Chapter Text
Stan’s a junior now and this is the year he will finally die. He doesn’t have active plans or anything, but he has a vibe for this stuff, like when he could tell Sparky was going to die even though he wasn’t acting any different than usual. His mother and sister kept repeating how it didn’t make sense, there weren’t any signs, but Stan just sat in the dirt and cried when Randy pulled the dog out from under the deck—the kind of tears where you barely even feel them falling, just hot slices down your cheeks and a trembling lip. He’s not always right—he gets the same feeling about Kenny a lot when he’s absent for a few days but he always comes back. Still, it’s like seeing a rain cloud on the horizon and knowing it’s only a matter of time until you’re soaked and shivering.
The first week went ok, overall. Kyle’s too smart to be in any of Stan’s classes except homeroom, but at least Kenny’s stuck with him in remedial everything. Stan’s not stupid, no matter what the guidance counselor might imply with those trade school pamphlets she keeps shoving on him. He’s not going to be an electrician, or a mechanic, or a fucking underwater welder—he’s going to be dead by June. Problem solved.
A day earlier he’d sat in church with his mother and father who actually held hands during the service, making eyes at each other over the center console on the drive home. Sometime between 7 and 8 PM they fought again, Stan’s not sure why, he had his headphones in. It wasn’t a big one, thank god, and Stan found his father on the couch at 11pm sipping a glass of orange juice watching a Judge Judy rerun.
“Stan the man,” he said as Stan sat on the other end of the couch. “How’s it going, buddy? You got school tomorrow, right?”
“Yep,” he said, sipping a glass of water. He wanted a drink, but his dad was making an honest go of sobriety and Kenny could only get stuff from his brother every other weekend.
“How are your grades? Keeping them up?”
“It’s only been a week.”
“Right, that’s right,” he said, nodding at the screen. They sat through the rest of the trial in silence until Randy spoke again. He coughed and pounded on his chest, said, “It’s your sister’s birthday next week.”
Stan chewed his lip. “Uh huh.”
“You talked to her at all?”
“Nope.”
“Right.” He coughed again, hocking phlegm up and swallowing. “Well, I better hit the hay.” He stood and stretched, patting Stan’s arm as he walked past. “Work tomorrow. You should too.”
“I will, I just want to finish the episode.”
When he heard his parents’ door close he slipped into the backyard, grabbing the pack of Parliaments he hid in an empty pot. It wasn’t too cold out and he sat under the tree, feet pressed to the trunk so he could stare up at the stars around the branches. After his first cigarette his hands were too stiff to work the lighter, so he put the pack back and headed inside. Upstairs, he heard his mom laughing quietly through the door, his dad’s murmured voice. He had the thought that they should get one of those signs that counts down how many days since the last work incident, except instead of falling off a ladder it’d be drinking or screaming at each other or breaking the last china plate from their wedding registry.
Stan wakes on Monday morning with just enough time to make the bus, but misses it anyway because it seems like a good way to skip first period. Kyle used to stop by in the mornings to walk with him to the stop, but it’s been at least a year since he got sick of literally dragging Stan out of bed by the arm. To be fair, the very last time he tried it Stan was sick for real and he told Kyle to “fuck off you fucking little bitch.” It was a struggle to get Kyle to believe his story, but it’s better this way anyway. Now he gets to sleep in.
He walks into second period Geometry with 18 minutes to go, sitting on top of a low cabinet in the back. At the beginning of the year there are never enough seats for how many kids there are until everyone realizes they’re either too dumb or too smart for the classes they’re in and switches. Who knows, if Stan plays his cards right, he might get bumped back to Algebra again. He’d probably even get an A this time.
Kyle joined student government at the end of last year to beef up his college resume. This means today he gets to go from homeroom to homeroom with Wendy explaining the new suggestion box they’ve installed in the front office, which is to be used for real comments and criticism only, not drawings of dicks or lewd remarks about Mr. Geiger’s saggy neck. Kenny and Stan are seated at the front, barely containing their laughter.
Kenny raises his hand. “What about drawings of Mr. Geiger’s saggy vagina neck?”
Wendy looks calm and composed, which Stan knows from experience means she’s about to murder Kenny.
“Alright, settle down,” Mrs. Aldrich groans. “Is that all from you two?”
Kyle and Wendy nod and shuffle on to the next classroom, Wendy throwing Kenny a look Stan doesn’t totally get—sort of like she’s angry, but that maybe she’s happy about it too. Kyle refuses Stan’s eye contact as he leaves, crumpling the paper with his rehearsed speech into his fist.
Kyle joins them at the lunch table just a few minutes before bell, thumping down onto the bench with his headphones in.
“There he is,” Kenny calls around a bite of sloppy joe. “Mr. President. Or wait, are you the Secretary? Something fancy, right?”
“Fuck off,” is all Kyle says, staring at his phone. Stan leans over for a peek—it looks like an article, probably homework—and Kyle pulls his phone to his chest reflexively, huffing. “Dude, what? Can I have a little privacy?”
“You’re the one who came over here,” Kenny says in Stan’s defense. “What took you so long?”
“I’m late every Monday—I have Key Club.”
Kenny snorts. “Nerd.”
“Can you shut the fuck up for one fucking day?” Kyle turns around to him, hat pulled down so it covers his eyebrows.
“Dude, he was joking,” Stan says, nudging his shoulder.
“I don’t give a fuck.” To Kenny, “That was really shitty what you did in homeroom.”
“Oh, come on man, that was funny.”
“It’s not fucking funny when we’re actually trying to do something to make your lives better and instead we just get everyone laughing in our faces for a fucking hour.”
“Sorry, dude,” Kenny says, still laughing a little. “I will respect your authori-tay.”
Kyle shakes his head and goes back to his phone, muttering under his breath.
Stan hates when they fight. It happens more often lately, and Stan is bracing himself for the day they finally make him choose a side. They’re not not friends, but Stan thinks if he weren’t in the middle of them they’d never speak. They’re like mozzarella and marinara—inedible as a singular combination, but Stan thinks of himself as the crust that ties it all together.
He zones out for the rest of his classes, designating himself as the group’s dead weight for the Physics project. He takes everyone’s phone numbers knowing he will not text back or answer any emails, letting them decide whether they want to add his name to the intro slide or not by the end of it. They usually do, and Stan feels bad, but not bad enough to actually help.
He catches Kenny after the bell rings booking it out the front doors.
“Dude, wait up!” Stan calls, winding himself as he jogs toward Kenny. He didn’t finish his food at lunch, picking at the small cluster of grapes and inspecting them like an appraiser. His stomach growls, he ignores it.
Kenny turns when Stan catches up, pulling out an earbud. “What’s up?”
“Where are you headed? Wanna hang?”
“Dude, you know I can’t.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, man, this is my job now.” He looks around, clicking his tongue and nodding at Stan. “Let’s move this conversation a little farther from Roberts.” The vice principal stands just a few yards away, eyeing them with the same suspicious look he gives everyone, even Kyle and 6th graders at the middle school across the street.
“So what,” Stan says when they’re out by the flagpole. “You’re just busy all the time now?”
“Not all the time. I have a few drops I gotta make but I’ll be done around 6.”
“‘Drops’ - dude, you sound so dumb.”
“What? That’s what it’s called!”
“You sound like a drug dealer.”
“I am a dealer, Stan, respect the hustle.”
Stan groans. “Fine, whatever dude.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “Do you think you could hook me up though? I just finished my stash.”
“I don’t know, do you have money for it?”
“Dude,” Stan whines. “Come on, how long have we known each other?”
“You know this is a real business, right? Just tell me how much you have on you and I’ll see what I can do.”
Stan digs in his backpack for his wallet, sighing when he sees the single bill inside. “Uh, like, five bucks.”
“Dude,” Kenny laughs. “No.”
“What can I get with that?”
“Nothing, it’s not fucking layaway.”
“I can pay you back. You know I’m good for it.”
Kenny claps his hand on Stan’s shoulder. “You wanna know the best way to get free weed? Be a dealer.”
Stan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I heard you the first nine hundred times.”
He walks backwards away from Stan, hands in the air. “I’m just saying! Think about it, dude, the offer’s open. Hit me up later if you’re free.”
Stan heads back inside, he left his jacket in his locker. He spots Kyle at his own locker—the one directly next to Stan’s—and picks up his pace.
“Hey dude,” he says, startling Kyle so he bumps the locker door, clanging metal echoing in the near-empty hall.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” Stan says. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” Kyle trades out a green notebook from his backpack for a yellow one in his locker. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Stan shrugs. “Do you wanna hang out? Are you busy?”
This is the exact opposite of the promise he’d made himself three weeks ago, that he wouldn’t spend time alone with Kyle except at bi-monthly Shabbat dinners.
“Oh, uh, I mean, not really.” He hardly makes eye contact with Stan, fussing with a sheet of paper wedged into the cracks of the locker.
He’s probably stalling, trying to find an excuse. “Don’t worry about it, if you are I mean,” Stan says, scratching his ear. “I don’t know. I just thought—it’s been a while.”
“Yeah, for sure. Um. Yeah, I can probably hang out. At my house though, if that’s cool.”
Stan snorts. “Of course dude, I’m gonna raid your pantry as soon as we get there.”
“I’m sure my mom will love that.”
He knows Kyle means it. Sheila has a habit of doting on Stan, plying him with food and drinks and weird little gifts like chapstick and hand lotion whenever he comes over. It’s honestly pretty nice, and Stan doesn't really care anymore that she only does it because she feels bad for him. Free is free.
“God bless you, Sheila Broflovski.”
Kyle spends the first fifteen minutes of the walk furiously texting the members of his own group project, and Stan gathers that he actually was busy and flaked so he could hang out with Stan. A surprising, but positive development. He has a little room for hope that things between them will improve. Maybe Kyle even feels bad this time, who knows?
Two weeks before school started, South Park held its annual “Augustfest” event, which started years ago as a promotional deal in the parking lot of the local Hummer dealership and expanded to booths for other local businesses and restaurants. It’s like a fair with no rides or fun. The games are rigged so no one wins, and only idiots like Cartman and Clyde claim that they’ve “beaten the system,” even though Stan has seen them stealing Tweety Bird plushies from the stand while the attendant’s back was turned. Everyone shows up, mingles, judges, gossips. South Park’s teens use it as a way to size each other up at the end of the summer, evaluating who gotter hotter, taller, skinnier, whose boobs got bigger and whose acne got worse.
Randy had gotten a new job at a canning facility thirty minutes outside of town and Sharon was already cracking jokes about how long it would last behind his back to her friends. Stan thought it was pretty fucked up of her to say, but couldn’t help agreeing with her wariness. The three of them showed up together, Stan breaking away while his father dragged Sharon over to a long line for barbecue ribs.
He found Kyle first, standing in a circle of their peers watching Craig and Jimmy race to finish a stack of deep-fried Twinkies.
Kyle nodded at him. “Hey dude.” Craig made a gagging noise that was so distressed Jimmy started to laugh until Twinkie came out of his nose. “You came just in time to see them die.”
Stan snorted. “Where’s Kenny? This seems like his kind of thing.”
“I don’t know, haven’t seen him today.”
“Weird. He said he was getting here early to watch the cheerleaders do their cow salute thing.”
Every year the Park High cheerleaders performed one of their competition routines to an audience of early festival attendees and a single dairy cow brought over from a local farm. Stan used to suffer through it for Wendy, but Kenny always came for the bouncing boobs.
Kyle laughed. “Can you really blame him for skipping that?”
“Fair enough. Do you wanna go look around? I don’t wanna be like, complicit when Jimmy suffocates.”
They did a couple rounds of the lot, Stan badgering Kyle until he agreed to get matching face paint—lime green aliens on their cheeks with black bulbous eyes. Stan spotted his father at the beer stand, grabbing two pints and licking foam off his mustache. The sun was beginning to set but the heat lingered, sizzling everything that dropped to the ground. They grabbed some overpriced soft serve and shared a funnel cake, leaning against the chain link fence at the back.
“Dude,” Kyle said around a bite. “Augustfest fucking sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
In truth, Stan had been looking forward to it for weeks, a reasonable excuse to see people in a setting that was annoying enough no one would be mad if he left early. He hadn’t seen as much of Kyle as he’d wanted to over the summer, six weeks sucked up by a youth leadership camp Sheila signed him up for. They spent two days together when he came back, but in the few weeks since, Stan saw him only a handful of times, always in the company of others. He’d had a feeling it’d be easier to get Kyle alone in a crowd. The more eyes around, the less people would stare.
“Summer fucking sucks.”
Stan gave him a look. “And school is better?”
“No, obviously, but at least it’s not a million degrees outside. It’s always easier to get warm when you’re cold than it is to get cool when you’re hot.”
The back of Kyle’s neck was turning red and sweat beaded around his temples. There was a smear of powdered sugar on his nose from the funnel cake, and Stan nearly swiped it off before thinking better of it.
“You got something,” Stan said, gesturing.
“What? Oh.” He rubbed at his nose so hard it looked painful. He tossed the empty basket into a trash can that was impressively far away and leaned off the fence. “Do you want to go to the petting zoo or something?”
“You read my mind.”
Only six people were allowed into the pen at a time, where there was a group of goats, chickens, one duck and one sheep pecking at the asphalt. At least it was free. Stan made accidental eye contact with Wendy who was two people ahead of them in line, and she waved and grabbed Heidi beside her to move back toward them.
“Hey guys!” she said, the two of them still decked in their cheerleading uniforms. “What’s up? Nice face paint.”
“Hey,” they said in unison. Stan pointed to the pen. “Just waiting to check out these guys. Sorry we missed your thing earlier.”
“No worries,” she said. “You haven’t seen Kenny today, have you?”
Stan snorted. “No. Does he owe you money or something?”
“Oh, no,” she seemed thrown, looking at her shoes and blinking. “Just something for school. Never mind.”
Stan didn’t think they had any classes together, but he couldn’t say for sure. Heidi had signed up for Key Club and wanted to know from Kyle what projects they’d be tackling this year. They discussed this for several minutes, Stan and Wendy nodding along politely despite not giving a shit about anything being said. The attendant called people in two at a time, and they crept up the line while they sweltered.
“Hey, Stan,” Wendy said, lowering her voice so as not to interrupt the others.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I could talk to you about something? Alone?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah, I guess. Is everything ok?”
“Yes, sorry, it’s nothing big, I just—”
Stan could tell Kyle was listening, nodding and biting his lip with that glazed expression he makes, the same one he gives his mom when she’s going off about something.
“It’s about Kenny.” She turned around, her back jutted up against the gate to the pen. “Maybe we could…?” She gestured with her head, eyes shifting between him and the goats.
The attendant called, “Next! Two more people!” Heidi hustled through the gate and when Wendy held back, Stan put his hand on her arm, pushing her through and clicking the gate shut behind her. “Alright, keep it moving. Grab your feed bag from the table over there.” The man ushered the girls away from the gate, Wendy looking back helplessly like she had more to say.
“Dude,” Kyle said, lowering his voice for Stan. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know. She said she wanted to ask me something about Kenny.”
“So why didn’t you go with her?”
Stan huffed. “I don’t wanna hang out alone with my ex. That’s fucking awkward.”
Kyle snorted, seemingly placated. He never liked Stan and Wendy together, probably picked up on the fact that Stan’s feelings for her were lukewarm at best, and that even though he cried when she dumped him it was actually a relief to not have another person in his life to intimately disappoint. They waited their turn, Stan putting distance between themselves and the girls when they finally went in. They shared a bag of pellets, fingers brushing as they went for more at the same time. Kyle was wary of the goats—as he is with most animals—shouting FUCK just two feet from a three year old when one started chewing on his pant leg. Stan laughed hysterically and took several photos, of Kyle’s offended face and the four tiny holes the goat made in the denim.
Stan ruffled his hair. “Dude, don’t be mad, it’s good luck.”
“Bull shit, no it’s not. Now I have to buy new jeans.”
Stan rolled his eyes. “You’re such a diva.” His own jeans had holes all over, a few inconveniently placed on the back of his knees so his skin chilled every time he sat in a hard chair. “Oh my god, dude, look at those two.” He pointed to a pair of goats on the far side of the pen. “They look just like us.”
Kyle wrinkled his nose. “Are you trying to say I’m ugly or something?”
“No,” Stan laughed. “Look at the coloring! That’s totally us.”
One was black with a tuft of white on its chest and the other a rusty orange-brown. They spent another twenty minutes taking pictures of the goats, with the goats, even trying to pose the goats to make it look like they were confronting the sheep. Stan’s goat was resistant and began eating the other one’s shit as it fell from its ass, sending Kyle into a laughing fit of his own. Dusk settled so the sunlight cut across the mountains in a clean line, separating Kyle’s neck into light and shadow. His eyes lit up, specks of green among the brown and his skin glowed golden, teeth shining as his chest shook with laughter. He looked so pretty, and Stan hated that he couldn’t enjoy it without his stomach twisting and swallowing itself.
“Gentlemen,” the attendant walked up to them, cleared his throat. “Time limit’s thirty minutes. You’re up.”
They knew he’d made it up just to make them leave, but it didn’t spoil their mood, grabbing greasy pizza and listening to a band of eighth graders on the mini stage that was set up.
“That should be you up there,” Kyle said, pulling on a loose string of cheese.
Stan smirked. “Nah, I’d get too famous too fast, burn out by the time I’m twenty. Figured I’ll just skip it and go straight to the washed up part.”
Kyle bumped his shoulder, smiling. “I’m serious. You’re actually good, you know.”
“Oh yeah? Think you’d buy teen heartthrob Stan Marsh’s records?”
Kyle shoved him. “Shut up—”
“Stick a poster of my face inside your locker?”
“Dude, don’t act like that’s not already your life.’
Stan reeled. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You already have every girl swooning over you, I don’t think it would be that different. You’d just get paid for it.”
Stan didn’t have time to analyze Kyle’s feelings on this when Token, Butters and Clyde walked up to them as the next performer took the stage. They nodded at one another, Clyde leaning in to whisper, “Watch Bebe’s boobs, her top is totally see-through under the lights.”
Stan didn’t care much about seeing Bebe’s boobs but he faked enthusiasm, muttering nice as Clyde waggled his eyebrows. Kyle generally disapproves of this kind of behavior, but Stan knows he’s too chicken shit to call anyone on it. People started talking shit about Kyle maybe being gay back in freshman year, just because he hadn’t gone out with anyone in a while, and even though Stan knows it pisses him off, Kyle keeps his mouth shut when it might give someone an opportunity to comment. It’s almost funny, Stan thinks, how surprised they’d all be if they knew the truth.
You couldn’t see her boobs really, just the outline of her bra. It was a decent enough rendition of Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful,” but Stan and Kyle spaced out, tapping their feet and smirking, making each other laugh with silent and indecipherable facial expressions.
“Dude, how long is this song?” Kyle asked only a little too loudly.
“You gotta stay,” Token said, leaning over. “Jimmy’s going next and he’s gonna do an impression of Mr. Roberts.”
Kyle looked at Stan. “You wanna stay?”
The fading light, almost completely gone, mixed in with the glow from the stage made the shine on Kyle’s face almost purple, soft and careful. “Yeah, totally,” Stan said, biting down a smile when he saw Kyle do the same.
When the song was over and Bebe left the stage, a heavy hand slapped down on Stan’s shoulder. His stomach sank—the stink of beer and sweat hit his nostrils and he knew his father was wasted before he even turned around.
“Stan, buddy.” Randy spun him by the shoulder. “Time to go, kid, your mom’s in the car.”
Stan slipped from his grasp. “You guys go ahead without me, I want to stay.”
Randy’s cheeks had a pink sheen to them, neck even redder, sweat staining large ovals onto the sides of his t-shirt. He squinted like Stan was speaking to him in another language. “W-what? What now?”
“I’ll get a ride back from Kyle or something, just go without me.” The guys behind him had all gone quiet. He noticed Clyde in his peripheral vision, openly staring.
“Stanley.” Randy pulled on his belt loops, taking heavy steps toward his son. “I just said your mother’s waiting for you in the car. I’m not asking.”
Stan crossed his arms. “Neither am I.”
“Don’t fucking talk back to me.”
A few heads turned at this, and Stan looked at his shoes. He was standing on a smattering of crushed potato chips, a squirt of ketchup staining the white lip of his sneaker sole. He had the irrational thought that maybe if he didn’t look up his father would just disappear, everyone would, or he could disintegrate into crumbs and people could step over him, unknowing, uncaring. Jimmy took the stage, tapping into the mic as it squealed.
Stan sighed, biting his cheeks. “Dad, seriously, just go without me.”
Randy puffed his chest, eyes going glassy. He probably wouldn’t even remember it the next morning. “Stan. Car. Now.”
“No.”
Stan hardly registered what happened other than the pain, his head yanked down. “I said, we’re fucking leaving, Stan,” Randy growled, thumb and forefinger squeezing and pulling on Stan’s right ear, dragging him so he was hunched over. Stan knew he’d made an embarrassing sound, was still making the sound, struggling to pull himself free even as it hurt worse and worse to resist.
“Get the fuck off me!”
“I don’t wanna hear another fucking word out of your mouth.” He squeezed tighter, bringing his mouth close to Stan’s ear. “Go to the fucking car.”
Stan punched out his arm, connecting with Randy’s side who let go and stumbled back. Stan panted, holding his ear, blinking back tears. Jimmy had started his routine and the laughter twisted into whispers, backlit heads turning toward the scene. Stan couldn’t see Kyle’s face, but could tell he was watching him pant, doubled-over still, swallowing. Stan’s face was hot and he knew he was as red as his father, staring at his son before coming back at him.
“What the fuck is that on your face?” He scrubbed his thumb over the paint, looking back at his hand with disgust. “You look like a fucking faggot.”
Stan inhaled and stood upright, stepping back. “Fuck you.”
Randy charged forward. “What was that? You wanna try that again?”
“Hey.” Stephen Stotch appeared at Randy’s side, a tentative hand on his arm. “Randy, take it easy.”
“Let’s go, Stan,” Randy said, pulling his arm back.
“No.”
“Stan. Now.”
“No.”
Randy lunged at him and Stan recoiled, breaking into a run when his father kept coming. Down past the stage area, then back toward the parking. It didn’t look cool or tough or rebellious. It was pathetic, an overgrown toddler running from his father, swearing and kicking and wishing someone would stop being too polite to intervene. Most people just dodged out of the way when they pushed past, and Stan realized some might think it was a joke, a strange game of drunken tag between father and son. He caught sight of Kyle a few times in the scuffle, standing and staring. Randy backed him up to the chain link fence, yanking at Stan’s shirt and ripping the sleeve. Stan kicked and connected with his father’s shin, who stumbled back in pain. They took a moment to catch their breath, frozen and staring at one another, gauging who might have the energy to make the first move.
The only people still paying attention were Kyle and the other guys, a few of Randy’s friends approaching with hesitant smiles, ready to laugh it off. Clyde whispered something to Token who covered his mouth to suppress his laughter.
“I fucking hate you,” Stan said between breaths, straightening up and walking back toward the stage.
“Stan,” Randy wheezed, so out of breath Stan might have been concerned if he didn’t hate him so much. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
He walked past him, bumping Randy’s shoulder as he stumbled into Stan’s way. Randy said his name again, grabbed onto his wrist and yanked.
Stan turned, snarling, “Get off—”
His father’s vomit coated his forearm, flecks spraying onto his shirt and neck. Somewhere near the stage area Stan heard Cartman’s voice—fucking sick!—paired with groans and hisses from onlookers. Stan shook his arm in two sharp whips before turning toward the exit and running.
He passed his mother by her car as she was making her way back in.
“Stan? What’s going on? What happened to your shirt?” she asked, but Stan kept running, breezing past her, ignoring the way the wind cooled his arm where the vomit was drying. She didn’t follow, and he was alone in the house for two hours before his parents made it inside. He heard his mother screaming in the driveway, yelling at Randy to help her, he had to get out of the car himself, she couldn’t carry him. Stan knew he should’ve gone out to help but he didn’t want to, couldn’t bear to look at his face, knowing he wouldn’t even remember what he’d done. Stan turned off his phone and put in his earbuds, turning the volume up until it felt like the beat was inside of him.
He went to Kyle’s for Shabbat the following Friday, a week until the start of school. He bowed his head for the prayer, ate the meal with Kyle’s family, not much opportunity for meaningful conversation. They went up to Kyle’s room after dinner, sitting down to GTA.
“How are things with your dad?” Kyle asked. It was the first he’d brought it up outside of a text just after it’d happened, asking if Stan was ok.
“Uh, fine, you know.” Stan glanced over, Kyle’s eyes still on the screen. Kyle only ever does serious talks over video games, that way they don’t have to look at each other. Stan’s not sure whether this is for his benefit or Kyle’s. “He actually went to an AA meeting the other day. Says he’s going sober for real this time.”
Kyle snorted. “Wow, seriously?”
“Yeah,” Stan nodded. “He said that was rock bottom, so.” He’d heard there was a bit of a scene after he ran off, Sharon dragging Randy on his ass out to the car.
“Right,” Kyle scoffed. “That was rock bottom. Not when he got that DUI last summer and T-boned Mr. Mackey’s car.”
Stan laughed but his stomach was clenching, muscles in between his eyes and at the corners of his mouth starting to pinch. “Ha, yeah I guess not.”
“Well,” Kyle sighed. “How long are you betting it’ll last? Two weeks? Three?”
“Uh,” Stan laughed again, couldn’t seem to stop, mouth drying up as his chest got heavy. “I’m not sure. I guess it just depends.”
“I’m betting two. Let me know if you want the over or under.”
They lapsed into silence, Kyle making comments on the game, characters swearing and firing at each other on screen. Kyle eventually got bored when Stan kept dying, and then Kenny texted them a video that they watched on Kyle’s desktop. Stan never did find out what Wendy needed to ask about him. The video was of a little kid with a sheet over his head running into a door. They both laughed, and Stan meant it, it was funny, but even he knew he was doing a bad job of hiding his hurt. Kyle clicked on other videos, compilations of “epic fails” that they watched back to back to back, Kyle making comments on who ought to win Darwin awards. He realized at some point that Stan wasn’t having a good time but clearly didn’t know why. He asked Stan three times if he was nervous for the new school year. Stan said no, his classes would be easy. Kyle ranted how stressed and overworked he’d be, as if he didn’t believe Stan and wanted to make him feel less anxious by comparison. It started to make Stan angry, at some point, all of Kyle’s flailing when Stan thought it was pretty obvious what upset him.
He wasn’t mad enough to confront Kyle—he saves that for his father—and instead let his anger turn inward, winding itself around the memories and slipping into the cracks of it. He kept returning to the thought that if he hadn’t tried to stay, none of it would’ve happened. His father wouldn’t have quit drinking but Kyle was right, it wouldn’t last forever, and then at least he’d have spared himself from the humiliation, the revelation that to everyone else it wasn’t even humiliating. It was expected. That’s Randy Marsh, he’s an alcoholic. That’s Stan, his son, who really ought to toughen up a little, learn to stand up for himself, take some initiative. He didn’t want to be Randy’s son, or himself—he wanted to be a stranger. Someone Kyle might see on a stage someday and think he has a nice smile, a pretty voice he’d want to listen to through his headphones at night before he goes to bed.
Stan decided he needed to break whatever magnet drew him to Kyle against his own wellbeing. Nothing could ever get better until he did.
But now it’s two weeks later and Stan is on his way to Kyle’s house, flinching when their knuckles brush between them as they walk. Stan holds onto the straps of his backpack, keeping them out of reach.
“Everything good?” Stan asks when Kyle takes out his phone for a third time.
“What? Oh, yeah, all good. Just, uh… yeah. We’re good.” He pockets his phone, clearing his throat. “Oh fuck, did I tell you the shit about Ms. Abner today? She’s such a god damn bitch.”
Stan snorts. Ms. Abner is the only teacher who’s never liked Kyle and he can’t stand it. “What’d she do now?”
“I swear to fucking god, I’ll go to the district if she keeps doing this shit. They need to know they have a psychopath in their employ.”
“In their employ? Dude, you sound like a psycho.”
Kyle groans, smiling. “It’s this fucking AP Lit class, I’m reading so much boring shit that sounds like that.”
Stan swats him. “Don’t lie, you don’t think it’s boring. You love all that old-timey shit.”
Kyle shoves back. “Fuck you.”
“I never said it was a bad thing.”
“You called me a psycho.”
“Oh, right.” Stan laughs. “I forgot.”
Kyle narrows his eyes then proceeds with the anecdote. Stan thinks Kyle’s overreacting but lets him rant away until they reach his front door, still bitching as he puts the key in the lock. He lowers his voice, speeding up his speech to finish before his mother can overhear.
“Kyle? Is that you?” Her voice calls from the kitchen. “I thought you had to meet with—Oh! Hello boys!” She stands in the doorway, a wooden spoon in her hand, hair a little frizzy from standing over a steaming pot. Wendy used to say it wasn’t feminist, but Stan always wished he could come home to his mom in the kitchen, the house clean and sparkling while she made her family their favorite foods, just the way they liked them.
Kyle slings off his backpack, already annoyed at her for acknowledging them. “Hi mom.”
“Stanley!” She moves in, giving him a one-armed hug and pressing her cheek to his. “It’s so nice to see you. I’ve been telling Kyle to bring you over for the last week, I’m glad he’s finally listening.”
“Mom. ”
“Thanks, Mrs. B.” He smiles as wide as he can to stop the pinching feeling in his chest, the same one he gets every time an adult is nice to him. “What are you cooking?”
Kyle kicks out at Stan’s ankle, announcing, “We’re going upstairs.”
“Alright,” Sheila says, walking back toward the stove. “I’ll be up with some snacks in a minute.”
Tromping up the stairs, Kyle mutters, “I swear to god she likes you more than me.”
“That’s just ‘cus she doesn’t have to live with me. If she had to do my laundry it’d be a whole different story.”
They dump their backpacks once they’re in his room, Kyle gravitating to his desk chair while Stan sits on the edge of his bed. He hasn’t slept in it since it was upgraded from a twin to a full, foam mattress and everything. Stan’s own bed is the same one he’s had since memory, same blue sheets and comforter, same creaking sounds and busted springs and stains he doesn’t remember making. He wonders how Kyle would react if he asked to have a sleepover now, if he’d make Stan sleep on the floor.
“Do you have any homework?” Kyle spins in the chair, kicking off his shoes.
Stan does the same. “Psh. You think I’d do it even if I did?”
Kyle rolls his eyes. “It’s gonna catch up with you one day.”
“Don’t worry, you’re entitled to your ‘I told you so’ when it happens.”
Kyle’s snuffs back, almost like a laugh but maybe not, maybe that was going too far. He didn’t think he was still angry, hopes he can tamp down whatever bitter instinct is making him act like this. He’s not mad at Kyle, but if he’s not mad then why aren’t things normal?
“So, uh, did you want to play Xbox or something?” Kyle ventures, pointing at the console. “Or we could watch a movie.”
“Yeah, sure, I’m good with whatever.”
“Uh, cool. So, which one?”
“Either, whichever you feel like.”
Kyle nods, biting his lips. Are these the kind of friends they’re becoming? Ones who need an activity to take the place of talking or else they’ll have nothing to say?
“Or we could just talk,” Stan adds. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Yeah,” Kyle sighs and looks at his lap. “For real. Kinda thought Kenny might’ve convinced you I’m too nerdy to hang out with.”
“Dude,” Stan scoffs. “No way. Why do you think Kenny hates you?”
“I don’t know, maybe because he rips on me almost as much as Cartman?”
“As if, dude, he’s not a fucking anti-semite.”
Kyle snorts. “Yeah, I guess he’s got that going for him.”
“Do you actually not like him?”
Kyle sighs. “No, Kenny’s fine. I don’t know. It just fucking sucks that I don’t have classes with anyone this year. I think I’m just paranoid that you guys are moving on without me.”
Stan chuckles. “Where am I gonna go? Detroit?”
They both laugh. Neither really remembers where that inside joke came from, but bringing out something from their history eases the tension like water on a frying pan, sizzling into mist.
“Yeah, yeah, ok,” Kyle spins the other way in his chair. “I’ll stop being weird.” His sudden relief is palpable, like stepping away from a ledge.
Stan smiles back at him and realizes the source of the awkwardness was Kyle’s inability to figure out what he’d done wrong, why Stan distanced himself. In his own defense, it was only two weeks, but he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known how insecure it would make Kyle. He’s happy to let Kyle think he imagined the distance entirely if it’ll get them out of this loop of politeness.
“Besides,” Kyle says, “I can’t really hate the guy who gets me all the weed I’ll ever need.”
Stan snorts. “Dude, you should hear him talk these days. He sounds like such an asshole.”
“Thank god, I thought I was the only one. Does he think he’s a gangster or something now?”
Stan laughs and they pull up one of those online name generators to tell them their “gangster” names. It dubs Kyle and Stan “Threepac Bastard” and “Fried Green Johnson” respectively. The one it spits out for Kenny is blatantly racist, which makes them feel guilty enough they text Kenny a funny video of a cat falling off a desk as some kind of abstract penance. The next two hours pass with ease, Stan cramming himself onto the edge of the desk chair to share it with Kyle, pulling up video after video and pausing at length to talk in between.
Stan is glad he let his instincts override the pledge. Being butt-hurt isn’t nearly as gratifying as winning Kyle back from himself, no, I can forgive him, I can still hang out and act like he never hurt me. Watch me, fucker. Kyle turns to him in the limited space to do an impression of Cartman while he tells a story from one of his classes that day, making his tongue fat and voice gruff to imitate the cadence. Stan ignores the press of Kyle’s body heat, the line where their thighs meet through their jeans. Kyle overall is long and thin and hard, a direct opposite of all the girls Stan’s ever been interested in. He wonders if this is part of the appeal, the novelty of it. Slinkies and hula hoops are also pretty novel but he doesn’t emotionally feel like he’s slipping into a warm bath whenever he’s around them. Kyle laughs so hard at Stan’s reply that he pig-snorts and Stan feels like the organs in his chest are too big for his ribcage.
He’s had fantasies about coming out to Kyle, “confessing” as it were—he’s still not sure whether his feelings extend to any other guys. He can never imagine what he says to him, only how Kyle reacts. It usually depends on what mood he’s in. He’s thought of extended scenarios where Kyle is awkward, ashamed, disgusted, indifferent, angry, just as much as ones where Kyle opens his arms to hold him, whispering that he feels the same, has been waiting for Stan to say something. He’s only seen Kyle attempt romance a handful of times, all in middle school, and isn’t sure that the real Kyle would ever do such things, even to someone he actually liked. When Stan’s feeling bad about himself he spaces out imagining a botched confession, one where Kyle doesn’t even let him finish talking because he knows where it’s leading and he doesn’t want Stan to ruin things for good. Today he mostly thinks about putting his hand over Kyle’s on the mouse, the way he’d blush if Stan tucked his nose into his scalp behind his ear, how he smells up close.
Kyle’s phone buzzes, which he ignores, but then it buzzes five more times, staccato and out of rhythm, different notifications coming in at once.
Kyle sighs and picks it up. He scrolls down a wall of texts, tapping back hurried replies. “Sorry, I gotta deal with this for a sec. Are you good to wait?”
“Yeah, for sure, dude.” Stan goes to sit on the bed, pulling out his phone.
“Cool, won’t be too long, I promise,” he says without looking up from the screen.
It only takes five minutes for him to compose the email but then he has to follow up on the reply, then add the information to the powerpoint, then call a groupmate to confirm the order of the slides and actually maybe they do need to reformat the intro, give it to Caitlin instead of Josh because she already finished the closing argument and she’ll be the best one to bookend it. Stan listens to Kyle negotiate the project from three different platforms and thinks that he shouldn’t have let Kyle say yes to him. Schoolwork is important to Kyle even when he pretends it isn’t, and if he’d only reminded Kyle that saying no wouldn’t mean they weren’t friends anymore, then Kyle wouldn’t be stressed out and Stan wouldn’t have to lie on Kyle’s stupidly comfortable bed playing flappy bird until his battery hits five percent.
When over an hour has passed, Stan sits up and clears his throat. “Hey, I think I’m gonna head.”
Kyle turns around, phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. “Hang on a second,” he says to the phone, presses a button and sets it face down on the desk. To Stan, “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, my mom texted she wants me to come home.” He’s not sure why he said this, other than it seems believable. It’s the excuse everyone else he knows uses when they want to get out of something.
“Oh, for sure. Sorry about—” He gestures to his computer and stands when Stan does. “Cool, so, uh, thanks for coming over.”
“Thank you,” Stan says nodding, crossing his arms.
“Ok. Do you need me to walk you out, or…?”
Stan smirks. “No, I think I can find my way back.”
“Cool, well don’t let my mom rope you into dinner. It’s gefilte fish night. You’re not ready for that.”
Kyle’s phone vibrates on the desk, absurdly loud. He turns to look and Stan says “See ya,” grabbing the door knob and slipping out before he can keep him any longer. Sheila is on the phone herself, still in the kitchen, and Stan slips by, opening and closing the front door in silence. The sun just set beneath the horizon and while there’s still light he doesn’t want to go home. He takes the long way into town and spends his last five dollars on a Coke and a Kit-Kat bar that’s broken diagonally across the rows. By this time of night the breeze rolls in and it snakes down his collar, through the holes in his jeans and up the cuffs. He takes a deep breath and challenges himself to not think of anything, to allow himself to shiver and enjoy the onset of autumn. For as much as he complains about the cold he misses it as soon as it’s gone, fearful from documentaries he’s seen that these warm periods will only get longer and longer. But you don’t have to worry about that, he reminds himself, kicking a brittle pine cone along the sidewalk and smirking.
He comes through the back and hears his parents in the living room, walks through the kitchen strewn with mixing bowls, dirty pots and spatulas. Their wasted plates sit out on the dining table while they huddle on the couch, his mother’s legs tucked under her while his dad has an arm around her shoulders. She leans into his chest, laughing like he hasn’t heard her in a while, as Randy struggles through a story, sucking in breaths between giggles. “That was the best one, I swear to god,” he wipes a happy tear from his eye. Stan looks around for the wine bottle but sees nothing, no smell of pot, either.
His mother lifts her head and notices him, face brightening with surprise. “Stan! Hi sweetheart, how was school?”
Randy half turns to him, looking for Sharon’s reaction. “Did you finkle your tinkle?”
“Stop!” She gasps in laughter, swatting at his chest.
“What?” Stan asks.
“Nothing, nothing, your father’s just being a jackass.”
“Stan,” Randy points at him. “Does Mr. Marcus still work at your school? Tall guy, feathered hair?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
“God damn it. I gotta find one of my old yearbooks or something.”
“I remember it,” his mother says, leaning her head in flirtatiously. “What, you don’t believe me?”
Stan stays there another minute or two, waiting to see if they’ll ask him anything else or acknowledge him in any way, but they don’t, so he heads upstairs. His mother sounds like a small dog when she laughs, yapping giddy barks that don’t actually annoy him that much but he still wants it to stop. His dad seemed genuinely sober and he feels bad for being surprised. Randy! she whines, cackling as he starts to sing a classic rock song Stan barely recognizes. So they’re happy now. That’s good. Maybe Randy will stay sober. Maybe things will work out. His parents will stop fighting and he’ll start doing his homework again, or he’ll find a girl who feels bad for him—there’s no shortage of those—and date her, which will take up enough of his time to let Kyle go slowly, naturally, that way there’s no hard feelings. If he gets on it quick enough, or if Kyle gets pissed about being ditched, then he won’t even have to feel that bad when Stan dies by the end of the year. Everybody wins.
He mumbles something about the laundry as he heads past his parents for the garage, a stray “uh-huh” thrown his way from Sharon. He flips on the light and drags his fingertips across the dusted cardboard boxes lining the walls, labels with “TAXES ‘08” “X-MAS DEC” and “SHELLY’S ROOM” sharpied on the front. He lifts up “TAXES ‘06” to get to “TAXES ‘98” behind it, pulling at the tucked-in flap. There’s a moment where he thinks he might be wrong, but he isn’t, he never is, and pulls out one of three stashed bottles of Jameson shoved in beside the paper stack. There were three in there the last time he checked, a month before his father’s sobriety pledge, so at least he’s been honest. But they’re still there, which means his father hasn’t had the conviction to get rid of them yet. Stan knows how it feels, too scared to take the plunge. He unscrews the bottle, taking a short sip before pouring as much as he can into his mostly empty Coke bottle. It’ll all be ok, one way or another.
He’s only a little hungover the next morning, and he makes it to school on time, stays awake through the lesson and understands most of it. Kyle and Kenny aren’t arguing at lunch which is a relief, they actually sort of ignore Stan while theorizing how they could turn the water at the public pool to jello—how many packets they’d need, people to stand guard, etc. There’s a pop quiz in Spanish that he fails but Kenny doesn’t have anything to do after school so they smoke and play basketball with Craig and those guys, heading home once it’s dark.
His mom has heated up some nachos that are waiting for him on the kitchen counter while she and Randy watch another murder documentary, huddled together under a knit blanket on the couch. He does his homework. He goes to Kyle’s for Shabbat dinner on Friday. Kyle invites him to come next week too and he says yes, failing to think of a reason why he shouldn’t. He doesn’t hear his father raise his voice the entire week and he goes to bed every night sipping whiskey from the Coke bottle, falling asleep with his headphones in. He texts his sister on her birthday, she texts back thanks. By the following Thursday he’s worked himself through the second bottle. Things are good now. He just needs to wait for his brain to catch up.