Sebastian Smythe (@SebbieDoesDallas)
Thanks for a fun night out @BlaineWarbler – though I think you had more fun than I did: [link]

Everybody knows.

Everybody fucking knows.

Somehow, Dalton's unofficial blogging site – The Bird's Nest, run by some Gosspi Girl wannabe whose identity no one knows – manages to get the tweet up and online barely seconds after it's posted, and, well everyone at Dalton reads The Bird's Nest.

THE BIRD'S NEST
Blaine Anderson: Dalton's very own Monica Lewinsky

It's been a long time coming, Daltonites: our very own political sex scandal. And who better to take the leading role than our resident Show Choir Superstar, BLAINE ANDERSON (18, Junior)?

For those of you who remember Sebastian Smythe, an ex-Daltonite in his own right, we have him to thank for the ID on Blaine. It seems the two of them were out for a night of fun and reckless behaviour, and he sent this tweet on the incident.

I'd have to agree with Smythe on this one. Blaine's definitely having fun, and it's most certainly not the innocent type. Hands south of the equator, anyone? And the other boy – Henry Canterbury, the son of a prominent conservative republican.

I have to wonder, though: whatever does daddy-dearest think of all of this?

Blaine comes in to school to find that it's not just going to be awkward now; this is going to be hell. By second period, Blaine has already received twice the previous number of abusive notes, all of them anonymous, vicious, and – much to Jeff's ever growing consternation – unimaginative. Even though Dalton students are far too put-together and polite to say anything to Blaine's face, they're still more than happy to make obscene gestures at him in the hallways when no one's looking, and to half-cough, half-spit slurs at him when they're out of earshot of teachers.

It sucks when Blaine arrives at his locker during lunch break to find the words dirty skank scrawled over it in sharpie.

It sucks when he goes to the headmaster about it and essentially gets a well, what do you expect me to do about it, Blaine? in response.

It sucks when, two days later, someone leaks his personal mobile number to the press and he starts getting calls, asking for exclusives.

It sucks doubly when they find out his address and Blaine wakes up one morning to discover them camped out on his front lawn.

It sucks when his father sits him down one evening and demands a tête-à-tête about discretion and reputation.

It sucks when Dalton's careers advisor tells him that Blaine can kiss goodbye to any hopes he has at a prestigious university career, because this scandal isn't going to die down any time soon.

But, most of all, it sucks when Henry Canterbury makes a last ditch attempt to save his skin, and starts to say that the incident – that fun little drunken encounter – was anything but consensual.

Getting arrested is not fun.

What's even less fun? Getting arrested in the middle of a whole school assembly on internet safety.

Blaine's pretty sure – scratch that, Blaine's certain – that the photos of him getting slammed against a wall and cuffed are going to end up on The Bird's Nest, and, if he's really, really lucky, the yearbook.

His parents post bail for him, which Blaine supposes is slightly reassuring, and help shield him from the glaring flashes of the cameras waiting for him outside the police station. They don't say a single word the whole way back home.

It hits Blaine when he clambers, absolutely exhausted, into bed that night.

School tomorrow's going to be even more fun.

THE BIRD'S NEST
Not So Innocent Fun, After All…

[PICTURE]

BLAINE ANDERSON (18, Junior) shook up a rather dull whole school assembly earlier today with his arrest for the sexual assault of Henry Canterbury. Look at those pearly whites – seems like a shot for the yearbook, doesn't it?

Most likely to be convicted for a crime, perhaps?

He's not just a fag anymore.

He's a deviant. He's a predator. He's sick. He's repulsive.

Jeff should be happy, Blaine bitterly supposes. They're finally getting a bit more creative with the name-calling.

Blaine fights the urge to duck his head as he crosses the hallway, very much aware of the way that every single pair of eyes in the hallway is tracking him, zeroing in on the hall-pass in his hand, knowing exactly where he's heading.

Blaine catches Wes' eyes across the hallway, receiving an imperceptible nod in return. Well, at least he's not completely on his own. David passes by him and they make eye-contact, and Blaine adds his tally of allies up to two.

Nick and Jeff are next, hands clasped, a united front, both keeping their faces impossibly blank, but they too meet his gaze.

Four.

It'll be enough. It'll have to be enough.

Blaine pushes through a heavy, oak door, and comes to a stop in front of the headmaster's secretary. She looks him up and down through narrowed eyes and severe spectacles, and Blaine watches slowly as the corners of her pursed lips tilt upwards into a sneer.

“He'll see you now,” she says coldly.

Blaine nods and pushes through another oak door – this one marked with a proud bronze nameplate: HEADMASTER'S OFFICE.

Blaine and Headmaster Vandemeer don't exactly get on.

Dalton's the kind of school that accepts entrants based on two things, and those two things alone: brilliance and pedigree.

One of those two is decidedly more important than the other. It's not brilliance.

Blaine's a good student. He maintains a 3.8, which is impressive, even by Dalton's ludicrous standards, and has worked tirelessly to show everyone around him that he doesn't need a glamorous heritage to be every bit the Dalton boy they all want to be.

He's president of Deb Soc. He's on the swim team. He's lead-soloist for the Warblers. He's polite. He's welcoming. He's honourable.

But he still lacks that heritage, and, to a lot of people, all Blaine's ever going to be is that up-start, too-smart-for-his-own-good kid who doesn't know his place.

“Sit, Mr Anderson,” Headmaster Vandemeer commands flatly.

And Headmaster Vandemeer is most certainly one of those people.

Blaine obeys silently, gracelessly dropping into one of the leather chairs positioned opposite the headmaster's grand mahogany desk. Blaine fixes his gaze on the Vandemeer's face, tracing the contours of his wrinkles with his eyes.

“So, Mr Anderson,” Vandemeer starts, his tone not even shifting from its steady same pitch and volume. “I'm sure that you're aware that you've received an awful lot of … negative publicity in recent weeks.”

Oh, really? Blaine wants to ask. So that's what this has been about.

But Blaine doesn't say anything of the sort. “Yes, I am aware,” is what he says instead.

Headmaster Vandemeer leans back in his chair, exhaling deeply. “Are you aware that Dalton has an honour code, Mr Anderson?”

Blaine knows where this is going. He's not going to break composure, though, so he nods. “Yes,” he answers dutifully.

“And that your actions, which have been broadcast quite gratuitously to the nation, are in direct violation of that honour code?” Headmaster Vandemeer presses.

Blaine takes a deep breath, willing calm over himself. “Headmaster Vandemeer,” he says slowly. “I got arrested in front of the entire school yesterday for sexual assault. People are treating me like I have a contagious disease. My parents aren't speaking to me, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to be kicked out of no less than three school clubs. I need to write a six page Latin essay, complete a math exercise and somehow hire a lawyer, all in the next four hours before last period today. I'm not having a good day. So, can you, please, please, in the interests of mercy, just tell me what you mean quickly.”

Vandemeer regards Blaine coolly. “The school board and I,” he states, “think it might be best if you pursue other avenues of education at the end of the year.”

It's essentially private school jargon for we mean this in the nicest way possible, Blaine, but you're expelled.

Blaine manages a grim smile. “Thanks for everything,” he says, layering the comment with thick irony, and then he leaves.

Dalton boys are nothing if not quick off the mark, Blaine guesses bitterly.

Jason Carver, the vice president of Deb Soc – Debating and Socratics, if the full name is required – corners Blaine almost the moment after he exits the headmaster's office. Jason stands at a diminutive height of 5' 6'' – a whole two inches shorter than Blaine, which was part of the reason why Blaine initially liked the kid – and looks like the only thing he'll be hitting any time soon will be the books, and, even then, it's unlikely he'll win any ensuing brawl.

As it turns out, his short, compact stature only means that his asshole-ish-ness is just slightly more concentrated than the rest of the Dalton student body.

“So I hope you'll understand, Blaine,” Jason's saying, unaware of the fact that Blaine's barely listening. “You were a great leader, but unfortunately, those of us in the Debating and Socratics Society feel that it would be best if you were to—”

Blaine cuts him off there with a sharp gesture.

Normally, Blaine's nothing but composed. An easy grin, or a sympathetic smile – never anything other than the perfect Dalton boy. Right now, Blaine's not just having a colossally bad day, though. He's having a colossally crap year.

So, he thinks, fuck it. Fuck decorum. Fuck it all.

“You know what, Jason?” he asks. “Go screw yourself.”

Blaine would never cuss out loud at Dalton. Internalised thoughts are okay, but swearing's just asking for trouble. Still, his statement is far more vulgar than Blaine has ever dared to utter and, if the reeling look in Jason's eyes is anything to go by, completely unexpected.

Blaine's about to turn and leave when Jason gets his second wind.

“I thought that was your area of expertise, Blaine.”

Blaine doesn't let it get to him.

“Even I have standards, Jason,” he calls back over his shoulder.

“So, rumour has it you made Jason Carver cry today.”

Blaine looks up from the mess he's making of his poorly researched Latin essay to see the grinning face of his friend opposite him. Jeff looks – dare he say it – almost proud.

“Rumour has it wrong,” Blaine replies, dropping his pen down and leaning back in his seat. “There were no tears. At least, I don't think there were. I didn't really stick around to find out.”

“That's the spirit,” Jeff says, holding his hand up for a high-five, which Blaine dutifully completes.

“So, where's everybody else?” Blaine asks, glancing around the currently empty common room. By now, Wes and David have usually settled down in one of the armchairs to catch some peace and quiet before break ends and they're back to work.

Jeff shrugs. “Things to do, places to be, I guess,” he deflects. “Speaking of, I really do have some stuff to do this break. I was just coming to check the story from its source.”

Blaine raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Does any of this ‘stuff' involve actions that are either morally dubious and-slash-or illegal?”

Jeff just smiles mysteriously. “Not in this state, no.”

Blaine's never been more grateful than he is now for his friends.

David – the crazy, intellectual son-of-a-bitch – finds him in study and hands him six pages of close-typed, well-researched Latin essay. “I know your writing style better than my own,” he explains. “Mr Picket won't know the difference.”

Wes drops by with a  completed math exercise twenty minutes later. “You just have to copy it into your handwriting,” he says with a shrug. “Figured you could use a break from some of Dalton's crazy workload.”

Jeff's next, though his gift is a little less innocent and a little more contraband. Six late-excuse slips fall onto Blaine's desk, all signed, with the date left blank. “I know a guy,” is what Jeff chooses for his explanation, before he whirls around and leaves.

Nick pulls through an hour later, at lunch, slumping down into one of the empty seats opposite Blaine. “On a scale of one to kill me now, how's your day?” he asks, reaching over an stealing a handful of fries off Blaine's plate.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Blaine warns. “I'm yet to be convinced that the lunch lady didn't sprinkle cyanide over them.”

“What? Ms Plum? She's nice as pie.” Nick shrugs, popping one into his mouth. “'Sides, I'd know if it were cyanide. It'd taste like almonds, for one.”

Blaine gives Nick a look. “I'm not even going to ask how you know that,” he states.

Another shrug. “Probably for the best.”

“So what can I do you for, Nick?” Blaine asks, leaning back in his chair. “My influence isn't exactly the greatest at the moment, I'll have to warn you, though.”

Nick smiles at him and then slams a small card of paper on to the table. Blaine peers at it.

“Penelope Pilkington?” Blaine reads aloud. “Who's she and why have you just given me her number?”

“A lawyer,” Nick explains. “A good one. She works at the law firm where my brother's a paralegal.” Nick pauses, taking in Blaine's countenance before he continues. “Let's face it, Blaine, you need a lawyer, and I'd rather it be someone that has my family's personal stamp of approval than someone out of the phone book.”

Blaine eyes the card warily.

“Look,” Nick continues. “Please, just call her. I have enough shit going on in my life with Jeff to be able to deal with my best friend ending up in jail, okay?”

Blaine manages a half-smile. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Nick replies instantly.

Blaine forks a bunch of fries. “So what was this you were saying about you and Jeff?”

Nick shrugs, but he looks far, far too smug.

Deb Soc kicking him to the curb didn't hurt particularly. Blaine knows for a fact that he was their best debater, and once the residual anger subsided, Blaine allowed himself to get a sadistic pleasure out of the fact that winning competitions is going to have to be put on hold for them.

As for swimming – Blaine's a lot calmer when the captain corners him and explains that they'll lose their sponsors if they keep him on the team. Eric looks uncomfortable throughout the entire conversation, but Blaine's not sure if it's because of the rumours or because of the fact that Eric's a good guy who doesn't want to leave him behind.

Those two are expected.

The Warblers, though…

That one feels like a true betrayal.

He knows that Wes and David must have fought for him. He knows that Nick and Jeff would have screamed to keep him in.

He also knows that Thad, the other third of the council, will have fought tooth-and-nail to keep him away.

Blaine can't really blame Thad for that.

It was all over the Dalton rumour mill last year when Thad disappeared for three weeks, returning subdued and slightly messed up. It turned out that his sister had been raped at college and then tried to commit suicide. Thad is still pretty messed up, and more than a bit subdued.

So Blaine's not going to slag Thad off for not wanting a kid accused of sexual assault leading their choir in a song about skin-tight jeans and going all the way.

It makes sense.

It doesn't make it suck any less.

At first, Blaine hoped that they would just revoke his position as lead soloist. It turns out that they were actually going to go for the full-house. Blaine's no longer just the ex-soloist. Blaine's now an ex-member too.

It sucks.

What sucks even more is that Sebastian tries to call him about thirty seconds after the decision's made and all Blaine wants to do is throw the phone across the room. So he does. The screen cracks, but it doesn't stop ringing.

Blaine takes out the battery.