Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: I have to give credit to my friend and co-author The-Jellybaby-Bandit for making this happen.
Escape Plan by Frank Featherstiff
Chapter Two: Santana Lopez: Source of All Evil
"... is that the Russian or the Prussian..."
Sitting in the back of the classroom in front of the wall of French doors, Kurt tried desperately to follow what the teacher was saying. Judging from the widespread nodding from the other students and furious scribbling into their hardback notebooks, the knowledge being imparted was of serious value.
Kurt sighed and set his pen down, being careful not to damage the fuzzy troll perched on the end. The troll, childish as it was, had been a gift from Mercedes after the soprano had announced his decision to switch school – designed, he was told, to keep him from getting all stuffy and British – Kurt's lip twitched at the thought of him becoming British.
'British accents are sexy though... much better than stupid Russian...'
Tuning back into the lecture, Kurt realised with a growing sense of resignation, that his daydream had left him completely cut adrift. The soprano's heart sank as he realised he now had no idea where the arrows and half-illegible words scrawled across half the chalk board had come from or what meaning they held in terms of the text.
'What in the Sam Hill does that mean?...'
As if struggling to keep his head above water in his classes wasn't bad enough, Kurt had to contend with living in close confines with three hundred other teenage boys – temptation literally being around every corner – but not only that, the teachers were hot too!
'It's so unfair...'
Kurt hadn't had time yet, to learn all of the teacher's names, but in his head he liked to call this particular one Dr. Dimples. Kurt realised he was probably staring at the teacher's impressive jawline like some lovestruck puppy, but frankly the way things were going, getting a free period to stare at Dr. Dimples was about all the soprano got out of the class; other than a sense of complete bemusement at what was going on of course.
Glancing at his watch and seeing that the class period was quickly running out, Kurt tried to turn his attention back to the lecture and scrambled to take notes. At the very least if the brunette got down most of the names and phrases he could spend yet another evening combing Wikipedia for a mediocre understanding of what was going on in his classes.
At McKinley, Kurt had been used to being one of the best students in school – a straight 'A' kid – however since switching to Dalton, the soprano had found himself struggling just to be average.
And being average rankled with Kurt. Kurt Hummel was not destined for mediocrity.
Kurt was still hastily scribbling down names and dates, using whatever letters and numbers he could make out from Dr. Dimple's chicken-scratch scrawl, when said teacher dismissed the class wishing them all a productive evening.
Several minutes later, with the rest of the students having already broken for the evening and disappeared either to their dorms or to the Library, Kurt finished copying down what he could make out on the board, stupid Russian names, quickly gathered his books and started to head for the door himself. Now that class was over, the time had come for the brunette's laptop WiFi access to get pounded in order to figure out what the Hell his classes that day had been about.
Plus Kurt needed the solace of his iTunes library - the soprano was in serious need of some de-stressing,
'I need my Gaga...'
Kurt's hand was on the door handle when he was shaken from his internal musings.
"Master Hummel...", Kurt stomach dropped at the melodious sound of Dr. Dimples' voice and turned back to face the man who was seated at his desk in the corner of the room, "... May I please have a moment of you time?"
Kurt gulped and tried manfully to ignore the impulse to ogle the teacher as he sat ramrod straight behind his large mahogany desk. The brunette could clearly see the definition of the muscles on the man's chest through the think fabric of his summer shirt.
'This can't be anything good...'
"Yes Sir...", murmured Kurt softly before doing an about turn and shuffling back into the class. Readjusting his book bag which was now biting into his shoulder, Kurt came to a stop in front of the teacher's desk and averted his eyes.
If it had been McKinley High and the teacher had asked him to stay behind after class, Kurt would have been excited – well except if it was Mr Karlsson the schools other paedophile teacher – then in all likelihood Kurt would have been praying for a fire alarm or a meteor strike or something to give him the excuse to flee in terror.
At McKinley though, if it had been someone like Mr. Schue, who despite being a little too obsessed with 'old people music' was a terrific teacher, then invariably being asked to stay behind after class could only have been a good thing. Here at Dalton however, being kept behind after class could mean nothing but storm clouds looming on the horizon and the horizon was already stormy enough as it was.
Dr. Dimples smiled, and handed Kurt back the paper he had turned in the day before. Kurt looked down at the text only to see most of his own submission swamped in red ink and a cold sensation settled in the pit of the brunette's stomach. Red ink on an essay paper was never a good sign.
"I don't know what your teachers accepted prior to your matriculation here Master Hummel...", Kurt flinched involuntarily at the rebuke and dropped his eyes to the floor, "...but this paper simply isn't up to Dalton's standards."
Kurt didn't know what emotion his face had shown – shame, grief, anger, exasperation; all were definite possibilities – but the soprano knew that his mask must have cracked seeing the look of sympathy that crossed over the teacher's face as he raised his eyes to meet the older man's gaze.
"Now don't be discouraged...", said Dr. Dimples standing from his desk, the chair sliding backwards on the parquet flooring with a whisper as the older man put his hand on Kurt's shoulder.
'That's easy for you to say – you aren't the one sucking academically...", thought Kurt bitterly.
"You ideas aren't bad Kurt, but your interpretation of the text is quite original...", said Dr Dimples, rolling the word around in his mouth as if tasting a fine wine, "... I'm afraid that after searching my journals last night, I was unable to find any prescient argument in order to support you claims. This may be promising once you have time to put some serious research into it, but for now I need you to do something a little less out in left field."
"I understand Sir." Kurt said softly, suddenly missing the easy 'A's he'd gotten back at McKinley and once again dropping his eyes to examine his shoes. He had been fairly proud of his paper on the prosocial issues impacting Checkov's "The Cherry Orchard." If no one else could see the burning and repressed sexual tension between Trofimov and Lopakhin how was that his fault?
'Checkov was a fan of slash; was it really that hard to believe?'
"I'm sure you do..." said the teacher brightly, either not picking up on; or choosing not to acknowledge the heart wrenching agony laced in Kurt's tone, "... Now. Because this is your first Dalton assignment, I've decided to allow you some leeway. I will grant you the opportunity to revise your paper and salvage something other than a failing grade Master Hummel. Just make sure you have it to me by the morning break tomorrow and we shall say no more about it."
Kurt's face shot up, but when he saw the look on the teacher's face he didn't argue - the fight in the soprano was extinguished just as quickly as it had been stoked. He would have to 'revise', and by 'revise' Kurt meant, 're-write from scratch', a 15-page paper in a single evening on top of his other assignments. That was achievable surely – after all, who needs sleep, right?
Nodding his head in meek submission, the only outward sign of the brunette's inner turmoil the sudden creasing of the paper in his fist, Kurt turned to walk out of the classroom without another word.
"And Master Hummel...", called Dr. Dimples just as Kurt reached the threshold, "...I'll forget on this occasion only, that I saw you in a pocket square in a non-Dalton approved color. Please don't think I'll be that generous again."
"Yes Sir..."
Kurt sighed in resignation as he quickly pulled the offensive piece of fabric out of the breast pocket of his blazer and shoved it into his pants pocket.
Only a few steps down the now empty corridor, Kurt's conscience got the better of him. Stopping beside a heavy oak armoir, Kurt sat his book bag down before digging around in his pants pocket. Guiltily, the brunette withdrew the much maligned scrap of fabric and laid it on the wooden surface before him. Smoothing out the wrinkles before they became set in the fabric Kurt murmured softly as you would to calm down a small child or a pet,
"I'm sorry. It isn't your fault. There is no excuse for me treating such a gorgeous bit of Hermes raw silk like you in this way."
Nodding at his apology and feeling he had served his penance, Kurt carefully folded the fabric and slipped it into his satchel.
"It's better here. I just need to get use to the way things are done...",
And for the most part it was better at Dalton. Kurt had never had such a bully and tease free environment ever since he had first entered kindergarten. There we no dumpster dives or slushie attacks anywhere on the Dalton campus. But for all the improvements in one area, there were no real friends at Dalton either, which sucked.
Kurt snorted as it hit him that he had been talking to his accessories and to the empty hallways.
'Accessories and empty hallways are all I have now though...'
Blaine, had been great of course. The Dalton Academy's most popular boy had been nothing but kind, and funny, and popular, and gay, but he didn't have all that much time for Kurt. Being top of the food chain at Dalton meant that Blaine spent every minute of every day involved in either academics, the Warblers, the Student Council, or in charity work.
It wasn't Blaine's fault that Kurt was lonely.
Kurt did have a roommate of course, a quiet boy with horned-rimmed glasses and a displaced septum by the name of Buckley. But they hardly ever saw each other, and they had never really had a conversation of any import.
It wasn't just that everyone at Dalton was equal, but that everybody at Dalton was the same.
'It's like an entire school filled with pod people...'
Though he would never admit it aloud, Kurt would even take one of the pod people wearing one of Rachel's kitten sweaters just for a little variety. Kurt paused in his ruminations to pinch himself on the arm hard – Rachel's kitten sweater?
'Holy Prada, I must be going crazy...'
Still, none of that mattered at that exact moment though as for the next hour, Kurt had Warblers rehearsal. The soprano would be able to sing and in singing Kurt could find his peace again.
Walking into the room, one of the upper class-men handed Kurt some sheet music as soon as the brunette had set down his bag on one of the couches.
"Hummel, here is your part for the new arrangement. Do you know any Ke$ha?"
"Ke$ha?" Kurt asked but he was already looking down at the music. Whatever insults he had for the wannabe diva died on his lips as he looked over the music and the spark of hope that had ignited at the thought of singing was snuffed out in an instant, "...excuse me, but this music is too low for me."
The upper-class man looked down his nose at Kurt and sniffed as if Kurt's pointing out a valid concern were beneath him.
"It is the highest part we are using for this piece. If it is to low just mouth the words, I'm sure nobody will notice...", giving Kurt a Gallic shrug the upper class-man walked away without a backwards glance.
"Wonderful...", muttered Kurt as he debated just walking out – after all he could use the time to search Wikipedia more effectively than standing and miming the words.
It was one hour seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds; not that Kurt was counting; before the rehearsal ended and the brunette had sung not a single note. As everyone had packed away their things and made to leave, Kurt had tried to flag down Blaine, but the older boy only offered Kurt a brisk wave as he was ushered out of the room by several of his friends.
Closing over and securing his satchel and realising he had no reasons left to stall, Kurt returned to his room. Sighing as he realised Buckley was not in, as per usual, the soprano grabbed a protein bar and his shower stuff, before heading back out into the hallways.
Eating the power bar on his way, Kurt took a quick shower, and used the only moisturizer he still allowed himself.
If Kurt had taken the time to go through his old routine, the brunette would never have time to finish his homework. His dad and Carol had sacrificed so he could be here – so Kurt could sacrifice too.
Returning to his dorm, Kurt noticed a light blinking on his cell that he had left charging during classes that day. The soprano had gotten into the routine of spending his nights texting Mercedes and during the day was the only time he could keep the device plugged in to charge.
Snatching up his cell and flipping it open, Kurt expected to see a message from his BFF. He was surprised therefore when the message was from an unknown number – though it did have a Lima area code – the brunette noted.
Kurt was even more shocked when he read the message.
"Dude, it sucks that you aren't here."
Kurt sat down heavily on the chair at the small desk the brunette shared with Buckley; though the other boy had yet to actually use it, preferring to use the larger tables in the Library.
When Kurt had walked into his room, the soprano had never expected a message like this. Logically it had to be from one of the Glee boys, the McKinley Glee boys that was. No one else would be able to get his number, and it had to be a boy to start any message with the word 'dude'.
'It had to be someone who didn't know how he despised being called 'dude' too...'
Besides, Kurt already had all of the girls' numbers plus Finn and Artie's programmed into his cell, so that narrowed the field of potential suspects quite considerably.
Kurt puzzled over the unexpected conundrum for a moment before he realised and smiled slightly.
It had to be Sam.
The blonde boy; well bottle blonde anyways; had always gone out of his way to be nice to Kurt before the whole Karofsky thing. Kurt could easily see Sam doing something like this.
Kurt was happy that Sam had ended up with Quinn. The formerly-pregnant Cheerio needed a good guy after everything she had been through in the preceding year. Not that Kurt didn't need a good guy himself and if the brunette were honest with himself he'd been blown away by the sight of Sam in the showers that one time - Quinn was no doubt going to be a very lucky girl; or a very sore girl - but still. Kurt grinned at his own amusement at the thought of Quinn's jaw dropping open when she got a peek at 'little' Sam.
Still, at the very least, Kurt was finally making some progress.
There would be no more lusting after straight men for this Hummel – well, for any Hummel really. Well, Carol was a Hummel now so…
Kurt slammed the door hard on that particular train of thought. There was no way the brunette was following where his deranged mind wanted to take him on that occasion.
'Ewww... ewww... ewww... parent sex... ewww...'
After thinking a moment he replied to the text.
"Thanks. You have no idea how much that means after the day I've had."
When his cell buzzed and vibrated on the floor beside him, Puck automatically glanced down at the screen. Having taken his eyes off of the action in front of him, even if only for an instant, Finn took advantage and totally owned the half-back's Master Chief.
"Dude, back off my balls... said Puck over the headset, "...I'm getting a text. Looks like at least one chick just can't stay away from Puckzilla. Audi 5."
Pulling the headset down and off of his head, Puck reached over and switched off his Xbox, plunging his bedroom into darkness. Puck picked up his cell to see which of his ladies was breaking the ban on cock which had been instigated by Santana that afternoon.
By last period, it had looked to the jock like every fuckable girl in school had one of those damn 'cockblocky' ribbons around her wrist. It had been abundantly clear that any dude that wasn't the Puckasaurus was set for a long dry spell.
Puck didn't mind personally – the half-back thought that it was cool that the girls were trying to help Hummel – but if they seriously thought that he was going to go without getting any then they were crazy.
Flicking through his message history, Puck rolled his eyes at the name on the screen.
'Ur Nxt X... what the fuck?'
Puck growled as it clicked in his mind that this must have been what Santana had done when she grabbed his phone in the lunch room earlier that day. It was just like the Latina to have a back up cell number – no evidence that she'd broken her own cockblocking embargo and sexted him. Damn the girl was devious.
Santana had been right when she said that Puck hadn't been on his game since Juvie. It had sucked royally being locked up. No one had come to see him the entire time he was locked up – not even his Mom. And Juvie was a scary place. Manson Family scary. Puck had originally thought it would be all puppies and candy and that he would end up ruling the roost.
Day One when one of the other 'guests' - as the Warden had referred to them all - had been stabbed not three feet from where Puck sat eating his breakfast brought the harsh reality into stark focus.
Checking the message content, Puck wrinkled his brow in confusion.
"Thanks. You have no idea how much that means after the day I've had."
It wasn't really Santana's style for an opening salvo on one of the sexting marathons, but for all the jock knew Santana was doing some role-playing shit or something.
'Yeah, role-playing that she wasn't in fact a sociopath... a hot sociopath but a sociopath nonetheless...'
Roleplay was really more of Brit's style and tended to involve Disney, but whatever, he'd go with the flow. After all if it got him past this cock-embargo then it was all good.
Puck quickly focused on the screen in front of him before he tapped out a response to the Latina,
"Sorry your day sucks babe, anything I can do to make it better? What are you wearing?"
Puck grimaced at the totally lame way to start sexing, but Santana was going to have to let him know what she wanted if she was going to start fucking with their routine and trying something new.
Puck squeezed his eyes together when he saw the reply.
"My pajamas and fluffy slippers? BTW who the Hell is this? Sam? Mike?"
Puck growled – so it wasn't Santana on the other end of the line and she'd sent this person a message in his name. That crazy bitch was gonna pay.
The amazing thing about text messages is the fact that there is no one there looking at you. Puck felt fine ignoring the royally pissed off person to scroll through his contacts. Punching the call button, when the line connected, he didn't even give the person on the other end time to speak.
"Satan-a, what the fuck have you done?"
The Latina laughed at the jock's indignant tone. Santana had just finished patrolling the local make-out sites to make sure no one was breaking her ban, and they were all blissfully empty. Nothing felt as good as an entire town listening to you; the absolute power of it was intoxicating.
And as if to top it all off, it seemed like Puck had stepped right into her plan. Just. Like. Clockwork.
"What do you mean Puckerman?...", Santana feigned ignorance and annoyance though internally she was dancing a happy jig, "... I have more important things to do than listen to you whine about not getting off with a freshman this afternoon."
"Hey, I didn't even do freshmen when I was a freshman. And your little pussy ban isn't my problem, No one can stay away from Puckzilla that long. Whose number did you put in my phone? Is it Tina? I could fuck Tina."
Santana laughed. There were several ways she could play this, but deciding on the perfect one was like an artist choosing the perfect brush. Thinking that the best way to deal with the jock was to keep Puck off balance, she decided to dangle the truth in front of him like a metaphorical carrot. There was after all, no danger in Puck of all people outmaneuvering her.
"It was Kurt's number."
The Latina heard clearly, Puck sucking in air through his teeth and pause for a moment before he spoke again. His voice was lower, and Santana could almost here a glimmer of maturity shining through.
"That's totally not cool Lopez...", Puck only referred to the Latina by her surname when he was truly upset about something, "... Kurt has more to deal with right now then any of us, and he doesn't need to think I have a gay boner for him or anything."
Santana rolled her eyes. Manipulating Puck was just too easy; there was almost no challenge in it at all.
"Kurt may be a honorary girl, but he is still a guy Puck. It means a lot to him to have guy friends, and none of you are even talking to him. You are the one that sucks, not me."
'Or at least you will... in time...'
Santana gloated as Puck's immediate response was exactly what she had hoped for - silence as an admission of guilt.
"Why do you even care?"
Puck tried to sound pissed, but it didn't quite come out right as the jock's voice cracked slightly. Hummel was a cool kid once you got past all of the glitter and showtunes and shit. And contrary to the reputation the jock had worked hard to cultivate, Puck didn't like the idea that he had hurt anyone when he wasn't meaning to.
"You have got to be up to something. You have to have a heart to do something out of the goodness of it."
"Why Puck, you wound me so!", said Santana with a chuckle, "... alright, I'll level with you. I don't want to be a Lima Loser."
Santana was shocked at the amount of raw truth that bled through in that statement. Still, perhaps this slip was something she could use to her advantage. If life gives you lemons grind them in life's eyes until he gives you something better and all that.
"It doesn't matter how much money my Dad has or how big his house is, how many cars he owns or anything like that. If you prick me, I bleed Lima Loser just like you do. You are just like me Puck, and we are stuck here in this town and destined to rot. But these other kids; the kids in Glee aren't. They are going to go on to bigger and better things, and I want to be a part of that. They are good people, and they are stupid enough to be friends with Lima Losers like you and me."
"Fuck you Lopez."
"Never again Puckerman.
"No seriously, fuck you. Who the hell are you to tell me that I'm going nowhere?"
Puck couldn't stop the works pouring out of his mouth. He know that it would be safer playing with a rattlesnake then arguing with Santana when he was like this, but he could help it. She had managed to hit all of his buttons at once. She had laid every fear that he had ever had out in front of him, and his instincts were screaming to fight.
"I'm getting out of here! You can stay in Lima and turn into a crazy cat lady if you want but I'm getting out of here or I'll die trying."
Puck fought so hard, because what Santana was saying was so easy to believe. If anyone in their group had a chance of breaking out it would be Kurt, and Mercedes, Rachel, and Tina were not far behind. Finn and Quinn would mostly like end up in Lima, but they wouldn't be Lima Losers. No, the would be yuppy and happy and shit like Mr. Schue.
"I have skills!..." blurted Puck before he immediately squeezed his eyes closed at the absolute lamity of the statement. Lamity's wasn't a real word of course, but fuck it, Puck had always tended to get his words mixed up when he got flustered.
"Oh, really?..." Santana asked, her voice sweet enough to send someone into a diabetic coma. "...like what?"
Shit. Puck cursed himself blue as his mind suddenly went completely blank. He was Puckzilla, the half-back had to have skills to keep him from winding up working at the 7/11 all his life. Right?
"Ummm...", Puck replied stalling for time.
"That the best you got?...", Puck could hear the Latina's eyes as they rolled in their sockets. The jock didn't need a videophone to know that was the case.
Shit. What to say?
"I can fuck; I mean, I have a huge cock."
Well Hell.
"That is something to be proud of! Porn! And of course, you can use being an escort as a fall back plan...", the scorn in Santana's tone was clearly audible and riled Puck up and not in a good way either. He wanted to fucking strangle the mouthy little bitch.
A myriad of responses which would have normally rolled from Puck's tongue with nary a thought got jammed behind the sudden lump that had formed in the jock's throat. Santana had pressed too many buttons and had knocked him off of his axis. In the end he could only think of one response.
"Fuck off Lopez..."
"It's OK Puck, because we do have one skill. We are great people to have in your corner. And we are great fuck buddies. To us sex is sex, it doesn't matter where it comes from or how we get it. We're survivors. Just think about that one, Puckzilla."
With that, the Latina hung up.
A/N: THANKS!
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