Santana bounces back quickly. People at school stare and whisper, but if anything, they're nicer to her than usual, because they're all terrified that she'll snap and ruin their lives if they do anything that might indicate that they have a problem with her lesbian relationship.
Brittany thrives on the spiteful public displays of affection Santana now insists upon.
But her parents won't return her calls, so she continues to sleep in the guest room of our house, and I hear her crying at night sometimes.
In a weird sort of way, it's encouraging that I'm not the only one whose parents can't accept them for who they are. And I'm probably an awful person for even thinking that thought.
It's Rachel's birthday today, and Mercedes brings her vegan cupcakes, which we all indulge in before glee rehearsal starts. Rachel is very triumphant about turning 18.
"This is going to be a great year for me," she says, "I'm an adult now. I'm going to get out of Lima and become a star."
She believes in herself so resolutely that I don't think it's possible for the world to let down.
Mr. Schue lets Rachel bask in birthday attention for the first part of rehearsal by rehearsing choreography for her Celine Dion solo. Her voice is stunning, and I don't think I'm the only one who gets distracted from dancing just by watching her.
We move on to practicing Smoke Signals' Black Holes today, which is my own solo, and my voice is shaky when I come in for the first time, probably because I'm so intimidated by Rachel's ever-improving magnificence.
I cough and find my center in the notes, but something just doesn't feel right with my singing today. I keep choking on my words.
"Sorry!" I say, when Mr. Schue cuts us off because I miss two notes. I clear my throat. "I can do way better."
He says, "Do you need a drink of water, Blaine? Your voice sounds a little strained today."
I shake my head, and say, "Sorry. I'm just nervous because I have to follow Rachel. Can we start over?"
Everyone is watching me, and it's making me dizzy. I normally like attention and don't mind people watching me, but today it just makes my skin crawl. My tongue feels heavy.
Mr. Schue counts us in again, but my voice is startlingly hoarse, and then I gag on my own words and have to stop singing. My head is suddenly spinning, and I feel suddenly like I might vomit.
"Blaine, you look really flushed," Kurt says, "Are you feeling alright?"
I blink. My heart is suddenly beating like crazy.
I take a deep, shaky breath, and say, "I'm fine. Sorry." My words sound almost slurred, like my tongue doesn't want to cooperate with my brain.
Mr. Schue asks, "Blaine, is your asthma bothering you? You look like you're having trouble breathing."
As soon as he says it, I realize that I am straining for air, but my lungs feel fine. Damn. I think I'm having a panic attack. But there is no reason for it. Everything is fine.
I shake my head. "I just feel really dizzy all of a sudden. I don't know what's going on."
Kurt feels my forehead and says, "He's really hot."
"Do you want me to get the nurse?" Mr. Schue asks.
I feel mortified. "I'm sure it's nothing," I try to say, but my words aren't working. It's like my tongue has forgotten how to be a tongue. What the fuck is happening to me? My skin is crawling like it's on fire.
"Oh my god," says Finn suddenly, staring at me, "I know what's going on. Mercedes, did those cupcakes have nuts in them?"
Fucking hell.
Mercedes' eyes widen. "Walnuts," she says, looking at me with a stunned sort of look on her face. "They had walnuts."
My heartrate seems to double just hearing the words. Finn says, "You said you were allergic to nuts, didn't you, Blaine? That night when you had dinner at our house?"
All I can do is nod. I haven't had a reaction to nuts since I was a little kid. Part of me kind of thought that I'd outgrown the allergy. But my throat is swelling shut, my tongue is twice it's normal size, I'm breaking out in hives, and I am so lightheaded that I can barely see straight.
Mr. Schue is at my side immediately. "Do you have an EpiPen, Blaine?"
I shake my head. I haven't carried one in years.
"Shit," Mr. Schue says, "Your lips are swelling up. I'm going to take you to the hospital. Can you walk?"
I nod, standing up and not even arguing about the hospital. As soon as I'm on my feet, I feel the floor shift beneath me, and then everything goes black.
