Chapter Text
The road is getting bumpy, as Dad swerves the car off the highway. They’re going past actual farm houses now; which does nothing to improve Craig’s mood. It’s been hours since Mom stopped leaning over the back of the passenger seat to talk to him, though. So at least there’s that. There has never been a time in his life where Craig has wanted to be left alone more. He stares straight ahead into the darkness, his ear-buds firmly shoved in; his disc-man playing the same Nick Cave song over and over: People they ain’t no good, people they ain’t no good…
Sure, it’s kind of a sweeping statement, but it’s one he can definitely get behind. Crammed sideways into the back seat since his sister won’t be joining them for another two weeks, Craig’s braced his back against the window and stretched his long legs out where Tricia’s legs would normally go. The heating in their ancient Ford Station Wagon has long since died, and his parents can’t afford to pay for its reincarnation; so Craig just dragged down his duvet from his old room, still in its cover. Dark blue, covered in little swirling galaxies. He’s wearing his seatbelt over it, obviously, because Craig Tucker may be pissed as hell, but he’s no idiot. The anger squirms inside of him like an evil bellyache, and he’s not even sure who he’s the angriest with. With his parents, for both landing jobs at the Bank of South Park and basically uprooting his entire life? With Tricia, who gets to spend a whole extra week with grandma while Craig will have to haul all of her shit inside their new house when the van arrives, on top of his own? Or with Thomas – not that Craig wants to think about his ex. But right on cue, Nick Cave croons, To our love, send back all the letters, and Craig can’t help but let his hand drop, run his fingers over the ratty old backpack he’s stuffed full of all the things his former boyfriend had forced Craig to take back before he left. To our love, a Valentine in blood. All the secretive love-letters, written “To T” and signed simply “C”, because the hell if Craig could deal with people finding out about them. Every last note and present, even that smooth, heart-shaped stone he’d found and pressed into Thomas’ hand, that time they went out to the pond to skim rocks at night. To our love, let all the jilted lovers cry, that people they just ain’t no good. All shoved into a bulging plastic bag with the Sephora logo on it, because Thomas’ mom is a regional manager there, and their house is always full of makeup samples and Sephora bags. Craig had had no choice but to empty his school bag out and hide it all in there, before anybody could start asking awkward questions like Why are you buying makeup.
“It’s your choice,” Thomas had said, making the whole thing Craig’s fault somehow. They’d gone for this really long walk and Thomas had issued him an ultimatum; told him they could do long-distance in exchange for one thing – that Craig would tell his parents the truth. About the two of them; about himself. But that price had been too high. Coming out hadn’t been so hard for Thomas; it was just him and his mom, and there is no kinder human being in the world than Thomas’ mom. Craig, on the other hand, has no idea how his parents will react, if they ever find out they have a gay son. There’s a part of him that wants to tell them, he just can’t, and he’d tried to explain all this to Thomas at the time. The words just hadn’t come out right, because Craig’s not good at talking about feelings and stuff like that.
Now, Craig drums his fingers against the faded leather logo on the front, wondering what he’s even supposed to do with all this stuff. The sum total of his love; discarded and thrust back at him like it was… recycling, or something. But he can’t just chuck it all away; Craig knows he’ll never be able to move on if he doesn’t dispose of these things properly. He’s pissed enough to burn it all, or so he tells himself, but it’s not like his parents won’t notice if he makes a bonfire in their new back yard.
The dirt road has given way to actual streets by now, though it’s no less of a bumpy ride. As the disc-man hisses and spins, starting the song over, they go past the bulky façade of a U-Store-It, before Dad abruptly breaks and swears. People, they ain’t no good…
“Roadblock,” Dad grunts, swerving the car, “Typical."
I think that’s well understood, the song goes on, as Dad takes them past some fairly sketchy-looking buildings, and then a second roadblock. Do people even live here, Craig wonders, and he can see Mom starting to fidget in the passenger seat. Not many things frighten his mom. You can see it everywhere you look. People just ain’t no good.
“If we double back,” Mom begins, but then the other car slams into them. And the whole world turns white.
It’s the most annoying sound in the world. This high-pitched, persistent bleeping that just will not stop. Alarm clock? If he can open his eyes, he can turn it off, Craig decides, but his eyelids are so damn heavy.
“Craig,” a voice is saying – a woman’s voice. “Craig, are you awake?”
“Mm,” he mutters, raising his hand to rub his eyes. But his left hand, his dominant hand, is so cold and heavy. And there’s something attached to his right hand. Craig’s suddenly wide awake, because this is a hospital bed, because there’s a drip sticking out of his right hand, sending waves of pain up to his elbow when he jerks upright. And his left arm, oh shit, is encased in a cast up to the elbow. That pain is only a dull, sick throbbing under his skin though – for now.
A black woman in hospital scrubs is suddenly there, clicking her tongue as she pushes him back down into the mattress. “Try to relax, honey,” she says. “You were in an accident. Can you tell me your name?”
“Craig,” he croaks; his voice all dry and scratchy. The woman – the nurse – sticks a straw in his mouth, and Craig drinks as fast as he can without choking. Some kind of vaguely lemon-flavored squash. It’s too sweet. It tastes amazing. “Craig Tucker,” he says, sounding more normal now, once he’s drained the glass and spat the straw back out. Now that he knows to be careful, he brings his right hand up to his head. His fingertips brush against a bandage.
“Oh, thank God!” Craig realizes there’s some Hispanic lady sitting by his bedside. Her dark hair is pinned back with a sparkly bee-shaped barrette, and she grabs his hand between both of hers. For some reason he notices that her nails have been painted a deep, almost purplish red. Mom wouldn’t be seen dead, Craig thinks groggily, with a tacky colour like that.
“Well, that’s a relief!” Over by the door there’s a tall (though nowhere near as tall as Craig’s dad) blonde guy with square glasses and a moustache. He’s smiling, and he sure seems friendly enough, but something about this guy makes Craig hope he stays right where he is.
There’s no sign of his parents, and the sudden understanding of what that might mean is enough for Craig’s breath to hitch up. “My mom and dad,” he begs, “Are my mom and dad okay?”
The Hispanic lady blinks. “Craig,” she says, with a lilting accent, reaching out to stroke the side of his face, “We are your mom and dad.”
“No,” he says, his voice quivering, “No way!” Craig jerks back from this strange woman’s touch. “You’re not my real parents!”
“Listen, son,” the guy with the moustache and glasses starts across the floor, and Craig instinctively pulls back even further, so he can feel the rails of the hospital bed digging into his back through the bunched-up, flimsy pillow. “They say you hit your head pretty hard in the crash, you know? Your memories are probably just…” He smiles, but it’s not reassuring at all – more like this guy has practiced smiling in a mirror. “Just a bit scrambled up.”
“Hey,” Craig is getting angry now, “I think I’d know what my own parents look like!”
The Hispanic lady turns away, covering her mouth with her hand like she’s about to cry. But this is insane, she’s not…!
“Don’t go upsetting your poor mother now,” the nurse tells him, pushing Craig back down into the bed. “You’ve all been through enough tonight. When you’ve had some sleep –”
“The hell with that,” Craig yells, and yanks the drip out, needle and all. Blood sprays out of his hand in a big red arc, and it takes them all completely by surprise. He vaults out of bed, bare feet slapping unsteadily against the icy floor, and almost topples over. But the panic gives him superpowers, and Craig runs – somehow, he runs – out into a deserted hospital hallway. It’s lined with empty beds and equipment, which he can grab onto for support as he half staggers, half flies, towards the bank of elevators at the far end. All this movement must have jarred his left arm, because the throbbing suddenly escalates to white-hot, buzzing pain. Still – that doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting out of here.
Behind him, people are shouting and running, so waiting for the lift is suddenly not an option anymore – but the stairs are right there. And they wouldn’t expect him to run up, right? Craig flings himself up the stairs, backless robe flapping open behind him, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. He’s been leaving a trail of blood, but if the trail stops –
A hand grabs his elbow and pulls, and in the end, that’s all it takes. Craig falls backwards, right into the arms of the man with glasses. He almost knocks them both over. The guy grunts, but finds his footing, and he’s strong. Now he’s got Craig pinned, and it’s too late by the time he thinks of using the cast as a weapon.
“Let go of me, let go,” Craig screams, as the panic finally boils over, “You’re not my dad!”
“Calm down, son,” Glasses Guy says, and his lips part in a self-satisfied little smirk, showing off the gold crown on one of his upper teeth. He knows he’s won.
“Craig, Dios mio, you mustn’t scare us like that!” The Hispanic lady has finally caught up to them, and now she grabs Craig’s face between both her hands. Her nails dig into his cheeks, and he tries to twist his face away – not my mom, not my mom – but Glasses Guy is holding him too tight for that.
“Let’s,” The nurse is there too, bent over with her hands on her knees and panting, “Let’s get you back,” She straightens up, fanning her face, “Back into bed, Craig. It would probably be best if he spends the night…”
“Ah,” the Glasses Guy says, raising his hand. “If Craig’s not seriously hurt, I’m afraid we can’t…”
Of course we can’t afford it, Craig wants to yell, but he bites his lip instead. Okay, so these people did their research, figured out just how broke his family is. Saying he doesn’t believe them is clearly getting him nowhere; the nurse believes this random couple over him – and why wouldn’t she? For all she knows, Craig hit his head in the crash, and got amnesia or some shit. And anyway, grownups always back each other up. But if these people have taken his parents’ place – and why the hell would anybody want to do that? – then they must know what happened to his real parents, right?
The words burn in his throat, but what choice does he have? “I’m sorry, Mom,” Craig chokes out, “Sorry Dad. I guess I’m… feeling a little confused.”
And bam, once the magic words have been spoken, they all stop acting like Craig is crazy. All of a sudden, the nurse is assuring him that it’s completely normal to feel disoriented after a car crash, and his fake mom starts talking about getting Craig his clothes and shoes back. Even Glasses Guy, aka Fake Dad, loosens his hold a little; though he doesn’t actually let go of Craig at all; he’s basically frog-marching Craig back to that hospital room.
Meanwhile, Craig’s mind is spinning, because what the hell is going on here anyway?
Their new house – the house Mom and Dad bought, not these two assholes – is on a quiet suburban streets lined with hedges and streetlights. That turns out to be a good thing, because it means Craig’s fake dad doesn’t run over the half-naked boy who’s standing in their driveway.
“Shit,” Glasses Guy yells, braking hard enough to jar Craig’s broken arm and make him hiss with pain, before slamming down the horn. Whatever they put in that IV, it’s long since worn off.
The noise instantly wakes the other boy up, and he goes from eerily calm to screaming his head off – screaming like this is some kind of sound battle between him and the Tucker family’s now dented Ford Station Wagon.
In the glare of the headlights, Craig can see that this kid – broad-shouldered and brown-haired – is wearing a rain coat with the hood up, over a pair of boxers and a green T-shirt. Before he just plops down on his ass, that is, blinking like an owl caught in a flashlight beam.
He looks like he might be Craig’s own age – that and he looks confused as hell, mouth opening and closing soundlessly while Fake Dad keeps the horn blaring. All along the street, there are lights coming on behind the curtains.
“Will you stop!” All of a sudden, there’s a guy Dad’s age – Craig’s real dad, that is; Fake Dad is younger – climbing through his own flower beds so he can get to the kid; trench coat flapping open over his striped pyjamas. They’re so obviously father and son, even though the old guy’s smaller and wearing glasses. “He’s sleepwalking,” he goes on, waving both hands at the car like he hasn’t quite realized it’s already stopped, or that his kid is awake now. Awake-ish, anyway.
Maybe those two can’t see into the car very well, but in the rearview mirror, Craig can see his fake parents’ faces all too clearly. His real mom and dad would be worried; they’d be getting out and checking the kid over, offering to help. But these two just look pissed off. So Craig clumsily pops his door open right-handed – God, having his arm in a sling is such a pain in the ass – and climbs out, holding onto the car door for balance.
“Are you okay,” he says, to the shell-shocked looking brown-haired kid, holding his right hand towards him. Now that he’s out of the car, Craig can see that he’s also wearing rubber boots, and recognise the Adidas logo on his chest.
The kid stares at Craig for a second, before he takes his hand. “Thanks,” he says hesitantly – not like he isn’t sure about letting Craig help him up; more like he’s trying to remember how to talk. “Uh, I’m Clyde? I wear clothes sometimes,” he adds; with an embarrassed little laugh. And for some reason, that’s all it takes for Craig to decide he likes him. Clyde doesn’t actually let Craig pull that much – it’s more like he bounds to his feet, and Craig’s hand is just there as a reminder of which way is up.
Meanwhile, it seems the adults aren’t warming to each other much at all. “I could’ve run him over,” Fake Dad is saying, leaning out of the window he’s rolled down. “You need to lock your doors at night, man!”
Even in his pyjamas, Clyde’s father bristles. “What a wonderful idea,” he says, tugging on the sleeve of Clyde’s raincoat. “It’s just nuts that I’d never thought about it. Come on, Clyde,” he goes on, tugging again, and nodding his head towards their house. “Let’s get you back inside.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Clyde mutters, before he leads the way around Craig’s parents’ car and up his own driveway. This is when Craig realizes that he forgot to introduce himself, but it would be weird to yell it over the hedge now.
“Asshole,” Craig’s fake dad growls from the front seat.
Takes one to know one, Craig thinks. Slinging both his backpacks over his right shoulder, he abandons his bedding in the car for now, and follows the strange couple inside. It’s funny, he was telling himself the whole way to South Park that at least he’d get to choose his room and Tricia would just have to take the last bedroom – how important that had seemed.
Of course, the house is empty. The previous owners have left their fridge behind – unplugged, which is annoying, but it’s not like they’ve got anything to put in it. Craig’s real mom was planning to drive round the area and look for convenience store once they’d unloaded their bags, but his fake parents wouldn’t have got the memo. Everything’s bound to be closed by now, anyway.
He trudges up the stairs with their worn-down grey carpet, and he doesn’t even care that there’s no food. It’s ridiculous, because he’s about to spend the night in a strange house with two people who, if Craig is being completely honest with himself, kind of scare him. But he’s so bone tired that he already knows he’s going to sleep like the dead. Tomorrow, though – tomorrow he needs to figure this shit out.
I need to call Grandma, Craig decides firmly. There are no phones in this house either; but maybe he can borrow the phone next door. Tomorrow.