I could really use a wish right now

-"Airplanes", B.o.B

Tina stormed down the hallway, phone pressed tightly against her ear. "Do you know who it was?"

"Some prop kid from drama. Patrick or something. Matt said he saw Kurt get in the ambulance with him during gym."

"Was he hurt?" Tina's hair was pulled up out of her face as she simultaneously sent out text messages and scribbled down math equations. She had spent her study period trying to get Artie's chair out of a conveniently placed puddle of paste smeared across the ramp behind the lunchroom. Though she would never tell him, Tina pitied Artie more then anything most days. It was one thing to be called names, it was another to be robbed of the sparse control you had over your body and rolled around like a toy. The thought made her shutter.

"He had blood all over his hands," Matt said, taking the phone from Mercedes. "I was halfway across the track and all I saw was this red all over his shirt…"

"Which means he might as well be hurt," Mercedes added. "That shirt cost one-twenty, Tina!"

Tina rolled her eyes. "Okay, Mercedes," she sighed, hoping on one foot and leaning her sheet of math equations on her knee. "He's no answering my texts. How 'bout yours?"

"All I got was him askin' me to pick up the chemistry homework," Matt said.

"I was thinking we drive over there after school-oh!" Mercedes gasped and there was the momentary sound of slop hitting denim.

"Mercedes? Mercedes?" Tina had been on edge since she first saw the fliers, as "fag" usually translated to anyone in show choir. The sound of Mercedes' sudden yelp made her heart thrash against her ribcage. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she breathed. "Just a slushie."

Mercedes wished Kurt were here right now.

Matt had been a sweetie, offering her his sweatshirt to replace her ruined top. She had turned him away, shoved her phone in his hand and asked him to wash it in the boy's room while she ran into the girl's, taking the garbage can and slamming it with all the force in her body against the door. She stomped over to the sink and made a frantic, half-hearted effort at washing the red slushie from her light blue shirt before throwing the paper towel against the mirror and falling back against the cool porcelain of the tiled floor. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

"Mercedes?"

She looked up and saw Brittany.

"Hey, Brittany," she sighed, trying to imagine the sheer pathetic dripping from her skin at that moment, how horrible she must look to the skinny little Cheerio. Not that Brittany was particularly threatening, not at all like Santana; but she was still "other", capable of retaining her former popularity at will. And Mercedes seething on the bathroom floor was doing nothing for her cred.

"Here," she extended a moist toilette from her backpack towards Mercedes like a peace offering. She smiled weakly and accepted it, turning it over in her hands.

They sat in silence for what felt like an hour, Brittany twirling a lock of hair with her finger and looking between Mercedes and the mirror. "If you wash that with bleach and stuff the stain might come out," she said.

Mercedes appreciated the effort. "Thanks."

Brittany sat down beside her. "One time my ex boyfriend got some on my Cheerios uniform by accident and smelled really good for, like, a week."

Mercedes nodded absently, wondering how close to the bell she would cut it if she left now. Good thing she had Spanish next.

"This whole thing sucks, doesn't it?" Brittany said quietly.

Mercedes snorted. "Yeah, for us."

Brittany blinked. "I'm in Glee too, you know."

"Yeah, and you're also a hot cheerleader with less IQ points then calorie intake," Mercedes snapped. She knew in her gut that, yeah, she was being the world's biggest bitch right now. But the thought that Brittany was putting herself in the same category as Artie or Tina or Kurt-no, that wasn't right. That wasn't ever right.

Mercedes was sure she'd never see Brittany mad, and she was right; the blonde wasn't mad. She just looked, almost guiltily, down at her laced fingers and spoke with a soft, gentle voice. "I'm not that smart, but I know when people are making fun of me."

"Oh yeah?" Mercedes barked, getting to her feet and slamming the paper towels into the garbage can, grabbing some more and dabbing furiously at her soiled shirt. "Who makes fun of you? Who would ever make fun of a damn Cheerio?"

"The soccer team," she muttered. "Me and Santana."

Frozen, Mercedes couldn't say anything but, "What?"

Brittany nodded. "Just now. At first everyone thought it was hot that we did stuff, but now they were calling us carpet eaters or something" She paused, taking a strand of her hair and nibbling at it absently. "They cut up my sneakers."

Her feet were, indeed, bare except for chipped pink polish on the nails.

"I've been in here since third period," she added.

Mercedes gaped, first at Brittany's bare feet, then her raw, puffy eyes, then at the tips of her hair. Bent in every direction, crinkled and frayed and more then a little greasy. The entire sight, upon reflection, was truly the more pathetic of images. Mercedes was used to this, so much so that it barely registered anymore. But Brittany? Popular since puberty. A slushie to her face would no doubt be as large a shock as the severing of a limb or the death of a family member. In a way, it was a death; the death of her security, her relative freedom across McKinley's halls. All the years of pointless hookups and beauty treatments were now useless to her. Even the hottest cheerleaders were subjected to this bullshit.

"Brittany…"

"Me and Santana aren't even gay," she continued. "I mean, sex isn't being gay. Just because you sleep with girls sometimes doesn't mean your gay. It's not even girls. It's just her. She's my best friend. We just get bored." Her voice cracked and she sounded as though she were trying to convince herself. "We're just sluts. We just like sex. It doesn't mean we're carpet eaters, right?" Her face broke all too suddenly, one moment dull and passive, the next fallen, pouting, agonized. "I don't even know what that means."

"Oh, honey…" Mercedes breathed, completely at a loss for anything to say. At that moment she could've attested to the notion that she had forgotten the English language all together.

So that's how Mercedes and Brittany spent the rest of Kick a Fag Day; crying and watching and waiting for something to get better.

"I can't believe you said that to him."

"Shut up."

They were sitting desolately outside Breadsticks, hoping to catch a spare wiff of honey-toasted deliciousness for lack of either money or something better to do. Neither Finn nor Puck could bring themselves back into the building. The ridicule of their teammates, combined with the fear of confronting anyone remotely associated with Kurt had slowly diminished their will to go on.

"That was so out of line, Puck."

Puck chucked a bottle cap at a nearby pickup. "God, will you shut up, Finn?"

Finn Hudson leaned his head back against the hard concrete outside of the restaurant, shaking his head slightly and closing his eyes. "Your such an ass."

"Why'm I an ass? 'Cause I said what everyone else in the goddamn world was thinking?"

"No, you're an ass because you enjoy inflicting pain onto other people," Finn spat.

"Well sorry not all of us meet your moral expectations, St. Hudson," Puck said, running a hand through his Mohawk out of habit. "But what did you want me to say? Kid's being a little diva and-fuck, it's high school, for chrissakes. There are rules. And the sooner Gayface figures them out the better."

"Why do you think you know everything?" Finn shouted, stomping his foot against the sidewalk because, damnit, it was too hot for this. "Who gave you the instruction manual for everything? Because I'd seriously love to see it."

"Shut up, Finn. I have the biggest fucking headache and I am not in the mood for your peace and love bullshit." Puck rubbed his forehead, teeth gritted and face twisted in annoyance.

Finn shook his head. "You have no right."

"I don't have a fucking right?" Puck suddenly roared, his head snapping to the side so he looked directly at Finn, his eyes blazing. "Don't fucking tell me my rights, asshole. It's called freedom of speech." He fumbled to his feet, struggling with the keys in his pocket. "I was doing that kid a favor. You and him and all of you losers all have this bright and sunshiny idea about the world and its so wrong you have no fucking clue. You think Hummel could walk around like he does anywhere else? You think its okay for him to be so fucking flaming when he knows its gonna push people's buttons? Then he starts whining about it? Are you fucking kidding me? This isn't some political correctness seminar, Hudson. This is life and life has rules, and the first rule is that you don't start thinking everyone's gonna love you when your everything they hate. Get your head out of your ass and smell the coffee, sunshine. No one gives a shit."

With that, Noah Puckerman threw his car door open, jammed the key into the ignition and left Finn Hudson sitting outside Breadsticks with a dumb look on his face.

Hey.

Hey.

You okay?

Yes.

You have blood on your hands.

I forgot to wash them.

Yeah. There 'r some napkins in the glove box, if you wanna…

Yeah.

So I was thinking, your grades are pretty good, yeah? Why don't you just skip school for a couple days, get your head on straight.

My heads fine.

I know it is. It's just…I worry about you.

I know.

And you know I care about you, right?

Yeah.

I mean, if you wanna go to school, that's fine, that's on you. But if you just wanted to rest up and all that, I'm not gonna stop you.

Whatever.

Because, I'll be honest, Kurt, your not lookin' too hot.

Thanks.

I mean it.

I know.

And now I hear bout you at the hospital-

It wasn't for me.

I know, but-

It was some other kid and I just happened to be there to call the ambulance. It has no reflection on my well-being whatsoever.

But we both know why you were there to call the ambulance.

…

And we both know why that kid needed the ambulance.

…

I don't want that to be you.

Stop talking, dad.

What?

Just please shut up.

A/N The sort of "guideline" for this particular chapter is from Fearful Little Things' fic, "The Rules". At least, the "rules" diatribe. It's a really good story and if you like this one, you'll love that one.

I abuse the italicize.