A/N: Guess who finished the last full course of her master's degree today? Also... thank you for all your reviews! When I open my email and its someone commenting, I just get so excited. Thank you.
He starts out Tuesday okay. He's not exactly a morning person, especially if he's on a tilt, but the day starts well. The shower is amazingly warm when he turns it on; he doesn't have to wait for the hot water to make its way across the school and up to his bathroom. He turns it up to almost scalding and stands under the spray until every inch of him is clean.
He dresses, musses his hair, texts his father. He almost skips down to breakfast.
Oh God, they have BACON! And hash browns. And Bacon. And English muffins. And BACON. He puts his favorite foods on his plate, takes a mug of coffee and finds a seat alone. He is pleasantly surprised when David joins him, nursing his own mug. The other Warbler raises his eyebrow. "You must FUCKING LOVE bacon," David comments.
It's strange to have friends who are nerds, too. The Internet was his anonymous safe haven when he was younger. He still feels safe there, although it's becoming more dangerous, he supposes.
He makes it to calculus before the teacher, a first in a week. He is clean, he is full of delicious food and has enough caffeine that even Simpson's Rule starts to make sense.
The upward trajectory doesn't last long, though. He gets back his Latin test. He bombed it. It shakes him. No matter how good he thinks he might be, his life likes to remind him that he's a failure.
Normally, he could recover from the blow, but it slides him backwards. He forgets his good morning, and gets distracted by other things. His stomach turns into an aching leaden ball, the bacon threatening to come back up as his gut squeezes.
He skips lunch, except for a bottle of water and a package of peanut butter crackers. He's meeting the freshmen Warbler, John, to once again go over dance moves. He swears Johnny could trip over thin air. But, John has perfect pitch. So, he stays and the people around him wear steal-toed boots.
He sitting on the piano bench nursing a stepped-upon baby toe when Andrew saunters in. He has been avoiding the counter-tenor since their odd meal after his return from the hospital. Andrew watches them block out the steps again, chanting the words. The younger boy waits for a minute, and then takes over the dance lesson. John has the blocking down, and is even managing to sing well he blocks.
He feels defeated. He can't even teach a freshman how to dance. The niggling ball of failure that has replaced his digestive system grows tighter and harder. Angry thoughts race through his head.
He goes to American History, and promptly puts his foot in his mouth. He sits in the rest of the class. His words ring in his ears, a constant soundtrack of shame.
How can he ever be good enough if he can't control himself?