III.
Mr. Schue is late to Glee Club, and Kurt hasn't been there all day. I only share math class with him, but Quinn and Rachel haven't seen him either, and every time I see Mercedes, she's checking her phone with a worried look on her face. Everyone at school's talking about Kurt's dad dying — no wonder he didn't come to school, I think miserably, I wouldn't have come either. I hear the blabber everywhere I walk, this constant, irritating sound like a gossipy seashell cupped to my ear. My face is twitching randomly, and my limbs have never felt longer and more useless.
Mom cried all last night. I could hear her even down the hall, my blanket pulled over my head in my own room. She didn't get up to make me breakfast, so I had two handfuls of Froot Loops and even that's been rattling around my stomach like rocks in a vacuum cleaner.
God is in my backpack, sitting tidy in His ziploc throne, probably getting all moldy. He's supposed to be the God who answers prayers, but instead He's just another God who lies.
We're waiting in the music room. Rachel's wrapped herself around my arm. She's trying to get me to talk, but all I do is say "uh-huh" and "sounds good," even when it doesn't make that much sense. Eventually, she just squeezes my arm tightly. Five minutes pass, then ten, which I only know because Santana's announcing it loudly.
When Mr. Schue finally comes in, he looks so tired. "Guys, I have some serious news," he says heavily as he takes his seat on the stool in front. Even his vest looks like it's slumping.
"We already heard about Kurt's dad," Tina says softly.
Mr. Schue shakes his head, pressing his lips together. A horrible silence stretches across the room. I can almost see it, can almost reach out and pluck it. Rachel's hand finds mine. "They found Kurt this afternoon," Mr. Schue says, his voice thick. "He killed himself."
"No!" It's my own voice that rises above the chaos that erupts, which surprises me. Something animates me, brings me to my feet, clenches my fists. I feel the veins in my neck sticking out. "No. No way! Kurt's stronger than that."
Mercedes is wailing. Quinn has her arms around Mercedes, hugging her hard, swaying with her just slightly, and I can hear Tina's thin sobs. Next to me, Rachel has her hands over her mouth, crying in sharp gasps. I hate it when girls cry.
"There's some mistake, Mr. Schue," I insist. My voice is supposed to come out full of authority and really strong, but it's shaking all over the place. "There has to be." There has to be, because this doesn't make sense. God wouldn't grant my wish about a stupid useless football game and then Rachel's boobs and then — do this. God is supposed to be good.
(Kurt can't be dead. He thought I was different and I still haven't showed him all the ways I am different.)
"He left a note, Finn. He killed himself. I'm so sorry. I —"
"What did the note say?" Artie asks, subdued.
Mr. Schue looks torn about whether or not to answer, so I spit out, "Yeah, what'd it say?" because if I'm going to catch him lying, it'll be now. My breaths are coming all funny, choppy and uneven, and I'm still standing, my fists still balled up tight even though there's nothing to punch.
My phone rings, vibrating in my pocket. Without asking, I stumble out of my seat, my chair crashing to the floor, and push the door to the music room open so I can take the call outside. "Mom," I say instead of hello, my voice pleading.
"Oh, sweetheart, you heard?" Her hoarse voice breaks.
"It's not true."
"Finn—"
"It's not true because God wouldn't do this!"
"I know, honey. I know."
"No, you don't know! God's a liar!" I roar, and I can see heads poking out of classrooms down the hall.
"Finn, honey, please—"
"What was in the note, Mom?"
"—Finn?"
"The note! Mr. Schue said Kurt left a note. What'd it say?"
"Honey, don't torture yourself—"
"What'd it say?" I scrub a hand across my wet eyes. "Mom, just tell me what it said."
There's nothing on the other end of the line. The phone creaks from the pressure of my fingers tightening around it. My mom finally says, "He said that this was the only way to bring him and his father together again." My breath leaves me in a huff. "That he preferred it this way. Finn, sweetie—"
I fall back against a row of lockers like God's finger just gave me a shove. I feel the ridges of the locker bumping hard against my back as my knees give out. I press the "end call" button on my phone without really thinking about it, and out of the corner of my eye I see different feet walking out of the music room, slowing, standing, walking on.
No pair of black Docs. Kurt loved those knee-length boots of his. I thought they were the coolest things in his wardrobe. Way better than the little white ones because those got messed up all the time and he'd sit at his little table in his room and seriously clean them with a toothbrush till they were shining again.
(God didn't kill Kurt and his dad. I did. I brought them both together, all right. I asked for that. I asked for them to die with my stupid grilled god. It's my fault. I did this.)
I see Rachel's patterned socks, instead. The bright colors look weird and warped against the dingy school tiles. I feel her kneel next to me and I hear her saying something, but I'm not sure what. I can't really register what's going on anymore, and I feel her leave my side. I keep gulping air and it's like nothing's coming into my lungs, my head nodding dumbly up and down with the movement of my chest. My hands are wrinkling up my jeans right over my knees.
Mr. Schue is hauling me up by my hands, Rachel hovering by his side, wringing her little hands. "Finn, c'mon, kiddo."
"But Kurt wouldn't ever do that, Mr. Schue," I say, my voice cracking as I turn to look Mr. Schue in the eyes. His mouth forms a little arc like an upside-down moon, and just when I start sobbing, he pulls me in for a hug right there in the middle of the hallway. "It's my fault. I killed them both." Mr. Schue's vest is scratchy and warm against my cheek, and my face feels hot and wet. "I killed them both."
"You didn't, Finn."
"I killed them both."
Rachel is standing still in the middle of the hallway when Mr. Schue starts walking me down to his office. I let him tug me along without another word, losing track of where my feet are and stumbling every now and then. He has to sit me down in the chair across from him, but then he leans forward, looking me right in the eyes.
"Finn, what happened to the Hummels isn't. Your. Fault."
"No, it is." I feel my expression wiggling around like static on an old TV. I grab my backpack and open it up and take out Grilled Cheesus, shoving my stupid god across the desk. "See?" I point to the burned image of the Lord. "See that? That's God."
Mr. Schue looks down at the sandwich, then back at me. "Finn, I'm not sure where you're going with this—"
"And I asked God," I interrupt, my voice rising, "for three things. I asked Him for a football win. I asked Him—" I choke up with how stupid and embarrassing this is. "I asked to get to second base with Rachel. And I got both of those things. And then, and then I asked Him to bring Kurt and his dad together. Now they're dead. They're together. So, no, Mr. Schue, you're wrong. I killed them."
"Finn—"
"Don't — don't just say my name like I'm being some kind of idiot!"
I'm not sure what happens after that, but I'm on the floor in a wrecked office, and my fists are bleeding and Mr. Schue's holding me back like I'm fighting somebody but there's no one there except for my mom, and Mr. Schue has to help her get me to the car. My knuckles are torn-up and raw, my hands swollen and bruised, my fingers trembling. When we get home I close the door to my room and lie on my side. I just breathe.
At midnight I catch myself praying. I stop.
At two in the morning I run to the bathroom to throw up. I can hear Mom crying when I book it down the hall. When I come back to my room it's 3:12 AM.
I lie back down on my side. I just breathe. I can't stop.
end