(no subject)
Kyle did feel tired, but it took him 39 minutes to fall asleep. He knew this because he lay there on his side, facing the red numbers of his clock, which taunted him from 4:56 to 5:35 a.m. When he was jolted awake at 11 a.m., he realized that in the previous night’s fog of exhaustion and misery, he’d forgotten to turn off his alarm. He tried to get back to sleep for another 10 minutes or so, but while staring at the ceiling wide awake, the wide-open window rattling away, he realized that he was up, still exhausted, and single. So he got out of bed.
Breakfast sucked, as did coming into the kitchen to find his parents sitting at the table, newspapers strewn around in front of them. Gerald and Sheila stopped talking to each other, both looked up at him, and said nothing. Kyle paused in the doorway, sort of considering turning around, running upstairs, smashing his head against the wall for a couple of hours, and then maybe feeling further miserable in some sort of as-yet-undecided fashion for the remainder of the weekend. But before he could enact this plan, Gerald spoke to him.
“Good morning, Kyle,” his father said pleasantly. His mother’s eyes widened and she flashed her husband a sign of warning. Kyle still said nothing. Gerald proceeded with caution: “Sleep okay?”
“No.”
Gerald looked to Sheila for help, and she cleared her throat. “Do you want me to make you something?” she asked hopefully.
“No.”
“Really, Kyle,” she said sternly. He shrugged and started making himself a bowl of cereal. “You could at least be pleasant.” He continued to ignore her. “I know you’re in a foul mood, but honestly.” She sighed. “Nobody likes a jerk.”
Kyle put away the box of cereal and slammed the cabinet door. He picked up his bowl of cereal and rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mom, here’s what going to happen. I’m going to go eat this in the living room. You’re both going to leave me alone because I feel like fucking crap. Understood?”
“Kyle!” his father exclaimed, coupled with his mother’s standard interjection. But he just walked out of the kitchen, fell down on the living room couch, and turned to see his brother watching television quietly.
“Hi,” he said sweetly.
“Oh, don’t you ‘hi’ me!”
“What?” Ike asked. “Are you still in a bad mood?”
Kyle just groaned.
“Are you eating breakfast?”
“Obviously.” Kyle looked at the TV. “What the fuck are we watching?” he asked.
“SportsCenter,” Ike said.
“Well, turn that crap off.” Kyle took a bite of some cereal. “I want to watch something else,” he said through a full mouth.
“I was here first.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Why are you so mean?”
Kyle rolled his eyes. “I am not mean. I am in pain.”
“Be in all the pain you want,” Ike said. “But don’t be a bitch!”
“Give me that!” Kyle grabbed for the remote, which Ike was clutching in both hands.
“No!” Ike tugged on the device, which they were now struggling over. Kyle was still holding his bowl of cereal in one hand, so he reached over to set it down sloppily on the table next to the couch. A bit splashed out, but he didn’t care. Fighting with Ike over the remote was far too interesting to him in this moment to worry about making a mess.
“Why can’t you be cool?” Ike asked rhetorically, his dirty fingers slipping.
“Why don’t you ever just let me be?” Kyle asked, although he was hoping for a response.
“I was here first!”
“Fucking just give me the remote, you little fucker!”
“You always take shit out on me!” Ike cried. “I am so fucking sick of it! You’re such a damn fag!” Kyle was momentarily distracted; he’d never heard his brother say that word before. Bristling with anger, Kyle grunted and yanked the remote as hard as he could. With a smile, Ike gracefully let go, and Kyle tumbled backward, his head hitting the back of the sofa. The bowl of cereal wobbled a little, but only a bit sloshed over the sides. Now there were a few marshmallows sitting in a pool of dull white liquid on the table, and Kyle was half-on, half-off the couch, holding a remote control. Ike stood up and crossed his arms.
“I always wondered if I should try that,” he said with some pleasantness in his voice. Clearly he was happy with himself. Kyle looked up at him, not sure if he wanted to attack verbally or physically, or just curl up into a ball and feel sorry for himself.
“You,” he breathed.
“Have fun watching TV by yourself, shithead,” Ike said cheerily. He then turned and ran upstairs, as if he were more terrified of retribution than he let on.
Picking himself up, Kyle left the cereal mess on the table and stomped into the kitchen. His parents were still sitting at the table; obviously they’d been listening.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked them, not bothering to explain.
“Nothing,” his mother answered.
“You should really be nicer to your brother,” Gerald added.
“Nicer?” Kyle asked, cheeks pinking.
“Kyle, bubbe,” his mother said, indicating the chair next to her. “Come, sit.”
“I’m not a fucking dog!” Kyle replied. “Don’t tell me to sit!”
“Have a seat,” his father sighed wearily. “We’re not going to punish you.”
“Punish me? That kid calls me a fag and you think I should be punished?”
“Just sit down, Kyle.” His father’s voice was devoid of energy or amusement, and Kyle felt this was slightly serious, so he sat. “You think we don’t know what goes on between you boys? I know younger brothers can be annoying, but you’re six years older. There’s something to be said for maturity.”
“And patience,” Sheila added.
“Patience? He goes in my room! I have no privacy!”
“You know, you could lock the door,” Gerald suggested.
“Oh, really?” Kyle asked. “You really think he doesn’t know how to pick a lock?”
“That’s besides the point,” Kyle’s father amended. “Beating up your brother is never ever okay. Ever.”
“But-”
“Never,” Sheila clarified.
“This is so typical,” Kyle moaned. “You.” He turned to his mother and pointed at her. “You fucking think you’re going to help me, and then you just set me up to get fucked over. You did it to me when I was 8, you did it to me when I was 11, and you fucking do it to me now.”
Sheila made an unimpressed face and said, “I just want what’s best for you.”
“You have no fucking idea what the fuck is best for me!”
“Stop yelling at your mother.”
“Why?” Kyle replied. “Every time she opens her fat bitch mouth I get fucked over!”
“This is ridiculous.” Kyle’s mother crossed her arms over her breasts. He had been expecting her to get up and slap him, but she didn’t, and it caught him off-guard.
“Fuck both of you,” Kyle concluded. “Just fucking fuck everyone.” As he stormed out of the room, he heard his father call after him, but he knew neither of them would follow him upstairs.
He picked up his pants from the night before and got his cell phone out. He didn’t know who to talk to, where to go … the phone began to ring and when he answered, his voice hitched before he croaked out a miserable, “I need help.”
“What’s wrong?” Stan asked. He was obviously trying to sound alert, but his voice betrayed him; he sounded preoccupied, or at least occupied, and drowsy.
“Craig dumped me.”
“Oh,” Stan said unenthusiastically. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t even know!” Kyle cried. “I gotta get out of here. Meet me in half an hour? I need some coffee or … something.”
“I’m … not really out of bed yet,” Stan said lamely.
“Well, get up!”
“Kyle, I’m-”
“You’re what, you’re…” Kyle trailed off when he heard a voice in the background. “Stanley,” he said sweetly. “Who is that?”
“Oh.” Stan sounded plenty unhappy. “That would be Bebe.”
“Oh, it’s just Bebe. Tell me, Stanley, why is Bebe at your house?”
“She’s not. I’m at Bebe’s house.” Kyle felt the phone become incredibly slippery in his grasp, and he felt an incredibly unpleasant full feeling in his chest. His heart was beating fast, very fast, and with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone he gripped his chest.
“Stanley,” he panted. “Why … why are you at Bebe’s house?” Stan didn’t answer. Kyle thought, in the silence, he could hear Stan’s tense breathing. He considered that maybe this was Bebe, but he didn’t want to believe he was hearing her exhale over the phone. It was impossible. “Well, I’m terribly sorry to do this to you,” he continued, “but please get up. I need you right now.”
Stan’s voice tightened into a harsh whisper, and he replied, “I can’t just get up and leave her.”
“You’d fucking better.”
“No.”
Another 30 seconds of short breathing, and Kyle felt his chest continue to tighten. He heard a stern, high voice in the background, but all he made out was the word “ridiculous” and a couple of select curses.
“I’m sorry,” Stan said plainly. “I can come over later, maybe.”
“Forget it!” Kyle screamed. “I just don’t fucking care anymore!” He whipped the phone across the room, where it hit the wall, leaving a navy blue mark against the plaster. Still, the thing fell onto his desk largely intact, although he would never be able to control the volume again.
The impact had been strong enough to end the call, though, and Stan did not get in touch about later.
~
Monday was wet like a dishrag, gray and dirty, sad and lonely. Kyle felt like that, too - used, unclean, overloaded with metaphors of uselessness and irrelevance. Ike did not speak to him on the drive to school, and although he felt that some of the kids whose names he didn’t know might have been leering at him in the hall, no one spoke to him. He stood in front of his locker shifting books around before stowing his hat. It was really too warm for a hat anymore, and Kyle only briefly considered wearing it anyway. But it was thickly humid, or thickly humid for South Park, and he wanted to feel himself sweat all day long even less than he wanted to be seen by anyone.
With a few minutes before first period, Kyle was approached by the person he least wanted to speak to. It was only as Craig was clearing his throat, paper grocery bag in hands, curled up neatly like an overgrown lunch sack, that Kyle really firmed up his decision not to wear a hat all day, because then he would be that much more like Craig.
“Hey,” Craig said in that obtuse voice of his. “How are you?”
Kyle scowled and rolled his eyes and put on his most beleaguered expression. “I fucking suck; how are you?”
“Not so great,” Craig confessed. He cleared his throat. “This is really hard to say, but I am sorry,” he continued.
Kyle’s eyebrows lifted, and his bottom lip trembled, although he did try to still it. “Oh?”
“Yeah, well … yeah. I don’t want you to suck. I want you to be happy.” Craig gave a weird little smile. It felt very un-Craiglike.
“So.” Kyle swallowed. “We don’t have to break up?”
Then Craig frowned, and sniffed. “No,” he clarified. “We have to break up. Trust me.”
“But, you said-”
“-I just don’t necessarily want you to be unhappy,” Craig repeated. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Well, that’s great, because you really did.”
“And I feel pretty bad. But look.” Craig sighed, and offered Kyle the bag. “It’s your stuff back.”
“How much stuff did I give you?” Kyle asked.
“I don’t know. There are some underwear you left at my place. The left over ribbon, from the flowers on Saturday.”
“Flowers,” Kyle repeated stupidly.
“Yeah, they make you buy a whole fucking yard. Fuck that store, man. I wish there were another place to get ribbon in town.”
“What else?” Kyle asked blankly.
“Not a lot,” Craig confessed. “Pair of gloves you lent me … um, that Dana International CD.”
Kyle felt his chest constrict, which was happening a lot lately. There was nearly no one in the hall now; class had started. His first instinct was to drop the bag and run, get to class, leave Craig behind. But he didn’t. “I gave you that CD,” Kyle moaned. “It … it was for you.”
“I know. I just can’t keep it.”
“Come on, dude,” Kyle whined. He shuffled his feet. “Don’t do this to me.”
“I gotta.”
“But I like you,” Kyle said. “So much.”
“I know,” Craig signed. “I’m awesome. I give great hand jobs. I know you like me. But I don’t like you, I love you, and it’s just not going to work.”
“All the seduction, all the preparation…”
“…I know.” Craig crossed his arms. “But look. Sometimes, you work really hard to get something, and you know it’s just not going to be the way you wanted it to be, and … oh, fuck me. I thought I could make you love me, or something, but … fuck. Life is so short. I wanted it, we tried it, you’re kind of a good cocksucker, but-”
Kyle’s face turned bright pink, and he dropped the bag. “Kind of?” he cried. “Kind of?” This was the first thing Craig had ever said to him that he really found insulting.
“Whoa. Calm down.”
“I am calm!” Kyle began to kick his locker.
“This would be cute if it weren’t so cliché.” Craig sighed and grabbed Kyle’s shoulders to wrench him away from the locker. “Or maybe the cliché makes it cute?”
“I hate everything!”
“No you don’t. You like Stan, for instance.”
“I’m pissed at Stan!”
“You’ll get over it.”
Kyle straightened out his posture, and crossed his arms. He looked at the ground and gave the paper bag with the Dana International CD inside of it a little kick. “This sucks fucking balls, Craig.” He looked down in shame and mumbled, “Please don’t leave me.”
Craig tried to put on a reassuring expression, but in his mind he could see himself looking like an escapee from an asylum, so he just frowned, and held Kyle by the shoulders again. “I’d be a fucking retard to tell you that that fucking loser breeder is ever going to be into you-”
“Oh, that just makes it so much better!”
“-but I do think you will love someone eventually who isn’t straight, and isn’t just looking for a blowjob. But it’s not going to be me.” Craig leaned into Kyle, and carefully applied what was perhaps their briefest, driest kiss on the mouth yet. “Because you don’t love me.”
“No,” Kyle admitted. “But why does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” Craig dropped his arms, and shrugged. “You should go to class now.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“I’m going to go sit in the library and be miserable for a while.”
“Can I come with you?” Kyle asked, wiping his eyes.
“No. No, that would defeat the point.”
“Why did you even like me at all?”
Craig shrugged. “You’re just such a crazy bitch,” he said hesitantly. “And your ass reminds me of one of those pincushions that’s shaped like a tomato.” Kyle put a hand to his mouth, and Craig said, “This is just dragging on forever. Talk to you later?”
“Sure,” Kyle said. His hand was still over his mouth, so the word sounded garbled, which was fine, because he didn’t really mean it. He watched Craig leave, narrowly missing the garbage can because he was looking at the floor as he departed. Now Kyle was alone in the hallway, and he was late for class. Silently, he picked up the paper bag and cradled it in the crook of his arm while he fiddled with his combination lock. He stashed the bag on the floor of the locker, and clicked the lock shut. He turned and slammed the locker closed with his behind, and went to class. His teacher asked him where he’d been, but he just shrugged and took a tardy, his first of the year.
~
For the first time in a long time, Kyle stood by himself in the lunch line. Some senior girls behind him were discussing Wendy’s party of the previous weekend, and he understood them to be saying unfortunately disturbing things:
“I mean, I’d do him.”
“Seriously? I heard he was dating that little fag from the social committee.”
“I know, but that somehow makes it hotter.”
“Who am I kidding? I’d do anyone from the football team.”
“Tell me about it! Especially the quarterback! What’s his name again?”
“I don’t know, Sam or something…”
Kyle put his tray back down on top of the stack of trays, wiped the dampness off of his hands, and headed for his table. But even across the cafeteria he could see Craig’s blue hat, and that Craig was sitting next to Thomas, probably complaining about his broken heart.
Well, it wasn’t his fault if Craig was miserable. Frankly, he was making Kyle just as if not more miserable. So didn’t he deserve to feel like shit? Kyle took some small solace in the fact that Craig would receive very little consoling out of Thomas, in between all the cursing and flinching. Bolstering himself, Kyle turned in the opposite direction and decided to go sit at the other table. It occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t spend lunch in the cafeteria anyway, since he wasn’t eating and was trying to avoid pretty much anyone. He still felt like he was being watched as he dodged those same senior chicks who apparently had a thing for football players. But he felt like being around people was healthy, and as long as he didn’t run into Craig, he didn’t care how many people stared at him.
Kyle approached the table in trepidation, twisting the hem of his shirt in with his fingers. “Hey guys,” he said softly. “Can I, um … can I sit here?”
Tweek looked up at him and opened his mouth, probably about to respond with a dramatic denial, but Kenny clasped a hand over his mouth and said, “Of course.”
“Yeah,” Clyde agreed. Kyle waited for another objection as Kenny uncovered Tweek’s mouth, but the boy just shuddered and wrapped his arms around his own torso, shaking.
“Where’s Stan?” Kyle asked Kenny as he took a seat.
“Stan?” Kenny asked. “I haven’t seen him since Wendy’s. I don’t think he came to school today.”
“Oh,” was all Kyle said.
“Honestly I figured you’d have spoken to him.”
“No,” Kyle said glumly.
“Well, you look pretty miserable. What’s up?”
Kyle looked around, and his lips quivered as he tried to decide if he wanted to talk to Kenny (and by default, Clyde and Tweek if they were paying any attention) about his problems. It was better than nothing, Kyle decided, so he announced, “Craig dumped me.”
“Yeah, we know,” Clyde said. Clearly he had been listening, even if he was eating a grilled cheese sandwich at the time.
“How do you know?” Kyle asked.
“Craig.”
“Oh yeah.”
Kyle gave a belabored sigh and scratched his head.
“What happened?” Kenny asked.
“I don’t really know,” Kyle mumbled.
“Craig said you were cheating on him or something,” Clyde said casually.
“What?” All the color drained from Kyle’s face. “He said that? I was not!”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention,” Clyde said dismissively. “He just said something about you and some other guy, and then I went to trig.”
“Was Stan in trig?” Kyle asked.
“No,” Clyde answered. “Sorry.” He got up to go throw away his trash, taking his tray with him. Tweek, who had been sitting there for the duration of this exchange, popped out of his seat and gave Kyle a weird, evil look before rushing off after Clyde, hands in his pockets. It took Kyle a moment to realize that this was first time he’d spoken to Clyde directly in a long time, and he stared after him wistfully for a moment, appreciating the way his ass bounced as he walked, especially in comparison to Tweek’s, which was barely existent.
“Well,” Kenny said suddenly, yanking Kyle’s attention away from the straight kids. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I don’t think I am. I wasn’t exactly rooting for you and Craig or anything.”
“Oh, good,” Kyle moaned sarcastically. “Well, I don’t think Stan liked him much either. So it’s good to know my friends had my back on this one.”
“Kyle, please. We want you to be happy.”
“Oh, so does everyone.” This remark was also basically sarcastic. “And look at how fucking happy I am now.”
“You really are a bitch,” Kenny said, but there was no anger in his voice, and he was smiling a little. Kyle tried to return the smile, but it just turned to mush on his face, and he went back to blatantly suffering. “Come on, dude. It could be a lot worse. You could be dating Cartman or something.” Kenny kind of chuckled at this, and he genuinely laughed when he saw upset this comment made Kyle.
“Please don’t even go there,” he gagged. “I heard some chicks in the lunch line talking about how they’d do him. Him! With that, and Butters, and Wendy, it’s just … my god, can you imagine?”
“I don’t know,” Kenny confessed. “I’d tap it if I got the chance.”
“Dude!”
“Well, but I’d tap anything,” Kenny clarified. “And besides, there’s this thing with football players.” He narrowed his eyes and said this very directly to Kyle. “If you know what I mean.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Whatever you say,” Kenny sniffed. He picked up a banana and began to unpeel it. “This reminds me,” he said brightly before taking a substantial bite. Then he spoke through a full mouth: “I wonder if Chris remembered to buy lube when he went to the drugstore last night.”
“Kenny, please,” Kyle moaned. “Why do you have to talk about that fucking loser while I’m sitting here?”
“Kyle.” Kenny’s voice was suddenly full of hurt. “I love him.”
“I just got dumped is all.” Kyle squeezed his eyes tightly. “Can’t you be a little sensitive?”
“Oh.” Kenny set down his banana, and finished swallowing a bite. “Poor thing. Do you want to come over after school and talk about it?”
“You mean that? I mean, I was just going to talk to Stan, but…” Kyle looked around. “I don’t know where he is.” He said this with perhaps the most pathetic, broken voice Kenny had ever heard him use.
“Yeah, sure.” Kenny paused. “Maybe this is something you shouldn’t talk to Stan about.” He paused again. “Yeah, come over after school.”
“You mean it?”
“Yeah, but come over directly after school. I have something I need to do later.”
“You’re such a good friend, dude,” Kyle said sadly, clearly not focused on Kenny’s instructions. “I don’t deserve it.”
“I know you don’t,” was all Kenny said in reply.
~
Cartman was not in Latin after lunch, and as Kyle shuffled his flashcards by himself, he breathed a sigh of relief that for once that day, something was going less than horribly for him. It was only before the period actually began when a crackling noise came over the loudspeaker that he realized Carman’s absence was only a sick joke.
“Hey, you guys,” the voice whined over the intercom.
“Oh, no,” Kyle said aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose. The girl next to him gave him a weird look, but he averted his look and gave her the finger.
“I’d like to dedicate this song to my friends Kyle and Craig,” Cartman continued. “Love is just so fragile, you guys, my God. It’s like, all about, feelings and stuff? And one day, you’re dating the person who you think you love, and the next day, it turns out they’re all in love with the quarterback of the football team, and stuff, and you just wanna be all, ‘Ey! I did your hair for you, get on your fucking knees and blow me while I’m eating a sandwich!’ But being gay is a bitch, you guys, I’m seriously.”
“Eric, it’s not very nice to rub their noses in it,” a softer, smaller voice said faintly in the background.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Butters,” Cartman hissed. “Enjoy!” he concluded quickly. There was a clicking noise, and Kyle felt every pair of eyes in the room zero in on him as “…Baby, One More Time” began to play over the intercom system.
Without saying anything, Kyle gracelessly gathered up his things and ran out. He didn’t know if Cartman was planning on coming to class or what, but he didn’t want to be there when or if it happened.
~
It was only during dinner that Kyle remembered his date with Kenny. His family was eating early, and it was only 6:30 or so, and Kyle was not eating with them. His mother had tried to talk to him when he came home, so he knew they were having pierogi and sauerkraut, with a huge lumpy, chalky potion of Sheila’s dry-ass mashed potatoes on the side. Kyle didn’t know why his mother persisted in thinking that he liked her cooking, or liked her, or wanted to have anything to do with her or her cooking or anything like that. He gracelessly told her where she could go and what she could do with herself, but she followed him upstairs anyway, lecturing or maybe pleading about his behavior. And after he slammed the door in her face and secured it with a chair under the knob, he rolled over and fell asleep. He hadn’t slept well on Saturday or Sunday night, and he hadn’t been eating, either.
Truthfully, he did feel a little bad about being late to meet Kenny, but he was sure his impoverished friend wouldn’t mind. Kenny didn’t do homework, didn’t take ballet lessons, didn’t volunteer at any soup kitchens. (Probably because he was more likely to be a patron of a soup kitchen, Kyle figured.) He might be a little peeved, but he’d get over it; Kenny had nothing more important to do than wait for Kyle to show up.
Mrs. McCormick’s acid-red hair was cartoonish, and Kyle had always seen some faint violet in there. It never really occurred to him that the shade of this wiry, graceless woman’s hair was inexplicably similar to that of his stately, if intolerable, mother. This woman had a misplaced Southern twang, which always bothered Kyle, because this was Colorado, not Texas, and he liked to think that Colorado was at least far enough north for that to be misplaced. So he shuddered a little as he stood in the doorway freezing, and Mrs. McCormick screamed out her son’s name, trying to get him to come to the door.
“He should be here,” she said apologetically. “His little French friend was over earlier, and I saw him leave and Kenny wasn’t with him.” Kyle just gave her a shrug; Kenny had better be there, and yet he didn’t know why this woman didn’t keep better track of her own son. “You can go on and just try and find him for yourself,” she said finally, shutting the door behind Kyle.
Kenny’s house was a pit, of course, a single-storey hovel on the wrong side of the tracks, literally. Cartman might call this the ghetto, but to Kyle’s mind, you had to be at least close enough to the ghetto yourself to be able to recognize it as such. To him, it was just Kenny’s house, a place he stayed away from. Right now, however, it felt so much better than his own house, which harbored his shit-sucking family which didn’t give a damn about him.
A poster of a scantily-clad woman in a cowboy hat hung on Kenny’s door, and Kyle sighed on seeing that someone had singed her eyes out, perhaps with a cigarette, although the holes were large enough to suggest that perhaps this had been done repeatedly, or perhaps only once, with a cigar. He banged on the door once, and then twice, and he sighed. “Kenny?” he called out. There was silence; no one answered. The McCormick house had at least one person in it, and it still felt deserted and uninhabited. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Kyle lied through the door. “Just let me in already.”
Sighing, he shrugged and gave up, twisting the knob. Perhaps it wasn’t locked - and it wasn’t. Kyle stepped inside the room, took a look at the chair lying flat on the ground, and then up at Kenny McCormick’s dangling feet. He wasn’t wearing any pants, not even underwear, and as Kyle’s gaze trailed up the body, over the partially developed erection and faint tracings of seminal fluid on the thighs, he noticed horrible things - scars, burn marks, little wounds matching the size and shape of the ones in the poster on the door.
Kyle could not even bear to look at Kenny’s face. He took this all in and after a second, maybe two, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he fainted.
Breakfast sucked, as did coming into the kitchen to find his parents sitting at the table, newspapers strewn around in front of them. Gerald and Sheila stopped talking to each other, both looked up at him, and said nothing. Kyle paused in the doorway, sort of considering turning around, running upstairs, smashing his head against the wall for a couple of hours, and then maybe feeling further miserable in some sort of as-yet-undecided fashion for the remainder of the weekend. But before he could enact this plan, Gerald spoke to him.
“Good morning, Kyle,” his father said pleasantly. His mother’s eyes widened and she flashed her husband a sign of warning. Kyle still said nothing. Gerald proceeded with caution: “Sleep okay?”
“No.”
Gerald looked to Sheila for help, and she cleared her throat. “Do you want me to make you something?” she asked hopefully.
“No.”
“Really, Kyle,” she said sternly. He shrugged and started making himself a bowl of cereal. “You could at least be pleasant.” He continued to ignore her. “I know you’re in a foul mood, but honestly.” She sighed. “Nobody likes a jerk.”
Kyle put away the box of cereal and slammed the cabinet door. He picked up his bowl of cereal and rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mom, here’s what going to happen. I’m going to go eat this in the living room. You’re both going to leave me alone because I feel like fucking crap. Understood?”
“Kyle!” his father exclaimed, coupled with his mother’s standard interjection. But he just walked out of the kitchen, fell down on the living room couch, and turned to see his brother watching television quietly.
“Hi,” he said sweetly.
“Oh, don’t you ‘hi’ me!”
“What?” Ike asked. “Are you still in a bad mood?”
Kyle just groaned.
“Are you eating breakfast?”
“Obviously.” Kyle looked at the TV. “What the fuck are we watching?” he asked.
“SportsCenter,” Ike said.
“Well, turn that crap off.” Kyle took a bite of some cereal. “I want to watch something else,” he said through a full mouth.
“I was here first.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Why are you so mean?”
Kyle rolled his eyes. “I am not mean. I am in pain.”
“Be in all the pain you want,” Ike said. “But don’t be a bitch!”
“Give me that!” Kyle grabbed for the remote, which Ike was clutching in both hands.
“No!” Ike tugged on the device, which they were now struggling over. Kyle was still holding his bowl of cereal in one hand, so he reached over to set it down sloppily on the table next to the couch. A bit splashed out, but he didn’t care. Fighting with Ike over the remote was far too interesting to him in this moment to worry about making a mess.
“Why can’t you be cool?” Ike asked rhetorically, his dirty fingers slipping.
“Why don’t you ever just let me be?” Kyle asked, although he was hoping for a response.
“I was here first!”
“Fucking just give me the remote, you little fucker!”
“You always take shit out on me!” Ike cried. “I am so fucking sick of it! You’re such a damn fag!” Kyle was momentarily distracted; he’d never heard his brother say that word before. Bristling with anger, Kyle grunted and yanked the remote as hard as he could. With a smile, Ike gracefully let go, and Kyle tumbled backward, his head hitting the back of the sofa. The bowl of cereal wobbled a little, but only a bit sloshed over the sides. Now there were a few marshmallows sitting in a pool of dull white liquid on the table, and Kyle was half-on, half-off the couch, holding a remote control. Ike stood up and crossed his arms.
“I always wondered if I should try that,” he said with some pleasantness in his voice. Clearly he was happy with himself. Kyle looked up at him, not sure if he wanted to attack verbally or physically, or just curl up into a ball and feel sorry for himself.
“You,” he breathed.
“Have fun watching TV by yourself, shithead,” Ike said cheerily. He then turned and ran upstairs, as if he were more terrified of retribution than he let on.
Picking himself up, Kyle left the cereal mess on the table and stomped into the kitchen. His parents were still sitting at the table; obviously they’d been listening.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked them, not bothering to explain.
“Nothing,” his mother answered.
“You should really be nicer to your brother,” Gerald added.
“Nicer?” Kyle asked, cheeks pinking.
“Kyle, bubbe,” his mother said, indicating the chair next to her. “Come, sit.”
“I’m not a fucking dog!” Kyle replied. “Don’t tell me to sit!”
“Have a seat,” his father sighed wearily. “We’re not going to punish you.”
“Punish me? That kid calls me a fag and you think I should be punished?”
“Just sit down, Kyle.” His father’s voice was devoid of energy or amusement, and Kyle felt this was slightly serious, so he sat. “You think we don’t know what goes on between you boys? I know younger brothers can be annoying, but you’re six years older. There’s something to be said for maturity.”
“And patience,” Sheila added.
“Patience? He goes in my room! I have no privacy!”
“You know, you could lock the door,” Gerald suggested.
“Oh, really?” Kyle asked. “You really think he doesn’t know how to pick a lock?”
“That’s besides the point,” Kyle’s father amended. “Beating up your brother is never ever okay. Ever.”
“But-”
“Never,” Sheila clarified.
“This is so typical,” Kyle moaned. “You.” He turned to his mother and pointed at her. “You fucking think you’re going to help me, and then you just set me up to get fucked over. You did it to me when I was 8, you did it to me when I was 11, and you fucking do it to me now.”
Sheila made an unimpressed face and said, “I just want what’s best for you.”
“You have no fucking idea what the fuck is best for me!”
“Stop yelling at your mother.”
“Why?” Kyle replied. “Every time she opens her fat bitch mouth I get fucked over!”
“This is ridiculous.” Kyle’s mother crossed her arms over her breasts. He had been expecting her to get up and slap him, but she didn’t, and it caught him off-guard.
“Fuck both of you,” Kyle concluded. “Just fucking fuck everyone.” As he stormed out of the room, he heard his father call after him, but he knew neither of them would follow him upstairs.
He picked up his pants from the night before and got his cell phone out. He didn’t know who to talk to, where to go … the phone began to ring and when he answered, his voice hitched before he croaked out a miserable, “I need help.”
“What’s wrong?” Stan asked. He was obviously trying to sound alert, but his voice betrayed him; he sounded preoccupied, or at least occupied, and drowsy.
“Craig dumped me.”
“Oh,” Stan said unenthusiastically. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t even know!” Kyle cried. “I gotta get out of here. Meet me in half an hour? I need some coffee or … something.”
“I’m … not really out of bed yet,” Stan said lamely.
“Well, get up!”
“Kyle, I’m-”
“You’re what, you’re…” Kyle trailed off when he heard a voice in the background. “Stanley,” he said sweetly. “Who is that?”
“Oh.” Stan sounded plenty unhappy. “That would be Bebe.”
“Oh, it’s just Bebe. Tell me, Stanley, why is Bebe at your house?”
“She’s not. I’m at Bebe’s house.” Kyle felt the phone become incredibly slippery in his grasp, and he felt an incredibly unpleasant full feeling in his chest. His heart was beating fast, very fast, and with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone he gripped his chest.
“Stanley,” he panted. “Why … why are you at Bebe’s house?” Stan didn’t answer. Kyle thought, in the silence, he could hear Stan’s tense breathing. He considered that maybe this was Bebe, but he didn’t want to believe he was hearing her exhale over the phone. It was impossible. “Well, I’m terribly sorry to do this to you,” he continued, “but please get up. I need you right now.”
Stan’s voice tightened into a harsh whisper, and he replied, “I can’t just get up and leave her.”
“You’d fucking better.”
“No.”
Another 30 seconds of short breathing, and Kyle felt his chest continue to tighten. He heard a stern, high voice in the background, but all he made out was the word “ridiculous” and a couple of select curses.
“I’m sorry,” Stan said plainly. “I can come over later, maybe.”
“Forget it!” Kyle screamed. “I just don’t fucking care anymore!” He whipped the phone across the room, where it hit the wall, leaving a navy blue mark against the plaster. Still, the thing fell onto his desk largely intact, although he would never be able to control the volume again.
The impact had been strong enough to end the call, though, and Stan did not get in touch about later.
~
Monday was wet like a dishrag, gray and dirty, sad and lonely. Kyle felt like that, too - used, unclean, overloaded with metaphors of uselessness and irrelevance. Ike did not speak to him on the drive to school, and although he felt that some of the kids whose names he didn’t know might have been leering at him in the hall, no one spoke to him. He stood in front of his locker shifting books around before stowing his hat. It was really too warm for a hat anymore, and Kyle only briefly considered wearing it anyway. But it was thickly humid, or thickly humid for South Park, and he wanted to feel himself sweat all day long even less than he wanted to be seen by anyone.
With a few minutes before first period, Kyle was approached by the person he least wanted to speak to. It was only as Craig was clearing his throat, paper grocery bag in hands, curled up neatly like an overgrown lunch sack, that Kyle really firmed up his decision not to wear a hat all day, because then he would be that much more like Craig.
“Hey,” Craig said in that obtuse voice of his. “How are you?”
Kyle scowled and rolled his eyes and put on his most beleaguered expression. “I fucking suck; how are you?”
“Not so great,” Craig confessed. He cleared his throat. “This is really hard to say, but I am sorry,” he continued.
Kyle’s eyebrows lifted, and his bottom lip trembled, although he did try to still it. “Oh?”
“Yeah, well … yeah. I don’t want you to suck. I want you to be happy.” Craig gave a weird little smile. It felt very un-Craiglike.
“So.” Kyle swallowed. “We don’t have to break up?”
Then Craig frowned, and sniffed. “No,” he clarified. “We have to break up. Trust me.”
“But, you said-”
“-I just don’t necessarily want you to be unhappy,” Craig repeated. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Well, that’s great, because you really did.”
“And I feel pretty bad. But look.” Craig sighed, and offered Kyle the bag. “It’s your stuff back.”
“How much stuff did I give you?” Kyle asked.
“I don’t know. There are some underwear you left at my place. The left over ribbon, from the flowers on Saturday.”
“Flowers,” Kyle repeated stupidly.
“Yeah, they make you buy a whole fucking yard. Fuck that store, man. I wish there were another place to get ribbon in town.”
“What else?” Kyle asked blankly.
“Not a lot,” Craig confessed. “Pair of gloves you lent me … um, that Dana International CD.”
Kyle felt his chest constrict, which was happening a lot lately. There was nearly no one in the hall now; class had started. His first instinct was to drop the bag and run, get to class, leave Craig behind. But he didn’t. “I gave you that CD,” Kyle moaned. “It … it was for you.”
“I know. I just can’t keep it.”
“Come on, dude,” Kyle whined. He shuffled his feet. “Don’t do this to me.”
“I gotta.”
“But I like you,” Kyle said. “So much.”
“I know,” Craig signed. “I’m awesome. I give great hand jobs. I know you like me. But I don’t like you, I love you, and it’s just not going to work.”
“All the seduction, all the preparation…”
“…I know.” Craig crossed his arms. “But look. Sometimes, you work really hard to get something, and you know it’s just not going to be the way you wanted it to be, and … oh, fuck me. I thought I could make you love me, or something, but … fuck. Life is so short. I wanted it, we tried it, you’re kind of a good cocksucker, but-”
Kyle’s face turned bright pink, and he dropped the bag. “Kind of?” he cried. “Kind of?” This was the first thing Craig had ever said to him that he really found insulting.
“Whoa. Calm down.”
“I am calm!” Kyle began to kick his locker.
“This would be cute if it weren’t so cliché.” Craig sighed and grabbed Kyle’s shoulders to wrench him away from the locker. “Or maybe the cliché makes it cute?”
“I hate everything!”
“No you don’t. You like Stan, for instance.”
“I’m pissed at Stan!”
“You’ll get over it.”
Kyle straightened out his posture, and crossed his arms. He looked at the ground and gave the paper bag with the Dana International CD inside of it a little kick. “This sucks fucking balls, Craig.” He looked down in shame and mumbled, “Please don’t leave me.”
Craig tried to put on a reassuring expression, but in his mind he could see himself looking like an escapee from an asylum, so he just frowned, and held Kyle by the shoulders again. “I’d be a fucking retard to tell you that that fucking loser breeder is ever going to be into you-”
“Oh, that just makes it so much better!”
“-but I do think you will love someone eventually who isn’t straight, and isn’t just looking for a blowjob. But it’s not going to be me.” Craig leaned into Kyle, and carefully applied what was perhaps their briefest, driest kiss on the mouth yet. “Because you don’t love me.”
“No,” Kyle admitted. “But why does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” Craig dropped his arms, and shrugged. “You should go to class now.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“I’m going to go sit in the library and be miserable for a while.”
“Can I come with you?” Kyle asked, wiping his eyes.
“No. No, that would defeat the point.”
“Why did you even like me at all?”
Craig shrugged. “You’re just such a crazy bitch,” he said hesitantly. “And your ass reminds me of one of those pincushions that’s shaped like a tomato.” Kyle put a hand to his mouth, and Craig said, “This is just dragging on forever. Talk to you later?”
“Sure,” Kyle said. His hand was still over his mouth, so the word sounded garbled, which was fine, because he didn’t really mean it. He watched Craig leave, narrowly missing the garbage can because he was looking at the floor as he departed. Now Kyle was alone in the hallway, and he was late for class. Silently, he picked up the paper bag and cradled it in the crook of his arm while he fiddled with his combination lock. He stashed the bag on the floor of the locker, and clicked the lock shut. He turned and slammed the locker closed with his behind, and went to class. His teacher asked him where he’d been, but he just shrugged and took a tardy, his first of the year.
~
For the first time in a long time, Kyle stood by himself in the lunch line. Some senior girls behind him were discussing Wendy’s party of the previous weekend, and he understood them to be saying unfortunately disturbing things:
“I mean, I’d do him.”
“Seriously? I heard he was dating that little fag from the social committee.”
“I know, but that somehow makes it hotter.”
“Who am I kidding? I’d do anyone from the football team.”
“Tell me about it! Especially the quarterback! What’s his name again?”
“I don’t know, Sam or something…”
Kyle put his tray back down on top of the stack of trays, wiped the dampness off of his hands, and headed for his table. But even across the cafeteria he could see Craig’s blue hat, and that Craig was sitting next to Thomas, probably complaining about his broken heart.
Well, it wasn’t his fault if Craig was miserable. Frankly, he was making Kyle just as if not more miserable. So didn’t he deserve to feel like shit? Kyle took some small solace in the fact that Craig would receive very little consoling out of Thomas, in between all the cursing and flinching. Bolstering himself, Kyle turned in the opposite direction and decided to go sit at the other table. It occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t spend lunch in the cafeteria anyway, since he wasn’t eating and was trying to avoid pretty much anyone. He still felt like he was being watched as he dodged those same senior chicks who apparently had a thing for football players. But he felt like being around people was healthy, and as long as he didn’t run into Craig, he didn’t care how many people stared at him.
Kyle approached the table in trepidation, twisting the hem of his shirt in with his fingers. “Hey guys,” he said softly. “Can I, um … can I sit here?”
Tweek looked up at him and opened his mouth, probably about to respond with a dramatic denial, but Kenny clasped a hand over his mouth and said, “Of course.”
“Yeah,” Clyde agreed. Kyle waited for another objection as Kenny uncovered Tweek’s mouth, but the boy just shuddered and wrapped his arms around his own torso, shaking.
“Where’s Stan?” Kyle asked Kenny as he took a seat.
“Stan?” Kenny asked. “I haven’t seen him since Wendy’s. I don’t think he came to school today.”
“Oh,” was all Kyle said.
“Honestly I figured you’d have spoken to him.”
“No,” Kyle said glumly.
“Well, you look pretty miserable. What’s up?”
Kyle looked around, and his lips quivered as he tried to decide if he wanted to talk to Kenny (and by default, Clyde and Tweek if they were paying any attention) about his problems. It was better than nothing, Kyle decided, so he announced, “Craig dumped me.”
“Yeah, we know,” Clyde said. Clearly he had been listening, even if he was eating a grilled cheese sandwich at the time.
“How do you know?” Kyle asked.
“Craig.”
“Oh yeah.”
Kyle gave a belabored sigh and scratched his head.
“What happened?” Kenny asked.
“I don’t really know,” Kyle mumbled.
“Craig said you were cheating on him or something,” Clyde said casually.
“What?” All the color drained from Kyle’s face. “He said that? I was not!”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention,” Clyde said dismissively. “He just said something about you and some other guy, and then I went to trig.”
“Was Stan in trig?” Kyle asked.
“No,” Clyde answered. “Sorry.” He got up to go throw away his trash, taking his tray with him. Tweek, who had been sitting there for the duration of this exchange, popped out of his seat and gave Kyle a weird, evil look before rushing off after Clyde, hands in his pockets. It took Kyle a moment to realize that this was first time he’d spoken to Clyde directly in a long time, and he stared after him wistfully for a moment, appreciating the way his ass bounced as he walked, especially in comparison to Tweek’s, which was barely existent.
“Well,” Kenny said suddenly, yanking Kyle’s attention away from the straight kids. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I don’t think I am. I wasn’t exactly rooting for you and Craig or anything.”
“Oh, good,” Kyle moaned sarcastically. “Well, I don’t think Stan liked him much either. So it’s good to know my friends had my back on this one.”
“Kyle, please. We want you to be happy.”
“Oh, so does everyone.” This remark was also basically sarcastic. “And look at how fucking happy I am now.”
“You really are a bitch,” Kenny said, but there was no anger in his voice, and he was smiling a little. Kyle tried to return the smile, but it just turned to mush on his face, and he went back to blatantly suffering. “Come on, dude. It could be a lot worse. You could be dating Cartman or something.” Kenny kind of chuckled at this, and he genuinely laughed when he saw upset this comment made Kyle.
“Please don’t even go there,” he gagged. “I heard some chicks in the lunch line talking about how they’d do him. Him! With that, and Butters, and Wendy, it’s just … my god, can you imagine?”
“I don’t know,” Kenny confessed. “I’d tap it if I got the chance.”
“Dude!”
“Well, but I’d tap anything,” Kenny clarified. “And besides, there’s this thing with football players.” He narrowed his eyes and said this very directly to Kyle. “If you know what I mean.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Whatever you say,” Kenny sniffed. He picked up a banana and began to unpeel it. “This reminds me,” he said brightly before taking a substantial bite. Then he spoke through a full mouth: “I wonder if Chris remembered to buy lube when he went to the drugstore last night.”
“Kenny, please,” Kyle moaned. “Why do you have to talk about that fucking loser while I’m sitting here?”
“Kyle.” Kenny’s voice was suddenly full of hurt. “I love him.”
“I just got dumped is all.” Kyle squeezed his eyes tightly. “Can’t you be a little sensitive?”
“Oh.” Kenny set down his banana, and finished swallowing a bite. “Poor thing. Do you want to come over after school and talk about it?”
“You mean that? I mean, I was just going to talk to Stan, but…” Kyle looked around. “I don’t know where he is.” He said this with perhaps the most pathetic, broken voice Kenny had ever heard him use.
“Yeah, sure.” Kenny paused. “Maybe this is something you shouldn’t talk to Stan about.” He paused again. “Yeah, come over after school.”
“You mean it?”
“Yeah, but come over directly after school. I have something I need to do later.”
“You’re such a good friend, dude,” Kyle said sadly, clearly not focused on Kenny’s instructions. “I don’t deserve it.”
“I know you don’t,” was all Kenny said in reply.
~
Cartman was not in Latin after lunch, and as Kyle shuffled his flashcards by himself, he breathed a sigh of relief that for once that day, something was going less than horribly for him. It was only before the period actually began when a crackling noise came over the loudspeaker that he realized Carman’s absence was only a sick joke.
“Hey, you guys,” the voice whined over the intercom.
“Oh, no,” Kyle said aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose. The girl next to him gave him a weird look, but he averted his look and gave her the finger.
“I’d like to dedicate this song to my friends Kyle and Craig,” Cartman continued. “Love is just so fragile, you guys, my God. It’s like, all about, feelings and stuff? And one day, you’re dating the person who you think you love, and the next day, it turns out they’re all in love with the quarterback of the football team, and stuff, and you just wanna be all, ‘Ey! I did your hair for you, get on your fucking knees and blow me while I’m eating a sandwich!’ But being gay is a bitch, you guys, I’m seriously.”
“Eric, it’s not very nice to rub their noses in it,” a softer, smaller voice said faintly in the background.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Butters,” Cartman hissed. “Enjoy!” he concluded quickly. There was a clicking noise, and Kyle felt every pair of eyes in the room zero in on him as “…Baby, One More Time” began to play over the intercom system.
Without saying anything, Kyle gracelessly gathered up his things and ran out. He didn’t know if Cartman was planning on coming to class or what, but he didn’t want to be there when or if it happened.
~
It was only during dinner that Kyle remembered his date with Kenny. His family was eating early, and it was only 6:30 or so, and Kyle was not eating with them. His mother had tried to talk to him when he came home, so he knew they were having pierogi and sauerkraut, with a huge lumpy, chalky potion of Sheila’s dry-ass mashed potatoes on the side. Kyle didn’t know why his mother persisted in thinking that he liked her cooking, or liked her, or wanted to have anything to do with her or her cooking or anything like that. He gracelessly told her where she could go and what she could do with herself, but she followed him upstairs anyway, lecturing or maybe pleading about his behavior. And after he slammed the door in her face and secured it with a chair under the knob, he rolled over and fell asleep. He hadn’t slept well on Saturday or Sunday night, and he hadn’t been eating, either.
Truthfully, he did feel a little bad about being late to meet Kenny, but he was sure his impoverished friend wouldn’t mind. Kenny didn’t do homework, didn’t take ballet lessons, didn’t volunteer at any soup kitchens. (Probably because he was more likely to be a patron of a soup kitchen, Kyle figured.) He might be a little peeved, but he’d get over it; Kenny had nothing more important to do than wait for Kyle to show up.
Mrs. McCormick’s acid-red hair was cartoonish, and Kyle had always seen some faint violet in there. It never really occurred to him that the shade of this wiry, graceless woman’s hair was inexplicably similar to that of his stately, if intolerable, mother. This woman had a misplaced Southern twang, which always bothered Kyle, because this was Colorado, not Texas, and he liked to think that Colorado was at least far enough north for that to be misplaced. So he shuddered a little as he stood in the doorway freezing, and Mrs. McCormick screamed out her son’s name, trying to get him to come to the door.
“He should be here,” she said apologetically. “His little French friend was over earlier, and I saw him leave and Kenny wasn’t with him.” Kyle just gave her a shrug; Kenny had better be there, and yet he didn’t know why this woman didn’t keep better track of her own son. “You can go on and just try and find him for yourself,” she said finally, shutting the door behind Kyle.
Kenny’s house was a pit, of course, a single-storey hovel on the wrong side of the tracks, literally. Cartman might call this the ghetto, but to Kyle’s mind, you had to be at least close enough to the ghetto yourself to be able to recognize it as such. To him, it was just Kenny’s house, a place he stayed away from. Right now, however, it felt so much better than his own house, which harbored his shit-sucking family which didn’t give a damn about him.
A poster of a scantily-clad woman in a cowboy hat hung on Kenny’s door, and Kyle sighed on seeing that someone had singed her eyes out, perhaps with a cigarette, although the holes were large enough to suggest that perhaps this had been done repeatedly, or perhaps only once, with a cigar. He banged on the door once, and then twice, and he sighed. “Kenny?” he called out. There was silence; no one answered. The McCormick house had at least one person in it, and it still felt deserted and uninhabited. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Kyle lied through the door. “Just let me in already.”
Sighing, he shrugged and gave up, twisting the knob. Perhaps it wasn’t locked - and it wasn’t. Kyle stepped inside the room, took a look at the chair lying flat on the ground, and then up at Kenny McCormick’s dangling feet. He wasn’t wearing any pants, not even underwear, and as Kyle’s gaze trailed up the body, over the partially developed erection and faint tracings of seminal fluid on the thighs, he noticed horrible things - scars, burn marks, little wounds matching the size and shape of the ones in the poster on the door.
Kyle could not even bear to look at Kenny’s face. He took this all in and after a second, maybe two, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he fainted.