Sorry I lied to yall. I caught a nasty case of stomach flu sunday, than I stayed up to watch Glee (friggen amazing!) which may or may not of helped out. Either way, I spent my day next to my ugly porcelain toilet. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. But, I got it written up, which is super great, I guess. Even though I'm pretty sure it's the worst mumbo-jumbo I've written. I only hope I don't loose any readers because I promise the next chapter will be much better.
Oh, I'm also not revising, because I want to get (calculating...) Four hours of sleep before the VALENTINES DAY EPISODE! YAY! Anyone else excited as I am? I've been looking forward to all relationships crashing and burning in one episode ALL MONTH! (catching the sarcasm?) hopefully we were miss lead...
The splurts are kind random, and super short, and may not make much sense, but I hope it suffices for the day. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, but I am super excited for the episode tonight! Though I am scared for the Gaine.
Anthem for the American Teenager
Chapter Three: Three White Lies
Above his styled head, the large brass bell sounded, shaking the boy from his thoughts. Around him, people stood, sliding the books of the edge of their desks and into the arms before heading into the warm Dalton hallways.
Following suit, Kurt gathered his books and headed towards the door. At Dalton, where they had no lockers, but rather large wooden desks in their dormitories, there was no need for him to haul around his Dolce and Gabbana book bag. Which, to be honest, was quite the relief.
He had shown it much to wear and tear at McKinley for a designer bag of its stature, it deserved a break. Especially because it was his only designer bag. You might think that a co-ownership at a garage earned a lot of money. But it most certainly did not. The stack of designer catalogues, pages marked with bright pink post-its, coats, pants, shoes, socks, all circled in thick red marker, hidden in the back of his closet. Would probably never be bought. He wouldn't need them when he was high and mighty at the top of the designer's world anyways, what with his own clothing line.
"Hey? Kurt? You coming, or are you going to stand there all day?"
Shaking himself from his dream, or rather, future, Kurt strode to the front of the room, waving a cheerful good bye to there professor. Yes, you heard right, professor. They were very it at Dalton.
Weaving and merging with the mass of students that Dalton held, he accompanied Blaine towards the other side of the school, where they, like clockwork, would join with Blaine's best friends, David and Wes, drop their books off and get there new ones from their rooms. Chemistry for Wes and Blaine, which would bring for humorous stories later that night and disaster for which ever lab table they had been assigned to. Politics for David, who would make for the next Obama, even if he claimed otherwise. And French for Kurt, who had not finished his verb homework.
X x X x X x X x X x X
After the art room, the parking lot, the lockers, the unsuspected football display, the last place on his mental to-do list was the choir room. In a way, all the others stops were steps leading up to this one rom. The empty hallways were a way to calm a racing, nervous, heart. The pictures, the lockers, a way to mentally prepare himself. And now, there was nothing to stop him from taking the eighteen steps to the open blue door.
Eighteen steps. Eighteen different scenarios. Maybe they weren't there, but out on a fieldtrip. Maybe Mike had tipped off the rest of the gang. He would be a liar if the thought of Rachel being a cannibal zombie hadn't (very briefly) crossed his mind.
Eighteen agonizing steps and he never imagined of this one. Leaning against the blue paint, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyebrows raised to the hairline of his curls. A tight smile played on his lips as six of the eighteen seconds past. One minute, forty-eight seconds before Tina had spun on her heel playfully and tottered as his white smile registered in her mind.
Rachel, zeroing in on the performance, or lack there of, turned sharply towards her frozen, Asian, counterpart. Matt let off a low, deep chuckle as Rachel's astonished gasp filled the room. It wasn't long there after that the entire room had turned to him, rushing forward with happy hoots.
It was strange, that out of all the scenarios he had imagined, this was not one of them. But, this was the one he wanted.
He was never one of New Directions most outspoken members. He didn't even grant himself the title of one of there favorite members. He was an okay singer, no candle to Quinn's flame, not as colorful as Mercedes or Santana's, not as gay as Kurt's. His dancing skills were adequate, more than adequate on a good day, but nothing compared to Mike's or even Brittany's. He could play a mean keyboard, but compared to Noah's and Artie's mad guitar skills, it might as well be Little Tykes.
But damn it if they didn't make him feel loved.
X x X x X x X x X x X
To say the least, French class was spent in the same worried, dizzied state as his morning class. Only this time, the teacher would call on him every once and a while, when he would mumble a reply. Most of the time, correctly, much to the teacher's dismay. Something about punishing late and unfinished homework set the teachers blood pumping. Mr. Rousseau liked to punish people that way, glaring when the student got the answer correctly, like it was some ultimate crime to both be handing in un-complete homework, but knowing all the right terms, verbs, adjectives, names, all the same.
Kurt had taken the few notes at the beginning of class, his writing getting sloppier and larger as the mumbo-jumbo worked its way down the page. Mindless copying. That was all it was, see the words, and write the words. No brain functions in between the two. Like a robot. Which would be sort of cool, if he had the vast knowledge about useless things that robots in the movies seemed to have.
Surely, surely¸ a robot would only have to think once, and for the briefest of seconds before deeming a flight to Atlanta both timely, and costly. And if a robot deemed it a horrible idea, why could he seem to get it out of his mind.
What was the worst that could happen? He would show up at the Rutherford's door, which, by the way, he had no idea where they were living, and what? Ask for forgiveness? Like he had done something wrong?
No, the fault was all Matt's. It wasn't his burden the seemingly brainless friend of a chimp didn't understand the complexities of picking up one in eight or nine phone calls. It wasn't like Kurt was willing him to become other wised involved and thusly slow to react to the emails, the text messages, the phone calls. It wasn't Kurt's fault that Matt had seemingly found the balls to talk to one of his classmates. Make a friend here or there. Not that he ever mentioned making a friend or two.
Not that Kurt ever mentioned moving to Dalton, or meeting the seemingly love of his life, falling into another crush he wasn't even sure he could go through with. To face the facts, he hadn't been excruciatingly truthful after the Karofsky incident.
It wasn't Mathews fault that he hadn't caught the subtle hints that, no, life in Lima had become to stressful. That, yes, he had transferred schools, though from fearing Dave Karofsky, or simply wanting to be within talking distance of Blaine, he hadn't decided yet.
What if Mike had told his best friend about transferring? Could that be the reason he wasn't replying to anything? Hurt that they had once been thought of as close friends, and yet Kurt couldn't tell him anything about his new life.
He was running in a dead-end maze.
X x X x X x X x X x X
For an hour or two, he walked about apparently in a dream state, but really absorbed in speculation and calculation. He did not want to act hastily, to do anything he might afterwards regret. But it was during the still hours of dust, when he lay awake on the yellow, scratchy quilt, revolving plans in his mind to the correct approach.
He mulled over the information he had collected over the night, quite subtly, without giving himself away.
-Kurt had indeed told him the truth, when he wrote about winning sectionals.
-However, he hadn't won with New Directions, which he was led to believe.
-Karofsky had bullied him, kissed him, or as Matt liked to call it, assaulted him.
-Kurt didn't tell anyone about this locker room occurrence, which led Matt to believe that he hadn't told anyone about it.
-But than, what was it Mercedes had said, something about pink glasses and fancy scarves? He couldn't be sure, over the music blasting from the bowling speakers, but he was sure it was about a boy and his new school.
Why hadn't Kurt just told him about this new school, instead of leading him on to believe that he still attended McKinley, that he walked calmly past Dave everyday, without turning his nose or narrowing his eyes. All very impressive, had it been true.
With these thoughts winding through his head, Mathew Rutherford, on his first day back to his hometown, in the bed that would always be a comforts, the hall light shining through as his mother hummed around the kitchen, preparing herself a dinner, having just gotten back, fell into an restless sleep.
X x X x X x X x X x X
Kurt Hummel: a secret hero. The Lone Ranger. If the stakes ever became high enough – if the evil were evil enough, if the good were good enough – he would simply tap the reservoirs of courage that had been accumulating deep within his chest over the weeks. Courage, he seemed to think, came to him in minuscule quantities. It dispended with all those bothersome little acts of daily courage; it offered hope and grace to the repetitive cowards; it justified the past with burdening the future.
This was one of those times. He didn't need the courage to stand up to Karofsky, before or after. It wasn't the same courage as telling his friends he was leaving. Facing Mercedes and Finn, watching the pain, the misunderstanding, flash across there eyes.
No, this type of courage was something totally different. The kind you needed when you were immensely joyful, and yet, you could help to think that karma had come to bite you in the butt. The kind of courage you needed to be welcoming, like when you grandparents came for dinner and you had to remember not to bring up cholesterol, or the French Revolution. The kind of courage you needed to face up to your lie.
Well, not so much that he had lied, per say, but he hadn't necessarily tell the whole truth.
Which was probably the reason the young man in front of his dorm door was displaying both extraordinarily high spirits and pent up anger. David paused just ahead of him, confused for he had not acknowledged the tall male half a hallway ahead of them. Kurt imagined he had asked him what was wrong, David usually caught little things quickly, noticed the startled glaze over his steel blue eyes. The steel blue eyes that locked over the steadily moving crowd. Dark brown hair grown out, curling over deep brown eyes that had his heart racing.