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The first time Stan does it he's in the hallway bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet with a pair of old scissors he used to use for projects in fourth grade in his shaking hands. He can hear his parents packing downstairs, splitting all their belongings into different cardboard boxes and labeling them with permanent marker: SHARON, RANDY, SHELLY, STAN. The smell of his mother's strawberry shampoo and the men's Degree body wash his dad bought him mix in the air and make him want to gag.
He's breathing heavily, staring at the blue rug underneath his feet. All he can think about is his stupid fight with Kyle. The plastic handle of the scissors feel familiar in his hand. He remembers cutting construction paper with them to make posters on his bedroom floor with Kyle and getting paper cuts. Kyle would wad up tissues into a ball and press it against his finger pads. "You have to apply pressure," Kyle would say, regurgitating what he read on the posters on the wall of the nurse's office whenever he needed to check his blood sugar. Stan pictures him with one of those kiddie doctor costumes on. "Pressure stops the bleeding."
He rolls up the leg of his basketball shorts and starts sweating. His chest rattles. His thigh is covered in hair because he only ever shaves below the knee. Sometimes he sits on his bed without any pants on and touches the hair, imagines it on his arms and calves, stubble on his jaw. He thinks he would look like his dad. The blade of the scissors is cold when it touches his skin.
Stan presses hard into his skin. He has to close his eyes. When he drags the scissors to the side, he can hear the snip-snip-snip of construction paper fibers getting torn in half. The metal is dull with age; he has to go back and forth, gritting his teeth against the pain. When he opens his eyes, he sees the paper cut, a bubbling line. Some of it got on the scissors.
"You have to apply pressure," Doctor Kyle, who isn't here anymore, advises. "Pressure stops the bleeding."
Stan drops the scissors; they thump against the toilet rug. He hears his parents downstairs, still packing. He takes some toilet paper, listens to it rattle against the plastic holder, folds it into a thick square and presses it against the paper cut. When he lifts it up, he stares at the red spots on the cloth. The paper cut bubbles up again. Stan applies more pressure. Doctor's orders.
He takes another helping of toilet paper and shoves it in his pocket with his scissors, then sort of limps to his room, bent over with his hand against his exposed thigh. He closes his door behind him and lays on his bed. He shoves the bloodied wad of paper into his pillow case and grabs some Scotch tape from the messy drawer of his end table. He folds the fresh toilet paper into a neat square, presses it against the paper cut, and tapes it to his thigh.
Just as he pulls the leg of his shorts back down, his sister comes into his room. "What the hell are you doing up here, twerp?" she demands. "Dinner's ready! Come eat!"
She stomps back downstairs, the door left open. Stan stares at his ceiling for a few seconds, then rolls over, tosses the scissors and tape into his end table, and walks into the kitchen.
Dinner is actually just a bucket of chicken and biscuits Randy picked up from KFC. Stan grabs a paper plate and takes a leg and a biscuit. "Don't you want more, sweetheart?" his mother asks with a spoonful of mashed potatoes. She seems tired.
Stan pauses at the fridge, balancing his plate in one hand and grabbing a bottle of Kool-aid with the other. His dad turns on a football game in the living room, using the TV he'll take to his new apartment and the couch that will stay here. Shelly slips out back through the sliding door to talk to someone on her phone, her plate of food balanced precariously on the inside of her arm. Empty boxes are stacked beside the end of the counter.
"I'm good," Stan says. He closes the fridge with his hip and feels the old alphabet magnets against the waistband of his pants. "Can I eat in my room?"
Sharon sighs. She drops the mashed potatoes back into the Styrofoam bowl. "Sure, honey."
Stan stops behind the couch. An empty bottle of beer sits on the coffee table he doesn't know who owns now. A second bottle is in his dad's hand. "Are the Broncos playing?" he asks.
"Huh?" Randy twists his head, a few crumbs of chicken skin caught in his mustache. "Oh, no." He turns back to the game.
Stan looks away. "Okay." He walks back up to his room.
He crosses his legs on his bed and places his plate in front of him. Then he leans back and stares at the ceiling again, not even hungry. The paper cut burns on his thigh. He turns his head and whistles for Sparky. The ancient mutt staggers in through the doorway. Stan pats the spot beside him and Sparky clambers up onto the mattress with only moderate difficulty. Stan scratches his head as he noisily tears at his chicken.
His dad groans at the game downstairs. He hears the sliding door open and shut, then his sister loudly coming up the stairs. He thinks she pauses in front of his room, but a second later she continues down the hall.
His phone vibrates on his desk. He gently pushes Sparky's head off his leg and gets up to answer it.
Kyle texted him. Stan's thumbs hover over the screen as he tries to form a reply. When he can't think of one, he looks through the rest of his messages. There's an unread text from Kenny--dude kevin made a new potato launcher u have 2 come see it
Stan glances at his open doorway over his shoulder. Shelly turns on some pop music in her room. His dad is probably starting on his third beer, and his mom is probably alone in the kitchen picking up after everyone. Stan looks at poor old Sparky and sees him licking at the grease on the paper plate.
He turns back to his phone and types: can i come over now?
He thinks about getting dressed but decides against it. The McCormicks won't care. They don't mind a lot of things. Ever since Stuart dropped out of the picture almost a year ago, most of the tension has left the house. Kenny's mom was able to get back on her feet and works as a waitress at Benny's. Kevin helps with the bills by dealing pot and working as a car mechanic. They have functioning heat now, more than just twenty TV channels, and nicer furniture. A lot of the time Stan prefers being there over Kyle's place, but feels guilty about it.
He's putting on his shoes when Kenny replies with ya ofc.
Stan walks downstairs as he types my dad got kfc do you want me to bring some. He stops in the kitchen doorway and watches his mom stack plates to pack away. His phone vibrates in his hand with Kenny's reply, but he ignores it. The clink of glass-on-glass makes him want to flinch.
"Mom?" The football game plays in the background.
Sharon doesn't look at him. "What is it?"
"Can I, um, go to Kenny's?"
His mom picks up the last plate in the cabinet and stares at it. After a few seconds, she says "That's fine," and gently sets the plate on the top of the rest.
Stan shifts all his body weight to one foot when he pauses, unsure of what to do. His mom stays still. He walks forward and hugs her from the side, stuffs his face into her shoulder. He smells the same perfume he's smelled his entire life. Her favorite brown sweater is scratchy against his cheek. "I love you."
They both stare at the stack of plates for awhile. Sharon pats his hand.
"I love you too."
And he lets go. He opens the fridge and checks his phone. no kevin & me r going 2 mcds we will pick you up, Kenny texted. Stan grabs a beer for his dad and closes the fridge door. The pictures of him and his sister at varying ages and holidays glint in the light, held up by multicolored letters of the alphabet.
His father is walking towards the kitchen when Stan meets him. "Here, I already got you one." He holds out the beer.
Randy grins. "Atta boy." There's still some chicken in his mustache. He takes the neck of the bottle, ruffles Stan's hair, and goes back to the couch.
Stan walks out of the front door, sits on the steps, and waits for Kevin's rusty truck to come rumbling down the street. It's early autumn. Leaves sit around his feet. He wraps his arms around himself and wishes he'd thought to bring a coat, but can hear Kevin's engine spluttering around the corner. It's already too late.
The truck jerks to a stop, nearly hitting the mailbox. Kenny leans out the window in the old parka he replaced his older one with and shouts, "What's up, Shelly?"
Stan turns around and sees his sister glaring at them through her open window upstairs, a face mask plastered onto her skin. "Tell your dickwad brother to fucking drive better!" The window slams shut and the curtains are jerked into place.
"Jesus." Kenny opens up the passenger side of the truck and scoots to the middle seat. Stan smiles at him, glad to be out of the house. The door groans when he slams it shut, the sagging cloth of the truck's ceiling brushes against the crown of his head as he buckles in, and the paper cut burns on his thigh.
"Hey," he says to Kevin, who salutes him with two fingers.
"Wassup, lil' man?" He switches gears and the car jerks backwards. "Shit!" He starts laughing hysterically and pulls from the curb.
"He's baked as hell," Kenny clarifies.
"Should he be driving?" Stan asks.
"Nope." Kenny's eyes narrow. "Dude, are you cold?"
Stan shivers in his t-shirt, embarrassed he hadn't brought a jacket. The truck doesn't have working heat and the leather of the seats are cold. "Kind of," he says, watching the residential area bump along beside them, like the cycling backdrops of chase scenes in old movies.
"Stanley," Kevin says, completely serious, "don't get the fucking flu, man."
"Thanks, Kevin."
There's some shuffling. Stan turns and sees Kenny pulling off his parka. "Here." He hands it over. Stan hesitantly takes it.
"Dude, you don't have to..."
Kenny shrugs, wearing a stained gray sweatshirt. "It's cool, man. I'm fine." He pulls up his hood and sinches it. "See?" His long yellow hair sticks out and the thermal shirt he's wearing underneath bunches up at the collar. "It's all good."
"Oh my god." Kevin drags his hand down the side of Kenny's face. "What a good guy. What an angel. Stanley, isn't he an angel?"
The truck swerves to the other side of the road. Kenny shoves Kevin's hand off him and they straighten out. "Shut the fuck up, asshole."
Stan snickers and looks back out the window. He smiles to himself and puts the parka on. It smells strange, but not necessarily bad, like cigarettes and gasoline (Kenny likes helping Kevin work on the truck). It's lined with warm fabric. The sleeves are a little short and the outside is messily patched with the logos of classic rock bands. As the goosebumps on his arms recede, Stan pictures Kenny sewing all the patches on in his room and pulls the hood over his head, tightening it.
Kenny bursts out laughing. Kevin watches them instead of the road and says, "I can't tell who is who."
They make it into McDonald's without Kevin killing any pedestrians. Stan doesn't know if he wants to give him a medal or thank God instead. Kenny pulls his hood down once they're inside, but Stan keeps his up. Kenny smirks at him, but he does it because he likes the feeling of being seperated from the outside world; he understands why Kenny cocooned himself in his old coat for the majority of his childhood.
"Value menu only, dudes," Kevin says as they walk up to a female cashier. "Is your sister working today?" he asks Stan.
"No," Stan says. His voice sounds unfamiliar, muffled by Kenny's coat. He furrows his eyebrows. "Why?"
"Don't ask," Kenny interjects.
The cashier girl sneers at Kevin. "Can I get you anything?"
Kenny orders his food. Stan gets the same thing as him: a burger and fries, his appetite back now that he's away from his family. Kevin orders a Big Mac, large fry, and shake, and winks at the girl once he's finished. She rolls her eyes and leaves to get their food.
"What the fuck, man," Kenny says. "You said value menu only."
Kevin scoffs. "I gotta show that babe I'm a man. One day you'll understand."
Kenny rolls his eyes. "Whatever." He grabs Stan's wrist. "We're going to get a table."
Kenny leads him to the back, past the soda fountain, into a corner near a window that has a poster advertising the twenty piece chicken nuggets. Stan sits down and Kenny slides into the plastic bench across from him. There are crumbs from old fries on the table, rings of water from the condensation on soft drinks.
"Are you going to keep wearing that?" Kenny asks. He slouches in his seat. Stan can feel his tattered Converse touch his own Vans he got a month ago underneath the table.
"I don't know," he says. "It's comfy."
Kenny smiles. His lips are chapped. "I don't mind. I'm glad it's comfy."
Kevin comes with the tray of food. Kenny glares at his brother as he opens the box to his Big Mac while he and Stan unwrap the paper around their burgers. He shakes his head, takes off the top bun from his burger, and starts piling fries on top of his pickles and ketchup and onions.
As Kenny takes a bite of his fry burger, Kevin watches the cashier girl from their table, leaning forward so he can see around the soda fountain and straw dispensers. "She's dying for me."
Stan scoots closer to the inside of the booth. "Why did Kevin ask if my sister was working today?"
Kenny snorts. He swallows his food and says, "She didn't tell you?"
Dread starts balling up in Stan's chest. "Tell me what?"
"Ask her, man."
Stan gives Kenny a look, who only grins to himself and continues eating.
"We're leaving," Kevin suddenly announces.
Kenny and Stan are only halfway done with their burgers; Kevin's isn't even close to being finished. "What?" Stan asks. "Why?"
"Hot chick left," Kevin states.
"Are you kidding me?" Kenny says.
"Nope." Kevin starts pilling all of his food onto the tray. Kenny punches his shoulder, hard.
"Don't fucking waste food, moron." Kenny pushes his brother out of the booth. "Let me get a bag."
Kevin watches him go. "Somebody's PMSing," he mutters. He looks at Stan expectantly, who can only muster a tiny chuckle, not wanting to know what Kenny was implying about him and Shelly.
Kenny comes back with a large paper sack and drops Kevin's Big Mac and fries in it, then his own meal. Stan offers him the rest of his fries. Kenny glowers at him before ripping the carton out of his hands and dumping it with the rest.
"Dude--"
"Let's go." Kenny starts walking away, the sack fisted in his hand.
Stan glances at Kevin, but he only shakes his head. "He gets like that sometimes." He stands up with his shake and pulls out a box of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his flannel. "I'm gonna have a smoke."
They walk outside. Kevin leans against the side of the stucco building; Stan sits on the concrete bar of an empty parking spot. He pulls down the hood of Kenny's parka because it isn't funny anymore and wraps his arms around his knees. He traces a yellow and black bio-hazard patch on the left sleeve. "Is Kenny okay?" he asks.
Kevin exhales a cloud of smoke, his high wearing off. He's looking past Stan, at the truck. "Yeah. It was my fault. He's still a freak about saving food and all that shit, you know? We're still broke as hell, but Ma's been and all... Kenny thinks everything might go back the way it was someday." Kevin's face turns grim. He looks at the ground. "It's not."
Stan doesn't know what to say, so he stares at the ground too. One of the last few dandelions is sprouting between a crack in the cement. Kevin smokes some more.
"I shouldn't be talking about this," he mumbles a few minutes later.
"No," Stan says, "it's alright." He means it.
Kevin pauses. "Did Kenny tell you about how Dad left?"
The parka suddenly seems ten times heavier. Stan wants to bury himself in it again. "Yeah. A little."
Kevin drops his cigarette and smashes it out with the toe of his boot. "He doesn't understand if that motherfucker ever comes back I'm going to beat him half-dead."
Kevin shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking back to the truck. Stan looks after him, glances at the smashed out cigarette, and follows.
Kenny is silent as they get into the car, the bag of food on his lap. Stan isn't sure of what to do. Kevin pulls out of the parking lot. Stan looks out the window. He moves his hand so his knuckles touch Kenny's. The rest of the drive is quiet. No one talks as the sun finishes setting, or when the truck rattles over the train tracks the seperates Kenny's neighborhood from the rest of town.
Kevin pulls into the gravel driveway that's partially taken over with weedy grass. He kills the engine. Kenny takes his hand away from Stan's to pick up the McDonald's, but Kevin grabs it instead. "I got it."
He opens the driver's side door and the light above Kenny's head comes on, washing him in harsh incandescent yellow. Kevin shuts the door and the light turns off.
The screen door to the front of the house whines open and slams shut. Kenny and Stan sit in silence. Then Kenny says, "Come on." He slips out of the car.
Stan follows him, the gravel crunching under their shoes, the tall grass sliding against their legs. Kenny opens the door to the abandoned garage and flicks on the light. He and Stan walk through the piles of old junk and moth-eaten cardboard boxes, climb up a set of empty shelves made with bare slabs of wood, and push back hastily placed tarp to emerge through a hole in the roof.
Kenny lays down on the side of the roof that faces the chain link fence of his backyard, and past that a wide open field, and beside that the edge of the forest. Stan lays down next to him. Their knuckles touch again.
"Kenny--"
"I'm fine," Kenny says. They're both whispering. "I'll be fine."
Stan looks at him through the corner of his eye. He rolls onto his side, blocking all the light emitting from the hole in the roof. He bends his legs at the knee and feels like a girl but knows Kenny doesn't see him as one. "I don't believe you."
Kenny sighs and turns his head, his waxy hair falling into his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something but looks back up at the sky. "Sometimes I think he'll come back," he says, Stan's knee brushing his jeans. "And everything will be like before."
"It's been a year, dude. I think he if he was coming back he would have by now."
Kenny doesn't speak for a few moments. "Sometimes I hope he's dead. Sometimes I hope he got hit by a car, and I think about his dead body in the middle of the road, and sometimes I'm the one who's driving and it's Kevin's truck." He's breathing heavily now, almost hyperventilating.
"Kenny, calm down," Stan says, reaching out to hold Kenny's shoulder. Kenny curls into the touch.
"Is that bad?" he asks, shuddering against Stan's chest, gripping his own parka. "He's my dad, Stan."
Stan tries thinking of what Kyle would say, but then he stops, because he is not Kyle and Kyle isn't here. "That's not true," he whispers. "He wasn't your dad, Kenny. He wasn't a dad."
He lets Kenny cry and thinks of all the other times they've been on this roof: in the summer, with Kyle and Cartman, shooting birds with BB guns, Kyle protesting and Stan feeling guilty but not wanting to say it out loud; just the two of them drinking Kool-aid in the heat; Kyle in between them, talking about high school, then college, then becoming a lawyer or a doctor; at night, over a year ago, Kenny saying he's going to have to drop out of high school, how he's never going to be able to leave South Park with his dad around.
Kenny begins calming down. "I'm sorry," he says. He tries to sit up but Stan doesn't let him. He huffs and scrubs his face with the end of his sleeve.
"I was really scared," Stan whispers. "That day. We were so worried. Even Cartman."
Kenny snorts, staring at the shingles beneath them. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," Stan whispers. "He went off."
Kenny smiles. "Oh, Eric..."
They fall into silence for a bit. Stan keeps holding Kenny. He thinks about how he came out to him in this same spot. All he was worried about was what Kyle would think; he hadn't even appreciated Kenny's support.
"You don't have to like your dad," Stan says. "You don't owe him anything."
Kenny moves so he's on his back, his head cushioned by Stan's arm. "I guess. Whatever. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"Okay."
Kenny glances at him. Even in the dark, Stan can see how red his eyes are. "How about you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you okay?"
Stan looks away. Kenny sits up. "Dude, come on. You've been weird lately."
Stan turns around so he's facing the light from the garage. He looks down at the gravel below them. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit." Kenny nudges his shoulder, but doesn't remove his hand. "Seriously, though... Kyle says you're barely talking to him."
Stan glares at the ground. "Maybe I don't want to talk to Kyle."
"Why?" Kenny scoots closer towards him. His knees touch Stan's back. "I won't tell him."
Stan shrugs. "I don't know. After being with somebody every single day since you were five you kind of get sick of them."
"Did something happen?"
"Why does something have to happen?" Stan asks. "Why do I have to be Kyle's best friend? Why do I have to talk to him?" He sits up and faces Kenny, his voice rising. "Why can't I be my own person? Why is everything about Kyle?"
Kenny holds up his hands. "Shit, man, calm down... I don't think that. I know Kyle doesn't either."
"I don't care what Kyle thinks!"
"You know what I think?" Kenny says. "I think you're too nice, and you care too much about Kyle. You always try to do whatever he wants. You always put him first. I was like that too. My dad used to fucking hit me, but all I cared about was making him happy. I thought I was doing something wrong. I kept trying to be better. But after he gave me my fiftieth black eye, I realized I'd never be good enough. Nothing would ever change. And it wasn't my fault." He pauses. "You need to forget about Kyle and just think about yourself."
Stan's eyes widen and he stares at Kenny, unsure of what to say. Kenny ignores him, stands up and stretches. "Jesus Christ." He holds out his hand. Stan takes it. They climb back down the hole in the roof, reposition the tarp, and leave the garage.
"You're spending the night," Kenny says, taking Stan by the arm into the house.
"But--"
"Shut up, dude." Kenny walks past Karen, whose on the couch watching TV, and announces, "We're having a sleepover with Stan."
Karen twists around on the couch. "It's a school night."
"Damn, Karen, don't tell Ma, I'd hate to get grounded." They're in the hallway now. Kenny pushes Stan into his room and closes the door.
"What the fuck?"
"Chill out." Kenny pulls his hoodie over his head, lets it drop to the floor, and rolls up the sleeves of his thermal shirt. He toes off his shoes, takes off his jeans, and throws on a pair of dirty sweats from his bed.
Stan glares at him. "You can't just--say that crap to me and--and force me to sleep here, you know."
"I'm not forcing you to do shit." Kenny bends down to pick up his discarded hoodie. "You can leave if you want. Kevin can drive you home. And you know what I said was true." He walks towards Stan and gestures to the parka. "I'm going to have to take that back."
Stan sneers, takes it off, and shoves it in Kenny's hands. Kenny holds out the gray sweatshirt. "But you can keep this. I don't want you getting cold." Before Stan can reply, he says, "Do you remember what happened when my dad left?"
Stan freezes. Kenny waits. Stan takes the hoodie and stares down at it. "You came to my house and spent the night."
"Yeah. I did."
Stan sighs. "Turn around."
Kenny does. Stan takes off his shirt, then his binder, tosses it onto the bed, and rolls his shoulders. As he puts his shirt back on and Kenny's hoodie over it, Kenny gently folds the binder and places it against the wall at the foot of the mattress.
They get in bed. Stan lies on his side facing the wall and Kenny lies behind him. "This is kind of gay," Stan whispers.
"Is that a problem?"
Stan smiles at a particularly large stain in the sheets. "I guess not."
"Go to fucking bed."
Stan knows he could tell Kenny about everything. About his dad, his mom, the paper cut with the kid scissors. They could stay up all night talking, skip school and sleep in. Kenny wouldn't mind. But Stan doesn't need to. He doesn't have to work everything out right now. Maybe he doesn't even want to.
A few minutes later, he hears Karen go to her own room. Kevin watches TV but keeps the volume down. In a few hours, Kenny's mom will be home from her shift at Benny's.
Kenny shifts behind him. Stan listens to his breathing, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.
Everyone is quiet in the morning so Kenny's mom can sleep. They eat hot fudge sundae Poptarts for breakfast. Kevin stops at Stan's house after taking Karen to the middle school and before dropping Stan and Kenny off at the high school. Stan jogs up to his room and changes his pants, but keeps Kenny's hoodie on. He pauses at his end table, opens the drawer, and shoves his old scissors into the pocket.
He and Kenny get to school fifteen minutes before the first bell rings. They walk through the halls towards Stan's locker, but Stan stops when he sees Kyle. Kenny follows his gaze and raises his eyebrows.
"I'll be right back," Stan says. He walks over and stops in front of Kyle's locker, nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Hey."
"Stan!" Kyle slams his locker shut and holds his textbook to his chest. "Dude, I'm so sorry--"
"It was my fault." Stan thinks of Kenny standing behind him, watching, waiting. He can smell cigarettes and gasoline on the hoodie. "I was stupid. I just had to think about stuff, I guess."
Kyle furrows his eyebrows. "Do you need to talk?"
"No." Stan puts his hands into his pocket and fingers the scissors. "I'm alright. Really."
Kyle seems doubtful. "Well, if you're sure..."
"I promise." Stan glances at one of the analog clocks along the hallway. "Shouldn't you get to class? Advanced English is on the other side of the school."
"I--Yeah. Yeah, I should." Kyle doesn't move.
"I'll come over tonight," Stan says. "We'll play video games or something."
Kyle narrows his eyes. "Or something, for sure." He grins. "I'm glad you're okay."
Stan smiles back. "Me too."
And he walks away.
"So?" Kenny asks when he's close enough.
"You were right." Stan takes the scissors out of his pocket and holds them in his palm.
They resume walking. Side by side, their knuckles occasionally graze against each other. When they pass a trash can, Kenny watches Stan throw the scissors away.