Chapter Text
A homonym is a word with two definitions; it can sound or be spelled the same way as another word, but still have a different meaning. The word address is a homonym. Same goes for bear, bat, quail, ring, rose and, in my own personal opinion, the word care.
Because, I care about Kyle Broflovski in the sense that I want to know what he’s up to. Where he is, what he’s doing, whether or not he studied for the upcoming test, what he got on said test, etc. But I don’t care about him in the sense that I want to know how he feels, or if he’s emotionally stable or if he has severe depression or something. I don’t care about his well-being, I just care about his physical presence in our English Literature and Composition class because our little academic rivalry is probably the only thing keeping me entertained these days.
Or, perhaps, the term care is not a homonym, but a word with levels. If you care about someone in an emotional sense, you likely care about their attendance and physical prescience and test scores, as well. It’s essentially one or both, introducing some kind of quantity or depth to the idea. Yes, that seems right. I would say it goes like this:
Level 0: You do not care about the physical presence or emotional stability of this individual.
Level 1: You do care about the physical presence of the individual, but not their emotional stability.
Level 2: You care about the physical presence and emotional stability of this individual.
Although it’ll forever remain at level one, it is safe to say I care enough for Kyle Broflovski to dedicate an entire sticky note on my desk about the levels of the word care to distract me from the fact he hasn’t been here for four weeks straight. Or, more so, to distract me from the fact that I care (at a level one, of course).
“Alright class, settle down,” Mr. Garrison told the various students in the room in his typical crabby tone. Oh, of course, Mr. Garrison, I think to myself. This is a college-level class and nobody was talking in the first place, but go ahead and shush us anyway. “Today a certain student will be returning to our classroom setting, I know you’ve all missed him very much.” My heartbeat suddenly quickened and I felt very sweaty and nervous. As I ran fingers through my frizzled hair, I hoped that Mr. Garrison was talking about Michael Huang— The goth kid whose mom forced him to take an AP class junior year, one of which he skipped nearly every day in favor of smoking with his clique.
But I knew it wasn’t Michael. Why was I suddenly so self-conscious?
When the door opened to reveal a familiar shade of scarlet curls, I felt less insecure because Kyle looked worse, not in the sense that he was unattractive—which, by the way, I can admit that Kyle is attractive and hate him at the same time. The same way I can care about him (at a level one) and dislike him, too—but today, Kyle just looked worse to me in the sense that he didn’t look like Kyle. His skin was paler, and his figure was skinner since the last time I had seen him. He hadn’t bothered to do his curls properly. He had a red rash on his neck, and a couple bruises on both his arms. He appeared exhausted and his posture was slouched, opposed to his usual energy and poise that he carried with himself to school. Speaking of which; Kyle typically dressed himself decently for school, but today, he was wearing a t-shirt for The Cure and some gray sweatpants.
It was almost as if something had sucked all the life out of him. You would think he came from an abusive home. He looked dead. “Kyle, you may now take your usual seat,” Mr. Garrison told Kyle in a pitiful voice. I felt my face heat up. The desks in English Literature and Composition were organized in rows. My seat was at the very front of the second row. Kyle’s seat was at the very front of the third. I watched through my peripheral vision as Kyle made his way over to the desk on my right, slung his backpack over his chair lazily, and sat down without lifting his head. I turned my head towards him for a few moments. I opened my mouth to say something, but I was cut off by Mr. Garrison.
“Mark, since Kyle is four weeks behind, his parents want someone to tutor him after school. I know you take extra notes every day and I think you’re most fit for the job,” He said.
“What? No.” I replied, blunt and immediate. I was looking straight ahead, but I could feel Kyle’s eyes on me.
Mr. Garrison sighed, and added on, “His parents are willing to pay $20 an hour, but if you do it, I’ll sign it off as community service despite the payment you’d be receiving.” I bit my lip. I’ve been so busy with my extracurriculars lately that I really needed those community service hours. “Fine,” I mumble. “I’ll do it.”
I turned my head back to Kyle, who was without a doubt staring back at me with those big, brown eyes of his. “I can't escape you, can I, Cotswolds?” Kyle said, resting his face on his fist. He didn’t seem happy, and I couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t want to be tutored by me or because I didn’t want to tutor him. “Today, 4:00 pm. Library.” He told me, minimizing his words before looking back down at his desk. He didn’t speak again for the rest of the period.
———
I opened the door to the library and easily spotted Kyle sitting at a round table towards the computers. Not only were there a total of five kids in the library (including me and him) but he sort of stood out compared to the rest of them, anyway. I felt my heartbeat pick up again. I never really talk to him without a bunch of other people around, paying attention to us. And I haven’t really interacted with him in four weeks (unless you count the awkward exchange in class today). Despite the fact that he looked significantly weaker than before he stopped coming to school, I was still kind of worried he’d kick my ass.
Every neuron in my brain wanted me to run away, but I walked over and sat down instead. He looked up at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. After a few seconds, I began to rummage through my bag for my notebook as an excuse to break eye contact, but his gaze didn’t falter.
“Alright, so um… the bad news is you missed two units. But the good news is that they were both very short, so it shouldn’t take very long for you to—“
“Do you hate me?”
My head snapped towards him. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, I get that you don’t like me and I don’t like you, but y’know, I guess I sort of figured you’d still pity me the same way everyone else did. But you refused Garrison’s offer immediately. Do you hate me?” Kyle repeated the question.
I opened my mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “I don’t even know why you were gone.”
Kyle’s eyes widened when he heard that. “Oh.”
A pause.
“Garrison didn’t tell you guys?” He asked after a moment.
“Someone asked. He said it was a private matter, and you’d like to keep it that way.” I replied. Except, it wasn’t just someone who asked, it was me. But that’s a private matter, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“I didn’t say that shit. My parents did,” Kyle groaned, shoving his face into his hands. “I literally said I wanted the teachers to let people know so that everyone would be slightly more chill about it by the time I came back.”
I didn’t know how to ask what happened. “So…”
“I have acute myeloid leukemia.” Kyle said, muffled through his hands.
My eyes widened once I processed the words that came out of his mouth. I turned about as pale as him. “That’s uh… wow. Okay, um. Gosh, uhh..”
“Please don’t make it a big deal.” He told me, to which I replied, “Cancer is kind of a big deal.”
Despite my shock, it all clicked. Pale skin, bruises, rashes— Kyle’s immune system literally wasn’t functioning.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“Don’t be sorry, as if you’re the reason I have cancer.”
“I’m not sorry because you have cancer, idiot. I’m sorry because I gave you the impression that I hate you,” I retorted, a little rudely, so I toned it down a bit. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I only figured you did because I thought you already knew my immune system sucked at being an immune system. But that’s all I wanted to know,” Kyle muttered, slapping a $20 bill on the table before grabbing his bag and walking off. I looked at it for a moment before grabbing it and following suit.
“Hey, wait, what? We haven’t even started,” I said, tilting my head in confusion. If Kyle wasn’t caught up he would fail the test at the end of the week. If he failed the test at the end of the week I didn’t have competition anymore. And although I refuse to ever pity Kyle Broflovski of all people, I cared about him and his cancer (at a level one). He turned to me and responded simply, “I’ll give you your twenty bucks every day, but I don’t actually need these sessions. I just need my parents to think I’m doing them. I’m healthy enough to catch up by myself, and I don’t require your help,” He explained angrily, but I don’t think he was angry at me as much as he was angry at leukemia. “Have a nice day, Cotswolds.” He whispered bitterly before turning around. “Likewise, Broflovski.” I mumbled before the door slammed shut, causing all of the library residents (three students and the librarian, if she even counts) to turn their heads at me.
Me and Kyle always said goodbye to one another like that. It was meant to be ironic because we didn’t like each other and yet we were still wishing each other well every day. But right now, with the sour taste in my mouth and the weak feeling in my knees, I kind of wished he meant it this time.