Chapter Text
It was the first day of senior year. Stan Marsh stood before his high school with his mother gripping tightly onto his shoulder. Students crowded all around him, all eagerly talking amongst each other.
“Wow, Stan!” said his mother cheerily. “What are you feeling? Are you excited? This is your last first day here!”
“Mm-hmm,” said Stan, digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“Okay, honey, I’ll be out of your hair soon. Just want to make sure you’re going to be okay before I drop you off. Speaking of your hair…” She pulled off his knit slouch hat and tousled his hair, then popped it back on. “We really need to get you a haircut.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” he reassured her. “I should go now. I need to get to distribution period.”
“Aw, alright sweetie. Oh, wait! Are those the Broflovskis?” she waved to two people, who upon closer inspection, appeared to be Mrs. Broflovski and her son, Kyle.
Stan cringed internally. “Mom, no-“
“Oh, Sharon! What a surprise!” said Mrs. Broflovski. “And little Stan too. He’s not so little anymore, is he? Our boys are all so grown up!”
“Oh, I know! Can you believe they’re seniors now? In just a year they’ll be off in college!” said Stan’s mother enthusiastically.
Kyle watched their mothers catch up for a moment, then looked at Stan. “Hey, Stan.”
Stan nodded. “Hey, Kyle.”
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“So, uh,” said Kyle, scuffing the ground with his show. “How was your summer?”
“It was good,” said Stan automatically. “Yours?”
“Good. Yeah.”
“Can you believe that, Stan?” asked his mother.
“Huh?” he asked.
“Kyle might get a scholarship! What school again?” she asked.
“Aw, a private school somewhere in the South. You know, I’ve heard they have a great basketball program. Wouldn’t it be funny if Stan applied too?”
“Oh, wow! Hopefully the boys will be on the team again this year. Well,” said Stan’s mother, glancing at her phone, “I think it’s time for me to go. So nice talking to you, Sheila!”
She waved a hand. “Aw, you too, Sharon. Now take care, you hear?” She patted Kyle’s shoulder, a bit of a feat as her son was over a head taller than her. “Have a good day, Bubbie!”
Stan’s mother smiled and then placed her hands on Stan’s shoulders. “Now, sweetie, remember. It’s your senior year. Make the most of it, okay?”
He nodded.
She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Okay. Have fun!”
The two watched their mothers walk away and then they looked at each other.
“Sorry about that,” said Stan.
“No, that’s fine, man,” said Kyle.
“Kyle!” a boy yelled. He ran up to him and slapped Kyle on the back. “How are you doing, bro? Man, I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“Hey, Greg!” said Kyle. “Yeah, I’ve been doing great. What’s up?”
Greg stared at Stan. “Yeah, uh, see you around, Kyle,” said Stan, walking away.
Stan took his schedule out of his pocket and looked for his distribution period. He’d blinked and now it was the beginning of another school year. He observed the freshmen sticking close to friends from middle school, the cliques of girls on phones and boys laughing loudly. The snippets of “how was your summer?” and “I haven’t seen you in so long!”. It was really another year.
He found his classroom and sat down at a desk in the back. He leaned his head on one hand and listened to the excited cadences of students’ voices as they flowed into and out of the classroom. The sounds of the chairs screeching as they scooted across the floor. Bursts of laughter.
After what seemed like forever, an instructor walked into the classroom. “Attention, please, everyone! Let’s quiet down for announcements. You will all be out of here in just a few minutes to go to your first period class after announcements end. Don’t get too comfortable.”
“If they’re kicking us out of distribution period after like five minutes of announcements, why don’t they just let us go to first period in the first place?” asked a girl to her friend.
After a few moments, the PA system squeaked on. “Good morning, everyone!” Principal Georges’s voice blared. “I hope every had a wonderful summer. Right now, you are in your distribution class. You will be in this class, mostly for class elections. After this announcement, you are excused to your first period class. As a reminder, we will kindly ask all driving juniors and seniors who are not parking in the allotted student parking lot to please leave your parking passes in your windshield where it is visible. Failure to do so may result in a parking ticket. Additionally, sales for grade t-shirts are still available on our website. Attention freshmen, you will all have their welcome social this Friday at 6 pm. Tickets are complimentary and outside guests are not permitted. Thank you!”
Some boys applauded. The bell rang and all the students stood up, chattering with their friends. Stan stood up, swept up his backpack, and walked out to his first period class.
Before he knew it, half of the day was gone, and he was finding his table at lunch. He sat down and picked at the school cafeteria food.
“Stan!” a familiar voice yelled. Stan turned around. “Hey, Brimmy.”
Brimmy sat down. “Oh my god, I have to show you! So in GTA, they’re like adding a new update to the bugs, so that they won’t happen anymore. Can you believe that?”
“Yeah,” said Stan half-heartedly.
“Dude, literally shut up.” Douglas said.
“What do you mean shut up?” demanded Brimmy. They started to bicker.
Stan glanced over and saw the basketball table. Kyle seemed to be talking, with his friends crowded around and listening intently.
It was weird to think that they were once close friends. That was a while ago. A lot had changed since elementary school. Kyle had ditched his earflap hat a long time ago and sported a relatively trendy haircut with a mass of red curls on top of his head. He was also lean and very tall, the latter which certainly helped with basketball.
Stan himself was tall and just wore a lot of loose clothing- pants, jackets, shirts. He found grays to be easier to manage in his wardrobe than anything else, save for maybe his grayish-blue hat. It served as sort of a grayer and pompom-less version of his pompom knit hat as a child. He never really was one for fashion.
He wasn’t involved in the popular crowd at all- in fact, he steered clear of all the drama. It almost became his philosophy to keep out of it by limiting social interaction. He avoided people, and people avoided him. The people he sat with at lunch… he was vaguely acquainted with, but they too were really people who were outside of the big social circles. It honestly seemed like a lot of the social circles were really one large circle, with subsections. Stan wondered how that worked, and just how much the groups actually mingled. It wasn’t uncommon to see something like the class president talking to a football player who was also friends with the class clown.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Where was he? Oh yeah. The other two boys had gone off to other schools. Eric Cartman was at another school in a different county, but Stan would hear an occasional crazy high school story involving his name. Kenny McCormick was somewhere- last he heard; South Park had gotten too expensive for his family to continue to afford living here. They’d gone off someplace else.
A lot had certainly changed.
Soon Stan found himself back at his dad’s house, where he lived for most of the time. To be honest, he really only liked living here because it was so much closer to the school, a mere five or ten minutes, compared to his mom’s, which was an hour or so away. Sharon enjoyed being near her mother, who was growing old and needed some care, as well as being near her brother too. Since the divorce, she’d taken her maiden name, Kimble, which still after nearly eight years, still felt wrong. Since it was the first day of school, there was no homework- thank God. Unfortunately, this meant he had no work to actively avoid. He rummaged through the pantry and found some stale bread and a jar of jam in the fridge. On the fridge was a sticky note with “OUT FOR THE AFTERNOON” scrawled on it in loopy, slanting handwriting. His dad must have been drinking, as the handwriting on the note and bottle on the counter indicated. Stan put away the bottle and made himself a slice of toast, then took it into his room.
He flopped onto his bed and put on his headphones, then picked a playlist at random.
Senior year. It felt like everyone had a plan for what they were going to do, or at the very least, a good idea. Going to that local college. Working in a small business even right now in high school. Aiming for a high-level college. Inheriting a family business. He thought of Wendy Testaburger in his grade, who he heard was aiming for Harvard and was rumored to be on her way to being the class valedictorian.
Meanwhile, he didn’t have any idea what to do. He wished he had some sort of genuine guidance, but he didn’t know where to turn. As much as he loved his mom, he knew she wouldn’t be able to help, especially since he only visited her once a month anyways. And his dad had his own issues and was barely able to take care of himself. Speaking of which. Stan pulled off his headphones and ran out to check the pantry for dinner. Crap. They were running out of food. He sighed and ran to grab his car keys. Thank God he’d gotten his license ages ago. Mr. Marsh had been at least able to take care of some aspects of the home, but recently, he’d been out for longer and longer periods of time. Stan was practically living by himself at this point, with his dad as a drunken visitor with a new conspiracy theory to dish out.
He drove to the store and plugged his headphones in, mindlessly walking through the aisles. God. Was the school year going to be just another extension of his dull summer? He hoped not. Sure, he had basketball. But he really didn’t care about that. It was just something to keep him occupied. School was going to be as tough as last year, but oh well. He knew he would pull through somehow like he always did. Plus there was summer school, anyways. This summer, Miss Francis had taken pity on him and just gave him a B after five classes of lectures. Maybe he actually would need to pass this year though, since college applications were a thing. Oh well.
He also had his job at the local fast-food restaurant, which was just one fry basket and burger after another. It was a pretty easy job, and he’d gotten used to the difficult customers over the years. The manager loved him for being there for that long. Well, maybe love was a strong word. But after years of filling in last-minute open shifts with no complaint, he was certainly on the manager’s better side.
But even with a relatively uneventful life, somehow trouble always found its way into his life. He would always get caught with something in his hand, the blame on someone’s lips, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, or the only one singled out in a crowd of other people doing the same thing. Principal Georges had gotten so used to him appearing at her office in the past three years. He thought she seemed to have a little pity for him.
This year, he was determined to stay out of that office. He’d gotten acquainted with outcasts- people who wouldn’t get him into trouble. People who were just plain weird. Well, maybe he’d actually fit in pretty well.
He sighed. Grabbing the last pack of instant noodles in the aisle, he walked over to the self-checkout and started to scan his items. In the car, he continued his playlist, turning down the windows for a little bit of fresh air and a change of pace.
The rest of the afternoon was just mindlessly scrolling through videos and social media until it was dinnertime. Due to the vague wording of his father’s note, Stan had no idea if it meant he was coming home for dinner or not. Probably not, but Stan made a second helping of chicken and rice anyways. As he popped the rice into the microwave, it occurred to him that he should probably learn how to actually cook. He opened up YouTube and ate at his desk, indulging himself in a world of colorful kitchen appliances and food. Although he knew he was wasting his time, it always was strangely fascinating to gorge oneself on randomized content on one’s phone.
Soon it was time to go to sleep and he lay in his bed, continuing to scroll through his phone. He looked at the time. Midnight. He shut off his phone and sighed, rubbing his face with his palms, and tousling his bangs. He needed to go to sleep.
But as he lay there, his mind was plagued with thoughts that prevented him from drifting away. What was he going to do? Was he going to actually “find what he’s meant to do” like all the counselors and teachers and people on the internet claimed? Or was that meant for those who actually tried in school, who had good relations with teachers to write glowing letters of recommendation, who had friends they could write about in college essays? Who was on the honor roll and on the way to becoming valedictorians? Was the top percentage of the school supposed to be the norm, or was he just… not trying?
He scoffed. Maybe the honors kids actually did have a point. People like Wendy Testaburger tried, because they had plans, a goal, something set in mind. He had nothing. Maybe the military or something.
But more urgently, what was to be of his senior year?