-Denise McCluggage
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Kurt slid into his car, arching his back forward as not to irritate the obviously budding bruise there. Apparently, the football team had seen it prudent to give him a little ‘present’ before he left after last period. He wondered whose bright idea it had been to put a wooden pole without any apparent purpose behind the school.

He breathed deeply, trying to figure out the best way to soothe the ache before his dad got home and gave him the customary pat on the back hello. He didn’t think he could hide a reaction, especially since he could hardly handle the pressure of the cool leather of the car seat.

As he drove home, he spotted the Neanderthals that had caused his injury and briefly contemplated... no, it wasn’t worth the trouble. He wasn’t that kind of person. He was better than that

He checked around his driveway before he got out of the car, having learned to expect people waiting for him behind the dumpster across the street. Last time had been pretty bad, and they’d only left Kurt an hour to get upstairs and clean himself off. It wasn’t the safest place to live, but his dad’s job only made so much money, and Burt wouldn’t let him get one.

“Concentrate on doing your job. Mine is to take care of you,” he’d repeated over the years, first when Kurt had come out, then later when Kurt had insisted on pitching in the bills and food.

Either way, although he could barely stand to admit it to himself, Kurt didn’t think he could handle it anymore, what with football season coming to an end and the jocks having more and more free time to do what they did best—cat and mouse with Kurt. It was taking more and more out of him, and he found himself falling asleep in more than one class, and it made him frustrated, despite his near-perfect grades. It felt like he was letting them take over his mind, his body, his sanity. Kurt hated that he was letting them win.

Once safely inside of his home, he stretched experimentally, hissing when his back popped and the pain intensified. He headed upstairs to try and survey the damage done.

He unbuttoned his sweater, frowning at the mud stain on the back. He sighed and set it on the back of his chair—he’d dealt with worse. There was that time with the pee balloons.

He then slipped his shirt over his head, carefully and slowly, trying not to let it brush too much against his skin, and put it with is sweater. He made his way slowly to the bathroom, his bare skin stinging slightly from the cool air. He dug out a hand mirror from a drawer, turning his back to the one above the sink to be able to see the marks he most definitely had.

He groaned. There was a quickly darkening bruise running up and down his spine. He felt sick.

He was sick. Sick of all the shoving and the hitting and the name-calling and the ignorance. But most of all, he was sick of no one being there. No one that cared. No one that asked. No one that even took the time to help him up off the floor or help pick up his things when his bullies knocked them out of his hands. He was sick of being the only one that had no one. He wasn’t the only one that was picked on, but he was the only one that was alone.

He was sick of going home and cleaning stains out of his wonderful clothes and having to look at his body—broken and mottled. The cuts and scars and bruises made him feel like burning up and being born again, fresh and new and smooth and clean.

And he was tired. Not only was he unable to sleep properly at night, trying to finish everything his teachers threw at him, but he was afraid to sleep—afraid to see his bullies even when he was trying to find peace in his own mind. Aside from that, he was just tired. Tired from the inside out. He just didn’t feel like he had the energy to do the things he once loved—he hadn’t properly sung anything in months.

He busied himself for the next few hours trying to make the burning pain go away. He tried ice and cold creams and even a cool shower, but he only managed to bring the pain down enough to put a shirt back on. He was working on his English homework (an essay on the portrayal of Shakespearian women in plays vs. modern day movies) when he heard his father come in.

Burt Hummel worked as a mechanic across town. It was the only job he could find when they had moved from Toledo to Westerville. He made just enough to provide for himself and his son and be able to sit back one day a week. He was a hardworking, no-nonsense man. And his son meant the world to him.

This was precisely the reason he was kept in the dark about his son’s situation at school.

Just six months ago, his father had had a heart attack. He was fine, but they kept him in the hospital for a few days just to make sure. Those had been the worst days of his teen years. Which is why Kurt couldn’t bring himself to tell his father about his problems at school. I’ve got it under control, he told himself.

“Hey, kiddo! I’m home!” Burt called from the kitchen.

“I heard,” his son quipped, heading back down to smile at his father and duck quickly into the kitchen to spare his back. It felt a little better than a few hours ago. “I’ll start on dinner,” he said.

“You never let me do anything,” his father grumbled guiltily from the adjacent living room, where he turned on a rerun of last week’s game.

“That’s because last time I agreed to let you help, you set the mixer on fire. And you still refuse to tell me how.”

Burt sighed, embarrassed, and turned back to the T.V.

“What’re you making, anyway?”

“Salad,” Kurt teased, looking for a colander. Burt groaned and he smiled. “And chicken.”

“From your mom’s recipe?”

“From mom’s recipe,” Kurt reassured him, gathering ingredients. Burt hummed contentedly and Kurt grinned wider. This is why he couldn’t let his father know.

“Oh, and Kurt?” his father said, turning back to him and speaking in an offhand manner that didn’t have his son fooled for a second. “There’s some big news I need to tell you at dinner.”

Kurt froze for a second, then thawed. If it had been about him, then his father would have confronted him right away. Maybe it was about work. Maybe his father had been promoted or something. “Sure,” he said.

Soon the kitchen was filled with smells of vegetables and spices and everything that Emilee had put into her recipes. Kurt moved around the kitchen with the same grace and sureness that her mother had had. When he cooked, it was like when he danced and sang—it was like he belonged there, putting his passion and love into everything that he made, whether it was food or art.

He used to watch his mother for hours, trying to imitate everything she did on his tiny legs. When she measured flour, he’d pull some into a little cup and hand it to her, his entire face glowing when Emilee would smile at him proudly. When she began to hum as she folded laundry, he would sing the words, his lisp prominent and the words jumbled together as small children’s often were, putting his little bow ties into the drawer on the side of his bed.

He measured alone this time, though. He cut up carrots and lettuce and poured low-fat organic dressing into the salad bowl on top of the colourful contents. He hummed nursery rhymes without realising, the words of Twinkle, Twinkle and Baa Baa Black Sheep blending into one another as they had when it had been a duet between two of the loveliest voices in Westerville nine years ago.
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“Hey scooter. Smells great,” Burt hummed appreciatively, ambling into the kitchen on stiff legs an hour later. He stretched them. Work was becoming a pain, what with all of the extra hours he was sneaking in behind Kurt’s ever-worrying back.

“Thanks dad,” Kurt smiled. “Set the table?” he offered, handing his dad two plates and two sets of cutlery.
They sat down at the kitchen table, and Kurt placed their dinner between them.

“Kid, I don’t know what you put in here, but if it’s not salt then I’ll eat my hat,” Burt chewed on his chicken, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. Kurt wrinkled his nose.

“Dad, that’s completely unsanitary. I have no idea when the last time you washed that thing was. And no, there’s absolutely no salt in here. Mom took better care of us than McDonald’s ever did.”

Burt smiled and hummed his assent, raising his milk glass. Kurt laughed and clinked them together.

“So,” he said a little while later, after he had managed to dump some vegetables onto his dad’s plate. “What’s this big announcement you were talking about earlier?” His father smiled almost giddily.

“Well, I know that this house isn’t the best,” he began, laughing at Kurt’s raised eyebrows. “So, I’ve been doing some extra work at the shop—no, don’t say anything until I’m done! I’ve been working a little more, and I bought a closed-down garage in Lima. It’s attached to a house that’s a little bigger than this one, and in a much better neighbourhood. Kurt, buddy, you okay?” he asked, registering Kurt’s shocked expression.

In Lima

They could leave. He could leave. He was leaving.

His fork slipped from his hand and clattered onto his plate with a clink.

Lima was hours away. If he left, then no one would ever find him. Maybe he could start again as a new person, someone who wasn’t a loser. Someone who wasn’t alone.

Someone who wasn’t scared.

Someone who no one would hurt.

Faintly, he registered his father’s mouth moving, and tried to snap out of it so he could listen.
“... and I know this was the house you grew up in with your mother, but we could try?”

“Yes,” Kurt said.

“Yeah?” is dad asked, looking surprised.

“Yeah, I...” Kurt felt guilty about leaving this house—about leaving the room where his mother had kissed him goodnight and the garden in the back where he would ride around on his father’s back when the weather was nice, but suddenly he realised that he had to get away. He had considered running over the kids from his school earlier. He had to leave. “Yeah, I’m fine with it, dad. Don’t worry, it’s not like we’re leaving any of mom’s things, right?”

Burt shook his head. “That’s great, kiddo. We’ll start packing tonight, and I’ll run by your school tomorrow to get things sorted out. We can leave in a couple weeks.”

“Yeah, dad, that’s great.” Burt grinned and took another bite of his salad, trying to hide his hum of approval. Kurt let it go for now. “Wow, two weeks,” he said in awe.

“Yeah, well, I figured between school and my work, it would take a while to pack everything up. And we’ll need a U-Haul, and I’ve already got someone who’s interested in the house.”

“How long have you been planning this?” Kurt asked, suspicious. His dad seemed to have too much figured out already.

“Well,” Burt said, scratching his head, “I’ve been thinking about it since the summer, and I bought the place three months ago.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t think to tell me that you’ve been working extra? I’ve been letting you have pre-game snacks!”

Burt chuckled. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve been eating my greens at lunch,” he took an exaggerated bite of lettuce to emphasize his point. Kurt rolled his eyes and let it slide.

So they were leaving, Kurt thought, as he handed the dishes to his father to dry after dinner. His dad would be his own boss, and he could stop having to worry about is father at work because he would be right there.
And e could stop worrying about his father finding out about what happened at school because it wouldn’t happen.

Not anymore.

At least he hoped.

And maybe he could stand up for himself this time. Be courageous. Courage.
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The last couple of weeks at school, he barely even noticed the name-calling and whispers behind his back. After school, he didn’t have the time to stick around, so he carried a full bag around all day and rushed home to help his father with loading their lives up into cardboard boxes. It was great.

Thirteen days later, when Burt put the final strip of tape on the box labelled Kurt’s sweaters, they stood back and looked around them.

It was slightly unsettling to see how easy it was to make it seem like they’d never existed.

But the departure was on a happy note; Burt hurried back up to his room and came back down with his mother’s old dresser—the one that he had spilled her perfume on years ago. He smiled shakily and rushed forward to help him with it. They loaded it up in the back of the U-Haul, got in Burt’s truck, and they took off to Lima.