The New Directions are holding a charity Christmas concert tonight to raise money for the food bank, but this morning Dad looks up from his newspaper at breakfast and says, "I want you to meet someone tonight. My new fiancé, Clara. We'll go to dinner at Breadstix."
I grimace. "You're engaged again?" I ask, annoyed at the thought of attending another of his weddings.
Dad nods. "She's a lovely woman. I'm sure you'll like her. We'll meet at six o'clock."
"I can't," I say, "I already have plans."
Dad sets down his newspaper immediately. "Excuse me?" he asks, "Maybe I wasn't clear. I want you to meet my fiancé."
"My show choir has a concert," I say pretending that saying it doesn't terrify me, "Can't we do this tomorrow?"
He stands up in a flash of temper. "Are you kidding me?" he snaps, "I told you never to mention that crap in my house. You're coming to dinner."
I shake my head, looking up at him. "Sorry, I can't just bail on them like that. You have to give me more than ten hours notice for stuff like this, Dad."
Sometimes when I talk to my dad, I pretend that he's a reasonable parent worth having a reasonable discussion with.
Dad grabs the back of my chair and slides it backward. I leap to my feet, determined not to be afraid. "I said," he shouts, "That you're coming to dinner."
Why do I feel like I'm in the Beauty and the Beast?
"Dad, come on," I say, "If it was really so important to you that I know this woman, you'd have had me meet her before you got engaged. It can wait until tomorrow. Or whenever she's free again."
He grabs me by the collar of my shirt. "You insolent fucking bastard," he says, "You're not going to skip meeting your future step-mother just so that you can prance around with all of your gay friends. I will see you at Breadstix at six!" He shoves me with full strength on the last word, and I hurtle backwards.
My head hits the kitchen counter with a resounding thwack, and the world goes black.