Kurt is being an angsty teen and a bit of a brat in this piece, which is a little awkward all by itself. :)
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"Come on, kid, we've been here for almost ten minutes. You're holding up the rest of the line. Just smile, already! I'm running way behind schedule here."
Kurt stood and checked his hair in the small vanity mirror on the wall, making sure that it was picture-perfect and that his bangs swooped down exactly enough to cover the acne breakout marring the skin of his forehead and right temple. At the photographer's comment he shook his head stubbornly, keeping his mouth firmly closed as he retook his place on the stool.
"All parents want a smiling picture of their kid," the photographer coaxed, "and when they don't get one they always think it's the photographer's fault and they call the studio and raise a big fuss and I get yelled at. You don't me to get fired, do you?"
He laughed awkwardly and Kurt rolled his eyes, not fooled by that nonsense at all. Like anyone would get that upset if one kid didn't smile for his annual school photo.
"Fine," the man sighed. "So you're not a grinner. Just quit glowering and give me a little tilt of the lips or something. What are you, a tough guy? You want your seventh-grade photo to look like a mug-shot so all the girls will think you're a bad-ass?"
The very idea of that, of him trying to impress girls by acting tough, startled a laugh out of Kurt and the swift and sneaky photographer clicked the button, capturing the moment on film.
Kurt scowled. "Hey! That's not fair!"
A twinkle lit the man's merry brown eyes. "Trust me; you'll thank me for it later." Removing the exposed film and placing it safely in an envelope already marked with Kurt's name, grade and classroom number for later development and delivery, he shouted, "Next!"
Unhappy but knowing there was nothing he could do, Kurt shot the funny-man photographer an even darker look and hopped off the stool, feet dragging as he made his way back to class. He had not voluntarily opened his mouth in three days and now everybody was going to see how ugly he was. Dad would buy the big 8x11 print, just like always, and put it in the appropriate space on the K-12 wall frame that adorned the Hummel staircase.
Everybody would look at that picture and see how Kurt had been maimed by the cruel hand of Fate, which had seen fit to make his permanent teeth grow in so much more crooked than his baby teeth had been.
Stupid braces.
By the end of the following week, his worst fears had been realized. The finished set of school photographs was delivered by mail to Burt Hummel's garage and by dinner time, that hideous picture of his stupid, zit-covered, metal-mouthed face was hanging in the hall.
"You know you're going to have those things in your mouth for at least another year," Burt pointed out at dinner that night, watching his son glare toward the staircase. "Maybe two. You can't just give up smiling until then. And what about singing? How are you supposed to perform with the other kids in the school choir if you won't open your mouth?"
"I'll drop out," he threatened, picking at his dinner. "I'll grow my hair long enough to cover my whole face and dye it black and become one of those Goth kids, like that girl with the stutter. Nobody expects them to sing or smile."
Heartlessly, Burt chuckled. "You? Giving up music? Dressing all in black, with chains and leather or what-have-you? For two years? I don't think so."
The scowl got even darker. Nobody ever took him seriously.
"Kurt," Burt sighed, setting down his fork. "You have been pouting for two weeks straight and I'm getting just a little bit sick of it. I paid good money for those braces and there's nothing you can do except live with them. Or would you rather spend the rest of your life with a mouthful of crooked teeth?"
"No," he mumbled sullenly.
Burt eyed him for a few seconds, his tone suddenly sympathetic as he asked, "Are you the only kid in your class who has them?"
Kurt shook his head. He could think of three others, just off the top of his head.
"Are other kids teasing you over wearing them?" Burt tried again; a note of animosity in his voice that Kurt understood was not directed towards him.
He shrugged. "Some. There's this weird guy with a Mohawk who keeps calling me Jaws."
"Not sure if that's a shark reference or a James Bond reference, but either way it's not so bad. Makes you sound like kind of a tough guy," Burt observed. "I wouldn't worry about it."
Placated by the thought, he opened his lips, running a fingertip over his teeth, and continued, "One of the girls actually likes them. She told me today that they make me look cute, but I'm not sure if I should believe her. She doesn't have very good taste and she's kind of strange."
"How so?" his father asked, smiling as Kurt became distracted by the conversation and forgot his personal tragedy in favor of starting in on his dinner.
"She has this whole R&B diva fixation, like, really bad. Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, Destiny's Child, all of those people. She doesn't know any musical theater songs at all, except for stuff from 'Dreamgirls' and she's a horrible dresser. Nothing but loud, bright colors and clashing prints that make me want to throw a tarp over her to protect my eyes from the glare."
Burt smothered a smile. "Yeah, and you wouldn't know anything about divas and bright clothes, would you?"
"That's not the same thing at all, Dad," he said witheringly. "I have style. Besides, she isn't nearly as bad as Rachel Berry. She came in for her school picture with her hair in ringlets and wearing this ugly, bright red sailor-dress and patent leather shoes with white socks! It looked like she was trying out for the lead in 'Annie' or something."
Kurt actually shivered at the memory, making his father chuckle. Horror stories about this girl Rachel had become a regular part of their Friday night dinners ever since she had transferred into Kurt's class at the beginning of the school year.
"And what about the other girl, the Aretha kid who likes your grill-work? You haven't mentioned her before. She a friend of yours?"
"Mercedes? I don't know. I guess we're kind of friends. She's actually pretty funny, even though she has no sense of fashion, and she does have a really good voice."
Burt smirked at Kurt's willingness to overlook fashion faux pas for the sake of musical ability. "Sounds like a match made in heaven. Maybe you should ask this girl to that fall dance that's coming up in a couple of weeks."
Kurt rolled his eyes in that overly-dramatic fashion that was achievable only by newly-minted teenagers. "Right. As if I would even be caught dead at something as lame as the Harvest Ball. I don't even like to dance!" he scoffed. His voice dropped to a mumble as he added, "We would look dumb together anyway. She's taller than me. All the girls are taller than me."
That wasn't entirely true. He was taller than Rachel and about eye-level with Mercedes, but admitting to his discomfort over being short, which was actually true, was way better than trying to explain to his dad that the only people he dreamed about sharing a dance with were other boys. He could just imagine how fast his already pathetic social standing would nose-dive if anyone ever found that out. Not to mention that Dad would probably disown him or something.
Rising from his seat as he cleaned the last scrap of food off his plate, Burt Hummel patted his son encouragingly on one slumped shoulder. "Don't worry about it, kid. One of these days, when you're a little bit older, you'll catch up to those girls and then pretty soon everything is going to change in ways you can't even imagine."
Kurt tried to smile, the corners of his mouth just barely turning up, but he suspected from the sympathetic squeeze that landed on his shoulder that it was not very convincing. He would eventually grow a little more, and the braces would come off - hopefully leaving him with the even, dazzling smile of his dreams - and with a little bit of luck and the right combination of skin-care products his complexion would some day improve to the point that he no longer looked like a "Before" ad for Clearasil, but there were some things about him that would never change. No matter how much he or his dad might wish them to.
"Yeah, Dad. I'm sure you're right. Some day everything will be just . . . perfect."