In school suspension is so bogus. Holed away in a trailer on the far end of the campus, Dave's spent the last three hours copying odd numbered pages in textbooks. Apparently the promise of a stimulating education does not extend to the isle of misfit teenagers between the senior parking lot and the autoshop building.
His hand starts to cramp up during the French conversations, but he soldiers through long enough to write, "parlez-vous deez nuts" as a response to number two and makes sure to look his sickliest before sliding out from behind the desk. Dave has a lie spring-loaded on his tongue as he trudges to the head of the room, an arm strategically wrapped around his middle, he puffs his cheeks out.
"McGriddles," he says with a groan.
A bathroom pass exchanges hands wordlessly.
Somewhere between five pages explaining mitoses and meioses and a banal dialogue with Jean-Luc and Mathilde, the message indicator flashed on Dave's phone. He could see it illuminating the darkness of the desk's cubby, and with every burst of light a surge of hope rocketed through his veins.
Hope is a fucking stupid, dangerous thing – Dave hadn't woken up magically well adjusted, there was no genie to grant him wishes ("make him smile at me, a real one"), and he hadn't fallen into a hot tub time machine (things I'd do over: [1] shave off pubes. [2] reserve all slushies for Hudson) – but hope still reared its goddamn head. And he feels totally lame as he pushes open the restroom door because his heart's pounding, the blush in his cheeks has crept its way up to the tops of his ears, and he thinks maybe he's gotten a message from Kurt. Oh, it will be as chilly and to the point as Kurt can make it, but that won't stop Dave from putting it away in the back of his mind. And when he's all alone, exhausted from lying all day, Dave will pull it back out again and use it to spin worlds where his kiss is returned.
The stall door shuts, the latch is secured, the cell phone burns a hole in the pocket of his letterman, hope beats a drum in his ears.
He has an email:
Welcome to seancody dot com…
Dave doesn't read past the opening sentence – he can't, really since his vision began to blur at the sight of dicks and asses. When he calms down enough to see straight, but not enough to stop shaking, he opens up Google Chat.
Fuck you…fuck this.