SETTING: GLEE 2.20 Prom Queen
POINT OF VIEW: David Karofsky (me)
DISCLAIMER: Fox owns the rights to GLEE. This is just fan fiction. Live with it.
PROM KING
* Right after Blaine says: "Kurt! Wait!"
I did it. I laid my soul bare in front of the one person that seems to accept me for who I actually am. And I'd done so much bad to him. I was his nemesis. And he forgave me. And now … this. I hate you, Hummel. I hate… You forgave me. I can't hate you. I can't.
I am such a mega douche. I couldn't pull myself together and not cry in front of the guy. But he said he understood. I guess I would've understood if I were in his shoes. Or not. I dunno. What's so freaking difficult about it? Apology accepted, you moron. He accepted your apology, your true self, and your… is it – pain? Probably.
Why is it so hard for me to accept this now? Why is everybody staring at me? Is it the crown? It doesn't fit. I am not their king, and they know it. I am… faking it, here, on this comfortable loveseat, right after joking with Figgins on stage. They saw it, they ate it up. They know. They know, I mean, they must sense that something is wrong with me. Something is. Something really is wrong with me. But I ain't Hummel. I ain't that.
And how come he's the queen? The friggin' prom queen?
OMG. Secret ballot. No other way. It must be that. Secret ballot. And it was Jacob Ben Israel who counted the votes. And that Cheerio blonde, what's-her-name. Secret ballot. It's a secret, then, in this school. Is my secret still a secret in this school?
Santana. Where is Santana? Why isn't she protesting? Why isn't she tearing Ben Israel's clothes in a rage and pulling handfuls of his jewfro? Why isn't she Lima-Heights-ing someone? Why am I even thinking of her now?
The BullyWhips. Every-friggin'-body saw me walk him to class. Santana escorting him – fine. She's escorted guys before. Kurt's not a guy. Not a guy's guy. He's just… something. A fairy. And now he's a fairy queen and I'm his fairy … king. OMG. Someone must have seen me cry in front him right before French class. Someone must've overheard that he feels my pain. You can't really feel it, Kurt, you can't. Just as I can't feel your pain right now. Wherever you are, wherever Warbler-dearest is wiping your tears, I can't feel it 'cause I can't know.
Someone must have overheard. And now they're here, staring at me like brain-dead zombies and waiting for something to happen. Should I be even smirking like this? Should I be even scratching my pants like this? Dare I look elsewhere? There's Brad, on the piano, talking to the Jazz Band. There's Figgins, asking them all to calm down and wait. There's Mike, and Puck, and Sam. I can't tell what they are talking abo… Me. About me. Just look at their eyes. They're hating me. For what I did to Kurt. And to think I've blocked for them?
And there's this line or two of people right in front of the stage.
"Karofsky's got it bad this time."
"It was Pettinger's idea, and he…"
"I voted Santofsky, why is this going on now?"
"Where's that lady-boy? Is he…out crying?"
Stop. Everybody stop!
I yell and scream and shout and get up and destroy everyone with… this is not HALO. This is not even remotely HALO. I'm not wearing … hell, I'm here with a $5 party crown on my head and a misery to match. Please stop looking at me, Figgins, please. Please, not the long face. Not now.
I've probably disappointed you by not acting after Kurt ran out. Was I supposed to? That would make me … what Kurt has. Is. What Kurt is. Where are the other Bully Whips? Where's…
Azimio. Z. Where are you, Z?
I can't see him anywhere. Is he making out with his prom date somewhere in this school? I need to see and look at someone I trust. Like Z. Not Kurt. Where is Kurt? Where is Z? Come on, Z. Don't leave me here alone.
Or is he… laughing with… them? All of them grimacing here and ogling me crown to shoe? Z? Would you do that to me? Oh, man, just KMN.
Mr. Schue. He's not looking for Kurt. He's here. What's going on? Is this monstrosity of a prom over? Please, please, let it be over. No, Mercedes is coming up to… sing, I guess. But no Z. Anywhere. Who is Mr. Schue looking for now? Santana? Why am I not looking for her? Does it matter? Does it really matter, when I'm shaking like a leaf here?
My cell-phone. Vibrating. Someone's texting me. I can't. I can't take my phone out and read that now. It'll be weird. It'll be someone irrelevant and I'll still be thinking about how to get the frak outta here without being noticed. But I already have this crown of thorns to wear. Can I please cry and still be Karofsky?
Kurt. He's been crying. He's coming. He's coming to get coronated. Oh, god. Oh, god, god, no. Please look at him, look at him, you crazy people, look at him. You voted for him. And… and for me.
This is my penance, it seems.
FIGGINS: Ladies and gentlemen, your 2011 Prom Queen, Kurt Hummel.
This is it. Now it's official. I am the Prom King of a g… lady boy. Too much of a lady. And a boy. I must behave like a gentleman, I promised that to my dad. My dad. What do I tell him about thi…
KURT: Eat your heart out, Kate Middleton.
Who is Kate Middleton? Who am I? Where's Azimio? Where's Santana? There she is. Petrified, or just angry. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Santana, for this. But please don't get even over this. Don't out me. This is not my fault.
FIGGINS: And now, behold the tradition of our 2011 Prom King and Queen sharing their first dance.
No. No. I can't. Not with Kurt. He's supposed to be Santana. He isn't. That isn't Santana. That isn't a girl. That's … probably me.
KURT: Now's your moment.
Everybody's eyes are on me. Not Kurt. Why would they be? They know him. They've seen his glamorous and flamboyant ways. They know he's got a boyfriend. They know that… I bullied him. But, what moment?
ME: What?
I realize what he means. I can't. Kurt, I can't. It's… not right. Not me, not I. Not David, and not David Karofsky. Not Azimio's friend. Not Dave, the football player. Not Karofsky, who's dating Santana. Not me. No.
I can't even keep a poker face anymore. I show.
My heart is thumping and my palms are clammy. I feel I have paper in my mouth. I can't even look at Kurt. I can't see who's standing in front of me, who's mocking me in my face knowing that I can't see them because of the spot light.
KURT: Come out. Make a difference.
What difference would that be, Kurt? You'd still be you. I won't be me after this. I'd be different.
No one will talk to me about girls and dating and slushies and football practice and the game on TV.
No one will see me as the football star and the duke stud I've become here at McKinley.
Not a single person would want to treat me … hell, they'll end up treating me like I treated you.
I'll become an over-grown Hulk version of you, Kurt. And you'd still be you.
* ABBA's "Dancing Queen" starts playing*
I'm sorry, Kurt, I'm sorry. I…
I am not… like you. I'm not brave. I don't have the courage to stand up to all these people and … do… this. I…
ME: I can't.
Leave. Run. Get out. Retreat. Don't tackle anyone, this ain't a game.
Outside. Yes, outside. My car.
Why is everyone staring at me? Look elsewhere!... please, look elsewhere. Please.
I don't need this crown any more. I don't. Here, McKinley, take your shitty crown. I don't care. I don't care about the stupid lockers, the people I shoved at the lockers, the people who helped me shove others… They're all the same. Same thing, different label.
Label. Did I just get a new one? Did they really stick something on me? Am I still the jock? Or just the bully? Or just Santana's latest catch? I am Kurt's Prom King.
The fuck with that. The fuck with the blackmailing, and the campaigning and the apology and pretending and the beards and all else.
Why did I stop? The poster. The friggin' poster! I'm sorry, Santana. I can't. I couldn't. I'm sorry. I'm crying. Why the fuck am I crying? I want to go back there and punch somebody. Not Kurt. It's not his fault that the world is screwed up even more than I ever imagined. But at least I'm still me, I'm still D…
"Dave! Yo, D! Wait up!"
Z. It's Z.
I turn around, not caring at all that he can see me crying. He's seen me cry tons of times. After practice. Whenever I sprain my ligaments. That one time years ago when I fell of my bike and nearly cracked my skull open.
"Why aren't you in there dancing?", says Azimio, without his usual attitude. His eyes were holding back something. I could see it. I know his usual self and this ain't it. He… He's worried? Is that it? Like when I was expelled from school?
"Did you see what happened in there, Z? I got punked. At my own freakin' junior prom. And you want me to go back there and dance?"
"Dave, you should be IN THERE, not OUT HERE in the hallways", Z raised his voice a little. Nothing new, his attitude was back. But with a 180-turn.
"Where were you all this time?"
I honestly got mad at him for not being there when I needed him. But it's Z, Dave, he's got your back. He's always got your back. Why this now?
"By the exit. You walked right past me and didn't even hear me calling you."
"I'm outta here, Z. I can't… I just can't…"
I turned around and pushed the doors open. The night air and the buzzing of the cars nearby was the snap back to reality I needed. Azimio followed. Not a word. Not his usual loud-mouthed or foul-mouthed self.
I needed the air. I looked at the sky, the moon, the cloudlets playing in front of the moon. I should've acted differently in there. But it's too late now.
"Dude, let me drive you home. And wipe those tears, you look like someone died."
Someone did die in there, Z. Me. David Karofsky died in there. Gaze upon gaze from the indifferent yet indignant crowd, piece by piece of me dropped dead on the floor. And Hummel delivered the final blow. Make a difference, he said. Sure. Yeah, right.
"Shut up, Z! Just… Shut the fuck up! Leave me be!" I walked to my car saying, actually shouting this to Azimio without even bothering to look him in the eye. I've yelled at him before, but never to shut up. I opened the car door, when he comes next to me, grabs my keys and coolly says:
"D, I'm driving. Get in."
He looked at me like he was gonna punch me in the face. I know that look all too well. I composed myself that very instant. I wiped my eyes. I could still hear the music. It stopped. No more DancingQueen. No more Kurt, Santana, prom, football practice, and probably no more Z in my life.
Did he know? Did he know my secret?
Z got in the car, but didn't turn on the ignition key, nor did he switch the lights on. Then he just spoke:
"Two things: one, all us football guys voted Kurtofsky for Prom King and Queen. And for that I am more than sorry…
I wanted to punch him in the face, or in that gut of his. Full throttle punch. No questions asked, no explanation needed, no apology afterwards.
"… and, two, I know there's something you're not telling me. I saw how you looked at Kurt, when he mumbled something before the dance."
What I am hiding, Z? Is that what you want to know?
You want to know that I'm a flaming homo? Fuckin' GAY like Hummel?
To be continued…