INTERLUDE

Steam from the scalding hot water billowed out of the communal showers into the locker room and fogged up the high, rectangular windows peering out over the football field. The din only twenty-three footballers coming off the last practice before the first home game of the season could make echoed off the concrete walls and black metal lockers.

A bold black and purple logo painted on the wall declared this locker room property of the Western High School Berries. For obvious reasons, the students at Western preferred to be called Westies. Their history teacher said it should be equally obvious why that was a bad idea, but no one cared to listen to ancient Mrs. Evans.

Blaine stood with his back to the locker room. It was a dangerous move turning his back on the rest of the football team, but equally dangerous to let his eyes focus on anything but his locker or the wall. The team had not reacted well to Blaine coming out.

Their disdain had shocked him. For over a year, same sex couples in Canada had been able to legally marry. None of his friends had ever indicated in any way they thought it should be any different. In their classes, they even supported the school district enforcing the zero tolerance no bullying policy they had in the North Vancouver schools.

But two words had changed everything.

Suddenly, the no bullying policy was a terrible idea. It was for wimps who couldn't deal with getting their feelings hurt. Words that had never been bandied about in their school were scrawled on lockers, Blaine's and anyone else out of the closet.

And those few other students who were out and proud, while supportive of Blaine, obviously resented him messing up everything for them. Sharing a school with a group of gay and lesbian students hadn't been a problem for the football team, but sharing a locker room with a gay kid was.

Because Blaine turned his back on the locker room, he didn't see the thrown elbow coming his way from McPherson. The edge of the open locker caught him on the side of the nose while he was pulling his jeans on; the locking mechanism almost hit him square in the eye. He finished getting dressed with his head ducked to hide the painful welt and tried not to cast surreptitious glances around.

"Collins is having a party at his folks' haunted corn maze after the game," McPherson called loudly. "I'm going as a zombie football player, and Holly is going as a zombie cheerleader. Nobody better copy us!"

The rest of the team yelled back abuse, either because they wanted to be zombies or they wanted to go with Holly Hennessey. Blaine wanted to add his opinion, that the costumes were unoriginal, but he kept his mouth shut.

"What are you going as, Blaine?" Jackson asked softly.

Jack was one the better guys on the team. Maybe he was a little reticent to tell the other guys to back off, but Blaine could fight his own battles. At least when he was with Jack he didn't have to worry about being treated differently than he had been before.

"Whatever it is, it should be good," Holt cut in. "The gays are just fabulous at coming up with costumes."

The other guys, except Jack, guffawed. McPherson screamed at them to shut up. Blaine tensed, knowing something bad was about to happen. So did most of the other guys. They bailed in a flurry of slammed lockers and shirts hastily pulled over heads. They made a scrum at the door in a hurry to exit. Jack teetered on the brink of speaking up, but Blaine jerked his head at the door. The other boy took the out and bolted, leaving Blaine alone with McPherson, Holt, and two linebackers, Samuels and Dubray.

"Why are you still on the football team, Anderson?" McPherson asked. "Shouldn't you be singing showtunes or something?"

"Maybe he just wants a peek at all this every day after practice," Dubray chortled.

He lewdly gestured to the paunch hanging far over his belt, but Blaine figured he was actually referring to the penis buried under the rolls of excess fat. The other guys laughed and patted Dubray's back, like they believed he was hot stuff.

"I don't dig on boys who count pie eating contests as a favored pastime and break out in a sweat walking up a flight of stairs," Blaine shot back angrily.

Dubray cracked his knuckles threateningly, but he wouldn't act until McPherson said he could.

"You never answered Henley's question, Anderson," Holt said, with a knowing smirk. "What are you going to wear to Collins' party?"

Blaine didn't see where this was going, but he knew they had some new humiliation in mind. These guys, who used to throw their arms around his shoulders and call him "our Hobbit" affectionately because, while he was small, he could sprint the ball down the field like no one else on the team, now spent as much time now thinking up ways to hassle him as studying their plays.

"Clark Kent."

His friend-date, Ethan, was going as Superman, complete with the tights and cape. It was their idea of a good joke, for Superman and Clark Kent to go to a party together. He didn't mention Ethan, though, because there was no point dragging someone else into this.

"Well, we had a different idea, Anderson. We thought long and hard about what a fairy should wear to a costume party, and then it hit us!"

Holt pulled a bag out of McPherson's locker and shook off the plastic. The costume was easily recognizable: Tinker Bell. Blaine felt heat rising in his cheeks, and he clenched his fists at his sides. Samuels and Dubray, who hadn't been in on the joke, gave great, booming laughs.

"If you had to think long and hard to come up with that you're probably pretty close to being academically disqualified from playing football. I suggest spending more time in the tutoring center," Blaine spat.

McPherson grinned darkly at his fellow bullies. "How's about we see how Anderson looks in his costume?"

It was four against one, and they all outmatched Blaine in height and weight, but he put up a fight like they'd never seen from a boy his size. Blaine's knuckles bruised from where he punched Dubray's jaw, and Samuel's went down when Blaine's heel connected with his stomach. But, in the end, the four beefy football players pinned Blaine to the ground. He thrashed and kicked when they wrestled the dress over his shoulders, and the fabric ripped when his elbow caught in the armhole.

"Coach is coming!" Samuels hissed.

The four players leapt up from the ground, leaving Blaine panting, sweating, and trapped inside the torn costume.

"Parting gift for you, Anderson," McPherson said.

He pulled a wand from the bag on the bench, popped off the end, and poured glitter onto Blaine. The boy on the ground cried out in pain when the glitter got into his eyes. He rolled and staggered to his feet with his eyes squeezed shut and heels of his palms pressed into his eye sockets. He stumbled in the general direction of the showers and groped for the button that would send a cascade of water down from the showerhead.

Blaine didn't care that his sweater and jeans were getting soaked as he stood under the shower washing the glitter off his face and out of his eyes. He ripped off the Tinker Bell costume and threw down the sopping fabric onto the floor. It fell over the drain, and a pool of water formed around his shoes. His contacts washed out and floated among the glittery pool.

He turned off the tap and collapsed onto the slick tile with his forearms on his knees and his forehead on his arms. He might have cried while the water pounded down into his eyes or maybe it was a side effect of flushing the glitter, but his eyes felt raw.

"Are you all right, son?"

The voice was deep with a maturity that marked it as belonging to a teacher, but he didn't recognize it or know of any teacher who would speak with an Irish accent. He looked up slowly, hoping his eyes weren't as red as they felt. An elderly Irishman in a tweed jacket and felt hat smiled kindly at him.

Blaine jolted when he saw his surroundings. The locker room was gone. He sat in the middle of a narrow, cobblestone street flanked by small cottage-style homes and a blue-gray sky full of nimbus clouds overhead.

"What the – ?" Blaine screeched. He scrambled to his feet and turned in a full circle until he faced the genial Irishman again. "Who are you? And more importantly, where am I?"

"Cillian O'Leary, at your service. I'd be happy to explain everything to you, young man, as soon as I've got you into some warm, dry clothes. Come on. We're not far from my home."

"I'm not going home with a stranger."

"And you're not. I've told you my name is Cillian O'Leary. I'm the one taking home a stranger because you haven't done the polite thing and introduced yourself. But all the same, you're soaked through and you'll catch pneumonia in this chilly wind if I don't. So, come on, get a move on."

"Where am I?"

Cillian threw his hands up in the air. "In case you missed it, boy-o, my last speech there was a nudge to get you to tell me your name."

"Tell me where I am first," Blaine insisted.

"You're Here."