Every year before our Sectionals, my Glee Club director, Mr. Shuester, always makes the guys and the girls face off in a little friendly competition to boost our morale. This past year though, I was pushed out of my group and told to go spy on our rival competition, The Dalton Academy Warblers.
This is how I met Blaine Anderson.
I was timidly walking down the large marble staircase at Dalton amongst a throng of excited students in navy blazers when I tapped a boy on the shoulder and asked what was going on. This is when our eyes first met.
“My name is Blaine.” He extends his hand and I take it.
“Kurt.” I answer, “So what exactly is going on?”
“The Warblers. Every now and then they throw an impromptu performance in the senior commons. Tends to shut the school down for a while.” He flashes me a devilish smile. “C’mon, I know a short cut.”
Then we’re off, running down the halls of this majestic building that the average person would scoff at being referred to as a school. We reach our destination and then the voices begin to rise from the crowd. I slowly begin to recognize the melody of a current pop song that I like and our eyes meet again. And suddenly he’s singing. He’s singing to me. I shift uncomfortable in my jeans throughout the whole song.
After the performance, Blaine invites me to coffee with his friends and I agree. He leads me to a common room just a little ways down the hall and we sit and begin to chat.
They accuse me of spying and I can’t deny it. They’re flattered. I express an interest in their school and its bullying policy and Blaine waves off his friends so we can be alone.
He gives me the comfort that I need in my situation and a little business card with his phone number on it that says “Westerville Soap Company”. I shrug it off and shove the slip of paper into my pocket as he bids me farewell.
That afternoon at group therapy, Sebastian is there again. I notice that the uniform he’s always wearing is the same exact one that they wear at Dalton Academy.
We go through the circle and spout off our introductions. Everyone is always getting better, moving on. New friends. New medications. Occasionally someone will show up with a story about how the harassment is getting bad again. That the self-harm has started again. Chloe offers them words of encouragement and asks if they need to stay after and speak with her. Then we hug.
As I’m hugging this mousey little girl with shaggy black hair, I look up and across the room I see Sebastian just standing there.
Oh, and Sebastian’s looking at me. Singled me out of everyone in the whole group.
Liar.
Faker.
It’s time for our embraces and my hands clamp around Sebastian’s arms. His hands stay neatly pinned at his waist.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” I whisper, “You’re a faker. You shouldn’t be here Sebastian. Get out.”
He doesn’t say anything. For a moment, he just stares. Then, “You’re a faker, too.”
I’m taken aback by this.
“You’re a fake just like I am. You sit here and tell these stories at every single session and they’re all the same. You’ve been fine for months. You’re just lonely.”
He’s seen right through me. He’s seen right through me and into something that I haven’t even admitted to myself. “Hey, I’m cured.”
“Then why do you come here?” I say, “What do you get out of it?”
“It’s cheaper than a movie and there’s free cookies,” he says.
We stand there for a moment in silence, neither of us knowing what to say.
“We’ll split the days up.” I suggest, “I’ll take Mondays and Wednesdays and you can take Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ll take the first and third Friday of the month and you can have the rest.”
“Deal.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” And with that, he was gone.
The next day at school, things take a turn for the worst.
All because of Dave Karofsky, my big bully. My own personal tormentor sent straight from hell to drive me insane.
I’m walking down the hall and I get a text from Blaine. One singular word: “Courage”. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. As I slide my phone shut, I feel a juggernaut slam me against my locker. I look up to see Dave retreating to the boys’ locker room before I can say anything.
I follow him in and confront him.
“Courage” I tell myself.
“Hey! What is your problem? What are you so scared of?”
“Besides you sneakin in here to peek at my junk?”
“Oh yeah! Every straight guys’ nightmare! That all of us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you!”
Soon, we’re in a screaming match and I can feel the anger boiling off of him at the venom in my words. I call him a scared little boy.
Without warning, he yanks me towards him, his hands tight on my arms, and his lips crash down onto mine. His stubble is rough against my soft, moisturized lips and his breath reeks of chili dogs and halitosis. And then he’s gone. All I hear is the slam of his fist on the locker and the slam of the door as he leaves. And I’m on the floor. I scramble for my phone in my pocket and I dial Blaine’s number. He doesn’t answer and I sink my head into my lap.
Seconds later, my phone begins to ring. It’s Blaine. He claims he never answers his phone. I explain everything and he offers to meet with me and help after school.

Blaine and I meet at a local caf�, The Lima Bean. We order our drinks—his a medium drip, mine a grande non-fat mocha—then we take a seat in a dimly lit corner near the back.
For hours we sat and talked about everything. Six cups of coffee later and the store is closing and we have to leave. It’s nearly 11:00. Blaine offers to drive me to Dalton and give me a private tour.
We get to the school and Blaine takes me around back to one set of doors. He pulls out a paper clip and gets down to jimmy the lock. Seconds later the door pops open and we’re inside. “The alarms have never worked right for that door.” He says, “I found that out early on in my freshmen year.”
Blaine shows me nearly every inch of the school and I find myself in love with every bit of its interior.
Blaine notices the look of awe on my face. “I can make sure you get in here. I can even get you into The Warbler’s without an audition.” Blaine says, “You just have to do me one favor.”
I would need the bare minimum: six pairs of navy slacks, six pairs of socks, six white button downs, six navy and red striped ties, three navy blazers with red piping.
There, in the middle of the choir room at Dalton Academy in the dead of night when no one was watching, I asked Blaine what he wanted me to do.
Blaine said, “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”