The Ascent of Stan, Part Two

[formerdinosaur]

They all slept in the big bed that night, something they hadn't done since the nights following Gerald's heart attack, when Kyle was quiet in a way that frightened all of them. It had been a comfort then, but still mostly a bad time, and this was much nicer. Stan woke every time someone got out of bed: first Kyle, then Livy, both departures followed by a toilet flush. Stan heard them whispering in the kitchen; he smelled sunscreen and orange juice. He sat up and saw that it was pale blue outside, very early, the birds in the bushes singing with a kind of muted wakefulness. He slid out of bed and went to the bathroom himself, letting Topher sleep.

“Feeling better today?” Kyle asked when Stan joined them in the kitchen, as if he'd been ill.

“Yes,” Stan said, because he was.

“What was wrong?” Livy asked.

“Lingering ennui,” Kyle said, and she made a face like he was describing something to do with sex.

“Jet lag,” Stan said. “Is what he means.”

“I had that, too,” Livy said, adjusting her hair. It was up in a ponytail, a big, fluffy mass of curls that reminded Stan of Kyle as a kid in a way that broke his heart and made him happy - a raw, untouched Kyle, before his mother let him get anything resembling a stylish haircut. On Livy it actually looked stylish, if not intentional, because her face was so small. She had a dainty chin like Stan's mother, and it 'worked with the hair,' as Kyle said.

They got Topher up and lathered him with sunscreen, and after packing towels, drinks, books, and more sunscreen, they were off, their GPS navigating the rented car through sleepy neighborhood streets that looked unglamorous except for the palm trees, and something else that Stan couldn't name. Their shabbiness was unlike that of the houses in South Park, maybe because the residents might be surfing somewhere, and their reason for not caring about the weedy yard might be joyful, not just exhausting.

Stan still felt a little out of it, as if whatever they were doing was something that would actually be happening at a future time. They parked too far from the beach and had to walk up a steep, grassy hill toward the road, where they walked past much nicer houses that looked out on the ocean. People who were walking their dogs smiled as they walked past, and Stan felt judged by their friendliness, as if these actually rich people were assuming this was his pale little family's first and only time in Hawaii, and as if they knew that the Marshlovskis had sacrificed financially to be here witnessing them doing something as mundane as walking their rich dogs. Stan had sacrificed, but probably not in the way they thought. I owned a company, he wanted to say. I was the leading employer of McCormicks in South Park.

The beach changed his mood. He hadn't been to the ocean in a long time, and this was different from the sections of the Pacific that he'd seen. The ocean was calm but seemed unconquered, even with a few kayaks cutting through the water, far from the shore. The sand was fine and white, powdery. Kyle selected the spot to set up the umbrella they had borrowed from the house, and Stan followed Topher and Livy to the water.

“That's like a movie,” Topher said, putting his hands on his hips as he took in the scenery. There were two small islands in the distance, dark against the sunrise.

“Are there sharks?” Livy asked, and Stan realized only then that she hadn't been in the ocean since she was four, when they took her to Galveston with Stan's parents, and that Topher never had. They were both hesitating like they weren't sure they were allowed to get in.

“I don't think there are sharks,” Stan said, because it seemed impossible in such calm waters. “But stay close to me.” He turned to see Kyle taking pictures of them and waved him over.

The water was warmer than Stan had expected - tropical, one of those things, like Kyle's ass, that he'd once thought he'd never be lucky enough to personally experience. He was more accustomed to wading into Stark's Pond, which was icy until mid-July. He watched Topher swim out ahead of him, Livy lingering close. Kyle draped his arms over Stan's shoulders when they were in up to their chests.

“Get back here!” Kyle called to Topher.

“It's shallow, though!” Topher said, but he returned, dog-paddling clumsily, as if the ocean had made him forget that he was a competent swimmer.

“There's a tide,” Kyle said, grabbing for Topher's arm when he was close enough. “You've never been in the ocean before.”

“It hurts my eyes,” Topher said, but he was grinning. Stan was proud of him; he usually had a very low pain threshold.

“It's salt,” Livy said. “That's so weird. I forgot that taste.”

“You remember that trip to Galveston?” Kyle asked, still hanging on Stan's back. Stan reached around to grab Kyle's hips, holding him there.

“I don't really remember,” Livy said. “But I remember - this. The weird taste.”

“Everybody remembers their first time in the ocean,” Stan said. “Intrinsically.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Kyle said. “So, Toph, what do you think?”

“Are we going to surf now?” he asked, hanging on Stan, too.

“That's tomorrow,” Kyle said. “In a place where there's more waves. They say it's safe for kids, though.”

“What if we can't stand up on the board?” Livy asked. Stan was worried about this, too, mostly about what would happen if Kyle couldn't. He was ridiculously competitive, and not being able to master some new skill - especially if Stan could - might darken him for days.

“They guarantee that you'll be able to do it,” Kyle said. “This surfing company.” Livy looked skeptical.

They spent most of the day getting in and out of the water, Kyle lounging under the umbrella and telling Livy that she'd regret it when she braved the sun. They had the same delicate skin, not incredibly pale but very prone to sunburn, and Stan irritated Livy with a fresh layer of sunscreen every time she came out of the water. The beach got more crowded as the morning brightened, with more dog walkers along the shore and other tourists setting up their towels. One guy had an elaborate camera with a tripod, and he spent almost an hour taking pictures of his tanned, tiny girlfriend while she struck flirty poses in the water, a red hibiscus flower in her hair. Stan noticed Livy watching them, and he thought of Kyle in high school, the way he would get when Kenny crossed the locker room with shameless blond glory.

“Why is this hard?” Topher asked when Stan was helping him attempt to make a sandcastle.

“You need some real tools,” Stan said. “We'll get you a bucket and a shovel before we go to the next beach. And this sand quality isn't great for construction.”

“We're going to another one after this?” Topher asked, whining a little.

“Well, not today,” Stan said. “You don't like it?”

“The sand feels itchy,” he said. “Can I get a boogie board, too?”

“Uh, maybe. We'll see how much they are.”

Stan still felt a little on edge, between Topher's growing boredom and Livy's preoccupation with the photogenic girl. Livy wasn't allowed to wear a bikini until she was fifteen. They'd told her they would also consider getting her a laptop of her own at that age, depending on her grades, but Stan didn't like the idea. He imagined everything on the internet flooding her little bedroom like dark water.

“You okay?” Stan asked her while Topher continued with his sandcastle. Kyle appeared to be asleep under the umbrella, and his legs had become exposed, but Stan didn't want to wake him yet.

“I'm good,” Livy said. “I think I'm burning, though.”

“Here, get under the umbrella,” Stan said.

“Daddy's hogging it.”

“You can both fit,” Stan said, but he woke Kyle anyway. Kyle sat up and looked around tiredly, his eyes puffy like he'd been asleep for an hour. Stan considered it and thought he possibly had. He pulled Kyle against him, wrapping his arms around him. Stan was only halfway under the umbrella, but it didn't matter; he rarely burned. Livy moved into the shade, sighing.

“What's the point of being at the beach if you have to sit in the shade?” she asked.

“The beauty of nature,” Kyle said. “Oh, shit, ow,” he said when he stretched his legs out in the sand, lifting them again. “Were my legs in the sun?”

“A little,” Stan said.

“Stan!”

“Sorry, dude, I just noticed! So I woke you.”

“Goddammit,” Kyle said. “The first day and I'm already burned.”

They left an hour later. Stan wanted to stay, but he couldn't really say why, except that if he was alone he could have stayed on the beach until the sun started to sink and his skin was humming from exposure.

“The camera's dead, anyway,” Kyle said as they packed up their things. “I forgot to charge the battery last night.”

Back at the house they took turns in the shower, except for Topher, who hadn't tired of swimming and was tearing back and forth across the pool, doing flips underwater. Kyle made sandwiches with the supplies they'd bought at Target, and Stan ate one on the patio, sitting on the hot stone pavement and watching Topher swim. Kyle was hissing every time he moved; he was very dramatic about sun burn, but Stan couldn't relate and knew he therefore shouldn't judge. Livy had some pinkness on her nose and shoulders, but nothing serious.

“How come they get burned like that?” Topher asked when he surfaced, hanging on to the edge of the pool and panting.

“They have a different skin type,” Stan said. “Most red heads have pale skin. Daddy's isn't that pale, though. Not the freckly-pale kind.”

“Gingers,” Topher said.

“Did you hear that from Erica's dad?” Topher sometimes went over to the Cartman house with Livy, because, like all children, he adored Butters and his generosity with baked goods.

“I don't know,” Topher said, and he seemed sincere. “Am I from both of you?”

“What?”

“From both of you, am I from you and Daddy? And Livy's only from Daddy and aunt Shelly?”

“Who told you that?” Stan asked, alarmed.

“Livy,” Topher said.

“Oh.” Stan glanced over his shoulder, but Livy seemed to still be in the shower, and Kyle was distracted by cursing his sun burn. “Well, no,” Stan said. “I mean, biologically - but you're both ours. Equally.”

“I don't really care,” Topher said, and he slipped back under the water. Stan believed that he didn't, but his heart was beating fast, because apparently Livy did. He'd always hoped it wouldn't bother her, but he supposed he'd been fooling himself there.

Kyle hadn't planned anything else until dinner, and Stan thought of suggesting a hike on a shady trail, but he was really too tired. He waited until four o'clock to mix himself a drink.

“No, thanks,” Kyle said when Stan offered. He was at the little desk beside the bed, checking email. “That stuff makes my tongue hurt.”

“The rum?”

“No, the other stuff, that mixer. Or both, maybe. Can you get me a glass of wine, though?”

Stan did, from the Target-brand box of it that Kyle had purchased the day before. Kyle would take two hours to drink one glass - with an ice cube, please - and Stan would feel guilty when he made his second drink, usually less so when he made a third.

“Did you have fun today?” Stan asked Livy when they were on the patio watching the sunset. She was romantic about sunsets, like him. Kyle only ever seemed interested in them if he was coping a feel while he watched one with Stan.

“It was fun,” Livy said. “Really pretty. This is really pretty,” she said, referring to the sunset. Lights were coming on down in the harbor, and orange, spotlight-sized sun beams still blasted up at the sky from behind the mountains.

“You know,” Stan said, and then realized he shouldn't bring up what Topher had said after two and a half drinks, even if he'd made them weak. “Don't worry about surfing,” he said instead. “I think you'll be good.”

“I'm not usually good at sports,” she said.

“You - we never made you play sports. You never wanted to.”

“I know,” she said. “'Cause I'm not that good at them. We do units at school.”

“Oh. Well, you've never done a surfing unit. You never know.”

“Topher's better at that kind of stuff,” she said. She eyed Stan's drink. “Can I have a sip?”

“No,” he said. “You'd hate it, anyway. Here, just smell it and you'll see.”

She did, and winced. Stan was pleased. He put an arm around her and set the drink on the porch railing. He'd always liked the look of condensation circles on wood. It reminded him of drinking with Kenny in high school, on the short, rotting porch in the McCormicks' backyard. Stan would confess about Kyle and Kenny would attempt to convince him that Kyle was his for the taking. Kyle had been so hard back then, closed off in a lot of ways, some that were Stan's fault. There was a time when Stan couldn't imagine him leaning into even a friendly touch.

“Were you good at sports?” Livy asked. “You were,” she said before he could decide. “Football.”

“I mostly did that for my dad,” Stan said, then wondered if that was the wrong thing to say. “I liked it, though, sometimes. I liked when Kyle came to the games.”

“He's no good at sports,” Livy said. “Like me.”

“Not true. He was good at basketball. Well, he was okay. He just got distracted when he got older. You know, by math and stuff. He won some math award when we were in high school.”

“Twelfth grade Math Wizards, first place,” Livy said. “The trophy's in the computer room.”

“Oh, right. Well, I was really jealous of him. Math was hard for me.”

“I think I'd rather be a surfer girl than a math wizard,” Livy said. “But I won't be.”

“Unless we move to Hawaii!” Stan said.

“Are we?” Livy asked, and she looked frightened.

“No, no,” Stan said, rubbing her back. “I'm joking.”

“I guess, yeah, that's dumb,” she said, glancing back at the house. “This place isn't really expensive-looking. Not like I thought.”

“Well, I told you, we're not rich. The patio's really nice, though, isn't it?”

“Uh-huh. Did you see those birds with the red butts this morning?”

He had; they discussed red-vented bulbuls and Stan was pretty much in heaven. He'd researched them in his efforts to prepare himself for the common birds of Oahu, and he had answers for all of her questions.

They had dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant that was highly recommend on Yelp. It was awful, and Stan wasn't normally picky about Italian. They ordered calamari before they'd tried anything else, and it arrived looking and tasting like mozzarella sticks.

“What the hell?” Kyle said. “Those people look like locals!” he said, indicating a big party of people who could theoretically be of Hawaiian descent. “What are they doing eating here? Everything's just a mini casserole dish coated with burned cheese.”

“I like it!” Topher said. He was a fussy eater, but tended to decide he was happy with the food if the rest of the family wasn't. He was already halfway done with a big bowl of tortellini with red sauce.

“It's not that bad,” Stan said, poking at his lasagna. “Just - too salty.”

“Mine's okay,” Livy said. She'd gotten a chicken caesar salad, something she ordered whenever possible, no matter what the cuisine was.

“I shouldn't have ordered freaking seafood cannelloni after that calamari disaster,” Kyle said, poking at his mostly untouched plate. “But we're at the sea, for God's sake.”

When the waiter cleared the plates they lied and said everything was fine. Kyle made up a story about staying in a hotel with no refrigerator when refusing takeout boxes, and Livy had to stop Topher from correcting him. Kyle was in a bad mood on the drive home, and he had another glass from his box of wine after they'd arrived.

“Let's go to bed,” he said at nine o'clock. “We have to get up early and drive to the North Shore tomorrow. The surf lesson's at ten. Hey, guys,” Kyle said when Livy and Topher gravitated toward the bed across from the TV, both of them sleepy and dressed in pajamas. “I'm going to make up the couch bed for you tonight.”

“They can have that one,” Stan said, because the couch bed faced the sliding glass doors and the pool; they would be able to see the sky and feel the breeze through the screen door. He didn't care about lying across from the TV. Kyle sighed as the kids climbed into the bigger bed.

“My legs are throbbing,” Kyle whispered when they were on the couch bed together, holding each other under the blankets. The bed was uncomfortable, but Kyle seemed too preoccupied with his sunburn to notice.

“Want me to rub more aloe on them?” Stan whispered.

“No,” Kyle said. “You can't rub me,” he said, speaking into Stan's ear. “I wouldn't make it.”

Stan smiled, and they fell asleep that way, thinking about the things they weren't doing. Dogs started barking down in the valley around two o'clock in the morning, and Stan got up to close the sliding glass door. Kyle gravitated to him when he returned to bed. They always spooned persistently when they were away from home.

In the morning, Stan woke to the sound of Livy shutting the bathroom door too hard. She was wearing her bathing suit and a skirt with ruffles when she emerged, pulling her hair up into a messy ponytail. Kyle was quickly awake when Stan stirred, and he asked about the time. Topher was harder to wake than he had been the day before.

“It's like going to school time,” he complained, referring to the hour.

“But we're going surfing!” Stan said, pulling Topher's t-shirt off so he could start on his sunscreen.

“I don't want to,” Topher said.

“Well, too bad, we paid in advance.” That was Kyle, from the kitchen, his voice muffled by Chobani.

“What would you do if you could do anything today?” Stan asked. Surfing in Hawaii should be high on anyone's list, he thought.

“The movies,” Topher said.

“They film movies here,” Stan said. “Because it's so amazing. They don't even have to make sets.”

“Can we watch them filming the movies?” Topher asked.

“No,” Kyle said.

“They're not working on anything right now,” Stan said. “But that would be cool if they were!”

He wasn't sure why he was being so indulgent, and he could see on Kyle's face that it wasn't appreciated. Stan just wanted everyone to be happy on this trip, and they couldn't seem to all manage it simultaneously. He thought of his disastrous family vacations as a kid: Randy lost on some back country road, his mother tearfully trying to keep everyone calm, Shelly with her headphones plugged in, scowling out the window and doing her best to pretend she was alone. Stan would write letters to Kyle while the car bumped along toward some campsite where none of them particularly wanted to arrive. Kyle always made him promise to write, and Stan hardly ever got a chance to mail the letters. He'd deliver them by hand when he got home: Kyle, I wish you were here, because this sucks. Stan rarely knew what to say after that, so he would usually just list the things that were sucking at the moment.

The drive to North Shore was beautiful, along the Kamehameha Highway, cutting through lush mountains. They could see the other shore after thirty minutes, deep blue in the distance. They drove past pineapple fields and various other farmlands, and Stan was surprised how peaceful everything seemed. Apparently most of the touristy noise on Oahu was restricted to Waikiki, which Kyle had only devoted half a day to. Stan appreciated that, though in the end he'd only managed to arrange for one hike and one morning at a nature preserve.

They met their surf instructors in a gas station parking lot. They were both young women, one petite and sleepy-eyed and the other a more traditional-looking surf girl with curves that were muffining over the top of her jean shorts and long hair that had been dyed a kind of dirty-looking maroon color.

“Colorado,” she said, nodding. “Far out.”

They got back in their car and followed behind the surf girls' beater, which had six surf boards strapped to its roof in a neat stack, two of them child-sized. Stan felt anxious, fairly categorized as a middle-aged suburbanite having a manufactured adventure, and he consoled himself by deciding that the surfers probably gave him some credit for being part of a non-traditional family.

“Did you ever think you might do this?” Stan asked Kyle when they were carrying their borrowed surf boards to a beach that was accessible from a pine-straw strewn path through some tall trees. The kids were up ahead with the surf girls, who were helping them carry their boards.

“Do what?” Kyle asked.

“Move somewhere beautiful and just figure out how to live once you got there,” Stan said. “Like these kids are.”

“I don't know why you ask me questions you already know the answers to,” Kyle said.

“Not even after college?” Stan asked.

“No,” Kyle sad. “Did you?”

“I considered it,” Stan said. “Like, just ending up in Amsterdam or something.”

“That sounds miserable,” Kyle said. “Are you wishing you'd tried it?”

“Not really,” Stan said. He sighed. “I just - I do admire people like that. I guess they're brave.”

“I don't know if I trust these two with my kids,” Kyle said. “The mousy one seems stoned.”

“It's not like they're taking the kids away for the weekend,” Stan said. “We'll be right there.”

“Hippies,” Kyle said. “Their car looked filthy.”

“This was your idea,” Stan said.

“Why are you always saying that, like I don't know?”

“I'm not - why are we fighting?”

“We're not!”

They arrived at the little beach and clammed up. The surf girls already had the kids dressed in their life vests and stretched out their boards, and they were demonstrating how to paddle. Topher was really into it, flinging sand. Livy seemed uncertain. It killed Stan to see her turning into a self-conscious teenager. He felt like it had been happening since she was nine years old.

Stan and Kyle were given a demonstration of how to paddle while the kids watched. Kyle was quiet and intent on getting his form right. Stan was told by the curvy surf girl that his stance on the board was goofy.

“That's an actual term,” she said when he laughed. “Like Tony Hawk.”

Stan hadn't heard that name since he was eight, when he owned a skateboard and helped Kyle make ramps. Their adventures with skateboarding were brief. Kyle hadn't been very good at it. Kenny had been amazing and fearless, and one afternoon Kyle left with Cartman while Stan cheered Kenny on. Stan had barely known what was happening; he looked up and Kyle was gone.

On his fifth or sixth leap up into standing position on the board Stan felt something tweak hard in his chest, and by the time he was lying on his stomach again he knew it was his old football injury. He'd pulled a muscle in his chest sophomore year, and it had never healed properly. He wasn't supposed to run or lift anything heavy for a month, and his doctor had joked that he could have his girlfriend carry his books for him. Stan had immediately thought of Kyle, though they weren't together then. Stan carried his books himself, and pushed to get back in the game before the month was over, which was probably why he could aggravate his still-tender chest muscle by doing something as simple as rolling over in bed, or reaching for the shampoo at an awkward angle, or pulling Kyle on top of him during sex.

Kyle and Topher were paired with the mousy girl, and Stan and Livy got the curvy one, whose name Stan had already forgotten. He groaned when he started paddling; it hurt a lot worse than the practice paddling had.

“Dad?” Livy said. She was sitting on the front of her board, the surf girl stretched out behind her, paddling for her.

“I pulled a muscle, I think,” Stan said.

“You hurt yourself already?” the surf girl asked, incredulous.

“It's an old injury,” he said. “From football.”

“Do you need to get out?” she asked.

“No,” Stan said, though he felt like he had a knife between his ribs. “I'm okay.”

He was in agony, but also in paradise, padding out into the ocean, every coastal view behind him like a perfect postcard. There were other surfers out where the waves were breaking, some beginners and some guys who looked more serious. A few were farther out, and one was so far that Stan thought he might not be coming back. Stan felt slower and more unwieldy than everyone who was presently in the ocean, and he winced every time he paddled, trying to keep his chest from pressing flat against the board.

He had barely made it to where the surf girl and Livy were waiting for him when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A guy on a surf board, standing, riding toward the shore: Kyle. He'd got it on his first try. Topher tried next, and was able to come to a wobbly crouch before falling over sideways.

“Let's do you first,” the surf girl said to Livy, and Stan felt vaguely insulted, as if she was implying that he was less prepared. Stan braced himself. He hated to see his kids fail. Topher was as bad at school as Livy was at sports. He wasn't dumb, they just couldn't make him care. Every variation of willfulness that Stan and Kyle had to pass down had been firmly inherited by Topher.

Stan was holding his breath when the surf girl pushed the back of Livy's board, shoving her forward along with the wave. She almost stood, floundered and fell off.

“That was good for a first try,” the surf girl said to Stan. Livy was far ahead of them, being drawn toward shore by the wave as it continued to unspool. “So, go ahead and get in position,” the girl said when Stan just sat there straddling his board, glad to have a break from straining his chest muscles.

He was a spectacular failure at surfing from start to finish. The first five times or so he just pushed the board out from under him with his weight as he tried to stand, listing sideways. He hit the water hard every time he fell off, and it struck his chest like concrete, making the pain worse.

“I don't know what my problem is,” Stan said to Kyle as they paddled back together after yet another successful ride for Kyle. He looked so proud of himself that Stan didn't want to tell him about the chest muscle issue yet, because Kyle would worry, and it would dampen his sense of victory over the waves.

“Just don't rush, maybe,” Kyle said.

“You're shorter,” Stan said. “You and the kids.” They had begun to do well, too, standing more often than not.

“I thought you would be good at this,” Kyle said. “Considering all that yoga.”

“I took like, two yoga classes five years ago.”

“Yeah, but still. You just - maybe it's your footing?”

Stan was able to stand a few times, briefly, before their hour's worth of lessons were up. He was relieved to be able to go in to shore, never happier to be out of a body of water.

“I hurt my chest wall,” he said to Kyle as they helped carry the boards back to the car. Kyle knew the chest wall injury well. Sophomore year, before it was diagnosed, Stan had noticed the pain whenever his heart beat fast, which it frequently did when Kyle was around. He'd been afraid he was dying of a heart condition, because all of the things he'd buried there over the years, that he'd weighed his heart down with too many secrets. Kyle had taken his blood pressure with a cuff that they kept at the house with the rest of Kyle's various medical equipment. It had been a normal reading, but Kyle still made him tell the team trainer about it. Stan had a vague, irrational fear that they would find a damning image of Kyle when they did tests on his heart, and that they would say there was nothing they could do about that.

“How bad is it?” Kyle asked, touching Stan's back after they'd passed the boards to the surf girls.

“What's wrong?” Livy asked. She was always immediately involved when there was something to worry about.

“Nothing, I just pulled something here,” Stan said, gesturing to his sternum.

“Did you see that one where I rode it almost all the way?” Topher asked, bouncing over to them.

“Shut up!” Livy said. “Dad's hurt.”

“What?” Topher's face fell like he'd just heard a terminal diagnosis. He worried less often than Livy, but when he did he jumped straight into panic.

“It's nothing,” Stan said, putting his hand on top of Topher's head. “I just tweaked a muscle while were surfing. That was fun, though, right?”

“Yeah!” Topher said, assuaged. “Can we do it again when it's just us? Without those ladies?”

“We don't have boards,” Kyle said. “But we rented snorkel equipment. That's what we're doing after lunch, okay? That'll be easier on your chest,” he said to Stan, rubbing his shoulder as they headed toward the public restrooms, where the surf girls were rinsing themselves off under outdoor showers.

They cleaned up as best they could, and Kyle put antibacterial ointment on everyone's hands while they waited in line at a shrimp truck near the gas station where they'd met the surf girls.

“I hope I wasn't supposed to tip them,” Kyle said after they'd ordered and taken a spot at one of the card tables out back, which were covered by a tent that kept out the sun, flies buzzing around some massive trashcans nearby.

“I'm sure it's fine,” Stan said. The surf girls had hugged them as if they'd all shared something profound. Stan shifted his shoulders around while Kyle complained about tipping culture and how confusing it could be. His range of motion was pretty limited if he didn't want to suffer a sudden, stabbing pain in his chest, but no amount of moving hurt as badly as lying on the surf board had.

Their lunch took a long time to emerge from the truck, and the kids were entertained by some zebra doves who had gotten into the trash cans and were sitting inside an open styrofoam container while they munched on discarded french fries and garlic bread. Stan thought it was kind of sad.

“They should really cover those trash cans,” he said.

“This place is disgusting,” Kyle said. “If I'd seen this dining area before we ordered I would have gone somewhere else.”

The food was good when it finally arrived, but they had no utensils to eat the garlic shrimp with, and not enough napkins. Stan couldn't stop overhearing the obnoxious chatter of the group of tourist families at the next table, and he gave them a dirty look when two of the moms walked over to a nearby tree and picked flowers for their hair, but no one seemed to notice.

“This place where we're going snorkeling is supposed to be pretty uncrowded, right?” he said as Kyle attempted to clean Topher up after he'd eaten. He'd gotten almost as greasy as the trashcan doves.

“Yeah, they say it's pretty secluded,” Kyle said. “So that'll be nice!”

“Isn't it called Shark's Cove?” Livy said.

“Yep,” Kyle said. “No, sir!” he said when Topher reached for Kyle's unfinished Diet Coke. “You've already had a whole can of soda. You're shaking, honey, God. No more caffeine.”

“So,” Livy said, looking at Stan. “There's sharks?”

“No,” Stan said, though he wasn't really sure. “I mean, Kyle - there aren't sharks, right?”

“Would I bring our children to a shark infested area? No. That's the first thing it says in all the guidebooks. 'There are no sharks in Shark's Cove.'”

“Then how come they called it that?” Topher asked.

“I don't know,” Kyle said, sighing. “I guess they were uneducated or something.”

Shark's Cove was neither secluded nor uncrowded. It was right along the coastal highway, and the parking lot was slammed. They cruised for ten minutes before they found a spot, and Stan wasn't in the mood for snorkeling by the time they were unpacking the equipment from the trunk.

“Why are there so many people?” Topher asked, making a face in the general direction of the crowd. It wasn't just tourists. Local families had set up picnics along the grassy area that looked over the beach and the cove, where numerous snorkels cut through the water.

“I guess the word is out,” Kyle said. “It's the internet, maybe. There are no well-kept secrets anymore.”

“I don't see how this could have ever been a secret,” Stan said. “It's right next to the road.”

“Well, it said it was much less crowded than Hanauma Bay!” Kyle said. “I'm sorry, Jesus, how was I supposed to know?”

“Don't get mad,” Livy said.

“Get even!” Topher said, and he bound toward the rocky cove, shrieking at the temperature of the sand against his bare feet, his snorkel and mask swinging in his hand. Kyle groaned.

“Go get him before he kills himself,” he said, and Stan took off. Running hurt, the muscles in his chest pulling tight over his pounding heart, but he didn't slow down until he'd caught up to Topher.

“Hey!” Stan said, grabbing Topher's shoulder. “What are you doing? Those rocks are sharp. Here, put your water shoes on.”

“It feels stupid to wear shoes in the water,” he said, but he sat down and slid them on. Stan didn't like wearing any kind of gear in the water himself, but the cumbersome stuff was required for what he badly wanted -- to see some beautiful fish and their secret, underwater world.

There was little chance of that in Shark's Cove. A baby was crying in his mother's arms, and every time Stan surfaced to clean his mask he could hear it like an alarm telling him to evacuate. There were fish in the cloudy water, but they all looked startled and grayish. By the time some asshole pulled out a ukulele and started singing 'My Girl' very loudly on the nearby rocks, Stan was ready to go.

“It feels gross,” Livy complained when he found her. “Like I'm swimming in toilet water.”

“It's just cloudy from everyone kicking up sand,” Stan said. “But - we can go. Where's Toph and Daddy?”

“There,” Livy said, and she pointed to where Kyle was helping Topher navigate the rocks, heading back toward the beach. Stan was glad to see that they were making an exit, but before they could reach the shore Kyle slipped and fell.

Kyle was hissing curses by the time Stan had jogged through the water to get to him, probably stepping on some important developing reef material on the way. Livy followed, and she gasped when she saw blood streaking down Kyle's wrist. He'd cut his palm on a rock when he braced himself to land.

“Oh, my God,” Topher said. “Sharks will come.”

“We're getting out,” Stan said, helping Kyle up. “And if sharks eat some of these other people, well. Maybe it was meant to be.”

“Jesus, Stan,” Kyle said. “Fuck, that stings!”

“It's the salt water,” Livy said. “What if it gets infected?”

“We've got the anti-bacterial stuff,” Stan said, thinking of the hour-long drive across the island that they'd have to make now, sticky and sandy, Kyle bleeding all over the rental car. When they reached the car Stan poured drinking water on Kyle's hand before applying the anti-bacterial stuff, which made him shout in pain. Topher slapped his hands over his ears. Stan took his t-shirt and wrapped it around Kyle's hand to stop the bleeding.

“Oh my God,” Topher said. He kept saying it, and Stan was holding himself back from telling him to be quiet. “We have to go to the hospital.”

“It's not that bad,” Stan said. “Right?” he said, touching Kyle's chin.

“I don't know,” Kyle said, shaking his uninjured hand. “It kills, Stan.”

“I know, dude, but it's just the anti-bacterial stuff. I think. It wasn't a deep cut, you just lost a chunk of skin.”

“Oh, God,” Topher said. “Is a fish going to eat it?”

“I feel faint,” Kyle said, leaning against the car. He'd gone white; he was very squeamish about blood, especially his own. Stan made him drink some water.

They'd planned on stopping at the famous Birthing Stones on the way back to Aiea, but those plans were scrapped without discussion. Kyle was moaning softly in the passenger seat, cradling his injured hand against his chest. The kids were silent, staring out their windows at farmland.

“Well,” Stan said. “That was an adventure, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” Topher said, and they were all quiet for the rest of the drive.

They stopped at a grocery store close to the rental house for bandages and iodine. Back at the apartment, Kyle screamed loud enough to startle the landlady's yippy dog when the iodine was applied.

“Maybe don't do that!” Topher said, watching from the living room as Stan tended to Kyle's wound in the bathroom.

“It's fine,” Stan said, and he stroked Kyle's hair. “The hard part's over.”

“Fuck!” Kyle said.

“Shh.” Stan hugged him, but Kyle didn't seem to be in the mood for tenderness. He grumbled about having to pee and kicked Stan out of the bathroom.

They rested for the remainder of the afternoon, and Stan made himself a drink at four. He kept reminding Kyle about how good he'd been at surfing, trying to cheer him up.

“You were so much better than me,” he said when they were lying together on the bed, Kyle's laptop open on his stomach. The kids were sitting on the floor playing cards, which was fairly miraculous.

“I should have had someone take pictures,” Kyle said. “No one will believe that.”

“Sure they will. The kids can tell them. You were awesome. I was so jealous.”

“How's your chest?” Kyle asked, reaching over to touch it. Stan shrugged.

“It's okay,” he said. “Until I try to sit up. Or lie down. But sitting up is the worst, I guess.”

“Well, fantastic,” Kyle said. He sighed and looked at his hand. “How am I supposed to get in the water with this? It's not sanitary. I'll end up getting an infection from fish shit and having my hand amputated. That's what I get for trying to do something like go to Hawaii.”

“Stop,” Stan said, and he offered some of his drink. Kyle accepted it, wincing.

“I want a real mai tai,” he said. “When we're in Waikiki tomorrow.”

“Done,” Stan said. Kyle smiled at him tiredly.

“Remember when you'd let me feel your chest?” he said. “When you got that injury?”

“Yeah. You took my blood pressure and everything.”

“I liked that you were the sick one for once,” Kyle said. He pushed the laptop aside and rolled against Stan, clutching his arm. “As long as you weren't really sick. Just, you know. I never got to take care of you.”

“I should have let you carry my books,” Stan said. “Somebody was supposed to, but I couldn't think of anyone who would, except you, and I didn't want to ask you.”

“How come?”

“Because you - you were mine to take care of. Like you said. We both knew it.”

“There were exceptions! The time with the baby cows, for example. I would have carried your books."

“How's your hand?” Stan asked, reaching for it.

“Missing some skin,” Kyle said. “But fine. You don't think a fish ate it, do you? My skin?” He looked queasy at the thought, so Stan lied.

“No,” he said, petting Kyle. “Probably not.”

They went for an early dinner at a conveyor belt sushi place, and the kids were in great moods, completely impressed by the concept. Kyle and Stan were cheerful, too, and they both ate way too much. Everything was good and inexpensive, and Stan was only slightly miffed that the place didn't serve alcohol.

“Hey,” Livy said later that night, when Stan was getting a beer from the fridge. Kyle was outside watching Topher do laps in the pool.

“Hey,” Stan said, wondering if he should put the beer back. “What's up?”

“You know Erica?”

Stan nodded and cracked open the beer. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course I know her, she's your best friend. Why?”

“Um, I was just-” She looked out at the patio, which was dark except for the pool lights. The water was rocking against the sides of the pool, and Topher was relentlessly transversing it. Stan would probably have to let him join the swim team soon. Maybe he could volunteer as a coach, to make sure there was no funny business, but the other parents would hate that. He would be the one under suspicion, kept out of the locker room.

“What, honey?” Stan said when Livy just sat there fretting.

“Where is she from?” Livy asked. “Butters will only say that a stork brought her, but we're not little kids. We know about - babies.”

“What does Cartman say?” Stan asked, glad that he'd decided to have the beer.

“He says 'ask your mother.'” Livy rolled her eyes. “I think she must be adopted, but she looks a lot like Butters, and-” Livy drummed her fingers on the kitchen counter, avoiding Stan's eyes. “You guys would tell me if she was my sister, right?” she said in a rush.

“Your - what?” Stan said, lost. He put the beer down. “What are you talking about?”

“Sometimes, when Erica laughs really hard, milk comes out her nose,” Livy said, her cheeks getting progressively redder. “Even if she hasn't been drinking any. Like Daddy.”

“Oh, honey,” Stan said, and he walked around the counter to give her a one-armed hug. “That's - that's a long story. Erica's dad donated one of his kidneys to Kyle when we were kids. That's Cartman's, uh, disorder, you know - Daddy just sort of inherited it.”

“Yeah, right,” Livy said, moving away from him. “Erica's dad wouldn't give Daddy anything. Not even a paperclip.”

“Well, I sort of-” Stan glanced outside, wishing Kyle was fielding this, but it wasn't the sort of question Livy asked him. “I sort of tricked him into it. Like I said, it's a long story. And how could - what did you think, Kyle and Butters had a baby together somehow? I know Butters looks - dresses, um, like a woman, but as far as I understand he still - you know. He's not a woman. He couldn't have a baby.”

“So where did Erica come from?” Livy asked, still looking suspicious.

“Nobody really knows,” Stan said. “Eric and Butters moved away from town for a while, and when they came back they had Erica. Nobody wanted to pry.”

“Daddy did, I bet.”

“Well, yes, he had some theories about - criminal activity, but I don't think it was anything like that. And does it really matter? She's their daughter, so. Wherever she came from-”

“It's just all so complicated,” Livy said, angrily. “Even Toph, and at least he came from both of you.”

"You know what's not complicated, though?" Stan said, reaching for her again. She let him hug her this time. "How much we love you guys. It wouldn't matter if we'd found you in a wicker basket on the front porch. We love you so much." He wasn't sure this was the right approach to her anxiety. She was still frowning, stiff under his arm.

"It matters to me," she said.

"Why, honey?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, mumbling, and she slipped out from under his arm. He watched her walk outside, at a loss, and no longer in the mood for a beer. Livy sat down beside Kyle and put her legs in the pool. Stan took it personally when she leaned into the hug Kyle gave her. She was Kyle's daughter, biologically, not his. It had never bothered him, but suddenly it seemed horribly unfair.

"When's the last time milk came out your nose?" Stan asked Kyle when they were brushing their teeth together. Topher was in the bath, singing to himself, and Livy was using Kyle's laptop, headphones plugged in.

"I don't know," Kyle said. "A few years ago. It makes me ill every time. To think I have something of Cartman's inside me." He touched Stan's arm. "Not that I don't appreciate, you know, being alive. And the whole ruse." He gave Stan a kiss on the end of his nose and rubbed his shoulder. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I still wish it had been mine," Stan said.

"What, your kidney?"

"Yeah. You ended up with that defective one. And like you say, it's Cartman's."

"Well," Kyle said. "Yours didn't match my blood type."

"I hate that someone like that shares a blood type with you," Stan said. "And that I don't."

"Stan." Kyle glanced in the direction of the bath tub, which was around the corner. Topher was still singing. "What's the matter?"

"Livy," Stan said, whispering. "I'll tell you later."

"You'll tell me now!" Kyle turned to see Livy still absorbed in his computer, the headphones in her ears. He turned on the sink full blast for additional cover. "What happened?"

"She asked if Erica was her sister. Because that milk thing happens to her, too. I didn't know. I guess she inherited it from Cartman."

"So she is his daughter," Kyle said, frowning. "But wait, what? Why would Liv think Erica was her sister? Because that milk thing happens to me?"

"Yeah. And she's just having some angst, generally. About, you know. Shelly's genetic contribution, as opposed to mine."

"Oh, she'll get over it," Kyle said. "Ike went through this, too, sort of."

"Are you talking about Uncle Ike?" Topher shouted, his little voice echoing from the bathing chamber.

"Quit eavesdropping!" Kyle said, and he turned off the faucet. "Well, you'd scared me for a minute there," he said, squeezing Stan's arm. "But that's normal."

"It makes me sad," Stan said. "That she feels that way."

"A lot of things they feel are going to make you sad," Kyle said. "That's the way it works."

Stan wasn't sure he was prepared for that. He kissed Livy's forehead before bed, tucking her in like he had when she was a kid. She used to like it when the blankets were so tight across her shoulders that she couldn't move at first. She called it a serious tuck-in and always begged him to do it.

"What's tomorrow?" Topher asked when he jumped in beside her.

"Goat Island," Kyle said, from the pull-out couch.

"Goats," Topher said. "Cool!"

"There are no goats on Goat Island," Kyle said. "Sorry."

"Of course not," Stan said, and Livy smiled at him.

continued in Part Three