ii:a
On Monday, May 26, Kyle turned 18. It was Memorial Day, as picture-perfect a Memorial Day as Stan would have wished. Clear blue skies, warm western breeze even up in the mountains, a perfect 73 degrees Fahrenheit. It took serious begging and pleading on Stan’s part to convince Kyle to leave the house.
“I have to study,” Kyle kept insisting, as if he could resist the allure of a barbecue at Stan’s house. Randy Marsh was grilling hot links and corn-on-the-cob, and Stan had made a potato salad. Stan’s mother was making a green-leaf salad (very boring, Stan promised, just green leaves and green goddess dressing) and Stan’s sister was contributing muffins for dessert. “Muffins aren’t really a dessert,” Kyle said when he heard the news.
“Well, it’s really the only thing she can make.” Stan’s sister was home for only a few weeks between the end of the spring semester and her summer abroad in Asia Minor. She had taken to wearing unflattering gladiator sandals under her cargo shorts. Shelly wanted to be a classical archaeologist and was applying to graduate school in the fall. She had her heart set on the University of Texas, and moving to Austin, though she was considering the University of Arizona as well. Stan was determined to support her, though he was becoming sick of eating muffins every day for breakfast and now, for dessert as well.
“All right,” said Kyle, making certain he sighed as demonstratively as possible. “I’ll throw some clothes on. But, after dinner, I expect you’ll quiz me on my Mandarin flashcards.”
“You know I can’t read Mandarin.”
“I’ve written out the transliterations.” It was almost as if Kyle knew this discussion point would be raised. “It helps reinforce it,” he explained.
“Fine. Then I agree.”
“Then I’ll get dressed and come over now. I’m not eating any muffins.”
“They are pretty good muffins.” Stan waited for a reply, pressing his phone to his ear. When nothing came, he pulled it away and glanced at the screen.
Kyle had hung up.
The Marshes ate their barbecue as a picnic, spread out on a great old moving tarp, splattered with house paint. Stirring the barbecue sauce, Stan’s mother explained, “That was from our place in Ft. Collins, you know, before Randy got in with the USGS. We would just throw this old thing down on the furniture-you can really change an entire room, just by painting it, you know?”
“Mom,” said Stan, “Kyle doesn’t care about this story.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
They were all sitting in the kitchen, nursing mint juleps. She’d initially protested when Randy had offered to make a pitcher, and relented when Stan had reminded his mother that it was Kyle’s birthday. “I’m just saying, we got this tarp,” the one folded up on the table, “oh, I think it was to paint Shelly’s room, you know, the nursery - before we moved.”
“You said that!”
“I’m sorry, Stanley.” She tapped some extra sauce from the wooden spoon back into the bowl, rolling her eyes. “Am I annoying you?”
"Do we have candles?” Stan asked.
“What for?”
“It’s Kyle’s birthday,” he reminded her.
“Forget it,” said Kyle. “What would you stick them in?”
Sharon glanced around the kitchen. “We’ve got these muffins,” she said, “they’re just like cake. Chocolate-chocolate chip.”
“That does sound cake-like,” said Kyle. He hadn’t wanted to celebrate his birthday at all, and his parents hadn’t exactly been insistent.
“I can make a proper cake,” Stan offered.
“Honey, no,” his mother said, “just finish your potato salad.”
Around 7 Sharon sent the boys out to unfurl the tarp on the backyard lawn. Randy was at the grill, listening to the local classic rock station on his old boom box, saying inane things to no particular audience. “They don’t make them like they used to,” he said, in reference to the radio; the antenna looked like it was falling off. “It’s just more real, you know? You know, Stan? … Stan?” When that garnered no responses, he tried, “Yeah, people say a fancy gas grill cooks more evenly, but if you ask me, there’s nothing like that old-school char taste on a good hot link, you know?”
“We don’t know, Dad.” Stan was inspecting the corners of the tarp, trying to make them even. “We don’t care.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” said Kyle.
“Oh, my hot links are the best. Classic Marsh family Memorial Day tradition. They’re the best, Stan, right? Stan?”
“They’re okay.”
“I’m sure they’ll be great.”
“Trust me.” Randy poked at the sausages, eyes watering as smoke billowed into his eyes. “Hey, Stan - go tell your mom and sister these hot links are done. Hey, hey - Sharon?” The higher the smoke rose, the louder he became: “Hey, Sharon! It’s time for hot links!”
If Kyle hated the hot links, he didn’t let on. He ate two, which seemed enough to Stan. Kyle slathered butter on his corn, and helped himself to three times as much potato salad as anyone else.
“You sure love potato salad,” Shelly remarked at one point. She wasn’t really asking.
Stan saw Kyle blushing, and this made him blush in turn. “It’s good,” Kyle said. “I like potato salad.”
“You don’t think there’s too much dill in it?” It was becoming dark outside, and the chirping sound of crickets was barely enough to drown out the conversation. Stan wished there was a way to both spare Shelly’s feelings, and shut his sister up.
“I like dill,” Kyle said. He picked up and put a piece of potato in his mouth, quickly, with his fingers. In the dark, the acne scars on Kyle’s cheeks were a little less obvious. His voice was deeper than ever. Stan wished he could grab part of the tarp and use it to hide his erection. But that wouldn’t do; instead he grabbed a plate, on which he still had an uneaten hot link.
“Gonna finish that?” Stan’s father asked him.
“Yeah.”
“Good boy.”
“Are we going to sing happy birthday?” Sharon asked. “Isn’t it almost time for dessert? Let’s sing happy birthday.”
“To who?” Randy said.
“To Kyle,” said Stan. “It’s Kyle’s birthday. He’s 18.”
“We don’t have to sing anything to me.”
“You should be out getting something like a tattoo, son,” said Randy. “Out buying some smokes or something.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Or at some rock show, or something.”
“We have finals tomorrow,” Kyle explained. Stan wanted to inch closer; Kyle sounded exasperated. “I have a big Mandarin exam, and Stan is taking-”
“AP European history.”
“European history, and I have this Mandarin exam, so.” Kyle paused. “And I’m doing something to mark my birthday next week, actually.”
Stan was surprised to hear him say it.
“What?” Shelly asked.
Kyle swallowed. “I’m having chest masculinization surgery.”
“What’s that, like a breast reduction?”
With clear annoyance, Kyle glared at Randy Marsh. Finally, he swallowed, and said, “I guess they’re not dissimilar.”
“Sharon had a breast reduction-”
“Randy.”
“Kinda wish she hadn’t-”
“Randy, they were very heavy-”
“I might get one.”
“See, Shelly might get one-”
“Dad! Don’t give Kyle the third degree.”
Under his breath, Kyle mumbled, “It’s okay.” He sounded robotic.
“It’s not okay! Don’t listen to him.”
“Yeah, why would Kyle know what is and isn’t okay to say to him,” Shelly lisped.
Stan decided to try a new strategy. “We had a kind of little party on Saturday,” he said. “At the sort of - club we go to, to play games. One of the guys brought cupcakes-”
“They were terrible,” Kyle remarked.
“-and we sang and there were candles. So. That was a little birthday thing that, ah. We did.”
“It was okay.” Kyle stood up, stretching. “I’ve really, um - not to be rude but I have to do some homework.”
“Heading home already?” Stan’s mother asked.
“We’re going to study,” Stan said, “in my room.”
~
Trudging up the stairs after Kyle, Stan cleared his throat and said, “You know, I got you a present.”
Kyle stilled, turning to look down at Stan, narrowing his eyes, as if he were trying to parse what such a gesture meant. Finally, he said, “You didn’t have to do that.” Then, “It’s not something gay like a kiss, is it?”
“What’s so wrong if I kiss you on your birthday?” Stan asked. “I want to kiss you. I want - that.”
“Well, I don’t want your family to hear us talking about this,” Kyle said, and he turned and ran up the rest of the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“It’s nothing impressive,” Stan said, following Kyle into the bedroom. In fact, it was not even wrapped, a complete set of Narnia novels, all seven paperbacks, together in a red sleeve. "See, the other options all had these gross movie graphics on the packaging, and I figured - I dunno, this one was a little more but it seemed kind of like, classy?"
Kyle had already picked up the set and was running his fingers along the spines, as if counting them. "They put The Magician's Nephew first, Stan, you know how I feel about that."
"Yeah," said Stan, "I do."
"But I love this." Kyle cleared his throat, clutching the box to his chest. "You'd have a hard time finding them in the right order, anyway."
"You could always put The Magician's Nephew last."
"But it has the number 1 on it."
"Would that be so horrible? To defy the intended order of things?"
"I guess not," said Kyle, and he put the books down on the floor.
Stan had sat on the bed, and he was fidgeting, his legs and arms both folded. He could hear that his family had come back into the house now, and they were clanking around downstairs, presumably wrapping up the leftover hot links and throwing away the disposable paper napkins. "Come here," Stan said, gesturing to the space on the bed next to him. "I want to give you that kiss."
"Just one!" Kyle fell onto the mattress, raising his eyebrows. "I have to study. You're on flashcards duty, you know."
"I know," Stan said, though as he began to kiss Kyle at the corner of his lips, Stan knew very well just kissing was not going to be enough, and they were going to end up in a significantly more compromised position. Kyle had a way of becoming consumed by Stan's kisses, not just leaning but moaning into them, as if he were trying to merge with Stan entirely. This had been going on for over a year now, and the little pauses they were taking at the beginning had begun to dissipate, the stiffness of their touches softening into a blur of hands and clothes, especially as Stan slid under Kyle's T-shirt and grasped the fullness of Kyle's waist. From there Stan's hands travelled up, and up, until he found Kyle's binder clinging to sweaty skin.
"Fuck it," Kyle said; he sounded frustrated, and Stan pulled a hand from under Kyle's shirt to grab the back of Kyle's neck. "Fuck it, get this thing off of me."
"If you want."
“I do!”
“Well, okay then.”
Lifting his arms, Kyle looked to Stan, who pulled off the T-shirt Kyle was wearing, revealing it - the binder. It was, in actuality, a compression garment for medical use, and it was made to fit a male chest, which Kyle certainly did not have. It was shaped a bit like a vest, with a V at the neck, and it clung tightly to Kyle, leaving red marks for an hour after it was removed. It wasn’t comfortable, really, or Stan imagined it wouldn’t be if he had to wear it for hours on end, entire days, and he had a large pair of breasts. Stan had tried it on once, weeks ago actually, when Kyle had been feeling sort of morose, crying that Stan didn’t know what he was going through. Stan had insisted that he wanted to understand, and of course Kyle had said, “Oh, do you?” and Stan had gone ahead and put the thing on, and why wouldn’t he? So Stan understood, sort of, what it was like for Kyle, even as Stan was helping Kyle peel the thing off. As usual, Kyle hissed when his breasts were freed, either from the exposure or from the feeling of all that weight dropping down.
“Oh.” Stan tossed the binder on the floor, and took Kyle’s breasts in his hands. “You okay?” he asked.
“God, what do you think?”
“I think maybe-”
Before Stan had a chance to answer, Kyle was kissing him again, insistent. “You’re hot,” Kyle said, pressing his lips to Stan’s.
“Yeah? You’re hot, too.” Their words folded together as they kissed, tongues darting. It was quick, fully engaged kissing.
“I’m not hot.” Kyle pulled his hand from Stan’s shoulder and with it, clutched at his breasts. “Don’t try to tell me I am.”
“I find you hot.” Stan slipped a leg up against Kyle’s waist. “So don’t tell me what I think.”
“But-”
“So it’s your birthday,” Stan said, fingers in Kyle’s hair. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Actually, it’s funny you ask, because all day I was in the mood to play basketball-”
“Oh, jesus-”
“Sorry! But, yeah. And I do need to do that, um - to look at those flashcards.”
At that moment they pulled away from each other; Kyle pushing himself back to sit against the headboard of Stan’s bed.
“So.” Stan looked to Kyle, and then he looked around. Here he was: Same old Memorial Day hot links, same old bedroom. Same old Kyle, really, except that Kyle was sitting naked on Stan’s bed holding his chest, shoulders hunched to his ears. About to ask, “You okay?” Stan stopped himself. When was Kyle ever okay? Stan hadn’t been for weeks now.
“So what?”
“Hm?”
“You said, ‘So.’ ” Kyle sounded annoyed. “So I am asking, so what?”
“So I just - give me the flash cards.”
With a groan, Kyle climbed off of Stan’s bed, pulled his shirt back on, and went to get them, disappearing downstairs for a time.
That left Stan to sit there on his own bed, thinking. He was trying, and failing, to think of the right thing to say. For some time he had felt romantic things for Kyle, things he considered inappropriate for his best friend or for someone transitioning their gender. Gender? Or physical sex? Stan had thought of Kyle as male for long and so thoroughly that it was difficult, nearly impossible, to inhabit Kyle’s headspace. The truth was that Stan did not like breasts; he did not find them merely uninteresting, nor were they something he gave no thought to. Stan hated breasts, did not like to speak of them, found them grotesque and unnecessary.
Which wasn’t to say that Stan didn’t find women attractive! He did, from time to time. He still found Wendy attractive, for instance, with her smallish chest and strong jaw and long, fine hair. There were other girls Stan found himself thinking about from time to time, sexually. In his French class there was a tiny Asian girl; perhaps she was Korean. Her bones were fine like a bird’s, like fine porcelain, and she had a perplexing hairdo. On one side she had an undercut, and when her hair was pulled back into a ponytail or sloppy bun she looked, perhaps, like a boy. But from another vantage point she seemed, in profile, like a vision feminine beauty, ukiyo-e.
“Okay,” Kyle announced, not bothering to knock, “I’ve got the cards.”
“Great.” Stan extended a hand, waiting for Kyle to hand him the set.
“You seem pissed.” Kyle fell onto the bed, smoothing out his boxers. Under his T-shirt, the outlines of his breasts were starkly visible. They sagged more than they used to, shifted gradually if forcefully by the binders Kyle wore. They had sagged a bit the first time Stan saw them, too, but now it was dramatic. Weirdly sparse hair had grown in around the nipples, and Kyle had been plucking it. He told Stan these things via online chatting or e-mail; he tended not to speak of it. “It’s my birthday, you know, so you really can’t be pissed at me.”
“Why would I be pissed at you?” Stan asked. He was still hard.
“Because you want to have sex with me.”
“I always want to have sex with you.”
“I really need to study,” Kyle insisted.
With a sigh, Stan pulled the top card from the deck, flipping it over. “Um. Boo-zhing?”
“Unfortunate. Ugh! I did that one earlier. Can you shuffle the deck?”
“Yeah.” Stan threw the cards down on his bedspread, and began to mix them up. “Yeah, I can shuffle them.”
“What?”
“What, nothing.” Stan was still shuffling the flashcards. There were a good amount, probably 200 or so.
“What, you seem pissed,” said Kyle.
“Well, you thought I was pissed before, so.”
“So, what? Tell me what’s wrong.” Kyle put a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “It’s my birthday, so you have to tell me.”
Stan thought about it for a moment. He was unsure that telling Kyle was a good idea. He was feeling several things: overheated, impatient, horny. Kyle was sitting just a foot away, and underneath his T-shirt and boxers, he was so naked. Stan thought about Kyle’s breasts, which would be going away soon. Stan didn’t even like breasts, actually he hated them, and yet the thought of losing a piece of Kyle, any piece of Kyle, made Stan want to cry. He thought of Kyle being anaesthetized and grease marks on Kyle’s chest showing the surgeon where to cut. There was nothing Stan could do. It was hopeless. The cards were trembling in his hands. “I don’t know how this is helpful,” he said, scooping them up again into a neat stack. “There’s like, a zillion signs, so. What good does me reading transliterations do for you?”
“I could go,” said Kyle.
“I don’t want you to go!”
“Well, you don’t want to help me!”
“I do want to help you! I do, it’s just-”
“Just what? Just you need to get off, and then you can help me?”
Stan felt horrible about saying yes, so he just stared.
Kyle grabbed the cards out of Stan’s hands. “Don’t look at me dumbly! You think I don’t - I don’t feel those things?”
“I know you do.” Stan thought of Kyle riding against Stan’s thigh, coming repeatedly.
Leaning over the edge of Stan’s bed, Kyle carefully placed the stack of flashcards on the floor. “Well,” he said, straightening out his boxers again. “You want to fuck me?”
Stan sat up straighter. “Yeah.”
“How do you propose we do it?” Kyle cupped his hands together, and rested them in his lap.
“We don’t have to,” Stan said, panicking inside. “We don’t - I mean, I don’t - I wouldn’t force you-”
“You’re not fucking forcing me.”
“I don’t want it like this!”
“Like what?” Kyle asked. “Like-” He grabbed the hem of his shirt. “Like, you mean, with me at all, because I’m a freak, or you want to wait until I have bottom surgery? Because I don’t know when that would be!” Kyle’s grip on his T-shirt tightened. “Or just the tits, because I don’t know if I will be able to do it right after-”
“No,” said Stan, “nothing like that! It’s just that I don’t want to feel like you were coerced, or something, or that I distracted you from studying, or … I just wanted it to be your idea!”
“My idea - christ, Stan, you make it sound so fucking stupid. My idea, what the fuck-"
"We don't have to if you don't want to-"
"For fuck's sake, of course I want to!" Kyle buried his head in his hands. "You don't understand. You don't understand at all."
"Of course I don't," said Stan, "but that doesn't mean I don't want you to try to explain it to me. Come on, I just - Kyle?"
"I need a minute." Kyle's face was still in his hands, and he was shaking, slightly.
What could Stan do? He got up and came closer to Kyle, rubbing his fingers through Kyle's hair. "Hey," he said, trying to sound calm. "It's okay, dude."
"It's not." Kyle looked up. "I'm freaking out about this exam."
"You're going to do great."
"I'm not going to do great. I'm really pretty bad at tests!"
"That can't be true," said Stan, and he meant it.
"The pressure," said Kyle, "the pressure is bad for me."
"That pressure's bad for everyone," said Stan, thinking forward to his own AP exams, about which he was barely concerned. Skipping college courses was not much of an incentive for him.
"And I'm stressed about having surgery," Kyle admitted.
"Oh my god, dude." Stan wrapped his arms around Kyle's shoulders. "I know, it's okay. I'm stressed out about it, too. In, um - a kind of weird, like, transitive sense."
Stan expected Kyle to say something like, "Fuck you, how could you possibly stressed about my surgery?" But Kyle just said, "Yeah," and sank deeper into Stan's embrace.
The great feather in Kyle’s cap was a college course he had taken in the fall, an organic chemistry class at CSU. It met only once a week, on Fridays at 1 p.m., and lasted for four hours. This of course meant that Kyle had left school on those days very early, before lunch. College was months and months away; in fact, their final year of high school hadn’t even ended. Kyle’s courses had only taken him away for half a day. They were heading to same school in August. Yet Stan had missed Kyle terribly.
~
Stan had no prom date and he had no intention of attending. Yet he found himself skulking along with Kenny McCormick to a florist at 4:30 in the afternoon, on a sticky and altogether uncomfortable early June Friday. Kenny needed a corsage for the gullible freshman girl he'd talked into going; the limo was leaving from Clyde Donovan's house at 7, giving Kenny little time to get ready.
Still, as they walked from the Taco Bell where they'd had a late lunch to the flower shop on the other side of Main Street, Kenny kept insisting that Stan could, and should, come with that evening to prom.
"It's just prom," Stan said, not minding that his jeans were too long, and dragging on the sidewalk.
"There's only one prom."
"It’s just some dance."
It was fair to say that Stan was in a poor mood.
"Just throw on a tux and get in the limo with us," Kenny repeated. "No one's going to care."
"I'll care," said Stan. "I won't be happy."
"Pardon me for declining to ask why."
"You're an asshole." That was something Stan would never say to Kyle.
"So your boyfriend's not coming."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"He's not?" Kenny shrugged. "Okay." He pushed some of his greasy hair back; it was blond, in theory, but often so matted with grime that it bore no resemblance to any natural hair color. Stan found Kenny affably disgusting. The door to the florist chimed as Kenny opened it, holding it for Stan to step inside. Kenny continued: "What are you going to do all night, then, just sit around?"
"No," said Stan. He watched the door slam shut as Kenny stepped away from it. "I'm going to go visit Kyle."
"Sounds fun."
"It's not going to be fun." Stan rolled his eyes. "He's recovering from surgery. I'm just going to - go."
The shop had a heady scent, thick and sweet, and the air felt heavy. As it was already warm and humid outside, the conditions in the flower shop hardly moved Stan at all. It was a small shop, and there was an overturned milk crate next to a collection of black canisters full of clipped carnations. Stan sat on it, hunched over, hoping to get out of here soon.
"So you're going to see him all fucked up?" Kenny asked. "With like - stitches?"
"I don't know," said Stan, "I don't honestly know what the situation is."
"You didn't ask?"
"I didn't ask - what would I have asked? I'm sure they gave him pain meds. I mean, I hope they did."
"Seems ridiculous to me that he wanted to have this done the day of prom."
"I don't think he cares about that."
"Clearly!" Kenny had been hitting the service bell that sat on the counter by the register. “Jesus, these people are slow. For fuck’s sake.”
“Idle swearing,” said Stan.
“What of it?”
And then the shop keeper came.
“I need a corsage,” Kenny said, leaning over the counter. Stan wondered if the florist could smell the Keystone Light on Kenny’s breath. It was celebratory; they were in college now. Or would be, after they graduated on Sunday. “For my lady. She says she’s wearing a yellow dress. What’ve you got?”
“Let me check,” said the florist. He was a small man with hands that shook as he shuffled back behind the refrigeration cases. “In the back…”
Kenny looked down at Stan, frowning. “I seriously hope this doesn’t cost much.”
“Those prom tickets aren’t cheap, either,” Stan noted.
“Mom says it’s worth it.” Kenny seemed restless. “Come on, you should come with.”
“Fuck you, no,” said Stan. “I’m going to see Kyle.”
“Can’t you see him and then come to prom?”
“Kenny, you don’t get it,” Stan sighed, standing up. The criss-crossing plastic of the milk crate was uncomfortable on Stan’s thighs, even under his jeans. “I can’t enjoy your damn prom when Kyle’s recovering from surgery, okay.”
“Kyle wouldn’t want you to be miserable,” Kenny said.
Stan only rolled his eyes.
“Okay, maybe Kyle delights in making people miserable-”
“He doesn’t delight in it, dude, he just feels like - left out of a lot of shit. Excuse him for not having a lot of sympathy for people wanting to go to stupid prom. And your entire theory is flawed in that I don’t want to go to prom, okay? I don’t want to go. I just-” Stan looked around, sighing. “I just want to sit on this box.” He slouched back toward the milk crate, and sat down on it again.
“Wow,” said Kenny, as the florist was reappearing. “I’m super happy I asked you to come with me, cool.”
“Shut up,” said Stan. “I bought you a beer.” Stan hadn’t drunk his; he had left it behind at Taco Bell. He was not sure if Kenny hadn’t stolen it, slipped the can into his pocket.
“Well,” said Kenny, counting out the cash (in ones and fives) for the corsage he meant to buy. “So long as you’re here, are you going to buy Kyle some flowers?”
Stan looked up, eyes widening. “Er, I was - no. Should I?”
“Isn’t that what people do?” As Kenny spoke, Stan heard the cash register chime, and change clank around as the drawer opened. “Buy sick people flowers.”
“He’s not sick!”
“You know, you should get him some stupid get-well flowers.”
“Kyle doesn’t want flowers,” said Stan. “He’s not a chick. He doesn’t want flowers.”
“It’s not a chick thing, you know, it’s just something you do to be nice to people.”
“Do you think he wants flowers?”
“I dunno, Stan.” Kenny snatched the corsage, in its little plastic and styrofoam box, from the florist. “He’s not the guy I’m not dating.”
It was true, one did bring flowers to someone recovering from outpatient surgery. But then, Kyle would probably not want any flowers.
Kenny walked with Stan back to the Taco Bell parking lot, where Stan had left his car, or rather, his dad’s car. (Randy had taken Stan’s mother’s to work.) One could leave the car anywhere in South Park without fear of being towed. This was in fact one of the central tenants on which the town of South Park seemed to rest. Often town meetings devolved into complaints about neighboring North Park, where there was metered street parking that cost $1.25 an hour. Rabble-rousers railed against threats to the town ordnance that prohibited local business owners from hiring a private company to boot cars left on their lots. As Kenny discussed the details of his prom date, Stan thought about parking. He had not bought anything at the flower shop and he felt uneasy about it. What if this happened to be the first time his car was towed? What then? How would Stan get to Kyle then?
“Listen,” said Kenny, as he buckled into the sweltering car, “thanks for the ride.”
“Yeah.” The driver-side door was still open, and yet he twisted the key in the ignition anyhow. The car began to protest the fact that Stan hadn’t yet fastened his seatbelt.
“I don’t mean to hassle you, it’s just, dude, it’s going to feel incomplete without you.”
“That’s nice,” said Stan, slamming the door shut. The car did not stop insisting about the seatbelt until Stan had taken care of that, too.
“You’re not really listening to me,” said Kenny.
“Sorry.” Stan checked the read-view mirror.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Pulling up to Kenny’s family’s house, a squat hovel by the train tracks, he unbuckled his restraint and clutched the plastic box with the corsage in it. “Um.” He breathed deeply. “Tell Kyle I said ‘get well soon.’ ”
“Tell him yourself,” said Stan. “You can visit him tomorrow.”
“I - I dunno.” Kenny seemed to be blushing. “You know, I might be kinda. Like. … Hung-over.”
“Well, uh. Have fun.”
With his boxed corsage, Kenny slid out of the car, quietly shutting the door.
Stan waited until Kenny was inside his house to return to the flower shop.
~
Stan rang Kyle’s doorbell, feeling apprehensive. He had a mother-in-law’s tongue, which he had transplanted into a cracked terra cotta sitting on the back patio. His father had taken a look at the plant’s waxy leaves and said, “That for Kyle, huh?”
“Yeah,” Stan confirmed. “It’s for Kyle. Do we have a pot or something I can put it in?”
Randy had sat on the couch for a moment, legs spread, scratching absently at the inside of his thigh, a beer resting on the carpet by his feet. He must have been recently home from work. Stan did not ask. “Uh, yeah, I guess, there should be one outside.”
“Is there any one pot in particular, or-”
“Here.” Randy had extricated himself from the sofa with great reluctance, the television blaring some stupid cooking reality show as he led his son outside. “I put some tomatoes in all of those ones,” he said, pointing at the large troughs by the fence, “and your mother wanted some other pots for herbs in the kitchen. She wanted some basil and like, some dill, I guess-”
“Dad!” Stan was still holding the snake plant in both hands, rolling his eyes, keeping it steady the flimsy plastic container. “I need something to put this in.”
“Uh-”
It was still hot and humid out, and Randy wandered around the side of the house, where some German ivy was creeping up the forest-colored siding. “Yeah,” he said, coming to a stack of unused pots. Randy picked one up, examining it. “This one’s cracked, so I guess you can have it.”
Stan had taken handfuls of dirt straight out of the backyard and packed the plant, with its bi-color leaves, tightly into the terra cotta. It looked masculine. Stan hoped it looked masculine. Stan loved that he’d taken soil from his own yard and patted it down with his own hands and with any luck Kyle would love this plant as Stan loved Kyle, and Kyle would put the plant in a place of reverence in his room, maybe on a bookshelf, and Kyle would take it with him to college and look at it first thing upon waking and last thing before sleep.
Stan had only had the plant in his possession for a bit less than an hour, now, as he held it in his arms on the Broflovskis’ doorstep, waiting for someone to let him inside. Yet Stan already loved this plant, and failed to regret how whimsical and foolish it was to pack all of his feelings into one terra cotta with overly damp soil. But there it was, regardless.
Sheila Broflovski opened the door. “Oh,” she said, raising an eyebrow at Stan. “What a nice plant.”
“It’s for Kyle,” said Stan. “Is he home?”
“Well, of course he’s home!”
“How’d the uh - how’d it go?”
“It went fine!” she said, and Stan noticed how unsettled she seemed. Her voice had a hitch to it Stan had never heard before, a pinch of desperation. He wanted to hug her, but he was still standing outside the house, holding the plant. “He’s very groggy and irritable. I gave him some soup and he watched a movie. He might be asleep now. I haven’t checked on him since the movie ended. I don’t know what he was watching, he’s not being too talkative, but the surgeon said everything went off without a hitch.”
“Oh,” said Stan. “That’s nice to hear. I mean, that’s great. … That it went well, I mean! … Can you, um, give him this?”
She raised both her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you rather give it to him yourself?”
“Well,” Stan stammered, “well, I mean, uh - yeah. I would.”
“Then come in,” she said, and disappeared inside the house, pulling the screen door open for Stan to enter.
Next.