Chapter Text
Tweek spent his own time with the doctor, before me. Well, according to Mrs. Broflovski he wasn't seeing my doctor, he was seeing a lady doctor, because when he did an intake with mine, he cried. She told me to keep quiet of the crying part, then gently reminded me, that's what she always calls it, that I used to cry a lot, too.
She always said it was normal to cry when you were getting used to something new. I don't know if it's true or not, but it made me feel better about crying in math class. My teacher didn't get mad either, she just let me go down to the nurse, where we didn't even talk about math, we just colored a picture of a Strawberry Shortcake until I felt better.
I kept coloring even after I felt better, because I couldn't just leave her dress half finished. That didn't seem like a very nice thing to do.
Plus I didn't want to go back to math class until everyone forgot that I had cried.
No one mentioned it, but maybe the teacher had the same talk with the class that Mrs. Sheila was having with me right now. Maybe everyone just wanted to be nice so they pretended.
Is it the right thing to do to pretend everything with Tweek is normal?
"Do I lie about his arm, too?" I ask, tugging on her skirt. "I told him he looked like a bird. Was that mean?"
"It's certainly not nice," Mrs. Sheila said, straight faced. She didn't look angry, though, just serious. "Tweek's arm is in the sling because he got hurt. His father hurt him."
"Oh," I nod, trying to piece it together. Did he refuse to eat his waffle so his dad grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back to the table, and then it broke? I felt like my arm was breaking when that happened, like it wasn't supposed to twist that way. He didn't say he was pulled though, he said he got shot. "He got shot?" I ask, to make sure that between all the chaos with Kenny and the Barbie Dream House that I remembered correctly. I'm a pretty good rememberer, but it's good to double check.
"Yes," Mrs. Sheila says softly. "It's embarrassing for him, so don't bring it up."
"He told me," I shrug, moving both my shoulders unlike Tweek. He looks silly when he shrugs, and he shrugs a lot in our games. "We were playing Barbies and he said he got shot by his dad."
"Then why are you asking me?" Mrs. Sheila smiles, ruffling my hair. "Bubelah, he just needs our help, so we're going to do our job on Earth and help him."
"That's our job?" I ask, trying not to pull away. Mama didn't mess up my hair in purpose, especially not in public. Mrs. Sheila does, and then she goes through the trouble of combing it back out with her nails. smoothing any fly aways back into their respective pigtails.
"I think so," Mrs. Sheila nods, patting me on the back, then scratching between my shoulder blades. "I think God put us here to help other people, and then those people go on to help other people, or sometimes help us back."
"How's Tweek gonna help us?" I snort. "What can Tweek do? His arm is broken."
"Well," Mrs. Sheila kept scratching my back, even though she didn't seem to like this conversation. "I don't know how Tweek will help you, and the reward part isn't important, anyway. It's about being a good person and making the world a better place."
"How does Tweek help anyone?" I ask, genuinely confused. He's eleven and was crying in his room last night. Kevin got to be fourteen and I never heard him cry, not even once
"Sometimes people have to grow into their helpfulness," Mrs. Sheila sighs and I shrink inward. Her sigh is never a good sign. "You helped me with dinner, two nights ago, didn't you?"
"I helped you put chicken nuggets on a pan," I whisper, feeling my cheeks flush. I feel a little proud of it, even though I know it's not really anything. Mrs. Sheila could have done it herself if she wasn't on the phone. She could have just dumped them out and hoped for the best, or even just waited to make dinner. Mama used to wait to make dinner, if she was too busy.
"That's helpful. You we're being a helper. And you're going to continue the chain of helping people, and then the world will be better."
"Will it?" I ask, looking back at her. "Are we really going to make the world better?"
"Of course we will," Mrs. Sheila pats my back before crossing her legs and looking straight ahead. That means she is tired of talking and needs a little break.
I start to brainstorm ways I can make the world better, fighting to keep them all in my head at the same time. I could get rid of mountains, beer and cars. That'd make the world much much better, I think. I'd like that world more. That world would have Kenny and Kevin, and even Mama and Daddy. I'd make Mama be more like Mrs. Sheila and Daddy more like Mr. Gerald. They'd be nice to me, and to each other, and we'd eat dinner together.
We'd have game nights and I'd have a doll house, because Mama would buy me one. In a better world Mama would have enough money for stuff. Maybe we'd even do Christmas and Hannukah, because that dreidel game was pretty fun, especially the chocolate coins. Mr. Gerald gave me some of his, after the spinning was over, even helped me peel off the wrapper.
I even liked the candles.
They weren't the kind of candles Mama pulled out from under the sink when Daddy forgot to pay the power, they were tall and skinny. Mr. Gerald told a cool story, too, about how people lived in a cave and it was a miracle they had oil. He was a good story teller, even for the parts I didn't really understand.
Kenny paid attention the whole time, which was proof it was good.
Tweek came back to the waiting room before my name was even called, with tears on his face again. Was I supposed to pretend he wasn't crying? I could not mention he had done it before, but to pretend it wasn't happening before my eyes was something else.
"It'll get better," Mrs. Sheila whispers, standing up and holding her arms open. She does that if she felt like you need a hug but doesn't want to make you give one. She never ever makes me hug her, so it makes sense she wouldn't make him.
Tweek just stares, like that dumb bird. I turn away because I don't want to relive that moment more than I already have. All of it is awful, the bird, Kevin, and even Daddy.
"You can give her a hug," I whisper when I sneak a look back and Tweek is rocking back and forth on his heels. "Only if you want to."
Tweek is off like a shot, burying his face against Mrs. Sheila and crying. He's crying in public and he doesn't even seem to care.
It's not regular crying either, it's big tears, and from the sounds of it snot, and just all around gross. Tweek is a gross boy making nasty noises against Mrs. Sheila and I am not allowed to say anything. I just sit next to Mrs. Sheila, waiting to talk with a doctor I don't even want to see. I used to cry after the doctor, but that was a long time ago, before Hannukah. It's Feburary now, so I'm obviously a big girl. I have matured, like cheese.
Mr. Gerald says you have to age cheese, which seems a little nuts because one time we left some American cheese in the bottom of the fridge for like a year and it got moldy. It did not get better, not according to Kenny as he stuffed the slice in his mouth.
"Please don't make me, nnrgh, go back," Tweek sniffles. "I will be good. I can be, I promise."
"Shhh," Mrs. Sheila says that as a comfort, like she's mimicking the white noise machines all around the office. She doesn't mean actually be quiet. "Shhh. The doctor is here to make you feel better. It's good to talk."
"It's not," Tweek shakes his head, stepping back and wiping his eyes with his one free hand. "I don't want to talk about it, and I don't want to think about it!" Tweek seizes in on himself, like a bug in a cartoon walking into a zapper. "No one accidentally shoots someone. That's not, nnn, it's not an accident and I don't want to talk about it like it is."
"Do you think he did it on purpose?" Mrs. Sheila asks. Tweek nods, cheeks and eyes red. He looks sad, but also angry. He looks like Mrs. Sheila does when we go and visit Daddy every other month, driving through the mountains to get to where he's staying. He's probably going to stay there forever, according to what Mr. Gerald said once on our drive back. "I don't think your father would hurt you on purpose. Sometimes, we adults get need help working through things, and that's why he did it, not because of anything you did."
"I lost the stash," Tweek grumbles. "I did stuff, and now I'm with you instead of at home. It's not fair."
"It's not," Mrs. Sheila nods slowly, like she's trying to remember exactly what Tweek just told her. "It's not fair, but let's make the best of it. We can make cookies. We make cookies after sessions. How does that sound?"
"Today we're going to make peanut butter cookies," I smile, trying to ignore that he is still crying.
Mrs. Sheila takes out her phone as we continue to wait. She's typing fast, faster than I can type, and using both hands. I look over, covertly, like a secret agent and she's using quotation marks, which is what you use for what someone says. She's also typing Tweek's name over and over, and words like apparent drug handling, neglect, and attempted homicide.
When they call my name, I drag my feet. The carpet makes static against my shoes and I can feel the hair on my arms stand up, but also maybe it's just my general dislike of the doctor. I've seen him like ten times, and he's nice enough, but he's sort of stiff, like a cardboard cut out at a movie theater. Mrs. Sheila took me to see Inside Out and there was a bigger than life Wonder Woman in the lobby, propped up against the wall.
I don't want to talk to my doctor. They're the same, all stiff and papery, but my doctor is a lot less wonderful. He's nice. It's not that he's scary, I just don't have much to talk about. School is good and the house is good. Everything is good, so I don't know why I'm having to talk.
"Don't be such a spoil sport," Kenny calls out. I turn back, shooting daggers to the chair next to Tweek, where Kenny is draped across it like a lazy cat. Stan Marsh has an outside cat, and sometimes it will lay in the sun in Mrs. Sheila's driveway. His name is Patches, and I get to touch her, when she's in a good mood. Stan says most of the time she's a bitch, so that's why I don't get to pet her often.
I don't say anything back to Kenny as a follow a woman in Looney Tunes scrubs back to the doctor's office. I am not supposed to talk to him, and I'm not going to break the rules in the place the rules were made.
"Pansey," Kenny taunts, shoes on the next seat. Shoes don't go on seats. Shoes go on the floor.
"Don't worry," Mrs. Sheila sighs, patting Tweek's back just like she does mine when I turn back to look at Kenny again. "We'll figure it out."