"Kicked out, you goddamn idiot. Do you get that? Do you understand what that means?"
Now, he thought, was a perfect time for a sarcastic retort, one of those biting comments that he could never think of in time but Kurt Hummel always did, or even the more succinct and in-character, "Hey, dad, fuck you." But then again, he was neither brave nor suicidal, and it would be about as smart as wearing a rainbow Asada suit to school.
That wasn't it. DeNada? Abogada?
"You weren't smart enough to keep from getting caught, is that it? Or you couldn't take him? The little fag looks like Little Bo Peep!"
Mimada?
"You're such a girl, David."
Prada. That was it.
He's right.
"Now I have to deal with this, so you'd better keep your mouth shut for the next few weeks or-"
He cut himself off abruptly as a group of Cheerios walked by. Dave stared at them, focusing so hard his eyes blurred, sliding past, straight to some guy talking to his girlfriend. Dark hair framed his face, his bangs brushing his temples, falling into eyes brightened by the kind of smile that meant he didn't need to care...no. The girl had a fantastic ass (right?), that swayed just a little and bumped the guy's strong, flat stomach...
He'd spent so long trying to look at girls, to see what everyone else saw, and of course he'd done Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, because everyone did, even the girls, even each other-something else he should find hot. And nothing could change the fact that they were boring. Instinctively, he glanced at his dad, the usual paranoia overwhelming him, trying to read in his expression whether he knew. It was so inevitable, he thought sometimes.
But not today, because, although his dad was furious, he wasn't homicidal. Dave watched him check his watch, thinking, as he sometimes did, that it would be so nice to scream everything at him, such a release, if only the world had no consequences.
"Your mother and your sister are waiting outside. We're leaving. And you'd better not fuck this up again, David."
If there was one thing worse than Paul Karofsky, Dave thought, it was Andrea and Paul Karofsky together. Add in their two children, and it was a pretty accurate representation of hell. He braced himself, watching his mother tap fake fingernails on the steering wheel of the car, looking distracted and flustered, frantically flipping through what he was 94% sure was a parenting book. And Darcy, as usual, was attempting to look bored.
His dad opened the passenger's side door, snapped, "I'm driving," and then slammed it shut. With military speed and the air of a mental patient, his mom unbuckled her seatbelt, gathered her book, and hurried to the passenger seat. Dave looked sideways at the book and rolled his eyes. Predictably, the title was, "Raising Difficult Children: A Guide to Troublemakers."
"So, how did everything go?" she asked timidly as the car screeched into reverse.
He wondered why she had to ask that question, when it was obvious how furious his father was, obvious that it was a dangerous subject, obvious that he had, once again, failed everyone. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes as the tirade began again, trying to close his mind to what was happening and succeeding only in hearing scattered phrases that came to the same thing: Dave Karofsky is a disappointment.
Silence followed, which-of course-she interrupted once again. "So...what will we do?"
"Call the school board," his dad said through clenched teeth. "Get him back at McKinley, at the expense of my money and my time."
She sighed. "Well, Dave, I know that sometimes children act out because of difficulties-"
"You'd damn well better not be doing this to act out!" his dad exploded. "If you tried to get caught-"
"I didn't," he said quickly. "I wouldn't."
"Um, wait, so just checking here-but does no one care about the poor guy who's been traumatized by a death threat from a two-hundred-forty-pound football player?" Darcy looked around the car, was met with silence, and then mouthed What the fuck? at him.
Constant excuses trailed every thought. I never expected him to take it seriously. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to know... He wanted so badly for someone to understand and, so ironically, the only one that could was Kurt. And he felt that bridge was pretty definitely burned. In the end, there was really nothing he could say. He shrugged at her, trying to convey his guilt and frustration.
But apparently it didn't work, because she just looked disbelievingly at him and sighed. Yeah, Darcy, I feel the same way.
To begin with, the Karofsky family was about as welcoming-at least in general-as a Trans-Siberian wasteland. By the time they'd gotten home, it was Chernobyl, and Dave had begun to think that being kicked out of the house was the best option possible.
Once inside the house, his dad stormed directly upstairs, slammed the door, and started typing so loudly and with such violence that he could hear it from down the hall, having followed more slowly to go to-he might as well be honest-hide in his room. He slid into a chair, thinking that, at least, if he was temporarily kicked out he could sleep late, not do homework...not pretend. School had, up until recently, been his safe place, where he didn't have to think constantly about what he was supposed to do.
And then all that had gone to hell.
Now it was just his bedroom where he was himself, not Paul Karofsky's son or the popular, scary football player. Or maybe it was more what he wasn't than he was, that he was just someone, forgettable, free. And even that was heavily limited.
"Dave, I've decided to join New Directions."
Proving his lack of privacy, there was his sister, leaning against the doorframe and looking at him expectantly. "Say that again."
"New Directions. The glee club. You know, the one with all those people you spend your time menacing? I'm joining."
He looked up at her wearily. "What are you talking about?"
"My audition song."
"You're not serious." It was more an announcement than a question, and it would have been a clear signal to anyone else to go away. Especially from him. But, because she was his sister, she didn't-in the same way that he wouldn't next time he wanted to tell Darcy something when she wanted to be alone.
"It's my own composition." She took a breath, then began, in what could have been singing were she capable.
"My brother is an asshole,
He proved that well today.
My brother is an asshole,
It's in his DNA.
My brother is an asshole,
My father is a dick.
My brother is an asshole,
My mother's brain is sick.
My brother is an asshole,
He's a homophobic jerk.
My brother is an asshole,
Or he pretends; it doesn't work.
My brother is an asshole,
And sometimes I'm a bitch.
But, still, we are ohana
Family, like Lilo and Stitch."
He stared at her, cold and utterly expressionless. "That all you wanted to tell me?"
"Good instincts. No." She kicked the doorframe, half-thinking, half-frustrated beyond words. "I wanted to tell you to get a life, and to get help because God knows you need it. What are you doing?" She exhaled slowly, leaning against the wall. "Okay. That's all."
"Yeah? Well, I want to tell you to fuck off," he snarled.
"This isn't even you. And you know what? When you look at me like that, you look exactly like Dad. That's how people see you. Is that what you want?"
He stood up without being particularly aware of it, trying to keep himself from closing the distance between them. There were still lines he wouldn't cross, and no matter who he was now, topmost on his personal commandments was, "Thou shalt not hit thy family, especially thy sister, even if she's being a huge pain in the ass."
"You have no idea. Get out of this now, Darcy, or I swear to God-" He cut off the threat, wishing he hadn't started, knowing it proved her point. "Just go."
She looked at him for a second, then sighed, and he could see the moment of her giving up clearly, which made him feel even worse. And as she trudged back down the hall, he was fairly sure he could hear her humming the "my brother is an asshole" song.
It was stuck in his head too.