Life was so unfair. Dave slumped in his usual chair in Miss Pilsbury's office, listening to her drone on and on about scholarships and grades and how proud she was that he was turning himself around. Ya, like he had a choice. It wasn't that much of a miracle that his grades picked up when he was in enforced study hall for 1 hour a day and his coach demanded to see all of his completed homework before she'd let him practice, or he'd be kicked off the team next year. So, no, it wasn't something to be proud of. Ya, he was actually tryingto do well in school, again, but it wasn't the same thing. Didn't she see that? Although, if it weren't for Coach Beiste and Miss Pilsbury, Dave would be repeating the eleventh grade. How can he think about derivatives or conjugate bases or how a bill becomes a law when his girlfriend might be dumping him? Or, that he was losing his best friend because he stopped bullying other kids and his friend thought that was gay? Or that the only out gay kid at school kept wearing the most fucking sexy sweaters and walking around like he owned the world? He looked it up, currant was a really sexy shade of red. Dave wasn't really sure what the difference between all those different shades were, most of them looked like just brighter or dark versions of red, like someone was shining lights or something on some and not others, but of all the different reds under different amounts of light (and colored lights), currant was, by far, the sexiest, hottest, and all-out awesomest shade there was! And, didn't that just piss him the Hell off? It wasn't enough that he had to be nice to the gay kid and walk him around so that his beard wouldn't rat him out and tell the whole fucking world that he was gay. No. He needed to have a crush on the flamiest gay kid there was. Where was the justice in that? Why did he have to be gay, anyways? He liked sports. He liked video games. He liked being in the Scouts. He liked hanging out with the guys and just chilling with a couple of beers Puck snuck out of the 7/11 with that really dumb Arab-guy. Jalal? Jamal? Joachim? What was his name? They all sounded the same anyways, so it really didn't matter. The point was, he liked doing guy stuff. Straight guy stuff. He liked Modern Warfare, and monster trucks, and camping out in the woods. He drove big-ass beat-up pickup truck and listened to country and hard rock, for God's sake! Gays didn't do that stuff; they drove hybrids or smart cars, or something 'cute and sporty' from Europe and listened to Lady Gaga or something from Pop 40 stations. Dave didn't do any of that. He looked and acted straight. So, why couldn't he bestraight? He loved God and prayed every night for forgiveness, because he knew that being gay was a sin. And, everyone knew that fags were a bunch of atheist liberal freaks who ran around having sex with random people, tried to make people gay, wanted to destroy the country (even though he wasn't sure what liking butt sex had to do with hating America), and were all flaming and girly and shit. Pastor Rick said so. He said that being gay was a choice, like murdering someone or getting an abortion, or taking drugs. Being gay was an addiction to wrongful sex. It was lust. And, people could choose whether or not to be lustful towards guys. If they prayed hard enough and tried hard enough, they could beat the addiction to wanting wrongful sex. And. even if they were attracted to another guy; they didn't have to act on those thoughts. They could pray and ask Jesus to help them stay on a Godly path. God never seemed to answer him, though. So, was it any wonder that with all that shit bouncing around in his head, he didn't give a rip about school? But, here he was, sitting in a room with one of the most terrifying women he knew, listening to her congratulate him on getting on the right path. He was fucking gay, dammit, what kind of 'right path' could he be on?"What was that?" Oh shit. What did she hear? What did he say out loud? Dammit! He looked up in to Miss Pilsbury's expectant eyes. "Huh?""You said something just now. It sounded like "I'm fruit-tay." Or something like that. What does fruit-tay mean? Are you saying you're fruity? Because I don't understand that slang." Miss Pilsbury opened her desk and pulled out a few pamphlets. The top one was titled: "Yo, dawg, what's the haps my homey: Or, Greetings, friend, how are you today?" Understanding today's vernacular."Seriously? You have a pamphlet for slang?" Dave rolled his eyes. Wow, and he thought he was messed up. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do." She slid them across the desk so that they fanned out in front of Dave like a set of OCD playing cards. "I find them quite helpful when I'm speaking with students." Dave reached over and picked one up at random. "Ya, I suppose "H-zero-w 2 und-3-r-5-7-weird looking 'and' symbol … " Seriously? How was anyone supposed to read: "h0w 2 UNd3R57& Wh K1Dz R WR171n'. A 9U1d3 4 PaR3N75 & 73ACH3r2 0f ALl A932.'. Nerds, probably. "Dude, I can't even read this.""Really? But, it was written for you." She started leafing through it. "And, I'm not seeing fruity in it at all. I certainly can't find fruit-tay, either. Are you sure you said it right? Perhaps you didn't emphasize the right syllable."
"I didn't say I'm fruity, or fruit-tay whatever that means." He desperately searched for something that sounded like what she might have heard. "I said "I'm fucking gray." 'Cause, y'know gray, like bored. Only, I said it under my breath." Dave groaned at his lam excuse. How could anyone come up with something that shitty?"No... I'm pretty sure I heard fruity."She leafed through her pamphlets for a few moments, long enough for Dave to think he actually kept his secret safe. "I know!" "Fuck." Dave groaned, she wouldn't let up. Why couldn't she just ignore it. "I have another pamphlet! Yes! That's it!" She bent and started flipping through another pamphlet. This one was simply titled 'Huh?'. She frowned as she read the tiny three-folded sheet of gray paper. "Oh! Here it is, but no, this can't be right."
"I told you, I didn't say fruity!" That's right. It can't apply to him. She didn't hear him and everything would be right and he could pretend that this day never happened. "Right, of course not. You can't have said it, because if you had, according to this pamphlet, fruity means 'gay'. And, that would mean you would have said that you're gay and..." She looked up and stared at him in confusion for a moment.
The color drained from Dave's face in an instant. Currant, fuchsia, mauve, pink, red, salmon, tan, the names of colors he'd heard over the past few months from Kurt ran through his mind in a heartbeat and wiped away from his skin which became even more pale as Miss Pilsbury put two and two together and came up with four. Somehow, someway, through some bizarre combination of detective work, interrogation, and just plain dumb luck, Miss Pilsbury had figured out his deepest, darkest secret, making her one of three people in the entire world who knew his greatest sin. A small whimper escaped his throat, and his fists balled at his sides. He could kill her. He could take those pamphlets at her desk and beat her with them until she bled to death from all the paper cuts. It would be the perfect murder! No one would ever know! Except the blinds were open, everyone would see, and everyone knew that he had a regular appointment to be in her office at 3:05 pm sharp every day and that he needed to be with Coach Beiste by 4:00 pm. He wasn't sure what the correct term was for that kind of thing, but he was pretty sure the words "Fry your ass on the chair" followed it. Maybe he could play it off. Maybe... No it'd been too long since she said anything. It'd be even more suspicious if he talked. "What?" His eyes started to water. Shit! Not now! It's bad enough that someone else knew! Now he had to act all queer and start crying! Shit!He heard rather than saw the blinds close around him, sealing him and Miss Pilsbury in a protective cocoon of plastic slats. "Oh. Oh my! I... I see." Why was she being so nice and quiet? Didn't she understand how sick he was? He was a fucking queer! She could catch fag from him! She could..."That explains some things, I think."
"I..." His mouth worked uncontrollably for a moment, barely forcing out the words. "Oh, God!" His vision blurred and for the second time in Miss Pilsbury's office, Dave Karofsky cried. What was he doing? He was crying! Dave Karofsky didn't cry! Real men don't cry! Everyone knew that! Ya, Miss Pilsbury said that he could cry and she wouldn't judge him. But, the rest of the world? They would judge. Crying fit into those three rules of life: it was Weird. Only kids, chicks, and fags cried! And kids were supposed to stop crying quick or they were soft and gay. She had to know that. She had to know that he was a weak limp-wristed sinning faggot who kissed boys and cried. He tried to pound his weak faggot head with his fists to make himself stop crying. He needed to stop, to man up. Pain was weakness leaving the body, and he was very very weak. He tried, but like last time, Miss Pilsbury's super-strength held his hands down to chair. He struggled against her arms, sobbing into his letterman jacket. She had to know that this wasn't manly. It wasn't being strong. Didn't she understand that it... It felt good to cry. Realization dawned on him like the entire Thurston High defensive line. Somehow, letting everything he'd kept bottled up for so long explode out in flood of uncontrolled, unmanly, weeping felt good. Like he was relieving all the pressure built up in a bag of microwave popcorn so that the bag didn't explode. Wow. That was some kind of deep shit, right there. Where the fuck did that come from?Dave sniffled pathetically and wiped his nose and eyes on his sleeve. When he pulled his arm away, a box of Kleenex had magically appeared on his lap and Miss Pilsbury was on her side of the desk, organizing her pamphlets. She didn't seem at all bothered by the ginormous teen bawling like a baby in her office. "Take all the time you need, Dave. But, I want you to know that I...""What? You think I'm brave? Like this is some big confession that I've been working up to? Like it's one of those 'break throughs' shrinks talk about?" Wasn't it? He had, finally, admitted to himself that he was gay and wanted a boyfriend. Acceptance was the first step to recovery, after all. But, what did he want out of this? Did he want help? Did he want it to go away? Was he secretly happy that Miss Pilsbury knew? Was he ashamed? Or, was he just afraid that she'd reject him like everyone else would. "No. I was going to remind you that everything that you say and do in this room is completely confidential. Unless you seriously talk about hurting yourself or others, it all stays just between us." She gave him a small smile. She probably meant it to be comforting, really it just creeped him out. Why was she so understanding? He just admitted to her he was a fucking queer! She should be trying to cure him, or throw him out of the office, or yell at him for being the gay kid that picked on other gay kids. "I think, if you want, we can talk. Or, you can go to Coach Beiste, because it's almost 4, and you should have some time to get ready for that." She spread her hands in the air. "It's completely up to you." She smiled that not-really-comforting smile that still somehow made him at ease and feel like he could trust her and watched him with her huge unblinking eyes.Dave looked at her and gulped. What did he want? She was giving him an out, a way to save face and pretend his meltdown never happened. He could go to the gym, change, and pound out all the weakness in him by pumping iron. Or, he could stay and deal. Maybe she could help him. Maybe she could help him figure out what was going on in his twisted head. Beating people wasn't working. Stalking Kurt didn't work. Avoiding everything hadn't worked. Maybe it was time to just man up and face his problems? Dumbly, not trusting himself to speak because he might lose his nerve, Karofsky nodded his head once. His voice barely a whisper, he sniffed. "Can we talk?
