Pretend

A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California.


A/N: I was at first a little hesitant to write this story. However, I was pleased to receive much encouragement from my wonderful friends. And then of course after discovering that there is a MASSIVE absence of Wendy/Bebe fanfics-- or any Femslash for that matter-- in the South Park fandom, I felt a greater urge to write this. So like my goal is to write this first ever long, chaptered Wendy/Bebe fic, and hopefully do a good job with it. I only hope that my readers, who may be bothered with girlxgirl love, will keep an open mind. If not, please keep any "Ewww, icky lesbians!" comments to yourself.
Chapter 1:

Little Billy's Map

"The world would be a lot better place if there were no cheerleaders."

I glanced at Kyle and laughed. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Really."

"And why don't you explain this… theory to me?"

"It's simple." I watched Kyle sit up a little straighter from where we both sat on the cold, cement ground. He lifted his head from where it rested on the brick wall behind us, while folding his hands in a serious manner. "You see, a cheerleaders' soul purpose in life is a completely useless one; and is also consequently a plague to the civil liberties of the few remaining honorable peoples of society."

"Uh huh. And what's this soul purpose, Mr. Kyle Steven Broflovski, undisputed genius, Sir?"

"It is, quite simply, to fuck jocks."

"Oh? I thought it was to-- I dunno-- cheer."

"That's what they make it look like. After all, how else would they receive school sponsorship? Our school is pretty messed, but they still wouldn't pour money into a 'Fucking Organization.'"

"I see."

"No, they fuck the jocks. Why? Well, to keep them happy of course. Why keep the jocks happy?"

"…Oh. Am I suppose to answer that?"

"You can at least try."

"Why try when you have all the answers?"

He grinned at me.

"To win games?"

"Uh huh."

"Can't they encourage the jocks all the same with just cheering? Is fucking really required?"

"Well, you tell me, Wendy. Would you rather observe boobies bouncing up and down from the opposite end of a football field? Or would you rather them be in your face without the restraint of a polyester uniform top? Which would make you happier?"

"I see your point. Continue."

"Thank you. And why do they need to win games? Because. Because those lump headed retards have no other ticket into college. As a result, they take the spots that rightfully belong to us. The true hope for the future. As a result of that, we have idiots running the world, instead of deserving individuals. And as a result of that, we are all completely doomed."

"Okay. Kyle?"

"Yes?"

"You totally just made that up right now."

"No, I--"

"No, no, no. Kyle, you said something completely random, and then--"

"Does it, or does it not make sense?"

"Kyle, you're such a--"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"It makes absolute no sense. At all. And your wasting my precious lunch period with drivel ramblings."

He rolled his eyes and relaxed his head on the brick wall again. "It makes perfect sense."

"It makes no sense."

"Perfect sense."

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Excuse me, Mr. All Knowing God."

"Damn right."

The bell rang. "Write an essay on the subject." I stood up and slung my backpack over my shoulder, "Then send it to Time Magazine. When they publish it, I'll reconsider your oh so carefully calculated philosophy."

"I will." He threw on his own backpack, and tossed his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it with a forceful stomp, as if illustrating his determination.

"Alright. Good. Tell you what. I'll help you out and pay for postage."

Kyle and I were always like that. Don't get me wrong. I loved the guy. There were times when he got really annoying though. He was so full of himself. He failed to notice that I was his only and friend, and that he was my only friend. I guess reality isn't all that clear when you're like Kyle, who lived in fantasyland at least a good ninety percent of the time.

I couldn't help but feel sorry for the big, greasy redhead. He'd been through a lot. His friends abandoned him at a pretty horrible part of his life. He never told me exactly why the other boys ditched him, but I felt like it had something to do with some pretty terrible rumors that ran rapid through the school.

He was only nine. I never could fully determine how stupid people had to be to believe that a nine-year-old would be responsible for the murder of his little brother. What really happened was that Kyle's mom asked him to start the toddler's bubble bath. He did. The kid played in the tub as it was being filled with water. Kyle got distracted, as any nine-year-old easily is, and when he came back, the tub was full, and his brother was gone.

It wasn't his fault. He didn't mean it. But most of the kids at school acted like he was some monster, including his own best buddies. Personally, I think that manipulative Eric Cartman was at fault for most of it.

The second day I saw him eating lunch by himself, I asked him if he wanted to join me and my friends. I remember him looking so nervous and almost ashamed for eating lunch with a bunch of giggling little girls. Despite a lot of talk, the girls loved having Kyle there. I think the only real reason they were so cool with Kyle was because, well, he was a guy. I think the poor dude went through more torture with us, than what he would have experienced through loneliness.

"Hey, Kyle? Do you think Marcy's cute?"

The boy would blush and shrug his shoulders.

"How about Bertha? Do you think Bertha's cute?"

Again his cheeks turned another shade of pink and he'd shrug his shoulders. "I-I dunno."

Poor guy. I tried to help him out by changing the subject of conversation whenever it turned to something like "Kyle, if someone dared you to, would you kiss Annie?" Some things, like attacking the boy with make-up and hair bows, were beyond my control. Truth be told, I somewhat enjoyed watching one of the girls forcing him into a pair of her mom's heels and a frilly little skirt. And even though he was always saying "No, come on, girls. This is stupid," I think he liked it too.

Games grow old I guess. I still have no clue of what exactly happened. I guess it was just middle school. Middle school happened. Suddenly, it was only me and Kyle. You know what happened? I think it was the other girls… they thought they were women all of a sudden. I guess me and my training bra had no place with them.

At first I didn't care. I liked being with Kyle and only Kyle. He was really smart. Finally, I was without those giggling little childish games, and I could have decent, intellectual conversations with someone. I know. Pathetic, isn't it?

Kyle and I were brought up just about the same way, with strict schedules, after school tutoring, healthy balanced diets, extra homework assigned not by the teacher, but by Dad, and the only cable TV in the house: CNN, the History Channel, the Discovery Channel, National Geographic, MSNBC, FOX News, the Biography Channel, and all that wonderful crap. Really, Kyle and I had no prayer or chance of becoming anything but super big geeks.

The one thing that did bug me, was Bebe. I knew she wasn't like the other girls, and that's what bugged me. I knew her. She was my best friend. I knew her more than anybody else. She was so insecure though. She had no faith. So when the other girls took off, and she sensed what kinda misfit she'd turn out to be if she didn't go with them, she left. The way she could easily say goodbye to everything we shared was what bugged me. And it has yet to stop.

I always asked myself: Why her? Why is it Bebe that haunts my every thought? Five years later, and you'd think I'd get over it. But no. I'm just more upset over the whole thing more than ever. It's like this cursed disease that just gets worse and worse with every passing day. I wish somebody could explain this to me. Bebe was gone. She was frolicking around with the in-crowd now, and who was I? That girl that scores the top score on every test and essay, which the teacher announces each and every time, yet you still don't remember that name? I wondered when the teacher said "Wendy Testaburger" if there was any slight tinge in your brain, in the depths of your memory, of who that was once to you; or did it just fly past your head, blocked out by thoughts of what you're going to wear to the next school dance?

I really hated that whole image thing. The popular scene and the, well, not popular scene. Maybe it was because I got no benefit from it. It wasn't as if you were popular, you'd get love, and admiration, and a cute wardrobe; and if you were non-popular, you'd get… respect? At least respect. But that wasn't the way things worked. Not popular? You got shit. Sorry. Game over. Why don't you go ask your mom for some more quarters, and play again?

I wasn't the game playing type though. Didn't win the popular game? Oh well. I was too lazy to give it another shot. I didn't care anyway. Well, sometimes I cared. But when I did, nobody knew it but me. Besides, I liked acting like I didn't care. Made me look a lot stronger. I was an independent, strong, and slightly liberal minded future triumphant lesbian politician and genius, and the world better look out for Wendy Testaburger. And it will be absolute certainty, that that name will never be forgotten again.


My parents weren't very involved with anything more than my grades. They thought Kyle was my boyfriend and every so often, my mom asked how Bebe was doing, completely unaware that the two of us hadn't been best friends since the sixth grade. I never told my mom what happened. It just seemed like too much work. And when you let the lie run for one, two, three, four years… what was the point? And the whole Kyle thing. Well, I couldn't come out about that. Kyle would kill me. I'm sure, being the serial killer expert and buff he was, he'd know the perfect way to do it too, and make it look like an accident or suicide or something too.

Kyle was the most flaming queer ever, as long as his parents weren't anywhere around. No, he'd be going on a endless rant about how he would have loved and openly offered to be Jeffery Dahmer's sex slave for eternity if he were around at the time, and then his mom or dad would pass through the room, and he'd shut up and plant a fake kiss on my cheek and give an innocent smile to whichever parent it was. I guess I shouldn't be talking though. I mean, it wasn't like I was being honest either.

My mom informed me that she and Dad were going to have me a birthday dinner. Not party. Dinner. At least it was a way to round up my aunts and uncles and grandparents to one spot, where I can collect envelopes of cash. My seventeenth birthday was about two weeks away. I was still waiting for that car my dad promised me last year.

"Do you want to invite any friends?" she asked me.

"Sure. Kyle will come." I tried to make it evident in my tone of voice that I wanted the conversation to end, because she obviously failed to notice that I was in the middle of reading an English assignment.

"Of course he'll come. What about your friends?"

"Nah, they can't come."

"Why not?"

"I dunno. I'll ask, alright?"

"Wendy, I have to know how many people I will be cooking for that night."

"Okay." I sighed frustrated and closed my English book. I started to count on my fingers. "There's Grandma and Grandpa. Then there's Aunt May. Uncle Joe and Aunt Terese. There's Aunt Kelly and Uncle Thomas. Grandma Jill. Kyle. That's… nine. Plus me, you and Dad."

"What about Bebe?"

"Mom… alright. No. Bebe and I aren't talking right now, okay? She won't come."

"What's wrong? Did you two get into a fight?"

"Yeah, a fight."

"Oh no…." Like she cared.

I opened my English anthology and started to read again.

"What was the fight about? Something trivial, I bet. You, teenage girls."

I sighed again. "Mom. I'm trying to do my homework right now. Okay? I gotta meet up with Kyle tonight, so I want to finish this."

"Is that what the fight was about?"

"What?"

"Kyle. Is Bebe jealous of him?"

"Mom. Bebe has a boyfriend. Stan. She would never be jealous of Kyle. Please. I just want to do my homework. Cook for twelve."

At last, she shut up and left me alone.


When we were sophomores in high school, Kyle came barging into my room this one early morning-- and when I say early, I mean early. It had to be about three or four in the morning. He was so excited, I thought he was going to piss his pants. He couldn't even piece together comprehensible words. It was just happy rambling. Craziness. I thought: This is it. He's finally snapped and completely lost it.

He preceded by dragging me out, into the cold night, to Stark's Pond. He kept dragging me, still smiling and giggling with delight, like some little kid freaking out about meeting Barney the Dinosaur or a Teletubbie, and we continued on deep into the woods.

For a long time, I thought he was just leading me to our deaths. He was getting us lost. We'd never find our way out. And we'd starve and freeze to death. Thanks, Kyle.

But we finally got there. Kyle stopped and we stood in front of a tall tree. He was looking up with the biggest grin on his face. I looked up. It was dark, and I couldn't see anything. It was nearly morning, and so it wasn't pitch black, but still very dark.

Kyle looked at me and then looked up again. "Who do you think it belonged to?"

"What belonged to who? Kyle, I don't see shit."

"Yeah, sorry. I tried to get to your house before the sun was down, but I kinda got lost."

"You were out here when the sun was up? Kyle, that had to be like ten hours ago! You better not have us lost in the middle of nowhere--"

"Relax, I marked the trees. I know where we are. …I think." He brushed past me, to the trunk of the tree.

I watched him. When I strained my eyes enough, I saw that there were wooden steps nailed to the trunk of the tree. The first was a good three feet off the ground, and Kyle struggled to pull himself up onto that first step of the ladder. I followed him. We climbed up thirty-three steps and we were suddenly in this large tree house.

"Who do you think it belonged to?" Kyle asked again when we were inside.

I looked around the wooden box. There were cobwebbed toys and action figures everywhere. There was a little table and on it was a bunch of comic books. "Some kid obviously."

Kyle grinned as he walked around the room. "Little Billy."


Kyle and I used that tree house as sort of an escape from everyone. As far as we knew, nobody else was aware of it. First, we agreed to keep all of Little Billy's possessions there, agreeing that it gave the place a little character-- it kept the spooky and mysterious mood that we like about it. But a year later, now, Kyle and I realized that those comics and action figures might sum up to quite a bit of cash. Cha-ching.

So we agreed to meet that late afternoon to clean up Pogo's Crawlspace, as Kyle had named it because of the thirty-three steps, alluding to the mass murderer's thirty-three victims; he even went so far as to make a sign in woodshop with "Pogo's Crawlspace" written in macabre carnival like letters and a clown so happy it was scary, dancing on the side, which we nailed just above the entrance of the tree house. Call us juvenile and such, but both Kyle and I loved that place.

As we threw all of Little Billy's things into a cardboard box, which we'd later take to sell at this comic book store, we found more than we had thought was there. Underneath boxes and tables, that we never moved before, were more comics and even little crayon drawings. I studied a picture, that Little Billy was without a doubt responsible for, and tried to determine the kid's age. It was a drawing of Superman. It seemed too skilled for a smaller kid. I guessed that Little Billy was probably ten. Eight, nine, ten, or possibly eleven.

I suddenly heard a joyful shriek from Kyle. He held a paper in his hands. Like the other drawings, the white texture was starting to turn brown. "What is it?" I walked over to him.

It was a map. At first it was hard to tell because Kyle's hands were simply shaking too much with insanely happy giddiness. But it was a map and done in crayon like all the pictures. There was something that looked like a tree, and then a trail that had "50" written underneath it. The trail led to something I couldn't recognize. It just looked like a big square. There was another trail that had "160" written underneath it, and it lead to I guess a bush, and there was a squiggle beside it. Then another trail with "20" underneath it and a big red "X" was it's destination.

I heard Kyle squeal.

I rolled my eyes, "Can we finish this up and leave?"

"But! Look at this! Look at this! Oh my God, Wendy! Look!"

"I see it!"

He bounced up and down in place. "We have to find it!"

"What?"

"Whatever the hell that X is! We have to find it!"

"Kyle you're insane."

"I'm not insane. I'm just queer."

"Stop quoting one of your gay murder lovers and help me pack up the rest of this stuff."

Kyle rolled his eyes. He folded the map and stuck it carefully in his back pocket. "We're going to find it."

"Fine. Not today."

"I know." He picked up a stack of comics and dropped them in the box. "But we will."