The Mole looked at his watch and felt a spike of adrenaline.
"I have to go."
"Why?" asked Kyle, tensing again.
"I told Gregory zat I would call 'im when I was finished." He looked anxiously at the building that lay on the other side of the barbed wire fence. "Eet's only a matter of time before zey find zat guy on ze floor, and zen zey'll notice ze tunnels...we've got to get out of 'ere." He grimaced. "Even zough I will 'ave nothing good to report to 'im. Ze mission was not successful, but eet's not over yet!" He clenched his hand into a fist. "No, not by far! I just need to be more prepared when I make my second attempt..."
Kyle looked intently at him.
"What...what exactly is the mission about?"
The Mole's eyes snapped back to him. "I can't talk about eet 'ere! Look, look, I've got to go, I'll see you...I'll see you in school tomorrow." Fuck, fuck, now I'm putting him in danger too...oh, I'm a genius...
"Yeah, see you tomorrow..." Kyle replied, smile overflowing its bounds like a river of happiness bursting a dam.
The Mole's heart palpitated at the sight of that smile. Am I charmed that easily? Why doesn't any of this bother me?
Because he saved your life, you stupid asshole, came the internal answer. And because he's not a jerk.
And because you've been in his arms.
He turned to go.
"And Mole?"
A crystalline voice reached the Mole's ears from behind.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"For what?" asked the Mole, his heart quickening again.
"For giving me a chance."
The Mole looked behind him and saw a lean figure framed by the moonwashed sky.
"Don't mention eet. Thank you...for...saving my life."
The Mole reached Number 810, 4th St.with his head still spinning from the night's events. What had just transpired still seemed surreal, despite the amount of rumination he'd been able to devote to the topic during his walk home. He glanced at his watch again; it read 22:45 hours–10:45. Creeping around the side of the muddy-orange brick, he entered the backyard and retrieved his housekey from within his boot. As quietly as he could, he let himself into the kitchen and was about to head for his first-floor bedroom when, for the second time that night, he was blinded by a very bright light.
He froze, blinking, and saw his mother sitting at the kitchen table with her hand at the light switch. A bottle of bourbon lay nearby, and it was three-quarters empty.
"Oh, shit..." he said to himself.
"Where have you been, Christophe?" she asked slowly, her voice sharp and dangerous despite a slight slurring of the French words.
"You've been drinking again," the Mole said in disgust. He made a reach for the bottle but she dragged it away across the table.
"You're my son, you'll do as you're told," she said condescendingly. Her haggard face, framed by limp brunette locks and a pair of gold hoops, was frightening in its alcohol-induced glow. "Now answer me, you worthless boy! Where have you been? It's almost eleven o'clock, and you disappeared after dinner!"
"I've been out, do I have to go into detail?"
The Mole winced as his mother's tea-colored eyes swept his face, and her lip curled.
"You've been out doing–that! Why do you have a bloody nose? And you're wearing that damned shovel!"
"I was at a friend's hou-"
"What a crock of shit! You don't have any friends! You're a criminal!"
I wish they could all see her now, her church friends–they wouldn't think her so godly now–
"I'm not a fucking criminal!" he yelled, losing his cool. He watched helplessly as she downed a few more gulps of the amber drink.
"Yes you are! You piece of shit! You're the reason my life was ruined, and Alain left me..." she took another swig and seethed, "I tried to stop you but it didn't work..."
The Mole's heart was not rent into pieces like it was the first time his mother had told him these things while she was drunk; it had happened enough that, over the years, scar tissue had formed.
"That's not my problem! That's not my fault! And I don't think God gets off on you, either! What this fuck's with this religiosity! You're a bitch and God's a bitch too!"
His mother's hand twitched. "You are grounded for a month! How dare you talk about Our Father like that, you good-for-nothing-"
A flush was seeping into the Mole's cheeks again, and the cloudiness in his eyes seemed cancelled by a sharp, fiery clarity. He hardly seemed to choose his words as he spoke.
"You want good-for-nothing? You want good-for-nothing! I'll give you good-for-nothing! I'll give you someone who pretends to be a good person, but who's so fucking rotten inside! I hate my life! I've tried to make something of myself! You-"
He was cut off by a powerful backhanded slap. He gasped in pain, and she hit him again and again. He grabbed her wrists and managed to hold on for a moment, but she wrenched them away and struck him across the jaw.
"Mother, stop it!" he cried, his eyes fast filling with hot tears. He clenched his teeth and tried to press away the pain with the pressure of his hands. In answer she sank her fingernails into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and pulled his shovel from the two loops back of his baldric. "Leave–me–alone."
She regarded the teenaged boy desperately gripping his shovel for a moment, as though determining a course of action; sneering, she seated herself again and pressed her painted lips to the bottle's rim.
The Mole stormed out, snatching up the cordless phone on the way to his room. He locked the door, kicked off the sturdy boots, and flopped on his bed.
He'd never felt so exhausted.
He pulled off his baldric and dropped it on the floor with a clang, where it lay next to a few spare coils of rope and a Swiss army knife.
Brushing dirt off of his mattress, he rolled onto his side and dialed Gregory's number. He quickly lit a cigarette with items furnished from the depths of his pocket. Kyle's glove is still in there. I've got to give it back to him tomorrow.
Kyle...
"Hullo?" it was Gregory.
"Yes, 'ello, eet's ze Mole," he said, quickly and quietly.
"Mole!" Gregory said breathlessly. "How did it go? Oh, thank you for your time, I knew I could depend on you."
The Mole's head started to throb. "Gregory...eet didn't go so well..."
"Oh no...what are you talking about?" Gregory asked edgily.
"I was caught."
"Bugger it! What happened!"
"I penetrated ze perimeter, but zese guys-zey must've tasered me or somezing-" he ran his fingers through his unkempt brown hair- "because I don't 'ave any bumps on my 'ead or anyzing-"
"Good lord, Mole, are you all right?"
"I've been worse," he said laconically. Is that even true?
"Well, what in God's name happened then?"
The Mole regarded the cigarette which he held, European-style, between his fingers. His head was hurting worse.
"I got caught, I got knocked out some'ow--like I said, zey must've used a taser, I'm pretty sure zey didn't 'it me over ze 'ead with my shovel or anyzing--I mean, I didn't see what zey did to me, eet must've happened from behind. I got tied up, I woke up in some sort of detention cell-" he stopped upon hearing Gregory's sharp intake of breath, which came out as a harsh whispery sound over the phone lines. "...and zey sent zis goon in to question me. He asked me who sent me-"
"You–you didn't tell him, did you?" Gregory asked, the panic obvious in his voice."No, I did not!" growled the Mole. It was a lot easier to say now that he was out of that concrete room. "I would never betray my compatriots!" He was mocking Gregory affectionately, and Gregory knew it.
"Of course not...I was just verifying my surmise, that's all."
"Of course," the Mole echoed gruffly.
"Mole...are you quite sure you're all right? Caught– I– what happened next?" Then, without waiting for a reply: "Oh dear God, Mole...if something had happened to you, I would never forgive myself. You do know that, don't you?"
The Mole grunted.
"Well, how the blazes did you get out of it?" Gregory asked, stunned and relieved.
"You know, zat's ze zing. I don't know if I would 'ave gotten out of eet, except...Gregory, Kyle–"
"What!" yelled Gregory, his London accent stronger in his upset state. "But he swore to me that he wouldn't go if I told him! He said...but...wait...he helped you?"
"Yes. 'e came bursting in and knocked ze guy out wiz my shovel, and I tunnelled out. By ze way, zanks for telling 'im ze location, I owe you one."
"Yeah...yeah..." Gregory muttered, sounding disconcerted. The Mole took advantage of the silence
to smoke uninterrupted.
"So you just tunnelled out?"
"Yeah, ze door wasn't locked, but I wasn't taking any chances."
"You're...you're amazing, Mole. I've never met anyone like you."
"Ah, you flattair me," the Mole said, and shook his head, despite the fact that Gregory couldn't see him.
"And you're certain you're all right?"
"Yes," the Mole said vehemently.
"Just for a moment, don't be tough! Did they hurt you at all?"
The Mole sighed. "Sheet. Okay, fine. 'e punched me, okay! Ze goon punched me and I got a nosebleed! Zat's all! Not a big deal!"
"Bloody fucking hell!" Gregory cursed.
"I can do zis, Gregory! I just need some backup! I mean, zey've got tasers–"
"Backup? You're the best there is! Who am I going to use for backup? I'd only mess you up somehow, I'm not trained, this isn't my area of expertise-"
"I'm going to see zis through! Look, I'm not...I'm not in ze mood right now..."
"I don't want you to get hurt, it isn't worth it, this is one of those times when there aren't actually innocent lives at stake...well, in a sense, yes, but..." he trailed off. "Damn it all, Mole, I don't want you to get hurt!"
Like Kyle! 'I don't want you to die!', he said...why does everyone care about me all of a sudden? Well, Gregory was pretty freaked when he found out I'd actually been dead for a while...but that was a long time ago..
.
"Are you there?" Gregory asked.
"Yes..." he scratched his head, toying with a fluffy clump of hair. He pushed down; it popped up. He did it again.
"Christophe! Who are you talking to!" a shrill voice said thickly.
"Oh sheet, oh sheet..." the Mole muttered.
"What is it?" Gregory asked.
"CHRISTOPHE!" There came a banging on the door.
"What's that noise?" said Gregory.
"My muzzer banging on ze door." In a drunken rage...thought the Mole, but he didn't tell Gregory that. Nobody knew; he kept the secret as well as his mother did. He didn't think he could bear the humiliation. With a sympathetic presence on the other end of the line, though, he couldn't hold back from saying something: "We 'ad a fight."
"What-"
"CHRISTOPHE, GET OUT HERE!" The sound of glass shattering.
"Mother of fucking God-" the Mole snarled. He stubbed the cigarette out quickly, feeling bereft.
"What-"
"I 'ave to go-"
"No Mole, don't-"
"I'll see you tomorrow-"
"Mole-"
"À plute!"
"All right, take care of yourself."
The Mole pressed the off button and picked his shovel up off the floor. "Coming, coming! Patience is a
motherfucking virtue!" He doubted that she'd appreciate expletive-laden irony in the state she was in, though. He braced himself and unlatched the door.
Mirielle Delorne stood there,limply holding the smashed bottle and swaying gently. "I'm not finished with you!" she yelled.
The Mole looked from her hand to the carpet and brandished the shovel. There was a multitude of glass shards on the floor. She took a swing at him but he blocked it easily with his shovel. She gave a cry of pain as her hand smacked the blade. He growled, "Give me the fucking bottle!" and pried it sharply away. Without her weapon she seemed to deflate, and he pulled her to the door of her room. "Go to bed, Mother." He retreated to his room, and was relieved to find she didn't follow him. He stumbled over to his bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
--
The Mole was late to school that day. He lived on the edge of town, and the bus stop was out of his way. South Park High was closer to his neighborhood than the local elementary school, which he had not attended. In spite of the laws mandating school attendance, he had fallen through the cracks in his
younger years in South Park. As soon as he was old enough, he'd registered at the public high school to
get away from his mother. Thanks to his years in the French primary school system before he'd come to South Park, he'd known just enough to make it through his high school classes without arousing any suspicion due to his poor performance. The teachers didn't have time
to deal with his kind, anyway.
He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. There had been no time to change, none at all. He'd forgotten to set his watch alarm, but miraculously, his internal clock had woken him up. Then he had
hurried out, taking no chances in case his mother's hangover proved inflammatory rather than debilitating.
He'd slogged through the morning, his first three classes bereft of Kyle or Gregory. Kids had thrown
disgusted glances at his soiled and wrinkled shirt, and their eyes had shown traces of fear when they
lingered on his face. The Mole had tried to scrub any dried blood or dirt off of his face in the bathroom at school, but some of it must not have come off.
Finally, it was English.
The Mole found a seat in the corner of the room, trusting that Kyle would find him. He set his copy of
Les Misérables upon the desk. He would have preferred to read it in the original French; the English prose was dense and cold to him. He admired the character of Enjolras very much.
He looked up every time someone entered the room. Red. Clyde. Sky. Token.
Kyle. A patch of orange, brighter than the fruit for which the color had been named, caught his eye; it was juxtaposed with soft green. He inadvertently cracked a smile–how long had it been, months?–and watched as Kyle glanced around until their eyes met.
"Mole!" Kyle said in his sweet voice, as he dropped his bag and slid into the desk smack next to him. Red Dickensen stared at them. Kyle didn't notice, but the Mole felt a hot prickle at
that look. Did they have to ruin everything for him? Why did they have to–
"How are you?" Kyle smiled at him. A caring voice felt so good to the Mole's ears.
"I'm all right." What a fucking lie. He felt his heart fill with a bittersweet rush. How strange, all morning he'd been able to handle anything, but now with Kyle here he felt all his fortifications start to crumble down.
Kyle looked with a gentle probing gaze at the Mole's dirty clothes, at the dark circles under his eyes. The Mole felt as though Kyle could sense the malaise in his being.
"Are you...are you really?" Kyle asked. "Why are you...what's wrong? Tell me..."
"Nothing's wrong! He's just antisocial!" Red's voice broke in scornfully. "I don't even know why you're wasting your time with him, he hates everybody."
The Mole looked down despairingly and clenched his fists.
Kyle stared at her. "Excuse me?" The Mole's gaze shot up to Kyle; the boy's tone
signalled that he was getting wound up.
"What!" Red scoffed. "I'm just trying to help you out."
"Help me?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah? Well, you can go fuck yourself!" Kyle was pink-cheeked and trembling. The Mole found himself affected by the petulance on Kyle's face, written in his auburn eyebrows.
Red's mouth dropped open. "Jesus!" She threw the pair of them a disparaging glance and diverted her earthly attentions to a just-arrived friend.
The Mole turned a pair of sultry eyes on the strong-featured boy.
"Zat wasn't reely necessairy," he told Kyle quietly. He felt warm inside, a glow of...not gratitude, a
milder feeling...tinged with discomfort. He felt weakened, exposed, yet protected. A paradox.
"But I wanted to. I can't believe they treat you like this."
The Mole shrugged bitterly and fiddled with his gloves.
"Did you get home all right?" Kyle asked softly.
"Yes...did you?"
"Well, my mother was pretty pissed, but I don't care."
My mother was pissed, too...in more ways than one...wait...that pun only works in English, and
British English at that...must be picking shit up from Gregory or something...think in French! Poutain de merde!
He gripped his head tightly in his hands, tugging at his hair until it hurt.
"Dude! What's wrong?" Kyle gripped the Mole's shoulder and looked wildly into his eyes.
The room being almost full now, Kyle and the Mole were safe from prying eyes, surrounded completely by self-engaged classmates.
"Nuzzing, nuzzing!...I'm just not feeling vairy good..." the Mole said in a strained voice.
"Maybe you should go to the nurse or something. I'll go with you," Kyle said.
"No! I'm okay...class is about to start, anyway." The Mole looked at Kyle and smiled weakly but genuinely.
"All right, let's go over our study questions!" said the teacher.
They exchanged glances, and the Mole felt that this might not be such a bad day after all.
The bell rang, and Kyle stretched. He touched his hand to the Mole's shoulder. "Lunchtime! Let's go!" He smiled long-sufferingly. "Finally, eh?"
The Mole looked at him awkwardly and self-consciously pressed the sore spot on his left cheekbone.
"Wait, I've never seen you at lunch," said Kyle. "Don't you go?"
"No," the Mole said. "I go outside and smoke at lunch. I 'ave to."
"So you don't have a lunch?"
"No."
Kyle looked concerned for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and said sparklingly, "Well, you can have some of mine then!"
"But I 'ave to smoke." He twitched. "Eet's 'ard enough to get trough ze day wizout smoking during
class."
Kyle bit his lip. "Come eat with me for a few minutes? Please?"
"Okay, very well." He picked up his books. "I must drop these off, though."
"Sure." Kyle swung his bag over his shoulder and followed him out. The Mole wondered for a moment why Kyle always carried his bag, even when it was inconvenient for him to do so. After the Mole dumped his books, they made their way to the cafeteria and elbowed through the thronging children. "Over here," Kyle called. They sat at an empty table and settled themselves.
Kyle peered inside his sack lunch and grimaced. "The food here sucks. I miss Chef," he said, oblivious to the fact that the Mole had never attended South Park Elementary. "Salami AGAIN. Ugh. Kosher beef salami is gross. I had the other kind at Stan's house and it was better. I don't think God will hate me if I eat pork, honestly." Shaking his head, he offered half of the sandwich to the Mole. "Heh, I know I said it was gross, but you've got to eat something. Chips?" He held up a bag of Manischewitz kosher potato chips.
The Mole didn't feel very hungry, but he smiled weakly and took a bite out of the sandwich as Kyle chattered at him. The sound of the lunch room seemed oddly dampened from within the bubble he was sharing with Kyle. He was so tired. He watched Kyle neatly spread all of his lunch items out on the table, and suddenly realized that Kyle wasn't eating anything yet. Just as he was about to ask, Kyle pulled a small black pack out of his backpack and opened it up. He squirted some antibacterial soap onto his hands and took out a vial containing a clear liquid and opened it before setting it on the table. Then, he withdrew a syringe and a hypodermic needle and deftly joined them. He swabbed the needle and the the rim of the open vial, then pressed down on the plunger and sucked up the liquid. Without a word heunzipped his jacket, pulled up his t-shirt and injected himself in the side of his abdomen.
"What...what are you doing?" The Mole asked dumbfoundedly, wincing. Kyle looked up with a shock and pulled out the needle. "Oh my God! It's such a routine, I forgot you didn't know- I'm diabetic." He paused, then continued matter-of-factly, "I have to take insulin ten minutes before eating. Well, with this insulin anyway, it varies." He spoke as he filed the items away. "Haha, I forget how it looks watching someone take insulin when you're not used to it." The Mole nodded. "You know about diabetes, right?"
"Yeah. I mean, I've heard of it." He'd seen someone go into diabetic shock when he was five, and the teachers at his French primary school had had to explain away the magical thinking surrounding the frightening incident. Right now, the Mole was thinking of how fragile Kyle must be underneath his hardy exterior. What if the strenuous activities of the previous evening had upset his blood sugar, or something?
Kyle leaned forward conspiratorially. "I actually have one of Cartman's kidneys."
The Mole choked on the last of the sandwich. "Sheet!"
"Ah, speak of the devil," Kyle said airily. The Mole turned around and saw Eric Cartman and Stan Marsh standing nearby."
"Hey dude," Stan said to Kyle over the Mole's head. "Spare a seat?"
"Yeah, okay," Kyle nodded and kicked out one of the chairs.Cartman took a different chair, and the Mole could swear he heard it creak. Stan glanced at the Mole, then looked at him again more deeply. "Hey- it's you!" he said, and narrowed his deep blue eyes. "What are you doing here?" The Mole felt uncomfortable; those lapis lazuli eyes were sizing him up. Wait, this guy is Kyle's friend, he was in La Resistance...you had no qualms about grabbing him and giving him a good shake when the temper overtook you... He returned the glance stonily.
Stan looked at Kyle with a hint of dismay, and forced a smile. "How about Algebra, huh? Miss Diller is such a bitch!" He delved into what was obviously a morning's shared experience between him and Kyle that had not involved the Mole. The Mole scowled as he heard Kyle's euphonious laugh and prodded the tender spot on his cheekbone again. Was it swelling? That was where his mother had hit him, wasn't it? He felt a nebulous cloud of anger bubble in his chest.
Cartman was stuffing his sandwich into his mouth. He took a breath and huffed, "Hey, you're that British dude from that thing! I saw you in class but I didn't know it was you! Haha, I thought you were dead!" He tore open into a package of Snacky Cakes.
Kyle slammed his fist down on the table. "You killed him, you stupid fuck! He told you to shut off the alarms!"
"Dude, calm down!" Stan said forcefully. "Why the hell are you so worked up over-"
The Mole didn't say anything. Somehow the urge to rail at the world was gone. He was so fucking tired.
"Yeah, shut your pie-hole, Jew! Why is this British shit even sitting at our table?" Cartman spat back. "Are you two going out or something?" He gave a hearty snigger.
Kyle tugged off his hat and raked his hand through a mane of corkscrew curls. They hung lankly around his face, framing it in its fervid glow.
"Yes," he declared, thrusting his jaw forward vehemently. "Chew on THAT, Cartman." He reached across the table and grasped the Mole's hand. The Mole froze and looked from one to the other. Cartman was frozen in mid-chew, his mouth open slightly; Stan was like a deer caught in headlights, gasping for breath. Kyle squeezed the Mole's hand and gave him a loving smile. The Mole felt the warmth.
Cartman came unfrozen with a spasmodic flail. "So you two are fags? Jew-boy and I don't even remember your name, you're gay assholes?" He laughed uncontrollably.
"Fuck you Cartman!" Kyle yelled, flipping him off.
"Dude..." Stan said slowly, "You're...gay?"
"Yeah, I guess so," said Kyle with a nervous laugh. "You...you don't have a problem with that, do you?" His grip on the Mole's hand loosened slightly. "I don't see any reason for homophobia in my friends, after all it's nothing new in this place, Tweek and Craig have been going out, and Kenny's bi..."
"No," Stan said, still slow. "No, it's just...I..."
"Kyle is a faggot, Kyle is a faggot," Cartman chanted. "Oh shut the fuck up Cartman, you probably are too," Kyle said.
Stan looked icily at the Mole, who was wide-eyed and awkward. "And you're gay too?"
"I..." The Mole cast a glance at his and Kyle's entwined hands.
"I love him, Stan," Kyle said zealously.
Am I gay? The Mole thought in consternation. Did he love Kyle or not? He tried to think. When did he feel love? When did he want a girl? When did he want a boy? He thought he'd felt it before, but he couldn't think...he just couldn't remember...anger. Just...anger. He dug into the kosher potato chips as Kyle's friends tried to make sense of it all.