall. Kyle let out a yelp of alarm and scrambled off the bed.

"Dude, what the fuck did you do that for?" Kyle shouted, now standing over his friend. Stan curled up into a ball, clamping his hands firmly over the top of his head. Tears burst to his eyes, and he gritted his teeth through the pain.

"I thought it would help me find the prostate," Stan explained, pushing himself up. He rubbed at his crown. "Last time I found the clitoris when I'd hit my head."

Kyle gaped at Stan. Throwing out his hands, Kyle said, "Dude, that makes no fucking sense whatsoever!"

Stan got to his feet. He shuffled back to his bed and then turned to face the wall once more. Bending his knees a little bit, he readied to try again. Kyle blocked his way.

"Don't!"

"But I have to find it!"

"What the hell for?"

Stan blushed and backed away.

"It's just important," Stan murmured. "It's important that I find it."

Kyle folded his arms over his chest. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, making sure Stan stayed put near the bed.

"Do you even know what it looks like?" Kyle asked.

Stan fidgeted with his shirttail. "Not really…no."

"Then how do you know you've found it when you see it?" Leave it to Kyle to take any situation and pick it apart with logic.

Stan looked up sheepishly.

"Do you know where I can find the prostate?"

Kyle blinked. He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. Stan waited, enjoying the puzzled look spreading over Kyle's face. The redhead frowned, tugging at one of the unruly curls peeking out from beneath his ushanka.

"Er…well no I don't. Though doesn't it have something to do with cancer?" Kyle pondered.

Stan started. "Cancer?"

Kyle nodded. "Yeah, can't dudes get like prostate cancer?"

Stan blinked.

"So, it's like something on the body? And you can get sick or cancer from it?"

"Yeah, Dude," Kyle said, nodding. "I heard it on the news or something. Like it can get really bad."

Stan's eyes grew round.

"Dude, how come we never heard about this prostate cancer stuff?" Stan asked, throwing up his arms. "What if we got the cancer and didn't know it?" Stan was completely confused, now, as to why his teacher would want him to find something that had to do with cancer.

Kyle rubbed his chest and stomach.

"I don't know…I've never felt like I've gotten any cancer. And I get sick a lot you know," Kyle mused. He paused, thinking. "I wonder where the prostate is?"

Stan pointed at him.

"See you're curious too! I want to find it, so I ran into the wall. 'Cause that's how I found the clitoris by bumping my head! She sort of appeared to me," Stan recalled.

Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"She?"

"It sounded like a girl…sort of like the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz," Stan explained. On a whim Stan lifted up his shirt and checked his stomach and chest. He wondered if the prostate was something you could see on the outside of your body. Maybe it was a special organ only guys had? Maybe it didn't really have much of a function, like the appendix or your tonsils. Could that be the reason they hadn't really heard much about it? Stan also had the silliest idea that the prostate might sound like a man, maybe even the Wizard.

"Now what are you doing?" Kyle asked, snorting with laughter.

"Checking to see if the prostate is something on the outside of your body."

Kyle furrowed his brow in thought and then joined Stan in checking his own stomach. The two boys stood there with their shirts bunched up around their armpits. Stan walked towards his mirror and turned to the side. He saw nothing unusual. He poked his belly button. Spinning around to look at his back, he caught sight of Kyle examining his own body. Kyle was thinner than Stan, bonier too. A small pale scar could be seen right above Kyle's left hip. Stan smoothed down his shirt and walked over to his friend.

"That's where you had the kidney transplant," Stan stated. He pointed to the scar. He hadn't realized how prominent it looked before. Kyle glanced down at the thin jagged line; blushing he covered himself.

"I hate that it's Cartman's," he growled. "Every time I see it in the mirror a part of me says 'you're only alive 'cause of Fatass'."

Stan frowned. He reached out and tugged Kyle's shirt down farther and smoothed it. Hugging his friend to his chest, Stan whispered, "I would have given you mine, if I could have."

Kyle pouted.

"I know."

Stan rested his forehead against Kyle's shoulder.

"Kyle, I love you."

"I know."

Stan started, jumping back. He eyed Kyle up and down, but the redhead only blinked back at him with confusion.

"What did you say?" Stan asked, his voice rising.

Kyle furrowed his brow, giving Stan a searching look.

"You said you loved me," Kyle began. "I told you that I already knew that."

Stan blinked. "Oh…er, really?"

"Yes. And I love you too, Dude," Kyle beamed and thumped Stan on the shoulder. Stan felt his stomach drop. He wasn't sure Kyle had understood.

"But I think it's for reals, though," Stan continued jerkily. "That's…um…why I'm trying to find the prostate. Mr. Garrison said it would make you like me more than any other guy."

Kyle nodded.

"But I do like you more than any other guy, Stan."

"Yeah…but like really, really like me."

Kyle frowned.

"Isn't that why we're choosing to not be with girls?" Kyle began. "Not only to stay away from cooties, but…because we really like each other? I mean, I'd never do this with any other dude, Dude."

Stan smiled.

"Really?"

Kyle shrugged.

"Duh."

"But…I threw up 'cause I was thinking of you," Stan explained. Kyle narrowed his brows.

"What? What did I do?" Kyle sounded annoyed and a bit offended.

"NO!" Stan waved his hands frantically. "That's a good thing, Dude. I mean sort of. Just…that's what happens. You know…like when it happened with Wendy."

Kyle continued to frown, but slowly his face softened as realization dawned.

"Oh yeah, I forgot you do that," Kyle chuckled. He went back to the bed and picked up his comic. He opened it to his saved spot, still glancing in Stan's direction. "I'm glad it's not the cooties."

Stan clambered up to sit next to him. He leaned his head gently upon Kyle's shoulder, closing his eyes as he did so. The two boys sat there for a while in silence. Kyle continued to read his comic, and Stan seriously debated about drifting off to sleep. Today had been exhausting.

Kyle made a sniffing noise. "You know, Dude, I don't think I've said it but…." He paused, his grip tightening around the edges of the comic. Stan lifted his head.

"What?"

"I'm glad I have you," Kyle whispered. "I'm glad I have you…in my life. I feel like I'd be very lonely without you." He turned to smile at Stan. "No one else in this town is smart or good enough to be my best friend, but you."

"Dude…."

Kyle slipped his hand into Stan's.

"I'm glad you want to be with me, and only me, Stan. Together it'll just be us. We don't need anyone else. We'll grow up and live in our own house and be super rich and famous or something just as cool! And no one can tell us we're lame or anything. 'Cause it'll be just us, right?"

Stan nodded. He pressed his forehead to Kyle's shoulder.

"Just us."

"And Cartman will grow up to be all alone and work at a gas station convenient store. Or better yet he gets sent to jail and has to make license plates for the rest of his life," Kyle said enthusiastically. Stan chuckled.

"Sounds like a wonderful future."

"It is. Kenny and Butters can come visit us in our big house if they want. They're pretty okay," Kyle mused, looking thoughtful. Stan laughed again. He inched closer to Kyle.

"Hey, Dude, can I ask you a favor?"

Kyle turned to him.

"Sure, what?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Kyle froze.

"Er…what?"

"Just…I'd like to see something. Just a test or something. Wanted to see what might happen," Stan explained, his face flushing with color. Kyle continued to grow pale.

"Uh…why?"

Stan touched Kyle's hand.

"Well, if we're going to be with only each other…and not care what anyone else says, we should try things like kissing. 'Cause if we care and love each other enough, we should do things like that, right?" Stan spoke in a jerky manner, his hand growing clammy over Kyle's.

Staring across the room, Kyle frowned in thought.

"I guess that makes some sense, though it sounds a little gay."

"Didn't you say you had nothing better to do today, so you said why the heck not. Let's be gay, Dude. I'm sure the world won't end," Stan murmured. His shoulder's shook.

"Alright," Kyle conceded, "but only if we don't tell anyone. Especially not Cartman."

"No way, Dude!" Stan agreed. "We don't have to tell anyone shit. That's why it's just us."

Kyle nodded, a small smile forming upon his lips.

"Yeah. Fuck everybody else!" Kyle cried, clenching his fist in eagerness. He sprung to his knees, closing his eyes and puckering his lips. Stan blanked for a moment, taking in Kyle's stance. Suppressing a giggle, Stan closed his own eyes and prepared for the kiss. Leaning in blindly, Stan puckered his own lips…

…and then proceeded to knock his forehead into Kyle's nose. The boys jerked apart, their eyes flying open. Stan rubbed his temple and Kyle hid his nose with his hands, tears springing to his eyes.

"Fuck that hurt, Stan," Kyle growled.

"I'm sorry! I wasn't looking!"

"Why weren't you looking? How are you supposed to kiss me if you don't look?" Kyle challenged. Stan shrugged.

"That's how they do it in the movies. Everybody closes their eyes and then kisses. I thought it would work," Stan explained.

"Well, try it again and don't close your eyes!"

"You don't close your eyes either!"

"Fine," Kyle snapped. "I wasn't the one movin' all around though."

Stan huffed. "Whatever. Just hold still."

Stan grabbed Kyle by the shoulders to hold him steady. The redhead glared up at him. Stan bit his lip, the moments ticking by.

"Well?" Kyle said in bored tone.

"I'm thinking!"

"What's there to think about? You just kiss me. I don't have cooties," Kyle snapped before he even realized what he'd said. Stan stared at him, his lips cracking into a wide grin. The next moment Stan found himself rolling upon his bed laughing his head off. Kyle glared at him, but couldn't help smirking too.

"I don't, you know. You've made sure of that," Kyle offered, lying down next to Stan. He stretched out his legs and laid his head in his hands, staring up at the cieling. "Are you going to kiss me or not?"

Stan wiped at his eyes, heaving for breath. He nodded and rolled towards Kyle. He leaned over, once more his lips set in a comical fishy pucker. Kyle copied the gesture, his eyes squinting. Before Stan had moved another inch closer, Kyle slapped him in the face.

"WAIT!"

Stan rubbed his mouth, now pissed.

"What is it now?"

"You haven't brushed your teeth, Dude! Not since this morning!"

Stan frowned. "Yeah, so. Neither have you."

"I'm not the one who hurled his guts into a movie theater toilet though," Kyle pointed out, scooting off the bed. "Go brush your teeth before you kiss me. It's gross."

Stan jumped out of bed.

"Fine."

He stomped towards the bathroom. Kyle scurried after him to watch. Stan slopped a glob of toothpaste on his brush and began running the bristles quickly over his teeth. Kyle watched him closely, making sure he brushed his tongue too. Stan frowned at himself in the mirror. Slowly, he recalled the night before, brushing his teeth to hide the smell of the alcohol. For a moment Stan considered dumping the whole green bottle down the sink. If he'd have Kyle with him for the rest of his life, did he really need to keep that bottle around?

"Hurry up, Stan," Kyle moaned. Stan raised an eyebrow.

"You really want that kiss, huh?"

Kyle blushed. "N-no, I mean, well, you got me curious, okay? I want to know what it's like to kiss a dude. It might not be half bad."

"Yeah, maybe," agreed Stan. "I've only ever kissed Wendy."

"Bebe kissed me once," Kyle recollected. "I didn't like it much."

"She's also spit in your mouth," Stan laughed, jumping down from his little stepping stool and heading for the bathroom door.

"Ugh." Kyle stuck out his tongue. "I wish I hadn't agreed to that."

Stan shrugged. They now stood in the middle of Stan's room. Kyle stepped closer and held his arms at his side. He glanced up at Stan and waited. Taking in a few quick breaths, Stan raised his arms and placed his hands on Kyle's upper arms. He paused and counted to ten. This is what he saw them do in the movies. You held the person like this, and then pulled them closer. Although, a voice in the back of Stan's head said, most of the time it's a guy and a girl doing the kissing. What if you kissed a guy slightly different? Nah, that was silly. Both guys and girls had lips, so there weren't any surprises there.

Kyle stood on tiptoe as if to urge Stan into action. The redhead wavered slightly, but Stan kept him steady.

"Okay, I'm going to do it now," Stan announced.

"Alright," Kyle replied in a small voice. His eyes were round with anticipation. He licked his lips.

Stan swallowed and lowered his head.

Not sure what they'd been expecting, Stan and Kyle met lips, kissing with their mouths set in tight, thin lines. Without thinking on it, both boys closed their eyes. Their noses wrinkled as they snorted for breath. Stan decided he wanted to put his arms all the way around Kyle. He did so and enjoyed the feeling of having his friend so close. Though for a brief moment, Stan's heart leapt as he felt his stomach churn dangerously. He would not throw up on Kyle. The redhead would never forgive him for doing something so gross.

SLAM!

Stan and Kyle stumbled apart. Whipping their heads back and forth they searched for the source of the noise. Kyle pointed towards the door which was now shut.

"Who closed the door?"

Stan panicked. "Oh shit, we left it open before."

Both boys ran to the door and tugged it open. They leaned out slowly, checking first right and then left down the hall. Empty. The hallway was completely empty. No lights were on in any of the rooms on the landing. His parents' bedroom was left wide open, but no one occupied it. Glancing with fear at Shelley's room, Stan sighed in relief to see it too had no one inside.

"It must have been the wind," Stan offered, pulling his head back into the room. Kyle followed him, frowning.

"What wind, Dude?" Kyle snapped. "There is no wind!"

"Well, sometimes doors slam shut like that," Stan argued halfheartedly. "The pressure build up in a room can make doors close all by themselves."

"That's true except that only happens when you have the windows open, Stan," Kyle countered. He jerked his thumb at Stan's latched and shaded bedroom window. "Yours wasn't opened."

Stan felt his heart pound against his ribs.

"Well, if it was one of my parents, t-they would have said something. And I'm pretty sure Shelley would of called us names," Stan suggested, though not really believing his own words. Kyle frowned, walking towards the door. He shut it and bolted the lock. Then, as an extra precaution, he moved Stan's desk chair to rest beneath the doorknob. Stepping back, he took Stan's hand and led him towards the bed. Both boys climbed up onto the covers, returning to their positions they'd occupied early. Kyle picked up his comic book, and Stan lay on his side holding in his panic and alarm.

Kyle turned a page in the comic without really reading it. Stan huddled closer to Kyle's side, reaching out a hand to tug at the hem of his friend's t-shirt.

"I don't think anything's going to happen," Kyle whispered, his voice unusually high. "Y-you might be right. Maybe it was the wind."

Stan nodded.

"Yeah, the wind."

"Let's promise not to kiss again until we're hidden somewhere else," Kyle mumbled, leaning down to whisper in Stan's ear.

"Sounds good, Dude."

Kyle patted Stan's hair.

"Hey, Kyle?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you like the kiss?"

Kyle smiled.

"Of course, Dude."

~

Shelley stood at the foot of the stairs, her heart hammering into her chest. She stared at the wall opposite her, seeing not the paisley wallpaper, but her little brother and his friend embracing. Kissing. She couldn't believe it at first; Stan and Kyle pressed so close together. They were stupid little fourth graders. What the hell did they think they were playing at? Did they think that was a game? To kiss someone? To tell someone that you loved them?

Shelley pushed herself away from the stairs. She moved her body slowly around the corner and into the living room. She paused, trying to shake the image from her mind. Stan didn't know what he was doing. Without Wendy to pretend to dote upon with stupid Valentine's cards, he had turned to Kyle. Shelley's cootie plan had backfired. Stan was still happy. And worse he believed he loved his little friend the same way he had done Wendy. Clearly, Shelley saw in her mind, Stan walking to school holding Kyle's hand, carrying the boy's books, sitting at the dining room table making a whole new Valentine's Day card for the redheaded boy. Stan would go on being happy, and Shelley would have to watch.

Her fists shook as she stomped her way through the lower levels of the house. How could she have been so naïve? How could she have ever thought getting Wendy out of the picture would cause Stan the most dismay? It was Kyle. It had always been Kyle that Stan cared for most. And now that line between friendship and more had been blurred by their stupid little kiss. What did her little brother expect to happen? Did he think he could go on being happy like that? Did he not realize how many would want to take that feeling away from him? It wasn't a game; you can't just go through with those emotions and expect nothing to happen. Someone would eventually get hurt. Shelley knew first hand that much about liking someone enough to kiss. She thought about how easily her little brother had dumped Wendy. How easily he had forgotten her despite the clear sadness in the little girl's eyes.

Shelley paused in the hallway between the kitchen and the den. She reeled in her frantic breathing. What would Stan do if something unpleasant happened between him and Kyle? Would he stick with Kyle to the end? Or would he give up and hide? Or worse, start using that green bottle more and more frequently?

Shelley knew of the bottle. Stan was very bad at hiding it. Their parents were stupid enough to ignore the clear signs of her little brother's drinking; the smell on his breath, his glassy looks, his avoidance of difficult, over emotional situations. Shelley knew, but didn't care. She let Stan have his bottle. She had her own shit to deal with.

Pushing the door leading to the den open, Shelley found her father relaxing in his large office chair. He scrolled through something on the computer monitor, humming to himself.

If Stan wanted to see what it was like to love someone, he needed to know what it was like to lose them too.

"Dad," Shelley said, stepping forward. For a brief moment, she thought of the scattered flower petals in Wendy's cardboard box and another small white flower whose petals now dried and decayed between the pages of her little purple book.

"Dad, I got to talk to you about Stan."

Chapter Six: Be a Man

Stan didn't sleep as soundly as he would have hoped. Yesterday evening, Randy had appeared at the threshold to Stan's room and asked Kyle to leave early. Not receiving a straightforward response from his father as to why Kyle needed to head home, Stan had resigned himself to sulking in his room until dinner time. As the night wore on and Stan was still not allowed contact with his best friend, Stan began to worry he'd done something wrong and his parents were preparing to ground him. However, evening came, and Stan readied for bed with no further comment. Once in under the covers, Stan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He touched the space beside him and frowned. His bed felt a lot colder when only one person slept in it. Tossing and turning for several hours, Stan finally drifted into a fitful sleep around three in the morning.

His father woke him at five.

"Stan! Stan, get up, son!" Randy whispered with a huge grin plastered to his face. Stan blinked blearily at his alarm clock.

"Dad, what the fuck? It's too early." He crammed his head under the pillows and turned his back to his father. Randy shook him again.

"Stanley, you will get up right now. We have a big day planned ahead!" Randy moved to the door. He flicked on the overhead light, and Stan flinched at the brightness.

"What's going on?"

"You're Uncle Jimbo's here. We're going hunting! It's going to be great."

His father left the room in a hurry, stomping down the hall in heavy boots. Stan sat up in bed, gaping at the empty doorway his father had vacated. Hunting? Had he said hunting?

Stan made a sad little noise in his throat.

Downstairs he found Uncle Jimbo and his Vietnam veteran buddy Ned sitting on the couch, taking a count of their supplies. Jimbo was a large man with a wide head. Ned, on the other hand, was skinnier than a tree branch and probably just as easy to snap. Both men wore camouflage patterned pants and jackets. Ned's empty sleeve flapped up and down as he polished with one hand a rifle lying across his lap. Jimbo held a clipboard, ticking off camping items as he pointed to them. To see the two sitting together would have been quite amusing had Stan not been half asleep when he entered the living room. He stared at the cluttered mess of hunting supplies. Three large backpacks leaned against the coffee table. Boxes of bullets, neon orange vests, three uncomfortably large guns, and a huge cooler of beer lay scattered around the couch and table. Stan rubbed at his eyes, hoping that when he looked up again everything would be gone.

"Hey there, Stanley," called Uncle Jimbo from the couch. He waved one of his guns in greeting. Ned acknowledged Stan with a nod.

Randy entered the room wearing one of the neon orange vests over a pair of worn out overalls. He frowned at Stan.

"Stan, why are you still in you pajamas? We need to get going early," his father informed, pushing him back towards the stairs.

Stan shrugged him off.

"I'm too tired. I don't want to go hunting, Dad. It's too fucking early."

"Stanley, watch your language!"

"Now, Randy, let the boy curse. It's good for him. Heck, a boy of his age needs to know them words that can turn hair gray. Isn't that right, Ned?" Jimbo thumped his skinny friend on the back so hard he nearly rammed his head into the coffee table. When Ned righted himself again, he nodded, pulling out the little gizmo that helped him talk.

"Nnnn-at'z right."

Stan looked up at his father.

"Dad, I really don't want to go," he pleaded.

Randy grabbed a beer from his cooler and popped the top. He gave Stan a pathetic grimace sighing.

"Alright, Stan, but I just thought we should spend some father and son time together. We hardly ever do that nowadays," Randy bemoaned. Stan rolled his eyes.

"Dad, we don't do stuff together because Mom's afraid you're going to get me killed," Stan countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Randy took a gulp of beer. He burped and said.

"What does your mother know?"

"Not to wake her son at the crack of dawn on a fucking Sunday morning," Stan mumbled into his chest. Randy ignored him.

"Stan, go to your room and get dressed. An old pair of jeans or something," Randy said dismissively. He turned to Jimbo and pointed with his beer at the guns. "You got permits for all these, right?"

"Of course I do," Jimbo snorted. He placed his gun on the table, and then dug in his front shirt pocket for a small ID card. He tossed it to Randy.

"Uh…Jimbo, this expired last week," Randy pointed out, flipping the card around to show the expiration date. Jimbo squinted at the card for a moment. He frowned then plucked the card from Randy's hand and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Ain't no one going to care if it's one week expired, Randy," Jimbo laughed.

Stan still stood next to the stairs. "I'm going back to bed."

"No, you are not, Stan. You get dressed or I'm dragging you out in nothing but your underwear," warned Randy. Stan made a grunt of protest, but turned to climb the stairs anyway. Fifteen minutes later he was in his brown coat and boots, standing at the door and watching his uncle and father try to shoulder all heir supplies. Randy shuffled up to Stan and slapped the boy on the shoulder.

"This is going to be great, Stan, you'll see."

Stan rolled his eyes.

~

Stan had lost track of where they were situated on the mountains located outside of South Park. All he knew was that it was six in the fucking morning, he was cold, his feet hurt, and his father hadn't shut up since they'd left the house. After downing two more beers during the drive up the mountain, Randy had begun reminiscing about memories he had of Stan. He recalled the first time he gave his son a football, the picture he took of Stan and Wendy for their little elementary school charity dance, and the family reunion where Stan helped build a boat with a few of his older male cousins. Stan had listened to all these stories in annoyed and embarrassed silence. Jimbo and Ned made very little commentary about Randy's reminiscing. When they did speak, it was to mention something about the terrain they traveled or to ponder at what large animal they'd end up mounting to the wall back at their tiny gun shop.

Leaning back against a snow covered rock, Randy took another swig of beer. Stan sat next to him, his legs pulled up to his chest and a permanent frown arching his lips. He stared at the cold hard ground before him as he listened to Randy remind him of the time they built a pinewood racecar together and royally screwed over their planet. Jimbo stood a few feet back from them, readying the rifles. Ned tried in vain to hold both his gun and his beer at the same time.

"Dad, I want to go home," Stan moaned, kicking out at the snow and dirt. Randy frowned.

"Stanley, we are sharing a father and son moment, and you will like it!"

Stan threw back his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "This is stupid!"

Randy tossed his empty beer can over his shoulder and rummaged in the cooler for a new one. He popped the top and let the foam fizzle out over the rim. Stan tried not to stare. He really wanted a drink, and he hated himself for it. He pushed his thoughts towards Kyle. Maybe if he complained long enough, his father would cut the hunting excursion short. Then Stan would be back home and with Kyle.

As if his father had read his mind, Randy asked, "So, Stan, how's Kyle?"

Stan blushed and coughed into his hand, making a show of warming his fingers with his breath.

"He's okay. Why?"

Randy sipped his beer.

"No reason. You two were hanging out yesterday in your room."

Stan narrowed his eyes. "Yeah…so? Dad, we do that every day."

"What do you boys like to play? Were you playing video games?" Randy inquired, studying the tab of his beer can. He twisted it between his fingers.

Stan shrugged. "Not really. Kyle was just reading."

"What were you doing?"

"Lying down; I had a stomachache," Stan explained, feeling his tummy give a pleasant jolt when he thought about lying so close to Kyle.

"Weren't your little friends Eric and Kenny around?" Randy pulled at his beer can tab, adding a bit more force as he tried to tug it off.

"Nah. Cartman's selling cootie shots, and I don't know what Kenny was up to." Stan rested his chin in his hands and sighed. "I like hanging out with Kyle best."

Randy gave a chuckle. "Did you say cootie shots, Stanley?"

"Yeah." He frowned up at his father. "They're real bad. I got a mild case a few days ago, but Shelley gave me the shot, so I'm okay."

Stan pulled back his sleeve to show his father. Randy blinked at the designs on his son's arm, trying to focus. When he'd finally examined the shot, he leaned back and gave a short laugh.

"That's cute, Stan," Randy said, he took another chug of beer, and then went back to twisting off the tab.

After a moment of tugging, Randy shook his head and tried to set his face in a more serious expression, failing miserably. Stan rolled his eyes once more and went back to staring at the ground. Behind Stan and his father, Ned and Jimbo made strange mating calls for animals Stan didn't recognize. He thought they sounded like cows trying to gargle.

"Back to what I was saying, Stanley," Randy drawled. "You and Kyle hang out quite a lot. Just the two of you."

"Dude, he's my best friend."

Randy nodded; he rubbed at his neck, looking suddenly embarrassed. "But I've told you before, Stan, you can't just hang out with Kyle all the time. People will think you're…you know…funny."

"What's wrong with being funny?" Stan shot back. "What if I want to be funny?" Sitting on the cold hard ground was starting to make him cranky, that and he really needed sleep.

"Nothing's wrong with being funny, Stanley," Randy began hesitantly, "It's just something you won't — er — shouldn't deal with until you're older."

Stan frowned.

"I don't understand."

Randy threw an arm around Stan's shoulder. "You see, son, it's okay to be funny…just not now. See you're a kid; you're not old enough to know any better. This…um…you wanting to hang out with your little friend Kyle could just be phase."

Stan shook his head. "Our friendship isn't a phase, Dad."

Randy shook his head. "No, no, Stan, that's not what I meant. You see…um…. Look, it's okay to be funny, to try some things, but in the end you're just ten, Stan. You don't know what you're doing. You'll grow out of it."

Stan frowned. He knew his father was talking about more than just his friendship with Kyle. He stared at his father as the man continued to fiddle with the tab of his beer can. He gave a mighty tug, and the tab finally fell away. Randy stared at it for a few moments and then chucked it down the side of the rocky slope beneath them. Stan lost sight of it quickly in the faded light of dawn.

"Dad," Stan said slowly, "how did you know that you really liked Mom?"

Randy started. He gave Stan a sideways glance and then took a sip of beer.

"I don't know, Stan. I just thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen," Randy slurred wistfully. He gave a lopsided grin. "She used to be annoyed with me all the time. I was always embarrassing her, but I guess she found my boyish attitude charming."

Stan doubted that. He made a mental note to get his mother's side of the story later.

"Uh, well, like did you feel a certain way? Like did your stomach do flip-flops or something?" Stan continued, feeling his face redden. Randy thought for a moment.

"Not that I can recall," Randy mused. "We dated for a few years and then I proposed."

"Did you ever…um…feel achy?" Stan asked in a small voice. "Like did your chest hurt?" Stan placed a hand on his chest right under his neck. "Did you feel like you couldn't really feel good…until she was with you?"

Randy turned to look at Stan more closely. He narrowed his eyes, the drunkenness vanishing for a moment. He placed a hand on Stan's shoulder and tugged the boy closer.

"Now, listen, Stan, you don't have to worry about that. You're too young," Randy gave a false chuckle. He wet his lips looking thoughtful and then continued, "Now, you might think you like this someone, but you must understand that you won't understand it until you're older. So, just relax and act like a normal boy, Stan. Don't get your head wrapped up in…er…romance…and girls." Randy tacked on the last bit with a great force. He gave another strange laugh and turned to see what Jimbo and Ned were doing.

Stan blinked, feeling his chest constrict. He decided to try a new strategy.

"Wendy kissed me on the cheek the other day," Stan stated simply. Randy's eyes grew wide, and, then, a genuine smile broke out upon his face. He nudged Stan in the side.

"How was that?"

"Alright, I guess," Stan replied. He chose to leave out the cootie symptoms that appeared after the kiss. "But I shouldn't think about that, right?"

Stan watched his father carefully. Finishing the beer in his hand, the man reached into the cooler for another. He popped the top and yanked off the tab with such gusto that Stan feared his father might topple over and down the side of the slope upon which they sat.

"That's perfectly fine to think about, Stan," Randy laughed. "I'm sure Wendy is a nice kisser, isn't she?"

Stan shrugged. "I guess, but you said I shouldn't think about romance stuff. I'm too young, right?"

Randy shook his head. "Well, Stan, what I meant was that some things about romance you won't understand now. Yeah, that's it. See you can understand things like kissing, but leave the other stuff until you're older."

"So, kissing someone means I like them, right?" Stan pressed further. Randy took a gulp from his beer can. The man nodded.

"Sure does. So, go right ahead and kiss Wendy all you want, Stan." Randy gave his son another confidential nudge and chortled at what he thought was his son's general naïveté.

"So," Stan began slowly, "if I kiss someone, by your definition, I like them. A lot. And I understand that I like them. Right?"

Randy narrowed his brow as if trying to sort out Stan's question like he was trying to solve a difficult calculus problem. Finally, the man appeared to give up and just nodded once more.

"Yes, Stan, if you kiss a girl it means you like them." Randy snorted. "Duh, Stan, that's so obvious."

"So, what does it mean when you kiss a boy?"

The silence that followed that statement could have cut Stan like a knife. Even Jimbo and Ned, who had been preoccupied with animal calls and guns until that moment, stopped dead, their breath the only sound in the snowy quiet. A bird whistled in the distance and something rustled in a cluster of bushes several feet down the rocky slope.

Stan felt his hands shake as he clasped them tighter about his knees.

Randy coughed into his sleeve, taking a long time to wipe his mouth before turning to look at Stan. He set down his beer and hesitantly patted Stan on the shoulder.

"See…uh…well that's very different. Kissing a boy — I mean — a boy kissing a boy. 'Cause that's what you meant, right?" Randy's voice faltered. Stan stared at the ground.

"Isn't a kiss a kiss, Dad?" Stan mumbled into his knees. "You put your lips together and kiss. Boys or girls, right?"

Randy's eyes grew wide for a moment and he formed the word 'lips' silently. Stan buried his head in his arms.

"Stan, kissing a boy is different. It's something you won't really understand until you're older. See you can't really know if you like that or not until you're…um…past you teen years. At least that or longer. College, perhaps…that's the best time to try anything really."

"Didn't you meet Mom in high school?" Stan said pointedly.

Randy frowned. "Stanley, now, that's different."

"So, I won't know what I like until after high school?" Stan said, his voice rising in pitch.

"Yes, Stan," Randy stated, forcing calm. "You're too young to know if — if kissing a boy is something you like. People change, Stan. They grow up and realize that what they once liked, they don't like anymore. So," Randy grabbed Stan's shoulder, and the boy jerked his head up, "so that means you won't really know if you truly like someone until you're older."

Stan stared his father, not really seeing the man. All he could hear were the words:

People change, Stan. They grow up and realize that what they once liked, they don't like anymore.

Was this true? After turning ten, Stan had found himself hating everything he once enjoyed, what he had once loved. He still hadn't recovered. The green bottle under his bed often kept the worst of the cynicism at bay, but would one day come when he awoke to find Kyle shitty once more? What if he turned eleven and not only hated the kiss he'd given his best friend, but his best friend too?

Stan clutched at his arms, folding in upon himself, and once more pressing his face into his knees. Randy tried to shake his son out of his funk, but Stan refused to move. Heavy footsteps crunching through dead twigs and snow alerted them to Jimbo's sudden presence.

"Stan, are you okay?" asked his uncle. Stan wiped at his face and looked up.

"I'm fine."

"Your dad's right," Jimbo tried to say in a nonchalant way. "You don't need to worry about who you like or don't like now. You're just a kid, and kids don't know any better. Trust us. Why when I was your age I had a crush on this little girl with the longest pigtails you'd ever seen. Got her flowers and tried to get her to go to the dance with me. But we didn't last too long; I ended up dumping her after the dance. We were only thirteen."

Randy was nodding encouragingly. Stan sighed.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

Another bout of silence followed. Several feet down the slope, the cluster of bushes moved again.

Jimbo jabbed Randy in the side and pointed towards the shrubbery. "Look, there's something crawlin' in the bushes over there."

Stan froze. The previous conversation now forgotten, Stan remembered why his father dragged him out in the middle of nowhere at six in the morning. Stan turned his head slowly towards the small collection of thin bushes. They were located at a steep angle upon the rocky mountainside, more than ten feet down from where they'd stopped to camp. The thin, dried leaves rattled with the wind, but a strange shaking at the plant's base alerted the men that something lurked beneath. Jimbo lifted the gun to his eye level and waited.

"Now, remember what you have to say," Jimbo whispered.

Randy nudged Stan, giving the boy a stern look.

"Go on, Stan."

Sighing, Stan mumbled, "Look out. It's coming right for us."

At that moment a small rabbit with its winter coat still intact hopped out from behind the bush. Ned in his excitement dropped his voice box, but Jimbo beat him to it.

"LOOK OUT! IT'S COMIN' RIGHT FOR US!"

A thunderous crack rent the air and the rabbit flopped onto its side as if it had fallen into slumber. Stan felt his eyes water, and he turned his face away from the growing red spot, inching its way across the white covered ground.

Jimbo let out a low whistle. "That was a beauty. Right, Randy?"

Randy tipped his beer in Jimbo's direction to toast him. He gave a slow, drunken nod.

"That was beautiful, Jimbo." He took a sip from his now empty can of beer, and then patted Stan on the shoulder. "Now, go get it, Stanley."

"WHAT?" Stan's eyes were wide with fear. He clutched at his jacket as if to pull it closer around him and hide his body. He shook his head, staring at his knees.

"Stan, it's all the way down there," Randy pointed out, noting the dangerous tilt of the land. "You're fast enough to get it."

"No."

"Now, Stan —"

"I don't want to, Dad."

"Stanley, you listen to me —"

"You're dad's right, Stan, you can get down there quicker than us. Unless we force old Ned to do it."

"Nnnn-ooo, zz-ankz."

Randy thumped Stan on the back, trying to propel him to stand. Stan stayed rooted in the spot. Hunching his shoulders, he inched away from his father. Randy frowned and stood up. He pointed at his son.

"Now, Stan, be a good sport and just get the damn rabbit. It's not going to kill you. It's dead," Randy laughed at his tasteless joke. Stan cringed. He wished he could steal one of his father's beers. It suddenly seemed like a very important thing to have in this kind of situation. Especially, after the awkward talk they'd just had.

Randy sighed.

"Stan, please go get the rabbit. It's not going to hurt you."

"I don't think that."

Randy blinked. "Then what's wrong?"

"I don't like hunting," Stan rushed through gritted teeth. He had wanted to say something along the lines of 'I hate seeing animals hurt' or 'you're such an asshole, dad' and 'you've only confused me more'. He also thought it ridiculous that his father thought him afraid of a dead thing. No, Stan wasn't afraid. He was terrified…terrified that the next step after picking up the rabbit was skinning it and cooking it. He also knew that it wouldn't be long before Jimbo thrust that gun into Stan's arms, telling him to take aim too.

"Ah, give it up, Randy. I'll just get it myself," Jimbo rose to his feet, grunting and gasping as he heaved his great bulk off the ground. Randy shook his head.

"No, Jim, you'll end up blowing out your knee again." Randy grabbed Stan by the collar and hoisted him up. Trying to keep a grin on his face as if this were a game, Randy once more told Stan to get the dead rabbit.

"Why don't you get it?" Stan countered, dropping to the ground again and huddling into the same cramped sitting position as before. Randy was pissed.

"Now, Stan, I'm your father, you need to do what I say."

"Not when you're drunk off your ass."

Randy blanched. Stan smirked at his victory, but the comment didn't deter his father.

"Stan, only girls are scared of touching dead rabbits. You're not a girl, so get down there and pick it up."

"Well, then I'm a girl then. And if being a girl means I don't have to touch a poor murdered baby rabbit then I'll fucking be a pussy too!"

Ned and Jimbo gave Randy helpless glances. Stan's father rubbed at his eyes in a wistful manner. He seemed suddenly very old.

"Stan…." Randy began once more.

Stan was on his feet again. His whole body shook and wet streaks dirtied his cheeks. Without a word, he bolted from the slope. Randy and Jimbo shouted in alarm, but Stan was pelting too fast through the woods to catch the words. He skidded over a rocky outcropping and jumped down onto a snowy path he and the others had taken earlier.

Hurried footsteps and snapping branches alerted Stan that he was being followed. Taking up his sprint once more, the boy zigzagged through the woods. He ducked under low limbs and jumped through muddy puddles. He threw his hands up over his face as he dashed straight through a cluster of thorny bushes.

As he leapt out from behind the last bit of foliage, Stan found himself staring at his father's pickup truck. His breath coming out in gasps and a stitch in his side, Stan limped towards the vehicle. Behind him he could hear his father and Uncle Jimbo shouting at each other through the woods. Ned's nasally artificial voice echoed among the noise.

Stopping in front of the driver's side door, Stan pressed his forehead against the cold steel of the truck door. He panted, watching his breath create small tufts of steamy clouds. He sniffed hard, running his sleeve under his nose. Stepping back, Stan examined the truck. Reaching out a hand he took the handle and yanked it open. He clambered up into the seat and slammed the door closed behind him. Noting that his father had left the keys inside, Stan locked both doors.

He sat there for several minutes, waiting for his heartbeat to slow and his breath to even out. When he felt calmer, Stan knelt in the seat and turned to face the tiny window in the back of the truck's cab. He unlatched it and pushed the two panes of glass apart. Below, in the bed of the pickup, rested one of the many ice coolers his father and Uncle Jimbo had brought up to the mountains. Leaning out of the tiny window, Stan stretched his arm down until he'd pulled off the cooler's lid. He set the lid aside and then reached inside the cold icebox. There were ten cans of beer mingling with the slushy, dirty ice his father had taken from the freezer back home.

Stan grabbed the first one his fingers touched. He drew back his arm and set the can on the passenger seat. Returning to the window, Stan replaced the cooler's lid and then closed and latched the panes of glass back together.

Flopping down into the driver's seat, Stan leaned over and grabbed his can of beer. He held it between his hands, feeling the dampening cold seep through his red woolen gloves. He stared at the can for several seconds. His thumb traced the tab. He flicked it a couple of times, listening to the 'thunk' of the metal snap back against the tin lid.

He rolled the can once between his hands as if truly debating upon what to do next with the beer. Then letting out a slow sigh, Stan popped the can open. It fizzed for a moment, but settled almost instantly. Stan brought the can to his lips and sipped.

Ten minutes later his father, Uncle Jimbo, and Ned emerged from the forest. They were carrying everything they had used to make camp. Stan watched as they tossed the bags into the back of the pickup. Uncle Jimbo moved to the driver's side and started when he saw Stan sitting inside. He beckoned to Randy who stumbled to his side. Jimbo tried to open the door, but Stan had it locked. He searched his pockets, but Stan lifted the keys and shook them for his uncle to see. Randy narrowed his brows. He raised his fist and pounded on the driver's side window.

"Stan, you open this door right now!"

"No," Stan called back.

"Stanley!"

"Fuck off, Dad."

Randy kicked at the truck. He whirled around to face Jimbo.

"You got something we can open the door with?" he asked, his words slurring and his eyes red. Jimbo produced a Swiss army knife. Randy volunteered to pick the lock, but after he cut himself three times in a row, Ned took over.

Stan watched them patiently from the other side of the glass. He leaned forward and grabbed hold of the beer he'd set in the truck's cup holder. He sat up straight and took a sip. His father noticed and gaped in horror. Stan ignored him, taking another long draught.

His father continued to pound on the glass. Stan stuck the keys in the ignition and turned on the power. He flipped through the channels of the radio, listening for something that didn't sound like shit to him. When he'd spun the dial almost all the way to the end of the line, he discovered a static station with the faint sound of violins piping through the speakers. He sighed and leaned back into the seat. He took another drink and closed his eyes.

As his father pounded harder on the glass and Ned cursed as his Swiss army knife slipped from the lock, Stan reached over and turned up the volume. He didn't know the name of the music he listened too. No words were sung; just the faint sigh of strings and the loud thunder of drums and horns filled the cab. Stan recognized the sound. It was something classical he'd heard before, perhaps even on an old cartoon. He knew Kyle would have known the name of the music. He was good at understanding boring, nerdy things like that.

Stan downed the rest of his beer and chucked the now empty can into the passenger's seat. He wished his father wasn't outside. There was no way he'd attempt to get another can now.

At that moment, Ned got the door open. He flung it back, and all three men stared at Stan. The boy made no attempt to move.      

"Stan, what the hell has gotten into you?" Randy stormed, grabbing a hold of Stan's arm and dragging the boy out of the pickup. Stan stumbled to his father's side, staring at the ground.

Stan didn't respond. His father shook his arm.

"Stan, you answer me when I'm talking to you!" he roared. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Shrugging, Stan continued to stare at the ground. His mouth tasted bad, and he wanted to throw up.

Uncle Jimbo stepped into the truck and turned it off. When he reemerged, he said, "It looks like he only drank the one beer, Randy. I don't think we should be too hard on him. Why I had my first sip of beer when I was about his age."

Randy rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"Sharon's going to kill me, Jimbo."

"I won't tell, Mom," Stan mumbled. He really had no desire to go bragging about his drinking anyway.

Randy nodded. "Good. Don't let me ever catch you doing that again! You hear me?"

"Yes," Stan mumbled. "I won't let you catch me drinking ever again."

Clapping his hands together, Randy allowed himself a smile of relief. He turned towards Jimbo and Ned.

"I think we've had enough of hunting for one day, don't you think?"

When they finally returned home, Randy grounded Stan for his little stunt. Stan didn't protest. Conveniently, Stan's punishment entailed that the boy remain in his room all of next week after returning home from school.

And during this entire punishment, Kyle wasn't allowed to be seen.

~

Shelley snuck out of the house around noon. Her mother had left to visit Mrs. Broflovski. Without her mother around to check to see that she remain secluded in her room, Shelley had taken the opportunity to find Eric Cartman. She discovered the fat boy sitting in the middle of the elementary school's playground. He had his makeshift cootie stand all set up. His briefcase lay open revealing a fresh jar of black paint, three thick brushes, and several handkerchiefs. Some sixth graders hung around behind him, passing out flyers to some of the younger kids who used the playground equipment even on Sundays. Shelley inspected one of the flyers as she walked past a second grader. Cartman's illegible handwriting announced a buy three get one free coupon for his cootie shots. Shelley rolled her eyes.

Looking up, Shelly watched a rat-faced sixth grader force a red flyer down a third grader's shirt front when he refused to take the leaflet. Scanning the rest of the small cluster of kids, she spotted Kenny and Butters shuffling up to Cartman's stand. Strangely Kenny had his hood down. Two barrettes were fastened in his hair, making the blond tufts stick up like dog ears. Butters wore a helmet and carried a small plastic hammer. As they approached, Cartman raised an eyebrow at their outfits, but didn't comment. When the two blonds reached the stand, Kenny stuck out his arm, and Butters dug in his pockets for two ten dollar bills.

"We need to reapply the shot, Eric," Butters explained. Cartman glanced down at the money.

"What is this?" he asked, brushing the tens towards Butters.

"Money for the shots? The regular ones?" Butters asked confusedly, tilting his head to the side.

Cartman leaned out and tapped the sign above his head.

"Read, Butters. The cootie shot price has gone up. Twenty-five bucks just for one regular shot," Cartman said, flipping open a leather-bound notebook and making a few notes under a long list of transactions.

Kenny dropped his mouth open. "Twenty-five each? That's fucking ridiculous!"

"Not my fault you're poor, Kenny. Also what's with the faggy hair clips?"

"Karen," Kenny replied as explanation.

"He's the princess today," Butters piped up. He held out his hammer, pointing to his helmet. "I get to be the knight."

Cartman snorted. "Whatever, fags. Still need twenty-five from both of you."

Kenny glared. Without his hood, his grimace actually appeared quiet threatening. The fat boy, however, didn't seem to care. A sixth grader with a long nose and greasy hair leaned over Eric's shoulder, asking him if he needed to 'escort' Kenny from the cootie stand. Cartman puffed out his chest importantly, waving his hand.

"No, no."

Kenny rolled his eyes. Butters hid behind him, eyeing the sixth grade boy with apprehension. When the sixth grader left, Kenny stepped forward again.

"I need that cootie shot."

Cartman clasped his hands together, resting them over his ledger. "I can offer you a shot that you can pay in installments. Five bucks over a five day period."

Kenny shook his head. "This shot wears off every couple of days, maybe even sooner. I won't have even paid you fifteen bucks before I needed a new one!"

Cartman shrugged, pulling his ledger towards him and snapping it closed. Butters flinched at the sound. The small boy looked sadly down at his arm where under his sleeve the cootie shot had begun to fade. Kenny stood with his fits curled.

"Fatass, you better give me that shot! My sister is having two of her friends over for a slumber party tonight. I can't risk getting the cooties now," Kenny warned. Cartman made a show of yawning.

"Not my problem, Ken."

Butters sniffed. "I'm sorry I don't have enough cash, Kenny. If you'd like, you can come stay at my house for the night. I'm sure my mom and dad won't mind."

At that moment Shelley decided to make her presence known. Butters panicked at the sight of a girl and hid under Cartman's table. Kenny backed up slowly to hide himself behind Cartman's massive bulk. The sixth graders stopped passing out flyers and stared at Shelley. A whispered conversation erupted between the rat-faced boy and his tall lanky friend with braces.

Shelley pulled out a five dollar bill. She laid it upon Butters' two tens.

"Here. At least one of you can get the shot," she explained. Butters glanced at Kenny, who made a gesture with his hands, indicating Butters should go ahead and take the shot. Scampering out from beneath the table, Butters rolled up his sleeve and waved it in front of Cartman. The fat boy frowned as he traced a fresh cootie shot on Butters. When he'd finished, Cartman tossed his brush into a jar of water and then turned his attention to Shelley.

Cartman threw out his arms warmly, forcing a grin. "Ah, if it isn't my wonderful benefactor!"

"Shut it, Turd, I'm pissed."

Eric placed a hand over his wide chest mockingly. "Whatever for?" Suddenly he frowned. "You don't want a cut of the money, do you?"

"No," Shelley stated flatly. Eric sighed in relief. Butters shuffled away from under the table and crept to Kenny's side. Shelley glared at them both. Kenny took the hint and dragged Butters towards the sandbox where the two sat quietly waiting for the girl to disappear.

Cartman snapped his briefcase closed. He went to tuck the two tens Butters had left on the stand and Shelley's five into his tin box of cash, but Shelley was too quick. She took the money and stuffed it in the front of her coat pocket. She continued to glare at Cartman.

"What? What do you want, skank?" Eric challenged, walking around the stand to Shelley's side. "See you want money, bitch. I don't know what you could want other than money. Isn't Stan hating Wendy like you wanted?"

Shelley watched Butters and Kenny in the sandbox. Butters whispered something excitedly into Kenny's ear. The taller boy nodded, smiling. They shared a laugh and turned to play with the cold, snow-covered sand. Butters made a great show of preparing a mound of sand for Kenny to sit upon; when Butters had finished his task, Kenny rested upon the lump. Butters then constructed low hills of sand as makeshift walls around his friend. Shelley frowned at their antics.

Cartman cleared his throat. "So, what is it that you want, Shelley?"

The girl turned back to the fat boy.

"Stan kissed Kyle the other night," she stated simply. Cartman's eyes grew round and then narrowed in delight. He threw back his head and howled with laughter. Shelley waited for him to control himself, before continuing.

"I don't know what he thinks he's doing," she snapped. "He must imagine Kyle a good replacement for Wendy."

Cartman wiped at his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

"Oh God, so beautiful. I knew it! I knew they were a couple of fags," Cartman gloated. Shelley rolled her eyes.

"It wasn't that hard to notice, Turd. My stupid brother is obsessed with Kyle," Shelley noted. Eric nodded sympathetically.

"It's unhealthy to be that interested in a Jew. Wait 'til the whole school hears that they're a couple of homos!"

Shelley smacked Cartman in the head.

"OW! BITCH!"

The girl stalked closer to Cartman, pressing the fat boy up against his wooden stand. She jabbed her finger into his wide chest and leaned in close.

"Listen, Turd," she whispered, "you aren't going to tell anyone. Yet. See that wouldn't fix my problem."

Cartman tried to push the girl back, but Shelley stood her ground.

"Hey, get off, skank!"

Shelley boxed Cartman's ears, silencing him. The fat boy whimpered rubbing at the side of his head.

"Look, Eric, I don't need you to blab to everyone that they're kissing. Yeah, it would cause a stir. People would laugh and make jokes — but that would be temporary. Knowing my brother and his friend, the two would come out on top," Shelley explained. She scowled, adding, "In fact I'm sure they'll 'learn something today' about it and then everything goes back to being happy. Even if people still continue to make fun of them, Stan will still have Kyle."

Cartman shrugged.

"What's your point?"

"If you really want to mess with Stan and Kyle, you have to tear them apart," Shelley stated simply. She stood back, allowing Cartman to regain his footing. The boy straightened his red jacket and smoothed down his hair. Shelley glanced behind him towards the sandbox. Butters had built a lopsided little city for Kenny. As the girl watched them, she saw Butters pluck a weedy flower from the ground and stick it on one of Kenny's barrettes. The flower lay limp across the taller boy's forehead, its ugly brown petals brushing Kenny's eyelashes.

Shelly turned back to Eric, hating the ache she felt in her stomach at the sight of that flower. For a moment, Eric's face scrunched up as he pondered Shelley's words, then a slow steady smirk spread upon his face. He puffed out his wide chest knowingly and walked back around his cootie shot stand to pack up the rest of his belongings.

"So, what you're saying is we need to break up Stan and Kyle's gay little relationship?" Eric asked, his smile widening.

"Not just break up," Shelley whispered confidentially. She tried to burn away the image of all flowers from her mind. "We need to get them to a point where they can't trust one another."

"How do you plan on doing that? The last time I checked the 'super best friends' are glued to each others' asses. There's no way you could get them to hate each other," Cartman challenged. Shelley crossed her arms over her chest.

"That's where you come in," Shelley said crossly. "I got my dad to panic over Stan not being 'man enough' or some other bullshit, but I know he can't keep Stan away from Kyle forever. No one in my family takes my father seriously for long. That and he's easily distracted. He'll find something else to occupy his time before long and completely forget about Stan's gay little kiss."

Cartman snorted with laughter. "Still can't believe it happened. No, scratch that, I can believe it happened with those fags, just didn't think it'd happen 'til middle school."

Shelley rolled her eyes.

"You are going to help me trick Stan," Shelley whispered hurriedly.

"Why should I?"

Shelley nodded to the sixth graders over by the swing set. Both boys continued to stare in Shelley's direction, but neither seemed to have plucked up enough courage to approach. When she caught their eye, they quickly hid their faces. Cartman gave the boys a glance and then turned back to the girl.

Shelley pointed at them.

"I'll tell them that you've been making up this cootie stuff the whole time."

Eric's eyes grew round, and he snuck another quick look at the sixth graders. They were both rather big for their age.

"Fine, bitch! What do you want?" Cartman snapped. Shelley smiled.

At that moment, the rat-faced sixth grader and his friend sauntered over to Cartman's side. Both boys stared at Shelley as if seeing her for the first time. The boy with the rat-face pointed at her.

"You're a girl," he noted lamely. Shelley gave him a deadpanned look before turning her attention back to Eric, who had snuck away from both sixth graders without notice.

"Hey," said the rat-face. "I'm talking to you!"

The boy marched around to the opposite side of the stand to Shelley's side. She gave him a scathing look and once more addressed Cartman.

"How about I meet you later at your house to discuss —"

Shelley gave a yelp as the sixth grade boy caught hold of her arm. He twisted her around to face him. She was older than him by two grades, but the boy stood two inches taller than her. He gave her arm another squeeze, and she let out a gasp of pain. Cartman stared on with a mixture of fear and confusion.

"Let go of me, Turd!" Shelley roared trying to shake the boy. He held on tighter, now gripping her arm with both hands. She tried to hit him, but his tall friend caught her other arm. Cartman backed away from the older kids, hiding behind his wooden stand. Shelley gave a growl of protest and tried to kick out, but the boys just kicked her back.

"Stay still! We want to see if this cootie shot thing is legit!" said the boy with the rat-face. Shelley shot a look at Cartman, who continued to cower behind his briefcase. She raised an eyebrow at him, and the younger boy cleared his throat.

"Er…see…it — uh — clearly works. See you're touching her and no cooties! Voila!" Eric cried, his voice cracking. He threw up his hands for emphasis. "Now if you gentleman would kindly let go of my assistant."

"Shut up, fourthie!" snarled the rat-faced sixth grader. Cartman snapped his mouth closed. The tall boy wheeled Shelley around to face him.

"I think it is working," he commented. "I don't feel itchy."

"So, we can touch her and nothing bad will happen to us?" Rat-face pondered. "I wonder if we can touch her anywhere."

Shelley spun around and spat in the boy's face.

"Let me go!" she screamed.

From the sandbox, Kenny and Butters had ceased playing. They stumbled out of the sandy enclosure and hastily approached. Kenny took the lead with Butters holding onto his plastic hammer for dear life. However, before they reached the cootie shot stand, the sixth grader with greasy hair stepped forward to intercede them. The younger boys gave Shelley concerned looks, but backed away from the older kids.

Gritting her teeth, Shelley squirmed harder.

"Hey, if we can touch her without getting cooties," began the rat-faced boy, "then I bet we can touch her boobs too!"

"You touch me, and I'll bite your hand off!" Shelley roared, kicking out with a new intensity. The boy dodged around her attack and stuck out a hand, inching it towards the girl's chest.

A considerably sized rock hurtled through the air and struck the boy right in the eye. He dropped Shelley's arm and reeled backwards, knocking into the cootie stand and toppling it over. Cartman barked out a string of curses in dismay, and Kenny and Butters took the opportunity to rush around the greasy haired sixth grader. They were speeding towards the tall boy still clutching Shelley's arm, but stopped when Bebe chucked another rock.

The tall sixth grader ducked, but the rock grazed his backside, and he yelped in pain. He stumbled away from the two approaching girls. Wendy stood with her arm cocked back, her fist wrapped tightly around a jagged piece of concrete. Bebe clutched a bunch of rocks to her chest. She picked out another large one and hefted it in her hand, aiming towards the sixth graders.

"Fuck off, assholes," Wendy snarled, tossing her rock at the rat-faced boy once more. Dodging the projectile, he scurried off towards the other side of the school yard. His friends followed closely behind.

Wendy and Bebe waited for the three boys to disappear, before turning back to the others.

The girls dumped their arms free of rocks, and Butters let out a small sigh of relief. Kenny took his hand. Shelley had fallen to the ground. She sat in the snow, feeling her heart pound in her throat. She glanced up at Wendy who approached.

"Are you okay, Shelley?" Wendy placed a hand on the older girl's shoulder.

Shelley managed a nod. She stared at Wendy's little purple boots. Then her mind jogging itself back awake, Shelley shivered, thinking back to the sixth grade boys' vice-like grip.

"I'm okay," she finally managed to croak.

Wendy smiled. "Oh good."

She stood up and glared at Cartman. "See what your stupid 'cootie shots' are doing, asshole?"

"Yeah, you've got the boys all weird now!" Bebe added. "They're either acting like Butters and Kenny or like those bastards who just left!"

Kenny frowned.

"Don't lump us in with those fuckers," he shot.

Bebe sighed.

"Sorry, you're right." She turned back to Cartman. "Still doesn't change the fact that he's got the boys doing weird stuff. I just talked to Clyde and apparently he's giving Cartman discounts at his father's shoe store just so he can keep up with his cootie shot payment."

"Craig and Jimmy cornered me the other day," Wendy began. Shelley looked at her. "They kept following me around in the mall, trying to touch my hands. They said they'd figured out that the cootie shots work against some girls, but they wanted to try it on me too."

"Well, nothing wrong with that," Cartman mumbled, tucking his briefcase under his arm and trying to back away from the group. Kenny stood behind him.

"Dude, I think some of the guys feel like…like…now that girls can't harm them or something, they can do whatever they want to them," Kenny explained. "I mean, well, I sort of had the thought too. I…er...asked Tammy Warner if I could touch her boobs" He looked up at the girls. He cleared his throat. "When she said no…I almost just did it anyway. But then I thought I wouldn't want some douche doing that to my sister, so it probably wouldn't be cool doing it to any girl."

Butters piped up. "It's like you keep gettin' told girls are icky, it's hard not to stop thinkin' that all the time."

Wendy crossed her arms over her chest and stared Cartman down.

"Do you see what you've done?"

"Ain't my fault you skanks are a bunch of sluts with guys wantin' to grab you," Cartman laughed. Shelley jumped to her feet and knocked the boy to the ground. She knelt over him, pinning him beneath her knees. She had one fist raised. It shook, but she didn't move or punch.

Wendy stepped forward. "Shelley?"

The older girl pushed herself off of Cartman. She clenched and unclenched her fists, staring down at the boy. She snapped her head up and glanced first at Kenny and Butters, then Bebe, and finally Wendy. The dark haired girl made an involuntary move forward, holding out her hand. Shelley backed off, and then without a word, she turned on her heel and ran away.

Chapter Seven: Wicked

The Marsh household exuded an intense and brittle tension that evening. With Sharon gone for the night, chaos stirred at every corner of the home. Shelley remained locked in her room, shouting at her father when he tried to get her to emerge for dinner. Stan shared Shelley's anger, although for completely different reasons. When the two had arrived home, Randy commanded Stan to his room. Taking no chance to argue with his father, Stan had gladly disappeared up the stairs. He met Shelley in the hallway, her face red and splotchy. She snapped an insult at her younger brother for staring before quickly vanishing into her room. Stan shrugged, not caring what had upset his older sister. All Stan cared about now was the green bottle resting beneath his bed.

~

Shelley woke at around midnight, her throat dry and her tears all run out. She had fallen asleep in her clothes and her stomach rumbled a horrible protest at her choice to skip dinner. Pushing herself out of bed, the girl shuffled to the bathroom she shared with her brother. Finding her glass sitting on the sink, she filled it with water and downed it in one long gulp. She refilled the glass once more and took slower sips. Glancing in the mirror, Shelley rubbed at her eyes. They were still bloodshot. She tugged at her sleeves, covering the bruises on her arms where the boys had clung so hard. She hugged herself, blinking angrily at her reflection. A sound out in the hall caused her to start. Peeking out onto the landing, Shelley caught sight of her little brother descending the stairs delicately, avoiding any chance at sound. He was fully dressed although haphazardly. His brown coat had been buttoned askew, and his hat didn't sit straight atop his head. As he reached the final step of the stairs, he stumbled forward, catching himself with the wall opposite. Shelley waited at the top of the stairs until her little brother had opened the front door and exited the house before dashing back to her room and throwing on her own winter coat and boots.

Once outside, Shelley found Stan wandering down the sidewalk. A light snow fell and the ground lay covered with a thin film of powder. Stan walked down the path, scattering the snow. At times he tripped over his own feet, tumbling either into the snowy lawns to his right or into the street to his left. Shelley could see an empty bottle clutched tightly in his fist.

The girl followed her little brother until he reached the Broflovskis' house. Stan chucked away the bottle; it shattered in the street, raining emerald glass into the gutter. He floundered his way to the backyard. Shelley watched as her little brother paused, searching the ground for something. She saw him stoop to pick up some tiny pebbles from the flower bed. He stepped back and tossed the rock at a window on the second floor. Shelley guessed it was Kyle's room.

Unfortunately with Stan's inebriated state, his pebble fell short of its mark. He tried again only to have the rock hurtle back down towards his head. He stumbled out of the way just in time. He threw two more rocks at Kyle's window, failing both times. Shuffling back to the flower bed, Stan paused. Shelley waited, watching her little brother crane his neck towards the bushes that lined the Broflovskis' neighbor's fence. Silently, Stan forced his way through the prickly bushes. He ducked down and reappeared, dragging with him a skinny wooden ladder. Shelley raised an eyebrow at her little brother's discovery. She wondered if Stan had known about the ladder, but guessing from his own puzzled look, the ladder's appearance was just as novel to him as to her.

Peeking out from behind a tree at the farthest corner of the Broflovskis' backyard, Shelley watched Stan prop the ladder up against the side of the house. It reached Kyle's window. Stan began to climb, and Shelley hesitated where she stood. Several times, Stan lost his footing, barely hanging onto the rungs, and Shelley considered racing forward and berating her younger brother's stupidity.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Shelley decided to leave her hiding spot. Carefully she picked her way across the Broflovski backyard, ducking behind bushes and lawn ornaments until she stood beneath the ladder, but remained obscured by the shadows of the house.

Glancing above her head, she could just make out the silhouette of her little brother. He banged with his fist against the glass of the window he now faced. When no one answered his first volley of knocks, Stan intensified his drumming. Shelley gritted her teeth, wanting to hiss to her idiot brother that he'd wake the whole goddamn house in that manner. Luckily for Stan, Kyle threw open his window at that moment. Unfortunately, it startled Stan, and with his mind already clouded with alcohol, the boy lost his balance. From above, Shelley heard cursing and then saw Kyle reach out with both hands to catch hold of Stan's jacket front. The boys froze with Stan leaning too far out over the yard for Shelley's liking. She was about to reveal herself when Kyle gave a mighty tug and both boys toppled back through the window.

Swearing drifted down to Shelley.

"Shit, Dude," Stan moaned without attempting to keep his voice down. "My hand got all fucked up. There are splinters. Fuck!"

"Be quiet! What the fuck were you thinking?" hissed Kyle. Shelley had thought something similar.

"My hand's bleeding," Stan complained lamely. Kyle instructed his friend to follow him to the bathroom.

Meanwhile down below, Shelley emerged from her hiding spot. Not sure why she hadn't yet revealed herself to her brother and his friend, Shelley ascended the ladder. When she reached the top she noticed a broken rung with blood smeared on the jagged bits of wood. She cringed at the sight, lifting herself bodily through the window. She landed with a soft thud on Kyle's bedroom floor. She waited, listening to the water running down the hall. Neither Stan nor Kyle said a word.

Picking herself up, Shelley tiptoed towards the closet. She paused with her hand on the door handle. The water shut off, and she heard footsteps coming back towards the room. Closing the closet door, Shelley watched through a small sliver of light as the boys reentered.

~

"Shit, Dude," Stan moaned, staring at his hand. Kyle had wrapped a heavy bandage around his palm to stop the bleeding. Stan found it difficult to move his fingers; they were stuffed too close together. His eyes a little unfocused, he picked at the gauze. Kyle batted him in the head.

"Leave it alone," Kyle warned. He went to the window and shut it, bolting the top. Crossing the room, he opened his top dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of pajamas. Kyle chucked them in Stan's direction. "Here."

Stan blinked at the clothing. It took him a moment to understand what Kyle was implying.

"We can't sleep now," Stan said, getting to his feet and wobbling off balance. Kyle grabbed a hold of his wrist and pushed him back towards the bed.

"Stan, you're drunk. Why? I have no fucking clue, but you can just put those on and get in bed. It's fucking midnight," Kyle growled the last part under his breath. Stan stared glumly down at the pajamas. He glanced up at Kyle.

"Are you mad at me?" Stan whispered. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"Dude, what do you think?"

Stan stood up and threw his arms around the other boy's neck. The two nearly toppled into Kyle's desk. Kyle cursed, but didn't move to extricate himself from his friend's hold.

"I don't want you to be mad at me," Stan sniffed. Kyle sighed and pushed Stan away from him.

"I won't be mad if you hurry up and get ready for bed," Kyle grabbed a book from his desk and crawled under his bedcovers. He opened the book to the middle and began skimming the page, waiting for Stan to join him. Stan watched his friend, frowning.

"We can't sleep now, Dude," Stan said in an urgent hiss. He stumbled to the bed and fell to a kneeling position beside it. Kyle raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Dude, we got to run away!"

Kyle gave Stan a searching look. He closed the book he held.

"Why?" Kyle said slowly, indulging in Stan's drunken antics.

""Cause we have to get away from this shitty place, Dude. It's going to only get worse when we're older!" Stan was on his feet with his fists clenched. Kyle leaned away from him.

"Dude, what's going to get worse?" Kyle sat up in bed, reaching out for Stan's good hand.

Stan swayed on his feet.

"Everything…," he sniffed, ducking his head as he teetered back and forth on his feet. "I'll grow up and hate you. But if we leave South Park, maybe we can keep that from happening."

Kyle stood up and took hold of both of Stan's arms.

"Dude, you aren't going to hate me. Why would you think that?" Kyle asked, tilting his head to the side, trying to peer into Stan's hidden face.

"My dad…he's an idiot," Stan began, "b-but what if it's true?" Stan's head snapped up and his eyes still unfocused. "What if I grow up and start seeing more shitty things? What if we stop being friends? I don't know if I can do that again. Life seems so much shittier without you in it, Dude."

Kyle stared at Stan, searching his face.

"Stan...."

"I don't want to grow up," Stan murmured, resting his head on Kyle's shoulder. "Can't we stay like this forever?"

"No," Kyle said calmly. Stan frowned.

"I want to," Stan insisted. "I want to get away from South Park. And my dad. And cooties. And everything."

Kyle moved to sit on the bed. Stan followed him; he slipped his hand into Kyle's and the two sat staring at the opposite wall.

"You can't," Kyle sighed.

"Why are you arguing with me?" Stan challenged, his words slurring.

Kyle narrowed his eyes. "I'm not arguing, I'm telling your drunken ass that you're being stupid and self-pitying. You need to stop it, Stan. Moaning over things that haven't happened yet is a very pointless thing to do."

Stan let go of Kyle's hand.

"This is important!"

"No, it's not! If you would just put on your pajamas and get to bed, you'll sleep off this funk and feel better in the morning!" Kyle shuffled his way back up to his pillow and lay down. Stan glared at him. Kyle turned to face the wall.

For a moment neither boy spoke, then Stan mumbled, "My dad took me hunting this morning. Out of nowhere, he just woke me up and dragged me to the mountains. Uncle Jimbo and Ned came too."

Kyle rolled over. His brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"What?"

Stan rubbed at his eyes.

"He knows about us," Stan stated. Kyle sat up.

"What?"

Stan flopped over on his side, resting his head upon Kyle's pillow. The redhead propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at Stan.

"Dude, you're joking, right?" Kyle pressed. He suddenly seemed wide awake.

"He kept saying…kept saying I didn't understand anything. That…if I liked you now, I probably won't when I'm older. I can't know now if I like you…more than a friend," Stan mumbled into the pillow, his voice faltering. "Except…I can know if I like Wendy."

Kyle listened, glaring at the book in his lap. He shook his head. Stan sighed and curled into a ball.

"That's so stupid," Kyle finally said in a level tone.

"But…it feels sort of true," Stan said, his voice shaking. "I don't know what it is I feel for you. I don't understand. Maybe…maybe it's wrong?"

Kyle rubbed at his forehead.

"Stan, you're drunk, and I'm tired. I don't want to deal with this now," he snapped.

Stan pressed his eyes closed. "Maybe what I feel for you isn't really real. Like maybe…maybe because of this whole cootie thing, I only thought I liked you…."

Kyle's book came down hard on Stan's shoulder. The black haired boy gave a strangled yelp and leapt away from his friend. Kyle raised the book again, preparing for another swing. Stan raised his arms to protect himself.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

Kyle got out of bed.

"Listen to me, Stan," Kyle began slowly. "Don't start this bullshit. You know and I know you really don't believe any of what you're saying."

Stan backed away from Kyle. "What?"

"Stan, the other day you said you wanted to just be with me…and only me. We said we'd live in a big house together when we're older. You don't want to grow up and do that now?" Kyle asked, peering closely at Stan's face. Stan shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course I do," he whispered, looking to the side. "I want to do that. It would be great."

Kyle returned to the bed and leaned back against his headboard. "Then why are you questioning yourself? Don't you know how you feel?"

Stan blinked, trying to sort out Kyle's question. Kyle sighed and tried to elaborate.

"Stan, how do you really feel? How do feel about me, right now? Forget everything else and just answer me that," Kyle instructed. Stan gnawed at his lower lip, thinking hard. He felt dizzy and his stomach gurgled in protest to all the alcohol.

"Well, like yesterday," Stan started slowly, "It felt good to be with you."

"Okay."

"And…and I don't feel as…," Stan paused, rubbing at his chest. "I don't feel so achy. I felt achy when I wasn't around you. But now that I'm here, I feel like something heavy has been taken off my chest. I feel that every time I'm with you."

Kyle rubbed the back of his neck, blushing.

"Er — so — do you like-like me?" Kyle pressed, trying to look anywhere but his friend. Stan stared at his bandaged hand.

"I think so," he mumbled.

"That's not an answer, Stan," Kyle retorted. Stan looked up; Kyle was glaring at him again. He had his arms crossed against his chest. Even in his Terrance and Phillip pajamas, the redheaded boy looked intimidating. Stan took a step back.

"Tell me what you really feel," Kyle urged again.

Stan opened his mouth and closed it. He couldn't think straight with the alcohol buzzing through his brain. He wasn't sure what Kyle wanted to hear. Stan tried to rack his brain for the right answer. Then he stopped. Trying to find an answer Kyle wanted to hear wasn't the same as just answering the question, was it? Stan took a step towards his friend, opening his mouth to speak once more. He grappled with his silence, not sure where we wanted to start his answer. Kyle looked at him pityingly, sighing as he traced his fingers over the spine of the book he held in his lap.

Then as if struck by a sudden idea, Kyle threw the book away and stood. He faced Stan, who continued to teeter on his feet. Kyle placed himself inches from Stan's body. Slipping out his hand, Kyle placed it in Stan's own. Tightening his grip, Kyle stared at their clasped hands. Stan felt Kyle's fingers shake within his own.

"How about I tell you what I feel?" Kyle asked quietly.

"Okay."

Kyle took a deep breath and let it out. Stan could smell the scent of mint and fluoride.

"Right now, I feel angry…at you," Kyle explained. Stan jerked back instinctively, but Kyle held on to his hand. He continued, "I feel angry because you're confusing me. See, yesterday, I was quite happy to think that we might like each other and only each other more than anyone else. I don't understand if…if that means something more, but why should I care? If it makes me happy to do this…." Kyle lifted the hand holding Stan's. "Then why should I complain about it?"

"What if that changes though?" Stan pressed, his voice cracking. Kyle took hold of Stan's injured hand too.

"Then it changes," Kyle stated.

Stan shook his head. "I don't want it to."

"Neither do I, Stan!" Kyle snapped, his brows narrowed. "By why the hell are we making a big deal out of what's to happen in the future! If right fucking now I want to hold your goddamn hand, then no one's going to fucking stop me!"

Dropping Stan's hands, Kyle grabbed a hold of the boy's brown jacket front.

"Look, Stan, I feel what I feel, okay? And you feel what you feel. No one is going to tell me I feel differently about my best friend. Only I know how I feel about you. So right now I'm pissed off. But I can feel happier. I can feel sad too. I can fucking cry my eyes out over something careless you said or did. I can laugh at the moronic, gross shit you show me. And I can feel proud of a secret you tell only me. That's how I'll feel."

Kyle's fingernails dug into the fabric of Stan's coat. His breath came out quickly and his eyes stayed locked on a spot some inches below Stan's neck line. He seemed suddenly far away in thought, but then his face relaxed.

"I'm angry at you, Stan. That' how I feel in this moment. But in the future, that's going to change, and I'm fine with it. I'll feel what I feel."

Stan found his voice.

"I know how I feel…." He stepped forward and kissed the other boy. Kyle's eyes grew round, and he drew back quickly, but a smile lingered on his lips.

"That's good."

Stan closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"And that's how you feel, Dude?"

"Totally."

"Then don't let anyone say you can feel differently. Not now or ever. And if it changes when we're old and boring and stupid, it changes. Okay?"

Stan leaned forward and pecked another kiss on Kyle's lips. His stomach did a pleasant flip-flop. Kyle smiled, distracting himself by fiddling with the hem of his pajama top. He cleared his throat several times as if wanting to speak. Stan took another step closer.

"Yeah," Stan agreed. Kyle blushed and turned to scramble back in bed. Stan watched him drowsily, smiling like an idiot. Eventually, Kyle snapped at him to get on his own pajamas. Stan obliged, struggling into the pair that were slightly too small. His ankles and wrists poked out awkwardly a couple of inches.

Once he had settled in next to Kyle, Stan turned on his side and found Kyle's hand.

"I'm sorry I made you angry," Stan whispered. Kyle had his eyes closed.

"It's okay," Kyle replied. He then opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. "Hey, Stan, can I ask you something?"

Stan was starting to drift off to sleep with his face pressed into Kyle's shoulder.

"Hmm?" he mumbled.

"Why were you drinking?"

Stan gritted his teeth. His heart raced as he felt Kyle's eyes upon him.

"What?"

"Sorry, that's not what I meant," Kyle corrected. "Why did you just start drinking all of a sudden? How did you even get the alcohol?"

Stan rubbed at his eyes.

"I don't know…. I just sort of started doing it."

"Dude."

Stan bit his lip and turned away from Kyle. The redhead punched his friend in the shoulder. The two boys stared at one another; Stan nervously twiddling his fingers and Kyle furrowing his brow in dissatisfaction.

"Er…it sort of helped me feel better," Stan confessed. He felt dizzy again even though he was lying down. "Everything was starting to get too shitty, so I just…had a drink. It makes me feel better."

Kyle lay on his back, glaring at the ceiling.

"This isn't the first time you've done this," Kyle stated, his voice sounding strained. He wasn't asking Stan a question.

Stan cast his eyes to the side. "No, it isn't. I keep a bottle under my bed…when I need it."

Kyle picked at a loose string in his bed sheet.

"Do you need it when you talk to me? I mean, even before this moment?"

Stan's eyes stung.

"Sometimes…."

Kyle nodded to himself. "I see."

"I'm sorry…Kyle…sometimes…things seem so shitty —"

"And rather than dealing with these shitty things, you try to make it all go away with booze?" Kyle breathed, his voice forced calm. Stan covered his face with both hands.

"Yes."

"Don't do that!" Kyle hissed, turning to glare at Stan.

Sitting up, Stan snapped, "It's not that easy! Dude, you - you don't know what it's like to have to deal with my dad and his bullshit! You weren't there with me this morning! You don't know what it's like to have Shelley beating the shit out of you just 'cause you looked at her funny. Tearing up anything you like just to see you c-cry. You don't know what it's like to want the world to work one way, but then it fucks you over. And it's not just my family. Everything's so dull and stupid. It's hard to like anything." He paused, breathing heavily out of his nose. "Plus, your movies are stupid, and I hate your music. And I hate that you get sick all the goddamn time…and…and…."

Stan was shaking his fists towards the ceiling, but losing steam, he dropped them to his sides. He fell back onto his pillow, hating himself for the outburst. He rarely ever yelled at his friend in such a bitter way. Kyle lay quietly beside him, his face an impassive mask; his eyes bloodshot.

"So…you drink when you can't handle things. Wonderful, Stan," Kyle whispered.

"Fuck you," Stan retorted.

"No, fuck you!" Kyle sat up on his knees. He crawled to the end of the bed and pointed at the window. Stan could see the wooden ladder, leaning outside.

"I nearly watched you fall, asshole! For a minute, I thought I had a heart attack. The thought of you dead, your head busted on the ground, scared me shitless. You're my best friend. To lose you…I…I…like losing…well…losing something really fucking important, okay?"

Kyle stumbled off the bed and stomped to Stan's end, standing over him. He pointed a warning finger at his friend.

"And why did you almost fall? You were drunk! The only reason you're over here is because you're drunk and couldn't handle the shit your dad is saying to you!" Kyle roared.

Stan tried to get to his feet too, but the room spun, and he had to sit down again.

"Shut up," he murmured.

"No." Kyle raised his fists as if ready to punch.

Stan blinked wearily up at Kyle. For a moment he wanted to chew Kyle out. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. He wanted to smash Kyle's stupid face into the carpet. He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

"Well, aren't you going to yell at me some more?" Stan sighed. Kyle lowered his arms.

"I can't really think of anything else," Kyle confessed. "I'm really tired, Dude." Kyle's voice sounded flat, nothing near the temper he'd been showing a few seconds earlier. Stan didn't know how to respond.

"Sometimes…I just want to hit you," Kyle finally said.

"Same here," Stan sighed.

Kyle sniffed. He pulled himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at Stan.

"But I don't want to hit you. That wouldn't solve anything. It'd only make me feel better for the moment, but you'd have a black eye, and I'd have a sore hand. In the end, we'd still be arguing with each other," Kyle explained. Stan shrugged in agreement.

"What's your point?" Stan slurred, squinting up at Kyle.

"My point is, Stan, I might think hitting you would make this situation better, but it only masks the bigger problem temporarily. Though believe me, I really think hitting you would be very worthwhile. However, just like your drinking, it's only a small fix. Dude, you can't hide from everything that makes you unhappy or is shitty. How is that even living? Life sucks a lot of the time, Dude! Hell, this town sucks ass all the time! Are you drunk all the time then?"

Stan didn't answer. He tried to count the times he'd taken a drink in the last couple of days. He'd already gone through a whole bottle. The cootie fiasco had really taken it out of him. Putting his head in his hands, Stan stared at the ground. He saw Kyle's feet out of the corner of his eye. He felt the bed sink beside him as Kyle sat down.

"If things are really upsetting you, Dude," Kyle said softly. "You can tell me. I thought we were those kinds of friends. We're going to be with only each other for as long as possible, right? That's what we said we'd try. So, we can tell each other anything, Dude."

"You don't understand," Stan moaned. He rested his head against Kyle's shoulder. "I try to explain how it is, but you can't see."

"I might not understand, but you can still tell me anything. I'll try to help when you ask…but if you just want to vent, I'll just listen," Kyle offered, taking Stan's injured hand in his own.

Stan chuckled, closing his eyes. "You can't just hear a problem and not do anything. That's not the Kyle Broflovski I know."

Kyle frowned. "I'll try. I want to try."

Stan rubbed at his nose. He pressed himself closer to his friend.

"You make me want to be a better person, Kyle," Stan confessed. He blinked back tears. "But sometimes I'm afraid to do the kind of things you do. Talk up and face things…. What if I fail and you hate me?"

Kyle let out a slow breath. "I could never really hate you, Stan."

"I'm afraid to change."

"Everyone's afraid of change. I am too. I don't like the idea of becoming a stupid adult who doesn't care about anything," Kyle whispered, petting Stan's hair and smoothing it down. "But I know with you by my side, I'll never give up. If I care about something or want to change something in the world, I'll have you there to help me. 'Cause you make me a better person too."

Stan's eyes blurred. He sat up and smiled at Kyle.

"Really?"

"Yeah, Dude, totally."

Stan hugged him. Kyle fell backwards onto the bed, his hat falling off. He laughed, patting Stan's head.

"I love you, Kyle," Stan hiccupped, rubbing his wet eyes across Kyle's pajama sleeve. Kyle snorted and pushed the other boy off of him.

"Dude, tell me that tomorrow, when you're sober."

"Okay."

Kyle lay back down and covered himself with blankets. Stan snuggled down beside him.

"I promise I'll be better," Stan proclaimed, he threw an arm around Kyle, pulling him closer. Kyle blinked sleepily.

"We'll both try to be better friends to each other," he said, closing his eyes.

"Yeah." Stan buried his face in Kyle's unruly red hair.

"And, Stan?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too, okay?"

Stan smiled against Kyle's curls, his blush rivaling their shade.

Not more than five minutes later, the two were fast asleep.

~

The clock read 1:45 by the time Shelley made it home. She had waited for her brother and his little friend to fall asleep, arm in arm. Slowly she'd snuck from her hiding spot and out of the room. She tiptoed her way through the second landing, pausing to hold her breath as she watched Kyle's little brother Ike walk to the bathroom. When the boy had shut the door, she scampered down the stairs and through the front door, locking it behind her. She bolted for her house, tearing through backyards and over snowy hedges.

Once back in her own room, she shut the door and stripped off her winter coat. She stood in the middle of the room, staring at her bed. Slowly, she approached it and slipped her hand beneath the soft, cool fabric of her pillow. Pulling out a slightly battered, purple notebook, she took it in her arms and scurried to sit tucked in a corner on the other side of her bed. She pressed her back against the wall, keeping her head low as if worried one of her parents would walk through the door and see her hiding behind her bed. She reached under her comforter and took out a small flashlight. She flicked it on and pointed the beam of light at her purple notebook.

Taking in an unsteady breath, Shelly brushed her fingertips over the spine of the book. She traced the cover made of velvet. An image of a rose lay etched upon its surface. Slowly, Shelley opened the notebook to reveal a blank page. In fact all the pages were blank except for the first one. Tucked beside the first page was a playbill to a musical titled Wicked. Pressed beneath the playbill rested a single white daisy. Its petals browned at the edges, wrinkling and dangling from its stem. Shelley touched a petal, feeling the cracked and brittle texture flake beneath her finger. It had once been so vibrant.

She remembered that the night had been warm. Standing in line for the musical had been tiresome; her feet ached in the heels her mother had bought her for the special occasion. She had pulled her right foot out of its shoe, leaning back to rub it. She rotated her ankle, trying to remove the stiffness. She then replaced her foot in its shoe and repeated the same act only with the left foot. As she slipped that shoe back onto her foot, the line began to move forward. The chubby, short boy in front of her nervously glanced over his shoulder. He held out a hesitant hand, and she took it. They moved up in line.

When they finally came to a halt, Shelley dropped the boy's hand and turned to the glass front of a costume shop. She self-consciously straightened the barrettes in her mousey brown hair. She tugged at her headgear, sneering at her own reflection. She smoothed down her pink sweater and once more pulled at the wiry frame sticking out of her mouth.

"You look pretty, Shelley," said the cubby boy. Despite the warmth of the night, the boy's cheeks looked rosy as if pinched by cold. Shelley cast her eyes over him and huffed.

"Whatever," she mumbled.

"I like your hair," he added. Smiling, he nervously checked that his purple, clip-on bowtie remained in place. Shelley rolled her eyes once more. She turned back to the glass.

"You're too nice, Larry," she said, staring at both their reflections.

Larry yanked down his suit jacket, trying to cover his wide stomach. He frowned down at his small feet.

"But that's what I think," he insisted. "I think you're the prettiest girl I've ever met."

Shelley forced a laugh, but her face still flushed scarlet. No boys her own age had ever called her pretty.

Larry fidgeted with his hands. The line began to move again, and the boy reached out to take Shelley's hand. The girl smiled, placing her hand in his.

"You're such a dork, Larry," she teased, as he led her to the ticket kiosk.

Once they'd received their tickets, the two scurried into the lobby, buffeted back and forth by the adults in the crowd. Finding a space to stand next to the wall, the two waited for the doors to the theater to open.

Larry fiddled with his program, rolling it up and then unfurling it. He creased the edges and dog-eared the corners. Shelley raised an eyebrow.

"What's wrong, Larry?"

He shuffled his feet and began to fold his program in two. Shelley patted Larry on the shoulder. He smiled at her.

"I really like you a lot, Shelley," he confessed. The two stepped back to let a group of adults through. When they'd move back, Larry added, "No one's ever been so nice to me."

"You just need to learn not to take people's bullshit, Larry," Shelley advised, "That way people will show you respect."

Larry nodded, hanging on her every word. He offered her his hand again, and she took it.

"I will, Shelley," he promised. "I'll be strong and not let anyone push me around. You'll see. I'll be just like you."

Shelley frowned. "You don't want to be like me, Larry."

"Why not? You're so cool. You won't let anyone boss you," he said in awe. An usher appeared at a set of wide, wooden doors. He pushed them open, locking each door in place against a stopper on the floor. The crowd started forming a slow line into the theater.

"Come on, Larry," Shelley commanded, tugging at the boy's hand and leading him along with the crowd. Larry followed obediently.

When they had found their seats, Larry began searching inside his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small purple notebook covered in velvet. He handed it to the girl.

"What's this?" Shelley asked, flipping through the empty pages.

"A notebook for you," Larry said, pointing out the obvious.

Shelley snorted with laughter. "I can see that, but why did you get me a notebook?"

"So you have a place to keep all the songs I write you," he stated simply. "I'm going to write you lots and lots more."

Shelley looked up at Larry. His chubby face split into a smile. He took out a pen from his jacket pocket and leaned over Shelley's armrest. Printing in quick, messy letters, the boy wrote the lines of a short song that had already grown familiar to Shelley. When he'd finished, Larry sat back and smiled sheepishly, waiting for her response.

Shelley read the words as Larry half sung them out loud.

"You make me come out of my shell, Shelley."

Shelley blinked, her eyes blurring for a moment. Larry didn't notice her quickly wipe away a tear. Instead, he babbled on about the types of songs he wanted to write for her. One for her silly headgear that made her so unique, he explained. And one for her pretty hair and one for her brown eyes and one for the crinkles that appeared around her cheeks when she smiled. He told her how he wanted to write a song about her fighting dragons and beating up zombies for him. She laughed at that one, but still found it difficult to keep her eyes dry. She made a great show of searching in her little golden purse for chapstick to avoid looking Larry in the eye.

"I want to write so many songs, Shelley. Maybe I'll be a song writer when I'm older!" Larry said, his face beaming with delight. Shelley nodded, her throat too tight for words.

"You know, Shelley," Larry whispered from the side of his mouth, just as the lights in the theater dimmed. "I'll dedicate all the songs to you."

"Why would you do that?" Shelley managed to gasp out. Larry paused and turned to look at the girl, but she kept her face hidden, still scrounging through her tiny purse.

"Well," Larry murmured, his face growing rosier as he blushed, "you make me…you make me want to be better. I've never thought I could do much, until you believed that I could. No one's stood up for me before…and, well…yeah…um, I just want to prove to you that I can be better."

Shelley drew in a deep breath.

"You don't have to do that for me, Larry."

"I want to," Larry confessed, taking her hand. "You make me want to be a better person."

~

Shelley lay upon the floor sobbing. She tucked the purple notebook closer to her chest, hugging it until the corners dug into her palms. Beside her a scrap of newspaper she'd taken from inside her purple notebook lay open to an obituary. Printed next to it appeared a black and white photograph of a round-faced, rosy-cheeked young boy grinning sheepishly up at the reader.

Staring up at the ceiling, Shelley allowed her tears to roll down the sides of her temples. They pooled in her hair, dampening the strands and the carpet beneath her. She cried, her breaths coming out in racking sobs. She covered her mouth, hoping her parents wouldn't hear, but the more she tried to force the boy's smiling face from her mind, the harder the tears came. Eventually, her body succumbed to sleep.

As she slept, Shelley dreamt first of the chubby, rosy-cheeked boy. He walked before her, a ukulele in one hand and in his other, her hand. He tugged her along a bright, snowy path, so bright that Shelley couldn't make out the world around her. Swinging the ukulele at intervals, the boy hummed to himself a tune Shelley recognized. She tried to sing along, but her mouth seemed too heavy to open. Instead, she contented herself to smiling at the back of the boy's head and his silly bowl-cut hairstyle. As she tried to increase her speed to see the boy's face, he only walked faster. Several times she tried to drag her heels into the ground, to bring the boy to a halt, but every time he gave a mighty tug, and she continued forward. The snowy path continued to remain light and cheerful.

Suddenly, a new figure, small in the distance, appeared before Shelley and the blond boy. Like a shot, the new figure darted off, racing down the illuminated path. The boy beside Shelley dropped her hand and sprinted after the stranger. He lost his ukulele. Shelley panicked and bolted after the boy. They ran for what seemed like ages with nothing of the scenery around them changing. Neither Shelley nor the boy appeared to have enough speed to catch the new figure. Yet, as Shelley watched the stranger in the distance turn a corner, she caught a glimpse of a vibrant green hat.

Shelley and the boy eventually turned the corner themselves, only to see the figure several yards ahead of them turn a new corner. Shelley took off with a renewed burst of energy, keeping up with her companion now. They turned the new corner together. However, they did not find the figure rushing on ahead of them. Instead, they found a dead end.

The boy beside Shelley slumped to his knees, covering his face with his hands. Shelley dropped to his side, throwing her arms around him. The boy seemed so much smaller now that Shelley was at his own level.

He began to cry, and Shelley made shushing noises, although in the strange world and its bright light, no sounds were heard. The boy buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed into her neck. She petted his hair and told him everything would be fine. They would find the stranger who'd run away from them. They'd find them. Soon.

Shelley froze. The hair she'd been petting was no longer blond or cut neatly around the boy's face. It had grown dark and shaggy. The boy was thinner too.

Crawling backwards, Shelley's eyes widened to see she no longer held the boy she had thought was Larry.

Instead her little brother gazed with red-rimmed eyes back at her. He hugged himself and continued to sniffle. Shelley panicked. Where had Larry gone?

On her feet, she glanced to her left and then to her right. Nothing but the clear, snowy path presented itself to her. She took off at a jog away from the dead end, leaving her little brother behind. Yet, when she turned the corner to leave the dead end, all she found was Stan kneeling before her. She double backed and tried again. But once more she only found Stan sitting hunched upon the ground, his arms still tightly wound around his chest.

She approached him. He looked up at her, his blue eyes still filled with tears.

"I can't find him," Stan whispered. He struggled to his feet and threw his arms around Shelley's waist. "I can't find him."

Shelley nodded. "I can't find him either."

"I don't know what to do," Stan cried. Shelley petted his head once again. She hushed him.

"He'll show up eventually," she reassured, not even knowing if she were speaking the truth.

"You think so?"

"Yes."

Just then there was a knock, a loud and clear rapping of small knuckles upon a wooden surface. Shelley pulled away from Stan, who gave a small moan, but remained where he stood.

Shelley walked towards the white wall that she had mistaken for a snowy dead end. She reached forward and found a doorknob. With a small tug, she pulled open a wooden door that looked not unlike her front door back at home. On the other side stood another boy with bright green eyes, red curly hair, and a silly lime colored hat. He stared warily up at the girl. Shelley sighed and took a step back from the door.

"Stan," she said in a soft voice, "Kyle's here to play with you."

~

Shelley woke early in the morning still lying on the ground beside her bed. Her tears had dried, and the sun shone warm and yellow in her room. She got to her feet and tucked the purple notebook beneath her pillow. She stood, staring out the window, watching little flakes of snow try in vain to accumulate on her windowsill. She walked about her room grabbing clothes, robe, and brush. As she opened her door and stepped out into the hall, she glanced over her shoulder at her pillow. She sniffed and rubbed her face, trying to wake herself up.

Drawing the door closed behind her, Shelley headed for the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Chapter Eight: Truth Be Told

The sun came streaming in through the window to rest upon the two sleeping figures curled side by side. Stan stirred first as the light from the sun traveled across the bed to warm his face. He blinked at the light, cringing from the onslaught of a pounding headache. He buried himself deeper under the covers, feeling Kyle roll over onto his back. For a moment, Stan remained still, wondering if it were possible to stay curled up under these blankets forever. The bedroom outside his little makeshift cocoon felt too cold for his liking. Scooting his body closer to his friend, Stan nuzzled his head into the crook of Kyle's arm. Like most sleepovers Stan had shared with Kyle, the redhead lay sprawled out, his legs tangled within the sheets and covers. He had flung his arms out and over his head. Stan was surprised Kyle hadn't kicked or punched him on accident during the night.

A small buzzing echoed through the room, and Kyle shot up out of bed. He slammed his fist down on his alarm and stared at the clock. It was Monday.

Kyle sighed and slumped back down in bed. Stan emerged from the blankets.

"What time is it?" Stan whispered. Kyle drew his feet under the covers.

"Too early," Kyle moaned.

Stan nodded. It was a good enough answer for him.

Five minutes later the alarm went off again. This time Kyle turned it off and extricated himself from the blankets. Stan frowned. He still wasn't ready to leave the warmth of Kyle's bed.

"We should just skip school today," Stan suggested, rolling over to watch Kyle pick out a clean pair of jeans for the day.

"I'm not skipping school, Stan, and neither are you," Kyle stated, as if his word ended the conversation. Stan sighed, tugging the blanket over his head. He had just started drifting back to sleep when Kyle yanked all the covers off his bed. Stan shivered, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Standing fully dressed now, Kyle tossed Stan's jeans and t-shirt at him. He then left the room to brush his teeth. Stan slowly stretched his arms over his head, yawning up at the ceiling. He kept his eyes closed, hating the pounding light from the morning sun. He really just wanted to stay in bed all day. Why was school important again?

Kyle returned and stood glaring at Stan until the boy got up and changed. As Stan hopped around, trying to get his right leg into his jeans, Kyle moved to make his bed, picking up the covers and blankets from the ground. Suddenly he froze, staring out the window. Stan stumbled to his side, buttoning up his fly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, peering out the window too. No one was in the backyard.

"Stan, where did you find this ladder?"

Stan rubbed his head, thinking back to the blurry events of the previous night. He glanced at his bandaged hand and noted bloodstains on a broken rung of the wooden ladder. In the light of day, Stan could see that the ladder had been painted blue. However, the paint proved so old that chips flaked from its surface. Stan felt his chest constrict as he thought about how he had climbed such a rickety piece of equipment in the dead of night while drunk off his ass.

"Uh…it was in the bushes." He pointed to the left side of the yard, next to the fence. "I found it lying over there. I thought it was your dad's."

Kyle shook his head, his eyes locked on the wooden ladder.

"My dad's ladder is made of metal. It didn't even cross my mind last night that…," Kyle trailed off, moving towards his window. He threw it open and leaned out over the sill to examine the ladder.

Stan shook with the sudden winter air wafting through the window. He knelt and picked up his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. When he'd donned his brown coat, he moved to stand next to Kyle.

"So, whose ladder is this?" Stan asked, examining the intact rungs and noticing the obvious wear of constant climbing and cold weather exposure.

Kyle didn't reply. Instead he continued to look at the ladder from every angle. A new fervor appeared to have taken hold of him. His eyes shone with a new almost frightening determination. It was as if he were merely seconds away from cracking some unfathomable, mathematical code.

Backing away from the window, Kyle let out a hysteric laugh. He wrapped his arms around his chest and laughed until he couldn't breathe. Stumbling to his desk, Kyle threw himself into his chair, still gasping for air as he giggled uncontrollably. Stan remained near the window, slightly frightened by his friend's sudden lapse of sanity.

When Kyle finally collected himself, he swiveled about in his desk chair to face Stan.

"Uh…you okay, Dude?" Stan whispered, as if any loud noises might trigger more of Kyle's crazy laughter.

Beaming from ear to ear, Kyle replied, "Perfectly fine, Stan. In fact I feel wonderful. Healthy."

Kyle pushed himself to his feet. Without another word, he dashed from his bedroom. Stan, startled by the behavior, stumbled after him. Charging into the bathroom, Kyle jumped to the sink and flicked on the faucet. Hot water gushed out and, rolling up his sleeve, Kyle stuck his arm with the cootie shot painted on it under the stream. With his nails he scrubbed at the mark, peeling the paint away in huge chunks. Stan watched from the door, his mouth hanging open. As the last bit of paint dissolved under the water, Kyle slammed his fist down on the tap. He dried off his arm and turned to smile at Stan.

"I knew I was right all along," he stated simply. Stan continued to stare as if he'd been struck with a blunt object.

"What?"

Kyle took Stan's hand. "Here, look at this."

Leading Stan back into his room, Kyle took him back to the window. He guided Stan's hand to feel the right side of the ladder. About two rungs down from the one Stan had broken the previous night was etched two large letters. Running his fingers over the letters Stan's eyes grew wide with recognition. He craned his neck out, tilting it at an angle to read the initials.

E. C.

Stan stepped back and glanced at Kyle. The redhead had lost any form of laughter now. Instead it had been replaced with grim satisfaction.

"I should have known all along," Kyle muttered. "Cartman and his stupid cootie shots are all a scam."

Stan looked over his shoulder at the ladder.

"Uh, how do you figure?"

Kyle pointed at the window. "He must have snuck into my room and made me sick. I know he did! He's always fucking with me! He climbed in here and totally did something to me to make it look like I had cooties!"

Stan wasn't reassured.

"I don't really follow…."

Kyle stepped forward and grabbed Stan's shoulders.

"Dude, he gave me AIDS that one time. What makes you think he wouldn't consider breaking into my room in the dead of night to fuck with my health?" Kyle prompted.

Stan thought for a moment. He tried to reconstruct last Thursday. Kyle's vomiting, his fever, and his weakness had all been a result of the cooties, right? Bebe had spit in his mouth which had made the symptoms a hundred times worse than a simple kiss on the cheek or touch of the hand.

Closing his eyes, Stan tried to recall everything about that day. Shelley had given him money for the cootie shot, Cartman bragged about a new briefcase for his 'doctor' supplies, Butters and Kenny had told Stan Kyle was ill, and Stan had skipped school to be with his friend. Could Cartman have somehow made Kyle sick during that time?

"But how do you explain getting better right after I gave you the cootie shot? And what about Shelley touching you? You got all itchy!" Stan countered. Kyle's face fell. He bit his lip, casting his eyes to the side.

"There has to be an explanation, Dude," Kyle insisted. "Last night before you showed up, Mom was having her friends over. So, I just rubbed off part of the cootie shot to see if I'd get sick, and nothing happened!" Kyle looked elated, but Stan's face fell.

"Why would you do that?" Stan whispered, drawing closer to Kyle. He touched his friend's elbow. "What if you got sick?"

"But I didn't!" Kyle opened his arms wide as if to emphasize the point. Stan frowned.

"Maybe…maybe older women don't hurt us. Like we're immune to moms or something," Stan rationalized. Kyle dropped his arms.

"Stan, I really think Cartman just tricked us…Shelley too."

Stan shook his head. Kyle narrowed his eyes.

"Look, Stan, how do you explain Cartman's ladder outside my house? Or how I don't get cooties around only some girls and not others?" Kyle urged.

"Not girls…moms, Kyle. There's a big difference," Stan corrected. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"No there isn't. Not when it comes to medical stuff usually," Kyle explained. He turned on his heel and marched to his desk. He grabbed his book bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Stan started. "What are you doing?"

"Going to go look for Fatass. I'll make him tell me what he's been up to. And if he doesn't, I'll beat the shit out of him until he tells me," Kyle replied in a level tone. Stan sighed. An overreacting Kyle is not something Stan wanted to deal with so early on a Monday morning with a pounding hangover.

Not waiting for Stan's reply, Kyle made for his bedroom door. Stan jumped and placed himself in his way.

"Move, Stan," Kyle commanded. Stan shook his head.

"Dude, do you really think Cartman will tell the truth?" Stan asked.

"Of course not, but didn't you hear me? I'm going to beat the shit out of him. It's a rare opportunity that I wholeheartedly enjoy indulging in," Kyle explained without missing a beat. Stan rubbed at his eyes, trying to figure out a better course of action.

"Dude, you shouldn't just do that…."

"Why the hell not?"

"First off, Dude, you haven't really proven cooties don't exist. Just that your mom's friends apparently don't have them," Stan explained, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets.

Kyle gave Stan a deadpanned look.

"Stan, you know we've been tricked one way or another. I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

He shoved past Stan and headed towards the door. Panicking, Stan flung his arms around Kyle's waist and held him still. Kyle had one hand on the doorknob.

"Really, Stan?"

"Please, Kyle," Stan mumbled into his friend's green hat. "Just let me give you another cootie shot before you go outside. It might actually keep you from getting sick."

"No." Kyle started twisting back and forth, trying to break Stan's grasp.

"Please!"

"No, Stan. I'm going to prove once and for all that I'm right and that fat bastard is wrong!"

Kyle gave a mighty tug and both boys toppled to the ground. Stan bit his tongue and tears sprung to his eyes. Kyle got rug burns on both his palms. Glaring at his friend, Kyle gave Stan a kick in the leg.

"Do you mind?"

"I don't want you to get sick," Stan moaned feebly.

Letting out a long exasperated sigh and throwing up his arms in the process, Kyle relented. He told Stan to go get his little brother's paint.

"But I'm not putting it on yet," Kyle explained as Stan rushed towards Ike's room.

"What?"

"Just bring it with us. That way if I feel any symptoms coming on you can give me the shot, but I just want to see if they are real." Kyle moved to stand near the stairs. Stan ducked into Ike's room, tiptoeing across the carpet to keep from waking Kyle's little brother. When Stan found the paint and brush, he hurried to return to Kyle's side. Without any more conversation, Kyle bounded down the stairs. Skittering after his friend, Stan prayed Kyle wouldn't do anything stupid.

Missing the bus on their trek to school, Stan and Kyle arrived late to class. They had swung by Stan's house so he could grab his own school supplies and unfinished homework. Kyle scolded him for his lack of responsibility, but Stan only argued that Kyle was the reckless one. Going to school — where there were girls — without a cootie shot was suicide in Stan's mind. He kept trying to sneak painting a dot or circle on his friend's hands when Kyle wasn't looking. Each time, Kyle smacked him in the back of the head and told him to stop. Stan pretended not to hear.

By the time they reached the hall outside of Mr. Garrison's class, Stan had spilled half of Ike's green paint. Kyle rolled his eyes at Stan and ventured into the boys' bathroom to wash the paint smudges off his hands. A bell rang overhead to announce the end of first period. Students flooded the halls.

Stan panicked. Girls were everywhere. He caught sight of Wendy and Bebe at their lockers. Craig and a few of his gang appeared to be pestering the girls about something. Whatever it was, it made Bebe scowl and Wendy bark an insult straight into Craig's face. Clyde joined the argument next. He talked animatedly, swinging his hands about for emphasis. He managed to knock his fist against Bebe's chest, and the girl shoved him down. Then at a sprint, Wendy and Bebe vanished into the crowd.

Clyde got to his feet and made a face at Craig, who laughed at him. The two, followed by Tweek, Jimmy, and Token, headed in the opposite direction that the girls had taken. They paused at a set of lockers and huddled together in conversation, pointing at Red, Annie, and a strange little blonde girl, who seemed familiar to Stan, as they walked past.

Stan lost interest in his classmates as Kyle pushed open the bathroom door. At that moment a couple of fifth grade girls strolled towards the restrooms. Kyle appeared not to notice that any second one might touch him in passing. Throwing caution to the wind, Stan tackled Kyle to the ground and out of the way. The older girls shared skeptical looks as they watched the two boys tussle on the ground. When they'd disappeared into their respective restroom, Stan let Kyle sit up.

"Dude, what the fuck was that for?" Kyle shoved Stan away from him.

"They might have touched you," Stan gasped, rubbing his stomach where Kyle had kicked out at him.

"Jesus, Stan, you didn't have to bulldoze me to the ground." Kyle was back on his feet, wiping off his pants.

"If you'd just let me paint on the shot, I wouldn't have to worry," Stan hissed, drawing close to Kyle.

Snapping his head up, Kyle grabbed a hold of Stan's shirt and dragged the boy out of the noisy hall. They stood at the entrance to the gymnasium.

"Stan, I appreciate that you want to keep me from getting cooties, but I need to see if I actually get them," Kyle explained, smoothing out Stan's brown jacket.

"But…."

Kyle pulled Stan closer and hugged him.

"Trust me."

Blushing, Stan nodded. He smiled, feeling the butterflies take roost in his stomach once more. Kyle appeared not to notice his friend's sudden lapse in coherent thought.

"'Kay," Stan replied simply, grinning like an idiot. Kyle raised an eyebrow, but thought better on commenting.

"Alright, then let's get to class."

The rest of the morning period went by smoothly; however, there had been a few close calls. During their math lesson, Wendy volunteered to pass out the homework. She dropped a few of their worksheets as she tried to avoid Clyde's wandering hand. She had hopped backwards, bumping into Kyle's desk. Stan felt his heart lunge into his throat as both Wendy and Kyle knelt to pick up the papers together. Once or twice Stan feared they'd touched. After class, lunch proved even more hazardous. Stan got in line right after Kyle. Both boys watched as Cartman toted around his briefcase of cootie shots. Strangely, two large sixth grade boys followed him around as if acting as body guards. Distracted by Cartman's company, Kyle had stepped forward in line only to bump into one of the lunch ladies. He apologized, and she patted him on his silly green hat. Stan held his breath hoping that Kyle's ushanka was protection enough from cooties.

Recess finally came, and Kyle hadn't gotten sick. To Kyle this proved his point; however, Stan argued that the only person to actually touch Kyle was, once again, an older woman. For Stan this only proved that older ladies didn't have cooties, but girls did. Kyle, of course, rebutted that belief.

"Cartman told us all girls have cooties. And there's nothing different between that lunch lady and say one of the girls in our class," Kyle argued.

Stan shrugged. "Maybe it's menopause. Older ladies get that."

Kyle's jaw dropped. "What?"

"No, listen, Dude. Maybe older women don't have cooties if they've gone through menopause," Stan contemplated out loud. "I mean, Cartman says it's when God takes away your period. So, maybe He takes away cooties too?"

"That is retarded, Stan."

"But what if that explains why you got all itchy when Shelley touched you! She's had her period," Stan explained.

"Dude, gross. I don't want to talk about your sister's period." Kyle made a face. He glanced over Stan's shoulder. Turning around, Stan caught sight of Cartman and the sixth grade boys from the other day, building his makeshift cootie stand. A group of girls watched warily from the swing sets while Craig and his gang huddled together. Clyde eyed a blonde girl as she walked past. Breaking away from the other girls, Wendy and Bebe started sneaking off towards the other side of the school building, hiding from the playground's view.

"Plus," Kyle spoke up, "I highly doubt any of the girls in our grade have their periods yet. They're too young. They have to be Shelley's age, right?"

"I don't know, Dude. Bebe got boobs before all the other ones," Stan mused. He flushed at the memory.

Kyle shook his head.

"I'm still not buying it."

"Let's go ask her then."

"Hell no, Stan. I'm not asking a girl if she's got her period. That's disgusting."

Stan frowned.

"But it might help us figure out how you get cooties," Stan urged. Kyle made a face. "Well, how else are you going to start figuring things out if you don't ask questions?" Stan added. Kyle glared at him, but turned to storm off in the direction Wendy and Bebe had hidden.

Stan and Kyle found the girls huddled together where more often than not the Goth kids frequented. Today, however, the girls had found the hangout spot empty. Bebe sat on the steps rubbing at her eyes and sniffing hard. Wendy knelt in front of her, trying to staunch the bleeding from a large cut in her friend's knee. Bebe's left stocking was torn almost to her ankle while her skirt was covered in dirt. When Stan and Kyle approached, both Bebe and Wendy started and skittered away from them.

"What do you want?" Wendy challenged. The boys halted.

"What happened to your leg?" Kyle asked, pointing at Bebe. The girl grimaced, still wiping at her eyes.

"Clyde shoved her down," Wendy explained. She placed an arm around the girl's shoulders. Stan and Kyle looked at each other.

"Why did he do that?" asked Kyle.

"'Cause I wouldn't let him k-kiss me!" Bebe snapped. "He j-just pushed me…like it was nothing."

Wendy squeezed her friend's shoulder. Stan stepped forward.

"Don't you like Clyde?"

"What does that matter?" Bebe asked. New tears leaked from her eyes. "He pushed me!"

Kyle frowned. "Why didn't you kiss him?"

"She didn't want to!" Wendy snapped.

"You must have said something to him," Stan insisted. "Clyde's kind of a douche, but he'd never push around girls."

Wendy glared. "I'm sorry that you two are too busy in your own little world to notice all that happens on this playground, but Clyde did push her."

"It's all because of this stupid cootie shot!" Bebe wailed. She shrugged out of Wendy's grasp and marched towards Stan. Jabbing her finger in the boy's chest, she said, "Your stupid fat friend is making the boys crazy! Half of them are terrified of us, and the other half thinks they're goddamn invincible."

"Bebe, do you have your period?" Stan asked bluntly. Both girls stared. Kyle's jaw dropped open.

The next thing Stan knew was that Bebe's knee was in his groin. Wendy stood behind her on the verge of tearing out her own hair. She kept stuttering as if she couldn't quite form the words she needed to call out Stan's tactless stupidity. Kyle decided to come to his friend's rescue by placing himself between him and Bebe.

"Stan didn't mean it like that, Bebe! Honest! See we're trying to figure out if cooties do really exist. I say no, but he thinks there might be a correlation between girls who have their periods and cooties," Kyle explained, trying to sound as if the conversation wasn't in any way intrusive and inappropriate. Wendy pushed past Bebe and grabbed Kyle's wrist. On the ground Stan panicked.

"Don't touch him!"

Wendy kept her eyes on Kyle.

"Do you honestly believe cooties are real, Kyle?" she asked. The redhead hesitated, his eyes locked on her grip. She shook his arm. "Answer me."

"No."

Wendy narrowed her eyes.

"Really?"

"You're touching me aren't you?" Kyle said smiling. "It appears I'm perfectly healthy. And yet only four days ago, Stan somehow contracted something that made him itch like crazy. I got an upset stomach after Bebe spit in my mouth. And last Friday, Stan's sister touched me right where you're touching me now, and before my eyes, I started to itch like crazy. Yet, I still don't get how sometimes these cooties can work like back then, but they aren't working now."

Stan struggled to his feet. "Maybe she doesn't have her period yet?"

"For the love of God, Stan, shut up," Wendy snapped. She looked at Kyle. "Is he really buying Cartman's bullshit?"

"It's very convincing when someone just touches your hand and you start withering with itchiness," Stan retorted, moving forward to grab a hold of Kyle's other hand. "It was really scary."

Wendy and Kyle exchanged glances. "Stan, your sister terrified me, and for a moment I was really convinced she could give me cooties. I stopped thinking about it and was ready to just accept the proof she gave me. Cartman too. It was so much easier that way. But, Dude, seriously, you said yourself last night. I just can't let a problem go unanswered. Plus, Cartman's ladder near my window gives me enough doubt."

Wendy let go of Kyle's hand. "Seriously? He left a ladder by your window?"

Kyle sighed. "Not so much as left as in he forgot it, but left as in he'd be prepared when he came back with another sociopathic scheme of his."

Wendy nodded.

Stan still felt like he should fight this.

"W-why would Shelley help Cartman? Why would she do that to us?" Stan asked, his posture slumping.

A hand descended on Stan's left shoulder, making the boy jump forward. He stumbled into Kyle and both boys fell to the ground. Wendy and Bebe stared. Rubbing his chin, which had knocked against Kyle's skull, Stan glanced up to find himself staring into the angry scowl of his older sister.

"S-Shelley? What are you doing here?" Stan stammered. Kyle got to his feet and warily backed away from the older girl to stand next to Wendy.

Shelley gave her sibling a searching look, and then crossing her arms over her chest, she said, "You disappeared last night, Turd. Mom went to wake you up this morning to find your bed empty."

Stan blanched.

"But, I told her that Dad was being stupid, and he made you run off to Kyle's. I think she's okay with that…Dad let slip that he took you hunting the other day and not 'fishing' like he'd told her," Shelley explained.

Stan got to his feet.

"Okay…but why are you here?"

Shelley dropped her hands. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, biting at her lip and then taking in a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a moment.

"I'm just here to make sure your stupid ass is okay," Shelley clumsily spat. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at them as if daring them to challenge her. Wendy and Bebe exchanged looks. Wendy stepped forward.

"You told Stan cooties were real, didn't you?"

"And what if I did?" Shelley shot back, trying to keep her face smooth. She cast her eyes sideways at Stan.

Wendy shook her head slowly back and forth. "But you know it's just a game, right? That girls made up. 'Circle, circle — dot, dot — now I've got my cootie shot'," Wendy quoted. Shelley ducked her head.

When she spoke she continued to stare at the ground. "Look, I don't care if you think it's a game or not —"

A shrill shriek from the playground behind them caused everyone to jump. Shelley whirled around on her heel, staring widely about. Wendy and Bebe took off towards the sound while Stan jumped in front of Kyle.

"What the hell?" Kyle gasped. He too started running for the playground. Stan tried to hold him back, but Kyle shook him off.

Stan found himself standing alone with his sister.

"Shelley," Stan murmured. "Are cooties real?"

Shelley gritted her teeth. The sound of her little brother's voice sounded so wounded. She thought for a moment of his staggering form in the snow and that green bottle clasped in his grip. Had she been the cause of that?

"No," Shelley whispered. She blinked at the ground.

Stan's whole body seemed to droop. He held his arms around his chest, sighing.

"I don't know why I believed you," he said. Shelley's head snapped up. She glared at her little brother.

"Well, why did you?"

Stan shrugged.

"I don't know…it was nice pretending that you might have cared about me…."

Shelley felt like her chest was caving in. She clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into her palms. Stan took a step forward, and Shelley reached out to catch hold of his shoulder. Both siblings froze. Incoherent shouting drifted from the playground, but for a moment Shelley and Stan were locked in silence.

And then Shelley spoke. "I'm sorry for tricking you."

Stan nodded, his eyes still forward.

"I told Dad about you and Kyle. I saw you two kissing."

Stan didn't react. He kept his head turned away from his sister.

"I've been really angry lately," Shelley confessed. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you…or Wendy…or Kyle. I'm sorry."

Stan ducked his head, trying to nod again, but a small hiccupping sob broke him. The next thing Stan knew, Shelley was hugging him to her chest. He rested his head on her shoulder, and she patted his head. She repeated her apology several more times.

Another cry from the playground caused Stan to stir and back away from his sister. Both siblings kept their eyes turned to the side, refusing to look at the other. Shelley smoothed down her coat and flipped a piece of hair behind her ear. Stan stuffed his hands into the pockets of his winter coat. He hunched his shoulders as if cold.

"Excuse me, Stan," Shelley blurted out. "I have to go fix something."

With that said, Shelley stomped her way around the elementary school building and into the playground. Stan hesitated, but scurried after her. He paced along beside her, keeping his head down. However, it was the sound of Kyle, his voice heated and confrontational, that made Stan look up so fast that his neck cricked.

"Stop this, Fatass!" Kyle was screaming. Stan and Shelley froze in place.

Before them stood a circle of students with Cartman's cootie stand situated somewhere in the middle. The children of the elementary school divided themselves in half with one side girls the other boys. Two of the sixth grade boys held something between them. Beside Cartman a greasy haired sixth grade boy pinned Kenny in the dirt while two others kept Kyle, Wendy, and Bebe from moving forward. Each one of Stan's friends shrieked at Cartman to halt whatever was happening in the middle of the circle of students.

From where he stood, Stan could see Cartman's face. The fat boy tried to exude calm and nonchalance, but a tall pockmarked sixth grader standing at his elbow kept making him flinch. Cartman's eyes darted to Kenny, who struggled upon the ground and then to the two sixth graders in the center.

Shelley started to shove her way through the crowd of girls who stood farthest from the cootie stand. Stan followed at her heel. When a group of terrified second graders darted from their path, they could see into the center.

A sixth grade boy with a pinched, rat-like face held onto the arm of a small blonde girl with green ribbons in her hair. Another boy stood on her opposite side, gripping her arm just as tight. Stan frowned. The girl was wearing an ugly blue dress with lavender colored flowers. Speeding up her charge, Shelley elbowed her way through some fifth grade boys. They toppled backwards, shrinking from her touch. Stan scurried forward.

"What the hell is going on?" Shelley roared when she broke free of the crowd. A quick hush gathered through the children. Shelley was a teenager now, and her presence seemed to upset some kind of balance. She was too old to be one of them, but too young to be an adult. The two sixth grade boys in the middle started with surprise and backed away, dragging the blonde girl with them. At the sound of Shelley's voice, the little girl looked up, and Stan's jaw dropped.

"Butters?"

"S-Stan?"

Shelley rushed forward to grab at Butters, but the rat-faced boy shoved her back. She landed hard on her side, scraping her face on the blacktop and bending her headgear. Stan dropped to her side, helping her to sit up. Suddenly furious, Stan turned to glare at the older boy.

"What the fuck, Dude? That's my sister!"

"Get lost, fourthie! We're busy with somethin'," sneered Rat-face.

Stan pushed himself to his feet and lunged forward only to be socked in the stomach. As his face hit the pavement, Stan heard Kyle call his name. With a rush of squeaking sneakers and foul cursing, Kyle butted his way past the sixth grader holding him back. He was at Stan's side, blocking him from the older boys in front of him.

"You assholes! Stop this bullshit! Now!" Kyle growled, holding out his arms as if to shield Stan from their sight.

"Look," drawled Rat-face. "He needs to be taught it ain't right to dress as girls." He jerked his thumb at Butters, who whimpered.

"Why should you fucking care that he wore a dress?" Kyle snapped back.

"It's a freaky thing to do. He must be a fag or something," explained the sixth grader with the pockmarks. "Or worse, he wants to be a girl."

"What's wrong with girls?" Shelley snarled, pushing herself to her feet. She darted forward, this time her fist pulled back to strike. She hit her mark right on the rat-faced boy's nose. He stumbled backwards into Butters, who tried to hop out of the way. When the sixth grader tumbled to the ground, Shelley was on top of him in seconds. She pounded her fist into every inch of skin she could see. The boy struggled beneath her, lashing out with his fists. He caught Shelley once in the eye, but she kept hitting.

Dropping Butters' arm, the pockmarked boy tackled Shelley to the ground. She snapped at him. From the side, Stan and Kyle barreled the boy over, knocking him down and forcing his face into the blacktop. Shelley rose to her feet. The rat-faced boy skittered away from her. She spat blood on the ground and turned to face Cartman and his cootie stand.

"The game's over, Eric," she called, pointing at him. "It's gotten out of hand."

Cartman shook his head back and forth.

"S-Shelley…look, the thing is Butters was being retarded for dressing up like a girl today," Cartman explained. He cast his eyes at the sixth graders at his side. "He should have known better. He made Clyde very upset."

Stan and Kyle had managed to extricate themselves from the sixth grader they tackled. Looking to Cartman's left, they saw Craig and his gang. Clyde's face was bright red, his eyes focused on the ground.

"What happened, Clyde?" Kyle called.

"Butters shouldn't wear that shit," Clyde snapped. He rubbed at his mouth, still avoiding anyone's eye. Craig snickered beside him. Clyde jabbed him in the gut.

Stan's eyes wandered to Butters nervously dancing back and forth on his toes as he hovered around the sixth grader pinning Kenny to the dirt. Then turning his gaze back at Clyde, Stan remembered Bebe's anger at Clyde's attempted kiss. Stan realized what had happened.

"You hit on Butters, didn't you Clyde?"

A murmur of voices fluttered through the crowd. Heads bent in whispered conversation. Some stood on their toes to get a glimpse at Clyde. Others laughed under their breath.

Panicking, Clyde stumbled forward. He pointed at Butters.

"He tricked me! He shouldn't wear girls' clothes! I'm not gay!" he shouted, his voice cracking.

The greasy haired boy pinning Kenny nodded in agreement.

Cartman found his voice. "Yeah, only girls should wear dresses!"

Shelley moved towards the cootie stand. She glared at Cartman, then turning to Butters the girl addressed him, speaking so the whole crowd could hear.

"Why did you wear a dress today?"

Butters rubbed his knuckles together. He stared at Kenny who had managed to lift his face enough to see the crowd with one eye.

"It was my turn to be the princess, so I wanted to look the part," Butters finally said. "I didn't think anyone would get mad. I didn't want anyone mad at me!"

Shelley nodded.

"No one with brains would be mad at you Butters," Kenny managed to gasp out. The sixth grader on top of him slammed his hand into the back of Kenny's head, forcing the boy's face into the ground. There was a nasty crunch, and Kenny let out a wail.

Stan and Kyle stormed forward.

"Get off him!" they shouted together. The older boy only smirked. Shelley turned back to Butters once more.

"What did Clyde try to do to you?"

Butters glanced warily at Clyde then at Kenny, who moaned with pain.

"He kissed me," Butters confessed.

"I DID NOT!" Clyde screamed. "HE'S LYING!"

The rat-faced sixth grader was on his feet again. He pointed at Shelley, wavering back and forth on his unsteady feet. His nose was bleeding profusely, and one of his eyes had swollen shut.

"Look, bitch, I don't care what you say. It ain't right for him to wear a dress! If he's some kind of faggot he needs to not do that shit in public!"

Shelley set her face into an emotionless mask.

"Butters," she said, not looking at the boy, "you look very lovely in that dress."

Butters glanced up, his eyes wet.

"Really, Shelley?"

"Yeah, Dude," Stan added, giving his friend a genuine smile. Kyle nodded.

Cartman cleared his throat.

"It's not that we're telling you not to play dress up, Butters," Eric said, forcing a grin. "It's just best you do that when you're home…alone. You confuse stupid people like Clyde otherwise."

"Yeah!" Clyde agreed. He frowned. "…Wait."

"See, Butters, if you dress like a girl, but are really a boy, then other people might start doing that too!" Cartman explained, his momentum picking up. "If boys dress up like girls, then girls will want to dress up like boys. Then we wouldn't be able to tell each other apart. Then think about the cooties, Butters! If you started hanging out with a dude who was really a girl, and you let your guard down, then you could catch the cooties!"

"Oh, hamburgers," Butters cried, covering his mouth with his hands.

"We got to stay looking like boys so we know who needs to be avoided," Cartman explained, puffing out his chest importantly. He smiled at the crowd. "After all, who would want to be a cootie-ridden, smelly girl anyway? Girls are fags."

Some of the children murmured in agreement.

"That's stupid!" Wendy shouted, pushing her way through the crowd. "Wearing a dress doesn't make you a girl! It just makes you someone wearing a dress!"

"Yeah!" Bebe added, fighting her own way through. "And even if Butters wanted to be a girl, why is that bad? I'm a girl, asshole! I'm not something bad to be!"

"And cooties don't exist, Cartman! It's just a game!" Wendy challenged. "All you have are your mom's paints and brushes. There's nothing special about them!"

"Cooties do too exist!" Eric countered, glancing at the crowd. "Just ask Stan and Kyle. They believed in the cooties so much it turned them gay!"

Stan and Kyle blanched.

Shelley stepped forward and took hold of Cartman's arm. He was wearing a black suit jacket with its buttons straining to keep closed over his wide stomach. Shelley took hold of his right sleeve and jerked it up. Cartman tried to bat her away, but Shelley shook him, and he stilled.

Revealing the boy's cootie shot so that the sixth graders could see, Shelley said, "I'll prove to you cooties aren't real."

With a quick, seamless movement, Shelley clawed her right hand down the boys arm. He howled and tried to pull away, but she tugged him back. She scratched at the shot again, peeling away bits of paint. It stuck under her fingernails, pulling at the tiny hairs on Cartman's fat arm. When she had made a sizable dent in the shot, she whirled Cartman around and shoved him into the center of the crowd.

"I made up the whole thing," she called to everyone. "Cartman knew all along."

The sixth graders were eyeing each other in puzzlement.

Keeping his voice low and his grin plastered to his face, Cartman hissed at Shelley from the side of his mouth.

"What are you doing? I thought we were going to keep this up as long as possible."

Shelley stared out at the crowd.

"I've changed my mind. Cooties are stupid anyway," she replied. "I'm trying my hand at being a better person."

"Lame," Cartman whispered. "Just let me keep going with this cootie thing. I've made almost a thousand dollars already!"

"Cartman," Shelley said, now raising her voice, "tell everyone you and I made up this cootie thing."

Cartman's eyes darted around the crowd. Catching Stan and Kyle's eye, he gave them a pleading look. Kyle flipped him off, and Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I didn't make it up!" Cartman called to the crowd. "She's trying to steal my money! I came up with the idea all by myself, but this bitch wants more than her share of the cut."

Shelley didn't respond. Instead, she spun Cartman around to face her. With one swift movement, she punched him square in the gut. Gasping for breath and his mouth hanging open, Cartman had only a few seconds to register Shelley's intent. She cocked back her head and then reeled forward.

She spit neatly into Cartman's gaping mouth.

With sputtering and hacking, the boy tumbled backwards, landing on his wide rear end. The crowd erupted in a mixture of shrieking laughter and gasps of disgust. Kyle whooped and cheered the loudest, hanging onto Stan as he laughed until he cried.

"Now," Shelley said, wiping her mouth, "we wait. If you show up to school tomorrow okay with no cooties, we'll know you've been lying."

Cartman sat with both hands covering his mouth. He glared at the girl, but didn't dare open his mouth a second time.

Shelley turned to the sixth grade boys.

"Aren't you assholes supposed to be at the middle school?"

Rat-face sneered. "You ain't supposed to be here either, bitch."

Shelley marched forward. "I don't appreciate being called that. And I don't appreciate you manhandling me or hitting my brother or his little friends. Now, get the fuck off this playground before I spit in your mouth too!"

For a moment, it seemed like the sixth graders were going to retaliate, but Shelley held up both her fists, planting her feet firmly on the ground. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for the boys' next move. As if thinking better on the situation as a whole, the sixth grade boys turned and sprinted for the gates of the playground.

A bell ringing from the school's entrance announced the end of recess. The crowd dispersed, leaving Shelley, Stan, Kyle, and the rest of their friends alone by Cartman's lopsided cootie stand. Eric continued to huddle on the ground, pouting. He didn't look at anyone.

"Do you really think my dress looks pretty, Shelley?" Butters asked again. Shelley nodded.

"Yeah, it looks nice," she agreed, finding herself genuinely smiling for the first time in weeks.

Kenny stood beside Butters. The taller blond had to pinch his nose to stem the bleeding the sixth grader had caused.

"So, cooties don't exist?" Kenny mumbled nasally. "I won't accidently die if I touch a girl?"

"Nope," Kyle said happily, bounding forward. He smiled. "I knew cooties weren't' real all along," Kyle gloated.

"I don't know, you seemed pretty scared the other night in my bed. Something about hating not being able to figure it all out," Stan pointed out, rocking back and forth on his heels. He grinned at Shelley. "You really scared him."

She shrugged. "It was just itching powder. I dyed some skin-cream black so that when you painted it on where I'd touched you, you'd stop itching."

Kyle crossed his arms over his chest. "See that was really elaborate. It all seemed very convincing. And we all have our moments of weakness," Kyle said shrilly, as if this excused the other night's doubts.

Smiling, Stan approached Kyle and kissed him on the forehead.

Kyle jumped backwards while Wendy and Bebe giggled. Kenny raised an eyebrow, smirking like an idiot, and Butters clasped his hands together to cover his mouth in shock. Cartman started howling with laughter, rolling on the ground.

"You guys are such fags!" he managed to gasp.

"Shut up, Fat Turd!" Shelley kicked him in the rear. Cartman wailed in protest and scooted away from the girl.

Stifling her giggles, Wendy said, "We need to get to class."

"I'm probably going to be in more trouble with Mom," Shelley mused. "I skipped my last two classes to check on your ass, Turd." She grabbed Stan in a headlock and dug her knuckles into his head. He squirmed.

"Let me go, Shelley!"

"You need to stop acting so nice, Turd. It makes it really hard to pick on you," Shelley laughed, releasing her hold on her little brother. He stumbled forward to stand next to Kyle, grabbing his friend's hand in the process. Shelley rolled her eyes.

"You know," Stan spoke up, "I learned something today."

Shelley and Cartman exchanged glances. "I told you so," said the girl. Cartman snorted.

"What did you learn, Stan?" Wendy questioned.

"I learned that I shouldn't let fear control me. I was so scared of the cooties and so scared of anything bad ever happening to me, that I just wanted to hide from it or cover it up. But, you know, cooties don't exist and being scared of something that might not happen isn't a very productive thing to do."

Kyle nodded and then glared at Cartman. "I learned I should change the locks on my windows monthly."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Jew."

"Shut up, Fatass."

Shelley laughed. Wendy and Bebe smiled.

"I didn't learn anything," Bebe quipped.

Kyle frowned. "Really?"

"Nope. I already knew boys were stupid, so that's nothing new to learn," she giggled. Wendy shook her head and began tugging her friend towards the school building.

"I have to go," Shelley stated, moving towards the playground's gate. She was halfway there when she turned around and pointed at Stan. "Remember to tell Mom that I checked up on you and that I've totally been nice to you all week long. Okay?"

Stan nodded. "Okay."

Walking back into the school, Kenny departed for the nurse's office to have his nose examined. Butters followed, hooking his arm with Kenny's. Butters still wore his dress and wig, oblivious to the stares from the other children. He pulled out a handkerchief from the sleeve of his ugly flowered dress and tried to help Kenny stem the flow of blood. Cartman gaped at the two as they strolled away. He made a disgusted noise and glanced at Stan and Kyle.

"Are all my friends fags now?"

Kyle glared at him, but Stan smiled. He took Kyle's hand and started pulling his friend down the hall. Cartman sneered.

"Good luck with those sixth graders tomorrow, Fatass," Stan called over his shoulder. "I'm sure they'll be wondering whether or not you got cooties from my sister."

Kyle's eyes brightened at that, his face splitting into a huge grin.

Walking hand in hand, Stan and Kyle headed back to Mr. Garrison's room, leaving a very disgruntled Eric Cartman in their wake.

Epilogue: Change for the Better

Shelley contemplated the John Elway action figure she held in her hands. His box read that he had karate chop action and five new talking phrases. Wrinkling her nose, Shelley replaced the doll on its blue colored shelf. Stan already had a John Elway action figure, and he rarely played with it nowadays.

Moving further down the toy aisle, she stopped in front of a display case of Lego blocks. She admired a large castle-like structure with moat, dragon, and knights. A little king sat atop a tower of brown and gray bricks. Twisting a knob on the outside of the display case, she watched the drawbridge lower and a small knight on a horse amble its way down a path. She twisted a second knob and a group of bandits swung on thin cables over the walls of the castle. Smiling to herself, Shelley stood on tiptoe to scoot one of the large Lego boxes off its shelf. She clutched the box to her chest and, humming happily, went to find a cash register.

Outside in the atrium of the mall, Shelley sat with her purchase in front of an ice cream shop. She slurped a chocolate milkshake through a spiraled straw, watching the shoppers hurry past. From across the grounds past the water fountains, Shelley caught sight of a group of middle school boys. They noticed her gaze, turned in panic, and rushed to hide inside a Payless. Shelley chuckled to herself, grinning around her bended straw.

Turning her attention to her shoulder bag, Shelley reached inside and pulled out a purple notebook covered in crushed velvet. Opening it to the middle she found a pen and began scribbling between the pages.

Poetry was fun to write, but hard, Shelley had discovered. She found she lacked any real talent with rhythm or music. Most of the time her poetry seemed nothing more than a jumble of words, snatches of memory, or jotted down emotions. Sometimes her poetry created a story and sometimes not. She liked rhyming, but found herself stumped for minutes trying to rhyme the word 'turd' with something. She tapped her pen to her chin, thinking and staring off into space. A tap on the shoulder brought her back to reality.

"Hello, Shelley!" said a lilting voice. Looking up, Shelley found the smiling faces of Bebe and Wendy looking down at her. Although now a year older, Bebe still was nothing but bouncy yellow curls and a sweet face while Wendy sported the same straight, no-nonsense black hair and somber, thoughtful look. Under Bebe's arms were several shopping bags from various shoe stores. Wendy carried one box of shoes and a bag filled with thick, hardbound books. Setting their shopping bags down, the girls took a seat opposite of Shelley. The older girl smiled at them.

"What's up?" she asked, peeking into one of Bebe's shopping bags.

"Nothing," Bebe said airily. She pulled out a pair of red sneakers with large white bows on the side. "I just bought these! Aren't they cute?"

Shelley and Wendy exchanged a look. The older girl nodded indulgently at Bebe.

"They look very nice," she said, sipping at her milkshake. Wendy pulled out one of her books and began flipping through the pages.

"Did you get shoes too?" Shelley asked Wendy.

"Oh, yes. Just some gym shoes for school," she explained, pulling out a generic pair of sneakers with decent arch support. She pointed at Bebe's red shoes. "Those are her gym shoes. Tell her she's crazy for thinking those are good running shoes! I mean they have no support whatsoever."

Shelley raised her eyebrow at Bebe's shoes, but the blonde pouted and hid the shoes from sight.

"Well, I like them," she challenged. Wendy rolled her eyes and turned back to her book. Shelley read the cover and smirked at the complicated title. On the back of the book, a stuffy older woman with graying hair smiled out towards the viewer. A list of the woman's many degrees and accomplishments were listed beneath her photo.

Bebe leaned over the table to look at Shelley's purple notebook. "What's that?"

Shelley snapped the book closed and tucked it into her lap.

"Nothing."

Bebe frowned. "Were you writing?"

Shelley placed the notebook back in her bag.

"Maybe."

"What do you write? I like to write. I write lots of stories about my favorite characters," Bebe explained jovially. Shelley rolled her eyes.

"That doesn't count, Bebe," Wendy stated, peering over her book. She looked at Shelley. "Tell her it doesn't count. She needs to write original stories for it to count."

Shelley rubbed the back of her neck. As much as she enjoyed Wendy and Bebe's company, they were still nearly three years younger than her and Shelley found herself acting referee between the two younger girls during most of their conversations. At times she found it flattering that they cared so much for her opinion, however, at the same time she found it exhausting.

"Well," Shelley began. Wendy eyed her expectantly, while Bebe pouted for sympathy. "I'm sure writing one way or the other is good practice. Just remember that if you really want to write you should practice making up your own characters too."

Bebe nodded, but added, "But I just like writing about my favorite shows and stuff."  

"That still isn't writing," Wendy challenged.

"It is too!"

"No it isn't!"

Shelley slapped her purple notebook on the table. "Here let me read you something from my book."

The two younger girls grew silent in curiosity. Shelley cleared her throat, feeling suddenly very hot under her collar and wishing she had just kept her book hidden.

"Er…ahem…." She flipped through a few pages and came to a small poem close to the beginning of her book.

She read:

Sun outside too bright, and my floorboards way too cold

I've got to get up for school or else Mom's gonna scold

My brother's hogging the bathroom; he's such a stupid turd.

I'd flush him down the toilet, but that would be absurd.

Bebe giggled. Wendy raised an eyebrow, causing Shelley to blush and snap her poetry book closed.

"It's stupid, but you asked to know what I write in here," Shelley explained waspishly. Wendy smiled.

"I think it's funny. Have you ever threatened to flush Stan down the toilet for real?" the girl asked. Shelley thought about it.

"I think once when I was six," Shelley stated, taking another sip from her milkshake. Bebe's giggling intensified. Wendy gave her a look. She turned back to Shelley.

"Speaking of Stan, what time is his birthday party tomorrow?" The girl closed her book and rested her hands upon it.

Shelley counted on her hand. "Er…half past two. Yeah, that's right."

Bebe straightened up. "I already got my present for him. It's one of those stupid action figures the boys like so much nowadays." Bebe waved her hand dismissively and then ducked down to replace her red shoes into her shopping bag.

Shelley raised an eyebrow glad she hadn't chosen the John Elway action figure. She turned to Wendy.

"And you're getting him…?"

Wendy pulled out a book. A thickly bound comic book to be more precise. It had a strange looking man on the front with broom-like yellow hair and a long red trench coat. He wore sunglasses and appeared to be firing off a large gun. Shelley frowned. Stan enjoyed his comics, but not usually the ones with a lot of violence. He'd grown more and more detached from the kind of harebrained, off-the-wall brutality his friends still found amusing in their cartoons. Ever since their father's unplanned 'hunting trip' Stan tried to steer clear from anything that even resembled a gun.

"Did he say he wanted that?" Shelley asked skeptically. Wendy shook her head.

"No, but he'll like this." She placed the comic back in her bag. "The main character's a pacifist. He also likes donuts."

Shelley laughed. Her phone buzzed at that moment, and she saw that it was from her mother. Grumbling about having to go grocery shopping, Shelley excused herself from the table.

Bebe waved up at her. "See you tomorrow."

Wendy nodded her goodbye from behind her thick book.

Shelley left the mall, contemplating Wendy and Bebe's gifts along with the rest of Stan's friends and wondering which one her little brother would enjoy the most.

~

On the afternoon of his 11^th birthday, Stan Marsh sat on his couch, nervously flicking through the channels of the living room television. He wore a new brown jacket his mother had bought him. He thought it made him look cool, but Shelley made fun of him because it had too many zippers.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Marsh skittered about decorating cake and adding chips into plastic party bowls. Shelley had tried to help her mother but, winding up underfoot, got scolded to the living room with Stan. Randy reclined in the only armchair with the day's newspaper unfolded on his lap.

It was still an hour until the party, and Sheila Broflovski had promised to arrive early to help Sharon with the preparations. Stan waited upon the couch, craning his neck around to stare out the front window every few seconds. Shelley, who sat next to him, couldn't help but smirk.

She laughed through her headgear, causing a whistling noise to sound. "Don't worry, Turd, your little boyfriend will be here soon."

Stan blushed, and Randy dropped his paper.

What Stan and Kyle were to each other still remained an unspoken conversation within the Marsh household. After Randy's impromptu hunting trip, Sharon had been furious with him for taking Stan out to do such a dangerous thing, especially with Uncle Jimbo and Ned in tow. She also refused to believe Randy's new ravings about their son's extremely strong affection towards his best friend. Not that Sharon found anything particularly wrong with that, it was just that considering Randy's track record, she couldn't really know the full truth unless it came directly from Stan himself. And since Stan didn't seem ready to divulge any new relationship status with his best friend to his mother at the moment, Sharon left well enough alone.

Shelley, on the other hand, found it ample opportunity not only to mess with her baby brother, but to disturb the hell out of her father. She'd taken to calling Kyle Stan's little boyfriend every time he visited, simply for the pleasure of seeing her father cringe so visibly. At the same time, she made sure Randy didn't do anything too stupid with Stan like the hunting trip fiasco. And for this Stan was grateful, even if he had to put up with his big sister's teasing.

No more than ten minutes had passed when Sheila Broflovski burst through the front door with Ike under one arm and a bag of streamers and balloons in the other. She gave a very rushed hello to Randy and Shelley. Turning towards Stan, she attempted to pat him on the head with the hand that wasn't holding onto Ike, only to end up knocking a couple of streamers into Stan's lap. She told him happy birthday and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Once Sheila had left the room, Stan noticed Kyle. His friend stood near the coat rack, hooking his orange coat on one of the shorter pegs. The redhead still wore his lime green ushanka, but had donned a nice plaid sweater vest which he tugged at self-consciously. His mother probably had made him wear it. Stan smiled and pushed himself up off the couch. Randy, who had been hiding behind his newspaper, snuck a look from the side.

"Hey, Dude," Stan said.

Kyle thrust a small, rectangle-shaped package into his friend's arms.

"Hold this." He panted, struggling to take off his boots. They were muddy and dripped all over the rug. Stan knew his mother wouldn't like that, especially having cleaned the whole house just the previous day.

"What did you get me?" Stan asked, shaking the gift. Kyle stood up straight and tugged the box out Stan's grasp.

"You'll see," Kyle stated, moving to sit on the couch. He and Shelley eyed each other until Stan sat down between them.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he asked, "You want to play Xbox?"

Kyle shrugged. "Sure."

Shelley had to bite her knuckle to keep from laughing. The perplexed look on her fathers' face as Stan and Kyle pulled out controllers and game console left Shelley shaking with silent laughter. What had he expected them to do in front of him? Shelley shook her head, getting up off the couch to venture into the kitchen to laugh in the corner in peace.

The other guests started arriving forty-five minutes later. Butters was the first one to appear. He offered Stan his awkwardly wrapped gift and then perched on the corner of the couch to watch Kyle beat the crap out of some zombies via his Xbox game. Bebe and Wendy made it to the party next. Randy stirred from his armchair and barked at Stan to take 'the ladies' coats,' to which Bebe answered with a fit of giggles. When Stan took Wendy's coat the two gave each other exasperated looks and smiled.

Craig, Tweek, Token, Jimmy, and Timmy arrived in random intervals.

Eric Cartman, unfortunately, made his appearance on Stan's doorstep, despite having not been invited. Kyle glared at the fat boy from his seat next to the Xbox, but Cartman ignored him and handed Stan his gift. Then from his wide coat pocket Eric produced another gift, this one smaller in size. He went to the couch and began to open it.

"Hey, what are you doing, Eric? Ain't that Stan's?" Butters gasped, putting his hands over his mouth. "You don't wanna open up his gift in front of him."

"Shut up, Butters. This isn't Stan's, it's mine. My mom got it for me. I always get a gift when it's somebody's birthday. Duh," Cartman explained as he revealed what appeared to be a 3DS game. Butters ogled it, but Cartman shoved him away saying he'd get his 'faggy germs' all over it. From his other large pocket, Cartman produced his actual 3DS and proceeded to slump on the couch and play his new game. Stan didn't mind. It meant Cartman would be preoccupied for the rest of the day.

Kyle continued to glare at the fat boy. Stan could sense by the way Kyle perched on the balls of his feet that he was itching to spring up and begin berating their heavyset friend. Instinctively, Stan made a beeline for Kyle, weaving in and out of Craig and the others. He sat down next to Kyle and pulled a gaming controller towards him.

"Let's beat this level, okay?" Stan asked with an almost pleading note. Kyle didn't notice, but sat back down anyway, turning his gaze away from Cartman.

Kenny arrived last. When Stan opened the door to invite him in, he was surprised to find Tammy Warner hanging off of Kenny's skinny arm. She smiled sheepishly and offered Stan a present. Kenny apologized for bringing her along without Stan's knowledge. Trying to appear aloof, Stan shrugged it off. He really didn't mind Tammy. She was generally nice, if not a bit loud.

No, that's not what bothered him.

Shutting the door, Stan watched from the corner of his eye as Kenny and Tammy knelt upon the floor together. They began cheering Kyle on as he wrestled his way through a horde of fire-breathing demons. Turning his gaze to the couch, Stan watched Butters chat happily with Bebe. He appeared not to have noticed Kenny at all.

Eventually, Mrs. Marsh and Mrs. Broflovski called the kids into the kitchen for pizza. The mothers had pushed a card table to the end of the dining table to accommodate everyone. Crowded in together, Stan found himself at the head of the table with Kyle right next to him. Everyone found their seats and the pizza was brought out. Dinner passed uneventfully. Then gifts were exchanged. Stan really enjoyed his sister's gift of the castle Lego set, and he was very interested in the strange comic Wendy had brought. Kyle's gift turned out to be a brand new video game Stan had tried out once at the local Game Halt. Stan glanced at it skeptically. He hadn't really liked it, but recalled Kyle playing it for twenty minutes straight the other weekend while they shopped. When Stan turned a halfhearted smile in Kyle's direction, the redhead simply beamed encouragingly.

After the gifts had been opened, Cartman demanded that cake be served. While Kyle glared at the fat boy once again for his rudeness, Shelley appeared at Stan's shoulder. She turned an amused expression in Cartman's direction.

"You look a lot happier today, Fat Turd," Shelley commented. Cartman turned a wary eye to her, but then glanced back at the kitchen doorway. He tried to catch a glance at the cake the mothers were trying to cut into pieces. He couldn't make out whether the cake was chocolate or not. Mrs. Broflovski's wide backside kept blocking his view.

"What are you talking about, skank?"

"Yesterday, you were crying like a baby when I found you in the mall."

Everyone went silent. Cartman stopped, peering through the kitchen doorway.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, bitch," Cartman said puffing out his chest. Stan raised an eyebrow at Kyle.

"Why were you crying yesterday, Fatass?" Kyle asked.

"Nothing! I wasn't…crying — stupid Jew!"

Craig sniffed. "I bet you were," he said in a monotone.

"Shut up, Craig, nobody asked you."

Wendy turned to Shelley. "Why was he crying?"

"I wasn't fucking crying!"

"Some kids were messing with him," Shelly explained. "I told them to get lost."

Stan blinked. He looked back at Cartman whose large round face was bright red.

"I didn't need no goddamn help," he mumbled loudly into his chest.

Shelley leaned against the wall next to her brother's chair. She pointed at Cartman.

"Apparently, he never completely paid back those sixth graders for the cootie shots," Shelley explained. The group grew silent, trying not to look embarrassed. Stan refused to glance at Kyle, who leaned back in his chair, looking the mixture of annoyance and disdain.

The day after the 'Fuckin' Cootie Fiasco,' as some fondly remembered it, Cartman got the snot beat out of him by the same group of sixth graders he'd conned into buying cootie shots. The sixth graders had found him sulking about his home, trying desperately to fake an illness. He had drawn red blemishes on his skin, swallowed ipecac syrup, and pressed his forehead to the oven door in order to fool his mother into letting him stay home. Unfortunately, thinking he was now safe after the long uneventful Tuesday, Cartman had ventured out to the local candy store. The sixth graders discovered him as he walked up his drive, having just returned from the sweet shop with his pockets loaded with chocolate. If Shelley hadn't been on her way home from the detention she'd received for skipping classes the previous day, Cartman might be sporting two or three less teeth.

In the end, Shelley frightened the older boys away with her fists. The group of sixth graders bolted from the scene with their pockets now occupied with Cartman's candy and leftover change. Shelley pulled Cartman up by his jacket, dusted him off, and told him to stop crying. Then to Cartman's amazement, Shelley apologized. When Eric asked why, Shelley simply said she was just trying to be a better person.

Of course after that Cartman didn't appear fazed in the least and continued on as if he'd done nothing wrong. Shelley had taken it upon herself to keep the sixth graders away from Eric. It was her fault for putting the cootie idea in his head in the first place.

After cake Stan's friends began to drift home. Craig and those guys disappeared first with Bebe and Wendy leaving shortly after. Butters waved cheerily goodbye to Bebe, who had been kind enough to lend the boy one of her Hello Kitty bracelets. Butters wore the piece of jewelry about his wrist, jiggling the beads to catch the light.

Kenny and Tammy left next. Butters decided to tag along with them so he wouldn't have to worry about walking home alone. As the boy sat in front of the door, pulling on his sneakers, Stan approached him.

"Hey, thanks for coming, Butters," he said. From the corner of his eye, he caught Kenny helping Tammy into her coat.

Butters looked up. "Aw, thanks, Stan. I'm real happy you invited me. Did you like my gift?"

Stan nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, Dude. It was cool. I needed that set to complete the race track."

Hopping up, Butters clasped his hands together, "Oh, I'm glad, Stan." He turned to get his coat.

Stan hesitated. For a moment he glanced over his shoulder at Kyle who sat snapping at Cartman as they played Xbox. Kenny laughed behind them. He held Tammy's right hand.

"Hey, Butters, are you okay?" Stan blurted out. Butters looked up from the buttons on his coat.

"Sure am, Stan. Why? Do I look funny?"

Stan shook his head. "Er…no, it's just…um. Did you know Kenny was hanging out with Tammy more?"

Butters peered around Stan's side. He smiled. "Sure did. Tammy's real nice. She knows how to arm wrestle, and she beat Kenny once."

"That's cool, Butters," Stan said, his voice low. "I guess…I guess I just thought you and Kenny liked each other. Weren't you two planning on being together and no one else?"

Butters blinked. For a moment Stan thought he'd hurt the other boy's feelings, but suddenly Butters let out a short laugh.

"Stan, that was only 'cause we didn't want to get the cooties," Butters explained with a chuckle. He patted Stan on the arm and spoke as if Stan were slow to understanding. "I mean I like Kenny, I guess. He's a good friend, but I plan on getting me a girlfriend one of these days. Now, that there aren't any cooties, I don't have to worry about being grounded for getting them!"

With that said Butters motioned to Kenny and Tammy that he was ready to leave. The three said their goodbyes to Stan and thanked him for the invite. Kenny promised he'd find Stan a better gift than the one he'd gotten him which had been a simple pack of bubblegum. Tammy offered to chip in too, seeing how she'd sort of dragged herself along uninvited. Stan reassured them that he didn't mind the gift. Kenny still made a promise to find something better, and then he and the other two left. Stan turned from the door to find Kyle spitting an insult into Cartman's face as the heavier boy booted the redhead in the side. Kyle toppled over and lost control of his video game character. Cartman's own character ran Kyle's through with a sword.

"That's three and zero, Kahl. You totally suck at this game," Cartman crowed. Kyle glared.

"You keep jerking the controller out of my hand!"

"I did not. I just kicked you," Cartman corrected. Kyle rammed his foot into Cartman's bulbous side, shoving the other down. Cartman retaliated by jabbing Kyle in the gut with his fist.

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, and prepared himself to act as referee, when his sister appeared in the room. She swept her eyes over the two wrestling boys and then to her little brother looking lost in the corner. She stomped over to the television and unplugged the game. Kyle and Cartman stopped fighting.

"Alright, Fat Turd, time to leave. Your mom wants you home," Shelley stated, hauling Cartman up to his feet. Kyle remained on the floor, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose. He checked quickly to see if he was bleeding.

Stan moved to Kyle's side.

"Let go of me, skank," Cartman whined halfheartedly. Shelley gave him a look and then steered him towards the door. Stan watched gratefully as his sister handed Cartman his jacket and then pushed him out onto the front step. She closed the door neatly in his face.

"That's better," she said when she returned to the family room. She perched upon the end of the couch and took out her purple notebook. Kyle and Stan exchanged looks, but thought better on picking Shelley's brain at the moment. She seemed quite content to scribble in her little velvet notebook.

The boys turned back to the television and reset the game. What followed was several long minutes of silence disrupted only by the grunts and shouts echoing from the video game. After about twenty minutes, Sheila appeared in the room with a sleeping Ike in her arm. She called to Kyle.

"Bubbeh, come get your sleeping bag out of the car. I'm getting ready to go."

Stan's spirits peeked. He'd been afraid his parents wouldn't let Kyle spend the night. Correction, Stan worried his father wouldn't have let Kyle spend the night. The two hadn't had a proper sleepover since the whole cootie incident. Stan's father only allowed to Kyle sleep over when Stan had invited Kenny and Cartman too.

Kyle returned from outside with his backpack and sleeping bag. Stan hopped up, ready to race Kyle up the stairs to tuck his belongings away in Stan's room. At that moment Randy appeared at the doorway between the living room and dining room. He gave Kyle a sweeping look, taking in his overnight things. Then he turned to Sheila.

"Did Sharon say Kyle could stay?"

Sheila was tugging a coat onto a very sleepy Ike. She didn't look up as she answered.

"Oh, yes. Sharon said Stan's been looking forward to it all week." The woman stood up, cradling Ike in her arms. She gave Randy a smile. He returned it halfheartedly. Shelia was either blissfully unaware of the things Randy knew about their sons, or she just didn't care. Stan hoped for the latter.

"Sharon didn't tell me Kyle was staying over," Randy explained. Sheila frowned.

"Mom doesn't have to tell you everything," Shelley interjected from her spot on the couch. She had her head still bent towards her purple notebook. A smirk graced her lips.

Randy made a strange noise in the back of his throat that sounded half between a cough and a laugh. Sheila raised an eyebrow.

"Is there something wrong with Kyle spending the night?" pressed Mrs. Broflovski. She was a very short, stout woman, but the way her eyes locked onto Randy caused the man to take a step back. His shoulders slumped and the man appeared to cave in on himself as he mumbled a simple 'no'. He then stalked off into his study, pulling the door closed behind him. Stan stared at the wooden door.

Sheila examined the door too, but shaking herself in a manner that reminded Stan of a large disgruntled hen, she turned towards the kitchen.

"Sharon, I'm heading out. Thanks for letting Kyle stay the night!"

Sharon craned her head around the doorway; her hands were covered in soap suds, and she sported a dishtowel over her right shoulder.

"No problem, Sheila. See you later. Thanks for all the help!"

With that quick conversation over, Kyle's mother left. Stan and Kyle exchanged glances and then bolted up the stairs.

~

Kyle sat cross legged on the floor, pulling out his pajamas from his backpack. Stan leaned upon his desk, putting away the computer game the two had spent the last three hours playing in Stan's room. The video game Kyle had gotten Stan for his birthday lay next to the computer monitor. Stan still hadn't opened it.

"So…." Kyle got to his feet. He kicked out his sleeping bag, unfurling it upon the floor. He looked up at Stan. "Does your dad not like me anymore?"

Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"He's being retarded," Stan grumbled. Kyle nodded.

"But…seriously…does he not like me anymore?" Kyle pressed, fiddling with the buttons on his pajama top.

Stan swung around in his desk chair.

"I don't think that's exactly how he feels…," Stan trailed off. He wasn't quite sure how to explain his father's actions to his friend. Should he tell Kyle how Randy appeared suddenly a lot more interested in Stan's football games, going as far as to not drink more than two beers while watching his son play? Or should he explain how his father seemed suddenly interested in Stan's opinions on music, food, movies, and books? It was strange seeing his father look him in the eye and ask him about his day. When Stan thought about it, Randy had never been a parent interested in his children's lives unless it was to tell them what they could and couldn't do, for any other reason than that he could. For the life of him, Stan could not recall in his short memory his father sitting down to talk to him about anything truly genuine. Not the kind of talks about not doing drugs or explaining his latest schemes to his son or even urging his son to do some chores; no, Stan could not remember if his father had ever sat across from him, looked him in the eye and asked him why he enjoyed reading the comics he did or watched the shows that he liked.

Strangely, Stan found it refreshing, if not a bit intimidating. Stan understood his father was looking for the reason — the reason his son felt something different towards his best friend. Yet, at the same time, Stan enjoyed telling his father about his favorite Terrance & Phillip episodes. He explained why he enjoyed eating the insides of his cookies first. Stan even found himself enthusiastically confiding in his father his unbridled love of animals.

Stan felt pleased that his father seemed to care. It was nice to see him smile and nod. It felt authentic. At least that's what Stan hoped. He knew lurking behind his father's questions waited confusion and fear. Randy asked too many questions about Kyle, questions Stan was too young to answer at the moment.

In the end, Stan had told his father: "I just like hanging out with him more than anyone else right now."

Randy had traced his pinkie finger over the rim of his ceramic mug. Stan had made it for him when he had been in kindergarten. The mug read: World's Best Dad.

"I guess I'm just trying to understand," Randy murmured into the dregs of his coffee.

Stan shrugged.

"What's there to understand? I just like Kyle."

Randy pursed his lips, nodding. He looked for a moment as if he'd wanted to ask something more probing, but at that moment Shelley had entered the kitchen. She gave the two a sweeping look before heading to the fridge for a soda. Shelley exited the room, but Randy didn't speak. Finally, Stan said:

"If it makes you feel any better…," Stan felt his face heat up. "If it makes you feel any better…when Kyle and I hang out…I'm totally the dude in the relationship."

Stan wondered if this is what his father hoped to hear. It was a bold faced lie, of course. Stan and Kyle acted no different now than they did before the cootie incident. Maybe Stan found himself bumping against Kyle's elbow a little too often and hand holding had become as natural as breathing, but nothing really had changed. However, Stan knew his father. And, more importantly, he knew what his father wanted to hear.

Randy sat for a moment letting Stan's rushed statement sink in. To Stan's relief and unparalleled annoyance, Randy gave him a wink. Stan stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

"Well, duh, Stanley, that I never questioned," Randy said conversationally, getting up to pour himself another cup of coffee.

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

Returning from the bathroom with his teeth brushed, Stan watched Kyle straighten out his sleeping bag. He placed it right beside the bed. Kyle tossed a couple of pillows at one end of the sleeping bag and then knelt down to stuff his jeans and sweatshirt into his backpack. As he stood up, his eyes landed on the game he'd purchased for Stan's birthday. Holding it under his nose, Kyle began reading the label. Stan pretended not to notice as he threw his dirty clothes into his laundry hamper.

"You should open this," Kyle said excitedly, his own fingernails scratching at the plastic wrap. Stan pulled it from his friend's hands a little too quickly. Kyle gave him a look.

"Not tonight, Dude," Stan said. He placed the game on his desk. "I'm tired."

"Dude, it's only eleven. You should get to stay up late on your birthday," Kyle pointed out. Stan shrugged.

"I got up early this morning," was his excuse. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Kyle?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you see that Kenny brought Tammy to my party?"

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, why? Do you not like her?"

Stan shook his head. "N-no."

Frowning, Kyle asked, "Then what about her?"

Stan rubbed at his elbow.

"Kenny and Tammy seem like they're together again."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well…I thought Kenny liked Butters," Stan said, casting his eyes off to the side. He picked at a string dangling from the hem of his pajama t-shirt.

Kyle adjusted his green hat.

"I guess they don't anymore. I mean wasn't that just because of the cooties?" Kyle laughed. "I'm pretty sure Kenny loves boobs too much to hang out with Butters for the rest of his life."

Stan frowned.

"But what about Butters? Don't you think he's upset?" Stan pressed.

Kyle narrowed his eyes. "But Butters has a crush on Bebe."

Stan's eyes grew round.

"He does?"

Kyle nodded sagely.

"When did that happen?"

"When she let slip how much she loved Hello Kitty too."

Stan snorted.

"Has Butters asked her out?"

Kyle chuckled. "Are you kidding? He's such a Melvin. He just stares at her all during History and that's it. She lent him one of her Hello Kitty barrettes or something, and he nearly died of hyperventilating. He wouldn't shut up about that stupid thing."

Stan gave a short laugh.

"Poor Butters."

Kyle shrugged. "Whatever. Why do you care?"

Stan felt his face burn. He shook his head, but then caught Kyle's deadpanned expression.

"I just thought Kenny and Butters actually wanted to be with each other." Stan sighed. "I guess it was just the cootie thing after all."

Kyle eyed Stan for a moment. He set his mouth in a thin line as if struggling to hold in a sardonic retort. Stan tried to make himself look busy with reading the back label of his new game.

Without a word, Kyle stepped forward and placed himself directly into Stan's personal space.

"Kiss me."

Stan sputtered. "What?"

"You heard me."

His face flushing, Stan nodded. He pressed his lips against Kyle's and waited. Stan's lips were chapped and dry. He felt Kyle breathe heavily out of his nose; it tickled Stan's upper lip. Then Stan pulled back. He gave Kyle a weak smile.

"Thanks," Kyle replied. He touched the game Stan held. "We should totally play this, Dude."

Stan bit his lip.

"Er…I don't know if I like this game," Stan confessed. Kyle raised an eyebrow. Stan continued, "When you were playing it the other day…I kind of thought it was…shitty."

Kyle didn't reply. He gazed down at the game between them. Without a word he plucked it from Stan's grasp.

"Alright, I'll get you something else."

Stan watched him kneel down in front of his bag and stuff the game into one of the smaller pockets. Hunching his shoulders, Stan turned away from his friend. He shuffled to his desk and poked at some of the other gifts he'd gotten. He glanced first at the Lego set Shelly had bought him. Then his eyes rested on the strange comic Wendy had purchased. He studied the tall red-coated man with interest. Stan flipped through the pages, frowning as he realized the book had been put together backwards. It read right to left. Behind him Kyle climbed into Stan's bed and lay down. He drew the covers up to his chin. Stan turned around.

"Didn't you bring your sleeping bag?"

"Do you want me to sleep on the floor?"

"No."

"So, there's no problem."

Stan sighed. He walked over to his door and flicked off the light. Grabbing his flashlight from the top desk drawer, he crawled into bed next to his friend. Kyle scooted over until he pressed himself against the wall. He lay facing Stan, who propped himself up with pillows. He then tugged the thick comic into his lap and opened it.

It was different than his American comics. A lot less words littered the pages and most of the panels were taken up by hasty action scenes. Positioning the flashlight against his stomach, Stan began to read.

"Is it good?" Kyle asked, sitting up to read over Stan's shoulder.

"It looks cool. It's like the wild west…only not."

"Why is it backwards?"

"I guess that's how they read stuff in Japan."

"Weird."

Stan turned a page. He adjusted his light and lowered his face closer to the book to read. Kyle leaned his head against Stan's shoulder.

"I like your other comics better," Kyle commented. "It doesn't make me dizzy like this does." He indicated the action lines and the tangle of bodies and shapes.

Kyle waved his hand over two pages covered with a full spread of action noises, flying bullets, and smirking villains. Kyle frowned at it.

"It's too confusing. I can't tell what's going on."

"I can," Stan said, not looking up from his page. He paused suddenly feeling a strange worry fill his chest.

"You know," Stan whispered, looking down at Kyle. The redhead tugged his hat further down over his ears. He turned his head towards Stan, listening.

"You know," Stan repeated. "I was born today at 11:36 at night. I was almost born the next day."

"I think you told me that once," Kyle yawned. "Or your mom talked about it."

"Yeah, she probably did."

"Yeah…so, are you like still ten right now, then?" Kyle asked. He pushed himself up to check Stan's alarm clock. It read 11:30.

"I guess so," Stan murmured, his own eyes on the clock.

"So, I'll wish you a happy birthday in six minutes," Kyle mumbled into his pillow.

Stan shifted uncomfortably. He closed his comic and placed it on his nightstand. He flicked off his flashlight. Shuffling down into the covers, he laid his head next to Kyle's.

"Do you think I'll stop liking certain…things once I'm eleven?" Stan asked, his face very close to Kyle's.

"Maybe." Kyle opened one eye. "But it's not like it's a big deal."

"I don't know…." Stan glanced over his shoulder at the clock. The digital face clicked to 11:34.

"Two minutes," Stan informed his friend.

"Cool."

"Kyle?"

"Hmm?"

"What if I stop liking you?"

"Then I'll probably stop liking you." Kyle snorted.

"I'm serious!"

Kyle sat up. "So am I. Why would I try to hang out with someone who didn't like me?"

Stan scooted back to rest against his bed's headboard.

"Sorry…forget it."

Kyle huffed, crossing his arms. He glanced at the clock.

"You got twenty-nine seconds…twenty-eight…twenty-seven —"

Stan tossed a pillow at him. "Shut up."

Kyle laughed.

The clock's big bold red numbers made their shift. Stan felt his stomach squirm as 11:36 splayed across his alarm's face.

"Happy Birthday, Stan," Kyle said. Stan could just make out his friend's smile in the dark. The light from the clock glowed a warm red across Kyle's cheeks."

Stan grinned. "Thanks."

"Do you still like me?"

Stan thought for a moment. He scanned his eyes up to Kyle's silly green hat, and then slowly brought them down to examine Kyle's face. He liked what he saw, Stan knew that. He liked his friend's eyes, narrow and green. Stan liked Kyle's freckles, barely visible in the red light. Kyle's whole face was skinny and angular, his nose highly prominent. And Stan liked it all.

"Yeah," Stan confessed. "I still like you."

"Good." Kyle replied. "I still like you too."

Stan dropped down to his pillow. He pulled Kyle with him. The two stared at the ceiling for a few moments in silence. Slowly, Kyle knitted his fingers together with Stan's.

"You can kiss me again if you want," Kyle offered offhandedly. "As an official birthday gift, you know. Seeing how you don't like the one I got you." He continued to look at the ceiling. Stan wondered if he was blushing.

"But you might have cooties."

Kyle laughed. "Fuck you, idiot. Kiss me anyway."

Stan obliged.

~

Shelly awoke around two in the morning, her throat parched and her hair tangled in her headgear. Growling to herself, she quickly unwound the mess of hair from the wire frame. Smacking her dry tongue against her cracked lips, she rolled out of bed. Walking zombie-like towards the hallway bathroom, she kept her head down and eyes squinting at the carpet. Someone had left the hall light on, and the glare of yellow engulfed Shelley's senses.

She found her way into the bathroom easily enough. Pouring herself a glass of water, Shelley checked her reflection. Her headgear still looked as stupid as ever. She tugged at it.

A noise from across the hall pulled her away from the mirror.

Taking her glass of water with her, Shelley tiptoed out of the bathroom. She peered along the hallway and noticed Stan's bedroom door stood ajar. Shuffling across the hall, Shelley stopped outside her little's brother's room. Peeking around the threshold, her eyes followed the beam of light to the bed resting against the wall.

She saw her father standing over Stan and his friend. Slowly, the man leaned down; he peeled the covers back and very gently picked up Kyle. Stepping back, Randy squatted to the ground, lowering the boy onto his sleeping bag. Shelley watched as Randy unzipped the bag and wrapped her brother's best friend within it. Straightening up, Randy glanced down at Kyle, who curled himself deeper into the folds of the sleeping bag. On the bed, Stan rolled over to face the door. The light fell across his body, just below his chin.

Shelley noted her little brother's deep frown. He appeared to double in on himself, pushing his back in the direction of the wall. He appeared to be looking for a warmth that no longer existed.

Randy turned around and stopped dead.

Shelley stared at him, her face set into an impassive frown.

"What are you doing, Dad?"

Randy ran a hand through his hair. He glanced back at Stan's sleeping form. Rubbing at his moustache, Randy mumbled, "Kyle fell asleep on Stan's bed. I was just putting him in his sleeping bag."

"It looked like Kyle was actually under the covers in Stan's bed," Shelley pointed out bluntly.

Randy bristled. "Shelley, what are you doing up?"

The girl raised her glass of water, unfazed by her father's tone.

"Go to bed now," Randy ordered, his voice softening. He moved towards the door, but Shelley didn't leave. Instead, she simply stepped aside for her father to walk through the door. He paused mid-stride. The two locked gazes.

Randy looked away first.

"Get to bed, Shelley," he repeated, stepping into the brightly lit hall.

Shelly turned to look at her father. She sighed.

"Do you really think that's going to work?" Shelley asked. Randy looked at Kyle sleeping on the ground.

"Go to bed."

"I'm going to wake him up and have him get back in bed with Stan," Shelley informed her father. Randy gaped at her. For a moment, Shelley wondered if she'd gone too far, but her father turned from her, his head slightly lowered.

"I'm going to bed," Randy said.

"Good night," Shelley said tersely. She watched her father head to the end of the hall and turn off the light. He then disappeared into his bedroom.

Shelley walked to the sleeping bag and lowered herself to her knees. She set her glass of water down beside her. Gently, she pushed at Kyle's shoulder.

"Hey," Shelley whispered. "Hey."

Kyle's eyes opened, blinking blearily up at the girl. Realizing who hovered over him, Kyle sat up with a start. Shelley pressed her finger to her lips and pointed to Stan. Kyle glanced around at his surroundings.

"Why am I on the floor?" he mouthed.

"My stupid dad," she replied. Kyle nodded, needing no other explanation.

Kyle rubbed at his eyes.

"Why are you here?"

Shelley pointed to her glass of water. Kyle shrugged, accepting the answer. Slowly, he crawled his way out of the sleeping bag. He stood and stretched his arms over his head. He glanced at the clock.

"Shit, it's two in the morning."

Shelley watched him climb into the bed, moving around Stan to lie in his previous position. He flopped down on his back, not even bothering to pull the blankets up around his body. He closed his eyes and was asleep almost instantly.

Shelley stood watching the boys sleep for a few minutes, then turning on her heel she bent, picked up her glass of water, and exited the room.

As she closed the door behind her, she thought she saw Stan smile.

The End

-Neavvs-

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