the asmodai ↣ style

Chapter Six

Chapter 6: DVDA

Stan slid a little lower in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. His mother stood over him wielding a thermometer and a frown.

"You don't have a temperature, Stanley. Are you sure you're sick?"

"Er, yeah," he said, and coughed a little. "Very sick."

Mrs. Marsh sighed. "Well, I can't stay here and look after you. I have work." She pursed her lips and tapped the thermometer to her chin. "I suppose I could call in and see if Julie will cover for me..."

"No!" Stan said quickly, and then realized it was a little too loud and energetic for someone who was bedridden with a sore throat. "I mean," he went on in a hoarse voice, coughing a few times for good measure, "it's not that bad. I just want to sleep."

"Okay, honey," his mother said, kissing him on the forehead. "We have instant soup and orange juice if you get hungry; you call me if you need me. Feel better, okay?"

Stan nodded, feeling a little guilty. Mrs. Marsh left the room and Stan rolled over so that he was facing his clock. He listened to the sounds of his mother applying her makeup, collecting her things, and eventually leaving the house and starting her car. Stan waited until he couldn't hear the engine anymore, and then he waited some more.

When his clock read 8:45 he threw off his blanket, already dressed in full winter apparel. He retrieved his shoes and slipped them on without untying them first, something his mother always complained about because it wore out the heels. Stan sped quickly down the stairs, grabbed his hat off the banister and jammed it on his head, then checked quickly through the window to make sure the street was clear before he left the house.

Stan felt a little thrill of adrenaline. His friends called him a pussy because of it - Cartman in particular - but he didn't skip school or lie to his parents very often. And he certainly didn't do it so that he could go break into his best friend's house to make sure he wasn't beating off to the thought of him. Stan colored a little at the thought and sped up.

What would he do, he wondered, if Kyle was? Just thinking about the possibility made him queasy. What would he do if he knew it was a certainty?

That would be so... awkward. Stan couldn't imagine not being Kyle's best friend, but he didn't want to have to have a I-know-you-like-me-and-I-don't-like-you-I-mean-I-do-but-not-the-way-you-like-me conversation with him.

It was a short walk to Kyle's house, though in a town as small as South Park, it was a short walk to everything. Soon his house came into view, complete with Ike's bike abandoned in the yard and Mrs. Broflovski's mini van parked in the driveway.

Stan did a double take and dove behind a trash can.

I forgot about Mrs. Broflovski, Stan thought as he crouched in the snow, his heart pounding. How could he have forgotten about Mrs. Broflovski? He couldn't very well knock on the door and ask for permission to search her son's room. And if she saw him she'd call the school and his mom and the truant officers. She might even get him thrown in jail. Stan broke into a cold sweat as his mind created an increasingly improbable situation in which a cellmate tried to make him her bitch.

He was just about to turn and run for it (he was over at Kyle's house as often as not, he'd have plenty of opportunities to dig through his stuff in the future, and it wasn't a cowardly flight, it was a strategic retreat) when none other than Mrs. Broflovski walked out the front door.

Stan swore softly and crouched down lower, staying there until his curiosity took over and he glanced around the edge of the trash can to see what she was doing.