The following morning, Kurt's alarm clock rescued him from a disturbing nightmare of being staked out in the middle of the football field with his friends, all dressed in gladiator-garb and singing Queen's "We Are the Champions", battling the wrestling team with plastic swords, while Coach Sylvester stood on a pedestal above the mêlée bellowing, "Put your backs into it! Nobody leaves until I see blood! Haven't you ever attended a Virgin Sacrifice before?"

Kurt got dressed in one of his favorite outfits, hoping the clothing would give him courage for what was to come, and went upstairs, breathing a sigh of relief at the realization that nobody was left at home. He had been afraid someone might force him to eat breakfast, and though he normally ate as enthusiastically as any other growing teenager – if a bit more healthily – today he was seriously afraid that he would not be able to keep it down if he tried.

The knots in his stomach grew tighter as he drove to school and headed for first-period Glee practice, with all the enthusiasm of a man heading for the gallows. He went to sit in his usual top-row seat, feeling Santana's challenging gaze spearing him like a butterfly on a cork board with every step.

Kurt could not have said what anyone sang that day, or what Mr. Schuester had chosen to expound on as the week's object lesson – something he did every Friday without fail. All he knew was that Mercedes, Finn and Artie had all tried to get his attention at some point, an effort that he'd staunchly ignored in favor of watching minutes slip away on the clock that hung over the door.

Finally, Mr. Shue sharply clapped his hands together and asked if anyone had anything to say before class was dismissed for the week. Feeling a bit like he was having an out-of-body experience, Kurt raised his hand.

"Kurt," Mr. Shue said, smiling encouragingly. "You've been pretty quiet today. What's on your mind?"

Rising on shaky legs, Kurt moved down the steps to stand before the piano, gripping the instrument with both hands as he looked at Santana Lopez. "I just . . ." He swallowed, clearing his throat when his usually smooth voice emerged as more of a croak. "Santana? You did something yesterday that made me realize just how amazing you really are, and I . . . If you're not busy, I'd like to take you out on a date tonight, to say thanks."

The last sentence came out in a rush, so tight with nervousness that he sounded as if his vocal chords had been high-jacked by the Chipmunks, but the words had clearly been understood if all the slack jaws and bulging eyes in the room were anything to go by.

Having half-expected that Santana had only asked him to do this so she could enjoy the humiliation of turning him down in public, Kurt breathed a silent sigh of relief when the hard-edged cheerleader simply glanced around, scribbled something on a piece of paper and said, "Pick me up at seven," before flouncing out of the practice room.

#~#~#~#~#

"You guys, for the hundredth time, I am not crazy, I am not drunk, I have not gone bi-sexual, and Santana has not put a hit out on my father!"

He glared at Artie as he stated that last point and the wheelchair-bound boy just shrugged. "It seemed like a valid theory."

"Then what is it?" Mercedes demanded with an impatient toss of her head. "Either she is holding some kind of major blackmail over your head, or you've completely lost your mind."

Kurt pinched the bridge of his nose. The interrogation had not let up all day long. He had been receiving notes and text-messages in every class, weird glances in the hallway, and a peppering of curious and disbelieving questions from every single one of his friends. He had resisted the urge to tell anyone what really happened, embarrassed to admit that he had just stood in a corner and gaped like an idiot while Santana staged her rescue.

"Karofsky and Azimio," he confessed. School was finally out for the day, and he could see that Artie, Tina and Mercedes had no intention of letting him go home without giving a real answer. "They cornered me yesterday and were about to turn me into cheerleader pate when Santana showed up. She helped me fight them off, so in return I'm buying her dinner. Okay?"

Mercedes looked impressed. "I saw Azimio's nose. Santana did that?"

Slightly miffed that she had assumed, however correctly, that Santana had been the one to inflict the damage, Kurt nodded.

Tina's face wrinkled in confusion. "That was really . . . nice of her."

"Almost as if she likes you or something," Artie agreed with a dramatic shiver. "It's creepy."

Mercedes, happy to be in the know at last, patted Kurt on the arm and flashed him a wicked grin. "Better watch out there, boyfriend. After dinner, she might try to mate with you and then bite off your head."

"Very funny," he grumbled, closing his locker with a slam. "If you'll excuse me, I have some preparations to make."

"It's been nice knowing you, Kurt!" Artie called after him as he walked away.

Getting into the spirit, Tina added, "We'll be sure to sing something nice at the funeral!"

Ignoring them all, Kurt picked up his pace and practically jogged toward the exit. He was never going to live this down.