Blaine found himself drawing pictures in the fresh condensation on the window of the car, like his mom had always told him not to.
"You'll leave it greasy," she'd complained that October morning all those years ago, her lilting Philippine accent sounding oddly strained.
That hadn't been a good day, Blaine reminded himself, stretching his legs out in an effort to calm the flutters in his stomach. But none of his days were good then. This was about to change. That's what the Dalton prospectus had said, anyway.
Despite the promises of 'tolerance, acceptance and security', he was still terrified. For all the months planning, he still couldn't quite believe that in fifteen minutes he'd be there. This haven - tantalising like a daydream – was almost in reach. But like all daydreams that come true, he had a feeling he would end up being let down, again. He shifted in his seat, his leg meanwhile returning to its awkward, nervous jig. Maybe he could just never leave this car. Maybe this car ride could go on forever.
His hand absent-mindedly clasped over the gear stick and his mother dutifully covered it with her own, squeezing tight. It hadn't been easy for her, either.
She was a lovely, dainty woman with big brown eyes and a heart that saw all the goodness in the world. Her acceptance of Blaine's sexuality had been ultimately in-keeping with her character; she regarded her son warmly, never making a snide remark or setting off in a tirade about having no grandchildren. She was a strong, sweet little thing. Blaine thanked God every day that he would always have this woman on his side.
But these last few months at school had run her ragged. She never once blamed Blaine but had worried for him from the moment he left on the bus to school to the second he came home. Her instinct right from his coming out was to take him in her arms and protect him from those naysayers and bullies, and Blaine knew that. That was what hurt their relationship. Blaine had kept pushing, kept struggling in the face of adversity. He'd gone to prom that night and faced the consequences. He swallowed. She'd cried all evening, had picked up the phone to call the police before his father intervened.
So it wasn't just for him that he was moving, in truth. It felt like one of the more selfish things he'd done; forcing his family to spend all the money on tuition and boarding, but the one time he'd brought it up she'd turned on him dangerously, asking,
"What's a thousand dollars to my son's safety and happiness?"
He wrenched at the rear view mirror in a sudden burst of panic and began checking his hair again, wondering if he'd taken it a bit far with the gel.
"You look like a prince, honey." She yanked it out of his grip, reminding him softly that she didn't want to crash the car.
Blaine disagreed. He looked wide-eyed, scared. Had he seen a pimple rising on his cheek there?
Growing more flustered, he picked up his mother's handbag off the floor, digging for her compact mirror. The car hummed along the highway, the navigation system cheerily announcing that they would be there in just five minutes. Five minutes! Blaine swore under his breath, a prickle of fear rising in his throat. What if he had a terrible time at Dalton? What if the picture postcard sheen disguised an underbelly of nastiness, homophobia and snobbery? He dug his hands about the bag more aggressively, a worried gasp escaping his mouth. What if he didn't get into the glee club?
Singing had been his life for a very long time. At family gatherings, it was Blaine who sat around the piano and kept everyone from killing each other with a soothing Sinatra number. If there was one thing that his family could agree on, it was that 'he had to do something with that voice'. From an early age, his mother noted that he would sing nonsense syllables to himself, always pitch-perfect. This had led him into the talloned hands of many a vocal coach, dance instructor - even a slightly bohemian 'performance' teacher, who had tried to convince him that he was a male Joan Baez. Singing, dancing, performing, was the only thing that had kept him going in the past few months.
Through all the heart-ache and confusion that coming out brought, singing released the strain and let in the light. Standing up on that stage at his old high school, stealing the talent shows with a single opening note - that's what told him that through all this misery, there was a beacon of hope. He pulled at his impeccably ironed, lint-less neck-tie, thoughtfully, knowing there was only one solution to his nerves.
"Radio Blaine?"
He turned to his mother, the search for a compact mirror temporarily halted. She was smiling at the road ahead, tipping her head to the side knowingly.
"What?"
She laughed breathily, removing a hand from the wheel to stroke his shoulder affectionately.
"Go on, sing for me, son of mine. We haven't had 'Radio Blaine' for a while."
'Radio Blaine' was her pet-name for his singing in the car. When he was little, on car rides home, he would sing. His parents would even prompt him with little requests, and like a juke-box, Blaine would perform them with all the emoting that a seatbelt would allow, much to his father's amusement and fascination.
He never stops performing, does he?
He was momentarily stunned by his mother, breath-taken at her ability to read him perfectly - but only momentarily. He launched into the first words of the first song that came to mind, issuing from his mouth more articulately than words had come all day.
"I'm nothing special...in fact, I'm a bit of a bore."
His mother laughed, shaking her head at the opening line. It was a little routine of theirs. Flushed with the happiness that singing brought him, he launched into the second line and felt the weight of nerves, of life, siphon off him with every note. Singing could cure anything. He kept his eyes on his mother, watching the proud little smile light up her face as she continued to watch the road.
"I'm so grateful and proud..." with a little flourish of his hand, he set off into an over-dramatic crescendo, "so - I - say-,"
"Thank you for the music." his mother's voice was like a little chiming bell, complimenting his strong tenor as if they'd been practising for years. He chuckled inwardly as he recalled that in fact, they had.
"The songs I'm singing. Thanks for all the joy they're bringing."
At this his mother grinned, stealing a loving glance at him.
"Who can live without it? I ask in all honesty -," he took a breath here, lowering himself to a murmur as he took in the drive way up to Dalton School. No longer a nerve-filled spectator, he felt content, as if he was coming home at last. A gentle breeze rushed through the leaves of the willows lining the drive, the warm sunshine sparkling on the windshield as they crept along it. The shape of Dalton School rested homely at the top of the road, the dark bricks glittering in the early morning light.
"What would life be?" his mother prompted.
"Without a song or a dance, what are we?"
"So - I - say..." he couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face as they turned abruptly to come to a stop in front of the great, rosy-copper coloured doors. A boy with dark hair stood smiling at the car; a genuine smile that made him wonder why he'd been nervous in the first place.
"Thank for the music. For giving it..." he turned to his mother, embracing her, holding her close to him and breathing in the familiar smell of her perfume.
They both whispered at the same time, the sound loud in the empty space of the car, which now felt like just a car and not the 'last safe place on earth' for Blaine.
"To me."